Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Tell me about it again,” eight-year-old Julian Alfred Pankratz says, shuffling closer in his chair. His eyes are wide with interest despite the fact that they feel heavy with the promise of sleep. He should have been in bed hours ago, but great aunt Poppy always lets him stay up late when she visits and his parents won’t be home to scold him until morning.

Aunt Poppy breathes a laugh. “Come now, little Dandelion. I tell you the story every time I visit. Are you sure you don’t want to hear something else?” Something twinkles in her eyes as she tries to suppress her smile. She may pretend to be indifferent, but she would admit years later that she loved telling Julian the story as much as he loved to hear it.

“No,” Julian insists. “I want to hear that one. It’s my favourite.”

“Very well,” Aunt Poppy says, letting her smile slip. “One more time. Then you have to go to bed. Promise?”

Julian nods, making himself comfortable in the plush chair. “I promise.”

“Alright then. Let's see…I was nineteen at the time and still living in a small farming village outside of Lettenhove. My father was the baker, and it was my job to help mill the flour in the morning for the shop, so I was out that morning, hauling the sacks of flour where they needed to go, when all of a sudden, I blinked and woke up somewhere else.

“Suddenly the mill was gone, the flour was gone, and I found myself sitting at a table in the most beautiful dining room I'd ever seen; towering mosaic ceilings, carved pillars and polished marble floors.”

Julian nods along. “That’s Uncle Richard’s dining room,” he says knowingly.

“It was,” Aunt Poppy says. “But I didn’t know that at the time.

“The meal in front of me was more food than I’d ever seen in one place, and all of it was so luxurious; suckling pig, stuffed cornish hens, tropical fruits and fine cheeses, roasted vegetables, platters of fish, and even some things I didn’t recognize. It all looked so good, that for a moment, I didn't even realize that I was surrounded by strangers.

“I must have been making quite a face,” Aunt Poppy says, “because suddenly the man sitting to my right turned to me and said, ‘Poppy, are you alright?’ and I said, ‘where am I? Who are you? And how did I come to be surrounded by such riches?’

“And that’s when your Uncle Richard-- whom I didn’t know yet at the time-- figured out what had happened. He said, ‘you’re the other Poppy, aren’t you?’ and that’s when I realized I’d had my Swap.”

Julian grins, feeling anticipation rising. He’s always liked this part.

“Uncle Richard had all the guests leave the dining room except for the two of us,” Aunt Poppy continues. “And once everyone had gone, he turned to me and introduced himself and said he was my soulmate.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes, Julian. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and dressed so fancy I thought he could be a prince. I told him my name was Poppy and he said he already knew, that we’d been married for nine years. Then he took me over to a mirror and showed me my reflection.

“The girl I saw was still me, but older. And she looked strong and confident and beautiful-- all things I never felt like I was, but I couldn’t deny with them staring me right in the face. Richard asked me how old I was then and I told him I was seventeen, and he said we hadn’t met yet, but we would in two years.”

“At the Belleteyn festival!” Julian exclaims excitedly.

“That’s right,” Aunt Poppy replies, “but that’s a story for tomorrow.

“I was so overcome by emotion that suddenly I had to sit down. Richard brought me back to the table and had me eat something, and next thing I knew, I was sharing the most delicious meal with the kindest man I’d ever met.” 

She sighs wistfully, as if imagining it herself. “It was perfect. But just like all perfect things, it didn’t last, and soon I felt myself fading away, back to my time and place. Before I left, Richard took my hands in his and said, ‘Poppy, you’re the best soulmate a man could ever ask for. I’m so glad that I could meet you, and I can't wait to do it again so that we can spend our whole lives together.’ And just like that I blinked and he was gone. And I was back at the mill with four more sacks of flour to haul.”

“Wow,” Julian whispers in awe. “That’s so romantic, Aunt Poppy.”

The old woman smiles, nodding. “It was. And it is.”

“I hope that my soulmate is like that.”

“Oh Julian,” she says, shuffling closer and kissing his forehead. “I’m sure that when you meet them, your soulmate will be just as incredible as you are.”

-------------------------------

By the time Julian is fifteen, he’s had plenty of time to imagine what his soulmate will be like.

He knows they’ll be beautiful. And romantic. And they’ll probably love music and poetry as much as he does. Maybe they’ll be a bard same as him, or royalty, or a brave and daring knight. Whoever they are, Julian knows that they’re perfect, and he’s in love with them already.

He spends countless hours of his adolescent years daydreaming about his Swap. He keeps a journal where he writes down all the things he wants to say to his soulmate when he finally meets them, and (though looking back on it a couple years later he’d be extremely embarrassed about it) even composes a love sonnet for his partner that he’s convinced will sweep them of their feet.

Huddled in Essi’s dorm during their first year at Oxenfurt, Julian, Essi, Priscilla, and Valdo contemplate what it will finally be like when they have their Swap.

“I’d ask them so many questions,” Essi says. “I want to know everything about them and how we met.”

“I’d want them to show me our lives together,” Priscilla says. “I bet we’d have a beautiful house and kids. I want to spend the whole day just getting to know them and spending time together.”

Essi turns to Julian. “How about you, Jules?”

Julian taps a finger to his chin and thinks for a moment. He’s already thought about his Swap for what feels like a lifetime, but there’s so many scenarios to choose from! Eventually he settles on his favourite.

“I’d just want to spend time together,” Julian says. “I’d want to wake up in their arms and have a lazy morning in bed, just talking. We’d spend the time together, just doing everyday things. I’d hold their hand, and recite the love sonnet I wrote for them, and then in the evening we’d sit on a blanket and look at the stars. They’d kiss me in the moonlight and I’d know that all is right in the world because I was there, and we had eachother.”

“Awww,” Essi exclaims.

Priss smiles and claps her hands together.

Valdo snickers.

All of a sudden Julian feels himself sink as heat rises in his cheeks. He turns his head away so Valdo can’t see.

“Really, Julian?” Valdo sneers. “Don’t you think that’s rather childish? You make it sound like you’re in some fairytale.”

“Oh yeah,” Julian shoots back, “well what did you have planned, Valdo?”

Valdo Marx wears his signature oily smirk as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “We fuck, obviously.” 

Essi smacks his arm lightly. “Pig.”

“What? It’s perfectly reasonable. My soulmate and I are going to be having tons of sex anyway.

Priss snorts. “Provided they can stomach the sight of you.”

“I’ll have you know that--”

Jaskier lets the conversation fade out of focus as Priss and Essi start arguing with Valdo. He knows that Valdo probably doesn’t mean to hurt him-- the two have been poking at each other with cutting remarks since day one-- but the words still sting. He’s had all these amazing thoughts about finally having his Swap and meeting his soulmate that he never thought to consider: what if they don’t want the same things as him? What if they’re like Valdo and think he’s childish-- or worse-- laugh at him.

“Don’t listen to Valdo,” Priscilla tells him later as they’re walking back to their rooms. “I thought your wish was lovely, Jules. He’s just being a jerk.”

Julian sighs. “I know.” He does. But it doesn’t make it hurt less.

--------------------------

Two years pass and Julian is seventeen, about to participate in his first major performance with original music as part of his end of semester grade. Priscilla is with him backstage, holding his lute in her hands as he crouches in the corner and tries very hard not to throw up.

“I’m telling you, Jules,” she says, patting his back. “It’s not that bad.”

“Actually it is that bad, Priss,” he hisses, whirling his head around. “I was so absorbed in my composing that I got to the year end show of my Junior year-- where I’m supposed to make my official debut by the way-- and forgot to pick my fucking stage name.”

He clutches his stomach. Oh gods, he’s gonna be sick. And even worse, he’s gonna throw up all of his formal boots.

“Okay, okay,” Priss says, trying to calm him. “Just think of one now. Did you have any ideas you were considering?”

“I don’t know! When I mean forgot, I really mean forgot! I didn’t even brainstorm!”

“What about Dandelion?” Priss suggests. “That was your nickname as a kid, right? It could be an ode to your childhood.”

Jaskier’s shoulders slump. “No, if I pick that Valdo will just make fun of me again.”

“Okay, then what about Jules? That’s my nickname for you.”

“Yes, but that’s basically my name,” Jaskier says with a sigh. “I need a real stage name. I can’t just be Julian.”

“Well why not? Valdo’s using his own name. All he did was tack ‘the Troubadour of Cidaris’ onto the end. ”

“Because, Priss. This is my stage name. It has to be important. It has to be-- ugh! I don’t know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, running a hand down his face as he stands and turns towards her.

Except when he opens his eyes Priss isn’t there. And neither is the backstage area at Oxenfurt.

Julian is outside, and in front of him is a rather handsome man with short-cropped dark hair, golden eyes, and a scar on the side of his face.

And that’s all he has time to register before the handsome man punches him in the face and he flies back, landing on the ground with an “oof.”

Pain erupts across Julian’s face as his eyes flood with tears. 

“Shit, Buttercup, are you alright? I thought you were going to block that.”

Julian blinks blearily at the handsome man now crouching over him as his brain slips into a fuzzy, muted haze. He tries to speak, but the wind has been knocked from his lungs, and instead he lies there gasping like a fish out of water as he chokes on the word, “...soulmate?”

Then he passes out.

------------------------------

Nice job, Lambert. You broke the bard.

It wasn’t my fault! I thought he was going to block it.

If he has permanent damage from this, Geralt is going to kill you.

There’s…voices. Voices that Julian doesn’t recognize, yet they feel familiar somehow.

It wasn’t even that hard a hit. How was I supposed to know it would knock him out?

He’s a human, dumbass-- er, mostly human. You can’t hit him as hard as you hit us.

You think I don’t know that? 

Whatever. Just go get Geralt.

The voices go quiet for a while after that, and the only thing Jaskier notices is the pain. The terrible, throbbing, probably swelling his face pain.

Then one of the voices returns, louder this time.

“Hey, look. He’s waking up.”

He groans, trying to open his eyes, but everything is so bright and his ears are ringing. It feels like he’s lying down somewhere on a remarkably soft bed. Did he pass out at the performance? Oh no, did he miss his cue?

“Jaskier--” a new voice; deep and husky-- “are you alright?”

