Archive of Our Own

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do.

Typically, Jaskier flourishes in uncertainty. The unpredictable way events unravel is the perfect place for him to hide and bend things in his favor. It’s how he weaseled his way through Oxenfurt as the sandpiper. It’s how he somehow survived years of sleeping his way through the continent and traveling with a witcher who faced more deadly things in a week than most do in a lifetime.

This uncertainty, though, is paralyzing.

Jaskier had brought Ciri to Kaer Morhen only two short days ago and in that time, Jaskier had somehow managed to survive a basilisk, Ciri’s demonic possession, and a full-blown magical fight of witchers, witches, and whatever the hell Ciri was at that moment.

If Jaskier’s completely honest, he didn’t expect to survive it. If someone asked amid the fight if he’d live to see the morning, he’d bet his left ass cheek that the answer would be no. He thought he had done his duty for Ciri and Geralt (even that witch) and that he’s expendable now—like an oversupply of grain. It’s helpful to have, yes, but at the end of the day, if the overspill was taken, it would hardly be missed.

Jaskier would hardly be missed.

But instead of the bard meeting his end as he expected, it was witchers who took his place.

And isn’t that just great.

Now, while Geralt and Yennefer have hidden Ciri with the excuse of helping her cope from her possession, Jaskier is left alone to wander a castle full of witchers who are mourning their lost brothers—brothers lost because they were protecting him.

xXx

The halls of Kaer Morhen are nearly as cold and dark as the somber tension that’s filled the keep over the past two days.

Jaskier wishes he could say that after years of traveling by Geralt’s side, it’s a pleasure to finally see what the witcher calls home, that he’s been invited to Geralt’s most personal place on the continent. 

He wishes he was here out of want instead of need. He wishes he could be of more use when Geralt’s brothers are dying one by one while he hides like a coward in the shadows. He wishes Geralt never found him in that damned cell. Hell, Jaskier wishes he never even followed Geralt up that fucking mountain all those months ago.

He wishes after not seeing Geralt in two years, the bastard would at least have the decency to apologize and mean it.

But alas, Jaskier has never considered himself a lucky man and Melitele knows he’s not one of luck when it comes to wishes of all things, but he’s been wandering this damn castle for two days now without the slightest clue as to why he’s even here.

It’s clear Geralt’s family doesn’t want him here. They love Ciri—which is completely fair, Jaskier fell in love with her only an hour into their trip to Kaer Morhen—and they tolerate Yennefer due to her magical abilities. Jaskier, though…

Well, he threw a rock at the right time and stayed out of the way for the real fight. The last thing he wants is to be another brick of guilt for Geralt to bear on his piling stack of people he thinks he’s failed. He can’t hold a sword, much less wield one, and it isn’t like that damned evil spirit is about to get beaten by a happy melody.

Since Ciri has returned to herself and Yennefer confirmed everyone was safe again, the two of them and Geralt have been locked in the labs for hours each day. Jaskier periodically would walk by the closed doors to see if he can hear any muffled words or even attempt to open them and peak his head in, but they were always locked and Jaskier’s almost positive Yennefer had soundproofed them for he couldn’t hear so much as a single movement coming from the other side.

So instead, Jaskier does what he does best. He wanders.

He’s spent years wandering the continent either by Geralt’s side or not. He knows how to worm into situations and overstay his welcome just long enough to leave without facing the consequences.

But fuck, Ciri had said on their travels here that once the pass closes, it’s impossible to cross until spring. At first, Jaskier didn’t believe her—he’s traveled through snow and ice storms before and with extra caution, food rations, and blankets, it’s a horrible experience but definitely survivable.

Of course, when Jaskier saw exactly what ‘the pass’ was, it made a lot more sense.

It’s a narrow stretch of land, barely wide enough for two horses to stand side by side on. One end of the walk meets a wall of rock that skyrockets at least a dozen yards upward and the other side of the path is a cliff that drops downwards at least a mile into a deep and icy ravine that not even a witcher could survive.

“Geralt said once it snows, we can’t leave the gates,” Ciri warns when they first arrived at this damned keep.

Now, Jaskier is stuck in this cold and icy castle that he’s always dreamed of witnessing for the first time with Geralt, all alone and well past the point of welcome. Does Geralt even know he’s still here? Did he expect Jaskier to leave the minute the dust settled? Jaskier wishes he could even see the damn witcher long enough to ask.

The only part of this place that makes things even the slightest bit bearable is the library and the booze. Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised at how vast the witchers’ alcohol collection is and the library is full of historic pieces of literature and poetry dating back before some kingdoms were even built. If the circumstances were better, Jaskier would be singing in every hall, memorizing every archaic song on the pages to bring with him on the path.

But because Jaskier isn’t one for luck or wishes, he can’t do any of those things. His fingers still burn and throb if he moves them wrong. The scabs are constantly cracking and ripping open due to the cold and he doesn’t even have his lute to play—his pounding head from where that fire fucker shattered it on his skull is a constant reminder of that.

Maybe that’s also why he’s so damn pissed.

Geralt showed up in that cell after two years of silence—after two decades of wasted time and friendship—and he didn’t even notice the state Jaskier was in. He just kept asking for help and needing him and fuck it all, Jaskier didn’t hesitate to give in to him all over again.

He had thought out in his head how reuniting with Geralt would go—he knew it’d happen eventually—and he had monologues upon monologues prepared to explain to Geralt how much the witcher had hurt him—how much Jaskier can’t fall back into whatever strange friendship they had of Jaskier following Geralt to the ends of the continent and Geralt telling the bard to fuck off every time. But of course, where Jaskier started strong, his stony stature instantly crumbled as Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s body—the first hug the man’s ever given him, by the way—and he once again fell into the role of idiotic fool, ready to follow his witcher wherever he shall lead, even if it’s to his own demise.

So now Jaskier wanders Kaer Morhen each day, exploring different rooms and sights this high up the blue mountain. Now and then, he’d run into another witcher, but nobody ever pays him mind. Eskel offers the standard polite greeting but doesn’t linger long enough to speak beyond that. Vesemir doesn’t even acknowledge him at all. Lambert just glares and would occasionally ram his meaty shoulder into Jaskier’s shorter one, knocking him nearly on his ass every time.

And every time, Jaskier apologizes like it’s his fault.

Maybe it is, at least some of it.

He showed up as Ciri’s guide and if he never brought her here, Lambert’s brothers would still be here. Maybe if he wasn’t such a coward and hiding under the table, he could’ve done more to save the others.

Jaskier remembers his mother telling him as a child that people who focus too much on the past and what they could’ve done are bound for insanity and Jaskier thinks he finally knows what she means—if Jaskier could go into the past knowing what he knows now, imagine how many lives he could save. Imagine how many elves he could help as the Sandpiper…if he could do everything over again…what would Jaskier do that fateful day in Posada? Would he still approach Geralt as confidently as he did? Or would he duck his head and take his pelted bread with dignity and leave the town running?

A sudden sharp shoot of emotion overwhelms Jaskier and he stops his wanders to lean against a rocky wall. Five years ago, Jaskier regarded Geralt in the highest honor—his single greatest achievement in life was the moment he found the witcher in that dungy tavern in Posada—how has his life gone to such utter shit that he’s sitting here now wishing for a chance to maybe not even have met Geralt in the first place.

Jaskier’s life has been pretty shitty until he met Geralt. He always thought the witcher was his savior of sorts, giving him direction and purpose when he had neither to start. So if he’s standing here regretting his savior, what else does he have for direction and purpose?

His music, sure, but can he even play again? His fingers are burned to shit and it’ll take months to heal if they even heal properly. He can always fall back on his sandpiper persona, but the reason that worked so well was that he used his facade as an entertaining bard to keep his true work hidden from everyone. Can he continue to emancipate elves without his music? Probably, but it’ll be a fuck ton harder, he’s sure.

Jaskier moves to a window overlooking the training grounds below. He suddenly needs fresh air. For the first time since coming here, he’s desperate for the cold bite of frosty winds to try and drag his weighted thoughts from his mind. He wishes Geralt was here—hell, even Ciri or Yennefer—he just needs someone to talk to, someone to listen. But the cold hard truth is that he’s an outsider here. Ending up in the same place he did after the mountain, he’s unwanted and alone and he has nobody to blame but himself.

Below in the courtyard, Geralt’s brothers, Lambert and Eskel are training with Vesemir. The older witcher dishes out orders and both men follow with rigid and tight movements. They look inhuman and unnatural with how stoic and in sync they move. Jaskier wants to think this is a coping mechanism for their fallen brothers—pour their hearts into training better and more often to shovel out the ability to think and mourn. But a part of Jaskier also knows this is probably normal for them. He’s seen Geralt train in the early mornings—he’s just as stoic and rigid and just as sharp and lethal.

xXx

It takes Jaskier another two days before he finally gets a chance to speak to Geralt. Two days of wandering and loneliness. Two days of Vesemir and Eskel’s indifference and Lambert’s harsh shoves and grunts. Two days of wondering where Geralt has been.

