Jaskier had loved a poet once. In retrospect a horrible mistake. Some things were way more cruel if spoken in pretty words.
"You are like a spring-god," she had said and he had smiled at her stern face. "Wherever you go, plants come alive under your steps." She still wasn't smiling and he slowly grew uneasy under her gaze. "But spring flowers don't come without weeds, Jaskier. And the weeds under your feet grow tall."
He wouldn't have thought it possible to hate a season, but he despised spring after that.
"You're like autumn itself," Geralt had said and made him fear the rest of the sentence. His lover's words surprised him though. "Even when the world is falling apart, you manage to make it beautiful. For a while I thought it was useless, why care to make death pretty? But I understand now." A shiver ran down Jaskier's spine and Geralt continued, "You give people hope. You're not trying to mask an ugly truth, you fill their lifes with color so they can find the strength to overcome winter. It's magnificent."
"Oh," he said and Geralt smiled at him. Maybe being in love with a poet wasn't so bad after all.