this is Technically not all lightchasers. so i guess technically i have been doing other things. but it is 1/3rd lightchasers and the rest are all just more ocs anyway so you can see where my brain is forever and always.
dee belongs to @fawks, verle belongs to @voidkatten, and ilex belongs to @trollniccage!!!
Summary: In which there is an answer (sort of) to the age old question: What The Fuck is Jaskier?
Series Masterlist
(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)
A/N: THE FINAL PIECE TO THE PUZZLE. Thank you so much to everyone that has stuck around, and I am so thrilled with this final bit of the series :)
Jaskier had always been an odd child. He was never quiet by any means, always humming and babbling even before he could really talk. His eyes always shone a bit too bright, and his feet would take him to wander as far as he could before being swept up by his nanny.
As Jaskier grew, so did his hunger for something more. His fingers itched towards the lute, and for any and every instrument after that one was mastered. There was an ache deep in his stomach, one that could not be quenched by food or drink. He yearned to follow the sun as it set, trying to find the line behind which it sank every night.
Something pulled at him, leading his feet to take him past where his eyes could see. And Jaskier didn’t look back as he finally gave in to that urge. He played his way through cities and courts, for knights and peasants. And yet he still felt incomplete, still felt that hook buried deep in his chest, yanking him towards more.
But as Jaskier watched the Witcher with the bright silver hair make his way out of the tavern in Posada, he felt his soul being pulled along behind. So he packed up his lute and followed along, despite Geralt’s best attempts to keep him at bay. Soon enough, the Witcher even started to tolerate Jaskier, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
And who could blame Jaskier for falling for Geralt, anyway? Sure, it started with lust, as most of Jaskier’s encounters do. Big, strong Witcher with a voice like honey-coated gravel and thighs that one would wish to be crushed between, what more could a bard want?
Soon enough though, it turned into something much deeper than Jaskier could have ever imagined. Every fiber of him was alight while at Geralt’s side, and the words of worship poured out of him. Everywhere that they traveled together, the people sang his songs praising the White Wolf.
When they would part, Jaskier would sequester himself away at the University, teaching to get by and to ignore the void which clawed at his insides. The moment that the snow would start to fall, his bag would be packed and waiting by the door, every single year.
Twenty years, the two of them traveled together. Closer than Geralt had ever allowed anyone to get to him. They shared food, wine, beds, warmth, even a woman on one quite memorable occasion. But all of that had been thrown to the wayside atop a mountain, chucked over the cliff to tumble to the bottom.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” Geralt had said. A part of Jaskier died that day as he trudged alone down the mountain. The wind bit at his nose and he rubbed his hands together for warmth, but nothing could soothe the ache in his bones from his soul being ripped out of his chest.
Jaskier was back to wandering, but now it just felt empty. He knew what would quell the anguish, but it had sent him away. So he tried in vain to fill the gaping hole in his chest. As the next spring rolled around, filled with sprawling fields bursting with life, Jaskier curled up cold and truly alone.
He wasn’t quite sure what exactly happened, but from one day to the next, something quite drastic changed. Jaskier began to see the world in all of its futures, and the people themselves in the destinies they chose to create.
It was poetic really, that the man who spent half of his life telling the stories of another’s destiny found himself so woefully intertwined within everyone else’s. And he found himself going back, rewatching the pain wrought upon his life atop that mountain, forced to witness the endless pining from behind his own eyes.
He wandered further, seeing countless futures laid out before him, and he knew that he could reach out and change them in the blink of an eye. But he felt no urge to change, no. those decisions should be made by the people themselves. But if they only knew what could be, maybe they would have more of a chance.
Jaskier soon found himself atop another summit, but now he only observed as a Witcher lay dying. The hulking figure was curled on his side, the blood pooling beneath him in a cruel wash of bright red. His swords lay just out of his reach, and his dark hair was strewn over bright golden eyes, so similar to those that Jaskier gazed into for so long.
And suddenly, a new figure burst through the trees to fall at the man’s side. She was striking, visibly strong and had two swords strewn across her back, and she grasped at the dying man on the ground as if he were her only hope left in the world. As the blood stained her hands Jaskier knew that he had to fix this story.
And so he did. He went back to a tavern in the middle of nowhere, finding the two Witchers leading their horses into town, along with a little goat that stole Jaskier’s heart. And then, when he finally sat down before the woman, he saw the story behind her eyes of how their story was meant to end.
