Chapter Text
The pain was everywhere. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying, he knew he was dying. Who was going to save him? No one, no one, no one was going to save him now. He was alone. What an idiot. How dare he hope.
And yet…
Geralt.
Geralt.
Geralt.
He was screaming. Repeatedly he screamed. He was apologizing for everything he did wrong. All of it. Everything he did to hurt his Witcher, to push him away. Please, he begged, please don’t push me away.
The pain, it was too much, too intense.
Was he going to die here? Without seeing Geralt one last time?
His hair?
His eyes?
The way he would smile ever so subtly when a child came running to him with a flower?
How he would talk to his mare more than to any man?
Jaskier’s soul was being ripped apart but all he could scream about was Geralt. His love. The man he loved more than life itself. He shrieked, feeling as his body was crashing against the sun. He was burning, frozen over – he was nothing and yet everything all at once. Gods, when was it going to end? Yet he didn’t dare to ask for death, because,
Geralt.
He wanted to see his Witcher again.
“Hush, child. You’ll see him again. I swear it.”
It was cold, and damp, when he opened his eyes. The space before him was so dark, he almost didn’t notice a difference when his eyelids opened.
Atop of his arm was the warm feeling of a hand, which, for a moment, startled him – however, he was too weak to question whatever was that hand doing. He could feel the magic pulsating from it, as it moved from the tip of his fingers to his stomach. It was soothing, really, as if he needed that touch to keep himself… from falling. He tried to speak, but he found that he was unable to, only able to muster a sound similar to a grunt – and he was sorely reminded of his Witcher for a few seconds, before the hand tensed slightly, then, it relaxed again and continued to heal.
“You’re awake.” The voice that spoke was that of a female, and she was – or, at least, sounded, young. Perhaps far too young to be in the darkness, healing away a bard perhaps she did not know. He grunted again, acknowledging her words. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. They’ve not given me much of a choice. I’ve written to Geralt but, you understand how hard he is to track. Surely, you know it better than I do.” There was a smile in her voice, and kindness – somehow, it reminded him of a mother looking after her children. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he found comfort in her words anyways.
The voice coughed, and her hand moved away for a second, and once the magic was not doing any effect over Jaskier’s body did he understand what she was doing.
His back arched, and he felt the bile rise from his stomach and the pain was so much. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, he felt his bones cracking and under a pressure that didn’t exist, and he knew he was dying all over again, he was going to die without seeing Geralt again. Gods, just one more time.
Both her hands found their way to his chest in a rush, her voice barely a whisper when she spoke again, “I won’t let them take you too, please, please. He’ll save you, please. I didn’t want this to happen. I never wanted this to happen.”
He didn’t know who she was, but he was sure that was true. Her magic moved again, from his chest to his limbs, and he was alive again, he could breathe. “Gods, I’ll give you everything, please don’t die. I’ve killed so many I can’t kill you too.”
He could see her shadowy figure, long hair, maybe even the shape of her nose, but nothing else. She was probably watching him, because there was a weakened sigh at his confused expression. “You’re not the first. They’ve tried these twenty different times. Eight children, four girls and four boys…” He could feel the tears falling on his chest. “Two soldiers, two farmers, and some willing cult members…” She sobbed. “I tried to keep them all alive, Jaskier. But the children debilitated so fast…”
He wanted to wonder why she would help with something like this, with whatever ‘this’ was supposed to be, but his eyes closed before he could look at her more. He was too tired; his back was cold but the hands over his heart were warm. He fell asleep, listening to the sobs of a woman he didn’t know.
Geralt was on Velen, in a small village that he didn’t even know the name. His right boot was broken, so he went straight to the closest thing to civilization to get it fixed. There was a damn Wyvern, and everything went straight to hell after that. Why was it always a Wyvern?
