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Jaskier’s running, which, in hindsight, is a pretty shit idea on his part.
No, really, he’s a bard running from a witcher; the odds are not exactly in his favor on this one.
Anyway, he’s running (more like stumbling) through the forest at an utterly reckless speed, trying to put as much distance between himself and Geralt before the man wakes up and realizes that Jaskier has up and fled.
Not to mention drugged him.
And has Jaskier mentioned how incredibly tricky it is to drug a witcher in the first place? Especially Geralt, who can usually, and quite literally, smell his bullshit from miles away.
So, thanks to Eskel (and Jaskier really hopes Geralt won’t skewer the poor man for it) he’s currently booking it down a muddy forest path by foot after the horse he’d... borrowed... from the stables had thrown him off only three fourths of the way to his destination, spooked by the storm.
He’d briefly considered taking Roach, knowing with absolute certainty that she’d find her way back to Geralt eventually.
Her death glare, however, had forced him to reconsider.
Additionally, Eskel had warned him that the drug would only last for six hours, at most, thanks to the mutagens speeding the witcher metabolism.
So here he is, running at breakneck speed through the forest, trying to out run a mutant created to hunt monsters. Jaskier is starting to realize how incredibly dumb this plan is, for all it had seemed plausible at the time. Now though he thinks he could’ve thought things through a bit better.
Nothing about this is ideal, but Geralt had been refusing to let the bard out of his sight to the point where even Eskel, Geralt’s brother in all but blood, had agreed drugging the White Wolf was the only way of escaping successfully.
At least he’d managed to finally come clean about his origins, though he supposed it hadn’t been entirely fair to Geralt, considering how the Witcher had been attempting to fend off the drug‘s effects at the time.
But, now, at least Jaskier’s conscience is clear now.
More or less.
Oh, he should probably tell things in chronological order, though, so let’s start where this current clusterfuck began.
——
Against his better judgement, and much to the chagrin of Renfri, who’s scowling at him from across the room, Jaskier downs the vial Eskel had given him the moment Geralt leaves their shared room at the inn.
It tastes bitter on his tongue, sliding down his throat like something foul, but when he looks up, nose scrunched, Renfri is gone, and Jaskier can breathe.
The fog in his brain seems to lift a little, the marbles stop crashing into each other and it’s... quiet.
Jaskier hadn’t noticed before, the background noise of... something, creeping up on him and getting louder while simultaneously fading into the background.
Now that it’s gone, it almost feels too empty. Too silent.
He shoves the vial back into his small bag of belongings, making sure it’s properly buried amongst the clothes before stepping back and out of the room to follow the witchers to the tavern next door.
Jaskier is grateful to Eskel for dragging Geralt away for some “ale and catching up” immediately upon getting settled in the small village. After traveling with the other witcher for two weeks, he and the bard had become... not friends, exactly. But they do share common ground in the regards to maintaining Geralt’s wellbeing.
And isn’t that a relief. To see that the White Wolf has even more people that look out for him than Jaskier had previously thought.
Thankfully, there haven’t been any other incidents like the one where Jaskier accidentally threatened to put Eskel’s head on a spike, though he’d come close when the obnoxious man wouldn’t stop egging Jaskier on and dropping not so subtle hints about certain things.
They’re only five days from Aretuza now. Six if Eskel gets distracted by butterflies again, and Jaskier’s patience is already running abysmally thin even without the added knowledge that he will need to find a way to split from Geralt in two days’ time. And isn’t that just the cherry on top of this colossally fucked up cake? Because how in the world is he going to get away from suspicious-of-his-own-shadow-Geralt when he can’t even manage to get past Roach without the horse noticing and grabbing is clothes in her teeth?
But that’s something he’ll need to worry about later. It would be more than disastrous if Geralt were to catch on before Jaskier’s had time to formulate a plan, so his strategy for the moment is exuberance and a lot of alcohol.
Jaskier doesn’t bother to take his lute this time, the instrument more a comforting weight by now than a means to earn some coin or present a new song. If Jaskier could spare enough time to think about it, he would find it disconcerting how little he cares about his life’s work at the moment.
He hasn’t composed a song in over two months.
