Work Text:
Jaskier had never wanted to be the god of the underworld.
When he and his fellow gods and goddesses gathered around to see who would rule over which parts of the world, they’d deliberately left the worst for Jaskier. Jaskier had yearned for the sky, the openness and the brightness of it, but Stregobor had taken one look at him and snatched the sky for himself.
It’s not horrible, being the god of the underworld. Sure, it’s dark and gloomy, a complete antithesis to who Jaskier is, but the dead are nice company. He travels to Elysium often, conversing with the ever-joyful souls who had made it there, and occasionally, he steps foot in the Fields of Asphodel, listening to the laments and broken dreams of the souls who hadn’t been good enough for Elysium, but not bad enough for Tartarus.
But it is still a lonely life. He has Greg, his lovely three-headed dog, and Yennefer to keep him company, though he’s still is desperately lonely - while he and Yen are good friends, their personalities grate on each other after millenia together in the underworld, and it isn’t exactly the most entertaining thing to be stuck with the same person for eternity.
One day, Jaskier discovers that he can enter the mortal world, even if he can’t enter Olympus, and he wanders under the wide open sky, under the beaming sun and the floating clouds, so unlike the artificial sky of Elysium. The warmth of the sun beats down on his skin, pale from the darkness of the underworld, and he lets himself sink into the sounds and sights of life flitting about the earth.
It’s beautiful.
Jaskier picks up a new hobby when he stumbles upon Valdo, the god of music, competing against a satyr named Marsyas. When Valdo flays Marsyas alive, Jaskier is there to guide his soul to the afterlife, and Marsyas murmurs to Jaskier about the cruelty of Valdo, his arrogance and vanity, and Jaskier eyes the lute held carelessly in Valdo’s hand.
Gods get away with their crimes because they don’t die. They don’t need to face justice in the underworld, so they commit atrocities with no fear of retribution, but Valdo is right there, and Jaskier isn’t above a little payback.
Valdo doesn’t see it coming when shadows snake out from behind him and grab the lute. He turns frantically, searching for his beloved instrument, but Jaskier has already slipped away, lute in his hands.
Learning the lute is surprisingly nice. The underworld has no shortage of exceptional musicians that Jaskier can learn from, and he enlists their expertise, slowly but surely falling in love with the lute, which soon becomes a fixture in his hands. Yennefer scoffs at him for it, for thinking that he, the god of the underworld, could ever learn to play the lute properly, but Jaskier persists, determined. There’s something about the music that he creates - it brings something more to the bleakness of his realm, and brings a bit of light to Jaskier’s days.
He’s wandering across the earth, strumming his lute softly, when he stumbles upon the god of spring.
Geralt, they call him. The Butcher. A bloody, violent name for the god of spring, a time of life and beauty and flourishing. He’d tried to murder the king of the gods, they say - and Jaskier doesn't blame him. After all, Stregobor is a bit of a bastard. But, well, this duality of the god of spring intrigues Jaskier, so when he’s wandering around aimlessly one day and spots Geralt, who’s sitting back against a tree with his eyes closed, Jaskier heads over to him, determined to find out more.
“I love how you just… sit there and brood,” Jaskier greets. Geralt lifts his head, and Jaskier realises that Geralt’s eyes are a beautiful gold, the colour of some truly wonderful flowers that Jaskier has seen and can’t name.
He’s beautiful, long white hair falling softly to his shoulders and interwoven with colourful blossoms, a flower crown settled on his head. He’s dressed, surprisingly, in black, but there are small spots of vibrant colour where small flowers and various plants are embroidered on the dark fabric, and Jaskier wants to know more about the god of spring, the Butcher who supposedly tried to kill the king of the gods, and it’s the first time that Jaskier has ever felt so intrigued by someone.
Those golden eyes look over Jaskier, no doubt taking in his colourful outfit in an attempt to mask the aura of death that radiates from him, taking in the lute that’s slung over his shoulder, so out of place for a god like him.
“I would like to be alone.” Gods, his voice, deep but as soft as the petals of a flower. There’s no judgement there, not like how Stregobor had boomed in malicious laughter when he’d first seen Jaskier in colours too bright for the god of the underworld, and there’s no fear or disgust either, which are common reactions to seeing him.
No one has ever reacted to Jaskier the way Geralt has, and it intrigues him deeply.
“You’re Geralt, the god of spring, the Butcher,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s face twists when Jaskier mentions the last moniker.
Geralt gets up, dusting dirt off his clothes and makes to walk away, but Jaskier is having none of it. “Hey, now, it’s not a bad thing!” Jaskier cries, hurrying after Geralt. Neither of them need to walk, of course - this is simply a pretense of being human, and the fact that Geralt is still here at least indicates that he’s willing to stay to hear out Jaskier. “Really, Stregobor is a dickhead. But something makes me think that you must be interesting company.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, back still turned to Jaskier. “You are not what I expected, for the god of the underworld.”
Jaskier huffs. “What, you thought I would be all dark and gloomy, wearing a perpetual glare and always brooding… oh.” His eyes dart to Geralt when he hears a small whuff of air being released. “Yes, I’m describing you, it seems.”
“Go away,” Geralt grumbles, steps getting quicker.
“Nuh-uh,” Jaskier picks up speed and stops in front of Geralt, who’s forced to come to a halt. “May I at least enjoy the pleasure of your company?”
“I see no reason why.”
“It might surprise you,” Jaskier begins dryly, planting his hands on his hips, “but millenia with no one but the dead as company is rather dull, and you, Geralt, are rather intriguing.”
Geralt hums. “Surely the dead must have great stories to tell.”
“They do,” Jaskier concedes with a shrug. “But for a long time, I have not had the pleasure of interacting with another god, save for Yen. Besides, I need some new inspiration for my songs, and you seem like the perfect muse.”
“What use does the god of the underworld have for songs?” Geralt sounds incredulous as the first hint of emotion creeps into his expression.
Jaskier gestures proudly to his lute. “It’s a new trade I’m learning,” he remarks cheerfully. “Maybe one day I will usurp Valdo of his position.”
Geralt turns away and ignores Jaskier, but he hasn’t yet transported himself elsewhere, so Jaskier wagers that he must at least find Jaskier somewhat intriguing. He’s proven right when Geralt doesn’t complain or try to chase him away, giving no more than a noncommittal grunt when Jaskier starts following him, and Jaskier grows ever more interested in the only god who isn’t afraid of him.
Jaskier follows Geralt, watching as Geralt spreads spring across the land, bringing life and joy. Jaskier wonders why he wanders the earth to do so. Geralt could just as easily regulate the seasons on Olympus, and yet, he chooses to walk among mortals, meandering across their land to bring the season of birth and new life.
The first time Jaskier watches the frost of snow melt to give way to small buds poking out of the soil, he’s awed at the process, at the creation of new life as it overcomes the death that he’s so used to. As the snow recedes, leaves start returning to trees, and the world bursts into colour everywhere Geralt passes.
It’s beautiful. It’s so different from the death and darkness of the underworld, and Jaskier is fascinated. As the god of the underworld, all he’d known about life was the end of it. Now that he travels with Geralt, Jaskier learns so much more about life, about the spark that rests within every living thing as they grow and flourish, about the beauty of life when it’s not dulled by the darkness of the underworld.
And through it all, Geralt is beautiful, a soft smile lighting his face as he watches small plants push out of the ground, his hands gentle as animals fresh out of hibernation flock to him, and he takes the time to pet each one of them, running his fingers tenderly through fur and feathers.
Geralt is radiant with life, overflows with it, even as he keeps a grumpy disposition towards Jaskier. It’s a shame, watching how the gentle light on Geralt’s face fades when he turns to look at Jaskier, replaced by a stoic expression that gives away none of the gentle joy of bringing life.
