[ CLOSED ] let my bed be made

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: Mid-May to Mid-June
Where: Cadens, Nocwich, Horizon
What: Post April event catch-all
Warnings: Standard Witcher canon; nsfw marked

for i feel the gripe
of the woody nightshade;

(( plot with me discontinued ))

Comments

— ◈ jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ Coming back has left him with a thousand thoughts in his head and twice as many questions. It's also left him with shit that didn't get done while he was away: a half-finished shelf, Roach restless from being trapped by the storms, and their home bereft of a single vegetable free of rot.

Bread, he does not bother with. Jaskier has been...making efforts. (Many efforts.) He returns home with a crate of onions and leeks, a slab of venison, and a jug of milk. The kitchen is empty, the house unlit. Jaskier must be elsewhere. He does mean to talk to his friend. Of the four of them, Jaskier was the only one he failed to...break free. And it's clear Jaskier has struggled with their return more than he and Ciri and Yen.

He deposits the box on the table, then begins going through the baked loaves on the counter, stacking them into the bread box.

Guess they won't be going hungry for a while.

Footsteps sound just outside. Geralt glances over his shoulder. Easy to identify. The moonlight cuts through into the room when the door opens, catching the shine of his eyes. A recent development he's not yet noticed. ]

[cointosser]

[The moment Jaskier could take all of his time to himself -- the chocobo checked on, and Mog squeezed nearly to death, and a special delivery made to Quille for all she's done while they were away -- he fell into himself.

It's been some time since he did this. Since the last time he felt... is that what this is? Heartbreak? For someone that was never his, that may never be his? He doesn't even know if any part of it was real. Not the long years... the forests he grew. The wolves he ran with. The young boy he saved from Geralt's blade.

Jaskier returns home with a new, fresh bag of flour and the memory of Kol looking at him a little warily from how much he's purchased simply in the last few days. As much as he'd love to involve himself in the very arduous process of making it himself, he hasn't the fucking time.

It would mean he would be alone with his thoughts far too much.

Jaskier steps inside, taking his hat off with a sigh, only to spot two shining eyes staring right at him.

He screams, dropping the bag of flour.

He's lucky it doesn't explode. But it does pop open, pouring flour onto the floor, as Jaskier lights a lamp with his heart rattling inside its cage. (He would've run away, once, without looking back; why is he still here?)] Geralt? What the fuck was that?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt is in the process of lighting the candle beside him when Jaskier gives a piercing shout. That he's startled does not show on his face, but his Igni flares a bit too strong and singes the edge of the bread box.

He pauses. Watches. Flour puffs up around them, dusting his boots white. Coram darts away, frightened by the commotion.

He sighs, crouching down to sweep up the mess. ] What are you on about?

[ He does not know what Jaskier possibly means. His friend is more than used to finding the (Wolf) Witcher in the dark. He occasionally gives Jaskier a start, but he never outright scares him by doing so. Not for years. (Centuries.) ]

[cointosser]

Your eyes! Your fucking eyes are glowing! [He hates this. His hands shaking, his heart drumming. Purely physical reactions to being surprised -- scared, even -- that he has not felt in. So, so long. He wasn't afraid of most things, because most things he could simply escape.

Now he remembers things he once forgot. Like flames burning his fingertips. The crack in his fingers when they get too stiff. (He misses the touch of ever-present and ever-reliable metal in his joints.)

Jaskier takes a deep breath, curls his hand into a fist, gathers himself. It's already been several days of quiet; perhaps he has simply been a lute string being tightened and tightened until it finally snaps. With an exhale, he kneels down and begins scooping flour back into the bag with his hands.]

They didn't always do that. [He pauses.] Did they?

[He's afraid to admit that maybe he doesn't remember anymore. Because the number of times he found two glowing gold eyes in the woods on mere whim is a far closer memory.]

— ◈ john.

[gynvael]

[ When Geralt could ride where the fuck he wanted, Nocwich was a frequent destination, particularly the small northern island where the wolves retreated. It's strange to step through the portal again and find the Square occupied by the Lunae and the vampires once more, the peninsula still evenly divided in half.

