abraxaslogs | ( CLOSED )

Entry tags:

( 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

discontinued! ))

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Returning from the Horizon is disorienting. Like being jerked out of a hurricane. Remembering all that went on there is slower; a steady sinking that he cannot stop. If Geralt tended to keep to himself before, he's now moved onto strictly ignoring anyone and everything that doesn't require immediate attention. The restless itch in his fingers grow. He lets himself ponder decisions he knows would be incredibly bad ones.

He wants to ride. He should be home. The thought sounds childish crossing his mind, but there are not many steady constants in his life and not many places he can return to and know he'll not be turned away. Kaer Morhen is one of the few. And he wants to talk to Vesemir. (Vesemir would understand; would know what it is to bury children that feel too much like yours when you should know better.)

When footsteps invariably make their way down the stairs, Geralt glances to the side without turning his head. (That's the other part that fucks with him: the loss of his senses all over again now that he's back here.) That it's Sam doesn't surprise him. The man has been by a handful of times. Geralt hasn't minded much—but that was before. Now it's—

Complicated. In truth, if it'd been anyone but Sam, in any other situation, what occurred between them would've felt nothing short of invasive. But if there's one thing he understands, it's that the Horizon had left no room for hidden motives. That as with him, what he found within others was raw, unaltered.

So when he sighs at Sam's approach, there's a note of acceptance to his display of exasperation. ] You know I'll only tell you I'm fine.

Edited 2021-08-02 06:06 (UTC)

[ It's inevitable that Jaskier will come. In a way, Geralt looks forward to the distraction. Fuck, he could use anything other than sitting in this damn cell, crammed in with a man who seems almost relieved he's at death's door and a vampire who's seen far too much between the tunnels and now. This.

But he also knows Jaskier will want to talk. Will try to talk. More than that, he's aware he owes his friend some answers. For all that he'd rather avoid the topic, he can't any longer. Especially not after he's made Jaskier promise to leave him if there's a chance of returning to find the princess. That's a ship that's long sailed now. A door he's accepted is no longer open.

They end up in the library. Geralt follows the bard like he's supposed to under the watchful eyes of the guards. Lets Jaskier pile tomes in his arms. Carries them all into a corner table, where he stacks them so that they make something close to a wall of privacy. He should be focused on getting out of here. Things feel like they've reached a boiling point. And the Horizon—

Cirilla.

He reaches for one of the texts, flipping it open. Jaskier has claimed he's here to carry books and assist in taking notes, so that's what Geralt is doing while they search for actual information at the same time. Meeting inside the Horizon is a possibility that's crossed his mind, but. Shit. For the moment, he doesn't want to go back. Not yet. Jaskier can't fucking meditate to save his life, anyway. He's silent, for the most part. If there are things Jaskier wants to know, he'll have to start the conversation himself. ]

Edited 2021-08-02 02:46 (UTC)

[It is a terrible thing, he thinks, that even a bard as magnanimous in his words and talented in his verses as he could not really describe what the Horizon is, what it has done to him... or what it feels like to return from it. Perhaps he may ask Hector (now he remembers his name) about it. If he knows if this is akin to returning from the dead.

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?

[ He spares only a brief glance at the hollow bird. His focus is shit. He hates that it is. He's read this damn page six times. Focus is almost never an issue with him, and when it is, it makes him irritable in a way that's hard to explain. Makes him feel like a wagon with a single square wheel.

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. ]

Mm. A single syllable that tells him a lot. Oh boy. This. This is shit. Not that it isn't utterly delightful to learn more about one's friends, but not in this way. Not in way that -- Jaskier himself feels as if he's been throttled about in his skull.

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.]

Don't.

[ 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.

