Chapter Text
Climbing down the rocky path, half blinded by angry tears and stumbling every few steps, Jaskier is fuming. Wiping furiously at his cheeks, sniffing in between two hiccuping sobs, he still manages to get back to the now empty camp. He grabs his pack and shoves his stuff in messily. He then empties the pockets, full of the things Geralt’s has stored there over the years. He leaves the potions, the dark shirt Geralt forgot last week and Jaskier picked up along with twenty years worth of friendship behind. There’s no sense keeping them since they are not going to meet again after all.
Jaskier, fighting against the grief crushing his heart, shoulder’s his bag and follows the trail that will lead him back down this accursed mountain. He hurries, eager to put as much distance as he can between him and the witcher, to get a chance to lick his wounds and move on. He already knows he’ll forgive Geralt eventually - it’s not the first time the man lashes out when overwhelmed after all. But not yet.
Right now, Jaskier needs space, he needs time. He needs to calm down otherwise the cruelty of Geralt’s words is going to cast an ugly shadow of confusion on every single one of their shared memories, questioning the certainty of their friendship and that is something Jaskier is not sure he’d survive.
He is exhausted when the sun finally sets, covered in dust, his beautifully red dyed leather pants badly scratched all over. He did not stop all day and his stomach is loudly complaining but he lacks the energy to cook. He still forces himself to build a fire, nights are cold so high up and he won’t have his usual personal furnace to keep him warm.
The last of the light dies out and stars slowly blink to life in the dark sky above. The tears have dried out, the urgency that pushed him forward is consumed and Jaskier is left empty and tired in its wake. He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything, sitting in front of the fire in silence, contemplating the lights and shadows playing on the ground at his feets as time goes by.
A painfully familiar hum brings him out of his musings. Head snapping achingly fast toward the sound, Jaskier is faced with the object of his sorrow. Standing awkwardly at the edge of the camp, Geralt hesitates a moment before shuffling closer. Once the Witcher comes fully into the campfire’s light, Jaskier can make out the contrite look he wears. With a defeated sight, Jaskier mumbles.
“What do you want Geralt ?”
Lips pinched tights, Geralt drops his bags and comes closer still. Jaskier doesn’t have any patience left and he snaps, repeating his question when Geralt remains silent.
“What do you want ?” When the answer comes, it strucks Jaskier dumb.
“You left.”
Gaping for a few seconds, Jaskier can feel his previous outraged fury rapidly bubbling back to life.
“Well of course I left Geralt. When the most important person in your life wishes for you to disappear, you leave, that’s how it usually goes.” Jaskier can’t help the sarcastic pettiness of his retort.
Geralt flinches.
"I didn't mean it."
Now wholly furious, Jaskier shoots up and strides right into Geralt’s face. "Though luck then, because you still said it and, whether you meant it or not, you broke my fucking heart."
"Jas…"
"No !” Jaskier cuts him off, pointing an accusing finger at the witcher. “No Geralt, for once, simply saying you didn't mean it won't cut it ! You don't get to trample on my feelings and move on, I deserve better than that. If you want me to believe it, fucking work for it !" By now he is screaming. Somewhere deep down, he knows he may be acting a bit petulant and unfair but he doesn’t care. He needs it. Jaskier needs to be reassured, to hear Geralt say it for once.
Geralt is breathing fast too, visibly tense.
“I fucked up. I lost Yennefer because I’m a fucking moron and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you too.”
Incredulous, it takes a few seconds for Jaskier to find his words.
“Do you realise how stupid that sounds Geralt ? You couldn’t stand to lose me so you what, pushed me away before I could leave ?”
“Yes !”
The rawness of all the feelings condensed in this one shout shakes Jaskier to his very core. His anger leaves him, deflating as heartache fills him instead. Tears he believed longed dried out cloud his vision as he gently puts his hand over Geralt’s chest.
“Geralt. Geralt darling, after all these years how can you not know ? I would never leave you if only you’d let me stay.”
“Why ?” Geralt’s voice sounds so confused and disbelieving it breaks Jaskier’s heart all the more.
