Work Text:
Geralt always assumed he would run into Jaskier again eventually. He would be loath to call it destiny, but the bard had a way of tumbling back into his life too frequently and under the strangest of circumstances to be purely by happenstance. The biggest gap between their reunions tended to be a couple of years at most, but by Geralt’s estimate, the last time he saw Jaskier was at least five years ago, if not more.
For the first year or so after the dragon hunt and the incident on the mountain, Geralt didn’t even consider trying to track down his old friend. He was completely occupied with the task of protecting and caring for Ciri. That didn’t mean he didn’t think about Jaskier, though.
In fact, Geralt would frequently ruminate over the last time they spoke, how they parted on such bad terms, and how it had been entirely his fault, despite the unfair accusations he hurled at the balladeer at the time. Every time he played back the memory in his mind, his heart ached with regret. And although he knew he wasn’t supposed to, because Witchers should need no one, he missed Jaskier. He needed him and all of the sunshine and song that came with him.
Once Ciri was safely in the care of Nenneke and Yennefer, Geralt set off on the Path again. And because his Path crossed so often with Jaskier’s, he didn’t actively try to look for him. He just always figured the bard would show up somewhere unexpectedly. And then Geralt would apologize for everything.
When fate or coincidence failed to return Jaskier to him after several years, Geralt started to seek him out. He went to Oxenfurt and asked around, but no one at the university had heard from him in years. He checked the concert halls and theaters and taverns in every city he went to, yet he found no sign of the balladeer anywhere. The last place he looked was the last place he thought Jaskier, with all of his wanderlust, would ever be: his home town.
Geralt knew the bard was of noble birth, from Lettenhove in the minor kingdom of Kerack. He hoped that if something had happened to Jaskier, at least his family would know. The Witcher was on his way to what locals had told him was Jaskier’s childhood home when he happened to pass the family burial grounds.
Perhaps it was the beauty of the garden, or maybe it was destiny that beckoned for Geralt to enter. It didn’t take long for him to find himself standing before a simple but elegantly designed stone memorial that read:
In Loving Memory of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, 1222-
Geralt turned and walked away, got back on Roach, and left Kerack. He had his answer: Jaskier was gone.
***
A little while later, a contract regarding a succubus brought Geralt to the city of Novigrad. Having taken care of the succubus situation, he stepped into a tavern, the Rosemary and Thyme, for a well-earned drink.
Learning of Jaskier’s fate didn’t stop him from thinking about the poet often, replaying their final conversation over and over in his mind. He could still clearly recall the hurt in Jaskier’s voice, and now, three drinks deep and full of self-loathing, he swore he could smell the bard’s signature cologne.
It was a cloying scent, “Nuits de Beauclair,” that assaulted Geralt’s superhuman senses whenever Jaskier wore it. But this was no memory, he realized. Someone in the tavern was wearing it, and they were standing right behind him. He’s dead , he reminded himself as he turned around to face whoever it was. It can’t be-
“Jaskier,” he said in disbelief.
“It’s Dandelion now,” the bard said, blue eyes twinkling with the spark that the Witcher so desperately missed. “But yes, Geralt, it’s me.”
Geralt looked the balladeer up and down, and though he looked a little different with facial hair and longer locks, it didn’t appear as if he’d aged a day since they last saw each other. He looked not just alive but radiant, and most importantly, happy.
“I thought you were dead.”
Dandelion chuckled. “Well, obviously I’m not.”
“But the memorial in Kerack-”
“Oh, that. Well.” The bard smiled at Geralt sheepishly. “After the, um, the last time we traveled together, I took some time to consider what pleases me. And I sort of… disappeared for a while,” he said, gesticulating as he spoke. “My family assumed that I was deceased and erected that memorial that you saw. But clearly, I’m very much alive.”
“Yeah. I see that.” The Witcher went quiet for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “Jaskier-”
“Dandelion,” the bard corrected him.
“Dandelion,” Geralt repeated. “I’m sorry for what I said all those years ago. I asked for life to give me one blessing, but it had already given me one, and I threw it- I threw you away. I’ve missed you.”
“Apology accepted, but it’s unnecessary. I was devastated at the time, but if you hadn't sent me off on my own that day, I might have-” He sighed and waved his hand dismissively. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I figured out what pleases me,” he said, grinning. “Fine art, fine wine, and the company of fine people. And now that I own this place,” he said with a dramatic flourish, “I have everything I want.”
“Good. I’m… happy for you.” Geralt smiled bittersweetly. It turned out that while he was suffering all these years with a Jaskier-shaped void in his life, his bard was doing just fine without him.
“But I will say, I have been sorely missing that which pleases me most.”
“What’s that?”
The bard threw his head back and laughed, thoroughly amused by how oblivious Geralt still was. “Don’t you know, and didn’t you always? It’s you, dear Witcher. You absolute fool.”