abraxaslogs | [ CLOSED ] tell them that the villains on my list

[ Ciri huffs a grudging laugh, shaking her head at him and finally letting her hands drop away. ]

Blame you? I'd sooner thank you. It smells delicious, and I could eat a whole loaf right now.

[ Which she will happily do, going to grab the closet one that still feels warm and just ripping a chunk off the end to shove into her mouth, knives and tables be damned. ]

You do not know all of my business. [ She wrinkles her nose at him. ] Though it's most likely a request from one of the shops for more ingredients.

[ She can't think of anyone else who'd be sending her letters. And though she hasn't necessarily gone around giving out her residence, Ciri knows that if someone asked after her, she's not that difficult to find either. ]

I wouldn't entirely recommend it, but it won't be the worst thing you've ever eaten, I imagine. [Gods, the change in the air is absolutely palpable. Jaskier's lips even turn up into a smile as he returns to his kneading, ignoring the bits of dough he's left on her back. (Oops.)

At least he knows Geralt will have plenty to stuff down once he's back. (And it's so close. He's somewhere, taken care of. And he's returning.)

Jaskier laughs.] Don't I? [All right, he's just teasing. He does wish to know whatever happened to that one Ciri was going after Halloween night, however. (Which feels ages ago.)]

That's been going rather well, hasn't it? [Along with his herb selling to other shops, they've had a rather steady line of coin coming in. Aside from... their weeks of distraction.] I dare say, we might need to invest in a larger place if we keep... well. You know.

[Adopting strays.]

A woman must have her secrets, Jaskier. [ She teases, and it feels so good to simply banter like this again. To feel, at last, like she can breathe.

Ciri wanders toward the table while Jaskier goes back to his dough, still munching away at the bread. It's not half bad, but maybe she's just hungry. Rather, she's actually able to feel hungry for the first time in days. ]

It's not bad. The bread. [ She waves the stump of an already half-devoured loaf in his direction. ] Or the work. Wonder if we may be able to afford someplace with an attached stable. Though first, I need a horse of my own. One I can rely on.

[ No more easily-spooked rentals -- though in their defense, it's not like most everyday horses are trained for battle. ]

You aiming to open up a bakery on the side? The Brilliant Bread-Baker Bard. That's what they'll call you.

Not bad! That's really the best you can do? This is far better than that swivel they deem worth a crown in the markets.

[Hmph. His is worth at least twice as much, with the freshest herbs coin can buy (which he doesn't buy, thank you.) But his prattling about nothing important is the Jaskier way; a sign that he, too, feels some sense of normalcy, overcome with relief. He cracks open one of his loaves himself, popping a fluff of bread in his mouth, then going back to kneading.

It's been something to keep him busy, for sure. But, as an added side effect, it's helped loosen up the tightness in his arm, keeping a use for it. The scar doesn't pull so terribly now.]

Right. A stable's a fine idea. And a little land to grow some treats with them wouldn't be terribly amiss. [Is it fair to say he's becoming a bit fond of his earth magic? Even if he can still quite recall the way those finds had pulverized a man's bone, they... it was still in the name of protecting what he holds dear to him.

Jaskier snorts, picking off a bit of dough to flick at her.] There's a reason I'm the only poet in this household. [He's not going to tell her it's not half-bad.] I was destined for much greater than remaining a lowly baker. There's plenty men who can bake bread, but not a single one other than myself who can perform my music.

[Oh, gods. If anything is an indication that Jaskier's returning to his prime, cheery self, it's that he's begun talking magnanimously about himself again.]

Edited 2021-12-08 07:50 (UTC)

[ Ciri dodges the bit of dough with ease. Jaskier gets to clean that up off the floor now; not her problem.

Leaning on one side against the edge of the table, she cocks a fist on her other hip, tipping her head toward Jaskier as he suddenly seems to remember his own penchant for puffing up his ego when no one else is doing it for him.

