[And as Geralt-like as it is, Jaskier ignores it cheerfully. Look, his finger barely even hurts now, and he's eager for... for what he is realizing now is another gift. Not just the flowers, but this. That she asked around for.
Filled up, he takes the mug and wraps both hands around it to warm them. He pulls a chair out with a curl of his foot around the leg, then sits close by her.
He closes his eyes, inhaling it just under his nose like a wine. It smells nothing like one, but the scent is deep, sweet. It leaves his mouth watering even as new as it is.
He tastes. Taking a soft breath after to release a bit of the heat.
His smile is gentle.] It's marvelous, Ciri. Thank you.
[ Ciri sits beside him, cradling her own mug between her palms, peeking at Jaskier sidelong through the wisps of her bangs to catch his expression when he takes the first proper sip. ]
You like it. [ She sounds relieved, shoulders loosening, smile bright in her eyes. It doesn't need to be a question. The reaction is enough. ]
Good. I'm glad.
--oh! I have a honey cake too. If you're hungry.
[ Because hot chocolate and cake are definitely dinner. ]
[Others may be not so eager to throw the word out, but Jaskier is. It's warm enough one can feel it all the way down their throat, hitting their belly. It's not invasive, however. It's simply... comforting. The taste nearly as sweet as a sweet roll, but an entirely different flavor. It was incredibly hard to describe.
So he drinks more instead.
He brightens ever further.] And a honey cake! Gods, Ciri, I might mistake today for my nameday, the way you're spoiling me. Am I really worthy of all this?
[ Ciri is enjoying her drink too, taking little sips of the rich beverage. Nadine had advised her to try adding cinnamon too, but she'd wanted to show him the flavor she'd first tried. But there's still half a pot left. Maybe in a bit, she can mix it in and warm it back up--
Jaskier's effusive praise makes her cheeks feel hot. Maybe she's overdone it.
Ciri ducks her head, covering her embarrassment with the mug held over half her face, presumably to breathe in the sweet steam rising from the hot chocolate. ]
[As if Jaskier doesn't know the well-practiced moves of the easily flustered. That it is Ciri, who he has witnessed slaughter men effortlessly, who has portaled across sand and dunes, who has ridden horses like a demon -- it makes it all the better.
It's no longer a question why a man like Geralt could love a child so easily. Not because she is easy to get along with, or that she is completely comprehensible. Both things are false. It's... perhaps the answer truly lies in Ciri's sincerity in all things.
It is a quality that inspires men and women alike. A quality that has fools follow after a man's footsteps for a lifetime.]
I know. [He laughs quietly into his next sip.] I only wanted to hear you say it.
[ Quieting, Ciri buries her face in her cup too, taking small sips while it's still hot. She looks away, feeling-- it's stupid, but she feels a little nervous, almost. For what? There's no reason. Jaskier is enjoying her gift. They are enjoying each other's company, just as she'd hoped.
But she knows she hasn't... explained. And it's difficult to figure out how. ]
You... [ Ciri begins after a minute or so of silence, nudging her cup around for something to do with her hands while she searches for the words as if they might appear in her drink. She tries again. ]
You stayed. When I needed you. You gave me more than you give yourself credit for.
Of course you're worth it.
[ She doesn't mean this, precisely. Not only this. There's... so much more. ]
[Honestly, he's very satisfied with the comfortable quiet that falls between sips of the drink. It's delectable. Not only is it coating his mouth in this new, velvet texture, but his insides have gone warm. He's comforted by it, strangely.
When Ciri speaks again, he lowers the mug to the table, both hands lingering around it. The burn has left his finger by now. Honestly, he'd do it again just to see her reaction. ]
Meee...? [Oh no, she's doing that thing. Where the air stills, the world quiets, and he can only prepare himself for what's coming. After so many years with Geralt, he's very used to the feeling. Despite that, his heart tightens. She is not Geralt. And perhaps it is not something deeply meaningful that is coming.
Ah. Damn.]
Oh. That was not what I expected. [Oh, no. Why must this happen when he's already rather morose? With his magic fucking about, everything in him feels a bit off-kilter -- like how he is before coming down with a cold. Yet, right now, that cold doesn't touch him.]
Thank you, Ciri. [He meant it only to be a jest, yet she takes it so seriously. Jaskier reaches for one of Ciri's wandering hands, squeezing it. Of course he stayed. Where else would he have gone? Even if Geralt hadn't all but trusted him to take care of her. Funny enough, it makes him recall what Geralt had him swear, their first few weeks here. If he should return home, and Geralt did not, that he would find the girl. Find Ciri. His latest, and perhaps greatest, regret. Leaving her behind.
