Chapter Text
Julian is tired.
Physically tired, yes - he’s just slain a wyvern and his muscles ache, his body littered with cuts and bruises. Physical exhaustion is nothing he can’t handle. He’s a witcher, after all, and he’s done this for a long time. Which is exactly the problem.
Physical pain is temporary. His body heals far quicker than a human’s, and he knows that by tomorrow, his cuts will be scabbed over and his bruises will be faded. But he’s so tired of it. He’s done this for so goddamn long that it’s become monotonous, that his life has become an endless, relentless cycle of town-contract-monster-money. The monotony blurs his days together, and stretches into his future as far as he can see.
He continues on the Path because it’s his duty, his responsibility as a witcher, but it’s all become so meaningless. It was so long ago when he started on the Path, bright-eyed and optimistic, ready to rid the world of monsters and aid humanity. He’d been so eager to do the right thing - the sneers from villagers had been disheartening, but he’d ploughed on with the knowledge that he was helping them, that what he was doing was for the better.
Thinking of his past optimism makes Julian smile bitterly. It’s faded over the years, worn down by harsh remarks and hateful eyes and cold, bitter nights when innkeepers refuse to give him a room and chase him out of town, calling him freakmutantmonstergetoutanddon’tcomeback. He’s used to it now, numb to the fearful stares and the insults flung at him everywhere he goes, and he doesn’t let their wariness touch him. But it’s been happening for so long. He doesn’t bother trying to make nice with villagers anymore when in a town, where he used to be able to grin and attempt to make conversation; he interacts with people no more than necessary, and leaves when a contract is done. He knows - he knows that this is the life of a witcher. He’s old, and knows that far too well.
But he’s just so tired.
There’s an exhaustion that seeps deep into his bones, weighing him down. His life is the Path, nothing more, and Julian thinks back to his younger self, how he would be horrified to see how cynical he is now. Bitterly, he wonders what would have happened if his parents hadn’t handed him off to a witcher. He wonders what he would have been like if he’d been human. Would he have grown up surrounded by love and friends and family? Would he have found a lovely girl to be his wife, settling down in a nice village?
Would he have been happy?
Don’t think about things you can’t have. There’s no use in making himself more bitter. There’s no point in ruminating over what could have been. He will always be a witcher, and he cannot change that.
But he wants a chance at a normal life. Julian’s heard of witchers who’ve retired to live amongst humans, using their hard-earned gold to acquire glamours from mages so that they can blend in.
He supposes he could ask someone for a glamour, he probably has the gold for that, but what would he do with it? All he remembers of his childhood is his training, and he has no skills or hobbies that he could develop. Witchers have no room for distractions, after all.
Gods, he wants to have a normal life, but it’s so utterly inconceivable. He doesn’t have the faintest idea of how he would go about trying to be human, even with a glamour. Humans have livelihoods. They have relationships, and hobbies, and interests, cultivated from childhood. Julian was raised a witcher, and he has none of that. How sad is it, that he doesn’t even know how to be normal?
If he wants to have a normal life, he needs to start from the beginning.
Julian can’t start a human life the way he is now, witcher and all. He needs something more than a glamour.
Perhaps he could call in that favour Tissaia owed him. He’d helped her save a couple of mages a couple years ago and he’d held onto the favour she’d offered him. Tissaia had promised a pretty big favour - apparently saving those mages had meant a lot to her - and it might be big enough for what the idea that’s taking place in his mind.
Maybe he really can start over.
The next day, Julian packs his bags and heads for Aretuza.
“You want to be a human,” Tissaia repeats, doubt colouring her voice.
“That’s what I said,” Julian replies, shifting uncomfortably. He knows, he knows that it’s an awkward thing to ask, that it’s something that might not even be possible or would require copious amounts of power, but he had to ask. “I know it’s weird. I’m just… I want to try my hand at being human. I need a break. Just… let me start over in a human life, let me live it out, and once my human body dies, I will return to being a witcher.”
