abraxaslogs | [ march / open ] you left me, you left me no choice but to stay here forever

[ Do not give her an opportunity to manifest a brachiosaurus, Jaskier. She absolutely will do it, just ask Geralt where that t-rex actually came from and how big it originally was.

Julie turns blank eyes to his hand on her arm, like it's something foreign. Not unwelcome, simply foreign. It isn't, she knows that, but it feels so distant, like he's touching blankets on top of her instead of her skin. Everything feels like that, as if it's only happening to her through layers of insulation. Words, movements, touch, it all feels so far away and yet it's right here.

When she looks back at him, it is with something so broken and adrift reflected in her gaze, searching in his face like he might have answers for her. He doesn't, she knows. He can't. Jaskier doesn't even know the truth, or at least she doesn't believe he knows -- that they are all dead, all three of them, that the Vegas they speak of no longer exists, and that if they aren't in Abraxas, then they aren't anywhere. It's not like him, there is no going back. They will never wake up with new memories, only the repeated nightmares of what has already happened. Flagg was different, none of them were even sure he could die (hell, he had never even seemed very sure, when he told them stories of things from hundreds of years ago), but the three of them, Julie, Lloyd and Nadine... they were all dead until they were pulled out of that well. They'd somehow gotten a third chance.

And now Lloyd is gone. His chance is gone. What does that mean for her and Nadine?

Her expression doesn't change at all, but when she nods, her eyes have begun to sparkle in the corners, tears that she never expresses because she has been able to ignore all of this information until now. Was able to close it away in a box in her mind, not to be addressed. She hadn't thought it was something she would have to deal with, because how could she ever do that anyway? What was there to be done?

Every inch of her trembles. ]

[He doesn't expect much response, but that he gets nothing -- almost literally nothing -- is beginning to scare him a little. He doesn't move his hand from her, though her gaze is unnerving. If he had the concept of zombie, then surely that is how he'd describe her.

Gods. He's not sure what to do. It makes more sense to him that she should cry, or scream, or rage. Destroy things. Create them only to smother them. Or drink. Drink, or smoke, until nothing matters anymore.

The latter has never helped.

What had he done for the elves? He was hardly with them long enough beyond holding their hands, or hiding their eyes from a few Nilfgaardian soldiers kicking a corpse into the ground. So he takes her hand and watches her, until the tears finally make their way out.

A sign she has not completely blacked out.]

I know. [He pulls an embroidered, patterned handkerchief from his pocket, ready to dab her cheeks.] I don't know what I can tell you. But I want you to know I'm here, all the same.

[ If it were anyone else, anyone except Nadine, then maybe those things would suffice. Crying, screaming, rage, wanton destruction. Every manner of negative coping skill. But it's not anyone else, it's Lloyd, and Julie cannot reconcile that loss while remaining in her body. It's simply too much, too huge. Too strong a blow.

Her eyes stay wide and mostly empty, but there is a flicker of something in them, acknowledgment that she can hear him, understand. She just doesn't have a voice to respond, no words, because much like he doesn't know what to tell her, she doesn't know what to say. It's not all right, it won't be all right. It's too much for her to deny and compartmentalize, crush down in her soul like paper in an overflowing wastebasket. What could possibly come out of her mouth now?

The tears shimmer for a long moment before they spill. She manages the tiniest movement, the shift of one arm to weakly clutch at his sleeve. As if he can tether her in place, keep her there. She knows that's not his responsibility, that he can't make that happen. But he's here and she's trying to stay too, because she has nowhere else to go. ]

[There they are. It's not quite the animated response he would like, but he asks nothing of her now. He only wipes her tears away once they begin their journey down her cheeks.

He looks down. It's barely anything, but it's. Enough. Honestly, it's enough, and he gives her a small smile. She needn't be here, he supposes, as long as she is somewhere.]

Like I said, I'm not going anywhere. Take all the time you need, my dear.

