At a certain point, once he'd knitted himself back together, the doors were always going to close again no matter what she asked or didn't ask. That's simply how Geralt is. It's a damn miracle she's drawn even this much out of him—but he is clearly finished with the matter, unwilling to dig any deeper into his past. For now, at least.
They walk, and he's quiet—no longer the casually stubborn silence he's often held around her, but just quiet. Like he's still thinking about other things, like he's still not quite all here.
He stops when she does. Peers left, head tilted to listen. This place isn't real, which means anything can change in an instant. But. They work with what they have. And what he has is a whisper of wind, the scratch of rats.
"There's something to the west." He peers around the corner. When he lights another torch, this time he hands it to her. The orange glow illuminates the path, dotted with iron spikes this leave just enough space to walk between and no room to trip. "Watch your step."
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They walk, and he's quiet—no longer the casually stubborn silence he's often held around her, but just quiet. Like he's still thinking about other things, like he's still not quite all here.
He stops when she does. Peers left, head tilted to listen. This place isn't real, which means anything can change in an instant. But. They work with what they have. And what he has is a whisper of wind, the scratch of rats.
"There's something to the west." He peers around the corner. When he lights another torch, this time he hands it to her. The orange glow illuminates the path, dotted with iron spikes this leave just enough space to walk between and no room to trip. "Watch your step."