Chapter Text
One would think after twenty years of pining and loving a man, if that love would be the cause of Jaskier’s demise, said demise would’ve been done with long ago. It was, naturally, once things had calmed that said demise arrived on his doorstep. The first time it happened, Jaskier had hardly noticed. When Geralt’s strong hands lingered on his arm, preventing him from tripping, Jaskier felt a lump in his throat. His heart fluttered. (Its usual traitorous response to Geralt’s attention.) His throat tightened. He coughed, feeling himself hack something up into his mouth, but swallowed it back down assuming it to be some kind of phlegm.
How wrong he was, swallowing back that first petal, choking however briefly on his affections.
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A few days later found them getting two rooms in an inn, a rare occurrence. Yennefer was with them for once, citing a need to watch over and teach the little princess they had collected. Ciri was coming along nicely in her own right. She would be a monster as she grew older. A Witcher-sorcerer-queen. No one would stand in her way. Jaskier couldn’t have been prouder.
Even Jaskier was able to contribute to her tutelage. Yennefer had fine schooling and practice in the customs of court but was both out of practice and less willing to obey by those rules. Jaskier spent much of his time giving Ciri maths or geography lessons. He taught her how to dance and which fork went where. Never before had he been thankful for his father beating court rules into his body back when Jaskier had been his heir. If his past suffering aided Ciri, it was worth it.
That night, though, Jaskier was performing and not only performing, but performing with a passing troupe that happened to be in town. It was the perfect time to force Ciri to practice the dances thye had learned. Jaskier convinced the tavern owner to slide some tables so there was room for dancing and convinced the troupe to play not only tavern jigs, but also some court pieces. A simple enough task given Jaskier’s speech about the inn being a classy place. He was never happier that he’d been able to acquire a new instrument before. Of course, the fiddle he used now didn’t hold a candle to his beloved lute. It just seemed a bit dangerous being a bard with a lute after the fire fucker fiasco.
Ciri grinned, convincing both Geralt and Yennefer to dance with her and then with each other. Jaskier watched the two and smiled along with the child. It warmed him, seeing Geralt and Yennefer get past their issues. He knew they would never be in love. They knew they would never be in love.
However, Yennefer had gotten over her fury that Geralt had tied their destinies. Apparently, being able to choose whether their relationship was neutral, hostile, or good helped. That and Yennefer’s desire to help raise the next queen of Cintra. Jaskier suspected Geralt had offered to have no more contact with her at all, if she wanted, but it would also mean she would never see Ciri. They’d healed a bit after Yennefer’s betrayal, but not enough.
Jaskier even reflected that he was friends with Yennefer now. Him helping her and her helping him certainly drew them closer. Their heartbreak over the same man may have been a catalyst, but Jaskier was happier for it. He wondered, if he had stayed in Lettenhove, if his relationship with his sisters would have grown like his relationship with Yennefer. Even as he thought it, he knew it was nothing more than a fever dream.
The heartbreak even felt better than before. Jaskier could look at Geralt without feeling his knees shake and his heart clench in pain. No longer did the words from that fated mountain ring through his head every night. No, now he was content. Content to harbor that little flicker of love and accepting that it would never be returned the way he wanted. That hardly mattered. He spent twenty years following a man who refused to call him friend. He was happy to spend a hundred more following the man who felt like home. He was happy to spend a thousand years following his new little family consisting of the man who would never love him back, the bitchy witch sister he’d always needed, and the girl who would change the fate of the world.
Those thoughts along with seeing Geralt’s lips curve up just ever so slightly while dancing with Ciri made Jaskier’s throat tighten. He didn’t know why it made his chest hurt, but he needed to cough. Jaskier managed to hold it down until the song ended.
Wandering over to a cup of ale, Jaskier coughed, trying to clear his throat and get rid of the tightness that came with the affection blooming in his heart. Giving a couple good coughs, Jaskier spit up a glob of what was most certainly not phlegm. He turned the two soft pink petals over in his hand. Confusion washed over him until he saw the flecks of blood that marred one of the petals.
Oh.
A funny part of Jaskier questioned why his immediate reaction wasn’t despair. After all, this was a death sentence and while everyone was slated to die one day, they rarely had such a clear ending. Or maybe he should feel despair knowing that he would not only die before the year’s end but die choking on such a wonderful feeling. Love, the thing he longed for, the thing legends and ballads were created for. Maybe instead of despair he should’ve felt rage. He’d longed and pined and chased for years, but now after all that happened… Jaskier accepted that his feelings weren’t returned. He stopped chasing for more. He was happy basking in the love that swelled up and filled him as he spent his days with his true love and their family. What did it matter if his feelings were returned? He was happy. He was content. He…
Love was killing Jaskier.
