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Jaskier knows when Geralt needs his space, usually just from the cadence of his most recent grunt. This time, Geralt had made it blindingly obvious that he needed the space by being an utter prick. Jaskier won’t lie; what Geralt said hurt. He has followed Geralt for more than half his life. And the sting of the Witcher’s latest emotional tirade stings sharper and bleeds more profusely than Jaskier was expecting. He knows he’s annoying. He knows his friend has lived a truly long life filled with horror and heartbreak. He knows that sometimes, his presence is slightly more than Geralt can handle with his overwrought senses and embryonic emotional expression.
In the very beginning, it was customary for them to only travel for a week or two at a time; Geralt was not used to having someone close by, even if Jaskier posed no threat. To Geralt, all humans posed a threat. It took years of waiting for Geralt after hunts to patch him up, defending him from angry crowds and ealdormen, singing for their supper and lodgings, and generally just forcing Geralt to accept kindness before they would travel together longer. He learned about Geralt, everything he could to make himself more useful. He learned when to ask questions, be quiet, when to keep his distance or keep to himself. He learned to lower his voice, start a fire, to give stitches, and to take them out. For whole seasons, sometimes half a year, Jaskier would follow his Witcher across the Continent simply just to wait for him; wait for him to return from a hunt, wait for him to return from a meeting, wait for him to return from collecting his coin, or the armorer, or the stables, or the brothel. Waiting for him to return from Yennefer or, in the Winter, waiting for him to return from Kaer Morhen.
More recently, Geralt had begun to wait too; he waited for Jaskier’s at the Oxenfurt gates at the beginning of every Spring. This last season, he had even smiled when he saw the bard crossing the bridge out of the city to meet him and had wrapped him in an awkward one-armed hug by way of greeting.
But this, whatever this new heartbreak of Geralt’s was, it hurt. And when Geralt didn’t know what to do with his hurt, he would turn it on the bard. Because it was simple. Because he was there. Because it was easy.
And it was… well it wasn’t fine exactly. But if Jaskier let a little anger stop him from following Geralt, they never would have left Posada. He always knows when to leave Geralt alone for a while. And when the Witcher is ready, he comes to Oxenfurt.
This time, as Jaskier slides down the mountain in boots most certainly not made for it, he cannot shake the feeling of dawning terror that it might be longer than usual before he sees Geralt again.
He makes it down in one piece, hastily wiping sweat from his brow and a few stray tears from his face. He grabs his bags and checks that everything is there. Roach knickers at him mournfully as he shoulders his pack. He tries not to look her in the eye and fails dismally; if he didn’t know any better, Jaskier would say she looks both mournful and slightly disappointed in him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles to her, raiding her saddlebags for the extra notebooks and ink he usually keeps there, “This is what he wanted. If you have an issue with it, you take it up with him."
He fishes out a slightly soft carrot and feeds it to her, one hand tangled in her hair.
“I just wanted him to know he’s wanted, is that too much to ask?” He pats Roach’s soft muzzle one last time and pretends this isn’t the thing that hurts most of all.
*
Oxenfurt is freezing in the Winter. It never quite manages to snow, instead frost and sleet rain down from the sky and turn to slush in the watery sun that tries her hardest to shine across the bay. The fire in Jaskier’s rooms is almost always lit as he attempts to dry out his socks and boots which are permanently soaked through from his treks across campus to teach. He spends far more time than he should in front of it, grading papers, composing, and writing as he tries to imbue feeling back into his toes.
Priscilla comes and cooks with him at least four times a week. Dinner generally ends up being bread and cheese and a bottle of wine each, but Jaskier is heartbroken enough not to mind. In his own rooms, he can be as maudlin as he wants.
“Alright,” she slurs one night, sloshing her fourth glass of Est Est down her chin a little, “Out with it, what’s the matter? It’s got something to do with him doesn’t it?”
Jaskier looks away and lifts his own glass to his lips, downing the rest in one go. It burns and he relishes it, pretending for just a moment that the warmth fills in the empty gaping hole he feels near constantly in his chest.
