[ It occurs not at all to Geralt that Yen doesn't know his name. In his mind, she simply knows him. Will always know him now, because he's inextricably bound them together. Or because that's just what it means, to be...important to someone. He doesn't know. He's not ever had anything like her before, has never felt anything like what he does with her, and it means it's—
(He wonders if Ciri feels the same way. Being bound to him by Destiny.)
He pushes the thoughts aside. He doesn't want them here. Not now. He focuses on her face instead: the curl of her lashes, the faint violet glow of her eyes. The curve of her lips. That flicker that even now's not entirely gone away if he looks close enough. He wants to ask as much as he doesn't, wants to pull at this thread he's now seen. There are still so many parts of her he hasn't been privy to. It's the same for him. Pieces of himself he's told no one, not even her. Sometimes he'd wanted to. He'd thought about it on occasion, before he held back, uncertain if he'd be bearing too much of his heart. Uncertain what would happen if he gave too much of himself away to another.
He wants to kiss her. He doesn't. Despite the distance between their bodies, this feels like the closest they've been in a long time.
The edges of his lips curl ever so slightly. It shouldn't matter. A name. The wolf isn't real, either. But it's kept Jaskier company and now it's led Yennefer safely around the Horizon. He doesn't know what it means, that he's grown fond of a creature manifested entirely out of another's imagination. An animal that'll never leave this plane. An animal that was always meant to be more than just any wild wolf, a fact he's avoided consciously acknowledging—even if he's confronted with it every time he lays eyes on the wolf and sees the same marks cutting jagged across its skin, its white fur.
He makes a vaguely thoughtful noise. ] Names are what separate us from common beasts.
no subject
(He wonders if Ciri feels the same way. Being bound to him by Destiny.)
He pushes the thoughts aside. He doesn't want them here. Not now. He focuses on her face instead: the curl of her lashes, the faint violet glow of her eyes. The curve of her lips. That flicker that even now's not entirely gone away if he looks close enough. He wants to ask as much as he doesn't, wants to pull at this thread he's now seen. There are still so many parts of her he hasn't been privy to. It's the same for him. Pieces of himself he's told no one, not even her. Sometimes he'd wanted to. He'd thought about it on occasion, before he held back, uncertain if he'd be bearing too much of his heart. Uncertain what would happen if he gave too much of himself away to another.
He wants to kiss her. He doesn't. Despite the distance between their bodies, this feels like the closest they've been in a long time.
The edges of his lips curl ever so slightly. It shouldn't matter. A name. The wolf isn't real, either. But it's kept Jaskier company and now it's led Yennefer safely around the Horizon. He doesn't know what it means, that he's grown fond of a creature manifested entirely out of another's imagination. An animal that'll never leave this plane. An animal that was always meant to be more than just any wild wolf, a fact he's avoided consciously acknowledging—even if he's confronted with it every time he lays eyes on the wolf and sees the same marks cutting jagged across its skin, its white fur.
He makes a vaguely thoughtful noise. ] Names are what separate us from common beasts.