Sad HC: Jaskier goes to mage to remove pain of the mountain, emotionally. Mage is not as good as they think, remove his ability to feel. Then Geralt finds him.
It’s not too much to ask. For the shitty fucking twenty two years of devotion to an ungrateful fuck, he deserves to at least forget about it. He slumps forward in the armchair, sinking into the cushion as the mage works his spell, and in his hazy of sadness, misses the awful glint in the man’s eyes.
He comes to. Sunlight streams through the open curtains, the scent of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen below his room. Something’s off, he’s not sure what, but he packs his bag, his lute, not questioning how he’d returned to his room at the inn after last night. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t sure why he was there, asking to get rid of pain.
If life could give me one blessing—
It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t bring tears to his eyes like he’d expected. He shoulders his bags and loops his lutestrap over his shoulder, and doesn’t realize that the thought doesn’t bring a smile to his lips.
It rains, and his clothes are soaked and his fine boots muddy and Jaskier can’t find it in himself to care as he walks the trail. It should’ve been the first what the fuck. He doesn’t notice.
There’s a man brooding in the back of the tavern, the hood of his cloak pulled up to cover the glowing ambers of his eyes. Jaskier finishes off his performance with a bow; no happy glow save for the faux smile he’s mastered over his years as a bard. He doesn’t feel fear, or anger... or sadness as the figure approaches him and sits opposite to his table.
“Hello, Geralt.” He doesn’t feel rushing panic nor crushing abandonment. He sits and takes a drink out of his beer to soothe his parched throat.
They begin traveling again, and if Geralt notices that Jaskier’s face stays blank throughout the day, he doesn’t say as such. If he notices that his voice is monotone and his gait even, free of trepidation after following the man that had so carelessly cast him aside atop that mountain and told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off.
A month later, they huddle together under the autumn sky for warmth. Geralt presses a shy kiss to his shoulder, and whispers into his ears all the sorries and I-love-you-and-have-always-loved-you’s that Jaskier could’ve ever asked for, could’ve never imagined.
Jaskier hums, and doesn’t say a thing. He goes to sleep without bother.
Send me sad hc’s/thoughts please! :)
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