Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Though the simile has been well overused, it would be anything but inaccurate to say that the woman sitting before them looks like she’s seen a ghost. Her fair skin drawn so sickly pale that the rose-blush on her cheeks makes her more like a street-performer in costume, than the well-to do and graceful dame Jaskier assumes she is going for.

Which is not to say she is trying to hide her grief— the burgundy red family colours had been absconded for a velvet black mourning dress. And her eyes, though blazing with a certain intensity, are obscured by a sheer veil, reminiscent of clergy in solitary prayer.

When they had been led into the foyer by a servant, the lady had not stood, but her back had straightened and her hands had tightened where they lay on her lap. The totality of her appearance painted an achingly clear picture, and there is a heavy weight, like a thick fog, in the room. But when she speaks, her voice is strong and determined.

“Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier Alfred Pankratz,” she says, “I hope this day finds you well. I thank you for coming so quickly, I am afraid there is no time to lose.”

Jaskier presses a hand to his chest and bows. “Lady Magdalene, I might be a student of language but even I know that nothing can be said to soothe a wound such as this, so forgive me for repeating the meaningless phrase that is the custom, but I am truly, very sorry for your loss. If there is anything in my ability that would comfort you, please do not hesitate to ask.”

He rises to a silence, but Lady Magdalene is not regarding him with any offence. Rather there is a flutter of calculation over her face, and then a hint of a smile appears— nothing strong enough to survive longer than a moment, but at least there is that moment. Moments without despair are so exceedingly rare and therefore unmeasurably precious in times like these.

“That is considerate of you, Bard,” she replies eventually, and Jaskier can’t help but smile back. Already his mind begins gathering words, melodies, sounds. It has been a while since he had written a song of remembrance. This one needs to be nothing less than a masterpiece.

Geralt huffs beside him and sends him a look that Jaskier — fluent in the language of glares as much as the language of poetry— translates to this is not the time for seduction, proving once more that his good friend has no knowledge of the fine art of comfort.

“You had called us here for a reason,” Geralt says, breaking the moment about as gently as he is capable, which is very little.

But Lady Magdalene does not flinch. She merely nods and stands up, motioning to the servant to open the doors behind her. She turns and says, “I will show you.”

The walk through the house is quiet, and it takes some time for Jaskier to realise that this is not born out of the way grief attracts silence like the night attracts danger. The house is quiet because no one else is there. The entire manor, which should likely have been teaming with a small battalion of servants and a wide array of family members, is devoid of life. Only Lady Magdalene and the sole servant seem to have remained, though it is debatable how much life they bring within the home, as the both of them seem to carry a death within their hearts.

“I had him placed in the cooling cellar,” Lady Magdalene says, suddenly. “My late master of studies had been a doctor before a malaise of the hands left him unable to aid his patients. He taught me more than letters and the common knowledge a woman of my status should possess. It is through his teaching I realised I had to protect the body from creatures, small and large, which would consume his flesh and therefore take with them the traces with which we could find the monster that is responsible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, but his expression makes clear that he is impressed. “How long has it been since his death?”

“He disappeared five days before,” Lady Magdalene says. “We found him in the Wildgarden, a day later, in the Treegrove, about a hundred paces from Lover’s Lake. There was a trail of blood on the bridge, so we assumed that he was hurt while on it, walked into the Treegrove to flee from whatever it was, but was eventually killed there, or perished from the wounds.”

Lady Magdalene pushes the large doors to the gardens open herself and then points in a south-western direction. The garden behind the manor is in the shape of a half moon, decorated with patches of flowers and a delicate fish pond. There is a plaza for outside-dinner or tea, but overall the size of the garden is much smaller than is usual for manors of this size. It is enclosed by a half-wall of red brick, up to about the knee, which allows an impressive view of the nature beyond. Where she points there is indeed a large lake where a tiny bridge is only just visible before the woods swallow the horizon. Around the lake there are hills and bushes and flowers, multiple paths wandering about, some paved and others not, in a way that it looks more like a wild expression of nature beside a town than a shared garden of nobles and high merchant folk. There seem to be no sense of organisation, but the result is mesmerising, with the last flowers of spring still in full bloom and ornate benches and tables scattered throughout. It looks like a fairy court, placed in the middle of a half-circle of noble houses.

“This is beautiful,” Jaskier says, awed. “Truly a garden of fables.”

“It is called the Wildgarden, but I do agree with your assessment,” Lady Magdalene says, a hint of pride colouring her voice now. “When these manors were built, the families decided together that a shared space where nature would not be tamed but cultivated would bring our town a hearth of goodwill from the Goddesses and from the people. Even as the town grew into more of a city, it has remained a place for citizens to enjoy at their leisure.” She pauses, and her shoulders slump a little. “Or, at least, it used to be.”

“Miss!” The servant calls out from a few paces away. She’s tugging on the handle of a trapdoor, but it doesn’t seem to budge. “The hinges have gone rusty, it doesn’t want to open.”

Geralt walks up to her and she lets go at once, wide eyed, but then he says gently, “Come. Together.” The girl wraps her hands around the handle just above Geralt’s, he counts down and she pulls with all her might. Jaskier sees the muscles on Geralt’s back tense once and the trapdoor springs open with a bang. The girl tumbles to the floor with the sudden movement, catching herself with a hand on the rough stones.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks.

The girl inspects her hand with a frown and nods. “Just some mild abrasions. I need to clean them with water and then with alcohol, and then bandage them so they won’t grow red or excrete the yellow liquid of festering wounds, but it is not a major injury.” She stands up with a grin, looking almost excited as she holds it out for Geralt to check.

He nods, and his gaze flickers to Lady Magdalene before he says, “That is right. You’ve been taught well.”

The girl’s grin brightens like it might combust with pride and she does a small curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

“Daphne,” Lady Magdalene says calmly. “Do go inside and tend to your wound. You know where the supplies are.”

“Alright miss.” She walks up to them and holds out her hand.

“I don’t need to see it, dear. I trust your judgement.”

Daphne’s jaw drops and she curtseys again. “Thank you, miss! I will be right back, miss!”

With that she scurries back inside in a pace that Jaskier predicts will bring more injuries. He is about to compliment the lady on her student’s abilities when he catches Geralt still staring after Daphne, a soft smile on his face.

Jaskier swallows, the now familiar ache in his chest makes itself known and for a moment he cannot hear anything but the pounding of his own heart. It is times like these that he despairs at his decision to become a lyricist, as opposed to a painter, because he knows that — like there are no words to encompass grief — there are no words for this. No way he will ever be able to describe the beauty of Geralt’s expression; the gentleness that he hides so well from the world but makes him all the more precious in its subtlety.

Jaskier wishes that he could take a brush to canvas and make the image eternal, so that he could look at it again in safety, allowing himself to feel all that it evokes in him without having to rely on ever diminishing memory. But, he supposes, that if he were a painter, that he would still be unable to capture this and instead would have wished to be a poet, so he could describe it in song instead. He takes a shuddering breath, dizzied by intensity he’s feeling, and he tries to control himself before he says something utterly stupid—

“You said ‘we’—”

Geralt has the unerring ability to break any moment of emotionality, even ones he is blissfully unaware of. This time, Jaskier is grateful.

“—who else was there?”

Lady Magdalene straightens. “I meant Daphne and myself. No one else dared to go into the gardens.”

Geralt hums. To the untrained ear, it sounds sceptical. To Jaskier it sounds considering, like Geralt is tucking away that latter piece of information.

“If you doubt my spoken account, I took copious notes. They are in my study, ” Theresa adds tersely, crossing her arms. “It rained the day after we found him and placed him here. I would show you the site, but all traces have been washed away.”

“Not for me,” Geralt says.

“What he means is that his senses as a witcher go beyond what we are capable of, so where we would not be able to smell something of interest after rain, he might be able to,” Jaskier says quickly, and sends a glare at Geralt. There is no instruction manual to deal with Geralt’s ways, as has been Jaskier’s eternal suffering, so it is Geralt’s responsibility to at least attempt not to cause offence through ambiguity. At least, that is what Jaskier tries to convey through an unspoken look of his own.

Geralt ignores him entirely and lights a torch.

“Well, in that case, of course I will show you,” Lady Magdalene says. She’s still looking at Geralt tensely, but her defensive posture relaxes somewhat. “My only concern is for this to be solved, Witcher, I do not need to be the one to do so, though I hope you would take my observations into account in case they are pertinent.”

There is a moment, but then Geralt nods.

“I’ll have the journals be brought to your guest quarters so you may review them later,” she says in a voice that brooks no more argument. Then she moves forward, takes the torch out of Geralt’s hand — who presumably only allows her to out of sheer surprise — and lowers herself into the cellar entrance.

There is a moment where they wait for the lady to reach the cellar floor and Geralt and Jaskier are left, relatively alone, on the surface.

Jaskier grins at him. “I like her.”

“This is not the time,” Geralt hisses.

“I understood the first time,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “And it is you who does not understand.”

“You can come down!”

Jaskier climbs down while Geralt combats confusion by concealing it with annoyance. It is not a fight he wins. Unlike the expression of gentleness, expressions like these don’t cause Jaskier to become entirely useless, and instead bring an exhilarating sensation of delight— it is fun to break through Geralt’s brooding exterior and just let him be a little bemused and uncertain. It makes him more like the rest of them.

But all mirth dissolves at once when Lady Magdalene lights the torches lining the wall, one by one, revealing the source of all her grief.

A young man, maybe a few years younger than Lady Magdalene, lies splayed on his back in the middle of the cold cellar floor. There are large iron buckets of ice surrounding him, keeping the room in a deep chill. The ice would have been stored here in the winter, keeping meats and fruits fresh until the summer would start the melting process. It would be used before it could dissolve entirely, in desserts or for cooling baths during the hottest days. Jaskier suspects that this time the ice will not be used for such homely circumstances, not when it was used to keep the body of Lady Magdalene’s lover from rotting.

“His name was Simon,” Lady Magdalene says, her voice as cool as the ice itself. Jaskier barely withholds himself from going to her and pulling her into an embrace. This is the voice of someone who is keeping herself as far away as possible, because one step closer to the source of her pain would destroy her utterly. It reminds him of those times where Geralt had been much too close to death for comfort, and Jaskier had only been able to persist by thinking about the next bandage to be replaced, the next sip of water to be forced through lax lips, and ignore entirely the possibility of there not being another ‘next’.

“I have known him since childhood. He was the son of the town’s blacksmith, who tended to the hooves of our horses. He would bring Simon along with him, and eventually our family took him in as a stable boy.”

Geralt crouches down besides the body. At first he only looks, his eyes tracing every inch of exposed and unexposed skin. Jaskier follows his lead, taking notes as he goes.

Simon’s clothes are full of tears, but they seem less like the claws of a creature and more like the consequence of running through thorn bushes without care. His body is slightly bloated, but overall he seems in good condition, like he’s suffering an illness that makes the skin turn wan and pale, not like he is dead already. Or that mistake could have been made, if it weren’t for his lips—

They are utterly destroyed. The skin is flayed back to reveal his teeth. His cheeks are split horizontally on each side, carving a macabre smile, like the pain had led him to scream which only tore his skin further.

Jaskier takes out his artisan bound journal to take notes— the first of this quality he’s ever owned, courtesy of Geralt. It had been a gift upon their reunion after they had parted last and Jaskier had swore to himself only their adventures would be written within it. He hasn’t left Geralt’s side since. He hopes this is a case that will fit in its entirety within the pages, because despite having started at 220 empty ones, he only has a measly 24 left. He hopes even further that Geralt will get him a new one. So that Jaskier can blithely interpret the gesture as something it does not actually mean. He is aware of his own ignorance to the matter, but he enjoys the thought too much to let go of it.

Geralt did not intend the book to be an invitation to stay, but Jaskier treated it as such anyway.

“This is not the first body that was found like this,” Lady Magdalene says, suprring Jaskier back into writerly action. “That is why I requested you. The first was found in the first week of spring. Simon is the eleventh.”

“One every week.”

Geralt doesn’t ask it like a question, but Lady Magdalene confirms it nonetheless.

“Indeed. We didn’t realise something was happening at first. A few men and women had gone missing, but people just leave sometimes, despite the pain it causes those they leave behind. It took a few weeks to realise that these people did not have a reason to leave— often the opposite had been the case.” Lady Magdalene sighs. “The illness drew more attention, and with it the missing were forgotten.”

She shakes her head as if to cast away a memory.

“Illness?” Jaskier asks, to help her along. “What were the symptoms?”

“Exhaustion, fainting spells,” she says. "People became despondent, without any ability to do any activity at all. It does not kill them, but it might as well. Some have not been able to leave their beds for weeks.”

“You suspect a connection,” Geralt says.

“I know there is, because I have experienced it myself.”

Lady Magdalene takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “I had been sick for weeks, barely able to rise for more than minutes, fainting spells even if I were in bed. My family was worried that the illness would spread, so they left me with Daphne because she had already been sick and had recovered. They would spend a week at the summer house of close friends of ours, and return once I got better.”

“Simon refused to go,” Geralt says, standing up.

“Yes, he did.” Lady Magdalene’s eyes are wide. “How did you know?”

“I know what did this.”

Lady Magdalene takes a step closer. “Please, tell me. It is too late for my Simon, but I cannot let this monster continue to terrorise our city. There must be a way to stop it.”

“There is,” Geralt begins, but in turning to speak to Lady Magdalene, his gaze catches Jaskier’s and he freezes. Something flickers over his face— realisation, first, Jaskier knows that like the back of his hand. But then something else, something Jaskier has almost never seen and therefore has trouble to believe as his mind puts a word to the tightening of Geralt’s eyes, the sharp turn of his mouth. Terror. The word is utter terror. One blink and it’s gone again.

And then Geralt stumbles. Jaskier rushes forward in reflex and is only just able to fling his arm around Geralt’s waist to prevent him from falling on top of Simon’s body.

“Sir!” Lady Magdalena takes something out of her pocket— a handkerchief, Jaskier sees, and grabs a piece of ice out of a bucket, wraps it in the cloth, and presses it to Geralt’s forehead before he even has the time to protest. Jaskier takes diligent mental notes for future occasions.

“I apologise,” she says, “I thought that you would be safe from this. I shouldn’t have assumed— I shouldn’t have listened to all those rumours.”

“What—“ Jaskier begins, but Geralt interrupts him.

“It is fine. I am merely tired.” He pushes Jaskier’s hands away— roughly. It reminds Jaskier of those first years of their acquaintanceship, leaving him too stunned to respond to it. Geralt moves away from him. It seems deliberate.

Lady Magdalene hums. It is decisively sceptical. The two exchange looks encompassing an entire conversation that Jaskier is not privy to. For the first time, Jaskier feels sympathy for Geralt whenever he doesn’t know what humans actually mean just by studying their faces.

