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Things had been doing better. Not good, no, no, such a feeling has never been made for the likes of him, even after everything. But… better. Geralt. Geralt had been better. Ever since that day where he had accidentally broken his role and Geralt had seen the heart of him, the truth of him, and had sworn to do better by him… he had. Been better.
Too much so, really, but he never liked it when Jaskier would say such things, even lightly in supposed jest, so he’s learned not to say it. He’s learned not to say so many things. Just like he’s learned to carefully control his emotions, portraying a more desirable emotion so much that he can almost fool himself into thinking he feels it. And he’s found that this almost feeling is enough to fool even a witcher’s strong nose, leaving Geralt content that things were indeed getting better. And he had gotten so good at it that even Jaskier himself had started to think that maybe… just maybe, things actually would. Get better.
The war is over, now, after all. And despite everything, he’s still alive. Once, he’d have lamented that fact. Would have cried and screamed and bashed his pathetic head against the wall to realize he’d missed his chance to be done with this charade. The empty feeling in his chest would have split open and consumed him entirely, leaving nothing in its way wake.
Now, though… now, all he feels is mildly numb. And yet, still, before today he had felt like maybe… maybe he was actually alive. Barely, barely, but alive, nonetheless. And maybe a part of him had thought that feeling would only grow with time. With Geralt, sweet and perfect Geralt, who whispered such lovely, impossible things to him. Such lovely, impossible things he didn’t want to believe, couldn’t believe, not fully, and yet… yet…
Ah. Hope is a wondrous and terrible thing. Just as likely to warm a person up from the inside out as it is to destroy them entirely.
A fact he’s spent his entire life learning.
He was a fool to think his lessons were over.
It comes as a surprise. It shouldn’t, really, and yet he always has been a fool. So foolish to think that this feeling would last. This joy, for lack of a better word. This ease. He should have known better, but he was always such a fool.
He hadn’t seen it coming, and that’s why he can’t stop the javelin through his heart when he goes to what had been his and Geralt’s room at Kaer Morhen, where what remains of their party has taken up residence as they heal from the disastrous final battle that claimed the lives of a good portion of their numbers, but not his. Not his. Not his.
He wishes, suddenly, that it had.
Because instead of finding Geralt alone in their room, nursing some wound or other like he’d been expecting, he instead finds Geralt with Yennefer.
In bed.
Naked.
It’s a wonder he’s shocked at all.
Such a fucking fool he is.
“Oh,” is all he says, voice mild, devoid of all emotion. It gets the attention of the pair on the bed, who spring apart from one another like lovers caught in the midst of a torrid affair. Ha. It’s funny. He’s been on the other side of this more times than he can count. And yet only now, standing here, does he fully realize the full breadth of emotions such a scene inspires in the wounded party.
Irony is so in fashion these days.
“Jaskier! This isn’t- this is not… fuck, this isn’t what it looks like,” Geralt exclaims, more panicked than he’s ever seen him, the witcher rushing to disentangle himself from the similarly shamefaced witch.
In return, Jaskier… Jaskier smiles. It’s a performer’s smile, as fake as all his smiles used to be before he foolishly began thinking that maybe he could be worth a real one, but he doubts Geralt can tell the difference. He never did before. Why would he now?
He’s just the fool who thought himself grand enough to earn the unwavering love of the most important and powerful man he’s ever met.
Just the fool, indeed.
“Ah. I see I’ve interrupted something. Please, don’t get up on my behalf, it’s perfectly alright,” he says, words casual and light, the slightest tinge of wry humor lighting them in the way he thinks it would have years and years ago, before he became the shell he is now. He can tell it doesn’t placate Geralt, as the witcher has now completely disentangled himself from the witch and is striding towards him. Stark naked and still semi hard, a testament to what he just walked in on. He wishes blithely that he’d just go back to fucking the witch, ignoring him entirely. It would hurt less, he thinks.
“J-Jask, no, it’s not- fuck, I swear it’s not what it looks like, I wanted to talk to you, first, but things got out of hand, and one thing led to another, but I swear, Jaskier, little lark, I swear—”
“You really don’t have to do this,” Jaskier interrupts, voice still light and airy, a soft smile lighting his lips. He forces a spark of twinkling mirth into his eyes, a slight laugh escaping his liar’s mouth like a tolling bell. Lovely and bright, not a hint of insincerity to be found. He’s spent hours practicing it.
