[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + the Queen, Yennefer, Various
When: After Nov. 12
Where: Castle Thorne, Nott, Cadens
What: Geralt goes on an Adventure and has a great time
Warnings: Blood, violence, trauma



(( placing starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

THORNE: the queen + yennefer | kylo | mal | jolene
NOTT: julie | nadine | lloyd
CADENS: jaskier + sam | sam | ciri | jaskier

Comments

kylo.

[gynvael]

If he wakes up some time later, he can't even begin to guess how long he was out. Couple hours? More? Does it matter? Likely not. Long enough for some blood to have dried; not so long that he's stopped bleeding from other places. His chest feels hollow, as though he's been scooped out piece by piece, his throat raw.

Doubtful, that he's down here because they're done with him; if they were, he'd be dead. Which is not the most pleasant thought, but he prefers living, even if doing so currently feels like complete shit, so he'll take it. Easier, to focus on the physical pain than. The rest. He isn't thinking about it. He is not. It helps nothing. His head is ready to split as it is.

(Fuck. Fuck.)

He does not bother testing the strength of the shackles. He's been here before. At least this time, he's got the place to himself. Roomy. How fucking delightful.

Instead, he drags himself upright and immediately regrets it. His stomach lurches, the ground spins. He tips against the foot of one of the beds. His eyes fall shut. There's a sharpness to his breathing that suggests he's still awake, if not exactly aware, and a jumble inside his mind—splintered, clouded, soaked red, as though it's been turned inside out. Maybe it has. Maybe all of him has.

[photophobic]

It's a risk, coming down here— though a calculated one. With his fingers curled tight around the medallion Yennefer had pressed into his palm, Kylo descends into the dungeon to seek out the cause of her concern: Geralt, previously a runaway from Thorne's dungeons, apparently captured and imprisoned again despite Jolene and the Duchess of Hayle's ongoing machinations.

The dungeons are an unpleasant experience, for Kylo. Here, the dampening spell cuts him off from extrasensory abilities he's relied on his entire life. He feels blinded. Amputated from the Force. There's a pained quality to his gait as he works his way through the cells, looking with nothing more than his eyes for evidence that Geralt is, in fact, here.

And there he is.

"Geralt," Kylo murmurs. He looks the sorry figure of the Witcher over thoughtfully, looming as a tall black shadow on the other side of the iron bars. "I hadn't expected to meet you in person so soon."

[gynvael]

For the most part, he's ignored footsteps coming near. He'd rather not deal with the guards; in return, he suspects they'd rather not deal with him, either. It's only that these footsteps sound more purposeful. When he hears his name, he cracks one eye open. No one down here has referred to him by name. And though he cannot scent anything, he does recognize that voice.

Not so much the. Form. Is—? Geralt is certain he and Kylo were roughly the same height last they spoke, so this seems. A development. Is he seeing things? Is he just that fucked in the head right now? He peers up at Kylo, considers for a long moment, and decides he's too tired to ask questions. (Good to know the man doesn't smoulder outside of the Horizon.)

He pushes off the bedframe gingerly, fingers slippery with blood. There's some wariness in his gaze, but most of it is curious more than anything.

"I'd have sent a letter," Geralt replies, his voice rougher than even usual, "but the trip was unplanned."

mal.

[gynvael]

[ Last time he was down here, it was...busy. He's been stuck in a cell before and with the constant drifting in and out of the guests upstairs, it'd been unusual to say the least. This feels closer to what he expects: where he's generally ignored and in the rare case he isn't, Geralt is the one doing the ignoring. Other than Kylo, he's absolutely no inclination to speak to anyone. His head still pulses, his back is on fire, and his blood is staining the stone floors.

Then he catches sight of a familiar silhouette. A familiar face, at the far end of the corridor.

What—?

Is he seeing things? No. He's certain he's not. He chances it, assuming the guards will be reluctant to fuck with him in front of one of their special summoned, and raps on the bars once with one iron shackle. The clang echoes up towards the stairs. ]

Hey. Mal. [ That is him, is it not? Geralt squints up. He's trying not to move too much, because moving is. Unpleasant. For once, though, his mind is off what's been happening to him. That is undoubtedly Mal. More than that, it is not Mal on the verge of death or in some dire straits which is what he'd expected when he'd spent the past three damn weeks looking for him.

