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Prologue
Jaskier doesn’t remember getting down the mountain. He probably should, since he nearly died at least half a dozen times going up, but mostly he just puts one foot in front of the other over and over until, quite suddenly, he realizes it is much easier to breathe and looks up to find himself having made it all the way down the trail.
The base camp is, thank the gods, empty, save for various horses and carts. Jaskier makes a beeline for Roach, since he left the things he could spare with Geralt’s packs. Or in them, honestly, since a lot of their belongings end up mixed together because Geralt couldn’t care less.
Geralt probably cares now, though.
When he feels the beginnings of tears prickling at his eyes, Jaskier bites his lip hard, until he tastes blood. He did not cry, when Geralt spat angry words at him; he did not cry, when he came down the mountain. He will not cry now.
He is Jaskier the bard, and he always knew that his time with Geralt would come to an end. He’d just hoped it would be a peaceful one, or at least an amicable one.
But hopes and dreams – well, they are for bards, but bards have regular human needs like everyone else. They need food and water and coin and company, and Jaskier made his own way in the world before he met Geralt. He can do it again now without Geralt, painful though it might be.
So Jaskier bites his lip and rummages carefully through the packs until he has removed every single thing that belongs to him and not Geralt. Everything he cannot bear to spare, he tucks into his own pack or his pockets. Anything else, especially things too bulky for a single person traveling alone, he sets aside to be sold when he reaches the nearest town with a market.
Then he goes to say goodbye to Roach. This Roach has been with them long enough to become acclimated to Jaskier, and in fact greets him with a stamp of her feet and a nicker. She still loves Geralt most, of course, but at least she stopped biting him a few years back.
“Hey there,” Jaskier says softly, rubbing at her velvet nose. “Sorry we had to part on these terms, but I can’t very well take you with me, can I?”
Roach pushes against his hands, nudging against his pocket. Jaskier grins and frees the apple he saved for her. He cuts it in half with his dagger and offers it to her with a flat palm; she eyes him enviously but graciously accepts his gift. For a long moment, the only sounds in the camp are Roach crunching on her half of the apple and Jaskier doing the same to his, but then Jaskier goes to wipe off his dagger and slide it back into the sheath and he remembers –
“Do you even have a weapon to defend yourself with?”
“What need have I for a weapon? Who would want to hurt a defenseless – Geralt, why are you looking at me like that. Geralt, wait, I don’t – ”
“Shut up and hold this. No, not like that. No, not – have you ever held a weapon before in your life?”
“ . . . I took fencing class, once?”
“Hmm.”
The day after, Geralt had stomped into their room and dropped a dagger and sheath on the bed. It had been plain and serviceable, sharp steel honed to a fine edge and perfectly suited to Jaskier’s hand. It had taken several long months before Geralt deemed him knowledgeable enough to stop torturing him with nightly drills and lunges, but Jaskier had taken it for the gift it was. Geralt might never call him a friend to his face – or indeed, anywhere – but he’d taught Jaskier how to defend himself, and he’d even bought him a dagger with which to do so.
Jaskier looks at the dagger now. It’s still sharp, for Geralt taught him well how to care for it, and still plain, because Geralt also yelled at him whenever he tried to adorn the sheath. The point is for no one to know where it is, Jaskier.
It is still, undeniably, the gift from one friend to another.
But Jaskier is not Geralt’s friend anymore, and his safety and protection is no longer Geralt’s concern. He is no longer the White Wolf’s bard; he’s just a bard who happens to sing of the White Wolf, and of monsters, and of Witchers. He doesn’t need a dagger for that.
Before he can stop himself, he wipes the blade clean and slides it back in the sheath. Then he unbuckles the sheath and kneels to loop it carefully around Roach’s saddle. Few are foolish to steal from a Witcher and furthermore Roach would probably bite them, so he knows it will still be here whenever Geralt finally stops sulking from his epic fight with that damn witch and comes down from the mountain himself.
Let Geralt make of that what he may.
Then he pats Roach one more time and sets off for the nearest town, turning over words and melodies in his head. After all, he will need to sing for his supper, and a hunt for a dragon will make a fine tune.
If there is one thing Geralt learned that was surprising about Jaskier, it is that he can walk very quickly when he wants to. Usually this is because he is chasing after Geralt or running away from lords he’s cuckolded, but it’s always a little bit of a shock to realize just how fast he can be. Most of the time, Geralt is grateful for it, because it meant that Geralt was mostly free to roam the Path at the pace he was used to without worrying about accidentally ditching Jaskier and being cheerfully insulted about it when Jaskier caught up.
