Jaskier x fem!reader
word count:0.9k
Warnings:spoilers for season 3, apart from that just fluff
Summary: You didn't see your friend Jaskier for a long time, since he split up from your group after the events at Kaer Morhen. So, when Geralt suggested that you ask the bard for help, you were more than happy to see your singing friend again…
Masterlist
You watched the scene in front of you unfold with a smile on your face. Jaskier´s sweet voice was slowly lulling Ciri to sleep, after you had spent the evening playing cards against each other. Jaskier, of course, had lost all of his money to the young girl. Finally seeing her smiling again, having fun again, after all she's been through lately, made you feel like it was still worth fighting for. For Ciri, and her future.
“What are you thinking about?”
Your head shot up, as Jaskier suddenly stood in front of you, his slender frame towering above you.
“Just thinking about our journey so far”, You mumbled, as you slowly stood up, starting to gather the plates at cups from the small table you had been playing cards at, until a few minutes ago.
“Anything in particular?”, Jaskier smiled, as he helped you clean up, picking up a plate.
“Oh, maybe the one time, Geralt and I saved your ass?”, you chuckled, playfully hitting his arm.
Jaskier mockingly opened his mouth, acting like he was utterly shocked by your words.
“Fine then”, he mumbled, stepping closer to me,”Remember when I taught you how to dance, that one particular evening where you had too much ale?”
You felt your cheeks redden, as you remembered how much of a fool you had made yourself. even Geralt had laughed at your sloppy dance moves, and Geralt never laughed, ever.
Jaskier had seemed to notice your discomfort and slowly stepped closer. He looked down at you for a second, before carefully grabbing your hands.
“You know, I always thought you were the most beautiful Dancer, I had ever seen in my life.”, he smiled, causing you to blush even more. Since when were you so easily flushed? You were a great fighter, that had been through many battles along with your companions. But now you were a blushing mess in front of the smiling bard.
When you didn't say anything in return, Jaskier just continued to recount the story:”Not because you were the best at dancing or the most experienced, but because you enjoyed yourself. You were having fun to no end, just being yourself. That's what I´ve always loved about you, Y/N.”
You were speechless at this point. You always knew that what you felt for Jaskier was different than what you felt for Yennefer or Geralt. It was more than friendship. But you never believed that he was feeling the same way, in fact you still didn't believe it.
Against all your better judgement, you slowly pulled your hands away from Jaskier and excused yourself, saying that you needed some fresh air. And within seconds, you had left the small hut, stepping out into the night.
Taking in a deep breath, you looked up admiring the stars that glistened in the sky. Upon seeing your breath come out in small huffs, you realised how cold it was. You slowly started walking around a bit to conjure some warmth, but it had no effort. After two laps around the hutt, you were still shivering. You debated going back inside for a second, but you didn't quite know if you were ready to talk to Jaskier again.
The decision was made for you, as you felt how Jaskier´s coat was being wrapped around you. The purple material easily engulfed your form, preventing you from shivering. You turned your head to see said bard standing behind you, one of his hands was resting on the small of your back, as he wrapped the coat further around your form.
“Thank you.”, you mumbled, looking back down.
“You seemed cold”, he smiled, now stepping in front of you. His hands came up to adjust the collar around you. You felt his touch linger, as his bright eyes shifted towards your face.
“Y/N”, he suddenly said. His hand rose to gently caress your cheek. Slowly leaning into his touch, you listened to his shallow breathing to calm yourself down.
“Jaskier.”, you finally said, looking up at him.
He only sighed, seemingly not really knowing what to say:”I-I havent been honest with you,Y/N”
“About what?”, you uttered quietly. He didn't say anything for a second, just staring at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“I really want to kiss you.”, he suddenly blurted out.
You only smiled at him:”then do it.”
It only took Jaskier mere seconds to press his lips to yours. You felt his hands pulling you closer by the waist, as he deepened the kiss, his lips softly working against yours. Only as you parted, you actually realised what had just happened. Yours eyes widened, as you looked at his dreamy face.
“I've wanted to do that for ages”, he admitted. A smile crossed your lips at his words:”I´m glad that you finally did.”
“Oh I could kiss you again a thousand times, my love”, he chuckled, slightly squeezing your waist.
“I wouldn't have a problem with that”, you whispered, before connecting your lips with his once more.
Bonus:
Ciri´s eyes slowly fluttered open, as the soft sunlight hit her face. Upon sitting up in her bed, she started to look around the room in search for her two friends. She expected them to be in their separate beds, still sleeping but Ciri couldn't help but to smile at what she saw in front of her.
Right there, just a few metres away from her, you and Jaskier were huddled up together in the tiny bed. She could barely see your smaller form, as Jaskier was laying on top of you, his head resting on your chest.
“I knew it”, she mumbled to herself, before slowly getting up to get ready for the day.
I think I have a problem cause why tf I always read hurt/no comfort fics or smth like that?!,!,!,!? Someone send help cause??????
And let's not talk on what I write cause that's even more angsty?? Like half of the shit I have in my Google docs, it's finished but I think it's too angst to be posted—
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Also on AO3
10059 words.
Mature / Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapter 4/4 (2406 words)
chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four
carry you home
Geralt paced through the Keep. The Path pulled him, called to him, strongly, loudly, but he knew he could not obey it, not this year. This year, and for Melitele-knew-how-many-years after, there were more important things to be done. Or, at least, so he told himself. Repeatedly. His hand twitched as he turned away from the Keep’s exit, back into the hallway he had just come from. Back and forth, back and forth. It had been a strange winter, a long winter, a cold winter. And, although he had been surrounded by everyone he loved (or, the ones that lived, anyway), it had been a lonely winter.
It was strange, how quickly one forgot the hurt of loneliness. He had known loneliness for most of his life, until Jaskier waltzed his way into it and made himself comfortable. And Geralt’s annoyance had turned into begrudging companionship, and from there a fondness, and from there – he had never allowed himself to call it love. Witchers did not love, nor did anyone love witchers. And he knew, or, he had thought he had known, full well that Jaskier travelled with him not for his character, but for the stories Geralt’s existence brought with him. It had not been until after the mountain that he, in the endless silence that now suffocated him wherever he went, that Geralt had reflected that there had been a friendship there. And maybe, on foolish days when he allowed himself to dream and hope, he could imagine there had been something more, too. But by then it had been too late, and the loneliness that had once been so familiar had returned, and returned with a vengeance.
The loneliness had always hurt, of course it had. Even as a Witcher he still remembered being a little boy filled with hopes and dreams and the illusions of family. But now, now that he knew his days could have been filled with colour and song and talk and joy, but now that he knew he had ruined it all, the loneliness felt less like a cold, dark cave and more like an icy stake, driving into his heart and digging itself ever so much deeper with every step he took. It reminded him of the old fairy tale of the fisherman and his wife. Geralt had always wondered how much worse the couple must have felt living in their old shoe again after having lived in a castle. Their house must have been uncomfortable before, but having experienced luxury, how much of a torture must the return to poverty have been?
Finding Jaskier in that godsforsaken town with its Niflgaardian soldiers had seemed to be the answer to everything. Yet Jaskier had been different. Distant. Never really truly there, always one step away from leaving again. If not for Ciri — Geralt, for all his futile daydreams, had once again been reminded of the truth: nobody truly liked a Witcher. Jaskier did not want to travel with him for him, and, no matter his foolish illusions of friendship (or more), he had realistically never travelled with Geralt solely for Geralt’s companionship. Even if there had been potential for any connection beyond convenience, Geralt knew he had well and truly fucked that up, on the mountain. He had had a faint hope that, once in Kaer Morhen, Jaskier would relax, turn back into his exuberant self again. But even there, the bard had avoided him, avoided all of them. So Geralt had stayed quiet, had echoed Jaskier’s distance. He had already fucked up enough, no need to make it worse. And so the loneliness had turned from an icy stake to a sharp knife, cutting away at whatever counted as a Witcher’s soul with every step he took.
