abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

[ Accidental or not, it's a good call—because nothing makes Geralt ask questions more than when he senses something is being concealed. But Dean doesn't appear to be trying to hide the odd mark, so he moves past it without much thought. Assumes between trips to hell and purgatory and who the fuck knows where else, perhaps it's more of a surprise Dean hasn't gotten himself a brand until now.

He takes the jar. Gives it a sniff. Dean evidently put some thought into his selection, though Geralt is not sure what drove his final decision. The Everclear Julie gave him once was just exceptionally strong vodka, but there's more of a scent to this. A pleasant one. After a second, he takes a sip. A faint wrinkle in his brow is the only indication he's assessing whether he likes it or not. It does burn. But it's good. One upside of the Horizon? No one's ever tried to serve him watered down liquor.

He crouches down, jar in hand. Takes another long drink. He gestures with the wrench for Dean to go on. Horseshoes, tires. He's listening. ]

Edited 2022-09-06 06:37 (UTC)

( Geralt takes a sip and Dean watches intently like he's expecting something. When all the guy does is practically freaking nothing — hell, he damn near looks like he enjoyed it — Dean's nose wrinkles incredulously. Seriously?

Then again, dude's conjured him up some Witcher Hooch before and that shit hit like a freakin' mac truck. Maybe he should've tempered his expectations a little.

Still, backwoods bathtub moonshine ain't exactly something you sip on recreationally. He'll stick with the cherry-softened version, thank you very much. He's not interested in putting any hair on his chest. He's good.

At any rate, he starts out slow and easy enough — pointing out parts and naming them off, with the briefest description of what they do. He's done this before, maybe that's obvious — with Sam, a million years ago, but far more recently with Ben, the kid who was almost his son. Was, for just a brief snatch of time. He's a good teacher, he's patient, he's clear in communication the way he normally isn't when he's telling stories.

Eventually, between parts and sips of moonshine, he has Geralt put that socket wrench to use to take off the occasional relevant part. It's with a few of them laid out before them and a not insignificant dent in the jars that he finally ventures: )

So, tell me about Prison Break.

[ Geralt, oblivious to the fact that any expectations were even had—he asked for strong liquor and that's undeniably what Dean's handed him by (many) miles; he's satisfied—spends the next while sipping and observing. It's been some time since he's had lessons. At least five decades. He remembers being a student, though, and he's a keen one. The kind of focus which comes from a lifetime of drilling, but also the curiosity he's had since he was a child.

Pieces go off and on. It feels familiar, subject matter aside. Was he always good with his hands? That's impossible to say; there's much about him he can't tell if it were moulded into him or a simple part of him. But he is now after all these years. A system forms on instinct, each part and tool finding their home around him.

He's watching the slick fluid drain out of the bike when Dean finally broaches the topic he's been pushing off. Then again, have they not both been doing so? Pulling apart a machine is easier. Even if the unnatural fumes are giving him a damn headache. ]

I was hunting. Not far. [ Not by his standards. He was, what. Several days? Into the so-called Badlands? ] Some mages caught me unawares. Powerful ones. The sort Thorne produces. I wound up in the Queen's throne room. They wanted inside my head, or so they said. When they couldn't, they tried...other methods.

[ He's leaving out at least a dozen details and skipping over two dozen more. Not uncommon, but he pauses a little too long before continuing. The events within the castle, and Yennefer's involvement, are not the point. ] Few days later, one of their mages set me loose. Put me on a horse. Julie and Nadine were still in Nott then. That's where I rode. They pieced me together, sent me through a portal home.

[ Where he walked another three fucking days because black market mages aren't the most dependable people on this earth, then bled out on Sam's couch. So. All in all, a slight detour from his initial plans. ]

( They wanted inside my head.

That's enough to get him to stop screwing with the bike for a long second, countenance gone stone cold serious — outright defensively pissed, maybe, if Geralt knows what to look for by now.

Dean has limits. He has lines. Some things are sacred, or at the very least a huge fucking no for him. Digging into people's heads without their say-so is one of those things. It's enough to make him instantly detest Thorne, as if he needed a reason anymore after they freaking bombed a city.

The truth of the matter (that he should maybe feel ashamed about, but doesn't) is, them doing that to Geralt is more personal to Dean, and therefor more impactful. It does a better job developing a firm stance that he takes to immediately and unquestioningly. Screw those guys, they can go straight to hell.

