Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dammit, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it is you, shoveling it!”

The words reverberated around Jaskier’s head, not really hitting their mark just yet. His tongue acted of its own accord when he said: “Well, that’s not fair…” It’s not like it was all his fault, right? Right? He had to admit he had caused Geralt a fair amount of problems in the past, but they always got out of it one way or another. And the Witcher always seemed to attract quite some problems himself, anyway. As for a recent example: Yennefer of Vengerberg. That purple-eyed cretin had stolen her way into Geralt’s heart, and then broken it on her way out. ‘Good riddance,’ he thought to himself. Now, if only Geralt would calm down, they could be on their way again, the White Wolf and his bard, triumphant once again. Right?

“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it!” In all the time they had spent together, Jaskier had never heard the other shout like that, much less at him. Geralt trembled with suppressed rage, pointing a finger at him accusingly, voice dangerously low. Like a wolf snarling.

“If life would give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.” And with that he turned around, pacing to the cliff’s edge and standing there, shoulders set with anger.

The Witcher’s words had hurt Jaskier, more than he liked to admit. It’s not as if he had never been yelled at before, but not like this. Not by Geralt. Sure, a few snapped words had been sent in his direction once or twice or a dozen times, and his presence had been complained about constantly. But… he hadn’t really meant it all those times, had he? It was all a façade to hide the feelings everyone claimed Witchers didn’t have, wasn’t it? All those times Geralt had said that they weren’t friends, that he didn’t care about him, had he been speaking the truth all along?

For once, Jaskier was speechless. He stood there, waiting, for what felt like an eternity, ignoring the cracks that started to form in his weak, glass heart. Waiting for Geralt to say something, anything.

Another eternity passed, a lifetime in a few seconds, and a lie rolled off his tongue like a tear. “Right, uh… Right. I’ll…” cry “I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He hesitated. After all those years, after all they had been through, he couldn’t just leave like this.

“See you around, Geralt.” He waited, once more, centuries squeezed into a fleeting moment, words unsaid hanging between them. And still, the Witcher didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t pretend to care. ‘He’s done pretending,’ Jaskier thought to himself. So he turned around, and walked away.

He didn’t look back. Not this time around.

҉    ҉    ҉

Darkness had started to fall when he truly realized that Geralt wasn’t going to come after him. For hours Jaskier had walked down the mountain road, his own heavy footfalls and the mountain beneath him his only company, waiting for any sign, any sound that indicated he wouldn’t have to suffer being alone anymore. He cursed himself for getting his hopes up, hell, for even approaching the Witcher all those years ago in the tavern. What had he been thinking? Sure, let’s follow the big monster hunter around for some twenty-odd years, one notorious for not feeling, and the other for falling head over heels in love with someone at every turn. Perfect match. He scowled at himself, unable to stop his thoughts from running in circles, searing regret and embarrassment into his brain.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he felt grass beneath his boots. He realized that, in his endless pondering, he had missed a fork in the road, and had walked in between the two paths. He looked to his left, and then to his right, trying to decide which way to go. Twilight had long set, though, and soon it would be completely dark. He couldn’t identify anything that seemed familiar enough for him, so he fished a coin from his pocket. Heads for left, tails for right. He tossed it up, barely able to see it as he caught it from its descent to the ground. Toss a coin to your - no. Tails.

He started down the path to his right, only stopping after half a mile as he couldn’t see anything anymore. The night was moonless, and clouds shrouded those below from the starlight as he laid down his bedroll a few feet from the path - at least that’s what he hoped he was doing.

As Jaskier laid down, fear started to coil in his stomach. The mountain was overrun with all kinds of monsters, that much he knew. How to defeat them, on the other hand, he did not. Nor could he defend himself from bandits, or anything, really. He had always had Geralt to protect him. He had assumed he always would. No use thinking about it now.

Yet he couldn’t stop himself from tossing and turning, jumping at every sound, no matter how small. He had never truly realized how safe he had always felt, even in the most treacherous of places, with the Witcher by his side. Deep down he had always known this, had always felt the same fear every time their paths separated, but less, somehow. He felt sadness seep into his bones, as he realized that this time was worse because he wouldn’t be able to return to Geralt. Not anymore. The Witcher had made that much clear.

҉    ҉    ҉

He awoke with a start as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon. He searched around for any signs of his travelling companion, wondering where he’d gone off to, when the realization struck him like a sack of bricks. No travelling companion anymore. He sighed, busying himself with gathering his things and setting off on the road again, chewing on some stale bread.

He continued on for three more days. The winding mountain path reached a valley, running through the lush grass, crossing a clear, cool stream once every while, lending fresh and clean water for all those who passed by. The beauty did not faze Jaskier as it usually did, though; too stuck in his own mind to notice the way the sun and the warm breeze made the sea of grass dance around him, or the way bees buzzed around big, blooming flowers spreading a faint scent, a promise of better times ahead.

The beauty of it all would’ve brought him to sing on any other day, but at that moment he found himself devoid of any desire for music. He did try, a few times, hoping that composing a new ballad for the riches of nature would lighten his mood and inspire him to move on. Yet every time he pulled his lute off his back, and started strumming a few chords, trying to find the right melody, the right words, his mind would only go in one direction. Oh, valley of plenty. He would sigh, put the instrument back, and keep walking, blocking his mind from the outside world once again. The cracks in his glass heart deepened.

҉    ҉    ҉

The fourth day since the mountaintop, Jaskier reached the little village they had last passed on their way up. He longed for at least one good night at the inn. A warm bath, a proper meal, and a soft bed would do him good, and perhaps he could save up some coin by singing there a night or two, if he could muster up his joy for music again, that was. His gaze landed on some violets that were growing next to the door, and purple eyes flashed across his mind, darkening his mood and dwindling what little hope he had gathered back into ashes.

He couldn’t help himself but blame the witch for all that had happened. She had broken Geralt’s heart, making him take out his anger on the only other person available - Jaskier. At least that’s what he hoped had happened. After all, it could just be that he had grown tired of the bard’s constant talking and continuing presence. Maybe he just wanted to get rid of him once and for all. Jaskier furrowed his brow, shadows passing over his mind again and again, leaving only darkness in their wake.

He sighed once again, and resumed his trek down the road again, determined to leave everything far, far behind him.

Chapter Text

He headed to the coast, Geralt be damned, he wanted his vacation. He spent a month in Oxenfurt, where he had studied Literature several years earlier. He caught up with old friends - most of whom were married at that point -, dedicated time to writing new songs, and wasted the remaining hours staring out over the sea, thinking. Reminiscing about what had happened, what was, and what could have been. As he tried to discern where the water ended and where the sky started, he often found himself looking to his left, about to tell Geralt about a particularly interesting thought he just had, or to point out one of the brightly coloured boats he had always adored. Of course, he wasn’t there, yet Jaskier could never stop the disappointment bringing dark clouds over his otherwise sunny day.

 ҉    ҉    ҉

“Oy, bard, sing us another one!” Shouts of agreement filled the air, beer spilling on the floor of the tavern as several patrons raised their pints. The mood was cheery, but everyone was clearly very intoxicated, and Jaskier knew that a refusal from his part could quickly change that. Unfortunately, he had no more songs to sing. He had started early in the evening, soon running out of old songs and having to pick some from his new repertoire that he hadn’t gotten the chance to properly try out yet. He had already sung Toss A Coin three times, each song bringing new bouts of shouts for more, more, more.

There was one song he could sing, though. But the thought of actually performing it, out loud, in front of an audience scared the life out of him. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place. Either he didn’t sing it, and the men would quickly turn angry, would maybe even rob him of his two purses full of hard-earned coin. Or he did, and he would risk the song spreading around, gaining popularity, and revealing his heartbreak to all those who would listen. Neither seemed like a very desirable option, but as the cheers started turning into jeers at his hesitation, he felt forced to choose.

“Alright, alright, but after this one I’m going home!” He half-shouted, failing to keep the bite out of his voice. The tavern shushed, as he strummed the first chord on his trusty lute. Oh, he was going to regret this.

“The fairer sex, they often called it, but her love’s as unfair as a crook.” He had written it a few weeks after their separation, when he had rekindled his love for music again.

“It steals all my reason, commits every treason of logic, with naught but a look.” He had poured all his emotions in it, just to hopefully get rid of them. He couldn’t live with that constant ball of grief, anger, anxiety, and a hundred different negative emotions anymore. They had been weighing down on his chest far too long.

“A storm breaking on the horizon, of longing and heartache and lust.” So he had done what he always did best: he had poured them out into a song, like liquid metal being poured into a razor-sharp sword. Cooled off but still oh so able to cut deeply when handled incorrectly.

“She’s always bad news, it’s always lose, lose.” Somewhere, deep down, he knew it hadn’t been the Witch’s fault. She hadn’t directed Geralt’s anger at him, the Witcher had chosen to do so all by himself. And yet. He still felt resentful whenever he thought of her, tasted the bitterness on his tongue whenever he saw purple and black.

“So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?” He felt a small wave of relief drip over him, down his spine. If they didn’t think too far - and they probably wouldn’t - the drunken crowd could just write this off as Jaskier having a crush on the Witch. As if. Still, this could go better than he had previously thought.

“But the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss.” He felt the familiar pain tug at his chest again. He didn’t like thinking about what had happened. They wouldn’t have met the Witch, had Jaskier not been so careless with magic. Geralt wouldn’t have been so angry that day if she hadn’t left him, once again because of the whole djinn situation - which Jaskier had caused. So really, he only had himself to blame for his own heartache.

“But the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.” Or maybe Geralt had been waiting for an opportunity to tell the bard to fuck off. Who knew? It really wasn’t as if the Butcher of Blaviken had ever spoken his mind - until that moment. Jaskier could feel anger seeping into his bloodstream. Stupid, stubborn Witcher.

“Her current is pulling you closer, and charging the hot, humid night.” His fingers were pulling the strings of his lute a little too tight, his voice a little too loud. Heat rose up to his cheeks, alcohol from a few beers he had drunk earlier amplifying every emotion tenfold. It was too hot in the tavern, the sweaty bodies packed together made the air humid and sticky.

“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool, better stay out of sight.” His voice skipped a bit at fool. For so long, he had felt like the idiot, following a Witcher around like a lost puppy. Getting his hopes up about having a chance with someone notorious for not feeling, just because the other  simply hadn’t left him behind. Yet, at this moment, in the tavern, heat rising to his head, he felt - knew the fool was Geralt. He had fallen for the Witch’s charms, had let himself be led by her scent and her sweet, poisonous words. He had taken out the anger caused by his own mistakes out on the only person who really, truly cared in that moment. And yet…

“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.” This time Jaskier’s voice unmistakably wavered, betraying his turmoil and his grief. Maybe Geralt had been a fool, but Jaskier was still the weak one. He always had been, both physically and, from the moment he had met the Witcher, emotionally. He had put a knife to his own chest, and had revealed the glass heart that was inside. So easy to see through, but oh so easy to break as well.

“If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence.” It had felt like a life sentence, being rejected by the Witcher. Yet, he had accepted it, the anger he had seen in his eyes a White Wolf that had compelled him to run, so very far.

“Give to you my penance, garrotter, jury and judge.” Geralt. Garrotter. Using his rage to choke all trust and fearlessness from his eyes, from his life. Leaving him a broken mess.

Tears pricked behind his eyes, threatening to spill over and show the truth behind his many masks. Jaskier found it increasingly harder to sing and rushed the final few lines. It didn’t matter to him anymore, nothing did; they could keep their coins, their encouragement, their cheers. All he wanted was to rid himself of the pain coursing through him, numbing his limbs and making the cracks in his glass heart deepen ever more.

Finally, the song was done, and he stumbled outside as fast as he could, ignoring the shouts of disappointment coming from the crowd. He staggered along the dimly lit cobblestones of Oxenfurt as he tried to find the inn he’d been staying at for the past month through a haze of tears. When he thought he couldn’t hold on any longer, he managed to find it, luckily, and he tripped his way up the stairs to his room. The bed groaned under his weight as he let himself fall on top of it, tears now freely flowing from his eyes.

It was then that he realized. The past month and a half since the mountaintop, he had found himself in the eye of his mind’s hurricane, a false sense of peace lulling him to sleep while emotions swirled around him, threatening to sweep him off his feet the second he made a wrong move. Singing Her Sweet Kiss had been a step to the side, and he had been lifted up in the air. He was not going to like it when the winds would finally still and let him fall back to the ground.

Chapter Text

After crying himself to sleep that night, Jaskier’s mind did indeed crash. He spent a week in bed; unfeeling, unthinking, uncaring. He only ate or drank when absolutely necessary, and managed to drag himself into a bath once, but spent the rest of his hours sleeping restlessly or staring listlessly at the walls and ceiling. The money he had paid for the room in advance ran out on the eighth day, when he got snapped out of his haze by the innkeeper loudly banging on the door, yelling at him to get out. So he did.

He packed all his belongings once again, and headed out of Oxenfurt, leaving the sea and the sandy beaches behind him with one last thought of the vacation he had once hoped to take with his Witcher. What now? He figured going back to his old life was his best option, but he wanted to go where he hadn’t been before, at least not while he had travelled with the White Wolf. If he would, the places would bring too many memories, too many sorrows, back to the surface. He wasn’t ready to deal with that just yet. So he set out to the east, inland. He would follow the Pontar, singing his coin together in the inns and taverns along the river.

҉     ҉     ҉

The first evening after his leave from Oxenfurt he spent in a fairly big inn called The Golden Barrel. After setting his things up, he started taking requests. The first one was Toss A Coin To Your Witcher. It was a classic, after all, and often the only song of his people really knew and cared to hear. It was unfortunate. Singing it always brought a knot to his stomach, and made his heart clench ever so slightly, but he did it anyways. People would really dislike it if he didn’t, and he needed the money right now.

What he did not count on, and thus surprised him greatly, was the next requested song being Her Sweet Kiss. He hadn’t meant for it to spread outside of that one inn he had first sung it at. He shouldn’t have done that, he realized now. The song was too personal, too telling, but he had been tipsy, and under pressure from the patrons. Just as he was now. He couldn’t afford to not sing it, and just one more time couldn’t hurt. Right? So he complied, no matter how much he could feel the cracks in his glass heart deepening. He sang a little louder than usual, afraid people might hear it breaking.

҉     ҉     ҉

He continued down the river, performing in a different inn every night. To his horror, Her Sweet Kiss had become quite popular. Too popular. Jaskier realized soon that, if it had not already spread across the continent, it would soon. Several others would sing it, profiting from his sorrows. He could do nothing to stop it from spreading to the Witcher’s ears and here was very little hope that Geralt wouldn’t know it was Jaskier’s song. They had spent too much time together; the bard’s melodies and choice of words too familiar to the Witcher to not recognize the song as his. He regretted ever writing it, let alone singing the damn thing.

The lyrics were too obvious. Maybe not to those who didn’t know of the… situation, but the Witcher would know about Jaskier’s feelings the moment he really listened to the song. The bard felt embarrassed, because there was no way those feelings would be reciprocated. Because the rumours had been true. Witchers don’t have feelings; his had demonstrated that quite harshly, that day on the mountain. He had been foolish not to believe the whispers that had followed the Butcher of Blaviken, and he had paid the price. He would not make the same mistake again.

҉     ҉     ҉

Life was quite pleasant as a famous bard, he found out while travelling to the east. He slept in soft beds every night, was able to take baths regularly, and was paid with good food and plenty of coin. Yet he couldn’t shake the dark cloud hanging over his head, no matter how hard he tried. It was the realization that this had been his dream life for as long as he could remember, but now that he had it, it just wasn’t good enough anymore. He dreamed of a life long passed, seemingly centuries ago. One where he wasn’t alone on the road, where he had someone to sing his secrets to, someone to plan a vacation to the beach with, someone to imagine a future with. That dream seemed so far out of his reach, and living a dream long gone only made to remind Jaskier of everything he would never have.

I am weak and I am wanting.

҉     ҉     ҉

Three weeks after he left Oxenfurt, he found himself at the relatively small town of Rinde. Something struck him as familiar about it, but, not being able to quite lay his finger on it, he decided to ignore the uneasy feeling it gave him. He would be gone the next day, on to the next town, so it didn’t matter. Yet he felt like tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

He did what had become a ritual. He conferred with the local innkeeper, who asked after the Witcher, like everyone always did, and was disappointed to hear he wasn’t there, like everyone always was. He laid a hat in front of him for coin, and made a bit of a show of tuning his lute and strumming a few simple chords. Once he was sure he had everyone’s undivided attention, he turned to the rest of the room. Immediately people’s requests flushed over him. Most of them were Toss A Coin To Your Witcher and Her Sweet Kiss. He obliged.

Eight songs into his performance, the room had gotten a lot more crowded as most of the townspeople had gathered in the inn to hear him sing. Yet the door opened once more, half an hour after the last person had walked in, cool night air stroking Jaskier’s face, drawing his attention to the newcomer. He’s familiar. It was a tall, lanky man, skin pale and wearing a knit hat pulled down as far as it could go. He must be cold. Jaskier paid no mind to it, continuing his performance for another hour or so. He ended with Her Sweet Kiss, earning him a lot more coin than he expected. Not that he was complaining.

