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Chapter Text

It was edging into the time of night when taverns would get rowdy; there might be dancing alter. Last week a fight had broken out over the relative merits of iambic pentameter and tetrameter and he was keen to see if there’d be a reprise.

But for now he was content to sit at his little table near the fire, making conversation. “It’s a beautiful book,” he said, gesturing with his cup. “You wouldn’t believe the things he does with nature imagery. You should read it. It’ll blow your mind.”

“Oh, yes?” she said.

Her name was Annalise; she was very pretty and an excellent listener, both qualities he appreciated in a girl. This was the third time they’d been out drinking together and he had high hopes for the evening.

“Harbridge teaches it in second year,” he said.

“Mm-hm.”

“But don’t listen to a word he says about it,” Jaskier went on, “he’s a bore and he sucks the joy out of everything he touches.”

She laughed politely. She had a beautiful, musical laugh.

“Anyway –” Glancing down at the table he saw that her cup was empty. “Oh, where are my manners. Would you like another drink?”

“Please,” she said.

As he turned to flag down the barmaid, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Annalise’s fingers move swiftly to pinch the delicate skin of her own inner arm.

He was familiar with the gesture; it was a compliment, of sorts, and he was flattered. Some of his less scrupulous classmates would feign a pained reaction if they noticed a girl doing that. He considered it one of the lowest, most spiteful forms of deceit.

He did as he always did and pretended not to notice. “O barmaid!” he said. “Would you –”

The sensation of something striking him hard on the side of the head. Pain blossomed at his temple. He bit his tongue, stuttering to a halt.

“Would I?” said the barmaid teasingly.

“Another here, please,” he said, recovering his wits. Turning back to Annalise he said, “what was I saying?”

“Harbridge,” Annalise reminded him.

“Ah yes,” he said. “He –”

The barmaid set the cup upon the table and as she did so he felt a dull flash of pain in his jaw. Wincing, he touched it. He had the strong sense this wasn’t going to stop any time soon. But he was having a nice night and he was determined to grit his teeth and bear it.

“He really is the most frightful bore in the entire faculty,” he said, “and –”

Something struck him hard in the gut, hard enough that he couldn’t breathe; before he could draw breath fully another blow came, knocking the wind clean out of him.

“Jaskier?” said Annalise, her brow crinkling prettily in concern.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “Excuse me.”

He fled to the alley alongside the tavern, where the air was cool and smelled like rain. There he leaned against the cold stone of the wall and breathed deep. His hand went to his still-aching gut.

It seemed to have stopped; he prayed that it had stopped for the night. He could still hear, distantly, the sounds of the tavern. Raised voices. Laughter. A fiddle began to play, striking up a jig, and there were cheers.

Another blow, this time to his leg. He bit his tongue.

Just breathe, he told himself. That was what his mother used to say, when he was lying in bed, curled up and sobbing from the pain. Breathe, Julian. It can’t hurt you. It’s just an echo.

I’m dying, he had said through sobs; I’m dying, I’m dying.

He breathed in, and out. In, and out. He waited for it to be over.

Around the corner the door of the tavern opened. There were soft footsteps. “Jaskier? Are you alright?”

He cursed her sweetness. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s just – soulpains. I’ll be alright in a minute. Go back inside.”

She was coming closer. “You look a bit pale. Are you sure –”

He ached all over. “I’m fine,” he assured her, “I just –” Another blow to his jaw and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

He took a deep breath, in, and out. Sighing he turned, leaning against the wall. He looked up at the sky, at the grey scraps of cloud drifting over the stars. “I,” he said after a moment, “have the misfortune to be bonded to someone who gets the shit kicked out of them on a very regular basis.”

“Goodness,” she said. “Why?”

He wasn’t sure if she meant why does your soulmate get the shit kicked out of them so often or why did you have such poor judgement as to be bonded for life to someone who gets the shit kicked out of them on a nigh weekly basis and he didn’t ask her to clarify. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He waved a hand at her in a shaky attempt to provide some reassurance. “I really will be alright. Go back inside. Finish your drink. I’ll –”

A white-hot pain in his abdomen, so intense that for a moment his mind was blank with it; for a moment he couldn’t see straight. His knees went weak. Oh, he thought through the pain. That feels like a knife.

“Jaskier?” she said, coming closer.

“I,” he said, his breath coming in short, tight pants, “I’m fine –”

The pain grew more intense, as if someone were twisting the blade, and his vision went red around the edges. The world narrowed to the feel of his breath in his throat and that single point of agony.

Turning towards the wall he threw up on his own feet.

“Oh,” he groaned. “Oh, gods.” He made an unsteady attempt to wipe his mouth. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Fuck me,” said Annalise. “Are you sure it’s just soulpains?”

“Yes.” He forced his aching body upright. The pain was ebbing a little; enough that he could think. “It’s really – nothing to worry about. But, um. I fear we might have to continue this another night. I should – go home.”

“Do you want me to walk with you?”

“No – no,” he said, pushing himself away from the wall. “I’ll be fine – you enjoy your evening –”

His legs, traitors that they were, gave out under him, and if it hadn’t been for Annalise’s timely intervention he would have fallen to the wet cobblestones. “On second thoughts,” he said, “that would be – very much appreciated.”

“It’s no trouble,” she said, helping him out of the alley. “I hope you’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said.

He didn’t think he’d be getting another date.

People said that witchers didn’t have soulmates. Can’t have a soulmate, they said, if you don’t have a soul.

He wasn’t sure if he believed it. He’d never met a witcher with a soulmate – or one who’d admit to it, at least – but that didn’t prove they didn’t exist. It was more that he wasn’t sure he believed in souls, or not the way most people did. He had a body. He had a mind. That was enough.

