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It took longer than anticipated for Geralt to unload all of Jaskier’s belongings out of Roach’s saddlebags. The man carried far more on him than had been expected, and he had a propensity to stash some of his things in Geralt’s own packs. That, in hindsight, should have already been assumed. Someone that was larger than life such as Jaskier was bound to carry more than envisaged when walking across the Continent.
It wasn’t just expected items, like socks and tunics, a blanket for colder nights and spare provisions. It was pots of ink, and extra strings for his lute, wound up in a tiny carry case. Bottles of lotions and various potions and poultices for whatever ailments might strike the two of them (given his woefully human biology and the fact he’d no doubt sooner expire if Geralt gave him one of his own brews). There were quills in all sizes and various brooches from only the gods knew who. There were small drawstring pouches that were filled with all manner of oddments, like stones and feathers and flowers that had long shriveled and dried up. And, lastly, books. Most of them were notebooks where he’d etch out his songs, with ideas scrawled across the pages in his oh-so-refined, looping cursive.
Geralt dumped it all off Roach.
He was going to leave it there in a pile. Let the dust and dirt from the mountain work its ways into the nooks and crannies, a final fuck you to the man who had single handedly ruined his life.
Then he stopped. Sighed. Turned back and shoved everything into as few bags as he could. He grabbed one of his blankets off of Roach, shook it out, and draped it all on top. He weighed the corners down with a number of heavy rocks and returned to his horse.
It was still a fuck you, just a slightly less petty one.
*
It was quicker to get down the mountain than up it. He reached the base at dawn of the third day, made his way to Caingorn to replenish what provisions had been used up over the past week.
From there, the Continent was his. He could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he liked. Maybe he’d head south again, towards the more mild climates like that of Caravista. Maybe he’d head west, stop by Kerack or Cidaris, or east towards Ard Carraigh. He’d never realised now how often he’d check in with Jaskier first. It was never overt, but the discussion would inevitably turn towards taverns and inns that had a good potential crowd for him to stand in front of and perform. It was incredibly freeing and thrilling.
He decided to head south.
It took him a day to reach Pont Vanis. There, he followed the winding path down, where it turned from stone to sand. Roach was hitched to a post, and his boots were unlaced and pulled off. He headed to the cold ocean where the waves broke, sat down and let the water lap at his toes.
*
He stayed in Pont Vanis for the better part of a week. There was an inn that had a tavern attached, which made his stay more comfortable. Each morning Geralt woke up and walked down to the beach, where he sat and scanned the coastline. He told himself he wasn’t waiting for anybody. He almost believed it.
The inn was of middling quality, as was the tavern. Jaskier would have requested something better, in that vague, passive aggressive manner of his. There’d be snipes about the softness of the pillow, or the thinness of the mattress. The tub wasn’t big enough, or the chicken was too dry. Little remarks in his blustering tone that would grate on Geralt’s nerves, but had become a reliable source of background noise.
Aside from the crashing waves, Pont Vanis was quiet. It was too late in the summer for the royal family to be housed in their residence, and most of the population had already returned to Lan Exeter. While it did provide a modicum of privacy for Geralt and his thoughts, it did make the absence of his longtime companion all the more evident.
That was what he wanted, though. It was why he’d lashed out and set out on his own. That absolutely blessed silence that he had missed and craved for years. He had no right to complain, not when he’d finally achieved his deepest desire.
*
Geralt headed south. He followed the coastline, skirted Blaviken, and found himself trekking past Yspaden and through to Kaedwen. It had taken some days, and he found himself coming to a metaphorical fork in the road. The life of a witcher involved staying on the road and constantly moving. While it wasn’t completely unheard of for some to return to Kaer Morhen before the winter, Geralt hadn’t ever done that himself.
He wasn’t about to start.
In the end he went south. It was an aimless, directionless journey, made up of minor jobs that paid just enough to keep his provisions well stocked and to find a room in an inn if need be. The leaves were beginning to turn yellow, and though the days were still warm, a frosty nip had begun to form at dusk.
