Jaskier is laughing, and it's not the kind of laugh that Geralt likes to hear-- he's laughing at him, as though he's some naive schoolboy who doesn't know how the world works. Geralt thinks that he's been more than patient with Jaskier these past few days, putting up with his chatter and his eccentricities, but he has no intention of taking his ridicule. The noise that comes out of his throat is a shade off of a growl, his lip twists and his jaw tightens and he is a moment from sitting up and getting off of that bed to go find some fucking drowners to kill when-- gods, he'd thought it couldn't be worse, but then there's pity on Jaskier's face. Fuck finding drowners to kill, he's going to walk into the fucking Pontar and drown himself.
He's stopped from participating in his own demise by Jaskier's head, which comes to lay on one of his shoulders. The tension in his body betrays how much he wants to get up anyway, erase the memory of that pitying look from his brain forever. And the way that Jaskier said it, you've only bedded whores-- because of course he's only gone to bed with whores (and one particular sorceress), no one would stand to touch a witcher unless they were getting coin for it. So what would a witcher need to know about this? It won't help him kill a monster and no woman would be with him for a minute longer than what his coin paid for.
What the elder witchers didn't teach all those boys at Kaer Morhen is as telling about their purpose as what they did. They were never taught what happens beyond the mechanics of fucking because it would never be more than just a fuck. It's a clear message-- don't ever make the mistake of thinking that there will be someone who stays, because witchers have death on their hands and grave dirt in their skins and are barely a step above ghouls to begin with. All that nonsense dies when the Trials begin.
Geralt's eyes are fixed firmly on the canopy overhead as Jaskier explains things to him, some of which do not need explaining, some of which, apparently, do. When he nudges him, it's like trying to elbow a statue.
What do they teach a witcher, he asks. Not enough might be the right answer.
"Only what's necessary to prepare us for bedding whores," he replies. "Why bother telling us about things we won't be involved in?"
no subject
He's stopped from participating in his own demise by Jaskier's head, which comes to lay on one of his shoulders. The tension in his body betrays how much he wants to get up anyway, erase the memory of that pitying look from his brain forever. And the way that Jaskier said it, you've only bedded whores-- because of course he's only gone to bed with whores (and one particular sorceress), no one would stand to touch a witcher unless they were getting coin for it. So what would a witcher need to know about this? It won't help him kill a monster and no woman would be with him for a minute longer than what his coin paid for.
What the elder witchers didn't teach all those boys at Kaer Morhen is as telling about their purpose as what they did. They were never taught what happens beyond the mechanics of fucking because it would never be more than just a fuck. It's a clear message-- don't ever make the mistake of thinking that there will be someone who stays, because witchers have death on their hands and grave dirt in their skins and are barely a step above ghouls to begin with. All that nonsense dies when the Trials begin.
Geralt's eyes are fixed firmly on the canopy overhead as Jaskier explains things to him, some of which do not need explaining, some of which, apparently, do. When he nudges him, it's like trying to elbow a statue.
What do they teach a witcher, he asks. Not enough might be the right answer.
"Only what's necessary to prepare us for bedding whores," he replies. "Why bother telling us about things we won't be involved in?"