How could he explain? He hardly knew how to quantify it, himself. That, perhaps, was part of why the hurt lingered so well, why the thoughts still cut him so very deeply. Her hand is on his face, gentle and light, and he leans into it before he can stop himself. He really doesn't want to stop himself, if he's honest.

"They all do," he admits and--she is clever, she will know what he means. He has a repertoire of songs, two decades worth, all about the same subject, the same grand hero. His whole life's work is built around Geralt of Rivia as its cornerstone. His best ballads, his best jigs, the most requested of all his works are all about the Witcher. He had never regretted it--he doesn't still--but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

"That one, though," he admits softly and has to swallow around a word. He blinks too hard and the tears gathered on his lashes fall as fat drops, missing his cheeks entirely. At least his foolish weeping won't stain his face this time.

"Gods' I hate that song, now," he adds and the laugh he lets out is bitter and bemused. Geralt had always hated it and, oh, but he understands that feeling now. That song hounds him, chasing him from place to place, nipping at his heels. It was the first and, oh, it has persisted.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes abruptly and looks at her, at the violet eyes and raven hair and the tender shades of concern on her face. He is an idiot and he is with a beautiful woman and he weeps about her ex lover. He had never even--ah, that thought has him flinch and another stray volley of tears fall. These don't avoid his cheeks as the last did.

"I am a maudlin fool, I'm afraid. Alcohol brings it out of me, I should have guessed it would do the same now."