Chapter Text
Jaskier was eighteen when he first met Geralt.
It was a meet cute of legend, he likes to believe. Boy meets witcher. Witcher punches boy and tells him in no uncertain terms to fuck right on out of his life. Boy ignores both the implicit and explicit warnings and falls head over heels in love, like the lovelorn fool he was, is, and always will be.
It worked well for him, for a time. Following Geralt. Lauding his victories. Lamenting his failures. Tending his wounds, mending his armor, singing his praises. Anything and everything he could to carve a place for himself in that glorious spotlight. A minuscule place within Geralt’s monumental world.
He ignored the warnings. The signs. The omens that showcased he was heading towards a fall. Every insult he pretended was a playful jab. Every growl a gentle tease. Every harsh word, every cold shoulder, every aching hiss and snarl and snap. It was all something else, he told himself. Friendship. Companionship. Not love, even he wasn’t naive enough to think that. But… acceptance. Contentment. Tolerance, at the very least. Something. Anything.
He learned his lesson after Caingorn. He learned his lesson hard, and he learned his lesson well.
Not well enough, of course. Never well enough. He was always such a fool, that’s never changed. As foolish at forty as he was at eighteen as he is at forty-three, as fanciful and full of naive hope. Even if it was tempered greatly by time and pressure. Even if he was less starry eyed and more hardened. He had never hardened enough. Not enough to deny that damned witcher a thing. And despite his reservations… he took him back.
He never did get a proper apology. That still grates at him, from time to time, usually when he’s drunk as a Skellige skunk and can’t stop the pain from seeping through. Even now, so many years later. The lack of a true apology rankles when he lets himself think about it. Which is why he tries so very hard not to. Think about it.
There just was never enough time, was there? From Ciri getting kidnapped, to Voleth Meir possessing her, to the Destined Three striking out on their own while he returned to spying (not that he’s bitter over that, gods know he’s learned not to be), to that brief yet torrid love affair with Radovid, to whatever the fuck happened during the battle at Thanedd, to Geralt’s injury and subsequent recovery, to Ciri’s disappearance, to all of it, all of it, there just… there’s not been any time. Not really.
Not for him.
Because he’s not important. Right? That used to rankle him, too. The realization that he’s but a pawn on Destiny’s chessboard, a measly grunt meant to move things along and nothing else. Not like the brilliant knight that is Geralt, the powerful rook that is Yennefer, and the ungodly queen that is Ciri. They’re the important players. The pivotal pieces. Those touched by Destiny, bound together and happy for it.
He’s on the outskirts. As he’s always been.
And yeah, it used to rankle. Used to make him rage and cry and want to scream to the heavens for all to hear. For who wants to be but a measly pawn? Easily discarded, easily forgotten? Unneeded, unwanted, useless except as a sacrificial lamb? He doubts anyone would cry should he perish in this war. All those he loves are either gone (don’t think of her, of Little Eye, dying of disease alone and possibly afraid. Don’t. Just. Don’t) or in just as much danger as he is. And as for Geralt… well.
There’s just not enough time to mourn for an unneeded pawn. Not when there’s princesses to rescue and sorceresses to moon after.
He’s made peace with it, though. Now. With his lot in life, existing on the outskirts of everything he’s ever wanted, never allowed to taste that which was never meant for him. The indignant rage that used to fill him all those years ago has cooled, leaving only numb acceptance in its wake.
He’s nearing forty-four now. Practically ancient, even if his elven blood prevents his age from being seen. He still feels it. Every second of those nearly forty-four years, spread out inside his chest, inside his bones. It weighs heavy upon him, and he can feel his body sagging into the soil with each day that passes.
But he doesn’t let it stop him. Can’t. Can’t let it stop him. Yes, he’s but a pawn, meant to perish and die alone and unloved in a war that was never supposed to be his own. But that’s his lot. His choice. His Destiny, if he thought himself important enough to have such a monumental thing. Maybe his destiny, lowercase, not as grand and important.
