Chapter Text
Geralt had been sat alone in the tavern for scarcely a few minutes when Jaskier had sidled up to him, looking the very epitome of nonchalance with one hand stuck in the pocket of his breeches and the other wrapped nimbly around the neck of his lute, a giddy smile adorning his face.
It was typical, really, Geralt thought as he stared pointedly into the brown swill of his ale, that despite them having parted ways almost a week ago in a small village, miles from the town he was currently in, and each of them planning to travel in separate directions, that he and the bard had somehow managed to become reacquainted against all odds. Right as he was just getting used to the blessed silence that travelling alone bought. Jaskier would call it fate, in some fancy, roundabout way, Geralt would simply call it an annoyance.
He had come into the tavern with the hope that he would be able to ask around the locals in regards to the contract he was hoping to pursue over the next few days, in return for a pretty sum of three hundred Orens. He had been surprised when he had been offered such an amount by the town's Lord immediately; usually, he would have to bargain, and even then it would be unlikely to result in that amount. However, now with Jaskier's appearance, it began to make sense. Despite his annoying nature, Geralt had to admit that the bard's songs were helpful, somewhat.
His goal of getting information had been mostly a success; many of the patrons were willing to give him every last detail about the ghost which was plaguing the outskirts of the town, killing any brave (or stupid, as Geralt would put it) souls who tried to approach it. One had even bought him an ale and sat beside him to tell him his tale, a display of friendliness that Geralt was not familiar with. The man's account had not been all that different from all the others he had heard that day, so there were not too many questions to ask on the Witcher's part, and by the time Geralt was hardly halfway through his tankard, the man had already finished his story and left to rejoin his friends on the other side of the room. Geralt had debated just leaving the drink on the table and setting off; it was not good ale by any stretch of the imagination, light and so watery that he could swear he could see the watermarks on the metal bottom of the mug, and there were many other, much more important, things. But the strange amicability of the townsfolk had him second-guessing, and he supposed that staying to drink the rest of the ale would not hurt, that it would be nice to take advantage of some of the little kindness he was shown in his life. He found himself so engrossed in thought that he had not heard the bard enter the tavern, until a familiar voice called his name,
"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice cut smoothly through the bustle of the tavern, (a side effect, Geralt assumed, of being a bard), "Is that you?"
Geralt gave one last, longing sigh into his tankard, and in place of a response, took a long swig of ale, swallowing down his hopes of a quiet hunt with it. He raised his head to watch as Jaskier darted lithely through the crowd of people to reach him, lute tucked tightly to his chest. When he reached his table, he gestured to the bench opposite Geralt in question, who, after a moment of deliberation, nodded. Jaskier's face split into a grin and he wasted no time in slipping onto the seat, propping up his lute next to him and leaning forward onto the table, hands crossed in front of him, fingers tapping frantically onto the wood,
"What a coincidence it is to see you here, my dear! Of all the towns in all the Continent!" he said, shaking his head disbelievingly, his voice dripping with barely concealed humour, "If it hadn't gone so badly last time, I might just accuse you of following me."
Geralt snorted, "Jaskier, I'll be damned if I believe it's a coincidence."
The bard huffed in contempt, though his lips twitched slightly "Well, of course it is, what else would it be?" Geralt didn't answer, instead just looking at him pointedly, and Jaskier continued, "I have a job to do in Oxunfurt, you know? A well-respected one! I don't have time to simply follow you around all the time like a lap dog."
"That's not what you're here to do?" Geralt smirked, "Could have had me fooled."
"Geralt!" Jaskier brandished his arms in the air in mock-horror, "You are a cruel, cruel man, this much has been made clear to me. Anyone who says otherwise is an out-and-out liar."
"You say otherwise. Famously." he deadpanned, taking another swig of ale,
"Ah, well, I guess I'm a liar, then. I'm going to have to write a lot of songs about how much I hate the White Wolf now too."
