[ His own rare moment of indecision roots him. Now is no place to argue, but he wants to. He wants to, because they've been caught up in this together and he wants to be able to walk out of here with everyone intact. Dean, Ciri, himself. It is a naïve desire that clings to him nonetheless.
Then Dean looks at him. Looks straight at him, and he can read it in those eyes clear as day. If it were doubt etched across Dean's face, things may have gone differently. It is not. It's an apology. Regret.
This is not a fight he can win; it's lost before it ever began. Ciri needs him. His goal has always been to find her, to bring her home where she belongs. That's what he means to do. He will not die on someone else's hill. He can't.
He presses the gun he never used into Dean's free hand. There's no need to say anything. Dean knows Geralt will not wait, that if he stays for the figure beckoning him forth, Geralt isn't coming back for him. They both have choices to make. He doesn't begrudge Dean for his, but it is what it is. Perhaps by some slim margin, they will see one another on the other side.
And then he's moving. Pushes past the writhing mass of shadows without looking back. The door at the end of the corridor bursts open under his weight, where he shoulders through. Until now, they've been met with tiled floors and smooth glass. Now it's sand that crunches under his boots, the sun blotted out by the dust in the sky. Temperatures plunge well past freezing. He stumbles forward. Blood drips onto the sand, staining the already rusty red darker. A sinister laugh echoes.
no subject
[ His own rare moment of indecision roots him. Now is no place to argue, but he wants to. He wants to, because they've been caught up in this together and he wants to be able to walk out of here with everyone intact. Dean, Ciri, himself. It is a naïve desire that clings to him nonetheless.
Then Dean looks at him. Looks straight at him, and he can read it in those eyes clear as day. If it were doubt etched across Dean's face, things may have gone differently. It is not. It's an apology. Regret.
This is not a fight he can win; it's lost before it ever began. Ciri needs him. His goal has always been to find her, to bring her home where she belongs. That's what he means to do. He will not die on someone else's hill. He can't.
He presses the gun he never used into Dean's free hand. There's no need to say anything. Dean knows Geralt will not wait, that if he stays for the figure beckoning him forth, Geralt isn't coming back for him. They both have choices to make. He doesn't begrudge Dean for his, but it is what it is. Perhaps by some slim margin, they will see one another on the other side.
And then he's moving. Pushes past the writhing mass of shadows without looking back. The door at the end of the corridor bursts open under his weight, where he shoulders through. Until now, they've been met with tiled floors and smooth glass. Now it's sand that crunches under his boots, the sun blotted out by the dust in the sky. Temperatures plunge well past freezing. He stumbles forward. Blood drips onto the sand, staining the already rusty red darker. A sinister laugh echoes.
Starry-eyed daughter of Chaos.
She is ours. ]