Title: The Burnt Butcher’s Grief
Pairing: Geralt & Jaskier (platonic/friendship-focused)
Summary: After the mountain, Jaskier writes a song that takes the continent by storm. Geralt hears it. He says it doesn’t hurt. It does.
Chapter 5: Acceptance
Summary: The fire elemental is long gone. The wound on Geralt’s shoulder is healing. The song is still sung across the continent. But this time, he listens. He remembers... not just the pain, but everything else too. He keeps the memory of their friendship close, like a scar that no longer stings.
🌇 Geralt stands in the town square while children sing Burn Butcher Burn
🧵 He finds a small keepsake, and doesn’t throw it away
🛏️ He books a real room, with a bed, and lets himself rest
🌌 He remembers a quiet night by the fire, and doesn’t try to forget it
This is the end of the story. Not of the grief. But maybe of the ache.
Maybe it’s enough to say: It mattered. And I’m glad it did.
My contribution to aro-week :) Big thanks to @jaskierswolf for giving this a sensitivity read beforehand! It’s my first time writing an aro character.
Summary: Jaskier finds a heart-shaped rock and struggles.
CW: Jaskier is anxious about being aromantic (Geralt reassures him).
Pairing: platonic Geralt & Jaskier
Other tags: slight hurt/comfort? attempted humour (dirty), they talk.
word count: 507
Geralt looked up when Jaskier came back to camp, knowing immediately that something's wrong. The bard's shoulders were slumped, his indrawn stare more aggravated than pensive.
Patiently, Geralt waited for him to say something. Usually it wouldn't take him more than a few minutes before Jaskier couldn't keep the words inside him anymore. But when the light shining into their little clearing became softer, everything glowing in a reddish tint, Geralt realised that Jaskier hadn't said anything. Not a single word. Something was very off, then.
Choosing his words carefully, Geralt tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible. It still came out rather gruff. "What is it, Jaskier?"
When Jaskier's head shot up, it was his first real movement in about two hours. His eyes were bleary, like he'd spent too much time in his own head.
"What? No, it's nothing. Nothing. I just," he stopped mid-sentence, "doesn't matter."
His hands clenched at his sides, no lute strings to occupy his fingers.
Geralt heaved himself to his feet with a sigh, plopping down next to Jaskier on the dry grass.
"It matters, Jaskier. Something that has you this upset-"
"I don't want to talk about it," Jaskier muttered.
"Alright." Without prodding further, Geralt pulled his swords closer and a whetstone from his pack.
》《》《》《》《
They were lying in their bedrolls, a few feet of space between them, when Jaskier finally spoke.
"I'm broken, aren't I?"
Geralt snorted. "Between us it's me who kills for a living, isn't it? Don't steal my title, bard."
The chuckle that came from Jaskier was wetter than he expected.
Turning around to face the bard, Geralt suddenly smelled the hint of tears.
"You're not. You're not broken, Jaskier," he said softly. "Why are you saying that?"
"Oh, it's..." Jaskier sniffeled a bit, "it's stupid, really."
"I won't laugh, promise."
"I... I found a rock, you know? A rock shaped like a heart. And it's fucking fitting, isn't it? The bard with a heart of stone finds... fuck-" his voice broke.
"Jaskier?" Geralt's hand fumbled until he found the bard's. "You're not broken. No, listen to me," he said more vigorously when Jaskier tried to protest, "you don't have a heart of stone. You love. You have so much love to give. So what if it isn't romantic? Who cares?"
It didn't matter that Jaskier squeezed his hand so hard Geralt would have lost a finger were he not a witcher.
"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice still sounded small even though the scent of tears had dissipated.
"Yes?"
"Can we share?"
"Come over here," Geralt answered, already opening his bedroll. When Jaskier was snuggled into him, sighing contentedly, Geralt pressed his lips to his hair.
"Your heart is not made of stone, Jaskier. No part of you is."
The bard tried to suppress a giggle. He failed. "Well, except my c-"
"Shut up," Geralt murmured, more fond than anything else.
As Jaskier had quieted down, he found Geralt's hand again.
"Thank you, Geralt," he whispered into the space between them.
Consider: Geralt.Exe has some difficulty understanding Jaskiers dress sense; like he wears pants that are cut off above his ankles, and his travel cloak is bright but is NOT weatherproof. Can’t his bard afford good things? Does he spend all his money on Geralt and roach and not have any left to take care of himself? Geralt tries to help and gets Jask practical clothes but Jask sometimes wears the other things to events and he doesn’t understand until Jask explains fAshION DarLiNG
Hi Silvermidnightprincess!
I’m behind on my askbox and this took me too long but it’s here!
Geralt is fretting. He knows this. But he’s not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of the issue. Jaskier is wearing boots, but they aren’t the boots Geralt bought him a week ago.
Almost two weeks ago Geralt had noticed that Jaskier’s boots were no good for travel. Kind of...pointy at the toe, a bit of heel, and the leather was poor quality. It was all shiny and bright but they were bad for walking. Geralt had worried for the bard’s feet and bought some good boots for him. Contracts were going well, there was certainly enough coin to make sure his companion didn’t get blisters.
