[ Interruptions during a hunt are not what he allows often. Ever since he got dragged through a fucking portal, though, he understands his failure to respond to a message might be cause for concern. Which is why, as he's crouched behind a boulder, he sees the familiar shimmer of a script he knows well: I know it's ridiculous and you're likely balls-deep in a wyvern or something, but I—I had a nightmare. A fucking ominous one. Tell me you're all right. So I can forget it.
Shit. He squints. It warrants more attention than he can give at the moment. What's fucking ominous is the flapping of heavy wings above, an accompanying screech. In return, Jaskier gets a curt: ]
In one piece.
[ That should be the end of it. Should. The dream comes later.
He's had too many dreams to count. Nightmares, old memories tumbling together, meaningless visions. But this. When he wakes, ears ringing, a tight curl in the pit of his stomach—he knows immediately it's different. He can't place his finger on what it is that's provoked such a visceral reaction in him. The vividness with which he recalls it, perhaps. Instinct. Just a knowing. (How is it even possible?) He recalls Jaskier asking what he had out of the blue only a day prior and thinks: fuck.
It spurs him back home. He cuts his excursion short, abandons the nest he was scouting since last night. He decides not to tell Ciri he's returning early; he'd rather not worry her over the day or two it'll take for him to ride back. He tries not to linger on what's now all too sharp, too bright, in his mind: Ciri herself. A series of images, events, that he knows he did not live and yet. There it is. Laid out like a mangled, bloodied tableau. Only one person he knows of can truly confirm what it is that's now burnt into his head.
His fingers curl into his palm. He rides faster. Dust kicks up behind him; his vision cuts through the night's dark cloak.
(Part of him already suspects the answer she will give. But he still needs to hear it. Beyond that, he isn't letting himself think or dwell. He can't; he needs to take care of what is or is not happening first before he sits down with the truth of it all. Of what it means. Of where it leaves him: here in this world, with Yennefer (Yennefer), Jaskier. Cirilla. His tattered family.)
Dawn is only just brightening the sky when he arrives. The morning's early; she should be home, but she keeps hours as odd as he does sometimes. He pushes open the door. His sword is set against the wall; he's already looking, listening for where Ciri might be, if she's asleep or elsewhere. ]
ciri.
Shit. He squints. It warrants more attention than he can give at the moment. What's fucking ominous is the flapping of heavy wings above, an accompanying screech. In return, Jaskier gets a curt: ] [ That should be the end of it. Should. The dream comes later.
He's had too many dreams to count. Nightmares, old memories tumbling together, meaningless visions. But this. When he wakes, ears ringing, a tight curl in the pit of his stomach—he knows immediately it's different. He can't place his finger on what it is that's provoked such a visceral reaction in him. The vividness with which he recalls it, perhaps. Instinct. Just a knowing. (How is it even possible?) He recalls Jaskier asking what he had out of the blue only a day prior and thinks: fuck.
It spurs him back home. He cuts his excursion short, abandons the nest he was scouting since last night. He decides not to tell Ciri he's returning early; he'd rather not worry her over the day or two it'll take for him to ride back. He tries not to linger on what's now all too sharp, too bright, in his mind: Ciri herself. A series of images, events, that he knows he did not live and yet. There it is. Laid out like a mangled, bloodied tableau. Only one person he knows of can truly confirm what it is that's now burnt into his head.
His fingers curl into his palm. He rides faster. Dust kicks up behind him; his vision cuts through the night's dark cloak.
(Part of him already suspects the answer she will give. But he still needs to hear it. Beyond that, he isn't letting himself think or dwell. He can't; he needs to take care of what is or is not happening first before he sits down with the truth of it all. Of what it means. Of where it leaves him: here in this world, with Yennefer (Yennefer), Jaskier. Cirilla. His tattered family.)
Dawn is only just brightening the sky when he arrives. The morning's early; she should be home, but she keeps hours as odd as he does sometimes. He pushes open the door. His sword is set against the wall; he's already looking, listening for where Ciri might be, if she's asleep or elsewhere. ]