At least its gates are open. The thought of being barred from seeing Yennefer or John or any of the ones he grew close to—he might've violated the borders himself, bullshit politics be damned.

He received John's written reply, of course, though he'd have kept the meeting whether he heard back or not. The weather is warmer than when he was last here in winter. The tavern beneath the inn is lively, and the smell of ale and roasting meat fills the air. Torchlight flickers along the walls.

Geralt picks a table by the corner, orders a drink and a rabbit pie, and waits for John's footsteps. After all the times they met in the solitude of his forest, it's strange to be back amongst the humans—but he supposes he doesn't begrudge losing the separation. Not if it means he can reforge what he wants to make real. ]

[iustise]

[It is strange, to be struggling to adjust to life as it once was, when in fact nothing has changed but John himself. Having grown so accustomed to his life outside of the borders and constraints of living within or indeed attached to a particular territory, life back in Thorne again once more, returning to his post as city guard, has had its challenges.

With so much uncertainty regarding the centuries of memory that — what? Did not happen? Did happen, but were a dream within a dream of the Singularity’s making? John is grateful when he hears from Geralt. Grateful to receive this invitation to meet with him here, in Nochwich. Face to face, where he can hope to trust their interaction is true. As much as it can be, in such a place.

Once the portals open at last, John crosses the city to the tavern Geralt had indicated. Glancing around the room for the man himself as he steps inside before crossing to him quickly. Slowing his steps as he reaches his side. What do you say to a person you have known but a few months and also cared about for hundreds of years?]

…may I join you?

[gynvael]

[ Geralt has his own questions he's seeking answers to, but in typical fashion, it's harder to read them in him. For the most part, he's at ease when John arrives and there's a gentle touch of amusement at the tentative approach. What sort of bastard would he be to invite a man out merely to turn him away? ]

John, I asked you to join me.

[ In case John harbours continued doubts, Geralt nudges the chair across from him with his foot, inching it out under the table. If nothing else, John can be assured that Geralt has changed very little—here or in their vision.

He sets down a few extra coins and signals the barmaid for another drink for his companion. His eyes are on John, though, studying but not cautious or unsure. It's more than just what they shared. There's that, but...he owes him, too. For Jaskier. ]

It's good to see you.

— ◈ dion.

[gynvael]

[ In the Horizon, Geralt is reluctant to stay too long within the snow-capped walls of Kaer Morhen. More and more, it feels like a home he left behind in a time long ago that isn't actually long ago at all. Pale lavender blooms still dot the ground, sprouting over buried bones and worn boulders. Dion's flowers. They crossed paths a few times in their shared mirage, but spoke little otherwise. Dion, he thinks, was content with his solitude, shedding his human form entirely, and he had seen no reason then to disturb that.

But he wonders how Dion fares now that they're free from the vision's grasp.

He takes Roach and goes to find the man. The Horizon has returned to its natural state. No storms, no lightning. Small patches of grass form beneath Roach's hooves. It is not the first time this has occurred in the Horizon when he walks and rides, but now the wildflowers, the chirping birds, they take on new meaning.

(How much of what he gained was already within him?)

When he glimpses the head of blond hair ahead, he pulls up and slows his horse to a steady trot. ] Dion.

[princeofruin]

[There is some measure of relief when Dion releases his hold on consciousness -- or at least, the world his body lives in -- to find his domain has not changed. That it exists at all. If he recalls any specific detail of all those many years, it was that he had no escape from it. He did not come here, even as it pulled at him. He refused.

Now, the Horizon feels like the embrace of the familiar. A field of wyvern tails that gently rustle in the air, and his white-scaled dragon sitting on his shoulder, her tail wrapped around his neck. Since his return from the Singularity, she has not once left his side, where once she would occasionally roam the castle, or vanish into nothing.

It is a blissful quiet to the point that he forgets he is not alone in it. As what he now recognizes as horse hooves -- what he has learned the sound of over many years -- approaches, he sits up from where he lay in the wyvern tails, brushing the petals' pollen from his armour as he stands.] Wolf. [He bows over his hand, placed over his heart. As rare as they saw each other, Dion intimately remembers their battles, waged together. The smell of blood from blade and lance alike.]

