#banshee!jaskier

Something— breaks, inside him. The Song, which has always before felt like a living thing unto itself, separate from the man who hosts it, just waiting to be unleashed, expands to fill his lungs. For a moment, Jaskier chokes on the sudden absence of air, before his world narrows down to a single thought: No.

He feels the moment when the magic inside him changes, when the Song becomes a part of him instead of simply a parasite. For the first time since his failed training as a child, he lets it loose.

The first to fall is the bowman in the treeline, the one Jaskier saw but Geralt didn’t. Jaskier is too far away to see his face when his hands turn the crossbow on himself, but he can taste the moment when his body falls from his perch, leaving his fellows without cover.

Geralt has felled four of the remaining bandits, but three still encircle him, and Jaskier can see him slowing.

“A single thread

hangs limply down,

and I breathe,

‘Not now,

not now,’”

All three men pull back from their attack on Geralt in an instant. The witcher doesn’t stay his strike and cuts down the one immediately in front of him before whirling to stare at Jaskier in shock, but Jaskier can’t stop now. The Song isn’t finished. Geralt isn’t safe.

“And I find you all

unwoven,

trying desperately

to sew,”

The two bandits left take jerky steps towards each other, swords raised, eyes wild and terrified. The leader makes a low, despairing sound as his friend’s innards spill beneath his blade.

“And I know the kindest thing

is to leave you

alone.”

As the last man drags his own dagger across his throat, his eyes never leave Jaskier’s.

The magic cuts off abruptly, the Song finished with the death fulfilled. Not Geralt’s death, somehow, not anymore. He’s done what he swore he never would, he’s outed himself as a monster, but Geralt is still warm and breathing behind him, so it was worth it. Whatever fate he meets at his witcher’s hands, it was worth it.

Jaskier can taste nothing but decay and blood, and he doubles over, his stomach heaving painfully as he expels his breakfast.

He’s still hunched over the ground, coughing on the lingering taste of death while spots dance in his vision, when he hears Geralt come up behind him. His footsteps are more tentative than Jaskier is used to. Understandably cautious around an unknown threat, Jaskier thinks bitterly. He’d known it was coming, it’s what he expected, but it still chafes. Most of all, he just wishes he had more time. More time with Geralt, but just more time in general.

Still, he won’t die crouched in a puddle of his own vomit like some beast. Whatever his parentage, he has more dignity than that. He’ll meet Geralt’s silver sword standing tall, and it will still be a better death than he could have met if he’d stayed at home, like his sire had expected. Love doesn’t need to be spoken to be worth dying for, after all.

Except, the spots in his vision don’t fade when he stands, like he’d expected; in fact, they grow. He sways on his feet as the world tilts alarmingly. The last thing he sees before the world goes totally black is Geralt, hands empty of silver or steel, lunging to catch him, his eyes wide with concern.

He tries to sit up, only to grunt embarrassingly and fall back against the pillows when his elbows give out on him. He feels weak and wobbly, like a newborn foal. How long has he been out?

“Easy, don’t hurt yourself. Here,” Geralt rumbles, crossing the room to help lever Jaskier upright, propping pillows behind his back. He looks like he’s physically holding himself back from fussing over the blankets, but that’s absurd. Geralt doesn’t fuss. Geralt would never. Jaskier must still be fuzzy from sleep.

In a desperate attempt to regain some footing, some normalcy, Jaskier decides to be the first to bring up the fiend in the room. “Going soft in your old age, witcher? You don’t normally fluff the monsters’ pillows for them before you slay them, in my experience,” he says, forcing out a chuckle in the hopes of lightening the mood.

It doesn’t work. Geralt’s expression would be flat to the casual observer, but Jaskier, with his years of practice deciphering the minute twitches and shifts of that beloved face, sees the hurt and resignation in the creases around his eyes. Something that feels a lot like shame burns in his belly.

“Don’t. Don’t do that. You’re no monster.” He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Besides, I don’t kill anything with sentience or intelligence, you know that. Intelligent may be a bit of a stretch, sure, but you’re definitely sentient.”

Jaskier takes the teasing for the olive branch it is and makes an appropriately outraged noise, swamped with relief and reveling in the pleased little huff he elicits when he reaches out to thwap the witcher across the arm.

Unfortunately the effort involved in moving brings him right back to where he started, and he falls back against the pillows with a hiss. Geralt is back at his side and—there really is no other word for it—fussing over him in an instant.

“You need to be careful, Jask, you lost a lot of energy. You’ve been out a few days, so your muscles are likely to be weak for a while.”

