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It started, as all good stories did, with a princess.
Technically, her family was not royalty, and calling her princess was a stretch. But it was the expectation of her family and those around her, and Jaskier was not about to cost Geralt such a richly paying contract by quibbling over noble titles. Especially not when the princess, spoiled as she was, had a remarkably kind heart. She greeted Geralt with a smile and insisted on treating him as she would a knight, calling him Sir Witcher and showing no signs of fear. Jaskier would have liked her for that alone, had she not also shown excellent taste in music. She delighted in Jaskier's songs and insisted he teach them to her court bard. If Jaskier had so desired, he could have taken a contract in their court right then and there, spending at least a year in the lap of luxury.
Her kindness made her situation all the more tragic. She had been cursed by a mage since birth. On the day of her sixteenth birthday, she would prick her finger on a particular spindle and fall into an enchanted sleep. Attempts to destroy the spindle had been in vain. Swords snapped in two against it, and no matter how heavily they doused it in oil, it would not burn. Attempts to remove it from the princess's vicinity went no better. No matter how far separated they were, come dawn's first light, the spindle would be by her side. Many powerful mages and witches had tried to break the curse. None had succeeded. Sending for a witcher had been the last, desperate act of the girl's parents.
To their dismay, no witcher had arrived before dawn on the princess's birthday. Upon arrival, Geralt stationed himself between the girl and the spindle. He questioned everyone from the cook to the king, piecing together the story bit by bit. Although relatively safe and blissfully free of entrails, Jaskier quickly decided it was one of the worst jobs they had done. Even he knew that the exact wording of the curse was important, but not one person in the palace could remember it. All they could say was that it said something about the girl’s sixteenth birthday, noble blood, eternal sleep, and the spindle.
Above all else, the contract was boring. When not permitted to play his lute to keep the princess happy, Jaskier entertained himself by exploring the room. He exclaimed over the large silver mirror and the multitude of fine fabrics in the princess's wardrobe. There was one dress in a gorgeous azure he was in instant envy of, and he wondered if it would be terribly crass to ask after the princess’ tailor. It was irrelevant to the contract, yes, but he did need a new doublet. He held the dress against his body and winked at his own reflection in the mirror before tucking it away.
Once he had explored everything else in the room, Jaskier found himself wandering over to the spindle. It was a simple wooden thing, worn from use and out of place in such a luxurious room. Jaskier rubbed a finger over one spot where the wood had worn down and gave the wheel a spin. It made a satisfying clicking sound as it span. The sound pleased Jaskier, so he ignored Geralt snapping at him to stop and did it again twice more.
On the third spin, his hand slipped, and his finger pricked against the spine. A drop of red blood swelled on his finger. At the same time, Jaskier yawned, exhausted. Putting two and two together, he felt a stab of irritation towards himself. Geralt would have a fit when he realised Jaskier had managed to curse himself. Jaskier would be hearing about this for months, but it was a problem he would have to deal with later. Before he could make another sound, Jaskier's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he folded on the spot.
As a storyteller, Jaskier would be forever frustrated that he did not see what happened next. From Geralt he gleaned that the witcher had hunted down the mage responsible in search of a cure. He did not see Geralt fall to his knees beside Jaskier's unconscious body, nor hear the vicious growl he gave when someone tried to separate them. Geralt's rage and grief scared away the nobles and guards, so no one told Jaskier of how gently Geralt had lifted him to bed. No one saw how carefully Geralt arranged Jaskier’s limbs and tucked a pillow under his head.
The mage had no answer for Geralt. He died, along with anyone who tried to protect him from the witcher. Geralt continued his quest for answers, but no witch, wise man or priest in the area had any useful suggestions. He tried a dozen folk superstitions and every trick he had ever learnt to lift a curse, sleep-related or not, but none of it worked. Jaskier slept on.
When Jaskier woke, it was to the feeling of dry lips pressing against his own. He blinked a few times, wondering why the world had turned white. A moment later he realised the silver shower was Geralt's hair. Geralt himself pulled back a fraction, his eyes widening in shock when he saw Jaskier awake and beaming at him. Jaskier may not have understood what was going on, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Geralt had kissed him. After months of ignoring Jaskier's advances, he had kissed him. Grinning, Jaskier hooked his hand around Geralt's neck and pulled him in for a second kiss. It would have progressed to a third and fourth if he had his way, but Geralt pulled back.
"You're awake."
"Shouldn't I be?" Jaskier asked, before he remembered the spindle and the curse. He smiled, sweet and void of uncertainty and fear. "You were on the job."
"Reckless," Geralt chided, but he did not stop Jaskier from kissing him again. "Don't do it again."
Jaskier grinned up at him, cheeky and just a bit insolent. "You're not exactly discouraging me, you know. Are you sure I'm awake? Because you're in bed and kissing me and this looks an awful lot like the start of a very good dream, and -"
Geralt kissed him again. He had, at last, found a reliable way of quieting Jaskier. He let out a happy hum against Geralt's mouth and pushed up against him, revelling in the firm press of Geralt's body against his own.
Though Jaskier would happily have remained in that bed with Geralt for days, they left the very next morning. The family of the princess sent them off with nearly twice the price of the agreed reward. They seemed oddly fixated on Jaskier, pressing the bonus into his hands and earnestly thanking him for his bravery and sacrifice.
"Neither your daughter nor I were ever in any danger," he told them confidently. "Not with Geralt around."