“Isn't it obvious ? I haven’t exactly been subtle Geralt,” even as Jaskier speaks, the witcher starts shaking his head no. He grabs Jaskier’s elbows and brings him closer still.
“Tell me why,” he murmurs urgently.
“I love you. Of course I love you Geralt. I have for almost twenty years.”
His voice is shaking badly from all the emotions coursing through him - love, heartache, anguish are all waving their merry way in his already exhausted heart. But Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, eyes shining and breathing heavily. The silence that follows Jaskier’s confession is getting deafening and the bard is about to step away but Geralt slides his hand down his arm, slowly bringing his tattooed wrist up. Jaskier gasps when Geralt tenderly kisses the soft skin atop his buttercup. Again and again, Geralt peppers his wrist with kisses, heedless of the bard’s thundering heartbeat. Jaskier can’t help the strangled moan that escapes him when he feels a hint of teeth scraping his skin.
“Geralt,” he sights, lost in sensations, overwhelmed by the too many sudden shifts in moods. He brings his free hand up on Geralt’s neck, fingers sliding in soft white strands of hair. “Geralt, no matter how nice this all is, you’ll have to use your words, I don’t want to misinterpret …”
“You’re mine.”
The low growl sends burning shivers down his spine and Jaskier’s hand closes reflexively in a tight fist at Geralt’s nape, lifting the witcher’s head. The man groans, his golden eyes hooded with something hot and hungry as they latch onto Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier wants, oh how he wants to let go and kiss the man. Yet, something nags at him. He can’t risk his heart, even less so whatever this might be that is blooming between Geralt and him.
“Geralt, not two days ago you were chasing after Yennefer. I don’t understand,” he asks. It’s not that he minds exactly but he refuses to be Geralt’s rebound.
Geralt sights and gently drops his forehead against Jaskier’s. He gently rubs his nose against the bard cheek, breathing in deep - smelling him a small excited voice whispers deep in Jaskier’s mind.
“It’s not what you think. It’s not been the same ever since you told me about the djinn. I don’t want her that way anymore,” at this, Jaskier’s heart expands suddenly, warming his chest and bringing new tears in his eyes. Geralt, now tantalizingly rubbing his cheek against Jaskier’s neck, adds in a rumble. “ She’s still important to me though.”
Breathless, Jaskier lets out a small “That’s fine, that’s fine I don’t care.” before he finally captures Geralt’s lips with his own in a searing kiss.
Later, in the afterglow, when they are both happily exhausted, Jaskier is slowly tracing the constellation of scars adorning Geralt’s chest when a question comes to him.
“Why didn’t you say anything before ? If you weren’t pursuing Yennefer anymore, why didn’t you hint that my feelings for you were requited ?”
Disturbed from the slight dose he’d fallen into, Geralt grumbles lowly. Snaking an arm behind Jaskier, he brings him back down on the bedroll against him. Jaskier, basking in this newfound intimacy, chuckles happily and hides his face in Geralt’s neck. He’s almost asleep when Geralt finally answers.
“You died in my arms Jas. Already lost you once. Don't know if I could survive it again. It just felt like too much of a risk.”
At a loss for words, Jaskier can only push himself closer to Geralt, hiding his tattoo against his side and focusing on the rise and fall of their chests pressed together.
&&
Weirdly, life goes on as usual after that first night. Well, it might not be so strange actually Jaskier thinks as he reflects on the last decade spent bickering and caring for one another. Sex is of course a very enjoyable addition to their everyday life that Jaskier greedily encourages every chance he gets - he has twenty years worth of pentup frustration to vent out.
They travel from one contract to another until news of Nilfgaard’s army marching on Cintra reaches them. They barely even have to share a look before turning their feet south. Geralt might never have taken responsibility for his child surprise before, but then she was safe under Calanthe watchful eyes until today.
As they get closer to the Cintran capitol, they see the soldiers preparing their city for battle, digging pits and raising spikes, loading carts with buckets full of arrows and training in the camps outside.
They only have a few more hours to go when Geralt stops Roach, dismounts and hands the reins over to Jaskier.
“Go to Bodrog and wait for me there.”
Shaking his head but taking the reins nonetheless, Jaskier protests.
“We shouldn’t part Geralt. We don’t know how Calanthe might react to seeing you.”
