abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] death is no man, death is no wraith

[Nero didn't really come for any particular reason.

Maybe that's the weird part. Geralt's not the kind of guy you just show up and hang out with. He's not a "hanging out" sort of guy. It's always been 'cause there's some stupid crisis, or they need to kill some dumbass monster, or because he's been thrown into Geralt's weird trauma basement.

It's sort of lingered on the back of his mind. He's not a nosy guy, so he has no intention of looking for the trauma basement. Honestly, bein' there once was enough for him.

But when he makes his way up the mountain, steps into the glorified snow lodge, it does feel like something's different. Wasn't there a door down?

Shaggles?

Nero looks down. What he's looking at can only be described as a glorified walking... mole... thing. Did it just. Talk?] What the hell are --

[It grabs hold of Nero's bootlace and tugs it so hard he nearly falls over. And then it runs off, bootlace flailing behind it, with something like a laugh before it follows up with a wet, chewing sound --] Hey! Don't eat that, you little shit!

[There's no way Geralt put that thing here. Which means it doesn't belong. Which also means when he catches it, he's launching it out a goddamn window.]

[ While the doors of Kaer Morhen are open to Nero, Geralt's never explicitly invited him. The few times they meet, Geralt came to him instead. There isn't much reason for a Nero to visit, and perhaps some part of him doesn't...want to acknowledge the previous incident. When Nero was last here.

The door beneath the stairs is gone now. So are the dark shadows obscuring the rickety descent. The stairs are sturdy now, and around the bend of a well-lit corridor, a different door sits. Perhaps the most remarkable difference is that Geralt emerges from the space below, climbing up the steps to investigate some familiar shouting. The fuck is—?

He leans against the wall's edge, crossing his arms as he watches Nero pursue the fleeing troll Himeka tells him is named Shaggles. The creature behaves just fine around Geralt, beyond pilfering bits of cheese and bread. Somehow, he isn't surprised it has no qualms giving Nero shit.

A tiny blur shoots past him and into the wolf on the other side. Lightning flash, its jaws close around the troll's scruff. Stubby legs dangle pathetically. The bootlace hangs from its mouth.

Geralt shifts his weight in silence, eyebrow lifting when Nero finally turns to look at him.

(Something about this absurd commotion is familiar. Kaer Morhen has not seen any bullshit rowdiness in a long time, he realizes.) ]

Hah! [He snaps, crossing the distance between himself and the wolf.] That'll teach you. Don't pick a fight you can't finish. [Ignoring that the wolf -- whom Nero met when he was actively dying in the pit -- finished the fight for him. Nero snatches his bootlace back, bending down to weave it right back where it came from.] Good boy. Thanks.

[He gives the wolf a scratch between the ears.]

So what are you even doing here, man? [It's directed at the mole now.] There's no way Geralt --

[Speak of the devil. The guy's not exactly a ninja, but Nero was. Distracted. He looks between Geralt, the little mole thing, and rubs the back of his neck.] Been watching the whole time, haven't you?

[ The wolf carries the troll away, no doubt to put it where it can't hassle Nero. ]

Mm-hm. [ He certainly has. ] It's Himeka's creation.

[ Nero is well-acquainte with Himeka. He'll understand the creature's existence once he realizes she made it. In any case, he imagines it is not the troll that brought Nero to Kaer Morhen. Geralt recalls their last conversation—not tense, but. A bit off. He hasn't pressed the matter since.

He tips his head towards the stairs leading to the cellar that's no longer a cellar. It's an invitation to something more personal. Something that he will not say but which Nero will understand when he sees it. After what they've been through together, Nero has earned the right. ]

Come on.

[Small. Furry. Annoying. Nero sighs.] Should've known.

[Everything Himeka seems to talk about is some weird, small, annoying thing. Like dragonets. Kobolds. Now... whatever the hell that thing is. What is it with whatever her world's like?

Guess he wouldn't complain. All he ever had was demons, and the occasionally really determined seagull.

Nero perks up with the gesture, following behind him. Geralt's not kickin' him out or telling him he's busy, so that's a start. And as he follows, he does see it. He was right. This whole thing is different. Even the stairs down feel lighter.

And then he sees the gold. There's no distant screams, no smell of blood. And there's color. He could ignore it, but this... this is bigger. He can't not mention it.]

You, uh, decoratin' for something special?

[ They have not talked about what Nero found down there. Geralt imagines it needn't be said. It isn't about what was there. It's about what sits here in its place. ]

I spent time here as a boy. [ He pushes open the door to the temple. Unlike the winter chill above, the air here is a crisp spring morning. Delicate pastries sit on each table. ] It's where we studied Signs. And a few other things.

