abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

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[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

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

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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.

Edited 2021-11-28 15:35 (UTC)

[ 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?

Edited 2021-12-07 19:19 (UTC)

[ 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?

Edited 2021-11-18 02:50 (UTC)

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ On the other hand, she becomes concerned when she doesn't hear back quickly -- she has come to think of it as the exact equivalent of texting, and everyone knows that the list of good reasons to not answer promptly is short. Sleep, work, emergency, mind games. End of list. So she's not surprised when a response begins to curl across the glass of the window while she collects various dishes that people may or may not actually be done with.

It's only once she reads it that she stops, stands in place and whispers to herself, what the fuck. The writing fades and her brow knits, her reflection staring back at her in the glass.

After that beat, she moves quickly. Grabbing a broom, she starts literally shooing the stranglers upstairs to their rooms, blows out lanterns. ] Go the hell to bed, you're drunk anyway. Do not -- ugh, there you go.

[ She grabs her coat from the stand in the corner, snuffs out the last flame besides the smoldering fireplace. ]

The Hare & Harrow, east side of town. Where are you? I can come get you.

[ He squints at the sun nearly disappearing, reorienting himself. East. He can't see the tavern she speaks of from here, but he is not, at least, all the way on the other end of it.

A few seconds pass before he answers. It's a decision between whether or not he can make it there on his own or if he wants to risk Julie coming here to retrieve him. In the end, he decides Julie coming to find him, at this point, will draw less attention than him stumbling and bleeding his way to the tavern. His head feels like crushed glass. He can't even say what's keeping him upright, except that it's just what he does. But the ground looks more and more appealing.

How long will Thorne care to look for him, if they do at all? (How long before they look to Yennefer for answers?) ]

Southeast. By the square.

[ Is there more than one square? Doesn't matter. She knows this city better than he does; that'll have to be good enough. ]

Edited 2021-11-18 04:49 (UTC)

[ The pause before he answers feels like it takes an hour. Something is wrong, something very drastic has happened, because he should be a million miles away in Cadens, but he's here and how??

She's standing outside the door, still, her hood covering her hair and a spare cloak in her other hand. Cadens is in the desert. He wouldn't have needed one out there. Words appear and fade across a puddle that she immediately splashes through, paying no attention to the hem of her skirt getting damp.

It doesn't take her long to reach him, though she is in danger of passing by him in the alley. She knows better than to look like she's looking for something or someone, but god is it hard to restrain.

Things have been so shady lately, all across Abraxas. The tension, the new people, the ghosts. Even she can feel it. And now this. It has to mean something, right? The last time she lived through this many "coincidences", everyone else didn't.

There's movement in her peripheral vision, and she turns toward it. ]

Geralt?

[ Part of him already regrets agreeing to let her find him. Impatience is not a trait he normally bears, but right now, he hates needing to wait. He'd rather be moving. He exhales and watches the streets and blinks away the increasingly dark spots in his vision.

As hard as he's attempting to lurk unnoticed, it's near impossible for him. Even in the dimming light, the torches on the streets reflect the shine of his eyes. With her hooded cloak and long skirt, he'd never have recognized Julie on sight alone. Her scent, though—that's not changed. Just overlaid with the smell of ale and soap. The moment he catches it in the air, he steps further out. His fingers wrap tightly around a wood pillar. Blood stains ragged, torn nails; more of it is dried and sticky in his hair.

The sound of his name makes him turn. He releases a breath he'd not realized he was holding. There. She's here. Except, underneath the relief, is the understanding he still needs to stay on his feet to make it back with her, however far that may be. Because there's absolutely no way Julie can carry him anywhere. Which. Fuck. All right.

A beat passes. It takes a second for him to form some sort of coherent reply. ] Could use a hand.

[ Julie might be too small to actually carry him -- and in fairness to her, he's a very large man -- but she is not weak or helpless, and she is not worried about her ability to get him back home with her. He is so unsteady, and her invisible hand braces his arm while she's still twenty feet away, taking brisk steps toward him and shaking out the cloak she brought him. When she reaches him, she gently wraps it around him, covers his hair with the hood like she does her own. She knows what it's like to be identifiable.

Once that's done, her physical hands both steady him at the elbows. She looks up at his face, taking him in, already making mental notes of what she has to do as soon as she can get him inside and at least away from the danger of collapse. Her voice is soft. ]

Christ, you're a mess. C'mon, we're not far. You just gotta keep it together a couple of blocks.

