Smart move on Geralt's part. Killua's eyes flick to the new movement, widening faintly in surprise, but then he quickly returns his attention to the bears.
This time, he isn't hiding. He's been dodging the infected creatures for a couple of minutes already, and they flank them now on either side, too intent on their would-be prey to notice Geralt.
As Killua ducks under the swipe of one enormous paw, he shouts out, "Hey, gramps! Wanna take the other one?"
The bears have the same rotting stench of all the infected. The Cwyld hangs thick in the air. Geralt, predictably, only silently draws his sword in reply. For someone who insisted on knowing his name, Killua seems determined to never utter it.
These Shades at least aren't pack animals; they swipe and lunge with little awareness of each other. When one barrels right through its friend to get to its prey, Geralt jumps on top of the stumbling bear.
His blade sinks into its back as it rears on its hind legs. With his claws, they've given him a better grip than he'd have before. He hangs on with them buried deep in the bear's flesh, giving his sword a sharp twist. He takes a second to look up -- just to see if the kid needs any help.
Killua is, honestly, a little annoyed. He was ready to take them both on-- and more. He wants to do something, hurt something, get this pent-up anger and fear and sadness out like lancing an infected wound releases all the bad things accumulated inside with a cathartic rush of pain and blood.
But Geralt has it taken care of; it would have been too much explanation to tell him to hang back, and so he'd blurted the first thing that came into his head. And still, he's annoyed-- at himself more than anything else. At the stupid bears. At the world.
It's an enormous, hulking thing half-rotted through, its patchy fur slick with an oily, rancid blackness, and the darkness like a horde of insects squirming on its skin. Killua ducks under the powerful swipe of its huge paw, gnarled claws barely missing the top of his head. He's been practicing his magic; a bright blue aura surrounds his hands now, and crackles up along his arms in flickering tendrils with a high buzz like cicadas in summer, thrumming with energy. Too much. He's reckless, overwhelmed, emotions surging through his magic and bursting out in bright blue flames and lightning sparks that dance along his knuckles and the claws that extend from his fingertips into the monster's flesh.
The bear lets out a screeching, uneven noise, scattered static more than roar. Killua buries his hand into its guts-- wrist then elbow-deep, twisting, yanking, vicious and messy and completely unmindful of the infection that stains the beast's flesh.
[ There are a number of reasons Geralt tends to skirt the Shades when he spots them lurking. He rarely seeks a fight that's not going to get him paid, for one, but mostly -- the infection is the last thing he wants to deal with. Not worth the risk.
So when blood spills out of the creature beneath him, he's quick to hop off. A stroke of his sword stills it. The corpse left behind, empty and drained, is nearly a skeleton. It's not his kill that he's looking at, though. It's Killua's -- long dead, but you wouldn't fucking know it from the way its being torn apart.
Concerning, on its own. More so when it reminds him a hell of a lot of the last time they met. On the blood-soaked streets, in the dream world. ]
Hey. [ He steps in front, reaching to catch Killua's arm. ] Stop. Before you turn into one yourself.
[ The moment Geralt's fingers brush his wrist, Killua seems to start, come back to himself suddenly-- and he leaps away in an instant, recoiling from Geralt and jumping back several feet with a strange, icy look in his eyes. Meanwhile, his shoulders heave with heavy breathing, black ichor dripping from his hand. The magic fades, if only visibly, the electric hum of it burning just under his skin.
His fingers curl into fists, carefully, at his sides. Restrained. ]
I'll be fine.
I'm going to look for more. I don't care if you come with me, but don't get in my way.
[ His expression is skeptical. Geralt lets him go nonetheless. If there's a flicker of concern visible, he doesn't let it linger on his face for long. ]
Mm. [ He falls into step with Killua. ] I'd appreciate you not trying to kill me a second time.
[ It's said casually enough. In truth, he's not certain how much the kid remembers of the incident. Also doesn't matter much; Killua obviously hadn't been himself. But there's something going on, whether it's related to that night or not. ]
[ The sticky blackness covering his fingers burns, already. Not like fire, though. Like acid, like poison. He flexes his fingers, making sure he can move them even if they start to go numb.
