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Very few people know anything about Geralt of Rivia beyond that of Blaviken, so it's not entirely accurate to call this a secret. Secret implies something hidden or purposefully disguised, does it not? Yet Geralt himself could not be more blind to this particular detail's existence, and one cannot hide what one doesn't know about.
It's quite possible that, in all the continent or elsewhere, Jaskier and the wolves of Kaer Morhen are the only ones with any idea at all. Ridiculous, really, considering how easy it is to figure out if anyone would try to see beyond the "mutated monster" stigma. It's in everything he does, from the way he walks to the way he talks to his horse. Even the way he kills monsters, counter-intuitive as it seems.
Or even, those who indulge in the listening of Jaskier's ballads may perhaps dawn an inkling of understanding to the depths of an all too-hidden character. The inaccuracy of certain minor details— despite whatever Geralt will tell you— doesn't take away from the absolute truth inspiring each and every song.
The not-secret secret is this: Geralt of Rivia is a good man. A kind one.
But kindness doesn't make for good music, most of the time. It's easy to tell a story about a hero when everyone dreams of one, or about the horrors of war when the smell of bloodied corpses is still fresh. It's harder to make someone experience what they've never known, and kindness is hard to come by in these perilous times. Harder, still, to believe in.
Heedless of belief, and perhaps in spite of it, Geralt is a kind man. Something in him survived the Trials where it would die at the first sign of suffering in other men. Jaskier knows that his witcher is kind in the same way he knows the sky is blue, the rumble of an army, or the back of his hand. It just is, and always has been, in his not inconsiderable experience.
None of those fools could even begin to fathom this story right now— of their so-called butcher proffering an ugly doll like an olive branch to a little girl afraid of his eyes. Geralt sips his ale idly as he describes the child, Millie. Small girl with brown hair, frightened like a hare of him the way everyone used to be. He looks like a father when he talks about her. Instincts out of practice but never forgotten make his sharp eyes honey-soft and his rough hands gentle.
“I gave her the doll and went to find the witcher,” he rumbles, the soothing quality of his voice perfected in the many years soothing Ciri's nightmares.
Jaskier just tries not to fall anymore hopelessly in love with him. It's a futile endeavor, as always, but it's more to the point that he can say he tried.
"Did you kill him?"
Geralt looks into the frothy amber ale like it holds the answers. Hiding his face from the light, from his friend.
"No," he says, and describes how the Cat had come to inconsolable rage in the first place. Getting stiffed for pay and then having one's life threatened despite having just well-done a service would make anyone angry, if not mildly bloodthirsty. "I should have."
"Why didn't you?" Jaskier asks.
Glancing up and quickly back down, Geralt says nothing. Ashamed, then, that he didn't slay a murderer and put the innocent souls to rest by avenging their deaths. Ashamed like he always is, when he chooses for himself instead of the purpose assigned to him. The parallels between Geralt and the Cat are obvious.
A village splattered with blood, and a witcher at the center of it. A monster is a monster regardless of the form it takes by Geralt's own judgment, and what good is a killer that doesn't kill? Worse, what good is a dog that bites the owner's hand? It's hard to kill someone when they remind you of the worst version of yourself. Harder, still, when you want to believe that they— you— can be better.
Blaviken isn't the first story of its likeness, or even the second, or the third. Countless stories just like this one have come to pass. This little nowhere village won't be the last, either. When those living refuse to learn from it, history is doomed to repeat. Next time, it may be another witcher standing at the center, or an elf, or a dwarf, or a human, and each time they will leave with their head bowed and blood staining their fingers.
"I couldn't stomach it," Geralt confesses at last, voice smaller than a whisper. "There are so few of us left. But a witcher that loses himself to rage is dangerous, and the Cats have always been the worst of us. I should have. I should have."
His hand is clamped tight around the handle of the mug, the fingertips and knuckles pink-white. Any tighter and he might shatter the wood. Jaskier covers his friend's hand with his own, the lightest of touches so as not to frighten him away. It's warm.
He murmurs, "It's alright to not want to be alone in the world, Geralt."
If Jaskier had a coin for every story about Geralt's kindness that he'd heard, seen, or written himself, then he'd be a very rich man, indeed. And if he had another coin for every time one of those stories was born from the loneliness perpetually encamped around his friend's soft parts, then he'd surely be the richest man alive.
