abraxaslogs | ( open & closed ) july catch-all

Entry tags:

( open & closed ) july catch-all

Who: aerith & you
When: throughout july
Where: solvunn, the horizon
What: catch-all for the month
Warnings: will update if applicable

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( the way he moves is interesting, and like a cat studying a particularly flighty bird, her eyes flicker to his steps, watching him artfully dodge this way and that, around the flowers, as though he's reluctant to step on them. she doesn't even have to scold him for it, for him to recognize that they're important; it's not like she couldn't very well conjure up a whole new set, here, or like it would be that hard to imagine them, with their perfect colors and petals. but the fact that he takes care of it means that he's a lot more caring and observant than he might appear--she wonders if everyone gives him that credit.

on her part, she's much the same: her eyes flit over his features as he comes closer, but so far, everything seems fit to memory. he still looks rugged, still looks tired, still looks like he has a lot of places he would rather not be and a lot of thoughts he might rather not have, a lot of burdens, maybe. there's a scar that runs up his arm, pink and new; but how new? she can't remember if it had been there before or not. )

I figured that would be your answer. We'll make some. ( she says it with a short dip of her chin, as though it's been decided. to his crouching, she reaches out a hand to pat him lightly on the shoulder. ) You can sit, you know. I haven't dug any holes for you to fall into or anything.

( to the flowers, then, she turns her attention back again--studying, touching, as though she's looking to pick some. )

I was hoping we could talk a little. I don't have many people to talk to, here. And I was hoping... Maybe, you've seen Cloud? ( there's a small tilt of her head, almost like she already knows the answer before she asks it. ) Maybe you've kept him safe?

I'm sorry. I know it's a little selfish, dragging you all the way out here...

[ He glances upwards, faintly amused, and sits on the grass altogether. He wonders if Aerith talks to her flowers here, too. Does it count when they're born of her mind in the first place? He watches her sort through her plants for a bit. Somehow, for reasons he can't explain, he'd expected a tidy garden. And yet now that he finds it is far from neatly trimmed, it feels more fitting than not. ]

You didn't. [ Drag him, he means. If he'd had no reason to come, he'd have not. But despite their brief encounter, he likes her. Finds her curious, at least, if only because he senses there's more to her than she lets on.

There's no easy path to telling someone their friend is missing. He does it the only way he knows how: bluntly, but not unkindly. ]

I haven't seen Cloud in some time. [ He can't confirm whether this means Cloud vanished or if something else happened. The Free Cities is large. The deserts are unforgiving. All he can say is he hasn't seen a body nor heard anything of the sort. ] He disappeared a few weeks ago. Perhaps earlier. I'm sorry.

[ She's said little of her relationship with Cloud, but the fact that Cloud has avoided contacting her despite clearly worrying about her indicates something he can't figure out. ]

( it doesn't seem like an answer that surprises her, and yet there's a silence for a moment, as though needing to let the words soak in, or maybe to figure out the correct way to react in front of someone who is not quite a stranger, and yet not quite a trusted friend just yet; there's more a freedom to be honest, then, with someone who doesn't know everything about her and can take her at face value, but at the same time, it feels like a burden, a burden that someone like geralt likely wouldn't mind and yet one she wouldn't put on him all the same.

her fingers still, worked around the stem of a particularly tall flower--she tips the head of it towards her to look at the center, into the petals, and finds it easier to focus when she can concentrate on the slight lift of her lips in a smile. there's no need to feel lonely, really, when this is how it should be; there's no need to worry, when she knows that cloud will have likely returned safely back home. but it stings, despite knowing better: it stings, because it's easier to explain feelings than to actually feel them. )

Oh, okay. ( there's a warmth to her voice--but a thread of exhaustion there, all the same. ) That's okay. I figured as much, I think.

( with one gentle nip of her thumbnail, twisting it up underneath the flower, she plucks it right off the stem. it's yellow and white, a flurry of petals circled around the center; she holds it in her palm, and moves her hand towards geralt, as though it's something of an offering. )

He had things he needed to do, so it's no wonder. Hey, have you ever played the petal plucking game? ( she seems to be carrying on with some cheerful tone, as she finally turns her gaze up to look at geralt's face. ) Maybe we can play it for a bit. If you don't have anything else you need to do.

( nevermind that she should be tending to the overgrown state of her garden, but: priorities. )

[ It's so subdued of a reaction, Geralt blinks at her. Not that he thinks she doesn't care. More...

He isn't sure. He can't put his finger on it. Perhaps it's that she feels older than she looks. Someone who's lived a long time, who's lost enough that it's no longer a shock. Just painful in that way that sits deep inside you, sinking into your bones and hollowing them out.

Or it may just be as she says: he's only confirmed what she has long come to realize.

Aerith changes the topic, and Geralt goes along with it. He's told her the news. How she wishes to process it is not for him to comment on. ]

I'm not one for games. [ He takes the flower nonetheless.

