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Jaskier sinks to the ground, tears streaming down his face.
“No,” he whispers. “No-no-no-no! Geralt!”
Geralt doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t answer. He’s made of fucking stone. He’s a majestic wolf, mid-pounce, maw open in an angry snarl, a second away from ripping out someone’s throat. Geralt is a statue. In the woods.
The mage looks down at Jaskier’s trembling form. The bard supposes he’s pathetic like this.
“A fitting image, isn’t it?” the sorcerer says. His voice cuts through Jaskier’s teary haze. He howls, diving for the mage, but the man is gone in a portal, and Jaskier is left with nothing but his mind, so full with emptiness.
He cries, curled up against Geralt’s statue.
~*~
“Uhm,” Jaskier says, staring at the wolf – at Geralt. “So, I dunno if you can hear me, but I want you to know that I’m going to try and find a cure. For the curse. I’m not going to leave you, I promise, but I won’t find any answers here, so I guess I have to go. I’m, euh, I’m gonna take Roach, I hope you don’t mind. But the woods are the wrong place for a horse. Maybe I can find one of your brothers, or your terrifying witch girlfriend. Or Mousesack.”
He sighs.
“This is stupid. I’m talking to a statue. No offense, Geralt.”
The witcher doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. And it’s Jaskier’s fault. He should have just stayed back, like Geralt had said. But instead, he’d gone and ruined the fight.
“I’m going to be back. Don’t worry about me.”
Jaskier turns his back to the stone wolf, but he can’t keep from glancing over his shoulder once or twice, as if Geralt would turn back into a man if he just wished hard enough.
But Geralt doesn’t, and suddenly Jaskier is very alone.
~*~
“Hey, Geralt. So, I didn’t find a solution for your problem yet, sorry. The mage has disappeared, I don’t know where to. Your witch, too. Nobody has seen her for ages. Are you sure you didn’t offend her last time you two met? She did look quite thunderous when she left that morning. But then again, she always looks murderous.”
Jaskier sighs. The tears are threatening to spill over again. He’s always been an ugly crier, and he cries so easily when he’s overwhelmed.
“I’m so sorry, Geralt. It’s all my fault, you know?”
He sits down next to the wolf’s feet, still afraid to touch the statue. Geralt hasn’t moved since Jaskier’s departure. The bard lets the tears fall.
~*~
“Do you need to eat? I have no idea whether you can even hear me. I just keep talking to a stone statue that once was my very best friend. You still are, you know? You’ll always be my best friend.”
Jaskier brought some food this time, sitting down across from the wolf, looking at him gently.
“I took your stuff and stored it in my apartment in Oxenfurt. Nobody will look for a witcher’s tools in the rooms of an on-off poetry professor. Essi says I’m being weird about your stuff, but she doesn’t understand.
“A guy tried to sell me potions for depetrification. I told him where he could stuff them. He wasn’t very amused by my comment, so now I need to stay clear of Vizima for a couple of years. That’s not going to be a problem with you, right?”
Geralt doesn’t answer. Jaskier didn’t expect him to.
~*~
“Hey! Pankratz!”
Jaskier looks up from where he’s sorting out his notes for his next lecture – contemporary poetry – and spots his friend Essi at the door.
“Daven! What are you doing here?”
Essi smiles and draws him into a hug.
“You’re getting old, Pankratz. It’s time for our annual bard meeting.”
Jaskier lets himself fall into her arms, holding on tightly.
“You know I can’t.”
“Julek … ” Essi’s eyes are full of pity. Jaskier doesn’t want pity. “It’s been two years now. Don’t you think it’s time to let go? Your witcher is dead.”
“He’s not dead, Essi!” Jaskier snaps, surprised by the heat curling in his stomach. “He’s not!”
“That’s what I mean,” Essi says kindly. “You need to get back on your feet. Find a new muse.”
“I’m fine.”
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
He’s fine.
“Jaskier … ”
Jaskier packs his last notes and strolls past Essi.
“Tell Valdo and Pris I said hi. I won’t make it to the meeting.”
He will sit next to a wolf made of stone, telling him about his year, and then he’ll empty a whole bottle of dwarven vodka and cry himself to sleep at Geralt’s feet.
