Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter had been quiet. 

Spring had been quiet. 

Summer, Ciri left to be with Yennefer for the next few months and it got quieter. 

Geralt hadn’t noticed it at first, since it hadn’t been quiet, not really. Between Nilfgaard breathing down their necks and Ciri quickly becoming the fondest fixture in his life, the silence had gone unnoticed. 

Yet, he was always aware.

Subconsciously, it pressed against his mind. The emptiness. Whenever Ciri made an accomplishment, Geralt would smile and turn to- nothing. When Lambert or Eskel shared a tale or two about their adventures, Geralt couldn’t help noticing the empty space beside Ciri, of someone else who would have been equally (if not more) excited to hear it. 

When Ciri left- with an almost awkward hug and a thousand promises of staying safe- the silence was louder. Geralt turned back onto the path, monsters aplenty would have cropped up around the continent. 

At first, he embraced it. The lack of chatting, humming, stopping to stare at a patch of colorful poisonous berries meant that Geralt was faster. He rode from town to town to village to town. Quickly completing contracts and riding off to the next contract, rarely stopping had become his routine. He busied himself as much as a Witcher could. 

Drowners nests, Ghouls, Kikimora, Bruxae. Anything and everything Geralt could fight, he did.

However, it still creeped in. 

The emptiness at his side was as loud as the presence that used to fill it once. Geralt didn’t know how much he’d grown to expect snippets of songs being hummed or the random, harmonious notes of a lute to follow him everywhere he went until it was gone. Geralt didn’t (wouldn’t, couldn’t) care. He had wished it away after all.

He was at peace. 

He despised it.

*************

When Geralt entered the inn after a particularly tiring hunt, he’d just wanted to eat and collapse in his comfortable, warm ( empty, lonely) room. The innkeeper had been rather welcoming, she sat him at a booth that was decently far from the crowd and gave him some steaming broth. He was almost entirely absorbed in the food when he heard the starting notes of a tune that haunted Geralt after that first encounter. 

Geralt froze. 

When a humble bard…

The crowd cheered louder, some threw knowing glances at him, but Geralt had settled back down into his broth. It wasn’t him. This bard had gotten a couple of notes wrong and he failed to match the original’s pitch. He’d even changed some of the lyrics. The crowd loved it, clapping and cheering at every failed note. It wasn’t right. The bard was a poor imitation. He was mincing the song. Geralt couldn’t take it. He left before the song could close.

Laying on his bed, he wondered, when it was that he’d started caring about notes and lyrics. Sleep eluded him.

*************

Sometimes, when the silence would thrum against his head, buzzing loudly and incessantly. Geralt would think back to before. 

*************

The bard had finished another one of his songs. The crowd at this particular inn was a lot more welcoming than most others. The crowd had been enraptured with his songs and plenty of ale was sent to their booth. The bard was pleasantly drunk and swaying with each song he belted out. 

Geralt had taken a more secluded spot, watching as the crowd and their entertainer got drunker and louder. It was a cheer filled night. 

At least it had been till some brutes interrupted the bard mid song, yelling something about witchers and monsters. The bard’s look could have curdled milk and he spat back unsavoury insults at the brutes. Geralt prepared to grab the bard and to be kicked out of yet another establishment. 

 To Geralt’s surprise, the crowd instead of agreeing with the brutes instantly turned on them and began a brawl. 

This had been the first time Geralt truly understood the effect of the bard’s music. Half a century ago, the crowd would  have thrown uneasy looks Geralt’s way and shrink away from him. And yet, here they were, fighting in his name- or perhaps just fighting for the sake of it. 

Geralt watched stunned as the bard let out a cheerful whoop and jumped into the fray. It was a touch amusing to see him fight and the Witcher felt his chest warm with pride as the bard landed some good blows in. He knew the bard was stronger than most people assumed. However, as angrier drunks with deadlier weapons entered, Geralt grabbed his squirming bard by the scruff of his collar and hauled him up like one would an angry kitten. He pushed some coins towards the innkeeper and dragged the troubadour back to their room. 

*************

The Countess looked almost exactly like him.

Geralt struggled not to get distracted by her brown locks and cornflower blue eyes. She had the same plump mouth and roundish features. Each time she looked his way, it felt like a punch to the gut.

However, there was a key difference that grounded him. Where his eyes shone with joy and admiration, hers glinted with distrust- she was talking to Geralt with a smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The job she was outlining was rather simple: he was supposed to root out a drowners nest nearby her estate. She turned away, signalling the end of their conversation. 

Geralt was struck by an irrational need to linger, to draw out the conversation somehow. He gaped awkwardly and the countess looked at him, a question written all over her pretty, untrusting features. He realised that he was staring and cleared his throat. The Witcher turned away and pushed all thoughts of her features and how they matched (and how they didn’t) out of his head. 

When he went back to collect his coin, her husband had been present with her. He was a merry man and he offered to house Geralt for the night. The Witcher was inclined to refuse but Geralt was greedy. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave the countess just yet.

She looked like his ghost and Geralt wasn’t sure if he was willing to let go of that yet. 

The Count smiled widely at his acceptance and completely forgot to inform Geralt that they were hosting a banquet that night.

The Witcher brooded in the corner as guests flit about this way and that. He was more than happy to stay in his room but a nervous servant had entered his room and said that the Count requested his presence. Geralt would have snapped back but the servant looked like they were ready to faint so he acquiesced. 

He tried not to stare at the countess but it was futile. She smiled and laughed just like Geralt’s ghost and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The ache in his chest grew thicker every time her blue eyes turned his way, and for a second he wished, desperately, that her eyes were bluer, livelier and her hair shorter. 

The moment passed and he tore his gaze away from her. Only for his blood to freeze. He stilled and it felt like his heart had stopped.

For, across the room, laughing and winking at guests, stood Geralt’s ghost. 

He was dressed in rich fabric and there was no lute in sight. Geralt opened his mouth, worked his jaw, and tried to call out. But his voice didn’t come. His name was jammed in Geralt’s throat. The choked sound that came out would have embarrassed the Witcher in other circumstances. He stood rooted to his spot in the dark corner, a distance away from the guests. His head buzzed with a million words that bundled up in his throat and choked him.

Jaskier, at last, turned his way and Geralt brightened. His silence could finally, finally end. 

However, Jaskier’s eyes seamlessly passed over him. The thickness in Geralt’s chest increased tenfold and a chill seeped into his bones. Jaskier had to have known he was there and yet, his eyes didn’t jump to him, he didn’t smile his way nor come bounding up with trouble on his tail. 

