Geralt's blade was a cruel gleam of silver as it sliced through the air.

He tore through the witch hunters easily, his movements and pirouettes transitioning gracefully into the next, like water. He was a glimmering blur of gray, each slash of his blade cutting down the largest of men and littering the ground below with fountains of their own blood. The witcher was a natural force to be reckoned with - a hurricane, perhaps. An indomitable storm.

Geralt was dedicated. Focused. The tense lines etched onto his face were harsh, echoing the cold fury his sword seemed to gleam with in the afternoon's drizzling haze. His yellow eyes were flat with intensity as they drank in every microscopic detail around him, from the thin tears in his opponent's armor to the way their skinned blistered and burned underneath the magical fire his hand guided upon them. Geralt was impressive, it was true, but usually never this merciless in combat. Never this savage, as if personally offended by the situation.

Never this… inhuman.

In a matter of moments, he'd slaughtered the entirety of the hunters almost single-handedly, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his sword as he sheathed it on his back. Together, he, Triss, and Dijkstra hurried over towards the lower decks of the harbor, where a massive ship, clearly aged, was anxiously waiting for them. Only Geralt moved with a stiffness to his gait, and the rain from above still pelted them gently as Dijkstra threw a scowl in his direction as they neared the ship's dock. If Triss noticed the exchange, she gave no indication of it but merely turned to Dijkstra, her eyes warm and open with gratitude.

"Dijkstra," she began slowly, with hesitation, "I don't know how to—"

Dijkstra offered a curt shake of his head, effectively cutting off the rest of her words. Neither of them broke their cadence as they approached the dock, but Dijkstra suddenly smiled graciously, his visage for once devoid of the usual grimace he favored to wear.

"No time for courtesies, my dear. Get on board."

Triss nodded in understanding, however, she remained where she stood and trained her eyes on Geralt instead, who returned her wary gaze with equal vigilance. He ignored Dijkstra's calculating glare and strode towards the sorceress with the same stiff gait until he was towering over her. Geralt expected her to move away, to reject his advance… or at least to shift her weight from foot to foot so that it created some form of a physical space between them, however marginal.

She did none of those things.

Triss' eyes traveled all over Geralt's face, as if she was painting emeralds onto his pale skin with every shift of her green gaze. He held still as she studied the expanse of his visage and knew she was committing each detail to memory; the thin scar that slashed down his eyebrow, the hard, straight bridge of his nose, the slivers of silver scruff that poked through the skin of his jaw and mouth.

A strange emotion rose up inside him as they prolonged their intimate moment; Geralt felt trapped, like an animal, and utterly powerless against her scrutiny. Defenseless, even, as if she was the witcher and he, her prey. It was uncomfortable, and had he not been so enraptured by the intensity of her stare, Geralt thought that he might have moved away.

Had she cast a spell on him?

"One last farewell."

No. This was no spell. This was a sentence. A verdict. A punishment.

This was a curse.

Geralt said nothing. Thunder rumbled above them, soft and reminding. The rain began to feel colder, more like ice, though maybe it was Geralt that was heating up. He could feel the mutant blood swimming in his veins and swallowed dryly; why were his witcher instincts acting up?

Triss, of course, remained elegant despite the weather. Even the bleakness of the summer storm did not dull the hue of her hair, nor did the rainfall disrupt the smoothness of her features, which fostered a vulnerability Geralt had come to admire in the time they'd shared. She openly peered at him and smiled sadly. It was the smile a person forces when their heart is breaking, and Geralt suppressed the urge to look away from her.

How many times had he seen that exact smile before? A hundred? A thousand? It was the same, no matter where he traveled. It was a slight lift of the lips and a tightening of the jaw. The eyebrows draw lower, towards the nose, but Geralt knew that the real heartbreak was revealed in the eyes. It was always there, lingering behind the lashes like an afterthought. Like a silent, fragile memento.

I am hurting, it always says.

It was overwhelmingly clear Triss' heart was fracturing. The pain broiled inside her eyes like liquid fire, causing the green in them to become electric, almost alive, as raindrops continued to catch in her lashes like jewels. She was radiant, and Geralt, with all his superhuman senses, allowed himself to escape into the deepest grooves of each iris, where he was able to see every microscopic fleck of brown and gold buried among the green - identical to the colors of the dress she wore to the Vegelbud's ball.

The ball.

The fountain.

The kiss.

A ripple of heat flashed down Geralt's spine.

What did heartbreak feel like for a witcher?

The smile on Triss' mouth vanished as she opened her lips to speak again. "Thank you," she said in a voice thick with sincerity. "I'll never forget what you did for me… and what we had together."

She paused, ready for his reply, but the words were out of his mouth so quickly that it was as if someone else had reached inside of him and yanked them out.

