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samstree · 2 years

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Caesura

A curse, a cure, a bard who forgets, and an overly careful witcher.

(1.5k ☆ also on AO3)

The man standing in Jaskier’s cell is covered in blood.

“Hey, there,” Jaskier greets him, and notices yellow eyes and white hair in the dim light. A witcher.

“Do you know me, Jaskier?”

There’s something hopeful in the way this stranger whispers his name, something gentle.

“How do you know my name?” Jaskier asks in return, eyeing at this man with suspicion. The witcher takes a step forward, and Jaskier retreats into the corner, his shackles rubbing the tender skin around his wrists.

The stranger stops immediately. He sets down the iron sword, a menacing thing that is also dripping blood. Jaskier pities anyone who brought on this witcher’s wrath, for whatever reason.

“I mean you no harm.” The timbre of his voice is like honey, coating Jaskier’s tongue with warmth. Or Jaskier has just been alone here for too long. “My name is Geralt. I’m your…friend.”

“Friend?” Jaskier hesitates at the word because the witcher did too. “I don’t have a friend like you.”

“You’ve been hit with a curse. One that causes amnesia,” the witcher—Geralt explains. “And the cure is simple, if you just let me show you.”

Jaskier doesn’t remember a friend who is a witcher, but again, he doesn’t remember much. Only his names, and songs. There were songs in his life, that much he is sure.

“What is the cure?”

Trusting a stranger should fill Jaskier with dread, but looking at Geralt only makes his heart settle, those golden eyes acting as a balm to his nerves.

“True love’s kiss.” Geralt holds his gaze, unwavering. “Like in the fairy tales. If you would let me kiss you, you can find out for yourself.”

Jaskier only stares at Geralt, a man he’s only known for a few minutes, and answers with silence.

“Alright, then.” The smile on Geralt’s lips is still reassuring, if not a little broken. It’s a subtle thing, this man’s heartbreak, but Jaskier finds all the telltale signs of it by instinct. “One step at a time,” he says. “Let’s get you out of these chains.”

☆

Geralt has given Jaskier his cloak and scarf, and then, his rations and horse.

The mare is such a gentle thing, guided by Geralt’s steady hand on her reins. She let Jaskier onto her back without a fuss, and has since slowed her pace after he jostled his injuries on the uneven terrain. It’s like she knows him too.

Now that Jaskier is warm and free with his belly full, his mind swirls with questions.

“So,” he starts, looking down to catch Geralt’s eyes and trying to not let his gaze drift down to his lips. “You love me?”

Those lips part slightly before closing. Geralt pauses before answering, his words equal parts reverent and remorseful.

“More than you know.”

Jaskier forgets to breathe for a second.

He pulls the cloak tighter to fend off a chill, letting the scent of leather and pine on the thick fabric anchor him. Anything relating to Geralt has a calming effect on him, so Jaskier grows braver.

“And I love you?” he asks and looks away when his cheeks heat up. “I meant, if what you claimed about this curse is true, I’d need to love you for the cure to work. You must believe it, um, that I am in love with you too, if you suggested it.”

His words feel clumsy, but the gold in Geralt’s eyes melts with fondness.

“It took me a long time to see it, but yes, Jaskier, you did. Perhaps too much and to your own detriment, and yet…”

“And yet, I loved you,” Jaskier muses, tasting the words on his tongue. They are as easy as breathing.

The wind picks up, and Geralt removes his gloves and puts them in Jaskier’s cold hands.

As Jaskier slips into those gloves and flexes his numb fingers, he wonders how easy it was for his past self to fall in love with Geralt in the first place.

☆

The campfire burns bright, and all the bruises on Jaskier’s arms are blooming with purple and green. After a day’s journey, he’s finally sitting on a soft bedroll and now has time to inspect himself.

“Let me see?” Geralt touches Jaskier’s wrist briefly, but it’s enough for Jaskier to flinch like he’s been burned. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The flames are lining Geralt’s hair with gold, and Jaskier shakes his head.

“I’m not scared.”

It’s just that no one has touched him in a long time, let alone this gently. He fears and longs for it at the same time, his body not knowing how to react.

“Okay.” Geralt nods, and places himself a few more feet away from Jaskier. He’s now sitting on the ground. “You should get some rest. I will keep you safe.”

With that, Geralt crosses his legs and seems content enough to keep guard. The ground must be uncomfortable compared to Jaskier’s bedroll and the warm cloak wrapped around him, making him feel safer than he ever remembers.

“Why—” Jaskier resists a yawn, finding the lull of sleep deep in his bones. “Why didn’t you just…do it?”

“Hmm?” Geralt frowns in confusion.

“If a kiss could restore all my memories, you can just, I don’t know, grab me and kiss me already. So, why aren’t you doing that?”

The thought makes Jaskier’s face flush hotly once again. If the witcher does that now, maybe he wouldn’t be as scared as he’d imagine.

“Oh.” But it looks like the thought never even crossed Geralt’s mind. “I don’t—you, um, you didn’t say I could, so I… Jaskier, I don’t know. You’ve been hurt, and I don’t want to cause you any more harm.”

“According to you, we love each other.” Jaskier pauses. “Deeply.”

It’s not hard to infer from all the careful ways Geralt has handled him in the past day. It’s strange, to be treasured by someone without a reason.

“When you looked at me,” Geralt starts, “there’s no recognition, and I—I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t felt unsure towards you for a long time.”

“You felt safe with me too.”

Geralt answers with a thoughtful smile.

“Sleep, Jaskier. Don’t worry a thing. Just sleep, and we’ll be alright.”

By some miracle, Jaskier does, and there are no nightmares.

☆

The morning light casts a shadow on Geralt’s face. It’s hard for Jaskier to tell if the witcher has fallen asleep while meditating.

“Morning,” Geralt says, eyes still closed, and Jaskier lets out a surprised gasp.

“Were you peeking?”

“Don’t need to peek. You are thinking too loud.”

“Have a lot to think about.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s gaze falls on Geralt’s lips again, and he leans forward. Their knees are nearly touching.

“True love’s kiss, right?” He lets Geralt’s coat pool on his lap and swallows hard. “There’s no harm in trying.”

With that, Geralt’s eyes flutter open. His body remains still and patiently waiting for Jaskier to make the first move, so Jaskier does. He rests a hand on Geralt’s forearm, and the other on his chin. Geralt nuzzles his cheek in Jaskier’s palm, the stubble on his chin scratching Jaskier’s skin, tickling him a little.

“It’ll be okay,” Geralt promises softly.

Jaskier believes it with all his heart as their bodies fit into each other and he ends up between Geralt’s arms. He is held gently by hands on the small of his back, careful to avoid his injuries, and then, they are kissing.

Magic hums faintly in the air, but Jaskier pays no mind. Geralt’s lips are soft and exploring, guiding him with sweetness. They kiss until the magic disappears, and kiss more until they are both dizzy with foolish happiness.

Jaskier reluctantly breaks away, and opens his eyes to meet his husband’s smile. It is only when all of the memories of the same smile rush back that he realizes how much he has missed it.

“Hey,” Jaskier breathes, not being able to help the grin on his face.

“Hey,” Geralt answers. “There you are.”

“You didn’t need to wait for this long, you oaf.” Their foreheads rest together in that familiar way of theirs, Jaskier’s favorite. “Could have swooped into that cell and kissed me already. It’d make a nice fairy tale.”

“You’d have swooned with fear. Not sure what fairy tale has that.”

“Mine, perhaps. I’ll just change it in my songs. Swooning with gratitude right into my husband’s arms sounds much better.”

“Your husband…” Geralt is having that look on his face again, the one that says he’s overwhelmed with emotions and doesn’t know what to do with them, even after all these years, so Jaskier takes pity and lets Geralt hide in the crook of his neck as the shells of his ears turn red. “Sorry. I just…I felt like I lost it, somehow.”

“You couldn’t. No matter what I remember, you’ll always be my husband who is so unwilling to hurt me he’d rather abandon that title for a little while.”

“But only for a little while.”

Geralt breathes in Jaskier’s scent, a witcher’s heart slowing against a human's, and they stay there for a long time.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #established relationship #soft geralt #hurt jaskier #cursed jaskier #amnesia #this fic feels like it's got the wrong length #i feel like it should be shorter and longer at the same time #huh

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irrlicht-writes · 8 months

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the greatest gift

“I’ll stay behind; I have to tune my lute.”

Yennefer wasn’t sure if that man truly meant his lute, or his lute. He did have to perform this evening at the inn they were staying at, so maybe he really meant his instrument. Such a shame. She would have liked it if he had accompanied them, he was fun to gossip with at the vendor stalls. Neither Geralt nor Ciri truly had that required fashion sense.

“Geralt, is this my colour?”

The Witcher just hummed without really looking. Yennefer sighed.

“I think you’d look lovely in it, Yenna.”

Yennefer smiled at Ciri; bless her for trying.

“Thank you, duckling,” she responded and put the cloth back.

She itched for Jaskier’s company, but she could never let him know, his head would explode.

“It’s sad that Jaskier didn’t come with us,” Ciri said and Yennefer agreed. “You think it’s because of what that woman said? She was so rude, I wanted to smash her stupid crystal ball.”

Yennefer nodded again.

They had come to this village originally because they had heard rumours that there was a wise woman here that could tell them more about the Wild Hunt. They had indeed found this wise woman, but when they had entered her hut, she had pointed at Jaskier immediately and screeched: “He does not belong; destiny has no place for him!”

It spoke of years of self-restraint that none of them burned her hut down right that second.

Later, Jaskier had played it off, his usual laugh, but Yennefer knew it had stung. In their party, Jaskier was constantly wondering why he was here, and if he had a place among them, when in truth; without him, none of them would be here.

He brought her and Geralt together, and he brought Geralt and Ciri together. Without Jaskier, would Geralt even be able to properly care about Ciri? Would she?

She picked up a little wooden toy, a small duck, and turned it in her fingers. Jaskier would gush about it and insist she buy it for Ciri.

“You call her duckling all the time, Yennefer!”

“Perhaps I should buy it for you, the ugly duck of our group?”

“How dare you! I am the most magnificent swan this world has ever seen! But how would a water hag know beauty when it flew past her, true?”