It hurts more than Jaskier would like to admit to see Geralt look at him this way, but it only makes him more determined to gain Geralt’s favour, make Geralt like him. So he pushes down his nature as much as he can, buries the death and darkness that roil within him, and he strums his lute and sings loudly enough to drown out the hum of his deadly power. He composes songs about the arrival of spring, about the blooming of new life and the beauty of creation. He sings about the flowers that Geralt grows, their vibrancy and their gentle beauty, and Jaskier pretends that he isn’t singing about Geralt, not at all.
Geralt initially responds to his songs with nothing more than a sideways glance and a disinterested grunt, but as Jaskier forges on determinedly, singing Geralt’s praises with the most genuine voice he can muster and filling the air with the most melodic tunes, Geralt starts softening.
When Geralt brushes his fingers past a tree, causing leaves to sprout from the branches and twisting vines to twine across the trunk, Jaskier catches him humming to one of Jaskier’s songs. When Geralt brings the first flickers of warmth to a human settlement, watching as humans clamour delightedly over the first blooming of a flower after the chill of winter, he sways slightly to Jaskier’s music, a gentle smile on his lips.
“You like my music,” Jaskier says triumphantly one day, his lute in his lap as he watches Geralt coo over a few rabbits which have crowded around him. Ignoring the pull of death that hangs over one of the rabbits, Jaskier exclaims, “I knew you liked my singing, Geralt!”
Geralt looks up from where he’s scratching the chin of the smallest rabbit, with a few others curled in his arms. “Where did you get that impression?”
“You hum my songs,” Jaskier states, lifting a finger. “You smile when I sing. You contribute to new lyrics. You sometimes sway to my music. Admit it, you like my music.”
“Hmm.” Geralt turns his attention back to the rabbits. One of them is pawing at the flowers in Geralt’s hair, and Jaskier has to stifle a laugh when Geralt gently pulls it away as it tries to nibble at the flowers.
Jaskier is entranced by the sight before him. Geralt, surrounded by lush grass that sways in the breeze, flowers dotting the green landscape. Geralt, surrounded by wildlife, treating them gently, oh so gently, as if they were all his own.
This is far, far better than the underworld.
After a while, Geralt concedes. “It’s not bad,” he murmurs as he twitches his fingers, and a rabbit pounces on the small bud that Geralt has just grown. “It’s not bad, for the god of the underworld.”
Inwardly, Jaskier deflates for a second, though his cheery mask doesn’t waver. He had hoped that Geralt would forget about who he is, though Jaskier supposes that it’s impossible. Rather, he’d hoped that Geralt would like him enough to disregard who he really is, the realm he rules over, the darkness that lurks within him - but of course, of course he would always be defined by his title, even in Geralt’s eyes.
Why would Geralt see him as anything other than the antithesis of what he is? Geralt brings life, Jaskier brings death. Geralt gives hope and light to the world, while Jaskier leeches it away.
To Geralt, Jaskier will never be more than the god of the underworld.
Jaskier shoves his powers down, so deep down that it hurts. It’s not natural for a god to bury his nature, but Jaskier is an expert at denying who he really is.
He plasters a smile on his face. “A compliment,” he gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “Why, a compliment from the esteemed god of spring himself! I am truly honoured.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he watches Jaskier’s antics, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Thanks, my darling blossom,” Jaskier coos, ignoring how Geralt rolls his eyes at the nickname. “I will cherish your compliment forever.”
They fall into an easy dynamic, and the longer they spend together, the more Geralt softens towards Jaskier, much to Jaskier’s delight.
Jaskier had always thought that the flowers in Geralt’s hair were there permanently, ever changing but never wilting, but that impression is quickly crushed when Jaskier wakes up early one morning to see Geralt’s hair bereft of any flowers, and he blinks, stunned.
“Where are your flowers?” Jaskier asks. Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier gestures to the top of his head. “Did you just… take them off?”
Geralt smiles slightly. “I take them off every night.” He presses his fingers into the earth, and the ground around him blooms with flowers. Plucking a daisy, Geralt continues, “I grow fresh flowers at daybreak.”
Jaskier had never known that, had never seen Geralt untangle the flowers from his hair at night or seen him expertly weave newly grown flowers through his hair at first light, but now, looking at Geralt’s unadorned head, watching as he weaves various flowers into a small crown, it strikes Jaskier that this is a show of trust.
It warms something in Jaskier to know that Geralt is letting Jaskier see this, and it brings a light to the dark caverns that reside within him.
The shape of a colourful crown is beginning to form in Geralt’s hands, and Jaskier murmurs, “This looks wonderful.” He reaches out, the intricately woven flowers urging him to touch, to feel the silky petals and the glossy leaves, but he retracts his hand just before he can touch the flowers. Pushing away the reminder that his hands bring nothing but death, Jaskier asks tentatively, “Could you… would you teach me?”
Geralt’s hands still, and golden eyes, as bright as the petals of a sunflower, pierce into Jaskier. Jaskier starts to backtrack, babbling far too much. “I mean, I’m just saying of course, the god of the underworld making a flower crown, how ridiculous is that? My words were nothing more than a jest, my blossom, feel free to -”
He’s shut up when a bundle of something soft is shoved into his hands, and he looks down to see that Geralt has handed him a bunch of flowers.
The flowers don’t wilt, remaining bright and vibrant in the hands of the god of the underworld.
“It’s not hard,” Geralt says gruffly, but there’s a splash of peony pink on his cheeks as his hands linger over Jaskier’s. “Here, I’ll teach you.”
Geralt’s voice washes over Jaskier like the spring breeze as he patiently coaches Jaskier. Jaskier’s hands fumble, unused to dealing with thin stems and delicate petals, and Geralt’s places his hands over Jaskier’s own, his touch warm as he demonstrates the process.
The end result is a crooked flower crown, stems woven together clumsily, and Jaskier stares, crestfallen, at the sorry sight of his creation.
He would never be good at things like this, things that aren’t death amd darkness. Why had he thought otherwise?
Then Geralt’s long fingers close around Jaskier’s crooked crown, and Jaskier expects him to toss it aside, bracing himself for a disgusted sneer, but Geralt only weighs the crown in his hands contemplatively.
“Is this the first one you’ve ever made?”
The snort that Jaskier lets out is inelegant, tinged with a slight bitterness. “Unfortunately, there are no flowers in the underworld.”
“It’s, um. It’s good,” Geralt says, running his hands over the bent edges of the crown, but making no move to correct it. “It’s really good, considering that it’s your first time.”
Jaskier blinks, a warmth blooming in his chest. “I. Oh. That’s nice.”
Jaskier fully expects Geralt to put the crown to one side, but he settles it on his lap, and reaches for the flower crown that he’d finished earlier. It’s perfect, so unlike the bent and crooked one that Jaskier had made, and when Geralt tries to hand the perfect crown to Jaskier, he’s too stunned to take it.
Geralt stretches his arm towards Jaskier, the pink in his cheeks darkening slightly as he thrusts his own flower crown at Jaskier. “Take it,” he mumbles, eyes darting to avoid Jaskier’s gaze.
Jaskier flails. Geralt can’t just give Jaskier his own flower crown!
“But - but,” he sputters. One of the eldest and most powerful gods, at a loss for words in the presence of the god of spring. “But what about - but you need one -”
Geralt shoves his flower crown insistently at Jaskier, who takes it reluctantly, hands careful as he fumbles with it. When Geralt retracts his arm, he reaches for the crown that Jaskier had made, the crooked and bent and imperfect crown, and settles it on his head.
The flower crown that Jaskier had been holding slips from his fingers.
