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ms-interpretation · 4 years

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Going through the screenshots I’ve taken I realized that Lee Gon literally meets a different version of each of his parents in episode 14 & 15. When he travels back to the Night of Treason there’s this moment of him kneeling down taking in the sight of his dead father, even closing the former King’s eyes. This takes place right after he has saved his younger self and ambushed Lee Lim and the other traitors (which ensured that they didn’t get hold of the piece of the Manpasikjeok his young self was hiding). The ensuing emotional beat of Lee Gon’s grief is something the drama quietly let’s play out. There’s no big dramatic scene of the dying King talking to him while dying in his arms or a meaningful inner monologue of Lee Gon reflecting on this moment (while spelling out what he feels). No, there’s only the still emptiness of loss as the snow keeps falling over them. Not to be all poetic about it but that calm emptiness is fitting, since Lee Gon was left an orphan by this event and his life has therefore been marred by absence. It becomes more and more clear to me the more I think about it why young Lee Gon would naturally start to obsess about the ID-card left by his mysterious savior. He has since grown up as an orphan and thus seeing his father like this now must be akin to seeing a ghost (insert Hamlet reference here). We already know from the flashback in episode four that his father’s death left an emotional scar, as the room had been left empty and untouched until that moment when Lee Gon decided to return to retrieve the Four Tiger Sword to embrace his destiny (while clearly still grieving, remembering his father, as he did so). After traveling through time and managing to return to the present and being reunited with Jeong Tae-eul he then meets his doppelganger’s (Lee Ji-hun’s) mother.

Their encounter is strangely moving. They are both incredibly affected by simply only seeing each other, which is not that strange given that they are each in essence looking at the ghost of a loved one. Lee Gon is seeing whom his mother could have been had she not passed away due to illness and Song Jeong-hye is seeing what her son would have looked like had he been allowed to grow up. Ghosts in literature have been metaphors and/or symbols for different things throughout the years. Sometimes they are regrets, at other times memories, or they might even be the physical manifestation of trauma (this occurs in ‘The Haunting of Bly Manor’, the ghost of the protagonist’s ex-boyfriend who died in such a way to traumatize her literally ‘haunts’ her for the first few episodes). In this scene and in TKEM the doppelgangers are essentially and paradoxically living ‘ghosts’. Jeong Tae-eul even went looking for her mother’s counterpart in episode six, hoping that things were different enough in the Kingdom so as to mean that she was alive and well. Doppelgangers become ghosts for the ‘world-crossers’ since they are nearly quite literally the physical manifestation of ‘what could have been’ if the world-crosser’s loved one was still there.

I’m no expert on grief nor loss but I know that a defining aspect of losing someone is of course the experience of the fact that they - to be literal - are not there anymore. The living are left with only the memories and this horrible heartbreaking emptiness i.e. the experience of the lack of that person. I would actually also argue (and contradict myself) and say that the living may also be left with the love of that person. We see this in how Lee Gon remembers and embraces his destiny by remembering his father in episode four. There is of course still that emptiness of loss left behind. Lee Gon and Song Jeong-hye are however suddenly each in turn confronted by a ‘living ghost’, by the living doppelganger of whom they’ve lost. It is regret and the horrible sight of what could have been, what should have been, for Jeong-hye and a physical reminder for Lee Gon of the absence he has grown up with (as he is confronted with the parental grief of someone who deeply loves their child, who is a different version of him). At this point Lee Gon has not only lost his parents but also his uncle Prince Buyeong, whom Lee Lim killed precisely because he wanted to break his orphaned nephew’s spirit. Both these characters, Lee Gon and Song Jeong-hye, have in common how Lee Lim almost completely wrecked their lives one fateful night. They have both suffered terribly due to his greed and have both had to live with that trauma for the last 25 years. Lee Gon, being the hero of this narrative, being currently in the process of confronting and stopping him, once and for all. They also have in common how they are haunted by the fact that there was that one person they couldn’t save. For Lee Gon it is his parent(s) and for Song Jeong-hye it is her son. And it is strange that in a way, the people they’ve lost is suddenly right there, in front of them. They are confronted with a living, breathing, thinking person who in some ways actually is the person they have lost. We don’t know much about Lee Gon’s mother, but we do know that he takes after her by being scientifically inclined and being someone with faith (episode 12). We do know from seeing Song Jeong-hye that she is also someone with faith (being Catholic) and we can determine from watching her that she is open-minded and curious as she takes the time to listen to FateKid, exhibiting the traits which probably made her counterpart become a scientist. Lee Gon thus have in common with Song Jeong-hye the traits he inherited from his mother, which are his only remaining link to her.

The doppelgangers of the TKEM universe are intimately connected, they are not simply random people with the same faces. We see this (as previously stated) in how Song Jeong-hye is, as Lee Gon’s mother was, a Catholic and in how several of Jeong Tae-eul’s work colleagues are police officers in both universes (beliefs, values and certain choices remaining the same between the two worlds). After Lee Gon resets the universes we meet a grown-up Lee Ji-hun who is in the military. Like Lee Gon he chooses to be someone who puts himself forward to protect people/the nation and very likely certain ideals. We see this brave impulse in them both early on when they are each in turn confronted by Lee Lim. Perhaps in the case of Lee Ji-hun it is also a consequence of growing up in an abusive household. Of course there’s Luna who is seemingly very different from Jeong Tae-eul, but similarly to our heroine she does actually have a good grasp on right and wrong. She is shown believing in the concept, not being amoral and she keeps herself to a sort of moral code. She knows that what’s she’s doing is wrong. Talking to Fate/FluteKid she expects to be punished for what she’s about to do (infiltrating Tae-eul’s life and possibly killing Lee Gon) and while she feels like she has been dealt an unfair hand she doesn’t (I think) ever claim that what’s she’s doing is right. Does that make her a good person? No, no it doesn’t, since she still chooses to do horrific things to innocent people. But it reveals that she is more similar to Tae-eul then what the hardened criminal/righteous police detective contrast might at first suggest. This makes the meeting of Lee Gon and Song Jeong-hye more tragic in a way, because they are almost family. The “details” of life however do, in the end, make all the difference. Our circumstances, choices and relationships play a huge part in who we become. Neither Lee Gon nor Song Jeong-hye however did tragically get to spend much time with their loved one, and therefore the people they miss do actually come closer to being each other than what one might at first think. They both miss a person, who in a sense, never existed (a Lee Ji-hun and doppelganger of Song Jeong-hye who survived). Not to become too philosophical but an identity defining difference between Lee Gon and Lee Ji-hun is the fact that the latter didn’t grow up while the former did. Similarly a defining difference between Song Jeong-hye and Lee Gon’s mother is that the latter died due to illness. There are other incredibly important differences as well, they are importantly of course separate people with different relationships and histories, which is why Lee Gon and Jeong-hye end up being closer but not close enough to what the other person is missing. I do however believe that it is good to when confronted with characters and scenes like these to truly reflect and question what it is that makes us who we are - which is what the very concept of doppelgangers invites us to do.

Song Jeong-hye’s grief is almost palpable in this scene and Lee Gon, the survivor confronted with his dead counterpart’s grieving mother, is also unsurprisingly deeply affected. He is clearly broken up about her fate, but is stopped when he tries to apologise. It is absolutely heartbreaking when Jeong-hye unfairly blames him for Ji-hun’s death. I do however believe that her parting words “I’m not your mother” and emphasis that he should not die for her reveals that parental love, as in the case of the romantic love between Lee Gon and Jeong Tae-eul, can also extend across universes. She could have been apathetic to his fate and she clearly isn’t. Lee Gon is later also quietly devastated by her death. This being a modern fairytale the story will end with Lee Gon doing what seems impossible, saving Lee Ji-hun and Song Jeong-hye. He rights the wrongs his uncle’s greed have caused and is partially able to do so thanks to Song Jeong-hye’s love for her son, which extends just enough as to move her to help Lee Gon. Love ends up conquering greed by extending beyond the latter’s reach through one mother who lost her son choosing to help a ‘stranger’. This after Lee Lim has been using doppelgangers’ love (or lack thereof in the case of Luna) for their families against them.

The fact that this meeting takes place now, so soon after Lee Gon has re-lived his father’s murder is absolutely soul-crushing. It also creates a dark and tragic context for what comes next. Lee Gon comes to believe that the only way to end it all is to travel back in time, once again but this time risk his past self dying to make sure that Lee Lim is finally stopped. That is a very drastic and dark plan, but because we have these scenes of Lee Gon with Song Jeong-hye and him literally revisiting his trauma (taking in the sight of his dead father) we can easily believe why Lee Gon is so sure that this is how it has to play out. That and the fact that he has grown up as a King in a monarchy where the monarch’s chief responsibility is to ensure the safety of their people. We can tell that he suffers badly from survivor’s guilt as he sneaks away to travel back on his own, only bringing Jo Yeong when the latter intercepts him and insists, as Lee Gon hesitates, that he will accompany him. Then when they are back in time Lee Gon’s new plan consists of Yeong being back-up, making sure that Lee Lim is stopped if he himself would fail to do so. Even then, he chooses to rather risk himself than putting his friend in danger. Unsurprisingly however Jo Yeong pales when he understands Lee Gon’s plan and simply refuses to abide by his King’s request, choosing instead to prioritize saving the young Lee Gon.

At some point I need to make a post about how all the protagonists’ heroism takes form in the choices they make and in how they are either/both saved and/or moved by the love of others’. I do hope people don’t mistake my emphasis on Lee Gon as an orphan as me invalidating his familial relationships with Prince Buyeong and Lady Noh. Lee Gon is an orphan in that he lost both of his loving parents who cared for him, not because he lost his parents-by-blood. There is also this guilt of Lee Gon’s towards Prince Buyeong because the latter had to choose between taking care of young Lee Gon or being with his immediate family. It doesn’t strain their relationship but it does in the case of Lee Gon make his remaining familial relationship heavier. In the case of Lady Noh he also feels indebted to her, as she is someone who remained in the Kingdom to look after him rather than trying to get back to her world (or simply choosing to leave the palace) after his father’s violent death. It is important to point out that of course these characters’ all freely choose to do what they do, it is part of what makes them feel truly human and heroic. Lee Gon is not to blame but of course he is still thankful and understandably, given his trauma, he still experiences some guilt. Love makes us do things for each other and as the fragile human beings that we are we might at times not feel deserving of it. Lee Gon, on his way to quite possibly sacrificing his life for everyone else, describes himself as selfish when taking leave of Lady Noh. This because he didn’t immediately return her to the Republic when he found out that that is where she’s from, being scared that she would leave. Lady Noh, unsurprisingly is not at all bothered by this revelation (and given that Lee Gon earlier asked her to ask him where he went definitely knows that he would eventually tell her) and is only concerned that he won’t be able to come back. The scene reminds me of when Lee Gon said that he won’t let Jeong Tae-eul leave, which they both knew he didn’t actually mean even for a moment. It was simply him admitting to and expressing his loneliness and fear. The consequences of Lee Gon’s trauma, being afraid to be abandoned and experiencing survivor’s guilt, is thus shown through these kinds of emotional beats and helps inform us of as to why he acts like he does. Thankfully Lee Gon is in the end able to save the two worlds, is saved himself and can even save young Lee Ji-hun and Song Jeong-hye. This due to the courage and love which moves him, Jeong Tae-eul, Jo Yeong, Kang Shin-jae and Song Jeong-hye, and which in the end causes them to prevail against the darkness Lee Lim unleashed in their worlds and in their lives.

#the king eternal monarch #lee gon #the king: eternal monarch #the acting in this scene is heartbreakingly good #ghosts and doppelgangers #tkem meta

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im-fairly-whitty · 5 years

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The Witcher Wolf

M/M. Teen and Up Audiences. Geralt/Jaskier.

It’s been two weeks since Geralt shouted Jaskier away from him on that mountain and Jaskier has been handling it like a champ by forlornly wandering alone in the wilderness with his lute. When he (literally) stumbles across an injured white wolf he decides to take a chance and see if he can help it, appreciating the irony of the situation but not quite realizing why it is that the wolf’s golden eyes look exactly like his Witcher’s...

Inspired by @kayivy 's lovely art! <3

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“So tell me love, tell me love...wait...”

Jaskier adjusted his fingering on the lute, pitching it an octave higher and trying again.

“So tell me love, tell me love, how is that ju-" he shifted a finger. “how is that-" another shift. “how is that just.”

There, that was it.

Jaskier smiled dryly to himself as he slung the lute on its strap to rest against his back, leaving his hands free to dig his notebook out of his pocket as he walked down the long long empty road. He sighed as he scratched a note with his stub of a pencil and tucked the notebook back into his pocket, looking around at the looming trees and scrubby brush surrounding him.

The shadows were growing dusky and long, signaling that he probably should have found somewhere to curl up for the night an hour ago, not now when he’d be scrambling to see in the last of daylight as he made camp. But it couldn’t really be helped now could it?

He could practically hear Geralt chastising him for being thoughtless again, especially when traveling alone.

Jaskier went several steps out of his way to stomp his foot through a suitable stick with a satisfying crack. Because it didn’t really matter what Geralt probably thought, did it?

Finally being chased off by Geralt two weeks ago was plenty painful enough to try and avoid thinking about on its own. Jaskier did not need the stupid Witcher getting after him even in his own mind after he’d been cast off like a rock out of a boot.

Jaskier paused, angrily chewing his lip as he gazed into the middle distance. He fished out his notebook again, scrawled cast off like a rock from your shoe and then stashed it away again.

He might be hurting terribly and handling it badly, but he was also a professional. Waste not want not and all that. If he was going to have to pull himself back together after being utterly rejected by the best friend he’d been following for literal decades, having finally been forced to realize that said best friend truly hated him, then he was at least going to get some decent song material from it.

And yes it was out of spite. And righteous anger. Definitely not heartbreak. Not at all. His newest song was a metaphor see, not a heartbroken ballad of unrequited longing and aching, of course not. Shut up.

Jaskier crashed angrily through the brush on the side of the road as he told off his inner critic, no longer having anyone to talk to but still managing to piss off himself in their absence it seemed. Which was perfectly fine! See? He didn’t need anyone anyway, he could even make himself miserable if he had to, no need to drag any Witchers into his mess at all when he was this self sufficient.

By the time he came back to himself and looked around he couldn’t see the road anymore, but also had only a passing idea at which way he’d come from. Excellent. Might as well keep getting lost then, why not, really? Maybe the world would be lucky enough that he’d fall so far down an unseen ditch that he’d just disappear forever, or maybe he’d stumble on some cursed shrine that would vaporize him, freeing humanity of the huge burden he evidently was. Geralt would love that wouldn’t he? Or maybe-

Jaskier didn’t see the animal lying on the ground until he’d just about stepped on it, shifting his foot sideways at the last moment with a yelp. He scrambled to the side as the huge white furred creature lurched up, snarling at him.

“I was just being facetious!” Jaskier yelled to no one, automatically grabbing his lute to his chest as he stumbled backward onto the ground. “I don’t actually want to die, certainly not eaten!”

He nearly screamed for Geralt out of old habit, but paused when nothing lunged at him, when no teeth or claws latched into him.

The creature staring at him from across the clearing was a massive white wolf. It watched him silently with wide golden yellow eyes, as if it were as shocked to see Jaskier as he was to see it. The wolf was holding one front leg awkwardly up against itself, in the quickly dimming light Jaskier could make out what seemed to be the half chewed off shaft of an arrow sticking out of the poor thing’s shoulder.

“Sorry, very terribly sorry to bother you.” Jaskier said weakly, still shaking with adrenaline as he sat in the dirt, clutching his lute like a shield. “I was trying to find someplace to camp and I was wandering and wasn’t looking where I was going and I didn’t mean- Really that arrow business looks like it hurts, how long have you had that nasty thing stuck in you?”

The wolf still had its ears back at him, tail tucked between its legs as it crouched close to the ground, but it wasn’t growling. Weren’t hurt animals supposed to be more aggressive? He was pretty sure he didn’t have that the wrong way around. Either way, he wasn’t about to look a non aggressive gift wolf in the mouth.

Jaskier very very slowly pushed himself to his feet. The wolf’s piercing golden eyes watched him, but it didn’t move, other than tucking its wounded leg closer.

“Say you’re not that bad for a wolf.” Jaskier said, softening his voice as he edged a step closer. Still no aggressive reaction from the wolf.

As Jaskier edged closer he could see the fur on the wolf’s shoulder was all matted down with dried blood. He thought of the medical kit in his pouch, something he’d learned the hard way to keep on him over the years traveling with a Witcher.

“What if I took a look at-" Jaskier paused as the wolf growled at him, ears pinned back with a snarl. Alright, so it had personal space boundaries after all.

Jaskier dropped to a crouch, his voice going even softer and higher pitched. “Hey now, I know that shoulder probably has you miserable, but I’m not so sure you’re much of a man eater if you left me alone after nearly stepping on you.” He snapped his fingers, digging into his pouch. “You know what though, you’re probably starving, not much hunting gets done on that leg I’ll bet.”

He pulled out several long strips of dried rabbit meat, gently tossing them to land in front of the wolf, trying not to startle it.

The animal’s ears were still pinned back, but it barely sniffed at the meat before snagging it, finishing it off in barely a few bites.

Jaskier edged closer to the wolf, swinging his lute back to keep his hands free, fingers open to show he meant no harm.

“That’s it, there’s a good boy.” Jaskier said gently.

