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It took Geralt three weeks to track Jaskier down after that fateful confrontation on the mountain. A week to realize Jaskier wasn’t coming back on his own. A second week spent in bitter denial. And a third week spent picking up the bard’s trail at the base of the mountain, sniffing it out from village to village, following Jaskier’s footsteps and the townsfolk singing his praises in equal measure.
The first real snows of winter were falling when Geralt reached the gates of the walled city of Talgar. The fat flakes caught the last rays of the mid-afternoon sunset as it sank below the western edges of the Dragon Mountains. This far to the north, winter came early and hard. The city dwellers had long since packed in their harvest, preserved their meats and vegetables, and battened down their homes and businesses for the violent winter storms to come.
As Geralt led Roach slowly over the icy, cobbled streets toward the public stable in the main square, her breath steaming out with each exhale, he paused at a careful distance from the door of each inn, public house, or noble’s dwelling he passed to listen for the familiar sound of Jaskier’s lute. Even though the main street was full of such establishments, none emitted the melody he sought.
Fuck. I waited too long and now this damn snow will only obscure his tracks.
Disheartened, Geralt reached the stables in the square at the end of the main road, dragging his gloved hand across his face to clear the melted snow and letting out a rough breath. He paid the wide-eyed stable keeper a silver piece for a well-appointed box stall to compensate Roach for the long, cold ride to Talgar. He removed her tack, laying it carefully on the racks outside her stall, and wiped her down, checking her hooves and legs for any stones or scrapes. Finding none, he let her loose to explore the thick straw bedding, eyes softening as he watched her wuffle in pleasure before sinking down for a good roll. He tossed her some sweet-smelling hay and added a measure of oats to her feed bucket before slinging his saddlebags over his shoulders and heading back out into the snowy night.
Geralt stalked across the main square, shoulders hunched against the icy wind, and headed down toward a more residential section of the city, across the way from where the main street entered the square. Geralt passed a series of elegant, brightly lit homes, all ensconced behind high, wrought iron gates winged with guards who glared and spat at him as he walked by, the high wind making it impossible to use his hood to hide his distinctive features. This close to Blaviken, there was no love for the Butcher.
Suddenly, the wind shifted, bringing a familiar scent of rosin and golden honey. Geralt spun to his left, lifting his head and taking in deep breaths of air.
There.
Geralt followed Jaskier’s scent to the door of a luxury inn, the stone façade bearing a tasteful, gilded sign reading: Bramblebush Inn. Stepping into the windbreak of the inn’s graceful, wooden entryway, Geralt could hear the soft sound of Jaskier’s lute playing a slow ballad.
Finally.
Geralt took a fortifying breath, heart rate increasing in anticipation of the confrontation ahead. Placing a firm hand of the brass door handle, he stepped into the warm inn.
The innkeeper, who stood at the bar facing the door, startled as he came in, eyes quickly scanning over his golden eyes and white hair before settling into a pinched expression of disdain.
“We don’t accept your kind’s patronage here, Witcher. This is a respectable establishment.” She said, tight frown pulling her aging features tight.
Geralt held up a hand, “I’m not here to stay, Innkeeper.”
“Then what do you want? Speak and begone!” The innkeeper demanded, her sharp tone cutting through the genial atmosphere of the inn’s common hall.
Geralt stepped back, opening his stance and showing her his empty hands, attempting to look as non-threatening as possible. “I’m here to speak to the bard, Jaskier. I heard he’s staying here.” Geralt said, his voice low.
The innkeeper drew up in offense, crossing her arms across her chest and looking down her nose at Geralt. “I’m hardly going to discuss the private business of my clients with strangers, least of all a beast like you!” The innkeeper’s voice was tight with ire, all attention in the common room now on the confrontation.
I don’t have time for this. Geralt sighed, confirming at a glance that their audience would not miss his use of Axii to ease this along. “Innkeeper,” he started, before a familiar tread drew his attention away from.