He looks away coyly, then, to where Yennefer is half leaning upon the bed, covers high enough to hide her ample chest, guilt and regret so thick upon her face that he doesn’t need to be a witcher to smell it. Another bead of betrayal rolls through him as he realizes suddenly that this is a two-forked betrayal, by lover and friend, and he has to fight to keep the carefree look upon his face, even as his eyes carelessly flick back to Geralt. He doesn’t want to, wants to stare blankly at the ground while he lets this betrayal consume him entirely, but that’s not the role he’s playing, and he can’t break character now. Can’t forget his role now.
Not when it will be his last.
“Did you think I hadn’t noticed? You and her getting closer again? I’m not an idiot, Geralt, of course I noticed. And I already made peace with this scenario. So, really. There’s no need to be so upset,” he lilts, rolling his eyes, smile still easy upon his lips. It’s untrue. He didn’t see this coming. Not at all. Oh, he’d noticed them growing closer as the final battle had approached, had seen the heavy looks the pair had shot one another, that was no lie. But he had foolishly believed Geralt when he said he loved him, when he said he needed him, when he said he’d never leave him.
Gods, what a fool he is.
“You… do you truly mean that? Jaskier…” Geralt rumbles, eyes intent on him, sharp, trying to find a hint of a lie. He won’t be able to. Jaskier has spent the last two and a half years since they got together perfecting his mask, and he knows it has no cracks.
He’s forged it himself out of titanium steel.
He had to. For exactly this moment, he had to.
What a fool he was to think he’d never have to use it.
“Yes. Of course I do. I know what she means to you, Geralt, I’ve always known. And I could see the way you looked at her after the final battle, how frantic you were to find her. And I made my peace with it then. You would know if I’m lying, would you not?”
Ha. Like he would. Like he could. Like he’d care enough to. Not when the words he’s saying are honey sweet and simple. Geralt is not a complicated man. Witcher. Whichever. He doesn’t like to look for hidden significance and obscured messages in words. He likes there to be a simple meaning in what he’s told and so he often finds it. Jaskier uses that to his advantage.
“No. That’s not true. Not… not fully true. Little lark…” Geralt claims, voice softer and more tender than he’s ever heard it. Placating; a cheater’s way of saving face. He’s heard it countless times out of the mouths of his former lovers. It’s fitting he’d be on the receiving end of it now, after the life he’s lived. A fitting end to his tale.
“Yes, you are correct that I… feel for Yennefer. Quite deeply. More than I can control. But I do not intend to choose her over you. Jaskier… fuck. I truly hadn’t meant for you to find out this way. I should have had better control, and I’m so sorry, Jask, that this is how we had to have this conversation.”
Jaskier feels sick, nausea bubbling up his throat, but he masks it with a furrowed brow and tilted head, as practiced as any actor.
“Whatever do you mean, witcher dear? Speak plainly, please.”
It’s funny, him saying that to Geralt. It’s too bad all he feels is cold agony. He had just started to find things genuinely funny again, too, the ache in his chest receding enough for that. That’s the funniest part of it all.
“Sorry. I just meant… Jask. You know I love you. You know I do,” Geralt states, not asks, like it’s a given. It’s not, because it’s untrue, but Jaskier gives an indulgent nod anyway, eyes rolling carelessly. Like it is, indeed, obvious. The look of relief on Geralt’s face strikes another pang through his heart. He doesn’t even notice his lies anymore. Hm. “Good. I… good. With Yennefer… hm. It’s hard to describe what I feel with her. But the pull… it’s too strong. I can’t resist it. I tried, believe me, little lark, I tried. But I just can’t. I’m not strong enough.”
Gods. Please. Spare him this torture. Really, what did he do in life to deserve such a performance now…? Oh. Yeah. All the philandering and cheating he did as a young to middle-aged man. That would do it. Hm.
