Chapter Text
The night had been going well, all things considered. A reasonably adoring crowd, passably decent ale, a comely selection of company in the wings and a stirring rendition of Burn, Butcher, Burn if Jaskier did so say himself. And if said rendition was entirely personal and still filled with several months worth [who was he kidding, years worth] of accumulated hurt feelings…well, whose business was that but Jaskier’s?
Not like the great White Wolf-prick of Rivia would care even if he had heard the song. Which he likely wouldn’t, because Geralt made it well and truly clear that he had no desire to see Jaskier or hear his marvelous singing. ‘Ordering a pie and finding it has no filling’, he’d said. Well, who was laughing now! Jaskier was famous, talented, infinitely desirable, and he could surely find any number of better ‘best friends in the whole wide world’. He had even started helping the elves, which felt like the first entry into public assistance he’d gone in on himself. Jaskier didn’t need Geralt with his bad attitude and his mood swings and his dumping Jaskier off like yesterday’s dirty wash. He was -just fine-, thank you very much…
Right up until he found himself at the business end of a sword.
“Oh-okay, there. Is this-” Jaskier splayed his palms in a placating gesture as he found himself shoved back against an alley wall with a sword held diagonal along the length of his torso. “-Really necessary? I told you! I’ve no idea where he is, where any witcher is, so if you’d kindly-”
“-You are Jaskier the bard.”
The voice from beneath the cowl sounded young for all that speaker spoke gruffly. The words also sounded rather like an accusation.
“So I am.” Jaskier agreed amiably despite his racing heart and a mental curse at Geralt for his situation because why the Hell not? The man-the boy?-had approached him as Jaskier had stepped outside. A quick exchange of words, mostly the boy demanding he tell him where ‘his witcher’ was [and wasn’t that a strange bit of salt in the proverbial wound?], led to Jaskier dismissively chuckling as he informed the boy he had no idea and also didn’t care. Which was apparently a mistake given the sword nearly at his neck. “But as I said, my friend, I have no idea where any witchers are. Have you tried Kaer Morhen? I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year-” Something about his words seemed to upset the boy because the sword pressed just a bit harder into Jaskier's chest, not nearly enough to wound, but enough to intimidate.
“I’m not your friend.” The boy said lowly. "Who are you to speak of Kaer Morhen?"
The first bit struck a chord in Jaskier’s memory for obvious reasons, hearkening back to a grumpy Geralt in a tub right before the whole Child Surprise incident. But moreover…there was just…something in the boy’s voice, in his tone… Jaskier peered at the face beneath the hood but in the shadows of the alley it was too difficult to make anything out. The boy was about half a head shorter than Jaskier and narrower, but clearly capable of wielding a sword and forcing a grown man aside. “I know a witcher. Singular. And he’s a bit of an ass, to be honest. Haven’t seen him in months. Don’t intend to. Now, will you please get the bloody sword out of my face?” Jaskier demanded with more confidence than he felt despite a new, odd niggling feeling that the boy wasn’t actually going to harm him.
There was a moment’s hesitation before the sword lowered though the boy kept it clutched in his hand as he took a step back. Jaskier straightened and debated his options before a glint in the lamp light caught his eye. A medallion, a very familiar medallion, hung from the boy’s neck. He frowned as he tried to recall if Geralt ever mentioned that his medallion was one-of-a-kind so far as particular designs went. “That medallion-”
The mention was enough to make the boy tense and grip the medallion before he shoved it roughly under his shirt. “-Where did you see the witcher?” The tone was abruptly aggressive, full of an almost defensive hostility that made no sense to Jaskier whatsoever. The whole situation was bizarre, really. “Who was it?”
Jaskier was tired and more than a little emotionally drained. The come-down from the rush of fear at being ushered into an alley with a pointy-thing shoved in his face and the demands did nothing to ease his mood or budding headache. “What'sit to you?” he demanded right back. Was the boy...a witcher? Was that even possible? "Did you steal that medallion?” he asked, perhaps unwisely, but from what he’d gleaned from Geralt…there were no ‘new’ witchers and the boy seemed entirely too young to be one.
The hand tightened around the sword hilt and the boy spoke with anger. “It’s mine. And I won’t ask you again.” he growled. “Tell me-”
“-Or what?” Jaskier cut the boy off, emboldened by an increasing certainty that despite his anger the boy didn’t intend to use the sword. “Are you going to kill me because I didn’t answer a question, witcher?” he challenged. The question, intriguingly, seemed to throw the boy off before he replied with a note of bitterness.
“Witchers aren’t killers.”
