Chapter Text
Rience twirled his knife. “Don’t make me force you to go, Jaskier.”
Jaskier could throw a decent punch when he was cornered. There was a knife in the cursed box. If worst came to worst, maybe Geralt could hit Rience on the head with a big stick.
Jaskier took a deep breath.
“When I said I wouldn’t leave you, Geralt,” he said through gritted teeth, “I fucking meant it.”
Rience smirked, cruel and almost pleased.
“So be it,” he said, and all hell broke loose.
Rience reached out a hand, outstretched, and a bolt of fire hurled itself at Jaskier. Jaskier barely managed to lunge out of the way. His jeans were singed. He thought the cabin behind him might be smoldering. He did not turn to look.
Geralt roared, loud and furious. The wind coming from the spell changed directions. Instead of whipping around like a hurricane, roared at Rience like a very determined gale. Rience staggered back a step. He growled. Jaskier had never seen a human look more like a rabid wolf. Struggling against the wind, he lunged for Jaskier.
Jaskier jumped aside again. He barely managed to avoid another bolt of fire. He edged his way towards the table where the box was resting. There was a small knife in there that Yennefer had given him. Maybe if he could get to it, or do something to the magic—
Rience hurled another bolt of fire. It missed the box by a slim margin and forced Jaskier to once again lunge out of the way.
“You’re being very original,” Jaskier panted. “I admire your creative variety of techniques.”
Rience snarled and closed his eyes. The not-fire emerging from the box suddenly felt a whole lot more warm.
Jaskier resisted the urge to curse his own stupidity while fending off the slash of Rience’s knife with his guitar. It made a sad cracking noise. Jaskier did not take the time to mourn. He threw it in Rience’s face and lunged for the table again.
The not-fire was burning hot now. He yelped as he shoved his way through it. His clothes sizzled. He touched the box and jerked his hand away with a shout. It was hot like metal in a fire. He covered his hand with his sleeve and shoved the box. The knife, unsurprisingly, did not come out. He jostled it again, tipping it a bit. The knife slid a little closer to the top. Jaskier could not bear the heat much longer. Casting about desperately, he found a stick that had been blown into reach by the wind. It was smoking a little. Using it, Jaskier just barely managed to shove the knife out of the box and take hold of it.
“Very clever,” said Rience, his voice mocking, before throwing his dagger. The blade buried itself in Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier fell to the ground, screaming.
Before he could scramble out of the way, Rience threw another bolt of fire at him. It hit its target. Jaskier screamed again. He distantly registered his knife dropping out of his hand as he flailed. His sleeve was on fire and his leg was bleeding and there was smoke in his face and Rience was laughing that horribly familiar laugh of his and Jaskier couldn’t get up and oh gods, he would never see Gordon again, he was going to die—
“Jaskier!” screamed Geralt, and Jaskier opened his eyes just in time to see a large chunk of wood fly out of nowhere and hit Rience squarely in the face.
Jaskier rolled away immediately. He barely registered the pain in his arm and his thigh as searched desperately for the knife. He found it and clutched it tight. He staggered to his feet. Rience had been knocked to the floor but he was standing back up. The sorcerer was angrier than ever. Jaskier brandished the knife and tried to ignore the way his hands were shaking.
“You,” Rience growled, “Have exhausted my patience.”
He lunged at Jaskier. Jaskier tried to stab him, but Rience seized his wrist before he could. For a moment, he fumbled — his fingers almost seemed to slip off the wisps of mist that still surrounded Jaskier’s wrist — but before Jaskier could take advantage of it, Rience growled and grabbed him again with renewed strength. His grip was iron-tight and implacable and burned. Jaskier could not wrench his wrist away. He shoved at Rience’s chest. Rience backhanded him across the face and dragged him towards the table.
“I could have been nice about this,” Rience hissed as he shoved Jaskier against the table. “I could have killed you quickly. I could even have let you go.”
He dragged Jaskier’s wrist over the box. With his other hand, he held his knife to Jaskier’s throat. It was still dripping with Jaskier’s blood.
“I don’t want to do that anymore,” he whispered in Jaskier’s ear. His breath was warm. The knife was cold. Jaskier shuddered, hard.
“I want you to die,” Rience said, sing-song. “I want you to die slowly, and painfully, and I want you to watch your friend die with you as you scream.”