“We need to go back inside before it gets dark,” Geralt is saying.

There is pause, but eventually Lady Magdalene nods. “Daphne has prepared quarters for you in the west hall.”

“We need only one.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “How so?”

“It is safer,” Geralt says, and doesn’t illuminate any more even as both Lady Magdalene and Jaskier take turns asking questions as they walk back into the halls.

Geralt ignores them and Jaskier is about to burst from frustration — Lady Magdalene seems like she would join in gladly — when Geralt starts burning herbs and walking around the room. He’s murmuring something, deep in concentration. After five minutes of this, he says to Lady Magdalene, “Has Simon ever given something to you? Something with value. Emotional value.”

For a moment Lady Magdalene seems flustered, like Geralt’s mysterious routine broke through even her iron forged composure. Jaskier sympathises and tries not to notice how Geralt has not looked at him once since they left the cellar. He so badly wants to take Geralt by the hand and beg him to tell what is going on— to give answers so he can help make it better. But Jaskier doesn’t know how to handle this Geralt anymore— despondent, quick to anger. It is like he forgot that Jaskier is even here, willing to help.

“Yes, yes. He gave me a book— about fungi.” She stops for a moment, her face crumbling momentarily before she takes a breath and gathers herself. “It was a proposal gift. I had to say no, of course, but he let me keep it.”

“Bring it, now.”

It is then that Daphne rushes in, her hand ambitiously covered in bandages.

Lady Magdalene turns to her at once and says, “Daphne, the book in my sleeping quarters, the one I showed you? It is in the chest under my bed, please bring it at once.”

“Yes, miss,” she replies, but she hesitates in the doorframe. “Is everything okay?”

“Now!” Geralt snaps.

Daphne flinches and looks at the Lady with wide eyes.

“Yes. It will be okay,” Lady Magdalene says gently.

Daphne nods, and runs off.

Lady Magdalene turns to Geralt with a sharp look. “Now I promised her, it must be, do you understand? What do we need to do to make that happen?”

Geralt glares at her, deviant in a way Jaskier has only seen him in true moments of panic, but then he seems to push it away. His face becomes utterly blank— cool. Like he’s found distance.

“Continue to scent the room,” he says, passing her the gently smoking herbs. “We need fire.”

As Lady Magdalene wanders through the room, letting the scent waft around them, Geralt — in the most aggressive way possible — begins to build a fire in the open hearth. The tinder wood has just put the larger stacks to flame when Daphne comes in with the book.

“Here,” Geralt says.

Daphne sprints to him, gives it over, and Geralt throws it in the fire.

“No!”

Geralt grabs Lady Magdalene by the wrist before she can reach into the hearth. The flames curl over the book and then it combusts at once. Geralt had pushed both Daphne and the Lady under him, so the fluttering pieces of parchment — which are on fucking fire — only land on Geralt’s back.

“You utter runt of a twice abandoned litter,” Jaskier spits out. It isn’t his best work but he’s under excruciating circumstances. He grabs a vase, and throws the contents over Geralt, flowers and all, making him look like a bedraggled cat caught in a spring rain storm. It is frustratingly charming, despite the glare.

There is a yell. “How could you?”

It’s Daphne, who seems to have lost her awe of Geralt and is quite literally kicking and screaming instead. “That was from Simon. It was his gift! It was important! It was the only thing we had left of him besides his dead body!”

Geralt lets himself be kicked. He slumps back, away from the fire, which makes Daphne stop. She’s breathing heavily and looks utterly dejected. Lady Magdalene reaches for her and they stand together, watching Geralt with hard eyes.

“I know,” Geralt says, pushing a hand through his wet hair. He’s breathing heavily too. “I know, that’s why it worked.”

Only the burning of wood interrupts the silence that follows.

Lady Magdalene clears her throat, looking away from Geralt and into the fire instead. “Will it come back?”

“Yes, in time,” Geralt answers with a sigh. “Your love had already been severed. This wasn’t enough to satiate it. Only to cast it away for some time.”

“How long do we have?”

“Depends on how much you loved him.”

Lady Magdalene stills. A tiny piece of parchment flutters in front of her face. “With everything I am capable of.”

Geralt hums. Agreement, Jaskier thinks.

“We should have a day or two then. Enough time to prepare,” he says, almost reassuringly. Their eyes lock and Lady Magdalene hides a sniff with a cough. She nods and then turns to Daphne, who has begun shaking like a leaf. They take a moment together in the corner of the room and Jaskier lets them have their privacy, and moves to Geralt instead.

Geralt still isn’t looking at him.

“Will you spend that time being ever so gracious and begin to explain exactly what we are dealing with here?” Jaskier says, forcing a smile. “To Lady Magdalene, because it seems that you have more knowledge about what happened to Simon than she has, and she has the right to know. And to me, because I have been under the impression that I am, at times, capable of being useful to you. Which I cannot be if I don’t know what I am meant to be doing, so please, for once in your miserable life, talk.”

Jaskier lowers himself so that he’s on eye level with Geralt. “Because I am getting the sense that you’d rather have me leave and do this all on your own. In which case you need to tell me as well so I don’t waste my time—“

Geralt’s hand is a vice around his arm. Finally, finally, he looks Jaskier in the eye. “You cannot leave.”

“Since when do I have to ask your permission—“

“Jaskier.”

One word. It is only one word. But at once all the fight leaves Jaskier. It is in the way he says it— the way his lips curl around it. Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of it. Indescribable.

“It isn’t safe to leave,” Geralt adds. The fact that he explains it— takes the effort to give the reason why rather than just throw around commands assuming everyone would either just understand his reasoning or blindly follow them if they don’t — melts the last residue of resistance Jaskier had left.

“Alright,” he says, breathless.

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and stands up. He moves away from Jaskier again — deliberate, again — but this time it isn’t as far away as he did in the cellar.

Jaskier resigns himself to yet another bout of incremental progress. He’s gone through it once, he supposes; he knows the tricks to it now.

There is a long moment, with Daphne silently sniffling and the fire turning into ember, where nothing is said. It is the Lady who breaks it eventually, and where she’d seemed numb before, the emotional turmoil has reached her now.

“We’ll have a meal while you explain to us the situation,” Lady Magdalene says. Her hands are tightly intertwined behind her back, and her voice is tense. “Freshen up in your quarters in the meantime.” She tilts her head to Geralt, a hint of sharpness in her voice. “Your jacket has not withstood Simon’s gift without consequences.”

She’s right. The cloth of Geralt’s travel jacket is scorched with pockmarks like cigar burns. Jaskier is glad that it isn’t Geralt’s skin instead, but he quietly mourns the loss of the jacket nonetheless. Geralt has always looked distractingly good in it.

“Thank you, my lady,” Jaskier says graciously enough to count for the both of them. “And I am sorry.”

There is a pause, and then she sighs. “I suppose sacrifices must be made, and if this kept us safe, Simon would have wanted it so.” She gives a tight smile and says, “For all the circumstances, I am glad to have met you both.” But then she takes a breath and her smile turns softer. Smaller too, but more genuine, no longer trying to hide the sadness clear on the rest of her face. “Within a few hours you have contributed more to this investigation than anyone else has managed to since the first body was found. For that I thank you. To keep things simple between us, I insist you call me by my name from now on. Theresa.”

She holds out a hand, almost as if to redo their initial greeting, and Jaskier takes it gently to kiss it.

“It is my utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Theresa.”

Her lips twitch upward further for a moment, and Jaskier recognises that if it were not for her pain, this is a woman who is not only clever, competent and extremely knowledgeable, but also one with humour. If his heart had not already set itself on another, Jaskier would have fallen in love with her on the spot.

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour. I will see you then.”

She leaves with Daphne in tow.

Jaskier takes a breath and lets his concerns show now that it is only the two of them: his voice is unsteady as he asks, “This is a dangerous one, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Geralt is already walking towards the West wing.

“Ersten Woods Butcher dangerous, or the Witch of Trevalza dangerous?”

“Both.”

“What?”

“Both, combined.”

Jaskier stops Geralt with a hand on his arm. “Are you telling me this is the worst that we’ve ever seen? There are only eleven bodies, the Witch had been kidnapping whole orphanages of children.”

Geralt only allows the hand for a moment, and then he pulls away with a huff. He pushes the door open and Jaskier has all but given up before he answers.

“It is not about the amount of people, this time,” Geralt says. “It is about the cost if I fuck it up.”

This surprises Jaskier. He knows about the witcher code, of course. There is no place for cowardice within it, so the consequences to failure are merciless yet simple: death. Jaskier has no idea what could be worse than that and make Geralt panic like this, even momentarily, when he withstood the threat of so much without even blinking.

“What would happen?”

Geralt hums. This one has no real meaning to it, at least on an emotional level. Jaskier likes to call it the ‘I will not acknowledge that I have been asked a question’ hum.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying to control his frustration. “Remember, it won’t be just you fucking up. I’ll be there, taking at least half of the blame. Likely a lot more, if I believe you.”

Geralt turns his back to him. “I know.”

That’s the last thing he says until dinner.

Chapter Text

Dinner is an informal affair.

The table had been set not in one of the many dining halls within the Manor, but within the kitchen itself. The work table where normally the dough would be kneaded and the vegetables cut is now covered with a rich green cloth. Theresa and Daphne have outdone themselves in the small amount of time they had— dozens of small bowls and jars filled with all kinds of fruits, jams and spreads. There is a vegetable soup still slowly simmering on a low fire, and Daphne is in the process of taking freshly baked bread out of the oven.

Theresa sits once they enter and gestures to their places. “It might not be a traditional evening meal but I hope it will please you nonetheless. We have been trying to harvest and preserve as much as we can from the gardens, now so many have left and those who remain don’t dare to step in. As a consequence, we have grown custom to more eclectic nourishment.”

“It looks delicious,” Jaskier says, honestly, and his stomach rumbles.

“Please, take whatever you desire,” Theresa says. “We also have— oh, I’m sorry. One moment.”

She stands to take a bottle of wine back to the table. She opens it and pours a glass for everyone but Daphne. “This was made in the winery nearby. Sadly, his wife was one of the fallen. I questioned him recently, after Simon’s death, to gather more details as to what was happening. His answers will be in my journals as well.”

Daphne, mouth half-full, adds, “He gave us the wine for free, because we are the only ones trying to solve it. He said that there would be another ten bottles for the ones that got rid of the curse once and for all.”

“Daphne, remember your manners, we have guests,” Theresa says with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry miss,” Daphne says quickly, still with her mouth full. She seems to realise that fact right after almost apologising again, but changes her mind just in time to press her lips tightly together.

“My apologies,” Theresa says. “We have been alone for quite some time— there was Simon, of course, but after... it has been just us.” She quiets. Daphne puts her hand on Theresa’s arm.

A few things come together for Jaskier. “Please, don’t stand on propriety on our account. We are, let’s say, not one for the rules that society prescribes to us.”

Geralt huffs eloquently and takes a gulp of his wine.

Theresa perks up a little, sending Jaskier a shrewd look. “Ah, I should have realised.” At once, her posture changes— no longer is she the lady of a house. She becomes a woman; confident yet broken, clever yet overwhelmed, still able to function through a strong sense of purpose. Daphne relaxes as well, but to the opposite effect; she sits up straighter and her eyes no longer tilt downward. When she smiles, it is much more like a grin than anything else.

Jaskier marvels at the both of them— the costume of tradition had been so ill fitted for either and what remains is unmeasurably more honest. Theresa is much too complex to be folded in the graceful simplicity of the aristocratic way, and Daphne is entirely too curious to be subservient and unseen.

“The situation has been horrific,” Theresa says, “But with the absence of my family there was a sense of peace, as they seemed to have taken all their restrictions right alongside them. Despite my illness, we all felt free together. But since Simon’s death…” She trails off with a sigh. “It was too short, but we were happy.”

Daphne responds to that with a tight embrace around Theresa’s waist, saying, “We were.” Tears begin to stream down her face until ugly sobs are shuddering through her thin frame. Theresa doesn’t admonish her, just cards a hand through her hair, murmuring something Jaskier cannot hear.

“I know, I know,” Daphne hiccups. After a while, she calms down enough to continue eating.

Theresa has not touched her plate, and judging from the look on her face she is not going to.

“You understand, Geralt, that I must fix this?” she says, casting a glance to Daphne as she does. “I know that we will mourn him forever. Losing him is not something I will be able to return from. But I must prevent this from ever happening again.”

Geralt nods slowly. He takes a piece of bread, eats it at leisure, but then stops halfway through to ask, “Do you desire revenge?”

There is a flash in Theresa’s eyes. “Of course I do, but I am not fool enough to be blind to the limits of my own capabilities. I have been trained to read, to write, and my mind is a coursing river whereas many other minds I have encountered barely deserve the designation of a pond. But I have not been trained to fight — much less to fight monsters — so I will be satisfied in the knowledge that the monster has been slain, even if it was not at my hand.”

Geralt hums.

“Of course, if I was able to contribute, it would mean much to me,” Theresa adds, “but as I said, it does not need to be me who breaks the Lover’s curse. It just needs to be broken.”

“Lover’s curse?” Jaskier asks. “Since when is this a curse? I have never heard of curses killing people in such a manner.”

“She’s not wrong.” Geralt pushes his plate out of the way and places a leather-bound journal onto the table. “Only it is not the victims who were cursed, it is the creature.”

Jaskier barely withholds himself from exclaiming ‘finally’ and instead settles in for a much needed monster-lecture. He leans back into his chair, grabs parchment, ink, a quill, and the nearest bowl of fruit— freshly sliced apple pieces — for refreshment purposes. He’s barely got his ink pot open by the time Geralt breaks his customary dramatic pause, and begins speaking.

“It is called a Drisnarath. A normal human cursed to become a haunting spirit. It is drawn to love, romantic love especially, and consumes it. This causes fainting spells, exhaustion, and eventually inertia. But it has a second, more dangerous form, with which it kills the person its target loved. Theresa was its target, so when it transformed, it went after Simon.”

Theresa swallows hard.

“It is not your fault,” Jaskier tells her.

She nods her head a minor fraction— acknowledgement, but not agreement.

Geralt flips through the pages of the bestiary until he reaches two charcoal drawings. Jaskier leans over his shoulder to get a better look. One shows two figures, a man and a woman, seemingly ordinary up until their waist when the charcoal is smudged in gradients of greys and blacks, belying the creature’s ghostly origin. But even if that hadn’t been depicted, there is something about their faces that makes them look… off. Too beautiful in a way— not fey or elf like, rather a human beauty, a shine of innocence to them. The beauty of naïve love, perhaps.

“Their first form is invisible,” Geralt says, “except when it chooses not to be. The second is only visible in moonlight, without aid of magic circles.”

