Chapter Text
Eight years into their partnership, Geralt was commissioned to rid a village of a nasty foglet that had taken up residency in a swamp at the centre of the neighbouring forest. The blacksmith, Filip, lived closest to the forest edge and had three young daughters who he feared for. He had collected money from the villagers in order to afford the Witcher’s services and had insisted on showing Geralt the way. He’d said the forest had many low-lying bogs and marshes, especially during this time of year.
Jaskier had been eager to join the Witcher, despite knowing that his outfit would return ruined, yet he’d been relegated to the role of babysitter.
“Come on, Geralt!” He whined, watching the Witcher swing his swords onto his back and collect the moondust he needed.
“No.” Came the simple response. Jaskier huffed.
“Honestly, why can’t Filip hire someone from the village for a night or leave the kids on their own? It’s not like they’re infants, and there’s three of them for goodness’ sake.”
“All of them have yet to reach the age of ten,” Geralt said in that rumbling voice of his as he walked up to the bard, gear on and a vaguely scolding look on his face, “and why hire someone to babysit when we’ve got a lovely and willing nanny here for free?”
Jaskier’s jaw dropped dramatically and he sputtered, trying to get past the offence and form a coherent sentence in response to Geralt’s shit-eating grin.
“You - I - listen here, Witcher - while I am lovely, there is no - how -“
The Witcher simply patted Jaskier on the head a bit harder than necessary, and stepped out of the room Filip had given them to get prepared.
“Ready?” The blacksmith asked. He stood in the doorway dressed in a thick, wool coat, hood over his head and straw-blonde hair peeking out from under his coif. He held a glass lantern in one hand and a sturdy, steel sword in another.
“You won’t need that.” Geralt grumbled, walking towards the man. Filip took what Jaskier knew to be an involuntary step back. The bard still winced. There was still a ways to go in Geralt’s image rehabilitation he was learning.
“I could help.” Filip countered weakly. Jaskier admired the man’s bravery, most tended to let the Witcher do what needed to be done with no care for his return or survival. Jaskier also didn’t doubt that Filip could have been of help. The man stood tall, with rounded shoulders from years of smithing, the thick coat only making him look bigger. He could definitely have been of help if-
“Silver swords kill beasts, your steel won’t do much harm.” Geralt said, walking past and heading to the door. “Better to just stay out of the way.”
Filip paused for a moment.
“Yes, well, I think I’d like to take it. For my own peace of mind.”
Geralt studied the man over his shoulder before seemingly accepting that there was not much else to say on the subject and the two left. Jaskier tapped his foot uncertainly before running to the door and swinging it open.
“Oi! Witcher! I am very much not willing and this is very much not for free! I am expecting compensation!” He yelled out to the shrinking figures.
“Fuck off, Jaskier.” Jaskier could just make out Geralt’s gruff but amused reply through the whipping of the wind. He smiled and returned inside, only to be faced with three pairs of large brown eyes. Startled a little, he smiled tentatively. Unlike their father, all three girls had reddish-brown hair and gentle features.
“You must be Filip’s daughters.” He said in way of greeting. He received an eerily unison blink. “Right uh…you should be in bed.”
“Where’s daddy gone?” The tallest one to the left asked.
“He…he went to go show his friend something.” Jaskier responded, trying not to worry the children.
“That man is a Witcher.”
Jaskier paused, not really knowing what to say and eventually settling on a slow “yes, he is.”
“Daddy’s not friends with Witchers.”
“Well, he is now.”
“But Witchers can’t have friends.”
“Now that’s just not true. Who told you that?” Jaskier asked, a bit peeved. They just blinked again and didn’t respond. “Ok, well, that’s not true because I’m friends with a Witcher.” He huffed, whether or not the friendship was mutual was still a bit in question for him.
The girls stared at him silently and Jaskier was honestly at a loss. He hadn’t had much experience with children, apart from singing the occasional fairy tale or nursery rhyme.
“Would you like me to play you a song?” He asked, fingers twitching to hold his lute.
“No.” They all said monotonously. Alright, really, were all children this difficult? And this…synchronised?
“You really should be going to bed then.”
“Can you paint?” The smallest one asked suddenly. Jaskier frowned at the question, a bit confused.
Thats how Geralt and Filip found him three hours later. Paints and unfinished artworks scattered around the floor and at the centre of it all, a very colourful bard. He sat on the floor, legs spread out as three auburn-haired little girls stood around him, paintbrushes in hand.
Filip laughed loudly. “I just bought them all paints and parchment two days ago.” He commented, taking his coat off.
“You don’t say.” Jaskier responded sarcastically as one of the girls poked at his temple with a green brush. He had rolled up his sleeves and trousers to give them some more space to work and also to avoid as much paint on his clothes as he could. It hadn’t worked very well as evidenced by the many drips and smears on his purple doublet. His face, arms and legs were covered in mostly yellow smudges, with a couple of green and pink accents here and there.
The girls hadn’t reacted much to their father’s return, nor to the intimidating presence of the Witcher. Speaking of, Geralt was currently leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking very entertained. Jaskier tried to communicate with his eyes that he was in dire need of aid, yet the cruel man did nothing but observe the multicoloured bard and the three little girls dancing around him.