"Stay with me."

Geralt felt his own shock register on his face. What had he done? Why did he say that? They both knew there was no future to be had between them! Even their kiss at the Vegelbud's hadn't changed that. It had always been Geralt and Yennefer. Gooseberries and lilac. And it would remain that way, forever. That was a fact.

So why did he say it?

Geralt sensed — rather than heard — a singular breath catch in her throat. Despite his abilities, the sound was so muted that it was almost impossible for the witcher to notice it. He had shocked her as well.

Shit.

Triss visibly paled, her lips fading in color as she processed his words. Was she frightened now?

"Geralt… not this again," she pleaded softly before averting her gaze away from him. Geralt felt a strange heat in his palms, as if he had been cradling fire or conjuring Igni. What was happening to him?

Triss returned her attention to Geralt after a moment of silence. "Especially not here," she added, "Not now." She shook her head in defiance, though the heartbreak in her eyes seemed to intensify.

He shouldn't have said what he did.

A lone voice suddenly rang out, gruff and desperate in tone.

"Miss Merigold!"

Geralt and Triss' reflexively turned in the direction of the noise, and they saw one of the men, a sorcerer, on the dock. He extended a hand towards the ship that still hovered beyond them in the churning sea, though now, it looked more like a wooden grave to Geralt than a boat.

Deadly.

"We gotta sail!"

Geralt could see Triss' resolve strengthening. She still looked away from him and out to the ocean, where the storm had transformed the once calm bay into jagged edges of water that foamed and crested in irregular intervals. The sight was beautifully chaotic, with veins of seaweed and grit stretching across the water like aquatic vines that just could not be controlled.

Sort of like Triss.

The heat in Geralt's body suddenly crescendoed. He couldn't lose this. Couldn't lose her.

Geralt silently willed her to reconsider, to stay and be with him because she was the harmony he had avoided his entire life. She, with her crimson hair and freckled nose, was the one who had turned him inside out and had shown the old witcher that he could love and be loved beyond the confines of a wish. Of magic. She had been real.

And yet, what he was doing now was wrong. He was causing her to suffer and question the life she had spent years building for herself, along with the assurance of her fellow mages. What kind of a partner did that? Geralt knew he didn't deserve Triss. Perhaps he had never truly deserved her.

But, then again, he had never been one for selflessness either.

He spoke once more.

"Stay."

Triss froze, meeting his eyes once more with an incredulous expression on her face. Wet strands of hair stuck plastered to the side of her neck and temples, though she did not move to restore any to their original place. Like the seaweed in the ocean, the locks of hair spidered across the expanse of her visage, creating a bloody effect that looked ominous in the storm's backlight.

He ignored the prickles of fire in his body as Triss opened her mouth to reply.

She hesitated and Geralt felt his breath stop. Was she seriously going to reconsider? Yet, in the following moment, her face crumpled unexpectedly and her shoulders bowed, as if whatever she was about to say physically weighed her down.

"We had our chance," she said slowly, as if disbelieving her own words, "But…"

Geralt grimaced. His jaw locked together for an instant before loosening again, and the pearl of hope that had formed in his chest shattered to pieces. He searched her face for some sign that he was misinterpreting her body language, that she wasn't heavy with the weight of a goodbye but with the thought of leaving the responsibility she felt towards the mages behind in exchange for him.

But there was no mistaking Triss. Ever. She, unlike him and Yennefer and the twisted, unbreakable romance between them, was transparent.

Triss was strong.

"Let it go."

Geralt nodded in wordless agreement. Yes. He would do exactly that, though there was a part of him — perhaps the most human part — that commanded him to persuade her, to say any word or give any breath that would keep her with him no matter the cost. That ghostly fragment inside was thrashing, was screaming at him to not give up. He could feel the conflict, reflective of the storm surrounding them, heating to a flame that scorched his organs; Geralt imagined the fire purifying him from the inside out, like metal. Polishing him. Hardening him.

Destroying him.

Geralt quickly realized that it was easier to let himself burn rather than to fight against it. He said nothing about the humanity within and how it was tearing his veins down like ivy from a wall, or how he could hear it shouting at him to grab her, to kiss her, to keep her for all of eternity and fuck the consequences.

No, that would be childish. Instead, Geralt did nothing. Triss stared into his eyes for a long moment, allowing herself to be overcome with emotion that spilled down her cheeks before it blended into the rainfall. She tried to smile and failed, and then she whisked herself away from Geralt before more could be said, because even for all of her determinism, perhaps the both of them knew that she would always stay if only Geralt were to ask.