The trek through Aedirn was long, and it was there that he finally pulled out an unfamiliar book from one of his packs. The sky was clear, the night would be cold; it was time he started pulling out his winter supplies. And there, crammed at the bottom, hidden beneath his new winter cloak (recently purchased after he couldn’t find his old one) and blanket, it lay. Bound in a supple leather and with thick, hand cut parchment, he didn’t recognise it as one of his own. Geralt had his own method for tracking jobs he’d taken, who had hired him, what payment he had received. This mysterious book wasn’t one of his own.
A flick through the pages revealed the answer to him, which he’d already figured out. Jaskier. That distinctive handwriting, which swept across the pages with long loops.
Part of Geralt wanted to fling it away, let it land in the field he was standing in. Let it be consumed by the coming rains and hidden by the winter snowfall. The parchment would decompose and return to the earth with time, as would all the words Jaskier had inscribed on the pages.
But try as he might, Geralt couldn’t bring his hand to let go of the book. It stayed there, stuck between his fingers, as he looked down at it. With a huff, he shoved it back into the pack and went about pulling out the gear to set up camp for the night.
The fire was burning bright by the time the sun had set and the stars were lighting up the deep blue sky. Roach had been fed, her blanket tossed over her back to provide some warmth during the evening. The meal Geralt had, of dried meat, stale bread and cheese wasn’t the most appetising, but it would tide him over until he reached the next town. It felt like a waste, hunting for something that night when he was close to Aldersberg.
Jaskier’s book called to him.
Living life on the road meant a lot was denied to Geralt. Certain home comforts, meals cooked on more than an open campfire, a soft bed. It meant that when the opportunity presented itself, Geralt was not inclined to hold off when something caught his interest.
The cover was flicked open to the first page. The parchment held nothing but scribbles where Jaskier had tested the nib before committing to another page. Geralt, disappointed, flicked to the next page.
There it began. The innermost workings of Jaskier’s mind. It looked like he’d started this notebook towards the end of winter, right before the two of them would meet up again. The page had the beginnings of a song or some poetry that Geralt didn’t immediately recognise. Certain lines had been crossed out, with tiny writing above them for corrections. Leaning back against his bedroll, Geralt held the page up to the firelight and began to read.
*
Dawn breaks
Earlier than the day before
And ‘cross the plains
I hear your call
And though I know winter shall return
As it always does
I also know
The hours will be counted
‘Til I’m nearer to you
*
Geralt came upon a town, and there he found himself a contract. It was simple work and simple pay, but it got him a night under a roof while the first autumn rains rolled in. The room he stayed in, like the one in Pont Vanis, was much more basic than the kinds Jaskier liked. And though the bed and bath may have been wanting in some ways, it was dry. The room was also solely his, unlike the months when he and Jaskier would sometimes need to share the space.
There had been no swelling chorus when Geralt had been paid for the contract. Without Jaskier’s cheerful smile and voice to guide things along, the alderman had handed him over the pouch of coins with a grunt. The various patrons of the tavern who had been milling about when the payment occurred had simply looked at Geralt in a mixture of mild interest and disdain and had returned to their meals.
It was fine. Geralt preferred it that way. Sure, he tended to get paid more when everyone was singing that damn song, but he hated being in the spotlight. Simply taking his payment and leaving was better.
What was strange, though, was laying in that simple bed that night, caught between sleeping and restlessness as music from the tavern across the road wafted through the window. He’d left it propped to try and circulate the air; the humidity was high, though, in anticipation for rain, and the room was warm. The lyrics the crowd in the tavern were chanting along with weren’t completely audible from where he lay, and though he could hear the rumble of a drum, Geralt couldn’t make out the melody. All he knew for certain was that it wasn’t one of Jaskier’s songs.
Maybe that was what felt wrong about all of this. Geralt was used to turning in and having an early night. The crowd downstairs would be listening to Jaskier, and he’d fall asleep to the lyrics of songs he’d heard over and over again. They’d infect his dreams and he’d find himself humming along in his sleep. Falling asleep to music that wasn’t Jaskier’s felt wrong. He couldn’t do it.
Geralt sat up and lit a candle. He pulled the blankets back, got out of bed and crossed to one of his bags. He told himself he was just going to go over the last few jobs, make some notes for himself. That’s what he told himself. Balance the books a little, write a few lines for when he was in Kaer Morhen so he could share some tales with his brothers.
