Geralt z Rivii (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gynvael) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2021-08-01 07:11 pm
gynvael) wrote in abraxaslogs2021-08-01 07:11 pm
( CLOSED )
Who: Geralt + Jaskier; Sam Wilson; Belle
When: July 25-31; Aug 5-13
Where: The castle // dungeons
What: The aftermath of the Horizon, and questions Geralt would rather not answer.
Warnings: Talk of death; possibly other similarly dark topics
(( closed starters below. if you'd like a starter following up on the Horizon or anything else in between the July event and August arrivals, hit me up at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
discontinued! ))
sam wilson | jaskier | belle | sam wilson (ii)
When: July 25-31; Aug 5-13
Where: The castle // dungeons
What: The aftermath of the Horizon, and questions Geralt would rather not answer.
Warnings: Talk of death; possibly other similarly dark topics
(( closed starters below. if you'd like a starter following up on the Horizon or anything else in between the July event and August arrivals, hit me up at
no subject
Feels like it. Ugh.
For once, Jaskier doesn't really want to... well. Talk. And he's quite certain many of the people he met do not wish to talk to him. (They will. Eventually.) It only makes sense that the first person he goes to is someone that, even in that liminal space, he trusted blindly. At least that doesn't bring up any sort of mixed feelings or minor existential crises. Despite being an absolute bastard sometimes, and stinky to boot, Geralt is his friend. On the Continent, in this world, and apparently in the next.
Jaskier sours at the thought. He knows Geralt would never agree.
So he doesn't even bring it up at first. He gathers Geralt from the cells (somehow surprised to see they are allowed out still) with the excuse of transporting tomes back and forth from his room to the library.
Only when they sit down and he's dragged his fingers through messy hair (certainly messy for Jaskier) that he sighs and breaths in and speaks.
Tries. He sort of cracks out a sound that's a bit of a wheeze.
It's a lot. All of this magic shit. Speaking of. Jaskier flicks a few fingers and, though it certainly isn't creating caravans and fake people and bottles of wine -- gods, he misses the wine -- it does create a little blue bird that hops over the books, pecks at Geralt's hand, and flies off to act as sentry on top of their bookish wall.
Easy questions first.]
You do remember all of it, don't you?
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He lets out a breath. Jaskier's question hangs in the air for a minute before he answers. ]
Mm. [ He can't muster a dry remark. What's there to say? He knows what Jaskier saw. Knows Jaskier met the girl; found him lost when she vanished. Jaskier understands more than anyone what it all means. And he doesn't want that. He doesn't want Jaskier to see, to understand; it's too sharp, too bright, too...
Too much. (It hurts. That's the simple truth of it. His heart is weighted and hollow all at once.) ]
Some have returned. [ Most probably see it as an easy reprieve from their cells. Geralt would have, too, if all that had been there was a cabin and some fucking snow. ]
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He was right to be afraid of the powers here. That someone can step into their minds so easily -- take away everything that made him him. He had not been afraid of not knowing himself in that place, and yet now the memory of that feeling was enough to freeze his blood.
This must be worse for someone like Geralt, he thinks, who shares so little of himself. And yet. And yet most distinctly does Jaskier remember that Geralt was...
He was happy. Well. Happier. Without memories.
For a while. It was the two of them, meeting every spring, and the small gifts Jaskier would bring for a girl whose face he could not recall, even now. But he could remember the physicality: the flower crowns, or the jugs of mountain water, or the handful of tiny dragon teeth. And he could leave, knowing she was protected and Geralt wasn't alone.
Gods. How obvious it is now. Why Jaskier always traveled with the White Wolf.]
It doesn't mean anything. [He glances across the tomes to watch Geralt's face, having also wasted far too much time on the same page. And, so far, he can find no information about the Horizon.] That she was there. It doesn't mean she's not still on the Continent.
[It feels hollow as he says it. His words don't mean anything, really, either. He can guess -- quite accurately -- what Geralt believes now. Why the girl faded and he was left alone.]
no subject
[ It comes out sharper than he intends. He gets it. Jaskier wants to be hopeful. Wants to reassure him. But that's not what Geralt wants. That's not how he works. He can't cling to an unknowable thread. It doesn't fucking make him feel better.
Jaskier is wrong: it means everything. Because whether he recalled her or not, she came from some part of him that knew. That has known, for weeks now, that she can't have survived all this time. Not that close to Sodden. Not in those woods, so near to Nilfgaard's scorching path of war. And the truth was, he'd largely accepted this long before the Horizon. It's not the fact that he knows she's gone. It's that he remembers now a time when she was not. A time when she was his, a time when he'd protected her.
