[ He lets the conversation about celebrations flow past him, an absent nod at what Sam's saying. He came here to try to...what. Capture some semblance of peace, one of the few good memories he's ever held? He isn't sure. He only knows he felt like they could both use the time away from the blood that he can still smell in Sam's home, the empty rooms, and now that they're here he's—
If he'd only come away with his injuries, he'd have been fine. He's suffered worse. He's survived worse. But his mind has never been torn into so thoroughly. He doesn't—he hates what Yennefer did and he hates more the knowledge that if she'd not been there, he could've done nothing to stop them, nothing to protect himself. Nothing to protect Ciri. Even now, sometimes he wonders: are they still looking inside? It's overly paranoid—they aren't; he would feel it—but the whole incident has left him unsteady, unsure. (Afraid.)
He'll get over it, he knows that. He's always picked himself back up and he refuses to let this time be any fucking different. It's just. Been harder than usual to put his fears, his worries, his dark thoughts aside. What he'd been forced to remember, its teeth have sunk deep. He can't stop dreaming about it, he can't concentrate for shit. He twists the bottle in his hands, an uncharacteristic tic, and maybe that's what catches Sam's attention. What prompts the question.
He almost says no. The real irony is, if not for what occurred in the desert, he'd have done exactly that. But Sam helped him, anyway. Without hesitation, even after. Apologized to him. No one's done that before. There have been those who never gave a shit in the first place, what blood he has on his hands—but no one who looked at him and reconsidered and came back. ]
I don't know. [ He watches Sam. It's the truth. He does and he doesn't. ] Not a lot to say. I'm sure Jaskier filled you in.
[ That is not, he knows, why Sam is asking if he wants to talk about it. It is not for want of information—but it is easier, in this moment, to answer it as though it were. ]
no subject
If he'd only come away with his injuries, he'd have been fine. He's suffered worse. He's survived worse. But his mind has never been torn into so thoroughly. He doesn't—he hates what Yennefer did and he hates more the knowledge that if she'd not been there, he could've done nothing to stop them, nothing to protect himself. Nothing to protect Ciri. Even now, sometimes he wonders: are they still looking inside? It's overly paranoid—they aren't; he would feel it—but the whole incident has left him unsteady, unsure. (Afraid.)
He'll get over it, he knows that. He's always picked himself back up and he refuses to let this time be any fucking different. It's just. Been harder than usual to put his fears, his worries, his dark thoughts aside. What he'd been forced to remember, its teeth have sunk deep. He can't stop dreaming about it, he can't concentrate for shit. He twists the bottle in his hands, an uncharacteristic tic, and maybe that's what catches Sam's attention. What prompts the question.
He almost says no. The real irony is, if not for what occurred in the desert, he'd have done exactly that. But Sam helped him, anyway. Without hesitation, even after. Apologized to him. No one's done that before. There have been those who never gave a shit in the first place, what blood he has on his hands—but no one who looked at him and reconsidered and came back. ]
I don't know. [ He watches Sam. It's the truth. He does and he doesn't. ] Not a lot to say. I'm sure Jaskier filled you in.
[ That is not, he knows, why Sam is asking if he wants to talk about it. It is not for want of information—but it is easier, in this moment, to answer it as though it were. ]