middaeg | [ CATCH-ALL ] snakes are biting at my heels

He's grateful for the change of subject. Anything else he could have said would've just made this situation worse which, for once, is not his intention. It was a genuine compliment -- strength is something he values in himself and others above all else. When someone shows themselves to be stronger than he initially judged them, it's impressive. There was no malice in his words for once. It's not like he can bring himself to explain his words, either. Oh well.

"Yes. Some were more difficult to convince than others," Berserker replies, frowning for a moment. Having to rely on compulsion didn't feel good and he hated that he needed to get someone to use it. It's just another uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he's not sure how to deal with. "But they all came with me. They're in better hands now."

"Mm... good."

It's going to stick in his mind a long time: the booth at the market, the riot, the captive and injured Monsters shrieking in fear as he and Ozymandias were forced to run. He deeply regretted not being able to help them then.

Now, having almost been in that situation himself, it makes him sick.

"G-good that they're... not there any... more..."

And that, of course, he isn't either.

In truth, the full horror of it is yet to settle. He's still addled, overwhelmed, thinking of the immediate what now? rather than the what ifs-- but they're starting to creep in.

If Berserker hadn't happened by and noticed him, if he'd gotten sold as someone's pet or potion ingredient or somehow worse, if nobody had realized he was gone soon enough, if Iskandar or anyone else from Aefenglom failed to find him even when they did notice... Hell, if Geralt hadn't shown up to help Berserker out, that would have gone south quickly too. All the awful, terrifying possibilities multiply like flies in his mind, buzzing and swarming and making his skin crawl until Waver's shuddering, struggling to breathe.

He clings to Berserker's chest, short, choking gasps catching in his throat. The tears won't come, and somehow, that's even worse. It's like he's watching someone else, far away, feeling someone else's panic through a thick glass wall. The hard stone beneath him feels miles away, not real.

Waver's claws dig into Berserker's chest, desperately trying to ground himself as the world swims and he fights to take a complete breath.

Oh. That wasn't a reaction he'd been expecting. Waver seemed so far out of it that the trauma wouldn't set in until later. Berserker doesn't flinch as his claws dig into him (if anything, his tolerance for pain is a benefit here). He strokes the turnskin's hair, trying to give him something else to focus on. This is unfamiliar and uncomfortable territory, but he pushes through it -- he's willing to do a lot of those he wants to protect.

"Waver, I'm here. Don't fall into it."

Don't lose yourself.

Berserker's way of dealing with the trauma of committing wholesale slaughter until it became boring and routine was to shut himself off from his emotions. It was necessary to kill and kill and kill until no one opposed him; it was a matter of survival. How cold and closed off he became was just an extension of that. He became broken in order to survive. The faces of those he crushed with his might still stuck with him, but they were just background noise now. The bloody battlefields where he slaughtered so many haunted his dreams -- he slept little because of these nightmares. They couldn't be called nightmares any longer, really, they're merely dreams. They'd disturb anyone else, but Berserker simply grew used to them. It's why he doesn't sleep much -- the trauma is still there, he's just become numb to it.

Waver doesn't deserve the same fate that had befallen him. He deserves to be a normal person who can still feel something besides apathy. He doesn't need to grow numb the way Berserker did. He doesn't need to break.

"Let it out...Just don't let it break you." His voice is uncharacteristically soft, an undeniable vulnerability in it. Though he speaks little of himself or what made him this way, it's clear that he sees it reflected in Waver right now: a trauma that would break most anyone else.

Good timing? Or awkward timing? Geralt returns, putting conscious effort into making his footfalls audible so that he's not sneaking up on the pair. Damn. He could hear Waver's pulse and labored breathing from down the sewer tunnel, it's so frantic. Poor kid. He kneels down, and plunks a glass bowl full of several pre-prepared items in them. There's a witch with him - Ygraine, who looks only slightly worse for wear with a bruise swelling beneath her left eye - who immediately goes and gets a blanket for Waver.

"Just breathe," Geralt says lowly, seemingly for both Berserker and Waver. "Shallow if you have to. In and out, just breathe."

That's all the help he can give, hands busy dragging everything else out of the medic bag and beginning to prepare the clearing potion. Ygraine returns with the blanket but doesn't immediately put it over the young turnskin, instead leaving it up to Berserker's discretion before stepping back, giving them room.