[And then he begins to hum. If speaking is not helping -- and perhaps it's too much to deal with at all -- he can provide this so easily. Filling the quiet with song, even if the club below has plenty of thumping music of its own. This is slower, steady, quiet.]

[ The noise of the club has become nothing but wallpaper in her mind. Busy, yes, but silent and easily ignored, something so omnipresent that it no longer bears any notice. Everything new is sitting here, on this couch, and she can barely process any of it, still stuck so far outside of herself. She can't make herself let go of his sleeve; her grip is limp and somehow iron at the same time, her knuckles white.

He hums and her hollow eyes flick downward, landing somewhere on his chest, though she can't see it, not really. She doesn't see anything, enveloped again by the fog, but she can hear him, clear like a bell's ring. It makes her chest tight, her lungs squeezed. Slowly, as if more by gravity than intention, she leans forward, until her forehead meets his shoulder. When she inhales, her whole body shudders. ]

[There. That is more a reaction than anything else has gotten, so he doesn't even pause as she moves closer. Jaskier holds Julie's weight easily, an arm coming loosely around her back so his palm can rest across her back.

Singing is easy, thoughtless. And in the Horizon, time really has no meaning. He can sit in the most awkward position, holding her, until there is even the smallest bit of light in her eyes.

At least the creatures have ceased their fussing. It's only the two of them and the sound of his voice, carrying gently through her room. Only between one song and another, when humming turns to words -- a silly little ditty he wrote about a crow family stealing from Cadens's market -- does he offer a small:] Come back when you can.

[ When his arm comes around her, she visibly relaxes, as if she had been subconsciously expecting to be pushed away. She wasn't really expecting anything, not directly, but she has been abandoned in her worst moments more than once; it has become hard not to believe that would be the norm. But her shoulders sag as if he has physically removed a weight from them, leaving her to rest tiredly against him.

It takes time. Enough time that the conscious part of her mind, far away from her body, insists he'll grow weary of coddling her, will push her off and leave her there. She stays there anyway, because it would take more than she has to pull herself together enough to move. The time passes anyway, long enough that the tears stop falling, long enough that it lets her take a step back into her head.

When she speaks, her voice is scratchy, ragged, barely present. ] I got your shirt wet.

[Of course, words are far better than shiny eyes.

He starts a little, half pulling back from her with a smile. Then he tugs her in for a squeeze of a hug, the last few notes of his song fading to nothing but an echo.

Fuck. He was almost afraid -- some grief was too much, wasn't it?]

What are you on about? This shirt isn't even real. [He kisses her cheek, though it's long gone dry again. He wasn't sure if it'd been a good thing when she'd stopped crying.] I never thought you would be worried for the state of my clothing.

[ There is still a hollow echo in her eyes, something still flat and haunted. It can't be erased so quickly, will take days, if not weeks, to begin receding. But sparks of life have returned, a cognizance that had escaped her in the solitude. She can focus again.

He hugs her, kisses her, and she curls back up against his side, every inhale still sending a small quake through her body. Jaskier is solid, something she can cling to. The expression on her face shows that it had genuinely not occurred to her that none of this is real; for Julie, the Horizon feels safer, more familiar, more real than anything out in the physical world. She's long stopped questioning if that's healthy for her, what it says about her mind -- Abraxas is confusing and strange to her, operates in ways that she simply does not understand. The Horizon is comfortable. It's everything she knew, at least if she stays here, in this building. It makes sense.

But it's not real. It's so easy to forget that it's not real.

She's still barely above a whisper, her throat tight and her eyes swollen. She swipes one hand over her eyes, as if it might make her vision less hazy. ]

I didn't mean to cry on you. [ She didn't mean to cry at all. ]

[He shifts so he can be a bit more comfortable, hopefully, to lean against, his arm laying over her as if it were a blanket. He's not against the idea, really, as someone who spends more time in the Horizon than most, too. Not near as much as Julie, but he understands the draw, the pull.

