Chapter Text
Jaskier is reasonably certain that he is dead. The evidence is staggering: He’s got a killer headache, like from the worst kind of hangover. He’s tired and sleep of the dead sounds very appealing right now. And on top of that, a man just walked through him. So that can’t be good. And he is cold the way people get when nothing is touching them except for freezing air.
(He thought it would feel like relief. He had expected it to be a gorgeous, final, end-of-the-road sort of ending. But it’s only more – more pain, more emptiness, heavier limbs. Relief is further than a daydream away.)
How did this happen? All he remembers is going to sleep and then waking up in the forest. Only he didn’t wake up the way humans do. He blinked and then he was here, on his feet, amidst the tall-standing trees of the forest. He – appeared. Like by teleport. He would suspect it was some prank by a mage who (probably rightfully) has it out for him if it weren’t for being half translucent.
“Fucking great,” Jaskier roars at the vast forest, trying to make his voice big enough to fill the space so it can reach whatever deity is listening. “Yes, thank you! What more could we do to Jaskier after we fucked up his life and turned everything to horseshit? Oh, yes, I have the idea. Why don’t we just take it from him? He can’t have a bad life if he doesn’t have a life at all, is that what you were thinking? Hire another solution-maker, you bastards!”
So. So. So, so, so. All he needs to do is keep his cool, which should be easy, considering he’s bloody freezing. Step one after dying: Figure out your where-abouts. Should be useful to know whether he’s about to be ripped to shreds by hellhounds or worse (like running into that nincompoop from court who thought he could actually play the hurdy-gurdy better than Jaskier and died from slipping in the stables a month later).
Taking stock: Trees. Lots and lots of trees. How to categorize those? Trees more a sign of a friendly atmosphere or eternal damnation? Or are these the naughty trees, sent to be punished in the afterlife? (Can a tree commit a sin? Splurged on sunlight, now off to hell with the greedy thing?) He’ll mark it off as a maybe. What else? He’s standing on a path, which is where that rude wanderer just walked straight through him without even so much as an apology. Next to the path, a horse – woohoo, a clear score for eternal damnation. (What do you think is holding them upright? Their frail spindly legs? No! It’s undeniably the power of Satan.) And – might that lump by the road be a person? Jaskier steps a little closer, leaning over the lump.
Ah. Who else could it be but Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken and Jaskier’s fragile heart himself? There was never any question he would be in Jaskier’s afterlife. But which is it? Exquisite hell or torturous paradise? Right now, Geralt is sleeping, so it could be either option.
(Do you wish your last words to me had been different?)
Jaskier steps around Geralt and focuses on the horse.
“Roach!” he coos. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Sorry for what I just thought about horses. I meant it as a compliment, I swear! My mischievous lady.”
He lifts his hand to pet her head, but his hand glides right through her.
(You are careful with your wishes now.)
And she meekly turns her head, takes no note of him, as if he weren’t here at all. And he isn’t, is he? Maybe this is no illusion, no magic, no unknown adventure. Maybe this is the real Roach and the real Geralt and Jaskier is where he is not wanted once more. Forced to spend forever running after Geralt while he’s invisible to the Witcher. Ha! And Jaskier had thought the afterlife was supposed to be different.
(Those rare moments when you let me touch you, when I could find an adequate excuse.)
He stumbles and leans against the tree next to Geralt’s sleeping body, but he falls right through it. The ground can still hold him, but nothing else. He lets his heavy eyelids drop. Legs stuck in a tree. It’s all just a bad dream.
(Does a song still taste so sweet without the lute and with no ears but his own to hear it?)
Nothing has a presence. You can always tell when it’s close by. Years ago, Jaskier was stupid and starry-eyed. He thought he owned the world, he thought he had the future to fall for. At some point, all that hope and optimism had to make room for… nothing. When he starts to listen and stops believing, his chest hollows out.
(This is just the final step, yes? This is where he was headed. No sense in regrets.)
This is what Geralt always thought of him and his songs, all talk and no substance. Har, har, Geralt, bad bloody joke. He is no substance now, only cold air. Once Geralt wakes up, it will hurt so much more. Jaskier lets out a laboured breath that brings no relief. He liked being alive, he thinks. Even when he hated it.
(Marmalade sandwiches. Gosh, he will miss marmalade sandwiches.)
