Perhaps they did seek to tempt him, just a little bit. And they had certainly heard that accusation from Gilmore in the past. They had tried to tempt him back to Ank'harel for good, too, but they understood his whims all to well at the same time. If they could keep him, here, in this strange place, then that was a blessing they might not have been able to receive back home.
The image on the canvas was best described as elegant. It was highly stylized, painted in rich tones with touches of metallic paint in gold and silver and brass. The focus seemed to be as much on the detail of lamps, tapestries, and assorted cushions as it was on the man lounging in the center of the painting. But it had been lovingly detailed. It must have taken weeks to finish. And yet it stayed tucked away in a safe place because J'mon couldn't bear to share that image with anyone else. The mote of possession in that was, they thought, almost obvious. Gilmore was Marquesan. Gilmore was theirs.
J'mon reached out and settled a hand over Gilmore's, over his chest, taking the liberty to sneak their fingers inside the folds of fabric and brush teasingly against his chest. "Soon," they said. "I would like for you to come back to me soon. But, as I said, take the time you need. I want only the best you have to offer; no half-measures. And if I have to wait for that, then I will wait. Neither of us are going anywhere anytime soon."
They leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of Gilmore's beard, then reached for his hand again. "The Gilmore of the future had a transportation sigil in the middle of my bed-chamber, if that gives you any idea of the promises that were made on both sides."