[ His saw steadily slows with Dean's explanation until it eventually stops. Geralt rests his hands on the wooden plank, lifting his head to observe Dean askance. When Dean had said he was done—in that moment, he felt the uncertainty, the loss, but afterwards...seeing his friend alive and well, he wanted to believe it meant nothing more than one of many memories of a near-death experience. The kind Dean returned from again and again in a way no mortal should, long before immortality was technically his to have.

Men and the divine both have their limits, it seems.

He lowers the saw and abandons any pretence of working. He captures the bottle of liquor instead. ]

That was your memory. [ The one that showed him to truth. Geralt gives a soft, wry scoff before falling silent. His hand is still around the bottle as he watches the sawdust around his feet. ] The first lesson we were taught was death. I expect it. I wait for it. And then suddenly, in that reality, she stayed her hand. Not only for me, but for all of us.

[ He studies the lip of the bottle without drinking. ] I awoke half-expecting to find you gone.

[ A confession of his own, the closest he will come to saying that he was truly afraid of losing Dean. They don't speak of it often; it's a reality they accept, a fact of the life they lead. Why waste time buried under its shadow? But he's out of practice. He has forgotten what it was to be ready. ]