“Did he hurt you?” she asks, softer this time, leaning forward to put her hand on his knee.
“No more than usual.”
And that’s all he says about it.
*
The ice in the streets has turned into rivers of muddy water and more often than not, Jaskier can leave his apartment without a scarf or gloves. Spring is coming, very quickly.
He’s glad for it, if only because he misses the warmth of the sun. It has nothing at all to do with an emotionally constipated, black-clad, white-haired witcher.
His final exam for the first-year students is approved by the Dean and he watches them stream out of the hall two hours after they had all reluctantly filed in. Priss sits on the bench next to him nursing a small bag of still-warm chestnuts. She offers him another and he relishes the last delicacies of Winter with the warming sun on his face.
“How do you think they did?” he asks her through his mouthful.
She rolls her eyes, “They’re first years, so probably terribly.”
Jaskier tries not to take offence but he still bumps his shoulder against hers in admonishment.
Priscilla laughs, “Oh they’ll be fine Jules, honestly! They practically worship the ground you walk on. I caught them all studying at the pub last week. Studying,” she cringes, “At the pub.”
He laughs in agreement, “Sacrilege.”
They quietly watch the last stragglers leave the hall and finish the bag of nuts between them. Priss takes out her panflute and plays a pretty little song that reminds Jaskier of flower buds and spring rain. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.
“So, are you staying for another term?” she asks.
Jaskier shrugs.
“You might want to make up your mind soon,” she warns, “Or you’ll get stuck with the firsties again.”
“Can’t say if I’ll be here Priss, you know how it goes.”
She hums, “Yeah, you go over that bridge and spend the rest of the year following around a man who hasn’t given you the time of day in two decades.”
He turns to look at her. She’s frowning hard at him, as though both exceptionally confused and incredibly angry. For a brief moment, Jaskier is angry too. How dare she pretend she knows anything about Geralt. But he shakes it off; Priscilla is his friend, and more than anything else, she’s simply worried about him.
“Like clockwork,” he agrees.
She sighs in defeat and turns away.
*
Spring has arrived with the first wildflowers appearing shyly along the Pontar by the time Jaskier has packed his bags for another year on the Path. He’s been keeping an ear to the ground for the gossip that usually precedes Geralt’s arrival to Oxenfurt, but so far, he has heard nothing.
Still, he dons his boots and kisses Priscilla on the cheeks.
“Are you sure?” she asks, frowning at him as she picks non-existent fluff from his doublet.
Jaskier sighs, “Yes, I am.”
Her frown deepens, “And if he isn’t there or doesn’t come?”
This time, Jaskier frowns. He has been trying not to think about it. They had never spoken explicitly about meeting at the gates every Spring, and the last time Jaskier had seen Geralt still throbs in his chest. But Jaskier has never been anything but an optimist and Winter in the mountains is cold. Surely cold enough to put a damper on Geralt’s temper.
“Jules, what are you going to do if he is not there?”
He shakes his head and plasters a blinding grin on his face, “He’ll be there dear, don’t you worry!”
She smacks him on the shoulder, “And if he’s not?” she insists.
“Then I will turn right back around and come and grovel at your feet so you can say ‘I told you so.’”
Priss hums, “You rely on him too much for adventure Julian,” she mumbles, drawing him close, “And adventure cannot be worth a broken heart.”
He holds her tighter for a moment before letting her go. He chooses not to respond to her comment, and the look she gives him is sad and all-knowing.
“Write when you can,” she says, patting his cheek, “And for the love of Melitele, don’t taunt a dragon this year.”
At this Jaskier laughs, “I make no promises!” and turns on his heel with a flourish and a wave before heading off towards the Western Gate.
*
He almost considers not knocking on the door. He could just leave and follow the road alone. He’s done it before, so he knows he can do it again. But the very thought of following the Path alone (and he wonders when he began to consider it the Path as if he ever had any right or claim to Geralt’s destiny) makes his throat close up and shivers run down his spine in an almost painful sensation.