“That’s exactly why you should go. I can’t risk taking you and Roach to Cintra. Go to Bodrog, buy another horse and get ready to run as soon as I find you,” stepping closer, Geralt leans in and kisses him deeply, licking the bard’s bottom lip. He straightens with a smug smile, knowing full well the effect he has on the poor bard libido.
“That’s not fair Geralt, you can’t just go and try to distract me with sex,” Jaskier grumbles once he’s manages to shake his mind out of the gutter. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“It’ll be easier for me to run if I’m by myself. The less leverage she has, the better.”
Jaskier is still not convinced but he can see the logic of Geralt’s plan. Stealing one last kiss, he mounts Roach and heads west, stopping atop the hill to watch Geralt’s silhouette disappear far away on the road to Cintra.
It is a quick ride to Bodrog, one he has done dozens of times over the years. The main road is well travelled and cared for, almost a straight line through the countryside. Roach is the first one to notice something is amiss. She snorts and throws her head side to side, obviously looking for something. Jaskier knows not to ignore the instincts of a Witcher’s horse and sits straighter. He can’t see anything beyond the green hills rolling to the horizon, small patches of thick trees dotting the land in between two fields of wheat.
It’s a low growl on his left that warns him. He only has enough time to slap Roach’s flank to send her running and brace himself before a huge beast jumps at him. Unbalanced, Jaskier falls to the ground and hears a sickening crack in his neck.
Coming back is slow, slower than usual. Something soft and hairy is tickling his cheek pushing his head to the side. His spine straightens in a loudland painful crack, tearing a choked out cry from him. It takes an enormous effort to open his eyes. When he manages to focus, he realises night has fallen and the moon is shining bright above him. Roach is there, munching on his dirty sleeve. He wants to chuckle but a sudden pain strangles the sound. Looking down at himself, a wave of nausea almost overcomes him.
His left leg is nothing but bloody bones and torn muscles. His side has clearly been bitten and chewed on, whole chunks of flesh missing, his organs showing through the holes in his belly.
A high keen escapes him and it's only the gentle presence of an uncommonly sweet Roach that helps him to keep it together as magic once more pieces him back together. On his skin, hidden by a thick layer of drying blood, there is only a single petal left.
Once he can get on his feet without wincing, Jaskier reflects that ending as some monster bloody dinner is not only embarrassing but really annoying too. He has to scrub the worst of the blood in the icy river, teeth chattering in the quiet night. The sun is already pinking the sky by the time he finally makes it to the city. He barely has enough time to haggle for another horse - a sweet gelding, too old for fieldwork but still sturdy enough to travel - before a man comes running with news of the fall of Cintra. Jaskier hurries to the store, buying and storing as much as he can, knowing full well the next few days will be spent as far away from civilization as they can.
He doesn’t have to wait for long before Geralt pushes the door of the tavern Jaskier is eating lunch at, followed sedately by a small figure draped in a heavy blue cape. Geralt spots him immediately and sits next to him, taking Jaskier’s hand in his under the table.
“We leave in an hour. Nilfgaard is marching North.”
In the rush of the following days, Jaskier completely forgets to tell Geralt about what happened when they were apart.
&&
They ride as fast as the open fields allow, going around towns and avoiding people as much as they can. Ciri, as she introduces herself to Jaskier, rides with them, changing horses every few hours so as not to overtire them with the additional burden.
She is a darling little feral thing, Jaskier already loves her dearly. Grief and anxiety eat at her, plaguing her nights, but she is as fierce as her grandmother ever was, curious of the world she is discovering and so very eager to get closer to Geralt, uncaring of the clumsiness of his attempts at looking after her.
It’s been almost three weeks and Geralt is getting antsy. The weather is turning colder and, though they should have enough time to get through the mountain pass toward Kaer Morhen unbothered by the snow, the journey will be hard on the two humans. Ciri needs warmer clothes and it means a trip to the city. Geralt grinds his teeth all the way, on edge, but no Nilfgardian troops seem to have reached this far north yet.
