u said u could make the last prompt angstier. do it i dare u
77 - "you were my best friend" round 2 electric boogaloo
(this one is actually on my archive page i'm very proud of it thank u anon for pushing me to finish it)
tw - implied major character death (none actually occur)
♥♥♥ sorrow ♥♥♥
“Listen, we’re out of wine, alright? The–the fucking besotted ladies who were all swooning over that fuckin’ bard bought us out, alright? The last I’ve got is this cheap Redania and that won’t… okay. Sure, I got it!” yelled the cook from across the bar.
Geralt, midway through drinking himself into oblivion, blinked owlishly, looking up.
Bard.
He’d found himself in Lettenhove, chasing after a lone drowner traveling up the Sinet river. It ravaged every fishing operation it came across, and Geralt figured once the bastard was dead he’d have fishermen practically throwing coin his way.
“Uh-huh. And of course the flashy boy’s got a whole procession and everything,” scoffed the cook, once he’d snatched the last bottle of cheap wine from underneath the counter. “Everyone all dressed up. Throwin’ flowers. Singin’ that song about that witcher.”
Geralt rose.
The cook looked, and his ruddy face paled. His tirade stumbled to a stop.
“The bard,” Geralt said gruffly. “Jaskier?”
The cook nodded, suddenly solemn. “Y-Yes,” he said. To his credit, he wasn’t afraid. Just… nervous, for some reason. “That’s the one. Our own hometown hero.”
Geralt’s mildly tipsy mind raced.
Why would Jaskier be back in Lettenhove?
Why would there be a celebration in his honor?
His mind landed on the only possible answer.
Marriage. The damn bastard had gone and got married.
The wine - ladies who’d desired Jaskier throwing themselves into alcohol. The procession, the flowers - a celebration fit for a lord.
“Of course,” Geralt grumbled, taking the last swig of his tankard. Misery clawed at his gut - all the unsaid words. All the said ones, the terrible ones spoken in biting mountain air. The one I’d been lucky enough to care for… gave up on me.
Geralt swallowed, lashes fluttering as he turned. He gave up on me.
“Witcher,” called the cook as Geralt walked to the door.
He paused, turned back, and met the cook’s suddenly soulful brown eyes. The cook shifted, still clutching the wine. “If you want to find him… Appleshon hill.”
“When?”
The cook’s brows furrowed. He shrugged. “Any time you like.”
Geralt walked up the hill - steep, with just a sparse cobblestone path to guide him. On the way, he was stopped by an old woman with a cane. One of her eyes was milky blue. “Witcher,” she said.
Geralt bowed his head a little.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Jaskier,” he replied. “The bard. I suspect there was some big fuss about him around here recently.”
She looked at him kindly, then toddled forward, reaching far upward to card her hand through his hair. She inspected it with the eye that worked, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You are his witcher, then.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
He felt that sinking in his chest again, the unpleasant ache. “I don’t think he’s calling me his anything nowadays.”
“Hm.” Her gaze turned sad. “I suppose.”
And, without another word, she pressed a bouquet of scraggly wildflowers into his hands. Dandelions. Daisies. Little purple things Geralt didn’t know the name of. He swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes firmly trained on their scattered leaves as the old woman turned away.
What a lovely gift, for a lover.
What a dismal apology.
He continued on his way.
Again, he was stopped, this time by a tall man dressed in black, with a large leather satchel. His face was drawn, gaunt. “Ho there,” he called. “Witcher.”
Geralt nodded, slid his eyes away, fully intending to keep going up the hill - he could see the crest now, the shambling stone wall dotted with ivy. Ten minutes, maybe five, and he would be there, closer to Jaskier than he had been in years.
He ran over his speech in his head - all the small things to say, all the large ones to hint at.
“Witcher,” called the man again, voice rough and broken. One dark eyebrow cocked. “What business do you have here?”
“Visiting a friend,” Geralt replied with a sigh, turning to face the other man on the path.
“No monster-slaying?”
“No.”
“Ah.” The man cocked his head. “Say, if you were ever in the mood to kill a monster, and wanted it remembered… well, I noticed your bard has gone rather into retirement.”
Geralt winced.
“Too soon? Sorry,” the man chuckled, in his gentle timbre. “Well. I’m a writer, not a bard. My name’s Hoid - in case you’ve heard of my work. Perhaps the witcher would like to try stories instead of songs?”
For some reason, anger welled up in his belly. Geralt quieted it with a long breath, in and out. He assessed the man again, from the silver on his shoes to the black stubble on his chin. By all rights, he should have liked this man more than Jaskier - the easy way he talked, the simplicity of his clothing, the wickedness of the knife at his hip…
But it wasn’t Jaskier. It wasn’t his fucking bard.
“No,” Geralt growled. “Never.”
The writer tilted his head forward in a single nod of acknowledgement. “I understand. Goodnight, witcher, and good luck.”
Geralt watched the man’s back for a long time as he made his way back down the cobblestone hill.
The door was made of wood. And even Geralt, at his considerable height, could not see over the stone wall. He swallowed the lump in his throat, preparing himself for whatever may lay beyond it –
Jaskier, incensed. Yelling. Screaming at Geralt, ripping his paltry flowers to shreds.
Jaskier, happy. Having forgotten Geralt and his dirt and monsters years ago.
Jaskier…
Geralt swallowed, hand clenched around the wildflowers. He ran through his speech again, through the careful words that had given him the strength to climb those last few steps. Summoning courage, he pushed open the thick wooden gate.
Headstones.
Geralt blinked, and suddenly things seemed to move in slow motion - the crashing of an ocean miles away. The birds circling one bare tree. The headstones all dotted in a row, a tomb or two along the side of the gray wall.
