[ CLOSED ] let these bones be the giver

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: Mid-January
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Dealing with a sudden onslaught of new memories
Warnings: Spoilers for The Witcher S2, trauma, discussion of torture, etc. NSFW marked.



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

since geralt has been officially canon updated to the end of s2, just let me know directly if you want to have a zero spoiler interaction and i can set the threads pre-canon update for these cases.

Comments

ciri.

[gynvael]

[ Interruptions during a hunt are not what he allows often. Ever since he got dragged through a fucking portal, though, he understands his failure to respond to a message might be cause for concern. Which is why, as he's crouched behind a boulder, he sees the familiar shimmer of a script he knows well: I know it's ridiculous and you're likely balls-deep in a wyvern or something, but I—I had a nightmare. A fucking ominous one. Tell me you're all right. So I can forget it.

Shit. He squints. It warrants more attention than he can give at the moment. What's fucking ominous is the flapping of heavy wings above, an accompanying screech. In return, Jaskier gets a curt: ]

In one piece.

[ That should be the end of it. Should. The dream comes later.

He's had too many dreams to count. Nightmares, old memories tumbling together, meaningless visions. But this. When he wakes, ears ringing, a tight curl in the pit of his stomach—he knows immediately it's different. He can't place his finger on what it is that's provoked such a visceral reaction in him. The vividness with which he recalls it, perhaps. Instinct. Just a knowing. (How is it even possible?) He recalls Jaskier asking what he had out of the blue only a day prior and thinks: ​fuck.

It spurs him back home. He cuts his excursion short, abandons the nest he was scouting since last night. He decides not to tell Ciri he's returning early; he'd rather not worry her over the day or two it'll take for him to ride back. He tries not to linger on what's now all too sharp, too bright, in his mind: Ciri herself. A series of images, events, that he knows he did not live and yet. There it is. Laid out like a mangled, bloodied tableau. Only one person he knows of can truly confirm what it is that's now burnt into his head.

His fingers curl into his palm. He rides faster. Dust kicks up behind him; his vision cuts through the night's dark cloak.

(Part of him already suspects the answer she will give. But he still needs to hear it. Beyond that, he isn't letting himself think or dwell. He can't; he needs to take care of what is or is not happening first before he sits down with the truth of it all. Of what it means. Of where it leaves him: here in this world, with Yennefer (Yennefer), Jaskier. Cirilla. His tattered family.)

Dawn is only just brightening the sky when he arrives. The morning's early; she should be home, but she keeps hours as odd as he does sometimes. He pushes open the door. His sword is set against the wall; he's already looking, listening for where Ciri might be, if she's asleep or elsewhere. ]

[wiedzminka]

[ After everything with Jaskier (and it has been a lot), Ciri considered reaching out to Geralt. She weighed the words in her mind, turned them over like riverstones, again and again-- and each time, she discarded them. The truth is not that she doesn't know what to say; it's that she doesn't want to say it at all. She does not want to tell him. She does not want to answer the questions that will come.

So she steals time, spends the hours filling her mind with other things and her belly with drink, her hands occupied with her sword or her horse's reins. Jaskier is gone (despite his promise not to leave her alone, a part of her remembers bitterly, and tries to forgive him). Geralt would come home if she asked, but she doesn't. The nightmares keep her awake.

Geralt won't find Ciri in the apartment when he returns. Rinwell is asleep alone on their bed; Jaskier's is empty.

The window is open. A soft breeze flutters the curtains, carrying the faint, rhythmic sshk, sshk of stone against steel. ]

[gynvael]

[ She isn't here.

Geralt frowns. Her horse was in the stable when he returned with Roach. Her bag is here, too, though not her sword. She must be in the city. Logically, he is aware there's nothing to worry about. Ciri comes and goes, she is not a child any longer, she can fend for herself. Cadens holds no active threats for the time being. But the memories are fresh, too bright—how he'd been bare inches from losing her—and for a split second, genuine fear rises.

He swallows it down. Concentrates, and catches the noise drifting in. A familiar scent. Geralt breathes out. He ducks out the same open window, steps onto the overhang, and hauls himself onto the roof above.

