[ The Black Sun has come and gone. Jaskier's flower stall is thriving. They've found a larger place to rent, with an extra bed. It has not been simple. Everything is...still heavy. Aching. But they are moving forward and that's all they can do.
He's been in their home, between contracts as he is, sanding wood and quietly constructing the gryphon its bed. He does not wish to talk about why he's taken upon this project. But the truth is, it reminds him a bit of when he built his cabin in the Horizon. His memories of that time are complicated. The constructing, though. It was good. Working with his hands. Whether he's training, skinning a deer, building a miniature bed—he's always kept his hands busy.
It's late afternoon when he enters the Horizon. He means to look in on Kaer Morhen. To see if he can finally address that. Place. Underneath the keep. To see if he can form it into the lab proper, without the blood, the hollow screams that echo. But he can't bring himself to go down there. He changes his mind—turning to search for Jaskier's domain instead.
He almost walks right by it. The familiarity of the scene is what makes him stop. Of course he recognizes it. What wanderer of the Continent wouldn't? Every traveller's been to Bleobheris. But it's more than that. It carries all the touches of his friend: the creatures, the music.
For a moment, he only looks at it. It's unexpected, and yet so fitting. Much more than the solitary tavern. This, he thinks, is what truly feels like Jaskier.
He strolls through the glade, curious, eyeing what the place has to offer. At the base of the ancient oak, he presses his palm to it. For the first time in a long while, his mind is quiet as he ascends the spiralling stairs. ]
[A lot has changed since he's been in the Horizon.
At least this time, the change was (mostly) intentional. As time went on, as Geralt trained Moglad more, as Jaskier pushed himself back into music. Moglad grew stronger. Dedicated enough that Jaskier even built him training dummies around back of the Bird's Nest simply so he could continue top his heart's content. Training, practicing Witcher signs (Geralt had never even mentioned them to him) until he came t oJaskier to proclaim The shadow is gone! It's gone, Master Jaskier!
He didn't need to ask what that meant. It was, after all, his domain.
The training didn't stop there. And then, out on a walk, he and Moglad discovered a little sprout of a tree growing between the cracked streets of Oxenfurt. Small, curled leaves. Green ones, though. Bright as lit emeralds.
So they had moved stone around it to give it room to grow. Watering, trimming branches, plucking off browned leaves. Together, he and Moglad had nurtured that sprout into a sapling.
Then the sapling to a tree.
It didn't surprise him what his mind pulled on, and once Jaskier realized what the sapling was destined to be, he went head-first into the idea of it. The concept. Something as simple as friendship. A touch of the home he would never return to with the home he lived in now. Nature mixing with the smallest touches of Cadens's technologies -- the fireless lights, the lamps hanging from branches reminiscent of the one Geralt had gifted him.
Speaking of. Jaskier feels him approach before Moglad ever comes to him with the exciting news: Geralt has come to see his new home. (Because of course the moogle has a lovely little room in Bleobheris all to himself, where he hangs his sword after a hard day of adventuring.
Jaskier pokes his head out of a workshop where he's been working on stitching together a book of his songs, his fingers still slightly tacky with glue. The shelves are lined with complete volumes and half-put-together tomes, with imprinted leather covers and long, flowing gold script down the spines.
He gives his friend a wide smile. It is the first time, for a long time, he truly feels himself again.] You like it. I can tell. [Jaskier looks around at it, gives a satisfied sigh, his hands on his hips.] I thought we deserved a piece of home. [His hand finds the wooden walls around them, tracing over the grain.] One of the last truly wonderful places I visited.
[ As the top of the staircase, Geralt hears his friend: not the strum of a lute or the scratching of quill on parchment, but the sound of thick string threading through leather.
He steps inside. Jaskier greets him with a warm smile and he finds himself returning it. He runs his fingers over the wall. A piece of home. Hm. He likes it. It feels...he can't explain it. Calm, but sturdy. As though it can weather any storm. His heart is not lighter, exactly. More that the weight of it, he feels as though he can carry it with a little more ease. It's subtle enough he almost doesn't notice. ]
It suits you. [ He means it. ] Show me around.
[ He's here to visit; he may as well see what Jaskier created. He can tell the bard is pleased with it. Besides, it takes his mind off his own domain—still home, but with all of the complicated memories it always holds. He supposes he doesn't know what it is to have a home that has no painful history.
Where Jaskier leads, Geralt falls into step beside him. He examines everything with genuine interest, even if he offers little commentary. And of course he can see Moglad in the distance, sword in hand. A steel blade now: blunted at the edges, but an upgrade from his wooden one. Geralt gave him a new sword a week or so ago. Felt it was time. ]
[It is the only outward acceptance he'll give of the change in him. One that Geralt helped prompt -- whether he wishes to acknowledge it was through Moglad or some other means. Jaskier gives a pat to Geralt's arm, wiping his hands on his trousers; his dress is far less decorated here, crafted for comfort though it's still dyed in a rich, dark velvet red with embroidered birds across the shoulders.
He gives him the tour, and though the stairs seem to go upwards for ages, the domain does not allow them to get tired (unlike some stairs.) He shows him bedrooms, the greenhouses full of bright sunflowers and tangling potato and cucumber vines. There's the hives where the jewelwisp bees craft their own slightly purple-tinted honey. Lower down is a workshop with a furnace inside, though the fire within is trapped behind iron grating that does not even get hot to the touch.]
