#and jaskier wondering if this is all coming from guilt and if geralt ever ACTUALLY cared | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jaskiersvalley · 2 years

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I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for you and your writing. In times where I feel bad, both you and your writing are always there to comfort me. I truly thank you for that.

(Sorry for how dark this is about to get. Bit of a TW and TMI, I apologise. You don't have to read this bit if you don't want to or are uncomfortable)

My sheep Speckles passed in my arms this morning, and as you can guess, it's been tears, pain, and guilt. But you and your writing have lessened that pain as to where I feel something other than sorrow. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being you. Thank you for writing.

Nonnie, I am so sorry for your loss. It sounds like Speckles meant a huge deal to you and life without them is tough right now. I can only hope that, with time, you'll be able to remember all the good bits of having Speckles in your life and look back on those memories fondly. If you ever want to share stories of Speckles or need a willing listening ear, my DMs are open.

It humbles me to no end that my writing has given you such comfort. And I can only hope that in continues to do so, offering a moment of reprieve, a distraction when you need it. Here's another little fic to try and help take your mind off things.

To Be Human

Winter and Kaer Morhen meant that the witchers who resided there could be themselves without the pressure of society. As Cahir followed Geralt up the path to the old keep, he couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Maybe there were less palatable traits that witchers held at bay in public. Perhaps they liked their meat raw or liked to scratch behind their ears with their feet rather than hands. Or, more sensibly, they could actually express their emotions, unleash their full strength and have opinions while being treated like equals. Either way, Cahir was just looking forward to a bit of stability in life, a bit of peace.

For the first two days it seemed like Cahir had been right. Though he had spent the majority of the first day crashed out on a straw stuffed sack that could almost be called a mattress. That evening he was collected by Eskel, inviting him to join dinner. It was a curious affair, part chaotic family reunion, part feast. Cahir could only marvel at how much food each witcher was working his way through. He and Jaskier were a little more restrained. Looking at the other four, Cahir had to wonder whether they spent the year half starved. It made his heart clench.

The odd thing was, Cahir was enveloped into the folds of the strange family. He was treated no different to any of the others, given a sword and the opportunity to train, delegated his own set of chores. Eskel seemed especially keen to spend time with him and Cahir couldn't deny that he was both flattered and very much returning the interest.

After a hard day of carrying buckets and sacks for repairs, Cahir fell into bed, not even thinking about dinner. Come morning he woke up late and found he'd missed breakfast but that was okay. There was a wonderfully large pot already bubbling away. By the time evening rolled round and Eskel appeared to invite him down, Cahir was famished. Once again the witchers ate more than Cahir had seen anyone consume in one sitting before. It was impressive but Cahir was no slouch either. He all but gorged himself after having missed a couple of meals. That night he slept like a log and he woke up refreshed in the morning. Ambling down to halls, Cahir was surprised to find it empty. Instead, he followed the sounds of training to the courtyard where the others were already playing around with swords and signs. Perhaps they trained before breakfast. So Cahir joined in with a grin.

Alas, after training they turned to chores. Cahir got to muck out the stables. It wasn't pleasant but he preferred it to hefting rocks around for repairs. Muscle ache wasn't something he'd had in a while but between the heavy manual labour and training, he was harshly reminded that it was very much a thing. The broom in his hands pressed on newly formed blisters. Despite being used to fighting, Cahir had grown accustomed to Nilgaardian swords. The ones witchers used were weighted differently and the grip sat just slightly wrong in his palms. So the callouses on Cahir's palms and fingers were useless, the new swords pressed and chafed the more sensitive parts and brought blisters to the surface. It made mucking out the stables a panful affair but he gritted his teeth. None of the others complained and he'd been taught better than to draw attention to weakness. Life in the army had prepared him for dealing with discomfort and knowing his place. Sometimes Cahir was even grateful for it.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Cahir was done with his chores. His stomach rumbled and his lips were dry. Hopefully they would have an early dinner. In the army food was served when it was ready. Snacks and the like were a rare treat that was bought by individuals when they had the money and access. Whether it was shared with friends was a whole different matter, and Cahir knew better than to ask. Still, when he saw Jaskier happily munching on some dried fruits, Cahir was sorely tempted. But no, he couldn't do that. Dinner would be soon anyway.

Only, dinner wasn't soon. Nobody even mentioned food. They played gwent, chattered and slowly, one by one, retired to bed. Temptation to sneak into the pantry was strong but Cahir resisted. He hadn't been given permission to go in there, the others had no way of obtaining more food other than if they went hunting. It wouldn't have been fair of Cahir to have more than what he was allowed.

Come morning, Cahir's stomach ached. It wasn't the longest he had gone without food, sometimes the army had shit luck and not enough supplies. But that wasn't to say he was fine with it. To silence the rumbling of his stomach, Cahir scooped up some snow when nobody was paying him any attention. It didn't really solve anything but certainly fooled his body into thinking it had something to digest at least.

Thankfully they had dinner that evening. Cahir felt like a starving man and shovelled food into his mouth until he was almost sick. It was a stupid thing to do, he knew it but he couldn't help himself. He didn't mean to be greedy and, when all things were considered, he still didn't come anywhere close to eating as much as any of the witchers.

There was no breakfast the next morning. By the afternoon Cahir was more than hungry again. Alas, there was no dinner. He tried not to be jealous of Jaskier who sat in Geralt's lap, snacking on some nuts.

It was an odd pattern to life. Cahir tried to get used to it but really struggled. He was no witcher, he couldn't keep up with all the activity and lack of sustenance. What made it all the more difficult was that Jaskier seemed to have free access to the pantry. Then again, he was a bard and a success in his own right, probably earned more in a year than Cahir had in his whole career with the army. So Jaskier no doubt contributed to the food stash, brought his own snacks and earned the right to eat as and when he pleased. It wasn't like Cahir had much he could contribute; no money, no resources, he couldn't even earn his keep by teaching fighting as the others regularly beat him. Sadly, Cahir couldn't even claim to have moral integrity or loyalty, those he abandoned when he carried out orders regardless of his opinions and when he defected. Really, all Cahir could do was help out around the keep as needed. So he kept mucking out the stables, mixing up mortar, chopping wood. He had taken to wrapping his hands to try and protect them. Alas, he had blisters within blisters and they were agony.

Hunger became a more consistent companion than the others. Eskel still sought him out but Cahir didn't have the ability to think extensively about what it could mean, whether it was flirting or just how Eskel was. The pangs of hunger and worries about being seen as weak clouded his mind completely.

One evening Cahir was desperate. Snow was falling, it was cold and yet they still trained, nailed wood over cracks in the walls and the animals needed tending to. Trying not to be greedy, Cahir looked around the table as the witchers ate with their usual gusto. Nobody was paying him much attention and he was only human, he was weak. The hunk of bread he snagged from the basket near him was sequestered away. Cahir could have sworn it gained weight and burned his thigh the more he thought about it. But he was so hungry between meals. Guilt gnawed away at him for stealing the bread yet he couldn't bring himself to put it back. He'd just eat less at the next meal, he told himself. And he'd work harder to make up for his greed.

Even though the next morning his stomach didn't hurt quite so bad, the shame and guilt made Cahir feel sick. But there was no denying that having bread before starting the day and just before bed really did help. It meant Cahir actually could dedicate his energy to deciphering that yes, Eskel probably was flirting with him. It was oddly nice even if Cahir didn't know how genuine it was. Still, when Eskel suggested they go hunting together, Cahir jumped at the chance.

In the morning, the last two bites of stale bread still tasted like bliss and Cahir pulled himself together for another day. Eskel had said that their departure would depend on the weather and, given that large snowflakes were whipping past his window, Cahir assumed they wouldn't head out that morning. He was right. It was no small relief as it meant that Cahir could go out the next morning, after a good meal. Alas, he didn't get a chance to snag more bread. Not that he would have dared to, going out hunting with Eskel meant likely zero privacy and the smell of his stolen food would have been too easy to detect.

Heading out with Eskel was rather thrilling. The world around them was white, the snow thick and crisp under their feet. Somehow Cahir hadn't anticipated they would venture quite so far. He had honestly thought they would be back by nightfall. So when they were more than half a day's travel from Kaer Morhen, Cahir was taken by surprise. Eventually though Eskel looked around and nodded.

"We'll set out traps. And make camp a little way over."

The cold made setting traps a little more tricky, Cahir's hands didn't want to co-operate all that well. But he did it and ended up huddled by a small fire Eskel had set up.

"I promise this isn't a sleazy attempt-" Eskel began with a small grin, "-unless you want it to be. But it will be warmer if we share a bedroll."

Part of Cahir had assumed this little hunting trip had been a ploy by Eskel for them to spend time together away from the others. Something that he both appreciated and was excited by.

"As much as I want it to be, I think if we did anything, my dick would be like an icicle. And nobody would enjoy that."

Snickering, Eskel nodded. It was how they ended up huddled under a couple of furs, Eskel incredibly warm against Cahir's back. All in all, it was nice. It was the most contact Cahir had had for a long time and he hadn't realised just how much he'd missed it until that moment.

The sun rose to find Cahir had turned during the night and had wrapped around Eskel, tucked close to his chest and under his chin. It made the awful hunger easier to live with in a way. Whether it was worth it or not wasn't really up for debate, it was what he had and he was going to be content with it.

Gathering their prey from the traps, Eskel grinned.

"I was thinking of snagging a boar while we're out here. If you want to gut the rabbits, save us having to carry their weight and have the mess at home."

It was something Cahir agreed to easily. He was already dreading the walk back, knowing his energy was going to be barely enough. If he'd had to hunt boar on top of that, who knew what would happen.

The walk back was miserable. Eskel seemed in good spirits as he led them, boar slung across his shoulders. It meant Cahir didn't feel quite so self-conscious for stumbling and being slow. At least Eskel had the grace to not keep going at an unattainable speed. So really Cahir only had himself to blame that they were not going at the pace Eskel had wanted. It meant that darkness descended around them and they walked the last hour or so by torchlight.

As they passed through the gates, Cahir had just one thought that kept him going; dinner. He was so hungry, had found a few icicles to suck on along to way to try and push through the hunger. Walking into Kaer Morhen, Cahir's heart plummeted. The hall was empty, there was nothing left on the table except Lambert's plate which he had a knack for leaving out. All the food had been put away though. Trying to hold back tears of frustration, Cahir coughed when Eskel playfully slapped him on the back.

"Ah, too bad. We'll get together in a couple of days."

A couple of days. Cahir couldn't last that long. Even now his hands were shaking, he felt a little dizzy. Another two days without food wasn't something he could survive. But it looked like he had no other choice.

That night he barely slept, the growls of his stomach were bordering on painful. Temptation was to sneak down to the pantry and have some leftovers. But Cahir wanted to be better than that. He didn't want to steal, not when he'd been invited to Geralt's home which was already such a generous gesture.

With the sun, Cahir got up. The stables needed mucking out before training in the courtyard commenced. He didn't do as good a job as he could have, it definitely wasn't up to his usual standards. But Cahir was so hungry, it was all he could think about. As he topped up the trough for the animals, he spotted an apple. Half of it was brown and bruised beyond being fit for human consumption. But the other half looked fine. Casting furtive looks around, Cahir snatched the apple before any of the animals could get to it. He felt like the lowest of the low, like scum for stealing from the animals. But he was so hungry. Biting into the apple, Cahir choked back a sob. It was so sweet and yet the he couldn't enjoy it. The apple sat heavy in his stomach.

There wasn't time to dwell on it though. Cahir needed to get going, the others were probably already warming up for training. Sure enough the courtyard was where the others were gathered. Eskel handed Cahir a sword with a shy smile. Taking it, Cahir tried not to look too glum.

Warming up was already an exhausting chore. Cahir was sloppy, going through the motions without anything more than the bare minimum. His arms shook as he lifted the sword, his blisters burned as the rub.

"Pups, two against one," Vesemir called. It gave Cahir a chance to sit at the edge of the courtyard, heedless of the cold wetness that seeped into his bones. His stomach churned. At some point Cahir had closed his eyes, listening to the clash of swords and laughter. It devolved into grunts and growls until Vesemir called out a loud "enough".

"Cahir, come play with me," Eskel called.

It was the last thing Cahir wanted but he wasn't going to refuse. With not inconsiderable effort he stood up. The world swayed and black patches appeared in his vision. Not that it was anything new, it had been happening for the last few days. But it wasn't easing. And the ringing in his ears was drowning out all sounds. The sword in his hand felt heavy, he couldn't lift it despite his best efforts, thinking he could feign his way to being alright. He needed to- he needed-

"Cahir!" Someone called his name. Cahir needed to reply. Needed to- "Cahir!"

The world went completely black and the last thing Cahir heard, or thought he heard, was the yell of "someone fucking catch him!".

Warmth was the first thing that seeped into Cahir's consciousness. He was on something soft, a fire crackled nearby. It was drowned out by shouting. Someone was really pissed off. By the sounds of it, it was Jaskier.

"-showed him the pantry? Or thought to feed him?"

"We thought he'd ask if he needed something." That was definitely Geralt's voice.

With a scoff, Jaskier growled. "This is Cahir we're talking about. When have you ever known him to ask for something for himself?"

"Why didn't you show him then?" Geralt was defensive, Cahir opened his eyes and saw how Jaskier's back was to him and a huddle of very hangdog witchers were stood facing him.

"Because this is your home. I'm a guest here too. I can't take such liberties with your winter sanctuary."

Something pained crossed Geralt's face. "It is your home too."

A hand splayed over Geralt's heart as Jaskier walked closer to him. "I love you, you're very sweet. And we'll talk about this later. But for now, we need to focus on Cahir."

Eskel's eyes flickered to Cahir and widened. "He's awake!"

Like the most protective of vultures, they all descended on Cahir. Hands rubbed his back, reassurances were rumbled. Ever so slowly and gently he was sat up, resting weakly against a broad, warm chest.

"Here." Vesemir crouched opposite Cahir and held out a bowl. "Some weak broth to help. Once you've got some strength back, I believe a tour of the pantry is owed."

Slowly, Cahir sipped at the warm broth. Thankfully it wasn't too much for his stomach to handle, it brought no pain from suddenly filling him. He didn't expect Eskel to stroke through his hair, helping keep it out of his face.

"if you'll let me-" Eskel rumbled, "-I'll join you at the table whenever you need to eat. I may not join you, but I'd like to keep you company."

It sounded quite lovely. Something settled in Cahir's chest that he hadn't been aware of before. Looking around at the concerned faces, maybe he'd been silly assuming things. But it felt like they'd all made mistakes. Thankfully, none of them were unfixable.

#eskhir #geraskier #eskel/cahir #eskel x cahir #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #eskel #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #geralt of rivia #jaskier #vesemir #the witcher #tldr: witchers don't need to eat every day but humans do

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samstree · 3 years

Text

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (2/3)

Jaskier pays the price of his lies. With blood and tears and a few broken hearts.

(4.3k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication, mutual pining)

Previous | Read on AO3

The reverse trope series: [1] [2] [3] [4].

Jaskier wakes with a crick in his neck and an aching heart.

He goes through the motion of packing, their morning routine too familiar to distract him from the heavy guilt in his chest. Jaskier wonders if Geralt is actively avoiding him—the way his back is turned at every chance can’t be a coincidence.

The only time he so much as spares a glance is when Jaskier puts the lemon cake in their rations bag, wrapped perfectly and untouched. Geralt stills for a split second, his jaw clenched.

Jaskier wants to brush it off.

Finding an excuse is the first instinct he has, thinking of a lie as to why he didn’t eat something he’s been drooling over for ages, and erase that crestfallen look on Geralt’s face, the one that is breaking his heart.

Because he can’t exactly tell the truth, which is that he’s more likely to be sick if he ate it. Another lie, however, would turn his stomach even more.

Jaskier remains silent.

Even Roach is judging him as they walk out of the stable. Jaskier bears her side eyes and annoyed headbutt without putting up a fight. The mare is too perceptive to miss the tension in the air, and her protectiveness is more than justified. She’s a smart girl. Of course, she knows Jaskier is one making her broody witcher brood even harder.

She tries to bite his doublet again, and it’s Geralt who stops her with a soothing hand down his mane, murmuring confused questions into her ear. Sweet, kind Geralt, who has been rejected by Jaskier so many times for no reason in the past few days, is still trying to defend him.

Jaskier needs to make it right.

“Geralt, look—”

“Master Jaskier!”

Someone in the distance rudely interrupts Jaskier’s nervous attempt. He turns by instinct and watches a boy in lilac doublet jog up to them. He’s so young, no older than twenty, still with that joviality and naïvety in his features. The way his matching doublet and trousers could catch the eyes of any crowd reminds Jaskier of himself in his early years.

“Sweet Melitele, I’m your biggest fan! Oh my…” the boy proclaims, awestruck. “I’ve been following your ballads for years, and now I get to meet you in person!”

Jaskier looks to Geralt and then back at the man.

“Ah, I’m flattered. It’s always nice to meet a fan, but you see—” Jaskier gestures to the horse and the man behind him. “—I’m in a hurry to leave town.”

Besides, he’s in no mood to converse right now. The quicker he can get Geralt alone, the better. With this weight on his chest, Jaskier feels so drained just talking to anyone but his witcher, let alone dealing with an enthusiastic fan.

“Oh but you must listen to my set first!” The boy looks at him expectantly. “I dream of writing a hit song just like Toss a Coin. I could be just as big—”

“I’d love to, but the circumstances won’t allow it.” With the biggest smile plastered on his face, Jaskier dismisses the guy. “I’m sure there’s promise in you, especially now you’ve chosen the correct role model—”

“You can go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier snaps his head to Geralt, confused as to what he just heard.

“We need to leave this morning, my dear. That’s the plan.” Jaskier frowns. “Remember?”

He excuses himself to the young man and drags Geralt away too quickly, too rudely—on another day he’d feel contrite ignoring a fan like this, but today he’s mind is occupied by something much more important.

Once out on the street and alone, Geralt’s befuddled frown deepens. “Why did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Jaskier interrupts. “Before I say it, I know you will get mad at me, but you have to understand that the past year has been hard on me, Geralt. When you showed up in Oxenfurt out of the blue, I didn’t have enough time to process everything or what it would mean for us to travel together again. That’s why everything is so wrong now and I need to make it right.”

“I know what you want to say.”

The world stops.

All he can see is that pained look on Geralt’s face, the one that’s breaking his heart and making his blood run cold. Of course, he knows, witcher senses and all. As if Jaskier has ever gotten away with lying to Geralt’s face in the past.

“You do?” he breathes, the crack in his voice unmistakable.

Geralt lets out a sigh. He’s not mad. At least, he doesn’t look like he’s angry with Jaskier. “It’s been obvious in the past few days, and I… I do understand.”

“Oh.”

There’s still hope then. Jaskier just needs to come clean and apologize, and, definitely, throw whatever game he’s been playing out the window. They will be fine. The two of them, the bard and the witcher on the path, just like the old days—

“I can leave now,” Geralt starts. “With me gone, you’d be free to stay here for longer. You have so many things to see and so many people to meet. You can go back and talk to the boy. Finally, there’s someone who can wax lyrical with you. It’ll be for the best.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to say it, Jaskier. I can see now that it’s better if we part ways. Let’s not make things more difficult.”

Jaskier stares, gaping like a fish out of water. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, after all this time, after the mountain. Geralt wouldn’t do it.

He wouldn’t.

“You are leaving me here?”

Geralt looks as if he’s stricken. His shoulders tense like every time he wants to appear smaller.

“It’s for the best,” he repeats.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Wait, I thought you understood. I’m sorry, Geralt, for the past few days. I didn’t mean to… I wanted to apologize, so you know I didn’t mean it.”

The smile at the corners of Geralt’s lips is too sad.

“You don’t need to apologize. It wasn’t fair of me to ask it of you to begin with—”

“Ask me what?”

“—Us traveling together again… It was only wishful thinking. There was never a second chance and I never should have gone to find you.”

Jaskier takes a step back, swallowing the lump in his throat. Suddenly the collar of his doublet is too tight and the lute on his back is too heavy. He has to look away from Geralt’s resolute face just to stop the stinging in his eyes.

“You promised…” he mumbles. “You promised not to leave again.”

Geralt falters for a second, his hand resting on Roach’s saddle as if to steady himself. When he answers, his tone is cold, colder than Jaskier can take.

“How can I keep you when everything catches your eye, Jask? You are not made to stay... Not with me. Not after everything that happened.”

Disbelievingly, Jaskier retreats. His hand fists around the strap of his lute case, digging into his palm. “Not made to stay? Seriously?”

“It’s for the—”

“If you tell me it’s for the best one more time, I swear, Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt calls out his name without heat like he’s placating an unreasonable child. Jaskier exhales in exasperation.

“Maybe you are right that it was only wishful thinking.” he forces the words out, his heart sinking. “For once it was actually my fault, and you can’t wait to ask for life’s one blessing again.”

“I—”

“Fine. Have at it,” Jaskier hisses. “I don’t care.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Jaskier lands the biggest lie he’s ever told in this mess. He drags his feet to cooperate, to take him away and put some distance between him and the worst disaster that’s ever descended upon his life.

Roach neighs, but the sound is far-away. Jaskier grabs at the doublet at his chest and wonders if the witcher-shaped hole within can ever be filled.

Jaskier doesn’t stop.

He walks into the bustling crowd of the market, heedless of cheery townspeople going about their day, and he keeps walking until the noise dies down.

Jaskier stops at the riverbank with nowhere to go, so he sits down on the ground and finally lets the dam break.

Crying does very little to ease the ache, and yet when the tears bring a release for the pent-up pressure in his chest. It’s hard to feel justified in letting the pain be cried away when he’s so aware of his own faults in the once-again ending of their companionship.

After all, Geralt couldn’t wait to throw him aside on top of that mountain when he’d done nothing wrong. What makes him think Geralt will tolerate him when he intentionally fucks things up.

Jaskier gasps for air, but only a whimper chokes out. How pathetic, to regret the most precious second chance destiny has ever granted him.

Now he knows for sure that he doesn’t deserve to cry, to let himself feel even just slightly better in the wake of his destruction.