He very very carefully set a hand on the wolf’s back, feeling almost giddy with the adrenaline his brain was giving him for being stupid enough to pet an injured wolf. He could practically feel Geralt yanking him back by the collar of his doublet.

The wolf growled, but it was more mixed with a whine now as it pressed itself against the ground. Jaskier now suspected that it was only in pain, not fear.

“You know I’m not sure you’re much of a wolf at all.” Jaskier said, carefully stroking the thick white fur, hoping to calm it. “There’s no way I’d still have both my hands at this point if you were really wild. For which I thank you by the way, playing the lute one-handed isn’t a skill I have much interest in picking up. You act more like some kind of massive dog, did you have a human family that raised you? Have you been abandoned by your person?”

The wolf’s growl continued, shifting neither up or down, looking somehow very judgmental as Jaskier talked.

“You know you remind me very much of a friend of mine.” Jaskier said with a wry smile that quickly dropped away. “Or, acquaintance I suppose, he never did anything but growl either. In fact you’re probably much more in tune with your emotions than he is I’ll bet, although most rocks probably are if I’m being strictly honest. The man’s really a complete imbecile.”

The wolf snarled, probably just because Jaskier’s fingers had reached the matted blood.

“Alright, so here’s my terrible plan.” Jaskier said, ignoring the snarl. Another unconscious habit he’d developed from hanging around Geralt apparently. “I’m going to try and remove this arrow, which is going to hurt terribly, and then I’m going to patch you up. I’d be extremely grateful if you didn’t dismember me in any way while I do, but if you can’t help yourself I suppose that’s fair.” He shrugged. “I’m not in a very self preserving mood at the moment, so I suppose a final act of misguided heroism isn’t the worst way to go. The last white wolf I hung around mauled me emotionally, so actually it would be terribly poetic if you did finish the job physically.”

The wolf quieted at that, staring up at him with golden eyes.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in temperament. Maybe it found this tone of voice most comforting for some reason? Alright he could work with that.

“It’s quite the tragic tale really.” Jaskier said, keeping up his miserable monotone as he quickly opened his medical kit, pouring some water from his flask across the wolf’s fur to loosen the blood. “The story of a young bard who attached himself to a man so emotionally constipated that he couldn’t even tell when the bard was utterly devoted to him. I was stupid enough to hang around him for years if you’d believe it. Even though he bit far more than you do my friend. With words I mean, Witchers don’t really bite people, you can’t believe all those terrible old wives tales.”

The fur underneath the blood soon resurfaced a watery stained pink as jaskier worked. The actual injury wasn’t very big, just the imbedded shaft and some damage where it looked like the wolf had tried worrying at it unsuccessfully to get it out itself. Jaskier put a hand on the wolf’s shoulder, gripping the shaft firmly.

“So anyway he finally decided he hated me enough to- sorry this part’s the hard bit-" he yanked the shaft out before he could talk himself out of it, bracing himself for the bite that was sure to come.

The wolf yelped, a high whining noise as it jerked with pain under him. But no bite.

“That’s a very good boy.” Jaskier said, panting a little as the dizzying spike of fear left him. He inspected the arrow to make sure nothing looked like it had snapped off before setting it aside. “That’s a very very good boy for not ripping my arm off, very good boy.”

He quickly set to work, patting everything dry, dousing it with a quick splash of alcohol and healing salve for luck, (the wolf only growled slightly at that, staring away into the trees) and then wrapping it up tight in a way Jaskier hoped wouldn’t slip off fur.

“There we go.” He said in relief, wiping sweat off his forehead as he tucked his supplies back into his pack. “Nothing like impromptu feral veterinary care to get the old heart pumping, eh?”

The wolf, being a wolf, of course said nothing, still staring off into the trees. Jaskier checked to see if it were actually looking at something, but no.

“You’re sulking.” Jaskier decided, petting the wolf between the ears before the animal shook its head to get his hand off. “Yes you are, I know that look anywhere. Probably terribly embarrassing to be the king of the forest and have to accept help from a lowly human bard eh? Well I suppose wolves aren’t really the king, not if there’s griffins or something about.”

The wolf looked at him with a long stare, and then shifted carefully to be facing away from him.

“That settles it.” Jaskier said with a smile, looking around and starting to collect firewood in the scant minutes he had before the sun’s light vanished entirely. “I’m calling you Geralt Junior. The both of you would get along splendidly in your stubborn grumpiness.”

The wolf looked over at him, ears pricked.

“Geralt Junior? You like that name?” Jaskier asked with a grin at the wolf’s response.

The wolf’s ears flipped back for a moment, as if confused, but then it hauled itself to its feet with a whine. It took a few halting steps toward him before stumbling on its bad leg, continuing to whine urgently.

“Whoa whoa hey, settle.” Jaskier said quickly, dropping his armful of sticks and kneeling by the wolf, carefully pushing its broad shoulders until it settled to the ground with an annoyed growl. “Lay down, stay. You shouldn’t be walking any more tonight, you’ve got to heal alright? Lay down boy, do you know commands?”

There was a low percolating noise in the wolf’s throat but it stayed down, burying its nose between its paws.

“That’s right, you go back to sulking Geralt Junior.” Jaskier said, patting the wolf’s head until he was shaken off a second time. “I’m going to see if I can scrape us together a fire for the night. Feel free to stick around if you like, I wouldn’t mind the company.” He sighed as he scraped a clear patch of earth with his boot and started to pile small sticks and tinder together. “If you do head out in the night I promise no hard feelings though. I’ve been reliably informed that I’m miserable company.”

The wolf didn’t look at him but one of its ears twitched toward him.

“Well you’re already an improvement on Geralt Senior.” Jaskier said dryly, striking sparks from his flint. “At least with you I can tell if you’re really listening or not.”

The wolf huffed, flicking its ear.

Jaskier kept an eye on the white wolf as he scraped a place to lie down next to the fire, rolling out his thin sleeping mat. He really expected the wolf to wander off into the woods at any moment, but instead it stayed right where it was at the side of the campfire as Jaskier settled for the night, steadily ignoring him as he chattering away.

“Well unfortunately for you I’m too tired to work on my songs for the night.” Jaskier said, setting another hunk of firewood in the flames before tucking himself under his thin blanket. He rested on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. “I’m famous for my singing you know, one of the most beloved bards on the continent for my music, you’re missing out on a real treat I tell you.”

The wolf huffed and shifted.

“Well, goodnight Geralt Junior.” Jaskier said, resting his chin on his arms. “It was nice to meet you, good luck on wherever you wander to next. Thanks again for not eating me.”

He meant to go to sleep immediately, but found himself watching the huge mound of white fur on the other side of the flames. He sighed quietly. Just like fate to send him such a clear ironic mockery like this. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the shadows of the tree branches above as they moved and whispered in the wind.

Well no matter the irony dripping from this whole situation, it had at least been a bit of amusement. Maybe he’d even start writing a song about it after the wolf was gone in the morning.

Jaskier closed his eyes, willing himself into unconsciousness before his mind could wander into its nightly routine of fretfully wondering what a different white wolf was up to.

***

Geralt Junior was not gone in the morning.

“Well hello again.” Jaskier said, his voice muzzy with sleep as he pushed himself up. The wolf was sitting, watching him from the other side of the fire, which judging from the blackened state of the wolf’s paws had already been scratched out for the day, charcoal markings scratched across the ground. “That’s a neat trick with the fire, bit rude to watch people sleep though.”

He hoisted himself to his feet with a groan, cracking his back and then stopping to roll up the sleeping mat. “I suppose you’re hanging around because you’re still hungry, well I-oh, hello.”

He startled as a cold wet nose pushed against his bare wrist. The wolf had padded silently over to him, evidently no longer limping. The bloodied binding on its shoulder was starting to slip off too.

“You weren’t biting at this during the night were you?” Jaskier scolded, pushing the wolf back a bit so it wasn’t practically standing over him and taking the bandages off. “Because if you were I’ll...”

He trailed off as the bandages slipped away, revealing a small wound that had nearly healed over already in the night. It was still angry and red looking, but the skin was already well on its way to being mended, a far cry from the gaping bleeding wound last night.

“Did Geralt slip something into my salve?” Jaskier wondered aloud, scratching the wolf’s head absently. “You’ve healed nearly as fast as he does.”

This time the wolf didn’t shake off his hand, instead whining at him, shoving its nose into Jaskier’s palm.

“Hey, it’s a good thing.” Jaskier assured the animal, “It means you can go without bandages now as long as you don’t bite at it.”

He scratched harder right behind the wolf’s ears, not missing the way its tail gave half a wag before the wolf caught itself and ducked away from his hand with a whine.

“Don’t you give me that,” Jaskier said with a grin. “I saw that tail wag, you like pats, you big grumpy thing, you can’t fool me with that act.”

The wolf shook itself hard with a huff, then trotted off into the trees without so much as a backward glance.

Jaskier felt unreasonably disappointed to see the animal go, but put on a smile as he waved. “Goodbye Geralt Junior!” He called after it. “And good luck!”

***

“Storm, tempest...” Jaskier muttered to himself as he walked, kicking stray pebbles as he came across them on the road. “Red skies in morning. Warning. Red skies in morning bringing a warning. That’s good, I’ll keep that.”

It had been another long and lonely day on the hot road, but he’d nailed down nearly all the lyrics to his new song at least. He hadn’t anticipated just how much lonelier it would feel to travel solo after having met last night’s surprise visitor, but at least it had helped keep his mind off...other things...

Jaskier looked up at the setting sun. Well, better to get a start on finding a place to sleep earlier than later tonight. Tomorrow he’d reach the next town if he wasn’t terribly mistaken. He stepped off the path, starting to make his way through the brush.

He couldn’t wait to get back to playing, being around people again would help him get his mind off things. He could start working to refill his purse, perhaps even save up for a horse. He could finally feel less alone, surrounded by an audience and whatever one night stands he could manage to scrounge up in town.

If only he hadn’t-

Jaskier froze as he caught motion out of the corner of his eye and felt himself choke as something huge rushed toward him.

He turned to look and startled again, laughing out loud in relief when he turned to see a white wolf bounding up to him, two dead rabbits clamped in its bloodstained mouth.

“You’ve got to make more noise than that if you don’t want me to die of a heart attack!” He cried, but was unable to wipe the grin off his face at the return of his new friend. “So you’re not sick of me after all, huh? I’m truly flattered you know.”

The wolf ducked its head, dropping the rabbits on the ground in front of him.

“Well if this is your way of saying thank you, then I heartily accept.” Jaskier said with a smile, reaching out and patting the wolf’s head, which the animal seemed to reluctantly endure. “Let's find a good place for a fire and I’ll get these skinned and roasted for us, alright?”

Jaskier picked the rabbits up by the hind legs and strode into the woods with a much happier spring to his step.

An hour later a fire had been made and both rabbits disposed of. Jaskier sat on a log as he plucked at his lute, watching the wolf idly gnawing on a rabbit bone.

“Normally I’d start writing a song about you right away.” Jaskier assured his companion as he tuned a lute peg. “But I’ll reach town tomorrow and I’ve got to have this new song tavern ready if I’m to have any new material.”

The wolf twitched an ear, shifting its gnawing to the other side to watch him as it chewed the tiny bone.

“That’s right, a new Dandelion tune, you’re the first one to hear it too.” Jaskier smiled, strumming a few chords.

He wasn’t really expecting the wolf to listen but as he picked out the opening chords he was intensely aware of the animal’s golden eyes fixed on him. Well, so much the better for practice, Jaskier had never shied away from an attentive audience, no matter the species.

“The fairer sex they often call it,” Jaskier sang, his smile dropping away as the song pulled him in. “But her love’s as unfair as a crook.”

The notes flowed and so did the lyrics, the newest words clicking neatly into place as he sang. The emotions of the last two weeks pulled through him one more time as he fixed them into the song, hopefully a space apart from his heart. Maybe showing them off to strangers could get them to dull a bit.

He knew it wouldn’t, but it was too good a hope to abandon entirely. Not yet.

His gaze flicked up to the wolf as he sang, and he was mildly surprised to see the animal watching intently, bone forgotten.

“I am weak my love, and I am wanting.” Jaskier sang.

He grimaced as his voice broke a little on the line, too much emotion getting through. Or maybe exactly the right amount. To his amusement he could see the wolf tip its head at that, but he pushed on through the rest of the song, finally finishing with a flourish.

“Her Sweet Kiss, by myself.” Jaskier said with a half bow, setting his lute down beside him. “You’ve been a wonderful audience Geralt Junior. I’ve been working on it for the last month or so. It’s undergone some, ah, heavy revisions in the last two weeks, but I think it’s turned out alright.”

Jaskier heaved a sigh, trying to dispel some of the heavy emotion still in his chest as he wiped at his eyes. “I’ll have to tone down to waterworks a bit when I’m performing in front of people though. Pining gets you far more coin than crying, I’ve learned that performing lesson the hard way. Perks to traveling alone you know, I don’t have to try hide any of that around you.”

Jaskier slid down off the log and propped his arms back on it. The wolf across the fire let out a long whine, still watching him.

“Oh, I’m alright.” Jaskier assured the animal, wiping at his eyes even as the tears keep coming. “It’s just been, um, a rough couple of weeks. Had someone I loved very much get rid of me in a rather terrible and unexpected fashion. I figure if I sing instead of crying about it I’ll get more coin, just more practical that way really. No use pining after a friend that hates you...”

Jaskier tipped his head back against the log with a shaky sigh, closing his eyes against the tears that still came. They’d end eventually if he waited them out, better to get them out now rather than in front of a crowd tomorrow.

He opened his eyes as he felt a heavy weight settle against the side of his leg. He looked down to see the wolf had laid down beside him, tucked up against his leg as the animal stared off into the trees, head rested on its paws.

“There we go, we can sulk together.” Jaskier said with a teary chuckle, gratefully running his fingers through the wolf’s thick white fur. “I promise I’ll be alright...someday. I don’t know.” Jaskier huffed, wiping at his eyes again. “But twenty two years, and you know he never once called me his friend? I mean he was always insulting me, but he never actually tried to make me- okay, well he did try to make me leave several times, but that was mostly at the beginning. But still, twenty two years Geralt Junior. That’s such a long time to be treated like garbage.”

The wolf let out a wine, looking up at him.

“We had good times too though. So many good times.” Jaskier said sadly, scruffing both hands through the wolf’s fur, focusing on that instead of his own words. “We traveled so many places, had so many adventures. He can lighten up you know, especially if you get him alone and well fed. He’s got such a wicked sense of humor and a smile that could melt snow, even if so few people really see it. He’s excellent at Gwent, even if he always gambles too much at it. He’s got such a good heart too, he’s always trying to do the right thing, even if it comes back to cause him more trouble later.”

Jaskier laid his head on the wolf’s broad back, watching his fingers pet the white fur in front of his face as his voice got quieter.

“Honestly it only makes it worse though. To be hated by a good person hurts so much more than being hated by a bad one...”

The wolf whimpered and shifted, making Jaskier think for a moment that he’d leaned against its bad shoulder. But instead the animal shoved its snout into Jaskier’s chest, continuing to whine.

“You’re very sweet.” Jaskier said with a smile, “Even if you don’t understand any of this, I’m very grateful that you’re listening anyway.” He took the wolf’s head in his hands, kissing its forehead. “Whoever your person was must have been very sad to lose you.”

The wolf looked away, then after a long moment settled its head back on its paws.

“Sleep isn’t a terrible idea.” Jaskier yawned, resting his head against the wolf again. He watched the fire for a few more minutes of silence before his eyes drifted shut.

His last absent thought was that he hoped the wolf didn’t mind being used as a pillow without having properly been asked.

***

It was day three and Jaskier now knew for a fact that Geralt had slipped something into his medical kit, because his wolf companion was trotting easily at his side as they neared the village, only a pale scar on its shoulder that was hidden entirely by thick fur.

Why Geralt had never thought to use such a miracle cure on him when he’d managed to get banged up was beyond him. Jaskier had narrowed it down to either further proof that Geralt really didn’t like him all this time, or else quick healing magic only properly worked on wolves, whether metaphorical or literal.

But as much as he hated it Jaskier couldn’t remember a time that Geralt had ever been rough or hateful with him while treating one of his wounds. Exasperated certainly, but always urgent and attentive, making sure Jaskier healed as quickly and cleanly as possible.

Which somehow left the more poetic answer, something that Jaskier couldn’t quit smiling about as he walked down the road. Though perhaps that was more due to the fact that the village, and thus a comfortable real bed, were now in sight in the distance.

Or maybe it was the massive white wolf padding silently by his side, not having left him once since last night.

“We’re nearly there.” Jaskier hummed happily, playing with the strap of his lute. “Then we'll have warm fires and warm food and warm audiences...”

He trailed off as he walked, looking at the enormous animal walking beside him.

“Although I’m not sure the inkeep will be thrilled to let a wolf into their establishment... or the townspeople either.” Jaskier said with a frown.

To be quite honest Jaskier himself didn’t even know how the wolf would act around people, if it would start snapping or biting if it were to be taken through a crowd or into an enclosed space. He’d known some inns to allow well trained hounds to room with their masters, but that was always with the passing over of extra coin.

For all the wolf was sticking to his side today Jaskier still wouldn’t be all that surprised if the animal peeled off once they got close enough to the town.

Well, there was only going to be one way to find out, meaning it was time for a badly thought out spur of the moment plan.

