[ Fleeting though it is, Geralt still hears the shadow of it in her tone. He does, and he only looks away with a gruff noise low in his throat. Once upon a time, he might've admitted to her his reasons for being so cautious: Jaskier's presence, which doesn't feel so much a guest as a pampered hostage, and then there's—
No. He supposes he'd not ever have mentioned the child. He still regrets having done so. Yen doesn't know who the child belongs to; likely believes it belongs to a peasant, a farmer, a poor merchant who could afford nothing else but a promise. Does not know that the child is a fucking princess, whose city is now ashes. She never will, if he has anything to say about it. It no longer matters. It will only open scars that shouldn't be picked at. He's had enough of that. ]
Only the parts that matter. Kept my eyes. My charming youth. [ A great boon, of course, that. To live a Witcher's life extended to its fullest. He exhales, settling back against the fence. The breeze out here feels like a mockery. He misses the steady winter chill, the open night air. The questions from before continue to itch at him. How exhausted she looks—as if it's been weeks for her, too—the way he'd swear she's in pain or nursing an old injury. There's something not right. And fuck, he can't think of a reason why that would be. Yennefer's careful. Powerful. Knows how to shield herself easily from Nilfgaard's marching armies. The mages at Sodden, Visenna had said, and he'd been too out of it then to really...
It's not likely. Not even close. What allegiance does she have to the other mages? He knows how she feels about the Brotherhood. She sure as hell doesn't serve any of the Northern kingdoms. What would she even be doing near there?
He asks to confirm what should be obvious. That's all. ] Where were you? Before the well.
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No. He supposes he'd not ever have mentioned the child. He still regrets having done so. Yen doesn't know who the child belongs to; likely believes it belongs to a peasant, a farmer, a poor merchant who could afford nothing else but a promise. Does not know that the child is a fucking princess, whose city is now ashes. She never will, if he has anything to say about it. It no longer matters. It will only open scars that shouldn't be picked at. He's had enough of that. ]
Only the parts that matter. Kept my eyes. My charming youth. [ A great boon, of course, that. To live a Witcher's life extended to its fullest. He exhales, settling back against the fence. The breeze out here feels like a mockery. He misses the steady winter chill, the open night air. The questions from before continue to itch at him. How exhausted she looks—as if it's been weeks for her, too—the way he'd swear she's in pain or nursing an old injury. There's something not right. And fuck, he can't think of a reason why that would be. Yennefer's careful. Powerful. Knows how to shield herself easily from Nilfgaard's marching armies. The mages at Sodden, Visenna had said, and he'd been too out of it then to really...
It's not likely. Not even close. What allegiance does she have to the other mages? He knows how she feels about the Brotherhood. She sure as hell doesn't serve any of the Northern kingdoms. What would she even be doing near there?
He asks to confirm what should be obvious. That's all. ] Where were you? Before the well.