#me lamh

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

*

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

*

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

Geralt sighed through his nose, clenching his teeth. He could not take this out on Jaskier, not when this was a situation he’d fabricated for himself. “I know you do, Jask,” he said, the closest thing he felt he could muster now to an apology. “That’s why we have to do this. I—” the I care for you too died in his throat, too close to the truth for comfort. “I need you around,” he settled on, still too much, too revealing. But Jaskier deserved to know that whatever Geralt might be feeling, he wanted to do this. He needed to do this.

“Of course,” Jaskier said, sounding tired for some reason. “For Ciri, I know. But if it’s such a burden, you can always ask Triss, you know. Or Vesemir, or any of your brothers. If you don’t want to do this, I’m the last one who will force you to go through with it.”

Geralt struggled to find the words to convince Jaskier of his intentions without giving himself away, and failed. The silence stretched on between them, a condemnation, and Jaskier heaved a sigh before pushing ahead. “Forget I said anything,” he muttered, head down as he stalked forward. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, anything to smooth out the defensive line of Jaskier’s shoulders, but nothing came out. He had nothing to offer that wouldn’t drive Jaskier even further away.

So after a moment, he followed in silence.

He allowed the distance between them to persist, Jaskier walking some thirty feet ahead of him. If he’d been closer, perhaps he would have seen the crack in the floor, or heard the grinding of stone. As it was, he looked up as Jaskier gave a sharp gasp of surprise, just as the sound of crumbling rock reached him. Jaskier turned and Geralt caught one look of shock on his face before he was suddenly gone, swallowed by the fragile earth.

Geralt shouted, an abstract sound of panic, and dashed down the passage to the hole that now marred the cavern floor. Heedless of the crumbling edge, he flung himself down to peer into the darkness. The floor here was clearly directly above another tunnel or cavern, and the ancient supports must have given way somewhere, making the ground unstable. The space below was utterly dark; not even Geralt’s enhanced eyes could pierce the darkness. Jaskier’s torch had gone out in the fall, probably crushed by rubble. He didn’t know if it was ten feet down or one hundred. Jaskier could be lying below him, bones shattered on the unforgiving ground, head cracked open—

Geralt swallowed past the nausea that rose in him at the thought. Leaning over the chasm, he called out, “Jaskier!”

There was no answer, and Geralt couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he said, fumbling at his belt, “fuck, fuck.” He pulled out his potion pouch and dug until he found the Cat, throwing the bottle carelessly aside after he’d taken a few quick mouthfuls. After a few seconds, the cave around him bloomed into focus, all shades of sharp grey. He squinted down into the hole again, eyes seeking. It was still dark, but now with the Cat coursing through his veins he could make out vague shapes. It looked like the floor of the lower level was ten to fifteen feet down, cluttered with the rubble from the above passage. Geralt sucked in a sharp breath when he spotted a limp figure lying amongst the debris.

Without thinking, he slid his legs down into the chasm and dropped.

It wasn’t a far drop, not for a prepared witcher. He landed on the balls of his feet and allowed the impact to roll up through him, only barely twinging his bad knee. What made him sway was seeing Jaskier, in clear focus now, sprawled out between the rocks that littered the floor. He was so still, his head turned away from Geralt, and for a moment he was frozen, unable to bring himself to approach. If Jaskier was—if he was dead—

Geralt forced himself forward.

He heard the heartbeat first, and the relief that coursed through him was so overwhelming he could only stumble the rest of the way to Jaskier’s side. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch his face gently. This close, he could smell the irony tang of blood, and when he turned Jaskier’s head he could see a smear of dark on the stone below. He swallowed heavily. Head wounds bled a lot, of course, it might not be too bad. But they could also be deceptive, especially in humans. He wasn’t sure how far the damage went, if Jaskier’s brain had taken any injury, or his spine. He hovered for a moment, indecisive.

Jaskier stirred, groaning.

“Don’t move,” Geralt snapped, slipping his hand behind Jaskier’s neck to cradle his head.

Jaskier paid him no mind, shifting minutely and wincing as he did so. “Owch,” he said, thickly. “Geralt?”

“You fell.” Geralt kept his hand in place, lifting his other to prod gently at the cut on Jaskier’s forehead. It was hard to see in the dark, Cat making everything indistinguishable shades of black and white, but he could see that it wasn’t exceptionally deep. It seemed like he’d landed feet first, and then fallen and hit his head afterwards. If he’d landed face first, Geralt assumed things would be a lot messier. “Do you remember?”

Jaskier twisted, shuffling until he was on his back instead of his side, panting up at Geralt. He was squinting, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or just because it was dark. There was almost no light down here, and Jaskier’s dull human eyes were probably utterly blind. Geralt kept his hand in place, steadying Jaskier’s head, not wanting him to injure himself further. “Ban Aine. Ruins. Fucking floor. You were being a dick.” He let out a disgusted sound. “Ow.”

“You probably have a concussion,” Geralt said, relief and affection swimming up through him and merging oddly with his lingering guilt. It wasn’t truly that far of a fall, though he wasn’t entirely sure how far humans could fall. Geralt could probably have made it twice the distance and been perfectly fine; Jaskier seemed alright except for his head. “Need to know if it’s safe to move you. Any pain in your neck? Can you move your fingers?”

He watched as Jaskier slowly took stock, clenching and unclenching his hands, moving carefully. Nothing hurt aside from his head, it seemed, and Geralt allowed himself to breathe out some of the worry that was compressing his lungs. Jaskier was fine. A little dizzy from the growing knot on his head, but otherwise fine. Unable to help himself, Geralt pressed forward until their foreheads were just barely touching, careful of the bump just below Jaskier’s hairline.

Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Don’t tell me you were worried, witcher,” he said, his voice gently teasing.

Geralt just breathed for a moment, letting the horrible fear that had overtaken him rest behind his breastbone. “Sorry,” he said, trying to keep his grip on the back of Jaskier’s neck gentle. “For being a dick.”

Jaskier snorted softly, reaching up to card his fingers briefly through Geralt’s hair. The touch smoothed away the tense, tight feeling that had been playing across Geralt’s skin since he saw Jaskier tumble from his sight. “It’s alright. I’m quite used to the dramatics of witchers. Besides, now you have to be nice to me. I’m an invalid.”

“And you call me dramatic,” Geralt said, unable to keep the helpless fondness from his voice. “Think you can move?”

“Mm, yes, I have an absolute fucker of a headache but otherwise all limbs seem to be in their place. And I still don’t fancy spending the night down here. Where are we?” Jaskier’s head began to turn before he clearly thought the better of it. It wouldn’t have helped, anyways; the tunnels were pitch black. “Can you see?”

“Took some Cat,” Geralt grunted, standing. He tucked Jaskier’s hand into his own and helped lever him to his feet. The bard sucked in a breath at the change in elevation. Geralt was sympathetic; moving around wasn’t going to be helping his head at all. He stayed close, ready to offer his support, which was why he was so quick to reach out when Jaskier took one step forward and his right knee gave out. Geralt caught him by the arm as Jaskier hissed, half sharp inhale and half curse. “Shit,” he bit out, clinging to Geralt tightly. “Oh fuck that hurt, Melitele’s tits—”

“Where,” Geralt demanded, throat tight again.

“Must have twisted my ankle when I landed on it,” Jaskier panted, managing to sound wry despite the way his face was twisted up in pain.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “Too dark down here to look at it. Come on.” Jaskier made a noise of protest as Geralt began to pull away, but it was cut off abruptly as he reached down and swept his arm under Jaskier’s knees. The bard tumbled into his chest with a surprised gasp, one of his arms coming up around Geralt’s shoulders, clutching at his armor. The gasp quickly turned into a small grunt of pain, and Geralt tried to keep his movements steady enough that Jaskier’s head wouldn’t be jostled too much.

Jaskier gave him a dazed look as Geralt settled him. “Oh. My hero,” he said. Geralt was a bit worried by how breathy his voice suddenly sounded; if he was that winded from even that much light movement his head might be more injured than Geralt thought.

Geralt didn’t respond, more interested in getting them out before the Cat wore off. From their position he could see that the tunnel they were currently in—more of a path, really, with clear man-made walls—was elevated on one side. It was as good a lead as any, and he started up the slope.

It took perhaps half an hour for them to make their way back to the upper level, Jaskier tucked against Geralt’s chest as he navigated the winding corridors. Luckily it was fairly easy to tell when the air was closer to the surface. The tunnels that led lower into the ruins carried with them the stale scent of stone and ancient rot, so Geralt turned away from them and followed those that smelled fresher. They soon made their way back to what Geralt judged was the same level as where they’d left, though he couldn’t say whether they were in the same area. He could find no evidence of the hole that Jaskier had left behind, but eventually they reached a crumbled section of the wall that carried the scent of clean spring air. They had to squeeze through the narrow, natural crack in the rock beyond it, Jaskier set down in front of Geralt to limp his own way through. It had been too constricted to carry him, but Geralt still chewed on his cheek as he listened to Jaskier’s pained grunts of concentration.

Finally they stumbled out into the open air again—fully on the other side of the ruins from where they’d entered.

Geralt reached out a hand to steady Jaskier before he could fall, and the bard shot him a grateful look. Gently, Geralt pressed onto his shoulder until he was forced to sit on a rocky outcropping near the entrance to their little escape path. “Stay here,” he instructed. “I’ll go get Roach and we can make camp again on this side.”

Jaskier’s brows pinched together. “But we already made camp on the other side,” he said. His eyes were squinted again, but this time Geralt expected it was because the setting sunlight was hurting his head. Geralt wasn’t faring all that much better, though the Cat would probably be leaving his system soon. At the moment the world was overexposed, all the color leached out while the sky and reflections of sunlight on the surrounding rocks blinded him.

“You’re injured,” was all he said. “Just wait here.”

Jaskier pouted, and Geralt felt something unclench in his chest at the expression. If he was being a brat he couldn’t be feeling too bad. “Fine, witcher. But I think you’re being dramatic again.”

Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him. Jaskier huffed as if he knew exactly what Geralt was thinking. Hypocrite.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Geralt instructed, and then turned to make his way back to the other side of the ruins.

By the time he collected Roach and made it back to the rocky outcropping, it was nearing dusk. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath; it would be difficult to treat Jaskier’s wounds in the dark. As he rounded the bend in the ruins he had a moment of unbridled panic; the place he’d left Jaskier was vacant. It faded after a moment, however. Jaskier’s scent was still thick on the air, lavender and campfire smoke masked by a superficial irony tang. He found the bard tucked against a pillar, out of immediate view. Geralt released Roach’s reins to kneel next to him, reaching out to wrap a hand around Jaskier’s shoulder again. The bard startled under his fingers, moaning when the sudden motion jostled his head. The befuddled expression he turned on Geralt was tense with pain, but endearing despite it.