[ Glancing behind him, she takes the reins of the horse with her third hand, bears as much of his weight as she can when she takes the first steps back down the street. She's stronger than she looks, and it's not the first time in recent memory that she's taken on an injured person's load.

She's quiet getting them back, focusing on not letting him fall. ]

[ Somehow, it's only now that it strikes him the magic she'd used in the Horizon, with her hands, is one she also carries outside of it. The realization flickers in and then out; most of his attention goes into placing his feet where they won't send him flat on his fucking face. The cold doesn't bother him—if anything, it's the only thing that's let him go for this long; he'd have never made it this far through the dry heat of a desert—but the cloak keeps him from feeling so exposed, and he tugs it around himself.

He leans more of his weight on her than he means to, probably stumbles at some point, but she keeps him from hitting the ground and that's all that matters. If he's got any thoughts on what the hell happened—he doesn't. He hasn't had the chance to process it, or maybe he doesn't want to have that chance. Maybe it's for the best his focus has, for the past week, narrowed down to not. Dying. An important task.

The trek to the tavern takes both too damn long and no time at all. He's not counting the minutes or looking ahead, just walking, until she eventually stops and he catches on that they're here. He braces a hand against the doorframe. Some part of him is just waiting for permission to let himself drop, whether that's Julie shutting the door behind them or reaching a chair or perhaps a nice bit of floor where no one will trip over his body for the next few hours. ]

[ Honestly, she hardly thinks about how heavy he is, and he is heavy, because she's got so running through her mind. She has to get him in a bed and clean him up some. Make sure there's nothing actively dangerous that she can spot. See if she can get any information out of him before he passes out entirely, though that's really the least of her worries. If it has to wait until he wakes up, then so be it. But it would be nice to know that he's not severely concussed.

She pushes the door open with her hip, forces him to walk to the table nearest the stairs before she lets him sit. They're going to have to go upstairs, because she can't leave him downstairs to be found, but she needs to move the horse from the entrance and lock the door. She wobbles very slightly as she deposits him in a chair. ]

You rest for a minute while I put your horse in the stable. I will be right back, Geralt. Don't pass out. You can pass out the second I get you in bed, I swear, but not before.

[ Her voice is low but firm, and she makes him look her in the eye before she goes back outside. She's moving too fast, startles Baron in his stable, doesn't take the tack off of Geralt's horse. She's got to talk to people -- Lloyd and Nadine, Jaskier and Ciri, maybe Sam. This feels far worse, more ominous, than it felt when she accidentally discovered new Summoned at the same time she apparently spontaneously distributed a new magical ability. It's so specific, this must mean something.

When she comes back inside, she latches the door closed behind herself, walks over toward him and puts her hands on his shoulders. She feels fucking terrible for making him move, but he has to. At least she can try to enlist the others to carry him, if she needs to. ]

We have to go upstairs, honey. I'm so sorry, but you can sleep as long as you want once we're there.

Edited (don't hate me i just keep finding typos) 2021-11-20 04:59 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

Edited 2021-11-20 16:44 (UTC)

[ Those are certainly stairs waiting. Geralt chooses not to linger on the concept of climbing up a set of stairs. That's a problem for five minutes from now. In the meantime, he's got more pressing matters like keeping his eyes open. When he looks up, they at least focus on her with some steadiness. He nods. Half of him is vaguely numb; the other half just fucking hurts. He counts his breaths until he hears the door creak open again. His fingers curl reflexively around a blade he does not actually have before he relaxes a hint.

She needn't to tell him twice; he's already got his palms planted on the table. He grits his teeth and forces to his feet and does not quite swallow the noise he makes. He isn't steady, but he is up. What help she offers, he'll take it.

(Later, he will consider exactly how much of himself he's put into Julie's hands. It's not something he makes a habit. But he does trust her, here and now.)

Every step up feels like it might be last. Somehow, it's not. He blinks hard, his vision swimming. He's bleeding from somewhere (several places, probably), but he can't tell if it's started to drip on the floors or not. His fingers find purchase on the nearest piece of furniture—a dresser, a table—and he takes a moment to try not to tip over. ]

[ It is, luckily, not a particularly steep or long staircase, even if it currently feels like the longest one in existence. She braces him from the side and the back, bearing as much of his weight as she can handle, and keeping her magic hand planted between his shoulder blades. She doesn't actually know how much that will help if he passes out, but she figures that at least it should make him fall forward rather than backward. Even more fortunate is that Julie does not live at the end of the hall upstairs, but rather only two doors down; her hand leaves his back and opens the room for them. By the time she half-dumps him on the closer side of the bed, she's close to collapse herself, her back and shoulders shaking from supporting him.

