#human jaskier

Suddenly the events leading to his current situation replayed in his head. The argument he’d had with Geralt about staying behind. The two drowners taken care of and then the appearance of an unexpected kikimore. He’d tried to run, but he hadn’t been wearing his damned spectacles, so he had tripped over a root, twisting his already aching knee. And then Geralt had been thrown backwards into a tree!

Suddenly much more awake, Jaskier sat up, hissing at the shooting pain the quick movement brought about. It hurt, but that did not matter. Geralt was injured and it was his fault.

He should’ve stayed at the inn.

Jaskier was torn out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. “You need to lie down, or you’ll puncture a lung. Your ribs are broken”

“I noticed, dearheart,” he groaned and complied. Geralt was awake. Everything would be alright.

A sudden thought struck him and he tried to move once more, frantically looking around the room. Only Geralt’s strong arms kept him in place. “My lute! Where is my lute?”

Geralt grunted. “Your ribs are broken and you’re asking about your lute?”

“I won’t even dignify that question with an answer.”

With a roll of his eyes, Geralt gestured to the corner opposite of the table he’d noticed earlier. In it sat his lute case, which was a bit more battered than he remembered, but altogether whole.

“Oh, thank Melitele! Thank you, darling. You know what she means to me.”

When he received not so much as a grunt in return, Jaskier stared at his husband, taking in his frantic gaze. The longer he took in Geralt’s appearance, the more he realized that more time must have passed than he’d initially thought. Not only was Geralt’s hair tangled and greasy, but his face looked gaunt, shadows pulling at his handsome features. “How long have I been asleep?” Jaskier asked, fearing the answer, but needing to know nonetheless.

“A little over a week,” Geralt replied, expertly avoiding his gaze while he busied himself with fluffing the pillows behind Jaskier’s back. The two men remained silent as Geralt gently moved Jaskier into a seated position. Once he gestured that he was comfortable, Geralt returned to his seat, placing his chin on his hands as he stared at his husband.

They sat in silence, Jaskier waiting for Geralt to say something, but when his husband remained silent, he couldn’t stop the onslaught of words.

“What an adventure, wouldn’t you say? I’ll have to write it down for my next ballad: Bard Saves Witcher! No, that doesn’t have a good ring to it—”

“Jaskier—”

“But you can’t blame me for having a bit of trouble with the rhyming scheme! Seems I had a hit on the head. Luckily for both of us, my head is quite hard, so—” “Jaskier—”

“—everything is fine! Nothing happened, so we can just head on to the next—”

“Jaskier!”

He fell silent as Geralt’s bellow echoed through the small space, filling his heart with dread. He knew what was coming next. It was something he’d been dreading ever since their argument years ago, but he thought he’d have longer.

Geralt looked up, his face made of stone, but his eyes betraying the pain and worry rushing through him. How people could think Witchers had no emotion was beyond Jaskier’s comprehension. Geralt was one of the most deeply feeling individuals he had ever met.

“You almost died, Jaskier.”

The bard sighed, picking at a loose thread coming apart on the blanket covering his legs. “But I’m fine, Geralt. See? I’m alive and breathing and here with you! You saved me, like you always do.”

Jaskier watched as a whole body shudder ran through his husband, wishing desperately that he could walk over and wrap him up in his arms. The best he could do at the moment was to beckon Geralt towards him.

Jaskier’s smile fell as Geralt shook his head. “No, the bed is too small, I’ll hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, Geralt. Please,” Jaskier pleaded, holding out his hand as an offering.

With a weary sigh, Geralt took his hand and sat beside him on the mattress. “But I did hurt you, Jaskier. I wasn’t fast enough to save you.”

The bard shook his head and placed his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, holding in the hiss of pain that threatened to pass his lips. “Nope. I’m here, alive and well. That’s all that matters.”

A growl floated up to Jaskier’s ear, causing him to frown. He had hoped that he would be able to talk his overprotective husband down, but it was not working. Geralt was far more upset than he’d originally thought.

“Geralt, I’m fine—”

“You’re only alive because of Yennefer! You were dying in my arms and there was nothing I could do to stop it!”

“Yennefer was here? She didn’t happen to leave a bottle of Est Est did she? She owes me one from the last time we met! That was a good year she stole—” “Jask, I’m being serious,” Geralt said, all traces of humor wiped from his face. “You were dying.”

“I know,” he replied, a heavy feeling settling upon the room. As much as Jaskier loved to ignore the inevitable, the unstoppable current of time kept him in its clutches, always dragging him further away from Geralt. It was what had prompted him to try and run away nearly a decade ago, but Geralt’s reassurances had kept him tethered in place. He’d been able to ignore the signs — the back pain, the matching silver hair, his slower pace — since that conversation, but now it was being dredged up once more, and he wasn’t ready.

He felt Geralt move closer to him, drawn towards his warmth, before he spoke the two words that Jaskier had been afraid to hear for decades: “It’s time.”

