abraxaslogs | the fairy tales and little lies can't drown out all the sound [closed]

That isn't -- [He raises his hands, then drops them at once. Then raises one once more, gesturing in a circle.] I mean, it is, and it isn't. He's sharp. He knew he was only a tool. He was never not aware.

[Is he defending him, now? A man he's never met? (But he has. He can remember every touch. Even if those were very much part of the manipulation, they... there was a truth to them.

He swears there was a truth to them.)

Jaskier steps past Geralt, fussing with his cuticles, arms pulled in front of him, as a few bee jewelwisps fly around him, chasing each other. One lands on his shoulder to rest its wings. Somewhere, he knows Moglad has pulled out his lute, and begun singing. He doesn't know how. He just feels it. I am enough. With you, I am enough...]

He wasn't at the party because he was with me.

[The words weigh heavy. It isn't sadness, entirely. It is pain through clenched teeth. The splash of embarrassment, of being wrong. Of being made a fool.]

And he was using me to get to Ciri, as I had suspected. [A little sarcastic laugh comes out.] About the first time I'd ever wanted to be wrong.

Edited 2023-10-06 05:46 (UTC)

[ He was with—

Oh. Geralt blinks. It doesn't surprise him, exactly. More...the confirmation he hadn't realized he was looking for.

Leaning forward, he rests his arms on his knees. ] I wanted to be wrong, too. About Yen.

[ He wasn't. And it hurt. It hurt for a long time. It always will, he thinks. Even healed, a scar can still sting. But Jaskier was right, and so was Dean. Holding onto that anger—it will do nothing except fester. He'd known that, too. It was just...hard. To let go the way he knew he should.

So he gets it. How Jaskier might feel about Radovid. To wish you'd guarded your heart a little better. To realize you wouldn't be here if you had. ]

It's not a fault to want to trust, Jaskier.

[Jaskier gestures with his hands out. With me has very obvious connotations that he is not denying. Geralt knows him. What he doesn't know is, even now, some part of it feels different. Vespula's taunting of his crush continues to haunt him, as if she actually had a point.

Which she did not. Clearly. He is instead haunted by how wrong she was.

Jaskier looks at his fingernails.] Yeah, well. [You and Yen are completely different, he wants to say. Destined lovers and all of that. There is not a chance in hell (he knows the term now, thank you) that Destiny intended him to be with a prince. A Redanian one. He's not exactly a fan of Vizimir's, ah... policies.]

Lucky for him I couldn't kill him if I wanted to. [Which he does not. It feels like it would be akin to kicking a pup.] I never said it was a fault. I have no faults, including trust. It's more -- [Now he looks up.] I don't know. [He pauses again.] I never wanted to fail Ciri, either.

[ Jaskier doesn't say it, but he can hear it. Destiny. In some ways, it's true. Destiny brought them together, but he knows nothing but the three of them choose to stay together. Destiny did not prevent Yennefer from making her choices, and it didn't erase the distance he placed between them for months.

It doesn't entirely erase the distance now, either. But the weight has lessened. ]

You didn't. [ The answer comes without hesitation, a little sharp. He has no wish for Jaskier to blame himself for what happened. ] I was—

[ He cuts himself short. Jaskier doesn't need to hear it. Geralt is not seeking reassurance; he knows where his fault lies. He isn't dwelling on it. What he needs to do from hereon is more apparent than ever, and he supposes he has that ordeal to thank for that clarity. A lesson.

He releases a breath. ] It's as you said. Ciri is safe here. I intend to keep it that way.

No. [He finally sits next to Geralt, now that it's out, sliding his boots out in front of him as the horses move past, nipping and chasing each other now their sneaked snacks have been eaten.] You didn't, either.

[Before Geralt can indulge the guilt too much. If neither of them are to blame, then... that's good. That's good enough for him.

How long can they truly soak in guilt? He'd rather not. It's boring and depressing and he -- he would like to believe better of both of them. Ciri ended up safe, no matter where she went. Even if she won't speak of it. (A thing that scares him, if he's being honest.)

Jaskier throws an arm around Geralt's shoulder. They're both being surly fools over things they cannot change. Acceptance is for the best here.] Oh, so you're saying I'm right again? My, I'm really on a roll now.

[He reaches for the humour. Geralt understands him, but he's not sure he really does entirely. Mostly because Jaskier doesn't understand it himself. Perhaps he should... push himself here. It may help.]

The thing is... I think I would've liked a resolution. And I've never truly met him. I mean, the me I am now. I suppose. [He turns to Geralt.] He was there at Thanedd, you know. He'd come looking for his guards, and he walked into a slaughter. I don't think he'd ever seen anything like it.

[ He did. He did, but it's a failure he's determined not to repeat. But he senses what Jaskier is doing, so his only reply is a grunt. ]

Don't get ahead of yourself.

