[ Geralt hears thicker fur and ask me how I know, and he's opening his mouth to answer (Is that what the noise was across the city was that night?) when he feels the pricking of heat at his temple, the pulsing. He has enough time to think, Shit, before the visions slam into him. They are rapid, flashing by, and at least this time he hasn't been trapped in the memory itself. They are—
—not what he expected. Maybe because he's known Jaskier for so long that even though he's aware of the months, years, time they spent apart, on some instinctive level, it surprises him that what he's seeing is wholly new. And yet, in another sense, it doesn't surprise him as much as it should, because of course Jaskier would help the fucking elves. Perhaps it makes the most sense of all. More so than the idea that Jaskier took his riches and fame and only spent it on wine and jewels and women and men. He has always known his friend to be much more than that.
(He regrets, a little, that he wasn't there for any of this. Does it matter, though? His regrets are not really the point, even if he is sorry he left, that he knows—without ever having to hear that song—that he broke his friend's heart. And he would say he didn't mean to, but the truth is in that moment, he had. It was easier, then, to sever ties than to cling to them, fearing that he would lose it, anyway.)
When he comes to, it's with a curse tumbling from his lips. Jaskier's hands are on him. Geralt reaches for them without thinking, his other hand on his head. ] Fuck.
[ Fuck. He's sick of his skull being split into pieces. He blinks once, twice, trying to drag himself back into the present. Ugh. His stomach roils, the water spinning. Mog chirps shrilly, anxious, and the noise pierces through his head, enough that he wants to reach out and give the bird a shake. ] I'm fine.
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—not what he expected. Maybe because he's known Jaskier for so long that even though he's aware of the months, years, time they spent apart, on some instinctive level, it surprises him that what he's seeing is wholly new. And yet, in another sense, it doesn't surprise him as much as it should, because of course Jaskier would help the fucking elves. Perhaps it makes the most sense of all. More so than the idea that Jaskier took his riches and fame and only spent it on wine and jewels and women and men. He has always known his friend to be much more than that.
(He regrets, a little, that he wasn't there for any of this. Does it matter, though? His regrets are not really the point, even if he is sorry he left, that he knows—without ever having to hear that song—that he broke his friend's heart. And he would say he didn't mean to, but the truth is in that moment, he had. It was easier, then, to sever ties than to cling to them, fearing that he would lose it, anyway.)
When he comes to, it's with a curse tumbling from his lips. Jaskier's hands are on him. Geralt reaches for them without thinking, his other hand on his head. ] Fuck.
[ Fuck. He's sick of his skull being split into pieces. He blinks once, twice, trying to drag himself back into the present. Ugh. His stomach roils, the water spinning. Mog chirps shrilly, anxious, and the noise pierces through his head, enough that he wants to reach out and give the bird a shake. ] I'm fine.