“You fell asleep,” Geralt informed him, his stomach twisted up with affection and worry. Gods, being in love was unbearable.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. “Sorry. Roach?”

“Got her,” Geralt replied. “I’m gonna set up camp and then I’ll tend to your ankle.”

Jaskier didn’t look immediately thrilled by the prospect.

Geralt set up camp in record time, tossing out their bedrolls and lighting a few pieces of wood with igni, probably the sloppiest fire he’d ever put together. Once finished he helped Jaskier over to one of the bedrolls, sitting him down and pulling over the bag that they kept their basic medical supplies in.

There wasn’t a lot he could do for the ankle. If it was truly sprained it might help to brace it, but in reality Jaskier was just going to have to keep off of it for a few days. The head he could at least tend to, and he did, using boiled water to wipe away the tacky blood from where it had dripped over Jaskier’s forehead and clotted in his eyebrow. Jaskier winced away from the gentle pressure, but the wound didn’t start bleeding again, which Geralt counted as a win. Once done he checked the rest of Jaskier’s head for other bumps, but there was nothing aside from the one on his forehead. He was lucky; if it had been the back of his head he’d certainly have a raging concussion. As it was he seemed mostly fine, if a little dazed and photosensitive. Hopefully a few good night’s rest would see to that.

The ankle he did what he could for, strapping two branches on either side of Jaskier’s foot and pinning them down with bandages. It wasn’t professional work, but it would keep him from moving it too much while he slept. When he was finally finished Geralt tossed the bloody rags away and sighed, eying his handiwork.

Jaskier, who had been curiously silent through the entire production, said, “This certainly flips the script a bit, mm?”

Geralt blinked at him, pulled from his focus on Jaskier’s injuries. “What?”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “Usually I’m the one patching you up,” he said. His eyes lost focus slightly, staring down at Geralt’s armor vacantly. “I think I like being on this side of things better.”

Geralt swallowed. He knew he should say something lighthearted, tease Jaskier about just liking the pampering, but instead he said, “I don’t.”

Jaskier’s gaze focused back on him, and eyebrows raised in a startled expression. And then the grin was back, wider than before but somehow more brittle. “Well then,” he said, “is the great Geralt of Rivia admitting that he cares?”

Something about his tone was missing the typical teasing lit, more self deferential than anything. As if he already knew the answer, and it wasn’t one he favored. Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn’t as emotionless as the tales claimed; he had seen first hand how Geralt had once twisted himself up over Yennefer, how devoted he was to Ciri, the affection he had for his brothers. Which meant that Jaskier just didn’t think Geralt cared about him.

It made Geralt want to fight something, or to pull Jaskier close and tell him just how wrong he was. He swallowed against the urge to reach out, instead looking down and needlessly adjusting the bandage around Jaskier’s ankle. “It’s not just for Ciri,” he admitted, allowing some part of the truth to float to the surface. Jaskier deserved at least that much.

“What?”

“It’s not—I don’t just want you around in case something happens. I mean, I do, of course, Ciri loves you, but.” Why was this so hard? Jaskier made finding his words seem so easy, effortless from years of practice and natural talent. Geralt forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You’re a good travelling companion. You make my life… better.”

Jaskier just stared at him for a long moment, his lips parted slightly. Geralt wanted, with an acuteness that bordered on physical pain, to put his mouth there, like a punctuation to his declaration. Finally Jaskier gathered himself and said, “Oh, well… Thank you. That’s rather good to hear.”

Geralt nodded, turning away to deal with washing out the rags and seeing about making them something to eat. After a few minutes of silence he could bear the tension in the air no longer, and stood. “I’m going to see if I can catch something,” he said, grabbing his crossbow from its place on Roach’s saddle. “Shout if you need me, I’ll stay close.”

Jaskier nodded absently, just watching him as Geralt gathered up the things he would need for the hunt. Just as he was about to make his way into the trees at the edge of the ruins, he heard Jaskier’s voice behind him, across the campfire.

“You make my life better, too.”

And Geralt didn’t even know what to do with that, the way those words curled through him and around his heart. He fled into the forest without a backward glance, the oathstone sitting heavily in his pocket.

~ 

That evening he dined with Triss in her quarters, despite the fact that it was wildly inappropriate. Geralt asked after it, and Triss laughed dismissively.

“That is a delightful sentiment, but no one is questioning my dalliances,” she said with a grin. “They’re too afraid I’ll turn them into toads if they irritate me. And besides, half the Continent believes that you’re courting Yennefer because of the bard’s silly songs, and the other half thinks you’re courting the bard.”

Ah. “Well,” Geralt said, articulately.

Triss smirked at him over her wine. It was exceptionally good, a vintage from Toussaint that was nearly as old as Geralt. Triss’ quarters were fairly large, befitting a court mage, but decorated in a way that made them seem almost cozy. She favored muted colors that turned rich in the light of the candles scattered around the room. There were dozens of tables and shelves crowded with books, herbs and knick knacks that made the space feel distinctly lived in. It was a stark contrast to Yennefer’s lodgings, which were always immaculate and finely organized. The clutter was a refreshing change of pace. “Yennefer told me that you’re trying to make the bard immortal,” Triss said. One of her eyebrows rose, and Geralt wasn’t sure if the look she gave him was impressed or judgemental.

“Not necessarily,” Geralt said defensively. “Just not so, uh.”

“Excessively mortal?”

He hummed. Triss sighed.

“I don’t know of anything to lengthen a human lifespan to that of a witcher’s,” she said. “But the elves have been dealing in things relating to life force for longer than there have been human mages on the Continent. If anyone has any knowledge of what you’re after, it will be the Aen Saevherne.”

Geralt nodded. “Yennefer told me to ask after a woman named Ida. A sage?”

Triss set her goblet down, looking grave. “Ida Emean. An old acquaintance of mine. Perhaps one of the last elven sages alive, though they’re so secretive it’s difficult to tell. She works occasionally with the Brotherhood, when their goals align. But you need to know, Geralt, even if she has an answer for you, this kind of magic comes with a price. Always.”

“I’m willing to pay it,” Geralt said. “Jaskier, he’s—”

Triss interrupted him with a gentle smile, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand on the table. “I know what he is to you. I want to help. I just want you to be careful.” Geralt wondered when he’d become this transparent to, apparently, half the Continent and every one of his close friends. The sorceresses were probably gossiping behind his back.

“How will you contact her?” Geralt asked, pushing through his embarrassment. He wished saving Jaskier’s fragile human life didn’t involve so many conversations about his unrequited love.

“Megascope,” Triss said, rising. “We’ll need to do it soon, when the moon rises. It will make the connection stronger; I’m not sure where she is.”

Geralt followed her into a room off of the main sitting area, a small space that was almost entirely dominated by Triss’ megascope. He’d seen its like numerous times at Kaer Morhen, where Yennefer had set her own up in the highest tower still standing. The large crystal disks swam with a cool blue light as Triss waved her hand through the air. Three brass arms rose up to hold them at shoulder level, facing inwards to form a triangle. The soft light filled the dark space, throwing Triss’ face into sharp relief before Geralt snapped a finger to light the candles in the room.

Triss stepped up in front of the negative space between the stands, uttering a few words in Elder that Geralt wasn’t familiar with. After a moment the light began to shimmer and twist around itself, slowly solidifying into a human form.

The figure was indistinct, as they usually were in megascope projections, but Geralt could tell that the woman was beautiful. Used to dealing with elves in the south, whose genes had been diluted with human blood over so many centuries, Geralt was taken aback by the sharpness of her features. Her neck was long and elegant, and her hair fell in sheets around her alien features. He was reminded suddenly of his encounter with the elves of the Blue Mountains so many years ago, the inhuman angle of Filavandrel’s cheekbones.

The smoky figure turned towards Triss first, her head dropping in a brief nod. “Triss Merigold. Keidmil.” Ida said in greeting.

Triss nodded in return, her curls bouncing with the motion. “Keidmil, Ida. I apologize for summoning you with so little warning. I have done so as a favor to a friend.” At this Ida’s eyes, empty orbs of swirling blue light in the megascope, fell on Geralt.

“Vatgern,” she said, with the tone of someone who has just discovered something fascinating but slightly repulsive on the bottom of their shoe. “You have friends in high places, wed. What business does a witcher have with me?” Her accent made the words almost musical.

Geralt’s nod of acknowledgement was more of a bow. He wasn’t normally one to show deference to those with power, but this time his heart was pounding in his ears as he leaned forward. If Ida wouldn’t help him, he would be back to square one before he’d even really begun. “Keidmil, Aen Saevherne,” he said as demurely as he could, which probably still came out sounding like gravel. “I was told by Yennefer of Vengerberg that you might have some knowledge on extending human lifespans.”

Ida’s head tilted a tic to the side, clearly intrigued. “Witchers already live near as long as any half-elf on the Continent,” she replied. “There is no spell that could give you the lifespan of a true Aen Seidhe.”

“It isn’t for myself,” Geralt said quickly. “It’s for a human. Someone I… care deeply about.” He ignored the way his face flamed at this admission, no matter how clear it was that Triss obviously knew about his infatuation. He’d barely admitted it aloud to himself, let alone anyone else.

Ida hummed, the sound vibrating through the megascope. “This has precedent. But the spell you seek does not come without cost.”

“Tell me,” Geralt said firmly.

“There has always been conflict between humankind and the Aes Seidhe. Our peoples have crossed gweld an gleidyf many times over the millennia. But there were always times when there was peace, coexistence. In the early days, before the blood of men diluted our own, the Aes Seidhe could live through half a dozen human lifetimes or more. It was taboo to form relationships with humans, and many did not bother. But there were, of course, exceptions.

“It is unclear where the ritual comes from, but the tales say that one of the Aen Saevherne fell in love with a human woman, who then fell gravely ill as she entered her twilight years. The sage, terrified of losing her, bound her lifeforce to his own, effectively extending her life at the cost of some of his own longevity. Over the years the ritual was refined by others. It has fallen out of practice, in this age; many of the Aes Seidhe’s bloodlines are so diluted that they live for no longer than twice a human lifetime. But the ritual remains.”

Geralt swallowed. “Can you explain it to me?”

“I can,” Ida said, her chin raising slightly. “But I do not need to tell you, vatgern, that all such magic comes with consequences. You cannot create those years from nothing; they must be drawn from somewhere. And you will be binding yourself to this human. I cannot say how this ritual will impact someone who is not of elvish blood.”

He could feel Triss turning worried eyes on him. She too knew the price that magic could demand. “Will Ja—the human, could he be harmed?” Geralt asked.

Ida’s head shook back and forth, her hair swaying. “You assume the responsibility of the ritual,” she said. “Is this human worth so much to you?”

“Yes,” Geralt said instantly, surprised by his own lack of hesitation. “Anything.”