At the family's suggestion, they struck south after that, chasing rumours of a wraith haunting an orchard. Very little between them changed. Geralt still hunted monsters and Jaskier still sung for their supper. They still shared a room at the inn, but now there was no story about needing to save coin. Geralt took Jaskier to bed each night. In the morning, after Geralt had roughly shaken him awake, Jaskier greeted him with a sweet kiss. His flirting and affection were at last accepted, but all else remained the same.
All was well until three months later, when Jaskier found himself kidnapped by some villagers. It was in his opinion, a dreadful misunderstanding. Yes Geralt had taken the notice in the next village over about the werewolf, but that didn't mean their village was in any danger. If they were worried about what Geralt might do, Jaskier explained, all they had to do was talk to him.
That was when one of the villagers bit him.
"Oh, now you've done it," Jaskier groaned. "The neck? Really? He's going to sulk all through the rescue sex because he can't go all possessive and bitey. And all that blood is going to absolutely ruin my doublet. You're going to get exactly what's coming to you, you miserable – pfft!"
The gag in his mouth tasted of dirt and mud. He tried to complain, but the gag was dreadfully effective. After several minutes of ineffective squawking, Jaskier quieted with a sullen look. If he could not speak, then he could at least use the time to compose an utterly scathing insult for when he was released.
"We wouldn't normally do this, you know," one woman said, almost apologetic. "But naught can satisfy a witcher save blood, and we won't lose one of our own to the monster."
Some of the fear bubbling in the back of Jaskier's mind eased. He relaxed as much as one possibly could while tied to a stake, leaning back against the pole and stretching his legs out in front of him. In better circumstances, he might have taken offence at their portrayal of witchers, but was it was, Jaskier was simply relieved to know he was safe. If these fools planned on Geralt finding him all he had to do was wait. The worst he had to fear was a lecture for being careless enough to get kidnapped.
He spent the entire day chained to the stake in the middle of the village, entertaining himself by making up insulting little ditties about the backwater hole he had found himself in. The people of the town rushed this way and that, loading up wagons with all their belongings. By noon, Jaskier was the only soul left in town. Even the goats and chickens had been rounded up and driven away, leaving no other living soul in the village.
As the day waned, an ache set into his limbs. At first, he put it down to being chained in one spot for hours. But as the bloody sunset gave way to night, the pain grew, until Jaskier was lying on the ground and groaning. He heard a snap and a scream. A second later he realized the scream was him, unable to do anything else as his bones snapped and reset a dozen times over. The fear was back, clawing its way up his throat and driving all logical thought from his mind. He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky with tears in his eyes. He wanted Geralt. He was in pain, alone, and terrified, and he did not think it was at all much to ask to have his lover with him.
The full moon came out from behind a tree, and an unfathomable pain seized Jaskier. A howl tore from his throat. His claws dug into the earth and with a tremendous lunge he pulled the stake free of the ground. He lifted his nose to the night air and sniffed. He could not quite remember what he had planned to do when he broke free before, but now everything seemed quite clear. He needed meat, ideally fresh, a pack of his own, and his mate. There were others like him, he knew, for he could smell the proof of their habitation. They had left, fleeing north, their scent sour with fear. They had taken all the captive prey with them and left Jaskier to starve.
Desperate, Jaskier prowled the village. Most doors were too small for him, but he was delighted to find some large enough for him to enter and built with handles that could be manipulated with paws. The light of the full moon was enough to see by, and when his vision failed him, scent painted a vivid picture of the world around him. He could tell which house had kept goats and which had kept geese; which huts housed families and which house couples; and how many people typically frequented an area.
After nearly an hour prowling the village, the wind blew in a new scent that made his heart begin to pound rapidly. Twin instincts surged to the surface. A part of him screamed at him to run. This scent meant fire and silver and death, and he had best hope the monster chasing him decided he wasn't worth the effort. There was no chance of defeating the murderous hunter. His only chance was to flee and pray for the best. But there yet remained some stubborn, Jaskier-like part of him, even now, and that came with an entirely different set of instructions. The smell on the wind promised safety and sex, two things that he was very fond of.
Before he could decide what to do, the man belonging to the scent stepped into the centre of the village. He held a silver sword in front of him. When he spoke, the words came in a vicious growl. Despite being unable to understand him, Jaskier cheered up at the sound of the familiar voice. Against his bidding, his tail began to wag. The man stepped towards him with a murderous expression. Confused, Jaskier whined, then rolled onto his back, showing his belly.
The man halted. "Jaskier?"
The word was familiar, even if the meaning escaped him. Jaskier's tail thumped loudly against the ground. The man lowered his sword and advanced slowly, watching Jaskier like he was some kind of threat. He said more words, but Jaskier had no idea what they might have been. He just stared up at his beautiful, dangerous mate and waited for him to put two and two together. He could be patient. Gods knew he'd been patient for this man before.
After a long silence, the man let out a wounded sound and fell to his knees. His sword clattered to the ground. Jaskier sat up and sniffed at him, licking his face a few times and whining. Strong hands entwined in the thick fur growing on the back of Jaskier's neck.
"I'm sorry," the man said, and kissed the top of Jaskier's snout. Immediately, the spot began to itch. The man continued to speak, but Jaskier did not listen to a word of it as the itching intensified and spread across his body. Fur fell off in clumps. Jaskier writhed on the ground, scratching at himself as the itching turned to burning pain. Howls gave way to human screams.
