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Chapter Text

Ciri, once again, found herself in the depths of solitude, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of frustration and regret. The weight of her stubbornness and the growing uncertainty of her circumstances bore down on her heart, making it heavy. It all began innocuously, a few weeks ago, with a disagreement with Geralt. She had dismissed it then, but the repercussions had morphed into a labyrinth of complexity she hadn't anticipated.

It hadn't even been a real argument. Just a difference of opinion while they were on the road, which might have seemed trivial to anyone else. But Ciri felt like her mentor was underestimating her capabilities—like he was still treating her as a child. They were travelling together when Geralt, in his usual cautious manner, told her to stay at the campsite while he hunted a particularly dangerous monster. It was his way of keeping her safe, but Ciri, desperate to prove she could hold her own, was annoyed. Why was it that Geralt's instinct was to shield her every time danger loomed as if she hadn't been training for years?

Despite Geralt's warning that the monster was beyond her capabilities, Ciri was resolute in her determination to prove him wrong. As he departed, she seized her sword and ventured into the forest, ready to demonstrate that she was a capable witcher in her own right.

Yet, the forest, with its labyrinthine paths and deceitful shadows, quickly swallowed Ciri. As time ticked by, panic began to claw at her. She possessed a Xenovox, a magical communication device gifted by Yennefer, but her pride shackled her from using it to call for aid. The thought of admitting her need for rescue was a bitter pill she couldn't swallow.

After wandering through the woods, Ciri emerged in a small village at the forest's edge. She hoped Geralt would discover her there, but her intuition warned her that remaining in one place for too long might attract unwanted attention. 

Driven by her unwavering determination to find Geralt, she couldn't bear the idea of him arriving only to find her vulnerable and waiting. Consequently, she kept travelling from village to village, always keeping an ear out for any indication of Geralt or any news of his whereabouts.

After a long journey, she arrived in Kerack, a bustling region famous for its vibrant port. Eventually, she ended up in Lettenhove, a place she had never visited. Whenever Geralt was asked about the town, he seemed melancholy, and now that she was there, she understood why. Lettenhove had an air of sorrow that hung over it, like a story half-told. Ciri couldn't help but feel empathy for whatever had left its mark on Geralt's heart.

As she wandered through the narrow streets, Ciri felt the weight of her decision pressing down on her. She knew she should have trusted Geralt and used the Xenovox to call for help. However, as she stood in this unfamiliar place, she only hoped that her stubbornness hadn't caused a rift too deep to mend. 

The road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, and she could only hope that Geralt was somewhere out there, searching for her just as she was searching for him, adding to the suspense and anticipation of their reunion.

Ciri moved stealthily through the shadows, her footsteps as light as a whisper. She had been wandering through the town's labyrinthine streets for days, and her sense of direction grew fainter with each turn. Hunger was gnawing at her belly, her legs were aching, and her usually sharp senses were dulled by exhaustion. What had seemed like an adventurous escape now felt like a dangerous mistake. She was alone, disoriented, and dangerously close to getting caught.

The narrow streets were like a maze, with dark alleys and overhanging eaves. The buildings looked old, tightly crammed, with shutters closed against the cold night air. Ciri moved swiftly between them, scanning the ground for scraps or anything useful. As she ducked behind a stack of barrels, she heard the distinct clinking of armour and the shuffle of heavy boots approaching.

"Hey there!" A voice shattered the silence. Ciri's heart skipped a beat as two guards carrying torches approached. "What are you doing here? This is private property!"

Ciri was frozen, her mind racing with fear and confusion. She knew the guards had caught her, but she wasn't sure what to do next. She could try to run, but they had already seen her. 

She could try to fight them off but was exhausted and outnumbered. As the guards advanced towards her, their torches casting harsh light across the cobblestones, Ciri felt a surge of panic. She knew she had to act quickly, but before she could even react, one of the guards grabbed her by the arm with an unyielding grip.

"Let's see what the Viscount has to say about this," the guard grumbled, pulling her toward a large manor house that loomed at the end of the street.

Ciri's instincts screamed at her to fight back, to escape, but her energy was depleted, and the guard's grip was like iron. As they dragged her up the steps to the manor's grand entrance, she tried to think of a plan, but her mind was blank. Inside, the manor was warm and well-lit, starkly contrasting to the chilly night outside. The guards escorted her through a series of ornate hallways and into a spacious hall where a young man sat at a large wooden table.

