Chapter Text
“See you around, Geralt.”
So that was it, huh. After years of travelling together, fighting monsters, and sometimes people, too, that was it. Geralt had had enough of Jaskier, finally snapping at the bard. The bard knew it was not him the Witcher was really angry at. He knew Geralt was angry at himself. Angry at himself for the pain he had caused Yennefer, but most of all, for the pain he had caused for himself. Jaskier knew it was easier for Geralt to blame it on him, than for the Witcher to admit everything that happened was largely Geralt’s own fault. Sure, Jaskier had been there at the banquet in Cintra, setting in motion a series of events that would end up with Geralt having a child surprise. Sure, he was there when the Djinn was set loose, but it was not him who wished for himself to almost die. Neither did he wish for Yennefer and Geralt to meet like they had. Nor did he force to Geralt to make his third wish. And, finally, he was definitely not to blame for everything that happened on the mountain. Jaskier had even tried to stop everything from happening, vividly protesting going on the hunt. But no, Geralt simply had to go when he saw Yennefer. Typical. He was not blameless, but he should not have to take the blame. And yet, that was what Geralt had done. He had blamed Jaskier for everything, lashing out at him because Geralt knew, deep down, that he had fucked up.
And Jaskier had had enough, too, which is why he left before Geralt could apologize. He wanted to leave, to get the fuck down this mountain, and as far away from the Witcher as possible. He was angry, too, angry at Geralt for being such an emotionally constipated idiot. For being an absolute asshole. For being blind to what was really happening. Witchers were apparently not supposed to feel. Jaskier called bullshit. He knew that was not true, Geralt even having admitted himself that yes, Witchers did feel emotions. But sometimes it seemed like Geralt had forgotten that other people felt, too. Jaskier could not nor should not shoulder all of the blame.
So, Jaskier had walked away. Maybe, if he just kept moving, he could stop thinking about what just happened. If he could keep moving, he could move on from the Witcher. There was nothing he would rather do, but yet, as he slowly started to make his way down to the camp they had slept at the night before, something started to ache deep within him. He kept walking, stubbornly putting one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to walk away from the top of the mountain, where everything had gone to shit.
The bard thought he could hear the faint echoes of cheerful voices further down the hill. Probably the dwarves, celebrating their prize, the esteemed dragon teeth. They had not even fought, yet reaped all the rewards. But that was not what bothered Jaskier, as he listened to the faint echoes disappear slowly. It bothered him that the dwarves could continue their lives like they had before they went up on this cursed mountain, like nothing had happened. He could not. He was used to dwelling the Continent, together with the Witcher. Or dwelling alone, composing his music and visiting towns all over. But even when he would dwell alone, he had the comfort that he would meet the Witcher from time to time, and travel with him, both for inspiration, and for friendship. Now, that had all been lost. He had nothing to look forward to, really. Despite his outgoing and flirtatious personality, Jaskier had few friends. He had no place to call home, no one to call family, except the Witcher. But now, that had gone, too. He was alone, with just his lute to keep him company. Strangers in bars would not be enough to fill the aching hole in his heart.
Still, Jaskier kept on walking. He would pass the camp they had slept at last night soon, and hoped that there would be some supplies left, perhaps some rations, as he had stupidly not brought any himself, relying on the Witcher instead, like he had always done. All he had was his lute, strapped across his back, and a small dagger, hidden in his boot. The other stuff he had was at the foot of the mountain, tucked away in Roach’s saddlebags. Oh god. He would have to get his stuff. He just hoped that the Witcher would not be there when he did. The Witcher had made his stand, and so had the bard.
The thought of seeing the Witcher at the foot of the mountain gave Jaskier newfound energy, as he started to walk faster. Anything to get down the mountain before the Witcher. Because if he could not beat the Witcher, he would have to talk to him, and there was nothing more than Jaskier wanted less.
--
It took the bard less than an hour to get to camp. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side. He could not help but think “why should it?” as he stared at all that was left behind. Yennefer had somehow gotten her tent, and the dwarves probably took what was left. All that was left, all that showed any sign of life, were some logs, placed around a fire, and a smoldering heap of wood in the middle.
