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In the aftermath of the destructive battle with the unfriendly pain demon, Jaskier’s terror ebbed into a sort of overstimulated exhaustion that made it impossible to rest, or even sit down.
Jittery, fingertips dancing against his leg whenever there was a moment’s lull, he played at cleaning up until he realized he was just moving chunks and shards of stone and monolith from somewhere they didn’t belong to somewhere else they also didn’t belong. With a shrug and a sigh, he gave up and wandered Kaer Morhen until he spotted Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri.
They had congregated in a courtyard, close against the cold, heads tipped forward and lashes lowered to keep out the snow that settled lightly on pale hair and dark. The awkwardness was still there — in Yen and Geralt especially, their gazes sluicing off each other like dew off a duck — but it wouldn’t last.
Contrary to what some might think, Jaskier was actually neither stupid nor imperceptive. He knew where this was going. They were a family in the making, those three, an ever-building maelstrom of Chaos and Destiny and possibly one day enough love to shatter or save the world. He had every intention of writing many glorious ballads from their wake while not pining at all. Not even a little bit. He was an artist and had far too much dignity.
He paused a moment, skin stinging with chill, and painted to memory the beauty of the snowflakes swirling around the people he had spent twenty years of his life drawing together, and the yawning hollow in his chest as he watched them build a family that didn’t, and would never, include him.
Beauty and love and pain. Of such things were art made.
The song, he thought, would be excellent.
Yennefer found him later, some hours after dark, when the exhaustion had begun blurring the edges of his vision but before it had softened enough to let him stop moving and rest. He’d expected her to be long asleep, but he rounded a corner and there she was, wrapped in furs, hair braided back. It was only upon seeing the furs that Jaskier realized how cold he truly was; he’d found his way into a part of Kaer Morhen that appeared to not have been occupied or warmed for years or possibly centuries, and his clothing really was not suited to these conditions.
“Witch,” he said.
Yennefer’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Bard.”
His eyes dropped automatically to her wrists, his mind spinning back to the memory of the blood pouring, the sparks and smoke of the demon flowing into her, and the powerlessness of being able to do nothing except stand amidst the broken corpses of Geralt’s brothers and watch Yennefer die, or worse.
Bare hours later, here she stood, whole and healed, regal and beautiful but unguarded in some strange way that still set him off balance.
She approached him, reaching out for his elbow. (Ah yes, the touching. They did that now, apparently.) “You’re lost,” she said mildly.
He made a show of bristling, acting as though his right hand were pressed to his chest out of outrage rather than because it felt safer there. “I am not lost! I am exploring the historic halls of the Witcher keep, seeking inspiration that will surely—”
“You’re lost.” Yennefer patted his elbow.
He was definitely lost.
He wilted. “Fine.”
“Dinner was hours ago,” she said. “You didn’t eat?”
“I didn’t ... really feel like it,” Jaskier admitted, and oh. Oh dear. He had meant to let a hint of tiredness creep into his voice, perhaps foster enough sympathy to earn an extra few moments of camaraderie before the witch remembered she’d regained her magic, no longer needed help, and could therefore safely go back to hating annoying bards — but somehow all of his bone-deep weariness seemed to have come out, and now Yennefer looked at him with such gentleness in her violet eyes that he almost took a reflexive step back in case it was a trick and she actually intended to turn him into a newt, or. Or burn his fingers off. Some such magey behavior.
She looked sad now. Her hand trailed up his arm to rest on his shoulder. “Jaskier,” she said softly.
“You’re sure you’re really all right?” he babbled. “The thing with the demon and the self-sacrifice, it seemed rather — intense. You’ll have to tell me all about where you went so I can — but wait until I have a parchment and—” Shit. Were there parchments and ink in Kaer Morhen? Surely there had to be; there was so much he needed to take down, and he had none of his own. He had come here with almost nothing, in fact; not even spare clothing. Not even ...
No, he shouldn’t think about it. It was broken and lost and gone. No use worrying over things that would never come back.