He wasn’t bonded to anyone, and he liked it that way. He preferred this own company.

“Look, I heard your note,” said the bard, still trailing at his heels like an enthusiastic puppy. “And yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories –”

Eventually he’d get bored, Geralt thought, or at least run out of steam – or at the very least run out of breath. He was content to ignore him. But then the words Butcher of Blaviken and it was a step too far.

“C’mere,” Geralt said, and still smiling, oblivious to the insult he had dealt, the bard stepped closer. Geralt punched him in the gut.

And his blood ran cold.

He watched as the bard crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath; stood frozen as he struggled to get back to his feet. For he had felt it; felt like a vivid dream the sensation of a fist connecting with his stomach. It hadn’t hurt much, but it had hurt. It had hurt.

His hand went to the fading ache in his gut. His mind had gone blank. He couldn’t think, couldn’t begin to process what he had just experienced and what it meant.

“Well, that was uncalled for,” said the bard, staggering breathlessly upright. He squinted up at Geralt, registering his horrified expression. “What?”

Geralt didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak.

“What?”

The bard’s eyes went to Geralt’s hand, upon his abdomen. He looked down at himself, at his own hand, still cradling the spot where he had been punched – the very spot that Geralt was touching. His face fell in realisation – in understanding.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, of course.”

He straightened up to his full height, looking Geralt in the eye. He studied his face with a kind of grim curiosity and Geralt had the sense that he was considering him now not as a subject for his songs or as an object of ideal fascination, but as a person; as a man, maybe. Trying to get a measure of the pain who had caused him such pain.

Geralt turned away.

“Hey,” said the bard, hastening after him. “Should we maybe – talk about this?”

“No,” said Geralt.

“But –”

“No.”

He lay in bed, curled in on himself, his muscles tight, his jaw clenched. It was hard to breathe around the pain. It was hard to think.

A few hours ago he had dragged himself out of bed to use the chamber pot. Now he was thirsty. He scowled at the jug upon the table, willing himself to sit up – trying to work up the strength to fill a cup and drink it.

The pain grew more intense, and he shut his eyes; a stretching, burning pain as his soulmate moved. It was strange, a detached and foggy part of his mind thought, the way he could feel the motions of their body through the soulpains. He could guess at what they were doing – sitting up, twisting around to reach for something – fetching water, maybe.

The pain ebbed. Sighing in relief he sat up and drank. Then he rolled onto his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling. “Give me death,” he remarked to it.

There was a knock upon the door.

“Is that you, fair reaper?” he said. “Have you come for me?”

The door opened. “What the fuck are you talking about, Julian?”

“Oh – it’s you,” Jaskier said. “Did you want something?”

“You look like absolute shit.” Valdo dumped an armful of papers on the table. “Your studies.”

Jaskier rolled over and spoke into the pillow. “Tell them I can’t possibly study,” he said. “I’m indisposed.”

“I tried.”

“Well, try harder, you swine!”

He didn’t doubt that Valdo hadn’t tried very hard, but he also didn’t doubt that it would take a lot to convince his professor that soulpains were a valid reason to be indisposed for quite so long. They thought he was lying, or else that he was being needlessly dramatic.

Again the pain intensified as his soulmate moved – getting up, he thought, and walking across a room. A sound escaped him, a desperate and humiliating whimper of agony, thankfully muffled by the pillow.

“Buck up,” said Valdo, unpleasantly cheerful. “Maybe this time it’ll do ‘em in.”

“Go to hell,” Jaskier said.

“There you are,” said the bard, sliding into the chair across from him. “Has anyone ever told you that you are not an easy man to find?”

“No,” said Geralt, which was the honest truth.

“I think you and I need to have a talk.”

“We don’t.”

“I bought you a drink.” The bard slid a mug across the table towards him. Geralt slid it back. “Really?” The bard spread his hands. “You’re so averse to my presence that you’d pass up a free drink just to be rid of me? Be reasonable, sir.”

Geralt thought it over. He accepted the drink. He couldn’t afford to pass up the offer; he was running low on coin.

The bard wasn’t drinking. He was sitting with his chin resting upon his fist, regarding Geralt as if sizing him up. At length, he took his fist from beneath his face and said, “so the soulmate business.”

Geralt’s eyes went to the door. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious about it, but the bard sighed, and shifted around on the bench, blocking his view. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “We need to have this conversation sooner or later. And I know, you obviously need some emotional space around this and I respect that – that’s why I didn’t push the matter the first time we met, especially given the whole business with the elves was – somewhat stressful for both of us.”

Didn’t push it was an odd way to describe his attitude. He’d brought it up every change he’d got. Don’t hurt him – stop hurting him, he’s my soulmate, he’d cried out. The elves had been nonplussed.

“But then you up and vanished,” said the bard. “Like a thief in the night. And I thought, well, how hard can it be to track him down, it’s not as if there’s many witchers about and he’s pretty memorable with his whole – thing.” He motioned at Geralt as if trying to take in everything about his person. “So anyway, here I am. I’d say you’ve had plenty enough space. Can we please fucking talk about this?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He looked away. The bard’s eyes were blue and innocent and he couldn’t stand looking into them.

“I’m your soulmate,” said the bard. “Is there really nothing you want to say to me? Nothing at all?”

He’d tried not to think about it, over the past weeks. He had tamped down his thoughts and carried them with him like a weight in his chest. But now the bard was there he could no longer avoid it and a stillness came over him; an acceptance. There was no sense in avoiding it any longer.

He said, “what age are you?”

The bard shifted, taken aback by the question. “What age am I?” he said. “Eighteen.”

The cold place inside Geralt grew even colder.

