[ A tug inside his chest waits for an answer. A genuine one. Because if she does, if she had—he might've found reason to nudge the walls around him down an inch. But she doesn't (of course she doesn't) and they rise just as quickly, closing around again. Geralt makes no move to cover the distance she's put between them. Doesn't return her heated stare, either.
Where was he. Where wasn't he? At Cintra, on the road miles from Sodden as it burned in plain sight. He should've died in those woods and he hadn't. And now he wonders why that is. To fulfill some Destiny that's never come to pass? Or because it's the only way death could continue to make its path, following him like a shadow to consume those who stumble into his life? Her appearance only reminds him of how much has slipped from his grasp. How tired he is of making choices that leave him in the same place he's always been.
When he finally turns to study her, his gaze is scrutinizing. It would be easy to ask if she even cares. To demand why she's asking about him when he knows she doesn't give a damn. But that's easy for her, too. Geralt knows exactly how well she does with sharp edges and cutting words. So when he pushes, it's a dice he rolls in another direction.
Because he's worried. He is. About her. He doesn't care how much that idea pisses her off. She can suffer it. ]
Forgive me, Yen, for giving a fuck over your whereabouts when a third of the North is turned to ash.
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Where was he. Where wasn't he? At Cintra, on the road miles from Sodden as it burned in plain sight. He should've died in those woods and he hadn't. And now he wonders why that is. To fulfill some Destiny that's never come to pass? Or because it's the only way death could continue to make its path, following him like a shadow to consume those who stumble into his life? Her appearance only reminds him of how much has slipped from his grasp. How tired he is of making choices that leave him in the same place he's always been.
When he finally turns to study her, his gaze is scrutinizing. It would be easy to ask if she even cares. To demand why she's asking about him when he knows she doesn't give a damn. But that's easy for her, too. Geralt knows exactly how well she does with sharp edges and cutting words. So when he pushes, it's a dice he rolls in another direction.
Because he's worried. He is. About her. He doesn't care how much that idea pisses her off. She can suffer it. ]
Forgive me, Yen, for giving a fuck over your whereabouts when a third of the North is turned to ash.