What Is Left to Hold

A Reflection by Geralt of Rivia

I. I have held many things. Blades. Contracts. The dying hands of men who called me butcher with their last breath.

But love— love has always slipped through. Too bright. Too soft. Like trying to carry water in hands that have forgotten how to cup.

II. I have known moments. That’s all. A touch. A laugh, shared when death wasn’t close enough to listen.

Yennefer, Triss, even the ones I never named aloud— they burned through me. Not gently. Never gently.

They asked for truth, and all I could offer was time.

And even that I could not promise.

III. To love in this world is to bury hope before it dies on its own.

Not out of cruelty— but mercy.

Because when you’ve seen what I’ve seen, you learn the world eats soft things first. It swallows them. Then it asks if you’re ready to try again.

IV. And still— I tried. Not because I believed. But because I wanted to. Isn’t that enough?

I held her once after the fighting. Not like a prize. Not like a savior. Just… held. And for that hour, my hands remembered warmth instead of steel.

V. Some say Witchers can’t feel. They’re wrong. We feel everything. We just don’t bleed where others can see.

I never stopped wanting. I only stopped asking.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned, walking these haunted roads— it’s that hope, even if it’s a lie, still holds more weight than a sword ever could.

And sometimes, when I let myself rest, I think… maybe that’s the point.