Archive of Our Own ^beta

Geralt sits in a seedy tavern by the coast. The people are quiet and the place looks like it was once lively- but now the colours all feel dull and muted and Geralt hasn’t even been here to see a time where they weren’t. Cobwebs and old drunkards, bartenders that are half asleep.. it’s dreadfully quiet, Geralt wouldn’t be shocked if a bard had never graced this place with their song.

If you ask Geralt why he’s at the coast after so long he wouldn’t answer you. He couldn’t answer you, not really- he can say it’s for coin but everyone knows this is a dying port and the most he might get is a free bed and some loaves of bread. Something called him here. It was a drag not too unlike what brought him to that forest where he finally got his hands on Ciri.

Destiny. That was what brought him here- which is funny because he’s pretty sure the only person who’s mentioned the coast was a bard he abandoned years ago. It was a sad truth- a truth Geralt still hasn’t gotten over, even if it was what? Forty, fifty years ago- long enough that Geralt had long given up looking for Jaskier. He had finally scared him away and in Geralt’s eyes it was for the best, even if it left a man-shaped hole in his heart.

Yet here he was. Half a century later he sits by the coast in a bar he’s sure Jaskier would have sung at, if it stood all those years ago- but with its dead feel he’s sure he never stepped foot in this place. The ale was pitiful, the wood splintered, the sun outside looked grey and drab- it was a pitiful sight to behold. He’s seen corpses that look livelier than this place. Either way he lays down his coin and he gets to his feet, bringing his ale with him as he went to settle up at the bar beside a man who looked like he had seaweed matted in his hair.

The bartender didn’t waste much time moving to him, looking at the mug as if asking if he needed a refill- though a look of relief flashed on his features when Geralt said no.

“How can I be of service then, O Great White Wolf?” It was spoken with a bit of humour in it, a smile tugging up at the old man’s features- he had to be in what, his seventies? An old man who knew one of his fonder names- and yet he has an odd feeling it’s not for the usual reasons. For a second he had to stop, stare- look over the man’s features. Geralt isn’t sure if those brown eyes were a comfort or a curse, his face falling as he took a drink of his ale, a quiet grunt heard before he spoke.

“Any jobs?” It was a simple question, Geralt looking at the old man with what he hoped wasn’t anger. He doesn’t need to aim that at kind people who try to help, not again.

“Mmn.. not a job, not really. I can give you a free room-“ As Geralt thought. “- but alas I don’t have much coin..” The old man seemed to wait, hesitating just in case Geralt said no.

“Go on.” A man of few words, even after all this time.

“Locals have been complainin of uh- sightins. A man with mediumish brown hair, a paler complexion- says he’ll keep them up late into the night strummin his lute of his. Sometimes they complain of singin, sometimes screamin, sobbin- really it’s more auditory complaints we hear around here.”

Geralt’s blood ran cold. His golden eyes slowly rose and he swore those brown ones were staring right through him. Accusatory, almost- like the old man knew something he didn’t. “Go on.” It was urgent, thicker than intended- more emotion than he cared to use, if he was being honest.

“Reminds me of a man I knew, back in my youth. Came singin songs of love and heartbreak- hell, a few of ‘em were for uh..” The man clapped his lips, shaking his head as he looked for a name. He was cleaning a glass as they spoke- busywork, surely. Not enough people to need so many glasses.

“You, Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken, if you will- the uh.. White Wolf.”

Jaskier came here. Maybe not to this tavern, but he came to this town, and he stayed in this town. He never got to leave this town. Jaskier didn’t disappear from Geralt, he disappeared from the world- and that realization hits him like a ton of bricks, his grip tightening on the wooden mug.

“I- I get it. I get it, I get it- you’re some old friend of his, you.. see connections between him and this thing people are hearing.” Geralt finally got out, struggling over his own words- thoughts racing, but as always his lips had to play catch up with his brain. “How can we know it’s Jaskier, though? He- He could have died anywhere, and I doubt he would have haunted even if he did die here.”

Those brown eyes were almost as piercing as Jaskier’s were, all those years ago. Looking through him, hell hath no fury like a Jaskier being lied to- the bartender knew what Geralt knew. The realization was something awful, especially when he didn’t say anything else. Not for a while at least, the two were silent until the last patron left the room.