The second drawing destroys the illusion of love rather quickly. The same figures are shown, but all traces of innocence have been left behind by the sharp skeletal angles in their faces, and the wild tangle of long hair, cascading upwards as if the creatures are underwater. But it is the lips that make Jaskier suck in a breath— like a cruel inversion of Simon’s, the lips of the creature are covered with sharp rows of teeth.

“There are two ways to stop a Drisnarath,” Geralt continues, “The first—“

“Hold on a moment there,” Jaskier interrupts him swiftly. “We’ll get to the practicalities later, you’ve left out some crucial details!”

“Jaskier—“

“How did it become this way? Can any jolly human be turned into this at any point or is there a hag or a sorceress we need to worry about? Why does it consume love, and then kill the source of that love? When does it become its second form?”

Geralt sighs.

“Give me something Geralt,” Jaskier says, pointing his quill at him. “Where is the story?”

It should be said that, for all Geralt’s talents, telling stories is not among them. So over the course of what feels like an age or two, Jaskier manages to pull out everything about the creature that was so mercilessly deemed ‘irrelevant’. His valiant efforts of extraction eventually results in an expertly written, informative and entertaining masterpiece of prose that goes as follows:

The Drisnarath is less a creature, and more the consequence of a desperate act.

For all horrific ways a human life can come to an end, the dying often are not those who suffer most. Their pain is inevitably temporary, whereas those who are left behind must carry the loss of their loved one for the rest of their life. There are some brave — or incredibly foolish — people who do not surrender to the forces of destiny, and set forth to correct what was in their eyes a grave mistake. They wish to bring their loved ones back to them, through any means necessary.

Despite what the elders may tell you, the means of resurrection are not as rare as foretold. The veil that separates the living and the dead is a thin one, and there are many who have the knowledge and the power to manipulate it. Therefore, the grieving lover has a wide array of options to choose from: rituals of old, a sorcerer’s favour, deals with dark monsters from the other side. But for all their variety, one thing remains consistent with all of them: they almost always fail.

A Drisnarath is nothing more, and nothing less, than one of the many ways it all can go horrifically wrong. And what causes the disaster is the exact same thing that led to the resurrection in the first place: Love itself, the central component to the ritual. It will be the fuel to the magic— so the moment the ritual is completed, the love will be consumed.

So in a way, the lover gets what they want. The one they lost has risen for another chance at life. But not the life they had left behind: the resurrected wakes in a world where their soulmate can no longer love them.

The first few moments are crucial: in rare cases, the resurrected will accept the sacrifice their lover made for them — love in exchange for life — and they will let go instead of try, and fail, to make them fall in love again. Destiny, in this manner, has traded places: now the resurrected lover must mourn the loss of their lover, even if that lover is still alive. And the other, who had before been so driven by love, will live a life without being capable of it, ever again.

But the Gods are rarely so forgiving. Try to imagine facing the uncaring expression of your loved one. Envision them explaining that they do not feel anything for you— that they do not wish you to be near. They cannot love you anymore, while it was that love that allowed you to live again. The same love that is coursing through your veins, allowing you to breathe. Very few people can survive this kind of rejection. The more common tale is one of tragedy: where the resurrected is rejected, and a distorted creature of heartbreak is created. The only emotion a Drisnarath can ever feel, for eternity.

In an attempt to ease its pain, it will begin to consume the love of others, preying on the love it had been denied but so desperately desires. This process of draining results into the fainting spells and inability to eat, symptoms that we so like to attribute to lovesickness.

Unsatisfied, it will roam the world for those who feel love strongest, and drain it out of their hearts just like the ritual had done to their lover. The illness, though not deadly, can leave people despondent for weeks on end.

No one knows what causes the conversion to the predator form. If it had only been a ghostly vampire, preying not on blood but something else that was moved by the heart, then we might have never known of its existence. But the second form of the creature leaves behind a trail of bodies, each having received a bloody kiss of Death. And when there is murder of such strangeness, there must be a monster to blame.

Some say it is jealousy that causes the creature to kill, because its victims are not without pattern: those who are hunted are only ever those who evoke the love which the Drisnarath is consuming, not the ones the Drisnarath is consuming from. The people who die are the ones their prey is in love with. Maybe the creature believes that once they are gone, their prey will love them instead. Therefore the illness is almost a sickly form of protection: if you are unable to leave your bed, it is your lover who will likely soon be dead.

Others say it is merely hunger: when love is no longer enough the creature must kill instead. But this is contradicted by the fact that after each kill, the Drisnarath loses their bloodlust and reverts back to a wandering ghost, looking for love to drain.

No matter the theory, the time of respite is limited either way: it is not the question if it will kill again, but merely who is next. For this purpose, the following poem must be distributed throughout areas where Drisnarath are suspected to be present, so the people are warned of their dangers.

If you find a body whose lips are bloody, and people are fainting left and right.

It will be good to remember it might be clever to keep your heart locked very tight.

It is only the fool who will lose the key when love brings doom for all one can see.

Whoever finds it will be lost forever, as night shall bring the final end.

When the halfwit wakes to this horrid endeavour, all that remains is a lover’s lament.

Jaskier recites the poem in a grandiose manner; receiving applause from Daphne, an approving nod from Theresa, and the usual unreadable hum from Geralt. It is one of the last bastions of unreadability Jaskier has never been able to besiege successfully. Whatever Geralt thinks of his work is frustratingly unknowable, as he tends to insult it. But Jaskier knows for certain that he is mostly lying when he does so.

“I have some loose parchment in my study,” Theresa offers. “We can give the poem to the performers in town and then it will spread through the city at large.”

“I don’t know if it will work as well as we want it to, as love is quite an impossible thing to repress,” Jaskier says, “but maybe it will caution people not to make grand declarations, in case it attracts the creature.”

Geralt nods in agreement.

“Oh, look at that!” Jaskier exclaims. ”I’ll become a monster slayer one of these days.” He brandishes his quill victoriously. “I’ll make a note of it; it must be remembered that I was correct.”

“You might not be incorrect,” Geralt says gruffly. “There is little known about what draws it. It might not be true.”

“A chance at being right is still an accomplishment,” Jaskier says.

“Once it takes its predator form, it will not stop hunting its prey no matter what you do,” Geralt says, tersely. “The transformation needs to be prevented through distance. If feeling for someone cannot be helped, then at least do not create situations that would attract it, or make it convert. A public display of affection, a sacrifice, a promise, any of those spell danger.”

Glass shatters.

Jaskier looks to the source of the sound to see Theresa staring at them; wine is spilling all over the table and over her dress but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I accepted his proposal,” she says. Her voice is completely devoid of emotion, but a single tear streaks down her face. “He asked again, when I was bedridden. And I said yes. Oh Gods.” She swallows and shakes her head minutely. “After being sick for so long... after my family left me behind— he stayed. He always did. It was just the three of us and even though I was so ill, I had never been so happy. I realised that if I survived I should not waste what was left of my life on what others wanted for me, and to choose what I wanted.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and she looks down. Her hands have gone tight around the table’s edge. “A day later he disappeared.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

As Theresa’s face crumbles into guilt, Jaskier comes to a horrifying realisation.

So,” he begins, as casually as he can, “you are telling me, that in theory, if I were to be in love… with someone— anyone… that person could well be in terrible danger?”

Geralt frowns at him at first, seemingly thrown by the question. But then he snorts abruptly, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. His eyes remain hard, however, his expression shaping into a strange contradiction of amusement and irritation.

“No, of course not.” He snorts again, and shakes his head. “Jaskier, you do not love deeply enough.”

For something so incredibly stupid, Geralt manages to make it sound obvious in a way that is highly condescending. Even if he weren’t wrong, Jaskier would have been offended, but now he is just completely dumbfounded.

“How in the name of—“ Jaskier trails off, gaping, too stunned with the depth of Geralt’s ignorance to be creative anymore. He tries again, simplifying. “How would you know?”

Geralt shrugs. “You wouldn’t have left them.”

Jaskier’s jaw falls open once more. He’s barely able to breathe, which means that by the virtue of not having any air in his lungs, he isn’t able to shout: I haven’t. I fucking haven’t. That’s the whole problem.

But even if he could, Geralt has already turned away— like there is nothing left to discuss. He begins to list ways villagers can deter the creature from their homes as much as possible. Jaskier is incapable of listening, stuck in a cycle of utter despair. Of all terrible and ridiculous things that have threatened Geralt’s safety, he’d never thought that loving him might be what will get him killed.

And he cannot even warn Geralt of it: making a confession belongs most certainly on the list of things that will end very, very badly. That is to say, it always has been, but this time the terrible consequences are not the utter humiliation of rejection and the destruction of a friendship, but a horrific creature becoming hell-bent on killing Geralt. It is almost like the Gods are punishing him for keeping it a secret for so long. If he’d just confessed, Geralt would have been here alone, and safe.

Jaskier returns to what is, unbelievingly, reality, when Daphne asks maybe the most important question of all:

“But how do we kill it?”

“There are two ways—“

Jaskier scrambles for his quill.

“The first is the easiest,” Geralt says. “A stronger version of what we did before. It won’t kill it, but it will cast it back beyond the veil and only strong mages would be able to summon it again.”

“As far as I know our city holds no grudges with any sorcerers and the like, so that should not be a concern,” Theresa says.

Geralt nods. “We will need to burn something of significance to a couple who is still alive and not yet drained by the creature. Clothes worn on a wedding day, for example.”

“We can ask around tomorrow,” Daphne offers. “Maybe the mister and missus in the old mill at the edge of town. The illness hasn’t yet reached that far south, and they have been together for decades.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

Jaskier taps the quill to his lips for a moment, thinking, and then asks, “What is the second way?”

Geralt grimaces. “The second way would kill it, but it is more dangerous and the ingredient we would need—“ He shakes his head, “not worth the trouble.”

“What is it?” Theresa asks sharply. “It is better to know all the options so we may make an informed decision. For all you know I can provide what you need; I’ve quite the eclectic collection gathered through my travels and studies.”

“You don’t have this,” Geralt says, and huffs. “We would need tears of a broken heart, no longer than a day old.”

Theresa raises her eyebrows, a little stunned. “But— I would be able to give you that any moment. You do realise—“

“No, not like that,” Geralt speaks right through her, but at least he’s softened the edge of his voice into something almost considerate. “Not out of grief. Out of rejection, like the creature was rejected after its resurrection. A blade covered in tears is the only thing that can kill it.”

“Oh.”

“And it would only work while it's in its predator form,” Geralt adds darkly. He takes a deep swallow of his wine, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand roughly. “I would rather avoid that.”

“Hmm,” Theresa says.

Jaskier suppresses a manic bout of laughter— his heart is beating in a rabbit pace and he one wrong step away from either falling into an anxious pit of hilarity, or a similarly anxious pit of despair.

“Well, it is decided then. We need to find some old wedding attire. Daphne can guide you through the city tomorrow.” Theresa pauses for a moment and sighs. “I know it is foolish, but I can’t help but feel uncomfortable to leave Simon alone.”

“That is completely understandable,” Jaskier assures her.

“Jaskier will stay here as well,” Geralt says.

“What?”

Geralt holds his gaze and says, slowly, as if he’s talking to a child. “I will go with Daphne tomorrow. You will remain inside and not do anything stupid.”

“What stupidity would I be capable of during that excursion? What purpose is it to leave me here, useless?”

“What do you think, Jaskier.” Geralt sends him what some might mistakenly call a halfway grin, but Jaskier doesn’t know what it is but it quite certainly isn’t that. “We cannot take any chances your heart takes exception at the worst possible time.”

Jaskier gapes. “You’re binding me to the house in case I fall in love.”

Geralt huffs and murmurs under his breath, “For all good it will do.”

And there— Geralt’s eyes flicker momentarily towards Theresa. The depths of stupidity in this man is unbelievable.

“Besides, there is use to it still,” Geralt continues, casual as you like. “There are journals to be read.”

Jaskier groans, and then sends an apologetic look to Theresa.

She holds up a placating hand. “No offence taken.”

“I am sure they will be very interesting,” Jaskier tries.

“I hope they won’t bore you too much,” she says, “but I do sympathise. I’ve been bound to the house for much too long as well, I understand how frustrating it is.”

Jaskier allows his head to fall onto the table, at once incredibly exhausted and overwhelmed. Truly, being in love is more trouble than all he’s been able to cause in his lifetime, combined and tripled. But he cannot tell Geralt there is no reason to worry about any exceptions his heart could make, as it has already made one and seems very stubborn to keep it that way. Jaskier could join Geralt easily and without danger: he’d just have to keep his lips tight about a secret he’s been keeping for years and years. He’s got practice. Jaskier sighs deeply. What a mess they’re in.

“Hmm,” Geralt says. This one summarises to ‘don’t be a child’.

Jaskier ignores him and pouts.

“I will need to burn repelling herbs in your sleeping quarters,” Geralt says, ignoring that in turn.

“We’ll clean up as you do,” Theresa stands and nudges Daphne, who is blinking blearily around. “I think you should redo your bandages for the night, dear.”

Daphne yawns. “But— the kitchen—“

“I’ll help,” Jaskier says, mouth still half smudged against the table. The cloth is really soft. Theresa frowns at him but Jaskier doesn’t let her protest. “We’re all alone, remember?”

She looks at him for a long moment, and Jaskier can see the moment the last of her reticence leaves her. She doesn’t smile— it will take a lot more time to reach that point, but her eyes are kind and grateful when she accepts his help, and they remain so as they quietly wash up together.

By the time Geralt comes back to tell Theresa her quarters are ready, Jaskier has regained most of his composure. Despite the precarious situation that his regard for Geralt has caused, he knows how to take care of himself. He’ll get rid of the creature without issue like he always does. In the meantime Jaskier must only keep silent, so he’ll distract himself by focusing on what he is much more studied in— the truest purpose of his craft: to make even the most downtrodden smile again.

Chapter Text

Jaskier’s dreams, which were delightfully pleasant in the face of their reality, are unceremoniously cut short when bright light streams into his face. He blinks his eyes open to see Geralt, fully dressed, tugging open another curtain.

Jaskier groans and puts a hand over his face.

“Hmm,” Geralt says.

“Have mercy,” Jaskier grumbles. “Not all of us have the luxury of meditating themselves to restfulness. There is—“ a large yawn interrupts him “— a transitory period, you know?”

“Breakfast is ready,” Geralt says.

“Just one more moment.” Jaskier closes his eyes and buries his head back into the pillow.

There is a beat of silence and then his blanket disappears.

“Hey!”

Geralt throws the blanket into the corner of the room and tilts his head at him.

“If I slept naked that would have been very humiliating for you,” Jaskier snaps, pointing a finger at him.

“For me?” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes— for you,” Jaskier says, “You would have— you—“

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs. “Fine, I’ll come. Give me some privacy, would you?”