He sounded offended at the suggestion, which was a tad bit flying in the face of the sword he’d only a moment ago had against Jaskier’s chest. The boy then seemed to realize what he’d admitted and stiffened.
“...I need to find a witcher.” The boy ground out. “You sing of them-I-...I mean no harm.”
A note too close to desperation for Jaskier to ignore entered the boy’s voice and the bard scrutinized the figure before him as best he could. Aside from admitting he wouldn't kill Jaskier, he'd not denied being a witcher. “Like I said. I don’t know where they are, and it’s only the one witcher, and again, like I said-we haven’t been talking. But if you tell me what the problem is, perhaps I can help you.” he offered. Partially because Jaskier liked to think of himself as a good person, partially because he was curious, and partially because he was pretty damned sure the boy had Geralt’s medallion. As in, the super-special-witcher-medallion that Geralt made clear didn’t come off unless said witcher was dead. So, yeah.
Not that Jaskier cared or anything. He was only curious.
Professional concern, really. So he could milk Geralt’s death for a few songs. Maybe an epic poem.
Nope, not worried at all-
"There's nothing you can do."
Jaskier supposed the words hadn't been intended as an insult but they grated all the same; the implication that yet again Jaskier was deficient. Even if only to help some rude boy find a witcher. He'd barely sung of witchers in the months since he'd been kicked from Geralt's side. Why should he have to deal this sort of business now? "That right? Then I guess 'our' business is done here. Have a lovely night, now that you've gone and spoiled mine." He started to shove past the boy who growled a protest. Impulsively, Jaskier's hand darted out to yank down the boy's hood. He would at least see the face of the brat who thought brandishing a sword was an appropriate way to ask questions-
-What the fuck? Jaskier thought as he drew short in shock and took in the boy's appearance. White hair a bit above his shoulders and a pair of golden eyes so familiar that Jaskier could paint them in his memory. The name ‘Geralt’ slipped out unbidden, so surprised was he, even though it obviously couldn’t be Geralt-
The boy looked just briefly surprised before his eyes narrowed. "How do you know my name?" His tone was dangerously low and Jaskier wondered if he'd been too quick to assume the boy was [relatively] harmless.
Jaskier's mouth opened and closed, for once at a loss for words, and he swallowed hard as he stared at the living impossibility before him. The boy looked so like Geralt, sans the bloated biceps and chiseled face and so on but...still... "I'm wondering that myself." he finally muttered and suddenly wondered if he wasn't more tired than he thought.
"What does that mean?" The boy hissed impatiently.
Jaskier let out a nervous giggle. "Ah, just...feeling a little mad at the moment. Because this can't be happening...in fact, that must be what this is! This is a dream. I’m dreaming. And I’ll wake up in bed with dear-ah-the name escapes me-but I’ll wake up and-”
"-Stop. Talking." The boy growled as he rubbed at his temple and glared at Jaskier.
"Listen, you're the one who found me." Jaskier pointed out. "And I'd like to wake up now."
"This isn't a dream!" The boy snapped and sounded exasperated before he added in a mutter. "This has been a mistake."
"I've had that feeling quite a lot myself lately." Jaskier commiserated with the boy conjured by his dream. "Being a devoted friend to a heartless arse will do that to you. Question your priorities and all that." Jaskier explained and the boy looked ever so slightly bewildered, like he didn’t know what to make of Jaskier. Really, that was all the proof he needed that it wasn’t really Geralt, because Geralt didn’t do ‘bewildered’. Or most other expressions apart from grumpy, really grumpy, and pissed.
"Do you never shut up?"
"Not generally, no." Jaskier offered and the boy with Geralt's golden eyes stared with a frown. He tried to swallow down the bit of him that was a little fascinated at the sight of what looked like [but couldn't actually be] a young Geralt. A funny thing, to imagine a time when Geralt wasn't a walking slab of muscle and dour expressions.
The boy looked away to shake his head and mutter a curse as he suddenly went from rubbing at his temple to clutching it as if in pain.
“You’re bleeding.” Jaskier noted as a few drops of blood trickled from Not-Geralt’s nose, casual given that he had decided he was only dreaming.
Not-Geralt put a hand to his nose and inhaled sharply at the sight of the blood even as his other hand remained against his head. “Fuck.” he mumbled.
A tiny flicker of worry curled up in Jaskier's chest at the sight of someone so close to Geralt in appearance being in pain. A twin flicker of disgust at what an easy sap he was also took root. What kind of glutton for punishment did he have to be, how pathetic was he, to still hold care for someone who obviously couldn't stand him?