“So, Geralt Junior.” Jaskier said, pulling to a stop and digging through his pack. “We’re about to be around a lot of people when we get to town, and as you’ve seen humans get skittish around creatures like you and I’d rather not have another arrow in your shoulder. I understand if you leave before we get there, but if you do stick with me we’re going to have to make you seem as domesticated as possible.”

The wolf pinned its ears back as Jaskier pulled a wide turquoise belt out of his pack, the dyed leather covered in imprinted flowers.

“I know it’s going to be a hit to your wild beastly pride, but I really think turquoise might suit you.” Jaskier said with a cheeky smile. “Although if you’d rather run off wild you’d better let me know right now, because I’m not going to have you running off with this and leaving me with an incomplete outfit, these things aren’t cheap you know.”

The wolf stared at him with a look that Jaskier could only think of as disgust. But after a verrrrry long minute the wolf sat, looking away with the same disgusted look.

“There’s a good boy.” Jaskier praised, quickly leaning down to secure the makeshift collar around his wolf’s neck. “I think you look rather dashing.” He scruffed the thick fur above the collar. “And with one fell fashion statement you’ve now worn more color than your namesake has in his entire unnaturally long life, so you at least have that going for you.”

The wolf refused to look at Jaskier, instead plodding on ahead without waiting for him.

Jaskier laughed at his sulking wolf, but they both became more serious as they approached the town. The wolf kept scenting the air every few steps and Jaskier found himself smiling uneasily at the people they started passing more and more frequently. Not all of them stared openly, but all of them were definitely at least sneaking looks as they walked by.

“Just stick by me.” Jaskier said quietly, his fingertips finding the edge of the collar and staying there as they approached an inn.

He thought about trying to leave the wolf outside, but the animal pressed close against his leg as he walked into the establishment, as if nervous of being left alone in the middle of town. Well, at least it played well into the pet charade Jaskier was playing.

“That's quite a beast you’ve got yourself there bard.” The innkeeper called from behind his counter. He didn’t sound exactly wary but Jaskier could see the man relax a little when he glanced at the floral colored collar. “Afraid we won’t have no fighting dogs in here, he’ll have to keep to the yard if he’s the kind to pick fights.”

“Not to worry my good man, I’ve had Geralt Junior since he was a pup, though truth be told we had no idea he had so much wolf in him when he was still small.” Jaskier said brightly, lying through his teeth. “He’s big, but he’s a big pushover, I can promise you’ll have no trouble from him.”

He looked down at the wolf, for a moment wondering if he weren’t taking too much of a risk with this one. He didn’t know the wolf, but it had stuck by him so closely and the thought of leaving it outside now made him bite his lip.

The wolf gazed up at him with bright yellow eyes, then at the innkeeper, as if thinking. Jaskier raised an eyebrow as the wolf’s tail started to wag and it started to pant with a very doggish smile, leaning hard against him. For all the world the very picture of a lifelong pet.

Well. Unexpected, but good?

“Well he seems polite.” The innkeeper said, smiling down at the wolf. “I’ll allow it as long as you’re willing to pay extra for a room, but even a hint of trouble and you’re both out.”

“Agreed.” Jaskier said eagerly, “one room and meals for the two of us then please, and I’d like to perform tonight if you’re willing.”

“The place is yours,” the inkeep said with a smile, handing Jaskier a room key in exchange for coin. “Haven’t had a bard through here in a while, it'll do us good to have some song.”

***

Jaskier was used to audiences fawning over his singing or his playing or his good looks, but drawing attention because of a huge white wolf resting peacefully at his feet was an entirely new experience. Word of the new bard and his tame snowy white wolf traveled quickly it seemed, Jaskier spotted people ducking in and then out of the tavern all night, smiling and pointing and even tossing an extra coin to them as the night went on.

And through it all the wolf stayed out at Jaskier’s feet, calmly listening and watching the audience throughout the night, only shifting a bit whenever Jaskier got up to move along to a more rousing ballad.

There was one moment when a young girl pushed through the crowd and fell squarely onto the wolf. Jaskier actually fumbled a chord as he gasped in a breath of startled fear.

But the wolf only huffed in surprise, blinking at the little girl as she recovered herself and hugged him around his great furry neck. A moment later a woman darted forward with a hurried word of apology as she grabbed her daughter’s arm and dragged her back.

“Not to worry madam, as you can see he’s quite tame.” Jaskier said with a tip of his hat and a brilliant smile that belied the way his heart was pounding in his chest at what could have easily been a disaster.

He finished his song and then bowed to the applauding crowd, gathering up all the coin offered to him as the people dispersed, seeing he was done for the night.

Once the coin was tucked away Jaskier dropped to one knee in front of the wolf, stroking the animal’s head and speaking in a hushed tone. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for being so tame. Gods above, I thought we were finished for a moment there, you’re truly a magnificently patient beast.”

The wolf ducked its head away from the praise, but Jaskier saw its tail wag against the wooden tavern floor.

“Time for supper and then for bed.” Jaskier said, getting to his feet. “I think you’re going to be a great favorite with audiences my friend if you keep this up, I’d be willing to bet half our coin tonight was due to you alone. We make an excellent team.”

The wolf got to its feet, tail still wagging as it followed Jaskier to a table. While Jaskier ate several people came up to ask if they could pet the wolf, offering bits of food in trade which the wolf accepted eagerly enough.

By the time Jaskier made it to his room, wolf trailing behind, he was convinced he must have done something miraculous to have discovered such a perfect traveling companion.

“You perfect thing.” Jaskier said once they were in the room, a yawn breaking through his smile.

He scratched behind the wolf’s ears and then stripping off his doublet for the first time in days. Really he should take a bath, but the bed looked far too inviting. He collapsed onto the sheets, sprawling out in the warmth of the room as he kicked his boots off.

“A room, a warm fire, coin in my pocket, and an agreeable traveling companion. If only Geralt could see me now.” Jaskier said, slinging one arm over his eyes with a chuckle that turned a bit sad at the end. “I hope that bastard’s alright, wherever he is.” He said quietly.

He felt a cold nose against the back of his hand and raised his arm, looking over to see the wolf whining at him.

“No, not you, the Witcher Geralt.” Jaskier said with a fond smile, petting the wolf’s head. “I'm sorry if I talk about him too much, I suppose I’ve thought of him too long, my brain doesn’t know what else there is to think about.”

He patted the mattress and after a moment of hesitation the wolf jumped up, lying down beside him. The wolf rested his head on Jaskier’s chest, a pleasant warm weight, better than any blanket he could have asked for. Jaskier carded his fingers through the thick white fur as he closed his eyes.

“I suppose I should try forgetting about him entirely.” Jaskier said softly. “I don’t want to though. I think there’s always going to be some mad piece of me that’s going to hope he’d come back for me someday, our paths always cross often enough.”

He petted the wolf in silence for a long minute.

“I can’t do it again though.” Jaskier said firmly, his voice even quieter. “Even if I do see him again someday I won’t go along with him, won’t even look at him, I can’t. I’ve set myself up for heartache and failure for too many years, working so hard to make him a hero of the people in all my songs. There’s never going to be a world in which he actually listens to me or cares, he always took me for granted, I have to remember that.”

Normally he would have teared up by now, but the comforting warmth of the wolf seemed to anchor and steady him as he petted it. The wolf even let out a long low whine that matched his sadness.

“You understand though, don’t you Geralt Junior?” Jaskier said with a smile, ruffling the wolf’s ears with a yawn. “I suppose if I’m going to move on I should think of a better name for you then shouldn’t I? Maybe a flower name to match mine, take our performances to a whole new level.”

The wolf sneezed violently, shaking its head.

“Alright alright, I’ll give it some more thought tomorrow.” Jaskier laughed. He sighed deeply, pulling his pillow a bit more firmly under his head.

It was much easier to get to sleep than it had been the nights before.

***

Weeks passed as Jaskier and his wolf passed through town after town, settling into a rhythm that Jaskier couldn’t have improved if he’d tried.

They spent days at a time in each town, Jaskier serenading crowds who came to see the wolf bard play, bringing in coin aplenty with new songs that seemed to write themselves. Some were thinly veiled laments of course, but Jaskier found himself falling into much happier tunes again far faster than he would have predicted. Ones about canine friends and cheerful adventures and sunny days and good company.

He still enjoyed the crowds of course, but now some of his favorite days were the ones between the towns, days like this when it was just him and his wolf together on the open road.

“Geralt if you don’t bring the stick back to me I can’t throw it for you.” Jaskier called, plucking a tune on his lute as he walked under the pleasant sunny afternoon sun.

Ahead of him the great white wolf bounded back and forth across the road in and out of the weeds, a large stick in his mouth as he dashed around, never seeming to tire of smelling everything they passed. Around his neck was a fine thick collar with colorful flower patterns woven into the design, a favorite with the ladies and small children. Jaskier had tried some other names for the wolf over the past few weeks but none of them had stuck as well as Geralt Junior had, even that of course eventually dropping to just Geralt.

Things had somehow gotten especially smoother after Jaskier had snapped one night, about a week in to their companionship when the animal was acting especially moody.

That’s it, new rule. Unless you’re in pain or I’m in danger there’s going to be absolutely no growling or snarling at me. I’ve gotten a lifetime's worth of that from your namesake thank you very much, and I refuse to take any more of it.

He of course hadn’t expected his outburst to change anything, but he almost thought it had, his wolf being more careful around him, as if it actually realized how upset he’d made Jaskier.

As they’d traveled the wolf had slowly loosened up in more ways than that too, his previous frequent growls and silence trading for eager tail wagging and barks as they performed for tavern after tavern of people eager to pet and praise him. He never really became rambunctious per se, always still a bit reserved and aloof. But Jaskier was certain his wolf was becoming far happier of an animal while traveling with him than he had been before, and feeling needed like that made him feel warm inside.

It wasn’t very often now that he thought of the old Geralt. Not forgotten certainly, but this new life was filled with plenty of happiness to focus on, instead of the pain he suspected would have devoured him had he not found his new companion.

The wolf bounded up to him, letting Jaskier wrestle the stick away from him and fling it off into the bushes again, then took off after it like a shot. Jaskier wiped the wolf slobber off his hand on his pants and picked up his strumming again with a smile. The one thing he hadn't seen yet was the animal getting tired, the beast having apparently been blessed with incredible stamina.

Up ahead he could see someone approaching from a distance. A horse merchant judging by the string of horses roped behind his own, a couple other men riding with him to keep them in line.

Jaskier politely made his way to the side of the road, halting his strumming to keep from spooking any of the merchant’s stock.

The merchant tipped his head to Jaskier in appreciation as they approached, but Jaskier jumped as he heard barking. He turned to see his wolf rush up to the horses, yelping and whining. The merchant and his boys shouted as they wrangled the spooking horses as they all tried to shy away from the canine.

“Get your animals under control!” The merchant snapped, swinging off in a rapid dismount to catch at his horse's bridle.

“I am so sorry!” Jaskier cried, dashing forward and grabbing the wolf’s collar, trying to haul him back with little success as the animal kept trying to lunge forward, whining desperately with its tail tucked between its legs. “Geralt, down! This has never happened before, he’s usually so good around horses, I-“

Jaskier’s breath caught as he saw one horse that hadn’t shied away, the animal instead yanking toward the wolf. A glossy chestnut mare with a white stripe down her face.

“...Roach?” Jaskier said, his mouth dry.

The mare tossed her head with an urgent whinny as she tugged against her rope halter. There was the old patch of white above her back left hoof, and the horse was actively fighting to try and get near him. It was really her.

“Where did you get that horse?” Jaskier demanded, a hollow icy feeling curling in his gut as he let go of the wolf, rushing up to the mare instead.

“Hey, get back, she bites!” The merchant barked, but he paused as Jaskier stroked Roach’s cheek. The horse crowded up to him, stomping her hoof and tucking her head close over his shoulder.

At their feet Jaskier’s wolf whined and yelped, dancing around in clear agitated excitement that Roach didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Where did you get this horse?” Jaskier repeated, turning to look at the merchant, who was hovering back now. “She belongs to a Witcher, she’s got no place in your stock herd.”

Some kind of uneasy look passed over the horse merchant’s face. Jaskier knew he didn’t cut a very intimidating figure, but he could feel the dangerous heat in his own glare and could hear the growling coming from his wolf beside him.

“We found her wandering a few weeks back.” One of the merchant’s boy’s spoke up, looking nervously at the wolf. “She was wandering with a half loose saddle in the middle of nowhere, the camp she was by looked like it had been abandoned for days, clothes scattered about, the place was a wreck, blood all over the place.”

The merchant shot the boy a look, but shook his head, giving up. “If she did belong to a Witcher her rider was long gone by the time we found her, I swear it. Whoever they were certainly wasn’t still alive enough to retrieve his horse when we found her. Must have taken on a contract that was too much for him.”

“You’re lying!” Jaskier snapped, his fingers curling in Roach’s mane. “You stole her, you saw her outside a tavern someplace and thought you could get away with it. Well Geralt’s probably hot on your tail by now and you’re all going to regret it!”

“I swear to you we ain’t no horse thieves.” The merchant said, his expression clouding. “Besides, she’s been nothing but trouble ever since we found her, kicking and biting anyone who gets too close. We’re just about ready to sell her for glue.”

“Give her to me.” Jaskier demanded, fingers already working at the rope tied at her bridle. “She isn’t yours, I’m taking her back to Geralt.”

“Whoa, hey,” the merchant said, advancing on him, only stopping short when the wolf snarled at him. “We’ve been keeping her fed and watered for weeks now, if her Witcher were going to “track us down” it would have happened by now, and as it is we’ve got to at least get the cost of her feed back out of her.”

“Fine, I’ll pay for her food cost.” Jaskier said angrily. “But she’s coming with me now, as well as anything else you stole from where you found her. And believe me, I’ll know if you try to keep any of it back.”

As long as he stayed angry he could keep the fear back. Because Geralt would never never leave Roach abandoned, she was the one thing in the world that Jaskier knew he loved. And if Geralt had been alive enough to walk he would have tracked the horse thieves in a matter of hours.

So where was Geralt?

The merchant must have done some quick calculating in his head of the risk of an angry bard and an angry wolf and an angry horse compared to a quick and easy payout, because he was soon nodding to his boys who scrambled back to the pack horses.

“It’s alright Roach.” Jaskier soothed quietly, taking hold of her rope bridle once he detached it from the lead rope. “It’s alright girl, you’re safe now.”

His wolf was still whining and pressing up against them both. The horse ducked her head down to nuzzle against the wolf, which struck Jaskier as odd, the old mare generally only allowing Geralt himself to touch her. Jaskier had only worked up to being allowed that particular honor after years of sugar cubes and braided manes and pretty compliments.

The boys returns with their arms full, dumping the contents at Jaskier’s feet. Roach’s saddle and tack, saddle bags and camping gear.

Jaskier’s blood ran cold when he stooped to shuffle aside a sleeping roll to uncover a set of all too familiar black studded armor, and two separate long swords. One silver. One steel.

“These were all at his camp?” Jaskier asked, his voice dangerously on edge and brittle as he searched through the pile, finding every single item Geralt regularly traveled with.

“They were, strewn about in a right mess too.” The merchant said, looking very much like he was more than ready to have this whole mess off his hands for good.

Jaskier numbly checked the saddle bags, looking up as his voice cracked.

“The medallion.” He demanded hoarsely. “Where’s the silver wolf medallion?”

The one thing the Witcher never never took off, not even to bathe or sleep. If that at least was still missing then maybe-

One of the boys blushed, quickly pulling a chain from under his shirt and handing it to Jaskier, whose fingers took it in a kind of desperate spasm. His wolf nosed desperately at the medallion, whining and whimpering.

“That’s all of it.” The merchant said hesitantly, clearly disturbed at Jaskier’s reaction.

Jaskier stood, the medallion clutched so hard in his hand that his fingers were bleaching white around it. He pulled out some coin and handed it to the merchant, who barely glanced at the sum before nodding and signaling his boys back in the saddle.

Within a minute of hurried commotion the merchant and his herd were gone, leaving Jaskier standing in the middle of the road with a horse and a wolf. Trembling as he stood over all that remained of Geralt of Rivia, his Witcher medallion clutched in his hand.

Jaskier breath was coming quickly and raggedly as his mind feverishly cast about for any explanation that didn’t end with Geralt being very much gone forever.

His armor looked roughed up and was spattered with dried blood. Had he been eaten out of his own armor? Cursed entirely out of existence? Either way, gone forever. Leaving behind everything.

Leaving behind Jaskier.

Jaskier was trembling so hard that his knees gave out, sending him to the ground on his hands and knees as his rapid shallow breathing gave way to sobs. The edges of the medallion were cutting into his hand, but he didn’t care as tears ran down his face, his mind paralyzed in a loop of denial and panic and grief.

He was gone.

Geralt was gone.

Jaskier felt a heavy warmth press against him and he reflexively wrapped his arms around the wolf as it crowded against his chest. He buried his face in the thick white fur, holding on tightly enough that it must be hurting, but the wolf only draped heavily across his lap, silent as Jaskier sobbed.

He might have cried like that for minutes or an hour before he slowly came back to himself, the wolf nosed at his ear, clearly concerned.

“He’s, he’s gone.” Jaskier hiccuped, opening his hand to look at the medallion, the silver wolf head glinting coldly back at him. Despite having seen it for years, seeing it apart from Geralt made it look unnatural and foreign. “I mean...I k-know I already lost him...b-but not like this.”

His wolf whined quietly, pressing its head against Jaskier's shoulder bracingly. Jaskier buried his face against the white fur.