She grumbled and put the toy away. The bardling could never know that she was able to envision entire conversations in her head.

Jaskier was nobody special, no magic, no fighter, no nothing. All he had was that lute of his and that notebook he took everywhere.

He was the stupidest man she’s ever met.

She’s rarely known a braver man.

“Magic could never be done with the likes of you, Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

He had not been aware of it then, and was not aware of it now, but in that time, he was the only one to believe in her. Because he had that unshaken faith, she could borrow it from him. She could believe in herself that she was still worth something, because he did.

Ever since then, Jaskier had become... important, to her.

He would never know, not with words, not like that, but it was Jaskier. He knew. He knew, but maybe he didn’t truly believe it.

“FIRE!”

All three of them lifted their heads.

“No,” whispered Geralt and started running.

“Jaskier!” shouted Ciri and ran after him.

“Julian,” Yennefer whispered and she took running.

The smoke was coming from the inn.

Geralt, Ciri and Yennefer came to a screeching halt in front of the inn. Jaskier wasn’t here. He couldn’t be inside still, could he? No, he couldn’t. Not in the fire, Jaskier was scared. He wouldn’t have stayed.

Yennefer’s heart was beating too fast, she couldn’t think. A portal. Yes, a portal. No. No she couldn’t do a portal. It was too dangerous in the fire.

“Where is he? Where is the bard?”

A shaking woman was answering, her voice waiving: “H-he’s still inside! He – he told us to get out, I didn’t look, oh gods.”

“I’m going inside.”

One look at Geralt and she knew he wouldn’t take no as an answer. So she just nodded. “Hurry,” she said and he took off.

“We should go too,” Ciri said and Yennefer shook her head.

“No. The smoke is too dangerous, Geralt will be faster than the two of us.”

“But –“ Ciri started to protest, and Yennefer pulled her into a hug. If the girl noticed her faint trembling, she didn’t say. Jaskier would never let her live it down. Instead, Ciri hugged her tighter.

“He’ll be okay,” she whispered and by gods, Yennefer wanted the girl’s words to be true. If not – If Jaskier was beyond saving – she –

No.

No, she wouldn’t think about that.

Jaskier was going to be fine.

He’d make a joke about having to live up to his damsel in distress status.

When Geralt stormed out of the fire, Yennefer would later tell Jaskier that there was a big explosion of fire behind them. In truth, there was just more smoke and Yennefer had no eyes for it. In his arms, Geralt was carrying an unconscious Jaskier, with his head lolling. Geralt didn’t stop running, he jogged over to a place without smoke.

Yennefer’s stomach dropped and she hurried after them, leaning over Jaskier as Geralt put him onto the ground.

“Julek,” she whispered into his face, begging him to wake. “Julek.”

“He’s not breathing, Yen, he’s not –“

He was right. Jaskier wasn’t breathing. Yennefer could barely breathe herself.

She closed her eyes and kissed his forehead, on all the soot from the smoke and the fire. “I’m not losing you, Julek, I’m not.”

She pressed her lips on his, breathing into his mouth. Her hand searched for his chest, feeling his heart beat. Yennefer swatted Geralt’s hands away, as he wanted to start pumping.

“It’s beating,” she said between breaths.

She kept breathing for the bard, and determined that he could never know. Jaskier could never know that she almost lost it today.

Ciri was next to her, talking to Jaskier softly: “You gotta wake up, Dandelion. You promised me you’d show me how to play the lute, remember? And you were writing a song we could sing together! We wanted to surprise Geralt and Yenna with it, remember? So you gotta wake up, please.”

Yennefer’s heart broke for the tone of Ciri. It was so easy to forget that she was still just a child.

As if hearing the girl, Jaskier started coughing heavily, and Yennefer helped him into a sitting position. The bard was coughing out a lot of phlegm ad the sorceress gently rubbed his back.

“Julek,” she whispered so softly nobody heard her.

“Jaskier!”

Still coughing, the bard looked up, completely and utterly confused.

“Ge-Geralt? What?”

His voice was hoarse, and she only now noticed that most of his beard got singed. He was shaking, and looking around himself.

“Wha-what happened? I, I.”

He sounded close to tears, and his breathing got worse.

“Shh, little bard,” Yennefer cooed, “it’s all good now. You’re safe, you’re safe. We’re all safe, you stupid, stupid man, we’re all safe.”

He leaned against her and sagged, and Yennefer gently brushed through his hair. There was ash in his hair, and she knew this wouldn’t be shaken off so easily.

But he was alive.

He was alive.

As Geralt and Ciri took each of Jaskier’s hand, she pressed a kiss on his head.

“Julek,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

Right here, between them all, right where he always ought to be, his shaky puffs of breath on her collarbone were the greatest gift she could ask for.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #yennskier #writing #irrlicht writes #fanfiction #soft #hurt jaskier #fanfic #the witcher netflix

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beth--b · 1 year

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Fall

“One last contract Jask, we need the coin,” Jaskier muttered to himself as he walked beside Roach. Jaskier looks at Geralt’s unconscious form slung over the mare’s saddle and shakes his head. “For fucks sake what am I meant to do with you now? At least you have some sense about you Roach, I know you will get us to the keep but really it would be much easier if Geralt was conscious.”

It was late Fall and time to head to the keep for the long cold winter ahead. Geralt getting hurt and being out of commission for the trek up the mountain was not part of the plan.

He continues to chatter at the mare and berate the Witcher as he makes his way up the trail. It was going to be a long trip to Kaer Morhen with Geralt unable to lead them. He had made the trip a few times now, and Roach knew the way but it was not an easy journey under the best of circumstances and these were certainly not those.

If he kept talking though he could pretend that everything was alright, that Geralt was just being his usual silent broody self and he was riding Roach. Not that he was out cold and would be for who knows how long. He had taken a contract at the last town near the base of the blue mountains, it was unusual for any monster activity there with the number of Witcher’s that passed through, but a manticore had been spotted nearby and the people wanted it dealt with before Winter set in and no more Witcher’s would be there to deal with it until the Spring.

Geralt had been able to kill the beast but he had taken too many hits himself, along with a dose of venom in doing so. He was low on potions so Jaskier couldn’t just give him Swallow or Kiss to help speed up the healing process and he had nothing to counteract the venom.

read it on ao3 here

Jaskier had seen this happen before, or at least something similar. Geralt’s body had basically shut down to aid in healing and to let him work the venom out of system, without proper treatment or potions it could take some days for him to regain consciousness. In the meantime Jaskier would need to try to get them to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir would be able to help Geralt once they were there. He only hoped that they made it before the snow set in.

After several hours of trekking up the path Jaskier gave up talking to himself in favour of focusing on his surroundings. He knew that there were many things in these mountains that could kill a man, the path was dangerous on its own the further one travelled, without worrying about wolves or wargs or forktails.

If he was lucky he might come across Lambert or Eskel on the journey but he wasn’t holding his breath.

When it began to get dark Jaskier finally spotted the small cave the Witcher’s used as a place to stop the first night on the trail to the keep. Jaskier sighed in relief and led Roach over the cave. The bard removed the saddle bags and set up their bedrolls before heaving Geralt over his shoulder and laying him out on his bedroll. He got a small fire going near the mouth of the cave and then checked Geralt’s wounds. Satisfied that the deep gouges in his chest were not infected and the stitches were holding well he moved to the head wound that Jaskier had at first thought had killed his Witcher from the sheer amount of blood.

Again, the stitches along Geralt’s hairline looked good. He then checked the more minor wounds and once done, he set about removing Roach’s tack and scrounging up some food for himself.

With nothing left to do but sleep he lay beside Geralt and carefully lay his head on the Witcher’s shoulder. He fell asleep listening to the slow but steady breathing of his love.

Jaskier woke at dawn and after checking Geralt’s wounds once more and changing his bandages he saddled Roach and tried to wake Geralt enough to help get him back on the mare. He wasn’t confident it would work but finally he got enough of a response from Geralt that with Roach kneeling he was able to get him into the saddle again.

After breaking camp and packing away the last of their belongings they set out again for another long day.

If Jaskier could keep up the same pace he would be able to reach the next stop over point by nightfall and then tomorrow they would reach the Keep and Vesemir.

“You can do this Jaskier. He would be able to get you there no problem.”

Getting himself some dried fruit and nuts from the saddle bags he set off again, Roach following behind him.

The day passed in much the same way as the last. Jaskier spent some of his time chatting to Roach, he checked Geralt a few times, tucking his cloak in around him, and finally lapsed into silence. Geralt was slightly warmer than he should be, though Jaskier was confident it was just his body fighting off the venom and nothing to be too concerned about. It was getting colder as the day wore on and the cloud cover was getting heavier. It wasn’t unheard of for an early snowfall this far North, it may only be Fall but Jaskier was growing increasingly concerned at the prospect of snow.

His fears came true as it began to lightly snow as dusk approached. They hadn’t made it as far as he had hoped and they would be travelling to the stop over point in the dark at this rate, the path ahead made more treacherous as the snow covered the ground.

“Fuck,” he growled to himself. Feeling exhaustion deep within his bones he nevertheless began moving faster, Roach keeping pace beside him. Jaskier reached out and kept one hand on her bridle as the sky darkened, hoping between them they would be able to keep steady and not slip. He only hoped he would be able to find the cave as night fell.

As they approached where Jaskier was sure the cave should be he slowed down keeping an eye out for the opening to the Witcher’s cave. He knew there were others along the way but he wasn’t sure what they may harbour in their depths so he didn’t trust using them. Most creatures tend to steer clear of the cave’s along here that smelt of witchers, not to mention that there was always firewood and a spare blanket or two and as the temperature dropped Jaskier was sure they would need all the warmth they could get.

It was now full dark and Jaskier had lost count of how many times he had stumbled, only his grip on Roach keeping him from falling. His fur lined cloak was no longer enough to keep him warm and he was almost at breaking point. Finally he spotted the marker for the cave. Nothing obvious if you didn’t know what to look for, but Jaskier knew and he almost cried in relief at the sight.

Although small, the cave was tall enough that Roach could come inside as well and Jaskier led her in, repeating the same tasks as the night before, though the long day and cold temperatures had slowed him down making everything far more difficult that the previous evening.