“Jaskier.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved his good hand dismissively. His bones ached, and he was so cold, and light melted to darkness at the corners of his eyes. “I should probably sleep.”
“I’ll walk you to your room,” Yennefer declared.
“How chivalrous of you, my lady.”
“Anything for a damsel in distress,” she said sweetly, and tucked herself into his side, pulling him in to share the warmth of her voluminous fur as they strolled together through the echoing emptiness.
Geralt was sleeping surprisingly well when Yennefer said directly into his ear, “Geralt.”
He hit his head on the wall behind his bed.
“Sorry,” Yennefer said, conjuring light. The sight of her face — lovely, tired, traitor — did not necessarily incline him to let go of the knife his hand had found before his mind came to wakefulness. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers. Ciri, he thought. She’d saved Ciri. He needed to remember that.
All that came before, she’d done that too and it would linger, but when the moment of reckoning had come, Yennefer had bled herself out for his child. That mattered.
Geralt registered the worry beneath the calm of her expression, and a shard of terror pierced his heart. “Ciri?” He jolted upright, throwing blankets and furs off his legs.
Yennefer shook her head, loose tendrils of hair brushing her cheek. “She’s fine. Asleep. I checked.” A single measured breath, and then she said, “It’s Jaskier.”
Geralt blinked. “Jaskier?”
Amidst the chaos, the fear for Ciri (and yes, fine, Yennefer a bit) and the grief of his lost brothers, he’d barely had time to spare the bard more than a cursory glance to make sure he’d survived the battle unscathed. Which he had, surely? The last Geralt had seen of him, he’d been prattling on about something or other.
“He has a fever,” Yennefer said. “It’s sudden, and bad, and I don’t...” She sat back, exhaled sharply, hands resting palm-up in her lap, and Geralt saw then the frustration beneath the concern. “I can’t understand what’s causing it, which means I don’t know how to fix it.”
How it must rankle, to feel powerless again so soon after finally getting her Chaos back.
The room Jaskier had claimed for himself was cold, tiny snowflakes drifting in through the window. He lay buried beneath a pile of furs, only tousled hair poking out, his violent shivers rattling the entire bed. To Geralt’s surprise, several of his brothers had congregated to watch the goings-on.
“You’re sure he’s not just cold?” Coën asked. “He doesn’t seem the ... hearty type.”
But for a slight eye-roll, Yennefer didn’t bother responding. As they drew near, Geralt smelled it, the sour stink of sweat and sickness, and unease curled in his gut. Surely even a human couldn’t become critically ill so soon? The bard had been fine. He’d checked. Sort of.
“Is he going to die?” Lambert asked, poking his head around the door frame. Geralt shot him a glare. He didn’t have to sound so hopeful.
Yennefer, who seemed to be trying to enter a peaceful meditative state in which there was no such thing as Witchers, ignored him as well. She pulled away the furs to reveal Jaskier’s face, death pale but for blotches of red over his cheekbones, and she hovered her palm over his forehead, chanting softly to herself.
A moment, another. Geralt let himself hope. Then her eyes flew open and she snarled, “FUCK!”
“You can’t just heal him?” Coën put in. “You healed me.”
Yennefer fixed him with a basilisk stare. “You had a hole in your chest. The problem was rather obvious. This...” She turned back to the bard, who was whimpering softly and attempting to burrow his exposed face back into the furs. “I can’t fix him if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Jaskier.” Geralt rested a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. “Jaskier.”
“He can’t be roused,” Yennefer said. “I tried.” She shook her head, stood up and paced. “There’s something I’m missing. There has to be.” All at once, she stopped, turned back to the bed, and flipped the furs off of Jaskier’s body. Ignoring his pitiful, slurred protests, she lifted his hand into hers, inspecting the black grit caked beneath his nails. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, shit.”
“Yen?” Geralt stood up, stood back, cautious. He wanted an answer. He didn’t know if he’d like it.
“The monolith,” she said. “The dust. I think it’s poisoned him.”