Memories had kept coming to him, since he had met the bard, coming to him unbidden. He remembered a fight, years before, when his leg had been broken. The bone had broken in two places; his knee had shattered. The pain had lasted for days.

That had been nine – ten years ago. The bard had been a child then. A tiny child, unable to walk, unable to think from pain. Because of him.

It was hard to breathe. When he thought about it too much, it got hard to breathe.

“Iiiis that a problem?” said the bard, sensing his discomfort. “I can go away and some back in a couple of years if you’d prefer.”

“We’re going to find a mage,” said Geralt slowly, “and we’re going to fix this.”

“Fix it?” the bard echoed. “Fix it how?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He watched as understanding dawned in the bard’s eyes.

He said, “you want to break the bond.”

“Don’t you?” said Geralt.

“Why would I want that?”

Geralt had seen a bond broken, once.

It wasn’t a common occurrence – not for the kinds of people he usually met. The rich, he understood, did it more often, breaking bonds as they pleased to keep them from getting in the way of appropriate marriages.

For ordinary people it didn’t come cheap. Some mages wouldn’t do it at all; some people viewed the bond as a sacred thing and the breaking of it as blasphemous or obscene.

The man had had known had been near death, ripped open by a beast. He had been dying in agony and had not wanted his wife to suffer it with him. Geralt still remembered the woman’s sobs, the man’s desperate gasps as he clung to life, as he begged for her to be released.

The mage had laid hands on them and in a few heartbeats it had been done. “Thank you,” the man had breathed. “Thank you – thank you –”

It had taken him hours to die. The woman had sat with him, tended him, until he passed. They had been nothing to each other then. She had felt nothing for him. Geralt had wondered what drove her; whether it was some echo, some memory of the love they had shared, or merely a sense of duty.

When he thought of that night he told himself it had been a kindness.

That had been years ago – before the bard had even been born. He thought of Blaviken, and the stoning he had endured. The bard had endured it with him. The thought set his teeth on edge.

It was a cold mercy the bard was so young – too young by more than half a century to have suffered the trials.

The innkeeper told him there was a mage in a town a few day’s ride away. He didn’t doubt they’d be willing to break the bond, in the circumstances, sacred or no. Once it was broken this new nightmare would be over. He hoped the heavy ache he carried in his chest would end with the bond. There was no way to be sure.

Night was falling. He started a fire. Sitting hunched under a tree, his lute cradled in his lap, the bard watched in fascination.

“How do you do that, then?” he said. “How does it – work?” At Geralt’s non-response he waved his fingers in a clumsy imitation of the sign. “Whoosh. How does it work?”

“Not your concern,” said Geralt.

“Gods,” the bard sighed, leaning back against his tree. “You’re boring.” He strummed his lute, idly, not playing a tune as much as filling the silence. Then putting his hand flat upon the strings he silenced them. “So about this plan of yours.”

Geralt didn’t answer. He set a pot of water upon the fire.

“I really think we ought to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Geralt didn’t raise his head from his work. “We find a mage. We fix it.”

“Alright, but can we not call it fixing?” said the bard. “You don’t fix something by breaking it in two. Let’s call it what it is, shall we?”

Privately, Geralt thought that sometimes the only way to fix something – to correct it – to make it right – was to rip it apart. He said, “fine. We find a mage and we break it.”

The bard shifted, sitting up straighter. His face was tight. “You could give me a chance,” he said. “I’m really not that bad.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you. I want this finished.” The water wasn’t boiling yet.

The bard was chewing his lip. “You know, they say sex with your soulmate is off the shits.”

What reaction he was hoping for Geralt wasn’t sure; as it was, the bard might as well have hit him with a cold fish. Looking up sharply from the pot he said, “you want to have sex with me?”

The bard ducked his head to one side, pulling a face as if to say it wouldn’t be my first choice but I’d give it a go. “I’m game.”

Poking the fire Geralt said, “what makes you think I’d want you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” The bard flashed him a smile. “I’m adorable.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“I can be both,” said the bard. “You’re being very weird about this, you know. Most people are willing to at least give their soulmate a shot.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “Well. I’m not most people.”

“I’m getting that,” said the bard. “Look – hear me out,” he went on, sitting forward, hugging his lute to his chest. “Give me a month. Take me out for a spin! You might have a good time.”

The water was boiling. He dropped in a handful of herbs. “This has nothing to do with you,” he said as the herbs span and bobbed in the water. “I don’t want a soulmate. I don’t need a soulmate. I want this finished.”

The bard sighed. He tapped his hands against the lute. It made a hollow sound. “And then what?” he said. “We just – go our separate ways?”

“Yes.”

“I just walk away from you? Alone?”

Geralt had been trying not to think about it too deeply; he had been trying to approach it as a problem to be solved, something to be killed with the same single-minded determination he killed the beasts he hunted. But at the plaintive note in the bard’s voice something inside him wavered.

The bard’s expression was almost petulant. His eyes were sad. “You won’t be alone,” Geralt said. “There’s plenty of folks who aren’t bonded to anyone, or don’t want the person they’re bonded to –”

“I don’t –”

“You’re young,” said Geralt. “You have time.”

“I recognise that not having a soulmate is hardly the worst fate in the world,” said the bard. “Any number of my friends aren’t bonded and they seem perfectly happy in spite of it. I just won’t want to give up on each other without even –”

“Without what?” said Geralt, growing impatient. “What kind of future do you think we could have?”

That shut the bard up, for a moment. He wet his lips and said, “I don’t know. I’d like to find out.”

Geralt looked away.

“You do know what happens when you break a bond, I suppose?” said the bard. Geralt didn’t answer. Of course he knew. “They say it takes away everything you ever felt for each other. It makes you feel – nothing.”

