#geraskier ff

The loneliness had always hurt, of course it had. Even as a Witcher he still remembered being a little boy filled with hopes and dreams and the illusions of family. But now, now that he knew his days could have been filled with colour and song and talk and joy, but now that he knew he had ruined it all, the loneliness felt less like a cold, dark cave and more like an icy stake, driving into his heart and digging itself ever so much deeper with every step he took. It reminded him of the old fairy tale of the fisherman and his wife. Geralt had always wondered how much worse the couple must have felt living in their old shoe again after having lived in a castle. Their house must have been uncomfortable before, but having experienced luxury, how much of a torture must the return to poverty have been?

Finding Jaskier in that godsforsaken town with its Niflgaardian soldiers had seemed to be the answer to everything. Yet Jaskier had been different. Distant. Never really truly there, always one step away from leaving again. If not for Ciri — Geralt, for all his futile daydreams, had once again been reminded of the truth: nobody truly liked a Witcher. Jaskier did not want to travel with him for him, and, no matter his foolish illusions of friendship (or more), he had realistically never travelled with Geralt solely for Geralt’s companionship. Even if there had been potential for any connection beyond convenience, Geralt knew he had well and truly fucked that up, on the mountain. He had had a faint hope that, once in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier would relax, turn back into his exuberant self again. But even there, the bard had avoided him, avoided all of them. So Geralt had stayed quiet, had echoed Jaskier’s distance. He had already fucked up enough, no need to make it worse. And so the loneliness had turned from an icy stake to a sharp knife, cutting away at whatever counted as a Witcher’s soul with every step he took. 

“Where’s Jaskier?” Ciri’s voice cut through the thoughts spiralling in his head. “Have you seen him? I can’t find him anywhere.”

Geralt blinked. “Library?” That was usually where Jaskier holed himself up this time of day. “No, he’s not in there, I looked. He’s not in the kitchen or his room either.” 

Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in his body went stiff. Jaskier, for all his extravagance, was a man of routine. Every day was structured, even if no one else could see the logic in it. “Where else have you looked.” It was a statement more than a question, but Ciri answered anyway.

“I’ve been to the balustrades, and the Hall, and the stables. I was on my way to check the library again when I saw you.”

Geralt nodded, grabbed Ciri’s arm, ran. Library. Surrounding rooms. Upstairs. They divided the spaces between them, opening door after door to reveal silence, empty, no one. Hall. Bedroom. Courtyard. By the time they searched the dungeons, Eskel and Lambert had ceased their packing, joined the search. In a Keep full of Witchers, how long could a single bard hide? 

“He’s not here,” Lambert’s voice sounded like a sudden realisation, deeper than the announcement that the room he had just opened the door to was empty.

“What?” Geralt bit back

“He’s not here. The- The Pass. It’s clear. He must have-”

“Fuck.”

* * * 

How long had he been gone? When had he managed to leave without any of them noticing? The mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen saw little monsters, but there were plenty of bears, wolves, snakes. Especially now, when the weak sun would wake the creatures from their hibernation, causing them to drag their starving bodies out of the caves, crooks, and crannies they had hidden in, ready to jump on the first prey that wandered in front of their paws – and that was not even considering the dangers of the Pass itself. Yes, the Pass was clear now, the snow had melted, but the ground remained unstable, the stones slippery, and the wind could appear suddenly and with a vengeance. They had lost enough time searching the Keep, Jaskier could be— Geralt shook his head, attempting to force away the bloody scenes his mind readily provided. 

"Ciri, watch the Keep. Wake Vesimir. If Jaskier returns, whistle on your fingers like I taught you." 

With those words, the three Witchers were off. Their once so playful running through the hallways was of days long past. It was all brutal efficiency now, long strides, quick grabs of swords, potions, cloaks. 

Upon their leaving, the Keep stood empty, abandoned but for a single fair-haired girl, stood in the courtyard, a look of determination on her face, a look of desperation in her eyes. 

The footsteps in the mud were easy to follow. Maybe less so for a human, but to a Witcher? Geralt breathed a sigh of relief when the prints crossing the Pass were solid, sturdy, walking in a straight line as if the bard hadn't had a care in the world. Just one step after another after another after another, away from the sheltered safety of the Keep he had apparently so desperately wanted to escape that he had not even wanted to wait for a single day to travel down with either of the others. After the Pass, however, the rocky ground was less willing to share its secrets. And once they arrived at the split in the road, not a single footstep, broken branch, or leaf out of place could serve as a hint as to the direction which Jaskier could have chosen.

