#the rhyming scheme absolutely kills me. you have to think like 3 lines ahead with every line you translate. pushkin the genius that you are

[myname-isnia]

Ever since I first read Eugene Onegin two years ago, and even more now that I had to reread it for school recently, I've been saying that I've never related to a fictional character more than I relate to Tatyana Larina (not counting my own characters, that is, as they are intentional projections). Particularly the verses about Tatyana's childhood hit very close to home. I've been wanting to talk about it for a while but couldn't find a translation of the book that I liked. So, instead of sleeping, I spent 2 hours absolutely torturing my own brain by coming up with my own translation and I'm way too proud not to share.

Eugene Onegin, chapter 2, verses 25, 26 and 27, translated with the original temp and rhyming scheme intact, by yours truly <3

—

XXV

And so, her sister's named Tatyana.

She seldom catches someone's gaze,

Lacks Olga's beauty, lacks her glamour,

The pink-cheeked freshness of her face.

She's almost feral, quiet with woe,

So quick to startle, like a doe.

And even in her family home

She seemed a child not quite their own.

She hardly ever showed affection,

Both mom and dad would often say.

By window she would spend her day

Alone but for her own reflection,

She judged the children running wild,

Though she herself was still a child.

XXVI

Imagination was her close friend

From infancy. As village days

Kept dragging on without an end,

She'd get lost in her fantasies.

Needle and thread she too avoided,

Fabric was never once embroidered

By her unblemished fingers, for

She found needlework a bore.

An average girl would take her doll,

Sit down with it and start to talk,

Prepare it for the time to walk

Into an upper class grand ball –

To silent dolls during these sessions

Young girls repeat their mothers' lessons.

XXVII

Tatyana never had discussions

With dolls, nor did she play with them;

She never told them of the fashions,

Of city news, and even then

Of toys and games she was quite wary,

She'd rather read of something scary.

In winters, in the dead of night,

Her heart learned how to take a fright.

When for young Olga their old nanny

Would gather up the neighbours' kids

To run and play out in the fields,

Tatyana would act most uncanny:

She never played or ran around,

And found their laughter far too loud.

—

[dancedelion]

Sleep of the Dead (part 2 / 3)

Genre: some humour, angst with a happy ending Summary: Jaskier thinks he hit rock bottom when Geralt flushed twenty years of friendship down the drain, but then he finds himself suddenly translucent and rudely walked through by a traveller. Apparently he’s dead - that’s certainly a new low. He needs to find out what happened, and who better to help him than the man who’s made more than clear he wants nothing to do with him. ao3: Sleep of the Dead - Chapter Two Chapter One

It’s clear as anything Geralt doesn’t want him here. He doesn’t even look at Jaskier and barely acknowledges his presence. But Jaskier can’t leave, even knowing he’s overstayed his welcome by days, months, years perhaps.

But it’s not all bad. Sometimes it gets so close to what Jaskier really wants that he can feel his heart breaking.

In the tavern, an amateur bard – if he is even worthy of the title – is butchering one of Jaskier’s songs. He yells over the music in Geralt’s ear as he’s nursing a drink. “You call that an A sharp? To me it sounds more like a D minus. Booh!”

Geralt seems to be smirking, so Jaskier is happy to continue.

“B flat? Oh, no, it sounded very, very bumpy.”

Prowling around the stage like he owns the place, the halfwit. Then – Jaskier lets out a loud gasp. “This goes to far! The line is ‘kissed her sea shell’, not ‘kissed her lips’. He’s messed up the rhyme scheme! Not to mention the complicated underlying symbolism. Geralt! I give you permission to take your sword and -”

“How many times do I have to say this? I’m not going to kill anyone for you.”

“What about light stabbing?” “This is not a negotiation.”

Jaskier gestures wildly with his arms.

“But you heard him! He’s terrible, playing my song. Don’t you agree?”

“Didn’t sound any different to me.” “Didn’t – uhm – what?!” Jaskier is nearly flailing now. “I’m dead, the least you could do is pay some respects!”

Geralt, very rudely, does not pay any respects and smirks into his drink instead.

 An elegant lute with intricate carvings is propped up against one of the market stalls.