It warms me to see you hale and whole. [Such a funny thing, he thinks, that this warm-eyed creature once made him so wary. He can recall why; he well remembers the coldness in Sleipnir's eyes. But Geralt's steed is nothing like Odin's egi.] Is it strange to miss this sense of familiarity that never truly existed between us?

[gynvael]

[ Over the years, he'd grown accustomed to seeing Dion as the dragon he calls Bahamut, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten Dion's face. Still, it's good to meet the man again as he is and was. Tending to his endless garden of wyvern tails, it seems. ]

Not really, [ he replies simply. He dismounts, letting Roach graze on the grass between the blooms. ] It existed somewhere.

[ Between them, in dreams, it doesn't matter. They each remember it, do they not? It need not require more than that. He's found trying to reconcile memories and the ephemeral passage of time to be...more of a headache than it's worth. Or else what would it make his memories of Ciri if they didn't truly come to pass in any world except within a single night's vision?

He remembers raising her. So does she. That's enough. ]

I came to see how you were settling.

— ◈ rocket.

[gynvael]

[ The warming weather brings spring blossoms to Nocwich's previously snowy grounds. They peer out from under the grass, lining the pitch-black forest. He does not often come to Nocwich for its wildlife—these woods are as much for sport as they are for food, and Geralt does not hunt for reasons of sport—but the shopkeeper in Aquila requested a pair of Ceknias horns and Geralt had agreed. The Square's closure has increased what folk are willing to pay. Makes it worth the trip.

The carcass is slung over his shoulders, its legs in his hands to steady it while he makes his way to the butchering block. He isn't interested in being here longer than he must. It isn't anything to do with the woods. He simply feels a strange restlessness he's not contended with in a while.

The slightest movement catches his attention—too subtle, likely, for most others to notice, but Geralt is not most. He slows, stops, then peers up into the treetops.

Hm. (He's small again.) ] Hunting?

[respiting]

[ Now that Nocwich has opened up again, Rocket wastes no time getting out of Solvunn in order to spend a couple of days here, checking up on friends from other factions and generally being out of that too-familiar house.

It's not that he dislikes being there or anything, it's just ... been a lot lately. And what better way to contend with it all than wandering around, drinking oneself to absolute stupidity?

He's sober now, of course, and on a whim thought to head out of the village to seek higher heights and quiet grounds 'cause it just felt right. Maybe for the vantage point, maybe for the cleaner air, who the frick knows, right?

(No. He knows.)

And then Geralt shows up, and not wanting to end up like that dead thing over his shoulder, he makes his presence known. ]

Sure, yeah, lets go with that.

[ He shrugs. ]

Looks like you've been busy.

[gynvael]

[ Geralt studies the figure between the leaves for a moment more before continuing onward. He stops not far away at the butchering block, a bloodstained slab of stone that was either placed for this explicit purpose or simply became it over time. ]

Gold has regained its necessity. [ They are returned to paying for a roof and food, and though Jaskier's money more than covers those requirements, Geralt prefers to continue working. What else would he do? Retire?

Even with immortality on his side, he had a purpose.

Hunting knife in hand, he begins to separate the antlers from its head. The rest of the carcass, he'll leave for the predators that roam the woods. Silence envelopes them like a shroud as Geralt decides where he wishes to start: Nero or the shit they saw together.

Bone and skin split with a wet squelch under the blade. ] I intended to speak to you, after the news about Nero. [ He doesn't say it wasn't really news when he heard from Nero himself. It doesn't matter. ] I wanted to ask what arrangements you made.

— ◈ castiel.

[gynvael]

[ It is not accurate to say Kaer Morhen no longer feels like home. It does. It will always be home to him, whether or not he relinquished its memory. It's more...in truth, he cannot place the feeling because he's not experienced it before: that of returning to a childhood home in one's adult years, finding old memories in its grooves and still-healing wounds in its blemishes. Geralt never truly left Kaer Morhen as a Witcher, not even once he took to the Path. He returned every winter, year after year, decade after decade.

