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In Posada, Geralt of Rivia enters the local tavern. A young bard plays the lute and sings as the witcher claims a seat in a far corner.
The patrons of the tavern remain unamused at the bard's attempt at entertainment, and summarily throw bread at him. The bard curses, picks up the thrown food, stuffs them in his pockets, and storms out of the tavern.
What if the bard instead chose to sit with a witcher?
In Posada, Geralt of Rivia enters the local tavern. A young bard plays the lute and sings as the witcher claims a seat in a far corner.
The patrons of the tavern remain unamused at the bard's attempt at entertainment, and summarily throw bread at him. The bard picks up the thrown food, and stuffs them in his pockets. His blue eyes catch onto the lone creature garbed in a dark cloak sitting broodily in the corner.
"I love the way you just . . . sit in the corner and brood," the bard says, a drink in hand.
Geralt casts him a cursory glance. "I'm here to drink alone." Go away, he communicates with a hard glare.
But the bard didn't. Go away, that is. He sits down across Geralt and talks and talks and talks without fear even after he learns that Geralt is a witcher.
Geralt gets a job as he's leaving the tavern to get away from the loquacious human.
He exits the tavern one hundred fifty ducats richer, and heads to the mountains to hunt the so-called grain-stealing devil.
The bard follows him and Roach, cheerfully nattering away. Geralt's silence and rough treatment seem to encourage him further.
Bright yellow irises take another look at the tag-along. A youthful face, a fancy frilly outfit, an adventurous and witty demeanor that shows no sign of fright. A bright unreachable light who sticks by a lone witcher's side with naught but a good song for motive.
Geralt faces forward, chest heavy and mind whirling.
What if the ousted elf king just so happens to have a beautiful lute, and he gave it to the hapless bard?
Geralt and the bard walk away from the mountains with bloody faces, saved by the grace of a grieving elf king.
"Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn't she?" The bard admires his new lute, and begins composing songs not long after.
Singing the White Wolf's praises, and erasing the Butcher of Blaviken from everyone's minds.
Geralt can't stand it. He hates it, loathes it in his very being. His eyes catch onto buttercups swaying with the wind beside the road. He turns to the bard, and growls, "Shut up, Jaskier." He spurs Roach on, hoping he could outrun the bard.
"Now, is that any way to treat the benevolent bard that will change your reputation?" Jaskier huffs, appearing right beside Roach.
He strums his lute, humming under his breath. He resumes composing, and Geralt doesn't tell him to shut up again. At least for the rest of the day.
For several years, Jaskier the Bard travels with Geralt of Rivia throughout the continent. The bard needles the witcher for stories, and accompanies him during his hunts.
He's irritating, talkative, stubborn, and all manner of things that annoyed Geralt to no end.
Geralt wants to get rid of the damn bard. Geralt can. And he will.
He can't.
Because for all the bard's faults, he also tends to Geralt's wounds, helps the witcher wash away monster guts, and has never smelled of fear.
Jaskier is a friend.
Pathetic. Geralt is absolutely pathetic.
If his brothers find out about this, they'll probably lock him in Kaer Morhen and never let him leave for fear that he'll further lose his mind.
Mousesack invites Geralt into Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast.
"Food, women, and wine, Geralt!" He hears Jaskier's voice urge.
Jaskier the Bard is invited to perform during Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast. He pesters Geralt into joining him.
"It is one night bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world!" Jaskier proclaims as he bathes Geralt, scrubbing away the selkiemore guts clinging to the other's skin.
"I'm not your friend," Geralt immediately denies.
Something in Jaskier's expression twists. Geralt pretends not to see it.
"Oh, really? So you just let strangers rub chamomile on your lovely bottom," Jaskier quips dryly. Geralt shoots him an unimpressed glare. "Yeah, exactly, that's what I thought."
They exchange barbs as usual, and Geralt tries not to enjoy himself.
"Come on," Jaskier cajoles when Geralt retorts that witchers retire when they get killed. "You must want something for yourself once all this . . . monster-hunting nonsense is over with."
"I want nothing," is Geralt's instant reply, teeth gritted.
Jaskier stares at him, a small smile flitting by his lips. "Well, who knows. Maybe someone out there will want you."
"I need no one. And the last thing I need is someone needing me."
Jaskier knows the truth. Geralt knows that Jaskier always does.
The bard kneels beside the tub where Geralt is in, leaning forward to rest his forearms on its lip. His blue eyes glimmer in the firelight, the smile on his lips that of a parent humoring a child. "And yet, here we are."
The witcher accompanies the bard to the feast.
A nobleman accosts another nobleman, accusing the other of sleeping with his wife. Geralt watches from a distance as the misunderstanding is resolved with a few glares.
A nobleman accosts Jaskier, accusing the bard of sleeping with his wife. Geralt goes over to them, and saves Jaskier while ruining the bard's reputation.
The night goes to shit. Geralt jokingly invokes the Law of Surprise and gains a child — a royal child. Fuck.