A time when he could believe, genuinely, he hadn't failed her. ]
She has not survived alone for over two months with an army on her trail. [ The words sit heavy between them. It's the first time he's said it out loud to Jaskier. He doesn't look up, flipping through more pages. ] And we have more immediate concerns in this world.
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He can't say what makes it come to his mind. Well, it may not be that strange. That the Horizon has tempered him in some way. Do you think it's foolish? Sam's cool, easy voice. The simplicity of the question. It had not been a judgement, either way.]
Call me an idiot, then. You always do. I choose not to believe that way, whether it's true or not. [His bird chirped, hopping down to land on his head, pecking at bits of his hair and tugging at them. It, predictably, was true. It was only... it was Destiny, and why would Destiny have brought them together if only to rend them apart in the stupidest way possible? One has to believe in something. Why not the same force he believes brought them here together?
He flicks his fingers, crafting a second bird. Ah. All that time training, and look what he can do now. Nothing, in particular, helpful.
Oh, gods. Did the Horizon somehow make an optimist of him?] Well, my threatening friend, did you come up with anything? You're still a prisoner, and my pleas are not making a difference. And now Ambrose has confirmed that which was only a hypothesis before. Who's to say he won't make the rest of us prisoners soon enough?
[Nope. Not fully an optimist.]
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He takes a deep breath before he says something he regrets. ] You didn't see Sodden burn barely a day's ride away.
[ He leaves it at that. Frustration itches beneath his skin. It's true he will never know what's happened to her. Maybe that's the worst part. And he's—if anyone is an idiot, it's him. For sinking so fucking deep into these memories that aren't even real. That are about a girl who never existed. Not in there, not like that. ]
It won't come to that. [ If there's one thing he knows he will see through, it's that Jaskier will not be joining him down in those cells. Beyond that—fuck. He doesn't know. He really doesn't. This is far out of his depth. The magic and power that lies here is more than he's seen before.
He closes his eyes. His exhaustion bleeds through and for a moment, he can't bring himself to care about hiding it. Jaskier always reads him too damn well, anyway. ]
How many times have you even submitted for my release?
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Why did you ask me to find her, then? Was it because of her disappearance from the Horizon? How he found this sad sack of shit all alone with his horse again?
Jaskier watches the little birds flit to and fro now. They act completely natural as birds; he no longer has to guide their every movement. Magic. Could he use magic to find her, on another sphere? No. No, what a stupid thought. That must be impossible.
The bard flicks a bit of dust at the Witcher.] You don't know that. [Neither of them did.
Jaskier's shoulders fall. What else can he do? Not much. Every time he thinks of it, it makes less sense that he is here. An honoured guest. A hero. And not one has any bastard actually requested him to play.
Geralt looks like shit. Hard to say whether the things he had in Horizon have affected him more than being in the dungeons so long. Not even ill-begotten goods from Jaskier will keep him alive, or healthy, forever. For once, he doesn't mention it. How shit he looks. Instead, he closes the books between them, piling them together. At least he can bring the props with him.] Too many times. Enough that I'm found to be a bit of a nuisance now, I imagine. [The birds hop onto his shoulders as he pushes several books towards Geralt.] We're going to my quarters. You need a bloody nap. [He holds up a hand before Geralt gets a word in.] I swear to Melitele's tits themselves that I will attack you if you even attempt to turn this offer down.
[Besides, someone has to read this shit, and Geralt can barely concentrate on a sentence. He's not going to be much help.]
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He knows better than to tell Jaskier to stop fucking trying to free him, too. Jaskier needs to feel like he's doing something; if that means pleading Geralt's case to deaf ears, who's he to end that? He does not want to feel resigned. He has people to get back to, even without the girl. Has Jaskier to keep safe. But each day wears on him.
Maybe it says enough Geralt doesn't even offer a token protest. He stands, setting his weight onto his good leg as he gathers up a few of the tomes. A nap. If only that's all he needed. ]
I need a fucking drink. [ Needs to not be awake for the next ten years. He stacks up a couple more books—ones he thinks might be worthwhile. Then he follows Jaskier, falls into step beside him. He switches topics, not wanting to dwell on things that can't be helped. ] You find Sam?
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He glances at his leg, but says nothing. It still hasn't healed all the way.]
