[Unfortunately, the admission of his fear does not stop her. As Alice takes her breath, all of Jaskier goes deathly still. He knows this feeling well, or similar. It is the feeling of the Countess pulling him aside, telling him that they need to speak privately. It is the weight of a moment before one knows something terrible is about to happen, and there is nothing one can do to stop it. It is, in some way, similar to fighting Destiny. It is the weight of watching Geralt call for the law of surprise only moments of seeing its effect on lives.
He holds his breath, clutching the teacup a bit too tightly.
He pales, the strong blue draining from his face. If he was a smarter man, or had been keen on pulling on this fraying yarn, he may have imagining this was the case himself. He hadn't, though, and death crosses her lips without pause. He doesn't interrupt her.
It was like Geralt, arriving here with a wound that would have killed him. Inevitably. With promised agony. If he had not been healed. But there was no one to confirm his death -- even Yennefer didn't have that knowledge, and both she and Geralt were from a time beyond him. And neither had known Jaskier's fate, either.
The teacup in his grasp whines. He sets it down, quickly, before it breaks. It leaves his hand, and he uses them, now freed, to wipe his face, his eyes. Oh, ignorance is bliss.
He reaches for her hands in both of his. She doesn't need to look him in the eye.] It never would be, if I'm being honest. I... this is a lot. Even I can't think of what words would offer you any comfort. Only -- only I'm selfish, and I've delighted in these days of knowing you. And gods, Alice, of course you would be the sort to sacrifice yourself for love. How could I, how could anyone, fault you for that? In the same way, I wouldn't trade knowing you, no matter how long our days together may last.
[It's not much, yet it's all he has to offer. He's a bard. A monster now. But he cannot save a life that has already been taken. (But could she come to his world, in their final moments? More importantly: would she want to, knowing what she did for her loves?)] I only wish you hadn't been suited to a life of sacrifice. You deserve your selfishness, too.
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He holds his breath, clutching the teacup a bit too tightly.
He pales, the strong blue draining from his face. If he was a smarter man, or had been keen on pulling on this fraying yarn, he may have imagining this was the case himself. He hadn't, though, and death crosses her lips without pause. He doesn't interrupt her.
It was like Geralt, arriving here with a wound that would have killed him. Inevitably. With promised agony. If he had not been healed. But there was no one to confirm his death -- even Yennefer didn't have that knowledge, and both she and Geralt were from a time beyond him. And neither had known Jaskier's fate, either.
The teacup in his grasp whines. He sets it down, quickly, before it breaks. It leaves his hand, and he uses them, now freed, to wipe his face, his eyes. Oh, ignorance is bliss.
He reaches for her hands in both of his. She doesn't need to look him in the eye.] It never would be, if I'm being honest. I... this is a lot. Even I can't think of what words would offer you any comfort. Only -- only I'm selfish, and I've delighted in these days of knowing you. And gods, Alice, of course you would be the sort to sacrifice yourself for love. How could I, how could anyone, fault you for that? In the same way, I wouldn't trade knowing you, no matter how long our days together may last.
[It's not much, yet it's all he has to offer. He's a bard. A monster now. But he cannot save a life that has already been taken. (But could she come to his world, in their final moments? More importantly: would she want to, knowing what she did for her loves?)] I only wish you hadn't been suited to a life of sacrifice. You deserve your selfishness, too.