Geralt sends him a sceptical look, but at that he leaves the room— only to stand guard at the doorway, back turned.

“It is like you do not trust me.”

The only response he gets is a snort. Jaskier sighs heartily, staying still just to test Geralt’s patience, but eventually he slips out of bed and readies himself, grumbling about the lack of manners taught at Kaer Morhen and other such matters.

Geralt is a silent presence at his shoulder as they meet Theresa and Daphne in the kitchen once more, and he remains so; only opening his mouth to stuff it with bread. Jaskier spends the time quizzing Daphne on her knowledge— which seems to be mostly focused on health and body, though she is able to answer most of his questions on stately affairs as well. He rewards her by telling her — thoroughly censored — stories of those same characters, getting in all kinds of social and official dramatics.

When everyone has finished, Jaskier stands to help clean up and Geralt surprises him by following suit. Together the kitchen is back in order in only a few moments, and it is then that Geralt breaks silence.

“You need to choose where to spend the day, until we get back,” he says. “I cannot ward off the whole manor, but a room should do.”

“I thought we had a few days until the creature returns,” Theresa interjects. “Do you have reason for concern?”

Geralt’s jaw twitches. “It is better not to take any chances.”

“Alright,” Theresa agrees with a considering look on her face. “We will take my quarters. We had it altered so that I could do everything I needed without having to move very far, so it will suit us for a day.”

Geralt holds her gaze for a moment, then his eyes flicker to Jaskier. “Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

Daphne cuts through the pause by placing a large traveling basket on the table.“We’ve got everything for our travels, sir! Food and drink of course, but also extra rations in case we get lost, medicine and bandages for injuries or if we meet someone in need, coin to give as reward, and— oh!” She turns to Jaskier. “Have you made the copies of the poem? We must not forget to give those out as well.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, and digs through a pocket where he’d folded them up. “I completed them last night, before bed.”

“Good,” Daphne says, and claps her hands together. “That means we can go now, sir.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “Warding first.”

“You can gather what you think we will need from the kitchens,” Jaskier tells Theresa. “I’ll get my lute, just in case.”

A scant half hour later Geralt finally seems satisfied with whatever precautions he put into the room. He leaves with a final, “Don’t go out until we’re back,” and a significant look to the bed and back to Jaskier, meant to imply another thing not to do.

Jaskier pushes him out of the door with a laugh. Geralt marches away stiffly, a highly excited Daphne in tow.

Theresa looks after them through the window, her lips pressed tightly together.

“He won’t let anything happen to her,” Jaskier assures her.

She straightens, her face wiped clean of that momentary hesitation. “I am sure of that as well,” she says. “I’ve heard the tales, of course, but after meeting him in the flesh I must say it is hard to imagine him ever being outclassed.”

Her eyes flicker to the windows again, where Geralt and Daphne’s figures are becoming ever smaller on the path towards town. “Which is why it was so jarring to see him so affected yesterday. I can’t help but think—“ She shakes her head.

“He would have left Daphne here if he deemed it unsafe,” Jaskier says. “I will not lie to you and say that Geralt can overcome anything, because he can’t. But the creatures or individuals who are able to truly threaten him are few and far in between. This might be one of them, but he would only place himself in danger if that is the case, not Daphne.”

Jaskier makes himself tear his eyes away from Geralt's retreating form. “There must be something specific about one of us that leads him to take such measures. Maybe he believes the creature could come back for you, as it was your book that cast it away that first time.”

Theresa sits down at one of the seating chairs at the edge of the window. “That could be the case,” she allows. “Or maybe it is you instead. Is he usually protective towards you?”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “He protects me like he would a common villager— he believes that foolishness is a greater killer than any monster and I have been deemed a fool by him many times. But so has the rest of humanity, so I do not take it as an insult to my character.”

“It must be strange to be so knowledgeable about that which humanity would rather want to ignore,” Theresa says, a morose look on her face. “My parents never understood my fascination with the human body, even less my interest in death and disease. They’d rather close their eyes to it and pray to the gods when someone falls ill. But in order to prevent death, one must not be afraid to look at it— to think like it in order to understand it. I imagine killing monsters is much the same.”

Jaskier plucks on the strings of his lute, musing. “I have not thought about it like that, but yes, I suppose in that way you could be kindred spirits. Understanding darkness to destroy. Whereas I take what people avoid and put it into pretty prose so that they will be fascinated instead.”

“That must be difficult in its own right,” Theresa says. “To know the true horrors hidden under the words you sing.”

“It takes a careful balance,” Jaskier says by way of agreement. “But regardless, the macabre draws us as much as we wish to deny its existence. And to talk about such things, even only in half truths, can bring more than just amusement. Sometimes, it can help people to stop avoiding the darkness as much. Maybe even help some to understand it.”

“Simon was that way too,” Theresa says quietly. “He could retell stories in ways that made people want to listen— convince them in ways I never could. It was through him I was able to treat my very first patients, because his stories made them trust in my capabilities before I even had the chance to prove them.”

Jaskier smiles and strums a chord. “That is because he knew you could do it. Lies are fluttery things; you might be able to convince many of anything in the most desperate of circumstances, but the old always wins from the new. To sell someone a salve is easy, just put in some herbs they already know. But to push them to try something unheard of? For the completely novel, you need the truth. They trusted you, because he did.”

Theresa is quiet for a long time.

Jaskier waits patiently, twiddling on the strings and busying himself by casting a gaze around the place in which they will be squandered for the foreseeable future. The room, though it might be better characterised as multiple rooms joined together, is open and airy. The walls are high and the windows cover half of the southern side, allowing both a view of the Wild Gardens as of the city’s edges down below. The seating area in which they are sat is angled exactly to capture this sight in the fullest, and is only a pace away from three large oak bookcases, filled to the brim with all kinds of works. There is a globe in the corner, a few plants scattered here and there, and a desk off to the side, close to a small fireplace for the winter months. To the opposite of the windows stands a wide bed, and beside it lies not one, but two sets of shoes. One pair much smaller than the other. A girl’s dress hangs over the foot of the bed and there are two impressions on the mattress.

Theresa sees him looking. “Ah, yes, it’s been—“ she shakes her head. “Since Simon died. It’s not only been hard for me. She’s been having nightmares.”

Jaskier puts a hand under his chin, elbow resting on the edge of the chair, and leans towards her. “She was never a servant, was she?”

“No. Not to me, not to us.” Theresa’s voice has gone despondent again.

Jaskier aches for her.

“It was the only way to get her shelter and food,” Theresa is saying. “A necessary cover as my parents would have never approved of me taking her as my own. But-- Simon had found her. She’d been sleeping besides Lover’s Bridge, half-dead with a cough and hypothermia. The orphanage had kicked her out, worried her illness was infectious.” Theresa pauses, and her eyes harden. “She wasn’t, of course.”

“We cared for her in secret, working in shifts for more than two weeks. He told her stories to keep her awake. I tended to her lungs and her heart. Together we saved her life.” Theresa shudders. “I— I hadn’t accepted it, back then. I still thought it was not possible for us to be together. I still chose this life— this status, above what I actually wanted. Who I actually was. But now I know that from that moment on, she was ours. We were a family.” Her voice breaks at the word, she takes a deep breath. Jaskier can just see her push everything away again.

Her voice is ice when she says, “I will never forgive myself for denying that for so many years.”

“Oh dear,” Jaskier says, shaking his head. “You have to— you have to for her.”

Theresa closes her eyes, and says, “I know.”

And somehow that is the most heartbreaking part of it— that even the blame and the anger you so desperately desire is impossible to hold on to. That, for the sake of your loved ones, you cannot hide yourself behind those emotions; you have to break through them to live on. Which then leaves nothing to shield you from the utter loss.

“If it weren’t for her,” Theresa says, very quietly. “If it weren’t for her, I don’t know if I’d still—“

Jaskier reaches out with his free hand and puts it over hers. “I understand. Do you?”

“I—“ Theresa shakes her head. “How can one person be so much of me? I thought I— I thought I belonged to myself but without him I feel— He meant so much. He was so much.”

“You do belong to yourself,” Jaskier insists. “But what you lost that day was not only Simon. What you lost was your future— the future the two of you had been building— the one you’d denied yourself for so long and then finally allowed yourself to have. That is why you feel so lost, like there is nothing left to live for, because the life you intended to live has gone into the grave right beside him.”

He gives her a moment to pause on that, but he continues before she thinks overmuch. “And I do not have to tell you that the last thing he would have wanted is you believing a life with him is the only one worth living. It will take time to build a new future, so give yourself that time. You have Daphne, you have your memories of him; there must be something, a new path you can build, that might not be the future you wanted, but will be a future worthy enough to have. A future you can live in to remember him with.”

“Would you be able to, then,” Theresa says, after a moment. “To live on?”

Jaskier laughs. “I don’t know. I hope it will never happen, but if it does I hope to be as strong as you. My original plan had been resurrection, but we have learned that this might not be the right course of action.”

Theresa actually huffs a laugh. She wipes away a tear. “You say a lot of words for a man who might not follow his own advice.”

“It is a speciality of mine,” Jaskier grins, but then he tempers it to add more seriously, “but I do mean all what I said. It is alright to feel as if you have lost a part of you, because you did. You lost the person who you thought you would be in the future. You might become that person again, just through some other way, or you will become something different, yet equally worthy.”

Theresa sets her shoulders, a flush of determination goes over her face. “I want all of this to be done. I want Simon to be avenged. But after that, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know if I can face my family like this— be swept back into the way of things. I don’t want to be who I was without him.”

Jaskier nods at that. He can’t imagine who he would be without Geralt. He’s becoming very aware just how much of his future has intertwined with him, and he can only imagine what a shock it is to have it rip away from him. A part of him wonders if that is why he’s so invested in this— not just because he believes Theresa deserves another chance at life, despite all she lost, but also as a study of love. Is it possible to survive it? In the end, he tells her the only thing he can think of that might have any worth to him, if he were to lose Geralt:

“So don’t be. Don’t let his place in your life be a temporary affair, Theresa. Live it out as the person he helped you become, and spread whatever lessons you believe he taught you to others. Don’t end his legacy like this. Keep it alive by living it.”

Theresa looks at him for a long moment, breathing in and out in a way that seems deliberate. After a while, her gaze wanders away and she clears her throat. “I will— consider that.”

Jaskier smiles, and begins to play a gentle tune. No lyrics, just a soft ambience as the silence stretches— not uncomfortably so. After a while, Theresa begins to nod off in her chair, and Jaskier gradually quiets his playing until she’s fallen asleep. He rises very carefully and takes one of the journals off the desk— the ones she’d laid out for him, of course. With anyone else he might be tempted, curiosity is often his greatest failing if one were to consider the common moral scale, but in this matter he rather not break the tentative trust that has been built.

He senses that he’ll get the story in any case, for her sake rather than only his poetic, and personal, interest.

As he expected, the information within them is detailed and expertly written, but also mostly irrelevant to what they already know. It only confirms that Geralt’s motive to keep him here was not out of a need to review this information. But outside of their current ghostly matters, Jaskier does learn some other interesting things by reading Theresa’s careful writing. One, that she knows the townspeople very well, despite her implication that Simon had been her translator of the lowerfolk. And secondly; she writes beautifully.

The first page of every entry is an itemised list of the gathered information, but after it switches into a prose account of her investigation; the people she met are not only told by their appearance or their words, but there is room for their background and their stories and their concerns. The environments are described in such a way you can imagine yourself walking within them; like the apples on the tree are just out of reach, or the breeze of the wind is brushing your face.

She truly has the heart of a writer, to such an extent Jaskier becomes delightedly envious as he devours each book.

The rays of the sun have turned that sultry gold which serves as the announcer to the sunset’s imminent arrival. Jaskier turns to face it with a contented sigh, only to jump out of his skin at two impassive eyes staring at him through the window.

“My god,” Jaskier hisses under his breath as not to wake Theresa, and removes the journal from where he’d pressed it against his heart in shock.

Geralt merely blinks at him.

Daphne waves with a broad smile, overflowing with emotion to such an extent that Geralt, in comparison, seems more like a statue than anything else. But there is something about his face that is— different. Like his masquerading as a stone-carved figure is merely that— a mask. Like there is something underneath it, and a mere touch would reveal it under a trail of cracks.

In order not to do something utterly humiliating like put his hand against the window, where Geralt lingers behind the glass, Jaskier puts the book down and makes a shushing gesture to Daphne.

Geralt says something to her and eventually they move out of sight again, leaving Jaskier slightly off balance. It is not like he does not know of Geralt’s proclivity to hide the riot of his thoughts under a liberal application of significant looks and strategically placed hums, but it is rare for Jaskier not to be able to see through it. Or, in other words, it is rare to not be allowed to understand what lies beneath— because that is what it was. A gesture of trust.

Where the world has to survive with ambiguity, a lucky few are given access to Geralt’s thoughts. Not usually in words, mind, but in small smirks; a huff or a snort encompassing more than a sentence; a shake of his head or a dry raise of an eyebrow.

Geralt can be effusive, if you’ve learned how to look.

But this, just now— that was Geralt not showing anything, very carefully. Jaskier can think of little that would spell this reversion to the old ways between them. In their companionship, many topics have been broached in one way or another, either out of necessity or the inevitability of long, boring journeys taken with a bard who asks too many questions.

Of course, there are still secrets. Though Jaskier might want to know about certain subjects that does not mean he has the utter lack of survival instinct to prod at them too much. And Geralt knows this. For every annoying ten queries, there is one line drawn in the sand that Jaskier acknowledges and won’t ever cross unless he’s invited to. So Geralt is hiding something which he thinks Jaskier will not let lie when asked to. This goes beyond the trust they’ve built.

Daphne enters at that dreary thought and Jaskier pastes a smile on his face to greet her. The frown Geralt gives him makes clear that he’s seeing right through it, which is patently unfair considering the circumstances.

“You’re back,” Theresa mumbles, and she yawns, stretching her arms. “My excuses, Jaskier, I’ve been a horrible host.”

“It is no matter,” Jaskier says grandly. “I’ve been well entertained. Did you know your writing is utterly masterful? I’ve rarely seen anything like it.”

Geralt huffs through his nose.

“I—“ Theresa’s eyes flitter about Jaskier’s face for a moment, but then she straightens and gives a serious nod. “I thank you. That is high praise but I trust, seeing your own abilities, that you can judge objectively and with expertise.”

“Indeed I can,” Jaskier agrees, smiling broadly now, and pushes the side table towards her where he had laid out the books with markers where a passage had been particularly impressive. He ignores Geralt’s progressively louder sighs and other Roach-like noises as he explains the merit of the journals as he sees it. Both Theresa and Daphne are a captive audience— with Daphne exclaiming “I said so as well,” at various points and one, “Simon thought that too,” which almost broke up the conversation all together before it was gracefully picked back up by Theresa, asking a question on the representation of thought from an outsider's perspective. The discussion continues from there, delightfully so.