He's reading between the lines as best he can. He can't know the details behind other methods, but he can imagine. He won't ask. He doesn't really need to know, at the end of the day. Torture is torture.

What he is curious about, though: )

What did they want to get in your head for?

[ He does know. Recognizes it now, and it draws a look from Geralt in return. A forget it sort of look, one that says he isn't recounting this tale to point fingers at one kingdom or the next. Given half the chance, the Free Cities wouldn't hesitate to do the same. Or worse.

He isn't all right with what happened. There is personal satisfaction in learning the Queen's little mage boy met a suitably bloody end. But the point is bigger than a few scars on his back. ]

That's the issue. [ He rests one hand on the bike, steadying it for Dean. ] When they brought me in, Yennefer was there. I wasn't captured out of convenience. And I doubt they felt I had much information of value. They looked for me. From across the continent. Because the Queen ordered it at her whim.

[ Not the crown. Not her council. Just the queen, alone on her throne with Grigory and Yennefer. He lives in a world ruled by kings and queens. Even the most powerful of them understand they need to answer to the people. Their courts. But the queen seems to operate as if she doesn't. He isn't certain how long she can sustain her reign on rage and power alone—but a vacated seat on the throne is almost worse than one occupied by a vicious monarch. ]

Edited 2022-09-09 15:50 (UTC)

( Hey, he's not saying he's a fan of the Free Cities either, they can get bent too. He can hate them all while still hating Thorne the most for committing atrocities of the douchiest capacity. He returns that forget it look with a make me look, and then... forgets it and moves on. Such is the way of Dean Winchester.

He lowers his socket wrench down, absent, momentarily forgotten and hanging loose in his fingers. )

See, that's what I'm trying to understand. They looked for you just because, but how did they know to look for you? Why you specifically? I don't mean to shove lemon juice in any paper cuts here, but... ( He gives a vague, sweeping sort of gesture with the wrench. ) Did your... girl... person.... it's complicated buddy- Yennefer, did she tip 'em off that you're all superhuman weird-brained or something? Did she throw you under the friggin' wagon to the Bitch Queen?

No. [ It comes out sharper than he means. Fuck. He's too sober for this. ] No. We were imprisoned. Together. When I fled, we agreed she was to stay behind. To gain insight into Thorne. But as you know, kingdoms prefer their loyalty proven in blood. The Queen brought her there to watch.

[ He is aware, in others' eyes, Yennefer did not protect him. And she had not. He hadn't wanted her to. Their priority was to keep Ciri safe, and that meant Yennefer being where she was in court. He paid the price. He's fine with that. He'd do it again.

Except he'd paid in more than blood. He has no desire to get into it, though. What happened at the very end.

And now it's more complicated. Since he's learned what he has about Yennefer. Her decisions. Still. As much as he doesn't like Yennefer in Thorne, where else? Other than Solvunn, which he isn't certain is a good idea anymore, where can she be?

He takes a breath, putting aside the jar with a clink. Reaches in to pick up where Dean's paused, releasing the filter Dean pointed out earlier. ]

( Okay, good, just checking. Screwing up one time is one thing, but if it turns out she'd been the one to sell him out to the Thornean mages Dean would've been full-ready to retract his don't give up on them sage advice from a few weeks back. He's still not all that thrilled she was cool to watch that whole thing go down to prove something, sure as shit isn't something he'd be willing to do himself, but it's marginally better.

He relaxes incrementally, shoulders softening, eyes dropping to where Geralt looses the filter. )

Good job.

( It's an absent mutter, equally thoughtless is him reaching out for the new filter that he holds out for Geralt to take. That classic unspoken here, you do it teaching method.

The gears are still turning in his mind, most of his focus on this whole war problem. )

So, Bitch Queen goes Guantanamo on you just to prove your girlfriend's loyalty. Loses one of her court mages, then bombs an entire city over it. Probably safe to say she's not the one behind the attack on the Free Cities or Solvunn delegates. Subtlety ain't exactly her brand.

[ Mm. Something like that. Geralt acknowledges the assessment with a grunt. No. She is not subtle. She is also not the only player in Thorne. There's...the duchess. Ambrose's sister. Ambrose himself, though Geralt thinks the High Mage can be dismissed. The man seems genuinely concerned over the Singularity. Not starting a war that will take resources away from his research. That leaves half of Thorne's court, whatever may be going on in Nott, Solvunn, the Free Cities. Territories beyond Nocwich. The Feywilds? Any number of instigators who belong to no nation?

