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

[ 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. ]

( It feels good. He needed this. Working on his car is Zen enough on its own, but he's missed having somebody else's company alongside him once in a while as he does it. Obviously it's usually Sam — or it was, before he got here — but it's getting easier and easier to redirect bits and pieces of that codependent habit Geralt's direction the longer they know each other. Natural, somehow, despite the fact that the dude's from the era of Shrek and the Black Plague. If he'd been born somewhere closer to 21st century earth, Dean gets the feeling he'd have been a damn decent mechanic himself.

He'll get there, if they keep doing this.

Toward the end, the manifested sun slowly slinks down toward the horizon. The light goes yellow, and then orange. Grease streaks his forearms and his shirt. All the parts are back in their appropriate, respective places.

Rather than continuing with the moonshine, Dean hands the guy a cold glass bottle of beer as he settles on the hood of his car — an air of finality hanging around the offering. Like it's customary, an official part of the process.

While he might not be happy in the strictest sense, he does — for the moment — feel satisfied and content. That's about the closest he gets these days. It's good enough. )

[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

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