Chapter Text
Jaskier
“Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?”
The words had hit him like a punch in the gut. It wasn’t fair and he’d told Geralt as much, his voice barely more than a whisper as he tried to register what the Witcher had spun around and spat in his direction.
“The Child Surprise. The djinn. All of it!”
As Geralt had stepped forwards, finger pointing accusingly in his direction, he would have stepped back in fear of him for the first time ever if he hadn’t been rooted to the ground in shock – although even then it was in fear of his words, not his violence. Never that.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”
Then Geralt had simply turned his back to him and walked back to the cliff edge to stare out at the valley spread out before him – the distance to the ground below as great as the distance between himself and his best friend, the man he had followed and basically worshipped for twenty-two years. He had been dismissed.
He couldn’t even remember what he’d mumbled in response. He just remembered desperately fighting back tears, knowing that Geralt would smell the salt on him if he let them fall and he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. No, deep down he knew that was a lie. In reality, he didn’t want Geralt to realise how much he had hurt him, as he knew that the knowledge would hurt the Witcher in return once his anger had subsided. The bastard may pretend to have no feelings but after more than two decades, he knew that Geralt felt things deeply. The Witcher was right though, he did bring trouble wherever he went. He was spontaneous and irresponsible and irrational and always seemed to need Geralt to save him – whether from a monster he’d been too reckless to avoid, or a cuckolded husband after his balls. Geralt really would be better off without him.
He remembered saying “See you around, Geralt,” and had been proud of the even tone of his voice, not betraying the fact that his heart was breaking. As he’d slowly walked back up the slope to make his way to their camp, he’d been desperately waiting to hear Geralt call back to him, to plead with him not to leave after all. He could hear the rush of blood pounding in his ears as the silence hit him like the scream of a bruxa. He focussed on Borch walking ahead of him in the distance and willed his pounding heart to slow and his heavy breathing to settle. He knew that both Borch and Geralt could probably hear it from there and for the first time in a long time he yearned to be alone. He sighed deeply and trudged back to camp.
When he arrived there was no sign of Yennifer, which was one small blessing at least. She had obviously chosen to portal herself away from that godsforsaken mountain and yet again he found himself envious of the witch. If only he could escape so easily but instead, he had taken a deep breath, plastered his fake performance smile back onto his face and greeted the remaining adventurers with a cheerfulness and eager pursuit of details which were anything but genuine.
The dwarves were in good spirits since Borch had gifted them dragon’s teeth to prove their fulfilment of the quest. It appeared that they had missed all the fun however, having been frozen in place by Yennifer as they had approached the dragon’s cave. Téa and Véa were as taciturn as ever and it appeared that the Reavers had not returned to the camp at all, which Jaskier hoped was a permanent situation. That left only Borch whom, despite being his usual approachable and forthcoming self, was actually the last person (well, dragon – and wasn’t that a twist in the tale) that he wanted to speak to. Borch was way too perceptive and could obviously see straight through his cheerful façade.
Borch’s perceptiveness would end up being to Jaskier’s advantage, however. Knowing that the bard would not be able to bear facing Geralt again so soon, Borch had suggested that he tell the tale as they walked towards the next camp. After all, they could no longer use the terrifying dwarven short cut now that a section of it had broken away. Jaskier gladly accepted Borch’s suggestion to get as far away from that fucking mountain top as he could, as soon as possible. Leaving the dwarves to accompany Geralt once he had finally finished brooding, they set off on their way. If they just happened to travel a little farther than the dwarves would have managed before setting up their camp, he was sure that it was just coincidence.
On the third day, they reached Roach ahead of the others and Jaskier was certain that the mare could feel the sadness radiating off him, as she actually nuzzled his shoulder when he greeted her and allowed him to stroke her muzzle. Ignoring the heavy weight laying in his chest, he unpacked the last of his belongings from Roach’s saddlebags and kissed her on the nose, eyes filling and throat tightening so much that he couldn’t actually say the word ‘goodbye’. Giving Borch and his companions a final wave, he sighed and let his heavy feet and even heavier heart carry him back to Barefield. He needed to make his way to Oxenfurt, the closest place he had to a home, now that his true home had rejected him.