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you, little lark. That doesn’t mean that you aren’t equally as important to me. I want… Jask. If you’d be amenable… perhaps we could… hm. I don’t know. Work something out…? The three of us. You and Yennefer, you’re- you’re friends, right? Perhaps… we could…”
Oh. He thinks he’s going to be sick. He… he didn’t think of this scenario when he stumbled upon the pair minutes ago. Geralt trying to save face by… by…
The worst part is that he thinks he’d have accepted it. Had the offer been made earnestly by Geralt in a neutral setting, gentle and kind like he’s always been. Don’t get him wrong; it still would have hurt, still would have felt like failure that he alone wasn’t enough. But he’d have understood. Realized that obviously he alone isn’t enough, could never be enough, and Yennefer is oh so beautiful, and oh so powerful, so of course he’d want to warm her bed as well as his own. Have his cake and eat it too. It would have hurt, but he’d have been able to live with the idea. Might have even grown used to it in time and found a way to be happy, despite everything.
He truly does think that he could have learned to live with sharing Geralt with Yennefer. Had things been different.
But things aren’t different. And as he stares at Geralt’s too earnest face, Yennefer looking at him with equal intensity behind him but not daring to say a word…
It’s not enough. He can feel it inside his chest. It doesn’t matter if Geralt truly had wanted this before he started fucking the witch, or if this is indeed a bold-faced way to save face. Because the end result is the same.
Betrayal isn’t something he can come back from. Not now. Not after everything he’s been through. Not from the two of them.
He’s too exhausted to try.
And yet…
“Oh. That… hm. That could… work. If you truly mean…”
The words are faltering, more than he wanted, forced out of his rotted mouth, but he tries to inject a hint of earnestness into them. Tries so very, very hard.
And he must succeed, at least a little, because Geralt is sagging with relief, eyes twinkling just a hint behind the guilt. It makes nausea rise up in his gut, but he valiantly shoves it down. Not the time. Not the time. Not the time at all.
“It… it could. Jask… little lark, we could make it work, I know we can. I can’t resist her, but I can’t lose you, either. I fucking can’t. I… I need you, Jaskier. So… if you think that we… we could try…”
He wants to cry. Oh, gods above, does he want to cry. This is true agony. This is what pain truly feels like. He was a fool if he thought he knew what pain truly was before this, he… fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
That Geralt can say in one breath that he cannot resist Yennefer, but that he also needs him… oh, what a joke. What a lark, indeed. Geralt doesn’t need him, he’s never fucking needed him. He’s just a bard, a fucked up and broken one at that, unable to make music anymore. He had been. Slowly. Before this moment. But now… now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever make music again. The voices in his head that sing to him have gone dead silent and he doesn’t think they’ll ever start singing again.
He doesn’t want them to.
And what use is a bard that doesn’t sing, that doesn’t create…? What use is he when he’s as broken, as shattered as he feels…?
But he can’t say that. Not with Geralt looking as desperate as he is, like he’s one stiff breeze away from blowing away. He couldn’t handle Jaskier’s true emotions right now.
And so, he smiles. He smiles, and he smiles, and he smiles. And he laughs. A soft, aching thing, but he hopes Geralt won’t hear the agony lacing it. He doubts he will. He never hears things when it’s inconvenient for him.
“Yes, I’m sure it could. Work. It… it won’t be easy, Geralt. Learning to navigate this. I’ve seen many couples add a third, or even a fourth, and it always introduces complications that were originally unforeseen. But… if we’re aware of that going into it… hm. It could work, witcher dear. It could.”
It won’t. Work. He can see that now, watching the relief wash over both Geralt and Yennefer, the guilt fading with the relief. Yennefer is sitting up fully on the bed now, the blankets pooling by her waist, and oh, how beautiful she is. Her breasts so supple and round, flawless like all sorceresses are. Hm. Yes, had things been different, he thinks he could have learned to love her, even if he couldn’t truly be in love with her. He could have grown content to share Geralt with her, even if he’d never be truly happy with it.
But things aren’t different. And as it stands, he’s too much of a fool to continue onward.
“Thank you… Jask, thank you. I- I am truly sorry for the fact you found out this way, but I’ll make it up to you, little lark, I promise I will. And… and I wouldn’t mind. If you and Yennefer… hm. It doesn’t just have to be with me. If you both… if you wanted.”
