Chapter Text
In the halls of Kaer Morhen, unwanted boys are twisted into creatures of legend.
Their bodies are trained and resurrected into being of myth. Built only for the purpose of killing and baptized in the blood of those who would prey on the weak. They pay for these tainted gifts with the most precious thing they had—their innocence.
It is there that boys defy death itself to become Witchers and accept the hatred of all as their burden to bear. They learn to understand the ways of humans and monsters
At Kaer Morgen, the Witcher children learn who their true enemies are...each other.
“Tell me another one of your stories, Jas.”
Jaskier barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the pretty noblewoman’s attempt at being coy. She was sitting close enough now to drape herself practically in his lap and he’d already redirected a wandering hand away from darker pursuits.
In another life he would be grateful, eager even, for her attention. It would mean another night in a comfortable bed, enjoying the sins of the flesh with a beautiful woman. Another night of distraction from the only thing his mind seemed capable of fixating on.
Fucking Geralt of Rivia.
Not actually fucking him, of course. (Well sometimes he did think about it, but he hadn’t actually gotten to try it.)
No, all he could think about was the morning he’d awakened to an empty campground and a single set of hoofprints moving hurriedly away from him. No note. No explanation. Just a cold bedroll and the ache of a heart that knew this pain better than any other.
Every bard worth his salt knew heartbreak.
Jaskier could feel the ache of it even months later. It felt like an old injury now, something that flared up like soldiers’ wounds in the wake of a storm. It flared to life at the sight of brown mares moving through the crowd or with the whispers of a monster in the area. For a long time--too long, really-- he had followed those rumors like an addict to his fix and ready to rage against Geralt’s stupid face, only to come up empty.
The noblewoman shifted against him, a hint of petulance growing in her expression and he forced himself to pay attention to the present. The girl--Cora? Caitlin?--was beginning to pout at the lack of focus and he dragged up a smile from somewhere. It didn’t matter if it actually reached his eyes.
“I can think of much better things to occupy my mouth with, lovely,” he said in a passable purr.
Her eyes flared with interest and he tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted in disgust. He had no reason to feel guilty for finding pleasure where he could. He owed nothing to no one. He was freed of his crush on the Witcher through force now. He was fine. He could do this.
He refused to feel guilty when Geralt had left him. Abandoned him on the side of the road like he meant nothing to him.
Because that’s all there was now between them. Nothing.
MaybeCora leaned forward to drag her lips along his jawline, biting stinging kisses into the tendons on his neck. Jaskier shuddered, trying not to think about how many dreams he’d had of bright yellow eyes and a clever mouth growling promises in his ears just like this. Instead of a curl of interest though, all he felt was numb. The distraction wasn’t working.
The party was meant to be the social event of the season for most of Aedirn. It was full of the young, wealthy, and bored members of the upper crust. Food and wine were in abundance and Jaskier was one of many notable bards in attendance. He’d been invited, as always, to tell the tale of the White Wolf for the hundredth time. A perfect torment to pair with the nightmares that waited for him as soon as he closed his eyes.
Fuck, he needed a drink.
A group of soldiers and minor nobility wandered their way, clearly well into their cups. They laughed loudly at some joke one of them muttered and continued on their way to the buffet. He would have ignored them completely were it not for the fragment of conversation that drifted over the noise of the crowd,
“--creepy things, Witchers. Wish we could just send him on his way with a nice boot up his ass.”
A blonde bearing the mark of an officer snickered, “As soon as the kikimora is dead, he’ll be escorted out of the city soon enough I’ll wager.”
There was a squeak from MaybeCora when Jaskier got to his feet abruptly enough that she nearly fell over. He ignored her as he crossed the distance to latch on to the blonde’s arm and drag him around to face him. The man’s friends made confused warning noises at the sudden movement, but Jaskier ignored them.
“The Witcher. Where did you see him?”
The man frowned at him, glancing back at his friends a little nervously. “What’s it to you, bard? You need more lyrics for your songs?”
