Jaskier is cursed. He's completely lost all sound. He can't speak, sing, hum, whistle, hell even his gasps, laughs, and sobs are silent.
There is only one cure. Geralt must perform, like a proper bard, until he earns as many coins as Jaskier's age. Easy, Geralt thinks. He just has to whine and bitch until enough sorry sods give him 30 to 40 coins. If he tells the sob story of Jaskier, songbird of the continent, losing his voice, they're sure to throw in a coin per person.
However when he says this to Jaskier, Jaskier's face pales. He scribbles down the starts of a conversation in his notebook immediately.
"You have to earn my age?"
"Yes? What's wrong with that?"
"...Geralt.. I'm not 40."
50, then? He looks quite well for a human that age, Geralt thinks. Hardly looks 30.
"Geralt."
"Yes, Jaskier?"
"Geralt, I'm in my hundreds."
Don't get me wrong i'm all in for non-human Jaskier but just imagine the angst potential of human Jaskier getting old and Geralt and Yennefer having to come to terms with it
His hair going gray, his movements getting slower, his eyesight worse
Geralt and Yennefer seeing all those changes and having to grasp the fact that Jaskier, as much as it pains them to admit it, is only a human, and is going to die one day
Ok so I love non human Jaskier so much & badass Jaskier is so much fun
BUT
human Jaskier? Who could die so easily and goes along anyway? Who can't defend himself but faces monsters anyway? Who HAS to be the bravest person on the show because he's a human facing the same dangers as all these non humans?
Human Jaskier who's reckless and curious and trying to do the right thing and risks everything for his friends even when they're jerks
And his music! If he's just human that means there's nothing magical about his songs that MAKES people like them. It's just him. Just his skill and talent as a musician and a storyteller
And he's not a good performer because he's enchanting his audiences he's literally just REALLY GOOD
The Kindest Thing (Please Don't Leave Me): Chapter 3
Hi y'all! This has been a long time coming, but here is chapter 3 of this series. Thanks to @natthemess for beta reading my story! I hope you enjoy
CW: Jaskier whump and conversation of Jaskier's mortality
Part 1, 2
A03 link in comments
Jaskier groaned as he came to, his head and body aching like he had spent the night reacquainting himself with Oxenfurt’s pub crawl. Though it had been quite awhile since he’d completed the list of bars in its entirety, he wondered what trouble he must’ve gotten into the night before.
As questions ran amok through his mind, Jaskier kept his eyes firmly closed and took stock of himself. His right knee felt as though it were slightly swollen, but that was nothing new. His knees hadn’t been pain free for at least two decades — a small price to pay for walking the path beside his beloved.
Breathing, though — that was something he did not usually have trouble with. However, as he focused on taking a cleansing breath, he felt his ribs protest at the small movement.
Ah, his ribs were broken. Interesting.
All of this was exacerbated by the pounding in his head that even rivaled the horrible headache Jaskier had endured whenever Valdo Marx debuted a new piece.
What had happened last night?
After taking another moment of darkness’ solace, he opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light burning brightly through the windows had him hissing in pain and shutting his eyes against the onslaught.
This was one hell of a hangover.
Now prepared for the pain, Jaskier opened his eyes again and took in his surroundings. He was in a small but clean bed in an unfamiliar room. A washbasin sat on a wooden table in the far corner, a ray of sunshine reflecting on its uneven surface — or perhaps it looked wobbly because he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. He hated those damn things.
Swiveling his head to the right, he found Geralt slumped over in a chair, ensconced in a deep sleep. From the dark shadows underneath his eyes, it was evident that his witcher needed the rest, which was unsurprising after a kikimore—
Shit, that was what happened last night!
Suddenly the events leading to his current situation replayed in his head. The argument he’d had with Geralt about staying behind. The two drowners taken care of and then the appearance of an unexpected kikimore. He’d tried to run, but he hadn’t been wearing his damned spectacles, so he had tripped over a root, twisting his already aching knee. And then Geralt had been thrown backwards into a tree!
Suddenly much more awake, Jaskier sat up, hissing at the shooting pain the quick movement brought about. It hurt, but that did not matter. Geralt was injured and it was his fault.
