abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] all we know is what would be our home

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[ CLOSED ] all we know is what would be our home

Who: Geralt + Ciri
When: After the barbecue
Where: Horizon
What: Father-daughter tipsy times, walking home
Warnings: N/A

By the time the night (or what passes as night in the Horizon) winds down, Geralt is solidly not sober, in all the ways that matter, but also sober enough to understand he has no desire to embarrass himself by attempting to mount Roach and ride her home. Not that he needs to ride home. They can obviously just—leave the Horizon itself, entirely.

The truth is, he's feeling not the worst. About being here. Which is startling, given how much he'd wanted to not fucking come to the Horizon at first, after all the shit that's happened recently. An overabundance of alcohol works wonders. Besides, he hasn't got the chance to speak to Ciri much, leaving her to her enjoy herself while he hovered at the edges of the gathering. He waits for her at the end of Sam's garden. It's quiet now, most having left.

When Ciri finally arrives, he starts down the path towards his domain, taking Roach by the reins. Last time they were there together, Ciri hadn't had any of her memories. He knows nothing's changed, though. As far as encounters involving a total loss of memories goes, hers had been one of the less...complicated outcomes.

(It's still hard to forget, though, how at home she'd been.)

"How many drinking contests did you win?"

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Ciri's own horse had wandered off somewhere, too free a spirit to content herself with grazing in Sam's yard. Eyeing Geralt and the way he has clearly decided not to try to haul himself onto horseback right now tells Ciri she will not need to call her steed back. It's just as well; she always comes when Ciri calls, but she can wander just fine on her own for the time being.

So she falls into step on Geralt's other side, as he turns toward Kaer Morhen's memory in the Horizon.

The question has her grinning.

"All of them," she pronounces, self-satisfied, whether or not all parties might agree it's true. Despite the pinkish glow around her cheekbones and the easy way she giggles, she doesn't seem all too impaired. Possibly better than Geralt. Her brows rise at him.

"How about you?"

All of them. Naturally. He glances sidelong at her with an expression that might count as fond before looking back ahead. He's surprisingly steady, and probably, to someone unfamiliar with him, it'd be hard to tell he'd had much of a drink at all. But there's a sense he's especially focused on where he's walking, and his footfalls are noticeably more careless than usual.

"No contests," he replies. "Just drinking."

It's possible he hasn't any fucking idea how much or what he's been drinking. The problem with what this place is. Julie had handed him that cup full of everything, and he understands that there was not much in it at the time, but he also realizes that he'd spent the entire time with her drinking it and had never reached the bottom.

Doesn't much matter, though. He'll be all too sober when they return. For now, he's willing to indulge where he needn't watch his back.

Others might not be able to, but Ciri can tell. To a stranger, the slope of his shoulders wouldn't look different, his gait would appear perfectly normal-- but to her, Geralt looks relaxed in a way she hasn't seen in a very long time. It makes her smile.

"Just drinking? No wonder you're sloshed," she teases, bumping a shoulder into his as they walk.

A beat. She leans forward a bit, peeking up at his face from below.

"Did you have fun?"

He frowns a little as though he wants to protest he isn’t. Sloshed. He can’t, because he’s not so much so he doesn’t realize that would be a lie.

“I can walk,” he says instead, which is both true and serves as sufficient defense. Even if he’s clearly decided riding would be pushing it.

They pass the strange domains around them. It’s dark in places, lit in others, and a handful he no longer recognizes. They must’ve been remade, reshaped, like his. Ciri never saw the cabin, and he wonders what she would’ve thought of it. If he had kept it rather than rebuild Kaer Morhen.

He glances back down at her. His lips tilt ever so slightly. “Mm.” Yeah. Perhaps. “I see you did.”

It’s good. Seeing her smile. They both needed this. Jaskier, too. He’s glad she’s managed to find a way to unwind. Especially since he’s been—distracted, as of late. If Jaskier’s noticed, he knows she has, too.

That tiny quirk of his lips and a vague noise of what might have been assent are basically wholehearted enthusiasm for Geralt. Ciri beams, glad to hear it. Glad to see him looking less distracted and dour. She hasn't asked, but she has noticed.