Julian shakes his head, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the light. “Who’s Jaskier?”

“Shit.”

“Gods, Lambert. You actually broke him.”

What? Julian blinks a couple times as his eyes start to adjust. He’s in what looks to be a bedroom; it’s cozy, with stone walls and a crackling fireplace. “What happened? Where…where am I?”

“My gods, he doesn’t remember anything!”

“Jaskier.” That deep voice says again, and then there’s a strong hand on Julian’s shoulder and he turns his head to see its owner--

Holy shit, it’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.

Mr. Deep and Husky is fucking stacked, built like a brick wall, with arms that could crush Julian like a grape. He has long, straight, milk-white hair that trails past his shoulders and piercing eyes the color of liquid gold. His face is handsome, with a strong jaw and straight nose, sharp cheekbones that accentuate the curve of his cheek, and around his neck, he wears a thick metal chain with a wolf’s head medallion hanging from it.

Julian blinks a few times, trying to right himself from the dumbfoundedness of seeing such a gorgeous being in the flesh. He wants to ask what happened, but what comes out of his mouth is, “you’re beautiful.”

He immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. Did I really just say that?

But Mr. Gorgeous doesn’t seem upset in the slightest. In fact, from the sharp look in his eye and quirk of his lips, he looks rather amused. 

“...Jaskier?” he tries again, and Julian blinks. Is he supposed to be Jaskier?

When Julian doesn’t respond, a brief flash of surprise passes over the man’s face. Then something seems to click.

“...Julian?” he asks cautiously.

“...y-yes?”

“Oh fuck,” he hears someone say from across the room.

And then it hits him.

A strange place with a gorgeous man that’s everything Julian could ever want?

“Oh fuck,” Julian whispers, covering his mouth in shock. “Oh fuck! It’s you!”

Mr Gorgeous smiles. “Julian. My name is Geralt of Rivia. I’ve waited a very long time to meet you.”

--------------------------------

Geralt sends everyone out of the room-- our room, Geralt calls it, and the very thought makes Julian giddy beyond belief. Looking around, he can see it now, the signs of their life together. This place he’s in, it’s clearly somewhere more suited to Geralt than him; the simple and rustic decor being the major sign, but also fur pelts and trophies from various creatures, weapons hung on the walls-- it screams I’m a rugged mountain man, a hunter perhaps, or maybe a knight. But Julian can also see the telltale signs of his own presence as well; an embroidered silk pillow on the bed that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the simplicity, a lute propped up against the wall, bottles of his favourite soaps and perfumes on the dresser. 

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” Geralt says, pulling Julian out of his focus, “but my version of you seems quite content with it.”

Julian shakes his head, turning his attention back on the other man. “It’s perfect.” It’s not the finery he’s accustomed to, no, but it’s perfect simply because it’s them.

“Tell me, Julian. How old are you right now?”

“Seventeen,” Julian answers.

“Hm. You’re still at Oxenfurt then.”

“Yes. I was getting ready for my debut performance when I woke up here.” He fights the urge to grimace at the fact that he still hasn’t chosen a name for himself, yet somehow that doesn’t seem so important anymore. “Speaking of which,” he adds, “where is here?”

“You’re in Kaer Morhen. School of the Wolf.”

“School of the…” Julian’s eyes land on the wolf medallion around Geralt’s neck, suddenly seeing the man in a new light as he takes in the golden eyes, the white hair, the scars. “You’re--”

“A witcher,” Geralt finishes.

“A witcher,” Julian repeats, then quieter to himself, “holy shit.” His soulmate is a witcher. He’s heard tales of the witchers, of course, stories of heroics and heartbreak, and also some rather terrible things people whisper about them, but Julian has never actually met one. 

“I know it may be a bit…surprising,” Geralt says, looking uncertain.

“A little,” Julian admits, and in a moment of confidence grabs Geralt's hand where it rests on the bed. “But I like surprises. They’re one of life’s joys, don’t you think?”

“They are indeed.” Geralt gives him a warm smile and squeezes his hand, making Julian’s heart skip a beat. “Would you like to see what you look like?”

Julian nods enthusiastically. 

It’s a little bit difficult to stand having been knocked unconscious less than an hour prior, but Geralt is extremely patient and caring as he wraps an arm around Julian’s waist (that alone makes him a little weak in the knees), and helps him walk over to the vanity.

His reflection is older, but not by too many years-- from the looks of it he must be nearing thirty or so. His hair is a little shorter than he’s used to, his face more defined now that he’s lost his baby fat, and his awkward too-long limbs have now been balanced out by a broader chest and fair bit of lean muscle. On his cheek, a purple mark is already starting to bloom. Julian brushes over the bruise with his fingers, wincing.

“Sorry about that,” Geralt says. “Lambert didn’t do it on purpose. You just happened to Swap halfway through combat training.”

Julian raises an eyebrow. “Is that why he punched me?”

“In his defense, you’re normally quite good with blocking.”

“Uh…and why exactly am I training for combat?”

“Witchers return to their Schools in winter to train and rest,” Geralt explains. “Vesemir makes it mandatory that everyone participate in training. Even bards.”

“Who’s Vesemir?”

“Another witcher. The oldest remaining from the Wolf School. You’ll meet him later. But first I’d like to spend some time with you.”

Julian smiles. “I’d like that.”

Geralt smiles back, taking Jaskier’s hand in his and squeezing it gently. “Is there anything in particular you wanted to do for your Swap?”

A brief image of the sappy love sonnet flashes in Julian’s mind. At the time he’d been sure it would woo his soulmate so they were head over heels for him, but now, faced with the two hundred pounds of muscle and leather that make up the witcher before him, he’s not so sure it would have the same effect. Geralt appears to care for him a great deal, but he doesn’t seem the romantic type. Right now the thought of confessing his love to this man through poetry is far too embarrassing. Even his picnic under the stars doesn’t seem right anymore.

“Um. I didn’t exactly have anything planned out per say,” Julian mumbles. “I just want to get to know you, I suppose.”

Geralt gives Julian a look as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but thankfully doesn’t push the matter further. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He gestures to the set of comfortable looking chairs near the fireplace and Julian follows him to sit down. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Julian admits. “I want to know what your favourite food is, whether you sleep on your back or your side or your front, the things that make you happy, your fears, your wants-- I want to know everything about our lives together; what we do, where we go. I want to know you Geralt of Rivia. I want to know what it will be like to finally have you in my life.”

Julian has to take a big breath once he’s finished, since he forgot to breathe while the words were spilling out of him. Geralt eyes him with a fond expression on his face.

“Alright,” the witcher says calmly. “Slow down and I can answer everything.”

Heat rises in Julian’s cheeks. “Sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

Geralt just smiles. “I know. It’s alright. Just breathe this time, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s see then,” the witcher begins. “My favorite food is Venison stew. I used to like it because it was the only thing I could cook that didn’t taste like shit, or at least that’s what I thought until I made it for you for the first time.” He breathes a laugh. “You spat it out right back into your bowl, then in what seemed like a blind fury, started dumping entire bags of spices into the pot. I thought you’d gone mad, but once I tasted what you’d made, I realized spices weren’t such a waste of money after all.”

Julian chuckles at the idea. It does seem like something he’d do, albeit a tad harsh. He’s grown up eating food made by his father’s personal cook. The few bland meals Julian has had the misfortune to try are crimes against nature in his humble opinion.

“Geralt, spices are absolutely not a waste of money.”

“Well, yes, I know that now. I’m afraid I can’t say the same for Eskel and Lambert though.”

“What? No! Do all witchers eat unseasoned food?”

Geralt sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“Unacceptable! I simply must change their minds.”

The witcher smiles, shaking his head. “My version of you said the exact same thing. Though you’ve been working on them for nearly a decade and Lambert’s really dragging his heels.”

Julian scoffs, offended at the very idea of someone trying to resist flavour in their food. “Well it’s good to know that my future self at least has his priorities straight.”

“And it’s good to know my younger soulmate has always been this fiery.”

Julian beams at him, delighted at the toothy smile the witcher returns. Geralt has a beautiful smile, somehow made more endearing by the contrast it has against his rugged features. “Tell me more,” he says, leaning closer.

“I usually sleep on my side,” Geralt continues. “When we’re on the road, it’s really the only way that we can both fit into one bedroll. When I have a real bed, I lie on my back sometimes. You like to use my chest as a pillow so you can listen to my heartbeat. It helps you fall asleep.”

Something light and airy flutters in Julian’s stomach at the thought of sleeping with Geralt; the causal intimacy of it, being wrapped in those strong arms or pressed against that broad chest. He’s yet to experience sharing a bed with any of his partners-- most of his dalliances until this point have consisted of hushed encounters in the dorms at Oxenfurt, a quick hand or mouth to stave off the aching desire in his bones. He wanted to save the more meaningful things to experience for the first time with his soulmate. With…Geralt.

“Before you came into my life, the only thing that really made me happy was Roach-- she’s my horse--” Geralt says when Julian opens his mouth to ask. “But you opened my eyes to a lot of other things that make me happy too. I learned to appreciate the little things; they way the earth smells after it rains, a hot bath, honey cakes with apricot preserves. But what makes me the most happy is you.”

“Geralt…” Warmth floods Julian’s chest at the earnest expression the witcher gives him. Those beautiful amber eyes look at him with such adoration, it almost makes him choke up a little.

“The thing I fear the most,” Geralt says quietly, “is losing you. Every time we go on a hunt I’m worried something will happen, no matter how much I prepare, or how careful I am. Sometimes you get hurt, and I’m terrified that one day being my soulmate will be your undoing.”

At that, Julian really does choke up a little, but Geralt offers him a comforting smile and squeezes his hand.

“And as for what I want,” he whispers. “One day I want to retire. I was taught that a witcher’s job is never done, you fight until you grow slow and die, but I don’t want to die a witcher’s death. I want to grow old with you. We’ll move down to Toussaint where I own a plot of land and we’ll start a vineyard. We’ll build a house and make wine and drink until we’re stupid with it. We will look at the stars every night, and I’ll go to sleep with you in my arms, knowing that we have the rest of our lives together.”