In the back of his mind, he knows what he's doing. He knows it's exactly what he's yelled at and pleaded with Gon not to do.
But Gon isn't here now, is he?
Gon isn't here, and he's still stuck here in this stupid, pointless place, with his stupid, pointless magic tricks and no way home.
The anger and bitterness surge in his chest, crawling up the back of his throat like flies. Magic has a different aura than nen, but despite the technicalities, bloodlust always has a scent.
Killua spares only a glance toward Geralt, and a shrug. He doesn't really know what the Witcher is referring to, but frankly-- he doesn't actually care. ]
No promises.
[ He'd only been trying to distract himself. Now, it's hard to remember what the goal originally was, what he'd even wanted with that lizard or whatever. Just a taste of a real fight has him itching for more, and inside his veins, the magic buzzes like the electricity he forms it into far too freely and carelessly these days. ]
By the way. [ Killua looks over again with a muted snort of a laugh that doesn't sound very happy at all. ]
[ Internally, Geralt sighs. Somehow, he always finds himself here. He follows, anyway, because if the kid ends up infected to shit, he's going to be annoyed if he wasn't there to drag him home.
His ears twitch, involuntary. He glances sidelong at Killua. ] I grew them myself.
[ He's mostly been ignoring them. In truth, the growing pains wore on him enough that he's just glad they're in proper now instead of bothering him every damn day. Anyway, his ears aren't the point. Fuzzy as they are. ]
Are you going to tell me what's going on with you?
Are you going to tell me why you're being so nosy?
[ The whiplash in his mood is staggering. He's been unhappy for weeks now, oscillating between trying to just hold it in and get through it, getting angry, getting violent, falling to apathy, and trying to ignore it all outright. He doesn't even know where he's at now; it's not the same place he was this morning. ]
[ The reason, in truth, is that he's concerned. It's not one he's willing to voice out loud.
His answer comes after a long pause. ] No.
[ He doesn't press further, just follows Killua through the woods. The sun grows bright, warmer. His gaze lingers only briefly on the boy's hand: it'll be a problem soon, but he figures Killua will find that out when the time comes. ]
Then shut up. I'm hunting Shades. Help or get lost.
[ Where is that feeling of excitement and relief at seeing a familiar face? Where's the curiosity or interest in whatever Geralt was doing, even as a distraction?
The strangest thing, Killua thinks through the haze as though from far away, is that he's aware he's being an asshole. He's aware he's being reckless, too. He knows he should turn back. The small, nagging voice in the back of his head screams danger, and the rest of him dares it to stop him-- but it can't.
Nothing makes sense. Nothing, except what he was made to do. The magic hums in his veins, fire where blood should be, and it needs to go somewhere.
A pack of wild dogs is next, their mangy forms distorted and emaciated, overtaken by the viscous shadows of the Cwyld. Killua's magic is bright, electric blue and wild. It makes his hair stand on end, blue flames and crackling sparks licking up his arms, lancing from his body into his surroundings, living and inanimate alike; he's aware of Geralt nearby, and though not actively trying to hit him, isn't all too careful either. When the dogs and the rocks and trees around them are left a mangled, charred shambles, he moves on in search of the next prey.
By that time, though, the infection has already spread tendrils through his hand, starting to wind up his wrist.
And the pulse of the unmoored magic inside him beats madly, and he doesn't notice anything else. ]
[ The scent of the infected permeate the air, the deeper they go into the Wilde. Geralt strolls nearby, not exactly close but close enough he can keep an eye on the boy.
This time, he doesn't pitch in with the fights, beyond what targets him on its own. Killua obviously has some steam to work off; he's already gotten bit. Not much else to do but wait for him to wear himself out. Then drop him off with the Coven, before the Cwyld spreads too far.
His gaze drifts down to the spreading infection. Black tendrils, swirling. Geralt sidesteps the pile of bodies on the ground. Like all infected, their death sends them back into a desiccated state: shriveled corpses, drained of everything. ]
Should get that hand looked at. [ He picks the few flowers that still grow here, putting them away for either Yennefer or Jaskier to use. ] Unless you're looking to join them.
[ Geralt is about to find out it takes a lot to tire Killua out. Later, perhaps Killua might be grateful that he stuck around, didn't let him wander into the woods alone to get killed like an idiot; right now, he barely notices.