Once Geralt was off Roach and covered under furs in his bedroll Jaskier build a small fire near the mouth of the cave, though with his fingers clumsy with cold it took far longer than it should have.

Once he had finished his tasks he sat in front of the fire, trying to get some warmth back into his fingers. Once the feeling had returned he dragged his own bedroll beside Geralts and covered them both in all their furs as well as the couple of musty blankets stowed in the back of the cave.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come easily and Jaskier lay awake long into the night worried about how they would make it to the Keep the next day if the snow continued through the night.

When dawn came Jaskier had already risen and broken camp. The sooner they left, the sooner they would reach Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had roused enough to drink some water and eat a little jerky before he had passed out again. Jaskier reassured himself again and again that he was alright, his body just needed rest to heal. He had lost huge amounts of blood along with the fucking manticore venom, and if he was human he’d have bled out long before Jaskier could stitch his wounds.

Jaskier always liked to correct his lover when he said he wasn’t human, though in these circumstances Jaskier could not be more grateful for that fact.

As they made their way out of the cave Jaskier was dismayed to see the snow had continued through the night, the way before him covered in an ankle deep layer of snow.

He pulled a blanket free from their saddlebags and wrapped it around Geralt as best he could, before pulling his own cloak around himself with a shiver.

“Come on girl, soon you’ll be in a nice warm stable, we just need to get home. We can do this. We have to do this,” he began to make his way through the snow leading Roach along the path.

By mid morning the snow was falling in thick flurries around them and Jaskier could hardly see the path before his eyes. He was seriously worried that he may not be able to make it, and wouldn’t that be terrible to have made it so close only to fail in the last stretch.

Shivering, he leaned into Roach’s side for a moment trying to work out what to do. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and toes and he knew that hypothermia would soon become a real concern. He had never been so grateful to be shivering as he knew that meant things were not yet so dire that he couldn’t push on. He briefly checked Geralt and found that the Witcher was cool but not too cold to be worried about. At least that was one thing to be thankful for.

Finally pulling away from the mare he set forth once more. He kept his head down and just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. After what felt like years but was in reality several hours, Jaskier became aware of the fact that he was no longer as cold. A part of him knew that there was something deeply wrong here as the snow was still falling and he was now walking in snow up to his knees. He couldn’t feel his toes, could hardly feel his legs for that matter.

He was so tired.

Maybe he should stop.

Roach nickered, nudging his cheek with her nose. Jaskier looked at the mare and remembered why he couldn’t stop. He needed to get Geralt home.

One foot in front of the other.

He kept going until he reached a wall. He wasn’t sure why there was a wall in the path, why would someone put a wall there?

But then the wall was moving and there was someone speaking with him.

“Eskel?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Jaskier come on, we need to get you inside. What the fuck happened?”

“Geralt, he needs help. Manticore venom, no potions,” Jaskier ground out, he felt like he was going to fall but he needed to tell Eskel, Geralt needed help.

There was muffled shouting nearby and then a flurry of motion as someone lifted Geralt down from Roach’s back and someone else led Roach to the stable. Jaskier was dimly aware of Eskel wrapping his own cloak around him and leading him towards the keep but before he could make it inside Jaskier lost the battle with keeping himself on his feet, numb legs giving out beneath him.

Eskel managed to catch Jaskier around the waist and lifted him into his arms, the bard turning his head into his warmth and going limp in his arms.

***

When Jaskier is next aware of his surroundings he is warm, almost painfully so and his toes and fingers burn causing him to moan.

“Jaskier?” Eskel asks, leaning over the bard.

“Eskel? What happened? Is Geralt alright?”

Eskel helps him to sit up and wraps a blanket around his shoulders. Jaskier looks around the room relieved to see the familiar walls of the room he and Geralt share in the keep.

“Hey Jaskier, Geralt’s fine, or he will be soon. Vesemir had checked him over and given him an antivenom and a dose of Swallow. How are you feeling?”

Jaskier took a moment to feel relieved that Geralt would be ok before thinking about answering Eskel.

“Ah tired I guess and rather sore. But I’m alright, at least I think so.”

Eskel nodded as though that was the answer he expected.

“You’ll feel some pain as you warm up, much longer out there and you would have been lucky if you hadn’t lost your fingers and toes, or your life for that matter. You’ve been out for a few hours. Next year maybe try for a slightly less dramatic entrance, hmm?”

Jaskier smiled and nodded. “Of course dear Eskel. When Geralt’s feeling better I’ll be sure to tell him no contracts at the bottom of the fucking mountain again shall I?”

“You and me both,” Eskel agreed. “Now you should get some more rest but before you do, are you hungry?”

“A little, something warm would be wonderful.”

“Alright I’ll be back shortly.” Eskel stood up from the chair beside Jaskier’s bed and headed out the door to get some food.

Jaskier lay back down while he waited, he wanted nothing more than to go to Geralt but he knew he’d never make it in this state. He would eat, sleep some more and then go to his Witcher.

Jaskier wasn’t aware he had dozed off until Eskel woke him with a gentle shake of his shoulder.

“Oh sorry Eskel, didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said, yawning into his hand.

“It’s fine Jaskier. Here eat up while it’s warm.” Eskel passed over a bowl of warm stew and sat down beside the bed again, staying nearby until Jaskier finished before taking the bowl and standing again.

“Call out if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier replied, already half asleep once more.

***

The next time Jaskier woke he was hot.

While it was preferable to being cold he couldn’t quite understand why he was so warm.

When he finally blinked his eyes open he saw the source of the heat and decided he didn’t mind being a little over warm after all.

Geralt had obviously woken while Jaskier slept and joined him in their bed. With the fire banked high and the extra blankets plus a Witcher in the bed it was no wonder Jaskier was so warm.

He managed to push some of the blankets away, still feeling warm but no longer uncomfortably so, he settled back on the pillow beside Geralt. He softly stroked a finger along Geralt’s jaw, the stubble making his sensitive fingers almost sting, not that it would stop him from touching though. After a few moments had passed he went to pull away only to have Geralt’s hand reach up and capture his, pressing Jaskier’s palm against Geralt’s cheek.

“Hm stay,” Geralt rasped, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

“Not going anywhere love,” Jaskier whispered, turning his head and pressing it up against Geralt’s neck. “We made it and I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt finally released Jaskier’s hand only to turn onto his side and wrap the bard in his arms.

They were both safe and warm and had the whole Winter to spend together.

Jaskier was on the verge of falling asleep again before he forced himself to speak once more.

“Before I forget Geralt, no more fucking contracts at the bottom of the path. I’m not sure Roach and I will be there to rescue again if we have a repeat of this year.”

Geralt just snorted and shook his head. “Deal. Next time we’ll send Lambert back down the mountain.”

Jaskier laughed and pushed himself up enough to lean in and kiss his Witcher before replying. “Good, though I won’t be the one to tell him that. I like my body parts exactly where they are.”

Geralt just hummed and pulled Jaskier back against his chest, breaths evening out as he fell asleep again.

Jaskier fought the pull of sleep a little longer just to revel in the feel of Geralt against him. Despite what he had said he hoped he would always be there if Geralt needed him. Just as Geralt was there for him.

#witcher trick or treat #treat: fall #hurt geralt #the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #bamf jaskier #hurt jaskier #witchertort2

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geraskierfanficprompts · 2 days

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Prompt 5

Everything that can go wrong one night, goes wrong, and it's just annoying inconvenience after annoying inconvenience. Jask falls and drags Geralt down with him, Jask gets them kicked out of an inn, Jask spends their last coin, Jask complicates the fight and accidentally gets Geralt injured, etc, etc, and eventually Geralt snaps at Jaskier for getting in the way and making things harder. They get into a big fight over it, and Jaskier even gets a second room to sleep apart. They are still on icy terms after the argument, until Jaskier starts realizing he doesn't.. feel well.. In fact he feels quite awful. Jaskier shortly realizes that he's getting ill. But he's terrified to tell Geralt, in fear of this being the straw that breaks the camel's back. What if Geralt really leaves him after this? What if this is the last thing that Geralt can handle is Jaskier delaying them getting new contracts because he's ailing? So he does what every smart honorable self-respected bard would do. He pretends nothing is wrong and prays it goes away on it's own. It isn't. It's getting way worse. Geralt can smell something off with Jaskier's scent, and is getting worried. He keeps asking Jaskier if he needs breaks or help doing things (Jaskier is convinced Geralt is just proving he can do everything without Jaskier, and that stopping for breaks will show Geralt how shit a travelling companion he is) Geralt just needs to get them to a town so he can pamper Jaskier with his favorite sweets, a warm bath, and a nice bed, and then ask him when he feels most ready to tell. But then Jaskier suddenly just.. Collapses.

He's walking alongside roach like always, only for him to suddenly roll his eyes back and just.. fall to the ground. Geralt is of course, freaking out- Geralt picks up his bard and makes an abrupt camp to check on him. Holding Jaskier so close, he can smell the fragrance of illness, muffled and muddled by Jaskier's soaps and perfumes. His bard is sick. Geralt, loving his bard unconditionally, treats and watches over Jaskier until he awakes. Jaskier, when he finally returns to consciousness, immediately begins begging Geralt not to get rid of him, not to leave him behind, that he's barely even sick, that he can keep going, just keep him, please. Geralt is horrified Jaskier thinks he could ever be left behind by Geralt, and they make up and kiss and say "i love you" idk.. think it'd be kinda gay...

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process-pending · 1 year

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“You’re here with us, Jask. You’re safe.” Jaskier nods, he wants to reassure Geralt that he knows but his body is still shaky with panic, memories dragged kicking into the light still screaming.

To the Night We Met (Chapter 5)

#Witcher #Modern AU #Biker AU #Hurt/Comfort #Hurt Jaskier #Disabled Jaskier #Chronic Pain #Past Valdo/Jaskier #Geraskier #Triskel #Trials #Fluff #Angst with a Happy Ending #To the Night We Met

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oldandkinky · 2 years

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I'm loving unwilling vessel! Geralt's ambivalence, and his way of treating Jaskier is really captivating.... I'm kinda hoping it will have some sort of happy ending for the two... perhaps Jakier seduces Geralt in to ditching Yen, or it turns out Geralt is under a spell.... or perhaps Geralt's plan all along is to be with Jaskier and is only using Yen...? So many ways you can take this too, can't wait to read more, if you're up to it! Thanks as always for your work! Xoxo

Since this has come up a couple of times I'd just like to make this clear: Geralt is not under a spell. He does these things because he thinks they're the right thing to do.