Jaskier swallowed down his tears, trying desperately to keep his voice even against the onslaught of emotion. “No, not yet. I still have adventures in me—”

“Jaskier you’re nearing seventy—”

“I am only 65, Geralt, you take that back this instant,” Jaskier protested, trying to cross his arms in protest. He soon stopped the motion when his ribs protested, leaving him pouting like a toddler.

“Don’t move like that! Your lungs—”

“I know, I know! Stop changing the subject, Geralt. I’m not leaving you. We discussed this a decade ago and we agreed that we had more time and that I could ride Roach and—” Jaskier stopped, the tears pricking his eyes and desperation thickening his throat, leaving him momentarily speechless. They were supposed to have more time.

“We do have time, Julek,” Geralt whispered as he carded his fingers through thinning, grey hair. “Just not like this.”

Jaskier’s heart stuttered as Geralt’s words pierced it. “Do you mean— I mean I understand if things have changed for you, but we exchanged vows Geralt!”

Geralt’s eyes widened in shock as he vehemently shook his head and said, “No, no, not like that! I mean not on the path. I will always want you, Julek. You’re my husband.”

A sigh of relief escaped Jaskier’s lips as his body slumped into the pile of pillows keeping him upright. “Don’t you dare do that again, Geralt of Rivia. You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Geralt hummed and leaned his head gingerly upon his shoulder. Good. Jaskier would put up with a little discomfort as long as his witcher was close by.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Geralt said after a long, companionable silence, “I only meant that you deserve to be safe and comfortable, Jaskier. The path isn’t made for comfort. It’s dangerous and rough. You deserve something better. Something soft.” Geralt pressed a soft kiss to his neck, as if to demonstrate what the witcher meant by soft.

Oh, he could see it now. A small house, perhaps in Oxenfurt or maybe by the coast. Although he loved the coast, Oxenfurt would be a more rational option. In a tiny cottage, he would eventually grow bored with nothing left to do. In Oxenfurt, he could teach classes and help to meld the bright young minds of tomorrow. In the city, there were plenty of exciting new things happening with each sunrise. It would also keep him closer to Novigrad and better equipped to keep a better eye on the Rosemary and Thyme.

“Would you stay with me?” Jaskier asked, leaning his head against Geralt’s, their hair blending in as it pressed together. Although he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from Geralt.

The witcher paused, considering his words before he spoke. “Witchers don’t retire, Jask. You know that.”

Jaskier nodded and turned his head slightly so he could look at his lover. “It wouldn’t be a retirement, love. Just a break.”

At Geralt’s grunt of protest, Jaskier continued. “Darling, listen. You will live far longer than I ever will, even if my few drops of elvish blood give me a surprising few extra decades — which, looking at my mother, seems unlikely.” Jaskier lifted his hand, ignoring the slight tug of discomfort the movement caused, and soothed the furrow between Geralt’s eyebrows. “Taking a break for a few years, perhaps a decade or two, isn’t wrong.”

Geralt sighed and turned to face him, his eyes swimming with doubt as they scanned his face. “There are so few of us now, Julek. It would be irresponsible—”

“Then be irresponsible for me.”

They both sat there in silence, waiting on the precipice of change.

“Perhaps we could stay more local?” Geralt started to suggest tentatively. “You stay and teach your students, I only take contracts within a certain distance. An even trade.”

Jaskier huffed and nodded in agreement. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he had always known that Geralt was not one to be tied down to one spot. There was a reason that they did not stay at Geralt’s vineyard for more than a month at a time. His husband would be miserable staying in a townhouse for a few decades. This was a compromise that he could live with.

“But who will dress your wounds when you’re hurt?” Jaskier asked, already knowing that he would agree to these terms. He would do anything for Geralt.

“Roach,” Geralt answered simply, his lips upturned at the joke they’d shared for the past few decades

“Roach?” Jaskier answered wetly, the scripted answer lying on his tongue. “Roach has many wonderful qualities, darling, but field dressing isn’t one of them.”

“So you say,” Geralt grumbled, gingerly pulling Jaskier closer. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

Jaskier smiled and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. “It’s enough. You’re enough. Besides, I know who I married, Geralt, and I love you for it, you noble bastard.”

Geralt chuckled and kissed him back. “And I you, Julek. Now let’s focus on getting you better.”

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You could use this, some small part of his mind suggested. It was a dark thought, something truly evil in a way that Geralt had never considered being evil before, and the ex-Count grimaced. You could pay that sorry Redanian traitor back for his treatment of you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; you could ruin the Viscount’s son, ruin his family’s reputation, and still be none the worse off for your efforts. What does it matter, Geralt? You’re already banished from court.

So, with the Angel on his shoulder mysteriously absent and his conscience sufficiently tamped down into silence, Geralt stepped into view of the young man. 

“Who goes there?” the ex-Count asked, glaring down his nose at the wounded student. 