He holds Julian’s hand in his, and Julian feels himself tremble as tears prick at his eyes. 

“I love you, Julian,” Geralt says. “You are the best thing in my life.”

A sob escapes the younger man’s lips. How could he deserve someone like this? How can Geralt love him so deeply, so unashamedly? This is everything he could have ever wanted, to feel this valued. This loved.

Geralt wipes Julian’s tears away with his thumb, the action so tender it only makes them flow faster. Suddenly a pair of strong arms are wrapping around him and Julian finds himself pulled against the witcher’s chest.

“I love you too,” Julian sobs, sniffling into Geralt’s shirt. “I know I don’t really know you, but this body, Jaskier does, and I can feel how much he adores you.”

Geralt holds him as he cries. Julian feels foolish for doing it. They only have so much time together and he’s wasting it with tears. Like a child, a cruel voice hisses. Geralt doesn’t seem bothered by his outburst in the slightest thought. The witcher holds him close, pets his hair and rubs comforting circles on his back. Geralt’s body is warm, and feels good against him, and the mixture of pine, earth and leather that the larger man smells like is soothing.

“I’m sorry,” Julian mumbles, once the tears have stopped and he lifts his head. There’s a wet spot in the front of Geralt’s shirt, and he’s pretty sure he looks a fright. Julian has always been an ugly crier.

Geralt cups his soulmate’s cheek, running his thumb slowly over the curve of his cheekbone. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s a lot, I know.”

“I just don’t want to waste our time together.”

The witcher smiles. “If it’s time spent with you, it could never be a waste.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll make me cry again.”

Geralt hums and presses a kiss to Julian’s cheek, then to his knuckles. “Let’s do something else then, shall we?”

“Like what?”

“Hmmm. Do you think you’re up for meeting the others?”

---------------------------

The main hall of Kaer Morhen looks exactly what Julian would expect from a centuries old witcher castle. The ceilings are impossibly high, the stone walls covered in weapons and trophies and banners displaying the Wolf School emblem. A large hearth sits at the wall opposite of the entrance with a bearskin rug lying in front of it. The room houses several long tables with benches to seat the many witchers that once roamed the halls, though now the only one in use is the table towards the kitchen doors where the delicious smell of roasting meat is wafting through the hall.

The two witchers Julian glimpsed earlier, Eskel and Lambert, sit at the far end playing a card game he doesn’t recognize. They raise their heads when he and Geralt approach and his soulmate squeezes his shoulder gently before calling, “Eskel, Lambert. Meet Julian.”

The other Wolves put down their cards as Geralt and Julian approach the table. Normally Julian would be nervous at the prospect of meeting his soulmate’s family, but while the feeling rises within him, he also feels a sense of calm and familiarity. This body knows these men, trusts them. And the knowledge that Jaskier gets along with Geralt’s family sets Julian at ease.

Lambert, the witcher that punched him earlier, offers a hand. “Nice to finally meet your younger self, Buttercup. Sorry ‘bout the shiner, I hope pretty boy didn’t fuss over you too much.”

“Likewise,” Julian says, shaking his hand. “And don’t worry about it, I understand I’m normally very good with blocking.”

Lambert grins. “You should be, considering that yours truly taught you everything you know. I’m the best there is.”

Across the table, Eskel snickers. “More like the best at getting your ass kicked during our match this morning.”

“Oh fuck you, asshole.” 

Eskel ignores the shove that Lambert gives him and turns to face Julian. Like his brothers, he’s ruggedly handsome as well, and has a set of scars running down the right side of his face. They’re brutal, but in Julian’s opinion they add to the whole appearance.

“Eskel,” he says, shaking Julian's hand. “Your favourite Wolf.”

“Like hell you are,” Lambert interjects.

“Actually, I’m quite sure I’m his favourite,” Geralt rumbles, pressing a kiss to Julian's cheek.

“It’s true,” Julian admits sheepishly, feeling himself blush. “I’m sure your version of me loves you all dearly, but I’m afraid when it comes to Geralt there’s no contest.”

Eskel and Lambert share a look.

“You really are him,” Lambert says, “aren't you?” 

Julian nods. “I really am.”

“I certainly hope so,” a new voice says from the other side of the room, and Julian turns to see an older looking witcher with grey hair and a moustache enter, holding a tray of roasted vegetables. “Otherwise your punch really did knock his brains out, Lambert.” He places the tray on the table before turning his attention to Julian and Geralt. “It’s good to finally meet you, Julian. I’m Vesemir. Geralt has been eagerly waiting for your Swap all winter. He’s been like a pup on Yule’s eve.”

“Oh he has, has he?” A smirk pulls at Julian’s lips as he glances at Geralt.

“It’s true,” the witcher says with a shrug. “We knew it would happen sometime during your twenty-ninth year, but you didn’t know when exactly.”

Julian blinks. “I told you about my Swap?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

“You hardly shut up about it,” Lambert adds.

“I don’t know. I’ve spent so much of my life fixated on meeting you as this version of me, I never actually thought about what it would be like on the other side.”

“Jaskier told us how much this meant to you,” Geralt explains. “He wanted it to be perfect. Though he failed to tell me it would happen during training-- completely skipped over the black eye part, actually. He said he needed to prepare me so that I could make it romantic enough.”

“Oh? And how exactly did he do that?”

The witcher smiles. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“But Geralt. ”

“Not until after dinner.”

“Speaking of dinner,” Vesemir cuts in, “since you lot aren’t doing anything, you can set the table.”

A chorus of “yes, Vesemir” answers, and Julian follows Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert to the kitchen where they are given plates and trays of food to carry out. It’s not until he sits down at the table that he takes in the spread-- roast pheasant, fresh baked bread, mashed sweet potatoes, roasted vegetables, and salted herring-- and realizes they’ve made all his favourite foods.

“I figured it’d fit the occasion,” Vesemir says when he sees Julian’s expression. “When Eskel and Lambert told me it happened, I wanted to make something special for you.”

“Thank you,” Julian tells him. “I’m touched, honestly. Everything looks delicious.”

“Well dig in, everyone.”

Everything is delicious, and Julian lets out a quiet sigh as he takes a bite of pheasant, seasoned to perfection. Beside him, Geralt nudges his arm with a smile. “Luckily Vesemir was one of the few witchers to adopt your opinion on spices.”

“And what a good decision it was!” Julian says, amid shoveling his mouth full. “Take notes, Lambert.”

“Nope, just for that, I’m resisting out of spite.”

“So you’d rather just live a sad, flavorless life?”

“Pretty much.”

“He’s just like that,” Geralt says, chuckling, and Eskel nods in agreement.

“Lambert actively resists having nice things,” the scarred witcher tells him. “Geralt did too before you wore him down over the years. He used to be such a stick in the mud.”

“Yeah, at least I’m fun,” Lambert adds.

Eskel smirks, throwing the youngest Wolf a sideways glance. “Oh? Is that what you call it?”

“Screw you, you bastard,” Lambert shoots back, throwing a piece of roasted turnip at Eskel’s head.

Eskel is about to retaliate with a piece of bread when Vesemir slams his mug down on the table. “No throwing food at the table,” he snaps. “I don’t want a repeat of last winter. We have company.”

Julian shoots Geralt a look. “Last winter?”

“Lambert got drunk and threw a bowl of stew when Eskel beat him at cards. It devolved very easily from there. Vesemir put them on kitchen duty for the rest of the season.”

Julian can’t help the smile that curls at his lips picturing two very intimidating witchers having a food fight. In some ways it’s nice to see these men bicker with each other. He’s always wished he had siblings or cousins to bicker with, but back at Lettenhove manor Julian is an only child, and the Viscount’s son must stay on his best behavior lest he disgrace the family. But he has always wondered what it would be like to have a big family together like this. Perhaps with Geralt he’ll one day get that.

The rest of dinner passes with some lovely conversation. Geralt tells Julian more about their day-to-day life together; how he became Jaskier the bard and dedicated his craft to spreading the good deeds of witchers, and the Wolves regale him with stories of their adventures. (It’s only once, after all, that you can brag about your favourite contracts like it’s the first time hearing about them, Geralt says.) By the end of the meal Julian is thoroughly stuffed, a little flushed from drink, and smiling wider than he has in a long time.

A pair of strong arms curl around Julian’s waist while he’s helping clear off the table. “Are you ready for your surprise?” a deep voice purrs in his ear, and he shivers, feeling excitement spike inside him at his soulmate’s close proximity.

Julian grins and turns in Geralt’s embrace so that he can look at him, then, feeling confident and maybe a little tipsy, kisses the witcher's cheek softly. “What do you have in store for me, oh witcher mine?”

“Close your eyes.”

Julian huffs and rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. “Okay. Now what?”

“Now you come with me,” Geralt says, guiding Julian away from the table with a strong arm wrapped around him.

It’s sort of hard to walk without knowing where he’s going, but Geralt is very careful to keep Julian upright when he stumbles or bumps into something. They walk through the long hallways, and Geralt guides him up a painful amount of stairs, until finally Julian hears the sound of a door opening and a rush of cold hits him.

“Alright. You can open them.”

Julian opens his eyes and gasps.

Geralt has led him to the top of a stone tower to an open lookout, lined by battlements, giving a fantastic view of the mountains. On the ground a makeshift fire pit has been set up that is crackling steadily, along with a large bearskin rug and pile of neatly folded blankets.

“I thought we could look at the stars,” Geralt says, holding out a fur lined cloak in Julian’s direction. “My version of you said you had your heart set on a picnic. I know it’s not quite what you imagined, but the blankets and fire should keep us warm enough, and you can’t get a clearer sky than in the Blue Mountains.

“It’s perfect, ” Julian exclaims, hugging the cloak to himself and letting Geralt guide him over to the rug. 

They get comfortable and Geralt takes out the blankets; one that he puts over their laps, the other he wraps around their shoulders. Lastly, he curls an arm around Julian’s middle, pulling him into his side, and the bard sighs, melting into the solid heat of the other man and dropping his head to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. It’s a beautiful night; clear skies without a single cloud, cold, but not when Geralt is holding him. Julian has dreamed of this, longed to feel the touch of his soulmate, his one and only for so long. Now that he finally has it, he feels lighter than air.