Ciri gives him wide eyes, an unnaturally doe-like expression in her best attempt at pretending he's impressing her. ]

Oh, yes. That's certainly something! The only man in all the worlds, here and beyond, capable of playing the music you write. We should be commissioning a statue. I think I'm going to swoon.

[He makes a face at her easy dodge; he's fairly used to it from Geralt, but it's still so annoying, the way they make it look so easy.

His kneading slows down, distracted by her... oh, gods, her unnaturally unnerving imitation of a -- he doesn't even know! A horrible sort of woman he doesn't want to be trapped in a kitchen with. ~~Unfortunately, she reminds him of the sort of women (and men) who would sometimes follow him from town to town.~~]

Stop that! You're scaring me. I don't like it at all. [He ponders flicking more dough at her, but decides it's not worth wasting. Instead he picks up the dough and strips it in three, braiding them together, with a snooty face aimed at her.] And make fun of me as you might, you're only uttering the truth. Obviously they brought me here knowing my music was sorely needed for these poor bastards. Not an ounce of cheer to be found anywhere. Nor talent! I still remember those knobs Thorne attempted to claim as bards. Absolutely dreadful.

Edited 2021-12-10 06:29 (UTC)

[ Ciri can't hold that face for long. The wide-eyed simpering expression cracks into a far more normal-looking smile, a warmth in her voice. ]

Oh, all right. I believe you.

If you can be the most appreciated poet and musician on one Continent, why not on two?

[ Jaskier has earned his appeasement. And Ciri has nearly finished her bread.

Setting the rest of it down on the table, Ciri at last picks up the letter, dropping into a chair to begin unfolding it.

Her name is written on the front. There's something about the handwriting that looks a little familiar, like she should recognize it.

It is not sealed, merely folded into the envelope, so Ciri easily pulls out the letter, opens it, and begins to read.

As it turns out, the note is not, in fact from one of her customers. In the worst possible way, it is Jaskier who was closer to the mark. ]

[ The change in Ciri's posture isn't immediately obvious. But there is something stiff about it, very suddenly, something frozen and painted-on about her smile for just a few moments. The cold dread builds behind her sternum. She reads the first few lines again and again, catching the rest out of the corner of her eye just enough to comprehend without looking at it.

The icy feeling creeps upward, to the base of her throat. Down, around her ribs, as she finally forces herself to keep reading.

The smile is gone, replaced by a look of naked, lashed-open shock. ]

[He gives his braided loaf an appreciative little pat, cutting a smile towards her.] Exactly. See, you understand! [And his gaze drops down as he begins whipping up a bit of egg to paint on top (just as the cooks at home would do, giving it that delightful golden tint -- sunkissed as the grapes in the vineyard they would say), hardly taking note of her letter opening.

It is, for once, the first normal thing either of them had managed to do in weeks. A bit of baking for the fun of it, and Ciri here to give him bits of teasing and gossip.] And I imagine, despite my small setbacks, I'm well on my way to my name being on the lips of every character worth knowing in Cadens --

[He looks up to see her movements have stilled. Like a beast cornered; not in fear, but in the moment before in springs.

The plants in the windowsill begin to shift their leaves, the sound a quiet backdrop now that his whisking has stopped. He places the bowl down, pinkie tucked underneath so it makes no sound.] Ciri? [And so his heart stills again, waiting. Cornered.

His tongue burns to find an easy jest to allay this feeling that so tightens inside him. It is the words every fool says before the moment of impending disappointment that rises to his lips first instead.] What's wrong?

Edited (why do I fuck up html on dramatic posts every time) 2021-12-10 08:53 (UTC)

[ The silence is louder than Jaskier's voice, louder than the beating of her heart against her eardrums, swallowing up the sound of her lungs being wrung out.

Ciri reads the letter again. Her fingers twitch.

She imagines herself, in one swift movement, crumpling up the paper and throwing it. Calling up fire to her fingertips, letting it incinerate everything. Including the feeling. Especially the emptiness.