In the end, Jaskier lay naked in the mud staring up at Geralt in horror. "Did I really lick your face?"
Geralt stared back. His pupils had dilated, leaving only a thin ring of gold around the edge. "Jaskier?"
"I know I've licked other parts of you before, but that was contextual, " Jaskier continued. He picked himself up and stared at his mud-covered limbs in disgust. "Is Roach nearby? Otherwise I'm going to need to borrow your shirt."
"Jaskier," Geralt breathed, and the next thing Jaskier knew he was being kissed. He made a muffled sound of surprise. The hard leather of Geralt's armour pressed into his bare skin, leaving little marks over his body. After a few moments of deliberation, Jaskier decided to go with it. He wasn't sure what precisely had prompted the sudden passion, but he wasn't going to complain if Geralt wanted to experiment in exhibitionism. Resigning himself to buckle-shaped bruises, he wrapped his legs around Geralt's middle and trusted him to hold him up. Geralt buried his face in the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply.
"You're safe."
"I was always going to be okay," Jaskier soothed, kissing Geralt's temple. "They planned for you to find me. All I had to do was wait."
Geralt let out a low, feral sounding growl. Ordinarily, that kind of low, rumbling tone would elicit a very specific response in Jaskier, but this time, he found himself worried. He did everything he could to soothe Geralt, kissing him and praising him and letting him do what he needed to reassure himself off Jaskier's safety.
Rather than the sex Jaskier had hoped for, Geralt escorted him back to the town where they had originally taken the contract. He kept Jaskier tightly wrapped in his cloak the entire time, saving his dignity and shielding him from the cold.
Their room at the inn was just as it had been when Jaskier had left it that morning. Geralt tucked him into bed with more care and tenderness than Jaskier could ever remember experiencing from Geralt or anyone else.
"Stay here. I'll be back."
"The whole village was in on it," Jaskier said. "I can help, I just -"
Geralt silenced him with a kiss. "Stay. Here."
With a sigh, Jaskier agreed. The last thing he saw before falling asleep was Geralt standing guard over him, silent and unmoving.
Jaskier was woken by the sound of the door slamming open. He flailed about in a panic for several seconds before catching sight of the bloodstained figure in the doorway. He relaxed, leaning against the wall.
"Please tell me it's not your blood."
"It's not my blood," Geralt said, and for once Jaskier believed him. "They got what they deserved."
Jaskier thought of the woman who had apologised to him for what they had done. "Did they?"
"They bit you," Geralt growled, half feral with rage. "They turned you into a werewolf and left you to die."
"They left me for you, and you fixed me,"Jaskier corrected. A thought occurred to him, and he asked, "How did you cure me anyway? I thought you said lycanthropy was incurable."
Geralt's mouth snapped shut. He turned on the spot and left, muttering something about getting them a bath. Jaskier stretched luxuriously, taking a moment to delight in his ordinary human muscles. He would get the truth out of Geralt in the end. To be able to tell such a story from the perspective of the werewolf was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He might tweak it a little, make himself sound like more of a ferocious beast and less an excitable puppy, but that was no problem. Jaskier was not going to let the truth stand in the way of a good story.
But no matter how much Jaskier begged, cajoled, or threatened, he could not get the story of the cure out of Geralt. Soon enough winter came, and they separated for the season. Jaskier settled into place in court in some minor country, while Geralt began the long lonely trek to Kaer Mohren.
Three weeks before his official appointment was up, things took a turn for the worse. The court mage, a young man with dazzling green eyes, took offence to Jaskier's brilliance. The dance accompanying one of his rowdier songs made the walls shake, and that was apparently enough to upset the delicate acoustics of experiment. Jaskier opened his mouth to protest the stupidity in setting up a delicate experiment above the great hall, but no sound came out. He tried again, but not a sound escaped. Terrified, he clutched his throat and tried to scream, but nothing came out. Jaskier fled the room, the mage's laughter ringing in his ears the entire time.
Within three hours, Jaskier had packed his bags and was on the road. He took the mage's horse when he left. Having played his trump card, there was nothing left he could threaten Jaskier with that he feared.
Not, Jaskier promised himself, that he would be silent for long. The snows were melting. He turned north to Kaedwen, chasing rumours of monsters and witchers alike. It was not easy going. Inns that would ordinarily have offered him free room and board for a night suddenly cost coin. He soon found himself faced with a dilemma. Taverns were by far the best place to listen for rumours of witchers, but they were a risk. A mute bard made an appealing target for muggers and thieves, and even if he faced no threats, ale cost money and his purse was light. More and more, Jaskier found himself depending on the survival skills Geralt had taught him. Winter had not fully waned, but Jaskier knew how to find shelter and keep himself warm. He could set a snare and skin a rabbit, and he knew a dozen ways to turn nothing more than a hard heel of bread and an onion into a meal.
Weeks slid by. Jaskier tightened his belt and tried not to resent the birds for singing when he could not.
His luck changed in a small town nestled at the base of a mountain range. When he first stepped into the inn, he assumed it had changed for the worse. The floor was slick with blood, and people gossiped in small groups as a barmaid mopped up the mess. She smiled at him.
"Don't mind the mess, love, we've a witcher out back. Poor bastard got his arm half torn off. Expect we'll be burying him before the week is out."
