Chapter Text
Spring seems to come fast after that, faster than Jaskier perhaps would have liked. The sands of time are relentless, however much Jaskier might protest having to leave home. Every day only gets better, and Jaskier tries his hardest not to lose sight of his joy by trying to hold so tightly to something he'll never be able to grasp. There will be other winters, many trips home to Kaer Morhen, and in the meantime, he won't have to spend so much as a day without Geralt by his side. That's enough reason for happiness to keep a man afloat for a lifetime.
Some of the refugees are gone from the keep now, though not all. Some of them were able to find their identities in the many reams of notes that they'd taken from Stygga, and they chose to go back to homes that they didn't remember in order to seek new memories for themselves. Others were not as fortunate, but still chose to go regardless. Kaer Morhen kept no prisoners; those who did not wish to stay were escorted to the location of their choosing and wished well as they started their new adventures alone.
Only six remained, five women and one man, who eventually were put up in the keep's many empty bedrooms. They're pleasant enough company, though every now and then Jaskier catches a glassy look in one of their eyes that makes his stomach turn a little uncomfortably. That realization that he had looked the same not so long ago is as unsettling as it is hopeful. On the one hand, Jaskier is painfully aware of his own good fortune in having been Geralt's Surprise. On the other hand, if he can overcome such odds, even with his body only half his own, any of these men and women who came after him have more than a fighting chance.
And his body, Jaskier discovers, feels more and more his own these days. Maybe it's a result of what happened at Stygga, some spell they'd unwittingly broken, but Jaskier privately thinks that it has more to do with closure. There are no more of the men who once owned him, and Jaskier knows that, and as many times as Geralt has said it before, Jaskier feels for the first time that it might be true, that he's free. At the very least, it certainly feels like freedom when he falls into bed with the love of his life and nothing in the world matters except the two of them.
And if Jaskier is a bit bossier these days, Geralt is kind enough not to call him out on it. He just smiles and gives Jaskier what he wants, and then everyone gets to be happy.
Like right now, as Jaskier balances on knees and elbows with his face buried in a pillow and his legs spread to allow Geralt to work at will between them. "Yes, darling, that's-- oh, good, that was good, do it like that aga--!" The rest of Jaskier's praise gets swallowed by sensation, his bardic mastery of words no match for the feeling of Geralt's tongue flickering over his hole. It's just so gods-damned good when juxtaposed with the heat between Jaskier's cheeks caused by Geralt's beard rubbing him raw.
Geralt, true to form, doesn't answer. He does it again, just like that, ever so eager to make Jaskier feel good. The thumb of one hand digs into the soft flesh of Jaskier's arse, holding him open for easier access. The other hand is between Jaskier's legs, stroking his cock just right, driving him right to the edge. Maybe it's Jaskier imagination, but the other side feels closer today. Maybe he's crazy, but that far-away feeling seems close enough to touch.
"Don't stop," Jaskier tells him, voice quiet, and Geralt's answering affirmative hum makes Jaskier vibrate in some fabulous ways, and his pleasure ratchets higher. Fuck. "I mean it, keep doing exactly what you're doing and don't stop until I tell you to, okay? Fuck, Geralt, your hands. And the way you move your-- gods, yes, that's perfect!"
It's kind of like the meditation that Eskel has tried to teach him, Jaskier reflects as he deliberately clears all thoughts from his mind except for his awareness of Geralt and the sensations of his body. All the sounds and smells of the room fade away. Even the ache of his knees start to fade. None of that matters except the flickering of Geralt's tongue and the twisting of his wrist. Everything narrows down to the tightening of his balls, the shaking of his thighs, and then--
"Please don't fucking stop," Jaskier gasps one more time before starts coming all over the bedsheets.