“Geralt, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Sometimes, the tiredness fades to a dull throb behind Jaskier’s eyelids. No matter how he feels, Jaskier pretends everything is fine, so Geralt won’t worry. (Not that Geralt would ever even look at him.)

“An overcrowded market filled with thieves and swindlers?” Geralt answers, so low that bystanders can’t hear him talking to the air.

“I’m seeing the afterlife worthy of the greatest troubadour on the continent! A lute that must have been crafted in heaven.”

“Good luck trying to pick it up.”

Huh. That does put a damper on it. None the matter. Jaskier is switching strategies.

“I might not be able to pick it up, but you know who has two fully functioning hands and a soft spot for bards not currently in the possession of useful things like money or a real body?”

“Hope you find him before the market closes.”

Jaskier turns around, definitely not pouting, and watches a woman trip over her dress in the middle of the market.

“Honestly,” he huffs. The woman grabs a tablecloth to drag herself up again, but instead all the fruits on the table come crashing down. “What has to happen for you to do something nice for me? Hell freezes over? It rains tiny horses?” Jaskier turns back around. “Why do you always -” Geralt is, as was to be expected, not listening. However, he is, as was certainly not to be expected, already over at the stall with the lute talking to the vendor.

Jaskier is innocuously smiling when Geralt straps the lute to Roach’s back.

“Shut up,” Geralt says.

Jaskier smiles more widely.

 Ghosts can’t do much, Jaskier finds. They mostly – are. He used to love being. It was one of his favourite activities. But now… Ghosts can’t play the lute, which Geralt thankfully doesn’t mention, even as he drags the lute across the country. Maybe they are both living in fantasy land, where hope grows on trees.

And ghosts can’t sleep. And Jaskier is just so, so…

“Gods! Do you see this flower? This might be the prettiest flower I have seen in my entire life – oops, went a little too far there in the sentence. Let’s just say it’s the prettiest flower I have ever seen.”

It’s sitting right next to the path, radiating beauty and positive feelings. Geralt is staring straight ahead, not sparing it a glance.

“And can you guess whose hair it would look awfully pretty in?” Jaskier says.

Geralt’s eyebrows go up.

“Roach’s, obviously,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Why, what did you think?”

Geralt huffs. It really is like talking to an air vent sometimes.

“Come on. I know only one opinion counts for you and I’m sure Roach would love it. Am I right, Roach?”

Roach, quite obviously in answer to his question, lifts her head a little. So Geralt, the big softie, picks the flower and puts it behind Roach’s ear, turning her effectively into the most beautiful horse in the country.

(And Jaskier wishes so much he could have this. Could touch Roach’s mane. Could feel the wind rolling through the trees. Could put his arm around Geralt’s shoulder.) (He slumps, letting a form sag he doesn’t even have.)

(Is this punishment, he wonders. Being able to close his eyes, but never to rest. Being allowed to see, but not touch. Having to watch the world turn on without him.)

Geralt walks a few steps ahead while Jaskier picks up a tune. At least he can still sing. Even if he’s missing the appreciative audience. (Is this what he is supposed to see? Geralt getting on without him, so Jaskier finally sees Geralt doesn’t need him, the world doesn’t need him, that he can let go? If that was the case, they really shouldn’t have let him hear that imposter of a bard play his song.)

 “You know what the absolute worst part of this is? I can’t change my outfit. I died in my least favourite doublet. Fuck me, am I right?”

Geralt is by himself in the forest, listening only to the fire crackling in front of him.

“Not actually, I guess. None of that will be happening any time soon, I suspect, seeing that I’m dead.”

It’s not cold, exactly, not to a witcher, but he draws his jacket closer.

“Why am I wearing my least favourite doublet? Shouldn’t my spiritual form be a representation of my glorious self? I want a golden jacket. Maybe a bit of glitter, some sparkles.” “Could stand in the fire. Plenty of sparkles,” Geralt says unprompted.

He allows his eyes to slide over, just a tad to the right. The firelight doesn’t hit Jaskier. He looks barely there. He looks like he will fade out any minute.

He’s just a nightmare, nothing more.

Looking is an indulgence and torture at the same time. Hugging the knife, loving the taste of poison. Fluffed up hair, a fine looking doublet, he is sitting by the fire like a breathing man. He is different, more quiet, more wary, but so undeniably Jaskier.