Geralt catches Jaskier’s incredulous stare and ducks his head. “I know you’ve never had the chance to wear one,” he mumbles, blades of grass twining around his twitching fingers. “And I thought - uh, I wanted you to wear the one I made.”
Something tugs at Jaskier’s heart, twining around it like the vines that Geralt grows, wrapping it in warmth like the bright sun that facilitates the arrival of spring.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, dumbstruck. “Uh, what about you?”
Geralt smiles shyly, lifting Jaskier’s skewed flower crown. “I’ll wear yours.”
“But - but,” Jaskier stutters, shocked. “It’s - it looks - you can’t wear it!”
“Why not?” Geralt questions, gently running a hand over the flower crown on his head. Its shape is twisted and crooked, and it’s slightly lopsided, but somehow, he makes it look lovely. “It looks fine.”
Jaskier is speechless. No one had ever willingly taken something that he had made before, much less put it on display, and now, Geralt, the kind, lovely god of spring, is wearing Jaskier’s flower crown, a bent and twisted thing, and he’s wearing it with a smile and a blush, and he’d given his own beautiful, intricate flower crown to Jaskier, and -
“Go on,” Geralt encourages, nodding to the flower crown that Jaskier had accidentally let go of. “Put it on?”
There’s uncertainty in his voice, as if Jaskier would ever refuse a gift like that from Geralt, and Jaskier hastily picks it up and clumsily settles it on his head. It’s nothing like the weight of his own crown, the crown of the underworld. It’s light, so light that he barely feels it, save for the petals that tickle his scalp, and the fragrance of flowers drifts towards his nose, a pleasant scent that he associates with Geralt, and gods, why hadn’t he asked Geralt to do this before?
Geralt takes several steps towards him and reaches out a hand, stopping just short of Jaskier’s head. “I, uh,” he stammers, and looks away for a moment. “It’s a bit - it’s a bit tilted, do you mind if I -”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Jaskier agrees, slightly in shock as Geralt reaches for the flower crown on his head, tilting it so that it doesn’t sit so unsteadily on his head. Geralt’s movements are slow, his hands gentle as he adjusts the flower crown, and when was the last time someone had touched Jaskier this tenderly, with so much care?
Geralt’s hands linger by Jaskier’s head, and Jaskier leans slightly into the fleeting touch, chasing the warmth of Geralt’s fingertips. Geralt stares at him for a moment, and Jaskier’s shoulders curl inwards slightly under the scrutiny.
The god of the underworld, dressed in bright colours, a lute on his back and a flower crown on his head, pining after the god of spring. How ridiculous he must look.
“It looks good on you,” Geralt says, and his eyes widen, as if not expecting these words to come out of his mouth. The blush, which had faded slightly, returns, and Jaskier watches, fascinated, as the colour spreads over his cheeks, underneath his freckles.
“Thanks.” Jaskier’s voice comes out in a whisper, and Geralt dips his head in acknowledgement before turning away, breaking the thrumming tension between them. Shaking himself, Jakier reaches for his lute, and prepares himself for the journey ahead.
Something changes between them after that. Whenever Jaskier is awake at daybreak, Geralt gives him a handful of flowers to make his own flower crown, and once they’re done, Geralt takes the one that Jaskier has made, and gives Jaskier his own. Jaskier cherishes every single one of them, wearing them for as long as he dares, unheeding of how ridiculous he may look, and when he realises that Geralt’s magic prevents them from wilting, he brings them to the underworld, preserving them in a secret chamber next to where he puts his own godly crown.
He keeps them all.
Whenever Geralt sees Jaskier wearing a crown that he’s made, a shy smile flickers over his lips and pink blooms on his cheeks, on the tips of his ears, and this gives Jaskier even more incentive to wear them, simply to be able to see Geralt’s smile and his blush, all because of Jaskier.
And the touches. The touches become less fleeting, and become longer, lingering more frequently. Jaskier is playing the lute as he sits on a fallen log, trying out new lyrics for a song, when Geralt leans his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier stutters on a note, his lute letting out a discordant twang, but Geralt keeps his head on Jaskier’s shoulder, the petals of his flower crown tickling Jaskier’s skin, and Jaskier slowly relaxes into the touch, stunned but pleased.
It turns out that they’re both tactile and starved for touch. Jaskier wouldn’t have thought that Geralt would crave touch - after all, the god of spring should have plenty of people vying for his attention, and yet, he craves touch just as much as Jaskier does, leaning desperately into Jaskier’s arms the first time they embrace.
It’s nice. When Geralt is growing flowers, coaxing life from the earth, Jaskier wraps his arms around him from behind, setting his chin on Geralt’s shoulder as he watches the world come to life. When Jaskier is leaning back against a tree, eyes closed as he enjoys the spring breeze, Geralt lays his head in Jaskier’s lap, and Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s silky white hair. He braids Geralt’s hair, remembering how he sometimes braids Yennefer’s, weaving the white strands into an intricate braid as Geralt relaxes against him.
Jaskier still doesn’t use his own powers around Geralt. Sure, he disappears off to the underworld frequently - he can’t abandon his duties, after all - but when he’s with Geralt, Jaskier buries his nature deep within him.
He doesn’t want Geralt to witness the death that his godly powers bring, doesn’t want Geralt to truly see how Jaskier is his complete opposite, and he projects the image of who he wants to be, with his lute and his bright clothes and his joyous smile.
Geralt knows that Jaskier is the god of the underworld, but knowing and seeing are different things, and if Jaskier has his way, Geralt will never see the true extent of who Jaskier is.
The earth is dry and cracked, the vast expanse of land barren from winter. Jaskier can sense the death that still lingers as a result of the harsh winter, the souls of animals who hadn’t been able to withstand the cold and the remnants of plants that had withered underneath the frost.
Geralt looks over the land with a frown, and Jaskier knows that this is just another job for him, another piece of land to bring life to. Maybe he’ll grow a few blades of grass from the ground, maybe a few flowers or even a tree or two - nothing much, nothing unnatural, just enough to herald the start of spring.
Then Geralt turns to Jaskier, golden eyes brightening, and takes his hand. “Let me show you something,” he says, excitement glowing in his eyes, and Jaskier nods, squeezing Geralt’s hands.
Geralt takes a deep breath, and the air hums with power, hums with life and birth and creation, and Jaskier watches in awe as the vast expanse of barren land blooms, every inch covered with growing plants, colourful flowers spreading across the landscape.
Everywhere that Jaskier looks is filled with colour. So much life dances through the air, and it’s almost impossible to believe that a moment ago, this piece of land had been completely barren. Geralt is truly powerful, to be able to bring so much life and beauty to a place like this, and Jaskier reaches out his free hand, brushing against the various flowers that surround him.
It’s beautiful, and a delighted laugh spills from Jaskier’s throat as he turns in a circle, taking in all the colour and beauty and vitality of the world around him. He is one of the oldest gods, and he’s never seen anything quite like this, never seen anything that could even hope to touch the beauty this scene holds, and he laughs again, revelling in the sheer beauty of it all.
Geralt is watching him with wide eyes, and Jaskier realises that he’d never laughed around Geralt before, not like this. He’d laughed quietly, he’d chuckled and huffed in laughter, but never like this, never with such delight, and Jaskier realises that it’s been so long since he’d last laughed like that.
Geralt was the one who’d made him laugh like that.
Jaskier launches himself at Geralt, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “This is beautiful, my lovely sunflower,” he murmurs in Geralt’s ear. “I love it.”
Geralt returns the embrace, arms encircling Jaskier’s waist tenderly, and hooks his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. They stay like this for a while, arms around each other as they gaze at the colourful blooms surrounding them. A field of flowers, a wave of life that Geralt had grown for Jaskier, and Jaskier alone.
