[ CLOSED ] my skin peels off like paint

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: April Pre-event
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: In the aftermath of Nero's death
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon.


can't you hear that scratching?
there's something at the door;

discontinued | quantifies | starters below.

Comments

[cointosser]

[After one knows a man enough time -- years upon years, or decades, even -- there is a perceptible shift in the world when something has happened. Before he even puts two and two together, even. It's a startling thing, the note that one of the Solvunn Summoned sends out: another Summoned, dead. Permanently. Even in the escape from Thorne, he didn't hear of a Summoned dying. Only disappearing.

It's then he realizes he recognizes the name. He's heard the name, even, at Dean's roadhouse. He's even sure he's seen the man the name belongs to -- some white-haired hunter that looked, in some ways, a bit like Geralt. Not physically, but the way he carried himself. A man who knew he was the strongest person in the room. Who did not hesitate to step into danger.

And rarer still -- a man who Geralt spoke of with affection.

Jaskier stretches his arms out the moment he steps through the portal, landing on the other side into the gold-touched temple he'd helped craft with the Witcher. There it is. That perceptible shift in the air -- between the motes of dust that float in the rays of sunlight, and the weight that presses on his chest.

He peeks in a few rooms until he comes across his friend at a writing desk. It's almost comical, if it wasn't such a sullen mood. Still, Jaskier smiles to see him.] Thought you'd be around here, haunting the halls. At least you can't hear the thunder in here. [It's idle chatter. He's been through this once, with Dean, and he wasn't sure how to help then, either. But Dean had come back. The boy, describing it, had made it sound... definitive. There was no coming back.]

I thought I'd help you light the candles, but... I see you've already finished. [He raises a hand, rolling the brandy inside the bottle around with a swish.] How about a drink?

[gynvael]

[ Death is an old shadow. She has followed him since he was a boy. This is nothing new. It's what he tells himself, and for the most part, he is capable of getting on with his day, his week.

But in the pauses of life, his ribs constrict. He hates that he feels blindsided. Of all people, should he not fucking know better? Nero was simply different. Not indestructible, but so near it that Geralt allowed himself to believe the boy might outlast him. That he could, for once, form a bond without the heavy knowledge that inevitably, it would break.

Carefully, he sets his quill down. He meant to tell Jaskier. Seems he needn't bother.

He pushes back from the desk and pulls out a pair of cups. They clink onto the scratched wood, one, two, and he leans against the table's edge. ]

Grew tired of the fucking storm. [ He waits for Jaskier to pour. ] I found your moogle in the mud by the glade. Thought he'd suffocated.

[ He wonders if Moglad told Jaskier he was there with Clive. Likely. What Moglad knows, Jaskier does, too. At least with Jaskier, he doesn't have to explain himself nor talk about the loss. He can just let it be. ]

[cointosser]

[It is a rather shitty storm. But they knew it isn't why he's here; and he hardly needs to see who the letter is addressed to to guess. Jaskier pours the brandy, pushing Geralt's glass towards him before working on the second.]

What? What the fuck was he doing in the mud?

[He raises a hand. He needn't ask, actually. Not because Moglad is a fool -- he is, but a delightful one -- but because he is intricately linked with the moogle in the most accidental of ways, and the moment Jaskier feels off, suddenly Moglad doesn't know his quarter notes from a sixteenth.]

He's been chasing Yjönnstifer for days now. The bloody thing keeps trying to live in the mud puddles, like it won't drown being down there too long! Honestly, I'm rethinking this whole "zoo" concept. It's becoming a terrible chore to make sure they all don't off --

[He cuts off. Perhaps he should not be talking about his animals accidentally dying.]

I'm sorry.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier dismisses the question the instant it leaves the bard's mouth. For the best. Geralt hasn't any answers for why those damn moogles do anything. Like pursue a miniature monster.

It strikes him that may have been the reason why Moglad was incapacitated in the mud. Fucked itself up trying to kill the morbol.

He exhales sharply. ] I'm not—

[ It isn't as though he is suddenly incapable of discussing death. He lost someone. Someone he considered a brother. It happens. He will grieve and move on. But it feels like he should have...he wasn't ready. For many, he was ready. His Witchers. Old friends. Some part of him is always prepared to wake up and find any one of them gone.

Nero was different. In some ways, their bond felt—

Fuck. ]

You'd have hated him. [ His lips quirk. ] He was just like Lambert.