What a fucking mistake that Witcher made.] I want you to know that I will always stay. Despite whatever fuckery is coming our way. Or whether or not I'm particularly useful in the moment, which is debatable. I'll still be here for you, my dear. Someone must stick about and keep you all humble, after all.
[ Ciri lets him take her hand, giving his fingers a squeeze in return. ]
You're always someone I can trust. [ Here, and elsewhere. She says it without doubt or hesitation-- just a truth between them. But she looks into his eyes, keeping his hand in hers, leaning closer across the table with a faint wrinkle of worry between her brows. ]
You keep taking care of me. I wanted to give you something in return.
[ She's noticed. Lately, the way he's been, the faltering of his confidence, the hum of uncertainty and restlessness about him. The way he keeps saying that: that he's not useful, whatever the hell that means. That stupid song he'd been too clearly projecting something into, something that makes Ciri antsy and uncomfortable, worried for him. The Jaskier she knows is an overconfident fool, in the fondest, dearest of ways. Seeing him unsure of himself feels out of place, even if, at the same time, Ciri understands. With what had happened to Geralt, they're all a bit... off-kilter. ]
[He smiles, the squeeze enough to ease whatever spikes are still lodged in his heart.] You think so? Good care, I hope. And to recall my aunt once told me I could never be trusted around children, because I tended to find trouble for them when they couldn't find their own.
[Luckily, Ciri is very capable of finding her own trouble. Besides, it's quite easy to like her now that he's skipped all the awkward, bumbling teen years, but... he does wish he could know more of them. Of what this relationship could have grown from. Of course he could always ask her, but retold memories are so far from the real thing.
He finishes off his mug, mouth cloyingly sweet, but certainly considers a second either way. It doesn't hit the same as a fine liquor or a smooth wine, but there's plenty to appreciate in its taste --
He chokes on the last swallow, setting the mug down.] W-what? What makes you think anything is? [He looks at her, and she looks back, her green eyes unsettling bright. Keen. She's keen like Geralt, but unlike Geralt, she asks. Which is far more dangerous than anything being noticed at all.
Not that there's. Anything to notice.] You know, nevermind, I was thinking of something. [Jaskier moves on as if he's gone to master classes of spurring conversations onward, hopping over potholes in its path he wishes to avoid.] There's a bloody festival outside and we're in here. I don't agree with all their, er, quirks, so to speak, but I think what we need is something... nice. Like this drink. Warm, and comforting, with good company. What do you think? I bet we could drag Geralt out somewhere tomorrow night, once he's returned. There's not a chance he can say no to both of us.
[ Ciri lets him go, giving his hand a pat before she returns to her own drink. There is a beat of silence, hanging uncertain in the air, a moment where they both seem to know there's more unsaid, a hesitation unaddressed.
But Jaskier pushes forth and stamps it out before the feeling can grow. Ciri tucks the rest of her thoughts away for later. She does not know how to tell him. She isn't sure what to say. She doesn't know how to explain the way his words had pricked at her with hidden thorns when he'd said that, days ago.
Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Or a villain.
Or both.
Ciri envies the little raven in his nest. Jaskier wouldn't understand. And then, the conversation moves on, and the moment becomes the past, and she finds herself nodding and smiling and going along with Jaskier's grand new plans. ]
Not a chance. [ She agrees. ]
That sounds like fun. [ And she means it. ]
You want another cup? Nadine suggested adding cinnamon. We can try it.
[ It is enough to be here, sitting quietly, enjoying something together. Something she made. Something he likes.
It is enough that his smile draws out her own. He's good at that. It's worth more than he thinks. ]
Yes? Really? Then we must. I'll find something for us. I have an idea, actually. And if it it's a surprise, neither of you can turn me down.
[This is a first: despite his moving on, he feels a twinge. A twinge like guilt, which is far from something Jaskier frequently experiences. He sees how Ciri smiles back, how it's real, but --]
I'd love one. I'll make them this time. [He slides off his chair, grabbing both mugs. He only pauses by her for a moment, leaning down to kiss her cheek. An explanation. Or an apology. Or a thank you. It could be all of them. If anyone deserves to know, to ask him and get a real answer, it's Ciri. She... she notices him in a way that few do. In a way he does trust this time she holds ahead of him, where they were more than acquainted. Perhaps he could even be called family.