Jaskier has never been happier. He wants to keep this moment, to stay in it for the rest of eternity, wrapped in Geralt’s arms with life flourishing around him, forgetting for a moment that he’s the god of the underworld.
And he shouldn’t have done that. He’s the god of the underworld, a place of death and darkness, and Jaskier should’ve known that things never turn out well, not for someone like him.
They’re lying in a meadow, watching the sunset. The sky is painted in pink and purple, and Jaskier cuddles closer to Geralt’s side, asking the question that he’s wanted to ask for a long time.
“We could head to the underworld,” Jaskier offers tentatively, tracing nervous circles on Geralt’s chest. Geralt hums, sending vibrations through his chest, and Jaskier continues, “Get away for a while.”
He waits with bated breath, letting himself hope. He doesn’t want Geralt to see the darkness of his powers, but the underworld is his home. He wants to take Geralt to Elysium, to the Isles of the Blessed, so Geralt can watch as the kindest souls live in eternal joy. He wants to take Geralt through his castle, laden with ornate decorations and lavish riches, and watch Geralt stare in awe at the shining gems. He wants to take Geralt through the garden of gemstones Jaskier had created just for him. He wants Geralt to meet Yennefer, wants to watch Geralt interact with Greg.
Geralt has shown Jaskier so much of him, and Jaskier wants to give Geralt a part of himself in return. The underworld is the antithesis of what Geralt is, dull and bleak and gloomy to how Geralt is bright and soft and beautiful, and maybe Geralt will take one step into the underworld and hate it, but Jaskier has to try.
“The… underworld?” Geralt asks, unease creeping into his voice.
“Yes, the underworld,” Jaskier confirms, trying to ignore the anxiety that rises at the unease in Geralt’s voice. “You know, my realm? The one I rule over?”
Or have you forgotten?
If Geralt has truly forgotten that Jaskier is the god of the underworld, well, Jaskier can’t blame him. This is what he wants, isn’t it? To be known as Jaskier, not just the god of the underworld, the god of the gloomy realm where the dead reside. And Geralt knows him, knows Jaskier, but he doesn’t know this one part of Jaskier - a part which Jaskier tries to hide, but still a part of him nonetheless.
There’s a long pause before Geralt murmurs, “I…”
Geralt has tensed under Jaskier’s hands, and Jaskier says a bit desperately, “I was just - you don’t have to, of course, I was only offering -”
“I don’t…” Geralt trails off, and Jaskier tries to smother the ember of hope that’s flickering in his chest. “I don’t think I can.”
There’s fear in his voice, and a cold fist clenches around Jaskier’s heart. A simple rejection he can take, but fear? Fear of him, fear of his realm, fear of what he is capable of - Jaskier had thought that Geralt would never fear him, after travelling together for so long, but Geralt’s voice had trembled, and there had undeniably been a thread of fear running through his voice.
“You’re scared,” Jaskier whispers. He’d hoped, but - well. For a god like him, hope only lets him down. Geralt looks away, and hurt lances through Jaskier. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”
Geralt closes his eyes, but it’s too late. Jaskier has seen the sliver of fear in them, a fear that numbs Jaskier, encases him in a cold shell. “Jaskier…”
“Tell me,” Jaskier implores, struggling to keep his voice even. He untangles himself from Geralt and sits up, clenching his fists. Geralt had all but confirmed that he fears Jaskier, fears the underworld, and how had he ever thought otherwise? As if the god of spring, lovely and gentle and kind, would ever accept someone like him.
“They say your realm is dark and full of death,” Geralt mumbles, sitting up. He doesn’t try to touch Jaskier, to reach out and reassure him. “They say it’s full of torture and destruction and that no life ever grows there. I don’t… I wouldn’t be able to go there. I don’t think I would want to.”
Jaskier huffs an incredulous laugh. “Is that what they tell you? That my realm is nothing more than that?”
Geralt flinches. “I…”
“It is dark, and it is full of death,” Jaskier confirms, unable to push down the tidal wave of hurt. “That is the nature of the underworld, and you knew that when you met me, yet you never told me that you felt like that.”
Geralt doesn’t say anything, and Jaskier exhales, long and deep. “It’s not full of torture and destruction. That is reserved for Tartarus, where the worst of the worst dwell, the heartless murderers and unrepentant rapists. Have you not heard of Elysium? Or the Isles of the Blessed?” When Geralt shakes his head, Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the flower crown that he’d forgotten about, and he almost tugs it off, throws it to the side in a fit of hurt.
“What do they tell people about me on Olympus, nowadays? Stregobor must take so much glee from making me out as the most evil and malevolent god.” By virtue of being the god of the underworld, he’s already widely hated, but with Stregobor vilifying him even further, of course Geralt would fear him. Jaskier had thought that Geralt knew him well enough to ignore such rumours, but clearly, he’d been wrong.
“Jaskier, please, I’m sorry -” Geralt reaches for him, but Jaskier stands up, taking a step back.
“There is more to my realm than death and darkness. I had hoped that, through knowing me, you would see that,” Jaskier whispers. He thinks of Yennefer’s sharp smile and violet eyes, thinks of Greg leaping on him with slobbery enthusiasm. He thinks of the friends he’s made in Elysium, the beauty and tranquility of the Isles of the Blessed. He thinks of the glittering gemstones bringing light and colour to the darkness of the underworld.
“But I thought that’s what the underworld is,” Geralt pleads. “Please, Jaskier, I didn’t know.”
A hollow laugh. “I thought you were the only person who didn’t fear me.” Even Yennefer fears him slightly, though she doesn’t show it, knowing that his power has a far greater reach than hers. “I thought, after all these years…”
“Jaskier,” Geralt implores, voice shaky as he scrambles to his feet. “I don’t, I don’t fear you, I promise.”
Jaskier blinks the tears from his eyes. “But you do.” He can feel it, can see it in the way that the flowers around them had stopped growing at the mention of the underworld.
“No, Jaskier, I -” Geralt stumbles towards him, arms stretching out in a plea. “Jaskier -”
Jaskier retreats, stepping into a shadow and pooling his power.
“I made you a garden,” he whispers, and slips away.
Jaskier disappears into the shadow, reappearing in the underworld. Greg leaps at him, all thirteen eyes wide and pleading for Jaskier to play with him, but Jaskier gives him nothing more than a distracted pat, summoning a few stray souls to entertain his dog. Greg’s many ears press to his heads in disappointment, tugging at Jaskier’s heartstrings, but Jaskier isn’t quite in the mood to play, not right now.
He heads for the castle, so large and grand and magnificent, yet with only a few inhabitants. His steps echo as he walks through familiar halls, paintings adorning the walls and chandeliers dripping from the ceiling. Maybe Geralt was right. Jaskier has such extravagance in his realm, and yet, he can’t dispel it of the death and darkness which characterise it.
He’s never hated his role before. He’d preferred the sky, at first, but he doesn’t hate the underworld. He’s found things to love - he has Yennefer and Greg, and he has the friends he’s made in Elysium and the Isles, and Jaskier enjoys what he does, even if he sometimes hates the death and darkness that comes with it. But now, the realisation that Geralt fears him, fears his realm, weighs on him.
He walks up a spiral staircase towards his bedroom. He’d tried so hard to be just Jaskier around Geralt. He’d tried to be bright and happy, a far cry from the god of the underworld. He’d tried to learn music, tried to create in the only way he could, but at the end, he’s still the god of the realm that everyone fears.
He heads into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, and walks towards the back of the room, where he swings open the door of a small, secret chamber. The moment the door opens, a sweet, floral scent wafts through the air, and Jaskier’s heart aches as he looks at the assortment of flower crowns that Geralt had given him over the years.