Geralt watched, mute, as Jaskier turned away and resumed flirting with the older guest. He watched as the countess pulled Jaskier away from the man with a smile and tugged him to a corner. 

They were standing closer to Geralt’s alcove and looked to be having a friendly discussion. Geralt would have been fooled had his mutated senses not told him otherwise. 

The Witcher could see her nails digging into Jaskier’s arm. Her sunny countenance and tone was at odds with her words. 

“I thought it was clear that you wouldn’t show up. Not here, Julian, you had promised. You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself at home and then up and disappear for decades after that. I know that freak kicked you off his trail but for you to come snivelling here was something I didn't expect", she gleefully said as her nails dug further into the bard’s arm, “Father was right, you truly are miserable.” 

Geralt had started in their direction, anger coloring his vision scarlet, but Jaskier (Julian?) and the Countess were interrupted by the Count.

“Dear! I see you found my present.”, the Count beamed, unaware of Jaskier’s pain or his wife’s anger, “Julian here was supposed to be a surprise, I hope you like it.” The bumbling idiot continued, Geralt wanted to pry the Countess’ fingers off his bard but when he took a step forward, Jaskier glanced up at him. 

The glance lasted barely a second but the message in his eyes halted Geralt. It shone clear among anger and unshed tears: leave off. 

Geralt was, once again, rooted to his spot. Jaskier had given him looks aplenty over the decades they’d known each other. His expressive features managed to convey so much even when he wasn’t speaking. He’d looked at Geralt with admiration, joy, occasional fear of whatever monster or angry lover was on his tail, sadness rarely, but never anger. The Witcher had seen him angry before, almost always on Geralt’s behalf, jumping into tirades or fights with just about anyone who insulted witchers or his music. He’d always become mock angry at Geralt whenever he would poke fun at Jaskier’s singing, but he’d never directed true anger at him. Not even on the mountain. 

So when stormy blue eyes glanced at him with vitriol, Geralt felt something inside crack. 

The small spark of happiness at finally being seen was crushed beneath Jaskier’s anger. The bard shrugged out of the countess’ grasp and apologised to the Count before rushing off into the crowd. Geralt watched as he slipped into a corridor and disappeared. And that was the last anyone saw of the bard. A servant scurried in to tell the Count that his “gift” had ridden off into the night.

 The witcher stood in his alcove for the rest of the night, trapped by memories and regret. 

*************

Roach noticed the empty spot too. 

She often turned to her right, where he once stood, expecting some senseless tune or sugar cube thrown her way.

Geralt ignored how her mane remained free of flowers that used to be sneakily tucked in. He ignored how she’d slow near fields and streams. He ignored how she canted her head upon hearing music, eagerly turning toward it.

He ignored how he had come to do the same things. 

*************

Yennefer’s lilac eyes had lightened considerably. 

Being with Ciri had clearly eased her worries and temper. She looked brighter. 

Geralt almost didn’t notice her.

He’d been so absorbed in ignoring the empty space that followed him everywhere that he missed the familiar tug. The magic that he so foolishly had used to twine his fate with hers had been pulling incessantly. However, his occupied mind barely took note. 

He would have walked right past had Ciri not barrelled into him, throwing her tiny arms around his neck and chirping about her summer. Geralt felt the ache in his chest give way to fondness as his child surprise went on about her discoveries. 

The two of them had stopped over in the town to acquire an ingredient that Yennefer had needed for her potions. Geralt tried his hardest to focus on Ciri, he nodded at her lively tales and new found powers but it was futile. 

Ever since the banquet, all he’d been able to think about was the storm trapped in cornflower blues.

Night fell and Ciri had tired herself into a deep slumber. The witcher felt love unfurl in his ribs, taking place next to the gaping emptiness that had made home there. He gently placed the princess in her bed and took a moment to drink in her peaceful face. 

Gone were the bruises under her eyes and the sick pallor of her skin. Her eyes were clear of any ghosts and her cheeks had a healthy flush. Geralt felt a sudden swell of happiness burst in him at the sight. 

“How long are you staying?”

Yennefer’s voice was quiet but when he turned to see her, there was a hint of that familiar ice in her velvet gaze. Another pair of angry eyes turned at him. Another one of Geralt’s mistakes. The Witcher had never apologised to her. He’d only managed to get her attention through Ciri and their interaction had been brief, she’d loved the little princess instantly and that was that. 

Geralt swallowed, he was tired. Tired of fucking up. Of hurting those he cared for. 

He thought back to the banquet once again. He replayed it every moment, thinking about how he should have chased the bard, how he should have moved, how he should have said something, anything to make amends. 

How he shouldn’t have said a word on that mountain. 

Yennefer was still staring at him, brows furrowed. Their pull had been electric once. Geralt used to feel his slow beating heart spark everytime she looked at him. He’d drop everything at a moment’s notice just to be seen by her. He’d do anything for her. Hurt anyone for her. 

And he had. 

Geralt sighed as another memory came, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. 

*************

Jaskier was nervous.

The Witcher didn’t need special senses to know that. He could see the tension lining the young man’s shoulders as he approached him. Geralt could hear his heart trying to escape his chest and furrowed his brow. He didn’t understand. Jaskier was always confident. He’d rush around Geralt, unafraid and bold. 

And yet as the bard approached his table, he could scent out the others' worries.

“So, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been travelling for some time and, uh, well I noticed we’re close to Oxenfurt.”

“Hmm.”

“I know you hate veering off the path and I don’t want to bother you to- I mean, Oxenfurt isn’t that far off and I was hoping, well, wondering, if we could, if you’d want to, ah, maybe. Maybe go there?”

Was that it? Geralt raised his eyes and saw that Jaskier seemed to be restless. Eyes darting this way and that. The Witcher may portray himself to be dense but he could tell that this was important in some way to the bard.

It was slightly off the path and it would take a week to get back on but Geralt couldn’t have refused Jaskier this. It was important.  This mattered to Jaskier.

The bard had brightened at his agreement and bounced around, more energetic than usual, all the way to Oxenfurt. They got a shared room and Jaskier had scurried off somewhere- claiming to go meet some old friends.  Geralt had wondered what his connection to this place was but all thoughts around the bard were quashed as a pull flared to life. 

Yennefer.

Yennefer was here. 

The Witcher felt his blood tingle, small sparks shooting up his spine. The witch was here. And without a thought he left their room and followed the tug. It led him to the edge of the city. She opened her door, likely feeling the pull, and as purple met golden, time melted. 

He hadn’t spared a thought to anyone else. 

It had been four (five? Geralt couldn’t tell) days before he went back. He was relaxed, weeks of stress had melted away by her magical touch. The Witcher went back to his room and was met with the stench of alcohol. His roommate was sprawled on the bed, clothes rumpled and the room a mess. Geralt’s things were neatly piled in a corner. 

