[ CATCH-ALL ] and what you see is not the dark

[wiedzminka]

Who: Ciri & the friends(?) she made along the way
When: end of May - mid June
Where: Cadens, Nocwich, Horizon maybe
What: catching up after the wild and wacky 800 years that didn't happen
Warnings: in subject lines if necessary but probably none

it's just the gods upturning inkpots
'cause they know what you'll become

Comments

Jaskier.

[wiedzminka]

[ The house has been too quiet for weeks now.

Ciri pulls the lute off its stand in the corner of her room, examining the dust settled on the wood. It might need some actual, proper maintenance, but a quick few puffs of breath get rid of the surface layer at least. She grabs the folder of sheet music too, and makes her way to living room. The house is open and airy; the sofa is in full view of the kitchen, where Jaskier is baking too many things at once again.

With the lute in her lap, Ciri begins spreading the music sheets out on the table, eventually picking something to start strumming at, testing the strings with the first few notes slowly.

It's not tuned at all anymore. ]

[cointosser]

[While normally Jaskier would be the first in the house to go absolutely insane at the quiet, the lack of company, having not performed or done much more than bake and take Feainna for walks -- he has still not found that spark of life in him he so desperately would like back. He's picked up his songbook several times only to lay it back down without a drop of ink spilled.

He's not content in being quiet and keeping to himself, but it's what has happened. The least he can say is all the excess in cooking has led to many gifts to the local orphans, who now somehow "end up in the neighborhood" several times a day, hungry as ever, while they take his bread loaves and attempt to pickpocket him nearly every time.

And so it remains quiet. Geralt is often out, and Ciri... well, he can only imagine she's the same. All of them have been scooped out like the heart of a fruit, left to heal from a wound that isn't clearly defined. It will be another afternoon of wet whisking, kneading, the hiss of pain when his wrist twinges. His arms have never been so sufficiently sore.

Then a lute note breaks the silence, as sharp as shattered glass. A shiver goes through him at the sound, like it's stabbed him right in the heart. But he does turn, spying over his shoulder, to just see Ciri's bent leg, and the beautiful rounded wood of her lute.

She's... playing?]

You need to tune her. [Badly. Oh, the poor, beautiful thing. He goes back to his kneading, but he stops again. He's surprised, actually, she isn't hunting out or... doing Lady of the Prophecy things. He's figured she wouldn't bother much with the instrument after a little time.

He looks over his shoulder again.] You remember how, don't you?

[wiedzminka]

Hm? [ Another flat note lingers in the air. So she's gotten his attention already. That was faster than she'd hoped for. Good.

It would be truly a new level of alarming if Jaskier didn't even notice a poorly tuned lute. ]

A little. [ She lies. While she could probably muddle through on her own well enough, the goal is to get Jaskier thinking about something else. ]

You have a better ear than I. Will you come help?

[ How many times did they do this, in the centuries that didn't happen? Did they sit together, talking about music? Did he teach her more? Did she care at all after a time?

Ciri can't remember, but she catches herself trying. Forces herself to stop.

No more getting lost in the muddled half-memories of a lifetime that wasn't real. This is the truth, here and now. The smooth wood beneath her hands, the cushion beneath her, the cool stone floor on her bare feet half off the edge of the rug. Home. With the people who make it so. ]

[cointosser]

[Consider him possessed by a demon and fully gone if he could truly ignore the sound of a lute in pain. Jaskier sighs, with a heaving of his shoulders; somewhat put upon as, he imagines, her "a little" is in the same way.

They've lived together far too long.

He washes his hands up, making sure he's picked out the little nodules of dough that keep getting stuck under his nails. This is why they stay dirty -- if they stay that way, he can't think of how dirty the bloody things got. How naked he feels without all his rings on.]

Go on, move over. [Is his answer. He takes a seat beside her, reaching over to place her hands correctly -- to twist the pegs to tighten the strings correctly. He tests the strum until he's satisfied, mostly muttering to himself as he walks them both through the steps of her tuning.]

She's dusty. You haven't even been cleaning her off?

[wiedzminka]

[ Here he comes, taking the bait. Hook, line and sinker. It's even easier than she expected.

Ciri scoots enough to let him join her on the sofa, accepting the guidance of his hands on hers adjusting the angle of the instrument, the pegs that need to be turned. She knows how, of course, but Jaskier can hear when everything sounds just right more easily than she can. And he enjoys it more, if only he can let himself remember and focus on that, just for a little bit.

It isn't fair that he chastises her when they've been gone for weeks (and the time after, she hadn't been exactly focused either, much like a certain someone sitting next to her). But Ciri won't pull his attention back to that again. She loves him enough to let him gripe at her and not even roll her eyes. ]

It's the desert. It gets dusty here. [ That's all she says.

Her fingertips skim the strings. She plucks them one by one, watching his face for approval with each note. ]

[cointosser]

[He's pretending he doesn't know he's being absolutely used. Used worse than this poor, pathetic lute. (At least she's only dusty, not damaged.) His fingers move across her delicate neck, testing the strings. No longer reduced to relying on catgut, these strings are some sort of synthetic fibre, no longer likely to snap.

They sit, shoulder to shoulder, while he tests each string, his lips closing to concentrate on the sounds. Easier that way; he's done this so many times he could do it in his sleep.

It's an effort to leave it alone in her hands to test the strings a second time. With every correct pluck, he gives a nod, a quiet "there, perfect," but with the sharper sounds he indicates a turning of the peg.] Do you still remember the first song I taught you?