“Ok, girls,” Filip said, coming over and kneeling beside them, gently removing a paintbrush from the youngest’s hand, “time to say goodbye and go to bed, hm?”
“Do you like our painting, daddy?” She asked, blinking those big brown eyes at him. They all looked very pleased with their work. Filip’s eyes looked over to Jaskier, giving him a once-over and smiling apologetically.
“Yes, love, it’s gorgeous as always. Now bed?” He tried again, reaching out to the others. Jaskier didn’t know how happy he was at being called an “it” but decided to hold his tongue for now. The brushes were all handed over. They themselves were smeared with paint as well, nowhere near as much as the bard though. He was more canvas than a bard at this point.
Filip told Geralt and Jaskier that he’d wash the girls - and their sheets - tomorrow and that they could have the bath for tonight, both men in desperate need of a wash.
Geralt, in a rare show of mercy, allowed Jaskier to go first. He sat by the wall, listening to the bard complain about how difficult the paint was to scrub off. He couldn’t help but let out an amused huff occasionally, earning a sour look from the bard.
“Oh, how you revel in my misery.” He muttered. Geralt rolled his eyes.
“Now we know that you’re not cut out to be a nanny after all.” Geralt teased.
“All things considered, I think I did an alright job.”
“Jaskier, you’re yellow.”
Being glared at by a wet bard sitting in yellow water was not the most intimidated the Witcher had ever been.
Not long after, Jaskier stepped out of the wooden bath and Geralt stepped in.
The Witcher melted into the tub as Jaskier’s nimble fingers threaded through his hair. Albeit, a bit rougher than usual. He had started using his own soaps and oils on Geralt, leaving his hair soft and shiny. He could tell Geralt liked it, despite his complaints that it left him smelling like rose water and cloves. It was a pleasant scent though.
“Why’d they paint you yellow?” Geralt asked placidly, eyes closed. Jaskier laughed softly.
“I told them what my name meant. I was meant to look like a field of buttercups, I presume.” He replied fondly. Geralt hummed. They bathed in silence for a while until Jaskier said softly; “the second eldest one is called Julia. She told me the name means strength.”
Geralt said nothing, sensing the bard’s mood had changed.
“I had a sister once.” Jaskier continued. Though surprised, Geralt made no comment. “Her name was Julia.” Silence fell again as Jaskier gently pushed Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher moved at the pressure, allowing the bard to tilt his head back and rinse his hair off.
“Julka przed samotnością nie odczuwa lęku, bo to dziewczyna pełna wdzięku.” Jaskier said, more to himself than to the Witcher.
“What does it mean?”
“In the face of loneliness, Julka is not afraid,” Jaskier whispered, recalling the old saying, “because she is a girl full of grace.”
Geralt clenched his eyes tighter, not knowing what to say in the face of Jaskier’s gentle grief.
Geralt had stared down that same face of loneliness. Could he say that he’d confronted it fearlessly?
Jaskier ran his fingers through the Witcher’s hair one last time and gave it a hard tug.
“That’s for calling me a nanny again.” He remarked weakly. Geralt opened his eyes, watching Jaskier walk away and change into his night clothes.
The face of loneliness seemed to blur.
Filip allowed them to stay the night and they left early the next day. Geralt was prepping Roach when Filip’s three young girls ran up to him, the one in the middle holding a bag of coin. The blacksmith was crouched in the doorway, watching them with a small smile.
“This is for you.” The one in the centre said very seriously, handing over the payment with an air of importance. Not an ounce of fear showed on any of their faces. Geralt felt vague concern over their survival instincts.
“Er…thank you.” Geralt said awkwardly, taking the money. He was about to stuff it into Roach’s saddle before he thought better of it and placed it gently into his breast pocket, patting it to reassure the girl that he’d keep it safe. She smiled brightly at him and the three of them blinked at the same time. Geralt could only blink in return, not knowing where to go from there.
“Goodbye, Jaskier’s friend!” They announced and scurried off. Jaskier was just coming out of the house as they ran past, giggling. He jumped out of the way with a yelp, eyes following them bemusedly. Looking back to Geralt, he raised a brow. The Witcher simply shrugged. Jaskier laughed.
No, loneliness did not feel as present anymore.
—
Eleven years into their familiarity, Jaskier asked a question.
“I wonder what it feels like to die.”
Geralt had sensed his miserable mood all day. He’d been quiet and he hadn’t touched his lute or hummed a melody and strangest of all, he’d done what Geralt had told him. He’d stayed at the camp when Geralt had taken a contract to get rid of a wild boar and he’d collected firewood with no complaints when told.
Geralt sensed Jaskier’s unhappiness, he knew something was wrong, yet he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help. The very fact that he wanted to help, instead of revelling in the silence, came as a surprise. Jaskier’s statement was even more of a surprise. The casual way he said it jarred with the reality that this was the first thing Jaskier had said in hours.
They stared at each other from across the fire between them. Jaskier’s cornflower eyes lustreless and not expectant of an answer.