As usual, a little voice in the back of his mind liked to remind Jaskier of incidents like Geralt fussing over him during the Djinn-Thing as if to prove that Geralt must care. He had entertained for a time that Geralt might have spoken in anger and haste, that he would regret his words and return-if awkwardly-but he never had. Geralt had let Jaskier walk away and not looked back. So whatever 'care' Jaskier had imagined from Geralt was just Geralt being his usual, stupidly noble self. He didn't have to like Jaskier to save him from dying or whatnot.
“Oi! There a problem here?”
Not-Geralt stiffened at the sudden address and ducked his neck just a little as if with the desire to hide his face but his hood was already down. His gaze flicked from Jaskier to the newcomer, one of the tavern keepers, who saw that night’s bard outside in what seemed a questionable situation.
Jaskier looked from the boy to the tavern keeper and back again. He saw the boy brace himself and figured Not-Geralt expected to be thrown under the wagon, so to speak. The temptation was there, he didn’t fancy the tough-routine after all, but there was something overall rather pitiable about the boy and something…strange, perhaps…and well, wasn’t it all just a dream? “All well. Just a chat with a fan.” he said cheerily. “I’ll be back inside in a moment. I do appreciate the concern.” The tavern keeper seemed suspicious but after a beat, inclined his head and returned inside.
“...Why didn’t you tell him?” Not-Geralt asked with a frown.
“Tell him what?” Jaskier asked, deliberately upbeat.
Not-Geralt’s jaw clenched. “I…threatened you.”
Was that a note of shame that Jaskier detected in Not-Geralt’s tone? “True.” Jaskier agreed. “But not very well. It wasn’t very believable. Just extremely rude and uncalled for, mostly.” He tried not to smile as Not-Geralt’s expression twisted, just slightly, into that sort-of-bewilderment again. Jaskier fished around in his pocket as an afterthought and produced a handkerchief. “Here.” The boy didn’t move and regarded the offering with a frown. “For your nose.” he clarified.
Not-Geralt stared as though the cloth might bite him then rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Don’t need it.” he muttered.
Jasker lifted a brow but shrugged. “Suit yourself. Anyway, this has been an…-ah-pleasant dream and all-seeing a baby-ish you, but I am ready to wake up now.” Confusion was writ in Not-Geralt’s brow then.
“You still think this is-"
Jaskier prepared to reiterate his point when a scream cut across the night and Not-Geralt was instantly on alert with a familiar, intense expression.
“Help! She-my baby! Oh, Gods!”
Jaskier scarcely had time to register the direction of the screams himself before Not-Geralt was off like a loosed arrow. He hesitated the briefest of moments before he swiftly followed. Jaskier had had more than a little to drink but found himself sobering quickly as a niggle of doubt wormed its way into his chest. His dream didn’t really seem like a dream, which left the rather concerning question of what in the bloody fuck was happening? He'd been accosted by a boy who looked alarmingly like his [former] friend, a one-of-a-kind witcher, who was in need of some aid and found Jaskier of all people. His mind fumbled at the pieces of the puzzle and the strange situation he'd found himself in. By the time Jaskier reached Not-Geralt, the boy was already half-way up the side of a burning store-front that must have doubled as a home. A little girl wailed from the upper window while her distraught mother shrieked from the ground. Not-Geralt lost a hand-hold a moment as a rotted bit of wood came loose and Jaskier grimaced as Not-Geralt dangled before he regained himself. The boy reached the window and glanced around, momentarily uncertain, and Jaskier just knew what he was after.
“Here!” Jaskier called up to the young witcher [what else could he be?] [Jaskier couldn’t dwell on precisely what else at the moment] “Pass her down to me!” Golden eyes flicked his direction before the witcher’s expression hardened with a determined frown. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to make of that. The bard then made a choked noise as the boy plucked the little girl from the window and gripped her tight before jumping off the bloody building.
The boy landed hard and Jaskier saw his knees buckle as he let out a muffled groan. Not-Geralt stayed upright though with the girl tight in his arms, unharmed. She squirmed and wailed as she reached for her mother.
“Let her go!” The mother shrieked and with a look of utter fear she snatched the girl from the young witcher’s grip. “Don’t touch my daughter!”
Jaskier looked from the woman to the boy in disbelief and just managed to catch the fleeting expressions on his face. Surprise, something pained, and then nothing…a familiar, blank expression that Jaskier knew well indeed.
Villagers had already begun to try to put the fire out with buckets while the woman clutched her daughter and backed away from the the boy who'd risen heavily to his feet. Jaskier could imagine he was more than a touch sore after his ‘little jump’.