Not that Geralt explains any of the above. What he offers Mal instead is a very succinct, ] The fuck?

julie.

[gynvael]

[ One might think it makes it easier that this is not the first time he's had to drag himself through the mountains without an ounce of gear on him. It doesn't. It'd been shit the first time he'd done it and it's shit now. The only blessing is that, unlike the desert of Cadens, the forests that wind through Thorne's mountains are familiar: thick, green, towering. The winter frost is beginning to harden the earth and crystallize the leaves, but has yet to make it near-impossible to forage.

He manages.

He manages until the low rooftops of the city ahead breaks through the tree line and then suddenly the concept of mounting his horse one last time feels not unlike scaling the highest northern peak. His head is about to split in two; the sinking sun is too bright against the horizon. There's a long minute where he stares at the dark bay gelding as though the animal might deign to give him some encouragement. He gets a snort and then the horse looks away, unbothered.

He sighs. Right. "Thanks."

In the end, he walks. Collapsing from the ground is safer than tumbling off the back of a horse. Adding a fracture to his long list of problems seems a poor decision.

The sky has dimmed when he steps into the city. He can smell the salt-tinged sea in the air, the people. Only one or two heads turn towards him; the rest pay him little mind. Geralt takes advantage by stumbling towards the edge of the market square and leaning his weight against a wall. The muddy ground is tempting, but he suspects if he lets himself sit, he isn't getting back up.

He needs a place. For the night. Maybe something to better bind his wounds with. He can only think of one person in Nott. For a moment, he hesitates. Last thing he wants is to entangle someone else in this fucking mess. But he knows when he's at his limits and he already reached it some time ago.

His focus is haphazard; the message that shimmers into Julie's view is half-scrawled, without its typical precision. The signature is incomplete, like he's made an effort to keep it from appearing and didn't quite succeed. But it's unmistakably his writing. ]

Where are you?

[princessvegas]

[ Technically, Julie is working, but the cold and the dark have slowed business to nothing but the barest trickle of patrons, all of them regulars and already several tankards in. She's washing dishes when the suds suddenly align, begin forming letters. It's off-putting enough for her to snatch her hands out of the water, drying them on her apron as they finish assembling. His name looks like she's already dragged her hand through the bubbles, but she hasn't, and it stays that way.

She immediately begins wondering how fast she can get the drunks either on the street or upstairs in bed. Probably pretty fast. She's already untying her apron when she responds. ]

Tavern. I can be there in fifteen minutes, though.

[ Julie does not wait for a reply before she's out at the bar, prodding the two men sitting there away. She takes a bowl from someone mid-bite. ] Hey, chug it if you're gonna drink it. Closin' up now.

[gynvael]

[ Part of him isn't expecting to hear back, not right away—they're not letters where they wait to be delivered; they just drift in and out, and he's already thinking of where the hell else he can go if she doesn't answer. He's aware Nott is, supposedly, out of Thorne's reach, but he isn't exactly subtle how he is, and his fleeing a second time from Thorne when they'd specifically come for him seems far more tenuous than being one of two dozen prisoners who simply walked through a few portals.

He shifts further into the shadows when a passing woman with a basket of bread passes by and gives him a look.

Then Julie's cursive loops through the mossy stone. He should. Explain. He knows, when she says fifteen minutes, she's thinking of the Horizon. Explaining feels like an extraordinarily monumental task at the moment, so all she gets is: ]

Not there. In Nott. What tavern? Where is it?

[ If she tells him it's on the other side of the fucking city, he may as well just lay down here for the night. ]

the queen; nov. 13-ish

[gynvael]

[ That Geralt even lets Jaskier and Ciri both know where he'll be is a testament to how much this world has left him ill at ease. Usually he leaves without a word: weeks, months. He isn't planning on months this time. A week or two. He could use the coin, he wants to get away from the city, and a nest of oversized birds no one will miss is as simple as it gets.

And so naturally, it is anything but.

Maybe he's slipping, maybe he's just too damn tired these days and will not admit it when he should. It doesn't matter, in truth, because it amounts to the same: that he doesn't see it coming. Whether they were following him weeks ago or always knew where he was, he hasn't got a clue. All he knows is out of nowhere, magic thrums. There's a pressure in the air that leaves him dizzy. What blood he spills is not enough, and not more than what they draw from him. It isn't until he hears the crackle of a portal that a chill sweeps through his veins.

