Chapter Text
Julian is eleven years old when it happens for the first time.
There’s a lake half a mile from the Lettenhove estate, where Julian lives. On sunny days, the water is often crystalline clear and surrounded by long stretches of meadow. Here, the local flora grows without disturbance, peppering the greenery with vibrant blossoms every spring. A forest of birch trees borders the grass, casting shade—cool and long—on a hot day.
Julian runs from the estate with urgency, not stopping until he reaches the lakeshore. He often comes here after Father gives him a harsh dressing down, and he just needs somewhere to breathe. When Father starts recounting how much of a disappointment Julian is, it’s best not to defend himself or talk back, or the cane might be brought out. Julian has learned that lesson the hard way.
So, today, he had taken in all the harsh words without making a sound, and ran to the lake immediately afterwards, passing servants who pretended not to see the tears running down his cheeks.
They’ve dried by the time he reaches the water and slumps down on the soft grass. The angry words still ring through memory, knotting up something painful in his stomach. Julian brings out his notebook filled with poems and scribbled verses.
Propped up on his elbows, Julian writes heartless rhymes in his notes, finding solace in the familiar motion, and if the warm sun begins to set and the frigid dampness creeps in, he doesn’t notice.
That’s when it happens.
He must have fallen asleep at some point because he opens his eyes to a darkening sky and a stinging coldness in his bones. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end as if he’s being watched. Julian looks back and yelps, scrambling back from the man a few yards away.
The man is tall. Really tall. And wide in the shoulders. He has light grey hair—almost silver in the fading sunlight. And his eyes. Oh, his eyes are a golden yellow. A witcher.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He raises his hands and kneels, as if it’ll make him look smaller. “Don’t be scared.” His tone is soft, despite how deep and hoarse it is.
Julian backs to the edge of the water. He’s read about witchers. His tutor says they’re merciless creatures who hunt monsters because they have no emotions. His parents say they grow devil horns and eat babies. Amongst everything, Julian also knows that witchers are stronger than ten men combined, knows they could break him in half before he could blink.
But the witcher in front of him doesn’t have horns, nor is he trying to eat him. Instead, he looks almost…timid? Like he is scared of Julian’s reaction.
The golden eyes hold a concern that Julian doesn’t understand. The witcher retreats further, appearing even less threatening.
“Jaskier, please. Don’t be scared. I would never hurt you.”
The drowsiness of sleep is now completely gone. Julian stares at him with, eyes alert. Jaskier. Buttercup? What a ridiculous name. Why is he calling me that?
“You’re a witcher. What do you want?”
There’s surprise in the witcher’s eyes, but he recovers quickly.
“Nothing.”
“Father says witchers eat children. Are you going to eat me?”
“No. We only hunt monsters.” He tilts his head slightly in amusement.
“Then why are you here?”
The witcher thinks for a second, resignation in his features. “I suppose we’ve never met before. My name is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia. I’m only here…by accident.”
Julian frowns. “Why did you call me… that name,” he pauses, “Geralt?”
The man in front of him chuckles. “I guess I shouldn’t have. Can you tell me your name?”
Jaskier. There’s a nice ring to it.
“My parents call me Julian.”
“Okay, Julian.” The witcher, no, Geralt reaches out his hand tentatively for a handshake. “Nice to meet you. Now, what are you doing by yourself in the middle of nowhere?”
Despite the stories he has heard, Julian is, strangely, not scared of the man sitting cross-legged in the grass, trying to appear as friendly as possible despite his bulk. But he is not going to shake his hand either.
“I’m reading. It’s poetry. I’m writing my own too.”
The witcher’s yellow eyes crinkle. His hand drops. “What kind of poetry? Can you tell me?”
So, Julian tells him. He tells him about the poets he’s reading about and how brilliant their verses are. The more he speaks, the less nervous he becomes. The witcher listens intently, seemingly interested in meters and rhymes and occasionally asking questions to prompt him to continue. No one at the estate is willing to hear about poetry, so Julian is glad for the opportunity to share all his thoughts.