Until he didn't.

The emotion leaves him contemplative, uncertain. It drives him to the other part of his domain, seeking some distance from the fortress above. The temple of Melitele is less fraught. Despite being beneath Kaer Morhen, spring flowers bloom outside its windows and a breeze drifts between the pillars. It is empty, of course, without its usual bustle of students and priestesses and weary travellers. He misses Nenneke's presence. If there was ever a time for her wisdom, it would be now.

Still, the familiar walls of books and scrolls is calming. The candles are unlit in the daylight. Melted wax says that they burn regularly each night. Below the keep as he is, he doesn't notice Castiel's arrival until wings flutter just a few feet behind him.

His hand pauses atop a leather-bound spine, though he does not turn around. It's the first Castiel has been here, and yet it isn't at the same time. Their relationship is no longer bound by brief conversations over the course of only months. The angel's visit is not the intrusion it should be. ]

Came to talk?

shit i thought i tagged this already, im sorry!!

[unwings]

[ Strange how the memories of 800 years that never happened seem to bleed back into place once Castiel finds himself inside the Horizon. He’d never ventured to Geralt’s domain in the past, before the Singularity took them into the future. Now, his feet find Kaer Morhen easily, through the otherworldly beauty of the winter forest frozen in an eerie stillness, like time is a suggestion. Inside the keep, he knows where to avoid a chipped step or crack in the stone. He passes the medallion tree with a head bowed respectfully, knowing the Witchers long passed each necklace represents. Without finding the stairs leading lower, he knows the temple is just below his feet, and after a moment of focus, honing in on the energy signature unique to Geralt, he knows where to find him too.

A gust of air and flutter of wings, and he's there, a few feet behind the wolf inspecting the tomes. A sound Geralt would've become well accustom to in the future. the scene is a comfortable familiarity. ]

If you're in a mood for it. [ they're old creatures. cas isn't in a rush for anything, and he doubts geralt is either. ] I'll accept companionable silence too.

[ that's the one they're usually good at, a peaceful silence no one's anxious to fill. he's always appreciated the quality in geralt, but maybe now and again, actual words are called for. not that cas knows what those words ought to be, or where to start, or how either of them might feel about the centuries they'd spent quietly sharing private pieces of themselves. ]

no worries!

[gynvael]

[ Geralt replaces the book from where it was half-pulled out. Sating a curiosity, nothing more. He's wondered whether the contents of the pages have changed since his return; they were not exactly precisely filled in the first place. He hardly recalls every tome Nenneke had in her temple's endless shelves, even prior to their trip into the dream. ]

I'm not opposed. [ He has time. Might do him good to turn his thoughts outward. He's been stewing, and Geralt does not like to stew. It feels like a trap, a thick quagmire he sinks further into the longer he stands in it. He's always been a man of solutions first, and this...he recognizes there is nothing to solve here. Castiel must feel the same way. What are you meant to do with actions you took that felt entirely like yours and yet weren't at the same time?

Considering the schism between Dean and Castiel, he imagines it must be harder to reconcile events that passed.

He settles in one of the nearby chairs. Small pastries and plates of sliced fruit line the table, and there's tea instead of ale on offer. He invites Castiel with a vague gesture. What's on your mind? ]

[theidlemaiden]

[ Hilda doesn't usually come to visit their home to see Geralt. It's usually to see Ciri. Or Jaskier if she's feeling particularly inspired or has a harebrained scheme. Not that she doesn't want to see Geralt, nor is she scared of him in any way (because at the end of the day what is he except an old, grizzled man?), but because she gets the impression that her brand of teasing is only going to be tolerated for so long.

(That and her stupid little twig joke just isn't getting any traction even after a supposed eight hundred years of trying.)