Triss disappeared in a swirl of red and green as she hurried to the massive ship. The sorcerer who had called for her looked relieved to see her coming; the anxious expression on his face dissolved and he extended a hand to help her board safely. In a matter of seconds, the ship shook loose of the dock and swayed precariously in the water before taking off, and then she they were gone, sailing freely into the horizon.

Geralt remained where he stood, letting the wind tug at him and his hair. He heard Dijkstra approach from behind and didn't react when he felt a hand come down on his shoulder. The witcher could only gaze into the distance where Triss had fled to; if he focused, Geralt could still make out the mast of the ship as it stabbed into the sky.

"Well… this is a tough break, eh?"

Geralt said nothing.

Dijkstra sighed gruffly and removed his hand from Geralt's armor, which was still crusted with witch hunter blood. He scowled slightly at both the dock and Geralt, who still looked ambivalently into space, and eventually turned his back to leave the mourning witcher alone with his thoughts. Dijkstra hesitated, however, and opened his mouth to say something before leaving completely.

He spoke over his shoulder, not bothering to spare another glance in Geralt's direction.

"Just tell me one thing," he said lowly, no hint of aggression or defiance in his voice.

Geralt said nothing.

Dijkstra sighed again, long and silent. "Did you love her?"

Love…?

Geralt closed his eyes, contemplative with Dijkstra's question. Do watchers truly love? They can mate, sure, and perhaps even bond. But do they love? The way Triss loves? Or how Dandelion loves Priscilla? Can whatever emotion Geralt feel honestly compare to what humans experience?

He thought about Triss, about the red of her hair and lips. How her eyes weren't just green, but had edges of blue and brown and grey in them as well. He recalled the feminine tone of her voice, so much sweeter than the mature, huskier timbre of Yennefer, and yet Geralt still couldn't decide which was more pleasing to listen to.

Geralt could still feel the shock at seeing her in her dress for the Vegelbud's ball and how the ornate fabric gave under his hand whenever he touched her, which had been often that night.

He remembered the rage he swallowed when that man had defamed Triss' character; if not for her calming presence, Geralt knew he would have slaughtered him in some dark corner of the garden whilst the rest of the party enjoyed the festivities.

Triss had looked so beautiful that night, and under the explosions of the fireworks, Geralt could not help but hold her close and kiss her, because she had wanted him to… because he had wanted to. She was the sun and the brilliance that came along with such a celestial body, while perhaps Geralt resembled the evening sky - complete on his own, but hopelessly and devastatingly illuminated whenever in her presence.

Now, Geralt was eclipsed by her absence, an endless expanse of darkness left scarred by the brightness she carried with her. And Geralt knew that Triss was equally scarred by him and the choices he's made. The words — or lack thereof — that he's said to her.

He could still see her broken smile, the one with the heartbreak written on it. Triss was always trying to smile for people… for him, and he hadn't even smiled back…

Geralt turned towards Dijkstra, the movement stiff and too fast to be casual. Dijkstra shifted to meet the witcher's gaze, his own face calm and slightly downfallen, as if he too was affected by the sorceress' departure. Dijkstra titled his chin forward, pressing his question once more under the canopy of angry clouds hovering above them.

"Well? Did you ever love her? Or was it always the other one, the broad with the raven hair?"

Geralt inhaled deeply, swallowing down the myriad of emotions still attempting to flood his system.

"Yeah."

Dijkstra's eyes narrowed at Geralt's short reply. Geralt assumed he had expected a longer answer - perhaps a comprehensive story about how Triss and he first met and how they eventually evolved into lovers, since Dijkstra himself was such a storyteller.

But Geralt was finished talking about it because he was empty. The fire inside him was completely gone. It had been extinguished the moment Triss set foot on the ship, as if she really was the sun and had taken back the warmth she'd given him. Geralt felt nothing anymore.

And that, he figured, was what heartbreak was to a witcher.

"All right then," Dijkstra muttered as the two of them turned to leave the harbor together. "Back to business. I have a proposition for you that I'd like to talk about, but not out here," he said quietly, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the winding street in front of them.

Obviously, whatever Dijkstra wanted was information sensitive; no doubt that he was leading them back to his place now so they can hash out the details… and Geralt's payment.

Geralt hummed a noise of agreement. Another noncommittal reply. Dijkstra rolled his eyes in two large arcs and cursed a string of profanity under his breath - oaths, no doubt, about the witcher and his fucking, too-short answers.

But Geralt knew what he was doing. He knew what he was. He also knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn't have changed the fact that he and Triss were a reality which was never going to come true, no matter how much they both wanted it. Short answers wouldn't change anything, just like long, exhausting replies also wouldn't. No amount of words was going to help either of them.

What did Dijkstra want him to say, anyway? That he loved Triss? Geralt told him he did.

Triss knows he did. Does.

Does?

Geralt frowned to himself.

Does.

So, what was the point?