He was made to be used up and discarded, to give and give and give and give, but never receive. He learned that lesson from a young age, though he spent decades trying to fight it. Giving all he had to his unfeeling parents but never receiving anything in return. Anything other than scorn, than hatred, than cold words and hate filled eyes. ‘Why can’t you just be more serious, Julian? Why can’t you just do as you’re told? Why can’t you just be the son we want, and not the disaster that you are?’
He never could learn how to be what other people wanted him to be. He’d try, from time to time, but he could never make it stick. Could never stomach the ache in his chest, the wrongness in his skin, the gaping hole inside his soul when he carved out everything that made him up and stepped into roles he was never meant to play.
He didn’t do that. With Geralt. He never pretended for him, never was anything but himself. And he had thought that Geralt appreciated that. Despite his insults. Despite his cold words. Despite his anger and his hatred and his rage. He thought they were friends. Thought that he mattered. Thought that Geralt accepted the disharmonious traits that made him up and had learned to appreciate his cacophony.
He learned his lesson after Caingorn.
He learned so many lessons after Caingorn.
He never did get his apology. After Caingorn. Verbal, obviously, but nonverbal, too. Geralt showing that he was sorry with actions, not words, like was his wont. He never bothered to try and change the way he interacted with him, never tried to do anything to show that he meant more to him than what he’d snarled atop that accursed mountain. Never tried to act like they were friends, like he valued him, like he meant a damn to the witcher he’d spent over twenty years calling his very best friend. Never said that he wanted him around at all, not ever, not once.
He never did anything, anything at all, just kept going as things always were, since there just wasn’t any time. There’s never any time. Not for him. Never for him. Never, never, never for him. For everyone in the world but never for him.
Or maybe Geralt just never truly cared. He had the time, countless hours of time, but he never utilized a single second of it because he just wasn’t worth the effort.
Or maybe Geralt simply wasn’t and still isn’t sorry, plain and simple. Maybe he meant the words then, and means them still, and Jaskier is ever the fool for hanging around a witcher who has never wanted nor needed him.
That’s more likely.
He plays his role, now. He’s learned his lesson and he plays the role they all expect him to play. Silly bard. Ridiculous poet. Jester, and troubadour; the rousing laughingstock. A worthless joke.
He’s silly and he’s outrageous and he never cries, never, never cries, because crying isn’t part of the role he’s supposed to play. He doesn’t wake gasping for air he can’t find, doesn’t bite his fist to keep the pathetic sounds inside, doesn’t scream until he can’t scream any more, all the pent up angerandfearandrageandterrorandohgodspleasejustmakeitallstoppleasepleasepleasepleaseplease coming up and out. He doesn’t, because that’s not the role he plays. Can’t. Be the role he plays.
Because he’s the pawn. The lackey. The disposable piece that will one day be used up and discarded like the trash he was, is, and always will be. And he’ll never be anything more. Especially not to Geralt of Rivia.
He doesn’t get comfort. Honestly, he’s forgotten what such a thing even feels like. To be comforted. To be consoled. To be held within strong arms, soft words whispered in his ear, promises of love and safety and home. Home. He has no home. He never did. Never did. Never, ever, ever did.
Geralt has a home. A family. Oh, such a lovely family he has. A daughter, and a mother, and him, the father. Husband and wife and child. A perfect trio, perfect family, no need for anyone else. No need for the unwanted tagalong, never mind he was there first. Never mind he was the one who started this whole mess. Never mind. Never mind.
He doesn’t get comfort. He doesn’t get family. He doesn’t get home. He once longed for such things, but lowly pawns don’t deserve such lofty aspirations. They deserve to be used up until there’s nothing left. Nothing left. Nothing at all left.
He has nothing left. He feels it. Inside of him. The lack of everything. He once was full. He swears he was. He once laughed and meant it, smiled and felt it, cried and it didn’t feel like failure. Like death. He once was more than the shell he now is, he knows he was, gods, gods, he knows he was. He once was full of life and laughter and love, gods, he loved. Not wisely. Not properly. But gods above did he love.