Instead, his hand clamped immediately around Jaskier’s notebook, which he brought back to the bed and flicked it open.
After the first handful of pages that had various poems about the end of winter and the burgeoning sunlight to come were a stream of words, all in a perpendicular row. Geralt cocked his head to the side as he skimmed them. They all rhymed, he realised. Some had been crossed out, others had various marks near them that probably had some meaning for Jaskier that he wasn’t privy to.
Although his name wasn’t written anywhere, Geralt had the distinct feeling all the words were to do with him. That amused him a little as he ran his thumbnail down the various lists, sounding each word out aloud under his breath. He’d long thought that one day Jaskier would get sick of writing songs about him, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Each word sparked an idea in his head, a wonder over what song Jaskier had been hoping to write with them. There was no clear indication if any of them had been used, or if Jaskier was simply trying to keep the list easily on hand if required.
In time, the music from the tavern grew quieter. The crowd began to disperse; their drunken hollering echoed up and down the street, as did the slurred hisses and attempts to shush them by their more sober friends.
Geralt snuffed the candlelight. The notebook was flung across the room and landed on (or at least near) his bags. He tossed an arm over his eyes and let out a heavy breath.
The quiet in the room, without Jaskier’s steady heartbeat and light snuffling was becoming easier to adapt to. Geralt was mostly grateful for the lack of tooth grinding next to his head, though. That was a big plus about being on his own again.
*
salt
malt? x
exalt
assault/fault
wrought?
exhaust - in court
fought/fort/quart
faut???
deliver
bitter–
scripture
river/Rivia —---
winner x
sylph
shelf x
roof?
*
Cintra was calling.
Geralt ignored it.
He crossed through Spalla and veered towards Caed Myrkvid. The work was less in these parts, but he wasn’t searching for the next source of pay. The woods provided coverage from the worst of the elements at this time of year, and provided a good source of meat to hunt. If he escaped into the trees, maybe he’d be able to ignore the lure that humanity as a whole was dangling before him, forever just out of reach.
The druids of Caed Myrkvid welcomed him, recognising him as a son of one of their own. Though his mother came from a different circle, aspects of her still clung to him, recognisable only to those who knew what to look for. They offered him a spot by their burning fire, a place to warm and rest his feet as he collected himself for the days ahead. It had been some weeks since he’d last spoken to another person (aside from Roach), and his speech felt rusty and out of practice.
He wasn’t lonely. Not quite. Geralt had always been a bit of a loner, even before the final trials that made him a witcher. His greatest comfort was being on his own. But having gone so long without another person’s presence beside him had left him with a peculiar yearning he couldn’t quite express. He’d grown accustomed to Jaskier.
‘There’s an emptiness inside of you.’
A woman had sat down beside him near the fire. Roach had been tethered for the night, and Geralt’s bedroll and shelter had been set up nearby. Before him lay the remains of his evening meal and, by his knee, Jaskier’s book. Occasionally his hand would drift over it, across the worn leather that had a number of gouges in it from being tossed about or dropped.
‘I bet that’s how you lure everyone in,’ Geralt replied. His voice felt rough. ‘I’m not giving you any of my coins.’
The woman laughed. She’d probably told him her name at some point, but he couldn’t remember it.
‘I do,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m not trying to separate you from your purse. Not today, at least.’
‘Hmm. Thank you.’
As he reached over to pick at the last of his meal, he laid a protective hand over Jaskier’s book. The last few pages had confirmed that at the point of writing, the two of them had finally met up. Some of the scrawlings read a little like diary entries. Geralt’s curiosity had begun to feel a little intrusive, but without Jaskier there to stop him, he decided not to care about what might or might not be improper.
‘You’ve been holding onto that like it might rescue you,’ the woman said, nodding down to his hand.
Geralt looked at the cover beneath his hand. ‘I’m holding onto it for someone. That’s all.’
‘A friend?’
He grunted. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘Or is it far simpler than you care to admit? What’s stopping you from returning it?’
Geralt didn’t like her tone. It coiled under his skin and embedded itself in his body. He didn’t know how to explain the complexities of his relationship with Jaskier, how he had abandoned him as he had.