Geralt
Geralt was cursing himself for what was surely his biggest mistake in a long line of recent mistakes. Mistakes which, ironically enough, he had lain at the feet of the one constant in his life and driven him away. Even as he could hear Jaskier slowly walking away, his heart hammering and his breathing heavy, tang of salt in the air from unshed tears, Geralt had closed his eyes in regret at the venomous words he had just hurled at him. His own heart was loud in his chest, almost as fast as a human’s regular heartbeat – at first through anger but then in panic as he realised what he had just thrown away.
He was desperate to turn and call out to Jaskier, to tell him how sorry he was and to ask him to stay but he knew that his nerves were still too raw and he was terrified of making things worse instead. He needed to meditate. Once he was back in control of his emotions, he would seek out his bard and make things right. He would apologise and Jaskier would forgive him. The trouble was, even as he thought this, a little voice in the back of his mind was telling him that he may have crossed a line this time. He was suddenly plagued by a myriad of harsh words, thrown at Jaskier over the years in a fit of pique, always seemingly brushed off. He wondered how many times those words had secretly cut deep. He remembered telling the bard repeatedly that he was not his friend – even though Jaskier was never anything but kind and caring to him. He’d been so cruel.
He knew the reasons why but that didn’t make it any less wrong. During their training, Witchers were taught to control their emotions, to not let them guide their actions. Fear is an illness and should be faced and dealt with swiftly, every time. Anger should be channelled constructively to aid in a fight or suppressed if no outlet was available. There was seldom opportunity for happiness on the Path and as for love – nobody could love a Witcher. Witchers are as much monsters as the beasts that they hunt and they should put any thoughts of love out of their heads. He hadn’t allowed himself to let Jaskier in, couldn’t afford to call him a friend. He’d told himself for years that he was allowing the bard to tag along simply because they were useful to each other. Geralt (and by extension also his brothers on the Path) had found more coin and less stones and harsh words thrown in his direction since Jaskier had joined him and the bard had also garnered quite the reputation for himself – even earning appointments in royal courts and various other high society functions.
He couldn’t deny that Jaskier had earned his acclaim, despite Geralt once telling him that his singing was ‘like ordering a pie and finding it had no filling’. He shook his head slightly at the memory, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut tight – that was a terrible thing for him to say and it had surely cut to the quick. This brought back more memories of that day, the fear gnawing at him as he realised that the djinn’s curse had taken Jaskier’s voice, his throat swelling as blood poured from his mouth. He had ignored that fear as it wouldn’t have helped and had instead concentrated on fixing the issue as quickly as possible.
In hindsight, that had involved mostly dragging the poor bard around as he found a solution; Geralt’s awkwardness making it hard to give the comfort that Jaskier so clearly pleaded for with his eyes. Those big, blue eyes of his. It hadn’t registered at the time how much they had affected him but when he had asked Yennifer for help, an image of those terrified, pleading eyes had made him say, 'Fix him and I’ll pay you. Whatever the price'. He had meant it, even as he hadn’t realised as much until the words had escaped his lips. No cost would be too great to save Jaskier. At the time he had thought that it was because he blamed himself for the poor man’s plight.
It wasn’t until he had stood over his unconscious form, unsure if he would ever awaken, that Geralt realised the depth of his feelings for the bard. He hadn’t been able to call him a friend because Witchers don’t have friends. For some reason, Jaskier had never stopped trying to be Geralt’s ‘very best friend in the whole wide world’ and by allowing the bard to accompany him on the road, he had unknowingly allowed him to plant a seed in his heart. For sixteen years, every act of friendship that Jaskier had thrust upon him had fed and watered that seed and as Geralt’s eyes had settled on that still, unusually expressionless face, he had felt the weight of regret at the harsh words he had said to him, realising that there was so much more that he should have said instead but would never dare.
