Mm. There it is. What always lies under all that talk.

It's funny. How it falls into place, given space and time to grow. Oscillating between his fight for greater and ideals, and laying out his bloodthirsty history in the next breath—it's hard not to get the inkling, now that the elf has shown his hand, as though Estinien from the start wanted solely to get something from him: the satisfaction of a reaction, of a confession. Perhaps that's why he's been so relentless, playing one card after the next: Yennefer, this damn war, dramatic fucking threats. Why even now, he's still here, still will not shut up, a dog with a bone. Going on about concern for comforts as if he's doing a favour by coming here with his bullshit. It's both typical and tiring to be faced with people that far up their own ass.

But Estinien is not the first who's come into the Witcher's space unannounced with the intentions to start a fight, demanded his head, warned him of consequences, sunk claws into the scars they glimpse. Tried to get a rise out of him, because they're bored, because he's an easy target in the right place at the wrong time, because they want him to bite like the monster they see him as. He takes it all the same; a century is a long time to learn not to flinch.

Geralt's eyes haven't left Estinien's since, but when the elf rises, his gaze doesn't bother to follow. The flames in the hearth lower, then gently snuff out—an indication, perhaps, that he's about to leave this plane, whether Estinien walks away first or not. He's wasted enough time. Estinien has come here claiming what he has; Geralt will take him at his word. Maybe there are deeper motivations at play, maybe there aren't—where the few who mean anything (everything) to him are concerned, he has better priorities than cracking the surface of those who choose to put themselves in front of him as a threat. That's all there is to it.

"You have a lot on your mind." The yellow of his eyes catch the remaining torchlight—expression not bored nor even unaffected, but devoid altogether. A practiced emptiness. "Don't let me keep you."

Lucky, then, that Geralt has no such qualms. He's too old for games, too old to care about egos. When he's done, he's done. He's already getting up to leave. If Estinien gets in his way, he'll only be met with a blank stare—a hint of tired of this horseshit. And he is fucking tired. He heard her out once, Renfri. And it'd meant something to him, and then he'd put a blade in her throat. So where does that leave him now?

Sure as hell not in a position where he wants to understand a man he'll likely cross swords with in the future. Estinien has his reasons; that isn't in doubt. They all do. People do not become so unyielding without something deeply set inside to burn that flame. They don't doggedly cling to a conversation that obviously isn't happening, when it would be easier to end it and move on. Geralt has his reasons, too, for holding little desire to open himself up to someone he can't make promises to. He doesn't want to hear the desperation. It's already far too much that he knows the people who are important to Estinien. Had once said he'd look after them. It's beginning to feel complicated when the reality remains starkly simple: either they steer clear of each other or one of them won't walk away. And it doesn't appear Estinien wants the former.

So no. He isn't staying to hear anything else. If Estinien chooses to come up against those closest to him, then it won't matter how much or how little Geralt understands him or his reasons. He already knows what he'll do.

Regardless of if he has an elf in his path or not, Geralt will go in whichever direction is clear—and if there's no door existing, there will be one, emerging in one of the scuffed, scarred walls. Only a brief pause stops him, despite himself. He does not look back.

"I can't help you." He pushes the door open. Follow him out, and there'll be nothing but bones on the ground. No footprints in the snow. "Find someone better."