[ In the silence, the sun sinks behind the horizon. His chest feels heavy. Ciri's weight against him is absolute. He digs the nails of his free hand into the loose sandy dirt, the scant dry grass. Really, he's just—exhausted to shit. But Ciri is here, so he pushes aside the distinct urge to lay facedown in that sad trickle of a stream.

He breathes out. It's a few minutes before he finally speaks up. ] You know Jaskier will hound you for life if you blame yourself. Only one of us needs to be subjected to him. Have I told you about the time he stole my clothes?

[ He already knows Jaskier will be worried about her more than anything. If he's awake. (He'll be awake.) Geralt's not certain how that draught Sam's got works, but he does distinctly recall Sam telling him it carried the same properties as the crystals. A problem for Sam to deal with, for the time being. At least Jaskier's mind is unlikely to carry dark images.

His fingers slide over a smooth flat stone, his other arm still around Ciri. He considers, then lays it on the ground before them. When he finds another, he stacks it on top, delicately balanced. It's as much to keep himself occupied, but. There's an unspoken invitation for Ciri to join if she wants. Perhaps they both need to just not fucking think right now. Night's longer, with winter just weeks away. They have too many hours to wait out before they can ride. ]