Yeah. All right. He can humour her. He has before, hasn't he? ]

Edited 2022-07-30 16:46 (UTC)

( he doesn't seem like one for games, does he? but the fact that he's willing to entertain her, anyway, speaks something to his kindness, and she decides not to tease him about it. he takes the flower from her palm and with nothing left to do, she brings her knees up to her chest, slings her arms around them. )

What do you like to do then? In your spare time.

( the answer she imagines she's going to get goes something like this: i don't have spare time or i sleep or something like that, something deadpan and almost amusing.

but there's not really the space for him to answer, anyway, because she pipes up shortly after, chin lifting with a smile. )

Okay, so here's the game. I give you a task or a question, and you pick the petals, saying 'yes' and 'no' until you get to the last petal, and whatever answer you land on means you either have to do it, or answer! And it continues on until you get a 'no', and then it becomes my turn, so we switch.

( --yes, she's sort of just made this game up on the fly, but she sounds so matter-of-fact about it that it almost sounds as though it's truly something pulled from her world, perhaps, or her childhood, at best. not waiting for him to agree--again--she nods to herself in affirmation. )

First! A question. What's your biggest regret?

[ Sleep is the truth, but she moves on quick and Geralt, already prone to not answering questions in the first place, simply leaves his thoughts unspoken. ]

This feels like a trap to make me do your chores. [ Horizon chores, so to speak. He leans back against the nearest surface and plucks the petals. If she is expecting him to relay the yeses and nos out loud, she'll be disappointed—but he does pick each petal dutifully until only the yellow center remains. She'll have to count along herself or trust him to be honest.

He spins the stem idly between his fingers. Not holding back, is she? He seems to give it some genuine thought before he finally shrugs. ]

The truth? I believe it's yet to come. [ There are years left ahead of him. Perhaps even decades. Depends on how fast he stays on his feet. Ciri's been keeping things from him, he knows, and he's little doubt it's to do with what lies ahead of him. Something she knows and he does not. Something he suspects he will regret.

He pulls a flower from the grass and hands it to her. ] Why did you really ask me to play this game with you?

( well, he doesn't count the words out loud, doesn't denote each petal with a vocal 'yes' or 'no', but that's okay--at some point, she gives up counting to herself, trusting him not to avoid an answer just because he doesn't like it. and, in the end, she's rewarded with his truth--a peculiar one, something she hadn't expected him to say at all. it makes her gaze draw up from the flower to his face, studying for a moment, before she lets it pass; he isn't lying, but it's also sort of--sad to think about, in that way.

she could probably answer the question in the same way.

but, with a smile, she takes the flower he offers her, holds it by the stem and gets her free hand into the petals; she plucks them off diligently, one by one, and true to his style, she resolutely does not voice the options out loud. it ends up being a 'yes' anyway. )

The truth? ( this, she copies from him, with a faint smile. ) I want a friend.

( it's not really shameful, but it's also not something that she's really been ready to admit out loud: her eyes are on the flowers, not on him. ) And I don't want you to leave so quickly. I don't want to be left alone with my thoughts.

( her hand scatters the discarded petals with a soft puff of breath; then she's plucking up a new one to offer to him. )

You have to give me a piggyback ride if it lands on yes. For a full minute.

[ That is quite the truth. It makes him wonder, a little. She's hardly an unfriendly face. And she's in Solvunn, is she not? He's aware Thorne is a complicated space to navigate, that the Free Cities is large and teeming with faceless bodies, but Solvunn has always struck him as a simple place to find companionship. But he recalls Aerith was often alone during the Summit—the few times he glimpsed her, that is—and she seems to wear a shroud of loneliness now. One that he's not certain is entirely born out of the news about her friend.

He studies the offered flower. After a second, he takes it—but the petals remain intact.

It doesn't feel as though she's being coy or trying to bullshit him—a large part of why he's humoured her this far. More...he can't put his finger on it, what it is she's doing. A cushion, he wants to say. Like she's building a softer landing for himself with the expectation that she might fall. ]

How about this. [ His voice is gentle, but there's a firmness that suggests he is not interested in pretenses when what she's seeking is simple enough to grant. ] I'll walk with you into that house. And we'll talk. Just the two of us. No games or whispering flowers.

[ She did promise him tea, all that aside. ]

( the way that he speaks to her isn't unkind, but there's a faint, almost embarrassed pinch to her lips, like she isn't entirely sure she did the right thing by admitting anything out loud. if anything, it's always been easy to move ahead past feelings and troubles by deciding that not much can be done about them; there's a level of her stubbornness that drives her to find solutions, but some things fall so alarmingly quick out of her hands that she brushes them aside just as easily. better not to dwell on what can't be fixed. better to just let those feelings slide.

but then this is the result--she's blurted something out that she can't take back, and no matter how kind geralt might be, this isn't the time or the space, really, and there are surely plenty of things for him to be doing that aren't picking petals off of flowers that likely truly don't exist. still: he isn't the type to just offer something out of obligation; he feels much more like the type that sets about to pursue what he likes and reject what he doesn't. the honest type. the kind that makes a good friend, even if he maybe wouldn't say so.

so she smiles at him, a faint, assured nod of her chin, and pushes back up to her feet; her hands brush out the back of her dress, freeing it from any grass or dirt that might have clung to the fabric, and with one step backward, she waits for him to stand and follow suit. )

...Will you talk, too? ( it's not demanding, but more--curious, the wondering sort, as she continues to walk backwards, slowly, as though she wants to keep her eyes on him as they make their way to the front of the house. ) Friends do that, right? They share things and they help each other, and they accept things about each other.

