Chapter Text
Jaskier had never been sure if there was anyone else like him. He hadn’t felt the need to find out, in a world where everything that made up who he was meant he would be hunted, or worse: sold for parts and tortured first.
Before meeting Geralt, he’d thought all monster hunters were heartless. He’d been so convinced they would see no humanity in the eyes of the beasts they killed, but the Witcher had proven him so wrong his heart had had no choice but to fall for him.
The ring he always wore, or at least made sure to be touching at all times, hid his true nature seamlessly, even from the expert eyes of his travel companion and his wolf medallion.
Still, it did nothing to bury the bard’s desire to be honest, to share everything he was with his best friend. Perhaps then and only then, he thought hopefully, his foolish heart would understand there was no use in pursuing someone who was already in love with his perfect match.
He tried not to remember his mother’s parting words--the warning in them, what it would mean for the strange creature he was to hand his heart over without thought.
“We mate for life,” she’d said, kissing Jaskier’s forehead with tears in her dark, inhuman eyes, pupils making up all of them, so they glowed even in the low light, “Do not forget that, my son.”
He’d discovered, by trial and error, that sex was alright. The pleasures of the flesh were safe; as long as his feelings for his bed partner weren’t particularly deep, he would be free to carry on.
He’d known all along that if he shared his body, even in human form, with the Witcher, that would not be the case. Jaskier had never felt such devotion to anybody. Sure, he felt infatuation easily but usually moved on just as quickly.
The torch he was carrying within his ribcage for Geralt had been burning, strong and sure and seemingly everlasting, for decades.
He still flirted and pampered his travel companion in every way he was allowed. Any living being was entitled to have dreams, in his opinion, and if his dream was to one day be the Witcher’s beloved that was his business.
Thanks to him, Jaskier had learned true, long-lasting love was a thrill even when it ached. He would not change what he felt, not even for a real human pelt to wear instead of his trusty but frail glamour.
If he used his supernatural abilities, the spell would break, therefore he hadn’t used his Voice or Shriek in almost as long as he’d been in love with the Witcher.
That hadn’t changed after their bitter separation.
Jaskier would adore him until his dying breath, even if that took centuries to come to pass, but he would be careful not to cross paths with him.
Geralt had wanted to be rid of him, had been terribly and absolutely certain all his woes were his loyal barker’s doing.
Jaskier would not refuse him. He’d discovered he would do anything for his love, no matter the pain and loneliness it entailed for him.
So, alone he took to the various roads across the Continent once again. Alone, he spent a few months on the coast, in the very same spot he would’ve liked to show Geralt, had he said yes to his offer.
Alone, he searched for his family, ready to shed his human skin for a bit.
The waves were relentless in their quiet, in their ruthlessness. He swam deep into the ocean but found no trace of his mother or his sisters.
He knew in his heart they were dead and grieved for them, for something he’d abandoned looking for a place to belong only to find that he was still too different no matter where he went, that he was still too cheery or too silly or just too much.
Too much, but at the same time never enough to keep.
***
He was in Oxenfurt when he felt it, a stabbing pain right in the middle of his chest.
He wheezed and curled into himself, forehead wrinkling the parchment on his desk, the heel of his hands digging into his sternum to relieve the horrible pressure there.
His vision went black and when he came back to, he knew what it meant.
Geralt.
His intended was in mortal danger.
This wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it had never been so intense.
He had no doubt that if he didn’t act, the Witcher would die.
He wasn’t Jaskier’s mate and they hadn’t seen each other in years. He knew little of what his love’s life had become, just hoped every day that he was somewhat safe, away from Nilfgaard’s claws that were grasping for him and his Child Surprise.
Apparently, they had found him.
The poet’s skills didn’t include magic, but he knew of a sorcerer he could ask to portal him where he needed to be. It would be costly and his life as a human bard might end.
Still, he took his coin purse and a heavy, dark cloak and walked to the sorcerer’s house.
***
It reeked of slaughter, both fresh and old, as soon as he went through the portal and into enemy territory.
Soldiers in black armour immediately tried to take him down so he started Singing, reaching for the dormant power deep within him.
The ring on his finger exploded, its shards falling to the ground unnoticed as the Siren lowered his hood and enthralled the battalion to stand still.
He would deal with them all later, once he found Geralt.
