During his early travels, right after leaving Lettenhove and before meeting Geralt. Jaskier met a witch and had a small fling.
But Jaskier, still too young to understand the weight of his own charm, could not love her in the fullness she sought. And so, wounded in ways that love alone can wound, she answered him not with fury, but with sorrow shaped into magic. She broke his heart—not in a single blow, but into countless luminous fragments—and scattered them across the wide, indifferent world.
Bereft of it, he did not merely lose love. He lost memory. He lost feeling itself, as though the very language of emotion had been gently erased from his soul.
And so began his strange pilgrimage: a troubadour without a heart, yet still compelled to wander, gathering the scattered pieces of himself as he travelled beside Geralt of Rivia, though he did not yet understand the companionship he walked within.
With each fragment reclaimed, something faint and fragile stirred within him—an echo of what once was, or perhaps what might yet become. And as the world slowly stitched him back together, a quiet, trembling question began to take shape in the hollow places inside him:
If he were ever made whole again… would he finally be able to love Geralt as something more than song and silence between them?