Right now, however, when Geralt is trying to catch him before he gets off the mountain, it’s just damn annoying.
When he finally reaches the base camp, he finds it mostly deserted. The dwarves have long since cleared out, and they killed most of the Reavers, and of course the damn dragon isn’t coming off the mountain. Which leaves the cart Sir Eyck and Yennefer had come in on – Geralt ignores the twist in his heart that thought inspires – and Roach.
Roach is grazing peacefully when he walks to her. She greets him with a gentle whicker, as though he is still the same Geralt who wandered away and is not, instead, the man who just burned two of the most important bridges in his life and spent the whole walk down the mountain bitterly regretting it. Geralt, who doesn’t handle emotions well on a good day, is somewhat grateful for her unchanging nature.
He is also grateful that his packs are undisturbed; he wouldn’t have put it past humans to rifle through a Witcher’s belongings, either out of curiosity or hatred.
When he gets closer, though, he realizes his packs smell strongly of Jaskier. And not the faint, casual smell that comes from spending years together and mixing their belongings; this is recent, and strong, and bitter from the stench of unhappiness.
A whine crawls its way up to Geralt’s throat; he ruthlessly bites it down. He can fix it, he can, Jaskier may have gotten off the mountain faster than he thought, but he can track a wyvern for miles, surely he can track one human, surely he can find some way to apologize, surely he can try to mend what he so thoughtlessly shattered. The thought of leaving that chasm uncrossed is unthinkable, not after twenty years of Jaskier humming at his side and stealing his blankets for warmth and bullying Geralt into letting him stitch his wounds and wash his hair.
And then he sees it: a steel dagger, sitting quietly in a leather sheath, tied neatly to Roach’s saddle.
“What is that?”
“Dagger. For you.”
“My friend, you’re the one who keeps all the weapons. And knows how to use them. I’d be more likely to slice my hand open to actually stab someone else.”
“Then I’ll teach you. You should learn how to defend yourself.”
“Or I can just rely on my strong and swift friend to protect me.”
Jaskier hadn’t been lying, strangely; he’d just lounged in bed and smiled up at Geralt, trusting and naïve and somehow believing a Witcher could keep him safe, would keep him safe. And Geralt would keep him safe from monsters, that was his purpose and why he was created, but Jaskier had shamelessly used him as a shield from monsters and men both, never for one second thinking Geralt would leave him to his fate.
Geralt had been tempted, of course. But then he’d take one look at those blue eyes and that brilliant smile, and he’d sighed and fought off soldiers or hauled Jaskier up onto Roach to run. He’d done it enough that Jaskier had never needed to use the dagger, because he’d become known as the White Wolf’s and no one wanted to touch what belonged to him.
And yet Jaskier has returned the dagger to him.
The twist in Geralt’s heart grows until its thorns catch on his lungs and ribs. Jaskier is a man of words; he sings, he chatters, he lectures. Geralt had expected him to do so when he had hurled lies and abuse. Instead Jaskier had spoken Geralt’s language, the way of actions: he had stood silently, and walked away, and left behind the dagger Geralt gifted him all those years ago.
A rejection of Geralt’s protection, a severing of their bond, a parting cut so cleanly and sharply that it burns.
Geralt curses so vehemently that several birds take flight.
Geralt has tracked monsters and men and even his own kind. Somehow, Jaskier – a human bard – is turning out to be his most frustrating and elusive prey yet.
Originally, Geralt had tracked Jaskier back to the nearest town. It had been a meandering path, zigzagging left and right, pausing for a while by a stream, flitting through a field of flowers. It had stirred a hint of fondness in Geralt’s breast, with memories of long journeys with Jaskier, who always was determined to take detours at any given moment.
That fondness had then shortly been buried under frustration, because Geralt might know Jaskier’s scent, but it’s still difficult to pick out one human amongst hundreds. To make matters worse, Jaskier is a social being. He dallies at taverns and sings in squares, and everywhere he goes, he draws people, which means his scent promptly gets mixed with dozens of others. By the time Geralt finally follows Jaskier’s scent out of the marketplace and towards the woods, he breathes a sigh of relief.