~*~
“ Okay, so Demawend is dead, did you know that? Instead, his daughter’s on the throne, and the poor girl is in over her head. The council doesn’t take her seriously, says she’s too fair a lady for governing a country. I’m not sure if she’ll put their heads on spikes, or if she’ll draw and quarter them first …
“Shani is now a doctor. I saw her last winter in Oxenfurt. I know you had an affair with her, can’t hide that from me, old womanizer. She’s looking into your curse, but I don’t think medicine can help with all this. ”
Jaskier takes another swig of his wine, his head falling against Geralt’s flank.
“I’m still not sure if you can hear me, or if I’m talking to stone right now.”
Silence.
“Geralt? I’m going to tell you a secret now.”
Silence.
“I miss you, witcher. I miss you so much.”
The silence is interrupted by Jaskier’s sobbing.
~*~
Jaskier tries to get rid of the moss and grasses that cover Geralt’s surface, but the plants cling on hard, finding a lot of space to grow in the rough surface of the fur. Slowly, the moss turns the wolf shape into something more similar to a bear. It bugs Jaskier. A lot.
“I saw Yennefer. She told me to fuck off. Didn’t even let me talk to her about what happened to you.”
There’s a spot behind Geralt’s ear that Jaskier is struggling to clean. He digs his little metal tool in, and hopes he doesn’t hurt the witcher by scrubbing against the stone.
“ Come back to me, Geralt. Please. I don’t know what to do.”
~*~
He meets the witcher on his way to Geralt. He’s huge, and wide, and utterly terrifying from where he sits in the furthest corner of the tavern, nursing his ale, glaring at the townsfolk that keeps sending him nervous glances. But Jaskier is used to a witcher’s resting scary face, and he decides this witcher’s glare looks a little lost.
The witcher turns his head to look at Jaskier when he seats himself across from him. An angry scar claws down his face, making him look even meaner up close.
“You look lonely,” Jaskier says. The witcher eyes him with curiousity and confusion.
“You have a contract?”
Jaskier sighs. He’s been doing this a lot.
“Yes, and no.”
The witcher frowns. “What kind of answer is that? You need me to kill a monster or not?”
“I don’t need you to kill a monster. But I am in need of a witcher. A wolf witcher, to be precise.”
The witcher gestures towards his medallion, and sure enough, it shows a snarling wolf, very similar to Geralt’s.
“Brilliant. It’s about Geralt.”
“You know Geralt?” the witcher says, eyes narrowing. Jaskier rolls his eyes. Of course Geralt hadn’t mentioned him to his brothers.
“Jaskier,” he says, insinuating a bow. “Master bard and professor of Oxenfurt.”
Recognition floods the witcher’s yellow eyes.
“You’re the one who wrote the coin song.”
“Among at least twenty other songs, but yes.”
The witcher empties his tankard, and offers a tiny smile. It can barely count, but it makes him look a lot friendlier, Jaskier thinks.
“I’m Eskel. Where’s Geralt?”
“That’s what I need a witcher for,” Jaskier explains. “He’s been cursed.”
~*~
“That’s him?” Eskel asks. He’s looking at Geralt’s statue sceptically.
Jaskier nods. The moss has grown even further, almost entirely concealing Geralt from the outside world.
“Hi Geralt,” he says, moving to move his hands over the covered green surface.
“He can hear us?” Eskel says, surprised. His eyes haven’t left Geralt’s form yet. Jaskier shrugs.
“I don’t really know. I just keep talking to him, just like I used to. I’d hate to think he’s aware and thinks I wouldn’t talk to him. It’s probably stupid.”
“No,” Eskel replies quietly. “No, it’s not. Hey Geralt, old sod. You don’t think you can hide from chores like this, do you? Vesemir’s been worried, even though the old man would never admit it. Glad to know you’re still around.”
“ Any idea on how to lift the curse?” Jaskier asks. Eskel shakes his head.
“This place reeks of magic, but I don’t know how to remove it. I’ll look into it this winter, though.”
Jaskier busies himself with picking off the moss on Geralt’s ears. He aches all over, though the pain isn’t physical.
