Journal Keeper
Jaskier is always writing in his journal. Geralt can’t understand the appeal in writing about his own life - dull as it is. And then, quite suddenly, he can. Inspired by the epilogue of RDR2, if you can believe it.
Look, guys. This one is really sad. Full blown angst, hurt without comfort, it does not have a happy ending. TW: major character death, angst, general awfulness. Sorry. ~3k words.
~
Geralt relies on his memory when he’s hunting monsters or crafting potions. If he’s lost, he has a map; if he’s on a job, he has the desperately-scrawled contract shoved in a pocket, stained with blood and ink. Any job that doesn’t require a contract or letter or a notice pinned to a rotting board is quick enough that he won’t need a scrap of paper to refer to anyway.
He doesn’t need to take notes, he doesn’t sketch the monsters he kills. He knows every plant and herb and mushroom on the continent and beyond by memory alone - it’s what happens when you’ve been on the Path for as long as he has - and he doesn’t need to draw them for future reference.
Jaskier is not like him. He’s always scribbling in a notebook - writing down his thoughts, his feelings, little snippets of songs and stories. He details Geralt’s hunts and his own courtly exploits, his tongue sticking comically from the side of his mouth.
When Geralt allows him to get close enough, he makes little sketches of the monsters he hunts. If Jaskier happens to be there when Geralt takes the beast down, he’ll get as close as he dares without actually kneeling in the viscera and scribble tiny, detailed drawings of claws and fangs and feathers. Geralt figures, after so long travelling together, that he must have a sizable compendium of monster drawings stashed away somewhere.
It’s not just monsters, either - he draws diagrams of weapons and armour, labelling each part. He copies the likeness of flowers and herbs, with twisting arrows pointing to the most useful parts and hastily scribbled recipes for potions that, as a human, he will never have to take.
On an evening, be they resting in the warmth of an inn or beneath the stars, he jots down that day’s events: even if all they’d done was walk several empty miles between towns. Geralt finds this bizarre: the idea of writing down what he’d done each day seems pointless to him. More than that: it seems dull. All of Geralt’s days are much the same, and writing them all down, reliving them one after the other, will only emphasize that sad little fact.
Jaskier writes about contracts and banquets and balls. He writes about petty aldermen, cheap farmers, comely barmaids with twinkling eyes and handsome Dukes. He writes in pointed, venomous words about Valdo Marx and flowing, purple prose about the many people he meets and falls in love with.
Geralt has no idea how many notebooks the bard must have gone through in their time together. He always has a fresh one buried at the bottom of a bag before the first is fully used, so he’s never caught unawares.
It is odd, Geralt thinks, but there’s something comforting about it - something sweet. The gentle scritch-scratch of Jaskier’s pen on the parchment after they’ve shared an evening meal soothes him: it’s the sign that the day is over, and Geralt has miraculously survived another hunt.
Jaskier doesn’t try to hide his scribblings - in fact he’s very open with them, often shoving his book beneath Geralt’s nose to get his opinion on a doodle or diagram - “tell me, Geralt,” he says, nose crinkling, “if this griffin’s talons are correct. And the feathers - are they quite right?”
Sometimes, Jaskier encourages Geralt to try himself, insisting that as Geralt is the one who goes face-to-face with these beasts that his own drawings would be more accurate than Jaskier’s, who more often is found running away from the monsters than towards them. Geralt is resistant, at first - it would be a shame, he thinks, to ruin such lovely work with his awkward hand.
But Jaskier is more persistent than Geralt is self-conscious, and he does try, but only a few times. He doesn’t have the same control over the pen that Jaskier does, his lines are too thick, his sketches indistinguishable. Even his handwriting, which has never been something he’s cared to perfect, is misshapen and spiky next to Jaskier’s neat cursive. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, though - he’s all smiles and gentle encouragement, no matter how much Geralt’s drowners look like lopsided fish.
The first winter he comes to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier brings with him two spare notebooks, and by the time spring is nearly upon them he’s filled them both. Geralt, feeling awkward, makes him a new one - there’s parchment to spare in the vast library, and they are not wanting for leather. Vesemir helps him bind it with rough, uneven stitches.
It’s a lumpy thing, the pages different sizes and the cover slightly too large. It doesn’t open properly down the middle, and when he hands it to Jaskier - who is still lamenting not bringing more books with him - his first instinct is to apologize.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “It’s not as nice as your others, but I thought it could tide you over until we reach Ard Carraigh.”
Jaskier takes it from him with a smile.. “Where did you get this?” He asks, in wonder.
“I…” Geralt feels foolish, and he hates it. “I made it,” he says.
And Jaskier’s face splits into a wide grin, and then there’s tears in his eyes, and Geralt can’t move quick enough to avoid the hug as Jaskier throws his arms around his neck.
“Thank you,” he says, when he finally lets go. “It’s lovely.”
Geralt looks at him with disbelief, and Jaskier huffs at him.
