[ After Ciri showed up at his door and failed to find recognition in his gaze, she had disappeared. Geralt had not pursued her. He tells himself he doesn't want to upset her further. The truth is, it's painful to have something so close to the surface of his mind and yet unreachable. He feels helpless—unmoored. A scattering of years and months that come and go. Pieces of a puzzle that he cannot fit into the right places.
Jaskier fills more of the picture than others. He isn't sure why that is. He remembers...singing, mostly. Familiar melodies that the sandpiper on his shoulder whistles. He's joined Jaskier in a remote area of the continent, the forest sprouting around him as it always does. A tree spreads its thick arms overhead. Geralt sits beneath its leaves, one knee drawn up and the other leg extended.
He has a book in his hand—a bestiary borrowed from Istredd's library—and a mug of ale to the side. A cooking pot sits atop a campfire. Chunks of rabbit and carrots bubble. Food is no longer a necessity, but the act is a routine he prefers to keep. He likes to hunt. He likes to have things to do: chopping firewood, brushing his horse, butchering meat.
At least he remembers how to do those things.
When he finally breaks the silence, it's to ask: ] Did she speak to you? Afterwards.
[Life, Jaskier can say, has always been a winding, unpredictable adventure -- one, it seems, that has no end the longer on it goes -- but he can say there is never a part of him that had prepared, or would have guessed, that the one person who had shared so much of it with him would, quite suddenly, forget it all.
That he would be alone with those memories. Of songs long past, and punches to his gut, of death and blood and fires and a single, single thing he always placed his trust in: hope.
Jaskier's naked feet walk through the grass that springs around them, fighting with Geralt's forest lichen to grow swathes of clover.
It's always been funny to him, this life springing so naturally around a Witcher. Now he does not even realize that instead of following the Path, the Path trails behind him.] No. You know Ciri. [he says with a shrug, hopping over to peer into Geralt's pot, the clovers turning over to dandelions as he lifts the pot's lid.
He inhales, deep, a little flutter in his eyes.] Or, er, not anymore, I suppose. No, she didn't. She's always stomped off once she's had her final word. I fear I'm sometimes only an afterthought. [He says it with an airy tone and a smile on his lips, spinning the pot lid around his fingers even as it tries to burn them.] She's just like you in all the ways that matter, even now.
[ Mm. Just like him. He can scarcely remember what he is like. What he's supposed to be, how he is. Was. Did he used to feel a constant simmering anger? Bitter frustration in the back of his throat? Or is that new?
It stings. Ciri. He doesn't remember her, but her absence—the knowledge that he drove her away—is a knife between his ribs. He need not be told she is important to him. He can feel it. His heart knows it. At least Jaskier has not turned away from him, and for that, he's grateful. He can tell it isn't easy for his...friend.
His travel companion of endless roads.
He closes the book. The forest is peaceful. He wishes he could absorb the same calm. ]
I have bits of it. With you. The woods. The dryads. [ Absently, he rubs over the scar etched into his thigh. ] I remember old taverns that stank of piss and cheap ale.
[ And Jaskier, on the stage. That much has stayed consistent. Perhaps that's why he feels less unsteady with Jaskier. There's a rhythm to everything they ever were. ]
[With a sigh, he replaces the pot lid, now that their little bit of forest has filled with the smell of stew. It is all very exhausting, if anyone asked (which no one has, funny enough), but he wouldn't really be anywhere else, either. Not when Geralt needs him.
Even if he doesn't know he does.
Jaskier turns to him with a flourish, then plops down right in front of him, bare toes to boots.] Don't I know it! This time you didn't greet me with a punch to the gut, which told me enough. [There's no flattery in being remembered in fragments; the only question is, why does Geralt have anything left of him, but none of Ciri? There is no question who is the one who is Geralt's core. That always has been, since that... shit. What was it? A party?] You remember such depressing parts. We'll have to work on the more fun things. Like... [He trails off. Wait, this is harder than he thought. "Geralt" and "fun".] Remember that one time you were picking flowers for an elixir, and I managed to push you into the river? It was only the one time, but I vowed to never forget it.
[And he's pretty sure Geralt let him do it... there was no disguising his footsteps. (Not back then, at least.) But now he rocks back and forth with a smile, and most of his movements are oh so quiet.] I would hate you to think your life has been nothing but moldy black spots. There have been so many sparks of light.
[ He frowns a little to himself. He does not recall the image, but he does recall something else. A feeling. A deep ache he cannot explain but knows full well he was the cause of in his friend. (Heartbreak.)
He shakes it off and snorts softly. ] I remember when you stole my fish.
[ Running off with it in his little beastly beak. He leans back against the tree. Despite the topic at hand, he's...okay. Better than he was. Perhaps he's getting used to it. The void in his memories, the flickers of recognition. Some are painful, but Jaskier is right. Not all of them cast long shadows. ]
It's not. [ He hesitates. ] It isn't now.