They sit together for what feels like hours, talking quietly and just appreciating each other’s presence. Geralt points out all the constellations he can name and Julian tells him which is his favourite (though of course, the witcher already knows).

As the evening passes and Julian’s eyes begin to feel heavy, he knows his time with Geralt is almost up. It’s been a perfect day. Not quite what he was expecting, but perfect nonetheless.

Though there is one final thing that would make it even better, something that Julian feels very shy to ask for but desperately wants.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.” The witcher’s eyes are still fixed on the sky, though the gentle caress of his fingers over Julian’s back never waver.

“I know I’m not your version of me yet, I know that it’s Jaskier you love but--” he falls short as he feels himself blush. “Would you…would you kiss me?”

It’s then that the witcher turns to look at him. A gentle smile dances on his lips. “You’re my soulmate,” Geralt says simply, “I love every version of you.” Then he leans in and presses their lips together.

Geralt’s mouth is warm and surprisingly soft, moving with practiced ease against Julian’s own. He cups the smaller man’s jaw, tilting his head for a better angle and Julian melts into the touch. Geralt is so warm, and smells so good. There’s the slight brush of stubble on his cheek-- something that Julian has yet to experience with the clean-shaven youths that he occupies his time with-- though it’s not unpleasant. 

He makes a sound of protest when Geralt pulls back for a moment, and the witcher shushes him, caressing the side of his face lightly before leaning back in. 

The next kiss is deeper. Geralt teases his tongue across the seam of his lips, nipping gently before coaxing Julian to part for him and slipping his tongue inside. The smaller man sighs in pleasure, pressing into the witcher further, searching for more--

Jules?

He jumps suddenly, accidentally catching Geralt’s lower lip with his teeth in the process.

That was Priscilla's voice.

“Everything okay?” Geralt asks, suddenly concerned.

“Yeah, I’m just…”

Jules, are you alright? C’mon, you’re on in two minutes.

“It’s Priscilla,” Julian says. “I can hear her.” Not only her, actually. Now he’s sure he can hear the crowds of people, the distant sound of the performer on stage. “I think I’m being pulled back.”

No. He doesn’t want to leave yet. He wants to spend the night cuddled up with Geralt and to wake up beside him in the morning. He wants what Jaskier gets to have every day.

His vision is growing blurry and it takes Julian a moment to realize that it’s because he’s crying.

“Hey.” Geralt’s voice is calm, soothing. Though it’s hard to hear amongst all the other sounds. A warm hand wipes away his tears. “It’s okay.”

Julian shakes his head. “But I don’t want to leave yet.”

Geralt presses a kiss to his cheek, then to his forehead, before wrapping his arms around Julian tightly. “We’ll see each other again,” he murmurs into his soulmate’s hair, “I promise.”

“But I don’t know-- how will I find you?”

“Posada. In two years, meet me in Posada.”

And then he’s gone.

------------------------------

Julian returns with a gasp to find himself lying on the floor with Priscilla leaning over him, looking panicked.

“Jules! Oh thank the gods, you’re alright.”

Julian groans, clutching his stomach as the anxiety induced ache hits him full force. “Priss…”

“Can you still go on? You were panicking and then you just collapsed.” She helps him stand on shaky legs and Julian nods.

“I think I just had my Swap.”

Her eyes widen. “Sweet Melitele…you need to tell me everything, but first you have to---”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz?” A man holding a quill and parchment steps out from behind the stage curtain, eyes scanning over the two of them. “You’re on.”

“Right then.” Julian grips his lute and heads towards the stage. He pauses in front of the man with the quill. “It’s Jaskier,” he says. “Call me Jaskier.”

Chapter Text

They were thirteen when it happened, just after Geralt had finished his second round of the Grasses. He remembers being sore still, his whole body clutching onto a never ending ache-- his skin, his muscles, his head-- when Vesemir and Rennes had crowded the boys of his year into one of the smaller classrooms and gave them the Talk. 

Not that Talk. (They had that one the week prior and Geralt was still trying to repress the memory.) No, this one was the other Talk. The one about soulmates.

The other boys were brimming with energy, having had a few weeks already to recover from their own Grasses, and were chattering excitedly amongst each other as the remaining stragglers filed into the room. Geralt was quieter, not feeling up to much talking-- or much of anything after what happened-- and took his usual seat next to Eskel in silence.

“Right then,” Rennes says, arms crossed over his chest. “Let’s get started. Some of you will be turning fourteen soon, which means that it will be possible for you to have your Swap. I’m sure most of you know about this already, but for those that don’t-- at some point between now and your twenty-fifth year, you will switch bodies with an older version of yourself. This switch will last anywhere from a couple of hours to a whole day, the purpose of which is to help you find your soulmate.”

“The Swap is one possible scenario of hundreds,” Vesemir continues, “it allows you to experience a possible future that exists upon accepting the bond between you and your soulmate. It is not a fixed point. Your choices and how you react to your bond will determine if this scenario becomes a reality. Likewise, your soulmate will experience a Swap of their own as well.”

In the front row of chairs, Frank raises his hand. “If the future isn’t real, then what’s the point?”

“The point is, that you use the Swap to learn about and locate your soulmate should you want to. If you take the necessary steps to do that, then the future you experienced will indeed be real.”

“But how will we know that we’re taking the necessary steps?”

“That’s the entire reason we’re having this conversation, boy,” Rennes says. “If you know about it, then you’ll know to pay attention when it happens. Some humans prepare for this, they write down important things to tell their soulmate for the Swap so that they can more easily locate each other.”

“It will be a little different for you, being witchers, of course,” Vesemir adds. “Accepting a soulbond is a very serious, permanent thing. It will tie your soulmate’s life to yours. For that reason, some witchers choose to actively avoid their soulmates, thinking it morally wrong to condemn a human to the dangers of their job. Others disagree.”

“What should we do then?” Gweld asks.

“That is up to you,” Rennes replies. “As a witcher, I know you have many choices taken from you. But this one will remain yours. It’s true that many of us have sought out our soulmates only to find more pain and suffering, but there have been some that have been happy.” He turns to the man beside him, giving a hint of a smile. “Like Master Vesemir and I.”

Eskel nudges Geralt’s arm and gives him a look. Geralt has known the other boy long enough to understand the question without words.

What do you think?

Geralt shrugs and gestures vaguely at his appearance. With this ugly mug? Who knows. He may not have been out on his own yet, but Geralt knows enough of the world to know that humans don't like witchers. And a witcher that looks even less human is bound to be treated much worse. If his soulmate is a human, perhaps it’s best if they never meet, rather than be disappointed.

Eskel places a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and offers what he assumes is meant to be a comforting sort of expression. It doesn’t matter.

Geralt wants to believe that it wouldn’t. If his soulmate is someone meant for him, then they should love him anyway, right?

…right?

He raises his eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. What about you?

Eskel responds with a shrug of his own.

In all honesty, Geralt doesn't think very much about his soulmate after that.

He briefly ponders what they could be like; man or woman, human or otherwise, but for the most part, he has other things to be focused on. Training to be a witcher is grueling and dangerous work, and Geralt would rather spend his time preparing for his trials than fantasize about some person he may or may not meet.

A few months after Vesemir and Rennes give them the Talk, the other boys in Geralt’s year begin to have their Swap. The first is Clovis, who doesn’t say much on the matter, but casually mentions it the day after at dinner.

“It was strange,” he tells the other boys, whilst shovelling his mouth full of potatoes. “Like an extremely vivid dream, yet not. Everything felt so real.”

Gweld is more talkative about his Swap. He has it at sixteen and spends days after the fact bragging to all the other boys about how beautiful his soulmate is, the descriptions of whom evolve from having “hair like straw” to “curls of spun gold.”

Geralt, of course, is intrigued by the stories that the other boys have to share, though he’s not as enthusiastic with his questioning as the others. He’s a practical sort, and doesn’t like to get hung up on the “maybes” of life. His interest is quickly peaked however when it is Eskel that wakes him in the middle of the night during their eighteenth year, having just experienced his Swap.

Unlike the others, Eskel doesn’t spin stories or brag about it. In fact, he refuses to tell anyone the details. Even Geralt. Though it’s not until a week later that Geralt would learn why.

It's a warm summer’s day and the two of them are sitting by the river. Eskel has been quiet since his Swap, spending long hours deep in thought, his body present but his eyes glazed over, lost to his wandering mind. Something has happened, Geralt is sure of it, though he says nothing on the matter until Eskel brings it up himself.

“Do you think--” He stops himself, as if surprised he’s speaking the words out loud. “Do you think soulmates are for real?”

Geralt pauses for a moment at the absurdity of the question. “...Yes?”

“No, no, of course they’re real, but are the soulmates we’re supposed to meet actually tied to us by destiny, or are they just that? Someone we will meet?”

Geralt frowns. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“Vesemir said our Swap would show us one possible future, right? A future in which we are bonded with our soulmate. But does that mean it’s the only future where that will happen? Can we still be happy together even if it deviates from the future I saw?”

“Eskel…what happened in your Swap?”

“I met my soulmate.”

“Did they reject you?”

“No,” Eskel says quickly, shaking his head. “It was perfect.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

Eskel doesn’t answer. Instead he turns away from Geralt, tucking his knees into his chest. For a long while neither of them say anything, the only sound that breaks the silence is the gentle trickle of the river and the wind in the trees. Then, so quiet, Geralt wouldn’t have been able to make out the words if not for his enhanced senses, he hears Eskel murmur, “I wasn’t a witcher.”

“What?”

“In my Swap, in the future I saw, I wasn’t a witcher.”

“But you are a--” Oh. So that’s why he’s acting this way. If Eskel wasn’t a witcher then it doesn’t matter how perfect the future he saw was, it’s no longer possible. He missed his opportunity by a decade without even knowing it existed.

“It's just unfair, you know? I feel cheated out of our future together.” He threads a hand through his hair, tugging as he lets his head hang. “How could I have known, Geralt?”

Geralt’s mouth suddenly feels far to dry and he swallows, trying to banish the horrible choked feeling. “You couldn’t have.” He places a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Vesemir said the Swap is one in hundreds of scenarios. There could still be a chance.”

