Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is strange to live in a place shaped like a home. A home to kings and queens, princes and princesses, chamber maids and butlers, a dozen staff. Not to a witcher, of course. Witchers don't lay their heads on fluffy pillows, they don't rest in silk sheets. They are restless animals, always on the move. There is no compelling reason for a witcher to go near a canopy bed that doesn't have a monster hiding under it. A castle is meant to be home to dozens of people, but Geralt is the only one here. It's not a castle anymore. It's no man's land.

Ache. Arch your back. Adjust your stance. Aim your dagger at the acorn tree out front. Ache.

Geralt circles the perimeter every night. He walks along the brick wall and past the iron gate. To smell the air. A wolf must have been close just a few hours ago. Maybe right on the other side of the wall, just a footstep away from where Geralt is standing. He presses his palm flat against the rough surface of the brick and listens. He hears a faint scream, maybe that of a kikimora in the swamp up east. No growls, no scratching, no rustling of the thicket. Wolfs are silent, sometimes. The air is bitingly cold, colder each night these days. Night changes to day. Day changes to night. (That doesn't change.)

Crave. Cut a thick branch from the tree out front. Carve a bird into the wood of it. Close your eyes. Crave.

He has tried to convince Roach to leave. The gate will open for her. (He can't walk through the open gate. He can't climb the wall and jump down on the other side. Her magic won't let him.) Roach neighs and tilts her head, putting up an argument. Geralt has never wished she had a voice. (Sometimes he does.) He's tried to coax her, let her know it's alright. But she's stubborn. She stays, in the stables next to the castle, with it's too many rooms and looming towers. It's small for a castle, big for anything else.

The long dinner table in the dining room is enchanted. It's a gift from the witch – sit down at the table and any food you want will appear. He does occasionally. He feeds carrots and apples to Roach. There are no birds singing. There are no wolves close by. At night, he hears monsters scream.

He doesn't sleep, but when he does, he uses his bed roll and doesn't go near any of the chambers. He goes outside each evening. The world is grey, but sometimes the sky turns red. Each day, he watches. There's nothing else but sunrise and sunset and sunrise and sunset. A gust of wind over the wall smells faintly like blood, faintly like regret. Remember her lips tasted like ale and and her hair smelled like something flower. Remember the way her voice thinned out.

He is good at loneliness, not so good at static. Throwing daggers is an art he never had time to perfect. Using a blade to make something beautiful out of something plain had never occurred to him before. Cutting, always cutting. If you cut something enough, maybe it will become something - if you're lucky. He doesn't know what he'll do once he runs out of wood.

He wonders how far he could throw a dagger over the gate into the woods.

Geralt has never liked company. People chattering loudly, people eyeing him like he could catch fire any moment. People with their petty squabbles and their judgment and their sad eyes. People with their laughter and their casual touches and their soothing voices. It's just him and Roach. It's what he's always wanted.

(Ache.)

He feels wooden. He meets his mark every time when he throws his dagger. The branches left on the acorn tree are too thin to cut. He has tried enough times to give shape to a feeling that he understands the anatomy of it. He's carving another bird when the dagger slips and slices clean through his palm. The cut smells like blood, which smells like ale and something flower -

Pain is different from ache. He can handle pain, he is used to it. But ache – well. He should be used to that by now too.

Geralt isn't sure he remembers what songbirds look like. He has over a dozen of figurines of them, but the longer he looks at them, the more wrong they seem. In every one of the rooms, there are paintings of nobles who might or might not have lived here one day. There are too many eyes in the castle.

Behind the castle, there is a small tree with a thick stem. Geralt hacks it. It's his biggest piece yet. He knows he shouldn't, but he tries to carve her face into the wood. He can't picture her face, then he can't picture any face at all. He grabs one of the paintings and leans it against the pillar in the too big entrance hall. The woman in the painting doesn't look much like her, but she has a face, at least. Then he sits on the cold marble floor and starts carving, trying and trying. Nose, eyes, lips. But not her eyes, not her lips, not her nose. He needs to do better. So he sits and keeps going, even though it gets lighter, which means the sun rises, and he never misses the sunrise. He keeps going, trying to capture how soft her skin was, but can't. He keeps going even when his calloused hands bruise. He keeps going even when it gets dark, which means the sun sets, and he never misses the sunset. He can't get it right, her nose too slim, her lips not curved right. He keeps going until he has her eyes, her eyes, only light brown. They are staring at him out of a face that is not her own, that is not a face at all. Staring eyes that aren't staring at all.

The worst part is that he doesn't know the name of the flower she smelled of.

He keeps walking circles in no man's land. He doesn't like being inside. There are eyes on these paintings, eyes that never close. There's too much room. He waits for the sky to turn red and feeds Roach apples. It gets colder, and the cold settles underneath his skin.

It's quiet.

It's good.

(Ache.)

Each night, monsters screaming from somewhere near or far away.

If only he knew what the flower looked like.

Sunset, sunrise, sunset, sunrise.

No one to fight, but enemies in these paintings. His curse is that he can't leave, but the longer he's here, the stronger he believes it's these eyes instead. Too many eyes.

But then one day – a voice from the entrance hall.

***

The love of Jaskier's life – or at least of the last twelve hours of his life - slams the door in his face just after sunrise. He spills a bit of water from the glass he is holding in his left hand and nearly drops the hairbrush he holds in the other. He knocks on the door with his elbow.

“Come on, Cilia,” he calls. “You know I meant like, a sexy Giraffe.”

The door opens and Jaskier is about to rush back in when his bag hits him in the chest and the door is slammed shut again.

“Fine, then, but I'm getting custody of your hairbrush in the divorce,” Jaskier calls and waves the hairbrush at the door. The door certainly seems impressed.

“Just so you know, our Giraffe-like children would have been beautiful,” he tries again. When the door opens again, he half-expects to have stale bread thrown at him – again – but instead Jaskier is confronted with the sight of that which he most cherishes, most loves, most appreciates in the world – his lute. Cilia – a feisty redhead - looks a little like she wants to smash his lute and a little like she wants to smash him. He hopes she won't compromise and smash his beloved instrument on him.

“Ah, please, this is between the two of us, there is no need to involve a third party,” Jaskier says and holds up his hands conciliatory. Cilia frowns and throws the lute at him. Jaskier lets out a shriek and immediately drops the hairbrush and the glass of water shatters at his feet. He tries to catch his lute as gently as possible. Then, he picks up the hairbrush again. (It is prettier than his.) When he looks up, the door is shut again.

Jaskier sighs. Deeply. He always puts his foot in his mouth, and to make matters worse, he isn't even into that sort of thing.

“That must have been traumatizing, darling,” he says to his lute, “let's get out of here.”

He walks down the stairs into the clothes shop below Cilia's flat. The doorbell rings a little sadly when he walks out, which is not quite like the wedding bells Jaskier heard in his head when he saw Cilia at the tavern the night before.

He stands in front the shop, heart in shreds, but with a new hairbrush and wet feet. Not a complete loss, then. He doesn't have a place to sleep for the night and no one to talk to, but he – well, he keeps walking.

***

“Looks like we'll have a feast of dry bread tonight,” Jaskier mutters after it becomes clear that no one will give his performance the appreciation it is worthy of. He'd been playing all night, but his brutish audience proved unreceptive to the finer arts. He can barley scrape together enough money for a drink, let alone for a night at the tavern.

“Well,” Jaskier says to a man at a table in the corner, “everyone knows the most famous artists only get appreciated once they're dead anyway.”

The man scoots away.

“Yeah, just you wait, when I'm dead, they'll be singing praises about my songs. It'll be great. Except for the part where... I'll be dead. Yeah, on second thoughts, I need to work that plan over again.”

The man stands up and walks away.

“Thanks a lot for the compassion,” Jaskier calls out after him. He spreads his coin and the bread on the table and starts counting. Maybe it will be enough for a glass of ale. He certainly needs it.

“Be careful you steer clear of that forest on your way,” someone says on the table over. Jaskier pauses his counting. “It's filled with all sorts of nasty monsters and animals and such.”
“But what about that beautiful castle down there? I was going to take a closer look at it,” a woman on the table says. Jaskier starts nibbling on a piece of bread to seen occupied.

“Gods, no, stay far away from there. That's where he lives.”
“He?”

Everyone on the table is hanging on the man's lips. Jaskier is too.

“A beast like you've never seen one. From the distance, you'd think he was a man. But he has canines like a hound, horns the size of spears. That's not what's most haunting about him, though.”
“What is?”
“His eyes, they're yellow, they say. People feel the devil's hand crawling up their neck when he fixates them with his piercing gaze. Like a cat's eyes, like all humanity's been snuffed out of them.”

“They say he used to be human,” an old man chimes in, “handsome, too. A prince. Then a witch cursed him, because he didn't have a heart. Turned him into a hideous monster.”

A hideous monster? Jaskier perks up.

“So you stay away form that place, you hear me?” the man says to the woman.

Jaskier scrambles together his coin and makes his way over to the other table, that falls silent once he gets close. He puts on his most charming smile.

“You wouldn't, by chance, be able to direct me to the castle of this beast?”

***

Jaskier trudges through the forest for the better part of the night. After approximately five creepy noises and the second violently murdered animal carcass he comes across, Jaskier starts doubting the intelligence of his decision. His plan is simple: avoid getting murdered on the way to the creepy castle, then avoid getting murdered by the beast in the creepy castle, then write a song about it. Die a hero. Or something.

But it's darker than he expected and colder than he expected and there are more monsters around than he expected and when he does the math again, the odds really don't stack up in his favour. He had been completely convinced back in the tavern, but now, in the darkness of night, the idea really doesn't look that great anymore. Surely he could have just spent the night in some stable, at the small price of angering a farmhand and getting his hair eaten by horses. But well, his mom didn't raise a quitter. (Also, he can't really remember the way back.)

By the time the castle finally comes into view, Jaskier's muscles are aching and bruises and scratches litter his skin from tripping into scrub. He files away under positives that he still hasn't gotten ripped to shreds by a creature. The moonlight faintly illuminates the castle with all its towers and windows. The walls look like they could do with a scrubbing, ivy raking its way up the corners of the building.