“Why did that have to be the last time I saw him...” he said quietly, the hollow feeling inside enveloping him completely. “Why did it have to end like that? I really believed I would see him again. What am I going to do now?”

He felt Roach nudge his shoulder and the tears came again as he looked up at her. He unsteadily got to his feet, rubbing her cheek. “Oh Roach, I’m so sorry. You probably saw it actually happen too, you poor thing.”

He eased the rough rope bridle off her head, rubbing her face as his thoughts started to slowly become coherent again. Geralt didn’t really have next of kin, but the other Witchers would want to know what had happened.

“I know he didn’t like me much by the end, but I hope it’s alright if you stick with me.” Jaskier said to Roach. “I promise I’ll keep you brushed and well fed, no monster hunting, but I’ll take good care of you.”

The mare bumped her nose against his chest affectionately.

“I think we ought to find Yennefer.” Jaskier said quietly, sniffling and wiping his eyes as he pulled Roach’s tack from the pile of things on the road. “She’ll know how to track down the other Witchers, to tell them what happened.”

He slipped her real bridle on and saddled her, then started packing all of Geralt’s things into the saddle bags, hanging the two swords at her flanks. He worked slowly, feeling like he would begin sobbing again if he moved too quickly.

The whole time he worked his wolf kept close to his side, staring up at him as it leaned against him comfortingly. Jaskier stopped several times to pet it, reigning his breath back in each time, away from the point of breaking down again.

When everything was ready to go Jaskier had to take a minute to compose himself before he could look at Roach. He’d packed her up exactly like this so many times, but never to ride alone. This isn’t what he wanted at all. He’d perhaps wished that he had something to remember his Witcher by, but not like this.

He pulled the medallion out of his pocket and stared at it. It felt wrong somehow to tuck it away when it had been worn openly for over a century. He looked at his wolf with a sigh, dropping down to one knee.

“I need you to hold onto this for me alright?” He said quietly. “Keep it safe while we travel.”

The wolf sat very still as Jaskier slipped the silver chain over its head.

One moment Jaskier was looking at his wolf, the next moment he was blinded by a blast of white light. He cried out, falling back in shock, letting go of the medallion chain.

He blinked hard, stumbling to his feet as his vision slowly came back to him, leaving his sight hazy and spotty for a long minute as he dizzily tried to balance himself.

Large hands gripped his arms and he yelled in panic, trying to jerk away from whoever had apparently ambushed him with magic. Were they after Geralt’s things? After Roach?

But before he could react further he was pulled into what felt exactly like a tight hug. He tried to struggle as his vision came back to him.

“Unhand me! Let me-"

“I’m sorry Jaskier.” Said a low voice in his ear.

The voice sounded husky, as if it hadn’t been used in a very long time, but Jaskier would recognize that voice no matter what it sounded like.

“G-Geralt?” He asked, his voice cracking.

The hug loosened, only enough for Geralt to pull back and look at him, his beautiful golden eyes bright and happy.

“I promised myself that if I ever got to speak again that’s the first thing I’d say.” Geralt said.

“You’re, you’re not dead?” Jaskier asked, starting to tremble hard, out of overwhelming sudden emotion or simple shock he couldn’t tell.

“I’m not dead.” Geralt said, gently kissing Jaskier’s forehead, sending him another level deeper into staggering shock.

“I’ve gone mad.” Jaskier said weakly, his legs giving out. “I’ve lost it, I’m off my rocker, the full nine yards, hallucinating. Completely batty.”

Geralt caught him with a chuckle, holding him steady. “You’re not mad, I promise. Not about this anyway.”

Jaskier swallowed, looking up at Geralt’s face as he rested his hands on the Witcher’s bare chest, then looked down.

“If you aren’t a dream of mine, then why aren’t you wearing any clothes.” Jaskier challenged flatly.

Geralt grinned. “Haven’t worn any in nearly two months now.”

Jaskier’s eyes caught on the silver medallion around Geralt’s neck, and even more specifically the loose woven collar that Geralt was unlatching and slipping off his neck.

The last two months all slammed into Jaskier at once, blindsiding him hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs completely.

“You’re Geralt!” He wheezed, eyes painfully wide. “The wolf Geralt, you were the wolf, the whole time, of course, of course! What, what happened?”

He didn’t quite know how his hands got on either side of the witcher’s face, but they were there, his face inches from his own as he scanned the familiar sight. Those golden eyes he’d had by his side for weeks now without ever seeing past them to the truth.

“Took a contract for a beast that turned out to be a sorcerer’s pet.” Geralt said, his voice starting to sound like its normal low self. He rested a hand on Jaskier’s wrist, stroking his thumb across the back of his hand. “I killed the beast but its master wasn’t too happy with me, I guess he had a sense of irony so he turned me into a white wolf. He ran me off, I met some hunters, got an arrow through the shoulder, was convinced I was going to die of either infection or hunger or more hunters, and then you nearly tripped over me.”

“It was dark, alright?” Jaskier said breathlessly, his mind skipping over nearly everything Geralt had said to focus instead on the fact that he was here and alive. “So, so you were with me these whole two months? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried, that first night I tried to scrape out a message with the ashes from the fire, but you didn’t notice. Whenever I tried to communicate you didn’t seem to catch on.” Geralt sighed. “After a week or two I gave up, it was pleasant enough traveling with you and I didn’t think there was a cure to the curse. I never would have guessed the medallion, and even if I had I wouldn't have known where to find it. Things were simpler once I gave up.”

Jaskier’s mind replayed the last weeks at super speed, trying to think of any time he’d noticed anything unusual. Perhaps the way the wolf had trusted him so quickly, how it picked up on commands so easily, how when he talked to it it really seemed like it were listening to him.

Jaskier paled, remembering exactly how much he’d talked. “You heard everything I told you? About, about you?” He asked weakly.

“Yes.” Geralt said soberly. “That’s why I decided an apology would be the first thing I’d say if I ever got back to normal.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip trembled, for once at a complete loss for words.

“Are you sure you’re not still cursed?” He finally managed, his hands dropping to Geralt’s chest again. “You’re being very nice to me and using ten times as many words as you usually do.”

“I’ve had two months of wishing I could talk, I have a list actually.” Geralt said, starting to speak a little faster and more earnestly, as if nervous that he’d lose his ability to speak again. “First, I felt terrible the minute you left that mountain, I was angry at so many different things and I took it out on you because you were the closest thing that I knew wouldn’t yell back. I’m sorry, Jaskier, I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Jaskier agreed quietly, mind still spinning a little, but starting to settle as he listened.

“Second, I do not hate you. I’ve never hated you. I hate that you think that, I hate that I made you think that, it’s not true.” Geralt said, almost sounding angry now.

Jaskier swallowed, nodding silently.

“Third you are my friend, my best friend, I’m sorry for taking you for granted. I'll never do it again or else you can run me through with my own sword.”

Jaskier only managed to make a kind of weak noise in response as Geralt gathered him into another tight hug.

“Anything else?” Jaskier asked, trying to make it sound like a joke, but his voice broke as he buried his face against Geralt’s neck.

“Just that I saw you take those apples at the market when you thought no one was looking, and that you really ought to make sure your poor dog is out of the room before you pull someone into bed with you for the night.” Geralt said, his voice sounding amused.

“You were a wolf.” Jaskier sputtered, blushing furiously as he looked up. “How was I supposed to know you were judging me? And really it’s not like you’ve never been to a brothel Geralt, you’re hardly an innocent, don’t try to shame me with that.”

“And your singing is actually quite good.” Geralt said gently, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “Even if some of your recent songs...sting a bit. Being up there with you while you performed every night was...special. I liked it.”

Jaskier swallowed again, unable to keep the dumb grin off his face even as he thought he might start crying again. “So not like a fillingless pie?” He asked, a little facetiously. His eyes widened and he jabbed a finger at Geralt’s chest. “What about that time you started howling in the middle of my set? You frightened the entire tavern! I thought we were going to be run out of town for sure!”

Geralt laughed at that, a lovely deep warm sound. “That was because I saw a pickpocket in the crowd, I figured spooking them with a howl would be better than lunging into the crowd growling. It worked too, which was a nice surprise.”

Jaskier laughed too, a real laugh, not the kind of tight ones other people had gotten from him over the past months, the real kind that had only come when he was alone with his traveling companion.

“I think I’m going to miss wolf Geralt.” He said, tilting his head to the side, surprised at how sad he really felt at that realization. “I mean obviously I’m thrilled you’re not dead, or cursed, but the last two months have been so lovely.”

“Well, if you don’t mind Witcher Geralt too much I’d like to keep traveling with you.” Geralt said quietly. He glanced down at the way they were holding each other, then looked back up. “And maybe start a few things over while we’re at it?”

Jaskier’s heart fluttered in his chest, but he chewed his lip. All those nights of telling himself that he’d never go back to traveling with the Witcher coming back to him. All conversations Geralt had actually heard of course, meaning the Witcher knew exactly what he was really asking.

“How do I know it won’t go back to how it was?” Jaskier asked, a bit of fear creeping into his voice. “What happens when talking has lost its novelty and you’re back to growls and grunts, when you’re mad at being slowed down by me and need someone to take it out on?”

“This time I want to follow you. If you’ll let me.” Geralt said, gently resting his forehead against Jaskier’s. “The way we’ve done these past months. You go where you want, and I’ll take whatever contracts I find along the way, that way you don’t have to give up anything anymore to be around me, you can set the pace.” He brushed a thumb across Jaskier’s cheek. “It was nice following you around as a wolf, I think it would still be nice as a Witcher.”

“You use that line on every boy you flirt with?” Jaskier teased, but his smile was real. “I think I’d like that.” His expression grew serious. “But I will take you up on your offer of running you through with your own sword if you start being an imbecile again.”

“Good.” Geralt chuckled, brushing his nose against Jaskier’s. “And I promise no more growling or snapping at you, I’ve done well with that rule these past few weeks haven’t I?”

“You have.” Jaskier nodded tearily. “Although I thought it was just because I kept bribing you with treats.”

“I won’t pretend those didn’t help some.” Geralt teased.

Jaskier’s heart skipped as Geralt took his face in his hands and closed the last inches between them, kissing him softly. He closed his eyes, leaning into it, allowing the dozens of clamoring thoughts and questions inside him to still for at least a moment. A very good, very quiet moment.

As the kiss ended he gazed at Geralt, knowing he was probably a bit starry eyed. Behind them Roach huffed and stamped the ground, breaking the moment.

“I haven’t forgotten you either, girl.” Geralt said fondly, letting go of Jaskier and walking over to her, firmly stroking her nose and kissing her forehead. “I was so worried about you, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Roach swished her tail and nickered, affectionately shoving her head against Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier gasped, his eyes lighting up. “I just realized this is all going to make a brilliant song.” He said, nearly giddy at the thought as he fished his notebook out of his pocket. “The Witcher Wolf, a rousing ballad about transformation and reconciliation.”

“Well be sure to put your apple theft in there somewhere.” Geralt snorted, pulling his clothes out of the saddle bags and starting to shrug them on. He grimaced as he pulled on his pants. “Have clothes always been this claustrophobic?”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t mind if you left them off, but I can’t speak for the townspeople.” Jaskier said with a smirk, already scribbling snatches of lyric ideas in his notebook. He looked up, eyebrows raising as he watched Geralt struggle into his boots. “Hang on, that’s why you never licked people like other dogs do, because you were Real Geralt the whole time.”

“I had to keep my dignity somehow.” Geralt said, frowning as his fingers slipped a bit at his shirt buttons. “Darn fingers are going to take some getting used to.”

“Oh, dignity eh?” Jaskier smirked, coming up and doing the witcher’s shirt buttons for him. “So what about that time at the butcher’s last week when you-"

“If you ever mention that aloud I'm tossing you to the very next monster I see and walking away.” Geralt said sternly.

“Oh but now I have so many excellent stories about you!” Jaskier said gleefully. “Wouldn’t Yennifer love to hear about last month, when we were hiking through that forest and you decided to-"

Jaskier yelped as Geralt scooped him up and unceremoniously slung him over Roach’s back like a hunting trophy. Jaskier laughed as he clumsily righted himself in the saddle just as Geralt started moving, pulling Roach to walk with him down the road.

“Better get started on that wolf song, bard.” Geralt said, looking over his shoulder with a smile and handing him the notebook and pencil he’d dropped. “I think that’s a much better use of your breath.”

“Well, if you insist.” Jaskier said, primly taking back his notebook and pencil, but still grinning.

Because he got the feeling that things weren’t going to go back to the way they had been before. He got the feeling that they were going to be much, much better.

---------

Read Geralt’s POV with extra scenes!

[Geralt’s POV Chapter 1] [Geralt’s POV Chapter 2]

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #dandelion #geraskier #actualwolf!geralt #im finally getting smarter and going back to doing hefty oneshots instead of only sprawling multichapter fics and it feels good #wit writes #i felt all my wolf girl powers reactivating while writing this

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asmolbirb · 5 years

Text

Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: T Word count: ~2500

Jaskier doesn’t start on the sweeter ballads until after he’s eaten his dinner and enjoyed a mug of ale. By then, the last vestiges of daylight have given way to inky darkness shot through with stars, and the innkeeper has stoked the fire to a roaring inferno, and the kind of lazy contentedness that accompanies a full belly has settled over the locals like a blanket, all of this working to create a decidedly more receptive audience for tender tales of lost love and distant adventure. So Jaskier looks around and notes how the conversation has dulled, and he begins picking out chords and runs, starting simple and working his way to more melancholy melodies.

He gets “Toss a Coin” out of the way early. It’s a crowd-pleaser and guaranteed to recoup the cost of his supper—and Geralt’s, when the Witcher deigns to join him—at least twice over. He fumbles his way through a couple of local ballads he’s still learning, about old spirits and familiar legends, and he tells the poeticized tale of a kikimora Geralt recently dispatched. And then, to end of his performance, he indulges himself with one of his more wistful ballads about love and heartbreak.

He has an alarmingly robust collection of those, and he rotates through them: the bittersweet lament about a love that slipped out of his reach; the tragic tale of the woman with no smile; the ode to the muse whose quick wit enthralled him only to leave him desolate, yearning, utterly alone. These ballads are too forlorn to see frequent use, but Jaskier has a soft spot for them. They tell his own story, after all. It’s cathartic to lose himself in the movement of his fingers across the strings of his lute, the plaintive runs that bookend his choruses. And the ballads have the added bonus of occasionally attracting a barmaid sympathetic to his plight and willing to help him forget his sorrows.

By the time he and Geralt pay for a room in a town where the air is sticky with humidity and sharp with the faint scent of seawater, it’s been more than a month since his last tumble with an eager barmaid, and Jaskier is thrumming with excess energy. He works his way through three ballads that night before noticing he’s picked up an audience.

“She must have stolen your heart quite thoroughly,” says one of the women lingering near Jaskier and Geralt when Jaskier finally shakes himself out of his trance, “to have inspired three ballads.”

“She is the beauty of my world,” Jaskier agrees. He begins packing up his lute; he’s indulged himself enough tonight. “My ballads capture only a fraction of her splendor.”

“Tell us about her, then,” says a barmaid, and the rest of Jaskier’s audience sends up a chorus of agreement. “She’s a lucky woman to have caught your attention.”

Geralt, who has been silent until now, snorts. “Yes, Jaskier, tell us. I can’t wait to hear about the fair lady who has caught your eye,” he says dryly, and it’s only because Jaskier is now fluent in Geralt’s sparse manner of speaking that he hears the words Geralt isn’t saying, hears you’ve been on the road with me for a month, how will you spin your way out of this?

Jaskier meets Geralt’s gaze without flinching. He grins slightly, casts his eyes over his captive audience, all hanging off his every word. “I’m not one to kiss and tell,” he begins, affecting wistfulness, “but she deserves to be told about.” Minding his pronouns, he continues, “She’s incredible. The kindest soul I’ve ever met. Her nobility is unparalleled. She would never leave a debt unpaid, nor a soul in harm’s way. She is unafraid to face any danger, be it a dragon or a man sick with corruption.”

He catches Geralt’s eye again, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He lets Geralt’s lack of reaction embolden him. “She doesn’t say much. It is my punishment, I suppose, for barging into her life the way I did, that I must interpret her moods from her expressions alone.” He sighs dramatically, letting his eyelids flutter and his lips fall into a besotted smile. “But how exquisite those expressions are, and how I delight in coaxing them upon her face.”

“To hell with that sappy bullshit,” says one of the women sitting near him. “You speak in metaphors enough in your ballads. What does she look like? Is she noble or a commoner?”

Jaskier swallows. Involuntarily, he glances at Geralt, but the Witcher only looks amused, still waiting for Jaskier’s lies to fall apart. Jaskier understands his amusement. From Geralt’s perspective, Jaskier hasn’t properly courted a woman since the Countess de Stael.

Just as well for Jaskier, then, that Geralt hasn’t yet figured out the true object of his affections. “She’s fair-haired,” he says now to his audience. “With locks that reflect the sun like a thousand mirrors, and eyes golden as honeycombs. Taller than me, but with hips as slender as any child’s. And a bottom round as an apple,” he throws in with a cheeky wink. “She isn’t a noble, but she’s no commoner, either. She isn’t the type to sit back and let others do her work for her. She is strong—stronger than I, that’s for certain.” And he has to pause here as he remembers the way Geralt has thrown him over shoulder, has hauled him across terrain both rough and smooth with naught more than a grip on his collar. He swallows shakily, wills himself not to look at Geralt, though he can see out of his periphery that Geralt is staring at him now, intently, brow furrowed, lips thinned. Nonetheless, Jaskier continues digging his grave. Can’t leave his audience waiting, of course.