He should’ve stayed at the inn.
Jaskier was torn out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. “You need to lie down, or you’ll puncture a lung. Your ribs are broken”
“I noticed, dearheart,” he groaned and complied. Geralt was awake. Everything would be alright.
A sudden thought struck him and he tried to move once more, frantically looking around the room. Only Geralt’s strong arms kept him in place. “My lute! Where is my lute?”
Geralt grunted. “Your ribs are broken and you’re asking about your lute?”
“I won’t even dignify that question with an answer.”
With a roll of his eyes, Geralt gestured to the corner opposite of the table he’d noticed earlier. In it sat his lute case, which was a bit more battered than he remembered, but altogether whole.
“Oh, thank Melitele! Thank you, darling. You know what she means to me.”
When he received not so much as a grunt in return, Jaskier stared at his husband, taking in his frantic gaze. The longer he took in Geralt’s appearance, the more he realized that more time must have passed than he’d initially thought. Not only was Geralt’s hair tangled and greasy, but his face looked gaunt, shadows pulling at his handsome features.
“How long have I been asleep?” Jaskier asked, fearing the answer, but needing to know nonetheless.
“A little over a week,” Geralt replied, expertly avoiding his gaze while he busied himself with fluffing the pillows behind Jaskier’s back. The two men remained silent as Geralt gently moved Jaskier into a seated position. Once he gestured that he was comfortable, Geralt returned to his seat, placing his chin on his hands as he stared at his husband.
They sat in silence, Jaskier waiting for Geralt to say something, but when his husband remained silent, he couldn’t stop the onslaught of words.
“What an adventure, wouldn’t you say? I’ll have to write it down for my next ballad: Bard Saves Witcher! No, that doesn’t have a good ring to it—”
“Jaskier—”
“But you can’t blame me for having a bit of trouble with the rhyming scheme! Seems I had a hit on the head. Luckily for both of us, my head is quite hard, so—”
“Jaskier—”
“—everything is fine! Nothing happened, so we can just head on to the next—”
“Jaskier!”
He fell silent as Geralt’s bellow echoed through the small space, filling his heart with dread. He knew what was coming next. It was something he’d been dreading ever since their argument years ago, but he thought he’d have longer.
Geralt looked up, his face made of stone, but his eyes betraying the pain and worry rushing through him. How people could think Witchers had no emotion was beyond Jaskier’s comprehension. Geralt was one of the most deeply feeling individuals he had ever met.
“You almost died, Jaskier.”
The bard sighed, picking at a loose thread coming apart on the blanket covering his legs. “But I’m fine, Geralt. See? I’m alive and breathing and here with you! You saved me, like you always do.”
Jaskier watched as a whole body shudder ran through his husband, wishing desperately that he could walk over and wrap him up in his arms. The best he could do at the moment was to beckon Geralt towards him.
Jaskier’s smile fell as Geralt shook his head. “No, the bed is too small, I’ll hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me, Geralt. Please,” Jaskier pleaded, holding out his hand as an offering.
With a weary sigh, Geralt took his hand and sat beside him on the mattress. “But I did hurt you, Jaskier. I wasn’t fast enough to save you.”
The bard shook his head and placed his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, holding in the hiss of pain that threatened to pass his lips. “Nope. I’m here, alive and well. That’s all that matters.”
A growl floated up to Jaskier’s ear, causing him to frown. He had hoped that he would be able to talk his overprotective husband down, but it was not working. Geralt was far more upset than he’d originally thought.
“Geralt, I’m fine—”
“You’re only alive because of Yennefer! You were dying in my arms and there was nothing I could do to stop it!”
“Yennefer was here? She didn’t happen to leave a bottle of Est Est did she? She owes me one from the last time we met! That was a good year she stole—”
“Jask, I’m being serious,” Geralt said, all traces of humor wiped from his face. “You were dying.”
“I know,” he replied, a heavy feeling settling upon the room. As much as Jaskier loved to ignore the inevitable, the unstoppable current of time kept him in its clutches, always dragging him further away from Geralt. It was what had prompted him to try and run away nearly a decade ago, but Geralt’s reassurances had kept him tethered in place. He’d been able to ignore the signs — the back pain, the matching silver hair, his slower pace — since that conversation, but now it was being dredged up once more, and he wasn’t ready.
