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It had been a shitty week, Geralt thought as he pushed open the decrepit tavern door. It was still cold, the frost from winter lingering far past its welcome. It made camping in the woods much more unpleasant, food more sparse and people more on edge.
Jaskier had been missing from their usual meeting place, to Geralt’s disappointment. They had agreed on the date and place and yet the man was still gone. The witcher would have stayed up in his keep until the snow had melted completely if not for the promise. Jaskier must have forgotten-laid up in some court or gotten distracted on his way down the path. With Jaskier-it was hard to place where he would be.
He didn’t need the bard, indeed the man was often much more of a hindrance than a help on his hunts. Yet, the man’s non-stop chatter would have been better company the gloomy landscape.
So Jaskier-less he had proceeded on his path. There had been few contracts and even fewer coin.
Then he had been turned away from three inns, forced to sleep just outside of town with Roach. If Jaskier was there, he would have been able to talk the innkeepers into a room and a hot meal, just like always. It’s not like Geralt needed those things, he was a witcher for god’s sake. Yet-he found himself annoyed as he bedded down for the night.
Then earlier in the day one of his saddle bags had snapped in half, spilling all his belongings into a puddle on the side of the road. Even Roach seemed to be snickering at him as he retrieved his muddied belongings.
Upon his arrival in Hillfoot, a very aptly named small village just past the bottom of the mountains he had been directed to visit the village’s Adlerman, and ask about the few villagers who had gone missing, taken from the rooms in the middle of the night. All young men, four in total. The town apparently was abuzz with the mystery.
The Adlerman however had scoffed at him, stating that those men probably just ran off to find their destiny in one of those ‘big cities’. When Geralt had glowered at him he had reluctantly offered a small sum to retrieve the young men- and stop all this ‘gossiping.’
Not even one step outside of the man’s house he had been stopped by an old woman, white hair sticking out every which way, face deadly serious as she had gripped Geralt’s arm.
“It’s the man in the woods you’re looking for. An unholy man. His house always has black smoke coming from it, most unnatural. Mark my words young man, that’s where you’ll find ‘em.”
And that’s how Geralt found himself staring at an old hut in the forest. It was well maintained, modest domicile. Geralt grunted and pet Roach’s muzzle.
“What are the chances that inside is a kind old lady who offers me some tea?”
Roach huffed and Geralt sighed. “Yeah, I think so too.”
A scream tore through the silent air- like someone was dying and as if on cue black smoke puffed from the ceiling. Geralt drew his sword-silver as there was no telling what hid inside the house.
Though if you add the disappearing young men and the foul smelling smoke it would most likely equal a witch-though not an Artezua trained one.
Geralt kicked the door down, it was old and collapsed with one firm kick. The smell immediately burned in his nostrils, making him pull back minuscluey.
The hut was empty except for a woman, kneeling down in front of a giant pyre. She turned wild eyed towards Geralt, mouth wide open in surprise. Behind her the fire raged, candles lining all the walls. At once Geralt knew where the screaming was coming from.
The fire. She was burning someone alive.
He moved quickly, sword swinging clean through her neck before she had a chance to stand up. Her body fell quickly, head tumbling off in another direction. The fire burned on, and Geralt swore.
So it wasn’t a spell then. He pulled the metal altar away from the heat with a grunt, fingers burning. She had planned this, built a mechanism to murder some one efficiently by fire.
The screaming had stopped. He swore again, her victim was beyond help, laying wheezing deeply. Everything had burnt-he couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but he would bet it was one of the missing villagers-the latest one.
Whoever it was, they were dying. Slowly and painfully.
“Fuck.” He grabbed his dagger off his hip. “I'm sorry. I’ll make it quick.”
He wasn’t even sure if the man had heard him-his eyes remained closed. His flesh was still steaming, and Geralt wanted nothing more then to leave the festering heat of the room, away from the stretch of burning flesh, to ride roach back to town. He clenched the knife, this poor fucking soul.
“Sorry.” He repeated.
The man’s eyes snapped open, a bright familiar blue locking with Geralt’s own. He would recognize them anywhere. He dropped the knife.
“No. Jask-” He fell to his knees, hands fluttering over his friend's body, but unable to touch any more without causing more pain. The world was rushing in his ears, and his blood was suddenly running cold through his body. The bard’s breath rattled in his lungs.
Geralt leaned forward, “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. I’ll ride into town to get a healer.”