In fact, by the time Geralt finally speaks up to bring Killua back to earth (so to speak), Killua turns with a suddenness that makes him seem almost startled, like he'd forgotten the Witcher was there. He blinks, eyes far away.
He's breathing harder than usual, even after a long fight. ]
...no.
[ At first, it seems he's refusing to go back. Maybe that is what he meant, but after a moment, Killua looks down at his hand, and seems to realize for the first time what is happening. For a few seconds, he just stares at it, then slowly looks back up. ]
No, I'm... not trying to do that.
I...
[ He feels sick. And, all of a sudden and with brutal intensity, scared. ]
[ It's almost familiar, watching Killua hunt. Not quite as mindless as that night, but close. The night that the boy apparently doesn't even remember. Which might be for the best. Geralt has little intention of dredging up the memory.
Though if that isn't what's bothering him, then what is it?
Killua relents quicker than Geralt expects. It shows in the draw of his brows -- a flicker of concern and surprise all at once. He'd half been planning on simply putting Killua over his shoulder and hoping for the best. (Not all of his plans are foolproof.) ]
Come on. [ He shoulders his bag and turns around. The sun is low, daylight burning. The infection is concerning, though he knows there's time yet to reverse it. ] The Coven will get you looked at. Does it hurt?
[ Now that Killua seems to have come back to his senses, he's quiet in a different way, not concentrated as before but rather just... empty. He catches up to Geralt and follows close by.
The question earns a vague shrug. ]
I guess. A bit.
[ It would take a lot more for him to actually show it though. It's not the pain that's concerning, and Killua's suddenly unsure how long he's been out here since the infection took hold. He sticks his hand in his pocket as if to avoid looking at it. ]
[ A part of him is a little surprised Killua even admits to any pain at all. Though whatever fever had gripped him earlier seems to have released its hold. For now, at least.
Geralt lifts up some low branches. They cross back the same path they'd come; it's quicker to go through where he knows they've already slain some Shades and are less likely to be interrupted by more. ]
I was in the area. [ He lets the deflection linger in the air for a beat, before adding, ] And you were being reckless.
[ Killua's sense of pain on a scale normal humans would agree with is very warped, but he has no problem admitting it. In fact, it hurts terribly; he can feel it, but he can just as easily ignore it. It's only now that he pays attention that he realizes it's gotten worse. He can barely feel his fingers.
Geralt's non-answer receives a faint grunt in response. Apparently, Geralt won't admit if he was really worried. And that must be it... right?
Killua won't admit it either, but it would be kind of nice if that was the case. Even if it's annoying too, having someone to worry about you. ]
I just needed to let off some steam. Just got unlucky.
[ Unlucky, was it. The sound Geralt makes is skeptical at best, but he doesn't reiterate his thoughts. He imagines Killua knows exactly how he'd been acting, even if the boy won't say it out loud.
He steps around the bears from before as they make their way back. Roach is not too far off, left at the edge of the dense woods where he's less likely to find her eaten upon return. ]
Recent troubles?
[ There's been a lot of shit stirring, though he hasn't heard of anything like Dorchacht happening again. If something's gone on, it must be far more personal. ]
[ The exhaustion is setting in. Or maybe it's the fever. Killua stares at the ground in front of him, following Geralt's boots and only vaguely aware of their surroundings, implicitly trusting Geralt to be more aware in his stead. The crumpled corpses get barely a glance.
For a long few moments, Killua is quiet, but this time, he doesn't snap back or brush off the question. He's clearly thinking about it, whatever is weighing on his mind, before, finally-- ]
It's... my friend. My--
We were Bonded.
But he's gone now.
[ He hasn't told anyone before this, apart from asking at the Coven only to get effectively a bunch of shrugs and vague reassurances he must've gone home and that it happens.