Ida looked at him for a moment, as if judging his truthfulness. “Very well,” she finally said. “I will give you the words, but the ritual requires additional pieces. Gaes carraigh, an oathstone, for the vow; ghealachlíon, night’s linseed, for the binding; and ionad, a place of great power or great personal meaning. Once these elements are combined, you bind your hands with the moonflax over the oathstone and speak the incantation. It is straightforward, but your pronunciation and your intent must be exact. Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme.”

“Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme,” Geralt repeated. The words were easy, close enough to their modern counterparts that he was certain it would be nearly identical in southern Elder. It was almost too easy, romantic in its simplicity. Ida nodded, satisfied. “And that’s all?” Geralt asked, breathless.

“That is all. There need be no officiant, no further ceremony. You will be bound by Chaos herself.”

“Officiant?” Geralt blinked, confused. “Why would we need an officiant?”

“I have been told that human marriages tend to involve quite a few witnesses,” Ida said, sounding amused. “Ours are a bit more personal.”

“Wait. This is a marriage ritual?” Geralt felt his heart starting to sink down into his stomach.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Ida replied. “Now, if that is all you require, I have my own business to attend to.”

“Me grasha, Ida, for taking the time,” Triss piped up again. “If you ever need a favor in return…”

“I will keep that in mind,” Ida said. “Va feil.”

“Va feil,” Triss replied, and the megascoped dimmed and cast the room back into darkness.

Geralt stood in utter stillness for a moment, blinking into the dark. “Fuck,” he burst out. “I have to marry him?”

Triss just laughed.

*

Triss, luckily, knew the locations of most of the components Ida had mentioned, though the last location would be up to Geralt to determine. The first of these, the oathstone, was used frequently enough in larger elven settlements before their people were displaced. She had recommended the ruins of Ban Aine as a likely findspot, and it was situated not too far from Oxenfurt. That was to be his first real stop, to collect Jaskier and convince him of Geralt’s plan.

Hopefully without revealing too much about the exact nature of the ritual, which still made Geralt sweat when he thought about it for too long.

He couldn’t help but think of it with a strange mix of giddiness and dread, churning together in a nauseating concoction. Marriage wasn’t something that witchers got to do, ever. Their lives were transient and drawn out, and often ended in violence. Even if any of them had the time to court lovers, it wasn’t the type of life that one would wish on someone they cared for. It could only end one of two ways: the witcher outlived their paramour, or their love was left to grieve them after they were gutted by some beast or strung up by an angry mob.

Even when Geralt had been infatuated with Yennefer he hadn’t truly considered anything like marriage. He had imagined a kind of loose commitment, maybe, but he had always known somewhere deep in his own mind that Yennefer would never stand to be tied down to anyone for long. He had been desperate enough for her love that he’d been willing to settle for anything she could give him.

He had never dared to hope for more, no matter how he might want it. Still, once he had come to understand his own feelings towards Jaskier, he had been unable to stop himself from thinking about it at times. He wondered what things might change between them, if they tied themselves together. Things might stay much the same; Jaskier would come to Kaer Morhen most years, and journey with Geralt when he could throughout the rest of the year. He would bring trinkets and books and stories for Ciri, and teach her how to be human, and trade quips with Yennefer and the other wolves when they all gathered. He would still help Geralt clean up after a hunt, help him stitch his skin back together and wash away the grime and curl up at his side when night came. But maybe he would also let Geralt wake him by pressing his lips to Jaskier’s eyelids like he had so often yearned to do. Maybe he would reach out and hold Geralt’s hand as they walked through a new town; maybe he would close the distance kept between them when they lay in tiny rented beds.

Maybe he could be Geralt’s, and no one else’s.

He was successful, most of the time, in keeping these kinds of thoughts at bay. It did a witcher no good to dwell on what could not be.

Now it would be, if only technically, and only if Geralt could convince Jaskier to perform the ritual without giving away its origins. He considered telling Jaskier the full truth of it, of course. It was probable that Jaskier wouldn’t even care. In his mind, they were only friends; it would be easy enough to set aside the implications of the ritual in favor of practicality. It would be ridiculous to turn down the chance at potentially doubling his own lifespan just because hundreds of years ago an ancient ritual was used for romantic unions.

But every time Geralt thought of telling Jaskier, and of hearing him dismiss Geralt’s concerns, he felt something black and dreadful crawl up his throat. Jaskier would think it was silly, the idea that he could ever be married to a witcher. He would laugh, with that sly grin he always got when they were sharing a joke between them—isn’t that funny, the look would say, the idea of you and me.

No. If he said nothing, Jaskier would never have to know, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Geralt would never hold him to any sort of bond that the ritual created between them; he would be happy knowing that Jaskier wouldn’t be taken from him by time and old age, at least not yet.

His intention had been to make his way directly across the southern bridge and into the academy grounds, but he’d arrived earlier than expected and Jaskier tended to be a bit of a late riser when he could be. So instead he got a room and set Roach up in the stables, giving her a good brush down, and packed away his gear. The rest of the morning, he spent restocking his supplies in the market, picking up the herbs he couldn’t easily find on his own and trading some of the goods he’d brought from the north for things he would need over the summer; a new linen shirt, salt for preserving meat, vodka.

Finished with his shopping, he set his mind to breakfast. There was a woman with a stall off of the main market selling baked goods, and Geralt remembered her from when he’d last been to Oxenfurt. He picked up a roll stuffed with warm cabbage and beef, and then doubled back a minute later to buy another, this time swirled through with cinnamon and coated in a sweet honey glaze.

Finally judging the sun high enough in the sky, he headed for the nearest fountain to refill his waterskin, only to be greeted by a familiar voice ringing out through the open courtyard.

Oxenfurt prided itself on its beauty, its history and monuments. The city was a tapestry of rich timber and clean brickwork, of statuary large and small which lined the streets and stately buildings with stunning relief work. The fountains were no exceptions; this one was set against the north side of the square, its semicircular base filling with water from half a dozen spouts set into the mouths of bronze fish. Geralt had no doubt that the entire effect—the square, the fountain, the white stone of the surrounding buildings—was stunning. But his eyes were drawn inexorably towards the sound of lute strings, and the beauty of the masterwork around him couldn’t help but pale in comparison to the man sitting on the raised lip of the fountain.

Jaskier’s hair was shorter than he’d last seen it, not windswept and overlong from months on the Path, and his clothes were cleaner and more lavish than he typically dressed on the road. Though his doublet was scandalously open to his midriff, Geralt had no doubt that it was of the latest fashion. As he approached, he saw Jaskier’s slim fingers fly deftly over the frets of his lute, his voice raised to overlay a bright melody over the simple notes. There was no hat or blanket laid out to catch coins; Jaskier was playing only for himself, it seemed.

Geralt didn’t want to interrupt, but in the end he didn’t have to. Jaskier looked up when he was still halfway across the courtyard, as if he could sense Geralt’s presence. Their eyes met, and Geralt felt relief swim through him as he realized that the bard seemed unchanged from the last time he’d seen him. Jaskier’s face lit up as his shocked expression turned into a grin, and Geralt could see the now ever present crow’s feet deepen around his eyes.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, not bothering to stand. Geralt made his way through the rest of the square, the bundle of rolls held close to his chest as he pushed through the river of people. He stopped when he was no more than a foot away, finding himself smiling down at the bard. “Fancy meeting you here,” Jaskier said with a wink, brilliant in the morning sun. Fuck, but Geralt had missed him.

“Was gonna look for you at the university. Glad I found you here,” he said by way of greeting. “So short on coin you’re back to busking?”

Jaskier waved a hand, dismissing Geralt’s teasing. “I just wanted some sun, now that winter has finally deigned to withdraw her icy grasp. I was thinking of perhaps going to find something to eat at the market—”

Geralt held out the sweet roll. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, surprised and clearly pleased. Geralt felt warmth spread through his chest at the look. “Figured I’d find you only just out of bed,” he explained, offering Jaskier a thin smile. “You do need your beauty sleep.”

Jaskier gasped in faux injury even as he accepted the roll from Geralt’s hands, still wrapped in wax paper. Geralt sat down beside him, letting his pack fall to the ground as he unwrapped his own roll. It was still warm, soft from the juices of the meat inside. “As if I have ever been anything less than absolutely resplendent,” Jaskier said through a mouthful of roll. Geralt privately had to agree. Out loud he only hummed, noncommittal.

They spent the morning in unhurried company, Geralt giving Jaskier news of their friends still in the north—“Ciri missed you,” he said, and didn’t say I missed you, too—and Jaskier recounting his winter adventures. Apparently he had been privately tutoring a young lady in a court a few days south of Oxenfurt, the child of an old friend. Geralt bit his cheek to avoid asking if it was just a friend, or if Jaskier had spent the winter in the bed of an old flame. It wasn’t his place to ask those sorts of things.

They didn’t head towards the university immediately—Geralt had already stowed his things at the inn, which Jaskier admonished him for. “You could have stayed with me of course,” he said with a roll of his eyes, and Geralt was breathless with it. Even after all this time, he could never truly wrap his mind around the fact that Jaskier wanted him around, would willingingly open his home to Geralt whenever he settled in one place. But the inn was already paid for and Geralt’s things packed away, so they were neither burdened by supplies as they wandered around the city. Geralt carried Jaskier’s lute on his shoulder, the weight of it settling almost as comfortably familiar as his swords.

He’d been to Oxenfurt dozens of times, but he always enjoyed seeing it through Jaskier’s eyes. The bard noticed things, like the new tailor on the corner of the main square, or that someone new had taken over an old market stall, or the new flowers sitting on someone’s stoop. All things that Geralt would have let wash past him. Everything felt new when Jaskier was with him, more vibrant when painted in his words.

Eventually Jaskier suggested that they head back, so that he could get appropriately dressed for the afternoon. He had planned, apparently, to play at a tavern close to the inn Geralt was staying in, though Geralt suspected that he’d had no such arrangements. It wouldn’t matter; Jaskier was popular enough that all he had to do was show up somewhere and people were begging him to play. Assuming he hadn’t slighted the owners of the establishment somehow. It was only early afternoon, but Jaskier gave him a sheepish grin when Geralt asked about the early retreat.

“I’m not quite packed,” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you’d be back on the Path until at least three weeks from now. You always seem so reluctant to leave Ciri.”

Geralt could feel his face tingling with the ghost of a blush, and he scrambled for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t feel incriminating. “I, uh. I’m looking into something. Needed to see Triss.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose with interest as he pushed open a side gate in the Oxenfurt walls, leading them onto the campus. Geralt liked it here; it always smelled of rich plant life because of the well kept gardens, and the population was regulated enough that it was generally quieter than the rest of Oxenfurt. All the people smelled of ink and vellum and soft scented oils, and it never failed to remind him of Jaskier. “Is it about Ciri?” Jaskier asked.