Jaskier pushes the tavern’s door open, immediately greeted by the overbearing scent of ale, boisterous laughter coming from all directions, and the rancid smell of rotten teeth from the resident drunkards.
It takes the bard less than a second to spot Geralt and Eskel, the two witchers tucked away into the far-right corner of the room, Eskel gesturing animatedly to Geralt, who is as stoic as ever.
The tavern’s other occupants give the pair a wide berth, wary of the mutants that are rarely seen together. A few of the younger, more naive men keep shooting scathing glances their way, but even the alcohol hasn’t made them dumb enough to try anything. Yet.
Eskel is the first to spot Jaskier as the bard weaves his way through the crowd, grinning widely and waving him over. Geralt, for his part, doesn’t so much as glance his way before scooting over, effectively vacating a spot where Jaskier will easily fit.
Part of him wants to be a little shit and squeeze himself into the seat beside Eskel, if only to see Geralt‘s amber eyes narrow and his jaw lock in what Jaskier wants to believe is jealousy. But really, it probably comes closer to the territorial-like behavior the Witcher had been exhibiting ever since Eskel joined them.
And Jaskier... well, it’s not like he’s got the luxury of time on his side, so for all that it’s worth, he plops down beside Geralt, plastering himself as close to the comfortable warmth of the other man as he dares.
“Jaskier!” Eskel slides a spare cup, filled to the brim with a deep red liquid, towards him. “I ordered some wine for you!”
Jaskier blinks, more than a little dumbfounded as he stares, gingerly taking it in hand before giving Eskel an inquiring look. “What’s wrong with ale?”
A scarred hand reaches up to scratch sheepishly at an equally scarred cheek. “Uhm, well, I told you I’m sort of a fan of your songs and... you know, I asked around a bit-”
“Meaning he started a full-blown investigation,” Geralt mumbles into his drink.
Jaskier snorts.
Eskel doesn’t blush, exactly, but it appears to be a close thing with how he ducks his head away from the flickering fire light. “Shut up, you traitor. Anyway, a lot of innkeepers said you favored wine to ale when you visited.”
This.... it would almost be touching if it weren’t for the fact that all this snooping around is exactly the reason Eskel has risen from rock bottom of Jaskier’s danger list to current “Bane of Existence”, second only to Stregobor.
Yen would be absolutely horrified if she found out about losing her rank as number two. Consequences of which, were she ever to find out, would lead her to doing everything in her power to out-bane Eskel.
And just, no. Jaskier’s got enough on his plate without imagining that particular war of “getting-Jaskier-to-hate-me-most.”
The bard has to admit the wine, at least, is a nice gesture. “Thank you.“
Eskel beams. “You’re welcome!“
“My, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get into my pants.“
“Well, maybe I am-”
Beside him, Geralt growls lowly, cup meeting table with a little too much force.
“..not. Definitely not.”
Jaskier turns his unimpressed stare on Geralt. “What the fuck Geralt? I haven’t gotten laid in forever. Stop cockblocking me!”
Not that he’d actually sleep with Eskel, but hey, there’s no reason for Geralt to know that, is there?
Geralt meets his stare dead on, glaring right back with the gold of his iris flickering dangerously. There’s still an underlying rumble in his voice when he replies, like his vocal cords want to slip into something even deeper. “You’re not sleeping with him.”
Jaskier purses his lips.
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“And what, dear Witcher, gives you the impression that I require your permission?”
“You. Are not. Sleeping. With. Him.”
“What the fuck is your problem!?”
“You.”
“Oh, so, now you decide to give a shit about-”
“Uhhhh... guys?”
“What!?” Jaskier barks, then immediately feels bad for it as he catches sight of Eskel’s deer-caught-at-arrow-tip expression. “Sorry, but our lovely White Wolf here has recently transformed into a control freak.”
The scathing look thrown Jaskier’s way gets ignored.
Eskel laughs, amber eyes tracking Geralt’s every move like he actually expects an attack for the implication earlier. “Nah, he’s just gone soft.”
“You sure we’re talking about the same Geralt?”
“At this point, I don’t even know.”
Jaskier is loath to admit it, but Eskel’s relatively easy-going nature is starting to serve as a useful buffer between Geralt’s usual thick headedness and Jaskier’s newly acquired short fuse.
“Fuck off.”
