Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

The sand was soft between Jaskier's toes. It looked weird against his skin, so pale and powdery. He'd expected it to feel like dirt, cold and wet and a little sticky—but somehow it didn’t feel like dirt at all. It felt dead, like nothing could grow from it.

He’d rolled the hem of his pants as far as they would go, and he’d gone for a walk on the beach, only his lute bouncing on his back, the sound of the waves and the seagulls that screamed in the distance, the dying sun bleeding red and purple in the rippling water as the fishermen’s boats cut the surface.

Jaskier looked back at the mountains that stretched blue and grey and green behind him, almost invisible in the looming darkness, a storm gathering somewhere around their tops. His throat felt tight, as if a noose was choking him.

“I hate it here,” he whispered.