Work Text:
I can hear the cannons calling
As though across a dream
And I can smell the smoke of hell
In every stitch and seam
~
Every day since Geralt had left him on the mountain, Jaskier had been off kilter. He had still performed and fucked his way across the continent but it hadn’t felt right and it pissed him off more than anything. It was, ultimately, pathetic. So he turned it to his advantage and wrote song after song about how much he hated Geralt now, though he isn’t sure who he was fooling.
He thought that he finally had his head on straight as the sandpiper, like he had found a purpose to his restlessness. And then Yennefer had come crashing back into his life and he felt as if she had kicked him into the past and he was right back where he had started. Except this time, he didn’t get to adjust because next thing he knew he was kidnapped and tortured, then arrested and imprisoned, then saved and dragged halfway across the continent to a place he had once thought he could call home.
Which brought him to here, now, wandering the halls of Kaer Morhen trying to work out where it all went wrong. And he wanted his lute - not that he could play it with the burns still blistering his ginger tips.
Since he had left home, all he truly had was his music, his lute and his ability to perform and now without that-
He didn’t feel like he belonged, at Kaer Morhen, like he wasn’t needed - everyone there had a role to play, and the only role he could play, the entertainer, had been ripped away from him. He was fading away. Maybe the only thing that had been keeping him here was the audience - in the same way a tree would fall in a forest, would he cease to exist if the audience could no longer see him?
He tried to write. He wanted to write something jaunty, something that would keep spirits high, but every word that bleed from his damaged body was a stain on the page, and every time he tried to sing it, it sounded like a cry for something he didn’t want to name.
Part of him still couldn’t believe he agreed to any of this, couldn’t believe that he went back on every promise he made to himself just because Geralt had asked. It was pathetic. A sick, twisted part of him wished they were still at war.
~~~
And like flowers, the bodies tumble
Around this muddied lot
I cannot hear them scream
"Forget me not"
~
It was working slowly into spring, and normally the keep would be mostly empty, but it seemed that the world would have to cope a few more weeks with a few less witchers. Jaskier wasn’t sure they had spent this long together in… who knows how long, they were all so old it was hard to keep track of the time. It seemed to be doing them good, though: being surrounded by people who understood what they went through, both here and on the path.
He had once told Yennefer that as an artist, it was his job to put himself in other people’s shoes, and he was good at it, he was good at reading people, even from a distance. Which is handy because that’s all he really does nowadays.
Jaskier had taken up his seat hours ago, on the ledge of his window, on leg on either side, as he watched idly. Geralt was training Ciri again, Yennefer watching from the side, seeming to give pointers. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, could barely even make out their faces, all he could see was the way they were moving, almost as one but never quite together, like they were scared of getting too close, of getting hurt, Jaskier could almost hear them saying, begging “I am here, please, I am here don’t forget me” and he could feel them calling back “I won’t, you're here, please do the same for me.”
~~~
Your voice it carries over
The hubbub and the hum
And it paints the sky and circles high
Like the beating of a drum
~
Jaskier was almost certain he was losing his mind. This was not a new feeling - living his life had led him to see some truly horrifying things, things he shouldn’t have come back from, but he did. Every time. But he’s only human and there’s only so many times he can break before the pieces are too small to put back together, so small that they get lost and he loses part of himself.
He had lost his patience. He was restless, irritable and he just wanted his fucking lute. Normally he would play his old songs, finding comfort in something that comes so naturally, however now he wants to play his new song, one that has been writing itself.
Not that he would be able to play it though, not physically. His hands were still ruined, and he still wakes up screaming, can feel his hands burning like it had just happened. He wishes he could lose this part of himself instead.
All of the days are blurring into one at sickening speeds, but, maybe three weeks after everything had happened, everyone else seemed to be putting themselves back together, along with the keep.
They had started in the hall, slowly cleared the rubble and assessed the damages and now had one long table. Despite its size, they all fitted comfortably around one end and spent most evenings there.
It would be so easy for everyone to be lost, their sadness and anger echoing around the too-empty room, for the grief to sit where their family once had, but instead it was filled with joy, with laughter, enough that it bounced off the walls and danced in the air above him, and the air around his head felt so light that he could drift further and further from reality, like everything fell away around him and he plummeted, down, down, down…
Until he heard a voice, deep and rumbling, rhythmic like a drum and it shocks him enough that Jaskier’s heart can almost beat normally again.
“Jaskier? Take a breath.” Geralt says, so close he can feel the vibrations, “You’re safe here.”
Jaskier tries not to shake his head.
~~~
You will scream "I won’t forget you"
But I’ll cover my cold ears
It cannot be a lie
If no-one hears
~
He was mostly left alone, whether because he wasn’t wanted here or because no one knew what to say to him, or they thought he needed time, he didn’t know. What he did know is that Geralt must have learned his stubbornness from Vesemir because Vesemir had made it a point to talk to Jaskier every single day, even after Jaskier had told him, very directly, to fuck off. He hadn’t really meant to.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what-”
“You don’t have to apologise. I can see how much you are struggling. I can see how difficult this all is for you.”
“I’m- I’m fine. I’ve been through worse than that.”
“I don’t doubt it, Jaskier, but something’s got to give. There’s a lot of people who won't forgive themselves if it's you. You need to find a way to handle this. Even though you didn’t fight, physically, you fought in every other way that matters. It still will take a toll.”
He was silent for a long time, legs swinging on the window ledge, “I know. I know that I played a big part in leading that… that firefucker here, I played a big part in endangering you and your family. I have hurt-” he looked at Vesemir, “I have hurt so many people.”
“Jaskier, you are human. Your body was not made to endure what you did, you would never have been expected to endure that, not for as long as you did and certainly not for any longer. Nobody blames you for anything that has happened, least of all me.”