Jaskier hears a howl from somewhere behind him and he promptly quickens his step. Panting, he reaches the gate of the castle and he pushes it open hurriedly. With each step, the unease in the pit of his stomach grows stronger.

Finally, he pushes open the dark wooden front door and steps into the entrance hall. But the cold lingers, knows all kinds of secret pathways to get into buildings as big as this, so it's not much of a relief. Jaskier becomes less sure if anyone lives here at all, after all surely even monsters dust every once in a while?

“Hello? Helloooo?” he calls into the building. There's no answer. So, if I was a humanoid beast living alone in a giant castle, where would I go, Jaskier contemplates. Where is the torture chamber? In the basement?

“It's me,” Jaskier tries calling again, “your midnight snack!”

Ideally, Jaskier won't end up as monster food, but he needs to make his visit seem at least somewhat enticing.

There's a noise from the second floor, so Jaskier decides to venture up the stairs. On the third step, his foot catches. He trips and he has a suspicion he twisted his ankle, which, fuck, because firstly, who, for Melitele's sake, falls up the stairs, and secondly, his entire plan sort of hinged on his running skills, which had been refined by years of running from angry husbands and fathers.

“Uhm, Mister Scary-Horned-Beast, Sir,” he calls, “I could use some help.”

He's really banking on the fact that town people are often horrible gossips who wildly exaggerate the truth. Maybe the “horned beast” is only a kind old man living in the middle of nowhere surrounded by monsters for some reason?
Jaskier pushes himself up again and is careful not to put too much pressure on his left foot as a he keeps going. There's someone standing behind the corner in the corridor on the second floor, which Jaskier is going to count as a win until proven otherwise. Before Jaskier can get a good look at them, the person shuffles back.

Finally, Jaskier reaches the top of the stairs and the person quietly growls at him from the dark corner. It's – a man. No horns, as far as Jaskier can make out. No fur either. Jaskier takes another step towards the man and the man immediately steps back further into the shadow.

“Huh,” Jaskier says, “you're scared of me. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? You know, you being all – growly and muscly. Or are you self-conscious because you don't actually have horns and fangs like they say in the village?”

“You should leave this place,” the man bites back. Jaskier approaches further. It's hard to tell in the dark, but his eyes might actually be yellow. Wicked.

“Yeah, no, see, I can't do that,” Jaskier says, “I'm really lost and I just came in here looking for some shelter. The name's Jaskier.”

The man snarls.

“Please?” Jaskier tries. “It's really cold and I kind of think I've twisted my ankle.”

There's a pensive hm and then the man steps forward into the moonlight that's coming in through the window.

“Woah, no one down in the village mentioned you were hot,” Jaskier blurts, which he really should stop doing. Coming here was definitely one of his better life choices, even if he gets thrown out again.

“There's a fire place downstairs,” the man says and starts walking down the stairs. Jaskier is at his heels immediately, even though there's instantly pain in his ankle. He notices warily that there are two big swords on the strangers back.

“Please tell me I can stay the night – well, what's left of the night, because I have been walking for hours and I nearly died at least four times, you know, by getting attacked by a wolf, or by stumbling into an inconveniently placed tree branch, and stab stab and all. And no, I'm not usually this clumsy, I swear,” the man leads him into a room with a long table and, “Oh, a fireplace! Excellent.”

Jaskier sits down next to the fire place while the man begins putting wood into it. “It's really fortunate, because 'freezing to death' is also on the list of my near-death-experiences.”

“Don't be stupid, you wouldn't have died,” the man says lowly, “you would have lost a finger at most.”

The man's lips curl up into something that under certain circumstances might even be interpreted as a smirk or even a smile.
“Losing a finger is certain death,” Jaskier exclaims dramatically and lifted his lute, “then I couldn't play this beauty any more, which is an emotional death in itself, of course, but also, she's my entire livelihood.”

“You're a bard,” the man remarks. He is seemingly occupied with starting the fire, but Jaskier can tell he's secretly watching him.

“Yup. You wouldn't have heard of me, though. I'm still looking for... the right inspiration,” he says and watches the man's hand movements. Once the fire is ignited, the man starts poking at it with a stick. Jaskier lets out a quiet sigh and shuffles a little closer.

“Not that the, uh, monsters and the dusty old castle aren't charming and all, but why are you living here?” Jaskier says. “Were you cursed? Banished?”

“I like the scenery,” the man answers dryly.

“Right, yeah... But why are you here all alone? Why do the villagers think you're some monster? Were you imprisoned against your will? Because the gate outside opens pretty easily, actually.”

“You ask too many questions,” the man says, his head still turned towards the fire.

“Right, and if you tell me your name or why your hair is so white, I'll know too much and you'll have to kill me? Is that it?”

The man pauses for a few seconds.

“It's old age,” he says.

“What?”
“The hair.”
Jaskier scrutinizes the chiseled chin and the perfect bone structure.

“You know what? I feel like you're not taking me seriously at all,” he says, a little offended. They sit in silence for a while because Jaskier is sulking, but then he's about to speak up because he realizes he's just giving the stranger the silence he wants, when -

“Did Yennefer send you?”

“Who?”
“The villagers, then?”
“Why would the villagers send me? They're terrified of you.”

The man gives him a long, meanigful look and -

“Oh,” Jaskier says startled, “you think they want to kill you. And send me to do it. Do you think I'm a threat? This is amazing. Do I look dangerous? Like I've secretly got a dagger up my sleeve?”

“You look like a fumbling idiot,” the man answers, “that's why you're still alive.”

“And thank Melitele for that,” Jaskier says. “I should have brought a dagger, though. I really thought a wolf was gonna jump me.”
“Wolfs don't kill random travelers. Only if they're provoked.”

“Oh, I don't know, I just think there might be something about me, something about my smell maybe that'll make them attack anyway.”

“I'm starting to think so too,” the man says, but it doesn't sound too menacing. He pokes the fire some more. “If you're not here to kill me, then why are you?”

“Oh, I was just...”
“A bard? In these woods? Why?”
“Okay, okay, you got me. I lied. I didn't actually get lost. I sort of... intended... to come here. But! Before you draw your sword on me, just hear me out. I'm going to write a song about you. It'll be something like 'miserable man secludes himself from society because he hates people'.”

“That doesn't sound like a great ballad.”
“Well, you could give me the real reason you're out here. I'm sure that would make for a great song.”

The man harrumphs noncommittally.

“Shame,” Jaskier says and turns his gaze to the fire.

***

It is strange to hear a voice, warm and new, one that doesn't come from Geralt's memories. It's like a songbird flew in through one of the many windows and can't find its way out anymore. How can he be in this place? Someone who has never seen the way blood drenches a man's garment when he's bleeding out. Someone who trusts a stranger when he shouldn't.

Go back to the field of flowers you came from. Fly back to the cloud you were born in. Flee before this place makes you old and tired and rough around the edges. Come back only when your plumage has turned grey and your little claws have scratched the life out of men. Come back once you know never to show your hand and certainly not your heart.

Geralt keeps watch out of the corner of his eye. He's not sure if Jaskier is telling the truth. Jaskier might be here to kill him. Does Justitia have blue eyes hidden underneath her blindfold? Does she put down her scales to play the lute sometimes?

Geralt's instincts tell him he can trust Jaskier, but his instincts have misled him before. (Gravely. Deeply. Stone my heart when it grows teeth. Ache, ache, ache.)
Sometimes lovely eyes gaze gravely. Sometimes craving means digging. Caving in means building a cave where she can rest, even once her body's turned cold.

Geralt sends Jaskier a side-ways glance, raising his eyebrow half-way, which is half-way to begging. Say something.

“Anyway,” Jaskier says and Geralt unclenches his jaw. “You must be starved for entertainment in this place. What do you do, stare at the walls for hours? Unimportant. Lucky for you, I'm here now. And since I owe you now, you'll be graced with the pleasure of listening to my songs. Any requests?”
Geralt grunts and stands up.

“Never mind, I'll just-” Jaskier breaks off and Geralt turns to find him staring at him.

“Wait,” Jaskier says, frowning and still holding his gaze, “wait, wait, wait a minute – the yellow eyes, the white hair – you're not a cursed beast at all, are you? You're that – that witcher – Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt freezes and he raises his eyebrows all the way-

“The Butcher of Blaviken!”

Ache is not a word, it is the anguished cry of the wounded animal in Geralt's mind. Geralt takes a step back.

“Leave this place,” he snarls. His hand twitches in the direction of his sword.

“Woah,” Jaskier says, “calm down. I didn't mean to – I thought I could-”

“You thought wrong. Just go.”

“Okay, but, I hope you know I really survived out there only by a narrow margin and now my ankle's twisted and I think the temperature dropped since I came here, so I might actually die out there -”
“You can die out there or you can die by my sword,” Geralt growls, “your choice.”

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier says and backs away, “going!”
Geralt stands tensely after Jaskier has left and taken with him the scent of sandalwood and another fucking flower he can't remember the name of. He breathes and breathes until his head is clearer.

He left her there.

He's never seen her grave.

Get out. Don't ever come back.

He listens to his breath coming slow. He had to wash her blood off his face.

Every night he smells it, when someone out there eats or gets eaten. The scent of blood over the castle walls. And if tonight it smelled of sandalwood – he rushes out of the dining room back into the entrance room, ready to run, even though the walls of the castle won't let him far – stops in his tracks.

“You're still here,” Geralt says.

Jaskier is leaning against the pillar in the middle of the entrance hall, staring at the floor, now looking up.

“Eh, I'm hard to get rid of,” Jaskier shrugs. “Unless you still want me to go...”

“No. Stay. For now.”
“I am sorry, for earlier. Didn't mean to bring up a... sore subject.”

Geralt takes him in again, the apologetic face, the light blue outfit.

How do you catch a ray of light? Can you put it in a bottle and keep it there? How long would it take to bar all the doors in the castle and draw all the curtains? How many mirrors would it take to trap you there?

“Then stop talking about it,” Geralt says curtly.

“Right, quick change of subject, I can do that, I can talk about practically anything for hours,” Jaskier says. Geralt gives him a look. Jaskier looks back. “Damn, now you've put me on the spot. Oh, is that a fly?”
Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Nah, just dust. Flies are probably scared of this place, it's kind of... gloomy. Anyway, what do you even eat around here? Any well-esteemed taverns hidden away somewhere between that spindly bare tree and the monster-ridden swamp?”