Lambert went left. Geralt went right. And, in unspoken agreement, Eskel stayed behind, ready to respond to the call of either of them, if necessary. 

The woods surrounding him were filled with sound. Birds waking up, marking their territory. Squirrels running up and down to fetch more food. A woodpecker, happily drilling their way into a tree. Dripping snow melting off of the branches. Every noise surrounded him, penetrated him, overwhelmed him in a manner that they usually would not. But anything preventing him from hearing the reliable, familiar footsteps of his bard (his bard? Never his, he could not allow himself to think so) was too much, too loud, too— the woodpecker stopped, a bird fell silent. In the distance, a quiet hum. Geralt ran. 

Jaskier was safe. He was fine, he was ok, he was—

"You left." 

The bard didn't startle, didn't turn around, didn't show any sign of surprise at the sudden voice behind him.

"Yes," he simply said, and kept walking. 

"Why—" Geralt could curse himself. 'You left. Why.'? That was the only thing he could come up with? That was all he could say? 

Jaskier halted, but still did not turn. "I— have been a burden enough on you and your companions. I don't want to—" a breath, a sigh, "I don't want to overstay my welcome any more than I already have. I apologise for not being able to leave earlier, I apologise for even coming with you to Kaer Morgen. It was beautiful seeing your home, but I shouldn't," Jaskier swallowed, even from behind Geralt could see the bard squeeze his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have infiltrated. I'm sorry. I will pay back the costs of my stay. Thank the others for their hospitality." 

Geralt stood, frozen, as the  man in front of him started walking again, walking away from him, from home, from—

"You're no burden." Now, the bard's turn to freeze. "You haven't overstayed your welcome. You did not infiltrate. You are not—" why did the words he so desperately wanted to say feel like thorny bramble bushes, ripping open everything in their path, refusing to be unearthed from his throat where they stayed, unsounding, unyielding, unheard. Geralt stepped forward, took Jaskier's hand, spun him around to face him, gathered the courage to grab the thorny words tightly and pull them out. "I— I am sorry. I'm sorry for yelling at you after the dragon hunt and I'm sorry for making you feel unwanted and I'm sorry for ignoring you and betraying you and— And I'm not good at saying how I feel or what I want but I love you, I love you. Stay. Please." 

Jaskier's eyes widened, narrowed, and Geralt, throat bleeding, prepared for the hurt. Who, after all, could ever love a monster? 

"You— love me?" 

Geralt hummed in affirmation, still holding Jaskier's hand, but looking down rather than into those piercing blue eyes. 

A fist hit his face with surprising strength. A hand followed, grabbing his chin, dragging him forward and—

Jaskier's lips were touching his. Jaskier's lips were touching his, continuing to touch his, staying on his and they were soft, and smooth, and oh so Jaskier. It seemed both seconds and centuries before Jaskier moved back, reopening the distance he had closed. Geralt, however, chased back, captured Jaskier as Jaskier had captured him. Yet rather than gentle softness, Geralt pursued passionately, desperately, pushing both of their bodies off of the path, against a nearby tree, into each other and on each other and never, never close enough. Grabbing hands, cradling heads, pulling hair and breathing, breathing in Jaskier’s smell, touch, taste, feel. Could a monster be loved after all?

They went home, from there. Back up the mountain towards a joyful reunion with his brothers. Back across the Pass towards an anxious Ciri and worried Vesimir clutching Jaskier’s left-behind note. Back into the Keep for a large feast, a tearful goodbye to the two who did rejoin the Path. Back to his bedroom to talk, talk, and with each conversation the words started to feel less like bramble bushes and more like blackberries. They weeded out the years of thorns and splinters, scratched open the scabs and scars, drained the wounds to allow recovery. They were both broken, and bruised, and their hearts guarded by years and years of harm. They took things slow. Throughout the years they fought, made up, hurt the other and themselves and healed the pain with sincere apologies and careful conversations. Grew apart and closer together as they discovered how their differences fit into the other’s similarities. But during it all, during the difficulties and work and the days where they had to choose to love the other, rather than it coming naturally, Geralt found that his bedroom had become their bedroom, his possessions their possessions, his home their home. 