He was sitting by the armorer, waiting, when a small girl with blue eyes and pointy ears came to him. She was a half-breed – which surprised him honestly, because she seemed to be cared for and loved, not a single scar on her skin. She was holding a letter in her small, delicate hands. She chuckled lightly when she gave it to him and whispered something about destiny taking a hold into the unwilling. It was written in Elder, and he hated translating from Elder because he never managed to learn more than a few words.
But a few words were more than enough. ‘Save your bard, by the abandoned tower on Crow’s Perch.’ Gods, he prided himself about being unfeeling, but his heart jumped and thrummed in a way that could only be described as panic. Him and Jaskier parted ways in… in a way that he wasn’t sincerely proud of, but he thought that perhaps it was safer for him to stay away. Safer for the two of them.
But,
Destiny takes a hold of the unwilling.
He looked for the girl but she was nowhere to be found — he had no time to lose, his bard, the bard he had hurt and had abandoned, he was somewhere out of his reach and he needed to save him.
Gods, he needed to save him.
When he woke up again, the hands on his chest had moved to his neck, and his head was now on top of a pair of legs. The magic was weak, probably due to the effort the mage was doing to keep him alive. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the fact that it was no longer dark. He was in… a room. Or a cell, maybe, since the door had some iron bars on a small window.
There were some tables filled with crystal vials and one too many strange-looking bottles. He tried to turn his head, but the hands in his neck kept him in place. “No… Not yet…” The voice mumbled, and he finally looked up to her. Her hair was chestnut, like his, and her eyes were green. She was beautiful, but she looked so extremely worn out that Jaskier worried that she might die from the exhaustion. Her cheeks were hollowed, and her lips were dry – as if she hadn’t drunk a single drop of water since… well, since forever.
Jaskier wondered if he was able to talk and ask why – the why to a lot of things. He tried, and while his voice didn’t sound quite human, he managed to utter something akin to a question. The mage shook her head, chuckling. “I betted my soul foolishly. Magic is dangerous, Jaskier, and men will always want to take advantage of the chaos.” She didn’t look a day older than twenty, but the way she spoke reminded him of a grandmother, one that sat at the edge of a village, seeing the days pass by. “They wanted an army.”
He grunted again, and she understood his unasked question yet again. “They wanted what they couldn’t have — and I wanted… so much. And they knew. I was arrogant, the arrogance that comes with magic.” She fell into silence, then, putting even more effort into the magic at Jaskier’s neck. She seemed to be withering away, and yet, she didn’t pull back from him. He wondered what her name was. “I was a mage in Kaer Morhen. I saw my brothers and sisters attack the Witchers and I helped the youngest students hide, but they found us, I was spared simply because I was no Witcher. Gods, I wish I was. I saw them kill them, Jaskier. Every single one of the children I tried to protect, the youngest was barely four. And I was taken. Cursed, so I couldn’t do magic. And I betted my soul, looking for freedom.”
She rested her forehead against Jaskier’s, and he could almost feel her pain. She smelled of heartbreak and destiny. Like Geralt. “I won’t let down one of my children. Geralt will come for you, and then he’ll kill me.”
Jaskier didn’t want to think about the alternative, in which Geralt didn’t come to rescue him, and he ended as the mage above him, trapped in a world he didn’t want to be in. “When he arrived, he had a ragdoll. He was four and had the cutest eyes. Vesemir took a liking to him immediately.” She sat straight, her hands trembling as she talked, she was in a lot of pain. “He cried a lot, back then. Other children used to push him around because he was so small. I always did magic tricks when we were alone, and his eyes shone so much.” Her voice broke at the end of the sentence.
Jaskier tried to sit and yanked away her hands from his neck; he wanted to look at her face to face. It came at a price, however, when he started once again to puke bile, and when the world started to spin. She caught him as he fell right back on her arms; she soothed him while he was engulfed into darkness once again.
A drop fell on his cheek. His hand moved on its own and touched it, he could smell the iron in the air. It was blood. He looked up and saw the mage smiling down to him, blood coming out of her nose. “Hey.” Her voice was hoarse, and he raised his hand to touch her face. “My, you’re such a tender lad, but I’m a taken woman. And your heart belongs to someone else.”