The scent of blood was cloying and stopped him from tracking his love’s characteristic perfume, that charming mix of man sweat and horse he preferred. His stomach had never liked humans as food, so he made a face as he scoured the camp for the Witcher, his Song piercing and effective to anyone with ears that was around.
He opened the biggest tent, not pausing in his Singing, and grinned with sharp teeth at what he found there: Geralt, the Cintran princess and Yennefer, along with a man whose attire signaled him to be at least the captain of this army, and another witch that seemed to have no trouble facing the violet-eyed sorceress, and had her on her knees.
“Jaskier.” The amber eyes he dreamed of stared at him in shock, dazed because of his Song just like everyone else.
He tried not to think of his appearance at that moment. He’d always been a little vain, he could admit that, but his blue, iridescent scales were not something that would qualify as beautiful for most, only as other, beastly, inhuman.
He pierced the throat of the man, who had been hitting the Witcher, with a lazy movement of his claws, grinning viciously when the Nilfgaardian died choking on his own blood.
The unfamiliar mage screamed and launched herself at him to meet a similar fate; Jaskier’s left hand reached into her chest and tore her still beating heart out, dropping it carelessly to the ground and stomping on it for good measure.
The squelchy sound under his boot was unpleasant, but the result was not.
Jaskier sighed in relief at seeing the Witcher and his found family relatively whole and paused in his Song to look at him, perhaps for the last time.
“Cover your ears,” he instructed. “I’ll focus my Shriek to the best of my abilities, but there are a lot of people out there. I may get sloppy.”
“Your--” Geralt stuttered, a bloody hand stretching to stop him as he struggled to sit up. “Jaskier, wait--”
“It’ll be alright, Geralt.” He smiled at his love, trying to reassure him quickly while moving out of his reach. “You and yours will be safe.”
He turned to share a loaded look with Yennefer. He had always envied her but he hoped her power was enough to take them to safety somehow, even though she was injured and weak.
She nodded gravely, staggering to her feet but squaring her shoulders and standing with her usual poise soon after.
Princess Cirilla stared at him but Yennefer pulled the girl to her side to release her from the gag and bindings they had put on her.
She’d been a delight to entertain on her name days at the Cintran court, back when Jaskier was nothing but a human bard and Queen Calanthe threatened to have his head every time he visited if he whispered a word about the law of surprise.
He’d missed Ciri too, he realized, but had been too busy in his misery to notice.
He left them, tent flapping closed behind his back, and turned his voice into death as soldiers charged at him with silver swords and pikes.
***
He was panting, covered in human guts and blood, by the time he was done.
He retched beside the last body, trembling with the lingering effects of his own power, knees deep in mud and blood, his hands clawing at his sides where he’d been pierced with blades and his skin burned badly because of the silver.
They hadn’t known, of course, that only a golden dagger through his heart could end him.
His other parent had been a banshee, his mother had told him once--only once, because she was ashamed, Jaskier realized, ashamed of what that brief love had brought her; a son that was not a siren and not a banshee, a son that was only a strange monster that even his peers hated, a son that was not supposed to exist.
He hated using his Shriek, hated it more when he lost himself to the bloodlust and forgot his humanity for a moment.
He heard footsteps behind him and sighed. He could recognize Geralt’s gait--injured or not--in his sleep; he could recognize his love blind and deaf and by touch alone if he needed to.
He didn’t know whether that was his Siren side or his other side, but Jaskier was acutely attuned to him and only him.
“Come, Jaskier,” the Witcher said, tone rough but not unkind. “More will come, we need to go.”
He looked up, to the hand his former best friend was offering him, and up further still, to warm eyes that didn’t look horrified or disgusted.
Maybe he’d died and this was his own made-up afterlife, because on anyone else he would’ve called that look… fond.
He shook his head, taking a shuddering breath and shutting his eyes tight.
He was a beast, the kind Geralt slayed for a living. There could be no place for him in the Witcher's little family, no matter how hard he wished it to be.
The Witcher seemed to take the decision into his own hands and picked him up like he weighed nothing, strong arms going behind his knees and shoulders, holding him close to his love’s chest.
“Just leave me here,” he said. To die, he did not add.
Geralt huffed, pressing his nose to the former bard’s temple, unperturbed by the gore covering the creature.
“I will not leave you,” he rasped, “not again.”
Jaskier felt his three-lidded eyes well up with tears and used the last of his strength to weep.
He wondered, delirious, if when he woke up Geralt would do what the Nilfgaardians had not and kill him.