WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

007. down to the bone..

Azaras' voice has been taken away by internal bruises one too many times and the more it happen, the less she licked this bridge of power getting stripped off of her with such brutality. It was her voice which lit up the missing pieces between her and Geralt when he counted on observations.

Now, everything was not how it was supposed to be. They've been given the decency of timing to get dressed up and only after that assaulted by the local authorities, tossed in their prison and sentenced to an early execution, considering amongst people Geralt killed and stepped over to save Azaras was also the little lord of the city.

Politically messed up situations did not bother him though. Not even the chains, tightly wrapped around their wrists together, connecting them to the dirty floor they have been seated on, back to back, with noth but a sturdy wood pillar between them, disturb him in the possibility that were he to break them free, the roof will just collapse on top. Too little counted on that thin stick. And too much seemed to have counted on her voice, which he deeply missed.

That was the White Wolf's real trouble at the moment, when his eyes shred blankly alit towards a dark wall: he couldn't read her silence, he couldn't find the comfort of her gentle features either.

Left but a wanderer into discomfort, Geraly realized those could have been the seconds that she had to endure when he always wordlessly and thoughtlessly asked to be understood through simplicity and lack. It was an instinct though, he never realized he'd gained, to leave the words to the humans, for they never cared about what he had to say anyway.

She was worth every single syllable and effort of getting over those decades of innermost frail.

Azaras felt shattered, reduced and vulnerable. Pain was something she knew how to get over and the healing process was slow but certain, that she might just wake up in two days time and have her voice restored fully, but it was the moment in which she was cut silent that hit her across the face harder than any stench of a prison. She was forced to be a sort of a silent that doomed her as close to death as anything sharper, for she had to be what small part she did not enjoy in Geralt.

"I...," he began after the bells in the city stroke the dawn and the beginning of the paths to busier markets which will rain the dust of the ceiling over them, soon. Geralt's head bowed and untied hair, still damp, hanged on both sides of his face while he sighed. "I am sorry I let this happen to you, Azaras."

It's not your fault, she wished she said. But her lips would move and no sounds would form from the bellows of her throat. Only a listener, the silence endured and Geralt had to unsharpen his teeth onto words.

"Ever since," his tongue dried, defensive, but if any time he felt was better than right before their nearing death sentence in this Gods forsaken city, it was it. So he cleared his throat with a little cough, drenched in confidence that their escape will be prompt, while it still had to wait for him to take this chance. "Ever since you died by that Blood Sorcerer's last trick... I can't imagine losing you again. I got us into this mess because..."

He hesitated and Azaras' heart skipped its beat downhill. "But I'll get us out of here."

Azaras sighed, ultimately and counted through the last bells above, coming from high towers, how many heavy steps booted the halls of this prison. If she could heal on the inside, she imagined she could heal much more than just tissue, yet with no way of actually asking Geralt about a Witcher's limitations, she decided to take the initiative he so gallantly spoke about.

A bone cracked somewhere in the room.

The following second, Azaras' wrists have been freed of the chains and while her left hand was bleeding heavily enough to start pooling blood on the ground, her right hand held a white fragment, like a needle.