“She isn’t one for tender touches,” he admits. “But still, she tolerates mine. I confess, I often wonder why she allows me to grace her side.”

“Perhaps you offer a nocturnal performance worth suffering the rest,” suggests one of the barmaids, and the others cackle in agreement. Jaskier simply shrugs.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledges. Unable to help himself, he sneaks another glance toward Geralt, only to find Geralt’s intense glare trained directly on him. Try as he might, Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away. “Perhaps she keeps me around as a bedwarmer,” he continues slowly, his eyes locked on Geralt’s, “until she finds someone who is sweeter than me, or until she grows tired of my antics. Perhaps I am naught but temporary entertainment. But I adore her, truly. The sight of her is as water to a man lost in a desert, and her touch is softer than the finest Toussaintian silk.”

Geralt growls at that. He stands up abruptly, his chair skidding across the floor with a screech. “Say good night, Jaskier,” he rumbles, his eyes narrowed. “We have business of our own to attend to.”

Jaskier swallows. Finally, he looks away, back at his enraptured audience. “That’s enough for tonight, I suppose,” he concedes good-naturedly. “You’ll have to wait for the next ballad to hear more, though it won’t be long until I write it. My lady is too exquisite to keep her name from my lips for long.”

Geralt’s voice rumbles again, wordlessly, before Jaskier can get lost in his own words again. He claps a large hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, using it to steer him toward the stairs and their room. “Sweet dreams, ladies!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, doffing his hat clumsily. “May you be luckier in love than I!”

Geralt doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it’s a near thing, and Jaskier would wince in sympathy if Geralt’s hand wasn’t still bearing down on his shoulder, rooting him in place. Geralt lets go after a moment and leans against the door, his arms crossed in typical Geraltian fashion. Jaskier collapses onto the bed, taking the opportunity to roll his shoulder a few times in exaggerated discomfort. “I swear I end up with more bruises than you do sometimes,” he complains. “I understand misery loves company, but perhaps next time you feel the urge to rough someone up, you could find another monster. Plenty of those around, and frankly, we could do with the extra coin, seeing as someone kept me from buttering up the crowd to fatten our purses tonight—”

“There’s no lady,” Geralt says.

Jaskier trails off. “Well, of course not,” he says instead. “I imagine a woman would take grave offense to the frequency with which we give our patronage to brothels, not to mention your unseemly habit of bathing in monster blood and other revolting gunk.” He wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps I should write an ode to your masterful powers of observation next.”

“But you were talking about a woman tonight,” Geralt continues, ignoring Jaskier entirely. He tries not to take offense to that. Something tells him that any protest he offers will be utterly disregarded. “The same one your ballads are about, the one who broke your heart and left you wanting.”

Warmth blooms, unbidden, in Jaskier’s heart. Geralt has been listening to his songs. Geralt remembers his lyrics. Geralt knows enough about Jaskier’s lyrics to notice the details consistent through them all.

Geralt knows Jaskier is in love.

The warmth transforms instantly into a spear of ice, chilly tendrils spreading through Jaskier’s chest and pulsing through his veins even as he says, with false cheer, “They’re stories, Geralt. Hyperbole. I’m a poet. It’s what I do. Heartbreak is a universal emotion, and the gods know I’ve experienced it often enough in my short time upon this mortal coil. I could write songs about heartbreak in my sleep—and just you watch, I’ll be doing it tonight, you’ve really dug your own grave with this, my friend.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. He pushes off the door and stalks towards Jaskier, stopping just inches from the bed and forcing Jaskier to crane his neck to keep looking Geralt in the eye. Briefly, Jaskier considers climbing to his feet as well, to be on even ground with Geralt. However, doing so would place him chest-to-chest with the other man, and that isn’t something Jaskier can physically handle right now. So he stays put, his heart hammering wildly against his rib cage, and he’s certain Geralt, with his enhanced hearing, must be deafened by the sound.

“Someone once told me,” Geralt starts slowly, “that all good stories stem from a kernel of truth. So either your stories are shit, or you aren’t telling me the truth. Which is it, Jaskier?”

And here’s the problem with traipsing across the Continent behind a Witcher like a lost puppy, Jaskier reflects. He’s experienced a lifetime of adventure and filled uncountable notebooks with lyrics and learned more about Geralt than possibly any other being on the planet. But then, Geralt has had ample opportunity to peer into Jaskier’s soul, too. It’s easy to get caught up in Geralt’s brawn, and his stony silence, and his aversion to emotional commitment. It’s easy to forget how perceptive Geralt can be.

“The former, obviously,” quips Jaskier, a little breathlessly, a little too quietly. He wants to look away, wants to find an escape route, but Geralt is magnetic. Jaskier could drown in those golden eyes. And all the while he’s still running his mouth, trying to stave off the inevitable. “I’m all pie crust and no filling, didn’t you know? It’s a wonder I manage to earn enough to pay for a warm meal and a bed at the end of the day. That’s why I keep you around, actually. For your income. Certainly not for the riveting conversation. Certainly not because I—because I need you.”

“And yet,” Geralt murmurs, reaching out to tip Jaskier’s chin up with a single knuckle, “here we are.”

When did Jaskier’s mouth get so dry? He licks his lips, watches Geralt’s eyes dip down to track the motion. “Here we are.”

Jaskier doesn’t know whether to close his eyes to give Geralt implicit consent or leave them open to track every emotion crossing Geralt’s face, doesn’t know whether to lean into Geralt’s touch or pull away and offer Geralt an out. Instead he waits, pulse racing, teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the slightest gust of wind to send him careening into freefall.

And it comes: a shallow breath against his lips, before Geralt’s mouth is covering his, stealing a kiss and Jaskier’s breath in one fell swoop. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to collect himself before he’s surging in again, teeth tugging gently at Jaskier’s lips and coaxing a gasp from him, tongue pushing past the moment Jaskier’s lips part. It’s heady and intoxicating, and Jaskier can feel his mind going fuzzy as he focuses solely on matching Geralt’s intensity.

Somehow they end up horizontal, with Jaskier’s feet still dangling off the edge of the bed and Geralt on his hands and knees above Jaskier. Geralt presses close, his weight pinning Jaskier down, and Jaskier thinks there’s no place he would rather be than right here, Geralt’s thighs bracketing his, falling into a sweet messy rhythm that has Jaskier arching his back and scrabbling uselessly at Geralt’s broad torso and keening into Geralt’s mouth. Eventually he gives in and tosses his head back, opening his neck to Geralt’s ministrations and giving himself over entirely to the quicksilver pleasure coursing through him.

Once they’ve stilled and caught their breath, Geralt moves just far enough to drag Jaskier fully onto the bed and no further. He continues stealing sweet kisses, seemingly determined to swallow all the air from Jaskier’s lungs before letting him go.

“You’re not temporary entertainment,” Geralt rumbles an eternity later against Jaskier’s lips, their breath mingling. Jaskier revels in that simple phrase and the intimate action that accompanied it, feels his blood singing with the knowledge that Geralt reciprocates his feelings, might want Jaskier as a permanent fixture by his side—until Geralt continues, “You’ve never been entertaining.”

“Oi, fuck off!” Jaskier gasps in mock indignation. He pushes himself away and braces a hand against Geralt’s chest to keep him at arm’s length. “You weren’t complaining about my performance just now!”

But Geralt is laughing quietly, his whole body shaking against Jaskier’s, and Jaskier lets himself be pulled back into Geralt’s arms, lets Geralt kiss his anger away. His last thought before he launches a campaign to make Geralt regret his words is an apology to the women he’d been singing to in the tavern below; his next ballad may be a long time coming yet.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #neko writes fic #neko makes words #so uhhh guess who wrote that geraskier ballad fic i said i wasn't gonna write #someone tell me how i banged out that one scene in like 15 minutes when i was wasted last night #but the rest of this fic took me literally almost 8 hours #anyway uhhh pls lmk if you enjoyed lmao im big dumb and crave validation #((also im real bad with characterization so. here's hoping i did them justice!))#my legacy

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gusu-emilu · 4 years

Text

Cantatio: Chapter Four

Ship: Lan Zhan / Wei Ying (POV Lan Zhan)

Summary: Wei Ying and Nie Huaisang cause trouble in Lan Qiren’s class. Lan Zhan isn’t amused.

Cloud Recesses Academy AU, Rated T (technically this is a series but this chapter can stand alone too) - read on AO3

< Ch. 3 | Ch. 5 > | chapter list

Lan Wangji had expected the first day of classes to be long.

But not this long.

The expression ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ had never held much truth for the young cultivator, who believed that a better phrasing would be ‘time proceeds at a pace directly proportional to one’s concentration.’

Being trained in Daoist meditation techniques since his first sign of infantile self-awareness had granted Lan Wangji the ability to bend his perception of time with his focus. When he rose long before dawn and sat in Lotus Position to meditate, the silent depths of stillness enabled him to traverse hours in what felt like the blink of an eye, yet the insights he obtained remained undistorted by the time skip.

Unless he was disrupted by the loud crash of Wei Wuxian falling out of bed on the other side of the room.

But that was beside the point.

The more Lan Wangji focused, the faster the world moved. His studies were one of the pursuits that he paid the most careful attention to. He listened to professors with unwavering interest, picking up on the slightest inflections of their voices, and he ruminated on intriguing sentences for hours after a lesson finished. Therefore it made sense that although the school day would be long, its duration would be reasonable, for his mind would be well-occupied.

Yet Lan Qiren was still lecturing about Ancient Texts, and it was only the first class of the day!

The problem was not a lack of interest. Ancient Texts had always been a special aptitude of Lan Wangji. The problem was that he wasn’t fully focused on the lecture, and therefore it dragged on. As Lan Qiren’s stentorian voice intoned perfectly pronounced phrases of poetry, his mind kept ping-ponging between thoughts of what he would say to Wen Qing about last night, what Wei Wuxian looked like while sleeping—no, that never crossed his mind—and what could be inside the strange closet that sat smugly in his dorm room. He imagined that the closet was fully aware of the mess it had caused and was snickering at the shameful memory of Lan Wangji being thrown around a girls’ dormitory by a giant beetle.

Rule #1034: Learning comes first.

Lan Wangji needed to recenter his focus.

He picked up his brush and pressed the end of its handle into his palm. It was highly improper to mistreat a calligraphy tool like this, but Lan Wangji was getting desperate.

The pressure from the blunt wood roused him back into the moment.

Lan Qiren was pacing alongside the disciples’ desks, his mustache whiskers quivering as he spoke with a stern yet aloof tone.

“The poem I just recited was translated from an ancient predecessor to our language. Of course, translations never capture the full nuance of a passage. Therefore, now that you have heard but a cloudy reflection of this magnus opus, we will begin analyzing the poem in its original language, Trans-Himalayan,” Lan Qiren said.

The entire classroom groaned. Nie Huaisang rested his chin in his palm, looking the most bored out of everyone.

“What’s the point?” Wei Wuxian muttered. “When are we ever going to need to know Trans-Himalayan?”

“Shut up. You’ll need to know Trans-Himalayan if you want to pass the class. That should be enough,” hissed Jiang Cheng.

A few moments later, Nie Huaisang leaned over. “…Who are Tran, Sim, and Leia? They sound like the type to have a threesome.”

“…”

Every disciple in the room sucked in a collective breath of shocked amusement, their twisted smiles on the verge of bursting.

Nie Huaisang opened his silk fan and covered his own smirk in a hurry, looking at the ceiling with light eyes that concealed a calculated satisfaction beneath their innocence. A single wheeze escaped from Wei Wuxian’s mouth before he could stop it, like air escaping from a balloon.

Lan Qiren did not seem to notice. He criticized the Jin Clan disciple who was stumbling over foreign words as she recited the ancient poem for the class.

Of course, once you let go of the mouth of a balloon that’s full of air, it’s inevitable that it will fly around the room in a sputtering chaos.

“Aiya, Huaisang, that’s not how you say it,” Wei Wuxian murmured. “You’ve got the wrong people in the bed. It’s supposed to be pronounced, ‘Tran, Sim, and Lan Qiren.’”

Now at least five disciples were snickering. Nie Huaisang was silently buried in his fan, but his scrunched eyes and heaving shoulders said more than enough. Even Jiang Cheng, who was clearly counting how many hours of detention he’d get if he slammed Wei Wuxian’s face into the desk, could not prevent his lips from curling.

Ridiculous, Lan Wangji thought. He was sorry he had tuned his mind back in to the classroom.

The Jin Clan disciple was still fumbling through her recitation. All eyes were on Lan Qiren, but not for the reason the old professor would have hoped.

“Remember that really poetic line? ‘Balance to both ends of the world,’” Wei Wuxian parroted in sing-song. “Well, that’s the part where Tran and Sim each grab one side of Lan Qiren’s mustache.”

Jiang Cheng was the first to break. His high-pitched giggle—unhinged and childlike—pierced through the air like a siren. However, that surprising turn of events was quickly forgotten as the entire room erupted into feverish laughter.

The balloon had popped.

“What is the meaning of this?! Settle down! Everyone, quiet!” Lan Qiren huffed. He held his arms stiffly out to his sides with the sleeves of his robes draping in two giant hoops, as if he wanted to suck all the laughter into his sleeves to snuff it out.

Lan Wangji glared at Wei Wuxian, but the insolent clown was so overcome with giggling that he did not notice.

Apparently, Lan Qiren had followed his nephew’s line of sight to find the culprit, and soon accosted him.

“Wei Wuxian! What have you done? Confess to your actions!”

This only increased the volume of the laughter that ricocheted off the classroom ceiling into Lan Qiren’s offended ears, which seemed to spew out hot steam in protest. Lan Wangji felt a bit guilty for unintentionally ratting out Wei Wuxian to be the recipient of his uncle’s wrath.

Wei Wuxian finally reigned in his mirth and looked up at Lan Qiren with precariously composed sincerity. “I was only saying that I want to write a poem about mustache whiskers. I call it The Ballad of Catfish.”

Actually, no, Lan Wangji did not feel bad at all.

“Wei Wuxian! What is this disrespect? My classroom is no place for jokes! You should be focusing on the poem in Trans-Himalayan!”

The disciples bit their lips at the mention of the word that had started the whole fiasco, but the balloon of laughter had finally deflated.

“Wei Wuxian!”

“Yes, Shifu?”

“Do you know how to read this poem?”

“Not yet, Shifu.”

“Then why have you been chatting instead?”

“…Because I do not know how to read the poem, Shifu.”

Lan Qiren’s blood was boiling. “Wei Wuxian, since you are so illiterate, you will continue reading the poem to the class!” he barked, apparently not caring about the contradiction he just created.

“Yes, Shifu.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at his textbook.

“Where did we leave off?”

Lan Qiren sighed and shook his head with weary disapproval.

Wei Wuxian was actually able to perfectly read the last line the Jin Clan disciple had said, to Lan Qiren’s obvious displeasure. However, he was already stumped by elementary words in the next line. He must have been reciting from memory and had already reached the end of his mind’s fishing reel.

“Uh…um…” He looked up at the professor like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

“Wangji, please assist Young Master Wei.”

Lan Wangji was used to being called on to help other students. After all, it was rare that he did not know the answer.

“Swan.” Lan Wangji said the word in both languages for clarity.

Wei Wuxian nodded and continued. He was stuck again three syllables later.

“Wangji,” Lan Qiren called.

Lan Wangji looked down at the complex inky scribbles in the poetry book on his desk. He realized that he did not understand the line either.

“Lan Zhan? Some help?” Wei Wuxian said.

Lan Wangji paused, then flattened the page in front of him as he spoke.

“I do not know.”

Wei Wuxian eyes widened in disbelief. He looked at Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng scoffed and turned his head away, but his pupils soon snuck into the corners of his eyes to observe Lan Wangji with chilled interest.

“Well, huh, then…” Lan Qiren frowned. “I suppose this text is rather difficult. But that is no excuse for misbehavior! The line reads, ‘Horrified, the warrior realized that, like a swan crushing her eggs as she shielded them from a snake, it was his hand that plunged the knife into the Emperor’s heart.’ It is a pivotal turning point in the poem’s narrative and is frequently quoted by other authors. It is critical that you grasp every literary metaphor related to this line!”

The rest of Ancient Texts passed peacefully. Lan Wangji enjoyed the challenge of dissecting the poem in its original language. It was a tragic story about a warrior who, upon learning that he had been manipulated by the enemy in an assassination plot to kill the emperor he served, abandoned his beautiful homeland to hide in repentant shame for eternity.

Although the stories were different, it reminded Lan Wangji of his father.

He quickly shoved that thought away.

After class ended, the disciples entered the courtyard outside. Lan Wangji hung back. He had to tell his uncle about last night’s incident. Someone needed to be alerted if a portal really did exist in a Cloud Recesses dormitory, and who better to inform than the overseer of the Cloud Recesses himself, Clan Leader Lan Qiren?

However, his uncle already had a lot of tasks on his plate, especially now that he and the clan leaders had to track down wherever the monster spirit that possessed the beetle had come from. Furthermore, it would be embarrassing for Lan Wangji to convey the full details of his story, and he still did not have an adequate explanation for what had transpired. And he definitely was not secretly worried that if he exposed the truth of the closet door, he and Wei Wuxian would be relocated and would no longer be roommates. That was not a factor.