As Yennifer questioned him about their relationship, he still couldn’t bring himself to call Jaskier a friend, as he realised that ‘friend’ was not enough. He loved him. He didn’t know when it had happened but he couldn’t deny it any more and the idea terrified him. Years before, he had told Jaskier that he didn’t need anyone and that he certainly didn’t want anyone needing him but now he realised that he did need Jaskier. He also realised that he could never tell the bard how he felt, as his Path was a dangerous one and at some point Jaskier would eventually see sense and leave Geralt to tread it alone.
As the realisation of the depth of his feelings dawned upon him, his mind went back to certain conversations they’d had over the years. How flirtatious Jaskier had always been, which Geralt had just written off as part of his personality, as he was flirtatious with everyone. Geralt had thought back more than once to the time when he had referred to rubbing chamomile on Geralt’s ‘lovely bottom’, which had led more than once to remembering the act itself, causing a flutter in his stomach every time. During that same evening, when Geralt had insisted that he needed no-one and didn’t want anyone needing him, Jaskier had crouched down to the foot of the bath to be at eye level with him and softly said, 'And yet, here we are…'. That moment had felt just a little too intimate and that statement a little too like a confession, so Geralt had swiftly changed the subject. Yet again though, his mind had gone back to that moment and several other similar moments over the years, unsure why he couldn’t quite rid himself of the memories. He realised now that the seed was growing even back then.
When he’d used his last wish to link himself to Yennifer forever, it had been to save her life. Once he’d made the wish however, the force that bound them together had felt like an escape. The depth of his feelings for Jaskier terrified him and that was one fear that he couldn’t face. He needed to suppress his feelings somehow. Loving the bard was dangerous – he couldn’t afford the distraction or it would get them both killed. Much as Witchers were now more accepted, they were still not welcomed everywhere and he couldn’t risk anyone hurting him through Jaskier. He is human and would grow old and eventually die, leaving Geralt alone to mourn him, which was something he couldn’t bear to think about.
The force of the wish was strong and when he found that he had the urge to kiss Yennifer, he had surrendered to it gladly. It had led them to the strange, obsessive relationship into which they had since fallen and he had tried desperately to convince himself that it wasn’t just the wish, that it was love. Unfortunately, what he had belatedly realised was that every time their paths had crossed, he had immediately focussed all of his attention on the witch and practically ignored Jaskier. Geralt had been rejecting him for far longer than he felt comfortable admitting to himself and he could see that the bard’s bitterness towards the sorceress was not only due to her actions in Rinde but also born of the hurt that he must inevitably have felt at having his love for Geralt kicked aside, time and time again. Even the previous night, when Jaskier had suggested that they go to the coast to get away for a while, it had been the closest he’d come to telling Geralt how he felt. It had scared him so much that he’d made a beeline for Yennifer’s tent and spent the night with her, leaving Jaskier to sleep in the dirt without him. Fuck, he’d been so blind. So stupid. So fucking cruel!
He had to make it up to him. He took a deep breath and sat cross-legged at the cliff edge, eyes closed as he tried to push all thoughts away and focus on his breathing. It took way too long to clear his mind and by the time he felt some semblance of peace, the sun was low in the sky and there was a chill in the air. He stood and brushed the dirt from his arse and the back of his thighs, finally feeling ready to face his bard and make things right. He closed his eyes again for a moment to listen, hoping to catch the whisper of a lute on the wind. He felt a pang of disappointment as he heard no sound but set off in the direction of camp, a look of determination on his face.
As Geralt approached the camp, he frowned. He still couldn’t hear Jaskier. Worst of all, he couldn’t smell him either. The dwarves were sat around the campfire, passing a skin of mead between them as they continued to celebrate their success but the others were gone. He knew that Yennifer would have portalled away immediately but had expected to see the others waiting for him. He cursed himself for his cowardice, for wasting half a day and leaving it too late to pack up now to follow them down the mountain. He sat, staring at the campfire until his brooding eventually brought the mood so low that the dwarves decided to get an early night after all. Geralt remained by the campfire until the stars faded and the sky began to lighten in the east, then he packed up his belongings as he waited for the dwarves to awaken.
