Work Text:
Radovid wasn’t in any of the songs. It was better, of course, from a political point of view. His advisors had enough to deal with without the Voice of the Continent disparaging their country’s leader. Still, Radovid had imagined it ―as he imagined anything, in the only time and place he had to, alone under the covers late at night―, mostly as a way to torture himself. There was some sick pleasure in it. One day he’d hear an unassuming troubadour echoing someone else’s daggers aimed solely for his breast, pouring someone else’s poison meant for his heart alone. He’d stay seated in the hall, head tilted towards the anecdote of a baron or a countess, pretending not to heed the grievous hate washing over him, and he’d succeed. He was all pretense now.
In the beginning, when the wound was fresh, the court bard had gone on as before. He knew Radovid’s proclivities from a lifetime of experience, he did not need to be told. He played and sang only Jaskier’s songs, and Radovid allowed it. More than, he sought it out. Now he suspected he’d been looking for something, a note, a word, which would explain it all, transform it into something bearable. All he had found was agony, but it was one he sustained for… too many months. In a twisted way, he’d seen the way this was to end back then, but it felt so heartbreaking he’d simply turned away to seek more misery. There was nothing else he could bring himself to do.
He’d understood, at some point, that he was killing himself slowly. Later, for the first time, he felt the desire to stop. Later still, he followed through. He spoke to the court bard, who left the next day, and then there was silence. He’d expected to be tempted back. To his surprise, he was not. Silence was easy. Perhaps it was not so strange. He’d worn his spirit down so thoroughly that the only remaining paths were oblivion or death. Then, deep down, he did not want to die. That was good, he supposed. He did not let himself dwell too much on a third choice he did not have.
It crossed his mind, at times, that it could not go on forever. And it did not. War, plague, fear, they had all ravaged the people and put joy in a cursed sleep that seemed eternal. But they were starting to wake up. There was talk of weddings, of a good harvest, of an upcoming festival to herald summer. The dignified court was beginning to stir under the stone of silence.
Months after choosing silence, he ―it was impossible to tell if willingly or pushed by circumstance, he was all circumstance now― brought music back. No fixed position was filled ―that much he could not stomach―, but bards were invited back. Radovid sat in the hall as people began to laugh again.
He was not looking for the words, but they were right there. Although no requests were issued ―nor vetoes, and that might have been a sign―, the tastes of his youth were no secret. The visiting minstrels were gaunter than before, eager to please. In less than a month, he had heard every single new song penned by Jaskier. He hadn’t been looking for himself ―if he was honest, when the fleeting desire appeared, he’d been too scared to―, and, in any case, his search would have been fruitless.
Jaskier had written of his journey to Nilfgaard, of his merry band of friends, of the devastation of war, of the tragic and legendary end of Cirilla of Cintra, Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg. He’d written of dryads and vampires and dwarfs, of soaring heights and utter misery. He had not written a single word about Radovid.
He had to admit, now, faced with the reality, that he didn’t know what he was hoping for ―a kind word?―, but he did know what he expected ―a cruel one―, and it was not this silence. One song, one line, one oblique reference. Even, if for secretiveness’ sake, one only he could understand. There was nothing.
Surely he should be happy about it. He didn’t know if he was. He did not feel unhappy ―that is, the discovery did not sink his spirits, he was all unhappiness now―, nor relieved. Most people would be, if they had escaped being derided and despised forever for all to hear. Jaskier may have vanished from the face of the Continent, but he was still revered, his words still shared. Meanwhile, Radovid was there every single day, and he knew what his people said about him.
Perhaps it was not so strange. Something had happened to him and changed him forever, something known to himself and one other. And now… If only two people had lived something, and for one of them it had not taken place, had it truly happened? If it existed, by definition, only in Radovid’s mind?
He wondered, in spite of himself, when Jaskier had decided to erase him. After they had broken each other’s hearts so brutally there was no putting them back together? Maybe. But he remembered vividly Jaskier’s face, the tone of his voice, his hesitation, before that had happened. There was a part of Radovid that knew Jaskier had begun to deny him even then, if only to himself. That just left Radovid, and then, there was nobody else to deny it to.
Right next to that memory ―which Radovid always carefully avoided touching, like a bird would a rosebush, for just brushing against it was too painful to bear―, was a feeling. It had been dormant for a while thanks to the silence, now it awakened, older and more cynical, yet strong still.
If he were to list all the songs about Geralt of Rivia, from the stories centered on him to the ambiguous allusions, he’d have to include nearly all of them. There were too many differences between him and Radovid to count them, but he thought he may have found the one that defined this.
The witcher was unattainable. He’d been there, right next to Jaskier, but far away. He was dedicated to his loneliness, to his path, to his mage and his princess. Jaskier could never touch him, not in the way he longed for. And for that he would remain devoted to him forever.
Radovid may have been unattainable, once. When they’d met, when everything hung in the air with suspicion, and curiosity, and promise. He allowed himself to wonder what things may have been like if he’d never let it go further, and did not have to try too hard. Growing up in court, it was common to see a minnesanger pouring his heart out to their lofty object, admiring verses laced with the beautiful pain of a love that could never be. And because it could never be, it would last forever.
That was Radovid’s mistake, he’d made the dream materialize. He could’ve had a lifetime with Jaskier’s songs, with the tingling memory of their meeting, with the idea of him. He was greedy, he wanted more. He’d gone to the cabin in Loxia and offered him everything. He let Jaskier look in and he didn’t like what he saw. Was it such a wonder? Reality could never compete.
In another universe, Jaskier may have penned a stanza or two, maybe even a song, dedicated to the enigmatic prince who had charmed him. In this one, Radovid did not exist to him. Geralt was dead and he was alive and yet the witcher would live forever for Jaskier, in him.
It might have been better to never let the music in again, to stay in the silence. But there was no going back now. Those were his only options, numb or hurting, and he seemed to have chosen to hurt. The third, what he actually would have wanted, was not an option at all. He heard an unassuming troubadour throwing melodious petals at a man who was not him, echoing the mournful praise from a man who had chosen to forget him. He stayed seated in the hall, head tilted towards the anecdote of a baron or a countess, pretending not to mind the void in the words washing over him, and he succeeded. He was all pretense now.