Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier isn’t surprised when Geralt sends him away when spring comes. He’d hoped- hoped beyond measure, but he knew deep down that he never stood a chance.

Geralt even takes Yennefer with them. Yennefer, who betrayed him and tried to sacrifice Ciri to a demon or something- that Yennefer. The Yennefer that Geralt said he would never trust again. And yet, there they were, at the bottom of the newly thawed pass, Geralt and Ciri on a large black stallion and Yennefer by his side, striding down the mountain. And Jaskier- with his stupid lute and an even stupider smile on his face, had laughed, sang, and jabbered on about something meaningless, just so happy to be there, with them, by Geralt’s side like he always belonged.

He remembers the exact moment it came all crashing down. He’d been chipper, so full of energy, and he’d let the words fall out of his lips without thinking as they reached a crossroads. The path from whence they’d come all those months ago, that lead back to Oxenfurt, and a path that stretched out to god's knows where. “So,” He’d began, leading the way, but glancing back at Geralt for his direct. “Where are we headed next?”

Geralt huffed, but didn’t reply. He just pointed towards Oxenfurt. Ciri followed his gaze, her stern face mirroring Geralt’s for a moment, and Jaskier had almost laughed at the resemblance. He really looked like her father, with that same expression, so much so that if Jaskier didn’t know better, he would’ve said they were.

“Well then, off to Oxenfurt we go!” He had said, so thrilled, and began striding in that direction. “You know, it really is a lovely city. I had my formal education there, you know. Very good schools. You could get the princess enrolled in a good program and she’d do quite well, I think. It’s a very good place to bend in. Trust me, I made a business out of it. I know every in and out of the place-” He had paused then, and glanced behind him, expecting to see Geralt’s scowling face, when he realised what had happened.

Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer were gone. The only thing Jaskier saw that was left of them was the whizz of one of Yennefer’s purple portals closing behind them. He opened his mouth, and ran forward, only to see the opening close completely before he could reach it. “Hey, wait- you forgot-”

He stumbled up to the spot where they had vanished, the portal long gone. “Oh,” He had said, staring down at the patch of withered grass where they had once been. “ Oh. ”

Jaskier had stood there for a while, long enough for the sun of early morning to fade into the start of early evening, and he had hoped. Hoped that there had been some kind of mistake, some kind of miscalculation in the plan. It took him two full days and nights to finally leave that spot. It took even longer than that for him to actually realise that they’d left without saying goodbye.

Fingertips loosen their grip on his scalp, and Jaskier gasps, breathing in sharply as he’s released from the mage’s grips and thrust back into the present headfirst. That moment of torment was gone, and now he was pushed into another.

The sweat stuck his hair to his face, and his head was filled with a sharp, blinding pain that crammed into each and every corner of his mind, invading his thoughts and dreams, and poking holes in his memories. “I told you,” He repeats, biting his lip hard enough that the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. “I don’t know where they went. I have no idea.” He says, and he hates how desperate it sounds.

There’s a sigh, and suddenly he’s swung upright, so the rack he’s strapped to is facing towards his torturer. “You know, I can’t find myself believing that.” His employer replies, not looking particularly vexed by Jaskier’s obvious distress. “You are his friend, so he ought to have told you something of value.” He looks down at his nails, like there’s a spot of dirt underneath them that is far more interesting than Jaskier has ever been. “You just haven’t been incentivised to share it yet. You were my best operative. I know you can keep secrets.”

Jaskier laughs, and resists the urge to spit in his face. “Oh, what a pleasure to wake from my probing to see your handsome face, Sigismund Dijkstra, a pleasure as always.” He enjoys the way Dijkstra’s eyes immediately snap to his face. “Typically when a man wishes for me to divulge my secrets, he takes me out to dinner first.” He deflects smoothly. “Though if you’re asking, I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse,” He does his best to motion to his restraints. “You see, I’m a bit tied down at the moment.”

There’s a groan from behind him as the mage strides forward to meet Dijkstra. “If you are wondering,” Philippa Eilhart begins, twirling her intricately braided hair around one of her fingers, “His mind is just as irritating on the inside as it appears from the outside.” She eyes Jaskier then, up and down, with a sharp glance.

Jaskier winks. “It’s part of my charm,” He pants, always trying to stay on the upper hand despite the obvious disadvantage. “It’s a feature, darling, not an error.” The circumstances may be grim, but when an opportunity presents itself to irritate his torturers and flirt with a woman who could definitely kill him, Jaskier surely isn’t smart enough to resist it. “The colour of that kirtle really compliments your eyes. Is that Lettenhoven charmeuse I spot?”

Phillipa rolls her eyes, and Dijkstra aims a well placed kick to Jaskier’s chest. “Oh, come on,” Jaskier coughs, exhaling sharply as the ache expands across his ribs. “Can’t a man inquire about an old family business? I know that silk better than I know Geralt of Rivia, for Melitele’s sake.” He glances at Phillipa. “I assume you’ve searched my mind and found my words to be true? Since that’s the case, what if we just let an old bard go, eh?” He pitches, raising an eyebrow. “Let bygones be bygones. Get back to business, eh, Dijkstra? I’m sure there are some elves in need of smuggling on this fine night.”

Dijkstra laughs sharply, shaking his head. “There will be no more sandpiper business, don’t you know? The elves have gone to Nilfgaard. There isn’t a living pointy eared fellow inside all of Redania.”

Jaskier’s heart drops at that. “What?” He asks, his mouth dry. “But the young ones, and the elderly that I smuggled-”

“Dead.” Phillipa answers flippantly. “Only the strongest survived the march this winter. Not a terrible shame, really, they weren’t much help for Redainia and they won’t be much help to Nilfgaard now either.”

“You’re monsters,” Jaskier hisses. “They’re people-”

“They aren’t human.” Dijkstra shrugs. “Why should we care?”

Jaskier can barely contain his rage. “Human? Why does that matter? It doesn’t quantify the quality of a person, of a life! They aren’t human, so what? Neither is G-” He shuts his mouth shut when he realises what he’s saying, but he doesn’t need to finish the name for them to know what he means. “You can’t just use people and then drop them when they aren’t useful anymore. That’s what monsters do, not people.”

Phillipa laughs, the sound so light and airy despite his anger. “Oh, your devotion to him knows to its end, I must say, looking around in your head, I realised that you deceived all of us. Your fond songs made us all think you were so close.” She shakes her head. “Looking at your memories, it’s all so clear. I don’t know how you keep deluding yourself. It’s pathetic, really, almost pitiful. It’s so obvious. It’s a pity you aren’t more useful, really it is.”

His rage simmered deep within him to a melancholy that stung at his heart like a tiny needle, piercing his soul. “What’s obvious?” He asks, even though he doesn’t need to hear the answer.

“They don’t care about you.” She says, her cold eyes meeting his tearful ones. “None of them.” She shakes her head slowly. “Such a shame.”

Phillipa turns, her Lettenhoven silks streaming behind her as she exits the dungeon. She doesn’t even say anything, just motions to Dijkstra and the guards, and then she’s gone. Jaskier releases a breath he doesn’t know he was holding, and it comes out as a sob.

He catches Dijkstra’s eye, and if he was crazy, he might’ve thought he saw a glimmer of pity in the depths of those eyes, but then the moment was broken, and he was being wheeled away. “A pleasure, Dandelion.” The spymaster bows, and Jaskier almost thought it seemed sincere. Almost.

Jaskier feels a wet cloth across his face, and his struggles die out as everything fades to black.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, everything is sore. Of course, he surmises, he was just tortured, of course everything is sore. That’s what torture does.

He takes time to explore the entirety of his cell, and it only takes him about five minutes, if he had to guess. He’s been in a few jail cells over his time as a traveller, and this one was no exception from the norm. A big stone square room with nothing more than a privy, a big ass metal door and some hay in a corner. Splendid. There’s even a chandelier high up above him, far out of reach, firelight flickering across the room. He’s practically being spoiled with these luxuries. He sits down on the floor, already exhausted.

“Hello?” He calls out, not expecting an answer. There aren’t any holes in the walls or door that would allow him to actually get his words to travel, but he figures it’s worth a try. “My name is Jaskier!” He says, after a couple minutes, and then asks, “Is there anyone there?” He waits for a reply for a long time, until he gives up for the time being, and starts his more detailed examination of the cell. He’ll be able to get more information out of whoever comes to feed him, he supposes.

There's two small slots at the bottom of the metal door, with metal basins beneath them, and Jaskier lays down on the cobblestones in order to slide his fingers into the larger circular opening. There seems to be a sort of metal wall at the end of the upward angled slot, and he frowns, trying to dig his nails underneath the place where the wall meets the tube, but he can’t get any leverage. He digs at until his finger tips are red and sore and his wrist aches from a strange angle.

He moves the cuffs of his sleeve back down after it becomes clear that he’s getting nothing done with that. He’s dressed in a very simple white tunic, brown trousers, and boots that are not his own. A part of him figures he should be grateful they haven’t tossed him in here completely naked, but he still feels that way without his long red coat and lute strung across his back. He misses that familiar weight.

Jaskier lies on the ground then, staring up at the cobblestone ceiling. Cobblestones, cobblestones, and, oh, what a surprise, more cobblestones! Oh splendid, absolutely splendid.

He doesn’t even have any mice to perform for. That doesn’t stop him from singing a couple rounds of Whoreson Prison Blues, and enjoys the sound of the echo bouncing across the walls. He experiments with different sounds, and how they bounce across the room- sings his classic songs, and even songs he’s never performed before.

Jaskier has no idea how long he does this, but eventually his voice grows tired and dry, and sleep pulls at his eyelids once again. He drags himself to the hay pile, and it is far less soft than he hopes, but he almost doesn’t care.

His sleep is restless, and dreamless.

When Jaskier wakes, it’s to the sound of running water. When he lifts his head, there’s an ache in his neck that he can’t shake. He pulls himself into a sitting position, rubbing the spot of tension, and glancing over toward the sound.

There’s a steady stream of water pouring from the smaller of the two holes in the door into the basin beneath it. He almost doesn’t believe it- his throat is so parched he figured it could be an imagination of his desperate mind. He lunges forward, hands shaking, and when they connect with cold liquid he lets out a cry of relief, splashing the water over his sweaty face and drinking greedily from the basin. How long has it been since he’s last drank, he wonders, relishing in the taste and the smell of it as the water stream trickles to a stop, leaving plenty in the basin below.

He checks the second basin, and finds that it isn’t empty either. He reaches in, and plucks out one of many small, brown pellets that smelled of something awful. He sniffs it, and drops it back into the basin. It reminds him of the scent of rotten fruit, or spoiled meat- vaguely food like and yet distinctly not edible. He’s hungry, sure, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be hungry enough to eat that. When was it he last ate?

Well, it’s been seven days since he last saw Geralt, he supposes, but the time in between his rude capture, subsequent torture and unconsciousness is entirely unclear. Plus, he supposes, glancing up at the ceiling of his cell, there aren’t any windows, there was no way of knowing how much time had passed since he first woke in this room.

“I ought to find a way to keep track of time,” He says aloud, despite himself, and then he laughs at the absurdity of it. He’s so used to having someone by his side that not talking to someone felt so… quiet. He didn’t know how Geralt did it. Still, he wasn’t about to start talking to himself, he decided. He isn’t crazy. Just lonely.

He finds a small, loose rock at the edge of the cell, beneath the dust and grime. It’s flat, to his dismay, and quite dull, so even if he did find a lock to pick, it wouldn’t be much use. Still, he decides, it’ll do fine for the purpose he’s designated it for. He gets to work, and it doesn’t take him very long to do. He sits back, and admires his work. One mark, carved into the stone wall.

He figures if the water and pellets arrive at a specific time each day, he can use their arrivals as markings of time passing, and the marks will show how many times they’ve arrived. It’s a neat little solution he’s concocted, and he figures it will do just fine until someone comes to visit his cell, and he can ask. Someone ought to come soon, he figures. He’s Jaskier the Bard, Companion of The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia! He snorts at the thought, placing the stone aside.