“Where’s Jaskier?” Ciri’s voice cut through the thoughts spiralling in his head. “Have you seen him? I can’t find him anywhere.”
Geralt blinked. “Library?” That was usually where Jaskier holed himself up this time of day. “No, he’s not in there, I looked. He’s not in the kitchen or his room either.”
Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in his body went stiff. Jaskier, for all his extravagance, was a man of routine. Every day was structured, even if no one else could see the logic in it. “Where else have you looked.” It was a statement more than a question, but Ciri answered anyway.
“I’ve been to the balustrades, and the Hall, and the stables. I was on my way to check the library again when I saw you.”
Geralt nodded, grabbed Ciri’s arm, ran. Library. Surrounding rooms. Upstairs. They divided the spaces between them, opening door after door to reveal silence, empty, no one. Hall. Bedroom. Courtyard. By the time they searched the dungeons, Eskel and Lambert had ceased their packing, joined the search. In a Keep full of Witchers, how long could a single bard hide?
“He’s not here,” Lambert’s voice sounded like a sudden realisation, deeper than the announcement that the room he had just opened the door to was empty.
“What?” Geralt bit back
“He’s not here. The- The Pass. It’s clear. He must have-”
“Fuck.”
* * *
How long had he been gone? When had he managed to leave without any of them noticing? The mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen saw little monsters, but there were plenty of bears, wolves, snakes. Especially now, when the weak sun would wake the creatures from their hibernation, causing them to drag their starving bodies out of the caves, crooks, and crannies they had hidden in, ready to jump on the first prey that wandered in front of their paws – and that was not even considering the dangers of the Pass itself. Yes, the Pass was clear now, the snow had melted, but the ground remained unstable, the stones slippery, and the wind could appear suddenly and with a vengeance. They had lost enough time searching the Keep, Jaskier could be— Geralt shook his head, attempting to force away the bloody scenes his mind readily provided.
"Ciri, watch the Keep. Wake Vesimir. If Jaskier returns, whistle on your fingers like I taught you."
With those words, the three Witchers were off. Their once so playful running through the hallways was of days long past. It was all brutal efficiency now, long strides, quick grabs of swords, potions, cloaks.
Upon their leaving, the Keep stood empty, abandoned but for a single fair-haired girl, stood in the courtyard, a look of determination on her face, a look of desperation in her eyes.
The footsteps in the mud were easy to follow. Maybe less so for a human, but to a Witcher? Geralt breathed a sigh of relief when the prints crossing the Pass were solid, sturdy, walking in a straight line as if the bard hadn't had a care in the world. Just one step after another after another after another, away from the sheltered safety of the Keep he had apparently so desperately wanted to escape that he had not even wanted to wait for a single day to travel down with either of the others. After the Pass, however, the rocky ground was less willing to share its secrets. And once they arrived at the split in the road, not a single footstep, broken branch, or leaf out of place could serve as a hint as to the direction which Jaskier could have chosen.
Lambert went left. Geralt went right. And, in unspoken agreement, Eskel stayed behind, ready to respond to the call of either of them, if necessary.
The woods surrounding him were filled with sound. Birds waking up, marking their territory. Squirrels running up and down to fetch more food. A woodpecker, happily drilling their way into a tree. Dripping snow melting off of the branches. Every noise surrounded him, penetrated him, overwhelmed him in a manner that they usually would not. But anything preventing him from hearing the reliable, familiar footsteps of his bard (his bard? Never his, he could not allow himself to think so) was too much, too loud, too— the woodpecker stopped, a bird fell silent. In the distance, a quiet hum. Geralt ran.
Jaskier was safe. He was fine, he was ok, he was—
"You left."
The bard didn't startle, didn't turn around, didn't show any sign of surprise at the sudden voice behind him.
"Yes," he simply said, and kept walking.
"Why—" Geralt could curse himself. 'You left. Why.'? That was the only thing he could come up with? That was all he could say?
Jaskier halted, but still did not turn. "I— have been a burden enough on you and your companions. I don't want to—" a breath, a sigh, "I don't want to overstay my welcome any more than I already have. I apologise for not being able to leave earlier, I apologise for even coming with you to Kaer Morgen. It was beautiful seeing your home, but I shouldn't," Jaskier swallowed, even from behind Geralt could see the bard squeeze his eyes shut. "I shouldn't have infiltrated. I'm sorry. I will pay back the costs of my stay. Thank the others for their hospitality."
Geralt stood, frozen, as the man in front of him started walking again, walking away from him, from home, from—
"You're no burden." Now, the bard's turn to freeze. "You haven't overstayed your welcome. You did not infiltrate. You are not—" why did the words he so desperately wanted to say feel like thorny bramble bushes, ripping open everything in their path, refusing to be unearthed from his throat where they stayed, unsounding, unyielding, unheard. Geralt stepped forward, took Jaskier's hand, spun him around to face him, gathered the courage to grab the thorny words tightly and pull them out. "I— I am sorry. I'm sorry for yelling at you after the dragon hunt and I'm sorry for making you feel unwanted and I'm sorry for ignoring you and betraying you and— And I'm not good at saying how I feel or what I want but I love you, I love you. Stay. Please."
Jaskier's eyes widened, narrowed, and Geralt, throat bleeding, prepared for the hurt. Who, after all, could ever love a monster?
"You— love me?"
Geralt hummed in affirmation, still holding Jaskier's hand, but looking down rather than into those piercing blue eyes.
A fist hit his face with surprising strength. A hand followed, grabbing his chin, dragging him forward and—
Jaskier's lips were touching his. Jaskier's lips were touching his, continuing to touch his, staying on his and they were soft, and smooth, and oh so Jaskier. It seemed both seconds and centuries before Jaskier moved back, reopening the distance he had closed. Geralt, however, chased back, captured Jaskier as Jaskier had captured him. Yet rather than gentle softness, Geralt pursued passionately, desperately, pushing both of their bodies off of the path, against a nearby tree, into each other and on each other and never, never close enough. Grabbing hands, cradling heads, pulling hair and breathing, breathing in Jaskier’s smell, touch, taste, feel. Could a monster be loved after all?
They went home, from there. Back up the mountain towards a joyful reunion with his brothers. Back across the Pass towards an anxious Ciri and worried Vesimir clutching Jaskier’s left-behind note. Back into the Keep for a large feast, a tearful goodbye to the two who did rejoin the Path. Back to his bedroom to talk, talk, and with each conversation the words started to feel less like bramble bushes and more like blackberries. They weeded out the years of thorns and splinters, scratched open the scabs and scars, drained the wounds to allow recovery. They were both broken, and bruised, and their hearts guarded by years and years of harm. They took things slow. Throughout the years they fought, made up, hurt the other and themselves and healed the pain with sincere apologies and careful conversations. Grew apart and closer together as they discovered how their differences fit into the other’s similarities. But during it all, during the difficulties and work and the days where they had to choose to love the other, rather than it coming naturally, Geralt found that his bedroom had become their bedroom, his possessions their possessions, his home their home.