But here, in this tavern, Jaskier was dancing about in the shiny, pointy boots, strumming his lute and stomping his feet. Then Geralt noticed the pants. They were well made and colorful, but too thin. Even in this rather closely packed tavern, the weather outside was chilly and damp. The silk looked attractive in the low light, dully glowing and the embroidery was done in something shiny and caught attention. Nevertheless, the pants were too thin.
Couldn’t Jaskier afford warm clothes? Summer had been wet and unusually chilly this year and now autumn was closing in, if he didn’t have warmer clothes before Geralt left for Kaer Morhen he’d surely freeze in the winter.
A horrible image appeared in Geralt’s mind. Jaskier in his bad boots and thin clothes all curled up against the snow, caught in a blizzard between some village and the next.
Of course Geralt wouldn’t let that happen. Jaskier was happily strumming away and the patrons seemed friendly enough, so Geralt slipped away.
A few streets away there were clothing shops, but they were all full of the sorts of things Jaskier had, shiny, light clothes and bad, pointy boots. Another street over and he found a second hand shop run by a cheerful, plump woman with three teeth and frizzy grey hair rapidly escaping her bun.
She grinned at him. “Buy or sell, sweetie?” she said.
Geralt felt a little dumbstruck. He must have looked it too because she cackled at him.
“I’m guessing you want to buy, yes?” She hopped off her stool and began rummaging. “I don’t know what all I have for a big boy like you.” She gave him an appraising look. “My second husband was about your size I think, but I haven’t any of his things.”
“I’m not shopping for myself,” Geralt managed. “My friend needs a new cloak, something warm for winter.”
“Hmmm,” said the lady. “Wool would be right, so’s it’s warm even if it’s wet.” She began rummaging along a different rack. Geralt looked absently at the rack next to him.
“Aha!” said the woman, holding up a brown cloak triumphantly. Geralt wrinkled his nose. Some chemical had been used to keep moths away. It was a good cloak though, thick and made to last. Geralt happily shelled out what the woman asked for it, not bothering to haggle. There was a glint to her grin that told him he wouldn’t win if he tried. She folded it up in some brown paper and rough, hairy twine. Geralt tucked the package under his arm, thanked the shopkeeper and walked back to their room in the inn.
It was a very small room, and it smelled of mildew. The inn was much too small to offer baths too, but Geralt schucked off his boots and sat on the bed, sinking in to meditate.
Maybe a half hour later Jaskier clattered up the rickety stairs and Geralt slipped back in from semi-consciousness to the sound of the pointy boots on the plank floor.
“You missed the last half of my performance,” Jaskier pouted, flopping dramatically onto the bed.
“Went shopping,” Geralt grunted. He proffered the parcel.
“For me?” Jaskier pulled at the twine. He held up the brown cloak and looked at it.
“You don’t have a warm cloak, all your clothes are just bright and thin,” Geralt said, feeling some explanation was needed. Jaskier was giving him a look, but he couldn’t tell what sort of look it was, so he continued. “And I thought, with winter coming on...”
“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier said, trying the cloak on. “I suppose I am prone to fashion before function.”
“Fashion,” Geralt said a little blankly.
“Yes, dear heart, fashion,” Jaskier said, wrapping the brown cloak around himself like a blanket, then twirling to see the fabric spin out. “I trust you are familiar with the concept.”
Of course Geralt was, but the idea very rarely featured in his day-to-day life. Jaskier must have seen something in his face, however, because he crossed to the bed and sat by Geralt.
“I wear your lovely comfy boots on the road most of the time,” he said. “But I’m a bard, and part of my job is looking bright and being noticed, the same way much of your job it holding swords. Clothes can be a weapon too, sometimes.”
Geralt knew his expression was skeptical but didn’t bother masking it. Jaskier chucled and patted his face.
“I’m often at court in the winters, I don’t need warmth but the right clothes tell people a lot about you. If I have the right doublet on I’m in at the high table, I get the best job offers and invitations. The wrong clothes can see me insulted or ostracized.”
“So the shiny boots...?” Geralt said, undertanding the vauge concept, but the details were jogging behind in his mind.
“The shiny boots look good, which is part of my job,” Jaskier confirmed. “But the boots you got me aren’t for performing, they’re for walking, and I’m very glad to have them...and the lovely warm cloak.”
Geralt settled in for bed, Jaskier’s familiar routine creating an ambient silence of lots of little noises. He supposed that now, question answered, he could stop fretting. He wouldn’t he knew, he’d probably always fret when it came to Jaskier.
And court sounded awful, a trap of social ques and bitchy nobles. And Jaskier could be safe and comfortable elsewhere, without the pressures of his job. Geralt knew he loved performing, but he could perform somewhere else, with a less judgmental crowd...like Kaer Morhen. And the keep had a good library, plenty of poetry no one had bothered to appreciate for years...
“Jaskier?” he said.
“Hmmm,” the bard said, sleepily from the other, narrow bed.
“I think the cloak will be useful this winter, when you come with me to Kaer Morhen...if you want to, I mean.”
Jaskier sat up. “Really?”
“Really,” Geralt said. “Now sleep.”
Jaskier fell back, and Geralt began a list in his mind. His bard would need gloves, probably a hat, warmer shirts...and sleep claimed him. In the corner, the brown cloak sat, draped over the back of the chair, waiting for use.