By the end of his rambling, the man has a soft look on his face, as if remembering something fond.
Julian offers a smile of his own. “Everyone around me hates poetry. You’re the first person to listen to me.”
“Hmm.”
Just when he wants to say something else, Geralt looks away suddenly, his expression falling.
“I…I’m a time traveler,” he blurts.
Julian blinks. “Pardon me?”
“I-I am. I’m from the future. Decades from now. Please believe me.” There’s something bare, even vulnerable in the witcher’s pleading. “I can prove it. Thirteen days from now, I’ll come back here. The same spot. In the morning. You’ll see then.”
Being gobsmacked as he is, Julian stares at the man who calls himself Geralt, as he turns transparent and vanishes into thin air.
Julian blinks away the afterimage and realizes that he’s now sitting on the ground by himself.
For thirteen days, he thought he imagined the whole thing.
There’s no way he met a time traveler. There’s no way he met a time traveling witcher! Julian thinks about the man daily, about the golden eyes, about the familiarity in his tone, the soft look in his eyes.
Julian knows nothing about this man, except for a name. Geralt. Was he even real?
Writing the date on his notebook, Julian cannot help but look forward to the promised day, but at the same time, dreading it.
On the thirteenth morning, Julian rises early. He slips from the notice of staff and guards and goes straight towards the lake. After a few moments of standing alone with nothing but the sound of leaves rustling, he starts to feel kind of foolish. Of course it wasn’t real. Father was right, he needs to stop daydreaming and focus on his future –
“I told you I would be here.”
Geralt’s deep voice comes from a distance, and Julian whips his head around. His own gobsmacked face must be quite a sight. The witcher’s white hair glistens under the bright morning sun.
The second time they meet, Geralt starts telling him about the life of witchers, about the Path, how they travel the Continent and kill monsters for a living.
It turns out, Geralt has just hunted down a Griffin right before he came here. Upon hearing the name of the monster, Julian immediately begins a series of questions of barely contained wonderment. After all, he has never left Lettenhove, let alone seen a real Griffin.
Geralt, while vague on the details, told him all about the slaying of it.
“It’s like it could be in a song,” Julian muses out loud. He is now sitting on the bank, feet dipped into the water, with the witcher next to him.
“And who will write it, you?”
“I could if I wanted. But, Geralt,” Julian has more important questions. “You are really a time traveler.”
“Yes, but I cannot control when or where I go.”
“What do you mean?”
“It means-” Geralt looks away. “It means I’ll need your help. Julian. Keep a record of our meetings. Can you do that for me?”
Julian splashes the water, the ripples disturbing the calm surface.
“If I do, will you come back?”
“I will, I promise.”
Before Geralt disappears into nothingness again, he has revealed their next meeting time. The wait will be a lot longer, but this time Julian holds a sureness in his heart, like something is settling into place.
The days with the tutor are still long. As he listens on and on about politics and economics, Julian’s mind drifts to the monster hunt Geralt told him about. Even though Geralt’s storytelling was simple and to the point, the excitement of it still blooms in Julian’s mind. The thrill of adventure sizzles in his dreams. Julian cannot resist going through it over and over, trying to reimagine it with more dramaticism with twists and turns in between. After all, that’s how stories are told in the acts of plays.
“Who tells stories?” Julian interrupts the tutor.
“Why, Master Julian, do you want to hear some?”
“No, I want to tell stories. Who tells stories for a living?”
The tutor indulges him, “That might be the job of writers. They write them down into books so many people will read them. Or maybe actors, they perform a story so you can see it. Sometimes traveling bards will sing stories across the continent-”
Julian’s ears perk up. He has seen a bard at their own court, who had a lovely voice and commanded the whole room with chirpy songs and dances.
“That’s what I will be. I will be a traveling bard when I grow up. I will tell the most exciting adventures to everyone in the world!”
