Chapter Text
For twenty years, Jaskier had been by Geralt's side. Through the swamps of Velen, the icy peaks of Kaedwen, and the treacherous forests of Brokilon, their partnership endured longer than most dared to dream. The bard's music immortalized their exploits, even as his heart remained unseen, a hidden melody that Geralt never seemed to hear.
Jaskier’s lute rested on his lap as he sat near the fire, strumming a soft tune. Geralt leaned against a tree on the edge of the clearing, sharpening his silver sword. His golden eyes reflected the flames, unreadable as always.
“You should sleep,” Geralt muttered without looking up.
Jaskier chuckled softly. “And miss this? You, brooding under moonlight? Honestly, Geralt, the inspiration alone is worth the sleepless night.”
Geralt huffed, the smallest hint of amusement flickering across his face. It was these rare moments—the faintest curve of Geralt's lips or the slightest warmth in his voice—that kept Jaskier tethered to him.
But Geralt never saw it, did he? Not the way Jaskier's gaze lingered when he thought the Witcher wasn’t looking, or the way every song he wrote carried traces of the man he adored.
“Tomorrow's hunt might be rough,” Geralt said, sheathing his sword. “Stay close.”
“I always do,” Jaskier replied softly, though he knew Geralt didn’t hear the weight in those words.
Twenty years, and still Jaskier’s love remained unspoken. He told himself it was better this way. Better to carry the burden of his affection in silence than to risk losing the only thing he truly had: Geralt's friendship.
But as the years stretched on, the silence grew heavier. And Jaskier wondered how much longer he could carry a love that was never meant to be.
---
The griffin was dead. Its body sprawled across the rocky clearing, blood pooling beneath it. Geralt stood over the carcass, panting lightly as he slid his silver sword back into its sheath. The fight had been quicker than expected, but not without cost.
"Jaskier!" Geralt barked, his golden eyes darting to the bard.
Jaskier was sitting against a tree, clutching his arm. Blood seeped through his fingers, staining the rich blue of his doublet. His lute lay discarded nearby, strings snapped and splintered.
“It’s nothing,” Jaskier said with a strained smile, though his voice wavered. “Barely a scratch, really. You should see the other guy.”
Geralt strode over in three quick steps and knelt beside him. His gloved hands roughly pulled Jaskier’s hand away to inspect the wound. A deep gash marred the bard’s arm, jagged and ugly, but not life-threatening.
“What were you thinking?” Geralt growled, his voice low and sharp.
Jaskier blinked, startled by the intensity in Geralt’s tone. “I was—”
“You weren’t thinking, clearly,” Geralt snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t belong on hunts, Jaskier. You’re going to get yourself killed one day!”
The words hit harder than the griffin’s talons ever could. Jaskier’s smile faltered for the briefest moment before he plastered it back on, brighter and more brittle than before.
“Well, I suppose that’s why I’ve got you, isn’t it?” he said lightly, forcing a laugh. “To save my sorry skin when I inevitably make a mess of things.”
Geralt didn’t respond. He was already tearing strips of cloth from his own undershirt, hands working methodically as he bandaged Jaskier’s arm. The Witcher’s touch was firm but careful, his expression unreadable.
Jaskier watched him in silence, the ache in his chest far outweighing the pain in his arm. For twenty years, he’d been at Geralt’s side. Twenty years of songs and stories, of shared campfires and unspoken truths. And yet, moments like this reminded him of the chasm between them.
“Thank you,” Jaskier said softly as Geralt finished tying the bandage.
Geralt stood without a word, gathering his belongings. “We’re moving. The scent of blood will attract scavengers.”
Jaskier nodded, forcing himself to his feet despite the dizziness that followed. He picked up his broken lute with his uninjured hand, cradling it like a wounded bird.
As they walked, Geralt stayed a few steps ahead, his usual stoic silence unbroken. Jaskier trailed behind, his heart heavy but his face composed. He’d learned long ago how to hide his pain.
“Always the fool, aren’t you, Jaskier?” he muttered to himself, his voice too soft for even a Witcher to hear.
And so they continued, as they always did—Geralt leading, Jaskier following, and a love unspoken lingering in the space between them.
---
The mountain loomed in the distance, jagged and unyielding against the gray sky. It was supposed to be another hunt—another story for Jaskier to sing about—but instead, it became the place where everything fell apart.
The basilisk was dead, but not before chaos had erupted. Jaskier had been knocked aside during the fight, his ribs bruised, his pride worse for wear. As always, Geralt finished the job without so much as a scratch.
Jaskier dusted himself off, forcing a smile as Geralt approached. “Well, that was exciting. Remind me to never volunteer for anything involving claws again.”
But Geralt’s face was a stormcloud.
“This is exactly what I meant, Jaskier,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re a liability. You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep following me like this.”
Jaskier froze, the words cutting deeper than any monster ever could. “A liability?” he echoed, his voice softer, wounded.
Geralt sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not a fighter. You don’t belong out here. Maybe it’s time you stop following me.”
There it was. The dismissal Jaskier had always feared, spoken so casually, as if the years they’d shared were just another chapter Geralt could close.
Jaskier swallowed hard, forcing himself to smile. “Well, I wouldn’t want to slow you down,” he said lightly, though his voice trembled. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s time I... find a different adventure.”
Geralt didn’t reply. He simply turned and began packing his things, as if nothing had happened. As if Jaskier’s heart hadn’t just shattered.
When they reached the base of the mountain, Jaskier stopped walking. Geralt glanced back, frowning. “What are you doing?”
Jaskier adjusted the strap of his pack, his lute conspicuously absent. He’d left it behind, a silent farewell to the life he no longer knew how to sing about. “I think I’ll take a different path from here.”
Geralt’s expression didn’t change. “Do what you want.”
And with that, the Witcher turned and walked away, his white hair vanishing into the mist.
---
The Coast
Weeks passed, and Jaskier found himself by the coast, staring out at the restless sea. The salty air stung his wounds, both visible and invisible, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder that he was still alive, even if he didn’t feel it.
He’d taken to performing at taverns along the shore, singing songs that avoided tales of Witchers and monsters. His lyrics were softer now, filled with longing and sorrow. The locals loved him, though none truly knew him.
One night, after a particularly mournful ballad, a fisherman approached him. “Beautiful song,” the man said. “Sounds like it came from a broken heart.”
Jaskier smiled faintly, his eyes distant. “Something like that.”
The nights were lonelier than he cared to admit. Without Geralt’s gruff presence, the silence was deafening. But Jaskier told himself this was for the best. Geralt didn’t need him, and it was foolish to think otherwise.
Still, as he stared out at the horizon, he couldn’t help but wonder if Geralt ever thought of him. If the Witcher missed his songs, his stories, his company.
“Probably not,” Jaskier murmured to himself. “He’s better off without me.”
And so, the bard stayed by the coast, his heart a quiet storm, his songs a testament to the love he could never confess.
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