An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Years went by in the blink of an eye and never once Jaskier had thought of the intricate matter concerning his boundless youth.
At first, he believed himself blessed by the genetic pool on his father’s side, a man who hadn’t shown a single grey hair until the late age of fifty, but once Jaskier edged the scheduled period himself, and not a sight of a silver thread was visible upon his head, he thought it was perhaps time to stop feigning concern.
He consulted with witches, masters of the dark arts, and even elves who might perhaps recognize in him the forgotten heir of one of their promiscuous ancestors, to no avail.
They all agreed that his condition was one of the utmost peculiar kind, that surely no human alive is able of withholding their youth to such an extent, to not have a single wrinkle add to his vivid features since the age of eighteen. It must only be the work of the dark arts. Magic.
What sort of magic that might be, Jaskier was exhaustedly clueless.
During those very years, Jaskier had come upon Geralt quite regularly in his travels. They drank and dined, parted and reunited but never once did Jaskier mention the matter laying at the core of his worry for fear of uncovering a truth neither of them could live with.
Magic was not a matter taken with a grain of salt, Yennefer was a grand example of such. He thought if the truth unveils something dark and twisted, he would not be able to look the Witcher in the eye without seeing the shadow of a hunter staring back at him. He feared, deeply, that their friendship would not survive the truth, whatever it was.
Perhaps Jaskier was also afraid of facing himself. Afraid of looking upon a mirror and viewing not a man but a horrid creature meant to torment the world instead of healing it, afraid that he would turn out to be the exact opposite of what he devoted his life to become. Not a bard, not a romantic, not a lover. Just another beast.
But see, there were two things Jaskier was wrong about.
The first was that regardless of how little he spoke of his past, of his present or future, Geralt could see right through his worries and lament. The second matter was of a more delicate nature. Jaskier never knew who he was until the day he experienced it, and what he was, was nothing dark, corrupt, or twisted.
What he was, was a thing of utmost beauty.
