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hanzajesthanza · 1 year

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toruviel appreciation post

Edge of the World, Pt. VI, description:

The elf standing over Dandelion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a colored shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.

The elf leaned over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a strap, wrapped several times around her neck.

He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.

Edge of the World, Pt. VI, Dandelion's lute:

Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. “Musician!” she growled. “A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!” Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf's hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandelion's chest. “Play on a cow's horn, you savage, not a lute.” The poet turned as white as death; his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel's eyes with his own. “What are you staring at?” hissed the elf, leaning over. “Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?” (...) The elf nodded. From her saddlebow, she took a lute, a marvelous instrument of light, tastefully inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandelion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal.

Time of Contempt, Ch. 1:

Toruviel leapt to her feet, seizing and belting on her sword, and poked Yaevinn in the thigh with the toe of her boot. He had been dozing, leaning against the wall of a hollow, and when he sprang up he scorched his hand as he pushed off from the hot sand. ‘Que suecc’s?’ ‘A rider on the road.’ ‘One?’ said Yaevinn, lifting his bow and quiver. ‘Cairbre? Only one?’ ‘Only one. He’s getting closer.’ ‘Let’s fix him then. It’ll be one less Dh’oine.’ ‘Forget it,’ said Toruviel, grabbing him by the sleeve. ‘Why bother? We were supposed to carry out reconnaissance and then join the commando. Are we to murder civilians on the road? Is that what fighting for freedom is about?’ ‘Precisely. Stand aside.’

Lady of the Lake, Ch. 10:

The elves came closer. They looked even worse than the horses. Nothing remained of their pride, of their hard-earned, supercilious, charismatic otherness. Their clothing–usually even on guerrillas from the commando units smart and beautiful–was dirty, torn and stained. Their hair–their pride and joy–was dishevelled, matted with sticky filth and clotted blood. Their large eyes, usually vain and lacking in any expression, were now abysses of panic and despair. Nothing remained of their otherness. Death, terror, hunger and homelessness had made them become ordinary. Very ordinary.

An elf woman with long, dark hair caked together with congealed blood stopped her horse right beside the wagon. She sat in the saddle leaning over awkwardly, protecting an arm in a blood-soaked sling around which flies buzzed and swarmed. ‘Toruviel,’ said one of the elves, turning around. ‘En’ca digne, luned.’ Lucienne instantly realised, understood, what it was about. She understood what the elf woman was looking at. The peasant girl had been familiar from childhood with the blue-grey, swollen spectre, the apparition of famine, lurking around the corner of her cottage. So she reacted instinctively and unerringly. She held out the bread towards the elf woman.

The invalids on the wagon, until then petrified and frozen in their tracks, suddenly twitched, as though animated by a magic spell. Quarter loaves ofbread, rounds of cheese, pieces of fatback and sausage appeared–as if by magic– in the hands that they held out towards the elves. And for the first time in a thousand years elves were holding their hands out towards humans.

and her depiction in hexer, which i love, as they included her raven-black hair:

#toruviel #the witcher #the witcher books #character descriptions in the books #c: toruviel #gordeev as always nails the fucking outfits and details

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hungerofhadarr · 1 year

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Hi . Throws these at you like i’ m throwing sand in ur eyes . Assorted doodles and drawings

#the witcher #priscilla #priscilla the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #ivar evil eye #witcher ivar evil eye #witcher jerome #iorveth #iorveth the witcher #toruviel #toruviel the witcher #school of the viper #school of the griffin #school of the eagle #GIRL HELP IT’ S ALL TAGS DOWN HERE #yennefer #warritt the all seeing #witcher warritt the all seeing #so guess who made some spelling mistakes

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between-thepages · 9 months

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Fire and Smoke (Ficlet)

Rating: M

Summary: The silence of the night is interrupted by the striking of a match against its box.