[ there is a general sense of the castle once they return from the horizon. experiences shared without the intent behind them have left many of the people, both honored guests and those still kept down the dungeons, feeling a bit exposed. sam does what he can to check in on those he saw in the horizon, if only because he doesn't - necessarily - feel the same way. yes, seeing his home back in delacroix and not being able to remember sarah, or aj, or cas, feels a bit like a rib has been ripped out of his chest. but what he does remember most of the time there, or even the time in the city as captain america, hadn't been invasive.

granted, his list of people to check in on has grown exponentially, and he's already found that initial discussion of 'we haven't actually met but i remember you coming over for gumbo' to be more awkward than it had any right to be. if anything, it makes the time he takes away to go down to see geralt all the more...what? easy? casual? he did not meet geralt without memories, did not slip into a close, but not actually, space with him under the guise of magically-induced intimacy. it feels a bit like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders, and as he makes it down into the stone hall, and hears the sigh and the comment from geralt, it pulls a kind of smile from him. one that he doesn't have to put up a front for, in some ways. ]

Good thing I wasn't going to ask. [ he looks over to the guard who he'd checked in with, before coming down here. nods, once - geralt probably recognizes it for how the process goes when the 'honored guests' are allowed to chaperone one of the imprisoned. it's not the first time sam has done this with geralt, specifically, either. ] You up for a walk? [ see? he doesn't even outwardly ask about the leg. he's learning (kind of) ]

[ Geralt tilts his head, looking up at Sam. For others he met in there, it was either his first encounter or he found what they wouldn't want seen. Or both. With Sam, it's not quite like that. The steady warmth he'd settled into in that house doesn't contradict the image of the man he's already been getting to know.

He considers the offer for a second. Not the most difficult decision. He's tired of being cooped up; tired of the hum of conversation and sounds he can no longer sharply distinguish once again. After the sprawling Horizon, it's been particularly confining. Unlike some of the others, he's ambivalent about...whatever supposed connection they now have. About what might still be left behind in that plain full of minds unrestrained. Returning has not been on the list of things he's eager to do despite its potential reprieve from the cells.

So. Yeah. He's up for it. His expression says he's willing, even if no answer comes out loud. In case there's any doubt, though, he gets up. His leg is better, but it's annoying to have it return to bothering him after a handful of weeks free from injury. (Free from a lot of things.)

He follows Sam out once the guards seem satisfied to let him go. The silence isn't unusual with him, but there's a sense that it stems from more than his typical disinterest in sparking small talk—that there's something on his mind he's been trying to deal with. Or swallow down, in any case. Same difference, for him. It's some paces down the hall upstairs that he finally says something. Only so many places here to go, but still—old instincts means he prefers not to follow blindly, even with someone he trusts won't lead him into a spike pit. ]

Hope you have an exciting destination in mind.

[ As loath as he is to admit it, Jaskier was right to drag him back to his room and let him nap. His head, at least, is less stuffed with straw. He's not eager to go back to occupying his corner of the cell. Can't be helped, though; he ignores the ever-increasing crowding he's been feeling, and finds a space between the beds where he has a modicum of solitude.

Geralt doesn't expect any other visitors. Nor does he want them, really. He's said all he wants to with Jaskier and Sam both. But when he spots a woman with dark hair and blue eyes peering between the bars, he can't help paying attention. Hard to say for sure -- the description Jaskier granted him could fit any handful of folk (quietly pretty and brunette only gets him so far) -- but her face is new to him. So. Hmm. Perhaps it is her.

In any case, it's enough for Geralt to take notice where he normally wouldn't bother. ]

Looking for someone?

Edited 2021-08-04 21:17 (UTC)

[ maybe it has to do with the fact that when it came to dirty laundry, or anything that either of them wouldn't want scene, they got that out of the way much earlier - images tossed up on stone walls, memories - relived - over and over. honestly, sam doesn't have a whole lot in terms of secrets he doesn't want people stomping over that hadn't ben forcefully pulled from him in those tunnels. so maybe that's why, even after the horizon, he really doesn't mind the effect it's left behind. but he is aware that isn't how most everyone else saw it, and he's sure geralt's used up all his socializing with the general public without realizing why.

and honestly - as sam stands in front of geralt's cell, in the moments before geralt agrees to come - it doesn't feel all that different. or- more so- it almost feels more the same, more comfortable, than before. but underneath all of it is still that underlying sense of...something. something sam hasn't worked out yet. but he's getting there. and part of him wonders, as geralt gets up and joins him on the walk, if there isn't anything geralt wants to say in return. he doesn't hold his breath, if only because after the horizon, sam's a bit exhausted of his 'getting people to open up about feelings they don't normally want to talk about' scale.