Eskel hums, finally lifting his head, though he doesn’t look all that convinced. “Maybe. Hopefully your Swap goes better, huh?”

Yes. Though Geralt is beginning to worry about that.

--------------------------------

Geralt slams his hands down on the desk in Vesemir’s study, hard enough to jostle the mug of ale his fencing instructor has set aside while he writes his report. “Why hasn’t it happened yet?”

Vesemir doesn’t look up from his work, unbothered after all these years of dealing with energetic pups and their impatience. “Hello to you too, Geralt.”

“I’m twenty-two in a week, I’m leaving for the path soon-- I should have had my Swap by now.”

“The Swap can happen anywhere between the ages of fourteen and twenty five. There is still plenty of time for you to have yours.”

“But it should have happened by now,” Geralt presses. “Eskel’s had his. All the other boys in my year have. Hell, even all the boys in the year below us have.”

The old witcher sighs, putting his papers down and craning his head to look at Geralt. “Just because the others have had theirs doesn’t mean yours won’t. These things come in their own time. It’ll happen, just be patient.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” That’s it, the thing he’s been afraid to say out loud. What if he doesn’t have a Swap because there’s no future in which Geralt and his soulmate ever accept the bond between them. What if his soulmate is dead? Or worse-- what if he’s one of those unlucky few that doesn’t have a soulmate to begin with?

Vesemir presses his mouth into a firm line. Geralt knows he’s thinking it too. There’s always a chance it won’t happen-- if your soulmate dies or rejects you. Geralt is sure that in Vesemir’s long life, he’s encountered such a situation at least once.

“It will happen,” Vesemir says firmly. “The Grasses disturb the timing of these things. Witchers on average have their Swaps later than usual, and you’ve been through the Grasses twice. I wouldn’t worry about it, lad. You're likely an exceptionally late bloomer.”

It’s not quite the answer he was expecting to hear, but then again, Geralt doesn’t know what he was expecting.

He’s a late bloomer. Fine. He can wait. He’s waited this long already, what’s a couple more years?

-----------------------------

He waits until he’s twenty five.

Then he waits five more years.

It never comes.

------------------------------

Geralt has been walking the path for nearly twenty years now, and he’s long since stopped waiting.

It’s for the best, he reasons, that he doesn’t have a soulmate, considering the general trajectory that his life has taken. If not for the fact that he’s a witcher, then for the fact that he’s the Butcher of Blaviken. No one should be tied to a monster, and a witcher isn’t much better anyway. Without a soulmate Geralt doesn’t have to worry about how his work would align with his personal affairs. He doesn’t need to worry about the one he loves getting hurt, or leaving them behind when he dies a witcher’s inevitable death. Really, it’s better this way.

Besides, even if he did have a soulmate, there’s no reason for him to believe that it would have ended well either. In the years since he became a full fledged witcher, the world has changed. Many of his yearmates died in the sacking of Kaer Morhen or the Tournament. Of the few that did live long enough to venture out on the path, their stories didn’t have the happy endings they’d been promised. Some would seek out their soulmate only to find they’d already passed on, others would try and make things work only to discover that the life of a witcher doesn’t leave room for the stability of a relationship. Eskel still hasn’t had any luck finding his soulmate.

For witchers, people like Vesemir and Rennes seem to be the outliers rather than the norm. The only other surviving witcher that Geralt knows who got a somewhat happy ending out of their Swap is Lambert-- and his relationship with Aiden is a whole other kind of mess.

So yeah, Geralt has no soulmate, and he’s fine with that. Some might call his life lonely, to walk the path year after year with no one but his horse for company, but it isn't really. Roach provides all the companionship he needs during the year, and in the winter he has company at Kaer Morhen. Such is the life of a witcher, after all. They were not meant for companionship, so it's for the best that Geralt isn't meant for a soulmate either.

If he did have one, for instance, Geralt would be awfully concerned right now that he isn't going to make it home to them.

Rain is pouring down in sheets all around him. It's dangerous, being as high up as he is, and a colossal bit of bad timing that he chose to go hunting a nest of griffins on the day of the worst storm in the past ten years. As soon as the sky began to darken and the forest was overtaken by that eerie stillness, the only sound to be heard feeling the rush of the wind in the trees, the witcher made the choice to abandon his hunt. The only problem is he wasn't able to make it down the mountain in time. Dangerously vulnerable and with no other options, Geralt makes the fast decision to search for the best shelter he can find and wait out the storm.

He's soaked and cold as he leads Roach carefully along the steep mountain path. His trusty mount has been remarkably well-behaved us far, but has grown skittish with the onslaught of thunder and lightning around them. To prevent her from getting further spooked and running off, Geralt has resorted to axii.

He can see their salvation in the distance; the dark mouth of a cave a little further up the mountain, one that should keep them warm and dry until it's safe to head down again. It's not far now.

Geralt's boots sink into the mud of the path with each step, the wet earth malleable beneath his feet, threatening to suck him in with each squish of his movements. For Roach, it's even worse, and the witcher has to carefully coax her forward, helping her every few steps as her hooves get trapped in the mud.

A crack of thunder splits through the air and he glances nervously at the cliff above them just in time to see a bolt of lightning strike the rocky edge. The overhanging rock at the top breaks free, followed by a low rumble.

Geralt grips Roach's reins firmly, tugging her forward as he runs towards the cave.

They make it past the mouth just as the cliff collapses, sending mud and rock pouring down the mountainside.

Roach whinnies and rears up on her hind legs. The witcher tries to keep her steady, but his boots slide against the wet rock of the cave floor, and the force sends him tumbling backwards.

He hits the ground.

His head strikes something and pain erupts across his skull as Geralt's vision whites out.

------------------------------

Geralt wakes up and immediately something is wrong.

For one, he's feeling perfectly warm and comfortable-- something that's a rarity outside of Kaer Morhen. More concerning is the fact that there is currently another body pressed up against his, strong arms wound around the witcher's back, a head of fragrant smelling hair buried in front of his shirt as its owner sighs soft, peaceful breaths.

Geralt is awake in an instant. His eyes snap open and he jolts, shoving his bed partner off of him as he assesses the situation. The room around him is simple, yet tastefully decorated, with patterned rugs and curtains and lots of natural light coming in through the large window beside the bed. Not a rock wall or stalagmite to be seen. Where is he? How did he get here?

A loud groan catches his attention and the witcher's eyes are immediately on the floor where the man who'd been wrapped around him only seconds before clutches his forehead and glares up at him.

"What the fuck?" the man exclaims, making an attempt to climb back onto the bed.

Geralt grabs him before he does, rolling them over and pinning the man to the mattress, teeth bared as he growls, "What did you do? Where am I?"

Despite the fact that he was faced with an angry witcher, the man makes an expression as though he's on the verge of laughter. "Geralt, my love, you know I'm always in the mood for a little role play, but isn't this-- ah!" his words catch in his throat as a low growl rumbles in the witcher’s chest.

"Start talking. Now."

"Geralt, what's going on?"

"How did I get here? What do you want from me?"

"You're--"

"The next words out of your mouth better be an answer or I'll--" Fuck. Do what? Where are his swords? His armour?

The man beneath him makes a soft sound. "Please," he says quietly, "You're hurting me."

It's only then that Geralt takes an actual look at his mysterious bedmate. Dressed only in his smalls, the man looks to be in his early-thirties and has blue eyes and chestnut coloured hair that curls a bit where it meets his ears. His body is lean but strong, covered in a good amount of downy-soft hair. His face is round and delicate. Attractive, a traitorous part of the witcher’s brain thinks. 

The man looks up at Geralt with an expression that can only be described as a mixture of confusion, hurt, and oddly, lust.

He doesn't look like a sorcerer, or a monster. He looks... kind of pathetic, actually.

After a moment of silence, Geralt loosens his grip, but he doesn't lower his guard. He stares at the man, eyes narrowing. "What are you? Some kind of incubus?"

"I--" a deep red blush spreads on the man's cheeks. "Well that's a new one."

Geralt leans towards the man's neck and sniffs. He doesn't smell like an incubus. He smells human. And he doesn't seem to be using any kind of magic either since Geralt's medallion isn’t reacting to him.

"Ooh-kay. Why don't we just back up a minute and talk about this? What's going on?"

That makes the witcher pause. He pulls back a fraction. "You mean you don't know?" Maybe this man isn't the enemy after all. Perhaps he's just as much a victim in this as Geralt-- a joke from some sick mage or something.

At that, the man makes a sarcastic sort of huff. "No, Geralt. I was just sleeping and then you decided to use your witcher interrogation on your devoted husband with no prior warning."

Wait. Husband?

He must have said that out loud because the other man snorts and rolls his eyes. "Uh, yeah. Last I checked. It's not like we've been married for 30 years or anything."

Geralt shakes his head. "That's not... I don't know you. I was in a storm. There was a rock slide, and then I woke up here."

For a moment the man just stares at him dumbly, then it's as if a light goes on in his head and he jolts. "Oh!" he cries, "Oh! It's happening!"

Geralt immediately tightens his grip on the thrashing man beneath him, pressing him firmly against the mattress in order to cease his squirming. "What is happening?"

The man laughs-- laughs-- then says, "Your Swap, Geralt. I'm not a sorcerer or some creature-- you can check with that medallion of yours. My name is Jaskier. I'm your soulmate."

Something in Geralt snaps and he releases the other man, jumping back as if he'd been burned. "No." he shakes his head, stepping away. All his instincts tell him to put as much space between him and this strange man as possible. His eyes scan over the room and he grabs the first thing he can find that can be used as a weapon-- a brass candlestick. He points it at Jaskier. "No, You're lying. I don't have a soulmate."

The other man just sighs in response, putting his hands up in surrender. "Yes you do," he replies, "your swap was just late since the second round of the grasses messed with the timing. I really am your husband. This is your life fifty years in the future."

"No. That's not possible."

"It is," Jaskier says, stepping closer. "And if you put the candlestick down and listen to me I can prove it."

The witcher hesitates. Part of him wants to comply; this man, Jaskier, has a genuine nature to him that makes Geralt want to believe what he's saying is true. But getting his hopes up always ends with more pain than it's worth.