Yet the rules tugged at his feet and at his tongue.

Shoulder the weight of morality. Be strict with yourself. Be loyal and filial.

If he did not tell his uncle…perhaps his brother would be an acceptable confidante?

But first, Wen Qing. He stepped out into the sunny courtyard.

“Wei-xiong, that was hilarious! I’ve never had such a good time in a class!” Nie Huaisang said as he bounded over to his dark-robed friend.

“Ahaha, why give me all the credit, though? You’re a funny little devil as well.”

Nie Huaisang shook his hands wildly in front of him, as if this suggestion were too much for him to hold.

“No, no, no, I wasn’t trying to be funny! I really didn’t know how to say it!”

“Hahaha! That’s even funnier, then!”

Jiang Cheng elbowed Wei Wuxian in the ribs. “Neither of you are funny.” He grabbed his brother by the arm and started dragging him across the courtyard. “Move your ass. If I’m late to the daozhang’s class because of you, I’m going to punch your head in.”

“What are you fussing about, Jiang Cheng? You were laughing louder than anyone!”

“Was not!”

Lan Wangji swooped in front of their path. “Causing disruptions in class is prohibited.”

Jiang Cheng scowled. Nie Huaisang covered his face with his fan and hid the rest of his body behind Wei Wuxian, who stood smirking with his hands on his hips.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan! You better be careful! If you say those rules so much, you’ll turn into the scroll they’re written on!”

Lan Wangji furrowed his brow. “Boring.”

“Yeah, exactly! Okay, step aside, Lan Zhan, you’re going to make us late for class. Unless you want to be the reason we break another rule? Haha! Come on, let’s go,” he said as he tugged Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang away.

“Get your fat hands off me,” Jiang Cheng said with a shove.

Nie Huaisang turned his head over his shoulder and waved. “Bye, Second Young Master Lan!”

Lan Wangji eyed Nie Huaisang suspiciously as he scurried after the bickering siblings and disappeared around a temple at the far side of the courtyard. In the time Lan Wangji had spent accompanying Lan Xichen on trips to Qinghe, he had learned a few things about the small, skittish young cultivator.

Nie Huaisang was crafty. When he wanted entertainment, all he needed to do is throw a match into the firepit—nothing profound, just a provocative little comment that could provide some kindling—and then he would sit back and watch as everyone burned down the world around him. Most assumed he carried his signature fans for decoration. Lan Wangji theorized that he carried them to exercise his talent for fanning the flames of discord.

Of course, if confronted, Nie Huaisang would insist that he knew three times less about the world than anyone else.

On his own, the boy was manageable. Endearing, even.

But next to Wei Wuxian?

It was a partnership forged in Hell.

After the troublesome trio disappeared, Lan Wangji searched for Wen Qing, hoping to apologize for intruding in her room and discuss the teleportation closet with her, but she had disappeared after Ancient Texts.

He caught sight of her again right as Song Lan’s Beings & Creatures class was beginning. To his disappointment, he would have to wait until its completion to speak to her.

It was a long wait. Song Lan’s class did not pass peacefully.

* * *

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, you can be a supportive sibling like Jiang Yanli by liking, reblogging, and visiting me on AO3! New chapters posted every Monday on AO3 and Tuesday on Tumblr.

Ch. 5 > | chapter list

#mdzs fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfiction #the untamed fanfic #wangxian fanfiction #wangxian fanfic #mdzs fic #wangxian #mdzs #cql #the untamed #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan zhan #wei ying #nie huaisang #lan qiren #cantatio #emilu talks

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ducktales-wco-oo · 3 years

Note

Actually if Carroll is giving one to Jayden he wants one in return :) 🍆

{ ☆ } Jayden would be lying if he said that he hadn’t put some thought into this. A lot of it, actually… mainly when they’d had been broken up the second time. When one lays around in bed for hours on end staring unseeingly at the ceiling, the mind tends to wander. He can hardly be blamed for preferring those kinds of speculations to the… scarier ones. Now that things are back on track, college on the horizon and eighteen years of lifetime experience under his belt— most of which Jayden would say was a suck-fest, but the latter years definitely started picking up —it seems like as good a time as any to completely destroy whatever shred of dignity he may have earned in his ‘old age’, as Jayden has been jokingly referring to it.

❝ Okay, so— Carroll likes it when I wear his clothes, as he should because I look amazing in them. Anyway, I’m wearing his sweater and I look adorable as Hell and he’s hard as fuck over it. I dunno if sex in a sweater is a good thing because of overheating or whatever, but we could always crank the AC or I could just wear one of his shirts instead… but that doesn’t matter. We’re not talking technicalities, we’re talking aesthetic. ❞ And him getting railed while wearing Carroll’s sweater is a damn good one. He wants Carroll to look at him and make no mistake who’s Butterfly he is. To see him and be constantly reminded of how his sweaters are ALWAYS in danger of theft now… and how he wouldn’t have it any other way.

❝ And obviously there’s some foreplay because I deserve it. He’s slipping his hands under his big-ass sweater so he can touch me and he’s kissing me and running his fingers through my hair… ❞ Jayden mimics the motion with his own hand, smugly grinning as bright, thick strands fall back into their floofed texture. ❝ And he’s waxing poetic which is HOT AS FUCK… ❞ Dirty talk, who? Jayden only fantasizes about a stacked dork writing impulse poetry about how sexy he is. ❝ Makes me feel special, y’know? Anyways… Things are getting hot and heavy and etc… Tragic as it may be, I’ll skip the juicy details and just get to the main point. ❞

Hands clasped in front of himself, smug smirk grows as they quirk a brow, ❝ I ride him like he’s a fucking bucking bronco in a rodeo. ❞ Perhaps not as eloquent as Carroll could have made it sound, but Jayden is pretty proud of the metaphor. Snickering, they shamelessly continue— after all, it’s not like Carroll is around to hear. THAT would be embarrassing. ❝ Sure, we start out slow because I’m not gonna not tease him as I sliiiiiiide on down onto whatever he’s packing. Which would FIT, by the way. ❞ A curt and quick retort to what they know everyone is thinking, brows knitting and beak puckered in a pout for a moment before resuming, ❝ But yeah— He’s holding my hips and I’m doing my thing, and I’m good at it, and I can tell I am because his face is all red and his body is sweaty even though he’s just lying there watching me… and his eyes are all dazed like they get when he really, REALLY likes what he sees. Like when we rest our foreheads together and just- look at each other, only different because we’re- y’know… ❞

Cheeks flush at his tangent, that moment of unplanned sap managing to be what embarrasses him. Coughing into a closed fist, he shakes his head and continues, ❝ But yeah. Carroll likes it… A lot. And I do too because well, I wouldn’t mind him being ON me like, loom- hovering over. Because he’s Carroll. I know he’s not gonna hurt me or something… and I’m sure whenever we- yeah… He’ll be on top sometimes. But I just— when I imagine it… I’m just on top, okay? ❞ One can hardly blame him for feeling hesitant to be pinned down or completely surrender control. Not after how it felt the last time it happened. Shaking his head, Jayden tries to refocus on the more appropriate vibes.

Which are horny and smug as Hell about it.

❝ So, we start out slow and I’m doing great and Carroll is feeling great and so do I because it’s just- awesome… And then he starts moving his hips too, and before we know it he’s slamming me down onto him and slamming into me which just makes it even BETTER and- fuck. It’s just all kinds of amazing. Like how you always hear people talk about sex or see in videos but it’s for REAL. ❞ Confident that his lack of experience about the subject aside from a few scenarios and buzzwords isn’t showing, Jayden swallows thickly as he averts his gaze up and to the side, trying to will his body temperature to lower before it becomes a problem, ❝ He keeps telling me how much he loves me too. Like— a LOT. Saying how great I am and that he’s glad I’m here and it’s only me forever and….. Other stuff like that. Nice stuff. ❞

Twirling a strand of hair around a finger, Jayden shrugs and tries to will his cheeks to stop flooding with heat, ❝ I’m probably moaning and screaming his name and saying I love him too. The kinda shit that you’d expect… and then when it’s all done he holds me close to his chest and he’s not even a little upset about how messy that sweater probably got. He’s just hugging me and playing with my hair and kissing me until we eventually fall asleep… or just take a nap. Depends on what time it was when he was fucking me. ❞

With that blunt statement, the tale is complete. { ☆ }

#ducktales-wco-oo #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ; ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴜꜱ ❞ ◌ ᴛᴇᴇɴ/ᴀᴅᴜʟᴛ ¦ 「 Jayden 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴅɪᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ-ᴡᴄᴏ-ᴏᴏ ❞ ¦ 「 NSFW-Lemon 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ; ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ᴜᴘ ᴀ ᴍɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ ❞ ¦ 「 Jayden IC 」#♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʟᴀɪɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ? ❞ ¦ 「 Jayden and Carroll 」#calvinssins

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mannatea · 4 years

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If It Takes a Lifetime, a Rose of Versailles ‘fic

Words: 5,294 Summary: Oscar and André survive the storming of the Bastille. Pairing/Character: Oscar/André Extra Info: This was originally posted on Fanfiction.net back in 2008. It is a full rewrite. Rating: T. Genre: Romance, Friendship, Angst and Stuff.

A few li’l notes under the cut that you should read only after the story has been read.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I’m nervous to post this because I haven’t written for RoV in forever, but man when the iron is hot, you gotta strike, amirite?

Anyway, I was always really happy with my original idea for this story! The longer I marinated on the manga and anime, the more I pondered the what-ifs and whys of the series. I don’t think I know anyone who saw/read Rose of Versailles and wasn’t immediately like, “I wish Oscar and André had lived!” I wanted this story to be for them.

Or more accurately, I wanted this story to act as some kind of...I don’t know, definitive proof that even if Oscar and André had made it through the 13th and 14th of July, 1789, that they still had to contend with two glaringly tragic issues: André’s blindness and Oscar’s battle with TB.

In 2008, when I originally wrote this story, I had been writing regularly for a number of years (about seven), but I was still very...inexperienced.

I still remember a close friend of mine telling me my writing was “too emotional” and I’m pretty sure the original version of this story, though not one she had ever read, was a classic example of that issue. When I re-read the original story, there were some good elements in place, but it felt underdeveloped—almost lazy? Or maybe...uninspired?

Having rewatched the anime just now (and read the manga for the 10th time at least), I feel like I’m seeing the characters in a way 21+ year old me could not have seen them. I’m older now than Oscar lived to be in the series!!! And I think due to that, and life experiences, I just... Get The Characters.

So while the original idea remained intact (Oscar and André survive but the tragedy occurs anyway, just in a different fashion + we see them reincarnated as teenagers who tease each other about the “legend” of their past lives), I reworked much of the story to help it work.

I also had a particular desire to mimic the tone of the manga. I’m not 100% sure if the English translation for the later parts is going to sync up with the French or not, but the manga has this waxing-poetic way of speaking. It’s my jam. I love me some metaphors. And I wanted to incorporate some of that into the story, because otherwise...it just wouldn’t feel like Rose of Versailles to me!

If you do remember the original story, you’ll probably remember how bland the second part was. I broke the original into two acts, more or less: Act I was Oscar and André dealing with their own struggles (a blind man caring for someone dying of TB), and Act II was the teenage reincarnations talking about the story that has just been told and concluding in the end that maybe their shared names aren’t a coincidence after all.

I...love cheesy reincarnation ‘fics as much as the next person, but it didn’t fit the characters enough for my liking. I can’t imagine that Oscar would ever believe the story deeply to begin with, so I had to scrap that. Instead, I had them tease each other and left André to be the character who “might” remember something of his past life, and let Oscar remain ignorant. I kept the original date of the “reincarnation” scene because it just...worked for me. With the current turbulent times we’re living in, it puts Oscar at a similar age to she was when she sided with the people in the French Revolution. :)

As far as Act I went, it wasn’t as flat as the second IMO, but it wasn’t very good, either. There was a lot of emotion without the right stuff surrounding it to make it feel Real, and part of my rewrite was just completely retooling those scenes. I think I was also trying for 3rd person omniscient and I hated it, so I rewrote it as third person limited, which meant scrapping lines and scenes anyway.

I also added a few scenes to make the passage of time feel better.

I’m pretty confident that the rewritten product is The Better Story, if only because I had clear goals and worked specifically toward them. The 2020 rewrite of “If It Takes a Lifetime” feels more to me like a Rose of Versailles fanfic than probably any RoV story I ever wrote.

So hey! I’m happy with it! And I hope if you read it, you were happy with it, too. (So please comment on it at AO3 so that I feel motivated to re-write some of the others.)

#rose of versailles #berusaiyu no bara #rov #berubara #mannafics

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losingmymindtonight · 5 years

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WARNINGS: Peter jokes about dying a lot in this. It’s just Gen Z humor, but if that’s likely to trigger you, please be careful!

On days like this, the cabin was a haven, a lighthouse, a McDonald’s sign shining through midnight darkness.

(Okay, maybe his last metaphor wasn’t as romantic as the others, but it was still true. Midnight hash browns were the best hash browns. Fight him.)

Peter thought he was a pretty chill person. Hell, he was known for a being a chill person. Go to Peter, people said. He’s just so chill, people said. You could punch him in the face and he’ll apologize, people said.

(Okay, maybe nobody actually said that about him, because nobody besides, like, a handful of people actually cared about his existence, but if they did, that’s probably be what they’d say.)

But, sometimes, he just got frustrated. Like, kinda-wanted-to-find-some-abandoned-hunting-lodge-in-the-middle-of-a-forest-somewhere-and-tear-it-to-pieces-with-his-bare-hands frustrated.

(Okay, maybe not a whole hunting lodge. Maybe, like, a cabin. Or a half-molded shed. The point was: he wanted to annihilate something. The more satisfying the thing was to destroy, the better.)

He’d admitted it rather shamefully to Tony in the lab, once, and the man had laughed so hard that Peter had genuinely thought he was going to hyperventilate.

“Jesus, Pete, you are not actually feeling bad for occasionally, just occasionally, being frustrated, are you? Because if you are, I’m selling you for a less faulty kid.”

As it turned out, Tony was probably gonna have to sell him, because the guilt never, ever abated. See, Peter wasn’t supposed to get frustrated. That wasn’t his purpose. He was a fixer. Fixers were patient, wise, and they certainly didn’t get frustrated. They didn’t get angry. Those emotions were not things that fixers felt.

Maybe he was faulty. Maybe Tony should sell him.

He was always a mess when he was pissed, and he always blamed it on inexperience with functioning when he was focusing so much energy on not punching the nearest object. He tripped getting out of his car, locked his backpack inside and ended up fumbling angrily with the trunk before finally, finally getting it open. When he got to the door, he missed the lock the first time and then it took him four tries to get the damn thing open.

(He nearly cried at that point. Which, was, you know, not his proudest moment.)

Tony was reading on the couch when he came stomping in, although the book was quickly discarded. Peter just threw himself face-first onto the unoccupied loveseat, groaning for a solid fifteen seconds before Tony’s amused voice interrupted him.

“You alright there, kiddo?”

“I’m gonna kill someone,” he said, monotone despite the lava in him, “and then I’m gonna kill myself, and then I’m gonna... well, I don’t actually know who’s gonna die after that bit, but the killing’s not ending there, I can tell you that.”

Tony whistled. “Wow, Pete. Resorting to a murder-suicide before dinner? That’s drastic, even for me. Must’ve been one hell of a day.”

He couldn’t stop the snort that jumped up his throat. God, he hated being so cynical. It really didn’t come all that naturally to him. It felt like wearing a suit that didn’t quite fit.

“You have literally no idea.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Poor Tony. He was the one who always had to listen to him complain. He barely did it with his friends, certainly never did it with May. Like he’d said before, that wasn’t his purpose, wasn’t his role in those dynamics.

But here? In the cabin, carefully cocooned in the safe-space of Tony’s world? Yeah, he could be a little whiny.

Still, though: poor Tony.

“I hate people,” he rambled. “I hate the world. I hate myself. I even hate the sky. Can I hate the sky? Is that, like, a thing I can do? You know what, don’t answer that, cause I do, so it’s a thing I’ve done either way.”

“Mm,” Tony replied, and Peter could hear the leather on the couch creak as he shifted his weight. “I have a proposition.”

“Does the proposition include me dying?”

“Uh, absolutely not. Haven’t we been over this? No dying, not allowed. You dying is off limits.”

“Tragic.”

“Shut up. Besides, my proposition is much better than dying.”

Peter turned his head, and used the one eye not smothered by the loveseat’s cushion to squint over at Tony. “What’s your proposition?”

“Scream.”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Just scream. Loud as you can. We’re the only ones in the house, by the way, so you won’t worry anyone. Pep’s with Morgan at her dance class.”

“You want me to scream?”

“It’s therapeutic.”

“It’s weird.”

“No, it’s therapeutic,” Tony shot back, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, kid. I dare you.”

“No, no, don’t make this a dare-”

Tony was grinning, obviously beyond proud of himself. “I bet you won’t do it.”

“Mister Stark-”

“Who knew that Spider-Man was scared of a little screaming, huh?”

“I’m not scared-”

“You seem a little scared.”

“I’m not-”

“You sure? Cause I’m starting to wonder if I need to-”

Peter buried his face into the cushion, and screamed.

He paused. Gasped in a breath that smelled like hot sweat and damp leather. Screamed again.

There were a few seconds of silence after he’d finished. Then,

“You done?”

