the lie

Jai Courtney

She felt the roughness of his hand as it closed around her own, and felt a stillness that Althea hadn't felt for years. Steady as the stone, certain as bedrock.

"Witchers can legally hold no lands, no titles," a beat, "no children or legacy." Althea had never cared for the smallest of the observations, "And neither can a Legionnaire: but we could have each other." Althea's hand was already in his, but for all the things she chose not to say, there were some that needed to be said. "You and... your sword will always have a place under my roof, around my fire, but I'll hold you to neither." Vulnerability - such a tricky thing.

"Assuming we both survive, of course."

Many would say he didn't deserve Althea, either. This soft touch she gave him, the steady thrum of magic that she held in her hands. It reverberated in his chest. An empty, hollow thing – filled slowly by the presence of the other beside him. It made him hold on a little tighter, turning to look down at Althea. "When we survive, I'll thank you properly. You know for...housing my sword." His grin was crooked, unable to stop himself before he eased closer to her. Vulnerability – too foreign for him to remain serious long enough to break down the many walls that still remained.

Emotions were a struggle for the Witcher, but for a moment, he let the anger and chaos fall away. His hand came up to Althea's features, soft yet sharp beneath his calloused fingertips, and brush against her jaw, "I know a gift from the gods when I see one, Valkyrie."

Between him and Kalamar they had cooked up a plan to collar the Arishok. Use this haven as a distraction to get closer, after all the chaos of battle would give Jurgen the best chance to slam this collar Kalamar had collected around the neck of the leader. So he was waiting in the haven none of them the wiser; they had a darkfriend in their mits and not one of those who resisted the call but embraced it… well all but one, Siggy. Jurgen knew exactly why the other was here, that man was more opportunistic then he was and that was saying something. If anyone could ruin this plan it was Siggy and Jurgen knew the bastard would use that to his advantage. Jurgen had locked eyes with him already, it was too late to pretend that he hadn't seen the other. “Now what in Taravell do you think you will gain here Siggy?” 

Thora had traveled through space and time to save her, braved giants and worse to see Althea brought back to this age. Aurea needed her to be strong, Aradia was called elsewhere, and the Legion would call upon her soon. She was worried about her friend, scared for the future of her home, and ashamed that writing to the lords and ladies of the surrounding areas to enlist their aid was the most she could manage. The Tower was splitting apart and any sense of normalcy had evaporated months ago.

"Fairly, I'd say." Althea conceded with a sigh, taking a stand next to Sigtryggr, close enough to feel the warmth of his frame adjacent to hers. Some might have been surprised to see the witcher among the ranks of Haven's reinforcements, but Althea was not. "One more sword won't make a difference," she offered an out - just in case, but even as she did her fingers found the calloused interior of his palm, lacing their hands together, "it's not too late."

Her touch was gentle, it was soft – it made Sigtryggr's chest do some weird little flip. Everything was tingling from his palm and up his arm, his hand reflexively tightening around Althea's. "And let you have all the fun?" He glanced at her now, "Cause I think I got the biggest sword around that will do the most fuckin' damage." The Witcher waited a few more moments, black smoke on the horizon, "You good?" An all encompassing question – he was no good at emotions, these were all relatively new for him, but with his eloquent way of speaking, he knew Althea would understand him. She seemingly always did.

Where: Haven

Being here felt like a betrayal to all those around him. The concept that gave birth to the daemonfey was futile resistance. It had been born when a spirit of hope was captured by the Atherions, corrupted by the despair of all the dragons tested and tormented. Merging with Lyklor on the battlefield of Aventia when all looked lost to the darkspawn horde. He couldn’t help but feel like being here was danming them to a certain fate. But Talisa had been so insistent that he came, she really thought the best of him. Stabling his pegasus Renie in a stall he noticed someone walk in. “I'll be with you in one second…” he finished securing her before. “Sorry about that… can’t have her wandering off. Do you know where I can go to help?” Maybe if got himself a small task, one out of the way he wouldn’t burden them.

"No... Not really." A truthful statement, she wasn't sure when it had happened. Slowly, perhaps. So many years Althea had been falling freely without any real direction beyond the ideals of upward mobility. "Growing up you hear about the Blight, monsters that spring up now and then, but it's always been... such a distant problem." Trivial, really. Darkspawn were a foreigner's disease and weren't something that she worried herself with in the Tower, or Eterna for that matter. "Seeing it with my own eyes: you can't stare down the gaze of true evil and not commit it's face to memory."