Additional Warnings: Arson

Pairing: Iorveth/Isengrim

Part of House of Troubles, my Scoia'tael Modern AU

#my witcher fanfiction #my writing #iorveth/isengrim #Iorveth #isengrim faoiltiarna #Toruviel #the witcher #house of troubles

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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I Can't Believe It's Not Fanon IV

Otherwise known as...

Witcher facts that sound like Geraskier fic writers made them up, but that are, in fact, book canon.

PART FOUR:

Dandelion is the personification of this tweet:

Every self respecting Geraskier fic portrays Jaskier as being Geralt's biggest fan, ready to hype him to the heavens and ensure that everyone else acts appropriately impressed by Geralt.

One could be forgiven for thinking that fic writers are exaggerating this slightly for effect.

So what is it? Is: Dandelion hypes and defends Geralt like he's his specialist boy canon?

It's canon. You'd better believe it.

Dandelion (Jaskier) loves Geralt.

There is no question about that. Though Dandelion is gregarious and has friends wherever he goes, Geralt is by far the object of his most enthusiastic devotion. There's no one else who even comes close.

His love of Geralt is his superpower. Whenever we see him undertaking difficult actions contrary to his nature (passing up bawdy houses and taverns to warn Geralt that he is being pursued Blood Of Elves p 193-195), or committing dangerous, violent, life threatening actions, even though he is about to piss himself from fear--like when he followed Geralt into Brokilon to check on him, even though he was practically catatonic with terror (Time of Contempt 201-210) or ran into a violent homicidal mob armed only with a broom (The Lady of the Lake p 514 but uh don't look it up for context unless you want a major major spoiler)--it is for Geralt. It is always for Geralt.

If there is one thing Dandelion is gonna do, it's go to bat for Geralt.

He curses and threatens people who harm Geralt, even people could kill him in a heartbeat. When Geralt and Dandelion are held captive by Filavandrel, Dandelion curses Toruviel for kicking Geralt:

"Enough of that! Enough for gods' sake!" Dandelion yelled fretfully, wriggling and tumbling in the ropes. "Why are you bullying him you, you stupid whore?..."

When Geralt pleads with Filavandrel to spare Dandelion, Filavandrel says that he can't, because if he spares Dandelion, the poet will just come back to avenge Geralt. At that point, logic and sense would dictate that Dandelion go along with Geralt's plan and lie. (after all, he's very comfortable with lying) But he can't even lie about that. Instead, Dandelion threatens to level the very mountains they are standing on if they kill Geralt.

"You can be sure of that!" Dandelion burst out, pale as death. "You can be sure, you son-of-a-bitch. Kill me too, because I promise otherwise, I'll set the world against you. You'll see what lice from a fur coat can do! We'll finish you off even if we have to level those mountains of yours to the ground! You can be sure of that!"

"How stupid you are, Dandelion," sighed the witcher.

The Last Wish, pp 190-200

But it isn't just dramatic, life threatening moments. What about that meme? What about just forcing people to treat Geralt like the specialist boy that he is? Well folks, he does that too.

Dandelion hypes Geralt up to aldermen, (like he's Geralt's lawyer or agent), making sure they respect his profession:

"It's a profession," explained Dandelion yet again. "A witcher, do you understand? He kills strigas and spectres. He exterminates all sorts of vermin. Professionally. For money. Do you get it, alderman?" --The Last Wish, page 164

Sure, he's explaining. But he's also making sure the alderman knows he's paying Geralt if he wants him to do anything.

He mocks armed knights when he feels they are taking advantage of Geralt. In The Last Wish, a knight named Falwick tries to trap Geralt in a no win situation, saying he must duel a particular man or he will be hanged, but specifies that if he injures the man, he will be charged with a crime. Dandelion butts in to mock him :

"How logical," said Dandelion with an ape like expression. "I see you've studied the philosophers, Sir Knight."

When Geralt threatens to just kill them all and leave, Falwick appeals to his conscience, throwing Blaviken in his face. Again, Dandelion intervenes, spiky and mocking (because god knows the deadly, mutated witcher can't defend himself). First, he says the man is being hypocritical.

