[ Returning from the Horizon is disorienting. Like being jerked out of a hurricane. Remembering all that went on there is slower; a steady sinking that he cannot stop. If Geralt tended to keep to himself before, he's now moved onto strictly ignoring anyone and everything that doesn't require immediate attention. The restless itch in his fingers grow. He lets himself ponder decisions he knows would be incredibly bad ones.
He wants to ride. He should be home. The thought sounds childish crossing his mind, but there are not many steady constants in his life and not many places he can return to and know he'll not be turned away. Kaer Morhen is one of the few. And he wants to talk to Vesemir. (Vesemir would understand; would know what it is to bury children that feel too much like yours when you should know better.)
When footsteps invariably make their way down the stairs, Geralt glances to the side without turning his head. (That's the other part that fucks with him: the loss of his senses all over again now that he's back here.) That it's Sam doesn't surprise him. The man has been by a handful of times. Geralt hasn't minded much—but that was before. Now it's—
Complicated. In truth, if it'd been anyone but Sam, in any other situation, what occurred between them would've felt nothing short of invasive. But if there's one thing he understands, it's that the Horizon had left no room for hidden motives. That as with him, what he found within others was raw, unaltered.
So when he sighs at Sam's approach, there's a note of acceptance to his display of exasperation. ] You know I'll only tell you I'm fine.
sam wilson.
He wants to ride. He should be home. The thought sounds childish crossing his mind, but there are not many steady constants in his life and not many places he can return to and know he'll not be turned away. Kaer Morhen is one of the few. And he wants to talk to Vesemir. (Vesemir would understand; would know what it is to bury children that feel too much like yours when you should know better.)
When footsteps invariably make their way down the stairs, Geralt glances to the side without turning his head. (That's the other part that fucks with him: the loss of his senses all over again now that he's back here.) That it's Sam doesn't surprise him. The man has been by a handful of times. Geralt hasn't minded much—but that was before. Now it's—
Complicated. In truth, if it'd been anyone but Sam, in any other situation, what occurred between them would've felt nothing short of invasive. But if there's one thing he understands, it's that the Horizon had left no room for hidden motives. That as with him, what he found within others was raw, unaltered.
So when he sighs at Sam's approach, there's a note of acceptance to his display of exasperation. ] You know I'll only tell you I'm fine.