“Hmm,” Geralt allowed, thoughts racing. “In… a way.”

Jaskier stopped short, trapping Geralt behind him in the narrow alley they found themselves in. His face was a mask of concern. “Is she alright?” he asked, brow furrowed.

Geralt nodded, waving a hand as if to wipe Jaskier’s worries from the air. “She’s fine, it’s not like that.”

Jaskier huffed out a breath and gave him a stern look before turning to continue down the cobbled path, leading them into the main courtyard of the university. “Don’t do that to me, witcher,” he admonished. “I have a delicate constitution, I can’t handle a scare like I used to.”

“Ah,” Geralt said, pleased with the easy segue. “That’s… sort of the problem.”

Jaskier stopped again, halfway through the doorway that led to the apartments reserved for professors. He blinked at Geralt, once, and said, “Well what in the devil is that supposed to mean?”

Geralt sighed, pushing Jaskier the rest of the way into the building. It was old, as with all of Oxenfurt, wood musty with age and heavy with the scent of the polish that they used on the brass fixtures. The interior was dark and musty, but Geralt’s eyes easily adjusted to the gloom. He forced himself not to chuckle at the way Jaskier’s eyes immediately squinted at him, slower to adapt to the shade after being out in the daylight. “Ciri is… She missed you. She’s—we’re all worried about, well, your.” He stopped, trying to find a word that wouldn’t come off as immediately insulting. “Mortality.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said, in a tone that suggested Geralt had missed the mark, “are you suggesting that I am old?”

Geralt winced. “Uh. Maybe we should talk about this upstairs.”

“Oh no, I think we should talk about it right here,” Jaskier said, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his chin. The posture was so familiar it made Geralt’s chest ache even as he knew he was about to get taken to task. “Has Yennefer been on about my crow’s feet again? She’s delusional. My skin is flawless.”

It wasn’t, though. Geralt could see the fine lines spreading from around his eyes and mouth even in the dark, the way his hair was less lustrous than it used to be, thinning at the temples. How slowly he moved, how loudly his knees popped when he stood up after sitting for too long. “You look fine,” was all he said out loud. “But Ciri’s lost enough people already. I’m worried about what it would do to her, to lose someone else.”

Jaskier visibly deflated, sticking his lower lip out to blow his fringe out of the way. After a moment, he said, “I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, Geralt.”

And he knew that, he did, Jaskier probably had decades left to live, but— “She’s probably going to live as long as any witcher. I don’t want her to be alone.” As he said it, Geralt realized the truth of the statement. His desire to slow Jaskier’s aging process was a selfish one, but he wasn’t lying about Ciri. Losing Jaskier would be an intense blow to the girl, after already losing one family. She had so few people left in the world who truly cared for her.

Jaskier smoothed a hand down over his face, shifting so that he was leaning one arm against the railing of the staircase. “She has you, and Yennefer, and all of your brothers,” Jaskier said. His lips were pressed tightly together, and even though his eyes had eased from their squint as they adjusted to the dim light, he was looking away from Geralt. “I imagine I’ll fade away easily enough, after a few years.” He said it softly, almost to himself, and Geralt felt all the breath leave him at once at the statement.

“No,” he said, too quickly, one hand coming up automatically to grip Jaskier’s shoulder. Blue eyes turned back on him, wide with surprise. “You won’t.” He didn’t know what else to say, how to make Jaskier understand his own magnitude in their lives—Ciri’s life—his life, without giving away too much. Words were woefully insignificant.

Jaskier brought one hand up to rest over Geralt’s, his lips relaxing into a smile. “Flattering,” he said, lightly teasing. “But anyways, you know Ciri will always have you and Yen.”

“We lead dangerous lives,” Geralt argued, his hand prickling under Jaskier’s palm. “I can’t stop walking the Path, and neither can my brothers. Any year we might not come back. And Yennefer is… she’s made a lot of enemies over the years. Nothing is set in stone.”

“I know you’re worried about this,” Jaskier said slowly, “but there’s nothing to be done about it. Any of you could die at any time, sure, but that’s life.”

“I need to know you’ll be around,” Geralt insisted. “I need to know that you won’t just… die on us.”

Jaskier huffed, removing his hand from Geralt’s and placing it on his hip. “Well, I don’t know what to say. It’s a reality we’ll all simply have to adjust to, unless you’ve suddenly found the secret to immortality.”

Geralt shifted awkwardly in place. Jaskier stared.

“You are not serious—” Jaskier started as Geralt said, “Listen, just hear me out.” Jaskier continued to talk over him, and Geralt sighed up at the ceiling as the tirade began.

“Hear you out?” Jaskier spluttered, incredulous. “Oh, I’m listening, Geralt, because this had better be a damn good one. You can’t show up after being away all winter and call me old and then tell me you want to make me immortal! I will not be subjected to witcher poisons or mages’ spells just because you’ve suddenly had a realization about the inherent dangers of your occupation.”

“It’s not—I’m not going to poison you, Jaskier,” Geralt said, aghast.

If anything that made Jaskier look even more suspicious. “If this is some curse Yennefer wants to put on me I will not allow it. I have heard plenty of horror stories about the transformation process for mages, and I will not be risking the loss of my critical bits.”

“It’s a ritual—”

“That’s worse!” Jaskier exclaimed. “Geralt, we’ve worked half a dozen different contracts that were botched immortality rituals. It went badly, so very, very badly, every time, and now you want to try it because you’re worried about my wrinkles? I’m not even fifty!” He flung his arms out to the side and dropped them sharply, breathing a little heavily.

“You said you don’t have any wrinkles.”

Jaskier glared at him. Geralt sighed.

“It’s not like that,” he explained, sliding his hand down to take Jaskier’s elbow so he could lead them up the stairs. This conversation would be so much easier over a glass of wine. Or better yet, a few shots of vodka. “It should be safe. The elves used to use it all the time to prolong the lifespans of humans.”

Jaskier allowed himself to be moved, shuffling in an awkward half walk up the stairs as he tried to continue the conversation. Geralt let his hand fall away, and his palm was warm where they’d touched. “If it’s so safe and easy, why doesn’t everyone do it?” Jaskier asked.

“It’s… not common knowledge,” Geralt hedged. “And you have to have someone with a long lifespan willing to take part in the ritual.”

“So how did you find out about it?” Jaskier said, tone accusative. “What’s the ritual, exactly?”

“I went to Triss. It’s—” He stopped, casting about for the right words. How to explain, without giving away too much? “It’s an elven ritual, used to… prolong human life spans. It involves tethering the human to an elf, originally. And then the… connection extends the human’s life to closer to that of an elf.” He opened his mouth again, hesitating on the edge of telling Jaskier exactly what the elves used the ritual for. And then he thought about how Jaskier would smile as he dismissed the issue, unconcerned, and Geralt bit back the words. His stomach rolled at the omission, but he couldn’t work up the courage to place this tender thing in Jaskier’s hands only to be crushed.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Jaskier pushed quickly ahead, towards his own rooms. The hall was dimly lit, the occasional window offering slivers of muddled daylight into the passage. Geralt followed after, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

Jaskier pulled a heavy bronze key out of his pocket, frowning as he fit it into the lock. “I don’t know, Geralt. I’m not saying your heart isn’t in the right place,” he said, not looking up. “I’m honestly flattered you would want me around enough to go through all this trouble. But we both know I’m not worth the risk, and this kind of spell, you know they can be—”

Geralt reached out as Jaskier went to push the door open, catching his wrist. The bones there were so delicate, fragile enough that Geralt knew he could snap them without a thought. His hold was as gentle as he could make it. “Jaskier,” he said softly, imploring.

Finally Jaskier looked at him, lips drawn tight. “I don’t want you to regret something like this,” Jaskier said tightly.

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt said, still holding Jaskier’s wrist like a bird in his hand. “I won’t. Can you just… trust me on this?

Jaskier stopped, giving him an unreadable look for a long moment. Finally he sighed. “If you’re sure,” he said, searching Geralt’s face for something. Geralt couldn’t have said what. His fingers burned. Eventually Jaskier must have found what he was looking for, because he suddenly smiled. “I suppose it would be remiss of me to turn down the opportunity for semi-immortality, as you say it. Imagine the heights of artistic mastery I could reach with another fifty years under my belt!”

Geralt rolled his eyes even as relief swept through him. “Of course you would think of that,” he grumbled.

He released Jaskier’s hand, and the bard pushed open the door to his suite. It looked much the same as Geralt remembered it from previous visits. Two rooms, the door to the bedroom ajar just enough to see the end of the bedpost, which had a doublet hanging from it. The main room functioned as a study and parlor, with a low couch and a desk off to one side. Jaskier tended to be fastidious on the road, both with his things and his own personal hygiene, but when he returned to roost at Oxenfurt Geralt found that he let his tidy habits slip. Books and scrolls covered the desk, the couch, and several low shelves, as well as a few spots on the central rug. A few of them were dangerously close to the fireplace. Empty and half full cups of tea and glasses of wine were scattered about. When Jaskier fell into research or writing he didn’t tend to remember basic things like cleaning or fire hazards.

“Sorry for the mess,” Jaskier said breezily, with the assuredness of someone who knew their companion had seen worse. And it was true; this wasn’t even half as bad as Geralt had found it at times, pushing his way into the suite to retrieve Jaskier from a month-long academic fixation.

Jaskier walked over to a waist high cabinet against the western wall of the room and opened it to reveal a honeycomb structure threaded with wine bottles. He produced what looked to be a bottle of Est Est and turned to Geralt, pulling the cork out with his teeth. As the witcher watched, he poured a sizable amount into a mostly clean glass and threw himself down on an unoccupied space on the couch. “Alright,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful of the wine. “Tell me how this is going to work.”

~

Geralt tried to retaliate with affection. He sat closer to Jaskier in the evenings, telling him the stories he craved, watching afterwards as he mouthed words up at the stars to fit new ballads. He told Jaskier that he enjoyed the tune he was humming, and Jaskier had blinked at him like he’d grown two heads. When they finally decided it was time to move on, Geralt offered to let him ride Roach, and Jaskier stood gaping at him.

“Excuse me?” he spluttered. “Did you just say you want me to ride Roach?”

Geralt sighed through his nose. “Was that not clear enough?”

Jaskier leaned against Roach, one arm out to steady himself on the saddle. His ankle still wouldn’t hold his weight for more than a few moments. “I should throw something silver at you,” Jaskier said, “or douse you in holy water. You’ve been replaced by a spirit.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone was a warning.

“A much nicer spirit,” Jaskier said as he began pulling himself up into the saddle. “A very kind spirit who lets his poor injured friend ride his very sweet, docile horse. Nice Roachy. Please don’t throw me off.”

