“Haven’t you heard?” the two music students look at each other concerned. “Professor Jaskier suddenly fell ill, so they took him to the coast to recover.” The witcher frowns, something about that isn’t right….
reblog and continue the story with another (1) paragraph
The bard has never been sick. Not once, in the twenty odd years that the witchers have known (of) him.Speculations about the “humanity” of the bard have been one of the main subjects during the winters at Kaer Morhen.
I was today years old when I found out that cornflowers can also be white/purple and pink.
My first instinct was to never refer to Jaskier’s eyes as being the colour of cornflowers again. My second instinct was to write this instead:
Soulmate AU
word count: ~3k
pairing: Geraskier
Content warnings: blood, injuries
The Colour of Cornflowers
Jaskier’s eyes were the colour of the sky, of the sea, of sapphires. At least that was what people said, when they tried and often succeeded in wooing Jaskier. People who had been lucky enough to have found their soulmates and foolish enough to risk that happiness for a bard who would leave them come the morning.
Geralt would never understand those people. They had something so precious, so special and they were willing to throw it away for a pretty pair of eyes.
Geralt never understood those comparisons to sky, sea and sapphire either, and not only just because he had never seen the colour of either of those things. They just sounded so… cliché. As if someone tried painfully hard to sound like a poet. And didn’t the sky change colour during the dawn or at night? Did every body of water have the same colour? And didn’t some lord or another once proudly present his differently coloured sapphires, knowing full well that Geralt wasn’t able to distinguish between them anyway?
And he never would. It wasn’t uncommon for people to never see the world in colour – soulmates were rare and it wasn’t unheard of that some people lost all sight of colour after rejecting their soulmates for whatever reason.
But all of those people could at least still hope to have the world burst into colour at some point in their lives. Unlike Geralt.
“What do you mean you have to leave?” Geralt asks, frowning as he crosses his arms over his chest. Jaskier sighs, because this is exactly why he’d been avoiding this conversation. Things have been going so well lately, and he hates to disrupt their routine, but he needs to get back home.
“I…it’s a mer thing,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming as he avoids Geralt’s gaze. His own biology shouldn’t be embarrassing, but this seems a little too odd, even for a witcher to handle. Geralt has already accepted so many weird quirks about his heritage, and it doesn’t want to push it too far.