His fist is still raised to knock when Priscilla opens the door, basket in hand.
“Oh,” she says, surprise in her voice. “Oh,” she whispers again.
“Hi,” he says, and he knows he cannot cover the way his voice cracks and shakes over the one syllable.
“He didn’t come?” she asks.
He cannot stop the sob that breaks free of the block in his throat.
He drops his pack on the floor and cannot stop the tears that well up and roll thickly down his cheeks, “He didn’t come.”
She takes him by the arm and her touch, for a moment, provides comfort Jaskier does not feel he deserves. Priscilla lets go of his arm, and he is left bereft for a moment while she fetches his bag.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled by his hands as he covers his mouth, trying to hold the sobs back, “I should have listened to you.”
She pats him on the back, “Yes, you should have.”
*
Jaskier gives himself three days to wallow and mourn being left at the Western Gate before returning back to teaching. During this time he cries to Priscilla and Essi, drinks himself unconscious twice, drafts fifteen letters to Geralt that range from angry, drunken ramblings to deep, unedited love confessions that are all thrown into the fire, and wakes up naked next to Valdo Marx the morning of the third day. He leaves a note on his kitchen table telling the troubadour of Cidaris to be gone before he returns at midday or he will bury the man’s lute under the academy kitchen’s pig trough; then he heads to class.
Oxenfurt Academy’s Chancellor had been nice enough to let Jaskier stay on for another semester, however, much like Priscilla had warned, he had been lumped with the first years again. It’s easy work, a little too easy, and he misses the challenge. But it provides him with enough time to work on his own compositions, none of which will ever see the light of day.
He has considered leaving Oxenfurt, maybe during the mid-semester break, more than once. Maybe he could go back to Kerack, to Lettenhove for a bit. Or maybe to travel South to Toussaint and spend the summer drinking wine and singing his way across the countryside. But the more he thinks of traveling, the more he cannot escape that he would only end up searching for Geralt. And for what? What could he possibly say to the witcher that would matter?
He could rant and rave and be angry, but it would not make a difference. He could cry and sob about how hurt he is by Geralt’s actions, but the witcher would only grunt and turn away. He could confess the depth of his longing, and he would be lying to say he hasn’t imagined this a million ways already since the end of Winter, but it would mean nothing because he means nothing to the Witcher.
Sometimes, late at night, he can’t imagine anything worse than running into Geralt again. His embarrassment sits shockingly cold in his stomach, rendering him nauseous and dizzy. We could go to the coast, echoes in his ears, and he berates himself for being too obvious, too needy, too vulnerable. To run into Geralt now would threaten to rip open the very thin skin covering the gaping hole in his chest.
So instead, Jaskier is left with heartbreak and anger sitting heavy and hot in his stomach and on the back of his tongue. Instead, late at night, when he is a little drunk and lonely, he lies in his bed and hates himself for reliving that day in the mountains, the words he said to Geralt, the longing in his voice. He hates himself for reliving every campfire shared, every soft song, warm look, every wound he tended, the way Geralt would unspool with Jaskier’s fingers in his hair. He hates that he relives the casual touches he could permit himself after a good performance in a tavern and how Geralt would let the bard drape himself over his shoulders; how he would sometimes try to hide the fact he was smiling about it.
He hates himself for thinking about the witcher; how brave and strong he is, yes, but also how kind and gentle he could be; how funny he is in his own dry, witty way; the way he treated his horse better than himself and could lecture Jaskier for hours about horses and proper horse care. Jaskier hates himself for reminiscing on the few times Geralt had shown off his intelligence; drawing on dead languages and niche, historical lore. But more than anything, he hates himself for waiting even after Geralt is gone.
That’s the crux of it really; even after being abandoned twice, Jaskier stays in Oxenfurt just in case this is the week Geralt comes.