He shows up for dinner as if it hasn’t been four days since Jaskier has seen him.

Jaskier is sitting off to the side of the long table, multiple seats between him and the other witchers. He’s taken to giving the three of them space whenever he’s near them for long periods. All three regard him with disinterest at the warmest degree and well, because it isn’t like Jaskier can leave this place, he tries to give them as much space as they desire.

Geralt is holding three portions of food in his arms, clearly for him, Yennefer, and Ciri when he comes over to Jaskier’s spot. At first, the bard doesn’t notice him. Jaskier’s eyes are downcast over his soup and his hands are clenched around his deep cup of ale.

“Jaskier,” it’s just one word, but it’s the first word Geralt has said to him in days. Jaskier’s eyes snap up and dammit, they don’t wet at the sight of Geralt finally standing in front of Jaskier after so much silence.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“Oi,” Lambert’s voice floats over. “Are you done playing family and want to join the rest of us in the real world?” He goads. It’s clear Lambert’s already had a few drinks, but he isn’t at the point of stumbling drunkenness. Geralt glances over.

“I’ll be back later when Ciri’s asleep,” Geralt tells them and Vesemir nods once and sharp. Jaskier wonders if the man even speaks.

“Do you want to eat with us?” Geralt’s question is directed at Jaskier and it takes a minute for the bard to blink slowly, processing it. It’s an innocent question—not one that Jaskier was expecting. He’d much rather hear a ‘hello’. Maybe an ‘I’m sorry’, but beggars can't be choosers, he supposes. He’s already lifting his bowl and ale as he nods.

“Lead the way,” he says in his same neutral tone. Geralt looks at him momentarily and it’s a look Jaskier can’t quite decipher, but it’s gone before he begins to question it.

Jaskier follows Geralt mutely through the halls and towards the labs. He’s wandered these halls numerous times over the days and already knows which turns Geralt’s about to make. Eventually, Geralt kicks open the doors to the labs and shuts it behind him and Jaskier. The bard freezes when he finally gets a view of the space.

The labs…well, they don’t look like labs at all. Where Jaskier was expecting a table full of chemicals and magic and scientific books on mutations and other witcher-related things, it appears like Geralt had cleared the space entirely and Yennefer had added her magical flair to the space because it more resembles a cozy home than anything else.

There’s a large bed in the far corner, bigger than any Jaskier has seen, a fireplace to the side with a roaring warmth and glow, and a pile of blankets and pelts and other soft and warm things where Yennefer and Ciri are sitting. It isn’t a large set up it’s not spacious at all, but it’s cozy and warm, and fuck, Jaskier hasn’t felt warmth like this since arriving here.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Jaskier puts on his well-practiced mask of aloof confidence as he strolls deeper into the room. With each step, it feels like his body warms ten degrees, yet his heart shrivels and aches.

While Jaskier has been wandering the keep alone and in the cold, Geralt has been in here with Yennefer and Ciri playing the most believable and realistic rendition of ‘loving, domesticated family’ he’s ever seen.

“Geralt cleaned the space and Yen made everything else!” Ciri says. She looks better—at least, she isn’t possessed by an evil spirit and she isn’t sobbing on the ground as she sees the dead Witchers around her. She’s lying on the pelts and blankets as Yennefer combs through her hair. Geralt silently puts the bowls on a side table and hands them out.

“We were wondering if you were still here at all, bard.” Yennefer goads. Jaskier can tell she’s teasing, that’s how their relationship goes, but even unintentionally, she really knows how to twist the knife.

“What can I say,” he shrugs and sits down. He’s careful to leave ample space between the three of them. “It’ll take more than a few days of the cold shoulder to get rid of me, just ask Geralt.” Yennefer watches him for another moment before turning back to Ciri’s hair.

“After everything that’s happened,” Geralt breaks in, speaking low, “we thought it’d be best for Ciri to take some time to heal. We weren’t ignoring you, Jask.” He says. Jaskier looks over at Geralt. His eyes are crunched in a strange slurry of concern and fondness, but Jaskier knows those emotions are reserved for the other two in the room. He may be a fool but he isn’t stupid.

He is, however, a bit pissed.

Why would Geralt send Ciri with him just to shut him out the minute shit got tough? It’s a harsh slap in the face to realize that a lot has happened in two years and Jaskier no longer is (or maybe never was) someone Geralt could rely on.

“I get it,” Jaskier brushes off. “I’m happy to give you the space,” and he is, he’d give them all the space in the world and climb down that mountain right now if it were passable.

Geralt nods as if saying a million words in a single gesture. Jaskier thinks he’s saying ‘thanks’, but he might also be telling him something else, something deeper with his eyes. Jaskier doesn’t know what, though.

His hands ache and itch and it takes a lot for Jaskier not to fidget with them. If he fidgets, Geralt will see and if Geralt sees, he’s going to want to fix it, and Jaskier…

Well, Jaskier doesn’t think he could handle it if Geralt fixed his hands.

He’d be grateful, of course, but Jaskier knows he’d do it out of duty. Yennefer will tell him why his hands are burned and once again, Jaskier would add to Geralt’s self-deprecation streak and who knows, this might be enough for Geralt to realize Jaskier being here is a mistake. He’d probably demand Yennefer fix his hands and then dismiss him from the room entirely—too breakable as a human, too already broken, to be of much use.

When Jaskier looks up, Yennefer is watching him intently. She glances at his hands and Jaskier needs to hide the flinch when he crunches his fingers into fists to hide the blisters. He silently pleas her not to speak—this isn’t important right now. Ciri is important right now.

Yennefer must get the message because she nods, ever so slightly, and turns to Ciri.

“Ciri was telling us of her childhood in court and all of the abysmal dances she was forced to learn,” Yennefer explains. Ciri’s eyes widen as if she remembered that herself and she launches into the middle of a story about freshly polished stone floors and wool socks not making a good combination for dance rehearsals.

For the first time since entering the labs, the air in the room is manageable. The choking sensation that clogged Jaskier’s throat has lessened slightly as Ciri animates her stories of her time in Cintra as well as her travels with Geralt during their time apart. Apparently, Geralt made quick work of finding Ciri after shouting him off the mountain which stings, but at least Jaskier was good for something, even if that was pushing Geralt to begrudgingly own up to his responsibilities.

For a blissful few hours, Jaskier could almost relax in the company of Geralt, Ciri, and (most shockingly) Yennefer.

“Goodnight Mom and Dad,” Ciri whispers as her eyes slide shut. Jaskier watches in a morbid compulsion as Geralt and Yennefer lock eyes at Ciri’s words. They share a long look that is so deep with emotion, that Jaskier suddenly feels itchy and ill. Yennefer’s eyes water slightly and Geralt’s wearing the most fond and soft expression Jaskier has ever seen on the man. His callused hand pats gently at Ciri’s hair and Jaskier can’t look away as Geralt leans down and places a gentle kiss on Ciri’s head. Yennefer is quick to follow and before Geralt can move, she’s reaching out to grab his hand and squeeze.

Jaskier doesn’t want to watch anymore, but like a beetle getting popped, it’s a morbid compulsion that keeps him still and staring. A part of him wonders if he weren’t here, how much further this moment would go? If Jaskier was still outside in the main hall or back at his room etching notes in his journal, would Geralt and Yennefer do more than hold hands and stare longingly into each other's eyes? Would they kiss and exchange tender touches under the fireplace, knowing their child is sleeping soundly by their side?

The choking realization that Jaskier is the only thing standing between Geralt and his family would’ve slammed him to his knees if the bard wasn’t already sitting. Jaskier takes a breath. It’s cold and does nothing for the tightness in his throat, but it shocks his lungs and heart into pumping more air instead of freezing at a standstill. He gets up on wobbly legs, quietly.

“Jask?” Geralt whispers from his place with one arm in Ciri’s hair and another in Yennefer’s hand. It’s so painfully obvious, that Jaskier wonders why he hasn’t seen it until now.

This is Geralt’s family.

Geralt needed his help to make sure his family stayed safe—not because he wanted Jaskier, or trusted him, or regarded him as anything besides the typical bumbling fool.

This is where Geralt belongs.

Unfortunately, this isn’t where Jaskier belongs. The picture is too perfect with the happy family of three. Four would be an overcrowding and while Jaskier is a master at stealing the spotlight, he refuses to be the reason for Geralt’s misery again.

“Going to bed,” Jaskier mumbles, not entirely coherent or strong. His mind is racing—shouting at him to leave and not come back. He’s intruding and imposing on this familial moment and the room is spinning with suffocating love that isn’t aimed at Jaskier in the least.

“Wait,” Geralt gets up to reach for the bard, but Jaskier is quicker. Geralt’s rough hand grips Jaskier’s bony wrist and for a moment, blue meets yellow. Jaskier is nearly frozen from the intensity of Geralt’s stare—it’s a thousand words pooling in yellow, but Jaskier can’t take the time to decipher.

