abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] when the river's running red

[ It takes a second, two. Then he's pushing himself to his feet to follow Dean. Part of it he's too tired to argue; the other is just–he feels it. Deep down, he can feel something's changed.

Look after her.

Geralt sits on the nearest surface: a chair he drags out from under the table and sinks into. His eyes roam over Dean. He wasn't the only one wounded in that whole mess of a nightmare. (Though perhaps wounded is an understatement for what happened to Geralt.)

Who else? How many others woke up nursing injuries that came from their own subconscious? ]

What of you?

[ He's starting with the easy topic first. As Dean rummages through his supplies, Geralt rolls his sleeve up higher. That cut is deep, clawed up his arm and across his palm, and will likely need sutures—but none of the wounds he bears now matches the amount of blood that's on him. ]

( He'd have been eyeballing that wound on Geralt's side if he weren't immediately directed to the arm. It's instinct, knowing what took the guy out in his dream, but Geralt knows his own condition better than Dean does. If the arm warrants priority, that's where he'll start.

He drags his own chair up and around so that he can perch at the edge of it. Take in the state, a small frown tugging absently on his lips.

He's gonna need to sew it. It ain't gonna be fun, but it's bound to be better than dying.

His eyes flicker only briefly up to Geralt's face at the question, and then drop immediately back down to the task at hand. )

What about me?

( It's a little dismissive, lost to the process of dunking cloth into a basin of water so he can start wiping away dried blood.

If the question is what of his injuries, he's not as bad off as Geralt. A cut on his cheek has carried over from their dream. A few closed wounds visible on his forearms, more healed than they should be considering they'd only technically happened last night. Closed cuts on his palms from broken glass. The worst thing he's sporting isn't from their dream, but rather the one he shared with Ciri initially. Remnants of it trickled over to the start of Geralt's — that line of blood along the front of his shirt when he'd stepped out of his car.

It's not nearly so bad in the waking world. Now, mostly just a long, thin line that could be scar tissue trailing over one shoulder, down collarbone, across pec. Only visible when he turns a certain way and the neck of his shirt flashes it.

He got off easy.

Something about that feels wrong. )

Your— [ He nods at Dean's, mm. Everything. Injuries, yes. Dean moves all right, so he assumes it isn't anything too serious, and yet. What stirs in him is...he knows it was only a dream, but at the same time, it almost seems like a portent. A reminder of the fact that Dean went out of his way to tell Geralt of Lucifer, and Geralt has not been quite as direct in return.

He has his reasons. It is not a decision he feels guilty over. Where Ciri is concerned, she will always come first. But he knows the responsibility rests on him, should he begin to rely on Dean further. Dean, Sam. People he will turn to if he needs Ciri to be protected. People who have done nothing but remain by his side.

He props his arm up on the table so Dean can do what he needs. It's fine. He's had his entire back sewn up after it split open twice. There's a sharp breath between his teeth as the needle digs in. It's at least a needle meant for the task—thin and curved, with thread that isn't overly thick. Not always a luxury he has.

He keeps still throughout. Continues drinking. It's not even the pain. He's just tired. If Dean hadn't pulled him into this room, Geralt was liable to stay outside Sam's door until he passed out. But he's here and Dean's fixing him up—it's all more than he often expects for himself, but he's learned to let it happen. Accept the help that comes his way. Only when the final stitch closes the wound does he finally say something. ]

Thank you. [ For this, but also for riding out at a moment's notice. (For coming with him through those woods, those twisted doors.) ]

( Your—

The answer that comes is a tired, empty I'm fine. And he is, more fine than he ought to be considering he's pulling a needle and thread through his friend's flesh. More fine than he ought to be considering Sam's unconscious a few doors down.

He concentrates intently on the task at hand - no pun intended - an unhappy furrow in his brow and a downturn to his lips. The reason for that becomes apparent, probably, after Geralt gives his thanks. Dean snorts out a quiet, incredulous laugh. No humor, only disbelief.

Thank you?

He shakes his head, that frown blooming wider, erring toward scowl.