It isn't rare, to discover her on the roof, but he knows what it means to find her there in the middle of the night, blade in hand. They're prone to the same habits. He realized that some time ago, but the knowledge settles with more weight now.

He sits down beside her. Jaskier is absent. Ciri is out here. He can put together a rough sense of what happened. Given that Geralt is home a full three days earlier than expected, he thinks Ciri can do the same. ] Can't sleep?

[wiedzminka]

[ The sound stops when Ciri hears movement, footsteps, the creak of the overhang under someone's weight announcing she is not alone. Geralt climbs up to join her, and though Ciri wasn't necessarily expecting him, she's not entirely surprised either.

Her eyes return to the whetstone in her hand, her dagger in the other; the sword is beside her, having gotten its turn already. Geralt doesn't get a greeting, but it's not as though he offered one first. ]

What did Jaskier tell you?

jaskier (feat. moglad)

[gynvael]

[ Where Yennefer is concerned, there's nothing more for him to do except wait. See what comes next. Sooner or later, he will find her. He intends on it. But there's no sense in aimless ruminating in the meantime. He occupies himself instead: clears out a section of debris in the main hall, brushes Roach. Puts aside, for now, what he saw in place of that tent. (The scorched walls. The— )

He goes to find Jaskier shortly. Jaskier, who's clearly keeping something quiet. Hidden. It isn't like his friend. It worries him. What happened, that he's missing? Jaskier will not tell him and Geralt knows not to push the subject. He also knows, perhaps better than anyone, that the Horizon reveals much about people whether they intend it to or not. A home, manifested out of one's heart.

And so it's for more than a visit that he steps into Jaskier's domain. He almost walks by it at first. Only the familiar dreary grey blocks of Oxenfurt make him realize that he's in the right place. Of course. Oxenfurt. A tavern. The bright fanciful vineyard has dissipated. In its place is something much more real.

It's telling. But—once inside, he can see not all of Jaskier's colour has been lost. Because upon the counter is the furry bastard of a creature Jaskier calls Moglad. It's sprawled out atop the bar, guzzling straight from a bottle nearly twice its size.

Geralt watches it for a moment, then takes the bottle from its tiny paws. Its protests go ignored as he tips the bottle back. ] No more grapes to guard?

[cointosser]

[Moglad, despite the intervention of Jaskier's psyche, is having the time of his life. If he's to be here without the sun and the grapes and a harp in his hands, at least there's plenty to drink!

And drink he does. By the time anyone comes by, Moglad's stomach is rounder than ever, several empty bottles around him. Has he stopped? Absolutely not. He keeps drinking, pom bobbing with satisfaction --

Then he nearly tumbles off the bar as the bottle is ripped from his hands.]

K-kupo!! What are you doing, Mr. Geralt? Master Jaskier isn't here! [His wings lift him up, and already he's darting to try to pull the bottle from Geralt's grip -- unsurprisingly, in a similar way his master has once attempted before.] He's [A pull] going through [Another tug, his wings flapping] some things!

[gynvael]

[ The creature's little claws dig into the bottle as it tugs hopelessly. Geralt holds on with zero effort, before letting go abruptly at just the right time to perhaps send Moglad tumbling through the air.

He still doesn't understand what this thing is. He's been told it's a moogle. There's a round glowing ball atop its head, its wings are nowhere near large enough to carry its round fuzzy body, and it never shuts the fuck up. It's also in a constant state of inebriation. It's less than useless.

And yet. He stops to speak to it each time. Often when he wanders by, and Jaskier isn't here, and Moglad comes to greet him in his master's stead. ]

Aren't we all. [ Yeah. They're all going through some shit. He sits on the stool, one foot propped up on the footrest. His eyes linger on Moglad. He gestures around them with a finger. Moglad, he knows, is a manifestation of Jaskier. But the creature also has a bit of a mind of its own, much like his wolf. Whether or not that mind is simply the subconscious of its creator is hard to say, but either way, it means Moglad has things worth hearing. About Jaskier, specifically. ] When did he change all this?

