"I must leave you."
Dal glanced up from his book and froze, taking in the fact that Zevran was not just armed, not just armored, but that he had a pack slung over his back.
"Ah." He forced himself to breathe again and looked back down at his book, seeing only the pale yellow of the page and wandering insects that were probably letters. He had known the time would come. One loved an assassin only at great peril, after all.
"Amor," Zevran knelt in front of him, bringing a familiar scent of leather and spice that Dal had come to think of as home. He took the book from Dal's unresisting fingers and set it on the floor. "Look at me."
Dal raised his eyes, his features tight with the effort of self-control. How he loved that face, loved to trace the graceful lines of his tattoo down his cheek, loved to… He quelled the thoughts. He had learned long ago in the Circle that these things could not last, no matter how he wanted them to. It was his own fault for growing too attached.
"Write me if you can," he said before Zevran could give him some justification for his leaving. He knew it sounded chilly, but he hoped that a bit of ice would keep his heart from audibly breaking before his lover – ex-lover – left the room.
Zevran shook his head, smiling ruefully. "I have phrased it poorly, have I not? I must leave you for a few weeks, but nothing could keep me from returning to your side." He raised his hand to touch Dal's smooth earlobe. "But before I leave, we shall see my token placed where it belongs, yes? I do not give my wedding proposal to just anyone."