Jaskier sighed, sitting down, placing the lute at his side. He kicked dust in the ashes of the fire. He sat for a while, before letting out a dry laugh. God, everything was really fucked up. He had no food, a half-empty water skin, and worst of all, no company. His stomach rumbled loudly, protesting at the lack of food. He wanted to stay, to sit down forever, to just lay there on the ground, not caring what happened to him. But he knew that would simply not do. His hunger was currently more demanding than the desire to lay on the ground, so he got up, and continued his path downward, hoping he would be able to find something in the woods he could eat.
However, the woods were not welcoming at all. On the way to the top of the mountain, they had taken a quick route, a route that led to nothing but death and misery, but it had been a short route, and god, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to get down the mountain as fast as possible. But he knew he could not take that path, as he was sure the wooden planks, hanging alongside the mountain, would not hold him. He would fall, like Borch had, but unfortunately, he was not a dragon, and would surely fall to his own demise.
So, he had to take the road into the woods, a road that was unknown to him. He hoped there would not be trouble, but deep down, he knew there would be. His hopes for finding food had diminished, and his fear of danger increased. The Reavers were dead, and the dwarves would most likely not kill him, but he still felt that there was something waiting, watching, that would mean bad news for him. After all, on the way up, there had been a Hirikka, a relatively harmless monster, but a monster nonetheless. Jaskier had one small dagger in his boot, but it would probably not be able to help him if anything big or dangerous came in his way.
--
Yet, after hours of walking, he had not had any near-death experiences. Yet. He had found some berries that were edible, but they did not still his hunger, nor quench his thirst. The bard could not help thinking how stupid he had been, how much of an idiot he was for not bringing his own supplies. He had had this same discussion with the Witcher before. The Witcher had told him to bring some supplies for himself, if they ever got separated or something happened. But Jaskier had dismissed the Witcher then, claiming his songs would be all they needed, which did not make the Witcher smile, as he had hoped.
Now, looking back, he was angry at himself. He could not eat his fucking lute, now could he? Unless? Jaskier shrugged the thought away. Of course, he could not eat his own lute. That would be insane.
So, reluctantly, trotting through the woods silently, Jaskier held on to his dagger, ready to strike at anything that came near him, hoping to catch a rabbit, a bird, or even a rat. Yes, Jaskier, the famous bard, considered eating a rat. If that did not speak of his despair, then nothing did.
Luckily, he found a stream after walking for another hour, and saw some fish swimming. He took his knife, kneeled down by the riverbed, and waited patiently, finally impaling a fish with his knife after several unsuccessful attempts.
He gathered some branches, and lit a fire ablaze with the help of a flint. He roasted his fish over the fire, and when the fish was done, devoured it quickly.
Jaskier decided that this would be the best place to stay for the night. He did not have a blanket, nor any semblance of anything he was used to, so he just leant against a tree, and hoped nothing would kill him while he slept.
--
He did not dream, nor did he sleep. He was exhausted, yet his mind refused to let him sleep. All he could think of, now that he had stopped moving, and sat down for the night, was that awful fight with the Witcher on the mountain. He could not find it within himself to be angry with himself, the way that the Witcher had been angry with him, but he could not live with himself for walking away. Jaskier had never considered himself a coward, yet that was the only word repeated in his mind over and over. He should have stood up for himself, and face the Witcher’s anger. But he had not. He had been to hurt, and it all happened too sudden, for him to argue back. He had chosen the easy way out, letting his own self-pity get the better of him. For once, he had shut up, precisely when he should not have.
So, when Jaskier awoke, his mind had been made. He would not make his way down the mountain. Not before he had confronted the Witcher. Geralt owed him an apology, if anything. But, Jaskier wanted more than an apology. He wanted his friend, the stubborn Geralt of Rivia, back. He wanted to seek out monsters with him, travel the Continent with him. Jaskier did not want to dwell alone. He did not mind the dwelling, but he did mind the loneliness, already sick of the silence after less than a day. Perhaps Geralt did not speak much, but he was there, present, and, as Jaskier realized while getting ready to climb the mountain for the second time, Geralt had become an unmissable constant in his life. All Jaskier hoped for, is that Geralt felt the same. Jaskier would climb that mountain, and find his friend, god help anyone that stands in his way.