“I know what it feels like.” Geralt responded, own voice gruff from disuse. He could tell that he’d startled the bard. Jaskier’s blue eyes suddenly cleared and glinted with concern.
“How…how do you know what it feels like to die?” Jaskier asked and Geralt was surprised by the emotion behind his words.
“There are many ways to die, bard.”
Jaskier frowned.
“How do you know what it feels like to die, Geralt?” Jaskier pressed.
“I do not know what death feels like, but I am familiar with the journey.”
Geralt didn’t know whether he was skirting around the question on purpose. The initial response to Jaskier’s statement of a question had come unbidden and honest. Now he could feel heat under his skin and an urge to sneer and turn tail. He couldn’t do that though, not now, not with Jaskier as he’s been all day.
“Geralt, you-“
“Jaskier,” He cut him off, then stopped himself. He took a breath, “I can’t imagine a Witcher who isn’t familiar with the experience.” Jaskier shut his mouth and remained silent, an unspoken offer to continue. Geralt accepted the moment of quiet, taking the opportunity to arrange his thoughts and suppress the grief that had suddenly swelled in him.
“When boys were recruited to become Witchers, they underwent mutations that most did not survive.” Jaskier nodded, this Geralt had told him before, “They put elixirs, poisons and mutagens into our tea for days beforehand and when we were immobilised, they injected them directly into our veins. Most who did not die immediately, died by the third day. Those who did not die by the third day, went mad from the pain -“
Geralt stopped, hesitating, eyes drifting to the writhing flames between them.
He remembered their glassy eyes, unseeing. Nothing existed but their agony. They’d scream themselves hoarse, shredding vocal chords and vomiting out blood. He knew that he must’ve been the same but he could not remember anything he did while undergoing the mutations. Nothing existed, nothing mattered, but the torment.
Geralt looked back at Jaskier, who’s gaze remained strong and level, though sad.
“After we went mad with pain, they injected us again. We were all restrained, of course, otherwise we would have torn our skin off to find some relief. This round of mutagens induced seizures, hallucinations, and in our weakened state, our body had to fight the viruses. On the seventh day, three out of ten boys woke with cat eyes, the rest were dead.”
Geralt closed his eyes for a moment.
“I did not…I woke up with human eyes. The mutagens hadn’t worked on me to the extent they had worked on the others. I was uniquely resistant.” The words sounded bitter. “They gave me a couple of extra rounds and that’s why you won’t ever find another white wolf, bard.”
Jaskier remained silent. Geralt saw tears had slipped down his face, the reflection of the fire turning them gold. Geralt couldn’t stand the thought of tears being spilled for him but he stayed quiet, he found he had no more words to give.
“That’s not dying.” Jaskier finally said, voice unwavering through the tears. “That’s not dying. That’s torture. That’s something that no one should go through, let alone a child. You don’t know what it’s like to die, Geralt, and you won’t know for a long time to come.”
Geralt didn’t know who he was trying to convince.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Jaskier,” The Witcher tried to make his tone gentle, “Witchers don’t retire. I know what it’s like to bleed out. That is likely my fate.” Jaskier flinched and looked down at his hands, clenched around each other, knuckles white. Golden tears slipped between his fingers.
“What does it feel like to bleed out?” He whispered so quietly that Geralt wouldn’t have heard him had he not been what he was. He frowned, but complied.
“You’re thirsty and your tongue feels swollen. Your vision becomes distorted and blurry. You feel a numbness as your head pounds with pressure. You can’t stand for long, so you’re left bleeding out on the ground, trembling and sweating, feeling like you’re going to vomit.” Jaskier’s shoulders were trembling. Geralt couldn’t stop. “You feel like you just want to rest your head forever.”
Finally, Jaskier broke, a sob breaking out past his lips, only for more to follow. It felt like the whole day had been building to this breaking point and Geralt itched to hold him. Let Jaskier release all that had been welling inside him. Geralt stayed, staring at him through the fire, sure that his own grief was showing.
“Geralt?” Came Jaskier’s small voice, head finally rising to look at Geralt. His eyes were red and tears fell freely.
“Yes?”
“Has this happened since we’ve met?”
A pause.
“Once.”
“You didn’t tell me.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, yet it sounded hurt.
Geralt suddenly felt guilty. He hadn’t thought it information that Jaskier needed, or wanted, to know. He’d clearly been healed and the next time they had run into each other had been months after the incident. Geralt himself hadn’t thought much of it. Yet now he felt guilty, it felt as if he had withheld something from the bard. He didn’t know why the thought of him keeping secrets from the man sparked a pain in his chest. He couldn’t stand to look at the hurt in those blue eyes so he looked away.
“I understand why you didn’t, Geralt, I don’t blame you…just - just please -“ the bard’s voice broke. He took a moment to breath in, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not. I can’t - I can’t be a part of your life and not know. I -“
“Okay, I will.” Amber eyes locked with blue, reflecting the same flame. They gazed at each other for a time. Then, the bard rose on unsteady feet, rounding the fire and sitting beside the Witcher.