This is just a mountain fantasy. The universe is cruel, that’s true, but not like this. This goes too far.

(You killed him on the mountain. You gave him the push.)

Geralt looks back to the fire. Is alone. By himself. Just him and Roach. Jaskier is far, far away and warm and breathing and alive alive alive

“Oh, Geralt” – there is nothing – “why must you” – only a shadow voice – “be so -” Geralt closes his eyes. There is only the wind.

“Wait, what’s that? I think – oh, fuck, Geralt -”

Geralt jerks, hears a noise from behind – is about to grab his sword – but something hits the back of his head and suddenly everything

 It’s not unusual for Geralt to wake up in chains. This time, his prison is moving. His head is throbbing, but it won’t last long. Geralt slowly blinks his eyes open. He’s in the back of a carriage. Road’s bumpy. It’s hard to make out shapes at first, but Geralt looks around frantically – oh, thank goodness, there is –

No one. He is alone.

“You’re awake! That’s a relief. I was scared out of my mind.”

Geralt, for no particular reason at all, smiles a little.

“I didn’t see anyone coming but suddenly there was this shadow and I was like woah, but it was already too late and I barely made it behind you into the carriage. But now that you’re awake, it’s all good. Let’s escape!”

Geralt tugs at his chains, but they are tight around his wrists. Whoever locked him up did a good job.

“Too bad neither of us can walk through walls,” Geralt says.

“I’m not leaving you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m suggesting you do some recon.” The least the hallucination can do is make itself useful, since it’s living in Geralt’s mind rent-free.

“I’m not walking through the walls,” the hallucination says stubbornly.

“Why not?” “It’s weird. It’s… unsanitary.”

“I think hygiene is the least of your problems.”

Jaskier starts pacing the small space, though he can only go two steps before he has to turn around. The only light comes in from the gridded window behind him.

“The point is, I’m not doing it. It’s scary. Walking past instead of through walls is a hard habit to rid yourself of.”

“Fine. Then we’ll just wait it out and let my kidnappers get on with whatever nefarious plans they have for me.”

“Don’t you have a plan? You’re a witcher, you can come up with something.” “I do have a plan.”

Geralt stares at Jaskier intently. Jaskier throws up his arms in exasperation.

“Well, what would you do if your friend hadn’t conveniently been turned into a ghost for you?”

“Enjoy the imprisonment until an unlikely escape or very likely torture with adjacent death.”

Jaskier finally sighs loudly.

“Okay, okay, but just so you know –“

“If you feel vaguely uncomfortable walking through wood for a brief moment, it’s my fault?”

“That’s right.”

They wait until, a while later, the carriage comes to a stop.

Jaskier cracks his neck, as if preparing for a fight, and then hesitantly steps toward the carriage wall. In an instant, he’s disappeared.

And Geralt –

(The room seems suddenly much smaller, the air colder. He hears nothing. Inexplicably, his stomach is churning.)

Geralt is alone.

  “Do recon, he says. Use your special ghost powers to save me, he says,” Jaskier grumbles. “Does that brute have any idea -” Jaskier, not looking where he was going, had accidentally walked through a man in a robe. He suppresses a sigh. That robe just screams fashion-ignorant mage. Geralt will not be happy.

He can spot three carriages in total. Judging by the heavy locks and bars in front of the small window, one of them only for the purpose of keeping a prisoner. Interesting. Had they always planned on kidnapping Geralt or was kidnapping in general just such a frequent activity for them that they had to come prepared? Like, hm, better take our prison chamber along, who knows what kind of non-suspecting witcher we’ll run into? How awfully sensible of them.

Now, what about the entourage? There are quite a few people on horses, many heavily armoured, some dressed like the snobs from court. One of them is standing in front of Geralt’s carriage, all glum, and taking his job very seriously, as though he is expecting Geralt to tear apart his chains and smash through the door any second. Robe-guy is also keeping an eye on the carriage, which can’t be good.

And who’s at the top of this chain of peacocks and bulls? Jaskier can only see him from behind, the doublet that’s way over the top, the feathery hat, chest puffed out.

Next to him, a woman is talking to him, turned sideways. She looks oddly familiar, but Jaskier can’t place it.

He tries to take a peak at the flag the riders are carrying, but the angle is bad and he can only make out some rose colours.