[cointosser]

[He's not many anythings. And Geralt can say whatever he wishes, but Jaskier knows him far too well. Well enough to know this death must hang particularly heavy. Geralt will move on. He will be "fine." That's the nature of Witchers. Such truths have never helped to make things easier. They are survivable, but it is not easy.]

Probably. He sounded like someone who talked too much.

[He drinks his brandy with a sharp wrinkle in his nose; it's strong, perhaps stronger than he meant it to be. And without asking, he refills Geralt's glass.]

Your favorite sort. Those who don't shut the fuck up.

[gynvael]

[ Yes. So it would seem.

Geralt accepts the second pour, but places the cup aside after. He crosses his arms over his chest. It is not, really, a topic he means to discuss in detail. He's lost many, and he scarcely finds reason to talk about it. ]

Every time I think we've found our footing, something else crawls along to fuck it up.

[ The words sound like a petulant complaint when he says it out loud. He shakes his head. It's the storms. The storms, the strange vision, the voice. He dislikes turmoil, and yet it feels as though that is all his life is made of. He doesn't know how to keep his family close and safe and calm. ]

[cointosser]

[Jaskier chortles some sort of sound of agreement during his next sip. What more can he offer? Another tree? Dean came back. From what that boy Steve said, it doesn't seem likely here -- unless he's also going to be possessed by a demon, or something.

He can see this rattles Geralt deeply. It rattles him, too, for more selfish reasons: this is the first time he's heard of a Summoned dying.

It isn't what Geralt needs, maybe, but Jaskier wishes to do it: he moves around the desk and lays his hand on Geralt's arm, squeezing it. The death of that hunter is a heavy weight, and it doesn't get lighter having shared it.] I'm afraid drinking won't make anything easier, tempting as it always is. [And he hardly has a pedestal to stand on to remark on it, considering his choice in indulgences.] Have you got something of his? Something we can put up?

[gynvael]

[ Dean had come back wrong on top of that. Resolved though it is now, Geralt does not wish to repeat the experience. The truth is, taking a loss is difficult, but somehow, it is harder when they come back. Only to leave again. Faded, another death...

He blinks down at Jaskier's touch. Then, after a second, he lays his hand on top of Jaskier's. He's seldom one to drink to forget, anyhow. Perhaps it would be easier if he were. Mostly, he feels the itch to escape into the desert. Feel his hands go numb under the weight of his sword. ]

I do. [ He reaches behind him into a drawer and reveals the necklace Nero once wore. He does not think too deeply about how it materialized in his domain. Nero didn't give it to him. But he knows, if Nero could, that he would have. It isn't a medallion, but it's close.

Pushing off the table, he starts upstairs where the tree stands. For a few minutes, he's quiet. ] I am glad you're here.

[ Here, in the temple, but here in his life, too. It has been a long time since they've parted for any length of time, their year apart a dull memory. He worries, a part of him, that one day, that will change. ]

[cointosser]

Perfect. [It's better than sitting in this room, trying not to ponder too much of what Geralt was writing (he resists peeking), drinking their sorrows. He has tried so many times to drink his sorrows, and it only has ended up with more.

Rience, that stupid prince... but Jeaskier is lucky in that he's only ever lost so little.

It is only that Destiny seems determined he bear witness to Geralt's.

Jaskier hardly need question why there is something of the hunter's in Geralt's domain. It is enough that there is a remnant, and they have a place to put a reminder of him. With the close-knit nature of the Summoned, he imagines it is not only Geralt who misses his presence -- but those sort may be the ones who come to the tree to see it, too.

The tree, the hall... it's all quiet. A far cry from the time Jaskier and Amos fell into that basement, and he held the man as he rattled from whatever memories haunted him. This place has its own ghosts, but much more welcome ones. And ones that no longer stink of blood.

Perhaps he's gone home, is what a fool might have said, as if it should help. Instead Jaskier touches the branch of the tree the necklace hangs from, growing a single white bud.]

I wouldn't be anywhere else. [His smile to Geralt is lined in too many wrinkles. Will his friend ever cease losing?] And lucky for you, I don't have plans to rush off without you, either.

[There is just them, the quiet of the hall, the snapping of the fires. The hanging necklace on a tree of memorials. The ghost of a man no longer here, and the reminder that Jaskier has outlived men who should have far, far outlived him instead.

(That Geralt is another one.)]