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

[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)

...hah.

[ It's half-laugh, half-sigh. Ciri, of course, thinks he's talking about her. Possibly himself too. Definitely Geralt. A whole gaggle of headstrong fools, the lot of them.

She sits back up when he moves his arm, reaching for her ale again, wondering if they have anything stronger. Is it any good to drink herself into a stupor? Then again, what else is she supposed to do while waiting? For there is nothing to do but wait, at this point; there is nothing more either of them can give that will help Geralt, and it hurts.

It hurts that she feels so useless. It hurts that Alina left, even if it wasn't that she left Ciri, specifically. It hurts to know everything is just so... fragile, so tenuous, every day hanging by a thread if one ever just stops and looks to see how gossamer-thin the veil of everyday life is in this place, barely obscuring the reality that none of them know anything.

Ciri drinks again, leaning back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling. ]

Nothing could have come of it, regardless. [ She admits after a while, quiet, tired. Resigned. She doesn't sound angry anymore; she is only stating a fact. ]

She will always choose those from her home. I do not fault her for it. I will always do the same.

My heart can desire to have room for all the people it wishes, but hearts are foolish little beasts. What do they know? In the end, we both knew the choices we'd make.

[ She just feels stupid for letting herself think Alina should have trusted her with more. Maybe Alina is the one who had it right all along, and Ciri who should have shared less and listened harder. ]

[He makes a small noise that is possibly dissent; though he agrees with Ciri's steadfast approach to many things, it's clear that matters of the heart are an area where they don't agree. Why do you suspect so? he wants to ask, as if choking the life out of a bond before its begin to spread its roots was a viable response. It isn't. Why can one not have hope in them? In each of them? Even with headstrong fools?

Jaskier recognizes what she's doing. (Perhaps who she learned it from, though he doubts this sort of lesson is genetic nor learned.) Snipping off the ribbon between herself and Alina the moment it has begun to stretch. It is so much easier to cut others off when things get difficult. It is easier to defend one's heart that way.

His fingers ring around his mug as it spins in his hands. Fidgeting, as he imagines what he could say, if anything. It's simply a pain she must go through, as he has gone through so many of his own. Friends and women and men, abandoning him, disinterested, or those who have found others, or simply moved on. Certain men who leave one on the sides of mountains, alone.]

Well, I should like to think hearts know plenty, even if we are far from inclined to listening to them. [Hello. Poet here.] But hearts, like people, are needful little things.

[What he is saying is as easy as you cannot allow yourself to harden so easily, but her calcification is happening in front of him and there is naught else he can do to save it. He can already imagine how Ciri might scoff at the sentiment.] What I mean to say, is... that it is all right to hope for more.

[ So Jaskier says, but Ciri is not so convinced. He's a poet; affairs of the heart are his purview. She has grown up guarding hers.

When she'd been dragged through the door between worlds by that Thornean mage, Alina was there. Call it chance or something else (not destiny; she refuses), but Alina had been in her cell to make sure she got enough to eat, to listen without judgement or comment when she'd cried. Alina had been the first, the only person she'd told about Geralt, about how he didn't know her. About who he is.

When the Singularity had dragged that horrible magic out of her and she'd hurt Jaskier, Alina had been there, too. After. At Sam's. In the bath. Warming the water with the little sun in her hands. And again, Ciri had told her. She'd needed to talk, and Alina had listened.

It only now occurs to her that Alina never truly shared much of her own. In retrospect, Ciri feels a fool for having expected more.

For a while, she is silent, finishing her ale and staring at the wall.

She wonders if that was what she'd been hoping for. For... more. When had it started? When will the feeling go away?

Ciri reaches over, her fingertips barely reaching the edge of the envelope she'd shoved away. She slides it closer, then to the side. Toward Jaskier. ]

Keep this for me. Until I ask for it.

[ She doesn't ask him not to read it; she doesn't think he would. ]

It's just--

I'd hate to lose it.

[ When she does something out of anger.

Because she still rather feels like tearing it to bits. And some part of her recognizes that would be terribly sad. ]

[And so like Geralt, it is rather hard for him, even for his bountiful wisdom and innate empathy, to see whether his words have made any difference to her. They sit quietly. They drink. He thinks of how "Needful Little Things" is a good title to a song, planning to write that down for later. Despite this rather dreadful and dreary last month, the things that have risen in him from living through it are truly an emotional gradient his personal muses speak to.

When it's the wolf who has been lost,
Who will he call to?

When she speaks again, his body straightens. He smiles, soft.] Of course. Until you ask for it.

[There is hope yet. He plucks the letter off of the table and carefully folds it (after making sure there is no residual dough on his fingers, thank you.) He won't read it. It is not his to read. Besides, Ciri has already told him its contents, and he sincerely doubts Alina is a prolific letter-author. He stands to place it in his song-writing book, tucked between the final few pages.] Now, do you really wish to stay here and get drunk, or do you want to... I don't know. [He lifts his arms, then drops them to prop his hands on his hips.] Go wild? Ride a horse? Kill something?