That was what he’d done. Abandoned him.
The heaviness of that word sat in his chest, an awful weight that Geralt desperately didn’t want to acknowledge. Scratching at his neck, he shoved a morsel of food in his mouth to avoid replying and kept his hand firmly on the notebook. The druidess, noting his discomfort, placed a firm hand on his forearm, bid him goodnight in the same language he could recall his mother using, and went to leave him be.
The fire crackled. Around him, the druids were talking to one another in low voices, in groups or pairs, but all unreachable for him. They had welcomed him to stay, but he hadn’t welcomed himself into their grove.
Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever been able to make friends on his own, or if most of his relationships with folk had simply been due to proximity. Maybe there was some deep fault within him that made it impossible for him to reach out and connect with others. Folk made it seem so easy. Jaskier made it seem confoundingly easy. At some point he’d worked his way in, forced his presence on Geralt until he didn’t realise there had been a void there the entire time.
Vulnerability was a curse.
With a deep, slow breath, he unfurled from where he’d been sitting and went to clean up his dishes. The notebook was placed on his pillow, knowing it wouldn’t be disturbed, and tried to leave his churning thoughts by the fire.
Maybe by the time he returned, the call to leave the comfort of Caed Myrkvid would be nothing more than ash.
*
Travelled to Hochebuz. Sung a few ballads for G. - he did that double nod grunt !!!!
Two jobs in town. First one involved harpies. G. hates harpies… he’s been pulling feathers out of his pack for an hour. Not sure why he insists on taking on those jobs, but I imagine it’s something to do w/ regular people not being able to handle them. Got 200 duc.
Second job was chasing some wolves from a chicken coop. G. got a tray of meatballs. I think he liked that payment better.
Meatballs are v. good. Must ask for recipe !!!!
Heading to Tigg tom. Not sure what’s there, but G. says we can stay at something called the Rose & Thorn- app. a good tavern. G. says he likes the ale there, but he likes the ale everywhere so not sure how much weight I should hold with that.
Sleeping out under the stars tonight. He told the story of the scorpion and the seven dancing princesses again. I’m beginning to think he knows how much I like that one.
*
The snow came early. It started as just a few snowflakes, kissing Geralt’s lashes just after dawn. He and Roach were standing at the edge of a river, Roach quenching her thirst and Geralt cleaning his dishes from the night before. He turned his face to the gray sky, surprised by the snow. The last few mornings had definitely been frosty and that morning had definitely nipped at his nose and fingertips, but it was unexpected.
Geralt sat there for several breaths. He shut his eyes and let the flakes melt on his skin, breathing out slowly as he listened to the trickle of water and the sound of Roach lapping it up. The cold had a smell to it. Sharp, biting.
He’d never been a summer person. Not really. Something about the cold had always called to him. Even as a boy, Geralt had loved the snow. It was one of his favourite times of year. A blizzard would hit Kaer Morhen at least once every winter, typically at the turn of the new year, and he’d feel the snowdrifts forming along the keep calling to him. As soon as the blizzard ceased, he’d find an excuse to leave and would run through the snow, leaping into the mounds that had formed and burrowing down deep.
It was one area he and Jaskier had always disagreed upon. Jaskier was a child of summer. He’d been born at the end of spring, when flowers were already in full bloom and the grass had been lush and green. He’d come into the world when the day had been unseasonably warm. Winter, as a result, had always been a battle for him. He didn’t like the cold. Even autumn could become too much for him, and he’d ask as the sun set earlier and the nights grew longer if they could add an extra log to the fire, if Geralt could lend him a blanket, if they could find lodgings for the evening, even a barn would do.
Geralt would chide him, because that was expected of him. He’d never admit to it being just slightly endearing.
And though Jaskier clearly suffered in the colder weather, he still seemed to hold a level of wonderment at the first sign of snow. It was only ever at the cusp of winter, when Geralt would need to start making his way towards Kaer Morhen. Snow would still be a novelty, when it was crisp yet soft, just a dusting of it on the grass and the memories of previous years with slush and sleet were still distant.
‘One day,’ Jaskier had whispered, as the morning sun crested the horizon and they were both still reluctant to leave their bedrolls, ‘I’d like to stay with you over the winter. See where you go.’