The close quarters they share are tolerable because of the company and necessity, but they do make it difficult to escape for long unless it's here. The city is big and loud and unfamiliar; the circumstances are uncertain, even as they settle into this new temporary routine together. Even if it isn't 'real' and she'd been unsure of how to feel about the Horizon at first, Ciri has to admit that the quiet is comfortable, out here beneath the vast sky. She is relieved to see that Geralt seems to be benefiting from it too.

"Had a decent enough time, sure. Even if Sam's house is weird as hell. Did you see the funny metal containers they had the ale in? You maneuver them open with a mechanism at the top, and they make a terrible noise. What's the point of that when they've got bottles?"

Weird as hell is one manner of putting it. Geralt's own perception is feels especially skewered: the first time he'd been to Sam's house, its strange magic that made him so at home there meant he'd not questioned anything about it. Not the humming equipment, the odd lightweight containers Sam had put all of his food in, the ale that was always perfectly frosted despite the warm weather outside. Only afterward did it strike him as foreign, and now that he's returned without that haze over him, it'd been...familiar but not.

He's avoided thinking too hard on it.

"Never quite had it explained." It appears, in Sam's world, things are simply not meant to last. For what reason, he hasn't any clue. "At least they're far fucking sturdier than the cups."

He is referring, obviously, to the flimsy red cups that'd been everywhere. And there is definitely nothing in his tone to suggest he might've had cause to prove exactly how not sturdy they were. (No one important witnessed him crushing the thing without meaning to, which is all that matters.)

"I know!" Ciri exclaims, like Finally, someone said it!

"Ridiculous flimsy things." She huffs through her nose, shaking her head in bafflement. Don't even get her started on the box full of tiny bards.

"I ended up just making my own cup," she confesses, tapping the pewter mug that now hangs off her belt. "Don't know if it's considered rude, but -- er. Don't think Sam saw."

Ah. Mm. That’s why she’s carrying that. Geralt is hardly one to turn to for matters of etiquette, so he only waves her concerns away. He doubts Sam gives a damn. Geralt knows he’s fond of the girl, anyhow. (Has Ciri realized Sam knows a version of her? Geralt still has not explained about that. They haven’t quite talked about the small collection of gifts he’d given her or why he had these items.)

They wander up the path to his domain together. Theirs now. It’s grown larger, the courtyard, and while he’s offered Ciri a room inside Kaer Morhen proper, he knows she wants a space of her own. So the walls have simply expanded—dividing up the mountainside, with another gate between them where Ciri can shape what she wants, but can easily come into the keep, too.

It’s…good. Having her nearby.

He reaches into his saddlebag to withdraw the blossoming horse Jaskier made. It sits neatly in the palm of his hand. “Jaskier wanted to name her Roach, too.”

The implication is that he thinks this was an absurd suggestion.

She's been here a few more times since then, but it's still breathtaking, every time she rides or walks up to the path that leads into the mountains. Even if it isn't real, even if they are mere set dressing and Kaer Morhen is a memory, there is something breathtaking about it all. She'd dreamed of coming back. Coming home.

It isn't quite the same, but with Geralt here, it's close. Closer than she had given her permission to hope, for a very long time.

Ciri looks over when she catches the movement and watches him reach into Roach's saddlebags for something. For a moment, Ciri isn't sure what she is looking at. Then, the little horse comes into view as Geralt presents it on his palm for her observation, all gilded with flowers and vines. Her eyes flick up to Geralt's, faintly marveling at the picture of him: the Witcher holding such a delicate thing, the quiet intensity in his eyes straddling the line between taken aback and insistent. Waiting for her to understand.

With a soft, delighted laugh, Ciri reaches out to pet the tiny construct of a horse very gently on the head with a single finger.

"Roach the Second?"

Edited 2021-10-02 05:20 (UTC)

A genuine smile tilts his lips when he sees Ciri’s reaction. It’s just a magic horse. He knows Jaskier created it on a whim, because Geralt challenged him, that it hasn’t any more meaning than that. But he’s heavily warm from too much wine and the horse seems. Important.

Blaming everything on the alcohol appears to be effective so far.