He found his voice, at long last, “You can stop.” It was barely a whisper, but more than enough for her to finally put her hands away. When she did, he expected to be in a lot more of pain, but his body didn’t seem to be destroying itself from the inside out anymore.
She smiled even brighter than before and helped him sit down. His stomach growled like a dragon asking for prey. “I’m sorry, I can’t leave and say you’re fine. If I do, they’ll come and try to…” She shivered at the thought of whatever they might do to him. “Hang in there a bit more. I can feel him. He’s close, and he’s angry.” She closed her eyes and leaned against a damped wall.
He wanted to pout, but he was aware the situation didn’t call for it. “I’m sure he isn’t angry on my behalf. He hates me.”
She tittered, tiredly. “Geralt didn’t have an easy life, child.” She closed her eyes. “He was left on our door by his own mother, not an orphan, nor a child surprise. He was abandoned, and at such a tender age he began training to become a Witcher.” Her voice was carried by the winds. She looked as if she was watching him, right in front of her, that four-year-old child that she used to look after. “Then, the trials came. I had to take care of multiple children at once, I couldn’t have the care I had for you. With you, I erased the memories; with them, I couldn’t do a thing but keep them breathing… Many of them weren’t the same after. The ones who survived, of course. It was cruel, ruthless, but… A necessity, or so they used to say.” She sighed, looking defeated. Suddenly, she seemed to very old, even if her face was still that of a young woman. “He didn’t grow up like a normal kid does, be patient with him, yeah? Hell, Vesemir was horrible when he was young. Fucked him out of that broody demeanor.” She smiled, and she looked innocent, even while talking about fucking a man out of his common sense. That made Jaskier giggle.
Her shoulders tensed, and he brought Jaskier’s head down to her lap, covering his eyes with one hand when the door suddenly opened. “Fourteen days, and he’s still not conscious?” The voice was deep, and the sound of his steps made Jaskier think he was a bigger man. Heavy. “We’ll bring another one tomorrow.”
“NO! No! Please, please just, two more days, my lord, and I swear he will wake up!” Her voice was much higher than before, her grip tightening around his eyes. “I’ll— I’ll make it up to you, if he doesn’t wake. I promise, I know your cock better than any other woman does, whore or otherwise!” The man hummed, the smirk clear in his voice, and he walked away, slamming the wooden door. Her hands were trembling slightly once he was gone. He took hold of the one atop of his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered and tightened his grip.
She squeezed back. “It’s fine.”
It took him two weeks to reach the abandoned tower, and he wasted no time. There were three guards by the door and his anger made him swing his sword before his reason told him to wait and strategize. He took their heads, and inside the tower there were three more, and he bashed one of them on the face with a shield and the other two he pierced by the throat. He went up, knowing full well Jaskier was down – he could smell him; but there were more people in the tower, and he was going to kill them all. None of them deserved to see the light of day.
He was more animal than person, taking them all with his incredible might. Until he reached the highest point on the Tower, a laboratory. This place was cursed, so whoever was that wrote the letter must’ve lifted the curse — and it made little sense, Geralt only knew few mages and Witchers that powerful but he didn’t think of it much – not when he had a monster to destroy.
They touched Jaskier.
His bard.
The man he abandoned, the man he left behind.
He bit his lips, feeling the taste of blood on his tongue.
He killed the ugly bastard that had kept his bard captive, a fat fuck that lived more on family name than by being an actual lord. He kicked his head. Then, he ran down the stairs, to the cells on the lower level of the tower.
It was almost the end of the second day, when the sound of fighting and screams made its way into the cell. Both Jaskier and the mage were taken aback, when they saw a figure blasting away the door with the power of a sign – Aard. Geralt, the White Wolf, looked ready to destroy anyone who got between him and the bard. He was completely bathed in blood, but Jaskier had never seen a man so beautiful in his entire life. The bard was ready to burst, cry, scream, and everything in between, but he kept himself controlled, for the sake of the Witcher before him.