Jaskier's heart froze in his chest. A moment later, it was beating triple time. He bolted into the rear of the inn without a second thought, following the trail of blood. He burst into the witcher's room, took two steps in, and froze on the spot. The man bleeding out on the bed had dark, short-cropped hair. In other words, he was not Geralt. He tilted his head to the side and snarled at Jaskier, black eyes framed by creeping black veins. The sight was enough to kick Jaskier into motion. Geralt would have a fit if he knew Jaskier had burst uninvited into a strange witcher's room, but then, Geralt wasn't there. He held up his hands, palms open, then emptied his pockets of anything that could be used as a weapon. He maintained eye contact as he tucked the daggers Geralt had given him inside his lute case, then set his lute case out of reach. His plan was dependent on the witcher trusting him. If he did not, then a dagger would do him no good.
Having done what he could to make his intentions clear, Jaskier helped himself to the witcher's potion bag. The man growled out a violent threat, but Jaskier ignored it until he had what he wanted. He took the collection of potions over to the bedside and uncorked the White Honey. The witcher watched him suspiciously for a few seconds before his desperation won out. He drank the potions as Jaskier handed them over, first for the toxicity, then for pain and healing as soon as his body could tolerate it.
Once done with the potions, Jaskier looked to the wound itself. The barmaid had been right about the state of his arm. For anyone other than a witcher, amputation would have been the only hope for survival, and a slim hope at that. As it was, Jaskier cleaned the wound and pushed the arm back into place. He then took the witcher's other hand and placed it on his bicep, silently commanding him to hold it in place. To his relief, he did, leaving Jaskier free to clean and stitch the wound. The man dozed as he did so, plainly exhausted from his fight. Jaskier counted that as a victory. If the witcher was willing to sleep in front of him, Jaskier must have looked suitably non-threatening.
Once there was nothing more to be done for the witcher, Jaskier ventured downstairs. He caught the attention of the barmaid and gestured at a bucket of water, then at the blood staining his hands.
"You're with the witcher?"
Jaskier nodded.
"Is he going to make it?"
Jaskier nodded again without hesitation. He'd seen Geralt in a similar state more often than he liked, and he had no doubts that the witcher would recover. The woman hummed and looked him up and down.
"I'll have a bath sent up, and some food. It's the least we can do after he dealt with that forktail."
Grateful, Jaskier retreated upstairs. He bathed when the opportunity came, and ate one of the two meals the woman brought up. With nothing else to do, he sat himself in the corner and pulled out his lute. Some nice, gentle music would help soothe his frazzled nerves. Even if he could not sing, he could play. His fingers danced across the fretboard, picking out delicate tunes that bordered on lullabies. He played for hours, lost in his own music. When he looked up, he saw golden eyes staring at him.
"You're Geralt's bard," he said. Jaskier beamed and nodded, jumping to his feet and performing an elaborate bow.
"Huh. Geralt made it sound like you never shut up. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"
Jaskier nodded, then grimaced and shook his head. He attempted to explain the situation through pantomime and gesture, but concepts like "mage" and "curse" were hard to convey without words. Despite that, the witcher's eyes narrowed.
"So what is it? That you can't talk, or won't?"
Jaskier held up a single finger to indicate the first option, giving the witcher the most pleading look he could muster.
"Fuck. And Geralt?"
Jaskier shrugged. The witcher sighed.
"Fuck. Geralt will kill me if I let you wander off alone like this."
Jaskier nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on the spot with excitement. The man cursed and insulted him, then said, "I'll get you to him, but you'd better not slow me down. Geralt may put up with that, but I'm not so soft."
Jaskier snorted. Geralt could be soft, when he chose to be, normally in quiet, stolen moments of intimacy. But he had never tolerated Jaskier slowing him down.
Over the next few days, Jaskier learnt a great deal about his companion. His name was Lambert; he knew Geralt well, belonging to the same school as him; he had a foul temper, and an even fouler vocabulary; and, despite all this, he warmed to Jaskier almost immediately. When they took to the road, he picked fights with people in taverns who tried to give Jaskier trouble. Rather than simply glaring as Geralt was prone to do, Lambert opened negotiations with a punch, or, on one memorable occasion, a sword to the stomach. It was, Jaskier thought, a bit much, but even if he could complain, he wasn’t sure he would. Witchers showed their fondness in strange ways, and Lambert seemed to show his through violence. And if they got driven out of town more often than usual, well, Jaskier would be a hypocrite to say anything about it. Especially when Lambert insisted they stop at inns as often as possible, citing Jaskier’s “delicate human constitution” and claiming Geralt would cry all winter long if he returned Jaskier with so much as a scratch. He even negotiated opportunities for Jaskier to perform, even if it was only with his lute. He listened attentively to each performance and shared his opinion freely, whether it was complimentary or not.
If Jaskier had been able to talk, he would have been delighted to have made such fast friends with another witcher. As it was, he had to make do with whatever scraps of conversation Lambert allowed him. Fortunately, when not complaining or cursing, Lambert was prone to bragging. Geralt would always be his preferred muse, of course, but until he gave him suitable descriptions of his fights, Jaskier would simply have to take inspiration where he could get it.
They travelled south at a cracking pace, claiming Geralt had bolted south as soon as the snows began to melt. At first they chased rumours, until one day Lambert stopped at a crossroads and sniffed the air.
"Sadness and martyrdom. He went this way," Lambert said, and they changed their path and followed the scent.