If asked a year ago if she'd ever joined the Legion, she'd have laughed and said no. If asked if she'd ever give her life for someone else, there'd have been another eruption of laughter. "In the moment I just did what felt right." What else could she have done?

"Where I go, she goes. Where she goes, I go. Unfortunately." A moment of silence before she asked, "Do you have any siblings - did you?" It was maybe offensive to ask, insensitive, but she couldn't deny that there was an urge to get to know the Iskaran better. To understand him, despite herself.

"Regret isn't something you can carry with the Legion, can ya? I hear it kills you – that drink of theirs." It was similar, not entirely different, but Sig hadn't really given it much thought. "Nah. I lived in Helskorn Bastion. It was just me and my mother. Haven't seen her since I was eight, so maybe she moved on. I hear your siblings are just as fuckin' annoying as the rest of 'em, and worse, cause they share your blood."

"It's very that, yes," Althea said as she glanced around, "Lady Juliana of House Chrysanthos invented the steam engine fifty years ago and since then everything has just been... exploding every year." Even the vessel they sat on had a plume of smoke rising from one of the stacks, flame, and fuel propelling them forward as warforged creations hummed about. "Inevitably someone is going to blow themselves up, that's how these things usually go..." There was a beat, "but now that you mention it, the tickets for this cruise were quite cheap..." Her tongue found her cheek before she found laughter escaping next, "So. Gladiator. Witcher. What's next?"

Sig paused as well, drink halfway up to his mouth, "That explains why the guy didn't fight back much when I took his ticket off of him. Think they knew somethin' we don't?" His eyes shone with a hint of mirth, turning to look at Althea as she laughed, "Fuck if I know. Lord Chrysitanthaum, maybe? Her partner dead yet?"

"Less intentional than you might assume." Though she did enjoy the compliment, the circumstances surrounding her Joining were unfortunate - as most often were - but a sacrifice had been necessary. Althea, a martyr, it still sounded surreal. "It's a very long story," she stated, looking up at the witcher as she felt the ground approaching her back - cognisant that her hair would take a week to recover. "but there was a Goddess of the Moon, her spiritual avatar, and a sacrifice needed to cleanse her of the blight." She turned in his arms, spinning wide - elongated arms, lithe sinew framed by the cold moon - then she returned back. "My sister was another casualty, we underwent the Joining together but were stationed here."

Not all children survived becoming Witchers, and not all Legionnaires ever survived the Joining. He hadn't known much about it until coming to this land, the Legion a necessary fixture in the North of Iskaldrik. "This always like you, then? Sacrificing for the greater good?" Emotions, so many of them, were unspoken in the very brief story that Althea posed. Goddesses, spiritual things, that he could understand. Sigtryggr paused when she twirled back, catching her and holding her still for a moment. He didn't understand her reasoning, couldn't – he was selfish. Like the wish that this moment would maybe last a little long, while remaining abundantly aware that it would most likely not be long for this world. Both poisoned in a way, but perhaps two things that shone in the night. "So it runs in the family."

Reaching for the bottle, she plucked it from Sigtryggr's grasp, studying the label - not quite sure what she was expected - before glancing back at him, "Well, to Progress-" she raised it for a moment before she went to take a sip straight from the bottle - earning a look from one of the passengers before Althea paused, "what is it Iskarans say..." the word eluded her for a moment and while the accent was lacking, it came to her. "Right, skål." She took a swig, relishing in the honeyed taste before wincing and offering it back in kind.

"So is this what they do every year or something? Show off shit like a teleportation machine? What are they going to do with that? When Sinaria promises trade ships and sends a fucking Kraken instead? That'll be the day."

“Well I think for someone who just showed up out of the blue and interrupted my work I think this is very hospitable of me. To think if I hadn’t come out here I might have been eating you for dinner.” He wondered what Witcher tastes like, acrid most likely, sour and bitter definitely. “Let’s talk then. What are you after? Name your price” Jurgen wasn’t going to invite the Witcher inside his keep, here was fine it wasn’t like the cold bothered him now.

"Information. You must have some, don't you? Start talking. I got all day."