In the middle of the burst of life and colour lies a heavy, dark crown, made of pitch black obsidian. The crown that marks him as the god of the underworld, ruler of death and king of darkness. Jaskier had shut it in the chamber when he’d first started travelling with Geralt, vowing to try and become more than his role, but Jaskier thinks of the fear in Geralt’s eyes, thinks of I wouldn’t be able to go there. I don’t think I would want to, and wonders if he’s been deluding himself for far too long.
He reaches for the obsidian crown, a dark and weighty presence in the midst of the array of flower crowns that Geralt had made for him, no less vibrant and bright than when Geralt had first given them to Jaskier. For a moment, Jaskier hesitates, hand hovering in the space between the black crown and the flower crowns.
It had been a foolish dream anyway, to think that he could ever be more than the god of the underworld, to think that he could wrap himself in bright colours and be able to forget his duties, to think that he could dance and sing and play his lute and that this would make him forget that he’s naturally inclined to death and darkness. Jaskier had been foolish, so foolish, and he only lets his hand brush over the petals for a second before he picks up the dark crown of the underworld and places it on his head.
It’s a heavy weight, so much heavier than the flower crowns that Geralt had made for him. It reminds Jaskier of his duties, his responsibilities, his role as the god of the underworld, and well, he’d indulged in childish fantasies for long enough, hadn’t he?
Taking one last look at the colourful blossoms, Jaskier turns around and closes the door behind him, shutting out the colour and brightness and stepping back out into the endless darkness of the underworld.
“You’re no fun,” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes. “Where’s your lute, Jaskier?”
Jaskier shrugs. He doesn’t think of his lute, tucked away in the darkest corner of his bedroom, gathering dust the longer Jaskier doesn’t touch it. “Not here.”
Yennefer narrows her eyes. “What are you doing, Jaskier?”
Jaskier doesn’t look at her, avoiding her eyes. “What I should’ve been doing this whole time.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Yennefer demands, grabbing his arm. Jaskier shakes her off, but she’s relentless, wings flaring out behind her as she continues, “You’ve never said anything like that before. You’re - actually taking this seriously?”
Jaskier glares. “I’ve always taken my role seriously.”
“Yes, but you’ve never tried to limit yourself to that role,” Yennefer points out. She gestures to the crown that now takes a permanent place on his head, to his dark, muted robes. “What did that spring god do?”
“Made me realise that this is who I should be,” Jaskier says curtly. “I’ll see you later, Yen.”
He walks away from Yennefer, determined not to let her get to him. He wanders into Elysium.
Maybe some of the souls there can console him.
“He’ll return to you,” Patroclus reassures him softly, leaning into Achilles’ embrace. “From what you told us about him, he sounds like someone who would seek you out.”
Jaskier snorts, sadness welling up in his throat. “He’s the god of spring. I’m the god of the underworld, which is full of death, the exact opposite of what he brings. I asked him to come here with me; he refused. He wants nothing to do with this part of me.”
“He’ll come around,” Achilles says gruffly. Patroclus smiles up at him, and for a moment, they’re lost in their own world as they smile at each other, seeing nothing else. It only lasts for a moment before Achilles turns back to Jaskier. “It sounds like he truly cares for you. If he does, he will come around.”
Jaskier huffs. “Perhaps.” It’s futile to hope. There is no place for hope in the darkness of his realm. “Thanks for listening to me talk, you two, but it seems that Minos is causing trouble again.”
“Go deal with him,” Patroclus laughs, smiling brightly. “You know you can talk to us anytime, Jaskier.”
“Of course.” Jaskier gets up and reaches for his cape, swinging it over his shoulder. Heading out of the small hut that Patroclus and Achilles call home, he calls out a farewell and heads to the Plain of Judgement.
Minos had always been a pain in the arse.
That year, winter is especially long, as spring mourns and more souls enter the underworld than any winter before.
Jaskier misses the brightness of the sun. He misses the life that spreads across the earth, misses it fiercely as he carries out his duties among the dead and in the darkness of his realm. He walks through the garden that he had made with Geralt in mind - flowers don’t grow in the underworld, but it is filled with precious gems and jewels of all sizes and colours, and Jaskier had constructed a garden with emeralds and opals and rubies, a gleaming reflection of the world above.
But, well, Geralt isn’t here to appreciate it, and Jaskier’s heart aches as he cups his hands around the imitation of a sunflower, a shining topaz the colour of Geralt’s eyes. He thinks of those eyes, soft and gentle as Jaskier plays the lute, bright with laughter when Jaskier tells a joke, filled with concentration as Geralt brings life to the earth, and when Jaskier hears a faint, familiar voice calling Jaskier, Jaskier, he thinks it’s a too-vivid memory, Geralt’s voice echoing in his mind.
But then the cries grow clearer, and more frantic, Jaskier, help, please, and Jaskier realises that it’s real, that somewhere on the surface of the earth, Geralt is calling for him, and he focuses on his powers, following the voice.
Once he hones in on Geralt’s location, Jaskier steps into the shadows, letting them transport him to wherever Geralt is. He appears at the edge of a field of grain, obscured by the shadows, and spots Geralt is kneeling on the ground in the middle of the field, fingers digging into the earth as he murmurs desperately, “Jaskier, Jaskier, please -”
“Your precious god of the underworld won’t come save you, my dear son. He is, after all, the god of death, and he cares for nothing.” Jaskier whips his head towards the source of the voice, eyes widening as he takes in Visenna weaving through the stalks of grain, her green eyes fixed on Geralt. “I am your mother, and you belong to me.”
Geralt looks up, defiance blazing in his eyes even as panic dances behind them. “You’re wrong about Jaskier,” he snaps, “And I belong to no one, and certainly not to you.”
“Oh, but you do.” A sinister smile spreads over Visenna’s face. “I’ve asked Stregobor, and he helped me create a lovely… home for you on Olympus. You’ll have your own house, your own garden, and you can grow whatever you like within your home.”
“I will not stay in a prison,” Geralt hisses. Crimson flowers bloom stark red against the golden stalks of grain. “I refuse to be under your control.”
Jaskier has heard enough. Drawing on his power, he steps out from the shadows in a rumble of earth, the ground shaking under the force of his power. “Geralt,” he purrs, stalking through the field. “You called?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, shoulders slumping in relief. Behind him, Visenna snarls.
“You,” she sneers, and the stalks of grain whip around in a furious wind, but Jaskier strides forward, unaffected.
Jaskier smiles slowly, letting the darkness gather around him, the bones buried deep underneath the earth feeding the force of his power. “Hello, Visenna. How nice to see you again.”
“You will not take my son,” Visenna threatens, the air humming as their powers clash.
“Your son,” Jaskier says lowly, “is his own person.”
He reaches Geralt, who looks utterly exhausted, his usually vibrant power drained, likely as a result of running from Visenna.
“Jaskier.” Geralt stretches out his arm weakly, and Jaskier aches to grasp his hand, but there are more important things to deal with. “Careful, she -”
Jaskier smiles reassuringly at Geralt. “Don’t worry, sunflower,” he says, and his smile turns deadly when he looks towards Visenna. “Visenna is no match for me.”
Visenna grows red in anger, and thorny vines erupt from the ground, tearing towards Jaskier. “You dare -”
A wave of his hand, and the vines shrivel and wilt. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, slanting his gaze towards Geralt. “What do you want?”
“You,” Geralt answers without hesitation. “I refuse to be confined by my mother. Take me with you.” Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier, burning with fierce determination. “I’ll go to the underworld with you. Take me to your garden, Jaskier. I’m not afraid.”
