Firstly, there was no reunion with Gepetto, Remo, her creator, her parent... Or, she did meet her father again ( had she ever met him before? ), but it was not the man she been searching for. Not Remo. Instead, a man who claimed to be his brother. A man with her eyes, her nose, one who bore a strong resemblance with Remo as well ( the years had been kind to the man; she could effortlessly see his brother’s youthful face in his ). A man who claimed to be her father. A man who could, would not be her father, no matter how similar they looked -- Ciri knew this; her heart did not beat faster for him, she felt no irresistible pull towards him, no invisible bond which tied them together. And she saw it in the strange man's eyes, too. He seemed both frightened and saddened by her presence, and failed to meet her eye. There was no delight or relief. He was not someone who would come to see her as his daughter. Still, she could not dislike this stranger, not even for his past, cowardly behaviour. The story he told her sounded true, even though it went against the theory she had stubbornly been following for all these years. She did not protest. She believed the man, which might be another proof of their familial bond.

Secondly, it did not feel as though a grand truth had just come to light. The pillars of the earth did not seem to shake, the walls of the house did not seem to collapse on top of her, and even the unpleasant gut feeling wasn't present. Ciri listened to the man in silence, calmly, without ever interrupting, without shedding a tear, and without trembling. The truth of what had happened did not seem to shake her in the least. She was numb, and when the man – when her father -- had finished explaining, she merely, flatly, excused herself and went out for a walk. Expecting to break down once alone. Expecting to feel more when there were no curious eyes watching her.

But even the fresh air had no effect on her mood.

She grew more restless, yes, and began to play with her thumbs, paced up and down as she pondered Silvan's words. She considered lies, misunderstandings, intentional deceit. She considered false reports, deception by magick, and much more. Even so, this time the nagging voice in the back of her mind could not be ignored ( the one who had always accused her of being stubborn & foolish, of willingly deceiving herself, the one she'd always dismissed with ease ); Ciri found herself admitting that the voice had always been right, even, and that she had always been a fool. It made her resent herself for a moment. How stupid, how blind she had been! How stubborn and childish she had been! Then, she pitied herself. Poor child; witnessing her parent’s death must have been such a shock, so painful, so gruesome – to the point where she erased the memory from her mind. Finally, Ciri understood herself. Nothing in this world would make her want to remember such horrifying event. Whether she had intentionally repressed her memory for all these years or not, it mattered not. Perhaps it was for the best, that she had come up with such an impressive fantasy to coped with her loss. Still, the understanding did not make her feel at ease. Something was missing, and it was obvious what. The devastation, the tears, the anger, perhaps even denial and rejection. Instead of experiencing these emotions, Ciri felt like a bystander, or the reader of a book. As though this was not her story, not her life. She could sympathise, empathise with herself, and analyse her own feelings. But her calm was unsettling, worrying, and she could only furrow her brow and fidget as she waited for something to happen to her. Something more meaningful.

---

She heard him approaching, eventually, after the sun had set, and she had spent more time thinking. More time trying to cry, shout, or even laugh. All she had accomplished was to etch a deep frown in her forehead -- one which deepened when the man drew nearer. There was no need for her to lift her head to check who it was: having spent so much time with him, she could recognise Xerxes even by the sound his footsteps.

More than her looking up being unnecessary, Ciri was unwilling to meet his eye. Xerxes had brought her here, after all. He had revealed that he knew someone who had information about Remo. It had been thanks to him that she had found out so much about Remo, and Ciri realised that Xerxes must have known about everything even before they had come here. Way before. She buried her hands in the heap of rocks piled at her feet ( she had busied herself with collecting them while organising her thoughts ). Maybe Xerxes had never believed her in the first place, not in the slightest. Not even when listening to Farah’s tales. Not even when they had met the were-cat. Not even when she had spoken of the vampire lady, or the odd woman-in-dog (the dog had, in fact, turned out to be a wolf).