[It is a terrible thing, he thinks, that even a bard as magnanimous in his words and talented in his verses as he could not really describe what the Horizon is, what it has done to him... or what it feels like to return from it. Perhaps he may ask Hector (now he remembers his name) about it. If he knows if this is akin to returning from the dead.
Feels like it. Ugh.
For once, Jaskier doesn't really want to... well. Talk. And he's quite certain many of the people he met do not wish to talk to him. (They will. Eventually.) It only makes sense that the first person he goes to is someone that, even in that liminal space, he trusted blindly. At least that doesn't bring up any sort of mixed feelings or minor existential crises. Despite being an absolute bastard sometimes, and stinky to boot, Geralt is his friend. On the Continent, in this world, and apparently in the next.
Jaskier sours at the thought. He knows Geralt would never agree.
So he doesn't even bring it up at first. He gathers Geralt from the cells (somehow surprised to see they are allowed out still) with the excuse of transporting tomes back and forth from his room to the library.
Only when they sit down and he's dragged his fingers through messy hair (certainly messy for Jaskier) that he sighs and breaths in and speaks.
Tries. He sort of cracks out a sound that's a bit of a wheeze.
It's a lot. All of this magic shit. Speaking of. Jaskier flicks a few fingers and, though it certainly isn't creating caravans and fake people and bottles of wine -- gods, he misses the wine -- it does create a little blue bird that hops over the books, pecks at Geralt's hand, and flies off to act as sentry on top of their bookish wall.
no subject
Feels like it. Ugh.
For once, Jaskier doesn't really want to... well. Talk. And he's quite certain many of the people he met do not wish to talk to him. (They will. Eventually.) It only makes sense that the first person he goes to is someone that, even in that liminal space, he trusted blindly. At least that doesn't bring up any sort of mixed feelings or minor existential crises. Despite being an absolute bastard sometimes, and stinky to boot, Geralt is his friend. On the Continent, in this world, and apparently in the next.
Jaskier sours at the thought. He knows Geralt would never agree.
So he doesn't even bring it up at first. He gathers Geralt from the cells (somehow surprised to see they are allowed out still) with the excuse of transporting tomes back and forth from his room to the library.
Only when they sit down and he's dragged his fingers through messy hair (certainly messy for Jaskier) that he sighs and breaths in and speaks.
Tries. He sort of cracks out a sound that's a bit of a wheeze.
It's a lot. All of this magic shit. Speaking of. Jaskier flicks a few fingers and, though it certainly isn't creating caravans and fake people and bottles of wine -- gods, he misses the wine -- it does create a little blue bird that hops over the books, pecks at Geralt's hand, and flies off to act as sentry on top of their bookish wall.
Easy questions first.]
You do remember all of it, don't you?