“There are plenty of other ways to take a break other than asking me to transform you into a human and let you live a human life from scratch,” Tissaia points out dryly.
Julian rubs a hand over his face. “I know. I know, but I just want to get away. Truly get away. All I know is how to be a witcher, and I need to get away from that. Just - just tell me. If you can do it. If you require a greater price than the favour you owed me, I am willing to pay it. Please, Tissaia,” he pleads.
She must hear the desperation leaking out in his voice, because her stern features soften slightly, and she gently lays a hand on his arm. “I can indeed do what you ask, Julian. But you need to be sure.” She looks up at him, searching his eyes. “When you return to being a witcher after your human life, you know that you can never go back. You need to be sure that you will be able to handle knowing that you had a taste of being human, but you never will be again. You, as a human, will have a life, have loved ones, and if you try to return to them as a witcher, they will scorn you. Are you ready for that?”
He hadn’t thought of that. To be honest, he doesn’t know if he will be able to cope, but right now, he’s desperate. He’ll deal with the fallout when it comes, but it doesn’t matter to him now. He wants this, more than he’s ever wanted anything. He doesn’t think he’s felt so strongly since the pain of his Trials.
“I need this, Tissaia,” he says firmly. “I know the risks, but I will handle them when I get there. Just - please.”
Tissaia gives him another searching look, and he returns it steadily. Finally, she nods, and turns away from him, and starts down the dark hallway, beckoning him to follow. Julian trails after her into a room stacked with herbs and potions. His medallion thrums at the sheer amount of chaos packed into the room, the scent of magic potent in the air. Tissaia directs him to sit down in a chair at the side of the room before turning to the shelves and gathering various ingredients, mixing them together.
Julian lets his senses shut down for a bit, focusing on himself and his heartbeat, which is beating faster in his chest as it hits him, truly hits him, that he’s actually going to be human. He’s wanted this for so long, and he’d always thought it to be an impossible dream, but now - now, it’s within reach, and he’s thrumming with anticipation and excitement because. Finally. He’ll have the chance to grow up and be a normal human and… do normal human things, and actually live a life that’s worth living, no matter how finite.
He’ll get to be human.
As Tissaia putters around the room, he lets his mind wander, thinking up possibilities of what his human life will be like. He thinks he might be suited to a quiet, steady life, or maybe that’s just the witcher in him talking. Maybe he’d live a life completely unlike his life on the Path, filled with joy and people and laughter. He could grow up to be anything, he realises. He’s never known what he would be if he wasn’t a witcher. He doesn’t know where his interests lie outside of fighting monsters.
Well. This is his chance to find out, isn’t it?
Tissaia strides over, a deep purple concoction in her hands which she sets down beside him. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she looks him straight in the eye.
“Drink this when I tell you to, not a moment sooner or later, unless you want me to mess up the spell.” Her tone is serious, and her gaze unwavering. “The spell will place your consciousness in the body of a human baby, which is essentially your human body before you became a witcher. Your current body will remain, and I will move it to a safe place. You will live your life as if you had been human, without your current memories, and when you die, your consciousness will return to this body, with all memories intact. Now I will ask you one last time: are you absolutely certain that you want to do this?”
Julian smiles at her, excitement building in his heart. “Yes, Tissaia. I am absolutely certain.” Clasping her hand, he gives her a look, trying to convey the sheer gratitude he feels. “Thank you so much for this - you don’t know how much this means to me.”
She squeezes his hand, lips curling slightly, her gaze wistful. “The world isn’t easy for people like us, witcher. I am glad that I can give you this opportunity to experience what none of us ever had. I do hope you make the most of it.” She hands the potion to him, and Julian feels chaos gathering, centering in on Tissaia. “Are you ready?”
He gives her a fierce grin, and she begins chanting in Elder, chaos swirling around her. The magic builds up, and his body starts feeling woozy, and his brain almost feels intoxicated, and -
“Julian, now.”
He drinks, and his head spins. Tissaia is still chanting, chaos building up and up and up until -
A sharp stab of pain, and Julian screams.
