sheri's expression is downright cartoonish as she ducks fast to avoid an errant fireball, cast by her ward. it collides with the hanging plant above instead, scattering burnt contents on the wood flooring. she stomps out any tiny flames quickly with her boots. "... ok maybe that's enough fire spells for now, cillian." maybe they'll focus on something less... prone to burning.
Heavy hands find rest on shaky knees. When he sits, he allows his body to make as much noise as it can on the way to the floor; he'd been on the brink of collapse for half an hour, too focused on seeing results. Cillian sighs. He does so in a way that feels like he's expelling all the air out of his lungs, making himself as empty as he thinks he ought to be. Fading memories of his immortal life leave stubborn traces of pride in this new existence, marring his ability to accept that magic would not come to him as it did when he was fae.
"'m s-sorry..." his throat burns like it's never been used (to be fair, he's only gotten the hang of speech recently), tasting of copper and heat. Apology still feels foreign to him, a sting on the tongue that he could not quite ignore.
Cillian's palms slide down his nose and down-turned lips, easing some of his frustration out of his human body like a wrung towel. This was his choice. He wanted to live. And he did this purposefully, knowing the consequences, yet not wholly understanding what it meant to change. To be changed. To witness his own becoming in the wake of the destruction of what could have been eternal. He could have been eternal.
But when Sheri notices him struggling— tears welling, jaw tight, lips quivering— and pulls him into her arms, he can't help but break. Emotion wracks his slight form, and the sobs come in waves tinged with shame, fear, and a sense of loss that he could no longer fully comprehend.
"I'm sorry."