Cheers followed him as he leapt up the stairs, to his room. It was well past midnight, and he felt drained, sweaty and stressed from the performance in the hot, humid bar downstairs. His throat felt scratchy, and he sent a quick prayer to any and all gods that would hear him. Please make sure I won’t have lost my voice by morning, thank you. He stripped his dirty clothes, and lowered himself in the steaming bath the innkeeper so kindly had filled for him. He took his favourite orange blossom soup and washed himself head to toe, then laid back and closed his eyes.

His mind wandered, circling back to the familiar feeling this town had given him, and the way it cast a dark shadow over his thoughts. Strange. Usually, familiarity gave him some comfort, a feeling of being grounded, so what had happened here that made him so uncomfortable? No matter how hard he tried to think, the memories would slip out of his grasp like black smoke.

Jaskier shivered. The water had grown cool, and a nasty draft in the room made his hair stand on end. He reached for the towel laying on a stool next to the basin, and dried off as quickly as he could, but still the cold made itself at home in his bones. He rummaged through his pack, eventually able to pull out his nightclothes, and shrugged them on. His bare feet padded on the wooded floor as he checked if every window was sufficiently shut, as the draft in his room had grown in strength quite a bit. They were all closed well enough. Strange.

Every muscle in his body tensed as he heard someone shouting in the distance. Not just anyone, though. Geralt. He had come for Jaskier, he had come to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, to tell him he loved - No. He had come to yell at Jaskier, to reject what he had heard about the bard’s feelings, to break his glass heart into even smaller pieces. That’s why he was yelling, why he sounded so angry, saying the same thing over and over as he got closer. “I just want some damn peace!” Wasn’t that all of their time together summarized? Wasn’t that all the Witcher had ever told him, up until their last conversation?

Jaskier sighed, and walked to the door to meet the Witcher outside, feet dragging, weighed down by defeat. The doorknob was icy in his hand, and his arms shook with effort as he tried to turn it. Strange. No matter how much strength he put into it, the door wouldn’t budge, not even when he used both hands. Pushing and pulling, he soon realized there was no way he could get the thing open. He took a few steps back, ready to sprint forward and smash the wood with his shoulder in a blind panic, when suddenly Geralt’s voice was right behind him, loud and clear in his ears. “I just want some damn peace!”

Startled, Jaskier spun around and away from the voice, finding the room empty. What the hell? He had no idea what was going on, but he was truly freaked out by now. The wind was making his hair whip around his face, as he turned into circles, turning to Geralt’s voice moving around the room, somehow always behind him. His eyes landed on the wall leading to the outside world as a thin, black smoke dripped from between the wood. Oh. The djinn.

Pieces started clicking in his mind as the djinn spoke with a raspy, paper-thin voice. “A wish, once made, cannot be undone.”

Chapter Text

Memories flashed through Jaskier’s mind. The last time he had been in this town…

҉    ҉    ҉

“You need a nap!” Jaskier could not believe Geralt would make such a comment about his voice. A fillingless pie? Preposterous! “I mean, are your trying to hurt my feelings, Geralt? It’s downright indecorous of you, if I’m completely honest, and-“ He stopped his indignant stammering as the Witcher pulled an amphora from the water. “Wow. Wow, what is that?”

He drew closer as they both looked at it. “It’s a wizard’s seal. The djinn,” Geralt replied. The Witcher’s hand was inching closer to the lid, when Jaskier closed his hand around one of the handles and pulled it towards himself.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned him in a low voice.

“Take it back! Take back that thing about my fillingless pie and then you can have your djinnie djinn djinn.” The bard had been on the receiving end of the other’s death glares too many times to care. What he did care about was Geralt’s opinion, and he couldn’t stand the thought of him not liking his singing. If not, then what would he even sing for?

“Let go,” the witcher warned him again, holding the amphora tightly as the bard kept pulling the thing closer.

“Let go, you horse’s arse!” Jaskier rebutted. The lid popped off, and they both stared in shock as… nothing happened. “Well, that’s a bit of an anti-climax.”

The djinn reared up as Jaskier stared in horror. He backed away until he was against the door, and tried the door handle in one last futile attempt to escape.

҉    ҉    ҉

“Oh, come on, you always say you want nothing from life. How was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?” He neglected to mention that his third wish would be that Geralt would get everything he ever wanted and would want. Didn’t matter now, anyway.

“I just want some damn peace!” Geralt shouted in his face.

“Well here’s your peace!” He smashed the amphora on the ground in rage. The Witcher’s growl as he bent to pick up the pieces brought him back to earth. What had he done? He felt like choking, unable to breathe. He had to get a hold of himself, he couldn’t let his emotions hit him like that every time Geralt got angry with him.

As he struggled to pull air into his lungs, he started wheezing. This wasn’t just his feelings anymore, this was something more. He started to panic. “Geralt…”

The djinn lunged forward, and Jaskier ran to the opposite side of the room, but was easily overtaken by the malevolent spirit. He fell, nose breaking as he hit the floor face first.

҉    ҉    ҉

“Is there a doctor here?” Geralt sounded worried as he hopped off his horse.

“Yes, yes, Chireadan, the elf healer.” Replied the soldier, as he walked towards them. “Over there,” he pointed to one of the tents. Jaskier could only wheeze and cough up blood as Geralt pulled him off of Roach. He stumbled along, with the Witcher supporting him, to the tent the man had pointed out to them.

He was lowered on a rickety chair, as the elven doctor bent over him. The man from the bar. “A djinn in a bottle, it’s like a fairy tale,” he mumbled as he began to gather whatever he needed to heal Jaskier.

“Without the happy ending,” Geralt replied. “Can you help him?”

All was quiet while the doctor examined Jaskier’s throat, only broken by the bard’s wheezing. Chireadan’s eyes widened. “Oh dear… I assure you I have received the best medical education right here in Rinde, but… These injuries are of magical nature. I can help with the pain, but it’s a bit like…” The elf hesitated.

“Putting salve on a tumor?” Geralt filled in for him.

“His throat was attacked. If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, that damage might be irreversible.” The doctor started preparing a mixture on the other side of the tent. Jaskier bent forward as he coughed up more blood, scared out of his mind. He couldn’t handle the thought of never singing again, no matter how devoid of filling Geralt thought it was.

“And the longer he goes untreated,” the elven doctor continued, “the more likely it is to spread. He could die.”

The bard wheezed, and reached behind him for comfort. “Fuck! Geralt…”

“Uh, yeah, we won’t let that happen.” He mumbled as he patted the bard on the back comfortingly.

Jaskier struggled to breathe as blood flowed out of his nostrils and mouth. The djinn had left, and the room was quiet once more, the wind stilled. He tried to crawl to the door, but dark spots had already started forming at the edge of his vision. He wouldn’t make it, not this time, not without his Witcher by his side. This is it, then.

He collapsed back on the cold floor, giving up. I can’t go, not now. Not with so many things unresolved. He still hadn’t gotten a chance to see more of the world, hadn’t gotten a chance to spend some of the coin he had earned in the past few weeks. He hadn’t gotten a chance to live a long life, to settle down on the coast, to live his old days in peace. He hadn’t gotten a chance to see Geralt one last time, to hear his voice, to smell his scent one last time. Oh, how he would miss the scent of fallen leaves and leather that always hung around the Witcher.

All he could smell now was something flowery. It was a familiar blend… Like lilac and gooseberry.

His sight began to fade, and with the last of his strength, Jaskier managed to turn onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Purple eyes were the last thing he saw before losing consciousness.

Chapter Text

Blessed silence.

It had been a while since Geralt had been able to relax, with the bard’s singing, or Yennefer’s complaining always disturbing his peace. He sat there, at the cliff’s edge, taking in the view. Mountains and hills were coated with pine forests, small birds flitting between them, filling the air with their whistles. And finally, silence.

The Witcher emptied his mind, trying to enjoy this newfound quiet as long as he could until Jaskier would come back, like he always did. A small pit of guilt began to form in his stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. He’d had a shit day and he had needed someone to blame besides himself. The bard had been an easy target, because he had never really seemed that fazed with Geralt’s yelling before. He knew that, even if he took his anger out on him, the bard wouldn’t blame him much. Not that it made what he did any better. “There goes my fucking peace”, he thought. He sighed. He would have to apologize once the bard returned from collecting the story from the others. Hell, he’d even share his perspective, if that made Jaskier happy. He felt the need to make it up to him, once he returned.

He sat there, cross-legged on the dirt ground, waiting. Waiting for Jaskier to return with his mouth running off again, strumming his lute, and urging Geralt to get up and get going, because they somehow always had somewhere to fucking go. Geralt smiled at the prospect. Not that he’d ever let anyone know he enjoyed the bard’s company.

҉    ҉    ҉

Shadows started to form, and then elongate as the sun began to descend to the mountains on the horizon. Jaskier still hadn’t returned, and the Witcher’s worries started to deepen along with the darkness. Fuck. He was going to have to search for that damn bard. Maybe he was still taking the story from a few people, or he was already composing the song, lost in thought. Maybe he had fallen asleep, it had been a long day, after all. Or maybe something had happened to him. A dark cloud crossed Geralt’s mind as he couldn’t help but think of all the ways his bard could get hurt. It wouldn’t be the first time he would have to save the other from near certain death, but… maybe it would be the first time he was too late. Ah, fuck. He shouldn’t think like that, it would only cloud his judgement. Surely the bard was fine.

He rose from where he had been sitting, groaning when his muscles protested. The day had taken a toll on him, in more ways than one, it seemed. He gathered his things and started his trek to the campsite they had spent the last night at. The birds had started to quiet down for the night, and crickets started up their song. Still, it was too quiet for Geralt’s liking. No matter how much he hated to admit it, he had grown used to Jaskier’s constant talking and singing. The silence made him uncomfortable now, reminding him of the other’s absence.

By the time he arrived to the campsite, the sun had set, though a little light remained. Enough for him to see the site abandoned, devoid of life. Jaskier’s personal belongings were gone too. Fuck. Ignoring the cold fear spreading in his chest, he set off again, down the mountain road. The light dwindled, and the Witcher began stumbling over roots sticking up from the dirt, leaves hitting him in the face.

Half an hour after leaving, he gave up. It was a moonless night, and clouds were starting to gather, blocking any light the stars might provide. Even his supernatural sense of sight couldn’t help him find his way in the darkness. He had to stay here for the night, and resume his search at dawn.

Once again he sighed as he laid his bedroll down on the most even patch of ground he could find. Laying down, he tried to ignore the panic and uneasiness that clawed at his heart. For hours he laid there, turning from his side to his back, to his side again, over and over. He knew he wouldn’t  sleep, but if he tried to keep on searching in the dark, he might get injured, and that would do neither of them any good.

At some point, he started to grow sick of the silence that hung in the woods around him. He had never realized how accustomed he had become to Jaskier singing him lullabies as they went to bed. They did always help him sleep, and if they didn’t, he would watch the other one sleep. Chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm, a quiet snore here and there in-between. That always helped as well. Uncertainty gnawed at his bones now, urging him to get up and keep searching for the bard. He would give anything to know if he was alive right now, if he was okay, even though they were separated.

With the sun, a realization dawned on Geralt. Maybe it wasn’t the lullabies that helped him sleep. Maybe it was knowing that Jaskier was safe.

He packed up his stuff once again, and set out on the mountain road. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up with him. Striding onward and onward, his mood lightened with the day, the sun breaking through the clouds and casting spots of light through the tree foliage. Practically lighting his way to Jaskier. He kept his ears open for any distant singing or lute music, ready to start running at the first sign of the bard.

Two hours after leaving, he stumbled upon a fork in the road. To the left was the road they had taken with the rest of the group, a few days earlier, it would circle around the mountain and end up at the small town at the foot of it. To the right was a different path, that would pass through the valley, before ending up at the same town. The left one took two days to reach the village, the right one five. He took the shortest one, figuring that Jaskier had taken the same route, because it was familiar. And if the bard had taken the other one, Geralt would be able to wait for him at the town inn.

Worry and fear started eating at the edges of his mind as the hours passed with no sign of Jaskier. He must have taken the long way back. He didn’t pause once, not even when the shadows started to grow again and his stomach growled at him for attention. He just fished whatever food he could find from his pack and ate while walking, on and on. The silence was fucking unbearable, and more than once he found himself humming. Toss A Coin To Your Witcher mostly, as he found some comfort in the memories connected with the song, pushing him forward, through the sunset into the night.

҉    ҉    ҉

He arrived at the town five hours after noon the next day. As quickly as he could, he barged into the inn, frantically searching the downstairs common room for the bard. He wasn’t there. Walking up to the innkeeper, he asked if a bard with messy brown hair had checked in during the past two days. He had not. So he requested a room, deciding to wait for the other as long as he could afford to.

He spent his days looking after Roach, spoiling her to bits to make up for the five days he had left her alone with strangers. He visited the local blacksmith to have him sharpen his swords, and bought materials to repair his armour. When there was nothing more to do, he wandered up and down the path leading to the mountain, waiting for Jaskier to show up, and hurrying back to the inn by sundown. There he asked, without fail, every night and every morning, if a brown-haired bard had stopped by. Every time, without fail, he was disappointed.

He had to move on when his money ran out on the fifth day. He went from town to town, going back to his old life of hunting monsters again, and sometimes making some coin from it. Every place he went to, he asked for Jaskier, in hopes of finding him again someday. Every time the townspeople denied seeing him in the last few months, Geralt’s anxiety grew. And always that fucking silence, following him everywhere.

҉    ҉    ҉

Two months after last seeing his bard, the Witcher arrived at a small swamp town near Cidaris. The people had requested him to slay a Kikimora that had terrorized them for several years, killing over twenty townsfolk. He had obliged, though he knew it would pay very little. He couldn’t just leave them to die if he could prevent it. He refused the money when he saw how hungry some of the children looked, but gladly accepted a night at the inn, free of charge.

“It ain’t much bu’ it’s the best room we’ve go’,” said the innkeeper as he let Geralt into the room.

“It will do just fine, thank you,” the Witcher turned around to shut the door, but the pot-bellied man started to stammer from underneath his beard.

“W-wait, Witcher, uh…” He looked uncertain, and Geralt raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Spit it out, good sir.”

“We… We heard you was askin’ around for a bard.” As much as the innkeeper’s mumbling and stuttering annoyed him, he could feel his heart skip a beat. “I jus’ wanted to let ya know, we’ve got one of them fellas stayin’ here tonight,” the man continued.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Geralt replied blandly, and he slammed the door shut.

Jaskier. His mind repeating the name over and over as he rushed to take off his armour and wash the murky water and Kikimora blood off himself. Golden rivers of hope coursed through his veins and made his head spin as he put on the only clean clothes he could find in his pack. Those turned out to be the ones Jaskier had given him for Pavetta’s betrothal feast, the ones everyone said made him look like a sad silk merchant. He didn’t know why he had kept them, but in that moment, he couldn’t be more grateful that he had.

The door bounced off the wall as he threw it open, and he nearly pushed over a bald man with a local prostitute hanging off his arm, in his hurry to get downstairs. He ignored the dirty looks thrown in his direction by the pair as he started down the stairs. He suddenly stopped as he heard the patrons singing in the common room. Toss A Coin To Your Witcher. Jaskier always started with that one. Geralt felt himself smile involuntarily, but didn’t try to keep his face straight. He knew no amount of effort could lower the corners of his mouth, anyway.

As the song finished and cheers erupted, he continued down the wooden steps. The smell of lukewarm ale and hot bodies pressed together in a small space washed over him as he made his way to the ground floor. He first saw the innkeeper, busy handing out ale and taking coin. Then the crowd, already tipsy and excited at the prospect of a night of fun. Then the source of all this happiness and joy, just like he always managed to be. The sun to his moon and stars, giving him hope and life and-

It wasn’t Jaskier.

His heart dropped to his kneecaps as a blushing, blonde-haired teen came into view. Just a fucking child. Geralt swayed at the foot of the stairs, head heavy with disappointment. The room was too hot, too humid. He had to get out of there. He pushed his way past the many bodies blocking the exit. Finally outside, he leaned on the side of the inn, sliding down until he sat on the grass. He clenched his hands as anger and sorrow dripped down his spine. All he wanted was to beat his hands bloody and raw against the inn wall, but he resisted. You’re being a fucking idiot.

He hadn’t realized the crowd inside had gone quiet once more, until he heard the soft twangs of a lute, starting the next song.

“Right, ladies and gentlemen, this one is called Her Sweet Kiss.” He sounded so smug, so content with having gotten such a great response from a song that wasn’t even his to sing. He’s just a fucking kid. Geralt soon noticed, as the teen started singing, that this song wasn’t his either. It was Jaskier’s as well. He could tell from the way the melody cascaded over him like rain on a sweaty summer’s day, the way the notes danced across the strings like butterflies around a patch of flowers. He could hear it in the words, describing how a woman had alienated someone the singer knew. Someone the singer…loved. His eyes snapped open.