“And there he is!”
Jaskier can’t help but grin happily at the annoyed look on Geralt’s face, daring his right knee to knock lightly into the Witcher’s in a teasing gesture.
“Oh for-” Eskel starts, then abruptly cuts himself off in favor of chugging his cup of ale.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’d like to keep my head.”
——
Later that night, when Geralt leaves them briefly to tend to Roach —although not before sending Eskel a meaningful glare— Jaskier finds himself nursing his second cup of wine. It’s fruity and just sweet enough to make the underlying dry taste bearable.
It’s not the best he’s ever had by any means.
(Then again, nothing could compare to the flavor of the ice wine of Creyden, grapes harvested a day after the first frost had blanketed the fields.
Back then, he and Renfri had snuck down into the kitchens, nabbing a bottle when no one was looking.
Dinner that day had been a catastrophe.)
Nonetheless, he finds himself enjoying the drink Eskel had ordered more than he wouldn’ve expected.
Going by the smug expression on the scarred face across from him, Jaskier isn’t doing very well at hiding it either.
“You took it, didn’t you?” Eskel asks conversationally, pulling the bard away from his fond memories.
“Hm?”
“The potion.”
“Oh.” Jaskier huffs, fiddling a little with the smooth wood of his cup. “Yes.”
A sagely nod from the other witcher.
“I suspected. You don’t stink of foul magic as much anymore.”
Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “What?”
The nonchalant shrug does nothing to dispel his incredulity.
“You’ve been stinking of twisted and warped chaos since I met you, Jaskier. Also, don’t take Geralt for a fool. He’s noticed.”
There’s really nothing the bard can say to that, so he just lifts the wine to his lips and lets the liquid slosh around in his mouth before swallowing it, leaving a fiery aftertaste in its wake.
“I know. He probably doesn’t know how to go about it.”
“I swear to every goddamn deity out there... You two are so fucking... dense!”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, craning his neck until something pops. “If we’re so exasperating, you could just leave. Y’know, fuck off to Kaer Morhen or something. Have a good laugh with that Deider chick.”
“Deidre” Eskel corrects, absently scratching at a vertical scar running across the back of his hand. “And I will be leaving you two tomorrow, actually.”
Whatever he’d been about to say, it dies within Jaskier’s throat as his jaw snaps shut, teeth clinking together uncomfortably. It’s what he’d longed for since Eskel attacked him in the woods, but somehow... well, it’s sudden. And slightly inconvenient.
“I expected you to be happier about that.”
Jaskier frowns. “How am I supposed to steal away if nobody distracts Geralt?”
“Ah, right!” It sounds way too cheerful. “Here!”
A small vial is thrown at the bard, which he catches with minimal struggle to inspect the lilac dust (powder?) sitting within. It looks pretty.
“I’m slightly disturbed by the amount of weird stuff you carry around.”
Eskel shrugs. “Bard, I’ve observed you two for some time already. There’s no way Geralt would let you out of his sight long enough for you to make the trip to Stregobor, with me there or not. And frankly, Geralt is a force to be reckoned with even on his bad days. And he been getting... tetchy these days.”
“Fine, so what does it do?”
“It’s sort of like a sedative. That amount should have him asleep for about six hours. Long enough for you to bail and cover up your tracks so he’ll have a harder time following you.”
Bile claws its way up Jaskier’s throat. “So, I have to drug him.”
“I’d still prefer you just talk to him.”
“You know I can’t.”
“I know why you think you can’t!”
There’s an uncharacteristic sharpness within Eskel’s eyes now, something he’d seen often enough on Geralt that he recognizes the cold winded fury like a slap to the face.
Eskel’s face, though scarred and roughened by many years of grueling work, isn’t made for such an expression. With the underlying mildness and general kindness absent from his gaze, it’s almost scary, and Jaskier finds himself shrinking a little despite himself.
Thankfully that expression is there and gone again with the blink of an eye, calm settling over Eskel’s face once more. The disapproval, however, is palpable. “Do you want my help or not?”
Jaskier pockets the vial. “Why in the world are you helping me betray Geralt?”
“I’m not betraying him,” Eskel deadpans, waving down one of the serving girls to bring him another cup of ale. The girl, obviously spooked by the Witcher’s appearance, nods and hurries off. “But I also think, with you gone, he’ll finally be able to see things clearly. For once in his life.”