“She won’t buck you,” Geralt snorted, hiding a grin. He took the reins and began leading them back to the main path, heading southwest. Their next destination, according to Triss, would be just outside of the Brokilon Forest. The last of the moonflax supposedly grew in that area, and hopefully the locals would know how to point them in the right direction. They found their way back to the main road easily enough, and it was several long moments before Jaskier spoke.

“I’m really fine, you know,” he said, and when Geralt glanced up at him, he found Jaskier staring resolutely down the road, a small pinch to his brow. “So you can stop being weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Geralt said automatically.

“You are,” Jaskier insisted, looking down at him. His eyes squinted at Geralt as if he were trying to see straight through his skull. “And I know it’s coming from some misplaced guilt that you’re carrying around, thinking that it’s all your fault that I got hurt, as if somehow your witcher powers could stop a floor from collapsing—”

“I’m not—” Geralt started, and then bit back the words. He was guilty, and of course Jaskier could sense it on him. It just wasn’t entirely for the reason Jaskier thought. Instead he said, “It’s not about that.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in an expression that meant he thought he was about to win an argument. “Then why are you being so nice to me?” he asked, jerking his chin forward cockily. Like he was already sure of the answer.

The question gave Geralt pause, literally. He stopped for a moment on the road, blinking up at Jaskier. His hair was backlit by the noonday sun, his eyes as brilliantly blue as the cloudless sky above them. It was a shame, Geralt thought, that he’d never before seen Jaskier from this angle. He’d have to let him ride Roach more often. “I realized I wasn’t really, before,” he finally said, haltingly. “I mean—I want to be. Nice. Nicer.” He grimaced.

Jaskier’s expression changed to one of blatant shock, and then smoothed into something softer that Geralt couldn’t identify. It made his breath quicken in his chest, catching in his throat. “You’re a good man, Geralt. You don’t have to perform social niceties for that to be true.”

“I meant to you,” Geralt clarified, shifting uncomfortably. They were stopped in the middle of the road now, and he knew he should probably keep going, because if he kept looking up at Jaskier during this conversation it was going to feel a lot more profound than it needed to be. “I don’t really care about what every farmer or lord I deal with thinks of me.”

“But you care what I think,” Jaskier replied, face once again open with surprise. He’d been making that expression a lot lately, Geralt had noticed. Like Geralt kept doing things that made him reconsider his entire worldview.

“Yes,” Geralt said simply, because it was true. “You’re my friend. I should be nice to you.” He quirked a smile, hoping to break the tension. “That’s what Ciri tells me, at least.”

It had the desired effect; Jaskier tossed his head back and laughed, and Geralt was forced to reconcile himself with the long line of his throat. His mouth went dry at the sight, and he forced himself not to move—not to reach out, not to pull Jaskier off Roach’s back, not to press his lips to the pale skin that peeked out of Jaskier’s loose collar. He stayed stock still, until Jaskier looked down at him with a grin. “Ciri is a smart young woman,” Jaskier said, “and I can’t find fault with her argument. Though truly, don’t make any great effort on my account. I know how difficult I can be to tolerate.”

Jaskier’s mirth made something relax in him, and Geralt found himself smiling back. He unstuck his limbs from the ground and turned to continue on, giving Roach’s reins a gentle tug. Jaskier leaned forward at the sudden movement, and Geralt allowed himself one touch, reaching out to put a hand on Jaskier’s thigh, stabilizing him. Wryly, he said, “You really aren’t.”

Jaskier looked down toward him, and leaning forward as he was, they were suddenly much closer than before, and Jaskier’s face was softened again in surprise and— something else. Geralt felt sure, for one crystalline moment, that Jaskier was going to lean down the last few inches to press their lips together. He held his breath in anticipation, and for a moment Jaskier wavered. And then Roach huffed and canted forward a step, and Geralt’s hand jerked where it was clenched white-knuckled around the reins. He leaned back and away, taking his hand off of Jaskier’s thigh, and felt cold despite the warmth of the day. Jaskier straightened in his seat, and when Geralt looked up at him again his face was blank, squinting up at the sky.

Geralt’s hand burned as he started forward again, leading them down the road towards their destination. He had been right, he thought, to avoid touching Jaskier. Every instance was like flying closer to the sun. He couldn’t survive it if he kept pushing his limits.

*

They stopped for the night at an inn. It was unusually vacant; they were far enough south now that the last vestiges of winter had faded behind them, and the roads had been plenty busy. On their way into town they’d passed a large band of travelers—merchants, a cobbler, several families—headed in the other direction, so it was likely they drove off any others passing through the area. The innkeep looked tired, a woman who couldn’t be older than Jaskier but had a full head of gray hair. She gave Geralt a shrewd look when they entered, but was quickly swept up in Jaskier’s charm, especially when he exaggerated the limp a bit.

“Afraid there’ll be no one to play for this evening, my boy,” she said, the thick accent of southern Velen making her words sound like chewed barley. “You’ll have to pay for a full night.”

The rate she gave was fair, not marked up for the presence of a witcher as far as Geralt could tell. They were well off on coin after a drowner contract he’d taken before the ruins. They were always particularly active in the spring, having grown hungry under the ice and snow all winter. Geralt had cleared out at least thirty of them from a lake and its nearby stream, gaining no more than a few shallow claw marks but a hefty bag of coin for his efforts. “The rooms are a touch small,” the innkeep said. “You’ll want two; no chance of sharing with this one’s shoulders as they are.” She nodded to Geralt, her gaze passing over his broad chest. He huffed, annoyed.

Jaskier hummed himself, a slight frown passing over his features. “Are you quite sure? We’re accustomed to sharing, and it would save us some coin—”

“We have coin,” Geralt said, slapping the money down on the counter. Jaskier made a noise of protest that Geralt silenced with a look. “I don’t want to risk fucking up your leg by lying on top of it. Two rooms, one night.” It was fine. They were in no danger of running low on funds. There was no need for them to spend a night in discomfort. “It’s this or the road, bard.”

At that Jaskier pouted and dropped the issue.

*

That night they ate dinner together in the main room of the inn. The food was good, hearty liver sausages with a thin vegetable broth to wash it down, and a loaf of dark oat bread. The ale wasn’t half bad either, even watered down as it was. Once they finished eating, Geralt allowed Jaskier to goad him into a few rounds of Gwent. He never understood why Jaskier wanted to play—Geralt always won handily. Five extra decades of experience and a long tradition of playing for his meals made him the better player by far, and his deck was tournament worthy. Yet Jaskier needled him at least weekly until Geralt gave in and pulled out the cards. Maybe he thought eventually Geralt would let him win. He would continue to be disappointed.

It was, admittedly, hard to concentrate on the game when the light of the fire backlit Jaskier just so, like the halo of some old god. His long fingers worried at the edges of the cards, a terrible tell he couldn’t seem to shake. He always played with the corners of particularly good ones in his hand. Geralt could almost use it to predict the end game totals by this point. Jaskier’s fingernails were a patchwork of color; he’d had them painted sometime while he was staying in Oxenfurt, and the dark burgundy was almost completely chipped away after a few weeks on the road. It was a miracle that the color clung on at all, or that Jaskier had allowed them to remain partially decorated when they lost their perfect shine. Maybe there was a poetic appeal. Something about one’s masks being slowly chipped away, or some such nonsense.

He won the first game. Jaskier begged for best three out of five, and Geralt won the next two games as well. Jaskier finally relented, and the smile on his face wasn’t that of a good natured loser accepting his lot. He said, “I suppose you win again, my dear,” and his eyes were warm as he looked at Geralt.

It was rare that Jaskier could be described as soft in any way. He was boisterous, and excitable, and generally prone to fits of dramatic romanticism or unbridled rage in equal measure. Sometimes he was melancholy, and other times—sometimes when he was very drunk, he was giddy, and he would rope Geralt into unwise activities like they were school children. He was almost never quiet. Even in moments of calm he would be busy moving, strumming his lute or scratching in the margins of his notebooks or singing a new line or two at the stars. But now he was sitting and looking at Geralt over a pile of cards, and he was still. Just looking, chin resting on one hand, as if Geralt’s face held the key to an interesting riddle he was trying hard to solve.

Geralt cleared his throat, feeling unmoored. “Time for bed. Early start tomorrow.”

Like that the spell was broken, and Jaskier rolled his eyes with a groan. “And for what reason? Roach, for one, would deserve the rest. We mustn’t always get up at the first light of dawn, witcher.”

“But we will,” Geralt said, feeling his lips twitch. He turned towards the stairs to hide it, hearing Jaskier’s uneven gait follow after him. He resisted the urge to turn around and offer his arm to assist, knowing that it would only annoy Jaskier and put them in close proximity. Something he was trying his best to avoid.

They parted ways at the doors to their rooms, set next to each other in the hall. They were almost identical, and Geralt wondered if at some point a wall had been constructed down the middle of a room to provide the inn with more to rent out. The result was two cramped spaces, with only enough room for a small bed pushed up against the wall and a trunk across from it. Geralt had deposited his things in the corner before heading back down in search of dinner earlier, and he now set about making sure that his equipment was taken care of. There was a spot on his armor that needed to be reinforced after a drowner had scratched it. The leather was still supple from regular oiling, but he would need a professional to look it over soon. Even so, he was capable of making his own minor repairs until then, backing the fragile spot with spare pieces that he kept for this purpose. The work was grounding in its familiarity. Once he was done he set about sharpening his swords as well. The silver would soon need a new coating; Geralt could see a few places where the darker iron core shone through, where he’d blocked the swipe of a griffin’s talon a month back. A problem for another town.

He could hear Jaskier in the room on the other side of the wall. It was thin enough that there may as well have been no barrier between them whatsoever. He could hear the bard humming to himself, the rustle of cloth as he tossed aside his clothes for the day. No, not tossed—Jaskier was meticulous about his clothes unless roaring drunk or in a haze of academic preoccupation, which tonight he was not. Geralt could almost picture the other man as he carefully folded his doublet over the back of a chair, set his undershirt to hang near the window where it would dry out after the sweat of the day. His pants would be pressed into a neat square and put into his bag alongside his other colorful finery. His hose would be draped near the doublet, his boots neatly set by the door. Dressed down to his braies, he would slip into bed.

The creek of the mattress came from closer to Geralt’s room than he might have expected. The beds must be pushed up against the same wall, mirroring each other.

Geralt slowly and methodically finished his tasks, sliding his swords back into their scabbards and putting them under the bed, within easy reach. With a flick of his wrist, he extinguished the lone candle in the room. He could hear from the noises filtering in from outside that Jaskier’s room had been the one graced with a window. No matter; he could see fine without the added help of the moonlight.