Somehow—most likely the shock of Jaskier ripping his arm so harshly out of Geralt’s hold—he manages to pull himself out of the witcher’s grasp, mumble something about seeing him in the morning, and shuffles out of the room before he can succumb to his beating heart and tunneling gaze.

xXx

In the hall, Jaskier can only focus on placing one foot in front of the other. His mind is too preoccupied as it rambles piercing thoughts into Jaskier’s already wounded heart. He’s an idiot—the biggest of them all.

Why would Geralt still need him—why would he still want him? He has everything he could ever ask for; the daughter and wife he never knew he wanted. The daughter and wife who Geralt blamed on him after telling him to fuck off.

It’s funny, Jaskier realizes with a choked laugh, that what Geralt treasures most in the world right now is the reason he sent Jaskier away and crushed his heart two years ago.

Melitele, you sick, twisted bitch.

How is it where Geralt fucks up, it’s Jaskier’s pain paying the price, but when Geralt gets his happy ever after, Jaskier’s pain is still paying the fucking price?

Maybe that fight on the mountain was a sign. Jaskier always told Geralt that meeting him in Posada was destiny giving him a sign and maybe he should listen to his own logic more—Geralt telling him to fuck off on that mountain was a bright glowing sign from the universe that Jaskier should move on with his life, that he doesn’t fit with Geralt anymore. Maybe that’s why being here feels like a slow suffocation…he isn’t meant to be here. Geralt has Ciri and Yennefer and his brothers. He has an honest family here in the woodworks of this crumbling castle. A witcher who spent two decades claiming emotions were a poisoned knife has had a family to fall back on this whole time. Which, ironically enough, is more than Jaskier can say for himself. He can barely remember his father’s face.

It’s a hollow feeling to realize that after so many years of friendship, Jaskier can lump Geralt into the same category as his father. Geralt doesn’t need Jaskier anymore—he sure as hell doesn’t want him anymore.

No. Nobody wants Jaskier anymore.

And really, did they ever even want him in the first place?

The bard is too busy spiraling down his own misery to look where he’s going and falls onto his ass when he runs directly into a solid warm mass.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasps, his hands fall back to break his fall, and every scab splinters open. Burning pain shoots up his wrists. Fuck on a fucking stick.

“Watch where you’re going, bard.” Lambert’s tone is sharp and low, practically a growl. Jaskier looks up at him.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Yeah, you fucking better be.” Lambert stands over him and looks down at Jaskier through his nose.

“It was an accident,” Jaskier admits, standing and brushing some fresh blood from his hands onto his pants, stains be damned.

“Yeah, running into me, maybe, but you being here isn’t an accident, it’s a fucking curse.” Lambert reaches for Jaskier’s shirt and shoves him against the nearest wall. His head hits rock and Jaskier sees stars.

“What?” Jaskier mutters because what the fuck is happening?

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to see someone you spent the better part of a year training kill your brother of a century?” Jaskier shakes his head slowly. No, he fucking doesn’t.

“How about watching your older brother choose some random crazy witch and a human bard over his own family in their time of mourning?” Lambert gives Jaskier another shove against the wall.

“I didn’t—” fuck, his head hurts. “It’s not like I planned for any of this to happen.” Lambert’s grip tightened.

“But you’re the one who brought Ciri here.” He snaps. “We knew she was dangerous and Geralt said he’d handle it; that’s why they left. But you brought her back. Sure, you didn’t kill Coen yourself, but tell me, bard, would we really be standing here if it weren’t for you?” The question is like ice on Jaskier’s face. He looks up and blinks at Lambert. Fuck, he’s right. He should’ve brought Ciri away from anybody who she could harm no matter what Geralt wanted. Everybody knew she was dangerous—why did he think the one place she’d be safe was with Geralt’s family?

“No,” Jaskier mumbles. “No, you wouldn’t,” he trails off, resigned and accepting. There are a lot of things Lambert wouldn’t be if it weren’t for Jaskier. He wouldn’t be short a brother. He wouldn’t be so angry. He wouldn’t need to get mad at Geralt for choosing between his daughter and brother. Fuck, is this what Geralt meant about shoveling shit? Everything that’s gone tits up can be traced back to Jaskier, from the minute he was born.

“He told us about you,” Lambert spits, “I wondered why he wasted his time on a human for twenty years. He said you were different—that you were trying to help witchers.” Jaskier nods slowly. His body is growing numb and his head is swimming. Lambert’s eyes flash.

“Does this look like helping?” He shouts, voice ringing in the desolate hall. Jaskier shakes slightly in the tight grasp—his body is aching and it’s starting to get cold. He thinks he can taste blood in his mouth, but at this point, Jaskier can’t be sure of anything anymore besides knowing he’s too fucked beyond repair. There’s no coming back from this.

“I-I’m sorry—“ Jaskier’s tongue is thick in his mouth. With a final shove, Lambert presses Jaskier against the wall and watches as the bard crumbles to the ground.

“You don’t help, bard,” he sneers the word like it’s the deepest insult on the continent. “You break things quicker than farmers shovel shit,” and maybe it’s the similarity to the mountain, but Jaskier’s vision speckles and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. His throat constricts tightly and vaguely, Jaskier wonders if this is his end, alone in a cold keep—a product of his consequences.

“Stay out of my fucking way.” Lambert spits a glop of saliva onto Jaskier’s face. The bard doesn’t feel it, though. His eyes swim and tears mix with spit and blood as they fall down his chin and neck.

Everything is his fault.

Nobody wants him here.

He should leave.

Yes, he should leave.

Distantly, Jaskier can hear Ciri’s bright voice warning him about not leaving the keep, but at this moment, with Jaskier’s chest so tight he can barely breathe and with a newfound ache to get the fuck out of this keep, he doesn’t care. He runs to his room and grabs all of the pelts from the bed. It’s not like he had time to pack a bag when Geralt ripped him from prison, so he’ll just have to make do with what he can find here.

It takes Jaskier a while to sneak out of the damn castle. If it were up to him, he’d be fleeing in minutes, but the main gates are big and loud in a castle full of witchers who have enhanced hearing. So, Jaskier does the smartest thing he can think of with a head wound  the side of an apple and a smaller will to live than a fucking ant.

He leaves out the back.

Jaskier didn’t come to Kaer Morhen with many clothes or belongings. He shoves a few extra pelts into his bag from the bed he’s been using. He hopes nobody will mind if he borrows them for a bit.

Because Jaskier spent so long wandering the halls of the keep, it doesn’t take him long to navigate a small hallway off to the side of the armory which leads to a tunnel that ends at the training grounds outside the courtyard. Jaskier fastens his coat and bag tightly. He’s so close to the hallway—so close to getting himself off of everyone’s hands and not shoveling shit onto everyone’s life the way Jaskier knows he’s so good at doing. He just needs to get off this damn mountain, and maybe he can figure out some other options to get back to Oxenfurt without facing whatever charges are waiting for him there for leaving the prison with Geralt—

“Jaskier?”

Eskel’s soft voice is like an arrow through Jaskier’s clouded thoughts. He turns slowly at the voice to find Eskel standing down the hall, at the mouth of a bedroom door. He’s regarding Jaskier confusedly, like he doesn’t really know what’s in front of him.

“Eskel,” Jaskier nods. He knows he probably looks ridiculous, with his pelts and sticky skin. Distantly, he hopes the blood from his headwind is contained mostly in the back of his head rather than the front. He hopes his tears have washed most of the red out of sight in the dim light.

“Where are you going?” He asks. Jaskier closes his eyes. He’s so close to ridding himself from everyone—so close to finally being able to help however he can, even if it means he’s gone.

“Helping,” Jaskier mumbles. Eskel’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he yawns and makes his way down the hall toward the dining room.

“If Lambert or Geralt are sending you on wild goose chases in the middle of the night in a blizzard, I can help hide the alcohol from them tomorrow—it’s late, you should get some sleep,” Jaskier shakes his head at the kind words. He doesn’t deserve them, not after everything. Not after killing his brother.

“It’ll be better tomorrow,” Jaskier whispers. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone and he’ll take all of the tension and misery in the keep with him as he goes. Tomorrow, everything will be better.

“Better?” Eskel asks. His brows furrow and it’s clear he’s falling back to his senses the way Jaskier’s witnessed Geralt do many times. He panics and pulls the dusty old pelts tighter against his body, shielding his blood, tears, and misery with the musky scent of unused pelts. Eskel nods slowly as if trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t even know he was solving.

“Well,” he shrugs as if ending the conversation there. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief, thank god.

“I’m sorry things have been a mess here since you’ve arrived,” Eskel says, introducing a new topic. Jaskier bites back a sob of frustration. “If you want to talk, I’m here.” Jaskier nods.

“I’ll be fine tomorrow,” he promises. “Everything will be fine. Tomorrow.” Eskel regards him for a moment longer before nodding.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he says and moves to walk away. “We don’t bite, I promise.” No, but you do spit and choke and blame and fuck over Jaskier’s life past the point of ruin. And he’ll still come back for more.