The tutor seems nonplussed. “No, Master Julian. You are too noble to be a bard singing lowly songs in taverns and town squares. You are the heir to your father, and you will become a lord. That is why you need to learn the things I’m teaching you now…”
Head drooping down, Julian turns back to the lessons with reluctance, but the scene stays on his mind, of himself singing adventures of heroics and heartbreak, of everyone’s eyes on him with adoration.
That’s something he can love doing.
As unlikely as his friendship with Geralt is, Julian is grateful for it. His life in the endlessly big mansion doesn’t feel so lonely when he knows a friend will be waiting just where he promised to be.
Every once in a few months, sometimes longer, he waits by the lake for the golden-eyed Witcher to show up. They talk about Julian’s history lessons, his new passion for music, or even just his day at the estate. Well, mostly Julian goes on and on, and Geralt listens with hums in between.
And Geralt, albeit needing some nudging, recounts his life as a witcher, about monsters and travels. The things he’s seen put such longing in Julian’s heart. One day, I will go to these places and see for myself.
But sometimes, not everything about being a witcher is all thrill and glory. Geralt absent-mindedly mentions how he couldn’t stay at the town where he had finished a hunt and was forced to travel on, only to meet a fae in the forest.
“Why couldn’t you stay?” Julian does not understand.
Geralt hesitates, a somber look settles in his expression.
“They…” Now he looks quite pained. “Remember what your parents told you about witchers? There are a lot of people. They - they believe things that aren’t true about us. They didn’t let me stay because they were scared. Of me hurting them.”
Julian looks into the amber eyes, now with a hint of vulnerability in them. In terms of who is hurting whom, it might just be the other way around.
“I don’t think you will hurt anyone.”
A forced smile appears at the corner of Geralt’s lips.
“I wish I could change how they see you,” Julian mutters to himself.
Geralt must have heard it but does not reply.
Years pass. Geralt becomes a constant in Julian’s life. He looks forward to their secretive meetings and bears the days in between.
The Geralt appearing beside the lake changes, often drastically. His white hair varies in length and style, and the same armors that are worn out will turn brand new upon the next meeting. Occasionally Julian cannot find the familiar faded scars on his face. There are even times when Geralt doesn’t know when he’s going to be back next, and times when he uses that name again. Jaskier. Julian needs to correct him on such occasions, and he looks almost embarrassed about the slip.
All those timely encounters are religiously recorded in Julian’s notebooks. He writes down everything about the man, from his clothes to his scars, to the things they talked about. He also keeps track of the length of each stay, just so it might be helpful.
Every time, the amber eyes carry the same warmth when he appears, and the same hope upon vanishing before Julian’s eyes. Though it seems he is powerless against the pulling force dragging him away, he always senses it moments before and says his goodbye.
Julian is curious as to the hows and whys of this obvious superpower of the witcher, but the witcher is also none the wiser.
“I never understood it myself. It’s a pulling force that I cannot control or predict. It tends to bring me to a certain…place, like an anchor. I can only sense it moments before it happens but cannot stop it.”
All your life spent knowing something might sweep you away but powerless to stop it. Getting dumped wherever and whenever destiny fancies.
“It must be tough.”
Geralt hesitates, “It gets easier after a while. You ride along with the wave, not against it. The places I end up are usually not…unpleasant.”
Julian looks around the lake and the woods. It must be Geralt’s anchor then. He keeps getting dragged to an anonymous lake in Lettenhove. Can’t be the worst place on earth. Plus, it means Julian can always find a friend out here, even though only at the hour destiny chooses.
“There must be an upside to it. At least you can see your own future?” Julian muses, “Do you know mine? You must have seen it. Do I get to be a bard? Am I good?”
“I can’t tell you. Time traveling is tricky. It might change things.”
“So you do know my future.” Julian perks up. “Please, Geralt!”
“No. That’s the rule.”
“There are rules? What, is there a Grand Council for all the time travelers where they decide them? Like, I don't know, don't murder your own grandfather?”
Geralt chuckles, “No, I just have my own rule.”
