[Now that he has really allowed himself to accept the thoughts that had been clawing at the edge of his mind, it has somehow emboldened them. His sounds muffled into her shoulder, his eyes wet. So many things at once: the close brush of a meaningless death, the destruction of a city he had begun thinking of his own, the loss of people and artists and builders and musicians in a city rife with all the best and worse echelons of life that a city could offer.

And to know, to accept, that this is only the beginning.

Ugh. He does not want to be pulled away because he does not want Yennefer to see him like this. Or anyone. Perhaps this is why he has been able to tell Ciri and Geralt that he was perfectly fine. It was all waiting to boil out when it found a crack in the pot.

He wipes his eyes, shaking his head. No, it isn't his fault, but they both know that hearing the words changes nothing.]

What? You don't think I would, if I could? [He glares at her, which he knows must be rather comical with red cheeks and puffy eyes, and then... his shoulders fall a bit.] Perhaps you're right.

[He places his hand on top of hers, carefully pulling it away.] Don't tell me you mean to, Yennefer. It's too dangerous.