[ A beat as Geralt stares somewhat dumbfounded at Nero tearing off a sticky strip of something to secure the door. It's such a minuscule, such an idiotic fucking gesture that it should not make him feel—
He doesn't know. Can't fully describe it. But something about the casual, thoughtless way Nero does it settles in his chest, between his ribs, and he breathes a little easier.
He does sit for a time. Isn't quite ready to move when he fears he might vomit more blood. Which makes no sense; he did not go through the Trials again. It's a memory. An echo. But his body believes it real, apparently. At least he no longer feels as though he might burn from the inside out. How long he stays by that wall, he isn't sure. Minutes? An hour? Nero stays with him, though. He isn't certain what to make of that, either.
When he stands at last, he's steadier. There's blood in his shirt, red stains on his hands. It doesn't matter. He ascends the stairs. They seem to go on forever. Eventually, he reaches the top and pushes open the door. The keep above is cold, foreboding, still infested with vines.
At least it's free of cries and death.
He sits on one of the benches and grabs the nearest bottle. His head throbs. ] Would've rather stayed in that blizzard.
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He doesn't know. Can't fully describe it. But something about the casual, thoughtless way Nero does it settles in his chest, between his ribs, and he breathes a little easier.
He does sit for a time. Isn't quite ready to move when he fears he might vomit more blood. Which makes no sense; he did not go through the Trials again. It's a memory. An echo. But his body believes it real, apparently. At least he no longer feels as though he might burn from the inside out. How long he stays by that wall, he isn't sure. Minutes? An hour? Nero stays with him, though. He isn't certain what to make of that, either.
When he stands at last, he's steadier. There's blood in his shirt, red stains on his hands. It doesn't matter. He ascends the stairs. They seem to go on forever. Eventually, he reaches the top and pushes open the door. The keep above is cold, foreboding, still infested with vines.
At least it's free of cries and death.
He sits on one of the benches and grabs the nearest bottle. His head throbs. ] Would've rather stayed in that blizzard.