And... ok, that kind of stings. A lot.
But it’s not like it isn’t true. Jaskier’s been preaching basically the same thing for months now.
Still, hearing someone else say it like that...
Perhaps they’d all have been better off if Geralt hadn’t found him after they’d parted ways after the dragon hunt. Maybe Jaskier could have died in peace, without having some small piece of heaven dangled right in front of his nose, knowing he could never have it.
Maybe he should have just slit his own-
Jaskier jerks violently when Geralt slips back into the seat beside him, garnering a look that could be interpreted as concern if Jaskier didn’t know better. Thank the gods he does.
Know better, that is.
Jaskier hides his face in his cup, feeling oddly forlorn. Eskel immediately strikes up another conversation with Geralt, discussing their latest hunt (and subsequent kill) of the Night Raven. A nasty thing inhabiting the body of a raven, devouring straying children and all townsfolk that dared to go out at night.
Funnily enough, the one to recognize the foul thing had been Jaskier, strangely pulled in by the sickly-sweet smell of decay and disease wafting off the possessed corvid.
It appeared to be a normal bird at first, looking down from a tree branch with beady eyes, head cocked as if in question, and Jaskier had known.
Of course, when the animal had suddenly opened its beak so wide that it had started splitting down the middle, a nightmarish thing only faintly resembling a bird emerging, it had also tipped off the two witchers.
Later on, the duo had wondered why the creature had revealed itself in the middle of the day without being provoked first. Jaskier hadn’t.
Geralt’s shoulder brushes against him—as if on accident— but when Jaskier chances a glance to the witcher’s face, Geralt’s eyes are on him, pupils a mere slit in a pool of amber. “You ok?”
It’s gruff and quiet and so genuine that Jaskier wants to cry.
The vial of purple powder feels like it is physically dragging him down.
——
Eskel leaves the next day at dawn, pulling a reluctant Geralt into a tight hug before whispering something in his ear.
Jaskier is next, enveloped by muscular arms and squashed into a broad chest. Eskel, surprisingly, doesn’t have any parting words for him though. Rather rude, considering the scarred witcher knows this will be the last time he ever sees the bard alive.
What he does receive, however, is a very stern pat on the back and a look that makes every nerve ending jump to attention in spite of how cheery Eskel’s voice is while bidding them farewell.
And that’s that.
Eskel disappears into the woods and it’s just Geralt and Jaskier again, both turning toward the stables at the same time to feed Roach and head off to their next stop.
It‘s an uneventful day in and of itself, with Jaskier chattering away beside Geralt, desperately trying to keep the thought of what he‘ll soon have to do to Geralt at bay.
It doesn’t work very well for the bard, but at least Geralt appears to have reached his usual level of annoyance in the face of incessant chatter and is clearly no longer listening.
Only Roach doesn’t seem to buy it, swishing her tail angrily at Jaskier every chance she gets, nipping at every piece of cloth that comes within reaching distance. She won‘t even accept the carrot he offers in an attempt to get back into her good graces again.
Now if only Jaskier knew what he‘d done, that would be fantastic.
For the time being, however, it stays a mystery, and evening is approaching far too quickly for Jaskier‘s liking.
It feels like seconds before they’ve checked into the next inn, Jaskier going straight to their assigned room after snatching a bottle of ale as Geralt stays to talk to the innkeeper about something.
The Night Raven contract had garnered both witchers quite a lot of coin, the townsfolk so desperate from the loss of several children and adults that the mutants had been welcomed back from their mission like war heroes, even going so far as to up the reward in thanks.
Geralt, strangely enough, agreed to spend every night at an inn until they reach Aretuza, assuming each inn was within a one day traveling distance of the one before.
Jaskier settles into the room swiftly, whisking out two cups that he puts on the small table in one corner of the room, putting the bottle of ale beside them.
Next are his belongings. Geralt knows he’s messy, and if he doesn’t leave at least some stuff lying around the Witcher’s bullshit detector is bound to go off. So, scattering clutter it is.
