She is the first to approach the tree. Even Geralt’s not touched it, though not out of avoidance. More—it’s always been there. As embedded in the floors as the benches and tables. It’s possible there might be one or two missing medallions—his memory isn’t clear, the exact number—but they sway gently under the brush of her fingers. (He wonders what they will do, at home, without his medallion to bring back and hang with the others.)
His gaze lingers on Ciri for a moment. She looks right at home here. The same way, he thinks, he’d felt when Jaskier would arrive and stay for a drink. At ease. An unquestioning sense that things were exactly where they should be.
He blinks. Of course. The rest.
The fortress is much larger in the real world ; in here, it’s limited to a handful of rooms upstairs. One is his; the others are empty. He supposes he could construct the underground area, as well. He’s just. He hasn’t. He finds himself reluctant to recreate that part of the keep. Still, he takes her up the winding staircase. His room is down the hall. Sparsely decorated, as usual. It’s why, when he opens the door, he notices immediately it’s changed. There’s more than just his sheathed swords, a bed, some candles.
There is a flower, on the dresser. Jaskier’s flower, glowing with an otherworldly flame, the one he’d brought for her from a strange domain of fire. And beside it, a small handful of familiar items: a single candy inside a clam shell, a soft stuffed bird, a crown of daisies. Gifts. From the others, for the girl who wasn’t.
Geralt hesitates. Fuck. He doesn’t know how to explain. She will remember once this is over if he gives them to her, and she will ask how he’s come to have these things if he tells them they’re hers. They’re obviously not gifts that came from him. It also doesn’t feel right to keep them from her now that they’ve. Appeared. She should have them.
no subject
His gaze lingers on Ciri for a moment. She looks right at home here. The same way, he thinks, he’d felt when Jaskier would arrive and stay for a drink. At ease. An unquestioning sense that things were exactly where they should be.
He blinks. Of course. The rest.
The fortress is much larger in the real world ; in here, it’s limited to a handful of rooms upstairs. One is his; the others are empty. He supposes he could construct the underground area, as well. He’s just. He hasn’t. He finds himself reluctant to recreate that part of the keep. Still, he takes her up the winding staircase. His room is down the hall. Sparsely decorated, as usual. It’s why, when he opens the door, he notices immediately it’s changed. There’s more than just his sheathed swords, a bed, some candles.
There is a flower, on the dresser. Jaskier’s flower, glowing with an otherworldly flame, the one he’d brought for her from a strange domain of fire. And beside it, a small handful of familiar items: a single candy inside a clam shell, a soft stuffed bird, a crown of daisies. Gifts. From the others, for the girl who wasn’t.
Geralt hesitates. Fuck. He doesn’t know how to explain. She will remember once this is over if he gives them to her, and she will ask how he’s come to have these things if he tells them they’re hers. They’re obviously not gifts that came from him. It also doesn’t feel right to keep them from her now that they’ve. Appeared. She should have them.
He reaches for the flower. “These are yours.”