‘You’d hate it,’ Geralt had replied, his eyes still shut. He’d never enjoyed mornings. ‘It’s cold. It’s in the mountains. There’s always a draught blowing in from somewhere.’
‘Then you could stay with me. Come with me to Lettenhove.’
‘Hmm. I don’t think so.’
‘Oxenfurt, then. No draughts there. Just mulled wine and a warm fire.’
Sometimes it was tempting. Geralt loved seeing his brothers, his fellow witchers. Heading up to Kaer Morhen was an opportunity to relax, to cut loose. Living on the road was rough. Waking up in the same bed, day after day, week after week, for three months was a break.
It would be nice to experience that somewhere else, though.
But he’d turned Jaskier down, gave his reasons, and their paths forked away from one another.
One time. Just one time he wished he’d delayed his trip into the mountains for another week.
He brushed the snow out of his hair and off his shoulders. Tightening the cloak around his neck, he put his dishes safely away in his bag and went up hitching everything onto Roach’s saddle. She nickered, her tail swishing side to side, as a brisk wind blew in from the east. While Geralt didn’t want to think about where he was going, part of him knew it was time to head north.
*
Follow the wind, my love, up to the coastline clear
And watch the summer sun set upon our last day
As the wind kisses your cheek, know that I’m near
Even when the year takes you away
You are the snow that hides the clover
And the mist that blows down the mountain
And though the frost melts before it reaches the sand
I will draw you in with the tide
*
Cirilla was a silent traveling companion. Geralt supposed that made sense, after all the trauma she had been through. For so long he had wished for blessed silence, and now that he had it, he didn’t quite know what to make of it. He was meant to be the silent one- not the person he was traveling with.
She talked when pressed. Sometimes she asked questions, but often they were short and direct. How long it would be until they reached the keep, when would their next break be, was there another route up the mountain. She wasn’t complaining; her questions seemed rooted in curiosity rather than distress. But Geralt, well accustomed by now for his companion to be talking about whatever thoughts popped into their head, wasn’t sure how to handle this.
‘Hmm. Do you sing?’ he finally dared to question.
The look Ciri threw him when she turned to squint at him over his shoulder almost made him want to wither in on himself. Roach was making her way along the trail, the route long familiar enough to her now that she needed little guidance.
‘You’ve met my grandmother,’ she replied, with a perfect mixture of quintessential princess and testy teenager. ‘Do you think she’d stuff me next to a harpsichord to practice my arpeggios everyday?’
Geralt shrugged. He didn’t want to say no in case he was wrong.
They rode in silence for a few more minutes. The snow had started to come down harder, but the trees that stretched out above them gave some protection. Ciri had on his replacement cloak, and though it was cold, Geralt found the nip in the air kept him alert. It was too cold for the snow to melt right away, as it was.
‘I know some songs,’ Ciri eventually said, some minutes later.
‘Can I hear them?’
‘No.’
While he didn’t expect Ciri to talk much, he found himself wishing she would. He didn’t know if he ought to push her, or if that would be worse. As a witcher, his job entailed simply defeating the source of pain and suffering. Managing said trauma after the monster had been slain wasn’t part of it. By and large, Geralt tried not to think about the people who had survived, after their loved ones had been killed. The fathers, grandfathers. The husbands and sons and friends who had died in the name of protecting their households. The grandmothers.
It had always been Jaskier who had stayed behind, to hold hands with the grieving and lost. Geralt would bathe and wash the dregs of the monster off his skin and out of his hair. By the time he would be clean and dry, Jaskier would return, tear stains drying on his shoulder.
‘It’s okay,’ he finally said, one evening before they reached the crest of the mountain. ‘If you want to cry. If you need to.’
‘I’m fine.’
Geralt didn’t believe her, but he didn’t press it. That night, though, he listened to her as she attempted to quietly weep. At a loss for what to do, he merely reached over the empty space between them and laid his hand over her slight ankle. He squeezed, just once, and kept his hand there as a steady presence until her breathing evened out and she fell asleep.
