abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] just look across and see

[Jaskier's returned look is questioning, but he needn't argue. It's on Geralt for him to tell Nadine what he needs, at any rate, and --

Julie is another matter. That is where Jaskier might interfere, because he knows exactly what it is like to be the human watching the Witcher get beaten. He doesn't think Geralt will know how to approach it delicately, if he ever brings it up at all.

Jaskier swallows that for now. He needs his own time to swallow... what he lost.]

Oh, shut it. [He shoves Geralt, plucking up the bottle. Fuck it. His drinking is several swallows, enough so that it burns when he drops it for a breath.] If anything good comes from this, it's knowing that bastard Rience is dead. For good.

[ Right. The fire mage. A trifle in the grand scheme of things. He only regrets that Rience ever lived as long as he did. Should've snapped his neck at the ruins—but at the time, he'd wanted to know where Ciri's blood was.

None of that matters now. Rience is dead. He's glad his friend can find closure there.

He exhales. Outside, the wind whips the dust against the windows. Coram yawns and wanders off in search of better company. He flexes his fingers. He feels an instinctive need to find his sword and wield it. To prove to himself he can. ]

It's uncanny. To miss someone whose face I'd never known before tonight.

[ He means the girl. Milva. A constant pain in his arse, and yet. Part of him had come to rely on her acerbic moods and unrelenting hassling. A lifeline, winding around the choking shadows that whispered he would never walk again. ]

Edited 2023-09-06 14:24 (UTC)

[It may be a trifle to Geralt -- and he knows it -- but Rience has been a phantom haunting him since Oxenfurt. That he led that bloody mage stalk him so much that his own domain changed... that he couldn't stop it, that Moglad changed because of it. That fear.

Jaskier sits back with an exhale. He feels a maelstrom in his chest. Too many things at once. And even if Geralt has reassured him he's all right, and he does believe him, a part of him is still there with him. In Brokilon.

The bard looks at him. Apparently he is not the only one.]

Milva? Now I knew there was a strange energy, but not entirely a bad one. [He smiles, thinking of that boy on the network.] I remember. Spitfires. You always attract them.

[ Mm. He snorts softly. Yes. He supposes he does.

An ache lingers between his ribs. A grief that he can't shake. Can you mourn someone you've not actually lost? He feels as though he still is. Like a part of him hasn't yet caught up to the reality that they're all right. That Ciri is okay.

Mostly. More than they were on the Continent. Yet he's much too aware of the dangers that lurk on this sphere, too. Threats that might take away the very thing he's regained.

His thumb folds into a fist against his leg. None saw the state of him in Brokilon except Jaskier. For that, he can grateful. And for his friend being there. ]

I want to be sure Ciri is safe here, too. I see it. [ This world and the shadows that unfurl from its corners. ] The same road unfolding.

Edited 2023-09-10 15:08 (UTC)

[It is so much like Geralt that he does not like the good linger too long before moving on to the threats, the bad. This time, though, Jaskier understands. He feels this hollowness that -- well, he's felt similar before, but for different reasons. How do you miss someone you've never met? Whose face you only now know?

He gets up abruptly, stepping a few paces away like he thought of something to do, and quickly forgot it. It isn't fair. It is not fair of him to feel this deep sorrow when so many things are at stake. When he is happy here. When he is not lonely.

In this moment, he feels lonely.

He has lost a man he has never met. He has lost the girl Ciri once was that he was there for. And now he thinks of Ciri -- of all the memories she had that they did not, and she has carried on with them alone. The knowledge of that which will come to pass.]

She is not just a girl attempting to figure herself out, Geralt. [He breathes slowly.] Though I know it feels, to us, she still is that girl.

[ His forehead creases. I know, he nearly bites back, because fuck if he doesn't know it. As if it had not weighed on him for years since the second he laid eyes on her in this sphere. She was unrecognizable, grown, a girl he had once never met in his life. He has memories of her again, but they are not enough. He is always behind, he will always be behind, and he knows now, without a doubt, the years she must've spent without him.