"Didn't you already do that? When you went all..." Geralt gestured vaguely at his face, "maudlin."
Jaskier let out a gasp, "That was a low blow, Geralt, a low blow. You should know that that was your fault, and those songs were well deserved on your part. Even if they weren't my best work. Or my best look." he muttered, and then leant closer to Geralt, "What are you doing here anyway? Sitting in a tavern in the middle of the day doesn't seem like you, surely you should be out on the road with Roach or Witchering, or something. Unless you're holding out on me and you do this all the time when we are apart?"
Geralt shrugged, "What can I say? I do it every day when you're not here."
Jaskier scoffed and shook his head at him, "Yeah, right. And Roach is named after the bug. Is it a contract?"
"Hmm," Geralt took a final swig of ale, and then took the contract notice from the board out of his pocket, unfolding it and pushing it over the table so Jaskier could read it.
"A ghost?" he asked, and Geralt nodded, "Have you been to the Lord yet."
"It's probably a wraith, and yes." and then, "He offered me three hundred Orens."
"That's decent." Jaskier tilted his head, "Are you going to take it?"
"Got nothing better to do. I don't need to head up to Kaer Morhen for a few more weeks. I might as well do some contracts while I'm waiting."
Jaskier nodded in agreement before something passed over his face, and he looked up to Geralt hopefully, "Oh, say, could I perhaps accompany you on this hunt. It really was a coincidence that I was here, I promise, but this would make such a good song!"
"Jaskier-" Geralt began roughly, but the bard cut him off,
"Please, Geralt! I promise I won't get in the way. I'll make you look really good in the song, too. I mean, really good. Like you're a god or something."
Geralt rolled his eyes, "I don't care about your songs, bard, or how you portray me in them."
"Yes but it can't hurt, right? And then you won't have to see me again for a whole winter."
"I won't have to see you for a whole winter either way," he said and Jaskier huffed, his knee-jerking impatiently under the table,
"Oh come on, Geralt. It'll be fun. I feel as though I haven't been on a hunt with you in forever."
"It's hardly been a week since we were last on one, Jaskier, and they're only fun for you because you don't do anything."
"Exactly! I won't do anything. I'll just stand at a respectable distance and, you know, wax poetic about you and your muscles." Jaskier worried a lip between his teeth, "So will you let me?"
Geralt glanced between Jaskier's hopeful expression, the tap of his fingers on the table in front of him, and the contract on the table, before letting out a sigh. He grabbed the sheet of paper and tucked it back into his pocket, before pulling out a few coins and throwing them down onto the table. Jaskier watched impassively as one span on its axis and slipped through a gap in the table, clattering to the floor. Geralt stood, grabbing his swords from where they were propped up next to him and strapping them onto his back. He took a few steps towards the door, before turning to see that Jaskier hadn't moved, and was instead staring blankly after him. Geralt gestured behind him with a tilt of his head,
"Are you coming?" he asked, and Jaskier visibly lit up. His mouth stretched out into another grin, and he clambered up to follow Geralt, grabbing his lute as he did so,
"Of course I am, my dear Witcher, of course I am."
The one thing that amazed Geralt about Jaskier, he thought to himself as he led them both along the road to the stables where he had left his saddlebag with Roach was his ability to make any everyday occurrence seem note-worthy and life-changing. He didn't think that much could happen to the bard in a week, something which he supposed Jaskier would likely take offence to if he were to voice this out loud. After all, the longest instances that they had been parted for were winters, the times that Jaskier spent at some royal court, or the horrible six months they spent away from each other after the incident at the top of the mountain. All of those times, Jaskier's chatter had mostly been about his time teaching at Oxunfurt, the gossip he had heard from one noble or another, or in the case of the latter, how much he hated Geralt, followed by him saying how much he missed him.