He doesn’t. Now. Not really. It feels like a chore, now. To love. A checklist he follows each and every day. Wake up. Pack up his things as quickly as he can before Geralt tries to leave him behind again. Ride Pegasus far past the point of discomfort. Of pain. Try not to collapse into a miserable pile when they finally stop for the night. Smile when required, laugh when needed, sing when it would be suspicious if he didn’t. Love Geralt with the lack of everything he has in him, love him so much it doesn’t even ache anymore, it just numbs. Eat. Sleep. Shit. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
It’s unending, is all. This feeling. Or lack of feeling, he supposes. No one checks on him, so he’s often lost in his own head. It’s so loud in there, loud in its emptiness. There used to be songs, poems; rhythms and rhymes. Now it’s just… empty. Gnawing. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt anything. Anything. Anything other than this Empty.
He wonders if it wouldn’t be better. If he finally reached the end of his purpose. The end of his role. There’s only one end for him, he knows this, it’s why he’s spending so much time writing his worthless memoir. It’s not even about him. Not really. He’s not even a star in his own story.
Maybe the end would be worth it, then. The grand finale. The blaze of glory. The heroic death he always dreamed of, fire raging and angels singing, the heavens themselves parting as he finally took his last breath upon this mortal plane.
Ha.
Haha.
Hahaha.
He’d laugh if he thought himself capable of it.
He knows the truth. Of how his story will truly end. It almost did, in that graveyard, a meaningless death that served no one any purpose. In that camp, not a combatant because that’s not his role, a death as worthless as his life. That’s what he’ll get. He’ll get run through by a random Nilfgaardian foot soldier, someone not even important enough to have a name. Or else he’ll just trip over his own feet and plunge off the side of a cliff. It will be quick, and meaningless, and not at all near the end of this overarching story. He’ll die, maybe clutching his new lute, or maybe his likely unfinished manuscript, eyes dulling with death.
If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to say a few last words, murmur them to Geralt, who’d be there, holding him. Not crying, the witcher would never shed any precious tears over him, he didn’t even cry when Eskel died and he’s certainly less important than mighty Eskel was. Those tears are reserved for Ciri and Yennefer alone. But he’d hold him, and he’d listen to his final words, and maybe it would spur him on a little. His death as meaningful as it is to motivate the grand witcher onward.
Or maybe he’ll just die. Shit in his pants and arms empty of everything. No arms around him, because why would there be? He’s just a useless pawn, after all. No one mourns a pawn. He knows he wouldn’t. Mourn himself. He already doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be here, dying more and more every day that he lives.
Death never scared him. That’s why he followed Geralt in the first place. The idea of dying… it held no fear for him. To die was just another adventure, he’d always felt, young and stupid and naive bard he was and is and always will be. Dying has never scared him. Dying is not what scares him.
It’s not living that’s terrifying. It’s being alive but dead. Stagnant. Adrift. Alone and forgotten and unloved and unwanted and unneeded and worthless and useless and pathetic and nothing and—
He’s not living, now. He’s not dead. But he’s not alive. And maybe he wishes for one of those things to change.
He’ll never be alive again.
He knows this.
Knows this.
So.
Death it is.
He supposes.
It won’t be so bad, he thinks, eyes closing on the tears that he won’t ever shed. To die. To sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream. Poetry, even now. It would make him smile if he thought himself capable of it. Death is another adventure, is it not? It’s coming up, he knows it. He won’t do it himself, no, no, why would he? That’s not the role he’s been assigned to play. The role of the tragic victim, the despondent hero, heartbroken and longing to die. No, no.
His role is of the happy-go-lucky bard. The fool. The jester. He smiles and jokes and makes a fool of himself even in the most dire of circumstances. He can’t break his role now. To take his own life would be to break his role, and he can’t do that. Geralt would hate him if he did that. More than he already does, of course. He has one use to Geralt, and by the gods he’ll give it.