[ He likes being here. He feels the spark of light around Jaskier. While a part of him won't say it out loud, he will not deny it, either. Sometimes, he thinks, isn't that enough? Can't that be enough? He knows what upset Ciri most recently was his refusal to attend to a cure that felt too much like a path to madness. The last thing he wants is to lose his fucking mind entirely. This, it's all he has. ]
[Jaskier laughs, real mirth that wrinkles the skin around his eyes -- it'd stuck like that, when he'd stopped aging, and now the little details that had once so bothered him when Yennefer brought them up are touching, soft things that he sometimes checks to make sure they haven't disappeared on him.] I've stolen your fish lots! You'll have to narrow it down a bit.
[But any memory Geralt can recall is good, because even one recalled memory proves that he can remember. Whatever that magic did to the scrambled eggs that are now his brains, they can be carefully scooped back into their shells.
Shaken up a bit, but mostly the same.]
You should recall all the times you said my presence was a constant, buzzing annoyance in your ear, then! [He hops back up, stretching his legs, then plops right next to the giant wolf-man Geralt's become -- or perhaps always been. He's always felt larger than his body truly was, except the times when he was on death's door, and seemed infinitely small.] I am glad for it. Imagine if you couldn't stand me anymore? Who would you even be? [He pushes him with a shoulder.] As fun as all this reading under trees must be, you must plan on doing more than this today. Think of how many hours you've got left under the burning sun! [And obviously he's already hunted, but --] Maybe a spot of fishing? No hooks or lines or anything fancy. Just our hands and the flow of the water. And I shan't steal them after.
[ It's true. Dean, Yen, Sam—they have all assured him the same. Time is what he needs, and they've plenty of that these days. And yet, he can't ignore Ciri's pain. She's the reason he continues to try, reaching and reaching to see what he can find in the depths.
A small smile curves his lips. Jaskier hops and bounces like a bird. Geralt, meanwhile, wears his shroud like armour, the shape of the wolf draped around him. He supposes he could remove it, and often he has, but for now—he feels comfortable in the illusory skin. ]
Who says I can stand you? [ Mm. Well. He did, just now, a second ago. He glances up at the sun, over to the running stream. He does not need to fish. They've plenty to eat for supper. The land is a bounty for those such as them.
But. He could use something to do.
He rises, finally lowering the hood of his cloak. The ears and snout melt away, though the fur of the cloak remains, trailing behind him. From a distance, it resembles a giant wolf's tail. ]
A challenge then. [ His eyes glint. ] I'll catch. And you see how many you can steal.
[If there ever was a time he doubted such a thing, it no longer rings in his memory. They have been with each other the same way the sun and moon have -- chasing and meeting and inevitable. It all suits them, if you ask him. The meeting of winter and spring.
Though you'd be hard-pressed to think of winter associated with Geralt but for his white hair, surrounded by all this lush forest. Sometimes Jaskier thinks he got it from him. Stole a bit of his motif.
Jaskier hops up, a brightness surrounded him like the sun has crept its way through the tree boughs.] Perfect! There is absolutely no way you'll win. By the way -- if I do win, what do I get? It has to be very good, you know, to hold my attention.
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amnesia years — ◈ jaskier.
Jaskier fills more of the picture than others. He isn't sure why that is. He remembers...singing, mostly. Familiar melodies that the sandpiper on his shoulder whistles. He's joined Jaskier in a remote area of the continent, the forest sprouting around him as it always does. A tree spreads its thick arms overhead. Geralt sits beneath its leaves, one knee drawn up and the other leg extended.
He has a book in his hand—a bestiary borrowed from Istredd's library—and a mug of ale to the side. A cooking pot sits atop a campfire. Chunks of rabbit and carrots bubble. Food is no longer a necessity, but the act is a routine he prefers to keep. He likes to hunt. He likes to have things to do: chopping firewood, brushing his horse, butchering meat.
At least he remembers how to do those things.
When he finally breaks the silence, it's to ask: ] Did she speak to you? Afterwards.
[ After she left him, he means. ]
no subject
That he would be alone with those memories. Of songs long past, and punches to his gut, of death and blood and fires and a single, single thing he always placed his trust in: hope.
Jaskier's naked feet walk through the grass that springs around them, fighting with Geralt's forest lichen to grow swathes of clover.
It's always been funny to him, this life springing so naturally around a Witcher. Now he does not even realize that instead of following the Path, the Path trails behind him.] No. You know Ciri. [he says with a shrug, hopping over to peer into Geralt's pot, the clovers turning over to dandelions as he lifts the pot's lid.
