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The first grey hairs that streak through is enough of a reminder. Time is slipping through his fingers and no matter how much he claws and grapples at it, he can’t find any purchase. Days turn into weeks, and sooner or later, months and years go by.
And the smattering of grey hairs remains. They’re not enough to deter him. His blood is mingled with something else, something that could buy him a few more years. But he’s not immortal. He won’t live forever, and neither will his Witcher. There’s some morbid assurance in that. Neither of them will have to go on without the other. The question is; who will Death claim for Herself first?
It was some sort of salve to Geralt. Jaskier’s blood tinted with elven magic would earn him another few years. The Witcher didn’t have to worry about watching his lark grow old before him, while he stayed more or less the same. Time slips by for both of them, and even though Geralt is considerably older than Jaskier, the bard can’t imagine how many years have bled into each other.
Geralt can’t even tell him how old he is. Not exactly, anyway. When he asked, all he got for an answer is a shrug and a grunted “ninety, I guess”, and that was the end of it. Jaskier faces a long life too, and his is only just beginning.
At least there’s company.
It doesn’t occur to him to get rid of the grey from his hair. Strands of it gather by his temples, just enough to catch the midday sun but not enough to distract from the earthen brown of his hair. He’s heard of people using dyes to try and hide their ageing. But the thought of using them never crossed his mind. If anything, he imagined being as grey as Geralt one day, and he remembers laughing quietly to himself, looking up at the rafters of some inn they were staying at, while a hunt-weary Geralt slumbered beside him.
Only one of them can pull off the white hair, and it certainly isn’t Jaskier; though the leaves the dyes alone and sees when the next grey hair will appear. And it won’t. Not for a while, at least. Even these took their time getting on to his head.
It’s not that people haven’t noticed. They have. And it’s been mentioned to him, although most in from him through their eyes; staring at him and knitting their eyebrows, wondering why time hasn’t seemed to have touched the Witcher’s bard but have claimed the rest of them. And he hates it; seeing classmates of his start to wither away and curl into themselves. He takes only a sliver of enjoyment at watching Valdo Marx’s voice crackle and his spine curve as he grows older with each passing sun-turn.
All the while he stays the same.
Many people noticed; but not Geralt. He doesn’t think it ever crossed the Witcher’s mind, or if it did, he certainly kept it to himself. But he knows that the Witcher might have worried at one point. When their lives began to entwine together and neither could go without the other for a season, so Kaer Morhen became Jaskier’s winter home, surely the thought must have crossed Geralt’s mind.
Time hasn’t come to take Jaskier away from him. It’s there, in the background, threading his fingers through his hair and stripping strands of their colour. And sometimes, after a more than exuberant night of singing and dancing, or of Geralt taking him to bed and setting his lips and hands and skin to him, he’ll wake with aches in his bones and protesting muscles.
If the only reminders of his age are a few twitching muscles and a scattering of grey hairs, he’ll gladly take it. He’ll keep living as long as he can, and keeping Geralt with him. After the worst hunts, where his Witcher staggers back to their camp or inn room, battered and bloodied, Jaskier bundles him upstairs and heals what he can, praying to every god he can remember the name of to keep his Witcher here, with him, just so he won’t be alone.
He doesn’t want to be. The thought of Geralt leaving him in this world by himself stutters his heart and has his throat bobbing. He’s sure that the Witcher must feel the same. Geralt curls around him when they sleep, either on a bedroll on the flattest patch of ground they can find, or in a straw-mattress inn bed, and gathers him close; almost afraid that Death Herself would come in the night, when they would both be asleep, and lure one of them away.
Jaskier holds him back. His tongue is sharp enough for any god. If She wants to take his Witcher from him, then he’ll have a few choice words on the matter. He’s not above scolding a god. It could be the greatest thing he does with his life, and he hopes that Geralt could linger around just long enough to see it.
The mountains pierce the distance. At the peaks of them is the keep, where they can wait out the winter and all of its biting winds tumbling down from the nearby ridges. Geralt is a warm weight behind him, his cloak stretched around the both of them as he spurs Roach on. They won’t make it to the keep today. The sun is already starting to tumble down beyond the horizon. Tomorrow, then. They’ll both be somewhere safe and secure and warmed by a grand hearth and fed on whatever food Vesemir will have for them. Jaskier’s bones warm at the promise.
He could have walked, but Geralt stuck out his hand and dragged him up here, and Roach doesn’t seem too bothered about carrying both of them. Jaskier doesn’t move much, keeping his back pressed against Geralt’s chest, burrowing further into whatever stretch of cloak he can gather around himself to stave off the worst of the wind.
And when it’s like this, when he can’t find the words to strike up a conversation with the Witcher, he’ll just think to himself and reflect. Roach huffs and nickers, her ears pricking at the familiar sight of the last tavern before the mountain’s trail. The promise of home is not only affecting him, apparently.
Geralt’s arms are a firm and familiar weight around him, keeping him close and sheltered against the blustering winds starting to pick up for the night. Jaskier struggles not to shudder as the Witcher’s voice hums along the shell of his ear. “You drifted off for a while,” he murmurs. Voices are always kept low, especially when travelling like this. Neither of them misses the stares passersby give. All they can do is keep walking and hope there won’t be a shout after them. Geralt’s lips graze the arch of his ear. “Where were you?”
Jaskier hums. The sky above them is covered in grey clouds, heavy with rain about to burst through and start a downpour. A hot meal and soft bed are only two miles away. Jaskier’s heart quickens at the thought of it.
He leans back further into Geralt, letting his head drop back against the Witcher’s shoulder. “Just thinking,” he replies, letting the words fly away with the next gust of wind that blows through. He turns his head, burrowing his nose into the hollow of Geralt’s neck. It’s warm there and Jaskier breathes in as much of the man’s scent as he can.
Geralt hums; a sound rumbling out of the core of his chest. “Do I want to know?”
Even though he can’t see the Witcher’s face, Jaskier can picture the small smirk ghosting his lips and threatening to form. Jaskier’s smile is lost to the hollow of Geralt’s neck. “I love you, is all,” he murmurs, letting the words sink in through the man’s skin and muscles and down into his bones. “I hope you know that.”
Geralt snorts. “I’m stuck with you, aren’t I?” his voice lowers, words rumbled just for the two of them. “Elven blood and all that.”
Jaskier presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s neck. “You are absolutely stuck with me. Even in death, I’ll follow you to the great beyond, or whatever is waiting for us all after this nonsense.”
Geralt hums. “I really will never get a break from you?”
Jaskier pulls away, a smirk curled along his lips as he beams up at his Witcher. “Never.”