Chapter Text
The call of sleep weighed heavily against Jaskier. It pulled on his legs like he was tied to an anchor and dropped into the ocean. Jaskier felt surprised he remained on two feet when every second, every rung of the anchor’s chain threatened to pull him overboard. Yet he wasn’t on a boat. He was in the snow, standing in front of a massive fire. And he hurt.
Why?
Jaskier rubbed at his eyes, deciding that it didn’t matter how he got there. Stranger things had happened to him, and he was too tired to care. His eyelids grew more weighted by the moment. Perhaps a night’s rest would ease his pain. He sighed and looked beside him.
“Geralt…” Jaskier said, relieved and instantly comforted by the presence of his friend. “Are you trying to catch a chill? No? Perhaps then you are determined to destroy yet another pair of my boots. These were not made for the snow. I must insist we find an inn to spend the night. Maybe there you can tell me what, in Melitele’s good name, we are doing out here and why it feels like I’ve been trampled by Roach.”
The witcher didn’t reply. He continued to stare at the pyre, jaw set and fists clenched. Jaskier spied blood in the divots of his fingernails. “So you’re ignoring me, now, Geralt. I see.”
Jaskier stepped in front of Geralt. Yennefer stood beside him, also looking into the flame. The fire reflected within both of their eyes. They took no note of the bard, even after he made profane gestures at them. It felt as though they were staring right through him. “Hey! Hey! Look at me. I’m talking to you!”
They did not look at him. They did not even roll their eyes or make a huff of annoyance and tell him to quiet down. Jaskier gasped, and a chill went down his spine. Could they not see him?
That’s when he realized that, besides pain and exhaustion, he did not feel the snow at his feet or the bite of winter winds. The snowflakes did not catch on his eyelashes, and the fabric of his blouse did not scratch against his skin. Jaskier felt nothing.
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was weak. He took a step closer. The snow remained silent underfoot; it did not crunch under his boot. “Geralt, please say something.”
The witcher blinked but showed no indications of responding to Jaskier.
“Yennefer. Is this some prank? I’m right here!”
The fire popped behind him. Several of the logs collapsed, forming a pile of charcoal. The rest of the pyre – it must have been a pyre – collapsed under its weight. A flurry of sparks took to the sky, though it was too cold for them to last. Only the smoke managed to break through the falling snow.
Jaskier turned to look. He may as well investigate what Geralt and Yennefer were so transfixed by. A fire, thought Jaskier sarcastically. What was so special about it? Though the shape of it indicated it was a pyre – not just any pyre, a funeral pyre.
Who died?
The bard stepped closer. The heat, just like the cold, did not bother him. Neither did the smoke. Jaskier extended his hand and caressed the flame. It passed through his fingers without harming him. His eyes tracked down to see a smoldering collection of bones. Little else remained, but a ring Jaskier was certain belonged to him.
“Oh!” Jaskier jumped back, startled, not just by the flame but by his subsequent realization. He gasped and tried to suck in deep breaths but ultimately found himself hyperventilating. Images flooded back to him, which did no wonders to ease his panic. “The beach… and there was a spirit… and Geralt-”
Jaskier looked back to Geralt. “Okay, and… oh…”
He understood. Jaskier understood everything.
“I don’t regret it. None of it. I would do it again and again for you, Geralt.”
The bard touched his sternum and noticed the blood that flowed in a continuous stream over his hand. His eyes widened; he couldn’t look away. Gods, it was everywhere. The blood dripped over the snow and trickled down to his elbow. It poured from the wound on his torso.
Pain.
Jaskier screamed, clutching at his head. Everything about his existence burned as if someone had taken a flame to his skin and filled his lungs with smoke. Yet he felt heavy, weighted down by the anchor, submerged now, clawing desperately for the surface. Water filled his lungs, burning, burning. He felt so hopeless, as if he would never see the light of spring again. Someone had drowned out the hope in him. He bled openly in the snow.
“Geralt…” he whimpered, still holding his head.
“I know. And-” Geralt swallowed heavily, “I love you, too.”
“You love me?”
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”
“What? No. That didn’t- that hasn’t happened.” Jaskier’s mind reeled with the continuation of memories flooding back to him. It was as though the last few weeks of his life were hidden from him. He almost didn’t want to remember. What even was the truth? Someone had been tampering with his thoughts, providing him ‘insights’ on Geralt’s affections for Jaskier. No, no. It wasn’t real.
“None of this is real,” said Jaskier. He laughed at his own genius. He tried grabbing at the snow only to find his hands passed through it. “This is a dream. Wake up! Geralt needs me; I have to wake up!”
He clambered to his feet, tripping over his boots as he rushed to Geralt. Jaskier reached for the witcher. Somehow he expected to find the warmth and sturdiness he always did, but like the fire and snow, Jaskier passed through him. He fell forward, ghosting through Geralt entirely, ending up on his hands and knees.
“No, no… Why am I not waking up? This cannot be.”
“Of all the shit you could have dug-” Geralt’s voice snarled at him—another memory, so incredibly close to another. Jaskier had a hard time differentiating between the two. “Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it!
“Well, that’s a bit unfair,” Jaskier found himself saying. He stopped. For a moment, it felt like he had been tucked into fiction. He looked back to see the fire had died already. Nothing made sense. “What is happening to me?”
“What now?” asked Yennefer. Her sudden question caught Jaskier’s attention. She wasn’t talking to him, Jaskier realized. She was facing Geralt. The wind pushed her hair across her face, but Jaskier could still see her concern.
Geralt replied solemnly, “We do as we have always done.”
“What? No, I’m still here!” Jaskier scrambled aside as Geralt turned away and walked back to the Keep. Yennefer sighed, tugging at her cloak. She followed Geralt, staying two steps behind. Jaskier wanted to go with them but couldn’t regain his feet. He was so tired, so conflicted. He just wanted to give in to the pain.
He struggled and watched Yennefer and Geralt be swallowed by the storm. When they disappeared completely, he fell forward, cheek to the dirt. “I’m still here,” he cried weakly. “Geralt, I’m here.”