Answering the passage post. This is probably the cliche answer since its the name of your biggest series but "I’m middle-aged and tired and I just think I’d rather meet death sitting down and facing it rather than from behind while I’m running." Honestly, as I age this is the most god damn poignant and true thing anyone could say. It's just... *chef's kiss* The desire to meet death sitting, facing it and expecting is lovely.
Is it my biggest series?? I suppose I figured out that it is, statistically-speaking. *goes to look* I’ve still got more hits on a Stargate:Atlantis fic and two MCU fics, and I’ve still got more subscriptions on an MCU fic, and my old Star Wars fic is still hanging on in the top five comment threads stats, but yeah, Witcher has taken over kudos and bookmarks for all top five stats. So yes I suppose it is!
Ha, and maybe this is a reaction to stressful times, but I was looking back through what someone just termed somewhere my “ancient works” which made me really laugh-- is 2015 antiquity, now? but I suppose my genuine early works are not on the Internet-- and I do tend to have a kind of running theme of fatalism. I mean, a lot of my characters have this very clearly-expressed boundary, beyond which they’d stop struggling and just let things happen.
So what that says about me I don’t know.
But Jaskier is the first of them to express that from an #ownvoices middle-aged perspective, which I suppose is that with the wisdom of experience you can kind of attain, if not dignity, an idea of when it’s appropriate to just-- accept things and be as graceful as you can about them? Not that he’s even that graceful, but-- there is a grace to it, even cloaked in irritation and exhaustion.
Anyway: ooh, this is the dynamic. Maybe I write the same tropes over and over but it’s only because they’re good tropes, LOL.
“You’re an asshole,” Jaskier said. “And I hate you.”
Geralt hung on, trembling and panting, and Jaskier gently stroked the damp hair away from the cold sweat of his face. He could try to pry himself free and go hunt for the missing child, but he had a feeling Geralt was at the end of his rope and the thing would kill him any moment and then he’d be a reanimated corpse to deal with. It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted to witness that, but he also didn’t want to be wandering alone through these horrifying woods just waiting for the reanimated corpse of his witcher to come crashing out of the undergrowth to eat him.
“You should run,” Geralt whispered hoarsely, after a long time.
“No,” Jaskier sighed. “This is the thing, Geralt. I’m middle-aged and tired and I just think I’d rather meet death sitting down and facing it rather than from behind while I’m running. You know?” He contemplated that a moment, and finally added, “Especially if it’s you.”
Geralt let out a breath, but there weren’t any words in it. It was clearly difficult for him to speak, and his breaths were coming slow and shallow against Jaskier’s hip. “Not too late,” he managed. “Knife through my spine. Doing me a favor.”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you say that word before,” Jaskier said. “Not to me.”
