[He certainly tried. And -- ah, she gets it. He did, after all, write a song for him. (One of his lovelier ones, he thinks. Certainly much less bitter than Her Sweet Kiss -- but remind him not he has not even had an opportunity to play it.
And remind him even less how incongruous that song would be now, with this Yennefer beside him. How little room she allows herself to take up. Her questions that have some sense of... girlish innocence.
It is how she looks as he sings, though, that shows it would be impossible for this to be a farce. Yennefer would never allow herself to enjoy his music, whether she likes it or not (and he, of course, suspects she would enjoy it greatly if she indulged.) Like she does now. How light truly reaches her eyes, and how bright they turn.
He stiffens when her hand braces against him, the song cut short as he catches her in turn.
Oh. Oh, no. How his heart suddenly lurches in an all-too-familiar feeling. Absolutely not, you traitorous fucking thing. You know why we're doing this! Her hand in his lingers for too long. Warm and demure. So unlike the sorceress he knows, and yet there are edges, softened, that he swears he recognizes.] Not used to wagon travel, I imagine. Probably carriages only for one of your standing.
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And remind him even less how incongruous that song would be now, with this Yennefer beside him. How little room she allows herself to take up. Her questions that have some sense of... girlish innocence.
It is how she looks as he sings, though, that shows it would be impossible for this to be a farce. Yennefer would never allow herself to enjoy his music, whether she likes it or not (and he, of course, suspects she would enjoy it greatly if she indulged.) Like she does now. How light truly reaches her eyes, and how bright they turn.
He stiffens when her hand braces against him, the song cut short as he catches her in turn.
Oh. Oh, no. How his heart suddenly lurches in an all-too-familiar feeling. Absolutely not, you traitorous fucking thing. You know why we're doing this! Her hand in his lingers for too long. Warm and demure. So unlike the sorceress he knows, and yet there are edges, softened, that he swears he recognizes.] Not used to wagon travel, I imagine. Probably carriages only for one of your standing.