He thought back to his time with Valdo Marx, the sweet whispers, the soft way he had told Jaskier he would mean nothing. Jaskier had believed him, for a time.
Then he met Geralt, who- however unintentionally- helped him find himself. He lost himself in the stories of the Witcher, for years, knowing that no true harm could come to him while he was with him.
And then the day on the mountain had happened, and Jaskier had been shattered once more.
This time, there was no one to pick up the broken pieces.
He had tried- singing songs from the good old days, steadily ignoring the way his heart ached. How it yearned for the Witcher. He traveled, and traveled, going as far away from that mountain as possible. The further away he was, he figured, the further away the memories would be.
Until he wandered so far away that he lost the protection of the Witcher. It was common knowledge that the bard Jaskier was under Geralt of Riviaās protection, and any harm that befell him would be dealt by Geralt twice over to whoever was stupid enough to inflict it.
Until the months passed, and the bard was no longer the Witcherās constant companion. Which made him an easy target.
He honestly wasnāt sure how exactly it happened- the events shrouded by the fog of drink. It wasnāt uncommon for him to drink himself halfway to death, a habit from his time at Oxenfurt that he had never managed to quite shake.
All he knew for certain was that he had been grabbed, firm and harsh hands digging into his arms, making his skin crawl-
He had been dragged somewhere, for how long he didnāt know, to somewhere cold, and damp. He wasn thrown onto the floor, in complete darkness, his head hitting the ground so hard he saw stars.
Someone had come in behind him, their footsteps echoing in the silence, but drowned out by the ringing in his ears.
He felt himself being pulled up, and forced into a chair, chains binding his arms and legs, until he was sitting there, completely helpless.
Hands cupped his face, so like Geraltās, and yet not.
The needle pierced him, and Jaskier screamed.
The first thing Jaskier registered when he woke was the pain. It seared through him, every nerve on fire. His mouth, his mouth. He-he couldnāt breathe, he couldnāt-
āJaskier.ā Geralt. When did Geralt get here? How did he-
He was hyperventilating now, the air not coming in, not enough. If he could have opened his mouth, he would have.
āJaskier, Jaskier look at me.ā A gentle but firm grip was nudging his chin up (just like Them), and he looked up through blurred eyes, up at the Witcher. Geralt took his shaking, bloodstained hand in his own, and lay it gently on his chest. His heartbeat was slow, slower than Jaskās own, and certainly slower than what a normal humanās would have been. But it was calming. Grounding. āItās going to be okay. Listen to me, okay?ā Geraltās other hand came up to cup Jaskierās jaw, his touch soft, softer than Jaskier could remember it being. As if he was worried he would hurt him, Jaskier thought. It was a bit late for that. He tried to relax, years by Geraltās side and playing doctor had taught him that the best thing to do when injured is to calm down. He listened to Geraltās breaths, and tried to imagine that everything was fine. They were together, it was before the mountain, they were lying in an inn somewhere. Jaskier had just performed, they were safe, and they were happy.
He was probably hallucinating, he had gone insane and he was seeing things. Geralt-Geralt wouldnāt have come for him, this was his mind playing tricks on him.
He was alone, alone, alone, and no one was coming, Geralt wasnāt coming, Geralt hated him, he would die alone in this filthy dungeon, drowning in his own blood-
Choking in his own blood, more like it.
Oh Melitele above, his mouth-
He would never speak again- he would never sing again
It was that thought which broke him more than the pain ever could.
The way the needle had pierced him, the pain of the thread being pulled through his flesh
He was dying, he was sure of it.
Jaskier the bard, unwanted and alone, was going to die
Even if Julian Pankratz managed to escape, to get out, to survive-
He could never be a bard again. He could never do what he loved, he could never be the person he was born to be, the person he abandoned his family for
Who was he without his voice? It was bad enough without Geralt, without the muse he had loved, the muse who had thrown him away that day on the mountain-
But without his voice- his music?
He squeezed his eyes further shut, so hard that spots danced in his vision. This was a dream- or a hallucination.
Geralt wasnāt there, Geralt had abandoned him.
His eyes remained closed when he was gently lifted from the chair, when the hair that had fallen into his face was brushed away by hands, familiar hands, hands he had held and kissed and knew like his own.
Not real not real not real
His eyes remained closed when he was picked up, strong arms carrying him easily, his head resting carefully on a shoulder
His eyes remained closed when warm air tickled his face, a light breeze that felt so real-
They stayed closed when he felt himself being put on a horse, the strong arms that had carried him letting him lean back on a firm chest, a familiar medallion pressed against the nape of his neck, surrounded by a presence he knew so well.
They didnāt stir when he was lowered onto a bed, so soft, so different from the harsh, cold floor of the dungeon-
All he had to do was open his eyes, and he would see that he was in the dungeon.
And Geralt was standing beside him, covered in blood, his long hair messy and tangled. He looked horrible.
He was staring at Jaskier though, with that vulnerable expression that had made Jaskier melt.
His hallucinations were realistic, then, which made them so much worse.
Any moment, any second and he would wake up, to find himself chained to that fucking chair, alone in the dark, wishing he was dead-
Geralt saw his open eyes, and knelt down by the bed (not real not real-) slowly, as if Jaskier was one of his monsters, easily provoked and dangerous.
