[ Through the pain and the panic, Jaskier's voice pushes against her animal consciousness, forcing her brain to focus on the words.
'It's all right,' he says. He's wrong.
Something shoves against the vines, mixing Jaskier's magic and hers, reaching out and entangling them. Where the vines had gashed her skin, it begins to knit back together, and with the sudden healing, her flesh pushes out the broken-off shrapnel of plant matter buried in her body and forcibly removes each thorn and itchy green bit, leaving bloody skin unblemished beneath the smears.
And then, the plants drop her all at once. Vanished, nonexistent. The pressure releases entirely, and so does the force holding her up, letting gravity take its toll.
Ciri crumples. The force of the earth meeting her body knocks out a sharp cry, rattling her skull. For several long, shocked moments, she curls in on herself with the sand and the blood between her teeth, gritty and metallic on her tongue as she lays beneath the hot sun and finally, mercifully, breathes. Heaving, wet breaths, fighting to remember what thoughts are. It feels like a century, but it's only a matter of seconds before she remembers Jaskier. ]
--fuck.
[ The appalled hiss that sputters out past the sand on her lips seems suddenly loud in the silence that follows, the roar of blood and magic in her head having receded as suddenly as it had come. Only the whimpering and braying of the mules in the distance rivals the wind for noise now, the desert completely empty and uncaring of their plight. ]
No, no, no no no...
[ The world sways and swims, shiny and unclear with tears. Ciri staggers almost to her feet, falls. Crawls the rest of the way. ]
Jaskier!
[ Her first instinct is to shake him, perhaps unhelpfully. Her hands find his shoulders for a moment or two, and then she seems to realize this is a stupid thing to do and instead turns her frayed focus to his arm. It's bloodied terribly, right down to the bone. It isn't the gore that makes her stomach churn.
This is her fault. ]
Jaskier... please... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...
[ He's bleeding. Fuck. Fuck, he's bleeding so much. Her chest moves shallowly, fast and frenzied, searching his face, his body, making sure he's breathing and that the worst of it is the most visible gash (it's just a pinprick, he'd said; just a scratch).
With trembling hands, Ciri yanks her bloodstained, tattered shirt off and begins to press it into the wound, trying to hold his flesh shut. ]
no subject
'It's all right,' he says. He's wrong.
Something shoves against the vines, mixing Jaskier's magic and hers, reaching out and entangling them. Where the vines had gashed her skin, it begins to knit back together, and with the sudden healing, her flesh pushes out the broken-off shrapnel of plant matter buried in her body and forcibly removes each thorn and itchy green bit, leaving bloody skin unblemished beneath the smears.
And then, the plants drop her all at once. Vanished, nonexistent. The pressure releases entirely, and so does the force holding her up, letting gravity take its toll.
Ciri crumples. The force of the earth meeting her body knocks out a sharp cry, rattling her skull. For several long, shocked moments, she curls in on herself with the sand and the blood between her teeth, gritty and metallic on her tongue as she lays beneath the hot sun and finally, mercifully, breathes. Heaving, wet breaths, fighting to remember what thoughts are. It feels like a century, but it's only a matter of seconds before she remembers Jaskier. ]
--fuck.
[ The appalled hiss that sputters out past the sand on her lips seems suddenly loud in the silence that follows, the roar of blood and magic in her head having receded as suddenly as it had come. Only the whimpering and braying of the mules in the distance rivals the wind for noise now, the desert completely empty and uncaring of their plight. ]
No, no, no no no...
[ The world sways and swims, shiny and unclear with tears. Ciri staggers almost to her feet, falls. Crawls the rest of the way. ]
Jaskier!
[ Her first instinct is to shake him, perhaps unhelpfully. Her hands find his shoulders for a moment or two, and then she seems to realize this is a stupid thing to do and instead turns her frayed focus to his arm. It's bloodied terribly, right down to the bone. It isn't the gore that makes her stomach churn.
This is her fault. ]
Jaskier... please... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry...
[ He's bleeding. Fuck. Fuck, he's bleeding so much. Her chest moves shallowly, fast and frenzied, searching his face, his body, making sure he's breathing and that the worst of it is the most visible gash (it's just a pinprick, he'd said; just a scratch).
With trembling hands, Ciri yanks her bloodstained, tattered shirt off and begins to press it into the wound, trying to hold his flesh shut. ]