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The lamps and lights of the ballroom seem brighter than usual, even from the outside. Ladies in colorful gowns spin past the large windows and grand balcony doors, noblemen in varying shades of cloaks and capes holding their gloved hands as they dance. Geralt watches it all from the comfort of the trees, crouched amongst bushes and shrubbery, his swords strapped to his back.
The royals and their ilk may have jewels and pretty things; Geralt, at least, knows how to appreciate the stars. They keep him company as dances change, as music shifts. Still crouched, still waiting.
It’s fucking boring.
Still, he remains on guard, the contract’s terms sticking in his mind. One of the hostesses for this ball— a masquerade celebrating nothing more than an indulgence of riches— had sent a messenger to him some odd number of nights ago, tossing a bag of coins his way as though they were nothing. A letter had been attached, a request for his presence throughout the night. An assassin, apparently, had been making threats towards her and her family, and they had reason to believe they’d send a monster. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to bait a werewolf into a gathering or made a deal with a vampire for one night. Besides, waiting out a monster is less work than hunting it.
Hours pass, though, and nothing appears.
Geralt sighs, watching as a young woman giggles with her friends on the balcony. He takes a half-step back, ducking into the shadows.
The hosts had paid well for Geralt’s protection. They’d also paid double if he promised to remain hidden. No use in accidentally inviting a witcher to one’s party, after all.
Not that that would be the first time that’s happened, either. He played the part of a bodyguard then, as well.
The girls adjust their masks— dark lace, rubies tucked into the corners— and rejoin the fun.
Geralt may never understand the fascination with such a theme. What’s the appeal of hiding one’s face, of questioning who it is you speak with? It places his instincts on edge, his muscles tightening at the mere thought of confronting a stranger in a mask. Another human tradition that sets them apart; the things they see as mystique, he only knows as a threat.
The night drags on, the moon glowing above him like the eye of a monster he’s yet to catch. There’ve been a few false alarms— a scream from a woman who’s only spilled a drink, a dagger revealed just to be gifted— and Geralt grows bored. He leans against a tree, easing out of his crouch, and folds his arms across his chest. Disappointment wells in his chest, manifesting in a frown. He should know better than to give in to rumors.
But the rumor had seemed so promising, so believable, so—
He growls at himself, shaking his head with a tight jaw. The rumor’s become a night wasted, nothing more.
“Oh, of course.” A voice— a familiar voice, a terribly familiar voice— breaks through the silent and the dark. “Of course you would spend a fine evening like this hidden amongst the trees and mud. Ugh. All over my new outfit, too.”
Jaskier steps into the patch of starlight like the creature of dramatics he is— arms spread and smile sharp. Geralt tenses as he draws closer, even as a slow breath escapes his chest.
Jaskier’s outfit shines like the lights of the party-- a white doublet and trousers with golden stitches, diamonds and frail curls shaped by the shimmering thread. It fits him the way all his favorite looks do— like he’s a painting with fine strokes, and colors chosen just for him. Even now, pressed against the dark of night, his cheeks warm with the beginning kisses of a blush, spots of life and color that are so painfully human, so beautifully fragile— rushing blood under the surface, a pulse Geralt could press his lips to and—
And the rest of it is hidden beneath his mask, a pale crescent across his brow and eyes. It’s a collection of jewels dripping as though from his lashes, as though from the carefully styled bangs drifting across his forehead. Lines of glimmering raindrops dangling temptingly across his cheekbones, the longer strands brushing the corners of his lips.
He’s diamonds and golden thread, but it’s the endless blue of his smiling eyes that reaches out to Geralt with the promise of real treasure.
All Geralt can do is watch as Jaskier walks forward, as cocky and certain as ever.
“No hello? Not even a little wave?” Jaskier’s hands plant on his hips. His chin points up and his nose twitches beneath his mask. “I’d say it’s insulting but, well. What else did I expect?”