Jaskier nods and remains still as a statue until Eskel’s footsteps fade. He stays an extra couple of minutes just for good measure and quickly makes his way to the hidden hallway.

A distant part of him wonders how long it will be until someone notices he’s gone. Not that he cares, but a sick part of him wonders if it’ll be days or weeks until the witchers can finally stop walking on eggshells now that the murderer is gone. Or maybe they’ll realize immediately and not care at all. Lambert made it clear he wasn’t wanted. Maybe he’ll actually help Jaskier and convince the others to let him leave in peace.

xXx

The cold is harsh and biting on Jaskier’s face, but he doesn’t slow. His breath comes out in shallow hot puffs of smoke. For a brief moment, when Jaskier first crosses the gates to the keep, he wonders if this is really what he wants.

No.

But none of anything has been what he wants.

Steaming tears fall down Jaskier’s face as he moves and each step is an attempt to swallow a sob. His body aches but his mind is numb. It feels like a possession, the way he’s practically watching himself slowly freeze to death in the snow. He knows what’s happening—he knows he should have more self-preservation—but at the same time…

Jaskier knows he isn’t wanted. He knows he’s doing what’s right by taking himself off of everyone’s hands. He’s too broken to fix and sometimes, an old toy just needs to be thrown out. It’s not like anyone would keep him around for fondness or happy memories.

All Jaskier can think about as his feet freeze through ankle-deep snow is how much he’s fucked up—how much he’s hurt everyone around him. Lambert is right, his life’s mission of helping witchers along the path was stupid and futile. His father always told him everything he touched breaks. It only makes sense that his heart is the last thing to go.

When Jaskier gets to the dreadful pass, it’s nothing but ice and he can barely see two steps in front of him. Piles of rock and snow block parts of the trail so that there isn’t a direct line of sight from one end to another. Jaskier will have to weave around the rubble and pray he doesn’t step on loose rock or cause an avalanche.

Jaskier can see why everyone was so wary about traveling this trail during a blizzard. A few steps in and Jaskier thinks he has the hang of things. He’s using his hands, too burnt and frozen to feel anything, but enough to know there’s a mass against his palm. He also slides his feet along the ground, never lifting a foot for fear of placing it down on something unstable. Some of his pelts fall off his back and drop into the wind and down the cliff’s edge. In a few moments, Jaskier will mourn the loss of added warmth, but right now, he can barely notice anything besides feeling the difference between solid and loose rock.

Jaskier can almost see the other end when in the distance, Jaskier hears his name get roared across the sky. In the darkness, it was hard to see the onslaught of snow until he was eating a brick of ice and was forced off the pass.

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier falls for less than two seconds. In those moments, he understands the poet’s saying that life flashes before the eyes in a dying breath.

Jaskier wishes he were stronger. If he were, maybe then he wouldn’t have fallen or been in this situation in the first place.

He wishes destiny wasn’t so cruel as to not only kill him but bury his body into a forgotten ravine for the ends of time—doomed to be nothing more than an unknown story.

Lastly, and probably most importantly, he wants to tell Geralt he’s sorry.

He wishes he could’ve been stronger, both physically and mentally. He wishes he could’ve done less shit-shoveling throughout their relationship. He wishes he could simply smile at Geralt’s newfound family with Ciri and Yennefer and be genuinely happy for them.

But he’s not.

He’s weak.

Jaskier feels himself drop onto a solid mass and it’s enough to push the air from his lungs and most definitely break a few bones. It’s a strange sensation, to know you’re dying, but not feel the slightest bit of pain.

If anything, Jaskier is glad.

Geralt can live his life with his family and Lambert and the other witchers can be grateful their brother’s killer was avenged. Maybe this is his place in Melitele’s twisted line of destiny. Maybe this was all he was meant for. A tool to be used for other people’s peace and happiness.

But maybe…

Maybe Jaskier just wants to see those yellow eyes one more time.

Maybe he never should have seen them in the first place.

In a second, Jaskier feels a sharp and shooting mass fall onto him from above. It’s enough to knock the wind out of him and send him sharply into black bliss. He doesn’t breathe the lost breath back.

Jaskier doesn’t even try to keep his pulse running. He’s tired of running, honestly. And despite the icy bed he’s made himself, darkness has never felt so warm.

xXx

Geralt wants to go after Jaskier the minute Ciri falls asleep.

She’s still so fragile when it comes to her mental state. Neither he nor Yennefer knows what could send her into a night terror that has the entire room flooded with debris and chaos. Luckily, Yennefer warded the room to keep all the chaos locked inside. It unfortunately, however, also kept them locked inside it, away from the rest of the keep.

Geralt knows something is wrong with Jaskier. His eyes didn’t gleam like he remembers and his body looks more worn and ragged since they last spoke. Sure, it’s been a few years, but once Geralt found Ciri, he could barely keep up with making sure she stayed alive, much less had the time to go bard hunting.

One thing about Ciri, though, is that she showed Geralt what it’s like to love. He didn’t think witchers could feel such emotions until one night at the campfire, Ciri asked if Geralt liked her.

“Of course,” he said bluntly. Did she doubt that?

“Sometimes I feel like you hate me,” she admitted. Geralt looked at her in bewilderment.

“I don’t hate you, Cirilla,” Geralt promised.

“Then what do you feel for me?” She asked. Geralt took a moment to think.

“I care if you live or die. I want you to be happy, no matter what. If it were a choice, I’d lay my life for you in battle. I want you to be close to me so I can protect you. Always.” He listed. Ciri smiled at him and walked over to his side, sitting next to him and rubbing her head on his shoulder.

“I love you, too,” she had said it so simply, like that’s what love was supposed to feel like.

It took Geralt too long to realize she was right. It took him a few minutes to realize he must’ve really loved Jaskier for all those points to hold the truth.

When he found Jaskier again, in a cell, but alive, it was an instant wash of relief—the release of tension Geralt didn’t know he’s held for years. When Geralt got word of Yennefer’s trickery, he didn’t hesitate to send both the people he loves to the one place he knows they’ll be safe—home.

Of course, that went tits up when Ciri got possessed and Coen died. After that, Geralt didn’t have time to grieve or do much of anything besides calm Ciri down before she destroyed the entire mountain. For four straight days, he’s barely eaten, slept, or done anything besides act as a anchor for Ciri’s chaos. Somehow, Yennefer also played a crucial role in helping her calm down.

Where Geralt lacked in the emotional bonding department, Yennefer excelled. Her gentle whispers and kind instructions on controlling magic turned out to be key when Ciri would wake up with glowing eyes and barely contained chaos.

Which is why it wasn’t entirely a surprise for Ciri to mutter ‘dad’ and ‘mom’ to each of them respectively when she’s barely aware of her surroundings as if its so subconscious of her to even utter the words. Yennefer had tears in her eyes the first time Ciri had called her ‘mom’—Geralt knows how much the moment meant for her—and Geralt himself couldn’t fight the swell of warmth in his stomach, akin to pride after a victorious battle, or relief at finally seeing Jaskier after so long apart.

When both Geralt and Yennefer were sure Ciri was stable enough, Geralt didn’t hesitate to get them all food, and water, and finally, finally find Jaskier.

He sat alone in the grand hall. Geralt didn’t know why, Jaskier was nothing if not the light and center of attention everywhere he went, but Geralt didn’t question it. Maybe he should’ve.

Throughout the night, Jaskier seemed…off. He smelled a bit more sour than usual and his eyes never really got back their brightness from before. Yennefer kept glancing at him and Geralt with concern in her purple eyes. It didn’t make sense until Jaskier made a hasty exit after Ciri fell asleep.

“I didn’t tell you everything about that day in Oxenfurt,” Yennefer said as she stroked Ciri’s head. Geralt looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“How do you think Jaskier ended up in that cell, Geralt?” She asked. Geralt shrugged. Honestly, he assumed Jaskier’s streak of sleeping with married women finally caught up with him. Yennefer sighed and laid Ciri on the bed, wrapping her in blankets before turning back to Geralt.

“When I was in Oxenfurt, I was looking for the Sandpiper—he’s a known spy who sneaks elves out of the city and to a safe haven across the river. I didn’t know Jaskier was the Sandpiper when I found him.” She said. Geralt looked at her in confusion. He didn’t even know who that was, but if Jaskier was acting as a spy and a smuggler of elves in a place so brutal to the race…fuck, he’s lucky he found Jaskier in a cell and not with his head on a pole.

“I was going to leave that night, but I saw Jaskier get kidnapped by a mage—Rience, a fire mage.” She said slowly. Geralt didn’t like where this was going.

“He wanted information on you and Ciri—thought the bard was the best place to start,” Yennefer whispers the words nonchalantly, but Geralt can’t stop the sudden pressure in his chest at the realization that he’s hurt Jaskier again.

