#underwaterattribute

Geralt’s fingers caught on a small wooden trinket that rested atop the bedside table he used to store his belongings while resting in Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had called the phenomenon Witcher-hibernating and perhaps he was not far off, except there was always work to do even in the winter. The work just wasn’t hunting to empty the coin purses of men.

The trinket beneath his fingers was a wolf carved carefully by a young girl from a small village whose name Geralt could not remember. It had been quite a few years ago when Jaskier had commissioned the girl to craft the souvenir. The village did not see much coin pass through and had barely been able to scrape together payment for Geralt’s services. Geralt had assumed Jaskier was doing the young girl a kindness, paying her several marks for the small trinket.

Then Jaskier had tuned and immediately placed the knickknack in Geralt’s palm. The bard had smiled secretly, turning that smile into something far more flashing and affectionate as he spoke to the girl and left Geralt to hold his purchase. Jaskier had often passed off his baubles and purchases for Geralt to hold, so Geralt had merely carried the purchase until later that evening. It had been a surprise, then, how Jaskier had merely frowned at the wood piece instead of taking his purchase back.

“It’s yours.” Jaskier had said simply before turning away and resuming preparation for his performance. Geralt had been left sitting there to stare at the wolf’s wooden gaze in the dim light of their rented room.

Huffing a breath, Geralt felt the weight of his words from the mountain press upon him again. It was a loathsome burden to bear and yet Jaskier’s fallen expression was as much a ghost as Renfri’s dying breath had been. Not a lifeless body in his arms but a heartbroken within his blood-coated hands that he had carried with him since.

And Geralt was not fool enough to have not seen it, the wandering gaze and the small smiles reserved for him. There had been some sort of infatuation that Jaskier had held for him in the beginning, but slowly that had become something almost fond. Geralt had felt something bubble beneath his skin at Jaskier’s attention. As if Jaskier had looked to him and not seen a Witcher or a Butcher, but… Geralt. And Geralt was all of those things and none of those things all at once beneath Jaskier’s gaze.

His chest felt collapsed beneath an invisible weight as his mind swam toward thoughts of the bard. Ribs puncturing vital organs as if he had taken a beating. Geralt sat on the side of his bed, the weight of the wooden wolf just as heavy as the one on his chest. Turning it over in his hands, Geralt could recall not even remembering this was still in his possession when he had made it to Kaer Morhen that winter. It had been a surprise amongst his belongings and he had carelessly thrown it into the bedside drawer for lack of anything else to do with it.

Geralt, however, could not recall how the wolf found its way from the bottom of the drawer to the top of the table between that winter and this winter. He knew it had not found its place there that first winter surely, but it had been there this last winter past. How long had it been there? Unassuming and yet just as much a part of Geralt’s belongings as the armor adorning his form?

It brought Geralt’s thoughts to the ruined tunic that had been used as a rag rather than a fancy dress for the past four years. It had been muddied and torn on a particularly vicious kikimore hunt and Jaskier had given it up without further preamble. An oil rag for cleaning, he had muttered, if one could use something so filthy for cleaning.

With a furrow of his brow, Geralt turned to his swords. Atop of the hilt of his steel blade was Renfri’s brooch. He could still remember the weight of her body against the blade - steel for men. Steel against this stolen princess of a dark moon. Her life flickering behind her eyes before extinguishing forever.

Geralt did not carry many things with him, such was the nomadic life of a Witcher; however, he would always carry Renfri and her death with him. There would be no forgiveness from her, only penance. It seemed that this wolf would be as Renfri’s brooch - a reminder. A sentence from which he could not be pardoned.

Geralt turned back to the wolf in his hand. And yet, there was still time to be had with Jaskier, was there not? Jaskier was not as long gone as Renfri, not yet. At least, Geralt was certain that if the Master Dandelion had passed, the entire civilized Continent would know about it. Geralt would know about it.

If he found the bard again, if the bard would forgive him his transgressions from atop the Mountain, if he could find a time where Jaskier was in arms’ reach - endless ifs, Geralt thought in that moment. If he had ever found him, Geralt would not take the opportunity lightly. It was a silent vow, but these were the vows most familiar to Geralt.

Placing the wolf within his pack, determination poured his veins as good as any potion. Geralt inhaled sharply, resolving to put things right. Perhaps Jaskier would rebuke the apology, but that was not the point. The point was the attempt. It was the intention. Geralt could recall Jaskier saying such things about a romantic play almost a decade ago. A lifetime ago.

A gentle smile tugged at his lips at the memory. Geralt slung his packs over his shoulders, moving to meet Yennefer and Ciri down in the kitchens of the keep for one last meal before send-off. His Path would be clear this year. And to whatever power was listening, if Destiny had any say in it, Geralt hoped he would meet his bard again sooner rather than later.