[ Rage is good. Rage sometimes means carelessness. Geralt isn't the sort to go out of his way to anger in a fight, but he's more than willing to use it.
His sword flips to his left hand, deflecting the incoming steel. A shove drives them backwards against a rocky overhang. It leaves him open—he's fast enough to react to a dagger drawn, but Dean's knife isn't drawn. It flickers into being from thin air. The jagged teeth catch on flesh as it tears through. On instinct, he wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist. His nails are sharp. Maybe some catch as the demon yanks the knife out. Blood flows warm, sticky, between leather and linen.
The sharp flare between his ribs dulls as a rush floods through him. His eyes seep black. Inky, matching the demon. Darkened veins trail down his cheekbones. It's different, almost startling—all his senses opening up further. Familiar, and yet he's not felt it in months, years. Not since he set foot in this sphere.
He shouldn't answer. For a second, he doesn't. He does feel responsible. He feels responsible for a lot of things, for a lot of reasons. He's why the demon knows as much as he does about Ciri. A decision Geralt does not regret—he needed to trust Dean then, and Dean as he knew him did not betray his trust—but still a decision he made. But his entire life has been blood on his hands. For things he did, for things he refused to do. If there's something he learned young, across the decades, it's that if you will not choose the price you're ready to pay, the world will choose for you twice over. ]
It doesn't matter what I feel.
[ He kicks, aiming to slam his foot against Dean's knee—searching for that same crunch and snap of bone. ]
no subject
His sword flips to his left hand, deflecting the incoming steel. A shove drives them backwards against a rocky overhang. It leaves him open—he's fast enough to react to a dagger drawn, but Dean's knife isn't drawn. It flickers into being from thin air. The jagged teeth catch on flesh as it tears through. On instinct, he wraps his fingers around Dean's wrist. His nails are sharp. Maybe some catch as the demon yanks the knife out. Blood flows warm, sticky, between leather and linen.
The sharp flare between his ribs dulls as a rush floods through him. His eyes seep black. Inky, matching the demon. Darkened veins trail down his cheekbones. It's different, almost startling—all his senses opening up further. Familiar, and yet he's not felt it in months, years. Not since he set foot in this sphere.
He shouldn't answer. For a second, he doesn't. He does feel responsible. He feels responsible for a lot of things, for a lot of reasons. He's why the demon knows as much as he does about Ciri. A decision Geralt does not regret—he needed to trust Dean then, and Dean as he knew him did not betray his trust—but still a decision he made. But his entire life has been blood on his hands. For things he did, for things he refused to do. If there's something he learned young, across the decades, it's that if you will not choose the price you're ready to pay, the world will choose for you twice over. ]
It doesn't matter what I feel.
[ He kicks, aiming to slam his foot against Dean's knee—searching for that same crunch and snap of bone. ]