Once they reached a familiar path, Geralt bid farewell to Yarpen and his men and stormed ahead, hoping to reach Roach by nightfall. Unfortunately, as the daylight faded he realised that the mountain path was too treacherous to risk in the dark. He cursed himself for leaving his saddlebags with Roach, as with a Cat potion he would have been able to continue and would have been sure to catch up with Jaskier. Begrudgingly, he stopped when he reached the first campsite used during their ascent. He sniffed the air, hoping to catch a hint of sandalwood and chamomile, beeswax and honey. Of home. His heart sank as he realised how far away from home he really was. He sat in the dark, not bothering to build a fire or even unroll his bedroll.
He tried to meditate but instead found his thoughts returning time and again to Jaskier. His ready smile – not the ‘stage’ smile which showed his even, white teeth but didn’t quite reach his eyes but the wide, closed-mouth grin or cheeky smirk that lit up his whole face. His brightly coloured doublets which reflected his entire personality. His large, child-like, innocent blue eyes – a deep ocean blue flecked with ice, ringed with indigo but with a blaze of hazel around the pupils. Fuck, those eyes. He could get lost in them. He wished that the last time he’d seen those eyes, they hadn’t been glazed and shimmering with unshed tears. It cut Geralt to the bone to know that he had done that to him.
He was desperate to find his bard. His bard. He planned his route to Oxenfurt, knowing that Jaskier would make a beeline for familiar territory to lick his wounds. It was that exact thought which stopped him in his tracks, however. Geralt had inflicted those wounds and no doubt would be the last person whom Jaskier would want to see. It would be better to let him move on, to find someone else who could make him far happier than a Witcher ever could. Jaskier fell in love all the time – it wouldn’t take long for him to get over a brooding thug who had never shown him the slightest care. The ache in his chest grew and a single tear trickled down his ashen cheek as he resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his home again.
Jaskier
Jaskier was sick of crying. He knew that he was being sad and pathetic but he couldn’t help it. He’d avoided going back to Barefield in the end because he couldn’t face seeing anyone at all. He’d trudged along the roads less travelled, following the Kestrel Mountains south to avoid people as much as possible. It couldn’t hurt either to head farther south before the weather turned even colder. Not that he really felt the cold at that moment. Or hunger. Or anything at all besides the deep ache in his chest. He camped each night, building a fire and foraging for food more out of habit than out of self-preservation. After twenty-two years of walking the Path with Geralt, old habits died hard. Dammit, now he was crying again.
He scrubbed at his eyes defiantly. No more. He needed to get a grip on himself and get out of this stupid funk he was living in. Geralt was better off without him and he was far too young and beautiful to roll over and die just because his heart was currently in about a thousand pieces. He took out his notebook and a stub of pencil, flipping through the pages of scribbled notes and doodles until he reached a blank page. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and opened his heart, allowing himself to feel everything.
He pictured Geralt – his scarred yet flawless alabaster skin almost shimmering in the moonlight. His long, silver-grey hair, strands of which Jaskier has always yearned to reach out and tuck behind his ear, framing his beautiful face. The perfect bow of his upper lip, the full bottom lip giving a slight pout, which made their dusky pink appearance against the paleness of his skin extremely inviting. Fuck, how he’d yearned to kiss him. To gaze into his eyes. Those beautiful sunflower yellow eyes, flecked with amber. The ebony blaze around the edge drawing him in, making him stare into their piercing, intense depths. Those eyes which would soften when Geralt truly let himself feel, on the rare occasions when he would smile at Jaskier, albeit grudgingly because he’d tried so hard not to. Fuck, how he’d love to gaze adoringly into those eyes one more time. To tell him that he loves him. To lightly cup his cheek and press a kiss to his lips. He knew now that it could never happen. He couldn’t believe that he’d held out hope for so long. He had to move on, to stay away from Geralt, as one more look into those eyes and he’d be lost again. He’d wait for another twenty-two years if that is what it took.