Thank you for reading!

#oldandkinky talks #hurt jaskier #oldandkinky #unwilling vessel

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jeanblack2056 · 1 year

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So... I'm writing another fic 😀 And yeah, I do vent a lot. Be prepared for angst, insecurity, asexuality and lots more!

A little taste of the first chapter!

We Are All Bound Together - Ch1 - Solitary Bard

Jaskier has been through many shitty situations in his life before. And he always made the most out of them, as a bard should. Every inconvenience, every sadness, every burst of anger or fear, all of those were perfect for weaving into a song. Adding the right words and melody to those struggles was part of how he lived. How he overcame them. He always welcomed the hard times because a piece of him believed that every experience and every feeling was precious to him as a creator.

But this moment right here? This overwhelming pumping of blood he heard in his ears? This muddy feeling wrapped around his brain? The confusion, the tears stinging in his eyes? That terrible, excruciating pain as he felt his heart split in two? The betrayal? The echo of those words returning to him again and again in a muddy painting? All of this he would have gladly lived without.

He tried to dry the tears with the sleeve of his doublet, but more just poured out so he gave up. He was walking down the damn mountain, stumbling over the stones in his way, not caring about the sounds coming from the bushes around him as he pushed through the wilderness. He only stopped when he couldn’t see anymore and then he sat down on the ground, leaned on the tree behind him, and let out a long shuddering breath.

What was he supposed to do now?

#witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher jaskier #jaskier #witcher post mountain shit #geralt #So you remember that concept that jaskier is also bound to Ciri? Because this shit works with it.#I'm enjoying this breakup way too much.#ace jaskier #asexual character #hurt jaskier #bamf jaskier

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melinoiaagesander · 2 years

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Chapter 8 is up! A bit darker than the previous chapters...

Chapters: 8/11 Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Vesemir (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher), Coën (The Witcher), Original Female Character(s), Olgierd von Everec Additional Tags: Post-The Witcher (TV) Season 2, First Love, Jealousy, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Action/Adventure, Slavery, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Hears Burn Butcher Burn, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Torture, Flogging, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, attempted rape/non-con not between Geralt and Jaskier, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion

#geralt of rivia #jaskier the bard #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #myfic #fanfic #fanfiction #netflix the witcher #the witcher #witcher #lily lavender chamomile #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier

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fandom-happy · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach (The Witcher) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Sunburn, Sicktember 2022, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion Summary:

How was he supposed to know that the serving girl that had been flirting with him all through his set was the barkeeps wife?

She was young enough to be his Daughter for crying out loud and it wasn't as if he had actually flirted back. He was just friendly, like he was with all his audience, that's how he made his bloody living, charming the money out of the patrons.

This was entirely unfair and ridiculous punishment for...well quite frankly something he didn't even do.

And where the hell was his Witcher...?

Written for the prompt Sunburn, day 15 of @sicktember My first ever Witcher fic so hopefully it doesn’t suck 😂

#sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 15 #fic #the witcher #geraskier #hurt comfort #hurt jaskier #fluff #tooth rotting fluff

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geraskierficrecs · 6 months

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The Rake and His Husband Update!

New chapter here.

Teaser:

“Nothing happened,” he tries to demur, “It wasn’t like he remembered me. “

“Hard to forget your absolutely massive crush on him.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that big.”

“You wrote a ballad, Jaskier.”

“I was young.”

“You were in love.”

It takes effort to turn his mind away from childish memories of the quiet he’d spent a dreamy summer with. He’d been young and already struggling to find his place among his peers. Geralt had not minded listening to Jaskier’s dramatic tales or hearing him recite whatever new poem had caught his eye. In return, Geralt had shown Jaskier how to climb trees and uncover hidden paths of deer in the woods.

He hadn’t realized it would be the last summer he’d see Geralt. They’d parted ways with promises of future adventures and letters to be sent.

Those rose tinted hopes had disappeared when Jaskier’s mother had died.

Then Geralt had disappeared to his new school.

Then Jaskier’s father had begun to drink.

Then he’d—

“Jaskier?” Yenn’s voice is soft and he flinches away from thoughts of the past.

He pastes on a smile and ignores the question in her eyes. Better not to dwell in the past. “We just talked about pleasantries—nothing important. He was just avoiding the vultures inside trying to pawn off their daughters.”

He doesn’t dwell on the impossible dreams he’d once had of marriage or a spouse that cared for him. Those days are long behind him.

#geraskier #angst #geraltxjaskier #my stuff #geralt x jaskier #angst with a happy ending #geralt/jaskier #regency au #no powers au #duke geralt of rivia #fake relationship #jaskier x geralt #jaskier doesn't know it's fake #hurt jaskier #jaskier and yennefer are friends #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction

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samstree · 2 years

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Dark Bird (3)

Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard. Geralt tries to fix things.

(The Time Traveler’s Wife AU, see tags and warnings on ao3)

The first things Jaskier notices upon waking are the ironclad shackles around his wrists. They are pulled tightly above his head, pinning his arms to the wall.

“What—” Jaskier calls out, pain shooting from his shoulders. “Geralt?”

His head throbs with every pulse of his heart, his temple covered in something sticky and cold. He must be bleeding.

And held prisoner, apparently.

“Anyone?”

The walls of the dark prison cells don’t answer him, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the aches of his body to stop. The shackles dig into his wrists, rubbing his skin raw. He lets out a pained gasp, struggling against the restraints, his breath shuddering.

“How?” Jaskier asks the empty room.

He remembers their honeymoon at the coast, the flowers in his hair, and those short blessed days that followed. They were married, away from the war, and they were happy.

Until the day Geralt was pulled through time and came back shaking, his face pale as a sheet.

Oh, yes. It all changed quickly. Too quickly.

Geralt asked Jaskier to pack in a panic, but there was no time. Nilfgaardian soldiers found them in their home. Jaskier climbed onto Roach’s back before realizing Geralt is not doing the same.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier’s face. “Go,” Geralt whispered like he was saying goodbye. “I won’t let them have you. I won’t.” He kissed Jaskier’s ring finger. “I can’t.”

Before Jaskier could protest, Roach started to run, taking him away from Geralt. Jaskier looked back at his husband, silver hair lined with gold in the sunset. The soldiers surrounded Geralt in no time, drowning out the glint of his sword and the dance of his attacks. It’s always a joy to watch Geralt fight, his movement always precise and elegant. Not that day, not when fear seized Jaskier’s throat, and all he could hear was the sound of Roach’s hooves hitting the ground.

She took Jaskier away from the coast and she ran for the whole night.

Until the dawn brought them right into the next trap.

An arrow pierced the air at the first ray of sun, missing Jaskier’s ear but enough to startle the mare into a halt, throwing Jaskier off her back. He hit the ground hard. There was blood in his eyes as soldiers dressed in dark colors pulled him up.

The last thing he remembers is shouting for Roach to run before someone knocked him out from behind.

And now, Jaskier is here, in a cold prison cell, not knowing what became of his husband.

“Geralt…” Jaskier’s breaths pick up from panic. There were too many of them for Geralt to fight alone, and Jaskier was away.

Geralt sent him away.

The world spins, and Jaskier blinks away the spots in his vision.

“Hello, Jaskier.” A tall figure pulls open the door. His face is obscured in the shadows, but his voice chills Jaskier to his core. “The witcher thought he was clever, but you see, you are here. It won’t be long until we have him too.”

Jaskier’s legs give out beneath him, his shoulders sagging.

Geralt isn’t here. Geralt is safe. Geralt is safe…

He repeats it like a mantra, under his breath, until the words disappear into a laugh.

“You won’t,” Jaskier smiles, grimacing. His wrists can’t take all of his weight. He can’t feel his fingers already. “You will never find him.”

A punch lands in his gut, knocking the wind out of him. Jaskier grunts, biting into his lips. He spits into the man’s face and gets another punch in return.

“Tell us where he is, and I could spare you.”

Jaskier draws a breath, and another, his lungs seizing. He laughs, the half-choked, half-broken sound echoing in the dark cell.

“He is safe. He is safe…”

And Jaskier needs to keep it that way.

“Tell me.” The man’s voice grows dangerously cold. “Where did he hide the princess?”

Jaskier lifts his head defiantly.

“She’s dead.”

Magic hums in the air and the chains suddenly drop from the wall. Jaskier falls like a rag doll, his back hitting the stone floor. The mage kicks Jaskier in the ribs, his anger exploding. He kicks again, much harder this time, not giving Jaskier a chance to suck in a breath.

Something cracks under the man’s boot. Pain lights up deep within Jaskier’s side, blinding like white-hot flames.

“Oh, little bard. We both know she isn’t.” Slender fingers grab Jaskeir’s arm, digging into the wound at his wrist. “Tell me where they are, and it won’t come to this.”

Fire flickers alive in front of Jaskier’s eyes, held in the mage’s palm.

Jaskier whimpers, his mouth full of the metallic scent of blood. He tries to hide, to retreat, but the mage pushes him against the ice-cold wall with a twisted smile.

“She’s…dead,” Jaskier says stubbornly, and the mage’s twisted smile fades.

Fire licks up the tips of Jaskier’s fingers.

He screams.

☆

Jaskier is left on the ground, his hands still bound, the burnt fingers held at his chest.

The trembling won’t stop, and neither will the fog in his mind. The fire mage has come in more times than Jaskier can count, and his consciousness fades in and out until there are no coherent words from his broken lips. There is no use for him anymore. They can’t get to Geralt through him, and all Jaskier feels is relief.

The pain doesn’t matter. The tortures don’t matter. He could die here, knowing Geralt is far away from this place, keeping Ciri safe.

So he dreams. Curled into himself on the hard stone floor, he dreams.

Jaskier is eleven again, seeing a witcher’s golden eyes for the first time under Lettenhove’s darkened sky. He is seventeen, kissing Geralt in the warm greenhouse, safe within his witcher’s arms. He is eighteen, meeting Geralt in a dingy tavern in Posada, his heart broken at the lack of recognition in those golden eyes. He is twenty, thirty, and then, he is Geralt’s husband. They find each other through time. They find each other, always.

