"Oh, don't say it like that. I can already see in the slope of your brow you don't think the term pertains to you. As do most heroic types. Truly, no real hero should title himself such. It's a bit pompous."
You know, like bards who go around calling themselves the best bard of the Continent. (That's completely different.)
Of course, he hasn't seen Estinien do more than attempt to murder Ambrose, but... that's heroic, in its own way, because of the immense amount of bravery and stupidity one needs in equal measures. Yet Jaskier envies that. Or he covets simply bearing witness to it. That one could have so much confidence in their own strength. Their own ideals.
What does it take to kill for what one believes in? To be enraged at the neutrality of those around them?
"I'm the last to tell you you're wrong for what you've done, or what you will do." And he can imagine, down the line, what Estinien may try. "Speaking as one who stays uninvolved myself, I understand why we do. Some are content to be here, having escaped from even worse. Some of us are not strong. We're not earth-movers." His hand spreads across his chest, a clear indication he considers himself one of those. Bards do not influence things; they are recorders. Records of history line his head as much as his lyrical poetry does. "Yet I don't believe that your solitude in action means you're on the wrong side of history, either."
It's a hard line to follow. Jaskier does not intend to be involved, but... gods, Ambrose really has it coming. "Honestly, should I be able to help you even with only the encouragement of my words, I take it as a solemn responsibility."
You know, as solemn as Jaskier ever is.
On a side note, he is getting the sickest inspiration for a new heroic ballad from this.
As frustrated as he is by everything, Estinien can't find it within himself to argue that everyone must be a warrior. After all, what do those drawn to the battlefield fight for besides for the sake of others not having to? Of future generations? Jaskier didn't choose to be brought here.
Of course, none of them did, but he can't help but cast a more critical eye on those that clearly have the experience and power to act, but that choose not to. Were this a week ago, he may have begun angrily thinking about Geralt in regards to that sentiment, and his cowardly indifference to choosing a side... but now his heart twinges with understanding, as uncomfortable as it is to have it complicating his view. That's the price of rising to the occasion though, isn't it?
Allowing himself to understand things that make his life more difficult, if it's for the sake of doing the right thing. Sigh. How bothersome.
At any rate, he can take some comfort in Jaskier's assurances - to at least know that the man believes in him and his sensibilities to some degree, even if he doesn't see himself as powerful enough to take the lead. Jaskier has his own skills that Estinien can't even imagine possessing, so maybe they are both unknowingly gazing at each other's positions from across the gap. He contemplates this silently for a moment, staring at the ground before him, before finally humming his tentative agreement.
"Words have their own meaning," he admits, lifting his gaze to face him again. "And are something I am far less adept at." He pauses for a few moments more, seemingly struggling with just that limitation. "...The dragons of my world exclusively record their history through song, as a matter of fact."
That's something he figures Jaskier might find interesting.
Jaskier leans in with an inquisitive rise to his brows. "Oh? Are you trying to be encouraging? Why, Estinien! I do appreciate it." It could be mistaken as sarcasm, but in this instance, with the dragon knight, it is not. Any time someone attempts to look at Jaskier's craft as something more than minstrel performances and elementary rhymes...
It's appreciated, that's all.
He pats his knee. "And your words say what you believe. That's all one can ask for, really." Actually, for a knight, he does find Estinien rather good with them. It's not that he's personable or particularly warm -- it is undeniable that Estinien is neither -- but that he speaks his heart firmly, and diligently, and without remorse. It's worthy of note.
Jaskier leans back again, crossing his legs. Long silences and companions who carefully pick their words have never bothered him. And with a friend, he has especial fondness which offers the strength to be more patient.
He tilts his head. The shift in topic is abrupt. Not unwelcome, though, nor unnatural. Jaskier is, as one might say, a recent stan of dragons. With the tilt of his head comes a wideness to his eyes. "What! Really? How has Himeka never told me this?" And even surprisingly to himself, he flushes, grabbing over his heart.
