[ OPEN / CLOSED ] i think i found a way to kill the sun

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: December
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Some catching up now that he's home
Warnings: Discussion of trauma; nsfw marked



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

Comments

[falcony]

Ah- [ sam makes a kind of 'so-so' movement with his hand. ] If it's anything like my home town, it's a bit of both. Christmas was kind of... [ sam pauses, unsure of how much he wants to get into this deep of a conversation on horizon beer and exhaustion, and ends up shaking his head. ] Doesn't matter, but I'm pretty sure they're similar.

[ there's a pause there from sam, with the bottle to his lips, where he thinks about that. about Christmas, about more holidays. about how much time it's been and how much more they probably have left to go. these moments tend to sneak up on him (more often around the holidays than any other time, sure) but it feels even more relevant now. with Christmas, with everything that just happened.

and that's what they're here for, isn't it? why else would geralt have reached out to him like this? sam shrugs, more to get himself out of his own thoughts than anything, and finishes the sip he'd been taking and nods at geralt's half-shrug. ]

Well, considering the shape you showed up in, I'm sure you had other things on your mind. They kind of did a number on you... [ which brings sam to another pause, though this one has his eyes on geralt, rather than to the middle distance of the kitchen. his eyes linger for a few moments too, in silence - waiting to see if geralt will offer anything that's on his mind, or if this is going to take a little more effort. either geralt does something that convinces sam one way or the other, or it's just a gut feeling, but sam speaks again soon after. ]

You wanna talk about it?

[gynvael]

[ Since he's sat down, Geralt has been watching her, steady. Then she falters, her eyes falling shut, and he finds himself looking away. He doesn't want to see it, how much it's affected her, because it tells him how much she saw. It's not a secret, the Trial of the Grasses. Plenty know the story of young boys being mutated into Witchers with magic and herbs, as much as there are those who believe them born of evil or birthed from some monstrous creature. But there is no one left alive, walking this earth, who has witnessed it without having gone through it themselves. And there is absolutely fucking no one outside the walls of Kaer Morhen who has witnessed him enduring it. Until her.

He knows she didn't mean it. He knows she panicked. He does. But hearing her say it, it makes him realize it changes nothing. She's done something that cannot be undone. And isn't he used to that? Isn't that what his entire life has been comprised of, things being done to him, things he's done to others, that cannot be undone?

Months have passed since they met in the Horizon, a full year went by since that day on the mountain before he landed in this sphere. And each time they've been apart, Geralt has done his best to put her out of his mind. She's not in his life anymore. She made that decision, made it plain and clear, and he has no desire to reach out only to be pushed away again and again. Except now it feels like she's inserted herself inextricably into a memory that will never leave him. That, in that moment, she became the one who bound herself to him, not only to a shard of his past, but to the one aspect that has shaped everything he's become. A piece of him she was never a part of and was never meant to be a part of. He does not want to look at her and remember his blood staining the floors, the blood of other boys soaking into the ground, and now that's all he sees.

His gaze shifts back to Yennefer. To her curled hands in her lap. His throat is tight. What does she want to hear? That he forgives her? There's nothing to forgive. There isn't, because if she were to have given him cause to believe there is, over this, he knows he would not forgive her. Could not. But neither is he...he doesn't know how to say that he isn't angry but he is, that he isn't betrayed but he is. There's nowhere for him to direct how he's feeling. Perhaps that's the whole fucking problem.

He thinks of reaching out to her. He does not. ] If the girl is safe, then nothing else matters.

[ It's what he's been telling himself. Whether it's true or not is another story, but he's held onto it. If Ciri is protected, that's what's important. And what happened to him, what Yennefer has done, it's...fuck. He doesn't mean to be closed off, but this is all he learned how to be. Because the other option is to fall apart entirely and he can't afford that. He might've crawled home, but everything that's going on, this world, its brewing storm—none of it is over. If anything, it's just the beginning. ]

[vixening]

[ she's not entirely sure what she was expecting by that confession - because it was a confession, no matter how she might want to reframe it. to herself as much as it was to him. she hadn't meant to see that, she hadn't wanted that part of him that he hadn't wanted to show. she hadn't wanted anything at all from him (that's not true) and yet that decision they made, at how she wasn't able to hold herself back, wasn't able to control herself around him, now where did that leave them?

geralt turns away from her, turns away from the moment she takes to process his trauma, and that sticks with her. for whatever reason, above all the rest of it, it is that that catches her attention. because it is his, isn't it? a secret that was very obviously meant to be kept between him and the others like him. atrocities done to him and perpetuated by the continent at large. they were made by magic, by her magic, and she feels a kind of crawling in her skin. a kind of crawling she's never felt associated with her chaos before - because she? she chose this. she chose to be reborn. to have this power. and geralt?

his gaze does finally shift back to her - once her words are out and heard. she does not know what she wants to hear, doesn't know if there's anything specific she wants to hear at all. because she does not want to be forgiven, does not want to be coddled, does not want to hear him say it was nothing or it was fine when it so obviously wasn't.