He had a gentle face framed by brown hair and striking blue eyes that seemed to catch the light. However, his cane stood out, and he leaned on it heavily as he stood to greet her. His movements were slow and deliberate, but his gaze was sharp and curious.

"What have we here?" he asked, his voice calm and steady.

The guards straightened up. "We found her sneaking around outside, Viscount," one said. "Caught her trying to break in, I think."

The Viscount studied Ciri for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to everyone's surprise, he smiled. "Release her," he said, his tone gentle but authoritative.

The guards exchanged puzzled looks. "But, my lord—"

"Release her," he repeated, tapping his cane on the floor. "She's a guest, not a thief."

The guards released Ciri's arm, and she rubbed the sore spot where they had held her. Relief washed over her, but she was also perplexed. How did this Viscount know who she was?

The Viscount seemed to sense her confusion. "I knew Geralt once upon a time," he said. "He mentioned you. You're Ciri, right?"

Ciri nodded hesitantly. "Yes, that's me. I didn't mean to cause trouble—"

"No need to apologize," the Viscount interrupted, waving her off. "It's not every day we have visitors at this hour, but you're welcome here." He turned to the guards. "You can leave us now. I'll take it from here."

The guards, still wary, exited the hall, casting suspicious glances at Ciri as they left. The Viscount gestured for Ciri to follow him, and she did, albeit cautiously. He led her down a corridor adorned with tapestries and rich furnishings.

"You must be tired," he said. "Let me show you to a room where you can rest."

Ciri followed him, her eyes scanning the opulent surroundings. It was a far cry from the wilderness she had been wandering through. "Why are you helping me?" she asked, unable to hide her skepticism.

The Viscount glanced back at her with a hint of sadness. "Because I know what it's like to feel lost," he replied. "And because I don't believe in turning away someone in need." He stopped at a door and opened it, revealing a small but comfortable room with a bed and a fireplace. "You can stay here as long as you need."

Ciri stepped into the room, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. Relief that she was safe, and guilt for leaving Geralt and the others behind. As she thanked the Viscount, he nodded and told her to get some rest. He'd talk with her in the morning about what she might need or where she could go next.

As he left and closed the door, Ciri sat on the edge of the bed, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty. Running away had seemed the best option then, but now she wasn't so sure. At least, for the moment, she had a place to rest, a roof over her head, and a chance to figure out what to do next.

Chapter Text

When Ciri awoke, it was already mid-morning, a rare and almost alien experience for her. She was used to early starts, often rising with the sun and the birds. The sun was high in the sky, filling her modest room with a warm, golden light that danced through the thin curtains. She stretched, relishing the luxury of a proper mattress beneath her—an uncommon comfort after so many nights spent on hard, rocky ground or lumpy in beds.

As she rose from her bed, Ciri felt disoriented, not because of the room’s unfamiliarity but because it had been so long since she'd experienced any semblance of ease. The city sounds buzzed through the window, reminding her she was far from the wilderness where she had spent so much time. Yet, it was a welcome change—a soft transition into a different world.

Ciri dressed quickly and made her way through the narrow corridor toward the dining room, curious to learn more about the place she was staying and its enigmatic host. She was surprised to see a long, ornate table at the room's center as she entered. At the far end, a man sat, his posture relaxed yet dignified, a cane propped against his chair. He was enjoying a leisurely breakfast and looked up as Ciri entered.

"Ah, you're finally awake," the Viscount greeted her with a genial smile, his eyes gleaming something more enigmatic. He rose, using his cane for support, and gestured for Ciri to join him at the table. "I trust you slept well?"

"I did, thank you," Ciri replied as she sat across from him. She helped herself to the spread of food before her—fresh fruit, bread, cheese, and other delicacies that seemed like a dream after her usual fare on the road. "But who are you, and how do you know Geralt?"

The Viscount's smile faltered momentarily, his eyes growing distant. "There was a time when I travelled quite a bit," he said, his voice taking on a softer, more nostalgic tone. "Before... things changed."

He didn't elaborate, but Ciri could read between the lines—the illness that forced him to slow down, the burden of his responsibilities, or perhaps both. The Viscount moved back to his seat, leaning heavily on his cane, and Ciri sensed that he was not as spry as he used to be.