He pressed the knife harder against Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier felt something warm trickle down his neck. He was so numb by now that he could not tell if it was his blood from earlier or if Rience had cut him again.
“Put your hand in the box, Jaskier,” said Rience.
“No,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth.
“Very well,” said Rience. The hand on Jaskier’s wrist tightened. Rience began to drag his hand toward the box.
Jaskier resisted with all his might, but Rience was stronger. His wrist was being dragged slowly downwards. Jaskier could only watch as his hand was pushed closer and closer to the cursed box. His skin was covered in soot and somewhat scorched. There was a cut on his thumb that he had not felt, he noticed. The knife he was still clutching glinted in the light of something in the cabin burning. His fingernails were—
Jaskier’s eyes widened. He was still holding the knife.
He could not do much damage in this position even if he managed to get it to his free hand. The worst he could do would be to slash Rience’s arm. It would be satisfying but it would not help. There was no point in making him bleed a little, not when—
Wait.
“I don’t know what would happen if your blood ended up in the box,” Yennefer had said as they planned. “I would rather not find out.”
Maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.
He would only have one shot at this. It would be difficult to get the knife into his free hand. All of Rience’s attention was on him. If he lost his concentration, Rience could easily shove his hand into the box before Jaskier could do anything. He only had a few moments before Rience forced his hand in the box anyway.
Jaskier felt the telltale chill that meant Geralt was standing nearby.
“Geralt!” he called, hoping against hope that Geralt could give him an edge.
Geralt did.
Out of nowhere, he materialized directly in front of them. He seemed taller and broader than usual, his form lit with reflected light and glowing with the magic around them. His eyes glowed golden like fire, bright and furious and inhuman. The air in front of them was cold and filled with the fog that rolled off of Geralt like waves.
For a moment — one tiny, almost insignificant moment — Rience lost his focus.
It was enough.
Jaskier slammed his head backwards into Rience’s face and brought his free hand up. Rience’s attention was distracted enough to let Jaskier shift the knife to his free hand. Using the grip Rience still had on his wrist, Jaskier shoved Rience’s arm forward and over the box. Twisting in Rience’s arms, Jaskier snarled and cut a deep slash across Rience’s wrist.
Rience’s blood fell into the cursed box.
For a split second, time seemed to stand still. The wind that had still been whipping around them stopped. The light of the magic went dark. Even Geralt was frozen. Jaskier could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Then the magic’s glow lit up brighter than ever. The gale reached new heights. Directly behind Jaskier’s ear, Rience screamed.
The hands still holding Jaskier disappeared. There was a thunk. Jaskier turned to see that Rience had fallen to his knees, still screaming. He was clutching his wrist. At first, it appeared to be smoking. Jaskier realized after a moment that it was fog, drifting off of Rience’s arm in the direction of the box. His hand was becoming more and more transparent. After a moment, it began to dissolve.
Jaskier watched as the curse spread. Rience’s form became more and more ghostly. The transparency spread over his entire body. First his hand, then his arm, then his shoulder and the rest of his body began to dissolve into fog and drift into the box. His screams grew weaker and weaker. Slowly, with a drawn-out wail, he vanished.
Jaskier could feel the spell loosen its hold, the grip it had held him in weakening. His surroundings felt suddenly more real, his body more solid. His hands regained their usual level of opacity. The wind died away.
Jaskier looked at Geralt. He was still as wispy as usual, but something about him felt more solid. This was closer to what Yennefer had described, closer to what their spell had been supposed to do.
He supposed that the best thing he could do from here would be to follow the plan.
The candle had been knocked over at some point in the commotion, but the incense was miraculously still in place and burning. Shakily, Jaskier approached the table.
“Well,” he said to himself, “Here goes nothing.”
He said another incantation that he did not understand. Nothing went wrong. Slowly, he began to sing again. His voice was small and quavering at first, but it strengthened as he sang. Carefully, using the same stick he had used earlier to retrieve the knife, he fished his guitar strings and sheet music out of the box.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then there was a loud bang, a flash of blinding white light, and Jaskier’s world went very, very dark.
~
He woke to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulder. The wooden floor beneath him was scratchy and covered with rubble. His leg hurt. A familiar voice was saying his name. He groaned.
“Jaskier!” said the voice. “Jaskier, can you open your eyes?”