The way Yennefer looks at him, eyes smoldering and intent, he can tell what she thinks of that. He forces himself to look back with equal heat, a leer on his face, but he feels nothing like that at all inside. All he feels is a roiling wave of disgust and mild anger, his insides filling with it. Oh, how generous his witcher is, he thinks sardonically as he chokes back the impotent rage rising inside him. Offering him free use of his lover. How generous he is, willing to share.
But rage is useless, here. Disgust and anger and hurt. He could scream until he’s blue in the face, and it won’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He knows that well.
So, he just smiles, laughs, rolls his eyes as he lets a lascivious look settle on his face as he leers at Yennefer, grateful suddenly for the charm Triss tattooed into his flesh all those months ago that wards his mind against mages. It was meant to protect him from their enemies, all of them aware of how vulnerable he would have been had he been captured. It suits his purposes now, though, to keep his poisonous thoughts his own. He doesn’t want her to know of the plans he’s rapidly making. She doesn’t deserve to know.
“Oh, how generous, my love. I may just take you up on that,” he leers, winking in the exaggerated manner he perfected as a youth. He can hear Yennefer huff out a laugh, Geralt grinning shakily before him, and oh, he can’t take this any longer. The nausea in his gut is too strong to deny any longer, and he thinks if he stays even a moment more, he’ll lose his breakfast all over his former bedroom. And that would be incredibly embarrassing.
As such, he casually looks away, and strides forward to grab his lute. It’s a beautiful thing, almost as beautiful as his beloved lute he lost. It was a gift from the elven queen, Francesca, several months ago when they’d first met, supposedly for all he’d done to help the elves as the Sandpiper. She’d enchanted it herself, she’d said, so her sound is as sweet as can be. His lute is a beautiful lady, and while she will never hold a candle to his beloved lute that is long lost, she’s a worthy successor. And while he is admittedly about to use her as an excuse, he’s also glad he’s able to have her with him when he does what he’s long since decided on doing. He’d hate to leave this plane without her with him, as pathetic as it makes him.
“Now, I must be going, as I promised a performance to a certain lioness, but feel free to continue on as you were. Perhaps, if you’re amenable, I can even join the pair of you later,” he claims lightly, ignoring the bile that rises in his throat yet again at the very thought.
He can feel the heavy weight of Geralt’s penetrating stare upon him, the witcher clearly trying to make sure he truly means what he’s said, not quite believing that this is true. It isn’t, obviously it isn’t, but he’s grown to be such a good liar over the years that Geralt just sighs in relief, his naked body sagging with it. It makes Jaskier want to cry, but he doesn’t. Not yet. Not just yet.
“Okay… okay. If you’re sure, little lark. You… you’re always welcome to join us, any time you’d like,” Geralt assures, like Jaskier is the one intruding on an established relationship, not the other way around. But perhaps he is the one intruding. Perhaps he always was the one intruding, even decades before the pair ever met.
With a careless wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes, Jaskier sweeps out of the room, not wanting to see his former lover and friend go back to their previous affair. He gave them his permission, verbally, but he wants nothing less. Neither Geralt nor Yennefer say a word as he leaves, and he tells himself it’s better this way. It has to be better this way. Gods, please. Please.
Once the door is shut again behind him, he allows himself a single second to stand there, frozen with everything he just saw and learned. He wants to break down now, wants to scream and cry and rage at the sky, but he knows he’s not safe. Not when he’s in a witcher’s keep, full of superhumans who could hear him from a mile away.
So, he just allows himself a single second to breathe, to despair, before he’s moving steadily onward, his lute held firmly in his arms in a mimicry of an embrace. His one true love, he thinks with a mirthless smile. The only thing that has yet to betray him.
He walks casually through the keep, like he’s strolling aimlessly, just in case anyone comes across him, but in truth he has a destination in mind. A destination he decided on years ago, after Geralt had first brought him here following Caingorn (where he had learned the lesson he briefly forgot, but has remembered bitterly once again), following Voleth Mier, when he first started to realize he didn’t want to live any longer.
He had almost done it, too, back then. But he was too much of a coward, terrified of the pain he knew it would bring, terrified of making such a permanent decision. Still, he’s kept the thought in the back of his mind ever since, a backup plan if all else failed. And he finds that he’s no longer afraid. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened. Not after this betrayal. He doesn’t fear a pain that could never compare to the devastation inside his chest.