“He died here, Geralt. Saw him with my own two eyes. He lasted a while- a few months, maybe? Old vacation home, he was a viscount- did you know that?” Geralt did not know that. He.. really wishes he did. “Said you’d come. That if he couldn’t find you you’d find him. ‘parently he was right, just forty-eight years too late. Some stories say he fell, some say he was done in- I know the truth Geralt. I saw him at his worst, I comforted him in his worst.” It was hissed out, those brown eyes not so kind. They nearly looked black in this lighting.

“You’re nothin like the hero he made you out to be. You’re a monster, through and through- and I think he deserves closure. I’m thinkin destiny thinks so too- because Meletite knows you’d have waited another hundred before restin your feet in this town’s sand. You’ve got my food and my room for as long as it takes to free his soul- and then you better leave and you better not come back, butcher.”

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice. No, that was the plan the second a lute-playing ghost was mentioned- he doesn’t know how to start. Where to start, he’s never.. Ghosts aren’t monsters. They can become monsters but inherently they aren’t just monsters. You’re quicker to call an exorcist to free a ghost than to call a witcher to kill one- so as he slowly gets to his feet, nodding stiffly, he wants to cry. He needs to cry, to melt away and disappear.

But that’s unfair to Jaskier. So on unsteady feet he makes his way out, set on figuring out how he can at least try to make things right.

~*~

It doesn’t take long. He walks the sandy streets aimlessly for a while- initially he went out with purpose, but quickly he found that it’s hard to gather evidence about a man’s death when it happened almost fifty years ago.

So he waited. He left the town and got closer to the beach, letting his heavy boots sink in the sand until he was standing in the tide. And he watched as the sun sat, dipping below the water line- and it hurt. It honest to gods hurts- seeing as it sinks and sinks, it’s warmth disappearing. It was a calm night, yet Geralt was anything but. His golden eyes held the last few rays, his breathing ragged as thoughts swirl.

He can see it, feel it as clear as it was in the moment- Jaskier’s hands on his shoulders, dipping him below the salty waves. He can hear Jaskier’s shrieking laughter as he’d pop up, spitting out water at him as a rough hand would rub salt from his eyes. He.. He misses it. He misses sand in his boots and the burn across his skin, he misses the way Jaskier would beg him to apply the cream to his skin so he wouldn’t get burnt- Geralt misses the way those blue eyes were like cornflowers, like the ocean, like the sky- like everything good and natural, good and forever.

It’s dark now. The sun was long gone and the stars twinkled and it wasn’t much better. He can remember laying on some towels, Jaskier tucked against his side despite Geralt’s complaints- he can remember Jaskier making a point to point out certain constellations. At the time Geralt wasn’t sure which ones were fake and which ones were real- they were all fake, but the stories held truth and excitement. Maybe that’s why he was tricked. He can even hear Jaskier’s lute- a sound he once bitched about brought tears to his already salt-crusted cheeks.

Geralt then realized he wasn’t imagining it. That the sea’s breeze carried the familiar tune and before Geralt knew it he growled, snarling as he fought back sobs. Fifty years. Fifty years Jaskier was alone- all of them, dead. Dead and alone and he recognises the tune and it’s a tune that’s haunted him since Lambert had explained it to him- Her Kiss.

It wasn’t a lament about a girl he loved, it was about Yennefer. Geralt and Yennefer. It was about the feelings of a long gone man, of a man who didn’t even try to hide how he felt. And he is gone now. He is gone and he can’t get his feet to work, he can’t follow the stream of notes. Geralt feels helpless. Helpless in the way when he had to single handedly search down Yennefer, helpless in the way when he had to fight a witch for his daughter. Helpless in the way he was all those years ago as he’d fake a grumble just to not fall helplessly in love- and what a joke that was.

What a heart wrenching, gods awful joke that was. Luckily for Geralt he didn’t have to search out the noise, the noise searched out him- and he could barely see Jaskier through his tears and his snot, a broken sob bubbling up past his lips as he saw him. He didn’t look much different from how he left him- at least on first glance. The longer Geralt’s gaze lingered the more he picked up. His hair was longer, barely styled- his lute was banged up, his clothes had little rips and tears. But the worst part was the wound. Through his throat, it was gaping and awful and as Geralt surveyed the ocean it made sense. It was rocky, especially around the cliffs- you’d be lucky to only drown. And somehow he doesn’t know which death would have been merciful.