[cointosser]

[As expected, Moglad goes tumbling through the air, spinning with the bottle clutched in his paws, with a long, drawn out KUPPOOOOOO!! He only rights himself right before he knocks into a stool, though he nearly drops the wine bottle he'd been chugging from. He manages to swing down through the air and catch it right before it hits the floor, placing it gently down so he can flutter tiredly onto a chair.

Mr. Geralt is always so cruel... Moglad doesn't deserve this...

Yet the moogle doesn't find a nook to hide away. He shakes his head, clapping his paws against his cheeks to ease his dizziness and, er. Sobriety. It only helps a little, and now his cheeks are more pink than before, even through his fur.] Only a few days ago, I think... he said it started changing on its own. But that I could stay, kupo. So I stayed.

[The moogle is ready to stop there, but he tilts his head at Mr. Geralt and decides to add more. He knows Mr. Geralt cares about his master, that they're nearly always together. Did he come here looking for Jaskier...?] I think he's sad about something.

strange.

[gynvael]

[ When all is said and done, there are larger, immediate concerns that are not to do with loss and grief. Ciri has never hid what it is she can do, what her Elder Blood means, but it's different for him to really know. To know not only from what she's told him of her understanding, but from what he learned himself. Saw himself.

All the books and scholars in this world will not have the answers he's searching for. He isn't sure who will, while he's trapped in this sphere, but he intends to find out. It feels too dangerous, to leave the matter untouched. It's already been disturbed at this point.

He goes to Sam. Who else? Sam has the most connections of anyone. More than that, Geralt trusts him: both to not pursue what Geralt is not yet willing to tell and to keep the information to himself. He can take Sam's word on who's good. So even though the man Sam directs him to resides in Thorne, Geralt reaches out. His message is unsigned out of caution; the brevity is simply how he is. ]

Sam sent me your way. Can we talk?

[sorser]

[The message gives very little to work with, cropping up in his vision with an equal lack of fanfare. And Stephen might’ve mulled over it longer thanks to its puzzling brevity, but the sender was smart enough to leave a name — one that gives random missives more dimension in his estimation, all things considered.

If Sam had directed them to him, then it had to be for good reason.

Stephen’s eyes become vaguely more unfocused on his reading as he whips up a reply.]

Horizon. My place or yours?

[He’s made a few assumptions, but he’s guessing they’re true. One wouldn’t be vague about a message if not trying to be cautious, which likely means hunting Stephen down in Thorne territory is a no-go.]

[gynvael]

[ The reply that comes is equally brief and to the point. He can appreciate that. Normally, he'd choose his domain for simplicity, but at the moment, the keep is...complicated. A bit fucked. ]

Yours. One hour. Where is it?

[ A brief description or direction will do; he finds his way easily and the Horizon isn't large. He shows up in an hour—or whichever time they ultimately agree to—and finds himself on grounds that are familiar and yet not, for more than one reason.

The temple-like space, the mountains. They remind him of the temple in Ellander, where he stayed for some time as a boy. But it's the building that rises nearby, almost out of place, that catches his attention. He's seen it before. Distinctive round window, the brick-laid streets. He went there, during that strange twilight time within the Horizon where each of them remembered nothing and too much all at once. Walked into those doors. Searching, for a girl he could only vaguely recall. He did not find a girl, but he did find a man who somehow seemed more hollow than even his home.

And what would you have in return?

A little less empty time.

Funny, how things go. Here he is again, with a name to a face this time. Or he assumes that's what he'll find behind these doors: the same face. He knocks, once, and waits. ]

[sorser]

[He provides the description without too much flourish, expecting that the facsimile of the Sanctum Sanctorum should stand out easily enough based on just a few generalized details. It’s a strange building—pun definitely not intended—amid the otherwise meditative exterior, two different fragments of two different worlds, all belonging to the same man.

The interior reflects this mish-mash of weird and esoteric — an interior that Geralt will be privy to yet again once the door swings open on its own, inviting him in. The broad space of the foyer is inviting enough; a flame crackles in its fireplace along a far wall, as though shielding the indoors from the Himalayan air sweeping in.

Stephen’s already halfway down the staircase when the other man enters, dressed in the familiar: his navy sorcerer’s garb and the length of a red cloak fluttering behind him. The look he gives his guest is fixed, curious, and doesn’t bother to hide its assessment, gleaning what he can based on first impressions alone.]