"And that's how you met Geralt?" she asked. "He never mentioned travelling with a Viscount."

"Ah, well," the Viscount replied with a chuckle, "it's not like I go around announcing my title to everyone I meet. Do you, princess?" His eyes narrowed slightly, watching her reaction.

Ciri froze, surprised that he knew her secret. She couldn't help but wonder if he intended to use that knowledge against her, to sell her out to those who would do her harm. The Viscount must have sensed her concern because he quickly added, "Don't worry, my dear. Your secret is safe with me. I've no interest in complicating your life further. Enjoy your breakfast."

Ciri nodded cautiously, watching him as he returned to his meal. She had many questions, but for now, she'd keep her guard up and her eyes open. This Viscount might be friendly, but she'd learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Ciri said, her voice a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation. She jabbed at a piece of meat on her plate with her fork, watching the Viscount carefully.

The Viscount paused as if he hadn't expected her directness. He drew in a deep breath before responding. “Oh, you’re right, how inconsiderate of me.” He sat straighter in his chair and, with a polite nod, said, “Allow me to introduce myself: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” He pronounced his full name in a single, deliberate breath, his voice steady but slightly strained.

The effort took a toll on him. Julian began to cough violently, his face turning pale and his lips tinged with a concerning shade of blue. Ciri’s instincts kicked in, her hand going to her sword even though the threat was not of an enemy but of the Viscount's fragile health. Two servants rushed to his aid, supporting him as he struggled to regain control of his breathing.

“I’m sorry, dear heart,” Julian managed to say, his voice husky from the coughing. “I have some business to attend to, but please, feel free to stay as long as you like.” His eyes held a mix of regret and genuine concern for her comfort.

Ciri watched as the servants gently helped Julian to his feet, their hands steadying him as he leaned on his cane. His cane had ornate carvings, a symbol of his former vigour, now a reminder of his frailty. He turned to leave, casting a faint smile at Ciri over his shoulder, and then disappeared through the door, his steps slow and laborious.

The room felt suddenly emptier without him, the echoes of his footsteps fading down the corridor. Ciri sat for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the city outside, the clinking of dishes from the kitchen, and the murmurs of the staff. She wondered about Julian's past, the travels he mentioned, and what had brought him to this point in his life. There was more to this man than met the eye, and his connection to Geralt intrigued her.

Ciri sighed, setting her fork down. Her time in this city brought more questions than answers. As she finished her breakfast, she resolved to learn more about the Viscount and his mysterious past. There were stories here that might intersect with hers, and she intended to uncover them.

After finishing her breakfast, Ciri sought solace in the quiet of the manor's back courtyard. Frustration simmered within her, a storm of emotions swirling beneath her calm exterior. She instinctively reached for her sword, needing the familiar weight of it in her hand to ground her thoughts. With each strike against a nearby tree, she vented her pent-up anger, the rhythmic clashing of steel against bark echoing her inner turmoil.

“If you must release your anger, I implore you not to take it out on the trees with your swords. They do not take kindly to such treatment,” a voice behind her said, startling Ciri out of her reverie.

Startled, Ciri turned to find Julian standing there, his presence as unexpected as unwelcome in her current state of mind. She sheepishly lowered her sword, realizing the validity of his request.

“Sorry,” she muttered, feeling embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

Julian regarded her with a gentle expression, his eyes betraying a depth of understanding that surprised her. “Now, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the source of your anger,” he suggested, his tone coaxing yet firm.

Ciri hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal to this stranger. But her burdens felt heavy on her shoulders, and the urge to unburden herself was too strong to resist. “I didn’t mean to get lost,” she admitted finally, her voice tinged with frustration and a hint of vulnerability.

Julian nodded sympathetically, his gaze softening. “Ah, but let me guess,” he said, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. “You and Geralt disagreed.”

Ciri's eyes widened in surprise at his astuteness. “How did you—”

“He can be quite stubborn, that one,” Julian interjected with a knowing chuckle. “Almost as stubborn as you, I imagine.”

Before Ciri could respond, she watched as Julian made his way over to a nearby bench. His movements were slow and deliberate as he leaned heavily on his cane. She couldn't help but feel sympathy for him, seeing the effort it took for him to move.

“I just wanted to prove that I can handle myself, that I don’t need his help,” Ciri confessed, her voice tinged with frustration.

