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Mmhmmm. Well, I'd wager she noticed you. You're noticeable.

Likely all the moreso after you won a ceremonial duel with her knife.

It doesn't matter very much. She's not here. But thank you. (I think.) What about you? Are there any people you noticed, back where you're from?

Sometimes, I suppose. Never anything lasting. People still thought I was pretty even after I had to cut off my hair, and I used that, sometimes.

I noticed the man who killed me. He was a witcher with white hair and a fast sword. Like me, I thought. Witchers are man-made monsters. I asked him to kill my wizard for me, but he was determined to stay out of it. He didn't, though. I had nine other men willing to help me, and he killed all of them.

Not very romantic, is it.

[Paul sits with that, for a while, until the cold-snap fission fury in him fades enough that he can think of his words instead of throwing them like knives.]

Renfri, that wasn't your fault. Do you know that? It wasn't. You weren't the monster. I know that. I know you. I know what monsters are. If he couldn't see where the monster was, between you and that wizard, then he was no better than him.

You hate him, do you?

I think you're right, you know, that you know me. That you see me. So tell me something, please, because I want to know. Is there anything I could say right now, for better or for worse, that would change your mind about me?

Shouldn't I? There are. You could tell me that you've been lying to me all along, and playing me for a fool. You could tell me that you intend to hurt other people I care for. I don't think you would, but I've been wrong before. Would you say those things?

I don't know. I don't know if I hate him, even; I keep going back and forth on it. I don't hate him like I hate Stregobor, I know that much. But I don't hate anyone like I hate Stregobor, so.

And no, I haven't been lying to you. I've left out some ugly things about myself, perhaps, but not for sympathy or to make myself sound better. Just from being human.

Is it lying if you see someone better in me than I see in myself, and I don't go out of my way to dissuade that?

I can't tell you I understand, because I wasn't there. I wasn't you. But I do know what it's like to have someone betray you, and not hate them, even if you should. And Renfri, if trying to persuade me that there are ugly things inside of you is your standard of honesty: you're the most honest person I've ever met, and every human is an irredeemable liar. You don't owe me your heart cut open so I can judge it. You don't owe that to anyone.

[She should tell Paul sometime, she thinks to herself in the quiet that follows, while she sits in the low light of the archive shelves and looks at the words glowing candle-bright on the glass face of her Omni — someday, she'll have to tell him more of the things she doesn't say. How sometimes the words that leave his mouth are an echo of Geralt's and it brings her to a standstill, when it doesn't make her want to knock his front teeth out. How he has his own brand of honesty and it lies in the flames of his anger, in those moments where he forgets himself and burns hot instead of ice-cold, and says all the right things without thinking.

It's been a long time since she's wanted anything except to bloody her sword with the life of one single man. Then that too was taken away, and she'd thought she'd all but forgotten how to want anything at all. And then she'd thought she could find it again by knocking together whims like flints, throwing aimless sparks in the hopes that just one might land on something dry and right for kindling.

Now it feels like a thin wisp of smoke rising. I want to turn over seashells and see if there are crabs. I want to look at the ocean and believe in something friendly in its depths.

It isn't much, but it's something. And it'd be such a shame to let it burn out.]

I should learn to ask you for help more often.

[And then, shortly thereafter: ]

Do you want to tell me about it? Why you know what it's like?

[A tension in Paul unwinds when he receives Renfri's answer, a settling like the last breathy exhales of a passing storm that left the earth scoured behind it.

She brings things out of him that he didn't know he had in him to begin with. Paul thinks he understands why nine men were willing to die for her; he understands better how heavy those weights hang around a neck, the gravitational guilt of having been worth fighting for, worth dying for.

He did dream about being with the other creatures like him. Maybe he's found one, after all.]

I do, but not today. Another time. Are you going to be all right?

I think so. For now, at least. I'm all right now.

[Once, the answer would've been of course I am, I always am. And that would be dancing out of the way of the point, like she always does. Just not today.]

You're right, though. Let's do this again sometime. I like it when you tell me stories, and listen to mine in return.

If you ever aren't, you know where to find me. We will. I like listening to you. I'm glad you don't mind listening to me.

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