You can sit where you want.

[If he’s inclined, there are places for it. Cozy corners that might not exist on any given day, depending on Stephen’s whims.]

If you think this’ll be an extended visit.

nadine.

[gynvael]

It does not surprise him, when he steps into the Horizon, to find the crumbled remnants of the keep. Hard to say if his expectation of it caused it to happen in the first place. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

There are no bodies inside, at least. Just blood and gore splashed over the floors, the walls. He picks up the toppled brazier before anything can catch alight. Flips over the only table that's intact. Ironic, that he had told Vesemir he couldn't stay to help restore the old fortress. And yet here he is doing so, regardless, worlds away.

He knows he can set it right with his mind. He doesn't want to. Part of him thinks it might not last, that it will crumble again the next time he returns. Another part of him simply feels there's a difference between fixing the damage and undoing it. There's no reason to undo anything. It happened. He has little interest in retreating into the past. There is only moving on.

His wolf stands by the entrance, but if Nadine arrives, she'll find it sniffing curiously at her before seeming to approve. The doors are closed, but not locked to her—but whether or not she means to knock or step in, they open abruptly.

Geralt blinks. Oh. When—? "Nadine."

[nadine_he_loves]

Maybe swinging a sword around isn't the best distraction when emotional and mentally off-kilter, but Nadine has so few potential outlets. She has her sword now, thanks to Ronan, and both Geralt and Ciri have invited her to the mountain domain they seem to share. It's something to do that isn't crushing herbs and cold weather flowers into pulp, something she can't let her mind wander during.

Of course the place may be empty, or its inhabitants not in the mood for visitors, but she'll just leave if that's the case. So she makes her way to Geralt's domain, wearing a sweatshirt and yoga pants and sneakers. Unsure of what one wears for sword practice, workout clothes seemed the best bet. Her sword is belted at her hip, the pearl detailing on the sheath matching that on the handle.

The wolf surprises her and she holds very still as it makes its appraisal, trying not to think about what had happened over the holiday. It's not even a real animal, after all. Something born of someone's mind.

"Oh!" The doors startle her yet again, and she takes an instinctive step back as they open. "Uh...hi. Sorry if I'm interrupting anything...."

[gynvael]

A second or two pass as Geralt takes her in. The sword at her side, specifically. That's new. He realizes—

Right. He'd invited her. And offered to train her. Only makes sense she'd show up. Fuck, she couldn't have come last week? He releases a breath, like he's deciding if she is interrupting or not.

In the end, he steps aside. "Come in."

She's never seen the keep prior to now. He knows she isn't prone to asking questions, anyhow, and besides. He isn't exactly trying to hide the state of the fortress. He just can't care to explain. About anything. He steps over the debris, the splatters of blood as the doors swing shut. Snow drifts through a hole in the ceiling. There is precisely one table available for her to sit on.

"I heard you made a trip." There's no judgement or accusation in his voice, but the raise of his eyebrow suggests he's curious about what she was after. Nadine has never struck him as reckless—nor uncaring. If she left Julie behind to trek to Thorne after everything, she must've felt it important enough to do so.

[nadine_he_loves]

She almost protests, says that it's fine, she can come back another time.

But Geralt isn't one to invite her in just to be polite. If he wanted her gone, he'd tell her plainly.

With a nod, she passes through the doors, looking about curiously. She's had no prior conception of what this place may be, but the...disarray surprises her. It's not her place to ask, though. This is his domain and whatever it means to him isn't her business.

"Yeah," she answers, not sitting at first. "I have contacts there, that don't use the Horizon. But now I know that no one is after me or mine, or even really cares about us. And that...someone I had to leave behind is still safe."

Things that were important to her. She felt responsible for her little band, for their safety. She'd needed to know just how imminent a threat the forces at the castle were. And if Ronan was alright.

julie.

[gynvael]

[ In a strange twist, the broken pieces of home bring him into the Horizon more often. He's only entered as needed before: to speak to someone, to leave a note, to attend some gathering or other. But there is something to fix in it now and he finds himself doing exactly that. When he's between contracts, he fixes.