Don't speak so loud and I may be able to find something. [He leads the way through the castle hall's, a well-worn path between the library and his abode. He's gotten quite used to sharing it, but in moments like this it's very inconvenient.] I did, in fact, find him. Twice. Once here, and once -- [He somehow manages to gesture with a tip of his head despite his arms being full carrying books.] He's much friendlier than I ever expected. Annnnd, apparently, he has his own White Wolf as a friend.
no subject
The change of subject is preferable. Sam is simple to talk about. Sam is uncomplicated, mostly, because even with the Horizon -- even with how Geralt feels about...what people have seen -- it doesn't feel as intrusive with Sam. Maybe it's the lingering sense of what he'd found there in that home. Or maybe it's just that they've already shared their minds unwillingly before. Darker, unwanted images.
Either way.
He nudges Jaskier an inch to the left with his elbow, spotting a guard rounding the corner too close to them. He lets the conversation dwindle until they're further out of earshot before picking it up. Wait, what? That's -- And yeah. He knows. It's hardly the most innovative of names -- wasn't the one that came up with it, either -- but still. Feels odd to know another's around somehow. ]
He left that part out. [ Not that they'd have had the chance to touch on it. Although. Hmm. Sam mentioned a friend once. First time they spoke. ] A doctor?
no subject
The guard passes and Jaskier shifts the bundle in his arms.]
A doctor? [He glances sidewise at him, fumbling with the handle of his door. The question hangs in the air as he peeks inside. Empty, luckily. No one wants to be trapped in their rooms during the day, he assumes. Quite true of himself. He nudges the door open.] No, no. Not the way he described him, I don't think. A funny word he used, what was it? [The door closes behind him with a flick of his foot.] Coworker. Said something about a skillset, a hunter... a mercenary, perhaps? Though it looks as if you could use a doctor. [He sets the pile of books on the floor by his bed, turning to Geralt.] How is your leg?
no subject
Mercenary, was it. He sets the books on the table and doesn't hesitate to take up Jaskier's bed. He's tired, Jaskier knows he's tired; he's not in the mood to pretend otherwise. It's not even sleep he's lacking. Not exactly. The guards, for the most part, let their nights go undisturbed. There are beds. Fuck knows he's not doing anything except sitting around or taking a walk in the yard once a damn day. It's more the fact that he's not had an outlet for anything in far too long. He can only meditate away so much. ]
Fairly certain he's a soldier. Not surprised he knows a sellsword. [ He thinks. Sam doesn't seem to operate within any kind of structured army as far as he can tell, but it's the closest term he can find to describe him and it's one Sam doesn't seem to reject when it comes up.
Geralt swings his legs up on the bed and lays down. He is moving more easily than he had before. The injury remains, but it isn't festering the way it once had. He suspects, a little, that their trip into the Horizon had suspended his body's natural healing briefly, though it's hard to say. He's never had to heal at the rate of a human before. ] Better. I'll be fine.
[ And he will be, in general, because that's simply how he works. He tucks an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Nicer ceiling than the dungeon's. How does Jaskier feel about the Horizon? He remembers the bard visiting often, always with his troupe, always with a white wolf that quickly vanished. The pieces all fall together now that he's back, memories intact once more. Parts of it catch him by surprise. That white wolf, especially. Or not surprise, but...he'd always thought—mm. Supposes it's not as if Jaskier ever mentions his family much, other than to tell an embellished story. Still. He knows Jaskier well enough to understand when he's covering something up. And he had been, hadn't he? In there, except at the end, when Geralt had finally agreed to join him on his travels.
Not that he's ever doubted their friendship or believed it lesser than it is. That's not it. It has always been exactly as it needs to be, no more no less. But much of it—nearly all of it, really—has been unspoken throughout the years, and something about the Horizon had peeled back more layers than it had any right to. It leaves behind a feeling he isn't sure what to do with, one that seems too fragile to contemplate. To turn in hands as rough as his. So he tucks it away, though not without a certain care. ] No trouble up here?
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He makes a small noise of affirmation.] Ah, so he told you. See? You are making friends.
[It's the most teasing he can do right now, he thinks, in another time where he would've shoved Geralt over and shared the bed simply for a few minutes of peace. Jaskier's lip twitches, and he flutters a hand at Geralt's response.] You always say that.
[This time he takes it without argument; even though Geralt was limping, it's not the wound that is wearing on him so much... so it must simply be healing. If his mutations are still affected, he must be marveling at how fucking slow all of it is. The process of healing.
Right. In there, he hadn't limped at all. In fact, it was the first time he'd seen the Witcher in quite a while totally uninjured. And the first time where he had felt... unburdened.
Now, Geralt carries even more weight than before.
Jaskier piles all the books on a small desk, pulling up a chair as he lifts the top one off, flipping back to the page he'd hastily dog-eared. If Geralt is going to rest, he certainly isn't going to be entertained by watching him sleep.