she wonders, briefly, if he is going to reach for her. he doesn't.

if the girl is safe, then nothing else matters.

that is not what she wants to hear, either, and very suddenly yennefer pushes to her feet - walking across the tent space, so that her back is to him and her eyes are on the tent flap. she's not angry, not upset that the only words he has to say are about ciri. if yennefer was being honest with herself, it's the only thing she really cares about through this, too. that she is safe. that this girl, this princess, who had looked at her like she meant something and came to her with stubborn anger and fear about her magic and who said she trained her. yennefer's eyes go from the tent flaps before her down to her wrists, where she starts to fidget, starts to run her fingers over the scars. if the girl is safe. ]

She is safe, for now. [ her voice is a bit louder than it had been before, a bit more projected, a bit more firm. ] If anything, it's the other Summoned who escaped with you that you should be concerned about. The Queen is keeping some kind of list of all the names they could pull from you who arrived at the capital of the Free Cities. If they have learned of Ciri, she has not stood out from the others. Not yet.

[ yennefer's thumb had spent the course of her words running back and forth over the scars, something to do, something to ground her, as she considers what it was she wanted to say. it was always so difficult, to be around geralt like this - so much of what she'd worked tirelessly to tamper down, to control, always felt like it was inches from the surface.

she wonders if he'll leave (again), or if it will be her, who will make the first move. she wants to turn back to him again, but worries what it will do if she does, so instead she pulls her eyes away from her wrists. sets them on the wooden beams above her, holding up this imaginary tent. let's them wander along the imaginary canvas. ]

Before you disappeared, I had been working with her on her control of her chaos. Did you know that? [ a slight pause, but not enough for him to actually respond. ] She came to me, because I had apparently taught her, before.

[gynvael]

[ He lets the conversation about celebrations flow past him, an absent nod at what Sam's saying. He came here to try to...what. Capture some semblance of peace, one of the few good memories he's ever held? He isn't sure. He only knows he felt like they could both use the time away from the blood that he can still smell in Sam's home, the empty rooms, and now that they're here he's—

If he'd only come away with his injuries, he'd have been fine. He's suffered worse. He's survived worse. But his mind has never been torn into so thoroughly. He doesn't—he hates what Yennefer did and he hates more the knowledge that if she'd not been there, he could've done nothing to stop them, nothing to protect himself. Nothing to protect Ciri. Even now, sometimes he wonders: are they still looking inside? It's overly paranoid—they aren't; he would feel it—but the whole incident has left him unsteady, unsure. (Afraid.)

He'll get over it, he knows that. He's always picked himself back up and he refuses to let this time be any fucking different. It's just. Been harder than usual to put his fears, his worries, his dark thoughts aside. What he'd been forced to remember, its teeth have sunk deep. He can't stop dreaming about it, he can't concentrate for shit. He twists the bottle in his hands, an uncharacteristic tic, and maybe that's what catches Sam's attention. What prompts the question.

He almost says no. The real irony is, if not for what occurred in the desert, he'd have done exactly that. But Sam helped him, anyway. Without hesitation, even after. Apologized to him. No one's done that before. There have been those who never gave a shit in the first place, what blood he has on his hands—but no one who looked at him and reconsidered and came back. ]

I don't know. [ He watches Sam. It's the truth. He does and he doesn't. ] Not a lot to say. I'm sure Jaskier filled you in.

[ That is not, he knows, why Sam is asking if he wants to talk about it. It is not for want of information—but it is easier, in this moment, to answer it as though it were. ]

[falcony]

[ so that is how it's going to be - sam can roll with it, any attempts as the lighter conversation simply passing them both by. he can appreciate geralt's forthright-ness, or what he just nearly assumes is forthright-ness, up until the point that that geralt actually answers and sam, himself, is left in a bit of a pause.

because the truth of it is - sam doesn't actually know what happened. what he's pieced together has involved thorne, has involved some serious torture practices, and then involved geralt getting out. he assumes someone from the inside had helped him, and assumes that it had been geralt who had gotten himself to nott. sam hasn't spoken to julie directly, and if he's being honest, he hasn't spoken to jaskier all that much either.

there's a difference between need to know and want to know - and for days, weeks even, sam's been working in the former. but he's also noticed geralt, through all of that. how his body has been healing, and yet he's still a bit distracted, uncertain, tense. sam hasn't pushed - he knows better than to do that with someone clearly trying (to varying degrees of success) to process a traumatic event - but his gut tells him it's more. that there's a lot more. he's just not entirely certain what all he's allowed to even ask. allowed, because of what happened in the desert. allowed, because of the ground they've covered since. sam is uncertain, in many ways, but just as he's done before he catches the wind and runs. jumps.