"Your argument is charming, Captain, fascinating even," mocked Dandelion. "You're trying to bait a man ambushed in the forest with humanitarianism, calling on his noble feelings. You're asking him, as I understand, to deign not to spill the blood of the brigands who attacked him. He's to take pity on the thugs because the thugs are poor, have got wives, children, and who knows, maybe even mothers."

Notice he's calling them, these "noble" knights and soldiers, thugs. That is a loaded word usually reserved for Geralt. Then he basically says that all his pussy ass soldiers are gonna run for the hills the minute Geralt moves a muscle anyway. Because his witcher is a stone cold badass.

"...But don't you think, Captain Canmer, that your worrying is premature? Because I look at your lancers and see that their knees are shaking at the very thought of fighting Geralt of Rivia, the witcher who dealt with a striga alone with his bare hands."

Now, notice Dandelion is embellishing Geralt's accomplishment a bit here. Geralt had his swords and used his signs when he fought the striga. Why would he, a professional who comes prepared, fight a striga with his bare hands? But you can never accuse Dandelion of failing to hype up his witcher. But he doesn't stop there.

"There won't be any bloodshed here; nobody will be harmed here -- aside from those who might break their legs running away."

So he will always speak up for Geralt. He will always tell you how impressive Geralt is.

But he goes even further than that! He doesn't just reprimand people who would trick, harm, or take advantage of Geralt. Dandelion doesn't even like people to mildly question Geralt. It's hilarious.

He even reprimands their dear friend Zoltan Chivay, who he absolutely adores (seriously, it's very sweet how much he adores him), when the dwarf (very understandably) questions why Geralt wants a ladle and cauldron to deal with a monster.

"Fetch the ladle and cauldron lid from the wagon."

"What?"

"Don't question his authority, Zoltan," Dandelion chipped in.

Baptism of Fire

--p87

I swear to god I cackled when I read that. Geralt is his very special boy and no one is allowed to talk back to Geralt (except him, of course, he gets to talk back to Geralt all he wants).

There are so many more things I could cite. I have more examples of Dandelion mercilessly mocking people on Geralt's behalf here. I haven't even touched on the songs he writes about Geralt that make him a legend.

You just can't capture everything he does to hype Geralt in one post, but if anyone has other great moments of Dandelion hyping Geralt, feel free to add and I'll rb.

But bottom line, Dandelion admires Geralt. He respects him. He loves him. And even though he's perfectly willing to tell him when he's being an idiot, he won't allow anyone else to do so.

That is his specialest boy, and if you don't cheer and clap for him, an egotistical, slutty, nightmare of a poet will fucking blow your whole building up.

Is it any wonder that I adore this friendship, and adore it as a ship? This famous, beloved, bard with noble blood will (metaphorically) scratch your fucking eyes out if you disrespect his mutant friend, who, though though is admired by many, also undeniably belongs to a marginalized, oppressed class.

This poet, who abhors violence, is useless in combat, and who practically shits himself at the sight of blood, will run screaming into a bloody melee armed with only a broom to defend his witcher. I just. How can I not love this???? He is so dumb for thinking Geralt needs him. But yet. Geralt does need him. You know? And it's beautiful.

----

Ok, so here are the posts for I Can’t Believe It’s Not Fanon that I have written or intend to write.

PART ONE: Jaskier (Dandelion) is kidnapped and Geralt goes absolutely terrifyingly batshit homicidal to rescue him.

PART TWO: Geralt can scent lust

PART THREE: Geralt travels with Jaskier for years but has no idea that he is a viscount. When he does find out, it is in public, from a third party, and yes it is hilarious. (Bonus. Ciri finds out this way as well)

Geralt and Dandelion operate as a domestic unit, pooling their money and making financial decisions together. Also, Dandelion bullies racists and Geralt secretly likes it. (I wrote this one a while ago but I think it belongs here.

A shape shifter reads Geralt’s mind, then turns into Jaskier because he knows that’s the best way to protect himself.

Geralt and Jaskier share beds.