*
G. gave me his cloak. He drew it around my shoulders and clasped the latch for me because I was holding his gear. It was cold – unseasonable rain this time of year. I asked him where he got it from. The collar is made of gray wolf fur. The clasp is shoddily sewn on and looks like it’s been hand stitched over and over again. He said he made it one winter while in the mountains. Blizzard. He was bored.
There’s a story – a millenia ago, elves would confirm their wedding vows by draping a cloak they had made themselves over their partner’s shoulders. There’s more to it than that, I imagine, probably some promises about fidelity and so forth. But part of it would be drawing the cloak around their partner’s shoulders.
I don’t think G. knows that story.
Or maybe he doesn’t think I know it.
He hasn’t asked for it back yet, though.
*
It was bizarre seeing Jaskier in Kaer Morhen. Yennefer seemed to fit in better, with her hot-and-cold nature mixing well with the mercurial moods of Geralt’s witcher kin. Jaskier, though, was radiant as ever. Even at his most closed off and temperamental, he still managed to seem brighter than everyone else in the old keep.
‘You look good,’ Geralt said, the first night they were all sleeping under the same roof. ‘I mean, it’s good to see you.’
Jaskier stared at him, squinting like he wasn’t quite sure what he was being told. ‘Thank you. I feel, and suspect I look like, shit.’
Geralt grunted. Shrugged. Jaskier did, but they all did. It would take some time to recover from Voleth Meir. Soon, he and Ciri would need to move on, find somewhere safe to sequester themselves while they figured out how to proceed. While they would need to do that sooner rather than later, he wasn’t opposed to taking a few days to recuperate and help Vesemir deal with cleaning up Kaer Morhen.
It was strange to see Jaskier surrounded by snow. Here he was, summer personified, standing on the grounds of Kaer Morhen as snow blew in from across the mountain. Geralt kept expecting him to turn out to be a mirage. It didn’t help that Jaskier was woefully underprepared for a winter in Hertch. Someone had dug some old clothing out for him, and he was dressed in a hodgepodge assortment of old, woolen jackets and trousers from witchers long passed and his own colourful assortment of gloves, socks and scarves.
Though it wasn’t until Geralt was standing in his bedroom, the very one he had grown up in as a boy, and found himself peering through the window to the grounds outside that it dawned on him that Jaskier was wearing his cloak.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t, really. He could recall giving it to him now. Jaskier, shivering, his lips turning blue from the unseasonably cold weather. He hadn’t complained, which was peculiar for him, and had hastened Geralt’s decision to pull out the heavy cloak and wrap it around his shoulders. Jaskier had been more touched than seemed warranted for the occasion, but they had been running from the cold and Geralt hadn’t considered his response longer than necessary.
Jaskier turned. He was smiling at someone Geralt couldn’t see, an arm shooting out from underneath the cloak to wave above his head. He hadn’t smiled at Geralt like that since before the mountain. Since before the schism.
Maybe he was jealous.
That used to be his smile. The one Jaskier would share only with him. Bright, with a laugh and a wink. The kind he’d throw Geralt across a room, after a song or a quip. Something where they shared a secret or an inside joke. It was the type of look that let Geralt know he was the one person in the room whose opinion Jaskier truly cared about. He’d have the entire tavern in the palm of his head, feeding off of his music, his lyrics, his words, but no matter how full his purse became with coin, he’d still corner Geralt later and ask for his opinion. His was the only one that mattered.
Geralt didn’t know what to do with jealousy. He didn’t know how to hold it, how to carry it. But something ached for Jaskier to smile at him again, to relax and loosen up a little. To ask him nonsensical questions and jabber on about whatever popped into his mind again.
He missed the noise that came with Jaskier. He missed the brightness.
*
I watched you over the firelight last night
&& counted the lashes on your cheek
I saw your face twitching && wondered what you dreamt –
Do you see me, my love
The way I do that renders my heart weak
I watched you over the firelight last night, my love
&& counted the breaths you took
I reached for your hand && held listened to my heartbeat
&& drew so close to you
That I wondered which spirit had me by the hook
I watched you over the firelight last night, my heart
&& counted the stars up above
I contented myself to what we have && nothing more –
For what I hold nearest to you
Cannot be described simply as love
*
Jaskier was meant to be busy helping Lambert with tending to the horses. Geralt didn’t know why he had volunteered that, but he didn’t question it. All it meant was that he’d be occupied long enough for him to slip into the bedroom he’d taken as his own and return the damn notebook.
