[ It will be his back she finds, and he doesn't pause on the way out. She will know, too, when she remembers, how ironic it is to accuse him of all people of being a martyr. For now, it makes no difference what she thinks. (It does.) He leaves all the same—to get some air, to breathe before he says anything more he'll only regret. His wolf waits at the end of the hall and Geralt lets it stay, knowing it'll continue to follow Yennefer for as long as she's here.
Maybe she'll have gone by the time he returns. He can't decide if that's what he'd prefer or not.
He stays close, outside in the snow where the cold is biting but familiar. Roach is in her stable—and though she isn't in need of care in the Horizon, he tends to her, anyway. For something to do. It's hard to tell how much his subconscious continues to manifest: occasionally, he finds a crack in her hoof, knots in her tail. Small things, not uncommon out there, but which shouldn't appear in a world of no physical consequence.
You aren't real, either, he tells her. Roach stares back at him, chewing, content. Must be nice, he thinks, to have complete unawareness of all this bullshit.
The sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky glows orange. Geralt goes back inside. Of course he does. And he already knows, as he opens the doors, that she is still here. She's not left. Still in his room. Maybe she's destroyed it, maybe she's changed it into something else completely—he doesn't care, but he does find he wonders what he'll see at the top of the stairs.
Her in his bed, somehow, is not what he expects. He pauses. The door shuts quietly behind him. Her dark hair is splayed over the pillows, the wolf curled up beside her. His chest tightens. When he walks further inside, his steps are silent, or nearly so. She's been through his room—no surprises—but nothing has been taken, only moved. Moved deliberately, he can tell. It shouldn't make him feel anything, but it does. It does, and it brings the smallest smile to his lips: this notion that, beneath it all, she still wants him to notice her.
After awhile, he sits. On the bed, beside her, careful not to disturb her if he can help it. He leans back against the headboard. Carefully, lightly, he gives a butterfly brush through her hair. They've been here so many damn times. He misses it. It isn't the same—he knows it isn't. But while she's asleep, while the sun sets outside, he can pretend. For a moment. Because this is what he wants: just her, here, next to him. The two of them untouched by the world, for the few hours they can manage to keep it at bay. ]
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Maybe she'll have gone by the time he returns. He can't decide if that's what he'd prefer or not.
He stays close, outside in the snow where the cold is biting but familiar. Roach is in her stable—and though she isn't in need of care in the Horizon, he tends to her, anyway. For something to do. It's hard to tell how much his subconscious continues to manifest: occasionally, he finds a crack in her hoof, knots in her tail. Small things, not uncommon out there, but which shouldn't appear in a world of no physical consequence.
You aren't real, either, he tells her. Roach stares back at him, chewing, content. Must be nice, he thinks, to have complete unawareness of all this bullshit.
The sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky glows orange. Geralt goes back inside. Of course he does. And he already knows, as he opens the doors, that she is still here. She's not left. Still in his room. Maybe she's destroyed it, maybe she's changed it into something else completely—he doesn't care, but he does find he wonders what he'll see at the top of the stairs.
Her in his bed, somehow, is not what he expects. He pauses. The door shuts quietly behind him. Her dark hair is splayed over the pillows, the wolf curled up beside her. His chest tightens. When he walks further inside, his steps are silent, or nearly so. She's been through his room—no surprises—but nothing has been taken, only moved. Moved deliberately, he can tell. It shouldn't make him feel anything, but it does. It does, and it brings the smallest smile to his lips: this notion that, beneath it all, she still wants him to notice her.
After awhile, he sits. On the bed, beside her, careful not to disturb her if he can help it. He leans back against the headboard. Carefully, lightly, he gives a butterfly brush through her hair. They've been here so many damn times. He misses it. It isn't the same—he knows it isn't. But while she's asleep, while the sun sets outside, he can pretend. For a moment. Because this is what he wants: just her, here, next to him. The two of them untouched by the world, for the few hours they can manage to keep it at bay. ]