That realisation suddenly made him furious. How fucking dare he? How could that fucking Witcher take over his entire life? Treating him like shit for twenty-two fucking years then casting him away like he meant absolutely nothing to him! How had he ever thought that Geralt would feel bad about what he had said? That his tirade was anything more than just another string of insults to add to the list he’d been throwing at him since he was eighteen years old! Flaunting his relationship with that fucking witch in his face when Jaskier has made it pretty fucking clear that he’d been in love with him the whole time. Well, fuck that bastard. That stinking fucking Witcher. That butcher. He clenched his hand tightly into a fist as he glared at the blank page, willing his thoughts into some kind of order so that he could get his feelings down on paper.
By the time he had finished furiously scribbling, he could barely see the page in the dim light of the dying fire, hindered more by the angry tears which had been a constant since he had penned his first word. His fingers were still tight around the pencil and he had to take a deep, shuddering breath and force them open. The pencil dropped into his notebook and he closed the book around it, not bothering to re-read what he had written. He was suddenly exhausted and as he lay down on his bedroll, his eyes were already closing. He curled up in the foetal position, clutching his notebook to his chest and fell asleep.
When he awoke, his body aching from head to foot from the tension he had held in his muscles, eyes burning from the constant crying and the smoke from the campfire, he nevertheless felt better than he had in weeks. His notebook, slightly rumpled from being clutched against his chest, now lay open where the pencil had held his place. He picked it up and read what he had written the previous night. The song title, scribbled at the top after the lyrics had inspired it, gave him a jolt.
Burn, Butcher, Burn
His heart thudded loudly in his chest and his hands shook as he recalled the anger coursing through him as he’d scrawled frantically, the words almost flowing through from his fractured heart to the paper unbidden. The page itself was warped from the tears of rage which had teemed from him and soaked into the words like a magical seal. He was lucky that he’d used a pencil instead of a quill, or the song would have been illegible.
I hear you’re alive, how disappointing
I’ve also survived, no thanks to you
He could feel the anger again as he continued to read – no longer the rolling boil from the night before but now a simmer, which he could feel slowly trickling from his heart through his veins until it was a part of his whole being. There were no tears this time, just a coldness that lay over him like a cloak, protecting him from the barbs of pain that had punctured his heart since the mountain. It was time to move on.
Geralt
Geralt’s resolve lasted until mid-autumn. He’d killed a wyvern a half day’s ride from Vizima and the fight had been spectacular. Once he got back to Roach, the first thing he had told her was that Jaskier would have loved to hear about it and would have written an epic ballad that would have been heard throughout the Continent. His chest tightened and he let out a shuddering breath. Roach nudged his chest sympathetically. The urge to see his bard was overwhelming and the fear of rejection warred with the guilt of not having yet apologised for his actions. Fuck this. He was a Witcher and Witchers don’t bow down to fear. He patted Roach’s neck affectionately and swung up into her saddle before grabbing the reins and pointing her towards Oxenfurt.
He practiced his apology speech over and over as he rode from town to town. It was the last thing he thought of as he lay down for the night and the first thing he thought of when he awoke. The closer he came to Oxenfurt, the more he felt the frisson of anticipation course through him. He was nervous but also excited to finally see Jaskier again. Now that he had finally admitted to himself that he was in love with the bard, he was determined to win him back and never let him out of his sight again. As the gates of the town came into view, he patted Roach’s neck to steady himself.
“Well Roach, here goes nothing.”
She nickered in response and he tightened his grip on her reins, breathing deeply to slow his heartbeat before nudging her slightly with his heels to guide her from a walk to a trot, eager to see his home again.
If there was one place outside of Kaer Morhen where Geralt felt welcome, it was Oxenfurt. Jaskier had seen to that over the years, practicing his new songs on the town’s residents before travelling the Continent with them. Although he didn’t recognise the guards at the gates, as he dismounted Roach they obviously recognised him and nodded respectfully as he led her through. He nodded back in response, mentally thanking his bard yet again for his efforts. Much as he hated large towns and cities, Oxenfurt was by far the most tolerable. The academy town was host to people from all corners of the Continent, all welcomed in their pursuit of knowledge.