As he was saying it he knew that wouldn’t work. The town he came from had no healer, no witch to save his friend. The next town was more than a day's ride away-Jaskier would be dead by then. He wouldn’t return in time, and Jaskier would spend every minute in agony for no reason.
The man wheezed, and raspily whispered, every word said after a deep inhale. “Make it quick.”
Geralt thought the man was attempting to smile, but instead of being a calming sight the exposed bones of his skull behind the burnt flesh made Geralt feel hollow inside.
He nodded and picked up his dagger, suddenly feeling much heavier than it ever felt.
He wanted to say something, say anything, but his mouth was dry and he just-
He raised the dagger, right above Jaskier's heart. It would be quick, it would be over before it hurt. Jaskier locked eyes with him, and wheezed.
He stared into the blue, “Jaskier. I’m-I- You have been my greatest friend.”
A tear splattered on his own hands, steady and sure like always. His training ensured it.
The man smiled and Geralt could see his old self in it. His sparkling eyes, his soft skin, chestnut hair. Then it was gone and he was looking at the burned up husk of his companion.
He’d thought they’d have more time.
He plunged the blade in, quickly and sharply. Jaskier let one more broken exhale then Geralt heart his heart stop. His eyes grew dim. Geralt didn’t move, holding perfectly still.
He didn’t know how long he sat like that.
When he stands back up he feels pins and needles in his legs.
He walks outside and stiffly grabs the extra blanket off Roach, ignoring how her head buts at him for attention. He pauses at the metal grate, realizing that Jaskier’s hands had been cuffed to the metal. He wished he would have killed the woman slower.
He tugs at the metal, ripping them straight from the altar. He placed the hands together and wraps his medallion in the left one. It was selfish but he needed a piece of him to be there. So he wasn’t alone.
He quickly yet gently wrapped the body in one of Roach’s blankets.
He kicks at the other body, and pauses when he sees a familiar lute leaning against the wall. He grabs it with his other hand, and tries not to think about the feeling of the wood in his hand.
He carries the body outside.
Jaskier doesn’t deserve to be buried here, in the dark and alone. Geralt remembers a meadow, about a days' ride from here, where Jaskier had once marveled at the colors of the wildflowers and the way the light danced on the water. They had taken a detour for the Bard to gaze in wonder upon it, and Geralt had acted annoyed but he had enjoyed the gentle smell of flowers and Jaskier’s broad grin.
He tied the body to Roach. He’ll take Jaskier there, let him rest among the flowers in the sun.
He’ll bring the lute to Kahr Morhen, place it with the medallions of his fallen brothers. Jaskier would have liked that, after all he’d spent his life trying to use his music to change their lives for the better.
----
Jaskier had always been a bit odd. Sure, he smiled and laughed like every other person. He bled when poked, bruised when he fell, and cried when he was sad. He was just like every average human. Except for one tiny, tiny little thing.
He couldn’t die.
Well, actually that wasn’t right. He could die. He just wouldn’t stay dead for very long.
Hold on, let him start from the beginning.
Jaskier was two when he first died, back when he was still Julian. No of course he does not remember it, but he’s sure that’s when it first happens. His house was struck by a sickness, one that took his two youngest siblings. A brother, 4 years of age, and a sister 3 years of age. He didn’t know them, or remember them but he saw their faces in their family portraits.
The fever took his sister first, then his brother. It was quick, his mother said. You would catch the fever, and you would make it through the night or you wouldn’t. Julian was next, and his mother had stayed with him all night, sure that it would be the last one in this world. She had fallen asleep by his crib, and when she woke up he was fine. No fever, no rash, no cough. It was a miracle.
He was a fighter, she had said. “You knew there was much more for you in this life.”
She told him this story often.
Now the first time he actually remembers dying, he is 8. It’s a miracle, honestly, that he managed to stay out of trouble that long. Jaskier had been out with his older siblings, playing in the woods that surrounded their house. He had three older brothers- the oldest being 18, and the youngest 14. He’d never been particularly close to them, the age he supposed making it quite difficult. His desperation to be their friend was probably the other part.
He supposed they had found him rather annoying because they had invited him to play a game of hide and seek that day. But instead of finding him, they went back to the house for supper.
Jullian of course was not aware of this and had found what he thought was quite a clever hiding spot in the mud, by the meadow. The grass was tall, and his brothers would stay far from the riverbank not wanting to dirty their shoes.