For him, it's the one place where he has control. Where, no matter what, nothing can hurt him.

He summons a soft fleece blanket to lay over her, and around his shoulders. Big enough that it pools around them like a bedsheet. It's not cold, exactly, but there's a comfort in something so simple as being warm.]

I'm hardly upset over it. And, permit me the cliché, but I believe it was better you let it out.

[ Honestly, he could be wearing armor and it would be fine. She needs to be grounded, that's all, so whether or not he's particularly comfortable isn't all that important. But he is comfortable, for the record, and so is the blanket, exactly the right weight to not feel too toasty.

She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, and there is some degree of relaxation there. Or at least exhaustion, which is still probably better than dissociation. Even the unicorn appears to have worn himself out, lies on the floor next to Julie's shoes, ears flicking lazily. ]

Cryin's for broken bones and babies. [ The inflection is one of rote repetition and acceptance, an automatic response. It's clearly something she heard many, many times, at an age where she was young enough to internalize it. The only acceptable reasons to cry are physical pain, or else as a manipulative tactic. No one cares about tears when there are bills to pay, work to do, mass extinction to survive. Emotions are a waste of time. ] It don't change anythin'.

[He chortles a response, mostly a laugh in his throat. Somehow it reminds him of something Geralt might say, in another life, and imagining it in that deep, gravel tone is rather comical.]

It may not surprise you, but I have cried on occasion, and have neither broken a bone nor, in fact, am I a child.

[Despite everyone's insults otherwise, thank you.] It's for release. If you walk around repressing everything, why... why, you turn into Geralt, and believe me, it makes for very difficult company sometimes. [Even if she doesn't feel better. Of course it doesn't change anything, but... well. That's biology. It forces one to do things that are, at times, not helpful.]

[ She sighs, a long huff through her nose. Julie does not come from a background that was particularly tolerant of emotional responses. Bad things happen and one was supposed to just muscle through it, get on with life, cowgirl up. She'd wept, alone on the floor, when her parents died, and she'd screamed and cried in frustration when she couldn't drag them out of the house to bury them. And then she stopped crying, because the road ahead was long and it wouldn't be walkable with tears in her eyes. Feelings were weaknesses. Weaknesses meant death or worse.

Sam cracked her, once, and so did Geralt, both in situations of great immediate distress, but she hated herself for it. Was deeply embarrassed, like she is now. Two decades of only allowing herself to feel happiness or anger, nothing else, cannot be erased in eight months. ]

There are better ways to release. [ She has a laundry list of ill-advised coping skills as a testament. ] It won't bring him back, so what's the point? Won't bring none of us back. Might as well not waste the energy.

More fun ones, you mean. Or, at least, enjoyable. In the moment.

[And so they have traveled opposite paths, as Jaskier dived into coping with drink, and equally drunk company; whatever handsome faces couldn't keep their eyes on him after another performance of Burn, Butcher, Burn as they thirst for the reasons he hated the White Wolf as much as they thirst for a fuck.

So then the process of unlearning begins. Because, honestly, while it isn't better, it's so much easier. Wine was his drug of choice in lieu of anything else, and as long as his head was swirling and his mouth was parched, memories were fleeting things and thoughts nearly nonexistent ones.

He's far from judgement. It's more concern. Funny, how it easy it is to allow oneself to fall into absolutely nothing, and how impossible it is to watch it happen to others.]

You're right. [Now it's his turn to sigh.] Nothing changes that what's done. We're all simply trying to survive the aftershocks. There's no reward nor beauty in it. Yet we do it anyway.

[He doubts the words help, either. Or the company. Like she said, it changes nothing. It won't bring him back. Estinien comes to his mind again, so tall and sure and yet unsure, in the end. No. Nothing will bring him back.

He adjusts the blanket. Somehow, the tips of his fingers feel cold.] Very badass of us indeed. As Sam would say.

