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Stupid Geralt. Stupid dragon. Stupid Yennefer. Jaskier made his way slowly down the mountain, kicking rocks out of his way as he went. His favorite shoes, which he wore specifically in case he saw a real life dragon, were absolutely ruined. His jacket was practically torn to shreds, and he had mud in places he didn’t even want to think about.
As he lamented his unfortunate circumstances, he couldn’t help but mourn what could have been. Why couldn’t Geralt have been in just a bit of a better mood? Why must Yennefer have been her nast witchy self? Why does Jaskier always make a fool of himself.
He could feel his eyes start to wet, and he took a deep breath. He would not cry over this. He could not cry over this. He had already wasted too many years and tears on Geralt, and he was not about to waste any more.
If only he had realized this twenty years ago.
Geralt didn’t care for him, not like he thought. All the yelling and huffing and grunts in place of words weren’t just how Geralt communicated, they were signs that Jaskier was unwanted. But without Geralt, Jaskier didn’t know where to go.
He was almost forty, practically ancient, and had spent the majority of his life following a witcher. Everyone knew his name, and everyone knew the company he kept. Though he was quite well known around the continent (and dare he think it, quite famous), people generally didn’t want to get too close to him, lest they upset him and incur the wrath of a witcher.
Funny, as if Geralt would ever care if someone upset him.
The trek down the mountain was much easier than it was going up, perhaps because his mind was occupied on something other than falling off and dying (though, that option didn’t sound too bad at the moment). Jaskier shook his head, ridding himself of such dreadful thoughts. No, he would not let some witcher sink him to depths to which he hadn’t been in a decade.
In the distance, he could see the bottom of the mountain, with all the horses tied to their posts and munching on grass. He even thought he could make out the shape of Roach, and his heart twisted with the thought that this is the last time he’s ever going to see her. Maybe he and Geralt could sort out some sort of schedule (yeah, in his dreams).
He knows that he’s going to have to buy new shoes after this, probably a whole new outfit. He hates to waste the clothes, especially given how little coin he had, but, as a bard, he must always look his best. And right now, he definitely didn’t.
When he finally gets down, he’s going into the first tavern he sees and buying their strongest liquor, then heading to an inn and drinking all day. He nodded to himself, yes, that sounded like the perfect plan.
He approached Roach, and heard her huff in greeting. He pet her gently on the snout, digging into the bag and grabbing an apple out for her to eat. Thankfully, Geralt hadn’t left yet. Gods know where the hell his stuff would be if the witcher did leave. Maybe Geralt would have been kind enough to dump it on the side of the road, even for his shit shoveling groupie; Geralt could be kind when he wanted to be.
Jaskier liked to think he’s sitting at the top of the mountain regretting every choice he’s ever made and figuring out the best way to apologize to his very best friend (then, Jaskier liked to imagine declining the apology and stomping on Geralt's heart, just as his own had been crushed).
He slowly started to gather his things off of Roaches saddle bags, and dug into Geralt's bags for all the little things that had been swapped over the years. Again, he felt those pesky tears starting to form, but instead of sadness, all he felt was anger. How dare Geralt treat him like that. How dare he send him away after so long. Even someone dumb as rocks like Geralt knew that twenty years for a human was most of their life. Jaskier had given his youth away, spent it on the fight to redeem witchers, given Geralt a new legacy, and all he got in return was muddy boots.
As he dug around in Geralt's bag once more, just in case he missed something, he felt a glass bottle, and his spirits lifted ever so slightly. He could skip the tavern now, and head straight to the inn.
☆☆☆
The future is shit. Well, obviously it isn’t the future, but it’s still shit. Geralt hasn’t liked the world or anything in it for the past few hundred years. Things were so much more simple when he knew what his fucking job was.
See monster. Fight monster. Kill monster. Get coin. Move on.
Very cut and dry. Very easy. But the future just had to go and fuck that up. All the monsters got wiped out a few hundred years ago by some witchy plague, and no monsters equals no witchers. So most witchers generally just stayed in their keeps until everyone forgot about them, and wasn’t that a surprise.
