WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

006. door to carnage..

How many deaths does one have to die before they become as strong as the creaking trees, climbing their rocks and rolling their roots through mountains?

The bells rang and the priest carried the ceremony through which for the first time in centuries, a Northern Kingdom declared its independence, even if just in secrecy. It was an uncanny whisper for the mountaineering corner to keep, a silent gathering and a heavy crown. It had no jewelry, it had no price before it caught this invaluable shape.

Sylvain had asked that the piece on his head to be a symbol of power, so he had it melted out of his father's old armour and the first sword he ever held as a gift from his sister. It was a simple circle, a band of strength, upon whose descent, Arcapan became, under the eyes of the Immortal Ones, a white dot in the sea of enemies that have been made out of the northerners.

And everyone agreed.

People rallied, they joined the ceremony solemnly carrying pride. A small rebellion as an act of revenge towards the ignorance they have been given, so many times before and cruelly when they needed it most too, seemed like the one true direction they could go into; the path earned their loyalty so a few disagreements no longer counted as beneficial for the homes they ought to protect.

Which is why the Lady Mother was locked in the second highest tower. Mad as she was, it was a merciful punishment for depleting Arcapan of coin. Outside their very praying grounds on a spike, not tall enough to see beyond the walls, was someone's head. Less important, less worthy of mercy. Rodkah disagreed and asked for a vote against allying with Nilfgaard, agaist even this coronation out of their duties to the vassal of the land.

Sylvain ordered the execution right before he took the crown, so that the crows may sing that morning, that his wheels would be painted red, for all the blood. And when he stood up, to take the crown, with each limb shaking in a stick, the red stained the ends fo his clothes too.

How many screams and wails should be voiced in nothingness and loneliness for one to become so silent that the very pits of the earth are jealous of this putrid peace?

Hoof after hoof, clamping on paths passed perhaps by foxes rather than people, Azaras learnt to enjoy the silence which Geralt sanctified into his life with time.

Habits built from loneliness act like walls built brick by brick and cemented in hours that melt into days, into years; before it could be noticed, it's been too long to see the top of the wall and it is building itself higher now still, that even when the climbing begins, it will feel lasting forever, that there is nothing beyond, just more of the same lonesome wall.

The wall stopped its ascension at some point for Geralt.

He stood for a second night on the road with Azaras, by a fire he made and once more he felt only an ounce of exhaustion, dropped in a sea of anxiety, of anticipation and patience running thin. It came as the consequence of standing in the opposite of loneliness at last.

Azaras listened to the trees. Though she hadn't felt worthy to lay down and look at the morning sky, feel the nature as she used to once, she could still enjoy the night. The night was where there was no danger. She would never see the night betray her with a door to close her on the ground, trap her in blood and dirt and weakness. She feared those brighter skies instead. The "silence" of the night was just promising a ghost, existing only to take pity on desolate souls.

Comforting sharp winds blew high. They whistled through leaves that in the night, were no longer distinguished colors of green or brown, but rather a blended outline of a whole darkness, a net thrown over naked trees to shade the ground. The grass beneath Azaras' feet was darker too. Were it not for the cracks and pops of a fire that Geralt had started, small and surrounded by rocks, just by a push of his fist into the air, the ground would have been a sea of nothingness.