Just a little extra room I added if you needed something to keep your hands busy. As you well know, idle hands only bring trouble. [He flourishes past him, showing off the shelves of tools for picking at armor, tanning, sewing and cutting. Through the windows, one can see fluttering wisps go by, and Moglad practicing once again.]
If we go all the way down, there's a wine cellar. Fancy a glass?
[ A dozen things to look at. More. The further he goes, the more he realizes that unlike all of Jaskier's former spaces, this is not only for him. It's for those who may visit him: rooms and gifts and offerings.
He remembers the caravan at the very start. A bard who would never settle or cease wandering. Look at him now.
The workshop brings Geralt to a pause. He cannot, in all honesty, recall a time when someone made a place explicitly for him. Nearly everywhere he goes, he's been an intruder, unwanted. Grudgingly tolerated. And it's—he obviously knows he's welcome in Jaskier's domain. It's not that. It's just—this is different. For a moment, he isn't sure what to say.
He picks up a small awl, then sets it back down. Idle hands. He huffs quietly. ] Wouldn't want that.
[ He straightens up, moving to join Jaskier, which serves as answer enough. He could have a glass. Several, he'd have said earlier, but right now the urge to drown himself in several bottles and lay facedown is abated. Mostly, he merely wants a drink with his friend. They haven't had much of that lately. Time to themselves. ]
Would be a terrible fate, wouldn't it? Gods know we're well aware you've a penchant for trouble.
[He waits by the doorway as Geralt glances around, almost expecting him to take a seat and start working on something. However, wine's as good a decision as any, and with a push of Geralt's shoulder, he starts leading him back to the stairs.
Perhaps, in time, he'll find his way back here to work.
The stairs coil down but with plenty of room for them to go down side by side, lights flickering to life as the windows pale behind them. The air grows cool, but not uncomfortable, with a faint smell of must that's almost homey.
The wine cellar stretches out, displaying Bleobheris's roots, cabinets full of bottles, and a plate of cheeses and crackers already waiting for them in one of the benched nooks.] Come on. I made a new one out of elderflowers. I think you'll enjoy it.
[He scoots into the nook and pours them both a glass, stretching his legs out. The height of relaxation he is here, with soft cheese and emerald-winged moths gently fluttering the wings against the stone walls.]
He rolls his eyes, but it's good-natured. They descend the stairs together: unhurried, taking in the sights. The leaves shine with a near-emerald glow. The wine cellar is reminiscent of Jaskier's vineyard—an evolved form, in a sense. He can see it, too, the vintages Jaskier created in the Horizon.
He slides into the nook across from Jaskier. Sniffs the cup he's given. It's nice, the wine. For awhile, he's quiet. And then: ]
Have you spoken to her?
[ Since the summit. He just—he's not talked about it. But something about this place feels...safer. Like maybe he can broach the topic without feeling as though he's been hollowed out and wrung dry. ]
[Jaskier glances at his friend a few times, but otherwise doesn't comment on his state of being. Geralt looks the same, really, but in a way he doesn't. Something is bothering him. But... there is some merit in that he looks a bit calmer here.
Jaskier's domain is much more intentional this time. It' good to see the intention behind it is... good. Helpful, even.
Jaskier swirls his wine, plucking up a small, blunt knife to cut through a bit of cheese. His fingers squish into it accidentally at the question.]
There's a lot of hers this could be, Geralt. As you know, I'm magnanimous towards the fairer sex, as you well know, and so very popular. [He sips, putting the glass down as he leans back with a sigh. There's only one her to Geralt, though.] Yes. We speak. I saw her at the summit, and we send those little... thoughts. Whatever you may call them. I imagine you have not?
[It's an idle question, only curious. It requires no explanation.]
[ Jaskier's answer comes roundabout. Geralt waits it out with more patience than usual. He knows it's because this is not a light topic of conversation. That Jaskier has his own...relationship with Yennefer. One that is not near as—
Complicated. As Geralt's. ]
I have. [ It's an easy presumption, that he's avoided her since the summit. He hasn't. He looks down at the cup of wine. Studies the dark liquid inside. ] I told her—
[ What. What did he tell her, precisely? That he is tired of searching for what isn't there? That he no longer trusts her? That he does not forgive her? All of those things. He just...some part of him feels as though he is letting Ciri down. That perhaps he should try harder, not for Yennefer, but for her. But he knows, too, that there is...what Ciri sees in Yennefer, Geralt does not. He simply does not. He's wanted to. He misses her. He misses what they were—what has been lost between them. But there's no sense in living for what could have been. ]
A lot of weight lays in those words. Jaskier waits patiently, though he isn't still, swirling the wine, running his thumb down the stem of the glass, sipping it. The air is heavier than it was before now that Yennefer is the topic, but -- but he is working hard for it to become nothing but slightly weighty.
Calm.
He told her...?
Jaskier tips his head. This, he knows, is not a joking matter.] Which truth was it? I know... [He pauses.] I understand you may not trust her again after what happened.
[ What truth. He rests his fingers on the lip of the glass. He told her several truths, really, but he supposes only one of them truly matters. ]
I don't. [ The statement is final, simple. It is not a question of may. He does not. ] I told her as much.
[ He wants to be angry, and he is, but he isn't. Deep down, he just feels hurt. For him, it registers as an almost childish sort of hurt. He's been hurt often from loss, from pain, but this...betrayal from someone he'd trusted is—he only remembers feeling it when he was a boy. When his mother left him and did not look back.