Truth rings in his words, and Jaskier lets himself smile. The ground shakes, and bones rise out of the ground, assembling themselves into bodies that throw themselves at Visenna, who howls and tries to bat them away with vines and plants, and Jaskier turns back to Geralt.
Geralt looks too weak to walk, so Jaskier bends down and scoops him up, carrying Geralt easily in his arms. Geralt squeaks and clings to his neck, the flower crown on his head tilting to the side.
“Jaskier, what -”
“Farewell, Visenna,” Jaskier calls out, and Visenna roars in anger, poisonous plants sprouting from the ground around Jaskier, but he’s already slipped into a shadow, easily avoiding Visenna’s attack.
Jaskier brings him and Geralt to a large, plush room, deciding against bringing Geralt to the garden. Perhaps he’ll bring Geralt there later, if Geralt had truly meant his words earlier, but no, not now.
Jaskier carries Geralt to a large couch, draped in rich velvet, and sets him down gently. He quickly scans Geralt for any sign of injury, breathing a sigh of relief when there’s none.
“I missed you,” Geralt says abruptly. He’s looking at Jaskier, drinking him in as if they’ve been apart for centuries, not a year, and Jaskier softens at the words.
“I missed you too,” Jaskier murmurs. He hovers around the couch awkwardly, wringing his hands as they both fall into silence.
Then Geralt gestures to the space next to him, shyly inviting Jaskier to sit, and he does, his shoulders stiff, but when Geralt tentatively leans his head against Jaskier, he relaxes into the familiar position, slowly wrapping an arm around Geralt to hold him steady.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurts out, at the same time as Jaskier asks, “What did Visenna want?”
They stop, looking expectantly at the other to go first, but when neither of them repeat the question, they both dissolve into helpless laughter, and it’s as familiar and easy as it had been a year ago, and gods, Jaskier has missed Geralt, his eyes and smile and laughter.
Jaskier nudges Geralt, earning himself a grunt when he jostles Geralt’s head on his shoulder. “I’ll ask first. What did Visenna want?”
Geralt sighs, curling in on himself, and Jaskier tightens his arm around Geralt in reassurance. “She heard that we were travelling together,” he says, jaw clenching.
“I can imagine her reaction,” Jaskier mutters, thinking of Visenna’s smirk when he’d been assigned to be the god of the underworld. “She’s always hated me.”
“Yes,” Geralt confirms with a weary sigh. “Naturally, she didn’t like the idea of us travelling together, so she tried to trap me and keep me under her control.”
Jaskier snarls, and the shadows in the room darken. Much to his surprise and pleasure, Geralt doesn’t flinch at the display. “I’ll kill her,” he vows. He knows he can. Visenna may be one of the elder gods, but so is he, and his reach of power extends far beyond hers.
Geralt rolls his eyes. “Calm down, Jaskier.” A fond smile plays on his lips, and Jaskier’s eyes must be deceiving him, because Jaskier had just threatened to kill his mother, and yet Geralt is looking at him with affection in his eyes. “We still need a goddess of the harvest.”
“You can do it far better than she does,” Jaskier grumbles, but drops the topic, deciding against telling Geralt the plan that’s brewing in his mind. There are several gods that the world would be better off without. Perhaps he can kill several birds with one stone, but that’s for another time.
“I escaped her trap,” Geralt continues. His voice is even, but there’s an undercurrent of distress that makes Jaskier pull him closer. “But she pursued me, and she kept pursuing me, and, well, you know the rest.”
Discarding his plots on increasingly interesting ways to… dispose of certain gods, Jaskier declares, “Well, this is my realm. She can’t find you here.”
“I meant what I said earlier, Jaskier.” Geralt pulls away and looks Jaskier in the eyes, sincerity pouring from him. “I don’t fear you. What I used to think - that was a mistake, and I should’ve known better.”
“I don’t blame you,” Jaskier mutters, waving a vague hand around. “It’s a hellhole, isn’t it?”
“It’s not,” Geralt says fiercely, taking Jaskier’s hands in his own. “This room is… beyond what I had imagined, and I know I haven’t seen much of the underworld yet, but I’ve seen you, and I know that it must be wonderful.”
“You might not say that when you step out of this door,” Jaskier warns, but hope unfurls like a fresh bud in his chest.
“I will, because it’s your realm,” Geralt tells him earnestly, and Jaskier feels a smile break out across his face.
He’s missed Geralt so much.
“Come on, then,” Jaskier says, pulling Geralt up. Geralt looks far better than he had moments ago, the colour returning to his cheeks, as if he’s regaining energy now that he’s far away from the corrupting influence of his mother.
Jaskier leads Geralt through the lavishly decorated halls, pride bringing a spring to his step as Geralt gazes at his exquisite decorations in awe. Jaskier takes him out of the castle, and the moment he steps through the doors, he’s knocked to the ground by a heavy, slobbering mass.
“Oof,” Jaskier mumbles around a mouthful of fur. Three tongues lick at him with enthusiasm, covering him in slobber, and he groans playfully. “Greg, get off me so I can introduce you to Geralt.”
At the prospect of a new friend, Greg immediately bounds off him, tongues lolling out of his mouths as he studies Geralt with his thirteen eyes. Geralt looks stunned but not afraid, blinking at Greg in shock.
“Is this… your dog?” The tentativeness of Geralt’s question makes Jaskier laugh as he cleans the slobber off his body with a quick tingle of power.
“He’s lovely, isn’t he? Aren’t you, Greg?” Jaskier coos, scratching at each chin in turn. “Greg, this is Geralt. Geralt, meet my favourite dog, Greg.”
“He has thirteen eyes and three heads,” Geralt observes dazedly, and then Greg pounces on him, panting in excitement, and Geralt chuckles, the sound bright in the darkness of the underworld.
“Well, hello, Greg,” Geralt says in the soft voice that he reserves for animals, and, like every other animal, Greg takes to Geralt with ease, all thirteen eyes filled with puppy affection as Geralt strokes his fur. “It’s nice to meet -”
“What’s this?” Yennefer’s cool voice interrupts, and Jaskier turns to watch her approach, her black wings trailing on the ground behind her. Jaskier can feel Geralt stiffen at the sight of her, and well, to an outsider, Yennefer does make a rather intimidating sight, her beautiful face and her piercing violet eyes and her elegant dresses all exuding an aura of confidence and the air around her oozing with power and danger.
“Yen,” Jaskier greets warmly. “Geralt, this is Yennefer.” It’s almost funny to watch as Geralt takes Yennefer in with wide eyes, and she preens under the attention. “Yennefer, this is Geralt, my…”
He trails off at the end, not quite sure why he’d said that last part. He doesn’t think Geralt is his anything, though he does hope, and maybe, if Geralt doesn’t push him away after seeing the underworld, maybe Geralt can be his something.
“So you’re Geralt.” Yennefer regards Geralt with assessing eyes, and he stands tall under her scrutiny. Jaskier knows Yennefer well enough to know that she’s just having her fun, and when Yennefer finally looks away, Jaskier spots the slight curl of her mouth when Geralt practically slumps in relief.
“It’s… nice to meet you,” Geralt tries hesitantly, and Yennefer huffs a small laugh.
“He’s adorable, Jaskier,” she calls as she stalks into the castle, Greg following after her, tail wagging. “Please do keep him.”
“Yen!” Jaskier yells at her retreating back, hearing only one final cackle as the doors close behind her. He shakes his head fondly. “Well. That was Yen.”
“She’s…” Geralt furrows his brows, choosing his words carefully. “An interesting goddess. Very…”
“Scary?” Jaskier supplies, grinning.
“Scary,” Geralt confirms. “Not that it’s a bad thing! She’s gorgeous as well, but she’s also scary.”