“I meant what I said. You won’t know death for a long time, dear friend. You will live for a good while yet.” He stated with no room for argument. Geralt couldn’t help but smile.
“Does destiny will it?”
“No,” said his friend, “I do.”
And so they sat for the rest of the evening. Golden eyes and golden tears.
—
Fourteen years into their friendship, there was a meadow.
It was spring and the meadow was blanketed by buttercups and dandelions and daisies and wild lupine. It was a messy quilt of colours that beckoned the bard forwards. The Witcher had taken notice of Jaskier’s love for spring, he’d taken note of a lot of things. He watched Jaskier run into the field, voice bubbling with laughter.
“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.” He was grinning at Geralt in his faded blue doublet. Geralt ached at that smile. He reluctantly agreed. How could he not?
That’s how they’d spent an all too rare afternoon lying on a sunny patch of grass. Geralt listening to the bard talk and hum, feeling the gentle heat from the sun-warmed ground seep in through his clothes, and when he opened his eyes he watched. He watched birds flit between trees and leaves shuffle in the breeze. He watched the bard blow a dandelion, blue eyes following the fluff as it glided through the air. Then those blue eyes turned to him and Jaskier smiled.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to learn, dear friend?” Suspecting another long Jaskier ramble, Geralt closed his eyes and hummed noncommittally. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to braid a flower garland.”
“Hmm, you don’t already know?” What with Jaskier’s love for spring, Geralt would have assumed that something as simple as making a flower crown would have easily found its way into the bard’s skill set.
“I suppose I’ve never had the opportunity.”
“Hm.” Geralt responded, mulling it over. They lapsed into a calm silence, well as much of a silence as one can get with a humming bard collecting flowers.
It was noon and the sun was overhead, its brightness filtering through his eyelids.
The humming stopped and he heard an excited “Geralt?”
“What, Jaskier?” He sighed.
“Teach me how to make a wreath.”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, you grumpy Witcher.”
“No.”
“But just look at these beautiful blossoms, it’d be such a shame not to put them to use.”
“Flowers have no use to anyone other than bees. Unless you’ve found some verbena or white myrtle.”
“How cynical of you, I can hardly believe it.” Geralt snorted at that. “Flowers have many uses, some of which I will detail to you now.”
“Please don’t-”
“Flowers are used for beautiful arrangements, placed at the centre of dinner tables or on mantelpieces, for magnificent perfumes that attract even the most stoic, and they create the most darling garlands, of which I am dying to learn the craft and am imploring my dear friend to teach me.”
Geralt groaned and opened his eyes to glare at the bard who was grinning cheekily at him.
“You are a pain in my ass, bard.” He acquiesced, knowing that Jaskier would take it as the acceptance that it is.
Sitting upright, he saw that Jaskier had already collected a bundle of wildflowers. Cornflowers and daisies and a myriad of others lay between them as they sat crosslegged, facing each other. Geralt’s hand immediately drifted to the cornflower nearest to him.
“It’s easier when you have a circle of string to wrap the stems around,” Geralt began, glancing back up at the sun-lit blue eyes looking right back at him, “but we’ve no string to spare. So once you’ve picked your starting flower, you pick another and wrap the stem a way’s down the stem of your first. Then you pick a third and wrap it around the stems of the first two.”
“A bit like braiding.”
“More like weaving,” Geralt explained, already a couple of flowers down his chain, “and then you keep adding more.”
Quiet settled between them once more. Geralt looked up every so often to check the bard’s progress, watching his nimble fingers weave his crown of flowers, rarely faulting. His eyes would wander up to Jaskier’s face, the bard’s brows frowning in concentration. The Witcher allowed himself a small smile. Jaskier had once told Geralt to alert him whenever he’d do this, hating the thought of wrinkles between his brows. Geralt of course never did. After all, it wasn’t his job to look out for the bard’s skin when it wasn’t being threatened by beasts or cuckolded spouses.
Geralt finished his garland first, realising that it consisted mostly of blue cornflowers and yellow dandelions and buttercups, broken up occasionally by reds.
“Complementary colours.”
“Hm?” Geralt asked, looking up at the bard.
“Yellow and blue. They complement each other. Honestly, Geralt, it’s simple colour theory.”
Geralt levelled him an unamused look, sending him back to work. Not long after, he watched the finishings of Jaskier’s own crown. An eager gaze slid up to Geralt’s face, eyebrows raised suggestively.
“No.” Came Geralt’s instant response.
“Please Geralt.” Jaskier whined. “No one’s here, your reputation is safe.” Geralt grunted, scowling at the bard whose big, blue eyes were pleading with him. With a sigh he reluctantly agreed. How could he not?
Jaskier’s own wreath was more varied than Geralt’s, with white daisies and purple aster and multicoloured poppies. Geralt let Jaskier shuffle closer, raising himself up on his knees so he could crown his Witcher in blossoms. Geralt watched his delighted face as he arranged the flowers just right, fingers grazing and pushing back the Witcher’s white hair. Geralt resisted the urge to lean into the touch. The gentle hands fell to his shoulders, warm gaze falling to look into yellow eyes.