I don't know that I'd limit it to "the moment". 'Least not how I do it.

[ Pretty high up on the list is 'deflection with dry humor'. She has not yet had the time to shift to excessive drinking or indiscriminate sex. It's only been a day, give a girl some time.

She wants to laugh at his attempt on modern lingo, but she doesn't have it in her. He's trying and she knows, is distantly grateful, but she cannot help wondering But why? Why keep going at all? To live every day in terror that the people who mean anything will only leave her? Why do that when she can just stay here, drink and party and never have to think about it? For her, for Lloyd and Nadine, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. They will either stay here and watch every person they care about disappear, or else they will die. There's no alternative.

It's a long, long beat before she says anything else, and when she does, her voice is small. ] I can't be the only one left, Jaskier. Not again. And I can't go back. None of us can, it's not a choice for us. Lloyd's... [ She trails off, looks up because her eyes are starting to tear up again. ] So what's left? Just suffer? Why bother?

All right, you go a little harder than I do at times, I admit.

[Said with utmost affection. He still thinks very fondly of the herbs from the Halloween party; he hasn't asked for their recreation quite yet if only because they felt so perfectly suited for that moment. Besides, all his moments after with Nadine have not needed anything to... help.

With the quiet again, he fiddles with his fingers, tapping out a rhythm on his leg.

He's glad she doesn't ask it. But why is too difficult a concept to approach right now.]

Right. Your sphere is... [Well, obviously not inhabitable anymore. That's what had scared Nadine so much, had driven her -- and Julie, he thinks -- to this. They did not simply go home, like Estinien may have. There was nothing to go to. Only another death.

He swallows, tipping his head back.] I wish I had an answer. All of my studies of the greats -- of art, of literature, of philosophy -- we all search for an answer to it. I don't have one, either. Personally, I like to think we're all masochists. Surviving through the suffering for our next good fuck, or the next good drink, or the next good friend. I mean, you can't imagine I've been famous for this long and not become an absolute hedonist.

[Deflection with dry humor, indeed.]

Edited 2022-03-28 23:16 (UTC)

[ It's an unsatisfying answer, not that she expected any different. She's so sick of suffering, and especially of suffering that befalls her because of other people's actions. The army's, the government's, Flagg's, the Singularity. When do her own choices get to make a difference? Why is she trying if it doesn't mean anything? Her only real sin was trying to escape loneliness.

In the silence, she reaches for his hand, like a child might. There is so much Jaskier doesn't know, so much that isn't fully hers to share or explain. It's not that she has a problem talking about all of it. It's just difficult, and she doesn't think most people want to hear it. But maybe Jaskier can find some meaning, help her understand what all of this was supposed to lead her to. A lesson, a moral? What was any of it for? ]

Can I tell you the story?

[One could already predict she wouldn't laugh. He gives a small sigh. It's not for lack of trying; then again, he knows why she wouldn't want to. He had no interest in it, either. Only really laughed at himself. Not in a fun way.

Jaskier's fingers move in between hers, clasping her hand across the blanket.

The bard tips his head, giving her a squeeze. He conjures a few pillows behind them for a bit more comfort, shifting his legs.]

Absolutely. I'd be delighted to hear.

[ It's nothing to do with him -- even recognizing humor takes energy she doesn't have, focus she can't keep, and right now, it's more like words are washing over her than actually processing. Her head feels like it's filled with static, making everything feel distant and difficult to hear.

She curls up closer at his side, as if she's trying to curl right into herself, become so small that she disappears altogether. It would be simpler. It is probably quite telling that the first thing she does is take a deep breath. ]

I'm from a place called Kansas, originally. Pratt, Kansas. It was a pretty small town, on our scale, only a little over five thousand people. It was in the middle of nowhere, an hour drive from the closest city, which wasn't all that much to write home about either. When Captain Trips came, it came fast. Usually people couldn't live with it for much more than a few days. There wasn't time for treatments or medicine. The hospitals all got overrun by the end of the first week. There was nowhere for the sick or dead to go, no one to treat 'em anyway. The phones went down, the internet. We couldn't contact anyone to see who was alive, who needed help. Less than one percent of the whole world population survived longer than three months. Seven billion people died, but some of us just... didn't.

