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With each new spring, it got harder and harder to say goodbye to his wolves. They all knew with each goodbye they were drawing closer to the last one, and each year Jaskier would promise them the same thing. “I’ll try not to die.”
Vesemir had offered Jaskier the keep as his permanent home ten years past, the two of them enjoyed the company as they rattled around Kaer Morhen. Jaskier now looked older than Vesemir, his hair still mostly black with a shock of grey streaking through his fringe. It had thinned some in recent years and Jaskier kept a jaunty hat with a purple feather in it firmly atop his head all year round.
He wore a beard as white as Geralt’s to cover some of the damage age had done to him. His wolves would swear he looked as beautiful as the day they first met him, and Jaskier would chuckle at their sweet words. But he couldn’t help but feel wilted among these men who hadn’t changed while he couldn’t seem to stop.
He spent most of his days in the library, determined to have the whole thing catalogued in his lifetime, he worked tirelessly or so he’d tell his wolves when they returned for winter. Vesemir would flash a knowing smirk his way before being prodded with a stick in the gut. He knew Jaskier spent more time sleeping on the comfortable lounge Lambert had purchased for him as a retirement gift.
The stick was new. Last winter his hip had started to ache and then one day he found himself on the ground one too many times for his wolves' liking. Eskel had presented him with a wooden staff, the head carved into a wolf, he’d carved it himself, polished it to a high sheen so the wood was as smooth as stone. Jaskier didn’t like to admit it but he needed to use it, he told himself he was honouring his wolves by carrying the gift.
Geralt was the worst for fussing if Jaskier so much as grunted while getting up he was lifted and coddled, the White Wolf holding onto his elbow like he was a fragile maiden. At least he told himself it was that and not an old crone which he felt on long nights when his wolves were all asleep around him, youthful and strong and him the shriveled shell with nothing but his memories of youth and adventure.
And what a life he’d had, his only resentment was he would have to leave this life. Not because he was afraid to die, no he was ready when death came knocking. He was afraid to leave his wolves.
They loved him so fiercely, all in their own different way. They had grown so much since the first winter, they loved freely now and easily, they opened their hearts, their worries and fears. They shared with one another as well as himself, there was a calm around them that had taken decades for him to pull from them. To free them.
Their bed was not without fun though, he still enjoyed pleasure with his wolves. Vesemir had brewed a herbal potion that helped when things wouldn’t come as easy as they had in his youth, and he still took a cock like a champ. In those regards it was as if his wolves didn’t see him as old, yes they might have been a little more gentle but Jaskier could still give them a look and they’d toss him over one of their shoulders and they’d run to their room.
Vesemir still got cranky when things escalated in the main hall, throwing a cloth at one of his pups, “You could at least clean up after yourselves.”
But the goodbyes, they were the worst. Jaskier saw the pain in his wolves’ eyes as they took their leave one at a time. The hugs were tighter, the kisses lingered and they would keep looking back until the path turned out of view. A little part of Jaskier’s heart broke every time.
This summer Jaskier got a cold, it started in his head like any other but he couldn’t shake it, it went to his chest and soon Kaer Morhen echoed with the rattling bark as he shuffled around. Vesemir tried all manner of potions and herbs to help soothe and cure, he even contacted Triss to see if she had some insight.
Jaskier knew as soon as he saw her face after she had done her inspection. “No don’t say it, I will prepare myself.” Triss sat with him that night, leaving all manner of herbs and bottles to ease the pain that would inevitably come. She didn’t baby him but laid it all out with instructions so that Jaskier was in full control of his care. The final vial she slipped him was small and black, the last thing that would touch his lips.
Vesemir wanted to send word to the wolves on the path, but Jaskier was adamant that he shouldn’t. They would only rush back or worse be reckless on the path with their full attention broken by him. He would do nothing to hurt his wolves even if they might never forgive him for this. The world still needed Witcher’s and Jaskier, he’d had them for many decades in every way he could ever dream of. No, he would not have them off the Path because he was... because this would be his last winter.
The autumn was cooler than usual and Jaskier left his room less and less. His voice was ragged, which probably hurt worse than anything else. He could no longer keep his breath to sing so he would sit with his lute and will his knotted fingers to obey.
Vesemir would sit with him once his chores were done, they played gwent in the afternoons sipping the very best vintages and getting happily merry together to while the days away. When Jaskier could hardly breathe for coughing Vesemir would rub slaves into his chest and back and sit with him through the night.
They didn’t talk about this, but they both knew why. Jaskier was afraid of dying alone, after all these years on the Path and in Kaer Morhen Jaskier didn’t want to leave without a wolf by his side.