Too many unknowns. ]

I'm not certain it matters. Once cities start to burn and armies march...

[ Who started it becomes irrelevant. He can't see the Free Cities pulling back now, no matter what. They've suffered too many losses. Thorne sure as fuck will not. Uncovering the truth—if there is a truth to uncover—can only lead to firmer ground for a war that's already taken off.

He takes the filter. Flips it in his hand a few times, as though deciding how it's meant to go in before he settles on one end—right or wrong. ]

Almost- ( He murmurs as soon as Geralt starts sticking the filter on. A hand reaches out, not to take the part from him but rather just nudge it gently, coaxing him to flip it around. ) Backwards. Air intake's up here, it pulls through the other way.

( And then an automatic shift back into position to let Geralt carry on, spinning the wrench around his palm and between his fingers idly. Bouncing. Flipping and catching. Brainless fidgeting.

As though there was never a pause for correction, he continues right along with the larger topic. )

I don't know, I think it matters. Nobody starts a war for no reason, and if you wanna know why you have to know who first. There's gotta be a motive. Whoever's pulling the strings... they're smart enough to get an entire continent fighting. Why? What do they get out of it? If it was just Thorne or it was just the Free Cities that got targeted, at least we'd know what the agenda was, you know? Pump up the Singularity, knock it down, whatever either of them are about, but whoever's manipulating things isn't giving any advantage to one side or the other. Which means they want something else.

( A beat. )

Or, hell, maybe not. What do I know? I'm talking outta my ass here. Something just feels... off.

[ Ah. He flips it around, not pausing either. None of this is necessary, like feeding his wolf or brushing his horse isn't necessary in the Horizon, but. It passes the time. Makes things feel solid, familiar. ]

I'm not saying you're wrong. [ It is off. Their target was hardly a powerful head of state. ] Grigory was little more than her lapdog.

[ Meant to anger, not weaken, the kingdom. If there's more to it, it's likely to do with the Singularity. Others must be jostling for control of it. Wanting it to fall into none of these nations' hands. Or perhaps it's vengeance. Who knows?

He gives the small piece a twist before continuing. ]

I'm saying I don't care to know why. [ It comes bluntly, tired. Nilfgaard sent their armies for Ciri. That was the only time the why mattered to him. ] War is war. I've watched states burn, villages swallowed whole over everything from uprisings to jilted lovers. What designs lay behind it, it consumes the land the same.

[ What will it change? To understand the reasons? Perhaps down the line, he'll reconsider. But right now, with Jaskier only recovered and Yennefer still healing—he just wants to pick up the pieces. Someone else can untangle whatever sticky political web has formed. ]

( There's an obvious moment of does not compute written in him as he stares at Geralt, like he's trying to reframe the comment into something that makes more sense. A moment later: )

Seriously?

( You're not even a little curious? Granted, yeah, Dean doesn't give a crap about the politics of it all either, but there's a difference. )

How are we supposed to do anything about it without intel?

( And so perhaps it finally begins, their gentle descent into the philosophy of what they owe the world. )

[ Geralt gives an incredulous huff, a noise that's a hint less subdued than his usual. Do what? Hold back an entire continent from spilling more blood than they already have? ]

You want to stop a war that's already begun?

[ Not that he thinks it impossible to end one. Kings have done it. Court mages have turned tides. Treaties signed. It's simply never accomplished without too heavy a price. It is certainly not done in the hands of people like him, like them, where all they're taught is bloodshed. He's good at one thing. The understanding that he can protect what's important to him by killing—he's accepted this is what he knows. But he's under no illusion it will ever broker any fucking peace. There will always be more monsters; there will always be another fight.

He's not interested in staining his blade for the sake of someone else's battles. ]

( Geralt sounds incredulous, Dean looks incredulous. Lets the question hang for one long beat, before he answers in a tone that suggests it's the stupidest question he's ever heard. )

Yes.

( Duh. Obviously. Come on, man, really? He stops spinning the wrench, only to start absently gesturing around with it. Talking with his hands, as he's wont to do when he's invested in a subject. )

People are dying in the crossfire, and it's just gonna get closer and closer to home here. If we can figure out a way to put down whoever's stirring the pot, we can at least keep things from escalating to apocalyptic bullshit levels. God forbid, maybe even cut this thing off at the knees.

[ A sigh. Geralt finishes attaching the filter. ] It's already home.