“Have we forgotten about the threat?”

Geralt’s voice is deceptively quiet, but it cuts right through Jaskier’s voice like the silver sword does through monster flesh— that is to say painfully, because Jaskier had been doing a very splendid job of trying to forget the situation they’re in.

Geralt doesn’t need an answer to continue. “We’ve got the clothes. Jaskier, you’re with me—“

“Oh my, am I relinquished from my confinement? Can I grace the planes once more with my presence or are we yet worried I might give my heart to the nearest lass that passes?”

Geralt glares at him and bites out. “The ritual takes two. We’re going to the Wild Garden, so there should be no danger there.”

“Except, of course, for the monster itself. Lest we forget the threat.”

Jaskier can hear Geralt breathe very deliberately through his nose from the other side of the room. It might be best not to poke the bear too much, however much said bear deserves such treatment for disregarding the trust Jaskier had worked so hard for.

So he adds, “Fine, whatever you need.”

The breathing stops at once.

Jaskier blinks at him. “What, you thought I’d let you go alone this time? Definitely not. For one, this is the best story I’ve heard in months and second—“

Jaskier crosses the room. Moves towards Geralt just enough to be in arms reach again. Like they’re supposed to be.

Geralt doesn’t step away, and the burst of gladness Jaskier experiences is too pathetic to linger on, even for him.

“Secondly,” Jaskier continues, a little softer, voice. “I know you, and there is something about this creature that has you rattled. And yes, I know that in the bylaws there is a rule against pointing any attention when this happens, however rarely it may be, but apparently my concern for you overrides my desire to remain uninjured. You’re not going alone in this, is that clear.”

The glare that that gets him is not— cold, per se. Or maybe it is supposed to be cold but fails to be, like even when Geralt tries to, there are parts of him he can’t hide any longer. In this case, it is relief.

“Good,” Jaskier says, and reaches out— just to brush Geralt’s shoulder, but Geralt flinches away.

It’s barely anything, but the thumb-with of retraction is jarring enough for Jaskier to freeze entirely. His hand is hovering in the air, and then Geralt ducks away—

to grab his satchel off the floor.

Geralt straightens, bag slung over his shoulder, and nods. “Lets go.”

It’s like the flinch never happened. Geralt was just grabbing his bag, however badly timed.

Jaskier doesn’t believe it, no matter how much he wishes to. There was nothing accidental about this. He pastes another smile on his face and turns his back on Geralt.

“Alright, we’ll be right back,” he says, with a clap of his hands. “Miss Theresa and Miss Daphne. We have some incredibly dangerous business to attend to, as is usually the case when one lives a life such as ours. If we do not return, please do write of our heroic prowess and send the story out for all the realm to learn.”

Jaskier makes an elaborate bow to Daphne’s giggles. There is the hint of a smirk on Theresa’s face. When he rises, however, the both of them look more sober. Theresa holds out a hand and squeezes when Jaskier takes it. “Do be careful. I would much rather you write of your own adventures.”

“That is of course my preference as well,” Jaskier says. “But it does allay my worries that I have someone to watch my poetic back, so to speak.”

“Of course, though I would likely not be as poetic as is desired,” Theresa admits, but there is a little twinkle in her eye that reveals the statement not to be an attack of insecurity.

Jaskier replies in kind. “I would not expect such things from one who is not myself.”

“Are you done?” Geralt all but snaps.

“Yes sir, of course sir.” Jaskier turns to give him a curtsy as well.

Geralt glares, and then elects to ignore him and looks at Theresa instead. “The herbs should hold until the morning. Don’t leave the room.”

And with that, he stomps away.

Theresa raises an eyebrow.

“Oh don’t mind him,” Jaskier says with a dismissive wave. “He’s concerned I will fall in love with you and put you in danger— or that you will fall in love with me, I suppose but that would be too flattering for him to theorise so I would bet on the former.”

Theresa raises another eyebrow and then actually bursts out in laughter.

Jaskier grins. “My thoughts exactly— not to say I do not find you utterly delightful but, I do have respect for those whose hearts have already been vouched for and I would never—“

He interrupts himself, realising he’s about to tell a lie. He has in fact made himself available to many a mourning widower lonely enough to be able to forget, however momentarily, Jaskier was not the one they missed. Somehow, though, this feels different. He clears his throat. “I mean, I would not do such a thing to you. And besides, for all Geralt believes me to be incapable, you are not the only one whose heart has been claimed by another.”

Theresa shakes her head, having recovered from her initial burst of mirth to something more like she was before— somber and contemplative. “I understand and I thank you that—“

There is a harsh knock on the window.

Geralt glares at Jaskier through the glass. It seems to have become a theme.

“I must go,” Jaskier says quickly, “Before he breaks through and drags me with him. Goodnight and be safe.”

“You as well.”

And with that Jaskier slips out of the room, walks through the abandoned manor alone in an increasingly more tense state, and meets up with Geralt. Who only glares some more and turns towards the path with a huff.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Again, there is nothing to be worried about.”

Geralt says nothing for a long time, but then, once they breach the border of the gardens, Jaskier hears, quiet. “There always is with you.”

Chapter Text

“Just, stay in the circle.”

“I understood the concept the fifth time you told me, but at this point I’m getting confused, mind telling me again?”

The candles surrounding Jaskier spark into flame with a little more force than usual. Jaskier looks away, torn between an apology for being an ass and another snapped comment because, by the gods, Geralt is being insufferable, glaring at every wrong breath he takes.

“Can we start?” Jaskier ends up saying, and adds, only in thought, before one of us says something we’ll regret.

Geralt’s glare lifts in slow increments as he walks around Jaskier, his eyes tracking every detail— the complicated pattern of candles of different shapes and sizes; another ring of pebbles that Jaskier had to gather from the lake; the bed of flowers and grasses Jaskier is sitting on and then finally the wedding clothes filled with dry hay to burn better, speared like a meagre pig’s carcass above a campfire that Geralt hasn’t lit yet.

They’re on the boardwalk a few paces away from the shoreline. The water laps against the wooden planks, occasionally splashing a soft spray against Jaskier’s face, as the wind seems to pick up from the East. When Jaskier had asked if the water wouldn’t extinguish the fire, Geralt had assured him in a tense monotone that the fire would be strong enough to hold. When Jaskier had then asked whether the fire would burn through the wooden floorboards, Geralt had said, “If we take that long, we’re dead anyway,” so all in all Jaskier is feeling very positive about the whole thing.

Stormy grey clouds have started to gather above them, and the reeds edging the lake hiss in the sharpening breeze. There is nothing of the promise that a title like The Bridge of Lovers would inevitably evoke. But this is where local couples had to have their very first moments together, and this is where Simon was attacked. It is logical then, the Drisnarath would be easily drawn into their trap—

The question that remains is, what is going to be the bait?

Jaskier is about to ask when Geralt clears his throat.

“We’re ready.”

“What now then?”

Geralt pauses for a moment, and then shakes his head— like he’s steeling himself for something. He takes a step towards the circle, standing just outside of the ring of fire light, and then lowers himself, one knee on the wet wood, and looks Jaskier directly in the eye.

“Geralt, what are you—”

“Quiet.”

And then, Geralt just… looks. Jaskier can’t think— he can’t breathe. Geralt’s gazes bores into the very essence of him and yet it is— distant, or hidden. His face is completely impassive.

Jaskier feels himself flush. He can’t— he needs to look away. Geralt will know. He’ll see it. He starts to turn his head but Geralt stops him; it's only a brush of a finger. Gone before Jaskier can think to respond to it, but it leaves him frozen.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs. “Look at me, and let me think.”

At a loss, Jaskier takes a shuddering breath and says, “Fine, fine, I’ll do what you want, even if I don’t know what I’m doing at all, or any point to this. But when do I ever? It's no matter. Am I allowed to blink?”

“Sure.”

“Helpful, thank you.” Jaskier blinks a few times. And then another few times. It's only a millisecond of relief but at least he’s doing something to distract himself from Geralt’s eyes and how bloody close they are.

Geralt just continues to watch him.

Jaskier runs out of things to do, and ends up doing the only thing that’s left to do: the exact thing he didn’t want to do. Jaskier watches back.

It feels like hours.

It's the most beautiful thing he’s ever experienced.

Even if Geralt’s face seems so cold to him, there is still a grace to it. He might not be allowed to see beyond the mask any longer, but Jaskier takes comfort in knowing that it is there. That whatever Geralt is hiding from him is behind it, and he only has to stay determined. One day he’ll witness it again. He just has to be patient. Jaskier can do patient. He can do this forever. He’s noticing details he’s never had the time to see before: the soft wrinkles beside Geralt’s brow as he blinks, the silvery strands of hair just beside his ears that seem to take on a curl at the end. His eyes, of course: cat-like, non-human, and bright with it. A mark of experience beyond what Jaskier will ever understand, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever stop trying.

Geralt deserves to be understood. Even if he doesn’t believe that himself.

At some point, their breathing had synchronized: the calm pace that Geralt maintains so consistently— usually, at least. His breathing has been different, Jaskier realises. More laboured, sometimes hurried, as if he’d ran a mile. He’s good at hiding it, of course, but now, facing Geralt as he breathes as if he’s in a trance, it is hard to miss the contrast.

They’re in the middle of a starting storm, about to face a horrifying creature, and Geralt is calm.

Because he’s looking at Jaskier.

Or at least, that’s what Jaskier chooses to believe, and he becomes irrevocably glad.

Glad he is here, at Geralt’s side. Glad to be of use, and that maybe his presence is as stabilizing to him, as Geralt’s is to Jaskier.

There are only two ways to respond to that wave of emotion — more, but only two if you exclude responses that will end in disaster — closing his eyes to shield him from the source of his feeling, or to let it out, make it visible in all the ways Geralt never does.

And Geralt told him not to close his eyes. So Jaskier smiles. He smiles because if he doesn’t he will make the unforgivable error of kissing Geralt instead.

He expects— he doesn’t know what he expects. For Geralt to frown at him, or to snap in frustration, or worse, for his face to remain like stone, as if there is no difference to him whether Jaskier smiles or scowls.

It seems like it will be the latter, but then there is a change. Jaskier can’t pinpoint it at first: it is less of an expression than the beginning of a movement— Geralt sucks in a sharp breath and with it his mask slips away entirely for his eyes to go wide and his jaw to become slack.

There is the thinnest, softest ‘oh’. So gentle that Jaskier almost thinks it was him. But Geralt is still watching him, his face raw in a way Jaskier cannot understand but wants to reach for before it's swallowed by that heartbreaking indifference again.

He’s too late.

Geralt looks away, and his expression closes down.

Jaskier has only a moment for despair until he realises that Geralt is not just avoiding him: he’s looking at something. Something behind Jaskier.

A cold pit forms in Jaskier’s stomach, and his intuition is confirmed when Geralt stands, sword at the ready. It’s here.

Jaskier twists around to follow his gaze, and hovering just above the water’s surface is a young female figure; like an angel but too hollow to be one, and it's looking right at Geralt.

“Read,” Geralt orders, and Jaskier frantically grabs the parchments— he’d let them slip out of his fingers while Geralt was—

“Now!”

Jaskier gathers all his speaking prowess and imagines himself to be on a stage, in front of a hundred of his peers, knowing each syllable has to be perfect to earn their respect. He begins speaking.

It is a tongue he doesn’t understand, but an incantation he’s done many times before. Geralt started teaching him it once it became clear he wasn’t scared off easily, grumbling about ‘using your blabbering for something useful for once’. Over the years it had expanded in more complex forms, the rhythms and sounds uneasy in his mouth, but the late nights mimicking Geralt’s soft words had been reward enough. To be of aid to him is a whole other matter.

As Jaskier makes it through the first paragraph, the storm has picked up in earnest, the wind grasping with eager tendrils onto the parchment to try to pull it out of his hands. He tightens around it, speaking louder to be audible over its howling. He barely hears Geralt’s grunting as he begins to fight— not the Drisnarath, mind, but the creatures Jaskier is calling towards them. An unfortunate side effect from weakening the divide between the realms of the living and the dead.

With ghostly figures and skeleton beasts to defeat, it is Jaskier who notices the first candle as it falls, and then another, and another. He uses the momentary pause between sections to call out, “the circle is breaking!”

He expects Geralt to acknowledge it. He doesn’t expect him to twist around with wide eyes, allowing the dog-like creature to get a bite into its shoulder.

Jaskier doesn’t yell his name. He can’t. He has to continue the incantation. But guilt floods him. Geralt’s blood is on his hands. He shouldn’t have distracted him.

But Geralt doesn’t seem to have any concern about his safety. With three reckless strikes he takes down the beast, getting another bite for his trouble, and then, with three ghosts on his heels, he hurries to the circle, letting his sword go to use both hands to set candles straight.

Jaskier pushes the following stanzas through clenched teeth, glaring at Geralt with all his might. What are you doing? Jaskier wants to shout. Blood gushes out of Geralt’s shoulder, mixing with lake water as another splash flicks over them both.

“Complete it,” Geralt says. “Now.”

Jaskier’s stomach sinks. They’re not even half way. But the Drisnarath is nearing, they’re surrounded by undead, and Geralt is breathing heavily— too heavily. His movements are slower, less controlled.

There is no other choice. Jaskier transitions into the last page as smoothly as he can. For a moment, the candles flicker, but Jaskier infuses his speech with all his might— this time not thinking about a stage and earning respect, but about teeth enclosing a shoulder, laboured breaths, and a trembling hand around a sword. The cancles roar with flame, but the moment of victory is short lived: more and more beings from past the veil surround them, an army following the Drisnarath as she comes closer and closer, towards Geralt.

Geralt who is—- trying to light the fire with a candle.

Why isn’t he using his signs?

Right then Geralt casts igni and growls in frustration as no fire comes. He stumbles again, and the Drisnarath is closing in— reaching for him. She’s smiling, lovingly.

A dark wolf-like shadow beast jumps out of the darkness. Its claws come down in an arch to carve along Geralt’s back.

Geralt falls.

“No!”

Jaskier breaks the incantation.

There is no space for terror. Everything is quiet; focused, and fast. All parts of him in complete unity for a single goal: saving Geralt.

He assesses his options. He cannot reach the wedding clothes: both the creature and Geralt are blocking his path, and it wouldn’t burn anyway— the fabric drenched by the lake’s spray. Without magical fire it will never work. He needs something dry— something meaningful, something to cast it away even only temporarily, to keep Geralt safe.

Jaskier frantically looks around, until his eyes fall on his satchel.

Of course.