His gaze trails to the open window.

Jaskier seems to guess what he's thinking the same time Geralt makes a mad dash for it, throwing the candlestick and hitting him square in the stomach as he leaps past the curtains.

His bare feet land on thick grass and he takes off running. Behind him, Geralt can hear Jaskier clamoring through the window after him, cussing like a sailor, and seconds later a solid mass tackles him from behind. The witcher thrashes as surprisingly strong arms lock around him, bucking like a horse to throw the other man off, but Jaskier fights dirty and holds firm and relentless, until they're both hitting the grass.

"Would you-- just-- agh-- listen to me-- for one second-- you insufferable witcher-- hah!" The man lets out a cry of triumph as he successfully pins the witcher to the ground, sitting on his chest to prevent Geralt from moving any further.

Geralt stares up at him in shock. That was a witcher's tackle, the same one Vesemir taught to all the wolves When they were in training. Whoever this Jaskier is (and Geralt knows it's not his soulmate) he's definitely spent some time around witchers.

The man in question just grins. "Now before we get any ideas like that again, can you please just listen to what I have to say?"

Geralt huffs and turns his head away. "Don't want to."

"Well since I've got you on the ground like this it appears you're going to," Jaskier replies.

Geralt hates the smugness that coats his voice. He raises an eyebrow. "You know I could just throw you off."

"You could," Jaskier agrees, "You're stronger than me. But you won't. I know that look, Witcher. You're intrigued."

He's right, damn it.

"I am your soulmate," Jaskier says. "I can prove it. Ask me something, I know everything about you."

Part of him feels like is going to regret this, but if this is all of some sort of magic induced hallucination, then Geralt supposes he doesn't have anything to lose.

"Fine," he grunts. "What is my horse's name?"

Jaskier scoffs. "Please, that's easy. You've never had a horse that wasn't named Roach."

"Fine then." Geralt pauses for a moment as he thinks of a better question. "What is the dream that I keep having over and over again, the one that keeps me up at night?"

"Renfri," Jaskier replies. "You couldn't save her. You see her die every time you close your eyes."

"Fuck." He hasn't told anyone about that, not even his brothers.

"Do you believe me now?"

"Fuck," Geralt repeats.

"I'm going to take that as a yes." Jaskier climbs off of him, then offers the witcher a hand which he reluctantly accepts. "Now, how about we go inside and put some clothes on. It's fucking freezing."

It's only then that Geralt realizes he's completely naked.

----------------------------------

Dressed in a soft shirt and dark brown pants, Geralt sits at the rickety wooden table and stares daggers into his cup of tea. It's wrong, this life that Jaskier claims they have. A quaint little cottage, sprawling fields of fat purple grapes, the painted vase of daisies on the table, crocheted fucking doilies on the arms of the sofa. It's like he just up and left one day and started living life like a normal person. Ridiculous. This isn't what a Witcher does.

"So," Geralt says, not looking up from his tea, "You're my soulmate."

"I am," Jaskier confirms.

"And we're married."

"Have been for thirty years now."

"But you're..."

"A man?"

No, he thinks. Beautiful.

"So...soft," Geralt decides eventually. With round cheeks and wide blue eyes, perfectly manicured hair and nails, and a turquoise doublet of embroidered silk, the man in front of him doesn't look like he has any business even being near a witcher, much less married to one.

A light pink blush seeps into Jaskier's cheeks. "Well, I do admit I've gotten a tad soft since settling down here, but I assure you, darling, I was more than capable of following you on the path then and I still am now. I'm stronger than I look."

Hm. That he is, Geralt thinks, recalling the strength that the bard used to pin him on the ground. Still though, he has a hard time believing without someone like Jaskier would be the other half that the universe picked out for him. Geralt had always expected someone...harsher.

"Anyway," Jaskier continues, "You've always needed a little more softness in your life. Now that we’re retired, I have all the excuses in the world to pamper you."

Geralt disagrees. Softness isn't something that's meant for witchers. Neither is retirement. Witcher's don't retire.

"Well, you do," Jaskier responds when Geralt makes his thoughts on this known.

"No," Geralt says firmly. "I don't. A Witcher doesn't retire. We get slow and we die. We don't sit around playing house and pretending we're something we're not."

"Oh you haven't given up the trade entirely," Jaskier confirms. "You'll take a few local contracts here and there, sometimes you team up with Eskel or Lambert for a larger one. But mostly you stay here. With me. And my version of you seems quite content with that."

Geralt doesn't think a world exists in which he would ever be content with that, but he doesn't say it out loud. Still, there's a sad sort of look in Jaskier's eyes that tells him he doesn't have to.

"You always find plenty to keep yourself busy here anyway," Jaskier continues. "You chop wood for the fire, go hunting, help repair things around the vineyard-- and of course you have all the time in the world to dote on Roach."

Geralt perks up a bit. "Roach is here?"

"She is-- er-- Roach number seven is anyway. I believe she's the one you'll have after your current Roach. There's also mama Roach and baby Roach. She had a foal with Scorpion last summer after Eskel visited. They're all in the stable out back, along with Pegasus. We can go visit later if you like."

"Hm." 

A smile tugs at Jaskier's lips. "Oh yes, I'd almost forgotten that used to be your primary form of communication," he says fondly.

"I--"

"Don't worry about it, darling. I learned how to decipher your grunts and growls years ago. I believe that one is something along the lines of; you're pleased Roach is here, but you feel conflicted at everything involving me. Am I right?"

Geralt's jaw nearly drops and the bard laughs, a warm, comforting sound that makes something flutter in the witcher's stomach.

"Good to know that after all these years I've still got it."

Geralt frowns. He feels uneasy in this position, to be in the presence of this man that claims to know everything about him, when he in return remains an anomaly. He hates that Jaskier appears so comfortable around him, when all the other humans in his life look upon him with nothing but disdain. And he especially hates that his heart beats faster in his chest whenever he meets the bard's eyes. Geralt is still reluctant to believe that anything Jaskier says to be true. He doesn't have a soulmate. He made peace with that a long time ago. So this can't really be happening, Jaskier can't be telling the truth, because if he is then Geralt will have to question his life all over again, and the witcher isn't sure he could come back from that this time.

"How long did you say I've known you for?" he asks cautiously.

"Almost fifty years now," Jaskier says fondly. "The two of us should run into each other at a tavern in Posada in about three years' time. We'll get together a little bit after that-- I admit, it took me longer than expected to break down your thorny walls-- and you'll ask me to marry you after an agonizing twenty years of waiting. We didn't actually settle down here until quite recently, however. Hmm, maybe eight summers ago? To be honest the time kind of blends together."

Geralt’s brows knit together. "If it's been so long, why haven't you aged?" Provided they met when Jaskier was eighteen, which is the absolute youngest Geralt can even stomach thinking of, the man should be in his mid-sixties by now, yet he hardly looks more than thirty.

Jaskier just smiles. "I have excellent skin."

"What are you?"

"Human mostly," he assures the witcher. "But my family has this tricky habit of taking non-human lovers. Our ancestry is so muddled with different species at this point I don't know what I am. I have quite a few Elvin relatives, a grandmother who was part Fae, and I believe even some siren mixed in. We all choose to believe the rumour about great, great aunt Mildred fucking a dragon is just a rumour though. Probably. Regardless, I age at the same rate that you do. Quite convenient if you ask me. Almost like we were meant for eachother," he adds with a wink.

Something twists in Geralt's chest and his eyes drift back down to his teacup. He doesn't know what to think.

Across from him, Jaskier's inches towards his where it's resting on the table. Delicate, calloused fingers brush over his knuckles for a fraction of a second before the witcher snaps his hand away. The bard's hand retreats back across the table and he clears his throat, sitting up straighter.

"Erm-- well then, if there's anything else you'd like to know..."

The next minutes pass with Geralt hesitantly asking questions about the current state of his life. In all honesty, he doesn't feel like talking much at all right now-- he has too much to think about-- but Jaskier is trying so hard to be helpful and make conversation that Geralt decides to try for his sake. He's careful to steer clear of any serious depth in regards to their supposed relationship, and eventually resorts to asking the bard questions about his friends and family. Jaskier smiles and nods through the whole thing, responding to anything Geralt says with such enthusiasm it's almost uncomfortable. Still, the witcher can't shake the feeling that he's disappointed his soulmate somehow.

He does have questions. Many, in fact. But somehow when he tries to find the words, he's unable to make a sound.

"Geralt," Jaskier says when the witcher's eyes flit around the room for what must be the fifth time, fidgeting in his chair. "Should we go for a stroll outside? Perhaps the fresh air will help you clear your head. It looks like you're about to start climbing the walls."

The sudden suggestion takes him aback for a moment, specifically for the fact that he didn't notice the cause of his own discomfort sooner. The small cottage somehow feels like it's closing in around him, the heat of the summer air and smell of chamomile steaming in his teacup overwhelm the witcher's senses. A walk...sounds perfect actually.

Not long after, Geralt has a fur-lined cloak wrapped around him and his feet are crunching on dead leaves. Jaskier leads them around the back of the house to the paddock and throws open the doors to the stable declaring, "good morning, my fine ladies! How are we all doing today? Roach seven, I have a special friend here to see you."

Stepping into the stable, Geralt feels relief washed over him as he sets eyes on a familiar-looking horse. Roach seven looks almost the same as his current Roach, except she's much older, has three white socks instead of four and the stripe along her nose is just a little bit bigger. Her ears perk forwards as she steps towards the stall door, stretching her neck as far towards him as she can. Geralt wraps his arms around her neck, hugging her closely and allowing the familiar scent of horses, straw and leather to calm him while Roach noses at the pockets of his cloak, looking for treats.

Something nudges his arm and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier offering him a piece of apple that he procured out of seemingly nowhere. 

"You'd best give it to her," he says. "Roach seven has never liked me. If I get too close to her she bites my fingers. I swear, you always pick the grumpiest horses."

Geralt takes the apple from his hand and does little to hide his smirk as he feeds it to Roach. Horses are remarkable animals in his opinion. They respond to how you're feeling; if you're calm, they're calm, and his Roaches over the years have always been a stabilizing force in his life.