"It won't be too much longer."

Waver pushes his face against Berserker's throat. If his claws draw blood, he doesn't notice; even the scent so close is dulled right now, and lends to the feeling of being somehow separated from reality, experiencing it through an unsettling sort of barrier.

But Berserker's fingers steadily stroking his hair draw Waver's attention bit by bit, giving him something else to concentrate on, a comforting repetitive motion to time his breathing with and something for him to feel that doesn't seem so faraway. His ears are pressed so flat against his head they've practically disappeared into his dark hair, shoulders shaking.

Geralt's voice floats over from... somewhere. Waver doesn't look up, but he tries to take the advice, struggling to follow Berserker's breathing patterns on instinct to force himself to focus. He doesn't even notice Ygraine when she hands the blanket over to the dragon.

Waver's shallow gasps don't even out, exactly, but he's managing not to choke at least. And Berserker's going to end up with a few scratches.

Ah...Of course he'd be seen in a moment of weakness like this. Berserker tenses up at that realization, fighting the urge to push Waver away from him. This is a weakness; letting himself get close to people means that they can be used against him later. Not that he's concerned about that right now from anyone present, but it's an extremely ingrained instinct to prevent any of his weaknesses from being known.

In the end, he stays where he is. He keeps his breathing steady and even as he creates just enough distance to wrap the proffered blanket around Waver's shoulders. That should help keep him warm. Berserker hugs him tightly once again.

He gives a glance to Geralt, expression grateful for a brief moment.

"Do you need me to move?"

"You're fine." Stay right there and suffer through this witnessed moment of sentiment, Berserker. (But really, it's better if Waver has the literal support.) The witcher snaps the paper seal on a flat, square piece of stone, and sets the glass jar full of ingredients onto it, letting it heat up. Another few things get dumped in - quickly, but the way Geralt pays close attention, moves things just so shows how precise he's actually being.

It's not exactly like the potion he'd make at home, but it's one of the first things he learned how to make, here. Alchemy has allowed him to adjust and actually be adept at something without relying on spellcasting, even though this still takes a little supernatural help. He pulls it off the heat and gives it a shake, puts it back on and leaves it for a minute.

A couple minutes, actually, and he knows it must drag on for the other two like an eternity.

And then he has to stir it for several more minutes. Which is tedious, and makes a very annoying little noise of glass against glass with the small rod he's using.

"One time I had to make this while I was puking cursed worms," he mentions. Stirstirstir.

The blanket does help with warming him up a bit, and even if Berserker doesn't have as much body heat as a human, the closeness still helps keep the warmth in. He leans back in once he's wrapped up, starting to calm down slowly as he makes himself focus on the sounds of what Geralt is doing. It's unnerving not being able to smell the ingredients past the poison's interference but Geralt must know what he's doing, and he moves with certainty and precision. They haven't known each other too long, but he's been watching out for him since they met. Waver trusts him. Even if he's a bit embarrassed by his own weakness, too.

Right now, he's just anxious to feel better, struggling to keep the sick, dizzy feeling at bay. Just a little longer. The clink-clink of the glass makes his ear twitch.

"...ew."

Waver peeks over Berserker's shoulder blearily. Geralt, what the heck?

It's a good distraction.

Berserker settles down after a moment and loosens his grip on Waver just a bit. He watches Geralt work with mild interest. Though they haven't known each other long, he's been shown no reason to distrust him. He's skilled, they're working for the same cause, and he's helped Waver out -- that's good enough for him to push away any misgivings.

He watches him work and makes a brief face at the admission. Though it's not as visceral as a reaction as Waver, it's still something.

"...I would ask how you got worms in the first place, but I don't want to know. It sounds like punishment enough for getting them."

Too late, you get to know. "A priestess of the Lion-Headed Spider God had enslaved an arachnomorph the size of a house, then sacrificed herself to it in an attempt to get it to destroy a village. I'd barely survived dealing with it. I was dying from its venom, but managed to take a potion that reverses its effects before I bled out."

Stirstir. Almost done.