[ A moment passes where the possibility of her telling him to fuck off is real. Frankly, he'd accept it if she did. She doesn't. She looks almost unsettled or uncertain—he can't decide which—and when he stands, he hands her back the flower.

He isn't here out of obligation, no. Perhaps he just senses, same as before, that she's lonely. Or alone. And maybe he can understand what that means. ]

No promises. [ His lips quirk. It isn't a no. They walk along the path. He studies the flowers that continue to stretch along the grass. ] Is this your home back on your sphere?

[ The cabin and the flowers, he means. Feels like it. How it's overgrown and a little rundown—it seems a place that existed somewhere at some point, even if it may not anymore. ]

Sphere... ( it's a cute way of referring to it, though she imagines saying so won't be met with much but a sound of disgruntlement. ) Sort of.

The house is different, and the lake, out there, is bigger, and it...winds up into the town, but there's no town here for it to really connect to. Or, well, I don't live in a town, it's...the slums. ( she's gesturing, vaguely, with her hands, although the path of her fingers through the air, detailing the differences, make little sense to someone who hasn't seen gaia, anyway: and she laughs, a little sheepish, as they finally come up on the front door to the little cottage. ) Here we go.

( she heaves it open, pulling at it with both arms, before she gestures him inside--it's just as modest as the outside, lived in and cozy, with a bare bones sort of kitchen and a round, rickety table, cut flowers bundled together on one side of it, the tapered stem pieces still not swept up into the trash. these are all things that she could just close her eyes and fix, but: it feels good to move around and do them in real time.

with the door clanging shut behind them, she gestures out towards one of the chairs around the table. )

Sit? I'll make that tea. Oh, and... ( there's a glance, over her shoulder, at him, as she moves towards the little kitchen instead. ) ...You'll tell me about your home. On your sphere. Fair is fair, I think.

[ He hasn't got a proper picture, no, but he can gather somewhat. Slums tells him she must live in a fairly large city, not a village. Explains its slightly scuffed edges—different than the rustic look of something built plainly by hand.

He pulls out a chair, sits. The smell of florals is strong in here, too. He picks up one of the stems. Remembers trimming Jaskier's flowers at his stalls, the bundles he'd helped the children with at the summit. ]

Snow, mountains. You can see it. [ He indicates southward where the looming fortress sits on the white peaks. If she ever walks by, it's hard to miss. ] I was raised there, but we return only in winter. Most of the year, I ride. One end of the Continent to the other. We make the path our home.

[ Does he like it? He does. It's what he knows, even if it isn't what he chose. Every tree and shrub and flowering bush is familiar. The wilds have never turned against him. If you understand it, it's there for you. ]

Snow…

( there’s a soft echo of the word after him, thoughtful, as she sets her hands to the task of preparing the tea. this, too, should be done purposefully, rather than simply imagining something out of nowhere; it’s important, this sort of hospitality, and maybe there’s a part of her that wants to show that even with just the bud of their friendship—or, perhaps tolerance, on his part—she’s happy to water it with delicate care.

even thinking that, though, she’s silently willing the water to boil just a little faster. )

I’ve only seen snow a few times in my life. They keep the city pretty tempera—…te, wait, you ride? ( she says this as she leans back to look at him, a tea infuser between her fingers, half-packed with leaves. ) Ride where? To do what? Mercenary things, sword things?

( there’s a little wrinkle of her nose, shared with a smile, as she leans back in to tuck the infuser into the tea pot. )

It sounds exciting, but I’ll bet it can be annoying too, huh? Dealing with everyone’s demands. Cloud used to have to catch cats and fix roof tiles and things like that…

[ There's a curious tilt to his head. Temperate. It sounds as if she's suggesting she lives in a city where the weather is controlled, but that can't be right. He's never heard of such a thing before, except with the magic of mages, he supposes. Never over an entire city, though.

What must it be like, to grow up in a place where snow is prevented from falling? ]

Sword things. [ He isn't a mercenary. ] I don't quite catch cats.

[ They'd never let him near, for one. Is that what Cloud did? He'd always presumed the man a soldier; he joined the military, behaved like a soldier. It was an easy assumption to make. But it doesn't strike him as too surprising to realize that Cloud was a...what. Did odd jobs? Apparently. ]

Is that how you met? He was catching your cat? [ He's teasing, just a hint, lurking somewhere under his deadpan. ]

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( open & closed ) july catch-all

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i lost this notif, i'm sorry!

no worries at all!!

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