They went to the coast.

Jaskier opens his eyes. His cheeks are soaked with tears.

“Oh, but you see, Rience. You have it all wrong,” A woman speaks above Jaskier, her hand pressed against Jaskier’s temple, magic flowing between her fingers. “You needn’t ask the bard at all. The witcher shall come to us on his own.”

The fire mage said something—Rience. They are arguing, but Jaskier can’t keep himself awake long enough to catch it. The magic works still, penetrating his mind, pulling at his memories. He is too tired to fight.

“I can break him,” Rience says. “The witcher—”

“The witcher is linked to him by destiny. It’s a temporal bond, far beyond the understanding of the likes of you.”

Voices are raised, and the fire mage is lashing out. Fire flashes in the dark room, and Jaskier flinches.

“We cannot just wait!”

“That’s precisely what we should do. This human is the anchor of the witcher’s existence. He will be pulled here whether he wants to or not. Destiny will send him if the bard is in need. I’ve seen in all in his memory.”

A hum, and footsteps retreat into the hallway. “I’ll prepare the dimeritium.”

“Sleep, bard.” The woman’s spells seep into Jaskier’s mind. “You may be of use to us yet.”

☆

Dreams turn into nightmares. Jaskier is hot all over for one moment, and freezing cold for another. An infection settles in, the fever burning bright.

Jaskier is Geralt’s anchor, and now he will betray Geralt simply by existing.

Don’t come, Jaskier pleads. Not for me.

Neither of them can control when destiny brings Geralt to Jaskier through time, and for the first time since being captured, Jaskier feels real fear rising in his chest.

He listens as the guards lay traps around his cell, dimeritium cuffs clinking at their hips. He struggles against the chains until blood drips down his arms. He screams at them. He curses the mages. If they are hurting him, they won’t be thinking about getting to Geralt. He yells at them to hurt him.

And Geralt can’t end up here. With the cuffs, he won’t be able to escape, and Ciri…

Ciri.

“Don’t worry, bard.” The woman stands above Jaskier’s head, tall and proud. “The lion cub will join us soon.”

Jaskier’s fists wrap around the chains, the burns on his fingers blistering, keeping him lucid.

“You’ll pay for it,” he says, voice low. “If you hurt them, you’ll pay for it.”

The woman only lets out an amused huff. She leaves. The door is sealed shut, and Jaskier is alone.

He stays on the floor, touching the patch of bruises stretching from his sternum down to his stomach, where Rience likely broke his ribs. He’s fevered and sensitive, like an exposed nerve.

The air is getting thin.

Every breath is more difficult than the last. Still, Jaskier breathes, and waits.

The night settles in, silent and lonely. They’ve taken away all the light sources. Jaskier blinks his eyes open in the pitch-dark room, not wanting to fall asleep, but he doesn’t realize when he’s closed them. It could be minutes, or hours. Jaskier wakes from his fitful rest, shaking like a leaf, his back covered in cold sweat.

In a brief moment of weakness, he wishes Geralt was here.

He wishes Geralt would come to him.

It’s selfish, and it’s wrong, but Jaskier is tired to the bones. He just wishes his husband could hold him again. He just wishes a gentle hand could touch him again.

The familiar swoosh breaks the silence, and the next thing Jaskier knows, Geralt’s weight appears next to him, solid and real.

Just like that, Geralt is here.

No.

“No,” Jaskier says in anguish, realizing what he has done. “No, not here. Not for me…”

“Gods, Jaskier,” Geralt lets out a horrified gasp in the dark. “Where are we? When are we? You are bleeding. There is too much blood.”

Despite how much fear is in Geralt’s voice, despite the mistake of the situation, despite their doomed fate, Jaskier weeps at his husband’s voice.

“Geralt…”

“Hey, Jask. I’m here. Don’t you worry. I’m here.”

A hand cradles Jaskier’s face, and he nuzzles into it.

“You are,” Jaskier croaks, his throat ruined from hours of screaming. He allows himself a moment of respite, just a moment, to feel Geralt’s skin against his. Jaskier catches Geralt’s hand in his broken ones, holding it to his bloody lips. “You are not a dream.”

“I have to get you out. You are hurt. Jaskier, how—”

“There is no time,” Jaskier interrupts. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to run.”

He can’t see Geralt’s features, but he can picture the frown on Geralt’s face as clear as day.

“What are you talking about? Jask, I won’t leave you like this.” Geralt’s hands travel down Jaskier’s arms, finding the chains.

In a panic, Jaskier’s lungs seize. A coughing fit rattles against his chest.

“It’s a trap—” He draws a painful breath. “They found us, at the coast.”

“We’ll run. I’ll send you away. Roach can take you to the next town within a day.”

Jaskier shakes his head, his chest heaving.

“It’s…too late.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Jaskier. I’ll send you away with Roach. This can’t happen. I won’t let them get to you.”

Oh, but they did. It was all Jaskier.

“It was me. I wished... I’m the reason we are here.”

Geralt is here because of Jaskier. He went back and sent Jaskier away, because of Jaskier. That’s precisely how they will find all of them now. Time is playing the cruelest trick on them.

“Stop it, Jaskier. Just…let me save you.”

Geralt pulls off one of the chains from the wall with a grunt. Jaskier’s head lolls to one side from exhaustion. “You are more important, Geralt. Think about Ciri—”

Light splits the darkness and a portal opens in the middle of the small cell, the brightness forcing Jaskier to look away. He hears shouting, from the mages, from the Nilfgaardian soldiers.

Geralt is gone from his side.

Aard sends half of the guards flying, but the rest keep coming in. The fighting begins, but Geralt can’t beat all of them. He isn’t carrying any weapons.

They were on their honeymoon, after all.

“Geralt…” Jaskier calls out, but he can’t keep himself upright. His other hand is still chained to the wall, held behind his back, keeping him away from Geralt, but he reaches forward.

Geralt screams a deep, rumbling scream as they knock him off his feet, his face pressed to the floor and arms twisted back. A guard brings the cuffs, and Rience clicks them shut.

“Didn’t I promise you, little bard?” Rience smirks in the cold light of the portal.

All Jaskier can see is his husband, whose eyes are equally fixed on him. Geralt looks guilty, like he’s failed Jaskier, somehow.

Why can’t he see? He can never fail Jaskier.

“You can’t keep him,” Jaskier whispers.

“But we have, and there’s nothing you can do,” Rience continues. “Now, witcher, where is our princess?”

“You will never find her,” Geralt growls at the mage, the rumbling in his chest animalistic and furious. “You will pay for this.”

“You two sound too similar. Is that what they say about married couples?” Fire ignites in Rience’s palm, illuminating his crooked smile and Geralt’s face. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the princess.”

In the bright light, Geralt catches Jaskier’s gaze. Something flickers in his eyes. It’s subtle, followed by the faint hum of magic in the air. It’s the sound that Jaskier used to hate when he was a child. All he looked forward to were the little pockets of time they got to spend together, until the hum of magic pulled Geralt away each time. Right now, the same hum is music to Jaskier’s ears.

Geralt’s time is up.

“I’m coming back,” Geralt says, the promise solemn. “I’m coming back for you.”

It all happens within a heartbeat.

Geralt throws his head forward, knocking Rience off balance, the fire in his hand turning into sparks. Several guards charge forward to keep Geralt in place.

Only to stumble into nothing. Dimeritium cuffs fall to the ground with a clunk.

Geralt is gone, back to the coast.

Jaskier lets out a whimper, rolling onto his back. He could laugh at Rience’s dumbfounded face, so he does.

Bony hands wrap around Jaskier’s throat in anger, cutting off his air. They loosen after a brief moment, and Jaskier gasps violently, but he pays no mind to the mage anymore. They can’t keep Geralt.

It doesn’t matter what they do to Jaskier now.

☆

Rience no longer bothers with Jaskier anymore. The chain that was broken by Geralt is left as it is. Jaskier spends his days fighting to breathe but mostly failing.

He touches the tender parts of his side. The broken ribs put a strain on his lungs, shooting pains into his limbs with every rise and fall of his chest. He has heard about this condition. It happens amongst injured soldiers who slowly die from a chest cavity that no longer draws breath. It’s like drowning on dry land.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, not knowing the passage of time. They send him water but he doesn’t remember drinking it. The fever comes and goes, preventing any of his wounds from healing. The burns on his fingers are swollen and sensitive. He wonders if he can still play the lute after this, and then, he wonders if there is an after at all.

He worries for Geralt, his Geralt, always placed out of time. What happens after he dies? Will he still be the anchor? Will Geralt be pulled to his presence, but only find his tombstone?

Jaskier clutches the fabric at his chest. He pictures the child by the road, with brown curls and big eyes, being pulled from his quiet life only to watch a sad, old bard die. The idea makes his stomach roil.

Bile rises up, and Jaskier gags. He spits out the bitter liquid until he tastes blood.

When rescue comes, Jaskier barely registers the noise.

There is an explosion, he thinks, and the ground shakes with raw, unbridled chaos. The guards are drawing their swords, but the sound soon becomes their wailing. The scent of lilac and gooseberries fills the air. When the door to his cell opens, Jaskier meets violet eyes.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer is gentle with him. It’s a rare sight. “Can you hear me?”

Jaskier only stares, searching. In the distance, swords clash, and he catches the shouts of a little girl. Ciri.

“Ciri…” He opens his mouth but no sounds come out. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“Ciri is fighting. So is Geralt,” Yennefer says, her hands weaving a spell. “You better not give up before a little girl, bard.”

Jaskier wants to laugh at her joke, and the coughs wreck his body again, choking all the stubbornness out of him. He wheezes, not being able to get air in. Yennefer’s spell settles in, and suddenly all the pain disappears.

It’s like he’s lying on top of the clouds. He could sleep right there and never wake up.

“Stay awake.” Yennefer sounds desperate. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d even think she’s worried for him. “Geralt!” she shouts. Now, he’s sure the great Yennefer of Vengerburg is worried.

When Jaskier opens his eyes again, he is held in Geralt’s arms, his body hanging limply. There is daylight in the corridors of the prison, and Geralt is beautiful. His hair is a mess with soot and blood, his eyes bruised from exhaustion, but he is, and Jaskier tells him so.