It was, Jaskier realized belatedly, Geralt’s voice. It would probably be a good idea to do as he said. Groggily, he forced his eyes open.
The effort was worth it for the pure, unhidden relief that crossed Geralt’s beautiful face. He visibly slumped, the tension leaving him. On his face was an exhausted but genuine smile.
Hold on. If Geralt had been the one speaking, whose hand was on Jaskier’s shoulder?
“Wha’?” he managed to ask blearily. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”
Geralt’s smile grew wider. “It worked,” he said. “Jaskier, it worked.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened. He suddenly felt much more awake. “It worked?”
“Yeah.”
Urgently, Jaskier raised his hand and touched Geralt’s cheek. He missed and ended up smacking his forehead instead. It didn’t matter. Geralt was— he was—
On the second try, Jaskier’s hand did as he told it to. He cupped Geralt’s cheek. Geralt’s real, warm, solid cheek.
“Oh gods,” breathed Jaskier. “It worked. Oh gods."
“Yeah,” said Geralt again. He grinned, bright and blinding and beautiful. Jaskier could feel the movement from where his hand was still cupping Geralt’s cheek. “You did it.”
Jaskier sat up. Or, more accurately, he tried to sit up. He nearly flopped back to the floor, but Geralt caught him and helped him sit up the rest of the way. His hand came to rest between Jaskier’s shoulderblades, solid and supportive and warm even through Jaskier’s shirt.
Jaskier could not tear his eyes away from Geralt’s face. His eyes were a beautiful gold that glinted in the light. His hair, still silver but now solid and real, shone. A little lock of it had fallen across his forehead. Jaskier reached out and tucked it behind his ear. He could do that now. Jaskier kept his hand where it was for a moment, then stroked it through Geralt’s hair. It was just as soft as he had dreamed. Geralt’s eyes were wide and filled to the brim with feeling. He leaned into Jaskier’s hand. With a jolt, Jaskier realized that no one had touched Geralt for decades.
With his other hand, Jaskier gripped Geralt’s shoulder. Then he touched his collarbone. Then his chest, his waist, his knee, his chest again. Geralt was as muscular as he appeared. Jaskier wanted to touch every inch of him, to learn and explore all the things he never got to know about him before. He could not do all of that right now, though, so he did the next best thing and tackled Geralt in a hug.
He buried his face in the junction between Geralt’s neck and his shoulder, wrapping his arms around him and holding so tightly that if he were human, it might have been painful. Geralt only leaned closer and cautiously, with painful gentleness, wrapped his arms around Jaskier in turn. Jaskier could feel him bury his face in Jaskier’s hair. His breath whispered past Jaskier’s ear, warm and soft. His arms were sturdy and secure and safe. Where his face was still pressed against Geralt’s throat, Jaskier could feel his pulse.
“Are you all right?” asked Geralt, and Jaskier realized he was crying.
“Mm-hmm,” said Jaskier, not moving away.
Gently, Geralt took him by the shoulders and pushed him just far enough away that Geralt could see his face. His brow was furrowed. “Are you sure?”
He cupped Jaskier’s face with one hand, wiping away his tears with a thumb. Jaskier leaned into the touch, turning to nuzzle Geralt’s palm a little.
He nodded into Geralt’s hand, smiling softly through the tears. “I’m just happy, dear heart. I’m so, so fucking happy.”
“Oh,” said Geralt. He smiled again. Jaskier had never seen him smile this much. “Me too.”
“Yeah,” said Jaskier breathlessly. “That’s good.” He hugged Geralt again, because he could. Geralt hugged him back.
“I could stay right here forever,” he said happily into Geralt’s shoulder.
“Your leg is bleeding,” Geralt pointed out.
“Irrelevant.”
“Your arm is burnt.”
“Eh. It’s fine.”
“I’m pretty sure part of this cabin is on fire.”
Jaskier paused. “Fine. That’s slightly more relevant, but it can wait.” Then he paused, frowning. “Speaking of fire, what happened to Rience?”
“He’s definitely cursed. I don’t think he’s dead, though. He’s probably a sort of ghost like I was, only more so.”
“You mean Rience is still around here somewhere, invisibly being a malevolent ghostly spirit?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We can leave eventually, I suppose.”
“I’m glad to have your permission.”
“You should be.”
