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He’s spent most of his long life not-quite-existing. The act of existence is painful, brings out those feelings that are supposed to be stunted and not quite there. When he doesn’t exist, he doesn’t have to remember love or pain. Not the emotional kind, anyway. He imagines he’ll always feel the physical kind. It’s something he can rely on in his profession.
But existing, living beyond just staying alive, is beyond what his battered soul can handle. He knows from experience that it will only end in heartbreak, so why bother trying? People judge him before they know him. They take one look at his armor, his swords, his unnaturally white hair, his yellow eyes, his size, and back away. Mutter under their breath, not actually provoking him, because they’re afraid of what he could do to them.
They’re right to be afraid. He’d never hurt them, not unless he has to act in self-defense, but he was trained and mutated as a child specifically to become a killing machine.
If he thinks about it too much, though, he starts getting worried. Remorseful, even. So he doesn’t think about it.
It’s been years since he lived in a capacity beyond not-quite-existing when he meets her. Renfri. Shrike. The woman who, according to some, shouldn’t exist. But Renfri does exist, and she exists with a vengeance. She doesn’t just go through life in a taciturn daze, fulfilling a calling that was laid out for her without her consent. She lives, because that’s the sweetest revenge of all. Aside from killing the man who made her life hell, of course.
Renfri is different from everyone else. Not because she was born during an eclipse, not because she’s supposedly cursed, not because she’s a dangerous outlaw. No, Renfri is different because she calls Geralt by his name. He rarely hears his name. At their most polite, people usually just refer to him as “Witcher.” Those in his profession aren’t deserving of names, not among regular people.
But Renfri asks him his name. She treats him like a person. He has no doubt she’s brutal and fierce in combat, but she’s also calm. To him, she’s even kind. It’s the first time Geralt has been dragged out of his apathy to actually feel something since he was a child.
Killing her, then, hurts a whole lot more. And when the villagers begin to pick up their rocks and throw them at him, all he can think is, I deserve this. Because he does. These are the consequences of existence.
If he’d ever had any doubts about his existence, or lack thereof, any kind of impulse to drop everything and live, his experience with Renfri successfully drove them away. It confirmed what he’s always believed: the only thing he can expect from life is pain.
So why bother trying?
When the smoke clears, and his emotions are put back into their boxes, he’s not sure what to do, what to think. What to feel. Everything is like it’s underwater. Muffled, distant. Cold. When he can actually analyse what happened in Blaviken, all he feels is a muted disgust. Renfri was kind to him, certainly, but she was using him, just like Stregobor. She was just prettier and more hurt, and that had been enough to fool Geralt.
The aftermath of Blaviken is disastrous for witchers-in-general, not just Geralt. Everywhere, witchers (those who are left, anyway) are accused of being the Butcher of Blaviken. Geralt actively avoids wintering in Kaer Morhen for years, unable to look his fellow witchers in the eyes and tell them that he’s the one responsible for further smearing the reputation of their profession.
Eventually, though, he meets a bard. A young man, barely an adult, but already living life to the fullest. He follows Geralt, claiming to want to live a life of danger and excitement. “Death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak,” he says, arms wide, like he’s proclaiming a sermon to hundreds of followers.
Later, Geralt learns that he was actually fleeing the tavern in Posada before the four brothers of a young woman he’d recently bedded found him.
“But the other things are true, too,” the bard adds quickly. He smiles at Geralt, and for anyone but Geralt, that smile would be infectious. “I want to experience adventure and heroics and monsters, if only to make my songs better. I just also needed to make a quick exit.”
Geralt remains silent, trying to ignore him, ignore this engaging young man who apparently just wants to be friends. He knows better than to let himself be friends with people. He knows better than to care.
And anyway, the bard already admitted that he’s following Geralt because he wants to write better songs. He’s not doing this for friendship or companionship, he’s doing this to establish himself in his own profession. The moment that happens, he’ll leave Geralt and never look back. Geralt knows the type: this young man is a diva.
He lets the bard stay, mostly because he doesn’t think he’d be able to get rid of the man if he tried. And part of him enjoys it. The part of him that liked Renfri, the part of him that managed to avoid witcher mutations and harsh training, the part of him that’s still an inquisitive little boy, that part of him enjoys having a friend.
No, he has to remind himself. Not a friend. A travelling companion. The bard will leave soon, and then he’ll be alone again. Just him and Roach. And they’ll be fine, just like they always are.