Right now, however, Jaskier was chattering about something incredibly boring, so much so that Geralt had tuned him out in favour of listening to the thud of Roach's heartbeat in the stable. His attention was bought back, much against his will, as Jaskier's hands appeared in his peripheral vision, as the bard did a particularly dramatic flourish,
"and then the innkeeper said-" Geralt let out a groan, and Jaskier cut himself off abruptly, "Is something wrong?"
"Why are you here, Jaskier?"
The other man turned to him, "You said I could come along. Don't say you're having second thoughts already, we are barely out of the tavern."
"No. Why are you here, in Carreras? I thought you were going to Oxenfurt."
Jaskier sighed in relief, "Oh, right! Gods, you worried me a bit then. I thought I was gonna have to get down on my knees and beg, and I'd really rather ruin these lovely trousers on my knees for something else, if you catch my drift?" he sent an exaggerated wink at Geralt,
"Jaskier," he warned,
"Okay, okay. I still have a few weeks until term starts at Oxenfurt, and Gods know I'm not spending that time doing something boring and useful like planning my lectures. Do you know what type of professors do that, Geralt? Dull ones, dull ones who no-one likes and who probably can't get laid."
"So you came here to get laid?"
"Of course not!" Jaskier said, incredulously, "Wherever it was we parted ways-"
"Burdorff," Geralt inturrupted,
"Burdorff, that was it. Well, I don't mean to talk ill of it or anything but it just doesn't have much going on. So I thought I might take the chance to travel here to..." he trailed off, and Geralt smirked,
"Carreras,"
"Of course. To do some...sightseeing." Jaskier smiled sheepishly,
"Sightseeing?" Geralt repeated and Jaskier nodded,
"There are many interesting landmarks here, you know Geralt. Like...the clock tower!"
"There is no clock tower here, Jaskier."
The bard made a face, "Oh. Well."
They stopped when they arrived at the stables, and Geralt pushed his way in as Jaskier leant in the doorway.
"I'm sure your partners wouldn't appreciate you calling them landmarks, Jaskier." he said, as he untied his saddlebag from Roach, "Women don't really tend to value that sort of thing."
"And the men, Geralt. Don't forget the men. I am a very generous lover who does not discriminate. You would do well to remember that!" he called as Geralt pushed past him with a hum and continued down the road, waiting a few moments before running to catch up with him, "We can't all be piously devoted to one person like you, Geralt. How is dearest Yennefer, anyway?"
"I wouldn't know." Geralt said simply, "We've only spoken once since the mountain, and we have definitely never been piously devoted to one another."
Jaskier nodded, "Ah yes. No contact at all this week when I've been gone?"
"She told me to fuck off and never try to speak with her again," Geralt shrugged, "so that's what I'm doing."
"I told you to fuck off and never try to speak with me again, but you kept coming back to me like a lost little puppy."
Geralt rolled his eyes at the comparison, "When Yennefer tells you to fuck off, she means it."
He gave a low chuckle when Jaskier made an offended noise and slapped him across the arm,
"I'll have you know, Witcher," he said, "that I meant it. All those songs I wrote about how much I despise you, I stand by every single one of them."
"Naturally."
"I think you kept coming back because you missed me." Jaskier said and then smiled smugly when Geralt didn't answer, "That's what I thought. Say, Geralt, where are we going anyway?"
"Villagers said that there have been sightings of the wraith down by the graveyard at dusk."
"Right, right. A ghost in a graveyard. That's not creepy at all." Jaskier muttered, wringing his hands together in the way that Geralt noticed he did when he was nervous, "Are you sure that this is a good idea?"
"Hush, bard. You have seen much more terrifying things and survived. You will be fine."
"You mean you after a bad nights rest?"
"Hmmm," Geralt said, and Jaskier dissolved into peals of laughter.
"Are you sure that this is the right place?" Jaskier asked, a few minutes after sundown. He held his hand over his eyes, as if it would help, "I don't see any ghosts."