When they caught sight of Geralt in the marketplace of a large town, Jaskier felt as if his heart was about to burst. He'd known he'd missed Geralt, of course, but he somehow hadn't realised he missed him this much. He dashed through the crowd and into Geralt's arms. Geralt, seeing Jaskier incoming, froze with a box of supplies in his hand. In the end, as Jaskier expected, he dropped them on the spot to wrap his arms around Jaskier so tight that he could scarcely breathe. He kissed him as soon as he had the space to, pouring all his love and affection until the one gesture. Electricity thrummed through him. God, he'd forgotten how good Geralt was at this. He really could not stand another winter without Geralt by his side.
When Jaskier pulled back and saw familiar golden eyes watching him expectantly, Jaskier found words bubbling out of him.
"Geralt, thank Melitele we found you, I need your help. I'm cursed.. Some bastard mage cursed me and I haven't been able to talk for months, Geralt, months! How am I meant to live in a world where I can't sing about your great deeds? Your great heart? Your great di - wait."
Jaskier paused and furrowed his brow. "Wait a minute, did I just say that aloud?"
Geralt nodded fractionally. Somewhere behind Jaskier, Lambert began to laugh.
"But how? It's been months, Geralt. What changed?"
"Curse lifted."
"Yes, I noticed that, thank you very much," Jaskier said flapping his hands in the air. "But how?"
"And here I thought a bard would guess," Lambert said. He walked over and slapped Geralt on the back and said, "You're royally fucked, aren't you?"
"Shut up."
"Oh, don't be so grumpy," Jaskier murmured, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Geralt's mouth. "Without Lambert, I might never have found you."
“Yeah. You owe me one.”
To the surprise of absolutely no one, Geralt only grunted at that.
After a few more minutes of bickering, the three of them retreated to a tavern for lunch. Jaskier explained the curse and his adventures since in detail, delighted to find his audience fully engaged. Even Geralt seemed to hang on his every word, and he grilled him for every scrap of information about the mage he could remember.
"What I don't understand is why the curse broke as soon as I found you," Jaskier admitted.
"Haven't you heard of," Lambert started, but Geralt cut him off with a vicious growl. He laughed and shook his head. "Fine. Since you're managing so well yourself, I'll leave you to it. And for the love of the gods, Geralt, bring your bard to Kaer Mohren next winter so he doesn't get broken again."
"Where will you go now?" Jaskier asked.
"Sounds like I've got a mage to kill," Lambert said, and disappeared before Jaskier even had a chance to thank him. Jaskier hummed happily and leaned against Geralt's side. He took his hand and twined their fingers together. It had been so long since he had seen him, and it had taken all his self control not to indulge in this kind of affection with Lambert present. While Jaskier may be comfortable with such public displays of affection, Geralt was undoubtedly not.
"I do hope you listen to him, love, I'd love to meet the rest of your family," Jaskier said. Beside him, Geralt went tense. Gritting his teeth, he spat out,
"That's why."
Blinking at the non-sequitur, Jaskier peered up at his lover. "Pardon?"
"Love. That's... almost any curse can be lifted like that. But it has to be true."
A rush of air left Jaskier's lungs all at once. The conclusion was obvious, but he hardly dared to hope. He had no doubt Geralt loved him, but he had never said it in a so many words. This, though - Jaskier's eyes brightened, and a smile danced on his lips. Geralt stared stubbornly at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes.
"I should have guessed. I've been in love with you for a long time."
Despite still being stiff as a board, the corners of Geralt's mouth twisted upwards. It was a tiny smile, but from Geralt, it meant the world. "I know. But for most people, that wouldn't be enough. Like I said it's gotta be true. That’s rare. Unheard of for witchers."
"And I am truly in love with you," Jaskier proclaimed, and kissed him.
After that, Jaskier really should have known what was coming next time he was cursed. Unfortunately, the nature of the curse prevented just that. One minute, he was trudging up the hill to a tavern in Posada, desperate for something to eat; the next, he was on the ground with a pounding headache. He groaned as he woke up, rubbing his temples. He'd thought he'd had bad hangovers before, but that was nothing compared to the pain he was in now. How had he even gotten his hands on enough alcohol to end up like this? It wasn’t as though being a wandering bard was working out for him.
He opened his eyes a fraction. He bolted upright at the sight of bars, scrambling on his knees to the edge of his cage. Cage was the only word for it: it was hutch of metal bars, a foot taller than Jaskier himself, sitting on a raised dais in the middle of a dungeon. Around the room, men trained with weapons or gathered in small groups around maps. A mage worked in one corner, sitting on a cushion and chanting in the Elder tongue.
Jaskier's heart sank. How in the blazes had he ended up in some kind of military prison? He didn't even remember drinking. His last memory was if pushing open the door to the tavern.
"Hey. Psst, you," he said, beckoning one of the men on guard over. "Between you and me, why am I in this cage?"
"For protection," the man said. Jaskier's eyebrows rose.
"From what?"
"It's better if you don't know," the man said darkly. A frisson of fear ran down Jaskier's spine. What could be so dreadful that they wouldn't even mention it?
He passed two days in the cage. The entire time, the mage sat in the corner, chanting. The soldiers treated him fairly, but with no small amount of suspicion. They fed him, but they never stayed to chat. The man who was tasked with cleaning his small chamber-pot could scarcely stand to look at him. The man who brought him his breakfast shook so badly he spilled the gruel on the ground and had to fetch a second bowl.
"Why are you so frightened?" Jaskier asked. "I'm not dangerous. I'm just a bard."
The man gave him a terrified look and fled, leaving Jaskier baffled.