[ She pauses for a moment, inhales hard again. ] My parents died at home, less than a day apart. I tried to take 'em outside, bury 'em, but I couldn't move 'em. So I went lookin' for any other survivors. I thought there had to be some. But I was the only one left, for hundreds of miles. I checked every house in the county. Broke windows and doors to get in, to find anyone. I just found bodies, whole families in one room. Babies still in the crib. Thousands and thousands of people. I tried to cover 'em, at first. I'd look for sheets and towels, but there were so many of 'em. I looked for days, took abandoned cars to the further farms. Even the animals were all dead.

It was just me and them, and I wound up in a store. The empty part of the club, in the back? That's what it looked like, only all the stuff for sale was still there. Businesses had all shut down overnight, so there weren't any bodies there. The store had a little of everythin', food and clothes, places to sleep. I thought I'd stay there a few days, that someone would come through. I was sure that there was someone out there, lookin' for people like me. I didn't see another person for a whole month. I started seein' people that weren't there, in the corner of my eyes. I could hear 'em whisperin' all night. Other people finally got there, these two guys. One of 'em was deaf and the other was slow, like in the head. They wouldn't take me with them, left me all alone again. They didn't care if I lived or died.

[ Maybe she hadn't exactly been kind to them at first (~~at all~~), but who was in their right mind after all that? She'd tried to apologize. They turned their backs. She had, ultimately, tried to shoot them, but missed. ]

After that, I started havin' dreams. It turns out all the survivors was havin' 'em, the same dreams, all across the country. There were two dreams you could have. In one, there was a king in the desert, and the other, a witch in a cornfield. Some people had both, some just got one. I never dreamed of the witch, only the king, but in my dream, he knew me. He told me that I didn't have to be alone anymore, never again. All I had to do was come to him in the desert, in Vegas, and he'd be with me forever. All of his followers would. So I found a map and packed as many supplies as I could carry, and I started walkin'. Fifteen hundred miles, give or take. Over mountains and the desert. Other people came from even further away.

But when I got there, he was exactly like I'd dreamed. Lloyd was his number two, he'd rescued Lloyd. He was the only one left in the prison, locked away and starvin' to death, until Flagg strolled in like it was nothin'. Lloyd ran the city, and they told me that Flagg's queen was on her way, that she had a mission to complete first. She got there, eventually. Nadine. And for a few weeks there, it was really good. I was never alone, I never had to worry. Lloyd took care of me, from the minute he met me. He was always there.

[ She stops, and it's not the end of the story, not at all. There's a pause as she tries to figure out how much more to tell, whether she can take out pieces and somehow stitch the story together without them. ]

The king and the witch were at war, and Flagg made mistakes, and everythin' started to fall apart. Really fall apart. And then we were suddenly all here, and he told us it was fine because he was still with us. Until he wasn't. Lloyd told me he'd protect me here. And he's gone too. Nadine told me the same thing, and... [ Her voice falters, her gaze falls. She can't make herself say it, what if she leaves next?. ] That's what I mean. I can't be the last one again.

[The longer she goes on, like any good story, the more questions he has, the little details he wants to fill out to sate his curiousity. Things like what on earth an internet is, how much could billions encompass, how could that many people even be alive, let alone die in months? His heart turns colder the more words fill the space around them, and in the end, he's practically clinging back to her. So quietly she goes past details like her parents' death, wandering alone in a dead world.

Somehow, he's never really put it together. (He's involved enough in his own stories.) That it is Nadine's magic man that was this king who brought them together. That the portrait Julie showed him, the Vegas, was where they all ended up.