He’s just in the process of pulling out a pair of maroon colored pants to toss onto the floor when Geralt enters, heavy armor coming off with practiced ease, weapons and other equipment neatly put into a corner before he goes and sits down on the bed, unfolding a scroll with furrowed eyebrows, a tangle of white hair falling into his face.
“Ale?“ the bard offers, nervously rubbing at a smudge on his inner left wrist.
Geralt hums, only the slight tilt in his voice indicating a sort of absent approval.
Jaskier swallows around the boulder lodged in his throat, forcing himself to take deep and steady breaths as he pours them both a cup. His heart desperately wants to accelerate, to give away what he’s doing, that this is wrong wrong wrong, so many levels of wrong, but he clamps down on the errant muscle, shoving the dread and sorrow as for down as it will go, slamming a heavy lid on top, locking it down tight.
In the end he manages to bite his tongue harshly and slip the lilac powder out of his sleeve and into the drink unseen, sloshing the cup around to make it dissolve before moving over to Geralt where he sits perched on the bed, reading over the contract with an unreadable expression.
Jaskier smiles tightly as he passes the drink over, Geralt grunting in thanks as he turns the piece of parchment.
“What? It’s not another Night Raven or something, right?”
Geralt shakes his head, skimming the last few paragraphs before putting the contract carefully on the bedside table. “No. From the sound of it, it’s either a kikimora or drowners. None of the villagers went close enough to find out for certain.”
Jaskier hums thoughtfully, eying the drink in Geralt’s hand nervously.
“Either way, nothing you can’t handle, right?”
Geralt scoffs, twisting his neck until Jaskier can hear a muted crack. “No. But I was thinking of taking Ciri.”
Jaskier blinks, nervousness forgotten as indignation replaces it. “What the fuck Geralt? It’s dangerous! And she’s still a just a child!”
Unimpressed amber eyes regard Jaskier coolly from beneath white lashes.
“No! Nononono, Geralt, you don’t get to pin this on me. At least I’m an adult!”
The Witcher simply hums noncommittally, lifting the cup to his lips to down its contents in one go.
Well, that went better than expected
Jaskier’s heart pounds in his rib cage, guilt and relief warring with each other. He hadn’t expected his admittedly half-assed plan to work so easily. It’s almost anticlimactic.
Something must show on the bard’s face because Geralt’s expression shifts, body righting itself as muscles pull taut. “Jaskier, what’s wrong?”
Jaskier bites his lip until he tastes blood, trying to fight back the moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”
The Witcher’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, a proper response evading him. The first tear spills over just as Jaskier steps away from the bed, grimacing apologetically as Geralt makes to follow but ends up dropping backwards instead, his legs not obeying him.
Understanding dawns in Geralt’s eyes, gaze flitting back and forth between Jaskier and the cup in his hand in disbelief.
Jaskier’s fists clench and unclench at his side as he waits for Geralt to start screaming and cursing him. He’s prepared himself for it. Fuck, he wrote a damn script for such a responce!
But nothing happens. Geralt doesn’t say anything, just settles on watching him after another couple seconds, a myriad of emotion swimming through their depth as his pupils go from tiny slits to fully blown.
Rain pelts against the window, the only sound in the room apart from the low crackle of the fire and Jaskier’s heavy breathing.
“Why?”
It’s a far cry from Geralt’s usual demanding tone. There’s no authority behind it, just a deep sense of dread that Jaskier feels in his bones.
Jaskier’s crying in earnest now, trying to stifle his pathetic sobs by cupping both hands around his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Technically he knows that the poison won’t hurt Geralt. Knows that all it will do is paralyze him and, eventually, send him off into a deep slumber. He’ll be good as new once he wakes up.
But if Jaskier never has to see the light behind Geralt’s eyes dim and his body go limp again, it would still be too soon.
“Why?” Nothing more than a low growl now. He can see Geralt fight the powder’s effect, can see it in the way he struggles to stay awake and lucid, move his arms to remain sitting, his legs twitching with in a futile attempt to stand up.
Jaskier only dares to step closer when it’s clear his White Wolf is losing the fight. Until now, he hadn’t expected Eskel to actually help him go through with this. He’d thought that whatever the witcher had provided him with would make Geralt sleepy at best, not knock him out within minutes.