But what young Jullian didn’t know is that the meadow had recently run into a drowner infestation. And he had got their attention with his clambering into the water. He’d only been hiding for a couple of minutes before his ankle was harshly grabbed and he was being tugged into deeper waters.
His memory is a bit spotty from there. He remembers not being able to breath, then a terrible pain in his side. He also remembers fighting and struggling to get free, pushing away and dragging himself to the side of the river bank. The water around him was murky with blood as he crawled to dry land.
It hurt an awful lot, and when he looked down he could clearly see a giant gash along his side. It hurt--then it didn’t.
He woke up with the nastiest taste in his mouth, covered in dried mud and blood. It was dark out, and instantly his hands went to his side. Yet, when he checked his injury it was gone. If it weren’t for the blood and his ripped shirt he would have thought he imagined it. When he stumbled home his mother had cried and held him close. His brother had looked thoroughly shocked, shedding a few tears as well.
They told him how sorry they were, that they thought he would realize they had gone home and follow. That it was a harmless joke, but when he didn’t return for supper they were worried. Their father had gathered a search party for him, but they had found nothing in the dark.
Jullian tried to explain what had happened, but his mother had just held him closer and hushed him.
Later that night, upon seeing his torn shirt, and seeing the amount of blood but no injury her tune changed.
She had made Jullian swear he wouldn’t tell another soul. She had said he was different, and this world punished those who were like him.
They had dug through their families history books searching for a reason, a cause for his condition and came up with nothing. No magic, no sordid affairs with creatures, no mystic ancestors, no godly blessings, just perfectly ordinary humans.
Except for him.
At Oxenfurt he had hoped for answers, but had found nothing but further passion for his music.
Years later, when he had died dozens more times he had given up understanding it. He had died in all manners of ways at this point. Some funny, a terrible fall from tripping over a book and bashing his head in on the dorm table, to some sordid, like the time his partner and him had decided to try some more exciting things and Jaskier had passed with his throat in their hands. They had interpreted his spasmodic jerks as ecstasy and had completed while he had been out. That had rather taken the winds out of his sails about that sort of sex. Well… for a bit.
When he had met Geralt, he had basically accepted it as a fact of life. Grass was green, the sky was blue, and Jaskier couldn’t stay dead.
Traveling with a witcher was actually quite safer for him, he had yet to die in Geralt’s company.
Though that was partially because he was afraid of how Geralt would react.
Well that wasn’t true. He was pretty sure how Geralt would act.
By putting his sword through him. And when that wouldn't work, he would try again and again and again until eventually he found something that made Jaskier stay dead.
He remembers, about three years of traveling with each other they had stumbled upon a town who had contracted him to deal with a problem in the woods. They had described the issue as an immortal being in the woods that feasted upon the flesh of children.
Geralt was pretty sure it was a mage.
Jaskier remembered their conversation around the fire, while Geralt sharpened his swords and he plucked out a tune on his lute.
“What if this menace is actually immortal?” He had been wondering outloud but Geralt had just grunted.
“Nothing is immortal.” He paused, “It just means they're harder to kill.”
Jaskier had hummed, then asked, “And what if they came back? After you killed them that is.”
Geralt had put away his steel sword, switching to the silver. “I’d just kill them again.”
Jaskier shivered, fingers plucking a sour note.
Geralt looked up, and narrowed his eyes. He definitely sensed Jaskier unease at the answer because he explained slowly. “Necromancy is a very rare, and a very dark art. Whatever comes back-they aren’t human anymore. They never come back the same.”
Jaskier swallowed and nodded. He put his lute away, it wouldn’t make much sense to keep playing when he couldn’t get his hands to stop shaking.
Was he the same? Was he even human any more?
Geralt noticed his fear, but misinterpreted it, squeezed Jaskier’s leg. “I won’t let harm come to you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier nodded and gave him a shaky smile. How could he know that it already had? Over and over again.
That night he resolved to never let Geralt see him die. He was afraid of Geralt seeing him as a monster, of raising his silver sword. He was even more afraid of their friendship being over.
Until today he’d been successful with this goal. Traveling with a witcher wasn’t the safest lifestyle, but Geralt had always protected him.
Sure, he’d had a couple of close calls. A few minor injuries, a couple of almost accidental deaths. One almost asphyxiation via errant wish.
The only other time he’d gotten as close, a swipe from a wyvern after Geralt had warned him to stay back, and of course he didn’t.