Geralt’s hand began to stroke up and down Jaskier’s back, almost absently. Jaskier melted impossibly closer to Geralt. If he were a cat, he would be purring.
“Is there any way I can convince you to leave sooner?”
“It’s doubtful.”
“Hmm.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Jaskier, can you look at me?”
There was no way Jaskier could refuse a request made in that soft tone of voice. He pulled back and saw Geralt looking at him with fondness and something that looked close to awe.
“Thank you,” he said gently. Jaskier smiled.
“You’re welcome,” said Jaskier. “Was there any particular reason for this request?”
“Hmm,” said Geralt. “Yes.”
He brought a hand up to cup Jaskier’s cheek once more, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth. He brushed the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier swallowed.
“Can I kiss you?” Geralt asked, gentle and warm and breathless, and, for possibly the first time in his life, Jaskier was speechless.
He nodded. Geralt smiled. His hand shifted from Jaskier’s cheek to the back of his neck and gently pulled him closer. Jaskier went willingly. Their noses bumped for a moment, then Jaskier pulled back a little and realigned and—
They were kissing.
It was gentle and almost cautious, just a simple press of lips, and yet it made Jaskier tingle from head to toe. Geralt’s lips were warm and a little chapped. His hand was steady and calloused on the back of Jaskier’s neck. He was solid and real and alive and he was kissing Jaskier. Jaskier felt as though all his dreams had come true. Elation was too small of a word to describe his feelings. He felt nearly dizzy with joy — though, he supposed, that could also be the blood loss.
Eventually, they had to pull apart, but neither of them moved far. They rested their foreheads together for a moment, breathing each others’ air and quietly reveling in the moment.
“Can we do that again?” Jaskier whispered.
“Only if we leave the cursed and burning cabin,” Geralt whispered back.
Jaskier laughed, a little giddy. “This is bribery!”
“Is it working?”
“Yes.”
Reluctantly, Jaskier pulled away and stumbled to his feet.
He hissed as he put weight on his injured leg. “Fuck. Now it hurts.”
“I thought that might happen,” said Geralt, suppressing a smile. “Here, wrap it with this.”
He offered Jaskier the sweater he had brought to cushion the spell’s components. It was half-burnt and somewhat torn. A little blood probably wouldn’t make it any worse. Jaskier shrugged and did as Geralt said.
Geralt got to his feet, then stumbled. Jaskier stumbled towards him in concern.
“Are you injured, too?”
Geralt smiled ruefully. “No, I just haven’t walked in a while.”
“Ah. Yeah. That’ll do it.” Jaskier laughed a little. “I was stabbed in the leg and you only sort of remember how to stand. We make quite the pair, don’t we?”
“We do,” Geralt agreed easily, and Jaskier’s heart fluttered. He had a feeling Geralt wasn’t just talking about their lack of mobility.
“We can help each other?” Jaskier offered.
“Yeah,” said Geralt.
They slung their arms around each others’ shoulders, and, with equal amounts of soft cursing and laughter, they stumbled their way out of the valley.
Getting back to Jaskier’s car felt like it took hours, though the sun did not move very far. Jaskier began to feel the effects of the battle as the adrenaline wore off, making him hiss with nearly every step and whenever his arm was brushed by a branch, but he could not bring himself to regret anything. Geralt was staggering alongside him, his arm heavy around Jaskier’s shoulders and his presence sturdy and real. They laughed together when Jaskier walked face-first into a branch. It was perfect.
Eventually, they reached the parking lot. Jaskier let out a sigh of relief as they emerged from the trees. Geralt drew in a sharp breath.
“That’s your car?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier was abruptly reminded that Geralt had not seen the world outside of his valley for decades.
“Yeah,” said Jaskier, a little sheepish.
“Huh.”
Jaskier frowned ruefully at his haphazardly-bandaged leg and burned hand. “I don’t suppose you have any idea how to drive it?”
“No,” said Geralt, looking in puzzlement at the windshield.
“I don’t think I’d be much better in this state.” Jaskier thought for a moment. “Maybe Yennefer can pick us up. She’s probably nearby, waiting to see you.”
“Can you contact her?”
“Yeah, unless I broke my phone.”
Jaskier checked it. There was a new crack on the screen, but it appeared to be functional. Typing awkwardly with his left hand, he sent a brief text to Yennefer.