Lambert was the first home, he didn’t even pause in time for Vesemir to warn him, the stench of sickness filled the keep and he sprinted to their room. He pulled up in the doorway dropping his swords and bundling Jaskier’s frail body into his arms. The tears were already falling freely from his wolf as he took long shuddering breaths from his neck.
“How long,” Lambert asked, Jaskier was unsure if he meant since he’d known or, well.
He just held the wolf tighter, not long now, he just had to wait for his pack to all come home.
Lambert barely left his side, he told him stories of this year, of his favourite hunts, of his favourite times with Jaskier. They kissed a lot when Jaskier was able to, drank deeply, bathed often and Jaskier felt a sense of calm come over him that had been lost in the previous months.
Eskel was next, his actions mirrored his brother’s except he didn’t bother to remove his swords before Jaskier was in his big strong arms. Eskel held his tears, not wanting to scare Jaskier, but even his strong bear couldn’t hold back when wrapped in Jaskier’s arms that night. Jaskier started to remind him of all the adventures they’d had together. When Eskel finally let go the sounds of his sobs filled the keep.
Lambert attended to the winter chores to give Eskel the alone time he’d been given before his arrival.
Eskel sang for Jaskier, his baritone drifting through the keep only halting when Jaskier’s coughs took hold. Then he would hold his bard close trying to ease him through the episode. Eskel would massage Jaskier’s weary back and chest, the pain sometimes too much even for the strong potions Triss had left for him. He wished every night for just one more day and sent prayers on the winds that Geralt would arrive soon.
Geralt arrived four days later. He stood at the entrance to Kaer Morhen, Vesemir was there to greet him but his brothers were not. He smelt it as he entered, his eyes seeking out Vesemir’s, seeking answers and finding none that satisfied him. Geralt didn’t run to their room, in fact, he didn’t move at all. He knew Jaskier was waiting for him, knew it in his very core, and couldn’t bring himself to be the one that brought death upon their doorstep.
He crumpled to his knees, hands palm up in supplication, a prayer on his lips to all the gods he did not believe in. It was Eskel that got through to him. “Brother, he’s in pain.” The words cut Geralt deeper than any other in the past. It was him, again, he always brought pain to those he loved.
Eskel picked him up under the arms, pulling him into a kiss. “This isn’t your fault.”
Jaskier’s face broke into a huge smile when Geralt walked into their room, he was having a good day, the coughs only troubling him when he lay down. Jaskier was sitting back against Lambert’s chest while reading a rather scandalous poem.
Jaskier held his arms out to Geralt, running a thumb over his brow to wipe away his frown. Geralt got to his knees and lay his head in Jaskier’s lap, not speaking, barely breathing. He stayed that way for hours, his bard running gnarled fingers through his hair and down his neck, soothing his wolf.
Lambert and Eskel left them alone the next day, Jaskier giving them a weary smile as they promised to be within ear’s reach if, well, they never did say it.
Geralt was the quietest of his wolves, some things never change. Jaskier let Geralt hold him, perhaps tighter than was comfortable but now Jaskier was never without pain and the feeling of his White Wolf purring against his back was worth any amount of discomfort he should feel.
When the pack came back at dusk with tankards of mead and warm roast meats and vegetables, they enjoyed a meal together, his wolves laughing and joking with each other as they shared memories of their winters, of their times as a pack.
When the food was gone and the drinks empty Jaskier had them gather close. “My time has come, dear hearts.” He whispered. He took up each wolf in turn, kissing them deeply, tracing his fingers over their hearts. When he had taken each wolf into himself and pushed a part of his soul into them he asked Lambert to fetch Vesemir.
The old wolf bowed deeply at the door, “It’s been an honour, little lark.” Vesemir took a seat at the foot of the bed. Eskel sat at Jaskier’s back, Geralt tucked under both the bards and Eskel’s arm, Lambert lay with his head in Jaskier’s lap.
“My life has been a hell of an adventure, and as the poets of old say after all death is but the next great adventure.” He smiled at his pack and pulled the black vial from his pocket. Uncorking it with his teeth he held it up, “I will be waiting at the gates of the afterlife for you my wolves. Be sure to make me wait a very long time.” He choked down a sob before he pushed the vial between his lips and leaned his head back.
Cradled between his wolves Jaskier closed his eyes, a smile on his lips as he drifted off on his next great adventure.
Jaskier was given a Witcher’s funeral, his pyre stacked high and burned all day and all night. His wolves didn’t leave until Jaskier was returned to dust.
In the great hall, Jaskier’s lute was hung amongst the swords of the Witchers of old.