[ His first instinct is to fold Jaskier into his arms. Then his body stiffens as Jaskier clutches at him. Not because of Jaskier, but because he realizes—he is the cause. Isn't he? It's happened before. Rare, sparse, and he has tried not to think about it, some part of him distracted by a dozen different emotions, thoughts, things he keeps swallowing down. ]
I'm sorry. [ The nightshade is no longer alive, drained of life. He forces himself to release his grip on Jaskier's arm. Abruptly, he pulls back as if burned. ] I didn't mean—
[ Fuck. He just. What had Jaskier seen? What death befell him? (Was it him? He can't help the way his imagination races to places he can normally keep them from: images of Jaskier's death being his fault, truly, in his friend's mind. All the times he wasn't there, when he was too late and Jaskier had paid the price.)
For a long moment, all he can do is stare at Jaskier. His chest tightens in a vice. ] I'm sorry.
no subject
I'm sorry. [ The nightshade is no longer alive, drained of life. He forces himself to release his grip on Jaskier's arm. Abruptly, he pulls back as if burned. ] I didn't mean—
[ Fuck. He just. What had Jaskier seen? What death befell him? (Was it him? He can't help the way his imagination races to places he can normally keep them from: images of Jaskier's death being his fault, truly, in his friend's mind. All the times he wasn't there, when he was too late and Jaskier had paid the price.)
For a long moment, all he can do is stare at Jaskier. His chest tightens in a vice. ] I'm sorry.