One mark.
Jaskier sings the entire day away, until he’s tired and the water in the basin is completely empty, save for a few drops he can’t scoop up.

He falls asleep on the hay pile and when he wakes to the rattle of the disgusting little pellets shooting into the metal basin, and the stream of the water into the water basin.

Jaskier drinks his fill, and washes his hair with scoops of water. He eyes the pellets for a moment, then decides against it, despite his hunger.

He makes another mark on the wall.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again.

On the day of the forth mark, Jaskier gives up on not talking to himself. It’s so quiet, in the cell, that he can hardly stand it. Surely, someone is coming. Surely they’ll come soon.

He talks about everything. How he hates his outfit, about how mad he is at Geralt, and how uncomfortable the damn hay is. He finds himself pausing after statements, glancing over his shoulder, hoping for a, “hmm,” or a “Shut up, Jaskier.” They never come, so he just keeps on talking.

“Well, I do not think I’m going to leave a very pleasant review of this establishment. Perhaps I’ll take up a personal complaint with the owner. I’ll say, “Sigismund Dijkstra, I do declare this place is absolutely filthy! What would the king think of you treating the Viscount de Lettenhove with these shoddy accommodations?” and then he’ll say, “Oh, my dearest Dandelion, my most dashing and most well endowed operative, how could I have ever treated you in this manner? Please accept my most humble apologies and five thousand- no, no six thousand crowns for my humble error!” And of course, I will accept, for I am a humble man who does not refuse coin when it is offered. No, no, I have the decency of accepting apologies, even if they aren’t even apologies in the first place!” He crows, imagining the feeling of Dijkstra apologising to him, even if it isn’t that realistic.

He goes on like this for a long, long time, much preferring the sound of his voice to the grating depth of silence that awaits him when he closes his mouth. The novelty of the echo in the room has worn off, and now it almost sounds like it’s mocking him with the tease of a reply. As long as he’s talking, or singing, at least he doesn’t feel the sting of hunger from the depths of him, and he doesn’t have to let his mind wander into hearing things that aren’t there.

And so he keeps talking, sleeping, singing, and putting marks on the walls. Sometimes, he finds himself glancing at the slowly growing pile of pellets in the basin, and then he laughs at the idea. No.

So does it all again, and again, and again.

Ten marks.

It’s on the day when Jaskier no longer has the strength to talk, or sing, or even drag himself over to the hole in the ground to relieve himself that his self imposed hunger strike ends.

He just lies there in the hay, mumbling curses at the ceiling, and wishing he was still asleep. If he was asleep, he could dream, and he could see Geralt and kiss his stupid face and they’d talk and laugh and Jaskier would eat a whole fucking pie in one bite, and then maybe a full course meal too while he was at it. And he’d look at the stars and he’d talk to someone who actually listened and he wouldn’t be staring up at that god damn chandelier.

He knows something is wrong, in the back of his mind. He knows he should get up and do something, but when he tries to sit up, the world tilts on its axis, threatening to send him back down again.

It’s when he finds himself absentmindedly gnawing at one of his boot laces that he realises he doesn’t have a choice anymore. Nobody is coming. Nobody is fucking coming, and he is so fucking hungry.

He doesn’t remember how he got over to the food basin.

He just clings to the basin, his entire weight slumped over it as he chews, and gags and swallows.

They taste just as terrible as he expects, but he manages. When the sting of hunger in his gut fades, bit by bit, he almost enjoys it.

He eats now, but he doesn’t sing anymore. There isn’t any song he hasn’t sung before, and he doesn’t really feel like singing if he’s the only one that will ever hear it.

So he carries on.

Thirteen marks, fifteen marks, twenty.

He should be concerned at how fast everything is going, but he isn’t. He finds himself losing track of what he’s saying halfway through saying it, and he starts losing time, losing what feels like hours just staring into space.

Twenty marks turn into thirty.

He doesn’t talk very much anymore, except for when he’s screaming. That’s a new thing he does, he supposes. The screaming and crying and wailing, the banging on doors and the bloody knuckles and the hair pulling. That’s all new, he supposes. The begging and the bargaining and the promises fall from his lips, but nobody comes. Nobody is ever coming. They don’t care about him. They never did. All of that is new, but the ache feels so old, and the bruises seem so palpable. It is the reopening of a wound he never knew he even had. Which is to say, not new- but different. Less hopeful, more desolate.

Everything changed.

The marks on the wall are always the same, though. Nothing ever changes the marks. No matter how many he adds. The marks on the wall always stay the same.

Fifty marks, seventy five marks, one hundred marks, flash by in a daze.

Screaming and crying doesn’t do anything, so he just lays there until he has the strength to get up and do it again.

And again.

And again.

On the day of the one hundred and fifth mark, he wakes to find eyes in the walls and worms in his skin.

He uses the stone to drive them out. When he looks right at them, they disappear, like they’re trying to trick him into thinking they aren’t really there. He isn’t fooled. Most of the time they aren’t there, and then he catches them out of the corner of his eye.

He wakes up screaming most nights, with Geralt’s name on his lips. He doesn’t have the strength to tell his sleeping self that Geralt isn’t coming.

The worms and the eyes almost become companions, after a while. When he feels them rooting around in his skin, he doesn’t feel so alone.

One hundred and ten marks, one hundred and twenty marks, one hundred and thirty five.

On the day of the one hundred and thirty ninth mark, Jaskier starts hearing voices from behind the door, all muffled and broken. At first he’s filled with hope that someone has come to get him at last- until he starts hearing the voices of people that he knows are dead.

At this point, he gives up.

He falls into a routine. All he does is eat, drink, sleep, and make marks on the wall. He doesn’t waste words anymore. They turn to ash in his mouth.

A part of him wonders if he should just give up doing everything except sleeping.

He doesn’t ever stay coherent for long enough to actually consider that.

When the door finally opens, and Geralt steps in, on the day before the one hundred and sixty forth mark, Jaskier fights tooth and nail. He sits back in his own mind, feeling like he’s just watching the scene play out before him. He doesn’t think- he just screams and cries and bites and kicks like an animal. He won’t be fooled.

When everything goes dark, this time, he considers it a blessing.

Chapter Text

Geralt thinks of Jaskier more often than he’d like to admit.

In the mountains, where Yarpen showed them a valley where the snow has not yet broken, and winter will last long into May, he thinks the snowy peaks are almost worthy of a ballad.

When he watched Yennefer and Ciri struggle to skate across a frozen lake, he thought about the time the river Braa to Caingorn froze over, and Jaskier had gleefully slid across the ice, looking not unlike a newborn fawn trying to stand for the first time.

At Ciri’s request to go to the festival, he shook his head. But then he thought of Jaskier- and he sees that joy and longing in Ciri’s eyes, and he can't bear to say no. Maybe he’ll be there, his mind had supplied. Maybe he’ll be there.

The festival turned out to be a disaster, of course, after that monster in the maze. He finds himself being glad that Jaskier wasn’t there after all, because he can't rid himself of the terror that had gripped him when he had realised he couldn't find Ciri. No, no, the bard would’ve just gotten in the way, as usual, he figures.

The decoy plan to kill Rience is a good plan, he thinks. Jaskier will be safe- it isn't like they haven't put him in harm's way before, and they’ll be right there to protect Ciri, and can jump in to save him if need be.

He is a little worried when Yarpen fails to locate Jaskier for the plan, but then again, Jaskier is a slippery bard. He knows how to avoid people, and given the fact that Jaskier knew that Yarpen knew where he, Y

This plan is good, and it will work, Geralt’s sure of it. He’s tired of having Firefucker on his mind, and he should’ve just killed him when he had the chance. This time, he won’t fail. He wants to see his head slide from his body, and he wants to hold him down so he can watch the last burning embers of a life be smothered beneath his blade.

The thought of it makes a tingle rush up his fingertips as he packs up Not Roach’s saddlebags for travel. He packs light. He always packs light, or at least he did, before Ciri came along. Now it feels like he’s carrying at least one hundred furry cloaks and an absurd amount of dresses for one person alone to wear. One only needs two, perhaps three complete outfits on the road. A tunic, a suitable pair of trousers, and undergarments. Anything else is unnecessary, at least in his view. But he knows better than to make that opinion known.

The last time he had, Ciri had responded with a snotty, “Of course not, you’re a man. Men don’t care how they look. Just because your sex is unstylish doesn't mean we shouldn't be.”

Geralt had thought of Jaskier then, just as he was thinking of Jaskier now. Jaskier with his puffy doublets, embroidered chemise and frilly small clothes, with all his little lavender soaps and herbal perfumes, and obnoxious amounts of hair products and skin creams that Geralt knows don’t actually do anything. Geralt thinks of Jaskier in a million different ways, but one word he never considers is “unstylish”. Obnoxious, irritating, raucous, chaotic, sure, but unstylish? No, no. He knows what people like. He knows how to make himself look pretty and he does, like a bird of paradise, overwhelmingly bright and impossible to take your eye off of.

“Where are you going?” Ciri’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and he huffs a laugh at the young lioness’s light footed approach. He had taught her how to stay completely silent to avoid detection, and perhaps, he thinks, he taught her too well. She blinks up with those large green eyes, her gaze sceptical. “Why are you taking out my things?”

“Yennefer can carry them,” Geralt rumbles, tossing her pack into her arms, which she caught readily. He smirked at the way her eyes peaked up from behind the load, eyebrows skewed as she glared at him, gaze demanding answers. “I’m headed to Oxenfurt for a few days, to see an old friend. I’ll ride fast without them, and besides, Oxenfurt is chock full of thieves. Your precious cloaks might go missing if a fellow runs low on coin.”

“I'd never forgive you,” Ciri warns, but her face softens.

“Consider this a preventative measure.” He replies. “I'll only be a few days. Back in no time.”

“You better.” She glowers, and Geralt can’t resist the urge to ready forward and ruffle her hair a little. “Hey!” Ciri cries, pushing his hand away. “I’ll have to fix that.” She scowls, and Geralt almost does it again, just because she seems so much like him in that moment that he almost forgets he isn't actually her father.

“I’ll keep her out of trouble,” A voice muses, and Geralt turns to see Yennefer, the smile falling from his face. “Oh, don't be like that, Geralt.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t forget to use the xenovox if you need a hand.”

“I won't,” Geralt growls, but the gesture lacks conviction as he mounts Not Roach. He trusts her so much more than he used to- hell, he’s even leaving Ciri in her care when he goes to fetch Jaskier. He hopes it isn't a mistake, but he also knows that she cares for the girl, nearly as much as he does. “If you slip up-” He begins, but she interrupts him.

“Yes, yes,” She says mildly, waving her hand. “You’ll hunt me down till the ends of the earth and flay me alive, just so you can burn me on the stake afterwards. Please, Geralt, you’ve only said it oh, one hundred times. I don't know if I should be offended that you think I'm foolish enough to forget your threats or flattered by your infatuation with reminding me of my life’s biggest fuck up.”

Geralt can't help but snort at that. “Try both on for size.” He begins to turn Not Roach to leave, but Ciri's hand on his hand stops him.

“Ride safe,” Ciri whispers, and Geralt squeezes her hand in his.

“Of course, cub.” He promises, and as he rides off into the distance, that green gaze sticks in his mind like it's following him through the forest. Her eyes are so bright and clear, like the depths of the sea. There’s only one person in the world who's eyes compare to Ciri’s. He’s never ever seen anything else like those cornflower blue eyes.

When he arrives in Oxenfurt, he can't help the thunder that begins rumbling in his chest. Every time he hears a musical instrument, he turns and looks, even if it isn't a lute. He scolds himself for his own foolishness.

He’s so on edge- it’s been a while since he last saw the bard, and he hadn't exactly sent him away especially kindly. Still, he knows Jaskier will take him back. Jaskier always takes him back.

Geralt hadn't even needed to apologise for what he said on the mountain. Jaskier just took him back. No questions, no argument, not even a single mention of shit shovelling. Just an embrace, and a, “Geralt,” and Jaskier took him back, just like that.