Julian's smile softened, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “Ah, the stubbornness of youth,” he remarked with a fondness that belied his struggles. “Well, if it's a release you seek, perhaps we can find a more suitable target for your frustrations. Sandbags, perhaps, instead of trees?”

Ciri's lips twitched into a reluctant smile at his suggestion. This unexpected encounter with Julian may have held a silver lining after all. “Thank you,” she said quietly, feeling gratitude.

“You are most welcome, dear heart,” Julian replied with a gracious nod. “And remember, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you need.”

To maintain appearances, Ciri was introduced as Julian's young niece visiting from out of town. The ruse allowed them to keep a low profile for the next several days, but it also meant that Ciri had a lot of time to herself. She spent most of her days wandering the expansive halls of the manor, exploring the various rooms and hidden corners, all the while wrestling with the decision of whether to call Yennefer for help.

Julian was a peculiar character, unlike anyone Ciri had ever encountered. He moved slowly with his cane, often pausing to catch his breath, yet an underlying energy in his eyes belied his frail appearance. Despite his declining health, he seemed to find joy in telling stories, especially those about Geralt. At night, he would sit by the fireplace and recount tales of the Witcher's adventures, his voice vibrant with enthusiasm as if reliving each moment.

Ciri listened intently, fascinated by the stories but puzzled by Julian's connection to Geralt. She had never heard Geralt mention him before, and with Julian's apparent fragility, it was hard to imagine him ever joining Geralt on his travels. How did they meet? What was their history? The more stories Julian told, the more questions Ciri had.

As the days passed, Julian's health seemed to worsen. His cough grew more frequent, and his hands trembled when he held his cane. Ciri couldn't help but feel a growing concern for the man who had taken her in without question. She could see the weariness in his eyes and the strain in his movements, which worried her. There was a kindness in him that she had rarely experienced, and the thought of him growing weaker by the day filled her with a quiet dread.

Though she still hadn't mustered the courage to call Yennefer, Ciri knew she might need to reach out sooner rather than later. Julian's stories were captivating but couldn't distract her from the reality that he was declining. She started to take on small tasks around the manor, hoping to ease his burden in any way she could, but the underlying tension remained.

Each night, as she lay in her room listening to the distant sound of Julian's coughing, Ciri felt a mix of gratitude and worry. She was thankful for his kindness but knew she couldn't stay hidden here forever. The world outside the manor's walls was vast and uncertain, and Ciri had to be ready to face it when the time came. But first, she needed to learn more about Julian and his connection to Geralt.

One day, as Ciri continued to explore the sprawling manor, she came across an inconspicuous room filled with dusty crates and forgotten odds and ends. She noticed a locked box in the corner, immediately piqued her curiosity. She'd been looking for a way to practice her lock-picking skills, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

After moments of fiddling with the lock, Ciri opened the box, revealing a lute inside. It was a beautiful instrument, its dark brown wood offset by elegant gold trim, but it was covered in a fine layer of dust, a clear sign it hadn't been played in some time. Ciri couldn't resist strumming the strings, and a few familiar notes floated.

"That's a sound I haven't heard in ages," came a voice behind her. It was Julian, leaning heavily on his cane, his face etched with the strain of the short walk to find her.

"Why is this here?" Ciri asked, her curiosity growing. It seemed odd for a Viscount to have a lute hidden away in a storage room.

"It became too painful to look at every day," Julian replied, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Reminded me too much of my old life as a bard."

"You were a bard?" Ciri paused, combining two and two—a bard who used to travel with Geralt. You're Jaskier, aren't you?"

Julian—or rather, Jaskier—smiled, his eyes softening. "I had a feeling you'd figure it out, princess. You're quite a clever girl."

Ciri's mind raced with questions. "Geralt's been looking for you. Why are you here? What happened?" Her words tumbled so quickly that Jaskier raised his hand to slow her down.

"If we're going to have this conversation," he said, "would you mind if we did it sitting down?"

In a matter of minutes, Ciri was sitting in a plush seating room where Jaskier had asked the servants to bring them tea. The room was comfortable, filled with soft cushions and rich tapestries, starkly contrasting with the rest of the dusty manor. The gentle clinking of china signalled the arrival of tea, and Ciri watched Jaskier carefully as he poured himself a cup, his hand trembling slightly with the effort.