“Hmm.”, Geralt pondered. He thought over waking up the bard, it was time to get back on the path. The sun was high in the sky and Jaskier would undoubtedly slow him down. Geralt left the sleeping human and instead dressed himself and strapped his weapons back on. 

The noise woke up Jaskier. He sat up groggily, and Geralt noticed that his eyes were lined with dark circles. The bard looked at him, uncomprehending. 

“Geralt?”, he sounded different, sad. Like he didn’t believe Geralt was there. The Witcher looked at him, calculating how much time would be lost in waiting. Jaskier’s eyes widened, “Oh it really is you. Ah, don’t worry about me, I'll be a minute.”

With that, the bard jumped out of bed, wincing at the movement, and rushed about the room. Geralt turned and left for the stables, he knew from experience that the troubadour would catch up. 

He’d barely settled on Roach when Jaskier came running. “Oh come on now, don’t tell me you were going to leave me behind.”, he panted, “First you leave me for days, how’s Yennefer by the way, and now you’re just about ready to abandon me?! Geralt, you really ought to work on your skills as a friend.” 

Jaskier’s voice had taken a sharper edge when mentioning Yennefer. Geralt frowned, Jaskier continued rambling but it sounded off. He didn’t put any of his usual passion into it and the slight scent of anger and pain clung to him. He barely met the Witcher's eyes and it confused Geralt. 

Reasoning it to be a result of a night with too much ale, Geralt paid no mind to the bard, instead thinking of velvet eyes. When Jaskier noticed this and shut up, Geralt had been happy to have silence, ignoring the way his companion stayed quiet for the rest of the week. 

*************

Anger renewed, Geralt shouldered past the witch and moved out of the room. He’d been so foolish. Always angry, always dense, always making the wrong fucking wishes. He wished for Yennefer, he wished for silence, and yet, despite having both he wasn’t happy.

“Geralt.”, it was softer. Concern marred Yennefer’s perfect, inhuman features. His breath caught and he wanted to tell her. Wanted (needed) someone to know. Needed someone else to see the empty spot that haunted him, following him everywhere. The hole that had made a home in his chest. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. He couldn’t pretend. 

And so he crumbled, falling to his knees. 

“I can’t sleep…”

That night the silence was less oppressive. 

*************

The next time they met wasn't a coincidence. 

Well, it was chance that had led Geralt to the inn. Roach had been tired, after leaving Ciri and Yennefer behind they had ridden for eight days straight without a town in sight. However the scent of chamomile that hit him upon entering the town was familiar. Geralt dutifully followed it to the inn. He could hear music inside and he knew. 

He wouldn’t make the same mistakes this time. 

Jaskier’s talent held everyone in place, not a soul turned to acknowledge Geralt. He couldn’t blame them. The entertainer wasn’t singing one of his lively melodies but something…angrier. His voice was powerful as it rose and carried his bleeding heart with it. Geralt was stuck, much like the banquet, pinned by the bard’s anger. 

He was wearing red. 

Anger, blood, heartbreak, love. Red. 

Jaskier finished his song and a hush fell onto the room. No one moved. Until finally, the bard broke his spell by moving off the stage. As if jolted awake, the crowd went back to chatting and making noise. Geralt shook himself out of his stupor and followed the bard into his booth. It was a dimly lit alcove, situated in a clever spot where one could see others without being noticed. It was there that Jaskier was nursing his drink. Geralt stood awkwardly across him. The Witcher waited for the bard to acknowledge him but apart from clutching his ale tighter, Jaskier didn’t look up. Ah right, he had asked for silence. Geralt wasn’t good with words but he had to try. He couldn’t fail again.

“Jaski-”

“Oye you!”, an angry voice shouted behind Geralt. 

Jaskier looked up, his eyes skipped the Witcher. As if there was nothing in front of him. Geralt felt his insides twist at the dismissal and turned to see a burly man approach them. He was a large man, around a head taller than Geralt, and his face was red with anger. 

“Were you the buffoon that fucked my son?”, he yelled, pointing a meaty finger at the bard. Geralt frowned, he was trying to make amends here, couldn't this burly idiot see that? He opened his mouth to send the angry father away but the bard was quicker: “I’m sorry, I’ve fucked quite a few sons here, which one was yours?”

The response shot a stab of irritation through Geralt's gut. He chose to ignore it.

 “Save the games, bard, Ronnie already told me everything. You used magic to seduce him and defile him!”, the father spat. At this point Jaskier had stood, he swayed forward, clearly drunk, and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. 

“Roooonnie! I remember him! I assure you sir, there was no magic involved there. In fact, I wasn't even the one to approach him. As far as defiling goes, your son's the one to defile me! I'd ask for comfort but your wife provided plenty of it last night”, the bard giggled. The man turned purple and was about to lunge at Jaskier when Geralt stepped in between. He bounced off of the Witcher and crashed into a table nearby. 

Other drunk patrons eagerly jumped into the fight and the father stood up, ready to lunge at Jaskier again, and Geralt began to intervene when he was pushed aside with surprising strength. He whirled to see that it was Jaskier that had pushed him away. He’d always known the bard was strong but this display was new. 

He still didn’t look at the witcher though. 

Even the father had been shocked by Jaskier’s push. He stood confused in front of the musician.

Jaskier was swaying less now and held up a single finger, ordering his assailant to wait, as he finished the remaining ale in his mug. As soon as he finished he threw the mug right at the man’s face. There was a feral glint in his eye and as the man lunged at him again, Geralt didn’t intervene. 

He was still stunned that Jaskier had pushed him away.

However, unlike with Geralt, Jaskier didn’t lift a finger against the man. To the witcher’s mounting horror, the bard allowed the blows to come. Other drunks joined the brawl and Jaskier continued doing nothing.

The drunk picked him up by the collar and was about to bash his head against the door when Geralt leapt at him. He pried his fingers off with more force than necessary and the drunk howled when two of his fingers snapped with a satisfying crunch. The rest backed away at the sound. Geralt wanted to advance on them, crush a couple more fingers but the scent of blood hit him hard and sharp.

Jaskier was hurt.

Geralt turned to Jaskier only to find him gone. There was a trail of blood leading outside and the stench of pain followed it. Geralt hurried after it and made it in time to see Jaskier struggle onto a horse. 

“Jaskier-”, he cut himself off with a curse as the injured bard rode off. 

He jumped onto Roach and urged her to follow. She picked up on his emotions and sped down the road that Jaskier had taken. He was furious, at himself for freezing yet again and at Jaskier for not fighting back. Geralt knew he was strong enough to block at least a couple of the blows but the bard had stood there, unmoving as the crowd circled him.