[ Not all of his childhood was grim. He has good memories. He does. And it is, he thinks, worth preserving them.

More than that, he wants...he isn't sure. It's difficult to articulate. He just wants Nero to know. About the temple. About the fact that he's since torn down the wailing abyss that haunted Kaer Morhen. Perhaps he recognizes—after their last conversation in particular—that Nero wishes to know him better but will not ask.

So here he is. Letting him in. ]

[Whatever he thought that nightmare basement had been replaced with, it wasn't a chunk of the most gaudy temple he's seen in his life. (No offense. The Order wasn't much for unnecessary decoration. And most of the statuary could kill you.) But it is. It is where that basement was. As he steps inside, feeling suddenly grubby and underdressed, his tail begins to whip at the tip with curiousity. He steps away from Geralt, looking around. He picks up a pastry and breaks it in half (not dropping any crumbs; he wasn't raised in a barn) to find it full of some kind of fruit, sweetened with honey.

Even the weather's nice. It's got the feeling of someone who hasn't had a lot of hope suddenly finding it. Like a vampire who hasn't seen the sun for a century, finally walking out to greet it -- and to not burn for the effort.

Nero's tail gives him away, shaking at the tip, but there's this little warmth that burns in his chest. His fingertips trace golden walls. It's the kind of place Kyrie would've taken stage and sang, her voice filling every archway. People would've cried. They always cried, even if the song wasn't sad. Her voice could just do that sort of thing.

He'd give anything to hear it now.

Nero stops by one of the stained glass windows, looking out to a sunny day outside that can't possibly exist in a basement. But it's there, all the same. Shining in, warming his skin.]

It's nice. [He turns to Geralt, nailing him down with a gaze, tipping his head. Trying to figure out what he missed. What must have changed. It's not like he thinks Geralt is incapable of hope, but this... well, it's what it feels like, at least. Or maybe it's just a grasping for something he'd had before.] Like, really nice. Way nicer than the churches I grew up in.

[He clears his throat.] I didn't take you as a religious guy. But... you still aren't, are you?

[Maybe if he had any good memories of the Order, that weren't Credo or Kyrie, he'd have a chunk of the churches in his head, too.]

[ While Nero explores, Geralt leans against one of the star-dusted pillars. The touches of gold are from Jaskier, a small reminder of his friend. This would not be standing without Jaskier. Despite all that he's been through—the abductions, the memories—this part of his domain remains, for once, untarnished by the storm in his mind. And he thinks Jaskier is to thank for that. ]

The priestesses serve Melitele, but Nenneke had no desire to convert. [ As long as they followed her rules, her lessons. She was nothing if not a realist, and convincing four young Witchers to subscribe to a religion is a fool's errand. ] She only asked that no blood be spilled on the grounds.

[ Which. He may have broken that cardinal rule during his last visit. Couldn't be helped. He's only sorry he could not return to see to the temple's repairs. He misses her. That calming presence. Her quiet strength.

Maybe a little of that can be felt between these walls. There's an inexplicable sense of safety. Warmth. He's been spending extra time in the temple for that reason. Sometimes he waters the plants. Lights the hundreds of candles. It helps clear his head.

Seems Nero could use something similar. Killing imaginary demons can only do so much. Eventually, you need to learn to sit with the silence instead of trying to drown it. That's the first thing he learned from her. ]

[Melitele. Some goddess, he guesses. Not hard to figure out with the statue at one end of the temple. Though he's not exactly into it, the woman's still a breath of fresh air, four arms or not. Nothing used to annoy him more than looking at that ugly, gaudy giant statue of Sparda in the main theatre. Worshipping a demon while they killed them. It always felt so fuckin' stupid. (And now he's supposed to just accept that demon's his grandfather? Come on.)

He traces a sun on one of the pillars. It's almost like the gold might come off if he rubs too hard. Maybe he's used to fake-gaudy, not the real thing.]

No blood, huh?

[They used to have him drag the possessed back to the church if he could manage it, and where he thought the elder exorcists had been taking care of it, it must've been that bug bastard experimenting on them. Writing his sick little notes. Figuring out how to convert that into a ritual.

He's never had a single good memory with religion, huh? Except Kyrie. The first time he heard her sing.]

I met Kyrie in a place like this. [He pauses, flashing Geralt a look.] My girl. I mean, the church was way bigger, with a little podium. But her voice carried. I remember thinking her voice was wasted on hymns.