Never let it be said that Geralt can't take direction; he continues to rim Jaskier like it's his job the whole time, though Jaskier can feel his fingers tighten on his flank and his breathing quicken in surprise. He only stops when Jaskier reaches back and fists a hand in his hair and tugs until he relents. "Fuck," Geralt says when his mouth is no longer occupied. "You came."
Jaskier looks back over his shoulder at him, even as his trembling legs give out and he collapses to his belly on the mattress. "I came," he confirms with a grin.
"You came without me telling you to," Geralt says, looking dazed and yet... predatory?
"Well, you were very convincing, it was just in a nonverbal sort of way--"
"I need to fuck you," Geralt groans, suddenly draped along Jaskier's back. "Please, can I? Fuck, never thought it would-- that I could-- Jaskier, please."
Jaskier has been babbling yes on repeat for a while now, and eventually the words must get through to Geralt's brain because then there's a cock pressing into Jaskier's hole and Geralt is moving Jaskier's legs out of the way so that he can fuck him nice and deep. He isn't gentle about it; Jaskier can't remember Geralt ever taking him quite so vigorously, with hands grabbing at Jaskier's sides and his teeth sinking deep into the meaty part of Jaskier's shoulder to stifle his moans. Then again, Jaskier also can't remember Geralt being so unabashedly turned on before, either. His breath shakes against Jaskier's skin in a way that's entirely new.
"Could-- get used-- to this--" Jaskier manages to get out, though it's difficult to form words when he's being rutted so perfectly. If anyone could fuck the ability to speak out of a bard, it would be Geralt.
"I just want to make you come," Geralt pants, somehow managing to make it sound reverent. "Over and over again. The way that it felt-- knowing that I could--"
He loses the thread after that, but Jaskier doesn't need words to enjoy this part.
It takes concentration, and a little adjustment for Geralt to get a hand underneath Jaskier and start stroking him again, but Jaskier manages to come unaided once more. Geralt's all but feral as he snarls his victory and reaches his own climax, cock flexing so hard inside of Jaskier that he can feel it. Little by little, the littering of bite marks turns to kisses, and Geralt returns to his senses. He eases himself out of Jaskier and falls into bed beside him, chest heaving and eyes hooded as he grins across the pillow at Jaskier.
"Well," Jaskier remarks as he tries to catch his breath, "that was a new side of you." Geralt opens his mouth with a little frown, but Jaskier cuts him off. "Try to apologize and I'll throw you out of that window, witcher. If I leave this world being fucked to death by a witcher who's overexcited to make me come, then I leave this world happy."
"Hmmm," Geralt muses, smile returning. "And what about you fucking the witcher instead? What are your feelings on that?"
"Give me a few minutes for the feeling to return to my poor knees and we'll find out," Jaskier winks.
Geralt only pauses for the briefest of moments before rolling Jaskier onto his back and throwing a leg over his waist. "I'm impatient," he says, and it isn't an apology.
Jaskier isn't looking for one anyways. "Then by all means, witcher dear, let the experimentation begin."
.....................
The good news just keeps on coming. Yennefer has been poring over the notes that they lifted from the citadel, looking for any more scraps of information, and she winds up finding them in spades. Details about the mutagens that were used on the humans, combinations that even Vesemir has never heard of, with ingredients from creatures that have been hunted into near-extinction by the witchers themselves. There are also details about where to find the last of these creatures, which Eskel copies down onto a piece of parchment that he can take with him on the Path next week when he plans to leave. Power like that, he says solemnly, doesn't need to be in anyone's hands.
She bursts into the courtyard one day soon after they return, a clutch of papers grasped in her hand and a wild expression on her face. "They're witchers!" she says, a grin growing as she looks around at everyone gathered --the wolves, Jaskier, and a smattering of their refugees.
A long pause ensues, and then Jaskier slowly says, "Yes, darling, we've noticed. The yellow eyes kind of give them away. You're a sorceress, if you hadn't caught that one either."
"No, not them, you," Yennefer says impatiently. "You, and the others we rescued! According to these notes, you're basically witchers. The lifespan, the regeneration abilities... the similarities are remarkable."
