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Dawn was breaking over the sleeping camp. It was eerily quiet, no birds chirped, nothing rustled in the underbrush. Jaskier frowned. The forest felt wrong, somehow. Just like it all felt wrong these days. The world was wrong. His world was wrong.
The bard sighed and rubbed his face, wincing as his fingers brushed his bandaged head. He closed his eyes, which were tearing up, from what, he couldn’t say. There was no dearth of reasons – his sore head, the lack of sleep. That they still were no closer to finding Ciri. The betrayal of Radovid.
Radovid. Lover, king, kindred soul.
Spineless brat. Betrayer. Serpent.
A tear escaped down his cheek and Jaskier wiped it away angrily. Just what he needed now, falling to pieces and losing his last bit of dignity. He groaned and buried his aching head in his hands.
“Jask.” Geralt had approached so quietly, only a Witcher could move without stirring the air.
But Jaskier didn’t flinch. Even though his trained ear had heard no sound, somehow, somewhere, a fifth sense had developed, ensuring at all times his awareness of Geralt. The Witcher would never be able to sneak up on him, just as Jaskier could not hide his pain from his friend.
“You’re not sleeping.”
“Neither are you.”
A grunt, and a slight shaking of the log which was Jaskier’s perch as Geralt sank down beside him. “Are you in pain, Jask?”
Geralt’s voice was so low, nothing and nobody more than a foot or so away could have heard him.
Jaskier hesitated, then nodded. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Here.” He gingerly touched his head. “And here.” His hand came to rest on his chest.
It wasn’t a grunt. The sound that came from deep inside Geralt’s chest was a growl. Or maybe, Jaskier thought, a snarl. “I should have wrung that little weasel’s neck when I had the chance.”
A small flicker of warmth at the venom in Geralt’s voice nibbled at the edges of Jaskier’s aching heart. Despite himself, he smiled a sad little smile. “That’s your answer to everything, is it?” His voice was none too steady and the last two words wobbled precariously on the threshold of a sob. Jaskier turned his face away, blinking back tears, feeling his ears reddening.
A chest deep sigh, followed by a solid, warm weight as Geralt put an arm around the bard’s shoulders. Jaskier stole a small glance from under his lashes, but Geralt was staring out into the tangle of trees and shrubs now bathed in pinkish mist.
Jaskier resisted the urge to sink into Geralt’s comforting embrace. There had been too many of these moments between them, where that little glimmer of hope in Jaskier’s chest burned ever so slightly brighter – just to be crushed again with a casual word, a step away, a reminder that this man would never feel about Jaskier the way Jaskier felt about him. He knew that to be the case, and mostly, it was okay. But sometimes, when he was tired, or, like now, unwell, the friendly gestures were unbearable because they always came with a promise that could never be kept.
But before Jaskier could move away, or reassure Geralt that he was okay, Geralt tightened his arm around his shoulder. He took a deep breath, looked down and away to a distant tree root.
“Geralt, it’s…”
A minute shudder, a shake of the head so faint it might have been a trick of the morning breeze. “Jask, let…let me say something. I should have…” Another, deeper shudder and a sigh. “I should have said this a long time ago, but words…well.”
Jaskier gave a small snort. “If talking could be done by sword, you’d be the bard, I know.” Despite his misery, Jaskier couldn’t bear to see his friend struggle like this. He nudged him with his shoulder, moved a little closer. Gerald sighed and let his weight sink into Jaskier. Now they were holding each other upright, and somehow, it was okay. It felt right.
The bard closed his eyes, lowered his head and breathed in the heady scent of leather, weapons oil and Roach that surrounded Geralt even after a thorough bath. And baths, in all honesty, had been a rarity for them all for weeks. He kept silent and still, not a mean feat for Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. If Geralt was in with a chance to say the things he clearly felt compelled to say, Jaskier had to suppress his innate instinct to fill any silence, and zip it.
“This…thing,” Geralt finally began. “With Radovid, it’s…I’m so angry that he treated you this way. You deserve…” Now it was Geralt’s voice that broke. He cleared his throat, clearly annoyed with himself. His fist clenched and unclenched, but he didn’t relinquish his hold on Jaskier.
This was new. Jaskier barely dared to breathe. This vulnerable, almost verbose version of the Witcher touched him deep inside, and he snuck an arm around Geralt to steady and hold him. A small sideways smile was all the thanks he’d ever need from the big, silent man. After a moment, Geralt continued, still barely above a whisper. “You deserve everything, Jask, and I…I failed you.” He shook his head, coughed and continued a little louder when Jaskier tried to protest. “No, let me just say it. Please Jask…” His voice broke again, sounding for all the world close to tears.
“Okay,” Jaskier croaked after a moment, tears welling up again. “Go…go ahead.”
It took Geralt another few unsteady breaths before words would come forth again. “I love you, Jas…Julian. I love you like I love the rest of our family, and it—” his voice gave out again but he pressed on impatiently. “It kills me that I can’t give you what you deserve. I’d hoped so badly that he, that, that king...” The contempt in his voice burned in Jaskier’s soul and yet it was a salve to his hurt that Geralt felt so indignantly on his behalf. “That he could become your rock.” There was another pause and Jaskier half thought that Geralt had run out of words, but then he whispered. “I…I wish I could be that for you…but Ciri. And Yen…oh Jask, why…”
Jaskier straightened up. He yearned to reassure Geralt, that he was okay, that Geralt’s friendship was all he needed. That they would be fine, all of them, that the hanza would find Ciri and Yennefer and that Geralt’s dreams would become reality. That as long as he, Jaskier, was in those dreams somewhere, it was all he needed or dreamt of. He was ready to lie to Geralt, tell him what the Witcher needed to hear to end this corrosive self-blame, but he never had the chance.
There came a rustling and a crash from a nearby thicket, followed by cursing and, a moment later, the dishevelled form of Yarpen rolled out of the underbrush, coming to land at Geralt’s feet.
The Witcher, who had jumped to his feet at the first sign of the disturbance, yanked the dwarf up by the scruff of the neck. “How such a small man can make so much noise, I will never understand,” he growled.
Yarpen brushed himself off and gave Geralt a dirty look. “If ya two hav’ done wi’ yer soul searching, Milva would like ter set off. She said we’re wastin’ daylight, or summat…” And with that, he stalked off, carrying his injured pride as stiffly as he could.
Geralt turned around. “Jask,” he began, but the bard waved him off.
“Not now. Not a good idea to cross Milva when she’s on a mission.” He tried to push himself to his feet but winced and fell back hard. Geralt grunted, frowning.
“Maybe you need another day of rest.” But he helped Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier noticed that he didn’t let go, and didn’t challenge it. He still felt unsteady, both inside his head and in his heart, and Geralt’s presence was a comfort. He raised an eyebrow and took a stab at his usual joviality.
“Are you going to suggest that to her?”
Geralt scowled, then shook his head wordlessly. Jaskier grinned despite himself. “Thought not. And I won’t do it, either. Not risking my barely healed skull if even the brave Witcher knows better than to confront an unyielding force.”
Geralt grunted, but Jaskier thought that he spotted the tiniest of smirks on his friend’s face.
They started off down the path back towards the camp, and Jaskier never mentioned the fact that they continued walking arm in arm the entire way.