[He doesn't mean to do it. It's sort of how Nero's domain has always been; it does what it wants. The Horizon picks and chooses what pops into his head. Maybe it follows him, the same way that Shadow does. But as he looks at the gold-painted star, he can hear her voice filling the halls, the space of the arches, around them, and he knows Geralt can hear it too.

Listen to my voice calling you... Calling you out of darkness... With the wind you go, still I dream of your spirit leading you back home.

Leading him back home, huh. His hand drops, fingers curling into his palm. It's the one thing he's wanted to hear more than anything. And yeah, maybe he could come here to hear it, but he'd never let himself.

His tail goes still. He's still facing the pillar, but his voice is... wet.] Sorry. Stuff just happens to me in here sometimes. You know how it is.

Edited 2023-10-08 06:16 (UTC)

[ In truth, Geralt did not anticipate that the temple would resonate so thoroughly with Nero. He knows the scattered details of Nero's upbringing—more than most—but just as Geralt's never described what he lived through, Nero hasn't, either.

The voice is familiar. It's the same one he heard in that nightmarish landscape, pulsating with flesh and blood. The same one Nero chased up the roots of a twisted tree. Often, the grief of not knowing is worse. When only you can decide to let go, the temptation to cling for eternity burrows deep. And he knows no one can make that choice except Nero.

Yeah. He understands how it is. The Horizon does not always bend easily for people like them. ]

I'm sorry she isn't with you. [ If Ciri didn't arrived in this world, if he were trapped here not knowing what happened to her—he's lived that. And he never wants to again. ] She's been on your mind?

[ Not that he thinks Kyrie ever left it, but after the abductions, the monsters, the loss, Geralt suspects her memory must weigh especially heavy. Something is festering inside Nero. He hasn't pushed, but he can sense it hovering like a storm cloud. ]

[Nero takes in a breath. Another one. By the time he turns around, he's composed himself again. Her voice has stopped moving through the temple except for a soft, quiet echo.

Yeah. He's sorry, too.

Nero moves through the room, this restless energy keeping him moving now its raising its ugly head. He rubs the back of his neck.] Yeah.

[He thinks to leave it there. He didn't come here to talk about Kyrie. To talk about anything, really; he just wanted to see how Geralt's monster killing had gone, really. That was it. But now in this place, surrounded by the sound of her singing, nearly feeling her reaching for one of his hand with both of hers --

She's never left his mind.]

Dante reminded me how long I've been here. How long she hasn't seen me. [He shrugs, shoulders moving up then completely falling back down.] She might not even think I'm coming back by now. I've never been away from her for more than a few months. Not a single time in my entire life. We've been together practically since I was a kid.

[ The question of what their absence truly means is complex. Ciri comes from his future; she does not recall a time when he vanished to Abraxas for two years. Geralt's memories, when they arrive, do not involve his life upon this sphere. Feels as though they're caught between realities. Is there a life where he never finds Ciri? Does it make a difference when his memories don't wholly cross one another?

Fuck if he knows. ]

I'd return to Kaer Morhen each winter. Did it for a hundred years. Then I was here and...

[ And he no longer could. That's why the fortress sits here. Restrained to his imagination, devoid of his kind. He knows how it feels. For all the decades he spent alone on the Path, he could always return home. Then it was gone. ]

It isn't easy to have family taken from you, over and over.

[ He's rebuilt his family so many fucking times. His brothers. Ciri. The Summoned he's found here. He's tired of losing them, but if there's one thing he's learned, it's to protect what he has. ]

[Saying that so casually makes Nero's paltry twenty-five years seem like nothing. A fuckin' century. And now he hasn't seen his brothers for a few years, too.

It's the same, but it's different. Kyrie was protected because he was there. He knew he could at least keep her safe. He can't imagine Geralt's brothers needed to be protected if they were anything like him. And Nico. Who the hell is getting her demon parts now? (Not like he cared. He wasn't in it to help her. Obviously.) He can at least trust Nico got back to Fortuna. That they're taking care of each other, of the kids.

It just makes him feel like a failure.

And what if -- what if Vergil finds them? Without Dante to temper him, Nero doesn't know what the hell he's been doing. If he found them --

He suddenly clenches up, shaking his head. Anywhere else, he might've already put his fist in the wall. Vergil is an insane asshole, maybe, but somewhere in there is V. V... wouldn't have hurt Kyrie. He's gotta believe that.]

I found them the same day I lost them. [His real family, at least. His blood. Kyrie would always be family, but he'd finally found out where he came from.] I mean... Dante. My father. [He sighs, turning towards Geralt. Taking in the big guy helps him unclench a little.] I'm glad you've got Ciri here. I know what it feels like, being without.

