WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

007. in the eyes of others..

There's so much darkness between the brightest of stars. The dots of light linger apart in a mirror of the worlds they gaze over since the beginning of time, where souls only distinguish happiness after long periods of feeling just nothingness or despair. It is crucial, of course, to feel the puncture of the dark.

Blood and guts surrounded them when the shouts were brought to life thoughtlessly. Crimson dripped in endless slow rivers from the tip of Geralt's silver sword. It fumed while getting cleaned and Azaras wiped the drops of stain from under her eyes.

"I already said I'm sorry!" Annoyance shivered from the tip of her tongue. Geralt didn't need half the help to get out of the mess she knocked the door off to get to him for and he was right too, to make it worse. Were it not for her softness showed in front of those strange lone children, they wouldn't have to put their monstrous remains in bags now.

Tentacles flopped off the edge of the straw bag oozing the impossible stenches to bare and Azaras shoved them all in again, to the brim with disgust. Geralt has all but been deadly silent, mad with glares. His heart, the only one speaking truth for it was surrounded by armors and scarred, strengthened skin, was beating fast, craving fears.

He couldn't accept her apology because the moment the monsters revealed themselves to him, two meant for his massive stature, Geralt was caught of guard due to the thought that Azaras was against one monster too.

Witchers were formidable warriors, but they died so often that the tree of Kaer Morhen was a metal mass, a common grave of fugitive tingles. And there were so few Witchers left, that Geralt imagined the hinge of his heart was fear of losing yet another, when the times showed new monsters and dangers.

It grumbled him the possibility of instead giving his fear the face and name of this woman in particular. Days have passed and seeing the same face every day got stronger against pushing back the walls around the happy memory they guarded. He could hear the fireworks, feel the weakness and the vulnerability. It ached.

"Be careful with those heads," Geralt threatened away. Cannonballs for words have been thrown harder, but this time, Azaras felt the hit through the open cracks of shame. So shameful of how she'd forsaken all reason, which would have otherwise reminded her of Geralt's capabilities well beyond hers, just for some frail care, a sincere instinct to not watch another important person get torn to shreds while life still lingered in her bones.

Azaras dropped the bag with two monster heads at Geralt's feet and met his eyes without a single hitch of intimidation being successfully played. They needed those things, apparently, because Geralt had a hunch someone would either be able to tell what they were, who made them or at least pay them for the material provided.

"Gods grant me patience with the likes of you!" Azaras exclaimed. She had crossed her arms over the faltering hope Geralt would grant her anything else but the bare minimum of numbness, that her shameful realization of care would ever be reprieved. 

He did not understand what she meant by it just then.

The silence that followed on their ride to the nearest fully live town at least revealed there was something to understand in all. Each step built tension, each breath culminated to their paths growing apart in frustration, leaving Geralt to turn left in the town, make it to a mage with some elven-suspicious rumors around themselves, while Azaras turned left from the stable, stormed her way into a bar.

In the midst of the day, only drunks would search the warmth of a humid room where the fireplace burned evermore. Unless of course, as Azaras had happened, it was around noon. Then, the tables would breathe their steaming stews, the overbaked breads and warmer drinks, for the weather has gone cold over these weeks. The winter announced itself long.