At heart, Jaskier was a bit of a meddler. Sure, it had gotten him into trouble a few times, but it had paid off many more. As he spent his days trailing behind these two hopelessly in love idiots, he felt the pull behind his stomach less and less. Instead, as he watched the warmth bloom in sweet golden eyes, his heart swelled and he felt whole in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.
Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat when they all walked into Kaer Morhen and saw Geralt by the fire, younger than Jaskier had ever known him. He could feel the cracks in his heart that entire winter, but felt them fill with mortar watching his two charges fall further and further in love.
And there may have been a hiccup or two, but with a little nudge in the right direction, his two Witchers walked back down together, closer than ever. He watched from afar as Geralt headed straight for tragedy, but that was a destiny that was far larger and more complex than he would dare to meddle with.
And finally, finally, in a great field of poppies and buttercups, of which Jaskier was quite enamored with, thank you very much, his two great ding-dongs professed their love. Maybe their destinies would take them further, or maybe this was the final spot for them, and anything that happened after was out of his hands.
It didn’t matter. Jaskier was whole, and he knew that his Witchers were as well. And no one knew quite better than him:
Summary: An unfriendly figure from the past still haunts you to this day, and Geralt finds a way to end that.
Series Masterlist
(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)
Warnings: language, angst, fluff
A/N: Whoops my hand slipped. There was a big question that I needed to answer in this series, so here it is! I plan on doing one more “sidetrack” for another plotline :)
You hear hooves approaching your cottage, just the faintest plods against wet leaves under the sound of Eskel snoring. He didn’t used to snore, but here, in this sanctuary, he is comfortable. You stand, leaving the herbs you had been sorting on the table. You discreetly peer out of the window towards the near-invisible path from the woods, watching as a familiar figure steps out of the shadows. The moonlight dances over the silver of his hair and lets you see the high planes of his face, darkened by the tell-tale scowl on his mouth.
You push open the door gently so as not to wake your sleeping Witcher. The air is cool on your exposed arms as you cross the small valley, meeting Geralt half-way. He looks tired, but only in the way that another Witcher would notice. The subtle way that his head hangs slightly or that his shoulders are not perfectly held. Nevermind the fact that his armor stinks to high hell.
“Gods, Geralt. How long has it been since you’ve cleaned that?” You cross your arms as you stand just out of his reach.
“I’ve been busy,” Geralt hums, and you smirk lightheartedly. “Listen, I need your help.”
“Of course Geralt, whatever you need, I can-”
“It’s about Stregobor.”
Your blood runs cold, the world spinning around you as you feel rooted to the spot. And then, like oil bubbling and spitting through the streets of Novigrad, anger fills your stomach and boils over. “That motherfucker? What is it, Geralt? Hang on, let me get my shit and then we-”
“Wait. We’re not rushing into anything here, not now.” Geralt’s right, and you know it. You huff nonetheless, gesturing for him to go on.
“I know where he is. Yennefer did some magic-y yada yada and was able to figure out where he’s hiding. It looks like he’s holed up in some cave system that I am sure is enchanted. Yen is waiting with a portal for us,” Geralt shudders, “but we have to leave quickly. There’s no telling what exactly we’d be walking into, but I want to get rid of him once and for all.”
You nod, glancing back to your little home. Eskel is probably still asleep, curled around nothing in the void where you usually lay. Your heart swells up, conflicted. As if reading your mind, Geralt chimes in. “I’m not asking lightly. I know how much of a risk this is, and I get it if you would rather stay here. But I wanted to ask you, since you have a history with him too.”
You look up at Geralt, letting your eyes drift over the way he holds himself. The great ‘Butcher of Blaviken,’ stooped down and looking at you with fire in his eyes. You steel yourself, biting your lip before shaking your head. “Let me go grab my gear, I’ll meet you back here.”
You leave him and Roach, listening as he walks her over to your stables. The door is silent as you walk into the house, letting you pad along the floor over to the edge of the bed. You kneel and slide out the little trunk that has held your armor for more than a year, now. You have to move aside some of Eskel’s as you retrieve your own, smiling a bit at the familiar red and brown stripes.
You stand and begin methodically dressing in the heavy pieces. First, the trousers, enforced with hardened leather and chitinous shell at the knees. You have to let the belt out a bit at the waist, having grown a little bit soft around the middle since you last dressed in these. Next a plain tunic thrown over your simple corset, followed by your boots. It’s so much easier to do them first rather than trying to bend over in all of your armor. They are stretched and molded from years of use, plates of enriched dimeritium steel decorating the sides. Then comes the chest armor, meticulously pieced together from different monster bits to provide the highest level protection from any number of creatures one may run across. Finally the gloves, your fingertips bare to provide the most direct source of any signs you may cast.
