[ Good to know he still remembers how to lighten Dean's mood with nonsense.
Geralt squints. He does not, in fact, recall where this Balrog originated. He only remembers the monster itself, though the burnt-off edges of those images tell him he wasn't involved in the fight. But he did watch it. So...it must've been Dean who did the deed.
Barehanded seems a slight exaggeration, though. ]
I know you must've had a sword. [ He frowns. ] Or a staff.
[ Since when does Dean wield a staff? Maybe he shouldn't push too hard on the memory right now. ]
Was I there? [ This feels like a story Dean told him once. It would explain why some of the details that surfaced were so fucking absurd. ]
( He elects not to comment on sword or staff — first off, because it would ruin his credibility by doubling down, but secondly, because commiting to either one would make him Gandalf when it's obvious to literally anybody with eyes and a working brain he's Aragorn.
Which makes Geralt's role obvious.
He scoffs. )
Of course you were, you don't remember? You had this fru-fru bow and arrow thing going on. And a legging phase, I kept trying to tell you, Gerald, leggings aren't pants, but you weren't having it.
( If it weren't obvious by now he's screwing around, the way he smirks and sways to nudge Geralt's shoulder with his probably gives it away. )
[ Fru-fru bow gives it away, if nothing else—Geralt does not use a longbow, that much he is certain of—but the cheeky glance doesn't hurt. ]
Fuck off. [ This is what he gets for being the elder one. (Where have the rest of his brothers gone?) ] Are you sure I tolerated you for three hundred years?
[ That's a mystery he needs to solve when his memories return.
They trek up the snowy path towards the cabin. He's laid out the training yard as close to what feels right as he can. Each time he recalls a little more, he moves a bit here or there, building a familiar place he can look at. It's working, a bit. Pieces coming back. ]
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no subject
Geralt squints. He does not, in fact, recall where this Balrog originated. He only remembers the monster itself, though the burnt-off edges of those images tell him he wasn't involved in the fight. But he did watch it. So...it must've been Dean who did the deed.
Barehanded seems a slight exaggeration, though. ]
I know you must've had a sword. [ He frowns. ] Or a staff.
[ Since when does Dean wield a staff? Maybe he shouldn't push too hard on the memory right now. ]
Was I there? [ This feels like a story Dean told him once. It would explain why some of the details that surfaced were so fucking absurd. ]
no subject
Which makes Geralt's role obvious.
He scoffs. )
Of course you were, you don't remember? You had this fru-fru bow and arrow thing going on. And a legging phase, I kept trying to tell you, Gerald, leggings aren't pants, but you weren't having it.
( If it weren't obvious by now he's screwing around, the way he smirks and sways to nudge Geralt's shoulder with his probably gives it away. )
no subject
Fuck off. [ This is what he gets for being the elder one. (Where have the rest of his brothers gone?) ] Are you sure I tolerated you for three hundred years?
[ That's a mystery he needs to solve when his memories return.
They trek up the snowy path towards the cabin. He's laid out the training yard as close to what feels right as he can. Each time he recalls a little more, he moves a bit here or there, building a familiar place he can look at. It's working, a bit. Pieces coming back. ]