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Salt water laps at his feet and the ocean air is chill against his skin. He feels a kinship with it; as vast as it is, it is so startlingly empty and he suddenly feels so, so cold.
Geralt sighs, but the heavy weight doesn’t ease off his chest. Damn him. Damn it all. He’d come to the coast in hope of a few contracts and a place to relax, but it’s cold, wet, and awful and he hates it here. There’s no sunlight. There never is, anymore.
“This sucks,” he murmurs. Roach huffs from beside him.
Sand itches against his skin, rubbing him raw. It’ll be annoyance that kills him; not some fucking siren, but the rock that’s currently digging into his asscheek. Roach snorts and shuffles, ears flicking as she shifts in the sand. Another heavy sigh escapes him. “Yeah,” he looks down at his hands, pale, scarred, “I miss him, too.” He’s so weary.
The waves crash, and he waits for he clouds to part. To feel the joy and the life of the coast and to feel all that Jaskier had promised atop the mountain were Geralt to join him. Geralt feels none of it as he stares into the grey-blue of the water.
“I’m wasting my time.” He brushes his hands off. “I’m wasting my damn time,” he mutters to himself. “Roachie, let’s go, there’s nothing for us here.” There isn’t. Not anymore.
He guides Roach back the way they’d came. Sand shifts under their shoes, and Geralt makes a note to pay special care to her hooves. The sand turns to grass as they follow the path back towards the town.
Roach is quiet as she walks beside him. Everything is quiet save for the loud crashing of the sea, as if the world is mourning and the water grieving. Roach glances at him with a judgmental look. Should’ve appreciated him while he was here, loved him while it’d lasted.
Geralt turns his head to the sea and lets the salty air sting his eyes.
“You’re right, Roach. You’re right.”
It’s a good enough excuse for the tears that well in his eyes.