“You don’t know me,” said Geralt. “You don’t feel anything for me.”

“I don’t feel nothing for you. And anyway, maybe I want to feel for you.”

“You don’t.”

“I want to get to know you better.”

“No,” said Geralt. “You don’t.”

“Look,” said the bard. “We both knew our soulmate situation wasn’t exactly – ideal. But –”

“I can’t be bonded to you.”

“Hear me out –”

“Bard,” said Geralt and it must have come out fiercer than he’d expected for it shocked the bard at last into silence. “I can’t be bonded to you,” he said. “I can’t do my job if I have to worry about you feeling my pain. It’ll be in the back of my mind in every fight. It’ll make me overcautious.”

“You don’t need to –”

“It might get me killed.”

The bard’s face fell. He clutched his lute tighter.

At length, his voice thick, he said, “well. I suppose if you put it like that.” He breathed out. “I’d hate to be a burden to you. If – if that’s really what you want. I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Of course it’s for the best,” said Geralt.

The bard would understand, once it was done.

It was always strange when it ended.

He awoke from fitful sleep to find the pain all but gone. It might have been an awful dream, were he not lying unwashed and exhausted amidst his sheets. He touched his lank hair, breathing out. He pulled up his shirt and touched the place where the pain had been.

He ran his fingers over the unmarked skin. It seemed unnatural, even now, to have been in such pain and have nothing to show for it.

In the throes of his worst soulpains he’d sometimes catch himself hating them – whoever they were – for doing this to him. Not for being careless, for getting themselves into whatever agonising situation they were in, but simply, mindlessly, for existing; for being bound to him. It never lasted. In the pale light of the morning, when the pain lessened, he’d feel a rush of concern. Of affection, almost, for this person he hadn’t met yet.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he sighed to himself. “I hope you’re alright,” he remarked aloud, his hand still pressed to the place where they had been wounded. “That is. I hope you aren’t dead.”

It was a silly habit, talking to his soulmate. One his father used to scold him for. He’d never quite shaken it.

“I wonder where you are,” he said to his soulmate. “I hope you’re having a better day today.”

He had studies he ought to catch up on. He ought to eat something. He really ought to wash his hair. Sighing, cursing under his breath, he forced himself upright.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Text

It was a grey, sullen town, winding its way up the hillside. A tiresome climb to the mage’s house. The sky was overcast and beside him the bard was hugging himself against the cold, as ever not properly dressed for the weather.

“Oh, it’s titting freezing today,” he said as they came to a halt. His eyes went to the house. “Is this it, then?”

“Yes,” said Geralt.

The bard flashed him an anxious smile. “Last chance to change your mind?”

Geralt shoved him towards the door, and he squawked. “Get inside.”

The mage was a hard-eyed, auburn-haired woman who came up to his shoulder. She looked him up and down; Geralt could feel himself being sized up and found lacking. She looked the bard over in the same manner, her gaze withering. They must have made an odd pair, Geralt supposed.

“Good morning,” said the bard.

“What brings you here?” she said. She was answering the bard, since he was the one who’d offered the greeting, but Geralt had the sense that the question was directed at him.

The bard forewent any further pleasantries. His shoulders slumped. He said, “do you know how to break a soulbond?”

Her eyes went again to Geralt. “That’s not something to ask for lightly,” she said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Not as such,” said the bard.

“Just whose bond is it you want broken?”

The bard glanced at Geralt. “Well,” he said, “ours.”

The mage looked taken aback, and it struck Geralt that she hadn’t guessed why they were there. He said, by way of explanation, “he’s my soulmate.”

Her eyes flashed in understanding; her expression hardened. As he’d expected, she understood. She saw why it wouldn’t be.

She said, “come through here.”

The mage took them into her sitting room, a cramped space, heavily draped and packed full of furniture and ornaments. It smelled of dried flowers and thickly of her own scent. There was a fire burning. The air was too warm.

“Sit down,” she said. Geralt sat upon the edge of a padded chair. The bard was stripping off his coat and took a moment to settle himself. “You’re sure you want this?”

“Yes,” said Geralt. But the question had been addressed to both of them.

She looked to the bard. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want this,” he said. “Would I?”

“If you’re sure.” She offered them her hands.

Geralt took off a glove. He accepted her hand. The bard took the other.

“This’ll hurt,” she said. “But only for a moment. Then it’ll be over. Ready yourselves.”

In the chair across from Geralt, the bard closed his eyes.

He needn’t have bothered; in a heartbeat the world went dark. They were suspended in darkness and silence. Geralt could see nothing, except the bond.

He saw it as an unbroken line of white light connecting them. He could see it, and feel it burning in his chest. He could feel the man at the other end, feel his body, the rapid beating of his heart. Feel his agitation; his doubt; his powerful longing.

He felt the mage’s power, probing at the bond, touching something deep inside him. He felt resistance. Felt the bond fighting her, unyielding as steel –

Pain flared in his head, pulsing, setting his ears ringing, and he felt it doubled, echoing back and forth between them and reverberating through the bond. He heard a cry and in a flash the world was back around him.

The bard was clutching his head, breathing hard. Geralt could feel the pain in his head, an echo layered over his own. The bond was unbroken.

The mage dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t break it. You don’t want this.”

“I do,” said Geralt, still dizzy.

“Well,” she said. “One of you doesn’t.”

The bard raised his head. His face was bleak. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I just –”

He didn’t finish the thought; stumbling to his feet he fled the room, not bothering with his coat.

“I did my best,” said the mage into the quiet that followed.

“I know,” said Geralt.

He knew how these things were done. Unless they both wanted it – truly, fully wanted it – the bond would not break. He’d been a fool to think it would break. He’d told himself the bard didn’t mean the things he had said; that deep down he didn’t – couldn’t – want this. He’d been a fool.

