Something in Ellis' expression shutters. There is a small shift, some current moving deep below the surface.

"Come sit."

Where Ellis can reclaim what he had been smoking (cobbled together from materials lifted from Richard Dickerson's rooms) and Ruadh can thud huffily back into a sprawl over the stone, back up against the wall and eyes on Fitz.

"It's been a long year," is not really an answer, just an attempt at accounting. Has it been a year? It feels like more, but that feeling alone isn't very reliable.

He is tired. He has been tired for months.