He returns to the pot of heating milk and chocolate, dusting it with a bit of cinnamon.
Jaskier is quiet. And then:] My magic has gone erratic. [He begins pouring the milk, now spiced, into the mugs, but doesn't turn to her yet. His shoulders tighten.] I'm sure it's nothing serious, and it isn't dangerous, but... it's put some things into perspective for me.
A surprise, hm? All right. I'll look forward to it. And I'll help drag Geralt along if he resists. It's been some time since the three of us have had a pleasant night out.
[ Neither of them mentions the Dimming, but Ciri is aware they both know. Something will be happening around the Singularity tomorrow night. Thorne and its magic. The Free Cities, Marlo's request for the summoned. Ciri is aware, and she wants to stay as far away from it as possible, even as the need to know keeps tugging uncomfortably at the back of her mind. (Yennefer will be there. It's a certain thing. She would not pass up the chance--)
Jaskier interrupts her spiraling thoughts with a kiss, and Ciri blinks, watching after him as he sweeps back into the kitchen. Her fingers touch her cheek. Her eyes follow his back, the muscles pulling taught across his shoulders. ]
What do you mean... 'gone erratic'?
[ She urges gently, when it seems he's decided to share what's on his mind, after all. Ciri won't hold the hesitation against him, focusing instead on what he says. And what he doesn't. ]
[She's right. It has been some time. Some time since they had not spent every waking moment figuring out a way to find the Witcher. To save him. Besides, this is perfect to ignore the world around them. To be far from this whole Dimming business.
Though to Jaskier, honestly, it's hardly about that.
He sighs. Now the topic has been broached, he... well, he actually would like to pursue it. Ciri, he trusts now, is someone who will actually listen. Who can offer more than silence or advice. She's quite perceptive, too; perhaps better than all of them.]
I don't blame you for not noticing. Plants die far too easily, after all. [He finally turns, lifting his mug to indicate the potted plants in the window. It could easily have been a lack of light, or a temperamental response to the cooler nights. The plants are dying, though. They have been, despite his efforts, though the rot always stars at the roots. When he walks by, they no longer shiver and reach for him.] No, nothing has happened. Not in particular.
[I simply have nightmares of waking up alone. To find blood spilled across the pillow, the floors. That I will be the one taken next. He returns to his seat and slides her newly filled mug across the table.] My writing has come back to me, and the muses sing once more. While that has improved, it... it feels like I'm going backwards. Like the magic is pulling away from me. Is it too strange to say I feel like it's dissatisfied with me? Far be it from me to personify any force I come into contact with, and yet. The bread molds, the plants die. And I can't get a good night of sleep.
[ She listens, following him with her eyes; her gaze flicks to the plants, thinking back on how they have looked in the past, how easily they grew, and how she's failed to notice them struggling recently. Or perhaps it's Jaskier she's failed to notice struggling, even if she could tell he seemed a bit off. They've both been, ever since Geralt--
But Geralt is fine now. (Mostly. Right?) And Jaskier is sleepless and melancholy, and keeps making comments about his own uselessness that are starting to get on her nerves.
Ciri reaches out to take the mug, lifting it to her face to inhale the steam now laced with the sharp warmth of the cinnamon. She takes a careful sip, just dipping her tongue against the liquid to check the temperature. ]
Jaskier...
[ Setting the cup back down, Ciri leans forward across the table on an elbow, meeting his gaze. Serious, but not unkind. ]
If you ask me, I think it's far more likely that your lack of rest and the burdens that you put upon yourself are more the culprit than your magic. I've told you before I am no sorceress, but I know a thing or two about the way chaos mixes poorly with unpleasant emotions.
[ Ciri reaches out across the table, resting her hand on Jaskier's arm (the scar beneath his sleeve). She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. ]
[Already the way she says his name makes him wish he had said nothing of it. It's not as if he comes looking for pity, either, no matter what others might say. It really all comes down to how stupid it is, for him to feel sorry for himself, when what happened happened to Geralt, not to him. None of it was about him.
He doesn't meet her gaze, which says more than words will. At least he doesn't pull back from her touch. A warm hand has never been something he's shied away from, even one covered in callouses and scars.
He chokes a little, swallowing.]