Oh.

Chapter Text

Jaskier awoke with a start. What happened? Snippets of memories presented themselves to his mind, but it wasn’t enough to tell him anything useful, like why his throat hurt, or how he had gotten from the inn to… whatever this place was.

He glanced around the room. It was far too luxurious to be an inn, as he was lying in a large canopy bed, the creamy drapes softly drifting in the warm breeze that came from an open window to his left. A desk sat in the corner, facing another window in the same wall, next to it - he felt his muscles relax a tad bit - his trusty lute, unscathed. To his right he saw a wardrobe. One of the doors was open a crack, and revealed his clothes, neatly sorted and folded.

“Huh. Don’t remember doing that,” he thought to himself. Next to the bed were two nightstands, intricately carved. One held a small vase of dandelions, and the other a notebook and a pencil.

The door opposite the bed opened, startling him. “Oh no, what’s she doing here?”

“I live here, thank you very much, and you’re here because I saved your life. You’re welcome.” Yennefer smirked as she levitated a tray with what appeared to be breakfast to the desk. Jaskier scowled at her, and opened his mouth to bite a snarky remark back at her for reading his mind. Yet heat rose to his cheeks, because he totally did not just wheeze instead of speaking, no sir he did not. Confusion rippled through his mind, shortly followed by panic.

Yennefer sighed, and rubbed her forehead, as if she had already feared that this would happen. She made her way to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor as though she didn’t dare look him in the eye. “About that, Jaskier…”

He felt a wave of fear wash over him, eyes wide and following her every movement, as she took a handful of her black dress in her hands, dreading what she had to say.

“The djinn attacked your throat. Again.” She sighed again, knuckles white as she bunched the fabric in her fists. She looked up, and he saw pity, guilt, and a glint of sadness in her eyes. “I couldn’t save your voice this time, Jaskier. I’m so sorry.”

He fainted.

҉    ҉    ҉

The next time he opened his eyes, he could see the sun had started to set already. Golden light fell on the stone walls and the oak floor, making everything in the room seemingly glow. He was at peace, for a moment, until the memory of the conversation he’d had with the Witch forced itself upon his mind. He was unable to hide from it any longer: he would never speak again.

He laid back in the pillows and stared at the soft, creamy drapes of the bed as tears slid down the sides of his face. He would never sing again.

He tried to sob, tried to scream, tried everything he could think of, but every effort resulted in pathetic wheezing and pain, both emotional and physical. He tried until the sun had fully set, and then some more. He tried, because he couldn’t accept what he already knew was the truth, and he wasn’t ready to give up.

It was pitch black outside, the darkness before the dawn, when he let himself sink back into the pillows and pulled the blanket up to his chin, tears still flowing. A weight settled on his chest as he was finally forced to face the truth. His voice was gone, and it was not coming back. A pain started behind his eyes, and his breath was ragged as he laid there. He felt as though someone had taken a hammer and had smashed a gaping hole in his glass heart, the pieces scattered and irreparable.

҉    ҉    ҉

He woke up after an hour or two of restless sleep, the first rays of sunlight shining in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to lay there like the broken man he was, but his stomach thought differently, groaning loudly.

He sighed, and got up. He found his limbs surprisingly strong as he made his way over to the wardrobe, pulling out a sky-coloured doublet and matching trousers. Putting them on felt familiar, comfortable, and Jaskier started feeling more like himself again. He snatched up the notebook and the pencil from his nightstand as an afterthought before leaving the room, in case he had to write his thoughts down.

He found himself in a small hall, opposite the stairs leading down to the ground floor. To his right he saw three more doors, lined by a small walkway with a wooden, yet sturdy-looking fence, shielding the inhabitants from a nine-foot drop onto the stone floor below.

After he had made his way down the stairs, he was met with three more doors. The one in the wall opposite the stairs was clearly the front door. To his right, he saw the kitchen, dipped in yellow light from the still rising sun. Looking behind him, he saw a small but comfortable living room, and beyond that, a wall made almost entirely of glass, lending a spectacular view of a beautiful, green garden. Straining his eyes, he saw what appeared to be Yennefer, picking herbs or fruit in the distance.

As curious as he was to see the living room and the garden, his stomach drove him into the kitchen. On the light wooden countertop he saw a plate, filled with cheese and bread, and a neatly written card next to it in looping cursive: Breakfast for Jaskier.

As he sat and ate, he looked around the kitchen. Everything was tidy; from the clean countertops to the glasses and plates all lined up on the shelves. Everything, except the plants on the windowsills, seemingly bursting from their pots, untamed. He pondered, looking at the card. As much as he disliked the Sorceress, he owed her his thanks. She had saved his life twice, and had at least tried to save his voice. She had also looked after him while he was unconscious, and was now letting him stay at what seemed to be her own house. “Maybe she’s not so bad after all,” he thought to himself as he washed his plate, and stored it back with the rest.

Yennefer was still in the garden when he entered the living room. Like the rest of the house, it was open and light, with a lot of windows. Couches in the same creamy white colour as his canopy bed upstairs sat in a circle around a table. To his right, a small pile of wood laid next to a hearth, to his left sat a closed door. He decided against exploring the house further, opting for just asking Yennefer if he could find the opportunity.

He walked into the yard, the morning sun warming him as he took off his shoes and walked over the luscious grass barefoot to where the Sorceress was crouching over a small patch of herbs, shovel in hand, dirt under her fingernails. Jaskier had never seen her so… informal before. She had her hair up in a ponytail, and wore brown pants and a white shirt. The look suited her well, better than the very-sexy-but-very-insane-Witch look she normally bore around him.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, or are you going to help me take out the weeds?” She looked up to him, one eyebrow arched. He huffed, but settled down next to her on his knees anyway, not caring about the dirt he would get on his clothes.

They worked in comfortable silence, and Jaskier’s mind wandered back to the house, to the closed door in the living room, and thought about what could be behind it.

“That’s the room where I perform most of my magic, bard. I would appreciate it if you didn’t enter it.” Yennefer’s clear voice pierced the silence, startling Jaskier a bit.

“Please stop reading my mind,” he thought as he furrowed his eyebrows, looking at her.

“Well, how else are we supposed to communicate? Writing everything down takes a terribly long time, and, well, you can’t speak.” She continued pulling weeds out of the dirt as she spoke, her tone very matter-of-fact. Jaskier hated to admit it, but she was right.

“Although, there is another option that I have been thinking about while you were asleep…” She continued, her voice suddenly hesitant, and her hands stilled.

“How long was I asleep?” The question shot through his mind, as well as curiosity at the ‘option’ she was talking about.

“You were asleep for six days,” she answered him, hands starting to pull at a particularly stubborn nettle, magicking the wounds from her skin as soon as they appeared, the weed turning brown and shrivelling against her touch. “And I was thinking about teaching you sign language. Teaching us both, really, so you can sort of talk, and I don’t have to constantly read your mind anymore. It’s exhausting for me, and I know you hate the way it invades your privacy.”

He thought about it for a second or two. Sign language? He hadn’t heard much about it, mostly that it was used by deaf and mute people; and he was mute now. His mind blanched a little at the word mute but, that’s what he was now, might as well get used to it.

The idea the Sorceress had proposed settled around his mind like a purring cat. He touched Yennefer’s arm lightly to get her attention, and she looked up at him. Jaskier smiled and nodded, and sent a genuine “Thank you. For everything” her way.

The corners of her lips tugged upwards slightly, a smile that reached her violet eyes, lighting up her entire face. “You’re welcome,” she replied, sincerity softening the edges her voice usually held. After a moment she returned back to her work, and they sat in comfortable silence, basking in the light of the morning sun.

Chapter Text

Jaskier sighed, head in his hands as he stared at the book in front of him. Pain throbbed beneath his temples and he rubbed the skin there for a bit, giving up when it didn’t alleviate his headache in the slightest. It was nearly dusk, the setting sun shining on the right side of his face and coating everything in the room in a golden light.

“One more time, bard.” Yennefer’s voice was strict, leaving no room for protest, and Jaskier considered giving up, walking out of the door, and laying on the forest floor for an indefinite amount of time. His plans were interrupted by a sharp slap to his arm, though.

“I’ll have none of that. You’re going to have to learn all this stuff at some point, the sooner the better.” She gave him an irritated look and he relented. He knew they couldn’t go on like this for long, with Yennefer reading his mind constantly. He saw the toll it took on her, the dark circles under her eyes a little deeper every day, but Gods, this wasn’t easy. It had been difficult enough to learn the alphabet, let alone the basic sentences they had been practicing all day. He dreaded having to learn how to hold a whole conversation with just his hands. In the three days they had been practising, they had only made it ten pages into ‘Sign language 1’ and a little bit of motivation left his body every time he saw volumes 2 to 5 sitting on the shelf to his left.

He was pulled from his incessant thoughts by one, two, snaps of Yennefer’s slender fingers in front of his face. “Pay attention.” She looked at him annoyed, and he sighed, directing his gaze towards her. “Stop thinking so loudly, it’s distracting.” He rolled his eyes at her as she gave him another stern look.

“Now, introduce yourself.”

He lifted his right hand to chest level and waved, once. “Hello,” he then put his hand on his chest, and laid the index and middle fingers of both hands on top of each other, four fingers in a neat little row. “My name is J-A-S-K-I-E-R.” His fingers stuttered in-between the letters, but he had clearly made a lot of progress compared to the first day.

Yennefer nodded, once, then put her flat right hand on her chin, and brought it down on her left hand, outstretched a bit in front of her chest. He looked at her, puzzled. “It means ‘good’,” she patted him on the shoulder. “You’re doing well, bard.”

She stood up, and stretched her arms over her head, basking in the sunlight shining through the windows lining the back wall of the living room, as Jaskier practiced ‘good’ for a bit, trying his hardest to remember it.

He looked up as her clear voice broke the silence. “Care for some dinner?” Jaskier’s stomach grumbled involuntarily, making the Mage chuckle under her breath, barely loud enough for him to hear. He smiled a bit, bumping her arm with his shoulder as he walked past her to the kitchen.

They had started to develop what could be called a rhythm, in the past few days. Jaskier would cut the vegetables they had harvested from the garden earlier that day, as Yennefer peeled some potatoes. She would then cook the food, as he set the table and cleaned up whatever he could. This was all done in comfortable silence, occasionally bumping their shoulders into each other, or pointing at something in a silent request to pass it.

Jaskier felt at ease around Yennefer, something he never thought could ever possibly, conceivably happen. And yet, here they were, able to just be around each other, not having to constantly hold up the façade of the Scary Sorceress and the Cheerful Bard.

After dinner, they would read in the living room, Jaskier sometimes strumming a soft melody on his lute, if Yennefer wasn’t opposed to it. Sometimes she would be in her appropriately-named Magic Room, preparing potions or salves to sell at the farmer’s market in the nearby town. She always left the door open, and he would look at her, admiring the certainty of her hands as they moved, or the incantations she muttered off the top of her head. He had always known she was powerful, but hadn’t realized it fully until she had saved his life a second time, feeling a spark of gratitude shoot through his chest every time he thought about it.

That evening, she was doing magic again, and once more he pondered about the fact that he wouldn’t be sitting there at that moment, if it hadn’t been for her. His mind wandered to what little memories he had of the event with the djinn, the last thing he could recall her purple eyes. Wait a minute. He frowned, wondering how he hadn’t thought of it before, yet the question seemed so obvious all of a sudden. How had she found him?

He stood up, tentatively walking towards her as she poured a clear potion the colour of the sky into several small vials, hands steady, corking them afterwards. Her attention was drawn to him as he softly knocked on the doorframe, once, twice. She looked at him questioningly and he pointed to his head, a silent request to read his mind. She rolled her eyes and obliged, the slightly smug look on her face falling as he asked her: “How did you find me? And how did you know I was hurt?”

She looked down at her hands, as a blush started creeping up her neck. “I uh… I put a tracking spell on you, the last night before we reached the dragon’s lair. I would be warned if someone hurt you with malicious intent” She spoke softly, fingers fidgeting with a small branch of rosemary. “You and Geralt always get – got into trouble, and every time I looked at you, you just seemed so frail, so… human.” She still didn’t meet his gaze, as her right hand came up to wipe at her eyes.

“I don’t know, I was worried.” She laughed softly, mockingly. “Guess I was starting to care about you… Stupid.” She turned away from him. “And… well, I know you don’t like me. Gods, you probably even hated me, back then, and I… I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” She wiped her face with her sleeve again, and Jaskier could hear the tears in her shaky voice as it cracked on safe.

He stood there for a moment, still standing still in the doorframe. He had never heard Yennefer talk about her feelings so openly, and the confession had taken him aback a bit. Did she really think he still disliked her? His vision blurred a bit as tears started to form and a pang rang through his chest. He’d always thought of himself as an open and sharing person, yet somehow he hadn’t been able to show Yennefer that he’d come to think of her as his best friend. Where did he go wrong?

Slowly, he made his way over to her shaking form, and put a hand on her shoulder. She turned, and pain and regret dripped down his spine when he saw the tear tracks on her cheeks, the defeat in her expression. He knew there was no way to make clear to her how sorry he was, how much he valued her, so he just pulled her into a tight hug, hoping she would get the message.

She hesitated for a second, before her arms found their way around his back, squeezing him gently.

They stood there for a while, crying into each other’s shoulders.

҉    ҉    ҉

“Come on, bard, I haven’t got all day.” Yennefer sounded thoroughly annoyed at his hesitation as she tried to drag him through the front door, hand in a vice-like grip around his elbow. “It’s just a farmer’s market, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss about it!”

Jaskier didn’t know either, if he was being honest. Something about the prospect of being among other people again scared the life out of him. What happened to the old me? He sighed, hands fidgeting, looking out the open front door to the maple trees, standing tall in the cool breeze, bearing their orange foliage with pride. They formed a stark contrast with the evergreen summer garden laying behind the house, undoubtedly under a spell of some sorts.

The Sorceress released his arm and threw her hands up in exasperation and surrender. “Fine! Fine, I’ll just go buy that stupid chicken by myself, and you can stay here, hiding from the outside world for another two months!” Her voice had risen in volume and she was half-shouting in anger by the end of the sentence. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds in an attempt to calm down, the blush that had graced her cheeks subsiding a bit.

Jaskier was taken aback a bit, but felt her frustration mirrored in himself. Why was it so hard to just leave? Surely, if no one talked to him he wouldn’t have to draw any attention to himself by using sign language. And even then, did it really matter? There were tons of deaf and mute people out there using it, he wasn’t the only one. And yet…

He felt a soft touch on his shoulder, and looked into Yennefer’s pleading eyes. “Jaskier, you have to go outside at some point, you can’t hide in here forever. I’ll be right by your side, okay?”

He nodded, closing his eyes before putting one step forward. The cool breeze stroked his cheeks, bringing the smell of fallen leaves and a hint of the leather handle of Yennefer’s basket. Smells like Geralt. He smiled a bit at the memories that resurfaced, while embracing the soft pang in his chest. He opened his eyes again as the Sorceress closed the door behind him, looping her arm through his. “Come on, bard, let’s go buy that damn chicken.”

The most beautiful colours surrounded him. The orange and red of the leaves, the warm brown of their bark, the bright green of the little tufts of grass sprouting along the path, still standing in the face of the harsh weather to come. They walked down the hill, to the town square, which held the farmer’s market.

҉    ҉    ҉

They bought a brown hen with white spots along her wings, the farmer promising that she laid excellent eggs, and plenty, too. They were about to leave the stall and return home, when a soft squeak drew Jaskier’s attention. On the ground next to the table stood a wicker basket, a blanket laying in it to provide comfort to a small kitten. Its white fur was fluffy, some sticking out of its tiny ears, bright blue eyes meeting Jaskier’s own cornflower ones.

He gasped, tugging at Yennefer’s sleeve as she was counting out the two gold and six silver pieces the farmer had requested for the hen. She turned her head and followed his line of sight to the tiny cat in the basket. She looked at Jaskier, eyebrow raised.

He pinched two fingers together at his cheek, pulling outward twice, then he put the two fingers at his chin, pulling them in as he moved his hand down, thumb sticking out. “Cat. Very cute.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can see that, Jaskier. Are you seriously suggesting we buy it?”

He put his hand on his chest, rubbing a circle on it. “Please.” He gave her his best pleading look, and she relented.

“Fine, fine!” She chuckled a bit as he nearly jumped in glee, pushing his shoulder. “Idiot.” She turned back to the farmer. “How much for the cat?”

The man looked at her questioningly, scoffing a bit. “Ye sure ye want that thing, miss? Ye know what they say, them white cats with blue eyes is almost always deaf. And trust me, miss, this one surely is.” He frowned a bit, glancing at Jaskier in disdain. “Though somethin’ tells me yer pal ‘ere won’t care that much if the thing’s broken.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, leaning her hands on the table, towering over the tanned man sitting behind it. “My pal can make his own decisions, and if he wants the cat, we’re. Getting. The. Damn. Cat.” She growled out the last few words, and the farmer looked positively scared, cowering a bit. “Now, how much gold?”

