As that last cord snapped, Jaskier felt a rush of triumph so complete he nearly crowed with it--he turned, eager and bright-eyed only to see Geralt, atop the table, in the path of the falling chandelier. Everything slowed for Jaskier in that hideous moment--the knife fell from his hands, the surf and a truly impressive wash of white noise filled his ears, and that ugly cacophony of crystal and shell plummeted.
Geralt rolled, but he wasn't fast enough--Geralt was always fast enough--and the chandelier crashed in an explosion of metal bits, broken crystal, and shattered gilded shell. It threw half the banquet table off onto the floor, bounced against the heavy wooden table, and bits of it went flying as it did. Jaskier had to duck to keep from getting a gods' damned eyeful of glass as half of it burst outward and scattered shards across the ballroom.
The crash was still ringing in his ears as the bodies around him started to go slack and fall to the floor. He watched as each enthralled person collapsed in the dark--there wasn't enough light to make out if they lived, if they'd taken bits of thrown glass or shell to their faces--he knew he was a bad person, then, because he couldn't bring himself to care.
They were innocents, probably, but Geralt--
Jaskier stood as the pinging and rattling of the cast off crystal and shell finally came to a halt. His eyes frantically searched the dark for Geralt, for any shadow still standing, but there was nobody. Nobody apart from him. Geralt had dove off the table, right? Surely he'd be crouched on the ground, still. Jaskier scrambled, picked around the bodies that littered the floor--glass crunched underfoot and the surf was relentless outside.
"Geralt?" Jaskier hazarded as he came around the table--he half-expected to find the Witcher sitting, propped against the table with a flat glower for him. This was all his fault after all--but, no, no he wasn't sitting. He wasn't glowering. Jaskier knew the fallen shape was Geralt without having to stop and think about it. He cursed as he ducked under the creaking, broken skeleton of that chandelier and reached out to the Witcher.
"Fuck, Geralt, are you alright? Please don't be dead--please, please---"
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Geralt rolled, but he wasn't fast enough--Geralt was always fast enough--and the chandelier crashed in an explosion of metal bits, broken crystal, and shattered gilded shell. It threw half the banquet table off onto the floor, bounced against the heavy wooden table, and bits of it went flying as it did. Jaskier had to duck to keep from getting a gods' damned eyeful of glass as half of it burst outward and scattered shards across the ballroom.
The crash was still ringing in his ears as the bodies around him started to go slack and fall to the floor. He watched as each enthralled person collapsed in the dark--there wasn't enough light to make out if they lived, if they'd taken bits of thrown glass or shell to their faces--he knew he was a bad person, then, because he couldn't bring himself to care.
They were innocents, probably, but Geralt--
Jaskier stood as the pinging and rattling of the cast off crystal and shell finally came to a halt. His eyes frantically searched the dark for Geralt, for any shadow still standing, but there was nobody. Nobody apart from him. Geralt had dove off the table, right? Surely he'd be crouched on the ground, still. Jaskier scrambled, picked around the bodies that littered the floor--glass crunched underfoot and the surf was relentless outside.
"Geralt?" Jaskier hazarded as he came around the table--he half-expected to find the Witcher sitting, propped against the table with a flat glower for him. This was all his fault after all--but, no, no he wasn't sitting. He wasn't glowering. Jaskier knew the fallen shape was Geralt without having to stop and think about it. He cursed as he ducked under the creaking, broken skeleton of that chandelier and reached out to the Witcher.
"Fuck, Geralt, are you alright? Please don't be dead--please, please---"