“A few days? How? What even happened, I don’t…” Jaskier trails off, not knowing how to end that sentence. It isn’t remember, he remembers perfectly well, right up until the moment he collapsed in the dirt. Understand, maybe. He doesn’t understand at all. He doesn’t understand why he’s here, why Geralt is here, how he was able to do those things to those men...there are a lot of things he doesn’t understand. He isn’t sure he wants to.

Geralt sits awkwardly at the foot of the bed, perching on the edge in his effort not to disturb Jaskier’s position. Jaskier rolls his eyes and pokes him in the back with one blanketed toe, pointedly shifting his legs over to make room for Geralt to sit properly. The witcher huffs, looking vaguely sheepish, and settles more comfortably.

“You...you used too much magic at once, Jaskier. It drained you. We’re lucky the innkeeper here let us stay as payment for getting rid of the bandits. They’ve been plaguing that stretch of road for months, apparently. Meant they didn’t ask too many questions about the bodies, at least, just figured they got what they asked for, attacking a witcher.” At this, he looks up from where he’s been staring a hole in the floor between his knees, glaring at Jaskier. “Why did you do it, Jask? I had them under control. You didn’t need to—you never should have killed for me. I never asked you to do that.”

“You didn’t, though.” His voice comes out quieter than he means.

Geralt furrows his brow. “Didn’t what? Ask? I know, Jask, that’s my point.”

“Have them under control. You didn’t.”

Something in Geralt’s expression softens, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “I was fine, Jaskier, I can handle seven men. My injury from last week isn’t even that bad, it would have been fi—”

“Eight.”

“What?”

Jaskier finally makes himself meet Geralt’s eyes, determined to make himself heard if this is the last time they speak. “There were eight men, not seven. There was a man in a tree with a crossbow behind you. You didn’t see him, he was about to—” He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard against the memory of the foul taste of Geralt’s death Song flooding his mouth, of that crystal moment of knowing the person he loved most in all the world was Doomed, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help—

But he had helped. He had stopped it, despite not even knowing his powers were capable of something like that. Against all odds, Geralt was safe, he was here and alive and gazing at Jaskier with unmasked concern.

“Alright, eight, then. You still didn’t need to enchant them, Jaskier. Siren powers shouldn’t even work that strongly this far from the sea, anyway! You burnt yourself out! You could have been seriously hurt, throwing magic around like that. You should have gotten on Roach when I told you to, you should have gotten to safety. I would have been fine.”

“But you wouldn’t have!” It bursts out of Jaskier, far louder than he’d intended, tinged with desperation. “You wouldn’t have been fine. I’m not just a siren, Geralt. My sire, my matka, is a siren, yes. But my mama, the mother who bore me? Was a banshee.”

Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion. Dam broken, Jaskier continues in a rush.

“My powers have never been good for much of anything. I was a disappointment to my matka and her kin, because even though my Voice comes out as a Song, all it’s ever done is foretell death, I’ve never been able to use it to compel anyone, and what use is a siren without a Lure?

“I don’t have a proper Shriek, either, but my mama always said my Shriek was as good as any other, just prettier. That’s what it’s always been, a Shriek disguised as a Song. I look at someone, I can feel that they’re slated to die, and the Song wants to be sung, but I never bothered because what’s the point? What good is a warning when you can’t escape the inevitable? Better to let people live freely until their last, that’s what mama said. She never used her Shriek, either. It’s why her people cast her out, why she married a human man when her siren mate grew tired of her. She hated death, too.” Jaskier swallows against the tears building behind his eyes.

“Hers was the first Song I ever Sang all the way through. The only one I ever Sang, until now. My father began to suspect I wasn’t really his, and flew into a rage. I was only thirteen, I couldn’t save her. I could only hide in the closet and Sing while he killed her. I left for Oxenfurt the day after the funeral and I haven’t Sung since. Useless.”

A warm weight on his foot pulls him out of the memories, Geralt’s thumb swiping gently back and forth over his ankle while Jaskier dashes the angry tears from his eyes and tries to get his breathing back under control.

It’s Geralt who breaks the silence.

“You’re not useless, Jaskier. Never that.” There’s another long stretch of quiet, before Geralt seems to settle some internal argument and looks up to meet his eyes, molten gold shining with unnamed emotions. “Help me understand. Why Sing for those men? Why risk yourself? You’ve held in your...Shriek, all this time. Why let it out now, for them?”

