[If you ask him, it's a wonderful start. The worst students are tone deaf. No, wait. The worst are tone deaf and deny being so.]
Ah. Right. You're right.
[He hesitates still. The change that came over his Horizon was not, technically, a conscious one, and though he has seen the effects of unconscious change to one's domain in others, it is startling (and a bit unnerving) in his own. The longer he's here, in Oxenfurt, the less... he thinks he wishes to be.
The Horizon won't hurt him. He's being ridiculous. And Moglad is here, after all. He has done a very studious job of keeping this tavern safe.]
Let me think.
[He wants it to be perfect. His memory of it. And after decades, how could it be less than perfect? Filavandrel's lute (for he's always thought of it that way) appears in his hands, all warm, honey wood and the polite sparkle of gold knotted around her belly. The strings play light, the notes coming easily. His playing is immaculate, of course, but if Ciri has heard him practice at home, the sound from this instrument is infinitely warmer than the lute from Thorne.] I carried it for over twenty years. A gift from Geralt and I's first adventure together. [His hands caress her like a lover -- like he would hold his own heart.
His throat tightens. She lay in the Continent now, only splinters. After a breath, he offers it out to her.] I lost her. Or -- rather, she was taken from me. In those memories.
no subject
Ah. Right. You're right.
[He hesitates still. The change that came over his Horizon was not, technically, a conscious one, and though he has seen the effects of unconscious change to one's domain in others, it is startling (and a bit unnerving) in his own. The longer he's here, in Oxenfurt, the less... he thinks he wishes to be.
The Horizon won't hurt him. He's being ridiculous. And Moglad is here, after all. He has done a very studious job of keeping this tavern safe.]
Let me think.
[He wants it to be perfect. His memory of it. And after decades, how could it be less than perfect? Filavandrel's lute (for he's always thought of it that way) appears in his hands, all warm, honey wood and the polite sparkle of gold knotted around her belly. The strings play light, the notes coming easily. His playing is immaculate, of course, but if Ciri has heard him practice at home, the sound from this instrument is infinitely warmer than the lute from Thorne.] I carried it for over twenty years. A gift from Geralt and I's first adventure together. [His hands caress her like a lover -- like he would hold his own heart.
His throat tightens. She lay in the Continent now, only splinters. After a breath, he offers it out to her.] I lost her. Or -- rather, she was taken from me. In those memories.
[She knows which ones.]