I don't know geralt says, and sam doesn't nod. doesn't really react. he watches geralt watch him and waits, patient and unassuming. the diversion to jaskier isn't surprising, and sam finds himself adjusting slightly where he leans against the counter. ]

The bigger picture, sure. But I haven't really let him tell me anything beyond that. [ sam waits for any kind of acknowledgment from geralt - confusion, maybe. or simply a look. why hasn't sam asked about it? why hasn't sam gone after every lead, every possible source of information? sam shrugs. ] I figured if you did want to talk, you knew how to find me. No point in getting the story second-hand if you didn't want me to know.

[gynvael]

[ The mention of Alucard makes him scoff faintly. Prickly is about right. Geralt does not begrudge Alucard for his attitude—the vampire has experienced some shit; he gets it—but. Not really someone he's in the mood to be around at the moment.

As they step into the cemetery, he can see it: the berries, the tangle of plants. Hm. It's not bad. That's what Jaskier's been doing? Growing berries in his absence? He almost wants to laugh. It is incredibly like his friend and maybe—

Maybe it's just good. To know some things never change. He picks a ripened berry from a vine. ]

Mm. They're sweet. [ Out here, amongst the headstone, the noise of the city has faded some. He needn't ask why Jaskier has brought him to this place. It isn't about the garden. Or not only about the garden. He knows Jaskier well enough to understand that Jaskier is, in fact, pleased with his little creation and will show it off at the slightest excuse. But he knows the other reason for it, too.

He sits down on a patch of grass, underneath the vines—careful, more heavily than usual—and waits for Jaskier to join him. ] Ciri tells me you've been bread making.

[gynvael]

[ When Yennefer abruptly leaves the table, Geralt does not blink. He's seen it coming, knows her all too well, that she will not be able to sit here and look at him. His gaze tracks her across the room. He's otherwise still, fingers curling where they rest on the table. Ciri is not much of a better topic, but at least it takes the attention off him. Takes the weight of it off him, the suffocating tension he can sense on Yennefer.

The other summoned. His expression shifts. His concern has been focused on Ciri. That's the only thing he recalls them mentioning. A shadowed figure. What other pieces of him the mage drew out, he doesn't know, doesn't remember. It's only now he realizes there may be others under threat. Because of him. What else did they see? Just names, Yennefer said, and he believes her. She'd flooded him with that memory so quickly he doesn't think there was time for anything else to be seen.

Still.

He exhales, sharper than he means to. Before you disappeared. What a quaint manner of phrasing it. Like he stepped into nothingness and then reappeared some weeks later. He bites his tongue and makes no comment. He's too fucking tired to pick a fight. Too tired to lash out. He wants this conversation over with but here they are, speaking further, and he can't bring himself to walk away. Everything just feels like too much effort.

So he sits and listens. Apparently. Yeah. At some point in the future, Ciri had either been sent to Yennefer or had sought her out on her own. ]

I was the one who asked her if she'd spoken to you about it. [ He has not kept Ciri from Yennefer, is what he's saying, has not interfered. That Ciri did not, could not reach the sorceress sooner was Yennefer's doing and hers alone. And it's not a subject he wants to get into. Ciri has found her, seems to have forgiven Yennefer for her silence, so how he feels about it is irrelevant. ] She has not told me details about you or me. You'll have to ask her yourself.

[ Geralt has not asked. He's sensed Ciri is concerned about saying too much. He can understand that. He doesn't want to know, either, what the future holds. If it even matters. They're making their own future here, in this damn world. It's enough to know he found her, taught her. That whatever he has done, she...trusts him. ]

[cointosser]

[It may be incredibly silly to be showing off a bunch of fucking berry plants to a man who'd just been kidnapped and tortured, but... Jaskier can't think of much else to do. There is some amount of pride he gets over looking at them, knowing they are his and his alone. A magic that, as far as he has experienced, no one else shares. Gifted alone to him, as he likes to imagine. As if the Singularity expected him to do something with it.]

Of course they are. What kind of idiot makes sour berries? [But the smile he shoots Geralt is soft around the edges. Roach had liked them very much as well, and he'd even stuck a few in his loaves for experimentation. Of course, they'd all sunk to the bottom and made a mess in the pan.

Jaskier does join him, crossing his legs neatly underneath. The grass, too, is his; soft and even, but growing wildly as the soil rights itself over time. A few yards away are flourishes of flowers across graves, ringing around the headstones. Lilies with spots of orange across their petals, and golden centers. They rest their petaled heads against the headstones like lovers left behind. Dandelions pop up randomly through the grass, swaying with the wind.

And further still is Alucard's cactus, now with smaller cactuses spotted around it, all flourishing with pink and white buds.]

Ciri talks too much. [He turns to Geralt with a tugging of his lips, his tone deeply affectionate.] If she's to tell you everything, what stories will I regale you with? [From the slow way his friend sat, he begins to think that potion did nothing at all.] Worry not, there's plenty still for you to devour yourself. As I'm sure you are far too eager to, of course.