“The Second,” he agrees. Ciri understands, so he’s satisfied. (He cannot say why this is such a sticking point for him.) He carries the miniature horse inside, past the heavy doors that shut out some of the cold.

He isn’t certain why he’s prolonging their stay. Maybe he wants to hang onto this moment, these feelings, for a little longer. Ciri isn’t asking to return, so—stay they will. Even if being inside Kaer Morhen after. That. With Yennefer, it leaves him vaguely uncertain, a sensation he’s stubbornly buried and locked away. This is home, his space, and he doesn’t give a damn if she might’ve—fuck. It doesn’t matter. She’s gone. She will not return.

Where Ciri sits or goes, Geralt will join her. He sets the horse down on one of the tables, where it trots over to the bread and nestles between the loaves.

Hmm. “Or Fen.”

Meadow. Is he really thinking of naming the thing? Apparently. His wolf has a name now (he regrets the conversation, but not the name she granted it) so he supposes the horse may as well.

“If the bard summons any more creatures into this place,” he continues, “we’ll be out of room.”

Edited 2021-10-03 13:45 (UTC)

They make their way through the yard and up the steps into the keep, where the crackling fire roars up in the hearth as if to greet them, warming up the room faster than it would in reality (with a little bit of Ciri's will behind it), the candles flickering with a soft, orange glow that bathes the hall in a diffuse and comfortable light.

Ciri sits at the table where Geralt sets down the horse, watching her with an easy, relaxed smile.

"Fen is a lovely name." She doesn't call him out for being obvious; it's something of note that Geralt even thought to name the horse something else. His Roach is a horse for riding and company, though. This horse is different. That seems fair.

Ciri pats the bench beside her for him to sit too, pulling over one of the loaves of bread to rip off the end and hand it to him. Not that it matters much if they eat to balance out the drink in this place, but it seems worthwhile anyway. It tastes surprisingly fresh (then again, here, it could taste like anything, so maybe it's not so surprising).

Geralt's not-quite-complaint makes her laugh -- but what really warms her heart is the way he so easily, unthinkingly says we.

"Nonsense. There's plenty of space," she counters, gesturing with the remainder of the loaf still in her hand. "Room for a whole menagerie."

It feels a little empty, in fact -- a keep this size has never been meant to house only two people -- but she doesn't bring that up. Neither of them have. Instead, she pulls a bite from the broken part of the bread for herself too, and commences gently harassing Fen with the opposite end, giving her a little poke with the slightly pointed butt of it.

"I'm beginning to feel left out, though. Jaskier hasn't summoned any pets for me."

Geralt takes the loaf without question, seated on the bench next to her. He isn’t thinking about too much, notably. Not about what he’s doing, not about what he’s saying or means to say. A rarity, for him.

Though there is a small pause when she notes exactly how much space there is in here. Funny. It isn’t even as large as the actual Kaer Morhen. Not near it. Somehow, it still feels just as empty. He wonders what Vesemir would say about all of this. He’s known the old man his whole life, but he can’t imagine what Vesemir would tell him now. What’s happening is so far fucking beyond what any of them would ever anticipate.

He blinks, looking over. The horse bumps her piece of bread with its head. “What would you have?”

What pet does she think of if she could have one? There’s still much he doesn’t know about her. Small things. Her favourite pastry. Her preferences when riding. Perhaps he’ll always be trying to catch up—to make up for lost time.

Edited 2021-10-05 03:48 (UTC)

Ciri smiles, playing with the little magical construct idly as she speaks, watching it roam around the table in front of her and giving it little obstacles on the way.

"Oh, I don't know... Here? I'm happy enough with Kelpie." She considers for a moment though, thinking about something with apparent intensity, her brows drawn together as she watches tiny Roach the Second (Fen?) tentatively nibble on the crumb she's offered on the tip of a finger.

"Hey, Geralt. Those presents that were 'for me' that you put in my room that time when my memories were... tucked away..." She looks up finally, head tilted questioningly.

"How did they end up here, anyway?"

He's watching her toy with it, in that distant way where his mind is a bit elsewhere—like he isn't thinking too hard for once, just letting himself take in the moment. At least until she asks that.