“Ye- Ye can take it off my hands fer free.” He stammered. “A deaf cat is of no use, anyways.”

The Sorceress straightened again, half tossing the man the coin he had requested for the hen. She put the chicken in the basket she had brought from the cottage, the animal suspiciously calm, and Jaskier picked the kitten from the wicker basket on the ground, holding it to his chest with one hand, and signing a quick “thank you,” to the farmer.

҉    ҉    ҉

“So what are you going to name it?” Yennefer inquired after putting the hen in the coop they had built in the yard together a few days earlier.

“It’s a girl.” He put his right hand a little way above his hand, two fingers crooked in a crescent shape. “Her name is Moon.”

“Pretty. I like it.” They both smiled as the kitten explored the living room, meowing loudly and incessantly, tiny body wiggling with every step, tail no more than a little stick up in the air. “I’m going to make lunch, you want something to eat?”

“Yes, thank you.” He picked up Moon, who meowed indignantly, a long, piercing sound. He settled on the couch with her, the soft sounds of Yennefer taking plates from the shelf emanating from the kitchen as he scratched the tiny kitten behind her ears, his fingertips disappearing in her soft, white fur. She purred, and he picked up ‘Sign language 3’, opening it on a random page, eyes falling on the first word.

“Autumn: left hand in a fist at your right shoulder, right hand flat, palm facing downward, making three small circles at your left elbow.”

Chapter Text

Moon meowed loudly when Jaskier walked into the living room, the vibrations of his footsteps startling her as she was looking out of the window. He picked her up, earning another ear-shattering complaint that dissolved into purring as he settled on the couch with her in his lap, scratching behind her ears. He took ‘Sign language 5’ from the table, flicking it open to where they had left off the day before, determined to practise the previous chapter before starting the new one today.

He was soon distracted, however, by two voices coming from Yennefer’s Magic Room. He gently pushed the now three-month old cat from his lap, who took this as a personal offence and batted at his wrist, meowing loudly again before running to the kitchen. She was very theatrical, and Yennefer had often compared the cat to Jaskier. “She’s so dramatic. You two are perfect for each other.” He chuckled at the memory.

He got up to knock on her door, but then decided against disturbing her. He would ask her later. Instead, he went to the kitchen, where Moon was now sunbathing on the counter. He scratched her head a bit, before taking an apple and wandering into the garden, sitting at the edge of the pond that sat in the middle, flanked by flower beds. The garden was surrounded by trees, providing shade from the summer sun. Behind the pond was the vegetable garden. Beyond that, at the edge of the plot, stood the coop with the chicken, and a small stable, for now empty.

He took his shoes off and rolled the hem of his trousers up to his knees, dangling his feet in the cool, clear water, as he sat and ate his apple in the morning sun.

After a few minutes, he was joined by Yennefer as she sat next to him, ‘Sign language 5’ resting in her lap. They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the mild weather.

Eventually he bumped his shoulder into hers to draw her attention. “Who were you talking to?”

“Triss Marigold, another mage. She works at the court of King Foltest.” She stared ahead, distracted a bit by her own thoughts. “I like to keep updated on what’s going on in the world.”

“How do you talk to her?”

“Magic mirror, the one with the black surface. I’m sure you’ve seen it at some point.” He had, but at the time he’d thought nothing of it.

She sighed, attention back to the book in her hands. “Anyway, time for the next chapter, huh? Let’s see…” She opened it, flicking through the pages until she got to where she wanted to be. “Ah, yes… Emotions and how to express them. Sounds like a chapter for you and a certain Witcher.”

She hid her smile behind a curtain of black hair as Jaskier gaped at her indignantly. His hands flew around dramatically, trying to form a coherent sentence. “What- you… no!” Her smile had turned into laughter at his flailing, and he pushed her shoulder.

“Oh, please, Jask. I’ve seen the way you always looked at him. As if he himself put the stars in the sky.” She put her hand in the pond and flicked some water at him as he frowned at her. “Don’t look so offended, it makes you look old.” He gasped again, and Yennefer managed to put the book away before he splashed water at her with his foot.

She retaliated by using her magic, a small wave drenching Jaskier from head to toe. He stared at her, mouth open in shock, her giggles turning into a squeal as he pushed her into the pond.

҉    ҉    ҉

Jaskier’s lungs heaved, desperately trying to suck in the cold winter air as quickly as possible, as he pressed his back into the tree. The muscles in his legs burned, and his clothes were drenched in sweat and molten snow. He tried to remain as quiet as possible, clamping his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing.

He peered around the tree, eyes wide, looking everywhere to no avail. He leaned back against the rough bark, resting his head against it, and closing his eyes. He had escaped.

Cold and pain exploded in his nose as a snowball hit him in the face. Sputtering, he wiped it out of his eyes, and looked at Yennefer angrily. She did a little victory dance, gloved hands up in the air as she laughed. “I got you! You lose!”

In her distraction, she didn’t see Jaskier scooping up two handfuls of snow, pressing it into one monstrous ball and hurling it at the back of her head. She gasped as she turned around, one hand clutching her head, the other laid dramatically on her chest. “You dare stab me in the back like that?”

This time it was Jaskier’s turn to laugh, but it quickly faded as the Sorceress rose her hands, a few square feet of the snow blanket disconnecting from the ground. He sputtered, slipping and falling backwards as he tried to escape. “That’s cheating!”

He got up as fast as he could, running in the opposite direction, but was soon hit in the back, falling forward into the snow.

His face tingled, as her strong hands wrapped themselves around his shoulder and turned him around so that he was lying on his back. He gave her his best sad look, pouting. “You’re so mean, Yenna.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine, maybe that was a little cruel of me, but I can’t help the fact that you’re so fragile, little human.” He gasped in mock offense, grabbing her arm and the front of her winter dress, and pulling her into the snow next to him. He collected a fistful of snow, and rubbed it in her neck as she tried to fight him off. “You monster!” She managed to give him a mouthful of the stuff, before he relented, letting go of her and sitting up, a grin on his face.

She sat up too, and took off one glove to scoop out any snow that hadn’t melted yet from the back of her dress. “Gods, this stuff is cold.” She looked at him, the irritated look on her face softened by her pink tinged nose and cheeks, and the twinkle she couldn’t keep out of her eyes.

Jaskier stood up, and offered her his hand, pulling her up when she accepted it. “It’s going to be dark soon.” She looked at the grey sky and scrunched her nose a bit.

“You’re right, we’d best get going. Wouldn’t want to be stuck in these woods after dark.” He raised an eyebrow at her, and she pushed her shoulder into his. “Oh, please, you of all people should know what kind of monsters lurk between the trees when night falls.”

“Guess you’re right, Yenna. You always are.” He rolled her eyes at her sarcastically. She smiled at the name sign, bumping into his shoulder again.

It had been a few weeks since he had made it for her. He had read about name signs in ‘Sign language 5’. It was like a nickname, so you didn’t have to spell someone’s name out every time, but it was reserved for the people most worthy of it. It was a show of respect and care, giving someone a name sign. He had thought about Yennefer’s for a few days, wanting to make it as special as possible. He had eventually decided on the combination of the first letter of her name with the word ‘friend’. He’d put his thumb and pinkies out, while the rest of his fingers formed a fist. One hand would face upward, one downward, and he would touch the pinkie of one hand to the thumb of the other, then turning both hands, so the other pinkie and thumb touched.

Yennefer had almost cried when he had first shown it to her.

Together they walked back to the cottage, greeted by warmth and a loudly meowing Moon when they arrived. They hung their soaked coats and gloves on the coat rack, both going to their respective rooms to dry off and change into some warm clothing.

҉    ҉    ҉

After dinner they sat on a rug next to the hearth, steaming mugs of cocoa warming their hands, talking about the snowball fight earlier that day and laughing. Moon was curled on Yennefer’s lap, sleeping, and Jaskier felt himself getting drowsy as well.

Three loud bangs on the front door, however, cleared the sleepy fog from his head, and he looked at Yennefer, who seemed quite alarmed as well. Moon had woken up, and ran upstairs with a loud, angry meow. They both set down their mugs as quietly as possible. Maybe if they didn’t make a sound, the person outside would go away, or make themselves known to them, for who would be at their door at this hour? It was nearly midnight, and neither of them was expecting any company.

Three more knocks made the door rattle in its hinges, startling Jaskier again. “Do you know who it is?” He asked her, and she shook her head, eyes trained on the front door. She stood up, quietly, and padded into the hall on her socks, Jaskier following closely behind her.

She turned to him and signed: “You open the door, I’ll be ready to fight.” He nodded and put his hand on the doorknob, cold seeping into his fingers. He picked up a small table that was standing next to the door and usually held a vase of flowers, as Yennefer lighted fire from her fingertips. She lifted her hands, then nodded.

He turned the knob and swung the door inwards violently, making it bounce off the wall. Snowflakes were blown inside the hall as a strong, cold wind made a few of the candles flicker. The stranger, who had been leaning against the wood, fell forward, cursing as he hit the floor. He rolled to face the ceiling as he clutched his left shoulder, a cut in his forehead dripping blood into his dirty, white hair.

Jaskier leaned over him as Yennefer sighed, extinguished her fire, and closed the door, blocking out the heavy snowfall.

Cornflower blue eyes met Geralt’s yellow ones, right before the Witcher passed out, his head hitting the stone floor with a resounding thud.

Chapter Text

It was a few months since he had pushed Jaskier away, and Geralt had never felt so lonely. Sure, he’d had Ciri to keep him company, but only for a while, as they travelled to Kaer Morhen. Geralt knew that those in the Witcher home base would take good care of her and teach her how to control her magic. He had stayed there for a while, to make sure she settled well, but eventually he had to move on.

He told Ciri and Vesemir, his old teacher, that there were innocent people out there who needed his help, but they’d looked right through his lie. They knew his restlessness was caused by a constant hum in his bones, urging him to go out there and look for his bard, his heart repeating Jaskier’s name with every slow beat.

And so he rode out on Roach again, moving from town to town, always asking about the bard, and always being disappointed.

҉    ҉    ҉

A few weeks after leaving Kaer Morhen, autumn had truly set and the rumours of Jaskier’s whereabouts dwindled by the day, like a tree losing its red and golden leaves. Rising panic drove Geralt to travel day and night, only stopping to give Roach some much-needed rest. Every innkeeper, barmaid, and townsperson said the same thing: they hadn’t heard of the bard in months. Whispers began forming, that Jaskier had disappeared from an inn a full season earlier, never to be found again. Speculations of robbers, murderers, and monsters deafened Geralt, fear blinding him.

He eventually stopped by Vizima in the first month of winter, staying at the court of Foltest to take some rest and plan his next movements. The King and his daughter were doing surprisingly well, and were ever grateful to the Witcher, allowing him to stay as long as he wished.

While he was there, he accepted a contract for a particularly annoying Selkiemore, that had terrorized a small town a little ways upstream, near the ocean. It paid handsomely, but left him covered in guts and brandishing a nasty cut on his chest, for which he’d have to visit a Mage – after he had washed himself, that was.

҉    ҉    ҉

Triss Merigold looked up from mixing herbs when he knocked on her doorframe. A smile spread across her face, and Geralt couldn’t help himself but feel a little warmer at seeing a kind and familiar face.

“Geralt of Rivia, it’s so good to see you! Come, sit down.” The sparkle in her eyes lit up the entire room as she directed him to a comfortable, plush couch standing in the corner. Sitting him down, she ghosted her fingers over his wound, frowning a bit. “And what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“A selkiemore, I got a little too close to its teeth when it swallowed me.” He removed his shirt, taking the rag Triss offered and pressing it to the gash. Green veins shot out from underneath the cloth, his unnaturally slow heartbeat luckily stopping the venom from spreading too far, too soon.

As the Mage started mixing the necessary herbs to make a salve, she spoke over her shoulder: “What have you been up to lately?”

He sighed. “Not much, really.”

She turned around as she stirred the herbs and some oil, arching an eyebrow. “You don’t have to lie to me, Geralt, there’s no point in that.”

He looked at the floor, a bit ashamed, and she continued: “I heard that princess Cirilla is in Kaer Morhen now.”

It was his turn to look at her suspiciously. “And how do you know that?”

She shrugged, and used her chin to point at a mirror, its surface black. “Kaer Morhen and Aretuza keep in close contact, everyone was concerned about the fate of the child. I’m glad she’s safe now.” She moved towards him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath as she started to clean the wound with a damp rag.

His eyes trained on the note that was pinned into the wall next to the mirror, as Triss put the salve on the cut and bandaged it.

Other mirrors:   

               -Vesemir: Kaer Morhen

               -Tissaia: Aretuza

               -Yennefer: Aywith

He frowned. “How is Yennefer doing?”

Triss looked up in surprise, following his gaze to the small note on the wall, then shrugged and tied the bandages off, handing him his shirt back, magically cleaned and repaired. “She’s doing fine for herself. She lives in a small town in Lyria with the bard, now. They get along great, act-“

“What bard?” His hand had snapped up and grabbed her wrist, loosening his grip as the Mage looked at him disapprovingly.

“Jaskier, of course, who else?” His heart skipped a beat at the name, and he stood up abruptly.

“Thank you, for everything.” With that, he ran out of the room, storming through the castle to get his things together as quickly as possible. He had to leave, now.

The local mapmaker told him that Aywith, Lyria was a two week’s ride away from Vizima, in fortunate circumstances. He was not so lucky now, though, he found when he walked outside. It had started snowing.

҉    ҉    ҉

Two and a half weeks later, winter had truly set. Heavy snowfall held him and Roach back, making them progress slower than he had hoped they would. He kept going, though, day and night, for as long as his mare could manage. He would only rest when she was exhausted, and even then, he would toss and turn, waking up again and again, the bard the only thing on his mind, the familiar name on his tongue.

Together they trudged through the snow, their feet sinking deeper and deeper every day, until the white blanket reached up to his knees. While walking, he would talk to Roach softly, making promise after promise to spoil her rotten once they got there.

They travelled south first, then followed the river Yaruga eastward, to circumvent the large mountain range standing in their way to Lyria. Each day was harder than the last, and Geralt realized that they couldn’t hold on much longer like this. The thought of Jaskier’s ocean eyes was the only thing that kept him going, making him put one foot in front of the other, over and over.

“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while…”

҉    ҉    ҉

After asking around at different taverns in Scala, Lyria, he learned that the little town of Aywith lay a bit to the north, about a day’s ride through the thick snow. Despite the warnings of the innkeepers, he set out during the night, desperate to make it there as quickly as possible.

He arrived at the small town the next evening. Unfortunately, the town held no inn, and he felt forced to knock on random doors, asking the strangers in their warm homes where he could find the Sorceress and the Bard. None of them knew, however.

He had given up hope by the time he had reached the last house. Destiny seemed to smile at him, though, as the friendly, old lady who lived there pointed out a barely visible path, a hundred yards away, at the edge of the forest. She told him that it would lead up the hill, and that he would find a cottage there. He thanked her profusely, insisting she’d take some coin in gratitude.

He took Roach’s reins, spurring her on, leading her to the snow-covered path, and started his trek upwards.

Halfway up the hill, he started losing sight of the path. Snow had been steadily falling all evening, and it reached up to his knees. He looked around, searching for any sign of lights in the distance, when he heard something moving under the ground.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and pushed Roach’s flank, urging her to run away. He drew the silver sword hanging on his back, getting ready to fight. It was quiet for a moment.

Turning around, he sliced his sword through the first Ghoul that attacked him, the light fading from its deep, yellow eyes. The ground rumbled under his feet once again, the next one jumping up behind him, getting decapitated just as easily.

Two more approached at high speed on his left, another two ahead, one under the ground, one above. He managed to kill one of those on his left, sword slicing through it smoothly, before the other wrapped its bony arms around his neck, teeth clamping down on his left shoulder. Geralt swore, and threw his sword through the throat of the Ghoul in front of him, the blade embedding itself in a tree, hilt shaking from the force.

Strong hands met the monster in front of him as it jumped up, and the Witcher broke its neck with a sharp snap, dropping the body in the snow. Then, he reached into his boot, drawing the silver dagger he always kept there swiftly, taking care of the Ghoul still around his neck in one quick motion.

He sighed, and swore again as he felt pain flare up in his shoulder. He would have to see a Mage, now, or he wouldn’t make it. As he tried to pull his sword from the tree, he was surprised by one more Ghoul, as it knocked into his back, making him fall forward, the skin on his forehead splitting as it smashed against the hilt of the sword, still sticking from the bark.

The last monster was taken care of quickly with a single stab, hitting the snow-covered ground with a muffled thud, and he pulled the blade from the tree with his remaining strength, whistling for Roach. He swayed on his legs, vision blurring as she came galloping to him. Clambering on her, he spotted a few twinkling lights in the distance. He pointed at it and managed to grunt out a “go, Roach.”

He was sagging over her neck as she carried him up the hill, her hooves slipping once, twice, threatening to send them both back down the slope. Eventually they made it to the cottage, Geralt sliding off his trusty horse. He stumbled to the front door, slamming it three times with a bloody fist. He could hear a long, drawn-out meow coming from inside as he leaned against the wood with his right shoulder, a hand clutching the left.