Jaskier: it worked. i’m injured tho. can you pick us up?
Yennefer: On my way.
“She’s coming,” said Jaskier to Geralt.
“Good.”
They stumbled over to a log lying beside the road and sat down. Given Jaskier’s injuries and Geralt’s difficulty walking, the process was rather awkward, but eventually they were settled well enough for Jaskier to remember his other priorities.
“While we wait,” he said, smirking sidelong at Geralt, “I believe I was promised another kiss.”
Geralt smiled. “I believe you were.”
The second kiss was, somehow, even better than the first.
Later, Yennefer would arrive and be tearfully reunited with Geralt. She would give Jaskier’s wounds some preliminary magical healing, and they would get in her car to be taken to her house. Geralt would get a crash course on the realities of the twenty-first century. They would rest and heal and reckon with the injuries, physical and mental, which they had sustained. Slowly but surely, they would heal.
For now, though, Jaskier was not worried about that. What the future would bring did not concern him. What mattered now was that Geralt was here with Jaskier. The plan, with all its risks and unexpected difficulties, had worked. Jaskier had Geralt and Geralt had Jaskier. They were here, together, alive, and not cursed. That was all Jaskier could ask for.
When they pulled apart, they were both smiling. Cautiously, Geralt took Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier squeezed it, his heart fluttering. He shifted closer so their sides were pressed together. Geralt leaned his head on Jaskier’s shoulder.
Together, they waited for the beginning of the rest of their lives.
~
Six Weeks Later
~
The news came on what had been an unremarkable morning.
Jaskier’s apartment was still damaged from Rience’s visit, so he and Geralt of them were living with Yennefer. Her reunion with Geralt had been tearful and filled with hugs, and she did not seem to mind sharing her house with him or with Jaskier. Jaskier enjoyed the situation so much that he barely minded the state of his own apartment. He was sharing a house with the man he loved and the woman who was quickly becoming one of his closest friends. He could not complain.
This morning, Geralt and Jaskier sat in Yennefer’s dining room, eating breakfast together as they had done almost every morning since the curse was broken. Their silence was companionable. Jaskier was content. The calm was abruptly broken when Yennefer ran into the room.
“I found your family,” she announced. Geralt and Jaskier turned away from their breakfast so fast that Jaskier almost knocked his bowl off the table. It was saved only by Geralt’s excellent reflexes.
“Please tell me you mean Geralt’s family and not mine,” said Jaskier.
“Geralt’s family. The other witchers. Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel. I called Eskel and told him to have the others come over to his house. We can be there later today.”
“Really?” said Jaskier, jumping to his feet. “That’s wonderful! Isn’t that wonderful, Geralt?”
“Hmm,” said Geralt. Given the shock and what looked like awe on his face, Jaskier chose to take it as an agreement.
That was how, about a few hours later, Jaskier found himself sitting next to Geralt in Yennefer’s car as she walked up to the door of Eskel’s house. Yennefer told them not to show themselves until she had explained the situation to the witchers, so they watched through the car’s window as Yennefer knocked. There were a tense few seconds as they all waited. Jaskier took Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezed it gratefully.
Then the door swung open, and out of it stepped a man. His hair was long and grey with age. Jaskier could not see his eyes or a medallion from this distance, but the way he carried himself left Jaskier with no doubt that he was a witcher. Geralt’s breath caught at the sight of him.
The car’s windows were cracked open and the day was windless and quiet, so the voices from the porch carried into the car. Jaskier had to strain a little to catch it, but he did not doubt that Geralt could hear every word.
“Yennefer,” said the old witcher, surprise and caution in his voice.
“Vesemir,” said Yennefer, nodding in greeting.
“I have not seen you on my doorstep in years.”
“Yes. It wasn’t easy for me to find you.”
“Hmm.” Vesemir’s voice was painfully similar to Geralt’s in that moment.
“Are Eskel and Lambert here?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You said you had something important to tell us.”
“I do.”
“Well?”
Yennefer paused for a moment, and even from this distance Jaskier could see Vesemir’s surprise at the hesitation.
“Could they come here?” she asked.
“For any particular reason?”
“It might be… easier.” She considered for a moment. “Also, you might want to have some silver on hand.”
Vesemir sounded confused but agreed. “I’ll be back in a few moments.”