"Oh, gods. And to think I played for those dragons. I mean -- neither of us knew who we were, of course, and I hardly recalled much of dragons --"
And yet, the dragons had praised him. Or was that Himeka, through them? He's no longer sure. Moglad is so much himself that Jaskier is unsure how far the creations of one can detach from their creator. He clears his throat. The whole thing is only slightly embarrassing, and Estinien needn't know of the shenanigans he sought while his head was empty of memory. "Do you know any of them? Perhaps you can hum a few lines of history?"
Estinien looks a bit taken aback at just how positive Jaskier's response is, even though he had meant it as both a compliment and encouragement. Dragons saw things much the same way Jaskier did with regards to music, which is significant validation, in Estiniens' perspective. But now that he's caused the reaction he doesn't really know what to do with it.
Especially when Jaskier asks him if he knows any of the songs. His eyes widen in surprise, suddenly put on the spot. He sort of does remember some of them, but what he didn't explain is that what constitutes as music to dragons is significantly different from what mankind enjoys.
"Ah..." He pulls back slightly, considering. "A dragon song is..." Weirdly enough, part of him doesn't actually want to disappoint, despite the fact that he is definitely going to. "...'Tis more of a call. A roar, physically, but with a timbre that extends into the... spiritual."
He realizes how ridiculous that makes it sound right after saying it, but he has no other words for it. There would be no way for a man to truly replicate it. At least, not normally.
He swears, every time he surprises or embarrasses Estinien, it's even better than the last. Jaskier can't even say what did it this time. He only just notices because it's obvious on his face; otherwise Jaskier is so caught up in this new revelation that he's simply gone to. Staring. Drowning in the thud of his heart.
Waiting.
And being disappointed. Of course it shows, with a click of his tongue and a sweep of his arm. However, it's not with Estinien himself. It's with his lack of vision.
A call. A roar. Gods, he wants to hear it. The sort of thing Villentretenmerth would have shattered the skies with. A song, a call, and a scream all at once. (He should like to make that sort of rabble himself.)
"My dear, lovely, fair-faced, snow-haired, unimaginative friend. Please. We are in a place where we can literally make anything. Can you not recreate it? Even if it is not your voice that sings it?"
And as if in example, he holds out his hand between them. From nothing comes Villentretenmerth himself... or, at least, what he understood him to look like from the words of Geralt and the dwarves. A fierce, golden-scaled beast, with wings spread out as fire spits thick from his mouth. A beauty. A missed opportunity. And here, he fits on the palm of a hand.
Estinien boggles, first at what Jaskier is saying, and then at the tiny dragon in his hand. He hasn't seen one quite that colour, though its features remind him of an elder wyvern like Vedrfolnir. Estinien stares, between the tiny dragon and Jaskier, lingering for a long moment before abruptly standing, his back turned to the both of them.
At first, it seems like he's about to get mad and storm off, with how sudden it all is. There are no words of explanation, after all. Yet, he stops several paces away, staring up at the man-made sky. His fists clench at his sides.
Estinien has been reluctant to use creation magicks ever since he awoke from the stupor he first arrived in the Horizon with. Some things don't concern him as much - he'll make hay for his sheep, and grow plants to treat them with, and alter small things about his valley. At the end of it, though, he's been hesitant to create more life than he already has. He certainly isn't going to create more dragons - not after the mockeries he created of Hraesvelgr and Tiamat while still unaware of himself. They still linger in his valley, resting out of sight, only warning him of incoming threats.
It's not his place to create life like that, now is it to take it away from the creatures he's already made. It reminds him too much of behaviour he wouldn't consider aspirational - appeals to a small, unspoken fear that the power of the Singularity could make monsters of them all.
No, if he's going to answer this request, he'll have to do it himself. At least - sort of himself. After all, things in this regard have gotten awfully complicated for him.
The wind shifts in the vineyard, rising and swirling around them, with Estinien at the center. It's in the same moment that he opens his eyes, searing red swallowing up their whites and leaving nothing but a slitted pupil down their center. Around him, darkened aether fluctuates, expanding along with his physical wings, until the spiritual shape of a wyrm seems to mirror his own body.