So, no. It’s not by his hand that his death will come. But death will come, of that he’s certain. It almost did. Once. Twice. The graveyard. The camp. Third times the charm, is it not? He was scared after the graveyard. He was mournful after the camp. He’s anticipatory, now. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
No one ever checks on him. Why would they? He’s just the bard. He’s just a pawn. No one cares for the useless, worthless pawn.
The useless, worthless pawn who longs for death. Who longs for peace. Who longs for… for…
“Jaskier,” he hears get called, and he turns his dry eyes to the side, a smile already in place upon his liar’s mouth, his previous thoughts buried deep.
“Yes, witcher dear? Do you need something? A gentle lullaby to lull you to sleep? A back massage, perhaps? I give a killer massage, you know. You’ve been ever so tense lately, dear, a good massage would do you wonders. Say, do you remember that day in Novigrad, after that nekker hunt? You’d been so sore for days, and so I— quite gratuitously, I might add— offered to give you a massage, and oh how you protested, but it was worth it once you gave in, wasn’t it—”
“Jaskier. Shut the fuck up,” the witcher intones, emotionless, like he’s reading through a script. Ha. A script. That’s what his life’s become, isn’t it? A series of interactions that feel as hollow as any script he’s ever read. He’s playing his role and he’s playing it well, but even if he wasn’t no one would notice. No one ever notices. Why would they notice?
He’s just a pawn.
He says nothing as he stares genially at Geralt, head tilted, smile easy, the gods awful haircut he hates barely covering his eyes. He would cut it, style it, if only there was time. There’s never any time. Not for him. Never for him. Never, ever, ever, ever for him. Thankfully, his role doesn’t require proper grooming, he’s long since done away with that stipulation. He thinks if he were more important, more vital to the plot, someone would notice that it’s not like him to be so careless. But why would they notice?
He’s just a pawn.
“We should get going. The horses have rested long enough. If we want to find Ciri—” Geralt starts, like he always starts, only to be interrupted by Jaskier’s impatient tut. He’s perfected that tut over the past few months. Several months? Gods, he doesn’t even know anymore.
“Oh, thank the gods that the horses have rested long enough! Praise be the mighty makers, if the horses are well rested,” Jaskier crows loftily, rolling his eyes, filling his role. “And what, dear witcher, of us, hm? Your party? Your company? Your hansa, if you will? Because I think I speak for the rest of us, witcher, when I say that we most definitely have not rested enough. Nor have you. Despite your leg healing better now that you’re finally acknowledging it, I know you’re still not caring for yourself nearly enough. You’re no good to Ciri dead, Geralt.”
Jaskier pauses, swallows, and continues. Doesn’t think of death. Of whose death is all but assured before they reach the end of this journey. He dreams of it, now, even while waking. No one notices. Why would they notice?
He’s just a pawn.
“So, come now, witcher dear, take a load off. Maybe take me up on my offer of a massage, I am quite good, as you well know. Maybe we can even have a casual fuck, you know I’m good for that, too. But I assure you, none of us shall be moving ‘til the morn, and not a second sooner. I think Milva will actually mutiny if you even try, and she’s really not one you want to cross.”
Geralt lets out a loud, annoyed sigh, scowl on his lips, but he doesn’t fight when Jaskier gets up and begins herding him to the campfire, where the rest of the party is already laying down to sleep. Fitting that Geralt would come to him to try and rouse him when everyone else is already half dead to the world. Maybe he’s not the only one reading scripts around here.
“Now, how’s about it, hm, witcher dear? A nice massage to take the edge off? Or a good fuck, either will do the trick, I don’t mind either way, could be good to get the tension out. What shall it be?” he questions brightly, barely knowing what he’s saying. He’s read the script so often it’s instinctual to say it now. He doesn’t even want to fuck, not really. But that goes against his assigned role, the amorous bard, so if that’s what Geralt wants, that’s what Geralt gets. And so—
“Fine,” Geralt grunts, rolling his shoulders once Jaskier finally lets go, a few paces from the fire. He can feel his heart skip a few beats, a rumble of nausea roiling through his gut, and he forces himself to give Geralt a benign look. He always gives benign looks these days.