“J-Julian, Milord,” the boy answered. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue Geralt had ever seen. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and he lost his breath for a single, heart-rending second; the Count had never been so caught up in the glory of one solitary color before. Is this what God had felt like when he held his finished work in his hands for the first time? Had he been as lost to Julian as Geralt currently was? The boy cocked his head to the side and his blue fawn-eyes pierced the Count in a new and terrifying way. 

“What brings you here?” he managed to ask.

“My friends have - ah!” he’d tried to gesture in the direction of his friends but he’d lost his balance and his weight had shifted atop his ankle again. He hissed through his teeth and dropped to a crouch, stabilizing the limb with both hands while he breathed through the pain. 

So Julian had experienced pain before and he’d learned to cope with it. Curious.

“Let’s get you laid down,” Geralt suggested, “And then you can tell me how you came to be lost on the lands of my estate.”

Geralt carried the young man all the way back to his crumbling manor house and marveled at how light Julian felt in his arms. Was he really so slight or was it another side effect of his monstrous curse? The enhanced senses he had adjusted to already, but improved strength? That was decidedly new. When the odd pair finally reached the house and pushed their way through the front door, Geralt made his guest comfortable. He laid Julian down on a chaise lounge before the sitting room fire and placed a bolster cushion beneath his injured ankle. “May I feel you for a sprain, Julian?”

“Are you a doctor?” the smiling boy inquired, reclining back to rest his head against the gold silk pillows. Sitting there in front of the fire, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink from exertion and nervous excitement, his brown hair mussed and shining in the low light, his sparkling blue eyes boring into Geralt’s...the boy might have truly been a portrait of Cupid brought to life. “Can you diagnose what ails me?”

Geralt eased into a more romantic mode of conversation, grateful for the easy opportunity to flirt; he hadn’t been well-known for his way with women at court. He prodded and poked and felt across the bones and tendons of Julian’s ankle, recognizing a sprain when he felt one. It was an easy fix, just bed rest and elevation for a few days until the muscles healed up.  “You’ve sprained your ankle, Julian. I wouldn’t suggest taking a walk in the woods at twilight anytime soon.”

The young man startled and his eyelashes fluttered sweetly. “But Milord, I must return to my dorm! My friends will wonder what’s become of me.”

“Where were your friends when I came upon you?” the Count questioned, laying a thick woolen blanket across Julian’s lap. The boy blushed brightly yet again and Geralt marked it as another success. 

“They spun me around a few times and all ran off in different directions. I was dizzy, of course, and I tried to follow Paul, but he was long gone by then. When Stephan called for me I went to follow his voice and tripped, twisting my ankle terribly. After that there was no keeping up; the sun was starting to set and I was beginning to grow worried for my safety when you rescued me. Thank you, by the way. You have a lovely home.”

“No need to lie to me, little fawn,” Geralt chuckled darkly. He stood from his place beside the settee and paced before the fire, gesturing around as he spoke. “I know exactly how rundown this place looks, Julian, I was a great Count once. The curtains here are moldy, the tapestries are moth-eaten and holey, and the mattresses have rotten all to Hell. This is the only hearth in the manor that I’ve gotten fully cleaned so far; I apologize for the mess. I was moved here rather suddenly, you see, and haven’t had the time to fix everything up yet.”

“Moved? As in, you did not choose to move but were translocated nonetheless?”

“To be blunt, little fawn, I was banished,” the Count drawled. He shot a quick glare in Julian’s direction and the young man withered beneath it. What had he done to anger his host in such a way? Was he safe here any longer? Should he try to run? If he did run, would he make it any farther than the doorway? The edge of the dirty elf-made carpet? Then the glare dropped away for a split second, revealing a flash of genuine pain and confusion, “Someone else at court wanted my job. They cursed me and hid me away from the world in order to take my place. They coveted power so much that they threw my entire life away without a second thought.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Julian cried, holding his arms out towards his host. The confused Count stopped his pacing and turned to face the teary-eyed young noble. “Come here, Your Grace, and let me give you a hug.”

“That...wouldn’t be appropriate,” Geralt frowned. Julian deflated and let his arms drop back to his sides. His hands moved to fidget in his lap and he flushed yet again, embarrassed. 

“My apologies, Your Grace.”

The older man steeled himself for what he had to do. Julian seemed like a nice boy, a perfectly pleasant nobleman all things considered, but this wasn’t just about Julian. This was about a corrupt family with incredible and unchecked power, running around at court and pulling the King’s strings, uncaring of the consequences beyond their own fortunes. Geralt had to teach them a lesson.

He slid back to a kneeling position beside the couch and took one of Julian’s busy hands into his own. He brushed his lips against the back of the young man’s knuckles and whispered softly, the way blue-blooded men had been speaking to empty-headed young women for hundreds of years, letting the skin of his lips tickle against the back of Julian’s hand with every syllable, “Take your rest here for the night, little fawn. I wouldn’t dream of letting any further harm come to you.”