“He tried to take my daughter!” He heard the woman cry and Jaskier’s eyes widened. Several villagers had come to comfort the woman and check on the child, at which point the woman decided to be an utter worm and make up nonsense.
“I saved her.” The young witcher said bluntly, but despite the clench in his jaw there was no real heat to it, more like resignation.
“Monster.” Someone hissed and a few similar whispers rose.
The anger that stirred in Jaskier’s breast was also familiar. One that had once been a passing kindness, then more empathetic, and then something almost proprietary as he’d gotten to know and genuinely care for Geralt. The sight of the young witcher, the one who looked so like Geralt, stood alone before a growing mob of hostile villagers didn't sit well with Jaskier. Nor did the way the fight seemed to have drained from Not-Geralt as he stood, mute and seemingly impassive, while he was looked on as a monster after saving the child.
“Oh for the love of-” Jaskier growled as he strode forward and put himself beside and a little ahead of the young witcher. He did so even as the little voice in his head telling him that the impossible was presently possible grew louder. “He’s just saved your daughter, you ungrateful harpy. Show a little decency, yeah?” He didn't see the hint of surprise in the boy's expression as he watched Jaskier's sudden defense of him.
“It’s the witcher-fucker.” One of the villagers hissed and Jaskier bristled.
“I beg your pardon?” Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “That is master bard, thank you very much. Really, is that the best you could come up wi-” He yelped in alarm as he was yanked backwards by the collar of his shirt and coat. Jaskier shoved at the hand on his neck even as a few shingles and bit of wood fell in the spot he’d been standing. “Oh.” He said, wide-eyed as the young witcher who’d rather kindly assisted him pulled back. “…Thanks for that.” The boy had a trickle of blood under his nose again but before Jaskier could say more, the boy turned without reply and began to stalk away with his hood up again. “W-Wait a minute!”
The villagers were still nattering about something or other but Jaskier ignored it as he quickly followed after the retreating figure of the young witcher.
“Hey! You! …Geralt?” Jaskier watched as the boy halted abruptly then turned with clenched fists.
“That’s twice you’ve said my name, bard.” he growled.
Right, okay, so the boy’s name was Geralt…and he had white hair, golden eyes, and what looked exactly like Geralt’s medallion…he was also rather clearly a witcher. And there was the whole…gruff thing the boy managed to pull off [sort of] which was so very Geralt that he couldn’t imagine-unless…wait…but no…witchers were sterile, weren’t they? Gods, was this Geralt’s son? Jaskier didn’t realize he’d missed on whatever the boy had said until he found himself once again inches from an irritated looking witcher-boy.
“Do you know Geralt of Rivia?” Jaskier blurted, in lieu of whatever answer the boy wanted.
The boy’s brow furrowed just slightly and then his expression darkened. His hand went to his sword hilt and Jaskier got an uncomfortable sense of rising menace from the young [undoubtedly still capable of mopping the floor with Jaskier’s arse] witcher. “What are you?” he asked lowly.
The look on his face was also recognizable, very much the sort of face Geralt would make when faced with something detestable or while on the hunt. A look that told Jaskier he had just entered dangerous territory with the witcher. “Human!” Jaskier said quickly as he splayed his palms again. “Just a bard! …Admittedly among the greatest of bards in all the lands, but-ohhhkay-will you stop that!” The boy had started to unsheathe his sword and Jaskier made to lightly stop him by gripping his forearm but ‘Geralt’ pulled away with his teeth faintly bared.
“Don’t-” Whatever the boy had meant to say was interrupted by a groan. His hand went to his temple again as his expression tightened with pain.
“Ah-G-…Geralt? Are you-” The boy dropped to his knees and clutched at his chest with a pained groan. “Shit.” Jaskier dropped down beside him as his hands hovered at ‘Geralt’s’ sides uncertainly. “What is it? What’s happening?” Anguished golden eyes found Jaskier’s briefly but no reply was forthcoming. The boy slumped forward, eyes closed, and Jaskier felt a moment of panic. “Oh, no no no no, don’t be dead. Oh, come on, kid.” Jaskier muttered as he rolled the boy to his side and pressed a hand to a surprisingly chilly cheek. He held his other hand under the boy’s nose and was relieved to feel his breath.
Okay. Okay. He had an unconscious baby-witcher who looked and sounded remarkably like Geralt, in addition to sharing a name, but who clearly didn’t recognize him. Said baby-witcher had seemed alarmingly close to drawing a sword on Jaskier again but what else was new in his life? Jaskier needed answers and the boy needed help. With that in mind, Jaskier steeled himself as he hauled the boy’s arm over his shoulder with a grunt and began to hobble his [their] way back to the inn.