She imagines herself running out the door, tearing through the streets of Cadens on a horse she doesn't have, rushing to Sam's and throwing herself up the stairs to grab Alina by the shoulders as she's about to walk out the door. Shoving her down and shouting at her, with mouths close enough to breathe each other's pain.

She imagines a night not spent in a cell, but in a warm embrace with secrets shared and trust given. Trust she apparently has not earned in return.

The letter flutters lightly to the tabletop, a plucked butterfly wing, pinned with a slam by Ciri's fist hitting the wood. ]

...fuck.

[ Her shoulders slump, body bent forward under the twin forces of realization and resignation. ]

It's Alina.

She's gone.

[The silence stretches, but at least it's enough time for him to brace himself. He bites his lip, hard enough that it stings. Is it news? Of Geralt? He can't think of anything that should make her go so deathly still --

He jumps. The table rattles, knocking the wisk out of the bowl and to the floor. Egg splatters, but he ignores it, going to Ciri's side. His hand falls on top of hers.]

Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where?

[Gone? Like Sam's friends -- Bucky, Peter? Alina. He's met her once or twice, when he was staying with Sam -- the inevitability of so many bodies packed together -- yet he cannot figure out what her being gone should affect Ciri so much.

Unless --

Had he truly hit the mark that well?]

Edited 2021-12-11 07:24 (UTC)

She- she didn't say.

[ Meaning the letter is from Alina. She isn't vanished if she left a note for Ciri, then-- but Ciri doesn't offer the letter to him, pressing her palm flat over the text when Jaskier's hand drops on hers.

Her heart is pounding, fury and worry a horrible cacophony in her skull.

Ciri slides her hand free, the letter with it, snatching up the envelope and shoving it back inside. She moves to stand, pacing agitatedly with the note clutched in her hands like she wants to rip it apart but is barely stopping the motion. ]

When did you say this arrived?

[Then not vanished, which is perhaps the more fitting term. He doesn't look at the letter, only focused on Ciri's face.

Fuck. What is he supposed to do now? All his energy has already been spent; he'd been hanging on this good news from Julie for dear life, the roaring sea underneath him, and now his fingers are slipping once again from the cliff face.

She pulls away from him, and he's left standing there a bit hopelessly, a bit lost, watching her pace.

How quickly even the smallest bit of hope can slip away again.] I was out for a bit, so... it was either yesterday, or today. I'm not... perhaps you can catch her. Before she goes.

[ It isn't fair.

She's so tired. Jaskier is tired too, and Ciri doesn't want to put this on him also, but--

Well. Here they are. As soon as she thought she'd found her footing, the floor shifts again, and the whole world becomes rearranged. ]

I- I'll try. I don't know--

[ She shakes her head, as if the motion will help clear away the insect hum inside her brain. Pacing back to the table, Ciri stops again, leaned over with both hands on the tabletop and staring at the empty space there with furrowed concentration. Jaskier may understand from the faraway look in her eyes, like she's seeing something that's not there. She reaches out.

It's only a minute or two later (it might feel like a lifetime, Ciri standing stock still at the kitchen table, fingers gripping the edge of the table white-knuckled) before she seems to lose whatever battle she was fighting in her head. Ciri's strength leaves her. She drops back into the chair. Her head falls into her hands, palms pressed against her eyes. Voice quiet, utterly drained. ]

Please... pour me a drink.

[Oh, he's bone-deep exhausted. It must have been so magical chemical bursting through his veins that had him laugh only moments ago, to make more bloody bread, to feel as if things may slot together where they should lay.

He turns away from her, plucking up the whisk from the floor, mopping up the splattered egg. This loaf, he thinks, had better be the best fucking loaf he's ever made in his life, because it's certainly going through the wringer already.