Jaskier tries to stifle the tears with a hand at his mouth, and breathes. In and out, one breath after another. It’s like trying to contain a storm threatening to wreck through his entire being.

But he manages, after an eternity.

Jaskier sniffles one last time and wipes away the tear tracks. There’s a tremor in his hands but he pays no mind. The lute case is laying carelessly in the grass where he dropped it. He slings it onto his back and realizes that in a frenzy, he’s left everything else he owns in Roach’s saddlebags.

He could laugh at the idea of going back there, tail between his legs, as if being kicked out of Geralt’s life—for good this time—isn’t humiliating enough. His only hope hangs on the possibility that Geralt may have left his packs at the inn so they don’t have to face each other. Why would Geralt want to see him anyway? The witcher should be long gone.

Jaskier doesn’t make it too far when a streak of lilac pops out of nowhere.

“Oh! Here you are, Master Jaskier. You are a hard man to track down.”

The boy still looks too chirpy for Jaskier’s liking, too bright and too carefree. His mood is soured even further.

“Look, I’m not fit for company today.” Jaskier walks right past the young man, heedless of his insistence. “Mister—what is your name? Maybe you’ll catch me at the next festival if fate allows.”

The boy ignores his deflection and stops right in front of Jaskier’s face, which successfully draws his full attention and pisses him off completely. “I said—”

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The kid doesn’t relent. “I thought the witcher is determined to abandon you for the second time. Don’t you think he’ll stick to it this time?”

Strangely, the other man doesn’t look nearly as young up close. His face is youthful for sure, smooth and unblemished, and yet there’s an inexplicable weariness in his blue eyes. Now that Jaskier notices, these blue eyes look eerily similar to his own. With just the eyes, he could be looking into a mirror.

Jaskier wants to squirm.

“Did no one teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” He pauses, startled. “Wait, a second time… You knew—”

“Oh.” The man looks sheepish. “Can’t blame a fan for keeping tabs on you, can we?”

An overly zealous fan is nothing new, but somehow, this one sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Jaskier says, trying to back away. “I need to get back to town. You know, where the inspirations are, so I’ll find it in me to… um, compose more of those pieces you love so much.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself! You are not going back to him, are you? Twenty years! All the sweat and blood and singing his praises and this is what you get after all this time!”

The guy grabs at Jaskier’s arm, which he shakes off in horror.

“You know nothing about me. Or Geralt.”

“That witcher will never see you!” he exclaims. “I was there when your first ballad swept the continent off its feet, Jaskier. From that moment on, I knew you were special. What appreciation has that mutant shown you? Only insults and scorn.”

“Geralt is not like that, he—”

Jaskier freezes to the spot.

He forces his attention back to the boy’s face. His eyes are still startlingly blue, even more so in anger. There’s not a single trace of age at his temples, and yet…

“My first song was twenty-two years ago,” Jaskier states, something akin to fear creeping into his voice. “What did you say your name was again?”

At those words, the man’s face shifts. It’s like watching someone shed a layer of skin, a façade, and another being emerges. A much more powerful one.

“Does it matter?” When he answers, there's magic in the air, sizzling with power. The blue of his eyes shimmers under the surface, ever so slightly. Jaskier’s heart clenches.

Not human.

Definitely not human.

“We never got to know each other, well,” Jaskier stalls. “I think now it’s not too late.”

He has an inkling that getting away will not be an easy feat. He can hope to distract this… this creature long enough for a chance to run. His hand tightens around the strap nervously, and the man’s eyes follow the movement without a beat.

Shit.

Jaskier turns to run, to take the lute case in his hands as a weapon, but it’s too late. The next thing he knows, the case is thrown against the ground and he’s backed against a tree. The other man’s grip around Jaskier’s wrists is like a vice, securing his hands right above him.

Jaskier wants to scream, but no sound escapes his throat. His body shakes all over, out of control.

“The fae never reveal our name easily,” the creature hisses.

Those blue eyes are too sharp and there’s a scent growing overwhelmingly strong. Fae, as it turns out, smell like newly cut grass and wildflowers, like the forest.

If only Jaskier can live long enough to share the trivia.

And then, with both their hands occupied, the fae presses his forehead to Jaskier. He struggles but to no avail.

The touch is cold and something is slipping into Jaskier’s mind like an icy stream in the spring. It trickles probs at every corner of his memories.

“Oh, even now you are loyal to the witcher. You still believe he’ll save you, little songbird.”

Jaskier’s vision turns fuzzy. His soundless whimpering breaks into breathless gasps, like a wounded animal waiting for a mercy kill. At the back of his mind, he’s achingly aware of Geralt’s absence. His witcher in shining armor won’t come this time, not after all the—

“All the pretty little lies. Every single one of them, born out of love, misguided.”

However true that statement is, Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it. His love for Geralt shouldn’t be spoken with malice. He fights against the fae’s iron hold with everything he can muster.

There’s a crack of bones before the pain hits him, exploding from his wrists all the way down his arms. Jaskier sobs, the edges of his vision darkening, the shock threatening to pull him under. He still can’t make a sound.

“What can we do?” The fae’s voice comes from a distant realm. “How can we have your loyalty as the witcher does? Oh, how fierce you are, songbird. To have your voice at our court… Perhaps, more lies will do. Yes, it was your choice, what your heart desired. A gift from us.”

Jaskier can’t process anything he’s hearing. He’s too tired from the searing pain in his wrists.

“Just a few lies. They’ll be easy to roll off the tongue, and yet, such powerful weapons.” The fae retreats. “A gift of lies. Thank you for the inspiration, Jaskier the bard. We hope you enjoy it as much as we will.”

Without the brute force holding up his body, Jaskier sagas against the tree, his legs unable to support his weight. His lungs burn and his mind turns fuzzy, bereft of the fae’s presence.

Jaskier needs to move, needs to scramble away from this place. But before the sweet relief of freedom even hits him, magic seizes him again and, finally, finally, a world-ending scream explodes from his lungs.

The world goes to black soon after.

Jaskier wakes to someone shaking his shoulder, someone gentle.

His body pulses like a bruised nerve. The back of his head feels like it’s been trampled by a whole army and his neck creaks at the barest move. Jaskier’s nose is buried in damp grass and he chokes, which jostles his neck even more.

He groans miserably and tries to touch, only to be stopped by the burning in his wrists. He lets out a hiss.

Right, broken bones. Blue eyes that look the same as his. Fae.

“Careful… Fuck, Jaskier, what happened?”

A gravelly voice comes through the fog.

Geralt.

Oh, Jaskier can sob with relief. He arches his back, slowly propping himself up on his elbows. His eyes are so sore from lying on the ground face down, but the sight of his witcher is unmistakable.

Jaskier wants to call out for his witcher, but a sob is the only thing that gets out. He cradles his hands and finds his right wrist is swollen red and sensitive to the touch, but the left looks more or less the same. Only a throbbing pain tugging at his fingertips.

He reaches to the back of his head with his left hand, where the crick is prickling at his nerves, only to find a gash at his nape and hair caked with blood. He doesn’t remember hitting his head while falling. He doesn’t remember falling at all.

So, one wrist sprained, the other broken, plus a gaping hole in his head. Jaskier can cope.

If he doesn’t die from the embarrassment, that is. He whines pathetically, already exhausted.

“I told you not to move.” Geralt catches Jaskier’s tilting body. Amber gold flows with concern. “What happened to you, Jask?”

The question comes out soft, more of a whisper to the witcher himself than demanding answers. Jaskier’s lips wobble at the endearment. He needs to tell Geralt everything. Fuck his injured pride. Geralt came for him. This wonderful, beautiful, sweet man came to him after the disaster that is this morning and he’s still trying to help Jaskier.

All because Geralt is safety. He’s safety and home, and Jaskier needs to tell him—

“None of your business, witcher.”

It takes a moment for Jaskier to register what left his lips, the venom that drips from these words so foreign. He’s never aimed at Geralt before. From the looks of it, Geralt is equally startled if the tiny crease by his lips is any indication.

“You hit your head,” Geralt says patiently, hovering close to Jaskier’s face in an attempt to check the wound on his neck. “It’s bad. Here, let me see—”

“Get your filthy hands away from me!”

The words fly out on their own volition. Jaskier flinches, the same time as Geralt takes back his hand as if burned. He closes his mouth with a pop and the feeling of something severely wrong weighs down on his stomach. That’s not what he meant, not at all. The only thing he wants to do is lean into Geralt’s touch and melt into a puddle. Whyever did his mouth betray his heart? Why did he…

Why did he…

…Lie?

His mind focuses on a sing-songy voice.

A gift from us.

A gift of lies.

It’s like a bucket of ice water thrown over Jaskier’s head. He sobers up immediately. The inspiration they took from him. The fae’s gift.

The fae’s curse.

Geralt’s brows are knitted together, amber eyes imbued with hurt. He is still crouched in front of Jaskier, hands fisted at his side and shoulders taut. He’s got the look now, that lost look that only appears when a mob drives him out of town with pitchforks and stones. Jaskier has seen that look one too many times.

And now he's the one causing it.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, shocked, unsure.

Jaskier breathes hard and tastes the bile rising in his throat. Geralt doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to have that hopeless look on his face or to be shunned by the world, by anyone, and least of all, by someone he’s let stay beside him for so many years. By the Gods, Jaskier needs to let Geralt know he’s the kindest person on earth and more human than any human. He’s Jaskier’s friend and protector, his dream, his heart—

“You are a mutant, a freak,” Jaskier feels the words slip out, too late to realize the mistake of opening his mouth. “No better than the monsters you slay.” The magic compels his tongue. He bites down on it but it’s only futile. “You feel nothing and give nothing but death to those around you.”

Jaskier recoils, tasting blood. In front of him, Geralt mirrors his movement. The entire time, the wolf medallion rests against his chest plate, Jaskier’s last hope, sitting still and unresponsive.

And Geralt…

He doesn’t defend himself.

Of course not. Geralt never defends himself against the stoning even when he can easily defeat most humans with his bare hands. There’s a faded scar near his hairline, a solid proof of men’s capacity for prejudice and violence.

Now Jaskier has joined their ranks.

Geralt looks like he’s been suck-punched in the gut, his eyes wide and crestfallen. And yet, wide amber eyes gaze upon Jaskier without accusation, only quiet acceptance. Jaskier shudders with disgust and fear, which must be the reason Geralt is backing away further.

“I’ll leave… If you—” he pauses, before standing up. “I see. This is goodbye, Jaskier.”

Don’t go!

“Get away then!”

Jaskier shakes his head, putting all the force he can muster into biting into his lips, scared of what may come out. His wrists burn but he has to force his mouth shut by pressing his palms over it.

Why can’t Geralt see that something’s wrong? Why can’t he see Jaskier?

See me! Jaskier pleads silently through the tears.

Geralt’s face falters as he spares one last glance at Jaskier.

Look what you’ve done to him, the sing-songy voice returns. This is your choice. You chose to lie, little poet. Be careful what you wish for.

Jaskier crumbles like a puppet with his strings cut. He barely contains the choked-out whimpers. The burning in his lungs is nothing compared to the anguish. He could die at this moment and it would be a sweet release. Hurting Geralt like this, it’s worse than a thousand broken bones and a million cuts on his skin. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants Geralt to walk away from him. If Jaskier has to spew any more venom towards the man he’s loved for more than half of his life, he’d surely want to walk into the ocean and never come out.

He presses his ears to the grass and remembers the cold wind on the mountain. He was a fool to hope Geralt could come to him then. He is a fool now.

The witcher drags his feet away, one step after another, trampling the soft flora under him, and then—

And then, by some miracle, he stops.

Jaskier watches as his witcher turns around and rushes back to his side, his jaw clenched and eyes determined. His heart bursts with hope, but his fists press against his mouth harder. There’s more blood coating his tongue.

“I can’t,” Geralt states as he kneels next to Jaskier’s curled body. The betrayal in his eyes ebbs away and in its place is something…tortured.

Jaskier shakes his head, or is he trembling again? His vision swims with blood loss. He won’t be able to stay awake for long.

“I can’t leave you here, Jaskier,” he muses to himself, frowning deep. “Shit. You are bleeding again.”

Jaskier scoffs into his fist, almost hysterical.

“You are in shock, and you are about to pass out. I don’t know what happened, but your wrists are a mess. Jaskier…” The name comes out like a prayer. “I heard your wishes. Loud and clear, this time. I know you loathe my presence in your life, but… I have to make sure you’ll get better. Please, forgive me.”

Geralt tries to gently pry Jaskeir’s hands away, but he struggles blindly. Through the haze of his mind, Jaskier’s last thought reminds him to keep his mouth closed.

“Forgive me,” Geralt mutters in anguish, “I can’t let you hurt yourself because of me. Forgive me, just one more time.”

His hand makes the familiar sign of Axii, and everything turns…soft.

The pain is gone, the magical hold on his tongue too. Jaskier loses himself in the mellow sensation of giving up control. The ground disappears under his body and his head lolls against Geralt’s chest.

“I was wrong.” Regret rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest. “I was the curse that befell you. After all the hurt you’ve received by my side, Gods, and I still can’t keep myself away from you. I will not make the mistake of forcing myself into your life again, Jask. Allow me a few days to see you safe, and then... Never again.”

The vow is so wrong, but Jaskeir is powerless to protest. He catches a broken whisper before darkness claims him for the second time on the same day.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. For my heart.”

Jaskier welcomes the oblivion that drags him under, as well as the nightmares that follow.

I'm...sorry.

One more chapter to go. Hopefully this time I won't have to up the chapter count. Some real communication and comfort are on the way! <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @a-kind-of-merry-war @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #lying spell #cursed jaskier #miscommunication #mutual pining #jaskier fucks up real good in this one #and bears the consequences #geralt x jaskier #again i'm sorry #i meant to end it with geralt walking away #and thought #in this economy?#but somehow this is... worse?#hurt jaskier #jaskier whump #hurt geralt #everytime i hurt geralt's heart i go 🥺🥺

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king-finnigan · 4 years

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5 times Jaskier didn’t realize Geralt was giving him a gift for his birthday and 1 time he did

As part of my 500 followers celebration! Masterlist

***

Jaskier practically falls down on the chair opposite Geralt, giving his cheering audience one final wave, before he turns his back to them, dumping the coins he earned on the table, setting his lute down next to him gently.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Jaskier says, and Geralt rolls his eyes at his wide grin, but can’t stop a small smile from appearing on his own face, as well.

“Hmm.”

“Oh, please, Witcher, even you can appreciate a good performance when you see one, no need to be so dismissive of my charms and talent.”

Geralt rolls his eyes again. Usually, he would’ve simply hummed noncommittally, and dropped the subject for the evening, but today’s Jaskier’s birthday. It’s been nagging at him all day, especially because Jaskier hasn’t even said anything about it. He knows humans like their birthdays, like to celebrate another year lived in this damned world – and he would’ve expected Jaskier to be prancing around all day, demanding special treatment and gifts and attention.

But he hasn’t. And that confuses Geralt. It’s not like Jaskier’s forgotten when his own birthday is – hell, he let the date slip a few months ago, so he certainly remembers, but he simply hasn’t mentioned anything about it, today. He doesn’t even seem particularly happy about it.

If anything, he seems almost sad. Which makes matters worse, because what kind of human is sad on their own birthday? Certainly not the kind he expected Jaskier to be, of all people.

So he’s conflicted. On one hand he wants to say something, but on the other hand, Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in the mood for it.

Also, he doesn’t really have a gift he can give. Hell, he doesn’t even know what kind of gift someone expects for their birthday, it’s been so long since he’s celebrated one.

He does get an idea all of a sudden, and clears his throat. Jaskier, already distracted by a fair maiden on the other side of the room, turns back to the Witcher, eyebrows raised. “Something the matter, Geralt?”

The Witcher purses his lips, shakes his head, decidedly staring at his own ale, instead of meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Uh… You’re right. Good performance.”

He looks up right in time to see Jaskier’s face light up like the morning sun, and the bard reaches across the table, softly pushing at Geralt’s shoulder, leaving a trail of fire in his wake when he pulls back again. “Why thank you, Witcher! I knew even you could see that.” He throws Geralt a wink, before he downs his ale, standing up and sauntering over to the lady on the other side of the room, who welcomes him with open arms. He doesn’t have the strength to watch them leave, so he retreats to his own room, and hopes the compliment he gave is enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

II.

It’s Jaskier’s birthday. Geralt only remembers because the bard seems sad again, which means that, unfortunately, this time he’s as unprepared as he was last time.

So he spends the entire morning desperately looking around, searching for ideas for a gift – though, he comes up basically empty-handed. What he does notice, though, is that Jaskier seems to be limping slightly.

He frowns down at the bard from where he’s sitting on Roach, before he pulls her to a halt. Jaskier walks a couple of steps more, seemingly lost in thought, until he realizes he’s walking alone, and turns around, looking confused. “Why have we stopped?”

“What’s wrong with you?” He closes his eyes, mentally cursing himself when Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, face indignant.

“Ex- excuse me, Witcher, but-“

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he interrupts Jaskier before the bard can go on a long, offended tangent about how absolutely rude and uncaring of his feelings Geralt is, or something similar. “You’re limping.”

Jaskier shrugs, the slight hurt disappearing from his face again. “Ah, well, yeah, I sort of sprained my ankle this morning when I went to the river to wash off. It’s nothing really, but- Geralt, what are you doing?”

Geralt’s feet hit the dusty path, and he steps to the side. “Get on Roach.”

“I- what?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Get. On. Roach.”

Though still clearly very confused, Jaskier obliges, and gets on the mare. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but- why? You never let me ride Roach.”

If Geralt could’ve blushed, he would’ve right now, as he takes Roach’s reigns and starts walking again, pointedly looking at anything but Jaskier. “You’ll just slow us down.” A blatant lie, but he hopes Jaskier won’t be able to tell. At least the bard seems a little less sad now, and he hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

III.

The next time, he’s still very unprepared, and he starts to doubt that he ever will be. He’s also run out of ideas for gifts for Jaskier, and frantically tries to figure something out before the day is over. But it’s well past dinner time, and he still has no idea what to do.

Worse than that, he has no clue where the hell Jaskier even is.

Well, until he walks out of the inn, and hears a raised voice coming from the alley.

Well enough, there Jaskier is, against the wall, three men surrounding him, shouting something about how the bard slept with their sister or something like that – because of course he did. Honestly, it’d be a miracle if Jaskier could stop sleeping around in every town they come across for a week.

He rolls his eyes, the little tendril of fear that had been awakened in him at the sight of Jaskier getting threatened by three men slowly dying down when he sees that none of them have weapons. Really, the only thing they can do is beat the bard up a bit. Though, unfortunately, that doesn’t mean Geralt won’t step in – he always fucking does, for some reason.

He walks forwards. “Gentlemen, what seems to be the problem?”

One of them turns towards him, fear creeping into his slightly rancid smell. “He slept with our sister, Witcher.”

He looks at Jaskier, eyebrows raised, and the slight guilt and exhilaration in the bard’s eyes tells him the men are right.

He sighs. “Not possible, he’s been by my side the entire night.”

“But Witcher-“

“Are you saying that I’m lying?”

The three men look away. “No, sir. We’ll… we’ll go.”

“Hmm.” He watches as the brothers hurry past him, before turning towards Jaskier, who’s smoothing down his clothes.

The bard looks at him with a shit-eating grin, and Geralt rolls his eyes again. “Thanks, Geralt! Knew you’d come save me. There does seem to be a slight problem, though…” He looks down at his bare feet. “I forgot my shoes in her room. Maybe I should go back and-“

Geralt shakes his head, then turns around, motioning for Jaskier to follow him. Any other day, he would’ve let the bard fetch his own shoes back, but today is not just any day, he knows. “I’ll buy you a new pair,” he grumbles. He hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

IV.

The next time it’s Jaskier’s birthday, he’s a little bit more prepared – but only barely, still. He’d realized that it was coming up soon a week before the actual day, and had gone to the market in a dingy nowhere town shortly after that, while Jaskier was busy at the inn, cleaning his lute. (Geralt hadn’t been sure in which way Jaskier was cleaning his lute, but he’d decided that it didn’t matter.)

An old woman at a jewellery stall had told him humans liked objects for their birthdays – preferably expensive. Unfortunately, they were short on coin, so Geralt had asked the lady what kind of non-expensive gift he could give his long-time travelling companion and friend.

She had pointed to a ring, silver and engraved with waves. It had cost him a fair deal of coin, still, but he’d taken it – after all, silver protects against monsters, and he figures it’s both practical and, as Jaskier prefers things, nice-looking.

However, that did leave him with one question: when and how is he going to give it to the bard?

It’s been plaguing him all day, that simple matter. At first, he thought it best to give it at breakfast, but they had been attacked by a small pack of Drowners, so that hadn’t been an option. After that, he decided it would be best to give it at lunch, after they had arrived at the next small town. Except, Jaskier was nowhere to be found – at least, until Geralt walked past the blacksmith, and heard soft gasps in a familiar voice coming from behind the building. He’d walked away as quickly as possible, ignoring the small jab in his chest.

And now it’s already dinner time, and Jaskier’s performing and showing absolutely no signs of stopping, even though it’s well past midnight. So should Geralt give it to him afterwards? Or should he wait until tomorrow? Or should he toss the ring away, dig a hole in the wet dirt outside, bury himself in it, never to be found again? He decides the last option is the best one, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have a shovel and there’d be no one to take care of Roach.

Eventually, he decides to just head to bed. All this worrying and the heat of the tavern has got his head pounding, and frankly, he can’t wait for all this gift-giving bullshit to be over. He’s a Witcher, for crying out loud. Witchers don’t give gifts. Except he still bought a silver ring for Jaskier, last week.

He sighs, downing his ale, heading up the stairs. He pauses for a second in their shared room, when his eye falls on Jaskier’s bag, sitting in the corner. He strains his ears, hears that Jaskier is singing ‘Toss a Coin’ – which is always the last song for the evening – and decides he has to hurry up. He quickly opens the bag, burying the ring at the bottom of it, before he closes it again.

He’s barely stood up again, when the door to the room opens, and Jaskier walks in, lute in hand, grin on his face. “Ah, Geralt! Was wondering where you went…” he muses, setting his lute down in the corner, pulling his slightly sweaty doublet over his head. “So, what’d you think? Another stellar performance, I presume.”