To his fortune, no one comes across him as he reaches his destination and slips inside, silent as a mouse. He’s focused as he grabs the items that he’ll need for his plan, mind strangely quiet as he goes. It’s funny. He’d have thought he’d feel more, doing this. Thought that maybe he’d feel reluctance, or maybe even fear. Perhaps relief, if nothing else.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel anything as he grabs the handful of potions he knows he’ll need, mind and heart empty as he carefully pockets them. He doesn’t even feel like crying or screaming any longer, he’s just… numb. Empty. Funny. He thought he was done feeling that way.
He was a fool to think such a thing.
Always such a fool.
He slips out of the room as casually as he entered it, whistling a jaunty tune as he does so. He’s long since learned that the best way to hide his actions is to be as loud and obnoxious as possible, since no one expects him to be doing something atypical if he’s being his usual loud and bombastic self.
Unfortunately for him, his luck runs out, as immediately after exiting the room, he runs straight into ex-Princess Cirilla. Literally. Hm.
“Ah! Hello there, Princess, how are you doing? Terribly sorry for bumping into you,” he exclaims loudly, jovially, calling her the nickname he knows she hates to hopefully dissuade her from conversing with him.
And, to his fortune, it does work to annoy her, her lips scowling as she glares at him, steely green hard as stone. It’s hard to reconcile her with the child he distantly knew, once upon a time, back when life was not a curse. Or, well. Less of one. She’d been so bright and vivid, then, even as distant as he was on the performer’s stage. The war has stolen her light, her colors, and part of him regrets that he won’t be around to see if she ever regains them. His only consolation is that they never grew close enough for his absence to make that big of a difference to the young woman.
They had started to be, maybe, the pair sitting in silence for hours sometimes, Cirilla once even opening up to him minutely about the horrors she’d seen while alone, the lover she had lost, but it wasn’t enough to call them close at all. To put him in the rare category of someone she is fond of, or even trusts. It may be a slight blow to her, after all’s said and done, but it won’t destroy or even badly hurt her. Small consolations, and all that.
Unfortunately, despite her annoyance, the nickname wasn’t enough to dissuade conversation. Hm. Oh well.
“Don’t call me that, I’m not a princess anymore,” she bites out, before pausing and giving him a suspicious look. Oh dear… “What were you doing in the potions’ stockroom?”
Ah. Never one to mince words, is she? Jaskier doesn’t flinch, despite her penetrating stare (which she must have learned from Geralt, as affective as it is), and just gives her a guileless smile. He’s long since perfected that smile. He’s perfected a bunch of things, over the years.
“Oh, that? I was checking on how many Swallows were left. Geralt mentioned wanting to head out next week on a hunt, so I wanted to see if there were enough potions for him,” Jaskier lies smoothly, shrugging carelessly. It’s not a complete lie, either. Geralt had offhandedly mentioned wanting to hunt some nearby monsters, wanting to regain some normality after the horrors of the past several years, so it’s not unheard of for him to want to ensure they have enough potions for such an endeavor. He usually does such a thing for the witcher before any hunts nowadays. Sure, he had already checked the potion supply earlier that day, but Ciri doesn’t have to know that.
Sadly, despite his mask being perfect, he can see the suspicion rise on Ciri’s face, her eyes shrewd as they look at him. It makes him sweat a little, his heart rate a bit too fast for his liking. If there’s one person that he’s always had the hardest time fooling, it would have to be the former Princess. Despite his best efforts, she’s always been able to see through his mask to the heart of him, not accepting his lies as easily as the others. He supposes it makes sense.
She’s also used to wearing a flawless mask she painstakingly forged herself.
Like knows like, and all that.
“Uh huh. Right. Whatever you say, bard,” the young woman claims, eyes rolling, clearly not believing him. But instead of pressing further like he fears, she turns away with a careless wave of her hand, not even bothering to look back at him when she starts to speak again. “Don’t do anything stupid, I guess.”