True to his word, Vesemir returned a few minutes later with two other men behind him, both as tall and muscular as he was. One had a scar across his cheek, so Jaskier assumed it was Eskel. The other, presumably Lambert, curly, bright-red hair and looked grumpy.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” Yennefer began.
“You’re off to a great start,” drawled Lambert, his sarcasm palpable even from the car. Jaskier was amused despite the tension in the air. Eskel elbowed Lambert in the stomach and Lambert subsided, muttering under his breath.
“Well?” asked Vesemir.
Yennefer took a deep breath.
“Geralt,” she said carefully, “Is alive.”
There was utter silence.
Vesemir opened his mouth, expression unreadable, but Yennefer held up a hand for him to pause.
“Before you ask,” she said, “He was cursed and nearly impossible to find. I only found out about this a month or two ago and I was not able to contact you until now. He is healthy, un-cursed, and happy, other than the fact that he misses you. And yes, you can see him.”
All the witchers stared at her, expressions ranging from disbelief (Vesemir) to cautious hope mixed with grief (Eskel) to anger (Lambert).
“You’re lying,” Lambert accused without moving.
“I thought the same thing when I was told about this, but I am telling the truth.”
“You were told?” asked Vesemir.
“Yes. I didn’t find him. I couldn’t have. I’ll explain later, but—”
“Why don’t you explain now?” asked Lambert.
“Because he and the person who saved him are waiting in the car for me to finish preparing you, and I have a feeling you’d rather hear it from him than me.”
“What?”
Yennefer ignored Lambert and turned to the car. “You can come out now.”
Geralt’s breath caught again, but he did not move. Jaskier gently nudged his shoulder.
“Go on,” Jaskier murmured. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Geralt took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out of the car. Jaskier followed. Once again, there was a moment of utter silence. Lambert was the first to break it.
“I— no. This isn’t real. It can’t be. Yennefer is fucking with us.”
Geralt winced. Yennefer rounded on Lambert.
“Did you get the silver like I asked?”
“I have it,” said Eskel softly. It was the first time he had spoken in the entire exchange.
Slowly, Geralt walked up the drive towards his brother. Jaskier followed a few paces behind, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
Geralt stopped before Eskel. He seemed incapable of tearing his gaze from his brother’s face, and Eskel was much the same. They both looked closer to crying than Jaskier had thought a witcher could be.
Wordlessly, Eskel held out a small dagger with a blade that gleamed silver in the sun. Geralt placed his hand on the flat of the blade without hesitating. His eyes never left Eskel’s.
“I’m real,” Geralt said quietly. His voice was hoarse. “I’m here.”
“Geralt,” whispered Eskel, his words choked and filled with feeling.
Jaskier didn’t know who moved first, but in the blink of an eye, the dagger was discarded on the ground and the brothers were hugging. Eskel buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, clinging to him like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. Geralt held him just as tightly, his face pressed to Eskel’s hair and one hand rubbing his back while the other wrapped around his shoulders.
They stayed like that for several long minutes. The rest of the group watched as they stood there. Yennefer moved to stand next to Jaskier, giving the small family a little bit of space. Jaskier wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye. Warmth bloomed inside his chest, grief for what had been and happiness for what was filling him with all-encompassing emotion.
Eventually, Eskel pulled away enough to look Geralt in the eyes. They rested their foreheads together for a moment before stepping back slightly.
“It’s good to see you again, brother,” said Geralt softly.
Vesemir stepped closer and touched Geralt’s shoulder, as though unable to believe that he was real.
“How is this possible?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Lambert from where he watched, wide-eyed, a few paces away. “What the fuck?”
Geralt smiled, small and a little shaky but amused.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Could we continue this inside?”
“Yes,” said Vesemir. “I think we could do that.”
They filed into Eskel’s house and took seats on various couches and armchairs in his living room. They listened silently as Geralt explained the events of the past few decades from start to finish. Even when Geralt paused or fought for words, no one interrupted. Jaskier could not help but feel warm at the way Geralt’s family easily gave Geralt the space to arrange the words he struggled to find, even after all these years.
When he had finished, there were a few more moments of silence as everyone absorbed the information.
“Is it possible that this could still be fake?” asked Lambert.
“None of our medallions have reacted and he did not respond to silver,” said Vesemir. “If this is not real, then there is magic here that is beyond our understanding.”