On the dawn of the third day, the mage collapsed. The mood in the camp changed instantly. Even the men who had been joking and gambling before began to keep their weapons near them. Any kindness the soldiers had shown him evaporated. They suggested abandoning him, or handing him over to whatever beast they were protecting him from, or killing him and being done with it. Most of them left the room, deployed to guard other parts of the fort and keep the threat at bay.
Less than two hours after the mage collapsed, the screaming started. The sounds of clashing steel and dying men echoed down from above, drawing closer by the minute. Jaskier pressed himself against the very back of his cage. He didn't want to die yet. He was meant to die young as a tragically underappreciated starving artist, not mauled to pieces in a cage by some vicious beast. He’d never even written a popular song. What was the point of life if he didn’t get a chance to write beautiful music before he died?
The screaming grew closer. Jaskier could do nothing but listen as the men were cut down one by one, their dying screams and pleas for mercy cut short by death. He bit the inside of his mouth to halt a whimper. The last little bit of hope Jaskier had for escape died somewhere deep in his chest. If this threat would not listen to reason or pleas for mercy, then there was nothing he could do to stop it.
A blast of pure force blew the door open. A man stood in the door frame, his sword lifted and at the ready. A moment later, Jaskier revised his use of the word man. Men did not have eyes as black as pitch with black veins spreading like spider-webs around their eyes. This man did, along with hair as white as snow and a feral snarl on his face. He moved with a terrible grace, slaughtering the soldiers without hesitation or regret. The movements were human, but they were fast enough to look alien in a way that made something in the back of Jaskier's brain scream "predator". The speed was coupled with unparalleled strength. One blow from his sword was enough to slice a man cleanly in two, blood and bones and all. The sword alone would have been enough to win him the battle, but he was not content with that. The man had some kind of magic, which he used to send flames towards his opponent or shield himself from harm. A twitch of his fingers had soldiers turning on each other in violent confusion; another had them paralyzed on the spot, screaming as purple sparks wrapped around their limbs.
Jaskier could not, in good faith, call it a battle. It was a bloodbath. Blood and entrails covered the floors, wall, and the man himself. When there was no one left alive but Jaskier and the attacker, he turned and prowled towards Jaskier’s cage. Jaskier gulped. But as the man got closer some of his fear eased. The stranger was inhuman, that much was true, but despite the violence he had just demonstrated, he did not seem like a savage beast. The rage he had shown to the soldiers faded as he advanced on Jaskier, the snarl melting into something softer. As he approached, he sheathed his sword. In doing so, he drew Jaskier's attention to the second sword on his back. Jaskier took a moment to look the man over, noting his impressive physique, the scars on his face, and integrated it with the violence he had just seen. Curiosity got the better of him, and Jaskier leaned forward and wrapped his hands around the bars.
"You're a witcher, aren't you?"
The man froze and stared at Jaskier, expression unreadable. "Yes."
The deep, gravely voice sent a shiver down Jaskier's spine that had nothing to do with fear. Throwing caution to the wind, he said,
"I don't suppose you're after a travelling companion? Only I don't suppose people are very happy to see you normally, given," (here he paused gesturing at the blood coating the witcher), "but I'm good at people. Well, when I'm not in a cage. I can help you negotiate, write songs about your stories. Wouldn’t you like to be greeted as a hero?"
"Jaskier," the witcher said. He unlocked the cage, and Jaskier stepped out with a bright smile.
"Thank you for letting me out, but how do you know my name?"
The witcher stepped forward, into Jaskier's space. Jaskier did not step back. He stayed put, looking up at the witcher with guileless curiosity. Gods, the stories this man must know. Jaskier simply had to learn them.
The excited plans buzzing around Jaskier's mind screamed to a halt when the witcher placed one bloody hand on his cheek.
"Forgive me," he murmured, far more tender than Jaskier would have thought he was capable of, and then he kissed him.
Several years slammed into Jaskier's brain at once. He gasped. How could he have forgotten Geralt? He wrapped his arms around Geralt's neck and kissed him fiercely, pressing the length of his body against his. When he broke away, he smiled at Geralt with all the love in his heart.
"There's one thing I want to make very clear," he said. "Even if that hadn't worked, I was not about to complain about the scary-sexy hero kissing me. Even covered in blood, you are unreasonably attractive."
"You remember," Geralt rumbled. Jaskier beamed and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
"True love's kiss, and all that. Now let's get out of here, and you can give me true love's dick, too."
Geralt huffed, burying his face in Jaskier's shoulder and holding him tight. There was something horribly fragile in the gesture, and Jaskier realised he'd missed the mark. He ran his fingers through Geralt's hair and kissed his temple.
"It's alright, dear heart, I'm here. You found me."
"You were scared of me."
"In my defence, I was cursed. And even then, I was willing to learn," Jaskier told him. "And you know I'm not scared now."
He felt Geralt inhale deeply and smiled. "See? We're fine."
Without a word, Geralt lifted Jaskier up and carried him out of the dungeon. Jaskier considered protesting, but when he saw the tension in Geralt's face, he decided against it. Geralt needed this more than Jaskier needed to wreck his shoes trudging through the piles of corpses Geralt had left in his wake.
When not stricken with amnesia, kissing Geralt to lift a curse became Jaskier's new normal. Even in the heat of battle, Geralt would throw himself to Jaskier's side, kiss him, and hurl himself back into the fray without hesitation. Before long, Jaskier began to demand the same remedy for all kinds of ailments, both magical and mundane. Without fail, Geralt obliged. When Jaskier sprouted feathers, he kissed him before his lips could become a beak. When Jaskier complained of a headache, he kissed Jaskier's temple - and even though a kiss was no cure for an ordinary headache, Jaskier swore it helped.