“Beautiful…”

It comes out a hoarse whisper, and Geralt looks down at him.

“Keep breathing, Jaskier,” Geralt kisses his forehead before crossing a portal. It jostles Jaskier, making him grimace. “Just keep breathing.”

Oh, but how difficult that is.

It’s like a mountain sits on top of Jaskier’s chest, squeezing out all the air. Every step Geralt takes sends shooting pains from Jaskier’s ribs, pulling him apart from the inside.

His airway grows tighter and tighter, but he can’t give up. Geralt is here, and they can go back now. They can go back to the coast, to the little cottage they call home.

“He can’t breathe. Yen, he can’t…”

“…Get him to Triss…have to…quickly!”

It’s like his head is bobbing at the surface of the sea. The waves drown out the sound, muffling out the world.

Jaskier drifts, and lets the waves wash over him.

☆

There is murmuring, and herbal water poured down Jaskier’s throat.

Too many people are handling him. He recognizes Yennefer and Ciri. Their hands are soft, wiping the blood and sweat from his face. Magic seeps into his lungs, easing air into him. He breathes gratefully at the faint outline of Triss’s hair. Her eyes are warm and reassuring.

When sword-callused hands finally wrap around Jaskier’s wrist, darkness sinks in again. It drapes over his eyes like a heavy curtain, forcing him to sleep. When he comes to, the night has receded, and golden light kisses the back of his eyelids.

The bed beneath Jaskier is soft, and the covers light, but he startles awake in fear.

The coldness that surrounds him is gone, but his skin remembers the phantom touch of the stone floor and the ironclad shackles. He struggles against it but gentle hands stop him by the shoulders.

“Where—”

“Yen’s safe house. You are okay,” Geralt says, his face impossibly close. “We got you out of there. They won’t touch you again.”

It’s morning already. Light spills through the window, casting long shadows in the room. Jaskier’s vision blurs when he looks at anything that is not Geralt, so he looks at Geralt again.

Jaskier’s fever dream was right. His husband is the most beautiful man Jaskier has ever seen.

He’s keeping his hair down for once, letting it drape to one side like a waterfall made of silver. There are dark circles under those golden eyes and tight lines around his lips, and all Jaskier wants to do is to soothe them. Geralt looks drained, exhausted.

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Darling, are you alright?”

He’s surprised to find his voice. It’s still rough, with barely any force behind it, but it’s his voice.

Geralt looks incredulous like he’s just heard a terrible joke. “Am I alright?” he huffs. “You gave me quite a fright yesterday. Can’t say I’m too well.”

Jaskier reaches out from under the blankets to touch Geralt’s face, only to notice the thick bandages around his wrist and the spasms in his muscles. Geralt catches his hand to stop him from trembling.

“My hands?”

“They’ll recover. It’ll take time and exercise, but you will play again, I promise.” Geralt kisses the bandage. “Your voice will come back too.”

“You’ll be here when I sing again?”

“Of course.”

Jaskier nods, satisfied. “Your hands are cold,” he says a moment later, frowning, and Geralt softens.

“Well, you nearly died from a collapsed lung. Guess we are even.”

Jaskier is not amused. He hates it when Geralt doesn’t take care of himself. Even with his enhanced biology, there is no need to be uncomfortable like this. He must have sat at Jaskier’s bed through the night to get this cold.

“Here.”

Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hands into the covers where it’s nice and toasty. He wants to rub some warmth into them, but his wrists are too weak. They end up holding hands near Jaskier’s heart, letting his body temperature do the work.

“Easy. You are on a lot of potions. You may not feel all the wounds yet.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, the expansion of his chest pulling at the aches in his side. He grimaces, winking in mischief. “Oh, I feel them.”

Instead of smiling, Geralt’s face falls. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a bit funny.”

Geralt’s shoulders tighten. His expression looks like a kicked puppy, and that’s how Jaskier knows he’s crossed a line.

“Jaskier,” Geralt starts. “You were tortured. For days. They broke three of your ribs and left you to die.” Guilt sits between Geralt’s brows. “It was all because of me.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

“I disagree.”

“It was me.” Jaskier takes in another labored breath. Talking still takes a lot out of him. “In that cell, I wished to see you, and there you were. Don’t you see, Geralt? This happened because of me. They found out about us from my memories. They knew all they needed to do was wait, and they were right. All of it happened because of me.”

Geralt’s fingers link with Jaskier’s, careful with the bandages around his burns.

“I sent you away with Roach, because of what I saw. I tried to prevent you from getting hurt, but I sent you right into a trap.”

“You almost fell into their trap too, because of me. Rience almost had you.”

Jaskier shudders, a few coughs bubbling up in his throat. Lying down puts too much pressure on his chest, so he struggles against the covers.

Geralt wraps his arms behind Jaskier to help him sit up. He also brings a cup of water, and Jaskier drinks it gladly, his throat soothed from the coolness. He looks down to find his torso also wrapped in heavy bandages, the aches throbbing underneath. A sheen of sweat has broken out on Jaskier skin when the coughs die down.

“He’s dead now,” Geralt says, dabbing Jaskier’s forehead with a soaked cloth, avoiding the healing wound on his hairline.

“And the woman?”

Geralt’s lips press together. “Fringilla. She’s gone. Yen wanted to track her, but it could expose all of us.”

Dread sits between Jaskier’s breastbone, but he stays quiet.

“You look pale. Is it the fever?” Geralt presses their foreheads together to feel Jaskier’s temperature. “It hasn’t gone down yet.”

“Just thinking.”

“You are never this quiet when you’re thinking.”

Jaskier smiles tiredly. “Just want to go home now. Back to the coast.”

Geralt sits back, his expression grave. “Oh,” he says, “we can’t. They found us there.”

“In a few years, then. When the world has forgotten all about us.”

Now, Geralt looks properly pained.

“Jaskier, they burned down our house.”

The morning light blinds Jaskier’s sight for a moment, and he has to look away.

The small cottage on the cliff, the home where they were handfasted by their family, is gone. It’s not rational to mourn a building, perhaps, but Jaskier mourns anyway.

“I see.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “Of course, what was I thinking? Of course they did.”

“Jaskier…”

“If only—” his breathing quickens. “—If only we were still there. Just a few days ago, before everything changed. No destiny, no wars, just us. If only we could go back.”

Geralt guides Jaskier’s lax body to lean against his, letting his head rest comfortably. Jaskier lets out a whimper, his chin wobbling. It’s pathetic to be sad about something as inconsequential as a small cottage. Everyone is alright, after all. It shouldn’t matter, but Jaskier is too hurt to care.

“I’m sorry, Jask.” Geralt says under his breath. “It’s all my fault.”

“Again, not you.” Jaskier will repeat as many times as he needs. “It was just bad people, doing bad things. They used us both.”

“What if we could—”

Geralt cuts himself off before finishing the sentence, and Jaskier hums.

“What if we could…?”

A sigh, followed by a kiss. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looks up, confused. “You were saying?”

Geralt is wearing that determined look on his face, the look that is equally tragic and doomed. He only does it when he’s decided to do something incredibly self-sacrificial, and therefore incredibly heroic and stupid. Jaskier hates that look.

Geralt opens his mouth and closes it.

“We’ll talk later.” Geralt rubs Jaskier’s back to soothe him. Or dismiss him. “You must want to rest.”

“That’s all I’ve done,” Jaskier argues. “And you said half of it already, so you must tell me now. It’d be incredibly rude to toy with a bard’s curiosity like this, you know?”

Jaskier’s attempt to lighten Geralt’s mood fails, and the shadow in his husband’s eyes only darkens. He might as well be walking towards the gallows.

Geralt sits next to Jaskier, cradling his hands gently. He looks like he’s trying to muster all the courage for what he’s about to say. It’s becoming really unnerving.

“Jaskier,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jaskier answers, his frown deepening. He waits for Geralt to continue. “And?”

“Yen has been studying Ciri’s power, helping her control it.”

“Yes, I know this.”

“She believes Ciri has the ability to manipulate time. The past, present, future. All of it.” Geralt pauses. “She believes she can harness it.”

“It sounds like a powerful thing,” Jaskier says, not sure why Geralt would look saddened about this fact. They’ve been studying Ciri’s magical abilities for a long time, and there’s finally a breakthrough. “But what does it have to do with me?”

Geralt touches the bandages on Jaskier’s wrists, his thumb running the familiar soothing motion. He’s so nervous that Jaskier wants to let it go for a second.

“Yen thinks, with Ciri’s help, there could be a way of undoing the bond between us, and I want to let her try. The temporal magic is ancient. It’s as old as destiny itself, so it will be tricky and the spell won’t be ready for a while yet, but there is a chance it could work. We’d need to look after Ciri in the process, of course, but she has enough chaos to protect herself…”

The world narrows down to the words I want to let her try, and the rest fades into the background. Jaskier’s heart beats steadily in his chest, and for a few moments, he does not register the meaning behind those words.

“…it’ll be for the best. The Nilfgaardians are still searching for me. We can’t let them get to you again.”

“What are you saying?” Jaskier hears his own voice from a mile away. “Surely, you can’t do that.”

“We can. The bond is strong, weaved into destiny itself, but more powerful things can break it. A Djinn, perhaps,” Geralt says. “Or a Source.”

Jaskier stares, unblinking, and then he’s laughing at the first truly funny thing he’s heard since being captured. It’s nearly hysterical.

“Oh, Geralt. How silly! Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter how Yen can work her wicked spells. The past is in the past!” he explains, as if to a child. “Everything we’ve been through together has happened already. If she breaks the bond, what of the past? Our lives are weaved into the same, tangled since the beginning. The same bond brought you to me when I was a child. What of those days? Will they just disappear into thin air, like they’ve never exis—”

The laugh freezes on Jaskier’s face, his stomach twisting.

“Oh, Jaskier…”

The look on Geralt’s face is now of sympathy.

“They will just disappear, like they never existed,” Jaskier repeats. “Our days together will be erased.”

Geralt’s nod is almost imperceptible, gentle, but it may as well be a punch in Jaskier’s gut. He flinches, recoiling from Geralt’s touch.