It's not as though Geralt goes around boasting his good deeds and strongest feelings. If he did, what use would he have for a humble bard? Rather, trying to get him to say anything nice about himself is quite like pulling teeth.
And maybe that's why strangers would know him as a devil before a father or a brother, if only because they listen too readily on the rare occasions that he speaks of himself— as though most wouldn't think first of their worst flaws when asked to consider their character. The only time closed ears want to listen is when it's to reinforce beliefs already held.
Geralt offers him a soft look. "I took Millie to Oreton, where—"
A mug splashes down onto their table with a loud clunk. From first look, it's obvious that the man attached to the mug is beyond inebriated. A red nose, dazed eyes, and putrid smell make it all too obvious. The drunkard wobbles, catches himself on their table, and snorts disgustingly. The candlelight makes his pockmarked skin look sickly, corpsely unflattering.
He slurs, "This place's… is f'r gods fearin' folk!" the man spits. "It ain't for the likes of you an' yer whore t'... faff about in, freak."
Geralt gently slides his hand out from under Jaskier's. The accusation of supposed sodomy doesn't actually make people look kinder upon strangers, in these parts. "We don't want any trouble."
"Yer makin' my ale taste… like bloody piss! Fuck off! Don't wanna drink wiff… wiff cursed monsters like yous."
"Mind your tongue, sir!" Jaskier snaps.
The man sneers and leans away. "Mind yer whore, butcher. Might catch somethin' unholy if it gets too close, ay?"
Geralt's face flips like the other side of a coin— to fierce and snarling, altogether frightening, in seconds. The light hits him just right in the low-lit tavern, his face half covered in shadows with only his wildcat eyes and sharp predator teeth in full display.
Plain as day protectiveness and righteously fueled anger. Rare as winter flowers, obvious only to his bard. To others, he looks every inch the wild, uncontrollable danger the rumors make him out to be. Like this, he earns his fearsome reputation. Like this, he flinches at his face in the mirror. It's a monster that needs to be put down as much as any other.
(And when he's deep in his potions, the veins under his paper-pale skin as black as charcoal and his eyes two gaping black voids, he won't even look at his own reflection. Avoids himself as though he'll turn to stone at any mere glimpse.)
But his anger is a soothing balm, and Jaskier's fire dims to a comforting warmth. But still, it’s fire and it burns. Jaskier's rings connect with the man's nose, a satisfying crunch echoing the wicked smile crossing the bard’s lips.
The man goes down flat on his ass to the ground where he belongs, with the rest of the bugs small enough to be crushed under boot. Jaskier reaches to grab the man's stained shirt, rearing back his fist for another—
"Enough, bard." Geralt snatches the back of Jaskier's doublet and drags him away like a misbehaving dog. The brows of his face furrow in concern, like he doesn't know that Jaskier would burn the world down for him at the slightest hint of want for it.
The cur groans as he succumbs to the pain. Blood spills at their feet, his eyes already darkening in the shape of delicate musician's knuckles. Only one hit, and he's down and out already. It's not near enough what he deserves, but it's enough. Too merciful by half, his witcher.
Jaskier smiles sweetly. "Leave the drunkard to his rest." Geralt gives him a mighty scowl, so he scoffs. "Worry not, dear friend, for I only hit him so much as to make him sleep. He will surely wake in a few moments."
Not that Jaskier would particularly mind if he never woke again at all.
The witcher grunts a reluctant affirmative, then sighs and drains the last of his ale. From the pouch on his waist, he fishes out coins enough to pay. Then he prowls his way up the stairs to collect their things before the innkeeper tosses them out on their asses.
What a shame it is when he leaves, but Jaskier does love to watch him go…
Putting on his most charming smile, he turns to the woman behind the bar. The innkeeper is a homely woman with an uptight look, the muscle on her arms suggesting strength enough to snap Jaskier easily in half if the whim should strike her. She watches him with a suspicious look, rubbing the inside of a wooden tankard with an old rag.
Years ago, Jaskier might have spent some time trying to woo her into a quick shag before his witcher returns. These days, he's too old for such things as frivolously or as often as he did in his twenties.
"Peace, good woman! Would you serve me, still?" He calls cheerily.
