Imagine if Jaskier had been found by a more skilled chaos-wielder after Rience. If the mage had placed a spell on Jaskier to reveal his deepest secrets just prior to being rescued by Geralt.
The witcher, usually right on time, could do nothing but watch as his bard was hit with the spell. He made quick work of the mage, but the damage was done. Jaskier was lying on his back, blinking slowly, clearly not fully present.
And then—
“I have a journal at my housing in Oxenfurt that lists every time you’ve insulted me and meant it. It goes from the day we met until six years ago.”
Geralt blinked, freezing in his tracks as the not-quite-there man continued to speak.
“I bought one for compliments too, but it never got any use, so I turned it into my second insult book after the first got filled up.”
This was…what was happening? Geralt stared at the vacant-eyed bard, marching over to him quickly. He tilted the man’s head up, and Geralt’s jaw clenched tightly at the way Jaskier just looked through him.
“Every time I travel on my own, I wonder who would notice first if I was killed or murdered, or if anyone would care enough to bother trying to find me.”
And that was—Geralt bit back a whine, wondering what in Melitele’s name was going on and how to get it to stop, he needed help, he needed Yenn—
“I was assaulted two days before I met you at that inn in Posada. You seemed like a good man, and I figured either I’d die following you or get a very good distraction from thoughts of monsters who don’t take no for an answer.”
Geralt stumbled, almost dropping Jaskier as he made his way out the door. The bard was in no state to walk, clearly not aware he was even speaking, let alone where he was. This was…whatever Jaskier was saying, it couldn’t be true. He didn’t know what spell the mage had performed, but surely this—this wasn’t true—
“My parents hated me so much they tried to kill me with wolfsbane as soon as my brother showed signs of being a better heir. But he stole most of my wine that day and died while I spent a truly hellish night hidden in a barn barely breathing. I left for Oxenfurt the next morning and have gone by Jaskier ever since.”
Geralt swallowed hard, trying to blink back the tears in his eyes as he approached the academy. He’d never been to Jaskier’s rooms before, but maybe—
“I ask people lots of questions but no one ever asks me any. It makes me wonder if people just don’t care about me or assume they know me well enough not to bother learning anything else. Like because I talk a lot no one needs to put in any effort to truly know me.”
Geralt winced, trying to track the old smell of Jaskier’s scent through the winding corridors. He didn’t…Jaskier knew he just didn’t talk much in general, right? He knew—
“I like performing because it makes other people happy, and it’s so much easier to pretend to be happy when other people are. I’ve never quite figured out how to make myself happy, though. Shame.” Jaskier tried to shrug in Geralt’s arms, as if he hadn’t just said one of the most heartbreaking things the witcher had ever heard.
Tune it out, Geralt thought, backtracking as he lost the scent. Just—
“I don’t like Yennefer because she makes me feel so terribly jealous. Her scars are smooth, and cared for, and when I didn’t cut deep enough, I woke to Valdo spitting on me and stealing my songbook. When he won the next bardic competition with my compositions, he told me better luck next time, and to this day I’m not sure what exactly he meant.”
Geralt stumbled on the steps, leaning heavily against the door that must be to Jaskier’s rooms. He couldn’t do this, it wasn’t working, he didn’t want to hear this, please—
“Sometimes I wish that you hated me, because at least then I can tell myself I was too annoying or loud. I’m used to that. But I can’t do anything with apathy, no matter how hard I’ve tried.”
Geralt couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t listen to this, he couldn’t do this, he could feel himself tearing at the seams—
“I’ve never been able to make anyone care. Not if I live, at least. But maybe—”
“Somne.”
The bard’s head flopped over the back of Geralt’s bicep, body going limp in the witcher’s arms. Carefully, Geralt set him down on his bed, clearing away a few papers and a journal to make room—
He barely caught the quill from where it had almost fallen from the middle of the journal to the floor. Opening the book, he put the writing utensil back—
‘If life could give me one blessing…’
Geralt stared at the words. At the ones above the sentence. The ones farther up, the ones on the page prior, the words, the words, the words—
Geralt cleared off the other half of the bed, laid down, and pulled the bard to his chest.
And then he wept.