So, Geralt figures he can just do it again.

He doesn't know why Jaskier likes him. He doesn't quite understand it.

The truth is, Geralt isn’t a person that Jaskier should like. He shouldn't be the sort of person that Jaskier wants to be around, and certainly he shouldn't be his travelling companion. Jaskier is full of hope for the world, and Geralt has learned not to trust it. Jaskier often speaks when he shouldn't, whereas Geralt often doesn't speak when perhaps he should. Jaskier is bright and colourful, and Geralt is gloomy and grey. Jaskier is so human, and Geralt is so... Not.

Jaskier loves freely and openly, whereas Geralt holds his feelings clutched close to his chest, never to be revealed, or risk ridicule. Jaskier is so alive, and Geralt is... Well, Geralt is Geralt. Surviving, never living. At least- he was. Until the world gave him a purpose. Until the world gave him Ciri.

When he's with her, it's like everything lights up. When she laughs, it's like he's just seen the first flower of spring. When she cries, Geralt wants to tear apart the world. She didn't deserve what happened to her, but then again, he didn’t deserve what happened to him either. They are both scarred- with different wounds that ache the same terrible way. But Geralt won't let her turn out like him.

Loving her is terrifying. Loving anything, or anyone, is a feat of bravery, Geralt realises. One risks everything by loving, knowing that love will end, but still loving anyway, because having loved once is better than never loving at all. Geralt doesn't want to care so much, and yet, he does, but it's so terrifying. How does Jaskier do it? He wonders.

He wonders if perhaps Jaskier is far braver than he ever realised. Not because he can slay a mighty beast or defeat an army in a single blow, but because he doesn't stop loving even when he knows he's going to lose it.

Geralt looks at the door in front of him, his hand hesitating on the doorknob. In all truth, he’s not quite sure if this is Jaskier’s place at all. It's just the place he's seen Jaskier in the most- frankly he's not even sure Jaskier has a place. It isn't like he's actually in Oxenfurt for most of the year. He trains his ear to the door, just to make sure he's in the right place and- yes, muffled by the sound of the door, but clear enough for a Witcher- the sound of sloppy kissing, the bounce of a bed on wood floor, and the moans of Jaskier’s on and off lover, a woman by the name of Vespula that Geralt had met some years prior.

Geralt sighs, but he's almost amused by the fact that he’s going to call upon Jaskier at this time, of all times. He opens the front door, not bothering to close it behind him or take off his boots. This should be a quick affair, he figures. Jaskier knows he’s a man of business.

Still, he hesitates outside the door to the second floor bedroom, even though the sounds of sex are beginning to get on his nerves. He doesn't like Vespula- he doesn't have a reason, he just doesn't like her. And he isn't especially pleased to walk in on Jaskier having sex- not like it hasn't happened before, he mentally comments, and he's surprised at the bitterness of the thought. He can't explain it. Thinking of Jaskier with someone... It fills Geralt with a strange feeling he doesn't enjoy but also doesn’t quite understand.

So, instead, he knocks. “Jaskier?” He asks, and suddenly and abruptly, the bed stops creaking, and there’s a gasp, Vespula’s gasp, from behind the door.

“Just a minute, darling!” She calls, and Geralt resists the urge to roll his eyes at the sound of frantic scrambling as the two desperately roll out of bed and back into their clothes. At least the bard has the decentency to meet him half dressed, although he supposes it's less a lack of modesty, and more an attempt at looking put together and neat. After all, Jaskier isn’t an especially modest person.

The door opens, and Vespula is standing there, her brown curls piled upon her head like a mound of snakes, frayed and loose. She instinctively adopts a seductive stance, leaning on the doorway with her hip thrust out suggestively. “What can I do you for?” She asks, fluttering her eyelashes as she glances over Geralt. “Oh,” She realises, her face turning down into a scowl and the pose falling away. “It’s you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt huffs, face twisting in displeasure. It’s natural for her to dislike him, he figures. He spends more time of the year with her lover than she does, so naturally she isn’t particularly fond of him pulling Jaskier away while he’s in her clutches.

Vespula frowns again, the motions off to her side to her lover. “Get out. The Witcher and I need to talk.”

Geralt turns to tell Jaskier that’s not the case, that Geralt wants to speak with him but he’s instead shocked into silence. The man that squeezes past Vespula is certainly scrawny, brown haired and blue eyed, but he is not Jaskier. He fumbles with his buttons on his plain tunic, and Geralt pushes him against the wall, holding him there. “Who the fuck are you?” He hisses, staring into greenish blue eyes, not cornflower blue but ugly putrid sea green, and he almost sends the man flying across the room, just from the rage of it all. But when Vespula begins pulling him off the poor sod, he lets him go.

The man runs down the stairs, still struggling to button his clothing. “Why, you brute!” Vespula cries, “Why, I’ll never see the fellow again after that!” She releases Geralt’s arm, pulling her arms up into a judgemental pose, shaking her head. “A damn shame too, he was a pretty one, he was,” She sniffs. “What are you here for anyway, now that you’ve ruined my damn day? Here to pick up Jaskier’s clothes? He left so many here, I think he must’ve left half his wardrobe. It’s cluttering the space, it is.”

She lets him into the room, and Geralt glances across the bed, and two windows, frowning when he sees no sign of the bard. As she continues, Geralt pauses in confusion, eyebrows scrunching together at the strange question. “Where is he? I need to speak with him.” He says finally, when he’s sure she’s done speaking.

Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “He’s not with you?” She asks incredulously.

“I thought he was with you.” Geralt shoots back, and the two stare at each other for a moment, processing the information in front of them. “Did you have a spat, and you sent him away?” Geralt asks, scratching his neck. He’s not with me, for the record.”

“Ohohoh, you did not just ask me that question after what you did,” Vespula points a fan at him accusingly, shaking her head.

Geralt doesn’t flinch at the accusation, but he does feel his heart sink into his stomach. “We worked that out.” He mumbles, glancing away. “He’s over it.”

“Mhm,” Vespula hums noncommittally, “Anyway, I haven’t seen the bloke since he left all his things here just after the snow melted last winter. About seven or eight days after, I suppose. I only saw him for a few minutes that night, and he said he was tired from rushing all the way from the mountains to here, so I let him sleep, and I figured we’d talk in the morning, but when I woke up, he and his lute were gone. I figured you had come to collect him, and he hadn’t had time to grab the rest of his things.” She waves the fan in front of her face, looking only mildly concerned. “If he’d left his lute here, I would’ve figured something more sinister was going on. But he didn’t leave a mess or anything, so I thought you’d called on him.”

“Well, I didn’t.” Geralt comments, as though it isn’t obvious, still thinking. “You said the last time you saw him was just after winter turned to spring, yes? By a week or so? Are you sure you haven’t seen him since?” He begins pacing the small room, looking for signs of disturbances, but he sees nothing. “And he fell asleep in this room?”

“In this very room, yes,” Vespula says, still fanning herself and watching Geralt curiously. “And I’m sure of it. Haven’t seen him since that day. Why, when was the last time you saw him?”

Geralt froze midstep, pausing before he spoke. “...A week before you. The day winter turned to spring.” He answers, not meeting her eyes.

Neither of them speak then for a while, both processing that information.

Neither of them had seen Jaskier since March 27th. And now, it is September. A dark, cold feeling rushes over Grealt like a wave cresting the ocean. Neither of them had seen Jaskier in months, and he disappeared in the middle of the night, with no struggle, leaving all of his belongings except his lute behind, not even bothering to leave a note to say where he was going.

Jaskier had disappeared seven days after Geralt had last seen him- and Geralt hadn’t even noticed. Gods, Jaskier had been missing for nearly six months and Geralt hadn’t even known . He suppresses the urge to vomit, or destroy something nearby, just to get his frustration out, and ground himself.

“The clothes.” He spits out, gritting his teeth as he turns to Vespula. When she looks confused, he again suppresses the urge to smash one of the pieces of wooden furniture nearby, or punch the goddamn wall. “You said he left clothes here,” He hisses, starting to pace the room again. “Where are they?”

She shrugs. “Shoved them under the bed when I thought he wasn’t coming back. Don’t have any use for the damn things, so take them if you want them.”

Geralt drops to his knees near instantly, scrambling over to the bed, reaching underneath to find a large amount of dust, and yes, under that dust, a familiar but faint flowery scent. He brings the gold doublet up to his nose, blowing away the dust and breathing in the familiar mixture of lavender, jasmine and a touch of citrus, so faint, and yet so there that Geralt can almost picture Jaskier in front of him, sitting atop the bed and reaching down, tussling Geralt’s hair and saying, “I knew you’d come back for me, dear heart.”

And then it’s gone, whisked away, and the doublet only smells of dust, and so forth is the vision of Jaskier, ripped from Geralt’s mind so violently and suddenly that he almost reels from the memory. He numbly realises he’s just sitting there, his face shoved into one of Jaskier’s shirts, and he glances up, but Vespula is gone. He isn’t surprised by her lack of concern, though it does trouble him. She’s already moved on to someone knew, but Geralt won’t. There’s only one Jaskier. “I’ll find you,” He promises, though he knows no one is listening. “I’ll find you.”

The room is quiet then, as Geralt moves through Jaskier’s clothing, trying to find some trace of a reason for his disappearance, his fingers lingering on the articles that have memories attached to them, until he realises they all have memories attached to them. Every single outrageously coloured jacket, every far too puffy pair of trousers, and every belt buckle and every single piece of it, he remembers it all. This really is all of his clothes, Geralt realises, noting a long red coat in the back of the pile. That red coat that Jaskier refused to take off, in his entire time at Kaer Morhen.

He picks up the coat, running his fingers along it. Where on earth could Jaskier have gone without all his belongings, save for his lute? And then, just like that, as he turns the coat over, the answer reveals itself.

A white owl feather falls from the coat, headed towards the ground, but Geralt snatches it out of the air.

They did so well, hiding the evidence. Geralt had almost been willing to believe that Jaskier had actually gone of his own accord. But they missed something.

“Phillipa Eilihart,” He shakes his head, closing his fingers around the feather, crushing it as he stands, striding out of the room with a new purpose in his step. “You fucked up.”

Chapter Text

“Jaskier’s gone,” is the first thing Geralt says to Yennefer through the xenovox, glancing around the busy street as he tries to be discreet, ducking into an alleyway to avoid unwanted attention.

“What do you mean gone?” Yennefer barks back, her loud voice in his mind enough to cause Geralt to flinch. “Have you checked the local brothel? How about the depths of the sewers?” She chides, and Geralt can almost hear the smile on her face as she does so.

“He’s not-“ Geralt bites his tongue in order to resist the urge to defend Jaskier, knowing that he needs Yennefer on his side for this. “He’s missing.” He bites out. “Not long after we left him, he arrived here, in Oxenfurt, to his home, preparing to stay here for a while, and then he disappeared in the middle of the night. He left everything behind, save for his lute. And I mean everything. No clothes, no jewelry, not even his jacket.” He looks down, remembering he’s still holding the jacket, running his fingers over the red leather. “No sign of a struggle, or anything. His lover didn’t notice anything amiss during the night apart from his sudden arrival.”

Yennefer clicks her tongue, and if it wasn’t for the situation at hand, Geralt would’ve been amused by the fact that the xenovox actually transmitted that. “Are you sure he didn’t just leave his lover by faking his disappearance? It’s awful convenient that only he and the lute are missing. If only he was missing, then I’d be worried, but it seems terribly more likely to me that this is some elaborate Jaskier scheme to avoid someone.”

She sounds rather bored, and Geralt can imagine she’s not especially pleased that Geralt’s only contacting her for this. “Sure, leaving all his belongings behind is inconvenient and foolish, but he’s always had a flair for the dramatic. I imagine he wouldn’t think it convincing enough otherwise.”

Geralt pauses. “…I did think that at first,” He admits guiltily, turning the xenovox around in his hand, once, then twice. He isn’t particularly fond of how quickly his mind had jumped to that conclusion, and it was starting to frustrate him that that seemed to be everyone else’s first conclusion as well. Did they all have such little faith in him? Did any of them really know Jaskier at all?