* * * 

They reunite in the spring in their fourth year of traveling together and the joy of that carries Jaskier for a month and a half before Geralt makes a snide comment on the new doublet Jaskier is modeling, twirling in front of the mirror and feeling very pleased with himself. It’s a lovely confection of a garment, a light pink silk with dark pink embroidery coiled in abstract loops along the hem. Paired with a deep green belt, Jaskier feels like a lovely flower in the ensemble.

“What do you think, dear witcher? A worthy outfit for a personage as lovely as me? I designed the embroidery myself.” Jaskier poses for Geralt’s benefit, preening. Geralt looks up briefly from where he’s been writing down notes in the small bestiary journal he carries with him.

“Looks like worms.”

Jaskier is offended in the extreme but no amount of puffing up with righteous indignation will garner an apology from Geralt, who instead seems to find Jaskier’s behavior amusing. The bard eventually gives up, deciding to conserve his energy and simmer rather than boil over.

He contemplates potential means of revenge, discarding most as too brash or extreme. He’s displeased with Geralt, but he doesn’t want to actually hurt him or make the witcher so angry he leaves Jaskier behind. It’s on the third day of thinking that Geralt makes a passing comment on a line of the song Jaskier’s been working on.

“Wouldn’t work that way. Mula are immune to sunlight.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but dutifully makes a note. Honestly, Geralt should know by this point that sometimes artistic liberties must be taken for the sake of the story. And yet each time Jaskier mixes up a detail or stretches a fact, the witcher stills corrects him, apparently annoyed by-

Oh.

Oh, this is perfect.

Jaskier takes the stage at the inn they’re staying in two nights later nearly vibrating with glee over the new song he’s debuting, a piece he composed the music to within Geralt’s hearing but the lyrics of which were worked out only on paper. It’s a bouncy little piece on the proper way to hunt a kikimore: by approaching its lair while bleating like a sheep.

The angry twitch of muscles in Geralt’s jaw entirely makes up for his previous besmirching of Jaskier’s lovely new clothes. Jaskier collects his tips for the evening after his performance and nearly floats upstairs, pleased beyond measure with himself.

II

It’s been a long day on the road when they finally make it to a city for the night. With the sun setting soon, the streets are crowded with people trying to conclude their business for the day and hurry home before night fully falls. The bustle makes Roach edgy, and she sidles when a woman carrying a cage full of squawking chickens passes a little close for the horse’s comfort. For all that he’s patiently trained his horse to be used to monsters and all that comes with them, Geralt doesn’t spend enough time around groups of humans for her to be entirely comfortable moving through such a crowd. Without needing to be asked, Jaskier moves to her other side to give her a little more distance from any strangers passing close to her. Geralt hums what Jaskier knows is a thank you.

They’re almost to an inn when it happens.

“Fucking mutant,” a man spits after he bumps into Geralt in the marketplace as he and Jaskier pass through. He’s very clearly been drinking from the slur in his words and the waft of alcohol rolling off of him. Geralt does not respond and keeps his expression perfectly blank, which only winds the man up further. “Do a service to us all the day another monster finally guts you.”

Jaskier sees red, ducking beneath Roach’s neck and launching himself at the man, landing a knee to the man’s groin before he feels an implacably strong arm pull him back, wrapping around his waist like a band of iron and hauling him away. He kicks and spits like an angry cat, focused only on getting back to the man curled into a ball on the ground, moaning in pain.

“Enough!” Geralt snaps, jostling the bard roughly.

“Not enough!” Jaskier retorts, trying to pry at Geralt’s arm even as he knows it’s utterly pointless. Geralt’s careful with his strength, but Jaskier still knows the witcher could hold him to the ground with a single finger if he felt like it.

“You’re scaring Roach and acting like a fucking idiot,” Geralt says, his tone more cutting than it ever is with Jaskier.

Sure enough, Roach is pulling at her lead even as Geralt ushers her on gently, the whites of her eyes showing. Jaskier lets out a heavy breath, feeling bad for scaring her if nothing else. He stops fighting.

Geralt feels the surrender and lets go of him, although he remains tense for a moment to catch the bard in case this is a ploy to run back to the fight. Jaskier shoots him a dirty look but returns to Roach’s other side, resting a gentle hand against the horse’s neck and whispering an apology to her.

They walk to the inn in silence before they split into their usual division of labor, Jaskier seeking out the innkeep to secure a room while Geralt settles Roach in the stable. The room they’re given is small but clean, and the innkeep even gives Jaskier a discount in exchange for the promise of a performance. It should mollify his temper.

