Chapter Text
“Have you heard that those who are visited by the god of lullabies wake to find that he has left the sand of the moon in their eyes?”
“That’s just an old wives’ tale. Now go to sleep, Jaskier.”
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right. It’s a fun thought though, isn’t it?”
“Jaskier.”
“Oh alright, just let me play this one last song.”
✨🌙✨
At first, he had no intentions of ever telling Geralt, of sticking around long enough for him to notice that there was something not quite human about his companion. He had only meant to stay as long as he needed to get his creative wheels turning again, just enough inspiration for his next piece and then he’d be on his way.
At first, that’s exactly what he did. The whole incident with the sylvan and the elves made for an excellent story: a quest, an apparent monster who turns out to be more friend than foe, a brave hero willing to sacrifice himself for an innocent and inspires others to make a change that will help them, really he couldn’t have asked for more. So he wrote his song, said his farewells, and went around singing it to whoever would listen during the day, and in the late hours of the night he would change his tune. He slid unnoticed into the rooms of those who tossed and turned and would croon soft melodies until they finally succumbed to the pull of dreams before leaving, the only sign he had ever been there wiped from their eyes come morning.
After a time, he found himself thinking after the witcher again. About the trove of untold stories he must have that would make for the most wonderful songs. So he set off to find him, letting rumors guide his wanderings. And he does, on the verge of being kicked from an inn until Jaskier plucks at his lute and extolls the heroic deeds of the witcher. By the time he’s done, not only have many coins been tossed Geralt’s way, but the witcher has been handed a stein of ale as well as what looks to be his payment in full for whatever contract he’d taken.
A key is also slid to the witcher, presumably for a room to stay in that night. Jaskier snatches it off the table before it reaches Geralt, twirling it around his finger and winking at the witcher as he saunters off to find their room— he is, after all, the one who got the innkeep to let Geralt stay, it’s his room as much as it’s Geralt’s.
It’s that night that he learns of the witcher’s insomnia. It’s long since the sun has set, since the evening meal and lukewarm baths have been had, and after a day full of fighting of monsters, a pair of basilisks Jaskier discovered after much prying, Jaskier is somewhat surprised when the witcher does not immediately fall into slumber as soon as his head hits the pillow of the other bed. Instead, he lies painfully still for hours, as if by not moving he could convince his body of it’s exhaustion and be granted the reprieve he so clearly wishes for.
Jaskier waits until Geralt lets out a slow sigh of frustration before speaking up.
“Geralt? How is it that you’re still awake? You were practically falling asleep in the tub earlier.”
There’s another sigh, this one managing to sound more resigned. “There are nights when sleep won’t come for me. Insomnia, I’ve been told. Likely something to do with the mutations.” Jaskier admittedly doesn’t know much about how it is witchers become witchers, though he had slipped through the halls of their keeps to lull the young boys to sleep back when there were young boys waiting to become witchers, but that the process could so frequently disturb a witcher’s ability to rest and recover is upsetting to say the least.
“Oh.” He says, because he has nothing else to say in the face of Geralt’s revelation.
“It’s fine. Just go to sleep.” And it’s not, not even a little bit, but Jaskier has the distinct impression that Geralt has convinced himself that it is , and that insisting otherwise would be like arguing with a wall.
He waits for Geralt to settle in a new position before beginning to hum as quietly as he can one of his oldest calls for sleep, letting his power seep into the song slowly. He doesn’t think that Geralt’s medallion will react to it, Jaskier is far too old and of a different sort of magic, but he’d rather not alert the witcher to his preternatural status and so he is cautious. Once he is sure that the witcher has succumbed to his song, he silently glides across the room to the window, gathering moonlight in his hand. He leaves a pinch, just enough to make the sleep stick, in the witcher’s eyes, before giving in to the sweet temptation of sleep himself.
✨🌙✨
It goes on like that for years— Jaskier trailing after Geralt and writing songs of his heroic deeds by the light of the sun, and in the dim light of the stars on the nights when dreams won’t come easily to the witcher, Jaskier will sing a slow and sweet lullaby and sprinkle the dust of the moon into his witcher’s eyes.
It works well. Works well until Cintra. Even after, he does his best. Until Rinde. It all falls apart in Rinde.