WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

005. fear is the ruler..

Azaras' braid, a beautifully simple design from the nordic customs, finally stood sturdy and heavily on her back, promising an endurance for days in a row. A very similar structure had constrained Geralt's cleaner hair now off his face too, after a satisfactory night of letting go completely. Between them remained only the difference of a single tone, a fade from darkness towards light and back again through their features.

Their shoulders kept constant a light touch, still in the presence of the wind howling coldness in this part of the continent at last. Just outside their hiding spot laid their worst tactic ever planned.

"It's all yours," Geralt whispered voice cracked the barrier of their otherwise loud silence. Pupils moved to the corner of his eyes and he looked down on Azaras' face to try and understand just what exactly she was thinking or feeling to see that thing again.

He imagined it was nothing good, the sort of memories that dormant thing brought back to her. Geralt only knew as much as she wished to share, he was not familiar with the restraints, the pressures, the drowning into whatever she endured.

Everything he tried to imagine was an omen trying to whisper to him that he should gift the head of the beast to her himself.

Control was keyed ease; for him, her wish mattered more and Azaras wanted to fight alone.

He understood that judgement. The beast, sleeping in a spiral and shielding its body with armored wings, started this journey for her and it was the passing point to some extent, to mark that she has grown.

All Azaras could think of while she stared at that thing though was how she felt nothing of which she thought she will for so long. So many things have changed since she left Arcapan that she stepped away from Geralt's side and closer to the monster's nest, only to realize she didn't care about it anymore.

Fear.

Azaras had left Arcapan because she was afraid; revenge had been just a comfortable mask to prove her worth and keep her pride intact.

Justice.

That sounded as more of a purpose to her, but would this nightmare creature change in any way that she left behind a brother who shall never walk again? Will the blood she spills ever ask forgiveness?

Geralt watched her hesitation confused. To interfere was not something he wished to do, yet even so, the creak of his gloves came out as a bit too loud in the moment.

For whatever reason, looking at the sleeping monster reminded Azaras of the nights she died. Not just the crushing door, but the bed she was tied to as well, the illusion before blood gave her a scar which sometimes still burned her neck. It made one aspect clear to her, bringing heaviness to the crown of her head and bowing her gaze to the ground.

She did not unclip her sword, she did not put her bow to action. Azaras chose to lower herself down and drag her hand through the dusted surface of the ground. Her thumbs played with the dirt until she recovered a stone. Regular and gray, neither too heavy, nor too light.

The monster was sleeping curled only two steps away from her, yet Azaras got up without a single care in the world for how deadly that thing was. She still remembered the blood, the deadly smells were familiar and so was the color of the scales. She made only one leg take a step back, leaning on it, then threw the rock into the metallic wings.

Hard or not, the hit reverbed a loud noise. The monster puffed, disturbed and awake and from beneath its wings spreading aside and slightly around the intruder, its scrapped and crooked beak shone to light.

Azaras stood before it and embraced every second of the perverted clearness with which she recalled the dripping blood this very thin spilled over her. It got into her eyes, into her hair, just like now, it breathed in her scent.