Geralt felt his brow wrinkle in confusion. “We ... we were all there.” He looked around the room, saw the same blankness on his brothers’ faces. “Is anyone else sick?” They shook their heads. “Ciri?” That spike of fear again, always ready at an instant’s notice. He wasn’t sure he would ever be rid of it.
Yennefer looked up. “You can send someone else to look in on her if you wish,” she said, leaving the rest — if you don’t trust me — unspoken. “But I checked her, and she’s not ill.”
“Then why?” Geralt grated, his voice raw. From sleep, he told himself. Just sleep.
“Jaskier was the only human in that room,” Yennefer said. She looked down at him. He’d curled himself into a ball, hand drawn up and tucked protectively beneath his chin, his body wracked with violent shivers. “He was ... vulnerable.”
“But...” The words he’d meant to say, But Ciri, died on Geralt’s lips. Cirilla was so many things, bright and fierce and stubborn and powerful and wonderful and his, but she wasn’t human. Not really. Probably she had never been.
Yennefer rested her fingertips gently on Jaskier’s forehead, closed her eyes again, chanted, and this time something happened. Faint black lines raced across his skin toward her hand, an eerie tracery that vanished when her eyes jolted open and she pulled back sharply.
“Yen?” Geralt asked again.
She nodded to herself. “It’s the dust. I think I can make a potion to counter it.” Standing, she brushed at her skirt, raised her chin, and told Geralt, “I’ll be back. Stay with him. He shouldn’t be alone.”
Coën and Lambert stepped aside as she swished past. With a sort of mutual shrug, they wandered away, back toward their own warm beds, tiredness overwhelming curiosity.
Geralt sat at the bedside. He tucked the furs back over Jaskier’s torso, and then had absolutely no idea what else to do except sit in silence and stare at the dark eyelashes resting on ashen cheeks.
The bard’s teeth chattered loudly. Then he whispered, slurred and shaky but intelligible, “Please stop burning me.”
Geralt patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Jaskier, it’s all right. No one’s burning you. It’s just the fever.”
Jaskier’s lids fluttered, opened. He looked through Geralt with eerie fever-bright eyes that shone lightning blue like a bruxa’s. “Won’t ... do you any good,” he rasped, voice raw as though he’d been screaming. “I told you ... I don’t know where he is. He abandoned me ... on...”
The thought trailed away. Jaskier’s left hand twisted into the fur. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye into his sweat-damp hair. “Please,” he breathed. “Stop. Burning me. I don’t ... know anything.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes. He inhaled, exhaled, slow and controlled. He remembered Yennefer saying, “He was in some trouble.” He remembered Jaskier saying, “She was saving my life.”
He thought of the fire mage, where he might be at the moment, if his head was still attached to his body, and what could potentially be done to remedy that situation.
That couldn’t be his focus right now, not with Ciri to protect and Jaskier to ... not let die, but someday. Oh, someday.
Jaskier quieted, Geralt meditated, and at last Yennefer came back with the potion. She tipped it into Jaskier’s mouth, and they waited. After a time, his breathing eased and the shivers began to lessen, and Yennefer exhaled as though she had been kicked in the gut, then leaned forward to press her forehead to Jaskier’s and card her hand through his tangled, sweat-soaked hair.
Geralt blinked. He blinked again, and she hadn’t moved. All right, then. One of the keys to enduring a very long (and very strange) life was learning to accept things that made no sense but were happening all the same. This was just another of those.
Jaskier stirred, his hand wandering up to brush at a ringlet of Yennefer’s hair. “What,” he breathed faintly.
“You were sick.” Yennefer pulled back, captured his clumsy hand between both of hers, and patted it. “It’s all right. You can rest now. You’ll feel better in the morning, I promise.”
“You’ll leave,” Jaskier whispered, and the way his voice broke, the certainty and despair in it, sent ice straight through Geralt’s heart. The blue eyes rested on Yennefer’s face, then wandered to Geralt’s. “You’ll ... go, and...”
“No,” Yennefer said firmly. She looked up at Geralt, her expression fierce and challenging. “No we won’t.”
The bed wasn’t quite large enough, but the furs were warm — and when morning came, no one was alone.