It isn't real. He knows. It's important nonetheless. He wants to put what he can back together.

He rarely wanders as a result—but today, he pauses his work to stop by Julie's. Certain conversations between them have taken on new light. Beyond that, he simply wants to look in on her. He hasn't seen her since he woke up with his head filled with. Memories. He just wants to be around someone for whom none of that matters. Where nothing will really change because of what he now knows.

When he reaches the doors, though, something feels—off. Different. Perhaps it's to do with the music, the lights. Or it's more subtle than that, a shift in the air, a sense he can't explain. Whatever it is, he hesitates a second before he pushes on the doors. They open, as they always have for him.

Often, he goes upstairs on his own to look for her or just lingers at the bar until she appears. This time, he takes only a step or two inside. Lets the doors swing shut behind him. ] Julie?

[princessvegas]

[ Julie has always spent most of her time in the Horizon. She's sure that's probably terrible for her in most ways, particularly physically, but she doesn't fit into this world, can't make it feel like someplace she's supposed to be. The Horizon, on the other hand, feels like home. It's comfortable and makes sense, and particularly now, it's someplace that she doesn't have to face the reality of what's happened.

Her family came back from Nott whole, intact. It didn't matter. She hasn't spoken a word to any of them since their return. Their willingness to leave her behind had been cemented in her mind, and that meant she was alone again. Fine. She had her job, she had her horse, she had her club. She didn't need them.

And then Susan disappeared.

As angry as she is, it still hurts. She'd almost died in Julie's arms, she'd held Susan's hands and stroked her hair and taken care of her the whole time she was recovering. She'd made Susan enjoy herself at Halloween, they'd surprised each other by both being dead. And now Susan is gone. Just like she'd never existed in the first place. Like Flagg disappeared. Left her.

Julie realized that this was going to happen over and over, until everyone she cares about or spends time bonding with is just gone. They'll leave her over and over, break her until there's nothing left to break, and she knows that there already wasn't that much to begin with. Captain Trips had left her shattered, and now Abraxas had swept in for the kill.

Now, she is in the real world only enough to work, keep making money, and to care for her horse. Susan's now too, yet another horse she'll need to sell. Every other moment is spent in the Horizon, even sleeping, because if she's going to feel this terrible, it can at least be in comfort.

She'd locked the doors. Banished the partiers, the bartender. She didn't want to see them. There are lights on, but no neon, no colors. The chairs are on the tables. There's music but it's not throbbing bass and driving rhythm. It's quiet background noise now, pop and lo-fi. Just enough to stave off the silence, the whispers, the death rattles that still live in her ears.

When he walks in, it's the closing of the door that catches her attention. She's up on the balcony, sitting cross-legged on the floor. There's a bottle of bourbon and a bong on one side of her, and on the other are her various tiny pets -- the dragon, the T-Rex, her unicorn. The former two spend their time provoking each other into roars and little flames, and the latter just lies next to her, his tiny head resting on her bare foot. In front of her is a glass lantern, which doesn't hold a candle but instead what appears to be a storm cloud, floating at the top. She's practicing trying to make it send down lightning strikes.

Picking up the unicorn, she stands and goes to the railing, looks down with her head cocked. She could have sworn she locked the doors. Maybe she forgot today -- she had gone out earlier to give Snowflake a pork chop before she closed herself in. She has been drinking a lot. She peers down with some degree of surprise; she hasn't reached out to anyone at all since Christmas, and she obviously wasn't expecting any visitors, dressed in just silk pajamas with a loose cardigan open over it. She was fully expecting to pass out where she was sitting.

She clutches her tiny unicorn (his name is Duke) to her chest. ] Geralt?

[gynvael]

[ Off is putting it lightly once he's inside. He's grown used to the overabundance of colour and lights and noise he finds in her domain. Now it's empty, practically silent for her, and he realizes how vast and lonely the place appears when it isn't filled with trinkets, her dancing people. Even the chairs have been put up. As though the place has been shut down. It's only her, up there, with a. Is that a little live unicorn? And a tiny sputter of flame that shoots up from behind the railing. ]

Hey. [ There's a small pause before he makes his way up the stairs. He can't recall ever seeing her as anything except fully done up in all her shine and shimmer. Not in the Horizon. Aside from when he's the one who undoes her. (Has she remembered something else, too? Something new? That's an easy presumption to make, but truthfully, it could be any number of things in the world that's gotten to her. Small or large. Even just a shit nightmare.)

