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It wasn’t so bad, dying.
The world took on a slightly fuzzy look, the soft light from the setting sun making the tall flowers around him practically glow as they gently swayed in the breeze. Jaskier brought a blood-drenched hand up to hold one of the blossoms, a strange fondness constricting his chest as a rueful smile pulled at his lips. The man closed his eyes and took in a shaky breath, letting go of the flower as tears slid down his cheeks. A few of the red-stained petals followed his hand as he dropped it. When Jaskier first took in where he decided to die, he wanted to scream from the irony of it; the bard had stumbled his way into a field of white lupine, which was otherwise known as the wolf flower. He wanted to kick the pretty things, watch them crumple as he smeared them into the soil beneath his boots. He couldn’t, though, as his body betrayed him moments after by dropping him to his knees and eventually to his back when the blood loss started to make him dizzy.
If only he hadn’t managed to piss off the person they reminded him of. Tears began to spill faster, a sob threatening to break past his paling lips. He hated himself for crying over Geralt, hated that he let himself think about the man after months of shoving every thought of him away. He was dying, goddamn it, and he didn’t need the last thing on his mind to be the man who shattered his heart. Jaskier clenched his jaw, numbness slowly settling in his fingertips even as the spot under his ribs still pulsed with liquid-fire pain. The bard drew in another breath, struggling now, and he just wished he wasn’t so alone. He craved the soft touch of fingers carding through his hair, the gentle brush of knuckles skimming along his cheekbones. A sob finally wracked his form, causing him to cough up some blood from the intensity of it.
He gave up on not thinking about the witcher. It was hard not to, when he was the only thing he thought of for the past two decades of his life. Geralt was the reason why he became so successful, the reason behind his love of adventure and why he couldn't bear the thought of settling down in a court. He’s also the reason why he was dying in a field of flowers that cruelly reminded the bard of everything he’ll never have.
Ever since being told to ‘fuck off’ Jaskier had been wandering from town to town, trying his best to forget about what happened on the mountain. He took to fattening up his coin purse at the many different taverns he came across, deciding to go to the coast like he always wanted to. It was a careless decision that put him here; A few men who were at the bar Jaskier had played for a few nights ago were trailing him, noticing how many crowns he was raking in each night, and jumped him when he took the wrong path. They dragged him into the forest, broke his lute and stole the bag carrying his essentials. It was when he tried to fight back that one of the brutes stabbed him, calling him a ‘witcher-whore’ and spitting in his face. It was soon after they left him that he found the glade that was to become his deathbed. Only a little while after he fell into the comforting embrace of the flowers that he realised no one was coming. He was going to die there, never having told his white wolf how much he loved him. He’ll never be able to tell the man he forgave him, even though Garalt’s the one who should be apologising, not him. The hand that tried to staunch the flow of blood pressed down harder as more sobs traveled through his frail body, getting weaker and weaker with each shuddering inhale.
He could only hope that whoever looked for his corpse wouldn't have too much trouble. It should be easy enough to spot his red outfit in the sea of white that surrounded him, not to mention the crimson trail leading to his body. He wished he could play something right now. Considering how weak he was, he’d only be able to pluck out a few chords, but it’d make him feel better. The bard settled on humming softly, mouthing the words of a song he remembered his mother used to sing to him. He distinctly remembered singing it for Geralt, too, when the man was too sick or too loopy from potions to remember it.
“You’ll strew some sage and lilies,
And roses where I rot,
Of all the flowers you picked,
I knew you’d forget
Forget-me-nots.”
The bard tapped the notes on his chest when he couldn’t hum anymore, the air coming in too little and spots of black coming in too fast. With heaving breaths, Jaskier smiled sadly as he watched the clouds go by. The smile turned into a small frown as he distantly heard what sounded like the clopping of hooves, followed by a panicked shout of what might’ve been his name. There was a thud that was trailed by a fast succession of footsteps, ones that he’d recognise anywhere. He squinted as a blur of white came into view, two spots of honey-gold looking over him in disbelief. Jaskier gave Geralt a feeble smile, a few more tears slipping from his eyes as he forced himself to reach up and brush a hand along his witcher’s cheek. The bard hated to see the man so distraught, especially since he was the cause of it. He wanted to sob when a hand came up to hold him in place, but he couldn’t, and Jaskier knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.
The bard took in a shaky breath and whispered out a small, “I’m sorry, Geralt,” before falling silent, slowly going still in his white wolf’s arms.
Cornflower blue eyes stared lifelessly at a sky that didn't care, and they’d stay that way until the man he loved closed them for him.