“It is lovely.” Jaskier’s fingers lightly brush against the bumpy, imperfect leather. “Made even more lovely by knowing that you made it for me, Geralt. Truly.”
It’s a few weeks yet till the snow thaws and they can set out once more - and while there’s less to write about when trapped in the icy mountains with a bunch of grumpy witchers, the notebook goes everywhere Jaskier does. Sometimes, Geralt spots him simply running his fingertips softly up and down the cover, utterly lost in thought.
Geralt spends a long time watching those fingers, the way they caress the scarred, ugly thing.
Three weeks later, the pass clears, they return south, and Geralt realises with quiet devastation that he’s fallen in love with his bard.
His brothers, he thinks, will not be surprised.
He does not tell Jaskier.
Nothing changes - and a few months later the notebook is full of monsters, adventures, and more dull days than Geralt can possibly count. They feel less dull, now - now that he knows where his heart lies. Even on the longest trek, when the only view for miles is of farms and sheep, there’s always something to notice: the way Jaskier sings as they walk, the new song he composes for Roach, the loaf of bread he manages to steal from a windowsill when there’s no coin left.
Those long, grey days seem less grey, now.
But still he does not tell Jaskier.
Jaskier, for his part, appears not to have noticed - he behaves much the same as he ever did: laughter and beer and teasing, slipping in and out of bed with innumerable companions. But Geralt sees something different in it now: when Jaskier binds yet another wound with one of his own shirts, quietly grumbling about ruined silk, or when he shouts at an ignorant peasant, or when he presses himself close to Geralt’s back when they’re forced to share a bed. Before, Geralt called it friendliness. But now, seeing Jaskier in this new, dazzling light, he wonders if it might be something else.
It’s after a hunt that he decides to act. He’s returned to the inn covered in monster guts, and the ever-practical Jaskier has already got a bath waiting for him.
“I refuse to share a bed with a man who stinks of monster spleen,” he says, pointing at the tub. “Get in.”
Geralt does, and allows himself to be cleaned. Long gone are the days where Jaskier would simply toss a bucket of water over his head and leave him to figure out the rest himself: now he’s quiet and attentive, fragrancing the water just enough to cover the stink without irritating Geralt’s sensitive senses. He washes the black, oozy blood from Geralt’s arm with a sponge, that same look of concentration on his face as when he’s writing in one of his journals. And then he abandons the sponge and lathers soap between his fingers and uses his hands instead - his pale, slender digits swiping up and down Geralt’s marred skin.
Jaskier does not hesitate or wince over Geralt’s scars. His fingers brush the raised skin gently - reverently. Geralt shudders, and it has nothing to do with the coolness of the water.
It takes him two days. They’re in the wilderness once more, half a day’s ride from a village being terrorised by a basilisk. The woodland clearing in which they’ve made camp is rich with the smell of roasting deer, Jaskier scribbling furiously in his book. It’s only one third finished, with far more pages than his others.
“More room for all our adventures,” he had said, eyes twinkling. “Now I shan’t run out of paper as quickly.”
Geralt approaches him quietly. Too quietly: Jaskier doesn’t even realise he’s there, and jumps when Geralt kneels down in front of him. Silently, he takes the book from his hand and places it on top of his satchel. Jaskier lets him.
Later, Geralt isn’t sure who kissed who first. It doesn’t matter, of course.
The roasted deer is all but forgotten. Jaskier feels so good under his fingers - his skin soft and pliable, his mouth warm and eager. For a long while, all that exists is Jaskier and his hands and his skin and his lips and the way he gasps Geralt’s name from pink, needy lips.
Afterwards, sweaty and spent with leaves in their hair, he asks Jaskier if he’ll be writing down this little adventure. Jaskier runs a hand up and down his chest and laughs, his breath tickling at Geralt’s neck.
“Perhaps,” he breathes, “Perhaps. But I rather hope there are more adventures of that kind to come. I cannot possibly write them all down, can I?”
Jaskier falls asleep first, safely cocooned in Geralt’s arms. When he’s sure he’s drifted off - his heart slowed and breathing rhythmic - Geralt holds him tight and whispers it into his sleeping ear.
“I love you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier does not respond, merely twitching in his sleep.
The next day, Geralt hunts a basilisk.
The next day, Jaskier finally gets too close.
For a long time, Geralt doesn’t know what to do with himself. He takes the pay without a word: it feels wrong to accept it, now. The villagers let him stay awhile in an empty farmhouse, and he’s grateful for their kindness. It’s all he can do to write a brief, simple letter which he sends to Oxenfurt. He gives nearly the full bag of coin to a stablehand with a fast horse to ensure it gets there quickly.
After the stablehand leaves, he wonders if he should have sent it to Lettenhove. There’s no one to ask what to do, now.
On the third day, the healer comes. The priest, too, with swathes of white linen. Geralt exists quietly on the margins.
A week after the basilisk, the stablehand returns with an entourage. Geralt tries to explain - tries to make them understand that it seemed better than calling for Jaskier’s estranged family - but words come even harder than usual. The blonde-haired woman who arrives at the head of the pack doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into a hug.