“I stopped him before he could do much damage, but he didn’t come out unscathed. He kept his hands hidden the entire time he was here, didn’t you see?” Geralt bit back a growl. Fuck. How could he have been so blind to not see Jaskier’s pain right in front of him?

“I got him out and went to get my magic…as you know.” Yennefer trailed off. “I guess he got himself arrested when the guards couldn’t find me anymore.” She shrugged as if that was a good enough excuse.

“Yen,” Geralt growled quietly. “Why the fuck am I just hearing this now?” He grunted. “Did you at least help heal his hands when we got here?” He asked, hoped. Yennefer set him with a glare.

“And when would I have had time for that? Before, during, or after Ciri getting possessed?” She sighed and puffed out a frustrated breath.

“Sorry,” she acknowledged. “I didn’t have time and then I forgot all about it when Ciri started acting up and I didn’t remember until he was here just now.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growls. Jaskier has probably spent the past few days in pain and alone and probably had no idea what was happening. Fuck, and he had all these plans of finding Jaskier once he had Ciri and genuinely tell Jaskier of his newfound feelings.

“Do you want me to go find him?” Yennefer offered. “I think I have enough magic to at least heal the worst parts?” Geralt shook his head.

“Stay with Cirilla,” he advised. “I’ll find him.”

xXx

Now, Geralt finds himself wandering the halls of Kaer Morhen. He can’t quite pick up on Jaskier’s scent, but it’s a windy night outside and some windows are simply holes in the walls so scents are often lost. He checks his room to find it empty which is strange, despite Jaskier’s light packing on his way here.

“Where’s Jaskier?” Geralt asks as he walks into the main hall where Eskel and Lambert are playing a game of Gwent and getting properly drunk. Lambert growls.

“Fucker ran into me.” He says and yeah, Lambert is a bit beyond drunk at the moment.

“Where did he go?” Geralt asks. Lambert scoffs.

“Like I fucking know,” he shrugs. Eskel scoffs like he knows the punchline of a joke.

“Ran into him a while ago.” Geralt crinkles his brows in confusion.

“What?” He asks. Eskel shrugs.

“Saw him outside my room with a bunch’a pelts—figured he got cold. Said he’d be fine tomorrow,” he slurs slightly. Geralt sighs and leaves the great hall. He makes his way down the hallways, scenting for Jaskier’s smell in all of the open rooms he can find. Fuck, Geralt should’ve come out more often from the labs with Ciri and Yen to, at the very least, make sure Jaskier settled in alright and to know where he was fucking sleeping.

None of the rooms look lived in besides the witchers’.

Geralt finds a lone sock in one, particularly small and cold room and briefly denies Jaskier would ever sleep in such a room—not when Geralt’s room is so close with a fire and proper bedding. But, unlike the other uninhabited rooms, there’s a distinct lack of pelts even in the storage trunk at the foot of the bed. Even the ratted blanket that all rooms are still laid with is missing. A nagging realization settles in Geralt’s stomach like lead in an ocean.

Geralt storms back into the main hall with the single sock clutched in his palm.

“Where the fuck is he?” He growls. Eskel looks up with unfocused, confused eyes.

“Like I said, he’s—“

“Cold?” Geralt snaps, “did you even ask where he was going with enough pelts to brave the snow?” Eskel quiets, his eyes dropping and his mind spinning. Lambert snorts as if it were funny.

“Lambert, don’t fucking play. Where is he?”

“I set the little shit straight.” Lambert bursts. “For all I know, he’s back in bed crying himself to sleep.” He laughs. Geralt feels a flash of anger and he reaches forward, curling a fist in Lambert’s shirt and pulling him forward.

“What the fuck did you say to him?” He demands. Lambert laughs and pushes Geralt off of him, stumbling back.

“Get off it, Geralt.” He snaps. “You’ve done nothing but whine about the damn human for years and the minute he shows up, everything’s gone to shit.” Lambert glares.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Geralt growls. Lambert slams a fist into the table and it rattles.

“Coen’s dead, Geralt,” Lambert says. “Do you even fucking care?”

“Of course I care,” Geralt says.

“If your little bard didn’t bring Ciri back here, Coen would still be alive and Ciri wouldn’t be forced to be locked away with you and that crazy witch.” Lambert grunts.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“I set him fucking straight,” Lambert says simply. “Told him to fuck off wherever he came from, he’s done enough damage here.” Geralt doesn’t need any wind up to snap his fist so deep into Lambert’s face, that he hears a crunch from his nose.

“He isn’t in his room, asshole.” Geralt growls. Lambert looks up from the ground and spits some blood to the side.

“So?”

Geralt bends down and picks up Lambert in a single motion, pulling his bloody face close and snarling. “If I find out he’s done something stupid like leave the keep during this storm, I don’t care what Vesemir says, I will kill you myself.” He drops Lambert and marches out the door.

It only takes a few paces for Geralt to glance back and see Eskel behind him, carrying coats and blankets.

“If he’s out here, he’s probably hypothermic,” Eskel explains. Geralt doesn’t question it. In fact, he’s relieved Eskel isn’t arguing with Geralt about his fight with Lambert or about why he feels so strongly for the bard.

“Thank you,” he whispers. Eskel nods.

“I think I saw him leave,” Eskel admits. “If I’d known what he was trying to do—“

“It’s fine.” Geralt grunts. “Let’s find him.”

xXx

It doesn’t take long once Geralt drinks a vial of Cat to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can see Jaskier’s cloaked figure at the mouth of the pass and nearly loses it at the sight.

What a fucking idiot—he knows the pass is dangerous. Geralt mentioned it over the years and how even skilled witchers have met their ends on it when they weren’t careful. What makes Jaskier think as a human bard, he’s in better condition?

Geralt is rushing against time as he runs with Eskel down the side of the mountain and toward the pass. Jaskier is making surprising progress and Geralt can barely see him, even with his enhanced sight. When a particularly strong gust of wind crunches trees together and press into the side of the mountain face, Geralt can already see the start of a rockslide before he has time to breathe in and shout.

“Jaskier!!” The sound booms and yes, it may have escalated the rockslide into an avalanche and rocky mix, but it gets Jaskier’s attention. He turns back in time to meet Geralt’s eyes before Geralt is hopeless to watch the bard fall in the masses of snow and get buried alive.

“Fuck!” Geralt cries. “Eskel, help me!” Geralt runs down to the edge of the cliff where a lip catches most of the snow. He can barely make out Jaskier’s form in the white.

“Use this,” Eskel somehow had the forethought to bring tools on this rescue mission—something Geralt didn’t even think to stock up on—and hands him a rope.

“I can pull him up, tie it around his torso.” Geralt is careful to leap down onto the edge of the lip, mindful not to put his full weight on it in worry that the edge would crumble and Jaskier could fall to his certain death hundreds of feet below. He’s careful with the rope, tying it around Jaskier’s waist. He can hear the faint sounds of a pulse, but it’s weak and wavering. He’s clearly unconscious and slipping deeper and deeper into staying that way due to the cold. His body stopped shivering and Geralt knows that’s never a good sign in the mountains. They need to get him back to the keep and warm up quickly.

When Geralt and Eskel get Jaskier to the top of the mountain, Geralt holds him to his chest, pressing his face into Geralt’s neck for warmth and whispering promises and apologies as he runs.

—————

When Jaskier wakes up, the first thing he registers is that he’s cold. A deep aching chill that he’d never experienced before settled in every crevice of his body, causing his teeth to instantly clatter.

“Easy, Jaskier,” Jaskier looks up to see Yennefer walking over to him. Wait, how did he even get here? The last thing he remembers is…oh.

“Based on your face, I don’t think I need to waste my breath telling you how much of an idiot you are.” She demands, but Jaskier can hear a bit of worry in her tone. He nods slowly.

“What,” he shivers, “happened?” Yennefer offers a mug of steaming tea and Jaskier grips it tightly, siphoning the heat into his fingers, his…healed fingers?

“Wait,” he pauses and practically shoves the hot mug into Yennefer’s hands. His hands are no longer raw and scabbed, but practically healed with shallow scarring.

“Next time you get burned by a fire fucker, find me. I’m rather skilled when it comes to wound mending.” She says. Jaskier nods.

“Thank you,” he says, at a loss for words. She nods and hands him back the mug of tea. He grips it greedily, the warmth acting as a charge for his body.

“I don’t know what happened,” she redirects. “From what I’ve heard, Lambert got drunk, took it out on you, got more drunk, and Geralt found you in the snow trying to leave.” She pins him with a look.

“Oh,” Jaskier remembers now. Lambert’s words cut into him again, hurting just as much as the first time he heard them. He can remember the way Geralt and Yennefer looked at Ciri like she was their entire light and lives and how Jaskier had no place in any aspect of this keep. He remembered wanting to leave so desperately—

“Sorry,” he says as he breaks from his foggy mind. Yennefer sighs.

“Don’t apologize.” She says. “Maybe tell us what you were thinking when you left?” Jaskier grips the mug tighter. He doesn’t want them to know. He doesn’t want them to see him as weak as he sees himself. He doesn’t want to keep shoveling shit or be more of a burden than he already was.