“Now, what’s this? Imelda, dear, is something the matter?” Jaskier’s gentle baritone cut in. Geralt’s shoulders relaxed, glad to have found his quarry.
Jaskier appeared in the doorway behind the bar, seemingly having been in a more private, back room. He immediately stilled upon seeing Geralt, relaxed expression freezing before his face went cold and hard. Geralt’s stomach dropped.
In an instant, the warm smile was back as he rested a reassuring hand on the innkeeper – Imelda’s – shoulder. “I have business with this Witcher, my dear. Not to worry, I’ll deal with him outside and he won’t trouble you any further.”
Imelda’s face softened, expression fond as she placed her hand over Jaskier’s, squeezing it fondly. “If you say so, love.” She turned her gaze to Geralt, eyes narrowing. “Be careful with that one,” she said, indicating Geralt with her sharp chin, “they’re barely more than beasts.”
Jaskier smiled down at her reassuringly. “Not to worry, won’t take a moment.” He stepped around the end of the bar and walked past Geralt to the door. “Come, Witcher.” He said, not turning back, before walking out into the cold.
Geralt followed immediately.
Jaskier lead them around the inn and into the adjacent stables, out of the wind and snow. With dark already fallen, the stables were deserted, quiet but for the soft sounds of horses munching on hay.
Jaskier turned to face Geralt, expressionless, the entire width of the stable aisle between them.
“Well?” He said flatly. “Why are you here? I thought you would have made every attempt to stay away from me since I obviously bring you such ill luck.”
Geralt felt a stab of pain through his chest at the flat delivery. It felt worse than if Jaskier had raged at him. Hit him. Hurt him like he had hurt Jaskier. He expected that. He deserved that.
“I--” Geralt started and stopped, jaw clenching as he fought to gather the words. His fists clenched at his sides, his eyes darting up and away from Jaskier’s. He drew in a sharp breath. “I was wrong to say what I did.” He bit out, gaze on the floor, nails cutting bloody half moons into his palms.
When Jaskier didn’t respond, he drew in a breath, shakier than he would like to admit, and met Jaskier’s gaze, shame drawn across his expression.
Jaskier raised an eyebrow, taking in the tension in Geralt’s frame, the white knuckles, and the miserable expression. His face softened, lips quirking into a wry grin. “You’re terrible at apologizing.”
Geralt flinched, turning his eyes back down and away, waiting for judgment.
Jaskier sighed, stepping closer to Geralt. “I’ve known you for the better part of two decades, Geralt, I knew what you said was nothing more than misdirected anger. I just got in the way.” Jaskier’s tone sharpened. “But you cannot treat me like that and expect me to stick around. I do not deserve it.”
Geralt pressed his lips together, pained. “I know. You deserve more than I could ever give you.” He could not bring himself to meet Jaskier’s eyes.
Jaskier’s expression lightened and he stepped fully into Geralt’s space. “I will forgive you,” Geralt’s eyes widened, snapping up to meet Jaskier’s. “But not yet.”
Geralt furrowed his brow, mouth opening to speak. Jaskier raised a hand to silence him.
“You hurt me. I know you regret it, but I’m not ready to forgive you yet.” Geralt felt his words like blows. “I’ve followed you and waited for you all these years, so I think it’s your turn to do the same.”
Dropping his hand, he stepped back. “I’ve taken a contract to provide entertainment here in Talgar for the Lady Agnieszka from now until the Vernal Equinox. If you meet me here then, outside the Eastern Gate, I will be ready to forgive you.”
Cold dread spread through Geralt’s chest. It must have shown in his expression, because Jaskier was quick to continue. “I do not mean for this to be a dismissal disguised as a delay. I have truly taken a contract and I truly have no desire to travel in this ghastly weather. Even if I were not contracted, I would need time before I am ready to forgive you.”