Yes, well. I certainly did give myself these burdens, didn't I? They're not even mine to bear. [His lips twitch in an attempt to smile, to reassure her he'll be fine. He will. He always is. This is just a trifle. An annoyance. When he doesn't quite make it, he gives a nod instead.
It helps. It does. He's had the same fear that all of this, as much as it frustrates him, is his own fault. Which, honestly, makes it all the more frustrating.] Besides, you're far more sorceress than I am. I could never fit into all of those grandiose dresses with this chest.
She pulls back, fingers curling around her cup again, eyes falling to its contents. It feels like everything she says is the wrong fucking thing. Like she's just... messed this all up. What she'd wanted was to do something for Jaskier, to thank him for his kindness, and instead she's pushed him -- both of them -- into this uncomfortable place, and she doesn't know how to untwist it all.
Jaskier's joke doesn't land. It doesn't feel sincere, and she doesn't feel like laughing. ]
I'm sorry. I hope you're able to sleep better soon. The rest should help your magic.
[ He's right. The burdens that have been put upon him recently aren't his to bear. Maybe she's relied on him too much. Been callous, when she wasn't paying attention. She should have noticed sooner. ]
I can get some herbs for a calming tea when I'm at market tomorrow. I'll ask at the apothecary.
[It's unfortunate. He thinks it was a rather good joke.]
I'm sure I will, my dear.
[He feels her retract from her far more than he feels the loss of her hand. It's terrible, how they keep saying the wrong things to each other. He hadn't even meant -- he's not sure what. Why is she apologizing, anyway? This isn't her fault. None of this bullshit is.]
You've no need to apologize. And I know you have more interesting things to do than run errands for a whining bard. [He drinks from his cup and, fuck, it does work miracles. Every sip helps. It's certainly why most people indulge, isn't it?] Please, Ciri, I hope you don't think this is your fault, either. I don't even know why you would, what you have to be sorry for. You've been an absolute delight. I mean, if I set aside the bandit murder, it's -- I feel we've kept each other sane.
[ Suddenly, Ciri wishes she were drinking something stronger. It's a shame Nadine never mentioned how well hot chocolate might go with liquor.
She takes a bracing gulp anyway, as if it were something else; the drink is hot, nearly scalding as she swallows it, quickly, and hits the table with her cup a little too loudly. ]
Because I've made everyone carry my fucking burdens.
Even you.
[ Not that he isn't capable or worthy. It's just that, as Jaskier said, it isn't his responsibility to bear. And then, with Geralt gone-- ]
I bring danger and discord wherever I go. Drag everyone around me into it. I can't stop.
The truth is, I--
If I wanted to keep you all safe, I should never have told any of you. I should have left. But I don't--
[ Ciri takes a shaky breath, swallowing roughly. Her throat stings. ]
I didn't want to be alone. You... you made sure I wasn't.
[His brows rise. For fuck's sake. She's doing that Geralt thing. The Geralt thing that specifically led to Jaskier being left on a mountain in boots with worn soles. At least she isn't blaming him for everything, but he can't say this change is really better.
He sits there and lets her explode. Lets her all get it out, only watching her. The flash in her green eyes, the way her body coils. Like with Geralt, he takes it. Opens his heart and takes it in, even if it's not fair this time, either.
It isn't fair she thinks this way.
And when she's done, he does speak.]
I'm sure it's important. But all of that other stuff, frankly? Is horseshit. We all share burdens simply by knowing one another. I mean it on a metaphysical level as commentary on the nature of humanity, by the way. And you're right selfish, thinking those burdens I mentioned are yours. I was blaming Thorne, thank you, for being cunts about our dearly beloved Witcher. Or the Singularity, or whatever. What I mean to say is --
[Well, he's sort of said it already, actually. He gets up, moving behind her, looping his arms around her shoulders. He has a sort of guess on where this might go.]
If you leave off on some fool's errand because you tricked yourself into believing we're better off without you, I'll be very cross. I may even have some scathing, choice words for you about it. I love you, Ciri. And I would love your burdens, too.
[ 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.
[He squeezes his arms around her, waiting for her to calm. For her to catch her breath. No, he doesn't know what he's promising. Not really. But should he make a promise to anyone else, he knows just as little. It's the nature of man without the gift of prophecy.]
I'm sure you realize it is not so relieving to know you consider it at all.
[He kisses the top of her head. She must feel terribly lonely sometimes, buried alone in this knowledge of the future none of them can possess. He knows she regrets ever telling them.]
