[ Sometimes he wonders how the hell he found himself here. Considering speaking of this to someone who was never there, never a part of his life for even that long. He's barely even told Jaskier. Perhaps that's why, though. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that Sam is familiar—a friend—but still doesn't know him or their world well enough to place into full context using the barest detail granted, the way Jaskier or Yennefer can.
His gaze shifts. ] I'm not confused about a damn thing, Sam.
[ The bite is unintended, but it slips through. He sighs. It isn't Sam's fault. Sam is, from what he's learned, a soldier. And he's likely used to it: friends, comrades, who have witnessed the carnage of battlefields and untold losses. But that isn't this. He is not struggling to make sense of a tragedy or some horrific scene that occurred that he needs to put to rest. It runs deeper. It's shaped everything he is, everything he's become. There is no letting go. What he wants is to move forward, without the memories lurking every time he closes his eyes as though they happened only yesterday. He wants to be able to say it was a long time ago and mean it again. (He does not want to admit that some of those memories are new, once forgotten, unburied at last and now he can't— )
Fuck it. He can say it, can't he? (Why should he be so fucking afraid of voicing what he's acknowledged happened decades ago?) ]
When people learn we were made, they imagine it takes hours. A night. [ He finally puts the bottle aside, unwilling to pretend he's here to drink. ] But mutations are slow. If you rush it, the body is more likely to give out. A dozen or so boys went into that room and after several bloody days, four crawled out. [ He hesitates, searching for the right words. ] I know what they did to me. I don't spend my days drowning it out or pretending it never happened. I've made my peace. But ever since Thorne, it's as though—
[ As though what? He doesn't pause long, some part of him realizing if he stops now he will not find it in him to finish. ] —as though I've not made any fucking peace at all. Like I'm still five summers old, and it's only been a week since.
no subject
His gaze shifts. ] I'm not confused about a damn thing, Sam.
[ The bite is unintended, but it slips through. He sighs. It isn't Sam's fault. Sam is, from what he's learned, a soldier. And he's likely used to it: friends, comrades, who have witnessed the carnage of battlefields and untold losses. But that isn't this. He is not struggling to make sense of a tragedy or some horrific scene that occurred that he needs to put to rest. It runs deeper. It's shaped everything he is, everything he's become. There is no letting go. What he wants is to move forward, without the memories lurking every time he closes his eyes as though they happened only yesterday. He wants to be able to say it was a long time ago and mean it again. (He does not want to admit that some of those memories are new, once forgotten, unburied at last and now he can't— )
Fuck it. He can say it, can't he? (Why should he be so fucking afraid of voicing what he's acknowledged happened decades ago?) ]
When people learn we were made, they imagine it takes hours. A night. [ He finally puts the bottle aside, unwilling to pretend he's here to drink. ] But mutations are slow. If you rush it, the body is more likely to give out. A dozen or so boys went into that room and after several bloody days, four crawled out. [ He hesitates, searching for the right words. ] I know what they did to me. I don't spend my days drowning it out or pretending it never happened. I've made my peace. But ever since Thorne, it's as though—
[ As though what? He doesn't pause long, some part of him realizing if he stops now he will not find it in him to finish. ] —as though I've not made any fucking peace at all. Like I'm still five summers old, and it's only been a week since.