Jaskier’s tone regained an edge of its former hardness. “Keep in mind, you can be assured that my future forgiveness will be immediately revoked if there’s a repeat of such appalling behavior.”
Geralt kept his gaze on the floor, nodding sharply. “Until the Vernal Equinox then. I will be at the Eastern Gate.” He said quietly, tone hollowed out, before turning and disappearing into the darkness, footsteps unusually heavy.
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As the first snows deepened into true winter, Jaskier was safely ensconced behind the thick walls of the Lady Agnieszka’s lavish home, enjoying comfortable lodgings and excellent food in exchange for his nightly musical performance. Unlike the lean winters spent on the road, Jaskier never wanted for food or warmth, letting himself relax and letting the rich, abundant food work to fill in his lean, traveler’s frame.
The Lady Agnieszka was an older woman, well past her prime but in full possession of her faculties, who understood the power of good music and a comely face to lift the gloom of the Far North’s long, dark winter. As one of the highest-ranking nobles in the city, it was her burden and her pleasure to host near-nightly salons and parties to bring culture and cheer to the high-born denizens of Talgar.
So, she did all she could to keep her resident bard in good voice and good spirits in order that he may reliably fulfill his role entertaining her endless stream of well-heeled guests. As expected from a bard of his fame and caliber, he raised the standard of her parties, and her guest list had never been longer.
Jaskier thrived in the atmosphere and his anger at Geralt slowly cooled. He frequently thought back on Geralt’s awkward apology and, knowing his Witcher as well as he did, he understood how hard that had been for him and how ashamed he had felt.
When the Vernal Equinox comes, Jaskier thought to himself as he strummed a light tune on his lute to accompany that night’s third dinner course, I’ll be ready to get back on the road.
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As winter reached its deepest point, days short and nights long, bitter wind cutting through every layer, Geralt sat with his back to the rocky hillside, protecting a small fire from the wind, curling as close to it as possible to stave off frostbite. Although Witchers were hardy against the cold, they were not immune, and this weather tested even Geralt’s limits. A small squirrel, his first catch in two days, roasted on a stick suspended above the weak flames.
Without Jaskier as a buffer between him and the general public, especially this close to Blaviken, life had returned to how it had always been – townsfolk were just as like to stone him as pay him for a job, and inns and merchants were more like than not to refuse his patronage, forcing him to rely on camping and what meager provisions he could hunt or forage in the frozen, barren woods.
Although Geralt continued to travel and take jobs, he did not stray more than a couple days’ ride from Talgar, unwilling to risk anything preventing him from meeting Jaskier at the appointed time. Returning to Kaer Morhen, far across the mountains, to wait out the winter was not even worth considering.
The image of Jaskier’s heartbroken expression on that mountain never left him. The memory of Jaskier’s sharp words, of the promised meeting, drove him onward.
After his last hunt, a brutal fight against a large nest of drowners, left him soaked and badly injured, he had dragged himself back to that hunt’s ealderman only to be met with a stoning. Willing to let him defeat the monsters but unwilling to pay him, the villagers drove Geralt back out into the woods. That night had been the closest Geralt had come to death in many decades. As the blood flowed and froze down his side, as he clung to the slim chance that his potions could save his life, all he could think about was failing Jaskier. Hurting him again by failing to show up at the appointed time.
I deserve this, but Jaskier does not. As blood loss pulled him into oblivion, that was the only reason he wished the loss of consciousness would not be permanent.
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Before daybreak on the Vernal Equinox, Geralt positioned himself outside the Eastern Gate of Talgar. He let Roach loose to graze and knelt on the far side of the road leading to the gate, palms on his knees and back straight, in full view of the gate.
“Freak.” The nightguards spat. They didn’t disturb him, but they placed their hands on the hilts of their swords to make it clear he was to stay back.
As the sun broke across the horizon behind Geralt’s back, he let himself slip into a light meditation. Enough to garner some much needed rest, but light enough to be fully aware of his surroundings.
The hours slipped by and dawn turned to dusk.