“So Geralt has been cursed for the last several decades,” said Lambert slowly, “And none of us, the witchers who supposedly specialize in curse-breaking and defeating monsters, noticed anything. That includes Eskel, who was right there for a moment and still didn’t find him.”
Eskel was looking at Geralt with horror. “I’m so sorry. To have had me right there without me hearing or seeing you, and then to have me just leave— I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”
Geralt took Eskel’s hand. “It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. The curse prevented people who knew me before from seeing me or entering the area. Even Yennefer couldn’t do it, and she was a sorceress who knew exactly where I was.”
“You could have been stuck there forever,” said Eskel, sounding no less horrified.
“I wasn’t. I’m here. Jaskier got me out.”
Eskel stood and crossed the room to where Jaskier sat. Jaskier watched with wide eyes as he took both of Jaskier’s hands, tugged him to his feet, and pulled him into a hug.
“Thank you,” Eskel whispered. “You’ve done so much for us. More I could ever express.”
Jaskier squeaked as Eskel squeezed him with inhuman strength, completely blindsided by the sudden show of affection. “Ah, you’re welcome? It was my pleasure."
“Jaskier,” said Yennefer, chiding and amused at the same time. “You almost died.”
“I mean it,” Jaskier insisted.
Lambert, who had taken advantage of Eskel’s absence to take his place next to Geralt and hug the latter aggressively, gave Jaskier a skeptical look. “So you’re saying that you enjoyed almost dying?”
“He might have,” said Yennefer. “He’s crazy enough.”
“I’m saying that Geralt is more than worth it,” said Jaskier firmly. “He is the best man I have ever known. I would not change a thing about what happened even if I could.”
Eskel hugged him tighter. Jaskier felt very thoroughly squashed, but he did not mind much. Eskel let him go before he ran out of breath.
“It’s a very rare human who would say such things about a witcher,” said Vesemir. He stood beside Jaskier, now, and put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder when Eskel released him. “Eskel’s right. We owe you a great debt.”
Jaskier felt himself blush at the praise. “Well, you raised the man I love, so maybe we can just call it even.”
“You are a very strange man,” said Vesemir with a small smile.
“I’m aware. Geralt has told me so on multiple occasions.”
Apparently finished startling Jaskier with physical affection, Eskel returned to sit next to Geralt, opposite Lambert. Vesemir ignored the armchair in which he had been sitting in favor of joining the brothers on their couch.
“So what happens now?” said Lambert from where he sat, slightly squashed, between Geralt and Vesemir.
“Where have you been since the curse was broken?” asked Eskel. “Do you need anything?”
“Jaskier and I have been living with Yennefer since Rience destroyed his apartment,” said Geralt. “They’ve been helping me adjust.”
“I’m trying to explain the internet to him,” said Jaskier. “It’s a slow process.”
“It was very entertaining to watch Geralt try to grasp the concept of Twitter,” added Yennefer. Lambert burst out laughing.
“This is so fucking weird,” he said through his laughter.
“Very weird,” said Eskel. “I wouldn’t change it, though.”
“Neither would I,” said Lambert.
“Will you return to Yennefer’s home when you leave here, then?” asked Vesemir.
“Yes,” said Geralt.
“You don’t have to go yet, do you?” asked Eskel. “You’re more than welcome to stay the night.”
“I’d love to,” said Geralt, and Eskel’s smile could have lit up the whole room.
“Good,” he said. “I can introduce you to the goats.”
Lambert groaned. “Oh no. He’ll never shut up about the goats now.”
“That applies to all of you, by the way,” said Eskel, ignoring Lambert. “Lambert and Vesemir already have rooms, but I’m sure we can arrange it so everyone fits.”
Jaskier glanced at Yennefer, who nodded, before speaking. “If you’ll have us, we’d be more than happy to stay.”
“Of course,” said Vesemir. “You saved Geralt. You care about him, and he about you. You have a place in our family.”
Unexpectedly, Jaskier found himself holding back tears. His own family had never given him the warmth with which the three witchers he had only just met were looking at him.
“Thank you,” he managed. “I’m honored.”
“Good,” said Vesemir. “Now, let’s get everyone arranged.”