[The bushes around them sway as a breeze cuts through the cemetery. After all of Jaskier's work, the place no longer smells of dirt or the dead.] Nothing goes sour there anymore. The bread doesn't mold, even from weeks ago. The berries never rot when I pick them. [His gaze moves down to his hand, where his fingers rub together.

He is not sure when to bring it up. Or if he even should. Yet not once has he ever hidden anything from the Witcher. Except, perhaps, the depths of his odorous inclinations when returned from a hunt.] Another gift of magic from our most stony patron, I believe.

[gynvael]

[ He snorts at that. It says something that he does not immediately reach for the opportunity to tell Jaskier what kind of idiot he thinks may do so. He curls his healing fingers around the stem of a yellow dandelion. Plucks it. The smell here is sweet, grassy, masking the stench of sweat and dirt and piss in the city.

The potion has helped. It's only that a potion made for human consumption will never match the strength of the elixirs his body has been made to absorb. It isn't important. He's healing, day by day. The pain is not what keeps him awake at night. Not really. Though he can admit it's not helped either. Pain and, worse than that, the fucking incessant itching as his skin knits together.

He listens to Jaskier speak and complain in equal quantities, the smallest curl to his lips. Only when Jaskier mentions that fruit does not rot in his hands does Geralt look over. He raises an eyebrow. ]

I thought it was a new spell you learned. [ Another thing Jaskier has been granted without asking? That's. Unusual. He has noticed, though. As early as the days after the wraiths, when Jaskier had picked up a days old loaf of bread and it'd tasted freshly baked.

Only now does it strike Geralt that— ] You didn't realize?

[cointosser]

[Somehow, that surprises Jaskier. Geralt? Assuming, before anything else, that he was competent? My, how a few weeks away can change a man.

But all he does outwardly is huff.]

No. And don't make me sound like a fool for not realizing sooner, that these things I do, these impossibilities, are mine and mine alone.

[Why would he ever assume himself capable of them? Magic is not his to bear, and it is, and -- fuck, he's turning into a mess. As the breeze blows, the stray hairs loose from the tie he's had them in wriggle across his face. He scratches his nose, sharply annoyed by them.]

I haven't studied for weeks. Everything I write's been shite, barely fit to burn. So I make bread, and I grow these little flowers, and I stop things from winding towards the inevitable death and decay they are meant to.

[He isn't sure what he's saying, or if it has any meaning at all. Jaskier is a boat adrift in unfamiliar waters, seeing new sights... and the boat is very upset about it all.

His throat tightens. His fingers rub harder, the nails clipping into his skin. He wishes he only brought him here to show off flowers and berries.] I need a new hobby. Perhaps there's a spell to commune with the plants, next, that I may study. Or turn into a dragon. Everyone around here is so keen on turning into dragons.

[gynvael]

Other than his conversation with Himeka, he's frankly given little thought to Estinien. A million fucking things have happened. The last on his mind is a one-off barbed exchange. It's nothing about Estinien, really. More that Geralt has spent most the majority of his life with people threatening him or trying to fight him and it all sort of gets swept aside after the thousandth time. He'd not heard from the elf nor seen him since that exchange, and that was good enough for him.

Except he's seeing him now, so. He's willing to get out of the way if Estinien wants; he's not here to start anything. But it seems Estinien has gotten over his shit, at least outwardly. For what reason, Geralt doesn't know. If there's no problem at the moment, though, then Geralt has no interest in making one. He's too damn old for grudges.

"Mm. Got tired of people bumping shoulders." Solvunn is undoubtedly less filled to the brim, but Cadens? He'd kill for some breathing room as of late.

The last of the berries gone, Geralt straightens up gingerly. He's never looked especially put together, but there's a roughness to him that hadn't been there before—torn nails, marks healing up his forearms and just under where the medallion rests against his chest. The worst of it is hidden, though.

He eyes Estinien, contemplating. He may not know for certain what could have changed—Himeka, time, a strange dream, who the fuck can say?—but he hazards a guess. He knows Jaskier spoke to damn near everyone he could think of when Geralt vanished. "You spoke to the bard."

[gynvael]

[ For a second, Geralt doesn't answer. Prior to those newly displaced, he'd have agreed. When it'd been only those who fled. Since then...he suspects it may a matter of where they each are—that Solvunn has perhaps tried to be more subtle—but in the Free Cities? No. The ones who came later, in particular, the ones where effort was made to retrieve them: he's almost certain every one has been marked and recorded. They're not encouraged to remain in the barracks for no reason. Sam has relayed his conversation with Marlo to him. He can't say he buys that these are merely accidental arrivals. Magic of this kind doesn't work accidentally. ]

Not people. Property. Cadens holds those they summoned under the eyes of its army.

[ He'd rather no one give a fuck. More and more, he's beginning to think that isn't the case. They are something. A resource. An asset. Fodder. It all gives him a headache.