For the past few hundred years, Geralt has been able to walk through towns and stores and bookshops without getting dirty looks. Which was a really fucking weird thing to get used to. It was like whiplash, but he can’t complain too much. The most he gets about his appearance now is “great cosplay” and “woah, your eyes are so cool!” Ugh.
He likes to complain though.
On the plus side, Geralt has a better relationship with his family. It turns out that once you stop fearing for your life and having to kill to survive, you’re much less tense. How about that. But that’s one of the only good things about 2022. God, even the year sounds made up. He remembers when he had just gotten out onto the path, and saw a little book titled Wonders of the Future, and laughed at the idea of flying machines and plays that could be watched whenever he wanted.
All in all, as much as he hates it, Geralt thinks that he’s adapted quite well to the future and that change suits him. He whistles for his dog, Roach.
He, Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel, and Yennefer, along with whoever else might want to join, have a weekly dinner at Vesemir's house. They all jokingly refer to it as a Sunday Dinner, just like all the families on television (which- what the actual fuck. He was absolutely amazed the first time he saw that. He didn’t move from the screen for about a decade).
Yes, Geralt and Yennefer got along. Sure, they occasionally had screaming matches - particularly about Ciri - but over all, they considered themselves kind-of-sort-of friends. Being near immoral really makes one think about the grudges they hold. After the mountain, Geralt wallowed. He walked the path in a dream like trance, not really living but only surviving. And honestly, he wasn’t even sure how he did that. Witchers are notorious for their near perfect memory, and yet Geralt can’t remember the almost half century after the mountain. His brothers eventually found him on the path, and essentially forced him to get better.
Sometimes, he’s not sure if that was the right decision.
☆☆☆
It had been weeks, or maybe months, but really, who’s keeping track. Certainly not Jaskier, not one bit. He had completely rid himself of the witcher who shall not be named.
Really.
Okay, maybe not really. Maybe Jaskier spent his days curled in some lousy tavern bed that was too hard on his aging back and too cold without the solid warmth of a witcher, and maybe he spent his nights drinking until he can’t remember why he’s so sad (or, at least, trying to drink so much he can’t remember why he’s sad. It hadn’t worked yet).
But, really, Jaskier was fine.
In fact, he was so fine that he even got back into writing. The first few (days? months?) after the mountain had all been a bit of a blur, and he certainly hadn’t written anything during that time. He’s fairly sure that he spent most of it with a bottle in hand in a forest. But that was ages ago, and that was the Old Jaskier. He was now the New Jaskier, and New Jaskier fucking hated witchers.
That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but by the gods he really disliked them. He didn’t particularly want them all to rot in hell, but he wouldn’t oppose it. That train of thought led him to what he considers maybe the best song he had ever written.
Burn Butcher Burn.
Jaskier had spent the majority of his pathetic human lifespan making sure that the moniker was left behind; ensuring that everyone knew that the fucking White Wolf was a savior, a hero, someone who deserved respect and reverence. Bull. Shit.
If he could go back in time and fucking knock himself in the head before he ever walked over to that table with the mean looking brooding witcher, he fucking would.
But alas, he would just have to live with his piss poor decisions.
It was the day of some sort of festival, Jaskier couldn’t really give a fuck one way or another, as long as there was alcohol present; and sure as hell there was. (Maybe it was the festival of some god of alcohol? Or perhaps a god of lust? Because the other patrons of this small tavern were practically eye fucking each other.)
Jaskier sat at a table, old and creaky and probably going to give him splinters, but he couldn’t care less, because he had two lovely maidens beside him, and not a single thought of stupid witchers on his mind.
He was pleasantly buzzed, not so much that he couldn’t control himself, but enough that his body felt light and his smile felt free. He looked around the tavern, seeing all the other patrons having fun, hearing the roar of their conversation, and decided that it was the perfect time to break out his latest hit.
It, surprisingly, had been a fucking sensation in every village and town he stopped in. He wasn’t sure if it was something to do with a hatred of witchers or a hatred of ex’s, but either way people loved it.
“Excuse me, ladies,” He said, smiling at them both as he grabbed his lute. The giggled and moved out of the way.