--
A flash of silver and a bloom of red. A shout, a cry of pain, a thump as a body followed-
I’m sorry, I’m sorry-
Geralt inhaled sharply as he woke with an arm outstretched and instead of a tournament field he was met with unfamiliar surroundings. He struggled to his feet through a feeling of nausea, disorientation, and a mess of blankets that wound around his ankles.
“Whoa, hey, you’re going to-”
Geralt shot his fiercest look at whoever spoke as he instinctively brought his back to the wall in a defensive posture. He reached for his sword but it wasn’t present and it took several seconds for him to process the sight before him. An unfamiliar man-no, not unfamiliar…the…the bard…Jaskier, the one Geralt had been searching for. Memories flitted back through his mind of the confrontation and fire but he had no memory for how he’d arrived. The man-Jaskier-kept his distance with a cautious expression and Geralt breathed out slowly to steady himself. Whatever curse he was under-surely it was a curse-had left him off balance and uncertain. He needed to find another witcher at the very least, to make his way back to Kaer Morhen and Vesemir.
“Oh-your…eye.”
Geralt fought to keep from displaying any expression or showing how unsettled he was. He felt queasy in a way he couldn’t recall feeling since well before the Trial of the Grasses. “What about my eye?” he growled out roughly.
“It-uh-well it’s…sort of…green?”
“...What?” The man gestured to a mirror with a troubled expression and Geralt hesitated before he slid towards it while not turning his back on the man. He glanced quickly at the mirror and froze. Geralt’s left eye remained golden but his right…a jagged slash of green, human green, made up most of his iris…and there was a patch of dark brown hair at the nape of his neck…his hair hadn’t been that color since…before. What is happening to me? Geralt thought, confused and unnerved. Movement in the mirror as Jaskier’s reflection in it moved made Geralt turn with all the fury returned to his expression. “Why am I here?” he snarled. “What did you do?”
“Me?” Jaskier sounded affronted and he took several quick steps back. “I did nothing! You’re the one who collapsed like a sack of potatoes. It wasn’t easy dragging you back here, you know, and-”
“-Where is my sword?” Geralt asked abruptly and Jaskier huffed a bit at the interruption.
“Currently put away so you don’t-Geralt!” Jaskier moved quickly to put the bed between them as Geralt advanced on him. “Look, we need to talk and it’s rather hard when you keep shoving your sword in my face. Will you just-stop?” Geralt had reached the head of the bed which meant Jaskier was in danger of being boxed into a corner. “…Your horse’s name is Roach!” he blurted.
Geralt paused, both at the unexpected exclamation and the fact that the man was right. He scowled deeply as he eyed Jaskier with suspicion and knew then for certain the man must be more than simply human. How else could the bard know that when Geralt had told no one Roach’s name, or even shown this man his horse?
--
Jaskier had a fair bit of time to think by the time he’d managed to lug the unconscious witcher to his bed. He placed Geralt’s sword behind a dresser and then began to pace even as he kept a wary and concerned eye on the boy. Geralt had mentioned, in his usual brief way, that there was one other white-haired witcher in his guild, his mentor Vesemir. Not a boy, obviously, and Jaskier had gotten the impression the hair was a great rarity. He’d certainly never heard of another ‘White Wolf’, after all. There were other witchering guilds but Jaskier was still fairly confident that Geralt was unique even among witchers, though the blasted man would never properly explain why.
The boy had, more or less, answered to ‘Geralt of Rivia’ and seemed very disturbed [in that lovely, reserved-ish witcher way] that Jaskier knew his title. And while the boy was comparatively verbose held against his grunting, older counterpart…while there was a tad more diversity to the tones and expressions…there was overall something very…well…Geralt about the boy.
Jaskier took the opportunity to examine the medallion as he carefully tugged it free of the boy's shirt. He was confident it was Geralt’s, or else one exactly alike in design.
Witchers were supposed to be sterile but even if they weren’t…could Geralt really have such a similar son just running about? And surely even Geralt couldn’t have kept such a secret. Who would the mother be anyway? He couldn't imagine Geralt abandoning his own child either, whether he'd have wanted the boy or not. Geralt could play the lone traveler card all he liked, the man was too honorable to shirk such a responsibility. Never mind that Geralt was determined to forgo his Child Surprise. The one Geralt had blamed Jaskier for amongst other things. Jaskier didn't like to dwell on that, though of course his mind loved to ruminate anyway. Either way, a child born of Geralt seemed all kinds of unlikely.
