[Jaskier's eyes only move to him long enough to acknowledge his insistence, then away. He has more things to do than be reassured by Sam, even if his efforts do not go unappreciated. Geralt is fine because he's alive; he is, by definition, anything but that. Nevertheless, Jaskier doesn't argue. There is no merit in telling Sam that it isn't entirely the wounds he's thinking of.
He focuses on the magic, the now-familiar pull and shift of it. The reality of skin and bone that shift and move under his direction alone, simply because he offers his energy to it. It is the very opposite of its moniker of chaos, the dutiful way it goes about repairing what Jaskier can deal with. A chaos he is not meant to wield, and yet. The chaos which calms his heart against its will.
Chaos and broken arms and Sam's soft fondness for his friends. Jaskier doesn't interrupt, his brows remaining furrowed with concentration, throat too tight for words. Underneath all their efforts, Geralt changes from a mass of blood and bones into something more man-shaped, with less open flesh and disjointed corners. He waves only once, when a blackness sucks at the hold his mind has on consciousness... but Jaskier brushes it aside, sitting back with blood on his hands when Sam announces the end.
He shakes his head.] No. I've given him what I can. What I know how to.
[He lays back against the floor. Oh, yep. He might pass out right here, actually.]
no subject
He focuses on the magic, the now-familiar pull and shift of it. The reality of skin and bone that shift and move under his direction alone, simply because he offers his energy to it. It is the very opposite of its moniker of chaos, the dutiful way it goes about repairing what Jaskier can deal with. A chaos he is not meant to wield, and yet. The chaos which calms his heart against its will.
Chaos and broken arms and Sam's soft fondness for his friends. Jaskier doesn't interrupt, his brows remaining furrowed with concentration, throat too tight for words. Underneath all their efforts, Geralt changes from a mass of blood and bones into something more man-shaped, with less open flesh and disjointed corners. He waves only once, when a blackness sucks at the hold his mind has on consciousness... but Jaskier brushes it aside, sitting back with blood on his hands when Sam announces the end.
He shakes his head.] No. I've given him what I can. What I know how to.
[He lays back against the floor. Oh, yep. He might pass out right here, actually.]