Geralt and Jaskier share clothes.

Geralt may play it cool to his face, but he thinks Jaskier has a gorgeous voice.

Jaskier has a voice so beautiful, it can calm a monster.

Geralt drops everything to protect Jaskier, every time, even in the middle of battles when there are other people around to protect.

They also share a kiss in a few of the translations, but not all. It’s a very “y yo también” situation.

If you have any requests, drop me an ask.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #gerlion #the witcher books #i can't believe it's not fanon #canon or fanon

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tennara-art · 2 months

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"Sworn Lovers"

Event in ask on February 14

I translated it using Google translator, sorry:

"The wind shook the centuries-old trees, filling the garden with knocking and creaking. Their huge crowns hid two figures from the last rays of the setting sun. The viscous air still did not want to enter her lungs. Is the terrible heat from the heavenly body, which heated nature to red, to blame for this, or perhaps it is the fault of the passionate excitement that then appears on the perfect skin of the elf woman? Either way, things are getting harder... “Toruviel, my love,” how harsh his voice sounds now, “look at me.” The remnants of the warm light are gone; their place was taken by velvet darkness. There was darkness in Siegfried's eyes too. – Don’t think about what awaits us next. This night we belong only to each other. The young man, like a statue in these gardens, tenderly embraced his beloved, merging with her in a kiss. And the crickets chirped."

#the witcher #toruviel #scoia'tael #elf art #the witcher fanart #ведьмак #wiedźmin #artists on tumblr #digital art #my art #art #fanart #illustration #artwork #ask #siegfried of denesle #fanfic #witcher fanfiction

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minne-cerbinna · 1 year

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See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

#my artwork #the witcher #the witcher fanart #the witcher games #yaevinn #iorveth #toruviel #scoia'tael #deeply fond of them #they are a trio to me

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restless-witch · 5 months

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nothing in the world is mine, but my love, mine

hey hey I did a one-shot for once, I've posted it on Ao3 here but I know some of y'all like to read fic on tumblr so it's below the cut

Comments and likes always appreciated <3

He clocks the bard as either noble or a romantic the moment he sees the gloves on his hands. They're subtle, as far as the custom goes, a dark olive colored kidskin with a simple flower button wrapped around his wrist and covering only his thumb. The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the path together, though out of utility. a quick soulmates AU where soulmates have matching marks on the sides of their hands // title shamelessly stolen from Mitski's "My Love Mine All Mine"

Rated: T for swearing

Fandom: The WItcher TV

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier), background Yennralt (Yennefer of Vengerber/Geralt of Rivia)

Language: English

It's not satisfying when the bards confirms both to be true on their way to investigate the devil but when they're being kicked by Toruviel, he thinks that if the bard was a full gloved wearing hack then they'd both be dead.

Which also isn't satisfying.

The Witcher always wears gloves of a kind, Jaskier determines after a few weeks on the Path together, though out of utility.

Apparently the most dressed down the witcher ever gets is a pair of fingerless gloves worn even to sleep. Something about improving his grip and tendon injuries- Geralt tenses up when he can sense Jaskier wants to ask if witchers even have marks. Jaskier can feel how fragile their friendship is. He doesn't press the issue.

He hopes that puts a mark in his favor.

By the end of the season, Geralt determines the bard has no less than seven pairs of gloves- yet only two of them are permitted to actually get dirtied. Two suede pairs to match the colors of his "lover's eyes" (unoriginally brown and blue), three pairs for wearing in town, and a scant two pairs for all his bathing, cooking, and laundry.

It's utterly ridiculous.

Before they part at Ban Glan for the winter, he tells the bard to get more sensible gloves before spring on the Path.

He's at Ard Carraig before he realizes he planned for the bard to join him again.

When he returns to Oxenfurt, the two pairs of gloves he has for washing are nearly worn to shreds- he throws them down on the table at the Wishful Warbler with a grin when Shani asks about his travels. He's going on real adventures with his-maybe-friend-Geralt and getting dirty and everything. He spends the winter as a research assistant to Professor Berlyn and learning to make stacks of washing gloves.

