the moon looks beautiful

Except Jaskier does not know the way in which the fae turn favors on their head, how unlike with Djinn, it does not matter how precisely you word a request. The faerie understood the root of Jaskier’s desire, and is in a generous mood, but the faerie does still feed on Mischief. And oh, what glorious Mischief is to be had in twisting one’s desire to escape the grip of the Grim Reaper.

Regardless, it takes the bard a long time to realize that he’d accidentally eaten through his nine lives rather rapidly. Or rather, he should have, if he ever truly died…?

At first Jaskier thinks his body is just very strong after he survives the plague at 21 that has killed everyone else it’s touched so far. Or that Geralt must have brought him to a very good healer, because surely that head wound from the griffon should have been fatal! He could have sworn that he heard a crack when he hit the tree, for Melitele’s sake.

And then Jaskier thinks that maybe these all count, these times where Jaskier should have died but didn’t. But when that number starts having a one and then a two in front of it, he starts thinking that he really should have never messed with that faerie, even if he was trying to help it.

Still, Jaskier feels a little sad when at 26, he realizes he is actually dying. That his stab wound from a thief, obtained when he was on his way back to his lodging at Oxenfurt, isn’t healing, not how it usually does. Not how it always has since that encounter nine years ago, almost to the day…?

Jaskier makes it, somehow, to his room before collapsing to the floor, blood quickly pooling out around him. If he had the energy, he would take the time to wax poetically about the bitter irony of facing (well, at least seeing) all manner of monster while by Geralt’s side, how he came out whole if not sometimes a bit worse for wear, only to die at the hands of a different sort of monster.

As the black encroaches on his vision, he wishes distantly that Geralt could see him now, if only for the witcher to understand that the bard knew monsters, far better than Geralt assumed he did, and that monsters did this. Monsters killed helpless bards stumbling home drunk from taverns after a night spent with friends. Monsters took what they wanted, uncaring for the pain and hurt they left in their wake.

Geralt was no monster, Jaskier thought distantly, and then he thought no more.

So when Jaskier woke up the next morning to pounding on the door, a student asking why he wasn’t at class that morning, none were more surprised than he. He was in such a rush to get ready, to change his—oh goodness, that was a lot of blood, it hadn’t been a dream after all—he almost didn’t notice his hair. The hair which was at least two inches shorter than it had been last night. Not to mention that the wound from from the dagger had vanished completely, and the scar from the drowner on his right forearm he’d gotten three years ago was also gone.

It took Jaskier nearly four days to work out what might be happening, and even then he wasn’t entirely sure. It sounded crazy, like something out of a fever dream, but it seemed as if his request nine years ago (and now that Jaskier thought about it, it was possible that it was nine years ago to the day when he’d—), had not been interpreted, or at least fulfilled, at all like he’d wanted it to be.

Though, he considered, perhaps what the faerie had given him was far better than he’d requested. He would never die on the Path with Geralt, or when traveling alone, and he would never get older. It just came, apparently, at the cost of dying every nine years. Which wasn’t that bad of a deal at all, especially as he’d saved the faerie in the middle of winter, and thus could just hide in his guest room at Oxenfurt for the day and let the magic do its…thing.

So maybe Jaskier got a little more reckless while following Geralt around after that, to the witcher’s annoyance (not concern or worry, definitely not). But even the witcher could concede that the bard seemed to be heartier than most humans he encountered, his persistence to survive rivaling that of a witcher it seemed sometimes. Which was impossible, Geralt knew that, and yet…?

But time passed, as it is wont to do, and nine years later found Jaskier rather dreading his second death. Not entirely sure what would happen, or if his theory was even correct, the bard chose to lock himself in his room for the anniversary feigning illness. Jaskier soon found the chosen excuse rather ironic, as when he drank the wine he’d acquired to help perhaps dull the pain of whatever injury would lead to his demise, he soon found himself gasping for air. He could feel his throat closing in a way he faintly recognized from tragic stories of children and young adults taken too soon by bees and nuts. It was altogether a very unpleasant sensation, and Jaskier found himself doing something he never thought he’d do the next morning: throwing out a half full bottle of wine.

If Geralt gave Jaskier an inquisitive look or two when the bard shied away from the drink in general that year, well. Jaskier wasn’t about to tell the witcher why and, as usual, the witcher was not about to verbally ask. Perhaps the bard was just imagining the looks, as it was—after all, if the witcher hadn’t noticed he seemed almost a decade younger now, what were the odds he’d notice a change in Jaskier’s taste in alcohol?

Unfortunately, Jaskier conceded to himself another nine years later, the witcher would likely notice if (when, he had to remind himself, denial would not help him) he keeled over tomorrow. Jaskier hadn’t thought about his upcoming death when he’d agreed to take Ciri up the mountain, hadn’t even considered the possibility of being stuck at Kaer Morhen for the winter.

But maybe it would be fine…? Geralt hadn’t actually made an effort to talk to the bard at all in the two weeks since the battle, focusing most of his energy on ensuring Ciri and Yennefer were settling into the keep well. Which Jaskier definitely wasn’t jealous about, not at all, it’s not as if he wanted to be introduced to the other witchers or be shown around the stronghold or, Melitele forbid, have the witcher pretend to actually want the bard there for even a second—

So maybe Jaskier was feeling a little bitter, as he made his way by candlelight very late in the evening to a corner of the keep that remained abandoned. Maybe he should have said something, he considered, as a freaking icicle what the heck, cracked and fell through his chest. The pain and the numbness was overwhelming, though, and the last thought he had was that he’d need to be sure to come back here with a rag to remove the blood when he woke up.

