[Jaskier is too distracted to nod and confirm, once again, at the question. He is facing not only the reality of his position in Nocwich, but that Rhy and Ronan may be, in fact, correct -- a thing that (nothing against them both) he had hoped was not true.

Because Jaskier finds he is not a fan of something this large, that he cannot understand, that does not communicate, that dictates all of the magic that flows in his body, having... consciousness. Sentience, even.

(Perhaps enough to undo what it has done, should it decide to do so.)]

I'm sorry, what? [He rounds on Geralt, shoving him on a shoulder.] Julie told you she talks to the Singularity and you never thought to fucking mention it? Before you brought me here? Are you absolutely off your godsforsaken rocker? This thing terrifies me, Geralt! It's keeping people alive and it talks and might possibly think! What if this thing decides we're all itty bitty ants in the grand scheme of things, and it's found a very shiny piece of glass to play with? Are there any other exciting secrets you're keeping from me? Perhaps you've both fucked under its shadow for a bit of excitement?

[He doesn't mean to say it, but like before, it slips out -- faster than he can prepare himself for, and with that curl of satisfaction, a cat supped on cream, right in the middle of this sick mix of fear and fascination. And, in the moment, he wants Geralt to feel shitty -- if only a moment -- for rotting his tree. For killing him. For --

Jaskier swallows.] I'm sorry. I don't mean that, either.