[ Why indeed. Amos is not the first to ask him why. Geralt seems to be thinking it over, like he has an answer, several answers, but isn't sure which one is the right one to put forwards in this moment. It's the first time that someone has asked him where he hasn't gotten the sense that they have their own ideas about his whys. Or that he should be doing something other than what he's chosen to. ]
People see monsters where they want to see them. [ Easier, is it not? To look for strange creatures lurking outside than the shadows that lie inside their own homes. ] They'll think of me as they will. But I know what I am. I know what I'm not.
[ That's what he has. It's all he has, because without it, he simply becomes...what everyone else has decided for him. A shadow, manifested at their whims. They are either taken in by the stories that frightened them as children or the romantic tales that Jaskier has built his fame off of, and neither are true. People believe what they need to, to get through the dredge of their lives. That's all. He knows, when he dies face down in the mud somewhere, he will not be missed. Not like that. The White Wolf. A shame, about the bard's muse. May he find another to continue entertaining the masses.
He's long stopped caring what the world wants or thinks of him. As long as he knows, that's enough. Maybe that's why Ciri's presence continues to leave him on such fucking uneven footing, every time she turns to him like he has answers no one else does, like he's more than just the man who happened to put a sword in her hand and taught her how to use it. It is, possibly, the first time he wants to be what another sees in him. And he doesn't think he can. ]
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People see monsters where they want to see them. [ Easier, is it not? To look for strange creatures lurking outside than the shadows that lie inside their own homes. ] They'll think of me as they will. But I know what I am. I know what I'm not.
[ That's what he has. It's all he has, because without it, he simply becomes...what everyone else has decided for him. A shadow, manifested at their whims. They are either taken in by the stories that frightened them as children or the romantic tales that Jaskier has built his fame off of, and neither are true. People believe what they need to, to get through the dredge of their lives. That's all. He knows, when he dies face down in the mud somewhere, he will not be missed. Not like that. The White Wolf. A shame, about the bard's muse. May he find another to continue entertaining the masses.
He's long stopped caring what the world wants or thinks of him. As long as he knows, that's enough. Maybe that's why Ciri's presence continues to leave him on such fucking uneven footing, every time she turns to him like he has answers no one else does, like he's more than just the man who happened to put a sword in her hand and taught her how to use it. It is, possibly, the first time he wants to be what another sees in him. And he doesn't think he can. ]