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Summary
“Forgive me for asking, Geralt,” Yennefer murmurs as Geralt joins her gaze to the horizon, looking away because that's what they always did best. “But that’s mourning jewelry for Jaskier, isn't it? His hair.”
Mourning jewellry it would look like, had Geralt been a better man; but he is Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier’s Witcher, and he wants to curse whatever deemed it acceptable that Jaskier would die young, so he made it anything but. The shame of it makes him swallow acid, sinking with it. “Yes.”
A bout of silence. Yennefer doesn’t say anything for a moment, heart not stuttering, not smelling of pity or jealousy or anger or anything as foul as passion. She’s silently considering, neck muscles tensing for a moment, and Geralt does with them. When she speaks again, her tone is alien, trying to be gentle because she struggles to be soft. Like him. “He was the love of your life.”
It doesn’t take Geralt long to say yes.
(Or, Jaskier dies, Geralt is left in the crater of what Jaskier left behind and doesn’t cope well. At all. He probably should’ve given Jaskier’s grave a second glance, though.)
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Bookmark Notes:
Ch 1