he snorts at geralt's comment, taking them down the main hall and towards the front entrance. ] Not sure I'd call it exciting, but I want out of this castle, so- hope you're down for some fresh air. [ sam would prefer to make it fully off the castle grounds, if only because something about ambrose's expression when they returned home didn't sit well with him, but he isn't sure if he's really in a place to push his luck. not with how many trips he's been making down to the dungeon. so...castle grounds and gardens and maybe a bit of forest it is.

it's as they're walking, though, that sam's attention is going to shift to geralt's leg. it might not be outright staring, but there are enough glances to let the other know sam is checking the other's gait, to see how much he's still limping, how bad it still looks. sam tries his best, but they barely make it out the door before he finally gives up on holding back and asks- ]

Your leg wasn't bothering you in the Horizon, was it? [ it's an observation more than a question, and sam exhales. ] But it's back to being messed up now?

[The answer is about what he expects. He pushes the tome off of his lap with a sigh, sitting back in his chair. It creaks ominously under the shift, which certainly suits the mood. The only thing to make the air even sweeter is if the bloody thing collapses underneath him. Perhaps it's cursed against Suns.

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.]

[ Geralt finally looks up. His gaze settles on Jaskier. He's aware Jaskier doesn't understand because Geralt's not exactly been forthcoming. About how he feels. About...any of it but really, what the fuck is he supposed to say? His head feels clouded with thoughts he can't shake, a tide that threatens to spill over.

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?

[That stops him in his tracks. If he didn't know Geralt so well, it would have felt more like a verbal lash -- something to use against him. No. No, he didn't see Sodden burn. And he didn't see... the onslaught of Nilfgaard. He did not see the princess, nor the army pursuing her... and yet he still promised to find a girl he knows nothing about.

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.]

[ In all honesty, he regrets having ever asked Jaskier. Regrets a time when he'd been fresh enough, and perhaps a little desperate enough, to believe there was a chance Jaskier could find his way home before an army could catch up to her. It's been over eight weeks now, though. He knows better than to think the outcome could be anything else.

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?

[ Actually? Out of this damn castle sounds ideal. He's not used to being inside for as long as he has. What. Half a season now? Their brief push into the yard each day is a joke. Hardly counts.

He does notice Sam looking. Geralt's neither surprised nor does he say a word on it. He's too tired to pretend like it isn't still being a damn pain in the arse. Jaskier's magic (and isn't that a hell of a thing on its own) a couple weeks back has managed to soothe it, but the wound is still there. It's less of a limp now; more of the way he never really rests his weight on that leg when they stop or turn a corner.

When Sam finally brings it up, Geralt glances over briefly. It's hard to put into words what he feels now. What he remembers feeling then. (Contentment. A version of it.) ]

Mm. Same as it was. [ He's wondered about it. That when they returned, things had been the same. Hunger and thirst unchanged. As if their bodies hadn't noticed they'd been absent for over a week. Makes him think what else might be suspended while they're in there. Exactly what power does Thorne believe they can tap into? And at what point is their entry into it no longer deemed necessary to be conscious and voluntary? ] Hasn't gotten worse.

[Jaskier sighs only to himself, the one slip of relief hidden behind the heft of picking up a tome. He is not accustomed to this feeling, his heart worrying for the Witcher, who has had little need for any worry nor pity for as long as Jaskier's known him.

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.

[ Geralt grunts in reply at that. With his hands full, he blows a strand of hair out of his mouth only to have it fall back in. Fuck. He gives up.

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?

[Though it certainly isn't Jaskier's main talent, it is one of several, and in more than a handful of times it's made things much simpler for himself. (And Geralt, though the Witcher, he knows, would not admit it.) The moment Geralt nudges him, he switches to another topic -- prattling mindlessly about information he's been reading on the Tarot, and specifically how his is clearly the superior one with how depressing so many others are.

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?

[ sam appreciates, in a weird way, that at least geralt isn't pretending around him anymore. not that geralt really 'pretended' in the first place, but sam notes that he's not hiding the leg, and the pain it's giving him. still giving him. sam nods, more to himself than anything, as he comes to a slow stop out in the grasses. they're far enough away from the main castle, probably hidden by a couple of trees, maybe a bush. either wait, it's secluded enough that sam feels safe to ask. ]

Did you ever hear what the crystals were for? That they sent us in to grab weeks ago?