You look over the room, finding your swords resting against the door frame. You run your hands through your hair before pulling it back so it is away from your face. What am I thinking?
“There’s a pack under the washbasin, it’s got all of the potions and oils in it…” You startle at Eskel’s deep rumble, finding him watching from where he lay over the pillows. Sure enough, when you look, there’s Eskel’s old saddlebags, filled to the brim with various decoctions. You move back to the bed and perch on the edge, running your fingertips over the scar down Eskel’s cheek. He sighs into your touch, turning to press his lips to your palm.
“How much did you hear?” You ask, running your fingers through his hair.
“Enough to know that this is insanely dangerous. But I also know that you have to do this. And I’m just glad that Geralt’s going with you.”
You lean down, pressing your foreheads together for a long moment. “I love you, Eskel.”
His eyes, deep gold in the way of sunlight filtered through the trees, find yours in the darkness. “Just come back to me, that’s all I ask.”
You kiss him, trying to pour every bit of love and promise into him that you can. You break away first, knowing that if you push it any longer, you won’t actually make it out of the door. You throw on your dark cloak and latch the buckle of your sword sheaths over your shoulder, turning to look back at Eskel one more time.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands intertwined between them. He looks up at you, and you can smell the fear pouring from his skin. You nod, choking on unsaid words as the door closes behind you.
Your eyes shine as you approach Geralt once more. “Ready?” He asks.
“As I’ll ever be.” The final leaves that still decorate the trees dance in the breeze as you pass underfoot, following in Geralt’s footsteps. He suddenly stops, just far enough into the trees to be out of sight of your home. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out a little circular device, opening the lid and taking a deep breath.
“Yennefer? We’re ready.” As soon as the words leave his mouth your medallion hums against your chest, the air kicking up around you. A portal opens up between the trees, a black void lined with bright orange and red energy. Geralt groans, moving forward first.
“Gods, I hate portals.” He disppears as he steps through, leaving you in the silent forest, save for the audible buzz coming from the portal. You follow quickly behind, hearing it snap shut as your stomach lurches forward, pulling the rest of you with it.
***
The air is significantly cooler, the ground crunching with the beginnings of the incoming frost. When your eyes open you notice a tall mountain before you, the entrance to a cave situated not far from where you stand. Geralt shivers, clearly still recovering from the aggressive sudden relocation.
“Does he know that we’re here?” You whisper, drawing your steel sword.
Geralt hums, doing the same. “No. Yennefer rendered his outer enchantments null, so we should be able to sneak in pretty easily.”
You nod, and the two of you move silently up to the mouth of the cave. You reach into the pouch that you have situated on your hip, finding a bottle of Cat. You down it in one go, shuddering with the taste. Geralt raises an eyebrow, knocking back his own bottle.
“Shut up, it’s been a while.”
“Didn’t say a word.”
The world sharpens to every little detail in the rocks, rough edges jutting out over a small creek that runs through the stone. Geralt steps first, keeping his feet light and quick down the paths. You follow in his wake, and you can feel your medallion humming harder against your chest as you climb further and further into the depths of the cave.
“We’re close” Geralt murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “Climb up there and you can drop down. I’m going to go around, try and get him from behind. You need to go up to him and cast Yrden, that way he can’t portal out of here.”
“Got it,” you reply, hefting yourself over an upturned boulder and onto an overhang. You can hear the bubbling of various mixtures, the intertwined scents tingling your nose. You can see a lab of sorts, dimly lit by candles around the place. There are barrels and trunks littering the floor, and a man in a long, dark robe stands before a table. His hair is grey and unkempt, and you can feel a powerful magic deep in your bones. You give a count to thirty, letting Geralt find his way around the cavern.
You take a deep breath before launching yourself forward, landing in a crouch right behind the mage. Yrden leaves your hand before the man can even turn around, trapping him in an almost invisible ring, the barest bit of purple light betraying the edge of his trap.
“What the-! Why I-urgh!” The mage seems to go through several emotions quite quickly, dancing through confusion into anger, and then anger into pain. His knees hit the floor quite forcefully when Geralt leaps onto him from behind, yanking his arms behind his back and locking a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. You can feel your stamina depleting as you hold the sign, clearly a bit out of practice. We should do some training, just to keep up to standards, you think to yourself.
“Don’t bother trying to break them,” he growls into the mage’s ear, “they’re dimeritium.”
You let Yrden go, your energy quickly returning in its wake. You watch as Stregobor struggles in his binds before relenting, looking up at Geralt with a smug smile. “So we meet again, Witcher. And it seems you’ve brought a friend.”