"Lifespan? What do you mean, lifespan?" Geralt asks, wide eyes. "Are you saying that Jaskier will--?"
"Live as long as you will, and heal from injuries provided that he doesn't go and do anything too colossally stupid?" Yennefer smirks. "That's exactly what I mean."
"I don't understand," Jaskier says, a little dazedly. "I don't-- are you sure?"
"I'm sure," Yennefer affirms. "You're going to be with us for a long, long time, little bard."
It's an immense gift, one that Jaskier didn't realize he needed, to know that he'll be able to spend many years by Geralt's side. He hadn't ever stopped to consider the difference in their lifespans. He hadn't even stopped to think about how vulnerable he is in comparison to Geralt, except to dismiss it as not a good enough reason for Geralt to leave him behind when it's time to go out on the Path. But now, to know that he can hold his own... it's a relief. And if the way that Geralt kisses him is any indication, he feels that and more.
That would have been good news enough, but Yennefer isn't done. "I found out some more about the memory spells Stregobor used, as well," she says slowly, and Jaskier can tell just by the tone of her voice that something big is about to happen. "I think... if you wanted, Jaskier, I could unlock your mind."
Jaskier can only blink at her for a long minute. He'd known that this was a possibility, of course, in some sort of distant sense. He'd known that Yennefer was working on uncovering this secret for him. He also knew that she's one of the most powerful sorceresses on the continent, so the fact that she's figured out the mystery should not come as a great surprise to him or anyone. Everything about this makes perfect sense.
He's still speechless.
"You don't have to, Jaskier," Geralt says quietly, and Jaskier looks at him just as dazedly as he's been looking at Yen. "No one's going to force you to do it. It's your mind, after all. No one else can make that choice for you."
"But how can I not? How can I live the rest of my life not knowing?" Jaskier asks solemnly. "What if I have someone out there who's been missing me for all these years, just waiting to find their answers about where I've gone?"
And that's the crux of it, the true cause of the panic that's rising unbidden in Jaskier's chest at the mere suggestion of unlocking his own mind. It's easy for him to stand here now and say that there's nothing that he would rather do than stay by Geralt's side. But if he remembers his past, what if there's something out there that forces him to go? What if there's something out there that makes him want to go?
"I'm afraid of what I'll find out," he confesses, refusing to let himself break eye contact with Geralt as he says it. "I'm happy here, with you. I don't want to mess it up, not even with my own memories."
Geralt pauses for a moment to consider the words with fitting gravity, then takes Jaskier's face between his hands and presses their foreheads together. "I love you, Jaskier of Kaer Morhen and Elsewhere. That doesn't have to do with the years you spent at Stygga or anything that happened in the years prior to that. Whatever your past holds, you'll have me. Nothing will change that."
Jaskier titled his chin up to steal a kiss from Geralt's lips, then turns to nod at Yennefer. "Right, then. How do we unlock the door?"
It feels like a familiar and yet distant echo of before, when Yennefer had first inspected his mind and found the door was locked in the first place. He remembers being nervous, but in a numb, hazy sort of way. He had thought his own feelings were unimportant then, as long as it was pleasing his new master. It hadn't felt like such a big deal whether they actually learned anything from the exercise or not. It wasn't Jaskier's place to have any concerns except pleasing those who cared for him.
He remembers relishing the closeness of Geralt sitting on the bed next to him as he lay there awaiting whatever would happen to him when the kind but angry witch started to dig around in his skull. That's what he focused on to distract himself from the fear-- how close Geralt was, and how maybe, once they were done, he'd be pleased enough with Jaskier to give him a treat. They were in a bed together, which was already far closer to Jaskier's goal than they'd been so far, and he let that hope focus him away from the fear and the hunger, just for a little while.