It's then that the song begins. Nidhogg roars, and the first words on his tongue are that of agony and vengeance. Even though Estinien's mouth doesn't move, the sound is clearly coming from him - it radiates, like a sound and like a feeling, cutting through air and flesh and manifesting in the mind as a tale told through will alone.
It's the melody of the Dragonsong War, the struggle that had consumed Estinien's entire being. It's the song that had brought Nidhogg's horde to their sire's side without question. For a dragon, its meaning is as clear as day.
Though normally a man would be unable to understand it, he wills that Jaskier hear it true. Despite the rawness of its notes, though, he tries to prevent it from causing pain. He can only hope that Jaskier will be able to appreciate it, despite the ugliness it bears.
It's not entirely quite the reaction he expects, but with so many years with someone like Geralt, he doesn't quite take offense. The golden dragon on his palm lifts with a hard flap of its wings, spinning through the air, then disappearing -- hardly a spark left behind to prove he was ever really there. Him, or his warriors.
It may be that this place is entirely Jaskier's, borne of his soul and his desires. He can feel the air change like it expands with the promise of a storm. His heart skips a beat, and Jaskier rises from his chair. He's not sure what he is entirely expected to do here, so he simply waits.
Mostly. He can't help but call Estinien's name, worried that something has... happened. Changed. Estinien isn't the most emotionally steady person he's ever met, but he seems to quite enjoy speaking of dragons. Was it seeing Villentretenmerth? But why? Honestly, he was a kindly old man himself.
Oh.
He was very incorrect.
Jaskier takes a step back, and then a second, as the vines begin to whip against their trellises. His horses in the distance give panicked whinnies loud enough to be caught over the rising winds, and they take off together for the wine cellar's shed for shelter. His heart skips a beat as the first echo of the shade begins surrounding his friend. It's dark, this swirling magic that is almost like violence, clawing at the air as it rises around him. Spread, sharp wings, the wild curl of horns.
His eyes widen, breath stilled in his lungs, as the dragon's shade -- and without guessing, he already believes it must be that stray soul Estinien one told him of -- raises its head and screams.
For even though the roar is of a beast, that is, without inarguably, what it is. A scream, and then something like a song. It's not human, certainly, and at first it only exhibits as sounds. Raw, wretched sounds. He goes still, hand clenching so tightly to the back of his chair that his knuckles turn white.
Soon enough, it is not just sounds. It is not simply notes. It is... horrible, and beautiful. The words, as he catches them, are claws, scraping his ribs raw. Snaking around his heart, squeezing it.
He doesn't know what the tears start, but they do. They roll down his cheeks as he stares up at this ghost of a soul so large that he cannot even imagine how one body can carry it. With this wealth of pain, and angry, of torment, of destruction.
Gods. It's far too much. As the last notes shatter through the sky of his quiet, calm little vineyard, he gasps. His lungs burn. He'd stopped catching his breaths.
What does one even say after that? How do human songs ever compare?
His voice is hardly a whisper. "Oh."
Jaskier is not even certain he understood what he's heard.
Estinien doesn't quite notice Jaskier's reaction - not until it's over. It's part of the trade-off. The closer he feels to Nidhogg, the further he feels from everything else. The world around him becomes drowned out by the wyrm's song of agony, resonating with the tender wounds within his own heart that have only recently begun to heal.
He didn't mean to scare Jaskier, or to make him upset. It's just the only song he fully knew, because he'd sung it himself for so long.
As it finally fades, he can feel Nidhogg's consciousness and memory receding, allowing him room to breathe. Flashes of imagery from the eons of another life dance in the back of his mind, and it's only after he's done that he realizes how winded it has made him feel. His real, physical wings flap uncertainly before drawing in closer to him.
He turns and sees the tears on Jaskier's face. Well, the bard wanted to be moved, he guesses. He just wishes that dragonkind had happier songs to sing in recent years. Maybe sometime soon it will be better, he hopes.