“I’d write a song about this, a Witcher in a flower crown, if I didn’t think it’d be very unpopular.”
Geralt growled, glaring up at him.
“Ah, yes, and also because you’d gut me on the spot.” Jaskier added on. “I must say though, you look very dashing.”
Geralt didn’t say anything to that. He continued to stare up at the bard, glad that the man was happy, and content to be in his presence in a rare moment of peace.
“Now, my dear, I must wear yours.” Jaskier said. Geralt blinked then looked down at the wreath in his hands. Jaskier sat back, awaiting his floral coronation. Geralt smiled softly as he placed the crown on Jaskier’s head. It was a bit big for the bard’s head and pushed his fringe further into his eyes as it slipped down his head slightly. Snorting, Geralt pushed the brown hair from Jaskier’s face, fingers brushing his cheek as he pulled back. He found himself longing to touch him again but pulled away at the look of wonder in the bard’s eyes.
Jaskier went on to make another garland for Roach, making a show of crowning her “Lady of the Meadowland”. It was all very ridiculous so Geralt closed his eyes again and lay back onto the sun-warmed grass. He heard Jaskier amble over, felt his presence as he lay beside him with a deep sigh.
Geralt cracked an eye open to look at him. His eyes were closed. The sun turned his brown hair bronze, blue and yellow petals resting there crookedly. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier belonged here.
He belonged among the sun and the wildflowers.
—
Sixteen years into whatever the fuck they were and Geralt had been hired to kill a Griffin.
Fucking griffins and their fucking talons.
Geralt felt the ground pull at him magnetically.
He’d lost a lot of blood.
He stumbled to the ground.
He would have been content to press his feverish face into the cool, damp grass and simply lay there, if it hadn’t been for a single thought in his head.
Jaskier.
“Please tell me, whether I’m around to help or not.”
Fuck.
He pushed himself up shakily, a stab of pain pierced through the pressure in his head. He tried blinking past the faded edges of his vision and the spots floating between the trees like black will o’ the wisps.
He stumbled forward, hands pressed to his stomach. They didn’t do much to stop the heavy flow of blood gushing out of him. His fingers were numb but the rest of him was warm, so warm. He had to make it back, he couldn’t die without seeing Jaskier one more time. He couldn’t die here alone.
The face of loneliness came into focus amidst the blurry forest.
Somehow he made it back to the camp. Jaskier’s back was to him. He was stroking Roach’s snout, singing to her softly. It was a lullaby Jaskier sang whenever either of them couldn’t sleep. Geralt smiled in relief, the pressure in is head lifting slightly at the familiar sound.
“Jaskier.” The bards name fell out of him like a breath. Finally, he let the ground pull him down.
He woke up again in rather large bed, head cushioned on a feather pillow. Looking around he saw a glass of water on the desk in the corner, a painting of a long-bearded, angry-looking man on the wall across from him and a silk sheet covering him up to his bare chest. He frowned. This was not the typical establishment he was accustomed to.
Shifting slightly, he felt a weight on his arm. Confused, he looked to the right to find a mess of brown hair resting on his bicep. Geralt blinked, eyes widening. Jaskier was clearly asleep, curled around his side, head on his arm and hand resting in Geralt’s loose fingers. The Witcher suddenly felt warm and couldn’t help but tighten his hand around the bard’s.
While closing his hand, he involuntarily closed his other one, feeling something hard and cool under his fingers. Lifting it to his face, he saw that it was actually a stone, vaguely triangular in shape, with a wonky hole in the middle. What was strangest however, were the smudgy yellow flowers that had been painted around the hole. He assumed they were flowers as he could just make out some petals and wobbly, green stems.
Putting the mystery aside for a moment, he placed the stone down on the bed beside him. Removing his covers gently so as not to wake Jaskier, Geralt felt along his bandaged belly. The pain wasn’t too bad, more of an ache than anything and that could’ve simply been from the blood loss.
He wondered where they were. Their camp hadn’t been too far from a town, but that meant that Jaskier had somehow lifted him onto Roach and galloped through the forest and into town in search of a healer. Geralt knew that the bard was strong, muscle lined his arms and legs, tightened his stomach when he stepped into cold water. Almost two decades of joining Geralt on the path had given him a rather large build. Nevertheless, a limp Witcher was no easy feat to lift, especially onto a horse.
He felt Jaskier stir beside him. His head was still towards him but he could tell he’d opened his eyes because he promptly covered the Witcher back up with the silk cover he’d peeled off earlier. Geralt shifted and suddenly big, blue eyes were looking up at him. From this angle, he could see that the bard’s feet had been hanging off the edge of the bed from his position on Geralt’s arm.
“Geralt!” He exclaimed, smiling brightly. “You’re awake.” Geralt gave a soft grunt in response. “How are you feeling?” Jaskier asked, sitting up. He realised he was still holding onto Jaskier’s hand, so he let it go reluctantly, allowing the bard to pull it out of his grip.
“Like I lost most of my blood.”
“Ha ha.” Jaskier said humourlessly. Geralt sighed and looked up at the ceiling.