The village is small but bustling with life. Many refugees are perusing the market stalls and it’s easy to mingle among the dust covered and harried crowd. Geralt and Ciri have their hoods up, which makes them stand out a little but it’s still better than the alternative. Jaskier finds a simple but sturdy and nicely fur lined brown coat for Ciri. He haggles for small gloves and a scarf too. Once Geralt has bought new boots for both Jaskier and Ciri, their purses are much lighter and they have barely enough to get some more dried meats and hard bread. But they have found everything they came for without spotting any soldiers and the smile on Ciri’s face at this small trip back into civilization when she bites into her apple tart is worth all the stress of the day. Ciri is skipping ahead of them on the way back to their camp where the horses are waiting, Geralt’s hand is brushing against his as they walk and Jaskier cannot remember being this happy in a long time.
One moment he is thinking about how to convince Geralt to sneak away for a couple hours tonight, the next he is face down in the dirt. Ciri is screaming somewhere on his left and when he looks up, he sees several arrows stuck deep in the ground right next to him. Geralt stands above him, steel sword drawn, already casting Quen around them. Ciri is running to them as cloaked figures move closer from every direction, weapons at the ready.
Getting back up on his knees, Jaskier pushes Ciri between Geralt and him, grabs his trusty dagger and looks around. It’s so, so bad.
“Hand over the princess and we’ll let you live,” the Commander orders, stepping forward. He wears the nilfgaardian colors, his black and gold armor shining arrogantly in the cold autumn sun. His soldiers, around twenty by Jaskier’s estimation, are surrounding them. Had it been only Geralt, he might have had a chance. But there was no way the witcher would be able to fight off all of them while protecting Ciri and Jaskier.
Diplomatic as ever, Geralt answers simply “How about you go fuck yourself instead.’”
The man sneers and drawls “Very well. Take the princess. Kill them both.”
“No !” Ciri screams, hand closing in panic on Jaskier’s doublet. He’s up now and he tries to put all of Geralt’s lessons to good use. He hates it but he knows that the best option would be to grab Ciri and run to the horses. It would give Geralt the space he needs to fight back full strength but there’s just no opening, no flaw in the soldiers line. He dares a look at Geralt and he sees the same frustration on his face.
As one, the soldiers step closer and closer. Geralt waits until they are close enough to send two Aards in a row, sending a couple of their opponents violently crashing on the ground in a heap of broken limbs. This sets the others in motion and Jaskier suddenly has his hands full trying to block, slash at the closest men while keeping Ciri out of their reach. He gets glimpses of Geralt’s sword swinging in deadly arcs, hears the screams of the dying men falling after each blow but still, more soldiers come, unrelenting. Ciri is quick to dodge the grabbing hands, stepping nimbly away and keeping close to Jaskier. For a moment there, it really feels like they are going to make it.
Then a man finally gets his hands on Ciri, grabbing her neck to try and keep her still as she trashes wildly against him, unbalancing the man enough to force him a few steps back. Just as he stumbles with Ciri still struggling in his hold, another soldier prepares to send his small spear toward Geralt, arming his arm far back, unaware that the princess now stands hidden right behind the wider frame of the Witcher.
Jaskier knows what’s going to happen before the spear ever leaves the man’s hand. He can almost see it happening in slow motion right before him. The soldier’s throw is well aimed and powerful but Geralt won’t have any trouble stepping out of its way. Ciri will be caught unaware, still held captive and helpless. The spear will catch her right in the chest, where it will do the most damage to the small princess he’s come to love so dearly.
This death, Jaskier sees coming. He could avoid it easily, but that would unfortunately be rather counter productive given the circumstances. He drops his own fight and runs toward Ciri just as the soldier throws the spear. It’s all over in a matter of seconds.
As expected, Geralt doesn’t even look up when he steps out of harm's way, wholly focused on the opponents closest to him, leaving the spear to fly straight at Ciri. But now Jaskier is here, shielding the girl with his body. When the spear pierces him, going straight through his lung, the force of the blow project’s him backward into the man holding Ciri and sending them both sprawling on the ground, freeing the girl.
When he hits the ground, his mouth is already filled with blood. Ciri and Geralt are both shouting but the pain cuts deep into Jaskier and he just can’t make out what they’re saying. He tries to move because maybe he’s failed, maybe they’re still taking Ciri away and he simply can’t let that happen.