The narrow, muddy streets were lined with colourful wooden buildings with pointed rooves. They were filled with shops large and small, selling every item imaginable, plus stalls, workshops and studios. The aromas of exotic foodstuffs emanated from stands, huts, counters and grills and the sound of music and laughter drifted on the air from the inns and taverns. Geralt headed south towards The Alchemy, the most popular inn in Oxenfurt. He was sure that he would find Jaskier there sooner or later. As he led Roach through the narrow streets, he tried to block out the surrounding chaos of sound as he hoped to catch the lilt of his bard’s voice on the wind. He knew it was too early in the day but he was hopeful, nonetheless.
Once The Alchemy was in sight, he led Roach to the adjoining stables. He removed his belongings from her back, then removed her saddle and tack, hanging them on the hook in her stall. He took her grooming kit from his saddlebag and began to groom her, talking to her softly the whole time. Starting with the curry comb, he brushed circles into her neck and back towards her tail, pulling the dust from the deeper layers of her chestnut coat and spreading her skin oils evenly. Then he switched to a stiff brush to rid her of the loosened dirt with short strokes. Once he was satisfied that she was clean enough, he began using a soft brush, this time including her face and murmuring lovingly to her as she nuzzled his chest. He used long, sweeping strokes down her neck and flanks with the brush until she was sleek and shiny. He used a comb to detangle her forelock, mane and tail, being sure to start at the bottom to avoid pulling and making her uncomfortable. Once they were smooth and tangle free, he replaced the comb and took a bottle of oil blended with chamomile from his saddlebag, pouring a little into his hand and rubbing his hands together. His heart skipped a beat at the scent, several memories flashing through his mind – including yet again a certain intimate moment. There was a lot to be said for saddle sores. He smiled ruefully as he smoothed the oil into Roach’s tail and combed it through, before repeating the process with her mane and forelock.
“I should have learned how to braid. He always made you look so pretty. Wish I’d told him instead of teasing him about it.”
Roach nickered at him and tried to nibble on his hair.
“Enough of that, you menace. Let me check your hooves and then you can eat.”
He checked inside her mouth first to be sure there were no thorns or small sticks. As usual, she tried to bite him but didn’t put in much effort. He chuckled at her mischief and checked her hooves and shoes, picking out a small stone from her hind left with the hoof pick. Once he was satisfied that her shoes were firmly in place and that she was comfortable, he replaced the grooming kit and took out his last apple, which he shared with her. He put some fresh hay in her trough and added some oats from his saddlebag. Satisfied that she also had access to fresh water, he stroked her nose one last time, earning him an irritated nudge as she tried to concentrate on her food. He chuckled again, closed and bolted the stall door, then picked up his satchel, saddlebags, bedroll and sword bag and headed inside the inn to pay for her stabling and request a hot meal, room for the night and a bath.
The inn was bustling as he entered, most tables already occupied. Even though no music was playing and Geralt’s nose was telling him that Jaskier wasn’t inside, he couldn’t help but to look around hopefully and feel a pang of disappointment when he didn’t see him. He headed up to the bar, nodding in response when the innkeeper smiled in recognition, hardly noticeable behind this thick beard.
“The White Wolf! It’s been a while.”
He eyed Geralt, curiously.
“Stjepan.”
The Witcher had no intention of satisfying his curiosity.
“I’ve stabled Roach. I’d like a hot meal, a bath and a room for the night if one is available.”
“No problem. Drink?”
Geralt shook his head slightly.
“I’ll bathe first. Ale can wait until I have some food in front of me.”
Stjepan smiled and nodded and they agreed a price. Geralt dropped the coins on the counter and took the key from him.
“I’ll have a bath drawn for you now. You know where the bathroom is. No doubt you’ll want to be settled in early before your bard arrives.”
Geralt looked up sharply. He’d been expecting Jaskier to play here but hadn’t dared to assume he was right until he knew for sure.
“Has he been playing here for long?”
Stjepan arched an eyebrow. Geralt could see that the curiosity was killing him but his own self-preservation was preventing him from pressing for gossip. He may be a worthy adversary in Gwent but would certainly be no match for a Witcher in combat if he should take offense at his questions.
“A while. He’s as popular as ever but most of his coin doesn’t cross the threshold these days. Not that I’m complaining, obviously.”