“There is a fine establishment I frequent,” Geralt says and inclines his head. “It's called the dining room.”

“The dining room? Eating what?”
“You'll see.”
“Oh, for heaven's – do you've got to be so mysterious? Just be open, tell me the basics, name, age, tragic backstory? No? Just tell me it's not me we're eating. The thing about the midnight snack earlier was a joke! I've bit my tongue before and my blood tasted pretty gross, so I'm sure I would not make for a good meal.”

“Please, I don't drink blood, I'm not a vampire,” Geralt says, heading back into the direction of the dining room. “And also, in humans, it's the cartilage that's really tasty.”

“See, when you say things like that, I can't tell if you're joking, because you say everything in that monotone, sexy baritone voice you've got going. Can't you change your voice just a tiny bit, as a clue?”
“I was just being sarcastic,” Geralt says, sarcastically.

“Wow, thank you. You're being extraordinarily helpful. If you say that in a sarcastic voice, does that mean you were not being sarcastic?” Jaskier blinks. “I'm overthinking this, aren't I?”

“Hm.”

“Well, it's not like I can stop you, but just so you know – I hope you bite your teeth out on my left toe.”
“Lucky for you, I've already eaten,” Geralt says.

“You are still feeding me though, right? Because I am starving.”

Geralt hums again and pushes the door open to the dining room. He sits down at the head of the long table and closes his eyes for a moment. He asks the table in his head for a plate of stew and when he opens his eyes again, it's right in front of him. Jaskier is staring at him open mouthed.

“Did you magic that? Are you a mage?”
“It's the dining table. It was cursed.”
“Cursed? Miracled, you mean. I can't believe you didn't tell me you had a magic dining table. How dare you withhold this information from me, a random stranger you just met? Magic stew table. Can it make anything other than stew?”
“It can make anything you want. Anything you can think of.”
“And you chose to make it materialize stew? Why was this gifted to the most boring person on the planet?”

Jaskier wanders curiously around the table.

“I wasn't gifted with it. It's part of this place. And I'm... here,” Geralt says and looks down at the table.

“The food is real, right?” Jaskier says and pokes his finger into the stew.
“Yes.”
“So how much can it make? Is there a limit? Five stews a day, or something?”
“I don't know. I haven't tested it.”

“You haven't -” Jaskier shakes his head indignantly. “Well thank Melitele I'm here now. Do you even have any idea how to have fun? Don't answer that.”

Geralt glares at him.

“Watch this,” Jaskier says and pulls out the chair closest to Geralt's. His forehead wrinkles as he closes his eyes. Geralt snorts. After a moment, a three tired cake lined with colorful flowers appears.

“You got some magical cutlery too?” Jaskier asks. Geralt nods to the glass cupboards by the door.

Jaskier cuts the cake almost ceremoniously.

“Gosh, I hope this tastes as good as I imagined it...” Jaskier mutters. “Ah wait, I had some fantastic tea in Rinde a while ago, but I could never remember its name or where I got it because I was unhealthy levels of drunk at the time.”

A teapot appears on the table next to the cake and Jaskier gets up again to retrieve two tiny rose painted tea cups from the cupboard. He pours tea into both of them and places it along with a piece of cake in front of Geralt.

Geralt watches him silently, then examines the cake and the tea in front of him. Jaskier starts telling Geralt about a wedding he visited in Cintra, but Geralt only half-listens. It is strange to have someone for company other than the monsters all around, the nobles in the pictures, the countless deformed creatures Geralt tried to make out of wood.

The tea cup is a dainty one, made out of thin porcelain, its handle just big enough for Geralt to hook his finger in. Jaskier has a smile in his eyes even when it's not on his lips.

This is a monster at a tea party. A hand that has forgotten how to hold delicate things. Lips that remember threats and insults and irony, but not how to ask a stranger bite-sized questions.

Jaskier's friendly chatter, and the tea cup in front of him, and suddenly Geralt remembers a handful of things he has forbidden himself to want.

How do you start a friendly conversation? How do I find one of the hundreds of doors to your mind?

Each word he tries to press out catches and tears at his teeth, comes out broken and violent. (He can't hold her name in his mouth without biting his tongue.)

So he doesn't try. He sits in silence and listens. He takes the cup between two fingers, barely pressing down, and takes a sip.

Among the spiced tea and the sweet chocolate cake and Jaskier's animated hand gestures, a warm feeling rises in Geralt's chest. The fire is still crackling behind him.

You shouldn't be here, Geralt should say. A forest full of monsters, and Jaskier has walked right into Geralt's den. There is luck in his feet, or he wouldn't have made it through the forest, but how long before he runs out?

( Come here, come here. You will find adventure and mysteries and when you get tired, there will be a bed of blood for you to lie down in. )

After a while, Jaskier's hand movements become more sluggish and his eyelids start dropping. Geralt knows it will be sunrise soon. He never misses the sunrise.

Geralt clears his throat. “Maybe it's time you went to sleep.”
“Sleep! Yes!” Jaskier says. “Good idea. Great idea. Couldn't have come up with a better one myself.”

“There's lots of rooms upstairs. You can pick one.”

“Yeah, I'll... or actually... it's so warm here. I think I'm just gonna...”

He makes a vague hand motion and Geralt frowns. Jaskier puts his head on his hand, then he puts his hand down and crosses his arms on the table.

“Jaskier?”
“Shush.”

Jaskier puts his forehead on his arms.

“I'll just...” he says and trails of. Then he's silent.

Irritated, Geralt scoots forward on his seat. His heart starts beating a little faster, he clenches his fist. He wants to say what or why or wait .

Jaskier is asleep, right there at the table. He's made himself so vulnerable. Open for attack, open for Geralt to walk over to him – to stab, to punch, to kill – to put a hand under his legs and an arm under his back. Fall asleep only with a dagger in your hand and one eye open. Else you can't stop the crow clawing at your feet, the thief stealing your valuables, the witcher carrying you to the sofa under the window.

Geralt steps back and looks at him sleeping, peacefully. It feels like someone threw a hook on a rope down his throat to tug noises from him. The sight rips a growl from him, a sigh, an embarrassing sound of awe. It feels like he's letting someone trace the veins on his wrist.

Reluctantly, Geralt goes upstairs to get a blanket and he drapes it over Jaskier carefully. There are no other monsters in the castle, but Geralt stays there next to the fire anyways. He watches through the window. The sky turns red, then orange, then yellow. Then the sun is there again, the same way it has always been, day after day. It's the same sun, but today seems different, like it's just a little brighter than it's supposed to be.

Chapter Text

Jaskier blearily blinks his eyes open, trying to find his bearings. Has he managed to charm his way into someone's bed again? Sneaked into someone's stables?

He turns his head and flinches back immediately – Geralt is standing next to the dining table and staring at him. Right, that's what happened. Forest walk, weird castle, incredibly handsome and vaguely threatening witcher.

“Have you just been watching me this whole time?” Jaskier says and sits up. “Don't know if that's more flattering or creepy.”

Geralt doesn't react to his flirting, but he doesn't rip Jaskier's throat out for it either, so Jaskier assumes that means he's free to go wild with it.

“Oh, hey, did you – did you put a blanket on me?” Jaskier says startled. “And didn't I fall asleep at the table?”
“No, you didn't,” Geralt says – the filthy liar - and turns his head away – but Jaskier has decided he likes him, now. There is no more escape.

“You should leave as long as the sun is still up,” Geralt says.

“Leave? There is no way I'm leaving now. You should have thought about that before you let me eat cake and carried me to the sofa – you big softhearted brute, you. Yeah, pretty sure that's one of the most basic rules in the book called 'How to Come Across like a Monster' – if you want me to be scared of you, don't put a blanket on me while I'm sleeping. That's just not working out.”

Geralt turns to look at him with one of the old favorites, Menacing Glare.

“Oh, come on, don't make that face. Here's the good news – I'm going to stick around.”

“You're leaving tomorrow.”
Clear step up from leaving before sun down. Jaskier hides his smile.

“Next week?” Jaskier tries to bargain.

“Tonight,” Geralt snarls.

“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow it is,” Jaskier quickly concedes. “Wanna give me a tour of the place?”

“It's a place.”

“Yeah, I gathered, but what about the rooms? How many are there? What are they like?”
“Don't know. Haven't looked.”
“You haven't looked? Well, you do seem more like an ourdoors-y kind of guy. Is that it? You roam the monster-infested forest for fun?”

“No. I'm just. Here.”

“Ah, that sounds... depressing. I'm going to take a look around, if you don't mind.”

Geralt starts to open his mouth, but Jaskier quickly lifts a finger. “And also if you do.”

Jaskier goes up the stairs again and walks down the hallway. He starts counting the doors, but stops at a lot. One door is a little bigger and framed with gold, so Jaskier opens it and finds – a library. A giant one, shelves up to the ceiling. Jaskier coughs, because there seems to be even more dust in this room.

He starts walking between the shelves. Oh, the educators at Oxenfurt would be so jealous if they knew about this place. The books seem to be about all kinds of topics, scientific and fictional alike. Jaskier turns to go back downstairs but stops – Geralt is leaning in the doorway.

“Gee, Geralt, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Jaskier says. “You're so sneaky, like a – a – an assassin? A spy? No, like a -”

Geralt does that almost-smirk-thing again.

“A witcher?” he asks.

“Nah, that's not it,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “A cuttlefish!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, they're sneaky,” Jaskier scowls. “How would you know? Have you ever met one?”

“Have you?”
“I – no, but – only because they're so good at sneaking away. I'm just gonna put it out there – a witcher is genetically probably at least ten percent cuttlefish.”

“Well, you don't choose your mutations. They choose you.”

Jaskier shakes his head a little, smiling, and steps closer.

“Did you know about this library?” Jaskier says. “I can't believe this is just in the middle of nowhere. I mean – this is incredible!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, “I've never been in this room.”

“A travesty. Look at this stuff! It's just got everything.”

Jaskier starts wandering again. Behind one of the shelves, he finds a cushioned armchair and gasps. “Okay, that does it. I'm living here now.”