Now, nestled in the vee of Geralt's legs, comfortable and safe, things are different. He knows that he's loved, and cared for, and won't have to beg for anything ever again. He knows that his choices and his feelings are important, not just to him, but to the myriad of people who make his well-being their concern, as he does theirs. He has a home now, and a future, and very soon, he'd have a past, too.
"Let's do it," he tells Yennefer, who's been hovering by the side of the bed, and she sets to work.
.....................
His mother looking at him with a smile on her face, calling him precious Julek, kissing the scrape on his knee
Two little sisters tugging on his shirtsleeve, giggling and demanding his attention.
His father, surrounded by books and scrolls, pushing one across the table to him.
A girl with strawberry blonde pigtails that he reaches out to pull. She shrieks and runs away, and he gives chase.
Another dusty book, another stern frown from his father. "Noblemen put their studies before their play, Julian."
Priscilla coughing at the dinner table, just like she has every night for the last 8 months. Eight year-olds aren't supposed to look that tired and thin.
A lute in a merchant's stall as he passes by, and he can't help reaching out to touch it. His coin was supposed to be for a new doublet, something more suitable for court. He sneaks the lute home that afternoon and tells his father he lost the coin purse, and the smack across the face he receives in turn is worth it.
His mother stares out of windows a lot. She stares out of them too much. When he speaks to her, she tells him to leave her, because she's too tired today.
Essie braids Pri's hair as she lies in bed. She's too weak to turn her head so the braids are crooked, but Essie tells her that she's beautiful anyways. He plays them both a song on his lute, very quietly.
There's a boy who works as the tailor's apprentice who has a dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. When Julian kisses him in the back storeroom between a bolt of pink silk and one of yellow cotton, the world has never seemed brighter. The feeling of another's hand on the small of his waist stays with him for hours after he returns home.
His father's voice is cutting as he tells Julian that he's a man now and must put aside all of his childish things to focus on his future as a Viscount. This title will be his one day, and his father will not have a daydreaming buffoon take his place. Julian composes a song about lovers in a field of pink and yellow flowers in his head instead of listening.
Pri's bed is empty now, except when his mother lays in it with her back to the room and ignores Julian when he talks to her. He doesn't remember what color her eyes are anymore. Essie doesn't like to talk about it. No one likes to talk about it. The tailor's apprentice listens.
He plays his lute in the garden on a summer day, until something comes along to block out the sun. "If you want to ignore the world in favor of music, then do it. Go on, leave. Go wander around and be a bard for as long as the world will take you, and then when you're ready you can come crawling home. You'll appreciate the luxury of Lettenhove more when you've spent some time in the gutter."
Essie cries when he packs his bags. Julian cries, too, but not until he's well on the road with his home behind him. He won't let his father have the satisfaction, and his mother isn't looking anyways. He still doesn't remember what color her eyes are.
He kisses the tailor's apprentice one last time before he goes. Someday when he comes back, he'll tell him a tale of adventure and magic that will make his dimple curl deep into his cheek. Emil blinks at him and asks him how he's going to pay his way in the world with no money from his father, and Julian doesn't let his smile falter. That little lie is his first performance as a bard.
He sleeps in gutters, and in stables, and in haybales behind shops. He sings on streetcorners and in taverns --when they'll have him-- and recites sonnets to ladies in fine dresses until they toss a coin into the case of his lute. He walks until his feet ache, and smiles until his face goes numb, and when he reaches the next town, he does it again. Most of the time he barely makes enough coin to put food in his belly, and he pushes all thoughts of Emil and Essie and home out of his head because no one likes a sad bard.
He travels. He sees mountains and rolling plains, ancient forests and magical ponds. He kisses men with beards that make his skin tingle. He slides his hand up ladies' skirts until they sigh his name. He gets into fights to defend his own honor, and more often than not, he loses them. But he strolls out of town with a busted lip and his chin held high because "that bastard bard who keeps coming around," at least, is a title he's earned. It's a title he loves.