His friends, who largely only own a pair or two or have entirely dispensed with the custom, are overrun with gloves of varying quality. Priscilla generously accepts a stack whose thumbs must all be split open to accommodate even her dainty digit.

He manages to barter for a pair of amber saffron dyed kidskin gloves- painstakingly transcribing Metz's treatises on celestial calendars small enough for Valdo Marx to use them as crib notes.

It's worth it.

It's a true lark to set them along with his brown and blue gloves and he whistles when they meet up in the spring and he waggles them in Geralt's face and thinks Geralt is about to strangle him- before the ludacris stack of washing gloves topples out of his bag onto the witcher's lap and he can't help but bark a laugh into Jaskier's delighted face.

He knows the bard is, at least, serious about walking the Path when he drops the stack of gloves on Geralt's lap. It's a bit of a child's attempt at adulthood, he admits to himself because he knows it would crush the bard to know twenty years of life does not make a man.

Still, it dampens his concerns of noble nonsense a bit to see where the calluses from needlework have made his fingertips even more knobby alongside the ones from his lute. For all the work Jaskier puts into his hands- carefully filing down his calluses and nails when they crack and rubbing ointments in before he beds down- Geralt can see it's a dedication to practicality and not vanity.

The bard is unconcerned by the healing scars where broken strings have cut into the flesh or the uneven tan marks across the backs of his hands where the different gloves have sat.

Jaskier wonders, just a teensy bit, if Geralt's glove wearing excuse isn't a little... weak.

Always needing his full grip strength?

It's a lighthearted solstice evening where he's helping Geralt in the bath when the witcher turns his head to the side, immediately stands up and storms over to the next room (nearly cock out and everything if Jaskier hadn't thought to throw the bath sheet at him) and throws an unwanted suitor off the serving girl.

There's suds dripping out of Geralt's hair all over the floor that he knows he'll wipe up later with the very gloves he's wearing now and Jaskier thinks he is maybe falling in love, for real this time.

A handful of times, he catches the bard cooing over marks in taverns. He wonders if it's a bit- some flirtation over how a lass or lad with such lovely signs could possibly take up with a scoundrel like him.

It's not the most rakish bit he could suspect of the bard- though he notices the bard never takes off his gloves in return. He wears them even in the cities and hamlets where the custom is less common or replaced with simple patches of dyed skin.

It makes him seem damn right virginal to keep them on all the time.

Perhaps the bard's mark is something obscene- it's not unheard of. If that were true though, he suspects the bard would leverage it into some pickup line about his prowess in bed.

Perhaps the bard has no marks- a person blessedly free of obligation or destiny.

He thinks it would be a kinder fate for Jaskier to be free of those kinds of concerns.

Jaskier knows his fastidiousness with wearing gloves is a little unusual for the current fashion but he commits to the bit.

He thinks it's more romantic to have them revealed and thinks his are especially gorgeous; a simple sun on his right hand and a moon on his left, a small comet arcing over each and a few lines he thinks are wind or perhaps clouds. He's seen more ornate or filigreed marks- even the occasional mark with a splash of color- but his marks are so curiously endearing.

When he links his bare hands together he sees a miniature of the universe and hopes that one day, he may hold his soulmate's marks against his own and feel the world between their hands.

He'll admit he's kept the privilege of the reveal to himself; but he'll be a little selfish if it means he can know to watch their delight when he reveals a world in his hands- a world to share.

He's not sure where his soulmate will fit in this life he's made in Oxenfurt and on the Path, but he never could have predicted the love that's already sprung up in his life already.

It's a very late night, or a very very early morning, when Geralt asks Yennefer about her marks- the marks erased when she became a mage.

"Never had one," she says, teasingly tracing the edge of his gloves, "I never needed fate to find love."

In the dark, between a sigh and a moan, his gloves are cast away.

When the sun has properly risen and midday creeps closer, she holds hands between her own.

