#goodbye angst

The new chapter is up. Enjoy.

In the morning of the next day, Jaskier arose to the irritating shriek of Dandelion calling their names at the top of his lungs. As thrilled as he was to hear of the end of him sooner than later, he put his natural-born bitterness for the bard aside and pretended to look vaguely panicked when Geralt shook him awake. Even then, nothing could stop him from taking a moment to appreciate his witcher’s heavenly-built torso, glazed with a layer of dampness from the heated night of glorious love-making they have shared - and fuck Dandelion for ruining the morning-after he had so deliciously planned.

“Something’s up,” spoke Geralt in a gruff, sleep-strained tone – wildly awakening every bit of desire in him – then shuffled back in his breeches and reached to fetch his sword. “I’ll go take a look.”

Curse you Dandelion, blared the wild voice in Jaskier’s head, can’t you fucking die quietly like every other?

Having put all hope for a morning-orgasm to rest, Jaskier slipped his pants back on, threw his sweat-stained chemise over his body – after giving it a regretful sniff and growing even more desperate for a bath – then stepped out of the tent with the pretence to care.

me: *sees tougou*

I apologize for this. Angst.

"Goodbye Caroline." He whispered it, his lips against her ear, resolving himself to leave her. Until she was ready. That was what he had promised her. That he would wait, that he would stay hopeful knowing that one day she would be ready. That was what she had promised him. So he backed away, memorizing her face, eyes closed, a few tears escaping her closed lids, knowing that though he would see her again, he needed to remember this image, the image of her not wanting to let him go.

He would draw her face like this, sketch it, pain it, but not for the reasons he had wanted. Not with a sense of needing to remember her before he saw her again. No, he drew her furiously, day after day, hour after hour, because he would never see her again. 

He had turned away from her, intent on walking away without looking back, because if he had he would have stayed. He should have stayed. The tell tale tear of flesh stopped him in his tracks, and he hoped he was imagining things. Her gurgling breath and the smell of her blood told him that he was wrong. Three seconds, at the most, and he was in front of her again, catching her as she fell, a wooden stake protruding from her back. A hunter, running away from the scene. And Klaus couldn't leave her to chase after him. 

He pulled the stake from her back, he fed her his blood, but it was too late. She was gone. And he hated himself. He could have-- he should have-- saved her. He was right there, not ten feet in front of her, and still, he had been powerless-- like with Henrik and Kol-- to save someone even when they were right there.