(He ignores that part of him when it argues back, reminding him of the fact that he’s very much not fine, and hasn’t been fine in a very long time.)
When the bard leaves, though, it’s with the promise of coming back. They reach Oxenfurt at the summer’s end, and the bard turns to him, bows, and says, “This is where I leave you, Geralt. I expect to see you in Oxenfurt next spring, so I can travel with you again. Just one more year, and then I’ll be free, if you can believe it!”
It’s enough to make Geralt confused, and since confusion isn’t an emotion as such, just a lack of understanding, he’s alright with asking what the fuck the bard is talking about.
“Didn’t I tell you?” the bard replies. His smile fades, but only slightly. “I’m a student st the university here. One more year of this place and I’ll be free: no obligations, no classes, probably no job.” His voice is surprisingly matter-of-fact. “I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want to be anyone’s courtly troubadour, even if the pay is good and the food is better. There’s no creativity there! I don’t want to be a hack unless I’m being a hack on the topic of my choosing. So I’ll be free once the school year ends, if...” His voice trails off momentarily, and he bites his lower lip, looking suddenly timid. “If you still want me to travel with you.”
There’s a moment of silence that Geralt allows to stretch on, watching the bard through narrowed eyes. He finally grunts and turns to go. “We’ll see,” he says.
Before he can mount Roach, the bard lunges forward and catches him in an embrace. The younger man is warm, clinging to Geralt almost desperately in a full-body hug.
Geralt pats him on the back. Once.
But he comes back in the spring, after the snows have all melted and the flowers are blooming brightly, just to see if the bard still wants to travel with him. And if he doesn’t, well, Geralt can make up some story about a monster hunt in a nearby village. People in Oxenfurt never pay attention to anything outside the town; the bard wouldn’t know it’s a lie.
He hates to admit it, but he misses the bard. Misses the chatter and the singing. He’s only known the bard for a summer, but it was the closest Geralt’s ever gotten to truly feeling alive since Renfri.
And he should be running in the opposite direction, refusing to let himself get soft with feelings of any kind, because it will all end in pain and heartbreak, for everyone around. He knows how stupid he’s being. He’s acting like a human. Not a witcher.
It’s worth it, though, to see the smile light up that stupid bard’s face when he shows up in the halls of Oxenfurt. The bard (whose name is Jaskier, Geralt finally learns, after an embarrassingly long amount of time in which he only referred to the man as “bard.”) clearly wasn’t expecting him to show up. Moreover, he’s clearly over the moon that Geralt did.
So the years continue. Sometimes without Jaskier, sometimes with. And the entire time, Geralt can’t shake the nagging feeling that he’s doing something wrong, somehow. He shouldn’t be attached to this bard, he shouldn’t enjoy his company. He should be emotionless. Feelingless. Like every good witcher is.
(And Geralt is a very good witcher. He’s got the extra mutations to prove it.)
He tells himself that he owes Jaskier a debt of gratitude, and that’s why he still allows the man to hang around. Jaskier singlehandedly managed to change the Continent’s perception of witchers. Where Geralt once was a villain, a monster, a mutant, despised and other, he’s now a hero. The golden-eyed white wolf, who defeated the evil army of elves at the edge of the world, who slays demons and hunts monsters. Who makes sure people can sleep soundly, knowing nothing will come and eat them or their livestock in the night.
Certainly he doesn’t enjoy saving the man from vengeful fathers, husbands, brothers, occasionally wives. Certainly he doesn’t enjoy having the added responsibility of keeping Jaskier safe during a monster hunt. Certainly he doesn’t enjoy being dragged along to this viscount’s manor, that king’s court, this duchess’s castle. It doesn’t change up his life, add a welcome bit of color to his otherwise tedious routine of travel, kill monsters, haggle for the payment.
(It’s not that he doesn’t like it, actually. He just can’t allow himself to like it.)
It’s at nighttime that Geralt has time to sit, to rest, to reflect on what is going on around him. He’s not a great philosopher or thinker, he doesn’t worry himself wondering about the mysteries of the world, or how times have changed, or mysterious prophecies. In fact, he realizes, laying in his bedroll, Jaskier’s bedroll as close to his as possible (“for warmth,” Jaskier always says), he’s really just content.
He doesn’t think he’s ever felt contentment before. He’s never existed quite enough to feel anything beyond those feelings that exist on a purely physical level. Contentment is different. He’s tired, he’s sore, he has a gash on his arm from killing a Kikimora that won’t stop stinging, but he’s content. Jaskier is by his side, the fire is burned down to embers, the stars are bright above, and they had enough food to both eat their fill.