“I still want paying,” said the mage, breaking his contemplation.

“I’ll not cheat you,” he said. “You’ll get your coin.”

Outside he found the bard leaning against the wall. He was staring out over the little town, his face grim. As Geralt approached he held out a hand for his coat. “Thanks.”

“Why did you agree to this?” said Geralt. “You knew you didn’t want it.”

“I’ll pay you back.” The bard shrugged on his coat.

His head was still aching. Both their heads were still aching. “You knew you didn’t want to break it.”

“I thought I did,” said the bard. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t think – I don’t know.”

“You should have told me.” He could feel anger rising in him now. He knew it wasn’t fair. He couldn’t help it.

“I did tell you,” said the bard. “I told you – multiple times.”

He had. Geralt had been a fool.

“I can’t make myself stop wanting this,” said the bard. “Can I? You can’t just make yourself stop wanting something.”

“Why do you want this?”

The bard shrugged.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geralt bit out. “Why would you want this?”

Looking at him properly the bard said, “why shouldn’t I want this?”

“You’re an idiot child,” Geralt spat. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“There’s no need to be like that.”

“Why do you want this?”

Looking out over the town, the bard breathed out. “You know,” he said, looking Geralt in the eye, “I’ve often asked myself that very question.”

Turning away he marched on down the road, almost tripping over his own feet. And Geralt stood alone outside the mage’s house.

He found the bard at the inn. Dusk was falling.

“Oh,” he said at the sight of Geralt in the doorway. “It’s you.”

“I’m sorry for raising my voice,” said Geralt. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Will you come in?” The bard flapped a hand at him. “Stop lurking at me.”

He went fully into the room and closed the door. He shed his cloak. Going to the washstand the bard filled up the basin.

“We’ll work something else out,” said Geralt.

“Like what?” The bard began to wash his hands.

“There are ways.”

“Are there?” said the bard, furiously scrubbing up to his wrists. “Because last time I checked your genius plan didn’t work, we’re still bonded together, and my head is still fucking aching.”

He plunged his hands into the water and scrubbed them across his face, up through his hair pushing it into damp spikes. He stood for a moment, his face covered, breathing slowly. Then sighing he took his hands from his face and said, “for what it’s worth I truly I am sorry. I really thought it would work.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know it isn’t.” He began to rinse his hands. “I can’t make myself stop wanting this. You can’t make yourself want it. So. What are we to do?”

Geralt wanted to say that they would find another way. But he wasn’t sure there was another way – and even if there were, he wasn’t sure it would be right. He’d heard stories of what could happen if a person’s bond was broken against their will. They weren’t nice stories.

He set his pack by the wall. He sat upon the bed.

“I can leave you alone from now on,” said the bard. “If that’s what you want. You can just – put me out of your mind.”

“No,” said Geralt without thinking.

“No?” The bard glanced at him over his shoulder.

“If I’m to be bonded to you I’d prefer to keep you close.”

The bard rounded on him so quickly that the basin rattled on its stand and water splashed across the floor. “Oh, is that what you’d prefer? Are we going to keep me on a leash? Is that what you’d prefer?”

“I didn’t –”

“Maybe I don’t want to be around you any more,” said the bard. “Did you think of that?”

Geralt didn’t answer.

The bard scrubbed his hands again over his face. He began to dry them. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this,” he said. “We both knew this was coming. I confess it didn’t occur to me that you might be a witcher, which seems – foolish, in retrospect. But we both knew this was going to happen. Or, or something like this, at least.”

Geralt breathed out. He said, “I didn’t.”

Clutching the towel the bard looked at him properly. “What?”

“I didn’t know I had a soulmate until I met you.”

The bard blinked. “You didn’t?”

“Mm.”

“You never – felt anything from me?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

The bard set the towel aside. His face was calm. Geralt couldn’t imagine what he might be thinking. Crossing the room he sat down upon the edge of the bed, an arm’s length away. He breathed out.

He said, “that explains a few things.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed.

“I imagine I must have been quite a shock to you.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I – I don’t really remember not knowing,” said the bard. “A lot of my friends, they told me they had a talk from their parents when they were young – when they first started noticing their soulpains. I suppose someone must have explained it to me. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember not knowing about you.”

Geralt didn’t answer. There wasn’t much to say. He had never imagined the bard might exist; that there might be a child, somewhere, bonded to him, feeling what he felt.

The bard sat for a moment, staring straight ahead in uneasy silence. Then turning to Geralt he said, “really? Nothing? Not ever?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said again. “I suppose. I must have.”

“You didn’t notice me,” the bard said. It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” said the bard. “Considering the life you lead.”

Geralt could feel the bond, now – now that the bard was so close, close enough to touch. Whether it was an effect of what the mage had done or if seeing the bond through her magic had drawn his attention to it, he didn’t know. But he could feel it.

When they were apart nothing passed through it except pain. But with the bard only inches away, Geralt could feel him. Could feel not just the pain in his head but the aching in his chest, the sadness, the powerful longing for something he could not have.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It felt, as ever, inadequate. There was no apology he could utter that would make up for what had been done to the bard – to make up for what he had done. He had hoped to make it right by breaking the bond. He couldn’t make it right.

“It’s not your fault,” said the bard.

They sat for a moment in silence.

“Why do you want to be bonded to me?” said Geralt. “It’s brought you nothing but pain.”

“What can I say,” said the bard, smiling weakly. “I’m an old romantic.”

“You should want it gone,” said Geralt. “You should hate it.”

“Well, I don’t,” said the bard. “It’s not as if you ever hurt me on purpose.”

He had wanted to say you should hate me; somehow the bard had guessed at his meaning.