He breathes in, the cool spring air. ] I gave her the jasper before I left.
[ Not Before we parted but Before I left. He left and he isn't certain he will return. He still believes she has something to offer Ciri. Ciri believes in her. Geralt does not owe Yennefer, but he does owe it to Ciri, to try and give her what she needs. And maybe alongside the girl, Yennefer will find her way. Until then, he doesn't want to wait. He does not want to make room in his heart for someone who refuses to be there. ]
[Jaskier winces. He can't help it. There is no excuse for what Yennefer did, even if there is explanation. Jaskier himself cannot comprehend it, yet... It's not understanding, but something closer than he would have ever allowed himself before.
The lessons learned on the Continent were most often harsh ones. Jaskier has undergone desperation, survived it. Aided others through it. Well does he know the deeds people will commit when they think they have no other choice. The limits that are broken by true desperation.
He can't say whether Yennefer deserves forgiveness or not. It isn't the point of the matter. It isn't his to dole out, either.
He only reaches out to touch Geralt's hand.] I won't ask if you're sure. [Right now, he believes Geralt must be. What remains to be seen is how long he will remain sure.
So this is it, then. How an epic ends with hardly a whimper.]
I'll keep an eye on her. [Is all he offers, when the weight is too much. You will still have me. You found your way back to me. It is true. But the circumstances are completely different creatures. And he will not be a replacement for Yennefer, or a peg to fill that hole, even if he's sure that isn't why Geralt came here. Why he's brought it up.]
I'll keep her safe.
[A laughable concept to some, maybe. But it is not his first time, even if he never has detailed his work to Geralt in Oxenfurt.]
[ His eyes land on Jaskier, steady. He came here because Jaskier understands her. Jaskier has always understood all of them, he thinks, better than themselves. He isn't looking for someone to be angry or hurt alongside him, to capture it and unleash it twofold. This, what he feels—it's his, it's private. It isn't meant to be shared. It need not be amplified. Jaskier is not angry with her, on his behalf or otherwise. He cares about her in his own way. That's what Geralt wants. Someone who will be there for her because he no longer has it in himself to do so. ]
I know. [ It's not laughable at all. The world is cold, dark. And he's found, over the years, that when it's too much, Jaskier has been there. Warm—insistently, protectively so. Safe. He hadn't known what to do with it at first except push it away.
He adds nothing more on the topic. For awhile, he sits, silent, Jaskier's hand on his. Eventually, he takes a sip of the wine. ]
I, ah. [ He scoffs a bit, like he knows how absurd it will sound. ] Your little pet. His bed is by the window.
[ Yes. He finished it. And the damn thing better like it. It's a nice bed. ]
[I know is about as good as he'll get right now. Jaskier gives him a smile, topping off his wine (of course his first glass has already been drained), squeezing Geralt's hand. He'll do it for Geralt, but for himself, too. Yennefer has become... something strange, if only because of how they were once. A friend, he supposes. In the end.
Jaskier likes to think this is not where it ends. Not because of Destiny, or the Wish -- if you ask him, he's never really believed in it, even if he knows better than the others the power behind a djinn -- but because of who Yennefer and Geralt are.
Both stubborn. Both idiots.
But...]
My little pet? [Jaskier repeats with a laugh, his eyes glowing. A bed! So that was what he was working on. And why Geralt wouldn't explain what it was.] I would say Mog is ours now, if you're building him beds. [He grins.] He'll love it. Right next to the sunlight. Thank you, Geralt.
[ The smallest smile curls his lips. It's tired, a little heavy, but it's there. For a moment, he thinks of Yennefer saying I can't help but wish we could begin again, and he lets himself imagine a path where the three—the four—of them could sit here together. In this gentle space Jaskier has carved out.
He pushes it aside and tips back more of his glass. ]
He isn't mine. I'm not taking it on walks. [ Token grumbling at best. It's clear he's already fond of the creature. He picks at the cheese; pours more wine. In the Horizon, he can indulge. He can shed his need to stay alert, to make sure he's. Keeping himself together, because he nearly went to pieces after what happened in Thorne and now—this, these memories. If he stops for too long, it feels as if he might be crushed under the weight of it all.
Everyone important to him, in Cadens—they are healing, slowly. Doing better. And he's realized this has left him with nowhere for his attentions to turn except inwards.
He is not keen on looking inwards right now. He just wants to fucking drink. ]
And I don't want to find him sleeping on top of me.
[And unbeknownst to Geralt, he intends to make that a reality one day. It may take ages, but shall have it. In this space he's crafted for everyone and no one in particular, where there could be calm finally found. After all, the four of them run rampant through Bleobheris: the wolves along the bannisters; the rich lilacs and buttercups growing around its roots, in the gardens outside, and etched into the walls of the bedrooms; and the swallows carved into the ceilings of nearly every room, flying together in flocks that spread out wide through the wood.
It only makes sense. They came from the same world, the four of them. And like it or not, Destiny has inextricably tied them together with little red strings.]
He doesn't need walks. He isn't a dog. Gods, Geralt, have you never had a clever animal before?
[Jaskier gives him a laugh, squishing soft, salty brie between crackers that have slid onto the table, seemingly from nowhere.] Oh? Really? And what are you going to do if my deeply beloved pet gryphon takes a snooze on your snout? Turn him into a hat?
[ A frown greets that remark. Geralt looks genuinely offended, as though he can't fathom how this answer is not obvious to Jaskier. What does Jaskier think Roach is? ] Yes.