They were stood at the edge of the graveyard, Geralt slightly out of the treeline with his silver sword raised out in front of him and eyes black from potions, and Jaskier huddled behind a fallen tree branch, hugging his lute to his chest as though it was a new-born babe. The plot itself was not the biggest Geralt had seen, perhaps thirty yards across, and it sloped down the hill towards a large stream, which bubbled quietly on the edge of Geralt's consciousness. There were a few gravestones here and there, some clustered more tightly than others (family, Geralt would hazard a guess), but most of the land laid undisturbed and unoccupied.
"Not many people die in Carreras?" Jaskier had asked when they stumbled across it a few hours ago, to which Geralt replied,
"Or too many, and they needed another graveyard." he couldn't help himself from smirking when Jaskier turned away, horrified.
Geralt had spent the first little while scouting around the plot, walking down to the stream and back up again multiple times to get a feel for the landscape should the encounter with the wraith became messy. Jaskier trailed behind him for a few laps, under Geralt's instruction to stay close, yet eventually, he lagged behind so much that the Witcher managed to pass him twice, once on the way down the hill and once on the way back up. Geralt took pity on him then, telling him to go and make a fire somewhere in the woods close by, and that he would bring them something to eat shortly.
After a few more cycles of the graveyard, Geralt did just that, catching them each a fish from the stream and following the sounds of a lute right to the clearing where Jaskier was sat, holding his lute and scribbling furiously into the small leather notebook he kept on him at all times, tongue poking out between his lips. When Geralt emerged from the trees, he stopped what he was doing immediately and ran up to regard the fish,
"Trout?" he asked and Geralt hummed, "Good catch."
Geralt smiled and then gestured at the empty space in the middle of the clearing, "No fire?" he said, eyebrows raised. Jaskier pulled a face,
"Sorry." he said, "Got distracted."
Geralt shrugged, "No matter," he said, and held the fish, "Do you want these smoked or roasted?"
Eventually, they settled on roasted, though Jaskier waved off the fish when it was done, saying how he had eaten earlier in the day. Geralt shot him an odd look but eventually conceded, and they settled down across each other over the newly built fire, Geralt picking the meat directly from the bones, and Jaskier idly plucking his lute. It was calm and awfully domestic, and Geralt felt something stir deep in his chest, and he couldn't help but wish that moment like this would last forever. It was shameful to admit, even to himself, and he scolded himself for ever thinking it. A Witcher could not have these things, that was how it was.
They spent the rest of the evening like that, as they did most, with Geralt watching Jaskier play as he sharpened his swords. He wasn't testing anything new tonight, which Geralt found to be odd, but he supposed he was saving that for his teaching at Oxenfurt. He asked Jaskier a few questions, (he had realised was customary for interactions between close friends sometime after the mountain), about his music, and about his plans for his winter. In return, Jaskier asked him about Kaer Morhen, and the contracts he hoped to pick up along the way. It was civil. It was nice.
Eventually, though, the sun began to make its slow descent below the horizon, lighting the sky with streaks of red and orange which made Jaskier smile, and he couldn't help the twist in his stomach as he realised it was time to get ready for the hunt. He strapped his swords to his back, and removed Cat and Tawney Owl from his pack, drinking both of them and suppressing a shudder as they made their way into his bloodstream. Tying a couple of Moondust bombs to his belt, he grabbed his pack and made his way back to the graveyard, with Jaskier in tow.
By the time they had reached the graveyard, it was almost completely dark. Cat ensured that this did not pose any problem to Geralt, but Jaskier was evidently struggling. After he managed to trip seemingly on nothing for the fifth time, the Witcher had grasped his arm roughly and led him along, despite Jaskier's insistence that he could walk perfectly fine himself. He dropped him down unceremoniously behind the fallen tree and handed him his pack to keep safe, before exiting the treeline himself.
Jaskier reached over to prod Geralt in the lower back with the end of his lute, "No ghosts, Geralt?"