"But then the priestess, lightly chewed on but very burned by monster stomach acid, clawed her way out of the thing's stomach. She used a mind-control spell to force me to drink every other potion I had with me, then melted and died. Dunno how it made worms. Alchemy is weird and magic's weirder. But they were definitely cursed."

Now that no one will ever ask Geralt anything about his life at home ever again-- he pushes up to a better position on his knees. Alright.

"Speaking of puking. You're gonna have to take all of this, even though it tastes bad and you already feel like shit. Even if you gag. If you think you'll need me to force you, tell me now."

This is a little grosser of a distraction than Waver might have otherwise asked for, but this is the one he apparently gets. He's not sure if he's just delirious or if Geralt's story barely makes sense or... anything, really. It's not a particularly nice visual. Note to never ask Geralt follow-up questions about his world.

What a way to preface that, though.

Waver groans, struggling to sit up more and bracing himself on Berserker's chest to look over at Geralt as he speaks.

The suggestion of forcing him to drink it spikes alarm in Waver's chest like something sharp twisting in his lungs. He shakes his head.

"No." One of his hands is tight around Berserker's forearm, grip weaker than it should have been but probably about as hard as he can manage right now.

"No, I- I can do it."

Nobody asked for the story, Geralt!!

Berserker looks disgusted for a brief moment as the witcher finishes his story and his work. Well, that was more than he wanted to know about ... anything. He turns his attention back to Waver, sensing that unease. Of course he'd be panicky about being forced to drink something...Berserker tightens his own grip on him a bit, trying to settle down that alarm.

"Not like that...If he tried to do anything like that to you, I'd kill him where he stands. You're safe."

His attempt at reassurance is...not great.

"I'd expect nothing less of either of you." ~~[ laugh track ]~~

If Waver says he can do it, then he'll do it. Geralt's had faith in him since they met, despite the kid's continued objections. That belief is present now, tangible in the way he's not at all tense beside them, his calm presence hopefully grounding. (You know, despite the awful spider story.)

And Berserker, well--

Yeah, threats of murder sound about right.

He raises the bowl.

"The whole thing," he instructs.

Both of them really need to... chill... a little.

Waver lifts his head to stare incredulously at Berserker instead, trying to discern if that was a joke. It didn't sound like a joke.

"...there's no need for that, Berserker. Please."

He appreciates the sentiment, really, but threatening to kill Geralt isn't doing anyone favors. Thankfully, Geralt's not the type to get offended by Berserker's dramatics.

"Thanks." To Geralt, as he leans up to take the bowl. It really does smell awful. And his nose is severely impaired right now. It wrinkles, but Waver doesn't complain out loud. He braces a shoulder on Berserker, squeezing the bowl tight between his palms; his hands are shaking.

Maybe it's a kind of blessing that the poison is interfering with his senses as much as it is. It has been disorienting and uncomfortable, but maybe it'll help him choke this down.

Waver takes a breath, and tips the bowl up.

It's awful. But Geralt warned him for a reason, and Waver is stubborn, if nothing else. He holds his breath and chugs it, trying to get through the thick liquid as quickly as possible, even when it makes his nose burn and his eyes sting and tear up. He manages, barely, choking a little at the end but tamping down the urge to gag to the point of spitting it out.

The moment he's finished, Waver shoves the bowl in Geralt's direction, away from himself, and clamps a hand over his mouth, swallowing hard and struggling to get his breathing back under control.

Look, all he knows how to do is kill things and offer to kill things. He's not really good at showing he cares in any other way, mostly because he's still not used to caring. In the end, he trusts Geralt -- he's been shown no reason not to. If anything, he's proven himself to be reliable and capable and that's good enough for Berserker.

As Waver drinks the concoction, he gets a sideways glance.

"If you puke on me, I'm leaving you here."

He's still not good at this whole sympathy thing, okay?

Geralt leaves one hand on the stone outcropping while Waver drinks, the sides of his fingers pressed against the kid's leg. A half-presence, less invasive than a weighted hand on his back, but he hopes still supportive.

"He's not gonna puke." Gently confident. It's unpleasant, but - the witcher's certain - not nearly as much as the effects of the botched poisons in his system. A small price to pay.

