[ That's a sentiment they both share—a reluctance for details not because it matters (not always because it matters, at least), but because the story is fucking complicated.
He flips his dagger idly in one hand while Dean mulls it over, eventually gives an answer that only opens up more questions. If it were the time, Geralt might've prodded further into the how and why: flow of time, entering and exiting another realm, what the fuck death has got to do with it—but it isn't. He makes note for later, and then merely throws his knife after Dean does. Edges close to a line, but not a miss. ]
Years lived are years lived. [ An acknowledgement of what Dean's told him, of what it means, without getting much into it. ] One ceases to keep track after awhile, anyhow.
[ If he stops to count, then he can say his age down to the year. Ask him to answer right then and there, though, and at best, Geralt can estimate himself a little past a hundred or so. Some days he thinks the years mean fuck all; other days, it feels like at least he's still here, surviving, and maybe that's worth more than nothing.
Maybe it's a sudden change in the music, maybe he's distracted considering what exactly Dean's little revelation could mean for the Singularity, but the next throw finally trips—landing too close over the line between two blades. Hm. Unfortunate. ]
no subject
He flips his dagger idly in one hand while Dean mulls it over, eventually gives an answer that only opens up more questions. If it were the time, Geralt might've prodded further into the how and why: flow of time, entering and exiting another realm, what the fuck death has got to do with it—but it isn't. He makes note for later, and then merely throws his knife after Dean does. Edges close to a line, but not a miss. ]
Years lived are years lived. [ An acknowledgement of what Dean's told him, of what it means, without getting much into it. ] One ceases to keep track after awhile, anyhow.
[ If he stops to count, then he can say his age down to the year. Ask him to answer right then and there, though, and at best, Geralt can estimate himself a little past a hundred or so. Some days he thinks the years mean fuck all; other days, it feels like at least he's still here, surviving, and maybe that's worth more than nothing.
Maybe it's a sudden change in the music, maybe he's distracted considering what exactly Dean's little revelation could mean for the Singularity, but the next throw finally trips—landing too close over the line between two blades. Hm. Unfortunate. ]