Oh, fuck.

His knees hit the marble floors; somewhere in the scuffle, familiar shackles have been wrapped around his wrists. But his attention is not on that. It's on the room. He's not been here, in particular, but he recognizes it immediately for what it is. Suddenly, he'd much rather be dumped into another cell for no reason. Because there is absolutely nothing good to come of being dragged in front of the crown from halfway across the fucking continent. ]

[abraxasnpcs]

[Once more the Throne Room is nearly empty. Queen Ellya Galdwin sits upon her throne, the king nowhere in sight. The only guards in attendance are the queen's personal guards. Grigory the mage stands on the steps of the raised dais on which the thrones rest.

There is no polite and pleasant smile on the queen's face today. Her expression is a severe mask, her body held at attention. Even her clothing has a certain severity to it, a high necked gown of darkest blue embroidered with silver arcane symbols and hair pulled back tightly in an intricate knot. She looks upon the prisoner brought before her with hard eyes.]

Is all prepared, Grigory? Are we ready for our other guest?

[abraxasnpcs]

[ Ever at his Queen's side, Grigory's hand stay lowered after the spell as he silently stares at the returned prisoner before them. He does not have his Queen's poker face, brows knit as he scans Geralt's condition. Yet as soon as she addresses him his expression smooths over as if on command, turning towards Queen Ellya and offering a bow of his head. ]

Yes, Your Majesty.

[ All it takes is a nod to the guards standing at attention by the door. They exchange a glance with one another and pull the heavy doors open. ]

nadine.

[gynvael]

[ Whether Julie leaves before he passes out or after, he doesn't know. Doesn't recall. He manages what might count as rest for the night. For what that's worth. And while normally he rises with the sun, here it's the sun which rises him—by beaming straight into his eye through a crack in the curtains. He wakes with bricks on his chest and a violent flame under his leg.

Ugh. Fuck.

A flash is tension runs through him, before he remembers where the hell he is. He sits up gingerly. Logically, he's aware the rest did him some good. His head is a little clearer and he's not on the verge of collapse. But it doesn't feel like it's done much when he's certain the rest of him has still been trampled by what must be a war horse.

He's staring at the floor and the doorway, deciding if he should even entertain the thought of leaving the bed. Geralt is stubborn, but he's also nursed too many injuries to not have a firm grasp on exactly what he can and cannot do. The door is a fool's errand, so he settles for examining the bandages. Only when he hears footsteps approaching does he look up.

They aren't as acquainted as he is with Julie, but she's familiar and he relaxes. Part of him remains uneasy having disrupted the home of several people, not out of a sense of politeness but solely because that's three (four?) people he's now...relying on. He rarely lets himself rely on one.

Still, she's not an unwelcome sight. ] Nadine.

[nadine_he_loves]

Nurse Nadine this morning.

[She holds the tray in her hands higher. It's covered in little bottles of herbs and liquids, a mortar and pestle, bandages, and other medicinal looking odds and ends. She hated to wake him, but he's already up so that takes care of that. There's a thick gray apron of sorts on over her white shift and blue kirtle.

God, he doesn't look good.]

Julie told me you weren't exactly doing so great. But lucky for you, I've been learning healing and herbalism.

[Due to the last time someone had come stumbling into the inn in the night, needing care. This is starting to become a regular occurrence. This time, though, she has a lot more questions. How is he here? Why? What the hell had happened?]

[gynvael]

[ In truth, he was not expecting her to appear with supplies. A knit marks his brows, one that could almost be mistaken for wariness but is simply—a vague sense of bafflement. Julie's already wrapped him up and that's a hell of a lot more than he'd been looking for when he came to her for help. He'd only thought of a place for the night, where he could pass out in relative safety and not in the middle of the town square. ]

I've been better. [ He watches her approach. Has Julie filled her in? He only half-recalls what he told Julie last night. Not much, he thinks. Enough, though. ] You're prepared.

[ Just an observation. Not everyone has a tray as filled as hers. The herbs smell powerful, but not unpleasant. He recognizes most of them; he's scrounged in the woods for similar when he was crawling through, in his own rough attempts to soothe his wounds so he could keep going. Other than that and a couple of cauterized gashes too deep to leave bleeding freely, none of it's been taken care of until he stepped through those doors.