His words fell on deaf ears. He didn’t want to believe the truth that laced each one.
“You are not forgotten, Jaskier.”
~~~
'Cause although you say good day to me
I know I don’t belong
~
Jaskier woke up to a bone deep sense of ill ease trying to claw its way out of his body: his hands shook, his heart raced, and he could not stop fidgeting, legs bouncing whilst he ate breakfast, whilst he tried to sit and read, until he dropped his book and bolted from the room.
An hour later he had walked the border of Kaer Morhen twice and was well into his third lap before he started to slow down. There was a dull ache in his calves, his shoes had started to pinch and Jaskier found startling comfort in the pain.
“Geralt must have rubbed off on me - I fear I am not long for this place.” He said idly to a bird that had been following him, “Not that I’m going to die. I don’t think I'm going to die. No, I just feel rather restless, having been in one place for so long. Somewhere I don’t belong.”
He pondered briefly on whether he should incorporate some rhyming into this new song, but the thought was quickly drowned out, the idea of getting out of here, the idea of getting out of the keep, off of the mountain, hell, maybe off the continent - it was too enticing.
He took another lap.
~~~
And although you hold my hand and say
"I love you," you are wrong
Because love does not exist here
In this garden, there’s no feeling
And you say the words so often
That I barely know the meaning
~
As it turns out, walking around one place meant that Jaskier had discovered some lovely little hideaways. This one was his favourite - at the junction of two crumbling walls was an alcove, overshadowed by deep green bushes, ivy creeping up the brick work and moss covering a conveniently chair-shaped stone. There was enough light to write, enough shade that he wouldn't burn, and enough quiet for him to iron out some of the more elaborate metaphors he was working on.
“Jaskier? Are you in here?”
He entertained the idea of hiding from Yennefer, just briefly. And then he remembered that she wouldn't ask a question she didn’t already know the answer to, so saved himself the embarrassment and just closed his notebook.
“You’ve been here a lot. How’s the song coming along.”
“Slowly. What can I do you for, Yennefer?”
“I was hoping you would do me a favour.” She said, her voice business like, as it had been when they met years ago, but her eyes, the way her hand found his, it was a comfort they had only recently reached that made him both melt and freeze-up simultaneously.
“Stop hiding, Jaskier.” She says with such sudden intensity that he can only blink in shock, “You need to talk to someone - I don’t care if it’s me, if it’s Geralt, or if it’s a damned tree, but you need to talk to someone.”
“Does my notebook count?” He tries to joke, but Yennefer doesn’t seem to be in a joking mood.
“I can see you falling apart, and it’s no wonder. I don’t think you have even processed how much you have to deal with, not least the fact that you risked your life every single day to smuggle people to safety. That was all you, Jaskier, there’s no words to even describe the impact you had, but it’s too much for you to do alone.”
“But I did it. I have managed alone before, and I can do it again.”
“No, I don't think you have been managing. You’ve been hiding. You cannot stay hidden because you are not alone.”
~~~
And when all the flowers are rotten
And all the cannons shot
I’ll scream, but you won’t hear
"Forget me not"
And in years to come, you’ll wander
To the place up on our hill
And then you’ll cry to our painted sky
"I loved him then, I love him still"
And you’ll strew some sage and lilies
And roses where I rot
~
He can't say exactly what it was, but something Yen said had struck a nerve. He had to get out of Kaer Morhen. He was watching everyone around him move forwards, trying to coax him along with them, but he’s so lost, every time he even thinks about taking a step forwards, he’s ripped two steps back, his mind regurgitating the most violent memories it can find on a loop.
His fingers are still blistered and scabbed. One of them splits open as he packs his bags, but he pays it no mind. He looks around the room he had been staying in, as if he had anything to forget. All he had was a few sets of clothes and a notebook. He felt so exposed without his lute.
Geralt had left a few days ago, Ciri and Yen in tow, with a promise that he would be back within the week. Jaskier planned to be gone by then, hopefully closer to the mountain than here. He isn't sure what he plans to do when he gets there, perhaps head to the coast, but that was a bridge he would burn when he got to it.
“Of all the flowers you picked, I knew you would forget forget-me-nots…”
He finishes singing the last line as he ties his pack shut and pulls the door open.
Geralt is standing on the other side, one hand raised to knock. He doesn't look at all surprised that Jaskier is about to leave.
“I thought I might have missed you. You’re heading back to Caingorn, it’s a long way and you’ll need coin. Thought this might help,” he said, raising his other hand now which was- oh. A new lute.
“I don’t-”
“I understand that you want to leave, Jaskier. I’m not going to stop you, I just ask that you return once you’ve done what you need to do.”
He cannot comprehend what Geralt is saying - he wants to hear it as goodbye, as Geralt moving on from him and forgetting him, but he knows that Geralt is refusing to forget him, the stubborn bastard. “I will, Geralt. Thank you.” He says, reaching gingerly to take the lute from Geralt's still outstretched hand.
Geralt catches his wrist, turns his hand so the palm faces up and looks at the shredded skin, marred with burns and at the absolutely devastated look on Geralt's face he can feel his resolve crumbling.
“Let me dress your hands before you go? You won't be able to play if they get any worse.”
His thumb is rubbing gently, absently over Jaskier’s pulse - surely he must feel it jump - and Jaskier breaks down. He isn't sure that he had cried since… he’s not even sure when but he can’t seem to stop now, legs giving out beneath him as his body shakes with the force of it. The only thing that stops him from hitting the floor is Geralt, one arm wrapped securely around his waist, the other cradling the back of his head as they fall to the floor together, the setting sun painting their skin in warmth.