[Truthfully, Jaskier does not expect an answer. He simply... he finds value in saying the words, setting them out into the world to someone, anyone. Or, rather, someone who will understand.
This is not like losing a loved one to heart break. Not even to plague. Jaskier does not know what happened to him. He will never know.
(Please, let Rinwell be with her friends. Please. Let Hector have found others. And, selfishly, please do not let me be forgotten.)
Yet a response does come. The question makes him laugh out loud, and though the others question it, he can't really explain it. It is something between Geralt and himself.
Jaskier goes to the Ho rizon once they are safely back in their room to meet the newest addition to Bleobheris's branches. He adores the creature nearly instantly; he is sure Hector would've been enamored with it. And even though its hoot is a little unnerving, Jaskier hardly notices it is not like a normal owl at all. When he first visits to see its color, to determine its name, he lets it roost on his shoulder. He introduces it to the goldfinch. And as they familiarize, calling to each other, they take to the sky side by side.
He finds the name easily.]
Marjon.
[Bitter. For the memories the owl will bring. Bitter. Bitter, but sweet.]
no subject
This is not like losing a loved one to heart break. Not even to plague. Jaskier does not know what happened to him. He will never know.
(Please, let Rinwell be with her friends. Please. Let Hector have found others. And, selfishly, please do not let me be forgotten.)
Yet a response does come. The question makes him laugh out loud, and though the others question it, he can't really explain it. It is something between Geralt and himself.
Jaskier goes to the Ho rizon once they are safely back in their room to meet the newest addition to Bleobheris's branches. He adores the creature nearly instantly; he is sure Hector would've been enamored with it. And even though its hoot is a little unnerving, Jaskier hardly notices it is not like a normal owl at all. When he first visits to see its color, to determine its name, he lets it roost on his shoulder. He introduces it to the goldfinch. And as they familiarize, calling to each other, they take to the sky side by side.
He finds the name easily.]
Marjon.
[Bitter. For the memories the owl will bring. Bitter. Bitter, but sweet.]
It sounds a bit like your grunts.