[ The urge strikes with a sudden, desperate ferocity: to run, to do exactly as she knows she should have ages ago, to escape somewhere far away and leave behind the awful heavy feeling of dragging everyone down with her very existence. Her fingers curl against the tabletop, nails digging into her palms. Her breath catches, shoulders taught, heels to the ground, ready to push back out of her chair and let it topple, let it all fall because nothing is going as it should and she can't fucking breathe.
Jaskier calls her selfish. He's right. Selfish for staying, and selfish for wanting to run. For telling him and keeping it from him. No matter what choice she makes, it's going to be the wrong one.
She stammers, but no words come out, only a small noise of protestation, a breathless whimper low in her throat. Ciri tries to move, and finds that Jaskier has moved instead.
The weight of his arms around her settles warm and solid. It keeps her there -- in the chair, and in this moment, drawing her back out of her spiralling thoughts and into the words he gives her instead. Soft, like the warmth of a fire's light in the distance, bright with promise, if only one could reach it.
Jaskier doesn't even know what he's promising.
None of them do. Not even Geralt, with fresh scars all down his back. ]
Don't worry, Jaskier. [ She leans back, closing her eyes. The breath escapes her finally, the claws around her throat loosening enough to take another. ]
I could never actually do it. I love you all too much for that.
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Jaskier calls her selfish. He's right. Selfish for staying, and selfish for wanting to run. For telling him and keeping it from him. No matter what choice she makes, it's going to be the wrong one.
She stammers, but no words come out, only a small noise of protestation, a breathless whimper low in her throat. Ciri tries to move, and finds that Jaskier has moved instead.
The weight of his arms around her settles warm and solid. It keeps her there -- in the chair, and in this moment, drawing her back out of her spiralling thoughts and into the words he gives her instead. Soft, like the warmth of a fire's light in the distance, bright with promise, if only one could reach it.
Jaskier doesn't even know what he's promising.
None of them do. Not even Geralt, with fresh scars all down his back. ]
Don't worry, Jaskier. [ She leans back, closing her eyes. The breath escapes her finally, the claws around her throat loosening enough to take another. ]
I could never actually do it. I love you all too much for that.
[ Selfish as it is. ]