Why didn’t he stop any of it? 

Geralt’s mind was torn, he tried to remember if there were other bruises marring the bard’s skin. Had he been hurting himself? Geralt swallowed his anger at the thought of anything hurting Jaskier- he’d been the one to start it after all.  

Jaskier’s path led Geralt outside the town to a small hut. Jaskiers grey horse stood outside and as Geralt approached the hut, the grey gelding snorted at him. He pushed the door open and there Jaskier was. He was sitting by the window, moonlight spilling in, clutching his side. His arm was bent at an odd angle and there was a gash on his head.  

What worried Geralt more is that the bard made no sound.

He carefully approached his friend, holding his hands up in surrender. Jaskier didn’t even glance at the Witcher. Geralt could hear his heartbeats and the bard’s eyes were open. They were fixed at some point in the ceiling. 

Geralt knelt across him and Jaskier shrunk away. He pulled his knees in further, trying to keep himself out of reach. The bard didn't even glance at him. Even in his drunken state, he viewed Geralt as a threat. It stung. A bitter taste filled Geralt’s mouth at the sight of Jaskier trying to hide himself. He wanted, desperately, to fix their relationship but now was not the time. 

“Jaskier, you’re hurt. I just want to help you, allow me this.”, Geralt tried to grasp the bard, only for the other to shrug him off. Geralt grit his teeth, Jaskier was hurt, he had to help him. 

“Jaskier, I… let me help. I won’t talk, I promise. Till tomorrow morning, I won’t say a word. Just allow me to help...please.”

Maybe it was the promise, maybe it was the plea, Geralt didn’t know what convinced Jaskier but he stopped struggling and went limp. His gaze still averted the Witcher but he didn’t care, relieved to be helping. He rubbed a small amount of potion on Jaskier’s lips and dressed his wounds. He was gentle and when the potion knocked the musician out, he placed him on the bed. A quick Igni to light a fire and Geralt sat next to the bed. Determined to stay guard. 

The relief he’d felt at touching Jaskier, at the small acknowledgement of his presence, had replaced the hollow ache in Geralt’s chest for a while. Being next to Jaskier and seeing that he was alright was the tipping point for Geralt and he fell asleep for the first time in a long, long time. 

He awoke to an empty hut and the grey gelding from last night was gone. Geralt stared at the empty space on the bed, sorrow making his mouth taste like ash. He wondered if he would be able to mend this. If he'd ever be allowed near enough to do anything again. The space he had begged fate for had been given to him. Geralt continued on the path, silence deafening his senses.

His stupid, foolish wish had been granted. 

Chapter Text

When Julian was a boy, his father had a nasty habit of testing his tolerance. 

It began when he was seven. He’d been summoned to his father’s study and little Julian had rushed, excited to sit on his father’s lap and listen to stories. His father was kind and full of life, and Julian got all his artistic talent from him. His father laughed often and always had a merry twinkle in his eye.

That day was different.

His father hadn’t smiled at him. All the warmth that lined his features had disappeared. The man that gazed down at Julian was a stranger. The stranger with his father’s face and voice asked him to extend his arm and trusting, loving, foolish little Julian had held it out dutifully.

Prick, prick, prick. 

Small pinpricks of pain burst along the boy's arm. His father gripped the bloodied letter opener in his other hand, he’d hit the boy’s arm with almost medical precision. Julian had cried at first; such pain was new to him. He wriggled, trying to escape, and when that failed he begged for the first time in his life. 

His father held his arm tight and continued despite his son’s cries. 

“Pain is a constant, Julian. Learn to bear it now, you’ll thank me someday”, his father said. He finally let him go when Julian’s arms were covered in angry red welts, blood welling up from some. The boy ran, confused and hurt. He held his swelling arm and rushed to his nanny. There was no relief offered, the healers were ordered to ignore him, and Julian only remembered crying the rest of the night.

Soon enough, his tolerance increased and his father would increase his tests accordingly. Lashes, whips, flames, magic. The mage his father employed was cold and methodical. Julian was terrified of her. Julian hated her. 

(They’d never leave scars- the mage would heal it all. Sometimes when Jaskier laid on a makeshift bed under the stars- far, far from home- he wondered if he’d dreamed it all. A cruel nightmare he cooked up to give himself a good enough reason to leave) 

Despite the torture, nothing ever hurt Julian more than the first burst of pricks along his arm. The moment when his father had turned from loving and kind to cruelly holding down his son’s arm and attacking it with a fierceness unlike him. 

Prick, prick, prick

“Pain is a constant.”

Prick, prick, prick.

“Learn to bear it. I’m making you stronger.”

Prick, prick, prick

“You will thank me for this, Julian.”

As Jaskier slipped down the mountain, he thought back to those tests. A familiar pain shot up his arm and Jaskier wanted to check his arm for angry welts even though he knew the skin would turn up clear. He’d run away to escape the pricks and yet here it was, bursting in short, sharp pain. It wasn’t just on his arm anymore though. Jaskier felt it spread up his arm and towards his chest. Phantom pricks bloomed across his body. 

He blinked away angry tears and scratched absentmindedly at his arm. Jaskier didn’t need to focus on his past right now. He just had to keep moving. He got away from his father, he can get away from Gera-

Jaskier’s breath hitched.

From the butcher… he needed to get away from the Butcher. Jaskier ignored the sounds of the forest around him and pushed forward. He will not turn back. 

There was nothing worth turning back for. 

*************

Jaskier spends the first night terrified of what lurks in the dark. 

He’d spent enough time with the Butcher to know of the horrors that creep around the Continent. Images flash in his mind as he huddles closer to his small fire. Bloodied tentacles, sword-breaking teeth, red-rimmed eyes- he’d seen enough carnage to be rightfully shaken. He shoves his hands closer to the flames, the monsters were terrifying but there were worse things out there. 

Nothing scares him more than the possibility of the Butcher coming back.

*************

Sometimes, Jaskier would muse about the past. Pick apart the moments and analyse all the ways in which he was being foolish. And he’d been very, very foolish for the past twenty years.

*************

The bard was tired. 

He’d been travelling with the Witcher for the past three weeks and it had been exhausting. His companion kept a brutal pace on his horse and gave nary a thought to Jaskier’s poor legs. He wasn’t an idiot- he knew the other was trying to get rid of him. 

He’d often pull ahead with Roach or try to snarl at him with his menacing teeth or ignore him for hours on end. None of those tricks worked on Jaskier despite the other’s consistent attempts.