His fingers curl around the steel railing. His tie. There's a tension in him that wasn't present earlier. Yennefer is more than capable. But he knows her pieces are nowhere near in place for that, if it's even what she has in mind. He wishes he didn't care, but he does, because it's her. And because she's the fucking reason he even found himself in Thorne in the first place with his head split open, flooded with long buried memories he didn't ask to see. He wants to be angry about it and maybe he is, somewhere, but mostly he just wants one good night's sleep. He wants to forget.

It'd be simpler if this were about the queen, about Thorne. It's not. This is much closer to home. ] We haven't spoken.

[gynvael]

[ His head cocks. Is it that surprising of an assumption? It does not occur to him that Jaskier would think him unwilling to believe it, his magic. Jaskier has crafted Sam an entire bird which seems about as lifelike as anything. Freshening a loaf of bread feels trivial in comparison and not particularly dramatic, which is why he's assumed Jaskier had not mentioned it.

Though obviously, this is about more than fruit and bread. He blinks, and then frowns, but does not interrupt. He does...realize. The toll it's taken on everyone. He wishes it weren't the case, that none of them care so fucking much over him, but at the same time, he also—he appreciates it. All of their efforts. Even if he hasn't the first fucking idea what to do in response. Now that he's back, now that he's home. Somehow he doesn't feel like he's home. Not entirely. Maybe a part of him was left behind in that room in Thorne.

Carefully, he lays his hand over Jaskier's for a brief moment to still it. He can hear Jaskier's heart beginning to speed up, hear his agitation. ]

I know it's been shit. [ As an understatement. He pauses. He's aware Jaskier has been cautious—not pressing, not asking. It's not what he wants. He's not made of glass and he doesn't care for Jaskier to wear himself out, keeping it all inside. He knows how his friend is. Jaskier does not do well keeping what's on his mind buried. Besides, if there are topics Geralt has no desire to grant details to, he's perfectly capable of saying so. ] You've wanted to talk to me. So talk.

[baltimores]

[ Amos doesn't look up, but there's a twitch of a frown at property. Can't say he isn't familiar with that. ]

So, in another life, I was what you'd call muscle. I mean, I still kinda am, but that's by choice now. Back then, you didn't really have any other options. I'd get sent out to do basic shit. Enforce debt collection, protect assets, that kinda thing. Last job I had there was to kill someone who'd become inconvenient. [ He smiles, and there's a sharp huff, like he's just said something funny. His hands continue making work of the reassembly. They're broad and calloused and made for this kind of thing and little else. ] It's not a great gig. You fuck up, and that's a bullet in your brain. Unless you're quicker. Stronger.

[ This is the first he's hearing of a downside to the Free Cities. Up until now it's just seemed like a paradise where there's actual shit to do and at least some form of technology. Nothing close to the shotgun he's almost got put back together, but something, at least. ]

Point is, I think I got some idea of what's going on there. You wanna start amassing bodies before the churn comes. Can't say I like it, but can't say I blame them either. It's kinda SOP.

[ Something settles in him. The calm that exists before a storm. It's familiar, routine. The shit out in the world, with magic and farms and what-the-fuck-ever? That's unfamiliar. People scaling up for a war? That's not so far from home.

He puts the final parts back in their place, looks at the assembled shotgun laid out on the table before him, and sighs longingly. A sword's okay, he figures, but can't compare to this.

Amos finally looks back up at Geralt then, sees the shift in demeanour. He takes him in silently, and when he speaks, his voice is still easy, conversational. ] That bad, huh. [ He still looks even worse for the wear than he did before, and maybe that's emphasized by the agitation, the exhaustion he can read in the man. Cocks his head. ] Is that a thing you want to do? Talk to them?

[vixening]

[ it's frustration, she realizes, that is pooling in her gut. she'd crossed this room to get away from him because the more she looked and he did not react, the longer they sat here in silence - with geralt so close, close enough to reach out and grab, and yet he felt so far away - the stronger it grew. she stands and crosses the space because she has to move, she has to gain control back over the wave that fills her. the disgust in herself, how much she built up this meeting to be. the anger at the queen, for what she plans, what she wants to do. the fact that yennefer had no idea they had found geralt at all, no idea that they'd gone through such preparations, that make her question what she's been doing all this time. she takes a long breath as she stops in front of the tent wall, uses that breath to shove it all back down again. controlling the wave, controlling herself.

control. control. tissaia, telling her not to be controlled by her emotions, but to control them in turn.

geralt exhales, and yennefer waits for what follows that sound - a tension shooting through her in that anticipation. that sound- that is what she'd wanted. a reaction, a fight, him, rising to meet her, like he had always done. it's a kind of distant realization that she has, when she notices how much of her hedges on that breath and then feels unmoored when nothing follows. for all the time they'd spent together, it had always felt like too much. emotion, anger, lust, desperation. even when she'd left him on that mountainside, angry and betrayed and hurt at the realization of his wish, at how he'd bound her to him, it had been in a fight. it had been both sides, upset and loud. but this? this calm response to her barbs, this lack of reaction to her actions? she'd always heard that witchers did not feel human emotion, that it had been burned out of them through magic, through chaos. geralt had told her that they'll say whatever justifies despising our kind, and yennefer had believed it - wholly and fully - too. because for all she'd known him, for all they'd known each other, she had only known geralt to feel.