Still, there was work to do, and Geralt needed answers. He could ponder his own failures at a later date. “But while I was searching his things, I found something. A white owl feather.”

He doesn’t need to explain the implications to Yennefer, of course. She goes quiet, and Geralt imagines the way her face falls in his mind. “Oh,” She says simply, and Geralt almost laughs bitterly at the mildness of her reaction.

“So, I need to know where I can find Phillipa and Dijkstra.” He finishes, glancing around the dark alley, still clutching Jaskier’s red leather jacket close in his arms like it’s a lifeline.

Yennefer laughs, cold and harsh. “Geralt, don’t be a fool. What’s your plan? Hunt down the two most important and powerful people in all of Redania, and do what? Torture them, kill them, to take revenge? Don’t tell me you’re that stupid. Have you forgotten about staying under the radar? Have you forgotten about Ciri? Think critically, Geralt. Why would they take Jaskier, of all people?”

“To get to me. To get to Ciri.” Geralt answers slowly, but his voice is reluctant. “Nobody would need to know. Nobody would see me.” He flexes his fist, digging his fingertips into his palm, imagining the sound of his sword slicing through flesh and shattering bone. “Tell me where they are.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer soothes, and he hates how soft her voice sounds in his head. “You need to be realistic. You’ll never be able to hunt them down. They are too powerful. You need to let this idea go. It doesn’t matter if they die now or later- it matters that Ciri stays safe, and that you stay safe too. She needs you alive. I need you alive. Don’t let your heart move before your head.”

Geralt knows she’s right, he really does. But all he can see in his head is cornflower blue eyes and brown wavy curls, and he can almost hear Jaskier’s voice in his ears, calling him dear heart and darling, and talking about something that doesn’t even matter- and he can almost feel those moments when their hands brush in low light, and as Jaskier’s delicate fingers tenderly string themselves through Geralt’s hair. “It’s not fair.” He bites out, fury flaming through his veins. “They deserve to suffer.”

Yennefer’s sigh rings in his mind. “You know as well as I that nothing is fair. If that was the case, neither of us would be here, talking to one another.” Her voice is slightly bitter, but isn’t directed toward Geralt, not anymore. “You can’t enforce judgment and revenge. The world just doesn’t work that. I know that’s hard, but you need to be realistic.”

Geralt sighs, feeling the rage rush out of him like a wave, leaving.p him feeling cold and empty. “You’re right.” He grumbles, but it’s almost accusatory in nature. “Fuck. I need to find him.”

Yennefer is quiet for a moment, and Geralt hates how gently she’s treating him, like how one would hold a songbird with a broken wing, like any wrong word or movement would send him shattering into pieces. “Geralt,” She says softly in his mind, her words feeling like a cold hand on his shoulder, pulling him to the ground. “You mustn’t forget the reason why you came here. Rience is still on the loose, and we ought not to let this chance leave us. We can carry this plan on without Jaskier. Come back and we can carry out the plan and-“

“Fuck the plan!” Geralt roars, slamming his fist against the stone wall he’s leaning against with all the strength he can muster. It earns him some suspicious glances from passersby, and he slinks into the shadows of a different alleyway to regain his privacy, and his composure. “Fuck Rience.” He growls, restraining the urge to cry out in anger again. “This is bigger than that. This is more important than that. It might not even work. Tell Yarpen to call the caravan off.”

“And what about Ciri?” Yennefer snaps back. “Rience could come any minute, and you won’t be here to protect her. How much time as you going to waste doing this?”

“This,” Geralt spits, “is not a waste of time. He’s not a waste of time.” His breath catches in his throat. “I’ve failed him before- Yen, I’ve failed that man so many goddamn times I can’t even count them on one goddamn hand.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I’m not going to fail him again. Never again. It’s my fault he ever got involved in this mess, and I owe it to him to get him out of it. I owe him that much. I don’t know where he is, if he’s alive or dead, but I swear, I’m not leaving this city until I do. I know you want me there with you and Ciri, so consider your help in finding him a personal investment in my swift return.”

Yennefer is quiet for a moment longer. “And Ciri? We aren’t safe here, camping out in the open. If you’re going to be gone for a long time, we need to find a safer place to stay.”

“Take her to Aratuza.” Even Geralt is surprised at how fast the words come out of his mouth. “If you and Triss trust them, then I trust them too.”

“I-“ Yennefer sputters a response, clearly caught off guard. “It isn’t the most… secretive of places, but she’ll be safe there. I would like to be there. In truth, today Triss told me about some plot my mentor’s partner, a man called Vilgifortz, conducted to team up with Nilfgaard in order to capture Ciri. I can tell you about the details later, but the issue has been dealt with, and Aratuza is safer than ever. Even Stregabor has been put in line.” She sighs. “It could’ve been really terrible, the confrontation, but everything worked out. I just want to be there for my mentor. It’s the betrayal the likes of with she’s never dealt with before.” She pauses. “If I’ve been prickly to you, that’s why. I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“It’s alright, Yen,” Geralt rumbles, and he means it. “Ciri will be safe there, with you, and Triss, to watch over her. I know how important this is to you. I would never deny you that.”

Yennefer sighs, but it’s in relief, rather than frustration or despair. “Good. We can all meet up in Aratuza, when this is all over. You, me, Tissea, Triss, Jaskier and Ciri. We’ll have a big party, the finest party in all of the continent.” Her voice is wistful. “We’ll force you to dress up, and we’ll all drink ourselves silly, all together, and bathe in the hot springs all night long.”

“One big happy family.” Geralt promises, clutching the xenovox close to his heart. “I swear to you, I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen.” There’s a crowd of plague doctors, complete masks and all, making their way closer to him, and while he’s sure they aren’t actual threats, the image is a little unsettling.

“As will I,” Yennefer promises back, voice swift and clear in Geralt’s mind. “Now, as for Jaskier, there’s only one place the Redanian Secret Service keeps their prisoners. It’s a secret entrance, and I’ve only known it by sneaking around, so you ought to only have one chance to get in and out before they seal it off to outsiders for good. When you find him, tell me through the xenovox, and I can summon a portal to a house nearby Aratuza, where you can recuperate.” She hesitates. “You’ll have to stay there, of course. Humans and Witcher’s aren’t just allowed in Aratuza, not after what happened.”

“That’s fine,” Geralt says smoothly, glancing over as the crowd of doctors haggle over herbs at the apothecary across the street, looking utterly ridiculous as their goggled animal masks bounce up and down in argument. They are utterly dark, with no skin showing, and black cloaks billowing. If Geralt didn’t know they were for the large part, quacks and charlatans, he might’ve been intimidated. That’s how they get their coin, His mind dryly replies. “I’m not looking for luxury. Just a place to recuperate.”

“The entrance is through a bar, brothel combination. The Voracious Vixen, it’s called. You can’t miss it, it’s in the center of the city.” Her voice sounds disgusted in his mind. “A shoddy establishment, filled with the most repulsive and repugnant of folks. If you ask the bartender for a “Word of the Wise,” then they'll let you into the back. Not many guards, should be a quick in and out. My only concern is you being recognized. They certainly know to look out for you. You’re the most wanted man on the continent, they'll see you coming from a mile away. I don't know how to get around that.”

The gears start to turn in Geralt’s head. “...I have an idea.” He says, eyes scanning over the plauge doctors, with their various animal masks, and what not. “I'll need to prepare. Just before sunset, I'll go. If anything goes wrong, or I don't find him, I'll let you know. Be prepared to make that portal. I won't want any delays.”

“Of course.” Yennefer answers. “Don’t do anything stupid. Don't reveal yourself to anyone, and if you do, make them forget your face. We can’t afford to be the enemies of Nilfgaard and Redania. Of course, they'll suspect it, but we ought not to give them any ammunition against us.”

“I know,” Geralt responds, glancing over to the group of plague doctors, who begin to disperse into the crowd, each going their own way. He doesn't want to lose sight of them.

“And Geralt,” Yennefer hesitates, “You should be prepared for things to be different. If he's alive. It's been a long time. He might be a different person than the one we left behind at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt feels his fingers go numb. “He’ll be fine,” He mumurs loosely, dismissive as always. “It's not the first time I've rescued him from prison.” I just want to see his face again.

“Geralt-”

“Sunset.” He interrupts, beginning to sever his mind from the connection of the xenovox. “Be ready.”

“I will.” Yennefer’s voice faintly responds, and then the bond is broken, and he slides the xenovox into his pocket.

Geralt strides into the darkness of the alleyway, gaze locked on a lonely plague doctor, with a mouse mask, who’s separated from the rest of the group, and he makes the sign for Axii. He leaves the man with a coin to make up for the loss, though he does look a bit befuddled at the whole situation.

Geralt knows he should feel bad. He doesn't though. The only thing he can think of, is cornflower blue eyes.

Chapter Text

Yennefer was right. The brothel was utterly dismal, both in occupants and in cleanliness. Geralt was almost glad his sense of smell was muffled by the mask that covered his visage. What he can sense beneath the scent of leather or cloth drifts in from the tiny gaps where air seeps in from the outside of his elaborate costume. He feels stupid, not just for being dressed up in this ridiculous outfit, but because he knows he’s standing out, even now. He might not look like a Witcher anymore, but he certainly doesn’t look like the typical brothel customer, and certainly not one of this low calibre of quality. He feels eyes on him, sinking into the dark cape and leather covering his body, and his Witcher senses tell him to turn and stare right back, but he doesn’t. The mask restricts his vision, and looking to the side requires a not-so-subtle turn of the head that would betray his stride of confidence towards the bar.

The bartender stares at him with a suspicious look. “If yer here to drink, you’ll need to take the mask off.” He slurs, motioning to Geralt’s face with thick, pudgy fingers that get too close for Geralt’s liking.

Geralt resists the urge to push away the man’s fingers from his face, but instead, he grits his teeth in frustration. “I’m here for the word of the wise.” He only hopes that his words sound convincing enough to allow him entrance. He’s suddenly glad for the mask's ability to hide his face- he’s a pretty shoddy actor, all things considered. He can hide most of his emotions plenty well, but frustration and anger have never been ones that he could successfully conceal. The urge to growl or push the hands away from his face was strong enough to make his fingers twitch.

The bartender looks Geralt up and down, a suspicious eyebrow rising on his drunkenly red face. “You?” He taps his fingers on the bar, “Yer not a soldier. Tis only soldiers that… order that.”

If Geralt was a fearful man, he might’ve broken at that moment. But he had prepared for this. “I’m here to examine the batch for contamination. Wouldn’t want the goods to fester if you catch my meaning.” He feels sort of numbly disgusted to be referring to prisoners as products, but it’s all part of the con. Still, the man looks sceptical, although Geralt can almost see his composure wavering.

“As proof of my authenticity,” He says, sliding the white feather he’d found in Jaskier’s clothes across the bar into the man’s awaiting fingers. It’s a little crumpled, but as the man snatches it, he knows the bait has been taken.

“Where did you-“ The bartender stutters, eyes flashing in recognition. His hands shake, and he interrupts himself, “I mean, this way, sir.” He mumbles, avoiding Geralt’s gaze and leading him down into the cellar and past racks of wine stacked row upon row. “Apologies for my foolishness; I meant no harm, honest. Just not normal, ya see. I'd forgotten youse was coming.”

The man stops suddenly at a rather unremarkable-looking wine rack and reaches up and grabs one of the torches from the wall, pulling it down like a lever. There’s a muffled creaking noise, and for a moment, nothing happens. And then, lo and behold, the wine rack shifts backwards and then slides to the side, revealing a hidden passageway that would’ve been entirely unnoticeable if he hadn’t been shown it. Even Geralt can’t help but be a little impressed despite the circumstances. He could’ve spent hours in this cellar and never discovered this hidden passage, even if he’d been searching for it.