“What, to the fucking? Well, I mean we’re a bit close to the others, but if we can both be quiet, I suppose—”
“To the fucking massage, you idiot,” Geralt growls, eyes dark, like he actually thinks Jaskier thought he’d want to fuck him. Ha. He knows he doesn’t. They’ve not done that in years. Decades, it feels like, though it can’t have been. They last did it shortly before Caingorn.
He’s learned his lesson from Caingorn.
He’s always learning his lesson from Caingorn.
“Ah, of course not. That’s reserved solely for Yennefer now, isn’t it?” he says lightly, wondering at the bitterness he hears in his tone. He’s not bitter about this. Not anymore. Of course Geralt would choose Yennefer, the beautiful sorceress, the powerful mage, as mighty as he himself is. He’d never choose a pawn like Jaskier, worth only what he can give, and he can barely give anything. He was lucky he ever deigned to fuck him at all, all those years ago, when he’d fooled himself into thinking perhaps it meant something more than the stress relief it was.
He learned his lesson after Caingorn.
He learned everything after Caingorn.
“Well, no matter, I can make a massage just as pleasurable, as you well know. Come, then, dear witcher. Remove your kit and lie upon the bedroll, let your dear friend Jaskier take your worries away for just one night,” he croons, acting the fool. Like always. Like always. Like always.
“If yeh two’re gonna fuck, can’t yeh do it away from th’ fuckin’ fire?” Yarpen grumbles from his bedroll, disgruntled eyes peeking out from over the edge. Jaskier rolls his eyes and gives his perfected tut, shaking his head even as he gently leads Geralt to his bedroll.
“No fucking here, good sir! Just a good, old fashioned back rub, courtesy of yours truly. I could give you one too, if you’d like, once I’m done here. I give a mean back rub, tell him, Geralt.”
Geralt says nothing, just rolls his eyes even as he does do as requested and removes his clothes before lying down, but that’s okay. He didn’t expect him to say anything. Why would he? It’s not like Jaskier’s anyone important.
He’s just a pawn.
“Naw, don’t need that garbage. Jus’ keep it down, will yeh? Tryin’ teh get some fuckin’ sleep,” the dwarf grumbles, before turning over to, presumably, sleep. Hm. Oh well. No matter.
Once Geralt is in place, Jaskier heads to his pack to get his supplies, the neglected vial of oil he hasn’t used in what feels like years but likely has only been months. Not since Radovid, and they all know how that love affair ended. He’s not made for love, he doesn’t think. That thought used to upset him, make him ache somewhere deep inside. He doesn’t feel anything about it anymore. He doesn’t feel anything at all anymore.
Hm. Perhaps that should worry him.
But why should he care?
He’s just a pawn.
“You know, you really should try to relax more often, Geralt. You’re tenser than a rock troll’s arsehole,” Jaskier mutters into the witcher’s ear several minutes later, trying to ignore the wiggling in his gut at the feel of flesh warm skin under his hands. It’s not a true wiggle, just a reminder of ancient days, but it’s inconvenient regardless. Geralt grunts, like Geralt always grunts, and equilibrium is returned to the world. Praise be the gods.
“There isn’t any fucking time to relax,” Geralt grumbles, and isn’t that the fucking truth? Ha! No time, indeed. No time for anything anymore.
Certainly no time for pathetic and weak Jaskier the Bard. No time for Jaskier at all. Why would there be?
He’s just a pawn.
“Perhaps not, but you should still try it. Like I said. You’re no good to Ciri dead,” he mutters again, eyes closing, losing himself in the familiar rhythms of pressing and kneading. It’s almost soothing, in a way.
Geralt doesn’t respond, just hums like always, but he expected it so that’s alright. Jaskier shuts up after that and just continues the massage, mind drifting in the monotony. He thinks he once would have been rambling through the entire massage, everything and nothing and the world in between, but now he’s just silent. If anyone asks (they’ll never ask), he’ll say he’s just trying to be considerate, but since no one will ask (they never ask), he knows his abnormal behavior is safe. Honestly, he doubts they’d notice even if he went completely off script. After all. Why would they notice? They never notice.