The room was towards the end of the corridor on the second floor. It wasn’t the best room in the keep, but it wasn’t the worst, either. The sort of middling experience that Jaskier had picked to be as inoffensive as possible. Or maybe it had been dry, warm and quiet when he’d arrived with Ciri.
Once he was standing in the middle of the room, though, Geralt encountered another problem. Jaskier had no real luggage to speak of. There was no bag to surreptitiously slip the notebook into, no lute case to toss it under and hope Jaskier assumed it fell out from somewhere. He’d acquired some minor possessions since Geralt had directed him to escort Ciri back to Kaer Morhen, but nothing substantial enough to suddenly find one of his notebooks had mysteriously returned.
Turning the notebook around in his hands, Geralt wondered if perhaps he could toss it under the dresser and hope Jaskier came to his own conclusions. That could work. He had a few items laid out atop it; maybe he wouldn’t quibble an additional belonging.
‘Hullo.’
With a start, Geralt spun on his heel to find Jaskier standing in the doorway. Hastily hiding the book behind his back, he tilted his head to the side, watching as Jaskier pulled off the heavy fur cloak and shook the last of the snow from it.
‘You’re back early.’
‘Mm.’ Jaskier nodded, folding the cloak as he walked back Geralt to set it down on the bed. ‘Yennefer helped. She knows a lot about stables. Did you know she grew up working on a farm? Fancy that, I never would have known. What have you got there, Geralt?’
As Jaskier stepped towards him, Geralt lurched back. Maybe he’d just come back another time. Maybe he wouldn’t even bother returning the notebook. Jaskier had lasted this long without it.
It was too late now, though. When something held Jaskier’s interest, he was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t let up, no matter what. It was why he’d stuck with Geralt all the way to Dol Blathana. Geralt had to make himself scarce before he was reeled in.
‘I need to go.’
He turned. He took a step, drawing the notebook in front of him so Jaskier didn’t get a chance to see.
‘Why were you in my room?’ Jaskier asked, as though this were his room, and not just the room he was sleeping in.
Geralt’s resolve broke. He pivoted again, quicker than he meant to, more forcefully than he planned.
‘Why don’t you smile at me anymore?’
The question stunned both of them. Geralt, because he shouldn’t care whether Jaskier did or not. Jaskier, because Geralt never said anything like that. Not before. Not ever.
‘What?’
‘I- ‘ Geralt paused. Stopped. Uncertain of what he was trying to get at. ‘You don’t… normally…’
‘Are you telling me to smile? Is that what you’re doing?’
‘No. That’s- no. I need to go.’
‘Hey!’
Geralt did his best to turn to leave, but Jaskier’s hand was suddenly around his wrist. As easy as it would have been to break out of his grip, Geralt stilled. He lifted his gaze, meeting his eyes, and paused. He didn’t intend to hold his breath, but there he was, waiting, as though on a knife’s edge. He could count the seconds between his heartbeats, he could feel time slow and twist. He waited.
After a moment, Jaskier released his wrist. His arm fell back to his side and he rubbed his palm against his hip awkwardly.
‘It’s a bit hard to smile at someone when you don’t know if they’re going to tell you to fuck off again.’
‘I didn’t… I’m not going to- I apologised, Jaskier.’
‘I know, and I’m not going to ask you to say it again.’ Jaskier sighed, his eyes rolling upwards as he crossed his arms over his chest. ‘And believe me, I’m biting my tongue here before I go and say something rash that I don’t mean.’
Geralt gave a low laugh. ‘Oh, because you never speak out of turn?’
‘Not like you, I don’t.’
Only then did Jaskier meet his eye. He held it, the intensity causing something in the pit of Geralt’s stomach to twist. As he pursed his lips, he turned his head first, and went to mimic stance, his hands moving to his front. It was only as he did that, that he recalled the notebook in his hands, the very one he’d been trying to surreptitiously return. Jaskier’s eyes fell upon it before Geralt could hide it, his stern expression melting as he pointed at it, his nose screwing up.