But she's doing her rounds, albeit slowly, checking on those that had been a part of her make believe life. And Geralt, for some surprising reason, had. Hilda can't even be certain that he'll be home today. She hadn't checked prior, but figures that no harm will come if no one, or another member of the house, is home. When the door swings open revealing the grizzled old man in question. The sight of him shouldn't send a prickle of nerves across her skin, but it does. It might hard to tell that with the way she smiles brightly. ]

Oh, good, you're home and you're in one piece. [ There's a pause as she looks at him up and down before nodding. ] Annnd now that I know that, I'll be leaving now. I'm sure you're busy after all -

[gynvael]

[ Hilda was never a stranger to him, and they shared a handful of encounters in that dream, but ever since he noticed a certain...dynamic with Ciri, Hilda has become—in his eyes—Ciri's friend, first and foremost. It's an arbitrary line drawn solely by fathers who do not want to infringe upon their daughters' personal lives, a facet of which he tends to not ask questions. Except when he does and invariably embarrasses her.

That is not to say Hilda's company isn't welcome—it is—but he seldom seeks her out for mere companionship. The clearest memory he has of her, from before their return, is the sword and cloak she crafted. He's been finding it strange to return to the weight of the blade he carries now. It's a fine blade, but it isn't the one he held for hundreds of years.

In any case, he expects her arrival to be for Ciri or Jaskier. He's about to tell her that Jaskier is at the market again, no doubt buying further baking ingredients, and that Ciri has taken up a contract of some sort. Keeping busy, as it were. Only when Hilda appears to look for him does he glance up from where he's putting together two small jointed pieces of wood. On the table sits the beginnings of what will eventually become a miniature log cabin.

They're all keeping busy. And Ciri's birthday was this month. ]

Hilda. [ He pauses, then sets down wooden pegs. It's a complicated conversation, this. What they witnessed, and what they have each carried back with them. He isn't sure if that is what she came for, but...he does want to know how she's doing. ] Come help me with this.

[theidlemaiden]

[ Hilda would be the first to admit that she doesn't really know why she's here either. She doesn't want to continue to assume that they had any kind of relationship outside of what they'd had before that confusing dream because she doesn't think he's the sort to appreciate that. Which is why it maybe comes as a surprise to her that she's being invited to stay - and help - at all.

Geralt's invitation is met with a hitch in her otherwise bright smile. Her instinct is to say that she didn't want to bother him, but after a moment of hesitation she nods. Seating herself down opposite him she peers at the project in front of him curiously. ]

You seem to have it under control though. What is it?

wanda.

[gynvael]

[ Nocwich's open gates grants him an opportunity to get out of Cadens' stifling heat. If there's one thing he misses about those damn storms, it was the cooler temperatures. He steps into the northern peninsula the first chance he gets; he means to find John later, but for the moment, he simply seeks a drink somewhere.

It's just beyond the market stalls that he glimpses a familiar face. Though they've crossed paths now and again, he's spoken to Wanda rarely. He knows she is (was) a close friend of Nero's, however—family, even.

Geralt considers, then circles around the other side. He isn't carrying anything on him, just a light cloak that's damp from the drizzling spring rain. ]

Wanda.

[carmesi]

( it's not that she doesn't notice him or his approach, but wanda knows that her interactions with the albeit stoic man mostly revolve around people they know. it isn't a secret to her what resonates in his intent in approaching her—the white-haired and short-tempered elephant in the room.

it is inevitable, hearing her name, so she turns on her heels to face him. )

Geralt.

( she clutches tightly at the leather pouch slung across herself. her features are a little sunken in, like she's had trouble consolidating sleep as of late.

wanda shakes her head, sighing softly. )

I hope you don't have some difficult questions for me. We came back from that far-off dream and his body was as we had left it.

( foolish, perhaps, was the thought that he would have risen from the dead, to greet them all from those eight-hundred years of memories and laugh at the absurdity of their experience.

wanda bites on her lower lip before adding, quietly, )

He's gone.

[gynvael]

[ By now, it's been some weeks since the news struck, but their interim excursion into the Singularity has expanded and contracted time all at once. It feels like weeks, it feels like days, it feels like centuries.

