[ Her hand is warm. Geralt doesn’t reach back, but notably, he doesn’t pull away, either. There are few he’s met who have little they’ve left behind, and little waiting for them to return to, as he has. She’s one of a small handful he thinks maybe understands what that is.
He can’t say if it’s true, what this place gives. Maybe it does, maybe that’s what it’s meant to do: to afford all those who enter the chance to live what they deserve. If they are capable of it. He’s not sure he is. He’d built that home, that life, with a girl that existed only as a shadow, and then she’d. Vanished. Before he actually awoke. And for all that he’d felt the hollow in his chest, he remembers after he stopped searching for the girl and simply got back on his horse, alone, that was when it felt as though things finally settled into place. Like he’d found where he was always supposed to end up.
(Why do you do that? Yennefer had asked. Second guess yourself, when you have something nice. He’s realized it holds true what he’d answered in return, whether inside here or out there, with or without his memories: he doesn’t know how to keep it.)
His gaze snaps up. What? He stares at Julie for a second. His brows furrow. Shit. His head is far too stuffed with wool to work out exactly what this means, that she’s. Dead. Was dead. Normally he’d have a question or two: does she bear any marks or effects from what killed her, is anyone else with her supposed to be dead, too. (How the fuck.) As it is, the only coherent thought he has is that he genuinely doesn’t like the notion of her being dead. ]
Perhaps it is. [ She isn’t wrong, that it’s—it feels real. Deep down, that’s the problem he keeps having. He was given a tangible life he was never meant to hold onto. ] It’s faded all the same. But we are still here.
[ She’s here. If she’s died back in her world, she’s alive now. That part, at least, he can say is real. ]
no subject
He can’t say if it’s true, what this place gives. Maybe it does, maybe that’s what it’s meant to do: to afford all those who enter the chance to live what they deserve. If they are capable of it. He’s not sure he is. He’d built that home, that life, with a girl that existed only as a shadow, and then she’d. Vanished. Before he actually awoke. And for all that he’d felt the hollow in his chest, he remembers after he stopped searching for the girl and simply got back on his horse, alone, that was when it felt as though things finally settled into place. Like he’d found where he was always supposed to end up.
(Why do you do that? Yennefer had asked. Second guess yourself, when you have something nice. He’s realized it holds true what he’d answered in return, whether inside here or out there, with or without his memories: he doesn’t know how to keep it.)
His gaze snaps up. What? He stares at Julie for a second. His brows furrow. Shit. His head is far too stuffed with wool to work out exactly what this means, that she’s. Dead. Was dead. Normally he’d have a question or two: does she bear any marks or effects from what killed her, is anyone else with her supposed to be dead, too. (How the fuck.) As it is, the only coherent thought he has is that he genuinely doesn’t like the notion of her being dead. ]
Perhaps it is. [ She isn’t wrong, that it’s—it feels real. Deep down, that’s the problem he keeps having. He was given a tangible life he was never meant to hold onto. ] It’s faded all the same. But we are still here.
[ She’s here. If she’s died back in her world, she’s alive now. That part, at least, he can say is real. ]