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To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
To talk to him in person, you'll need to be in Cadens or go to his domain, a snowy mountain fortress. Yard is open; doors are locked. If he isn't around, leave a delivery with the white wolf.
800 Year AU Snapshot; post amnesia
Things have been worse than they are right now. There are a few highlights these days; Geralt is awake, alive, and recovering. Steve is here, visiting, happy. He always likes when he can bring a couple members of his family together under one roof for any significant length of time, and so even though Geralt's been having a string of bad days lately... it's okay, he thinks. Nobody's dying, or injured, or missing. Last night, they ended the evening with drunken laughter. Nobody's warring with anyone this week. Maybe things aren't perfect, but they're not bad.
No amount of telling himself that shakes the faint sense of discomfort creeping up his spine. He's always been in tune with vibes when it comes to the people he cares about, to their interpersonal dynamics, to the charge in the air in the way they interact with each other. It's nothing he can put his finger on, but something strikes him as ever-so-faintly off about the way the metal scores against metal. Maybe the speed Geralt's putting into his movements. The force of his blows. The way Steve is keeping up, but only just barely, and pushing himself a little too hard for it. The expressions on their faces, the look in Geralt's eyes.
It hasn't crossed any lines. Nobody's been hurt, no blood's been drawn, there's no reason for him to feel unsettled — and yet, all the same, a small knit furrows his brow as he watches, eyes gradually narrowing, tension in his shoulders winding tighter.
These are two of his favorite people in the world, and something is wrong. He just... knows. In a few minutes, he'll think back to this moment and curse himself for not trusting his instincts. Now would've been the right time to call it quits, but instead, stupidly, he waits — and, consequently, Geralt snaps. )
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Now that it's winter, he's finally let Dean join him. And with Dean, Steve—a young man whose face is only partially familiar. A faded dream. Even his memories of Dean are fragmented.
He does trust him. That much, he knows.
He's agreed to a round of light sparring, if only because the footwork is ingrained in him. There is a comfort to doing something he feels like he knows, that isn't frustratingly foreign. In retrospect, he should've kept it between him and Dean instead. They've done this before; Dean can handle himself. But Dean seems fond of the boy, and the steady warmth they shared the night before lulls him into a sense of being better.
The first half hour is unremarkable. The second—he can't say what changes. (He seldom can.) The clash of steel on steel, perhaps. It echoes too sharply between his ears. Reverberates too heavily in his bones. He smells blood and flames where there are none, and when the weapon swings towards him, he reacts on instinct—a parry instead of a block, meant to knock his opponent to the ground, hard.
Abruptly, he withdraws. Fuck. An apology sits on the tip of his tongue. He should offer the boy a hand to his feet. But the urge to leave seizes him, before much worse happens, and he turns on his heel without a word. Steve, he thinks, will know better than to try to stop him. ]
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