[ he knows he hasn't been talking to geralt about them - if anything, he feels a bit like most of them have tried to forget the massive amounts of trauma bonding that they went through. but sam's been doing a bit of his own digging, talking with a few other people - guests, of course, because as the days have gone on his trust for the people of thorne has withered.

but god - a thought strikes him then. mixed up in all of that. has it really been weeks? sam almost curses at the idea of it, momentarily distracted by the idea that they've been here for, actually, about two months. that he doesn't know what is happening back home, what sarah and the boys must be thinking. but that tidal wave is something to unpack for another day, and if geralt gives him any kind of look, sam is simply going to shrug. ]

I got curious and asked around. They had to be important if they went through all that trouble, you know?

[ Somehow, Geralt isn't expecting the crystals to be what Sam's gotten him out here to discuss. He tilts his head. Good memories. Feels like a fucking eternity ago. Same thing might be going through Sam's head, he thinks, because he sees the way the man looks caught by a realization.

He doesn't ask. Even if it does cross his mind, briefly. Sam hasn't given any indication he's too bothered by what happened in the Horizon, but—Geralt's not certain how Sam really feels. To have held all the things so important to him and wake up with it abruptly torn away. There's a reason Sam's home had not just been a house. He remembers, distinctly, that it had been filled with what he realizes must've been Sam's friends and family. None of whom are here.

The subject hits too close to home. When Sam gives a shrug, Geralt decides that's enough of an answer. He leaves it. ]

Presumed they had alchemical properties. [ Rare crystals from an endangered species—it tracks. Given its effects, he'd considered it might be weaponized. Recreation, even. It does give a hell of a time. He leans back against one of the trees. ] You found something.

[ Geralt lingers outside for a second. Picking out heartbeats through a door is currently not a thing he can do (again)—and he's not interested in walking into a room full of strangers. When the place is clearly empty, though, he follows Jaskier in.

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?

Edited 2021-08-05 19:33 (UTC)

[ oh, it is definitely going through his head. more so, as geralt's assumed, since the horizon. since living in that house for who knows how long, with photos he didn't recognize. with people, important people, he couldn't remember. it bothers him, but doesn't devastate him, as he might have thought it would - if only because in a way, he had remembered them. not sarah, especially, but she was always a part of that house. always will be.

he's done the 'disappear for years and be cut off from family' thing before. hell, multiple times before. what's one more period of time where his sister and her boys have to make it without him? ( god, even joking about it hurts. ) ]

They have a kind of process or something that turns it into medicine. Or- not medicine, technically, or maybe it is for here, but they're supposed to help with healing. [ geralt stops and leans against the tree, and sam steps forward one or two more steps before turning back around to face him, hands in the pockets of his trousers. he may look a little sheepish when geralt says you found something, but only a little. doesn't change what he plans on doing. ]

Wouldn't call it found, but I snagged one of the crystals, while we were thre. A smaller one, that they couldn't catch, and this woman I know - Zelda - she knows more about this magic stuff than I do. [ geralt can probably tell where this is going, but sam plows through all the same. he hadn't known at the time why he wanted to make sure he grabbed some of those crystals, but it probably had to do with his still growing distrust of this whole place. now, though, sam keeps going, to the point that he'll talk right over geralt if he tries to interrupt. ] It's not exactly the same as what they make up out of it, and she mentioned some possible side effects, but I don't know if I trust anything those guys are doing. [ a beat, and then sam's brows both lift, expectantly. ]

We don't know what we're getting ourselves into, here, and your leg is bothering you. Still. [ he gives geralt a look that says even if he hadn't said anything, sam could have guessed. unfortunately, that is what is going to happen, the more time they spend together. sam's good at reading people, no matter how expressive. ] And, after that shit we saw in there, we need to be ready for anything.

[ he pulls the small vial out from his pocket. it's unassuming, fits squarely in his palm before h shifts it around to hold between pointer finger and thumb, the final question left unasked.

well? ]

[ Fortunate for Sam that Geralt's not the interrupting type, even though he can put two and two together before Sam finishes explaining. A healing potion. From the crystals. The name Zelda sends a shadow of recognition over his face.

He shifts. His eyes narrow a little. It's clear, out of everything that Sam's said, what catches his attention the most. ] Side effects.