*
Geralt returns to Roach with the smell of lute oil, lavender, salt, and bitter sadness on the wind. He huffs, resigning himself to find a way to make it up to the bard for his harshness without ever having to speak about it. He was cruel, he knows this, but sometimes the man is just too much. He goes to step forward, around the small grove of trees at the edge of the plateau they had left the horses on when he hears a small sob.
“I’ve been a complete fool for twenty years,” he hears Jaskier choke out, “Convinced myself that he thought of me as his friend just because he let me travel with him.”
Geralt frowns to himself, awkwardly rubbing at his chest where the muscle seems to twinge at the stifled sounds the bard makes. He’s going to have to talk about it, properly apologise. He’s never actually made Jaskier cry before. Geralt’s never been good with tears, even though he sees them regularly enough. But there’s something about seeing Jaskier cry, the bard usually so bright and upbeat, that sits shockingly, dreadfully wrong with him.
Jaskier slides his hand down Roach’s neck and takes a deep, shuddering breath, still completely oblivious to Geralt’s presence at the edge of the clearing, “I love him, Roach,” he whimpers, “So much. I just want to be around him, that’s all. I’ve given him everything and settled for scraps.”
He laughs humourlessly, “And now I guess I’m set to starve.”
“Well darling,” he stutters, “I won’t be made a fool of anymore. I have enjoyed your company so much. Promise me you’ll take care of him, alright?”
Geralt’s heart plummets as Roach steps forward and snuffles at his hair, lipping the front so it sticks up with her spit. Jaskier huffs a watery laugh which morphs into a fresh sob.
He stays frozen in his spot behind the tree, the sense of terrible wrong growing into one of pure horror.
“I love you too, sweet girl.”
Geralt watches stock still, as the bard shoulders his pack and picks up his lute case. He hastily wipes his eyes and turns towards the road.
He’s going to leave, Geralt thinks, panic rising in his throat, but he cannot make himself move, Because of me.
“Good hunting Geralt,” Jaskier whispers and it carries over to Geralt on the wind.
Then, the bard is gone.
*
Geralt tries to follow Jaskier down the mountain but by the time he reaches Caingorn, he’s lost the bard’s scent amongst the crowd in the town’s square. His frustration only grows as he asks local vendors and innkeepers if they have recently seen a - “Famous bard, goes by Jaskier, brown hair, blue eyes, lute on his back, probably wearing something very bright and expensive.”
They all tell him they don’t know what he’s talking about and to, “Go away witcher, you’re scaring my customers.”
It isn’t until he reaches a small inn near the Southern border of the town that he finds a barmaid with information, “Seemed pretty down,” she says, eyeing Geralt warily. “He didn’t want to stick around, not even long enough to play. Said he wouldn’t be very good at it right now,” at this, she rolls her eyes.
“Did he say where he was going?” Geralt asks, trying to keep the growl of frustration from his voice.
She shrugs, “He met a merchant who was heading to Trelagor to collect supplies. I think the bard joined the caravan heading South-East.”
He barely stays long enough to thank and tip the woman before he’s back on Roach, riding hard down the Southern road out of town.
The witcher makes it as far as Ghelibol before he realises he has no idea what to say to the man who is only a day ahead of him at most. He knows he has to say something. A grunt, a muttered sorry, the largest portion of a rabbit caught in some line and strung over a fire feels cheap when compared to the man Geralt is only now just starting to realise he’s taken devastating advantage of. And the rabbit feels too close to Jaskier’s comment about ‘scraps.’
The night is silent as it always is around a witcher, the animals not currently slow roasting over the low flame of his campfire having already moved on after smelling the death that seeps from his very pores. He is the monster in this forest.
Without the low, slow strumming of a ballad quietly shifting through the branches and boughs hanging overhead, he feels like one too.