“Jaskier.” At last, Geralt finds his voice trapped in the bottom of his lungs, stuck in the void of his throat. Still, it barely travels the meager distance to Jaskier. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you. I was invited,” Jaskier says. “Though, something tells me it was for very different reasons. Unless you’ve got an instrument hidden amongst all those sharp and shiny weapons?”
Jaskier speaks as though there’s nothing odd about this— nothing strange about wandering into each other with only the strands of music from a nearby ball to keep them company. It’s not the same as turning to see Jaskier standing at the side of a filthy lake, not quite like walking into a tavern already singing his name. This Jaskier stands before him as though unattainable, richer than the gods and more knowing than the heavens. Without a bawdy song strapped to his lips or a smile meant to charm the drunks, he’s more the noble he’s always said he’s buried beneath the bard. Jaskier would normally be laughing, exaggerating his stories and jokes in order to draw out the greatest amount of coin from the crowds.
Tonight, he’s nothing more than a ghost of a smile, a passing grin caught in the reflection of a memory Geralt once had.
Geralt glances over Jaskier, head to toe— an old habit he’d formed after learning how easily he can get into trouble. He’s only really caught wounds on Jaskier a few times, more often than not relating to jilted lovers or cuckolded spouses. Tonight, though, he’s perfect.
Geralt clears his throat, averting his gaze from the jewels and shine. “You know I don’t carry instruments.”
“Well, I do still hope you’ll let me teach you one day.” Jaskier tosses his head just enough to flick his hair from his eyes, the jewels on his cheeks jostling like beaded necklaces, tatting like drums when they bounce off each other. His confidence, though, shimmers— a mirage shaking before him, the slight hesitation of one uncertain how to maintain such arrogance. “Do you have room for one more?”
It’s said so softly, so guardedly, that Geralt draws in a quick breath. “Wouldn’t you rather be with the others?”
Jaskier scoffs. “With the rich and not so famous? Surely, you know me better by now. Or is that just your way of sending me off? Subtle. I like it.”
I like it — and yet there’s a tightness to his voice, a joke hanging on the edge of a punchline, a part Geralt’s supposed to play. Leaving in the night to keep the bard from following him, ignoring his questions and songs, insulting and shoving away because being alone is best for someone like him.
But is it best for someone like Jaskier?
“Alright, okay,” Jaskier looks away, the tension from his voice stretching to the muscles of his jaw. “I know the last thing you want is to see me here. But I heard rumors of a witcher stalking around the gardens and, well, it wasn’t likely you were going to come to say hello to me. So. Here I am.”
Yes, indeed. Here he is; here they are.
Geralt takes a half step to the side, grunting and nodding towards it. It’s a delicate action but Jaskier, at least, smiles.
“So, what brings a brute like you to such a magnificent gala?” Jaskier asks, taking the offered position at Geralt’s side. “Monster hunting? Or can I just pretend you were that desperate to see me? Actually, don’t answer that. I like my version of it far better than whatever you’re going to say.”
Jaskier does as he does best, filling the air with enough words to fill a hundred songs. Once, Geralt might have faced such a habit with irritation or annoyance— but it’s been over a year since he’s last seen Jaskier, and he’s learned how grating silence can be.
Unfair, he thinks, for a human to have such capabilities.
“Your host imagines there’s a monster come to ruin the ball,” Geralt answers anyway with a slight scowl— a scowl Jaskier watches with fascinated interest.
“I take it they lied?” Jaskier asks. Geralt can’t see the eyebrow he raises, but the mask shifts just so— just enough for Geralt to imagine the expression beneath the jewels.
“More likely they didn’t understand.” Geralt turns back towards the windows and doors. “But there’s still time for an attack. I’ll be out here until the last song plays, just to be sure.”
Jaskier’s breath is nearly a laugh. “Look at you— so thorough. And here I thought you weren’t a bodyguard.”
That tension from before— that slight line of distance— lingers in Jaskier’s tone, weaving in and out of his words as he converses with Geralt. Geralt tries to ignore— knows he should ignore it— but, still, he can’t help the way it deepens his frown. He’s heard Jaskier be cutting, has heard him be cruel and callous— and Melitele knows Jaskier’s heard more than that from Geralt— but he’s never really heard him be distant .