At least he's hard to kill. ]

lloyd.

[gynvael]

[ By the time he limps his way back to the bed, he looks vaguely more alive. The blood and dirt's been washed out of his hair and his eyes are more alert. He's here until Julie can find him that mage—a day or two—and as much as he wants to return (needs to), it helps knowing Ciri and Jaskier are aware he's. Safe.

As much as he can be.

The mead that Julie brought him absolutely comes back with him into the bedroom. The jug, not the tankard. He's stopped bothering with a mug some time ago.

Whether it's that evening or some time during the morning the day after that Lloyd makes his presence known, he'll find Geralt in bed. There's probably a plate of food in his lap, or he's adjusting a bandage—but he's doing his job and not moving more than he should. Shades of Nenneke are in Nadine; he'd rather not get that look for tearing something she'd only just fixed up.

Besides, he can't afford to not be healing. He's already pushed it, riding here with most of his injuries unattended. ]

arrives late with sbux

[jealousbitch]

[ While Lloyd had initially kicked up a fuss about being kicked out of his own room and having to share with Nadine until further notice, he's had time to simmer down since then. He hadn't been around when Julie and Nadine had brought Geralt in, but he did hear that he'd looked like shit warmed over. Those two are probably getting pretty damn good at handling emergency situations, between this guy and Susan. Thank fuck they are, because Lloyd gets squeamish around a lot of blood.

Watching your boss eat a man will do that to a person.

He announces his presence with a gentle knock before pushing open the door and sticking his head in. Pleased that Geralt is conscious, he slides the rest of the way in and closes the door. He's really only there to check in on the guy and to grab a spare shirt so he can go about his business keeping the money coming. ]

Well, you look better than I heard, at least? Still look like you were hit by a bus. How're ya feeling?

jolene.

[gynvael]

[ Kylo's little visit did its job to tell Geralt that something is in motion. Beyond that, he hasn't a fucking clue of what or, more importantly, when. When is significant because he doubts the Queen stuck him down here without reason. Either they believe he still knows something worthwhile or they think he means enough to Yennefer to be leverage. The latter would be concerning, but frankly, all of this is. Less than ideal.

He sends exactly one message to Jaskier, and nothing else. He isn't even sure if it reaches from down here, but he decides it's worth trying considering none of them had been barred from the Horizon last time.

After that, all he can do is wait. He's ridden out worse in cold locked rooms before. Too much caution seems foolish given the situation; there's no point in watching his back now, so he ends up sleeping where he can. None of it is restful, but sleep is sleep. He doesn't bother struggling to climb on and off the bed. Not worth it. He pulls the blankets off and makes his bed on the ground instead, where he's used to sleeping most the time, anyway.

It's how he's likely to be found if anyone comes by: on the floor, asleep, or making some attempt at it—though not so deep in it that more audible footsteps won't make him crack open an eye. ]

[abraxasnpcs]

[ Luckily, Kylo's visit actually did quite a bit more than inform Geralt. Once there was confirmation that he was actually being held in the dungeon, Kylo made Jolene aware of what was being done under her very nose. And though Jolene is very busy and very tired, she is also now very angry, and it's obvious from the way she storms down the stairs and into the dungeon.

She is also one of the only people in the castle for whom the magic dampening wards don't apply.

It is not quiet, when she arrives. She is furious and makes it clear in the brief moment before her bright yellow magic zips through the air and sends both dungeon guards to the ground with twin thuds. They won't remember much of anything about this when they wake up, at least not based on how hard their heads hit the ground. She walks past cells with a quick step, until she finds the only one that's occupied, where she stops. Despite the harshness of everything else, her voice is unnervingly even when she speaks. ]

Hello, Geralt. Please stand back.

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ The abrupt shift in the air is what strikes him first. The winter chill, giving away to warmth spilling over him, dry, with the lightest wind blowing. He squints, disoriented, but he gathers his bearings, does not trip onto his face. Where the fuck is—?

Shit.

He exhales. Of course. He should've known. The sorceress had warned him she could only transport him outside the border. He'd just been hoping she'd meant something marginally closer than this. In retrospect, that he's even near the Free Cities is a miracle. Could've dropped him into the sea, the Singularity's crater, the damn Feywilds. His vision cuts through the darkness under the moonlight. Mountains to the north—no bodies of water in sight. How far out is he? A few days? A week? Longer? Maps only tell him so much. He's never walked this path before, doesn't even know what lies between here and Cadens other than piles of dry grass. Dusty ground.

