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- 📖 Geralt of Rivia Listening to You Read 🕯️ -

He doesn’t ask you to read; he just places himself near enough that he can hear. The first few times you notice, he’s mending a strap or oiling blades, saying nothing, but the rhythm of your voice slows his hands until they stop altogether. His hearing catches every nuance. When you stumble on a word, he quietly supplies it without looking up. When the story makes you smile, his mouth twitches like an echo.

He prefers prose that smells of real earth - travellers’ journals, folktales, ballads. Flowery poetry makes him frown until you start laughing; then he admits he likes how it sounds when you say it.

On rainy evenings he’ll sit cross-legged by the hearth, head resting back against the wall, eyes closed. The firelight turns his scars amber. He isn’t asleep; he’s memorising the cadence so that when he rides alone he can replay it in his mind.

Sometimes you catch him finishing a line under his breath, the low gravel of his voice slipping into yours as if the sentence belongs to both of you.

He always knows when you’re tired. Before you reach the end of a paragraph, he says softly, “Enough for tonight,” and takes the book from your hands, marking the page with a sprig of whatever herb is closest.

If the story darkens, he draws nearer - arm sliding behind your back, palm flat against the small of your spine - grounding you without interrupting.

He keeps one of your worn books in his saddlebag. On long contracts he reads it slowly, lips barely moving, more to hear your memory than the words themselves.

When you read something that moves him, he doesn’t analyse it. He just murmurs, “Read that one again.” It’s as much praise as he ever gives.

And when the last line fades into silence, he lets it linger. He doesn’t thank you. He only breathes out and says, “World’s quieter now. That’ll do.”

Bonus (because I am completely and utterly taken with D. H. Lawrence´s writing):

Reading The Rainbow - You are reading aloud near the fire, voice low and deliberate, the storm outside echoing the rhythm of the prose. At first he’s sharpening a whetstone, pretending not to listen. But after a few lines about the Brangwens’ hunger for life “under the arch of the rainbow,” he stops. The blade rests across his knee. When you read Lawrence’s descriptions of earth and body -“The world of men was to be a world of flowering, and he was to be of it” - he tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowed, as if comparing it to what he’s seen on the Path. He doesn’t interrupt, but his silence becomes an answer in itself. He’d react to the sensual honesty more than the philosophy. Not scandalized, just thoughtful. “He writes like the land itself’s breathing,” he’d murmur. “And what do you think of it?” you’d ask. “That he’s right about the ache. People want more than they can name. Doesn’t change that the world still needs ploughing in the morning.” When the text turns to spiritual yearning, he would glance at you, not the page. He’d hear the same hunger in your voice that Lawrence describes - a desire for union that’s both sacred and fleshly. He wouldn’t need to say so; the look in your eyes would answer. After you finish, he might stay quiet a long time, staring into the fire. Then, in his dry way: “Too many words for what most folk just feel. But he’s right - it’s a hard thing, learning to live between the blood and the stars.” Later that night, he’d ask you to read another passage - not because he craves literature, but because he likes the way your voice carries truth without fear. The book becomes a kind of ritual between you: you reading the sacred ache of human longing, he grounding it in lived tenderness.

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