He swallowed, feeling like the continent’s worst fool.
Time moved like a dream. He walked along the headstones, every running word in his mind frozen. He let the heads of the wildflowers scrape the top of the stones, reading name after name, hoping, praying, for something he was too terrified to name.
Nordand Allsor - A Loving Father
Ophela Dart - When The Wind Moves The Tree, Think Thee of Me
Stormund Brekker - Lover, Took Too Soon
Jaskier
Geralt’s mind almost didn’t register it. The last in the row, nestled beneath a tree. He stood there for a long moment, expression blank as he read it, over and over again.
JASKIER.
Bold letters.
Geralt knelt, knees thudding in the dirt. How could he have thought it was a wedding? The flowers, the sad looks, the sudden kindness to a witcher - it couldn’t have been anything else. Jaskier would not be in Lettenhove otherwise. Except to be buried.
Geralt shoved his hand in the dirt, some animal part of him wanting to dig up the fresh earth, needing to touch him, to hold him, to cradle him in his arms and–
He let out a shaky breath, feeling the cool earth in his fingers. Most of him couldn’t believe it, that his bard had gone and died without him.
Geralt slammed the flowers right below the headstone.
His chest shook.
It felt like–
It felt like Jaskier himself was trying to climb his way out of Geralt’s stomach and into his throat.
The thought of it almost made him laugh, the memory of Jaskier’s voice when it became panicked. How ridiculous the man was. The next time Geralt saw him, he’d tell him–
It thudded into him again. A relentless realization, a chain reaction of simple things, the simple fact that he was now a memory, just some man. Geralt imagined fifty years down the road, when he was old and slow and he would have to tell his brothers about the time he had a friend. The time when someone loved him.
“Fuck,” he said, and it shocked the silence away. Now he could hear his own shallow breathing, hear himself tremble, his heart thudding away in his ears. “Fuck.”
His speech.
He’d had a speech.
“I’m sorry,” he started, because that was the beginning, wasn’t it? That had always been the beginning, when he’d imagined this, Jaskier in front of him, gold and alive and sweet and gentle and tough and angry–
“Fucking hell,” he spat at himself. He rubbed his eyes with the hand not grasping at the dirt. He sat up, shakily breathing, trying to find some semblance of composure. He held onto his meditation with a white-knuckled grip, feeling his own spine shake like a tiny dog. He trembled, but he did not break.
He owed him that.
He owed Jaskier dignity.
“I owe you a lot,” he said. “I owe you my life, certainly.” He swallowed. “Friendship. Coin, probably. I think when you… when you left, off that mountain, I took some of your coin with me.” He grabbed his coin purse, and with shaking hands pressed all the gold coins he had into the dirt. “There,” he said. “I…”
He had to pause. To allow his racing heart to return to his body, to let his clouded mind settle on the dirt and the stone in front of him. The sky rumbled, unhappy with his meager apologies.
“I think, though, we both know our friendship is a lot more than an exchange at this point,” he continued, and the words cut up his throat. “I’m truly sorry, Jaskier, for everything I…” he trailed off as he stared at the headstone.
JASKIER.
He reached forward to press his thumb into the indents. “You were my best friend,” he confessed, and the wind howled and tears pricked at his face. “In the whole world. The whole damn world. And I know it’s too late,” he added, hoarse. “Far too late. I should have been there to protect you, but I was a fool, Jask, I was a fucking bastard to you and I…”
He hung his head. “I wish I could be better to you,” he said, raw. “Give you things you deserve.”
Geralt swallowed.
“You deserve… me. If you want me.”
“Geralt?”
His eyes flew open, staring at the dirt.
Not a good time to start imagining things, Geralt.
“Melitele, I–”
Geralt turned his head, eyes widening, and–
There he was. Dressed in simple, plain clothes, a string of red around his neck, scruffy and long-haired but smelling of wildflowers and chamomile and apples–
Jaskier put a hand over his mouth.
There was a moment of silence, as Geralt, on his knees, felt his heart slow, then quicken, as shock thudded through him again.
“I can explain,” said Jaskier quickly, holding up a hand. “Those were very nice words, okay, I just–I didn’t want to interrupt, it looked like you were having a moment–”
Geralt stood on admittedly shaky legs, looking at him, just…
He was alive.
The embarrassment of the moment was overshadowed by the beating heart he could hear over the wind.
One moment he had stood, the next he’d wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s very warm, very alive body, pressing his face into the space between Jaskier’s shoulder and his neck. He breathed him in, only briefly wondering if he was allowed this, allowed this contact, before Jaskier’s hands gripped him back.
“Now, listen,” said Jaskier carefully after a moment. “There was a very nasty escapade involving my mother wanting me back to rule over Lettenhove. I had to fake my death. It was really quite an adventure but I can see how you sobbing over my grave–”
Geralt grumbled, deep in his chest. “Not sobbing.”
“Practically sobbing. Really close, in fact.”
Geralt leaned back, and held Jaskier’s chin in his hand, feeling that pulse again. Alive, alive, alive. “Weeping,” he said very seriously.
Jaskier laughed, blue eyes twinkling. Then they faded. “Wait. You’re serious. Geralt, I’m fully prepared to forget what I just saw if you want me to. I swear, even the part about you owing me your life–”
Geralt brushed his hair out of his face. “Don’t joke. I was mourning,” he said, and his voice was still rough. “I never want to mourn you again.”
“Oh,” breathed Jaskier, soft as a whisper. “Well, that’s very–”
Geralt kissed him, soft as anything.
-♥icarusty