Fear is a Sickness:Witchers are the cure
#260 - Fear is a sickness, @flashfictionfridayofficial
Pairing -Geralt/Jaskier
Warnings - Minor off screen CD, Mourining/grief, non discriptive funeral pyre
Words - 965
Summary - Cirliia is safe, Voleth Meir is gone and yet the sirving Witchers have oto send their fallen brothers off.
So much grief, so much pain, but at least these witchers have a bard to sing them farwell. Ao3 Link here
Kher Morhen was quiet. Quieter that it had been for a long time.
Geralt, Lambert, Eskel and Coen had set the funeral pyres up, ready for Vesemir to use Igni on them to set their spirits free.
Cirilla had been hiding away, terrified of herself and what she could do to those that were still standing.
Geralt knew he should go to her, that he should help her get through this. After all, it wasn’t any more her fault than it was anyone else’s.
He just didn’t know how or what to say to her. He was a lot softer now than he had been 25 years ago, before meeting Jaskier, but he didn’t believe he was soft enough for a child. A traumatised one at that.
Jaskier had just scoffed at him and said tough shit, he had one now and if he ever spoke to her the way he had Jaskier, he would find a way to kill him in his sleep.
Geralt didn’t doubt him one bit. His bard was feral when the occasion called for it.
Speaking of his bard, he looked over to see him hand a piece of paper over to Vesemir, who grunted and nodded in turn.
When he turned back around, Jaskier gave Geralt a small but sad smile. There was so much they still had to talk about, so much they had to hash out, but like Jaskier said, now was not the time. They had all winter after all and right now Geralt had brothers to see off into the abyss. Brothers to bid a last farewell to.
The 5 witchers lined up with Vesemir in the centre. “The bard is going to sing something,” he said gruffly.
“Indeed. I know witchers aren’t much for words when deeds show the measure of your heart. So allow me to thank and honour each of your brothers, your friends, for protecting us all and the world at large. I will have written a song for each of them by the time we head out on the Path again in spring, but until then, please allow me to sing them farewell. These men were brave and kind and fear of them, of you all, has made all your lives harder. It is unfair, and it is unkind, but fear is like a sickness that ravages the mind. So, to these good men, these good witchers, these good souls, I bid them adieu, to a place where fear can no longer touch them.”
Jaskier’s voice went quiet as he started to slowly strum at his lute strings, humming softly.
Vessimer stepped forward and cast Igni on their fallen family. “Sleep well, my boys,” he said tiredly, defeated.
“Sleep well,” the younger witchers chorused.
They stood there quietly until Jaskier’s melodic voice broke the silence. He sang softly, sweetly, almost like a lullaby.
It took Geralt a moment to hear the words, but when he did, he didn’t even try to stop the pain he felt from crossing his face. If the way the others were crowding one another was any indication, they felt the same.
In the shadowed corners of the world,
Where whispers weave their web of art, Fear takes root, a silent seed,
A sickness that spreads with stealthy speed.
Oh, fear, the cunning thief of light,
It steals our good sense in the dead of night,
But listen close, my witchers, and hear: Fear is a sickness if you let it steer.
It creeps like mist across the mind,
A fog that blinds, a knot that binds,
Yet courage blooms where shadows fall, Witchers are a remedy that breaks fear’s thrall.
Oh, fear, the cunning thief of light,
It steals our senses in the dead of night,
But listen close, my witchers, and hear: Fear is a sickness if you let it steer.
The cure lies not in potions or signs,
But in the fire that burns and warms, The ember of hope, the spark of might.
That banishes fear and reclaims the light.
Oh, fear, the cunning thief of light,
It steals our senses in the dead of night,
But listen close, my witchers, and hear: Fear is a sickness if you let it steer.
So sing this truth, let it resound,
In every heart where fear is found,
For courage, love, and daring cheer,
Shall heal the sickness because witchers draw near.
Jaskier let his voice fade away as the music filled the space he had previously sung into. Geralt slowly walked towards his bard and they stood side by side as the other witchers finally left the funeral pyre.
“Jaskier...” Geralt started, unsure what to say.
Jaskier slowly stopped strumming and lifted a hand to Geralt’s cheek and moved his thumb, stroking it. “Not now, dear heart. There will be time for this. But now is the time to say goodbye, to be with your brothers. We have time, Geralt.”
“Do we?” Geralt croaked out.
“We do, so much time. Go. I’ve got Cirilla for the night. Tomorrow is a new day Geralt. We don’t have to rush just because we are afraid,” Jaskier whispered into the night air.
“I am. Afraid I mean,” Geralt admitted quietly.
“I know, love. So am I. But we can’t give into the fear, we can’t let it win. After all, Witchers chase the fear away,” Jaskier said with a smile before he leant in slightly and kissed Geralt’s cheek.
“Go. Try not to be afraid, just for this night,” Jaskier said before walking away.
They had so much to sort out, so much to be afraid of and for. But Jaskier was right. Feat was a sickness, a monster with invisible claws.
And Geralt was made to destroy monsters, no matter what form they came in.