[ if geralt wanted to chat about that point at all, sam would have something to say about homes being wherever it is you need them to be, as long as you make the choice to return. as long as some part of you wants to return. as long as there is something to return back to.
still, sam is trying to find his place in all of this. to find what is safe to broach, what will shatter whatever bridge they find themselves crossing. sam is trying, sam wants to be here, to hear whatever it is that geralt actually wants to talk about, and if there's a path with less resistence, well. sam will take it. any information about geralt's home is new information at this point.
a century ago and sam shutters a bit over that. he knows geralt is old, over a century himself. but in knowing that, sam also somehow has forgotten. but he does do the math, does piece it together, and geralt can probably see the moment that the puzzle piece falls into place. ]
Christ. [ it sounds a bit like a curse, a bit like a sigh. sam rubs at the back of his neck, aware of just how separate their experiences are. how far apart their childhoods were. there is no sympathy to it, no pity, no weight. just an acknowledgement and then a pushing on. sam looks at geralt again, after that. just for a few more moments. and then his eyes are back on the windows, the breaks in the stone, and the bones beyond in the snow.
he wonders briefly is the reason geralt keeps the bones here is because it's easier to have something to show for the deaths. if it's easier to have a marker, a reminder, compared to what he'd said earlier - about how each winter he goes and each winter he wonders who won't make it back. the thought sits fairly heavy in his chest, flashes of funerals, of unmarked graves.
sam sits back up, like he's pulling his way out of those thoughts. ]
You said you come back here every winter, right? But you grew up here for a while. [ he's not changing the subject, necessarily, but he also doesn't wait for geralt to keep talking. ] What's this place like in the summer?
no subject
still, sam is trying to find his place in all of this. to find what is safe to broach, what will shatter whatever bridge they find themselves crossing. sam is trying, sam wants to be here, to hear whatever it is that geralt actually wants to talk about, and if there's a path with less resistence, well. sam will take it. any information about geralt's home is new information at this point.
a century ago and sam shutters a bit over that. he knows geralt is old, over a century himself. but in knowing that, sam also somehow has forgotten. but he does do the math, does piece it together, and geralt can probably see the moment that the puzzle piece falls into place. ]
Christ. [ it sounds a bit like a curse, a bit like a sigh. sam rubs at the back of his neck, aware of just how separate their experiences are. how far apart their childhoods were. there is no sympathy to it, no pity, no weight. just an acknowledgement and then a pushing on. sam looks at geralt again, after that. just for a few more moments. and then his eyes are back on the windows, the breaks in the stone, and the bones beyond in the snow.
he wonders briefly is the reason geralt keeps the bones here is because it's easier to have something to show for the deaths. if it's easier to have a marker, a reminder, compared to what he'd said earlier - about how each winter he goes and each winter he wonders who won't make it back. the thought sits fairly heavy in his chest, flashes of funerals, of unmarked graves.
sam sits back up, like he's pulling his way out of those thoughts. ]
You said you come back here every winter, right? But you grew up here for a while. [ he's not changing the subject, necessarily, but he also doesn't wait for geralt to keep talking. ] What's this place like in the summer?