This is all he’s ever wanted in life. He didn’t even know he wanted anything in life before this.
It scares him. Geralt of Rivia, the white wolf and the butcher of Blaviken, is scared. Every person he’s ever been close to has abandoned him in some way. Even his mother. If he lets Jaskier get too close, Jaskier will leave him, too. He’s only travelling with Geralt because he’s convinced Geralt is something special, something more than just a witcher. When he finds out he’s wrong, he’ll leave. He’ll abandon Geralt, just like everyone else.
They’re not friends. They can’t be friends. Friends leave each other, they betray, they lie, they abandon. Geralt knows he wouldn’t do that to Jaskier, so the only other logical option is that Jaskier will do all that to him.
His world is cruel. Jaskier won’t hang around for long once he sees that.
But the bard stays. He clings, like he did in that embrace in Oxenfurt, all those years ago. He refuses to let go, refuses to leave. He takes care of Geralt. It isn’t necessary, but it’s nice. He makes sure Geralt gets the full pay he was promised. It isn’t necessary, but it’s nice. He’s ready to physically fight anyone who’s rude to Geralt. It isn’t necessary, and that one isn’t even necessarily nice, because it means Geralt has to haul off an angry bard, but the thought behind it is appreciated.
Geralt appreciates Jaskier. He feels...something for him. Whether he likes it or not, Jaskier has dragged him past barely existing, into life and all its joys and sorrows. Because that’s what Jaskier experiences, and he’ll be damned if he won’t try and get everyone else to experience it, too.
Yennefer is different. She’s like no one Geralt has ever met before, not even Renfri. She could have ended up like Geralt, refusing to exist beyond the bare minimum. Like him, she was born into a cruel world, a world that was willing to betray her and abandon her.
But she’s not like Geralt. She exists, there’s no way around that. And she’s not like Renfri, either, existing with a vengeance, using her life as a way to get revenge on people who wish her dead and autopsied. No, she exists as a force of nature. She is power and chaos and life and death and fire. She wants the world, wants everything, lusts after it. Her world was cruel. And it owes her for that cruelty. She doesn’t just exist. She demands existence, like reality itself owes her a debt.
And when he’s with her, Geralt thinks that maybe she’s right. The world is cruel, but that doesn’t mean he can’t want, can’t feel. Maybe it means he deserves more than that.
Maybe Yennefer and Jaskier and Renfri are all right. Renfri lived because it was the sweetest revenge. Jaskier lives for all the wonder and adventure and excitement. He’s filled with joy and romanticism. The soul of a poet. Yennefer lives because the world owes her that much and more.
In contrast, Geralt has...what, exactly? A child surprise, a horse, and the grim reality of life without feeling. He’s escaping the pain and heartbreak, but he’s also losing love and joy, happiness and friendship. He’s losing the chance to ever be content.
It’s Jaskier who finally convinces him that life is worth living, that feeling is better than not. On King Niedamir’s mountain, during the dragon hunt. And Geralt thinks he knows what he wants, he understands physical feelings. Geralt is attracted to Yennefer. He understands that. How could he not be? She’s important to him, like Jaskier is important to him.
Jaskier, of course, is with him through choice, while Yennefer is with him through a wish, but that hardly changes things. He can love both Jaskier and Yennefer, and he knows Jaskier will still be around after the dragon hunt is over. He’s worked out what pleases himself, and it’s the people who have cared for him and dragged him past the edge of existence.
He goes to Yennefer. There will be time to go to Jaskier after this is all done, show him that he loves him, too. He has these people, and he wants them to know that they have him. He’s sat on the fence for too long, and he can’t believe they’ve waited this whole time for him.
Geralt is ready to live. He’s ready to exist. He’s ready to feel. This time, there won’t be pain. There won’t be heartbreak. There won’t be abandonment or betrayal or fear or loss.
When Yennefer leaves, Geralt can feel it, feel it, somewhere in his throat, his chest, his stomach. His hands have gone numb.
And before Jaskier can talk, before Jaskier can convince him that it’s alright to feel these things, that the price of living is worth it for the love, the beauty, the happiness that one can feel, before Jaskier can spin words into reality like wool into yarn, Geralt stops him.
He’s spent most of his long life not-quite-existing. The act of existence is too painful. It’s better this way.
It has to be.