When his eyes fell into Jaskier, and he stumbled forwards, not even thinking before he cupped Jaskier’s head in his bloodied hands. “Your eyes—” Geralt’s shock was obvious, and it was then when Jaskier supposed that, something must’ve changed if he went through the Witcher’s trials, even if he did not remember. Geralt’s eyes left his, for a second, and he looked over to the mage.
“Ileana…” He whispered, not even bothering to hide his surprise. She waved at him. “You’ve grown so much, Geralt. I can see the wrinkles on your forehead already. I’m happy to see it. I always wanted to see you become a strong man.” She was kind and soft as she spoke to him, and Geralt was unsure what to do, if go to her, or continue to hold Jaskier. The bard pushed him on the shoulder gently for him to go to her.
He did. Geralt knelt before the weakened mage. “Ileana, what happened to you?”
“Long story that your bard will tell you later. Now, I need you to kill me and get out of here.” She tapped his cheek with motherly affection, and there was heartbreak in her eyes, something that must’ve been reflecting in Geralt’s. “I did that to Jaskier, but I gave him a small mercy. He doesn’t remember the trials. Most of it, at least.” She rested her forehead against Geralt’s. “Now, cutting my head clean off, or piercing my heart will do the trick. You’re a wonderful man and I’m so happy I saw you once more. Jaskier kept calling your name repeatedly in the trials and he kept mentioning how sorry he was, whatever you did, undo it, he loves you, and I think you love him too, if his emotions are anything to go by.” She kissed his nose, very softly. Jaskier was able to hear a small sound in the back of Geralt’s throat.
“Why didn’t you…” his voice was so pained, so small; Jaskier felt as if he was watching a little part of Geralt’s heart break in front of his very eyes.
“Kill myself? I tried, seventeen times. Something always went wrong. Maybe destiny. Maybe something else.” She caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Do it, Geralt. Free me.” He did. He buried a dagger deep in her heart. She took his hand on hers and pressed even deeper. “I love you, and Vesemir, very much. You were always like a son, for both of us. I’m very proud of you.” It was barely audible, what she said, but it was buried deeply in Geralt’s heart anyways, Jaskier was sure of it.
She laid there, then. Her chestnut, long hair falling atop of her chest, hiding the dagger barely. It seemed as if she was asleep, a soft smile on her lips. Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, unsure whether to touch him or not. It was Geralt who turned around and buried his face on his neck. If Jaskier felt some drops on his naked chest, he never told anyone about them, and never did he ever write a song about the White Wolf’s tears, either.
Those were his to keep.
Geralt killed the man responsible for the atrocities committed on that dungeon. Baron Borgia. He was one of the descendants of the fanatics who had attacked Kaer Morhen. It seemed strange that a descendant would try to archive what their ancestor tried to eliminate, but, then again, humans always wanted everything they couldn’t have. It gave them a sense of control in a world they couldn’t dominate.
Jaskier was feeling much better – at least physically – especially after eating a deer completely on his own. His metabolism had truly changed, and with it, so did his hunger – considering he went without eating for two weeks, he thought that maybe it was normal. He thought for a moment of Iliana, and how she might’ve gone by without food much longer, just for the purpose of keeping him alive. His heart felt suddenly tight in his chest. He tried, then, to focus on the outside, instead of in his intruding thoughts.
There were many sounds in nature that he couldn’t remember ever listening to – now, he was listening to a stream running in the distance, to children playing a village close-by, to a mother screaming so that her kids would enter the house and take a bath. He was sure that, if he focused enough, he would be able to listen to a spider webbing her spiderweb. It was too much information, so much, that it began to make him go dizzy after a while. Geralt stared at him for a few minutes, and then, he approached Jaskier, covering his ears delicately with his two hands. “Concentrate on the sound of my blood, on the sound of my body, my muscles, my bones…” He whispered against his forehead; and Jaskier did as he was told. “It’s hard, but you’ll get used to it. Ileana must’ve kept you under heavy spells, to distract you from the new sensations while she healed you.” He murmured. He was hurting. Underneath the rough sound of his voice, was the gentle mumble of a child – a four-year-old, running to Ileana when he had a scratch on his knee. Jaskier held both his hands against his ears then, to ground him. To show that one young child inside of Geralt’s heart that he wasn’t alone.
