His hand touches hers, encouraging her touch to his face, although it's hard for them to feel one another, skin nipped numb by the cold and, you know, death, although they aren't entirely without feeling as magic bleeds away, leaving these wretched creatures to the decisions they've made. He's made.

Her hand slips away. Down. He pursues by taking her wrist, a clasp like iron that quickly gentles, without letting it go.

Had he pulled Catia from the black waters, from the Syrens' realm, he'd have wasted no time in asking her forgiveness. It's a harder thing, now, expressly because Vortigern does not know whether Elsa would grant it, or is even capable of doing so. "I brought you back," he says, barely above a whisper, almost to himself. Marvelling, eyes lapsed back to familiar green by now, clear and bright, zigzagging a study over her face. "I've brought you back to me."