He’d spent the better part of that day on the forest floor with Geralt above him trying to stop the bleeding, then rushing him to a healer. He’d blacked out, and when he came to he thought he’d finally have to come clean for a brief second before the searing pain hit him. He’s been stitched closed, and had to heal the old fashioned way.
Left a nasty scar.
That was until the following winter when he’d accidentally set off an avalanche on the mountain side and had died under the rubble, he’d woken up sans scar.
He had to tell Geralt he’d had it charmed away, playing up his vanity.
He supposed he ought to be grateful whatever brought him back healed him up for him, he’d be more scar than human at this point if it didn’t.
He’d been meaning to meet up with Geralt after the brutal winter, but a few towns from their meeting point he had been stolen from the road. It wasn’t even someone who knew him, or Geralt. It wasn’t personal at all. He’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A heartbroken girl, convinced if she sacrificed enough her dead lover would return to her. His hands were bolted to the wall, legs manacled together. Jaskier had seen two other men die in her flames, helpless to do anything but watch and cry for them. He was the last she had explained, the final offering to the gods. After him, her lover would return.
He tried to explain that it wouldn’t work but had only earned a kick in the ribs for speaking.
Burning to death was more painful then he had imagined. Of course he hadn’t actually died from the flames, because against all odds his witcher had shone up to save the day.
Geralt's face was-well it was hard to look at. He looked utterly devastated.
Jaskier felt regret for not telling him, but he could hardly explain the situation now. He just had to pray Geralt would be understanding when he woke, for the farce was over.
----
Geralt wiped the sweat from his brow, the dirt on his palm scratching his face. The hole was almost big enough. He was surrounded by wild flowers on allsides. Jaskier likes these kinds of places, making Gerlat pause so he could, as he put it, take a quick frolic break.
The body rested next to him, wrapped in his cape. He turned his attention back to the hole. No. best call it what it is. The grave.
It was deep enough. No chances of a wandering animal or necrophage would dig him up for a meal. Nothing but the worms could reach him this deep.
He took a steadying breath.
--
Jaskier sat up with a gasp, and then leaned over to cough aggressively. His throat was parched, absolutely dry as the deserts. He hacked a few more times, and once he could breathe properly he took a second to examine himself. He was stark naked with a blanket to cover him, a blanket that had seen better days. In fact-this blanket looked suspiciously like the one Roach had.
He sniffed it and gagged. Yep-this was Roach’s blanket.
“Wha-”
He looked up and nearly crossed his eyes at the point of a blade in front of his face. He raised his head.
His witcher glared down at him, dirt on his face and bare forearms. He’d taken off his armor, and was sweating a fair bit. Behind him was a slew of brightly colored flowers.
“Where is he?” Geralt growled.
Jaskier raised his brow, “Is that a sword or are you happy to see me?”
The point of the blade dug into his jugular. He let out a shaky laugh, “Tough crowd.”
“Tell me where the bard is and I’ll make it quick.”
Jaskier grimaced, “It’s me Geralt. I know it’s-”
“That’s impossible.” Geralt cut him off, “ I watched him die. Don’t fuck with me.”
Jaskier raised his hands very slowly, “Uh funny thing about that my dear friend. How do I put this delicately…I can’t die?”
“Fuck off.”
Jaskier winced again, “Yeah okay, I get how it sounds. But wait!” He reached into the blanket and pulled out Geralt’s medallion.
“Look-silver. I’m not a doppler.”
The sword lowered a centimeter.
“It’s not possible.”
“I’m very very aware of that fact. Yet-here I am.If you just let me explain-”
Geralt glare had not let up a single bit.
Jaskier put his hands down, “Well honest there isn’t much I know about it to be quite honest with you. I die, I wake up. Ever since I was a baby.”
Geralt seemed to see he wasn’t lying, tilting his head a miniscule amount. “What the fuck are you talking about.”
Jaskier let out an exasperated breath, “Yeah-I’m. I’m fucking as lost as you! All I know is I die. Then I come back, nary a scratch. Hold on-let me show you.”
Geralt's brow lifted a miniscule amount, it was his confused face. Better than his I’ll strike you down where you stand face.
Jaskier grinned, “Just uh-promise me you’ll wait a bit before burying me? Clawing your way out of dirt is not fun trust me on that.”
“What are you-“
“Sorry, but it’ll be quick this time at least.” Jaskier said before throwing himself towards the sword. He’d just stab a major artery bled out real quick and pop back up in a few.