The glass bowl is accepted, and he sets it aside. Waver should feel the first pulse of relief as soon as the mixture hits his stomach, then gradually and steadily after as its metabolizes in his system. Pushing out the gross shit through sweat and all the other normal waste disposal procedures in one's body. He'll have to piss like crazy in a half hour, probably have a sore kidney for a day, but it could be a lot worse.

Waver is not in the mood for jokes. Assuming it's a joke. It'd better be a joke.

He's still struggling to swallow away the taste, breathing shallow and quick as he catches his breath and tries to pay attention to how he's feeling while also not gagging at the same time. It's a lot, and he doesn't need Berserker's shit.

Waver shoves him -- not hard, not in this state, but absolutely pointedly. Please shut up.

At least Geralt has some confidence in him. Not that Waver can do much to show his appreciation either.

The potion seems to work quickly. It's like the feeling of sensation coming back to frozen limbs, a prickling discomfort at first that cuts through the numbness and spreads, not exactly pleasantly but in a way that's reassuring all the same. It starts to burn away the fog, letting him breathe easier.

Waver wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and seems to wilt, equal parts relief and exhaustion, shoulders slumping and elbows on his knees.

"I- I think it's working," he manages, casting a tired glance up at Geralt through the mess of his hair hanging halfway over his face.

"...thanks."

Berserker takes the hint and shuts up, but not without a pointed look of his own. He wouldn't leave him here, it was just a cruel joke. It's not like he ever thinks about what he says for longer than two seconds, of course. That and he's still not too concerned with the consequences of his words; if someone gets upset by it, so be it, that's they're problem and not his.

Despite what he says, he doesn't let go of Waver, content to be an anchor for him still as he rides out the immediately effects of the potion. Berserker smooths Waver's hair out of his face with a faint smile.

"I owe you for this one, too, don't I?" he asks Geralt with a quiet sigh. He's not one to enjoy getting in favor debt with people...

Now, Geralt does rub Waver's back. A silent good job. He'd tell him to lay down, at this stage, but he suspects that neither are going to want that - best to get him back to the dignitary housing. Geralt's not sure, but he thinks whoever Waver's bonded to is there; he remembers him sending a message before their field trip to the wall.

He looks over at Berserker. "You didn't hire me, so you don't owe me."

Everything he's done here is because he willed it so, and for no other reason. That's that.

"As soon as Waver's caught his breath we'll take him back. Both of you should stay put for a while."

Despite his understandable prickliness toward Berserker's crappy sense of humor, Waver accepts the affection, letting his head droop into Berserker's palm when he brushes his hair back. His breathing is steadying a bit, with some effort, evening out into something less labored and just tired.

Geralt gets another grateful glance through his sweaty bangs falling over his eyes. The rubbing does feel comforting. Soothing. The ear closest to Geralt swivels when he speaks, showing Waver is listening even though he closes his eyes.

"I think something in that poison disrupted how the Bond is supposed to feel too," he admits softly. Now that he can feel the effects clearing up, he can feel that familiar thread again, metaphorically within reach again when before it had felt far and fuzzy. Now that he can afford to focus on anything besides how shitty he felt, the guilt and worry over what Rider must be thinking is starting to settle in. Waver doesn't know if the Bond had felt strange to him, but it's probably going to start becoming evident soon that something is wrong if it wasn't before.

"I need to find... Rider..."

He concedes the point about owing him. Ultimately, it's the witcher's decision and not his. One less thing to worry about, at least.

Stay put...Geralt's right, even if Berserker doesn't want to admit it. Staying in the dignitary housing doesn't feel right and he hates the way he's treated there. It's different from the usual fear and distrust his presence brings -- disgust isn't something he's used to. Waver will actually be able to rest and be with his Bonded and it's better for him. It's so frustrating to be in this situation. Powerlessness isn't something he copes with well.

"...If you're ready, let's go. We'll make sure you get back to Rider."

Ready to go, that they are. Waver is bundled, and Geralt doublechecks the route back to the Coven dormitories so that he can walk with them as far as the catacombs can take him. After that it's all Berserker and Waver and everyone tucking in to recover until the ship ferries them away, with everyone living happily ever after, no horrible basements and no cities exploding into fire and violence!! Sure.

[ CATCH-ALL ] snakes are biting at my heels

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