"How did you end up as the Viscount of Lettenhove?" Ciri asked, sipping her tea. It was a basic question but the best place to start.

"I've always been the Viscount; I just didn't really do much with the title until recent events," Jaskier replied with a faint smile. I wasn't lying earlier when I said it's not like I go around announcing my title. I didn't want people to treat me differently just because of a bit of old parchment."

"Does Geralt know?" Ciri asked. The witcher had mentioned Jaskier before, and she knew Geralt had been searching for him during their travels.

"I've told Geralt, but I'm not sure he was listening," Jaskier said, chuckling softly. "It might've been my fault for rambling too much. But then, Geralt has a habit of tuning me out. I don't think he even realized I'm half-nymph."

"Half-nymph?" Ciri echoed, surprised. It made sense—the stories she had heard about Jaskier suggested he was older than he appeared. "I thought all nymphs were women," she said, still trying to grasp this new information.

"I'm a bit of a special case," Jaskier explained his voice light despite his obvious fatigue. My mother was a nymph who got too curious and wandered out of the Brokilon forest. I met my father, and romance happened—you know the story. After marriage and nine months, out I came. My folks were surprised when I turned out to be a boy."

"If you're part-nymph, then why are you so sick?" Ciri asked. Why was he so frail now if Jaskier had a longer lifespan due to his nymph heritage, why was he so frail now?

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you about what Nilfgaard's been up to," Jaskier said, his tone darkening. "A few months ago, some of their soldiers tried to take Lettenhove. It's close enough to Brokilon that they didn't last long, but they still managed to cut down my tree. Without that connection, I'm... well, this is what I am now."

Ciri felt a knot of concern tighten in her chest. "Does Geralt know about this?" she asked her determination to help Jaskier evident in her voice.

"I haven't spoken to him in a long time," Jaskier began to answer, but a violent coughing fit cut off his words. It was worse than anything Ciri had seen before. Blood speckled his handkerchief, and before long, Jaskier collapsed to the floor.

"Jaskier!" Ciri shouted, rushing to his side and shaking him gently. "Help! We need help!"

A flurry of activity erupted as servants rushed in, carrying Jaskier to a bedroom where a healer quickly attended to him. Ciri stood at the doorway, watching as the healer and other staff moved about urgently. She overheard them whispering about how the Viscount had few days left.

With fear and determination, Ciri reached into her pocket and pulled out the Xenovox, a device used to communicate over great distances. She took a deep breath and spoke into it with urgency.

"Yennefer, I need help."

It took a whole day for Yennefer and Geralt to arrive in Lettenhove. When they finally stepped through the doors of the Pankratz family manor, they were greeted by the sight of Ciri pacing anxiously in the front hall. As Ciri caught sight of them, she rushed forward, her heart pounding with relief and guilt. She threw herself into Geralt's arms, letting him envelop her in a comforting embrace.

"I'm sorry, I ran away," Ciri confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. Her actions hung heavy on her shoulders, but it felt like a burden being lifted in Geralt's embrace. "I thought I could do it alone, but I can't."

"It's okay, I'm not mad," Geralt reassured her, his voice gentle as he rubbed her back soothingly. "I was just worried, but you're here now."

Tears rose in Ciri's eyes as she leaned into Geralt's embrace, grateful for his understanding. "But now Jaskier is dying, and I don't know what to do," she admitted, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Jaskier... he's here?" Geralt's breath caught in his throat. He had been searching for his bard for so long, and now, according to Ciri, he was on his deathbed.

"Can you take us to him?" Yennefer interjected, her voice firm as she broke through Geralt's stunned silence.

As they made their way through the manor, Ciri recounted everything she had learned about Jaskier—his surprising lineage as a half-nymph, the illness that had befallen him after his tree was cut down. With each step, the urgency of their mission weighed heavily on them, driving them forward with determination until they finally reached Jaskier's bedroom.

As they entered Jaskier's room, the atmosphere was heavy with sorrow. The bard lay upon a bed that seemed far too large for him; his once vibrant presence now diminished to a pale, frail figure. He looked smaller than anyone had ever seen him before, and the sight tugged at the heartstrings of those around him.

With slow, deliberate steps, Geralt approached Jaskier's bedside, his movements careful as he reached out to gently caress the bard's face. Ciri and Yennefer stood back, silently observing, their hearts heavy with worry and grief.

