[Jaskier, too, is not sure what he wants to hear. Pretty platitudes or silence: both feel equally unfathomable to him right now. He cannot let go of the idea he will be found wanting when it comes down to continuing the path. What role does a bard have in a plot made of demons, and sorceresses, and Witchers and monoliths? He is no longer the Sandpiper, even. All he'd managed to craft on his own destroyed in a single night.
Will someone pick up the moniker? Will there be a new Sandpiper?
He thinks of the last elves he saw. The tall one, with thick hair. I expect much from you, he'd told Dara.
Irony, once again biting at his heels. He expected that in others which he could not offer himself.
How fucking morose. He is about to scoff and make some biting comment to himself, but there is Geralt's presence. There are Geralt's arms. He means to pull away, even considers it, but he hasn't the strength. The exact same way he did in that shitty Oxenfurt cell, he melts into the Witcher's embrace. It is brief, but it is real. There is peace to be found there.
You broke my heart, you know, he wants to say. He doesn't think Geralt knows. So what response could he expect?
I didn't mean it, Geralt could say, but he had, in that moment, meant it.
I'm sorry, Geralt probably would say, again, if he was capable of apologizing twice for the same mistake. But he already has apologized, and there was so little to forgive, anyway.
Jaskier doesn't say anything. His hand spreads across Geralt's back, though he doesn't feel it through several of the tips. He realizes something starkly, a bolt of lightning through the night his mind becomes. The only lie he's ever really, truly told.
I cannot tell him.
Not of this thing that haunts him. That made him collapse in Ciri's arms. The sound of snapping, and a flickering flame, and as tears came to his eyes, tied to that chair, the knowledge that he would break. It was only a matter of time. Between the burning, and his screams, and the sharp, acrid smell of his skin bubbling.
He should know better than most that love can only hold back so much.
Maybe it wouldn't matter if he did tell Geralt. It is only a pebble in the river of the plot. A subplot. A single scene. There is no evidence it ever happened besides a few new scars on his body -- barely anything, he thinks, next to the one that runs up his arm -- and, perhaps, a memory he and Yennefer share.
Right before she left him.]
I missed having you snore in my ear.
[The drink slurs his words. There is peace here. There is safety. He is not here. The mage cannot be here. He breathes in the stink of the wine on his breath, the stink of horse from Geralt. He breathes.
He can't, again, like he did with Ciri. Not with Geralt. Maybe hope still has its uses.]
no subject
Will someone pick up the moniker? Will there be a new Sandpiper?
He thinks of the last elves he saw. The tall one, with thick hair. I expect much from you, he'd told Dara.
Irony, once again biting at his heels. He expected that in others which he could not offer himself.
How fucking morose. He is about to scoff and make some biting comment to himself, but there is Geralt's presence. There are Geralt's arms. He means to pull away, even considers it, but he hasn't the strength. The exact same way he did in that shitty Oxenfurt cell, he melts into the Witcher's embrace. It is brief, but it is real. There is peace to be found there.
You broke my heart, you know, he wants to say. He doesn't think Geralt knows. So what response could he expect?
I didn't mean it, Geralt could say, but he had, in that moment, meant it.
I'm sorry, Geralt probably would say, again, if he was capable of apologizing twice for the same mistake. But he already has apologized, and there was so little to forgive, anyway.
Jaskier doesn't say anything. His hand spreads across Geralt's back, though he doesn't feel it through several of the tips. He realizes something starkly, a bolt of lightning through the night his mind becomes. The only lie he's ever really, truly told.
I cannot tell him.
Not of this thing that haunts him. That made him collapse in Ciri's arms. The sound of snapping, and a flickering flame, and as tears came to his eyes, tied to that chair, the knowledge that he would break. It was only a matter of time. Between the burning, and his screams, and the sharp, acrid smell of his skin bubbling.
He should know better than most that love can only hold back so much.
Maybe it wouldn't matter if he did tell Geralt. It is only a pebble in the river of the plot. A subplot. A single scene. There is no evidence it ever happened besides a few new scars on his body -- barely anything, he thinks, next to the one that runs up his arm -- and, perhaps, a memory he and Yennefer share.
Right before she left him.]
I missed having you snore in my ear.
[The drink slurs his words. There is peace here. There is safety. He is not here. The mage cannot be here. He breathes in the stink of the wine on his breath, the stink of horse from Geralt. He breathes.
He can't, again, like he did with Ciri. Not with Geralt. Maybe hope still has its uses.]