[ sam is hyperfocused on the blade. he's been in similar situations before, sure - on the brink of death, blade or gun to his chest, filing through every possible alternative option. but the truth of it is, in that moment, sam's not really sure what he's going to do. he can't get leverage, he can't disarm him, he can feel himself bleeding pretty heavily, he probably has a concussion, he can feel a kind of fog start to settle in, but if he doesn't do anything soon-
blood, and the tip of a blade. sam doesn't really know what is happening when his eyes focus on that, on the tip of a blade pushing out through his throat and towards sam's. and then there is that cracking, of bone splintering, of the bandits skull breaking apart in two, and the body being shoved off to the side.
the man - not only dead, but nearly torn apart. cut through like meat, ripped apart at the seams and tossed away. there is blood, splattered across sam's face that is not his own, and some that is his own pooling at his elbow, down his sides. he should get to those, he thinks distantly. should tend to those and make sure he doesn't bleed out on this desert floor. but he finds he can't quite focus on that, or on how his head is still swimming, or how every breath shoots pain through his sides. because all he can see is the eyes of that bandit above him, wide with shock, then blank. suddenly, as if panicked, sam's eyes turn to the scene around him. to one, two, three more bodies in various stages of the same. dead, all of them dead, and geralt standing above him, holding out a hand to help him up.
geralt, who killed all four of them in the span of what...three minutes? four? geralt, covered in their blood. geralt, who doesn't seem to even be breathing hard. who doesn't spare any of them a second thought. sam looks at the hand offered, then looks to geralt's face - his own expression one part shocked, one part horrified, one part something else.
( it's not fear, that much is for sure. he's not scared that geralt will hurt him. it doesn't even cross his mind. it's more of the weight of the passing moments, the lack of remorse, the sudden feeling of a quickly growing distance. ) ]
Fine. [ it comes out short, like he had to push it out through his lips. and then sam is turning to his side - aware, that he is not reaching for the hand offered to him. that he is ignoring the help geralt is trying to give him. but sam doesn't even think about what that might seem like to geralt, at the moment just trying to. find his footing in all of this. in the four bodies around them, the stench of them in their air. dead. death.
what if marlo finds out about this?
sam - through the pain of his rib - pushes up to his knees, and then his feet, somewhat unsteady but if geralt tries to reach for him in any way, sam will have a hand out to stop him, quick, definitive. ] Nothing lethal. [ his words aren't slurring, which means his concussion isn't bad. good signs, he reminds himself, breathing quietly through his nose for a few seconds as he wraps a hand around one of the cuts on his arm. he looks around, again, getting a better view of the bodies. of the carnage. sam swallows thickly at the undeniability of it all, and can't do anything about that distance growing further and further between him and geralt, before what just half an hour before he'd been so confident in.
the feeling is a bit like the rocking of a boat in the midst of a storm, not knowing if your feet will hold true, or if you'll trip and fall into the depths of the water below. ] Fuck.
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blood, and the tip of a blade. sam doesn't really know what is happening when his eyes focus on that, on the tip of a blade pushing out through his throat and towards sam's. and then there is that cracking, of bone splintering, of the bandits skull breaking apart in two, and the body being shoved off to the side.
the man - not only dead, but nearly torn apart. cut through like meat, ripped apart at the seams and tossed away. there is blood, splattered across sam's face that is not his own, and some that is his own pooling at his elbow, down his sides. he should get to those, he thinks distantly. should tend to those and make sure he doesn't bleed out on this desert floor. but he finds he can't quite focus on that, or on how his head is still swimming, or how every breath shoots pain through his sides. because all he can see is the eyes of that bandit above him, wide with shock, then blank. suddenly, as if panicked, sam's eyes turn to the scene around him. to one, two, three more bodies in various stages of the same. dead, all of them dead, and geralt standing above him, holding out a hand to help him up.
geralt, who killed all four of them in the span of what...three minutes? four? geralt, covered in their blood. geralt, who doesn't seem to even be breathing hard. who doesn't spare any of them a second thought. sam looks at the hand offered, then looks to geralt's face - his own expression one part shocked, one part horrified, one part something else.
( it's not fear, that much is for sure. he's not scared that geralt will hurt him. it doesn't even cross his mind. it's more of the weight of the passing moments, the lack of remorse, the sudden feeling of a quickly growing distance. ) ]
Fine. [ it comes out short, like he had to push it out through his lips. and then sam is turning to his side - aware, that he is not reaching for the hand offered to him. that he is ignoring the help geralt is trying to give him. but sam doesn't even think about what that might seem like to geralt, at the moment just trying to. find his footing in all of this. in the four bodies around them, the stench of them in their air. dead. death.
what if marlo finds out about this?
sam - through the pain of his rib - pushes up to his knees, and then his feet, somewhat unsteady but if geralt tries to reach for him in any way, sam will have a hand out to stop him, quick, definitive. ] Nothing lethal. [ his words aren't slurring, which means his concussion isn't bad. good signs, he reminds himself, breathing quietly through his nose for a few seconds as he wraps a hand around one of the cuts on his arm. he looks around, again, getting a better view of the bodies. of the carnage. sam swallows thickly at the undeniability of it all, and can't do anything about that distance growing further and further between him and geralt, before what just half an hour before he'd been so confident in.
the feeling is a bit like the rocking of a boat in the midst of a storm, not knowing if your feet will hold true, or if you'll trip and fall into the depths of the water below. ] Fuck.