but now?

she wants him to scream at her. wants him to push up and crowd against her, that fire in his eyes threatening danger, threatening violence. he would never hurt her, she knows, but the threat - the anger - is what she chases after now. she wants anything from him that will let her know that hadn't cut everything out while she'd sat and watched. tell me i wasn't too late a small voice in her screams. because she could leave, now. or he could. they could go back to not talking, not mentioning, not seeing each other just as they had before. he was whole, he had come into the horizon to meet her, and that should be enough. she could live with that, she could, as long as she knew this.

there are so many questions yennefer wants to ask him, about ciri. about why he sent her to yennefer now, why he would have done it back on their own paths, or how this girl would have known about her at all. why this girl, this princess, could be so wholly intertwined with them both. she wants to ask where geralt found her, why geralt would be teaching her to be a witcher, how, given everything, it could be her who brings them together. but as yennefer turns back to face him - questions on her tongue and anger simmering under her skin - they all fall silent. ]

The Singularity has affected her magic. [ she says, some of that tension from before easing out with each word. part of her assumes ciri would have kept him abreast of their conversations, assumes that geralt knows all of this already - but yennefer, suddenly, can't stand the idea that they are both working alongside each other, for the same goal, and this information has to come second hand. she knows that had been her own doing, yes. the distance had been her own decision. but as they stand here, in this tent, it seems ridiculous. ] Anything she might have learned before is now useless- we've started over with the basics, but it will take time before she's able to control any of it again.

[ time. she says it like it could be disappointing news to hear, like it's something neither of them have, but will have to make. but at the same time, what geralt can probably hear most in her voice, is that this isn't what she wants to talk about. that there is so much more, so much else, on her mind. and it's the truth - because she turns to look at him still sitting in that chair, still barely holding himself together - and it hurts.

there is a pause, initially, after her words. silence she doesn't exactly expect him to fill, so she lets it hang between them. she wants so much, in those following moments - she wants to scream, wants to throw something at him, wants to turn and leave and let him continue to sit in silence for as long as he wants. she wants to give up on this, on this pull, on him, but she also doesn't want to think about leaving at all. she wants him to stand and to do it for her - either leave, or close the distance - and she also doesn't want him to be the one who has to.

what yennefer does, in the end, is take a step. it is not hesitant, it is not unsure. whether her mind is reeling or if she's finally made her decision, her steps don't betray any of the earliest uncertainty. she walks until she closes the rest of the distance, until she is standing before him, and then she takes another until she is all but completely in his space. it feels a bit like she crosses a barrier, in part to see if he will push her away, and in part because she needs to be here.

she doesn't say anything, even as she hovers. doesn't say anything, as her eyes search his. doesn't say anything, even as her hand lifts - slow, but deliberate - to his cheek. there's a chance he might not notice, the way that it is her hand itself that betrays her, her palm that pauses for the briefest moment (unsure) before she brushes her fingers across his cheek. but she does it, almost in spite of it all. touches him, because that is what she wants - not to talk, necessarily. not to speak of ciri, or the queen, or his escape, or the wounds on his back.

just him. ]

[gynvael]

[ Have not asked and haven't let are two different things. That it's the latter is what makes him give Sam that look, a slight furrow to his brows. He's assumed Sam would not go around hassling anyone for answers, but he'd not imagined Sam would go out of his way to avoid hearing them altogether. Because—what. He wanted to hear it from Geralt instead?

It's easy to shut himself off. He's been doing so his entire life. If he were on his own, if he'd had no one else here, that's what he'd have done. Long nights awake until enough time passes. Until he's back to sleeping like shit, but at least he can sleep at all. The pattern is old, familiar. It's also not what he needs right now, not what Ciri needs. If he can't keep his head on straight, how the fuck is he meant to protect her? Part of him thinks talking to Sam, talking to anyone, is a waste of time. What'll it do? He isn't searching for sympathy or even understanding. He doesn't know what he's looking for, in truth. But he does know saying nothing has done little to help settle his thoughts.

And other than Jaskier—who he isn't interested in burdening further—Sam is the one person who knows better than to offer him empty platitudes. Sam had once glimpsed the shadows inside his mind, in those tunnels long ago. It is, perhaps, in part that shared experience which has brought him here now.

Geralt sets the bottle aside. He needs a stronger drink. Where does he start? Does he start with telling Sam he'd been caught off guard, does he tell him he cannot close his eyes without seeing old horrors? Does he even mention Yennefer? How is he to explain what Sam can't possibly begin to grasp? He isn't certain he even wants to explain. It's not any of Sam's business, but he—

Long minutes pass where Geralt is silent, still. And then a breath, like he's annoyed at this being a problem at all, like Sam's not already noticed by now his restless nights, his tossing and turning: ] I can't fucking sleep.