Jaskier growled viciously enough to put Geralt to shame. “The Witcher! Pale hair, gold eyes, riding a brown horse--where did you see him?”
“I--I’m not sure. I didn’t see his hair, but he had a brown horse.”
“ Tell me where he is. ”
A lesser man might have been embarrassed at the speed with which Jaskier fled the party. There was nothing dignified about chasing after a man who had already broken his heart once. The broken pieces of it felt like they were rattling in his chest as he raced along the manicured paths leading away from the mansion toward the city. They matched the ragged edges of the memories flashing through his mind to the tune of his panting breaths.
The image of Geralt’s smile, quicksilver and bright in the moonlight. Rarer than any gem.
The frown Jaskier liked to claim as his own each time he said or did something that drove the Witcher a little insane.
The warm press of a scarred hand to his cheek to match the hard body moving against him as lips trailed up the column of his throat to swallow the helpless pleas that fell from Jaskier’s tongue like they were candy--
“Geralt.” The word was a plea--the last hope of a drowning man within sight of land.
He skidded around a woman pulling a cart of firewood and into the marketplace. His blue eyes darted around the houses and storefronts like a madman. His lute case was banging against his back with each movement, but he ignored it as he ran like the hounds of hell were at his heels.
He refused to let this chance pass him by. If Geralt was going to avoid him, Jaskier would just have to hunt him down himself. He would force the Witcher to explain himself and then maybe he could finally move on with his life.
He’d thought that—well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought. The Witcher obviously hadn’t felt the same.
This time, he would get his answers. No matter how much they hurt.
The Boar’s Head Inn was barely more than a shack hanging tenaciously onto a long row of narrow brick buildings. Jaskier might have missed it entirely were he not a man who spent his life wandering to gatherings like this. A few drunken stragglers were leaning haphazardly against the building and toasted him with their drinks when he came closer. Ignoring them, he eyed the tavern and tried to drag his racing heart back under control. The knowledge of what was about to happen felt like it was suffocating.
On the other side of the door was the chance he had been waiting for. Jaskier would go in there on the wings of his righteous fury, grab Geralt by that beautiful silver hair, and force him to listen to the absolutely scathing speech he’d been practising in his head for months now. Jaskier had risked his life again and again for Geralt--the least he could have done was acknowledge the friendship they had. Geralt would not be allowed to abandon him like their relationship was meaningless. And Jaskier would definitely not beg him to take him back. No sir. A man had to have his standards.
Nerves wild and edgy with anxiety, Jaskier pushed through the warped wooden doors and scanned the dimly lit room within. Just as they had countless times before, his eyes hunted for any sign of broad shoulders bristling with weapons and the scowl Geralt wore like a tattoo. When that brought up nothing but a few men staring morosely into their ale, Jaskier swallowed his frustration and marched over to the bored looking barkeep.
“Good sir,” he began with a rushed sort of flourish, “I am searching for a Witcher. I was told he was drinking in your fine establishment, where is he?”
Each word fed the knot of excitementfearanxietylove curling in his gut until Jaskier was fidgeting under the weight of it. The other man grunted without looking interested and gestured to the right. “He’s out back with the horses.”
Jaskier barely paused to thank him before he was scrambling out the door in the direction of the stables. Of course, Geralt would be there. He cared more about Roach than he did any human being--Jaskier included. And that was...well that was just facts, wasn’t it? Jaskier knew he’d always been a pest to the stoic Witcher. It was obviously his mistake to believe they’d moved past their earliest animosities to edge into the realm of friendship and maybe even beyond.
Despite the way the hurt part of him wanted to cling to the pain he’d felt at being abandoned, Jaskier’s heart—the traitor—still pounded in his chest with excitement with each step he took toward the stables. He felt giddy with it--the air somehow sweeter despite the abysmal location.
He barely noticed the rickety, leaking walls that barely managed to cut through the chilly fall winds as they swept through the city. A small pile of dirtied hay was piled against the far wall and a few ancient looking planks formed the ‘stalls’ for a tired looking draft horse and a clever eyed brown gelding being rubbed down by a large, muscular man. At the sight of it, Jaskier felt himself wither like a flower in winter.
