"Did you know," she began, "I was at a high society ball, and the local gossip queens kept asking the same question: 'Ladies, what words will you never believe in again?' I smirked and said, 'The words of weather mages—they're never true.' Though really, I was thinking of your words about love. Because, honestly, I don't believe in those anymore."
"And yet, here you are," the Witcher said hoarsely, locking his gaze with hers.
"Yes. Maybe I'm sick?"
"Then so am I."
She stood in the doorway of his room he rented at the inn, looking at him with large, sorrowful eyes. They were both exhausted, worn down to their core. Sick, really.
She'd never wanted to fall in love with a man like the Witcher. A man who didn't long to wake up in a warm house to the sounds of children's laughter, someone who didn't value closeness, tenderness, or safety. The Witcher was her opposite in every way. She didn't want to be with him, yet breathing without Geralt had become unbearably difficult, and being apart from him was agonizing. Being close to the Witcher meant hurting herself again and again. Which is exactly what she did.
He craved freedom. He was like a hurricane sweeping through a calm day. The Witcher who never sought peace or comfort, one for whom attachment was foreign. He lived each day as if it were his last, watching every blood-red sunset like it would be his final one.
She couldn't understand Geralt, and he couldn't understand her, didn't want to hold on—everything between them caused pain. Yet without her, he couldn't eat, drink, sleep, or even breathe—without her, he couldn't live.
Together, they had come too far. They were both sick with each other, and their illness was called love.
In their eyes, a sadness shimmered—unhidden sorrow and bittersweet happiness. With a light touch, the Witcher brushed away a single tear from her cheek. That gentle, sincere touch made her bite her lip before she threw herself into his strong embrace again. He gave a bitter smile and held her even tighter, unwilling to let her go.
Maybe one day, they would learn to love and again believe in the words of love they once spoke to each other, but not today. Tonight, they would be alone together again, lying on a cold, uncomfortable bed, trying to warm themselves in each other's burning touch. They'd look at each other with sorrow, swallowing their tears, and promise that tomorrow would be different. That tomorrow would bring them happiness.
YOU ARE READING
IMAGINES: THE WITCHER x READER
Fiksi PenggemarA collection of short stories written by me. One-shot imagines that I have written for Witcher (Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character). From time to time I will add new stories to this collection.