That thought leaves him uneasy as he follows the man down another flight of dimly lit stairs, and he can't help but glance back as the wall slides back into place, sealing them inside the long, narrow corridor. He’s faced with the darkness of the unknown and no other way out than to go deeper, and it sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn't like it when he's not in control of his surroundings, and this is certainly no exception. He doesn’t like how his costume restricts his movements and his senses or how his hearing is muffled just enough that he’s almost unable to hear the beat of the barkeep’s heart.

The smell of a strange ash fills Geralt’s nose despite the mask. When he turns, he sees the light blazing inferno down the way. “Just this way, esteemed guest.” The man gestures down the hallway, with the firelight light casting a harsh reflection on his face in a way that demonstrates the depths of his depravity. This man did not shiver, nor did his heart stutter when the true nature of the flames was revealed- this man was so unafraid and callous in a place such as this, where those human bodies lay pilled, awaiting their turn in the depths of the crematorium. The black smoke pours from the round opening in the steel billows, large and foreboding, covering the lenses of his mask with a layer of light ash. He reached up to brush it away, trying not to think about what exactly it was.

As they walk, he takes a moment to glance at the three bodies that lay scattered on the gurneys- searching for something he dare not name, for it fills him with a cold that the warmth of the fire cannot shake. The bodies lay crudely tossed aside, with no care in their placement. Stripped of clothes and possessions, instead, he searches their faces. He reaches out a hand to stop the man who’s leading him. “Let me take a moment to examine these.” He rumbles and, floundering for a reason, mumbles, “To check for sickness.” He doesn’t know how accurate that might be; he’s a Witcher, not a doctor for Melitele’s sake- but it’s as good a reason as any. When the man hesitates, Geralt begins to suspect he’s made a terrible mistake until he nods, and Geralt’s shoulders relax.

He takes his time, moving from one body to the next with care, closing their glassy eyes as he does so. He’s not the spiritual type, but it’s the least he can do. A woman, an old man, and a young elven man. They barely seem human, so light and hollowed by hunger, eyes so deep-set in hollow sockets, he can see every bone and every detail that should be covered by flesh. The bruises that litter them are harsh colors of purple and yellowed brown against bloodless skin that’s oh, so cold. Geralt isn’t sure if he should be glad that the last man he examines isn’t Jaskier- or is it selfish, he wonders, for perhaps, was this man once to someone what Jaskier is to him? Did someone find home in those brown eyes, or listen to his words like they were sacred prayer, and then did they grieve and wallow and despair just as Geralt now is once he disappeared from their life?

Geralt is not often stirred to feeling when seeing a body. He’s a Witcher, after all. Corpses are just part of the job, and the emotions that they should stir have been nullified by time and experience. Corpses are cold and empty- devoid of anything that makes a human a human (he’s seen enough of them rise that he can be quite sure of that) - but still, he feels a strange feeling stirred in his throat. He brushes the man’s hair from his face as he closes his eyes. He deserved this one last dignity, even if Geralt knew not his name nor the crime he died for; it mattered not. Someone cared for this man and likely is still waiting for him to return- just as Geralt had waited for Jaskier- and if they couldn’t be here to grant this man his final kindness, then Melitele Geralt could give it all the same.

All of these people, he realises as he combs through piles of records- simple things, just names, ages, cause of death and crime, nothing more- all of these people died like this. All of these pages are coated in that ash- that ash that is the only thing that remains of them. Some causes of death are empty, although these are sparsely interspersed. It makes sense now why a prison would have a crematorium. These aren’t death records- they’re entry and exit forms.

There must be thousands, he guesses- the dates go back dozens of years, and still, each year lists a nearly absurd number- and the pages go on and on and on. All of these people died here, then were fed into the fiery maw- all starved and broken, not afforded any kindness, not even in death- he’s horrified, infuriated- how can anybody do this? How can anybody support this? And yet, Geralt knows why. He sees the raging beast of war in the furnace, snarling with fangs glistening and black smoke billowing from open jaws- it screams and claws at the steel, it cries, and wails, and no amount of bodies and souls will placate its insatiable appetite, and yet the world keeps feeding it- in the hopes that it burns to ash victorious in a blaze of victory instead of destroying everything in its path.

He narrows his search down to month, scanning the names, glancing across death causes- dead, dead, alive, dead, dead, dead, dead- is there anyone in this goddamn prison who didn’t end up in the fucking furnace? His hands are shaking so much he can hardly read- he steadies himself against the wall, but it doesn’t fucking help- he presses the paper onto the desk to quell his shaking fingers, and reads, and he reads and then-

Julian Alfred Pankratz The name hits him like a blast of Aard, threatening to send him tumbling to the ground. He leans over the desk, clutching it with all his strength as he stares at the name, palms trembling. A collection of dark grey ash covers the cause of death, but with the light brush of a gloved finger- nothing but a blank space is revealed. Geralt releases a breath he didn't know he was holding.

He’s alive. There’s a jolt of feeling in Geralt’s chest, and he lets out a short huff of laughter. He stands, pushing the file aside with little care. Jaskier is alive , and he's here, in this dungeon, waiting for Geralt to rescue him. He wasn't dead, and Geralt still had time to make things right.

Geralt follows the man down further, twisting tunnels, feeling strangely disconnected all the way, his mind a flurry of thoughts and emotions pulled into one giant mess of feelings. As he's led past cells of starving people chained to walls and rooms where he hears cries of misery from within, he keeps his mind focused and clear, never daring to pity lest it stray his path. There’s only so much he can do, he reasons, though the thought makes him feel sick. These people are prisoners of war, and although Geralt would like nothing more than to free all of these people from their shackles, Geralt is but one man and he has a purpose he cannot stray from.

He listens to each scream and searches each agonised dirty face, though it pains him so- the way their eyes widen as he passes by like they've seen a ghost. And then he remembers- remembers the mask and the cloaks of black he wears- to them, he must look like death itself. He didn't want Jaskier to see him like that. He didn't want their first meeting since Geralt’s abandonment of him to be like that- the word abandonment rings in his mind like a churchbell, getting louder and louder every moment- because that's what it was, wasn't it? Geralt had abandoned him. The amount of disgust at himself he feels is enough to cause him to wish to drive his fist into a nearby stone wall just to feel the ache in his heart spring to his knuckles. He doesn't, of course.

Something grabs his cloak, and he stops, glancing down. There's a boy, not much older than Cirilla’s age, grasping his cloak with desperate, dirty hands. His eyes are wide and white against his unwashed face, loudly crying for help and salvation with no words. “Take me now,” He begs, having caught Geralt’s attention. His accent is thick, and his words are broken, but Geralt hears the plea all the same. “Let it be over. Take me now.” Loose black hair falls over hazel eyes onto grey ash-soaked cheeks, but the boy does not waver in his conviction. He lies draped against cold grey bars, hands raw and numb, tears leaving streaks of sunken skin behind in their wake.

Geralt kneels almost unwittingly. He thinks of the boys who died in Kaer Morhen. He thinks of his brothers, who did not survive the sacking. He thinks of Ciri- how she still plays knucklebones and clutches a doll close every night- and brushes the boy's tears away with a carefully gloved hand. He takes his hand, and while he says nothing (for what can you say to a boy who wishes for death?), he runs his fingers over his knuckles, slowly, with a level of care that Geralt wasn't aware he was even capable of. The boy looks startled and then leans into the touch. He's only a boy. He's only a boy.

Even as Geralt pulls himself away, these thoughts don't leave his head. Innocent people don't deserve to suffer, let alone children. These thoughts ruminate, feeding into his worries like wood to an open flame.

Then, he thinks of Jaskier. Of his laugh, of the way he uses his hands while talking, of his cornflower blue eyes and of the way his smile reaches his eyes. Geralt thinks of his smell of lavender and citrus and how his hair looks when it’s about to rain. He thinks of the string callouses on his fingertips and how they so effortlessly weave through Geralt’s hair. He thinks about songs and ballads and poetry and how Geralt never focuses on the words, inside on how he looks while he’s saying them. He thinks of the chill that turns the tips of his ears red at the end of autumn, and he thinks about how when he sneezes, he always sneezes twice.

Geralt thinks of a storm, too. He thinks of when banter turns to battle and when words become barbed and twisted. He thinks of all those times he’s tried to leave; he thinks about all those times he wished, hoped beyond hope, that he would give up and just leave him alone. He thinks of a mountain and a dragon and words that cut to the bone. He thinks of emptiness, loneliness, and a deep, unforgiving chill. He thinks of quiet nights without chatter and banter- he thinks of making two servings instead of one. He thinks of riding with no destination in mind, and he thinks of battling a monster that is pure and deep and unforgiving and unrelenting. One that cannot be cut by sword nor blade, but by a feeling, a truth, that one isn't willing to accept nor wield.

He thinks of returning, and he thinks of forgiveness. He thinks of the smell of lavender, citrus and ash. He thinks of a promise and a stone clutched in shaking hands. Geralt thinks of a family. He thinks of a man with buttercups in his hair, and he thinks of a life, one that could be had not apart but together. He thinks of a family. He thinks of Jaskier. He thinks of so many things, folding in on each other, but the one thing never wavering is him. He’s been there all along. Through rain and shine and fire and flame. He’s always been right there; why hadn’t Geralt seen it before?

He first hears it in the guard barracks, and he almost thinks he’s imagining it. He must be imagining it, he rationalises. He shouldn’t dare to dream and dare to hope. But as he follows through corridors of cobblestone and mortar, the sound grows louder, and whilst it’s so faint in the cool corridor air, it bounces from wall to wall, filling his ears with a melody he’s heard so many times before. The familiar way the lute sings is enough to threaten Geralt to break into a run towards the noise, and as his feet hasten across the cobbled ground, he can almost hear his voice in the darkness of the tunnels.

For this is not just any song- it was no classic piece or any piece of special renown. This song is the one that Jaskier sang to him as he lay dying in his arms at the end of one particularly bad hunt. It was the song Jaskier sang as he stitched Geralt’s wounds with careful, calloused hands.

“You’re such a fool.” He’d said, the heat plastering his hair to his face as he held a soaked cloth to Geralt’s wound. “I told you not to leave without me. If I weren’t following you, you’d have bled out right here.”

“‘m fine.” Geralt had growled, trying to sit up but falling back on the grass.

Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes were sad but fond. “You’ll be right as rain, Geralt, darling. I’m right here.” His words were soft, and his hands were gentle. “You need to stay still while I stitch this.”

Geralt rose again against Jaskier’s protests. “I don’t need your help-“ He muttered, grabbing for the needle and wincing as it passed through his flesh once again. “I don’t need you to tend to me like I’m a child.”

Jaskier sighed, pausing only for a moment in his stitching. “I know damn well you don’t need help, Geralt, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to do it. I’m not helping you because I think you need it; I’m helping because I care about you, damn it. I’m not going to let you torture yourself just because you’re afraid of seeming vulnerable.” He tied the knot on the string, then admired his handiwork. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Geralt glanced at the wound and huffed a simple “…not bad.” before he lay his head back upon the grass with a frown. “…carry on if you insist.”

He saw Jaskier’s face light up out of the corner of his eye, and that, if only that, brought the tiniest of smiles to his lips. “I knew you appreciated me, you oaf.” Jaskier teased, beginning to stitch a second wound with delicate and purposeful hands. “If I insist… what a gentleman.” He mused.

No one had ever described Geralt as a gentleman before, and the way it stirred feeling in his chest had brought a frown to his face. The two were quiet then, Geralt contemplating this feeling of being cared for and Jaskier working in a diligent silence until he began to sing, oh so softly, under his breath.