The drunk soldier had been wrong. There was no Roach and no Geralt waiting for him here.
The understanding sank into him like a blow and he released a shuddering breath that was dangerously close to a sob, raking his hands through his hair roughly. Stupid, stupid bard. When will you ever learn?
The noise must have been loud enough to attract the attention of the man with his horse and he turned to face Jaskier with a curious expression. At his neck, a familiar medallion swung free to hang against his white undershirt. Instantly, Jaskier’s hope flared to painful life and he found himself blurting out a question before the Witcher could even speak.
“Y—you’re a Witcher?”
The warrior arched a brow and Jaskier watched his legs shift into the same defensive posture that Geralt took when meeting a new person. “Aye. Have you a creature you need killed?”
Jaskier shook his head fervently. “Ah, no. No. I’m actually looking for another member of your guild. Do you know Geralt of Rivia?”
He could practically see the hope dangling in the air between them as he breathed the words.
Something complicated flashed across the Witcher’s face at the name. Too quick for Jaskier to interpret, but he looked at the bard with new interest. “What’s your business with the Butcher?”
How to explain Jaskier’s relationship with Geralt? Friends who kissed one time? Just a bard following his muse despite said muse’s refusals? A pathetic stalker hoping the man he loves felt something too?
“We’re friends,” he settled on, “Good friends. We got separated by the wars and I’ve been searching for him.”
“Friends, hmm?” Something must have clued the man in to Jaskier’s true feelings because he gave a feral sort of smile. “You must be the bard I’ve heard so much about.”
Hope flared, hot and painful, and he was helpless to resist. “You—you’ve heard of me?”
“Oh yes, Geralt speaks of you often.”
Jaskier seized at the information like water for a dying man. He knew his heart was bleeding through his expression but he couldn’t help the tremulous excitement in his voice. “He told you about me?” he whispered, voice pathetically fragile.
“Everyone knows the story of the Bard and his White Wolf. Your friendship is the stuff of legends—though I always wondered if there was more to that part of the story.”
Jaskier flushed with a mixture of happiness and embarrassment. “Ah, yes. We..uh, we are very close. I’ve been looking for him for a while.”
The Witcher took a step closer, every inch of him a predator that Jaskier barely noticed against the happy shrieks in his mind.
Geralt talked about him! Maybe he regretted leaving. Maybe it was just another one of those bullshit moments where he was just trying to be noble and keep Jaskier safe. His gorgeous Witcher was always too self-sacrificing for his own good. Now that the danger had passed, he must be looking for Jaskier. The bard would, of course, accept his apology--after sufficient groveling--and return to his position as best friend and companion.
Except this time with more kissing. Yes, there would definitely need to be more kissing.
“Where did you see him last?” Jaskier asked, blinking in surprise when he realized the Witcher had closed the distance between them. This close, he was painfully aware of how small he was compared to the warrior’s mass. A new anxiety bloomed in his gut and he took an instinctive step back.
The Witcher smiled and gestured to the east. “He was moving toward Novigrad to the courts there, I believe. If you’d like, you’re welcome to travel with me there?”
Despite common rumors, Jaskier was not a stupid man. No one could survive a life in bars and taverns each night without recognizing the predators that lurked behind pretty smiles and tempting offers. He’d earned enough bruises because of close calls to understand that when someone offered something that seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
So he smiled his performer’s smile and shook his head. “There’s no need. I, ah, am with a group of performers that are headed that way for the season. I thank you for the offer and the information though, Witcher. Good luck on your hunts.”
Quickly, he turned around to hurry back to his gear. Mentally, his mind was racing with half baked schemes and various paths he could take to reach Geralt as quickly as possible. Maybe he could splurge and buy himself a horse. Wouldn’t that be nice instead of walking beside Roach all the time? Yes, a nice sturdy gelding would make an excellent investment.
It didn’t occur to him to remember the lessons Geralt had taught him while hunting monsters. One should never turn their back on a predator.
He never even saw the blow coming.