He joins them, with a minimal degree of splashing, settling his back against the wall of the tub, and draping his arm about their waists, holding the both of them close. In a tub. That neither of them could really make a quick escape from, but it's the thought that counts.

While his fingers trace out arcane nonsense on the soft skin of Gwenalle's belly, he presses his nose to the nape of Iorveth's neck, lips against the curve of his tattoo's branching vines. It takes him a moment to come back to himself, to entwine himself back with their presences and anchor himself once more.

"I am glad neither of you were there," he says. A fingers taps against Gwenaelle's hipbone. The pirates, it seems, don't count.