He sits down beside her. Takes in the thick smell of herbs, the liquor. It's such an utterly despondent scene. He feels, almost, like he's invading—but she hasn't told him to leave. And he's worried, because—the distance means he can never be certain if she or any of her people are okay. He can't intervene from where he is. A lot can change in a night. A lot can change miles away. He just has to live with the fact that he cannot know, until he is told, until it may be too late.

Concern draws his brows together. ] Are you all right?

rinwell.

[gynvael]

[ In the midst of everything, Geralt has not forgotten Rinwell. The girl is sharp; he needn't ask to understand she's likely gathered that something is wrong. And while she isn't a part of this mess, while the last thing he desires is to drag her into their bullshit, he can't leave her in the dark, either.

She's become a part of—this. Them. (Another family of a kind.) She's certainly lended her share of work. And he's seen how Ciri has taken to her—teaching her to ride, bringing her outside the city. She deserves to know, at least, why Jaskier is moody—rarely home and never sober when he is. Why Ciri wanders the streets at night even more than she did before.

He waits for Rinwell at home, or perhaps that's where he finds her already. Whichever the case may be, he approaches without much preamble. There's blood still under his nails; it's clear he went straight from what he was hunting to home, without pause in between. ]

Rinwell. Can we talk?

[rinwell]

[ It's been a strange week, and while Rinwell is many things, she is still at heart a teenager, and even her patience is nearing its limits with how those around her have begun to behave. Literally overnight, to the best she can tell, and there's a part of her baffled, wondering what she missed.

She'd have asked Ciri by now, but Ciri is so often gone by the time she wakes, and not always returning some nights by bed time (if at all).

It's unsettling, this sudden instability in the family unit that took her in. She doesn't like it. And as it bothers her, so too it bothers Hootle.

When Geralt approaches, she's parked in the apartment kitchen eating dinner while perusing the travel maps Ciri had left her, where making stew gave her something to do. It'll keep, something anyone who enters the home can enjoy at the time of their choosing. (Technically, it isn't her turn to make dinner, but, well...Jaskier has either forgotten or "forgotten".) The soup spoon doesn't make it to her mouth; instead, she drops it back down into the bowl, taking Geralt's measure. ]

Sure. [then, with a hint of bite, reproachful] No one else in this house seems to want to.

[gynvael]

[ He joins her in the kitchen, pulling up a chair to sit on so they're face to face. She's always reminded him a little of Ciri—but where it was once Ciri as he imagined, now he simply remembers. The similarities.

So that bit of reproachfulness is no surprise. He gets it. He'd vanished already last month, and now there's. This. Despite everything—or perhaps because of it—he doesn't want her to feel left behind. Or forgotten.

He wastes little time getting to the matter at hand. ]

Jaskier and I, we both...had a sort of vision. Of things that came to pass after we left our world. [ He pauses. It feels impossible, saying it out loud. And yet here they are. ] We aren't certain how. I'm still trying to work that out.

sam.

[gynvael]

[ Sooner or later, Geralt expects Sam will find him here. He's prepared for it, waiting for it almost, and in truth, he doesn't especially mind it. He's shared with Sam what he's shared with very few. His home, the dark shards of his childhood, his. Family. (What's left of them.) Maybe it helped, maybe it didn't. He still isn't sure, but he doesn't regret it and perhaps that's enough. Perhaps that means enough.

So when Sam arrives, Geralt lets him in. The place looks less like a storm swept through it. Marginally. He's righted a couple of tables, cleared the smashed ones to the side. The braziers and hearth are lit again, fire crackling. A pile of wooden pieces sit in the center of the floor, and it's clear Geralt has started to rebuild the tables and benches that have broken. ]

You'll have to make your own seat.

[ That's as much as he'll address the sudden change of scenery. He sits back down on the ground, flipping a piece of wood over. He's done this before: building by hand, bit by bit, in the Horizon. It was how he built his first cabin. The one that never was.