He storms out of the palace and hopes he can outrun destiny.
He doesn't see Jaskier for a couple more years after that.
He sighs. He doesn't know if it's one of relief or disappointment.
He fishes for a djinn in a lake because he wants some goddamn sleep. He finds the amphora, opens it, and wishes for some peace.
A few seconds later, Geralt chokes on his own blood, a large tumor blocking his throat.
He fishes for a djinn in a lake because he wants some goddamn sleep.
Jaskier appears behind him, greeting him with a cheerful, "Hello! What's it been, months? Years? What is time anyway? I heard you were in town. Are you following me, you scamp?" Jaskier shoots him a teasing wink, a jest only the two of them would get.
Geralt grunts as Jaskier babbles about some countess. Geralt walks away with his fishnet as Jaskier urges him to talk, to admit whatever is preventing him from sleeping. Geralt insults the bard's singing in the hopes that Jaskier goes away.
He finds the amphora, opens it accidentally while fighting for it with Jaskier, and wishes for some peace.
A few seconds later, Jaskier chokes on his own blood, a large tumor blocking his throat. Bright blue eyes pleads with Geralt, pained and scared.
Geralt meets Yennefer of Vengerberg, vomiting blood in the middle of her orgy. She saves him before manipulating him to defeat her enemies.
Geralt drags a dying Jaskier to Yennefer of Vengerberg, the bard vomiting blood in the middle of her orgy. She saves the bard before manipulating the witcher to defeat her enemies.
Geralt saves Yennefer from her own greed, and ties their fates together without her consent. Or knowledge.
They fuck in the middle of a ruined house. It's not love, Geralt thinks to himself. But it could be, Jaskier's voice adds as an afterthought.
Afterwards, the sorceress shifts to lie on her side and stares at him. "Jaskier," she says, tone almost lilting into a question but not quite. Because she knows the answer to the question she didn't ask. Because she has been in his mind and she knows.
Geralt sees something near to pity flash in her pretty purple eyes.
The witcher gets up, gathers his things, and leaves without looking back.
Jaskier can keep up with Roach on foot, walking beside Geralt's horse on fashionable and impractical boots. The human bard complains about it but does not stumble, does not tire, takes no breaks but the one Geralt has set.
Two decades have passed, and yet Jaskier's youthful face remains unchanged. His hands remain steady and unwrinkled upon his lute, his feet strong and limber beneath him.
His smile is just as bright as he directs it to Geralt of Rivia, and sings.
Jaskier hates Yennefer. No, wait, that's not quite right. Jaskier loathes Yennefer. Geralt is utterly confused as to why.
"I don't like who you are when you're around her," Jaskier spits out when Geralt gets around to asking him about it. "I thought this thing you have might turn to love but it— this is just tearing you both apart. Geralt, you must tell her about the wish."
Jaskier's right, of course. But Geralt grunts and returns to sharpening his sword.
He doesn't tell Yennifer about the wish the next time they meet. Jaskier's disappointed gaze rests heavily on his back.
A man named Borch and his two companions ask Geralt to join them in hunting and slaying a dragon in King Niedamir's mountains. When Geralt finds out Yennifer is joining the hunt, he agrees to go, even with Jaskier telling him not to.
The dwarves direct them to a shortcut. The shortcut is composed of rotting and narrow wooden planks nailed haphazardly to the side of the mountains.
Jaskier nearly falls but catches himself in time.
One of the planks gives, and Borch and his two companions dangle in open air. Geralt tries and fails to save them from a fall to their deaths.
"You did your best," Jaskier later attempts to console him. "There's nothing else you could have done."
Geralt doesn't answer nor make the slightest of sounds.
"Look, why don't we leave tomorrow?" Jaskier suggests lightly. "That is, if you'll give me another chance to prove myself a . . ." He shoots Geralt a tiny smile. ". . . worthy travel companion."
Geralt can't help but let out a little amused huff. Both know there wasn't anything Jaskier could do to prevent thieves from stealing Geralt's things.
"We could head to the coast." A note of longing drips from Jaskier's tone.
Geralt had been to the coast once, a long time ago. Up until now, he can vividly dredge up the sound of crashing waves, and the taste of seasalt in the air.
"Get away for awhile. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn't it?" Jaskier looks at him, still as bright and still as naive as the young bard that sidled by Geralt's side all those years ago. "Do what pleases you while you can."
Geralt aches.
He heads to Yennefer's tent that night.
Borch is a dragon himself, his companions are alive, they fight against the Reavers, and Yennefer learns of the wish.
She is furious, as he knew she would be. He should have told her sooner. She storms away, and Borch leaves not long after.
Geralt is alone in the mountain, seething, filled with everything that hurts.
Jaskier approaches, as Geralt knew he would.
"Phew, what a day," Jaskier begins. "I imagine you're probably—"
Geralt explodes.