“Are you upset with me?” He asked finally. He knew Jaskier was upset but he didn’t know what kind of upset it was. Angry? Sad? Annoyed?
“I was,” Jaskier began. Geralt’s jaw tightened and Jaskier grasped his hand comfortingly. “But then I realised that I had no reason to be upset with you, I think my feelings of fear and concern got a bit muddled. Geralt, I was fucking terrified.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault, it was just…a lot.” Geralt winced and looked back to the bard. He was looking at their joined hands, blue eyes hazy and far away. Geralt didn’t know what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He gave Jaskier’s hand a tight squeeze, bringing him back. Jaskier smiled at him sheepishly.
“Were you surprised to wake up?” The bard asked. Geralt thought for a moment.
“No.”
“No?”
Geralt raised a brow, not entirely knowing what Jaskier wanted him to say. No, he wasn’t surprised. His only thought had been Jaskier. That he wanted to see him again. He wasn’t thinking much of being healed or waking later. Yet now that he thought about it, there wasn’t much doubt in him that Jaskier would help him in whatever way he could.
A thought came into Geralt’s mind.
“What’s this?” He asked, raising the painted stone. A blush tinged Jaskier’s cheeks pink.
“Ah…it’s a - it’s a hagstone.”
Geralt rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I see that, why was it in my hand and why is it covered in flowers?”
“Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.” Jaskier said pettishly, reaching for it. Geralt pulled it out of his reach.
“No, I want it.” Geralt said, grinning. Jaskier dropped his hand and huffed, looking away.
“Remember when you left me to babysit those three girls a couple of years ago?”
Geralt blinked, vaguely recalling three sets off big brown eyes.
“They painted you yellow.”
“They painted buttercups, just…on me.”
“They painted you yellow.”
“Yes, okay, thank you.” Jaskier sighed, rolling his eyes. “The hagstone dropped out of my pocket and they…painted that too.” He smiled sheepishly.
That was nearly a decade ago. Geralt couldn’t believe he’d held onto it for that long. He pulled it closer so he could examine it genuinely. He could make out the smudgy, yellow petals attached to green stems. They were dotted around the stone, growing in a cluster. The yellow paint had remained fairly unfaded. Geralt rubbed his thumb over the stone.
“You can keep it if you want.” Jaskier said. Geralt turned to find him already looking at him, eyebrow raised and smiling. The look of sincerity on the bard’s face had Geralt looking away.
“Why did you put it in my hand?”
“They’re for protection and healing. Surely you know that.”
Geralt knew what they were for, theoretically. The protective powers of witch stones were a myth though, just humans placing undue importance on an unusual rock. In reality, it was just that. A rock. One that had been eroded by water or animals. Geralt didn’t say anything though.
He didn’t know if he could say anything. Jaskier had carried this stone with him for a decade, maybe more, hoping for protection and now he was giving it to him. A Witcher who, by all appearances, didn’t want nor need luck. The bottom line was that the bard wanted him safe and Geralt had absolutely no way of dealing with that.
“They’re also used to keep witches away,” Jaskier continued, “useful incase we ever cross paths with Yennefer again.”
Geralt snorted.
“She’s a sorceress.” He countered
“And I’m a musician. It doesn’t mean I’m not also a bard.” Jaskier sniffed disdainfully. He pushed himself up the bed so he was leaning against the headboard and sitting next to Geralt. He continued to talk, allowing the Witcher to simply listen and think about how close their hands were between them.
—
Twenty two years since they met.
The wind bit at him, seeking to push him off his feet as he looked down at the snarling Witcher.
“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?”
“That’s not fair.” He couldn’t help protesting weakly.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” Geralt gritted out between clenched teeth, amber eyes burning with emotion, he was practically shaking with it.
Jaskier stood and watched as the Witcher turned and stormed further away from him. Tension and aggression written into the way Geralt’s shoulders tensed, fists tight, arms loose, ready to attack. Jaskier had seen Geralt like this before, more times than he could count, but it had never been directed at him. No matter how many times he irritated the Witcher or inadvertently gotten them into trouble, Geralt never had more for him than a hard glare and some frustrated shouts.
This was different. This felt final. This felt like the end. The inevitable conclusion to his tragic love story because fuck him, he’d fallen in love with a man sworn to someone else.
“Right, uh,” Jaskier managed to get out, suddenly finding it difficult to breath, “right, then,” he tried again, looking away, eyes blinking rapidly, “I’ll - I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He turned and walked away, his attempt at casualness flimsy and transparent.
While Geralt berated destiny, fought against it and ignored it wholeheartedly, Jaskier accepted his fate because he had always known it was coming.
But, damn, did it hurt.
He didn’t get the rest of the story.
He stuffed all of his belongings into a bag, slung his lute over his shoulder, gave Roach one last, teary-eyed hug and ran. Geralt had walked away from him, both physically and metaphorically, and now Jaskier needed as much space between them as possible. He ran down the mountain, tripping on uneven paths and scratching his hands bloody. The burn in his lungs and chest felt poetic.