By the time he slipped into the small bed, Jaskier’s breaths had evened out in sleep. His heartbeat was loud through the wall, louder than it usually seemed in their small campsite, with the sounds of the forest drowning it out. The bed really was too small for two, Geralt thought, rolling over to stare at the wall. If they’d shared, they would have had to sleep practically on top of each other. Geralt would have had to wrap himself around Jaskier just to keep him in place. Put his hand over the bard’s heart and felt the rhythm drum out under his fingertips.

He turned around, pressing his back to the wall, listening to the sound of the bard on the other side. His chest ached. The bed felt huge and empty, big enough to swallow him whole. A ridiculous fucking notion. The thing was tiny.

But finally Jaskier was finished making his arrangements, and they were able to set out from Oxenfurt towards their first destination. It would take them several weeks to collect the components that Ida had mentioned—weeks that Geralt would have to spend dancing around the subject of the ritual and its origins, as well as his traitorous heart. As he caught Jaskier’s bright smile from up ahead as they crossed the Oxenfurt bridge, he hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

*

“So where, exactly, are these mysterious elven ruins?”

Geralt grunted, both in answer and in exertion as he swung his sword through another clump of heavy brush, clearing the path. Roach waited patiently behind him, and Jaskier less so. He turned to look back at them both, finding Jaskier giving him an unimpressed look. Geralt forced down the urge to grumble again. “They’re close,” he said, taking Roach’s reins to lead her through the cleared bushes. The path that they were following was barely a deer trail in places, clearly unused for decades. There had been no sign thus far that the area had once been populated aside from the occasional flash of white brickwork that told Geralt they were on the right track.

“Oh, really,” said Jaskier, who had likely not noticed the brickwork, based on Geralt’s past experience with his observation skills. “You know what I think, Geralt? I think we’re lost in the woods in the middle of nowhere, a day away from the nearest hamlet, and we’re just as likely to find a wyvern den as an elven temple out here.”

“Wyverns don’t populate the lowlands,” Geralt said automatically, kicking a large branch out of Roach’s path.

Jaskier made a strangled sound behind him that Geralt might call a growl if it had come from anyone else. “I know that, I was being hyperbolic, you ass. You’re avoiding the issue.”

“We’re on the right path.” Another glint of white stone caught his eye, this time the edge of an arch wrapped nearly over in vines and moss. Only fragments remained, large chunks blending in with the forest floor.

“As if you would admit it if you were lost,” Jaskier griped, shoving a branch out of his own way. “Remember that time near Spikeroog? We were lost in a boat for three days because you wouldn’t just admit that we went west for six hours—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and pushed aside the last of the foliage.

Jaskier fell silent, and they both looked beyond the treeline into the clearing Geralt had revealed. Before them rose a silent, crumbling stone structure, pale as a ghost against the dark lines of the trees in the afternoon light. Much of its surface had been reclaimed already by the forest, but enough of it poked through to give a general sense of scale. It towered at least two stories above them, though the edges were uneven in a way that suggested it once may have been higher. The front facade rose in a flat wall before them, pierced by a line of arches, their edges decorated in fading but intricate reliefs. Here and there along the line of what had once been the path leading to the central arch, the occasional protrusion of a column could be seen. The path beyond the central arch was shadowed, too dark for even Geralt to see past after so long in the daylight.

Jaskier stepped forward into the narrow clearing, and Geralt followed. Wordlessly, Jaskier raised a hand to trail along the remnants of a low, circular stone wall, perhaps the remnants of an ancient well. When he looked up at Geralt, his eyes shone, two pieces of midday sky in the murky shade of the forest. “I stand corrected,” he said, offering Geralt a giddy grin.

Geralt shook his head with a small smile, drawing Roach further into the clearing. “Let’s set up camp here. You can explore when we have someplace to sleep.”

Jaskier agreed eagerly and they both launched into the process of setting up camp. They fell easily back into old patterns, Jaskier slotting seamlessly into Geralt’s routine. It was always easier to set up and break down camp when the bard was around, though Geralt thought it had very little to do with splitting the work halfway.

Within half an hour they had created a comfortable camp in the clearing and Geralt had Roach tended to, and they both stood before the dark archway into the ruins.

Jaskier hesitated over the threshold, his excitement over the history of the place apparently conceding to nerves. “Well, ah. After you, witcher,” he said, holding out an arm as if holding an imaginary door for Geralt to walk through.

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped into the small hall beyond the archway, blinking a few times to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. “Come on, bard,” he called over his shoulder, amusement and affection swelling in his chest as he heard Jaskier mutter and quick footsteps follow after him.

The hall ended in a flight of stairs leading down, and they had to pause to light a torch when Jaskier ran directly into Geralt’s back and nearly knocked them both down it. A quick burst of igni had firelight dancing across the smooth white stones as they descended into the ruins.

Elves, Geralt had found, rarely built up. Though their cities had towered in ages past, their true magnificence had always lain below ground. The complex that they made their way down into was labyrinthian, huge open hallways with dozens of rooms and offshoots, archways that looked in on underground courtyards with pierced ceilings that let in the daylight, huge caverns expertly carved into cathedrals. Jaskier quickly brought out a bit of charcoal he often used for taking notes or sketching and began to mark their way with arrows pointing back the way they’d come, so they might not be hopelessly lost in the ruins. Geralt led them mostly by smell, at first; Triss had mentioned that any ritual chambers would likely be on the lower levels, as they were considered private and upper floors were generally public. He followed the cool, chalky scent of wet stone deeper into the ruins, down ramps and stairways until they were all but buried in the earth.

“I never knew the true breadth of them,” Jaskier breathed at one point, as they made their way down a winding spiral staircase that curved along what seemed like a natural cave shaft. “I’ve read, of course, about the scale of the old elven kingdoms, but it’s different to see it all. We’ve been walking for hours already and I feel as if there’s still miles to be seen.”

“Maybe not miles,” Geralt said, keeping one ear out for potential movement and one on Jaskier’s footsteps on the slick stone steps. “One’s I’ve been to before are usually somewhere around five and fifteen levels. We’re getting close to the bottom.”

Jaskier hummed in acknowledgment. “You could take an entire lifetime to study this place. Why hasn’t anyone surveyed it? How do you know the thing you're after for this ritual hasn’t already been taken?”

At that moment Geralt heard a gentle click, and he reached up just in time to pluck the arrow from the air as it hissed past his ear and towards Jaskier’s head. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Jaskier wide eyed behind him. Looking meaningfully down at Jaskier’s foot, he jerked his chin up.

Jaskier lifted up his foot, and the click of a pressure plate resetting filled the narrow space.

“That’s how,” Geralt said, tossing the arrow to the side.

“Of course,” Jaskier said weakly. “Of course the place is booby trapped.”

“And haunted probably,” Geralt agreed, continuing down the stairs. “Stay close. Wouldn’t want you to die before I can make you immortal.” The words were said as much in jest as he could make them, but he felt a brief strum of anxiety all the same.

Jaskier huffed in annoyance, but Geralt could feel him press even closer. He ignored the way that the air between them seemed to heat, the soothing warmth of Jaskier’s presence pressing back the dark more efficiently than any torch.

*

“Look,” Jaskier’s voice came from behind him. Geralt turned around to see Jaskier rubbing at a patch of the wall in the hall they were currently trekking through, the ancient slabs of stone crumbling a bit at his touch. “There’s writing here.”

Geralt stepped up next to him, feeling Jaskier’s warmth radiating along his side. Forcing himself to ignore the proximity, he leaned in to peer at the wall. “Elder, looks like. Can’t make it out.”

“It looks like one of the early northern dialects, closer to Laith aen Undod.” Jaskier scrambled in his small pack and pulled out his bit of charcoal and his notebook, handing the torch off to Geralt. Accepting the light, Geralt frowned at Jaskier as he made a few quick lines on the paper, referring back to the wall a few times. His tongue poked just barely out between his lips, as it always did when he was concentrating. After a moment he stood up straight, leaning towards the light to examine his own markings.

“Can you read that?” Geralt asked, genuinely surprised. He was fairly well versed in Elder, but his knowledge was more practical, learned from his interactions with the Scoia’tael and learning the Signs. The One Speech was well beyond his understanding, not to mention the various ancient dialects of Elder.

“Mm, I’m better at reading Elder than I am at speaking it, I’m afraid. Academic knowledge. Have to be able to translate the old poems and stories, after all.” He flashed Geralt a grin, the laugh lines deepening around his eyes. They sparkled in the light of the torch, turning the blue silver-gold. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat.

When Geralt didn’t respond quickly enough, Jaskier turned back to the notes he’d made on the paper. He muttered a few things to himself in Elder, the words sounding oddly musical—as if he’d learned to pronounce the language through song, which he probably had. Finally he scribbled a few notes in Common. “I think it’s a road sign, of sorts,” Jaskier said slowly. His tone took on the particular quality that Geralt had come to recognize as his “professor voice” over the years. He’d always found it rather amusing. “This complex must have been big enough to necessitate passage markers. See the sideways arrowhead under the top line? It says—well, I’m not sure, but I know the root has to do with the evening meal, so I’d guess it’s pointing to some kind of tavern or dining hall. And this one just says ‘sanctuary,’ I think. That’s a weird one, that symbol in more modern Elder just means ‘place’ but there’s a prefix here that adds a sort of defensive quality to it. Maybe ‘protected place’?” Jaskier frowned down at his own work. Already he had somehow managed to smudge charcoal across his cheek.

“Might be right,” Geralt grunted, impressed. “Triss said it would be in a safe place. ‘Ionad chosanta.’”

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully. “Could be as good a translation as any.”

“Better than wandering around,” Geralt shrugged, and turned towards the hall the arrow pointed towards. Before stepping into the darkness, he paused, looking back at Jaskier. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he reached up and rubbed away the charcoal on Jaskier’s cheekbone. The sweep of his thumb pushed back the soot and revealed the pale skin underneath, still so soft even after so many years spent traveling out in the elements. That skin care regiment Jaskier was always going on about must be worth something, he thought faintly.

Jaskier was silent, staring at him with an expression that reminded Geralt of a hare staring down the point of an arrow. Clearing his throat briefly, Geralt let his hand fall and said, “Thanks. For the… You did good.”

Even in the dim light, Geralt could see the flush that lit up Jaskier’s face at that, spilling prettily over his cheekbones. He gaped at Geralt for a moment before his mouth snapped closed with a near audible clack. Geralt expected a witty rejoinder of some kind, perhaps a jab at his historical inability to offer praise. He knew he deserved it, even if Jaskier meant it in anger rather than jest. Raising Ciri had taught him the value of voicing his appreciation and affection for others, even if he still struggled for the right words to do so. Yennefer had painstakingly beat it into his head. Ciri hadn’t known that he cared unless he said so, and so he had no other alternatives. Looking at Jaskier gaping at him, he wondered how many times Jaskier had assumed that Geralt cared little for him for lack of a kind word. His chest hurt at the thought.