“Well,” the bard went on. “There was that time you punched me in the gut. But in retrospect I think I may have brought that on myself. So.” He turned to face Geralt properly. “Why don’t you want this?”

“You know why.”

“Yes, yes, I know, the witcher business,” said the bard. “But I already told you, I don’t mind being bonded to you. Do you really want to feel nothing for me?”

“I already feel nothing,” said Geralt. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

“Oh, they have – I just don’t believe it,” the bard said. “I refuse to believe destiny would be so cruel as to bond me to someone who could never love me back.”

Geralt didn’t dwell on love me back. The bard didn’t love him. If he thought he did then he was being a fool.

He said, “you want me to love you?”

“Well,” said the bard. “I’d say that’s jumping the gun a bit but I’d like you to at least like me.” He shifted, sliding his hand across the bed towards Geralt as if toying with the idea of touching him. “I want to get to know you. I want you to get to know me. I want to see if there’s anything here. And I want you to take my clothes off.”

Geralt stiffened. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” the bard echoed. “Look, I’m just trying to get all my cards on the table here. Is it such a wild thing to suggest? We are soulmates, after all.” Before Geralt could answer he went on, “do you just not fuck?”

“I fuck,” Geralt conceded after a moment’s hesitation.

“Do you not fuck men?” said the bard. “Is that it?”

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“Um, I’m your soulmate?” said the bard. “I’m your soulmate and I’d like to know if sex is on or off the table so I think it is my business, actually.”

Geralt relented. “I fuck men sometimes.”

“There,” said the bard. “Was that so hard?”

“You don’t have to have sex with me because I’m your soulmate.”

“I know.” The bard was looking at him. There was no change in his expression.

“I mean,” said Geralt. “You shouldn’t feel you have to.”

“I don’t,” said the bard. “I want to have sex with you. Is that so hard to believe?”

Geralt said nothing.

Twisting around to face him the bard said, “what part of I’m very, very attracted to you is not clicking here? Has, has no-one ever wanted to fuck you before? Is your self-esteem just that bad? What’s the problem?”

His hair was damp; his eyes were very blue. His sleeves were rolled up, and the skin of his forearms was so soft. Sitting so close to him, Geralt couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled.

He was so young. He was more innocent than he realised. Tender, like a soft new sapling. Geralt couldn’t touch him. He had no right to touch him, with his bloodied hands.

He said, “I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Alright,” said the bard. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“But you want me to stay around?”

“I’d like to know where you are,” said Geralt. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’d like to.”

He reached out as if to put his hand on Geralt’s knee. Geralt flinched.

“Alright,” said the bard. “Alright, then.”

The weather was getting warmer; winter was passing. The street was ankle-deep in mud, churned up by waggons and horses’ hooves. Geralt stood by the notice board, considering.

“There you are,” said the bard, squelching over to him.

“Hm,” Geralt agreed. Here he was.

“What is it with you and sneaking off?” said the bard. “I wake up and you’ve disappeared. Again. It’s starting to vex me.”

“You want me to keep you on a leash, bard?” said Geralt.

“Ha,” said the bard dryly. “I brought you breakfast, anyway.” He offered Geralt a wrapped pastry. It smelled like berries. “Because I’m nice. Even though you’re mean and rude to me, all of the time.”

Geralt didn’t take the pastry. “I’m not mean.”

“Yes, you are.” The bard motioned at his head. “With your big mean face.”

He looked away. “I don’t try to be mean.”

“I know,” said the bard. “I notice you aren’t denying that you are sometimes rude.” He waggled the pastry in Geralt’s direction. “Go on. You know you want to.”

Geralt gave in and accepted his breakfast.

“So there’s a monster, I gather?” said the bard, digging into his own.

Geralt grunted in assent. “A barghest.”

Though he tried not to look, he saw the flicker of unease in the bard’s expression. A flash of concern – he might even say fear – in his eyes. For all the bard tried to act as if it didn’t bother him Geralt had noticed his apprehension before. Every time he had set out on a hunt over the past few months the bard had been afraid – and rightly so.

“A barghest is pretty much just a big dog,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“They come from the underworld,” said Geralt. “And they usually move in packs.”

The bard shrugged. “So he might have some friends?” he said around a mouthful of pastry. “A bunch of big dogs, then.”

Geralt elected to ignore him. He ate his pastry.

In the night, the bard had rolled onto his half of the bed and Geralt couldn’t get the scent of his skin and hair out of his nostrils. He could still feel the patch on his neck where the bard’s breath had tingled warm against his skin. He’d gone on talking; Geralt wasn’t listening. His mind strayed for a moment to what it might be like to pull the bard close and breathe him in.

He shook himself. “I need to get ready for the hunt.”

“Hm?” said the bard. “Are you going tonight?”

Geralt grunted; and again, that flicker of fear.

He hadn’t been seriously hurt since they’d met. Scrapes and bruises. A bloody nose, once or twice. One fracture. Nothing that would hurt the bard very badly; but it didn’t matter. They both knew it was only a matter of time.

The barghest was a big fucker. He should have seen it coming; to get by without a pack a beast like that needed to be tough. He caught it jaws deep in the body of a sheep. It didn’t lift its head as he approached. It was distracted. For all its bulk it should have been an easy kill.

But then its ears pricked up and it raised hits head from its kill. Its eyes were pits of fire; its mouth was a bloody sneer. It was smart enough to know a threat when it saw one. He thought, shit.

It pounced. He was quick enough to dodge but the second time it went for him he wasn’t so lucky. He went down hard, all the air knocked from his lungs, his sword slipping from his hand. The barghest stood over him, its fur smoking, sheep blood dripping rancid onto his face and chest. It bared its teeth, readying for the kill.