So then, this Geralt could be an imposter of some kind, some sort of monster…but that didn’t seem to fit with the boy’s behavior. And could a monster just pluck a reasonably convincing, youthful version of Geralt out of a hat like that?
But if not a son or a monster…what did that leave?
A...cursed Geralt?
Jaskier peered down at the unconscious face with a frown and he carefully ran his fingers through a bit of the hair, surprised when he found a patch of dark brown beneath. “Well, that’s unusual.” he murmured. He didn't know what to make of the boy's apparent illness or the color-changing features. Jaskier had tried to imagine Geralt with non-Witchery coloring before and nothing had seemed quite right. Geralt's familiar coloring may have inspired fear from some but to Jaskier, it was a comfort. Had been a comfort, before Geralt cast him out. Jaskier brushed a thumb over the boy's cheek and tried to imagine it was older Geralt in there. Was it really possible?
The bard exhaled worriedly as he withdrew to a chair and perched with his chest to the chair back as he studied the sleeping witcher. Supposing it was a cursed Geralt, who could curse a witcher thusly and why? What exactly was the curse? How had he ended up at Jaskier’s doorstep, so to speak, of all people?
“If life could give me one blessing…it would be to take you off my hands.” Geralt snarled through gritted teeth.
The visceral memory still stung Jaskier’s heart and left a bad, uncomfortable, miserably mopey taste in his mouth.
Never mind that he’d known Geralt a majority of his life at that point and had followed him loyally. Or that he’d devoted himself to rehabilitating the image of Geralt and the witchers. Forget about the fact he’d been the best bloody friend the grumpy witcher ever had [obviously]. One murderous little witch takes him to bed and bats her sexy, violet eyes and suddenly Jaskier is the bad guy. The thought brings a thick bitterness to his throat and one vicious little part of him thought it served Geralt right if he had been cursed.
But the thought was extinguished as soon as it had arrived. Jaskier couldn’t wish true ill on Geralt despite his new selection of songs or his own hurt feelings. He was a fool, undoubtedly. A pitiful sap who’d been kicked aside like a stray mongrel at Geralt’s convenience but who couldn’t really imagine not helping Geralt if the irksome, ungrateful witcher needed aid.
The boy seemed to be having a nightmare. He squirmed in his sleep and mumbled words that Jaskier couldn’t make out. His face contorted as if in sudden pain but he wouldn’t wake when Jaskier moved bafn to his side and tried to rouse him. Jaskier settled for a soothing murmur, concerned, as he ran his fingertips through Geralt’s hair along his scalp. The action did seem to help as Geralt quieted for a time. Jaskier found himself staring again as he tried to reconcile what he had so far seen with the Geralt he knew.
"Damnit, Jaskier! Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shoveling it?"
The words still echoed in his mind, nearly as clear as when he'd first heard them shouted and snarled in his face. Jaskier had been rejected before, but not like that. Fleeting lovers were one thing, dismissive 'family' another, but Geralt was another matter entirely. Had he been successful in even getting Geralt to properly admit they were friends, he may have even stated what he felt plainly: they were more like family of a sort. Jaskier certainly had no one else in his life he could turn to quite the same. And he'd been there for Geralt, hadn't he? Reliable despite not being a witcher, having never feared or reviled his friend as others had? Hadn't he protected Geralt in his own way, tried to make things better for Geralt and witchers on a whole?
Jaskier, it seemed, was never enough for anybody. 'His' witcher least of all.
Melancholy at the thought, Jaskier took his own turn at brooding as he waited for the boy to regain consciousness.
A couple of hours had passed before the boy finally woke and he seemed even more tense than before. Jaskier found his decision to hide the sword wise until Geralt seemed ready to pummel him. If the boy was Geralt, he was certainly more aggressive in his own way. Jaskier needed Geralt to listen, needed to work out the situation, so he blurted out something he hoped would get the boy’s attention. The mention of Roach did seem to do the trick…sort of…until Geralt seemed rendered more suspicious by the name.
Jaskier continued quickly. “I think you might be cursed.” He debated if he could make it past Geralt and to the door if needed. “Because, you see, ah-…the witcher I sing of, the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia-” he saw the boy’s expression darken again. “-I think that might be you. Almost definitely. Probably.” The boy’s expression grew disbelieving but Jaskier pounced on the opportunity to proceed as he spoke carefully. "Look, what year do you believe it is?” Geralt neither moved nor answered but stared at Jaskier with an implacable expression. The intensity made Jaskier more than a little nervous, all things considered, but it wasn’t his first time being stared down by an irate witcher. [Far from it]. “It’s 1263.”
