[ He makes a thoughtful noise in his throat while she explains. (It reminds him of their nights together. Discussing Ciri. The Continent. This power neither of them well understood.) ]
Ash and fire. [ Of course she's left it to Istredd. Istredd will read damn near anything; Geralt's seen the books that fill his Horizon, and though his opinion of the man will never lean towards the most generous, he can acknowledge that if anyone were to uncover some dusty secret hidden in a tome, it would be the mage.
She speaks again, and he looks up. His finger pauses between the pages, holding his place as he regards her. Good question. He found a lot of shit in the Ashlands. Memories he hadn't wanted to confront. That he's considering telling Yen in the first place is new. For a long time, he's kept those details to himself. He rarely confesses much to begin with, and they have not been...talking. Not about anything other than what they had to.
Briefly, he turns towards their first months here—when he saw her after fleeing to the Free Cities, when they'd faced each other in that throne room, and she'd reached into the depths of his mind. She had felt him then, the undescribable horror wrapped up in that memory, and though he'd been too fucked up at the time to reflect clearly, he understood later that he had felt her, too.
He knows she hadn't meant to do it. That she'd regretted not having more control over her Chaos, that she could have better protected him. She need not have told him. Her feelings had been exposed in that moment as much as his. He's only just recently allowed himself to see beyond her betrayal afterwards—beyond his mistrust after what she did to Ciri.
Quietly, he closes the tome. ] Those birds that echo memories. Not ideal.
[ Had they dug in any detail, he would not have returned to that place. He's far too cautious of what he knows of Ciri. But it seemed to be little more than a distorted reflection formed out of haphazard snippets from his past. ]
no subject
Ash and fire. [ Of course she's left it to Istredd. Istredd will read damn near anything; Geralt's seen the books that fill his Horizon, and though his opinion of the man will never lean towards the most generous, he can acknowledge that if anyone were to uncover some dusty secret hidden in a tome, it would be the mage.
She speaks again, and he looks up. His finger pauses between the pages, holding his place as he regards her. Good question. He found a lot of shit in the Ashlands. Memories he hadn't wanted to confront. That he's considering telling Yen in the first place is new. For a long time, he's kept those details to himself. He rarely confesses much to begin with, and they have not been...talking. Not about anything other than what they had to.
Briefly, he turns towards their first months here—when he saw her after fleeing to the Free Cities, when they'd faced each other in that throne room, and she'd reached into the depths of his mind. She had felt him then, the undescribable horror wrapped up in that memory, and though he'd been too fucked up at the time to reflect clearly, he understood later that he had felt her, too.
He knows she hadn't meant to do it. That she'd regretted not having more control over her Chaos, that she could have better protected him. She need not have told him. Her feelings had been exposed in that moment as much as his. He's only just recently allowed himself to see beyond her betrayal afterwards—beyond his mistrust after what she did to Ciri.
Quietly, he closes the tome. ] Those birds that echo memories. Not ideal.
[ Had they dug in any detail, he would not have returned to that place. He's far too cautious of what he knows of Ciri. But it seemed to be little more than a distorted reflection formed out of haphazard snippets from his past. ]