āJaskier I-ā He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. It was so like him, Jaskier could have cried. āIām sorry. I truly am. What I said on the mountain- I can never forgive myself. And I canāt expect you to forgive me either.ā He looked so honest, so vulnerable. This was, frankly, the most emotional intelligence Jaskier had ever seen Geralt display. It was obviously part of his hallucination. But hallucination or not, Jaskier still yearned to comfort him. To tell him that yes, it had hurt. Yes, he was an asshole.
But Jaskier still loved him, and he had forgiven him long ago.
He couldnāt, though. Not- not like this.
Jaskier pulled his arm from out of the cocoon of blankets he was in, and weakly reached for Geralt, his hand grasping for him. Geralt seemed to understand, and grasped it in his own. Jaskier squeezed, and he felt his lips unwillingly turn upwards.
He immediately regretted his mistake, as a searing pain shot through him. He flinched, hard, and his hand flew towards his mouth. It came away bloody.
Geralt immediately grabbed a towel and some water, which had apparently been next to him the entire time. Jaskier also saw a knife.
āForgive me,ā Geralt said, as he gently took Jaskierās hand and pulled it away from his face. āthis is going to hurt.ā
Recovery was, well, hard.
His lips healed fairly well, according to Triss. Yes, he had scars, and he hated them. They felt like a constant reminder, a constant reminder that he would never be the same- he would never be whole, again.
It was made worse because it was his fault.
There was something wrong with him, something broken. Because even weeks, even months after the stitches were gone, he couldnāt speak. Triss said it was because of the trauma.
Jaskier thought he was just weak.
Compared to Geralt, who had more scars than Jaskier could count, he was nothing. Geralt recovered from injuries in days, and he couldnāt get over this, this weakness in almost a year? Pathetic.
He tried, he tried so hard. He tried at night, when Geralt lay in their bed in their house by the sea (Geralt had insisted, and Jaskier had cried) and everything was silent. He stood in front of the mirror in their room for hours, trying to force the words to come out-
Geralt would always catch him staring at his own reflection, hating himself. He would climb out of bed, come behind Jaskier and hug him, resting his chin on Jaskierās shoulder. He would tangle their fingers together, and press a kiss to the side of Jaskierās head.
āYouāll get there, love.ā
Jaskier would turn, drawing Geralt as close as he could, and wait until he felt those strong, familiar arms envelop him.
He didnāt deserve Geralt, honestly. He truly, truly didnāt. He was so patient with him. Somehow, Geralt always seemed to understand him. It was like when they were younger, and Jaskier had been able to decipher every āHmmā or hum that Geralt made.
He always knew what Jaskier needed, and Jaskier loved him for it.
The day Jaskier spoke again was the day he got married.
It had been a dream, something he had vaguely thought about but never quite thought possible. Geralt proposed to him by the sea, his hair whipping in the wind, and Jaskier thought at that moment that he may be an angel. He said yes, of course.
The ceremony was to be small, with only their closest friends present. Yennefer had taken over the preparations, her only reaction to the news of their engagement a smile and āfinallyā
Until it turned into a nightmare.
Because the first time Jaskier spoke, the first time he said Geraltās name in years.
Was his scream as his fiancƩ (his almost husband they had been so close-) was run through.
The blood covering his hands as he held his Witcher, holding him close, as his tears threatened to blur his vision. āGeralt, Geralt- I-ā he stuttered, hating that he couldnāt even say goodbye properly.
Geralt smiled, his mouth full of blood. Jaskier felt sick.
āOh dear heart,ā Geralt said, his voice so full of love. āItās okay. I love you, my bard. Itās not- not your fault.ā
The howl of anguish Jaskier let out as his fiancƩ died in his arms was indescribable.
At Geraltās funeral, Jaskier finally spoke. It wasnāt much (not what Geralt deserved, he deserved so much better-)
As the casket fell down into the earth, Jaskier dropped his bundle of dandelions (Geralt said he loved them because they reminded him of Jaskier, once) on the ground, his eyes filling yet again.
He knelt, his chest feeling so heavy he couldnāt breathe, and he was thrown back to the dungeons from so long ago, helpless and alone.
Except this time, Geralt truly wasnāt coming.
āIām sorry.ā His whisper was soft.
He clutched Geraltās medallion, given to him the night before his death-
Geralt smiled, his hands cupping Jaskierās face. āThis, this used to be the most important thing in my life. It meant that I belonged somewhere, that I had a home.ā He pulled off the medallion, pressing it into Jaskierās hands, and folding them gently over it.
āBut now youāre my home. You always have been, it just took me so long to see it. Itās yours.ā
Jaskier buried his face in his hands and sobbed, letting the grief take over. It was yet another one of those nights, when he felt so alone he thought he might die. He was clutching Geraltās medallion like a lifeline, trying to stay afloat-
He didnāt deserve to be there. Not when Geralt was dead. It should have been him, it was always going to be him.
He burned his lute that night.
The lute- his first gift from his travels with Geralt, a constant reminder of all that he had lost. His music, his voice, and his Witcher.
He threw it into the fireplace, watching it slowly be engulfed by the flames.
His soul burned with his lute.
The bard followed his Witcher, forever, and always.