Right up until he finally catches up to said scent a week later, and finds that the man bearing it is not Jaskier at all, but an entirely different human to whom Jaskier sold the clothes he had been wearing. The man shakes and squirms and cowers, but he does not lie when he says Jaskier gave the clothes willingly or when he says he has no idea where Jaskier went next.
Geralt growls and gets on Roach and turns around, cursing the lost time.
By the time he gets back to the first town, Jaskier’s scent is long gone, and inquiries about where he went yield shrugs and confusion and, worst of all, scorn.
Why does a Witcher care about a bard? they ask, and Geralt cannot tell them, Because he is more than just a bard.
Why does a Witcher want with a bard? they ask, and Geralt cannot reply, Because I need to talk to him.
Why does a Witcher need this bard? they ask, and Geralt bites his tongue and does not say, Because he is my only friend, and I have caused him grievous injury, and I must make amends.
Besides, even if he did answer, it’s likely they would not believe him. He can already smell their fear; in all likelihood, if Jaskier was still here, they would be offering to hide him from the monstrous Witcher in their sheds. Jaskier would never accept, of course; he’s too proud, and too lacking in self-preservation to not go confront the threat waiting at his door.
Then again, before, Geralt had never been a threat to Jaskier.
Three months into his search for Geralt, he realizes just how reliant he’s become upon Jaskier actively working to bring them together whenever they separated. They always parted at winter, of course, and Geralt always found him at Oxenfurt, but sometimes they part during the summer and fall too, with Jaskier trotting off to competitions and fairs and Geralt to monsters he thought too dangerous for any human to get close to. And then, once the hunt was done, usually Geralt only had needed to listen for the strumming of a lute and the songs of the White Wolf’s deeds to find Jaskier again. Finding him had simply been a matter of asking if a bard had come through singing about Witchers.
Now, though, Jaskier’s songs are more popular, so more bards sing them, and Jaskier is not leaving hints like breadcrumbs for Geralt to follow. His description of Jaskier could fit half the godsdamned Continent, so asking about a man with brown hair and a lute is useless. Throwing his name out either garners Geralt a clueless shrug or a story about a time Jaskier passed through years ago. And Geralt quickly learns to avoid bards who sing Jaskier’s songs, if only because he has no desire for anyone else to badger him for stories with which to compose new songs about him.
So Geralt wanders, and kills monsters for coin, and sharpens a dagger that has never been used. And he mourns.
Winter comes, with biting winds and treacherous ice and fluffy snow. Geralt reluctantly turns towards Kaer Morhen and pointedly does not think about how last winter Vesemir had begrudgingly asked after Jaskier, which for him was the equivalent of encouraging Geralt to extend an invitation. Geralt may have been tight lipped about Jaskier and their long bond, but Jaskier’s songs have spread far enough now that Eskel and Lambert and even Vesemir have noticed, and none of them can deny the positive effects.
He wonders if they’ll notice that this year there is no new composition, and no scent of human clinging to his clothes, and definitely no bard climbing the trail with him.
Vesemir greets him when he finally makes his way into the keep, feet aching and legs trembling. The pass grows more dangerous every year, now that Witchers are not maintaining it for their fellows, and Geralt waited a bit too long to continue his search, so he had spent the last few days plowing through waist high snow.
“You’re late,” Vesemir notes, raking him from shoulder to toes in the keen glance that makes Geralt feel like a child again. “Even you don’t normally time it this badly.”
Geralt shrugs. His tongue feels wooden in his mouth. Every time he goes to speak, he finds his own awful words lingering, like a bitterness he can’t wash away no matter what he eats or drinks. He’s been speaking an awful lot less, nowadays, even for him.
Vesemir grunts. “Go. Stable your horse and come inside. The others are waiting for you.”
Roach is grateful for the warm stable and the grain. She also nudges him in search for apples; even after these months without Jaskier, she hasn’t forgotten how he used to bribe her. Geralt sighs and pats her, because he can’t exactly explain that he drove her apple-giver away.
Stepping into the main hall is, for a moment, like coming home. Geralt closes his eyes and breathes in deeply and lets himself relax, just a little bit, because it is winter and he is in Kaer Morhen. He has nothing to fear here.
“Oi, no songbird?”
Except, perhaps, his brothers. Geralt opens his eyes and glares.