He rolled onto his back, giving Tony his full attention. The man had his legs propped up on the coffee table, arms folded behind his head: the picture of relaxation. Definitely not how you’d expect someone to look if they’d just had a sixteen-year-old kid screaming their head off in their living room.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m done.”

“Feel better?”

“A little,” he admitted, and it was true. The frustration was still there, lingering like a pit in his chest, but he knew it’d probably stick around until the next day, anyway, so any relief was, well, a relief.

Mostly, he was just feeling guilty for feeling those things in the first place.

“You’re allowed to be pissed off sometimes, y’know,” Tony said, studying his face. One day, Peter was determined to uncover how it was that his mentor always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking before he’d even finished thinking it. “It’s called being human. Even freakishly precious kids like yourself aren’t immune to that particular tragedy.”

“I don’t like it, though.”

Tony laughed. “I know. Seriously though, Pete, you’re a good kid. Give yourself some leeway. Not everyone can be cheerful all the time.”

Peter sighed, shoving a cushion off the loveseat just because he could. “But if I’m not cheerful, who’s gonna be?”

“Uh, I don’t know, maybe jolly old Saint Nicholas?” Tony rolled his eyes. “Anyway, who gives a shit? Everybody’s supposed to get their day in the sun, but that means that you’re allowed a day in the darkness, too.” He shuddered. “God, look what you’ve done to me. I just got poetic.”

Despite the resentment still brewing him his gut, he couldn’t resist Tony’s prodding. “It was good, Mister Stark. Like, really good. Like, Shakespeare who? Sorry, I don’t know him.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“Hey, I’ve had a bad day.”

“Are you gonna sing a sad song just to turn it around?”

“Daniel Powter.”

Tony stared at him like he’d just spoken a foreign language. “Excuse you?”

“Daniel Powter,” Peter repeated. “He’s the guy who did that song, Bad Day.”

“Well, thank god I know that now,” Tony said, reaching out for the remote and turning on the TV. “Now, I say we drown our sorrows in awful television and pizza for dinner. Thoughts? Comments? Objections?”

The cabin: haven, lighthouse, midnight McDonald’s. All things that called out to people in the dark. “Sounds good to me.”

It looked like they were going to move on, that the previous moment had passed, but then Tony stalled, face growing serious again. “Actually, one last thing before I let you change the subject for good.” Tony pointed at him with the remote. “Remember this: you’re allowed to clean up your own messes before you clean up everybody else’s, and you’re not responsible for other people.”

“I feel responsible for other people,” Peter muttered.

“Yeah, well, you’re delusional.” Tony turned back to the screen. “Now: Family Feud or Kitchen Nightmares?”

“Star Wars!” Peter exclaimed, just to lighten the mood, and to see Tony’s face.

Sure enough, the fond-annoyance blossomed within a second.

“No-”

#the author is projecting #me? using Peter to self soothe? it's more likely than you may think #i don't even know what this is i wrote it in like #half an hour #if you wanna send someone to kill and/or give me therapy #i'm totally cool with that #anyway #tony stark #peter parker #tony & peter #irondad #losingmymindtonight writes

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cherubcow · 4 years

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“Wild Mountain Thyme” (2020) Movie Review

This was a beautiful one :)

The script moves very quickly with a lot of meaningful dialogue that doesn't really get center stage in the direction (like, for example, a character will say something poetic that you can easily miss if you're not paying attention; like, "I'm half-dying with living for you"), so it may get better with multiple viewings or better with the subtitles on. I suspect that this understating of dialogue was part of why this movie isn't doing well right now (current Rotten Tomatoes: 27% critics / 44% audience); people may just not have heard what the actors were saying.

Another factor may be that this movie rejects the cynicism that's become mandatory in America cinema. The central character, Rosemary (Emily Blunt), actually believes in love, which has become something rejected by the American (pseudo?)-intellectual class. This puts her character in contrast to NYC American Adam (Jon Hamm), who considers marriage in terms of beneficial contracts. Adam is, nevertheless, enchanted with the romanticism of Ireland, being drawn to Rosemary and to farming even though he has no rational reason to pursue business in Ireland (a "blood from a stone" situation). So it's both a matter of city versus country and of its underlying rationalism versus romanticism — a good bounding for a story, particularly in times when overzealous declarations of most "rational" practices can reduce one to imagination-stifling thoughts.

(( Spoilers ))

This overly self-absorbed thought pattern emerges through Anthony (Jamie Dornan), who, like Dostoevsky's "Notes from Underground" character, finds himself all too concerned with what is correct or whether or not he is right to even want the things that he wants. This is summed nicely in one particular exchange between Rosemary and Anthony:

[Anthony]: (Speaking of manual labor that Rosemary has been doing alone) "It's a two-man job." [Rosemary]: "Or one woman." [Anthony]: "Yup, that's the world now. Men are useless." [Rosemary]: "It's not so." [Anthony]: "What?" [Rosemary]: "Men aren't useless." [Anthony]: "What's a man for now? What's his place?" [Rosemary]: "That's for you to say." [Anthony]: "I'm not talking; maybe the quiet around the thing is as important as the thing itself."

This exchange points out the difficult position men (and people in general) have been put in by today's social conventions. Perhaps some would like to think that adherence to social convention ended in Jane Austen's time, yet here Anthony finds himself threading a needle. All the roads have been closed behind him, and he feels like he has no voice. People cannot even talk about the things that ail them, because pitfalls emerge at every step. Like the crows above them, no amount of answering to the mob will produce clarity of action. But Rosemary tries to guide him:

[Rosemary]: "Do you still hear the voice in the fields?" [Anthony]: "I dunno." [Rosemary]: "It's not a modern idea." [Anthony]: "I'm not a modern man." [Rosemary]: "You have the farm." [Anthony]: "I do?" [Rosemary]: "Are you happy?" [Anthony]: "No." [Rosemary]: "Why not go ahead, be happy?" [Anthony]: "I— I don't know how." [Rosemary]: "There is no one left to catch you laughing, Anthony." [Anthony]: "True." [Rosemary]: "How many days do we have while the sun shines?" [Anthony]: (Looking at the weather) "It's not shining." [Rosemary]: (Looking at Anthony) "I believe that it is."

The "voice in the fields" speaks of Anthony's romantic desire for freedom, and it is revealed near the end that the voice tells him not just, "Go," but, "Go to her." Meaning, Anthony knows that he loves Rosemary and wants to be with her despite the obstacles that others and he himself construct, but, like the fence was revealed to be in this particular scene, his "Notes from Underground" social conscience is the great barrier between himself and Rosemary. And he wants to be able to love her *not* because a marriage would be useful or to otherwise manage the practical considerations of a farm — he is instead *waiting* to clear his conscience of these worldly affairs so that he can look directly at her. Essentially, like many people trapped in Hamlet inaction, he is waiting to be forgotten and to die.

It later takes a concerted effort by Rosemary to break Anthony from this mental trap. Comedies have all the time in the world, but the timeline has to be compressed into tragic logic because Adam will be arriving to propose marriage. Rosemary hints that she cannot wait for Anthony forever. They've arrived at a Thanatos / Eros crossroads where Rosemary can either kill herself with a hidden shotgun (albeit not immediately), due to the burdens of isolation, or end up like Fiona — pulled away from Anthony by the world and another marriage opportunity. Rosemary has Anthony's ring, so she knows that he wants to marry her, so she wants to help him work through his conscience to find her. The metaphoric "fences" will remain, but it's not hopeless:

[Rosemary]: "We say what's meant. Life is here. We name it."

Like I mentioned with the cynicism above, American culture has attempted to crush this level of devotion. The very idea that someone could love someone this much for so long has been treated with general critical derision. But the story alleviates this perspective through Anthony's own incredulity, Emily Blunt's performance, and a charming Irish backdrop.

Even so, the movie has its issues. A lot of the scenes were directed like one might direct a theater play rather than a movie. Errors like the actors having to move in overly blocked (positioned) ways or the lines being too melodramatic for the moment occur. Of the blocking issue, one scene in particular was the near-end scene of Anthony and Rosemary in a home together.

There was a little too much attention on standing and sitting here, with the object awareness being a little too simplistic — the sort of imagery which works on stage but not on film. Like, "[Oh, you sit now while I stand. Then I tell you to sit, and you sit. When you stand, I notice how tall you are.]" These make sense on stages where the script fell together with basic props like a table and chairs, but in a real home they end up feeling artificial. These sorts of scenes should have been re-worked when this story was brought to screenplay.

The background music was also often problematic. In many scenes it was just *too* responsive to the on-screen events, which speaks of low production value. This seems to fall on the musical direction of Amelia Warner, because much of the Irish folk music (which was good) was already incorporated into the script. Those organic moments made sense and worked, like Emily Blunt singing the movie's title song in probably the most emotional scene of the movie.

And casting issues cannot be ignored. This was not exactly a "Waking Ned Devine" (1998) Irish story that recruited mainly unknown or lesser known quirky actors from Ireland and Scotland. Christopher Walken, for instance, should not have been in this movie, though his performance did come together for the pub singing scene. Weirdly, Emily Blunt gave the best performance in this movie, and she's from Britain. Jamie Dornan is Irish, so that made sense, but while viewers could believe Emily Blunt's loving glances in his direction, whenever Blunt and Dornan actually touched each other there seemed to be no chemistry. Those scenes looked more like two actors not sure how real vs. respectful they should be and defaulting on the side of "[make just enough contact to get us to the cut]." This falls to both casting and (again) to direction. A better cast may have had chemistry, and a better director could get the actors to show that chemistry. Personally, I think they should have gone full local and hired only unknown actors and actresses from Ireland. Extra points if even the American character had been played by an Irishman pretending to be American ;D

Still! All said, despite these issues, it has a very strong script. *Reading* the words really shows how much was here. Long though this review may be, it doesn't show just how much material was in this script. And Emily Blunt's performance can't be ignored; it was really her movie. So I'd ignore the current rankings and recommend this for a good romantic movie with clever dialogue and a few moving moments :)

#movie review #wild mountain thyme

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essenceoffilm · 5 years

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Foreigner Himself

Nicholas Ray is a filmmaker who is celebrated as the poet of lonely souls. His films portray people who feel displaced and estranged even on fairly familiar ground. “I’m a stranger here myself,” says a character from what must be the most unique western ever made. All of Ray’s characters are kindred spirits to that one in Johnny Guitar (1954). They are homeless -- in the less urgent meaning of the word. These existentialist themes of solitude and alienation were not uncommon for Ray’s generation of American directors, who had their breakthroughs right before the invasion of television during the late 1940′s and the early 1950′s, but no one tackled them with the cinematically energetic sense of existential malaise as Ray did. To the new generation of young French film critics, primarily in the 1951 founded film magazine Cahiers du cinéma, these fresh American directors with their quickly produced B films exemplified novel individuality, stylistic personality, and poignant critiques of the American society. All the young American directors were rising poets to them. But Ray was their darling. Above all, it was Ray who represented the individual who could find a place for his own original expression in the Hollywood studio system. His films of the 50′s, such as In a Lonely Place (1950), On Dangerous Ground (1951), and Rebel without a Cause (1955), were fierce, distinctive, poetic, and full of cinematic energy. Classical virtues of coherence were secondary to the young Turks of Cahiers; to them, a film with even a few shots of personality could win over a classically good film of quality that had no personality to it -- that lacked what some of them called poetic intuition. Ray was the embodiment of such cinematic poetry. To Jean-Luc Godard, as he famously wrote in a review of Ray’s Bitter Victory (1957), Ray’s name was simply synonymous with the seventh art.

Like his peers -- as well as other Hollywood directors -- Ray eventually succumbed to the big studio system, as that seemingly eternal giant was taking its last breaths, by making big-budget spectacles at the end of his career. After his fairly successful Biblical epic King of Kings (1961), Ray made another historical spectacle for producer Samuel Bronston. Unlike its predecessor, however, 55 Days at Peking (1963) bombed at the box office and had a negative critical reception. While many of the generic films of this transitional era -- such as Ben Hur (1959), Spartacus (1960), and Cleopatra (1963) -- were not very good in any artistic sense, they usually made a lot of money. The financial and artistic disappointment of 55 Days at Peking must thus have been even more tragic for Ray as the film that practically ended his career [1]. In a strange way, nevertheless, it feels like a very appropriate end for Ray’s time in Hollywood’s limelight of outsiders.

A Ray Story

55 Days at Peking takes its title from Noel Gerson’s novel of the same name which concerns the actual 55-day-long Siege of the International Legations, a climactic event during the Boxer Rebellion in China, which The Sun called “the most exciting episode ever known to civilization” [2]. The Boxers were Chinese nationalists who opposed foreign forces in China. Christianity represented such foreign presence at its most salient. The Boxers performed martial arts in the streets and started to gain big support after famine and anti-imperialist sentiments had begun to spread in the country in the late 19th century, partly due to a humiliating loss in a war to Japan in 1895. The Boxers’ violent attacks on foreigners and Chinese Christians reached a peak in the summer of 1900 when they forced some of them into a siege for 55 days. On August 14th, the siege ended in the foreign victory of the Eight-Nation Alliance (consisting of countries that were to tear each other apart in the following two world wars!). A year or so later, the Boxer Rebellion came to an end. It was the loss of the Boxers in the Siege of the International Legations, however, that had sown the seeds for the downfall of the Qing Dynasty, which fatally took the side of the Boxers in the conflict and was finished itself a decade later as China became a republic in 1912.

The fact that the historic event has been pompously called “the most exciting episode ever known to civilization” should have already sparked the interest of more than a couple Hollywood producers (there’s a tagline ready to be printed), but it has surprisingly been filmed very rarely on screen. And for some reason this catchphrase did not catch the attention of the film’s advertisers -- which strikes me as odd for the simple reason that back then they used anything as a selling tagline. Reasons are probably plentiful, but what is more interesting in this context is that the story of the Boxer Rebellion from an Anglo-American perspective sounds perfect for a director like Ray. Although 55 Days at Peking represents Ray’s artistic downfall, which was less than just metaphoric as he collapsed during production due to his declining health, it does exemplify the main themes of Ray’s cinema -- or Ray as cinema -- and Ray finding his own place somewhere else. Rather than picking up the many problems in the film, which I will bring up later, I would like to linger on appreciating this suitability of the story for Ray that is not all unambiguous and, as far as I know, has rarely been recognized by people writing on the film. What I wish to point out is that even though the genre (historical spectacle) and the subject matter (the Boxer Rebellion or, more generally, Chinese history) are foreign to Ray’s cinema, the core of the story (an American individual feeling not-at-home) and some of the film’s stylistic aspects ring true to what we could call, in the spirit of the young French critics, Ray’s poetic intuition.

55 Days at Peking centers around an American major, Matt Lewis (played by the biggest star of the Hollywood historical spectacle, Charlton Heston), who knows the local ways of Beijing. He is introduced to us as the leader of the US military garrison filled with young blood to whom he tells that they should not think any less of the Chinese just because the Chinese do not speak English -- and proceeds to arrogantly teach them the only Chinese words they’ll need, “yes” and “no,” because everything is for bargain and nothing is free. Arriving at his hotel, Lewis meets what will turn into his love interest, a Russian Baronness Natasha Ivanoff (played by Ava Gardner), who seems like an abandoned character from a Tolstoy novel. She wants to leave China but cannot because her visa has been revoked by the brother of her late husband who, as it is later revealed, committed suicide due to Natasha’s extra-marital affair with a Chinese officer. The dire situation in Beijing turns worse when the Chinese Empress of the Qinq dynasty decides to take the side of the Boxers in the heated political climate. As the siege begins, Natasha and Lewis find themselves trapped in a foreign country. Lewis gets help from a British officer, Sir Arthur Robinson (played by David Niven) with whom he blows up a Chinese ammunition warehouse. In the final act of the film, Lewis needs to leave Beijing to deliver a message to nearby Allied forces in order to put an end to the siege. While he is gone, Natasha sells a valuable necklace of hers, which would provide an ace against her brother-in-law, to acquire food and medical supplies for the wounded westerners and Chinese Christians. Her material sacrifice is elevated by a spiritual one since she dies in the process of providing help to those who need it. Lewis’ message reaches the Allied troops, but he will not be reunited with his love. Shortly after his return, the Allied troops arrive and put an end to the siege.

Cut Loose

Despite the many shortcomings of the film, which I will dissect in a moment, the heart of this story is Lewis’ experience -- which also ties it to Ray’s cinema. Granted, it is hard to see this if one looks at 55 Days at Peking as an individual film or in the context of other Hollywood spectacles from the late 50′s and the early 60′s. Viewed in the context of Ray’s oeuvre, however, 55 Days at Peking looks less like a failed portrayal of the Boxer Rebellion and more like a big (if not entirely successful) tale of alienation. Thus, from an auteurist perspective, the film opens up as a story about Lewis’ sense of homelessness in a foreign environment that is growing more hostile toward him.

All of Ray’s films depict individuals who are tormented by a sense of homelessness. They of course experience it even in their domestic environments. The famous line cited above from Johnny Guitar is the most well-known example. The title of In a Lonely Place says it all as it is a portrayal of people in Hollywood. The theme is also articulated quite concretely in Ray’s films that involve characters moving to another place, though still within America. In On Dangerous Ground, a tough cop must move elsewhere to find home. In Rebel without a Cause, a teenager’s loss of direction is aggravated by his family moving to a new town. As far as I know, 55 Days at Peking is Ray’s only film in which the central character resides in a country other than the States. Lewis’ sense of homelessness, innate to him as a character in the Ray universe, is only heightened by such displacement. Making matters worse for his implicit malaise, which remains unaddressed at the level of the film’s dialogue, one might say, the social atmosphere starts boiling up. It is during the hottest months of the Boxer Rebellion that the sweats of his homelessness come to the surface. And this is essentially what happens to Ray’s characters in his other films as well, though in a less grandiose scheme.

