Imagine Cursed!Jaskier who was born to be forgettable. Who has to work to make people hear him, to see him, to remember him.
He becomes a bard because his lute helps him to have a presence, a physical thing that makes noise and draws the attention of all who can hear. It sounds silly, perhaps, to choose a career that revolves around being acknowledged, but by the time he picked up the instrument at thirteen he knew he needed something. That just being him, his voice and his words, would never be enough.
(It’s a miracle he survived through infancy, that somehow people remembered to feed him when they could barely remember he existed. He thinks his parents, his siblings, might have loved him if they could only stop forgetting him.
He’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.)
He discovers that those with magic have an easier time perceiving him, to the point that Geralt and Yennefer just…never seem to notice the curse…? Which is fine, really, even when Geralt gives townspeople funny looks for not recognizing the bard in the morning light, their eyes seeming to glaze over him.
This trick actually comes in handy numerous times, when a scorned lover or vengeful spouse try to take revenge on him and then just…can’t find him. Jaskier can often get away with simply hiding behind a nearby stall or building until the person shakes their head and all but forgets what they were so angry about only minutes ago.
(And if Geralt shakes his head muttering something about stupid townspeople, well, Jaskier tries not to laugh out loud at least.)
It’s not until he and Ciri are captured by Nilfgaardian soldiers that Jaskier realizes how dangerous his curse is—how quickly it can be turned against him. They throw them into cages next to each other, and then just…forget he exists. They don’t try to torture him, sure, but they also don’t bother bringing him any food or water either.
And it takes energy to make people see him, to exude enough of a presence for others to detect him. He manages, for the first few weeks, with Ciri forcing him crusts of bread and sips of water through the prison bars, but then—
He wakes up one day, and croaks out her name, and she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even turn her head. And he knows that this is the end for him. That even if Geralt or Yennefer come for Ciri, they will not see him. They’ll find the princess curled up on a rat-eaten cot, deep in the dungeon, alone.
Jaskier does his best not to feel bitter when the next day, it is the witcher who comes and rips the door off its hinges, cradling his Child Surprise to his chest like she is the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t bother to cry out as Geralt walks away, not sure he had the energy left to do so anyways, and tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that Ciri is safe. That all three of them will be a happy family together, forgetting Jaskier ever even existed.
(A small voice whispers that if Jaskier wasn’t cursed, wasn’t so freaking invisible, Geralt would have carried Jaskier out too. Would have gone to the ends of the earth to rescue the bard.
It’s a nice fantasy, at least, for his sluggish brain to focus on in place of his aching stomach and desert-dry mouth.
Yet again, he’s left wondering if the fictional scenario makes him feel better or worse.)
His eyes close, and he doesn’t expect them to open again. He’s surprised when he feels arms closing around him, his body being lifted, and wonders at the grimm reaper feeling warm. Because surely he’s died, there’s no way for anyone to have found him, it’s impossible—
He feels something cool against his lips, the warmth moving to massage his neck, his body swallowing without conscious thought. He chokes a bit as more of the delicious, refreshing nectar is poured into his mouth, some of it trickling down to his chin as his head is lifted gently, oh so gently.
He can hear soothing whispers, tries desperately to make out what is being said, but his eyes refuse to open and any bit of energy he had has been thoroughly drained as he finds himself sinking back into the dark.
Jaskier doesn’t know how long it takes him to regain consciousness. He floats between snatches of slumber, waking to spoons of broth against his lips and water being carefully poured down his throat. He hears voices whispering, and he distantly wonders if he is back home with his family, his two sisters and brother talking with their parents as he tries desperately to interject. He wants to add something to the conversation, to be seen, to be heard, would someone please just—
He wakes to a hand running through his hair, a litany of soothing words from a rough, deep voice. He forces his eyes open, squinting against the bright mid-day light with a groan—
“Jaskier? Can you…are you awake?”
Jaskier groans again, mumbling an affirmative, struggling to make his mind work. He feels a bit like he has the worst hangover of his life, but never has alcohol left him as weak as a newborn kitten.
It isn’t until Geralt helps Jaskier sit up, and the bard sees his own skeletal wrist, that Jaskier remembers the prison.
Recalls how he’d watched Geralt walk away, taking with him Ciri and any hope Jaskier had of being rescued.
So Jaskier is confused, he doesn’t understand what happened, how he got to this warm, comfortable bed, how he’s even alive—
And then Jaskier sees the witcher’s arms, his hands, as Geralt brings over a bowl of broth. He stares as the other man explains something about finding Jaskier’s lute with Ciri’s things and remembering, how he’d gone back for the bard as soon as he could. He was scolding Jaskier for not telling him sooner about the curse, something something dangerous, worried, but all the bard could do was stare at the numerous ink marks the witcher bore.
It must have taken at least an hour to write the hundreds of words covering Geralt in various sizes and levels of neatness. Never before had Jaskier seen the witcher even write a reminder on himself, a bit of shorthand to recall what to get at the market. So to see the witcher’s body in such a state, to know what it was for—
“It’s okay, Jaskier,” Geralt grabbed one of Jaskier’s hands in one of his own ink-stained ones. “Yennefer is working on finding a way to break the curse, or at least to…to work around it.
“But don’t worry,” he said, rubbing his thumb over one of Jaskier’s knuckles. “I’m never going to forget you again, even if she can’t find a magical way to help. I won’t let that happen.”
And Jaskier knew better than to hope. To imagine a world in which he could know others and be known in return.
But he couldn’t help the way his chest felt lighter as Geralt spoon-fed him broth, using hands covered from fingertip to elbow in Jaskier’s name.
For the first time in his life, Jaskier did not find himself longing for a dream.
It seemed as soon as he’d stopped searching for it, his dream had found him.