Unfortunately for the Witcher, Jaskier outmatched anyone when it came to being stubborn. 

And so despite the gory monsters and the brutal pace, Jaskier kept walking at the other’s side. He couldn’t help it- the Witcher had been the perfect muse. He was full of battle glory and stories and Jaskier was ready to suck up every little detail. His mind was bursting with tunes and lyrics, ever since he met the other. So he bore his companion’s grunts and snarls and kept walking. He needed to watch the Witcher’s story unfold. 

He knew that eventually, someday, it would be worth something. 

*************

“Julian?”

Jaskier startled at the voice. He hadn’t been called that name since…

( You will thank me for this, Julian)

The man was dressed finely and was squinting at Jaskier from two tables over… wait. Jaskier knew him. “Oh shit” he tried- and failed- to hide his face from his idiot brother-in-law, but it was too late. The man beamed and approached the bard with his arms wide open. 

“Julian! It really is you! I can’t believe it.”, the other boomed loudly as he crossed the inn, ignoring the looks the other patrons sent him. Ivan was quick to wrap Jaskier in a hug, letting go just as quickly to roughly pat the bard on the back. “Oh, I can’t believe you’re here. And at such a perfect time too!” 

Jaskier winced, Ivan’s loud voice was doing no favours to his hangover. 

“Right…hello Ivan.” 

“Ha! I simply cannot believe my luck. You know, just the other day I was asking about you. You see, my lovely wife has been feeling slightly down these days. Always sighing and spending her time in the garden. You’ve seen the garden, yes? I planted the most wonderful roses there recently and…”

There was no stopping Ivan once he started on one of his rambles. Jaskier usually could keep up with Ivan’s energy, however, he was exhausted from the past month to truly match Ivan. Jaskier sighed, trying to come up with a polite way to say fuck off when Ivan suddenly clapped a hard hand on his back. 

“Oh, I just had the most marvellous idea! How about you come to tonight’s banquet and surprise her!” 

What?  

“Er…surprise who?”

Ivan laughed, the noise thrummed against Jaskier’s skull painfully. “Who do you think? You’re still just as funny as you used to be.” The Count continued laughing before getting up in one swift movement. “Come to the estate tonight, it’ll do the both of you some good to see each other again.”, Ivan smiled before leaving Jaskier with a pounding headache. 

“Fuck.” Jaskier swore to himself. He couldn’t go meet his sister. Not in the state he was in. 

Especially not after how their goodbye had gone. 

*************

“You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question. 

Evelyn wasn’t the type that asked questions anyway. She was sharper than a whip and knew every little thing about everyone. She smiled at Julian from the doorway, arms delicately folded and icy fury in her eyes. Evelyn wasn’t the type to truly show her emotions either. 

He loved her, truly. They were each other’s solace in the storm of their father’s relentless torture. She’d always comfort him after a particularly harsh “lesson” with a stolen sweet and a song. At least, she had until Julian was sixteen and their father separated them for different lessons.

“Coward.” 

Her smile had barely a crack in it, perfected by their mother’s unforgiving training. Julian winced at the cold tone of her insult but continued to pack his clothes into the little rucksack. 

Evelyn grew angrier at the silence, “Do you think you’ll survive? Out there? Look at you! You’re a spoiled little rich brat, the people out there would chew you up and spit you out within the first week. You’d-”

“Come with me.” 

It was barely a whisper but Julian knew she heard him. She had frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth still stuck in its sardonic smile. Evelyn stood still and Julian took his chance, 

“We can leave together. We’ll go somewhere he can’t reach us. I know it’ll be hard but you and I can do it, Eve, I know it.”

Her mask crumbled and at once her smile slipped away, instead replaced by her hurt and anger. She glared at him, unshed tears glinting from eyes so similar to his own.

“What?”

“I mean it. Come with me.” 

“No.”

Her reply was quick and laced with venom. Julian opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off. 

“No, Julian. No. This is lunacy. Do you realise how fortunate we are? Our wealth and name aren’t easy to come by. So what if father tests us? He’s just trying to make us stronger, can’t you see that? There’s nothing out there but monsters and savages. At least here we are safe and loved-”

“Loved?!” Julian's voice rose, “What love? He tortures us daily with whips, knives, and cursed magic! He barely speaks to us. He’s marrying you off to that idiot Ivan! What fucking love is that?” 

He moved across the room and gripped his sister by the shoulders. 

“I’ll be a bard. The greatest there ever was, and I want you there. At my side. Eve, please, I know you hate him too. You hate his tests and Ivan too. I've seen it!’

Evelyn laughed high, desperate laughter and she roughly pushed Julian back. 

“Oh, you fool.  A bard? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll throw all of this away to run off and sing for coins?! And take me with you? Enough, Julian. You made your point. Put your things back and go to sleep. I’ll see if Elise can heal your mind tomorrow morning.”

She turned away, finality lining her features. She wouldn’t leave this house and neither would her brother. Julian’s stomach sank, and dread swirled in his gut as he prepared himself. 

“No.”

She turned back.  

“I’m not staying.”

“You’re leaving me behind?” Her voice was small. Julian stared at his older sister, her shoulders were drawn in and there was a fine tremble to her chin. He looked away, trying to keep his resolve from crumbling. 

They’d made a promise, once. Julian was nine and Evelyn was eleven and they were both covered in bruises. Julian had slipped his hand into her bigger one and promised that he wouldn’t leave. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Eve.”

The hit was swift and it caught Julian off guard. The shock of it was what made tears sting in his eyes.  He blinked them away and looked back at Evelyn. For a second he thought he saw shock cross her features but it was quickly replaced by a calm, collected mask. 

“Fine. Leave me. At least I’m loyal. At least I love our family enough to stay. Father loves us, I know it. Mother too. I thought that you loved…that you loved me too but I was wrong. ” 

She stepped forward, cold anger colouring her next words. 

“Just make sure that it’s worth something, Julian. This dream of yours better be worth something if you’re tossing me aside for it.”

Evelyn slipped out of the room and Julian stared at the empty spot for a long while before turning away. He ignored the phantom pricks that flared to life as guilt sat heavily on his shoulders. He made his choice. 

*************

She was still just as beautiful as before. Older and colder, traces of his father’s calculating anger seeped into her features, but beautiful. Jaskier had convinced himself it would just be a quick hello and then he’d leave. Anxiety niggled at his senses so he did what he did best. 

Drank and flirted. 

His charm drew quite a few guests into his radius and Jaskier was quick to distract himself by idly flirting with the others. After a couple more drinks, he felt quite like his old self. The pain of the past few months melted away and he floated through the crowd, happily drinking and joking with the guests. 