"Be quiet," Geralt snapped, "and stay behind that tree. You promised you wouldn't be a nuisance." He could hear Jaskier huff behind him and then mumble something about him just trying to be helpful, so he added, "Wraiths usually come out at night. The sun has only just set."
Jaskier groaned, "So you're telling me I might have to stand out here in the dark all night?"
"Yes." Geralt spared a glance behind him, "Feel free to go back to the inn. I could use the peace."
Jaskier sputtered, "And miss out on an opportunity for a song? Never."
"Then hush."
"Fine," Jaskier said, then settled down onto his knees.
The graveyard was oddly silent, aside from the incessant chirps of crickets in the long grass, and the occasional screech from an owl in the branches overhead. Geralt took another step forward, and then another, feet cracking the dry earth beneath them, silver sword glinting in the moonlight. Down the hill, the stream babbled, and something splashed through it. Geralt turned quickly towards it instinctively, although it was most likely just an animal, and he berated himself for getting distracted. The wind picked up the slightest, brushing his hair across his face, and out of the corner of his eye, something flashed silver and his medallion thrummed. In an instant, he was running towards the wraith which had materialised in the centre of the plot.
At the sight of him, the wraith gave out an almighty screech and reared back, its mouth agape and oozing black ichor, claws reaching out towards Geralt. He effortlessly ducked the attack, tucking his sword tightly to his body as he did so, and threw himself into a forward roll behind the spectre. He went to cast Yrden as he rose to his feet, but before he could do so, the wraith dematerialised from in front of him., leaving behind only wisps of black smoke and the nauseating stench of sulphur.
Geralt placed his back to one of the gravestones and adjusted himself back into a fighting stance, gaze darting rapidly around the graveyard as he desperately tried to locate the spectre. Across from him, he could see Jaskier's head peeking out from above the tree, and Geralt shot him an irritated look, which had him smiling shamefully and ducking down again. The spectre wailed nearby, a torturous sound which had Geralt wincing, and he spun around, sword outstretched and one hand hovering near the belt with the Moondust bombs.
A moment later, the wraith appeared again, a few yards across from him and hovering above one of the gravestones. Its tattered robes billowed around it, its arms outstretched as if it were beckoning him forth. Geralt stayed back, and instead grasped one of the bombs, flinging it towards the creature. It smashed against the gravestone with a resounding thud, its contents scattering to the four winds. Some of the particles were flung upwards, clinging to the wraiths limbs, but many remained stuck to the headstone and the grass surrounding it. It was a stupid mistake, Geralt thought to himself briefly, and if Vesemir were here he would skin him, but hardly any time to lament his lost bomb before the Wraith was upon him again.
He struck out with his sword towards its head, despite him knowing its futility, but it just cut through the spectre as though it were air, leaving it unharmed. The wraith made a low noise, something one could be forgiven for thinking was a laugh, and made a long arc with its claws, tearing forward across Geralt's jaw and throwing back into the trunk of a nearby tree. He let out a low groan on impact, his head swimming slightly, and warm blood dribbling down his face and dripping onto his armour. For a few seconds, he allowed himself to sit there, watching the Wraith as it glided towards him before he gripped the trunk behind him and pulled himself up.
The spectre reached him more quickly than he had anticipated, and Geralt found himself with nowhere to go, crowded up against the tree trunk. He gritted his teeth and moved his face away, holding back a hiss when he felt cold claws raking sharply against his abdomen, digging just enough to draw blood when a shout came from the other end of the graveyard,
"Hey, you ugly fuck!"
Over the wraith's shoulder, Geralt could see that Jaskier had emerged from his hiding place, and was now stood a few meters from the tree-line in the broad open, gripping his lute by the fretboard and waving it to and fro above his head. He caught Geralt's eye and smiled,
"Come and get me!"