Julian Alfred Pankratz is born in Lettenhove, screaming and crying. His parents and his caretakers remark on his considerable lung capacity and the sheer level of volume he exudes. He grows up loving the arts, chasing music and poetry, despite his parents trying to coerce him into the stiff life of a noble. He fidgets when asked to study in the library with dull texts, he sneaks out of his etiquette lessons, he fails to pay attention in combat training (though he has an unusual knack for fighting despite his wandering attention). He secretly steals music books from the library to teach himself, and writes poems and lyrics in a hidden notebook, despite his father’s numerous attempts to beat the creativity out of him.
He’s loud and bright and brash, and he charms the housekeepers with his joyful smile and melodious laughter. They are protective of him, taking care of him after his father’s beatings. He makes friends with the common folk, who adore him, but the children of nobles stare at him like he’s an outsider. He doesn’t like them, and avoids them as much as he can.
When Julian is in his teens, he discovers love and infatuation. He chases girl after girl, falling in love just as quickly as he falls out of love (he chases some boys in secret). He rejects the matches his parents try to set up for him, further disappointing his father. He is nothing like what the son of a noble is supposed to be, and his father hates it, hates him. Julian’s father spits at him, calls him a disappointment, a blight on the family’s name, a useless piece of shit who will never get anywhere in life, and Julian leaves. He’s never wanted to inherit his father’s position, anyway, and he has no lost love for his parents.
Julian leaves Lettenhove. He really only misses some of the housekeepers who doted on him, and some of the villagers who he’s befriended, but he wants nothing more than to leave Lettenhove behind and start a new life.
He goes to Oxenfurt and decides to reinvent himself, not wanting to be associated with Julian Alfred Pankratz. He calls himself Jaskier, and he pursues his passion, soaking up information enthusiastically. He picks up the lute, and he falls head over heels in love with it. He passes his years there with flying colours, with the highest commendations from his professors (take that, Valdo), and sets off to be a travelling bard.
The life of a travelling bard is not easy. He’s young, and unused to roughing it, having grown up in the laps of luxury. But he learns and adapts, and sings to earn coin. He learns how to please people, what types of songs make certain people more receptive, and what songs are more likely to fill his purse. He flits from town to town, singing and charming his way into beds of men and women alike.
He’s not always welcomed, though, which is fine! It’s all part of the learning curve, all contributing to his experience, and he’ll learn from his mistakes. Posada’s audience dislikes him for some reason, but. He meets a witcher. Geralt of Rivia.
There’s something about him, maybe his white hair or his golden eyes or his two deadly swords, that draws Jaskier to him, that makes Jaskier desperate to be his friend. The witcher isn’t receptive to his attempts, but Jaskier is nothing if not infinitely stubborn and persistent. They get kidnapped by elves, which admittedly isn’t the greatest start to their relationship but hey, friends who get kidnapped together, stay together, right? He also gets a new Elven lute, which is awesome.
Toss A Coin becomes widespread and popular, and people are less hostile to Geralt when they encounter him. Jaskier is very proud of his work, even if Geralt doesn’t deign to show his appreciation or gratitude. Jaskier sticks to Geralt in his travels, and he knows that Geralt is softening towards him, even if he doesn’t express it. Geralt is reluctant to call them friends, which hurts a bit because Jaskier may or may not be a little in love with him, but Jaskier thinks that Geralt might have grown to care for him, just a little.
In Posada, he’d wanted to befriend the witcher out of some unknown curiosity, and initially, he’d stayed because he saw an opportunity for fame. Now, he stays because he likes Geralt, maybe even loves him, and nothing makes him happier than staying by his side. So he stays, even as Geralt shoots him barbed insults and snaps at him and calls him ‘bard’, because throughout their travels he’s learnt that Geralt is just a fundamentally good person, so unlike anyone he’s ever met.
The witcher is gruff and mostly nonverbal, but his moral compass is unwavering. He never retaliates when villagers spit Butcher at him. He takes contracts for almost no coin when he sees that people are struggling. He’s not particularly nice to Jaskier, but Jaskier is sometimes the recipient of the small acts of kindness Geralt displays occasionally, which make him fall just a little deeper in love.