Jaskier took longer than it should have to stir, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal eyes dulled by sickness. "Geralt," his voice was barely a whisper, weakened by illness.

"I'm here, Jask," Geralt whispered back, his voice softer than Ciri had ever heard from the stoic Witcher.

"I've had this dream before... it was nice," Jaskier murmured, his words fragile as though carried on a breeze. "I called for you... did you hear it?"

"Yeah, I heard. And you're going to be okay," Geralt replied, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation. "I'll find a cure, and you'll be better. Then we can go to the coast."

There was a trembling in Geralt's voice, a sense of rising panic that belied his usual calm demeanour.

"I like that idea," Jaskier managed a weak smile, his strength fading with each passing moment.

"Just don't leave me, little lark. I can't lose you," Geralt whispered, kissing Jaskier's forehead gently.

"Geralt," Jaskier's voice was barely audible now, his breaths shallow and laboured. "I... love you."

"Jaskier?" Geralt's voice caught in his throat as he looked down at the bard, but there was no response.

At that moment, the room fell silent, the weight of loss settling heavily upon them all.

Jaskier was dead.

Chapter Text

Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, was a man of few words and fewer emotions, at least on the surface. But beneath the stoic mask, he felt deeply and loved intensely. Rumours had been circulating throughout the Northern Realms about Geralt's state of mind since the death of Jaskier, his constant companion, his light in the darkness, the bard who gave voice to Geralt's silent deeds.

The rumours were unsettling but not entirely unexpected. Witchers weren't supposed to love, or so it was said. But those who claimed witchers were incapable of emotion had never seen Geralt with Jaskier. The bard wasn't just another soul to protect on the Path; he was Geralt's heart, anchor, and reason to keep fighting in a world that scorned him.

Now, Jaskier was gone. His laughter, once infectious, now echoed hauntingly in Geralt's ears. Once filled with taverns and castles alike, his songs had been silenced forever. The world felt emptier and colder, and the shadows grew longer without his vibrant presence.

Geralt sat on the bed floor, holding Jaskier's lifeless body in his arms. Once filled with mischief and warmth, the bard's eyes were now void of life. Once quick to form a witty remark or a loving smile, his lips were pale and still. The weight of his loss bore down on Geralt like a crushing tide, and he felt his heart breaking with each passing second.

Yennefer and Ciri stood by, unable to do much more than watch. Ciri's eyes were red with tears, her young heart aching for her mentor, her father figure, who had been brought to his knees by grief. Yennefer, a sorceress who had seen her fair share of pain and loss, felt her heart breaking, but she knew she could do nothing to soothe this sorrow.

The servants entered the room, hesitant and respectful, to claim Jaskier's body for proper rites. After all, he was a Viscount, and there were protocols to follow. Yennefer gently guided Ciri to the side, knowing this moment would be hard to witness. As the servants reached for Jaskier, Geralt snapped, his voice a low growl, making the whole room freeze.

"Don't touch him!" he snarled, pulling Jaskier closer to his chest. The intensity of his gaze made the servants step back. It was clear that Geralt wasn't ready to let go.

Yennefer approached cautiously, her voice gentle but firm. "Geralt, he's gone. We need to let him go."

Geralt's response was a barely audible whisper, full of denial. "He can't be dead. I got him back." His grip tightened on Jaskier's body as if holding him tighter could somehow bring him back to life.

"I'm sorry," Yennefer replied, her words like a soft lament, "but no one can bring back the dead."

Geralt was silent momentarily before he stood, cradling Jaskier in his arms. Instead of handing him over to the servants, as expected, he turned toward the door, his face set in grim determination.

"Where are you going?" Ciri asked, her voice cracking with confusion and fear.

"Brokilon," Geralt replied, his voice distant and filled with desperate hope.

Yennefer's heart sank. "Geralt, you know that's not—"

"He's part nymph," Geralt interrupted. "The water there—it has to help him." He spoke with conviction as if Brokilon's mystical waters could somehow undo the finality of death.

Yennefer knew she should stop him, tell him he was chasing a futile dream. But as she watched Geralt walk away, carrying the body of his closest friend, she couldn't bring herself to say it. Instead, she and Ciri followed him, uncertain of what lay ahead but unwilling to let him go alone.

