Geralt reaches into his pocket, pulling out the wolf brooch that Jaskier had returned to him. He had kept it with him for the past day, even though there's really no reason to carry it; he could have put it in this room, left it on his shelf. It isn't even his-- Jaskier had gotten it, and should have it again. Silver's valuable, he would be able to sell it for a decent price once he gets down the mountain. Be rid of it and have some coin for his trouble.
"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."
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"He has done nothing but be a better man. You're not a thing for him to steal from me."
Maybe Geralt is the better witcher of the two of them, better at killing griffons or kikimores or whatever other ugly thing came his way. But that's all he seems to be good for-- swinging a sword and spilling blood and collecting his coin, just as they wanted him to be. Fucking lot of good that does him now, he can't kill this bullshit with a silver sword. He wishes that he could, he knows what to do with some big nasty thing that wants to kill him and a blade. This? This is an unfamiliar battlefield and he's ill-prepared.
Eskel, though, is a gentler, more talkative witcher. That's what Jaskier would want, isn't it? It's what he would've wanted Geralt to be, but he's too old to change his nature. He's not the noble white wolf that the bard sang about so often, once upon a time. If Jaskier had met Eskel those twenty years ago in Posada, he undoubtedly would've had a kinder two decades on the Path with a witcher who treated him as he deserved.
"What can I offer you that he cannot, and better?"
Geralt's nostrils flare, that particular look that these wolf witchers get when they're scenting the air. It's nearly involuntary, because he really doesn't want to have the scent of Eskel and Jaskier burned into his sinuses. He may have to avoid Kaer Morhen for every winter after this, just so that he doesn't have to suffer through four months of inescapable this. It may very well render him the first witcher driven mad by scent alone.
Low and soft and half to himself, he says, "Fuck."