He grabs one of the candles and steps out of the circle with gritted teeth— and at once has to catch his breath. The circle had been protecting him after all. The drisnarath’s presence is like the weight of a thousand stones upon his shoulders. Every step feels like it takes half of his strength. But there is nothing going to stop him from saving Geralt. He reaches his bag, completely out of breath, and finds the journal within seconds.

Jaskier curls around it— shielding it from the rain. And then he holds the candle below it with shaking hands.

“Come on, come on.”

The flame flickers in the wind.

“Come on, come on.”

The edge of a page begins to blacken.

“Please.”

Sound begins the trickle in again. There is the rain, the roar of the storm, growling and inhuman screeching. But there is more:; a voice, in huffs and groans and swears. Still fighting. He’s still fighting. But not for long.

“Come on!”

The journal erupts in fire.

Jaskier screams. His hands— But he can’t let go.

He runs. He has to get closer.

“Jaskier!”

Geralt is prone on the ground, plunging a sword through the chest of a monster, but another snaps his jaw at him, barely missing his neck.

The Drishnarath is still looming beside him.

“Geralt! Watch out!”

Jaskier has barely finished his warning before he hurls the burning journal towards the Drishnarath, tasting the salt of his own tears as he yells in pain and desperation.

The journal flies through the air like a miniature comet, and Jaskier cannot help but think about all the memories— all the proof of his time with Geralt. His craft. His masterpieces.

Everything burns.

His hands are nothing to the sharp ache in his chest.

But that pain is nothing, nothing at all, to the idea that Geralt will not survive.

It is this thought that lingers, when the journal reaches the apex of its flight. Jaskier smiles, because no matter how much it hurts, he knows he is willing to sacrifice everything for Geralt. Everything.

But then—

The Disnarath smiles back.

Teeth, growing on lips.

Oh no.

Jaskier!

Chapter Text

Jaskier wakes with what must be the most horrific hangover any man has ever experienced. He wisely keeps his eyes shut and groans, long and loud with all the frustration this injustice is warranted. The headache is true torture, but as for the rest of his poor mortal coil, it would be easier to count the places that don’t hurt, than that do. He feels cold stone under his body— must have passed out on the ground again. There is a howling wind and a patter of rain, but none of it touches his skin, so Jaskier gives himself some inner appreciation for managing to at least find a building of some kind in his drunken state.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt. A strange tension in Jaskier’s chest releases.

“One moment,” he slurs.

Geralt shakes him.

“You bastard!” Jaskier blinks his eyes open. “What are you do—”

There is blood, everywhere. Geralt’s face is scratched raw; his hair wet and glistening. His neck, oh gods—

Jaskier gasps as everything comes back at once. “Oh fuck.”

The fight. Geralt stumbling. The pain. Fire— his journal— his sacrifice.

Teeth.

“Did it work?” The question tumbles from Jaskier’s lips without his permission. He knows the answer. It’s written all over Geralt’s face. Of all the times to be allowed to read it again.

“No,” Geralt says. “It turned.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how so much anger can be contained in so few words.

Geralt is right to be, though. This is his fault. Tears spring into Jaskier’s eyes and his breath turns abruptly ragged. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. You should have been here alone, without my idiocy putting you in danger.”

Geralt goes very still.

“And now it's all too late,” Jaskier realises with sickening horror. “It will come back to hunt you down and— and—” He clenches his fists, and only then notices that they’re bound in bandages, and that they barely hurt. His surprise is distant within the pool of his despair. Tears stream down his face.

He’s sentenced Geralt to death. His selfish desire to stay by his side has doomed him.

Geralt is still staring at him, jaw clenching. “The book.”

Jaskier nods. “I was trying to cast it away, like you did, with Simon’s gift. I didn’t know that it was—”

“A sacrifice.”

A word normally spoken of in gratitude, has become nothing more than an accusation. A sob escapes Jaskier’s throat. “I never intended to—”

Geralt turns away— around, and crosses his arms.

At first, the gesture makes Jaskier’s stomach sink with a dull ache, but then he sees something immeasurably more horrifying, and his pain is irrelevant. Because Geralt’s back is ravaged. Large scratches carve through the thick leather, revealing bruised and battered skin. And then there is the shoulder— there is so much blood that Jaskier doesn’t know where the wound begins or ends. It seems to have stopped gushing as it did before, but there is still a slow trickle going down Geralt’s arm.

Jaskier wonders distantly how Geralt is still standing, and then remembers it doesn’t matter much anyway. If the Drishnarath comes now, before Geralt can recover, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Geralt takes a deep breath. He straightens his shoulders, almost as if to steel himself. And then he shakes his head with a bitter chuckle. “So I was wrong then. You love deeply after all.”

Jaskier stops breathing.

Geralt moves to face him again. “You’re in love with me.”

All that Jaskier can manage is a small and punched-out, “yes.”

And Geralt flinches.

Jaskier is going to be sick.

There is a moment of silence and Geralt starts to pace— his boots hitting the ground with heavy force. “I thought I knew why you kept following me around,” Geralt says, sudden, in a dangerously low tone. “Inspiration, you said. A muse.” He shakes his head. “I should have known you were hiding something. You’re a born liar. You don’t need to witness, to make a story that gives you coin.”

He stops then, eyes hard. Hands clenched into fists. “I tolerated it. I now see I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have encouraged you.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says— begs, even. He’s never seen— he’s never seen Geralt so full of hatred.

“Enough!”

A fist crashes against the wall.

Geralt breathes out once, his chest pushing in and out with force. And then he looks from his bloody fist to Jaskier and says, in a tone that Jaskier cannot describe with anything then disgusted:

“Why can you not be grateful for everything I’ve already given you?”

Jaskier almost chokes on his tears. He slides on to his knees and looks up. “I am— Oh gods— I am.”

Geralt’s eyes flash. “I took you back. How dare you ask more of me.”

“I didn’t,” Jaskier pleads. “I wouldn't. I didn’t expect anything. I never would—”

“You are lying, Jaskier,” Geralt says, merciless. “Why else would you have stayed? No one is satisfied with longing forever.”

Jaskier stands up shakely and steps forward, to Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. Just glares, anger roaring in silence.

Jaskier puts his bandaged hand against Geralt’s bloody chest. “It would have been worth it, for you.”

Geralt’s face goes entirely blank.

For a long moment, the only thing they do is look, and breathe.

And then Geralt steps back. Eyes cold and distant. “Don’t humiliate yourself, Jaskier.”

Something in Jaskier breaks. “Geralt.”

Geralt has turned away again. There is only his back to plead to. His ravaged back—

Which is his fault. Loving Geralt did that. It’s all his fault.

“If I manage to clean up the mess you’ve made, you will not argue when I tell you to leave, and never search for me again.”

The words suck all air from Jaskier’s chest. He stumbles back, slides down the wall. Trying to breathe. “No! I—” Another breath. “I— Please. I won’t.” And another. He can’t. He’s losing control “—Nothing would—- change. Just let me—”

Geralt cuts right through him.

“This is the last night you have. Don’t waste it with pointless argument.”

The words are sharper than the edge of any blade. The finality in Geralt’s tone crushes the last inkling of hope Jaskier had managed to retain. Even if Geralt makes it out alive, Jaskier will never experience it. He’ll roam the world, loving someone who will never be able to return the sentiment.

A strange and dark laugh rumbles in Jaskier’s chest, loosening it. He takes in a lung full of air, and this time it holds. “And to think I burned my book for you.”

He almost sounds normal again— amused. But the illusion breaks immediately when he continues and his voice breaks on the words. “I’ll have nothing. Nothing to—”

Nothing to return to when his memory has waned. Nothing to hold on to. Nothing of Geralt’s to keep with him. But, Jaskier supposes, that’s exactly what Geralt is trying to say.

Geralt isn’t his to keep.

It’s too much.

Time slips, and Jaskier breaks.

Ugly sobs heave out of him, every breath hurting as his chest feels crushed under the weight of heartbreak. He wasn’t prepared for this pain. He’d known that Geralt would never have loved him, not in the way he desired. But to know that even their friendship had been a false one all this time, it is more than Jaskier can bear.

And yet, he cannot help but think that it could’ve been. If he just had been better— been worthy. “I’m sorry. I should have been more grateful. I should have left you alone when you asked. I shouldn’t have pushed—”

Geralt watches impassively. A statue once more.

Jaskier can’t stop the tears from falling. All the longing of years draining out of him. “You know, I wish you were right about me. I wish I couldn’t love like this.” He swallows hard. “The pain would’ve been more bearable then.”

There is movement in his periphery. Geralt, squatting beside him. For a single moment Jaskier thinks Geralt is about to comfort him— it wouldn't mend his heart, but it might ease some of his anguish to know that Geralt at least cares enough to want to. But then something cold is pressed into Jaskier hands. An empty bottle.

"The least you can do," Geralt says, low, emotionless.

Disappointment is so all encompassing that Jaskier is unable to understand what Geralt wants from him. But then Geralt’s thumb swipes underneath his eye, catching a tear. It glints in the moonlight.

"Ah," Jaskier says, his voice a ruin. "Of course."

Geralt huffs, and disappears from sight.

With trembling hands he holds the bottle under his chin where the droplets come together and fall down in a gentle trickle of heartbreak. Jaskier casts his mind out for every moment of happiness at Geralt's side, every wish of longing for something more between them. And then he begins murmuring, like a mantra:

"He doesn't love me. I will never see him again. He doesn't want me. Memories are all I have." He repeats it, again and again, until his throat is raw and the bottle is full.

Hands still shaking, he gives it to Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. It makes sense. Geralt got what he needed. He’s irrelevant now.

Jaskier is out of tears to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for making you witness that.”

Geralt doesn’t respond.

Instead, he puts the vial on the edge of the window sill and goes through his satchel, picking out potions and mixing new ones in quick and fluid movements. He drinks more of them than Jaskier has ever seen him do. But the wounds on his back begin to heal, his shoulder stops dripping, and a certain strength comes over his form that Jaskier had desperately been missing. For the first time since waking up, Jaskier feels an inkling of hope. Maybe his sacrifice won’t be in vain.

Geralt slams back the last of his potions, wiping his mouth roughly, and takes a deep breath. He puts away the satchel, and begins to prepare their surroundings for a fight— surroundings that Jaskier only now registers make up the little teahouse in the Wild Gardens. Geralt arranges the chairs in a line along the circular wall, and then flips the table on its side. He pushes it towards Jaskier. Whether it is intended for protection, or just to get it out of the way, Geralt doesn’t clarify.

Then, with his silver sword in one hand and the vial of tears in the other, Geralt sits down on his knees and closes his eyes.

They wait together.

Jaskier tries to memorize every aspect. It is his last night, after all. He has nothing else left.

——

The moonlight glints Geralt’s eyes as they flash open.

“Jaskier. Hide.”

Jaskier ducks behind the table, holding his hands to his chest as he listens to Geralt standing up. Darkness falls over him and Jaskier looks up to see Geralt standing in front of the table, one hand holding a dripping sword, the other drawing a symbol in the night air.

The room glows in violet.

Someone laughs, high and scrill.

It is cut off sharply when Geralt makes the first strike.

After, there is nothing but screaming.

Jaskier huddles in his cover, his aching hands pressing against his ears in desperation. Only the shadows cast onto the wall give illustration to what is occuring, and what he’s seeing terrifies him. The Disnarath has grown. Geralt is dwarfed in its presence. Jaskier can only hope it is a trick of the light, but he cannot risk a look, for Geralt told him to hide, and he does not want to make more errors to add onto all the damage he has done.

So he puts his head between his knees, and tries not to listen.

Because he knows that voice. He knows those words.

Everytime Geralt hits the creature, it cries out. It screams:

He doesn’t want me.

Another slash, chest to neck.

He doesn’t need me.

Geralt is pushed back, the violet flickering momentarily before returning in strength.

I will never see him again.

It seems to go on endlessly. Geralt is fighting for his life and Jaskier cannot witness. He cannot watch.

The voices change. There are others, joining in. Stories unfold in Jaskier’s mind and he doesn’t want to hear them— his own already hurts enough.

She never thought of me.

I am worth nothing to him.

I will always be alone.

Why won’t you love me?

Why won’t you love me?

“Why won’t you love me, Geralt?”

Jaskier’s head snaps up. He never said that. The creature— It’s lying. He’s never said that.

He doesn’t think. He turns, and witnesses, as Geralt stands over the creature and pushes his blade through its throat.

The silver cuts off its last scream, and it is this sudden return of silence that allows Jaskier to hear what Geralt growls at the Drishnarath in its last moments.

“You do not get to use his voice.”

Then he crushes the skull under his heel. The body gives a last desperate twitch and then ceases to move all together. A greyish green liquid bleeds out of what has become a decomposing corpse. The teeth have retracted, and everything that gave it its ethereal appearance before has disappeared into rot and mold.

Geralt flinches and covers his nose with his hand, and then turns to catch Jaskier staring at him.

“Out,” Geralt snaps. “Don’t. Breathe.”

Jaskier barely catches himself doing the exact opposite of the order, and then rushes to follow through. He stands, runs, and then stumbles out of the doorway, the acid stench burning his nostrils. He almost falls face first into the mossy undergrowth but he manages to catch himself with one hand against the cool stone wall of the teahouse. He heaves a much needed breath and then another, like he was the one that exerted himself in the face of death. His legs are shaking, and though the evening cold is not helping matters, he’s aware that he’s trembling for more than just a lack of appropriate outerwear.

Leaning with your full weight on a recently burned hand has never been a good idea. With a hiss he pulls his arm back— a layer of bandages must have come off in the chaos. He can see flashes of angry red and blisters, but also a glistening layer of some sort of ointment. For holding a burning book in his hands, the damage is not as bad as it could have been, but as Jaskier carefully stretches his fingers, he wonders if the Drishnarath had taken his sacrifice literally, and he’ll never be able to hold a pen again.

Any further damning thoughts are soundly cut off by the slam of a door.

Geralt.

Jaskier sucks in another lungful, dizzy with relief and desperately not trying to show it. He needs to give him space, no matter how much he detests it. There is a certain torture in this: knowing that this will be his last chance for anything he’d always wanted to say, or do, with Geralt, but having been forbidden each and everyone of them.It hurts to look at him. Jaskier can’t stop doing it.

At least, so far, he hasn’t been reprimanded for that. Geralt doesn’t even seem to have noticed. His focus is on the door, using his sword to carve something in the wood:

T O X I C

Jaskier is about to ask how long the building will have to be closed, when he remembers he doesn’t have the right to anymore.

Geralt finishes with two defiant slashes of emphasis below the word, and then sheaths his sword.

It must be now, Jaskier realises. He’s going to ask Jaskier to leave. He can’t even complete this job with him. Hopefully Theresa won’t mind housing him for a little while. He won’t be able to make any coin of his own while his hands are burned, and it isn’t like Jaskier did something to warrant payment. All he’s done is exacerbate the problem. Put Geralt’s life in danger. If anything, he has a debt to pay.