[ Horses are clever. He will not be taking arguments. Regardless, this is beside the point. He only means to say that it's not—theirs. The gryphon. Even if he did craft it a bed and place it by the window, near a spot of afternoon sun.
He takes the crackers, ignoring that they've appeared from nowhere. The Horizon has become familiar to him now, how it shifts and grows and changes from one blink to the next. Geralt doesn't treat it that way—he's steady, unchanging, both in his appearance and his domain except where his mind takes over in places he doesn't want—but those he spends time with most in the Horizon are different. Moulding it on a whim, almost thoughtless. ]
He'd make for a decent hat. [ Geralt sits back, a hint more relaxed. He drains his wine, wonders if he should simply take the bottle itself. ] Plenty of feathers.
[Jaskier purses his lips.] You don't take horses on walks.
[Er. He's fairly sure. Horses sort of walk themselves... anyway, that is far from the point. The point is Mog mostly takes care of himself, and Jaskier adores him and will not let anything happen to him. The other point is that he finds it delightful Geralt simply cannot help himself and is already attempting to father a young gryphon on top of his other responsibilities.
Jaskier throws a cracker at his head.] Don't you even jest! He is not getting turned into anything except a beloved family pet. He's already helped me tremendously.
[Not being alone, for one. And... simply, having him around makes Jaskier's heart warmer. He's wonderful company at the plant stand, for one.]
[ You do if you can't ride them and they haven't been let out to stretch their legs. No, it's—absolutely far from the point.
He isn't certain what the point is. He's drinking the wine without paying attention. It matters not because he does not wish to be sober and this means the Horizon provides accordingly. The cracker narrowly misses his head as he leans to the side.
Family pet. He curls his fingers tighter around his glass. Is that what he's building here, yet again? (He is.) He doesn't...mean to leave his other family behind. It's just. They don't need him the same way. He's made his choice. His brothers still have each other. He has what he's got here.
His expression softens. Jaskier seems different. Genuinely so, rather than struggling to pretend he's all right. ] I am glad.
[Jaskier pauses, looking at Geralt. He leans back, then ducks under the table to retrieve his thrown cracker. He pops it in his mouth, chewing a bit thoughtfully.]
You mean that.
[Not a knock against Geralt, really. He only... he's glad, in turn, that Geralt gets it. Without him having to explain. And Ciri, too, embraced the creature without any hesitation, even when Jaskier had been prepared for it. He wasn't sure. Monster hunters, you know. Even if Geralt had a rather soft heart for more than just monsters.
He could kiss him for it. Only because he really feels as if he is finding his footing again. Jaskier wants the same for his friend.]
A testament to the power of healing and time, I suppose. [His lips quirk. Geralt knows better than anyone that healing does not mean his nightmares have stopped. It does not mean Jaskier doesn't flinch from fire still, or goes to bed without the lamp on. But it means he isn't looking for answers in the bottom of bottles.] I'm glad you came, too. To see this place. You should stay as long as you like.
[ He gets it. He spent decades alone but he was never without his horse. There's a simplicity to that sort of loyal companionship. Besides, it's as Jaskier said: the toy gryphon is only a danger to small lizards. Not even then. He's seen several escape its valiant hunting efforts. He can't quite call it a monster, in truth. A little beast, perhaps.
Healing and time. He lowers his gaze. He knows. When you heal, the scars remain. They don't ever disappear. Jaskier still carries the burns on his fingers. Geralt still bears the scar down his spine, the lashes that mark his back. He can feel it when he bends, how the skin flexes not as it once did there. His dreams have not left him, either. In the desert, alone, he sleeps more often solely for the fact that he need not worry who will hear him in the night. ]
I haven't got elsewhere to be. [ He'll stay. He wants the calm for a bit longer. He finished the shelves, the bed. No contract to fill. Not much left for him to bury himself in. ] You?
[ He'll be here either way, whether Jaskier is with him or not. But admittedly, the company is...good. ]
[Hmm. He hums in assent, knowing it must be true. He isn't much sure of what, exactly, sort of hole Geralt has so hastily dug himself into in regards to Yennefer, but he will discuss it, whatever it is, when he wishes. Just as he's done tonight.
Jaskier's lips quirk, a solid warning to either his teasing or his flirtations.]
No. Mog has been fed for the night and, I imagine, he will soon discover his bed and lay in it for the next twenty hours. [It is not an exaggeration that Mog spends more of his time sleeping than awake. Which, honestly, is quite helpful to a man who rarely stays still.]
How about I give you a tour of some of the bedrooms? I even added a few decorations I think you'll like. You're more than welcome to bring the bottle with us. It's not as if it'll go empty here.
[After two decades, sometimes you can take a hasty guess at what, exactly, your friend could use from you. Including a solid distraction. Or a solid fuck. Either way.]
[ Ah. So that's where it's going tonight. He did not come here for that, exactly, but he won't say it never crossed his mind. It certainly does not leave his mind now that the taste of it has been introduced into the air, thickening it. Geralt plucks the bottle off the table as he stands. Jaskier is right: it doesn't go empty. He tips it back and it stays perpetually half-full, wine sloshing as he drinks while he follows Jaskier towards his bedroom tour.
The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]
[All right, he wasn't exactly being subtle, but the choice was, as ever, Geralt's. And yes, while it may not be exactly gouache in some circles for him to offer his body to someone who may be experiencing some heartache --
Well. He wouldn't agree if he wasn't interested. It was that simple. If Jaskier could trust him about anything, it was that Geralt did not lie about what he felt. Or what he wanted.