He lives life and he loves it, and he always, unfailingly, seeks adventure. He strolls into a town and hears tell of a witcher passing through, and he goes in pursuit of his next great song. When those yellow eyes turn to him, Julian knows deep in his heart with an excited thrill that his life is about to change forever.
"Well hello, little buttercup," Gaetan says.
.....................
He cries for a while after that. He doesn't mean to; for a long, tenuous moment after he opens his eyes, Jaskier stares up at Yennefer's purple, worried gaze and almost, almost holds it together. It won't help anything to cry about it now, after all. He knows now, with clarity, that Pri has been dead for damn near a decade, and his house has not been his home for a lot longer than that. No amount of tears will fix that, so he might as well skip that part and get to the moving on.
Then Geralt's thumb brushes over the back of Jaskier's hand, and he turns to him with his mouth opened to tell him how fine he is, and he catches sight of yellow eyes gone all honeyed with worry and love, and everything falls apart, just a little.
Yennefer leaves after the first few sobs tear their way out of his chest. Maybe she saw what he did, and she knows what he now does about the life he left behind-- or the lack thereof. Maybe she just knows what it's like to reach a low point and not want anyone to see. He's grateful for this little act of kindness, even if he can't quite catch enough of a breath right now to say so. She probably knows anyways.
Geralt stays, though. He stays and wraps his arms around Jaskier when he buries his face in his witcher's chest and lets go of the sudden outpouring of emotions in his heart. He feels like walls around Jaskier, so sturdy and impervious, but not the kind that cage him in. Rather, they're the kind of walls that keep out the world for a little while, until Jaskier is strong enough to face it on his own again.
When he regains a little of his steel, Jaskier wipes his face free of the tears --and the snot, very attractive-- and sits up enough that he's freed gently from Geralt's embrace. He turns to face him, and it almost feels like looking at a stranger's face. Maybe he's different now, seen through the lens of an entire lifetime instead of just a few shuttered years. More likely, it's Jaskier that's different now.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Geralt asks after a pause. He sounds hesitant, and Jaskier can hardly blame him. "You don't have to. Just. If you want to."
Does he want to? Of course not. Of course he doesn't want to dig up a part of him so old and long-forgotten that it's all but atrophied. He wants to let it wither away and pretend that none of it ever happened, and focus instead on the happy life that has here and now, with the people that he loves, in the home that he's found for himself despite all odds. For the first time in his life, he thinks, Jaskier has found something that he doesn't want to talk about.
But Jaskier, for all the many flaws that he's now come to know about himself, is not a coward. He won't run from this.
"My name," he begins, "is Julian."
The whole tale comes spilling out of him, little by little, with a few more breaks for Jaskier to try and fail and try again to regain his composure. He tells Geralt about his sisters, his parents, his first love. He even tells him about his years spent wandering homeless and yet hopeful throughout the seven kingdoms.
He tells him also, in a quiet voice, about how much he misses home, and Geralt answers just as quietly that the Path takes him all kinds of places. Maybe, one of these years, when Jaskier is ready, the Path can take them to a tiny viscounty by the sea-- if Jaskier feels inclined to wander that way, that is. Jaskier loves him fiercely for the way he says without saying that the Path could also wind another way, too, if that's what Jaskier wants. Jaskier isn't sure yet, but no one ever said he couldn't make the plan up as he went.
"Would you prefer that I call you Julian?" Geralt asks at some point, expression calm and neutral. Jaskier knows that if he says yes, Geralt will make the change at once, even if it takes time for him to adjust. "It would make sense if you do. That's your given name. Or at least, given by your parents instead of someone who hurt you."
His parents aren't exactly exempt from the category of people who hurt him, but that wound is still a little too fresh to joke about. Instead, Jaskier considers the question at hand. "No," he says after a moment's thought. "No, I think I'll stay Jaskier. I'm not the same person I was before, so it's fitting that I get a new name. Even if this one did come from a right bastard, it's mine now, too, just as much as Julian ever was. Besides, it sounds more dramatic and bard-ly, don't you think?"