He wonders if she's experienced the same. ]

I haven't. [ His reply comes simply. There is not much more he needs to know. Once he realized Nero was gone, that was that. The how, the why...he's gathered enough and he has no desire to reopen old wounds by asking questions that will change nothing. ] I know you were close. I'm sorry.

[ That's all he wants to say. He does not know Wanda well enough to offer more, but he understands what it means to lose a part of your family. And he has not forgotten their brief time in her memories long ago—that she had a brother once. He supposes for him, Nero had quickly fallen into that role. It was easy to look at him and see so much of Lambert within. ]

ciri; jaskier — night of june 15.

[gynvael]

[ They seldom dine together; between Jaskier's performances, Ciri's frequent contracts, and Geralt's equal tendency to vanish into the desert for work, their home is a revolving door. Tonight, however, they're at the same table for once. There's bread (too much fucking bread), pasta (same), and a thick shank of venison he's roasted seeing as the only thing Geralt knows how to do for a meal is roast and stew.

It's quiet. No storms. The evening temperatures are cool. Most of the meal has been picked clean. He contemplates a warm bath before he retires to bed. He is expecting (hoping) for another thoroughly needed night of nothing eventful.

Then Istredd's tidy script finds him.

Geralt disappears abruptly. He does not return until the next hour, and it's clear something has transpired. Has it even been a month since the last horseshit they confronted?

He sighs, folding his arms across his chest. ] I spoke to Yen.

[cointosser]

[It is not, exactly, a special occasion, but it sort of feels like one -- to Jaskier, at least -- who has a penchant for taking things sentimentally when they needn't be. But it's a quiet appreciation of what is simple, and what is familiar: the three of them with time together to eat, his (overwhelming) homemade pasta and bread (even with a special spread of roasted garlics and butter), with grated cheese and juicy venison with a raspberry sauce on the side.

It was perfect.

And then Geralt stands, and leaves, right as Jaskier is pouring them all another glass of ale.] Geralt?

[He looks after him, then to Ciri. What, did he hear Roach pass a particularly difficult shit? But though he sits back down and continues eating with a shrug, Geralt doesn't return until they've finished eating, and Geralt's returned home to a perfect view of Jaskier glowering at him from their lounging sofa.

It was a horse's ass related problem, but not about Roach, it seems.]

Absolutely not, Geralt. Not tonight. Supper? Supper was perfect. Perfect. Everything! Down to the last, minute details. Do you understand how long this took? Down to the little crispy edges on the ravioli and the way I slightly browned the butter? Not burned! Browned! And you're going to come back and let Yennefer ruin my night? Absolutely not. Another argument? A torn nail? Has Istredd called her ugly? I hope Istredd called her ugly, she deserves a bit of a humbling.

[Clearly he wants details even though he doesn't want details. Ugh. He can still taste the parmesan on his tongue... his palate doesn't deserve this.]

[wiedzminka]

[ It's nice. Breaking bread together (Jaskier made plenty sure of that), enjoying a quiet dinner where they don't broach any serious topics and stay far away from the subject of Jaskier's erratic moods. At the very least, those moods have provided them with a ridiculous amount of (also ridiculously good) food. They all deal with it in their own ways; it could be worse than ending up with too much pasta.

When Geralt gets up suddenly, Ciri's gaze follows him with raised eyebrows. The sound of the basement door opening and closing. An inescapable surge of inspiration related to his decoctions, perhaps? She shrugs, throws around some joking theories with Jaskier.

Eventually, she tires of waiting and breaks into the fruit tart without him. His loss.

Ciri's setting up to practice her lute with Jaskier, mostly to distract him (again), this time from his brewing temper tantrum at Geralt. Whatever he's gone off to do without a word, Ciri knows he won't grace them with an explanation until he's good and ready, even if they went downstairs to break down the door.

When he does reappear, Ciri immediately zeroes in on the hard set of his expression. An hour ago, he'd looked about as ready to doze off as Geralt ever does. Dammit.

She sits up straight, setting the instrument aside. Lets Jaskier get it all out of his system, only watching Geralt's face. ]

Something's happened.