He blinked, trying to fight the dark spots clouding his vision, and slammed the door three more times with his unoccupied hand. His ragged breath formed puffs in the cool winter air, and he raised his hand one more time to knock, when suddenly the door opened, sending him tumbling inside.

He swore as his wounded shoulder hit the stone floor. The first thing he noticed was how warm it was inside, and how he had to squint to not get blinded by the light emanating from the many candles.

As he turned around, someone sighed, and then… cornflower blue eyes, above him. Jaskier. He lifted his head up a bit, the motion only making his vision darken more. “If those eyes are the last thing I’ll ever see, then I’m content,” he managed to think to himself, before passing out, head hitting the stone floor with a resounding thud.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was sitting on the couch, looking at his hands folded in his lap. It had been two days since Geralt had barged into their house, and he had been asleep ever since. He had woken up a few times, but no longer than ten minutes, and he would be ailing and hallucinating the entire time, not making much sense in his sweaty ramblings.

Though the Witcher did little more than lay in their spare bedroom, taken by a deep, dreamless sleep, his presence had a large impact on the air inside the house. Jaskier had found it harder to breathe; worry, anticipation, and anger constricting his lugs. He spent a lot of his time in the garden, taking care of Roach – who seemed very pleased to see him again – or keeping the vegetable and herb gardens in pristine shape. Sometimes he would go into the forest surrounding the house. There he would walk around, or make a snowman – only to smash it right after he finished it. Somehow it always looked like Geralt.

Once back inside, he would be restless. He couldn’t sit still for longer than fifteen minutes, much to the chagrin of Moon, who loved curling up in his lap. He would pace around the living room, or make bread in the kitchen, taking his energy out on kneading the dough. And he would rarely go upstairs. He would only be there to sleep or take a bath, but he could enjoy neither, always cutting them as short as possible, only to go back downstairs, preferably outside.

Yennefer, on the other hand, checked up on the sleeping Witcher every hour, to keep up the healing spell she had put on him. She spent the remaining time in her Magic Room, door closed, or sleeping on the couch. Once or twice, Jaskier had heard voices coming from her office, as she talked to others through the magic mirror.

On the rare occasion he heard her talking, either to him or to someone else, her voice sounded strained and tired. The dark circles under her eyes deepened by the day, betraying the energy it cost to clear Geralt’s body of the Ghoul venom.

Jaskier looked up from his folded hands as Yennefer put a plate of bread and cheese in front of him.

“You have to eat something, Jask.” She sounded tired, defeated, and her hand was trembling with the effort of holding up the plate with breakfast she had fixed for herself.

“Thank you, Yenna. But you have to sleep, you look like you’re about to fall over.” She sat next to him and leaned her cheek on his shoulder. He put an arm around her, running his thumb over the soft fabric of her dress a bit as she closed her eyes for a moment.

“I know… Gods, I wish I could sleep for more than an hour at a time, but those damn spells keep fading. But without them…” She was quiet for a moment, and Jaskier suspected she had fallen asleep, when she started talking again. “Without them he’d be long dead.”

She sighed and sat up again, taking a bite out of a slice of bread, chewing slowly, swallowing thickly. Jaskier bumped his shoulder into hers and signed: “He better be grateful once he wakes up.” A small smile, that didn’t reach his eyes, danced across his lips.

Yennefer chuckled, no humour in her voice. “Yeah, he better be.”

And so they sat in silence, as they both ate their breakfast slowly, the colours of the sunrise outside slowly fading into a brilliant blue.

҉    ҉    ҉

That afternoon, Jaskier was sat on one of the couches again, curled up as his chin rested on his knees. He was feeling his way through his emotions, determined to unravel why he had been feeling so bad the past few days. Surely, seeing Geralt again should’ve made him happy, right? And yet…

He reached a mental hand into the whirlpool in his chest, the current growing stronger as he got closer. At first, he felt worry. That was to be expected; Geralt had almost died, after all, and his fate was still uncertain as his wounds closed slowly. Too slowly.

Yet, a little underneath it was a different worry. A lingering fear on his tongue that the arrival of the Witcher would mess up the Bard’s friendship with Yennefer. He chuckled at the irony. It would be the reversal of what had happened between the three of them on the dragon’s mountain, only a short six months earlier. Except this time the Witcher would be the one driving two people apart, not the Sorceress. But either way, Jaskier would end up alone.

As he delved deeper, anger nipped at his fingers. He still hadn’t forgiven Geralt for what he had done to him, back then. Sure, it had been half a year since the mountaintop, but it had been so many years since Jaskier first had started travelling with the Witcher. Their friendship, Jaskier’s… love, had been building up for so, so long, only to be shattered in a matter of minutes because the other had one particularly shitty day.

Yet, a bit deeper, the anger was directed at himself. For following the Witcher all those years ago, even after being told no so many times. For getting his hopes up that the other might feel something for him too, as though the whispers of “he doesn’t feel” hadn’t followed him around everywhere. For exposing his vulnerable, glass heart to the Butcher of Blaviken, of all people, and for being surprised when it had gotten shattered.

Closest to the center was hurt, as he had suspected. It dragged at his hand, threatening to pull him under, but he stood his ground and faced it, salty tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he squeezed them shut, burying his face in his knees. There was no denying it: Geralt had hurt him. So, so much. For the first time in months he succumbed to it, let himself feel, and he sobbed into his legs.

Soft, slender arms wrapped around his trembling form and Yennefer held him tight, shushing him as she buried her face in his messy curls. “It’s okay, Jaskier, you can cry. It’s okay.” Sincerity tinged her words and he believed her, letting his tears flow freely, as the minutes melted into one another.

Eventually sobs turned into hiccups, which turned into the first deep, steady breaths he had taken in days. The storm in his chest had dissolved, leaving him in a wasteland. In the centre, the pieces of his glass heart lay scattered around, edges smoothed by the unexpected friendship he had found in the Sorceress, who was still holding him in her arms.

He picked up a shard, fitting it into another, and they mended together, though the former cracks were still visible, the glass thin and fragile at those borders. Bit by bit, he slowly pieced them together, rebuilding his glass heart. Eventually, he stepped back, and admired his work. Though it was still weak, and scars webbed over its surface, it was whole once again, standing with meagre pride in the middle of his wasteland.

He smiled for the first time in days, and fell asleep in Yennefer’s arms, finally at peace.

҉    ҉    ҉

He awoke the next morning as the first rays of sunlight fell on his closed eyes. He was laying down, and Yennefer had put a pillow under his head and a blanket over his sleeping form. Moon was sleeping on his shoulder and woke up when he shifted a little, earning him a sleepy meow and a few headbutts. He laughed a bit and scratched behind her ears, but was distracted when he heard the Sorceress behind him. “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

She placed a bowl of fruits on the table in front of him as he pushed himself up. She sat next to him, shoving his legs away. “Scoot over, Jask.”

He rolled his eyes at her, and took the fruit, sending a small “thanks” her way.

Her features were worried as she asked: “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thank you for being there for me.” The sparkle in her eyes returned and she ruffled his hair.

“Well, someone has to do it.” He laughed and flicked a piece of apple at her, ignoring her loud “hey!” as he kept on eating, watching the sun rise. The silence between them was comfortable, and the peaceful blanket that had been disrupted with Geralt’s arrival, lay around the house again.

His attention was drawn by the living room door opening behind them, and Moon’s subsequent hissing at the newcomer. Jaskier froze in place, feeling the blood drain from his face as a deep, raspy voice behind him spoke his name. He turned his head, only half facing the Witcher as he stood in the doorway, yellow eyes trained on the brunet.

Jaskier turned to Yennefer, who was also frozen in place, eyes flicking between the two men.

“I can’t do this. Not now.” She nodded, and the bard stood up, going into the garden. He was well aware of Geralt’s eyes following his every movement through the glass as he hurried to the stable, sagging against the wall when he made it inside. Roach pushed her nose against him, big, brown eyes begging for a treat, then snorting and walking away when she realized he had none.

He peeked around the corner, to the house, and saw Geralt sitting on the couch. He walked out of the stable, eyes still on the living room, and felt his way to the gate in the hedge that surrounded the garden, hand stretched out backwards. When he found it, he turned around and left the plot as quickly as he could manage, slamming the gate behind him.

He had forgotten it was winter, and found himself in an ankle-deep layer of snow the moment he stepped outside. He shivered and hugged himself, rubbing warmth into his upper arms. He started the small trek to the very top of the hill, where a bench stood under a maple tree. He wiped the snow off the surface and sat down, ignoring the cold that seeped into his legs, and his now-wet socks.

He sat there, for a while, staring out over the many hills and their crowns of barren trees. Every sound was muffled in his ears, and the woods were quiet, most of the forest creatures asleep or gone for the winter.

Something bigger shuffled in the snow behind him, and he rolled his eyes. He wasn’t ready to face Yennefer or Geralt just yet, but if he had to…

He sighed and was about to turn around when the thing behind him growled. A long, deep threatening sound that reverberated in his bones. He stood quickly, snatching a thick branch off the ground and whirling around.

His heart skipped a beat, then started beating faster, as adrenaline coursed through his icy veins. He was face to face with a griffin.

Chapter Text

Geralt gasped and sat upright, arms raised and ready to fight, the second he woke up. It took his eyes a few moments to get adjusted to the light shining through one of the many tall windows. He first saw his own hands balled into fists in front of his chest, then, the creamy white sheets.

He looked around the modest but comfortable room. He saw a small desk, a wardrobe and two bedside tables, all made from the same intricately carved wood as the canopy bed he was laying in. His armour stood beside the dresser, still bloody and mangled. He frowned. From what?

It was then that he felt a dull pain in his shoulder, and he finally lowered his arms. Someone had dressed him in a simple, cotton shirt, the same colour as the sheets, and brown, wool pants. What the fuck? He lifted the fabric at his left shoulder, finding neatly wrapped bandages underneath. Small, green veins shot out over his skin, presumably centred around the wound.

He brought his nose closer to the bandages, sniffing. Ghoul poison.

Bit by bit, his memories returned. The weeks he spent trudging through the snow were a white haze, coated in exhaustion. After that, more clearly, the forest path, the monsters, the cottage. Bright blue eyes staring down at him. Jaskier.

The name hummed around in his bones, and he groaned as he pushed himself off the bed. He strained his ears, hearing a familiar voice from downstairs. Yennefer. His mind offered a memory of Triss Merigold telling him that they lived together, and that they got along. As weird as that sounded to Geralt, it still made a spark light inside his chest, hope igniting.

As he swung the door open, he found himself on a walkway, leading past three more doors to the stairs. The first one he passed smelled of lilac and gooseberries - Yennefer. The second one of bath salts and warm water – the bathroom. The third one of cinnamon and blueberries – Jaskier.

He made his ways down the wooden steps slowly, shivering as his bare feet touched the stone floor. He looked around, three more doors in the small hallway. The one nearest of him radiated cold, and he figured it must be the front door. The second one was open, leading to the kitchen, but Geralt’s stomach rolled over unpleasantly at the thought of the food.

Even if he would’ve been hungry, his attention was still drawn by the third one, Yennefer’s voice coming from behind it. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he heard her exclaim in surprise, and then laugh. She seemed to be having a one-way conversation though, always answering without a question. He paid no mind to it, and shuffled his way over the door, hesitating for a moment with his hand on the knob, before opening it.

He felt as though his chest was on fire, hope and joy having ignited him, as the Bard’s name fell over his lips. Jaskier seemed less delighted, on the other hand, and he only half faced him, as the Mage sat beside him, eyeing them both.

Jaskier then turned to her, doing… well, something with his hands, before abruptly standing up and stalking outside. Yellow eyes followed him as Yennefer sighed, and said: “Sit down, Geralt. And stop staring at him like that.”

His eyes only left the man as he went inside the stable, where he saw Roach, happy and well fed – to his relief. He finally turned to the Sorceress, the fatigue on her face startling him a bit.

He obliged, and took seat next to her on the creamy white couch, intense eyes never leaving her face. It was quiet between them for a moment, and she raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to say something or are you just going to keep looking at me?”

He hesitated, not sure what to say. He started with: “Thank you, for saving my life.” At least, that’s what he assumed she had done. The tiredness on her features and the fact that he was still alive pointed to that conclusion, though.

The sternness in her eyes softened a bit. “You’re welcome, Geralt.” She pulled the fabric of his shirt back and examined the bandages on his left shoulder, nodding curtly when everything seemed to be in order. “How are you feeling?”

Fine, but shaky, he guessed. Confused about Jaskier’s departure, but incredibly happy to see him alive and well after all the uncertainty he went through. Glad to see her, even though the memory of their unpleasant separation was still fresh in his mind. Grateful that she had saved his life. “Hmm,” he said instead.

She rolled her eyes at him, dropping the shirt back on his shoulder. “Eloquent as always, I see.”

His attention was drawn by wood slamming on wood. He looked up, and saw a gate in the hedge surrounding the yard shake and bounce open a bit, after being shut rather harshly. He frowned as he remembered that winter was still going strong outside of the spell Yennefer had put on her garden, and Jaskier hadn’t appeared to be wearing clothing that would sufficiently keep out the cold.

His mind went back to the weird gestures the Bard had made, but his thoughts were pulled back into the present as Yennefer cleared her throat. “Geralt, there’s something I need to tell you.”

His mind started racing through all the possible things she could say, ranging from bad to terrible. He tried to ignore the way his heart clenched in fear as she took one of his hands in both of hers.

“A few months ago, Jaskier was travelling around.” He had heard about it, and the rumours that followed the Bard’s disappearance.

She continued: “Well, he stopped by Rinde. Turns out, the djinn had been lying in wait for him there.” Coldness spread across his chest, anticipating and fearing what she would say next.

 “Maybe it sensed that I had undone the first wish, and it wanted to finish what it started. I don’t know.” Her voice sounded desperate and sad, a slight tinge of guilt lacing through her words.

“Anyway, it attacked his throat again.” She winced as Geralt’s hand squeezed hers a little too harshly, and he made a conscious effort to release her fingers from his death grip. “I was able to save him… but not his voice.”

Geralt felt the world drop out from underneath him and he was falling, thoughts racing in circles, ranging from “I’ll never hear him speak again” to “he must’ve been devastated”. Yet all were centred around “this is my fault. I did this to him.”

A sharp slap in his face brought him back to the quiet living room, and he realized he had been hyperventilating. Yennefer’s eyes were shooting fire and she hissed at him: “Get it together, Witcher. For him.”

He nodded, and focused on his breathing, managing to get it back to a slow and steady pace. He looked out the window, to the gate Jaskier had disappeared through, hurt and guilt mixing in his chest, eating away at him from the inside. “Do you think he’ll want to see me?”

Yennefer sighed, and looked at him sympathetically. “No. But we both know you have to apologize. Not for the djinn, but for what you said on the mountain.” He nodded uncertainly, and her eyes became serious. “You really hurt him, you know that, right?”

He sighed. “I know, and I really am sorry.”

She chuckled and pushed his shoulder towards the outside door, urging him to get to his feet and get going. “You don’t need to tell me, you have to apologize to him.”

҉    ҉    ҉

It was cold outside the garden, and he realized too late that his clothes were thin and he wasn’t wearing any shoes, his toes curling into the ankle-deep snow. He saw footsteps leading up the hill, a faint smell of cinnamon and blueberries along the tracks.

His head snapped up when he heard a growl coming from the maple tree on top of the hill. He started running, hands reaching for his sword, but finding air instead. Fuck. As he got closer, he smelled the sour stench of fear, mixed with the bitterness of monster blood.

He skidded to a halt at the bench under the large tree, next to Jaskier, who was holding a thick branch. He had managed to wound the griffin in front of them, blood dripping from one of its eyes. It screeched in fury, and stood on its hind legs, wings flapping behind it and the talons on the front paws slashing through the air.

It lowered itself back to the ground and charged at the pair, sharp beak clicking dangerously. Geralt pulled the branch from Jaskier’s hands, pushing the Bard behind him and shouting: “Run!”

He heard quick footsteps in the snow, moving away from him, and the knot in his stomach unravelled in relief. As the beast got close enough, he swung the large branch at the thing, cracking it in half as it connected with the skull. Fuck. He turned around, leading the beast away from the cottage, down the hill, half running, half slipping in the snow, spikes on berry bushes tearing his pants, leaving superficial scratches along his skin.

He stopped to a sudden halt as he was met with a hundred-foot drop down to the valley below, bare tree branches lining the bottom like spikes. They would surely impale him, were he to fall down. He heard the monster barging through the shrubbery behind him, and turned around, ready to face the thing. He cursed again as he saw Jaskier slipping down the hill as well, about ten yards behind the griffin, another branch in his hands. Stupid, brave idiot.

He grabbed a stone that was laying a few feet away, and threw it at the beast, making sure the thing didn’t notice the Bard in its rage. It worked, and it charged at him faster. A plan formed in Geralt’s head, and he stood there, arms up, ready to fight the beast with his bare hands. At the last possible second, before it reached him and sliced him open with its sharp beak, he stepped aside, and the griffin skidded over the edge, unable to stop itself in the slippery snow. It fell, wings only able to slow its descent, but plummeting to the sharp branches anyway.