“Hmm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, and quickly takes off his clothes, laying down in the bed. After a short while, Jaskier joins him, laying down on the other side. He doesn’t say anything except a “goodnight, Geralt”, and his mood seems unchanged – still slightly sad – so Geralt assumes he hasn’t found the ring yet.

A few days later, his eye is caught by something glistening in the afternoon sun. It’s a silver ring, engraved with waves, on Jaskier’s right hand, and Geralt barely suppresses a small smile at the sight. The bard seems in a particularly good mood as well, and Geralt hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

The next year, he’s prepared. A month beforehand, when they stop in Oxenfurt for a few days, he goes to a little shop, tucked between two tall buildings while Jaskier catches up with some old friends in a tavern nearby.

He buys some bath salts that smell of roses, some soap that smells like red berries, some lavender oil against irritated skin, and, for good measurement, a lemon candle. It’s a pretty hefty sum, but he buys it all anyways – he tells himself it’s because they’ve been doing well monetary-wise lately, not because Jaskier’s smile is worth all the money in his purse and more.

Once again, he still doesn’t know how he should give it, though, and he simply hides it in Jaskier’s bag on his birthday again. He keeps a close eye on the bard, that evening, as he rummages through his bag for soap and bath salt, after Geralt suggested they could afford the luxury of a bath tonight, and offered Jaskier to go first. The bard had looked at him weirdly, but Geralt had pretended he didn’t notice.

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaims, as he fishes rose bath salts and berry soap out of his bag. “Huh. Must’ve forgotten about these.” He shrugs and stands up, closing the door to the adjacent bathroom behind him. Geralt smiles softly as he hears Jaskier getting into the bath, hears him humming softly. He seems in a good mood – more so than he did this morning. Geralt hopes that it’s enough of a gift for Jaskier. At least this year.

+ I

This time, he’s prepared months in advance, when they visit Novigrad. He finally has an idea of what Jaskier might want for his birthday, and as soon as the bard is gone to find a tavern to perform in, Geralt hurries to the nearest instrument builder.

There, he buys an expensive set of lute strings – once again, because they’re doing well monetary-wise, not because he wants Jaskier to be happy and is willing to pay any price for that. As soon as he gets back to the inn, he hides them at the bottom of his bag, smiling slightly when he imagines Jaskier’s face when he gets them. Though, he’ll need to find a way to actually give Jaskier his gift this time. Or maybe not. Maybe he’ll chicken out again and hide it in Jaskier’s bag, waiting for the bard to find it. He’ll see.

It isn’t until a few months later, on Jaskier’s birthday, that he knows for sure he’s going to chicken out again.

At least, that is, until Jaskier starts rummaging through the Witcher’s bag. Geralt pales, his heart sinking to his feet, and he’s ready to tell the bard to get his fucking hands out of that bag, for the love of the gods.

But it’s too late.

“Geralt, have you seen my chemise somewhere? The white, frilly one, with the metal buttons and-“ He stills, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape as he looks down into Geralt’s bag.

Geralt can only stare in horror as Jaskier pulls the lute strings from the bottom of his bag. “Geralt, why do you have these in your bag?” He doesn’t give him time to answer. “And they’re expensive as w- Geralt why do you have expensive lute strings in your bag?”

If Geralt could’ve blushed, he would’ve, and he looks away. “Uh… They’re uh… For your birthday, today.”

Jaskier simply stares at him, eyes wide. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

Geralt shrugs, rubs at the back of his neck, trying to get rid of that uncomfortable feeling in his spine. “You told me, a few years ago.”

“And you remembered.” He says it flatly. “Even though I don’t celebrate it, you remembered that one time I mentioned my birthday years ago.”

He shrugs again, looks away.

“Wait, then why would you give me something this year, but not all the other years?”

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek, still looking at anything but Jaskier. “I did, but-“

“You did? I don’t remember…” This time Geralt does look at Jaskier, and sees the bard staring at him, so wide-eyed it’s almost comical. “The soap,” he whispers. “I didn’t buy that myself, you did”

Geralt nods, then shrugs.

“And the ring? That was you, too?”

Geralt nods again, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“Why the hell didn’t you just give it to me, instead of sneaking it into my bag like… like some- some reverse thief?”

“Because I thought you didn’t want any gifts. You always seemed so sad on your birthday, and you didn’t mention it, so I figured you don’t want to celebrate it.”

Jaskier suddenly laughs, and stands up, lute strings clutched to his chest as he walks towards Geralt. “I’m always sad because I don’t get any gifts. I never did. My parents were horribly against it, saying I would get spoiled or something, and I never mentioned it because I didn’t think you’d give a shit.”

Geralt feels a sharp pang in his chest, as the realization kicks in. “But I do give a shit.”

Jaskier laughs again, looks at the lute strings, still in his hand. “Clearly. I just wished you would’ve said so sooner.”

“I thought you knew.”

Jaskier scoffs, looks at him with eyes the colour of the sky and a smile that would make the sun hide away in shame. “Well, I didn’t. If I did, I would’ve kissed you sooner.”

Geralt furrows his brow. “Wh-“ His breath hitches in his throat when Jaskier lays a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, their lips separated less than half an inch – so, so painfully close, but not yet touching.

“May I?” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt doesn’t respond, but merely closes the gap between them, kissing his bard softly. Jaskier smiles into the kiss, and the witcher can’t help but smile as well, as he pulls his bard closer. Too soon, it’s over, and they’re leaning their foreheads against each other, breaths intertwining.

“So,” Jaskier whispers to him. “When’s your birthday?”

Geralt grins. “Don’t even think about it.”

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #500 followers #drabble #5+1 things

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brasskier · 3 years

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Inspired by @valdomarx, @therogueheart, and that one anon, here’s a post-mountain Deaf!Jaskier story. Read it under the cut below or find it on my ao3 here.

Geralt stumbled upon Jaskier for the first time since the dragon hunt early the next spring, at a crowded market a week or two northeast of Oxenfurt. He'd stopped into town to stock up on supplies and maybe pick up a contract or two before moving along. If asked, he'd insist it was a series of hunts that brought him so close to the Academy, that he might as well follow the coin. And if he happened to run into his bard (ex-bard?), and happened to have the opportunity to apologize, and the bard happened to choose to follow him again? Well, so be it.

He smelled Jaskier before he could see him, head perking up and eyes searching the crowd for the flash of a colorful doublet and that soft brown hair. The market was teeming, thrumming with chatter, and just as vivacious as Jaskier himself.

"You goin' ta buy that or not?" The stall keeper asked, jarring him back to his abandoned transaction. He dropped a few coins on the stall, pocketed the herb, and disappeared without so much as a grunt. Weaving through the throngs of people, he relied on smell - on that familiar chamomile and saffron - until he finally spotted a glint of emerald green, and the strap of a lute. He watched from a distance.

Jaskier's hands were flashing about as dramatic as ever, glancing back and forth between the balding man tending the stall and another man standing beside him. His companion was as flamboyant as he was, dressed in a regal blue and arms waving about just as exaggeratedly. But then Geralt realized he couldn't hear Jaskier, which was unusual, because the bard had never in the two decades he'd known him been able to keep his voice down. The crowd was certainly cacophonous, but not that loud.

"Jaskier?" He drew a little closer and called his name tentatively. The bard didn't seem to react, carrying on with whatever he was doing. He tried again, a little louder, and then a third time, increasingly forcefully. He was getting irritated now - how dare he pretend to not hear me - and was tempted to simply move on. With a heavy sigh, he approached even further, lingering just a few paces behind him. "Jaskier?"

"Think someone's calling you," the stall keeper announced, jerking his head in Geralt's direction, and Jaskier waved his hands again before turning to follow the man's gaze. He blanched when his eyes finally met Geralt's, mouth hung open and hands dropping to his side.

"Geralt?" He squeaked out finally, dragging a hand up to his heart. There was an unusual quality to his voice, Geralt was quick to note. Not hoarse, like he'd heard him after many a late-night performance. Just different.

"Jaskier," he repeated, casting his gaze down to the russet dirt at his feet.

"Gods," Jaskier breathed. "Just - melitele's tits - I just…" He trailed off, wringing his hands together. Geralt couldn’t help but think he looked like one of the stray fawns that would occasionally stumble upon his campsite and linger frozen for a few moments, cast in the firelight and trembling with fear.

"It's okay, I know." He kept his eyes trained at his feet, trying to pin down the bard’s tone. The way Jaskier produced certain sounds, dragged over his vowels, a little bit of its usual edge missing. He must be overwhelmed, Geralt concluded, but he wasn't particularly convinced. "I'm sorry." He waited patiently, uncertainly, for either his acceptance or rejection.

"I need you to look at me," he said instead, surprising Geralt. He did as he was told, lifting his chin to face him. "Can you repeat that?"

"I'm sorry," he reiterated. He felt frustration welling again - he got his apology, does he really need me to repeat it? - but he quickly quashed it.

"Thank you, Geralt." He could see the emotion brimming in Jaskier's eyes. "We have a lot of catching up to do." Jaskier glanced sideways for a moment, fidgeting with one of his rings. "Perhaps we could share a drink? There's a tavern not far from here." He jerked his head to the right. Geralt grunted, and Jaskier raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Sounds good," he clarified. He was becoming increasingly convinced that Jaskier was toying with him for pleasure's sake. He knew full well how to interpret the Witcher's grunts, after all. And yet the expression drawn across his face looked impressively genuine. Humans are weird.

Jaskier uttered his thanks to the stall keeper and turned to face his companion - who'd been waiting patiently behind him - again. He wagged his hands about wordlessly, and it finally dawned on Geralt that this was not his usual theatricality - this was common sign language, and he wondered when exactly Jaskier had picked it up.

Jaskier was quiet most of the way to the tavern but seemed to perk up once they were seated - in the far back corner, Jaskier's choice. Geralt spoke first, determined to get this apology over with and behind him.

"I'm sorry about what happened." Jaskier tilted his head as he listened, chin resting on folded hands. "What I said was wrong. I shouldn't have blamed you, and…" he exhaled sharply, as if apologizing - or, more specifically, being honest and vulnerable - caused him actual pain. "The best blessing life has given me is finding you again." Jaskier's head tilted impossibly further, and then came the tears, and - fuck - did Geralt say the wrong thing?

"That's awfully sweet, Geralt," Jaskier eventually choked out, and he relaxed a little. "I'm sorry, I just--" He dragged a hand across his face. "That was so kind." He sniffled into his sleeve before finally re-righting himself. "I guess I'm just a tad sentimental." Geralt forced the best smile he could manage across his lips. "Gods, it's been so long. Go on, tell me everything you've been up to."

"Not much," he replied between sips of ale. "I'll tell you everything later." He chided himself as soon as the words left his mouth for just assuming there might be a later. "How have you been?"

"Hmm?" He sighed, fighting hard to keep from rolling his eyes.

"How have you been?" Jaskier seemed to spark to life again at this.

"Oh," he said simply, pushing his hair behind his ear and chewing on his lip. "Well, I returned to Oxenfurt, taught for the winter. I just headed out, actually. I've been a bit preoccupied." He leaned in closer, stared past Geralt at the wall behind him. "I, uhh, I got sick, coming down from the mountain." Geralt hummed, drawing a slow sip of his ale. "I mean, I kinda woke up sick, but then there was the dragon and…" He rubbed his thumb against the rough wood of the table. "Well, I was a little distracted. I don't even really remember making it off the mountain, to be honest."

"I'm sorry I didn't notice." Geralt might as well get all his apologies over with at this point, he thought. Jaskier waved a hand to hush him.

"I woke up at a healer's. Apparently someone had found me not far out of town and dragged me in." He let out a shaky exhale. "He said I'd had an infection in… In my brain." Geralt watched him with a sour mix of pity and regret, unable to shake the feeling that he should've been there. The image of Jaskier, waxy pale and slumped unconscious, trembling in a stranger’s arms, burned into his mind. "Anyway, I'm lucky I survived. But my hearing did not." Oh. Fuck. Suddenly the pieces slid into place - the sign language, the strange quality to his voice, the incessant requests for Geralt to repeat himself.

"Fuck, Jask, I'm sorry." He rarely shortened Jaskier's name, but he knew the bard liked the nickname, and it was the least he could do for him. His mind reeled with regret. He should've been there. A random stranger shouldn't have been the one to find him and rescue him. If he'd known, he'd have never - no. No, what he did was wrong outside of the context of what'd happened next, and he was not about to qualify it. Jaskier, for his part, seemed relatively unfazed.

"Nothing you could've done about it, really," he insisted, running his finger along the rim of his glass. "The healer said I just needed to fight it off on my own." This did absolutely fuck all to ease the guilt gnawing in Geralt's gut. Questions swirled in his head - how was Jaskier going to sing or play anymore? Could he still compose even? How was he going to survive; that was how he procured coin, after all? Was he… was he happy? Did he blame Geralt?

"I know, I just… can you still sing?" This question seemed to amuse Jaskier, who laughed heartily.

"Yes, Geralt, I can still deliver my fillingless pie." Geralt couldn't tell if he was serious or not, and while he used to be able to read his voice a little more consistently, he was unsure now and kicking himself for not making a better study of the bard's facial expressions and body language when they'd been together.

"You know I didn't…"

"I know. I know you didn't mean that." They sat in silence for a beat while Geralt wracked his brain for his next question.

"How? Do you sing, I mean, if you can't hear. How are you even talking to me?" He shrunk behind his tankard, suddenly embarrassed by the utter lack of tact that'd never bothered him before.

"Well, one of the perks of teaching at a premier Academy is access to some of the finest physicians this side of Nilfgaard. I'll be honest, it took a lot of work to relearn how to sing and speak; I was mute for most of my travels back to Oxenfurt, mostly out of shame." Geralt's stomach churned, imagining Jaskier entirely and utterly silent. That wasn't the bard he knew. His Jaskier never shut up, mouth constantly running faster than a horse, always a story to tell or a song to share or a joke to crack. And certainly never worried about whether anyone else wanted or needed to hear him. Jaskier was not quiet. "But fortunately I still have a tiny bit of my hearing - on the lower end, mostly, which is good for you. Plus I have decades of muscle memory, so it wasn't so bad. And as for right now? I'm mostly lipreading, though the pitch of your voice is helpful." Geralt couldn't tell whether he was being genuine or just trying to placate him. "It's just different. Have to feel it more than hear it, which if you ask me more musicians should try."

"I'm glad," Geralt gritted out, nodding at the bartender to bring another round of ale. "That you can still sing." Jaskier beamed.

"I knew you always liked my singing," he declared triumphantly, arms folded across his chest.

"Did you already know common sign?" Geralt asked instead of retorting with something snarky; let the bard have his victory.

"A tiny bit, but the language professor at the Academy was fantastic at teaching me." Geralt closed his eyes and tried to envision the odds and ends of common sign he'd picked up over his years of travel. "I made a lot of Deaf friends; they've been so supportive of me." With a sigh, Geralt decided to give it a try.

"I know a little," he signed, tentative and deliberate. Jaskier's eyes lit up.

"You do?" He signed back, eyebrows raised and grin spread across his face.

"Not much. I can…" His hands slowed, wracking his brain for the sign for learn. He sighed again and said it aloud instead. There he goes again, assuming Jaskier will stick around long enough to warrant learning more. Jaskier teared up again, and he cursed inwardly, wondering for what must've been the trillionth time that afternoon if he'd messed up.

"You'd do that? For me?" Jaskier squeaked, pawing at his eyes with a hand tucked in his sleeve.

"Of course." For a moment Jaskier looked like he might fling himself across the table and into his arms, but instead he fidgeted in his seat.

"That's enough about me now, isn't it?" Jaskier asked, always a master at changing the topic when he grew bored with it. "Tell me about your hunts." He leaned over, fished around in his pack, and plucked out his notebook and pen.

"First was an infestation of drowners," Geralt began, taking extra care to face Jaskier as he spoke, and pausing when he went to scribble something in his notes. They spent the next hour like this until, just as Geralt was beginning to wonder if the bard was going to force him to talk all night, Jaskier was tugged to the front of the tavern while excited patrons clamored for a performance. Jaskier obliged, as always, and Geralt watched, as always.

When Jaskier dropped back into his seat, shuffling his lute unceremoniously to the floor beside him, Geralt expected him to bid him a hurried goodnight, get on his way, and leave. Just a nice day catching up shared between two friends (?), and decidedly not the start of their next joint adventure. But instead of any of that, Jaskier called to the bartender for another mug, busied himself fixing his hair and his doublet.

"Told you I could still sing," he said with a wink as the bartender deposited his ale on the table in front of him. "And something to eat, please," he added before returning his attention to Geralt.

"I never doubted you," Geralt's reply came easily. It was, perhaps, the truth.

"Now then, would you say it has more or less filling now?" He leaned forward on his elbows, cheeky grin and narrowed eyes, and even Geralt could recognize the facetiousness of his words. Before Geralt could answer, he waved a hand, as if dismissing himself. "So, where were you? Something about a missing cow?" Geralt nodded, leaning back in his seat.

"So the boy told me his father would pay me, if I could find the cow. So I said, 'how much?'" He continued on with his tales, no matter how excruciatingly mundane they felt to him, until Jaskier's head dips forward and then picks back up for a third time. "Think it might be time for you to get some sleep?" He asked, and Jaskier blinked away the sleep in his eyes.

"Yeah, probably," he muttered, scrubbing at his face with one hand, the other dipping down to reach his lute. "Are you staying overnight?" He asked, and immediately flushed at the confused look he received from Geralt. "I just mean… I don't… you can't leave before I get to say hi to Roach."

"It's too dark now. I'll get a room at the inn." Jaskier’s face lit up, and he followed him in rising to his feet. "Just have to grab Roach first," he said when they finally made it out the door and into the cool early-spring night.

"M'kay," Jaskier hummed with a fond smile. He rested a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning." It was a firm statement, certain and unquestioning.

"See you then," Geralt replied, heading back to the stable where he'd docked Roach so he could bring her closer to the inn. And he, too, was certain.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #henry cavill #joey batey #mountain breakup #deaf jaskier #deaf character #fanfiction #the witcher netflix #ao3

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when-a-humble-bard · 4 years

Text

what my heart just yearns to say

Word Count: 5575

summary: Jaskier’s a romantic at heart. So you would think he falls in love at first sight. But... when he falls in love with Geralt, he falls very, very slowly. Or, ten moments where Jaskier falls a little bit more in love with the Witcher, until he's really not sure when it started in the first place.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, injuries, vomiting, mentions of death, nonconsenual almost-groping by a patron, shipping lens on a canon scene, near-drowning, cursing (of course), first kisses, feelings confessions, Jaskier yearns so much oof

A/N: In which I continue to be amazed by the other creators in this fandom, inspired by them, and also wanted to further explore these two. I hope you enjoy it! A companion piece is in the planning stages already... Heh. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Read on AO3

...

“They said it’s a water nymph?” Jaskier asks the Witcher one evening.

A fire crackles in front of them, sparks shooting up into the night sky. Stars peek between the breaks in the forest canopy above them. Geralt glances at the bard, then sighs and turns his attention back to the fire.

“That’s what they said.”

“But you don’t buy it,” Jaskier says. It’s not really a question. He can tell from Geralt’s tone.

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line. “Rusalki and some bruxae share a number of similarities in terms of appearance. The rusalki they described has pale skin and dark hair.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitch with the sudden desire to grab his notebook. “And… rusalki don’t look like that?”

“They can,” Geralt replies, glancing at him, “but so can bruxae. They also have similar tastes in prey.”

Jaskier purses his lips as he remembers what the townspeople had told them. “Men.”

Geralt nods. “Which is why you’re going to stay here with Roach tomorrow.”

Jaskier glances over towards the horse grazing a few yards away, then looks back at the Witcher. “So what’s the difference?”

He doesn’t know if the question tumbles past his lips because he’s genuinely curious about the answer or because he just really likes hearing Geralt talk. The Witcher’s subdued cadence was stubbornly persistent. Often when Jaskier made a concerted effort to engage Geralt in conversation, his responses were brief, clipped, and straightforward. A staccato drum against Jaskier’s lilting melody.

But apparently, Geralt was a fountain of willing knowledge when it came to monsters. And Jaskier could listen to him for hours.

Geralt’s brow quirks in surprise at the question. “To start with, bruxae are of the vampire family. They lure men to their death so that they may feed on their blood. Rusalki are, usually, much more amenable. They lure men to them for procreation, and rarely intend death.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows. “Which is why you think it’s not rusalki. You think it’s a bruxa.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier feels something twinge in his chest. “How do you kill a bruxa?” He tears his gaze towards the fire as he feels Geralt glance at him.

“They’re susceptible to silver, like most monsters. Igni is also useful. Bruxa tend to hunt in packs, so its unusual that the villagers here have only seen one.”

“Have you fought them before?”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous? About tomorrow?”

A pause. “No.”

Jaskier huffs and offers a faint, uncertain smile. “That makes one of us.”

“I told you you’re not coming with me.”

“Yes, but that’s quite beside the point, isn’t it?” Because Jaskier isn’t nervous about himself.

Geralt’s head snaps over to the bard in surprise. “Jaskier—”

Jaskier waves him off. “So tell me, dear Witcher,” he says, because he just wants to hear Geralt talk as much as he can tonight. “Why does silver work so well on monsters?”

II.

Jaskier watches him. The early spring air tugs gently at the loose strands of his white hair. Birds twitter happily in the canopy above them. The stream nearby is still. Mid-morning sunlight filters through the leaves and branches, leaving a mosaic of light around them.

Geralt breathes.

Kneeling in a patch of grass with his hands resting on his thighs, the Witcher has his eyes closed and just… breathes. Jaskier watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. The way it expands with each inhale, the way the ever-present tension in Geralt’s shoulders eases just the slightest bit with each exhale.

Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Sleeping and meditating are different things. But he thinks that Geralt actually looks more peaceful like this. Jaskier had spent many nights in the bedroll near the Witcher and knew all too well that when Geralt slept, it was usually fitfully. But when he meditates like this…

Geralt is still.