[gynvael]

[ He's never known anyone to put so much effort into a cemetery, though it's not necessarily a bad thing. If Alucard has found his outlet in tidying up the crypt he means to call home, Geralt supposes that's as good as anything. Jaskier had shown him the flowers, the berries, and he can see Jaskier's touches here in the cactus hollowed out. (He's missed the unfortunate shape of the starting cactus and that's for the best.)

He steps over to Alucard's workstation and sets down the wine unceremoniously. ]

You're making progress.

[ It looks...well decorated. About as cozy as a cemetery can be, he supposes. ]

[cryptsleeper]

In some cases, I didn't have much choice in the matter.

[Trying to get Jaskier not to do something feels especially like trying to redirect a storm. One with firm opinions about gardening, and the occasional slip of imagery. (Alucard still can't believe he's sleeping in the cactus. But it is a good cactus.)

It is not Alucard's nature to remark on how a person carries themselves, or to pry further into what it is that befell Geralt in the first place. He nods only once to the wine, before letting out a self-depreciating noise.]

I'd say keep that much to yourself. Wine and delicate work aren't the best of friends.

[There's at least one more headstone that the dhampir wants to finish today, and it is all ready laid out beside the first he has finished. So he does that rather than focus on the Witcher, kneeling beside the second biggest of the slabs and starting to push it towards the bottom chunk.]

Needed the quiet?

[gynvael]

[ There's absolutely a distinct fuck that comes before Geralt inhales sharply and catches himself on a stack of crates. His eyes snap to who it is: a stranger, a man. No one he recognizes. Geralt seems to gather himself before he straightens up. ]

Fine. [ Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He steps away from the hands on him once he's steady on his feet. He just wants his work done with so he can get out of this square filled with people. ] Don't let me keep you.

[ If the man has been on his way anywhere at all. He's a new face, but most faces in Cadens are new. It's not exactly a cozy village. Geralt doesn't give it much thought, his attention already returning to the blacksmith who's only just finished with his sword—and Geralt takes the few steps towards the table to look: a circular pendant of a wolf is now attached to the hilt, one that almost seems a sibling to the medallion around his neck. If the stranger is behind him or following, Geralt appears to pay little attention for the time being. ]

[gynvael]

[ He'd not meant it quite in that sense—only that he believes the Cities considers the summoned valuable, not because they give a fuck about any of them as people but as useful things; that Thorne plucking from their pool of the displaced would not go unnoticed—but when Amos speaks, he does not interrupt. It's not something he'd have guessed, though nor does it surprise him to hear it. Indentured servitude is hardly uncommon in any sphere.

And plenty of children were bartered, sold, to the Witchers. As repayment, for a life saved, or sometimes just for coin. Too many mouths to feed. It happens. Geralt makes no comment, but an understanding crosses his expression. Yeah. He gets it. Doing things you didn't ask to be made to do. ]

I imagine Solvunn has their own reasons for amassing the same. [ They've appeared in all places. Geralt does not particularly believe in altruism anywhere. If they're summoning people, it's for their own benefit, whatever that may be. At the moment, he can only begin to guess.

His gaze flickers. That bad. Understated, to say the least. He loosens his grip. The answer that comes is honest. It's simpler, as always, to talk to Amos who rarely seems invested in much of anything. ] I don't know. I'm not certain it matters what I want.

[ They'd been avoiding each other before this. Yennefer may continue to avoid him. Maybe that's what he'd prefer. Maybe he never wants to see her again. (He wants to see her again.) At the moment, he's just been...putting himself back together. Getting on his feet so he isn't trapped in the city, so he can actually get on his horse, find work once more. The rest has been swallowed down, pushed aside. ]

[cointosser]

[His hand stills. He stares at their hands piled together, this thing, like a snapping, inside him. There is one thing he did not bring Geralt here for: to comfort him. Nor receive it in turn. The two of them have never sought such a thing in each other, and never needed to. Not this particular brand of it.]

What a bold assumption. What makes you think I wanted to?

[He doesn't pull his hand away, which is the only indication that, perhaps, the touch has steadied him. A little. For a moment. He has never been more relieved in his life to see Geralt in that desert. Alive, though he was hurt. Again. And still he barely knows what happened.

It isn't entirely for Geralt's comfort he's avoided it. A part of him -- a part too large to ignore -- does not want to know. Because it will mean things. And those things will affect him. He doesn't want to take on anymore. He's so godsdamn tired.

Jaskier sighs.]

I went to your domain. With Amos. [He doesn't believe Geralt will mind that part, if they had some sort of... bond.] To look for a note, a sign. There was a door with a lock on it, but it did not remain so when I went to open it. And...