Geralt shakes the thought from his head before it can fester into something else. It’s enough that Jaskier’s here, at all.
“I know that’s you trying to warn me from a boring night of nothing,” Jaskier says, “but I think I’d still like to stay out here with you. If you don’t mind.”
I don’t , Geralt wants to say. The words, though, don’t come. Forever trapped, forever lost.
Jaskier has enough words for both of them anyway.
“Oh, you see that lord there?” Jaskier points out a plump man in blue fabrics, his mask slipping from ruddy cheeks. “I heard he’s got half a dozen bastard children running around the servant’s quarters. Nasty stuff, that. Oh, and the woman next to him? She’s responsible for the bandits and rogues in a few further out towns. She lets them hang around to encourage the people to pay her guard for protection.”
Jaskier’s tone drips with scorn, as tangible as the dangling jewels on his face. Geralt grunts, encouraging Jaskier to continue his gossip. Geralt’s no fool when it comes to nobles and their less than desirable morals; besides, Jaskier’s voice, at least, is more interesting than watching these men and women pretend their riches are replacements for decency. Eventually, it would all add up to nothing. Rubies and pearls, after all, make such poor decorations on graves.
Jaskier says all these things and more, growing wearier with each word— gossip slipping into judgment, losing its teasing way and biting into outrage instead. Geralt glances over, watches Jaskier from the corner of his eye; the diamonds on his face seem to intensify.
“And, yet, they all stand around and laugh. Tell me— do you think they’re aware of the irony of their masks?” Jaskier turns towards Geralt’s gaze, a thin smile appearing on his face. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat, Jaskier’s grin sparkling— a jewel of its own. “I notice you’re not wearing one.”
Geralt grunts, looking away. “You know I’m not here to join their festivities.”
“Right. You say you’re here to hunt a monster that’s yet to appear.” Jaskier laughs softly. He takes another step towards Geralt; their arms brush, a stroke of silk against Geralt’s skin. “But why are you really here, Geralt?”
Geralt’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
It’s a question that leaves room for Jaskier’s teasing, for the conversation to remain safely in the category of jokes and mockery and everything else he and Jaskier fall into. But Jaskier sighs like Geralt’s not reading the script right, like it’s such an apparent response. Geralt turns to him fully— the guests will be alright for the few moments his back is turned.
Jaskier’s eyes shimmer and shine before him, waves crashing over Geralt like the ocean colliding into the shore. Geralt could drown in them, could breathe them in and never want for air again.
“You know as well as I that monsters don’t just attack balls and parties,” Jaskier says, his smile shifting just enough for Geralt to hold off on his rebuttal. “And, if they did, it’s only because another human has manipulated the situation to their liking. What is it you like to say? You don’t get involved?”
“There was a chance that the report was true,” Geralt says. It sounds weak even to his own ears.
“Yes, I suppose.” Jaskier reaches slowly for Geralt— for all the cockiness in his voice, he still moves as though not allowed, as though Geralt could ever find the will to tell him to pull back now. The brush of Jaskier’s fingernails down Geralt’s arms, the smooth glide of them over his skin, is enough to keep Geralt in place, enough to keep him silent as Jaskier moves closer still. “But there was also a chance that I’d be here, wasn’t there?”
Once upon a time, Geralt hit Jaskier in the gut, attempting to scare the boy off. Now, at last, the feeling’s returned— Jaskier’s words burying themselves in Geralt’s chest, cracking through his armor and ribs to land at the vulnerable pulsing of his heart and veins beneath. He’s seen, exposed, revealed in such a raw manner that all he can do is let out a small wounded sound.
Because it’s true— of fucking course it’s true. There’s no excuse for Geralt’s being here, no greater draw than the whispers of a party hiring his bard.
There’s no cure for the aching in Geralt’s chest, the hollowness that’s taken root over the past year or so without Jaskier’s voice.
And it’s Jaskier’s voice that wraps around him now, that pulls him closer, that leads him towards the bard— Jaskier’s eyes flashing with starlight.