He felt Geralt move closer to him, drawn towards his warmth, before he spoke the two words that Jaskier had been afraid to hear for decades: “It’s time.”
Jaskier swallowed down his tears, trying desperately to keep his voice even against the onslaught of emotion. “No, not yet. I still have adventures in me—”
“Jaskier you’re nearing seventy—”
“I am only 65, Geralt, you take that back this instant,” Jaskier protested, trying to cross his arms in protest. He soon stopped the motion when his ribs protested, leaving him pouting like a toddler.
“Don’t move like that! Your lungs—”
“I know, I know! Stop changing the subject, Geralt. I’m not leaving you. We discussed this a decade ago and we agreed that we had more time and that I could ride Roach and—” Jaskier stopped, the tears pricking his eyes and desperation thickening his throat, leaving him momentarily speechless. They were supposed to have more time.
“We do have time, Julek,” Geralt whispered as he carded his fingers through thinning, grey hair. “Just not like this.”
Jaskier’s heart stuttered as Geralt’s words pierced it. “Do you mean— I mean I understand if things have changed for you, but we exchanged vows Geralt!”
Geralt’s eyes widened in shock as he vehemently shook his head and said, “No, no, not like that! I mean not on the path. I will always want you, Julek. You’re my husband.”
A sigh of relief escaped Jaskier’s lips as his body slumped into the pile of pillows keeping him upright. “Don’t you dare do that again, Geralt of Rivia. You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
Geralt hummed and leaned his head gingerly upon his shoulder. Good. Jaskier would put up with a little discomfort as long as his witcher was close by.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Geralt said after a long, companionable silence, “I only meant that you deserve to be safe and comfortable, Jaskier. The path isn’t made for comfort. It’s dangerous and rough. You deserve something better. Something soft.” Geralt pressed a soft kiss to his neck, as if to demonstrate what the witcher meant by soft.
Oh, he could see it now. A small house, perhaps in Oxenfurt or maybe by the coast. Although he loved the coast, Oxenfurt would be a more rational option. In a tiny cottage, he would eventually grow bored with nothing left to do. In Oxenfurt, he could teach classes and help to meld the bright young minds of tomorrow. In the city, there were plenty of exciting new things happening with each sunrise. It would also keep him closer to Novigrad and better equipped to keep a better eye on the Rosemary and Thyme.
“Would you stay with me?” Jaskier asked, leaning his head against Geralt’s, their hair blending in as it pressed together. Although he knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from Geralt.
The witcher paused, considering his words before he spoke. “Witchers don’t retire, Jask. You know that.”
Jaskier nodded and turned his head slightly so he could look at his lover. “It wouldn’t be a retirement, love. Just a break.”
At Geralt’s grunt of protest, Jaskier continued. “Darling, listen. You will live far longer than I ever will, even if my few drops of elvish blood give me a surprising few extra decades — which, looking at my mother, seems unlikely.” Jaskier lifted his hand, ignoring the slight tug of discomfort the movement caused, and soothed the furrow between Geralt’s eyebrows. “Taking a break for a few years, perhaps a decade or two, isn’t wrong.”
Geralt sighed and turned to face him, his eyes swimming with doubt as they scanned his face. “There are so few of us now, Julek. It would be irresponsible—”
“Then be irresponsible for me.”
They both sat there in silence, waiting on the precipice of change.
“Perhaps we could stay more local?” Geralt started to suggest tentatively. “You stay and teach your students, I only take contracts within a certain distance. An even trade.”
Jaskier huffed and nodded in agreement. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he had always known that Geralt was not one to be tied down to one spot. There was a reason that they did not stay at Geralt’s vineyard for more than a month at a time. His husband would be miserable staying in a townhouse for a few decades. This was a compromise that he could live with.
“But who will dress your wounds when you’re hurt?” Jaskier asked, already knowing that he would agree to these terms. He would do anything for Geralt.