Don't- don't do that. Don't say thank you to that, this is-

( He stops. Lets his hand fall down onto the table, his knuckles thumping against the surface. He grapples with his discontent, until one impulse surges ahead of the rest: accountability. Be a man, own up to it. Have a little integrity.

He sighs. )

This is my fault. This whole thing is- ( He stops to shake is head, to scrub his hand over his face once before plows on. ) This whole thing is on me. I should've known better. That was rookie hunter mistake number one, and it almost got you killed. It did get you killed. If Sam hadn't been there...

( Who the hell even knows what would've happened. )

The point is, I screwed up, and I'm sorry.

[ If he were less exhausted, he might have sensed what Dean has on his mind. Instead, the response catches him by surprise. Geralt blinks, looking up with knitted brows.

It was just a dream. He doesn't say it. It matters little if it was only a dream or no. They were both there and in effect, that makes it real to them in all the ways that count.

He reaches for the roll of clean linen in Dean's bag. Begins wrapping up his arm and hand with the practiced motion of one who's bandaged himself single-handed far too often. ]

You didn't make a mistake. You made a choice. [ It's an observation, not an accusation. His tone is not unkind. ] Because you hoped. And I made mine, for the same.

[ There's no right or wrong answer where matters of hope are concerned. Just choices.

If that were Ciri—what would Geralt have done? How much would he have hesitated? Who would he have sacrificed? Besides, he made the decision to leave Dean behind. The easy road would be to say Dean left him with no choice. The truth is, he had one. He could've taken another second to convince Dean. If they'd gone through those doors together, he might've not wound up piked into the sand. If Dean had not followed him, perhaps they both would have died—and Ciri would've had no one to protect her.

He holds his arm out for Dean to help tighten the binding. ] What happened happened. You came back.

I made the wrong choice.

( He corrects, unswayed — but reaches out without missing a beat to take the linen and tighten the binding. He shakes his head unhappily as he secures it into place. He gives it an absent, testing little tug — checking for give, for range of motion versus security. It'll do, it's about as good as it gets — clearly he's had to do this a fair amount in the past for both himself and his brother.

But he's not saying all this to stew in his own self-pity, he's not saying it to fish for reassurances. It's not okay, and he's not looking for ways to justify it. He doesn't seem all that interested in lingering on the out Geralt offers him, either. Muscles on past it, in fact, like it's gone in one ear and out the other, with a super subtle subject change: )

Lemme see your side.

( Since the arm is squared away. Might as well move on to the next, see if he needs to slap something on that or douse it with some of that hooch to keep it from getting infected. )

[ Geralt's expression suggests he isn't in agreement, but he also isn't here to argue about it. It means something to him, that Dean turned around, that Dean's been here. Whether Dean believes it or not won't change that.

He sighs, flexes his hand and determines the work will suffice. It's already on its way to healing.

Right. His side. He unbuttons his shirt. The gaping hole that was there is no longer. Just an open wound, trickling blood and fluid but not spilling his insides. It sits on the jagged path of an old scar that's been there for decades. Whatever Sam did, it took care of the worst of it. He suspects it's part of the reason his arm was the last healed. Not quite a priority, all things considered. ]

Just wrap it.

[ He just wants to be on his feet. He's working on his leg while he speaks, binding his knee tight—something to steady it. It isn't broken anymore, wasn't broken when he woke, either. So he can only hope that means the sharp ache will fade within the week or so. How in the hell does one gauge injuries born from a damn dream? ]

Edited 2022-06-26 05:54 (UTC)

( It may not be a gaping hole, but there's displeasure on Dean's face all the same as he examines the wound. Part of that might be a little due to the fact that it's gross, and all that desert sand's just around waiting to shove itself in there.

Dean shoots him a look — part judgment, part warning to brace himself — and goes for the bottle. Tugs the stopper out with his teeth, and gives it a quick douse. Won't feel great, but at least it's sanitary.

Then takes a drink of it himself, because why not, before setting it off to the side and going for more wrap. )

You look like shit.