[ Geralt doesn't try to guess what's crossing Nero's mind, though he watches him closely. Nothing he says will make it better. He can't reassure Nero his family is all right. Even if it were true that Kyrie exists in a reality where Nero never left her, who is he to say that would mean nothing has befallen her? Or others that he cares for?

Geralt had been there, and he still couldn't protect Ciri.

He pushes off the pillar and settles down on a chair nearby. ] I was without her. For a while.

[ He's glad she's found her again. And Nero is not wholly without his family, either. Despite the complications, he knows Dante cares—though he suspects it needn't be said. Something tells him Nero must realize that, too. Besides, Dante is a prickly topic for the boy; Geralt leaves it be, not wanting to reopen old wounds.

Instead, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. ] These doors are always open for you. Just leave the monsters at yours.

Not on purpose, I bet.

[It comes out bitter but it's not because of Geralt; it's what he could've had if his family wasn't a bunch of traumatized dumbfucks. If Kyrie's parents weren't killed by demons. He has a feeling Geralt would've done anything for Ciri. Feels like he pretty much has, especially when they were in the pit. Geralt was giving to her the last bites of food he had.

He forces himself to relax, 'cause part of him is still afraid he'll burst into flames, even if this is the Horizon. It's not like he's in much better control here than he is out there. Shit, truly, just happens.

Nero turns around so fast it's almost sharp. It's the kind of thing Credo might've said -- even with the jab. He knows Geralt isn't Credo, and no one will ever replace him. He isn't looking to replace him. It's just --

It's something he wanted to hear. He doesn't even remember why he came here in the first place.

Geralt doesn't need to elaborate. Nero knows exactly what's being offered here... even if he's caught between I need this and when did I ever start mattering that much?] You couldn't handle most of them, anyway.

[But he smiles when he says it.] I... thanks.

[ His lips curl faintly. Nero is a little shit, and that's not changed, but seeing Nero in this temple—bitter and a little angry and lonely—

He was there once. Wasn't he? Right here, just like that. So surefooted in his ability to slay the monsters and so uncertain of everything else. He remembers the temple unsettled him at first. Nenneke's kindness, the warmth, the soft beds. It wasn't like anything he associated with home, and he spent his days eyeing every dubious little pastry. Retreating from Nenneke's maternal instinct, too much a reminder of Visenna's shadow.

By the end of their stay, he hadn't wanted to leave. ]

Mm. Don't thank me yet. Those candles don't light themselves.

[ He's not serious; they do. Sometimes. Other times, Geralt lights them himself. He finds the familiar task soothing.

There's another pause before he rises. ]

I'll show you a secret.

What? You're fuckin' jokin'. I'm not your altar boy.

[He is joking. Look at that, old man's still got jokes. Nero slaps him on the shoulder, anyway, when he gets up. Just. For something to do. He has to drive this weird energy out of him, but the memory of Kyrie, of the Order, of the churches he grew up in... it's all a lot.

He used to light the candles, too. When he was on probation after doin' something that had pissed Credo off again.] Maybe when your back gives out, I can give you a hand.

[If he feels like it. He crosses his arms so he doesn't do anything too weird, tipping his head.] A secret? You're not gonna take me to another one of your weird dinosaurs, are you?

[Not that he'd complain. That was a hell of a fight, even if it ended too fast.] Let's see it.

Edited 2023-10-14 21:53 (UTC)

[ A part of him wonders if Nero ever was one in that church of his. An altar boy. Though the concept to him is far different, probably, than it is to Nero. They might've spent part of their childhood in a temple, but Geralt's experience was absent of preaching. He came to study, that was all. And to learn to sit with himself—to carry his darkest memories without suffocating under their weight. ]

Let's avoid that one again, [ is the dry, possibly ominous, reply to Nero's comment on the state of his back.

He turns down the corridor to where Nenneke's office sits. It's empty, but it smells of her. Healing herbs, tea, cloves. A crack spiderwebs across one of the walls. This isn't technically a secret. But it is a part of him few ever see—and he wants, maybe, for Nero to know that when he says he understands, he means that. ]

I put that there. During one of our lessons. [ Geralt runs a finger along the groove. She never replaced the wall, though she could've. He supposes she isn't one to erase the past. ] When Vesemir sent us here, it was the first time I'd left Kaer Morhen. By then, it was home. And the last time I left home was...