After long enough that the silence had grown heavy and awkward, Jaskier coughed lightly, ducking to hide his expression. The ribbing Geralt had prepared himself for did not come. “Not a problem,” was all Jaskier said, brushing past him. “Let’s get a move on, yes? Don’t want the torch to run low.”

Geralt stared after him for a moment before shaking his head and following.

*

The shrine, when they found it, was hidden behind a thick patch of rubble that Geralt had to blast out of the way with a few precise applications of aard. He slipped inside first, sliding through the small opening in the stone and landing lightly on the other side. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, to his surprise, and he realized that there were several glowing crystals embedded in the walls around him at even intervals. There came the sound of cascading stones and a low curse from behind him, and he turned in time to catch Jaskier’s elbow before the bard fell flat on his face.

“Ah, thank you, dear witcher,” Jaskier huffed, reaching up to fruitlessly brush the dust from his jacket. Looking up, he halted in his motions, taking in the room around them in its soft, ethereal light. “Oh,” he breathed.

It was indeed beautiful, even in its decaying state. Like everything in the tunnels, the structures were unmistakably elven, but even so they appeared alien to Geralt’s eyes. The walls were covered in delicate mosaic work, in patterns that danced in the flickering light of their torch and that of the crystals. The center of the room was dominated by a blank circle of unmarked stone, with Elder runes engraved along the edge that Geralt could not even begin to decipher. The circle was framed by a delicate canopy of carved white stone, supported on four pillars of the same material. The carvings were so minute that for a moment Geralt thought the entire structure might be built not of stone, but of some sort of webbing or silk. It was delicate enough to be blown glass, but when he set his hand against one of the pillars it was as unforgiving as a mountainside.

Jaskier ran his fingers along one of the walls, tracing a twist in the tiny shards of colored glass. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice pitched low.

“Triss said these places were sacred to the Aes Sidhe. They mark where the elves first arrived,” Geralt said. He found his own gaze drawn back to the center of the unmarked circle beneath the canopy. “Here.”

Set into the very center of the stone circle was a small depression, no larger than Geralt’s palm. He stepped into the circle and knelt down, peering at it. Within the shallow bowl formed by the carved out floor sat an oval stone, maybe three inches long at its widest point. Drawing out his trophy knife, Geralt set the edge of it against the lip of the facet and twisted it. It popped out surprisingly easily, as if it was meant to be removed by design.

Jaskier hovered behind him as Geralt picked up the gaes carraigh. It was cool against his fingers, made of a translucent white stone that became more opaque at the edges. The center was nearly see-through, and when Geralt held it up the light played oddly in its depths. His medallion hummed faintly against his chest, warning him of the presence of magic. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, resting one of his hands on Geralt’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Think so,” Geralt replied, trying to ignore the weight of Jaskier pressed against him.

“What exactly does it do?” Jaskier reached out his free hand to press a finger against the center of the stone, curious as always. Geralt allowed it, and forced himself not to flinch when their fingers brushed incidentally. He could feel his ears warm regardless.

“It… binds the words of the ritual, or something. I didn’t ask.”

“Gaes carraigh… promise rock?” Jaskier tried, dropping to lean his full elbow on Geralt’s shoulder, casually slotting their forms together. His fingers barely brushed against Geralt’s collarbone, and he took a slow breath to maintain control over his heartbeat. Suddenly the proximity was overwhelming. Here they were, in a sacred space where possibly dozens of couples had made their vows to each other, fingers both lingering over the stone that would bind their oaths. In another life, perhaps they could have had something like this—Jaskier resplendent in the light of the blue crystals, eyes shining, looking at Geralt with adoration as they made their promises to each other. He would want to dress up, like he always did for a big event, but this time it would be only for himself and Geralt. Would he dress in blue? Or perhaps black, a witcher’s color, his pale skin like moonlight against the night sky. Would he wear a crown of periwinkle and sage, as was the northern custom? He would lean in close, like he was now, and murmur his vows to Geralt in words that flowed as smooth as a song.

He hadn’t known it was possible to want something so badly it was like a physical ache. Geralt was a witcher; he did not allow himself to think on things he couldn’t have. But here in this place, with Jaskier so close and yet so far away, the force of his desire felt oppressive. Jaskier didn’t know what any of this meant, and Geralt had no right to it, no right to want it. It was just a ritual. The context didn’t mean anything, because Jaskier would never feel that way about him.

After all, Geralt thought, looking down at the oathstone in his palm, who would want to marry a witcher?

Jaskier was still talking, and Geralt wrenched himself out of his thoughts when the arm on his shoulder pulled back and Jaskier patted the empty space once, as if in parting. “—probably get going, don’t you think? I do not relish the idea of being stuck here overnight. Not that I am not entirely confident in your abilities, darling, but I feel it’s best not to tempt fate when it comes to ghosts of ancient elven sages. Do you think they would count this as stealing? Probably. Anyways, I don’t want to find out what angry centuries old spirits do to trespassers.”

They walked the path as they had so many years ago, through the craggy valley of plenty to the base of the mountains. It was sunny, and the air tasted like summer had firmly arrived. The sky overhead was shockingly blue, an uncanny match to Jaskier’s eyes. The valley was rich with the scent of wildflowers, almost overpowering, and every patch of grass seemed to hold a shock of vibrant color.

It took them several hours to get to the spot, but Geralt knew instantly when they arrived, even without the gentle vibrations of his medallion. It looked exactly the same as before, as if even nature itself had refused to go to work against it. Jaskier spoke from behind him, leaning against one of the large stones. “This is it, right?” he asked, looking around. “I’m almost certain I remember you punching that faun just there.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “He had it coming.”

Jaskier grinned back at him, but then the smile dipped off of his face as he glanced around. “So, uh. How do we do this?”

Geralt shrugged off his pack, dropping it in the middle of the clearing. “It shouldn’t take much work,” he said, digging through it for the oathstone and the moonflax ribbons. Once he held each of the objects in his hands, he turned back to face Jaskier, and then stopped. Jaskier was looking at the objects with something like trepidation, and Geralt felt a swoop of anxiety in his gut. “It’s just a few words,” Geralt continued, hesitantly.

Jaskier wavered, shifting his weight back and forth on his heels. “Geralt, are you—are you sure about this? We still don’t know all that much about this ritual. What if it hurts you?”

It was a possibility. Ida had said that Jaskier wouldn’t be at risk, but he’d received no such assurances about his own safety. Geralt shrugged, and offered his hand to Jaskier, the pale oathstone resting in his palm. “It’s worth it,” he said simply.

Jaskier stared at him for another long moment, radiating hesitation. Finally, he stepped forward and took Geralt’s hand in his.

Letting out a barely audible sigh, Geralt pressed their palms more closely together, the oathstone warming to their touch. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said again, shaking out the ribbons so they lay flat. Gently, he draped them across their joined hands, the ends falling to brush the grass at their feet. This was what it would look like, he realized. It was like any old handfasting ceremony—all he had to do was say the words, and he and Jaskier would be bound together. The ribbons were soft against his skin, almost as soft as Jaskier’s sweaty palm in his. He paused, his free hand brushing across the fabric of the blue ribbon. All he had to do was wrap it gently around Jaskier’s exposed wrist, and then—

“Stop.”

Geralt paused, fingers twitching. He looked up from the ribbons to find Jaskier staring at them, his face tight and horrified. “What?” he asked, stomach dropping. Jaskier’s grip on his fingers would have been bruising to anyone but him.

“Geralt, we can’t… we can’t do this.” Jaskier stuttered, swallowing. His eyes finally lifted from the ribbons to find Geralt’s, and the pain and distress he saw there made his free hand itch for his sword.

“Why not?” he demanded, a little sharply. He was so close, and then he could live the rest of his long life with Jaskier at his side. Even if he wasn’t Geralt’s, it would be enough to have him live. He only had to finish the binding, and Geralt had half a mind to blurt out the words right then and see if they would stick. Jaskier didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve to be bound to someone like Geralt without asking for it, but Geralt could see the grey in Jaskier’s hair and the lines at the corners of his mouth as he frowned. This was his only chance, the only way he knew of to keep Jaskier from leaving him all too soon.

Jaskier winced at his tone, his free hand clenching at his side. “I—I wasn’t sure if you knew. But you mustn’t—Geralt, this isn’t just any spell. It’s a soul binding ritual.”

Geralt forced his breathing to remain regular, though his chest was tight with panic. “I know, Jaskier. My life force tied to yours, extending your life in the process. That’s the whole point.”

Jaskier bit his lip and took a deep breath. It shuddered a bit on the exhale. “Geralt,” he said, face scrunched up as if expecting a blow, “it’s a marriage ritual.”

Even though he’d been expecting it, Geralt couldn’t help the feeling of defeat—of grief—that swept through him. That was it then. Jaskier would not only refuse to complete the ritual and die, but he’d also probably never want to speak to Geralt again. He wouldn’t be there in the winters, singing by the fireside and telling Ciri stories and jokes to pass the time. He wouldn’t whisper terrible little things about other bards when he dragged Geralt along to those horrible competitions in Novigrad. He wouldn’t sit quietly on the other side of the fire and offer Geralt soft smiles in the evenings, as he wrote about their adventures. He would die, and Geralt would have to live on with a hole in his chest that would never heal. He’d thought it was painful, to not have Jaskier the way he desired, or to skirt the subject of losing him, but this. Just knowing that it was inevitable now, facing it head on, made his gut lurch sickeningly.

The soft fabric of the binding ribbon felt terribly fragile in his grip.

He was reaching out before he could stop himself, taking Jaskier’s shoulder with the hand not still holding the oathstone between them. He started talking without knowing what he was even going to say, only knowing that there was a small chance that he might be able to salvage this if he could just say the right words. “Please,” he said urgently. Jaskier looked taken aback by his sudden intensity, but he couldn’t stop. “Please, just—It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m sorry, I should have—I know, I should have told you, I’m sorry. But it doesn’t have to be that, it can mean whatever you want, or nothing. We can still—”

Jaskier interrupted him, eyes wide in shock. “You mean you knew?” He was so beautiful, Geralt thought despairingly; even now he wanted badly to reach his hand up and cup Jaskier’s jaw, to trace his thumb across the red blush spilling across his cheekbones. Jaskier gasped, surprise and confusion warring across his features. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think it mattered.” Geralt stammered through the lie, swallowing. “How did you know?”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed as he answered, his eyes roving over Geralt’s face as if looking for answers there. “It’s—There’s a poem. A piece I studied years ago, when I was learning to translate Elder at Oxenfurt. Something Silvandrel said reminded me of it. So the stars may hear your oath, was I think how he phrased it. The translation isn’t exact, the word at the end can mean oath or promise, but also has... romantic connotations. Usually we translate it as ‘adoration.’ But I wasn’t sure, until I saw the ribbons. It’s, I mean,” and here he flushed, his nervous rambling breaking off for a moment as he floundered, palm shifting in Geralt’s. “It’s all quite familiar, isn’t it? We’re only missing the floral crowns.”