At first, he does mean it to be a tour. There are all sorts of bedrooms for all sorts of people: extra tall ceilings, or cleared of plants and leaves (for those with allergies; the idea came from a professor Jaskier once had he was quite fond of, unfortunately allergic to the grasses staining their boots.) However, in one particular bedroom that Jaskier favors for its large bed and the prancing wolves, it is there Geralt pins him to the wall.
He barely releases a gasp, his lips turning up once his mouth has been so thoroughly explored.] Mm. I do love being right.
[If it tastes this sweet, he certainly does. He lifts his hips from the wall to give Geralt's hands room, cutting straight down Geralt's tunic with a claw-tipped ring that appears on his finger. Here he is king, and he has no time for buttons. The sound of cloth ripping nearly makes him laugh.] It's good wine, isn't it?
[ He gives a short exhale of a laugh. Of course Jaskier would say that, and Geralt can't give a damn at the moment that it's true. Jaskier is right. He is always right because he understands the Witcher in ways Geralt shouldn't have ever allowed from anyone—never meant to allow from anyone—and yet.
Here they are.
He shrugs off his ruined shirt; lets it fall to the floor. ] I can think of better things.
[ Better things to taste, better things to want. He slips his hand inside Jaskier's loosened trousers. Curls his fingers around what he finds there.
Better things, indeed. Jaskier is offering and Geralt is taking. They both want. In the end, what does it matter, the reasons why? His heart aches. He won't deny that. He doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to be here. With his friend, who looks lighter at last, who's decided to leave the Continent behind alongside him. He is building something, something important, and despite everything, he knows with all certainty that he wants Jaskier to be a part of it.
(He does not let himself think about all those vanishing faces, quietly fading from this world. If one day, Jaskier may join them. He can't, he won't.) ]
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cointosser) wrote2021-04-12 08:58 pm
mid-march.
He's been in their home, between contracts as he is, sanding wood and quietly constructing the gryphon its bed. He does not wish to talk about why he's taken upon this project. But the truth is, it reminds him a bit of when he built his cabin in the Horizon. His memories of that time are complicated. The constructing, though. It was good. Working with his hands. Whether he's training, skinning a deer, building a miniature bed—he's always kept his hands busy.
It's late afternoon when he enters the Horizon. He means to look in on Kaer Morhen. To see if he can finally address that. Place. Underneath the keep. To see if he can form it into the lab proper, without the blood, the hollow screams that echo. But he can't bring himself to go down there. He changes his mind—turning to search for Jaskier's domain instead.
He almost walks right by it. The familiarity of the scene is what makes him stop. Of course he recognizes it. What wanderer of the Continent wouldn't? Every traveller's been to Bleobheris. But it's more than that. It carries all the touches of his friend: the creatures, the music.
For a moment, he only looks at it. It's unexpected, and yet so fitting. Much more than the solitary tavern. This, he thinks, is what truly feels like Jaskier.
He strolls through the glade, curious, eyeing what the place has to offer. At the base of the ancient oak, he presses his palm to it. For the first time in a long while, his mind is quiet as he ascends the spiralling stairs. ]
no subject
At least this time, the change was (mostly) intentional. As time went on, as Geralt trained Moglad more, as Jaskier pushed himself back into music. Moglad grew stronger. Dedicated enough that Jaskier even built him training dummies around back of the Bird's Nest simply so he could continue top his heart's content. Training, practicing Witcher signs (Geralt had never even mentioned them to him) until he came t oJaskier to proclaim The shadow is gone! It's gone, Master Jaskier!
He didn't need to ask what that meant. It was, after all, his domain.
The training didn't stop there. And then, out on a walk, he and Moglad discovered a little sprout of a tree growing between the cracked streets of Oxenfurt. Small, curled leaves. Green ones, though. Bright as lit emeralds.
So they had moved stone around it to give it room to grow. Watering, trimming branches, plucking off browned leaves. Together, he and Moglad had nurtured that sprout into a sapling.
Then the sapling to a tree.
It didn't surprise him what his mind pulled on, and once Jaskier realized what the sapling was destined to be, he went head-first into the idea of it. The concept. Something as simple as friendship. A touch of the home he would never return to with the home he lived in now. Nature mixing with the smallest touches of Cadens's technologies -- the fireless lights, the lamps hanging from branches reminiscent of the one Geralt had gifted him.
Speaking of. Jaskier feels him approach before Moglad ever comes to him with the exciting news: Geralt has come to see his new home. (Because of course the moogle has a lovely little room in Bleobheris all to himself, where he hangs his sword after a hard day of adventuring.
Jaskier pokes his head out of a workshop where he's been working on stitching together a book of his songs, his fingers still slightly tacky with glue. The shelves are lined with complete volumes and half-put-together tomes, with imprinted leather covers and long, flowing gold script down the spines.
He gives his friend a wide smile. It is the first time, for a long time, he truly feels himself again.] You like it. I can tell. [Jaskier looks around at it, gives a satisfied sigh, his hands on his hips.] I thought we deserved a piece of home. [His hand finds the wooden walls around them, tracing over the grain.] One of the last truly wonderful places I visited.
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He steps inside. Jaskier greets him with a warm smile and he finds himself returning it. He runs his fingers over the wall. A piece of home. Hm. He likes it. It feels...he can't explain it. Calm, but sturdy. As though it can weather any storm. His heart is not lighter, exactly. More that the weight of it, he feels as though he can carry it with a little more ease. It's subtle enough he almost doesn't notice. ]
It suits you. [ He means it. ] Show me around.
