( CLOSED )

[gynvael]

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 discontinued! ))

sam wilson | jaskier | belle | sam wilson (ii)

Comments

[gynvael]

[ The job, Sam says, and Geralt's expression is understanding in that way that can only brush the surface. He doesn't know what it's like to leave home and family behind, for the sake of something more important. He doesn't know what it is to see home like that, as something to fight for. Perhaps once: long ago, if he'd been there before, when Kaer Morhen stood tall, he might've felt the same. But inside its crumbling walls, home and his people within it have become swallowed not by any enemy that can be fought, but simply time.

For a minute, he's quiet. ] Sometimes making certain you come back is the only choice you can make.

[ He gets it now, why Sam's space had been so wrapped up in what it was. Why that sense of protection had permeated every corner. Why it'd been the only place Geralt had not looked twice to see where Cirilla had gone. Is that what stood out? More than anything? It had. He realizes it now, what it is that'd struck him. How it'd been both so open and yet so undeniably safe. Because until Geralt had stepped into that house, it'd never occurred to him those two concepts could exist at the same time in one place.

Some part of him has wondered, too, how much of his little cabin was driven by memories of his own childhood home long forgotten. Does he even carry any images of it that can be called a memory? Does it matter? The thought leaves him uneasy, a box he's opened that should stay closed. It's always felt as if he's had two childhoods: the one that he cradled briefly, like a faded dream, and the one that actually shaped him. He's buried the first, mostly—and still, every so often, he feels it surfacing. ]

[falcony]

[ sam can tell that geralt doesn't necessarily agree with him. which is okay, really. sam's seen enough from geralt to know that, at the very least, where geralt comes from leaves a complicated feeling around the word 'home'. but at the same time, sam thinks about geralt's domain. what it had felt like to step in there. it had been welcoming, like sliding into a worn coat during the first night of winter to find it all still working, still as you remembered it.

he appreciates the fact geralt tries to look understanding, but that is a moment where it feels obvious to him that they come from different places. different worlds. just thinking about geralt back home around the other avengers, well. honestly, he'd fit in pretty damn well in delacroix, but that is besides the point. it's wild. funny. interesting. how far sam has come and where he finds himself now.

sitting in the grass with geralt of trivia. talking about sarah. about home. sam nods at geralt's observation, about coming back. it makes him ache for his parents, who he wasn't around nearly enough before they died. makes him think about sarah, raising two boys on her own, while he didn't exist. they're all things that weigh on him, day to day, week to week. but it's just one more thing, at this point. one more pound to the weight of the life he's chosen to lead. ]

We can always try. [ sam says quietly, because it's not like him to feel so somber. to want to follow up with if we come back at all. images of riley flash by, steve, natasha. but again, that's not like him, he's not one to wallow, so after a moment of the grief taking hold, sam takes a breath and then lets it out again, pushing that darkness with it. acknowledging, and then letting it go.

when he looks back to geralt the next time, it's with a small smile. sam has, obviously, moved on conversationally. ready to change the topic. ]

So. [ and then the small smile grows a little, almost joking. ] When were you going to tell me about Roach?

[gynvael]

[ Sam seems lost in thought, so Geralt decides against interrupting. If we come back at all needn't be said aloud. He can't imagine it not being on anyone's mind. Even if he manages to leave the prison, what then? Something tells him Ambrose's spell wasn't created to be reversed. It's one thing to open a single door to pull people into one singular world. It's another to open dozens of extremely specific doors into a multitude of worlds.

The silence is not uncomfortable. Geralt lets it linger. Funny, that he's found such quick companionship in Sam but—in a way, it's difficult not to. With just how the man is. Or maybe Geralt simply needs this kind of company, more than he'd ever admit. The kind where he hasn't got to say much to be understood.

It isn't until Sam mentions Roach that Geralt turns his head. He raises an eyebrow. What. His horse? Yeah. Sam had met her. In the Horizon, walking up to his cabin, Roach had been there grazing in her stable. Even without conscious memories, he'd created Roach as the chestnut mare she'd always been. Missing the stripe down her face, though. She'd had a star instead.

He gives a small huff, and the corner of his lips quirk upward for a moment. ] Not much to tell. [ The way he says it suggests there's a lot he wants to tell. In truth, as small and inconsequential as it is—she's only a horse and one he's meant to outlive at that, just like all the mares before her—being in the Horizon, riding her: it reminds him of one more thing he no longer has. One more thing he misses. ] She's taken me far. [ He makes a vague gesture with his hand that's akin to a shrug. He's fond of her—that much comes across. ] Ask me another time.