And with that, she strides away, the swords on her back glinting in the soft candlelight. He supposes that’s fortunate. While she clearly doesn’t believe him, he’s so worthless to her that she doesn’t care enough to dig deeper into his lies. He once had dreamed that he’d be more to her, had dreamed of being something akin to a father figure. An uncle figure, if nothing else. But he’s as worthless to her now as he’s always been. A passing fancy, a temporary distraction, nothing else. Nothing more. The only people she cares about at all anymore are her mother and father, not a pathetic bard who’s not even a bard anymore. Well. At least he won’t be missed. It’s a small comfort.
Despite himself, a single tear rolls down his cheek, even as he goes back to his jaunty whistling, hands in his pockets as he saunters through the halls to his final destination. He also picked it out all those years ago, having stumbled upon it and thinking it would make a beautiful final resting place.
He thinks it again as he finishes the seemingly endless climb, walking out onto the crumbling tower with what might be a genuine smile as he looks out across the beautiful landscape before him. It truly is breathtaking. It’s not quite winter yet, autumn still holding over the land, and the vivid colors of the surrounding mountainside are truly inspiring. He’s spent countless hours here, gazing into oblivion, daydreaming about everything and nothing. Daydreaming of this day, even, of the final moments of his pathetic life that he’d almost managed to convince himself would not come to pass. What a fool he was. And is. And always will be, even in death.
The thought briefly takes his breath away, hands shaking even as he takes his customary seat in a little alcove safe from the heart stopping drop mere feet away. This tower is missing a wall, exposing the interior to the frigid mountain air, but that’s what he’s always appreciated about this specific place. The hint of danger alongside the beauty. The threat so close to him, taunting him with promise. It’s not like it matters, really. If he fell now. The end result would be the same. Just a lot messier for the few remaining witchers to clean up, which would be a shame. He’d hate to be even more of a burden in death than he has been in life.
With a soft sigh, Jaskier removes the bottles from his pocket and places them tenderly upon the small table he found up here, rotten as it is. He then removes the small journal that he’s always carried with him, holding the last few songs he’s ever written, and ever will write again. He smiles sadly down at the stark pages, heart aching lightly as he thinks of those words, those final songs. He hasn’t finished a song in ages, as focused as he was on completing his memoir (which he’s proud to say he did complete, despite not quite living half a century like the title boasts. Forty-five years isn’t too bad, though, he feels) but the few stanzas he’s managed to scribble down hold a special place in his battered heart.
With only slightly shaking hands, he turns to the first blank page he can find and stares down at it, wondering what he should write down. He once thought he’d write an epic for his final words, poetry that would make even the toughest and most stoic of warriors weep should they come across his last lament. It would be awe inspiring and devastating in equal measure, his final gift to this curse of a life.
And yet, as he sits here, staring at the empty page that symbolizes what his life has become… he can only think of two words to write down. Two words that encapsulate the breadth of his worthless life. And so, for lack of a better idea… he writes them down. Stares at them, scribbled hastily in messy charcoal, not the elegant penmanship in stunning inks that he usually favors. The final scrawlings of a dead man finally done walking.
And he feels satisfied.
A fitting end, indeed.
With that done, he places the book face up so whomever finds him will see his message, then grabs his lute and readies his hands, something he’s done countless times before, but never shall again. He once had debated if he should do this, should he actually take matters into his own hands, but ultimately decided that he would. Maybe his music has overall meant nothing to the world, as meaningless as he’s always been, but it matters to him. He dedicated his entire life to it, and so he will dedicate his death to it, too. He will go gently into that good night with the echo of music in his ear. It’s the one comfort he allows himself now.
As he begins to play, he lets his hands wander, playing whatever comes to mind, going over the vague setlists he’s created countless times over the years. He plays songs of death, of life, of happiness and sorrow. He plays songs he’s long since memorized, his own songs and others’ too. He plays and he plays and he plays.
He also finds himself playing songs of betrayal, after a little bit. The last category is one he added to his premade setlist only now, as his fingers wander over the strings, but it feels fitting, to tell the truth.
They’re his own songs, even, ones he wrote looking from the other side of the betrayal, thinking himself clever to translate the pain he saw into a meaningful song despite never knowing the pain himself. Now that he does, he marvels a little at how accurate the feeling is. While he may never have been worth anything at all, at least he did know how to translate emotion into song, even emotions he once had never felt. It’s something, at least.