Grabbing for his knife he struck at it, just barely missing its burning eye socket and taking off an ear. It howled, shuddering, and he took his chance; he kicked out with all his strength at its underbelly and sent it sprawling.

Picking up his sword he rounded on it. It was panting, unsteady on its feet, blood dripping from its head. It circled him, not coming close enough to strike. It was smart enough to know it was in trouble. But it would get restless, and come for him. When it did he would be ready.

“Come on,” he muttered to himself. “Come on, you son of a whore.”

Its patience snapped. Snarling it charged him and he aimed for its neck, meaning to take off its head – but in spite of its size it was too quick for him and his blow caught its shoulder, opening it up deep. It kept running, carried forward by its own momentum, by its weight. Then it stumbled – and fell.

He advanced on the beast as it writhed on the ground, as it struggled to rise back up, meaning to finish it off. On its third attempt, before he could get within striking distance, it levered itself up on all four paws and shakily stood. It raised its head and looked at him, its face still wearing that mocking sneer.

Then it bolted.

It was running towards the village. “Fuck.”

He took off in pursuit, running full tilt, following the sound of its footsteps, the stink of its blood.

Up ahead he could see the lights of the village. He heard a high scream of fear or pain and ran harder, numb with the knowledge that he might be too late. The beast had only killed sheep. He was meant to stop it from killing any of their people. That was what they were paying him to do. That was what he was for.

Out of nowhere pain lanced through his ankle, white-hot, and he stumbled, grunting aloud. For a moment he couldn’t make sense of it, the worsening, stabbing pain, like knives – like teeth. It was only when he looked down at his uninjured leg that he understood was he was feeling.

For half a moment he was numb. He couldn’t think. The realisation settled heavy and wordless in his mind and he couldn’t let himself think it. Then the full horror an urgency of what he felt and what it meant caught up with him and –

“Jaskier,” he breathed.

He ran. The pain in his leg intensified, a wrenching, tearing pain as if Jaskier was pulling himself free – he could only hope that Jaskier was pulling himself free. The thought of Jaskier dying tonight, because of him, because he’d been sloppy, it was unbearable. The thought of Jaskier dying was unbearable.

He hadn’t made up his mind, yet, what he wanted – he thought he’d made up his mind, but he hadn’t. He’d thought there would be time. There had to be time. It couldn’t end tonight. He wasn’t ready. There were things he needed to say.

Rounding the first house he saw people on the street, dashing about, panicked; he saw the barghest. It had Jaskier pinned to the ground and he glimpsed its bloody jaws, its burning eyes as it readied itself to rip out his throat.

There was no time to think of a plan. He threw his sword, hard and fast, at its back, piercing it clean through. It jerked, body spasming, baying at the sky; then it fell heavily to the ground.

He felt it go down, felt the impact like a crushing weight upon his chest; felt the familiar crunching pain of ribs breaking. He ran on, barely breaking his stride. As he fell to his knees beside the body he relished the pain in his chest and ankle. The pain was good. The pain meant Jaskier was still breathing. If the pain stopped –

He heaved the barghest’s body off and there was Jaskier, gasping for breath, his face twisted in agony. There was blood in his hair; he must have knocked his head when he fell. Geralt hadn’t noticed, distracted by the fiercer pain in his ankle.

With Jaskier so close, he felt a cold, alien chill in his chest; the echo of Jaskier’s fear. A sensation he hadn’t felt since he was a child. A warm rush of relief, at the sight of his own face.

“Geralt,” Jaskier wheezed. “There you are.”

“Here I am.” Geralt lifted his head, checking he wasn’t badly hurt, and as his fingers touched the cut Jaskier hissed. He felt that echo of that twinge of pain in his own scalp. It didn’t look bad. It didn’t hurt too badly.

“Is it dead?” said Jaskier. “Did you –”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “It’s dead.” He got an arm under Jaskier’s shoulders; another under his legs. “I’m gonna get you up.”

“Okay,” Jaskier gasped.

“Ready,” said Geralt. He lifted him – and the pain in his chest intensified to a savage and burning pain that was almost enough to shock him. In his arms Jaskier cried out in agony –

– and fainted dead away.

The pain faded. “Shit,” Geralt muttered, lifting his lax body. “Okay.”

Jaskier didn’t rouse on the walk back to the inn; didn’t rouse as Geralt laid him out on the bed, as he eased off his soiled doublet, dark with the barghest’s blood. Sitting on the edge of the bed he lifted Jaskier’s injured foot and began to unlace his boot.

It was then that Jaskier jerked awake. “Don’t –”

“Hush,” said Geralt. “It’s just me.”

Jaskier raised his head. His eyes fixed on Geralt, and he relaxed, lying back against the worn pillow. “Geralt,” he moaned. “Geralt, it ate my fucking foot.”

“It didn’t eat your foot.” Carefully, bit by bit, he pulled off Jaskier’s boot.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Geralt, unfastening his other boot. “You still have two feet. I counted.”

“Okay,” said Jaskier. “Okay. It hurts when I breathe.”

“Yeah.” It was a pain he was familiar with and it was strange feeling it not in time with the movement of his own lungs but with Jaskier’s rapid breathing. Strange to feel Jaskier’s quick human heartbeat in the throbbing in his ankle. A soulbond was a visceral thing. He hadn’t realised.

He said, “your ribs are broken.”

“Are you sure?” said Jaskier. “It feels –”

“You cracked a few ribs,” said Geralt. “You’re going to be bruised all over. That’s all.” He laid Jaskier’s foot gently upon the bed. “If you’d damaged anything else it’d hurt a lot worse.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier faintly; then he said, “oh,” as if it had only that moment registered with him that Geralt could feel what he was feeling.