Jaskier expected to wake up to cold. He thought he’d have to rub feeling back into his arms and legs before making the trek back to his room to change prior to grabbing something to eat. Dying made him so hungry, oddly enough. It might have been the energy it took to heal, he supposed, as he opened his eyes to find—a sheet over his head…? And it wasn’t nearly as cold as it was when he died, he realized as he pulled the fabric away and sat up—

Only to find a sword to his throat. Jaskier froze, following the silver up to a familiar hand, arm, face. A face which looked…dreadful, frankly. Jaskier completely missed what Geralt said, busy as he was taking in the dark bruises under the witcher’s reddened eyes, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the way there was a smear of blood on his chin and flecks of it in his hair.

Jaskier made a noise of confusion, trying to make his mind work a bit faster, force away the sluggishness that was apparently an inevitability every time he died. Honestly, despite having just woke up, he wanted another nap. He wasn’t sure where the black shirt (that looked suspiciously like one of Geralt’s, which he was trying not to think about) came from, where in the keep he was, or how long he’d been here for. All he knew was that he was hungry, and tired, and neither he nor Geralt seemed to be physically injured at least, which was enough for the bard to feel fine pushing the silver away and ask if there was any food in here, please, he was hungry enough to eat a griffon—

Jaskier was barely able to bite back a groan as he suddenly found himself manhandled into the witcher’s lap, hugged so tightly Jaskier thought his ribs would be bruised. And Jaskier could no longer deny what must have happened, whose blood it was Geralt bore on the hands holding him close, one now cradling his head and the other spread flat across his back. So Jaskier whispered reassurances to the witcher that he was okay as he trailed his fingers through the strands of silver, unsure if he should try to explain, if that would help, when his stomach growling interrupted the rather sweet moment.

Geralt froze, and Jaskier thought this would be when the walls came back up, when the witcher emotionally (and maybe physically) pushed the bard away, pretending as if nothing had happened. As if Geralt hadn’t just been hugging the bard like a small child would a favorite toy after a nightmare.

Instead, Jaskier squeaked as he was lifted into the air, Geralt’s hold adjusting on him to carry the bard as he left the room. Jaskier tried to tell the witcher that his legs were fine, that he could walk, but the witcher just pulled the bard impossibly closer, so Jaskier gave up. It wasn’t the first time the witcher had carried Jaskier, it just usually didn’t happen when the bard was conscious or non-grievously injured.

Jaskier was so busy considering if this situation technically fell into the latter category that he didn’t notice where Geralt was headed until the witcher walked past the table of other occupants of the keep. Who were now quietly staring as Geralt took his usual seat in the dining hall and didn’t put Jaskier down on his spot closest to the exit.

It seemed that, for the foreseeable future, Jaskier’s spot would be Geralt’s lap, or his arms, Jaskier thought, even his internal monologue sounding rather hysterical as he watched the witcher serve himself rabbit stew and bread. Which was apparently for the bard, Jaskier realized, as Geralt held the spoon to his lips and Melitele help him, that was too much, even for him. His hands were fine now, thank you very much, and while he might have appreciated the gesture literally just yesterday, today he had no problem taking the spoon and feeding himself. It was embarrassing enough to be sat in the witcher’s lap like a child in front of the others, let alone—

Jaskier winced as the shock apparently wore off for everyone simultaneously, with questions shouted louder and louder, echoing off the stone walls to further amplify the sound. And then, suddenly, the noise was gone as soon as it started as the others balked, giving Jaskier sheepish looks.

But—no, not Jaskier, but behind him—

Before Jaskier had time to ponder just what expression Geralt was wearing, the witcher was grabbing the bard’s hand, using it to spoon up more stew, and Jaskier couldn’t help but snort at the action. He gently patted the hand before untangling it, taking a few more bites as he considered what to say.

“Favor from a faerie. I die every nine years, and come back younger. Nothing’s killed me between deaths that should have.”

Jaskier turned his face back to his stew as soon as he was done speaking. Was it the most eloquent explanation? No. Did the witchers, Yennefer, and Ciri have questions? Probably. Did Jaskier care about anything besides eating and going back to bed right now? Not really, no.

Which Geralt, bless his heart, seemed to understand, as he stood right back up as soon as Jaskier set his spoon down. The bard tried to protest, to slur something out about the witcher eating too, but the older man simply inhaled deeply, letting out a rumbling noise of approval that had Jaskier unconsciously relaxing.

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that this was the warmest the bard had been since he’d gotten here, Jaskier told himself as he let his head fall into the nook between the witcher’s shoulder and neck. Nor was it his fault, really, that he was still absolutely exhausted, leading to him letting his eyes fall shut. Geralt seemed to have a destination in mind, anyways, and the bard trusted the witcher to bring him somewhere safe and warm. To make sure no harm would befall the bard, regardless of supposed faerie favors and potential immortality.

Nanny Ashtoreth  has a hecking hard job.

After a while damns are no longer given.