The ball in Cintra is an absolute disaster, and Geralt leaves cursing Destiny, furious at the world. Jaskier calms him down, but for a long time, Geralt reverts in on himself, pushing Jaskier away. Jaskier fails repeatedly in his attempts to make him feel better, so he decides to give him some space.
He hates the fact that he is unable to comfort Geralt the way he wants to - they’ve been travelling together for years, and Jaskier has realised that he is well and truly in love with the witcher. Geralt will never love him back, he knows, not because witchers are incapable of feeling emotions (which is complete and utter bullshit, Geralt feels so goddamn deeply), but because, well.
To say that Geralt cares for him is a stretch, and the idea of Geralt ever loving him is laughable. Geralt’s insults and harsh comments have softened over the years, maybe even containing a bit of fondness, but despite all of Jaskier’s attempts to show Geralt that he cares, Geralt refuses to so much hint at the fact that he likes Jaskier, which hurts. Jaskier has helped Geralt after his hunts, helping him down from the adrenaline and patching up his wounds and washing his armour - he’s even help bathe Geralt several times, for fuck’s sake.
But it’s fine, because he’s happy with what Geralt can give him - he knows, from little Geralt has told him, that witchers lead hard lives, so Jaskier completely understands that it isn’t easy for Geralt to show affection.
They part for some time, and the next time they meet, Jaskier stumbles upon Geralt fishing in a lake, looking utterly exhausted. He’s fishing for a djinn to help him sleep, which is just ridiculous, and they argue and suddenly his throat is closing up and he can’t breathe and he doesn’t know what’s going on.
After that, a lot happens, including a beautiful but slightly insane sorceress, a crushing moment of devastation when he thinks that Geralt is dead, and yet another crushing moment of devastation when he witnesses Geralt having passionate sex with the crazy witch who threatened to castrate him.
When Geralt emerges looking well-fucked and smitten, Jaskier pushes down his heartbreak. He’s never seen Geralt look so - so infatuated, or dare he say it, in love. Here is Jaskier, having accompanied Geralt for around a decade, and Geralt still hasn’t acknowledged their friendship, and yet, he’s known this woman for a few hours and is completely smitten.
He doesn’t know why he’s surprised - the sorceress, Yennefer apparently, is breathtakingly gorgeous and insanely powerful. Of course Geralt would fall head over heels in love with her, Jaskier thinks bitterly. He’s just a lowly, annoying, unwanted bard who leeches onto Geralt, who is nowhere near as gorgeous or powerful.
Over the subsequent years, Yennefer somehow shows up every few months, and she and Geralt disappear to fuck for a few hours, or a few days. It doesn’t bother Jaskier. Not at all. Definitely not. He definitely doesn’t compose maudlin ballads about unrequited love and he definitely doesn’t try to drown his sorrows in alcohol and he definitely isn’t sleeping around to get over his heartbreak. He tries to make himself fall out of love with Geralt, but it seems that Jaskier is physically incapable of not loving the witcher. Jaskier is fine. He’s pined for years. What’s a few more?
Geralt gets roped into a dragon hunt (and Yennefer’s there, because of fucking course she is). When they camp for the night, Jaskier tentatively asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, to get away from everything. He’s never asked anything like this of Geralt before, never asked Geralt to follow him - he bares his heart and offers it to Geralt. If you want it, take it. It’s yours, only yours. But Geralt doesn’t respond, and that night, he heads to Yennefer’s tent. Again, Jaskier doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He’s numb to the heartbreak, sort of. Not really.
And then the next day.
The next day.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”
Well then.
He turns and leaves. His heart, which has been broken over and over by Geralt’s harshest comments and by Geralt and Yennefer and has never really healed, lies in pieces, shattered beyond repair. He knows that Geralt was lashing out at him in anger, taking it out on the nearest person - but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Geralt has always taken his anger and hurt out on Jaskier, has done so over two decades, because he knows that Jaskier always, always stays, and will never hold his words against him.
