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Dandelion Dandelion Dandelion.
Jaskier found himself grappling with the elusive memories surrounding the origin of his moniker, Dandelion. The exact moment and the person who bestowed this whimsical name upon him seemed shrouded amid his early years when he was still known as Julian.
To Jaskier, dandelions held a peculiar allure. Despite their humble appearance, these delicate flowers possessed an innate beauty that captivated him. They were resilient, thriving even in the most unforgiving conditions.
The recollection of the true significance behind the name Dandelion resurfaced during a childhood incident. Jaskier could only vaguely recall the misdeed that had sparked his parents' ire—perhaps something as trivial as humming. Yet, in the eyes of his perpetually displeased parents, there was always a pretext for anger.
It was during one such moment of reprimand that the essence of the name was revealed to him. Lady Pankratz, his mother, had seized him by the arm, dragging him towards the foreboding cellar where he would be confined until his parents deemed fit to release him.
"Juilan, my child, you are a weed, just like those dandelions," Lady Pankratz declared with frustration and disappointment. In that poignant statement, Jaskier found himself labelled as an unwanted presence. She ushered him into the dim confines of the cellar. Within those dank walls, Jaskier found himself confined, the duration of his punishment dictated solely by the whims of his parents.
So, imagine if Julian were akin to a weed. Dandelions, with their delicate allure, could gracefully scatter in the breeze. Opting for a life akin to drifting on the wind, Jaskier departed Lettenhove without a backward glance, choosing Oxenfurt as his destination to transform into a bard. Shedding the name Julian, he embraced the moniker Jaskier.
In the realm of survival as a weed, Jaskier adopted the persona of a Buttercup—captivating yet possessing a subtle toxicity. Mastering the arts of deception and charm, he employed his cunning to secure his desires. Evolving into a skilled poet and singer, his ballads, particularly those about Geralt, achieved legendary status. Jaskier, a romantic akin to the ephemeral dandelions, never lingered long before someone would pluck him away.
Initially, Geralt appeared distinct; it was evident that he perceived Jaskier as a weed, though he refrained from labelling him a Dandelion. This allowed Jaskier to entertain the notion that Geralt genuinely desired him.
Yet, ultimately, it seemed destined for Jaskier to be a Dandelion, caught in the transient nature of his connections.
Dandelion, Dandelion, Dandelion, Dandelion –
The name that would define him, a refrain echoing in his mind. Jaskier pressed on, determined not to succumb to tears as he distanced himself from that accursed mountain. Geralt's harsh words lingered, dismissing two decades of camaraderie as mere squandered time, branding Jaskier as nothing more than a scorched, unwanted presence.
Refusing to grant Geralt the satisfaction of witnessing his despair, Jaskier steeled himself against the emotional onslaught. He doubted Geralt was even registering his departure, likely consumed by his turmoil, possibly related to the enigmatic Yennefer.
For Geralt, it seemed Yennefer was enough. The mere presence of the sorceress rendered her desired, while Jaskier longed for reciprocation or, at the very least, acknowledgment. Such was life – Yennefer effortlessly commanded attention, a bitter truth Jaskier reluctantly acknowledged.
In truth, Jaskier had been deceiving himself. He was never truly Jaskier the Bard or Julian the Viscount; he had always been Dandelion, the unwanted weed. Thus, he descended the mountain in solitude, grappling with his newfound reality.
Only halfway down, he conceded to the inevitable and decided to set up camp for the night. He settled into the quiet darkness, building a fire and consuming the last of his rations. Beneath the starlit sky, feelings of desolation and solitude washed over him.
Jaskier recognized the futility of running from his identity, a truth he couldn't escape no matter how far he travelled.
Jaskier awoke to the unexpected sensation of someone draping a blanket around his shoulders. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find a familiar white-haired witcher, Geralt, nearby. To his amazement, Geralt seemed more concerned with reviving the dying fire than with their recent strained interactions.
"Geralt," Jaskier said, sitting up to get a clearer view of the witcher. Geralt continued tending to the fire without looking at him, stating simply, "You were shivering."
This statement perplexed Jaskier. After all, Geralt had made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with him. The unexpected care for his well-being left Jaskier both confused and skeptical. "What are you doing here?" he inquired, his voice carrying a mix of emotions.
Still focused on the fire, Geralt repeated, "You were cold. So, I'm lighting the fire."
Jaskier couldn't help but remark, "I thought you wanted me gone," his tone revealing a combination of curiosity and vulnerability. Finally, Geralt turned to meet his gaze, the amber glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes.
"I was angry back there," Geralt admitted, a moment of silence hanging between them. "Not at you, and I was wrong to yell at you."
The only audible sound was the whistling wind as Jaskier struggled to comprehend the unfolding situation. What game was Geralt playing, and why was he orchestrating all of this?
"It's getting late. You should go to bed," Geralt remarked before unravelling his bedroll, positioning himself close to Jaskier, just as they had done countless nights before—nights when Jaskier believed he was genuinely wanted.
In those previous nights, however, Jaskier had faced the reality—that he was but a Dandelion.
"Geralt, stop!" Jaskier exclaimed, tears streaming down his face. "I don't understand what you're trying to achieve. I won't allow myself to be made a fool of."
Geralt halted, a mixture of hurt and confusion etched across his face. "What are you talking about?" he inquired.
"This charade of pretending to be my friend," Jaskier accused, his voice filled with frustration. "It's not real, is it? This entire facade!" he spat. Geralt stared at Jaskier, disbelief evident in his expression.
"I'm not pretending," Geralt insisted. "I'm sorry for yelling earlier. I genuinely care about you, Jaskier. I want to be your friend."
Jaskier looked at Geralt incredulously. "Bullshit."
"Why do you think it's bullshit?" Geralt asked, genuinely perplexed. This was a level of distress he had not seen in Jaskier before.
"Because no one ever wants me," Jaskier screamed, unaware of how loud he was being. "I get it. I'm a Dandelion—the annoying pest, the unwanted weed that won't disappear. Everyone sees it, and let's stop pretending it's anything but the truth."
Jaskier sighed and turned away, his shoulders shaking with emotion. After a moment of silence, Geralt enveloped him in a comforting embrace. They stood there until Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt spoke softly.
"Of course, you're a Dandelion," Geralt responded, cupping Jaskier's face and wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're this beautiful, resilient flower, thriving in adverse conditions. In this entire realm, you're one of the best things in it," he added, kissing Jaskier's forehead gently. "Anyone who made you believe you were unwanted is a fool."
For the first time, Jaskier felt a sense of belonging. Looking at Geralt, who saw every facet of him, the good and the bad, Jaskier felt secure. Geralt was his home, and realizing he was finally home overwhelmed him.
Gradually, both Geralt and Jaskier leaned in, sharing a kiss. It seemed to solve their problems, though they still had to navigate destiny's uncertainties. Yet, for now, it was enough to make a Dandelion bloom.