He stood tall and started strumming. Little by little, the others in the tavern quieted down, almost so low a pin drop could be heard. There were whispers throughout, he could hear bits and pieces of conversations.
“Is that-”
“Oh my gods-”
“-hope he plays-”
He smiled, a real genuine smile, large for the crowd to see.
“How is everyone tonight?” He asked, to which he got a response of shouts. “I’m Jaskier, I hope you all are having a lovely evening, which I plan to make better,” He grinned at the person standing next to him, and played the first chord.
“I hear you’re alive… how disappointing…”
He felt the anger bubbling up inside of him, but pressed it down. He wouldn’t let his emotions get in the way of a performance.
“I’ve also survived. No thanks to you,”
He could hear the crowd around him hissing to the words, probably thinking about their own lost loves, but the sounds were muffled, as if he were underwater. Maybe he had had too much to drink.
“Did I not bring you some glee, Mister, oh, look at me…”
He took a deep breath, steadying himself and willing his shaking fingers to cooperate.
“Now I’ll burn all the memories of you.”
His heart thudded in his chest so hard he thought it would pop out. It wasn’t the performance making him feel like this, he hadn’t felt like this when singing for crowds since he was a child. No, this was pure heartbreak and anger, exacerbated by copious amounts of alcohol.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have been the most beautiful audience. Remember to toss a coin if you can. If anyone needs me, I'll be at the bar.”
He almost laughed to himself. When he wrote this song, that line hadn’t originally been there, but the first time he played it, he said it and it stuck. A nice little callback to his first song, he thinks. He always says it with just the right amount of sarcasm dripping in his tone, and the audience always gets a kick out of it.
He continued the song, and when the final chord was struck the tavern exploded into applause. This feeling was always his favorite part of the performance. Sure, the singing was good too, but knowing that he was appreciated, knowing that at least someone cared about what he did in some way, making those around him happy, it was a high he could never get enough of. (Not to say there were highs he could get enough of; high is high, and he had certainly learned that lesson well enough the past few months.)
He took a deep bow and thanked the audience, instantly going into his next song. Obviously it wasn’t any of his many, many songs about the witcher.
The night passed in a blur (though, a good one. Very much different than most of the other nights that passed him by). It was nearing dawn, and he had been singing for hours. His voice was hoarse and his fingers were near bloody from playing, but still he continued. It was almost as if he couldn’t stop himself.
The music carried him to sunrise, well after almost everyone else had gone back to their own homes. There were a few drunkards still lying about, and two men sitting together in a corner, but besides that it was just him. He let the last few notes ring, and took a breath.
He hated the quiet; it was when he started to think, and that was never a good thing. He glanced around the room again, noticing that the men had left. He hoped they had a good night.
He sat down heavily on a bar stool, putting his face into his palms and scrubbing heavily. He sighed deeply, knowing that he was going to have to get up soon. His feet ached from being on them for hours, his knees were sore from dancing around the room, his spine felt like it was twisted, and his chest felt like there was a rock on it.
Wait. That hadn’t happened before. He might be old, but he had never had trouble breathing. He tried to inhale, and it was like there was something crushing his windpipe. He frantically looked around, as his fingers loosed from the neck of his lute.
He fell from the stool.
☆☆☆
Okay, what the fuck.
Jaskier’s head was pounding and he couldn’t fucking see anything. Whatever he was laying on was rock fucking hard, and oh gods his head was pounding.
The night before was kind of a blur, but so were the nights before that, and the weeks before that, and really just the last year as a whole. After the whole… mountain incident, he had gone off the rails a little bit. There hadn’t been anything else to do honestly- his whole life before that was Geralt and witchers and singing their praises, and like hell he was going to do that again. Any good word about Geralt was never going to leave his fucking lips ever again.
He realized that he couldn’t see because he had his eyes closed, and right now, with the way his head was killing him, he wasn't sure he wanted to open them. He reached his hand out to grab on to the glass of water he kept on the nightstand, but all he felt was rock. What the fuck.
He cracked his eyes open, one at a time, and realized that it doesn’t even matter, because he can barely see anyway. What he did see, or rather, didn’t see, is… concerning, to say the least. Where the hell was he- there was literally nothing around him. No bed, no candles, no tub that he soaked in last night, no windows, no fucking clothes. He felt himself up and down, okay, so at least he had clothes on.