“You’re lying.” Geralt said immediately.
Jaskier let out a ragged exhale of a breath he didn’t quite know he had been holding because that felt like a confirmation. A monster would have no reason to take that stance, to play at being a young Geralt unaware of the year. But a cursed Geralt lacking his adult memories was another story. “I, honestly, truly wish I were.” he said as the weight of the realization settled on him. Geralt of Rivia was cursed, he was clearly in a bad way, and he had no proper idea of who Jaskier was nor did Jaskier know all that much about a young Geralt. Thanks for that, by the way. Jaskier thought with yet more than a little bitterness directed to his close-mouthed [former] best friend.
…Mostly former.
Definitely former…?
It was complicated.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Jaskier tried in a gentled tone so as to not rile up the young witcher-Geralt-again.
--
Geralt had gone to sleep under the stars following his second solo hunt, or first, depending on how one looked at it. He had woken up in a strange place with different clothes and weapons, a pounding ache in his skull, and no idea how he’d gotten there. Geralt’s clothes ill fit him, they hung loosely over his body and he had a pair of twin swords he didn’t recognize. Roach seemed…different, but in as much as any horse did, she seemed to respond to ‘Roach’ which made things a little easier. Geralt eventually got himself more composed, enough to seek the nearest town. He used a bit of the coin he’d found on his person to dress himself in something cheap but that fit properly at least. Geralt tried to glean what information he could and found himself met with strange and varied receptions. Some were the usual sort, the mixture of fear and hatred that followed Geralt like a dark cloud whenever he was in a human town. But then some people began to ask if he was the ‘White Wolf’, they knew him as ‘Geralt of Rivia’ even though he’d only given that name sparingly since he’d come down for his second season away from Kaer Morhen.
Some even began to sing at him, something about tossing coins at witchers that left him baffled though he didn’t let it show. What in the Hell was going on?
Geralt resolved to return to Kaer Morhen quickly and it was at that point he realized that he couldn’t remember how. There was a blank space where the memory should be and the harder he tried to recall, the more the memories slipped from him until even images of the keep were absent. He could hardly remember Vesemir’s face and that was when the first incident happened. Geralt had been walking towards a stream and the next thing he knew he’d been face half pressed in the mud with blood on his lips and the pounding back in his head. He had begun to feel the stirrings of something like illness and wondered if he’d been poisoned. Geralt ended up vomiting a brackish, black bile that burned his mouth and left him rattled. Even more concerning…Geralt could swear his body had changed, just a little. His new clothes were just the faintest bit looser on his form and he didn’t know what that meant other than that something was very, very wrong.
Geralt needed to get to Kaer Morhen, he needed another witcher, and it was in that searching that he’d come to hear of ‘Jaskier the bard’. The man apparently tagged along with at least one witcher and sang all manner of songs about this ‘White Wolf’. He heard one song outright mention ‘Geralt of Rivia’ and that left him only more confused. None of the information made sense and he turned his focus to finding Jaskier as well as any witcher Geralt might come across. The journey took time and left him three weeks out from waking in a strange place but he managed to find Jaskier. He seated himself at the back of the inn as the bard performed.
The man was a little unkempt with a bright coat as he energetically flounced around the tavern. Rather than singing the praises of witchers, the bard most heartily sang about ‘burning a butcher’. The audience seemed thrilled and Geralt waited for his moment to catch the man alone. Still…the more he watched the man, the more he listened, the more Geralt felt an odd stirring…like having a word on the tip of his tongue or a memory just out of reach. Beyond that, there was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest, a heaviness and weight he couldn’t identify.
The confrontation didn’t help and Geralt took the man for a liar by the way the bard ran through denials despite his songs, despite knowing Geralt’s name specifically.
Geralt couldn’t help but aid the little girl in the burning house though. He hadn’t been sure of the best way to approach his descent but then that man-that bard-yelled nonsense at him and Geralt had felt a bizarre irritation. He had no time to dwell on the feeling and instead leapt down with the girl in his arms. The landing hurt more than he’d expected-nothing had felt as it should since he’d woken up three weeks prior-but he was able to walk the feeling off even as the bard trailed after him.
Then the whole problem of losing time again as he awoke to the bard and his further lies.
Geralt knew the man had to be lying, had to be some kind of false creature although he seemed human and his medallion didn't stir. He felt irritated whenever he looked at the man, if only also because he felt that unexplained heaviness in his chest. Geralt’s senses were all off and he felt wrong…the sight of the green eye and darkened bit of hair didn’t ease his worries or how out-of-balance he felt. Despite that, he had the strange temptation to believe the man before him. An unexplained sense that this…’Jaskier’ wouldn’t lie to Geralt, wasn’t lying to him…and that was even more suspicious. Had this man cursed him after all?