Geralt looks like he's going to say something, so Jaskier shushes him. “No objections!”
And it's working, because Geralt doesn't object.

So Jaskier picks one of the novels and sits down in the armchair, thinking to himself that he's not going to get up again in the next twelve years at least. Curled up in the armchair, Jaskier can forget about the loneliness that always seems to be just a step behind, about his songs that are really just as stale as the bread people throw at him. When he looks up again, Geralt is gone, so Jaskier turns to his book again. A while later, Jaskier sees him sitting by the window, carving something into wood. Jaskier smiles and pretends he read something funny. They sit there morning, midday, afternoon.

Jaskier asks the dinner table for warm bread like his mother used to make it. Apples like from the tree in front of his old house. He'd nearly forgotten what they tasted like.

Jaskier doesn't try to get close to Geralt. (He does wish he knew how to build a bridge.)

When evening breaks, Jaskier tries to find out which room Geralt lives in, but Geralt never seems to sleep. Instead, Jaskier goes into the room next to the library and falls onto the bed. His mind won't stop churning. The library, the magic dinner table, the strange but strangely kind witcher. Jaskier has to keep this somehow, he has to convince Geralt to let him stay. He falls asleep trying to think of something to say - please, I can offer you – free view of my gorgeous good looks, an abundance of annoying comments, accidental insults intended as compliments, songs no one wants to hear... a smile an ear a hand

***

“It's raining.”

Deep sigh.

“Do you want me to get wet, Geralt? Cold and wet, Geralt, that's just one step away from pneumonia, and that's just a step away from death.”
“Fine. You're leaving tomorrow.”

***

“I heard a noise outside.”

Moderate sigh.

“I think there might be a monster just out the door just waiting for me. Do you want me to get killed, Geralt? Killed!”

“Fine. But tomorrow.”

***

“You know, I've really made friends with the bald guy in the painting over the fireplace and I feel like he might cry if I were leaving, maybe commit suicide -”
“Jaskier.”
“Yeah?”
“Just stay.”

***

He does.

***

“No, I don't like him,” Geralt tells Roach. Roach huffs. “I don't! What, you think I like his chatter or his stupid questions or his pretty smile? Don't be ridiculous.”

He continues brushing down her side.
“I don't even like his singing. I just like... that it's not quiet.”

Roach flicks her ear and tilts her head. Geralt pets her throat.

“He's not charming. He's annoying. Today, he found a chest with old clothes in them and decided to try them all on. And show me, too. It was very annoying.”

Roach neighs softly.

“No, I didn't like it,” Geralt says, “I don't even know why I bother talking to you. If you keep this up, I'm not going to give you another carrot.”

At that, she snubs her nose against his hand. He is already feeding her another carrot.

“You're supposed to be on my side, you know. Did he sneak down here to give you these snacks he remembered form Skellige? He did, didn't he?”

Geralt is going to say something else about Jaskier when he suddenly hears the front gate closing. His heart lodges in his throat immediately. Only one person could be at that gate – is Jaskier leaving? Why would he not say something?

(Afraid he'll get violent? Afraid he'll keep him here, forever, forever, forever? Or just so done with him – with his grunts, with his stilted responses, with his beastly eyes – that all he wants is to get away?)

And Geralt still doesn't know how to catch a ray of light, but he rushes out of the stables anyway. It's been weeks since Jaskier first came here – and Geralt is just – he's used to him now.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the figure on the courtyard – not Jaskier. Someone new. If his head hadn't been so clouded, he'd have noticed the smell earlier. Different.

She is rushing towards the castle. She hasn't seen him, but she's not looking left or right. He can hear her heavy breathing, her pained gasp. She trips and scrambles hurriedly to her feet again. Geralt quickly skims his surroundings, something must be following her. He can't sense anything in immediate proximity, so he goes after the girl instead.

He slips into the castle after her. She flinches at his grunt and spins around. A veil of relief lays itself over the deeper fear. He's a stranger and he knows how he looks – if she's relieved to see him, that means something scarier is after her.

“Please,” she says and he skims her slim figure, the ragged pale blue dress. Not appropriate for the colder temperatures. “Please, you have to help me hide.”
“What's after you?” Geralt asks, already drawing his sword. “Species, size, state?”

“He's -”

She cuts herself off, too panicked to keep speaking, but she has already answered his first question. Human. The worst kind to get involved with.

“Come here,” someone says from the side. Jaskier is in the door of the dining room, beckoning her closer. “You're safe here.”
She shuffles over to him and Jaskier quickly shuts the door behind them. Not a second later, a loud knock on the door rips through the air. Geralt swiftly moves behind the door, just as it opens.

“Hello?”

A stocky man walks through. Geralt presses his back to the door and lifts his sword quietly. Geralt takes in the plain clothes, the sweaty skin of his neck, the slow movements. Not a threat. Carefully, he sheathes his sword again and steps forward.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks. The man startles at his deep voice and turns.

“Oh, sir, I'm sorry to intrude. Did you happen to see that misbehaved girl somewhere around?”

“Why are you asking?”

“That miserable wench was promised to me by her father. We had... a slight disagreement.”

“I see,” Geralt says slowly. The man steps a little closer.

“You look strange,” he says, “oh Melitele, you're a freak, aren't you?”
Geralt slams him against the door open door. The man clutches at his throat, but Geralt presses down harder.

“You're going to forget about this girl,” Geralt says, his voice deeper than usual. “You're going to walk out of this castle. You are never going to return to this place.”
The man nods frantically. Geralt fixes him with a particularly vicious gaze and growls deeply. He snarls once, then punches the door right next to the man's head. The punch breaks the wood, but not Geralt's skin. When Geralt finally lets go of him, the man slumps. He keeps standing there a little frozen, shaking. Geralt barks. That's enough to get the man running. Geralt stands and waits until he sees that the man is gone, then he closes the door softly.

Behind him, the dining room door opens slowly. Geralt tries to relax his fist and get his breathing under control.

Jaskier and the girl are both staring at him wide-eyed.

“You heard that,” Geralt says quietly, knowing they did. He drops his shoulders, trying to appear as non-threateningly as he can. It's not a lot.

He knows how this goes. The girl was desperate before, didn't really get a good look at him when she asked for his help. Now it'll be different.
She stares at him out of brown eyes, blown wide. She sees him. Jaskier does, too. They have seen the deranged look in his animal eyes, the hot anger he hides in his fists. Any minute now, she'll run from this place, from him, as far as she can. She looks so small next to Jaskier, a sheep in front of a wolf.

This is where Jaskier knows that the depictions of the townspeople may not reflect his appearance, but they paint a perfect portrait of his soul.

This is the monster living a mockery of human day-by-day.

This is escape into the biting cold, into the arms of kikimoras, ghouls, men with booming voices.

Let me try again, I think there is something human somewhere deep inside of me -

This is Geralt without a weapon, with his neck exposed.

This is -

“Wow. That was impressive,” Jaskier says. “Your hand went straight through and you didn't even take a swing. Phew, you scared the living daylights out of that guy. I reckon we won't be seeing him again for a while. We should have pie. Anyone else in the mood for pie? Yeah, we should definitely have pie. That was stressful.”

Geralt lets out a breath through his nose. His jaw slowly slacks. The girl finally takes her eyes off him.

Jaskier is already wandering back into the living room. With heavy steps, Geralt goes after him. The girl goes a little tense when he gets close, but she doesn't flinch.

She is shivering a little. Geralt quickly strides over to the sofa and grabs the blanket that's still lying there. He approaches her with it slowly – draping it over her might not go over too well. He holds it in her direction from a safe distance.

Jaskier is at the table, conjuring three different kinds of pie. The girl sits down on shaky legs.

“So,” Jaskier says, sliding into the seat next to hers. “What's your name?”
“Zofia,” she says in a small voice. “I – Oh gods. Oh – thank you.” She turns to Geralt, who is standing awkwardly behind the seat across from Jaskier. “Thank you for saving me.”
Geralt is too startled to answer.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Jaskier says, gentle in a way that Geralt could never manage.

“I – Gods, I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. My father -” she stops and clams her fingers across her mouth. She keeps speaking through her fingers. “He wanted me to marry that – that beast. I just had to – I ran. I don't -”

“You can stay here,” Jaskier says, giving her a reassuring smile. Geralt wants to curse the stupidity of it, of course she doesn't-

“Can I?” she asks him, a little shy, a little insecure.

Confused, Geralt hms.

“That means 'yes', don't worry about it,” Jaskier says, “now, may I offer you some pie?”
Zofia is not very talkative, but Jaskier fills the silence for them. Geralt makes another fire, but his mind still goes over the encounter again and again. It's hard to make sense of. Why would she let him near her? Why would she eat in his presence? The only thing different than any time before is – Jaskier. He acts the way he always has – foolish, reckless, like Geralt doesn't scare him. Is he skilled at being an actor or skilled at being a fool?

After lighting the fire, Geralt stays on guard. Peace never lasts. That strange warm feeling in his chest never lasts. But just for tonight, when the sun sets, Geralt is still here, in front of the fire, listening to two voices.

***

A few days later, Jaskier finds the flowers. Geralt hadn't really tried to hide them, but he had almost forgotten about them, placed in one of the many rooms of the castle.

“Geralt, why are you letting these poor flowers die? These ones are fine, but there were petals all around them.”

Geralt stares at the flowers. There's only a handful of them left. Bright yellow buttercups. Flowers need tending to. But these ones have been cut off at the stem – they're doomed to die.

“Don't touch them,” Geralt grinds out. He's still staring at them, counting them, again and again. Five buttercups. Five weeks. He'd thought there were still more of them.

“Fuck,” he says.

“What's wrong?” Jaskier asks softly, eyebrows drawn together.

Five buttercups, forlorn in the big vase. There had been a bouquet of them once. Weeks, months, years even, once. Sunsets and sunrises.

(It is easy to lose track of the flowers in your garden.)

“Nothing,” Geralt lies. He snatches the vase and clutches it in his fingers. He's already thinking of another hiding spot.

(Can flowers grow eyes?)
(How long before Jaskier finds the wooden statue of her?)
(How many questions can Geralt evade?)