He smiled but his nose wrinkled a little guiltily, knowing that the arrangement was definitely more in his favour than Jaskier’s.
“I assume he’ll be going back on the road with you now though?”
Much as Geralt hoped that was true, he wasn’t about to assume and certainly wasn’t about to show his doubt to the innkeeper.
“Hmmm.”
He turned away and walked towards the stairs.
“A pleasure as always, Geralt.”
Stjepan chuckled to himself.
Geralt let himself into his room and placed his belongings on the bed. He sighed as he remembered the last time he had rested on that particular bed, shared with Jaskier as they couldn’t afford to waste the coin on a room each. He closed his eyes and drank in the memory; the scent of sandalwood and chamomile from his expensive soap, beeswax from his lute care and the honey he always carried with him to enhance his groats or tea or anything else that the bard decided could use a sweetener. The tickle of his breath on the back of his neck, the warmth and weight of the arm slung across his waist in the night. Gods, how he missed it. He pictured his bard sat on the bed in chemise and breeches, boots and doublet removed for comfort, eyes fixed on Geralt as he strummed his lute, making up silly rhymes to tease him. It was a bittersweet image.
He was shaken out of his reverie by a knock on the door, a serving girl informing him that his bath was ready. He thanked her and retrieved his last clean shirt, clean braies and a small packet containing a sliver of soap from his satchel – his one last remnant of Jaskier, overlooked when he had taken his belongings back in Caingorn. Geralt remembered the sharp pain in his chest when he’d checked the bags and discovered that all traces of his bard were gone. He’d frantically scrabbled through the packs as he could smell the soap and he’d actually clutched it to his chest like a talisman when he’d found it. He had taken that small packet from his satchel dozens of times since that day, bringing it to his nose to breathe in the scent of Jaskier, eyes closed so that for just that one moment he could let himself forget that they were apart, that the tiny item was all that he had left of him.
By the time he’d bathed and gone back to his own room, the inn was full – the babble of chatter uncomfortable to his sensitive ears. As he closed the door, he missed the scent of sandalwood and chamomile drifting up from downstairs, mistaking it for being from his own skin instead. He put on his knitted socks and boots and combed through his wet hair, missing the feeling of Jaskier’s slender fingers combing through it after he’d massaged his own expensive soap into Geralt’s scalp. He’d never hesitated to share. Yet another thing the Witcher had taken for granted.
As he opened the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of an Elven lute being strummed in preparation for a performance. His breath caught in his throat and he felt the adrenaline course through him as he realised that his bard was downstairs. Food could wait – he intended to sit in a corner and absorb every moment of Jaskier’s performance. As he descended the stairs, his eyes moved immediately to the table closest to the bar, his bard’s favourite starting spot. Not that he would stay in one spot, as he loved to dance amongst the crowd, basking in the adoration of his audience. That was especially relevant in Oxenfurt, where he was quite the celebrity. Geralt’s breath stuttered as he caught a glimpse of Jaskier’s side profile, only partially visible behind the people crowding the bar to get another drink before the show began.
Geralt weaved through the edge of the crowd to find that his favourite table in the corner closest to the door was still empty. Most patrons actually preferred to sit closer to the bar and to the stage if there was one, which meant that the far corner table was usually left empty until last. It meant that Jaskier would most likely not spot him amongst the crowd, which was his preference. He knew that there was a difficult conversation ahead and he didn’t want it to affect his bard’s performance as he would need the coin, if Stjepan’s news had been accurate. He frowned at the thought of how much Jaskier must be drinking and hoped that he was simply enjoying spending evenings drinking with his friends, not drowning his sorrows instead. Sorrows that Geralt had inflicted upon him.
As the crowd near the bar thinned and people took to their seats, he could see Jaskier more clearly. He had changed a lot. He’d traded his usually brightly coloured doublet for a deep indigo blue. His hair had grown a little and his usually clean-shaven face showed at least two days’ stubble. There was a furrow between his eyebrows and the beginnings of crow’s feet. The faint lines showing on his forehead and the shadowing and slight redness around his eyes showed definite signs of stress. Had the inn not been so busy, Geralt was certain that he’d have been able to smell the pang of sadness emanating from him. His heart sank.