"The Great Wyrm Ratatoskr was slain by the ancestors of my people," he says, in a way that feels like clumsily summarizing the meaning of an interpretive art piece. "Nidhogg... the one that lives within me... this was the song he sang to draw his bloodline to his side, to wage a war of a thousand years against the children of those that betrayed her. Ratatoskr... she was a songstress herself. Whatever songs she had to sing... they were from happier days. Days of peace. Nidhogg loved her in ways I still can't fully understand."
To love someone for so long... to be as dragons are, forever trapped in the moment.
"A dragon... does not perceive the passage of time the way we do. For them, their pain is everlasting, as raw after a millennia as the moment the wound was struck. It takes a great deal for them to heal. To move on."
It's possible, he thinks. Tiamat had broken free of her suffering before his eyes, finally finding the strength to change rather than be locked in misery for the rest of existence. Hraesvelgr had found hope in mankind again after it had been all but extinguished.
Estinien wishes he could hear them sing now instead.
It happens. Occasionally. Jaskier is not completely unmoved by other musicians, it's simply rare he finds any that reach his own level of talent. This dragon -- this Nidhogg -- he would never doubt. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, scrubbing his face. It's hardly as if he's ashamed of the tears, but it's. Annoying. To see through a watery film.
Fuck. Fuck.
He's nodding as he's listening, but it takes a few more scrubs of his face. The creatures of his vineyard shudder and stamp, an echo of the swirl of everything inside him. It is not, of course, even a faint drop compared to what it must feel, having that inside your heart, but --
Everlasting, raw pain. "Yes. It certainly sounds like it."
He recalls the dragons he met in Himeka's lair; creatures he knew out of memory without having memory. And even then, they had still felt like ancient, unfathomable things. And he could not imagine a higher honor than the one who bowed her head, complimenting his music.
"Darganfod reuste free aen bloed." May you find rest free from blood. He looks up at Estinien with eyes gone dreadfully puffy, but the blues brighter. "You said the war ended, did it not? Did they find their rest?"
Estinien doesn't often cry himself, but it's a trait he finds endearing in the right context - especially about something like this. To shed tears for someone else... there is a nobility in that, he thinks. It's empathy he wishes he'd been able to have when he was younger.
"It did," he says, and a bit of the tension in Estinien's shoulders lifts. The one good thing that came from it all - a chance to move on, to find peace. "Dragonkind is entering a new era of peace with their neighbors... and I pray it will last longer than the first one."
Any amount of peace is worth fighting for, but with the way dragons are, they deserve more of it than they seem to get. Mankind must seem so tumultuous to their eyes.
"As for Nidhogg..." Estinien trails off here, struggling uncertainly with the weight of their relationship. "When I... when I felt his shade leave me..."
It's hard to put it into words. It was so brief, but yet...
"His was a battle he could not surrender from, lest he betray the memory of Ratatoskr. And yet, when relieved of that duty by force... I believe there was... acceptance. He had done all he could."
Recently, then. It must be... difficult, he imagines, to not be there to ensure that peace persists. And that he should be here instead, embroiled in another conflict that none of them asked for, after only just escaping the last.
Ah. A hero's work is never done. Isn't that right?
"Gripped in that need for retribution even at his final moments." As Estinien said, if the betrayal was as raw and real in that moment as it was at its occurrence... then surely it was a miracle that he may have found rest at all.
Bleh. He scrubs his face again, righting it with the magic of the Horizon. There. Like it never happened at all. (And yet, how his heart is sore for them.) "I suppose you cannot fully know what a soul feels once it is released. I would not want to give up on what I thought was right for someone I loved, either." He takes a breath. And to think, someone like Estinien carried this with him? It must be... a lot. "I do thank you for showing me. I never would have been able to imagine it. That it would be so overwhelming."
It's something he's worried about on many nights, especially so soon after releasing Tiamat from her bondage. He'd like to know how she fairs, how the Scions fair, how Aymeric and Ishgard fair. He wishes he could help them. It's all he can do to try to pour everything into helping them from here.