Lettenhove was fairly close to the Brokilon forest, partly because it was allowed to remain mostly untouched by the horror of the world beyond. That centuries, a bond of mutual respect had been made between the people of Lettenhove and those who inhabit the forest.

All was quiet as Geralt carried Jaskier's body through the forest. Julian, the nymph, was a rare but welcome figure in the woods; after all, he was one of them, and trees would always remember the baby from them and that of love. Ever since, Jaskier's tree had been cut down, there was mostly sadness when anyone thought about him.

As they walked, Ciri couldn’t help but notice that the forest itself seemed saddened by Jaskier's death. Soon, they made their way to certain woods, where a river lay on the ground.

Geralt gently laid Jaskier down in the water, careful not to submerge the bard's body completely. Cupping his hands, Geralt began to pour the water down Jaskier's mouth.

The journey to Brokilon was like descending into a fog of sorrow, where time lost meaning, and every step felt heavier than the last. Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri navigated through the thick foliage of the forest, its towering trees casting shadows that seemed to swallow them whole. Geralt held Jaskier's lifeless body close, his strides purposeful, propelled by a glimmer of hope amidst the overwhelming despair.

When they finally reached the forest's heart, Geralt gently laid Jaskier beside a babbling stream, its waters shimmering with an otherworldly light. This stream was said to hold the essence of the dryads, possessing the power to mend and revive. But nothing changed as Geralt poured the water over Jaskier's still form. The bard remained motionless, untouched by the magic that surrounded them.

"Please," Geralt pleaded, his voice a strained whisper. "Come back, Jaskier. Please." He continued to pour the water, each drop a prayer for a miracle, but the forest remained silent.

Yennefer stood by, silently witnessing Geralt's desperate attempt to defy fate. She knew the pain of loss all too well, but she also knew that some wounds could never fully heal. Ciri clung to Yennefer's side, her eyes filled with tears as she watched, hoping against hope for a miracle that never came.

A rustle in the trees drew their attention, and a dryad emerged from the shadows, her presence commanding and ancient. She regarded them with curiosity and solemnity, her eyes like pools of deep forest green.

"Why have you come here?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom.

Geralt looked up, his gaze determined. "I'm trying to bring him back," he said. "The water—it's supposed to have power. He's part nymph. Can't you help?"

The dryad shook her head gently. "The water heals, but it cannot resurrect the dead. What is lost must remain so."

Geralt's fists clenched at his sides, frustration and grief warring within him. "But I love him," he insisted, his voice breaking with emotion. "I can't just accept that he's gone."

The dryad's expression softened, sympathy evident in her eyes. "Love does not alter the laws of life and death," she said gently. "We cannot bring back what has passed beyond our reach. I am sorry, witcher, but he is gone."

Geralt bowed his head, the weight of her words settling upon him like a heavy cloak. He looked at Jaskier's still form, feeling the ache of loss deep in his chest. It was a pain unlike any he had ever known, a gaping void where once there had been warmth and light.

Yennefer stepped forward, her touch gentle as she rested a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "We have to let him go, Geralt," she said softly. "He wouldn't want you to carry this burden alone."

Geralt nodded, his jaw clenched with emotion. "Where is the tree he came from?" he asked the dryad, his voice a low rumble. "I want to bury him there."

The dryad nodded solemnly, gesturing deeper into the forest. "Follow me," she said. "I will show you the way."

Jaskier's Tree stood at the edge of the Broken Woods, a silent testament to the passage of time. Once a majestic, towering tree, it was now reduced to a stump, weathered and scarred. Once lush and green, the surrounding grass was gray and brittle, reflecting the desolation that accompanied the bard's death.

The dryad who had guided Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri to this spot halted at the tree line, unwilling to leave the safety of the forest. She gestured toward the stump, her expression one of quiet Solemnity. "Here is where you may bury the half-nymph," she said, then turned and disappeared into the woods.

Ciri and Yennefer stood back, giving Geralt space as he began to dig Jaskier's grave. This was his task, his final goodbye to the man who had brought light and laughter into his life. With each shovel of dirt, Geralt's heart felt heavier, the rhythm of his labour a sombre dirge for the bard who once filled his days with song.