‘Is that my diary?’
‘What? No. It’s…’
‘That’s my diary.’
He lunged for it and ripped it from Geralt’s hand. Helpless and hapless, Geralt let him take it, all attempts at subterfuge gone.
‘I didn’t know,’ he said, the words weak even to his ear. ‘I didn’t mean to take it. It was in my bag when I left, and…’
As Geralt fumbled through his response, Jaskier was flipping through the notebook. He was far rougher with it than Geralt had been. The leather cover was bent back, his thumb pushing through the pages until they were bent at the edges. A compulsion to tell him to stop, to be gentle, was threatening to spill out- surely Jaskier knew how valuable this was. It had been Geralt’s single lifeline to him over the months that had separated them, a reminder that for a while at least, he hadn’t been alone in the world.
‘Did you read it?’
‘What?’
‘Did you read it?’ Jaskier repeated, enunciating each word.
Geralt froze. He swallowed hard. Eyes darting. ‘No.’
‘Oh, fuck me, you did.’
Shame wasn’t a foreign concept to Geralt, but in this circumstance it might as well have been.
‘I didn’t know…’ he started, repeating his earlier sentiment in a low voice. Then, with a heavy sigh, he rolled his shoulders down and back and kept his gaze on the floor. ‘I missed you. More than I thought I would.’
Jaskier was silent, his expression unreadable. His eyes darted to Geralt a number of times, before he shook his head and muttered something to himself.
‘Jaskier…’
‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘Just- for once in your life, shut up.’
Geralt did as was demanded, not because Jaskier asked him to, but because he couldn’t recall a time when it had ever been suggested he spoke too much. He did his best at giving an air of patience as Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut as he shook his head and muttered to himself about the audacity Geralt had to read his diary. That felt like a rather unfair accusation, as Geralt didn’t know it was his diary until he was well into it and he realised it wasn’t just poetry and lyrics and rhymes.
‘Jaskier…’ he started again.
‘Gods, you fucking annoy me sometimes.’
There was no immediate sign about what Jaskier was going to do. Just a pause, a dart of his eyes, a tilt of his chin. Yet Geralt could read him, and he knew, he felt it in his bones. Maybe it was the two decades they had spent travelling together, maybe it was the intimate look he’d had into Jaskier’s inner dialogue. Maybe it was because he wanted it himself. But when Jaskier stepped towards him, Geralt opened up his arms and embraced him.
It wasn’t like the hug they had shared in the jail cell. It was tighter, Jaskier’s hands curling into the back of his shirt, Geralt’s own splayed wide.He held Jaskier firmly against his chest, allowed his eyes to close and took a deep breath in. Closing his eyes, he felt Jaskier rub his cheek over his shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing against the side of Geralt’s neck.
It would be easy enough to turn his head a little more. To close the gap between them. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s breath on his neck. But though he had been the one to read Jaskier’s diary and he had a good idea of what thoughts turned through his mind, that didn’t mean Jaskier had the same privilege. Geralt knew it would be best to hold back.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze landed on the dresser. It was then that he finally noticed the journal that was laid open there, a quill marking the page. The first few pages had been written in, the leather still fresh and new. Jaskier’s fine cursive ran across the page. If he wanted to, he’d be able to read it from where he stood.
Geralt closed his eyes. He tightened his embrace for another moment, then squeezed Jaskier’s shoulders and leant back.
‘Why don’t I show you the greenhouse?’ he said. ‘You can see where I make my potions.’
‘Will you make one for me?’
‘Absolutely not, your weak human body wouldn’t be able to handle it.’
‘You’re a coward. I could very well handle it.’
‘Hmm. Doubtful.’
With a hand on Jaskier’s back, Geralt nudged him towards the door. As tempting as it would have been to swipe the diary on the dresser, he resisted the urge and followed Jaskier out to the corridor.
‘You still have my cloak, you know,’ he said offhandedly.
‘I know,’ Jaskier replied. ‘I look better in it, though.’
Loathe as he was to admit it, Jaskier was right. Though he might have hidden it in the past, he allowed himself to meet Jaskier’s eye when he smiled, and even went so far as to nod, just the once. It was time for him to open up.