#spellheld

in the bright light of mid-day, the vivid red of blood that dirties the discarded cloths that lay upon the forest floor is an almost garish sight. two empty vials catch the sunlight and glints in the grass where they lay beside them, the taste of white rafford's decoction and golden oriole still heavy on lazare's tongue. later, he will collect, clean, and refill the vials, just as he will collect the cloths and wash them if possible or purpose them as kindling for that night's fire if not.

dradeel hovers nearby, his wide, concerned eyes rooted upon lazare, and it is all the witcher can do to not meet them as he pulls another rag away from the series of holes that weep in his side, ragged and uneven, the gift of an endrega's barbed tail, a parting gift from the last warrior of the nest he had slain, his only wound sustained. it is a fucking irritating one, at that.

the sage means well. he aims only to aid him. he cares. but witchers can be loathe to accept help when in a foul mood, and lazare is no different.

❝ I thought I'd visit. ❞ There's more to it than that, an unspoken guilt that he can't quite get to just yet. He realises his answer makes it sound as though he didn't actually give great consideration to seeking out the mage from the island, or that their meeting might not be as pleasant as it appears to be going. These what-if's swirled around Halwyn's splintered conscious, seizing him in a years long state of paralysis. ❝ Is this where you live now? ❞

He notices the bushels of grasses hung from racks on the ceiling; the fungi and other foliage organised on what he thinks to be a makeshift shelf. Dradeel is surviving; it's more than what Halwyn could have anticipated. ❝ Oh hells, I… I'm not really worthy of your thanks. ❞ There it is, the smallest hint of something more and still he tries to smile through it. The so-called hero rubs his head; cut down to his scalp and still unused to being without hair. ( A simple ploy to draw attention away from himself; no one need know the Hero of Baldur's Gate walk among them. ) ❝ I brought you something. If I'm not bothering you, I'd be glad to give it to you inside. ❞

❝ Loathe as I am to exert myself doing physical activity… The killing was at least exciting! And I'll never complain if I'm offered a free meal. ❞ Astarion voice carries over the thrum of the camp, light, melodic, before being pulled deep down into his throat. He hums — now he's the one leering, isn't he? Fingers tap against the neck of the wine bottle he pilfered, half empty; it's something to occupy his hands as he comes to sit beside Dradeel. ❝ Is it now? You aren't very subtle in your attempts to get my attention, Dradeel. ❞ Dradeel — each syllable drawn out between pointed teeth as he makes a show of making his name sound exquisite. ❝ Maybe that's the intention, hm? ❞

He is but a bulb of light. Small, but still glowing; held aloft to the sprawled fingers of the Erdtree's canopy, higher than he might ever be when standing on his own. Godwyn rejects all etiquette, slouching onto the top of Messmer's head, rubbing his cheeks against his hair. Scents unfamiliar fill his nose, as his small hands blindly grasp at his brother's face. Fingers poke, prod and pinch. Not out of malice, but curious affection towards a brother returned.

Under Messmer's chin, he cups his hands; feet swinging in beats of two as he babbles some song he heard… When he tires of his voice, he straightens, arching back to behold the Erdtree as it sways and bends in the wind. The canopy shudders as they walk the streets of Leyndell, dropping its leaves in a dusting of gold. Fruitlessly, he grasps at one here or there, testing Messmer's grip until his hand snatches one from the air.

A marvel, as if never seen countless times. The leaf glows softly in the palm of his hand, his finger tracing the little lines that spread across its surface. Godwyn begins to hum again, brighter than before, and as he slouches again over the crown of Messmer's head, he holds the leaf before his gaze.

❝ Look! Isn't it pretty? ❞ His question is innocently sweet, glad to show off his find of the day.

[ … ]

She is Mother; divested of God-Queen and Conqueror, holding the squirming boy that is her Golden Lineage given form. He is restless; far too big for her arms to hold, but Marika does not relent to the whining and whimpering of Godwyn. He twists one way, then another, as he stretches himself to full length in an attempt to touch his sandals to the ground. She is fluid with her motions, bending and twisting as he does, setting him firm on her knee as she waits for his tutor to take him. Messmer arrives well before the scholar, and instead of sending him away, Marika observes him as he watches Godwyn.

Her sons, together, in one room. One is unwaveringly still, upright, obedient. The other will do anything to be released from her.

Messmer is not shy in how he stares. Always observant, always alert. A protector of his brother's birthright. Loyalty keeps him leashed to her, and his usefulness is a weapon honed into a fine point.

( Things were sweet when it was just the two of them; when expectation did not require Messmer to mantle her violence. )

She's a knight now. No longer occupied with the study of the stars, the moon and what lie beyond. They were told, as students, to delve too deep into the unknown is perilous. A great risk, and if too reckless, could fracture the mind. When she wore sorcerer robes, there had been talk of Dradeel, his oddities and peculiarities. He was skittish, quiet, and what he says tells her why. The Academy forbade access to knowledge of Primeval sorceries, the kinds that took Azer and Lusat from them long ago. They were known to be the best; their portraits hanging above the staircases, but it in what the uncovered that scared them and terrified Rennala.

Laera sympathises. Even if she no longer wears the robe, her pursuit of Carian sorceries, the mastery of them, entice her.

❝ What sort of things do you see? ❞

quite simply: many of his thoughts and emotions. witchers as a rule are not a communicative bunch - not about themselves, about what they are experiencing, about many core experiences, and that's no different for lazare. he has gone his entire life without having had the fundamental building blocks needed for open dialogue about personal matters—in a witcher's upbringing, forged by the weight and breadth of their bloody work, they just simply aren't necessary life skills to be taught.

elrond's voice is low and tinged with doubt, yet gil-galad hears him well over the gentle water sounds of the fountain they stand near.  it is one of the newest constructions, as important to the young ruler as the strength of lindon's defenses; meant to uplift, to bring forth joy and levity, a reprieve from grim survival. he surveys the beautiful work of masonry a few moments longer, how the white of the stone glints in the sun, before turning towards the younger elf.

'' they will do no such thing. ''   a shake of his head, certainty shining through the bright star-silver of his eyes.  they will bear him no ill will. they will not dare impart any cruelty on him, borne out of deep rooted mistrust of the sons of feänor. that, ereinion understands. yet elrond and his brother shall have nought to do with it. here in golden lindon, at the very least, the high king of the noldor can attest to it. '' you are now under my care. a slight done unto you is a slight done unto me, you should bear this in mind. ''

his expression softens into a smile, setting aside the sterness his position often dictates. he wishes for elrond to be free of strife in this safe haven they have built.

a small fire crackles between them. lazare stirs at it with long branch, watching as the embers dance and rise, for it holds his attention more than dradeel does. their camp for the night is small and sheltered, a cave of shallow length that smells of mosses and dried grass. just beyond its mouth their horses lay asleep.

the hour is late. lazare had appointed himself to take watch. dradeel should be asleep too, but that may be too high a hope for one who seems so often embroiled in the tangle of his thoughts and the looming ever-presence of his visions.

in the dim light and warmth of the cave, lazare could offer him some variance of grace. he opts for cool pragmatism instead.