Julian sags, he knows when Geralt is determined to be tight-lipped, there is no way he can pry it out of him. The white-haired man in front of him holds information that Julian may not know for ages to come, and yet a sense of resignation settles. Geralt has become the most constant, reliable part of his life in Lettenhove. He always shows up the day he promises, and those days are what moves Julian forward in between.
If he trusts the witcher will come back to him, Julian can wait to see his future for himself. He doesn’t need a preview. Despite what the tutor says, Julian can be quite patient.
In a way, Geralt has become the anchor for Julian himself.
One afternoon, Julian notices dark circles under Geralt’s eyes, and how tired and disheveled he appears. “It’s a little hard to get by when winter is near, Julian. Don’t worry.”
Of course he’s going to worry about his friend, as he says so out loud. Julian does not want to see the witcher starved and exhausted, so he runs back to the kitchen and sneaks out some food. Luckily, by the time he returns, Geralt is still there, sitting on the grass by the water. They share a makeshift picnic of dried meat and fruits under the afternoon sun. Seeing the witcher swallowing down food with content makes Julian almost giddy. He’s almost proud to have taken care of a witcher in his own way.
Sometimes, Geralt will care for him.
Julian has turned fourteen. He’s learned everything about poetry and songs from the local tutor. He knows that, if he wants to pursue a career as a bard, as a musician, he has to learn from someone better, better than what Lettenhove can offer. Because if he is doing it, he has to become the best. The longing for success, for respect, gnaws at him day and night. Julian knows he needs to go the Oxenfurt, the best university out there, which is what he tells Father.
It doesn’t go over well, as expected. Father has always opposed his interests in music. A long speech about responsibilities as the Viscount ensues. Words like ‘disgrace’ and ‘shame of the family name’ are thrown around. When Julian stands his ground and insists on going away on his own, a switch is flicked like so many times before.
Later, Julian sits defeated under a tree near the water, nursing the bruises on his forearms. This time there is even broken skin, with specks of blood seeping out. He hunches his back against the coarse bark and lets the tears fall freely. Between the uncontrollable sobbing and hiccups, he almost doesn’t hear Geralt approach.
“Who did this to you?”
He whips up his head, wiping at the wetness with a hurry, not liking to be caught in this state. The witcher’s golden eyes are filled with shock, soon overcome by brimming fury. Combined with his large, imposing form now buzzing with energy, the terrifying legends about witchers’ immense powers are coming to Julian’s mind.
And yet, he knows the anger is not directed at him.
“It’s…my father.”
Geralt turns to make strides towards the estate.
“No! No, please.” Julian scrambles to catch up, stopping his angry march by cutting off in front of him, a hand resting on the witcher’s elbow. The gentle contact halts Geralt immediately. “It won’t help. And how do we explain it? There are no witchers in town. How do I explain knowing you?”
“I need to make sure he never does it again.” Geralt looks torn. The silence stretches out. He holds Julian’s arms to inspect the marks, “I hunt monsters for a living, Julian. I cannot stand by, especially when one is hurting you.”
“Just tell me this,” Julian sniffles, ignoring the implication, “Do I get to leave this place? You are from the future. Am I trapped here forever?”
“I shouldn’t tell you. It might affect-”
“I know the rule, but I just need to know. Please. I can’t stay in Lettenhove for the rest of my life.”
“Julian.”
“Please.” He chokes out a whimper.
Geralt finally relents, “Yes. You get to leave.” He guides Julian to sit on a patch of moss, taking a handkerchief from Julian’s pocket and dabbing at the broken skin. Julian flinches a little. “Sorry. You will…do the things you dream of. One day.”
He ties the cloth around the wound, not letting go of Julian’s arm. His thumb draws absent circles on the tightly wrapped fabric. “I know it seems far away, but you will get there.”
“I will?” The sobs subside under Julian’s breath. “And you know that because of your time traveling superpower?”
A thumb comes up to wipe the tears from Julian’s cheeks. “Yes. So believe me when I say you’ll be alright.”
