[Unfortunately, it feels very much like being trapped.]
I'm not -- I'm not scared. Hah. Wh--what would make you think that?
[Which is about the textbook definition of what a man who is scared would say. Jaskier tends to do this, unfortunately; though it's very obvious he is uncomfortable and distinctly wishing to be anywhere else, it has never mattered that he couldn't lie to save his life. (Oh, wait. He did. Once. But it wasn't his life he was saving.)
He flinches at the thought, pulling back as if he means to slip away from her grip.]
Why can't you let it go? Why can't you just let it be a question?
[It's not fair to her, that he's forced her to answer it. To remember. To remember this thing that must have been years ago for her; perhaps so long ago that it no longer means anything. (He knows that isn't true. Not by her reaction. Not how he could tell, in those few moments he saw her, how she must have dearly loved the Witchers.)
He chokes, his breathing too tight. It is being trapped. Because she will pin him down until he answers; because he does not have the strength nor the speed nor the will to escape from a Witcher, even a halfway determined one.
It is funny how it didn't occur to him until now. Voleth Meir, if he was worth her attention, could have slit his throat, too. But he wasn't a threat. He was just a warm body surrounded by the real threats. Almost another corpse in Kaer Morhen, but without even a medallion to be remembered by.]
I only wanted you to say no. If you did -- if you had, then none of it would matter. Not the dreams or the scars --
[And here he really does choke. The words stop, and Jaskier sort of folds in on himself. It is becoming all, too suddenly real, and the moments prior to this were only a slow-building panic. Now. Now, it's beginning to sink in that the dreams were real. They happened. To him. To them. To the Continent.]
no subject
I'm not -- I'm not scared. Hah. Wh--what would make you think that?
[Which is about the textbook definition of what a man who is scared would say. Jaskier tends to do this, unfortunately; though it's very obvious he is uncomfortable and distinctly wishing to be anywhere else, it has never mattered that he couldn't lie to save his life. (Oh, wait. He did. Once. But it wasn't his life he was saving.)
He flinches at the thought, pulling back as if he means to slip away from her grip.]
Why can't you let it go? Why can't you just let it be a question?
[It's not fair to her, that he's forced her to answer it. To remember. To remember this thing that must have been years ago for her; perhaps so long ago that it no longer means anything. (He knows that isn't true. Not by her reaction. Not how he could tell, in those few moments he saw her, how she must have dearly loved the Witchers.)
He chokes, his breathing too tight. It is being trapped. Because she will pin him down until he answers; because he does not have the strength nor the speed nor the will to escape from a Witcher, even a halfway determined one.
It is funny how it didn't occur to him until now. Voleth Meir, if he was worth her attention, could have slit his throat, too. But he wasn't a threat. He was just a warm body surrounded by the real threats. Almost another corpse in Kaer Morhen, but without even a medallion to be remembered by.]
I only wanted you to say no. If you did -- if you had, then none of it would matter. Not the dreams or the scars --
[And here he really does choke. The words stop, and Jaskier sort of folds in on himself. It is becoming all, too suddenly real, and the moments prior to this were only a slow-building panic. Now. Now, it's beginning to sink in that the dreams were real. They happened. To him. To them. To the Continent.]