Working so hard to be his own person out of the mold set by breeding and title to have most of his laurels shared with Geralt in a roundabout way, it's cruel. Jaskier is an artist, what was made was in good faith and total devotion to his beliefs. He believed in Geralt, believed what he wrote. And now everywhere he is to relieve that old faith.

Tears trickle over his still quite youthful face. Yennefer lets her fingertips rub away the worst of them. "You could refuse, perhaps as a means to draw attention to other songs or causes." The man loves his songs that have meaning. This sounds too simple, too pacifying to her own ears. She gently takes the bottle and places it on the floor against one of the legs of the chaise. "There are so many more songs and lyrics, and you will bring them into the world. I know you. You're Jaskier. Not a man with a number to his name. You are the man putting in the work, enduring this hardship. You will pull through."

If he can survive reinvention, he can survive anything. Yennefer knows that Jaskier did not have to have his body manipulated for his transformation. He didn't have to. There was tremendous pain, talking even shortly on it and knowing that he did not indulge any details of his family save for name spoke volumes. He was not his family. They were not him. And Gods above would you not know that would leave another hole in his heart in dire need.

"Stop. Stop all of that right now." This set of words would usually be a sharp command out of her, right now it is easing, gentle. "You owe me no apologies." Instead of slipping into his lap, she pulls at his shoulders so that he could rest to his shoulder or bosom. Whichever he likes.