[ CLOSED ] let these bones be the giver

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Various
When: Mid-January
Where: Cadens, Horizon
What: Dealing with a sudden onslaught of new memories
Warnings: Spoilers for The Witcher S2, trauma, discussion of torture, etc. NSFW marked.



placing starters in the comments below. find me at discontinued or at Noa#1979 to plot stuff!

since geralt has been officially canon updated to the end of s2, just let me know directly if you want to have a zero spoiler interaction and i can set the threads pre-canon update for these cases.

Comments

[gynvael]

[ 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.

[cointosser]

[Jaskier regards his friend in turn, only giving Moglad a cursory pat as he all but falls over. (He understands the feeling.) He cannot help but understand he is being scrutinized; and that, is perhaps, why Geralt is here in the first place.

He thinks he should have closed this place off to him, knowing he never would.]

I see. [He looks to Moglad to see, truly, how worried he was, but the moogle is nodding, so it seems to be the truth.] I cannot imagine what you two have to be worried about. I'm quite obviously thriving.

[He really is not sure what to make of this. It's not a bad thing, of course; he doesn't think Geralt capable of doing so to him. Not intentionally, not using the Horizon. And Moglad does look happier. Or more fulfilled, at least, as he sits up and clutches his sword tightly.

I didn't drink that much! Moglad says, as Jaskier adds:] Oh, please. Look how small he is! He doesn't drink that much.

[He narrows his eyes a moment, contemplating.] You're teaching him... swordfighting? [Well, clearly, but the moves, he thinks, did not come from a few days of teaching. Nor did the bruises, or the pain he sees Moglad move with. An echo of the bruises he once felt lining his sides, down his back.

Swordfighting. Like with Ciri? he thinks. My. Geralt has grown quite the paternal side in this time apart. One that Jaskier... already knew was there, really. He simply doesn't understand what that side is doing here, showing its face, in his domain.] You know, he isn't real. None of this is.

[And as he says it, Moglad holds the sword against his chest, hugging it like a child may hug a beloved stuffed bear.] I don't see the point of it.

[gynvael]

[ Jaskier's response is not particularly surprising. The Horizon is a convenient thing. It can be real when you wish it to be, and it can be not for the times when one prefers to not acknowledge what lurks inside it. He remembers thinking the same, remembers Yennefer telling him the same, when she had arrived here without her memories. Not as herself and yet entirely as herself. The wish, too. The entire idea of Destiny. Being drawn together. It's not real. It wasn't real. And then you try to forget it. Why allow what isn't real to haunt you? ​

He's learned it isn't so simple.

There's a lot he could say. He could tell Jaskier to take the sword from the moogle, then, if it isn't real. He could point out that Jaskier could easily make Moglad as cheerful as he once was, that he controls his moods and desires. That Moglad only appears upset right now because Jaskier himself is upset by his own words. That he knows Jaskier will not, cannot, do any of these things, because the truth is, Moglad exists as more than a superficial, amusing creation.

He doesn't. Jaskier is already aware. He doesn't need Geralt to tell him, as though he were a child, because though Jaskier may occasionally have the disposition of one, Geralt knows he is not. He's lived through much more than some men. And Geralt is not teaching Moglad swordfighting to make a point or to secretly try to steer Jaskier towards a certain path. He's teaching him because it makes him feel like at least he's doing something, because regardless of what is real or not real, what does or doesn't have a fucking point, there is one tangible effect he has found: ]

On the nights I come here to spend time with your small friend, you sleep easier.

[cointosser]

[It isn't real. Though it was only weeks ago -- even less, really -- he wonders why he bothered with all that time spent working on the vineyard now. What had it gotten him in the end? Not that he needed to have a point, but... all it had done was take time away from his body. It almost feels like a waste. All of that time he could've spent doing things. With the heart and energy to do so.

When he could sleep through the night. When he didn't call his attention to a fire in the room when it snapped and crackled.

He moves behind the bar with practiced grace, grabbing a bottle off a high shelf to pour himself a drink. Whatever this is, or what it's supposed to mean, if it means anything... he does not want to approach it sober.

It probably means nothing. Maybe Geralt's domain is a shithole too, and he'd rather be here. Or it's the same old Kaer Morhen, and he now knows it no longer looks that way.

Jaskier pauses with his back to Geralt, squeezing the neck of the bottle.] Is that it, then? You were worried about me?

[gynvael]

[ His gaze remains fixed on Jaskier for a little longer before he shifts away. It is worry. He has never been blind to how despair can consume one so thoroughly, but the way it clawed at everyone he knew—Vesemir, Triss, Yennefer—it leaves his heart heavy. Because he understands. He more than understands. But it doesn't mean he wants to watch it happen again and again.

It doesn't mean he wants to see it swallow his friend, too. ]

Yeah. [ The answer arrives quiet, soft. ] That's it.