Called like children following a piper. Or the call of a demon, if one could truly be so powerful. Then again, did not the Deathless Mother call people like Yennefer to her side? Did she not find, exactly, what she needed to to have them succumb?

Jaskier doesn't voice the thoughts. He has no idea what to make of this Flagg character other than the mere mention of what he's done unnerves him.

It's enough for him to know that Nadine and Julie have been through far too much shit, and Destiny seems determined to keep piling it on them.] That certainly does put things in perspective. How hard it would be to trust that those who say they'll stay, in fact, will.

[What does one say? They'll stay, for sure, this time. None of them know that. All he can do is empathize.] I know that fear. When you're so sure you're alone, and the dark has found you in the end.

[And yet Destiny played him then, too, entering Yennefer at the last moment. He can't say it will ever happen again.]

[ Much of it, she hasn't truly accepted herself, not really, even nearly two years later. Her family, the bodies, the absence of all human sound. It all haunts her dreams, makes her twitch and whimper through the night, but in her waking hours, she doesn't have the emotional capacity to unravel it all. How can she ever possibly work through those things? Some blows are too big, too devastating, and they come too fast. All you can do is stand back up afterward and walk away. Pretend it never happened. If you keep your back turned, the illusion maintains itself.

She's found that she can stave off the dreams if she drinks enough, puts enough poison into her body. It works. It only has to work until she dies again.

Her pain lingers, wrapped around her like a boa constrictor, squeezing. It's hard to remember a time it wasn't there, just waiting for another opportunity to coil tighter, to remind her that it's going to eventually crush her. She can barely swallow around the lump in her throat. ] What do you do when you already know the dark wins?

[If she so asked Jaskier months ago, he thinks he would have very different answers. That there is always a way to beat it back. That there must be. Even if he knows very well that's not true. When he has even written songs about men who could not find their victory against the dark.

He shakes his head.

The dark always has its ways to get stronger. There is always so much of it. In war, in blood spilled, in greed and anger and sorrow.

He simply squeezes her.] In my case, be a fool and hope for the best.

There is no best for me. [ The best case scenario for Julie is that she stays in Abraxas, forever living like an alien in a world that makes little sense to her. Even if she could go back, if she were somehow return alive, there's nothing left of her world, not really. It would be going back just to watch humanity slowly die out. They didn't even know if the babies born to the survivors could inherit immunity. And if she stays, somehow hangs on and doesn't blink out existence like Lloyd, like Flagg, then won't she just be watching it happen to everyone else?

With a sniffle, she swipes at her face, takes a deep breath. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, and she's so tired. So empty. ] What are you hoping for?

[Mm. He doesn't question why it seems that way. If her world is dead, and there is nothing to return to -- gods, it's far too much to ask anyone to bear. To especially bear alone. And Nadine must think the same....

His head rests against hers. The quiet in the Horizon now feels almost chilling, with the music blocked out. Though hearing it now, here, wouldn't make a difference.]

I'm sure it sounds selfish to say after your story, but I wish to stay here, if it's my choice to do so. I promised Geralt I would. Beyond that... I am only hoping to live a long life, to spread my songs. Make this world a little less shitty. That's all.

It's not selfish. Y'all's world doesn't sound any better than this one. At least you have magic here.

[ She doesn't say it cruelly. It's matter-of-fact -- the Continent sounds fucking terrible if she's honest. It's the Dark Ages but worse, because at least no one was mutating little boys at any point back in her world. Lack of magic and monsters has its upsides. And sure, she's got the impression that Jaskier was dealt a better hand than most in his world, but it's like being the richest person in the poorest, most wartorn country. So it's not particularly surprising that he doesn't exactly sound super conflicted about staying here.

Letting her eyes close, she sighs, stays curled close. ] Maybe you can go on tour.

[ march / open ] you left me, you left me no choice but to stay here forever

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