“Yes.” Looking like this, looking at Geralt like that? Jaskier deserves the truth. “There was also the chance of that.”
Forget the moon. Forget the stars and skies— Jaskier’s smile outshines them all.
“Well, then. You found me.” Jaskier’s breath against Geralt’s lips, warmer than the night and sweeter than day. Jaskier’s hands land tenderly on Geralt’s cheeks, still not quite touching him. Fingertips and the promise of more; Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat and leans into it. Jaskier laughs, soft. “What will you do now that you have?”
What can Geralt do? All the fantasies he’d locked away, all the dreams he’d pretended weren’t there. Jaskier stands before him draped in each one, silks woven from passion and his mask revealing more than it hides.
Geralt’s hands grip Jaskier’s waist. They pull him close.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he says to Jaskier’s lips. He can’t look into his eyes, not while saying this. “I was afraid— After we last spoke, after everything—”
“My darling witcher.” Jaskier’s thumb strokes Geralt’s cheek. “Did you really think I’d leave?”
You did , Geralt thinks. I turned around and you were gone and it was my fault, my words—
My cruelty that drove you down the mountain
Geralt says nothing. It’s clearly answer enough for Jaskier.
“You think too much,” Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s mouth. “Let’s stop thinking. Just for tonight.”
They’re so close now that Geralt can feel the coldness of Jaskier’s mask against his own skin, the small tease of the jewel brushing against his cheekbones. A barrier between him and his bard, a wall that has Geralt growling.
“Now, now. None of that,” Jaskier says with a small laugh. His hands move further back, fingers pressing into Geralt’s scalp and hair. “As versed as I am in your many grunts and hums, I do prefer words, you know.”
“Words and lyrics,” Geralt says, half-smiling. “You’ve said as much many times.”
“And yet you refuse to listen.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier scoffs at the sound, shaking his head. Geralt’s smile grows, large enough to lead him closer to Jaskier.
There’s a deep glow in Jaskier’s cheeks, and his lips are satin when he finally closes the distance to kiss Geralt— they’re a bit cool, too, from the night’s slight wind.
Jaskier presses his hands to the back of Geralt’s neck, holding on. And good thing, too. Geralt needs the anchor as his eyes slip shut and he kisses Jaskier back.
It’s a brief thing— as brief as the night— but it’s enough to warm Geralt all the way through. It’s enough to keep him in place as Jaskier pulls back, his lips curved in an enchanting smile.
Jaskier talks, chattering about the chill of the night, of the stars, of how clear the sky is— of how the moon hangs like an icicle from the roof of the world.
Geralt listens as he never did, running his hands up and down Jaskier’s back. He feels the muscle there, the hidden strength beneath his fancy shirts. He’s seen Jaskier shirtless many times— an inevitability when traveling— and he’s never quite grown used to the size of the man as he’d lie next to Geralt at night, chest broad and arms thick. Jaskier had said, once, that a bard needs to appear a certain way. That his songs do better when he dresses to appear more delicate, when he hides behind radiant colors and an oversized lute case. Not that he dislikes either of those, mind you— in fact, Jaskier had said, his lute case means more to him than—
And Geralt pauses, his hands slowing to a stop. Because Jaskier’s still talking, still waxing poetic, still pressed close to Geralt’s chest— but, suddenly, it’s as though Geralt’s opened his eyes to see Jaskier’s missing a limb.
“Jaskier,” he says, letting out a breath to hide how tense he’s become. “Where’s your lute?”
Geralt didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to hear the answer. He wanted to continue this evening, to listen to Jaskier speak so calmly and gently.
But Jaskier tilts his head to the side, something sharp and new suddenly in his eyes.
“My lute?” He asks. “You suddenly decide to care about my lute?”
“Yes,” Geralt says. He doesn’t add that it’s because Jaskier cares about it.
And Jaskier— this Jaskier— rolls his eyes, tosses his head back. “I came as a guest to this party, Geralt. I didn’t need to bring it. Rest assured, it’s safely tucked away in some inn. We could go fetch it now if you’d like, but—”
But that wasn’t the rumor Geralt had heard.