Jaskier stood up from the table against which he’d been perching and plastered his fake showman smile upon is face, yet again not reaching his eyes which still radiated sadness. He strummed a few chords to get everyone’s attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Jaskier the bard and it would be my pleasure to entertain you this evening.”
He warmed up the crowd with a few typical tavern songs, not yet dipping into his own repertoire. The patrons were soon clapping and singing along to the music, not noticing the slight tremor in his voice nor tension in his stature as he weaved amongst them, occasionally winking or nudging someone during a particularly cheeky line. Geralt saw it all though. Much as it pained him to witness Jaskier’s sadness, it still gave him a sense of relief to see his bard in one piece and to hear his beautiful voice again. As Jaskier started his next song, Geralt recognised it as the one he’d been writing on his way up the mountain. It was a ballad, a love song but a sad one.
“But the story is this, she’ll destroy with her sweet kiss, her sweet kiss.”
As the song continued, Geralt realised that the song was about him, about Yennifer. A warning of the pain she would cause. He closed his eyes and huffed out a little laugh at the irony. It hadn’t been Yennifer’s kiss that had caused the pain but his own. He’d started something that day in Rinde that had hurt all three of them.
As the song drew to a close, Jaskier paused for a moment to take a drink. A few people began calling out requests, mostly for songs about him.
“Sing us a song about the White Wolf!”
Geralt saw Jaskier’s eyes tighten for a moment at the mention of him. To anyone else, it would seem like nothing but he knew his bard’s expressions so well that he knew it to be a flinch. It was like a knife in the ribs. He wanted to take Jaskier in his arms and soothe the pain from him but it was quite plain that he would have a lot of apologising to do before Jaskier would accept any form of comfort from him, before he would trust the Witcher enough to let him close. He studied his bard’s face and saw him smile ruefully. His eyes had begun to glaze and Geralt suspected that it was not the first tankard from which he had supped on that night.
“So you would like a song of Geralt of Rivia?”
It was Geralt’s turn to flinch at the bitterness in his voice.
“I’ve got just the thing.”
The Witcher was apprehensive. This didn’t sound good. Jaskier began to strum the intro.
“I hear you’re alive, hoooooow disappointing.
I’ve also survived, no thanks to you…”
Geralt closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at the bitterness etched on the bard’s face. He realised that he had lost him, after all. The weight in his chest grew and grew as he listened to line after line of mockery and vitriol, knowing that it was all justified. He wanted to leave, to run from the song, from the truth of it but he couldn’t move.
“After everything we did, we saw,
You turned your back on me
What for do you yearn?
Watch that Butcher burn…”
Geralt gasped, his eyes widening at the name. For twenty-two years, Jaskier had striven to rid the Witcher of that label and now... He stood, knees weak as all hope left him and took his strength with it. Head bowed, he tried to disguise his imposing form as he edged around the crowd to reach the stairs, eyes never leaving Jaskier as he climbed, willing the bard not to turn to see him. The word ‘burn’ following him repeatedly, stinging with every repetition. As he unlocked the door, he heard Jaskier’s broken voice utter the last line.
“Watch me burn all the memories of you.”
He locked the door behind him and rested his head against it, finally allowing tears to trickle from behind eyes squeezed tight in agony.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Too fucking late.”
He turned to look at the bed and once again pictured Jaskier there. He took a shuddering breath and walked hesitantly towards it. Perching on the edge, he removed his boots before taking his bedroll from the bed and laying it out on the floor. He couldn’t sleep on it, not after he’d shared that same bed with the bard last time. As he lay down and breathed deeply, trying desperately to relax, he realised that he could smell the sandalwood and chamomile on his skin and hear Jaskier’s performance through the floorboards. It was pure torture. He wished desperately that he could perform Axii on himself, that he could will himself to forget Jaskier – forget that he had lost the best thing that had ever happened to him. He lay, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to rise so that he could leave this place and never return.