He made eye contact with Jaskier, and smiled in relief, when a talon pierced his calf, dragging his leg backwards. He made a futile attempt to hold on to something, anything, hands grabbing at the snow. But then he, too, disappeared over the edge.

Chapter Text

Jaskier dropped the branch he was holding, mouth open in a soundless scream. He slid the rest of the way down the hill, barely stopping at the edge. He dropped to his stomach, and carefully peered over the edge, gasping in relief as he saw the Witcher, dangling from a rock protruding from the cliffside by his right hand.

Jaskier outstretched his arm, offering it to Geralt, while holding on to the edge with his other hand. The Witcher reached up, and groaned in pain as the barely healed wound in his left shoulder re-opened, blood leaking through the bandages onto his shirt. His hand was warm and calloused in the Bard's, desperate yellow eyes meeting cornflower blue ones.

Jaskier sat back on his heels, both hands grasping Geralt’s forearm, and he pulled with all his strength, teeth gritting against one another. The Witcher, in turn, took one of his arms with bruising force, and planted his feet on the cliffside, pulling himself up slowly.

Sweat formed on the Bard’s palms, and he panicked as he could feel the Witcher’s skin slide from underneath his fingers, threatening to drop him into the abyss. He barely noticed the tears leaking from his eyes, as he took the fabric of the other's shirt in one of his hands.

Finally, Geralt found enough support under his feet to push himself up and over the edge, where they both collapsed, panting. The Witcher turned on his back, staring up at the grey sky. “Well, that was close.”

Anger formed in Jaskier’s chest. Seriously? How could he be so casual when he had nearly been impaled on the sharp tree branches at the bottom of the cliff? He saw red, and clambered to his feet, huffing, fire spilling from his eyes. Geralt, in turn, looked surprised, and rose up as well, looking at the seething man strangely. “Jaskier, what-?”

The question was cut short, as he punched the Witcher’s chest. He knew it would barely do anything – physically – but he’d had enough of the other almost dying over and over. He hated to see him hurt, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. Just a few short minutes ago, he’d believed him to be dead, and it had made him want to jump off the cliff after him.

The Witcher caught his wrist as he was about to land the next punch. Jaskier desperately tried to break free, but Geralt’s grip didn’t relent. So instead, he swung his other arm forwards, interrupted  just as easily.

He raged at the other, mouth forming angry words, but no sound coming out. Oh, how he wished he still had his voice. Geralt, on the other hand, had done nothing, infuriatingly, except intercept Jaskier’s punches. He just frowned down at the slightly smaller man, gaze intent.

Jaskier tried to once again pull free, to no avail, so he resorted to kicking the Witcher in the shin, still trying to shout in his face. Geralt sighed, eyes sad, and let go of him. He stumbled a few paces back, then surged forward, pushing the Witcher’s chest, who, annoyingly, didn’t move back an inch.

He saw the other’s muscles tense, bracing for impact, as Jaskier took a step back in surprise, and reeled forward again. Yet this time, he closed his arms around his broad chest, cheek on the soft cotton of the shirt as he let his tears flow freely. Stupid Witcher, always in goddamn mortal danger.

He buried his face in the other’s chest, as strong arms circled around his back, and he sobbed, relief taking a hold of him, leaving him raw, exposed. He felt warm breath ghost against the shell of his right ear, as Geralt laid his cheek on the messy, brown curls.

“Jaskier, I’m…” His voice sounded soft, but raspy, like tears had gathered at the back of his throat, threatening to flow out like a waterfall if he talked too loudly. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

He sniffled and nodded, soft, creamy fabric creasing against his cheeks. The arms around him held him ever closer, the only sound breaking the silence in the woods his own sobs and ragged breaths.

Eventually he pulled back, and looked at Geralt, losing himself in the molten gold swirling around his pupils. A calloused hand came to rest against his tear-stained cheek, softly rubbing away his sorrows and misery as the smallest of smiles tugged at the Witcher’s lips. They formed his name, ever so softly, and he could barely tear his gaze back up.

Oh, how he wished he could say his name back, could feel the syllables roll of his tongue, like dewdrops from rose-petals, early on a spring morning. But he couldn’t, so instead he stood on his tiptoes, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, hand coming up to thread through the white locks, breaths curling around each other. There was one thing he could do.

“Jask…” The Witcher sighed, breath fanning over the Bard’s lips. Jaskier opened his eyes, the other man filling his senses. Yellow eyes, white hair. The smell of fallen leaves and leather. A calloused hand cradling his cheek. Their combined breathing. A smile tugging at his lips, a twinkle in the gold. A streak of red in the corner of his vision. Wait.

He pulled back, ignoring the small sigh Geralt let out, and pulled the shirt from the other’s left shoulder, revealing blood-soaked bandages underneath. Another glimpse of red caught his eye, and he dropped to his knees, ripping the bottom of his shirt and tying it around the deep gash the griffin left in the Witcher’s right calf.

He heard a groan of pain above him as he tightened the fabric around the wound, securing it neatly. He pulled Geralt’s right arm around his shoulder as he got up, resting his left along the broad, muscled back. The Witcher muttered a “thanks” and they started moving back to the cottage.

Getting up the hill wasn’t easy, and they slipped three times, threatening to send them down the hill and into the abyss below. They made it up there eventually, though, resting a bit on the bench under the large maple tree. The entire time, Geralt held his arm over the Bard’s shoulder, pulling him tightly against his side as they sat, staring at the view. Bare trees crowned the hilltops, a grey sky above their heads.

He felt the ribcage against his cheek rise and fall deeply, the Witcher humming as the sigh fell from his lips. “I could get used to this,” his voice was gentle, content, despite the blood that still dripped from his wounds, leaving marks like fallen roses in the snow beneath their feet.

҉    ҉    ҉

Eventually, they made it back to the cottage, shuffling the short walk down the hill and into the garden. Roach neighed as they pushed through the gate, alerting Yennefer of their return. She barged out of the house, presumably having seen how heavy Geralt was leaning on him.

“What happened?” She took the Witcher’s weight on her own shoulders, and half-dragged him back inside, ignoring the red that dripped on the grey stones. She directed him into her Magic Room, setting him down on a rickety chair that groaned under his weight. Jaskier stood in the corner, wringing his hands, unsure of what to do.

“Griffin attack,” Geralt groaned, wincing as she pulled the makeshift bandage from his calf, dried clots of blood holding onto the edges of the wound, before finally separating.

“A griffin?” Surprise was apparent in her voice as she poured water over his leg. “Never heard of one so far south.”

The small-talk was driving Jaskier crazy, but relieved him at the same time. The injuries weren’t bad enough to warrant the Mage’s full focus.

“Well, it is a cold winter this year.” She nodded, and pulled a thread through a needle. Jaskier felt himself pale a little, rushing out of the room. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep from fainting, if he were to watch her stitch the Witcher up.

Moon meowed, a long piercing sound, as she jumped on the couch he was curled up on. She slipped underneath his arms and settled in the space between his legs and chest. He laughed a little, softly stroking her, fingers disappearing in her ever growing fur. She purred, and his mind flashed back to the griffin’s growl, hand stilling on her back for a moment.

He heard soft voices coming from the Magic Room, then stumbling and uneven footsteps as Geralt walked back into the living room, Yennefer in tow. She looked positively exhausted, having had to perform multiple healing spells over the past few days. Jaskier smiled at her, taking her hand as she passed behind the couch and resting it against his cheek, looking up at her.

She smiled lazily, eyes unfocused with fatigue. “I’ll be fine, Jask. Don’t worry about me.” He nodded, and let go of her, following her with his eyes as she left the living room. Her soft footsteps disappeared up the stairs, and in the corner of his eye, he saw Geralt cock his head to the side.

“So… You two a thing, now?” Jaskier rolled his eyes at the Witcher, shaking his head. He hoped it would be enough to deter the man from the idea that she was anything more than his best friend. His mind blanched at the idea. Yeah, no way.

Yet, Geralt persisted, much to his annoyance. “Do… Do you want to be?” Jaskier felt anger flare up in his chest again, scrunching his nose at the other in disgust, hoping he would get the bloody message.

The only response was a hum, and the Bard stared ahead, into the garden. He felt the couch dip next to him. Moon hissed and escaped from the living room into the kitchen. He wondered why the cat didn’t like Geralt, but decided not to dwell on it too much. For now.

He heard the other clear his throat, but stubbornly left his eyes on the green trees, gently swaying in the breeze. “Jaskier, I…” The Witcher started, voice unsure. “I meant what I said earlier. I truly am sorry, for everything.” He sounded gruff, but the Bard knew it was just to hide the feelings that lingered closely under the surface. He knew Geralt, he’d travelled with him long enough to see through the façades and the charades.

Silence hung between them like a fog, heavy and thick with words unsaid. He sighed, and reached for the notebook that was lying on a small table at the arm of the couch, thinking a bit before scribbling down a lie. The tip of the pencil danced across the paper in treacherous, false lines. “I accept your apology. It’s okay.” He topped it off with his most convincing smile, but the look on Geralt’s face told him he didn’t buy it. He knew, he always did. They had travelled long enough together that he, too, could see through the other’s lies and deceits.

He tore his gaze away from the sunflower eyes, scribbling a pathetic excuse on his notebook. “That’s enough excitement for one day, I’m going to take a nap.” He left quickly, but caught a glimpse of a grimace anyway.

He hurried up the stairs, trading his snow-soaked clothes for some warm nightwear and slipping between the soft sheets. He did feel tired, but he still tossed and turned. His mind replayed the whole day, looping the memories of them standing close together, on the edge of the world, in each other’s arms. His thoughts were filled with eyes like dandelion wine, soft, calloused skin, and the ghost of hot breath on his face.

He sighed in annoyance, and pulled the blanket over his head, trying to drive the memories from his mind, but the more he pushed them away, the quicker they came back. He uncovered his face, and stared out the window, watching as the sky grew ever darker and snow began to fall softly. He drifted into sleep, but was woken again as he heard heavy footfalls on the stairs, heart clenching as they passed his room, entering the spare bedroom down the hall.

He heard shuffling, and a few muffled thuds, frowning at the noise. He better not wake up Yennefer. For a moment, he considered rousing her, to ask for her advice, but he decided against it. She needed her rest. He would have to ask her later about what he should do with the feelings spilling from his lungs with every breath. He smiled a bit as he imagined the scathing “get it together, Jask” she would surely give him.

Trying to ignore the pacing that emerged from the spare room, he wondered for the thousandth time what would have happened, if Geralt hadn’t pushed him away, if Jaskier had admitted how he had been feeling for years, if they hadn’t met at all. Oh, in another place and in another time, what could we have been?

Eventually, he fell into a restless sleep, his arms wrapped around a pillow, cheek resting against it. The image of crowned hills and the grey sky burnt on the inside of his eyelids.

Chapter Text

Geralt was scheming something. Jaskier didn’t know what just yet, but he knew the Witcher was up to something. He barely left his room, only showing his face to eat whatever Yennefer or Jaskier had prepared, to take a bath once and again, or to take care of Roach. Besides that, he spent the remaining time behind his closed door, sometimes pacing, sometimes eerily silent.

Jaskier was in the garden, pulling out weeds, two days after Geralt had started exhibiting this strange behaviour. He looked up, eying the windows to the spare bedroom, but they only showed the wooden ceiling. He frowned, as fear and worry blossomed in his chest. It was driving him crazy, this avoiding behaviour, and made him wonder what he had done to deserve this.

Maybe Geralt knew he hadn’t really accepted the Witcher’s apology, and simply remained inside to steer clear of awkward encounters. Maybe he just didn’t care for the Bard, now that he had lost his voice, and was just biding his time, waiting to be healed before he could be out on the road again. He grimaced at the thought. It did make sense, though. What good was a Bard who couldn’t sing? And Geralt had always had that air of a badass, lone White Wolf, who didn’t need anyone by his side. He’d probably soon be travelling the Continent again, alone once more.

He hissed as his hand wrapped around a nettle, having been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the painful weed before it was too late. A movement on his right caught his eye, though, and he looked up. He saw a flash of white in one of Geralt’s windows, and he frowned again. It was probably just his imagination, providing him with false hope.

҉    ҉    ҉

The muscles in his arms burned as he kneaded the dough on the wooden countertop. Light shining through the window on his right blinded him a bit, but he kept stubbornly working the bread. It had been a week since Geralt had spent more than an hour outside of his room, and it was driving him mad.

Surely, the wounds would have healed up by now, thanks to Yennefer’s magic, so what was keeping him here? Clearly not the company of the Bard and the Mage, as they barely ever saw him. No, he was still obviously up to something, and Jaskier had spent many hours pondering what the Witcher could be doing all those hours he remained in his bedroom. But Jaskier’s mind always came up empty, every idea more ridiculous than the last.

So instead, he worked his anger out on the dough, nimble fingers sticky with it, flour on his face and in his hair. He wiped his hands on the blue apron Yennefer got him last month, and dumped the bread on a baking tray, carving three stripes in it with a knife to let it rise to its fullest potential. He turned around, opened the searing hot oven, and carefully put the tray in, yet he managed to burn the side of his right hand as he moved his arms out.

He hissed, and slammed the oven door shut as he sucked on the burn lightly. He took the hand out of his mouth and inspected the wound. It was nothing too serious, no more than an angry red stripe on his skin, but it would be tender for the next few days.

The light ruffling of clothes drew his attention and he turned around in time to hear a door slam upstairs. He frowned. What the fuck? Then, he looked down, and saw a little jar standing on the floor, in the doorway. He walked over to it, bending to pick it up. It was a white cream, a label in scratchy handwriting telling him it was to treat burns.

He sat down at the kitchen table, opening the metal lid and taking some of the cream on one of his fingers. It smelled nice, like cherry blossom. He sighed as he put it on the small, red strip on his right hand, the salve soothing the pain immediately, leaving a pleasant tingling behind.

He looked at the jar, and he was lost in thought. He had seen this before, in Roach’s saddlebags, Geralt had used it once when Jaskier had managed to burn himself on the campfire. He remembered it clearly, his clothes smouldering as the Witcher rubbed the cream on his left forearm, chastising him for being so careless around fire and to “please never, ever do something like that again”.

So, apparently the Witcher had graced him with his presence, only to give him some burn medication, and to take off as soon as Jaskier had caught air of his presence. Bollocks, he was acting weird.

He looked at the clock, startling as he saw that an hour had already passed by. It was time to take the bread out. He put on the oven mitts – also a gift from Yenna – and managed to get the loaf out, without hurting himself this time. He inhaled the rich scent as he put it down on a cutting board. An idea started to form in his head like a mountain stream from snow.

He wafted cool air at the bread with another cutting board, trying to cool it off to the point where he could cut it, but it would still be warm on the inside. He tentatively touched the crust with his fingertips, a pleased grin appearing on his face when he found it didn’t hurt his sensitive skin.

He took the big bread knife from the drawer, gripping the handle tightly as he put the blade on the crust. Tiny, sharp pieces jumped from underneath the knife and pricked his skin as he cut through the bread, a pleasant aroma filling his senses and making his mouth water.

He put three still-warm slices on a plate, next to the jar of cream, and a small note: “thank you.” He frowned at the words, but failed to figure out what else he could possibly say. “Hey, Geralt, I know freshly baked bread is one of your favourite things in the whole world, though you never told me and even insisted it wasn’t. I just couldn’t help but notice how you always close your eyes contentedly when you eat fresh bread. Also thank you for the cream, even though you booked it the second you gave it to me. I haven’t seen you in days but I still care about you and I’m scared that you’re planning on going away and I don’t think I can ever bear you leaving me again. Love, Jaskier.”

That was ridiculous. So he settled on the simple “thank you.” He tried to make it up the stairs as quietly as possible, wincing at every creak the floorboards made under his feet. He set the plate down in front of Geralt’s door, and swiftly ran back down the stairs, hiding behind the kitchen wall. Two can play this game.

He heard a door open upstairs, and the sound of a plate clicking gently on the wood as it got picked up. He swore he could hear a soft hum of appreciation, before the door closed again.

҉    ҉    ҉

“What do you mean, you’re leaving tomorrow?” Jaskier looked at Yennefer incredulously. She couldn’t be serious, right?

“I mean exactly what I say, Jask. I’m going to Kaer Morhen and I’m leaving tomorrow.” She sighed as he simply stared at her, blue eyes angry and confused. “Look, Ciri needs someone else to help her control her magic. She has made a lot of progress, but there simply are things the Witchers can’t teach her. Their magic is crude and rudimental, and she needs someone to help her refine her skills.”

He looked at her pleadingly. “Can’t I go with you? I don’t want to stay here all alone.”

She put her hands up, shaking her head. “No, she and I will have to focus on our work. We won’t have time for you, so it doesn’t matter whether you’re here or there, you’ll be alone anyway.”