Possibly a nest of some basilisks looking to feast. Fitting end, wouldn't it?

Geralt digs through the bag Nadine had sent him off with, searching for one of her small glass vials. He pops the cork. They aren't as potent as his elixirs, but they do the job. There's a time for caution, for making sure he doesn't reopen any of his wounds, and now is not it. He only needs to not feel it, to dull the pain enough to stay on his feet and keep moving. If he needs to be fixed again afterwards, so be it. As long as he's breathing, he can be fixed.

He walks. He's not concerned, at least, about the direction. He's placed the mountains, the stars he's learned to read on this sphere. Whether or not he can actually make it to the city, though—no point in letting uncertainties worm inside. He will get there, or he will not. Until he collapses, all he can do is walk, so that's what he does. Somewhere along the way, his sutures tear. He feels it, the blood trickling down his back, his side. He thinks he sees the rising hills nearer, finds tracks from a passing wagon in the sand. He's close. He's also fucking tired. Exhaustion sinks into his bones, leaves him dizzy, his knees a breeze away from buckling. Two days recuperating in Nott has made him steadier when he's upright, but it isn't near the recovery he'd have needed to trek across a stretch of land. And he's bleeding again, which is. Helpful. Incredibly helpful.

It's here he makes his decision, one he's been avoiding, unsure of how much he's being watched from places unseen. From inside his own head. (He knows they aren't in there anymore, and yet. What do any of them know about these convenient magical messages?) But he thinks of Ciri finding his corpse in the desert, this near to the city walls, and he knows he can't do that to her.

The words Jaskier will see are roughly written, to the point, and devoid of the pressing desperation he has swallowed down for the past two weeks. ]

Past the gates.

Do not bring her.

[cointosser]

[When the message comes, Jaskier doesn't yell. Doesn't scream. Gods know he wants to. That this is real. That the trust he put into Julie and Nadine's hand -- the trust Ciri and he both gave them -- was justified. It was safe. His heart leaps into his throat as the words spill across the journal in his lap, his eyes catching a sharp pull.

It's Geralt.

But... do not bring her?

He closes the journal, placing his quill back in its well, gathering his lute up and placing it back in its case. After days upon days, weeks, even, of having not seen his friend, with no knowledge of what the fuck has happened to him... it is only with Julie's reassurances of Geralt's survival has he found it in him to touch his instrument again. The piles of baked loaves downstairs are the true testament to what he's been spending his time doing. The loaves and the flowering bushes in Cadens's cemetery. It was fortuitous he'd decided on sprucing up Alucard's living space before this fiasco, because the one certain thing he'd needed to survive was a project.

Jaskier, at first so sure this reunion would be an easy one, is now left unsure. Why wouldn't he bring Ciri? She wants to see him. And if Jaskier even tells her he's here, there's nothing he can do to stop her.]

I'm coming. Hold on, Geralt. [The words are simple, to the point, so nothing he's thinking can show in them. He shoves the new half-written song into his bag and gives his housemates a goodbye -- a trip to the market for a new quill, as his has broken. Nothing expensive, nor extensive.

And then he's running. Towards the stable, towards Roach. Saddle and tack on, a few berries for inspiration, and then the bard has mounted her (a rare state, honestly, but he's not going to fucking waste a horse when she's already there.)

Roach's hooves don't move fast enough for him, but it's not like he can tear ass through Cadens without catching even more attention. She snaps her head as he turns her towards the gate, flanks warming. The rhythm of something is wrong falls into the sound of her canter.] Come on, Roach! He'll want to see you more than me, I expect.

[His voice isn't as steady as it should be. Nothing is wrong versus something is very wrong. Once outside the gates, he whips her into a full gallop, or as fast as she can make it on the sand.

But there's no one out here. He expected to see the familiar hulk of his Witcher just past the gates. Where the fuck...?]

Where are you? How far? Blast it, Geralt, I thought you were right outside Cadens! If you don't answer me, I swear to Melitele herself, I'm going to rip your balls off. With my teeth.

sam.

