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Crashing his way through suspiciously sharp foliage down the side of a mountain was not even the worst part of Jaskier’s day.
No, that particular award was earned by Geralt the second he began to lash out on top of that blasted mountain, spitting and snarling like a cornered animal.
In a messed-up sort of way, Jaskier could understand. The Witcher had been hurt in a way he was not used to dealing with. In fact, the bard had patched up enough physical wounds on the larger man to know that while the monster slayer was adept at recovering from wounds of the flesh, he was remarkably incompetent at dealing with matters of the heart.
The knowledge didn’t make the shattering pieces of glass he once called his heart hurt any less.
“Stupid sodding reprobate,” Jaskier swore to himself as he hastened his pace to get as much distance between himself and Geralt as possible before the sun fully set.
After all, it was what the White Wolf wanted, and what the White Wolf wanted, he got.
Except for Yennefer apparently.
The thought didn’t do anything to make him feel less like throwing himself off the side of a cliff.
He and Geralt had traveled together for damn near two decades; a significant chunk of time in a moral’s life, and while he had his suspicions the Witcher hadn’t realized his true nature, the cruel way his heart had been thrown back in his face after all that time was painful.
Agonizing, in fact.
So agonizing that as he came to a clearing near the base of the mountain, tree tops blocking out what little light the nighttime stars offered, he just threw his hands up and dropped to the ground. What did he care if every single time he went out of his way (often to his own detriment), to make the Witcher’s life easier, all it did was irritate the other man? So what if every casual brush of hands or secret quirking of lips meant so much more to Jaskier than to the Witcher?
Pale fingers twisted in long blades of grass and carelessly ripped them up for something to do. The thought of playing the lute laying by his side sat weird in his stomach, and like hell he was going anywhere else when the likelihood of running into the man he was distancing his aching heart from was too high to risk moving.
Fuck Geralt. Fuck him for choosing to return time and time again to a sorceress who didn’t give him the time of day nor the love he so clearly sought from her when Jaskier had been offering his heart for years. Fuck Geralt for never taking the time to truly know him, know what he is, instead choosing to simply tolerate his presence and hurl insults at him whenever Jaskier tried to help. It just wasn’t fair, but of course, he had lived long enough to know these things rarely turned out for the better.
And really, it wasn’t like he tried to hide his true nature from the Witcher. Even if the White Wolf wished him dead, he would be hard pressed to actually succeed.
No; he had never tried to hide his nature. Never claimed to be human, in fact. Geralt had just assumed he was mortal without a word, like the uncommunicative arse he is, and Jaskier thought himself so content with the life he had built up from scratch for himself that he overlooked it.
What a fool he had been.
Now here he was, laying flat on his back in some unknown forest at the base of a stupid mountain mourning over a man who had stolen his heart.
What a mess.
So into his own inner turmoil he was, he almost missed the stranger approaching from an outcropping of stones likely shed from the mountain behind him until his ears picked up on a low rumble sounding from his left.
“You smell of heartbreak, brother.” The voice of a Bruxa at the edge of the woods rang in his ears, the sound not unlike a windchime in a storm combined with the clashing of blades.
It was a voice in a language he had not heard in centuries.
“Dahlia.” Jaskier grunted in the common tongue, not moving from his sprawled out position on the ground. “My dearest friend, my lovely sister. How long has it been?”
The Bruxa stepped into the clearing, her previously tense body loosening as she neared the prone form resting in the center of the woods. Jaskier could smell her before he saw her; old blood clung to the underside of her nails and the corner of her mouth. Wolf blood; not human, though the scent itself had Jaskier itching for a bottle of Evreluce. Her hair was beautiful as ever, if not a little tangled, long red tresses flowing down to the small of her back.
His new companion stopped a foot away from him before dropping into a crouch and folding her arms atop her knees, uncaring about her nakedness being on display as ethereal eyes blinked slowly at him. ”What ails you? She murmured around a mouthful of teeth, the question only comprehensible through centuries of practice.
Jaskier threw his head back with a sigh and closed his eyes against the memory of snarling fangs and furious golden eyes. “Oh, you know, just more of the same. Thought I found something requited that I could be happy with, but I was just deluding myself yet again.”
A small smile curled Dahlia’s thin bloodstained lips, the sharp row of teeth her jaw held glinting in the sparse moonlight. ”You could come back with us. The Coven would love to have you.” She ran a red tongue over her lips to wet them before continuing. ”Our sisters would be blessed to have your voice join ours once more. Full moons have never been the same since you left.”
“I appreciate the invitation, my lady, but I’m afraid I must decline.” Jaskier pushed himself up onto his elbows and offered her a brittle smile. “I must say I’ve long outgrown the desire to hunt in packs and cause harm. The life of a traveling bard fits me much better.”