"Rather provincial, aren't they?" She brings the tender pale flesh of his palm to her mouth and bites playfully, "I'd expect nothing less of a Rivian."

"Not quite a Rivian," he says and gently wriggles his fingers against her jaw, smiling as she can't help laugh and let the marks out of her teeth, "are they to your liking?"

Her answer comes as a carafe of apple juice.

It's a hard day: starting with Geralt stumbling through a portal smelling of lilac and gooseberries and ending with Jaskier dragging a nearly-drowned Geralt out of a waterhag's shack.

Two baths were called- a rare luxury in a rickety town- for Jaskier knew a shared bath would end up with at least one of them more disgusting at the end. Geralt is, Melitele be praised, uninjured besides a black eye that blooms stark against the lingering potion-pale pallor he'd had earlier.

The two strip and Jaskier climbs into his bath: Geralt casts a look at the door and cocks his head and throws his pus-soaked gloves straight into the chamberpot.

They soak, side by side, and chatter tiredly and Jaskier thinks nothing of it when Geralt offers to perk up his water and he sees the moon and comet and dappled lines on Geralt's right hand as he casts Igni into the bath.

The smell of lilac and gooseberries and fucking are starting to sweat out of Geralt's hair and the memories of the wedding feast cut through him, unbidden, and Jaskier should have won another master's degree in performance for the way he blames the jump in his heart on the scalding water.

The curling misery he later blames on the thought of ridding the swamp stench from his boots.

Jaskier learns to knit gloves sometime around when Geralt forces himself to admit the bard is past boyhood. It's a rather domestic skill for Jaskier to learn in adulthood, though he claims they're easier to make and repair on the Path: which isn't a lie exactly and the bard does earn them a few coins fiddling with the needles in town and selling the gloves.

The knitted gloves seem to be his preference now- less prone to tearing as they wear and able to go longer without laundering. It's the threads of anxiety beneath it that give Geralt pause, he's been presuming Jaskier was unmarked entirely and wore the gloves for attention, but the longer he guards the little span of flesh the more Geralt thinks a tragedy must lie beneath the scraps of fabric.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with had rejected him- though Geralt thought that unlikely given how firmly Jaskier had attached himself to Geralt's side despite him trying to outrun the bard for a year. Whoever shared his marks didn't stand a chance against Jaskier's persistence. Against his smile.

Perhaps the person he shared his marks with was already dead. Geralt didn't believe in the machinations of destiny or soulmarks, but that too twisted at him. Jaskier was a scoundrel, yes, but didn't deserve that so early in life. At the very least, it would explain why the bard wasn't concerned to muck with his fate by sharing his time with a witcher.

At the very least, he counts their time together as a blessing now, even if it's stolen from another.

Jaskier thinks it's finally time to come clean about his marks- their marks really. Not all marks are about just two people, he knows that, and Yennefer isn't the worst person to share a life with.

Honestly, he already does- Geralt's adverse to destiny but Yennefer would be sensible working out some kind of custody schedule if they didn't want to invite him in. He shares his life with Geralt, which is more than many soulmates get. He's not even sure he wants more of their lives shared, but the longer he keeps the marks hidden- the more the omission feels like a lie.

The more he knows he's lying to Geralt.

He figures it's an even shot Geralt that he'll never see him again or he'll be invited to winter at the Kaer.

It turns out he didn't even need the marks to drive Geralt away, being himself was enough.

"See you around Geralt."

A week after the dust settles and the Deathless Mother has been banished from their plane, Geralt notices Jaskier's gloves stretch from wrist to fingertip and when Jaskier is pulled into what is rapidly becoming Yennefer's lab, he can hear a sympathetic pained groan from Yennefer as Jaskier's fingers are rebroken.

Geralt knocked against the open door of Jaskier's room: Jaskier kicked another log into the fire-

Geralt should have thought of that.

"Come in," Jaskier said and settled back into the chair before his diary. Geralt saw a page with very few words and many drops of ink smeared across it.