Geralt sighs, his burning breath falling onto Jaskier’s cold skin, scalding him with his unspoken thoughts.
The rumors had promised a new song from a famous bard, a performance from the Continent’s favored poet. Even as Geralt had sat out here, waiting, he’d heard the whispers of those passing by on their way to the doors.
“I bet it’s about that mutant of his ,” one guest had whispered. “That, or more lyrics on his broken heart.”
Rumors about Jaskier’s songs, his playing. And, even if he didn’t know the rumors, Geralt has always known Jaskier.
Running his hands down Jaskier’s back, the silk of his doublet catching on Geralt’s callouses.
It’s at his hip that he feels the shape of steel, the familiar bend of a dagger’s hilt.
“Would you deny me the need for some protection?” Jaskier asks, Geralt frozen against him.
Something between harm and anger rises in Geralt’s chest— both selfish emotions, both caught within his ribs because he’d been too blind to see the truth.
He tightens his hold on Jaskier. “Who do you need protection from?”
And Jaskier— this thing that calls itself Jaskier— grins with a smile sharper than any knife.
“From the hunter hired to kill me.”
The thing jabs an elbow out, breaking free from Geralt’s hold. It’s quick, agile, footwork sure as it dances back from Geralt’s reach.
But Geralt’s a witcher and he’s quicker, his silver blade already pulled free and aimed for the thing’s throat.
The flat of his sword against its jaw— a ruthless hiss, the scent of burning flesh.
The doppler raises its head as Geralt steadies his blade. Blue eyes shine as bright as stolen stones.
“Tell me,” it asks, “should I have played more like a broken-hearted fool? Would you have believed me fully then? Tears are so much harder to conjure than pleasant words, though— you must forgive me for taking the easier path.”
The doppler speaks in Jaskier’s voice, still using his playful lilts and dramatic expressions. Perhaps it has no choice, the tone stuck in its throat the way it’s been stuck in Geralt’s mind, but that part matters little to Geralt. Only a lifetime of training keeps him from tightening his grip on the sword, from giving in to the sloppy desire to slash and snarl.
“I’ve seen through your trick,” Geralt says. “There’s no need for that form any longer.”
“Oh-ho-ho, they told me you had a soft spot for the bard.” A jagged smile, sharp as the edge of a gem. When they tilt their head just so, the doppler’s mask looks like a skull. “After his most recent memories of you, I can’t say I believed it.”
Geralt knows better than to flinch— better than to give in to the mockeries and their probing for chinks in his armor. He holds his ground, his expression steady.
“Who sent you?” He asks. And it’s the right thing to ask, isn’t it? Find out who’s hiring monsters to do their dirty work, discover the culprit behind this murder attempt.
If the question also simmers over a private demand to know who knows — who said that Geralt has such a soft spot for a certain bard— then, well. It’s best not for him to acknowledge it.
“Oh, come on, don’t pretend you care about any of those politics or conspiracies.” The doppler raises an eyebrow from behind the mask, that grin stuck on their face like it's been glued there— as easily placed as any disguise. “It doesn’t suit you, Geralt.”
There— Geralt growls, low and soft, at the sound of his name.
A foolish mistake, and one he regrets when that smile parts into a knowing sigh.
“Ah. I could tell you all about the man who sought me out, the plans he described for the horrid people inside that party— and they all are horrid, Geralt, I didn’t make that part up. I could even count out each gold coin he pressed to my palm as he named count after lord after lady the world would be better without.” The creature speaks of murder and assassination as though cradling the words on its tongue, each one drifting into a soft whisper— the kind of voice Jaskier uses when he’s speaking to barmaids and knights, a voice used to stutter breaths and warm cheeks. A voice that drops to the bottom of Geralt’s guts, a weight he shifts uneasily around.
“I only need a name,” he grits out, teeth clenched together.
