[ He lets her talk without interrupting, his focus on her. However much she wants to say, he'll take it. He supposes, if she needs to let out what's on her mind, then he'll be here to listen. He needs to know, one way or the other. Needs to think it over, so he knows what he's looking at by the time they make it back, knows what their options are. And it lets him gather his thoughts while she tells her story. Geralt is used to fixing. Solving a problem. Piecing together details to create a picture that makes sense and working from it, ignoring all distractions while he does.
And he does have a picture: Ciri, already powerful, now even more so under the influence of the Singularity, combined with Jaskier's newfound powers that the bard hasn't fully gotten under control, provoked on instinct when he was in danger. A fucking spark to an oil drum is what that is.
Shit.
Ciri is a coiled spring beside him. He isn't used to knowing the right thing to say, to make someone feel better. He can tell her she isn't to be blamed, and she will still feel as though she is. He can't truthfully tell her everything will be fine, because he doesn't know if they will be. A restless buzz hums under his veins, one he can't quite shut off. It wants to do, to act, and he can't. Not until they return. He wishes, somehow, that he'd been there to keep this from happening at all. It's a foolish whimsy. One he is aware need not be entertained, and yet it crosses his mind all the same. That he should've been better at protecting them.
In the end, he does the only thing he can think of, what he remembers once made the world a little more bearable when he was still young, when words felt not near enough: maybe it'd been Vesemir who was there, maybe one of his brothers—either way, he hesitates, then slides an arm over her shoulder, unsure if she'll accept the embrace but not really knowing what else to do. ]
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And he does have a picture: Ciri, already powerful, now even more so under the influence of the Singularity, combined with Jaskier's newfound powers that the bard hasn't fully gotten under control, provoked on instinct when he was in danger. A fucking spark to an oil drum is what that is.
Shit.
Ciri is a coiled spring beside him. He isn't used to knowing the right thing to say, to make someone feel better. He can tell her she isn't to be blamed, and she will still feel as though she is. He can't truthfully tell her everything will be fine, because he doesn't know if they will be. A restless buzz hums under his veins, one he can't quite shut off. It wants to do, to act, and he can't. Not until they return. He wishes, somehow, that he'd been there to keep this from happening at all. It's a foolish whimsy. One he is aware need not be entertained, and yet it crosses his mind all the same. That he should've been better at protecting them.
In the end, he does the only thing he can think of, what he remembers once made the world a little more bearable when he was still young, when words felt not near enough: maybe it'd been Vesemir who was there, maybe one of his brothers—either way, he hesitates, then slides an arm over her shoulder, unsure if she'll accept the embrace but not really knowing what else to do. ]