Jaskier accepts his lie, but Geralt can't that easily. Sunrises have become precious again.

***

The next time it happens, it's a scream, so much closer than usual. Geralt runs outside immediately. The days have been getting colder, snow has settled on the ground. This time, no one is in the court yard, but he rushes to the gate and there is another woman, in a blue cloak. Geralt's eyes dart around through the bars of the gate and it takes him only a moment to spot the kikimora, eight-legged and disgusting.

He knows the gate won't open for him, can feel the magic holding him in. Instead, he makes a grab for the dagger in his boot. The kikimora roars, looming over the white-haired woman. The dagger lodges itself in its jaw, and it gurgles, sways.

“Get over here,” Geralt calls.

The woman looks up at him helplessly. While she hurries to the gate, Geralt throws another knife, this time hitting its throat. The monster is still quick and after her. Geralt brandishes his sword, standing alert. He's out of daggers, out of options. There's nothing he can do.

(And he curses his curse -)
Her hair, her pale skin, it would be barely visible in the snow, she would be nothing but a bloodstain on the ground.

Geralt would shake the iron bars, trying to rip them off with brute strength, if he didn't know how futile it was.

Do you want me to live in that moment forever, witch? How many times do I have to lose her?

The forest has become a stage for Geralt's worst mistakes and he is trapped in the audience. (Every corpse in this forest has died by Geralt's hand, has died by a footstep not taken.)

The woman reaches the gate fast, she slips in and as soon as the kikimora is here, has rushed after her, Geralt stabs it with his sword, easily. He hasn't unlearned how to take lives, monsters never do -

He is standing over its body, his fingers tightening around the handle of the sword. Breaths come out heavy. Here is another dead body, another one he didn't save. He looks into its eyes and wonders what it must be like.

Children lay down in snow sometimes. Joyfully laughing. Is snow soft to lay down in? Is snow a kinder coffin? Is it comfortable to be forgotten under the cold blanket of it?

(Are four yellow buttercups drowning in that too big vase?)

His teeth press together hard, like he's trying to bite through stone.

“I'm armed,” someone says. “So don't try anything.”

Geralt abruptly shakes his head and steps back, sheathing his sword again.

“Why didn't you use your weapon against him?” Geralt nods to the body.

He turns his head. The girl – the woman – old girl, young woman – clutches a pointy rock in her fingers. She didn't have it before, must have picked it up while he was distracted. Smart.

“I didn't have it before,” she says, “but don't think I'll hesitate to use it.”
“Good on the improvisation,” Geralt says. “Don't think that'd be a fair fight.”
He lifts his weaponless hands.

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” he continues.

“And why would I believe you, Mister Stranger?”

“I mean,” he says, tilting his head, “I did just save your life.”

She scrutinizes him a little and lowers the hand holding the rock.

“Okay. That's fair,” she says. Her shoulders relax, too. Then her head snaps up again. “But I'm keeping my eyes on you!”

Immediately, she turns her eyes away from him and starts walking towards the castle. Smiling quietly, Geralt follows behind.

“You wouldn't happen to have any food, would you?” she asks.

***

“So what's your name?” Jaskier asks, sliding a bowl of soup across the table. When Geralt had come in with the white haired girl, he hadn't even blinked, just led her to the dining room with easy touches, easy smiles.

The girl's gaze is guarded and she hesitates.
“Fiona,” she says. Geralt can tell she has learned to be weary of strangers, but she has not yet learned how to lie. “I just got lost in the woods. I'm a peasant's daughter.”

Geralt watches her quietly, the way she looks down on the table and takes a sip from the soup. She's too thin, even considering that winter has started. She's running from something, and it's not just a kikimora.

“Shouldn't have gone through the swamp,” Geralt says.

He can't believe a word out of her mouth, but Geralt isn't too concerned. How do you trust someone who has nothing to hide?

“Yes, well, I was...” the girl says, still trying to find a place to look that's not Geralt's face, “I was in a hurry.”

She presses her lips together, like she's already said too much, and Geralt doesn't ask. In dimmed light, the face of a friend is indistinguishable from that of a foe. Sometimes closed lip smiles hide razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes someone will offer you a hand to get you to show yours.

“You can always stay here, if you want,” Jaskier says, not asking for permission because he knows Geralt's answer, “there's plenty of room everywhere. Too much, certainly. Lots of space unused, you'd really be doing us a favor.”

The girl stay silent for a long while. She's understood she's better off on her own, but not used to it. (Would you sleep in a monster's den if you had nowhere else to go?)

“You're good with a sword,” she says to Geralt eventually.

“I am.”

“Would you teach me?” she says, starts rambling, “I'm not completely useless, I can help around the house. I'll help clean, I'll dust, not to be rude, but that floor could really use a scrubbing -”
“See, Geralt, she understands,” Jaskier says triumphantly. “Come on. You could use a real sparring opponent, I'm sure that tree you always hack away at has had enough of you by now.”

It's two against one. Geralt never really stood a chance.

***

Three voices. Heartbeats. Laughter, sometimes. Shuffling. Footsteps. The occasional crash. The occasional giggle.

Is this how to be human?

Is this how a house is lived in?

The girl – Fiona – the girl – has little fighting skill, but she learns quickly. They're in the entrance hall because it's big and bright. Jaskier is lounging on the stairs, Zofia next to him sewing.

Jaskier's quiet tune floats over to them. Geralt steps carefully, the girl imitates him. Are these ballroom dances, like stepping into footprints in the snow?

She still has an uncertain grip on her sword, even thought Geralt has showed her before. But she is quick, he'll giver her that, has good reflexes.

They spar every day now. Geralt picks up the wood to carve less and less.

He gets used to humans scarily quickly, barely looks at the paintings anymore.

She's a little better today and Geralt lets her knock the sword out of his hand. She smirks proudly, but Geralt's gaze skitters over to Jaskier.

“You're getting slower, old man,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Geralt holds his gaze.

Is this how to be human, with sweaty palms and an unsettling feeling in your stomach? With your throat dry? With your heart too quick?

Jaskier's smile is always a challenge and Geralt always loses against it.

These people are staying, for a little while. Like light in a bottle. Like something not to be kept.

Sometimes Geralt is alone, but from somewhere in the castle, he can always hear singing.

Chapter Text

So Jaskier's plan didn't quite work out. It's not unheard of. But if Jaskier knows anything, it's how to improvise. So, when Geralt doesn't look like a monster, and then doesn't act like a monster, Jaskier learns to cope. New plan: stay and get to know Geralt, bring a fantastic song back to the village, get rich. Or something like that.

Geralt has built walls around the walls around his walls, but Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn.

And then Geralt puts a blanket on him, and listens to his songs, under only small protests, and picks books out for him he thinks he'll like – and then he saves two girls from monsters – and Jaskier needs to revise his plan again. Stay and get to know Geralt, bring a fantastic song back to the village, get rich.

The audacity, really, of that man – to be sweet where he should be callous, to be beautiful where he should be monstrous. Jaskier was promised a frightening monster, and instead what he got is this – this disgustingly kindhearted, annoyingly pretty man. This stupid-jokes, incredible-with-a-sword, doesn't-even-look-old-with-white-hair man. Get away from me with your dumb puppy eyes. He seems to think the villagers are right – like he's a monster, has he looked in the mirror even once? You'd think a witcher knows his monsters.

All “don't love me”, all “fear me”, all talk, no substance. How dare you. How dare you be soft with your horse. How dare you look at me like you're fond of me.

It's obnoxious, loathsome, against the law, and just horribly unfair, really. Had the villagers just said extremely nice man lives in a castle, Jaskier never would have come.

How dare Geralt be loveable where he should be – how dare he be loveable.

Oh no. Oh fuck.

Jaskier keeps his eyes on Geralt and Fiona in the middle of the entrance hall, with their sword practice, and thinks to himself – if Geralt does something even mildly unlikable right now, it was all just a fluke. If he picks his nose or something, then that's it, none of that lovey-dovey stuff. But in that moment, Geralt ruffles through Fiona's hair – the vicious bastard. The vile, cruel, completely diabolical, sweet, adorable – fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jaskier is known to do something stupid every now and again, but this takes it to a whole new level.

***

Geralt has had his share of days. Bright, bright days. A life he almost got to have. But here is the yellow buttercup. The last one.

It's quiet for once, everyone else asleep. Only Geralt is sitting in front of the fire, contemplating a week long life. It'll be a good week, he thinks. Better than any that came before.

“Geralt.”
Geralt turns his head. Jaskier is hesitantly stepping closer and eventually sinks down next to him. Geralt stares into the fire and waits for him to speak.

“What's wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?”
“It's that buttercup, isn't it? Is it the last one?” Jaskier picks it up from out of his hand and swirls it in his fingers. Geralt just watches him do it.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Geralt says, “it was never my place to begin with. Not really.”

“You sound as if you're leaving.”

Jaskier turns the buttercup again, its stem thin and breakable between his fingers.

“Would you take care of Roach?”

Jaskier looks up. “You would leave without her?”

“I mean in case. Just in case something happened.”

“Just tell me what's going on.”

“Tell me you're going to take care of Roach.”

Jaskier is tense beside Geralt. Firelight dances in his eyes.

“Of course I'd take care of Roach,” he says, “but you need to tell me. Tell me why you're here.”
He looks at Geralt intently and Geralt has the sudden urge to shuffle away, out of the light and back into the shadow. But he stays. He knows the light paints him red, like blood, like rage, like a setting sun.

He has his hand in a tight fist, but something makes him want to open his palm.

“It's a curse,” he says tersely.

“A curse?”

Geralt's teeth gnash together.

“I'm sorry, but I'll need you to elaborate. Curse? What's that mean? There's all kinds of curses, all kinds of -”
“What do you know about what happened in Blaviken?”
“Uhm,” Jaskier says uncertainly, “I don't know. I heard... people died. Villagers. Lots of them.”

Here is the wordsmith, speechless in the face of the Butcher of Blaviken. Geralt nearly snorts.

“Yes. It was a complicated affair. I had to – I -”

Geralt swallows. He sees her in the fire before him, her rage.

“I killed her men. They were threatening innocents. She, she was. She was so – angry. The world had wronged her over and over. I'm not sure I made the right choice. I – I'm not sure there was a right choice.”