[gynvael]

[ Waking brings him to consciousness with a startled jerk. The taste of blood is in his mouth, a ghost of it. His entire back feels like it's on fire, which has been par for the course for the past two weeks. He ignores it, peers instead through the candlelit room, fire in the hearth, and finds Sam seated nearby.

Oh. Right.

Fuck. He's woken up in so many different places lately—the dungeons, the woods, Julie's tavern, the desert—at this point, it's hard to remember where the hell he's supposed to be. But he's home. In a sense. As close to home as he's got in this forsaken sphere. He can try to heal up at last. Get back on his feet. Put this behind him. (If only it were that easy.)

His gaze lingers on Sam for a second. Last time they parted, it'd been—he isn't upset with Sam. Or angry. It's nothing like that. If he let everyone who looked at him as though...if he let each instance bother him, he'd never move on. In the end, it's a simple case of not wanting to be around someone who clearly sees him in a certain light. That's all. It's not as though they'd been friends for any significant amount of time.

Regardless, he appreciates Sam for helping put him back together all things aside. He can get out of the man's way tomorrow or so. Repay him for fucking up his couch and pillows. (It's empty here. Geralt prefers it like that, but he knows Sam had several housed here once and it's not hard to notice how they've vanished one by one.

Speaking of. He doesn't bring it up yet. Sam's got plenty on his mind.) ]

Hey.

[falcony]

[ between geralt and jaskier's return back to cadens and the subsequent rush fixing, of sewing, of blood and keeping geralt awake and then making sure he actually slept, and then jaskier, after, who had tried very hard to simply collapse on the floor and stay there, sam was actually quite okay with a couple of hours of silence. compared to how the silence had haunted him for the last week or so, this was different. this was easier. this was...god. this was traumatic and awful and yet sam couldn't bring himself to hate it. he needed to do something about how much it helped just having bodies around, but even he couldn't ignore the relief he felt just knowing geralt was back in the city. was (somewhat) whole. was as cleaned up as they could manage and was healing and was breathing, where he was fully collapsed into the cushions of sam's couch.

( he was going to need to get a new couch, he realized. the blood was never coming out of that. and he wasn't exactly sure how he felt about having a piece of furniture with so much of geralt's blood embedded into it. )

it was only a few hours, maybe four at most, before he noticed geralt's startling consciousness. sam had been in the kitchen, washing away whatever other cloth and things he might need for more bandages later, but had moved to the chair not soon before. had needed a moment to sit, to think about it all, to consider - like he had been over the last couple of hours - what this all meant. because the last time they'd seen each other, sam hadn't even been able to look geralt in the eye. hadn't been able to get the visions of those mangled bodies out of his mind. and now?

now, as weird as it sounded, sam had been watching geralt simply breathe. had been so worried that he would simply stop, would simply die right there on his couch. it had startled sam just as much when geralt suddenly woke, his eyes going a little wide, and then the relief flooding through him again when he watched geralt get his bearings, find his place in the space. this room.

( how many times would they be right here? right in front of this fire? on this couch? )

geralt turns to him, his gold eyes lingering on sam's, and sam holds it. holds it with intent, with purpose, despite the guilt that curls around his throat. ]

Hey. [ sam answers, sitting up a bit where he'd started to fall back into his own chair. there is a tension in the air that sam is fully aware is only there because of him, which is why he takes a breath. forces some kind of ease into the space. ] Stupid question but - how do you feel?

ciri.

[gynvael]

[ There's nothing he hates more than having to mend and mend again wounds that keep opening, tearing, twisting. If he needs to be stitched and bandaged one more time, he'll pitch himself off the roof. It's for that reason that Geralt does not argue about keeping off his feet; he knows better than anyone what he needs to heal properly and he isn't interested in doing anything to slow the process down. Now that he finally can rest. He hopes. That's the idea.

He's got a bowl on a tray next to him, half a piece of bread broken up beside it. Ciri has yet to poke her head in since he's woken and he knows she will soon. Knows he owes her an explanation. Several of them. Which he does want to give her. It's just...complicated, where Yennefer is involved. And it's hard to avoid speaking of Yennfer's involvement without lying. He doesn't want to lie to Ciri. That's the last thing he wants to do; Ciri has trusted him this far. He's no intention of shattering that. But how does he explain without making Ciri feel even worse about being what she can't help? How does he say we were protecting you without invoking the guilt Ciri carries inside her, the frustrated anger she often bears over the entire situation?