The doppler sighs again, twisting the breath into something that’s almost a laugh, and walks forward. The tip of Geralt’s sword presses into its chest, a small indent on the flawless clothes. Something Jaskier would choose, something Jaskier would look so lovely in…
The doppler’s hand just brushing the edges of the blade— not touching the silver, merely hovering over it as though to pretend it can’t hurt it.
To pretend it’s human.
“Geralt,” it says, and it says it like a prayer, “I think you need much more than that.”
“Stop it.” Geralt knows he says this too quickly. The doppler freezes, that horrid smirk still on that painfully handsome face.
“Oh, I will,” it breathes. Its head tips forward, voice lowering further still. “But only if you ask nicely.”
The sound Geralt makes is too low to be a growl, too dangerous to be just a threat. He pushes the blade up and forward, resting it against the delicate hollow of the doppler’s throat.
The doppler hisses, pulling back. The simmer of burnt flesh is barely enough to keep Geralt from following after the wounded sound coming from Jaskier’s lips— the doppler’s lips.
It recovers quickly, blinking away anger and replacing it with hurt. “Geralt?”
And what is Geralt meant to do when he hears that small voice, the confusion and the concern? It’s fake, it’s a lie, it’s a trick, but—
“It’s okay,” the doppler says. It steps forward again— when had Geralt lowered his blade? “I know you don’t mean to hurt me. It’s just something that happens between us, isn’t it?”
“You’re not Jaskier,” Geralt says— the only thing he can bring himself to say. Once again, said too quickly; once again, said only as a reminder to himself.
“I could be, though.” Eyelashes fluttering beneath that mask, dark as shadows and thick as night. “Tell me, what would you do? If I was him? Certainly not stab me through with that sword of yours, gods, no.”
“No.” Geralt doesn’t know why he answers. Perhaps it’s the proximity, the doppler moving closer as though simply appearing before Geralt. Perhaps it’s the tender tone, the calm way in which it speaks. No danger. No monster. Only Jaskier. “I—”
Apologize. Beg forgiveness. Ask for him to come back. Things he’s already imagined a thousand times. Things he knows can never be.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, at last. “You’re not him.”
“No, I’m not.” Fucking gods, when did the doppler grow so close? A hand against Geralt’s chest, warm breath against his neck as it curls towards him. “So I’m not your bard and you’re not his witcher anymore. Why should we let that stop us? It’s a night for masks, darling, and I think it’d be a shame to let such a theme go to waste.”
“I don’t have a mask,” Geralt says.
The doppler’s smile is the curve of a claw, the edge of a fang.
“You always have a mask, Geralt.” A cool finger drags along the edge of Geralt’s jaw, tracing stars and galaxies and hopes. The doppler laughs, a warm rumble against Geralt’s chest as they’re pressed together, nearly melded into one. Chestnut strands of hair tickle Geralt’s skin; the ice-cold of the doppler’s diamond mask shocks him. “I do wonder what would happen if you were to, one day, take it off. ‘I need no one and the last thing I need is someone needing me’ — do you still believe it?”
Something within Geralt cracks. He bends towards the doppler— towards Jaskier’s shape and form, his scent and sound.
“You should know best that I never did.”
The doppler hums softly, contently, as Geralt breathes in the fruit sweet scent that is Jaskier, the wave of spring and sun that runs through his veins.
“So here we are,” the doppler whispers, an achingly beautiful brush of breath against Geralt’s collarbone as it turns its head. “What do we do next?”
Visions of stars pass over Geralt’s eyes. Stripping pale cloth from Jaskier’s body, peeling silk from him not because he’s scared of tearing the expensive fabric but, rather, because Jaskier’s a gift and Geralt wishes to savor it. He imagines exposing the muscle beneath, the familiar heat of his skin; he can hear Jaskier laugh as Geralt runs his hands through the coarse hair on his chest, tickling him even as he marvels at the sight. He sees a tinted moon watching over them, lying side by side with their hands never leaving each other. Lute calluses on old scars, and the press of his teeth into Jaskier’s skin.
The melody of jangling jewels. A mask falling away, shattering onto something as simple as grass.
