[ The doors shut behind him with finality. It's a dull ache, the kind that sits in a carved out hollow for all things lost. With every step, Dean fades from Geralt's memory, his thoughts. Their entire trip here, Sam, everything—it recedes inch by inch into the corners, pulled by some unknown force, until the only thing he recognizes is what's in front of him: thundering hooves, crackling lightning, a swirling frost that begins to overtake the sand with snow.
He does not notice when or how Dean has come after him.
The era of the wolf's blizzard.
The voice that rumbles through is not her but it is. It is. His heart tightens in his chest, trapped against his ribs. Dust and snow alike whip around him, sharp as the glass that sprayed through the doors. His eyes sting.
Through the thick frost, it's perhaps difficult to see what is happening. The pounding hooves is unmistakable, though. So is the heavy clang of steel on steel. When the winds finally die down, Geralt is curled around something—someone: a girl, several years younger than the woman Dean would know as Ciri, but not so young that it's impossible to place her features. She clutches at him.
The world is suddenly still. Each breath comes heavy, ragged. A fragment of bone is visible through his leg. Several feet away is a broken-tipped spear, stained red all the way up its length. Blood splatters the dirt when he coughs.
It's funny. He's been here before, more than once. At the edge of death's fields. He's always clawed his way back with a deeply entrenched animal resolve, but here, somehow, he does not. Like he knows. That it's different this time. Hard to say how. Maybe it's the fucking hole through his body. ]
no subject
He does not notice when or how Dean has come after him.
The era of the wolf's blizzard.
The voice that rumbles through is not her but it is. It is. His heart tightens in his chest, trapped against his ribs. Dust and snow alike whip around him, sharp as the glass that sprayed through the doors. His eyes sting.
Through the thick frost, it's perhaps difficult to see what is happening. The pounding hooves is unmistakable, though. So is the heavy clang of steel on steel. When the winds finally die down, Geralt is curled around something—someone: a girl, several years younger than the woman Dean would know as Ciri, but not so young that it's impossible to place her features. She clutches at him.
The world is suddenly still. Each breath comes heavy, ragged. A fragment of bone is visible through his leg. Several feet away is a broken-tipped spear, stained red all the way up its length. Blood splatters the dirt when he coughs.
It's funny. He's been here before, more than once. At the edge of death's fields. He's always clawed his way back with a deeply entrenched animal resolve, but here, somehow, he does not. Like he knows. That it's different this time. Hard to say how. Maybe it's the fucking hole through his body. ]