He sat up slowly, his back popping as he went. He held himself up on his arms and hissed in pain. What the fuck; his hands hurt like a bitch. Of course, he’s had nights where he roughed up his fingers from playing too much, but never like this; this felt like his fingertips were torn to shreds. He sat up fully to see if he could get a closer look.
Suddenly, a woosh sounded throughout the room, and he had to close his eyes as it burst into light. He cracked one eye open at a time, his headache still drilling a hole in his skull. He was in a fucking cave. Again, what the fuck.
The rock walls were lined with torches, which, spooky. He hadn’t seen anyone use honest-to-gods torches in about fifteen years. Nowadays, people prefer keeping their fires contained in convenient little glasses.
Right, back on task. He needed to check out what the fuck was going on with his hands. He slowly looked down, almost scared of what he knew he was about to see. As his hands came into view, he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Oh, fuck.
Of course, just like he thought, they were torn to shreds, dry blood still underneath his fingernails. What the fuck had happned last night. He was about to fall back down, maybe try to go back to sleep and hoping this was just a dream, when he heard voices.
“Hello, Jaskier,” One of them greeted, stepping into view.
He looked over at the man; he didn’t seem like anything special. Dressed in fancy clothes, sure, but the wealthy always do that, and this man had the air of someone who didn’t know what not getting his way felt like.
“Who are you?” Jaskier’s voice came out scratchy. Oh gods, what the fuck had happened? In all his time as a bard, Jaskier had never once let his voice get like this; it was his greatest instrument, for even when he didn’t have his lute, he always had his voice. And now it was absolutely shot to hell.
“That’s unimportant,” the other voice says. He looked almost identical to the first man. “What’s important is that we know who you are, and you have information we want.”
“About what?” Jaskier rasped. He didn’t know shit. He could barely even remember the last year. “I don’t know anything.”
“Oh, but you do,” the first voice chuckled, “You are Jaskier the Bard, correct? The Great White Wolf’s barker?”
Jaskier flinched at the words. “I’m not anyone’s anything,” he said lowly, “especially that butchers.”
It hurt him almost, calling the witcher something so hurtful, but everytime he said it a small part of his brain lit up, yes, he deserves it. He hurt you. You can hurt him as much as you want.
“Really? That’s not what we’ve heard,” said the second voice again.
“Well, it’s the truth now. Whatever information you need on the witcher, I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him in years; and even when I did, it’s not like he trusted me with anything.” Jaskier laughed to himself. It was true. In all the years Jaskier and the witcher traveled together, he hadn’t once been told even the name of the witcher. He knew the witcher had brothers (maybe?) and a dad (possibly), and that’s about it.
“Oh, now that can’t be true, Julian,” The second voice cooed. Jaskier flinched at the name. He rarely associated with it anymore, and barely anyone even remembered it.
“This would be much quicker if you just cooperated, Julian. Just tell us what we want to know, and your death will be swift,” The first voice had a sinister smile planted on his face.
Jaskier spit at them. “I would never tell you anything.”
One of the men sighed. “This could have been so easy.”
The men started walking closer to Jaskier, and he backed away as much as he could. Gods, his body hurt. What did they do to him?
Suddenly, the men were practically on top of him, and he was pulled up to sit in a chair. Where had that come from. Whatever, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was being tied to a fucking chair and was too weak to do anything about it.
He had always known that this could happen. Witchers weren’t exactly the most loved group of people on the continent, even with all his praising songs about them. But he at least figured that this would happen when he was still friends with a witcher. Well, not friends, but still the point stands.
His wrists were tied tightly to the wooden chair, almost cutting off the circulation. Please, gods, he thought, don’t let me lose my hands to this.
“Where is the witcher?” The man in front of him demanded.
For once in his life, Jaskier kept his mouth shut.
The man - no, the mage - in front of him suddenly lit his fingertips aflame. Okay, what the actual fuck. Mages couldn’t do that, right? Aren’t there rules about fire magic? (Jaskier might have studied a bit about mages and chaos at Oxenfurt, sue him.)