He doesn't ask why Sam's here, either. To look in on him, to talk to him about something in particular, for a distraction of his own—Geralt assumes he'll find out in time. They've reached a point where it doesn't matter much, where he doesn't need to know what Sam wants or why to accept his company. ]

[falcony]

[ had this been a couple of months before, sam would have never ventured into geralt's domain without being led or invited, explicitly. never would have just showed up along the outer border and walked his way down the path and through the courtyard. his and geralt's relationship had always been built up on respect; respect for privacy coming first. and yes, sam has learned much of what geralt went through, the life he had before and after the trials, what made him who he is today. and all of that had been on geralt's terms, intentionally. specifically.

now, though, whether it be what happened over the last few months or where they left off the last time sam was here, he doesn't think twice about the walk. doesn't find it weird that the doors do open for him. if anything, part of why involves his own distractions - the way his mind circles around his conversation with goro, what he should and shouldn't have said. geralt had gone to the rally too, so he knew a bit of the rhetoric that goro had been using, saw the way it was taken... but sam couldn't quite get passed it. what he did. what he hasn't done yet, and probably should have started months ago. but he's not here with the intention to talk about that, or the guilt he's had issues swallowing through since then. he's here to talk about goro, and about what he thinks should happen, and to see if geralt agrees.

( and, if he's lucky, maybe broach the subject of those dreams. of what happened. of what happened to jaskier. but as it always is with geralt, sam is going to wait and see what the mood feels like and go from there. )

except that when he makes it inside and turns, expecting to see the large grand hall just as he had the last time they were here, he sees...something else entirely. it's destruction, it's chaos, but it's also in progress. whatever had happened here, geralt has already started to pick it up, and sam's frozen to the spot for a second, maybe two, taking it all in. (if he had the thought, he'd notice how that seems to be a theme with geralt. that sam only sees him in the process of fixing up whatever unspeakable thing he's survived. his leg, in the caves back in thorne. him, arriving in cadens after nadine and julie had already fixed him up. his horizon, in tatters, already partially completed.)

geralt tells him something about making his own seat, and sam blinks himself out of the thought. it doesn't do any of them any good, focusing too much on the how and what and why, so instead sam just sort of takes a breath and settles his shoulders and walks in. makes it all the way to whatever side or corner or aisle that geralt has situated himself up in and pulls off the jacket he'd worn (because this place is always cold). ]

Need a hand?

[ and it's directly with that i'm ready to work kind of tone. sam doesn't ask, at least not yet, waiting for geralt to either tell him not to touch anything or accept the help. ]

[gynvael]

[ Sam isn't wrong: there are a number of reasons why Geralt's come to let Sam into his life, how he's decided to trust him, but the most significant is that Sam's never pushed past what Geralt has allowed. From the moment they'd met, each time Geralt said don't ask, Sam didn't question it or insist otherwise or go around him to find out from Jaskier instead. He simply didn't ask—not because he didn't care or had no desire to bother, but because it was requested of him. Geralt's always refused to offer himself over solely at the behest of others—too many have made choices for him as it is—but he's often had to fight to do so. Sam's one of the few for whom he just...can. Where it isn't treated as though he's being difficult, as though he owes something to the world.

It's why he's never found it unusual that Sam didn't ask to see his domain or ever tried to come inside looking for him before Geralt invited him. And it's why he does find it worth noting that, regardless of the unlocked doors, Sam has wandered all the way inside where normally he might've knocked first or waited for explicit acknowledgment. It doesn't bother him, exactly. Not like that. It's more that it's what makes Geralt look at Sam a little closer—curious as to what's gotten him distracted.

He doesn't need a hand. But he suspects Sam could use giving one. If he's noticed Sam's pause to take in the state of this place, Geralt makes no remark, offers no explanation. He'll tell Sam eventually. He thinks Sam knows he will, too. When he's ready. When he's sorted out his thoughts, when the tightness in his chest is not so overwhelming. He's already talked to Jaskier, to Ciri. He'd done it because they'd needed to hear from him. Sam does not need the same, so he says nothing. All he wants is to put this fucking table back together.

He holds out a plank of wood. ] What's on your mind?