When Ciri returns -- from messaging her, he imagines -- he could nearly thank her for it. It's not for his benefit, but it's what he needs. Some sign of something to do. Even if doing it will change nothing, will improve nothing. His hand slides across her shoulder as he moves to the icebox.] Don't move.

[He pours her a heavy-handed pint of ale, a fresh pitcher he's gotten to celebrate Geralt's arrival (and because it amuses him to see Rinwell's nose wrinkle when she smells it.) Then he pulls up a chair beside her, pours himself a glass as well. Drained. Yes, they're both certainly there, aren't they?]

Drink. Doesn't matter what her answer was right now. Just drink, Ciri.

[ There are a few more minutes of distraction, of trying to get through. Realization settling in. Understanding that it's too late now. It doesn't matter. (Maybe she doesn't matter, either.) Alina is right about one thing: she's not a child, and she's made her decisions now.

Ciri has no intention of riding across the desert to track her down. She could, perhaps. She could follow the wagon roads, find a fast enough horse to catch up when it's only a day or two's ride, well before they're anywhere near the border. If she left today, she's sure that she could do it.

But she won't.

Alina can go. Do whatever foolish thing she has in mind, whether or not it accomplishes anything (and Ciri suspects that it won't). This is Alina's journey now, and Ciri has not been asked to be a part.

It's just... she didn't expect it to hurt so much when she found out. ]

Thank you, Jaskier.

[ The ale is fresh and cold, a good pour. Wasted on her, as she takes long, desperate gulps, barely tasting the contents of her cup. Eventually, without coming up for breath until it's empty, she slams the mug down on the table next to the envelope.

Ciri stares at it again, not looking up at Jaskier when she speaks. ]

She's on her way to Thorne.

[The silence is deafening, crawling into every corner of the kitchen. He drinks his ale and though it brings warmth to his stomach, it does not reach anywhere else. It isn't fair, he thinks. That Ciri must shoulder this burden, too.

When he smiles at her thanks, it's rather empty.

It's not just her, he realizes. If Alina is gone, then Sam... it's another person for him to mourn. Even if she has not disappeared. It's another person that he may feel he disappointed.

He sits back.] How on earth does she expect to get there? [It slips out before he realizes. Ah. Fuck. He doesn't know anything about her, really, though. Perhaps she's quite powerful, or connected. Even though she was young. Like Ciri.] But you caught wind back from her? She's answering?

[ She wants to burn the letter. Tear it up and throw it in the hearth. Maybe tomorrow, or a few days from now, or sometime next month -- when it hurts less, when she is not so exhausted, when Geralt is home -- she might not feel that way. But right now, all she wants to do is scream.

Instead, Ciri pushes the envelope away, shoving it across the table out of easy reach. She leans sideways into Jaskier occupying the chair beside her, and turns her face down into his shoulder. For all the anger coiled up inside her chest, Ciri's voice comes out quiet and flat. ]

She answered right away.

[ That almost makes it worse. That Alina was expecting it, that should could have reached out all along using this link they all share, and that she hadn't. Written that stupid, pointless letter instead. ]

Paid a merchant. Presumably to smuggle her across the border on his route.

[It's far more than Geralt ever offered them. (He's not mad about it. Probably.)

Immediately, Jaskier's arms raise around her; he'd been hesitating before, wondering if a touch would ever help after all of this. But she seeks it, and he gives it, offering Ciri what he has left of himself after everything. His grip is tight, chin on her shoulder. There is the smallest chance if he holds her tight enough, both of them can squeeze the helplessness out of their hearts.

A very small chance.]

Resourceful. [It may have been amused in any other moment; he'd never taken Alina as resourceful. And yet, where had she gotten the coin for that? That's quite the bribe.] Shall we curse her name? I'll come up with a particularly rude rhyme. We can send it to her.

[He doesn't think Ciri will take him up on the offer, and Geralt will never receive the bounty of extremely rude rhymes that Jaskier already sent him.]

Stupid. [ Ciri responds gruffly. Meaning Alina. Not Jaskier.