[ How much closer to home can the war get? It isn't on some foreign land. It's here. Next door. This is not two nations manipulated into conflict over a mere misunderstanding. The continent's been kindling for centuries. ]

Do you know how the current crown came into power? The previous royal bloodline were executed by their subjects. For failing to prevent the Free Cities from rising. No one stirred this war, Dean. All it needed was a push. Even if you put out the fire, it's only a matter of time before another sparks.

[ He lays down his tool. Picks up the jar. They can argue about this until the sun collapses. He isn't sure it's the point. The word apocalypse lingers. It is a strange term to apply to what amounts to the same sort of fucking war that happens decade in and decade out. States fall. They rebuild. They fall again. That's all it ever is. And in between, the bodies pile high and the only thing to do is to keep you and yours from becoming one of them.

There's a pause before he sits back on his hands, leaning against the motorbike. ]

What's this about?

Edited 2022-09-13 02:07 (UTC)

( Look, he gets what Geralt's saying, but counterpoint: if nobody bothered to put out fires just because more fires are gonna happen, firefighters would be unemployed.

For a second, he stares at the guy like he legitimately doesn't comprehend the question. When no amount of silent appraisal seems to help him divine any deeper, he finally answers. )

What do you mean, what's this about? It's about saving lives.

( Closer to home means bombing Cadens directly. It means it might not be the ashes of Libertas they search through for people they barely know, it might mean sifting through Mag's for the corpses of their friends.

But even if it doesn't, the people in Libertas were innocent civilians. Somebody's gotta keep the people pulling the strings from making something like that happen again. Who else is gonna step up and do it if not them? )

[ Geralt stares back with the same inscrutable expression. His brows furrow. In this, there is no us. ]

Witchers are taught to save lives by the sword. We are also taught that our sword is not meant to sway the affairs of kingdoms.

[ Not because it can't, but because it shouldn't. A rule he's broken before. He no longer regrets it; it brought him Ciri, and for that, he would do it again.

But he's learned his lesson, too.

He saves who he can. Sometimes the one life he preserves goes on to ruin a hundred more. Sometimes they grow up to desecrate temples and priestesses, and he can't say it was a life worth saving at all. What does it mean when he rescues a cursed princess and helps keep a king in power who may then go on to massacre a village? Where does it end if he begins to think of himself as someone who can shape the politics of a continent?

For a while, he's quiet. ] I've no wish to kill for someone else's war.

[ Nor will he risk Ciri's safety over it. That goes without saying. And it isn't the whole of it. Were Ciri not present, he'd feel the same. He doesn't want the fate of nations and the lives of millions on his shoulders. That is not the path he's carved for himself. ]

I don't give a crap about the war.

( Which seems contrary to his whole argument thus far at first blush, probably, but it makes sense to him. There's a difference, he thinks. Having a stake in any given side, being a soldier, fighting for a team, caring about their politics — no. That's not him. )

I care about the civilians that're getting caught up in the crossfire. Whoever went after Jaskier and the others, they're responsible for getting an entire friggin' city bombed. Families, kids, just gone.

( When he asks his next question, it's hardly even judgmental — just baffled. )

You really don't think we should do anything about that? Saving people is our whole job.

( And that's probably where they differ. They do the same work, but Geralt's in the business of killing monsters. Dean's in the business of saving people — something he didn't even get paid for until he got here, so "job" really was a loose definition. )

[ His gaze sharpens. He needn't be told about lives and children lost. He knows. He's seen it, he's survived it once. He relives it every time he walks through another crumpled building, scorched and set ablaze.

Maybe the problem is he doesn't understand the idea of ending a war without violence. There are no lives to be saved when it comes to war.

A long silence follows. He's never cared to explain himself, but this isn't that. For the first time, he doesn't know where to begin. How to untangle the reasons behind a sentiment he's held for most of his life—what's always been expected of his kind, things he wishes deep down were different, painful lessons on the ways people will never change. What it means now that he's here, rooted in a land that isn't his and yet has accepted him more than the Continent ever did. ]

I decided long ago the world is not mine to carry.

[ Are the bottom of it all, that's the bare truth. It isn't anyone's to carry—but that's a choice they all make. He won't tell Dean where to find his purpose. ]

( There's another long pause between Geralt's answer and Dean's reaction. Things he could say, if they weren't friends. Some of 'em he might even mean. None of them about Geralt's history, because he's so wrapped up with the topic itself that sensitive layer beneath doesn't even occur to him. What he's treading on like a bull in a china shop flies clean over his head.