It does not.

He tosses his bag to the floor and sits on the bed, fuming with anger that has no outlet since Geralt dragged him away from the correct target. Geralt joins him soon enough, Jaskier’s scent enough to guide him to the correct room. He takes one look at Jaskier, and his shoulders go tense, knowing that the bard is spoiling for a fight. Jaskier would give him the silent treatment, but silence has never been his strength.

“Why the fuck did you pull me away? He had no right to say that to you! He’s a fucking moron and deserves to get his teeth knocked in!” Jaskier realizes he’s shaking slightly from how furious he is.

“And you’re going to do the knocking?” Geralt’s tone is doubtful, and that just adds fuel to the fire burning in Jaskier.

“Yes! I was doing fine in case you didn’t notice!”

“Kicking a man in the balls because he doesn’t expect it doesn’t make you a great fighter. He was twice your size. You wouldn’t have won.”

“Oh, because I’m not some ferocious witcher? Just because I don’t swing swords around all day doesn’t mean I can’t fight.”

“There was no reason for a fight. It wasn’t even you he was insulting.”

“So what? I’m not allowed to defend you?” Geralt snorts in response, derisive.

“I don’t need anyone to defend me, especially not you.”

Jaskier feels like Geralt just slapped him. His throat goes tight, and he feels the beginning of tears. He blinks furiously to stave them off.

Geralt sees the hurt and softens, crossing to the bed and reaching for Jaskier to place a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier dodges and snatches his lute up, heading to the door.

“Jask,” Geralt says. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I don’t care what some drunk says about me. I just don’t want you getting h-”

“I’m going down to perform. You coming?” His tone is biting.

Knowing by this point that Jaskier must now be plotting some sort of petty vengeance for the perceived slight and also knowing what form that payback is likely to take, Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier rolls his eyes but doesn’t insist, although he does stomp down the stairs just to make it abundantly clear how cross he is.

He sends a thought of gratitude to the professor that insisted on training her class in proper voice projection when he begins his performance, knowing that the combination of his volume and witcher hearing will mean that Geralt will be able to hear him perfectly when he informs the crowd that the only real way to kill a kelpie is to fight it naked. It’s a song he’d composed before, anticipating Geralt rubbing him the wrong way eventually and wanting to be prepared. It gets a bit tiring to have to come up with everything in the moment, after all.

Geralt is gratifyingly irritated when he returns to the room.

“Fighting a kelpie naked is a great way to get your cock ripped off.”

“Hm, that’s not what I’ve heard.” Jaskier pulls on loose trousers and his sleep shirt. He’s satisfied enough with himself to drift off immediately, his lingering annoyance notwithstanding.

He wakes the next morning to a sweet scent and rolls over to a piece of honeycake on the bedside table. His eyes flick to Geralt, who is mending ripped stitches in a section of his armor, carefully guiding a sturdy needle through the pre-punched holes in the leather. Jaskier picks up the cake, finding it still warm and sticky with syrup. He leans back against the pillows, enjoying the treat. Geralt works in silence for a moment longer before speaking, his eyes still trained on the armor.

“People will always say things about witchers. I’m used to it.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to tell him that he shouldn’t be. That it makes Jaskier ache that he is. But Geralt continues before he has the chance.

“They’re not worth you getting hurt. Nothing could ever be worth that. Not to me.”

Well then. Jaskier rises from the bed and plops down beside Geralt, pulling a bite off of his piece of cake and pressing it teasingly to Geralt’s lips. The witcher accepts the bite with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier finishes the cake with a few more bites fed to Geralt and licks the stickiness from his fingers before taking up a cloth and the salve Geralt uses to keep his armor supple and sets to work. He begins wondering out loud what would happen if the drunk ever faced a real monster and the half-smile he gets from Geralt after a particularly detailed contemplation of the drunk trying out some drunken kelpie wrestling feels like a victory.

III

“You’re going to get someone killed doing that some day,” Geralt grouches from where he’s laying on the bed the second Jaskier walks in the door after his performance. The witcher had downed his pint and stalked upstairs not even halfway through Jaskier’s latest composition, which the bard composed in an angry rush of inspiration after being left behind at the inn, forbidden to go along on the contract Geralt had picked up in the town.