Immediately, the sharp sensation against his stomach stopped, and the Wraith dissolved leaving Geralt with a clear view of Jaskier. Before he could think, Geralt was hurtling his way across the plot, shouting,
"Jaskier, get back." Behind the bard, Geralt could see the wraith materialise, shining a sickly white in the moonlight, he urged himself to go faster, his voice cracking in desperation and his arms waving manically, "Run!"
As if in slow motion, he could see Jaskier's brow furrow and his mouth down-tilt, but before Geralt's words could register, five talons emerged from his stomach and curled, dripping black with blood. Geralt came to an abrupt halt, all his breath leaving him in an instant. Jaskier caught his gaze, still looking horribly confused, eyes wide and unblinking, and he stumbled slightly. Geralt felt a roar punch its way out of his throat but he could not hear it, his focus narrowing in entirely on the way that Jaskier looked down at himself, bewildered, and then back up to him, with his name falling from lips, and how his body jerked, once, twice before he collapsed forward to the ground.
The wraith shrieked victoriously, and it echoed throughout the silent night. In a dream-like trance, Geralt felt himself reach for his final Moondust bomb, watching as he threw it down at the spectre's feet. It burst much like before, but this time, the silver particles floated up, dancing listlessly through the air, stark against the darkness of the night. They twirled their way around the wraith, attaching themselves to every inch of it, and the transparent aspect of the creature faded. When Geralt swung his sword, it embedded itself in its neck with a dull thud. The wraith let out an unearthly sound, high and unyielding, before its very matter seemed to tear itself apart, and it scattered like ash to the wind.
"Jaskier, Jaskier, look at me." Geralt rasped, one hand coming to support the back of his head and the other pressing the bard's hand down on his stomach, "Wake up, you have to stay awake."
Jaskier made a vague sound, and Geralt hauled him upright so that he was sat propped up against one of the gravestones. The bard's head rolled to the side, and his eyes flickered open to look at him,
"Ger'lt," he said, his breaths coming out in wet little gasps, "What happ'ned?"
"You're going to be okay." he repeated, pressing down harder on Jaskier's wound, "We have to get you to a healer."
"A healer?" Jaskier asked, brows furrowed. A smear of blood was on his forehead, "Am I hurt?"
Geralt choked back a sob, "Yes, but you're going to be fine. I promise."
Jaskier coughed, and a small line of blood trickled out the side of his mouth, "You've always been a shit liar, Geralt." he said, sadly.
He was gazing at him with a wide, open expression, eyes stark blue against the bloodshot sclera. Geralt opened his mouth to respond, but found that under Jaskier's gaze, all he could do was swallow,
Jaskier followed the gesture with his eyes, and gave a small nod, "It's bad, isn't it? Really bad."
Geralt dropped his head into his shoulder, "I won't let you die." he murmured, sounding more like a prayer than a promise,
At that Jaskier's face crumpled, and he let out a small sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry, "I don't think either of us has a choice in that matter, darling."
There was a moment of silence after that, save from only Jaskier's laboured breathing, and Geralt could hear his pulse weakening,
"Talk to me, Jaskier," he said pleadingly, and the bard cracked a tiny, bloodstained smile,
"Spent our whole time together complaining about-" he gasped in a few weak breaths, "my talking. And now you're asking me to. What's a bard to think?"
Geralt let out a wet laugh, "I like to keep you on your toes."
"That you do." Jaskier laughed, which quickly turned into a moan of pain, "Gods Geralt, it hurts."
"I know, Jask, I know." he said as softly as he could manage, and then added after a moment of deliberation, "I could bring you something for the pain."
Jaskier nodded, "Please."
Giving one last squeeze to Jaskier's hand, Geralt stood and stumbled his way over to where his bag was hung, opening it and fumbling through the vials until he pulled out the one he needed. Jaskier had closed his eyes when he made it back, and he fell to his knees and grasped him roughly by the shoulder,
"Jaskier? Come on," he begged, "open your eyes."
He almost sobbed when his eyes slit open, "Geralt?"
"Yes, I'm here, Jask. I'm here. I got this for you."