However, Jaskier didn’t despair. He didn’t rage. He slipped the petals into his pocket, took a few more sips of ale to wash the blood from his mouth, and turned back to his performance. Truly, he felt resigned, split. Like he knew he should feel something anything more than quiet acceptance, but the dissonance between what he should feel and what he did feel settled into acceptance.
Jaskier was doomed to die by the love and adoration he held for a man who would never feel the same. He was doomed to choke and burn and suffer because his feelings had bloomed within his chest. He would die without even being able to sing the greatest love song the world could know. A song about a bard, his Witcher, a witch, and the feral princess that made a family.
Catching Geralt’s eye, Jaskier felt a tug in his chest and smiled. He would die for this. He would die to bask in the glow of his Witcher’s presence, and he would die a happy man.
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A few weeks later found Jaskier coughing up a small handful of flowers anytime his thoughts lingered on Geralt. While he knew exactly the disease that afflicted him, Jaskier didn’t know how it would progress. In all the stories, the sickness would get to coughing up full blooms before the hero or heroine confessed their undying love and healed. Of course, there were stories where the lovesick fool died without saying a word, or worse the tragedies where the fool confessed and were rejected anyway. None of these stories actually detailed the disease itself, mostly just the feelings and drama of the whole situation.
Jaskier knew he wanted to be one of the ‘fools’ who never said a word. Sure, he would leave some kind of note, a letter assuring everyone it wasn’t their fault that he died. However, he didn’t plan on confessing. He knew it would be difficult dying without Geralt finding out before he passed. Maybe it would be even harder to make sure Geralt didn’t blame himself or someone else for the death either. In any case, he needed a plan.
Step one of the plan: talk to a healer.
While Jaskier knew all about the stories and ballads talking about the flower disease, he knew little about how it actually worked. He knew he would choke on these feelings and flowers alike. The only known ways to survive were to have the feelings returned or finding an exceptionally powerful mage to rip out one’s ability to feel. Neither option was, well, an option for him.
Jaskier wanted to know the timeline. He needed to know how long he had, how to conceal it, and when it would be time to part from the group. If he timed it right, he could spend every last minute possible with Geralt and the others before disappearing with them being none the wiser.
A part of him was glad Yennefer wouldn’t always be with them. Jaskier knew he could misdirect Geralt enough to avoid answering questions about being ill. The man’s hatred of holding uncomfortable conversations worked in Jaskier’s favor. Even Ciri could be misdirected at times. He knew Yennefer wouldn’t extend him the curtesy of knowing when to drop something.
Geralt was overseeing Yennefer and Ciri while they found a suitably hidden part of the woods to practice their chaos. Jaskier found it easy to claim that he was going to play at the inn they were staying at. It wasn’t horribly unusual for Jaskier to do so. After all, the last time he’d accompanied a magic training session, Yennefer had nearly strangled him for his comments.
Rather than go to the inn, Jaskier darkened the doorstep of the town’s healer. He pushed the door open, a bell attached to the door chiming to announce his presence.
An older woman rounded the corner of a back room. “Oh, hello dearie. What could I do for you?”
It took a moment for Jaskier to try and figure out how to describe his affliction. It felt like news that ought to be shared softly and gently, but it was silly to share news carefully with a healer. What would this woman judge him for? Loving someone?
Pulling out his notebook, Jaskier opened it to show the petals he’d saved. With a wry smile, he announced, “I believe I’ve fallen ill. A sickness to the heart as poetic as there can be.”
A flicker of pity passed the woman’s face before she reached out and took a petal in hand. Looking from it to Jaskier, she sighed. “Well, I’m assuming you know what these mean if you’re not storming in here in a panic about coughing up petals. If you know the disease, surely you know the cure.”
“That I do, my dear lady, however I fear the chances of my affections being returned are in line with the chances of my being a Witcher. To speak more plainly, I mean there is no chance at all, a fact I know for sure. I’m also aware of rumors that one can beg a powerful healer to kill the roots within as another cure. However, I’m also aware that this method results in any and all feelings being destroyed with the flowers. I do not say lightly that I would sooner cut my heart out than give up my feelings.”
The healer squinted at him. “You’re a bard, aren’t you?”
A lopsided smile graced his face as Jaskier tried to conceal his frustration at the unnecessary (in his mind) question. “Why yes I am. Why do you ask?” Normally he’d announce his title, but knew the others wanted to keep a lower profile.
“You’ve got a fiddle and only fools would describe dying as poetic and you’ve got to be a fool to be a bard.” The healer laughed at her own little joke before scrutinizing him once more. “Why’d you come here if you already know how to fix yourself but won’t? I don’t like my time being wasted.”
Jaskier struggled to keep up with the change between her maybe making fun of him to telling him he was wasting her time. Sure, he didn’t have a great deal of experience with healers, but he assumed Yennefer was the exception not the standard. Apparently, Jaskier had misjudged the personality types attracted to the profession. He came for information, though. “Yes, well, while I know the ballads and tragedies that describe coughing up petals and flowers until either a tearful confession or choking on your own feelings, I don’t know many details of the in between.”
