"A conduit moment," he repeats as he passes her both the handkerchief and pen, releasing them to her care without even the faintest pause.
Jaskier knows a little of monsters, knows a little of alchemy, and naught at all about magics. He has seen the wonders she can weave, has been on the receiving end of her power, and still wears that sparkling broach pinned to his chest wherever he goes. He has seen more magic than most but still it mystifies and enchants him--hers most of all.
The idea that chaos lingers beneath the surface and she dips a toe into it, becomes a conduit for the expression of it, is such a strange and new idea. It sounds so much like being caught in the tangle of invention, of inspiration, and the idea of being able to tame that sensation, to be able to use it at will, has him terribly envious. He sits on the bed, beaming and curious and feeling surprisingly light and carefree.
"Freedom is always terrifying, at least in my experience," Jaskier says and looks at her. He tries to imagine her as a girl, a young thing full of magic and terrified of it. Was she like a little bird, alone and full of song and freedom, waiting to leap from her perch and fly? Was she a spitfire thing, a current of power and cleverness, winding and inevitable as a swift flowing river? Was her laugh the same? Or her tender touch?
He knows only that Sabrina, the sorceress of the high tits who was a tit to her, and that very few people ever apologized to her. He has never asked more, though he is sorely tempted. He is an open book, ready for anyone and everyone to peruse as they like--she is more guarded, a diary kept in careful hands, and asking her to share of herself is something that must be done delicately.
He has already been given much more than he deserves.
"And I cannot say how many admirers I am likely to draw--but I have company for this event and I shan't indulge without her. I might be a cad, but I'm not rude, not when it can be helped."
no subject
Jaskier knows a little of monsters, knows a little of alchemy, and naught at all about magics. He has seen the wonders she can weave, has been on the receiving end of her power, and still wears that sparkling broach pinned to his chest wherever he goes. He has seen more magic than most but still it mystifies and enchants him--hers most of all.
The idea that chaos lingers beneath the surface and she dips a toe into it, becomes a conduit for the expression of it, is such a strange and new idea. It sounds so much like being caught in the tangle of invention, of inspiration, and the idea of being able to tame that sensation, to be able to use it at will, has him terribly envious. He sits on the bed, beaming and curious and feeling surprisingly light and carefree.
"Freedom is always terrifying, at least in my experience," Jaskier says and looks at her. He tries to imagine her as a girl, a young thing full of magic and terrified of it. Was she like a little bird, alone and full of song and freedom, waiting to leap from her perch and fly? Was she a spitfire thing, a current of power and cleverness, winding and inevitable as a swift flowing river? Was her laugh the same? Or her tender touch?
He knows only that Sabrina, the sorceress of the high tits who was a tit to her, and that very few people ever apologized to her. He has never asked more, though he is sorely tempted. He is an open book, ready for anyone and everyone to peruse as they like--she is more guarded, a diary kept in careful hands, and asking her to share of herself is something that must be done delicately.
He has already been given much more than he deserves.
"And I cannot say how many admirers I am likely to draw--but I have company for this event and I shan't indulge without her. I might be a cad, but I'm not rude, not when it can be helped."