~*~
“Your child surprise turned five a month ago. I was at her name day celebration. I’m sure you’d love her if you two met. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you go all soft and gentle when there’s kids around. I saw you give the urchins in Tretogor some of your rations a couple years back. You’re a big old softie, Geralt. Can’t hide that from me.”
Jaskier can’t keep the fond tone from his voice, but he doesn’t really mind.
“Roach is getting old. I’m thinking about letting Eskel take her up to Kaer Morhen this year. So she can live out her last days in peace. I hope you don’t mind too much. We’ll find a new Roach for you once you’re back to your old self, what do you say?”
Of course there is no answer. Jaskier bites back a sob. His father was right, he’s a wuss.
~*~
Snow is falling, covering Geralt in a white blanket.
“Cirilla turned twelve this year. I thought you should know. Eskel talked to me, I think he visited last month? Brought the other brother, too. Lambert. They haven’t found a solution yet. Yennefer still won’t talk to me.
“There’s talk, you know. About Nilfgaard. There’s rumours. About ‘pure blood’, about war. There’s pogroms in Redania. I heard about dwarves returning to Mahakam, and the elves fear for their lives. ”
He sits back against Geralt, taking another swig of vodka.
“Happy Yule, Geralt. I’m sorry I’m such a let-down.”
~*~
Whispers follow Jaskier wherever he goes. For the most part, he doesn’t mind. He’s a professor, a bard famous all around the continent. He’s not the youngest man anymore, but he still doesn’t look his age.
“He’s a quiet sort. And he used to be so different.”
“I heard he’d had a falling out with the Countess de Stael. That’s why he doesn’t visit her anymore.”
“Did you know he used to be a wild young student? They say he’s caused more mischief than all other students combined.”
“What? Never. His father died, and now he keeps hiding from his viscount duties.”
“He’s a viscount? Why would he run after a witcher then?”
“I heard the witcher died.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He so did. There was a lot of blood involved, I know it for sure.”
“Why did he care that much about the mutant anyway?”
“Beats me.”
Jaskier lets them gossip. Melitele knows he was spreading rumours when he was their age. He doesn’t have the strength to debunk any of them. Last he listened, he’d been killed in Sodden, and a doppler had taken over his post as professor.
~*~
Jaskier finds a grey hair one morning, when looking in the mirror. He’s mid-forties now, the North is still in war with Nilfgaard, Cirilla is still missing, and he still hasn’t found a way to break Geralt’s curse.
The grey hairs start multiplying shortly after that. Jaskier stares at his mirror and decides to stop pulling them out. Maybe being a silver fox has its own charme.
He grows a neatly groomed beard.
~*~
“I love you,” Jaskier says, drunk out of his mind, gesturing vaguely at the stars, his eyes having difficulties locking on Geralt’s dark shape.
“Is that okay?”
Geralt doesn’t answer.
~*~
In the end, he meets Cirilla by accident. He’s on his way to see Geralt, as every year, when two young men, barely older than Jaskier was when he decided to follow a witcher to the edge of the world, stand in his way, looking at him with dark intent.
“Gentlemen,” Jaskier starts, raising his hands. If there’s any way he’s going to get out of a robbery, it’s the silver tongue he hasn’t had to use for a long time now.
“Fancy shirt,” the one man – up closer he’s actually even younger than Jaskier thought – says. “Falka, do you think I’d look good in such a shirt?”
There’s movement behind Jaskier, and even though a tiny voice in his head screams at him not to turn around, he does.
Cirilla has grown into a young woman, standing tall and proud, a deep scar on her cheek displayed to scare travellers. Jaskier doesn’t recognise her at first. It’s the princess who speaks first.
“It’s you,” she breathes. “Dandelion.”
That’s when he realises.
“Hello, my dear,” Jaskier says quietly. “It’s nice to see you’re doing well for yourself. Though I’d rather appreciate you didn’t take my belongings from me.”
“Ye know that old man?” the second boy, who hasn’t spoken before, says. Jaskier bristles at the words. He definitely doesn’t look that old yet.
“He’s someone from my home,” Cirilla says. She looks at him strangely, as if contemplating something.
“Where are you headed, Dandelion?”
Jaskier swallows.
“To see an old friend of mine,” he says. “Catch him up on what he’s missed.”