He doesn't want to say this out loud, he wants to keep it in his chest forever and ever. He slowly lets his palm fall open.

“There's no excuse for what I did. It felt like the only thing to do. So I did. I – she -”
He shakes his head. (He digs in his heart, digs deeply, until he finds where he buried her name.)
“Renfri.”

Each sound of it is hard to lay bare, but he manages it. There is not a lot more pain to be had. (Seven days of it.) Jaskier doesn't react, he just listens. (Would it be easier if he wouldn't?)
“And one of her men had a wife. A witch. She was angry, too. She got the jump on me. I was... not at my best. She brought me to this castle. Cursed me. That's why I can't leave here. And she cursed that bouquet of yellow buttercups. I would have time until all of them wilted to break the spell, and if I didn't, then...”

“Then what?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask for specifics.” Geralt draws his shoulders together.

“She didn't say anything about what will happen if you don't break the curse?”
“I just assumed it was your average death spell. I was a little too preoccupied trying to fight her to have a lovely chat.”

She had been powerful, she had to be to enchant this entire castle. And he'd tried to fight her, but his spells has been weak and Renfri's face had been at the forefront of his mind.

“Okay, okay. It doesn't matter. What's important is, how can you break the spell?”

“I think she was going to tell me. Right before I nearly got her at the throat and she teleported away. So I'm just assuming it's the standard 'True love's kiss' horseshit.”
“So what we have to go on is... nothing, basically. Great. I mean, at least we know she left you that magic dinner table, so she's clearly not a completely evil witch, maybe moderately evil, where would you estimate her on the evil scale? Geralt? One to ten?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls and grits his teeth. Jaskier stares at him. Geralt stares back. Jaskier stares some more. “Six,” Geralt says, “maybe seven. Her laugh did kind of sound like a cackle.”

“Okay, that means maybe we still have a chance to crack this, right? Maybe it does have to do with love. I mean, I mean, we still got one buttercup left?”

“It's a week.”
“A week, right, we can work with that. Cause I'm not going to let you die, you know that right? I won't let you leave, you don't get off that easily. Fiona won't either, you still haven't taught her how to fight with a sword properly, and after that comes daggers and maybe the crossbow or bow and arrow – and she doesn't know how to hold a silver sword yet? And I've written like two songs about you that you haven't heard, and don't think I'm stopping there either, I'm writing another twenty and if you're not there to hear every single one of them, I'm going to be so mad. Mad. And you've never been there to witness it, but believe me, you don't want me mad at you. I'm going to -”
“Jaskier.”
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry.”

Jaskier is crying and he won't stop talking and Geralt feels like something is wrapped tightly around his chest.

“No, listen,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking, “I'm going to find you somebody to love. I'll go back into the village, wolves and monsters be damned.”
And if you get lost, you will follow the trail of blood I have left behind? With corpses for milestones? I don't think so.

Jaskier has stopped twirling the buttercup in his hand. He is holding it almost reverently now. He looks down at it pensively.
“Maybe someone out there will want you,” he says.

Only out there?

There is nothing for you to find. Climb into the mirror if you want to find me someone to love. But if you're looking for someone who can love me? Yeah, good luck with that.

“Don't leave,” Geralt says and has to keep himself from adding please.

***

Jaskier wants to scream.
You need true love's kiss? Fine. I'll go into the village and find a woman who's favorite color is yellow. I'll go into the village and find a woman who knows how to tame a scared horse. I'll do anything.

But Geralt is shaking his head.

“It's too late,” he says, “no one falls in love in one week.”

Do people fall in love in degrees? Each infuriating thing you say, I fall further in your direction? Do I stumble at your lovely grunts, your intensely amber eyes?
And the worst part is there, right there, is Geralt's open palm.

“I do,” Jaskier says absently, “I can fall in love in one evening, if the object of my affection so demands.”
He lifts his gaze when he says it, tries to catch Geralt's gaze – but how do gazes ever meet? What is the likelihood of two people being in the same place? Is love a trade or thievery? Is it my love for your love or do we steal smiles and honeyed words from strangers? Do we hook our fingers in unwatched places and tear each other apart? Is it tear for tear for tear?
For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt is going to look at him, but then he looks back into the fire.
“Well, most people aren't fools like you,” he says.
Do only fools fall for you or does falling turn you into a fool?

Jaskier's fingers itch to reach out – he itches to entangle their fingers in a way that is irresolvable.

“Then I guess,” Jaskier says and wets his lips, “we have a few days left then. Make the most of it?”

He lets his fingers ghost over Geralt's palm, holding his breath. Jaskier gathers all the courage he can muster and reaches down, flattens out Geralt's fingers.

Geralt stares down at their hands, not pressed together, fingers not entangled, just palm against palm.
Jaskier doesn't know what to say other than I'm right here , so he presses his lips together.

But then Geralt pulls his hand away and it's as clear a rejection as Jaskier's ever going to get.

Why are you so scared of what I'll find once you've let me past the guards of your castle? Are you scared I'll walk into a room with broken tiles that you haven't cleaned for years? Are you scared the sight of the rodents that you let die in there is going to send me in a panic and make me wreck your cabinets? Or are you scared I'll stay?

***

Geralt can't bear it. He doesn't know what he'll do – smile, cry, take a grip – but it's all terrifying.

You think I am a curse you can break. I'm nothing for you to fix. There is no curse, there's just me. It's all me. I have no man hidden away beneath these monstrous eyes.

Jaskier draws his hand away again, starts fumbling with his fingers.

I'm not your adventure path, I'm not your escape from an ordinary life, I'm not your prince. All that I am is right here. A pair of yellow eyes in the dark.

Geralt looks away into the far corner of the room.

Do you think I want to be your tragic love story? A sad song you won't share with anyone else? Do you think I want you to think of me when you smell blood?

Geralt can feel Jaskier's eyes on him, but Jaskier never really sees. So Geralt gets up and walks away, out of the room, before he asks for more than he is allowed to have.

***

Days are shorter the less you have left of them.

***

The flower will die in hours. At sunrise. (At the beginning or the end of it? Will Geralt have another sunrise?)

“Go to sleep,” he says to Jaskier, who has been talking to him for hours.

“I'm not going to sleep,” Jaskier says. “I'm not missing a second of this.”

“There's nothing to miss,” Geralt says, “go to sleep.”

“No way.”
“Will you go if I come with you?”
“What – you mean, like -”

“Hm.”

“Okay. Okay. Just a reminder, though, you're the one who suggested this. No take-backs!”
Geralt harrumphs.

“Unless you wanted to take it back! You can change your mind, of course. But I'd really rather -”
“Jaskier.”

They lay down next to each other on the bed Jaskier has been sleeping in. Jaskier turns on his side and stares at him. Geralt waits a few minutes. But if he only has one night left, he'd rather look at Jaskier, so he turns too. The moonlight comes in dim, makes Jaskier's face blue. Geralt studies the line of his delicate nose, the soft looking lips, the eyebrows.

Eventually, he can't stop himself. Jaskier's eyes are blue, blue, blue.

There is not a lot of time left to say things, so Geralt makes an exception.

“I thought I was going to be alone.”

He says it quietly, like a secret not to be heard.

“I told you you can't get rid of me,” Jaskier answers, just as quietly.

It's hard to keep himself from touching the small smile on Jaskier's face.
“I'm glad,” Geralt admits.

He doesn't quite understand why Jaskier lets him have this, but he doesn't want to think about it just now.

***

Jaskier knows better than to touch, this time. But he can look, so he will.
Does Geralt seriously think he would walk away if Geralt had horns? Does he think Jaskier wouldn't adore him if he had claws instead of hands? Geralt thinks his eyes are so horrible, but Jaskier would love him if he didn't have any eyes or twelve of them. I know the shape of your heart, whether you want me to or not.

Tomorrow, Jaskier will take Roach and get out of this place. He will probably never find something, someone like this again. So he'll go without aim.

Jaskier stays quiet, for once. The small distance between them feels fragile. The air is loaded with all the words not spoken.

They lay for a long time, like they are memorizing each other's faces – Jaskier knows he is. And then he dares again -

“You like to think these walls are here to protect the world from the monster safely locked inside,” Jaskier whispers. “But that's not really true, is it, Geralt?”
He shifts just a little closer.

“Who hurt you?”

It's silent for a long while and Jaskier thinks Geralt is not going to answer. But then it come, really quietly -

“No one hurt me. I did. Hurt someone.”

***

The ache is quiet now, almost gentle. The twilight makes the world seem dulled, obscures its harshest parts.

“I didn't love her,” Geralt whispers, “I barely knew her. But I liked her. I thought – I thought she understood me. I let her – I -”
Even now, it's hard to say, but if he's going to say this anytime, to anyone, it'll be here. To Jaskier.

“She was going to kill that girl, the little girl -”
Get out of Blaviken, Geralt.

“I fought her and won. And I thought, if I'm going to have to lose the fight some day, why couldn't it be this one?”

She'd had such big brown eyes.

“I killed Ren – I kil-”
That's as far as he'll ever get to saying it.

Geralt closes his eyes, so he won't have to see the disgust on Jaskier's face. Here I hide my yellow eyes, Jaskier, do you understand me now?

But then there is a touch to his cheek. He can feel Jaskier's fingernails on his cheekbone. To scratch? Geralt would let him.

He thinks of Fiona and Zofia, who he couldn't bear to tell the truth. They would hate him – or worse, be disappointed – no more sword lessons – no more dinners – he would lose the only thing he won't be losing now – their fond memories of him.

You have been sharing your bed with the Butcher of Blaviken. Do you understand what it means now?
He opens his eyes a little, because he won't die with his eyes closed.

There is no anger on Jaskier's face. Just a soft smile.

Can I keep it? At least until the sun rises?

“It's okay,” Jaskier says. “It's okay.”
Geralt has to hold in a gasp.

“You were between a rock and a hard place,” Jaskier whispers, “you had to make a tough decision. That doesn't make you a monster.”

Jaskier's hand is cold against his face, but Geralt's chest feels warm.

“Do you think humans don't get lost in the woods sometimes?” Jaskier keeps going. “It's not neat and not clean and so, so messy, but I found you.”