* * *
Jaskier often thought back to his encounter with Fate. Not that he now thought her to be any less of a bastard – or whichever insult was appropriate, no amount of decent blowjobs, and he had had many, had provided him with an answer. Yet at some moments, he could almost, almost, be grateful to her. She had, after all, given him the daggers that had brought him and Geralt together, the yarrow that had kept him alive, and the ribbon that had made Ciri part of his family. And, he supposed, the mountainside confession – the second one, not the first – had indeed led to the mutual desire she had prophesied. Which is how he was now grasping at the hair of the white-haired Witcher on his knees in front of him, the delightful warmth of Geralt’s mouth around Jaskier’s cock a great contrast to the cold stone of one of the ruins near the Keep pressing against his naked back. So far out in the forest, Jaskier could moan as loudly as he wanted to when Geralt licked a particularly sensitive spot, stroked his thighs, cupped his balls and slowly rolled the skin with his thumbs. He was utterly powerless, given over to the hands and mouth of the man he loved, the man who loved him, who stayed, through it all, faithful and resilient and stubborn and endlessly, endlessly his. How had he ever been satisfied with ungratifying blowjobs in an alley near a pub? Jaskier’s whole body shook as he came, steadied by a pair of strong hands grasping his hips, caressing his skin, worshipping his body. In the vague back of his mind, the sole part still working through the delight, he knew that soon it would be his turn to grasp, to caress, to worship – not his own body, but that of the one in front of him, strong, strange, beautiful. He would grab Geralt’s hand, arm, shoulder. Move the man against the lower wall in front of them, bend him over, take his time. He would enter, inch by inch, move slowly, rapidly, frantically, fulfil Fate’s damned mutual desire over and over and over, until they both would be undone again.
hivemind! i need help! i read a fic where jaskier was gifted a medallion that allowed him to communicate with the wolf witchers even when they’re apart and at one point they rescue him when he’s been captured (i remember even vesemir came to help), and i cannot for the life of me find it again.
If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?
It is not easy to make a Fae lose count. People say that, once you enter the immortal world, there is no way of knowing what time it is when you step back out. Jaskier had always found that foolish blabber, of course. It was a simple calculation: just keep count of the number of seconds you are in the Fae world, divide or multiply that by the number of stars in the sky when you enter - depending on the number of grass blades in the fairy circle you entered through - subtract the number of heartbeats it takes between entering the Fae world and touching a snowbell and voilà, that's how many milliseconds have passed in the world mortals know. A simple calculation, really. But it did not take long for Jaskier to realise that foolish mortals are easily distracted, it takes much more for a Fae to stop counting. It takes much more, but it is possible.
*
It does not take much for a Witcher to worry. Or, well, it does not take much for Geralt to worry when Jaskier’s concerned. To know your closest friend, soulmate, better half, husband, whatever you wanted to call it, is perfectly able to handle himself is something completely different than actually feeling it. If only the rational part of his brain listened to his emotions. Geralt sighed as he looked around him one last time. They had agreed to meet here, one damn week ago. And Jaskier was never late for these meetups.
Never. Until now.
*
If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?
‘Julek, you are to be crowned king this winter solstice.’
Breathe in, breathe out.
And Jaskier lost count.
‘You want me to do what?’ his reaction came, just a few seconds (minutes? hours? in the world of the Fae, who knows?) too late. Or was it right on time? The Fae world is weird when you lose count, however brief. But here’s the thing when you lose count: once lost, it can never be found again. Never truly. A decent estimation can be made, of course, especially for such a talented Fae as Jaskier, but finding it? No, even those who break the laws of nature in every regard have to keep to the mathematical rules of the universe.
*
A week later (two weeks too late, Jaskier never even arrived a second later than he wanted to. Sure, he arrived late, ‘fashionably late’ as he called it, but he arrived the exact lateness as he intended to. Even whilst Jaskier slept Geralt could sometimes hear the man in his arm count, count, endlessly count.) Geralt could firmly conclude that Jaskier was neither kidnapped, nor murdered, nor seen by mortal eyes ever since their goodbye at the end of autumn, when Geralt left the flowering field with Jaskier’s scent on his lips, his taste on his tongue and spots of white on his shirt he wouldn’t discover until three days later.
*
Knowing the number of days (hours, minutes, seconds) till winter solstice did not, Jaskier knew, meant knowing the number of days until he would have to be present at the tree where he and Geralt would meet, would rejoin their bodies and minds and souls and step as one, think as one, breathe as one creature travelling the endless continent. For yes, winter solstice for the Fae equalled winter solstice for the mortals, but assuming that the Fae keep to a linear timeline is a foolish endeavour. This solstice meant nothing, when it came from the mouth of a Fae who has not breathed human air for aeons (decades? centuries?). This solstice might be this solstice for them, but for Geralt? it could be a hundred solstices ago, or a million into the future. No, Jaskier had lost count, and there was nothing he could do to gain it back.
*
Five minutes into his visit to Yennefer, she confirmed his biggest fear. Jaskier was indeed not kidnapped, or drugged, or murdered, or bored of the life the witcher could offer him. Jaskier was gone. Simply gone. Unable to be found with any magic or spells or dreams or portals, lost to any who could not follow where he had gone. Jaskier, no matter how impossible it was to believe, had lost count. That was the only possible - even if it did not seem possible - way for him not to have returned. Either that, or- Geralt could not bear to think the words as Yennefer disappeared in a flurry of purple cloth and violet scent and muttered curses, looking for a way to bring the bard home. Home to Geralt, home to her, home to their little cottage where they would hide away when the world became too much for the three of them to bear, where they would have just each other, skin touching skin, lips touching lips, breath breathing breath, just them, just them.
*
‘Mother, why?’
‘It is time for the Fae court to have a king again, after the- unfortunate weaknesses of your father.’
‘The Fae court has not had a king for aeons. Why now?’
‘Because you are losing your way, Julek. Look at you, you have lost count.’
‘I have-’ but the words would not cross his lips. No matter how hard Jaskier tried, the sound dug itself into his chest, into his stomach, down down down away from his vocal cords, away from the air where the words would be sounded and heard and listened to.
‘Not? Julek, you have even lost the art of lying. It is time to stop playing with those foolish mortals and take up the role for which you were born. It is time for you to rule beside me, to welcome your responsibility and care for your people.’
‘Sit there and be an ornament, you mean, whilst you still hold all the strings?’
‘Julek’
‘I have not lost enough of myself to be unable to recognise your tricks, mother. Even if you crown me king, I will not stay by your side for long. I will return to those I love, and that is an oath.’
*
His brothers would have more monsters to fight this season, Geralt had resigned himself to the teasing he’d endure the next winter when he had to relinquish his 10-year record of ‘most monsters slain’. Not that any of them would blame him, if they knew.
Two months now, two months had come and gone and still no sign of Jaskier. They had fallen into an uncomfortable routine, Yennefer and him. Without Jaskier there to hold them together, to silence growing fights and touch their skin and hearts and souls at just the right ways to make them forget about all annoyances, to ply them and mould them and nudge them in just the right ways, the two of them had fought more often than they meant to, than they wanted to. But rather than leaving, rather than running away and slaying a monster and sleeping in the cold and dark and dirt and feeling sorry for himself, rather than running away and parading at court, manipulating royals and mages and feeling sorry for herself, Geralt and Yennefer remained. Every morning and every evening, Yennefer’s magic scoured the continent and all the known and unknown places beyond for any sign of Jaskier. And every day, she would portal to a new place, find new manuscripts, new books, new writings, new myths and legends and stories and they would read them all, trying to find a way to get the one who had stolen their hearts back to where he belonged: in their arms and in their beds (for Jaskier had never left their minds and hearts and souls).
