[ Where indeed. With their rent money, he recalls dryly—back when coin had still been a point of concern, when they'd put off moving to a larger space for Jaskier's toy gryphon. Which he doesn't mind. It was good for the bard. After all that happened then, all that follows them a year later. Even if they don't speak of it much anymore, there are things Geralt continues to do, like keep candles safely tucked inside lanterns and lamps where the open flame isn't lying around.
He realizes he is staring at Yennefer. He glances away—a second or two—before his gaze drifts back towards her. You're whole again, he'd told her then, but the return of her magic at the time nearly cost too much. He's been afraid since she might strive to pay a similar price—from herself, from someone else. Because isn't that all they've ever known? How much it costs to keep what little you have of yourself? The blood that needs to be spilled?
This feels. Different. Perhaps it's that not every bit of her magic has been restored. Not even most of it. This is child's play. A shimmering mirage the Yennefer he knew would've scoffed at. And yet she looks as though she's discovered the most entrancing spell of her life.
Funny. He thinks he looked at her the same way once.
His eyes catch Jaskier's. He isn't sure what to say; they have not discussed Yennefer for some time. He's not been hiding their conversations, nor the fact that they have been speaking again in the first place. It's just—there's no easy way to explain what lies between them. Late nights, a bitterness creeps over him still. Other times, he feels the distance between them with a painful intensity.
And then there is now, where he cannot decide if he should let himself have the moment for what it is, or keep his guard up for when it will inevitably shatter again.
Just the same, he can't help turning his palm over as the small shower of sparks falls. One illusory dot of light bounces off his hand. ] When did this happen?
no subject
He realizes he is staring at Yennefer. He glances away—a second or two—before his gaze drifts back towards her. You're whole again, he'd told her then, but the return of her magic at the time nearly cost too much. He's been afraid since she might strive to pay a similar price—from herself, from someone else. Because isn't that all they've ever known? How much it costs to keep what little you have of yourself? The blood that needs to be spilled?
This feels. Different. Perhaps it's that not every bit of her magic has been restored. Not even most of it. This is child's play. A shimmering mirage the Yennefer he knew would've scoffed at. And yet she looks as though she's discovered the most entrancing spell of her life.
Funny. He thinks he looked at her the same way once.
His eyes catch Jaskier's. He isn't sure what to say; they have not discussed Yennefer for some time. He's not been hiding their conversations, nor the fact that they have been speaking again in the first place. It's just—there's no easy way to explain what lies between them. Late nights, a bitterness creeps over him still. Other times, he feels the distance between them with a painful intensity.
And then there is now, where he cannot decide if he should let himself have the moment for what it is, or keep his guard up for when it will inevitably shatter again.
Just the same, he can't help turning his palm over as the small shower of sparks falls. One illusory dot of light bounces off his hand. ] When did this happen?