Jaskier chuckles mirthlessly. “You’re not listening, Geralt. It wasn’t supposed to be their Song. I don’t...I don’t know what I did. It’s never happened like that before.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve never...I changed it, Geralt. It was supposed to be you.” There’s a sharp intake of breath from the foot of the bed, but Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut against the phantom taste of rot and barrels on. “I felt it. The man in the trees, he wasn’t going to miss. The Song was meant for you, but I— gods, Geralt, I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know how I—I just knew I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I—” Between one breath and another Geralt has moved up the bed to his side and gathered him into his arms. Jaskier buries his head into his chest and clings.

When he stops shaking, he unclenches his fingers from where they’re fisted in Geralt’s shirt and starts again. “I don’t understand what I did, Geralt. I didn’t know I could do that. I’ve never had a Lure, no matter how my matka and her kin tried to beat one into me.” A low growl rumbles beneath his cheek, and he pets Geralt’s arm consolingly. That pain is long past, there’s nothing to be done for it now.

“I didn’t even mean to, really, the only thing in my head was that you couldn’t die. I never meant to—Geralt, I never wanted to kill anyone. I don’t regret it, I’d do it again for you, but I—” Geralt’s hand strokes softly through his hair, soothing the frantic pace of his heart.

“I’m scared, Geralt.” His voice is small to his own ears, thin and frightened. “If I can do that when I’m not even trying...what’s inside me, Geralt? How can I be sure I won’t hurt anyone else? Someone innocent this time?”

There’s a long moment where the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and Jaskier’s own hitching sniffles, and Geralt’s slow, measured breathing beneath his ear.

“Hm,” comes the eventual response, almost startling a snort out of Jaskier at the sheer predictability of it, until Geralt continues. “We’ll figure it out together, then. There may be someone out there who can help you learn to control your powers, we just have to find them. We can start at Kaer Morhen. Come home with me this year, we’ll talk to Vesemir and figure out where to start.”

Jaskier sits up, gaping in shock. “You’re inviting me home? To the witcher keep? When I’m—”

“If you say you’re a monster again, I’m not buying you a single honeycake the entire trip.” Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, still stunned. Geralt’s face softens, and he sighs. “I should have invited you a long time ago, Jaskier. Human or not, you’re my friend, you’ll be welcome.” He furrows his eyebrows, looking suddenly uncertain. “Unless...You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to. I know it isn’t...it won’t be what you’re used to. I understand if mmph—” He stares, golden eyes wide over the hand Jaskier has clapped over his mouth.

“Foolish witcher, of course I’m coming! Are you mad? A chance to meet your brothers, your mentor? To see the majesty of Kaer Morhen with my own eyes? Gods, the songs to be sung! The stories that must be waiting to be told! Can we go now? Let’s go! Come on, up! Let’s get packed before you change your mind!”

The wondering look is gone from Geralt’s eyes, which are back to familiar flat annoyance. He pointedly grasps Jaskier’s wrist and removes the hand from his mouth, before standing up and manhandling Jaskier back under the blankets.

“Majestic isn’t the word I’d use, and the stories in those walls are hardly the kind of heroic tales for writing songs. It’s not there for—for—material, bard, you really will piss them off if you try that.”

Seems their equilibrium isn’t quite back, that or Geralt really is really, properly nervous about this invitation, if he thinks Jaskier is serious about picking over his home for inspiration alone.

“Geralt.” He waits until his witcher stops fiddling with the blankets and meets his eyes again. “Darling, I know. I’m only teasing. I wouldn’t exploit you, or your family, that way. Whatever songs I write there, they’ll be just for my own memories. And yours, if you like. I promise.”

Geralt deflates a little, shoulders slumping. “I know. I—I know.” He straightens up, and Jaskier can see the mask of The White Wolf, Stoic Scary Witcher descending back into place. “We’re not leaving today, anyway. You’ll need a few more days to recover, and we’ve a few weeks besides before we need to start heading north. Stay there, don’t move. The innkeep said she’d have some broth waiting for when you woke up. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” He glowers threateningly at Jaskier, who sticks out his tongue in response, before leaving, apparently satisfied his bard isn’t going to make a break for it in the next ten minutes.

Jaskier settles back against the pillows with a sigh, reeling internally from so many new developments at once. Today has been nothing like he expected. He’s still somewhat surprised to be alive at all, and a tiny part of him is still waiting for the moment Geralt realizes he’s made a terrible mistake and Jaskier can’t be allowed to live, though he realizes now, with some chagrin, that that was never a realistic outcome.

He’s still terrified of the power lurking inside him, all the more ominous now for having been used with only the barest consent from his own mind. But for now he can breathe deep and set that fear aside, at least for a moment. Geralt has promised to help him. Geralt will keep him safe.