He wishes he had a better idea of where to start. He'd do anything, if only he knew what needed to be done.
Estinien nods his head soberly, though a bit of a smile flickers onto his face at the end. It's nice that Jaskier still wanted to hear it, no matter how unpleasant it could be. He'd like to believe that Nidhogg found some measure of peace in the aetherial sea, or wherever it was that dragons went. It has always felt somehow unfair to him that Nidhogg passed, miserable and desperate, while he was given a chance to live and move on.
"Aye," he says, seeming charmed by Jaskier's take despite the grim thoughts associated with it. "It can certainly be that. I've... been trying to do what you recommended." He almost sounds shy to admit it. His wings spread slightly before folding back in. "To test my bond with his spirit, while here, in a place of safety. 'Tis... getting easier, with time."
It felt somehow appropriate to give Nidhogg that chance to speak through him just now. He's satisfied to have done it. If he can do that, maybe it will be less overwhelming to have him clawing at the back of his mind the next time he ends up in a stressful situation.
Jaskier's head jerks up in surprise. What? Is this starting some new sort of trend where people take his advice? (To be fair, he wouldn't have blamed Estinien for ignoring him. He was sort of speaking from a place of ignorance, as far as his sphere's dragons are concerned.
"Really?" His voice is soft, and Jaskier meets his face with a smile. It sounded all right, embracing one's inner dragon. It simply made sense. Who wanted to be at war with themselves all the time?
A hand comes over his heart, and he laughs, quiet. "Fuck. I'm glad to hear it, really. That I could help. Or -- well, really, I think you helped yourself. And now look at what the two of you can do."
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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You know, like bards who go around calling themselves the best bard of the Continent. (That's completely different.)
Of course, he hasn't seen Estinien do more than attempt to murder Ambrose, but... that's heroic, in its own way, because of the immense amount of bravery and stupidity one needs in equal measures. Yet Jaskier envies that. Or he covets simply bearing witness to it. That one could have so much confidence in their own strength. Their own ideals.
What does it take to kill for what one believes in? To be enraged at the neutrality of those around them?
"I'm the last to tell you you're wrong for what you've done, or what you will do." And he can imagine, down the line, what Estinien may try. "Speaking as one who stays uninvolved myself, I understand why we do. Some are content to be here, having escaped from even worse. Some of us are not strong. We're not earth-movers." His hand spreads across his chest, a clear indication he considers himself one of those. Bards do not influence things; they are recorders. Records of history line his head as much as his lyrical poetry does. "Yet I don't believe that your solitude in action means you're on the wrong side of history, either."
It's a hard line to follow. Jaskier does not intend to be involved, but... gods, Ambrose really has it coming. "Honestly, should I be able to help you even with only the encouragement of my words, I take it as a solemn responsibility."
You know, as solemn as Jaskier ever is.
On a side note, he is getting the sickest inspiration for a new heroic ballad from this.
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Of course, none of them did, but he can't help but cast a more critical eye on those that clearly have the experience and power to act, but that choose not to. Were this a week ago, he may have begun angrily thinking about Geralt in regards to that sentiment, and his cowardly indifference to choosing a side... but now his heart twinges with understanding, as uncomfortable as it is to have it complicating his view. That's the price of rising to the occasion though, isn't it?
Allowing himself to understand things that make his life more difficult, if it's for the sake of doing the right thing. Sigh. How bothersome.
At any rate, he can take some comfort in Jaskier's assurances - to at least know that the man believes in him and his sensibilities to some degree, even if he doesn't see himself as powerful enough to take the lead. Jaskier has his own skills that Estinien can't even imagine possessing, so maybe they are both unknowingly gazing at each other's positions from across the gap. He contemplates this silently for a moment, staring at the ground before him, before finally humming his tentative agreement.
"Words have their own meaning," he admits, lifting his gaze to face him again. "And are something I am far less adept at." He pauses for a few moments more, seemingly struggling with just that limitation. "...The dragons of my world exclusively record their history through song, as a matter of fact."