Is this why you write songs? To find words that can reach into people's chests? It would only take so much to tilt his head down. Will you meet me on the pillow, three inches from here?

“It's almost morning,” Geralt says.

“Right.”

“I want to see the sunrise.”
“Of course.”
Geralt lets his gaze linger, only for a moment, on the moonlight in Jaskier's eyes. Then he swallows the unbidden words down. There is nothing in this small space between them for him to have, and more importantly, nothing to keep.

They go outside, the sky already turning lighter. Geralt takes a breath in the brisk morning air. He turns to look at a place shaped like a home. A home to kings and queens, princes and princesses, chamber maids and butlers, maybe even a witcher sometimes.

I want to see the sunrise, Geralt thinks, and looks at Jaskier. His face looks beautiful in the faint red light coming from the horizon. The light catches on his hair and there, the sun reflects in his eyes.

“Geralt -”
That's when the pain starts.

A face etched into wood -

A hand he didn't take -

A truth never spoken -

Not a monster, but a coward -

Laughter a stomachache in his abdomen -

There is always pain, pain, pain when something is born.

***

Geralt doubles over in front of Jaskier, starts coughing. And Jaskier can't watch it. He falls to his knees and grips Geralt's shoulders, but Geralt is not looking at him anymore.

“No, listen,” Jaskier says quickly, “if this is about love – if you need someone to love you – then – you know, I know you're a witcher and you're not used to emotions, but some of us are human, and I can't really help, but, and you probably haven't considered this, but maybe possibly, perhaps maybe it is so that I – and this might come as a surprise -

“Jaskier,” Geralt chokes out, “get to the point.”
“The point is,” Jaskier takes a breath, “here I am. And I know you don't, but... and I know it might not matter, but... I love you.”

Geralt's eyes widen, and yep, bet you didn't see that one coming, witcher.

“Jaskier...” he gets out, but then he starts coughing again. And Jaskier's arms come up to steady him, but it doesn't stop.

And Jaskier's heart burns.

And it doesn't matter.

***

Geralt is gone.

***

The White Wolf is not.

***

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier reels back when he sees the wolf. He has white fur and piercing yellow eyes. He seems irritated, turning his head from side to side, walking backwards like he's cornered. Eventually, the wolf's gaze settles on Jaskier and Jaskier stares back at him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier tries. The wolf whines softly, then inclines his head, which Jaskier is going to take as a yes.
“Death spell?” Jaskier says exasperatedly. “Fucking hell, Geralt. It was a transformation spell. You've had me all riled up over nothing. Well. Not nothing.”

Jaskier scrutinizes Wolf-Geralt.

“This is why we don't fight the evil witch until after she's given us all the relevant information,” he says sternly.

Geralt makes another noise, maybe a whimper?
“You are adorable,” Jaskier says startled and maybe a little delighted. In response, Wolf-Geralt growls at him and bears his teeth. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you're a dangerous scary beast. Any maiden will faint when she sees you. Hey, now you've finally got fangs!”

Jaskier sits cross-legged in the snow. Geralt steps closer hesitantly. Jaskier sobers up a little.

“So, I guess the spell only resolves at requited love. Sorry. I tried.”

Geralt draws back his ears.

“Yes, it's true. I did fall in love with you. I mean, I tried not to. I did my best.”

Geralt steps a little closer, but it seems like even as an animal he doesn't know how to respond.

“Yeah you're right,” Jaskier says, “I didn't try all that hard. I do love love.”

Geralt looks at him, in that infuriatingly Geralt way of his, which just -

“That is -” Jaskier starts indignantly, “not fair! No puppy-dog-eyes for you as long as you actually look like a puppy!”

The wolf growls a little again.

“Yeah, yeah, you look like a gruesome, threatening big bad wolf,” Jaskier waves him off. “Don't you think it's a little concerning that our conversations are kind of... the same now? I know, I know, for you the perfect conversation is the one that doesn't happen.”

The wolf gets up again and starts pacing in front of Jaskier. If Jaskier were to take a hard guess, he'd say that Geralt would be yelling at him right now in his human form.

“So what do we do now?” Jaskier asks. “I mean, we should go to a mage, probably. Someone who could turn you back. You know anyone?”
Geralt stops the pacing, sniffs the air and turns his head.

“Yes? You know someone?” Jaskier says. “I mean, as much as you look lovely – uhhh, terrifying! Frightening! - right now, I do want the old Geralt back. I liked him. My best friend.”

Geralt looks a little displeased, as much as wolves can look displeased.

“Ah! Can't argue!” Jaskier exclaims. “You don't got the vocal cords for it. I'm your very best friend in the whole wide world. Any objections?”

The wolf growls a bit, but doesn't speak a single word of protest.

“Yeah, didn't think so,” Jaskier says flippantly. “We should go straight away. I'm going to tell Fiona and Zofia we're leaving and pack some things. You just – just wait here.”
Geralt sits down and stares at him, which Jaskier takes as his cue to leave.

***

The front doors fly open and the girl – Fiona – comes running through. Geralt steps back, still unused to this body, though it comes more naturally to him than he expected. There is something familiar yet foreign in the way a wolf thinks.

Fiona comes to a still in front of him, staring in shock. Jaskier has been running after her and pauses a few feet behind her. Now they're staring at each other – the white-haired girl and the white wolf. But how do wolves say, don't be afraid?

She doesn't have a weapon with her, even though Geralt told her to always keep a weapon close by. Though Geralt wouldn't know what to do if she attacked him. Run, maybe. (There is no way he would ever hurt her.)

Wolves can't smile, can't lift their hands to show they don't carry weapons – wolves are weapons. All teeth, all claws. There must be different tricks, but Geralt doesn't know them yet.

Geralt tries to put it all in his eyes – I won't hurt you, as wolf or as witcher. For a few seconds, they just exchange glances. Then she falls forward and Geralt stumbles back a little, can't find an escape route. He flinches when she throws her arms around him to -

hold him? Geralt is stunned. Is she - hugging him?

He holds still, careful not to move.

“Geralt,” she says close to his ear. He presses his nose against her back.

“How do you know it's him?” Jaskier asks surprised.

“Isn't this how he always looks? White hair, yellow eyes. I see no difference.”
Snarky.

She shuffles a little closer.

“Look, I don't know what happened,” she says so quietly that Jaskier won't hear it, “but Jaskier told me you're leaving. I just had to say good-bye.”

He breathes in her scent. He can smell her the same way as always.

“I'm going to tell you everything, on one condition, maybe two. You have to come back. In one piece and ideally as a witcher.”

He nudges her, which is as close to a promise as he can make her.

“So I'll tell you a secret now,” she goes on, “and I trust you'll keep it. My real name is Cirilla. Ciri for short.”

Finally, she lets go of him and steps back.

“So long, witcher,” she says and smiles a little, “try not to get shot by a hunter.”

Then she turns and walks back into the castle.

“We're all set, then,” Jaskier says, “let's go.”

And Geralt starts walking toward the gate – the gate that hasn't let him through so many times. He pauses in front of it. Maybe it still won't let him through – maybe he's cursed to stay here forever. Even now. And he has been here so long, years even. How do you open a gate?

Jaskier steps around him and opens the gate for him, gives him a look.

But how do you cross a threshold? Jaskier was right – this castle is his fort. He's safe there. But that means he needs to leave all the more.

“I'm here,” Jaskier says from the other side of that line. So Geralt follows suit, preparing for the witch's magic to reign him in, but it doesn't.

He is finally outside the castle.

***

Geralt leads him through the woods for hours, growling all the way, which deters any monsters in close proximity. Once they are in a safer part of the woods, Jaskier decides they need need to set up camp. He fiddles with the clasp on his bag for a long while – Geralt huffs at him.

“Excuse me, tone down the judgment, please,” Jaskier says, frustrated. “Come back to me when you have opposable thumbs again, maybe then I'll listen to your criticism.”

Eventually, he manages to spread out his bedroll. Geralt just sits there and stares at him.

“We're going to fix this,” Jaskier assures him. “Don't worry about it.”

Geralt tilts his head in a way that suggests he is clearly worried. Jaskier sighs and sinks down on the bedroll. He's not too worried. Geralt's alive and that's already much better than what he expected yesterday. The rest will work itself out fine.

He tries to sleep, but hears Geralt's footsteps around the clearing. Suddenly, it becomes quiet. Jaskier sits up.

Geralt is between the trees, walking away. Leaving.

“Wait,” Jaskier calls, feeling horribly fragile all out of a sudden. Geralt stops, but Jaskier's heart doesn't stop racing. He gets up and walks a few steps towards the wolf.

“Don't leave,” Jaskier says, “please.”

Geralt seems uncertain.

“I don't know what's going on in that head of yours. I never do. But you're not better off on your own, whatever you believe. I'm sticking with you.”

The wolf just looks at him, like he's considering. Jaskier holds his breath the whole time.

Finally, Geralt steps toward him again.

“Just, just come here,” Jaskier says quietly and lies back down on his bedroll. “Please.”

Jaskier doesn't think he will, but he lays tense all the same. But Geralt does come closer. And he does lay down closely next to Jaskier. His fur tickles Jaskier's nose.

He doesn't know if he's allowed, but he decides he'll take his chances. He puts one arm over Geralt's body.

“Did you know,” Jaskier whispers, “that your fur is really soft?”

Geralt growls, which Jaskier assumes to mean shut up. So he does. This time, he falls asleep easily.

***

The next day, it takes them only a few more hours to reach a village. The villagers, for some strange reason, don't seem to agree that Wolf-Geralt is harmless and cute and needs to be petted – they look at them suspiciously, but they won't come close.

Geralt eventually stops in front of one door and looks at Jaskier expectantly.

“This is it?” Jaskier says. “This is where we find help? Okay, I'm just going to trust you on this.”

He starts knocking. When nothing happens, he knocks a little more vehemently. The door flies open.

“Who wants to lose a hand?”

The woman has black hair and she's wearing a black dress, and what's that in her eyes? Death?

“Geralt, she's terrifying. Are you terrified? I'm terrified. Do you know her? Please tell me we go the wrong door.”
But Geralt already trots through the door. The woman has turned to Geralt and she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Geralt?” she says, chiding him, “what did you do this time?”