Geralt doesn’t know if the ghost could see him. And he stayed that way, silencing sobs with snarls until Jaskier walked through him- and it was a horrid feeling. Chilling his body, he felt like a piece of him was taken with the dead bard. Geralt doesn’t have it in him to be upset- but he follows this time. He follows Jaskier to the cliff and under its lip, he follows him until he is waist deep in water.

And there, in all its glory, was Jaskier’s lute case. It was miraculously okay- hanging from a rock piece, crusted with salt but otherwise okay. And that’s when the ghost’s music stopped playing. And he watched as Jaskier stood on his tippy toes, reaching but unable to grab- so he floated. And that’s what brought the sob from Geralt’s lips.

The sound startles Jaskier. Geralt managed to scare a ghost! In all his emotional wreckage he got Jaskier to float a little too high and he saw as Jaskier’s head disappeared into the overhang before he lowered. He was unmoving for a moment, pushing his ghostly lute in its very real case. And then finally, after his little parade, he looked to Geralt.

And they stare.

Geralt, out of awe and guilt, out of terror and disbelief- and Jaskier. Geralt couldn’t piece together the look on the ghost’s face. He tried. But Geralt always did rely on his sense of smell- and sadly, ghosts don’t have scents. Slowly but surely Jaskier lowered onto his two feet and Geralt looked him over. He was thinner. He was thinner and his hair was messier than he thought- his eyes were dark and salt crusted his features. It almost looked like snow, and something dark stained his skin, his clothes- blood stains, of course. His chest didn’t move, he was.. he was still. Like a corpse.

Jaskier was a corpse. And yet after a moment Geralt heard a raspy “Fuck it,” And then he could almost feel a hug. The intention was enough to have those tears fall thicker, faster. Jaskier eventually pulled away far enough to be face to face with Geralt- and this time it was impossible not to read. Anger, hope, despair- love.

Even after being driven to suicide Jaskier still-

“If it makes you feel any better they were right. Not- not Bernard, don’t- don’t give me that look. The theory that I was murdered.” He lowered his gaze and Geralt doesn’t know if he should feel relieved or absolutely enraged.

“And- Bernard.. got the time wrong? I’d say I lasted maybe a year or two here. Still dead for as long as he said.” He muttered. Even in death Jaskier was so scared to anger, to disappoint Geralt- and if it all wasn’t eye opening enough before, this really had them open wide.

“Rience. I- Obviously he didn’t get what he wanted. So.. yay for Jaskier.” Jaskier offered a grin at that, though it fell when he saw just how unamused Geralt really was. “Tortured me for a month, maybe. Returned to Oxenfurt to teach after being here a year? He got me there, dragged me back. Saw Yennefer go in while I was dragged out.. she.. she looked like she was ready to kill.”

Now that earned something like a smile from Geralt. Not quite one, but it was similar enough.

“He.. eventually brought a friend. After.. breaking into my head they realised I was useless. Threw me off the cliff in the dead of night, forged a suicide note and hid it under Bernard’s bed. He was on the right track for a while- had all the right things connected until an especially deep clean had him finding the note. His.. heart is in the right place. Too bad he’s gotten it all wrong.” Jaskier sounds so.. accepting. Not in the way that it was good that it happened but accepting in the way that it was fate, that it was destiny.

It made Geralt sick.

“So.. you didn’t kill yourself over the mountain?” Geralt finally asked, finding it impossible to look at Jaskier.

“Oh heavens no- did I try..? Ah, maybe, but that was a slow death of ale and adultery,” Geralt watched as Jaskier waved it off. It felt.. good. Natural. “No. I refused to tell firefucker what he wanted and..”

“You were killed because you protected me.”

“Precisely.”

“So I killed you.”

Jaskier gasped, almost seeming offended at the very notion- and while at one point Geralt would have snickered or maybe huffed, Jaskier sounded just exhausted enough Geralt felt.. bad for saying that. For even insinuating that Geralt had anything to do with Jaskier’s murder.

