[ CLOSED ] the feeling never dies in your eyes

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: September
Where: Cadens; Horizon; Libertas
What: thisisfine.jpg
Warnings: Blanket for Witcher canon, destruction/war imagery and related topics, etc., references to child death, NSFW marked



(( starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff! ))

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[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

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. )

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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. )

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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. )

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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. )

[gynvael]

[ 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. ]

[righteously]

( 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. )