She put one of her hands on his, looking him in the eye resolutely. “And I’d rather you be here, where I know you’ll be safe.” Her tone became airy and light, as she threw her raven hair over her shoulder. “Besides, you won’t be alone. Geralt’s still here.”

She smiled as he threw his hands up, rolling his eyes. “We both know I’ll be as good as alone, Yenna. He never leaves his room anymore. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s barely been outside in the past two weeks.”

She laughed. “Whatever. I’m sure he has a good reason.” He squinted at her as something twinkled in her eyes, a glint of mischief.

He leaned towards her. “You know what he’s doing in there, don’t you?” His suspicions were confirmed as she feigned ignorance, shaking her head and raising her shoulders, but he could see past the façade.

“Whatever. I’ll find out eventually.” A smirk danced across her lips, and he could almost read her thoughts clear as day. “Oh, you will.”

It had been a while since he had seen Geralt and Yennefer like this, thick as thieves. On one hand, it filled him with joy, to see them becoming friends again, and he could see the good it did the Mage. She appeared to be nearly radiating with happiness and the bounce in her step had returned.

Yet, it also filled him with dread, to see them conspiring together against him. Of course, he knew she would do him no harm, but he was still suspicious. Obviously, this last minute plan to go to Kaer Morhen served a purpose. One he did not know yet, though.

҉    ҉    ҉

The next afternoon, he hugged her tightly, as she whispered a soft “take care, Jask,” into his ear.

He smiled at her sadly. “You too, Yenna. Gods know those Witchers can be brutes.” He glanced to his left, at Geralt, who was standing a few feet behind him. She laughed and pulled him into one last hug.

“It’s just a week, I’m sure we’ll both be just fine.” He eyed her suspiciously, as the familiar mischievous twinkle returned in her eyes. He did not like the way she had stressed ‘just fine’ like that.

She smiled at him innocently, and waved her goodbye to Geralt. “Good luck, Witcher.” Good luck? What was that supposed to mean?

She opened a portal, a stony beach appearing on the other side, and she stepped through, strong winds lapping at her hair, and she waved to them one more time before the portal closed again. It left the smell of ozone in the air, and the air around him crackled, like it always did before lightning would strike on a hot summer’s day, making the small hairs at the base of his head stand on end.

He turned around as he heard the front door softly close, and anger flared up in his chest. He’d had enough of Geralt avoiding him for weeks, and he was not looking forward to spending seven days alone with him in the cottage.

He huffed, and made his way upstairs, to his own room. A piece of paper on the floor of the hallway drew his attention and he picked it up, regarding it as he closed the door behind him. The sheet had been crumpled before, then had been carefully smoothed down again. He recognized his own handwriting and frowned. It was a song he had written shortly after arriving at the cottage, but he had thrown it away. Or at least, so he thought. Someone must have been rummaging through my discarded papers.

He read the words for the first time in months.

“I am not the only traveller / who has not repaid his debt. / I’ve been searching for a trail to follow, again. / Take me back to the night we met.” He remembered now. It was about Geralt. Wasn’t it always, though? He’d felt lost, directionless, like a small rowboat on the open sea. Before, the Witcher had been his lifeline, to follow around and after that, his music took him to all sorts of places, and gave his life meaning. But when he had written this, he had nothing else left. Oh, how he wished he was a young lad again, laying his eyes on a white-haired stranger for the first time.

“And then I can tell myself / what the hell I’m supposed to do. / And then I can tell myself / not to ride along with you.” He would take his younger self by the doublet, and would drag him out of Posada, away from the brooding man. It would spare him a lot of heartbreak and hurt, and he would get to keep his voice- no. He shouldn’t think like that, it wasn’t Geralt’s fault. Yet a tiny part of him in the back of his head told him that maybe, it kind of was.

“I had all and then most of you / some and now none of you. / Take me back to the night we met.” He had lost the Witcher slowly over time. He had realized that, the moment he had declined his invitation to go the coast together. The fight afterwards was just a culmination of every little thing that had happened over the years, the cherry on top of a very shitty pie.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do / haunted by the ghost of you. / Take me back to the night we met.” Even now, he caught himself looking over his shoulder, to say something to Geralt, but he would only find air behind him and a wasteland in his chest.

He sighed, then frowned as he could see the shadow of ink on the other side of the page. He turned it around and found some more lines, scratched out three times, but still readable, in a scratchy handwriting.

“When the night was full of terror / and your eyes were filled with tears. / When you had not touched me yet. / Oh, take me back to the night we met.”

“I had all and then most of you / some and now none of you. / Take me back to the night we met. / I don’t know what I’m supposed to do / haunted by the ghost of you. / Take me back to the night we met.”

He hadn’t written this, but a suspicion rose in him. The scratchy handwriting was too familiar for his liking. Geralt. He had never taken him for a songwriter, but then again, the man wasn’t exactly open about anything.

He opened his door, piece of paper in hand, to confront the Witcher about what he had found, and maybe to give him a proper chewing out for avoiding him for weeks. He was met, however, with the door to the spare bedroom slightly ajar. He peeked inside. The sheet slipped from his fingers as he regarded the chaos.

The floor was covered in papers, and several piles of books sat on the small desk. The bed wasn’t made, the sheets thrown over it haphazardly, pillows crumpled. It looked as if a tornado had ravaged everything.

He frowned again, and checked the bathroom, finding it empty. He decided to go downstairs, freezing in place as he turned to the back of the house, and found the living room door slightly open, faint candlelight coming from within.

He padded his way over to it, pushing it open softly. Only two candles were burning inside, and in the light, he could see Geralt sitting on the couch. He looked up in surprise. “Jaskier…”

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was that night had fallen. He frowned. He hadn’t realized it was already this late. His attention was drawn by Geralt as he stood up, regarding him insecurely. His white hair was clean, and combed into a neat half-ponytail, he had shaved, and he was wearing a white shirt and black pants. Jaskier frowned some more. He had never seen the Witcher wear white before.

Geralt thrusted a small bouquet in Jaskier’s direction. He could immediately see that the flowers had been cut from the meticulously upkept garden, their aroma tingling his nose, their stems an uneven length. He took them with a suspicious look, fingers coming up to caress the fragile petals as he all but buried his nose into the flowers. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the scent filling him with memories of better times, laying in the summer grass, counting the clouds that drifted above his head in the azure sky. He became light headed, and opened his eyes again.

Geralt still stood there, hands clasped behind his back, looking at his feet as they shuffled over the stone floor. He gazed up as Jaskier put the bouquet on the table, signing a “thank you” in his direction. He frowned, held his right hand flat on his head, and pulled it down into a fist with the thumb sticking out, mouthing the question. “Why?”

The Witcher seemed to understand what he was asking, and seemingly grew even more nervous as he looked down at his feet once more. “I uh…” He took a few shaky breaths, and looked the Bard in the eye again. “Jaskier, will you please sit down?” His voice was soft, and he gestured at the couch opposite him, his movements choppy and forced.

Jaskier obliged, and lowered himself onto the soft, creamy cushions, hands folded in his lap. I will listen but I have nothing to say to you. Geralt cleared his throat, moving his weight from one foot to another. “I uh…” he frowned, hand scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “You want some tea?”

Jaskier sighed, and unfolded his hands, planting them on the couch, starting to get up. Geralt seemed to panic, and shook his head, putting his palms forward. “Please, Jaskier, don’t go.” He was stammering, a blush creeping up his neck. Well, that’s a first.

He nodded curtly, lowering himself back into the cushions, folding his arms in front of his chest. Geralt sighed in relief, and his hand went back to his neck, then scratched at the freshly shaven chin. Moments passed and seconds blended into each other, the stillness in the room only interrupted by the occasional flickering of the candles.

Geralt sighed, and seemed to have finally gathered his courage, earning a raised eyebrow and a questioning look from Jaskier. “I… uh…” This was the third time he had said that, and it made the Bard want to pull his hair out. He had never seen the Witcher so insecure, so at a loss for words.

“I need to tell you something, Jaskier.” He stammered a bit, opening and closing his mouth once, twice, finally tearing his eyes up from the table and looking him in the eye. His voice was soft as he continued: “Please don’t interrupt me until I’m done.”

Jaskier snorted. Interrupt him? Sure, tell the mute person to not interrupt him, why not? Even then, he wasn’t obliged to listen to what the Witcher had to say. He’d basically ignored him for the past two weeks and now he wants to talk, and Jaskier isn’t allowed to interrupt him, seriously? Apparently the budding anger had shown on his face, and Geralt held his hands up again, stammering some more. “I- I didn’t mean it like that.”

He squinted his eyes at the Witcher, a silent command to say what he had to say. He dreaded it, though, one half expecting Geralt to announce that he was leaving, the other expecting maybe a more drawn out version of the apology he had given him two weeks ago, and then the declaration he was leaving. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, but he knew he had to give Geralt a chance.

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline as the Witcher raised his right hand, spelling out his name perfectly, although a little unsure. That’s different. His heart clenched, then sang out in his wasteland as Geralt started to sign.

“Jaskier. I know I don’t deserve your attention right now, I never have.” He snorted, it was seemingly as if Geralt had read his thoughts earlier. The Witcher paused for a second, eyes unsure, but continued.

“Yet you have always been there for me, in more ways than you ever might’ve known. When I first met you, I had lost all faith in humanity. I had forgotten people are kind. I was hurting, but then you were there. And you were kind, and bright, and you were following me around. I was scared that you’d get hurt. And you did, so I pushed you away over and over, but you kept coming back.”

He had always known the Witcher had been in a dark place when they met, but he’d never realized to what extent.

“And you were there, again and again, being silly, singing songs, and being so bright and kind, a light in the darkness of this world. I felt, after a while, that even though I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt, I couldn’t bear the thought of you not being around, either. I enjoy your company, I always have, I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”

The confession took Jaskier aback, and he looked at Geralt, wide-eyed in wonder and shock.

“Then, in Rinde, my stupidity got you hurt. My worst nightmare had come true. But then you were cured again, and you acted as if everything was fine, but it wasn’t. You had gotten hurt and it was my fault. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you had died because of me, so I pushed you away again, and again, in an effort to keep you safe, to keep your light in this dark world.”

Tears started to form behind his eyes. He had never known how much Geralt had been affected by what happened with the djinn. Sure, he’d noticed that the Witcher had become more distant, but he always thought it was because of the Sorceress.

“And yet, you kept coming back to me. And I didn’t understand. Why would you? Surely, you had gotten enough material for a hundred ballads, but you kept coming back. And deep down, I knew the truth, I always have, I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”

Jaskier could practically feel the embarrassment and shame emanating off Geralt. He knew Witchers were trained to be fearless, the emotion beaten out of them long ago, so hearing the man in front of him admit to being a coward – twice, now – shook him to his very core.

 “Then, on the mountain, you asked me to go to the coast with you, and I realized I wanted nothing more than that. To travel far away with you, to a place where you’re safe, where you can laugh and live and let your light shine a way through the darkness of this world. But I knew that danger will always follow me wherever I go, that I could not keep you safe forever.”

A tear slipped from Jaskier’s eye, and he rubbed it away quickly, only for it to immediately be replaced with another. He remembered that afternoon. It had all started to fall apart after that, but he had never known why.

“So, the last time I saw you, I pushed you away, as far as I could. I was hurting, and you knew. You showed me the same kindness you always had, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I’m not worthy of your attention, I never have been and never will be, so I told you what I knew would hurt you. What would drive you away, to where you would be safe, and where you would hopefully, one day, let your light illuminate the darkness again.”

Tears now flowed freely from his eyes, and he no longer tried to wipe them away. A lot made sense to him now, and the confession softened the edges of the old hurt.

“Yet, I have spent the last few months increasingly missing you, asking around for you and searching for you. Searching for your brightness in this dark world. Because deep down, I knew the truth, I always have, I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”

Geralt walked around the table, kneeling in front of him, wiping away a tear off Jaskier’s cheek before continuing.

“And then I found you, and without knowing it, I had hurt you, I had diminished your brightness even though I wasn’t there. And I made a resolution to leave you alone, to do everything in my power to make sure I never hurt you again. But then I remembered.”

A soft smile danced across the Witcher’s face, his golden eyes reflecting the candlelight. He sighed deeply before continuing once more.

“I remembered the way you always followed me around, no matter what. I remembered the way you told me that someday, someone would want me. I remembered the way you invited me to the coast. I remembered the way you looked so unbelievably hurt when I yelled at you. I remembered the way you wrote that one song after that. And I remembered the way you looked at me, two weeks ago, when you saved my life.

And then I remembered the way I felt, realized that I have always known the truth, deep down. I always have, I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”

A calloused hand cradled Jaskier’s cheek and Geralt smiled as the Bard could only stare in disbelief. Someone pinch me, this must be a dream.

Geralt’s voice was soft and raspy, as he looked at Jaskier with fondness and devotion in his eyes like he had never seen before. As if he would gladly die for him, as if he would move mountains and drain seas for him, as if he would stop the coming and going of seasons and the rise and fall of the sun, for him. As if Jaskier was the sun to Geralt’s moon and stars, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do.

“I love you, Jaskier. I always have, and I always will. I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”

He let his tears flow out of his eyes as he put his hand over the calloused one that was laying on his cheek, fingers intertwining.

He had never wanted his voice back more than in this moment, as he mouthed the words back to Geralt. A single tear rolled down the Witcher’s cheek as Jaskier bent forward, resting their foreheads against each other, breaths curling around one another.

He cocked his head slightly to the right and they moved towards each other, lips touching, light as a feather. Geralt pulled back, eyes questioning and hopeful, love brimming around the edges, bringing the gold to life. Jaskier smiled, and took the Witcher’s chin in his hand, pulling him forward, kissing him lightly.

Geralt smiled widely, adoration and joy illuminating the candlelit room around them, and Jaskier couldn’t help himself but kiss him again, again, again. He ran his fingers through the soft, silver hair as the Witcher held him close. They were both still crying, but out of happiness and love, as they found home again in each other’s arms.

“I love you,” Geralt whispered in his ear, then buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. Jaskier laughed lightly. His hands were busy holding the Witcher, one in the soft hair, the other drawing sweet nothings on his broad back, so he resorted to pecking a small kiss under his ear.

He pulled back once more, resting his forehead against the other again. Cornflower eyes met dandelion ones, and they both smiled as they sat there for a while. Calloused hands almost engulfed his face as they cupped his cheeks, warmth radiating into his skin.  He, in turn, laid his hands against Geralt’s cheekbones, thumbs stroking the smooth skin under his eyes, then trailing downwards to his lips, who kissed his fingers softly as he brushed over them.

He replaced his thumbs with his own lips, smiling against the other, tasting autumn and the sea. It intoxicated him, filling all his senses and he realized in that moment that he could never, ever get tired of kissing his Witcher.

Chapter Text

“What have you been doing in here the past two weeks?” Yennefer slowly turned in a circle as she regarded the chaos that was the spare bedroom. “This place looks like a tornado passed through.”

She paced over to where Geralt was leaning against the door and pushed a single finger into his chest, eyes narrowed and furious. “You better clean this up, Witcher. I don’t want my house turning into a dump.”

He was taken aback a bit, and frowned at her anger. “Hmm.” He hadn’t meant for the room to become such a mess, that sort of thing always just happened around him.

She huffed and turned back around, intertwining her arms in front of her chest, and walking toward the window. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She looked at the bright green garden, sighing.

Geralt bent down and started picking pages off the floor, trying his best to arrange them into a pile. They were mostly earlier plans and versions of the speech he had prepared for Jaskier. Hell, he’d even tried writing a song, at first, rummaging through the Bard’s dismissed ideas for inspiration. But it had been no good, and he wasn’t exactly a singer, either.

He hadn’t bothered throwing the pages away, though, as the bin was already overflowing with balls of rejected papers. Sure, he could empty the bin, but then Jaskier could maybe read them, and discover Geralt’s plans.

He didn’t want the Bard to reject him before he was ready… if he ever could be, that was.

He looked up as Yennefer started talking again. “You haven’t answered my question, Witcher.”

He lifted an eyebrow as she looked at him over her shoulder, her silhouette framed by the sun shining through the window. “What have you been doing the past two weeks?”

He straightened again, dumping the small stack of papers next to the bin, where they scattered once more as they hit the floor. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the headache he’d been having for the past few days intensified. “I uh…”

He searched for the right words to explain his plan, the reasoning behind it, and his fears for the possible outcome, but his mind came up empty. Instead his eyes fell on the stack of books on his desk, and he picked up the one on top, showing it to Yennefer, a sheepish look on his face, no doubt.

The sunlight bounced off of the golden lettering on the cover of the book, reflecting onto her smooth skin as she squinted at the words. Surprise flashed across her features, before she burst out laughing, making Geralt frown in confusion.

Her laughter subsided, a few giggles still ringing through her chest. “Oh, this is too good to be true.” He frowned again, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. “The quiet one has to learn how to communicate now that the loud one is silent.”

He frowned some more, and looked at the golden letters on the cover of the book, looping cursive spelling out ‘Sign Language 5’. He looked back at Yennefer as she spoke once more. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding that poor Bard?”

He put the book back onto the pile, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “What?”