"Wh't is't" he tried to crane his head, but Geralt stopped him with his hand,
"It's just a potion. It's going to make you feel better and help you to sleep," he said. It was only half a lie.
"For me?" Jaskier asked, and then jolted, another wave of blood seeping out of his mouth and dripping onto his torn doublet,
"Yes, Jask." he said and he held it up into his eye line, "Do you want it now?"
Jaskier looked between Geralt and the vial before something clicked and his expression changed into one of pure clarity, and he slurred out, " 'm not gon' to wake up again, 'm I?"
The words shot through Geralt, and he had to bite back the howl which threatened to crawl its way out his throat. He couldn't find his voice to speak, so instead, he settled on wordlessly nodding. Jaskier's brow relaxed in understanding,
"J'st a little l'nger then," he said, so serenely that Geralt could weep, "J'st a little longer so I can look 't your face." His hand twitched again under Geralt's, and Geralt squeezed it tightly, "My Witcher."
"My bard," Geralt said, "So brave."
Jaskier shot him a weak grin, "F'rst time you've called me that." then his back arched and he let out another whimper of pain, Geralt uncorked the vial and held it to his lips, though didn't tilt it yet,
"Here. Drink now. This will help." he said, fighting to keep his voice level. Jaskier turned his face away,
"You're not gon' leave me," his blue eyes were trained on Geralt, "are you?"
"No," Geralt shook his head, and he brought his hand up to cup Jaskier's cheek "I'm never going to leave you. Not ever."
Jaskier scrutinised him for a few more seconds before he conceded and let his lips open. Geralt slowly poured the potion down his throat, pausing a few times to let Jaskier swallow. When the vial was empty, he tossed to the side, uncaring,
"Close your eyes, Jaskier." he urged, "You're okay, now."
Jaskier regarded him through half-lidded eyes, "Are you?"
"Yeah," he said, "Yeah. I'm okay, Jask. Don't worry."
"Shit liar." Jaskier smiled, "Will you sing?"
"What?" Geralt asked, stunned,
"T' me? Will y' sing t' me?" his voice was hopeful, "Please."
Geralt let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, "Yes, Jaskier, I will." his fingers danced across his jaw, "What do you want me to sing?"
Jaskier gave a weak shrug, barely a jerk of the shoulders, "Anything. J'st want to hear your voice, once m're. You sing when you think no-one c'n hear."
"You did," Geralt choked out, "Close your eyes, and I will sing."
Jaskier eyes slipped shut, and Geralt watched him for a few moments, before taking a deep breath and beginning to sing.
It was nothing spectacular or bawdy like the things that Jaskier sang but was instead a kind of Elder lullaby. He had heard Yennefer sing it once or twice during their time together, yet he only began to take notice of it when he stumbled across Jaskier humming it one day while he was tuning his lute. He was too embarrassed to ask either of them what it was, so the next time he heard the words falling from Yennefer's lips, he memorised it, committing both the words and the tune by heart. The next winter, in Kaer Morhen, he spent days in the library, hunched over a book, translating it from Elder to Common. It was as mournful in lyrics as the tune sounded, and yet somehow more hopeful.
Jaskier smiled and muttered something in Elder before saying, "I haven't heard this song 'n so l'ng"
Geralt smoothed his hand over his forehead, "Hush now. Rest.", and continued to sing.
The Witcher could pinpoint the exact moment Jaskier fell unconscious, by the way his face went slack and his shoulders dropped, yet he did not stop singing. Jaskier's heart thudded slower, and his breath came out shorter, yet he did not stop singing. It was only when Jaskier let out one final stuttering sigh, and Geralt could not feel anything beneath the fingertips that he placed on his wrist, did he finally stop singing and allow himself to wail.
