John wonders if it is cowardly of him, the fact that he does not seek Geralt out as soon as he can, upon learning the truth of their predicament, if indeed that is what one should call it. That he had found himself looking inward instead, a tight creeping dread filling up his gut even as he can feel his decision being made for him. For what other choice is there to make, in the end.

It is common sense that eventually spurs him forward, into action. After all, he has no time to afford wasting it on feeling sorry for himself. One more night, if the gods are to believed. They must speak now, for better or for worse, while they are able.

John finds him seated by a fire he has built, near where they have set up a rudimentary camp. Well — Geralt did most of the work in setting the camp up, though John had done his best to assist and follow instructions. John lowers himself to the rock beside the other man, gesturing toward whatever creature it is that seems to be roasting before them.

"Smells good," he says. Daring his voice to be even and calm when he feels a bit as though he is willingly offering his neck for the noose. It is the last conversation in the world he would ever wish to have, but have it they must. He supposes he can be forgiven for easing into it.