If I were a sculptor, I would make you out of gold
Like fields of buttercups or treasure troves of old
A colour so deep and pure it cannot be controlled
For even if you were metal, my heart, you would still hold

If I were a spinster and no more could I perform
I’d spin you up a soft scarf to keep you safe and warm
For you are my fire, but I’ll keep you safe from the storm
Because heaven knows, to normalcy, you won't conform

But if I were a soldier who travels far and yon
I’d miss and wish to kiss you each moment I was gone
Even slaying dragons, to my heart, you would still belong
You are a thief, and all my love is your greatest con

But if I were a noble with wealth as far as the eye could see
I’d grant you all my money and buy you a palace on the sea
We would live in tranquillity with you still next to me
But we both know you’re restless, and I’m broke as can be

But I am a bard with stories and ballads galore
Every word is focused on you, for it’s you I so adore
From desert to forest, to the far-off western shore
Time is ours aplenty, and I am yours evermore

For whom he sang, Geralt knew not. He just knew the way Jaskier’s hands moved across his skin. He knew there was a gentleness there, reserved for someone Geralt could only dream to meet- for Jaskier had no low standards. The person of his affections must be as good as good can be and as kind and sweet as summer rain- and look heaven blessed with a beauty rivalled by only the sun itself.

Who is this mystery for whom you sing? He wanted to ask, but no words left his lips. He did not wish to draw Jaskier’s attention away from caring for him. And so he closed his eyes, revelling in the thought that someone cared enough to tend to his wounds at all.

The song never took off like Jaskier thought it would.

And though Geralt would never tell him, but that song was his favourite.

And now, as he stalks through cold dungeon walls, with that song guiding him like he was a line on a hook, he felt a feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time. One he hadn’t felt since he was a child.

Hope.

There was nothing in the world that could stand in his way. Jaskier was here, and his lute was singing to Geralt, crying out his name, ready to embrace him with open arms. He feels light and fuzzy- his feet almost skip along the stones that swam beneath his feet. He couldn’t move fast enough, yet still, he walked in a daze, guided by that siren song that beckoned him forth.

This must all be some misunderstanding. Jaskier isn’t a prisoner here; he’s a guest. Of course, he’s here to entertain the guards on their long shifts- he must be so enamoured by the life of the Redania royalty ever to leave- perhaps this is where his lover is, and he’s playing for them. Yes, yes, of course, these things are all adding up.

Just around this corner, now, through this hall- can’t this damn bartender walk faster, Jaskier’s just around the corner now! What shall he say? What shall he do in greeting? Geralt’s mind is a flurry.

He sees the corner at the end of the hall- just a few strides away and his heart trembles. He turns, ready to embrace Jaskier like he’s never done before and then-

Wait.

The man playing the lute… isn’t Jaskier at all.

Reality hits Geralt like a wave, cold and dark. Of course. How could he’ve been so stupid?

He falters in his step, falling behind the bartender with a hundred words teasing at his tongue. His euphoria dissolves into confusion and then a cold, dripping anger from the depths of his being.

The man holding Jaskier’s lute stops playing and steps down from the table he’s standing on. He’s dressed in the finest silk robes and wears a magnificent fur coat draped around his shoulders. And he’s a pretty face, too, the bastard. Long coppery curls, a strong jaw, large brown eyes and a brilliant smile too- one nearly as smug as Geralt would expect of a man holding his bard’s lute. Geralt fist tightens into a fist in his gloves; his teeth clenched into a harsh grimace he’s glad is concealed by the mask.

The man in front of him bows to the man deeply and earnestly, and with a sinking feeling, Geralt realises that this man is even more powerful than Geralt first anticipated he was dealing with. What has he gotten himself into?

“You must be the doctor,” The man says, tossing Jaskier’s lute aside with little care and extending a hand.

Geralt takes it, and he notices the seal of Redanian embedded in one of the rings. Shit. “Your majesty,” He manages to blurt out, though it causes him a significant amount of effort to do so.

“No need to kiss the ring,” The man says, pulling his hand back. “It would be tricky with your spooky little get-up you’ve got there.” The way he says each word is casual but not causal enough to have Geralt let his guard down. His words carry weight- this man pretends not to know what he’s doing or saying, but there’s a sinister, intelligent edge that’s so difficult to place. “Just call me Radovid, would you? It would make things much easier.”

Radovid… ah, so he’s the brother of the king of Redania, Geralt realises with a sickening dread in his stomach. He just mutters out an “Of course.” that he hopes gets the point across that he’s not exactly keen on chatting.

“Well then, you’re a good sport.” He ushers the bartender away with a wave of his hand. “On your way, good sir, the doctor and I are discussing topics not befitting of your fine ears.”

“But your majesty, you need a guard-“ The man protests, raising a thick finger in protest.

“From what, good sir?” Radovid asks easily. “Doctor Aldrich will protect me, won’t you, doctor?”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably in his robes. “Of course, sire.” He mutters, sneaking a glance at Jaskier’s lute out of the corner of his mask’s eyepiece. It’s his, sure enough, but the strings are worn and loose, and it’s covered in dust and dents that had never been there before. There’s no repairing the instrument. In another world, Geralt might’ve divined a way to steal the lute back- but the instrument is broken. He doesn’t want Jaskier to see it like that.

His mouth feels dry. How had he not noticed the different sounds of the lute? Now that he thinks back, he remembers wrong cords and out-of-tune notes, and he feels almost sick. He’d been so blind with hope that Jaskier was okay that his own mind had betrayed him into thinking it was true.

“Do you like the music?” The Prince asks, and Geralt realises he’s staring. The other man is gone now, and it is just the two of them in this room. And Geralt feels his pulse quicken. After what this man did to Jaskier’s lute, he ought to make him pay, his mind whispers. An eye for an eye. His fingers clench, and then he releases them. This is the Prince of Redania, he reasons. He ought not to let his heart rule his head.

“It’s a beautiful instrument.” He answers instead, casting his glance away from the ruined instrument to the Prince.

Radovid grins, obviously not noticing Geralt’s careful dodge of the question. “Yes, yes, indeed. The elves may be good for nothing, but at least they make fine instruments.” He begins to lead Geralt down an adjoining hallway.

The racial insult makes Geralt bristle, but he doesn’t comment on it, just offering a brief nod in what he hopes looks like agreement.

“I must admit the instrument is not my own,” the prince admits, smile faltering for only a moment.

At this, Geralt’s eyebrows spring up, and his pulse quickens. He can ask about Jaskier. “Oh?” He asks lightly, trying to spur the prince onward to clarify. His pace quickens slightly so he’s right by the prince’s side.

Radovid smiles, running a hand through thick, red curls. “Yes, in truth, the instrument belongs to my fiancé.”

Wait.

…What?

The Prince waves off Geralt’s confusion with a flick of his wrist. “Well, it hasn’t been announced yet, so that’s why you haven’t heard of it yet. And although it’s a little unconventional, Redania is very progressive when it comes to these things. Anyway, that’s not important. But you are here to see him, so you ought to know.”

There’s a glacier in Geralt’s chest. Cold and still, in the centre of his being. He feels a piece shatter and tumble into the dark ocean below.

Fiancé.

The word feels like a blow to the chest. He hears himself congratulating the Prince, but he doesn’t mean it. Oh gods, he doesn’t fucking mean it.

Maybe it isn’t Jaskier; he tries to argue to himself; perhaps this is some sort of mistake. Someone stole Filavandrel’s life from Jaskier, and this is the man that the prince is set to marry. This has got just to be one big misunderstanding. But that was Jaskier’s song that he was playing. And that was Jaskier’s name on the list. And there, around the Prince’s neck, twirls a familiar silver tuning fork. He’s wearing Jaskier’s fucking necklace. Geralt feels almost sick at the thought.

“How is he?” Geralt asks, and though he speaks as flat as he can if the words tremble slightly as they leave his lips, not even gods themselves could stop them.

The Prince sighs, and Geralt’s stomach flips. “Uncooperative.”

Uncooperative? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“He’s been in solitary for a while now. Dijkstra said he’d mellow out after some time alone, and that’s certainly been the case, but he looks unwell. I’m not actually supposed to bring anyone to him, but I’m worried about him.” The Prince admits. That would almost be sweet, Geralt muses if Radovid weren’t complicit with putting him in the damn cell in the first place.

“I’ll take a look at him,” Geralt reassures, and his heart quickens at the thought. This opportunity was even more valuable than he thought. “Our visit will stay between you and me, I assure you.”

“Good.” The Prince sighs. “I’d hate to see him damaged before he’s mine.”

Damaged. The word sticks out in Geralt’s mind. Like Jaskier’s some kind of object. “Before you meet?” He asks instead, surprised. “Aren’t you engaged?”

“Well, we will be.” Radovid waves off the technicality like it’s nothing.

“Well, what if he says he doesn’t want to marry you?” Geralt ventures, and while he knows it’s near traitorous to ask, the words fall too quickly out of his mouth to stop them.”

“Oh, he will.” The Prince says mildly, his words and steps steady. “I’m the prince of Redania. I’ll convince him. One way or another. Magic can be quite convincing when applied properly.” He says the words so easily like they don’t mean what they do.

Rage cages through Geralt’s veins like wildfire. This fucker needs to get well acquainted with Axii, he decides. Fuck his morals. Fuck this. Still, he does nothing. But his patience is beginning to wear thin. “Are we almost there?” He bites out against his better judgement. He sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn’t care. He never wants to see this man’s face ever again.

“Yes, just a bit further.” The Prince replies quickly, voice light and casual. Why does he speak so easily? How can he speak like his words mean nothing? “I must warn you, the door system is quite complicated. It ensures Julian won’t escape-“ He hates being called Julian, Geralt wants to snap, “-so I’m afraid I’ll have to lock you in while you do your work.”

“That’ll be fine,” Geralt says quickly, his pace hastening. He wants to get this damn thing over with and get Jaskier out of the hands of this psychopath. To get the canary of this coal mine. “I don’t know how long my work will take, so you should be prepared to wait awhile.”

“Certainly. I’m the only one who comes to check on him, so you can take as long as you need.” The Prince turns a corner. “Here we are.”

Geralt’s heart quickens. He turns the corner, prepared to see Jaskier, and… there’s nothing—just a stone hallway with a bench and a window and a staircase. The window looks out into another room, that of which is blocked by Radovid’s admittedly impressive figure. The man gestures out the window, and Geralt joins him on what he now realises is a balcony.

And Geralt looks down.

The room below is small and dingy. What catches Geralt’s eyes immediately is the man huddled by one of the walls. He’s so thin he almost looks like one of the corpses Geralt had examined not long before. His clothes are rags, and while he looks clean, his brown hair is long and matted down past his shoulders. He’s carving something onto the wall, Geralt realises, as he watches his fingers at work.

There are marks on the wall.

At first, he thinks tens, and then he realises hundreds. And when the man looks up to admire his work, Geralt catches the sight of all too familiar cornflower blue eyes.

Geralt wants to be sick.

“He can’t see you.” The Prince says sharply, answering Geralt’s unspoken question. “Magic.”

“Take me to him.” Geralt demands, his hand tight around his bag and the balcony. “I need to see him.” It’s not what a doctor would say, but he doesn’t care. He’s so close.

The Prince leads him down the stairs, and his feet can’t move fast enough. Geralt stares at the metal door before him, a symphony exploding in his head. He’s so close. “There are two doors.” The Prince explains, sliding keys into the lock. “This is the first. This cannot be unlocked inside, so I’ll wait here. When you are done, knock three times, and I’ll know to open it. It can only open it once the other door is closed.” He hands Geralt a key. “This is for the second door.”

Geralt barely listens to these instructions. They aren’t important. The one thing he does realise is that Radovid won’t see what’s going on inside while it’s happening. His hands almost shake as the first door opens. There’s only another metal door at the end, but he doesn’t care. It’s getting closer now, the moment of truth—the moment of forgiveness.

“Wait here.” He says to Radovid, quietly making the sign for axii behind his back. “You can’t hear anything inside, no matter how loud it may be.” Geralt stops and is almost done, and then he speaks again. “And you want Jaskier to be happy. And you know that he can never be happy when forced to do anything.” He adds, perhaps against his better judgment.

Radovid stares back at him with clear, watery eyes. His mouth hangs a little agape, fully bent to Geralt’s will. He almost feels bad. “Close the door now.” Geralt grunts, and the metal door swings shut in his face.

He tears off the mask and gloves, throwing them to the side of the small room. He breathes in fresh air for the first time in what feels like forever. As he stares at the door before him, it feels so close yet far away. As his fingers brush the metal, there’s a chill of a cold that washes through his skin,

Geralt turns the key in the lock. Once, then twice. He feels the click in his hands, and still, he hesitates. He’s so close- so why does he waver?