Blue eyes blink up at him— here and real and his to adore, to worship.
Blue eyes— but not half as bright as they should be, not half as vibrant.
And not his to do anything with other than miss.
“Fuck.” His voice is ragged, as torn as a sheet of paper from a songbook. “I miss him.”
Pretty pink lips smiling— inviting him in, welcoming him forward, leaning for his—
“I miss him,” Geralt repeats, stepping away, forcing distance between them. “But that doesn’t mean I want you.”
“Oh, Geralt, you’re so—”
The doppler cuts off, breath hissing from its lips as it looks down at the silver blade cutting through its chest.
There’s a moment— a terrible second— where reality is nothing more than Jaskier’s hands against a gushing wound, Jaskier’s choking breaths invading the air. Blood that smells of joy taints into rust and pain, Geralt’s muscles tightening even as he forces the blade— forces himself— to finish the job. The doppler gags, familiar lips contorting into pain Geralt swore he’d never watch Jaskier feel.
When he finally pulls the sword free, the doppler falls to its knees. Geralt stares at it, his fists clenched so he can dig his nails into his palms.
“So this is the gratitude I receive for offering an escape from your pains,” it says through harsh breaths, terrible sounds of agony. “Is everyone this lucky, or is it just this form that evokes a certain kind of hatred?”
Geralt crouches slowly before it.
“You’re not him.” He speaks surely, watching as the doppler’s terrible eyes narrow with each word. In the shadows and fear it wraps itself in, it finally looks like something other than Jaskier. “And, so, you are not welcome to my guilt or my affections.”
“Affections?” The doppler’s voice has grown weak, but there’s a strained smile on its lips. It laughs, and it sounds as though it may be the last breath it takes. “Perhaps, one day, he’ll be lucky enough to finally be welcome to it, too.”
“Perhaps, but you will not be around to see it,” he says. Then, with a tightened grip around his sword, “You should not have tried to use him against me.”
The doppler, though, is gone before the final threat is fully said.
Geralt remains where he is, watching starlight dance over brown hair and soft skin, watching the bloom of crimson across delicate silks. He watches color fade from cornflower blue eyes. In pieces, it’s horrible; when he looks at the full face— the mask and frozen grin— he sees nothing but a doppler’s lying face.
Slowly, the sounds of the party return to him. Laughter and gossip and wine spilling out of glass goblets. He wipes his sword off against his armor as nobles dance and sing.
He sees blood drip from his weapon and clothing as the strumming of a lute, somewhere behind him, begins.
Ah, he thinks. So the rumors were true.
Even after a year, even after cruel words and terrible loneliness, Geralt still finds him like he’s his to find.
Some noblewoman announces the new entertainment for the evening, and Jaskier spins into the center of the room, clad in a deep blue tunic— so dark it’s nearly black. Like the doppler, golden trimmings stitch abstract shapes across his chest and arms— constellations Geralt can see but not understand.
Jaskier’s lips curve into a triumphant smile, his lute held in his hands, and his eyes sparkle from beneath a simple black and blue mask. Gods, how his eyes glow beside the cerulean shade, how his face sharpens against the lace tying it around his head. The corner of the mask lifts with a collection of dark feathers— more blue, more black. Half of them stick up, upsetting a portion of his hair. The other half are distorted, turned, shaped into a flower that rests beside his right eye.
He parts his lips— slick with wine that Geralt longs to taste— and laughs, long and loud and joyous.
“See?” Geralt says to the doppler at his feet, the diamonds still shimmering on his face. “How could you ever compare to that? And how could I ever hope to intrude on such happiness? No. No matter what you say, no matter what you saw in his head, I know the kindest thing is to leave him alone.”
And, so, Geralt turns. The sky spins blue-black shades against a pearl grey moon, the weak autumn wind crumbling over him with the soothing sounds of Jaskier’s songs against his back. He stands for a while, wrapping himself in the music, soaking in Jaskier’s voice.
Then, with a doppler’s blood on his hands and Jaskier’s heart in the air, he walks away into the night.