Julie takes a second, closes her eyes and catches her breath, then starts moving again. She has a whole to-do list in her head now, and the more of it she can do while he's still conscious, the better.

With a soft grunt, she falls to her knees and begins to remove his boots. She's not particularly delicate -- she just doesn't want them in her bed, and also he's covered in blood, so everything has to be washed. ]

What happened?

[ Where she puts him, that's where he all but collapses. There's a second where he blinks and then she's on the floor tugging on one of his boots, and he doesn't remember seeing her move towards him. He reaches down with a wince to loosen the buckles on the other boot, if only because he's certain he'll pass out if he sits still. Hard to know how well his fingers work, though.

He should tell her he's fine, that she can just leave him here. He'll wake up eventually, put himself together one way or another. Probably. But he feels like shit and even for him, the word fine is too blatantly untrue to put out there. ]

Thorne. [ He lifts his shirt gingerly. It's not the first time he's tried to take stock of his wounds; a couple look recently cauterized—not ideal, but he had zero supplies and only his Signs to get by. Seemed the simplest option to keep from bleeding.

Fuck, he needs a nap. And were his head on straight, he'd have realized it ten minutes ago—but it takes him until now to put it all together, between the empty downstairs, that he does not recall her paying anyone, the scent in the air. This room is not just a room in a nearby tavern. It's hers. Hers and someone else's. ]

I don't need long. [ It's impossible to say if Thorne will care to come for him. He doesn't feel like risking it when it involves someone else in their own damn home. ] Just a few hours.

[ She sets his boots to the side (she won't even leave them on the rug) and rises to help with his shirt; she would really rather he not lift his arms very far at the moment. She's nearly positive he has at least a rib fracture, and if it's worse, she would really prefer he not pop a lung in her bedroom.

But she is honestly very concerned about him. Which is probably why she sounds so dry when she scoffs and tosses his shirt on top of his boots. ] Are you fuckin' crazy? You'll be lucky to be on your feet by next week, Geralt. Look at you.

[ Rubbing at her temple, she grabs a bowl from the sideboard -- the same bowl, actually, that she'd filled with water to help Susan -- and disappears into the bathroom for just a moment. When she comes back, she has a white cloth in one hand and the bowl of water in the other, which she sets on the bedside table. She dampens the cloth and begins gently wiping blood off his face. ]

Right, so Thorne, but why did you cross the border in the first place?

[ It comes off, with effort and a sharp pain that lights up the left half of his body. Last time she took off his shirt was far more pleasant. He only looks at her like he's got an argument for that except he's not exactly functioning well enough to present it. Which is perhaps several points docked in his favour in and of itself.

He relents without much convincing required. She's right. He knows that. He doesn't need a week, but he does need at least a night or so. It's just. More than he expects out of someone, a fact that's got nothing to do with Julie and everything to do with him. He can count on one hand the number of people he can show up at their door who will grant him aid without question. And for each of those people, it takes him a long time to quietly accept.

His answer comes with a delay that's not his usual silence, but a clear effort to bring his focus back to her. ] I didn't. They looked for me. Outside Cadens.

[ He isn't hard to find if someone's seeking him: he stands out, there's no changing that. Maybe he should've expected to be a target sooner or later. (Maybe Yennefer should've fucking warned him what the hell she was doing with the Queen over in Thorne.) ]

[ He looks at her like he wants to fight, and there is nothing in her eyes but a dare to even try, so she's pleased when he gives up without another word. Lightly turning his face toward her, she cleans his other cheek too, then reaches over to rinse the cloth, wringing out a trickle of dark, dirty water before she starts cleaning the wounds she can find. ]

But why you? You didn't do anything that the rest of us didn't do too, and they only wanted you?

[ She looks up from her hand to his eyes, corners of her mouth turned down. She can feel his walls up, which ordinarily would not bother her, but she feels like it's unfair to not even give her blueprint as to what's happening. ] Did you do something to make them come after you?

[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?

[ 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. ]

No. [ He grips the edge of the bed. He's not exactly trying to avoid answering; it's that he hasn't stopped to absorb it, never mind thought of how he's to explain.

He doesn't care about what they did to him. Or he does, because it's not been the most fun he's ever had, but it's nothing new. It's who they did it with. The longer he sits with this knowledge, the more raw he feels, and he wants nothing of it. But he owes Julie something, more, for dragging his shit to her doorstep in the first place. ]

They believed someone in their court was protecting me. [ It's not what they said, but what else? Yennefer's presence was not a coincidence. No one should have any reason to suspect he knows a damn thing. He's been in Cadens for barely a season; he's never even set foot in the prime minister's office. ] Perhaps they've been convinced otherwise now.

