Horse Lords, she was hot.
Before she could even go about the task of opening her eyes, Daine felt as if she had been baking in a sweaty steambath while wearing Ozorne's old fur coats and doing stomach-crunches. She lifted a hand to her brow; it was dripping with perspiration, and the girl had never been much of a sweater, even in combat. With one satisfying thrust, the majority of her confines slumped to the floor, along with a housecat, a nest of field mice, and assorted pillows. Still blind, she apologized profoundly to those she had misplaced-- So sorry, fur-friends. I feel that you all might be just a little too warm-blooded for me!
Finally, her eyelashes fluttered open. This is all well and good. I'm happy to see you all-- but what, pray tell, is going on? she muttered to the menagerie that littered the rafters, windowsills, and lampshades of the room. She appeared to be in a tower, judging by the lack of greenspace outside her window. All she could see was pure blue-and-white sky, and it was apparently long past noon. The People said little to nothing; some cooed their approval, others licked a paw in welcome or scratched mites distractedly. None seemed surprised to see the girl up and about, but all were pleased. Daine smiled ruefully: animals always knew better than Two-Leggers. In Tortall, that was practically common knowledge.
Turning to the bedside chair, Daine's heart executed a momentary summersault. There, curled in a preposterous position, lay Numair, his lips dry and parted in sleeptalk and his eyes rammed tightly shut. 'Tousled' did not begin to describe the mess that was his hair, although Daine could surmise that hers was probably in a similar condition. He looks sick, he looks disheveled, he looks like the damned Graveyard Hag.. but oh, I don't mind an inkling. She slid out of the crisp ivory bedsheets, not caring that her white nightdress was close to transparent from cold sweat. Numair was snoring very softly, a thing he only did when he was out of his mind with worry or anger. The Wildmage giggled as she lifted his arm off of the bed--- what in the name of the gods had he been doing in such a strange position? Holding these blankets on me so I'd suffocate?-- and wrapped it around her damp shoulder. She climbed into his lap, hands walking up his chest to stop just below the neck, where she could feel his steady, comforting heartbeat. Both of them had lost much of the sinewy musculature that months of travel and battle had bought them, but to her infinite delight, he was still the same Numair. Daine traced his face with a forefinger as lightly as downfeathers float on air currents; each angle and curve she had measured in her mind for three years, but to feel them now brought life back into her bones.
"I don't know why you sleep so soundly, Salmalin, but you look more and more like a worried schoolboy the longer I watch you. Tell me why you rest so fretfully," she whispered, not caring if he heard or didn't hear. It felt good to carry on a conversation with him, be it one-sided or two. "Why does it seem that I haven't seen you in a lifetime?"
The crinkled brow lifted; dark lids raised like drawbridges in a steady pull. The creature that had walked only in his dreams was smiling at him; Numair blinked slowly once, twice, making sure he could differentiate between reality and Gainel's channelings.
"Magelet?"
"Mmmhmm." She pressed her warm hands to his cheek, her straight nose touching his long one in the sweetest of meetings.
Numair choked back a laugh. "I thought I'd lost you. Again. Tell me how long you plan to stay with me this time?"
" Maybe forever." Her voice was drowsy and disastrously Gallan again, but it smiled along with that very unladylike chin.
"Then good." He sighed wetly and snugged his lips against her cool forehead, grammatical errors long forgotten. "Forever is good."