However long he sat there, curled over Jaskier's cooling body in a silent vigil, he did not know, but when he came to, the sun had just begun to rise in the east, casting the world in a violet hue. A goldfinch whistled somewhere above, signalling the new day, and Geralt lifted his head slowly from where he had laid it against Jaskier's chest, bringing a hand across his cheeks to wipe away tears that had long since dried to tracks.
Jaskier lay in much the same state as he had the previous night, one hand poised carefully across his sternum, the other grasped tightly in Geralt's hand. His rings shone a muted silver, and Geralt couldn't help but run his finger across them gently, tracing their delicate carvings which Jaskier seemed to love so much. Geralt never seemed to understand their purpose, watching as Jaskier had to remove them every time he performed, and regarded his own bare hands in comparison. Jaskier saw him looking once and twisted off a ring to offer him. Geralt refused, as he always did, and turned his nose up at the bard, asking why he should partake in wearing something so useless. Jaskier had simply smiled softly at him, and disappeared out the door, only to return a few hours later with another ring perched on his thumb. A reminder of Geralt, he had said, a notion Geralt still didn't understand.
He brushed the amber stone with his thumb.
It took a while for Geralt to gather the courage to look up at Jaskier's face.
Geralt buried Jaskier in the small clearing where they had sat not half a day earlier, hands folded over his lute, notebook tucked beside his head.
He had no experience with the dead, he realised, as he was cradling Jaskier's body in the river, letting the flowing waters wash away the blood. Those he buried were those who had no-one else, those who were destined to be forgotten by the sands of time, those whose lives meant nothing and deaths meant even less.
That was not Jaskier. Jaskier who had captured the heart of hundreds, Jaskier who loved and was loved freely, Jaskier who had changed the world with just his voice.
And yet it was still Geralt who wiped his face of blood with a damp rag. Who bandaged his stomach and dressed him in a clean chemise. It was Geralt who lay him down in the ground and kissed his forehead.
How unbelievably unfair.
Even surrounded by dirt, Jaskier looked serene, with his hair pillowed out behind him and his lips slightly parted. Though his eyelashes sat stark against his pale cheeks, and Geralt could see the top of the bandages through the neckline of the chemise, he looked as if he were merely sleeping deeply. That he would awake should someone shake him hard enough.
Geralt had to clench his hands by his side to stop himself from doing so. That time had long since passed.
Jaskier's ring caught the sunlight below him, the amber stone flashing a bright yellow. Like my eyes, Geralt thought distantly.
He wanted to keep it, by the Gods, did he want to. Hang it around his neck so it fell next to his heart, take it with him, but he had forfeited that ability when he refused Jaskier's offering that day all those months ago. It was Jaskier's ring, not his own, and that was how it must remain.
He understood then, why Jaskier bought the pretty little trinkets he adored so much. Why he wasted his money on beautiful, sentimental things rather than a new cloak or sturdier shoes. Why, when he saw a set of carved wooden buttons in the shape of buttercups, he stayed up all night sewing them onto his doublet by candlelight.
He understood.
Too late. Always too late.
How unfair.
Geralt forced himself to take the trek back to the village later that day, leaving his hair tie behind, wrapped around a group of sticks that were stuck in the earth.
He thought he may be running, from what he did not know.
As he entered the inn, he was greeted with a raucous cheer, and some of the patrons ran up to him to grasp his shoulder roughly and ask whether he had been successful at killing the wraith. The celebration died out immediately when he did not acknowledge it, brushing off the hands of others and instead making a beeline to the bar.
The barkeep didn't question when he asked for a room, despite it being only mid-afternoon, silently pushing the key over the counter towards him. Geralt was just about to walk around when he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a full tankard of ale being presented to him. The barkeep nodded at him once, waving away the coin he began to remove from his pocket, before disappearing into the back room.
Geralt stared at his warped reflection in the battered metal for a long time before he grabbed the tankard and made his way up the stairs.
It was only when Geralt reached the room did he realise that he had asked for two beds and not one.
With the bitter taste of ale sitting heavy on his tongue, he did not sleep at all that night.