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[gynvael]

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Geralt is always reachable by the network. Unless it's an emergency, expect not to hear back for a few hours, if not a few days.

To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.

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[gynvael]

[ She’s right: he hasn’t anything else to say. He did leave first, then and now. Perhaps that’s all he knows how to do, to walk away. But she had met him, time and again, despite that, and he’d thought, somehow, it could be different with her. It always felt different with her, in ways he can’t describe. And it should mean something that she came here to look for him. That she waited in this room even after he left. But he knows she carries no memories, that the wolf has led her around, and that the wish still clings to them both. Maybe it’s as she said: that she was always led towards him. That she never really ever chose to come to him, in here or out there.

It makes no difference, questions of what isn’t real. Her rejection of him is, and he’s tired of how they can’t ever seem to rid of each other even when things are so clearly. Finished. How much he can’t stop thinking of their kiss before he left through that portal, as if it would change anything. (Why had she kissed him then?)

He should leave. He won’t, a stubborn part of him refusing to be ejected from his own damn room over her. He’d recreated Kaer Morhen for a reason: a place untouched by all the fucking complications of his life, where he goes to leave behind a world and all the people in it who do not want him. She shouldn’t be so much a part of it. And he can’t help feeling angry at her for disrupting the only refuge he’s ever known—but mostly, he hates that he allowed it to happen in the first place. That he knows, consciously or not, he invited her in. It is the only reason she could have ever made a portal past the gates, past the main doors, so deep in the heart of his home with the wolf guiding her in.

So he sits. He waits. For what, he isn’t sure. For this bullshit to end, perhaps, so he can finally get some sleep. He watches the flickering candles. He can hear both her and the wolf beside him. He’s afraid to look at her, afraid what he might say if he acknowledges her again. Afraid of what he might want, even knowing better. ]

[vixening]

[ she does not say anything further. barely so much as moves, once she settles. the image of his back is what she remembers, when she closes his eyes - him, turning away from her. him, leaving her behind. and perhaps there is so much more to the story that she does not remember, and maybe she never will. yennefer accepts this sort of finality with very little concern, because in the end, she finds it does not matter. she will leave this place, and the last thing she will remember is his back.

some part of her thinks that maybe, perhaps, that is better. that he is here, physically here, when she closes her eyes. she does not know why it would be that way, and isn't exactly sure she cares.

gwiazda lets out a huff of a breath, final and somehow annoyed, and yennefer feels a smile tug at the corners of her lips. feels similarly, as she runs her hand across his fur, and closes her eyes. he can probably hear her breathing, can probably feel her and the wolf's weight on the bed.

( she can feel his, still sitting at the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch if she did want to reach out to him. she does not. )

he can, until he doesn't, but even that - somehow - feels familiar. ]

[gynvael]

[ The silence is heavy. Her heart beats steadily, quicker than his own, and beside her, he can smell the fur of the wolf, hear its soft breaths. He is not alone, for once, and he wants to be. He wants to be, except he doesn’t, and then he is.

He needn’t look. Still, he turns. He wants to be wrong, to be surprised to find her still there, sleeping. She isn’t.

The hollow in his chest grows a little wider. It’s funny. Every time he expects what’s coming, every time he sees it from miles away, he thinks it’ll hurt less. And every time, he’s reminded it does not. He catches her scent for a few moments more before it fades entirely. The spot on the bed beside him is cold. As if she were never here. He supposes, in all the ways that count, she wasn’t.

He wonders what it’d be like, to turn around and for once find that he isn’t alone.

When he leaves, he shuts the door behind him. The torches are snuffed out through the keep, the candles unlit, the hearth only full of old ashes. He doesn’t look back a second time. He knows better. Those who leave him do not return for him. He’d hardly expect them to, either. ]