I promised I would not leave you alone. I fully intend to keep it, despite your best efforts.
[Jaskier's breath huffs out in a laugh, and he squeezes her. He knows, too, this probably comes as easily to her as it does to Geralt. That is: not at all. She is, at least, more talented at it.
She has heart. He's... he's glad, if she picked up anything from Geralt, it's his heart.]
I do know.
[It would be impossible, he thinks, to still believe he is not important to Ciri, the same way he knows his place with Geralt. He holds onto her now not only for her sake, but his own. His legs feel weak. He did not... expect this. Any of this. This overwhelming appreciation that --
Fuck. It's the real gift, isn't it?
Perhaps he was getting too lofty with the song names. It could be something much simpler. Her Heart.
Ah. He like that.]
Then you shall be thrilled to know I will continue to do so. [He gives her another affectionate kiss on the top of her head, slowly pulling away. He's learned that these moments can stretch too long, become too raw. He never meant to see so much of her, but Melitele. He's glad he has.] Now, please. We should drink before it gets cold. Something tells me it won't be near as good.
[ Something in her relaxes, and Ciri nods, smiling faintly as he pulls away. She lets him, feeling much lighter as they settle into the evening together, the air still smelling of spices. Cleared now, of what uncertainty lies between them -- at least for now. She hopes he understands.
Destiny isn't what makes someone important.
Ciri goes to fetch the cake after a bit, and they have their dinner of sweets and frivolous things, concocting plans for how to drag Geralt out to the festival the following eve. ]
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
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Filled up, he takes the mug and wraps both hands around it to warm them. He pulls a chair out with a curl of his foot around the leg, then sits close by her.
He closes his eyes, inhaling it just under his nose like a wine. It smells nothing like one, but the scent is deep, sweet. It leaves his mouth watering even as new as it is.
He tastes. Taking a soft breath after to release a bit of the heat.
His smile is gentle.] It's marvelous, Ciri. Thank you.
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You like it. [ She sounds relieved, shoulders loosening, smile bright in her eyes. It doesn't need to be a question. The reaction is enough. ]
Good. I'm glad.
--oh! I have a honey cake too. If you're hungry.
[ Because hot chocolate and cake are definitely dinner. ]
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[Others may be not so eager to throw the word out, but Jaskier is. It's warm enough one can feel it all the way down their throat, hitting their belly. It's not invasive, however. It's simply... comforting. The taste nearly as sweet as a sweet roll, but an entirely different flavor. It was incredibly hard to describe.
So he drinks more instead.
He brightens ever further.] And a honey cake! Gods, Ciri, I might mistake today for my nameday, the way you're spoiling me. Am I really worthy of all this?
[Rhetorical question. Obviously.]
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Jaskier's effusive praise makes her cheeks feel hot. Maybe she's overdone it.
Ciri ducks her head, covering her embarrassment with the mug held over half her face, presumably to breathe in the sweet steam rising from the hot chocolate. ]
Oh, shut up, Jaskier. You know you are.
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It's no longer a question why a man like Geralt could love a child so easily. Not because she is easy to get along with, or that she is completely comprehensible. Both things are false. It's... perhaps the answer truly lies in Ciri's sincerity in all things.
It is a quality that inspires men and women alike. A quality that has fools follow after a man's footsteps for a lifetime.]
I know. [He laughs quietly into his next sip.] I only wanted to hear you say it.
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But she knows she hasn't... explained. And it's difficult to figure out how. ]
You... [ Ciri begins after a minute or so of silence, nudging her cup around for something to do with her hands while she searches for the words as if they might appear in her drink. She tries again. ]
You stayed. When I needed you. You gave me more than you give yourself credit for.
Of course you're worth it.
[ She doesn't mean this, precisely. Not only this. There's... so much more. ]
You deserve to hear it said.
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When Ciri speaks again, he lowers the mug to the table, both hands lingering around it. The burn has left his finger by now. Honestly, he'd do it again just to see her reaction. ]
Meee...? [Oh no, she's doing that thing. Where the air stills, the world quiets, and he can only prepare himself for what's coming. After so many years with Geralt, he's very used to the feeling. Despite that, his heart tightens. She is not Geralt. And perhaps it is not something deeply meaningful that is coming.
Ah. Damn.]
Oh. That was not what I expected. [Oh, no. Why must this happen when he's already rather morose? With his magic fucking about, everything in him feels a bit off-kilter -- like how he is before coming down with a cold. Yet, right now, that cold doesn't touch him.]
