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    Summary

    “You are my destiny, Geralt of Rivia-“

    Her voice cut through the memory, for it had to be a memory. He was shaking, and was thankful for the distance and the fire between them as the words poured from her mouth and ran over his skin as ice water.

    “I would also like to see Vesemir.” She said softly, not looking at him. He was thankful for the grounding word. The memory was clawing at him, trying to come back, but he shook it off valiantly. She sighed deeply, setting down the pauldron her face a mask of hurt. “I feel as if we have neglected him. We have spent two years on the path, yet we avoided the keep like the plague.”

    She looked up to Geralt then, and Geralt ran a hand over his face to hide his own distress at her gaze.

    “We have been running.” She stated, refusing to look away, refusing to let him have a moments respite to recover from the visions that were pricking at him. “Always running. I am sick of running, Geralt, from all of it. I faced the results of my woes once, and I feel I should do it again. I feel we owe it to Vesemir, to not watch his hard work crumble into dust. If I am to be the last witcher, I aim to preserve that which has been left behind. I can’t run from destiny forever.”

    Language:
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