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It wasn't quite a bite; it had been made with no intention to injure. If the wind died down, Beowulf could imagine it carried no sting.
"I frightened you," he said with measured breath. "I'm sorry."
The dragon, shimmering like a gem against the snow, craned her head but made no other gesture. Beowulf lowered his arm.
"I'm sorry."
Despite some protestation, he told Ramza him he could dress his own wounds, to dispense with magic and let it heal unaided. It was—after a fashion—something like a kiss, and it was not so painful to let it linger.