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It was the heavy smell of blood that woke Jaskier up. It curled around his teeth and coated his tongue, choking him awake. Jaskier could feel panic thrumming in his chest, pushing him up and out of his bed roll. He looked wildly around before spotting Geralt just outside the camp site.
In the long years that followed, this would be one of Jaskier's strongest, most vivid memories. Stronger than the memory of their first meeting, the first time he saw Geralt smile, stronger than any of their many firsts.
Geralt sat slumped against a tree, his already pale complexion pallid and his breath shallow. One arm lay resting in his lap, the skin flayed open, wrist to elbow, exposing the muscle beneath and blood still weeping from the wound. In his other hand, he held a bloody dagger.
Jaskier scrambled over to him, hands trembling as he traced over the wound. “Oh no, no, gods Geralt what have you done ?”
Gerald's eyes opened and his normally razor sharp gaze had turned hazy and unfocused from blood loss.
Jaskier spoke urgently to him. “Darling, here, look at me. Look at me. Oh fuck, there’s so much—what do I do? What do I do Geralt ?” He'd never seen Geralt lose so much blood. This wasn't something a Swallow potion could fix and Geralt would not last long enough for Jaskier to find help. He cursed his own uselessness.
“S’okay. I love you,” Geralt mumbled. Jaskier started crying. Why did he have to say that now? Why was this happening? Why, why, why?
“Don’t you dare . I’m not letting you go, not now dammit, not now that you’ve said—” his voice broke. He tore the bottom edge of his doublet and wrapped it around Geralt's upper arm as a tourniquet. He knew as he did it that it would not help, but it felt painful not to do anything at all. The tears wouldn't stop falling and his hands wouldn't stop trembling but he needed to pretend for just a little while longer that Geralt had a chance of surviving.
“ Why , Geralt? What happened? Why didn’t you… oh dearheart,” Jaskier was sobbing, great shuddering, full body sobs. Geralt lifted his good hand and wiped Jaskier's tears away.
“Take care of you,” Geralt murmured and tugged weakly at Jaskier. Jaskier let himself be pulled into Geralt's lap, ignoring the blood that soaked his clothing. He wanted to be as close as he could for as long as they had let together. He traced his hands all over Geralt, his chest, his face, his hair, wanting to burn the feel of him while he was still alive into Jaskier's mind.
“You always take care of me. Why couldn’t you let me take care of you ?” Jaskier gently kissed Geralt on the lips. Their first and last kiss. Geralt was fading so fast now.
“Sorry you… saw… love you…” How like his Wolf to feel guilt in his dying moment, to deny his own need for comfort for Jaskier's. As terrible as this was, Jaskier was glad he had been able to be with Geralt in his last moments instead of waking up to a corpse.
“I love you too." Geralt almost seemed to smile at that and the last breath of life left him.
Jaskier cradled Geralt's body in his arms and a keening wail crawled out of his throat. He wailed his anger and he wailed his grief. He wailed until his voice broke and his throat closed. How cruel to find his love reciprocated and then have it stolen moments after. How injust for a man who gave so much to others to feel he had to turn his knife on himself.
After many long moments, he placed one last kiss on Geralt's forehead before gently laying his body down. For this man who was never given much dignity in life, Jaskier would give him dignity in death. He washed Geralt, removing blood and the grime that accumulates during travel, and combed his hair. He bandaged the wound for all the good it did and he dressed him in the spare outfit in his pack, burning the blood soaked clothes.
He dug a deep grave so no predators or scavengers would be able to dig him up. He did not bury him with his swords or his armor, but with flowers. No tools of the Witcher trade went into the grave, not even his medallion. Let him know peace in death as he had never known in life. Let there be no reason for him to raise a sword in the world to come.
He tried to sing, tried to give him a proper send off, but his hands trembled too much to pluck his lute and his throat was raw. He stumbled on the lyrics and for the first time in his life, music gave him no comfort or relief. He would trade his voice and his talent for just a few more moments with Geralt. His hands spasmed around the lute and the only thing that stopped him from throwing it away, from destroying it, was losing it would be losing another connection to Geralt. He put his lute away and took Gerlat's medallion, winding and unwinding the cord around his hand. He tried to concentrate on the pressure and tightness and nothing else.
Jaskier's grief spiraled into anger and guilt. What had driven Geralt to his death? The hatred and scorn from those he helped? The loneliness of the Path? If humans were not so selfish and greedy, if they were not so prone to believing rumors and conjectures, perhaps Geralt would be alive. But Jaskier knew they were small minded, that's why he made his songs to change them, so really if anyone was to blame it was Jaskier. How could he have let it get to this point? He had to have missed something, some sign or indicator. He had know Geralt hurt but he had not known he hurt so deeply. If he only had done something if he'd only been allowed to do something. Geralt never asked for assistance, never willingly leaned on another. If he'd just said anything...
Jaskier's maelstrom of thoughts ended abruptly when he felt a nudge against his arm. It was Roach. He hadn't even noticed she was gone, another thing to add to his guilt.
He leaned his forehead against hers and wept.
"I'm so sorry girl. Your master is gone. I will take care of you now."
She snorted as if in derision and he laughed despite himself.
"My apologies dear lady, you will take care of me now."
He leaned back and looked at her more closely. Her bridle and tack had been removed. Geralt must have shooed her off away from the camp, not wanting his beloved travel companion to see what was going to happen.
"What do we do now?" He murmured to her.
They had not been inseparable, spending months and sometimes years apart, but Jaskier had always believed he would return to Geralt’s side someday. Now the years in front of him stretched on, uninterrupted. His eyes strayed over to Geralt’s armor and swords. A Witcher’s death so often went unannounced and unmourned and it made Jaskier sick. He would not let that happen. He could do what he had originally planned before his world had been flipped on its head and go to the competition in Novigrad, but he knew his grief was too new for him to do justice to any song about Geralt. He also did not want Geralt’s kin, the last remaining Wolf Witchers, to hear of Geralt’s death in a song. No, he needed to find them before they settled in Kaer Morhen for the winter.
He had a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan: he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do after he found them, didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t find them. But... it was something, something to commit to rather than letting the grief tear him apart, so he grimly started packing up camp.