*
In the end, Kaer Morhen is almost frozen by the time Geralt finishes climbing the Killer. His muscles ache with the bone-deep exhaustion of worry and loss. He almost hadn't made it this year, procrastinating his return in Hagge, deciding if he had the guts to head East. He had told himself that going East would provide the potential for a contract or two to see him through until the thaw (a lie) and had nothing to do with making sure the bard was safe and tucked away in Oxenfurt (the truth), but he'd shaken it off at the first snow. Instead, he had turned North to Ban Glean and Ard Carriaigh, hoping against all hope that Jaskier was at least safe tucked away warm in some court if he hadn’t made it back to the university.
Geralt tells himself he is eager to see his brothers and Vesemir and sleep in his own bed, but even Roach knows he’s lying. Every step he takes North drags in the deep layers of fresh snow that they wake to every morning. Geralt sees the gates emerge at the top of the Path and takes a deep breath. Roach pulls on her lead hard enough to drag him stumbling forward a few steps.
He lets Roach lead him into the courtyard and is immediately swept off his feet by a flurry of dark hair and a deep baritone laugh that rattles out of Eskel's ribcage and into his own.
"You made it!" he laughs, and Geralt cannot help chuckling. Regardless of his own heavy heart; actually having his brother in his arms fills just a little bit of the hole he hadn’t been able to name until now.
Behind Eskel, Lambert hangs back a little. There's a small curve to his lips, as though he is trying not to smile. But the light in his eyes is fond, and his tone is teasing when he says, "Thought you might have died saving a kitten from a tree or something when I got here before you."
Geralt rolls his eyes and pulls his youngest brother into a one-armed hug that doubles as a headlock.
“Where’s the bard?” Lambert asks once he’s finally managed to free himself.
“Was just thinking the same thing,” Eskel says, patting Roach’s nose and leading her towards the stable.
Geralt frowns and doesn’t answer them.
*
The first hard freeze begins a week after Geralt arrives at Kaer Morhen. Lambert mostly complains that he missed all the hard work while he was strolling up the Killer. The outer wall has been repointed on the Western side, but the morning after Geralt’s arrival, he wakes at dawn to Lambert kicking the side of his cot and yawning through a “Vesemir says we should be able to finish repointing the South-West archway before lunch.”
Geralt groans but nonetheless rolls out of bed.
“Do we have enough sand for the mortar?” he asks, hastily pulling on a somewhat clean shirt and scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Lambert shrugs and pushes off the door frame, turning to leave, “No idea. I’m more concerned about the lime. He might ask me to crack into the alchemy stock, and I had some ideas for new bombs.”
“You check the lime, I’ll check the sand,” Geralt mutters, yanking his boots on, “Eskel helping?”
Lambert snorts, “Please, he’s Papa Vesemir’s favourite right now. They’re out hunting. We get the shit jobs.”
Geralt rolls his eyes and pushes Lambert out of the doorway and towards the stairs.
There is just enough lime, but not enough sand, which means taking a pair of carts and shovels down to the Gwenllech river bank and digging some up, then carting it all the way back to the courtyard to mix. It’s not particularly grueling work, but it takes time, and the added steps of having to procure more sand means that it’s mid afternoon before Geralt and Lambert actually get to repointing the arch. They mostly work in silence, Geralt smoothing the lime mortar on with a wooden board, while Lambert follows behind with a piece of leather, pushing the mortar into the cracks.
“Weird that the bard isn’t with you this year,” Lambert says, “Eskel was so certain he would be that he bought extra supplies.”
Geralt stiffens at the mention of Jaskier, feeling guilty, and then immediately feels guiltier knowing Eskel spent hard earned coin of his own to feed Geralt’s friend.
“He had other plans,” Geralt lies gruffly. He roughly scoops up too much mortar and splatters it over the arch, ruining some of Lambert neat smoothing.
“Hey!” Lambert protests, shoving Geralt roughly with his shoulder, trying to go back over the new streaks up the wall.
Geralt tries to feel bad, but is mostly just glad the subject seems to have been dropped.
“What’s your fucking problem anyway?” Lambert asks, “You’ve been skulking around like a wolf with a broken tail since you got here. What, stick even further up your ass than usual? Thought the bard had finally managed to pull it out, maybe replace it with something else.” Lambert waggles his eyebrows and then cracks up at his own crudeness.