--
Jaskier didn’t like the look in Geralt’s eyes or the way he felt scrutinized as by a predator to prey. He felt like he was rapidly losing whatever hint of ground he had with the boy. “The-the witcher in my songs. Geralt.” he saw the boy’s hands clench at his sides again and continued hastily. “The Geralt I know is a man. White hair. Golden eyes. Two big, scary swords-”
-Geralt noted that Jaskier knew he’d had two swords on waking even though Geralt ended up carrying only one.
“-I last saw him some months back. We parted ways and I haven’t heard from him since. But, thing is, as far as I know…there aren’t any other witchers like him. Especially not ones named Geralt that look damn near exactly alike and also have bad taste in naming their horse…do you see what I’m getting at here?” Jaskier hedged. “If it walks like a horse and acts like a horse…”
Stony-faced silence.
Well, Jaskier couldn’t say he wasn’t used to that but he didn’t know whether to take that as a good or a bad thing from the [Gods, it had to be] Geralt before him. “I think, perhaps, you are the Geralt I know…but…ah…smaller.” he held his thumb and pointer finger a couple of inches a part aimed in Geralt’s direction and the boy finally bristled a little.
“Who are you?” Geralt finally growled and Jaskier blinked.
“We’ve established this already, haven’t we? Jaskier?” he pointed to himself. “Bard extraordinaire?” The look of annoyance at his reply was blessedly familiar, less aggression and more shut up, Jaskier.
“Why would a…bard know a witcher?” Geralt ground out and he half couldn’t believe himself for even vaguely humoring the strange man.
Jaskier sniffed. “I’m not sure I like the way you said that. What’s wrong with bards?” Geralt frowned deeply and Jaskier amended in a tired tone. “What would you like me to say, Geralt?” he asked a bit rhetorically and noted the familiar use of Geralt’s name made the boy’s brow furrow ever so slightly. “I’m a bard. You’re a witcher. And assuming that you are the witcher Geralt of Rivia that I know…we met some twenty years ago and the rest, as they say, was history.”
“Twenty years?” Geralt repeated as he scrutinized Jaskier. “You’d have been a child then.”
Jaskier went for charming despite his nerves as he flashed Geralt a cheeky grin. “Are you saying I look young for my age? That’s very kind of you. True, admittedly, I do cut a dashing figure.”
Geralt wondered if the man was mad, that might explain certain things, but the man was also oddly comfortable with Geralt and did seem…somehow…to know him? But Geralt was certain he didn’t know Jaskier and the man didn’t look nearly of age to have reasonably met Geralt years ago as a bard. So back to lying then…unless…the man was telling the truth about all of it and then…
Geralt would be missing at least twenty years of memories and all that entailed. He would know truly he had been cursed with no idea how, why, or what was to be done to fix the issue. Geralt was far from at his best and with none of his fellow witchers yet present to seek help from. The only person so far who seemed to possibly actually know Geralt was a rambling bard, which made no sense to Geralt because why would he have been keeping a human bard’s company? Or perhaps more to the point, why the reverse?
Geralt debated his options and decided he needed more information. “You claim to know me.” he started.
Jaskier liked to think he knew Geralt better than anyone, but that arguably may not have been saying much all things considered.
“I will…hear you out.” Geralt decided as he finally moved away a few paces so the bard wasn’t ‘trapped’. “But I want my sword.”
“Fair enough.” Jaskier said because he was inclined to compromise rather than agitate. Also because if Geralt was willing to listen then Jaskier was likely not in danger of having the sword pointed at him again. He was surprised at Geralt’s initial willingness to draw his sword, to be honest, since older-Geralt was [in his own way] more diplomatic and less sword-happy.
Jaskier also thought Geralt looked like he could use a good meal [and a bath] but the bard pressed only for the former. Geralt begrudgingly ‘allowed’ Jaskier to have food brought up and the pair ended up sat at a table. He didn’t fail to notice that Geralt waited for Jaskier to try his food first, as if Geralt thought Jaskier might have had something done to the food. Jaskier found that odd since he’d thought witchers couldn’t really be harmed by run-of-the-mill poison and he tried to squash the niggle of hurt that flared up. Geralt didn’t know him, not at present…although if he did Geralt would likely be seeking help from anyone but Jaskier.
“It all started in a little tavern in Posada…”