[ He's here to visit; he may as well see what Jaskier created. He can tell the bard is pleased with it. Besides, it takes his mind off his own domain—still home, but with all of the complicated memories it always holds. He supposes he doesn't know what it is to have a home that has no painful history.
Where Jaskier leads, Geralt falls into step beside him. He examines everything with genuine interest, even if he offers little commentary. And of course he can see Moglad in the distance, sword in hand. A steel blade now: blunted at the edges, but an upgrade from his wooden one. Geralt gave him a new sword a week or so ago. Felt it was time. ]
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[It is the only outward acceptance he'll give of the change in him. One that Geralt helped prompt -- whether he wishes to acknowledge it was through Moglad or some other means. Jaskier gives a pat to Geralt's arm, wiping his hands on his trousers; his dress is far less decorated here, crafted for comfort though it's still dyed in a rich, dark velvet red with embroidered birds across the shoulders.
He gives him the tour, and though the stairs seem to go upwards for ages, the domain does not allow them to get tired (unlike some stairs.) He shows him bedrooms, the greenhouses full of bright sunflowers and tangling potato and cucumber vines. There's the hives where the jewelwisp bees craft their own slightly purple-tinted honey. Lower down is a workshop with a furnace inside, though the fire within is trapped behind iron grating that does not even get hot to the touch.]
Just a little extra room I added if you needed something to keep your hands busy. As you well know, idle hands only bring trouble. [He flourishes past him, showing off the shelves of tools for picking at armor, tanning, sewing and cutting. Through the windows, one can see fluttering wisps go by, and Moglad practicing once again.]
If we go all the way down, there's a wine cellar. Fancy a glass?
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He remembers the caravan at the very start. A bard who would never settle or cease wandering. Look at him now.
The workshop brings Geralt to a pause. He cannot, in all honesty, recall a time when someone made a place explicitly for him. Nearly everywhere he goes, he's been an intruder, unwanted. Grudgingly tolerated. And it's—he obviously knows he's welcome in Jaskier's domain. It's not that. It's just—this is different. For a moment, he isn't sure what to say.
He picks up a small awl, then sets it back down. Idle hands. He huffs quietly. ] Wouldn't want that.
[ He straightens up, moving to join Jaskier, which serves as answer enough. He could have a glass. Several, he'd have said earlier, but right now the urge to drown himself in several bottles and lay facedown is abated. Mostly, he merely wants a drink with his friend. They haven't had much of that lately. Time to themselves. ]
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[He waits by the doorway as Geralt glances around, almost expecting him to take a seat and start working on something. However, wine's as good a decision as any, and with a push of Geralt's shoulder, he starts leading him back to the stairs.
Perhaps, in time, he'll find his way back here to work.
The stairs coil down but with plenty of room for them to go down side by side, lights flickering to life as the windows pale behind them. The air grows cool, but not uncomfortable, with a faint smell of must that's almost homey.
The wine cellar stretches out, displaying Bleobheris's roots, cabinets full of bottles, and a plate of cheeses and crackers already waiting for them in one of the benched nooks.] Come on. I made a new one out of elderflowers. I think you'll enjoy it.
[He scoots into the nook and pours them both a glass, stretching his legs out. The height of relaxation he is here, with soft cheese and emerald-winged moths gently fluttering the wings against the stone walls.]
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He rolls his eyes, but it's good-natured. They descend the stairs together: unhurried, taking in the sights. The leaves shine with a near-emerald glow. The wine cellar is reminiscent of Jaskier's vineyard—an evolved form, in a sense. He can see it, too, the vintages Jaskier created in the Horizon.
He slides into the nook across from Jaskier. Sniffs the cup he's given. It's nice, the wine. For awhile, he's quiet. And then: ]
Have you spoken to her?
[ Since the summit. He just—he's not talked about it. But something about this place feels...safer. Like maybe he can broach the topic without feeling as though he's been hollowed out and wrung dry. ]
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Jaskier's domain is much more intentional this time. It' good to see the intention behind it is... good. Helpful, even.
Jaskier swirls his wine, plucking up a small, blunt knife to cut through a bit of cheese. His fingers squish into it accidentally at the question.]
There's a lot of hers this could be, Geralt. As you know, I'm magnanimous towards the fairer sex, as you well know, and so very popular. [He sips, putting the glass down as he leans back with a sigh. There's only one her to Geralt, though.] Yes. We speak. I saw her at the summit, and we send those little... thoughts. Whatever you may call them. I imagine you have not?
[It's an idle question, only curious. It requires no explanation.]
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Complicated. As Geralt's. ]
I have. [ It's an easy presumption, that he's avoided her since the summit. He hasn't. He looks down at the cup of wine. Studies the dark liquid inside. ] I told her—
[ What. What did he tell her, precisely? That he is tired of searching for what isn't there? That he no longer trusts her? That he does not forgive her? All of those things. He just...some part of him feels as though he is letting Ciri down. That perhaps he should try harder, not for Yennefer, but for her. But he knows, too, that there is...what Ciri sees in Yennefer, Geralt does not. He simply does not. He's wanted to. He misses her. He misses what they were—what has been lost between them. But there's no sense in living for what could have been. ]
—I told her the truth.