Eventually, he runs out of songs to sing, the last few notes echoing around the half ruined tower, lingering in the air. He’s been playing for so long that the sun has started to set, and he thinks that it’s fitting for this to be the last sight he sees. A golden mountainside bathed in golden light. The beauty honestly takes his breath away, even now. Even now. After everything… even now.
He can feel a small pang of pain lance him to realize that he’s been playing so long, well over an hour really, and yet no one has come to look for him, but it fades quickly enough. He knew this would be the case, and he’s made peace with it. He’s made peace with so many things in his life that it makes sense he’s made peace with this as well. It’s for the better, really, because at least now there’s no one to try and convince him to stay. There’s no point in continuing on anymore, not when he’d have to spend the rest of his miserable life pretending that he’s okay with the betrayal of two of the most important people to him. No point at all.
Part of him wishes that he hadn’t walked in on them fucking like that. Wishes that they could have at least waited until after Geralt had spoken to him to open their relationship, if that truly was his intent all along.
But wishes aren’t horses, and reality remains as it is. And in reality, he had to watch as the man (witcher) he loves most fucked someone he once would have considered his best friend, had circumstances allowed it. The perfect end to this tragedy that is his life. And now there’s just… no point in continuing on, is there…? It’s time to take his final bow and go gracefully into that good night he’s heard so much of. Even if part of him wishes he could stay, he knows in his heart of hearts that he can’t. He’s lost too much to stay a minute longer.
Enough stalling. With a final sigh, Jaskier turns to the little bottles he put to the side earlier and grabs them, swirling them a little to give his hands something to do. He’s not nervous, not really, but he can’t help but take his time with this. This is the last thing he’ll ever do, and he wants to make it count. To make sure he doesn’t fuck it up like he’s fucked up everything else in his miserable life.
With as much grace as he can, he carefully removes the toppers off the three potions he grabbed, nose wrinkling just a little at the rancid scent that wafts into the air. Well. No one ever said a witcher’s potions smelled like lilac and gooseberries. He smiles wryly at his mental joke. Ha.
Not thinking about it, Jaskier grabs the first of the three potions and downs it without hesitation, like it’s a shot of alcohol he once was intimately familiar with. He doesn’t pause as he grabs the second, then the third, and does the same with each, barely tasting the disgustingly foul and viscous liquids.
He’s fairly certain a single one would have sufficed, Geralt always was very stern and graphic when he warned him away from said potions, but he wants to ensure that there is no chance that he’ll survive this attempt. Assuming someone comes across him now, it would be impossible to neutralize three different witcher potions acting on his wretched body at once. Not even the best mages on the Continent could do it, he knows that. It makes him smile, despite the vile taste that makes him want to gag and throw up everything he’s ever eaten in his life. He finds it fitting that his end comes from the very witcher he dedicated his entire life to. Fitting and tragic in equal measure, and what else could a pathetic poet ask for in death?
With that done, he leans back against the dilapidated wall and looks out over the golden landscape, his hands absently plucking out a meaningless melody on his lute. He doesn’t know how long it’ll take for the potions to kick in, but he’ll play for as long as he’s physically able. It’s a better end than he could have envisioned for himself, truly. Arms not empty, at least. Music in his ears and flowing through his veins even as poison starts to flood alongside it.
In a twist of fate that he can only blame on Destiny herself, it’s as the first stab of agony hits him that he hears the faint sound of a voice calling his name frantically. And it’s as he gasps in vain for a strangled breath as the pain grows exponentially that he hears the door to the dilapidated room bust open in a panic. Ah. That’s his witcher, he thinks with a wry grin even as his insides start to liquify quite painfully. Always so dramatic.
“Jaskier! Ciri told me that she saw you leave the potion stockroom earlier, and when I checked I saw that three potions were missing, what did you… J-Jask…? Jaskier!”
Ah, and there it is, he thinks as the pain intensifies, stealing every breath from his lungs. Even still, he finds it’s not even half as painful as finding his witcher and the witch entwined together earlier. As he thought. How funny.
He can barely think through the increasing pain, but he can still feel as Geralt slams to the ground in front of him, cradling him desperately in his arms. And, oh. His other last wish has been fulfilled. To die with arms around him is more than he could ever have hoped for. Even if those arms are attached to the one who ultimately drove him to such extremes, it’s nice all the same. Besides. Even in death he could never stay mad at his witcher. It makes sense. He never could maintain that emotion in life, so why would death be any different?