[ He glances over through a curtain of hair. No. They are not the same as they were in those memories. And those memories have not left them the same in exchange. As much as he wishes he could tell Jaskier he'll find his answers one day, that's not how the world works.

It occurs to him Jaskier must've left for Brokilon shortly after stumbling over the prince. For the dying Witcher. That he made a choice in that moment.

Geralt's hand finds Jaskier's leg, gently squeezing his knee.

The Continent had never been peaceful, but this is so much more. For the first time, he is intimately involved in ways he never wanted to be. He can no longer through villages turned to ash and bodies hanged under bridges, ignoring how death clings to him like the mud staining his boots.

He sees this world shifting towards the same violent tempest. Maybe here, they won't be too late. ]

You've already said it.

[And that makes him feel a modicum better. Even if Geralt admitting it twice is about twice as worrying as him admitting it once.

It's... more than a shame, but he isn't sure what to call it. He can only trust that Radovid believed him and did, indeed, take his whole Sandpiper route back to Redania, by the time Jaskier was in Brokilon. He has no other clue where he is. Where he left the prince. If he even --

Well, he better have. His guards had not survived, though Dijkstra and Phillipa had. Not that Jaskier hardly had beliefs either would be unable to snake their way out of it.

No. What had mattered in that moment was Yennefer, Ciri, and Geralt. He'd made his choice, and he would not have made it different.

Jaskier gives him a smile at the touch. Luckily, he's never needed Geralt to say anything. It is better he's said it, even if it some time since the memories came. It was... easier now. Here. (After seeing what his consciousness was doing with Mogworth.)

Speaking of.] We should head back. [He's a little tired of seeing Brokilon, to be honest.] Surely you came for more than to listen to my complaints.

[ Right. They should.

Patting the horses, Geralt begins the trek back. Leaving Brokilon behind. He wonders if he ever returned after that. Once he found Ciri, happened? Was Yennefer with him? Jaskier? Did they settle back into the family he'd always wanted?

He knows he shouldn't let his mind stay mired in the past. That there is much more he hasn't lost. And it—

He glances up. A high-pitched Kupo! rings out from between the trees. Is that...?

Where in the hell did the other moogle even get a sword? It must've spawned with it—and it's apparently determined to slice Jaskier's miniature morbol into pieces.

Geralt peers at the spectacle. (What the fuck.) ]

Edited 2023-10-16 07:49 (UTC)

[Commotion in Bleobheris is a rare occurrence, and thus a startling one. Jaskier would recognize Moglad anywhere, but his kupo! is a startled one. Jaskier runs ahead only to find Mogworth, both feet planted firmly on the ground, holding a single sword in front of him as he stands before Moglad, still holding his lute, his golden pom suddenly turned black.

Oh, for fuck's sake --

He will say, Mogworth is fast. The moogle darts forward, ducking under the swipe of a tentacle, to slice one of the morbol's arms off in one swipe.]

Mogworth! Leave Yjönnstifer alone, you cretin! What are you doing?!

[The morbol cries out with -- well, it's a horrifying noise, actually, somewhere between a squelch and a belch -- and Jaskier scoops him up, lost arm and all, reattaching it with a wet squish.] We don't go around killing our friends here!

[Moglad adds I told him not to! I was just startled, kupo!, which Jaskier's a little proud of -- he's absolutely a little narc -- but Mogworth is apparently unbothered by either of them. He wipes his eyes with a paw, and his pom returns to gold. It got too close, is his explanation, but Jaskier suspects it's not Mogworth that the morbol got too close to, considering Moglad currently, er. Stinks.

Jaskier sighs.] This place has turned into a mess. One might say it's even too crowded.

Edited 2023-10-16 19:36 (UTC)

[ Jönnsti...?

The scene that unfolds before him is an absurdist comedy of immeasurable proportions: the two fluffy bear-creatures, waving sword and lute; Jaskier, rescuing his beloved (?) miniature monster and reattaching its severed limb. For once, Geralt is not silent because he hasn't anything he cares to say. He's just. Baffled.

And increasingly uncomfortable by Mogworth's entire...everything. His black-turned-gold antenna. Pursuing a monster for attacking his. Moogle friend. Its inexplicable silence when, as far as he's told, these creatures do not stop chattering.

After a long moment, Geralt claps Jaskier on the shoulder, the universal signal for Good luck, but I'm leaving now. ] I'm sure you'll be fine.

[ And he's gone. ]

Well, of course I'll be fine, it's just --

[He turns only to see Geralt literally phasing out of existence, and looking, to Jaskier's eyes, quite pleased about it, as if the very fact he can leave a conversation whenever he wishes to makes the Horizon particularly pleasant.

Or Jaskier may be projecting.]

Geralt! Don't you dare! [And... he's already gone.] You stupid arse!

[He swears he can hear Mogworth laugh deep under his breath. Just once.]

the fairy tales and little lies can't drown out all the sound [closed]

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