Julian lets out a watery huff. If the witcher says so, he will believe it. Only that future is too distant, too out of reach.
Julian is counting the days recorded in his notebook when the witcher snaps into existence a few feet away from him, mumbling a cuss. The annoyance and frustration clear on his face. He doesn’t acknowledge Julian’s presence, only starts to pace in exasperation while pinching between his eyes. Was he in the middle of something, Julian thinks, clearly he doesn’t want to be here.
In the warm glow of the setting sun, he notices a ring on Geralt’s left hand. It’s a simple silver band that rests on his ring finger. He blinks to make sure it is not a trick of the light.
“Wait, are you married?”
Geralt snaps his head towards Julian, expression softening when their eyes meet, and quickly covers the ring and stammers, “I-I am. Um…Yes. But I shan’t tell you anything about it.”
“Oh, but you must!” His overly excited voice pinches high, an uncomfortable knot forming in his stomach. To think of Geralt being married to someone roils up something ugly in him, so he tries to mask it. “Who is the lucky lady? What is she like?”
But shouldn’t Julian be happy for him? Yes, he should be glad the witcher has found someone. If anyone deserves happiness, it is this gentle witcher in front of him. So definitely, he is happy for Geralt. Nothing is churning in his chest with a possessiveness he is trying to push down.
“He.” Geralt stresses, “I am married to my husband.”
“Who is the lucky man then?”
A pause. “I’m not sure he is that lucky, to be with me.” The witcher looks down, as if in shame. No, guilt.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” Julian is confused. Anyone should be lucky to be with Geralt.
Geralt closes his eyes and exhales. He stares into the distance with such sorrow, as if remembering a painful memory.
“He got hurt, because of me.”
“How do you mean?”
“He - There are people out there who want to hurt me. They know he is close to me. They know of our…bond, and they found him instead. I should have protected him.” Amber eyes bore into Julian’s, but the gravity behind them is inexplicable. There is a vulnerability that he’s never seen the Witcher wear. “I couldn’t. I’m the reason he got hurt. Gets hurt. Gods know how many times he's suffered because of me.”
No.
Julian’s heart breaks. “It’s not your fault. I’m sure you did everything you could.” The platitude sounds flat, but the witcher chuckles.
“Of course you would say that.”
“Because I know it, Geralt. You are a good man. You are my best friend in the whole wide world.” Julian tries, “I’m sure he doesn’t blame you.”
“Hmm.”
A glimpse of the silver band flashes by Julian’s vision, his heart sinking once again. Who is he to offer Geralt comfort? He has his own husband for that. He picks at the half-bloomed dandelions by his crossed legs, seemingly interested in the wildflower. Geralt’s mirroring pose in front of him is stiff as a statue.
“He often gets hurt when he’s with me. Life with a witcher has its danger, but this time…it was bad.” He sounds haunted, “It took a long time for him to recover. He still hasn’t quite. And I should be with him right now.”
Julian stands up and turns away, the petals crushed between his fidgety fingers. “Of course. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere with me?” The bitterness is not hidden well. “You should go back to him.”
“Wait. Are you upset, Julian?”
“No!” He suddenly gets defensive. “That’s not – I’m not upset, at all – Why would I be? That’s stupid!” Great, now he does sound stupid.
“No?” A chuckle comes from the witcher. The heaviness is lifted from the air. “You’re right. Don’t be.”
Just when Julian is searching for a comeback without embarrassing himself even further, Geralt lets out a soft gasp. He must sense the pull to drag him away.
Julian kneels back down instantly, meeting the amber eyes.
“You are going back.” To your husband.
“Yes.”
“Know this,” He can’t let the witcher go with that guilt weighing on him. Oh, his soul is so bare in those golden eyes. “he must know how dangerous a witcher’s life is. If he chooses it, he won’t blame other’s evil on you, so you shouldn’t. Geralt, you are the kindest man I know.” He adds after a pause. “And if he ever does, well, send him to me. I should have words with him.”
The familiar gravity returns to Geralt’s eyes.