“What on earth is he thinking?” someone shouts right next to Jaskier’s head. He stumbles back, his head whipping around.

Just two run-of-the-mill soldiers chatting, it seems. But the horse they are feeding looks rather familiar. “Not so loud,” the smaller guy answers.

Uuuh, gossip. Jaskier is all ears.

“He’s out of his mind to bring a –“ the taller one continues. “Will you shut up? He just wants to make use of his assets. And you heard what happened to the other guy.”

“That’s no reason to fraternize with the bloody Butcher of Blaviken.”

Ah, gossiping about Geralt. That’s not so great.

“And now we’re being forced to take care of his damn horse -” “Paid, we’re being paid to -”

“Fuck off. Like he’s fucking royalty, we’re feeding his horse carrots. I don’t even have a horse.”

Jaskier can feel anger bubble up in him, but he only clenches his fist. In another lifetime, he would have given these people a piece of mind, one so big they would choke on it. But a gush of wind cannot sway someone’s opinion, much less knock them over the head with a stolen lance-thingy.

“What’s that you’ve been riding on all this time?” Mr. Small says and snickers. “An armadillo?”

“A what? No, that horse is a loan from the boss. It’s his horse.” There’s a small moment of despondent silence.

“I want a horse,” Mr. Tall says quietly.

Roach, ever the good horse, snaps her teeth in his direction.

“The witcher’s a monster. He stinks. He can’t love, everyone knows that, and he’s made to be violent – you know what he did in Blaviken. And to top it all off,” he raises his voice, becoming agitated, “he didn’t teach his horse any bloody manners.”

Years long Jaskier spent singing to anyone who would listen (or at any rate looked like they wouldn’t throw tomatoes at him until he got at least two songs out) what a great pal Geralt is, no, listen, he’s really great, you should see him once he’s taken a bath. And still, there’s people like these. Jaskier grits his teeth together until his jaw hurts.

“Shh, shh,” Mr. Small tells Roach and starts petting her head, “he doesn’t mean it.”

Mr. Tall is shaking his head, clearly still invested in hating Geralt as passionately as possible.

“If you’re asking me, I say we should take a pike and punch it through the bastard’s -”

Jaskier is definitely not asking. In fact, he is walking away. And through a carriage wall, if he must.

Geralt is right where Jaskier left him, except maybe a little more despondent.

“It’s not exactly a witcher-friendly environment.”

Jaskier comes right out with the merry news. Geralt lifts his head at that, tilts it thoughtfully. “They did kidnap me.”

So nonchalant, the man with heart of stone. But Geralt, of course, is used to the hatred. (People don’t just throw tomatoes at him, if worst comes to worst.)

“Apparently, some of them want to kill you.”

Geralt shrugs.

“It’s not so bad, by the looks of it.”

He fixes Jaskier with an expression that can’t be amused, must logically fall into the category of annoyed or at least indifferent. He’s made more than clear on the mountain –

Jaskier has lost them then, the smirks, the well-meant jabs, the companionable silences.

(Now who is seeing ghosts?) “Not – excuse you, didn’t you hear me when I told you about the outfit? Every day the same one, no variety, no -” He pauses and gives Geralt a calculating once-over. “I see how that wouldn’t be a problem for you. Is this the only shirt you own?”

“Getting off-topic.” “Right, right. So it seems to be some nobleman’s entourage. I spotted a mage too, might want to make a big bow around her. Pretty heavy locks and soldiers everywhere.”

Geralt is starting to look more pained with every word, the way that usually signals to Jaskier it’s his turn to be the optimistic one. Come to think of it, he almost always leaves that duty to Jaskier.

“Got any good news too?” he grunts. “Let me think – ah, those goons who want you dead seem to be extremely afraid of the guy who kidnapped you.”

Now Geralt looks at him coldly.

“How reassuring.”

“Ah, chin up,” Jaskier tries, “I’m sure everything -”

In that moment, the door snaps open. Jaskier flinches. He had expected to be able to hear them fumble with the multitude of locks they’d installed at the door before their grand entrance. And of course – it’s the magician. Who else could be so effortlessly dramatic?

“Witcher,” the mage announces snottily.

“Kidnapper,” Geralt inclines his head politely.

The mage ignores him, only looking around the carriage and taking another step inside.

