[ 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.

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[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.