No. She would not expect it. Why would she? Geralt isn't looking at her, but that doesn't mean he can't see her out of the corner of his eye. They're stuffed tight inside the stone enclosure.
He knows. What she's thinking. About what she said to him before. Perhaps someone else might've found satisfaction in her inevitable regret, but he does not. There's a reason he's not ever defended nor explained himself. He shouldn't have to. He should not need to burrow into the deepest fissures of his memories to prove his existence not a monster.
But this is something else. It's been laid bare for him.
His gaze flicks to her. Stays on her for a second before he looks at the half-formed door. That is answer enough. Yes. A memory. A nightmare. What is the difference? Was saying it supposed to help? Seems as though it helped fuck all.
But he spoke it. It's out. So here they are. The smell is not stronger, but it's not dissipated, either. He stares at the pulsing glow. Forces himself to think. Perhaps a solid door is not the answer. If everything is cracking, decaying—
The outline fills, morphs. A door does form: splintered, the wood rotting, and he just. Shoves it, once, twice, with a burst of magic that shatters it open. He tumbles out. The stale underground air is the freshest breath he's taken in an age. His stomach lurches from the abrupt change; a rush of cold air wraps around the heat under his skin. He hits the ground on his knees, heaving bile that clings bitterly to the back of his throat.
no subject
He knows. What she's thinking. About what she said to him before. Perhaps someone else might've found satisfaction in her inevitable regret, but he does not. There's a reason he's not ever defended nor explained himself. He shouldn't have to. He should not need to burrow into the deepest fissures of his memories to prove his existence not a monster.
But this is something else. It's been laid bare for him.
His gaze flicks to her. Stays on her for a second before he looks at the half-formed door. That is answer enough. Yes. A memory. A nightmare. What is the difference? Was saying it supposed to help? Seems as though it helped fuck all.
But he spoke it. It's out. So here they are. The smell is not stronger, but it's not dissipated, either. He stares at the pulsing glow. Forces himself to think. Perhaps a solid door is not the answer. If everything is cracking, decaying—
The outline fills, morphs. A door does form: splintered, the wood rotting, and he just. Shoves it, once, twice, with a burst of magic that shatters it open. He tumbles out. The stale underground air is the freshest breath he's taken in an age. His stomach lurches from the abrupt change; a rush of cold air wraps around the heat under his skin. He hits the ground on his knees, heaving bile that clings bitterly to the back of his throat.