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A lot of weight lays in those words. Jaskier waits patiently, though he isn't still, swirling the wine, running his thumb down the stem of the glass, sipping it. The air is heavier than it was before now that Yennefer is the topic, but -- but he is working hard for it to become nothing but slightly weighty.
Calm.
He told her...?
Jaskier tips his head. This, he knows, is not a joking matter.] Which truth was it? I know... [He pauses.] I understand you may not trust her again after what happened.
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I don't. [ The statement is final, simple. It is not a question of may. He does not. ] I told her as much.
[ He wants to be angry, and he is, but he isn't. Deep down, he just feels hurt. For him, it registers as an almost childish sort of hurt. He's been hurt often from loss, from pain, but this...betrayal from someone he'd trusted is—he only remembers feeling it when he was a boy. When his mother left him and did not look back.
He breathes in, the cool spring air. ] I gave her the jasper before I left.
[ Not Before we parted but Before I left. He left and he isn't certain he will return. He still believes she has something to offer Ciri. Ciri believes in her. Geralt does not owe Yennefer, but he does owe it to Ciri, to try and give her what she needs. And maybe alongside the girl, Yennefer will find her way. Until then, he doesn't want to wait. He does not want to make room in his heart for someone who refuses to be there. ]
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The lessons learned on the Continent were most often harsh ones. Jaskier has undergone desperation, survived it. Aided others through it. Well does he know the deeds people will commit when they think they have no other choice. The limits that are broken by true desperation.
He can't say whether Yennefer deserves forgiveness or not. It isn't the point of the matter. It isn't his to dole out, either.
He only reaches out to touch Geralt's hand.] I won't ask if you're sure. [Right now, he believes Geralt must be. What remains to be seen is how long he will remain sure.
So this is it, then. How an epic ends with hardly a whimper.]
I'll keep an eye on her. [Is all he offers, when the weight is too much. You will still have me. You found your way back to me. It is true. But the circumstances are completely different creatures. And he will not be a replacement for Yennefer, or a peg to fill that hole, even if he's sure that isn't why Geralt came here. Why he's brought it up.]
I'll keep her safe.
[A laughable concept to some, maybe. But it is not his first time, even if he never has detailed his work to Geralt in Oxenfurt.]
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I know. [ It's not laughable at all. The world is cold, dark. And he's found, over the years, that when it's too much, Jaskier has been there. Warm—insistently, protectively so. Safe. He hadn't known what to do with it at first except push it away.
He adds nothing more on the topic. For awhile, he sits, silent, Jaskier's hand on his. Eventually, he takes a sip of the wine. ]
I, ah. [ He scoffs a bit, like he knows how absurd it will sound. ] Your little pet. His bed is by the window.
[ Yes. He finished it. And the damn thing better like it. It's a nice bed. ]
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Jaskier likes to think this is not where it ends. Not because of Destiny, or the Wish -- if you ask him, he's never really believed in it, even if he knows better than the others the power behind a djinn -- but because of who Yennefer and Geralt are.
Both stubborn. Both idiots.
But...]
My little pet? [Jaskier repeats with a laugh, his eyes glowing. A bed! So that was what he was working on. And why Geralt wouldn't explain what it was.] I would say Mog is ours now, if you're building him beds. [He grins.] He'll love it. Right next to the sunlight. Thank you, Geralt.
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He pushes it aside and tips back more of his glass. ]
He isn't mine. I'm not taking it on walks. [ Token grumbling at best. It's clear he's already fond of the creature. He picks at the cheese; pours more wine. In the Horizon, he can indulge. He can shed his need to stay alert, to make sure he's. Keeping himself together, because he nearly went to pieces after what happened in Thorne and now—this, these memories. If he stops for too long, it feels as if he might be crushed under the weight of it all.
Everyone important to him, in Cadens—they are healing, slowly. Doing better. And he's realized this has left him with nowhere for his attentions to turn except inwards.
He is not keen on looking inwards right now. He just wants to fucking drink. ]
And I don't want to find him sleeping on top of me.
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It only makes sense. They came from the same world, the four of them. And like it or not, Destiny has inextricably tied them together with little red strings.]
He doesn't need walks. He isn't a dog. Gods, Geralt, have you never had a clever animal before?
[Jaskier gives him a laugh, squishing soft, salty brie between crackers that have slid onto the table, seemingly from nowhere.] Oh? Really? And what are you going to do if my deeply beloved pet gryphon takes a snooze on your snout? Turn him into a hat?
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[ Horses are clever. He will not be taking arguments. Regardless, this is beside the point. He only means to say that it's not—theirs. The gryphon. Even if he did craft it a bed and place it by the window, near a spot of afternoon sun.
He takes the crackers, ignoring that they've appeared from nowhere. The Horizon has become familiar to him now, how it shifts and grows and changes from one blink to the next. Geralt doesn't treat it that way—he's steady, unchanging, both in his appearance and his domain except where his mind takes over in places he doesn't want—but those he spends time with most in the Horizon are different. Moulding it on a whim, almost thoughtless. ]
He'd make for a decent hat. [ Geralt sits back, a hint more relaxed. He drains his wine, wonders if he should simply take the bottle itself. ] Plenty of feathers.
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[Er. He's fairly sure. Horses sort of walk themselves... anyway, that is far from the point. The point is Mog mostly takes care of himself, and Jaskier adores him and will not let anything happen to him. The other point is that he finds it delightful Geralt simply cannot help himself and is already attempting to father a young gryphon on top of his other responsibilities.