( It's a mutter, unhelpful commentary, distracted by his concentration on the wound he's tending to.

It's also a pretty standard hunter-speak version of gently lightening the mood. )

[ His fingers tighten around his own bottle as Dean splashes the liquor into the wound. It burns like hot coals, and it's the hasty kind of treatment he expects from another hunter. There's a strange comfort in that.

As fond as he is of Nadine, she takes a little too much care for what he'll ever be used to.

He makes a soft, wry noise. ] Oh, do I? Have you plans to wash the blood out of my hair, as well?

[ He'll borrow Sam's bath later. Find...clothes. Or drag himself home, but Jaskier actually might wrestle him into the tub and scrub his hair, and Geralt truthfully does not wish to submit to Jaskier's fussing tonight. Or his worry. Ciri's brief disappearance has upset his friend enough. And who knows what dreams may have been bothering Jaskier. Or Ciri. He still hasn't granted as much thought as he should've to what she's told him of her experience at the crater.

He wants to manage one problem at a time. ]

Wash it? Hell no. ( Pause for the punchline: ) Be way easier to just cut it. I've got some scissors in the bathroom.

( He's kidding. Obviously.

Unless Geralt ever asks, at which point he'd be totally on that shit.

The last bandage affixed into place, he sits back in his own chair properly. Brings the bottle to his lips again to take a swig like punctuation, then slumps down a little into lazier posture. More tired, more boneless. )

If you wanna sleep somewhere that ain't the hallway, though, you're gonna need to change your damn clothes first.

( That's two subtle offers in one, slipped onto the table for Geralt to think about if he wants. They're not too far off in terms of size, and Dean's bed is open.

Well, technically, Cas's bed is open. Cas doesn't sleep, and also isn't here right now.

But first, in the meantime... A little gentle probing. His expression turns serious again, solemn, but also somehow a little gentle. His approach is a strange combination of blunt but also soft — no beating around the bush, but this isn't a demand. It's a request. )

You wanna tell me about the girl?

( He's not an idiot. )

[ Geralt shakes his head. The offer's appreciated. He just has things to take care of, even beyond Sam. Probably won't be sleeping tonight. Besides— ]

Not keen on sleep.

[ Given the circumstances. He's tired, but exhaustion and wanting to sleep are two different things for someone like him. He can be tired as fuck wherein sleep only makes it worse.

He tips back the bottle. It's rapidly growing lighter. Is he surprised by the question? Not nearly. It was bound to arise, after everything that Dean must've seen. And Geralt knows he could dismiss it as just figments of a dream, but while he's mastered the art of omission, he isn't one to outright lie. Not to a friend. ]

Which part? [ The desert-like world they burst into at the end? The skeletal horses? The part where monsters seemingly are drawn to her?

Maybe he's anticipated this day would come. Since their memories burst together some weeks ago, he's accepted that there are things a handful have seen about Ciri that cannot be easily explained. He isn't willing to clarify those details for most—but Dean's become more than most. ]

Edited 2022-06-27 00:50 (UTC)

( Not keen on sleep; he inclines his head in a little touche move. Yeah, can't blame him there. Dean himself probably won't manage more than an hour or two for the next couple days — not that it's entirely new. Not even after they clear up the magical whatever causing it to happen. Nightmares having nightmares, go figure.

That studious look doesn't waver, though it does go gently pointed. You know which part. Really gonna make him say it, huh?

Okay. )

What is she?

( He's not judging. It's not a question coming from the place of hunter, exactly. It's not a man looking for a monster.

He just wants to know what he's getting tangled up with here. Maybe more importantly: )

How worried should I be?

[ His eyes narrow. Dean may not mean it that way, but it stirs a protectiveness in him. There are too many who only look to her for what she is. She's more than that. ]

She's a girl. She's simply— [ He takes a breath. ] Inherited more Chaos than most. It draws...people and beings towards her, who believe she's to bring them salvation, win them a war. Call calamity upon the earth or save it or fulfill a prophecy.