“Yen is terrifying,” Jaskier muses, “Comes with the territory. Though if you’re looking for a fuck, I must tell you that Yen is taken.”
“She’s gorgeous, but I don’t want her for a fuck.” Geralt gazes at Jaskier, golden eyes intense, and Jaskier’s traitorous heart skips a beat. “There’s… someone else.”
Had Geralt not been looking at him like that, Jaskier would be off nursing his broken heart over the knowledge that Geralt wants someone else, but the tenderness and affection in that gaze is unmistakeable, and Jaskier has to look away before he does something stupid.
“Let me show you Elysium,” Jaskier says, turning around. Then a warm hand encloses his, and Jaskier twists his head to see Geralt’s shy smile as he tangles their fingers together.
“Elysium sounds nice,” Geralt agrees, and they hold hands all the way there, easily falling back into their familiar dynamic. They walk through the streets of Elysium, children shrieking and running around them, families huddling together with bright smiles, lovers twining around one another as they gaze into each other’s eyes, and Geralt stares in awe at the peace and tranquility of the place.
Then Jaskier takes him through the Isles of the Blessed, where Geralt fawns over the beauty of paradise, smiling as he watches the best and kindest souls go through their ideal afterlife. They steer away from Tartarus and Asphodel, and Jaskier decides to lead Geralt to the garden.
“You made a garden for me?” Geralt asks, even though he knows the answer, and Jaskier beams at him, ignoring the pang in his heart when he remembers the fear in Geralt’s eyes over a year ago.
“I did,” Jaskier confesses, fighting back a blush. It’s a lot, he knows, and rather presumptuous of him when he’d first made it, thinking that one day, Geralt would come visit. “It’s nothing like your gardens, with your flowers and plants and trees, but…”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” Geralt says, and when Jaskier leads him around a corner to the garden, he gasps.
“Jaskier.” Geralt is gaping at the sight before him, at the sprawling garden made of jewels and gemstones. His golden eyes dart over the gleaming imitations of flowers and trees, his mouth open in awe. “This is - Jaskier, this is beautiful.”
“They’re not alive, not like the ones you grow,” Jaskier says quietly. He can’t create life, not the way Geralt can, but he can do this. “But this is the best I can do.”
“It’s gorgeous, Jaskier, I love it.” Geralt tugs at his hand, and Jaskier follows him willingly as he drops to his knees next to a rosebush. Geralt traces his fingers over the sparkling surface of a garnet and an emerald, carved into the shape of a rose and a leaf. “Wow.”
Pleased, a genuine smile rises to Jaskier’s lips. “It was made for you,” he says, waving grandly at the rest of the garden. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I wonder…” Geralt presses his hand to the ground, and Jaskier feels the thrum of life before he sees it, a real rosebush growing from the barren ground. He stares, astonished, at the impossible sight - life shouldn’t be able to flourish in the underworld. Everything that resembles something alive is nothing more than an imitation, and yet, Geralt had brought a blooming rosebush into the underworld.
“I hope you don’t mind that I did that?” Geralt asks, standing back up.
“No, not at all,” Jaskier rushes to answer, voice breathy from shock. “This - Geralt, this should be impossible.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Well, it seems that it’s not,” he replies, once again taking Jaskier’s hand and leading him further into the garden. “Now that we know I can do this, I’m going to grow even more flowers for you.”
And he does. As they wander through the garden, hand-in-hand, flowers bloom with every step that Geralt takes. Flowering vines wrap around the trunk of a jewelled tree, and small buds sprout from glittering bushes and branches. The garden fills with the scent of flowers, and everywhere Jaskier looks, he sees a fantastical mix of gemstones and plants, and the garden has never been more beautiful.
They stop in the middle of a patch of topaz sunflowers, and Jaskier watches as sunflower buds push out of the ground, unfurling their golden petals as they open up to greet the world. Geralt is looking at the mixture of topaz and yellow petals with a smile in his golden eyes, and Jaskier is struck by the fact that Geralt is here, in the dark expanse of the underworld, in the garden that Jaskier had made for him, impossible life blooming in the realm of death, and Jaskier can’t help but pull Geralt into a soft, sweet kiss.
Geralt kisses back, slinging an arm around Jaskier’s waist, and they stand there wrapped in each other, surrounded by sunflowers. When they finally pull back, it’s with smiles on their faces.
Jaskier has never felt quite so light, but here, even in the darkness of his realm, he has his arms around Geralt and life blooms amongst the gleaming garden, and he feels impossibly happy, buoyed by the joy that’s reflected on Geralt’s face.
“This is nice,” Jaskier mumbles, and Geralt hums contentedly.
“Do you feel like doing it more?”
“Hell yeah,” Jaskier replies, tugging Geralt back in.
Geralt tangles his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, running his fingers through it until he suddenly stills, and pulls back. Jaskier pouts, chasing after Geralt, but Geralt is looking at Jaskier’s hair, something sad in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Insecurity seizes at Jaskier’s heart, wondering if Geralt has finally decided to reject him.
“Nothing, I…” Geralt tangles his fingers in strands of brown hair, and Jaskier tries to ignore the sinking feeling of dread. Something must show on his face, because Geralt exclaims quickly, “It’s not bad, Jaskier, I just - it’s embarrassing.”
Geralt looks away, training his eyes on the ground, but they’re close enough that Jaskier reaches out, gently tilting Geralt’s head back up so their eyes meet. “If it’s nothing bad, you can tell me, Geralt.”
Geralt’s eyes dart to the top of Jaskier’s head before they return to Jaskier’s face. “I - I just, you’re not - you aren’t wearing my flower crown.” He flushes as he says it, tongue darting out to wet his lips quickly. “It’s embarrassing, I told you, you can ignore me -”
“I can wear it, if you want,” Jaskier says softly, cupping Geralt’s cheek. The obsidian crown still weighs heavy on his head, but if Geralt is truly not fearful of him, perhaps Jaskier can allow himself to step outside of his role. “You can make one here. I’ll wear it.”
Geralt softens, nervousness quickly fading as he leans down and plucks a sunflower, then grabs Jaskier’s hand and walks through the garden, picking out the flowers he fancies. He closes his fingers around a shimmering crystal and looks hesitantly at Jaskier for approval. When Jaskier nods, Geralt gently pulls the crystal free, placing it atop the growing pile of flowers in his arms.
Once Geralt is satisfied, he plops down in the middle of a field of emeralds and grass. It’s heartwarming and familiar as Geralt hands a bunch of flowers and gemstones to Jaskier, and they settle into the easy routine of weaving their own flower crowns, but there’s something missing, and Jaskier can’t quite put his finger on it.
It’s Geralt who picks up on it. “You can sing if you want, Jaskier,” he says, eyes focused as he weaves together a daisy and a bluebell. “I miss it.”
Jaskier hasn’t sung in a year. He shouldn’t indulge in anything more than what his duties allow, but one look at Geralt, and Jaskier gives in, humming one of Geralt’s favourite songs before he starts singing.
It’s nice. Jaskier hadn’t realised how much he’s missed his music, how the empty hole in his chest had been due to not only the absence of Geralt, but also the absence of his music and his singing and his lute, and as he sits in his garden, singing as he weaves flower crowns with Geralt, Jaskier feels complete.
With Geralt back in his life, Jaskier’s days become bright and joyous again. Geralt is all too willing to explore the underworld, taking joy in growing real plants in Elysium and the Isles, and blooming spots of colour in the Fields of Asphodel to cheer up the wandering, aimless souls. Pretty soon, Jaskier’s dark castle is covered in colourful flowers that wind their ways around the walls, a spot of life in the realm of the dead.
