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Jaskier lingered in the hallway, his hand uncertainly raised, fingertips just brushing the door release which was in the shape of a dagger with a golden hilt and decorated with inlaid sapphires and rubies. Once upon a time, he’d drawn it - the dagger representing Geralt and the work that was both trade and identity for him, the gold for the colour of his eyes, the rubies for blood both that he drew and that he shed, and the sapphires the colour of Jaskier’s eyes, symbolising Jaskier’s place in Geralt’s life - alongside a lute to represent his own livelihood and identity decorated with the profile of a wolf standing amongst a field of swallow’s herb, wolf thistle, and buttercups, howling at the moon.
Especially in the years since Geralt had passed and left him alone, the dagger had come to symbolise him fully. Here, it indicated his Geralt Room, the place he came when he could no longer resist the call of his memories. The room was deep in Kaer Morhen. Sometime after Geralt’s death - Jaskier could no longer remember how long that had been, a handful of years or centuries, they all blended together after awhile - Jaskier had retreated from the world, into the crumbling halls of the old abandoned keep that no one left alive remembered.
With the wealth he’d accumulated over hundreds of years of fame and fortune, he brought it back into a habitable state, but it was still desolate and cold, this keep meant for hundreds of boys, Witchers, and mages which now only housed one ancient, lonely former bard.
The keep had electricity, though Jaskier often had little need for it outside of his music studio or his kitchen - except for this room. Inhaling sharply, he finally pressed the dagger, and the door slid open with a soft whoosh. The lights automatically turned on, and the computer pulled up the hologram welcome screen.
“Good evening, Most Famous and Regarded Bard of the Continent, the Illustrious Master Jaskier,” the AI began. “Which scenario would you like to enjoy tonight?”
Not even the joke with his name that he’d programmed in could lift the sadness surrounding him, heavy and all encompassing, like Geralt’s warmest winter cloak without the comfort. “The beginning,” he murmured. “Posada.”
“Posada, 1239,” the computer confirmed. “One moment, please.”
The room went dark. When the lights came up again, they were dim, and he was surrounded by that little fateful tavern, the sound of boos and heckling ringing in his ears as the patrons threw bread at an empty corner by the fireplace. Jaskier’s eyes locked on to the brooding figure at the back. Some things would never change.
He smiled softly and walked over, the words coming to him as easily as if he’d said them yesterday. “I love the way you just sit in a corner and brood.”
The holo-Geralt replied, as he had that day. It wasn’t a true script, it was an AI programme imbued with Geralt’s personality, answering as if it were the man himself. Jaskier had had plenty of time over the years to tweak it, and it was so accurate, his heart ached. Everything it said, Geralt had said or could have, if he were still alive.
Jaskier continued the conversation as he remembered it from that day, smiling softly into his lover’s face as the scenario ran. As they exited the pub, he asked the computer to switch to another, then another, running through everything he could think of until he’d gone through the high points of their life together.
Exhausted, he collapsed onto a sofa in the corner and asked the computer for Geralt, just Geralt. The man appeared as he had last seen him - skin wrinkled and scarred from his long years of life, with laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, his hair impossibly whiter than it had been in youth, and wearing the linen trousers and shirt he’d come to favour in his retired life on a Toussainti vineyard. He reached for his love, but his hand passed through the illusion, and a sob tore from his throat as his eyes watered.
His fingers curled against his palm, and he turned away to curl up around himself. “I miss you,” he said brokenly. “The real you. Why did you leave me?”
“Hm. I know,” the holo-Geralt replied ever so gently in Geralt’s gravelly voice. He moved closer and crouched down beside Jaskier. “It was my time, Jask. You know that. No one can live forever.”
“I do. Gods, but I do, and I hate it. Everyone I have ever loved…” Jaskier swallowed thickly and choked back cries. “I’m alone, Geralt. I’m so alone. I never once imagined that I would outlive you. All your brothers died, one by one, but you remained.”
“Your time will come, too. All things must pass. Gods, monsters, kings, witchers and mages - and, yes, even bards.”
Jaskier laughed, and he turned to face Geralt again, eyes tracing the man’s features and his amused smirk. “Even bards,” he repeated. “After all their muses have gone and the music has silenced, the lights of the stage gone dark and cold, the audience left and their praises ceased. Once the history books have forgotten. Does Death then come for the bard?”
“If the bard lets it,” Geralt said. “The one thing you’ve never done, give up on life and all the new experiences you could have, the people you could meet, the places you could see.”
Jaskier’s laugh turned bitter, and he let the hand that had once again been unconsciously reaching for Geralt’s face fall limply. The stone of the floor was so cold and no warmth emanated from Geralt’s form as it had when he was alive. “Geralt, my love, I have seen and experienced everything I could possibly want - I feel as if I have seen it all - so much has changed! - and met all the people I will ever meet. Did you know that I have not left this keep or its grounds in…well, I don’t know how many years it’s been now. I retreated here, and I haven’t left. People bore me now.”
“Hm… Then, perhaps it is your time.” Holo-Geralt tried to brush his thumb against Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier shivered and closed his eyes.
“Yeah…” Jaskier sighed tiredly. “Yen,” he directed to the computer, “end simulation.” Geralt flickered out of existence and the room’s lights switched back on, dim, as if sensing his mood.
Feeling every one of his thousand odd years, Jaskier pushed himself up off the couch and left the room without a second glance. The door swished shut behind him, and he made his way to the hot springs for a good soak, washing himself with the lightly scented lavender and lemon soap he still favoured after all this time, because it had been Geralt’s favourite.
Clean and relaxed, but still exhausted, he trudged up to one of the upper floors, beside the library, where he had taken rooms. His soft bed beckoned to him, but he stopped to build up the fire in the hearth first so it would keep the room comfortably warm all night. He laid under the eiderdown duvet and wool blankets and watched the flames dance in the otherwise dark room. The thermal blackout curtain was pulled shut to block out the light of the stars which were so bright this remote. Usually, he liked to watch them, but recently it felt as old and boring as everything else.
“I love you,” Jaskier whispered in the stillness to his lost lover. As his eyes slipped closed, he sighed softly and finally let go, releasing his hold on the tether that kept him bound to life.
Geralt’s form shimmered into existence before him, just as Jaskier remembered him from a millennia ago, when they’d first met - black shirt with the top buttons open and the sleeves rolled up, his shoulder length white hair left loose and the hint of a smile playing about his lips, his eyes sparkling with it. The man reached out a hand to him, and Jaskier took it.
“I love you, too.” Geralt’s warm lips pressed gently against Jaskier’s as his arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him close.
Jaskier melted into the embrace and clung to Geralt’s shirt. “It’s been so long,” he whispered.
Geralt’s hand squeezed Jaskier’s, and he tugged them away. “Come with me.”
Jaskier smiled radiantly and followed. “Always, my dear heart.”