The hole grew deep enough to accept Jaskier's body, and Geralt paused, his eyes lingering on the bard's peaceful face. Jaskier's eyes were closed as if in restful slumber, his features soft and gentle. It was hard to believe that his voice would never be heard again, that his music would never again echo through the woods or taverns of the Northern Realms.

"Goodbye, Jaskier," Geralt whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He bent down to kiss the bard on the forehead before carefully lowering him into the grave.

As Geralt began to fill the hole, Yennefer spoke first, her voice tinged with sadness. "He was a little weed," she said, recalling their often contentious relationship. "But he didn't deserve this. I'm sorry for what happened to him." Her words carried an unexpected softness, a touch of regret for a man she had once regarded as a nuisance but had come to respect.

Ciri nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "I didn't know him as Jaskier," she said. "But I knew him as Julian. He was kind and took me in when he could have turned me away. I would have liked to know him better." Her words were simple but sincere, a tribute to a man who had shown her compassion in a world often devoid.

When the grave was finally filled, Geralt stood over it, his heart aching with a grief he hadn't known in years. The weight of his unspoken feelings pressed down on him, and his voice grew quiet, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

"I loved him," he said, the words heavy with regret. "Maybe if I’d told him sooner, he'd still be here." Geralt's voice trailed off, the enormity of his loss settling in. "I hope you find peace, little lark," he whispered, his eyes fixed on where Jaskier lay to rest.

Geralt's ears perked at a sudden rustling sound. It was faint at first, a whispering among the grass and fallen leaves, but it grew louder and more distinct. He turned toward the stump where Jaskier's tree had stood, finding it adorned with a single vibrant blue flower, its petals glistening with morning dew. A splash of colour in a world otherwise shrouded in dull gray; it seemed almost too vivid to be real.

Yennefer stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as more flowers emerged from the surrounding ground, their colours a brilliant spectrum of blues, reds, and yellows. "This shouldn't be happening," she muttered, her voice tinged with skepticism.

Ciri, her eyes wide with amazement, pointed to the stump where the bark was shifting, cracking as if under intense pressure. "What is this?" she asked, her voice filled with awe and a touch of fear.

The stump shuddered as new branches forced their way through the once-dead wood. Geralt's instincts screamed at him that something was wrong, yet he couldn't tear his eyes away. As the ground beneath them began to tremble, the tremors resonated like a heartbeat—slow, rhythmic, but stronger with each passing moment.

Then, without warning, a hand thrust through the soil where Jaskier had been laid to rest. Geralt's reflexes took over, and he lunged forward to grab the hand. With a mighty heave, he pulled, feeling the earth give way as something—or someone—emerged from beneath. It was Jaskier, his skin green and hair resembling gnarled tree bark but undeniably alive. His eyes sparkled with mischief and life before Jaskier returned to normal human-looking ways.

Geralt didn't hesitate. He pulled Jaskier into his arms, his face breaking into an uncharacteristic smile as he pressed kisses all over the bard's cheeks. "You're alive," he whispered, his voice soft but filled with emotion. "I thought I'd lost you forever."

Jaskier laughed, a rich sound that seemed to echo through the forest, filling it with warmth and joy. "It takes more than a little dirt to keep me down," he replied, his voice carrying an unexpected strength.

Yennefer's eyes softened as she watched them, her usual stern expression yielding a gentle smile. Ciri approached, unable to hide her curiosity. "How is this even possible?" she asked, looking between Geralt and Jaskier, hoping for some explanation.

Jaskier looked down at the ground, where the tree stump flourished with new growth. "I think the forest decided to give me a second chance," he said, his eyes glimmering with wonder. "It's like... it knew I belonged here, with you all. The forest gave me back to you."

Geralt tightened his grip on Jaskier's shoulder, unwilling to let him go. "All that matters is that you're here," he said, his voice rough but filled with relief.

Jaskier's smile widened, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed to transform into something ethereal, a being born of nature and magic, restored by the very earth itself. "I'm here," he replied, Resting his head against Geralt's chest. "And I don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

As the others gathered around, their faces alight with joy, the clearing seemed to come alive. The tree stump behind them continued to grow, its branches reaching toward the sky, bursting with leaves and blossoms. The once-dark forest was now filled with colour and light, reflecting the new life Jaskier had brought with him.

Together, they stood in that clearing, watching hope replace grief and new life triumph over loss. It was a second chance for Jaskier, a moment they would cherish forever, and they knew that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.