Then again, it's not like Killua has anyone else to tell. Gon was his best friend, and the only real connection he had here. When he'd vanished and the combined severing of their Bond and general depression at his absence hit, Killua had stopped checking in on the few other superficial connections he'd made. It had been difficult to care enough to want to reach out, and after a while, it seemed pointless. And no one had reached out to him, either. ]
[ Gone can mean many things. Geralt decides not to ask, but Killua ends up clarifying nonetheless. In some ways, he senses it's worse than a death. At least then you know. You move on. ]
Sorry to hear that. [ It's an oddly frequent occurrence. More so than any deaths. There're a handful of people he's spoken to once and then never again -- and in a city where it isn't hard to come across familiar faces without even trying, that they are gone becomes obvious. ]
I doubt you want to hear grief for running through the Wilde. So I won't give you any. [ Through the brush, he spots the mare waiting, chewing on grass near a tree. He ducks under a low hanging branch. ] But I suspect your friend would like you to have better care of your life, whether he's here or not.
[ Knowing it in his own mind is bad enough, a lingering, deep guilt that pushes at the back of his mind like a nagging conscience every time he gives in to urges like this. But hearing someone else say it aloud is harder than he'd imagined.
It feels like Geralt has punched him in the chest. The reminder is delivered in Geralt's usual tone, in a way a neutral observation bordering on the obvious, and yet the sound of the words manages to stagger Killua in a new way.
He's right, you know, says the voice in his head that sounds eerily like Gon.
Killua swallows roughly, against the painful knot in his throat that squeezes it tight when he tries to speak. He hurries after Geralt, suddenly breathing fast. He wants to get out of here. He wants to run-- but there's no running away from this feeling. It wells in his eyes and clings to his lashes, burning with shame and regret and grief. When he blinks and the tears fall, Killua wipes them away on his forearm without thinking, streaking blood on his face. ]
[ His expression softens. Some part of him isn't certain what to say. Loss has been a part of his life for a long time. He has a feeling Killua is not a stranger to it, either, even as young as he is. But each time feels fresh.
In the end, he simply nudges Killua towards Roach. Might as well give the kid a ride to the infirmary. The injury doesn't look critical, but they shouldn't linger, either. ]
You can tell me about him some time. [ He digs through his pack to come up with a cloth and offers it over, to wrap up Killua's hand in the meantime. He tips his head towards the horse. ] Ever been on one?
[ He doesn't need too much nudging. All resistance from earlier is gone, and now Killua just looks exhausted and sad, and much more his age. ]
Yeah... sometime.
When Geralt offers the cloth, he finally pulls his hand out of his pocket and extends it toward him in silent acquiescence. He probably can't do it on his own. The infection clings to his skin like a dark sheen over his fingers and halfway up his hand, with tendrils snaking up like veins around his wrist. Looking at it, he doesn't think it looks like much, but he knows better.
He should have known better. Gon would be furious. ]
...hm?
[ Killua seems to shake himself out of his other thoughts, looking back over to the mare. ]
A horse? Yeah. They're not common, where I'm from. But Gon and I went to this place where they didn't allow technology and--
[ It's a place full of terrible, painful memories. He doesn't get into that part. ]
Well, there were no trains or planes or anything, so we had to ride horses.
[ He silently wraps up Killua's hand, tucking the ends of the bandage around the injury. It's temporary at best; he needs proper treatment soon. But at least it'll feel better wrapped up. ]
I couldn't tell you what a train is. [ An invention in another age or world, he supposes. It's not important, either, but since Killua seems distracted with the conversation, he decides it's not a bad idea to keep it going. ]
Hop on, then. [ He looks down at the boy, eyebrow raised, the faintest hint of amusement. ] Or should I lift you on?
[ He doesn't know what a train is? Well, they don't seem to have trains here, either... They have horse-drawn carriages and omnibuses but no vehicles with engines, so it's probably not that weird. Though they have magic, so they can use teleporters instead, which makes the lack of trains and planes make more sense. Not that he knows where Geralt is from, but--
Oh. Killua blinks, then goes a little bit red at that look Geralt is giving him. He pulls his hand back now that it's wrapped, tucking it against his chest. ]
N-no! My hand's a little messed up; there's nothing wrong with my legs. Stupid.
[ At least he sounds more like himself now, and the tears are gone. Without waiting for further invitation, Killua braces his good hand against the mare's flank and vaults up onto her back. Behind the saddle, as that seems to be Geralt's seat. Which means he's sort of perched on Roach's butt like a weirdo. ]
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This time, he isn't hiding. He's been dodging the infected creatures for a couple of minutes already, and they flank them now on either side, too intent on their would-be prey to notice Geralt.