He’s not coming. Geralt thought, a cold certainty settling over his bones. There’s no reason why he should. He deserves better and I deserve nothing.
Despite his near certainty of the futility of his wait, Jaskier had not specified a time, only a day, and Geralt would not leave before the end of that appointed day.
As the setting sun cast bright colors across the sky, Geralt heard a commotion behind the closed gate and the scent of rosin and honey flooded his senses, breaking his meditation.
Voices laughing, pleading, begging, with Jaskier to “please, just stay a few more weeks, we can’t live without you!” Followed by Jaskier’s cheerful demurral that he “had to travel for inspiration, my dear!”
Geralt’s heart lifted even as cold fear gripped him while he waited anxiously for the gate to open. Slowly, it did, and Jaskier stepped out the narrow opening made between the large panels, walking backwards as he waved at his adoring fans. As he exchanged final words with the gathered crowd, Geralt carefully studied him.
Jaskier looked well-fed, clean, and his eyes sparkled with joy and humor. He wore thick, expensive, wool travelling clothes, brightly colored, and sturdy boots of the finest make protected his feet. He held the reins of a handsome dapple-grey gelding, saddle bags new and packed full.
He looks good, well-loved. Geralt thought to himself, as equally happy to see Jaskier looking so well as he was unwilling to entertain the possibility that he might still intend to travel with Geralt, forgive Geralt, after spending the winter season so well treated.
After one final goodbye, Jaskier indicated to the guards to close the gates, and turned to face Geralt at last across the twenty paces of road separating them.
“I heard you arrived at dawn.” Jaskier said, smiling fondly as he walked across the width of the road. “I guess you were serious about being on time.”
“Hmm.” Geralt intoned, indicating his agreement. Now that Jaskier was finally there, finally looking at him as he used to, he couldn’t find any words.
“As talkative as ever.” Jaskier huffed, “you’re going to have to work on that.” His words were sharp, but his tone was light. “I don’t expect speeches, but a few words here and there wouldn’t go amiss.”
Geralt looked up as Jaskier stopped in front of his kneeling form. Jaskier’s eyes widened, taking in Geralt’s appearance. The harsh winter, and the harsher treatment from the locals, were writ large. Geralt was dangerously lean, worn, threadbare clothes hanging off his frame. His hair and skin were coated in a layer of grime, hands dry and cracking at every joint and cuticle. Small cuts from stones littered his face and arms, and the fresh claw marks gained on his latest hunt were barely starting to heal where they had cut into his clavicle.
Geralt opened his mouth, expression haunted with shame, but couldn’t force himself to speak. He hoped for forgiveness but didn’t expect it. He would commit himself to penance until – if – Jaskier forgave him. It’s only been a season. That’s not enough to make up for what I’ve done.
Jaskier’s heart clenched and he knelt to be eye level with Geralt. “Oh, Geralt,” he said gently, “I forgive you.” He reached out and slowly, carefully, placed a hand on Geralt’s. “You’ve punished yourself far too harshly.”
Geralt tensed under Jaskier’s hand. “No,” he forced out.
Jaskier gently rubbed his thumb over Geralt’s hand and said firmly, kindly, “it was too much. I was angry, I needed space, but I never wanted you to suffer.”
Jaskier poked at Geralt’s uninjured shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come on, you can’t tell me you starve and work yourself to death every time you fight with a friend?”
“I’ve never had a friend before.” Geralt stated.
Jaskier’s heart ached as it always did when Geralt said something so horrifying so matter of factly, but he knew that Geralt would not tolerate anything even remotely resembling pity. He smiled at Geralt and forced cheer into his voice. “Well then, I’ll just have to teach you as we go along.”
Geralt felt months of tension finally leave his body, relief and surprise infusing his tone. “You still plan to come with me?”
Jaskier pushed himself back to his feet and held out a hand to Geralt. “My dear Witcher, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Geralt grasped his hand.