He’s just a pawn.
He loses track of time after that, only realizes that time has passed when he hears Geralt start to snore softly beneath his hands, the massage doing its job and helping lull the mighty witcher to sleep. He’d feel proud if he felt anything anymore.
He continues his massage for a little while longer, kneading out every ounce of tension he possibly can, knowing that he won’t get another opportunity to relieve the witcher of his aches and pains for a good long while, if ever again, so he might as well take advantage. Plus, it’s almost soothing to do it, so. So.
Eventually, he does have to pull away, eyes distant as he looks at that large expanse of scarred back, a back he once knew intimately when his nails would carve rivers along its expanse. They don’t anymore. They never will again. Such things are reserved solely for violet-eyed sorceresses now.
Not useless pawns.
Before he leaves, Jaskier takes a blanket and covers up that warm back, insides clenching as he stares for a moment too long. Unable to help it, he finds himself leaning down and pressing a barely there kiss on that scarred shoulder, breath shaky as he pulls back, throat thick for reasons he doesn’t understand. Why is he so choked up? That’s not part of his role. He’s just the silly bard, the laughingstock, the jester.
The pawn.
Why would he feel like crying to be so dismissed and unimportant to someone as grand and monumental as Geralt? He’s lucky he’s been allowed to follow the witcher at all, he knows this. Why is he still yearning for more? He thought he learned to stop yearning years ago.
He thought he learned his lesson after Caingorn.
He thought he’d learned to stop being so godsdamned stupid after Caingorn.
But he always was a fool. Everyone tells him so. His parents. His friends. His lovers. The witcher especially, always, endlessly. The foolish bard and his foolish heart, getting into trouble faster than he can get out of it. He shouldn’t be feeling so much right now, his chest aching with it, his throat screaming. He shouldn’t be feeling anything. Anything. Anything at all. After all. He’s just
A pawn.
With a soft hum, Jaskier pulls himself away from the warm witcher before him and heads to his bedroll several paces from the fire. Years ago, he’d have staked his claim beside the warmth, hating the cold so acutely, but he doesn’t bother anymore, lets those that need it more have the coveted spots. When all he feels is freezing inside, the outside temperature doesn’t matter. No one notices that he sleeps as far from the group as he possibly can, as far from the fire as he possibly can, as far from Geralt as he possibly can. Why would they notice?
He’s just a pawn.
“You know, if you’re so miserable, you don’t have to keep following us,” a voice muses, pulling him back to reality. Raising an eyebrow, he turns to look at Cahir, who is lounging in his bedroll and giving him a curious look. Stretching his lips over his teeth, Jaskier gives a benign smile, head tilted curiously, wondering why the former general is deigning to speak to him when he doesn’t think they’ve shared two words before now. Why would they have?
He’s just a pawn.
“Who says I’m miserable, good sir?” he questions genially, words light and easy, like they always are. Like he forces them to be. He watches with dispassionate eyes as Cahir gives him one last lingering look, before shrugging and turning over to sleep, not even bothering with another word more. Why would he?
He’s just a pawn.
He settles down to sleep, then, carefully thinking of nothing as he does so. He changes into his clothes for the next day first, though, knowing there’s no point in wearing sleep wear when Geralt will just want to leave the second he awakens, and there’s no time to change come morning. It’s uncomfortable, but he’s learned to live with discomfort over the years. After all.
He’s just a pawn.
He falls asleep like that, hours and hours later, and it feels like he barely falls into a restless sleep before he’s woken up far too early, Geralt restless and antsy, forcing them all up and out and onto the road. No one notices that Jaskier is dragging his feet, that he’s not as bright and cheerful as he usually forces himself to be, that he’s going through the motions of life and isn’t living at all. No one notices. No one notices. No one notices.
Why would anyone notice…?
He’s just a pawn.