He’s afraid.

He pushes the feeling away as soon as it appears. What has he got to be afraid of?

The door swings open, and… it's just as dismal within the cell as it appears from above. Only now, the scratch marks on the wall are more apparent, and the skeleton in the corner seems even more broken and terrified.

Geralt almost doesn't recognise him, and the thought makes him feel sick. He extends a hand, but though the man’s only a few steps away, it’s like reaching across a canyon. “Jaskier,” He whispers and opens his mouth to continue, but no words come.

He expects a reaction. A word in response, or for Jaskker to run into his arms like he did last time, but nothing happens. The figure in the corner just stares, cornflower blue eyes wide in hollowed sockets, and cowers away.

“Jaskier,” Geralt takes a step forward, extending his hand further. “I’m going to get you out of here.” He promises, in words he hopes are comforting. “And I'll never let anyone hurt you ever again.”

Jaskier tilts his head as if acknowledging Geralt’s words, but his gaze is so empty and cold that it's more like a rabbit eying a wolf it cannot flee from. There is no warmth—just an almost animalistic analysis of Geralt.

“Come on, I just want to get you out of this place. You are well within your rights to be pissed at me, but please, give me the chance to explain when we’re safe. Just take my hand.” The plea almost sounds desperate and pathetic to Geralt’s ears, but he doesn't care. “I know you’re there. Tell me to fuck off, I don't care. Let's just get out of here, please.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond. His bony hand just flickers across the floor to wrap around the sharpened stone he’d been using to carve the marks into the wall.

A chill goes down Geralt’s spine. Yennefer’s words flicker to the forefront of his mind. You should be prepared for things to be different. If he's alive. It's been a long time. He might be a different person than the one we left behind at Kaer Morhen.

His hand flickers to the xenovox, hidden in his cloak pocket, and he feels the connection instantly. “Do it now.” That is all he manages to mumble.

“Give me a minute,” Yennefer responds nearly immediately. “Is he ready? I can't hold it for long.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. So, instead, he turns to Jaskier. “Jaskier, come on.” His voice is soft, but there’s a warning in it. “I don't want to force you.”

The man who used to be Jaskier stares back with an empty, eerie cornflower-blue gaze. He grips the stone like a lifeline, leaving white marks on his palm and bony fingers.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, and despite everything, for a moment, he doubts this is his friend. He moves forward, and then, midstep, it happens.

The skeleton springs forward, driving the stone towards Geralt. It slides off his robes. After all, it is only a stone. Jaskier stares for a moment, then drops it.

“Hey-” Geralt reaches forward, clasping a bony shoulder with a firm hand. His eyes grow large, and he struggles away, and when it's clear that he's far weaker than the Witcher, he starts to hit at Geralt with wild, desperate hands.

“Jaskier!” Geralt barks as he struggles to restrain the bard. “I said I don't want to hurt you!” His fingernails leave red scorching scratches in their wake as a desperate hand streaks down his face. Gerald is strong, but he's so careful not to break Jaskier that the bard manages to slip from his grip, pounding fists into his chest and kicking with a force that seems almost impossible from his frail body.

When Geralt manages to trap Jaskier under his arm, the bard glances up at him, terrified, and Geralt’s heart twists. He almost lets him go. “I’m so sorry.” He manages to murmur. “Please just trust me. I promise everything is going to be okay. I’m so sorry.”

And just like that, Jaskier’s eyes soften, and he falls limply into Geralt’s arms. He’s so light. He’s so light; it's like picking up a feather. “It's all going to be okay,” Geralt promises, even though he isn't sure it will be. Jaskier’s hair is tussled back, and he raises a hand to brush it away, and his hand comes back warm. He’s ill.

As he steps through the portal, he holds Jaskier so close.

There are many more hurdles awaiting them, Geralt knows, and he's ready for all of them.

Geralt just knows he's never going to leave, ever again.

Chapter Text

His hand lays splayed out on the sheet like a pale cloud across a weatherbeaten sky. So pale and stark, and light enough that it could vanish in a moment without a trace if one glanced away.

Geralt didn’t.

Everything moved so quickly, and yet he was so still. He was a portrait, ripped from a frame, ever quiet, and unmoving save for the soft flutter of breath beneath soft cotton. The hum of candlelight cast soft shadows on his haunted visage, each mark and shadow a reminder of his failure.

Yennefer and Triss speak in hushed tones. Geralt can’t bear to listen. The words burn his ears like hot wax. He can’t drink enough.

He waits, the smell of herbs so deep in his throat that he can hardly remember if he’s ever tasted anything else before. Time becomes nothing, if it ever were something to begin with. Patterns become routines. Healers filter in and out the cabin. The sun rises and falls. Nothing changes.

The prolonged sleep is for his health, he knows. Still, it worries him. What if it never ends?

The waiting stretches on.

He learns how to make every herbal remedy. The pestle fits into the curves of his hand like they were made to be its keeper. The carving and the pressure gave a rhythm that his muscles craved, and that his mind relished. A relief from the overwhelming silence blaring in his mind.

Jaskier wakes for moments at a time, eyes glancing around listlessly, before closing again. He never speaks. How that silence he had once sought feels like a curse now.

He has no idea how long it's been. Days, hours, weeks, months- Geralt doesn’t know. Which is worse, he wonders, the idea that he's been sitting here for longer than time can explain, or that his own mind and grief are deceiving him?

It feels like Yennefer and Triss come less now. Ciri too. Not that Geralt can blame her, though it does sting a little. She’s thriving. Geralt is just… frozen in time.

This morning, Geralt’s thoughts are muddled. After he wakes, sitting in that old rocking chair overlooking the bed, he waits for a while. Just studying his still face- every detail, every scar and every dimple. Nothing happens. Of course. It never does.

He fetches food from the garden. He imagines Jaskier’s lilting voice, trading him for the mundanity of his life now. “Ah yes, the life of a master monster hunter! Slaying carrots and potatoes, now that doesn't seem quite right, does it? What on earth could make you do such a thing?”

“You,” Geralt responds absentmindedly, the words slipping from his lips. “Only you.”

But Jaskier isn't there.

Geralt’s just talking to the fucking carrots.

He walks down to the creek, running the vegetables through the clear crystalline water. The dirt flakes off his hands in a brown haze flowing down the stream, but Geralt doesn’t feel clean. He brushes and scrapes, but it remains. That scar that Jaskier mended all those years ago is still so clean and crisp. One of many. Strange, how a little band of white can carry so much pain, and longing and loss.

He makes another vegetable soup that night. Again. Jaskier doesn’t complain. He never does.

Geralt sleeps.

He dreams of him and Jaskier living in this little cabin. He dreams of them on the road again. He dreams of his laugh, his smile, those cornflower blue eyes, back when they held so much joy and hope- and he dreams of a future.

He wakes.

Everything is the same.

He keeps going.

He breaks down in the garden. His knuckles bleed from slamming them against the ground.

He washes himself in the creek. He stares up at the sky, through bare broken branches.

He breathes in the late autumn air. Jaskier always said it tasted different. Great just wonders why he can’t be here to smell it with him. The crunch of leaves beneath his feet is so crisp… and Geralt can’t enjoy it alone.

He wonders at the beauty of the world and the barbarity of fate.

His breath comes out in cold condensation. He gathers wood. Not much use in that, though. Everything is cold regardless.

It’s over, he knows, as he watches the first fall of snow.

He’s gone.

Geralt doesn’t come back when he should. He watches ice begin to form in the corners of the creek. He watches the world freeze and die, and he can’t help feeling anything.

He gathers the wood in his arms, and trudges back to the cabin.

To wait once more.

His hand is warm on the cool knob.

He expects nothing.

He hopes for nothing.

Those hopes are long dead.

He hopes for nothing.

And then…

“Geralt?”

Chapter Text

The sleep is long and dark. Moments of clarity are few and far between. He feels his face on soft linen sheets. He feels warm.

Sometimes, he hears voices just out of reach. These slip from his mind as soon as they occur.

He breathes freely and deeply for the first time in a long time.

He dreams of the countryside. Rolling, Redanian hills. A crisp blue sky. His mother’s long red hair. How it waves in the wind when she laughs.

He feels like a child again, cradled in her delicate grasp. He remembers the beach- the gulls racing across the clouds as playful waves lapped at their feet. His tiny hand grasped hers—her pressing little kisses to tiny red cheeks.

He felt her soothing hand on his forehead when nights grew cold. He hears her prayers at the side of his bed. He just wants to make her happy. His father is a lord, but his mother is the world. They hold each other close.

Jaskier knows what happens.

He gets better.

She does not.

And still- if like she's here now. With those red curls and those steely grey eyes, with that soothing voice, and that tender hand brushing back his curls. It’s like she’s still here. And even if it is a dream- he relishes her touch, even if it is just fading memories.

The dreams are covered in a glossy haze- a sort of steadiness that never applies to his usual chaotic dreams that often fall into nightmares. It is a soft, welcoming tenderness that, though artificially sweet, invites no hesitation on his part.

He does not want to wake up. He does not want to face his terrible reality.

Perhaps he is dead, he wonders. He floats in a haze of soft pink clouds that coat his skin and soothes his mind. Should it trouble him if that is so? If life is so dreary and empty, why chase it? But… If this was a perfect place, then where was Geralt?

He looks out across the sea, his hand in his mother’s. He watches the gulls toss in the waves. He watches his mother’s hair ripple in the wind.

He thinks of the cell. He thinks of torment, tears, panic, pain and suffering he never wants to return to.

And then, he thinks of Geralt.

He is perfect in this world- no suffering, pain, or heartache- and no Geralt. Reality was dark, dim, cold and unforgiving- but there, and only there, did he have a purpose, a reason to strive forward, to challenge hardships and yes, to suffer, and to morn, but also to love.

He watches his mother’s hair ripple in the wind one more time.

And then, Jaskier wakes.

Everything is numb. The awareness of his body comes back slowly. He twitches his fingertips and feels soft cotton. Strange. He doesn't remember having anything that soft.

In fact, everything is soft. Perhaps he's still asleep, he thinks, but no, this is so tangible. Something is different.

His eyes flicker open. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light- even if it is only soft candlelight.

Yes, something is certainly different.

He’s staring at a hearth with a flickering fire. He doesn’t remember that being in his cell. Come to think of it, he doesn’t remember having a bed either.

Quite the upgrade.

Awareness starts to sink in that something is very, very different. He’s not quite sure if he’s supposed to be thrilled or terrified. Goosebumps rise on the back of his neck.

He rises- or, more accurately, he tries to. Instead, his head rises, then tumbles back to the pillow with a soft thud. His body aches terribly, and even shifting his eyes leaves him somewhat disoriented.

So he lies there, catching glimpses of the room around him, trying to understand what happened. His first assumption, he reasons, is unlikely. Indeed, they would've tried it earlier if this were to be some trick to gain his aid. Also, it's not exactly like he had anything new to offer. He had been useless to them, and he would remain useless to them. Because they didn’t care about him.

The second thought that comes to his mind is a flickering fantasy. A rescue seems terribly out of line with his current understanding of his relationship with well- anyone. He wasn't the type to be rescued, not because he didn't need it, of course, but because he wasn't exactly worth rescuing, in a purely logical sense.

Jaskier didn’t really have anything to offer other than amusement and comfort. It's not like he had any beneficial skills or valuable talents that weren’t somewhat arbitrary. Sure, he could sing a mighty fine ballad and recant a tale for the ages or even offer a shoulder to lean on, but those aren't exactly valuable skills, not for his knight in shining armour, as it were. That’s why he was stuck in this place, to begin with.

Perhaps these were his persecution chambers, but then again, he wasn't chained to the bed, nor was the door bolted. And as far as he knew, his keepers weren’t particularly fond of offering these comforts.

Perhaps I’ve been stolen away by some mighty beast or winged fae. He wondered, but these lodgings weren’t especially fancy or magical. Just humble and homely. So soft and warm, the tiny one-room lodging felt like a warm embrace.