He inhales, deep, a little flutter in his eyes.] Or, er, not anymore, I suppose. No, she didn't. She's always stomped off once she's had her final word. I fear I'm sometimes only an afterthought. [He says it with an airy tone and a smile on his lips, spinning the pot lid around his fingers even as it tries to burn them.] She's just like you in all the ways that matter, even now.
no subject
It stings. Ciri. He doesn't remember her, but her absence—the knowledge that he drove her away—is a knife between his ribs. He need not be told she is important to him. He can feel it. His heart knows it. At least Jaskier has not turned away from him, and for that, he's grateful. He can tell it isn't easy for his...friend.
His travel companion of endless roads.
He closes the book. The forest is peaceful. He wishes he could absorb the same calm. ]
I have bits of it. With you. The woods. The dryads. [ Absently, he rubs over the scar etched into his thigh. ] I remember old taverns that stank of piss and cheap ale.
[ And Jaskier, on the stage. That much has stayed consistent. Perhaps that's why he feels less unsteady with Jaskier. There's a rhythm to everything they ever were. ]
no subject
Even if he doesn't know he does.
Jaskier turns to him with a flourish, then plops down right in front of him, bare toes to boots.] Don't I know it! This time you didn't greet me with a punch to the gut, which told me enough. [There's no flattery in being remembered in fragments; the only question is, why does Geralt have anything left of him, but none of Ciri? There is no question who is the one who is Geralt's core. That always has been, since that... shit. What was it? A party?] You remember such depressing parts. We'll have to work on the more fun things. Like... [He trails off. Wait, this is harder than he thought. "Geralt" and "fun".] Remember that one time you were picking flowers for an elixir, and I managed to push you into the river? It was only the one time, but I vowed to never forget it.
[And he's pretty sure Geralt let him do it... there was no disguising his footsteps. (Not back then, at least.) But now he rocks back and forth with a smile, and most of his movements are oh so quiet.] I would hate you to think your life has been nothing but moldy black spots. There have been so many sparks of light.
no subject
He shakes it off and snorts softly. ] I remember when you stole my fish.
[ Running off with it in his little beastly beak. He leans back against the tree. Despite the topic at hand, he's...okay. Better than he was. Perhaps he's getting used to it. The void in his memories, the flickers of recognition. Some are painful, but Jaskier is right. Not all of them cast long shadows. ]
It's not. [ He hesitates. ] It isn't now.
[ He likes being here. He feels the spark of light around Jaskier. While a part of him won't say it out loud, he will not deny it, either. Sometimes, he thinks, isn't that enough? Can't that be enough? He knows what upset Ciri most recently was his refusal to attend to a cure that felt too much like a path to madness. The last thing he wants is to lose his fucking mind entirely. This, it's all he has. ]
no subject
[But any memory Geralt can recall is good, because even one recalled memory proves that he can remember. Whatever that magic did to the scrambled eggs that are now his brains, they can be carefully scooped back into their shells.
Shaken up a bit, but mostly the same.]
You should recall all the times you said my presence was a constant, buzzing annoyance in your ear, then! [He hops back up, stretching his legs, then plops right next to the giant wolf-man Geralt's become -- or perhaps always been. He's always felt larger than his body truly was, except the times when he was on death's door, and seemed infinitely small.] I am glad for it. Imagine if you couldn't stand me anymore? Who would you even be? [He pushes him with a shoulder.] As fun as all this reading under trees must be, you must plan on doing more than this today. Think of how many hours you've got left under the burning sun! [And obviously he's already hunted, but --] Maybe a spot of fishing? No hooks or lines or anything fancy. Just our hands and the flow of the water. And I shan't steal them after.
no subject
A small smile curves his lips. Jaskier hops and bounces like a bird. Geralt, meanwhile, wears his shroud like armour, the shape of the wolf draped around him. He supposes he could remove it, and often he has, but for now—he feels comfortable in the illusory skin. ]
Who says I can stand you? [ Mm. Well. He did, just now, a second ago. He glances up at the sun, over to the running stream. He does not need to fish. They've plenty to eat for supper. The land is a bounty for those such as them.
But. He could use something to do.
He rises, finally lowering the hood of his cloak. The ears and snout melt away, though the fur of the cloak remains, trailing behind him. From a distance, it resembles a giant wolf's tail. ]
A challenge then. [ His eyes glint. ] I'll catch. And you see how many you can steal.
no subject
[If there ever was a time he doubted such a thing, it no longer rings in his memory. They have been with each other the same way the sun and moon have -- chasing and meeting and inevitable. It all suits them, if you ask him. The meeting of winter and spring.
Though you'd be hard-pressed to think of winter associated with Geralt but for his white hair, surrounded by all this lush forest. Sometimes Jaskier thinks he got it from him. Stole a bit of his motif.
Jaskier hops up, a brightness surrounded him like the sun has crept its way through the tree boughs.] Perfect! There is absolutely no way you'll win. By the way -- if I do win, what do I get? It has to be very good, you know, to hold my attention.