But then there is a scream. Memories of Pavetta come unbidden and he immediately understands what’s happening. A strong gust of wind sends him several meters back, jostling the wound agonizingly until familiar hands come around his shoulders and stop him. Geralt, fighting against the storm, pained by the screeching noise, lifts Jaskier in his arms, walking with difficulty toward a tree before depositing the bard safely behind its trunk.
The Witcher hastily brushes a kiss on Jaskier’s forehead before he’s gone back in the fray, trying desperately to reach Ciri. It could be seconds, hours or days that go by for all that Jaskier knows before the storm dies and everything is silent once more. The pain is unbearable and already he is starting to feel cold from blood loss.
A hand comes to cradle his cheek - Jaskier instinctively knows who's it is and pushes into it with whatever strength he still has left. When he opens his eyes, he sees Geralt kneeling in front of him, dishevelled but thankfully unharmed save a scratch or two and Ciri standing right behind him, pale as a ghost and silently sobbing.
Geralt gently arranges Jaskier in his arms, careful not to jostle the weapon still protruding from Jaskier too badly.
“I’m sorry Jas, I’ll do better next time. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Jaskier’s heart squeezes painfully and tears build up in his eyes.
“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry” he rasps, his breath cut short by the wound and the emotion both. “ I don’t think there will be a next time.”
Geralt’s hand stops its soothing motion, a confused frown replacing the worry on the man’s face. “What …”
“I, I forgot to tell you …” Jaskier says, breathless. He tries and fails to lift his wrist to show Geralt but the Witcher understands his intention immediately. With trembling fingers, Geralt pulls on the knotted ribbon that quickly unfolds and falls in a heap.
On Jaskier’s skin, one shrivelled and blackened petal wavers pitifully.
“No…”
Geralt’s broken voice is almost more painful than the spear in his lung. “I’m so sorry, it’s going to be okay,” Jaskier can’t help but babble desperately, offering nonsensical words of comfort.
“No ! Fuck that, this isn’t happening Jas !”
Jaskier tries, og does he try to stay conscious but the cold is settling deep in his bones, numbing even the burning pain in his chest. One moment he sees the tears streaming down his darling witcher’s face and then everything dims to a foggy blur of grays. Jaskier can still hear unintelligible mumbling as he feels himself losing touch with reality. Ciri is holding one of his hands, Geralt crushing the other in his grip.
Dying has never been easy. It’s terrifying and painful and Jaskier has seen his buttercup as a curse more often than not. In his darker hours, he might even have wished never to have it and to have died with his parents so many years ago. Of course, Jaskier would have prefered not to die at all - even less so dying nine times. There is a simmer of anger at the injustice of it all bubbling somewhere deep in his mind but he refuses to let his last moments be filled by negativity. Looking back, now that he is truly breathing his last, he is grateful for the opportunities this magic has given him, meeting and loving Geralt most of all.
His vision is darkening and Geralt’s voice is all he still knows. He focuses on it, happy to leave this life hearing nothing but the voice of his beloved.
&&
Waking up is a pleasant surprise in and of itself. For a while, Jaskier floats in a limbo, unaware of the world around him. His body is completely numb, disconnected and pleasantly light. He basks in the sunny warmth for an unknown time, unhurried to leave its peace. He has no immediate memory of getting here, wherever here might be, but he feels safe.
An itch starts on his left wrist though. At first, it’s nothing more than a small inconvenience, easily ignored. But soon, it grows and grows until his other hand moves to scratch it by reflex. It is stopped before it can reach it, something grabbing his forearm before it can move too far.
“Leave it Jas.”
Geralt’s voice is low, soft and tinted by exhaustion. Feelings come back to Jaskier’s limbs, flowing steadily from the contact of Geralt’s hand on his skin. Breathing deeply, he groans at the sudden pain in his side. He opens his eyes and tries to blink away the fuzziness.
“Jaskier ?”
Slowly turning his head toward the voice, Jaskier’s breath itches when he finally sees Geralt. Dark bruises are painted deep under the Witcher’s eyes and his skin even has taken a sickly paleness that instantly worries Jaskier. But despite the man’s obvious tiredness, there is a hopeful and thrilled light in his eyes as he looks down at Jaskier. Wetting his dried lips, the bard pushes a few words out.