Jaskier had feared that Geralt would grow bored, but when he brings it up, Geralt rolls his eyes.
“I can do my job from here,” he reminds Jaskier.
“But you love travelling,” Jaskier insists, thinking of how little Geralt had wanted to be confined by his mother. By staying in the underworld, isn’t Jaskier confining him in the same way? “I don’t want to keep you here.”
“You’re not keeping me here.” Geralt pulls Jaskier into his lap, and Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck. “I’m staying here because I want to, because you’re here.”
Jaskier bends down to give Geralt a quick peck on the lips, and both of them are smiling when they pull back, but something dark lingers at the edge of Jaskier’s mind, a reminder that Geralt is a free spirit, someone who hates to be limited to one place.
One day, Geralt will leave.
Too soon, their peace is disrupted when Stregobor appears in Jaskier’s throne room a few weeks later.
“Jaskier,” Stregobor says, his haughty face twisted in a sneer. Jaskier hates him. “You have taken something that is not yours.”
“I haven’t taken anything,” Jaskier drawls, reclining on his throne as he sends Stregobor a piercing glare. He could kill Stregobor here, he muses. The underworld is his realm, after all, and Stregobor is weaker here, but killing the king of the gods has consequences that Jaskier isn’t willing to face.
“Visenna’s son,” Stregobor snarls. “Give him back.”
“Hmm.” Jaskier pretends to ponder this, tapping his chin as the shadows grow darker and the room grows colder. “No.”
Stregobor goes red with rage. “I have bargained with Visenna on your behalf, Jaskier.” The stench of ozone fills the air. “I have told her that I would try to convince you first, and she will not cause any trouble if you return Geralt willingly. However, if you don’t hand over Geralt willingly, Visenna will take him with force.”
“Let her try,” Jaskier says dismissively, but something in him worries. Visenna may be no match for him, especially not in his realm, but she has many supporters on Olympus, and as powerful as Jaskier is, he can’t contend with multiple Olympians.
“Very well,” Stregobor says, straightening his back, face smoothing into a mask of arrogance. He disappears in a crackle of lightning, and Jaskier slumps in his seat.
Fuck.
He slips into a shadow and reappears in the garden, where Geralt is busy trying to create new plants that can only be grown in the underworld. He looks so happy, so peaceful as he cradles a midnight-black rose in his hands, and Jaskier hates that he’s about to disturb that peace.
But this is urgent.
“Geralt.” He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, only leaning in to quickly peck Geralt on the cheek. “Stregobor just visited. Your mother is coming.”
“What?” The rose falls from Geralt’s hands, and his face goes pale. “Jaskier, what do you mean?”
Jaskier sighs, anger boiling towards Geralt’s horrible mother. “Visenna has threatened to take you back with force, unless I hand you over willingly.”
“I refuse to return to her,” Geralt says, voice shaking. “Jaskier, can you -”
“My sunflower,” Jaskier murmurs, cupping Geralt’s cheek, and Geralt leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. “I may be able to fight off two gods, perhaps three, but even I am not strong enough to tangle with more than that.”
“What do we do?” Geralt asks, searching Jaskier’s eyes frantically. “I don’t - I can’t go back to her, Jaskier. I can’t.”
“Would you rather stay with me?” Jaskier asks, a plan forming in his mind. He’d never tried it before, had never been willing to take away someone’s freedom like this, but it’s more binding than any god’s power, and Visenna will be unable to forcefully take Geralt away.
Gods don’t need to eat. But they can, if they choose to.
“What kind of question is that?” Geralt demands, eyes frantic. “Of course I’d rather stay with you, Jaskier!”
Jaskier shuts his eyes. He can feel the storm brewing in Olympus, now, and Geralt can no doubt feel the earth shaking with the force of Visenna’s rage. They don’t have much time.
“There’s a way I can keep you here with me, a way that cannot be undone by any god,” Jaskier starts slowly, opening his eyes. Geralt is looking at him, biting his lips in panic, and Jaskier strokes a hand through Geralt’s hair soothingly. “Understand that I don’t want to take away your consent. This is your choice, and your choice only.”
“Tell me,” Geralt pleads.
Jaskier takes a deep breath. “If you eat something in the underworld, you are stuck here for eternity,” he whispers, a forbidden tale that has rarely been spoken out loud. “But I won’t subject you to that, sunflower. This is a cruel place. If you eat a few seeds of this pomegranate,” he manifests the red fruit in his hand, “you will be bound to stay here for a month for each seed you eat.”
The powers of Olympus grow closer. Jaskier holds out the pomegranate for Geralt to make his choice.
“I don’t mind being bound to you for eternity, Jaskier,” Geralt says honestly. Reaching out, he plucks six seeds from the pomegranate and swallows them without hesitation. “I would be happy to stay in this place for eternity.”
“I hope you don’t come to regret your decision.” Because it would kill me if you did. Already, Jaskier can feel how his realm is giving way to accommodate Geralt, accepting him as its own.
Geralt looks at him steadily. “I won’t.”
Then Visenna bursts into the underworld, followed by Valdo and Stregobor and a few of Stregobor’s bastard children, and Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand into his own as they turn to face her.
“Mother,” Geralt greets, smiling with satisfaction.
“Come with me, son,” Visenna commands, curling an imperative finger.
Jaskier steps in front of Geralt. “Geralt has chosen to eat in the underworld.” The other gods exchange horrified glances, knowing the implications of this, a binding that’s as old as time itself. “Six pomegranate seeds, six months a year during which he will stay with me.”
“What?” Visenna screeches. She rounds on him, and Jaskier can feel her struggling to grow poisonous vines to wrap around him, but the underworld resists, fights back against her power, and he smiles. “You - you monster, forcing my son -”
“He didn’t force me,” Geralt says calmly. His golden eyes burn with anger as he glares at Visenna, seething, “You are the one who’s always tried to be me to your will. Jaskier has never done that. All he’s done was give me a choice, and I gladly took it.”
“You’ve manipulated him,” Visenna spits at Jaskier. He’s unfazed - she’s nothing more than a pest to him with how powerless she is now. “I will take him back from your filthy realm, I will free him from your toxic influence -”
“You can’t do anything,” Jaskier interrupts. He turns a calm, dangerous smile on the gods assembled before him. “This is far older than all of us, and a thousand times more binding than what any of us can hope to break. You have lost, Visenna. Take your minions and go.”
Visenna’s face has gotten so red that it almost matches her hair, and she glares at Jaskier like she wants to tear him apart, but even a goddess like her knows when she’s beaten. She steps back, nodding to Stregobor and the others, and they disappear back to Olympus.
Jaskier lets out a long, slow breath, and turns back to Geralt, who has a slow smile spreading across his face.
“We did it,” Geralt breathes, eyes wide. “I’m not - she can’t control me anymore.”
Worry ties a knot in Jaskier’s gut even as part of him cheers in celebration. “You’re bound to me for half a year for eternity now,” Jaskier reminds him.
“No,” Geralt says with a roll of his eyes. “We’ll be bound together for the rest of eternity, because for the other six months, you’re joining me in my travels.”
Jaskier’s heart leaps, and he can see it, a bright future stretching ahead of them. Half a year spent in Jaskier’s realm, wandering through their ever-expanding garden, spending their days with the souls of Elysium, chatting with Yen and playing with Greg. Half a year spent on the earth above, travelling as they’d done before, Geralt spreading life across the land as Jaskier follows him with his lute in his hands. “You mean it?”
“More than anything,” Geralt confirms, his smile brighter than the sun, and Jaskier wraps his arms around him, their flower crowns bumping into each other as they seal their future with a kiss.
Bound together for the rest of eternity. Jaskier can’t wait.