Lambert grins at him with a chunk of meat hanging out of his teeth, because Vesemir succeeded in beating swordsmanship into him but not manners. Eskel, thankfully, reaches out and hits him on the head, and then rises to greet Geralt. Geralt clasps his shoulders and bends to touch their foreheads together, grateful that at least he still has this.
At least he has not driven them away.
“The Killer is dangerous for us, never mind a human,” Eskel says mildly, once they’ve separated. “He probably and wisely chose to winter elsewhere. But come, Wolf, and eat something; you look like skin and bones.”
They are Witchers, and they appreciate the rarity of a well-cooked and plentiful meal. Conversation dwindles as they fill their bellies with meat and bread and wine, with no worrying about humans gasping at the amount or the speed. Vesemir circles the table as they finish, touching them all lightly on the back, an old wolf greeting the pups returning to the den, before he retires for the night. Lambert follows shortly afterwards, grouching about beating the dust from his sheets.
And then there is only Geralt and Eskel, and a half empty wineskin.
“So,” Eskel says.
“Hmm.”
“Care to explain the new dagger?”
Geralt goes still, and then tries to relax. Unfortunately, going still is about as much of an admission as if he had flinched.
Eskel’s eyes are very knowing as he continues, “Or perhaps it is an old dagger. I could have sworn, in fact, that you left with that dagger some time ago, after spending hours combing the armory for something fit for a human.”
“Eskel,” Geralt grits out, half plea and half warning.
“Or perhaps you simply wanted to carry three visible weapons instead of two. Scaring humans, that’s your forte.”
“Eskel.”
“Geralt,” Eskel replies, unfazed as the moon is at the howling of wolves. Then again, Eskel had seen Geralt tumble head over heels on the Killer, and empty his stomach and bladder during the Trials, and bumble his way through his first attempts at magic; if anyone is likely to be unfazed by Geralt’s warning tone, it is his dearer than blood brother.
Geralt breathes out a long sigh and grabs the wineskin. “I’m not doing this sober.”
“Tower?”
“Tower.”
Their tower is not the tallest, or the oldest, or even the largest. It is, however, the least traveled, being in a section of the keep that fell into disrepair after the attacks that leveled Kaer Morhen and decimated the School of the Wolf. A whole section of the wall has crumbled, leaving it open to the sky and the wind and the snow, but it does make for a good place to sit and be maudlin and get drunk.
By the time Geralt has finished his halting and incredibly abbreviated telling of the disastrous dragon hunt, they’re at least halfway there.
“Well,” Eskel says, chugging a third of his wine, “that’s a fine mess, Wolf, make no mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Geralt says, and knows from Eskel’s face that he has failed to keep the slightly petulant tone out of his voice.
“It’s about what you did,” Eskel points out, “not what you meant to. Mayhap the sorceress can read your mind, but your little songbird cannot.”
Geralt closes his eyes. He of all the Witchers know this to be true. “I tried to find him,” he says, eventually. “I tried to . . . apologize. Make amends.”
“Twenty years is hard to make amends for.”
“They weren’t all bad.”
“Did he know that?”
Geralt wants to say that Jaskier does, but – but he often rebuffed Jaskier’s offers to accompany him; he usually disparaged Jaskier’s songs, even and especially the ones about him; he never called Jaskier a friend where anyone else could here. For all he knows, Jaskier thinks the words Geralt spat on the mountain are true, and the twenty years are a lie.
Gods, twenty years. For a Witcher it is not even a blink of an eye, but for a human . . .
“The prime years of his life,” Eskel says, even and measured, “and he chose to spend them with you.”
The desire to do better, Geralt knows, is no less painful in hindsight than it is in the moment. It is a familiar sensation for Geralt, but each time it takes his breath away until he has to lean against the wall to catch his breath. It makes him want to retreat into silence and slaying, so that the only pain he brings into the world is a monster felled a day too late and the only mark he leaves upon the world is one less monster alive in the world.
Unfortunately, he cannot. He is bound by destiny to a child in Cintra, and by djinn to a sorceress of Aretuza, and by devotion to a bard of Lettenhove. He is already bound to the world.
Eskel must see the internal fight and its conclusion chase its way through his gut and across his eyes, for he does not speak. He merely watches, silent and still as the stars above, and lends comfort and support to Geralt with his presence.
Yet another soul Geralt does not deserve, but cherishes all the same.