Geralt smiles a little at that. "They'll be begging to have you on their stage. You've been shy about singing for us, but now we know the truth."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"That we have a celebrity under our roof," Geralt says with a wink. "You may not remember your time as a traveling bard as very successful, but performers without a stable position rarely last long unless they're very good. From the sound of it, you traveled almost as widely as I do on the Path. Wonder how many near misses we had. You strolling into town from one end while I snuck out the other."
"What a sentimental thought," Jaskier laughs, and the sound only hurts on the way out for a second. "Are you sure you're not the bard, darling?"
"I'll leave that to the professionals," Geralt snorts.
And isn't that a thought, Jaskier reflects a few days later, as Geralt is off making last minute preparations. Tomorrow they leave Kaer Morhen to go out on the Path, and as excited as he is to see the world once more, Jaskier's mind is elsewhere. He's a professional, just as Geralt had said. He's a true bard, one who's going to go out into the world and perform and be good at it.
He'd never been entirely sure how much of the Wolves' praise was due to their actual enjoyment of his music or just their unwillingness to break his heart, but this... here is proof, in the unshakeable fact of his own memory, that he had been a real performer, and a damn good one at that. He remembers what it's like to take a bow before a cheering crowd. He remembers what it's like to have an innkeeper push coin across the counter to him for bringing life to his establishment for a night.
He remembers having accomplished great things in his life, on his own two feet alone, and he knows without lingering fear that he'll accomplish many more.
That night, when he joins the others for their final meal together, it's with a new lightness in his step. Everyone is a little distracted by talk of their departure in the morning, even Geralt, who splits most of his attention between his food and his argument with Lambert about how many bombs it was appropriate to arm a half-witcher bardling with. He looks up when Jaskier approaches though, a smile already on his lips. "Jask, do you--"
But whatever words he had planned to say dissipate on his tongue as he takes Jaskier in, yellow eyes widening and then getting suspiciously misty as they fixate on the smooth, bare curve of Jaskier's throat.
"I know you hate last-minute packing," Jaskier says quietly into the hushed room, "but do you think we could look for a chain I could wear as a necklace tonight before we go? Got a bit tired of the old aesthetic, but I'd like to still wear your gift, if that's alright with you." He fingers the body-warmed metal of his medallion in one hand.
Somehow, standing here fully clothed but without his collar, he feels more exposed than he ever has in his life. Luckily, there's nothing but love and fierce pride in this room to greet this final stripe of freed skin. He watches Geralt swallow twice, blinking stoically, before he nods and says, "Nothing would make me happier."
Vesemir wanders off as they eat and comes back with a chain, delicate enough in look but sturdy, especially once Yennefer bolsters it with a few flickers of chaos around her fingers. When he puts it on, the wolf's head falls right over Jaskier's heart, everything just feels right.
The heavy weight against his chest is a comfort to his pounding heart a little later, when all the plates are empty and the bellies are full and Jaskier's hand closes around the neck of his lute. He doesn't ask them if he can play a song; he knows already what the answer would be. Instead, he just positions his fingers over the strings and takes a deep, steadying breath, and a hush falls over the room.
He knows what Geralt will say when it's over. That it's all a fantasy, inaccurate in a hundred different ways, and that it’s too flattering by far. He also knows that Geralt will love him even when he rolls his eyes, and what's a few white lies in the face of making life better for someone he loves? If he can change the world with a song --and Jaskier has a flicker of intuition that says he just might-- then there's no time like tonight to start singing.
Jaskier opens his mouth and sings for the first time in his new life, here in his new home, surrounded by the people he loves and who love him back, and already the world is changed.
When a humble bard
graced a ride along
with Geralt of Rivia,
along came this song...
--The End--