[ After Ciri showed up at his door and failed to find recognition in his gaze, she had disappeared. Geralt had not pursued her. He tells himself he doesn't want to upset her further. The truth is, it's painful to have something so close to the surface of his mind and yet unreachable. He feels helpless—unmoored. A scattering of years and months that come and go. Pieces of a puzzle that he cannot fit into the right places.
Jaskier fills more of the picture than others. He isn't sure why that is. He remembers...singing, mostly. Familiar melodies that the sandpiper on his shoulder whistles. He's joined Jaskier in a remote area of the continent, the forest sprouting around him as it always does. A tree spreads its thick arms overhead. Geralt sits beneath its leaves, one knee drawn up and the other leg extended.
He has a book in his hand—a bestiary borrowed from Istredd's library—and a mug of ale to the side. A cooking pot sits atop a campfire. Chunks of rabbit and carrots bubble. Food is no longer a necessity, but the act is a routine he prefers to keep. He likes to hunt. He likes to have things to do: chopping firewood, brushing his horse, butchering meat.
At least he remembers how to do those things.
When he finally breaks the silence, it's to ask: ] Did she speak to you? Afterwards.
[ A part of him recognizes he is fleeing, but he can't bring himself to give a shit. The thought of staying curdles his stomach; his hands don't feel like they belong to him. He grips the reins too tightly, and by the time he stops, there's blood on his palms where his nails have broken through skin.
For a while, he just sits. His head throbs. Why does it seem as if the memories are getting worse? There was a brief window where he welcomed them—when the flashes and flood slotted neatly into place, and he began to know who he was. Lately, they've cut deeper, a haphazard jumble of images. None of the faces in them are clear. He can't really see the men who spawned abruptly in his mind, but the fear they bring weighs heavy on his chest.
When he swallows, a bitter taste clogs his throat.
The sun sets. He makes a decision then, what he needs to do. But he wants to see Dean and Steve first. It's not his intention to abandon them.
His ride back up the mountain is steadier. He searches for Dean first through the biting frost. A sliver of moonlight shines through the evergreen needles. He doesn't interrupt—just lurks by one of the trees until Dean finishes what he might be doing. ]
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amnesia years — ◈ dean.
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amnesia years — ◈ steve; dean.
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wrap it here, i think??
ties this off with a bow
amnesia years — ◈ alucard.
amnesia years — ◈ jaskier.
Jaskier fills more of the picture than others. He isn't sure why that is. He remembers...singing, mostly. Familiar melodies that the sandpiper on his shoulder whistles. He's joined Jaskier in a remote area of the continent, the forest sprouting around him as it always does. A tree spreads its thick arms overhead. Geralt sits beneath its leaves, one knee drawn up and the other leg extended.
He has a book in his hand—a bestiary borrowed from Istredd's library—and a mug of ale to the side. A cooking pot sits atop a campfire. Chunks of rabbit and carrots bubble. Food is no longer a necessity, but the act is a routine he prefers to keep. He likes to hunt. He likes to have things to do: chopping firewood, brushing his horse, butchering meat.
At least he remembers how to do those things.
When he finally breaks the silence, it's to ask: ] Did she speak to you? Afterwards.
[ After she left him, he means. ]
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amnesia years — ◈ himeka.
amnesia years — ◈ dean; part 2.
For a while, he just sits. His head throbs. Why does it seem as if the memories are getting worse? There was a brief window where he welcomed them—when the flashes and flood slotted neatly into place, and he began to know who he was. Lately, they've cut deeper, a haphazard jumble of images. None of the faces in them are clear. He can't really see the men who spawned abruptly in his mind, but the fear they bring weighs heavy on his chest.
When he swallows, a bitter taste clogs his throat.
The sun sets. He makes a decision then, what he needs to do. But he wants to see Dean and Steve first. It's not his intention to abandon them.
His ride back up the mountain is steadier. He searches for Dean first through the biting frost. A sliver of moonlight shines through the evergreen needles. He doesn't interrupt—just lurks by one of the trees until Dean finishes what he might be doing. ]
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