If he told them what he was thinking, he’d become a liability. After that, there’s no chance in hell Geralt would want to travel with him again. The chances of that happening are already paper-thin.

“I just,” he glares downward as he instantly feels his eyes water. “You and Geralt and Ciri seemed so happy. It was clear that my place with Geralt was that of the past. I was ready to simply watch from the sidelines and move on come spring, but Lambert seemed to have impeccable timing. He, ah, illuminated some things for me.” Yennefer glares.

“‘Illuminated’ my ass,” she growls. “Bastard is hurting and he got so drunk he barely remembers what he even said. Geralt’s broke his nose three times since he brought you back.” Jaskier looks at her.

“Brought me back?” Yennefer rolls her eyes.

“I’m sorry, did you think I saved you?” She laughs, “just because I did it once, doesn’t mean I’ll make a habit out of it.” Jaskier instinctively looks down at his now-mended fingers. They are coated in light scarring, but Jaskier has free motion of his fingers which is something he never even dreamed of regaining again.

“Ciri has also been a wreck,” Yennefer adds. “She likes you, for some inexplicable reason, and you scared her.” She pins him with a look. Jaskier shrinks down.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Yennefer grunts and rolls her eyes.

“Stop apologizing,” she reminds him, “just don’t do it again.” And with that, Jaskier’s alone again. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on the silence, though, because with only a few sips of hot tea, his body grows limp and heavy and he barely has time to put the mug down before he’s asleep again.

xXx

When Jaskier wakes again, it’s to the sight of…Eskel?

“You’re awake!” His voice booms in the otherwise silent room. He’s poking at a roaring fire across the space. Jaskier sits up.

“How long was I asleep?” Jaskier mumbles. Eskel walks over and produces a cloth from seemingly nowhere. It’s dripping and Jaskier has a fearful moment that the icy water the cloth is soaked in will do nothing but make him even colder, when the press of fabric reveals it has been soaking in boiling water instead and he practically moans at the warm cloth pooling over his forehead.

“A day,” Eskel answers simply. “Geralt’s been here mostly with Ciri and Yennefer, but he needed sleep, so I offered to look over you,” Eskel says. It’s the most Jaskier’s ever heard him talk.

“Um, thanks?” He answers. Eskel sighs and pulls the cloth away to dunk it back in the hot water.

“I wanted to apologize,” Eskel starts. “I should have known as a human, Kaer Morhen is a difficult place to live. I’m sorry we haven’t been so welcoming.” Jaskier lifts the cloth from his eyes to look at Eskel.

“You’re joking, right?” He asks dumbly. “I am a stranger who showed up, practically bringing the weapon that killed your brother and in your time of mourning, you’re worried you weren’t hospitable enough toward me?” Eskel shrugs.

“We drove you off the side of a mountain during a snowstorm,” he points out. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I drove myself off that cliff, Eskel, do not feel the need to shoulder other people’s blame,” Jaskier says. “All of you witchers are gluttons for self-deprecation.” He mumbles. Eskel scoffs.

“Just,” he pauses, “we needed time to grieve our brother.” He says. “Don’t be fooled into thinking we are all as stoic as Geralt. Next time you feel the need to run either away from something in the keep or toward your own death, come find me. I’m familiar with the feeling of having nowhere to turn,” a lump forms in Jaskier’s throat at the offer and he nods once and quickly.

“I’ll,” he clears his throat, “I’ll remember, thanks.” He says and rests the hot towel over his face again. It’s gone a bit cold, but it's a good mask for Jaskier’s tears so he doesn’t move it. After a while, he heard a door open and shut, and once again, he was alone.

xXx

Jaskier doesn’t remember falling asleep until he opens his eyes to the sound of a fire roaring his fingers burning and ice soaking into his lungs and it being so, so, so cold.

“Jaskier, you’re okay,” large and calloused hands grip Jaskier’s wrists and pull them from his chest where he’s scratching at his throat to get more air into his lungs. He’s screaming and crying and begging for it to stop. He can’t remember what he wants to end, he just knows it’s painful and horrifying.

“Jaskier, breathe, open your eyes.” Slowly, Jaskier blinks his eyes open as he shakes like a leaf and collapses onto the familiar shoulder of Geralt’s black shirt. His warm hands wrap around Jaskier’s back and pull him closer. He doesn’t make a sound as Jaskier sobs into his chest.

“You’re okay,” Geralt whispers. “You’re alive.” Jaskier pulls back.

“You saved me,” he says dumbly, wiping his eyes. Geralt nods.

“You scared me,” he counters. Jaskier looks down.

“Sorry.” He says.

“Don’t apologize, Jask. I need to apologize. I didn’t,” Geralt pauses, “why did you try and leave?” He whispers. Jaskier shakes his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He says. His voice is raw from screaming and Geralt must see how unfair his request is because he doesn’t argue and instead pushes Jaskier further onto the bed so that he can lie down as well.

“Is this okay?” He whispers. Jaskier nods. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“Vesemir said you need to stay warm,” Geralt mumbles. Jaskier nods again. After such a sudden wake-up, Jaskier doesn’t know if he can fall back asleep.

This position isn’t unfamiliar to Jaskier—there have been numerous times over the years where Geralt offered his body heat to keep Jaskier’s human body warm. But that was then and this is now. Things are different—at least, they feel different to Jaskier.

xXx

After waking up to Yennefer, Eskel, and Geralt, Jaskier should have predicted to wake another random person from the keep. When Jaskier opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of bright red hair. Suddenly, he wishes Ciri was his next visitor, instead. Hell, he’d even take Vesemir popping in over the one person Jaskier knows he’s failed and wronged the most.

Lambert paces the room and Jaskier watches him silently. He doesn’t want to interrupt the witcher’s intense pacing, but he also wants him to leave. The idea of being forced to visit with the man responsible for his brother’s death must be hard on the redhead. Jaskier doesn’t want his pain to last. He’d leave himself if he could, but Jaskier can barely feel his feet—his whole body is practically numb. Probably from the cold.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier asks gruffly. Sleep still scratches at his throat, but it’s been so tight these past few days that the gruffness doesn’t even matter.

“I was drunk,” Lambert says stiffly and suddenly. “I didn’t,” he pauses as if not knowing what to say, “I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jaskier says. He shifts in his bed and doesn’t meet the witcher’s eyes, but he hears a deep growl from his left.

“Yes, I fucking do,” Lambert says sternly. “Nothing I said was true. I was drunk and angry and you didn’t deserve it.” Jaskier shakes his head. His throat is bobbling from tight to loose and his stomach is turning sour.

“Everything you said is true.” Jaskier gasps with a desperate tinge to his voice. Lambert sits up and stares at Jaskier.

“No, it isn’t—“

“Don’t patronize me, Lambert.” Jaskier snaps. “I’m well aware of what my presence in this castle—in Geralt’s life—has caused. I don’t need you out of all people to tell me otherwise.” He says. Lambert tenses and glares.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He asks. Jaskier doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares down at his lap. His mind is getting cloudy again.

“I tried to make it all better, but it didn’t work,” Jaskier mumbles. “You told me to fuck off and I did. I’m sorry it didn’t stick.”

“Didn’t stick?!” Lambert balks. Jaskier shrugs.

“You fucking—“Lambert huffs a breath and stands. “I’m telling you this once, bard. Nothing I said was true last night. I was angry and taking it out on you. I’m sorry, but I need you to understand that none of this is your fault, so stop trying to play the martyr.”

“You said—“

“I know what I said,” Lambert says raggedly. “I know and I’m sorry I drove you to this point. You are not responsible for Coen’s death. You are not responsible for everything that’s gone tits up here. Do you hear me? This. Isn’t. Your. Fault.” Lambert pronounces each word with emphasis.

Jaskier feels a frozen shudder through his body like someone dumped ice water down his neck. Lambert doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Geralt or Yennefer most likely told him to say all of this to Jaskier. He knows this is all his fault. Even when he can barely see straight and his skin feels floaty and numb, that’s the one thing he’s sure of—his grounding constant.

xXx

After Lambert leaves, Jaskier is left in blessed silence. He’s alone, finally. At first, it’s the greatest gift he could ask for. Nobody needs to suffer in his presence anymore. He can hide in here until he’s well and try to get off this damned mountain again.

He’ll succeed this time, too. He won’t do it during a storm. He’ll put more thought and planning into it. He’ll go during the day so he can watch his step. He’ll pack a bag that can see him to the bottom of the mountain in one piece. Hell, he’ll even leave a few stolen bags of hay from the stables to stuff under his bed so that Geralt doesn’t get some stupid idea like coming after him again.

Yes, he’ll do better next time. And if he doesn’t make it down the path, Jaskier will be damned sure no stray Witchers are waiting for him with a rope and blankets to pull him from his fates. He’ll be damned if he cheats death twice.