As Killua ducks under the swipe of one enormous paw, he shouts out, "Hey, gramps! Wanna take the other one?"
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The bears have the same rotting stench of all the infected. The Cwyld hangs thick in the air. Geralt, predictably, only silently draws his sword in reply. For someone who insisted on knowing his name, Killua seems determined to never utter it.
These Shades at least aren't pack animals; they swipe and lunge with little awareness of each other. When one barrels right through its friend to get to its prey, Geralt jumps on top of the stumbling bear.
His blade sinks into its back as it rears on its hind legs. With his claws, they've given him a better grip than he'd have before. He hangs on with them buried deep in the bear's flesh, giving his sword a sharp twist. He takes a second to look up -- just to see if the kid needs any help.
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But Geralt has it taken care of; it would have been too much explanation to tell him to hang back, and so he'd blurted the first thing that came into his head. And still, he's annoyed-- at himself more than anything else. At the stupid bears. At the world.
It's an enormous, hulking thing half-rotted through, its patchy fur slick with an oily, rancid blackness, and the darkness like a horde of insects squirming on its skin. Killua ducks under the powerful swipe of its huge paw, gnarled claws barely missing the top of his head. He's been practicing his magic; a bright blue aura surrounds his hands now, and crackles up along his arms in flickering tendrils with a high buzz like cicadas in summer, thrumming with energy. Too much. He's reckless, overwhelmed, emotions surging through his magic and bursting out in bright blue flames and lightning sparks that dance along his knuckles and the claws that extend from his fingertips into the monster's flesh.
The bear lets out a screeching, uneven noise, scattered static more than roar. Killua buries his hand into its guts-- wrist then elbow-deep, twisting, yanking, vicious and messy and completely unmindful of the infection that stains the beast's flesh.
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So when blood spills out of the creature beneath him, he's quick to hop off. A stroke of his sword stills it. The corpse left behind, empty and drained, is nearly a skeleton. It's not his kill that he's looking at, though. It's Killua's -- long dead, but you wouldn't fucking know it from the way its being torn apart.
Concerning, on its own. More so when it reminds him a hell of a lot of the last time they met. On the blood-soaked streets, in the dream world. ]
Hey. [ He steps in front, reaching to catch Killua's arm. ] Stop. Before you turn into one yourself.
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His fingers curl into fists, carefully, at his sides. Restrained. ]
I'll be fine.
I'm going to look for more. I don't care if you come with me, but don't get in my way.
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Mm. [ He falls into step with Killua. ] I'd appreciate you not trying to kill me a second time.
[ It's said casually enough. In truth, he's not certain how much the kid remembers of the incident. Also doesn't matter much; Killua obviously hadn't been himself. But there's something going on, whether it's related to that night or not. ]
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In the back of his mind, he knows what he's doing. He knows it's exactly what he's yelled at and pleaded with Gon not to do.
But Gon isn't here now, is he?
Gon isn't here, and he's still stuck here in this stupid, pointless place, with his stupid, pointless magic tricks and no way home.
The anger and bitterness surge in his chest, crawling up the back of his throat like flies. Magic has a different aura than nen, but despite the technicalities, bloodlust always has a scent.
Killua spares only a glance toward Geralt, and a shrug. He doesn't really know what the Witcher is referring to, but frankly-- he doesn't actually care. ]
No promises.
[ He'd only been trying to distract himself. Now, it's hard to remember what the goal originally was, what he'd even wanted with that lizard or whatever. Just a taste of a real fight has him itching for more, and inside his veins, the magic buzzes like the electricity he forms it into far too freely and carelessly these days. ]
By the way. [ Killua looks over again with a muted snort of a laugh that doesn't sound very happy at all. ]
Nice dog ears.
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His ears twitch, involuntary. He glances sidelong at Killua. ] I grew them myself.
[ He's mostly been ignoring them. In truth, the growing pains wore on him enough that he's just glad they're in proper now instead of bothering him every damn day. Anyway, his ears aren't the point. Fuzzy as they are. ]
Are you going to tell me what's going on with you?