“Speak plainly, bard.”
“I want to know how much time I have. That way I can spend what time I do have doing all I can with… him and others before I die. How long it takes before it becomes obvious. Maybe even how to extend my time or predict when it would be best for me to take a long walk in the woods rather than stick around.”
The healer regarded him before gesturing at a chair. “Sit. I’ll get some tea.” While she busied herself with that, Jaskier sat. She placed a warm cup in front of him and asked, “What’s your name, child?”
“Jaskier, and I’m older than I look.” Then, realizing he was being quite rude, “May I ask for your name?”
“I’m Hela, and I’m old enough to know you’re young enough to not take death seriously.”
Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, done with this insulting business, but she cut him off.
“Listen to me now or I won’t explain again. The flower disease… Some call it a curse, but no one knows where it came from or why some get it, and some don’t. Most people think it’s the result of someone who feels too much, too desperately without voicing it until it festers and grows into something deadly. You know the two cures for it, and you know what happens if you don’t get it fixed. The in between and the details, now… You start by coughing up petals every so often, then you’ll cough up buds, and then full blooms, followed by blooms with stems, and then with leaves, and then full stalks, and then you choke and suffocate.”
That all sounded in line with what Jaskier already knew. “But how long does it take for that to happen? I’ve only been coughing petals for ten days now.”
“Don’t interrupt me,” she snapped, “You’ll be coughing buds within the next few weeks then. The blooms will come maybe a week or so after that and then it progresses faster and faster. Once you get the blooms, you’ll find you can’t breathe as well even when you aren’t choking on them. The roots will grow around your lungs and start to squeeze them. Any travel will get much harder. You’ll have to take it easier, or you might get an infection that’ll kill you before the flowers do. As for how to prolong your time… the more time you spend around the one your flowers are for the faster it will grow. You may already know but thinking of him too intensely or being reminded of why you love him is what will trigger the coughing. The less you’re in that situation the more time you’ll have.”
Hela tapped the side of her cup before taking a sip and continuing, “I can give you some potions and herbs to help ease the pain and even save your voice for a time, but it’s just treating symptoms. You’ll still die in agony, choking on the love you’re so desperate to cling to.”
Jaskier swallowed hard. “Thank you for that… lovely visual.”
A wry grin appeared on her face. “I just want you to know what a fool you are, so you might reconsider.”
“After twenty years, I’m quite sure my affections will never be returned and… I’m a bard, my lady. What would a bard be without the muses to speak with and through? A life without emotions, without feelings. I cannot imagine a worse hell than that.” Jaskier remembered his conversation with Yennefer after she’d lost her chaos. He couldn’t imagine a life so dull and numb. He couldn’t imagine a life without love, even the familial love he felt for Ciri and Yennefer.
“Won’t be a bard much longer, choking on flowers as you are. You seemed educated enough for a fool. Surely, you can guess what having a bunch of roots tangled up with your lungs would do. Coughing up flowers will tear up your throat and the roots will steal your breath.” Hela softened a bit. “I’m not telling you this to be cruel, but you should be prepared. Fools think death is nothing to fear, but it’s a different beast when you stare it in the face. With a curse like this, you might find that fear once it’s too late for the cure.”
“I can assure you; I’ve had many a brush with death, and I can assure you I have plenty of fear for dying. I always knew following this man could be the death of me, but I don’t regret it. I will never regret placing my heart in his hands.” Jaskier studied his hands, for once still. The idea of dying scared him every other time he’d gotten close to it. He could remember the sheer terror of the djinn incident. With this though, he knew he should be scared. He knew he should’ve feared choking on flowers as much as he had choking on his own tongue. He didn’t though. Jaskier was a fool through and through. If this was to be his destiny, he would accept it.
The healer finally acquiesced the point. “I hope you’ve coin to pay for my potions and herbs. If you can avoid dwelling on thinking about the love or being reminded of it, you’ll have more time. Once you get to the point of coughing up blossoms with stems, you’ll not have much time left. All the potions and herbs will do is protect against infection and ease some pain.”
Jaskier pulled out his coin purse and gave her a genuine smile. “Thank you, for your help and making sure I wasn’t making a rash decision.” He was pretty sure he heard her mutter something more about fools and bards, but he walked out of the shop with a lighter purse and a heavier backpack full of labels and instructions for the various things he’d bought.
Before Jaskier left, Hela stopped him and gave him a book. “If you’re going to be coughing up this shit, you might as well know what it means. That book has pictures and descriptions of flowers and what they mean. Those petals you showed me are heliotrope. They mean devotion, an eternal love.”
“Thank you for this. If I can, I’ll try to find a way to return this to you when I no longer need it.”
“Good luck and good riddance.”