[ No. He imagines very few of them did. Geralt certainly did not, but neither did he ask to be their monster, sending them scattering like ants under his shadow. What is the difference, he wonders, between a contract and a prayer? Perhaps that's why he continues to accept their money. It's a transaction. They give him something they can afford to give; he takes it and completes the job. When it's done, they owe him nothing else. Not their reverence, not their fear, not their respect.
Or so it's meant to be. He's all too aware it isn't necessarily so. That sometimes, he intervenes when he's not been paid nor asked to. That he has followers who seek the Wolf.
He lets Castiel examine the figure in silence while he stokes the fire, recognizing Castiel's bristling for what it is. It doesn't bother him.
He must've made thousands of those things by now, though. When he gives them away, he does not expect the receiver to hold onto them. On occasion, he simply leaves a carving behind in some forest or swamp, where it's swallowed by the earth or snatched by a stray dog. He can't say why he continues to make them. Something for idle hands, he supposes. It reminds him he is still as much a part of this world as any mortal—bound to its plane, if not its passage of time. And yet, he does leave every winter for a reason. So he does not forget that time moves. ]
When my memories were lost, I was called to a village just beyond the Witchwood. I thought I was well enough, but...I wasn't. [ The knife returns to his hand. He begins to work on the other wing. ] Jaskier told me afterwards that the blood I spilled infested a young boy. Since that day, mortal blood shed by my hand consumes the people it touches.
[ He is careful about when and where he strikes, but it has not stopped him altogether. Whether that's wrong or not, he doesn't know. Should he also shelter himself in the woods and surrender his sword? If an answer exists, he's yet to find it. ]
Maybe we are the natural consequences of their world.
no subject
Or so it's meant to be. He's all too aware it isn't necessarily so. That sometimes, he intervenes when he's not been paid nor asked to. That he has followers who seek the Wolf.
He lets Castiel examine the figure in silence while he stokes the fire, recognizing Castiel's bristling for what it is. It doesn't bother him.
He must've made thousands of those things by now, though. When he gives them away, he does not expect the receiver to hold onto them. On occasion, he simply leaves a carving behind in some forest or swamp, where it's swallowed by the earth or snatched by a stray dog. He can't say why he continues to make them. Something for idle hands, he supposes. It reminds him he is still as much a part of this world as any mortal—bound to its plane, if not its passage of time. And yet, he does leave every winter for a reason. So he does not forget that time moves. ]
When my memories were lost, I was called to a village just beyond the Witchwood. I thought I was well enough, but...I wasn't. [ The knife returns to his hand. He begins to work on the other wing. ] Jaskier told me afterwards that the blood I spilled infested a young boy. Since that day, mortal blood shed by my hand consumes the people it touches.
[ He is careful about when and where he strikes, but it has not stopped him altogether. Whether that's wrong or not, he doesn't know. Should he also shelter himself in the woods and surrender his sword? If an answer exists, he's yet to find it. ]
Maybe we are the natural consequences of their world.