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[ The whiplash in his mood is staggering. He's been unhappy for weeks now, oscillating between trying to just hold it in and get through it, getting angry, getting violent, falling to apathy, and trying to ignore it all outright. He doesn't even know where he's at now; it's not the same place he was this morning. ]
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His answer comes after a long pause. ] No.
[ He doesn't press further, just follows Killua through the woods. The sun grows bright, warmer. His gaze lingers only briefly on the boy's hand: it'll be a problem soon, but he figures Killua will find that out when the time comes. ]
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[ Where is that feeling of excitement and relief at seeing a familiar face? Where's the curiosity or interest in whatever Geralt was doing, even as a distraction?
The strangest thing, Killua thinks through the haze as though from far away, is that he's aware he's being an asshole. He's aware he's being reckless, too. He knows he should turn back. The small, nagging voice in the back of his head screams danger, and the rest of him dares it to stop him-- but it can't.
Nothing makes sense. Nothing, except what he was made to do. The magic hums in his veins, fire where blood should be, and it needs to go somewhere.
A pack of wild dogs is next, their mangy forms distorted and emaciated, overtaken by the viscous shadows of the Cwyld. Killua's magic is bright, electric blue and wild. It makes his hair stand on end, blue flames and crackling sparks licking up his arms, lancing from his body into his surroundings, living and inanimate alike; he's aware of Geralt nearby, and though not actively trying to hit him, isn't all too careful either. When the dogs and the rocks and trees around them are left a mangled, charred shambles, he moves on in search of the next prey.
By that time, though, the infection has already spread tendrils through his hand, starting to wind up his wrist.
And the pulse of the unmoored magic inside him beats madly, and he doesn't notice anything else. ]
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This time, he doesn't pitch in with the fights, beyond what targets him on its own. Killua obviously has some steam to work off; he's already gotten bit. Not much else to do but wait for him to wear himself out. Then drop him off with the Coven, before the Cwyld spreads too far.
His gaze drifts down to the spreading infection. Black tendrils, swirling. Geralt sidesteps the pile of bodies on the ground. Like all infected, their death sends them back into a desiccated state: shriveled corpses, drained of everything. ]
Should get that hand looked at. [ He picks the few flowers that still grow here, putting them away for either Yennefer or Jaskier to use. ] Unless you're looking to join them.
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In fact, by the time Geralt finally speaks up to bring Killua back to earth (so to speak), Killua turns with a suddenness that makes him seem almost startled, like he'd forgotten the Witcher was there. He blinks, eyes far away.
He's breathing harder than usual, even after a long fight. ]
...no.
[ At first, it seems he's refusing to go back. Maybe that is what he meant, but after a moment, Killua looks down at his hand, and seems to realize for the first time what is happening. For a few seconds, he just stares at it, then slowly looks back up. ]
No, I'm... not trying to do that.
I...
[ He feels sick. And, all of a sudden and with brutal intensity, scared. ]
...l-let's go back.
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Though if that isn't what's bothering him, then what is it?
Killua relents quicker than Geralt expects. It shows in the draw of his brows -- a flicker of concern and surprise all at once. He'd half been planning on simply putting Killua over his shoulder and hoping for the best. (Not all of his plans are foolproof.) ]
Come on. [ He shoulders his bag and turns around. The sun is low, daylight burning. The infection is concerning, though he knows there's time yet to reverse it. ] The Coven will get you looked at. Does it hurt?
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The question earns a vague shrug. ]
I guess. A bit.
[ It would take a lot more for him to actually show it though. It's not the pain that's concerning, and Killua's suddenly unsure how long he's been out here since the infection took hold. He sticks his hand in his pocket as if to avoid looking at it. ]
...why'd you follow me?
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Geralt lifts up some low branches. They cross back the same path they'd come; it's quicker to go through where he knows they've already slain some Shades and are less likely to be interrupted by more. ]
I was in the area. [ He lets the deflection linger in the air for a beat, before adding, ] And you were being reckless.
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Geralt's non-answer receives a faint grunt in response. Apparently, Geralt won't admit if he was really worried. And that must be it... right?
Killua won't admit it either, but it would be kind of nice if that was the case. Even if it's annoying too, having someone to worry about you. ]
I just needed to let off some steam. Just got unlucky.
