[The sound he makes is one of half-hearted amusement, because, simply put, he agrees. He does not bring up that Hector has been a light in his heart here, even for all his past mistakes; it is a complicated relationship, as he understands it, what Hector had with Dracula. And he would not have wished for anything that would have resulted in any further pain for his lover.
But it says plenty, he thinks, that he did not go to Hector for further information on this story, either.
Jaskier's hand still where they pick at his coat.]
Hector had mentioned something as much, some time ago. [He looks away not because he disapproves of her request, but because he is staring at the evidence now of how the past year of memories -- whether he has lived them or not -- has changed him. He swallows only saliva, not wine, rubbing the temples under his hanging bangs.] It is hard to explain, that I was a not quite as worldly, in a way, when he told me. I thought of it as a tragic story. One which, while being told, being remembered, holds no outward effect on my life.
[He inwardly winces now to hear it. But what was he to think of it? It is another sphere, another peoples, and another bloodthirsty war. There is always some sort of war. There is always bloodshed. Geralt had warned him as such some years ago, but he had not had the lifetime, really, to understand it. Now he has seen the brutal sweeping of war. He has heard how the wiping out of life in Sodden Hill was described like a hand sweeping ants from a table.]
But that change is a story for another time, I think. I have lived through true warfare myself now. A change in perspective. Suffice to say, I can find empathy and pity where I find it needs to be placed, without losing sight of the forest's entirety.
no subject
But it says plenty, he thinks, that he did not go to Hector for further information on this story, either.
Jaskier's hand still where they pick at his coat.]
Hector had mentioned something as much, some time ago. [He looks away not because he disapproves of her request, but because he is staring at the evidence now of how the past year of memories -- whether he has lived them or not -- has changed him. He swallows only saliva, not wine, rubbing the temples under his hanging bangs.] It is hard to explain, that I was a not quite as worldly, in a way, when he told me. I thought of it as a tragic story. One which, while being told, being remembered, holds no outward effect on my life.
[He inwardly winces now to hear it. But what was he to think of it? It is another sphere, another peoples, and another bloodthirsty war. There is always some sort of war. There is always bloodshed. Geralt had warned him as such some years ago, but he had not had the lifetime, really, to understand it. Now he has seen the brutal sweeping of war. He has heard how the wiping out of life in Sodden Hill was described like a hand sweeping ants from a table.]
But that change is a story for another time, I think. I have lived through true warfare myself now. A change in perspective. Suffice to say, I can find empathy and pity where I find it needs to be placed, without losing sight of the forest's entirety.