[ Was when his mother abandoned him. He never saw it again. ]

[Yeah, he was. Sort of. Between training to kill, training to learn the signs of possessions, training to -- ugh -- give praise to Sparda. He was way better at lighting candles than he was praising anyone. That's never changed.

He raises a brow, but doesn't ask. Look, he's not entirely surprised to hear, or think, that Geralt's ever gotten hurt. He's only human. Relatively.

It's not like Nero goes unscathed either, and he's not even human.

Nero follows, hands stuffed in his pockets. The temple has regained this sense of the unfamiliar, and he doesn't hear Kyrie's voice in the back of his head anymore. But he swears he can feel Shadow somewhere, skulking about, even if she hasn't shown up. (And here he'd thought he'd really been able to leave her at the van. Of course not.)]

He forced you to leave home? [Nero walks up to the wall's breakage, already knowing exactly what it could be. Though coming from him, it would've had a specifically fist-shaped hole in it. This is one of those powers, he thinks. The weird magic things Geralt does.

Nero puts his fist in the middle of it.

Geralt trails off. Nero remembers what he'd said in the pit.] Yeah. [He doesn't need to say more. He steps back. Is this a memory, or was it just there? He thinks... if it's someone who means this much to Geralt, maybe she let it stay. A lesson, they would've said.] When I was still training, I stole my brother's sword... and then broke it, trying to fight a wall. Cracked it right in half. I didn't know what he'd think, so I hid it. Lied about it. Told him I'd never seen it. [He moves in again, tracing the cracks. The sign of a kid way stronger than any kid should be.] Then I see it a decade later, hanging out in his office, and after all that time, I'd forgotten about it. [The amount of times he'd ever seen Credo smile, he could count on one hand. But it wasn't the way his face looked that had ever said much.] He didn't even fix it. I didn't get why for the longest time.

No. [ No, not forced. Not like that. ] We needed to study our Signs.

[ Vesemir was right to send them off. Kaer Morhen could not give them everything they needed. He understood that afterwards. At the time, he was simply...young. Afraid of too many things he didn't want to admit to.

He sits on the edge of the desk. Nero speaks of his family little. He knows when Nero says brother, he means something more important than blood. A mentor and brother all rolled into one. A complicated relationship, as far as he's learned. Aren't they all?

He has no desire to replace what Nero has lost. That is an impossible ask and not one he wants. He'll always miss his brothers, too. What he's made here—though it isn't the same, it isn't lesser, either. ]

Time grants us clarity. [ Not only for the pieces of his youth. He once thought he learned all there was to learn at fifty, eighty. And yet, the world surprises him. ] I know you left people behind. But you have them here, too.

[ Pain makes it easy to forget this. He knows that well. ]

[Good. That's good. If Geralt had to have bullshit in his life, it... well, maybe it's just shit on top of shit, so it wouldn't have mattered. But it's not something he'd wish on anyone, losing their home. Cast out of it, even.

He sighs.]

Guess so.

[He gets it now. He gets it because he'd do anything to have a memento of Credo's that wasn't paperwork from the Order and the reminder that he'd still let himself turn into a demon just because that asshole Sanctus told him to. Just went to show you don't really know anyone, no matter how long you live with them. Even if you're raised with them.

But a guy can't live his life being paranoid of everyone forever.

Nero turns back towards Geralt, looking at him a second. It's not really his thing, but in the moment... maybe he just wants it. Maybe he needs it. He embraces the Witcher with a squeeze, a hand on his back. It's not a redundant reminder. Kyrie's voice in his ears, he still needs it.

It's not just Geralt. It's Wanda, it's Himeka, it's Rocket. Even that stupid pair of giant birds. The dumbass goat. It's Steve.

He's gotta go home. Whenever he figures out how to. But he doesn't hate being here.] So everyone keeps remindin' me.

[ The embrace takes him aback. It's not unwelcome. Just unexpected from Nero, who rarely makes physical contact beyond punching him in the shoulder.

Geralt lifts his hand and returns the gesture. His grip is firm, and not for the first time, it strikes him Nero has somehow slipped into the crevices of his life. A part of him nearly tells Nero that he would have a home in Cadens should he ever find Solvunn untenable, but he won't say it until the situation takes a turn for the worse.

They might. Nero is wary about the gods, the Council, and Geralt feels similarly. Though the Free Cities isn't better. A different threat, that's all. He doesn't know what he'd rather face: monstrous gods or an army and an endless cycle of politics?

After a moment, he releases Nero. Fondness touches the curl of his lips. ] Fuck off before they miss you out there.

[ CLOSED ] death is no man, death is no wraith

— ◈ nero.

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wrapping!