[ Between those on the Continent and the Wild Hunt, who hasn't been in pursuit of her? Perhaps there's more that Ciri has not told him of. The reality is, there's much he doesn't know, and equally as much Ciri either does not know herself or will not tell him. In truth, it makes no difference. The outcome is the same: that people will pursue her across realms to take what they believe is theirs.

He leans forward. ] Cirilla is not meant for anything. But there will always be those who see her power as theirs to claim. Or a threat to eradicate.

[ It isn't only the kingdoms and empires he refers to. The Summoned are an equal concern in his eyes. Many are desperate to return home, and he's seen what desperation does to men. ]

( Oh yeah, he picks up on that. Like recognizes like, and damn if there's anybody in the world that totally gets being way too protective about family, it's Dean Winchester. Seeing that flair up in anybody would have him shifting gears a little, but it's especially effective coming from Geralt.

He lets the answer flow out, sits through it patiently. Veers more toward conciliatory than defensive. )

Just so we're clear, I don't care about... whatever prophecy, or destiny or- whatever she has sticking to her where you're from. I know how that goes, and I know it's a load of horseshit. She's not a sword.

( Neither was he, no matter what the whole goddamn host of heaven tried to say. )

What I'm worried about is... ( A little struggle-brain pause while he tries to formulate the right way to put this. ) Some of the stuff I saw in those dreams... the monsters she brought through, the people that were after her, that... dark side version of herself?

( He's in way over his head here without any real details.

The point is: )

I got your back, but that doesn't mean a damn thing if I'm swinging blind. I'm gonna be about as useless as male nipples if something happens.

[ A minute passes before Geralt sighs. He leans his weight on his good hand. That version of Ciri? These dreams are the first time he saw it, too. There are things Ciri will not tell him.

But he has his suspicions as to what it means. ]

The Wild Hunt. Dark beings from another sphere. Until I stepped into their world, I thought them only a myth. [ They are not, in the same Voleth Meir is not exactly a demon. She's of the Hunt. ] They believe Ciri is to ride among them.

[ For what reason he can't say. Fulfill the prophecy? Conquer other realms? There must be something trapping the Wild Hunt, something they need her ability for. Something beyond Voleth Meir's desire to return home. Otherwise, why would they pursue her as they have all these years? ]

I saw her corrupted soul. It won't come to pass. [ His voice is firm. It is not a fate that awaits her. That much he knows. ] She's afraid, that's all. Of what lies ahead.

( For a moment, he's quiet.

It hits a lot of familiar notes, is all. It's a song and dance he's been through, that he's seen his brother go through. He's looked into his own reflection, seen his own eyes go black. This is what you're gonna become — the fear that followed, and the small voice in the back of his mind whispering that it's true.

Come to think of it, he probably wasn't much older than she is at the time.

But the thing is... fighting things that are supposed to be a myth is his day job. Impossible, evil things rolling in from another dimension? That's what he does. It's the same thing that's been hovering over the heads of the people he cares about practically his whole life. Apparently that applies here now, to them.

That's why he sounds a little mission-mode, a little like he's gearing up for a job when he finally speaks. )

Tell me about the Wild Hunt.

( Part one of working a job: understand what you're dealing with. Learn anything and everything you can about the lore. Then, learn how to kill it.

What are the odds any of this information will ever be relevant? That it'll ever come to pass in Abraxas?

Well, slim to none if you ask any sane person, but knowing his life? He gives it six months and a Tuesday. )

[ A simple request with a complicated answer. Geralt takes his time to decide how best to begin. There are the stories and then there is the truth. ]

Shortly after I brought Ciri to Kaer Morhen, what we believed to be a demon resurfaced. Voleth Meir. She broke free of her hut, took possession of the girl, and used her to open a portal home. That was when I saw it. Voleth Meir, rejoining the Hunt.

