Geralt let Jaskier off to his own devices for the rest of the morning, which-- judging from the slow, even heartbeat that he could hear in one of the guest rooms-- was sleeping off all of the vodka that he drank and heartache that he spilled. Geralt goes about his business for the day, pleased that Jaskier is safe in bed, and with the discomfort of the fact that Dandelion is not weighing heavily on the back of his mind.
Dandelion can handle himself. He has traveled the roads on his own for years, knows how to use the knives that Geralt gave him to defend himself if he has to. Or, sometimes, if he doesn't-- he's has had to physically pick him up and pull him away from fights that he's started, usually over someone saying something unflattering about witchers. Dandelion takes great offense at that kind of thing on Geralt's behalf.
(In another world, a bard follows after a witcher, ignoring his sullen silence, walking next to a brown mare. He sneaks her sugar cubes when he thinks the witcher isn't watching, but his bribes don't go unnoticed.)
Later, when the afternoon is sinking into evening, Geralt returns to the house after a good, long ride on Roach and takes off her tack, gives her a rub-down for the evening. There's a stable boy who could do that kind of thing, but he knows that Geralt likes to take care of Roach after rides, and that he prefers to get her dinner oats and water himself. He's walking back towards the house when he hears the sound of a lute, and though the melody is unfamiliar, for a moment it feels like everything is how it should be. Dandelion, sitting in the windowsill, trying out a new composition to see if he likes how it sounds. He cuts through the scullery to get back inside, and one of the maids is standing hear the sink, dabbing at her eyes. She startles when he walks in-- it's Lily, one of the newer girls, and she's... the cook's niece, he thinks-- and tries to dry her tears a little faster, pats down her apron like she's embarrassed to be caught in such a state.
"Terribly sorry, Master Geralt," she says, and he's already told her about a dozen times that just Geralt is fine, but she's upset so he lets it go, "It's just, your friend, the bard, he's playing something and it was just so sad. Lovely, but the kind of thing that makes you feel like you want to have a good cry."
Geralt has never felt like he needs to have a good cry in his life, but he just nods along as though he understands. He leaves her to her own devices, stepping into the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting,
He walks down it, towards the open window where Jaskier sits, silhouetted by the red and gold light of the approaching sunset. The light in his hair makes it look like a gold halo around his head, gilds his skin.
If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,
They aren't far from the bedrooms. Geralt catches a brief trail of Jaskier's distinctive scent, and though he doesn't follow it, it heads in the direction of the master, the one that he shares with Dandelion.
Garroter, jury and judge.
He waits until the bard is finished with his song-- it would be rude to interrupt.
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Dandelion can handle himself. He has traveled the roads on his own for years, knows how to use the knives that Geralt gave him to defend himself if he has to. Or, sometimes, if he doesn't-- he's has had to physically pick him up and pull him away from fights that he's started, usually over someone saying something unflattering about witchers. Dandelion takes great offense at that kind of thing on Geralt's behalf.
(In another world, a bard follows after a witcher, ignoring his sullen silence, walking next to a brown mare. He sneaks her sugar cubes when he thinks the witcher isn't watching, but his bribes don't go unnoticed.)
Later, when the afternoon is sinking into evening, Geralt returns to the house after a good, long ride on Roach and takes off her tack, gives her a rub-down for the evening. There's a stable boy who could do that kind of thing, but he knows that Geralt likes to take care of Roach after rides, and that he prefers to get her dinner oats and water himself. He's walking back towards the house when he hears the sound of a lute, and though the melody is unfamiliar, for a moment it feels like everything is how it should be. Dandelion, sitting in the windowsill, trying out a new composition to see if he likes how it sounds. He cuts through the scullery to get back inside, and one of the maids is standing hear the sink, dabbing at her eyes. She startles when he walks in-- it's Lily, one of the newer girls, and she's... the cook's niece, he thinks-- and tries to dry her tears a little faster, pats down her apron like she's embarrassed to be caught in such a state.
"Terribly sorry, Master Geralt," she says, and he's already told her about a dozen times that just Geralt is fine, but she's upset so he lets it go, "It's just, your friend, the bard, he's playing something and it was just so sad. Lovely, but the kind of thing that makes you feel like you want to have a good cry."
Geralt has never felt like he needs to have a good cry in his life, but he just nods along as though he understands. He leaves her to her own devices, stepping into the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting,
He walks down it, towards the open window where Jaskier sits, silhouetted by the red and gold light of the approaching sunset. The light in his hair makes it look like a gold halo around his head, gilds his skin.
If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,
They aren't far from the bedrooms. Geralt catches a brief trail of Jaskier's distinctive scent, and though he doesn't follow it, it heads in the direction of the master, the one that he shares with Dandelion.
Garroter, jury and judge.
He waits until the bard is finished with his song-- it would be rude to interrupt.
"The maid cried."
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