Imagine if Jaskier got sick and didnât tell anyone.
It sounds rather bad, when put like that though. Makes the bard sound like a fool who canât take care of himself. In some respects, that might be true, heâs man enough to admit that. He canât swing a sword around like Geralt, will never be able to defend himself from monsters of any sort like the witcher can. But thatâs not the reason he doesnât say anything.
The reason he doesnât say anything is that twenty-two years ago, when Jaskier had first started following Geralt around, the witcher had sat across from him with one squirrel on a wooden stick and watched as Jaskier played his lute to distract himself from his hunger. There were few animals to hunt, and the witcher was willing to share his food if there was enough, but Jaskier was a stranger. He had no money to buy the food with, and itâs not like he would die if he skipped a meal. It made sense to the bard, that the witcher was putting himself first.
Years passed, and Geralt started to share his food, even when there wasnât much to be had, and Jaskier felt equal parts guilty and happy. Guilty because he didnât want the witcher to go hungry, but happy because, well, this meant the witcher cared for him. Right? Jaskier had bought Geralt hundreds of baths, hundreds of rooms at inns, and surely this was the witcherâs way of saying yes, Iâm putting your needs first too. It must be, the witcher had toâ
Jaskier had stared through the window at the witch and the witcher and known. Known in the way a blind man is sure the sun is there even if he canât see it, that this would change things. The witcher would always be put first in the bardâs life, but nowânow he stood no chance.
For what is a bard compared to a witch?
And it wasâŚfine. I wasnât ideal, but it was fine. Heâd never been somebodyâs first, never been the person someone would choose to spend time with over everyone else. Even his parents didnât think he was good enough, he saw it in the way his father looked at him every day, how his mother had child after child, girl after girl, hoping, hoping, hopingâ
So it was fine. He was used to it. Really.
(And if, one night, he bought a womanâs time while Geralt and the witch were on one of theirâŚtrysts, and spent the night drinking with her, it wasn't a big deal. Heâs allowed to complain about the witch, especially because she always leaves Geralt all grumpy the next day, which then the bard has to deal with, which was so not fair.
The girlâwoman, perhaps, but barelyâhad a knowing look in her eyes as she spoke of her three younger siblings. As she told him about how her mother sat her down each time and said that she would not love her any less when the new one came, that there was enough love in her heart for all of her children. Which was a nice sentiment, truly, but what good was that capacity for love in the face of limited commodities such as time, money, and food?
And Jaskier wasnât a fool, he knows how women come to work at these establishments. So he sat and he listened and he made sure her glass was never empty. He even left her a tip in the morning before he walked out the door.
He may not have felt any pleasure in her company, but his pain was halved, and that was worth far more than 50 crowns.)
And then the witcher, son of a half-troll, rat-eating, munge bucket that he was, managed to relieve himself of both witch and bard within one handspan. Itâs rather remarkable, really, and Jaskier would be more impressed if he didnât find it bitterly ironic that the witch had taken the witcher away from him again, and didn't even realize it. Not that itâs her fault, really. He knew this, just as he knew then that the witcher will never be able to care about Jaskier like Jaskier cares about him. That while Jaskier has no one else, really, for as often as the witcher claims he is alone, he is surrounded by those who care for him and for whom he cares for in return.
So when he wakes up one morning in late autumn, chest tighter than usual and with a pounding headache, he says nothing. Not when Ciri wakes up whining with a runny nose, and Yennefer and Geralt instantly set to fussing over her. Not when they place the girl on Roach and set a brutal pace to the nearest town, insistent on spending nearly all of their coin on medicine for her. And certainly not when she is given the extra blanket that night, shivering with a mild fever despite being surrounded by the warmth of Yennefer and Geralt.
(Jaskier has long learned to stuff his shirt sleeve in his mouth, to dull the sound of clacking teeth. Has moved away all the dead leaves from underneath him, claiming theyâre uncomfortable, disguising the fact that their insistent crunching would give away his shivers despite the harsh whistle of the autumn wind.
He thinks of the girl forced woman he met so many years ago now, wonders if sheâs still alive. He thinks about his parents, and all his little sisters, and wonders too if he has a little brother now as well. He thinks of all the times he was told that he was too loud, too annoying, too talkative, too much.
How strange it is, to be too much and yet never enough.)
He wakes the next morning to frost and breaths that come a little harder. He knows they need to be quick, now. That with Yennefer unable to make a portal due to the risk of it being tracked, they have less than a week to make it to the Killer before the path is frozen over for the winter. And they need to make it to the keep, they canât afford to leave Ciri unable to move freely due to winter storms, so Jaskier swallows down the harsh cough climbing up his throat.
He puts one foot in front of the other, hides his face and hands in his warm winter gear to hide both his pale visage and the scent of sickness he knows he gives off, only masked to the witcher by Ciriâs own illness. It is an old trick, one he picked up on when he realized the smell of his harsher perfumes could hide the scent of the bloody blisters on his feet. For as good as Geraltâs nose is, the wind blowing this way and that makes it difficult to tell exactly where the stench of sickness is coming from, aided by the fact that the witcher assumes it is from Ciri
He can tell it confuses the witcher when, four days later, Ciri claims she is feeling much better. It should worry him more, the way the witcherâs nostrils flare as he tilts his head, listening to Ciriâs clear breathing and staring into her alert eyes. It would, truly, but everything has been a littleâŚhazy, since he woke up this morning. He thinks it was this morning, at least. Or maybe it was yesterday, that he woke up feeling like he was drowning on dry ground. No, no, no, yesterday was when he felt like heâd swallowed shards of glass, right?
It hurts to think, though, so Jaskier stops, content to watch the man in front of him frown. It should look fearsome, but it just makes him look so put out, all pouty and sad. Jaskier wonders at how that makes his stomach feel funny, and then wonders if this is perhaps just a new little thing, like the wheezing and the coughing and the lightheadedness. Itâs like a little party, all these lovely hurts cropping up one after the other, like buttercups in the spring.
Oh, how he misses the spring. The white is so lovely, truly, butâ
Jaskier blinks, vision filled suddenly with gold. It reminds him of the sun, and oh, how he misses the sun! Itâs been so long since the sun said goodbye, surely this is it coming back! And itâs got a friend now, so he will be double as warm as he was before, with both suns warming him up.
Jaskier closes his eyes before the heat starts, letting himself sink into the darkness at the thought of basking in the warmth of those suns.