That's something he figures Jaskier might find interesting.
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It's appreciated, that's all.
He pats his knee. "And your words say what you believe. That's all one can ask for, really." Actually, for a knight, he does find Estinien rather good with them. It's not that he's personable or particularly warm -- it is undeniable that Estinien is neither -- but that he speaks his heart firmly, and diligently, and without remorse. It's worthy of note.
Jaskier leans back again, crossing his legs. Long silences and companions who carefully pick their words have never bothered him. And with a friend, he has especial fondness which offers the strength to be more patient.
He tilts his head. The shift in topic is abrupt. Not unwelcome, though, nor unnatural. Jaskier is, as one might say, a recent stan of dragons. With the tilt of his head comes a wideness to his eyes. "What! Really? How has Himeka never told me this?" And even surprisingly to himself, he flushes, grabbing over his heart.
"Oh, gods. And to think I played for those dragons. I mean -- neither of us knew who we were, of course, and I hardly recalled much of dragons --"
And yet, the dragons had praised him. Or was that Himeka, through them? He's no longer sure. Moglad is so much himself that Jaskier is unsure how far the creations of one can detach from their creator. He clears his throat. The whole thing is only slightly embarrassing, and Estinien needn't know of the shenanigans he sought while his head was empty of memory. "Do you know any of them? Perhaps you can hum a few lines of history?"
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Especially when Jaskier asks him if he knows any of the songs. His eyes widen in surprise, suddenly put on the spot. He sort of does remember some of them, but what he didn't explain is that what constitutes as music to dragons is significantly different from what mankind enjoys.
"Ah..." He pulls back slightly, considering. "A dragon song is..." Weirdly enough, part of him doesn't actually want to disappoint, despite the fact that he is definitely going to. "...'Tis more of a call. A roar, physically, but with a timbre that extends into the... spiritual."
He realizes how ridiculous that makes it sound right after saying it, but he has no other words for it. There would be no way for a man to truly replicate it. At least, not normally.
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Waiting.
And being disappointed. Of course it shows, with a click of his tongue and a sweep of his arm. However, it's not with Estinien himself. It's with his lack of vision.
A call. A roar. Gods, he wants to hear it. The sort of thing Villentretenmerth would have shattered the skies with. A song, a call, and a scream all at once. (He should like to make that sort of rabble himself.)
"My dear, lovely, fair-faced, snow-haired, unimaginative friend. Please. We are in a place where we can literally make anything. Can you not recreate it? Even if it is not your voice that sings it?"
And as if in example, he holds out his hand between them. From nothing comes Villentretenmerth himself... or, at least, what he understood him to look like from the words of Geralt and the dwarves. A fierce, golden-scaled beast, with wings spread out as fire spits thick from his mouth. A beauty. A missed opportunity. And here, he fits on the palm of a hand.
"There is no better place to share our memories."
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At first, it seems like he's about to get mad and storm off, with how sudden it all is. There are no words of explanation, after all. Yet, he stops several paces away, staring up at the man-made sky. His fists clench at his sides.
Estinien has been reluctant to use creation magicks ever since he awoke from the stupor he first arrived in the Horizon with. Some things don't concern him as much - he'll make hay for his sheep, and grow plants to treat them with, and alter small things about his valley. At the end of it, though, he's been hesitant to create more life than he already has. He certainly isn't going to create more dragons - not after the mockeries he created of Hraesvelgr and Tiamat while still unaware of himself. They still linger in his valley, resting out of sight, only warning him of incoming threats.
It's not his place to create life like that, now is it to take it away from the creatures he's already made. It reminds him too much of behaviour he wouldn't consider aspirational - appeals to a small, unspoken fear that the power of the Singularity could make monsters of them all.
No, if he's going to answer this request, he'll have to do it himself. At least - sort of himself. After all, things in this regard have gotten awfully complicated for him.