Jaskier falls asleep to the alluring and monotonous plans of how he’ll leave the keep and everyone inside of it. He drifts to the idea that once he’s well enough, he’ll stop bringing people down and holding people back. He’ll stop killing loved ones and inconveniencing everyone around him.

He’ll stop being a burden.

The next thing Jaskier knows, there’s a slight ringing in his ears and an invisible and magical force has wrapped his body in a numbing bubble.

Jaskier’s skin buzzes and itches. He feels restless in a syrupy slow type of way. He can feel his fingers tingle and can vaguely acknowledge the ache in his bones from nearly freezing to death only days ago.

He can feel these things.

So why does he feel so fucking numb?

It’s like he’s a guest in his own body. He doesn’t know how to work the limbs or breathe. He feels like an imposter of a human being—alien and un-belonging.

He doesn’t belong here. That’s how this whole mess started, wasn’t it?

Jaskier didn’t belong here at Kaer Morhen. Jaskier barely knows if he belongs in his own goddamn skin.

It itches and pulls tightly but for some reason, Jaskier can’t feel anything. He sees his toes wiggle over the blanket. He watches his hand grip the water glass tightly.

He can’t feel it, though. He knows he should. Jaskier tells himself he should feel the glass in his hands—the condensation on the edge wet his fingers.

He feels pressure…maybe.

Jaskier lets the glass drop to the floor. It shatters immediately. He watches as shards scatter and water pools.

For a moment, Jaskier expects someone to come barreling through the door. He can’t hear anyone, though. He doesn’t know if he’s upset or relieved.

Slowly, Jaskier bends over the edge of the bed and picks up the largest shard of glass. Again, he can feel the pressure in his fingers, but nothing else.

Jaskier grips the shard of glass in his hand tightly. He squeezes his palm until a faint pinch is felt on his fingers and red blooms where glass meets flesh.

Huh, the red is so bright against his pale skin, but he can barely feel the wound at all.

Jaskier pulls the shard to his arm and digs the sharp end into his forearm, sliding it down just deep enough to cause another glistening streak of red to ripple on his skin. Small beads of blood ooze from the line and pebble into bubbles before they run down his arm.

Ok, Jaskier can feel that. He isn’t going crazy, at least.

He can’t feel his fingers and toes, he can’t feel the blanket on his body, and he can barely think a cohesive thought without getting lost.

But he can feel this.

And this…this is enough.

The sharp piercing streak of pain seems to ignite Jaskier’s senses. He can feel the blanket around him now. His palm blooms in pain from the initial cut.

Jaskier makes another streak into his arm, right next to the first cut.

He can feel his toes again.

Jaskier makes a third line next to the other two.

His fingers buzz to life.

Three more cuts on his other arm and he’s nearly back to feeling normal again. The suffocation in his throat is falling slack. Maybe if he just covered himself in these stinging lines he’ll never feel numb again. Maybe he can cut himself to shreds as a reminder of going numb—of losing every sense of self.

“Jaskier!” Jaskier looks up from his wrists to see Geralt and Yennefer in the doorway. Geralt runs over and grips the shard of glass from his hands. Jaskier watches it get flung across the room.

“Wait,” Jaskier whispers, delayed. “I was using that.” He mumbles. His head feels dizzy as his eyes follow the thrown glass across the room. His ears ring tightly and his cuts begin to buzz. Geralt moves toward the basin of water and dips a nearby cloth in it, brushing the wetness into Jaskier’s red dripping skin.

“What did you do?” Geralt whispers. Jaskier doesn’t know if he wants to respond—doesn’t know if he should. Seconds feel like hours as they tick by and eventually, Jaskier doesn’t think his response is needed so he remains silent.

“Jaskier, why did you do this?” Something in Geralt’s voice is twisted so heavily in emotion that Jaskier can taste it. He wishes he could feel it too.

“I couldn’t feel my toes,” Jaskier whispers. He’s staring at the red tinted water. His eyes sway from focused to dazed and back to focus. He feels dizzy.

“He lost a lot of blood, Geralt.” That was Yennefer’s voice, right? Jaskier blinks slowly, slower than he wants, and sees the familiar violet eyes standing behind Geralt. Her eyes look worried and Jaskier laughs softly. There’s no way that worry is for him.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Jaskier. What did you do?” Yennefer snaps. Jaskier shrugs slowly.

“I couldn’t feel,” he says simply. He feels light and floaty. He still can’t feel his toes and fingers but at least it’s better than feeling heavy and numb.

“It’ll be okay, Jask,” Geralt whispers. Jaskier nods. He knows it will be okay. He isn’t worried about that. He’ll be okay once he gets another shard.

“We’re not giving you another fucking shard!” Oh, did he say that out loud? Both Geralt and Yennefer are looking at Jaskier with concern in their eyes. Guilt eats at Jaskier’s stomach and a loud buzzing overtakes his ears. All of the progress he made on getting rid of the numbness was all for nothing because suddenly, he couldn’t feel anything besides morbid embarrassment and shame. He’s fucked up again, he knows. He wants to apologize, but his vision becomes hazy.

The last thing he sees is Geralt’s soft yellow eyes as he succumbs to the darkness—tempting and vile.

xXx

The next few days go by in quick succession and Jaskier doesn’t know how to feel.

On the first day, Geralt brings him a warm meal of stew and freshly baked bread. If Jaskier wasn’t so miserable, he’d be forever grateful since it smells so good. Unfortunately, his appetite has barely returned since falling from the cliff. He knows he’s annoying Geralt with the way the witcher huffs and stares as Jaskier practically turns his nose up and away from the food.

“You have to eat, Jask,” Geralt whispers gently. It only somewhat cracks Jaskier’s shell.

“I’m not hungry.” Jaskier denies. Geralt sighs. They both know it’s been over a day since Jaskier consumed anything that wasn’t water or tea.

“You need to eat something.” Geralt states. “What about the bread, at least?” Jaskier shakes his head.

“You’re going to starve yourself—“ Geralt cuts himself off as if he’s stepped on a hunting trap and is suddenly trying to evaluate how to leave with his limbs attached. Jaskier stares at him. The buzz returns to his ears.

“I’m not trying to starve myself,” Jaskier states. “I’m just not hungry.”

“I know,” Geralt whispers. He puts the food down. Jaskier can feel a calloused and warm hand grip his wrapped wrists. Geralt is inspecting them with a broken and defeated glare like he was a monster Geralt couldn’t kill on a hunt. He rips his wrists from Geralt’s hands.

“Stop treating me like I’m going to break!” Jaskier shouts. He feels claustrophobic and tight all of a sudden under the witcher’s gaze. Geralt flinches at the sudden change in volume.

“Jask, I’m just trying to help—“

“You can’t help me, Geralt,” Jaskier states bluntly. “I was trying to help you but then you went and fucked that all up, so who’s fault is it really?” Geralt’s soft eyes harden in an instant.

“You weren’t helping, Jask.” Geralt snaps. Jaskier flinches. The words are a double-edged sword. Jaskier had been desperate to feel something for days and those words made the shards feel like feathers in his skin. His chest tightens and his eyes grow wet.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers. He drops to his knees, the food forgotten. “I’m just trying to understand—“

“Understand?!” Tears prickle Jaskier’s eyes. “Geralt there isn’t anything to understand. I don’t belong here. I was trying to leave.”

“You were trying to kill yourself!”

“So what?!” Jaskier bursts hysterically. “At least then, you’ll get your one life blessing of having me off your hands! You wouldn’t be down a brother! Hell, you may not have even gotten mixed up with a child surprise if I never existed to drag you to that ball.” Geralt growls.

“Don’t talk like that, Jask.”

“Like what? Like I’m important to you? Like my death will mean anything besides a breath of fresh fucking air for everyone?” Jaskier swallows a sob that’s so big it’s choking him.

“I know you’re sorry for what happened on the mountain,” he begins quietly. “But that doesn’t change what happened. I can’t just forget about it.”

“I’m not asking you to forget,” Geralt states firmly. “I don’t want you to kill yourself, either.” Jaskier closes his eyes. Geralt is simplifying this far more than he should. Jaskier isn’t killing himself—he’s trying to be selfless enough for once and do what’s best for everyone around him. Geralt is making it sound so selfish and hell, maybe it is.

xXx

The next day, Jaskier doesn’t fare much better. He is finally well enough to leave the damn room, but Jaskier doesn’t fail to notice that he’s absolutely never left alone, even when he uses the chamber pot.

“I’m not a kept dog,” Jaskier snaps as he slings into the dining hall. He has gotten a bit better about eating, but it’s still a slow and lengthy process to consume anything more than some broth or soup.

“No, you’re just a bard who needs to be kept on a very short leash right now.” Whoever assigned Yennefer to be Jaskier’s watcher needed to muck out the stables for a year, minimum.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this, but your bedside manner is awful,” Jaskier states. Yennefer pins him with a glare.