"Aye, I would," she says, begrudgingly. "Provided you've the coin. But you go right after, and take your beasties with ye."
"As it pleases you, madam. Water, wine, and any dried goods you've happen to."
Chatter around the tables has already resumed. A table of Gwent players near the door, a pair of soldiers in the back, a man with his family nearest to the staircase, and the drunkard still lying flat on the floor. Not a stage in sight, assuming that they would have even let Jaskier play. Not likely. He takes a seat at the bar, propping his cheek up on his palm.
Let it never be said that Julian Alfred Pancratz de Lettenhove is a violent man. He has never considered himself as such. If he carries a silver dagger, it's only because it was a gift from his dearest friend and muse. Seldom is it ever drawn, and even rarer is it ever made use for anything beyond skinning rabbits for dinner.
After all, what need is there for him to raise his fists— the very backbone of his trade and career— when there is one such as Geralt of Rivia at his side to protect his honor? Against beasts or cuckolds, it matters little. At a moment's hint of danger, Geralt is the first to step forward for anyone unable to do so themselves. Especially ferocious is he in defense of those blessed enough to grace his circle, such as Jaskier.
Yet, in his own defense, when it's his own person being slandered, Geralt meekly bows his head. Pretending to ignore but memorizing every word, taking every bit of it to heart. He sits there like a beaten dog with his hair curtaining his eyes. Nothing ferocious or dangerous about him then. Nothing wildcat, white wolf prowling about him then. As though he believes it a justified punishment for unknown slights, the sin of mere existence.
Then is it not right, is it not just, the very will of the gods, for Jaskier to defend his witcher with clenched fists when the mouths of those wretched and shameful dare to run? Dare to open and speak when they know nothing? To hate in fear is the act of a coward. They don't know Geralt. They don't know anything, but they dare to speak as if they have any claim to him.
Merely thinking about it is enough to have Jaskier considering giving that fellow another hit or so. It wouldn't be remiss. Far from it. Though, perhaps, dishonorable to hit a man when he's down; Jaskier does, actually, still have a reputation to uphold. Somewhat.
(Or, anyway, something like that would give untalented fools such as the infamous hack Valdo Marx an excuse to talk and Jaskier is tired of providing topic. If the poor bastards are going to speak of him, they can at the very least come up with their own complaints without him having to spoon-feed them any material.)
"How long 'ave you been followin' the witcher 'round, really?" The innkeeper asks.
Jaskier blinks back to reality, then hums and considers it. They met when he was eighteen and Cirilla no more than a babe, yet now he was nearing his fifties and the girl had become a woman. Strange to think about. Stranger, still, when he looks in the mirror.
"Quite a long time, I’d say. We only meet now and then these days."
"Aye, but you write all yer songs about him jus' the same as ye did."
"No greater muse than he, I assure you."
She snorts. "No better bodyguard, either! Though I notice you're not all that in needin' of one. Can protect yourself just fine."
"Against drunks? Surely. But beasts, my lady? Nay."
It earns him a laugh, as he intended. "Don't you get tired of loving such a man?"
Jaskier smiles. "No, never. It's the easiest thing I've ever been honored to do."
She seems baffled by the concept as she sets his things on the bar. Then another patron hollers for her attention, and that's the end of that.
Jaskier finishes pocketing away what he can just as he notices the great mountain of man and luggage lumbering over. Without a word, he packs away the road rations he's paid for and takes up his small share of the weight. Geralt only grunts in acknowledgment as a fraction of the burden is taken off of his arms.
Though doubtlessly Jaskier’s parting words had been heard by his taciturn companion, they exchange no comment. Decades passed since their first parturition, Jaskier's more affectionate feelings have long become an open secret. While at one point they may have become a point of conflict, that way lies dragons, and Jaskier has spent more than enough time in their company to become sick of it.
The conclusion after many years of angst is that wherever Geralt goes, close or far, he will take some piece of Jaskier's heart with him. Regardless of who he is, where he's gone, or what their relationship has become, it's true as it has always that sometimes love is undying. Death isn't always a prerequisite to knowing.
Jaskier eyes Geralt's wide back in front of him, his heart soothed and softened with his own thinking. Perhaps he's aging, after all, if he can be taken so easily by such sentimental folly in the middle of nowhere.