They share their grief.
It takes two days to return to Oxenfurt. Geralt rides Roach behind the canopied cart, never once taking his gaze from it.
Geralt had always been a little suspicious of the poets Jaskier spoke of, but when he’s actually amongst them he’s treated only with kindness. They insist he stays in the Academy for as long as he needs - but the event of it is all over in a matter of days. He could leave, but his bones have turned to lead and he cannot carry on, not like this.
Those long, grey days return. He stares out of the tiny window of his lodgings at the slow-moving Pontar. He stays there till the sun sets and the moon rises.
After a month of living as a ghost, the blonde-haired woman returns. It’s awkward for a while: both too lost in their own private grief to properly talk to someone else. She brings wine with her - Est Est, his favourite, always - and they drink. Wine loosens their tongues, and finally Geralt speaks. His voice is hoarse from underuse, his tone broken, his words faltering. She understands.
He cannot stay in Oxenfurt. When it’s time to leave, she presses Jaskier’s bag into his hands - the one he’s used on their travels for decades. They’ve decided that she should keep the lute: it belongs in a place of art and life and music, they both agree. But the rest is his.
Geralt rides from the city, across the Eastern bridge. He rides until Roach can go no further. He makes a meagre camp for himself, not bothering with anything beyond the smallest fire. Something compels him to open the bag.
There, atop old shirts and loose coins, is the notebook. He pulls it out, and it falls open on his lap. The crisp, blank pages flutter in the wind, skimming through the empty pages of a life cut short.
He snaps it shut and throws it back in the bag.
Hunts continue. He has to eat, after all: has to pay his way, even if he doesn’t want to. He trudges. He sees old friends, and is forced to retell the story over and over. He hopes that the next retelling will hurt less, but it never does.
After four months, he finally has the courage to look in the bag once more. He places the notebook down on the cover of the small, hard bed that he’s rented for the night. He pulls out the shirts which, miraculously, still smell of Jaskier. He sleeps with one shirt balled in his fist, pressed to his face. It’s almost like he’s back - almost like Geralt is home.
In the morning, stiff and somehow more tired, he realises the notebook has slipped to the floor in the night. It’s fallen open on the last filled page. He reads it: of course he does, he can’t stop himself. It’s like listening to a ghost - like listening to a voice echoing at you from the back of a cave.
Jaskier did write it down. That makes him smile. He mentions the basilisk, and there’s a note about the uses of basilisk venom. It feels such a waste, so utterly foolish - how flippant and irrelevant these last words are, when in hindsight they were the most important thing Jaskier would ever write.
Geralt picks up the notebook. He reaches into Jaskier’s bag and finds a half-chewed pencil. Slowly and precisely, he writes the date in the top left corner of the next blank page.
At least, he hopes that’s the correct date.
He hesitates for a moment, and then beneath the date he writes - Walked ten miles. Contract in Vizima. Rotfiend nest - destroyed. Need more bombs.
It’s a pale, soulless companion to Jaskier’s writing.
Everyday, he writes beneath that, hand shaking, I miss him.
The next day, he writes about the Vizima contract in short, simple sentences. He notes down that he needs more Celandine. He tries to sketch Roach, but the pencil is too small in his hands and his lines are rough and uneven and it’s wrong, all wrong - he’s ruined it, he’s ruined the one thing he had that tied him to Jaskier and, and--
He throws the pencil in the fire.
Two days later he buys a new one, and vows to start again.
His writing is not as floral as Jaskier’s. He doesn’t linger on poetry or feelings or art. He notes down practical things - population sizes, weather patterns, notes on which herbs he needs. He draws Roach, again and again, until he deems his efforts worthy.
That winter he returns to the keep with the notebook nearly full. There’s something there waiting for him - a large wooden chest. He’s about to ask how such a delivery could get so high in the mountains, when Eskel appears.
“Someone left it for you in the tavern in Ard Carraigh,” he says. “They knew one of us would stop there on the way through. You owe me, Wolf. It weighed a fucking tonne.”
Geralt kneels down and unclips the straps that keep the box shut, heaving open the wooden lid. He peers inside. Eskel peers over his shoulder.
“Books?” He says, “We’ve got thousands of books. Why do we need any more?”
Geralt picks up the nearest one. He opens it to reveal rows and rows of neat, cursive handwriting and a little sketch of a slyzard. There’s a note on top - he takes it in a shaking hand and reads: These are, by and large, about you. So it seemed right you should have them. Take care.
The notebook drops heavily back into the box. Geralt’s legs have turned limp - he cannot stand. There must be a hundred notebooks in the box, all full, all complete.
Eskel is looking around, now.
“Hey,” he says, as if only just realising the ringing emptiness that’s been following Geralt around for months. “Where’s your bard?”
Geralt pulls shut the lid, and rests his head against the wood.
Here, he thinks. He’s here.