Geralt gives her a long look.

“Yeah, you're right. We better discuss this inside.”

“Geralt, do you really think this is a good idea? Don't you remember how this all started? With you angering the wrong creepy witch? I feel like falling into the clutches of another evil witch is not the solution to this problem.”

“Where did you pick up the stray dog?” the woman asks, and Jaskier opens his mouth to answer, but then he realizes that she was talking to Geralt. Completely indignant, Jaskier strides into her house and shuts the door behind him.

“Wow, I can not believe -” Jaskier starts, frantically waving his hands around, “I'll have you know if I were a dog, I'd be an incredibly pretty, high-bred -”

“Does he ever shut up?” the woman asks Geralt.

“Uhm, how about you talk to the person who is not a wolf and can actually answer you – and to answer your question, no, I do not-”
“Tell me what happened,” the woman says and crouches down to look at Geralt.
“So it all started when Cecilia – or was it Catherine? Chloe?”

“Quiet!”

Despite his utter indignity, Jaskier stays quiet.
The woman looks Geralt in the eye. Geralt says nothing. He does growl a bit, though.

“Well, if that wasn't a riveting tale -” Jaskier begins sarcastically, but the woman interrupts him again.

“I see,” she says to Geralt.

“What, can you speak wolf? Is that your magic power, you can talk to animals and -”
“I can read minds.”

“Can you just once wait for me to finish a sente-”

“No,” the woman says curtly.
“Okay, okay, I see how this is gonna be. Wait, you can read minds? Can you also read my mind?”
Naturally, Jaskier thinks very intently fuck you.

“If you heard that, I meant it, but also, don't, don't do that – I would like to keep my thoughts to myself -”
“Then why don't you?”
“I'm sorry, I talk when I'm nervous, my best friend has been turned into a wolf, I'm allowed to be a little nervous.”

“Best friend? Interesting,” she says, still staring at Geralt. “Now shush.”

Jaskier is a bit offended at being shushed, but he also wants to get this over with, so instead of trying further, he starts looking around the place. Little trinkets clutter the shelves, probably potions and other witchery items. Finally, his gaze settles on the witch again, the flowing black hair, the ethereal beauty. How does Geralt know someone like that? Distant cousin? But despite both of them being hauntingly beautiful, they look like polar opposites. One graceful and elegant, one grounded and big. One dark, one light. Maybe they were lovers. And that... yeah, that... Jaskier turns his back on them.

“And you seriously didn't say anything? Men,” the woman says.

Then, “oh don't look at me like that.”
Then, “yes, you could have.”
Then a deep sigh and, “and now I have to sort out your mess again.”

Jaskier tentatively turns around again. The witch gets up and finally looks at Jaskier.

“So what's the verdict? You seem pretty powerful, you can turn him back, surely?”
“I can.”

“Great!”
“But only for an hour.”
“Oh.”
“But it can be permanent,” she continues.

“So hot, so cold,” Jaskier exclaims dramatically, “I do have feelings, you know?”

“I can give you this hour, but you have to break the spell yourself, Geralt. You know how. You know! I won't hear any protests.”

Geralt seems resigned, his ears hanging low.

“Hey, this is good news, right?” Jaskier says to him. “You'll be back on two feet in no time.”

All out of a sudden, fear grips at Jaskier. Maybe Geralt will send him away once he's all witcher again. Jaskier is tolerable as a begrudgingly accepted housemate, maybe even as a friend, but Geralt won't want somebody around who's hopelessly, so hopelessly in love with him. Maybe he'll even think he's doing him a favor by driving him away. And if that's the case, Jaskier will fight him on it, but if not...

Well. He's imposed himself on Geralt enough already.

“Yeah great,” Jaskier says weakly, “wohoo.”

The woman fixes him with her gaze, probably seeing right through him immediately with her magic witch senses, so he lets out a nervous laugh.
“I have a room upstairs,” she says, “I'll get you once I'm done.”
“Can't I come -”
“No distractions.”

And they're off. Which is fine, totally great, Jaskier will just worry a little more. He's good at that.

***

Jaskier stands in front of the closed door to the witch's room. He doesn't know what he's nervous about, really. Going inside, and he'll be face to face with Geralt again – the witch told him Geralt did indeed have a witcher face again and arms and fingers and gorgeous white hair. She told him no parts have gone missing. And Jaskier has seen that a hundred times before – what's there to be afraid of?

He lifts his hand to the door handle, but then lets it sink again. Geralt was with him just an hour ago, why fear his words now that he has words again?

He takes a deep breath, lifts his arm again and then -

Geralt opens the door.

“Geralt!”
“Jaskier.”

And that tone of voice is hard to read, always so hard to read. No body language, but your actions betray you.

“You're all witcher again! That's nice. Must have been disorienting, seeing everything from the eye-level of an eight-year-old? How tall are eight-year-olds?”

Geralt's hand shot out and grabbed Jaskier's wrist.

“Yeah, it sure must be nice to have fingers again- woah,” Jaskier says, nearly losing his balance when Geralt drags him into the room.

“So, so – cure! The witch says – by the way, how do you know this witch? I don't know whether to be frightened or impressed that she's the kind of person you go to for help.”

If Jaskier just keeps talking – words, words, words, please don't interrupt me with heartbreak and rejection -
“Yennefer. Old friend.”
“Lover?”
“Yes. Then no.”
“Still not a man of many words, I see. That's good actually, because there's something I'd really rather not talk about, let's just pretend I didn't say it, really, please -”
“Jaskier -”
“Anyways! She said you knew how to stop the curse. And I distinctly remember you telling me you were too busy fighting to hear how, which means – you lied to me. You lied to me.”
Geralt listens to him silently, his face all angles again, all hard expressions. It has gotten dark outside and only a candle on the nightstand by the single bed in the room gives off light.

“You're right,” Geralt says quietly, working his jaw, “she did tell me how to stop the curse.”
“How?” Jaskier asks. “Tell me.”

“I thought it wouldn't work. I thought there was no way it would. But... I might have been wrong.”
“Well, that's good. What do we need to do?”

Geralt is so stiff across from him, the candle illuminating the side of his face.
“She said -” He pauses and just breathes for a moment. “She said. If you won't tell your loved ones that you care for them, then you don't need a voice. If you do so well being alone, be alone. Told me to go live in the woods for all she cared. I didn't know what that meant. She wanted me to prove – to prove I'm not a monster.”

And you thought that was impossible, oh darling. Jaskier wants to reach across the space between them, the way he could that night when they were lying in that bed together.

“She wanted me to prove I could still feel things. So you weren't too far off. It was about love. But... it was about. About me, falling in love and... admitting it.”

“So go on then,” Jaskier says, takes a small step forward, daring him. “Admit it.”

But Geralt still looks like he's in pain.

“Do you love Fiona like a daughter, or Zofia, or...”

But Geralt is still not looking at him.

“You know Yennefer will be extremely mad if she did all that magic only for you to turn into a wolf again because you're so emotionally constipated,” Jaskier says light-heartedly.

He thinks for a moment, Geralt won't say it, only knows how to cross his arms and not how to open them.

***

Jaskier's wide eyes are on him. He can see his yellow eyes, his white hair, his looming, frightening – everything. Don't look at me. You can look at me, but not in this light. Not from this angle. Look into my eyes when night has turned them grey. Look at my human-shaped silhouette. Indulge me in darkness' gentle lie.
Geralt can't stand the feeling of the candlelight on his face, so he steps back a bit, into the shadows again.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, as if Jaskier's name could draw him in, could draw him closer. “I thought you'd be gone. I thought you'd get fed up soon enough. I didn't expect...”
Jaskier smiles at him, but it looks a little distorted.

“Do you even know why I stayed,” he says.

Geralt really doesn't.

“Because of the magic dinner table?”
“No, you idiot.”

Jaskier steps closer again, and this time Geralt doesn't flee.

“I've already laid my heart bare.” Jaskier exhales slowly. “Don't you want to return the favor?”

My heart for your heart.

“I didn't care about these yellow buttercups for so long. I didn't care what would happen when they died. It didn't matter. But then... you. You came along and... made it matter.” Each word is hard to say, but Geralt has to.
You made me believe flowers can bloom in winter. In snow, in ice.

“It was dark in her castle before you came along. Quiet. Lonely. And I've always craved -”

Jaskier steps even closer. Geralt pushes the words out one by one.

“And I really think I might – I must – I love -”

your voice your light your eyes

“you.”
you you you

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Didn't – didn't expect that.”
He comes closer still and finds Geralt's hand.

“But I'm not complaining,” Jaskier adds quickly, “the opposite, in fact.”

His hand is warm and Geralt searches for his other one, too.

“You know,” Jaskier says, talking faster, “I've never been in love. I mean, I almost was a million times or I could have been if – I would have, if I – it was just an if-love. But now I know what a when-love feels like – when – when you look at me, like that – or it's a yes-love, a yes-please-love, a please-shut-me-up-right-now-love -”

Geralt surges forward and kisses him, suddenly less tense and more desperate. He knows, now, the curse must be broken.

You can look at me, but only with your hands, not with your eyes.

Jaskier's hands roam over him.

Look at me with the arches of your fingertips.

He's not trapped anymore. He's free, so free, like a bird – like two birds, singing the same song.

I will let you look at me with your lips.

And Jaskier does, presses soft kisses to Geralt's cheekbones, his forehead, his eyelashes. Geralt can't get enough of it, of his scent so close, of the warmth he radiates. Geralt's skin is so hard, like stone, but it gives way where Jaskier touches it. He can make an indent in the crook of Geralt's neck. Leave fingerprints all over him. (Geralt doesn't know how long it will take until he turns to stone again.)
Geralt takes Jaskier's face into his hand and wants to keep it, keep this. Maybe he can.

From the depths of his mind somewhere, he can hear the rumors, the insults, the whispers – the monster in the woods, in the enchanted castle, with horns and fangs and violence in his beastly eyes.
But here is Jaskier, with his brave stupidity and his gentle hands and his light voice and his hand finds Geralt's chest and the ache fades from where his palm touches him.

Jaskier grabs his arms, turns the both of them into the candlelight and

– sees him.