Jaskier can’t help but feel like he’s getting a rare glimpse at who Geralt was—is—beneath the layers and layers of training and mutations. He knew Geralt didn’t regret what he went through to become a Witcher. At least… not exactly. Can you regret something that wasn’t your choice to begin with? Had been his rhetorical response when Jaskier had been brave enough to ask him one evening. But the bard knew that no amount of trials and training could erase the parts of Geralt that was still—sometimes painfully—human. Geralt held within himself a carefully balanced dichotomy that seemed, at least to Jaskier, to be a storm built on regret and guilt and (in his darker moments) self-loathing.

But watching Geralt meditate—the steady breath, the perfect stillness—makes the bard wonder if the storm metaphor isn’t quite accurate. Because really, when Jaskier thinks about it, Geralt’s humanity is perhaps more like the coastal waves. Relentlessly returning to the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

Jaskier watches Geralt meditate and feels something tighten in his chest. He’d follow that tide to the end of the earth, he realizes. He’d call the waves back to shore for as long as Geralt would let him.

Geralt’s eyes blink open and Jaskier unapologetically meets his gaze.

He arcs his eyebrow. “Composing, Bard?”

Jaskier offers a small, sincere smile. “Something like that.”

III.

“I’d rethink that move.”

If he’s being honest, Jaskier is almost as surprised as the patron when Geralt seems to materialize out of the crowd and grab the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip. The man’s other hand is still fisted possessively in the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers, uncomfortably close to his crotch.

“What,” the patron spits with a sneer full of rotting teeth, “unwilling to share your whore, Butcher?”

Jaskier grimaces. Butcher made his skin crawl, and he knows that Geralt didn’t take kindly to that term either. The bard had learned that very early, and very quickly.

Geralt growls low in his throat, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Call him that again and I’ll slit your throat.”

The threat makes Jaskier freeze instinctively. Call him that again… Him.

As in Jaskier.

The patron roughly lets go of the bard, who stumbles a step from the suddenness of the motion but still hasn’t taken his eyes off Geralt. In truth, Jaskier really hadn’t been particularly bothered by the term itself. He’d been called it before, and been called much worse than that several hundred times over. But Geralt took issue with it, evidently.

Geralt was defending him. He’d never had someone who’d done that before. Not even his own family.

“Not worth it,” the patron says gruffly. Geralt releases him with a shove to send him stumbling away from Jaskier. He staggers a few steps, muttering something under his breath. Jaskier doesn’t hear it clearly—something about his voice and screaming as pretty as he sings—but Geralt evidently does hear it, quite clearly. Something bright and furious ignites in his gold eyes.

“Geralt,” he says quickly but quietly. “Let it go. It’s fine.”

For a moment, the Witcher looks torn. Jaskier places a hand on his forearm, and Geralt levels a withering gaze on the other man. He rushes through the crowd and out the tavern. It’s not until the door closes behind him that Geralt turns his attention back to the bard. The hot anger in his eyes evaporates slowly into something that Jaskier almost wants to call… soft. His gaze flickers—quick and calculating—over Jaskier’s form. Looking for signs of injury.

Geralt’s gaze meets his again in a silent question. Jaskier offers a reassuring smile and slight nod in answer. I’m okay.

Geralt shakes his head, but Jaskier doesn’t think he’s imagining the tinge of relief under the veil of exasperation. “You really ought to learn some self-defense, Jaskier.”

Jaskier offers an affronted scoff. “I can defend myself perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

“Hmm.”

“I can! I’ll have you know, he is hardly the first over-enthusiastic fan I’ve dealt with.” Jaskier tries not to wince at the way Geralt’s expression darkens, and rushes of add, “And I’ve fended off unwanted advances just fine. He just happened to be particularly, ah, insistent.”

“Hm. And what happens when you can no longer talk your way out of such situations?”

Jaskier’s flippant smile wavers, then stays in place. “Are you offering to teach me, Geralt?” He’s mostly joking.

“Yes.” Geralt’s answer is immediate and unflinching. Jaskier tries not to think too long about why that sends a flutter through his stomach.

IV.

The kitchen of the small house on the outskirts of the town has barely enough room for the three of them. Geralt, beside him, reeks of death and decay and monster guts. In front of them, the young boy—who couldn’t be older than 16 by Jaskier’s best guess—hoists his baby sister up further onto his hip.

“Truly, Witch—ah, Geralt?” At Geralt’s slight nod, the teen smiles. “Truly, Geralt. Thank you. I, um…” he trails off, turning to rifle through a drawer behind him. The middle sibling, a young boy of about six, runs around the corner and nearly barrels straights into the two of them in the entryway.

“Oi!” the teen snaps. “Slow down, will ya?”

“Sorry,” the younger boy mumbles, and then is off like a flash the moment Geralt takes a step to the left to let him through.

His brother watches him with a certain fond exasperation, even as embarrassment colors his cheeks. “Too much energy for his own good,” he says. Jaskier realizes then that he has a small pouch in the hand that isn’t supporting his baby sister’s weight. He extends it out to the Witcher. “It’s not much. Certainly not nearly enough for disposing of the monster that took our parents, but...”

Geralt shakes his head, making no move to take it. “No payment necessary.”

Jaskier glances at him and feels something unexpectedly soft warming in his chest.

“Please,” the teen says. “I insist.”

“Keep it.”

“My father taught me to never accept charity.”

Jaskier thinks of the empty cupboards around them in the kitchen and feels a small tug in his gut. He remembers all too well singing for literal scraps. Barely surviving. He knew desperate times. And he also knew that some people still ranked their pride higher. The bard figures he can’t really fault him for it, and besides, the poor kid had just lost the very father he’d spoken of. Grief did funny things to people.

Geralt stares at the boy for a long moment. Jaskier sees the tension work in his jaw before he holds a hand out and lets him deposit the coins into the outstretched palm. Twenty ducats fall from the piece of cloth.

“It’s all I have—” he begins apologetically.

“It’s plenty,” Geralt interrupts, folding his fingers over the paltry sum. It does not escape Jaskier’s attention that he doesn’t slip the coins into his own pouch.

The infant in the teen’s arms shifts and makes a distressed noise. “I… I should put her down for a nap, I think.”

Jaskier can hear the uncertainty in the boy’s voice and offers an encouraging smile. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’m sure a bit of rest is exactly what she needs. As a matter of fact, I could use a nap myself.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but Jaskier sees the relieved smile pull at the boy’s mouth. “Right. Well… Thank you. Again. I… thank you.”

He disappears up the rickety wood stairs. On their way out, Jaskier sees Geralt discretely drop the ducats into a partially-opened drawer by the entrance to the kitchen.

That soft, warm feeling in Jaskier gives an aching, happy tug.

Jaskier watches, fascinated, as Geralt’s eye twitches. The music that fills the tavern is not coming from Jaskier, and while the other bard is clearly less experienced, Jaskier seems less bothered by the amateur display than the Witcher. Which is odd—really odd—to Jaskier. Because he had been certain that Geralt really couldn’t give a rat’s ass about music.

Jaskier looks at the Witcher over the top of his wine glass as he takes another sip. “What’s troubling you, Geralt?”

Geralt settles an irritated golden gaze onto Jaskier as the bard (the other one) starts another song. It takes only a few seconds for Jaskier to realize it’s the same simple, mundane chord progression and structure as the last song played. Jaskier doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s gaze flickers lightning quick to the lute beside him.

Jaskier stifles a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re already missing my serenades.”

Geralt isn’t looking back at him, instead watching the other bard parade around the room with a look that is very nearly a glare. “At least your songs have some… complexity.”

That sends a very unexpected surge of warmth through Jaskier’s chest. He sits up a bit more, leaning forward. “Musically or lyrically?”

“Music,” Geralt replies, almost absently. “The… chords?” The Witcher’s gaze flickers uncertainly to Jaskier, who can’t help but feel like he’s clinging to every word. He gives Geralt a slight, encouraging nod. Geralt shifts. “They’re better than this shit.”

Jaskier stares at him. Sure, the Witcher didn’t have the same musically-inclined vocabulary, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that Geralt listens to his music. Really listens.

Geralt tears his gaze away from Jaskier’s after a moment, taking a long pull of ale from the tankard in front of him. “Your lyrics,” he continues, “are little more than inaccurate stories.”

“Ah, my dear Witcher, ordinarily I would balk at such a baseless accusation—”

“It’s not baseless.”

“—but you cannot hide the fact any longer.” Jaskier cannot contain the grin that pulls at his lips any more than he can contain the surge of a warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He points a finger at Geralt. “You listen to me.”

Geralt looks back at him and—though he knows Geralt would deny it—Jaskier swears he sees a twitch to the corner of his mouth. “Impossible not to,” Geralt replies dryly, “what with you filling every damn second with song.” He takes another swallow.

The thinly veiled deflection does nothing to diminish Jaskier’s smile. “And you like it.”

This time, Geralt can’t quite contain the tilt to the corner of his mouth. “Hmm.”

Jaskier knows it’s a hum of agreement.

VI.

Jaskier’s heart still hasn’t stopped pounding, even though they’d finished the treacherous part of the shortcut around an hour ago. The image of Borch, Téa, and Véa plummeting—their bodies disappearing into the mountain mist below—still leaves Jaskier with a slight roll to his stomach and an ache in his bones that had nothing to do with the long day of foot travel.

It’s close to dusk. The chill of evening mountain air begins to stiffen the bard’s fingers as he sets his lute down beside his bedroll. The dwarves busy themselves with setting up camp and starting to prepare a meal, but Jaskier can’t help the way he keeps watching Geralt.

Geralt, who hadn’t said a thing since Borch let go of the chain.

Jaskier kneels by his bedroll and pretends to adjust it, but he watches the Witcher sitting on a boulder a few yards away. He gazes out over the jagged terrain off the cliffside. He is still. But Jaskier feels his chest knot with concern.

Geralt was perhaps the single most selfless person that Jaskier had met in his 40 years of living. But that came with its pitfalls too—especially as it related to how Geralt tended to view himself. There had always been splintered shards in Geralt’s soul that Jaskier didn’t know how to begin to dig out. But he can still picture the way Geralt had stayed kneeling for a moment on those wooden planks, his head bowed like the weight of the world had—for just a moment—dropped on top of him.

Jaskier fears he knows that body language, and the weighted silence that had followed that moment. He fears that his 22 years of traveling with the Witcher means that he really does know Geralt. And that Geralt feels that he has let them down somehow, despite all he did to try to save them. Even at great risk to himself, Jaskier remembers with a bit of a wince, hearing the creak of those boards under Geralt’s feet.

The Witcher could never catch a break, it seemed.

With a sigh, Jaskier stands and crosses to him. Geralt makes no move to acknowledge his presence, not really, but his stillness is a sign of recognition in and of itself. The bard sets himself carefully, gingerly, on the boulder beside him.

“You did your best,” Jaskier tells him softly, the words managing to push through his slightly tight throat. “There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt as he says it. The Witcher had spent more years constructing a mask of passivity and stoicism than Jaskier had been alive, but the bard knows him. And when he sees Geralt’s gaze drop by a few degrees, he knows he’d been right about where Geralt’s thoughts had been.

Something in Jaskier’s chest pulses with an ache that he cannot name. Geralt has carried too much for too long and Jaskier desires fervently to ease that burden. To find a way to let Geralt breathe and be and exist without quite so much heaviness.

“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” he offers, his fingers fidgeting in his lap against the sudden desire to take Geralt’s hand. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a… worthy travel companion.”

It’s a weak, flimsy attempt for a smile. Geralt doesn’t, but there’s just the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth when he hums in response. Geralt glances at him briefly, and though Jaskier doesn’t meet his gaze, that aching in his chest gives a sharp lurch with hope.

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while,” he adds softly. He’d never said the words aloud before, but they resonate with a certain familiarity. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it? ‘Life’s too short. Do what pleases you… while you can.’”

Jaskier swallows, setting his hands on his thighs because they are only getting more fidgety with each pulse of that sharp warmth in his chest—more insistent now. Harder to ignore.

“Composing your next song?” Geralt rumbles quietly.

Jaskier looks down at his hands. “No, I’m just, ah—” I love you, he thinks without daring to look at him. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”

VII.

They’re half a mile out of town when it starts to rain. The starting sprinkle lasts just long enough for Jaskier to think he’s glad he invested in a case for the lute before the sky opens up and it starts to pour. Then he’s also glad he bought some decent boots at the last town they were in.

“Fuck.” Jaskier knows that tone. Geralt is annoyed. The bard glances at the Witcher beside him, a faintly amused smile pulling at his lips and a teasing quip on his tongue, but… it dies on his tongue .

Because Geralt meets his gaze, and for a moment, Jaskier forgets how to breathe.

He doesn’t know why, really. The rain soaks Geralt’s white hair, causing some of it to fall into the man’s face in damp, loose strings. His dark shirt is quickly becoming plastered to his broad shoulders from the downpour, having left his armor to be cleaned during their quick trip to the woods to collect some medicinal herbs. Jaskier thinks it’s something about the Witcher’s eyes. Maybe it’s something to do with the way water droplets cling to his lashes. Or the way his golden eyes seem so much brighter in the downpour. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

Jaskier is a man of many words and many metaphors. But he finds words failing him entirely now, and he can’t explain why. Except that he’s left with the sudden, clear sense that looking at Geralt feels a lot like being called home.

Geralt tilts his head slightly, the way he usually did when he was about to ask a question, but Jaskier blinks and jumps in before he can.

“And you thought the lute case was a poor investment. Well, how do you feel now, Geralt? We still have half a mile to go before shelter, and such time for a lute to spend in rain like this…” Jaskier shakes his head. “It would be nothing short of an absolute, irrevocable tragedy.”

“Hmm.” Geralt looks away from Jaskier then, squinting briefly up at the sky. Not squinting, Jaskier realizes after a beat. Glaring.

“Not a fan of the rain?” he asks, mostly rhetorical. Geralt rarely vocally complained—usually Jaskier did it enough for the both of them—but the slight crease between his brows is a familiar look of displeasure. Jaskier pulls the lute case off his shoulders and shrugs out of his doublet.

“It will make it harder to track—what are you doing?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes as he slings the lute case back around his shoulder. “You left your cloak back at the inn, and I know, though you will adamantly deny it, that the real reason you hate the rain is because it gets into your eyes and makes it harder for your sensitive, Witchery eyes to see. So, here.” He hands the purple doublet out to him, looking very pointedly down the road where they can just barely make out the silhouette of the edge of the town.

“Jaskier…” A hesitation. A surprisingly heavy one.

“Honestly, Geralt, you’ll be doing me a favor. Wet doublets are dreadfully heavy, and as I am already saddled with carrying the weight of this lute and your reputation…” Jaskier looks back at the Witcher then to flash him a smile.

Geralt stares at him for a long moment, then takes the garment. As he does so, Jaskier swears he sees a twitch to the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

The bard quickly spins around and rushes a few steps in front of him, arms outstretched to welcome the rainfall, feeling a little breathless again.

VIII.

Jaskier jolts to awareness with a desperate, strangled gasp. Bile surges up his throat and he barely has the wherewithal to roll away from the person beside him—whose presence is more sensed than seen. Jaskier groans and shuts his eyes against the rolling nausea and the oddly briny taste it leaves in his mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He feels a hand rest between his shoulder-blades, so gently it almost seems hesitant.

When Jaskier takes a breath, it trembles. More bile—salty and acrid—rushes up his throat. When the second round of nausea abates and the coughing that wracks his lungs eases, Jaskier feels something cool and smooth pushed against his lips. He instinctively jerks away.

“Damn it, Jaskier,” snaps a rumbling voice. It’s weirdly familiar, even if the strain in it sounds foreign to the bard’s ears. “There’s not—”

Whatever the voice was saying is drowned out by a beautiful, echoing melody. It whispers promises of safety and warmth and love, and something in Jaskier’s chest gives a near painful lurch towards the sound. It’s also not until then that Jaskier gets a sense of his surroundings: the lake in front of him, the grainy sand sticking to his sopping wet clothes, the slate gray overcast sky above him. There are ripples in the lake and that song is calling to him from the water.

Overcome, Jaskier scrambles towards it.

“Fuck—”

Something thick and heavy grabs around Jaskier’s torso and pulls him back. The bard’s back hits something solid and firm but Jaskier’s chest is still pulling, pulling, pulling towards the water, towards the song.

The cool, smooth thing is pressed to his lips again. Jaskier wrenches his head away. But then he can hear something, barely, rumbling like distant thunder beneath the lilting song.

“Drink it, Jaskier. Please.”

The “please” sounds… odd to him. Strained and choked.

Jaskier lets his lips part in response, and a cool liquid floods into his mouth. It tastes of honey and cotton, washing away the briny taste that had been lingering in his mouth. He swallows it down.

A second later, the song fades away. So does the sound of the lake and the dusk breeze brushing past his ears. Just… silence. Jaskier feels the pulling in his chest release and the bard nearly goes boneless from the sudden relief.

He blinks a few times as clarity starts to trickle back into his thoughts. He’d been… traveling. Tracking a siren, or a mutation of one anyway. Yes, that was right. But he’d been with someone. Specifically…

“Geralt?” he asks, his own voice sounding odd in his head with the rest of the world muted. He realizes as soon as the name leaves his lips that Geralt is the thing that’s holding him in place. Jaskier cranes his neck to look at the Witcher, who still hasn’t relaxed his grip. Bright gold eyes meet his blue ones, then flickers over his form with panicked speed.

The stoic, collected look the Witcher usually wore has splintered, just a bit, and Jaskier thinks he can see a glimpse through the cracks that Geralt is frantically trying to piece back together.

He’s… afraid, Jaskier thinks. Or he had been, a moment ago.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier tells him, if only because he has the feeling that maybe Geralt needs to hear it.

The Witcher doesn’t reply, instead swallowing thickly and sinking his head to where Jaskier’s neck meets his shoulder. And if Jaskier traces Geralt’s arm around him to find his hand and lace their fingers together, well. Geralt doesn’t seem to protest.

IX.

Jaskier is about halfway through the song about the vampiress when the door to the tavern ricochets open with a loud crack. Geralt staggers a step into the room—and it’s the fact that he staggers that makes Jaskier stop mid-song. The Witcher’s entrance is less than graceful, but Jaskier watches closely as Geralt grits his teeth, straighten his spine, and step fully through the threshold. Geralt’s eyes flicker over the room like he’s looking for something, or someone—perhaps the woman who had hired him—when they settle on Jaskier.

Oh.

The bard gracefully, if quickly, jumps to his feet and slings the lute in his hands around his back. Geralt is hiding it now behind sharp eyes and a rigid posture, but something is wrong. Jaskier can tell.

“I hate to cut a performance short,” he says to the crowd as he maneuvers through them towards the Witcher, mostly in an effort to break the sudden silence in the room, “but alas, I must bid you all adieu for the evening. Geralt, shall we?”

Geralt doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even hum. But he follows Jaskier as the bard carves a path through the crowd towards the stairs. Jaskier flashes patrons reassuring smiles despite the way his own throat is tightening with concern.

They make it to the room—barely—before Geralt’s steps falter again. Jaskier steadies him by grabbing his arm and bracing a hand against Geralt’s chest.

“Easy,” he says softly.

“Fuck.”

“Here. Let’s get you sitting before you end up face-first on the floor, because if that happens then we’re both out of luck because—Melitele’s tits—” Jaskier yelps when he staggers for a second under Geralt’s sudden weight. “Okay. I’ve got you. Here we go.”

Jaskier is rambling as they cross the small room to the bed. He helps Geralt sit, kneeling in front of him as the Witcher sinks to the edge of the mattress. Geralt grimaces tightly and pitches forward into the bard, his head landing on Jaskier’s shoulder. His weight sinks a bit more, as if too weary to pull away. This close, Jaskier can feel the echoes of faint tremors wracking through his body.

Jaskier swallows the rising panic down. “Potions?” he asks in as level of a voice as he can manage.

“Out,” Geralt answers. “The venom isn’t lethal just—” Another shudder and a tight grunt. “—hurts like a fucking bitch.”

Jaskier releases a faint breath. He supposes he should feel relieved that it’s not lethal, but he can’t help that the tightness in his throat doesn’t quite ease. “What can I do?” he asks, because of all the things Geralt could have done and all the places he could have gone, he chose to find Jaskier when in immense pain. He wants to live up to that display of open trust.

He feels Geralt fist a hand in his shirt. “Just… stay.”

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier says thickly, and if his voice breaks just a little, at least Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier doesn’t think about it. He sees the mage thrust a hand out in Geralt’s direction when the Witcher’s back is turned and Jaskier lunges on nothing but instinct and the acrid taste of fear on his tongue.

A bolt of sharp green slams into his chest. Something cracks when Jaskier hits the forest floor, something that the bard doesn’t think is magic. His head snaps against the ground, his vision swimming. Heat and sharpness tears through his chest.

Someone screams. Maybe it’s Jaskier. He thinks he hears his name shouted, but it sounds far away.

He is drowning. Can you drown without water?

The bard gasps, desperately, searching for air that he can’t seem to drag into his burning, burning, burning lungs.

His eyes sting. He doesn’t know how much time passes.

There’s a hand on his shoulder—and Jaskier tries very hard to let that tug him from his haze of thoughts. When the hand pulls at him, rolling him onto his back, Jaskier can’t quite contain the choked whimper that releases in the back of his throat. He grimaces, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Jaskier.”

He definitely knows that voice. Jaskier blinks his eyes open, setting squarely on Geralt above him. It occurs to him that he’s never seen Geralt’s eyes quite so wide.

“Fuck,” Jaskier wheezes. He grimaces again. Is he dying? He doesn’t know.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you goddamn idiot?”

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier replies, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Geralt’s voice very nearly breaks. Jaskier voice is tight with pain—his lungs are throbbing—but soft. Unapologetic. “You’re quite lucky I love you, or else I might be insulted.”

He’d never said those words aloud before—I love you—but he means them. He thinks perhaps he’s meant them for quite a long time. Long before even the thought had occurred to him on that mountain all those years ago.

And he thinks Geralt knows this, from the way his eyes widen, and then his whole expression crumples.