"I could write ballads about your shoulder blades," he says, instead of I love you. "In fact, I think I will. It would only be right. Maidens all over the world will thank me."
Geralt chuffs his stunted laughter, amber eyes curling with the simple joy of it. "Maidens all over the world would question your taste."
His hands are practiced and swift as he straps their things into Roach's saddlebags. The old mare nibbles at his pauldrons and drools lovingly into his hair. Rather than fighting monsters, here in a stall with his horse is where Geralt tends to look most at peace in the world.
When Geralt is happy, his eyes are soft like the moment before sleep. Like the feeling of all the world falling quiet, waiting with bated breath to hear the tender twinkle tunes of a lute lovingly strummed or an orchestra of crickets harmonizing with the smell of a moonlit night. His eyes are molten amber, a small fragment of the sun split into two and made human. And there's nothing more handsome than a man who is happy.
Jaskier's gelding is dappled and grey, named Westley for the way he is sweet and young. Most days, it takes little to guide him along and he loves oranges over apples. Left to his own devices, he sniffs at flowers and follows after Roach like a young lad with his first crush. He's a good horse.
"You don't have to defend me," Geralt says.
"If not I, then pray tell who? Not you, surely, old brute. Nonsense."
"Try defending yourself first for once."
Jaskier scoffs. "Myself? Against what, the gasping mouths of my astonished fans?"
"That man—"
"Said nothing I haven't heard before, Geralt. Hardly the most creative of insults."
Geralt sighs weakly. Perhaps, recognizing a losing argument. As he should, after having this same conversation time and time again. After all these years, he remains unconvinced.
Jaskier slings the lute from his back, fingers finding the familiar notes of his latest work-in-progress ballad after “The Wolven Storm”. In comfortable silence, they ride side by side until it’s time to make camp. Unfortunately, the next town is a day or two’s ride and the previous town was only big enough for one inn. The better news is that there’s plenty of forestry to choose from in the in-between.
Camp is made somewhere off-trail after a few good hours of riding, beneath the shade of great pines shedding their needles for the autumn. Jaskier lets Geralt handle it all, settling himself against a tree with his lute in his lap and a notebook at his side. The song is coming to him now, piece by slow piece; Something tender and slow, taken in today’s sentimental reminiscence. Poetry more than music, but deserving of a tune nonetheless.
It’s close, on the tip of his tongue. And maybe Geralt recognizes Jaskier’s thousand-yard stare because the outside world is quiet enough not to disturb his thought.
I cannot look away
now that I have seen.
I cannot unsee
now that I have known.
Next he looks up, the sun has set and Jaskier can barely see his own writing. Tomorrow it will probably be entirely illegible. What little he can make out is entirely due to the fire built up across from him, and the companion that built it on the other side. Geralt sits quietly a safe distance from the fire, patiently sewing up a tear in his cleanest shirt. The flames paint him in precious oranges and pinks, like love personified.
Beautiful.
The years haven't been kind to him. New claws tear into his skin every year, marring his already scarred skin with new wounds. Every winter, he returns to the keep with a new almost-fatal accident story to tell. Someday his sword will be too slow, and the claws too fast, and the wound too deep. Jaskier won't even know, until someone decides to tell him. Oblivious to the quiet death of the man he loves.
— And then what?
What will Jaskier do then, become then? Will he do as he always does?
Write a few sad songs, laugh, put it from his mind, and find a willing partner to bed with. Then another, and another, until he feels like a person again instead of some horribly broken organ on the ground pecked at by the birds.
Or will he find Yennefer, to split between them a bottle of wine shared over their sorrows? Make wretches out of them both, for a time; Do unforgivable things for the sole purpose of satisfying that ugly thing in him that will be angry at his beloved friend for dying.
Someday, but not today. Today, Geralt sits a safe distance from the fire and mends his cleanest shirt. His hands are gracelessly deft and efficient with the needle. Not perfect work by any means but workable until they come to the next city with a proper tailor. Rough hands used to rending, today made use for mending. Made gentle and lovely and right.
“I love you,” Jaskier says simply.
The needle pauses… and keeps moving. Geralt doesn’t say a word. The smallest of smiles pulls at the corners of his mouth. Curtained beneath his eyelashes, his eyes are honey-warmed. The same look he always wears, whenever he looks at Jaskier.