[ His gaze lingers on Sam for a moment, as though he's trying to gauge what Sam is truly thinking, before he looks away again. They had not. But he does make the choice to return each winter, to find a family in what he was given, and perhaps that's enough. Perhaps that's all that matters in a world where so few choices are granted in the first place. It's how he's learned to see it, anyway; there's no point in dwelling on anything else, on the things that were taken from him. They're no longer his to have, even if he should want them.
He's learned not to want them, either. To be all right with not wanting and having what can't be changed.
The fall of Kaer Morhen is easier, somehow, to talk of than the Trials. Always has been. He isn't even certain why that is. ]
A century ago. [ Give or take. He understands Sam can likely piece together what that means, knowing how old Geralt is now, only just past a hundred. That he was a child when this place destroyed, and bodies piled up in the snow outside. Though he realizes, too, that it'd be easy to assume most of those skeletons belong to the humans that attacked. They do not. After a second, he finds himself adding, ] Not a lot of hands to help with our dead afterwards. We let nature take its course.
[ Now they're rooted there: in memory, as a warning, as simply a piece of history that can't be separated from the grounds. He no longer gives it much thought, as the years have gone on. It's only here, with people coming by and peering at the bones with a question in their eyes, that he's found himself thinking about it more often. ]
no subject
He's learned not to want them, either. To be all right with not wanting and having what can't be changed.
The fall of Kaer Morhen is easier, somehow, to talk of than the Trials. Always has been. He isn't even certain why that is. ]
A century ago. [ Give or take. He understands Sam can likely piece together what that means, knowing how old Geralt is now, only just past a hundred. That he was a child when this place destroyed, and bodies piled up in the snow outside. Though he realizes, too, that it'd be easy to assume most of those skeletons belong to the humans that attacked. They do not. After a second, he finds himself adding, ] Not a lot of hands to help with our dead afterwards. We let nature take its course.
[ Now they're rooted there: in memory, as a warning, as simply a piece of history that can't be separated from the grounds. He no longer gives it much thought, as the years have gone on. It's only here, with people coming by and peering at the bones with a question in their eyes, that he's found himself thinking about it more often. ]