“Jask,” he says, a hand cupping the bard’s jaw, his thumb skimming Jaskier’s cheekbone. “You can’t—you… fuck.”

Jaskier takes a breath to reply but cuts off with a wince at the sharp jolt it sends spiking up through his ribs. But he realizes then that the burning in his lungs is easing—gradually, but quickly—and the bard’s next exhale trembles with relief, even as his vision blurs with tears. Whatever spell the mage had sent at Geralt, it seems like one meant to briefly incapacitate and not kill outright. With a quiet grunt of effort, Jaskier presses a hand against the wet leaves beneath him and pushes to sit up.

Geralt looks startled, but he helps nonetheless. The hand on Jaskier’s jaw slips back to cup the back of his neck and the other grabs his free hand to ease him up. The bard sees Geralt’s gaze flicker over his form.

Jaskier tosses him a shaky, wan smile. “Not a lethal spell, it would seem.”

“You didn’t know that,” Geralt snaps, like that should have made a difference in Jaskier’s decision to jump in front of it.

“A moot point, really, Geralt.”

Something bright and pained flickers through Geralt’s gaze. He takes a breath as if to reply, then stops. A crease appears between his brows a second later. “You’re still hurt.”

“Some broken ribs,” Jaskier replies dismissively. The fact that Geralt is still gripping him like he’s afraid Jaskier might just dissolve into smoke in front of him doesn’t escape the bard’s attention.

“Hmm.” He sees Geralt swallow. Watches the way his pupils flicker over the bard’s chest and refuses to meet his eyes.

“Geralt.” The gaze snaps to his own, wide and splintering. Jaskier takes a shallow breath, his gaze as steady as the words that leave his lips. “I meant it, you know. I do. Love you, I mean.”

Though Jaskier can’t be sure—his ears are still ringing a bit—he thinks he hears Geralt’s breath catch.

“Jaskier,” he says, and the bard doesn’t know why his name sounds choked in Geralt’s throat. The Witcher leans forward until his forehead rests against Jaskier’s, and he’s clutching the bard’s hand to his chest like it’s a lifeline. “I… fuck. Fuck.”

And then Jaskier feels Geralt’s lips brush against his own—soft and careful, warm and asking. And Jaskier kisses him back with answers and promises on the edge of his lips.

It feels like coming home.

#geraskier #the witcher #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #witcher fanfiction #my writing #mixed feelings about this but mostly just #happy to have it done!#hope you enjoy!

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

Text

A new us will begin (5/ 11)

AO3

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 6

word count: 5.7k

Content warnings: mentioned character death, funeral (kind of), mentions of dying alone, mention of child death, survivor’s guilt, visiting graves, guilt

Why did it hurt so much to listen to Yarrow’s retreating steps? Why did Geralt jump to his feet and press himself against the door, even though he knew it was too late to even catch a glimpse at that strange man?

He knew why. He knew it, and he hated the answer, hated himself for even considering such an impossible thing.

The truth, shameful and better locked away in the back of his mind, was that Yarrow reminded him of Jaskier.

There was a reason why Geralt had avoided talking to people as much as he could, why he never stayed in one place for too long and made a point of not looking at flowers or any other pretty thing he would come across.

There was always that chance that he would find something, some small detail that reminded him of the one he had lost. Any smile would send a pang through his chest, because it made him think of the smile he had woken up to every morning for so long. Every place that had a bard made him immediately compare them to the only bard that had ever managed to make Geralt close his eyes and get lost in the music. Every songbird, flower or pretty cloud made it painfully obvious that now there wasn’t anyone by his side anymore to point those things out to him.

Yarrow probably would have. If they had met out there and not in these cells where there was nothing but grey stone and darkness. The man who had so annoyingly insisted on talking to him – and wasn’t that just like someone else Geralt had known once? – was an artist. Surely, he would stop to stare at every flower and every other interesting thing he noticed. Just like Jaskier had always done.

The two of them would have liked each other, if they had lived at the same time. With a soft huff, Geralt’s lips twitched upwards. Yarrow’s enthusiasm when he had talked about his art could rival Jaskier’s. Maybe they would have become the best of friends over their shared love for the arts. Or maybe they would have become bitter rivals because they had different views on an art piece or the other talked too much.

And gods, even just the two days that Geralt had known Yarrow, it had seemed as if the artist didn’t know how to shut up. Or as if he had been desperate to say anything he could as fast as possible in case he wouldn’t get the chance to say it later.

It shouldn’t have been endearing, but fuck if it wasn’t soothing Geralt’s battered heart to have someone talk to him. He hadn’t known just how much he had missed that.

He missed Jaskier.

Just for a second, a torturous, beautiful second he had found a small piece of him in this stranger, who insisted on becoming Geralt’s friend. Geralt had no delusions about that becoming a reality. He had meant it when he had said that he didn’t want friends. He knew where such a thing would end. In death and heartbreak. Even if Geralt had been willing to risk that, there was no mistaking that Yarrow would take one look at him and turn away. Just because he was lonely and desperate for conversation while in his cell, didn’t mean that he would want anything to do with him once he got to go back to his family and real friends.

The thought made something twist in his stomach. It was nice to think that Yarrow had someone to come back to. He should have someone like that. But dammit, it made Geralt miss his family all the more. Too often did he force himself to stay on the Path for however long he could, always desperate to fight as many monsters as possible, to save as many people. As if that could erase all the wrongs he had done. He would hunt monsters until snow fell and he was forced to realise that he wouldn’t make it to Kaer Morhen in time. He was aware that his brothers and Vesemir must worry about him if he didn’t show up, so he always made sure to come home every other couple of years, just to let them know that he was still alive and to see for himself that nothing had happened to them, but those years were still few and far between.

Talking with Yarrow and listening to him had almost made him feel as if he was with his family, hearing tales of what they had done on the Path.

It hadn’t been fair to either Yarrow or himself, but as the artist had talked, Geralt had closed his eyes and been able to imagine just for a little while that it hadn’t been Yarrow who’d been talking.

Then he had started to sing and Geralt’s chest had split in two. Yarrow’s voice was clearly untrained, but the emotion in it, the meaning he gave the words and the melody had been so like Jaskier’s singing that Geralt hadn’t been able to hold back dry sobs. It was just a song, but a song lost to time, twisted and turned into jigs or maudlin ballads instead of the simple comforting lullaby that it had always been meant to be. Geralt had thought the real song had died with Jaskier. It was a wonder even the one line Yarrow had sung had survived that long in this way and it had hit Geralt like a bucket of ice being emptied over his head, leaving him gasping for breath and yearning for warmth. He hadn’t dared hope to ever have this song sung to him again. It hurt. More than he could describe, but he had needed more; his whole being had been desperate for more. He had been so full of the unrestrainable need to make himself forget that it wasn’t Jaskier singing. For a moment, it had been so easy to forget. And so painful when he had remembered.

Geralt was a fool for fantasising about meeting Jaskier again, that through some twist of fate or magic, he would ever be able to hear Jaskier sing again. It was madness. It was a dream. One that crept up on Geralt in the days he sat alone in his cell after Yarrow had left, time and time again until he was barely able to remind himself that it couldn’t be real. He wanted it to be real. He wanted to dream.

Then there was that last thing Yarrow had said to him, “See you around”. It had hurt to hear those words. They were normal, everyday words. Everybody used them, but Geralt couldn’t help but wish that somehow they had been more. If not an impossible possibility, then at least a promise. Yarrow wasn’t Jaskier, Geralt couldn’t ever forget that. But perhaps, he could do what Yarrow had promised him and see him around again, even if it would tear him apart.

It was madness, but with every minute he sat in silence, the resolve became hard as stone; Once Geralt finally got out of here, he would go find Yarrow, however slim the chance was that the artist would want him around once he saw him.

When Geralt finally got released from the cell after a week on his own, he told himself that he wasn’t anxious. He had spent longer stretches of time in prison before, but those seven days thinking about Jaskier and debating whether or not to seek out Yarrow once he was free to go, felt longer than any other time before.

The problem was, now that he was free, he had no idea where to look for the artist. As much as Yarrow had talked, he hadn’t mentioned where he lived even once. For hours, Geralt tried searching for places that might be considered inspiring, but no matter where, he couldn’t find the artist. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed. The town might not be that big, but there was still plenty of places that Yarrow could be.

Yet with every minute Geralt tried and failed to find the man, who had said they could be friends, his stomach twisted into tighter knots and Geralt’s resolve to find him began to crumble. Because, that was the thing; he had no way of actually finding him. He had no idea what Yarrow looked like, what he wore, how he behaved when he wasn’t in a cell. The brief glimpse Geralt had gotten of him amidst the chaos of the festival hadn’t been enough. Back then, Geralt had been far too preoccupied with calming Roach than to pay any attention to the drunk man that had been dragged away by the guards that would later come for Geralt once he had made sure Roach wouldn’t cause any more trouble.

Geralt on the other hand, was unmistakable. Yarrow didn’t need to know what he looked like in order to recognise him. There was no way he would see his hulking figure, his unnaturally white hair and the scars and not know who he was.

All Geralt could do to find Yarrow, was walk around and hope that the artist found him and pray that Yarrow would be brave enough to approach him. Then again, it wasn’t unlikely that he had already passed Yarrow unknowingly and that the artist had taken one look at Geralt and realised just how stupid it was to want to befriend someone like him.

Geralt had no way of knowing if that was what had happened for sure, but the longer he walked around aimlessly, the more the creeping fear turned into ice-cold certainty.

The bitter taste of disappointment filled Geralt’s mouth. How could he have been so stupid to think he might find another friend? How could he have been so reckless to let himself want another friend? He knew where such a thing would end, in heartbreak, misery and death. It was better that Yarrow wanted nothing to do with him, now that they weren’t forced to be in each other’s company.

As Geralt walked back to the inn, where he hoped Roach had found some shelter until he returned, he kept his eyes to the ground, pointedly avoiding all eye-contact with the townsfolk, just in case one of them would stare at him with something akin to recognition that would turn into disgust.

The familiar sight of Roach made something warm blossom in his chest. At least she would stay with him. He didn’t need anyone else. The mare greeted him with a soft snort and butted her head against his chest.

A small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips.

“I missed you too,” he said. “Sorry for being away for that long.”

A deep-rooted worry dislodged inside him when he looked her over. The innkeeper might not have been selfless enough to give Roach a box in the stables, but at least someone – probably a stable hand – had made sure to unsaddle her, brush her down and feed her. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t have to suffer negligence because of what Geralt was.

He patted her neck and froze. It took him a second to realise what made him halt, but when he did, his heart began racing.

There were braids in Roach’s mane. They must have been put there days ago, loose and almost gone as they were. But it was unmistakable that someone had plaited her mane. No, not someone, not just anyone. Yarrow.

The certainty flared up in Geralt’s chest, racing through his blood like a wildfire.

Yarrow had been here. He had been the one to take care of Roach. Geralt’s breath hitched. What if Yarrow had waited for him? But if so, then why wasn’t he here anymore?

Geralt’s jaw clenched. There were too many possible reasons. Geralt had taken too long and Yarrow had come to his mind and left. Yarrow could have just had to go back to his job and other responsibilities. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fading smell of sickness that clung to the air. If someone had gotten ill around here, Geralt couldn’t fault Yarrow for not wanting to stick around lest he caught the sickness too.

Still, Geralt couldn’t help but wonder and hope that Yarrow might come back in a bit. It wouldn’t hurt to stay in this town a day longer, just in case.

His hope was crushed all too soon. After not even an hour of waiting, a couple walked by and threw not so subtle looks of disdain at him, before hurrying away and muttering to each other, evidently under the impression that Geralt couldn’t still hear them.

“Is that the one that good-for-nothing idiot has been waiting for?”

A dismissive laugh. “Figures he would show up just after that guy lost his patience. Haven’t seen him around since yesterday.”

“Good for him, I say. Have you seen that man?” A nod back at Geralt. “That’s the witcher. Leaving before he could show up was the only good decision that wanna-be artist ever made in his life.”

“Wait, I thought the witcher was still in prison. Are they crazy to let him go free? What if he decides to attack someone again?”

The woman threw a quick glance over her shoulder, but averted her eyes again as soon as she noticed Geralt looking at her. She grasped the arm of her companion and hurried them along.

Geralt’s heart sunk and he turned away abruptly. He didn’t need to linger any longer. He’d heard more than enough.

“Guess it’s just you and me again,” he said to Roach, stroking her nostrils.

It was better this way. At least with Yarrow gone, the artist wouldn’t have to listen to people talk about him as if he were scum just for knowing a witcher. Without travelling with Geralt, Yarrow wouldn’t get chased out of towns or spat at like Jaskier had been far more often than he would have otherwise. Without Geralt’s presence bearing down on him, Yarrow was free to pursue his dreams, to draw eyes and gush about how much he loved the arts.

Expecting him to come with him wouldn’t have been fair anyway. Geralt wouldn’t be a good companion or friend. It was a truth etched deep into his soul, painted onto his body with every scar.

There would never be anyone who could be a replacement for Jaskier, but that was all Geralt would have been able to see in Yarrow. The song, the way he talked and the readiness to get to know him, had made sure of that. Yarrow was too much like Jaskier, the one Geralt actually wanted in his life.

With harsh movements, Geralt saddled Roach and swung himself onto her back. He didn’t look back as he left town. That didn’t stop him from wondering if Yarrow was in one of the houses he passed, if maybe the passer-by had been wrong and Yarrow hadn’t given up on waiting for Geralt and was walking back to the inn while Geralt was going further away from it.

He didn’t let these thoughts stop him, only halting once he had passed the town walls. It wasn’t so much Geralt’s own choice, but suddenly, Roach started bucking, refusing to walk a single step further in the direction Geralt tried to lead her. After a minute of arguing, Geralt succumbed to his fate and let Roach decide on the way. As stubborn as she sometimes could be, Geralt trusted her instincts. And strangely enough, now that he wasn’t so focussed on getting away as fast as he could, Geralt noticed the slightest tug in his chest, urging him to where Roach was already straining to go.

When Roach finally slowed, it took Geralt a moment to realise what this place was. A small stone wall stood before him and behind that…

Ice splintered in Geralt’s chest. Without knowing what he was doing, Geralt dismounted Roach and walked towards the gate in the wall like in a trance.

He pushed the gate open, dread pooling in his stomach. The cold certainty of what this place was washed over him, even before he laid eyes on the rows of tombstones. This was a cemetery.

It wasn’t unusual for towns to have their cemetery outside of their town walls, which had always made it easier for Geralt to do his job whenever he was hunting ghouls or other necrophages. For a moment, he thought that was what had brought him here, some sort of hunter instinct telling him that there was a monster here, but his medallion remained unmoving against his chest.

With measured steps, he walked through the rows, aimlessly but with unnatural fear sending chills up his spine.

Then he heard it. The grunts and noises of a man driving a shovel in the ground. Geralt followed the noise, dreading what he was about to find, but unable to stop himself from continuing onwards.

When he reached the source of the noise, the undertaker looked up at him with the bleary eyes of a man, who had hoped he wouldn’t have to work that day. The expression made unreasonable anger flare up in Geralt. He must not have been able to control his expression as well as he thought, for the undertaker visibly sobered up and reeled back.

“I’m sorry.” He took the shovel in one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “If I had known anyone would come to the funeral, I would have waited.”

Geralt scowled. “No one came?”

It shouldn’t have bothered Geralt as much as it did. For most of his life, Geralt had been living in the certainty that he could count himself lucky if he even got buried at all and not just left to rot where he would die or be thrown in a ditch. Yet, there was something utterly wrong with just the two of them standing in front of this fresh grave; a stranger and an undertaker. One here by chance, the other for a job he didn’t want to do.

The undertaker shrugged. “Didn’t have any friends here, this one. Family didn’t care much for him either. Think they might even live somewhere else, but I never cared enough to ask.” He leaned on his shovel, as if this was just a normal conversation. “The innkeeper of the Sleeping Hare came to me this morning, telling me to get the body out of the room…”

Geralt’s brows drew together. “He was a traveller then?”

The undertaker huffed. “He wasn’t anyone, really. No one important. ” He caught Geralt’s gaze and blinked, taken aback by what he found in Geralt’s expression, before adding hastily, “Not to talk bad of the dead, of course. I’m sure he was a good fellow… anyway, my job here is done. I should probably leave you to…your mourning. I suppose.”

Geralt didn’t reply. As the undertaker shuffled away awkwardly, Geralt’s eyes were transfixed on the headstone. It was plane, just like the grave itself. No decorations, no meaningful words. Just a name and two dates.

Yarrow.

Geralt had known. Somehow, he had known that this was the name he would find on the tombstone, and yet, seeing it written there, broke something within him. He hadn’t known Yarrow for long enough to really grieve for him, but seeing that no one else did….it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what Yarrow deserved. He had been so full of life and excitement when he had spoken of the things he had loved. He had been so adamant about making Geralt feel less alone.

And now here he was, alone in the earth, with no one but Geralt to visit his grave.

This was where they always ended up, wasn’t it? This was the reason why Geralt hadn’t wanted another companion, because sooner or later, they would end up exactly like this.

Geralt wished it had been later for Yarrow, just a few merciful years more. If this was how it was always going to end, then at least Yarrow could have gotten to have a friend, as bad a companion as Geralt was. It would have been something at least.

Geralt’s eyes drifted down to the dates. Yarrow had been so young, barely in his twenties. Too young to die. Life wasn’t fair, but why did it have to be so cruel? Why did it have to take and take and never stop taking?

Geralt didn’t have a scar for this life that had been taken. Not a visible one at least. He almost wished he had one. If only so he’d have something to remember the man who had insisted on being his friend by.

Could they have become friends, if Geralt had given Yarrow any sort of reassurance that he would come for him? Could Geralt have found a way to be good for him?

He didn’t think so, but now he would never know. All he knew was that he would continue to be alone and so would Yarrow, once Geralt left his grave’s side. If anyone came by per chance while visiting someone else’s grave, all they would know about Yarrow would be his name, how short his life had been and that no one cared enough about him to leave him flowers. They would know nothing more. Not what he had been, not what he had meant to anyone.

Geralt hesitated. There probably was a law of respect about tampering with gravestones, but there was no one around to see, no one to care.

Slowly and with his heart hammering painfully against his ribs, he pulled out his hunting knife. What he was about to do, would dull his knife beyond saving, but just this once, Geralt didn’t care about his weapons. All he cared about was that Yarrow shouldn’t be forgotten.

The letters he carved painstakingly into the stone weren’t pretty, but when he was finally finished, it was as if a weight was lifted of his chest.

Yarrow, artist and friend.

The words were as plain as the rest of the stone, and Yarrow surely would have complained about the lack of artistry, but it was all Geralt could give him.

For a long time, he just looked at the scripture with a strange feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite place. For some reason, his eyes were drawn back to the first date on the stone. There was something vaguely familiar about that first date. It tugged at a memory somewhere at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on what had happened on the day of Yarrow’s birth that made it recognisable. Something important, surely. Something historical or something personal, if Geralt remembered the date.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to think about history. He shouldn’t let his mind drift to such things while standing over his almost-friend’s grave.

It felt awkward just standing there, silently. When he had buried Jaskier, Geralt had listened to all of Jaskier’s friends tell tales about the memories they had of Jaskier. They had spoken about his songs, his laughter, the love he had given. Geralt had been silent most of the time then too, but in his heart, he had thought about every moment he had been allowed to spend with Jaskier.

Now, though, he barely had anything to remember. He had already spent the past week thinking about Yarrow and the way his words had given Geralt comfort and had made him yearn. Yet one thing he remembered clear as day, made him stay at the grave. For just one night.

Because Yarrow had been afraid of the dark. Just as he had been afraid of being alone. It was foolish, but Geralt couldn’t leave him here in the dark all alone for his first night in the ground. So he stayed, sat down next to the grave and produced a small flame with igni, that he held in his hand until the morning dawned, just as he had done a week ago.

He didn’t sing Jaskier’s lullaby. But it was a damn near thing.

In the morning, Geralt left in search of flowers to put on the grave, to make it a little less barren and lonely. Yarrow would have liked having flowers on his grave, he was sure. So Geralt did his best to search for yarrows he could dig up with their roots mostly intact.

It felt right planting them on the grave, knowing they would continue to grow and keep Yarrow company. When he took a step back to look at his work, there was one single buttercup that he hadn’t even noticed he had taken with him as well, right in the middle of the yarrows.

For a second, his fingers twitched to tear the flower out again, but then he relaxed, even giving the flower a small smile. It looked nice there, surrounded by the bigger flowers. Almost like it belonged there.

With one last look to the gravestone, Geralt turned around, leaving this place for good.

It wasn’t until he was already a day’s ride away from the cemetery when he realised why that date on the gravestone had been so familiar to him. It had been the day Lettenhove had gone up in flames. The day of Yarrow’s birth had been the day Viscount Alfred had died.

Life continued on. It always did, at least for Geralt. He lived while the world changed and people died around him. It had always been like this. He had survived the trials, the death screams of the other boys ringing in his ears. Kaer Morhen had been sacked and almost all witchers living there slaughtered and Geralt had been among the painfully few that had survived.

Jaskier had died in his arms.

A little boy had taken his last breath right before Geralt could reach him.

A Viscount died.

Yarrow did too.

And Geralt kept on living, kept on hunting, kept on remembering every single life he had outlived. He kept on pretending that it didn’t matter to him, that he didn’t grieve for every single one of them.

He didn’t visit Yarrow’s grave. But he did go to Dol Blathanna. The valley of flowers had changed since Geralt had last been there. There must have been some sort of battle, for most of the land was scorched and no flowers bloomed there any longer. Except for that small patch near the mountains where Jaskier lay.

Geralt remembered Triss’ promise that the spell she had cast over the patch of land would keep it safe and the flowers from dying. At least one thing that wouldn’t wither away.

Geralt sank to his knees in front of the old grave the sight of which still hurt Geralt as if he had dug it this morning. There were things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. Not like Jaskier would have.

With a heart that felt heavy as lead and a tight throat, he stared at the dandelions blooming on the grave. Jaskier would have liked the flowers.

But he would have hated everything else. He would have wanted to stay with Geralt. He would have wanted to see him smile instead of crumbling like he did. That was all Jaskier had ever wanted for him. Not to be alone. To know that he had someone there by his side who saw him as more than just the witcher that he was.