[ It's not that he doesn't trust Sam. It's that side effects is fucking vague and these crystals haven't exactly been harmless in their native form. Which. Yeah. He knows. He knows Sam isn't wrong. He'd have to be head buried in the sand to not feel the tension in the air. How things have expanded to the snapping point. He's equally reluctant to forge ahead not at a hundred percent—especially with how muted his senses are. How slow he feels. He hates that just about anyone can sneak up on him.

A breath escapes him. It's difficult to explain how he feels without being entrenched in a history he'd rather not delve into. Still, he does reach for the vial, if only out of curiosity. It sits neatly in his palm. Unassuming as anything.

If he wasn't healing—slowly, but he is—if it'd been getting worse, he'd likely have chanced it. He'd meant it when he'd promised Sam as much. And if he'd been anywhere but trapped in a cell, with so much of himself stripped away, he'd have chanced it, too. As things are, though, he's less willing to play so loosely with the unknown. ] I know what you'll say. But I've fought with worse. I can walk on it.

[ After a moment, he holds it back out. It isn't like him to explain, but he understands Sam's been trying. Has gone out of his way when he's no real reason to. He wants Sam to know that it's not mistrust nor some misplaced bravado that's made him turn the down the help. He's too damn old to indulge in the latter, anyway. ]

I've never had the most blessed experience with experimental alchemy.

[ sam knew, going into all of this, that would be what geralt got caught up on. and sure, okay, maybe it's just sam who is getting excited about the concept of healing potions like they're in some old fantasy novel. and maybe everyone else is used to the idea that these things are around, and work, and aren't something to be considered special. but still, side effects, and sam lets out an exhale. ]

Yeah. Apparently, there's a chance you could trip out for a couple of hours. But if it fixes your leg, might be worth it. [ he says might like he's still convincing geralt to take the potion, because there is still some hopeful part of sam that thinks maybe, just maybe, he will. and its that hopeful part of him that builds as geralt reaches to inspect the vial. he knows there are a mountain's worth of reasons not to take it, knows there are dangers and unknowns, but when zelda had handed him the bottle and told him that it would work, albiet with those damned side effects, geralt had been the only person sam thought of. and even if there is still a larger part of sam that doesn't actually believe geralt will accept it, he has to try.

because that's all he can do, isn't it? after what happened in the horizon, after the time they spent and the conversations they shared, after the girl, sam feels like he carries around the knowledge that he has to do this. or- not has to, necessarily. but wants to. and on top of it all, there is a feeling that maybe after all of that, after seeing sam's home and then seeing the keep and the snow and geralt's home, maybe geralt will actually accept it. jaskier had said trusts, back when they first met. that geralt trusts him, and sam can piece together enough about the witcher to knows what that means.

so he gives it a try, and when geralt ultimately offers it back, sam feels just a tad bit disappointed, in himself more than anything, as he smiles just a bit and gives a small sigh, taking back the vial and studying a bit himself. he doesn't blame geralt for not taking it, but more chides himself. maybe if he'd brought it earlier, but alas. he shakes his head and slides it into his pocket again, looking back up to the other man with a curious smile. ]

You've had other experiences with experimental alchemy?

[ Geralt almost mouths the words trip out; what the fuck does that—? Actually, never mind. He can piece it together. And since Sam's confirmed the actual side effects—it only seals his decision. He's not interested in any more hallucinating. He's had enough. He's seen everything from Visenna to corpses to the princess (all three of them). At this point, the only thing he hasn't had visions of is Roach.

He'll take the bad leg. At least he knows what to expect from that.

He ends up sitting at the base of the tree; it's shaded from the summer sun and there's enough privacy between the bushes. He already knows Sam will ask; it's a piece he's willing to share, having offered it in the first place. It isn't a secret—not at home—and besides. Sam's seen more than most ever do out of him in the span of, what. Two months? All of it against his intentions. Might as well make it his choice, for once. ]

It's how we're made. [ He's only mentioned it once to Sam, briefly, that they're made starting as boys—but he's never explained anything further. He's especially never spoken of his own experience to anyone. Of why it is, exactly, that even amidst his own kind, he stands out with his hair leeched of pigment. It's a part of the story he glides over still. The only ones who know it in full are the ones who were actually there. ] Mages called them the Trials. Goes about six, seven days. You either emerged a Witcher or you didn't at all.

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