*
As if things couldn’t get any worse, according to Jaskier’s calculations, he will have to leave a couple of seconds before midnight during the winter solstice. In other words, a couple of seconds before his coronation, in the middle of (for as far as there is a middle in) the Fae world. And, although Jaskier is a powerful man, even he cannot win a fight against all of his kind. They will find him during his flight, and they will make wherever he threads the middle of the world, regardless of how close to the border he will go. And it is not like he is ever given the opportunity to catch his breath, to see the stars and count the flowers and touch a snowbell and make a wish. No, for he is crown-prince Julek Taraxacum and a hundred million other names, and they will not let him go.
*
They talk. Every night they drink and stare at the ceiling in silence and drink and drink and drink and drink until not talking hurts more than talking and then they talk. One night it is just two words, on others two thousand. Yet the topic remains the same.
The one night: ‘I miss him.’
The next: ‘I know.’
The following: ‘It’s so quiet here.’
And, after a night of just silence: ‘No. I miss- I miss more than just his voice, or his touch, or his laughter, or his eyes. I miss his stubbornness. I miss his infernal, eternal unyielding determination to get done what he wants to get done. Regardless of the cost. Regardless if we let him or not. Regardless if I let him or not.’
From there, every night they drink and talk and drink and remember, painfully remember every glint and touch and look and movement and word and silent threats to those standing in the way between Jaskier and whatever he desires.
‘I miss his ruthlessness,’ Yennefer sighs. ‘That glint in his eyes and that innocent smile that threatens any who want to walk in his way. The ease with which his words weave a web and his fingers twirl a dagger until the whole world lies at his feet.’
‘I miss his sharpness.’ Geralt adds the next day. ‘I miss the way he yells and curses at me when I put myself into danger he deems unnecessary, I miss the way he hits at just the right spots to make you feel like you are absolutely nothing and yet everything at all.’
And, as the sun rises and Yennefer gets up to let her magic roam the world once more, always once more and once more again,
‘He is better than either of us could ever be.’
*
He does not succeed. Of course he does not. Not with his mother chasing behind him, not with the court pledging their service, not with the lesser fairies swimming his clothes and weaving his crown and setting the tables and not with the moon - bright, round, full and hiding the stars with her betraying light - rising higher and higher and higher until the Words are said and the Vow is made and the cape and crown and sceptre weigh Jaskier down and he is King, and it is too late (seconds? minutes? years?) too late (decades? centuries? millennia) too late to return, too late to escape and find his way back through the endlessly changing maze of time and space and place and all that the Fae world entwines and changes and corrupts and has been ever since even the gods can remember. It is too late, and Jaskier does not know if he can ever return home.
Jaskier still counts.
*
It has been a year without Jaskier and their nights cease to be long speeches, and fall into just words. Alternating, every night the other starts, and they - in between drinks, in between trying to find some consolation in being an immortal mortal and missing, missing, missing the one thing you believed to be a constant in your life, the person who holds your heart and mind and soul and who you wishes could hold you, trace your skin with delicate callused hands, touch you in ways you never dreamed possible whilst whispering your greatest secrets and knowing, knowing that there is no safer place than there, completely surrendered to the hands and voice and soul that holds them - just repeat the same list over and over and over and over until the betraying sun raises above the skies and their futile search continues.
‘Voice.’ Geralt drinks.
‘Touch.’ Yennefer drinks.
‘Laughter.’
‘Eyes.’
‘Stubbornness.’
‘Ruthlessness.’ They open a new bottle, stolen from some corrupt mayor.
‘Sharpness.’
‘Strength.’
‘Love.’
‘Compassion.’
‘Talent.’
‘Humour.’
Jaskier.
*
His second, third and fourth attempts fail too. Jaskier curses the patience and stubbornness of Fae as he counts to his fifth, unable to manage to smile because of the irony of his own patience and stubbornness being the things leading him to try again (he will try again and again and again and again his whole immortal life long, for he carries hearts and souls of value and he has to return to give them back). Yet as a king he is guarded too closely, kept too busy, held to too high a standard, and never, never, never alone (he had never minded being surrounded by others all the time, as long as those others held his heart and soul and these others certainly do not).
But as he reigns and makes decisions and cuts ribbons and blesses babies and is held as a prop by his mother who enjoys having the empty throne next to her filled and speaking as a Queen with a King on her side, he feels a tug. A small thread forming in his ribs, tying around his heart and weaving through his veins, first unnoticed but rapidly rapidly rapidly all-consuming, all-knowing, overwhelming and strange and yet so distantly familiar, tasting of lilacs and violets and onion and adventure and destiny and fate. He can feel it in his fingertips, spinning through his ears and knitting his joints together until his body feels like the restless sea and he can faintly taste the Beauclair White and Toussaint Red on the tip of his tongue and deep, deep in his empty throat devoid of words and song and him.
With every heartbeat, the tug gets stronger.
*
The best ideas happen when one is drunk. The most foolish, idiotic and dangerous ideas happen then too, but the only way to know whether your plan is genius or will end the world is by trying it out.
It is because of that reason that Yennefer and Geralt infiltrate the highest security library, steal an ancient manuscript and spend a full week without sleep translating their nightly list into the oldest language known to mortal men.
It is far from the oldest language ever spoken, but it is close enough.
Geralt feels a thread of something entwining his fingertips, rooting in his stomach and growing to his heart and encircling his skull. It meanders through his brain, wrapping itself like a noose around the parts of him he doubts and criticises and hates and loathes and tying it close, close, close, till no negative thought can survive and he has to admit that his hair his mouth his face his scars his eyes his everything is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Yennefer feels a thread of something extending from her hair, diving into her skin and spinning in the emptiness between her hips reminding her of the sacrifices she made, filling the void like a clew of golden, loving, sharp and stubborn yarn, pulling and pulling and pulling something, someone, the only person who succeeded in making her feel whole and beautiful and perfect and flawless and yet so endlessly, endlessly human.
They hold their hands, grab the thread so strong it is almost visible in the open air of their hidden garden and pull.
*
And then, just as he is once again paraded around for dignitaries and officials and others in positions that, by all accounts, should not exist in the frankly dictatorial Fae court, like he is some rare flower or pretty dress or beautiful painting or another essentially worthless, worthless object, the growing tug that drags him forward, that makes him walk quicker in certain directions or holds him back in others, that has interwoven around every cell in his body making him wonder why nobody has seen the almost visible golden string tying him to somewhere yet, why nobody has noticed he has lost his appetite (why eat flowers and grass and honeydew imported from the sweetest countries when the taste of your lovers weigh on your tongue and fill your stomach in a manner no food could ever equal) the tug suddenly grows stronger. The thread extending from him, through him, in him, grows from a thin cotton thread to a long string of woollen yarn to a thick rope to a cable filling his lungs and throat and tugs, and tugs and tugs.
And the world becomes blurred and the wind picks up and the chattering around him rises and then fades and fades and fades and the busy streets of the Fae city make place for an empty garden next to a lovely cottage and two pairs of arms wrapping tightly, tightly around his waist and chest.
*
And, like a breath Nature didn’t notice she was holding in, there Jaskier is. With regal dress and tired eyes and dulled cheeks, but Jaskier nonetheless. Their Jaskier, their life and love and joy and reason for holding on, holding on to life and the world when there is nothing to hold on to. He is there, truly there, really truly there.
*
If it takes a lot to make a Fae stop counting, then what exactly does it take?