At any rate, all his remarks get tucked away in favor of a soft, light scoff as he raises that jar up to his mouth again. Just before the rim touches down, he mutters into the hollow space: )

Must be nice.

( He takes a nice, hearty swallow.

Don't worry. He knows exactly what his purpose is. )

[ In the empty air, he's watching Dean. He is expecting something. A callous remark, a judgment, it doesn't matter. He knows not everyone understands. He doesn't need them to. He only wants them to leave him out of matters he does not wish to step into.

But Dean ends up saying not much. Geralt eyes him for a moment longer, like he's waiting for more. When it doesn't arrive, he tips back his own drink. Tips it back further. Until it's empty. It burns nearly as harsh as an elixir, and it's what he wants.

He didn't come here to debate questions of war and what they owe, though. Not really. ]

You said you had dreams. [ He sets the drained jar to the side. ] You learned something?

[ Many things, if it's anything like his experience. ]

( The truth of the matter is: he's tired. There are circumstances, of course — several, in fact — wherein if he were pushed, he might snap at Geralt. Make a more cutting remark, argue the point. But they've been drinking for a while, they've been working on a motorcycle, his ideal activity for finding zen.

If it comes up again later under duress... who knows. Maybe Geralt will get one of those blazing monologues he's so wont to give.

He does spare the guy a sort of sideways, mildly baffled look as the dude just straight up shotguns the remainder of a whole mason jar of moonshine. Jesus Christ, Gerald.

The change in subject ain't really one he's too happy about. He'd needed to know the circumstances were real, that there was a precedent. That he wasn't losing his mind, that there was no hope this mark on his arm came from somewhere other than his real life. With all of that firmly corrected, the actual details...

Those, he's less keen to share.

He seems to shutter off a little. To shut down, to wipe his face into a hard neutral. )

You could say that.

( Channeling his inner Geralt, apparently — or maybe it would've been more like mm and then no comment. Even when he's short he's more verbose than that son of a bitch.

He takes a drink. A beat later, decides to add: )

A couple years worth of something.

( Spoilers: things do not get better. )

Edited 2022-09-13 17:02 (UTC)

[ If Geralt recognizes the doors closing, he doesn't remark on it. He isn't one to pry, and he understands. There are pieces of that time he's told no one. Not even Jaskier. What would be the point? There's nothing to fix, nothing to really resolve. He's moved on. ]

At least your domain didn't collapse in on itself.

[ It's a me, too and a mild confession wrapped into one. He hasn't said much about that, either. He simply fixed it up, mostly on his own, and now it's standing again. Minus the cracks and scorches and blood that'll never quite come out. Some part of him won't allow it.

In any case. He hands Dean the wrench so he can finish demonstrating how to put back the rest of the bike. ]

It's better to know. [ If he sounds as though he's convincing himself, perhaps he is. He isn't one to run from hard truths. But he'd be lying if he said he can't help wishing, in the quietest moments, that some truths hadn't caught up to him. ]

( He shoots Geralt a look over his domain collapsing. It's a question, but also an I'm not gonna outright ask. He'd be a hypocrite to, considering. Still, the door's open.

He takes the wrench. It's a good reminder, a good prompt — do something with his hands to pull him out of that headspace before he ventures too far into it. One hand steadies the bike, the other presses the took against a bolt and starts to steadily crank.

Just to stop two or three seconds in. To pause and consider. With his eyes still pointedly on the task, he returns confidently: )

No it's not.

( Might be hard to tell if he's calling Geralt out, or if he's speaking just for himself.

In either case, this mark on his arm... It's not worth it. He'd be happier never knowing. )

[ Not quite a door he'll take now. He's told one rare story already; this is a tale for another day. A quiet noncommittal grunt comes in answer, one that says he can't argue that point but he also isn't willing to acknowledge it.

No. It isn't better. But it's where they are now.

He returns his attention to the task at hand, observing Dean work, taking in how he goes about it. The whole...appeal of this place, and its assortment of metal pieces—he gets it a bit more.

He doesn't add further about the politics, the war, the dreams. In the end, talking about it changes nothing. Dean shows him how to take something else apart—the wheels, maybe—and that's what he focuses on until the sun that isn't a real sun steadily sinks. ]

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righteously - 2022-09-20 01:10 (UTC) - Expand