Chapter Text
Jaskier is rather surprised by how firmly he made up his mind when the words leave his mouth.
After the whole Djinn episode, he was less inclined to blurt his first desire the moment he was offered a wish. As much as he’d like to be rid of the indignity of Valdo Marx’s company ever again in his life, the weasel wasn’t actually worth a wish if he actually thought about it for more than two seconds.
He looked at the- the being in front of him with a focus he wasn’t expecting. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up in this position, with some otherworldly being in his debt. Or he assumes it's a debt. He's honestly unsure, it was like he blinked and it was there offering him his greatest desire. Perhaps he stepped into a fairy ring without realizing, it wouldn't be the first time he got himself into an odd situation. It hasn't tried to attack him yet, though, so points in its favor.
Jaskier found it incredibly difficult not to stare at the thing, and he wondered if that was the point. He couldn't define it's shape, it's anything really. Just the scent of fresh grass and pollen and... Something. The more he tried to understand what it was, the more lost in its presence he got. It had an ethereal air about it, like it was an envoy of destiny herself.
Geralt would probably tell him that was utter horseshit.
Geralt.
There’s an ache in his chest at the thought of the man, like some burning thing reached in and squeezed his heart. It hasn’t even been a week since he looked into the molten gold of the Witcher’s eyes, so filled with vitriol and fury that would have any other man crawling out of his skin in terror. Jaskier, ever the contrarian, could only feel the pain of his heart shattering. Could only feel shock and grief.
He could wish to mend his heart, for Geralt to come back to him and to love him like Jaskier dared fantasized in the dead of night.
He could wish to forget about Geralt entirely, to start his life anew without the weight of what the last two decades truly meant to him.
And Jaskier can admit to being a selfish creature, to be the kind of person to wish for those things in the heat of the moment, but he also knows himself well enough to know that none of those things are what he truly wants.
What he wants, well…
“I wish for Geralt of Rivia to find his happiness and to never lose it for as long he lives.”
Jaskier’s smile is sad, rueful. He truly is a dramatic fool, isn’t he?
The being cocks its- their? He hasn’t really given much thought to the pronouns of whatever this is- head. There’s silence for an agonizing moment before Jaskier hears giggling of all things. It sounds like bells echoing in a cathedral, with the same unearthly resonance as when it asked it’s initial question.
“Then it shall be.” The voice has such mirth in it, like it’s privy to the best joke in the room.
Jaskier blinks and he’s alone again. The forest is filled with life, birds chirping to each other and small animals scurrying off in the brush, it’s like he dreamed the last couple of minutes. He shakes his head, not entirely convinced he didn’t, and continues walking towards the next town. He’s still trying to put as much distance between him and that damned mountain, after all.