He’d been flirting with one of the older men when he felt a gaze on his back, he ignored it for a bit but after a while, it had become distracting. Anxiety slammed heavily into his ribs- was it, Evelyn? 

Jaskier turned to skim the crowd for his sister, eyes skipping over the various guests and…oh. The Butcher was here. His gaze continued to travel over the crowd- ignoring the Butcher. The other had wished him away and Jaskier frankly couldn’t care less about the Butcher at the moment. Anger bloomed in his gut in slow heat. He knew the Butcher was watching but he wouldn't play the fool. Not this time. 

His sister hadn’t seen him yet. Well then. He turned back to the older gentleman and resumed flirting. He continued to ignore the gaze that was firmly pinned to his back. He was so focused on ignoring it that Jaskier didn’t notice Evelyn approach him. 

“ May I borrow him?”

Her face was the picture of demure politeness but Jaskier could see the rage locking her jaw. She grabbed Jaskier’s arm in a painful grip and twisted him through the crowd, dragging them closer to a secluded corner. 

Her nails bit into his skin, no doubt aiming to hurt him, but she knew something like this wouldn’t hurt. Father had put them through worse. The pain was faint and Jaskier barely took notice of it.

“Was it worth it?” 

The question struck Jaskier mute. Had it been worth it? To leave her and the estate behind? To go chasing after one that tossed him away like he was nothing?

“No.” Jaskier’s reply was quiet. 

Her smile grew wider, to any other she’d look like the picture of joy, but Jaskier noted the way her smile barely reached her eyes and how her teeth clenched tightly. She was disappointed, he could see it. Evelyn glared at Jaskier, nails breaking skin and digging into his flesh. 

“I thought it was clear that you wouldn’t show up. Not here, Julian, you had promised. You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself at home and then up and disappear for decades after that. I know that freak kicked you off his trail but for you to come snivelling here was something I didn't expect" The words cut deep. Jaskier looked down. What had he anticipated?

Happiness? Impossible. 

“Father was right, you truly are miserable.” 

At the mention of their father, tears sprung to Jaskier’s eyes. He swallowed a sob and blinked harshly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see the Butcher glaring in their direction. 

Oh great.

His mutated senses must have heard everything. 

Shame roiled heavily in his belly, the other must see him for what he was. A pathetic idiot. 

“Dear! I see you found my present.”, Ivan walked towards them with a smile on his face. He didn’t notice Evelyn’s anger. “Julian here was supposed to be a surprise, I hope you like it.” the Count continued. Jaskier looked away from Ivan’s awful smile to see the Butcher start in their direction.

Absolutely not. 

Jaskier does not need to be saved. Especially by him. The slow anger from earlier boiled over and crashed into his senses. He was not some damsel in distress that needed to be saved. He glanced at the Butcher, sending a clear message. The other stopped in his tracks, looking trapped. 

Well, this was a disaster. Time to go. 

Jaskier shrugged out of his sister’s grip, tired of playing the cowering twit. He was tired of being hurt by the people he loved. He whispered an apology to Ivan, the buffoon didn’t know what he was in for. Evelyn’s anger was ugly and poor Ivan will have to deal with that later. 

It used to be Jaskier’s job, but not anymore. 

With a final glance at Evelyn’s beautiful, demure (disappointed, angry) face, Jaskier turned and rushed off. 

She had turned out to be a perfect copy of their father, both in cunning and cruelty. 

And Jaskier has had enough of cruelty. 

*************

Jaskier runs out of coin rather quickly. He immediately begins to use his charm to attract lover after lover that would allow him into their beds for the night. When he isn’t trying to use his legion of lovers to gain shelter for the night, he uses them to pay for his ale. It’s almost too easy. A wink here, a pretty word there and Jaskier’s mug is overflowing with ale from the flattered waitress or guest. Guilt always churned in his stomach as he flirted with the umpteenth person to get some ale. 

He washed away all the guilt he felt by downing the mead. 

His tolerance was rather impressive for a human, so when his vision went from pleasantly hazy to blurry, he knew something was wrong. The man he’d flirted with to get the drinks looked unsurprised at Jaskier’s sudden incoherence. Shit, it must have been spiked. How many mugs did he have? Four? Five?

He tried to get up and leave but the other man had risen swiftly and grabbed Jaskier’s arm.

“Yer comin’ with me, love.”

Jaskier struggled uselessly against his attacker but the drink made the world spin fast and his body felt sluggish. He tried to open his mouth and yell for help but all that came out was a garble. He used the last of his quickly fading strength to twist out of the man’s grasp and fall heavily onto the floor, attracting the attention of the other patrons. 

“Jaskier?”

Oh, the spiked ale must be taking full effect now cause Jaskier could see Yennefer and the princess of Cintra coming in to rescue him. Yennefer punched the man squarely in the jaw and the princess approached him. She brought her palms to his face and he saw magic pulse out.

Magic…

Danger!

Fear stabbed through him. Jaskier tried to push himself away. Magic! No, he was being tortured! No! 

“Jaskier!” Yennefer’s concerned voice rang out. The spiked ale was giving him a bad, bad dream, wasn’t it? He had to get away from the pulsing magic. It would hurt him. He kicked his legs out and tried to push himself further away. “Jaskier, stop. You’re safe.”, her voice was stern. 

No, he’s not.

He tried to make his mouth work to tell Dream Yennefer to not use magic. 

“n-nooo… mmmm…”, his tongue felt swollen. 

The Cintran princess- Cirilla? Cecilia? - placed her cold palms on Jaskier’s face again and mumbled some spell. The last thing Jaskier remembers thinking before passing out was a chant saying: no, no, no, please,  not magic, I’m sorry, please. Not magic.

*************

Julian first met Elise when he was ten. 

His father had brought the young mage into the study and introduced her to his children. Julian’s first instinct was to be excited. A mage! One that could perform magic! He’d read about mages and their miracles in books before. However, his excitement was quickly quashed when he glanced at his father’s face. 

It had been three years since his “training” had started and Julian knew to be wary of whatever his father chose to share with him. Especially when it was new people. He looked back at the mage. 

She held her head high, back straight and posture perfect. She was dressed in a simple, deep green robe and when she looked at Julian, the other boy felt goosebumps rise along his arms. Her eyes were blue and devoid of life. 

Evelyn was first. 

Father made her sit at the desk. The mage stood behind her and gently brought two fingers close to his sister’s temples. Evelyn’s eyes were closed and the pair of them looked almost peaceful. Julian’s father pulled the little boy onto his lap as he sat across the pair and they watched as small sparks of magic fizzed red and circled Evelyn’s head. 

“Begin.”