A tug from another world. A hug from his loved ones. A frantic pushing and pulling and ripping of clothes, trying to get closer and closer and closer (true lovers can never be close enough, their souls are so entwined their bodies will always be trying to become one) to make up for lost time, to assure themselves that it is real, to touch, to see, to smell, to taste, to know that it is real, not yet another happy dream but real and present and here. A violent kiss. A perfectly placed touch. A hundred thousand touches in a row, all at the same time for forever yet for no time at all.
What does it take to make a Fae stop counting? Oh, although it is difficult, there still are many things that can.
But what does it take to make a Fae stop counting, without them worrying about it?
That is a secret only those who have loved and lost and found again can truly know.
When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell. He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.
* * *
Jaskier didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all.
CHAPTER 1 - The Wild Abandoned
Animals following him wasn’t that unusual, all things considered. Most creatures were curious about this strange, not-quite-human being travelling through their territory, but even when Geralt fed them the scraps of his own meal none of them had followed him for - Geralt narrowed his eyes and mentally tallied. For five days, at least. Of which Geralt spent only three asleep, deciding to hurry his travels as his coin ran out. He had heard rumours of Posada looking for a Witcher, and - although he hated himself for it - he hoped none had shown up yet. He did not have to check his purse to know there was only one coin left in it, nor did he need to check his supplies to know they were dwindling. Geralt sighed as he heard the creature following him speed up to catch up with the chestnut mare. Whatever it was, it would be scared away as soon as he arrived in Posada. If there was any lesson Geralt had learned over and over and over again during his time on the Path, it was to never get attached.
In Posada, he met a bard named Jaskier, and his life changed.
Two decades later, on a mountain, half the continent over, his life changed again.
When he arrived back at the foot of the mountain, Geralt most decisively went in the complete opposite direction of Jaskier’s smell.
He knew the smell of humans lingered, but five days, an equal amount of baths in the Gwenllech and three un- and repackings of his supplies later, Geralt could still faintly smell the bard’s distinctive, pinewood, autumn leaves and wolve’s fur smell, although the flowery perfume he usually masked it with was gone.
Geralt tried to blame his surroundings for creating the smell, but he knew there were no pine trees to be found for at least a hundred miles.
It was still the middle of summer as well.
He didn’t hear the animal following him at a safe distance.
* * *
He knew it was still too early to arrive in Kaer Morhen, so although this far North wasn’t his usual territory, he took whichever jobs he could get. The benefit of breaking out of his usual stomping grounds was, aside from the fact that the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’-legend was not tied to his name, that Jaskier’s joyful catchy kind annoying songs hadn’t reached the area either. A group of drowners, two frighteners, a wreight and a cockatrice later, he could almost forget what happened on the mountain.
Almost.
It wasn’t till the beginning of October, after the wreight but before the second frightener, that Geralt noticed he was being followed. The animal seemingly attempted not to get noticed, timing his footsteps at the exact rhythm of the latest Roach, a horse with a surprisingly consistent walk. Geralt did not know how long it had been following him, but that night he purposefully didn’t finish the rabbit he had hunted and roasted, throwing the bones with plenty of meat in the bushes behind him, in the general direction of the sound of softly padded paws touching the forest floor.
The next day, the bones and meat were still there.
The sound, however, was gone.
He tried not to let the overwhelming silence bother him.
Three days later, Geralt was almost convinced his offer had scared the creature away. Either that, or the pouring rain had caused the animal to give up on his curious pursuit, and find shelter somewhere in the cavernous mountains. The resulting floods paid Geralt’s next meal and shelter as he took care of the drowners plaguing one of the small Northern villages. They pay had been small, but the citizens thanked him for arriving so quickly. For a moment he feared that the villagers would burst into an all-too-familiar song, but instead they told him a neighbouring place needed his help as well.
After fighting the second freightner, the now-familiar sound of the animal’s steps returned. So did the rains, and Geralt decided to cut this season short and turn his meandering route into a direct journey to Kaer Morhen, the closest thing to a home he knew, except for- No. The closest thing to a home he knew. Geralt stared at the deer-made path ahead of him and banned all thoughts from a certain bard out of his head.
* * *
The creature, whatever it was, kept following him. If his medallion hadn’t stayed silent, Geralt would almost be worried. It was far away from its own territory now that the towering, deciduous-treed and cavernous Dragon Mountains had been replaced by the equally towering but pine-treed, steep-cliffed Blue Mountains. The creature hadn’t accepted a single offer of food, or shelter, or warmth. Not even when Geralt, silently cursing his own idiocy, had called out into the forest that the food thrown away was intended for this mysterious pursuer.
Geralt almost considered travelling the long way so he would pass through the planes, simply to see if the creature would follow, would allow himself to be seen, but that morning he woke up covered in a thin layer of snow.
He saddled Roach, saw his latest offering of food was once again ignored, and hastened his journey towards Kaer Morhen.
The creature followed, even during the treacherous journey towards the Witchers’ Castle.
Geralt almost resented the idea of wintering inside, since the creature would surely leave before spring.
‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive,’ Geralt had called into the dark two nights before arriving home. ‘You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’
His reply, as usual, had been silence.
The next day, the creature followed still.
* * *
‘Geralt! You’re uncharacteristically early,’ Vesemir greeted him at the gate.
‘Stayed North this time. I- I was already on my way back, simply hurried my way when the snow started.’
‘You were on your way back? Did that bard of yours finally take that teaching position Oxenfurt has been begging him to accept?’
Geralt placed his bags on the stable floor a little more violently than needed.
‘He’s not my bard. And I don’t care what he is doing right now. It’s not my concern.’
That evening, after a bath in the hot springs and a nice bowl of soup eaten next to the safety and warmth of the fire, the entire story came out, and Vesimir’s heart bled for his young pup.
* * *
Geralt didn’t mention the strange creature that had been following him until Eskel arrived two weeks later, mentioning that he had been followed for the last days of his journey home.
He wasn’t jealous at all when Lambert, arriving five days later, reported he had seen a wolf-like creature from a distance. Nor did he find an excuse to leave the dinner table to train his frustration away when Lambert said he had even fed the creature, for it looked haggard and ragged.
* * *
They didn’t speak of the creature till mid-December, when the three men went out into the snowy wilderness to hunt for fresh meat.
The creature was still there, following them from a distance.
‘If that thing ate every living thing on the mountain, we might not catch any prey at all,’ Eskel wondered aloud after two hours of fruitless searching.
‘Well, it clearly didn’t eat every living thing on this mountain,’ Lambert replied, to a frowning Eskel.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we’re still here.’
‘I would barely call you ‘living’,’ Eskel retorted, steadying his stance just in time for Lambert to pounce on him.
‘Shh guys!’ Geralt hissed, focussing on a sudden burst of sound in the forest. A running predator, a fleeing prey, breaking branches, noises rapidly going louder until CRACK a frightened deer broke through a frozen bush, leaping over Eskel, a panicked cry as the Witcher grabbed her leg and pulled her down.
‘It does feel pretty unfair,’ Lambert mused as they dragged the carcass back to the castle. ‘This isn’t our prey, we stole it from that wolf. Should we, like, leave a part of it as some sort of thanks?’
Geralt ignored his two brothers but did hold out his bloodied sword when they decided to leave a part of the animal behind.
The next morning, the Witchers were woken up by a loud howl. When Geralt looked outside, he saw a bloody trail leading from the forest to the castle gate, where their offering was returned. ‘Looks like we didn’t steal its prey after all.’