His finger drags along the handwritten lines to find where he's stopped.] Hm. Unless you mean Ambrose being quite satisfied with himself, then no. [He sighs, lifting his head, his nail clipping at the edge of a page to flick it back and forth. Jaskier has already spent plenty of time ruminating on what this means. He fully expects, as he suspects the rest of them do, that this power they'd had in Horizon would be harnessed somehow by this kingdom. Or perhaps it already has. Certainly it was not a success because their people had found a plane to use as an entertaining playground, traumatic fires and brimstone aside. And even now, as he feels a connection to it, despite the wonderful experiences he had there... Jaskier, truthfully, is afraid of it.
His chest burns with all the questions he knows will be answered with mere grunts. Do you still feel it? Do you remember? Will you go back? Can you, after losing her?
Jaskier licks his lips.] I have a date. [He turns to Geralt with a smile curling his lips, his eyes lighting up. Picking another topic rather than the one he really wants to discuss may as well be a natural talent by now.] A pretty necromancer. Now, before you say you disapprove, I promise he's very nice. And, from what he's said, only works his magic on animals. Which is very reassuring, of course.
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It bothers him he can't do more. Can't think of more he can do, other than wait for an opportunity that might never come.
He lets the silence sink and settle. The quiet helps. So does the familiar shuffle of Jaskier beside him. When Jaskier mentions a date, Geralt turns his head. His eyebrows go up. A necromancer? He wants to laugh. Who in the hell openly claims to be a necromancer? He imagines it's shadowed magic even within Thorne -- but then Jaskier says only animals and realization crosses Geralt's face. He stares for a a good thirty seconds. The dead rabbit hopping about the snow with its eerie glowing eyes comes back to him. ]
Hector. That's who you're courting?
[ In all honesty, Geralt gives not one fuck who Jaskier pursues. Not even a necromancer, because while the act is questionable at best...at least the man so far only seems interested in bringing puppies back to life. Besides, questionable also applies to Jaskier's tastes. It's hardly as if Jaskier will do much more than flirt and bed before finding someone new after some days or weeks, depending on where the cards fall. But unraveling this thread makes for a nice distraction. He knows it's the reason Jaskier brings it up; he won't say it, but he's quietly grateful. ]
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[His smile returns easily enough. There's something a bit pleasant with surprising Geralt in turn.
It's exactly why he brought it up. And though one may see this as bragging that he had the ease and time to do just this, he knows Geralt won't take it that way. (And maybe he didn't think of it that hard.)] I met him there, too. I know that now, but I didn't realize it at the time.
[He can't help but swing the conversation back to it. He shouldn't, it's only -- fuck, it really is incomprehensible to him.] Well, he was perfectly polite without memories, but a bit strange. Still, it was refreshing to speak on the sciences with someone who isn't... [He rubs his fingers together.] Making up things.
[Looking at you, Kylo Ren. He hums for a moment, leaning back in his chair.] The more of the guests I meet, like me, the more it seems the general sentiment is to release the prisoners. Even if they have no personal connection.
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As did I. Brought my supper back to life. [ He lets out a breath at the ceiling. His head hurts. Not about this necromancer, but. All of it. The Horizon. How it all lingers. How aware he is of all of those who saw him...as he was. With the girl, with his quiet cabin. With the things he said and asked. He knows he's not the only one who might have felt too exposed. And he wonders what it was all for. To form that tether? The one he feels even now? Its presence is unsettling. How Thorne intends to exploit it unsettles him further.
Jaskier's statement is acknowledged, but not responded to immediately. Everyone has been stolen from their homes, their lives. Makes sense they'd align themselves with the prisoners. But believing they should be released is easy to say. When it comes down to it, he knows most are more concerned with protecting themselves and those important to them. He's the same way.
In fact, now that Jaskier brings it up—he's more interested in the opposite: those who show signs of siding with Thorne. ] And the ones who don't share that sentiment. You've met any, too?
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[The frog had been mostly inoffensive, but Jaskier is not sure how he may feel if something he was eating came back to life. Perhaps he should suggest he not do that. Or, perhaps having no memories changes a man. A little.
Jaskier leans back in his chair, the tome forgotten already. He realizes now that the Horizon has reminded him how terribly he misses his life. Not the Continent itself, really, though he certainly does miss being recognized and, in turn, paid for that recognition. He misses traveling. Boots on dirt, and the stars overhead. The sound of a horse's whickering. Staying in inns he absolutely could get stabbed in because a barmaid had a wonderful pair of breasts and adequate ale. It was only at the end of his Horizon journey where everything slotted together. Where they were, in a way, back on the Path. It had simply been Jaskier's path this time.