“What am I going to do with you?” He whispered, his lips trembling. Jaskier took hold of his jaw, and straightened his face, looking into Geralt’s eyes, that now were an exact reflection of his own.
“Keep me as a travel companion and let me sing.” Jaskier looked at him with hopeful eyes. “I’ve not changed, Geralt, I’m still Jaskier.”
And the Witcher, his friend, held him close, hugging him to his chest. He was so broken. So tired. “Yes, you are, but the world won’t see it like that. They will see me, in you.” It dawned on Jaskier, then, that he was… a mutant. That, even if he did not think of himself as such, people would look at him and see everything but the bard he used to be. He wasn’t even sure, completely, if he was still the same, even if he tried to affirm it to calm Geralt’s worries. “They will hate you. And hurt you and think of you as an animal and I can’t protect you from their scorn—” He choked. “Gods… I can’t protect you even from myself. I—”
Jaskier remembered Ileana’s words, about Geralt’s childhood, about the trials, about the pain he felt momentarily and almost destroyed everything he was and Geralt had to feel, constantly, without someone to soothe it away. “I know, and I forgive you.” He smiled tenderly at Geralt, his friend, the man he loved the most in the world. He would’ve died a thousand deaths if it meant he could see him again. “We’ll find a way to make this work.”
He hoped, at least.
The Witcher sighed, feeling conflicted. “First, though, I take you to Kaer Morhen. I have to deliver the news to Vesemir, anyways…” Geralt separated himself from Jaskier, taking a few steps towards Roach, who was happily eating some grass ahead. Jaskier began to walk, too, and took Geralt’s hand, squeezing it.
“Ileana said that she had a bet with her soul on the line and she lost. She was doing this because they were making her, not because she wanted to. She’s been trapped for over fifty years. I was the first successful mutation.” He explained. “How did she reach you?”
“An elven girl came to me, with a letter written in elder. She took measures so no one could track it. I honestly don’t understand how she managed to find me – it baffles me.”
“Destiny was on my side, after all.”
Geralt grunted, deciding it wasn’t worth it to argue the bard. After all, maybe he did trust destiny more, now. Destiny takes a hold of the unwilling.
He squeezed the hand that was holding his. “I’m sorry, even if you said you forgave me. I abandoned you on the mountains. Maybe you would still be—”
“A human? Still very much am. Same as you. The only difference, that I’ve not seen for myself by the way, is the eyes.” Jaskier explained, very matter-of-factly. He almost believed it. Almost.
Geralt got into Roach’s saddle, and offered Jaskier his hand, which the bard took graciously, setting his arms around the broader man’s waist. Jaskier rested his head on the Geralt’s shoulder. “She smelled a lot like you.” The Witcher hummed softly.
When they were far enough from the cave, Jaskier finally felt some tears streaming down his face.
For everything he didn’t remember, for everything they had taken. He was fine, really, he swore he was fine. He didn’t understand why the tears didn’t stop coming out. He felt a hand grasp his, and Geralt brought it to his chest, holding it there. “You can cry. I’m sorry. You can cry.”
And cry he did. For everything they took from him, for everything they took from Geralt. He cried, and cried, until his eyes didn’t have tears. Geralt held his hand, silently giving him a soft comfort. He sobbed, until he no longer had a voice. Then, when his throat was sore, and his head was pounding, and only then, he knew that he was indeed still Jaskier. No mutation would ever take away from him his heartache – no matter how much people wanted to make Witchers believe it.