Thank you, Ciri. [He meant it only to be a jest, yet she takes it so seriously. Jaskier reaches for one of Ciri's wandering hands, squeezing it. Of course he stayed. Where else would he have gone? Even if Geralt hadn't all but trusted him to take care of her. Funny enough, it makes him recall what Geralt had him swear, their first few weeks here. If he should return home, and Geralt did not, that he would find the girl. Find Ciri. His latest, and perhaps greatest, regret. Leaving her behind.
What a fucking mistake that Witcher made.] I want you to know that I will always stay. Despite whatever fuckery is coming our way. Or whether or not I'm particularly useful in the moment, which is debatable. I'll still be here for you, my dear. Someone must stick about and keep you all humble, after all.
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[ Ciri lets him take her hand, giving his fingers a squeeze in return. ]
You're always someone I can trust. [ Here, and elsewhere. She says it without doubt or hesitation-- just a truth between them. But she looks into his eyes, keeping his hand in hers, leaning closer across the table with a faint wrinkle of worry between her brows. ]
You keep taking care of me. I wanted to give you something in return.
[ She's noticed. Lately, the way he's been, the faltering of his confidence, the hum of uncertainty and restlessness about him. The way he keeps saying that: that he's not useful, whatever the hell that means. That stupid song he'd been too clearly projecting something into, something that makes Ciri antsy and uncomfortable, worried for him. The Jaskier she knows is an overconfident fool, in the fondest, dearest of ways. Seeing him unsure of himself feels out of place, even if, at the same time, Ciri understands. With what had happened to Geralt, they're all a bit... off-kilter. ]
What's on your mind, Jaskier?
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[Luckily, Ciri is very capable of finding her own trouble. Besides, it's quite easy to like her now that he's skipped all the awkward, bumbling teen years, but... he does wish he could know more of them. Of what this relationship could have grown from. Of course he could always ask her, but retold memories are so far from the real thing.
He finishes off his mug, mouth cloyingly sweet, but certainly considers a second either way. It doesn't hit the same as a fine liquor or a smooth wine, but there's plenty to appreciate in its taste --
He chokes on the last swallow, setting the mug down.] W-what? What makes you think anything is? [He looks at her, and she looks back, her green eyes unsettling bright. Keen. She's keen like Geralt, but unlike Geralt, she asks. Which is far more dangerous than anything being noticed at all.
Not that there's. Anything to notice.] You know, nevermind, I was thinking of something. [Jaskier moves on as if he's gone to master classes of spurring conversations onward, hopping over potholes in its path he wishes to avoid.] There's a bloody festival outside and we're in here. I don't agree with all their, er, quirks, so to speak, but I think what we need is something... nice. Like this drink. Warm, and comforting, with good company. What do you think? I bet we could drag Geralt out somewhere tomorrow night, once he's returned. There's not a chance he can say no to both of us.
no subject
But Jaskier pushes forth and stamps it out before the feeling can grow. Ciri tucks the rest of her thoughts away for later. She does not know how to tell him. She isn't sure what to say. She doesn't know how to explain the way his words had pricked at her with hidden thorns when he'd said that, days ago.
Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Or a villain.
Or both.
Ciri envies the little raven in his nest. Jaskier wouldn't understand. And then, the conversation moves on, and the moment becomes the past, and she finds herself nodding and smiling and going along with Jaskier's grand new plans. ]
Not a chance. [ She agrees. ]
That sounds like fun. [ And she means it. ]
You want another cup? Nadine suggested adding cinnamon. We can try it.
[ It is enough to be here, sitting quietly, enjoying something together. Something she made. Something he likes.
It is enough that his smile draws out her own. He's good at that. It's worth more than he thinks. ]
no subject
[This is a first: despite his moving on, he feels a twinge. A twinge like guilt, which is far from something Jaskier frequently experiences. He sees how Ciri smiles back, how it's real, but --]
I'd love one. I'll make them this time. [He slides off his chair, grabbing both mugs. He only pauses by her for a moment, leaning down to kiss her cheek. An explanation. Or an apology. Or a thank you. It could be all of them. If anyone deserves to know, to ask him and get a real answer, it's Ciri. She... she notices him in a way that few do. In a way he does trust this time she holds ahead of him, where they were more than acquainted. Perhaps he could even be called family.
He returns to the pot of heating milk and chocolate, dusting it with a bit of cinnamon.