When Geralt opens his eyes, Eskel hums and notes in a very casual tone, “As I recall, the last time you pissed Lambert off, you did not try and hunt him down until you’d found a very nice harvest of Neelakurinji flowers.”
Geralt tips towards Eskel and Eskel leans towards him, until they meet in the middle. He hums his thanks as their foreheads rest together, and Eskel rumbles back, reassurance and love twining through their scents. There are no words for it, but then again, Geralt is not a man of words. He is a man of action, and he once spent the better part of a decade scouring for a flower that bloomed only once every twelve years to make amends; he can surely find something similarly worthy for Jaskier, who has given him so much and reaped so little in return.
Perhaps sooner than in twelve years, though.
Geralt finally finds Jaskier in the seedy little tavern in Posada, of all places. Jaskier, perhaps, could make a song of it – the beginning and the ending, the circle coming back again to its start – but mostly what Jaskier is doing when Geralt slides into the seat next to him is chewing mournfully on hard bread and alternating with sips of what smells like truly awful ale.
He looks tired, too. Tired and thin and worn out. He is still vibrant, dressed in eye searing colors and with smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but . . . muted. Like the reflection of the sun in a stream – shiny and beautiful, but only half as bright as the sun itself.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, after a few long moments of silence where Jaskier steadfastly ignores him.
Jaskier heaves a sigh. “White Wolf,” he replies, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but next to Geralt. His title in Jaskier’s mouth is bitter and short, rather unlike the joyous ribbing with which Jaskier first gave it to him. It hurts.
“I,” Geralt starts, and finds himself tongue twisted. “Please. Can we. Talk?”
“I think you did all the talking we ever need,” Jaskier says wryly, and tears off another hunk of bread.
“I think I did all the lying we ever need,” Geralt corrects him. “But I have not yet done all the amends you are owed.”
“I’m not owed anything,” Jaskier says, still staring at the wall like it holds all the secrets of the world. “We were traveling companions, nothing more. Together one day, apart the next, nothing promised, nothing lost. A blessing, was it not?”
Geralt winces despite himself. Damn Jaskier’s excellent memory.
Then again, he always knew he wouldn’t win Jaskier’s heart with words alone. Not when that is so solidly Jaskier’s realm.
So Geralt slides a hand to his waist, and withdraws a very fine dagger he spent several weeks perfecting, and lays it flat on the table in front of Jaskier, where even he can’t pretend to miss it.
At first, Jaskier’s face grows stormy. “I don’t need your – wait. Is that silver?”
Geralt says, again, softly and gently, “Let me make amends, Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s eyes flick to his for the first time since he first glanced at Geralt and then steadfastly ignored him. They, at least, are unchanged, still that brilliant blue that saw into Geralt’s soul in a single glance all those years ago. He feels almost like they’re reading him now, and he forces himself to hold still, to plant his feet and rise to the challenge as he failed atop that mountain.
Finally, Jaskier dips his head in a nod. “Last room on the right.”
It’s not forgiveness. It’s more than Geralt deserves. Geralt nods and rises to his feet and slips away, so that Jaskier may finish eating in peace. As he leaves, he sees Jaskier trace the dagger, wondering, and prays that he can find the words he needs.
“So,” Jaskier says, as he kicks the door shut and shuffles over to the bed, “you wanted to talk, apparently.”
Geralt shifts uncomfortably from where he sits on the floor. He didn’t want to presume, and the room was small, so it was either stand or crowd Jaskier on the bed, and both options seemed unfair to Jaskier. He has, however, shed his armor and swords, so that Jaskier can understand that this is not a brief detour; this is important, and worth doing, and deserving of Geralt’s full attention.
“Yes,” he says.
Jaskier’s face is inscrutable. He wears his heart on his sleeve, for sure, but he could play people better than any mage Geralt ever met, because he knew when to let that heart show.
Then again, he hasn’t thrown Geralt yet, nor snuck out the back door, nor ignored him entirely. Geralt cannot dare to hope for full forgiveness, but he can at least strive for the bare minimum of what their friendship should have been.
So: “I’m sorry,” he says, before the nerves can steal away his words. “I was angry for mistakes I had made, and I took it out on you; that was wrong of me. You have brought nothing to me except friendship and healing and joy, and I repaid you with bitterness and anger and lies. You didn’t deserve that.”
Jaskier blinks rapidly. Clearly he was not expecting that, or perhaps he just is getting used to hearing Geralt speak again.