There were times, however, when Geralt's ability to heal Jaskier with a kiss caused problems. Most often, the problem was jealousy, driven by grief. The worst example of this came in a town north-east of Oxenfurt. They had heard rumours of people disappearing in the area, and they had hoped to pick up one last contract before turning north for the winter.
When they walked into town, the found the place almost deserted. The innkeeper flinched when the door opened. Jaskier braced himself for a rude comment about witchers, but none came. Instead, the man fell to his knees and begged them to help. Jaskier and Geralt exchanged a worried look. If the townsfolk were this distressed, whatever they were hunting could not be a good thing.
They started with a visit to the local lord and his hired mage. The manor house was absolutely gorgeous, filled with sweet-scented flowers and the most intricate statues Jaskier had ever seen. They were served tea in the drawing room and very politely told to leave town on pain of death. Jaskier and Geralt exchanged a look. They took their leave after that, pretending to have taken the hint, then immediately circled back to town to speak with the townsfolk.
As they spoke to the friends and families of the victims, a disturbing trend emerged. Everyone who had vanished, whether local or not, had been particularly attractive. Geralt nearly dragged Jaskier out of town on the spot, intent on leaving him in Oxenfurt and returning to work alone - but, Jaskier reasoned, he would not stay in Oxenfurt. He would follow Geralt anyway, and wasn't it safer if Geralt knew exactly where he was?
That, at least, had been the logic. But then Geralt had had to break into the local lord's house alone, and Jaskier had almost immediately felt a supernatural exhaustion overcome him. At least, he thought woozily, Geralt knew how to wake him up
He woke in a large, airy room, filled with half-finished paintings and marble statues. He groaned as he woke, saying,
"Look, I'm terribly flattered, but I'm here with the witcher, and he really will be quite cross if you hurt me."
"It won't hurt," a voice said. Jaskier turned to find a young man dressed in fine silks, looking at Jaskier critically. "Hm. Hair's a bit long, but you'll make a decent Viscount de Lettenhove once we give you a trim. The university will be pleased."
"I am the viscount," Jaskier protested, and the man beamed.
"That's the spirit!"
For the next hour, the man trimmed Jaskier's hair, changed his clothes, and generally fussed over his posture. Despite Jaskier’s best efforts to the contrary, his body did exactly as the young man commanded. He was very particular, even adjusting the way Jaskier held his lute (which, Jaskier noted, was a useless grip for performing, a fact which distressed him more than anything else).
Finally, the man stepped back and raised his hands. Fear surged through Jaskier. The man chanted in the Elder tongue. Even as he felt a curious numbness climbing up his legs, Jaskier felt nothing but relief. It was a curse. Whatever the mage did to him would not be permanent; all he had to do was wait for Geralt. Even as the numbness took his arms and turned them to white marble, Jaskier did not panic. Geralt would come. He always did.
The next thing Jaskier knew, warmth flooded through his body, starting from his mouth and radiating outward. He fell forward was feeling returned to his body, trusting Geralt to catch him when he did. He began to shiver violently, his teeth chattering. As soon as his arms were free, he wrapped them around Geralt, hanging on for dear life. It was only then he opened his eyes, taking a moment to smile at his witcher before burying his face against Geralt’s chest. His knees collapsed once free, and Jaskier fought back the urge to vomit.
"The witcher!" Someone shouted, "the witcher brought him back with a kiss."
A cacophony of shouts and pleas broke out around them. The sudden noise made Jaskier flinch. After a few moments, he stared at the crowd in bafflement. Having observed Geralt's ability to revitalise Jaskier with a kiss, they had concluded it had something to do with being a witcher. When he looked back at Geralt, there was resignation in his eyes.
"It won't work."
"Bullshit," one man said. "I saw it. Now kiss my wife!"
"Good sirs, it only worked because the witcher and I are long-time companions. Surely you've heard stories about the powers of true love's kiss?"
The villagers exchanged looks, torn between confusion and suspicion. One man walked over to a statue and kissed it. The crowd, along with Jaskier, held its breath, but nothing happened. A dozen angry pairs of eyes turned back to Geralt.
"Not everyone has that kind of love. I'm sorry."
"You expect me to believe a witcher is more deserving of love than my Millie?"
"He's lying," another man shouted. "Everyone knows witchers don't feel love!"
"There are a lot of misconceptions about witchers," Jaskier said. He looked up at Geralt and asked, "Does it have to be romantic love?"
"I don't know," Geralt admitted, but then let out a feral growl. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the group of villagers had become a mob, picking up whatever weapons they could. Before they could advance more than a single step, Geralt picked up Jaskier's lute and threw Jaskier himself over his shoulder and bolted. As they fled, Jaskier caught a glimpse of a small child staring up at a statue of a young man. The child toddled forward and kissed his shin, the highest point she could reach. Stone melted into flesh, and above the clamour of the mob, Jaskier heard a high, delighted squeal of "Papa!"
The cure of one of their own did not stop the mob, and Jaskier did not try to reason with them again. Instead, he followed Geralt's lead. They fled from the town on horseback, and did not stop until they were far to the north.
‐--------
There had been a time in Jaskier's life when he had thought of sorceresses as glamorous, intelligent, wonderful people.