Thanks.

[ She may not ask for it. Not for a while. Or maybe she will ask tomorrow, once she's slept. For now, Ciri feels somehow... if not quite better, then at least a little calmer, more grounded, knowing that Jaskier will help her share this burden. A safe place to keep this piece of her heart, tucked away in his notebook.

The suggestions make her smile. A little wan and watery, but not feigned. ]

Not this time. [ She's done plenty of that the last few days.

Now that the anger has faded and Ciri has accepted that Alina is gone, that she won't be going after her, all she feels is tired. Beneath all that, the desperation to find Geralt that had been eating at her has settled too, from a lightning hum under her skin to a weary weight inside her bones. She's spent all night in a cell. She's screamed and cried enough. She doesn't want to go back out there now. ]

Play a game of cards with me. Tell me of your exploits in the realm of bakery, and of the songs you're working on. Perhaps a few of those rude rhymes are in order, after all.

Edited 2021-12-18 09:41 (UTC)

Not this time, she says. Really?

[Well, that's fair. He meant the killing of -- of animals and things, because he is thinking of nothing further than that, and certainly not of Hector's offer to raise their... the bodies as personal little servants.

He shudders at the memory, moving on so she needn't ask about it.]

My, I thought you'd never ask. [Even if he knows he's mere distraction, Jaskier does so adore talking of himself. Especially of his music, of which no one hardly asks these days. (He does miss his adoring fans sometimes.)] Then drink, my dear, and I'll give you a few lines.

[He must return to his bread, though he knows that, for whatever reason, the dough would sit there for hours and never change, the yeast never dying, waiting for his touch again. (If only he could say that about people, not bread.) He's already gotten the fire going in the oven, so he slides it in on a bit of stone, grabbing the ale to refill both their mugs.

Rude rhymes are most usually his favorite, but it's not what he reaches for first.]

When I go to the market, there's this family of -- well, I imagine they must be a family -- of ravens. The littlest one, one of its wings is clipped or something. I've never seen it fly, only hop around. [He talks to fill the void between them, but also because the topic of choice gives a fair bit of warmth. A spot of hope in a world so quick to snuff it out.] You know, I write these things, these words, when I want to create but I lack the correct inspiration for real song. They're only ditties I keep to myself, practice to keep my voice alive.

[He hasn't a clue, really, how much he's gone on about singing or song with her, before they were here. And he can't help but think of it as another him, someone he might recognize but still holds unfamiliarity. That Jaskier has a life he has yet to live, memories he has yet to retain or to forget. Experiences, he bets, that they would both love to write of.

At any rate, she's asked, and he wants her to not think of this Alina for a spat, to focus on something foolish and hopeful and perhaps ridiculous instead.]

Anyway, I've been crafting a story of these ravens. A bit of an epic, if you will. Building on it every time I see them.

[As the fire of the oven crackles, he clears his throat, spinning the rings on his fingers.]

So you stumble, little raven,
A useless ball of soot,
Peck a seed, if you can find it
Between a hundred thousand boots.
And then here come four more ravens,
Eight more wings to bear you up,
Stealing bread and cheese and chicken,
To fill that useless belly up.

[And yes, he's named all of them, and given them motivations, and backstories, likes and dislikes. And yet every single one of them coddles that clipped-wing bird, bringing it food and cuddling up by its side when they roost on the nearby signs or stalls.]

I know, I know. Clearly not my best.

Edited 2021-12-19 08:13 (UTC)

[ They pull apart, but comfortably. Jaskier goes to finish taking care of the bread she'd distracted him from, and Ciri stands to get a fire going in the hearth. It's not really cold (only gets cold at night, and only recently), but there's something about the crackle and warmth of it that is still comforting. She pours more ale and plucks an apple from a bowl at the table to cut it as she listens, more for something to give her hands to do than anything else. It would do them both good to eat something, besides. ]

That little raven must be very loved. He is fed and cared for, with a family to keep him safe.

But you should be more mindful of his feelings, Jaskier. If you sing to him of being such a useless mouth to feed, he may stop eating, and you'll make his family sad.

I'm sure he wishes he could do more to be of use to them.

[Everyone is clearly a critic, even his niece. Still, he huffs a pleased little laugh at her, prodding his bread with a poker because he's naught else to do until it puffs up into a golden loaf.]

We should all be so lucky. [His tone, for the moment, doesn't match that huff of a laugh. Yes. What they all wouldn't do to be loved, and cared for, with a family? It's at no one in particular, really. Perhaps an old, foggy memory of his father in Lettenhove. An old professor he recalls with the most scathing sort of tone when he managed to spit out Pankratz.

Jaskier leans against the counter, and crosses his arms across his chest.]

Well, Ciri, I think there are plenty of us -- little ravens included -- that find a sort of comfort in knowing their own uselessness. Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Or a villain.

[ The knife stills in Ciri's hand. She looks up, watching Jaskier with a quiet, contemplative expression, a faint crease between her brows.