For just a moment Jaskier allows himself to reach out, palm ghosting feather light over the stubble on Geralt‘s check, settling just for a second by his temple as he tries to burn every speck of different colored gold in those inhuman eyes into his mind. There are too many. It‘s a losing battle.
He withdraws.
Geralt looks up at where Jaskier looms over him, falling backward on the bed, scarred fingers spasming with what the bard suspects is frustration.
A guttural sound escapes the Witcher’s throat.
Jaskier shakes his head, wiping his cheeks furiously with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”
Another grunt is his only answer. The bard grimaces.
“I can’t- I have to-” Jaskier’s lungs feel like there’s too little oxygen in the world to satisfy them, every word catching between sore vocal cords. He wills the room to stop spinning and the shadow behind the window to disappear before he tries again, very quietly. “She was my sister, you know?”
There’s no reply. Of course there’s not. The only indication that Geralt has heard him is the slight widening of his eyes and a raspy exhale.
Jaskier swallows, the boulder blocking his throat having grown into a full-sized mountain. He soldiers on anyway, because this-
This is the only chance he’ll get. The last time he’ll have Geralt with him, the last time he’ll get the chance to look at him, commit to memory every pale scar and every bright fleck in his amber eyes. There’ll be no next time after this. No second chances. No friendly banter. No cold nights spent sharing a bedroll. No…no nothing.
This will be it. Because Geralt’s bound to come after him and- and really, that’s ok.
Jaskier loves a good story. A good tragedy. He’s studied them, for gods’ sakes. And what better way to end his personal tale than back in the way it first started.
He doesn’t want to die. But if Geralt does the deed- he thinks it’s going to be ok. Stregobor will be dead. Renfri can finally - finally - rest, and Jaskier- Jaskier can find peace. No more running. No more lies.
“Renfri- she was my twin.”
Geralt seems to be having a hard time focusing, but instead of murderous he looks almost... frantic? There’s a sense of urgency in how the Witcher tries to lift his arm sluggishly, warbled nonsense escaping his mouth.
Only then does Jaskier realize what it must look like and- damn. He should have thought of this sooner. “You’re not dying! Don’t worry. It’s just something to make you sleep.” A sad smile tugs at his lips. “I need a little head start, you understand.”
Geralt tries to move his head, mounting frustration contorting his face as the drug spreads throughout his nervous system.
Before he can stop himself, Jaskier reaches out, hand hovering uncertainly just shy of Geralt’s face.
He pulls back. He has no right to touch anymore.
“I’m not mad at you for killing her, for the record,” Jaskier blinks a couple times before amending “Well, no, I am. She was my twin.”
“Jas-kier...”
The bard shakes his head. “But she knew what she was getting herself into. She... she was smart, you know.”
Another frustrated noise.
Half of Jaskier is impressed by the amount of resistance Geralt is displaying, the other half worries about the drug’s potency. He needs that head start if he wants to kill Stregobor. He can’t afford for Geralt to catch up to him midway.
“I wanted to kill you in that tavern when we first met.” He admits, ashamed of how vulnerable it comes out. “I wanted to just... drive a dagger through your throat when you least expected it and- ... I felt it, when she died. I felt the blade go through her neck, her panic, her pain... her acceptance. And then the cold.”
Geralt’s eyes are starting to glaze over, his agitated breath starting to even out. But he’s still listening. Jaskier can tell by the way the muscles in his jaw jump in response to each word.
“It hurt. It hurt so bad I wanted to die. And then I wanted to kill you,” he laughs humorlessly. “But then you just had to go and show some fucking empathy and be kind to Filavandrel! And I didn’t know which way was up or down at the time and I thought, you know, I was curious if it was some ruse to survive now and kill them later but- but you didn’t. And then I had to deal with the realization that you’re not just another cold blooded Stregobor and- and by then I’d already missed my cue and I didn’t want to kill you because you’re kinder than most humans that roam this fucked up continent and...”
It’s no use. Jaskier keeps babbling like it will make a difference when he knows damn well that it won’t. That it can’t. He should get going. He should get going now. Make the most of whatever time he’s bought by drugging Geralt and be done with Stregobor when the Witcher comes for him.