How long had it taken him to pry her from Emhyr's grip? What else happened? What did she go through that has left her haunted so much more than he remembers?

He'd taught her to fend for herself precisely because he knew he would not be there forever. But it still hurts to know that he lost her so soon. ]

It doesn't mean I can't protect her. [ He'd failed once. He won't let her down again. ] And it isn't only her.

[ He grows quiet. No matter what, he cannot change the times he fell. He has the chance here to do what he couldn't back home. Keep the people he loves safe. That includes Jaskier. ]

I won't lose any of you again.

Edited 2023-09-11 05:09 (UTC)

[He can feel the glare at his back easily enough. Jaskier goes to the icebox and retrieves a drink of his own, tilting the bottle directly into his mouth. Glasses are hardly required. And here he thought he could satisfy these cravings with something else. Deal with this... this connection to the Singularity on his own terms. Take in the life he has lived.

Give me another chance.

He swallows wine heavily. Clenches his eyes closed. He does not do crushes. But he is still not sure what to call that. Or what he is supposed to do with the ghost of imagined touches. With a man he never will see again, until the Continent catches up with him.

Jaskier huffs. Ever the knight.]

You've never lost me, Geralt. [He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.] And you really must stop carrying the world on your shoulders.

[ He thought he had. He doesn't say it, but before Jaskier had arrived in Brokilon, what was he to think? When Aretuza was burning and Vilgefortz had won and the tower—

Then Jaskier found him.

His gaze drops to the ground. He picks up the bottle again, tipping it back. If only he could stop. His family, they are his world. Perhaps he no longer fears what he must do to keep them. Only recently was Jaskier injured. And that has not been the first time. If the bard isn't careful, he may end up with another collection of scars.

Glancing back up, Geralt presses his hand to Jaskier's chest. Just under where he knows the scratches lie. He doesn't ask how it feels, if he's healing well, but the implicit question is there. ] It's as you said. This is who I am.

[Jaskier pauses before he can start pacing, his heart beating underneath Geralt's hand. He doesn't need to feel the beats; he can hear them. How they tighten, quickened. Jaskier pats the hand, feeling the scars that cover it now.

It's always been a potential danger, even on the Continent. It's simply a variable of life. The only thing he can say now is he handles a bit of injury far better than he used to.

Less crying about death, for one.]

It only took you, what, a century to accept it? [He bends down with a smile, placing a slightly drunk smooch right on Geralt's forehead. He's perfect that way. He's Geralt that way. Jaskier saw it when he was but a lad of eighteen, and he sees it now in his old age, clearer than ever.] I'm all right. I promised you, didn't I? I would never think to deprive the White Wolf of his bard.

[ Doesn't he fucking know it. A variable. One he can't tolerate passing. He can't. He won't. So much has been taken from him. His home, his brothers, friends. (His mother.)

There are losses he will never be ready for.

He huffs. A century. He was afraid to accept it. That's what he doesn't say.

Jaskier smells like wine and vodka when he kisses him. Jaskier isn't telling him something. He can sense it. A weight behind those eyes. He won't press the matter, though. Jaskier will talk to him when ready. ]

You did. [ His tone is light, but not as light as it should be. He rises. His leg twinges, and he tries not to grant it much thought as he settles back in bed. ] I'm just concerned you're trying to contend with me for battle scars.

[How Geralt has surely changed. He does not even refute that he is, indeed, the Wolf's bard. And he does not add how he never asked for it, the thankless bastard. He simply... makes his little laugh.

Jaskier watches him, but also doesn't bring up when he can see. If he does, then they shall have to further acknowledge it. He swallows heavy enough. He already knows what he has to do about this. Who to tell.

It should be the first time he's ever purposefully gone around Geralt's back.]

I hardly think you need worry about it. And even if I do, I'll still have the much prettier face. [Jaskier follows him, and joins, but the wine bottle joins with him as he takes another swallow.

Bah. He's gone to sleep with worse tastes in his mouth.]

It's hardly a scratch. The closest I've ever come to meeting death is still at the hands of your lovely daughter.

[And it's been long enough he can make the jest.]