The Sorceress laughed again, though this time bitterness crept into her voice. She let herself fall back onto the bed, legs dangling over the edge, hands folded on her stomach.

“You see, Geralt, poor Jaskier downstairs thinks he’s done something wrong to deserve this kind of treatment. After all, you showed up, talked to him once, and then ignored everything and everyone, but mostly him, for two bloody weeks.”

Ice ran through his veins as he realized what he had done, what message he had given Jaskier, and he walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge next to Yennefer. He looked over his shoulder at her. “I didn’t think about that.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course you didn’t think about how you’re hurting him. Do you ever?”

He had to admit, that did sting a little, but he also knew she was right. The only time he had been near Jaskier was when the Bard had burnt himself, and even then, he’d been gone in an instant, back into his room. He didn’t want to see Jaskier in pain, yet Geralt himself had done most of the hurting.

He frowned, and sighed as he laid down next to Yennefer. “What do I do, Yen? I feel like I’m losing him.” He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, and he heard the soft sound of the Mage turning her face towards him.

“You’re going to have to act soon, Geralt. He thinks you’re planning on leaving, and I can practically see him crumbling apart at the thought.”

He groaned, letting his arms fall down onto the blankets. The canopy was creamy white above him, the sunlight filtering through. “I know, I know.” He sighed again. “I’m almost ready, I just need an opportunity.”

He turned to face Yennefer, her face framed by her raven locks, light revealing silver specks in her purple eyes. She frowned at him. “What kind of opportunity are we talking about here?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, brow furrowing in thought. “I don’t know. I guess it would be ideal if it were just Jaskier and me, somewhere we wouldn’t be interrupted. Maybe I can go to his room?”

She shook her head. “No, he’ll feel cornered. It probably would be best if you talked downstairs, in the living room. It’s open there, and comfortable.”

He nodded, and she continued: “But I can’t be home when it happens, though.”

He lifted up his head, cocking it as he looked down at her face. “Why not?”

She pulled up one eyebrow, a sly smirk on her face. “First of all, Witcher, I don’t know if you’ve gotten the news, but the Bard and I are good friends now. If I’m home, he’ll just flee to me like a child to his mother. No, he has to know he can’t outrun you.”

It was his turn to look surprised. “Gods, Yen, you make it sound like I’m going to hunt him for sport.”

She smirked at him, a look of ‘aren’t you?’ on her face, before she continued: “Secondly, if anything were to, you know… come of it,” he rolled his eyes as she grinned at him, “I don’t want to be home to hear it happen, thank you very much.”

He groaned, laying his head back down onto the sheets, flinging an arm over his eyes. He felt a sharp smack to his chest as Yennefer laughed a bit. “Anyways, Witcher, you needn’t worry. I’ve got just the idea.”

҉    ҉    ҉

She wished him good luck the next day, right before the portal closed. He rolled her eyes at her as she smirked at him, before completely disappearing. His gaze drifted to Jaskier, who was standing a few feet away from him, and he resisted the itch in his hands, urging him to reach out and touch the Bard’s smooth skin, his soft hair, his nimble fingers-

He hurried upstairs, afraid of what he might do or say, how he might mess his plan up. He all but slammed the door of the bedroom behind him and leaned against it. He strained his ears, and he could hear the front door closing, followed by a quiet sigh and footsteps up the stairs. His heartbeat nearly stopped as Jaskier stilled on the walkway, and part of Geralt longed to hear the Bard approach his door. Instead, it sounded like a paper was being picked up off of the floor, and Jaskier went into his own room.

He sighed, finally relaxing, as he started his plan. First, he would need to find some proper clothing, something appropriate for the occasion. He opened his wardrobe, finding black; black shirts, black pants, black shoes. He sighed. This wouldn’t do, he wore these clothes every day, and he wanted something special for that night.

His eye was drawn by a glimpse of light in the dark sea of his clothes. He tugged on it, a soft, white shirt unfurling from the bottom of the wardrobe, a small piece of paper falling to the floor. He picked it up and smiled when he saw the loopy handwriting. ‘For the big day,’ it said, and he vowed to thank Yennefer once she got back.

He took the shirt and a pair of black - obviously – pants, and hurried to the bathroom, two doors down the hall. He paused on the walkway, eyeing Jaskier’s closed door, and sighed.

The bath, of course, had been enchanted to always contain hot, clean water. He frowned at the seemingly dozens of bottles with oils, perfumes, and bath salts, unsure of which one to pick. He settled on chamomile and orange blossom.

“Oh, you usually let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?”

He smirked at the memory, sighing as he lowered himself into the steaming water. He sat there for a while, after he had finished washing himself, staring up at the ceiling, mulling over possible outcomes of that evening’s events.

Maybe he would lose the small bit of courage he had gathered so far, and would give up on his plan. He frowned at the thought. If he did that, he would surely lose Jaskier, having pushed him away too far. He couldn’t bear the thought.

Maybe the Bard wouldn’t be willing to listen to what Geralt had to say. He didn’t blame him, though. After all that had happened between the two of them, it had been a surprise that Jaskier hadn’t simply pushed him off the cliff a few weeks ago. It’s what he deserved.

Maybe Jaskier would listen, but would reject the Witcher. Geralt’s heart clenched at the thought. He had never felt like this for anyone before, and he knew that he would be laying his heart in the Bard’s hands tonight. What would happen to it, was up to Jaskier. He could crush it or-

Or he could not. He could accept Geralt’s love and maybe even return some of his own. Goosebumps rose along the Witcher’s skin, mouth going dry at the possibility of what could be. No matter how unlikely the last option seemed to be, it filled him with hope.

Golden light fell on his face, and he pushed himself out of the water quickly. He hadn’t noticed it had grown so late. He didn’t have much time left to prepare.

҉    ҉    ҉

He sat on the couch, leg bouncing on the stone floor, as he stared at his hands folded in his lap. On the table in front of him lay a small bouquet of flowers. He had cut them from the garden, and he could see that the stems were uneven and half-crushed. The sun had long set, and it was dark in the living room, save for two candles on the table.

His heart skipped a beat, then started beating faster as he heard Jaskier’s door open upstairs. Soft footsteps padded along the wood, to Geralt’s room. Sweat gathered in his hands, and he hoped the Bard wouldn’t find out about his plans, but he sighed in relief as the footsteps continued back down the hall. The bathroom door opened and closed, and Jaskier walked down the stairs, pausing at the bottom.

He could hear the Bard approaching the living room, and he revelled in the sight of Jaskier’s ruffled hair and delicate features as he stood in the doorway, mouth slightly agape. Geralt could feel his name falling over his lips, and he stood up. It was now or never.

҉    ҉    ҉

He could never, ever tire of kissing his Bard. The taste of blueberries and cinnamon intoxicated him, filling all his senses, surrounding him and curling around his mind. He squeezed Jaskier closer to him with his left arm, and drew sweet nothings on his Bard’s bare side with his right hand.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains and he buried his face in the brown curls, smiling and humming in content. Jaskier shifted a little against him, nuzzling into the broad shoulder under his cheek with a soft sigh.

He could feel his Bard’s heartbeat against his side as it quickened, and Geralt pulled back to see the blue eyes flutter open. “Hey, sleepyhead.” He chuckled as Jaskier smiled at him playfully, hand pushing himself up off the bed. His Bard pressed a small kiss to his lips, lingering a bit before getting up completely. The sun danced over his lithe form as he stretched out, and Geralt felt the strong need to pinch himself, to make sure that this wasn’t all just one beautiful dream.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he leaned back into the pillows, regarding Jaskier as he pulled on Geralt’s shirt from the previous night, the fabric nearly engulfing him, reaching halfway down his thighs. He smiled, as love swelled inside his chest.

If this was a dream, he didn’t want to wake up at all.

He stood up, hugging Jaskier from behind as he was absentmindedly staring out of the window. His Bard turned around to face him, his arms wrapping around his neck, a chaste peck on his lips.

They smiled at each other and Jaskier bumped his forehead into the Witcher’s, noses tickling each other, a toothy smile begging to be kissed again and again. So Geralt did.

He put every apology, every stolen look on a summer’s afternoon, every soft lullaby on a cold evening, every ‘I love you’ he would ever say, and every singly bit of his heart into Jaskier’s hands, and then some more.

In return, he promised the radiant light in his arms every moment of the rest of his life, every soft sigh that would escape his lips, every muttered declaration of love, every tight embrace, every second of happiness, and every star in the night sky.

And then some more.

Chapter Text

Morning light filters through the white curtains, falling on Jaskier’s face. He opens his eyes, smiling softly as he feels his Witcher’s chest rise and fall beneath his cheek, slow heartbeat thumping against his ear. Slowly, carefully, he moves his head so that he can look at Geralt’s still sleeping face.

He can’t resist his hand moving up to tuck a small strand of soft, silver hair behind his Witcher’s ear, his blue eyes following the finger’s movements. He admires the way the sunlight makes his hair shine, like liquid moonlight in his hand. He moves it down, running his fingertips along the sunspots dancing on Geralt’s soft skin.

He tears his gaze away from his hand as he feels the heart under him skip a beat, meeting eyes like molten gold. It’s his heart’s turn to stop for a second when his Witcher smiles at him softly.

“Good morning, little lark.” Geralt’s voice is still sleepy, deeper than usually, and Jaskier can’t keep the happiness off his face, though he rolls his eyes at the nickname.

He presses a chaste kiss to his Witcher’s lips, lingering for a bit, before closing his eyes again and burying his face in the crook of Geralt’s shoulder. He feels the strong arm around his shoulder tighten a bit, and butterflies flutter around in his former wasteland.

He sighs deeply, contentedly, as he feels Geralt press a kiss on top of his brown curls. He can practically taste the salt in the air, and he hears waves crashing in the distance, gulls above the little beachside cottage they rented for the month.

He’s looking forward to the rest of the day, but for now he just wants to lay here, safe and protected and warm. As they lay there, together, a soft melody, lovely and sweet, forms in his head, lyrics drifting straight from his glass heart.

In the morning when I wake, and the sun is coming through.

Oh, you fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you.

҉    ҉    ҉

They spend the remaining time of their morning on the beach, walking along the ocean hand in hand. They’re both barefoot, and water and white sand slip through their toes with every step. Jaskier excitedly points out the many colourful boats drifting on the horizon, marking the line between the ocean and the sky. He describes how his grandpa used to have one of those, one with bright, yellow sails, and how he had once fallen off the thing.

Every time he tears away his eyes from the sea to make sure his Witcher’s paying attention to his story, he finds him staring with a fare-away look in his eyes, fondness softening his features. Jaskier tries his best to look irritated, but he fails to keep the smile off his face every time. Instead, he kisses the other softly, feeling flowers bloom in the former wasteland in his chest.

Every time, Geralt mutters an ‘I love you’ to his lips, and Jaskier feels as though the sun shines right through his chest, fragmentizing into an array of colour as it falls onto his glass heart.

“And I you,” Geralt smiles as Jaskier makes his name sign. He had made it a few weeks ago, right before setting off on their beachside vacation. He would simply curl his hands into fists, two fingers of each pinched together, as if holding a pebble – the letter G, then he would cross his arms over his chest. “Geralt, my love.”

He threads his fingers through his Witcher’s again, and drags him into the water, until the waves lap at their knees, weighing down the fabric of their pants. Geralt rolls his eyes at him, but smiles and lets himself be directed into the ocean.

Jaskier looks down, into the clear water, as a small, silver fish swims past his leg, the scales reflecting the light in a million colours. He looks back to the sea, watching boats disappear and reappear on the horizon, their bright sails a stark contrast with the blue of the sky and the ocean, blending into one another.

At some point, Jaskier tears his gaze away from the gorgeous view, and looks at Geralt’s profile. His Witcher, his love, stands there, eyes closed. Wind threads through the silver hair, nipping at the petals of the flowers the Bard braided into the soft strands earlier that day.

He squeezes the strong, calloused hand in his, and Geralt rubs his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand. The soft melody from that morning reappears in his head like one of the boats on the open ocean, the words drifting into his mind with the wind.

Shall I write it in a letter? Shall I try to get it down?

Oh, you fill my head with pieces of a song I can’t get out.

҉    ҉    ҉

That afternoon, they wander through the streets of Oxenfurt, hands intertwined, swinging between them. Jaskier looks around at the old buildings, nostalgia running through him as he thinks of his university days. Still, he looks at Geralt more.

They run into a few of his old friends, and they catch up again. Most of them express their sadness at the loss of his voice, some look at him with pity, but he doesn’t care. “I still have a voice, it’s just different now”, he thinks as he watches Geralt translate his words, and interact with his old friends.

Most of them seem taken aback by his Witcher at first, fear budding in their eyes, but it soon dissipates as they see Geralt regarding Jaskier with fondness in his eyes, flowers still braided into the silver hair.

Jaskier threads his thumb over his Witcher’s palm, drawing sweet nothings, fingers still intertwined, as they explore the small alleyways of the city together. Flowers from overgrown pots brush his cheek as they walk past tall houses lining the narrow, cobblestone road.

They find a small book store tucked into one of the corners of the winding street, and Jaskier drags Geralt inside, a grin on his face as he rummages through the books. He feels a nudge at his shoulder, and sees his Witcher holding up a copy of ‘Sign Language 5’, opened on the chapter ‘Emotions and how to express them’. Geralt points to one line in particular, and Jaskier blushes and smiles, before signing: “I love you too.”

He ends up buying a notebook, for new songs, as he left his old one at the tavern in Rinde, now nearly a year ago. Sure, he may not be able to perform the songs out loud, but his glass heart is singing in the meadow in his chest nonetheless.

They dine at a small, cutesy restaurant near the university, as the sun disappears behind the tall buildings and towers, the sky above turning a million different shades of orange, pink, and purple. The people around them chatter, but the pair sits in a bubble of comfortable silence, hands still intertwined on the table. There is no need for them to talk, they can say enough with their eyes.

The soft sounds of a lute emerges from a tavern down the street, but the melody rearranges itself in Jaskier’s head, forming the sweet song he’s been hearing all day.

Can I take you to a moment, where the fields are painted gold?

And the trees are filled with memories of the feelings never told?

҉    ҉    ҉

That evening, they’re lying in bed again, sweat cooling on their skin as the ocean breeze drifts through an open window. Moonlight filters through the curtains, gently swaying in the wind, making spots of silver dance across the floor, illuminating the dark.

Jaskier smiles as he feels Geralt’s strong heartbeat under his head, the broad chest rising and falling deeply under his cheek as his Witcher sighs contentedly.

A strong arm is wrapped around his shoulders, fingertips painting sweet nothings on his side, sending goosebumps over his skin. A muttered “I love you,” rumbles through Geralt’s chest, and Jaskier smiles, writing the words into the muscles, fingers occasionally bumping over an old scar.

Eventually, the breathing deepens, and he knows, without looking, that his Witcher has fallen asleep.

He thinks about the past year, light bubbling in his chest as he realizes how much has changed, for the better, really. Sure, he had fought with Geralt, separating from one of the only constants in his life. Then, he had lost the only other thing he had ever truly relied on – his voice. He smiles, though. If given the choice, he’d lose it a thousand times over, if that meant gaining what he has now.

He has a best friend – Yennefer , a cat - Moon, and a child to raise – Ciri, who has moved into the cottage in the mountains after learning how to control her magic. All three of them were waiting there, in the hills of Lyria, expecting the couple to return from their vacation in a few weeks.

And, of course, he has Geralt now.

He smiles again, moving his head up carefully, trying not to rouse his Witcher. He regards his sleeping face, serene and still. His fingers still trace small ‘I love you’s into the skin, and he wonders if there’s anyone on the Continent right now who is luckier than him, who is happier than Jaskier is at this very moment, with the love of his life in his arms. He doubts it.

His eyes drift close, fingers coming to a still on the broad chest. The corners of his mouth are still tugged upwards, joy radiating through his veins, lighting him up from the inside.

The very last words of the song from that day hover in his mind, before he slips into dreams that could never be more beautiful than reality.

When the evening pulls the sun down, and the day is almost through.

Oh, the whole world, it is sleeping.

But my world is you.

҉    ҉    ҉

Morning light falls on Jaskier’s face, and he stretches out, joints popping a bit before he settles back into the blankets. He reaches a hand out, in search of Geralt’s warmth, but opens his eyes in surprise and confusion when he only finds cold sheets under his fingertips. The bed is empty, a deep dent where his Witcher had been sleeping.

He frowns, but then smiles. Maybe Geralt went out to buy groceries – after all, they had finished the last piece of bread they had yesterday - or he’s somewhere else in the seaside cottage. Probably taking a bath, or preparing breakfast, as he had been doing every morning for the past few weeks.

Jaskier smiles again and sits up, stretching his arms over his head again, basking in the early sunlight warming his skin.

His eyes fall on the floor next to the bed, and they grow wide, mouth opening in shock. There, on the wood, lay Geralt’s sword, bloodstains marring the silver of the blade. Dark spots litter the floor next to it, half-dried pools that reflect the sunlight red into his eyes.

Something happened to Geralt.

҉   The end   ҉

Chapter Text