Geralt took the poker and rearranged the wood of the fire to burn more evenly, "Yenn says you haven't been caring for your burns," he coaxed the fire into a more even burn and pressed it further back into the hearth.

There was a long silence, "I can't open the jar," Jaskier admitted.

"You know anyone here would help you, Jask-" he dragged a hand through his hair, had he really fucked it up that badly?

Jaskier's silence said what it needed to.

"I'm sorry I didn't make that clear, Jaskier," he said and saw Jaskier's gaze drop lower, to the page in front of him, "may I help you now?"

"I would like it if you opened the jar," Jaskier said, "I don't want to trouble you any further. And thank you for the fire-"

"It's not trouble, I should-" Geralt huffed a sigh, "I should have thought of it sooner. Thought of you sooner- please, let me help you."

Geralt could have heard a pin drop on the opposite side of Kaer Morhen as he waited for Jaskier to say something- anything.

He opened the jar of ointment and held on to it, even when Jaskier put a trembling hand out to grasp it, waiting for Jaskier to permit him to tend to the burns. Jaskier gave him a worn look.

Jaskier carefully took his gloves off- his fingers still wracked with the persistent tremors that made the single button at the wrists take an achingly long time to unfasten.

"The draughts help," Jaskier said softly, "but they will take time to subside."

They do not speak of the lute calluses that have started to thin and peel off entirely.

The gloves came off Jaskier's hand- revealing two palms and thumbs soiled by burns. There, amongst the gnarled scars, laid the burst remains of a sun and a moon.

Metz's treatise on the formation of the celestial spheres says the bursting of a sun creates a black hole: swallowing whole planets into its gravitational pull.

Geralt thought, perhaps, he should have considered his own marks when he wondered of Jaskier's for how often their hands touched.

"Don't-" Jaskier started, he took a deep breath and looked at the marks and not at Geralt, "please just the ointment, Geralt," he held out a hand again to take the pot from Geralt.

Geralt took the little pot of ointment, preciously carried in his saddlebags from Cidaris to Gulet to Kaer Morhen, and tugged off his own gloves as well. He carefully scooped out some of the ointment, the smell of dusk campion faint and familiar, and he warmed it between his palms.

He gently dragged his palms over Jaskier's before nimbly working the oil and medicine into his skin, taking care to rub into the creases between his fingers and the bumps of his remaining cuticles.

Yennefer says the draughts will help the nerves return and the ointment will smooth the burns.

Geralt was careful to be methodical and detached as he covered the marks with beeswax and the scent of campion. He cannot help but imagine the pain that forced Jaskier's sun and moon to bubble and split so wide; the layered burns that distort the comets into slashes of lightning.

He cannot help but wonder why Jaskier didn't leave him to rot.

He cannot help but wonder why soul marks are counted as a blessing when his sun and moon remain clear and smooth while Jaskier's have ruptured into glowing black holes. He must not be an expert, there must be a gap in his knowledge, for he'd once counted Jaskier's dismissal as a blessing.

"Easy there, Geralt," Jaskier said kindly, "there's no reason for all that."

Of course Jaskier could interpret the bite of Geralt's lip and the furrowing of his brow.

Geralt held Jaskier's hands between his own, their suns and moons nearly meeting where the burns didn't warp them, "I'd given up on seeing this," Jaskier said fondly, "our own little world in our hands." He traced Geralt's comet down to the bowl of the moon, "Thank you Geralt, you did a very good job."

"I'm sorry," Geralt managed, "I didn't know."

"I didn't really want you to, would you have received it well?" Jaskier said pointedly, then his voice softened, "it was bad enough I wormed my way beside you- this- Geralt,” he gently squeezed their hands, “This is more than I dreamed of.”

"You should want more," Geralt said, "You should ask for more. I'm sorry-"

"I've said the same of you," Jaskier laughed softly, a rare sound of late, "I've said the same of you many times. Perhaps we can work on this together."

#actual fic nothing in the world is mine but my love mine #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #the witch writes

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