His eyes flick upwards. He hasn't brought it up. Not necessarily a topic he wants to discuss. Even less one he wants to discuss with her. But he knows, too, it'll be impossible to hide. Too many met the girl. And more than that, he thinks she...hell, maybe she deserves to know. Or at least deserves to know it from him than from a stranger who will tell her they met her shadowed imitation.

Still. "I, ah." Fuck. How the fuck can he explain? She had to wait until he was several bottles deep to ask, didn't she?

"We were here for some time, the first of us. There was no one to tell us this wasn't our lives." He's quiet. In a rare moment, he sounds uncertain of his own words. "After awhile, a girl appeared outside my door. Ashen hair. Green eyes. So I took her in. People visited. Jaskier. They brought gifts."

He's saying too much. Geralt lifts a hand in a vague gesture, unsure of what else to add. Some part of him was looking for her. Even without his memories intact, he had looked. He'd made her, without realizing. And then she'd vanished and he'd searched. Waking up, remembering he hadn't found her at all, after spending what felt a lifetime with her inside the Horizon—it wasn't a real loss, and yet it was. But he doesn't want to tell Ciri, who's right fucking here and very much alive, that he'd felt something akin to grief in those following days.

He's not even sure how she'll take this information. They've been avoiding any discussion of the fact that, at the end of it all, he holds no memory of meeting her, teaching her. And now she knows that the only memory he has is of a version of her that isn't even real.

Ciri remembers how confusing and strange it had been, the first time she was here. How she'd known, in her heart, that she was searching for someone -- even before she'd laid eyes on Geralt and realized he was searching for her too.

She blinks, startled by his answer. But she doesn't look upset. Her lips part, the words faltering for a few moments, several questions balanced on the tip of her tongue at once before she swallows them all back.

She smiles, faintly.

"You remembered me. Even when you didn't."

He looks over, somehow taken aback by that statement even though it should be obvious. He supposes, back then, before he'd found her, it'd felt like the ghost of his own regrets, following him. Lingering, even in the absence of his memories.

How she says it now, it makes him blink. He returns the smile. Mm. Yeah. He had. Destiny or what, it doesn't matter. She is important to him. And...he's important to her. A fact he's still working on fully absorbing, but more and more, it's beginning to settle inside him, that understanding.

"You're hard to forget," he replies softly. He hesitates. It's not that he thinks she doubts this of him, but somehow, he finds himself wanting to say it aloud. "I am glad. To know that I found you."

She knows they're both a little drunk, but sometimes that makes it easier. It feels less raw, exposing one's feelings -- and it's just the two of them, besides. Geralt isn't always so straightforwardly sincere. Ciri knows he wouldn't say something like this if he didn't mean it, drink or no drink. So to hear him actually express such aloud is a relief she hadn't known she needed.

Words she's going to remember, tucked close to her heart.

"And I am glad that I found you."

Even if being here is all jumbled up and confusing, it is still tolerable because it brought them together, despite everything. Ciri scoots a little closer without looking up. She cups her hands gently around the little blossom-covered horse, letting the creature nuzzle against her thumb.

"I don't know what I'd have done here on my own. If I'd been trapped in Thorne, all alone--"

The horse continues to roam. He follows its path with his eyes, its little movements. Then his attention turns upward. He peers at Ciri, brows knitted together.

"You're not," he says firmly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Not anymore. He's made his decision. He intends to keep to it now that he has, to be here for her. Especially since Yennefer is...not. Here, that is. A thought he's avoiding. Ciri's not asked if he'd seen Yennefer in the Horizon, which is for the best. He hadn't told Jaskier, either. Jaskier had simply known without him needing to say.

He pushes it aside. Gives the small blossom horse a pat. "We should return. Before Jaskier complains we've abandoned him."

There's a certainty and finality in his voice that fills Ciri with relief. It bolsters her, and she reaches over, sliding her closest arm through Geralt's to give him a squeeze, a brief little hug against his shoulder.

"I wouldn't let you."

And with that, she moves to stand. Smiling.

"Race you back."

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[ CLOSED ] all we know is what would be our home

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