Jaskier, Yennefer, and Geralt by Lady of Lords for Evergreen, Ever Sun, Ever Moon, my geraskefer sleeping beauty au, posted with permission because she doesn't have tumblr :) the art is so beautiful and I love it so much!
closeup details:
the details on the botanicals are wolfsbane, gooseberry, and buttercups
the details on the tiling are ingredients for superior tawny owl potion
he is NOT showing off his sword charms, he’s checking if the hilt is okay!!!
this guy’s daughter said it’s fashionable in other universes to wear little knick knacks attached to your possessions, so now every friend is happily giving away souvenirs 🧚
"The dancers may disappear, but still our dance goes on. And on..."
Geraskier x POTO au
(This piece is inspired by "I Dreamed a Dance" from Next to Normal)
An aged Geralt, retired principal dancer of the Teatr Wielki, and possibly the greatest dancer across the continent, stood alone on the stage. He'd often stood alone here, in his prime. Stood, rehearsed, wept, even slept in the wings on nights he wished to feel less lonely.
Even with the adoring audience asleep in their warm beds, their ghosts of cheers made him feel whole again. Though they were not the only ghosts to have once brought him joy, to grace his appropriate company.
The Opera Ghost, as it were, still haunted heavily in his memory.
They'd danced together on this stage. Once, maybe twice. In masks, in costume, or in the cover of night. When no one could watch them. Where no one else could touch them. To separate life from death, it was a tragedy. One could not exist without the other, and they were never meant to touch.
But Jaskier, as he would come to know him, was more than just a ghost. He was a man of flesh and blood, and at times Geralt knew him to be tender and soft. Even sweet. But as soft as he could be, his trail of red death could not stop him from being hurt.
He'd been hurt too much.
The boxes were dark, the only light shone in from the collapsing roof, and still the aged dancer stepped in time with the music that forever relay in his head. The steps he'd practiced and perfected, over and over. And he found himself looking to box five, for his dearly departed. In the shadows, he thought to even imagine the masked face of an angel who watched over him.
Just as he did around the darkened corners of his home. The pale face of a man who loved him. Who, even now, uncertain of his whereabouts though confidently lost, held every part of Geralt's heart.
If he returned now, stepped out of the shadows and joined his half of a duet once more, he would gladly dance with death until the rest of the Teatr Wielki collapsed. And Geralt waited, humming the remnants of the melody he'd memorized.
He waited. And he waited.
His entire life, he'd waited for the ghost to return. To him back into that cold embrace. To challenge him forward, to demand those steps from him again. To adorn his dressing room with roses and to kiss the parts of him that were pricked with thorns.
The delicate feathers of his oilslick wings, the tufts of darkness that so often plucked from them as he'd taken Geralt to soar. His song, his demands, his everything. How the dancer wished to be whisked away by those beating extensions again.
To look above the continent and feel nothing but the love bestowed to him by the angel of music, the angel of death. By his Jaskier.
And Jaskier never came. His angel, it seemed, was truly gone.
Still, the old man chose to wait. To tuck himself into the corners of the stage, as he'd done as a boy, and wait for the angel to return.
Reading the Witcher books I can't help but think of the cold, unsettled sea, the sharp cliffs wet from salt water, the cry of seagulls and the endless sound of surf
I wish to travel far from home and see the places I've seen so long ago again
andulkaphoto
2087
vaporwave
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
areudirty