"Dammit, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you, shoveling it?" He bellows, turning all anger, all guilt, all grief inwards. He hates, and hates, and hates every breath he's forced to take, every decision he carelessly made.
Jaskier's features twists, something hard flitting by his dull blue eyes. "Well, that's not fair."
"The Child Surprise! The djinn! All of it!" He lists off, hands shaking. "If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands."
He turns his back to Jaskier but it doesn't matter. Because he still sees how the bard's expression falls, sees the heartbreak plaster itself upon his demeanor. "Right." Jaskier's voice is weak, almost inaudible. Good, Geralt thinks even as his own heart breaks. Go away, die, you irrational —
However, the bard's next words are louder and much more like himself. "Right then. Just one more thing, Geralt. I love you."
The witcher closes his eyes, and releases a heavy breath.
"I love you," Jaskier repeats, tone brooking no argument. "Twenty-two years, Geralt, and I've loved you every single step of the way. And I will continue to love you."
Geralt is overcome with the childish urge to cover his ears, to protect himself from the onslaught of words that cut deeper than any sword.
Jaskier is suddenly beside him, the bard's hand touching his own. It's a touch that Geralt has always never felt and never will.
"Listen. Listen to me, Geralt. I've been talking for two decades, and you never once listened. Listen."
Jaskier cups the witcher's chin, forcing the other to face him. Geralt doesn't feel the warmth of his hands, and never had. Bright glimmering eyes stare up at Geralt with awe and wonder, as if he had hung the moon and the stars in the sky. Geralt wants to look away, wants to hide from it.
"You had no one. And you needed someone." Jaskier exhales a breath that Geralt does not feel. "And that's why you had me." The bard's lips twist into a smile filled with unadulterated happiness. "But you have someone now. Your Child Surprise. Your Yennefer. Just a little bit more effort, darling. Just a little bit more push. Find them, Geralt, and make this right. You deserve them."
Geralt lets out a shaky breath.
"You do," Jaskier insists amidst his silent denial. "You deserve better than the world offered you, deserved more than the shitty fate you were dealt with. You made mistakes but you deserve to be happy, Geralt of Rivia. I believe that, and therefore, a part of you must do too." Jaskier leans his forehead against the witcher, and closes his eyes. Geralt does the same.
The witcher can no longer see him, can no longer imagine his companion's face.
"You would never let me say it," Jaskier whispers. "But I will say it now. I love you, Geralt of Rivia. Do you know what that means?"
Geralt does. But he can't admit it, not right now.
Jaskier says it for him, "It means that, deep down, amidst all your self-loathing and undeserved flagellation, there is a part of you that wholly and unconditionally loves yourself."
Witchers cannot cry. But Geralt's eyes burn all the same.
When he opens them, Jaskier is gone.
Geralt comes for his Child Surprise and reunites with her in a forest after Cintra has fallen under the Nilfgaardian army.
He loves her almost immediately.
The witcher ensures she doesn't get cold during the nights, that she doesn't go hungry, that she has someone to hold when she grieves.
He doesn't flinch away from her affectionate touches, and returns them as much as he can.
Geralt and Ciri search for Yennefer in the hopes that the latter can teach the princess how to control her powers. When they find her, Geralt grovels and apologizes. There's no forgiveness from Yennefer, not yet. But she lets them stay in her current abode, and teaches Ciri all that she can.
A handful of years later, Yennefer cocks a delicate brow and asks, "Jaskier?"
Geralt stiffens. He glances at the sorceress. There's no pity in her gaze now, nothing mocking or smug. Just curious.
"I don't need him," Geralt replies after a while. He gives her a meaningful look, allowing his lips to curl up. "Not anymore."
Yennefer smiles, unbidden and genuine.
"Who's Jaskier?" Ciri asks as she strides into the room. She looks between the witcher and the sorceress.
"A friend," Geralt admits out loud after years. "One who doesn't exist so I'm afraid you won't be meeting him."
"Huh?" Ciri looks utterly bewildered.
Yennefer laughs, and tells the story in a much more exciting way that Geralt ever could.
He watches the two of them — the two most important people in his life.
He has worked hard to keep them in his life, worked hard to gain and regain their trust, their love.
He deserves them, he believes now. Jaskier was right.
Something in his chest loosens.
Geralt enters the tavern in some rundown town, back on the Path after Ciri's eighteenth birthday.
He claims a corner, and orders some food and ale.
A bard starts a bawdy song, and Geralt's head snaps up.
It's the same bard in Posada, the witcher is sure. He wears the same fancy doublets and trousers, holds the same battered lute, and sings with the same deep voice. But the bard's hair is more gray than brown now, his fingers and face wrinkled with age. He doesn't dance jovially; in fact, he looks like he has a hard time moving about.
Geralt stares at him throughout the whole performance. The bard glances at him frequently, obviously unnerved by his scrutiny.
Geralt finishes his meal, takes one last look at the old bard, and heads out of the tavern and back to the Path.