The order cut through the peace and suddenly the small sparks of magic grew bigger and Evelyn began screaming. Julian immediately tried to reach out for her but his father’s grip was strong and he held the boy down. Julian kicked his little legs and hit his tiny fists against his father’s much larger and stronger body, “Let me go! You’re hurting her!”

“Stay still.”

Julian didn’t listen, Evelyn’s screams drowned out all noise in the room. He pushed harder against his father. Tears sprang to Julian’s eyes as he watched Evelyn sob and plead for mercy. Tears flowed endlessly and her face had gone red. She hiccupped, unable to move. The sparks of magic drove into her head and fizzled in angry, red sparks. Elise barely moved a muscle. 

“Overcome this.”, his father’s order was cold. Uncaring. 

Anger burned red in Julian’s vision and he beat his fists harder onto his father’s arms. He began to claw and scratch at the older’s arms. Before he could wriggle more though, his father grabbed his chin and forced his head to turn and look at Evelyn. 

“She’s doing it.”, he whispered harshly.

Julian stopped. His sister had gone quiet, her chin still trembled and the occasional tear still slipped down her cheek but she didn’t make a sound. The magic slowed down and the dreaded witch finally pulled her fingers away from Evelyn’s head. 

Above him, Julian’s father beamed. “Good job.”, the praise was short but Evelyn’s face lit up. Julian knew how she felt. Being praised by their father felt like a thousand birds were trapped in their chest, making them float. 

Suddenly, Julian was being lifted and dropped into the seat across the desk. His father looked down on him, “Overcome this.” The order was short and then Julian’s world was enveloped in pain. 

He could feel the magic digging under his skull and shooting through his nerves, it felt like thorns were growing from inside him, prickling under his skin, itching to get out. He screamed. The magic dug further in, carving out a space for itself in his chest and twining painfully around his spine. Julian tried to move his hands but they were pinned. He screamed his throat raw- begging to be let go, promising to be better.

“Overcome it, boy.”

He switched tactics. Pleading with Elise to stop. To just let him go. He sobbed, trying to push himself away from the thorny pain but there was no relief. Magic thrummed heavily under his skin and sliced through his insides.

 It took Julian two hours to finally stop crying and get himself quiet and endure the pain. 

At once, the pain receded. His father scowled at him, Evelyn was sitting on his lap with pity swimming in her eyes. Julian stared at his father, hoping for some praise, some reward. 

“Pathetic.”

The word lanced right through him. 

Julian swallowed his sob, not wanting to seem more pathetic. Fire still licked along his limbs and joints but he contained his sniffles. Elise barely glanced at him as she left the study, he hated her. He hated all mages and magic. He hopes she never comes back.

Little did he know, that was just the beginning. 

*************

“He should know.”

Jaskier blinked, the last dredges of the awful memory receding from his drugged mind. His vision swam lazily. He seemed to be in bed. He laid still, trying to push against the heavy, thick sleep that still blanketed his mind. 

“Geralt doesn’t need to know.”

Jaskier’s brows furrowed. 

Geralt was here?

Sleep won the fight and Jaskier allowed himself to be tugged back into the darkness. 

Geralt…

*************

The Witcher was being nice to him. 

This was new. 

It had been two weeks after Oxenfurt and the hurt of the other’s rejection had still been fresh. Jaskier had been excited at first when his companion had agreed to go off the Path. Hope had bloomed in his chest like fresh flowers that maybe, just maybe, he mattered to the Witcher. 

He’d left the room to meet his old friends, hope still blooming in his chest. 

When he’d heard some others gossiping about a velvet-eyed witch that was dwelling at the edge of Oxenfurt, Jaskier felt roots of dread curl around his ribs, squashing the flowers and squeezing his lungs. He’d excused himself and rushed back to his room, but he already knew what was waiting for him. He burst into the room, adrenaline rushing in his blood from the short run back, but it was empty. 

Geralt was gone. 

Yennefer had won him. Again. 

The rest of the week had been a blur- Jaskier spent his time either with a partner or drinking. Or both. Five days passed in a haze and Jaskier awoke to see a frowning Geralt looming over him. The other turned and began to strap the last of his weapons on- preparing for the Path. 

At that, Jaskier jolted out of bed, he knew from experience the other wouldn’t hesitate to leave him. And the bard can’t allow that. So he ignored the pounding headache and the complaints of his empty stomach and pushed himself in a run. He caught up to his companion before the other could take off on his horse. 

“Oh come on now, don’t tell me you were about to leave me behind.”, Jaskier panted. He immediately begins on one of his rambles to distract Geralt from how the bard was limping and how he was walking slower than usual. His effort had been for nought, though. The Witcher hadn’t listened to a word and barely noticed Jaskier. 

Sadness pierced through the Bard and he stayed quiet for the rest of the week. Geralt didn’t notice. 

So when the Witcher approached him with a- was that a smile?- and sat next to him, Jaskier should have known something was amiss. They had stopped at a small village and Jaskier had decided to allow his companion to collect his contract and work in peace, he quietly slipped away to sing at the local inn to earn coin and shelter for the night. 

Sadness twisted further in his chest when Geralt hardly looked away from Roach to acknowledge that Jaskier was leaving. 

Jaskier was a good entertainer on most days. 

This was not one of those days.

He could barely sing his cheerful tunes and after the fourth sad song, the waitress skipped over to the bard and asked him to take a seat. “Please, you’ve sung enough bard.”, her smile was strained at the corners and Jaskier complied. 

Another bard took over and as her soft music filled the room, Jaskier swirled his drink, watching the mead swish gently as he thought back to the past two weeks. He had been an idiot. Bringing Geralt to Oxenfurt was a mistake. Jaskier had just wanted to share a piece of his past with his companion. He had hoped that the other would notice that. That he would see Jaskier in his element.  

It didn’t matter, anyway. Jaskier knew he was doomed the moment he heard Yennefer was there. 

He could never match up to the witch. Melitele, he wasn’t sure if he matched up to Roach when it came to Geralt. If the other had a hierarchy for his preferred companions, Jaskier knew he would be at the very bottom. 

He’d known this when he‘d begun the journey. He knew it would be difficult and had gleefully accepted the challenge. He sang songs, told tales, cheerfully took in every detail about the other’s hunts and spun it for the world to hear. He’d hoped that after a year he could’ve been slightly higher on the list. And yet.

None of it mattered.

He couldn’t relax Geralt the same way the Witch did. He could hardly pull a smile out of the other, unlike Yennefer. It often took him an hour or so of stories to get any reaction. More often than not, the reaction would be a knit brow or a singular grunt that signalled Geralt was listening. Jaskier could have a room laughing and cheerful within minutes, he enjoyed the Witcher for being the challenge that he was.