He knew it was one room, thanks to the tiny glass window beside the large, thick wooden door. Frost coated the glass as tiny flakes began to fall outside. Outside. How long had it been since he'd stepped outside? And snow? How long had he been in there?

He glances around frantically, expecting to find his marks on the wall and his trusty stone. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How was he supposed to keep track of time like this?

He grabbed the first hard thing he could find, something cold and shiny around his neck, and set to work on the cabin wall. His muscles ached, and he cried for him to stop, but he persisted. There. One perfect mark. Well, it was a little messy, but it was the best he could do.

He collapses, exhausted, releasing the object. He had pressed so hard that the necklace left a sharp, aching red outline of the design on his palm. Jaskier raises a hand to glimpse the pattern in the light and freezes in place, a cold trickle of sweat trailing down his forehead.

He fumbles for the thing around his neck, and holds it up to the light. Geralt’s medallion glimmers softly in the candlelight.

A warm tear trickles softly down his cheek, almost without his noticing.

This can’t be right…? Geralt’s medallion around his neck? Surely not?

And as if his prayers to some mighty god have been answered, he hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps thudding toward the door at that very moment. Please. Please. He prays. Let it be you.

The door creaks open, and when Jaskier glimpses a white head of snow-covered hair, he almost cries out. Instead, he just says simply, almost unbelievably, one, wonderful word.

“Geralt?”

Geralt stops and stares like he’s looking at a ghost, snow billowing around him. The logs in his arms crash to the floor.

“Jaskier.”

Chapter Text

He stands there like a ghost, the snow warping his tired figure as if he had been frozen from deep within. He says it again. The word feels so dry, leaving his lips that it's almost like he hadn't said it at all.

“Geralt?” Jaskier repeats, the word stretching through the air between them like the thinnest rope atop the highest mountain that kept him tethered by a thread.

“You’re awake.” He manages to croak out.

“Obviously.” The bard grins, that cocky smile- gods, he's so confident. It was like nothing had even happened between them at all.

But that wasn't what happened.

And Geralt is afraid.

He hesitates. No words come to his lips.

“Geralt, you’re staring at me.” Jaskier reminds a nervous lilt to his voice. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Geralt grunts, unable to break eye contact.

“Like- I don't know. Like I'm dead.” Jaskier responds. “It's creepy, you know.”

You were dead, Geralt wants to scream. I thought- I thought I knew you were dead. I lost you.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says pleadingly, and the word brings him to his senses. “Are you even listening?”

Geralt reaches down and grabs the firewood he dropped, “Of course I am,” he mutters gruffly, shutting the door behind him with a thud. “I thought I never would again.” The admission is so honest and raw that he hardly believes it when it leaves his lips.

“Sorry?” Jaskier asks voice raised an octave in surprise. Geralt hates that he can even notice that.

“I'm sorry it's cold in here. I forgot to stir the coals.” Geralt responds, even though that's not true. I didn't think you would care, his helpful mind supplies, being dead, and all. The thought nearly sends his fist into the wall again, but somehow, his thumb closes around his knuckles, and he breathes instead, feeling heat rush to his face. He’s traumatised. He’s in shock. The more helpful part soothes. He needs support, not anger. That’s right, of course. Though at this point, Geralt’s not sure if he’s thinking about Jaskier anymore.

“It's fine, Geralt,” Jaskier replies softly as Geralt kneels to tend to the fire.

But it isn't fine. This isn't fine.

His fingers tremble on the fireplace poker, sending sparks up the chimney as Geralt takes a shaky breath. Angry words linger on the tip of his tongue. His hand clenches around the poker.

He should be happy, he realises. He should be happy. Jaskier is alive. He’s alive. He should be fucking happy now. But he fucking isn't.

He wants to fucking scream. I cried for you, I grieved you a thousand times over, I died a hundred miserable times, and you dare to come back to me at the moment at which I thought it was over? You have the gall to smile at me after you ruined me?

He turns to face Jaskier in a moment of rage- and the dam breaks.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispers, voice wavering. “I really did.”

“Geralt…” Jaskier reaches over to grasp Geralt’s hand. “Everything I do is for you. If it was within my power, then gods help me, then there is nothing that could keep me from you.”

“That’s not fair,” Geralt argues, clenching his teeth. “I've been nothing but a monster to you. I don't deserve the kindness you afford me- as I've never afforded it to you myself.”

Jaskier’s gaze softens. “Yeah. You are an arsehole. But you aren't a monster.”

“You know that's not what I meant.” Great mumbles, running his fingers over Jaskier’s knuckles. “I meant I've been cruel to you. And you didn't deserve it. And I sure as fuck don't deserve you.”

Jaskier gaze flickers. “Maybe you didn't.” His voice softens, “But you’re here. A lesser man would do no such thing.”

Geralt grips Jaskier’s hand softly, turning his head to gaze into those cornflower-blue eyes. “I swear to you, Jaskier, I will do better. From this moment on. I promise, there is nothing in the world I'm not willing to do for you. Ask it of me, and it shall be done.”

“Strip naked and run through the hallways of Aretuza?” The bard suggests cheerfully, with a light in his eyes. “Singing one of my songs?”

Geralt sighs and repeats, with the utmost sincerity, “Ask it of me, and it shall be done.”

Jaskier cackles at the thought for a moment, before realization dawns on him. “Oh, oh gods you’re serious. I'm kidding, Geralt, relax! Though, you see the look on your face.”

Geralt just stares back, with the same serious expression.

“Don't look at me like that, dearheart, you look like a lost puppy.” Jaskier reaches forward with his other hand to brush a strand of Geralt’s hair away from his eyes. “Geralt, darling, you know I was a Viscount, yes?”

“Of course,” Geralt murmurs.

“So, I'm rather familiar with the whole “servitude” thing.” He muses. “I never liked it from people my family was employed for the service, so I figured I would much less prefer it from you. And yes, yes, it would be well and fun for a few days, perhaps a week- but I have no intention of lording your guilt over you as a king does so to a peasant. It's a rather kind offer, really, dearheart, but I'm not a monster either. So, let's make a deal, yes? You only do that of which I ask you to if you want it as well.”

Geralt just stares at Jaskier. “If that's what you want.”

“It is.” The bard replies defiantly.

“This is exactly what I meant,” Geralt grumbles. “You’re too kind to me. I don't deserve it.”

“Oh, I'm sorry I want to treat you with basic human decency,” Jaskier snaps back, with a teasing scoff. “It is what I asked of you, is it not?”

“It is,” Geralt grumbles. “And it shall be so.”

“Good, then,” Jaskier replies haughtily, a smug grin on his face. “Besides, forcing someone to do whatever someone says sounds like a bizarre form of torture.”

“It is. I saw a curse like that once.” Geralt recalls distantly. “Twas not a happy one.”

“Then don't tell me,” Jaskier responds. “At least, not today. I've had enough of sob stories for a lifetime.”

“I’m sure you have.” Geralt murmurs, trying not to read into that statement.

“Geralt-” Jaskier breaks off his thoughts with a hand to his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s talk about something else, hm? Something we haven't talked about, how about?”

“May I…” Geralt trails off, almost embarrassed by what he’s about to say. “May I apologize to you?”

“Apologise?” Jaskier questions. “For what?”

Geralt stares blankly at the wall.

“Oh, right. Of course.” Jaskier says awkwardly, fidgeting with the blanket in his hands. “Geralt, you don’t need to apol-”

“Yes, I do.” Geralt corrects, softly, but seriously. “It was my fault you were kidnapped. I should've protected you.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “It’s not your fault. I wasn’t careful.”

“You were only in danger because you’re associated with me.” Geralt turns to face him, messaging Jaskier’s knuckles with his palm. “I thought you would be safer away from us, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It wasn’t just cruel, it put you in direct danger where I couldn’t protect you. You are my responsibility to protect, and I abandoned you. So, please, let me apologize to you.”

Jaskier just stares at Geralt. “Pinch me.”

Geralt balks at him. “Sorry?”

“Pinch me so I know this is real,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “I dare say otherwise I must be dreaming.”

Geralt gently complies on the bard’s palm, and as Jaskier flinches slightly, the word, “Sorry,” flies from his lips.

“Perhaps not a dream then- then what has become of the Geralt I once knew?”

Geralt blinks. “Must you always speak in riddles?”

Jaskier cackles. “There he is.”

“You’re an enigma, you know that?” Geralt says, exasperated. “I ought to be angry at you.”

“But you aren’t,” Jaskier says, reaching out to touch Geralt’s cheek. “And a matter of fact, neither am I. So, there.”

“There, what?” Geralt asks, bemused.

“There, I forgive you,” Jaskier says easily, cornflower blue eyes large and bright.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, reaching out remove Jaskier’s hand from his cheek. “I think you’re supposed to think it over more before you decide that.”

Jaskier quirks an eyebrow in response. “Do I? So, you’re the expert on apologies, now, are you? My, how things have changed.”

Geralt feels a flash of embarrassment. “No, I just… I don’t know.” He admits, blushing sheepishly. “Just don’t want you to be too hasty in letting me off the hook. I fucked up.”

Jaskier’s eyes soften. “Too hasty? Me? Certainly not. And you did, for the record, fuck up big time.” His voice softens. “But you also saved me.” His gaze clouds for a moment. “But I… I attacked you. I was so afraid you weren’t real that I… did I hurt you?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, and this time, he reaches out to cusp Jaskier’s cheek in his hand. “Of course not. Jaskier, you’re about as dangerous as a mouse in a teacup.”

Jaskier purses his lips. “A clay teacup?”

“Porcelain.” Geralt replies easily. “One of the fancy kinds, with a flower decal and gold detailing.”

Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes remain narrowed. “And the mouse?”

The edge of Geralt’s lip twitches. “A meadow mouse. Like the ones you used to give your extra sunflower seeds too after you were finished.”

A soft smile crosses Jaskier’s face. “You remember that, do you?”

“Of course,” Geralt says quietly, running his finger along Jaskier’s cheek. “I remember every moment, every sentence, every word. And I’ve been replaying them in my mind, every second of every day. Trying to find where I went wrong.”

“Where you went wrong?” Jaskier prompts.

“In not appreciating you whilst I had you,” Geralt admits, staring into those cornflower blue eyes.

Jaskier’s eyes are suddenly sad. “Geralt… what happened to you?”

Geralt takes a breath. “I lost you,” He admits, looking down. “For good, I thought. And I realized…” He trails off. “I realized I still needed you.”

There’s a tear trailing down Jaskier’s cheek. “Maybe you are an expert in apologies,” He mumbles, a grin in his face.

Geralt smiles softly. “I’ve had a long time to think it over.” He says, brushing the tear away.

“What’s next, an itemized list?” Jaskier jokes, amid tears.

“Ask it of me, and it shall be done.” Geralt replies.

“My, what the gentleman you’ve become,” Jaskier says, fanning his face. “Do you drink tea with your pinkie up?”

“I’ve been attending Ciri’s Royal Courtesy classes,” Geralt answers teasingly. “But not that far, no.”

Jaskier laughs. “My, by the time I’m well again you’ll be a knight!”

“Technically, I’m already a knight.” Geralt reminds, releasing Jaskier’s cheek. “That’s where the ‘of Rivia’ comes from.”

“What? You never told me that before.” Jaskier replies incredulously.

“Well, then, I suppose we have a lot to catch up on.” Geralt teases.

Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Yes, I suppose we do. Now, do you accept my forgiveness?”

Geralt hugs the bard back. “Of course, bloody idiot. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive myself, though.”

“We’ll work on that,” Jaskier replies briskly.

“We will?” Geralt asks, not releasing Jaskier’s cheek from the hug quite yet.

“We will.” Jaskier affirms. “I’ll weasel it out of you someday.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell,” Geralt remarks, holding Jaskier a little closer.

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier sighs, relaxing into his grip. “I missed you, you bastard.”

Geralt smiles for the first time in a long time. “Me too, Jask.”

“Me too.”