Geralt forges ahead. “If life gave me one blessing, it was to make our paths cross. Will you accept my amends?”
And then he shifts to his knees, and takes out the dagger, and proffers it to Jaskier on flat palms, as a knight offers service. It feels strange to bow his head and kneel, but so does apologizing, and Geralt has no doubt that an apology was necessary. The dramatic flair can’t hurt him, he reasons.
“That’s . . . the steel dagger. I gave it back to you,” Jaskier says, voice gone all tentative and soft, like Jaskier rarely is.
“It needed sharpening anyways.”
Jaskier hums. “You just gave me a silver dagger. And a rather fine one. Do you really think that I will misplace this so easily?”
“No,” Geralt says. “But. Silver and steel.”
Jaskier rocks back on the bed like Geralt had just punched him in the stomach. His scent is shock, like freezing ice, but slowly it turns warm and sweet, like affection and forgiveness and hope. It stirs distant memories in Geralt from when Jaskier was new to the road, brimming with youthful joy and easily satisfied with a shared roasted rabbit and bedroll under the stars.
“Silver and steel. Like your swords. To kill monsters on the Path.”
“Yes,” Geralt says, and nothing else, because all his words have dried up like water in the Korath desert.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, “are you asking me to travel with you on the Path again?”
His voice and scent edged with a hint of disbelief, and Geralt cringes a little bit. Jaskier should never have doubted his place with Geralt on the Path – except, perhaps, when it comes to following Geralt into very dangerous hunting situations. But the rest of the time – as they walk the roads, and hunt in the forests, and camp under the stars – Jaskier belongs there, as surely as Roach does. If Jaskier wants, of course.
If Jaskier doesn’t want, well. Geralt doesn’t quite let himself think about that.
Jaskier’s fingers are cold as they brush against his palm to touch the dagger. “I accept your amends,” he says. “But Geralt . . .”
Geralt shrinks back. Surely now is when Jaskier will tell him to go away, to leave him alone, that his words and gifts were not enough, that he is not enough . . .
Jaskier cups his chin and when he puts pressure, Geralt raises his head. Jaskier barely used any strength, but Geralt cannot refuse him anything, especially not now. He meets Jaskier’s blue eyes with bated breath.
“You look horrible, darling,” Jaskier says, fond exasperation in his tone. “When is the last time you bathed? No, never mind, I don’t want to know the answer to that; I’m ordering us a bath.”
“What,” Geralt says.
“Stay,” Jaskier orders, and rises to his feet, the silver and steel daggers tucked into his belt. “ . . . Please.”
Geralt nods, and sinks back to his knees, and dares to hope.
The bathtub they bring is surprisingly large, but then again, Geralt is a large man, so he isn’t exactly objecting. It takes a fair few buckets to fill it; Geralt kneels and meditates and pretends he isn’t paying attention to the maids who flinch from him, although they start relaxing once Jaskier prances back inside the room and settles next to Geralt, chattering and humming mindlessly.
Geralt doesn’t open his eyes again until the door closes for the final time and Jaskier pads forward to slip a hand in the water.
“Be a dear and warm this up a little for us, will you?” he says, as if the dragon hunt and Geralt’s accusations hadn’t happened, as if they were still traveling together and, sometimes, bathing together.
Geralt rises and heats the water, although he stops before it becomes too unbearable for a human.
Jaskier tsks at him. “It’s for you, darling, and I know you like it hotter than this.”
“I thought we could,” Geralt starts, but then he shuts his mouth with a snap. He of all people knows that bathing together is a vulnerable thing, something that requires trust. Perhaps Jaskier doesn’t trust him anymore. He would deserve it.
Jaskier’s gaze softens. He steps towards Geralt and fusses at the buckles on his armor, practiced and familiar after twenty years. “You first,” he insists, “and then I’ll join you.”
True to his word, after Geralt sinks inside and Jaskier bustles around adding various salts and oils, Jaskier sheds his clothes – Geralt averts his eyes – and joins him, bumping their legs together at the bottom like he used to do on those rare occasions they shared a bath or bed.
Jaskier picks up some soap, honey and lemon if Geralt’s nose is to be trusted, and motions at him. “Turn around, you big oaf,” he says, “and let me wash your hair. Honestly, you can barely tell it’s white, and that’s saying something.”
It took Geralt years to trust Jaskier with his unarmored back. It’s been months since he’s seen him and his weapons are all out of reach, but he still turns around without hesitation.