If Dahlia is upset at his refusal, she doesn’t show it.
In fact, her eyes quickly tore themselves away from him and settled just at the edge of the tree line before pushing herself to her feet in a move so feline and smooth that Jaskier almost missed wreaking havoc with her and their sisters back when he was more… impulsive.
Dahlia hissed, long fingers that were sharp as nails flexing by her sides as she calmly stepped between Jaskier and the newcomer.
“Jaskier,” The bard heard Geralt hiss at his right, the telltale sound of a silver blade being drawn making his heart hurt for more than one reason. “Don’t move.”
A sharp pang tore through his chest as white hair caught the moonlight, appearing almost iridescent as that battle born body he had come to know so well coiled in a defensive position he had seen a thousand times.
And really, wasn’t this just the icing on the shit cake that was his life?
“I wonder, Geralt,” Jaskier began as he pushed himself lazily to his feet before dusting off his shoulders, the red of his doublet and trousers slightly muddied by grass and dirt. “Is that sword for me or Dahlia?”
That seemed to throw the Witcher for a moment, his gaze flickering between the growling Bruxa standing between them and Jaskier. “What?”
A heavy sigh left Jaskier as he threw his arms out to the sides in a dramatic fashion. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the vitriol you spat at me mere hours earlier? Demanding that I leave you and give you your one true blessing?” He knew he was being cruel, was stooping to Geralt’s level, but having Dahlia there gave him the courage he needed to really make the other man understand how hurtful he had been.
Geralt looked rightfully ashamed, though the shame was greatly overshadowed by anticipation as he stared down the Bruxa blocking his path. “Followed you down the mountain ten minutes after we last saw each other,” He bit out, not taking his eyes away from the threat, “Didn’t want you getting lost or stumbling off a cliff in the dark.”
A harsh bark of laughter from Jaskier had Dahlia blinking in confusion, tilting her head to the side without taking her eyes off the Witcher. ”You know him, Master Julian?” She rumbled in their ancient language, taking note of the shock on Geralt’s pale face.
“Yes, I do. He is the one my heart breaks for.” Jaskier responded to her in their language, the words rusty after not having spoken them in a millennium or so. Humans tended to speak the common tongue while other beings favored Elder speech, so he had rightfully become out of practice.
Geralt’s jaw all but dropped as the words hit his sensitive ears. Jaskier could see the way his large hands flexed around the hilt of his silver broadsword, uncomprehending of the words they spoke but hackles clearly rising.
“You’re not Jaskier.” Geralt rumbled in that low tone of his, subtly sniffing the air to catch the scent of the bard he had known for so long.
It was there; all three beings knew it, and the knowledge that the man he spent so many years with didn’t trust him forced a melancholy smile to Jaskier’s lips. “I am.” He whispered, suddenly more sad than angry. “I’m the same bard you’ve known for decades, Geralt. You just never paid attention and I didn’t want to ruin the friendship I thought we had.”
If anything, Geralt looked even more perplexed, and if Jaskier hadn’t lived for as long as he had, he wouldn’t recognize the sheer panic clouding those unique irises. “What are you?”
Dahlia snarled at him before he could think of taking a step forward with his blade drawn. Quick as lightning, Dahlia crouched down in preparation to charge the Witcher, her red tresses gently swaying across her pert breasts in a gentle breeze.
Before she could move an inch however, Jaskier was between her and the white-haired man, expression calm and body loose in his usual carefree way. “No,” His voice was low and gravely, an authoritative tone he hadn’t used in a long time making his throat hurt. “You will not harm him. I appreciate the care, Dahlia, but this is something I must deal with myself.”
She was evidently upset with that answer, her monstrous eyes flicking over his shoulder to glare daggers at the monster hunter, but she begrudgingly acquiesced. She muttered before straightening up. ”If you need, simply call for us and we will come.” She promised before throwing one last scathing look at Geralt and turning to return to the forest, pale hips swaying in the moonlight until she vanished into the trees. Trees that had several pairs of eyes watching them before they, too, turned and left.
Silence like a noose fell upon the remaining beings in the clearing, one laughably relaxed and the other tense as a bowstring, sword brandished in a stance that was born out of instinct rather than intention.
It was Jaskier who spoke first, as was so often the case. “Well, that was a fun family reunion.” He nonchalantly bent down to pick up his lute and sling it over his shoulder before giving those golden eyes he loved so much a fake smile. “I suppose it’s time for me to leave, unwanted and unappreciated as I am. Enjoy playing happy families with Yennefer, dear Geralt, and worry not; our paths won’t cross again.”
”Jaskier-“
“No no, dear heart, I will not stand by and allow you to take your anger out on me for a second time.”