The wind shifts in the vineyard, rising and swirling around them, with Estinien at the center. It's in the same moment that he opens his eyes, searing red swallowing up their whites and leaving nothing but a slitted pupil down their center. Around him, darkened aether fluctuates, expanding along with his physical wings, until the spiritual shape of a wyrm seems to mirror his own body.
It's then that the song begins. Nidhogg roars, and the first words on his tongue are that of agony and vengeance. Even though Estinien's mouth doesn't move, the sound is clearly coming from him - it radiates, like a sound and like a feeling, cutting through air and flesh and manifesting in the mind as a tale told through will alone.
It's the melody of the Dragonsong War, the struggle that had consumed Estinien's entire being. It's the song that had brought Nidhogg's horde to their sire's side without question. For a dragon, its meaning is as clear as day.
Though normally a man would be unable to understand it, he wills that Jaskier hear it true. Despite the rawness of its notes, though, he tries to prevent it from causing pain. He can only hope that Jaskier will be able to appreciate it, despite the ugliness it bears.
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It may be that this place is entirely Jaskier's, borne of his soul and his desires. He can feel the air change like it expands with the promise of a storm. His heart skips a beat, and Jaskier rises from his chair. He's not sure what he is entirely expected to do here, so he simply waits.
Mostly. He can't help but call Estinien's name, worried that something has... happened. Changed. Estinien isn't the most emotionally steady person he's ever met, but he seems to quite enjoy speaking of dragons. Was it seeing Villentretenmerth? But why? Honestly, he was a kindly old man himself.
Oh.
He was very incorrect.
Jaskier takes a step back, and then a second, as the vines begin to whip against their trellises. His horses in the distance give panicked whinnies loud enough to be caught over the rising winds, and they take off together for the wine cellar's shed for shelter. His heart skips a beat as the first echo of the shade begins surrounding his friend. It's dark, this swirling magic that is almost like violence, clawing at the air as it rises around him. Spread, sharp wings, the wild curl of horns.
His eyes widen, breath stilled in his lungs, as the dragon's shade -- and without guessing, he already believes it must be that stray soul Estinien one told him of -- raises its head and screams.
For even though the roar is of a beast, that is, without inarguably, what it is. A scream, and then something like a song. It's not human, certainly, and at first it only exhibits as sounds. Raw, wretched sounds. He goes still, hand clenching so tightly to the back of his chair that his knuckles turn white.
Soon enough, it is not just sounds. It is not simply notes. It is... horrible, and beautiful. The words, as he catches them, are claws, scraping his ribs raw. Snaking around his heart, squeezing it.
He doesn't know what the tears start, but they do. They roll down his cheeks as he stares up at this ghost of a soul so large that he cannot even imagine how one body can carry it. With this wealth of pain, and angry, of torment, of destruction.
Gods. It's far too much. As the last notes shatter through the sky of his quiet, calm little vineyard, he gasps. His lungs burn. He'd stopped catching his breaths.
What does one even say after that? How do human songs ever compare?
His voice is hardly a whisper. "Oh."
Jaskier is not even certain he understood what he's heard.
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He didn't mean to scare Jaskier, or to make him upset. It's just the only song he fully knew, because he'd sung it himself for so long.
As it finally fades, he can feel Nidhogg's consciousness and memory receding, allowing him room to breathe. Flashes of imagery from the eons of another life dance in the back of his mind, and it's only after he's done that he realizes how winded it has made him feel. His real, physical wings flap uncertainly before drawing in closer to him.
He turns and sees the tears on Jaskier's face. Well, the bard wanted to be moved, he guesses. He just wishes that dragonkind had happier songs to sing in recent years. Maybe sometime soon it will be better, he hopes.
"The Great Wyrm Ratatoskr was slain by the ancestors of my people," he says, in a way that feels like clumsily summarizing the meaning of an interpretive art piece. "Nidhogg... the one that lives within me... this was the song he sang to draw his bloodline to his side, to wage a war of a thousand years against the children of those that betrayed her. Ratatoskr... she was a songstress herself. Whatever songs she had to sing... they were from happier days. Days of peace. Nidhogg loved her in ways I still can't fully understand."