Jaskier curls into himself, inhaling sharply, one breath after another. Distantly, he notices the pain in his ribcage. It begins as a spark, only a faint stinging of his broken ribs, but soon it takes life, radiating through his core.

“We never would have met,” Jaskier murmurs. “But I waited for you. I waited for you my whole life.”

“You wouldn’t have known I existed, Jask. You’d just grow up in Lettenhove—”

“Alone. Without you.” Jaskier swallows, his throat constricting. “The past will be lost.”

“It’s the only reason you are in danger. If we had never met,” Geralt explains gently, a faint smile on his face, “they’d never have hurt you like this.”

He looks like he truly believes it to be a good idea.

“Is it because of me?” Jaskier asks, his breath hitching. “Because it was my fault. They used our bond because I was weak.”

“No, Jaskier—”

“But it was only a moment. I know better now. I won’t make the same mistake,” he pleads. “You mustn’t blame me, Geralt, not too much, not for long.”

Jaskier is panicking, and he’s breathing too fast. He realizes that, but he can’t bring himself to care. Geralt wants to leave.

Geralt wants to leave again, after all this time.

It was only a moment of weakness. Jaskier was hurting and he couldn’t stay strong. He only missed Geralt, just a little, and let his mind wander.

Surely, his husband should forgive him.

“Jask, no. Listen to me, it was not your fault.” Geralt’s eyes have gone round, his hands holding Jaskier’s cheeks, making sure their eyes meet. “My brave Jaskier. It’s not what you think. It was never your fault, only mine. I’m the reason you are hurt, over and over again. I’ve been selfish enough to let it happen for decades, but when I found you in the cell…I—I couldn’t live with myself anymore. It was too close this time.” Geralt swallows like he’s going to be sick. “Too close.”

“You got me out of there,” Jaskier insists childishly.

“Barely.” Geralt’s eyes are vacant, haunted by memories. “Had we been a moment late—”

“I’m fine now.”

“You are very much not!”

The words come out too loud, and Geralt winces, ashamed to have raised his voice. The room is quiet, except for Jaskier’s rattling breaths.

Panic morphs into anger, licking up in the midst of pain.

“Don’t I get a say in it?” Jaskier says, voice low, teeth clenching. “I don’t care if it’s the price of being with you.”

If it’s the price of loving Geralt, he’d choose to bleed and burn a thousand times over. He’d choose it any day. It’s the same choice Geralt made once, the old aches in his joints a solid proof.

“Oh.” Geralt’s thumb ghosts over Jaskier’s split lips. “It’s not a price I’m willing to pay.”

And yet…

He’d deny Jaskier the same choice.

The room spins in front of Jaskier’s eyes, dizzying in the bright sunlight. Out of nowhere, Jaskier musters the strength to push away Geralt’s hands, his body toppling to the other side.

“No!” Jaskier shouts, panting violently. “You don’t get to—” He coughs, hoarse and painful. “—you don’t get to give up on us.”

Jaskier clutches at his collar, gasping for air, his lungs rattling pathetically like an old ship in a storm. It’s like Rience’s hand is around his throat again. Waves of nausea crash into his trembling body, but Jaskier holds himself upright out of sheer spite.

Tentative hands rest on his shoulder, trying to help him. “Jaskier, you are hyperventilating.” Geralt sounds scared now. “Shit. Something's wrong.”

“You…” Jaskier rasps. The world blacks out for a second. The ringing in his ears grows louder and louder until it drowns out his own voice. He isn’t sure if the words are spoken, or if they are just an echo of his anguish. “You promised me.”

Geralt promised, under the pine trees of Kaer Morhen, on the grassy cliff by the sea. He promised with their hands wrapped together. He promised not to leave.

Geralt is choosing to leave now.

“…Jaskier…you need to breathe…”

He will leave the child who waited at the lake, in the cold mansion of Lettenhove. He will leave Jaskier to the lonely days of his childhood. He will leave, on top of a mountain, and never return.

“…Please…breathe…”

The ringing pierces Jaskier’s mind, and the world quiets.

“You promised,” he whimpers.

Warmth rises from Jaskier’s throat, metallic and cloying, filling his mouth. He throws his body forward, splattering the sheets with crimson. He coughs and chokes, watching helplessly as blood drips onto the bandage around his fingers.

Jaskier feels strangely calm.

He looks up, and finds people rushing into the room.

Ciri is standing by the door, her eyes wide with fear. Jaskier must be quite a sight. He has been tortured and starved, and now, covered in blood. He never wants to upset Ciri. She has gone through too much already.

Yennefer is yelling at Geralt, that much is sure. Her mouth is opening and closing, and she looks cross with him. She opens a bottle of potion, but Jaskier doesn’t care about the pain anymore. Triss’s hands are around him, her magic vibrating against his skin.

And Geralt…

Geralt looks as scared as Jaskier feels. He’s calling Jaskier’s name, again and again, begging him to answer, but Jaskier can only remain still.

It’s like he’s floating outside of his body, watching himself break apart in silence.

Can’t Geralt see it? Rience’s fire couldn’t do it, nor could Frigilla’s magic and destiny’s cruel jokes, one after another.

But Geralt can.

He breaks Jaskier easily, by holding his heart within his palms and casting it aside. Jaskier shutters into pieces right there.

The pain spreads through his limbs, seeping into every cell of his body, reaching every inch of Jaskier’s soul. It makes sense it’s the worst pain he’s ever felt—he’s grieving a part of himself. It’s the best part, tangled with Geralt from the root. It is now being pulled out alive, leaving an empty, gaping wound.

Tears trail down, salty like the blood on his tongue.

Jaskier collapses in despair.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the time traveler's wife AU #jaskier whump #hurt jaskier #i've been waiting for 40k of words just to get to this scene :'D

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spielzeugkaiser · 8 months

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[MASTERPOST] I've been having a day, so you all get what should have been, if things went differently!

A little crop because I really like it too :3

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #geraskier lovechild #omegaverse #you better believe Geralt starts to dream about this once he gets to know Milek - and he doesn't normally dream that much #that and. nightmares of leaving Jaskier alone on that mountain.#oh see! there was the hurt (:

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irrlicht-writes · 1 year

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awhole beneath the ice

Sometimes, he almost remembers something, he thinks.

Before his eyes, there are flowers flying by, ever-changing seasons and songs that would simply never end. And next to him, there is a horse, always trotting, always following. And there’s more but it hurts to lift his head. Maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the moon.

Whatever it is, it feels like a soft, precious thing.

And yet, it hurts.

When he blinks, the flowers and the sun are gone.

It’s so cold.

Where has the sun gone?

~*~

“Jaskier.”

When they ask him for his name, that’s the first thing he can think of. He won’t denounce himself, or his family – they’re still his, it still belongs to him – but this, this thing is just for him. Julian has no place here, doesn’t belong here. He still is Julian, yes, but he can be Jaskier and Jaskier can be anything he wants him to be, a free bird, not caught in cupboards, not behind the bars of a cage.

Julian picked buttercups outside, and Jaskier really wants to weave them into a flower crown. Yellow hasn’t really been his favourite colour until now, but it could be Jaskier’s favourite, he thinks.

“Jaskier,” they call him and to his surprise, it takes him no time to get used to it.

Maybe he was always supposed to be Jaskier.

The lessons, he skips as much as he attends them, because he is so much more interested in everything else. Lazy, they call him. Jaskier laughs and twirls and weaves more flower crowns. He’s free here, flying and without a tether.

He’s truly a good little bird here, he thinks and howls with laughter. Valdo frowns but Jaskier giggles and takes his hand to drag him away. He’s quite glad there’s enough beds here and he doesn’t need to see another abandoned barn.

He visits taverns and dances, sings and claps and laughs. He won’t go back, he won’t. He writes letters, but as replies soon start to dwindle, so does he dwindle in sending anymore. Maybe they’re best apart.

Julian’s not important anyway.

Jaskier is so much better, so much more interesting.

If life could give me one blessing

When Valdo leaves, Jaskier is only slightly stifled. Valdo was a sleazy bastard anyway and Jaskier is pretty sure the last poem Valdo released was cobbled together out of verses he’s stolen. It was all okay though, because Jaskier is a free bird and now he can prance around again wherever he pleases.

He graduates with all the honours he could not care more about and he pockets the contract they give him for later use, or maybe kindling, he’s not sure yet. Jaskier nicks a lute from the storage room and skips town before anyone notices he’s even gone.

It is late spring and the audience outside of Oxenfurt sure is hard to please. He’s a free bird, yes, but maybe he’s gotten acclimatised to the crowd back in the city. The people he sang to now aren’t high-cultured in any way and some alliterations might go straight over their heads.

Apparently they like things they can easily understand.

And yet, when he sings of simple things, they still pelt him with hard bread. They’re a rude bunch, that’s for sure. Maybe he would have to find a balance.

He continues on, because he loves to roam and pick the flowers and breathe in the air. He darts out of windows and hops over fences and he laughs and the world belongs to Jaskier.

In Posada, he meets somebody. A broody, moody somebody but he’s oh so interesting. Jaskier skips and sings and dances and the broody moody Witcher can’t really get rid of him.

Geralt, his name is, Jaskier knows. Jaskier’s heard the stories and he’s enticed by the stories. He wants more, he wants everything. And where else to get everything than right here? Jaskier’s always liked a little bit of thrill, really.

Over a campfire, Geralt smiles at Jaskier for the first time. Jaskier laughs and chirps and sings and plays and the smile doesn’t go anywhere.

He puts his head back, stares up at the sky full of stars.

The song fades away on the wind, the fire stops cackling for a moment and when he blinks, he’s drowning.

The stars above him transform away, until all that is left is a singular one, a star in the shape of a broken hole, and it’s moving away from him, faster and faster. Julian wants to scream, for help, please, please help him, why isn’t his Nanny helping him but his voice fails him.

His legs are heavy and they drag him down and he drowns, drowns, and drowns.

He reaches a hand out towards the star-shaped hole above him but there’s nobody.

Julian is five years old and he dies here.

~*~

He’s lying on the floor and he’s counting the bricks in the wall. He keeps losing track and starting again but that’s okay. He should worry about his leg, he knows, but that’s okay too. It’s cold, so cold and he’s naked and there’s nothing he could use as a blanket. Hasn’t there been straw before, at least? He can’t remember, but then again, he also can’t remember how long he’s been here.