“Silver burns me,” he says, hoping that’s enough of an explanation as he drags himself away from Geralt’s side to pull one of the blankets over the Witcher. Chances of Geralt freezing are close to zero, but it gives Jaskier something to do other than just grab his bag and flee into the night.
The shadow outside the window looks like it’s waving at him, urging him to hurry. Jaskier ignores it. The marbles start clinking and clattering in protest, every collision like a clock counting down.
If Eskel‘s miracle potion is already wearing off, it must not have been as effective as he’d hoped.
But in the end, there’s only so much stalling he can do before he finds himself standing once more beside the bed harboring Geralt’s unnaturally still form. Gold peeking out from beneath his eyelids is the only indicator that he’s not quite asleep yet.
“Stregobor was right, you know,” Jaskier says softly, watching the sliver of gold become smaller and smaller with each second passing them by. “The girls born under the black sun are cursed, and by proxy, so am I. Now that the next eclipse is close, it’s making me go insane, Geralt. I can barely hear myself think sometimes.”
He stops, wondering how to properly phrase the next bit. ‘Hey, some weird deity or something wants me as a sacrifice’ or ‘don’t let any ladies bathe in my blood because, y’know, Lilith might dig that’? Doesn’t sound nearly as poetic as ‘it is my fate to die, opening a gate through which a man-slaughtering goddess will enter this realm.’
Honestly, Jaskier himself isn’t completely sure how it’s supposed to work. But he figures it should be fine as long as he stays far, far away from any cults and Geralt kills him before the eclipse sets in. No biggie.
“Don’t worry though, I won’t go too far. I’ll just kill Stregobor. And when I have, you can kill me, ok?” The smile feels strange on his face. Wobbly, saturated with...sorrow? Guilt? Both? “You have to kill monsters. It’s alright. I understand. I want it to be you.”
Something flickers in Geralt’s eyes then, only a second before they slip shut completely.
He sighs, stepping back and gathering up the bag with his most important belongings, pointedly ignoring the way his fingers tremble and slip off the leather more times than he cares to count.
Eventually, though, he’s done and turns to leave.
Jaskier stops at the door, throwing one last glance over his shoulder to where Geralt lies, sleeping, blissfully unaware. All tension is gone from his body, every line on his face smoothed out by oblivion.
Without the heavy burden of fate weighing him down he looks almost... happy. Peaceful.
(Ciri and Yen will pick him up again, soothe the burn of Jaskier‘s betrayal. He knows that. He KNOWS it. And yet...)
The door thumps shut behind Jaskier, the image burned into his mind and stashed in the same box as Renfri’s smile.
He doesn’t notice until much later that he’s forgotten his lute.
——
So yeah, that’s more or less how Jaskier ended up running the rest of the way to Stregobor’s oh-so-clever hideout, cursing every deity along the way, for slowing him down, for not fucking helping.
Honestly, it’s beginning to seem like a very shit plan, overall. But impulse control just isn’t a side effect of being born under the black sun. Rather the opposite, actually. Sadly enough.
Jaskier’s foot catches on a rogue root and sends him tumbling to the slick forest floor.
He curses profusely as he feels his palm being scraped across some stones concealed under the wet leaves.
Doesn’t matter. Just a small scratch.
The bard presses forward, periodically checking to see if the dagger is still safely attached to where he stashed it. Itching to sink it into some vital organ of that accursed sorcerer.
Renfri haunts the edge of his vision, appearing and disappearing between every other blink.
The line of trees comes to such an abrupt end that Jaskier is unable to stop himself in time, bursting out into the open as his boots skid at first, struggling to find purchase on the slick ground.
He pants harshly, taking in the dark outline of a small fortress in the dim light of predawn, muted even further by the heavy rain clouds hanging overhead.
There’s nothing to indicate that the building is occupied by any living creature. Winding pillars and towers look brittle enough to collapse at any moment, the roof caved in at most parts.
If it weren’t for the flickering light behind one of the few intact windows, Jaskier would have called bullshit on Eskel’s claim that this was Stregobor’s hideout.
As it is, it’s worth an investigation.
Jaskier sets his jaw. There’s no time to lose.
He marches forward like a man to the gallows, head held high, eyes dark.
A very poetic thought, but in reality, it just looks sad, and painfully resigned.
Somewhere behind Jaskier, Renfri shrieks.