To love someone for so long... to be as dragons are, forever trapped in the moment.
"A dragon... does not perceive the passage of time the way we do. For them, their pain is everlasting, as raw after a millennia as the moment the wound was struck. It takes a great deal for them to heal. To move on."
It's possible, he thinks. Tiamat had broken free of her suffering before his eyes, finally finding the strength to change rather than be locked in misery for the rest of existence. Hraesvelgr had found hope in mankind again after it had been all but extinguished.
Estinien wishes he could hear them sing now instead.
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Fuck. Fuck.
He's nodding as he's listening, but it takes a few more scrubs of his face. The creatures of his vineyard shudder and stamp, an echo of the swirl of everything inside him. It is not, of course, even a faint drop compared to what it must feel, having that inside your heart, but --
Everlasting, raw pain. "Yes. It certainly sounds like it."
He recalls the dragons he met in Himeka's lair; creatures he knew out of memory without having memory. And even then, they had still felt like ancient, unfathomable things. And he could not imagine a higher honor than the one who bowed her head, complimenting his music.
"Darganfod reuste free aen bloed." May you find rest free from blood. He looks up at Estinien with eyes gone dreadfully puffy, but the blues brighter. "You said the war ended, did it not? Did they find their rest?"
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"It did," he says, and a bit of the tension in Estinien's shoulders lifts. The one good thing that came from it all - a chance to move on, to find peace. "Dragonkind is entering a new era of peace with their neighbors... and I pray it will last longer than the first one."
Any amount of peace is worth fighting for, but with the way dragons are, they deserve more of it than they seem to get. Mankind must seem so tumultuous to their eyes.
"As for Nidhogg..." Estinien trails off here, struggling uncertainly with the weight of their relationship. "When I... when I felt his shade leave me..."
It's hard to put it into words. It was so brief, but yet...
"His was a battle he could not surrender from, lest he betray the memory of Ratatoskr. And yet, when relieved of that duty by force... I believe there was... acceptance. He had done all he could."
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Ah. A hero's work is never done. Isn't that right?
"Gripped in that need for retribution even at his final moments." As Estinien said, if the betrayal was as raw and real in that moment as it was at its occurrence... then surely it was a miracle that he may have found rest at all.
Bleh. He scrubs his face again, righting it with the magic of the Horizon. There. Like it never happened at all. (And yet, how his heart is sore for them.) "I suppose you cannot fully know what a soul feels once it is released. I would not want to give up on what I thought was right for someone I loved, either." He takes a breath. And to think, someone like Estinien carried this with him? It must be... a lot. "I do thank you for showing me. I never would have been able to imagine it. That it would be so overwhelming."
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He wishes he had a better idea of where to start. He'd do anything, if only he knew what needed to be done.
Estinien nods his head soberly, though a bit of a smile flickers onto his face at the end. It's nice that Jaskier still wanted to hear it, no matter how unpleasant it could be. He'd like to believe that Nidhogg found some measure of peace in the aetherial sea, or wherever it was that dragons went. It has always felt somehow unfair to him that Nidhogg passed, miserable and desperate, while he was given a chance to live and move on.
"Aye," he says, seeming charmed by Jaskier's take despite the grim thoughts associated with it. "It can certainly be that. I've... been trying to do what you recommended." He almost sounds shy to admit it. His wings spread slightly before folding back in. "To test my bond with his spirit, while here, in a place of safety. 'Tis... getting easier, with time."
It felt somehow appropriate to give Nidhogg that chance to speak through him just now. He's satisfied to have done it. If he can do that, maybe it will be less overwhelming to have him clawing at the back of his mind the next time he ends up in a stressful situation.
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"Really?" His voice is soft, and Jaskier meets his face with a smile. It sounded all right, embracing one's inner dragon. It simply made sense. Who wanted to be at war with themselves all the time?
A hand comes over his heart, and he laughs, quiet. "Fuck. I'm glad to hear it, really. That I could help. Or -- well, really, I think you helped yourself. And now look at what the two of you can do."