Oh... the bricks.

He’s lost count again. But that’s okay, he can start again.

It’s not too late to start again.

He can do it, he can do it.

...Who is “he”?

~*~

“Nobody is going to love you,” his mother says to his face, her hands cold on his cheeks. He blinks up at her, not knowing what to respond.

“You are too much – too loud, too annoying, too... you. Be a good little bird and just be quiet, will you?”

He blinks again and then she shoves him into the cupboard. She locks the door behind him and Julian sits down. He doesn’t understand. The birds outside his window are never quiet unless they’re sleeping. He looks down at his hands and turns them in front of his face.

Then he remembers – he’s seen somebody keep a bird at home, locked away in a cage. That bird had been silent unless it had been animated to sing. But Julian wasn’t in a cage, was he?

He looks up to the door and presses his hands on the wood. He pushes against the wood and it doesn’t give. Maybe he is in a cage, after all?

You are too much.

But – he’s himself, isn’t he? How can there be too much of him?

He remembers then, the tiny hole of light getting ever smaller. Julian reaches his hand upwards, ever upwards, toward the light even though his arm is heavy and his legs are dragging him down.

Save me, he wants to say, save me please save me, can you hear me?

His hand his reaching up and suddenly he can’t breathe and he’s not in the cupboard anymore and somebody, someone grabs his hand and pulls him to the light.

He coughs and sputters and spits out water, it’s in his ears, in his eyes, gods his doublet is soaked –

He stops.

A doublet?

He – what?

He blinks and looks around.

There’s a forest around him, but it’s cold and dark. Wasn’t there just the sun out? Where did the sun go? He looks down at himself and it’s not – it’s not him, is it?

Somebody grabbed his hand.

Somebody pulled him out.

He looks to the lake and it’s frozen over and he can see a tiny hole in the ice. It’s too small for him, isn’t it? And wasn’t it just summer? He’s cold and he’s freezing and he is heavy, so heavy and so weary.

But there’s a hole in the ice.

“Don’t go on the ice, it’s dangerous.”

He doesn’t turn his head to a toneless, voiceless voice.

“I want to go ice-skating.”

His legs are shaking and when he blinks, he’s kneeling in front of the hole, staring into the water. He can scarcely see his face in it and it’s – it’s his face but it’s not a face he remembers. He doesn’t understand.

He – what’s his name, what’s his name – reaches out, grabs into the water and he seizes a small hand in his. Back then, who – who saved him?

Because he was five years old and he shouldn’t drown then.

He, he pulls and nothing comes up because he falls down instead and he screams, Julian screams inside the cupboard because he’s drowning because he’s five years old and he can’t – he can’t –

But nobody comes.

He looks up but there’s no hole in the ice.

He reaches for it anyway.

~*~

Somebody is crying and it takes him too long to realise that it’s not him.

He blinks awake and sees the bricks he didn’t count. Are the bricks crying? All the stains he presumed to be blood – that he knows are blood – are they tears? He shakes his head, as little as he can move still and there’s a hiccup.

Not the bricks then.

Owlishly, he blinks and tries to move himself more. The sound comes from above his head but it’s so, so difficult to move.

“I – I thought you were – were dead,” the unseen voice cries and he thinks, well, it’s not wrong. He ought to be dead, no? Can he even talk still? Maybe he should try.

Yes, he tries to say but nothing proper comes out. Maybe a sound, it’s so exhausting. The sobbing grows louder.

“P-please don’t die,” she begs and it’s a she it’s a she and he needs, he needs to see her, he has to he has to it’s important he has to –

shovel shit.

No.

No no no no.

What?

He can feel his heart beating in his chest and it hurts it hurts so much. He keens or whines or he doesn’t know but he just wants to – he wants to –

Does this please you?

He just wants to count the bricks.

~*~

He’s panting into Iwo’s mouth as they come down from their heights. Now, yes, Julian always imagined his first time in a more luxurious space than an abandoned barn, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Iwo is the tailor’s son and he’s been – courting Julian – for a good two years. Maybe courting is the wrong word, but Julian doesn’t know what else to say for it. He likes Iwo, he knows. The boy is three years older than him, true, but it can work out. Julian’s not important anyway, so it won’t matter much which whom he gets married, right?

Iwo huffs a stinky breath into his face and stands up. Julian feels slightly uncomfortable and very sticky. He hopes that Iwo will get some water to clean them both up because there isn’t really any river nearby. And Julian is not going to the village’s well still dripping, no thanks.

“That was nice,” Iwo says and Julian nods. He’s frowning though, Iwo says it with such a weird time.

“See you later, lording.”

“Wha – Iwo, wait!”

But Iwo is already out of the barn.

“Bring me some cloth at least!”

He doesn’t yell very loudly. While the barn is abandoned, it’s not all that far away.

He wonders, then.

As he lies there, he wonders.

And later, in later days, when they yell after him, he still wonders.

~*~

The girl, he remembers. Her white hair, her green eyes, her dirty dress, her tear-stained cheeks, he remembers.

She clutches his broken fingers and sobs, begs him to not die. He doesn’t know if that was what he was doing. What is he even doing here? Why is he counting bricks anyway? What had he done before, he can’t quite remember.

“He’s gonna come, he’s gonna come,” she whispers in-between broken sobs and he believes her. Who’s he, he wonders and he doesn’t know who he even means by that. He blinks and wishes he could squeeze her hand. Why is she here, he wonders.

He knows her, he knows her like he knew the sun, once.

The flowers, and the sun and that horse.

A song on the wind, he tries to remember but it slips through his fingers every time he tries to catch it. He wishes he could ask her to sing for him, one last time.

His legs are frozen, they drag him under.

He frowns.

That’s not right.

He wants to talk, to talk to her. But he’s in a cage and caged birds don’t sing and –

He blinks towards the door.

All he needs is a hole, his hole in the ice.

He curls his fingers around her tiny hand.

~*~

A long time ago, in a winter long since passed, Julian breaks through the ice. He had wanted to go ice-skating even though his Nanny had mentioned this to be a bad idea. But Julian hadn’t wanted to listen, so off they went.

His Nanny is with him, but she’s standing far away on the safe ground. Maybe she’s screaming but all Julian can hear is the water around him. At first, he doesn’t realise he fell through. This is scary, he thinks. Breaking through the ice is bad; it’s what his Nanny always says. And yet, Julian swims in this lake during summer so many times and it’s never a problem.

He can see the hole he fell through, he thinks. He reaches out a hand for it but it’s so far away. Julian sinks further towards the bottom. He wonders, briefly, if he’s ever swum to the bottom before. Can he even hold his breath for that long? He should’ve tested that before now. But it’s too late now, it’s too late.

Do I want to die here?

No, he decides. He doesn’t. He tries to kick his legs to go back upwards but it’s so difficult. His whole body is heavy, so, so heavy and it drags him down. But he has to try, he has to try, he has to –

Does he?

Why should he try?

Julian closes his eyes. Who’d miss him, even?

But he’s five years old and he shouldn’t drown here.

He’s five years old and he should be loved.

He opens his eyes again and looks back up. The small hole is getting smaller and his chest is burning. He kicks his legs again, trying again and again and again.

With a heavy arm, he reaches upwards again.

Who will save him? Somebody save him.

Somebody somebody somebody –

He punches his hand through the water.

It’s so, so cold.

He tries so, so hard.

He remembers flowers.

Maybe he remembers more.

it would be to take you off my hands

~*~

He’s panting and his heart lies hard in his chest. He can’t feel his legs, can’t feel his body, but he screams, screams underwater and he won’t die here, won’t die, not here not yet.

The girl sobs and tries to stop and Julian waits. The door. He needs a hole, that’s all. When it opens, he is ready. His Nanny is standing on the sidelines, screaming and his mother is double-locking the cupboard. Julian grabs the man with the food and slams him against the wall. His legs are heavy but he is strong enough to save himself.

Something cracks and maybe it’s bone, maybe it’s wood but the door is open. She is breathing hard but she jumps up, next to him and she understands, she knows. Julian won’t let her drown, he won’t let either of them drown.

“We save ourselves,” he says and thinks of a hand that pulled him out of the water. He can’t remember if it was real or not.

On frozen legs, he leaves the bricks behind, their blood, and their tears.

He doesn’t know where to go. His adrenaline is fading fast and he doesn’t know how much time he has still.

“Which way do we take?”

The girl tries hard not to let her voice tremble. Julian doesn’t know. Then, there’s chirping and he turns his head. Down the left path is a child he knows, a child he’s left behind. It chirps and sings and it’s free and Jaskier turns, following it.

Away from the cage, away from the cupboard. Towards the open road, the open path and all the world beyond it. The girl grips his pant leg and follows him. Maybe she questions him, but she doesn’t say. It doesn’t matter. How could he not follow the chirping outside his window?

He walks, and she follows.

“They’re behind us!”

She screams, she panics but Jaskier doesn’t look back. He knows where the child leads and he’s ready. “Trust me,” he says, and he grabs her and picks her up. She squeals and protests and she is scared but that’s okay.

Jaskier isn’t afraid.

He runs.

He runs, like he used to do so long ago.

When he was Julian still, when he’d run across a field all by himself.

When he was young still, when his Nanny hated him but couldn’t leave him alone.

He runs, like he once ran away from home, picking buttercups on the way.

He runs, like he once ran away from his other home, strumming his stolen lute.

He runs, like he once ran from that mountain, listening to the wind taking him away.

He runs, he jumps, and then they fly for just one moment.

The girl screams and Jaskier leaves Julian behind.

They hit the water and they drown, drown, drown but there’s no ice, no hole to grow smaller.

Holding the girl tight, he looks up.

Jaskier can see the sun, the flowers. He knows what he’ll see when he gets up.

His legs are frozen, his legs are dead and done, but he uses them still, a remnant, to kick them both up, towards the sun, towards the light.

~*~

When he breaks through the surface, he breathes.

He turns and sees his Nanny in the distance.

He blinks and sees the horse in the distance.

He blinks again and both things seem to exist at once.

There’s Julian, and there’s Geralt.

He breathes and he’s Jaskier.

He’s Jaskier.

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