Jaskier, she squeezes in return, grateful beyond words for his presence. ]

Reckless... idiot...

[ The offer earns a sound that isn't quite a laugh, not quite a sob, something of a wheeze like something being stepped on. ]

Maybe later.

[ After a minute, Ciri finally releases him, feeling a tiny bit calmer if not exactly better. She reaches for the pitcher of ale and refills both their cups. ]

For some reason, she thinks Mal is there. Isn't sure, but it was enough. They are... close. And he is from her sphere.

[He knows the words aren’t for him, but hearing them makes him want to laugh, too. Not out of humor, only —- the cosmic joke that is living has continued past its punchline, and it’s getting a bit ridiculous.]

Funny how many people we know that could apply to.

[He gives her a last squeeze, letting her slip away. He lifts a hand to wipe her cheek, then leans into her as he takes his cup.

It tastes better the second go around.]

They must be quite close for her to make the attempt. [Jaskier is trying to keep up; to be fair, all he knows of Mal is he had the nerve to give Jaskier critique on his performance. He also knows well others who would cross this distance for their companions, if they could. If they were brave enough to.]

I suppose even hope is plenty for us to do completely stupid, reckless things. But if she’s brave enough to try, I’m sure she’s competent enough to succeed.

Edited 2021-12-13 06:04 (UTC)

[ Ciri leans against him in turn; they sit, shoulders propped against one another, holding each other up. In more ways than one.

This time, she takes a slower drink, actually tasting it. ]

I hope so. I just--

She could have asked me for help. I would have understood.

[ Maybe not agreed to let her just go to Thorne, but Ciri could have helped her find connections there first. Potentially. Then again, maybe not, with what happened to Geralt--

Fuck. It's all a mess, isn't it? ]

I thought she trusted me.

[He turns his head, pressing his lips to the top of her head. It is not the first time he wishes he could take this pain Ciri feels so deeply away; perhaps into himself. (And it is not the first time he wishes someone would take his own.)]

I know. [He's quiet, thumb and index finger rubbing together, playing with the rings there. Though dough sticks to the metal, he's always enjoyed wearing them. Even when kneading.]

But if she knows you as well as I suspect, she knows you would've tried to stop her. [And there's nothing wrong with that. He slips his arm around her and simply leans, leaving his drink alone.] And I bet she trusts you may have been able to do so.

[ Shoving her mug away onto the table, Ciri crosses her arms, curling up more in her chair, shoulders tight. Jaskier is warm. He smells like flour and yeast and a little bit like ale now. Homey. Safe.

His words are kind. Honestly, Ciri wishes they weren't. She wishes he didn't give Alina so much credit. Or her.

She spits the words out like a bitter pit, hard and sharp and wrapped around just enough poison to feel unpleasant in her mouth. ]

She does not know me. And I could still stop her. Merchant wagons hardly travel at swift speeds.

She didn't think of that. She didn't think of anything. Let her go.

I cannot afford distractions now.

[Honestly, Jaskier can't fault her for the bitterness. He doesn't flinch away from it, or pull his arm from her. He listens, lets her have it. See? This is why he should've been making a few rude rhymes.

He's felt that same flare a few times himself. He knows Geralt believes he has good reason for only sending them that one fucking message, and yet -- yet he's wanted to wring his neck since they got it.

But he doesn't like the idea that because she did one thing Ciri hates -- whether it was stupid and wreckless or not -- that Ciri should write her off so easily. That she should harden her heart. Is it really for protection, or is it easier that way? To let people go?]

Your heart has room for more than one, love. [He squeezes his arm round her, then slips it away. As does his. He can message someone in Thorne to look for her. Kylo. Kylo might do it, he thinks, even after this time. They had their eye on plenty when he'd been in Thorne.] Besides. We all know plenty of headstrong fools. Some of us are headstrong fools.

[Speaking delightedly of himself.]

Edited 2021-12-15 06:48 (UTC)

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