[ The wound, he realizes, has not just split open. It's being wrenched apart further, hands digging into his spine. Blood drips, staining the glossy floors. He's waiting for when it all explodes into a single searing burn, consuming him, because that would be easier to take, would shatter less of his focus than every small lash, but it doesn't come. He can hear Yennefer speaking—a dull buzz in the background, and he wonders which one of them will come out of this with more regrets. If they come out of it at all.
The thought is nebulous, slips away when a jagged pinprick tears his attention elsewhere. Not a wound, not exactly. Deeper. His skin peeled from inside, underneath. It gnaws and shreds and he should be alarmed as to what it means, but his ability to think is increasingly splintered. He struggles to breath, to steel for what's next—but nothing can prepare him for his skull cracking like a melon. His vision turns blinding hot. He curves over himself, chest heaving, choking on a cry. There's so much pressure in his head, it feels ready to burst. He tastes copper where blood has started to trickle from his nose.
Fear surfaces again and this time he does not bother to push it down. He's not even thinking anymore, just reacting, and it's breaking apart so fucking fast he can't keep up. When he turns to Yennefer, staring up at her, it is not for some unspoken message or with a thought out purpose. He just hasn't got anything more inside to draw on; she's all he has left, and despite what's come between them, they have nearly a decade of history. He trusts her, knows she will do what she has to. He thinks. He hopes.
Because he doesn't give a fuck about what happens to him. That's not why he's afraid. It's the girl whose secrets he holds. And in that moment, if the mage is prodding in the right place, he will see that girl: younger, unscarred, with bright green eyes and enveloped in an inexplicably fierce desire to protect her. ]
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The thought is nebulous, slips away when a jagged pinprick tears his attention elsewhere. Not a wound, not exactly. Deeper. His skin peeled from inside, underneath. It gnaws and shreds and he should be alarmed as to what it means, but his ability to think is increasingly splintered. He struggles to breath, to steel for what's next—but nothing can prepare him for his skull cracking like a melon. His vision turns blinding hot. He curves over himself, chest heaving, choking on a cry. There's so much pressure in his head, it feels ready to burst. He tastes copper where blood has started to trickle from his nose.
Fear surfaces again and this time he does not bother to push it down. He's not even thinking anymore, just reacting, and it's breaking apart so fucking fast he can't keep up. When he turns to Yennefer, staring up at her, it is not for some unspoken message or with a thought out purpose. He just hasn't got anything more inside to draw on; she's all he has left, and despite what's come between them, they have nearly a decade of history. He trusts her, knows she will do what she has to. He thinks. He hopes.
Because he doesn't give a fuck about what happens to him. That's not why he's afraid. It's the girl whose secrets he holds. And in that moment, if the mage is prodding in the right place, he will see that girl: younger, unscarred, with bright green eyes and enveloped in an inexplicably fierce desire to protect her. ]