“Hmm.”
“Promise me you won’t blame yourself any longer.”
“Okay,” The witcher smiles, “I promise.”
By the time Julian saves enough for the first year at Oxenfurt, he is almost sixteen. He knows once he moves away, this life at the estate will be completely behind him. The sizzling anticipation keeps him up every night. A new chapter begins. A new me.
Julian is anxious to shed the weight of his family name. He should assume a new one, a stage name, something he will be known for.
For years, he already knows the answer. Jaskier, as the witcher once called him.
Jaskier the bard.
He strums his lute and muses it over and over again. It’s unbelievable how right it sounds.
And yet, another worry occupies his mind—the lake in Lettenhove, his secret friend for half of his life. Will he ever see Geralt again once he moves away? It turns his stomach until their next meeting. It’s only days before he leaves.
“Are you all packed?”
“Yes.” The nervous energy he’s emitting must be palpable to the witcher.
“Then why do you smell like you are going to pass out, Julian?”
Smell like? He puts that information away for later.
“Jaskier. I’ve changed it.”
Geralt is unfazed. “Okay, Jaskier. Are you not ready to leave?”
“I am. It’s just, what about us?”
“What about us?”
“Will I ever see you again. You know, I won’t be in Lettenhove.”
Geralt softens, “Of course you will. Is that what’s bothering you?”
Jaskier looks down at the lake. With the fall coming, the water clears up so beautifully that the fish are almost swimming mid-air.
“We’ve only met here, by this lake.”
“Oh.” It dawns on Geralt. “No, Jaskier. This pull I have…It pulls me to you. You are my anchor, not this place.”
Oh.
That’s brilliant. Hope sparkles into joy in Jaskier’s throat. “So I will keep seeing you?”
“You have your very own time traveler, Jaskier. It’s not that easy to get rid of me.” The corner of Geralt’s mouth picks up, more infectious than anything else in the world.
Jaskier smiles in return and bumps the witcher in the shoulder. They are almost of a height now. The thought of the witcher coming back to him settles something within him. You are my anchor. Geralt’s constant presence will always be part of Jaskier’s life. Whenever he needs reassurance, he’s just right around the corner. He has an inkling that his role in the witcher’s life has the same effect. Well, at least he hopes.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Oxenfurt is just as magnificent as Jaskier dreams and just as vile as his father claims. He studies and sings, and falls into different beds and, way too often, in love. A childhood of isolation with little affection makes him crave intimacy but something is lacking in all the fleeting romances.
Essi, who he loves like a little sister, convinces him to attend the Bardic Competition the first year he’s at Oxenfurt. No one this young has ever won it, but Jaskier came through with a song about a mighty hero who slew an evil dragon only to be shunned by locals fearing the powers he possesses. If the inspiration is drawn from his certain time traveling friend, he doesn’t mention it to the people congratulating him.
Little does he know that an emerging artist called Valdo Marx would return to Oxenfurt and claim the title one year later, winning by a mere single vote. This man prances around the afterparty like a peacock and even gave Jaskier some “helpful notes”.
After a reasonable amount of time seething and cursing Valdo’s name, Jaskier spends the third year preparing to reclaim the title, the last one before departing Oxenfurt.
As the day comes, he gets more nervous about everything. The words he writes suddenly lose all appeal, and the melodies sound cheesy as hell. The downward spiraling soon leads to a full-on panic attack right in the middle of a lecture. Jaskier runs into the herbal garden where visitors are sparse and only professors occasionally show up to care for the plants. The warm, soothing air clears his mind as he stumbles through the door and right into Geralt’s chest.
It has been close to three years since he has seen Geralt, and Jaskier has missed him every night he looks at the stars and feels so alone.
The stress in his chest erupts and Jaskier falls apart right in Geralt’s solid arms. He quickened breaths rock through his body and the hot, all-consuming panic clouds his mind. But Geralt holds him in return, murmuring sweet nothings in his ears and drawing slow circles on his back. Burrowing in the crook of his neck, Jaskier evens out his breathing and calms down eventually.