Jaskier is quiet. And then:] My magic has gone erratic. [He begins pouring the milk, now spiced, into the mugs, but doesn't turn to her yet. His shoulders tighten.] I'm sure it's nothing serious, and it isn't dangerous, but... it's put some things into perspective for me.
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[ Neither of them mentions the Dimming, but Ciri is aware they both know. Something will be happening around the Singularity tomorrow night. Thorne and its magic. The Free Cities, Marlo's request for the summoned. Ciri is aware, and she wants to stay as far away from it as possible, even as the need to know keeps tugging uncomfortably at the back of her mind. (Yennefer will be there. It's a certain thing. She would not pass up the chance--)
Jaskier interrupts her spiraling thoughts with a kiss, and Ciri blinks, watching after him as he sweeps back into the kitchen. Her fingers touch her cheek. Her eyes follow his back, the muscles pulling taught across his shoulders. ]
What do you mean... 'gone erratic'?
[ She urges gently, when it seems he's decided to share what's on his mind, after all. Ciri won't hold the hesitation against him, focusing instead on what he says. And what he doesn't. ]
Did something happen?
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Though to Jaskier, honestly, it's hardly about that.
He sighs. Now the topic has been broached, he... well, he actually would like to pursue it. Ciri, he trusts now, is someone who will actually listen. Who can offer more than silence or advice. She's quite perceptive, too; perhaps better than all of them.]
I don't blame you for not noticing. Plants die far too easily, after all. [He finally turns, lifting his mug to indicate the potted plants in the window. It could easily have been a lack of light, or a temperamental response to the cooler nights. The plants are dying, though. They have been, despite his efforts, though the rot always stars at the roots. When he walks by, they no longer shiver and reach for him.] No, nothing has happened. Not in particular.
[I simply have nightmares of waking up alone. To find blood spilled across the pillow, the floors. That I will be the one taken next. He returns to his seat and slides her newly filled mug across the table.] My writing has come back to me, and the muses sing once more. While that has improved, it... it feels like I'm going backwards. Like the magic is pulling away from me. Is it too strange to say I feel like it's dissatisfied with me? Far be it from me to personify any force I come into contact with, and yet. The bread molds, the plants die. And I can't get a good night of sleep.
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But Geralt is fine now. (Mostly. Right?) And Jaskier is sleepless and melancholy, and keeps making comments about his own uselessness that are starting to get on her nerves.
Ciri reaches out to take the mug, lifting it to her face to inhale the steam now laced with the sharp warmth of the cinnamon. She takes a careful sip, just dipping her tongue against the liquid to check the temperature. ]
Jaskier...
[ Setting the cup back down, Ciri leans forward across the table on an elbow, meeting his gaze. Serious, but not unkind. ]
If you ask me, I think it's far more likely that your lack of rest and the burdens that you put upon yourself are more the culprit than your magic. I've told you before I am no sorceress, but I know a thing or two about the way chaos mixes poorly with unpleasant emotions.
[ Ciri reaches out across the table, resting her hand on Jaskier's arm (the scar beneath his sleeve). She gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. ]
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He doesn't meet her gaze, which says more than words will. At least he doesn't pull back from her touch. A warm hand has never been something he's shied away from, even one covered in callouses and scars.
He chokes a little, swallowing.]
Yes, well. I certainly did give myself these burdens, didn't I? They're not even mine to bear. [His lips twitch in an attempt to smile, to reassure her he'll be fine. He will. He always is. This is just a trifle. An annoyance. When he doesn't quite make it, he gives a nod instead.
It helps. It does. He's had the same fear that all of this, as much as it frustrates him, is his own fault. Which, honestly, makes it all the more frustrating.] Besides, you're far more sorceress than I am. I could never fit into all of those grandiose dresses with this chest.
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She pulls back, fingers curling around her cup again, eyes falling to its contents. It feels like everything she says is the wrong fucking thing. Like she's just... messed this all up. What she'd wanted was to do something for Jaskier, to thank him for his kindness, and instead she's pushed him -- both of them -- into this uncomfortable place, and she doesn't know how to untwist it all.
Jaskier's joke doesn't land. It doesn't feel sincere, and she doesn't feel like laughing. ]
I'm sorry. I hope you're able to sleep better soon. The rest should help your magic.
[ He's right. The burdens that have been put upon him recently aren't his to bear. Maybe she's relied on him too much. Been callous, when she wasn't paying attention. She should have noticed sooner. ]
I can get some herbs for a calming tea when I'm at market tomorrow. I'll ask at the apothecary.