[ Not a demon, in other words. Not in that specific sense. Voleth Meir is no more a demon than the humans or the vampires. She was, like many of them, trapped on the Continent after the Conjunction. That part he understands. He understands Voleth Meir's desire to return home. But there's much more to it than that. Between the Wild Hunt chasing Ciri across realms, Ithlinne's prophecy, and Nilfgaard's knowledge of her Elder Blood—he doesn't know how the fuck it's all meant to fit together. ]

Ciri tells me they've pursued her for years. This is the first world where they've not found her. [ It is also the first world where Ciri cannot open a portal to leave. ] Likely, the Singularity's immense power masks hers.

[ The implication is clear: he won't let anything or anyone disrupt the Singularity if it's the only thing protecting her. This is the entire reason they've chosen to remain in Abraxas. ]

Edited 2022-07-09 08:07 (UTC)

( He picks up on the implication and files it away in the back of his mind for later. Some people might take exception to it, some people here have some mighty lofty opinions about the Singularity and how best to handle it — destroy it, use it, whatever. Dean's is simpler than most: nobody knows what they're doing, so everybody should just leave it the hell alone. It's an opinion that jives pretty well with what Geralt needs right now. Hopefully it stays that way in the long term.

He's more concerned with the potential threat that isn't made of solid stone right now. )

Okay, but what are they? If they're not demons and they're not humans, they gotta be something.

( Dark beings, myths, yeah, he got that part, but can you shoot a myth? In other words, his real question is: )

What kills them? How'd you get that bitch out of her?

( So he knows how to help you put 'em down if they show up. )

[ After a second, Geralt puts the bottle aside. He understands why Dean is asking. This is just...unlike anything he's ever encountered before. It's hard to know what they're facing until he sees it for himself. ]

My suspicion is they must be connected to the elves. [ It's the only thing which makes sense. Their knowledge of the prophecy and Ciri's Elder Blood suggests they bear some relation. ] Voleth Meir took possession of Ciri because her form was weakened. She needed a body. Rejoining the Hunt likely made her whole again. If that's so, it means she can be killed the same way one would kill anything.

[ With a blade. Magic. A combination. In the strictest sense, he does believe they can be fought and killed. They carried solid weapons; they rode armoured steeds. The world they appeared upon might've been unfamiliar, but it's still a world. It isn't some mystical plane.

But that's easier said than done. He knows this, not because he's tried but because some version of him years later must've done so and fallen short. There is a reason Ciri is still running from the Wild Hunt. She won't tell him what happened in those intervening years, and he's learned not to push. It's just—every time he thinks about what lies ahead, about Ciri fleeing and hiding well past her childhood, it feels as though he's failed her somewhere along the way. ]

( Well, that ain't the answer he was expecting. Connected to the elves? What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

Maybe it doesn't matter. What matters is that whole the same way one would kill anything bit. He snaps his fingers, points, and declares: )

That's what I like to hear.

( No weird rituals, no silver-only, chanting in the shower, full moon on a Tuesday type ganking. Good old-fashioned straight-up murder. Halle-freakin-lujah. )

So basically what I'm hearing is, you two sit pretty behind the big ass fuck-off magic rock where the myth-demon horse girls can't see her, and if they turn up, we just chop their heads off before she accidentally summons in Junji Ito Nightmare Fuel. Problem solved, no harm no foul, everybody gets ice cream, and we all group hug.

[ It is, at least, the one upside of creatures that spawn from Geralt's world: a blade tends to be the only tool you need.

He gives a quiet snort. ] Hug's debatable. But effectively. Yes.

[ That is the plan. That is also the problem because most things, in Geralt's experience, do not go as planned where Ciri is concerned. What surrounds her is unpredictable, unknown, and he's been flying blind the moment he put her on his horse towards the path to Kaer Morhen.

But she is his. And while he never wanted to involve anyone else—for their sake as much as his—he can acknowledge if it had to be anyone, he'd have chosen Dean. They have an understanding he shares with very few others.

A second passes. He exhales, tugging on the bandage one last time. Gingerly gets to his feet. ] I need to speak to Ciri. [ For obvious reasons. ] Anything else goes to shit, you know how to reach me.

[ CLOSED ] when the river's running red

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