“What happened ?”
Instead of answering, Geralt shuffles closer and sits on the bed, grabbing a glass of water on the nightstand and bringing it against Jaskier’s lips. He is parched and it’s hard to stop himself from gulping it all but Geralt only drops only enough for a sip at a time. Once the Witcher is satisfied, he puts the glass away and lays down on his side next to Jaskier.
Now that he feels a little more himself, Jaskier looks around the room. They are in a wooden house, the small windows letting the cool morning light in to show the warm tones of the furniture. Everything seems a bit worse for wear and dusty but of good manufacture. Ciri is curled sleeping in front of the fire, covered in layers of furs and blankets to keep warm.
Geralt studies him as Jaskier looks around.
“What do you remember ?”
Searching his memories, Jaskier's heartbeat fastens suddenly. Hearing it, Geralt starts rubbing gentle circles on Jaskier’s shoulder. Composing himself, Jaskier stammers.
“I think I died ? But I don’t understand, I shouldn’t… It was supposed to be the last one,” he concludes, unsure how to voice his question.
Geralt hums softly, carefully takes up the bard’s left hand, bringing it to his mouth to drop kisses on his knuckles, earning a warm smile from Jaskier. He then unwinds a bandage Jaskier had not noticed yet around his forearm. Dropping the dirtied linen on the floor, Geralt turns Jaskier’s hand so that they can both see his inner wrist. Jaskier gasps at what he sees.
Where there used to be a delicate tattoo of a colorful but naked buttercup now stands a raised scar of the nine petaled flower he had as a child. It is an angry red, still scabbing over in some places. He turns his arm this way and that, watching the firelight catching on the dips and rises of the small design etched in his very flesh.
He is so focused that he doesn’t immediately notice Geralt shifting and bringing his arm up next to his own. Only when Geralt presses their forearms together does Jaskier understand. An exact replica of Jaskier’s scarred flower now adorns the Witcher’s wrist.
“What ?” Jaskier very eloquently asks.
“You were dying. I tried to patch you up, to keep you alive long enough to call for help. Ciri helped me carry you here”, Geralt adds with a fond smile. “She found this abandoned house when we were looking for a place to camp. You got worse fast Jas. You lost a lot of blood and your wound got infected.” Anguish paints Geralt’s face as he recalls the painful memories. “I had no way to contact Yennefer, no way to call for a doctor.” His voice dies, strangled by his helpless fury. Jaskier grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers in comfort.
“I thought I was going to lose you Jas. Ciri is the only reason I kept my shit together long enough to remember your childhood story.”
“What does it have to do with anything ?”
“I made a wish.” Geralt is looking straight at him now, his fingers squeezing Jaskier’s, his thumb stroking softly. “Every day since the battle, I picked a buttercup outside and I wished upon Melitele. Your wound has gotten better everyday since but you still wouldn’t wake up.”
Emotions well up in Jaskier’s throat but he still manages to ask, “How long has it been ?”
“Nine days.”
Uncaring of the throbbing pain in his chest, Jaskier turns to face Geralt and kisses him. Geralt returns the kiss with a desperate fervor, one hand coming to rest at Jaskier’s nape to keep him close.
Jaskier is not sure what this new development might mean. Maybe he simply healed on his own, though this seems very unlikely. Maybe he has been granted one last chance. Or maybe his life is now tied to Geralt, as the matching scars seem to suggest. He doesn’t know for sure but he doesn’t care much right now.
He is more grateful than he can say, honored and humbled to be the recipient of the powerful love of such an amazing man. A love so strong the gods heard his wish and granted them both a new chance to be together.
They’ll have plenty of time to learn all there is about this buttercup scar. For now he is more than happy to lay here with Geralt, listening to the man’s slowing breaths as he falls asleep, exhaustion and relief finally winning over his worry. Jaskier wishes for nothing more than to admire his beauty, hearing soft grunts coming from Ciri by the fire, the sun slowly pinkening the sky as the day begins.
All their wishes have already been granted after all.