In the last two decades of his life, he and Geralt had always found their way back to each other after weeks or months apart. Sure, he’d keep an ear out for news of a Witcher but most of the time, Melitele save him, it had been a gods-honest accident. The romantic that he is believed it to be fate, and perhaps it was, but he knew now that it wasn’t the kind sort.
Fate was cruel and maleficent, making him believe that their hearts were intertwined when in reality it had been a ploy to torture them both in the end. Destiny left Jaskier heartbroken and Geralt with a life he didn’t want.
—
Some part of his mind registered Jaskier walking away.
Most of it was focused on containing the pain.
He had felt it slowly bloom in his chest at Yennefer’s weak “that’s why we can’t escape each other?” Anguish and bitterness in her voice. From there it had unfurled and spread throughout his body, the emotion burning him from the inside.
His being was now solely fixated on not letting it spread further.
Again, some part of him registered that it already had, it had spread to the bard, it had lashed out at him.
He felt like a flaming whip pulled taught. He felt in in his shoulders, his fists, his jaw.
He breathed in deeply.
His eyes were wet. He tried focusing them on the green valley below.
He breathed out and sunk to his knees.
He waited for the rushing noise in his head to stop.
His cheeks were wet.
He turned around. Yennefer was gone. Jaskier too.
So were their things when he returned to camp.
He breathed in and wailed.
—
The world was dull to him. The trees were not as green. The shades of blue across cornflower petals didn’t look the same anymore.
The world was quiet to him. Too quiet. Something was missing.
Never did he think the world would be dull and quiet. It had always been the opposite, too much, too loud.
He missed Jaskier desperately.
He hadn’t found him again since the mountain.
He could tell Roach missed him too.
Snippets of songs and melodies that had Jaskier’s mark drifted here and there. They were never him. How strange it was to hear others recount his own tales when he had grown so used to Jaskier being the only one.
For the first six months, he’d kept an ear out for any gossip of the famous bard but he had always seemed to arrive just a few days behind. Two months later and the chatter had dried up. No one had seen the bard, no one sang any new songs of his. He had searched the continent, gone to the coast, gone to Jaskier’s own town and found no sign of him.
It was like he had ceased to exist and so, Geralt’s world was dull and quiet.
The face of loneliness had never been clearer.
After those first eight months, he’d also started sleeping poorly.
Before, he’d been a light sleeper, ready to jump out of his bedroll fully aware and ready to defend. It came with being a Witcher. Although, admittedly, the nights spent in inns, on a relatively soft mattress, with a sleep-warm bard next to him had left him sleeping a bit deeper, waking a bit dazed.
Yet after those eight months, he’d slept restlessly. He’d dream of a weeping willow, drooping sadly. He’d dream of an open field and oddly wake up feeling caged.
When he himself found no sign of the bard, he’d gone to one of the few people he trusted, Triss Merigold. He had given her an old undershirt that Jaskier had forgotten to take with him. He made her try for three days before she had finally said “I really am sorry, Geralt, but truly, I can find no sign of your friend.” Geralt took the soft material back. “I fear he’s -“
“Don’t.” Whatever look he’d had on his face made her snap her mouth shut. Dark eyes looked at him with pity as he had turned, dropped some coin and left.
He’d go to Yennefer next.
“Geralt,” she greeted tensely, “didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon.”
Geralt had found Yennefer a few months after the dragon contract. They’d agreed that though they cared for each other deeply, it was best for them to have space, to move on. Geralt hoped desperately that one day they would become friends. Yennefer, though difficult and battle-hardened, remained fair and kind, one of the only people with whom Geralt shared easy conversation.
There was a longing between them, one that both knew was not falsified by the djinn. Neither knew what sort of longing they felt. One of friendship, companionship, understanding? Time and space would let them learn.
“I know,” He muttered apologetically, “I need your help.”
“You look awful.” She simply responded. Geralt winced. “You haven’t been sleeping.”
The Witcher opted for silence. He knew that she had heard him and knew that she was studying him, pondering his request.
“What do you need?” She asked finally, tone not one of acceptance but of curiosity.
“Jaskier.” The word came out sounding more distressed than he had intended. It was harder to maintain a mask through sleep deprivation. Yennefer’s expression briefly shifted to one of concern.
“What happened?”
Geralt’s throat suddenly felt compressed. Those two words somehow confirming that something had happened. Something had to have happened if he and Triss couldn’t find him.
Fear was a terrifying emotion because he truly didn’t know what he would do to end it.
“I…I don’t know. I can’t find him and neither can Triss.” Geralt pulled out the same shirt he had given to the other sorceress, gripping the folded fabric tightly in his hands. He looked up at Yennefer to find her looking right back with a sort of unease. “Please,” he said, offering the garment to her, “track him if you can.”
She stared at the shirt apprehensively, gaze snapping up to Geralt’s, looking for something. Finally, she sighed and turned to walk over to a large bookshelf, pulling out a thick, yellow-paged tome that had clearly not been removed for a good while.