“Wait,” he holds up a hand, “I’m sensing something strange around here.”

Jaskier recoils – then he straightens his doublet, scratches his head.

“Strange?” he mumbles, slightly offended.

“A draft?” Geralt asks, playing innocent, but Jaskier can hear the quiet amusement in his voice.

“No, not a draft.” The mage flicks his tongue in annoyance. “Something of magical origin.”

“Aaw, Geralt, did you hear that? He thinks I’m magical,” Jaskier preens, “and he hasn’t even seen what I can do with a lute and -”

“Perhaps a rat,” Geralt interrupts, levelling the mage with his stare.

“A rat?” Jaskier is getting more offended by the second. “Can’t you at least give me mouse? Mice are cute.”

Geralt is not quite smiling, but Jaskier can see little wrinkles around his eyes.

“None the matter,” the mage says. “You’ve been surprisingly easy to get a hold off, witcher. Not on top of your game, is that it? There are rumours you’ve lost your mind.”

Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that last part might be his fault.

“Then why bother talking to me?” Geralt says only. “I’m not sure how much you’ll gain from the nonsensical ramblings of a lunatic.”

The mage’s lips thin out.

“It’s not information we need.”

That hopefully minimizes the chance for torture, unless they are out for revenge or torture just for the joy and fun of it. Jaskier starts circling the man, pondering if he might be lying.

“Then what is?”

Jaskier is painfully aware that Geralt is the only one of them in danger, the only one who can get hurt, and yet Jaskier is scared as if he were tied to Geralt, back to back. (And alive enough to feel the chains around his wrists.)

“For one, you needed to be neutralized. You should really be more careful where you mumble about your travel plans to yourself.”

At that, Jaskier perks up – travel plans?

“What’s wrong with my travel plans?” Geralt says, “Lettenhove not sunny enough this time of year? Inns too expensive?”

“It seems your plans were interfering with our own.”

Geralt doesn’t seem to find it necessary to mention that him and Jaskier hadn’t exactly had a plan, at least none exceeding “go to Jaskier’s hometown”. Jaskier starts to become suspicious. The mage might know something they don’t.

“In what way?” “That shouldn’t concern you, witcher.”

Great, Jaskier thinks. When has a mage ever been forthcoming?

What does the mage want in Lettenhove? Jaskier tries to focus, on anything other than the feeling of falling asleep, of being so terribly, terribly tired – what was before? If something happened in Lettenhove, it’s all the more likely Jaskier ended up there, too – that it happened to him too.

“We only need your help to get into the castle,” the mage goes on.

“Have you tried the door?” Geralt says drily.

“It’s not quite so simple.”

“Mind being less of a cryptic bastard?”

“You’ll see when you get there. I just want to make sure you are going to cooperate.”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Geralt narrows his eyes. “You haven’t even offered me tea.”

“But you are still alive. If you need more incentive, how about this,” the mage lets a ball of fire float above his palm, “I will be with you every step of the way.”

“Unwavering support. How nice,” Geralt says. “But I usually manage without.”

“We’re not taking any chances, witcher.”

The mage extinguishes his flame.

“Rest now. We will start our journey again in the morning.”

With those words, the mage disappears, the doors slamming shut behind him.

A breath leaves Jaskier’s body, one he would be damned to let Geralt hear.

“I would feel more well-rested if you hadn’t knocked me out,” Geralt says to the air.

“A little insulting they only sent their mage and not the head of the operation to make ominous threats,” Jaskier remarks.

“Didn’t you hear? That wasn’t a threat. He only wanted to hold my hand and pet my head while I did his dirty work.”

“Veiled threat, then,” Jaskier decides to compromise. “Well fuck. What do we do now?”

Geralt doesn’t seem overly optimistic, but then - he never does. And he makes it out of every tough spot in the end, Jaskier knows. But now he only shrugs, seeming more like a ghost than he has any right to, considering the circumstances.

We can’t both fade out, Jaskier thinks. You have to hold on. They say a person lives on through memory. Who is going to faintly think of me every ten years and not speak to a soul about my existence if you are gone?

Jaskier thinks this very intently, but Geralt doesn’t look any less tired once he is done. He only blinks, once, twice, and looks at Jaskier very slowly, the way he never does anymore.

“I’d say you better start remembering what happened to you.”