Jaskier pulls back to meet the concerned amber eyes and offers a shaky smile.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Hmm.” Geralt still studies Jaskier’s face, a furrow forming between his brows. “Where are we now?”
“Oxenfurt. It’s a greenhouse.”
Lush plants are all the eyes can see. Condensation forms in the air. Jaskier steps back to take in the witcher in front of him. His appearance seems younger than some of the times Jaskier has seen him, the faint scar at the corner of his left eye not there yet. The thick attire suggests a much colder climate, and his relaxation shows through the lack of armor and weapons. The usual weariness from the Path is nowhere to be seen in Geralt’s features. In fact, he looks softer around the edges, well-fed and content.
Well, at least one of them is having a good time.
“I haven’t seen you in years. I was beginning to think it was a figment of my daydreaming.”
“Jask, I can’t control where I go. You know that.” Geralt tilts his head, his grip still supporting Jaskier’s elbow. “How have you been.”
Jaskier only considers lying for a second. “Pretty shit. It’s not the same without my time traveling witcher.”
They sit down on a bench, and Jaskier fills him in on the missing years while prying some of the monster stories from Geralt. A bruxa was terrorizing a small village in Redania, or will be, somewhere in the future. As much as the witcher is tight-lipped and vague on the details, Jaskier catches a slip.
“…when we found out there were two bruxae -”
“We? Who were you with?”
Geralt tries to gloss it over, “Um…no one.”
“Your rule again? Can’t you just tell me this one thing? Just this once?”
The disappointment bleeds into frustration. For years Jaskier has only fleeting glimpses into Geralt’s life, but his own has been laid out without reservation ever since they met. The unfairness has messed with him for long enough.
“It’s your rule, actually.”
“My rule?”
“Yes.”
“My future-self came up with this encrypted game just to mess with me in the past?”
“Jaskier,” Geralt palms his forehead, “Please drop it.
“Then tell me something else.” He needs to change the subject. “When did you come from? It’s winter, isn’t it?”
Geralt looks deep into Jaskier’s eyes and finally relents, “I’m spending the winter at Kaer Morhen. It’s a home for all witchers from the wolf school, however many that’s left of us.”
Surprise overtakes Jaskier. “I read about it in the library. I thought it was a myth, like all the other things they say about witchers. A fortress high up in the clouds, covered in snow, inaccessible to the rest of the world.”
“Hmm. Not everything about us is a lie. Have you been reading up on witchers?”
“And about you.”
Alert creeps into Geralt’s face, his tone tentative. “What else did you learn?”
Realization hits Jaskier. Oh, that.
When he first heard about Geralt’s name associated with the word ‘butcher’, he thought there had to be a mistake. It was another witchers, perhaps. But all the whispers on the continent confirmed that, no, it was Geralt who was in Blaviken that day.
“There are stories, different versions of it, about you in Blaviken. They call you…I only know what people say. Geralt, what happened?”
“What do you think happened?” The witcher retreats, defense right up in his eyes, as if to protect himself from whatever Jaskier is going to accuse him of.
“I only know what I heard.”
“And what did you hear?”
“That you murdered innocents. In cold blood.” Geralt retreats further, as if pained. The story he caught was about a monster who mercilessly cut down a dozen men under the influence of magic. The details vary when you ask travelers from different places, but the cruelness of the wolf witcher is plain as day in every version.
Somehow, the image of a cold-blooded killing machine does not overlap with the gruff yet sweet man who greeted Jaskier with such warmth by the lake, or the man who once let Jaskier braid wildflowers into his hair.
“What really happened, Geralt?”
His gaze flickers back to Jaskier’s. “What else do you want me to say. Do you not trust what you hear?”
“Somehow I trust you more.”
The heartbreak in Geralt’s beautiful golden eyes is so palpable that Jaskier cannot look away.
“I don’t deserve you, Jaskier.”