“What did you do? Jaskier! What the fuck did you do?!” Geralt screams at him, tone frantic as he shakes him, like the witcher thinks that if he just shakes him hard enough it will cancel out the poison he just willingly drank. Instead of responding (he’s not quite sure he could even if he wanted to, as his throat is currently seizing up with the burning bile rising inside him), he just gathers up whatever strength he has left and lulls his head to look up at his journal that is still sitting innocently where he left it earlier.
Geralt, frantic, reaches up and snatches the journal without care, yanking Jaskier with him in his haste. Jaskier doesn’t mind. Jaskier can barely think of anything beyond the rapidly increasing pain, his vision starting to blacken at the edges.
Still, part of him is aware of Geralt frantically reading through the scant words he wrote, the witcher likely reading and rereading the two words over and over and over again, hoping that this time a new meaning will be revealed.
But no. No deeper meaning can be found, he knows, no matter how many times Geralt reads the two simple words that he wrote within his beloved journal. The last two words he will ever write. The last two words that encapsulate his entire pathetic life.
I lied.
Once the witcher realizes no deeper meaning will be found, Jaskier distantly hears as Geralt starts screaming, bellowing throughout the keep in a desperate effort to be heard despite the distance and the thick stone.
“Yennefer! Yennefer! Come here, quickly!”
Oh, how funny it is to hear his witcher call out desperately to his new lover as he cradles the rapidly dying body of his former one. It’s not like she could do anything even if she were able to somehow get here in time. He made sure of it. How hilarious. He’d laugh if his insides weren’t currently getting liquified.
As it stands, he just continues to stare up at the horrified witcher, who has stopped bellowing and is now looking down at him in horror, like he’s trapped in a nightmare he can’t wake from. Ha. Funny.
“W-why… w-why did you… I- I’m sorry, Jaskier, I didn’t mean… f-fuck, Jask,” Geralt rasps, golden eyes wide with the horror he can plainly see despite the darkness encroaching. “D-don’t do this, hold on, Yen- Yen will be here soon, s-she’ll fix this, she’ll…”
With the last ounce of strength he has, Jaskier weakly shakes his head, lips pulling up into the weakest smile he’s ever given, blue eyes starting to roll up in his head as the darkness threatens to overtake him. He has but minutes left, seconds maybe. There will be no last minute rescue, not this time.
Not ever again.
Good.
Good.
Good.
It’s almost startling to hear the choked sob come from above him, and he has to fight against the encroaching darkness to focus on the witcher above him. And, oh. It seems that other, more absurd wish of his has been fulfilled as well, he thinks absently when he sees those precious tears fall from golden eyes. They’re not for him, not fully. He knows this well. It’s guilt that’s causing them, not his passing, because if Geralt would truly miss him, he wouldn’t have betrayed him so. But it’s still nice to see regardless, the last, wounded part of him soothing over to see such a thing.
“Don’t. D-don’t do this, J-Jask, please, I- I can’t do this without you, I- I fucking can’t, p-please, please… I- I won’t stray again, I swear, I’ll never see Yennefer again, just fucking stay, for the love of the gods, just stay with me.”
It’s a lie, and he almost wishes he had the strength to snarl at Geralt for lying to him on his deathbed. But he’s out of strength entirely now, the encroaching darkness now finally arrived, and with the blinding pain he’s in, he finds he can’t quite muster up any anger at all, anymore.
Despite his blindness, he can still hear Geralt as he cries out, can feel those strong arms clutching him tighter and tighter, almost too tight, but it’s not like he cares about anything anymore. And the pressure is nice as it distracts from the agony that he’s in. So.
“Jaskier! Don’t, don’t you fucking dare! Hold on just a little longer, i-it’s going to be alright! Yennefer! Yennefer!”
There’s something ironic that the last thing Jaskier will ever hear in life is his former lover screaming the name of his old and new lover, but considering that this is the moment his body decides to finally give up the ghost, he’s not able to really appreciate it.
He’s not able to appreciate anything, anymore.
Finally, he thinks, right before he thinks no more.
He’s no longer the fool.