“Where is the witcher?” The fire mage demanded, dangling his fingers dangerously close to Jaskiers face. Again, Jaskier kept silent.
“Gods, you really don’t want to make this easy on yourself,” The mage sighed condescendingly. “Maybe this will loosen your tongue.”
Suddenly, Jaskiers world was on fire, and he screamed. All he could feel was blinding pain shooting up from the palms of his hands.
“Where is the witcher?” The mage screamed at him, poison dripping from each word.
“I don’t know,” Jaskier cried, unable to keep quiet. “I don’t know. I don’t know-” He kept repeating, hoping for the agony to stop. The burning continued on for what felt like hours, but in reality was probably only seconds.
The second voice spoke up, quietly, obviously hoping not to be heard by Jaskier. But all his senses were in overdrive right now, and he picked up on every word. “Perhaps… Perhaps he truly doesn’t know…”
The fire mage growled, “No, he knows. He just needs a bit more convincing.”
With that, Jaskiers head exploded in pain.
It was like he was reliving every experience he had ever been through with the witcher. Meeting him, going on hunts, nights in the forest, falling in love. The mountain. He came to gasping, hunching over as much as he could.
“Damn it!” The fire mage growled. “This imbecile doesn’t know anything!” He threw a blast of fire, obviously not being able to control his anger.
Jaskier flinched back, hoping to not get burned again. The action just made the fire mage angrier, screaming that Jaskier was useless. As if Jaskier didn’t already know that. The burning pain came back again, as the mage gripped on to his arms. He wasn’t even being questioned; it was pain for the sake of pain.
He screamed again, maybe louder than last time. He could taste blood in his mouth from his torn throat. Fuck.
The mage let go just as suddenly as he grabbed on. And once again, Jaskier was left gasping. He heard the mage growl again. “Let’s go. We’ll come back for more later.” Was the last thing Jaskier heard before his eyes closed.
☆☆☆
Family dinner. Again.
It’s not that Geralt doesn’t enjoy the weekly get-togethers with his family, it’s just… he’s tired. He never used to get tired like this; bone-deep and exhausting. He barely feels like he can keep a conversation going (not that he ever could really, but now it's just that much harder to listen when others talk). He just wants to curl up in bed and sleep.
But, he made a promise, and he’s never going to break one again, not after last time.
It’s been almost a millennia, yet he still remembers the day like it was yesterday, the day that he threw away the only good thing in his life at the time and screwed everything up. He tries not to think about it; he tries not to think about Jaskier, but it's hard. As the years pass, sometimes all he can think about is how Jaskier would feel.
When recording became popular about a hundred years ago, Geralt didn’t leave his room for a week, thinking about what he could have had if Jaskier had been given the chance to record his songs. Gods, he missed the sound of Jaskeirs voice.
Logically, Geralt knows that Jaskier wouldn’t be alive now, even if he hadn’t gone missing after the mountain, even if the mountain had never happened. Jaskier was only human, and they only live, what, two hundred years? (Honestly, Geralt's still not really sure.)
But, maybe, Jaskier and he could’ve gone to the coast, could’ve made up with Yennefer sooner, could’ve figured out a way to extend his life. It’s all what-ifs, and they all make his heart clench.
He sits in his car, hands on the wheel, willing himself to turn the ignition off and just go inside the damn house already. He takes a final deep breath, listening to the rumble of his truck underneath him, and takes the keys out.
He can do this, just like he has for the last century.
He walks up to Vesemir’s house, and before he even gets inside he can hear Lambert and Eskel arguing.
“I’m telling you, you’re fucking wrong!”
“I actually know what I’m talking about, dumbass-”
Geralt walks in, slamming the door behind him, just to get them to stop fucking talking.
“Oh, hey Geralt,” Lambert says, momentarily distracted. “Anyway-”
Geralt tunes them out, walking into the kitchen where he knows he’ll find Vesemir. He can smell the food already, and his mouth is watering. After a week of eating nothing but leftovers from last sunday and microwave meals, he can’t wait for some real fucking food.
“Well don’t just stand there, boy, come in here and chop something,” Vesemir says, gruff as ever.