It took some time and a few mild threats from Eskel to Lambert, but eventually, everyone was able to settle down for the evening. Eskel and Lambert shared one room, Vesemir and Yennefer had another, and Geralt and Jaskier were together in the third. There was only one bed, but they had assured Eskel that it would not be a problem. (“Geralt doesn’t like being alone,” Jaskier had said at the same time that Geralt said,“Jaskier sometimes falls off the bed in his sleep if I don’t stop him.” The issue had been forgotten in the ensuing laughter.)
The room, while unfamiliar, was cozy. Geralt was happy and more or less calm. The bed was warm, and Geralt was even warmer in Jaskier’s arms. The faint sounds of Eskel and Lambert bickering in the next room drifted through the walls. Somewhere outside, a goat bleated.
Jaskier had never felt so at home.
~
Time went by.
Geralt and Jaskier spent some of their years together in Yennefer’s or Eskel’s house. Jaskier still found coffee shops to work at and played gigs. It had taken Geralt a while to adjust to modern life, but he eventually regained his footing and found work at a local library. For the rest of the year, though, they would travel the continent. Geralt took contracts on what monsters were still around to cause a nuisance, and Jaskier performed at whatever bar, cafe, or party would have him.
The ritual that had bound their souls together was still in effect, though Yennefer found ways to modify it over the years. Initially, they found it very difficult to be apart from each other — it was not physically painful, but it made them both distressed — but practice and some magical intervention from Yennefer made it so they could now separate more or less normally, though neither of them wanted to.
No one was entirely sure what the longer-term effects of the ritual would be, but one night Yennefer whispered a theory to Jaskier that it might result in his lifespan being extended to match Geralt’s. He had not yet mentioned it to Geralt for fear of creating false hope, but the possibility made Jaskier feel warm every time he thought about it.
The valley was much safer, now. Since Rience had no previous emotional connection to Yennefer, she was able to enter the valley with no problems and finished the breaking of the curse. She had somehow taken Rience’s disembodied spirit back to the brotherhood of sorcerers with an account of his crimes, after which he had never been heard from again. Jaskier was not entirely sure how this was physically possible. He didn’t ask. He was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Jaskier recorded the song he wrote for Geralt in the valley, close to the place where it had been sung the first time. The recording was relatively simple: just his voice, his guitar, and the sound of the birds and the breeze around him. He posted the video to Youtube on a whim and received an unexpected amount of success. It had given him the confidence to post many of his subsequent songs, which had also been well-received. Most of them were also about Geralt. He made an excellent muse.
Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, and Jaskier established a tradition in honor of Geralt: every year, on the anniversary of the curse being broken, they would meet for a picnic in the valley where Geralt had resided for so long. Yennefer was also invited. They usually spent the day drinking, teasing each other, playing card games, and hugging Geralt. Eskel called it their un-cursing party. Lambert called it Geralt’s re-birthday. Vesemir just smiled.
Jaskier’s life was filled with joy. He had a new family and new friends in the witchers and Yennefer, and a lover more lovely than he had dreamed was possible in Geralt. Even Gordon seemed sleeker and more energetic than ever — Jaskier suspected that Eskel had been sneaking him mildly magical treats while no one was looking. Jaskier was happier than he could ever remember being.
~
Deep in the woods, there was a valley. The only outwardly remarkable thing about it was the greenness of its trees. In the center of the valley, there was a cabin. The only outwardly remarkable thing about it was its state of disrepair — and the scorch marks that marred one half of it.
If a mage were to pass by the area, they would have noticed nothing at all. All but the faintest traces of magic had faded away, remaining only in the memories of those few who knew about it. The valley was now nothing but a hidden, beautiful bit of forest. It was safe.
Miles away, a witcher and a human sat together on a couch. The human was fast asleep, drooling on the witcher’s shoulder, and the witcher was dozing himself. The human’s hair was in his face, tickling him when he inhaled, but he did not mind. The human was warm.
If a mage had tried to read the witcher’s mind at almost any point in the last decades, they would have found unhappiness. They would have found sadness, anxiety, hurt, and a loneliness so deep it would have seemed to pervade the witcher’s very sense of self.
Now, though?
Here, in the arms of his lover, he was not anxious, sad, hurt, or lonely. He knew that he was not alone. He knew that he was safe. He knew that he was loved. He knew that he was allowed to be at peace. He knew what it was to be happy.
Now, for the first time in decades, the witcher was content.
The End