Geralt had come so close to finding someone like that again, to fulfilling Jaskier’s wish.

“I made a friend.” His voice came out as a hoarse croak and the words felt like a lie. He hadn’t made a friend. But he had come close to it. Close enough that Jaskier would have been proud of him, surely. “His name was Yarrow.”

He let out a wet laugh. “Yeah, I know. Seems I keep stumbling about people who name themselves after flowers.” He reached out, brushing a hand over one of the few dandelions that still bloomed yellow. “You would have liked him, I think. He was an artist. He wanted me to give him a review on his works, can you believe it?” A trembling smile tugged at his lips. “For a moment there I thought he was going to ask for three words.”

With a sigh, he stood back up, going over to Roach and pulling out the sketchbook be had found in his saddlebags not a week after he had left Yarrow.

He hesitated, before sitting back down before Jaskier.

“It’s silly,” he said, running his fingers over the worn edges of the sketchbook. “But I wanted to wait looking at this until I was here with you again. You would have been able to give Yarrow a better review than I ever could. I think he would have liked you to see his drawings.”

A lump formed in his throat. It was only half the truth. Yes, it had felt wrong to look at Yarrow’s sketchbook while sitting in some rundown tavern or in a forest surrounded by cobwebs and dirt, but the other reason for waiting for so long, was that a selfish part of Geralt had been able to pretend that it wasn’t a sketchbook he was holding at all. The binding of it was so similar to the notebooks Jaskier had always favoured, that Geralt could let himself imagine it was a book of verse and not art he was carrying with him, as long as he didn’t look inside.

It had been too long since Geralt had been able to thumb through Jaskier’s notebooks. They had gotten so old that he had been forced to give them to the academy to preserve it if he didn’t want them to fall apart in his hands.

It hadn’t been fair to Yarrow to imagine it was something of Jaskier’s. So giving his drawings the right amount of appreciation now, felt all the more important.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Geralt opened the only reminder he had of the man who could have become his friend.

At the very front of the book there was a note. Nothing special, just a plea that if anyone ever found it, they should return it to Yarrow.

It was as ordinary a note as any, and yet it made Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. He leaned in closer to the book, trying to find what was bothering him so much about the note that his heart sped up and a knot twisted in his gut.

It was…it was just wishful thinking. Geralt had spent so long imagining that it was Jaskier’s notebook that now that he saw writing in it, his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But there was no denying it; the way Yarrow had embellished some of his otherwise spidery letters was nearly identical to Jaskier’s handwriting whenever the poet had rushed to put all of his ideas down onto paper while still wanting them to look pretty.

Geralt’s fingers hovered over the note, as if afraid the resemblance would disappear if he touched the letters.

Geralt swallowed thickly, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the note. It had to be a coincidence. It had been decades since Geralt had last seen Jaskier’s writing and there were probably a lot of people with similar handwriting. It didn’t mean anything.

Just how Yarrow singing a long-forgotten lullaby didn’t mean anything.

Just how that “See you around” hadn’t meant anything.

Just how Yarrow naming himself after a yellow flower didn’t mean anything.

Just how Yarrow commenting on Roach having braids without ever having seen her with them didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t mean anything.

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the ball of one trembling hand against it. This was madness. He shouldn’t be even thinking about such things. Those had been coincidences. They had to have been meaningless.

If not, that would mean….if they hadn’t been coincidences, that would mean that Geralt had lost more than just another chance at having a friend. It meant that something far more beautiful and terrible was happening. A dream come true or a nightmare dragging Geralt under.

With a shuddering breath, Geralt forced his eyes open again. His heart was beating wildly and with one last hopeless look – or perhaps it was one full of fearful hope? – to Jaskier’s grave, Geralt flipped to the first page.

For an irrational second, his only though was an amused and fond Yarrow really wasn’t exaggerating when he said he loved to draw eyes.

Then, with the force of a wyvern slamming into him, Geralt’s mind caught up with what he was seeing. The hundreds of eyes that were staring up at him from the pages weren’t just any eyes. Most of them were of a rich amber colour. Witcher eyes. His eyes.

His stomach twisted and cold fear plunged its claws into Geralt’s chest as he frantically flipped through the pages, desperate to find something that proved that this wasn’t happening. That there wasn’t a connection between Jaskier and the man he had let die on his own without even calling him his friend.

But every page he saw only made the terrible certainty grow stronger. At the top of some of the pages, there were notes, like an explanation for what exactly Yarrow had drawn.

Fear.

Hurt.

Guilt.

The eyes staring up at Geralt were like a mirror image of the emotions raging through him at this very moment.

Contentment.

Laughter.

Love.

Yarrow had never seen him like that. There had been so precious few people who had ever seen his eyes the way Yarrow had painted them.

Looking at a lover while being read poetry to.

Playful annoyance at hearing a song made up of purely of puns.

They were too specific. No one could just come up with these scenarios that truly had happened to Geralt such a long time ago. Yarrow couldn’t know. He couldn’t. Not unless –

Devastation while his lover dies in his arms, wishing to see his smile just one more time and listening to the song he’s singing for him.

Not unless somehow, through some cruel twist of fate or an undeserved blessing, Yarrow had been Jaskier.

#reincarnation au #geraskier #geralt #character death #funeral #graves #guilt #fic #witcher #witcher fic #my writing #angst #fanfic

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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years

Text

Geralt and the Minotaur p2

Pairing: Geraskier?????

Warnings: violence, talk of human sacrifice, talk of cannibalism, this is ancient Greece baby, they buck-wild, sad goodbyes?

AN: anthropologists have found evidence that the people of Crete ate their dead. fucking wack right?? also they were the major power in the area at the time and defs considered downright ruthless (think Nilfguard)

part 1 here!

__________

Plans were made, if you could call them plans; Geralt was going in blind. No one who’d ever entered the labyrinth below the palace of Crete had ever returned, save for the architect, and even he almost died in the maze. All they could prepare for was getting him home. He had one day after they were released into the tunnels to make it out alive and to the port.

As the day grew closer he found sleep harder to come by. Anyone he spoke to was positive, encouraging, some of the senior military officers even offered advice, but he saw the pity in their eyes. Eskel and Lambert trained him hard, telling him they’d rather him die of heat exhaustion in the arena than by the hands of the minotaur. He heard people's whispers from around corners and his father's advisors worry over who would inherit the crown when he didn't come back. It seemed everyone thought he was as good as dead.

He spent most of the night before they were to leave wandering the cliffs overlooking the sea. He’d never tried to speak to his Olympian father, sure he made sacrifices and said his thanks, but he had yet to seek answers from him. He stopped to stare out at the waves, the sound of them rushing over the rocks below coming to him as a comfort. Now wasn’t the time, he decided, better not to test his Posiden’s favor before something so important.

He arrived back at the palace just after dawn to a great flurry and bustle of activity. Someone pulled him into a dressing chamber and helped him work out best how to hide a knife in his robes. In the end, they opted for a shorter chiton, only tied at his off hand shoulder to give him as much freedom with his weapon as possible. The blade was tucked between the layers of fabric and the belt around his waist where he could easily grab it but, hopefully, no one would see it. He’d have to be careful sitting down, but it gave him comfort knowing it was secured beneath his navel. The piece was hemmed above his knee, easier to run in, and made of common, sturdy grey fabric. The hope was he wouldn't be recognized, though there was nothing to be done about his hair and eyes.

Vessimir said nothing all morning, he followed his son from room to room as he asked Lambert last-minute questions and had a final, quivering voiced pep talk with Eskel. It felt as though Apollo was meandering across the sky, drawing out the agony of their wait.

When the sun was finally directly overhead, there was a chorus of screams as mothers spotted black sails on the horizon.

Geralt had felt nothing all morning until seeing those sails. Now his palms were sweating, his heart pumping as if he’d sprinted the amphitheater stairs, and he felt if he looked his father directly in the eye he might fall into a fit of tears.

Finally, the time had come, the ship was roughly a mile out, and he would have to join the others soon.

Vessimir gripped his shoulder, “Geralt,” the boy, for that is certainly what he felt like, looked up at him with a trembling bottom lip, “I am proud of you. It may scare me, but you are a fair and noble leader; not a mere ruling body.”

Geralt nodded, biting his cheek to keep his tears at bay as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Vessimir pulled him into his arms, wrapping him in a bone-crushing hug, “I love you.”

Geralt tucked his head into his father's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as tears cascaded over his cheeks. He had only just found his father, and now he’d thrown this away on some stupid impulse?

A guard cleared his throat, a signal that time was running short.

Geralt couldn’t be the one to let go, not even if he’d wanted to. Vessimir had to gently push him away, holding him at arms distance.

“When you come back, raise white sails. I need to know you’ve survived as soon as I see your vessel.”

Geralt nodded, taking the yards upon yards of folded white canvas from an attendant, “I love you, father.”

Vessimir’s lips formed a thin line behind his beard and he nodded, “Go be a hero.”

He followed the plain-clothed guard to the docks where families were gathered saying goodbyes full of false hope. One look at the terrified prince had mothers clutching their children tight and begging the gods for mercy. Guilt weighed heaviest on his chest when fathers reassured their daughters that the slayer of Procrustes and the wild boar would protect them. He wondered if they were lying, or if they really believed he could save their children.

They were corralled onto the boat in a flurry of shouts and soldiers in unfamiliar armor and colors. Geralt tucked the sails inside a coil of rope that came up to his waist in the chaos. Before the fourteen youths were even pushed into the lowered portion of the deck, the soldiers shoved off from the dock, dodging rocks and trying to tune out the wails.

Geralt was herded next to a boy maybe one year his junior as the rowers began to heave at the oars. He stumbled into the brunet when the vessel surged forward.

“Sorry, I’ve never been to sea like this before,” he muttered, reaching out to steady himself against the mast in the center of their makeshift prison.

The boy looked up at him with a grin, blue eyes matching the sea behind him, “Well now’s a good time for firsts, yeah?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “Nothing like certain death to inspire optimism.”

A small snicker reached over the rush of the wind as the boy shook his head, “I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.”

A soldier slammed his spear on the deck, “Oi! No talking!”

“Fuck off, you dirty cannibal.” Jaskier snapped back at him, turning to face the man twice his size. The man glowered at him but the boy stood his ground, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing despite his best interest, “Is the whole island full of bull-fuckers like your queen? Or is beastiality only reserved for the royals?”

Geralt gripped the neck of the boy’s tunic and yanked him back just in time to avoid the blunt end of a spear swinging at his head. He pulled Jaskier around to stand behind him, turning to grab the spear just as it was thrust at his chest. There was a moment of eye contact between Geralt and the soldier before he twisted his wrist and snapped the handle in half. The soldier let out a yell and swung with his fists at Geralt’s head. He sidestepped and gripped the soldier's wrist, using his momentum to pull him down the step, and gripping his backplate with his other hand. He slammed the soldier into the mast as hard as he could, making the rigging rattle with the force. When the soldier tried to struggle Geralt twisted his wrist behind his back.

He leaned in close and growled in the man’s ear, “We have no choice but to go,” Geralt paused to crank the man’s arm even farther up between his shoulder blades, “but touch a hair on their heads and I will swiftly remove yours.”

“You would try.” The man gasped, clearly trying to sound more confident than he was.

Geralt rolled his eyes and grunted as he wheeled around and threw the man back up to his fellow countrymen. He landed on his shoulder at their feet, a sickening crack filling the tense silence. The strangled gasp the man let out made Geralt want to wince, but he kept his face set in stone.

“Don’t touch them.” his voice was strong and sure despite feeling like he might faint.

The captain stepped forward, holding a hand up to his men, “You stay put, and they’ll keep their distance.”

Geralt nodded, waiting till the Cretian turned away before looking for Jaskier, “Are you alright?”

He nodded, stepping up close to Geralt and gripping his hips, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The terror that had weighed him down all day was temporarily forgotten as Geralt shivered under his touch.

“Your knife came loose.” Jaskier whispered against his cheek, subtly twisting the prince’s belt, “Don’t want them spying it.”

Geralt swallowed hard, fighting the urge to follow Jaskier when he pulled away, “Thank you.”

“Please. I should be thanking you.” Jaskier cocked his head to the side, squinting as he examined Geralt’s face, “Are you always so pale?”

Geralt released the breath he was holding, letting himself smile as he shook his head.

Everyone was settling into groups around them, some sitting and chatting quietly, their bodies tense as they leaned in close, others holding hands and staring out over the sea. Jaskier slid down the mast, patting the deck beside him as if Geralt hadn’t already decided he wouldn’t leave the boy alone until they were safely back on Athenian shores.

Jaskier rested with his shoulder against Geralt’s, practically ordering his body to relax.

Leaning into him, Geralt trembled, no longer able to keep his nerves contained as the adrenaline seeped out of his body, “Do they really eat people in Crete? No one will tell me.”

“All I know are rumors- Are you alright?” Jaskier asked, fixing Geral with a worried look as he rested a hand on his knee.

“Fine.” Geralt lied, feeling his whole body shake with the effort of keeping him upright and his eyes open. It didn’t help that this boy was magnetic and distracting, drawing him closer with his gentle touch and fearless nature. Geralt wondered if their dire circumstances were what made him react this way or if he would have been just as allured by the reckless boy had they met back home.

“It’s nearing dusk, when was the last time you slept?” Jaskier examined the deep blue bags under his eyes as Geralt stubbornly avoided his gaze. Eskel had told him to be wary of everything, especially anyone who wasn’t just as terrified as him, but everything in Geralt was telling him to trust Jaskier.

He shrugged, honestly unable to say when he actually slept last. The night before had been spent in denial and before that he wasn’t sure if any of the time he spent with his eyes closed could really have counted as sleep.

Jaskier shifted, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him to lay his head on his lap, “You need to rest.”

Geralt made a feeble effort to fight him, born out of pride more than actual desire, “I need to stay alert. I can’t defend us if I’m asleep.”

“Sshhhhh,” Jaskier ran a hand through Geralt’s hair, making his scalp tingle under his touch, “You can’t defend anyone too exhausted to stand,” he whispered. Geralt gave in, making it clear he was doing so reluctantly, even if he was unable to keep his eyes from closing as he rested against Jaskier’s thigh. The blue-eyed boy hummed a soft tune, something Geralt’s mother used to sing him to sleep with, and every stroke through his hair sent a wave of calm through his body. The sensation lulled him closer to sleep despite the angry crashing of waves against the hull and violent shifting of the boat beneath them.

“Wake me.. If…”

“I’ll wake you if you’re needed.” Jaskier assured him, resting a hand on his sternum, “Sleep, hero.”

With the promise, Geralt relinquished his already weak grasp on consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

__________

part 3 here!

if you wanna be tagged just let me know! 🥰

@hailhailsatan

#geralt and the minotaur #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #jullian alfred pankratz #the witcher fanfic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia fic #the witcher greek au #greek au #geraskier greek au #greek mythology #theseus and the minotaur #regan writes

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cuculine-nelipot · 4 years

Text

ON LUTE STRINGS

{a/n I posted this on ao3 a while ago but I finally got around to sorting out the last of spelling errors and what-nots today I think. So here we are.}

The first time in happens, he doesn’t notice.

They’ve made camp for the night, in a clearing in the woods. He’s had some bread, and even a little meat when the witcher caught him staring longingly at his roast hare.

A fire burns warm, and light enough to for Jaskier to check the angry red welt on his abdomen, already purple in places. He inhales sharply when he prods at it with a tentative finger, and vaguely wonders how long it’ll last.

Half dressed, lazing on his bedroll with his back braced against bark, he fiddles with his new lute. Getting a proper feel for the instrument, he plucks a charming, tripping little tune he can play without too much thought — an Elven composition he stumbled upon as a lad in temple school that seems appropriate to the occasion. He marvels at how buttery the strings feel under his fingertips, how clear the notes ring through the trees. A shiver of pure satisfaction shoots through him, from his hands right down to his gut.

“Shut up boy.” The growl comes from the man — mutant — whatever, on the other side of the fire. Jaskier heaves a pointed sigh.

“Goodnight Geralt.”

He gets naught but a half-hum-half-grunt in response as he puts his lute aside and settles into his bedroll.

In the morning he doesn’t notice that his torso is completely unmarred.

The second instance occurs not much later, but is similarly shrouded by unremarkable circumstance.

It had been a damp few days on the road, and there is not enough herbal tea on the continent to stave off the cold building uncomfortably behind his face.

He watches Geralt fiddle with his various vials and blades and what-nots from his bed on the other side of the room. He shouldn’t — he knows he shouldn’t — but he feels a sort of ache in his chest, knowing that come morning he will likely be too sick to travel. Knowing that he will be left behind. The witcher had said as much, after all.

For now at least, there is a warm room, and food enough, and his music, and he is not alone yet. He picks up his lute and plays that same, well-worn tune, the one that feels like the home he always wanted, the one that sounds like the lullabies he’s never heard. He lets the music wash through him, a stream of sound trickling in his veins, cresting in his skull. He plays until he feels tired, and calm enough to sleep.

Sure enough, he wakes up to a high sun, and the room is much, much emptier than it was the night before.

But he feels better. His nose is clear, the pressure behind his eyes in gone. It’s curious, he thinks, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He sets out soon after, not wanting to lose daylight. If he just so happens to run into a certain witcher, well, there’s only one road out of town isn’t there? Somethings just can't be helped.

He does run into him, that night, making camp not too far off the road.

“You’re sick,” comes the other man’s effusive, albeit confused, greeting.

“I was sick. Feeling much better now, thanks for asking.”

“Hm.”

“And thanks for walking so slow, honestly I can’t believe I caught up with you. Aren’t witchers supposed to have phenomenal stamina or something? Maybe you’re getting old — how old are you anyway?”

“Too old for this. Here.” Without looking, Geralt holds out a steaming mug of something.

“What’s this?” Jaskier asked, only slightly suspicious.

“Tea. You still sound hoarse.”

Jaskier can’t say for sure, but he thinks he sees red creeping up Geralt’s neck when he turns his back to Jaskier.

So many such incidences scattered through so many years, and with the ignorance of youth Jaskier notices none of them. Just like he fails to notice how at 26 his face looks identical to what it was at 18, or that he still has the same boundless energy. He doesn’t take into consideration paper cuts that are there one minute and gone the next. He doesn’t find the fact that he can’t remember the last time he was properly sick or bruised peculiar at all, despite the frequent bar fights and rambles in the rain.

Until, that is, another night spent under the stars in the woods somewhere.

“Pass me that?” Geralt makes no indication of what he’s after, but Jaskier knows him well enough by now to know he’s means his dagger. He moves to give it to him but it slips out of his hand almost as soon as he picks it up; its point slices though his breeches and a few layers of skin on the way down.

“Ow. Ow. Fucking shit ow.” He peppers the air with curses as he sinks to the ground. The edges of the slit silk begin to turn red with his blood, and he quickly but carefully divests himself of the garment before any more damage can be done. With a sigh that’s more annoyed than anything, Geralt turns around to give him a cursory glance.

“Stay there,” he huffs.

“Solid advice once again there, Geralt. And here I was thinking I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s travels.” It might have sounded scathing if his voice and his breathing weren’t so obviously strained with pain.

“Trust you to split your leg open trying to pass someone a knife.” Geralt finally approaches with his first-aid kit. Calloused fingers tenderly come to rest on Jaskier’s thigh, just barely pulling at his skin, shifting his leg, trying to ascertain the extant of the damage. “Needs stitches,” he says as he applies a salve. “This will keep it from getting infected, and it’ll numb the pain a bit, but not a lot.”

The burning pain in his leg does in fact morph into something cold, and almost soothing, but he had no delusions about how much that will do under the attention of a needle and thread.

“Come on.” Geralt pulls one of Jaskier’s arms up, draping it around his shoulder and pulling him to a standing position. Though the bard has a slighter build, he's not much shorter, so Geralt half drags the bard to sit fireside, setting him down with a gentleness not lost on the injured man.

As Geralt prepares to sew him up, Jaskier grabs his lute from where it lays nearby, and starts playing that old melody to calm himself down. After all these years, the sound has come to resemble home to Geralt almost as much as it does to Jaskier, and he feels tension he didn’t know he carried slough away from his shoulders. There’s an ever so slight shivering where his medallion touches his chest, so slight that Geralt’s conscious mind fails to register it, just like every other time.

But when he returns to Jaskier side the hum of his silver seems suddenly to fill the arena of his chest and skull.

“Jaskier.”

“Hm?”

“Your leg.”

“I’m actually trying rather hard to not think about my leg at present, so if you could just finish up there as quickly as possible I would be very appreciative.”

“Jaskier, look.”

Geralt speaks with such urgency Jaskier does look, his finger’s stilling over his lute when he sees that the gash has been greatly diminished.

“Keep playing.”

Jaskier does, and they both watch as the laceration smooths over, first pink, and then gone, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Well shit.”

“Hm.”

They’re silent for awhile, all eyes fixed on Jaskier’s leg.

“Did you know you could do that?”

“I… no,” Jaskier decides eventually. For once his babbling brook of words is dry, replaced instead by pebble-small memories being flung at him at high speed. “I never bruised.”

“Hm?”

“When you punched me in the stomach. When we met. I never bruised. I don’t remember — the last time I got hurt, or really sick, was… years ago. Years and years.”

“I guess… it explains… things.”

They look at each other then, equal parts worried and concerned and excited, so many questions swirling in the air between them.

Jaskier doesn’t exactly want anyone knowing that he has a magic lute, so their research into the matter relies almost exclusively on experimentation.

They learn that it works best when Jaskier plays something Elven, and much slower when he plays anything else.

They learn that while he can’t heal Geralt, he can numb the pain if he’s injured. and even — as he discovered completely by accident — induce a short coma.

They learn that Jaskier can’t use this magic to hurt anyone, even certain other ‘bards’ who definitely have it coming.

They learn, after many, many strenuous hours of Jaskier’s instructing Geralt, that it only works when Jaskier plays.

“It’s protecting you,” Geralt proffers. “The lute was Filavendrel’s gift to you, after all.”

“Protecting me from what though?”

Geralt shrugs at that. “Everything. Life.”