 However, it wore him down to see Yennefer achieve what he couldn’t so easily. It had taken her a day to get Geralt to willingly bind himself to her whereas it took Jaskier six months to get Geralt to grudgingly accept that he had a new travel companion.

Jaskier huffed, tipping the mug into his mouth, Geralt was an ass. 

Honeyed mead poured into his throat and pleasantly dulled the world’s sharp edges. He idly watched as the crowd thinned slowly as time passed. Soon enough, Jaskier was one of the four people left sitting in the room. He rested his head on the table. The sadness had washed over him and left him bored. That’s when Geralt entered. 

Jaskier ignored the urge to perk up at the sight of the other. He knew the other would likely glance at Jaskier to ensure the other was alive and then go to his room. Geralt glanced at him, turned and walked in his direction. 

Hm? 

The Bard sat up straight, analysing his companion. Geralt sat across the other with a glint in his eye. The Witcher was smiling at the bard and his shoulders were relaxed. Huh, maybe he ran into Yen again, Jaskier dismissed, relaxing in his seat. 

“Hullo Ger’lt”, the bard slurred, gently resting his head back down on the table. He knew the other would wrinkle his nose at Jaskier’s drunken stench and grunt out a “hmm” and leave despite his good mood. 

A few moments passed with the pair of them sitting at the table. Jaskier still resting his head on the crook of his elbow as Geralt sat across him.

“You don’t seem awfully talkative today.”, the comment wasn’t laced with Geralt’s usual dry humour. It almost sounded…concerned? Jaskier laughed at the thought. He knew better than that. Hurt washed over him anew at the revelation and he sat up slowly, not meeting Geralt’s eyes. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Witcher. 

“No. ‘m tired.”, he looked around the room, noting that it was emptier than before. The gentle effects of the alcohol were slowly being washed away by the presence of his companion. 

“Oh, do you need me to carry you to our room?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to the other. Was he under an enchantment? Had Yennefer finally snapped and tossed Geralt under some spell that made him…nicer? 

The Witcher stared back earnestly. Jaskier shrunk in his seat, unaware of how to deal with an earnest, not-a-prick Geralt. The bard thrust his hand onto Geralt’s forehead, “Are you alright? Did Yennefer hit you with some weird spell? Blink twice if you’re not okay!”

Geralt laughed (laughed?!) and he grabbed the other’s wrist gently and tugged it away from his face. “I simply am in a lighter mood, Bard. Why? Would you rather I go back to our usual routine?”Jaskier was quick to shake his head, unwilling to see the mirth slide off Geralt’s face. The other’s smile widened at that. 

“Right. Um. I take it your contract went well.”, Jaskier had no clue what he was saying- he was enraptured by the lightness lining Geralt’s features. His mouth wasn’t a tightly pressed line but a soft, gentle curve graced it. His shoulders weren’t tightly drawn in and ready for action, instead, he looked relaxed in his seat. Such a sight was rare and Jaskier would savour every minute of it.

At the mention of the contract, a cloud briefly passed over Geralt’s face, Jaskier had barely registered it when the other chuckled a deep laugh. “One could say that, yes.”

Jaskier wasn’t one to waste chances. 

“What monster did you hunt? Was it difficult? How many claws and teeth did it have?”

He drummed his fingers against the table, excitement making him antsy, perhaps Geralt would finally tell him more than the bare details of his hunts. His companion’s smile faltered for a split second. “Slow down.” the other chuckled, placing his hand on Jaskier’s, “The hunt is over now, isn’t that what matters?”

“I need to know more! How else will I tell the world of your tales?”

“To begin with, it wasn’t a monster I was hunting. Just a misunderstood creature, I put him back where he belongs.”

Jaskier’s mind ran with a thousand different ways he could twist it into a song. His thoughts were cut with an undercurrent of happiness. The Witcher was oddly pleasant and it lightened the load of hurt that had been pressing down on Jaskier’s ribs.

 Across from him Geralt suddenly stiffened. He turned toward the door, tension lining his shoulders and his hand reached toward his weapon. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier knew that tone well, danger was near. He moved to stand up but the other gripped his wrist. The door burst open and in came a bloodied, feral looking…Geralt? 

The bard’s blood froze. 

“Jaskier, listen to me, you must leave. Now.”

It was futile. Jaskier was rooted to his spot. Geralt was standing in front of Jaskier holding an arm in front of the bard. The other Geralt snarled and launched himself at Geralt. They crashed into the wall and Jaskier watched as the two Witchers grappled in a wild fight. 

The bloodier one pulled his fist back and punched Geralt in the face. Geralt kicked Other Geralt in the ribs and the other pulled him down with him. Jaskier stood, mute, dread curdling in his gut as his mind slowly worked through the evening. 

“Jaskier! Get out of here!” the bloodier one (Other Geralt?)  yelled at him. 

“Jaskier, leave! Please!”

This jolted Jaskier out of his muted horror. 

The two Witchers crashed heavily into the table next to Jaskier and the bard made a split-second decision. He grabbed the nearest chair and lifted it high above his head and swung down with force, solidly hitting the Witcher. 

It didn’t send the Witcher flying but the shock of it had given the other advantage and soon the bloodier Geralt had pinned the monster to the ground. Geralt (no, it wasn’t Geralt, Jaskier lamented) stared up from the ground, hurt shining in his golden eyes. 

“Jaskier, why?”

Guilt pierced through Jaskier at the tender way the other spoke his name. He looked away. He didn’t have the heart to tell the other that Jaskier had known who the real Geralt was as soon as he had burst into the room, bloodied and snarling. That he may have caught on before that when the other had reached out to him with smiles and soft touches. That he’d played along because the lie was sweet. Sweet enough to melt away weeks (months, years) of pain. 

Geralt hauled the other up and dragged him out, briefly glancing over at Jaskier to ensure the other wasn’t hurt. Moments later he entered the Inn again and Jaskier felt shame burn bright red on his face. He had fallen, briefly,  for Fake Geralt’s tricks. Geralt would think he is a pathetic idiot. 

“Hm. Thank you.”

The Witcher patted him on the shoulder and strutted ahead to their room. Jaskier was struck mute for the second time that night. Shame and guilt slowly gave way to sunlight that filled his bones with a lightness that Jaskier hadn’t felt in weeks. He rushed behind the Witcher, already rambling about how Fake Geralt had better manners and how Geralt needed to take tips. He was met with the usual glare but its heat was weak and the corners of Geralt’s mouth were slightly turned up.

The lie had been sweet but nothing could beat the real thing, Jaskier mused.