“I’m the one who decided to protect a man who abandoned me.” Abandoned.. yeah, that’s the right word, even if it makes Geralt grimace. “I didn’t have to go through days of mental and physical torture. You’re right. You should have been there, but I could have looked. I could have given in, I could have escaped- but it’s not my fault either, Geralt. It’s Rience. So unless Rience has learned body modification chaos bullshit I don’t think you killed me.”

Geralt hates it. Geralt can’t fight it. He doesn’t want to fight it. So he doesn’t, just letting his shoulders slump. Tears are still falling and he doesn’t know how to stop them now that they’ve gotten going- and every so often he’d see Jaskier’s hand twitch, like he wanted to reach out and help him one last time.

“How.. how long will you still be here?”

“Now that I’ve seen you? With my story now heard? Ah, I’d say I’ll be gone by the time the sun rises.”

What a bitter, cruel trick. To see him means to destroy him- Geralt can’t help the sound those words choke out of him. It’s pitiful and he knows it because this time Jaskier can’t resist the urge- and he can feel Jaskier chip more of him away, and his tears freeze against his skin and the wind almost seems to caress him.

He feels sick. He sticks by Jaskier’s side through the night- and though he knows Jaskier can never turn these stories to ballads, and his words will never be heard, he shares his stories. And he watches as a bit of light creeps into his ghost’s eyes and he swears he hears the shaking of a pen in that lute case.

Geralt doesn’t want the night to end.

~*~

It turns out the night doesn’t end. Geralt doesn’t know what’s led him here again, even after Jaskier had told him he’d be gone- yet here he stood, under the hanging lute case. The sun was slowly setting and tonight was a rainy night- thunder occasionally cracking, though not a single bolt of lightning could be seen. This time he can smell the sorrow- but not because Jaskier was real, but because sadness smells like rain.

Despite what Jaskier said he ends up coming back that night. Jaskier didn’t expect it. Geralt didn’t expect it. And yet here they stood, face to face after Jaskier broke his loop- and before Geralt knows what’s happening he can hear a bitter sort of laugh falling from Jaskier’s lips.

“Really, world! This is what you want? This is how I’ll finally be freed by this miserable plane of fucking existence? Admittance? Because of fucking course, why wouldn’t the damn bard get a break, even in dea-“

“Why are you here, Jask?” Geralt’s voice was raw, raspy. Broken. It cuts Jaskier down, stopping him in his tracks. And he’s silent for a bit, blue eyes digging into golden ones before he shakily laughed. And then it almost seemed to border a sob as the ghost held his head in his hands.

“Because I love you?”

And that stopped Geralt in his tracks. Gold eyes widened before a heavy breath was huffed out, squeezing shut before opening again. Trying to clear his eyes, see if he was seeing shit right- hearing Jaskier right.

“R.. Repeat that?” It was a shaky request, and it was the weakest Geralt is sure Jaskier has heard him. And with how Jaskier softened Geralt thinks he might be right. And so Jaskier repeats himself.

“I love you. Loved? I.. yeah, love.” He muttered, raking a hand through his mess of hair. Geralt is silent. Dead silent, a pin could drop amongst the waves and you could hear it better than them two.

“I love you too.” It was a croak. A pained, awful croak- golden eyes meeting Jaskier’s with more pain than either man could handle. “I’ve loved you since.. since.. the banquet, I believe- the Djinn hammered it in, especially after I saw you with Chireadan and-“

Geralt looked up. Jaskier was there, barely. Fading away, but he looked so.. happy? No. Bitter. Happy and bitter because gods, wasn’t this bitter sweet? Jaskier’s lips are moving but Geralt can’t make out what he’s saying. It was long and probably long winded but what Geralt could figure out was that Jaskier had loved him since that shady bar they met in- and it’s only now that it hits him that maybe that’s when he fell too.

And Geralt stays there. His back pressed to the slick wall as new tears rose up, as they warmed his cheeks in a way he had once wished Jaskier could. He could hardly breathe, hardly exist. It was.. exhausting. He gets it. He finally fully gets it and he can’t even tell him.

He slowly slides down the wall until the salt fills his mouth, head barely above the water as those waves grow. He’s not going to stay. Jaskier wouldn’t want him to- Jaskier always said to live for love, not die for it.

So he’ll live. Just.. not right now. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. For now he just wants to let the cold water swallow him, and maybe, if he closes his eyes he can imagine it’s Jaskier walking through him, not the very waves that killed him.