Your stomach churns, but you force down your swirling emotions in favor of observing the mage a bit closer. You step into the light, letting Stregobor see your face. This face, scarred and feral and tired, that he recognizes in an instant.
“Ah, even better. A friend that I already know.” You bare your teeth at his words, measuring your steps as you step closer. “Are you here to finally understand what you truly are?”
You grab his chin forcefully, breathing heavily into his face. “I know what I am. I am a Witcher, a human, nothing more. You, however, are a monster.”
Geralt hums from where he stands behind Stregobor. “Witchers kill monsters, do they not?”
You nod, pressing the tip of your blade to the delicate skin under the mage’s neck. “Did you truly believe in the Curse? Or was this all some game?”
Stregobor, the bastard, smiles wider, all innocence gone from his eyes. He knows he’s been caught, might as well have a bit of fun. “What does it matter? It’s over now, has been for decades. All of the rest of you are gone, you remain the final piece to my puzzle.”
“It matters,” you growl, “because I am the one with a blade to your neck.”
“No. The curse, it’s a myth. Sure, there was the oddity in one’s anatomy every now and then, but that was mere coincidence.”
You blink, a hurricane of emotion swirling just beneath the surface. But you can’t let it out, not yet. You have work to do.
Geralt steps around to stand at your side, and you can smell the rage pouring off of his skin. Like a wildfire made of cinnamon bark, burning the hairs along your arms as the wind blows over.
“Go on,” he whispers, Stregobors eyes widening as your fingers tighten on the worn leather of the hilt. “Finish it.”
With a flick of your wrist and a step to the left Stregobor’s head hits the ground, followed soon after by the rest of his body. His blood runs thick and dark over the wet cavern floor. You can’t hear anything over the sound of your heart pounding in your chest and your breath coming fast. You sheathe your sword, stalking to retrace your steps through the cave.
Your feet dance over the rocks as you climb out of the darkness, forcing yourself to ignore the thoughts whirling through your mind. You burst from the cave entrance, finding only dense forest and nowhere to go. The last traces of your potion leave your system, your eyes returning to their somewhat normal state. You look around for anything, finding nothing, panic taking over as you brace to run.
And then Geralt is there, his hand on your arm. You look to him, finding a mirror of your own emotions in his eyes. His grip tightens, forcing you to stay. “Tell me.”
Tears well up unbidden as your damn finally breaks. You sink into his arms, sobs wracking your body. Geralt stiffens for a millisecond before his arms wrap around you, sheltering you from the storm that feels as though it is erupting from deep in your chest.
“It was a waste,” you cry, “all of those years spent running, keeping you all safe, from me. But it didn’t matter, I wasn’t-I’m not-”
Your voice dissolves back into sobs, mourning the years that you lost because of the actions of another. Geralt told you his story with Stregobor, and Renfri. She, and countless others, had her life snatched from her, for nothing.
“It’s done,” Geralt murmurs, “You don’t have to let this control you any longer.”
You take a deep breath and nod, stepping back into your own space. “Thank you, Geralt.”
He hums, opening up that same little box from before. Another portal opens just before you and you step through first, your feet carrying you home.
***
Your cloak billows around you as your feet meet the mossy ground of the forest around your valley. You hear Geralt groan as the portal pops shut before you take off running. The sun is just starting to rise over the mountains, bathing the lower areas in soft light that beckons towards the mist. The treetops give way to wide, clear skies as you run up the path towards your home. You see the door open with Eskel on the other side, visibly relaxing at the sight of you.
You gasp unwillingly as he runs to meet you, falling into each other’s arms as soon as you feel him on your skin. You fit your nose into the crook of his neck and breathe in, scenting the last of his anxiety filtering away, leaving only the soft scent of home in its wake. Eskel’s hands hold you impossibly close and you can feel how his chest trembles under your fingers.
Eskel parts from you only enough to look you in the eyes. “Did everything go okay? Where’s Geralt?”
“Yes, it’s done. Geralt was behind me, he’s probably emptying his stomach in the forest.”
“I HEARD THAT.” Geralt shouts from the treeline and you turn, watching as he trudges up the path. “I’m fine, just hate portals.”
“Yes, Geralt, we know.” Eskel laughs, and that sound, so deep and true and happy makes every moment of regret you may have felt seem so insignificant. “Come on, I’ve got breakfast ready.”
Eskel takes your hand and the three of you walk inside, dropping your swords and armor off to go back to their silent vigil over your home.