“Oh yes, because every farmer in the nearby vicinity is going to go seek out a bruxa now just because I told them they’re drawn to people wearing oak leaves in their hair. I’m sure they’re pulling on their boots and grabbing twigs as we speak,” Jaskier snarks in response. He was mollified slightly by ruffling Geralt’s feathers, but the sting of the rejection of his company is still there.

Geralt huffs, turning away from Jaskier to face the wall. Jaskier rolls his eyes and finishes undressing for bed, crossing the room and waiting for Geralt to sit up and allow Jaskier to crawl in to his accustomed position against the wall.

Geralt does not move. Jaskier crosses his arms across his chest and stomps his foot. Geralt still does not move and in fact stretches slightly, taking up more space. Jaskier will be damned if he’s made to sleep on the floor, however.

Fuck this, he thinks and crawls right across Geralt, ignoring the displeased growl it garners. The bard makes sure his knee presses just a bit too hard against the witcher’s stomach before he flops down on his proper place on the mattress, viciously yanking at the edge of the blanket to claim his fair share of the covers.

They lay in terse silence for a while longer, neither able to sleep with the tension between them. Finally Geralt sighs, shifting his head to look at Jaskier. His eyes catch the scant light with luminescence like a cat’s, and it would likely frighten anyone who hadn’t had years to get accustomed to them.

“I didn’t take you along because I wasn’t sure what it was. You could have gotten hurt before I figured out how to deal with it.”

Damn him. Jaskier can’t maintain his sulk against the force of noble intentions. He still tries.

“I could have managed. I’m a very fast runner.” Geralt snorts.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” he says, and shifts closer carefully, settling down in a way that presses him slightly against the bard. The contact is a peace offering.

Jaskier takes it, releasing the angry tension from his body and wriggling until he’s comfortable. He settles closer to Geralt’s warmth, relieved despite himself. He hates being at loggerheads with the witcher.

If the witcher would just stop telling him no, they could get along quite peaceably. Jaskier smirks at the thought, able to picture Geralt’s expression if he actually said that out loud. He falls asleep still smiling.

IV

One night after supper when Jaskier is plucking away idly at his lute beside the campfire, vocalizing softly without actual words, Geralt surprises him by actually making a song request. The witcher listens to Jaskier’s compositions and performances of course, but he’s never actually asked for a specific song before. Jaskier’s thrilled at first and mildly relieved. He’d developed a blister on his heel from his new boots, and Geralt had not been appropriately sympathetic, largely because he’d told Jaskier that would happen and his advice had not been heeded. Jaskier knew he’d been whinier than usual throughout the day as a result, and he sensed he had tested Geralt’s patience a bit too far.

“I don’t think I’ve heard that song before, actually. Can you hum a bit of it?”

Geralt complies.

“Hm, no. I don’t think I know it. Where did you hear it?”

“Bard near Oxenfurt when you were at that competition last month. He was really good. I might pass by again soon if I can. I’d like to hear him again.”

Jaskier is mildly insulted at Geralt’s praise of another musician. He feels a bit like a wife listening to a husband extoll the praises of a mistress.

“And what is the name of this great performer?” As soon as the question is asked, Geralt’s eyes light up in a way that Jaskier mistrusts immediately.

“Valdo Marx.”

Jaskier is wrathful beyond words. He drags his bedroll away from Geralt’s to the opposite side of the fire and throws himself down onto it, pulling the covers over his head and fuming. He wakes up, still angry, and he can tell his silent rage is making Geralt regret last night, the witcher looking as nervous as he ever gets as the day goes on.

When they make it to a town four days later, Jaskier paces the room until Geralt returns from his contract for a nest of nekkers. He holds his peace and even smiles, pushing Geralt towards the bath he’d had brought up. He’s extra attentive when he helps Geralt wash, massaging his scalp and then his neck and shoulders until he feels Geralt go fully boneless, relaxing into the water. Once he’s dried and dressed, Jaskier leads him downstairs, waving him to go sit while Jaskier procures him some food and an ale. He can tell Geralt is mistrustful, but he’s warring between skepticism at Jaskier’s sudden reversal of temper and relief at the end of the tension between them.

Jaskier smiles sweetly when he deliver’s Geralt’s meal, brushing a strand of hair from the latter’s face lovingly before flouncing over to the makeshift stage for his performance.

He begins his new song with appropriate drama. The White Wolf begged by a desperate populace to please save them. The noble, heroic Wolf agrees, mounting his steed and riding to do battle with a vicious katakan that had been draining the populace.