Jaskier throws a cracker at his head.] Don't you even jest! He is not getting turned into anything except a beloved family pet. He's already helped me tremendously.
[Not being alone, for one. And... simply, having him around makes Jaskier's heart warmer. He's wonderful company at the plant stand, for one.]
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He isn't certain what the point is. He's drinking the wine without paying attention. It matters not because he does not wish to be sober and this means the Horizon provides accordingly. The cracker narrowly misses his head as he leans to the side.
Family pet. He curls his fingers tighter around his glass. Is that what he's building here, yet again? (He is.) He doesn't...mean to leave his other family behind. It's just. They don't need him the same way. He's made his choice. His brothers still have each other. He has what he's got here.
His expression softens. Jaskier seems different. Genuinely so, rather than struggling to pretend he's all right. ] I am glad.
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You mean that.
[Not a knock against Geralt, really. He only... he's glad, in turn, that Geralt gets it. Without him having to explain. And Ciri, too, embraced the creature without any hesitation, even when Jaskier had been prepared for it. He wasn't sure. Monster hunters, you know. Even if Geralt had a rather soft heart for more than just monsters.
He could kiss him for it. Only because he really feels as if he is finding his footing again. Jaskier wants the same for his friend.]
A testament to the power of healing and time, I suppose. [His lips quirk. Geralt knows better than anyone that healing does not mean his nightmares have stopped. It does not mean Jaskier doesn't flinch from fire still, or goes to bed without the lamp on. But it means he isn't looking for answers in the bottom of bottles.] I'm glad you came, too. To see this place. You should stay as long as you like.
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Healing and time. He lowers his gaze. He knows. When you heal, the scars remain. They don't ever disappear. Jaskier still carries the burns on his fingers. Geralt still bears the scar down his spine, the lashes that mark his back. He can feel it when he bends, how the skin flexes not as it once did there. His dreams have not left him, either. In the desert, alone, he sleeps more often solely for the fact that he need not worry who will hear him in the night. ]
I haven't got elsewhere to be. [ He'll stay. He wants the calm for a bit longer. He finished the shelves, the bed. No contract to fill. Not much left for him to bury himself in. ] You?
[ He'll be here either way, whether Jaskier is with him or not. But admittedly, the company is...good. ]
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Jaskier's lips quirk, a solid warning to either his teasing or his flirtations.]
No. Mog has been fed for the night and, I imagine, he will soon discover his bed and lay in it for the next twenty hours. [It is not an exaggeration that Mog spends more of his time sleeping than awake. Which, honestly, is quite helpful to a man who rarely stays still.]
How about I give you a tour of some of the bedrooms? I even added a few decorations I think you'll like. You're more than welcome to bring the bottle with us. It's not as if it'll go empty here.
[After two decades, sometimes you can take a hasty guess at what, exactly, your friend could use from you. Including a solid distraction. Or a solid fuck. Either way.]
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The steps spiral upwards again, deep into the emerald leaves. Has Ciri seen it yet? Is he the first? Part of him feels as if he's missed things: between one contract or another, or the projects he's made for himself, he knows he's been burying his head a bit. Something is afoot with the eclipse, the Singularity. He should be concerned and he is, but at the same time, he's. Fucking tired.
Every room is inviting, warm. Sunlight filters through the branches. He traces the running wolves etched into the railings; perhaps when he's less full of wine, he might stop to think about what it really means. For now, all he does is step inside, liquor buzzing through his veins. He's looking at the decorations, but he's looking at Jaskier, too: slender fingers as they gesture, the cant of his hips, his lips. It isn't long before Geralt re-corks the wine and interrupts with a shove that pins Jaskier to the wall. The kiss is hungry, a hint sloppy, and he pulls at the quaint little bow at the back of those silk breeches. ]
nsfw begins here : )
Well. He wouldn't agree if he wasn't interested. It was that simple. If Jaskier could trust him about anything, it was that Geralt did not lie about what he felt. Or what he wanted.
At first, he does mean it to be a tour. There are all sorts of bedrooms for all sorts of people: extra tall ceilings, or cleared of plants and leaves (for those with allergies; the idea came from a professor Jaskier once had he was quite fond of, unfortunately allergic to the grasses staining their boots.) However, in one particular bedroom that Jaskier favors for its large bed and the prancing wolves, it is there Geralt pins him to the wall.
He barely releases a gasp, his lips turning up once his mouth has been so thoroughly explored.] Mm. I do love being right.
[If it tastes this sweet, he certainly does. He lifts his hips from the wall to give Geralt's hands room, cutting straight down Geralt's tunic with a claw-tipped ring that appears on his finger. Here he is king, and he has no time for buttons. The sound of cloth ripping nearly makes him laugh.] It's good wine, isn't it?
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Here they are.
He shrugs off his ruined shirt; lets it fall to the floor. ] I can think of better things.
[ Better things to taste, better things to want. He slips his hand inside Jaskier's loosened trousers. Curls his fingers around what he finds there.
Better things, indeed. Jaskier is offering and Geralt is taking. They both want. In the end, what does it matter, the reasons why? His heart aches. He won't deny that. He doesn't want to dwell on it. He wants to be here. With his friend, who looks lighter at last, who's decided to leave the Continent behind alongside him. He is building something, something important, and despite everything, he knows with all certainty that he wants Jaskier to be a part of it.
(He does not let himself think about all those vanishing faces, quietly fading from this world. If one day, Jaskier may join them. He can't, he won't.) ]
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