[His throat constricts, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. Amos's reaction. What it meant. It's not fair to throw this on Geralt after so many years, but it is Jaskier's first time living through it, and he cannot apologize for his heart.] I saw what lay in your basement. [He swallows the lump that bobs in his throat. It's really not only the basement. It's the basement, and the diagrams, and Geralt coming home with welts flaying his back open.] I promise, we needn't talk about it. I simply wanted you to know, so it doesn't... so you don't think I meant it as some sort of -- of violation.

[gynvael]

[ He withdraws his hand soon enough, anyway. They rest on his drawn up knees, and he does not answer. Maybe it is an assumption. These days, he feels like he hardly knows what's happening anymore, what anyone is thinking. He doesn't even know what he's fucking thinking himself. His head is full of half-formed thoughts, decisions he does not want to make, images he does not want to address.

His brows furrow a hint. It's the only sign he's listening, waiting for what Jaskier is really trying to tell him. He hears it a moment later: a basement. Geralt had created the upper floors, the main hall, the yard. But he had not created the floor beneath the keep. It isn't really that the lab is a place of horrors he refuses to enter. It has its uses these days. They don't avoid it as if it haunts them, he and the other Witchers; that's not their way. But out there, back home, Kaer Morhen is real. It does not manifest shadows and ghosts. The Horizon is different. He'd been afraid of what might happen if he placed it there, set loose with what hides in the corners of his mind.

He supposes now he knows. That Jaskier had seen it recreated not as it is now, but as it was long ago. With blood freshly staining the floors, with. Everything. He makes a soft noise. He needn't wonder how it came to be. He remembers crawling through the woods, the likely poor decision he'd made one night to try and leave a message in the Horizon. He'd entered for the briefest minute or two, and then: nothing. It must've been enough, then, to spawn...that. ]

They searched through my memories. For information. [ His voice is tight. He distinctly does not look at Jaskier, though he hears it in his breathing, that Jaskier is...he just can't. Do it right now. ] I tried to keep them out, but. [ But. Fuck. ] In the midst of it, something came loose and— [ Yennefer. He doesn't say it. He can't talk about it yet. Not that. ] —it must've affected the Horizon. I didn't know.

[ He'd have never left that place for just anyone to stumble onto. The irony is, if he had not trusted Jaskier so thoroughly, Jaskier would likely have never been able to open that door. But Kaer Morhen, though Jaskier hadn't come to visit yet, has always been open for his friend. ]

[baltimores]

[ He keeps the stool swivelled in Geralt's direction. Sitting upright, hands haphazardly resting between his knees, Amos looks for what constitutes as upwards here for a moment, as if in thought. Back at Geralt. ]

Yeah, probably. I don't really know anything about that. I've been camped out in the boonies pretty much ever since I got here. It's boring as fuck, but it's easier.

[ Easier than trying to immerse himself into a community where everyone's friendly, religious, looks out for each other to the extent that they do — it's a tough sell for him. He really did fuck up coming here. At least being drafted into an army or whatever makes sense; he has no clue what it is Solvunn is actually doing. It's never gonna make sense to him.

Amos watches the way Geralt's eyes flicker, how he seems to relax slightly. Or maybe turn a little more inwards, who knows. ]

'course it matters what you want. [ He's a little more engaged, now, as he takes in Geralt. Guy really did get fucked up, huh. ] What's the plan otherwise, be a human punching bag? Something tells me you're not the kind of guy who'll take to that. You just gotta figure it out first. Can't do anything until you do that.

[aquaveiled]

[ Home? She lowers her hand and looks up once again at the stone walls, keep--it's not too different from the sort she would see dotted around Coerthas if she were to think on it, but such places were meant to defend the land from the horde. ]

I'd thought the cabin was your home?

[ Or maybe it was much like it had been for Himeka--a piece of himself he didn't want to dwell on or think too deeply. A place from a time he couldn't go back to. She could respect that. ]

Oh yes, it's good to take it out now and again. We need to stretch our dream legs or some-such.

[ She bids her crystal sit still as she begins to walk again, moving right up to Geralt and the wolf without explicit invitation. ]

But mostly I wanted to enjoy a meal I can't get in Solvunn and it's always better with company. Hungry?

[cointosser]

[The noise is enough to indicate Geralt heard. (Of course he did.) That he acknowledges. Jaskier expects that to be the last of it. He simply does not keep secrets, and he has no intention of keeping them now. It was not a place he would've poked his head around in, had he known the meaning of it. Even he is not that big a fool.

His gaze lifts. Keep them out?

He frowns. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And how should it affect the Horizon?

Again, his fingers rub. No. He knows. He -- he can guess.]

Now that I've properly warned you, you know. [Not, he thinks, that Geralt is the type to run away from this sort of memory. He's always been very bad at running, actually. (Except from Destiny.)] Anyway, there it is. We can pretend it's not there, as it changes nothing -- as we so often do -- and move on.

[Sometimes you simply find horror-basements in your best friend's brain and you quietly accept them.] You might think of cleaning the place every now and then, by the way. It's terribly dingy.

[Perhaps sometimes it really is better to run away from these things.]