In the end, they were both still different. She was not the ruler Nilfgaard had hoped for, if the rumors at court were true. And Vernon was Vernon, no matter whose right hand he was. They both met no one's expectations and ended up exceeding their own. In their diversity, they were the same. In their stubbornness, too. Finally, it was Geralt, of all people, who was after all a connecting link between them, who suggested they put aside their walking on egg shells at the card table and ride out together. "A race," he suggested. "You'll never agree on anything. Ciri is still too unpracticed at commanding, and you, Vernon, know that thumping the table won't get you anywhere. Take it outside." suggestion was crazy, of course, because Ciri couldn't just ride out whenever she wanted, and certainly not with just anyone – and those were exactly the reasons they did. They drove their horses through a seemingly endless field of buttercups. The wind whistled through his clothes, his thighs ached from the force with which he spurred the animal, and Vernon felt more alive than he had in a long time. Ciri laughed, she laughed at him and with him, and her eyes were as green as a pond. And perhaps those green eyes were the legacy of something he had once loathed. Her powers were unnatural, yes. As unnatural as witchers and sorceresses and much more in this world, in which he had nevertheless decided to live on. And then, one morning, Vernon Roche woke up in silk sheets, and those green eyes were looking at him with that certain sparkle. He was lost. But a loser, he was no longer.
stormborns
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
areudirty