55 Days at Peking begins with a sequence in the Forbidden City where an execution of a Chinese general is about to happen because the general, part of the Chinese army, has been shooting the Boxers. One of the leading figures in the army, Jung-Lu arrives to call off the execution. He asks the Empress to take his life instead of the general’s because it was he who gave the command to shoot the Boxers. “They were burning Christian missions, killing foreigners,” Jung-Lu pleads in an effort to justify his command. The Empress declines his offer, listening rather to an ancient prediction in a fatal mistake of taking the side of the Boxers. As a smug smile raises on the Empress’ face, the sequence concludes with a brief and surprising low-angle shot of the executioner swinging his sword from the top frame to the low frame, implying the off-screen cut of the Chinese general’s neck. As the sword falls to the low frame of the shot, however, there is -- in a stroke of visual genius -- a cut to a medium close-up of Heston as Lewis. A clever way to end the first sequence and tie it in with the next, this transition is the best cut in the whole film. More than an energetic beginning for what turns out to be a mediocre story, the cut also has a thematic dimension.

In order to appreciate all of this, let us take a moment to remind ourselves that Ray is often celebrated as one of the great visionaries of the CinemaScope format. Already his Rebel without a Cause brought new sensitivity and intimacy to the newly invented (in 1953) wide aspect ratio that enhances horizontal compositions in a way that is usually just for “snakes and funerals,” as Fritz Lang cunningly puts it in Godard’s Contempt (1963, Le mépris). The width of ratio tends to encourage directors to cut less and use larger shot scales, but Ray combines the wide aspect ratio with close-ups and a faster editing rhythm in Rebel without a Cause -- which is, in my view, alongside Max Ophüls’ Lola Montès (1955), the best CinemaScope film. The introduction of Heston as Lewis in 55 Days at Peking bears resemblances to this. The shot of the executioner swinging his sword is extremely brief (barely a second), but it lies in between of two shots that are longer in duration: the medium close-up of the Empress indulging in her fatal decision is four seconds, the medium close-up of Lewis is seven seconds. The brief shot in between creates an abrupt, surprising sense of acceleration in the film’s editing rhythm, which is calmer in the rest of the film. It makes the visual transition from the Empress to Lewis feel quick, abrupt, out of the blue. Such editing is not considered the done thing when it comes to the use of the CinemaScope aspect ratio. Nor is the use of close-ups. But Ray creates a language of his own out of all of this. It’s a minor detail, you might say, but it’s really one of those small wonderful things that remind you that you are indeed watching a Hollywood spectacle by a real auteur rather than an anonymous factory. I think the cut is definitely worthy of more attention.

The cut from the Empress to the executioner or the cut from the executioner to Lewis is not a match cut; yet it is a match cut of sorts. A match cut in the traditional sense is a cut between two shots that share a visual correspondence: a similar object lies within the same area in their distinct screen spaces (the most famous example being the match cut from the extinguishing match to a setting sun in Lawrence of Arabia, 1962, another CinemaScope spectacle from the same time). While the shot of the executioner lacks direct visual correspondence with either the shot that precedes it (the medium close-up of the Empress) or the shot that follows it (the medium close-up of Lewis), there is not just a match between the two medium close-ups separated by the shot of the executioner but there is also a less visual and a more mental equivalence between the shots due to the cutting.

The equivalence comes from the idea of cutting. The executioner is a character who cuts necks and hence his position in the brief shot that mediates two longer shots is a clever idea in itself. The movement of his sword serves as a ticking clock for the shot’s duration. Thus it wires a tension and creates a visual conflict, which will turn into a dramatic one in the film, between the Empress (or the Qing dynasty in general) and Lewis (or the foreigners in general). The cut is also associated with the political act that already happens now in the Empress’ decision to continue with the execution even though she will make this decision more explicitly later in the film: to take the side of the Boxers. It is the act of cutting ties to the foreigners. After all, the execution takes place because Chinese generals have been shooting the Boxers who have been killing foreigners. This is the main thematic function of this cut. When put in words, it might start to sound too much on-the-nose. But when seen in the film, it is implicit and subtle.

There is yet another function, however, though it is a far subtler one. The shot of Lewis is in the scale of medium close-up (from the clavicle upward), but since Lewis’ head is moving vertically within the confines of the frame (horizontally his head stays put due to the synchronized movement of the tracking camera), the shot also has this strange framing where Lewis’ head lies in the very lowest area of the screen space, the rest of his body cropped off (including his neck and clavicle), with some superfluous empty space above and around his head. The cut to the next shot, a long shot of Lewis with his military garrison, introducing him like a character from a Fordian cavalry western, affirms that this movement is due to horse-riding, but taken in isolation, there is this strange visual movement of the head in space. Granted, the spectator does not experience the movement of the dislocated head as strange because they are used to associate such movement as well as the character’s attire with riding a horse (a call-back to cavalry westerns). However, since the brief shot in between has created this sense of not only acceleration but also haste, the shot of a head in space does catch one a bit off guard. It is the first shot of one of the film’s main characters after the 14-minute opening sequence. It is crucial that this shot in particular introduces the protagonist of the film. It’s a very Ray-esque shot: a lone man being nowhere. The sense of visual strangeness, visual unheimlich, if you will, in the shot is later heightened by the fact that the spectator learns that Lewis is indeed a resident in a foreign country where he does not belong. This obviously plays a part already in creating this initial visual strangeness because we are transformed, via the cut, from the Forbidden City of Beijing to a lone man straight from a cavalry western in anonymous space. There are Chinese buildings in the background, but their cultural architecture is hardly recognizable. They are just buildings that are in contrast to Lewis’ clothing and being, his whole habitus. He is homeless, cut away, floating in air. He is, to paraphrase Johnny Guitar, a stranger here himself -- even though he teaches crude lessons to his soldiers about China.

The theme of home is thus articulated visually before it grows out from the narrative. On the narrative level, the theme is treated by Lewis’ relationships to the other characters, primarily to two female characters.

One of the chief dramatic motifs for the theme of Lewis’ alienation (or his sense of unheimlich, not-being-at-home) is a young Chinese-American girl. She is the daughter of one of Lewis’ soldiers who has had a love affair with a Chinese woman, but the woman has been killed. In the beginning, the soldier asks Lewis for advice with regard to the girl: should he take her back home to the United States or leave her in China as an orphan? Lewis replies cynically that the girl should definitely be left in China because back home she would be “treated like a freak,” while here “she’ll be among her own kind.” Putting aside the character’s racism for a moment (after all, the girl is also half-American), Lewis’ cynicism, I believe, exemplifies his attitude toward himself more than toward anyone else. He himself feels like a freak, a creature hanging in mid-air, cut loose from the homestead. When the girl’s father dies in action during the siege, Lewis must confront his cynicism or self-loathe as he has to inform the girl of her father’s passing. After a series of attempted evasions of duty, Lewis goes to the Christian mission to talk with the girl. He manages to imply the truth, but is unable to say it up front. He asks help from the Christian minister there who tells him that all men are fathers to all children, but one can believe this only if one feels that way about the world. On a wider scale, the minister is speaking for a non-cynical attitude toward the world. After the siege has ended, Arthur (the Niven character) tells Lewis that now he will leave China and go live “every Englishman’s dream” with a family, a few books, and a dog in the countryside. Nothing less cynical than that. He then inquires about Lewis’ future plans.

Arthur: “What about you? What’s home to you?”

Lewis (laughing): “I don’t know... I have to make one yet.”

In the final scene, as he is once again riding on a horse, going away from his non-home, he picks up the young Chinese-American girl from the crowd. Although his change of heart is motivated by the character’s arc throughout the narrative, there is a similar feeling of haste to this decision as there is to the abrupt cut in the beginning. There is optimism in the end, but also, within the context of Ray’s whole oeuvre, the film’s ending seems too good to be true.

Another important element for Lewis’ character development and the theme of home is his relationship with Baronness Natasha Ivanoff (the Gardner character). It is quite appropriate that Lewis lays eyes on Natasha for the first time while his soldier is telling him about the young Chinese-American girl. He meets her at the hotel where they play a game of sexual innuendo. Soon, a more emotional connection starts to build between them. In the scene where Natasha reveals her past to Lewis (that her husband committed suicide because she was unfaithful to him with a Chinese general), she asks him, connecting their relationship to the young Chinese-American girl, whether the same could not have happened to him: “Couldn’t you have fallen in love with a Chinese girl?” Lewis has no answer, but he kisses Natasha fiercely. It’s an affirmative answer that is obstructed by his cynicism or self-loathe. Although the fact that nobody in this film speaks anything but English might be disorienting, it is true that Natasha is a foreigner not just in China but to Lewis (the American-as-can-be Heston) as well. She’s Russian -- which meant two different things in 1900 and 1963 (and yet again in 2020). Natasha has her own character arc of growing away from selfishness to altruistic self-sacrifice. Thus she further motivates Lewis’ development. In her death, Lewis experiences a loss of love and becomes more aware of his tormenting homelessness, which, in the end, makes her pick up the young Chinese-American girl. Whether it is his new-found altruism or his egoistic fear of loneliness that makes him do this is arguable. Similar ambiguity lies in the emerging sense of responsibility at the end of Rebel without a Cause as a fellow young man’s death shakes something up in the torn-apart protagonist.

A Triumph (of sorts) in Weakness

Unfortunately, it’s precisely these two major sub-plots (Lewis’ relationships to the young Chinese-American girl and the Russian woman, Natasha) that are the biggest weaknesses of the film. This is unfortunate because, when it comes to narration, these are the main aspects in which Ray deals with the leading theme of homelessness in the film. It is true, of course, that the character of Arthur (played by Niven) is also important: he represents the happy home life that Lewis lacks, while Natasha and the young Chinese-American girl represent possibilities of acquiring it. But the slightly better quality of his character does not excuse the lowbrow characterizations of the two female characters.

First, the young Chinese-American girl is a mere stock character -- less from a Dickensian story and more from mediocre melodrama. Her character is reduced to a sentimental tear-jerker. What makes this worse is not just the film’s duration, which would definitely allow deeper characterization for her, but also its implicit racism that is evident in its reliance on white Hollywood actors playing the Chinese in “yellow face.” While far from the outrageous in-your-face racism of Mickey Rooney’s performance in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961), this convention of playing Asian characters in “yellow face” just heightens the superficiality of the Chinese characters. It’s also worth pointing out the confusion that stems from this convention. At times, it takes time to realize that a character is indeed supposed to be a Chinese character. When everybody speaks English and looks like someone from London or Los Angeles, it’s hard to tell. All I know is that Jung-Lu (played by Leo Genn) definitely does not look like a Beijing local. Although the young Chinese-American girl does not generate such immediate difficulties in recognition, this background makes the character’s superficiality feel more poignant. She’s nothing but a visual figure -- with a few terribly written lines. On the other hand, there is an argument to be made that she has no other purpose for the film’s narrative -- which is, of course, precisely the problem for some. In this sense, she’s like Natalie Wood’s character in Ford’s The Searchers (1956) who the film’s protagonist, played by John Wayne, first despises but then suddenly embraces. Wood’s character is certainly not a very complex one, but she never feels like a mere tear-jerker either, whereas the young Chinese-American girl definitely does. And that’s essentially the problem here. Since 55 Days at Peking, seen from an auteurist perspective, should not be received as a story of the Boxer Rebellion but as part of Ray’s cinematic oeuvre of tortured and alienated American men, it is less problematic (at least in my opinion) when characters serve only narrative functions for those lonely souls. What remains problematic, when it comes to the aesthetic quality of the film, however, is the childish sentimentality with which the character is constructed.

Something similar goes for Natasha. Gardner is a good actor, but here she is at her weakest. It’s almost like Heston brought out the worst in her. For they were destined to fumble around a decade later in the ludicrously bad disaster film Earthquake (1974). While there is sexual tension between the two from the first scene that introduces them, as Natasha first makes fun of Lewis’ attempts of picking her up but then agrees to share the room with him, it’s a little difficult to buy the love that grows between them quite rapidly. There is a dance sequence -- that must forever exist in the shadows of Visconti’s The Leopard (1963, Il gattopardo) from the same year -- but the love still feels unearned, nevertheless. The scene where the two finally kiss, after Natasha has shared her history of infidelity with Lewis, comes particularly out of nowhere. Making matters worse, the scene ends really abruptly. The kiss has this long set-up with Natasha’s brother-in-law and the lingering disclosure of truth, but then the scene suddenly ends with a quick kiss that transports us to a completely different scene. There is no mediator, just a straight cut. It feels like someone just had to shorten the film and took out the remaining 10-20 seconds of the scene in the last minutes before the film’s release. “Okay, they kissed, let’s move on!” Strangely enough, Natasha is involved in the film’s other terrible cut: a quick pan that turns into a cut when the camera shifts from Arthur mourning his son’s serious injury to Natasha taking care of a wounded man. Let alone the fact that quick pans are not considered the done thing with CinemaScope (and for good reason), it’s quite astonishing how badly this stylistic device fits with the rest of the film with regard to camera movement and rhythm in general. There is no other shot like it in the film. And its distinctive singularity is not of the good kind. There is no raison d’être for it.

Despite these awkward characterizations and stylistic details, there is a sense of Ray’s artistic presence in this film. Ray is known as a director who sometimes did not oversee his projects to the finish line, and, given the fact that he had to stop working due to a collapse on set during production, it is hard to tell which aspects of 55 Days at Peking really come from him. At the very least, however, one can say that the theme of homelessness that is first articulated by cinematic means in the form of a match cut of sorts and then by narrative techniques (albeit poorly executed ones) fits with the rest of Ray’s oeuvre. Even if the narrative techniques with the young Chinese-American girl and Natasha lacked quality, there is something earnest in the portrayal of Lewis’ relationships to them. After all, the point of the film is not to tell this great love story between an American and a Russian nor a story where a lone man grows into a father figure for an orphan. The Russian woman and the Chinese-American girl are there just to bring about something in the protagonist who is the film’s focus. Through them, the film articulates Lewis’ sense of homelessness. In this sense, the unearned love between Lewis and Natasha feels less like a poor version of a great love story and more like an apt portrayal of feelings that are motivated by the characters’ self-loathe and disappointments. Perhaps it’s the kind of infatuation that one wishes to be love even when it is not. It’s the wish-fulfillment fantasy where reality is romanticized -- ideas of love pasted on sore wounds. This can be seen in the scene where Lewis and Natasha meet for the last time. Natasha must cut their meeting short because the doctor needs her medical assistance. Lewis waits in the corner as she does her duty. She comes back and they share this brief impassioned moment. In this scene, Ray’s sense of mise-en-scène is as good as it gets in this film. The quicker cutting separates the two, and the strong contrasts of shadows in the space exhale a sense of death above them. We know that this will not last -- and we seem to share the characters’ implicit epiphany that maybe it even should not. When Arthur expresses his condolences to Lewis’ loss, Lewis’ indifferent shrug is simultaneously repressive and honest.

It’s this aspect of idealized love in a reality that lacks it and alienation in a hostile environment that make 55 Days at Peking an interesting film. At its heart, it is a story about abandoned alienated people trying in vain to find each other, which casts a shadow of doubt above the happy ending. These aspects also make it a Ray film. Its cinematic energy, evident in the match cut of sorts, comes from the poetic place of Hollywood that made the young French critics of the 50′s fall in love with the dream factory. While one senses the presence of such fire, one also senses powers constantly putting it down. There’s this strange co-existence of different ideas and forces pulling to the opposite directions in the film. Although 55 Days at Peking is, I believe, best appreciated from an auteurist perspective as a tale of alienation (as a story about Lewis’ experience of homelessness in a foreign environment) and not as a historical story about the Boxer Rebellion, it has two scenes, one in the beginning and one in the end, which try to make it precisely into something like that. During the opening sequence, before the one in the Forbidden City, the camera on a crane descends before two elderly Chinese men. One complains about the noise surrounding them: “What is this terrible noise?” The other responds: “Different nations saying the same thing at the same time, ‘We want China!’” The scene is cheesy, but, more importantly, unnecessary and unfitting for the whole of the film. In the final sequence, there is a similarly awkward brief scene of the Empress repeating the words “the dynasty is finished” in the Forbidden City. The Boxer Rebellion provides a great historical background for Ray’s story about alienation, but the film has really nothing to say about that historical event -- nor should it. In these two scenes, however, the film seems to think not only that it should have something to say about it but also, and more embarrassingly, that it actually does have something to say about it. These two scenes perfectly exemplify the film’s confusion over its own identity which might, in fact, be the most appropriate (albeit tragic) way to end Ray’s career in Hollywood where he was constantly trying to find his own voice, his own sense of home, surrounded by forces that felt foreign to him.

Notes:

[1] Although Ray still made two films afterwards, We Can’t Go Home Again (1973) and Lightning Over Water (1980), his poor health did not allow him to be responsible for them as the primary director. He made We Can’t Go Home Again with his students and Lightning Over Water is more a film by Wim Wenders than it is by Ray. At the very least, 55 Days at Peking is Ray’s last film made in Hollywood -- in the world that made him who he is as an artist.

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_the_International_Legations

#55 Days at Peking #Nicholas Ray #1960's #American

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