Then he had met Yennefer of Vengerburg, and quickly re-evaluated his position.
Yennefer was glamorous, yes, and unfortunately intelligent, and also the most vile, treacherous creature Jaskier had ever had the displeasure of meeting. She waltzed into Kaer Mohren as if the fortress had been built for her and started giving orders. Geralt was absent, but the witchers, Jaskier was pleased to see, either argued or outright refused to do as she asked. Eskel complained endlessly while complying, while Vesemir outright refused. Lambert agreed, then failed to lift so much as a finger to help her. Instead, he took a seat next to Jaskier and started to clean his sword, staring at Yennefer with an unpleasant gleam in his eye. It was enough to make Jaskier bold, spitting insults from the safety of Lambert's side. This was his home. He had the upper hand, secure in the knowledge that no matter how rude he was, none of the witchers would allow her to hurt so much as a hair on his head.
His confidence fell to pieces when Geralt came downstairs and stared at Yennefer with that stupid, pole-axed expression he always got around her. She crooked her finger at him and walked outside. Geralt followed as if bewitched, barely sparing even a glance at the rest of them. Lambert let out a low whistle.
"If you let him into bed tonight, bard, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."
"I don't think that's going to be an issue," Jaskier said, wincing at how weak his voice sounded. Eskel gave a token protest, but Lambert rolled his eyes.
"Bullshit. Just because he's being a dick doesn't mean you have to be an idiot. Pull your head out your ass, quit whining and start plotting revenge."
"Lambert -"
"Eskel, what food is it Geralt hates again?"
To Jaskier's surprise, Eskel not only answered, but immediately agreed to make sure it featured prominently in the evening meal. He ambled over and put a hand in Jaskier's shoulder, squeezing gently. A swell of emotion rose in Jaskier's throat, equal parts joy and grief. When he had come to Kaer Mohren, he had hoped for nothing more than the approval of Geralt's family. He had it now, in spades. They may show it in curious ways, but he had no doubt the witchers of Kaer Mohren counted him as a friend, entirely independent of Geralt's opinion. Which was just as well, Jaskier thought. When Geralt inevitably vanished with Yennefer for the rest of the winter, at least he would not have poor company. Lambert or Eskel would help him down the trail come spring, and Jaskier would… well. He had plenty of time to figure out what came next.
A flash of light and soft hum indicated a portal opening. Jaskier closed his eyes. When he heard it shut, he exhaled slowly. He would not cry.
It may have felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest, but he would not cry.
"You better have a fucking good explanation for walking off like that, asshole," Lambert growled.
Jaskier opened his eyes. Geralt stood on the other side of the hall, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. He wondered what the scene looked like to Geralt: Lambert sitting at his side, Eskel behind him, Vesemir nominally brewing tea but keeping a close eye on proceedings.
"I need to talk to Jaskier."
"Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you,"Lambert said, but Jaskier was already getting to his feet. He felt oddly numb as he walked over to Geralt. He wanted to hope, desperately so, but after watching his lover disappear after Yennefer, it was hard to move past the hollow despair in his chest.
Geralt led him on a winding path, taking him far away from the others. There was more tension in his shoulders than Jaskier had seen since autumn, and it seemed like every time Jaskier looked up, Geralt was watching him.
"If you made me come this far to break up with me, I'm going to kill you," Jaskier grumbled. Beside him, Geralt tripped over his own feet and barely caught himself. He stared at Jaskier with wide eyes and an open mouth, looking more horrified than Jaskier had ever seen him. The next thing he knew, Jaskier was wrapped in Geralt's arms. He put his hands on Geralt's chest, not pushing, but ready to do so the instant he decided he had had enough of Geralt's story.
"Jaskier, I want you with me for the rest of my life."
"Is that why you ran after Yennefer so quickly?" Jaskier asked unable to spot the bitterness from creeping into his voice. To his surprise, Geralt nodded.
"Yen’s been researching djinn, trying to find a way to undo my wish. Unbind us."
"Oh," Jaskier said, taking a moment to process that. His heart began to beat a little more quickly. If Yennefer's plan worked, there would be no more fate tying her to Geralt. Geralt could finally be free of her influence.
"The only thing that can undo a djinn's spell is another djinn, but a powerful enough sorceress can manipulate it, if they can figure out how. The djinn tied our fates because of my feelings for Yennefer at the time. She used that to buy us a choice. I still end up bound to someone, someone I care about. Someone I want. We'll always end up finding each other. And they'll be tied to me through destiny. We can't be sure what that would do, but Yen thinks it would affect how fast a human would age, among - other things."
"Geralt," Jaskier said, his hands curling into fists in Geralt's shirt. "Geralt, love, tell me I'm not jumping to the wrong conclusion here."
"You'd want that?" Geralt asked. His eyes scanned Jaskier's face, searching for any signs of hesitation or doubt. There were none to find. A smile was spreading across Jaskier's face, bright and happy and fearless.
"How do we do it?"
"Like this," Geralt murmured, and kissed him.
The amulet on Geralt's chest hummed. When Geralt pulled back, there was a tiny smile on his face.
"Done."
"Huh," Jaskier said. He'd expected a lot more effort to be involved, but then, Geralt's kisses had proven effective in the past. He grinned. "You'd better try again. Just to be sure."
Without waiting for an answer, Jaskier leaned up and kissed him. Whatever the purpose, Jaskier intended to kiss Geralt every day for the rest of his life.