[ As soon as his arm moves around her, something inside her chest seems to snap, cracking apart more than loosening. Ciri leans into him, embracing him around the middle, tight. She buries her face into Geralt's shoulder, and she stays there. ]
I'm sorry.
[ That she'd snapped at him. That she is angry. That she is helpless to the powers that control her, and that he has seen it now, both here and in his memories, how being near her is signing up for misery and misfortune from all sides. She is sorry for not being stronger. For what has happened and will happen, everything Geralt remembers and everything he doesn't yet and all that neither of them know but she can't imagine being painless.
It's not an apology. It is an acknowledgement. She isn't sorry for what she's done; she regrets what she is. Like tar, sticking fast to anyone who steps too close, holding on until it chokes them, leaving only stains. If Geralt didn't know what he'd signed up for when he'd first laid eyes on her in the dungeon yard back in Thorne, he should understand now.
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I'm sorry.
[ That she'd snapped at him. That she is angry. That she is helpless to the powers that control her, and that he has seen it now, both here and in his memories, how being near her is signing up for misery and misfortune from all sides. She is sorry for not being stronger. For what has happened and will happen, everything Geralt remembers and everything he doesn't yet and all that neither of them know but she can't imagine being painless.
It's not an apology. It is an acknowledgement. She isn't sorry for what she's done; she regrets what she is. Like tar, sticking fast to anyone who steps too close, holding on until it chokes them, leaving only stains. If Geralt didn't know what he'd signed up for when he'd first laid eyes on her in the dungeon yard back in Thorne, he should understand now.
And, in a way, Ciri is also sorry that he does. ]