[ Less the topic, in truth, that has Geralt looking at Sam a second or two longer. He can sense it, something in the air, either from instincts long honed or because he simply knows Sam that well now. Doesn't matter which, but he can feel it all the same.
He lets the quiet settle. Goes back to his drink, pours himself another. The half-constructed bed lays sprawled on the ground, pushed to the side, and he knows as soon as Sam leaves, he'll likely go back to it or some other work he's made for himself until late into the night. It isn't only all the shit that's happened which occupies his mind. It's also...not guilt, not quite, but something close. The knowledge, the understanding, that although he chose to remain in Cadens for the remainder of the month—stay close to everyone who might need him—he can't say part of him doesn't itch to get back on his horse and ride out. This feeling, it isn't one he's had to confront before. He hasn't ever had anyone that might keep him home—never even had a home to be kept there at all—and now suddenly he does.
So this is how he's been dealing with it, alongside everything else.
When Sam says Steve's gone, his attention snaps up. What? Fuck. When? (Already? It's been, what. Less than a month?) He hardly knew Steve, it's true, but much like Lloyd, that isn't the point. The man was important to Sam. He understands. How much it hurts when someone you love is taken away. He hates that it's been happening more and more. That uncertainty, hovering over all of them. No matter how long you've learned to live with it, it becomes no easier. ]
Feels like bullshit every time.
[ He means more than this. More than Steve, more than vanishing bodies from this sphere. It's everything, watching blood spill, waiting for people who do not come home. Wondering why you even bothered waiting at all, but you do. And deep down, he simply does not know when his turn will come. He can't live his life waiting for the worst, but...each time yet another disappears, he can't help but ask: when will he wake to find that Ciri is no longer of this world? ]
no subject
He lets the quiet settle. Goes back to his drink, pours himself another. The half-constructed bed lays sprawled on the ground, pushed to the side, and he knows as soon as Sam leaves, he'll likely go back to it or some other work he's made for himself until late into the night. It isn't only all the shit that's happened which occupies his mind. It's also...not guilt, not quite, but something close. The knowledge, the understanding, that although he chose to remain in Cadens for the remainder of the month—stay close to everyone who might need him—he can't say part of him doesn't itch to get back on his horse and ride out. This feeling, it isn't one he's had to confront before. He hasn't ever had anyone that might keep him home—never even had a home to be kept there at all—and now suddenly he does.
So this is how he's been dealing with it, alongside everything else.
When Sam says Steve's gone, his attention snaps up. What? Fuck. When? (Already? It's been, what. Less than a month?) He hardly knew Steve, it's true, but much like Lloyd, that isn't the point. The man was important to Sam. He understands. How much it hurts when someone you love is taken away. He hates that it's been happening more and more. That uncertainty, hovering over all of them. No matter how long you've learned to live with it, it becomes no easier. ]
Feels like bullshit every time.
[ He means more than this. More than Steve, more than vanishing bodies from this sphere. It's everything, watching blood spill, waiting for people who do not come home. Wondering why you even bothered waiting at all, but you do. And deep down, he simply does not know when his turn will come. He can't live his life waiting for the worst, but...each time yet another disappears, he can't help but ask: when will he wake to find that Ciri is no longer of this world? ]