Jaskier has always been his punching bag, and he’s always endured it, because he knows Geralt has no other outlet. It hurts every time, pierces something deep and irreparable in his fragile heart, but he always tells himself that it’s worth it, that he can bear it to stay by Geralt’s side. Geralt never apologises, but after each outburst, he is always more considerate of Jaskier - taking more breaks, giving him a bigger portion of food, telling him to shut up less often. These small acts of concern always remind Jaskier of why he fell for Geralt in the first place, and, desperate for Geralt’s small affections, he’s always stayed.
Something about this time is different. Maybe it’s the culmination of many years of bearing Geralt’s fury, or maybe he’s witnessed Geralt and Yennefer together one too many times, or maybe because Geralt has rejected him the day after Jaskier opened his heart to him, or maybe it’s because Geralt has never pushed him away so harshly. Maybe it’s all of it, but Jaskier doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the pure anger in Geralt’s voice and the utter hatred in his eyes, about how, for the first time in over two decades, Jaskier had been afraid.
Tears blur his vision as he makes his way down the mountain and he can barely see the path, stumbling over roots and running into stray branches. He needs to get away, get as far as possible from where Geralt is, so he follows the path as best as he can with tears in his eyes. He doesn’t think that he can bear seeing those beautiful golden eyes look at him with such vitriol, he knows that he’s on the verge of breaking. How had he given his heart so completely to someone who he knew would crush it?
The sky is darkening, and Jaskier knows that he will have to set up camp soon. He settles down in the closest clearing he can find, not bothering to scan the area for danger; he’s too drained for that. It’s cold so he starts a fire, and sits on his bedroll staring at the flames.
He wonders if Geralt had ever liked him. He’d thought that their relationship had progressed over the years, but maybe he’s been wilfully blind, choosing to interpret Geralt’s insults as fond teasing when in reality Geralt was annoyed, seeing Geralt’s occasional affectionate actions as caring rather than grudgingly tolerant. He’s probably always been an unwanted burden, his only use being to bring in coin and improve the witcher’s reputation. He’s been an idiot - Geralt obviously preferred being alone, and Jaskier had imposed himself on him. How stupid he’s been, to think that Geralt cared. He’s been -
There’s a howl, loud enough that Jaskier can tell it’s nearby. Too late, he’d forgotten that, when walking up the mountain, Geralt had warned him of the dangers among the trees. Fuck, he’s been stupid. He’d chosen a clearing without assessing whether there was danger nearby. He’d even set up a fire, making him an even more obvious target.
He tries to stay still, and puts out the fire as silently as he can, hoping that the wolf won’t notice him and pass on, but a cacophony of howls echo through the trees in response to the first one. The howls are loud. Too close. His skin prickles with fear and his breaths come in short, sharp huffs. His heart is beating so loud that he fears that the wolves can hear it.
Leaves crunch behind him and he turns around slowly, fearing what he will see. He curses himself for not bringing a weapon - he thought he’d be with Geralt the whole time, but that was stupid of him. A pair of glowing eyes meets his own as a wolf steps out from behind the bushes.
Fuck.
Blindly fumbling for something, anything to defend himself, he grabs his lute and shakily points it at the wolf, which doesn’t look threatened at all. Right. Why would the wolf fear a lute? Then he hears the sounds of more wolves emerging from the trees, and he realises in horror that he’s surrounded.
He’s doomed. He can maybe fight off one wolf with his lute, and that’s a big maybe, but a whole pack? Jaskier doesn’t stand a chance.
A searing pain shoots down his back and he screams, realising that a wolf has lunged at him from behind, its claws digging into his back. At the scent of his blood, the rest of the wolves pounce on him, deadly claws raking into him and sharp teeth tearing at his flesh and all he knows is painpainpain.
Jaskier the bard takes his last breath on the mountain. Miles away, in a warded house, Julian the witcher twitches, and opens his eyes for the first time in over four decades.