“Well, because of someone’s dramatics, a certain witcher doesn’t think you can be left alone anymore and frankly, I’m inclined to agree with him.” Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Don’t pretend to give a shit about what happens to me, Yennefer. We both know it’s unbecoming for a lady to lie.” Yennefer’s glare becomes even more steeled.

“That’s where you’re wrong, bard.” She snaps. “I do give a shit about what happens to you. Everyone here does, you’re just too stuck up your own ass to see it.”

“I am not stuck up—“

“You want to kill yourself, fine. But know that if you do, it’s for your own benefit and nobody else’s. If you die, there are people here who would be devastated—people I care about. People who, if devastated, would in turn devastate me. Do you understand?” Jaskier holds her fiery stare.

“Yup,” he pops. He reaches for the bowl of broth and a small roll of bread. “God forbid the great Yennefer of Vengerburg becomes devastated.” Jaskier leaves the hall and barely notices that Yennefer doesn’t follow him.

He eats his broth and rolls in the library. He’s alone, but Jaskier has half a mind Yennefer has put some type of spell on him to monitor him from afar. Good, at least then he didn’t have to converse with her and listen as she ridiculed him for simply trying to do his best.

As the day stretches, Jaskier spends his time reading in the library. He flips through a history book on the founding schools of the Witchers as well as a bestiary of various monsters that roam the continent.

It isn’t until the sun has set that Jaskier finds Geralt walking into the large room.

“You missed dinner,” Geralt states. He’s holding more food. Jaskier feels like he just finished the bread and brother only an hour ago.

“I’m not hungry,” he states. He’s still flipping through the books.

“Jask, we can’t keep doing this.” Geralt sounds tired.

“Doing what?” Jaskier snaps the book shut and looks up to Geralt. His eyes are tired and he looks disheveled—more so than he’s seen the witcher look in a long while.

“I need you to eat, Jaskier. I need you to get your strength back.” Jaskier rolls his eyes

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says. Geralt shakes his head.

“No you aren’t,” he disagrees. “But it’s okay—I’m not going anywhere.”

“You should,” Jaskier whispers. Leave and stop wasting your time on me. Your place is on the path with Yennefer and Ciri—with your family and away from a burden like me.

“I won’t,” Geralt states firmly. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to fight for you—like I should have done on that mountain.” The reminder is like the final log on the dam. He can feel it crumble in his chest as anger bubbles in him.

“What’s the point?” Jaskier screams. “I’m not worth fighting for. Everything I do, I hate myself for doing. I don’t deserve this, Geralt. I don’t deserve anything. Why did you even save me from that ravine?” Geralt’s heart shatters at Jaskier’s words.

“You deserve the world, Jaskier.” His voice is raw and wet. Geralt reaches a hand tentatively toward Jaskier and rests it feather-light on his wrist where shallow scars meet veins.

“I don’t deserve shit.” Jaskier mumbles.

“Let me prove you wrong.” Geralt practically begs. “I was wrong, Jask. I was so fucking wrong to blame my entire life’s misfortunes on you. Ciri is a blessing. You are a blessing.” At Geralt’s words, Jaskier feels tears spill over his eyes and the sob he’s been fighting breaks free. A knot coils in Jaskier’s stomach at how wrong that statement is and his thoughts must show on his face because Geralt doesn’t waste a moment to pull Jaskier into his arms and hold on tightly. It’s an awkward angle in the couch in the library with the food sitting on the floor by their feet, but nobody pays it mind.

“I will spend the rest of my life proving to you how much of a blessing you are. Please let me.” Please don’t leave is left unsaid. Jaskier nods once, tiny and timid.

“I love you,” Geralt whispers, wet and broken. Jaskier’s throat catches on a choked sob. He locks eyes with Geralt and can feel wetness spill over his cheeks. He sees the same shine in Geralt’s eyes too.

“Loving you almost killed me,” Jaskier whispers. Geralt closes his eyes and nods once. Jaskier suddenly realizes that Geralt would take that as a rejection. With a shaking palm and an even more unsteady drive, Jaskier places his hand on Geralt’s unshaved cheek. Geralt’s eyes snap open as they stare into Jaskier’s bright blue ones. The red around his iris’ only amplifies the azure hue.

“But I’ve been told I’m rather dramatic at times.” Jaskier doesn’t know if it is him or Geralt, but slowly and ever so carefully, Jaskier feels the slightest pressure of lips against his own. Geralt’s lips are soft and pliant—the witcher clearly letting Jaskier take control of the kiss. Jaskier presses a bit harder against Geralt and is rewarded with hands encircling his hips and pulling him closer. Jaskier wraps his hands around Geralt’s neck and melts in the feather-like kiss. It’s gentle and coaxing and it makes Jaskier want to cry all over again. He pulls away when his throat burns for air and affection.

“I hate feeling this,” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s neck. The witcher nods. “I hate feeling like my entire existence is a chore for you. It makes me sick thinking you’re forcing yourself to be here.”

“I’m not,” Geralt whispers. He kisses Jaskier’s hairline softly. Jaskier sniffs and nods numbly.

“I know.” He agrees, “but I can’t seem to convince myself of that yet.”

“How can I convince you?” Jaskier shrugs helplessly. He falls fully into Geralt’s lap and the white-haired witcher welcomes him with open arms.

“Stay.”

xXx

“I should have come for you sooner,” Geralt mumbles, combing his hand through Jaskier’s hair as he practically sits in the witcher’s lap. After both of their bittersweet confessions, both Jaskier and Geralt retired to Geralt’s room for the evening. Both men clearly wanted to maintain and explore their newfound affection for one another, but Jaskier was dead on his feet. His eyes dropped after every light kiss and Geralt was also feeling worn after spending the day breaking enough training dummies to get assigned to remaking them for the entire winter from Vesemir.

Jaskier is still coming down from his breakdown, even the next morning, so both men sit in silence when they wake up. Geralt is trying to offer as many gentle touches as he can without spooking the bard.

“After the mountain?” Geralt shrugs.

“Well, yes, but also when we got here,” Geralt admits. “I was so focused on making sure Cirilla wouldn’t destroy the keep that I left you alone.”

“You had things to do, Geralt. I’m not that important—“

“Jaskier, you are so important.” Jaskier tenses.

“But not more important than making sure Ciri was alright.” Geralt didn’t respond. Jaskier knows Geralt knows he’s right.

“I’m scared, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. He pulls Geralt’s arms tighter around his body as if the comfort can chase away every demon in his mind.

“I know,” Geralt whispers. He places a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and then hairline. The soft kisses that Geralt has suddenly become accustomed to are anchoring Jaskier more than he thought possible. He uses Geralt like a life vest in his drowning mind. Hopefully, it’s strong enough to keep him afloat.

“I don’t actually want to die,” he admits brokenly. “I just can’t survive this feeling of being so worthless and not knowing how to stop it.”

“I’ll tell you until my dying breath that you are worth everything to me,” Geralt whispers. Jaskier nods.

“I think I’m going mad,” Jaskier admits gently. “Sometimes I feel this unexplainable dread as if my entire being shouldn’t exist. I can’t control it sometimes.” Jaskier’s words are barely a whisper. Geralt holds on to every word.

“Will you tell me when you feel like that?” He asks just as quietly. He feels Jaskier nod once.

“We can ask Yennefer if she knows any potions to help, but promise me you won’t succumb to it, Jask.” Geralt sounds desperate. Jaskier sighs, dread filling him.

“That’s a lot to ask,” he says. Geralt pulls him tighter to his chest. Jaskier hates how weak he is. He’s survived beatings, torture, and war. He’s survived a loveless upbringing by a family who cast him aside the first chance they got. How could this crumble him to rubble and smoke? He should be stronger.

“Promise me you’ll try.” Jaskier closes his eyes. Behind his lids, he can see darkness and spluttering shapes. One of them morphs into the memory of Jaskier drinking with Essi during university. Then they mold into him and Geralt sitting by the fire in the woods, laughing over parody songs Jaskier is singing rapidly. Finally, they hold shape as Ciri’s smiling bright face and Geralt’s warm eyes regarding her. The memory alone is enough to bring warmth to Jaskier’s icy heart. It thaws slightly in the heat.

“Yeah,” Jaskier chokes on the emotion of everything he almost lost—could still lose if he doesn’t try. “I’ll try.” He says firmly. Geralt pulls him tighter to his chest and presses more kisses to his head—feather-light and warm with love. Jaskier snuggles closer.

“Can we lie here for a little longer?” At this point, Geralt is definitely missing some chore or work that needs to be done under Vesemir’s orders, but the witcher nods instantly. He pulls Jaskier into his embrace and kisses his lips gently. Jaskier melts into his witcher’s arms and for the first time in weeks, feels himself melt completely.

“Promise me you won’t leave?” Jaskier whispers. He doesn’t mean just while they lie here. Jaskier means forever. It’s always been forever with Geralt of Rivia.

“Never.” Geralt’s word lulls him to a dreamless sleep. He chases shapes and memories of laughter and songs and joy, hoping to remind himself why he needs to try.