[ The instant he sees them coming towards him, a pressure releases from his chest. He breathes again. Someone curses as they walk around the three of them. The sudden scent of florals overwhelms him, but he's too distracted with Ciri's arms around him and then Jaskier's, as well, to think about it. His hand goes up to hold them in return. Here, in this moment, he'll allow it.
Why.
It strikes him Jaskier does not know. He pulls back a little. The rush of the city rattles his bones. Slowly, it begins to settle. Slowly, he begins to pick apart details: the flowers, the wide gates, the heat in the air. Cirilla's red eyes, heartbroken. Geralt suddenly feels a heat rise inside him. Because fuck Yennefer for doing this, and fuck everything for the fact that she's right, that he can't see it any other way, either. He swallows hard. It doesn't matter. He's here, with them, and at least that's—he won't let anything happen to them. Which means they can't linger. He doesn't care for claims that the magic can't be traced. He knows better than anyone that if you're skilled enough, you can track just about anything.
His gaze fixes on Ciri. He knows, without asking: the powers her Elder Blood grants her have not returned. So he says nothing of it. A problem for another day. He reaches for Jaskier instead with his other hand—something he rarely does, but after everything, he finds he's just relieved to still have his friend with him, shouting at him. For all that's turned upside down, Jaskier remains steady—unchanging. ]
We need to go. [ He pushes to his feet. If any question remains about whether Yennefer will arrive, it's answered in that statement: there's no one else to wait for. They need to go. His fingers curl, missing the grip of a blade between them. (He'll ask about the flowers another time.) Thorne might've been bastards, but he'd come to know them. Here, he hasn't got any idea what they're dealing with. Only that at least no one's glanced twice at them. That's enough. ] Stay close.
no subject
Why.
It strikes him Jaskier does not know. He pulls back a little. The rush of the city rattles his bones. Slowly, it begins to settle. Slowly, he begins to pick apart details: the flowers, the wide gates, the heat in the air. Cirilla's red eyes, heartbroken. Geralt suddenly feels a heat rise inside him. Because fuck Yennefer for doing this, and fuck everything for the fact that she's right, that he can't see it any other way, either. He swallows hard. It doesn't matter. He's here, with them, and at least that's—he won't let anything happen to them. Which means they can't linger. He doesn't care for claims that the magic can't be traced. He knows better than anyone that if you're skilled enough, you can track just about anything.
His gaze fixes on Ciri. He knows, without asking: the powers her Elder Blood grants her have not returned. So he says nothing of it. A problem for another day. He reaches for Jaskier instead with his other hand—something he rarely does, but after everything, he finds he's just relieved to still have his friend with him, shouting at him. For all that's turned upside down, Jaskier remains steady—unchanging. ]
We need to go. [ He pushes to his feet. If any question remains about whether Yennefer will arrive, it's answered in that statement: there's no one else to wait for. They need to go. His fingers curl, missing the grip of a blade between them. (He'll ask about the flowers another time.) Thorne might've been bastards, but he'd come to know them. Here, he hasn't got any idea what they're dealing with. Only that at least no one's glanced twice at them. That's enough. ] Stay close.