* * *
The knowledge that, outside of the thick, stone walls, there was some creature looking out for them, made it a strange winter. From the brief glances in the dark evening, they had concluded it must be a wolf, but no reasoning for its seeming loyalty could be found. There was no magic, no curses or spells, no laws of surprise offered to pregnant wolves that could explain the presence of the animal. It didn’t seem to want shelter, and offered food was only touched occasionally. Any attempts at luring it out of the forest failed, as the wolf seemed to know when they were watching.
Geralt didn’t attack his brothers more aggressively during their training when the only consistency they could find was that the wolf didn’t seem to want to accept anything from Geralt, nor show itself when Geralt was nearby.
He also didn’t resent Vesemir when he told them one morning that he had seen the wolf prowling around the castle, and that when he had spoken to it, it had sat down and listened, its head slightly tilted and bright blue eyes surprisingly intelligent.
And that spring, when he travelled south and heard the creature following him, he most certainly didn’t feel relieved.
That was, not after he heard the news that the famous bard Jaskier had gone missing, hadn’t been seen in almost a year. Rumours were that the last time he was spotted, was in the presence of a certain white-haired witcher.
His arrival in larger cities was met with thrown rocks and angry insults.
He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be called a butcher and a murderer.
It was yet another reminder never to get attached.
The first coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he carefully made his way down the mountain was his internal surprise that he wasn’t crying. In all the songs of heartbreak and rejection, there were tears, heartbroken cries of anguish and dramatic falling to the knees. But the reality was that Jaskier was empty. Completely and utterly empty. For once he was devoid of words, devoid of song, devoid of poetic descriptions, laughs, chatter, of everything that made him the apparently so burdensome travel companion as he was.
The second coherent thought in Jaskier’s mind as he gathered his stuff from the inn and made his way into the forest was that he was lucky he never showed his more useful side to the Witcher. If he had, his broken heart would now most likely be literally torn to pieces. Geralt didn’t kill monsters, only if they hurt others.
And isn’t that what he did?
* * *
It took him half a day to find a body of water large and still enough to reflect his entire length. On the edge of the cave’s pool, lit by a hole in the ceiling letting in the midday sunlight, he started taking out his belongings, dividing them into three neat piles of ‘keep’, ‘toss’ and ‘hide’. The cavern itself gave ample opportunity for ‘hide’, and whatever he deemed unworthy of keeping was tossed in the ice-cold water. Whilst he waited for the stillness of the water to return, he methodically packed the rest of his belongings, taking in each item with precision.
A spider building his web in the opening between the light bright world of the insects and the darkness of the cave the eight-legged creature preferred, looked down at the strange man below him. He seemed to stare into the water for an eternity, before the form shifted, turned, and ran.
* * *
He didn’t necessarily plan on following Geralt. They just happened to be travelling in the same direction, that was all. Sure, there were quicker ways to reach the undiscovered regions north of Haakland, but those weren’t safe. Passing through planes and cities in this shape would certainly cause his end.
Jaskier told himself that travelling as a human would only slow him down.
He told himself that he couldn’t perform with this emptiness inside.
He knew that was nonsense, he knew he could act, pretend, and nobody would notice.
He followed Geralt anyway.
* * *
It was almost as if the past two decades hadn’t happened. It was almost as if he was still a young wolf, on his way back home after receiving his education, following a mysterious rider smelling of adventure and death and destiny.
Like last time, it took Geralt an embarrassingly long time to notice his presence. Unlike last time, he had gotten quite good at timing his footsteps to match that of Roach’s. And unlike last time, Geralt had thrown meat and bones in his direction.
Jaskier refused to eat. He could take care of himself, without being a burden.
He made sure to take a different route that night, knowing the direction in which Geralt was headed. He was practised with catching up to the Witcher by now, he was almost surprised that he had been able to find the man at all. If he was the cause of all of Geralt’s suffering, you’d think someone with Witcher training would be able to avoid him.
Then again, you’d think someone with Witcher training would know what he was.
* * *
After fighting a lost garkain without Geralt noticing a thing, Jaskier decides to follow the man for the Witcher’s own safety.
He does not allow himself to think about why Geralt is so out of form that he doesn’t notice a garkain following him for a full day, or the fight happening less than fifty miles from his camp. Instead, Jaskier blames the rain for Geralt’s sudden ineptitude.
He rejoins Geralt after he exits the village where he, according to two children playing witcher-and-monster a little too far into the woods, has defeated a freightener. He ignores every offering of food the Witcher throws in his direction. Not even when the man stupidly yells into the forest that the food was meant for him. There are enough squirrels and rabbits to hunt himself.
He never allows the Witcher to see him.
* * *
They are about a two-days journey away from Kaer Morhen when Geralt addresses him again. ‘You can’t follow me inside, you know. A castle isn’t fit for wild animals to thrive. You should go back. To your territory. To your family, if you have one. And if not, I am sure that you will be able to start one, if you are strong enough to follow me this far.’
If Jaskier were human, he’d laugh. ‘What do you think I am doing,’ he thinks instead. ‘Where do you think I am going? My territory is not where you finally noticed me following you. My territory is here, with you.’
It’s that last thought that makes him halt. His territory isn’t the Haakland’s mountains anymore, it isn’t the pack he left behind, nor is it Oxenfurt, nor is it any court he has performed at. His territory for the past twenty years has been Geralt.
But Geralt’s territory has never been him.
He follows Geralt to the top of the mountain and then makes his way down to await the Witcher’s brothers.
* * *
Eskel notices he is being followed after an hour. Lambert after fifteen minutes. As some sort of price, he allows the Witcher to see him, for just a bit.
He graciously accepts the offered food. He stays on the mountain, unable to leave his territory.
He knows it’s pathetic, he knows he should leave, he knows he will easily be able to take up the position as Alpha and lead his family through Haakland and beyond.
He stays near Geralt anyways.
* * *
It is well into December when he hears three pairs of footprints and silent banter echo through the forest he has now gotten to know so well. The Witchers, out for a hunt. He shrugs, listens where they are headed, and turns to run the other side.
He follows them, of course. And when he sees a lost deer that could feed him for the next month to come, he chases it towards them.
He wastes his precious energy that night dragging their pitiful offering back to the castle’s gate. An Alpha takes care of his pack, not the other way around.
He only eats from their offered food thrice. Twice out of politeness, and once because he is desperate. There isn’t much game and the mountain is cold.
* * *
He doesn’t approach the castle when he knows Geralt is watching. He knows the others have seen glances of him, and he secretly wonders if Geralt is frustrated that he is the only one who hasn’t. He wonders if Geralt has even noticed that he is the only one who hasn’t seen him.
In mid-February, during a particularly bright night, Vesemir talks to him. It’s mostly stuff Jaskier already knows: about who and what the Witchers are, about their history, about their home. But it is also things he doesn’t know. Vesemir tells about Lambert’s love for a Witcher from a different school, about Eskel’s insecurities regarding his scars, and finally, right before dawn starts to break, Vesemir tells him about Geralt. About how he most tortured of the children adopted into in Kaer Morhen managed to find joy on the Path in the shape of a brightly-coloured bard, who followed him and cared for him relentlessly for twenty years. About how he could finally let go of the heavy burden of his responsibilities, how he could finally see it as a joy rather than an oppressive fate. About how he realised the mortality of this human bard when he visited a village just as the little boy whose life he once saved was being carried to his grave by his grandchildren. About how all of the Witchers learned to never get attached. About the danger of the wolf being there, for it is clear the inhabitants of the ancient castle are getting attached to his weird loyalty.
That spring, Jaskier follows Geralt on the Path. He is his territory, after all.
Jaskier is too forgiving. When Geralt exits the first big city with wounds and quickly forming bruises, he is once again reminded the rest of the world is not.