Jaskier rubs at his hair with gentle efficiency, working out knots and blood and dirt in equal measure. He was downright horrified the first time he saw Geralt wash his hair, screeching all manner of things about that’s so rough, you must be gentle and are you not even going to use oil. Geralt hadn’t thought much of it until Jaskier finally annoyed him into letting Jaskier wash his hair, and after that it had become a luxury he only pretended not to indulge in. So much pretending and lies between them, and so little truth.
Geralt stirs, after a while. “Thank you,” he says, just because he can.
“It is my pleasure,” Jaskier says quietly. He hums a little under his breath and moves to a new section of hair. “You know, I was so very angry with you, when I started down the mountain.”
His voice is casual, smooth as calm summer seas. Geralt grips the tub, hard enough that the metal bends a little, and tries to sit still.
“I never thought you would come and find me and apologize,” Jaskier continues.
Geralt sighs. “I knew you would not forgive me without one.”
“Oh darling,” Jaskier says, affection clear in his tone and how his fingers massage at Geralt’s hair, “I forgave you the moment I got off the mountain.”
Geralt goes as still as a rabbit who’s caught sight of a wolf. The words – Jaskier isn’t lying, his heartbeat is steady, his scent is calm, the truth is clear to all of Geralt’s senses – but they don’t make sense.
“What.”
“Well, it is very difficult to remain angry at someone you love. Even if they do foolish things when they’re angry.”
Water splashes over the sides of the tub when Geralt whips himself around. He’s moving too fast, he knows, for human eyes to truly see, something that usually scares the hell out of whatever humans are around, but Jaskier – faithful, trusting, beautiful Jaskier – just blinks in surprise and then leans back and spits out the water that got into his mouth.
“What?” Jaskier says, almost defensively. “I don’t like having soap in my – ”
“You can’t,” Geralt cuts him off.
“ . . . Can’t what?”
“Love me,” Geralt says, and each syllable causes him immense pain. “I won’t – I can’t – I’ll only hurt you.”
Jaskier raises a hand and cups his chin again, fearlessly leaning forward into his space. “That’s not how love works, Geralt,” he tells him. “You watch a man try to trade his life for yours, and then gift all his coin to elves who tried to slit his throat, and then you spend twenty years watching him kill monsters and love is just what happens.”
“But – ”
“Love is just what happens,” Jaskier repeats.
And Geralt thinks of fearless Jaskier, insulting those same elves to draw their attention away from Geralt; joyous Jaskier, dancing around in taverns singing songs about monster hunters that people chase away with pitchforks and swords; trusting Jaskier, who slept beside him and walked beside him and bullied his way into washing Geralt’s hair, and –
Maybe love is just what happens, he thinks, when a bard and a Witcher meet each other’s eyes across a tavern. He is no master of pretty words, cannot hope to match Jaskier’s declarations, but he can show him, he can –
Geralt leans forward, and drags Jaskier to him, and kisses him.
Jaskier kisses him back.
Epilogue
Geralt can awaken in less than a second; he can go from lying down and sleeping to upright and armed in barely a blink, but one wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Especially not right now, when he is a heavy and warm blanket pinning Jaskier down, snuffling sweetly at Jaskier’s throat, his legs tangled into Jaskier’s and his hand clutching at Jaskier’s shirt like he thinks he’ll sneak out the window in the middle of the night.
Jaskier hums and combs his fingers through Geralt’s silver hair and settles more deeply into bed. He has no intention of running, after all.
He never expected to see Geralt again, after all. He never expected Geralt to apologize. And he certainly never expected him to show up and shyly hand over gifts to make amends and then confess his reciprocation of the love that has been eating away at Jaskier’s soul in the most Geralt way possible.
Then again, Geralt has probably used up his quota for words for the next century, the poor man.
That’s okay. Jaskier will take his silver and steel gifts, and he will travel alongside Geralt on the Path, and he will use his words to light Geralt’s way, as he has always done, and Geralt will use his swords to protect them, as he has always done.
One day, perhaps, the novelty of being Geralt’s beloved will wear off.
Not today, though.
Jaskier closes his eyes, and brushes a kiss to Geralt’s hair, and weaves words and melodies together in his mind. My beloved Wolf, with silver hair and silver sword / here to slay the monsters that sow death and discord . . .
FINIS