Jaskier doesn’t know why things change between them exactly — he just knows that Geralt doesn’t seem to hold him at such a distance anymore; he lets Jaskier stay closer on hunts, and he’s not so quick to leave him behind. Gone are the days where he seems determined to find any excuse to lose the bard.

And more than that — on cold nights spent under the open sky, Geralt doesn’t just meditate stoically next to Jaskier to keep the younger man warm -- he actually sleeps, holding Jaskier near. And on those occasions when an an inn can only offer one bed, Geralt doesn’t seem to mind so much anymore when Jaskier sleepily snuggles closer, or drapes himself over the Witcher’s chest. There are even times when Jaskier thinks he can feel the thrill of a nose pressed into his hair, or a broad hand stroking his stomach, or fingers lazily scratching his back.

Jaskier doesn’t really know why things change, but he never was one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he's definitely not complaining.

“Jaskier? Jaskier stay awake, I need you to stay awake okay?” He should have known better than to let the bard get so close to a wyvern but they’re the stuff of legends Geralt, think of the music Geralt, the poetry. Geralt tried to tell him that wyverns were ugly bastards — absolutely nothing legendary or poetical about them. But Jaskier had his heart set, and Geralt, well, Geralt gave in.

Guilt helps no one however, so he just presses Roach onward, faster.

“’M’tired.” It’s clear that Jaskier is in no condition to play — the gash at his shoulder is bone deep, and it was all Geralt could do to keep it from spurting blood and stay attached before getting him on Roach — so Geralt takes him straight to the town’s healer.

“Just a little longer. I promise.” Leaning forward, he presses a kiss into Jaskier’s sweat-soaked hair. Stay awake, please stay awake.

By the time they get to the healer Jaskier’s skin is on fire, and he’s coughing strangled, wet coughs, and there are cuts and bruises covering his entire body that have no reason to be there. It’s only when he sees a familiar gash on the bard’s right thigh that he figures out what’s happening.

The last thing Jaskier remembers is a gigantic angry lizard screaming at him and lunging. Then a searing pain turned his vision white, then more pain ripped through his body as he was thrown, weightless into absolute dark.

Something pulled him cruelly from the vortex of nothingness, arranged his mangled body into what he thinks was an upright position. Then more pain as he was jostled about, more pain as he was surely dismembered, more pain as tendrils of hot summer air whipped at his exposed flesh. There was more jostling, and he tried to throw up but he didn’t know where his stomach was, and liquid fire was flung over whatever pieces were left of him, and there was an awful lot of screaming but it couldn’t have been him because he didn’t know where his lungs or throat were either.

And throughout he thought there was a voice telling him to stay awake, or go to sleep, or telling him he was okay (which seems like at odd thing to say to someone who was just ripped apart limb from limb) and he thinks the voice was Geralt’s but that can’t be right because now every time he opens his eyes to see him he’s not there, and — well, that’s it’s own kind of pain isn’t it?

He’s not sure how much time has passed between the lizard, the fire, and him waking up to find himself in one piece. One piece, but battered and bandaged, and too hot and very congested. He does not think he's being dramatic when he concludes that he's more miserable than he’s ever been.

The room he finds himself in is bare, but pleasant enough. Where ever he is is made of a warm, gold-honey sort of wood. Sunlight streams in through wide, open windows, gauzy curtains float listlessly in a gentle breeze. He’s sure the mattress and sheets he’s on would be more than comfortable if he wasn’t quite so sore. There’s a glass, and a pitcher of water on a small table to his side. He’s working up the courage to prop himself up and drink some when a strange man walks in.

“Ah, you’re awake!” The smile he gives reaches his soft grey eyes, and it warms Jaskier to see someone seemingly so happy to see him alive.

He tries to ask where he is, but his throat feels like sand paper, and all he manages is a hoarse sort of scraping sound.

“It’s probably best you don’t talk for now,” the strange man says as he moves to perch himself on the edge of the bed. “Here let me help you with that.” He fills the glass, lifts Jaskier’s head with practiced care and brings the water to his chapped lips. Jaskier manages to down half of it, and while swallowing is painful, the cool water feels heavenly going down.

“First,” the man offers, his countenance shifting into something more authoritative, “you must be wondering where you are. If you remember the last village you were in, this cabin is a little outside of that. I am a healer — you can call me Varden — and your friend brought you here about five days ago. He said you were attacked by a wyvern, but you had a multitude of other injuries on top of that and a rather nasty illness to boot. Your friend also informed me that you have a magic lute.”

He pauses then, giving Jaskier time to throw him a questioning, mildly suspicious look.

“I’ve had a look at it, and I concluded that you and your friend were right. Its magic does protect you, so long as you play it. When you were attacked the shock your body went through temporarily severed your connection to its magic, and all the injuries and illnesses it protected you from came back with a vengeance. I know it must be tempting now to make all this pain go away, but I really think you better let yourself heal properly to avoid this happening again, and much worse.”

After a moment of contemplation, Jaskier nods in agreement. His stomach knots, but surely that’s just a symptom of his ailments.

“Good!” He claps his hands together, the exuberance he first displayed returning in full force. “Now that you’re properly awake I’ll make you some soup. You just rest, alright? You’ve made remarkable progress the last few days but there’s still quite a ways for you to go.”

He leaves then, and Jaskier can hear the clinking of pots and pans as he moves around the kitchen. Tired, but no longer able to sleep, restless, but unable to move, a dull ache throbbing through his whole body, he fixes his eyes on the ceiling, trying to find patterns and shapes and in the woodgrain.

“You’re awake.”

He doesn’t need to turn to see who it is, so he doesn’t.

“I had to complete a couple of contracts. To pay the healer.”

There’s nothing to say to that, and even if there were, he can’t speak, so he keeps his eyes fixed firmly upward.

“Jaskier—” Geralt takes a few steps closer, thinks better of it, and leaves.

The ceiling blurs, and Jaskier can’t make sense of it anymore.

They stay another three weeks — or Jaskier does, and Geralt scrounges up some more coin, coming and going as he pleases.

On days he does stay; he curls up on the floor next to Jaskier’s bed, where Jaskier slides in and out of fitful, fevered dreams. When the sick man hears a gravelly voices cooing comfort, or he feels a rough hand push the hair from his brow, or wipes the sweat from his face, he wants to believe it’s Geralt. Lucid, Varden’s is the only face he sees.

Finally the fever breaks, and Jaskier’s wounds have healed well enough for travel. Geralt returns and pays Varden more than was asked. He runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair, peers at him closely, much like he’s checking on a dog who’d just run headfirst into a door.

“Ready to go?”

Jaskier, his voice still worn, and slightly put off by the gesture, only nods in response.

Without another word, Geralt takes Jaskier’s pack, puts him on Roach, takes Roach’s lead, and guides them away from the cottage, and back on the Path.

The thing is, despite his tepid countenance, Jaskier is sure that Geralt’s angry at him. Or he’s angry about something at any rate.

Perhaps it’s the frustration at having been tied too long to one place — ridiculous really. It’s not like anyone asked him to stay. It can’t be about the coin, seeing as he willingly over-paid.

So maybe it’s just that the sudden and violent reminder of Jaskier’s mortality pierced the both of them, and tore to ribbons the fragile intimacy they had spent so long weaving.

“You can’t play off every cut and flu from now on.” He says as they enter the woods.

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

"I know." Jaskier supposes that he’ll just have to reacquaint himself with a life of being left behind.

Neither of them speak for the rest of the day. But then that night Jaskier can't fall asleep, his still-frail body shivering, too sensitive to the open air. He hears a resigned sigh, which is soon followed by the warmth of Geralt’s chest pressed behind him. Geralt’s hand cards his hair back, away from his eyes, Geralt’s nose brushes his scalp, Geralt inhales deeply, and holds him close with an arm firmly pressed against the length of his torso, and Jaskier thinks that maybe things will be okay. When he feels a chaste kiss at the back of his neck, he’s almost sure they will be, but then he wonders if it was a goodbye.

“I’m fine.”

“Jask—”

“It’s fine, I’ll be right as rain by morning.”

“Jaskier, you can’t. You promised.”

“I never promised, and I’m coming with you.”

“You’ll stay here. I’ll pick up a contract or two and I’ll come back for you in a few days.”

“No you won’t.” He doesn’t know whether it sounded more a directive, or the wounded that’s-what you-always-say it really was. In the stunned silence that follows he feels more and more like he’s confessed to something, so he adds “I’m not letting you leave me Geralt,” — which is infinitely worse.

And now he can’t look at the other man, and now his face is burning and his eyes are watering in a way that has nothing to do with the illness preparing to wrack through his body.

“Okay.” Whatever Jaskier was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. It startles him enough to make eye contact. Geralt holds his gaze, and takes a few, cautious steps closer. “I’ll stay.”

“You don’t have to.” Jaskier offers in a weak attempt to maintain some level of dignity.

“No, I want to.” Geralt places his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, then slowly grazes them down his arms as his continues. “I’ll stay. With you.” The words are nearly a whisper as he presses his lips to Jaskier’s too-warm brow. “Just please go to bed. You need rest.”

Without out waiting for a response, Geralt manoeuvres the sick man to the bed, tucking him in. When he straightens, Jaskier looks like he wants to protest, but Geralt slips in beside him before he has the chance. Propping himself himself up on his elbow, he glides his hand over the still smooth skin of Jaskier’s stomach.

“This okay?”

Jaskier nods once, not trusting himself to speak, and promptly falls asleep to keep himself from thinking more than anything else.

It’s dark when he wakes up, the sky outside a flat, moonless black. The bed feels much colder and emptier. He feels much colder, and there’s a sticky film of dried sweat clinging to his skin. Flinging off the blanket sends a violent shiver though his body, bare except for his small clothes. The room is too dark for him to see.

“Jaskier.” He hears a voice, soft and deep from the corner. A candle flickers to life, and in its small glow he sees the vague shadow of a familiar form. “I’m right here.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ve sent for some firewood. Come eat.”

Uneasy, not quite trusting his senses, Jaskier approaches the small round table in the corner of the room, and sits down. He hears the scrape of a plate being pushed towards him and when his eyes adjust to the low light he makes out bread and butter, some fruit — filling stuff that his presently delicate stomach can handle. He mumbles a thanks and sets about feeding himself.

He can see, in his peripheral vision, the other man leaning down, but he doesn’t understand the movement until he feels a large hand grasp his ankle. Geralt straightens, and with him brings Jaskier's foot to rest on his lap. Holding it in both hands, he slowly massages his thumbs into the arch. Jaskier realises then that he’s being watched. Closely.

He says nothing — can say nothing, and senses some smugness coming from the Witcher at having finally rendered him speechless. There is definitely an excess of smugness when Geralt raises his leg, and kisses the balls of his foot, all the while studying Jaskier, who keeps his eyes fixed on his plate. The blush that blooms over his face is near violent (surely the fever isn’t helping, but still) and he’s grateful that Geralt’s colour vision isn’t its best in the dark.

It’s harder than it should be to suppress the needy, plaintive sound that scratches at his throat when Geralt stands, answering a knock at the door. But then a bowl of hot stew is pushed in front of him, and a small fire is lit in the hearth, and Geralt sits down again, and takes Jaskier’s other foot in his hands. This time he keeps his eyes on his task, and lets Jaskier eat untroubled.

Now that the room’s a bit brighter, he casts his eyes around and is relieved to notice that Geralt’s packs are no longer waiting by the door. He does however, feel a twist in his stomach when he notices he can’t see his lute. He wants to say something about it, but he has the irrational fear that Geralt will stop massaging him, won’t sleep next to him later, won’t stick around til morning. So he says nothing, and Geralt’s hands work up his calves, and his body keeps Jaskier’s warm all night, and in the morning he rubs Jaskier’s back while he throws up bile, and keeps Jaskier's hair from sticking to his forehead.

In the afternoon Jaskier gets squirrelly, and he’s hot and tired and he needs to do something with his hands.

His lute makes a reappearance, but he can feel the heat of Geralt watching him from the corners of his amber eyes. So he settles on the bed and plays something distinctly non-magical, and feels much better anyway.

He hadn’t been serious, of course, when he’d wondered if his small brand of magic could mend his broken heart. But the tune had always provided him comfort, so he plucks away in the corner of a tavern, nursing an ale and his bruised ego.

So he’s not actually that far from the mountain, so perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised when a certain silver haired Witcher makes an appearance, but he’s had quite enough of bonds forged by magic against peoples’ wills thank you very much, so he promptly determines to book it to his room.

He only just manages to get a leg on the bottom stair when he feels a grab at his elbow.

“Jaskier —“ It sounds more exasperated that anything.

The bard turns sharply around, throwing as much vitriol into his still-boyish countenance as he can manage. It must work, because he’s never seen Geralt look quite so taken aback.

“I — I didn’t mean it.”

Of course he didn’t mean it. Jaskier knows he didn’t. But is was too much everything he’d always feared, and he still hasn’t heard an apology — hasn’t once, for anything since they’ve met — and he knows how Geralt feels about bonds forged by magic.

“Fuck off.” He wrests his elbow from the other man’s grip, and he doesn’t play himself to sleep that night, or any night after that.

It was much easier than it should have been — swearing off music. Music-less days turn into music-less months into a music-less almost two years, and twenty-two years of not-ageing catches up to him both gradually and all at once.

His jawline sharpens, the lines of his body harden, a significant amount of grey comes to salt his hair. He grows a beard — a proper one — and that’s almost all grey. And he likes it; studying himself in the bathroom mirror, in his lodgings in Oxenfert, he once again appreciates the air of authority his new look lends him and, well, he does look rather dashing.

He’d returned to Oxenfurt almost immediately after the mountain. One cannot be a travelling bard if one does not play music, and it took nearly all his coin just to get to the city. It was nearing winter when he arrived, his old classroom and lodgings were already prepared and waiting for him. Her threw himself into teaching with new verve, and was quickly offered a more permanent position.

People wonder why he stopped his travels — most assume he just got tired. They wonder too why he no longer plays music, but they have the good sense not to ask. Until, one night, fireside in a cozy tavern, surrounded by other faculty members and a few students staying in the city over Yule.

“Come on Professor, just one song,” a rather eager young man implores.

“Yeah professor,” goads one of his colleagues. He rolls his eyes at her — as if you don’t have your fair share of fawning students Celine.

“I’d be happy to oblige,” he lies, “but as it happens I do not have my lute,” and that’s true enough.

“I’ve got one!” Another over-eager student proffers the instrument and well, he’s in it now isn’t he?

He takes the instrument and a shock goes through him at how good it feels just to hold it in his hands. He takes his time, running a hand along the varnished wood, tuning it just so. He won’t play anything Elven, and his own repertoire is entirely out of the question. He settles for something traditional to the season; something cheery, that has people singing and stomping and clapping along in an instant.

He feels that thing like magic coursing through him as he starts swooping around the tavern in graceful-as-ever strides. His voice is out of practice but really only he can tell, and only just. It’s deeper than he remembers, and it reverberates easily over the crowd. He flits and flirts, and everyone is smiling and cheering, everyone is happy. And of course, no one notices how his skin begins to smooth out, just a little.

That night he retrieves his old friend where he’d stowed it out of sight, at the very top of his wardrobes. Where the other lute felt good, this feels right. The strings are buttery under his fingertips, and the notes ring true and clear without his having tuned them.

He doesn’t play anything Elven, and he doesn’t so much as think in the direction of a certain Witcher, but it feels like home anyway. After an unthinkable stretch of time, Jaskier finally feels himself returning home.

Campus is blissfully empty over Spring vacation, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to compose in the open air.

Compose. Just the word itself thrills him. What he’s working on is nothing like before, naturally. That well of inspiration was drained and sealed shut. Never again will he risk diving into its pitch depths. Now his head has been turned by a volume of old poetry he smuggled out of some long-forgotten corner of a university library.

There’s a courtyard — framed by elegant arches and cherry trees with especially deep, richly coloured blossoms — that he’s particularly fond of. He sits there now, on a marble bench in the shade, his book open in front of him as he thinks of how best to transmute the spirit of the verses into music.

He plucks idly at lute strings — so long out of practice he hardly knows where to start. With a long suffering sigh he lies down, and the idle plucking transforms thoughtlessly into a song that sounds familiar, homely, and he’s thinking of the hero in the epic, with his wicked grin and long white hair and his amber eyes like a — no. The hero’s eyes are green, and nothing like a cat’s, and he doesn’t know why he would think they were because he definitely wasn’t thinking of the man who is now standing over him, looking down with a vaguely bemused expression.

“Geralt?” He scrambles to a standing position, unsure whether to run or attempt a punch, or if he’s even awake. “What — how — why are you here? You know what no,” he decides and begins gathering his things. “Just, fuck off alright? I don’t — I can’t — I won’t do this again.” As composed as he’ll ever be, considering the circumstances, he turns his back on the man he once thought was his and walks away. But there are so many things he needs to say.

“I loved you,” he spits, wheeling around, unable to keep the hurt out of it. “I loved you more than I loved myself and you —“ he breaks off, a sort of desperation plain in his voice and on his face. “I never knew where I stood with you.”

Geralt pauses. Words were never his strong suit, and he considers his very carefully. “I loved you too.”

“Oh fuck off with that.”

“I was self-centred, and I was cruel —“ He approaches slowly, carefully, as if hoping the other man won’t notice.

“No fucking shit.”

“— but I loved you. I still do.”

“Fuck you.”

“I miss you.”

“I gave up on you a long time ago.”

“It’s hell without you.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I still don’t know where I stand with you.”

“Let me show you.” He’d come to a pause in front of the other man, so close he can feel his breath on his skin. With one hand on the nape of Jaskier’s neck, and the other flat against his stomach, Geralt pulls him in for a kiss — and emphatic, I-will-always-love-you, kiss.

And maybe Jaskier goes more willingly than he’d like, or is expressly good for his ego, but he’s waited so long for this. Eventually he manages to pull himself away just enough to press their foreheads together.

“You’re not off the hook you know.”

“I know.” But Geralt only smiles, and kisses him again. “I know.”

#The Witcher #Geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #Geralt #Jaskier #Geralt x Jaskier #my writing

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wordsablaze · 3 years

Text

9/13 - shared emotions

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

A/N: hello again, *draco voice* did someone say mutual stupidity-

previous chapter

Witchers don’t experience emotions.

Except that they actually do, and sometimes they get two sets of them, the second of which stems from their soulmate. As Jaskier would say, their very loving soulmate who has more than enough feelings to share, don’t you worry.

But Jaskier himself worries quite often because his soulmate rarely feels the same way he did.

He remembers being excited about learning how to write his own name and then being alarmed at the sudden burst of guilt at the back of his mind. He didn’t know it was only the back of his mind, though, so he spent the rest of the day trying to remember what he was supposed to be guilty about.

He remembers being annoyed about having to stay in his room because he was too loud and then being confused by an immense flood of relief. He still hadn’t realised that it wasn’t his own, though, so he spent a very long night wondering if being away from their guests was actually a good thing.

He remembers being upset about the girl who told him his dreams were useless and then being hit with more disappointment than he’d ever felt before. He still wasn’t sure whether that belonged to him, though, so he spent a week writing a ballad to try and figure everything out.

And then he went to Oxenfurt and learnt about the concept of secondary emotions and everything made just a little more sense because of course the slow heartbeat and suspicious lies and strange visions would be paired with shared feelings, of course they would.

He’s more than prepared by the time he saunters over to a witcher in Posada.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says softly as Geralt returns from a contract with blood practically oozing from his clothes.

Geralt only grunts in reply but Jaskier knows from experience that witchers blame themselves when things go wrong so he just adds some mildly lavender-scented salt to the bath and rolls up his sleeves. It’s not clear to what extent he manages to help but he doesn’t feel any kind of guilt once they settle for the night, his own or otherwise, so he takes it as a win and neither of them mention it again.

“What’s this for?” he asks when Geralt hands him a brand new pot of ink as soon they get back to their room.

Geralt shrugs. “I thought you were sad.”

Jaskier’s not sure when exactly he was sad - he was under the assumption he was having a brilliant day, to be honest - but the fact that Geralt cares enough to try and help warms his heart so he just wraps his arms around the witcher and grins.

“I knew you cared! Thank you, my dear!”

“Don’t waste it this time,” Geralt says, but he’s smiling so Jaskier just beams at him and makes no promises to throw it at someone’s head if the situation once again calls for it.

The situation does call for it a week later when he looks up from his desk to find a dagger held just in front of his neck and the only thing he has nearby is the inkpot, which he smashes at the other man’s head so hard it shatters over him.

Cursing, the man drops his dagger and stumbles backwards into Geralt, who seems to have appeared out of thin air.

“Oh hello, Geralt I was just uh, greeting whoever this is,” Jaskier says happily, wiping the ink from his face where some of it had splashed.

Geralt frowns, glancing between the two of them and throwing the stranger out of their room before looking over Jaskier as if trying to find something. “You don’t look very angry.”

Jaskier blinks. “Should I be? I mean, aside from the fact that I was forced to waste ink on a fool who doesn’t even know how to hold a dagger properly in the middle of composing a very important song? Actually, now that you mention it, I think I am filled with rage.”

“We can find more ink,” Geralt says, shaking his head either in amusement or exasperation, Jaskier can’t really tell. Either way, the matter is resolved simply enough.

Except that it’s not, because Jaskier keeps messing up.

“What are you so happy about?” he asks during a break in his set.

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him as if to ask why in the name of Nenneke he would be happy in a court but Jaskier grins because literally being able to feel his soulmate’s emotions means he knows better than to take Geralt at face value.

“Come on, it’s not that bad! And you have the pleasure of listening to the greatest bard on the continent!”

“I’ve heard you sing these songs for months,” Geralt reminds him.

Jaskier shrugs. “Say what you will, Geralt, but I know you’re secretly pleased with the way things are turning out!”

With a sigh, Geralt glances around. “I guess it could be worse.”

That seems like an understatement; there are very few things that could make the evening better. Jaskier watches Geralt frown for a minute before nodding as if he agrees, inwardly making a note not to project too much of his own emotion in future.

He’s not particularly good at that, as is proven when he does the exact same thing at the next court they play in, only this time the other way around.