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Also on AO3
2898 words.
Part 1 of the to say the truth (or lose his love) series
General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply
Complete
In order to fulfil his contract, Geralt has to either kiss his true love, or find the Faery Queen's lost son. He assumes the latter will be easiest.
Jaskier had been feeling antsy for almost the entire day now. He didn't exactly know when it started, but as he looked at the apple Geralt had handed him in lieu of lunch, he suddenly realised that his insides were shaking and he was not at all hungry.
“There's a town three hours north.” Geralt announced as Jaskier was contemplating the implications of his ever-growing anxiety.
"Ah! Lovely! An actual bed to sleep in tonight!” He tried to measure his voice, but he knew Geralt could hear the artificiality of it. He had never been a very good actor.
“Hm.”
As they travelled in uncharacteristic silence, Jaskier's antsy feelings only grew and grew. Instead of becoming louder, as he usually did when he was nervous, he turned almost as quiet as the stoic Witcher himself.
“You okay bard?”
“What? Oh! Just looking at these beautiful trees, and all those-” Jaskier’s voice broke as he suddenly realised that alongside the path grew "buttercups." Fuck.
“You sure you're okay?”
“I'm sure!" Jaskier was sure he was not okay, and he did not know who he was trying to get to believe otherwise.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Fae.” Geralt grumbled before the bard could even ask what the new contract was. "Been stealing the grain. Poisoning the cattle. The mayor's wife is about to give birth, they're fearing a changeling.”
“Aha.” Jaskier just replied. “Are you waiting till tomorrow?”
“Sun’s still up for another few hours. Might as well try to find them now.”
“Yes. Right. Well. I'll just. Wait here for you to come back. Don't step in any circles, okay?”
And off the bard went, waving his lute questioningly at the innkeeper. Geralt rose an eyebrow, surprised that Jaskier hadn't insisted on coming along, as he usually did. Not that he minded. When the little town's mayor had told him about the village’s problems, Geralt had dreaded the prospect convincing Jaskier to stay behind almost as much as he was dreading fulfilling the contract. Not that he was going to complain, dealing with those damned Fae would be enough of a bother without the ever-blabbering Jaskier digging himself into holes he would not be able to climb out of. Still, weird. The sharp smell of anxiety hadn’t left the bard since early that morning, and Geralt made a mental note to keep a closer eye on him. Just to make sure he stayed okay. Not because they were friends , but, well, Geralt couldn’t imagine that an anxious bard could earn a lot of coin. And winter was coming up, and Geralt wasn’t so heartless as to leave Jaskier for the winter without any sort of security that the man would be okay. Not that he spent his time in Kaer Morhen worrying about the bard. No, they weren’t even friends.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Fae were not hard to find. Geralt had stumbled upon the first circle less than half an hour after leaving the village, meaning they had been living there for longer than the mayor had insinuated. Which also, Geralt realised, meant it would be more difficult to make them leave. He grunted and grabbed one of the sugar cubes he usually reserved for Roach, tossing it into the grass in the middle of the circle of blooming dandelions. A voice like the softest bells immediately replied.
“Witcher! Our Queen has been expecting you!”
Their Queen. That explained the proximity to the village. If the Court was big enough that it was ruled by a Queen rather than a Lady, it was properly able to defend itself against angry, overconfident villagers.
“What an honour,” Geralt grunted sarcastically.
“She's straight ahead,” the little fairy, a tiny green thing, pointed. “Take a right at the Oak, she's waiting near the buttercups.”
The creature said the final word as if they were supposed to mean something to him. He supposed they did. The bard's clothes always had a buttercup pattern. Not that he had been staring at the bard, no. He had just noticed it whilst repairing one of Jaskier's doubles. Just to stop his whining, not because he cared. He was just a nuisance, making his life more difficult every step of the way.
Ignoring the fairy's pointed look and carefully manoeuvring around the circle, Geralt made his way to the promised Queen.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“You're back early! I don't suppose the Fae were incredibly forthcoming and ready to move immediately?” There almost seemed to be hope in the bard's voice.
“No.” He sighed. “They want payment.”
“Of course they do. And surely they weren't as forthcoming as to actually tell you what they want?”
“They were.”
“Wait what?” the surprise in Jaskier's voice was genuine. “Since when does m- a Fae Queen clearly state what she wants? That makes it suspiciously easy.”
“How did you know there was a Queen?”
“What did she want? Honey? Fish? Coin?" Jaskier pointedly ignored the question.
“True love's kiss.”
“What.” Geralt almost wished he could have a painting made of the stunned look on the bard’s face. Just because it looked so funny, not because it made the bright blue eyes stand out gorgeously, not because it emphasised the beautiful curve of the young man’s eyebrows, not because- Geralt quickly shook his head.
“She wants me to kiss my true love. Or, alternatively, she wants me to deliver her son home.”
“Ah. So. Great, I'll- I'll go get my stuff. Leave you to- to find Yennefer.”
“Why would I try to find Yennefer?”
“You just said 'true love'?”
The Witcher rolled his eyes. “Yennefer is not my true anything. Now, did you see any suspicious adult men here during your performance?”
“Did I what now?”
Geralt started humming.
“Geralt! Are you singing?! And not even one of my songs?”
“Sh! I’m trying to remember...” And, to Jaskier’s flabbergasted surprise, the Witcher started to softly sing.
“Twenty years he’s come and gone, in winters lies he here.
But now, my child, the time is come, for him he holds so dear
to say the truth, or lose his love, the lute will let you see
my son, at last, should travel home with him he loves or me,
to him he loves or me. ”
Jaskier stared at him, eyes and mouth wide open. “You can sing.”
“That’s not the point, Jask-”
“You. Can. Sing!” The bard now truly sounded offended. “And you say that’s not the point? Geralt, How many times have I tried to get you to sing along with my songs? My ballads? And not even just in public! You refused to sing when we were sitting next to a campfire gods knows where-”
“Jaskier!”
“I have to say Geralt, if I knew it took a meeting with m- with a Fae to get you to sing I would have-”
“Your lute,” Geralt interrupted. “The lute should reveal the fairy prince. Did you see anyone strange whilst I was gone?”
“You can sing.”
“Anyone in the audience? Jaskier, please.”
“Nobody in the audience looked out of the ordinary, Geralt. And I doubt that the fairy prince would calmly stop to listen to music so near to his mother’s court.”
“The Queen said that she knew her son was in the village. We have to ask around, see if anyone here disappears during winters. That must be something people notice.”
“You’d be surprised,” Jaskier laughed, and Geralt couldn’t help but detect a bit of bitterness in the bard’s voice. “But if you’re so insistent, I’ve been asked to perform again when everyone has put their children to bed. So you can sit there and endlessly wait till your medallion starts vibrating or whatever, but I am pretty sure it won’t. There will be no fairy princes in the audience tonight.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There were no fairy princes in the audience that night. Instead of staying hidden in the shadows, Geralt had wandered through the inn during Jaskier’s performance, carefully observing the guests. He had spoken with the innkeeper, the mayor, a few women who were all too willing to gossip about the ins and outs of everyone in the village, but he had heard nothing that could help. He kept thinking about the words the Queen had sung. The time had come for someone to say the truth? Who? The person the prince held dear? The prince himself? And why would the prince lose that person if the truth wasn’t spoken? He stared blankly as Jaskier carefully wiped the lute down, inspecting it for any potential damages. The lute will let you see.
“Jaskier.”
“Oh, are you done brooding?”
“I need to borrow your lute.”
“Wait, are you telling me you cannot only sing, but also play? Twenty years we have been travelling together, twenty long years and-”
“Not to play. To see.”
