[ Jaskier's curiosity is met only with silence. Geralt studies him: how his shoulders tense, the way his heartbeat spikes and stutters over seemingly nothing. This is not the first it's happened. He's caught Jaskier hesitating too long before lighting a candle, if he does so at all. The last time he came home to darkness, Jaskier squinting by some glowing flowers to write in his notebook, Geralt had remarked on it only to receive an irritable response.
At the start, he'd presumed Jaskier's nightmares were from what occurred at Kaer Morhen. Or perhaps what he might've seen while fleeing Nilfgaard's marching armies: the death and destruction they would've left behind. But in the days that followed, he realized there was more to it. By now, two, three weeks later, he's certain of what he suspected. Yennefer had mentioned someone was after Jaskier in Oxenfurt. He'd thought at the time she meant she'd simply found Jaskier running or hiding and helped. Saving my life, as Jaskier phrased it. Then that mage, he'd said...what was it. Saved him a spy mission to Kaer Morhen? How that bastard knew in the first place that Ciri was with him, Geralt hasn't a fucking clue. But he does know the first place anyone searching for Kaer Morhen, for the home of the Witchers, would go: to the one man who has claimed a Witcher as his muse.
The knowledge is a heavy weight. He can't help feeling responsible. It's harder still to understand that he is not. That there was nothing he could've really done. That he can't protect everyone, even if he should want to.
Moglad twirls in the air, then promptly flops over onto the table, spent after his short twenty-second demonstration. (Improvements can be made.) Geralt gives a small shrug. Once, he might've stated that he's no intention of stealing such a nuisance of a creature. He doesn't now. Not that Moglad isn't still a damn nuisance. He's just...also a bit more than that. A bit. ]
He was worried about you. [ I was worried about you. ] I thought he could use something to do besides guzzle every bottle in existence.
no subject
At the start, he'd presumed Jaskier's nightmares were from what occurred at Kaer Morhen. Or perhaps what he might've seen while fleeing Nilfgaard's marching armies: the death and destruction they would've left behind. But in the days that followed, he realized there was more to it. By now, two, three weeks later, he's certain of what he suspected. Yennefer had mentioned someone was after Jaskier in Oxenfurt. He'd thought at the time she meant she'd simply found Jaskier running or hiding and helped. Saving my life, as Jaskier phrased it. Then that mage, he'd said...what was it. Saved him a spy mission to Kaer Morhen? How that bastard knew in the first place that Ciri was with him, Geralt hasn't a fucking clue. But he does know the first place anyone searching for Kaer Morhen, for the home of the Witchers, would go: to the one man who has claimed a Witcher as his muse.
The knowledge is a heavy weight. He can't help feeling responsible. It's harder still to understand that he is not. That there was nothing he could've really done. That he can't protect everyone, even if he should want to.
Moglad twirls in the air, then promptly flops over onto the table, spent after his short twenty-second demonstration. (Improvements can be made.) Geralt gives a small shrug. Once, he might've stated that he's no intention of stealing such a nuisance of a creature. He doesn't now. Not that Moglad isn't still a damn nuisance. He's just...also a bit more than that. A bit. ]
He was worried about you. [ I was worried about you. ] I thought he could use something to do besides guzzle every bottle in existence.