Ciri looks up from where she was intensely focused on stirring the pot in front of her.
“Dad!” She yelled, running into Geralt’s arms. Despite his witcher strength, he always seems to underestimate how much force Ciri can put behind a hug, and stumbles back for a moment. He smiled, small and warm. It had taken a few decades for Ciri to truly warm up to him, and then a few hundred years for her to start calling him dad.
Everytime he hears the word come out of her mouth, his heart turns to mush.
“Hello, Ciri,” He said, his voice low as always. “What are you doing here?”
They hadn’t seen each other in a while, about forty years give or take. She had been off, traveling the world as she’s wont to do every few centuries. Needless to say, he really missed her.
She seems to know what he’s saying before he even says it. “I missed you too, dad,” she whispered, loud enough for only him to hear. After centuries with witchers, she got really good at making sure she's only heard when she wants to be.
“Anyway,” She said, loud enough for anyone to hear, “I got bored. This century is boring and everyone’s too mean. So I’m taking a break from traveling for a few decades.”
“Are you going to stay here, with Vesemir?” Geralt asked, “or have you found a place nearby?”
They continue their idle conversation, chatting and catching up. Eventually, Eskel and Lambert decide their argument is finished (for now) and wander in. They all sit at the kitchen table, talking about what’s happening in their lives, or if there's anything exciting going on (gods, when did they get so boring?).
It was this moment of peace that was shattered when Yennefer came bursting into the room.
“Did any of you feel that?” Her tone was rushed and harried, a tone which Geralt had barely ever heard her use.
The witchers all sat up straight, like bloodhounds catching a scent, and tried to feel around for whatever Yennefer was talking about.
“What do you mean?” Eskel asked.
“Yeah, I’m not feelin’ anything,” Said Lambert.
“Gods, you’re all useless,” Yennefer huffed, “Ciri, tell me at least you felt it.” she demanded.
“I mean, I felt something, but I just thought it was you…” Ciri admitted quietly.
“Well, I’m telling you, I felt something. Strong. Almost… Slimy…” Yennefer said. “It felt powerful, more powerful than I’ve felt in a long time.”
“Can you find where it came from?” Vesemir asked.
Yennefer scoffed, “Who do you think I am? Of course. I wouldn’t be here unless I could.”
“Well, then,” Vesemir patted his knees and stood, “What are we waiting for?”
The witchers and mages packed into two cars, following Yennefer. Geralt wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but usually when Yennefer had a feeling, it was best to follow her lead.
☆☆☆
Fucking fuck. What the fuck. Where the fuck is he? He has a distinct sense of deja vu, as his head pounds and he wakes up on the hard rock floor.
Last he remembered, he was getting fucking tortured with fire, then he fell asleep. How he fell asleep in such hard conditions, he’s not sure, but he assumes it’s something to do with chaos somehow. He remembers last being tied to a chair, so how did he end up on the ground? Who knows.
At least the torches are still lit, letting him at least see shit. He sits up, feeling more stiff than he has in a while. It feels like he slept for a century, and he could lay back down and sleep some more if he wanted.
Now if only he knew how to get out of this fucking cave.
It should be easy, shouldn’t it? It’s a fucking cave. It's open at one end and closed at the other. But, of course, it’s probably sealed shut with some sort of magic bullshit and he’s going to starve to death.
Okay, he takes a deep breath, let’s not catastrophize. You’re smart, You’re strong. You can find your way out of a fucking cave.
All of a sudden, Jaskier hears a loud rumbling. Oh shit. He hopes the cave isn’t caving in (he laughs to himself at the pun), wouldn’t that be just the way to go. Rotten luck in life and death. He brings his hands over his head, even though he knows it’s useless.
But, instead of dying as he thought, a light shone through a very large hole in the wall. It was different from the firelight of the torches, and his eyes hurt to look at it.
He lays back on the ground, unable to sit up any longer. He hears voices, but his head is muffled, and he can’t make anything out.
He looks up and sees two figures walking towards him. Great, the mages are back. He tries to pull himself up, tries to at least be able to defend himself in some way.
But, when his eyes adjust to the harsh light of the sun, it’s not the mages walking towards him.