[ If he's to be honest, he changed long before any of these memories surfaced. These visions, he isn't sure what they even bring except to confirm what he already knows. What he needs to do.

Everything he intends to protect. ]

Not the djinn? [ He looks amused. Jaskier scared the shit out of him both times. In Rinde. Here with Ciri. How long ago was the djinn now? Ten summers? A long damn time.

He steals some of the wine from Jaskier. Their shoulders brush. Night turns into day, though he doesn't imagine he'd have gotten much sleep regardless. Still. Last time, he awoke knowing how much he'd lost. This time, he awakens with the knowledge of how much he has. How much he can lose in an instance. It changes things. ]

Let's not aim for a third brush with death.

I think Ciri was much more thorough.

[The djinn was even longer. And, really, while it was a particularly horrible experience, he can't help but think that creature was not even cruel. It was simply doing what it was told. But men... men act with cruelty, with a purpose behind it, and that was far worse.

The djinn was an accident.

Jaskier sinks deeper into the bed the more wine he drinks, until Geralt somehow ends up with the bottle and Jaskier's mouth is stained with the taste of some desert berry he forgets the name of. Rience is dead is a sentence that keeps moving through his mind, as if reminding him that the fire mage's existence had still held a shadow of Jaskier's every day.

He plucks an invisible lute against his chest, thinking of other things. How he is safe from one thing, but loses another. And oh, lips were made for extraordinary things...

That must be one of his best.]

Only three is a rather stunning record, if you ask me.

[ The bottle doesn't stay with him long. Eventually, he sets it aside and lays down. Sleep won't come, but he's fucking tired. Weary to the bone. He feels like he's aged another decade.

At least his leg has stopped aching. Perhaps the pain was merely a ghost.

He grunts. ] I'm not saving you again.

[ They both know that isn't true. He tucks one arm behind his head and closes his eyes. Later, there will be people to talk to, discussions to be had, items to collect. Life goes on. But right now, he just wants a moment of quiet. Alone, with Jaskier.

At the start, it was only the two of them. And then in Brokilon, they were alone together once more. The dryads and Milva, yes, but—mostly just he and Jaskier in that foliage canopy he never wants to see again. ]

[Jaskier laughs. The very idea is absurd.]

You're so full of shit. After I was bait for you?

[Of course it isn't true. Why would it be? What a fool thing to even say out loud. If he had the strength, he'd take his wine back and make sure Geralt couldn't have another drop of it.

He tucks up onto his side, looking out at the quietly glowing lamp Geralt got for him. So he never had to sleep in complete dark.]

There was a new song. [It's not exactly surprising to say. There always is.] But you haven't heard it yet.

[ He makes a soft noise to himself that's probably a laugh. He's only prodding. A part of him fears Jaskier being in harm's way yet again, but he knows it is impossible to avoid.

So he will save him, every time.

Hm. A song. Jaskier was composing something in Brokilon. He heard the bard humming and muttering to himself. Is that the one he means?

Well. No matter. There's only one reason Jaskier has brought it up. ]

Let me hear it, then.

[There was more than one song, honestly, but as he lays there and thinks of a bloody... a bloody Redanian prince, there's only one on his mind. The one where he first saw something real on Radovid's face.

He cannot imagine why this is sticking with him so much. (Of course he can. Because he sees something... similar. In the prince on the floor, his legs pulled up to his chest, with the corpses of men around them. The very real evidence of very real betrayal.

How the world moves in shifting waves of power and struggles and greed. How there is always that desire that things could be simple, and easy, and good.)

Jaskier leaves the bed to retrieve his lute, running his hand down her slender neck. It doesn't feel the same, he thinks, to sing it unaccompanied. He clears his throat, warming it gently with a rub of his fingers.

The notes come to him immediately, eagerly. Even if he has never played these notes, with these fingers, in this place, in this exact order.]

Keep your words on ice,
Your gaze lights the fire...
They say, "Keep on playing nice,"
But I have no desire...

Edited 2023-09-18 05:35 (UTC)

[ CLOSED ] just look across and see

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