Jaskier is so caught up in his thoughts, that he doesn’t notice Geralt has moved until he’s right in front of him.

In his space.

Geralt reaches out. His fingers twist into Jaskier’s shirt. There is no mask, only determination.

“Gera—”

Geralt pushes him against the wall. Not hard— not hard at all. Jaskier is breathless anyway.

Then he remembers Geralt must still be very, very angry, and Jaskier’s heart beat triples in a sudden burst of fear. “I won’t deny that I deserve it but please mind the face it’s really my only asset at this—”

There is a raw flash of hurt in Geralt’s expression, open and loud— confusing Jaskier completely. Because to what other purpose does Geralt need to have him pressed up, caged in, and so unbearably close?

Geralt kisses him.

Geralt kisses him.

It is desperate and rushed, teeth catching on Jaskier’s already bitten lips and his burned hand is trapped between their chests and he is so incredibly grateful for it because without the pain he would have never believed that it was real.

Torn between utter confusion, the still present thruming of heartbreak, and an euphoria unlike any other, Jaskier is at a loss for how to respond, right up until Geralt makes a low noise into his mouth and Jaskier is gone.

He dives in, ignoring every sting and ache and drawing as much out the kiss as he can, because if Geralt decided to take what is so obviously available to him for some arguably cruel last hurrah, Jaskier believes he has to right to project any and all sentiment he desires on the occasion.

Geralt knows that he’s in love with him. So Jaskier kisses him like he’s always wanted to. Kisses him as if he’ll never leave. He tries to slow the pace, draw it out— tilts his head to give access and deepen the kiss.

Geralt allows him to. Takes him completely.

After another blissful moment, Jaskier’s lungs truly start to ache, and he pulls back. Geralt releases him immediately.

“Jaskier.”

No matter how much it will hurt to leave, Jaskier will be forever grateful to know how his name sounds in that soft rumble of a voice.

But Jaskier also desperately doesn’t want Geralt to talk himself out of this, so he silences whatever he was about to say with another kiss.

Geralt makes a noise like he’s surprised, and a rough hand curls along one side of Jaskier’s face.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier says, as Geralt presses his lips along his jaw and then along his neck. They’re not nips, or bites. Just soft, tender kisses. As if Geralt is trying to get as close as he can, anywhere he can. A deep flush rises to Jaskier’s cheeks and he abruptly realises that he can’t do this after all.

“Stop.”

The cold returns with a vengeance when Geralt is gone at once.

Jaskier doesn’t want to see whatever his expression is— doesn’t want to know whether he is as affected as he is, because either answer would be of disastrous consequences. If yes, then Jaskier wouldn't be able to stop himself and trade the last of what is left of his heart for a single night. And if no, Jaskier doesn’t know how much more rejection he can take. He closes his eyes.

“I—” Jaskier starts in a rasp. “You cannot do this to me. You cannot kiss me like that, Geralt. Not when I know that it isn’t— It isn’t what I want it to be.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Not if you’re going to tell me to leave, after.”

There is a moment of complete silence. Jaskier puts a hand over his eyes, wishing he was somewhere far, far away.

Then—

“Everything I said was a lie.”

Jaskier drops his hand.

“In there. Everything I told you—”

His eyes open from their own accord.

For the first time, in much too long, Geralt’s face is a poem of emotion— intense, tragic, and exceedingly readable. There is pain, regret, frustration, shame and also anger— the same anger Jaskier had faced while his heart was broken, but now Jaskier can finally recognize it for what it is—

What it was.

Geralt is filled with rage, that is undeniable, but the object of his anger is not found in the external world. Rather, all that hatred is turned inwards.

The person that Geralt has loathed, for all this time, is himself.

Jaskier stares, and gapes, overwhelmed at the evidence right before him and its implications— He said he could never love me. He said he wanted me to leave. It's a lie. It’s a lie— that he forgets to give a sensible response for a little too long.

And Jaskier has a moment to regret ever learning to read Geralt’s face, because the expression of resigned defeat that comes over him right then hurts almost as much as the rejection. But it also mercilessly confirms the budding hope in Jaskier’s chest, allowing it to bloom into further increasing idiocy, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth might be worse than saying nothing at all.

“You fucking bastard.”

Geralt actually physically recoils.

Jaskier flinches as well and hurries to add: “No, fuck. I’m sorry, I—”

“I should be the one apologizing,” Geralt interrupts him. “I hurt you, intentionally. I had no choice. But I am sorry, nonetheless.” He lowers his head.

“You had to break my heart? Why—” Jaskier sucks in a breath. “The tears.”

Geralt merely nods once.

Jaskier lowers his face in his hands with enough force he swears in pain, jerking his head back. He allows the cursing to continue for a moment, eventually coalescing into, “I should have realised.”

“You weren’t supposed to. That is the only way it would work.”

“Well, you played it exceptionally well,” Jaskier says. “On second thought, there is no world where I would have ever have known because you have not given me one indication, ever, that you would respond positively to a confession of that nature so forgive me for still not completely taking your word for it because I cannot put my mind around this new reality where you claim to love me.”

Jaskier takes a breath and continues, “Certainly, after a period where you’ve been more distant than you’ve ever been since we started our companionship together. So I am, in a way, hesitant to trust that you will not regret this in, give or take, an hour from now, and I will be left with a heart broken twice over. So if you would stop looking at me like that, for the love of the gods.”

Geralt, in fact, does not stop looking at him like that. Instead he steps into Jaskier’s space again, slowly reaching out a hand to Jaskier’s face— so slowly that it cannot be mistaken than anything other than a tacit request, with which Jaskier cannot help but comply, and his sigh is taken as the aquiance it was intended to.

Geralt’s hand fits so perfectly, so comfortably, along his jaw. Something in Jaskier’s throat tightens.

And then, with an earnest expression that brings Jaskier almost to his knees, Geralt says, “The Drisnarath was draining me from the start, Jaskier. I could not have you be close, for every moment you were, it was a risk that I would do something to turn it. I needed you gone, to keep you safe.”

“Oh.” Jaskier swallows heavily.

“Just as I needed the tears, to kill it before it killed you.”

There is something about the combination of his tone of voice, the warmth of his hand, and the emotion in his eyes, that makes Jaskier want to agree with whatever he is saying immediately, but he catches himself just on time.

“But, Geralt. It was going to kill you. I told you. I turned it. With the book.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I had been reckless throughout the fight. I turned my back on my foes for your sake, many times, despite knowing the consequences if I did. I could not stop myself. Any of my actions then could have caused the turn. I lied. I never thought you were responsible.”

His other hand brushes Jaskier’s cheek— absently, like he isn’t aware that he’s doing it.

“You’re in your right to distrust my regard for you, after all I’ve done— I’ve said. But I need you to believe this at least: you have done nothing wrong. You’ve done nothing wrong to me.”

While Jaskier has many objections to that statement, another matter takes priority in the moment. “The Drishnarath is only drawn to those who love deeply, did you not say?”

There is a spark of brightness in Geralt’s eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, then I suppose I don’t have any reason to distrust, don’t you think?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, or rather sighs out— at a loss of words, this one means. But agreement too. Definitely agreement.

Jaskier smiles. “You love me.”

“Yes. For a long time.”

Jaskier draws him in for another long kiss. And this time he knows that it isn’t going to be the last.

Chapter Text

Jaskier doesn’t know how long they linger, but it seems not long enough when Geralt suddenly steps away, leaving Jaskier bemused in the cold.

“I almost forgot,” Geralt is saying, grabbing his satchel and digging something out. “When you fell, you landed on this.” In his hand is a piece of parchment, its edges burned, about the size of his palm. “I couldn’t save more of it— the rain, and you needed shelter. But—”

Geralt trails off and then, seeming to realise that Jaskier cannot hold the parchment himself, holds it closer, casting igni in his other hand so Jaskier can read in the light.

The letters swim before Jaskier’s eyes, but he doesn’t need to read all of them to remember that day. To feel again what he felt when he wrote those words. His throat tightens, and in the end all he can do is step into Geralt’s arms and rasp out a vervent, “thank you.”

Geralt just holds him. It feels endless. He never wants to leave.

But for all the warmth Geralt’s touch brings to him, Jaskier sadly has to report that no amount of loving embraces can defy the elements if they wish to make their presence known. The rain had stopped while they were in the teahouse, thank the goddess, and the worst of the storm seemed to have passed once the Drisnarath was killed, but it is still a crisp evening, with a sharp wind bringing shivers to his skin.

While Geralt kisses him, Jaskier couldn't care less about the cold seeping into his bones, but it seems Geralt has other ideas.

“You’re shaking,” he grumbles, and his hand falls from Jaskier’s nape to his arm where his sleeve had been slashed open, though Jaskier has no memory as to when. The brush of Geralt’s fingers is so warm in contrast that Jaskier hisses.

“You’re freezing,” Geralt says, frowning at the exposed skin like it personally offends him. “We should go.”

Jaskier sighs. They should. But he’s so ungodly tired, and the short walk through the Wild Gardens back to the Manor seems like an impossible task. In comparison standing here, partially protected from the wind by Geralt’s wide frame, seems the more attractive option. He lays his head against Geralt’s chest, tightening his arms around his waist, wishing they could stay like this forever.

But then Geralt flinches, and all concerns about cold and exhaustion leave Jaskier’s mind at once.

His hands come back red.

“You’re still bleeding?”

Geralt’s lips thin for a moment, and his expression becomes decidedly self-incriminating. Jaskier kind of wants to hit him for it. “Bleeding again. I was too slow one too many times.”

“We should been going yesterday, what are we waiting f—”

There is a flash of light in Jaskier’s periphery— coming from the woods just behind Geralt. Geralt turns around, one arm holding Jaskier back and the other—

Stretching for his sword, which lies on the ground, out of reach.

There is a split second of hesitation, before Geralt stands in front of Jaskier fully in a defensive stance.

Jaskier would call him a fool if the lights weren’t getting closer and his heart tripling in cadence with every breath he takes. Even if Geralt had his sword in hand, if that orange glow spells more danger, he doesn’t believe they have the strength to fight back. Maybe their best chance is the teahouse, and hope the gas will kill their foes faster than them. Geralt will likely survive, and that's the best odds he’s had all night.

Jaskier is about to suggest it in a whisper, when Geralt tilts his head the way he does when he’s listening intently, and then suddenly lets out a relieved breath.

“I told you to stay in the Manor,” he says sharply, just before the lights breach the forest border, and two figures, holding torches, hurry towards them.

Theresa pushes her torch in Daphne’s hand, throws back the hood of her mantle and sets down three heavy satchels. “I could feel it, when it fell,” she says to Geralt. “I knew it was safe to come. I did not know whether you were safe, however, so I thought it would be prudent not to dawdle. Now, which one of you is on death’s door the most?”

“Jask—”

“He is bleeding.”

Theresa looks between them, and Jaskier guesses it's only her experience as a healer that prevents her from laughing. Instead of asking again— or trusting their judgement, most likely, her sharp eyes taking in each of them in turn, nods, and says, “Geralt, it seems like you will need stitches, which I cannot do here, but we can bandage the wounds temporarily to steep the bleeding and protect them from insects and thorn bushes as we return home. Daphne, set the torches in the ground, I will need your help in a moment.”

Jaskier sends Geralt a smug grin and leans back against the stonewall of the teahouse. When another bout of shivering hits him, he decides that the floor will likely be a better idea, and slowly lowers himself to the ground.

Theresa looks up from inspecting Geralt’s lower back and says, “There is a blanket in my brown satchel, Daphne. Give that one to Jaskier so he doesn’t become ice by the time we are done here.”

Jaskier ignores the satisfied huff Geralt gives at that in favour of thanking Daphne as the warm cloth is thrown around his shoulders.

Geralt is silent and co-operative while Theresa and Daphne work on him with equally quiet communication: they only seem to need looks and one word sentences to work in complete synchronicity. Maybe it is their efficiency that tames Geralt into a pliant patient for once— a side of him Jaskier has rarely encountered, as he favours the temperament of a boar whenever he is in that dangerous in between of hurt enough to need help, but on his feet enough to be stubborn about it.

Or Geralt would rather be away from here as quickly as possible.

Where before Jaskier would have chalked that up to Geralt's own exhaustion that tends to come after a fight— when the adrenaline fades and the after-effects of his potion hits — but now, after all that happened, a part of him grows warm at the idea that Geralt has decided not to protest his treatment for Jaskier’s sake.

This notion only seems to be confirmed when, the moment Theresa places the last pin of the bandage, Geralt asks her, “Would I make it worse if I carry him?”

She starts at the question, absolved in her focus, but then looks at Jaskier with consideration.

“There is one larger wound that might be affected if you tense the muscles in your lower back too abruptly, so make sure to carry from the knees. If you’re careful, it should be okay.”

Geralt nods and then makes his way to Jaskier.

“Wait, no, I—” Jaskier tries to protest that this really should not be happening, but realises that by asking Theresa— asking an expert on what his body is capable of, instead of stubbornly doing what he wished to do, regardless of the consequences — Geralt had undercut all his argumentation, other than the matter of his pride.

“You’re tired, Jaskier. You need to rest,” Geralt says quietly. “You can’t recover here, and the longer we stay the worse it will get.”

Jaskier’s jaw clenches. “I could try to walk. I’ll lean on you.”

Geralt sighs, crouches down to be at eye level, and puts his hand to the side of Jaskier’s face. “I need your help to do this without hurting either of us. Let me, please.”

“You know, that is patently unfair,” Jaskier snaps, but there isn’t any heat to it.

Geralt lets out a low huff, and smiles slightly. “Thank you.”

Jaskier makes a face, but allows Geralt to take him in his arms. With the help of Theresa, Geralt carefully rises, holding Jaskier tightly against his chest. Warm, safe. Loved.

Even though their closeness brings him comfort, Jaskier curses himself for his weakness— a thousand insecurities flare up at once when they set forth onto the garden path in a subdued silence. Geralt, who has fought more creatures Jaskier could count, and slain the most horrific threat while his life was in danger, is able to not only walk away from the site of his victory, but able to carry him back to safety as well. This was why Jaskier never planned to say anything about what he felt, because in what world would someone so weak be any use to a man like him. How can he be anything more than a burden?

“Shh,” Geralt murmurs, and it is only then that Jaskier realises he is crying.

He flushes, trying to hide his face, but that only serves to be more humiliating, tears sliding down Geralt’s armour.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier huffs out. “I don’t know why—”

“Besides what you experienced— what I made you hear,” Geralt says in a low voice, regret tinging the edges of it, “which would be reason— you stopped the ritual before it was done, Jaskier. That has consequences.”

Jaskier blinks, frowns. “What?”