There’s more behind this sentence that Jaskier pays little mind to, because Geralt starts telling him the truth about Blaviken. About the princess who was so hurt by men that she was consumed by revenge. It’s like a dam has been broken. Geralt lets the words flow out of him without hesitation. The impossible choice still seizes and pains him, and by the end of the story, Geralt slumps down in resignation.
There's coldness on Jaskier’s face. He realizes that tears are streaming down freely, blurring his vision.
“It’s not your fault. Gods, Geralt – You only wanted to protect them, and they – they cursed you. They called you…Gods, how can they –” His breath hitches.
A warms hand cups his cheek, wiping away the tearstain, just like many times before when Jaskier desperately needed comfort when he ran to the lake and saw the familiar silhouette. But it’s all wrong. He is not the one who should receive comfort right now, and yet Geralt offers.
“I thought it was the lesser evil, but I was wrong. I deserve what they call me, Jaskier. The Butcher is right –”
“No. No!” Jaskier holds on to him in return. The regret on the other man’s face is clear as day but a sliver of hope surfaces when their gazes lock. “You made an impossible choice. You only tried to do right by everyone. Geralt, I wish you wouldn’t see yourself as they do. Please, see yourself as I do.”
“And how do you see me?”
Geralt’s wolf medallion tangles with the white hair cascading down his shoulders. Jaskier holds it and strokes the silky hair.
“You are my own time traveler. My best friend. The kindest man I know, my White Wolf.”
Jaskier wishes he could erase the tightly knit frown between the witcher’s eyes, but the words seem unable to penetrate the long-existing walls Geralt built around himself. He wishes he could convince Geralt of his trust, of his admiration, of his adoration. But all his bardic eloquence is gone, leaving him with one option.
Jaskier presses their lips together and kisses Geralt with all he cannot articulate. It is rushed and clumsy, the taste of salt between them, lacking all the confidence he usually has with all but fleeting bed partners. And yet, it gets through to Geralt, just for a moment, when he responds with the same eagerness and opens up with a passion. Just when Jaskier is lost in the sweet rhythm, Geralt pulls away.
“No, we shouldn’t.” They breathe in the same air.
“And why not?” Jaskier pants.
The amber eyes meet his before Geralt buries himself in Jaskier’s neck, breathing in the scent at his nape. His fingers card through Jaskier’s hair. A mumbled vibration comes through the solid contact of their bodies, “It’s not time yet.”
Jaskier can almost laugh, “Time? How cruel? Time has done nothing but keep us apart.”
Geralt only hums.
“It also brings us together. Wait until we meet, Jaskier. Just wait a bit longer.”
Jaskier knows they are going to meet at some point when he no longer needs to steal little pockets of time with his witcher. He’s been waiting his whole life for that moment. His patience is running out.
“When?”
“Sooner than you think.”
“And when is that?”
“Soon. I promise.”
Geralt nuzzles at Jaskier’s neck, presses a light kiss behind his ear, and pulls away completely.
This time, when his favorite time traveler fades away in the greenhouse, something shifts in Jaskier’s heart. An emptiness is punctured into his chest, deep into his lungs, clenching at every breath he takes, but he has no way of filling it. He can only wait for when destiny deems it appropriate for them to meet again.
As Geralt promised, their next meeting is soon, sooner than Jaskier expected.
He leaves Oxenfurt with another title of the Bardic Competition and travels aimlessly until he reaches Upper Posada. Singing at lowly taverns does not guarantee positive reception but Jaskier manages. Strumming his lute brings him comfort and pride as always, and if his songs about monster-slaying are a little exaggerated, there is no one to correct him.
In this particular joint though, the local drunken folks are showing probably too much disdain for Jaskier’s performance. As he picks up the thrown food, the familiar silver hair and golden eyes fill his vision.
Jaskier approaches his old friend, his own heartbeat rabbiting in his throat.
He flirts and teases before sitting down at the table.
“You don’t want to keep an old friend with…bread in his pants waiting.”
There is no recognition in the amber eyes he dreams of too often.
Geralt doesn’t know him.