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I'm sure I will, my dear.
[He feels her retract from her far more than he feels the loss of her hand. It's terrible, how they keep saying the wrong things to each other. He hadn't even meant -- he's not sure what. Why is she apologizing, anyway? This isn't her fault. None of this bullshit is.]
You've no need to apologize. And I know you have more interesting things to do than run errands for a whining bard. [He drinks from his cup and, fuck, it does work miracles. Every sip helps. It's certainly why most people indulge, isn't it?] Please, Ciri, I hope you don't think this is your fault, either. I don't even know why you would, what you have to be sorry for. You've been an absolute delight. I mean, if I set aside the bandit murder, it's -- I feel we've kept each other sane.
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She takes a bracing gulp anyway, as if it were something else; the drink is hot, nearly scalding as she swallows it, quickly, and hits the table with her cup a little too loudly. ]
Because I've made everyone carry my fucking burdens.
Even you.
[ Not that he isn't capable or worthy. It's just that, as Jaskier said, it isn't his responsibility to bear. And then, with Geralt gone-- ]
I bring danger and discord wherever I go. Drag everyone around me into it. I can't stop.
The truth is, I--
If I wanted to keep you all safe, I should never have told any of you. I should have left. But I don't--
[ Ciri takes a shaky breath, swallowing roughly. Her throat stings. ]
I didn't want to be alone. You... you made sure I wasn't.
You do not understand how important that is.
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He sits there and lets her explode. Lets her all get it out, only watching her. The flash in her green eyes, the way her body coils. Like with Geralt, he takes it. Opens his heart and takes it in, even if it's not fair this time, either.
It isn't fair she thinks this way.
And when she's done, he does speak.]
I'm sure it's important. But all of that other stuff, frankly? Is horseshit. We all share burdens simply by knowing one another. I mean it on a metaphysical level as commentary on the nature of humanity, by the way. And you're right selfish, thinking those burdens I mentioned are yours. I was blaming Thorne, thank you, for being cunts about our dearly beloved Witcher. Or the Singularity, or whatever. What I mean to say is --
[Well, he's sort of said it already, actually. He gets up, moving behind her, looping his arms around her shoulders. He has a sort of guess on where this might go.]
If you leave off on some fool's errand because you tricked yourself into believing we're better off without you, I'll be very cross. I may even have some scathing, choice words for you about it. I love you, Ciri. And I would love your burdens, too.
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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. ]
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I'm sure you realize it is not so relieving to know you consider it at all.
[He kisses the top of her head. She must feel terribly lonely sometimes, buried alone in this knowledge of the future none of them can possess. He knows she regrets ever telling them.]
I promised I would not leave you alone. I fully intend to keep it, despite your best efforts.
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[ She doesn't clarify which part she's responding to. Both, perhaps. Ciri's hand settles over his arm, draped around her. ]
I believe you.
And I- I appreciate you. I hope you know that. You are... important to me. Just as you are. What you do--
[ She doesn't look up, but her fingers squeeze around his wrist, gently. ]
No one else could do it, Jaskier. Only you.
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She has heart. He's... he's glad, if she picked up anything from Geralt, it's his heart.]
I do know.
[It would be impossible, he thinks, to still believe he is not important to Ciri, the same way he knows his place with Geralt. He holds onto her now not only for her sake, but his own. His legs feel weak. He did not... expect this. Any of this. This overwhelming appreciation that --
Fuck. It's the real gift, isn't it?
Perhaps he was getting too lofty with the song names. It could be something much simpler. Her Heart.
Ah. He like that.]
Then you shall be thrilled to know I will continue to do so. [He gives her another affectionate kiss on the top of her head, slowly pulling away. He's learned that these moments can stretch too long, become too raw. He never meant to see so much of her, but Melitele. He's glad he has.] Now, please. We should drink before it gets cold. Something tells me it won't be near as good.
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[ Something in her relaxes, and Ciri nods, smiling faintly as he pulls away. She lets him, feeling much lighter as they settle into the evening together, the air still smelling of spices. Cleared now, of what uncertainty lies between them -- at least for now. She hopes he understands.
Destiny isn't what makes someone important.
Ciri goes to fetch the cake after a bit, and they have their dinner of sweets and frivolous things, concocting plans for how to drag Geralt out to the festival the following eve. ]