“When an incantation like that is not finished, the energy you pushed into it does not return. Not all of it would, but it wouldn’t have drained you as much as it did.” Geralt pauses, looking away from the path before them to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “The fact that you did not pass out the moment you stepped out of the circle...” Geralt shakes his head. “There is a strength in you I did not recognize before, and I’m sorry for that.”

Jaskier gapes at him, all thought erased from his mind, until the only thing that remains rushes out before he can think better of it. “I had to. You were— I had to.”

Geralt looks away again, but Jaskier can feel the way his breath hitches, and how Geralt’s fingers become a little tighter.

“I know,” Geralt says, eventually. “I know. I had to, too.”

And that, more than anything, disperses all the lingering fears, at least for the moment. Jaskier might never quite understand how Geralt had come to feel this way about him, and there might be a lingering voice in his head, warning him in perpetuity to brace for the moment he’ll be discovered as a burden and left behind. But Geralt promised: he did not mean anything he had said in the teahouse. No matter how close his words came to Jaskier’s worst fears, it does not mean they were true. It does not mean Geralt believes them.

They both just defied the odds because they had to. So maybe, this— them — will defy the odds too.

“I love you,” Jaskier says, because he can, and because he needs to say it. Needs to remind himself that this is what he’s allowed to have.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and it is warm, and sweet. Nothing like all the others Jaskier has gathered, but it's unfamiliarity doesn’t make it harder to read. Jaskier cherishes it, repeats the sound in his head like a lullaby as his exhaustion finally drags him into the dark, gently swinging in Geralt’s arms.

It was just a soft noise, a silent acknowledgement, and Jaskier hopes he will hear it again and again.

I love you too.

——

The blur of exhaustion makes the following hours uncertain in reality. Jaskier remembers waking once they reach the manor, if only because Geralt’s warmth disappears. After there are only flashes; stinging hands, gentle apologies, water cool on his tongue. Then there is movement again, the now familiar swinging step of Geralt’s carrying pace, but only for a moment. He tries to help, tries to get his boots off, but his fingers are bound and his eyes are stuck in darkness. A huff, and then Geralt, on his knees before him. Feet become cold on the stone floor.

“Rest, Jaskier. It’s over.”

Darkness comes quickly, after that, and lingers this time. But it brings no peace as the soft voice had promised.

Jaskier dreams of teeth, of blood, of a storm of tears.

He dreams of the cellar, of Simon’s ravaged lips. A second body lies beside him. Feline eyes forever dulled.

His fault. His fault.

Jaskier gasps awake, the image still lingering in his mind, and he cannot help but call out, “Geralt?”

“Here.”

His voice comes like a warm bath; Jaskier almost drowns in relief.

Geralt’s silhouette becomes visible in the pale moonlight. He’s sitting in a chair, set right next to Jaskier’s bed. He’s holding out a drinking bowl and Jaskier takes it gratefully.

There is a silence after, where neither seems to know what to say.

Geralt huffs, then, and says, “Go back to sleep, Jaskier. You need it.” He pauses, for a moment, and then adds, almost too soft to hear, “I’ll be here.”

But Jaskier is already shaking his head. “I don’t want to.”

Geralt gives him a look.

“I know, but,” Jaskier shudders, “Let me be glad I did not kill you for a while, okay. It proves to be hard to believe, and my dreams are having a ball with it.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighs. “I’m not like you. I can’t shrug this off as easily. It’s going to haunt me for a while. I’m used to you being in danger, but not at my hand.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Please, do not treat me like a child in this, Geralt. What you said, after, it was lovely. I am glad you consider my actions faultless. But I cannot excuse myself from responsibility completely either. My desire to keep secrets from you put you in danger. My selfishness to avoid rejection made rejection, ironically, unavoidable, even if it only was temporary. I know it was not easy for you to do it, you do not favour lying and I imagine it was a foul thing to witness me breaking apart so completely. But I’m glad you did so to save yourself, and I’m sorry for not telling you earlier.”

“Jaskier.” As opposed to the slight frustration of before, his name now is said with a sharp edge. Jaskier looks up at Geralt to see his face half in shadow, but what is visible is set in lines of anger.

“I was never in danger. You were. It was draining me.” The words are bitten out, quiet, tense.

Jaskier huffs, shakes his head. “You truly believe this? How can you be certain? You said yourself there is little known of the creature’s predator form. You claim you could have triggered it with your selfless fighting, but you cannot deny that it changed right after I burned the book. You cannot deny that when it fought you, it used my words against you.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches, and his fists clench on his lap.

“We might never know, but I do not want to forget my contribution to it. I do not want to excuse myself from my mistake of not trusting you. You deserve better, Geralt.”

Geralt shudders and looks away. His shoulders are still set, as if he is preparing for another fight. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“What is your problem with this?” Jaskier asks with a frown. “No matter who it was after, you saved us, you saved the both of us. Why are you so insistent—“

“If it wanted to kill me I wouldn’t have—“ Geralt murmurs, and swipes his hand away, leaning back as far as the chair allows him. “I would’ve found another way— fought it off. I—“

Jaskier stares at him.

“What I did to you— You cried and I had to stand there, convincing you you weren’t worthy of me. That you owed me your tears. I had to—“ He looks away, shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of a thought. “I did it to keep you safe,” he spits out eventually, teeth clenched. “I would not have hurt you otherwise.”

Geralt’s face is harsh, set in stone, like he thinks the discussion is closed. Like he believes he is righteous in his conviction. He’s still looking away.

“You utter pillock,” Jaskier says, softly, and reaches out.

Geralt flinches for a moment, but Jaskier doesn’t let him slink away any further. He grasps him by the collar and tugs him close until Geralt is leaning over him, his hands on the mattress for balance, and then Jaskier surges up for a harsh kiss. “You don’t get to decide that,” he says, in between breaths. “Had all the heartbreak been eternal— had all the rejection been real, it still would have been worth it to save you. I was glad my tears had a purpose. I was glad my pain could lead to your life. So don’t tell me about noble sacrifice. You don’t get to decide that preventing me pain is worth losing you.”

Jaskier pulls more at him, until Geralt has no choice but lay down on the mattress. Jaskier smiles, and rearranges himself until they’re pressed close. Geralt’s eyes are bright, searching his face, and betraying surprise underneath all that stubborn self-righteousness.

“You don’t want to hurt me?” Jaskier says, gently and calm. “It’s very simple. Ask me to stay.”

Geralt’s eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. He leans back slightly and Jaskier lets him, watching Geralt composure crumble, bit by bit. The terror of the last few days finally leaves his body, and his mind. His anguish is silent, but it is raw. To be allowed to witness this… Jaskier has never been more grateful for anything.

When Geralt turns back to him, close again, his eyes are wet.

“Jaskier,” he says, and swallows. “Please.”

And maybe he hasn’t said the words, not exactly, but he doesn’t need to. Jaskier knows him. He can read between the lines. So when Geralt reaches for him desperately, he smiles, leans forward and whispers, “Yes” to Geralt’s lips.

——

Their breakfast is a dance of contrasts. Jaskier himself feels elated. Though his hands are bound to a point he can only just manage to eat his own food, the rest of his body has seemed to have healed through rest and reassurance. Geralt’s close presence had kept any more nightmares away and as a result Jaskier feels refreshed and excruciatingly happy. For he woke up to something he never dared to believe in, and because the terrible monster is truly well and gone.

Geralt, however, seems to have grown slightly more dire after a night’s sleep. His wounds are still an angry red, and there is a heaviness to his step that is all too familiar to Jaskier. The first two days after a harrowing fight are truly an exercise in patience. Even with his healing concoctions, muscle strain is a persistent foe. Part of Jaskier is glad for his own injury, because it gives Geralt a reason not to insist on continuing their travels today, even though Jaskier knows that riding is virtual torture in this state. But despite his physical struggles, there is a lightness to him that makes Jaskier’s heart pound. A certain glow of relief and maybe, disbelief, which could be attributed to the fact that their form of companionship has not only shifted, but made certain. Jaskier had never known that it had weighed on Geralt, never knowing how long they would travel together at any one time. To see this result of such an easy promise, Jaskier vows to himself to find more ways to show Geralt that he truly intends to stay.

But for all Jaskier and Geralt have something of delight as a result of this ordeal, Theresa and Daphne have no such luxury. They eat together in silence. Jaskier guesses that Geralt also senses the discrepancy of mood, and in an unspoken agreement they keep their own joys for themselves. Because there is a clear conflict on the faces across the table— a relief that it all is finally over, and at the same time, the horrific realisation that it is all truly over and there is nothing to do but to move on.

Jaskier has just finished his meal when Theresa sighs and says,

“We can bury him now.”

There is another moment of silence, broken only by Daphne’s quiet sniffles that she tries to hide in her sleeve.

“We’ll help,” Geralt says.

Jaskier nods. There is no question. They will see this to the end.

——

When the last dirt has crumbled over the grave, Jaskier feels a sense of loss that has less to do with the man buried under their feet, and more with the woman standing vigil beside him. She has not shed a tear, but as Jaskier pulls her into an embrace he can almost feel them, still locked up inside her heart.

He steps away with Geralt, for a moment, allowing Daphne and Theresa to say what they need to say in relative privacy. He’s surprised when Geralt takes his hand and squeezes. There is nothing in the way of grief on his face, but he’s still heaving breath. He had been tireless, digging the grave mostly on his own. But he had not complained once of his injuries, even when fresh blood started to seep down his back. Jaskier had wanted to be selfish— had wished he could make him stop, and do it later, for he did not want to see Geralt in pain so soon. But this was his way to help Theresa, and Jaskier knew he had to let him. Just like he knew he had to ask this of Geralt now too.

“Can you take Daphne to the village? Let people know the threat is over, that their loved ones can return home.”

Geralt doesn’t freeze, or flinch, but there is something deliberate in his next breath, and how his eyes go from Theresa to Jaskier and back. But it is only a moment before he nods, his face going soft and murmurs, “The bard has a song to write.”

Jaskier smiles and twines their fingers further together. “You have a sword, but I must make do with words.”

Geralt hums and they let go once Theresa and Daphne begin walking back to them. But before they are in earshot Geralt leans in and says, gently, “And you do it well.”

——-

The letter had arrived late at night. Jaskier had been exhausted performing on the first day of the Lord’s wedding — “Three days?” Geralt had said. ‘“Does he have three wives to wed?” — so Geralt had taken it right from Jaskier’s grasp and told him in no uncertain terms that he was in no state to read his own name, much less a letter.

Or, more accurately, that is what Jaskier had guessed he thought as he glared at Jaskier and slid the letter under his armor. Jaskier had figured himself very clever by trying to persuade Geralt out it — planning to snatch the letter the moment the buckles of his chest piece were loosened — but his scheming was foiled when Geralt merely hummed, pushed him onto the mattress, and Jasier promptly fell asleep.

Now, awake curled up against Geralt’s naked chest, Jaskier realises the traitor must have undressed right after. He opens his eyes to see Geralt holding the letter an inch from his face.

“Good morning,” Geralt says, smug and smiling softly.

Jaskier glares at him balefully. “Are you quite sure I am able to read this early morn? Can we risk such a thing?”

Geralt snorts and begins to open it. “You were barely awake through the last song, Jaskier. It is a wonder I did not have to carry you to our rooms.”

“As if,” Jaskier says, and snatches the letter from Geralt’s fingers. “Now, let’s hope whatever she wrote to us was not an emergency.”

Theresa’s letters have become a special delight over the years, recounting her various adventures as a traveling healer with Daphne by her side as her adopted daughter and loyal assistant. Though her relations are caught between the attention her growing fame has brought the family, and the impropriety of a woman leaving her duties of the house in favour of helping the rich and the poor in equal measure, Theresa has not been dependent on their approval ever since the first of her journals were turned into serialized pamphlets, popular in all the cities and even a few courts. Her earnings and notoriety fund her practice and earn her safe stay in villages and noble houses alike.

But last she wrote, she had planned to return home to help set up a healers guild in her city, so a next generation of practitioners may be trained. Jaskier has been more than curious what her reunion with family and friends has been, and whether anything interesting has occurred in her birth place ever since she left it behind.

He begins to read, and after a nudge from Geralt, speaks Theresa’s flowing sentences out loud and with increasing excitement.

When he’s finished, he grins helplessly at Geralt and says, “Oh, we must do this. A disturbed tomb of an ancient people? A lost temple in the woods? Whether any evil raises its head is not yet certain, but you must commend Theresa for her preventative approach. Better have a witcher present when the dead start rising, don’t you think? And regardless, even if no such thing happens, just the artifacts they are discovering will give me a grand story to tell.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow with a slight smile, and twitches his head toward the bound journal laying on the edge of the bedside table. “Will it fit?”

Jaskier laughs and reaches out to grab it, the green velvet and golden thread as soft as a gentle caress. He flips through it, reaching the blank pages and counting them with practiced ease. “Should do, if it won’t be overly exciting.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, leaning back to stretch luxuriously, the blanket inching away from his waist. “I will buy you another. Just in case.”

“Ah, how considerate of you.”

“I have been known to be, at times.”

“Have you, now?”

Geralt huffs, and crowds him in for a moment to press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips, before sliding out of the bed. “Indeed. For example, I had breakfast prepared for us, so one certain bard would not forget to eat before his grand performance.”

Jaskier catches his hand just before he gets out of reach, and squeezes. “I have it on good authority that this certain bard would be absolutely and utterly lost without his witcher. There are songs about such things, you know.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. He squeezes back. “Will said bard leave his bed before, or after, night falls again?”

“Just one more moment.” Jaskier makes a show of yawning. “I’ll be right there.”

Geralt snorts, but departs with another kiss and only a slightly pointed look.

The door falls shut and Jaskier lets out a deep sigh. It overwhelms him still, sometimes. The ease of them, even after almost a year. It will be good, he believes, to return to where it all started. To meet Theresa and Daphne, and see how they fare, with time to heal from grief.

To walk Lover’s Bridge again, but not as hunters. Not as hunted. But as partners, in every sense of the word.

Jaskier smiles, and takes one last look through the journal. The journey of their past weeks, the adventures of months back, until he reaches those early pages: Geralt’s scratchy handwriting annotated with Jaskier’s curling letters at a later date.

The book falls open easily to the first page, the spine shaped by repeated movement.

Jaskier strokes his fingertips over the dried ink that forms smooth curling lines onto the parchment. It's the very first thing he wrote with his own hand, after the wounds were healed. The page saved for this exact purpose. A copy, carefully done, one sprawling letter at the time. The original now hangs around Geralt’s neck— folded gently to fit into a tiny locket. Burned edges reminding of sacrifices made.

".. and I looked at my travel companion, picking flowers in the lush field for one of his concoctions, and realised that despite the monsters, the horrors, and the evils of men, there is yet peace in this world. I found it with him."