“You’re lucky night is falling,” she said, stepping outside, not waiting for Geralt to follow. He did. “If regular tracking didn’t work, we’ll have to do it the hard way.” She walked to the middle of her large garden, sitting cross-legged in the grass, wine-coloured dress pooling around her. Geralt approached, ready to be told off and to step back, yet Yennefer said nothing as he sat down across from her.
The sorceress flipped the tome open to the centre, each side resting on a knee. Each side also being a couple inches thick. Tucked into the middle, between the two pages was a thin, silver geometrical compass. Yennefer lifted it with an elegant hand and placed it over one of the many configurations on the page. Geralt’s limited knowledge allowed him to surmise that they were astronomical. He looked up to the sky and the stars that he only knew to use for navigation.
“The shirt.” Yennefer said sharply, snapping his gaze back down to her and her outstretched hand. Shirt in one hand, compass in the other and tome on her lap, she began to speak. It was some variation of Elder. Geralt, only knowing the basics of the root language, was left clueless as the space above the book began to glow.
The light transformed the yellowed pages gold, illuminating Yennefer’s perfect features and making her look all the part of the powerful mage he knew she was. She dropped the shirt on the grass between them. Violet eyes looked up to the stars, compass travelling across the golden pages of the book. She flipped back and forth between the pages, her eyes shooting between stars. The compass twisted in complicated circular motions across configurations.
The light began to die slowly, Yennefer’s words slowing to a stop as she closed her eyes, clearly disappointed. Geralt’s stomach dropped and he felt like he might throw up the paltry dinner he’d had a few hours earlier.
“Yennefer, please -“
“I’m not done yet, Geralt.” She responded sharply before taking a breath, “I need something personal to him, something with an emotional connection. I may not be able to find his physical body,” because he may be dead was left unsaid “but I can perhaps find his spirit.”
Geralt tried to keep the devastation off his face at the implication.
An emotional connection. He knew immediately what to give her. A small pocket in the side of his leather armour held a painted witch stone. He gently pulled it out, rubbing his thumb over the messy petals of the buttercups. Yennefer didn’t comment on the item, though she looked at him with pinched brows. He placed the stone in the sorceress’ outstretched palm.
The golden light returned and Geralt watched as the sorceress studied the stars, measuring out constellations and distances in her book. Geralt had never been one for religion but he prayed, prayed for something.
Again, the light faded and Yennefer looked to him with a frown.
—
He’d been looking for tracks in the large forested area Yennefer had pointed him to. He’d been looking for two days and nothing had been found.
Honestly, he didn’t know what he was looking for. Yennefer had been unable to find his body but had found his spirit? Were they no longer attached? Geralt’s mind had been filtering through the different options of what that could mean, but even Yennefer didn’t know what to say. The thought that he might be dead was an unwelcome one in his mind.
It had recently rained and the ground squelched and shifted under Geralt’s boots. Most of the tracks had been washed away by the rain. Geralt lead Roach through the trees, eyes catching on imprints in the ground and broken shrub twigs. All signs indicating animal presence rather than human.
The forest was familiar to the Witcher, he’d been here before. He didn’t think much of it, he’d been to most places on the continent, the Path taking him wherever he needed to be. Yet when he tried to recall the memory tied to this place, it was not one of necessity or danger. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
Giving up on the meagre prints, he let the memory lead him. His feet found a forgotten path. Boots had flattened the earth so compactly, it was likely to last a long time. But it was littered with leaves and branches, clearly not trod on for a long while. He remembered the path, it had not looked so different the first time he had found it. It had soothed him that though this forest may once have been peopled, it was unlikely that they’d run into trouble.
They. He hadn’t been alone in the memory.
Vague and distant chatter tugged him forward, the line between reality and recollection blurring. He let go of Roach’s reins, trusting her to follow. He surged through the trees, pushing aside branches. Sunlight and grass filtered through the trees.
Spring.
Buttercups, dandelions, daisies, cornflowers.
A laugh ringing in his ears.
“Geralt look at this! It’s exquisite! We have to break here.”
The Witcher burst through the line of trees and froze. A field of green grass. It was familiar, but not just from the memory. A shiver down the back of his neck. Dread tightened his chest. His eyes landed on a weeping willow, its leaves pale. He didn’t remember it being here the last time.
Uneasily, he made his way towards it. It sagged so low that Geralt could not quite make out its bark. The pale leaves almost sparkled in the sun from the wetness of the leaves.
The Witcher crouched lower as he got closer, seeing a body through the drooping leaves. His hand hovered over his sword. He stopped before the wall of pallid green. The person behind had not moved, clearly unaware of his presence. He reached a hand out and pulled the leaves away, one hand still on the pommel of his sword.
His eyes landed on the man sitting on the damp grass, leaning back against the tree.
Geralt felt like the air had been punched out of him, body becoming immediately slack.
Wide shoulders. Soft, brown hair. Blue, inquisitive eyes.
“Fuck-“ the word came out sounding more like a sob than anything else, “Jaskier”.
Geralt took two steps forward and collapsed on his knees.
“Jaskier.” He reached out to touch him, to feel him warm and safe.
He felt nothing. His fingers slipped through.
A shimmer and a blur and the bark of a willow tree.