"You're not grumpy, are you?" He asks the mare, petting her nose. "No, you just don't like pushy bards that poke you with their long creepy fingers."

Jaskier makes an offended sound. "I beg your pardon. My fingers are not creepy! They're ideal for playing the lute."

"I don't know. Horses are very good judges of character."

"Roach! You don't mean it, do you? I give you treats every morning and this is how you repay me?"

Geralt finds himself smiling as the bard continues to have a one-sided argument with Roach seven, petting his beloved mare one more time before moving down the line to say hello to mama Roach and baby Roach.

Mama Roach is better tempered than his usual mounts, and also looks to be in the process of stealing an apple from Jaskier's coat pocket while he's not paying attention. Geralt saves her the trouble by removing it himself and feeding it to her.

"You're a sneaky one, huh?"

At that, Jaskier turns his attention to them. "Oh you have no idea. She's much friendlier than the average Roach, but I think it's all a front to hide her devious nature."

"I can see why you get along then."

Jaskier juts his chin out in the witcher's direction. "Are you calling me devious, my love?" Something twists in Geralt's chest at the nickname, the same time Jaskier clears his throat and corrects himself. "Erm-- I mean, Geralt."

"You are devious," The witcher replies pointedly. "You fight dirty."

"You threatened me with a candlestick."

Geralt shrugs. Fair enough.

Trailing down the line of stalls towards his own horse, a palomino gelding named Pegasus, the bard pauses to feed him another piece of apple. "I don't suppose you'd want to go for a ride?" he asks. "With all the rain the past few days we haven't had much chance to exercise them and I'm afraid Pegasus is growing restless."

"Hm," Geralt says, which Jaskier interprets as a yes. He'll take any excuse he can to spend time with Roach and get away from the blatant signs of his domestic life surrounding him everywhere he looks.

Not long after, Pegasus and mama Roach are tacked and ready to go, and the two of them are heading out down a rocky path that winds through the vineyard.

The Toussainti countryside is lovely in autumn; everywhere they pass is nothing but rolling fields, towering oak trees and quiet little streams. He's always liked Toussaint. The people are usually more welcoming of his kind, the weather is warmer, and the beautiful landscape and fine wines are something that anyone could enjoy. It makes sense, he supposes, that if his future self ever chose to settle down it would be here.

They ride for a couple of hours, Jaskier babbling on about who knows what the entire time. He's surprisingly good company, it turns out, even if Geralt is too unsure to contribute much in the ways of conversation. Jaskier is smart and witty and has a surprisingly lewd sense of humour that reminds him too much of Lambert. He also appears to be endlessly capable of filling Geralt's silence, which turns out to be quite nice since the witcher has always been more of a listener than a talker.

He tries to stop it, but as the day passes Geralt finds a begrudging fondness growing for the other man. Part of him still wants to distance himself-- it's still hard to believe that this is really happening. But Jaskier is the kind of person that is very difficult to distance oneself from. And it definitely doesn't help that his traitorous version of Geralt's body keeps reacting to the sight of his soulmate like a blushing maiden. It feels like emotions are bursting from his chest every time the bard meets his eyes. Soulmate or not, the way that this version of Geralt feels for Jaskier is real, and something about that is terrifying.

They eventually stop at a pond with a large willow tree so that the horses can drink, and Jaskier dismounts before taking a seat on the grass. He turns to the witcher and smiles, patting the space next to him. Unsure of what to do with himself, Geralt sits in the offered space, and the bard immediately scoots closer so that we're sitting with their shoulders touching.

For a while, neither of them speak. Jaskier closes his eyes and tilts his head back to rest upon the trunk of the willow. Geralt studies the contours of his face and fights the urge to trace it with his fingers.

"Geralt," Jaskier says finally, "I know this is... hard for you, but can we talk? Please?" He sets up a little straighter, turning himself to face the witcher. "I understand that this must be confusing, uncomfortable even, but I'm trying--" he stops, steadies himself. He looks like he's about to cry as his voice wavers on the next words. "I just want you to have a positive experience because I know that everything involving soulmates for you up until now has been shit, but I feel like I failed you somehow and I--"

"You haven't."

Jaskier sniffles. "What?"

"You haven't failed me."

"Really, Geralt? You don't even like me--"

"No. I do like you. Too much. That's the problem."

Jaskier blinks, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "I'm... not sure I'm following."

"I..." he falls silent, trying to find the words. "I always wanted a soulmate," Geralt tells him, "but when I waited for my Swap it never came. And it hurt. So I convinced myself I was better off not having one. But now you're here, and you're gentle and kind and beautiful and perfect. And I just can't believe that any of this is real, because how could someone like you ever love someone like me? I was rude, I hurt you. You deserve so much better, Jaskier."

Jaskier is silent for a moment, then his hand finds Geralt's on the grass and he laces their fingers together. This time the witcher doesn't pull away. "Geralt," he says softly. "Do you want to know why I was so excited about your swap?"

Geralt can't meet his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I remember what you were like when I met you," Jaskier replies. "I remember how lonely and self-hating you were, and how desperately you needed someone to love you. And I knew that when I met you today I could tell you the words you so badly needed to hear."

He takes the witcher's face in his hands, tilting his head so Geralt has no choice but to look him in the eyes. "I love you, Geralt of Rivia. I know that you think the world has no room for you to be loved and happy, but the world is wrong. You deserve kindness. You deserve love. I know that people don't see how good you are, but I do. You are the greatest gift that my life has ever given me and I adore having you in it. I am honoured to call you my soulmate."

"Jaskier..." He doesn't know what to say. No one has ever said those kind of things to him before, not in his almost fifty years of life. Part of Geralt wants to say something just as meaningful back. He wants Jaskier to know that he's in awe that his soulmate is someone that cares for him so deeply. But words have never come easily to him.

Geralt also feels as though he might cry.

Somehow understanding this, the bard pulls him into a fierce hug.

"It's okay, love," Jaskier whispers, as Geralt clings to him, trembling. "Anything you can't say, I already know. You've shown me how you feel everyday of our lives."

The wind whistles through the trees, but all of a sudden the witcher can no longer feel it on his skin. Instead he feels something cold, hard, and wet, the sharpness of rock digging into his ribcage. Jaskier's words seemed to get lost in the breeze.

He's going back, he knows, but Geralt isn't ready yet. He wraps his arms around the other man tighter, as if somehow that will hold him here and he won't have to go back to his other life where he's cold and alone.

Just a little longer, he thinks, please let me know what this feels like just a little bit longer.

But the next time he blinks, Jaskier is gone.

-------------------------------

Geralt opens his eyes slowly, wincing at the splitting pain radiating through his skull. He's in the cave, on the ground. The witcher groans, and attempts to sit up. The pain only gets worse and he clutches his forehead, feeling sticky, half dried blood coating his skin and hair before slowly sinking back to the ground.

Above him, Roach noses at the side of his face and he absent-mindedly strokes her snout with his other hand.

Geralt can't hear the sound of rain anymore, he must have passed out for the rest of the storm. Passed out and hit his head.

His heart sinks as he puts two and two together.

Oh. So it was all a dream then.

He should have known.

Chapter Text

Geralt can tell me the exact moment that his Jaskier returns to him. He jolts a little, then gently pulls away from the witcher's embrace to look at him and smiles. Oh, that smile. Geralt could live for a thousand years and somehow it would still take his breath away each time.

Geralt caresses his knuckles down on the contour of his love's face, and the bard only seems to shine brighter. "Jaskier," he murmurs, "You're back."

"I am. Hello, my darling witcher." He sniffles a little, since he'd been crying only moments before, and wipes the remaining tears away on the cuff of his sleeve. "How did it go?"

"Well, I think," Geralt replies. "He cried a lot."

"Mmm. As I told you he would." He lets out a sigh. "Oh, Julian, you were such a hopeless romantic. One kind word and the waterworks started. Did he muster up enough courage to read you his love sonnet?"

Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Love sonnet? He did not."

"Well, it's for the best I suppose. It was truly terrible. I did not make good use of subtlety or metaphor at all when I was his age." The bard yawns, snuggling back into the other man's side as Geralt puts an arm around him.

"Hm. You weren't particularly great with subtlety when we met either." The corner of his mouth curls up slightly at the memory. Jaskier was a shameless flirt when they first met, imbued with the confidence of a man that knew they would end up together anyway, and many of his lines were just awful; "bread in pants" being one of particular note. Still though, if it hadn't been for the bard's unashamed confidence and never-ending determination, it likely would have taken Geralt much longer to accept the strange little man into his life.

Beside him, Jaskier gives him a look. "What are you thinking about?"

The witcher hums. "I just realized something."

"Oh? What's that?"

"I forgot to warn him, about what I would be like when he found me."

Jaskier smiles softly, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind the witcher's ear. "You mean terribly brutish and grumpy?"

"Hm."

"I wouldn't worry about that, darling. He'll be so enamoured with you he won't even notice. Because he'll remember this version of you and already know about your soft gooey center."

"Still, I wish him luck. He'll need it."

"He's already lucky," Jaskier says. "He has the best soulmate a man could ask for."

Geralt smiles, pulling him in for a kiss. "Not as lucky as I am."

---------------------------------

His version of Geralt has returned, Jaskier can tell from the way that the witcher relaxes in his arms, exhaling a long and slow breath as all the worries slip from his mind, and he cuddles closer into the bard's chest.

Jaskier presses a kiss to his brow and reclines back against the grass, pulling his lover with him. He strokes his fingers through the witcher's silver hair and begins to hum a quiet tune. After some time, a low rumble begins to emanate from the witcher's chest.

Jaskier always marvels that a man who appears so tough and rugged can so easily be reduced to putty in his hands. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Geralt hardly received a kind word or touch before the two crossed paths. Once the witcher had finally grown comfortable around him, Jaskier discovered that Geralt was so touch starved he would melt the instant someone showed him physical affection, so much so that his brain went blank and fuzzy and he would sometimes slip into a calm meditative state. Geralt didn't even know that he could purr until a year into their relationship, it was an involuntary response that it turns out he'd never been content enough to invoke before.