“Jas-“
Jaskier waved a lazy hand in Geralt’s general direction in hopes the flippant gesture would distract from his world crumbling around him. “Since this whole thing has gone to shit, I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell you the truth. Might as well, right? Nothing to lose.”
That seemed to shut Geralt up, though the poor man looked as though he was still struggling greatly to keep up with what was happening. At least he put away the silver broadsword. “Jaskier, I’m-“
“I loved you, Geralt.” The vulnerability in Jaskier’s wobbling voice seemed to quiet the wildlife around them; insects stopped buzzing and the sound of leaves rustling didn’t reach his ears. “I loved you so damn much even though I knew you never gave me a second thought. And I was fine with that, fine with anything I could get. But Yennefer-“ Jaskier swore his heart broke further when he caught the look on Geralt’s face as he mentioned her name. “But watching you abandon me to return to someone who doesn’t care for you, who uses you is just… Melitele above, it hurts in a way I’ve never felt.”
Leather clad boots took a hesitant step forward, but Jaskier just shook his head and Geralt halted his advance immediately. “It’s not like that-“
“It is, Geralt. The amount of times you abandoned me in the middle of the woods or with strangers without a care to chase after someone who doesn’t love you is insurmountable.”
If Jaskier weren’t so deep into his own misery, he would have caught the expression of heartbreak that flickered across golden cat eyes. ”Jaskier,” Geralt breathed, voice vulnerable in a way Jaskier hadn’t ever heard before, but he was undeterred. If he didn’t draw a line between them right now, he wasn’t sure he would leave this clearing the same person.
“Don’t.” Jaskier hissed, for the first time allowing his anger at Geralt to show instead of bottling it up and forcing his feelings into song just for a small reprieve. “I have lived long enough that I will get over this, and it will not break me. I will continue composing, continue traveling. Songs of the White Wolf will be sung by others. I’ll-“ A wet sniffle forced its way out of him before he could stop it. “I’ll not continue being ‘Jaskier’, for that name will always be haunted by you.”
Geralt simply stared at the bard in front of him as the man wiped his eyes on his red doublet sleeve, uncharacteristically not caring about the mess he was making on the fabric he treasured above all else.
“I’m sorry.” Geralt admitted in a whisper, once again slowly bridging the space between them until he was stood just in front of Jaskier, luminescent eyes so full of emotion that the bard was rendered speechless. “I’m so sorry for what I said, for what I did. I can’t… words and affection aren’t a language I speak easily, not like you do.”
That was no excuse. Jaskier knew it, knew it deep in whatever he had that passed for a soul, but knowing didn’t make the tears stop.
“Jaskier,” Geralt continued his apparent mission to say the bard’s name as many times as possible in a tone so remorseful that Jaskier just barely caught himself from forgiving the man. “I didn’t know you felt that way. That my actions hurt you so deeply. And as for Yennefer,”
Jaskier tried not to snarl at the name.
“Yennefer is… I am attracted to her, yes, but we do not share feelings. Our agreement is more for mutual benefit, as she wants someone she cannot have, and I was much the same.”
The words hit Jaskier like a punch to the throat, but before he can fully digest them, Geralt continues.
“I went to her because I thought you were mortal, were human, and I couldn’t put myself through loving someone with that lifespan again. I wouldn’t survive it.”
Hopeful ethereal eyes lock onto Jaskier’s and for the life of him, he can’t look away. Not that he ever wanted to; not once in a million years, but like this, after what had been said… it was all too much.
“I’m not human.” Jaskier finds himself admitting in a whisper, desperately hoping Geralt understands what he’s getting at. “I will not die. Can’t, actually, as far as I know. But if you treat me again as you have before, I'm sure I will certainly feel like dying.”
A hum comes from that barrel chest he had stitched closed on so many occasions. “And that was something I did not know. But if you would allow it, I wish to know.”
It was as much a plea for answers as it was a cry for forgiveness, for understanding, and Jaskier had always been weak to this man. Weak for him the minute he caught sight of that brooding enigma in the corner of the tavern in Posada. The only being in that entire shithole who wasn’t throwing rotten food at him, the only one who tolerated his presence.
“I’ve only met two of my kind in all the years I’ve been alive.” Jaskier admitted as he fixed his gaze to the silver sword strapped to his love’s back. It could hurt him, yes, but it would not kill him. Geralt seemed to notice where his eyes were and shuffled so the sword was as out of his sight as possible. A silent assurance he was not going to use it. “One was a right arsehole and the other was… kind, in his own way. And my name is not Jaskier. It is Julian. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”
The confession didn’t make him feel any better, but the way Geralt’s face softened with blatant affection and his gaze refused to leave his person made Jaskier a touch calmer about the whole thing.
Gave him a new hope that eased away some of the pain.