Chapter Text
Jaskier woke, trembling, from the dream.
Where the hell did that come from, he asked himself. It felt so real, seeing the Witcher, feverish, near death, snarling “Do you like my eyes, mother?” of all things.
More fragments drifted back to him as he dried his own eyes.
Do you like what they made me?
Do you know what they do to witchers to improve our vision?
He was very glad he didn’t know.
He’d known witchers were made, but had imagined they were made, whole cloth out of alchemy, not out of children!
In his travels he’d seen the tragic sight of children raised on pain rather than any sort of gentler human emotion. Soul starved. That explained… rather a lot. That Geralt could still show any kindness and mercy, inflict anything more than the suffering that formed him showed the incredible strength of his spirit.
He curled up, hugging his knees and weeping into the rough blanket. And scoffed at himself. “He hurt me and I cry for his pain?” The bard shrugged. “Well, I am what fate made me, too.”
He had always felt too much, felt everything. Not just his own feelings. The feelings of those around him resonated in him like a plucked lute string. Musicians themselves rarely admitted it, but that was what made a bard.
That was one of the reasons he liked traveling with the Witcher. People said they had no emotions. He knew first hand how wrong they were. Not gone, not torn out, but repressed. Muted enough it soothed him to be around the man after drowning in the overpowering cacophony of everyone’s emotions. Talking a lot kept him from dwelling on everything he could feel and imagine, so much so that it became a habit, but the Witcher could let him bear an occasional silence.
That dream - he could still feel it. That meant it wasn’t an ordinary – if horrifying - dream. It was a vision. Was Geralt dying? Laying in a fever dream, remembering how the pain of being made into what he was nearly killed him, like it had so many of those he trained with?
A few more tears leaked out as Jaskier sat in bed, transfiguring the turmoil of his mind and heart into a song he could never sing. That was how he dealt with emotions too huge to hold. Make them music. Sing them away. Do you like my eyes Mother? Do you like what they made me?
Did you know the pain I’d feel when you sold me? … no Did you think of my pain, mother, when you betrayed me?
Did you know … Did you count my chances, mother? Four in five of us die. Did you ever regret it, mother? Did you even cry?
Or should he really dig the knife deep… When I heard that you’d died, mother, I could no longer cry.
No, Geralt wasn’t that cruel, even if Jaskier might have been in his place. Might have been in his own place.
He’d have no rest until the song was done with him. Until the pain and tears calmed. “I wrote this instead of sleeping,” he told his nonexistent audience wetly, to lighten his mood.
Do you like my eyes Mother? Do you like what they made me?
It still hurt, but a round bundle of pain instead of jagged shards. He sang it through in his thoughts, pulled it from his heart with music and tears, and felt a little better. Bearable, barely.
He’d never betray Geralt by singing the words he was never meant to hear. If he ever even saw him again.
“People bound by destiny will always find each other,” a young girls voice whispered at the end of the dream. If their meeting had been destiny, was their parting as well? Would they find each other again?
Feeling self-indulgent Jaskier composed the next lines to himself, since no one would hear them anyhow. You look in my eyes lover, and accept what they made me. You changed my fortunes, lover, with the songs that you played me.
Lover would balance so well in the song, but regardless of what he wanted, it wasn’t real.
Was that Yennifer then? Or no? Love but not love. A second pair of inhuman eyes. Did the unnatural color come from the forces that made her a mage? Hmm…
When our eyes meet, mage, mine mirror your trials.
You create with a word, mage, and destroy with a smile.
Neither our powers, mage, could give you what you want… do? make?
When neither our powers, mage, could grant what you need… you’re needing
You walked away, mage, and and I was left bleeding.
And now maybe himself; a friend. Dear friend? Companion? Friend could be poignant in the song for a witcher rarely had one.
You looked in my eyes, friend, and accepted my flaws.
You cared for my wounds, friend, from weapons and claws.
They tore out … They say I have no feelings, friend, to love and to fear.
But I fear I love you, bard, when I hold you near.
Gods, he could never sing that. Out loud. That would always be the real verse his heart, but…
I don’t make friends easily, friend,… no too many friend words. Open up easily? Maybe a little too intimate.
I don’t trust easily, friend, it’s so seldom earned.
But the friendship you give me…
The trust that you give me, friend, is trust I return.
He sat, looking at the sliver of night sky out the inn window. He was almost glad sleep wouldn’t be coming yet because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more of that dream. A shrug and a sigh. Of destiny dreaming?
Dreaming… destiny?