“We can leave now, I can tell you want to,” Jaskier whispers as he flops down into the seat opposite Geralt.

“The wine is good here,” Geralt says simply.

Jaskier blinks, wondering how he’s doing such a good job of hiding the irritation Jaskier knows he’s feeling. “As much as I appreciate your stoic patience, you really don’t have to pretend for my sake.”

Geralt snorts in amusement. “Go back to your singing, Jaskier, or whichever guest it is whose bed you’re chasing tonight.”

“I- You- Which what?” Jaskier splutters, almost dropping his lute.

He wants to protest that there’s only bed he’d want to end up in at the end of the night but the knowing look Geralt gives him stops the words before they leave his mouth. A small smirk is all he can manage before he slips through the crowd again, trusting that as his soulmate, Geralt knows him well enough by now and from the looks of it, better than he knows himself.

(little did he know his trust was entirely misplaced.)

it is really hard not to make geralt seem like an antagonist at this point but i promise he is trying his best and is definitely not to blame for jaskier's mess of a self !!

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

#i never know if i tag this right i'm sorry #jaskel #geraskier #endgame jaskel #soulmate au #hurt jaskier #idiots (not quite) in love #jaskier #geralt of rivia #soulmates gone wrong #the author apologises for the mess #the witcher #fanfic #my writing #add

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potrix-the-queerschlaeger · 4 years

Text

who made you smile again

For @dls-ao3, who wanted Geralt to realise that punching your bard is never okay.

This story can also be found here on my AO3.

- - -

• it doesn't matter who hurt you, or broke you down, what matters is who made you smile again •

Jaskier’s sitting at the biggest table in the tavern when Geralt returns, surrounded by what seems to be half the village. He’s talking animatedly, hands gesturing and pointing wildly, and he’s temptingly flushed down to what Geralt can see of his chest, hair tousled and eyes sparkling with mirth.

He's in his element, nearly as much so as when he’s playing; Jaskier lives to perform, in one way or another.

Geralt allows himself a small, fond quirk of his lips before he schools his face into neutrality, and starts making his way across the crowded room. Jaskier spots him as he approaches, and his own smile somehow, impossibly, grows even wider, making Geralt’s chest feel all warm and tingly.

“Ah, the man of the hour!” Jaskier crows as he pats the empty seat next to himself, then tugs at Geralt’s sleeve impatiently until Geralt settles down with a grunt. “Ale and food, for the brave Witcher who, oh so heroically, slew the swarms of nekkers that have been terrorising your humble town!”

Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes, but the urge is definitely there. Instead, he accepts the tankard someone passes him, and mouths, “Six nekkers,” behind Jaskier’s back, much to the amusement of the gathered people.

When Jaskier turns to scowl at him suspiciously, Geralt looks at him blankly, and takes an innocent sip of his ale.

The innkeeper brings him a heaping plate of meats and cheeses soon after—on the house, as a thank you for getting rid of the nekkers—and Geralt eats in silence, letting the rumbling sound of Jaskier’s voice wash away the last traces of adrenaline from the fight. One of Jaskier’s hands lands on Geralt’s knee, a comforting and familiar weight, and when he focuses on it, Geralt can make out the soft buttercups-teak-amber scent that is Jaskier under the more prominent tavern smells.

The conversations going on around him are mere background noise, right up until a barked, “That's gotta be utter horseshit, bard!” has all his senses hone in on a man across the table.

His voice is full of annoyed disbelief aimed at Jaskier, and could easily turn into genuine anger under the wrong circumstances; it happens often enough, with inebriated people spoiling for a good fight. Geralt sits up a little taller, and fixes his gaze on the man, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

But Jaskier merely chuckles, light and disarming, and pours a goblet of wine. He slides it over to the man with a cheeky wink, and a teasing, “Oh, my friend, you greatly underestimate the force of nature that is a Witcher.”

Turning to address the whole table again, he continues grandly, “Armwrestling a half-giant? Not even a challenge! Taking down a troll? Like stealing sweets from a babe!”

Geralt has, in fact, had the misfortune of landing in a brawl or two with trolls. He’s not overly keen on repeating the experience, although he’s not going to point that out right now. The man who’d questioned Jaskier’s words is looking increasingly enraptured, nodding along eagerly now, and everyone else is listening with interest and awe as Jaskier keeps relating some of their more outlandish and peculiar adventures.

“But a Witcher is not only a most formidable creature in battle, oh no,” Jaskier says conspiratorially, quieter, and the people lean in closer, like moths caught by a flame. “Their skills can prove incredibly useful in other, more private endeavours, if you get my meaning.”

A young woman lets out a scandalised giggle, while one man chokes on his ale hard enough that his laughing friend has to clap him on the back.

Under the table, Geralt pinches the inside of Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier yelps through his own laughter, slanting Geralt a mischievous look.

A little nervously, another woman asks, “So much strength, though, is it not dangerous?”

“A Witcher’s strength is evenly matched by his control,” Jaskier explains, somewhat testily, and leans most of his weight against Geralt, as if to prove a point. “None of us have anything to fear. Well, none of you, I’d wager, unless one amongst you reveals themselves to be even more incessantly talkative than dear old me.”

There are chuckles all around the table, followed by a few more questions, and Jaskier himself is loose and relaxed where he’s pressed to Geralt’s side, but Geralt himself stiffens at the carelessly thrown out words.

A memory niggles at him, old and half-forgotten, though once he manages to pull it to the front of his mind, Geralt suddenly feels sick. Years ago, shortly after they’d met, on the trek up Filavandrel’s mountain; Jaskier’s constant chattering, a passing mention of Geralt’s old, hated moniker, Geralt’s fist in Jaskier’s stomach, Jaskier’s pained coughing and wheezing.

As if burnt, Geralt snatches his hand away from Jaskier’s leg, staring down at his leather-covered fingers in disgust. Geralt would never use his full strength on an innocent human, that much is true, but he’d hurt Jaskier nonetheless. Back then, just now most likely, and how many other times, without even realising?

And why?

Geralt’s had abuse hurled at him for decades, from both strangers and people he’d foolishly allowed himself to trust. Folk have spat at him, thrown rocks and rotten food after him, refused him pay, and chased him out of town with pitchforks and torches. He’s been tricked, betrayed, hated, yet none of that ever made him lash out with violence.

“Geralt,” Jaskier's voice is laced with concern, quiet enough for only Geralt to hear. He peers at Geralt with furrowed brows, but Geralt can't hold his gaze, ducking his head to escape it after a moment.

He keeps his eyes lowered while Jaskier makes their excuses to his disappointed audience, shame and guilt swirling together in his stomach. Even now, when he least deserves it, Jaskier's priority is to take care of Geralt, even when it goes against what he must have planned for the rest of his night.

Jaskier exchanges a few quick words and a handful of coins with the innkeeper, ordering them a bath and some more ale. They climb the stairs to their room in silence, and even while he helps Geralt out of his armour, Jaskier only hums a slow melody under his breath. It's for his comfort, Geralt knows, and it makes the guilt clump and rise, settling as an aching lump in his throat.

When there's a knock at the door, he's almost relieved that Jaskier has to move away to go open it.

Geralt keeps undressing as the buckets of hot water are carried in, and snatches up one of the tankards as soon as they're put down on the table in the corner, downing it in three big gulps. It does nothing to calm his ugly thoughts, but it does provide a distraction, even if a disappointingly temporary one.

Jaskier appears at his side to take it out of his unresisting hand, fingers whispering a caress across Geralt's wrist. “Come on, then, before the water grows cold.”

The heat of the bath does soothe away some of Geralt's tension. But then Jaskier goes to fetch a stool, goes to sit down at Geralt's back, and Geralt finds himself blurting, “Join me.”

Sharing baths is nothing unusual, hasn't been for some time, although it doesn't feel like something Geralt should be allowed to indulge in, right now. The thought of letting Jaskier take care of him, however, makes Geralt feel much worse, all the more as if he's taking advantage.

If Jaskier's surprised, he doesn't let on. He sheds his clothes unselfconsciously, right where he stands, and steps into the tub with an appreciative sigh. Geralt maneuvers him until his back is flush against Geralt's chest, his head tipped back to rest on Geralt's shoulder.

Reaching out over the edge of the tub, Geralt fetches one of the washcloths Jaskier had laid out, lathering it up before he starts to gently run it down Jaskier's arm. He falters briefly, feeling horribly selfish for enjoying the contact, but then Jaskier murmurs, “That's lovely, sweetheart, don’t stop,” and Geralt couldn't refuse even if he wanted to.

His mind drifts while he washes Jaskier, back to that very first day they’d met.

He remembers how irritated he’d been by the aimlessly yapping bard, to begin with, but also how strangely intriguing he’d found him. Coming across a human brave, or foolish, enough not to fear his kind had been rare, back then, and even with Jaskier’s tireless work, even after the countless ballads singing praise to the Witchers and their good deeds, most people are still at least wary of them.

Jaskier had been an anomaly, and Geralt had been curious, otherwise he would have ditched his pesky shadow before they’d ever set foot outside Posada.

For hours of their journey up the mountain, Jaskier had talked with barely enough breaks for breathing, doing his very best to sell himself as a worthy travelling companion. And, to his own astonishment, Geralt had found himself growing amused by Jaskier’s continuously more ridiculous suggestions—”A horse groomer! My flower crowns are things of legendary beauty, Roach would look marvelous in one!”—and actually considering his offer.

And then Jaskier had mentioned Blaviken, and Geralt had come back to himself, wondering what the fuck it was he was doing.

Allowing a human bard to travel with him, smiling to himself at Jaskier’s antics, horsing about with a bard when he should be focused on his task, on his work, on the Path.

And Jaskier’d still been talking, always talking, and suddenly Geralt had been furious, and—

And he’d punched Jaskier.

For daring to make him feel something beside completely fucking miserable for the first time in what had seemed like forever. For not being afraid of him, for trying to befriend him, for being good.

Too good for Geralt.

Hand shaking, Geralt drops the washcloth next to the tub so he can pull at Jaskier’s leg, exposing the inside of his thigh. And there, high up, it is; a small red mark on otherwise unblemished skin, standing out like a stark reminder of all of Geralt’s faults.

A wounded noise tears itself out of Geralt’s throat before he can stop it, and he stands quickly, turning away from Jaskier and his confused, “Geralt?” to climb out of the tub. He’s dripping everywhere, trembling all over as he stalks into the bedroom proper, then stops in the middle of it with no idea what to do.

A tentative hand lands on his back, between his shoulders, and Geralt twitches, but can’t find it in himself to shake it off. Seemingly emboldened, Jaskier pushes him towards the bed, then onto it, following after Geralt to straddle his lap.

Geralt realises his mistake when gentle hands cup his face, and intent blue eyes bore into his, Jaskier murmuring, quiet but determined, “Talk to me, Geralt.”

There’s nowhere for Geralt to look but directly at Jaskier. He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, but Jaskier doesn’t back off. Instead, he starts rubbing his thumbs over Geralt’s cheeks, slow and soft, eyes firmly locked on Geralt’s.

Barely audible, hoarsely, Geralt grits out, “I hurt you.”

Jaskier frowns at that, moving one hand from Geralt’s face to poke at the bruise on his thigh. “This?” he asks with a disbelieving little chuckle. “Geralt, darling, I’ve hurt myself worse by walking into doors. Or roughhousing with my brothers, as a child. Or tripping over my own clumsy feet. It was in jest, I don’t mind. I like you teasing me, you know I do. And marking me, though I usually prefer your mouth to be doing the actual marking.”

Which Geralt knows, he really does, but it does little to reassure him right now. “Not this,” he forces out, then amends, “Not only this.”

“If this is about the dragon mountain again,” Jaskier begins, tenderly tucking a few strands of damp hair behind Geralt’s ears, “you have to know, by now, that I’ve accepted your apology. And forgiven you, sweetheart.”

Which Geralt also knows, though a reminder of that particular conversation is never a pleasant one. “You always do. Forgive me. And I—I keep hurting you.”

“Geralt, what—”

“When we met,” the words feel like rough gravel in Geralt’s mouth, “the day with the sylvan. I hurt you.”

Understanding flashes across Jaskier’s face. “You punched me. And I reminded you, tonight, didn’t I?”

At Geralt’s terse nod, Jaskier laughs softly. “It was a long time ago—”

“That’s no excuse!” Geralt snaps, then immediately clenches his mouth shut again.

Instead of rearing back, or getting angry, however, Jaskier turns thoughtful. “It isn’t, I suppose,” he allows after a moment. Rubbing at the tense muscles in Geralt’s jaw, he wants to know, “What happened? That day, I mean? Because, Melitele knows, I’ve made you furious since.”

Geralt has to close his eyes. “You showed no fear. You were annoying. You made me feel—” he cuts himself off, gives a helpless shrug. “You made me feel.”

“Oh, you old fool,” Jaskier says, nothing but fondness in his voice and face when Geralt dares to glance at him. He leans in to brush a brief, featherlight kiss over Geralt’s lips, then leans their foreheads together. He huffs a laugh, eyes crinkling in humour. “That would do it, wouldn’t it?”

“Jaskier—” Geralt tries to protest, but is promptly shushed with another kiss.

“Do you regret it?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“Of course you do. Would you do it again?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“No, you wouldn’t. Because you’re a good man, Geralt. You have faults, you misstep, as does everyone else. But you learn, from every single mistake, and that is such a precious gift, one that not nearly enough people possess. You try so, so hard to overcome all the prejudice, the disadvantages, the adversities that have been put in your way, and I am so, so incredibly proud of you, my love.”

Geralt genuinely does not know what his face does at that proclamation, but whatever it is, it has Jaskier snort inelegantly. “Yes, yes, I know. We’re done talking, I promise.”

Relieved, in more ways than he can count, Geralt cranes his neck to kiss Jaskier properly.

And when Jaskier demands, murmured hotly against Geralt’s lips, “Show me what that Witcher strength of yours is good for, darling,” Geralt doesn’t hesitate.

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deputy-videogamer · 4 years

Text

Gemini |Part 2|

Pairing: Geralt x Reader, Yennefer x Reader, Geralt x Reader x Yennefer

Summary: The White Wolf has come, but so has a certain lavender eyed witch. Both has gotten word about the poor princess that has 'lost her mind and out for blood'. But there is more that meets the eye

Part 1 Part 3

"So what's this contract about again?" Jaskier asked Geralt for the- actually Geralt lost count on how many times Jaskier had asked about the contract.

"For the last time Jaskier, this contract is about a cursed princess that needs to be slay." Geralt hissed out of annoyance.

"Why do you need to slay her? Is she cursed?" Ciri asked. She has been traveling with Geralt throughout his journey ever since they finally met in the forest.

"Something like that. The girl was borned with powers, but as she grew her powers made her lose her mind." He briefly explained to the duo.

“Then the king wants you to release her daughter from the curse then?” Geralt didn’t respond. The king requested the opposite for Geralt; he wanted her to kill his daughter.

“Something like that. Let's just go, we're almost there.”

It wasn’t long before the trio had reached the king’s castle. Waiting for them was the king’s mage who waited for his arrival.

“Geralt of Rivia, We've been expecting you." The old man greeted the trio. "Please, come this way."

The three had followed the old man through the castle. It was only then Geralt took notice of the painting that was hung.

"I'm guessing that's the queen and her daughter." The mage froze in his steps. Geralt had taken note on how he was hesitant when he mentioned the queen and the former princess.

The mage turned towards him and gave him a tight smile. "You aren't a wrong witcher. Lovely isn't she?" The mage was referring to the queen in hopes to avoid talking about the princess.

"Oh yes lovely indeed. Shame that she married a king I would've loved to meet." Jaskier flirted, not caring that the royal mage was with them.

"Their marriage was one way anyway. The queen died after giving birth to her daughter. May her soul rest and find someone better than the king." This was what Geralt was surprised at.

"You seem to hate the king." Once again the mage froze up when he realized his mistake. The mage tried to think of a way to answer him, but the sounds of heels clicking against the wooden floors had interrupted him.

Looking at the direction where the sound of heels were clicking at. All three pairs of eyes looked up to see who was heading towards them, only two out of the three pairs had already known who she was.

Geralt couldn't believe his eyes when he saw a familiar raven hair female.

"Yennefer." The words almost sounded unfamiliar to him.

How long has it been since he last saw her familiar purple eyes, the sweet smell of gooseberries and lilacs. The guilt and memories of them on the hill had flashed through his eyes.

He now wishes that he could have punched his past self for saying those things to her for she wasn't wrong when she stated that he had lost her.

The pair of lavender eyes met his golden cat like eyes. It was then the air around had suddenly felt suffocating and time had stopped all around him.

“Hello, Geralt.” Her sickly sweet voice almost made him feel sick.

“Is this the Yennefer you mention?” Ciri innocent eyes gazed on the raven beauty. In return Yennefer looked at the small princess with shock; she then had a sharp gazed on why a child was with him, in return he gave her a look that he explained to her later about Ciri.

“I thought you needed a Witcher?” Geralt turned his attention back at the mage.

“Yes, but when due to the former princess…..um..condition there could be a chance that she could attack you. So I requested the help of Yennefer.” The mage answered.

“He’s not wrong. I assume Lucius has already informed you about the job right?” Yennefer looked at the mage or Lucius.

“I was about to get there.” Lucius cleared his throat and briefly explained about the situation.

Apparently, when the princess had turned 12, she started to lose control of her magic. The mages tried their best to help her regain control of her powers, which had worsened her case leading to her magic to take control over her mind. She had killed the people in the case including her own father if it was for Lucius stopping her rampage, her father’s guard tried to seize her, but she had ran into the forest for refuge.

“Has anyone entered the forest?” Geralt questions Lucius. There was something about that story that didn’t make sense to him. From the story to Lucius' tone about the voice it all sounded all too suspicious.

“Many mages including myself have tried to enter the forest, all of them have either ended up dead or seriously injured. We believe that she has support from the creatures in the forest.”

“Is that even possible?” Ciri’s innocent eyes stared at Geralt where he let out a simple ‘yes’ to his daughter.

“If you have any more questions that will be answered later, I have already let the king wait enough. I’ll let you bard and your…..” Lucius looked down at Ciri. “Daughter to their rooms once we reach his studies. Come.”

Unaware that a crow had overheard their conversation, while its blood red eyes had stalked their every movement. Before soaring its way out of the widow’s ledge then disappearing back into the forest. The raven gilded down on a branch-like hand, the silent monster stared down at his black feather minion as it silently cawed to his master. The creature didn’t say anything, the only gesture it had made was stroking his minions body before the creature had left to return spying on the Witcher’s group.

The forest creature had watched the raven fly away, then walk towards the center of the forest. During his little journey he encounters a few nymphs, everytime he encounters a new nymph he silently grunts about what his crow has seen in the castle. Their facial expressions had turned grm, each one knew a witcher was very serious, but teaming up with one of the most powerful sorceresses had made things much worse. Some of the nymphs had disappeared to warn other woodling creatures about the upcoming trouble while others had started to prepare attacks.

It wasn’t long that the creature had reached his destination. In one of the trees there was a little treehouse that was built within the branches of the great plant. The creature could hear a small humming coming inside the structure. The woodling creature had summoned one of his ravens to grab the attention of the person inside. A head had popped up as (e/c) eyes were peeking down on him.

“Oh! Hello there, Aspen.” You used a rope to get down to greet your strange creature friend. Unlike your godling and nymph friends, your skull head friend had no ability to talk. How he communicated was by drawing pictures in the dirt.

“So what brings you here?” Aspen had used his branch fingers to start drawing in the dirt.

His twing finger had drawn five people, one had long hair wearing a dress, another had long hair but he had a sword strapped on his back. The third one was a bard since he had a lyre on his back, the fourth one you immediately knew was Lucius one of your many teacher you had taught you to control your powers when you were younger, he was also one of the few who didn’t create the potion that stole your powers The last figure was strange, unlike the other people this one was more childlike. It made you wonder who would bring a child with them?

“These people are with Lucius?” You guessed at his drawing, Aspen then drew a crown next to the group of people. “Oh, my father had requested more help to kill me right?” His skull head nodded.

“Do you know them by any chance?” He then drew the woman and the long hair man only this time, the woman had sparks surrounding her while the man had drawn his sword out as there was a beast in front of him.

“The long hair woman is a sorceress and the man is a slayer of some sort or more precisely the Witcher right ?” Aspen nodded again. “Why bring a bard and a child though? Nevermind that it seems like my father is desperate to kill at this point if he is bringing a slayer and sorceress.” You growled at the last part.

Aspen turned his skull head to you. Your eyes had started to become red signifying that your other personality is coming out.

“If that crown bastard thinks that he can just kill me because he now has a slayer and a mage on his side. He is dead wrong. I have killed many hunters who have tried to kill me all have ended up dead. “ You walked towards a tree that was filled with multiple daggers embedded in the bark with a carving of your father on it.

“Well...let those two come here if they dare. Besides~ it’s been a while since I had visitors in my forest. I think I know exactly where I place their bodies~” You threw the knife straight dead center into your father’s head.

“Thanks for the information Aspen, now that I know of my lovely visitors I should prepare a welcoming gift for them.” You were about to climb back up into your home when you turned back to your friend. “Before I leave...how did my friends react to it?”

Aspen slides his thin twig finger across his neck. “I see...hmm protective as always.” Your eyes reverted back to your original eye color.

“Thanks for visiting Aspen, next time you visit I’ll make you some fruit pie.” Aspen watched as you climbed back to your home as Aspen started to leave. Unaware that he had made it to the edge of the forest where it reached the edge of the kingdom. He noticed that there were a few farmers trending their live stocks, as much as he wanted to attack and devour the flesh off their bones, he knew how much you loved your people even after your banishment. He summoned a flock of crows around him as he pointed to the nearest farmer.

He won’t actually kill them, but if he wanted to make sure that the Witcher and the sorceress doesn’t go after you he had to make some kind of reuss to let them focus on him instead of you. He watched as the crows had attacked the poor farmer before another one had come to his aid, he then ordered the flock to attack another farmer in the area.

He only hopes that this will be enough to attract the duo. And if that doesn’t work, there are more woodling creatures who will risk their lives to protect the ‘mad princess’.