He tilts his head back, watching the roof above them, finding designs in the swirls of wood.] Certainly. They're rarer, and quieter. And there are those, I imagine, who want to stay for the Singularity itself. The townspeople outside the castle are all of a similar mind to the castle denizens. I can't imagine what this knowledge of those who can approach the Singularity might do to public opinion.
[A thump as all four chair legs hit the floor again and he sat up.] Have you thought about it? What this new knowledge will do for their plans? This is what Ambrose wanted. He wants some connection to that... thing.
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Don't know if it's all new. [ It comes as a thoughtful murmur. From the conversations he's had, from Ambrose's pleased but not shocked reaction—did he know? Suspect?
He opens his eyes again. The same ceiling stares back at him. He hears the creak of Jaskier's chair and hates that he can't hear more than that. Can't hear Jaskier's heartbeat or smell the lingering scent of those he's been around during the day. ]
If they mean to exploit the connection, it's either to strengthen the Singularity's power or harness it further. Possibly through us. [ He turns his head. He doesn't think Jaskier will venture back in on his own, but just in case. ] Don't get close to it again.
[ And yet: he knows it's their best chance of going home. That power. Isn't it? What other choice would there be to use? He does want to go home. Needs to go back to his world. For all that it's spat him out, he's left too much behind. Besides, he needs to get Jaskier home, too. ]
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How was it things felt like they were getting worse, not better?
Jaskier scoffs, and he kicks the bed so the mattress shifts enough for Geralt to feel it.] What, did you expect me to go up and lick it? It may surprise you I did not go to it willingly the first time.
[As tempting as it is to keep bothering the fuck out of him, this isn't getting them anywhere. They have the same amount of information shared between them, and the Horizon has only made things more convoluted.
Jaskier gets up, tugging on the blankets on his bed. He drops them over Geralt in a way that reminds him so acutely of how Geralt had done it to him. In Horizon. That somehow, even without memories, they had found each other.
Hmm. Destiny was still quite fickle, wasn't she?] Get some real sleep. We may have enough time for another bath after.
[It is, literally, the least he can do to help.]
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He sighs. The blankets flop over him like a limp rabbit. He leaves them piled over top of his body in a tangled lump. He can't bother with the effort to shake them out. And frankly, he doesn't give a shit, either. Sleep. Doesn't feel like sleep, real or not, will do much of anything except have him wake up to find another piece of the sky has fallen out. (Maybe Jaksier's dramatics have been rubbing off on him.) Still. He knows Jaskier is right. If there's nothing to be done, he may as well rest.
At least he doesn't have three other pairs of eyes on him here. (Or a dozen now. He's not touching upon what the fuck is going on with the other man in his cell. He has enough to contend with as it is.)
Eventually, he does sleep: lightly, and with most of the weight still on his mind, but he manages to do so. ]
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Jaskier gives his friend a good pat on the shoulder despite his sigh. Sam's words have sunk deep, it seems, that they keep bubbling up to the surface. Jaskier must wonder if there really is a difference between an optimist and a fool. That he could think, even for a moment, that he is lucky to have someone he considers a friend here. That, should thinks go awry, he will... he will do what he can to help.
It isn't much. Some illusionary birds and a bard. But they can still try.]
Sleep well, you lout.
[He must be exhausted to sleep so quickly. And Jaskier, unable to sit around doing nothing, finds his hands itching for something to do. Sitting here reading boring historical tomes isn't it. The choice left is easy. He releases his lute from its cage, running his fingers gently down its sides. Such a simple thing compared to the elvencraft.
Gods, he misses it. He misses it terribly. A piece of his own arm. He's had it nearly his whole life now. Now he's stuck with this... inadequate thing.
Still, he can make it sound beautiful. Jaskier returns to the chair and folds one leg over the other, leaning the belly of the lute against it. He doesn't sing at first; it's simply plucked notes that move quietly through the room, his eyes closing as he concentrates. And then he sings: something he isn't afraid of that came with him from Horizon. It's not about anything in particular. No theme or ballad. It's only pretty words, inspired by his journey up snowy mountains, through wintery caves. Simply the song of winter.
It would nearly be winter there. At home. And he would be going back to Oxenfurt, with warm, fur-lined cloaks and old friends. There would be no fall of Cintra yet. No flames in Sodden.
He shakes his head and drives the thoughts away. There is only the snow, the frost swirling off his tongue. Heavy clouds and a troll who hums a song bemoaning the loss of his people.]