“Roach,” Geralt answered simply, his lips upturned at the joke they’d shared for the past few decades
“Roach?” Jaskier answered wetly, the scripted answer lying on his tongue. “Roach has many wonderful qualities, darling, but field dressing isn’t one of them.”
“So you say,” Geralt grumbled, gingerly pulling Jaskier closer. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”
Jaskier smiled and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. “It’s enough. You’re enough. Besides, I know who I married, Geralt, and I love you for it, you noble bastard.”
Geralt chuckled and kissed him back. “And I you, Julek. Now let’s focus on getting you better.”
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I think I’m also liking the idea of human!Jaskier also. 🤔 Like the elf thing is fun, especially when he doesn’t know about it and for the purpose of lengthening his life, but the idea of simply human Jaskier helping elves despite being only human is just beautiful. He’s not doing it because of direct kinship, he’s doing it because it’s the right thing to do.
And not only out of moral duty. But because it hurts him to see innocent people hurt.* Because no one deserves what the north is doing to the elves.
That and the idea of the elves coming to love Jaskier for his part in their protection, despite him being only human. Especially since the elves of the books tend to lean towards ethnic supremacy. Jaskier’s involvement complicates that idea from the beginning for a newer generation of elves.
Jaskier finds himself in the middle. A part of nowhere exactly, but also everywhere. Not elf, but while he’s human he doesn’t belong to the Northern kingdom’s, certainly doesn’t belong to Nilfgard. But despite being of nowhere, he’s also a part of everywhere. Making dealings with anyone who needs it. Helping Geralt change his image. Helping Ciri, or yen, or the elves.
Jaskier truly makes an effort to help anyone who he simply likes, who he sees as good and just. And it’s so easy to see why he’d fall for someone like Geralt, or Yen, who he sees as heroes, because in many ways he’s trying to be just like them, despite not having their powers.
*Arguably it hurts him to see anyone hurt, he’s always seemed to have an adverse reaction to death and killing - despite making jokes and claims in favor of it.
In which our love interests meet for the first time and their fates become irrevocably entangled...
---
Geralt smelled him and heard him long before the clumsy, foppish boy came into view. He was trembling in the chill of early autumn and his eyes were as panic-stricken and tearful as a lost fawn’s. The cursed Count softened for an instant but only for an instant. Only until he smelled the boy on the wind, strongly this time, and he recognized the de Lettenhove blood pumping underneath his pale skin.
The boy, for he was barely a man if he was still attending the nearby university, was limping; he favored his non-dominant foot strongly and he hissed through his teeth whenever his foot snagged on a root or fallen branch.
You could use this, some small part of his mind suggested. It was a dark thought, something truly evil in a way that Geralt had never considered being evil before, and the ex-Count grimaced. You could pay that sorry Redanian traitor back for his treatment of you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime; you could ruin the Viscount’s son, ruin his family’s reputation, and still be none the worse off for your efforts. What does it matter, Geralt? You’re already banished from court.
So, with the Angel on his shoulder mysteriously absent and his conscience sufficiently tamped down into silence, Geralt stepped into view of the young man.
“Who goes there?” the ex-Count asked, glaring down his nose at the wounded student.
“J-Julian, Milord,” the boy answered. His eyes were the brightest shade of blue Geralt had ever seen. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and he lost his breath for a single, heart-rending second; the Count had never been so caught up in the glory of one solitary color before. Is this what God had felt like when he held his finished work in his hands for the first time? Had he been as lost to Julian as Geralt currently was? The boy cocked his head to the side and his blue fawn-eyes pierced the Count in a new and terrifying way.
“What brings you here?” he managed to ask.
“My friends have - ah!” he’d tried to gesture in the direction of his friends but he’d lost his balance and his weight had shifted atop his ankle again. He hissed through his teeth and dropped to a crouch, stabilizing the limb with both hands while he breathed through the pain.
So Julian had experienced pain before and he’d learned to cope with it. Curious.
“Let’s get you laid down,” Geralt suggested, “And then you can tell me how you came to be lost on the lands of my estate.”
