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The Night in the Brokolion Forest is soothing: Jaskier hears the faint sound of crickets chirping, the wind rustling the dense forest leaves, he knows that they are safe here, from all the chaos brewing outside the forest lines. It almost makes the life-endangering effort of coming here worth it, risking a chance of having an arrow buried in his chest, ruining his silk chemise with a rip and blood and losing his beloved life. Seeing Geralt again, however, eradicates the last smithereens of doubt in his heart, because Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove may not be a warrior [quite the opposite] but he is stubbornly loyal.
Only Jaskier knew Geralt well enough to know he was really hurt, Witchers were masters at hiding pain, physical and emotional, but Jaskier knew well enough that his friend wasn’t at his fittest: he was sickly pale, he still walked with a faint limp and stayed slightly curled over like standing too straight is painful and when worried, he looked like he was about to hurl.
"I'm sure it was a heroic loss, Geralt.", Jaskier says, notebook and quill in hand, pestering Geralt with details about the tower, ignoring the way he's slowly wounding tighter like a python curling protectively around his own emotions.
"Heroic?", Geralt repeats slowly, frown deepening, eyes glazing over with a golden sheet of ice, pupils narrowing like that of a threatened beast.
"Well yes.", Jaskier feigns nonchalance, voice pompous, carefully attuned to his Witcher shutting down at any direct confrontation but annoyance, oh annoyance always got a rise out of him beautifully, "losses can be heroic too-"
"I was supposed to protect them.", Geralt rasps quietly, the green of the druids’ special moss flame flickering in his golden irises, reminds Jaskier vaguely of his daughter's fiery amber gaze, "I promised everyone, threatened everyone to do exactly that if they ever crossed my path, I'd kill them or I'd die very slowly trying and that I'd never let them reach her but...but...", he pauses, he laughs bitterly, his lips curling into a snarl of a smile, the shadows flickering across his face making his scars seem deeper, dark lines under his eyes look like caves, "That Vilgefortze maimed me easily, with a fucking wooden stick Jaskier! I couldn't even get a scratch on him and...and he beat me within an inch of my life and I feel like a… a…fuck!", Geralt growls, "I feel like a fucking failure! At least if... I was dead I could have some pride but here I am, a Witcher walking around with a pathetic limp, hiding when I should be the one making them cower!", his nails rake into the log he's sitting on, Jasier winces at the sight, "Tell me how heroic does that sound? I had one purpose, one destiny and I couldn't even do fucking that!"
A tense silence settles over them, Geralt huffs and lowers his head, carding his hand through thick silver hair and tugs at it roughly, Jaskier winces, tries vainly to soak in all his words, he hates that one of the rare times Geralt opens up to him, it’s a deranged monologue, demolishing himself for his apparent failure, the conviction in the honest man's eyes is as clear as ever, the clearest emotion in his impassive face and sharp sarcasm riddled voice, somehow that makes Jaskier's chest tighten even further.
If the druids have any problem with Geralt yelling into the night, they don't voice it.
Geralt's shoulders sag, he pinches the bridge of his nose, "Well, feel bad for me yet? Do you have a problem?"
Jaskier’s chest puffs, "of course I have a problem! You shouldn't...can't reduce yourself to this! You won't be better off dead, no don't look so mopey Geralt, as much as you want to be, a dead you is good to no one, a dead you won't be able to fix your mistakes and find Ciri again and Yennifer-"
"She went through a portal Jaskier, she could be anywhere, in the same town, across the world, in another one entirely, I don't even know where to start and Yen is probably...", Geralt bites into his lip when his voice waivers, "Gone."
"No!", Jaskier rushes over and pokes a finger into Geralt's chest, "You of all people don't get to give up! Your principle is always moving along even if life is a pile of stinking cow dung and you will do that exactly! The strongest aren’t those who win dearheart, they’re the ones that lose everything and don’t crumble in their time of contempt, they rise!”
If the mood was more lighthearted Jaskier would have expected Geralt to roll his eyes, instead, he grunts in acknowledgement of hearing Jaskier and not caring enough to answer.
Jaskier plops to his knees dramatically, trying to meet his Witcher's lowered gaze, Geralt's long hair falls in front of his face, another barrier keeping Jaskier at bay, but his body is still tense, nails still assaulting themselves on the wood, Jaskier's fingers brush over his bad knee, Geralt flinches slightly, "Ciri is your daughter Geralt, she won't give up, ever and the Witch is stubborn as hell, she's loved you for decades, after all, I bet she could make death submit to her will!"
Geralt’s lip curls slightly at that, and Jaskier's heart swells at the small victory.
"They need you to keep going, I need you to keep going cause in your own famous words being sad about it won't change fuck all."
Geralt huffs a laugh, "I did say that didn't I?", his voice a bit less wavering, a bit more sure.
"Yes you did.", Jaskier says back with a quiet voice and small smile, one he saves for Geralt, not wide and showboating but small and genuine, "This would make a great ballad, a bard motivating his friend to not give up, could be a unique hit don't you think?"
"I think it sounds like shit.", Geralt grumbles fondly, eyes twinkling, lip twitching into a ghostly grin.
Jaskier chuckles, "Of course you do."
The Night in Brokolion Forest is soothing: Jaskier hears crickets chirping and the distant sound of wind rustling through the leaves of a dense forest, stars are speckled across the night sky, he’s in a paradise distant from the chaos of the world outside. It’s almost worth risking a druid’s arrow buried in his chest, ruining his silk chemise with blood, but the last of his doubt is burnt away by the warmth in his chest after consoling his friend: gathering the broken shards of hope and piecing them together into a stained glass portrait of a man he knows to never give up, broken, scarred and worn but vibrant and beautiful all at once because Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove is by no means a warrior but he is stubbornly loyal.