“Listen Geralt, if you don’t know the difference between glasses and an instrument I don’t know what to-”
“The song, Jaskier. It says the lute will let me see the prince, so maybe I have to hold the lute.”
The bard looked at him doubtfully.
“I won’t let any harm befall it. I know how important it is for you, Jaskier. I promise I won’t damage it. I will protect it like- Like I protect Roach.”
“Fine. But if you-”
“If something happens to it, I will do everything in my power to repair or replace it. I swear.”
“Good.” Jaskier bit his lip. “And make sure you return it before dinner. This is a well-paying crowd.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Geralt felt like a fool, wandering through the village holding Jaskier’s lute. It didn’t help that the lute wasn’t helping. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nobody knew of anyone disappearing during winters, and, as far as he could track, there were no secret lovers either. So he did the only thing he could think of, and, lute in hand, walked back into the forest.
This time it took even less to find the fairy Queen. She seemed to be waiting for him, unsurprised that he came alone.
“You brought the lute.”
Geralt nodded. “I am sorry, your highness, but I have been unable to find your son. If you could but tell me how he looks li-”
“Give it to me.”
“What?”
“The lute. Give it to me.”
“It is not mine to give.”
The Queen smiled and waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Witcher, I know how much it means to the one it belongs to. He will get it back.” Geralt just looked at her. “He will get it back, whole, undamaged, in the exact state as it is now, before sunset.” the Queen specified. “I mean no harm to your bard.”
“He’s not my-”
“The lute, Witcher.”
Geralt sighed and, carefully not to enter the circle, handed the lute to the brown-haired lady.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She did not break it. She did not enchant it, or cut its strings, or anything else. Instead, she played. One of Jaskier’s songs, Geralt recognised it. Not that he listened to the bard when he played, he tried to tune it out most of the time, but it wasn’t like he was completely able to avoid hearing the endless stream of music that joined him every place he went. After that song was done she played another, and another, and another. All of them written by Jaskier. She did not sing, though some of her servants would hum the occasional line or dance along.
It was getting late when Geralt spoke again. “You are a talented player, Lady, but I promised I would return this instrument to its owner before dinnertime. I could fetch you another lute from the village, if you want?” He knew from experience that even slightly antagonising a Fae court would make his task of getting them to leave exponentially more difficult.
“Ah, no, I think I like this lute better. It carries memories, you know,” she replied, continuing to play. Geralt was surprised at how suspiciously amiable this entire contract had gone. Any other Fae would have deviously tried to trick him by now, or forcibly dragged him into the circle. “Besides, the lute is not yours. I will return it to him who owns it.”
Fuck.
“You want me to fetch Jaskier.”
“Oh, there is no need for that. He is already on his way. He is pretty pissed, Witcher.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The moment the words left the Queen’s mouth, Geralt heard the distant footsteps of the bard. He indeed sounded angry, but, as Jaskier came closer, Geralt noticed he smelled more of fear than of fury. Geralt frowned. Jaskier was never afraid. Sure, he would be scared of husbands he cuckolded, or the monsters Geralt fought, but never scared like this.
“What the fuck, Geralt. I lend you my lute, you promised you would keep it safe, and you hand it over to someone else? A Fae Queen? Are you mad? Are you short of a few marbles? A few thousand marbles, perhaps?”
“Hello, Julian.” The Queen said, before Geralt could say anything in defence of his actions. “You know I won’t ever let any harm come to your instrument.”
“I know m- I know. But he didn’t!”
“I promised him I would not harm the instrument, and I promised that you would have it back by sunset. He had no reason not to give the lute to me.”
“He still should not have. Give it back.”
“Come and get it.”
“Why now? Why like this?”
“It’s been twenty years, Julian. It’s time. And since you refuse to do it, I am forcing your hand. He has to know. You’re being unfair to him by keeping silent. He will discover someday, anyway. You have to make a choice, either reveal it now, voluntarily, or I will force you.”
“Fine.” And before Geralt could say anything, before he could step forward, grab Jaskier and drag him away, Jaskier stepped headfirst into the fairy circle and grabbed his lute from the Queen's outstretched hand.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He didn’t die. Or faint. Or grow old rapidly. Jaskier just stood there, next to the Fae Queen, cradling his lute, and nothing changed. Geralt blinked. That was not true. Something did change. He became a little taller. His ears were a little bit more pointy. His smile a little wider, and everything about him became more regal than any king Geralt had ever seen.
“What. The. Fuck, Jaskier.”
“Geralt,” the bard said, with a mocking bow, “meet my mum. Mum, Geralt. Though you already knew that.” He stepped out of the circle, still firmly clutching his lute, and Jaskier became, well, Jaskier again. Not that he had ever not been Jaskier, but still.
Geralt just stared.
“I am sorry Geralt, I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I didn’t know you, and then Filavandrel gave me this lute, and- and I just sort of started following you, and- You never even admitted I was your friend! The only time we ever talked about Fae you just told me you thought all of them were cheating bastards!” Geralt winced. “Yennefer never told you? I am sure she knew. And- I mean, I never aged! We have been travelling for two decades and I still look as young as when we first met! Do you mean to tell me you never noticed?”
“I thought- Your salves and-”
“Those can’t completely stop someone from ageing! I-” Jaskier’s voice suddenly went from exasperated to really quiet. “I’m sorry. I’ll go grab my stuff from the inn. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no Fae will ever harm you. I- I’ll see you in a bit, mum.” And with those words, Jaskier turned away and left.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“He did want to tell you, you know.” The Queen’s voice sounded from behind him. “He was just afraid of losing you. I hoped this would give you two a push in the right direction, but it seemed like I was wrong.”
“Jaskier’s a faery?”
“Jaskier is my son. He is High Prince of the Summer Court, and will inherit my throne in a couple of centuries.”
“Centuries? He is immortal?”
“As long as he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble, yes, he is.”
“Jaskier’s immortal. He won’t die.” Geralt stared in the direction the bard had disappeared in as his brain and heart rapidly embraced feelings had refused to acknowledge for the past twenty years.
“He has lived for over six hundred years, and he will live at least another ten times that.”
Geralt ran.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
By the time he arrived at the inn, Jaskier had already packed his belongings and was saying goodbye to Roach. “Jaskier!”
“I’m sorry Geralt.”
“I love you.”
There was a loud twang as Jaskier’s prized lute hit the ground.
“I love you. And I didn’t tell you, and I didn’t tell myself, and- I thought you would die, Jaskier! I thought you would die, and leave me here, and it was easier just to pretend I didn’t like you than to admit it and see you grow old and leave-” Geralt’s words were cut off as the bard’s, his bard’s, lips hit his. The smell of flowers, the taste of honey, the soft touch of Jaskier’s hand on his cheek- It was beautiful and gorgeous and real.
“You don’t hate me? For keeping this secret so long?”
Geralt just shook his head and kissed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The village’s cattle were safe, in the end. So was the harvest, and the mayor’s child, or any other baby born, for that matter. The Witcher had fulfilled his contract and received his coin, and by the time a young Oxenfurt graduate passed through the village singing a song of a white-haired Witcher and his Faery love, the people had long forgotten about their own encounter with the White Wolf of Rivia. It was not like they could know that every winter, Kaer Morhen bloomed wild with tiny, yellow flowers. Or that, every summer solstice, the Fae Queen’s celebrations were attended by a witcher. Or that, for many, many, many years to come, a humble bard and a friend to humanity, with rings on their fingers, would travel the Continent, never leaving the other’s side.