“I’m coming with you. Giselher, this one’s under my protection. I’ll catch up with you at some point, so don’t wait up,” she yells, grabbing the reins of a horse, and falling into step next to Jaskier.
“So,” Cirilla says once they’re out of earshot, “who’s that friend?”
“Remember when I told you about your destiny? About the cursed witcher?”
“That’s a fairytale.”
“It’s real,” Jaskier says. “And I haven’t found a way to undo the curse yet.”
Cirilla stops walking, her eyes widening.
“You’re telling me that your witcher friend has been cursed to be a statue for almost two decades?”
Jaskier shrugs.
“We’re finding a cure.”
“Believe me, princess, I tried.”
“Well, I haven’t yet.”
The bard smiles a little at her determined expression.
“You don’t even know him.”
Cirilla gives him an odd look.
“I know you, though. You kept visiting, telling me those heroic stories about this man who saved the helpless. You told me I was destined to be his daughter, that I was born for great things. You taught me how to play the lute, and how to cheat at cards. You showed me how to politely insult someone. You care about him, so I’ll do my best to help him find back to you.”
Jaskier can’t stop the tears from falling.
“You’re a treasure, Lady Cirilla,” he whispers.
“Please,” she says, a smile on her lips, “just Ciri.”
~*~
“Hey, Geralt,” Jaskier says when they reach the statue. “I’ve brought someone you should meet.”
Ciri is quiet as she steps forward and regards the wolf.
“Hello, Geralt. I’m your destiny, and you’re mine, apparently . I’ve never met a witcher before, but Dandelion told me a lot about you. Mostly good things, don’t worry.”
She chuckles, as if a little uncomfortable. Jaskier doesn’t blame her.
“So what is it you do when you … catch up?” Ciri asks, raising an eyebrow.
Jaskier shrugs.
“I get drunk, mostly. You want to join?”
Ciri gracefully lowers herself to the ground next to Geralt and grins.
“Sure, why not?”
~*~
He doesn’t know what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the emptiness inside. Jaskier, unsteady on his feet, gets up and walks to stand in front of the wolf. Ciri giggles a little, and sways from where she’s seated at the side.
Jaskier grins back at her and then pecks the wolf’s nose. The surface is mossy, and tastes green . Jaskier really hopes that the real Geralt doesn’t taste like that. He hopes the real Geralt tastes good.
He thinks that maybe something’s changing, but he’s too drunk to really care. He takes another swig, and launches into a very exaggerated story of how Geralt once slew a manticore. At least Jaskier thinks it was a manticore. The vodka is making everything fuzzy.
~*~
Jaskier wakes up to the worst hangover he’s had up to date. His body seems very keen on reminding him that he isn’t seventeen anymore, and that he should take care of it. Jaskier groans as the hammering in his head multiplies.
“Easy,” a deep voice next to him says, a large hand pushing him back into the pillows. They’re big, and soft, and very much not what he remembers being surrounded by. Not that Jaskier remembers much.
“Hngh, Geralt, lemme sleep.”
And that’s when he realises something is very, very different from when he went to see Geralt last night.
He shoots up, surprising the witcher with the movement, who looks at him with startled eyes. Jaskier’s stomach churns, and only Geralt’s quick reflexes save him from puking all over himself.
“Hm,” Geralt says, gently rubbing Jaskier’s back as he heaves, tears spilling down his face.
When his stomach is finally empty, Jaskier lies back against the pillows, the witcher handing him a towell to wipe his mouth.
“Cup of water?”
Jaskier nods, thinking he must look so pathetic.
Geralt returns with a cup of water, watching with a frown as Jaskier empties it in slow sips.
“Where’s Ciri?” the bard finally asks.
“Out in the stable with her horse.”
Jaskier sighs.
“I’m sorry about Roach.”
“You gave her to Eskel to return to Kaer Morhen. No need to be sorry.”
“Your things – ”
“Are at your place in Oxenfurt. I know, Jaskier. It’s okay. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier stubbornly continues. “I should have found a cure sooner, I should have worked harder, I should have stood up against Yennefer and demanded her help, I should’ve – ”
Geralt’s growl interrupts his pitiful apology.
