[ It does and it doesn't. Some pain is personal. Some of it can be shared. The parts that can—it helps. He's learned that much, growing up among those who suffered as he had. But there's the temptation, always, to keep it to yourself, to allow no one to shoulder it with you. He understands that, too.
And even now, despite his words, he finds himself withdrawing to that place—a flinch he can't hide when Jaskier says your brothers. To think, not so long ago he'd sat and told Sam he missed them. Home. That he wished he could go home, to heal the parts of him that refused to heal after Thorne. Now he remembers going home. How fucking ironic.
He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to be offered anyone else's guilt for what he's lost. It's easier to focus on another's pain—to absorb the hurt that Jaskier feels and let that be what he feels, too, instead of his own that lies beneath. He doesn't want to think about his own. He's nursed too many fucking wounds as of late. He's only just started putting himself back together and now— ]
I know. [ He knows what it is to watch death and destruction in front of you, and feel helpless to stop it. But it was not Jaskier's fight. Jaskier was...Geralt had asked him to ride with Ciri to Kaer Morhen because he'd trusted no one else more. If he'd known the danger they were all in, he'd never have sent Jaskier into the midst of it.
He takes Jaskier's arm, the one resting on his shoulder. The bard is listing, his feet wobbling. ] Come on.
[ It's late. There's nothing else to talk about. Not right now. He wants to get Jaskier to bed, make sure his friend won't crack his head on the fucking floor. At least that much he can take care of. ]
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And even now, despite his words, he finds himself withdrawing to that place—a flinch he can't hide when Jaskier says your brothers. To think, not so long ago he'd sat and told Sam he missed them. Home. That he wished he could go home, to heal the parts of him that refused to heal after Thorne. Now he remembers going home. How fucking ironic.
He doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want to be offered anyone else's guilt for what he's lost. It's easier to focus on another's pain—to absorb the hurt that Jaskier feels and let that be what he feels, too, instead of his own that lies beneath. He doesn't want to think about his own. He's nursed too many fucking wounds as of late. He's only just started putting himself back together and now— ]
I know. [ He knows what it is to watch death and destruction in front of you, and feel helpless to stop it. But it was not Jaskier's fight. Jaskier was...Geralt had asked him to ride with Ciri to Kaer Morhen because he'd trusted no one else more. If he'd known the danger they were all in, he'd never have sent Jaskier into the midst of it.
He takes Jaskier's arm, the one resting on his shoulder. The bard is listing, his feet wobbling. ] Come on.
[ It's late. There's nothing else to talk about. Not right now. He wants to get Jaskier to bed, make sure his friend won't crack his head on the fucking floor. At least that much he can take care of. ]