The child speaking of destiny… child of destiny… that was Cirilla! Would Geralt refuse to accept that destiny, be closed off and harsh with her? That would hurt her and he wouldn’t want that. Would she draw out the soft side of him that was buried deep? Gruff, but with protective awe. Fighting for a child’s life instead of a monster’s death.
I look in your eyes, child. You’ve changed what they made me.
From a lifetime of death, child, your presence stayed me.
Now that we’re bound, child, as fate directed.
No… Now that we’re here, child, my fate accepted.
I’ll keep you safe, child, and always protected.
Now he’d made himself cry again. They could be so good for each other, those two. Freakin’ adorable. He wished he could see it.
They say you’ve no feelings, Witcher, to love or to fear, But I fear I love you, Witcher, whenever you’re near.
“Oh! They say you’ve no feelings, to love or to fear, but you hold my heart, and my shapely rear!” He giggled to himself a little, light-headed from the maelstrom of emotions.
Alone in the dark, with a song that couldn’t be sung, he missed his Witcher like breathing.
Lots of songs were things that shouldn’t be said. Things that needed to be told, yet couldn’t be. Until he reshaped them; changed forbidden secrets into shared experience. Changed them from unspoken to sung, from pain to music.
The plaintive challenge to Mother would still remain private. Perhaps it should start with a conversation with a client, a stranger. But still built around the eyes he thought his mother would hate. Because so many people were afraid of him when they saw them.
Jaskier could breathe with less pain as the song came together. It would start out with the witcher alone, hating himself as much as others did. All low notes and flatted harmonies. A refrain… People thought witchers had no feelings, so they treated them as if nothing would hurt them. Witchers don’t feel… do they? Next would be a verse about learning to accept a companion. A love-hate conflict with a mage. His life changed again by a child. Maybe the nonexistent lover first, to prove to him he was worthy of love, and then his love for the child.
Are you afraid of my eyes, Stranger? Do you fear what they made me?
Fear me more than the monsters, Stranger, whose bounty you paid me?
Do you speak of me ill, Stranger, when you’ve seen the last of my back?
Well, none if your lies, Stranger, are worse than the facts.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
do they?
You looked in my eyes, Friend, and accepted my flaws.
You tended my wounds, Friend, from weapons and claws.
I don’t trust easily, Friend, it seldom is earned.
But the trust you give me, Friend, is trust I return.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
do they?
When our eyes meet, Mage, mine mirror your trials.
You create with a word, Mage, and destroy with a smile.
When neither our powers, Mage, could grant what you were needing.
You walked away, Mage, and I was left bleeding.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
do they?
When I caught your eyes, Dear, and you caught my heart.
I’d speak of your charms, Dear, but I don’t have the art.
They say I’ve no feelings, Dear, to love or to fear.
But I feel your love, Dear, when you want me near.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
do they?
When I look in your eyes, Child, you change what they made me.
From a lifetime of death, Child, your presence stayed me.
Now that we’re here, Child, my fate accepted.
I’ll keep you safe, Child, and always protected.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
do they?
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel,
they say.
Witchers don’t feel, don’t feel …
Or do they?
Well. It was something he might actually be able to sing someday, he decided, finally curling up to get back to sleep.
--
Many months later, in front of a campfire, with one of Geralt’s arms around him and the other around Ciri, (because people bound by destiny always find each other) he’d sing it softly for them.
“Hmmh,” Geralt said. Of course.
“Mmm,” Ciri said, having picked up his habit. “It’s good…” she added, trying to hide a tear by rubbing her eye drowsily.
Jaskier added what she didn’t; “But?”
“No, it really is good as it is. Though, well, the verbal mirroring in verse structure…” He’d been teaching her music and bardcraft as they traveled, while Geralt taught her woodcraft and defense. She was a lightning sharp learner at it all. “… feels like it would maybe say something like ‘I fear I love you, when I hold you near.’”
“Hmmh,” Geralt said again.
Jaskier couldn’t quite read him. Was he angry enough that one of them was putting words in his mouth, let alone both? He felt the Witcher’s cheek rub against the top of his head with another soft hum.
“She’s right.”
They both looked up at him in surprise.
“Witchers aren’t made to feel fear. Or love. That I do… For you both. It’s not possible. But it’s true.”
Ciri made a high-pitched squeak that only adolescent girls seemed capable of producing and threw her arms around him. As far as they’d reach. “I love you Geralt!”
Jaskier got his own fond squeeze when Ciri did, and he smiled at their gruff Witcher. “You know I do too.”
Geralt scowled like a storm cloud when the two of them sang it through together, with Ciri’s change, the way Jaskier originally envisioned it. But you didn’t have to look hard to see that it was a storm cloud of love.