“I’m going to clean your ankle,” said Geralt, getting up from the bed. “Don’t move.”

“Where the fuck am I going to go?” said Jaskier in consternation as Geralt rummaged through his pack.

Sitting back down he took up Jaskier’s foot and uncorked the bottle he held in his other hand. “This’ll sting,” he said. “Try to hold still.”

“Sure.”

Geralt upended the potion.

“Motherfucker!” Jaskier cried, kicking out, white-hot pain lancing through his ankle. “Fuck – oh, fuck you –”

“Hold still,” said Geralt, holding his leg tighter. “Jaskier. “Hold still.”

“You whoreson,” Jaskier moaned. “I hate you so much.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, bandaging his ankle. “How’s that feel?”

“Significantly worse.”

“Stop being a baby.” He tied off the bandage. “You hit your head?”

Jaskier touched his scalp, and looked startled to see blood on his fingers. “I guess.”

“Let me see.”

Gingerly Jaskier eased himself up into a half-sitting position. Geralt took his shoulder, holding him upright. “Is there a real healer in town?”

“They’re sending for one.” Geralt touched his scalp and felt Jaskier wince as his probing fingers touched a tender spot. It was easier to tell, now, how he had gone so long without noticing their bond; he could feel the abrasions on Jaskier’s scalp, feel the stinging pain as he touched them, but the sensation was distant and the pain mild. The sort of pain he’d grown used to putting out of his mind before he was even a witcher. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” said Jaskier. “It’s not as if it was your fault. Unless it was your fault, I suppose. In which case I, I’d like to extend a hearty fuck you.”

“I shouldn’t have let it get away,” said Geralt. “It was careless of me.”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “Well. Fuck you, then,” he added, not sounding very hearty.

“Hm,” said Geralt. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you said.”

He took his fingers from Jaskier’s scalp. “It’s not deep. You’ll be fine.”

“Good for me,” said Jaskier. “I have a very hard head.” He breathed out and winced. “Oh – it feels a lot worse when it’s your ribs, doesn’t it?”

“Try to breathe slowly,” said Geralt.

“You’re no help.” Jaskier sank back down against the pillow. “Oh, I feel like shit. I feel like death. I feel like someone dropped a giant dog on me.”

I said I was sorry, Geralt wanted to say. “I don’t have anything to give you for the pain.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nothing that won’t kill you.”

Jaskier put on a contemplative expression. “Well –”

“Shut your mouth, bard,” he said, rising from the bed.

“I wonder if I can get a song out of this,” said Jaskier as Geralt washed his hands. “The tale of how Geralt of Rivia heroically slew a big dog while his faithful barker almost got eaten. It has potential.”

“Dogs bark,” said Geralt, rinsing off Jaskier’s blood.

Jaskier turned to look at him. “What?”

“Dogs bark,” said Geralt. “Barker. You could get a joke out of that.”

Jaskier stared at him. “Were I not an invalid,” he said, “I would fucking bite you. Go to hell.”

The healer had been, and gone. The potion she’d given Jaskier had made him drowsy and he lay dozing on the bed. Looking at him, his face half in shadow in the flickering candlelight, Geralt was struck by how young he was. How delicate.

His shirt was filthy with blood and sweat and dirt. He stripped it off and dunked it in the basin, rinsing off the worst of the mess. The basin clinked against the water jug and at that sound Jaskier stirred.

“Hm?” he said. “Geralt?”

“Right here.”

Rolling onto his side Jaskier blinked up at him. “For a moment there I thought you’d gone.”

There was a plaintive edge to his voice. A silent request. Geralt set aside his wet shirt and dried off his hands, and going to the bed sat down beside him. “How do you feel?”

“Woozy,” said Jaskier. It hurt less. He didn’t need to say so. “A bit cold.”

“Do you want another blanket?”

Jaskier didn’t answer; Geralt didn’t think he was listening. Squinting he pushed himself up on his elbow, and reached out.

He touched a spot low down on Geralt’s abdomen – an ugly knot of scar tissue. “I remember this,” he said, and Geralt shivered. “I was laid up in bed for three days. Hurt like a bitch.”

“Yeah.” It had. A human would have died. He had lived, and borne it; and Jaskier had weathered the pain with him.

Jaskier ran his fingers over the ridged scar tissue. “You want to know what the worst part was?”

“The pain?” Geralt guessed.

“Ha,” said Jaskier, and sighed. “The whole time I was just – so afraid that it would stop. Because if – if it just stopped, just like that, that would mean you were gone. And I couldn’t stand the thought of that. I couldn’t stand the thought that you might die before I even got to meet you. It would have been so unfair.”

Geralt remembered those three days. He had passed them alone. He’d had a room to rest in but there had been no-one to tend him. He had lain there and bled and suffered, meditating through the worst of the pain; had eaten little, changed his own bandages, struggled across the room to the bucket.

It was strange to think that there had been someone out there fearing for his life; someone out there who had known that he was in pain, and who had cared. It was strange to think that on some level he hadn’t been alone.

“Do you get me?” said Jaskier.

His hand was still shaking; there was blood on his fingers. Taking it gently from the scar Geralt held it, lacing their fingers. When he breathed, in, and out, Geralt could feel it in the ache in his chest.

“Mmm?” Jaskier murmured, a half-voiced question. He squeezed Geralt’s hand.

Geralt squeezed back. He ran his thumb over the soft, tender inside of Jaskier’s wrist; then, not caring to think about what he was doing, he brought his hand up to his face and kissed his knuckles.

Jaskier smiled sleepily up at him, his eyes so blue, and shining. Geralt felt a soft rush of affection that was not his own and he relished it.

He looked at their joined hands. “Yeah,” he said. “I get you.”