Geralt carried the young man all the way back to his crumbling manor house and marveled at how light Julian felt in his arms. Was he really so slight or was it another side effect of his monstrous curse? The enhanced senses he had adjusted to already, but improved strength? That was decidedly new. When the odd pair finally reached the house and pushed their way through the front door, Geralt made his guest comfortable. He laid Julian down on a chaise lounge before the sitting room fire and placed a bolster cushion beneath his injured ankle. “May I feel you for a sprain, Julian?”
“Are you a doctor?” the smiling boy inquired, reclining back to rest his head against the gold silk pillows. Sitting there in front of the fire, the apples of his cheeks glowing pink from exertion and nervous excitement, his brown hair mussed and shining in the low light, his sparkling blue eyes boring into Geralt’s...the boy might have truly been a portrait of Cupid brought to life. “Can you diagnose what ails me?”
Geralt eased into a more romantic mode of conversation, grateful for the easy opportunity to flirt; he hadn’t been well-known for his way with women at court. He prodded and poked and felt across the bones and tendons of Julian’s ankle, recognizing a sprain when he felt one. It was an easy fix, just bed rest and elevation for a few days until the muscles healed up. “You’ve sprained your ankle, Julian. I wouldn’t suggest taking a walk in the woods at twilight anytime soon.”
The young man startled and his eyelashes fluttered sweetly. “But Milord, I must return to my dorm! My friends will wonder what’s become of me.”
“Where were your friends when I came upon you?” the Count questioned, laying a thick woolen blanket across Julian’s lap. The boy blushed brightly yet again and Geralt marked it as another success.
“They spun me around a few times and all ran off in different directions. I was dizzy, of course, and I tried to follow Paul, but he was long gone by then. When Stephan called for me I went to follow his voice and tripped, twisting my ankle terribly. After that there was no keeping up; the sun was starting to set and I was beginning to grow worried for my safety when you rescued me. Thank you, by the way. You have a lovely home.”
“No need to lie to me, little fawn,” Geralt chuckled darkly. He stood from his place beside the settee and paced before the fire, gesturing around as he spoke. “I know exactly how rundown this place looks, Julian, I was a great Count once. The curtains here are moldy, the tapestries are moth-eaten and holey, and the mattresses have rotten all to Hell. This is the only hearth in the manor that I’ve gotten fully cleaned so far; I apologize for the mess. I was moved here rather suddenly, you see, and haven’t had the time to fix everything up yet.”
“Moved? As in, you did not choose to move but were translocated nonetheless?”
“To be blunt, little fawn, I was banished,” the Count drawled. He shot a quick glare in Julian’s direction and the young man withered beneath it. What had he done to anger his host in such a way? Was he safe here any longer? Should he try to run? If he did run, would he make it any farther than the doorway? The edge of the dirty elf-made carpet? Then the glare dropped away for a split second, revealing a flash of genuine pain and confusion, “Someone else at court wanted my job. They cursed me and hid me away from the world in order to take my place. They coveted power so much that they threw my entire life away without a second thought.”
“Oh, you poor thing!” Julian cried, holding his arms out towards his host. The confused Count stopped his pacing and turned to face the teary-eyed young noble. “Come here, Your Grace, and let me give you a hug.”
“That...wouldn’t be appropriate,” Geralt frowned. Julian deflated and let his arms drop back to his sides. His hands moved to fidget in his lap and he flushed yet again, embarrassed.
“My apologies, Your Grace.”
The older man steeled himself for what he had to do. Julian seemed like a nice boy, a perfectly pleasant nobleman all things considered, but this wasn’t just about Julian. This was about a corrupt family with incredible and unchecked power, running around at court and pulling the King’s strings, uncaring of the consequences beyond their own fortunes. Geralt had to teach them a lesson.
He slid back to a kneeling position beside the couch and took one of Julian’s busy hands into his own. He brushed his lips against the back of the young man’s knuckles and whispered softly, the way blue-blooded men had been speaking to empty-headed young women for hundreds of years, letting the skin of his lips tickle against the back of Julian’s hand with every syllable, “Take your rest here for the night, little fawn. I wouldn’t dream of letting any further harm come to you.”
And the boy did exactly as Geralt had intended: he fainted dead away.