[ Jaskier can tell him he's fine, that there isn't anything to worry about. Geralt will accept it. They both know those are words spoken for a reason other than making the other believe them. It isn't important. It only matters that Jaskier knows he's here.

At some point, he will have to tell Jaskier he knows. He simply does. He just isn't certain when, how. He's aware it's a secret Jaskier intended to keep. Jaskier just keeps secrets poorly from him. Geralt knows him too well. Knows how his hands feel on his skin, knows that the smooth scars on the tips of his fingers when Jaskier grabs hold of him at night are not the same ones as the calluses once there. Geralt bears several burns of his own; he's more than familiar with the scarring it leaves behind. ]

[cointosser]

[The glass neck of the bottle whines under his grip. It is really that simple. He was worried.

Jaskier has had so little cause to ever worry the Witcher, he thinks. He stays out of the way. Out of danger. He has always stood several paces back behind him, where it is safe. And now, because he drinks wine and goes to taverns and lays in bed far after he's awoken, Geralt worries.

A second passes. Two. Moglad is quiet, but Jaskier feels the moogle's eyes on him.

He sets the bottle back on its shelf without pouring anything, the candles on the walls lighting up a little brighter.]

You know, I imagine it's a rare, rare chance for an outsider to ever witness Witcher training. [He turns back from the bar shelves as if he'd never approached them, taking out a chair across the table from Geralt and taking a seat. He kicks up his boots onto the table.] So you must show me how you've been training Moglad, to have him pick up the sword so quickly.

[Moglad stands, a light glowing in his pom. I'd be happy to show you, Master Jaskier!]

[gynvael]

[ If Geralt hears the whine, he doesn't react. But a tension in his shoulders does ease when Jaskier places the bottle down and joins him at the table. He leans back in his chair. ]

He's a persistent little bastard. When he has a mind to be. [ Like you. Jaskier has always been too stubborn for his own good. Perhaps Geralt has, too. It's only that their stubbornness drives them in opposing directions. Geralt, determined not to let anyone in; Jaskier determined not to be kept out.

He knows who won that one in the end. It is not a battle he minds losing.

The fuzzy creature demonstrates what he has learned without hesitation. Geralt's taught him not much. The simplest forms that his stubby body could handle. But his wings do give him something of an advantage, and the moogle ducks and weaves in the air. What he lacks in grace and technique, he makes up in enthusiasm.

In reality, Geralt's eyes are on Jaskier rather than Moglad: curious, maybe an edge of fondness—wondering what Jaskier really thinks about all this. He must find it as fucking ridiculous as Geralt does, but. Maybe there's something to it, too, watching this manifestation of a moogle swing his miniature sword about. ]

[cointosser]

As I well know. He had to be persistent to survive my lessons.

[As am I. Yeah. He gets it. It's all double-speak, which is terrible enough when he's sober. Or. Is he sober? He supposes he could ensure that he was no longer, if he wanted to be. The Horizon makes it so fucking simple.

For Geralt's sake, he doesn't.

And for Moglad's sake, if he's being honest.

What the moogle has learned still impresses Jaskier. At first he watches it sitting back, but he ends up sitting on the edge of his seat, hands rubbing together between his legs. Going from a few parries and neatly slashing across a dummy, coming from being a little creature who'd only learned to be a bard, is still quite a lot. Like himself, Moglad is a good student. He takes it seriously. Listens. Stubborn, persistent.

This is getting far too personal.

When Moglad spins, fluttering, to give a bow with his sword, his little chest heaving, Jaskier claps for him.] Wonderful, my lad! You're doing wonderful. Truly. It's a very rare treat, you know. Geralt can hardly stand most long enough to talk with them, let alone train them. [He gets up, letting Moglad put down the sword before he pulls him into a hug, a careful squeeze.] You must keep going, all right? I want to see what you'll be capable of.

[If possible, the moogle flushes. I had no intentions of stopping, kupo!]

I'm sure you have no objections, Geralt?

[No. He already knows.]

[gynvael]

[ He makes a soft noise. ] He talks less when he's swinging a sword.

[ The comment is less biting than the words would indicate. No. No objections, if Jaskier hasn't any. He watches them for a little while longer. He knows Moglad is only a creation, but much like his wolf, much like Roach who appears in the Horizon -- long a black mare, as she is out in the real world -- they are still worthwhile companions. He had ruminated on this before, once. How real it is. If it matters.

But Julie is right. If it feels real, then nothing will change that. Nothing will make it feel any less so.

Sometimes he still thinks about the girl who appeared to him in this place. She was not at all the girl he had found in the woods. A blank doll at best. But she had been real, in a different way. Someone he had protected and failed.

When he stands, he gives Moglad a pat on the head as he passes by, but it is on Jaskier's shoulder where his hand lingers. ] I'll see you at home, Jaskier.