However he didn’t anticipate Geralt's witchery instincts, and before the steel point could meet his vital bits.
The sword clanged as it hit the ground where Geralt had throne.
The man swore, “What the fuck were you trying to do?? I could have fucking killed you.“
Again.
Jaskier wrung his hands, “Well, I thought if you could see it it would be easier to understand!”
Both men stared at each other for a second. Jaskier was pretty sure Geralt was going to have an aneurysm.
Then he did something equally as unlikely. He dropped to his knees and wrapped Jaskier up in a his arms.
“What is this!” His hands fluttered nervously at Geralt's shoulders. “Are we fighting? Is this a new stranglehold or-“
Geralt buried his head in Jaskier's shoulder, arms tightening around him.
“Oh! Ohhhhh. We’re hugging!!”
Geralt snorted into his hair, and Jaskier slapped his shoulder lightly. “Oh shut up how was I supposed to know? You were pointing your sword at me just a few seconds ago! What brought on this whole-touchy feely-ness?”
He felt Getlat mumble against his neck, “only you would do something so fucking stupid.”
Jaskier laughed, and finally dropped his arms to squeeze his Witcher.
“Oh you know me-I’m a sucker for a handsome guy with a big sword. Can’t be held accountable for what I do when they swing them at me.”
He couldn’t see it but he knew Geralt was rolling his eyes.
“You died. I killed you.”
Jaskier pulled back, “hey! It’s okay it wasn’t permanent!” He grinned widely but Geralts golden eyes did not reflect back his mirth.
“I was going to bury you.”
Jaskier winced, “Yeah. I’m-uh sorry?”
“Don’t be. I’m glad your alive.”
Jaskier launched himself at Geralt again, hard enough he heard his friend let out a puff of air.
“I knew you cared, you big softie! You cried didn’t you?”
Geralt remained his quiet self but he didn’t push Jaskier off. They had landed in the flowers, and the yellow ones looked quite fetching surrounding Geralt's head.
“Has anyone told you yellow’s your color?” He breathed out eyes , never leaving Geralt's face.
Geralts hand shifted from his back, slipping through Jaskier hair.
It was then he became aware once again that he was naked.
“Uh-“
But all thoughts of shame and fear shot straight out his head when Geralts lips met his. He let out a short mmft of suprise before he melted into it, his hand moving to cup Geralts face.
Quickly the kiss turned from chaste to passionate.
Hey, He’s dreamed of this moment, so he was going to take all he could get from his Witcher before he came to his senses.
To his suprise the Witcher seemed as enthusiastic as himself. When Geralt bit on his lower lip and he gasped a bit in pain and a bit in arousal, Geralt dived in with his tongue and tried his upmost best to lick all his teeth clean. He pulled back and let him catch his breath, but his Witcher just trailed kisses down his neck nibbling on his way down.
Jaskier, woefully slapped his chest, then squeezed his pecks. “Holy-what are you made out of steel-no wait. Geralt-wait. Wait!” He yelped as a particularly sensitive spot on his collarbone was teased with sharp canines.
The Witcher stopped, hands gripping Jaskier waist as the bard pulled back.
He breathed heavily, “Okay okay. Give me a second. Whoo boy. Okay, that was amazing and I would very much want some more of that particular activity. But-first let’s. Is it just like a physical thing or-“
Geralt growled his fingers tightening, “you died in my arms Jaskier.”
Jaskier nodded rapidly, “Yes that did happen. Forgive me but I’m not really seeing the connection between my horrific death and the lip locking, pardon my ignorance.”
Geralt eyes shifted away to the forest then back to Jaskier. “Hmm. Fuck.”
Jaskier petted his chest, squeezing a bit again. “Take your time.”
Geralt glared at him. “You died, and I had…regrets.”
Jaskier snickered, “So you thought-oh second chance to fuck the bard? I can’t blame you, I'm pretty irresistible.”
In a flash Geralt rolled them over so he was on top, his hips between Jaskier legs.
Oh that’s right. Naked!
“No, I thought. I should have told him.”
He locked eyes with Geralt, his beautiful golden eyes. They were breathing the same air, yet he felt he wasn’t breathing at all.
“Tell me what?” It was a whisper, a plea.
Instead of an answer Gerlat leaned in and their lips met, in a kiss that reverberated though his whole nervous system sending sparks from his head to his toes.
He broke the kiss and let his forehead touch Geralts.
“Oh.”
He grinned, “I love you too, you hopeless oaf.”