The noble song!Geralt does his very best, but the creature is ferocious and strong, and the witcher’s bright silver sword is wrenched from his grasp, thrown far out of reach.

He has the attention of the entire audience. They’re hanging on his every word, Geralt included, although his eyes are narrowed in suspicion where everyone else’s are wide with excitement. He’s fought katakan before, but this song doesn’t even have the rough shape of any of those fights. Jaskier has made this up. And Geralt knows by now to be wary of songs that Jaskier makes up.

Jaskier widens his eyes in mock-horror as he sings the next line.

“And so our brave witcher, so far out of luck, must defeat the foul beast with a passionate fu-” Geralt is across the room before Jaskier can even blink, yanking the lute out of his hands before tossing the bard over his shoulder.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Geralt growls, hauling the bard up to their room. Jaskier, quite comfortable from his perch on Geralt’s broad shoulder, beams.

“What, my dear? I just wanted to give you a song as memorable as Valdo’s.”

V

Immediately after the mountain, Jaskier drafts an entire series of epic ballads on the proper procedure for hunting dragons. It’s important to look in low-lying valleys while wearing one blue sock and one green because they represent the earth and the sky, you see. Dragons love symbolism. He toys with the idea of offering sorceresses with purple eyes as bait to ensure a really successful hunt but scratches the lines out right after writing them. He’s angry and hurt and jealous and would love nothing more than to pull Yennefer’s hair and have a good scrap with her (no matter how unlikely he’d be to survive the encounter), but he doesn’t actually want her dead. He also knows how far these songs can go, having heard multiple other bards singing his compositions throughout the years. He won’t use them to hurt people who already face enough, no matter how much he’s tempted.

It’s for the same reason that his fake dragon handling instructions still feature a brave and fearless witcher (though now, it’s a vague idea of a witcher who’s nameless and faceless and certainly not the famous White Wolf). He makes his witcher run a whole gamut of dragon hunting preparations in the tale. He thinks with every line that this is truly going to be his magnum opus of fake monster hunting lore. It’s a thing of beauty, riddled with inaccuracies that would make any witcher speechless with frustration at such blatant lies.

He finally finishes the song and performs it, trying to feel even a shadow of his usual glee when he’s singing a song he knows is going to get under Geralt’s skin.

Even thinking about the witcher is enough to make him almost breathless with pain, however, and he does not sing the song again.

I

Time passes after the mountain, and Jaskier tries to grow accustomed to traveling alone. He gets used to cooking all of his own meals and finding his own firewood and bandaging his own scrapes and blisters. He does not get used to throwing his arm across a cold bed only to have it land on empty sheets or the impulse to toss a joke over his shoulder only to realize there’s no one to hear it or curling up on a bedroll in a forest that’s never seemed so large and dark before because he no longer has anyone sharing the campsite with him.

He tells himself firmly that he’ll get used to it. It’s just new. It’s just a learning curve. He’s been traveling with Geralt since he was 18 and fresh from school. He can do this on his own. He can.

(He has no other choice, after all).

With no hunts to regale audiences with, Jaskier begins to sing about more pedestrian subjects. Love and loss and wanting and every variation thereupon. He certainly has plenty of personal experiences to draw on. Might as well make some coin off of them.

The first time he sings the words “I am weak, my love, and I am wanting,” his voice cracks and he fumbles to a stop, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his mouth to catch the sob that wants to escape.

“Yes my dear witcher, I am indeed an amazing poet” Jaskier started like usual, closing the door behind him and stepping closer to the bed.

“Not that Jaskier” Geralt shouted, before taking a deep breath and ending his talk in a more calmer tone. “you are… cursed.” Geralt whispered the last word, making Jaskier freeze on the spot, before sighing and turning toward his Witcher.

“Good for you to notice after how many weeks of travel after the reunion?” Jaskier hummed, going to pinch his chin and tilting his head mimicking Geralt. “Right!” Jaskier exclaimed, point a finger that before was on his chin, up in the air. “Three week and two day.”

“I’m sorry…” Geralt started before being stopped by two fingers pinching his lips closed.

“Yes you are, but is here and I can do anything, YOU can’t do anything, and don’t look at me like that because you really can’t” Jaskier stopped, sighed and shacked his head trying to go for a little smile. “It’s here, it’s sad but no one is going to get hurt by that.” Jaskier ended raising his shoulder, hoping th little talk ended there.