Perhaps he's worrying over nothing. Perhaps Ciri already knows, already put it together long before he reappeared in Cadens. The girl is hardly oblivious. Still. It isn't a conversation he wants to have, even if they need to have it.

He also doesn't want Ciri to think he's avoiding her. So when he sees her—either passing by or about to step into the room—he leans forward to catch her attention. ] Ciri.

[wiedzminka]

[ It had been night already when Jaskier sent her that message. He's alive. At Sam's. Jaskier had left hours ago. The liar.

But Ciri couldn't find it in her to be angry. She made her way to Sam's place as soon as she could, though by then it was even later, and Geralt was already asleep (passed out, more like) sprawled on Sam's newly bloody couch. Bandaged up to hell and looking completely worn down even in his unconscious state, but breathing. Safe. He was so lost in exhaustion and recovery, he didn't even stir when she came near. Nor when she reached out and smoothed a cool palm over his forehead, rubbed away a bit of blood from his temple with the backs of her fingers. For a minute, Ciri had watched him, the tension of the worry and stress of the past couple of weeks easing by degrees, washing away under the wave of relief.

After that, there was nothing to do but wait. Not wanting to sleep in Alina's bed, Ciri had told Sam they should keep it open to move Geralt to and decided, with difficulty, to return to the apartment and get some rest. Rinwell deserved an explanation too. And she'll be needed tomorrow.

Ciri returns to Sam's shortly after she wakes up, not so early in the morning that nobody there would be awake. Though she hopes Geralt will. It is with this hope that she gently opens the door to the room, glad to see he's made it to a proper bed at least. Ciri cracks it open as quietly as she can, just in case, but the caution turns out to be unnecessary; Geralt's voice comes through, gruff and quiet and wonderful. When he leans forward, she can catch a glimpse of white hair and a golden eye. She feels her face struggle through several expressions, landing on a smile that hurts her throat with the urge to cry. ]

Geralt!

[ Pushing the door open too hard, Ciri crosses the room in a blink, plants a knee on the edge of the bed to lean over far enough to reach, and throws her arms around Geralt's neck. Gently. Mostly. ]

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ Sam's place is quiet, compared to when he was last here. He's not asked much about Alina, but it's easy to gather what happened—especially knowing where Mal's got to. He tries not to concern himself with it. Not his business, nothing they can do about a decision Alina made of her own accord, and he's got more than enough on his mind, besides. It weighs on Sam, he knows, more than anyone else.

Geralt ends up moving to one of the beds, once he can get to his feet. Snatches another couple hours sleep before he wakes again. For awhile, he sits there. Listens to the heartbeats he can hear. The urge to walk away, to put distance between himself and everyone else lingers. He swallows it down, makes his way into the next room instead. Jaskier snores on the bed, sprawled under the blankets. It'd be easier to believe neither Jaskier nor Ciri have spent the past days, weeks, searching frantically for him, waiting for news, but that's not true. He knows he was...missed. (Knows this is not the first time Jaskier has worried over him. It's only that this feels different. More. It's been a long time since he's let himself be...)

He's silent, careful not to wake his friend. Tries to think where he'll start first, when Jaskier eventually stirs. When Jaskier will inevitably have questions, and tell him off for leaving him in the dark—for explaining fuck all, for not asking Jaskier to come ride for him sooner. Geralt has his reasons, for doing what he did. Still. He can't blame Jaskier for his ire. ]

[cointosser]

[It is with an absolute exhaustion, and Sam's insistence, that Jaskier made it to a bed at all. He only barely manages to send Ciri a Geralt's at Sam's. He's alive. Goodnight. It's not so much a slipping into sleep as stepping straight off a cliff to dive into it. Every part of him is sore, but it's... in a way, perhaps a good sore.

He doesn't feel so charitable about it when he wakes some hours and hours later, with a groan. His whole arm is a big lump of scar and ache, and as he turns over to rub it, his knee kicks into. Something.

He opens his eyes to a sorry sight.]

Ugh. I hope this isn't some new habit of yours, watching me sleep. [He sits up with a wince, his voice quite rough in comparison to its usual melody.] Though I'm sure you ached terribly to see this face of mine, all these days past.