“You tried,” the witcher says. “You tried, and you kept trying, and every year you made sure to visit me at least once. I was lonely without you, Jaskier. The thought that’d you return to me made all of this more bearable.”
“Geralt … ,” Jaskier whispers.
“I’m here, Jask. I’m here because you saved me.”
“Twenty years – ”
“Is a long time,” Geralt interjects again, taking Jaskier’s hand in his. The bard stares at him in shock.
“And I’m glad it won’t be another twenty.”
Geralt stands, and Jaskier panics, his hand reaching out and grasping Geralt’s, tugging weakly. The witcher sits back down, and lets Jaskier keep the hand.
“I’m not going anywhere. I just wanted to see if there’s some food in the kitchen for you.”
At the mention of food Jaskier’s stomach makes a weird gurgling noise. The bard pales and shakes his head. Geralt frowns, but stays seated.
“ So,” Jaskier says, trying to fight the headache. “You remember everything.”
“I do.”
“Euhm … I,” Jaskier begins, but stops. What’s he going to say? What if Geralt hates him for it? What if Geralt pities him?
“I know, Jaskier. I love you, too.”
There’s that smile, as rare as rain in Zerrikania, just as blinding as the sun. Jaskier wants to bask in it forever, to never lose Geralt’s smile. So of course he has to ruin it.
“I’ve changed,” he says quietly. “I’m nearly fifty years old now.”
He gestures towards the grey strands in his hair.
“I won’t be able to follow you on the Path. I won’t be of any use to you.”
He sighs. “I’m not even very pretty anymore.”
There’s a wounded noise next to him, and then Geralt leans forward and gently presses his lips to Jaskier’s. He’s pretty sure his mouth tastes absolutely disgusting, even after the cup of water, but Geralt doesn’t seem to care. It’s over much to soon.
“You won’t have to,” the witcher says when they break apart.
“Are you suggesting … ?” Jaskier can’t even form his thought into a sentence.
Geralt smirks.
“There’s this vineyard in Toussaint,” he says. “The winters are mild, and the summers not too hot. There’s enough monsters for me to have steady income in contracts, and people always like entertainment. Not to forget the wine we’ll grow.”
“You’ve thought this through,” Jaskier realises. Geralt smiles.
“I’ve had two decades to think.”
“Geralt?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
~*~
When Ciri comes back from checking on Kelpie, it’s to Dandelion and the witcher – Geralt – snogging in Dandelion’s bed. She shakes her head at them, and turns to pay for her own room. It’s probably best if she isn’t around when those two start making up for lost time. She opts for a room as far from theirs as possible. She needs some sleep, after the wild ride she had to get Jaskier and Geralt both to a town.
Ciri smiles to herself as she slips out of her red vest, and her shirt, her tight leather trousers. As much as she loved being a Rat, maybe it’s time to move on. Dandelion mentioned a witch. Perhaps she’ll be amiable to teaching her some tricks to control her magic. Mistle always said she ought to learn how to keep it in check.
She ends up having to hide underneath her pillow to keep from hearing the sounds from Geralt and Dandelion’s room. She’s pretty sure they won’t be welcome in this inn for a while from now.
~*~
“Fuck,” Jaskier pants, gasping for air. “Fuck, Geralt.”
“Hmm,” Geralt says, a self-satisfied smirk on his lip as he moves up the bed to pull Jaskier into a hug and arrange the blanket around them. Jaskier feels worn out, content, and loved. He feels better than he has in decades.
Geralt kisses him behind his ear and Jaskier hums in approval, before snuggling back against the witcher.
They lie in peaceful silence for a while, before Jaskier suddenly says, “We’re getting you a new Roach first thing when we come across a city.”
“Best breeds are in Vizima which you are still banned from, if I recall,” Geralt says drily. Jaskier turns and presses his icy feet against Geralt’s bare skin in return. The witcher hisses, but doesn’t let go.
“You’re a brat,” he says.
“I’m fourty-eight years old, witcher.”
“Still a brat.”
“Your brat,” Jaskier relents with a fond smile.
“Mine,” Geralt says firmly.
They fall asleep quickly after that, in a lovers’ embrace, for once entirely content with the world.