“What kind of curse is that?” Geralt finally asked after few second of silence, going to take Jaskier wrist in his hand to free his mouth.

“Nothing bad I told you, now let’s go?” Jaskier said, turning around not wanting to look Geralt in the eyes.

“Jaskier please tell me.” Geralt asked again, with a softer tone, keeping his hold on Jaskier wrist.

With a big sigh, Jaskier turned again toward Geralt without looking up in the Witcher eyes.

“I can see how the people around me will die,how I will die and I can do anything to stop it.”

“What?”

“You heard that right my dear.” Jaskier tried for a little levity in his voice. Failing. “Funny right? I can see how all the people will die and I can’t do anything at all, and how I said is not that bad, sad yes but not bad, because like that I can prepare myself and suffer a little bit less…”

Geralt stopped Jaskier rambling, going to cover the bard mouth with two fingers before letting the same hand fall on his side.

“Yes, I understand that, but how do you know you can’t stop it? You tried right? That’s why… Jaskier… the scars… the scars are…”

“Yes, result of my failing.”

“No” Geralt said, closing the distance between them, looking directly into Jaskier eyes. “You tried, and that’s what matter, you tried to save lives, the scars are just reminder of how good you are.”

At that Jaskier started to laugh, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, letting some tears fall down his face.

“You just used some of the words I used with you in the past. Smart move.” Jaskier finally said, calming  and going to cup with his free hand Geralt face.

“What can I say, you are good with words.” Geralt answered back with a faint smile forming on his face.

“Ah well of course I am, who do you think you are traveling with?” Jaskier moved a little back removing his hand from Geralt face, posing with the free hand on his heart and the other still in Geralt grasp open toward the Witcher.

“The best troubadour in the whole continent.” Geralt recited in a monotone voice.

“And you are correct my dear Witcher…”

“How are you going to die?” Geralt said without thinking about the consequence not letting Jaskier end his little talk, because he needed to know, he needed to know how he could save the person he loved, the person he cared more than anything.

Question that made Jaskier freeze, moving his eyes from Geralt face to the ground before turning around silently and starting to walk away toward the door of their shared room, now too small for both… for Jaskier. Leaving behind Geralt, his lute and everything he cared in the world, because he couldn’t tell Geralt anything, he couldn’t.

“Jaskier…” Geralt, waking from his little trance moved fast toward the door, blocking Jaskier only way out.

“Move.” Jaskier said with a a little voice.

“Jaskier please, it’s my fault right?”

“Move.” Jaskier repeated again, not moving his eyes from the floor.

“Jaskier please, let me help you…”

“YOU CAN’T!” Jaskier shouted, finally raising his eyes from the dirty floor. “My destiny is signed, I’m going to die on that day, no matter what you do or you don’t, so please let me die the way I want, with you. Please!” Jaskier ended with tears falling again from his eyes, and a little sad smile frozen on his face, waiting for an answer, waiting for something that he knew Geralt wouldn’t let happen no matter what, and yet… “Please.” Jaskier repeated again, going to cup Geralt face with both hands.

“No” geralt said, shaking his head. “We are going to find a way to remove this curse, and we are going to save you no matter what.” With that in mind, Geralt just grabbed Jaskier hand in his and started to move out of the room toward the only person that could help them.

“She can’t help us” Jaskier deadpanned, knowing full well what Geralt was thinking, about WHO he was thinking.

“How…” Geralt started and stoped, turning around to look Jaskier in the face. “She already knew, you already asked her for help, and she knew.”

“Don’t be mad Geralt, I asked her to not tell anyone about this curse and she accepted, complaining, but accepted my request, even if I think she wants to kill me herself for that.” Jaskier laughed at the image stuck in his head of Yennefer squeezing him to death while cursing about stupid bards and stupid Witchers.

At that Geralt frowned and squinted at Jaskier, already trying to figure out another way to help the bard.

“Oh don’t think too hard dear, I still have plenty of time on my side that’s why we should enjoy this life at it’s fullest, and that’s why we need to go downstairs and drink, be happy and maybe find someone and have some fun, right?” With that Jaskier just turned around and started to walk alone toward the stairs, while Geralt behind him just mumbled, and moved, already trying to figure out a way to contact Yennefer, and ask her about this curse, and if she already found something new to help the bard, because they didn’t have plenty of time, like Jaskier said. Not at all.