Then Ciri looks down again, meticulously slicing the apple into even pieces and lining them up on the table in neat little half-moons with the ends reaching up. ]

It all depends on one's idea of what is worthwhile. Useful. And to whom.

[Ooh, he doesn't like that. He was not, of course, speaking of himself. Of course not. He's as much like a bird as he's like a... a banana. Not the same thing, at all, in any way.

He doesn't meet her gaze, preoccupied with looking at his nails. And to think, all he'd wanted to do was play a cute snippet for her.

This is why he should keep the animal poems to himself.]

I'm quite sure those terms are universal. [He drops his hand, clipping a bit of lose skin from a cuticle.] Ah, you know, there's an idea. Apple bread. Oh, with a dusting of cinnamon. Something sweet to combat all this bloody ale we're drinking all the time.

Shall I slice them thinner?

[ Ciri offers without missing a beat, cocking her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye without looking over entirely.

A pang of guilt twinges in her heart, seeing him withdrawing again. He'd only meant to cheer her up, to share something he'd written. But he gives himself away with the words he chooses, and it--

It bothers her.

Maybe it's selfish. It's probably selfish. (Is it selfish to think he is not useless, if only because he keeps her occupied with thoughts other than single-minded revenge?) Or maybe she's just projecting. ]

On the other hand, [He continues, as if in answer to her question,] I’m not so sure everyone isn’t bloody sick of bread. I think Rinwell and Hector are becoming desperate in their attempt to find a sustainable soup-to-bread ratio.

[And no one has had the gall to bring up the stressed bread making to his face, which is why he loves both and will die for them.

And for Ciri, of course. He has quiet songs too, that he keeps to himself, that perhaps only Geralt has ever heard him hum, of this girl that came from nowhere, from a woman’s womb he met decades ago and only once, and how improbably and easily she fell into his heart.

Not like it was Destiny. Nothing so convoluted. Only as if she fit perfectly in this shape it had been missing. Wistful songs of love’s power to choke even Destiny. Sorry songs of burden and freedom.

Some people keep journals. He keeps his songs. Though at this rate, he should be far more careful with them.

He claps his hands together, as if the drop in their conversation never happened.] Cake! That’s it! I can manage cake. Apple cake. And some sort of… you know, like a glaze? Oh, gods, I’m starting to sound like Alucard. [Now that he has reignited that mood, the reminder he was here to help Ciri forget her wounds, if only for a moment, it is much simpler to cling onto it.]

Yes, cut a few thinner, if you don’t mind. I know you mentioned cards, but how about you help me a spell? Then you can lose terribly to my strategic card-playing because I am, of course, a genius.

[And not deflecting. Like, at all.]

Edited (I had to dunk him) 2021-12-23 08:51 (UTC)

[ With an exhale that might almost pass for a laugh, Ciri decides to let it be.

There is too much to think about. Purpose and practicality. Family and fear. Heroes, villains, destiny and dough.

It is easier to pretend she believes Jaskier, and simply help him make a cake. Ciri hasn't baked anything in-- a very long time, she can't even recall. There is something to be said about the fact that she is the one wielding the knife, destroying a thing in its current form so Jaskier can create it, more than a sum of the parts she takes apart. Whatever that something is, though, Ciri has not the words nor the energy to release it yet.

But she can do as Jaskier requests. And she can help make something new, even if this is all she knows: the knife in her hands, precisely peeling and separating.

She smiles up at him. ]

I love cake. Just tell me how many you need.

...and I'll take that as a challenge. You know I'm not backing down now.

Do you? [Of course, he has seen the level of enthusiasm in which she approaches sweet buns, which is only equal to his own, so perhaps that makes perfect sense in the end. It's simply nice to have someone around who appreciates the finer things. Jaskier can live off of rabbit stew the rest of his life, but he would suffer heavily without the inclusion of the most frivolous of foods. And drinks.] Then cake we shall have, my dear.

[He will hold onto that. That almost-laugh, the smile she gives him. It is not unburdened, by any means, but it is better than her anger, her detachment, and worst of all, the sadness. His heart breaks for her -- perhaps it breaks for himself, even, as it struggles to hold both of them up together.

He scoops her cut apples into a bowl, pushing it towards her with a bag of sugar. If she is to help, she will have hands as messy as his own. For once, sticky with something that isn't ichor or blood.] There is not a chance you'll ever beat me, princess.

[ It is easy to see why Jaskier has taken up this baking as a point to focus on when everything else feels like the walls closing in. It is a methodical thing, and it takes precision and focus just enough to let the mind rest, without being a burden in itself. For her, it is simply a matter of letting him teach her, following his instructions.

The gentle teasing leads again, eventually, to a joke or two. A lighter smile. Hands covered in sugar and spices. He shows her how to arrange and mix what is needed, how it all fits into what it will be, how to shape and bake it. How to accept that, for now, this is what either of them can do, and there's a comfort in the simplicity of understanding that too.

They bake a cake together. It is enough. ]

[ CLOSED ] tell them that the villains on my list

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wrap it up here? :>

perfect <3