Geralt growls at him, “Shut the fuck up Lambert.” He can feel head rising in his body, behind his eyes. It weighs on him, alongside the guilt. He focuses on the anger instead, it’s easier to deal with, easier to manage. He recognises the anger, knows what it’s about and who it’s for.
Lambert raises an eyebrow, “What, did you break up?” he sneers.
Geralt punches him in the face, knocking the back of Lambert’s head into the freshly laid mortar.
*
The fact that someone is knocking at his door is what alerts Geralt to the fact it's Vesemir; if it was one of his brothers, they would have just barged in, lock be damned. His mentor hardly ever ventures into the towers, especially in the winter.
“Yes?” He calls, as he ties the laces on his boots.
Vesemir swings it open and goes to stand in front of the last glowing embers of the fire. He holds his hands out to it, soaking in its warmth and after a moment, Geralt joins him, running rough fingers through damp, post-bath hair.
“I’m surprised he’s not with you pup,” Vesemir begins. Geralt sucks in a sharp breath and gathers his hair into a knot at the back of his head, dragging the tie over his wrist and fastening it in place harshly. Lambert, Geralt now knows, had already tried this in his own harsh way and got punched in the face for it. Eskel had already tried as well, plying him with just enough White Gull the night before to loosen his lips, and then lulling him into a false sense of security with a few rounds of Gwent.
The embarrassment and shame that he feels at the sheer mention of the bard made him bare his teeth and growl at his oldest friend and brother, the same as he had at Lambert. Eskel beat him senseless in training this morning.
“It’s nothing,” he tries, but Vesemir interrupts with a hand held up.
“He’s been with you for twenty years Geralt,” the old witcher says, “That’s no small thing. What happened?”
Vesemir doesn’t force Geralt’s eye contact and for that he’s grateful.
I broke his trust, Geralt wants to say, I pushed and pushed and pushed and when it wasn’t enough, I sent him away.
The look on his face must say everything.
Vesemir frowns at him hard, and Geralt can feel the weight of it sinking his neck into his shoulders. He tucks his face away from Vesemir, and if it wasn’t for the mutations, he’s sure he would be bright red. He feels like he’s twelve again, caught stealing from the kitchens.
“There’s something brewing in the South,” Vesemir says, “Nilfgaard is coming. That bard isn’t safe; even more so for knowing you.”
That gets Geralt’s attention.
“I know,” he says, “I know he isn’t. It’s part of why I sent him away.”
Vesemir scoffs at him, “Don’t lie, you’re bad at it. You sent him away because you were angry and he’s an easy target.”
Geralt opens his mouth to retort but Vesemir cuts him off with a raised hand, “I don’t want to hear it. You used to do the same thing to Eskel until he got big enough to beat you. And you broke Lambert’s nose to avoid talking about him. Leaving the bard was selfish. Blaming the bard was also selfish. You made your choices, and now you have to deal with the consequences. They’re your consequences Geralt.”
It’s the most he’s ever heard his usually taciturn teacher say in one sitting.
“You will leave at thaw,” Vesemir growls, “And you will find him.”
Geralt is furious as Vesemir too.
*
Geralt is the last to leave Kaer Morhen. Lambert left two weeks ago before the pass had properly defrosted, flipping Geralt off as he did. Eskel had left four days ago with an all too knowing look in his eyes as he hugged Geralt goodbye. Vesemir practically has to throw Geralt off the mountain to get him to leave. The stern warning he gives Geralt as Roach is tacked up is merely a raised eyebrow, but nonetheless, it still sends a shiver down his spine.
He stays in Ard Carraigh for longer than he should, especially considering there is no money to be made and he has no need for repairs and nothing to trade.
He knows why he is reluctant to move on, but he puts it from his mind, and on the third morning, he heads East, telling himself that the sinking feeling in his guts is just because he couldn’t afford more than some stale bread with his rations for dinner last night.