Geralt pushed the words past the lump forming in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I should have told you, I just thought—” He stopped, at a loss for how to continue.

Jaskier brushed over the statement anyhow, looking away from Geralt and down at their still half-bound hands. He laughed, a brittle, bitter sound that set Geralt’s teeth on edge. “I’m just surprised that you knew,” he said, the shoulder under Geralt’s other hand shifting in a slight shrug. “I mean, I assumed that if you knew you would never…” He shook his head, looking back at Geralt with a tight expression. “Silly of me. I should have known it wouldn’t matter to you, after all. I know you would never honestly consider marrying me.”

They were standing so close, hands clasped tight together between them, barely a foot apart. Jaskier offered him a slight smile, as if trying to share a joke, but this close Geralt could see how twisted it was. Jaskier’s eyes were wet, and his expression was pinched, mouth tight as if he was in pain. And suddenly it was as if all of Geralt’s other concerns were smothered by the desperate imperative to wipe that look from Jaskier’s face. “Why not?” he asked again, defensive on Jaskier’s behalf, reckless in the face of the incomprehensible bereftness on the bard’s face.

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Geralt could hear how fast his heart was racing, and even if he couldn’t he would have been able to feel it under the hand that rested on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Well,” he stammered, clearly bewildered. “You wouldn’t—You’ve never, you’ve never wanted me. Like that. I know that, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Geralt took a half step closer, so that their joined hands were nearly pressed to his chest. This close, Jaskier had to look up at him, an ever so slight lift of his chin. Geralt took a breath, Jaskier’s fingers just brushing the thin fabric of his shirt. “I’ve always wanted you,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady. “I meant it. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“But not like that,” Jaskier argued, flustered, his free hand coming up to gesture between them. He looked near tears. “You don’t want me like that. You never have.”

“I’ll take you any way you’ll have me,” Geralt said honestly. A part of him was still crying out that this was a mistake, that he was showing his hand, that Jaskier would run when he knew the full extent of Geralt’s feelings. But Jaskier had to know that he cared. Geralt had let him carry on in doubt for so long, thinking he wasn’t loved, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Jaskier was still, staring at him. His mask was gone. Geralt could see surprise and confusion in his face, and fear too. But there was also something that made his own heart race in his chest, made a warm burst of hope crackle through Geralt’s ribcage, dangerous and heady. “You were going to marry me,” Jaskier said, voice cracking on the word marry.

“I still want to,” Geralt said softly, and summoned the courage to raise his hand up to cradle the side of Jaskier’s neck. His skin was warm, sunkissed and flushed prettily. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, if you don’t want it to.”

“What if I do want it to?” Jaskier demanded. His voice was hard, but his eyes were still damp.

“Whatever you want,” Geralt agreed. “Anything.”

Jaskier paused, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. Geralt’s eyes lowered to follow the motion compulsively, and when he glanced back up he found Jaskier looking down at his own lips. They were so close now, their still-bound hands held between their chests, sharing air. “Geralt,” Jaskier rasped, “I can’t do this unless we’re on the same page. If this isn’t going to mean… if it’s not going to be real, then I—”

“I’m in love with you,” Geralt said in a rush, and could have collapsed with the relief of it. He couldn’t help the small smile that stole across his face, even as his knees went weak at the admission. This could all go so badly, if he was reading this wrong. Even still, he felt lighter, as if speaking the words had allowed the feelings to seep past the barriers he’d built up around them.

Jaskier gasped, as if Geralt’s words had physically struck him. For a moment he just gaped, mouth opening and closing. Finally he put his free hand to his chest, pointing to himself emphatically. “With me?”

How was it possible to feel this fond of someone? It should have swallowed him whole, drowning him in a sea of affection. “For a while now, yes,” Geralt replied. “I understand if you don’t—”

Jaskier reached a hand out to grab the front of his shirt, and Geralt had time for one moment of crystalline shock before Jaskier’s mouth met his.

It was not hesitant, or gentle. Jaskier kissed him like he was trying to work himself so deep into Geralt’s mouth that he would never be able to pick all the pieces of him from his teeth. Geralt inhaled sharply at the warm touch of lips to his, and Jaskier wasted no time licking into his mouth. The hand in his shirt clenched tightly, keeping them pressed together with their bound hands awkwardly held between them.

Recovering from his shock, Geralt lifted his hand from Jaskier’s neck and finally held his cheek in his hand, like he’d been aching to the entire time. A slight tilt to Jaskier’s head changed the angle, and it was suddenly good, so good he could feel it in his toes. Jaskier made a wounded noise that Geralt eagerly swallowed. He flicked his tongue along the back of Jaskier’s teeth, and had to quickly take the bard’s weight as his knees buckled.

He lowered them to the grass carefully, separating to pant into the space between them. Jaskier laughed breathlessly as he half fell to his knees, a giddy sound that had Geralt grinning back at him. Geralt couldn’t help but lean forward and press another kiss to Jaskier’s lips, and then another, hot and sweet. Jaskier freed his fingers from where they’d been crushing Geralt’s shirt so that he could wrap his arm around the back of Geralt’s neck, pulling him in close. “You love me,” he laughed, and his eyes were so bright, Geralt could hardly breathe with it.

“I do,” he said, pressing yet another kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “You seem amenable to that.”

Jaskier made a noise that seemed caught halfway between a laugh and sob. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he confessed, voice thick. The words landed softly between them. “Since before the dragon hunt. I didn’t think you would ever—” He cut himself off, turning to bury his face in Geralt’s palm.

“Me either,” Geralt admitted, smoothing his thumb under Jaskier’s eye and catching the faint moisture there. “I mean, I didn’t think you would… want me. Like that.”

“I think I’ve been half in love with you since the beginning,” Jaskier said, chuckling wetly. “Gods, we’ve been a couple of fools, haven’t we? We wasted so much time.”

“I enjoyed it,” Geralt disagreed, a warm tingle spreading through him as Jaskier tightened his arm around his neck. “And we can still… If you still want to go through with it, we could have as much time as we want.”

Jaskier smiled, his heart beating wildly under Geralt’s palm. “So wanting to extend my lifespan wasn’t just about Ciri, then.”

Geralt huffed, ears tingling with embarrassment. “I told you that already,” he said. “I wasn’t lying about Ciri, but I didn’t start looking into the ritual because of her. I just…” And here he stopped, momentarily lost for words. Instead he pressed his lips to Jaskier’s again, before muttering, “I truly couldn’t bear the thought of living without you.”

Jaskier made a soft sound, a gentle oh of an exhale, and Geralt felt it against his lips. “Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier breathed, “you are quite the romantic.”

“Maybe,” he allowed, leaning in again. “Marry me,” he whispered, and what he meant was, Stay with me.

Jaskier surged forward to kiss him again, hard. Geralt had already lost count of how many kisses they’d exchanged in the last few minutes, but he was less and less eager to end them each time. Jaskier pulled away for just long enough to breathe a joyful, “Yes,” against Geralt’s lips. And after that they didn’t come up for air for a long, long time.

*

By the time they had gathered themselves again, the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, the promise of night drawing near. The ribbons had become untangled from their hands in their eagerness, the oathstone cast carelessly aside. Sheepishly, they gathered up the materials for the ritual once again, kneeling before each other in the clearing.

It was amazing, Geralt thought, that he had ever managed to keep this a secret, had ever managed to restrain himself from reaching out and taking when Jaskier was before him. The low evening sun lit his hair in fiery shades of amber and gold, disheveled from where Geralt had run his hands through it. There was a dark red mark blooming on the pale skin of his throat, and Geralt wanted to fit his mouth over it again and see if he could match his teeth to the barely-there indents still visible. He had to stop himself from leaning forward again to catch Jaskier’s mouth when their eyes met; if they didn’t do this now they would be here all night.

It was surreal, knowing that this was how it would happen, that it finally was happening. Jaskier was smiling at him, the joy radiating from him echoing the feeling in Geralt’s chest. The earthy smell of the grass that they’d crushed under them filled the air, blanketing the sweet honey scent of the wildflowers. If they’d had time, if they’d been anything like other couples, they might have made crowns of those flowers to rest on each other’s heads. But Geralt didn’t want to wait, and he sensed Jaskier’s own impatience in the way he shifted forward, trousers stained green where his knees had been pressed into the dirt for too long.

It was time.

“Will you say it?” Geralt asked, breathless, anticipation bleeding into terror into longing. Jaskier’s eyebrows came together just slightly, and Geralt could see the question in the slight parting of his mouth, the forward twitch of his chin. So clear to him, after all these years, because this was Jaskier. Jaskier who he loved. “The poem,” he clarified.

Jaskier breathed in slightly, knelt before him in the grass. In the place where their lives had first been twined inexorably together, by choice rather than fate. Jaskier’s voice was as soft, but it rang through the clearing nonetheless, refracting off of the stones. “I will make my vows to thee,” he began, offering out his palm, “where ancient stone hears my voice.” Geralt pressed his own hand down to meet Jaskier’s, the smooth surface of the oathstone held safely in the cage of their fingers. “And the earth will know of my devotion.” The stone was warm against Geralt’s palm, and he didn’t know if it was from some magic or just the warmth of their joined hands. He didn’t think there was really a difference.

Reaching beside him with his free hand, he pulled the ribbon—blue, white, and gold braided carefully together—from his pocket. The white seemed to glow in the twilight, stark against their skin. “I will bind myself to thee in silver strands of moonlight,” Jaskier continued, and Geralt began to twist the ribbon around his own forearm, down and around their hands, back up around Jaskier’s wrist. Once done, he tied the ends together over the top, the knot resting in the hollow between their thumbs. “And the stars will know my adoration,” Jaskier breathed. Geralt looked up to find Jaskier watching him, eyes over bright. Geralt reached out, his hand curving around the back of Jaskier’s neck, thumb resting just under his jaw. He pulled them together, until Jaskier’s forehead rest against his own.

“In a court of our own making, I will make our halves whole,” Jaskier said, his breath ghosting against Geralt’s lips like a promise. “My hand to your hand, my heart to yours.”

“Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme,” Geralt murmured, and then closed the distance one last time.

~

Last chapter before the epilogue! Truly amazing that this thing is almost done. I know for yall it’s been little over a week, but this has been a big project for me for the better part of a year, so it’s a little bittersweet to be wrapping it up! I’m very happy with how it all turned out, and I’m so grateful to everyone for your wonderful feedback. This chapter’s art is by @silvertonguelover​ and I couldn’t think of a better way to finish off the main story. Thank you!