It's because of this that Jaskier adores these quiet moments with his soulmate. There's something incredibly powerful about being the person that his witcher trusts most in the world, being the only person that Geralt can share this with.

"I missed you," Jaskier murmurs, kissing the top of the witcher's head.

Geralt lifts his head ever so slightly to raise an eyebrow. "I never left."

"But you did though. In all the ways that matter. I missed my version of you; my husband, my soulmate, my love."

"Was he truly that bad?"

"No," Jaskier says, "of course not. I still found glimpses of the man I love, even under all of that grunting and growling. But he was quieter, on edge. He threatened me with a candlestick."

Geralt sighs. "I did warn you he would be difficult." He shakes his head. "It's hard to even connect to the person I was back then; so many things have changed. Especially after Blaviken, I was so lonely and self-hating."

"Mmm. Yes, I remember. But I think this younger version of you was even more prickly than when we first met."

"You helped with that a lot, actually, during the Swap. That was the first time anyone said they loved me. Before that I didn't believe someone could be capable of it. It... gave me hope, I suppose."

"Awww, Geralt," Jaskier whines, "you're going to make me cry."

"It's true," the witcher insists, then, "thank you. For saying what you did to him. He needed to hear that more than you know."

"I meant every word of it."

"I know you did," Geralt replies, cupping the bard's face in his hands. "I love you so much, Jask."

"I love you too, my darling witcher."

They share a kiss and Jaskier basks in the moment. They've overcome many trials, Geralt and him, but each one was worth it if it means that he can have this time here, with the man he loves. Nothing could be more precious than that.

------------------------------

Jaskier stands at the front door of Oxenfurt University and stares out at the long and winding road in the distance. His usual silk and lace is replaced with a more comfortable linen doublet, his heeled boots swap for something leather and sturdy. Over his shoulder a pack containing clothing and supplies is slung leaving his hands free to hold his lute. His fingers drum nervously on the wooden neck of the instrument.

"I can't believe it's finally over," Priscilla says, coming to stand beside him.

Jaskier doesn't take his eyes off the horizon. "Neither can I."

"I'm not sure I feel ready, you know? Of course I should be, I have all the education and experience, yet somehow it doesn't feel real."

Jaskier can relate to that. His time at Oxenfurt has been a whirlwind of experiences; he learned so much about music and literature, met some of the first real friends of his life, and finally got to stand on his own two feet away from the influence of his parents' title. Part of him doesn't want to leave, to put his foot out there and surrender himself to everything that is new and different. But then again, Jaskier has never been one to remain stagnant in life. Being a bard is difficult, he knows, but he's willing to do everything it takes.

Of course, that doesn't mean he won't miss this place, especially the friends that came with it. Priscilla and Essi are like sisters to him, and while he and Valdo tended to butt heads more often than not, eventually Jaskier came to appreciate one of his oldest friends and harshest critics. Admittedly, he's been holding in the tears as each of his companions has parted ways. Valdo left immediately after walking off the stage at graduation, claiming "if he's going to be the best bard the continent has ever seen he better start now." Essi left later that evening, joining up with a troupe of other students to travel Redania and perform in court. Now it's just him and Priscilla.

"When does your carriage arrive?" Priscilla asks him.

"Hm? Oh it doesn't."

Her eyes widen. "You're not going back to Lettenhove?"

"Nope. I'm setting out on foot. I plan to tour the entire continent."

She gives him a look. "Really? You who complains about feet hurting after every performance are going to walk the whole way?"

"Sure am," he replies cheerily. He'll need to prepare himself if he's going to be traveling the path with Geralt for the next thirty years.

Priscilla lets out a sigh, shaking her head, "Only you, Jules. Only you."

"What about you then?"

"I think I'm going to head home for a while, spend some time with my parents before I decide. Who knows? Maybe I'll catch up with Essi afterwards."

"Oh?" A smirk tugs at Jaskier's lips. "Any particular reason why?" He has his suspicions already that Priscilla has a bit of a crush on their mutual friend. His smile only widens as he sees a deep blush spread across her cheeks.

"You can't tell anyone, okay?"

He raises his hands in surrender, then my mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. "My lips are sealed."

"Essi is my soulmate. She hasn't had her Swap yet, so she doesn't know, I don't want to freak her out or anything until she's ready."

"Oh! Priscilla, that's wonderful!"

"Y-yeah, I'm...really excited."

"You two will be absolutely adorable together," Jaskier tells her. "I give you my blessing."

"And what about you? You're always gushing about your soulmate. Are you off to find Mister Tall Silver And Handsome?"

"I am, as a matter of fact. Though I have to get all the way to Posada, which will take a few months at best."

"Wow, best of luck to you."

It's just then that a cherrywood carriage pulled by two black horses comes trotting around the bend.

"Oh!" Pricilla says, jumping a little. "That'll be me." She pulls him into a hug which Jaskier does his best to reciprocate despite having his arms full. "Good luck, Jules. I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Good luck with Essi," he shoots back. "I expect to be an uncle one day."

Priscilla just laughs then presses a kiss to his cheek before stepping into the carriage.

Jaskier watches as it disappears in the distance. A small part of him sinks, but he quickly pushes it away and replaces it with excitement.

"Well, Geralt of Rivia," he says, gripping his things tightly and stepping onto the road, "I'll meet you in Posada."

----------------------------

"Get out of here, you mutant freak!"

"Yeah! We don't want your kind in our town!"

Geralt fights the urge to flinch as a rock hits him square in the back of the head. Thrown by whom he doesn't know, though luckily it didn't have any particular force behind it. 

He'd been hoping this time was different, but he should have known. Things have been getting harder and harder for witchers since Blaviken a few years ago, but especially for him. At first he stayed as far south as possible, finding work in whatever towns the story hadn't spread to yet. Though it looks like even settlements that had no issues with witchers the previous year have been influenced by the incident.

Geralt takes Roach's reins and leads her in the opposite direction as more villagers begin to join the angered crowd, heading back the long and winding path that leads to the village.

He's been on the road for over a month straight and was really banking on restocking his supplies today, but it looks like he'll have to make do with foraging and hunting yet again, with no contracts to replenish his coin. The situation is becoming concerning, however. While Geralt is more than capable of acquiring his own food and water, eventually he'll require things that he can only get in a town, like new shoes for Roach. What he will do then, he doesn't know. He'll need to find a town willing to grant him entry, somewhere remote, with enough dangers nearby to make hiring a witcher a necessity.

Posada, his mind supplies. The town at the edge of the world.

It's been three years now since that horrible storm and the dream Geralt has after hitting his head. That's where he last heard that name. He's never been to Posada, of course, but he's seen it on a map and his mind must have incorporated that information into the dream.

Yes, Posada is a perfect choice.

There may not be a soulmate waiting for him there, but at least the witcher can find work and a place to rest and restock from a hard and grueling year.

As he heads back out onto the road, something akin to hope flickers in the witcher's chest. He tries to extinguish it as best he can, yet still the tiniest bit remains, a dull golden flame at the edge of a candle.

-------------------------

Calling it a village is almost too generous, Geralt observes as he takes in the small collection of buildings at the base of the mountain. Posada is, for lack of a better word, a shithole. But it's a shithole with work, and that's enough for him.

There's been rumours about a creature living in the mountains and killing livestock. A devil, the townspeople call it. Geralt is highly skeptical; it's probably just a chort or a griffin, but he'll get paid either way. But first, he's taking the opportunity to restock his supplies, get some half decent food and drink, and sleep in a real bed for a night before he negotiates a contract.

It's nearly evening by the time he makes it to the inn. A few of the townspeople give him looks as he passes, but no rocks or insults are hurled in his direction. The inn, if you could call it that, seems to be the only place in town that serves food and ale, and is nearly packed when Geralt steps inside.

The Innkeeper seems to quake in his boots a bit as Geralt approaches the counter.

"Yer a witcher," the man says, as if that wasn't already obvious. "We don't get witchers much 'round these parts."

"Yes," Geralt replies carefully. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other patrons closely monitoring the conversation. Luckily, none of them grab for the torches and pitchforks.

"You here for that devil? Some of the farmers have pulled together quite the sum for whoever kills the beast, though so far no one has lived to claim it. You'll be wanting to talk to Rohan; you can find his homestead north of town."

"Good to know. Do you have any rooms available?"

The man nods. "Five orens if you want it. It ain't much, but it's warm and dry."

"I'll take it then," Geralt replies, sliding some coins across the counter. "And an ale too, if you have it."

The man passes him an iron key, then places a large tankard in front of him. Geralt collects both, then locates the darkest, most remote corner table to sit down at. He has just enough money left to order a bowl of stew and some bread, so he does-- it's passable, as tavern food goes, but the witcher couldn't care less, because it's hot and it has salt and that's all that matters. As he eats, he can see other people sneaking glances at him, here their hushed whispers and lowered voices as they gawk at the rare sight of a witcher.

Geralt tries not to let it bother him. He's used to it by now anyway. And so he eats in silence until the tavern door opening catches his attention.

He hears him before he sees him.

A warm and chipper voice makes its way through the crowded room. "Excuse me, good sir-- er, pardon me,-- If I could just-- thank you--"

And then a familiar-looking figure rounds the corner and the witcher's heart stops in his chest.

Suddenly it's as if the world has disappeared from around him, and each and every one of Geralt's senses is honing in on the man in front of him.

Jaskier.

A younger version of him, anyway, dressed in a turquoise blue doublet and brown leather boots, a lute strung over his shoulder. His cheeks are round and youthful, chestnut coloured hair well-trimmed and soft looking, and his eyes-- bright blue and staring at Geralt as if he is all that matters in the world.

No, there's no way.

Jaskier can't possibly be real. Geralt doesn't have a soulmate, it was all a dream.

And yet there he is, staring back at the witcher with the same awestruck expression that the witcher is giving to him.

For one, terrifying moment, both of them remain frozen in time. Then, as if magnetized, Jaskier approaches him.

Geralt can't move, he can't breathe. He can do nothing but watch as the other man walks up and places both hands on the table. He's smiling so wide the witcher wonders how his face doesn't hurt.

"There you are," Jaskier says. And then in one motion, he grabs Geralt by the front of the shirt and kisses him over the table. "I missed you."