[ An unfiltered bitterness edges that statement, one he hadn't meant to let through. He can't summon the effort to want to take it back. He's not angry with Yennefer, except he is, but he isn't. He draws a breath between his teeth and sinks into the burning sting where the cloth brushes his skin. It's distracting, familiar. He tries not to keel over while Julie's helping him, which he manages, but he keeps losing track of where she is and what she's doing. If she's got anything to say, she's likely to have to repeat it more than once. ]

[ yennefer had known that it wouldn’t be long before she was called - she could read enough from the queen’s expression well enough to know that, with or without trying to read her mind. it does mean that for every passing hour after that meeting, she waits for the call. it takes a couple of days, but she pays no mind to it. these are the early stages of her plan, and she is not interested in acting too quickly, seeming too interested.

so, when the call does finally come, yennefer paints a relatively surprised expression on her face - dressing quickly and answering the call to the queen’s throne room, just as she had not two nights previous.

once again, she waits in front of those doors. Once again, she entertains the growing sense of anticipation and curiosity held within it. The sudden feeling of chaos cracking, a kind of electricity shooting through the air, has yennefer frowning, unsure of what is to precede her in this hall.

then, the doors open, and yennefer is ushered in. she sweeps in easily enough, like she has been through these doors and into this room hundreds of times. it’s familiar, at this point, like breathing - and it is with that air she makes her way through.

except it isn’t quite only that - because yennefer steps inside and like being dunked into an icey river, a frozen kind of tension courses through her. sudden, overwhelming - because while she might only see a figure on his knees before the dias, the queen and grigory and her personal guard, it’s the white hair. the frame. the set.

immediately, yennefer’s nerves sing - her curiosity corrupted instantly by the sight of him. of him. of what it means. while the tension is barely perceptible and doesn’t even last the course of half a moment, it is still there, even as she makes the effort and decision to continue walking, to keep her eyes off of his back, to turn back to the queen.

( does she know? does she plan on using it against her? will this night turn much more violent than yennefer could have anticipated? she does not know - but what she does know is that she will not let her expression break. ) ]

My queen. [ she says when she reaches the end of the room, curtsying politely. giving grigory the barest, acknowledging glance. ] You called for me.

[ This is enough to satisfy her; she only didn't want to feel entirely in the dark. Nodding, she lets it go, and she's truly trying to avoid hurting him, but in this state, that's not really possible. Instead, she settles for quick and efficient, because she's going to have to get Nadine to look at some of these anyway, but none of them seem severe enough on their own to require immediate attention. It's not like last time, where she could see Susan's organs through the hole in her skin. Cleanliness matters more at the moment.

Sighing, she lets the cloth sit in the bowl once she's done, where it practically streams blood and dirt on its own, then stands and swipes some of her hair behind her ear. She begins looking in one of the bureaus, pawing through several drawers before she finds a roll of bandage cloth. ]

How'd you get out? [ She says it lightly, as if it's in a totally different conversation, comes back and begins dressing the wounds. God, she'd kill for some Neosporin. ] Thought that place was inescapable.

[ His senses have dulled immediately, which already leaves his teeth on edge. He remembers Relena telling him, The queen was there as well as that mage, Grigory, and it's the latter his attention snaps towards. His eyes are sharp, watching, but the second the doors open, he falters. He doesn't know why it's caught him so off guard. Who the fuck else could it be? Who else does he have any connection to in Thorne?

He can smell her perfume even before turns to see her walk in. Unlike Yennefer, he can't hide how he stares, and maybe some of that is because he recognizes there's no point in doing so. They obviously know something if they have put this much effort into arranging—this. After a second, he tears his gaze away. Unbidden, he thinks of her curled around the wolf in his bed, sleeping peacefully. He digs his nails into his palm. There's some irony in the fact that they needn't do much more than put Yennefer in the same room for him to feel as though he's lost his grip on every piece of himself.

He's quiet and still, though, all too aware that he's not what's at stake here. This is about Yennefer, and what is about Yennefer is invariably linked to Ciri. If they move him, he won't fight it—because he's already gathering there's only one way in which this can unfold. ]

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[ CLOSED ] hands like skeleton bones

kylo.

mal.

julie.

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the queen; nov. 13-ish

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