[ She doesn't answer any unspoken questions either. But there is recognition in her face when he specifies what he is, and she nods slightly, pretending to understand more than she does about what he means regarding the magic. It had turned him because he'd stepped through a portal? Why? And how? Geralt's not the only one developing a headache.
When Geralt stops, she opens her mouth to ask if they should stay here for the night, noticing it's a fairly clear patch of forest floor with decent cover above--
But his next words seem to pull the breath right out from her lungs before she can get a word out. Her eyes widen briefly, shining in the darkness, before she suddenly looks away.
I lost you. In Cintra.
And how much time had passed after that? She tries to make it fit in her memory, tries to make sense of what it means and can only come up with one answer: time. There are worlds upon worlds, and moments upon moments of time. Endless, ever-turning, grains of sand all individual and connected. It's the conclusion she came to some time ago but didn't want to admit to herself, hoping there was some explanation that tied Geralt to this world instead, that ended differently, that didn't push her toward the inevitable understanding that settles like a stone in her stomach.
Her throat feels like a desert. She expects the words to come out cracked and shaking, but they don't. Only quiet, without rancor. It isn't a question. ]
no subject
When Geralt stops, she opens her mouth to ask if they should stay here for the night, noticing it's a fairly clear patch of forest floor with decent cover above--
But his next words seem to pull the breath right out from her lungs before she can get a word out. Her eyes widen briefly, shining in the darkness, before she suddenly looks away.
I lost you. In Cintra.
And how much time had passed after that? She tries to make it fit in her memory, tries to make sense of what it means and can only come up with one answer: time. There are worlds upon worlds, and moments upon moments of time. Endless, ever-turning, grains of sand all individual and connected. It's the conclusion she came to some time ago but didn't want to admit to herself, hoping there was some explanation that tied Geralt to this world instead, that ended differently, that didn't push her toward the inevitable understanding that settles like a stone in her stomach.
Her throat feels like a desert. She expects the words to come out cracked and shaking, but they don't. Only quiet, without rancor. It isn't a question. ]
...without me.