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He steps around the bears from before as they make their way back. Roach is not too far off, left at the edge of the dense woods where he's less likely to find her eaten upon return. ]
Recent troubles?
[ There's been a lot of shit stirring, though he hasn't heard of anything like Dorchacht happening again. If something's gone on, it must be far more personal. ]
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For a long few moments, Killua is quiet, but this time, he doesn't snap back or brush off the question. He's clearly thinking about it, whatever is weighing on his mind, before, finally-- ]
It's... my friend. My--
We were Bonded.
But he's gone now.
[ He hasn't told anyone before this, apart from asking at the Coven only to get effectively a bunch of shrugs and vague reassurances he must've gone home and that it happens.
Then again, it's not like Killua has anyone else to tell. Gon was his best friend, and the only real connection he had here. When he'd vanished and the combined severing of their Bond and general depression at his absence hit, Killua had stopped checking in on the few other superficial connections he'd made. It had been difficult to care enough to want to reach out, and after a while, it seemed pointless. And no one had reached out to him, either. ]
One day I woke up, and he was just... gone.
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Sorry to hear that. [ It's an oddly frequent occurrence. More so than any deaths. There're a handful of people he's spoken to once and then never again -- and in a city where it isn't hard to come across familiar faces without even trying, that they are gone becomes obvious. ]
I doubt you want to hear grief for running through the Wilde. So I won't give you any. [ Through the brush, he spots the mare waiting, chewing on grass near a tree. He ducks under a low hanging branch. ] But I suspect your friend would like you to have better care of your life, whether he's here or not.
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It feels like Geralt has punched him in the chest. The reminder is delivered in Geralt's usual tone, in a way a neutral observation bordering on the obvious, and yet the sound of the words manages to stagger Killua in a new way.
He's right, you know, says the voice in his head that sounds eerily like Gon.
Killua swallows roughly, against the painful knot in his throat that squeezes it tight when he tries to speak. He hurries after Geralt, suddenly breathing fast. He wants to get out of here. He wants to run-- but there's no running away from this feeling. It wells in his eyes and clings to his lashes, burning with shame and regret and grief. When he blinks and the tears fall, Killua wipes them away on his forearm without thinking, streaking blood on his face. ]
You didn't even know him.
L-let's just go.
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In the end, he simply nudges Killua towards Roach. Might as well give the kid a ride to the infirmary. The injury doesn't look critical, but they shouldn't linger, either. ]
You can tell me about him some time. [ He digs through his pack to come up with a cloth and offers it over, to wrap up Killua's hand in the meantime. He tips his head towards the horse. ] Ever been on one?
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Yeah... sometime.
When Geralt offers the cloth, he finally pulls his hand out of his pocket and extends it toward him in silent acquiescence. He probably can't do it on his own. The infection clings to his skin like a dark sheen over his fingers and halfway up his hand, with tendrils snaking up like veins around his wrist. Looking at it, he doesn't think it looks like much, but he knows better.
He should have known better. Gon would be furious. ]
...hm?
[ Killua seems to shake himself out of his other thoughts, looking back over to the mare. ]
A horse? Yeah. They're not common, where I'm from. But Gon and I went to this place where they didn't allow technology and--
[ It's a place full of terrible, painful memories. He doesn't get into that part. ]
Well, there were no trains or planes or anything, so we had to ride horses.
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I couldn't tell you what a train is. [ An invention in another age or world, he supposes. It's not important, either, but since Killua seems distracted with the conversation, he decides it's not a bad idea to keep it going. ]
Hop on, then. [ He looks down at the boy, eyebrow raised, the faintest hint of amusement. ] Or should I lift you on?
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Oh. Killua blinks, then goes a little bit red at that look Geralt is giving him. He pulls his hand back now that it's wrapped, tucking it against his chest. ]
N-no! My hand's a little messed up; there's nothing wrong with my legs. Stupid.
[ At least he sounds more like himself now, and the tears are gone. Without waiting for further invitation, Killua braces his good hand against the mare's flank and vaults up onto her back. Behind the saddle, as that seems to be Geralt's seat. Which means he's sort of perched on Roach's butt like a weirdo. ]
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