He can’t feel the ground beneath his back, but panic still readily comes to him. The tears don’t. Dreadfully sorry, no tears available at the moment. Why don’t you ask again in an eternity?
Jaskier stands up again and paces the floor around Geralt. Oh, nobody, I’m sorry, did I step on your feet? No one, may I ask for this dance? Here, have a glass of nothing. This is terrible. Jaskier won’t have anyone to talk to. He doesn’t know any ghosts, he doesn’t know the most popular ghost-social-spots, he doesn’t know ghost-etiquette. Although he could always talk to Geralt. This time, there will be no complaints. And Geralt’s responses have always been a rare commodity.
But the terrifying truth is, Jaskier has only himself for company now. No one to sigh at his antics, no one to suppress a laugh at one of his jokes. And he wants – yes, despite the tiredness weighing him down, he still wants. If he is still here, in a world he doesn’t belong in anymore, if the desperate longing is somehow strong enough to keep him here, then he won’t get to rest.
What a sensible man would do: accept it’s over. Accept his chances are up. Put those silly wants and needs into a clean box – place them there like something precious. And then bury them as deep as he can.
Jaskier has not, by any stretch of the imagination, ever been a sensible man.
He lies down next to Geralt, like in a dream, one of the good ones, and thinks about words.
He doesn’t have matter, but no matter, he doesn’t matter.
He lies and thinks about words that have content. Even nothing has meaning. But the word "Jaskier" does not anymore. He is just – gone.
is dead air now. Literally dead. A spot of nothing.
thinks about spirits. Don’t lose your spirit. (Don’t be one.)
is as tangible as the songs carried over the lands.
A hole in the world.
A blank.
When wants, wants everything. wants too much. Of course, turns up empty, the way the greedy do, with their slippery hands.
The leaves rustle, and say: You have lost your grip. We have seen many fall. You are no different, helpless, unbalanced, immobilized. A nestless child.
The wild wind whispers: You are alone.
Lying in a dreamish nightmare, watches as the moon moves across the cloudy sky.
But the tiredness doesn’t leave. It clings to like oil, hanging at every strand of hair, gathering in the eye sockets. It does not wash off. Tiredness, paradoxically, does not get tired.
And is tired of wondering. And is tired of regret.
When sleep will not come and stays away, turns on side and watches Geralt. At least has this. There were times when thought would never see Geralt again. But here he is. Still the same way he looked all those years ago when first became intrigued by him. Beautiful white hair, beautiful features, but tense lines on his forehead, even in his sleep. He is not restful either.
Finally, finally, after hours or minutes he rouses. gets up, elated.
“Rise and shine, Geralt! Don’t sleep your life away. Take it from me,” says lightly, and only because knows Geralt can’t hear. But Geralt jerks and rolls away in an instant, making a grab for his sword.
“Wait, can you see me?” asks.
It’s impossible. The man on the road couldn’t. Surely a random peasant won’t be so unfazed by the appearance of a ghost that he just casually strolls through .
“I can,” Geralt says. “And you know what that means?”
The word "Jaskier" still means something to someone.
“Maybe I’m not quite as dead as previously estimated?”
“It means I’ll know where to aim.”
He presses the sword closer.
“Woah, woah,” Jaskier holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but surely this is not necessary.”
“You’re not Jaskier.”
“Wha- why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because Jaskier isn’t dead. He wouldn’t dare. He knows I wouldn’t let him touch Roach for weeks if he died on me. You’re a doppler. An imposter. Something.”
Jaskier’s teeth gnash together. He is dead, all out of the blue. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t plan for this. He certainly didn’t choose to show up next to Geralt’s sleeping body. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s had a really bad fucking day.
“Go on then!” Jaskier is seething. “Put your sword through me. The only thing you’ll hurt is my feelings.”
Geralt hesitates. How courteous indeed, at least to hesitate before impaling his only friend with a sword. Or. Well. His “we’re not friends”. His “if life could give me one blessing”. His never-friend.
“So prove it,” Geralt says.
“What do you want me to say? What haven’t I put into a song that half the country has heard?”
He was proud of those songs once. Now they’re only painful reminders.
“What was the last thing I said to you?”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with? Out of all things you could ask me?”
Geralt’s face twists again, in an agonizingly familiar way. He lowers his sword, but keeps it in his hand.
“Dammit, Jaskier.”
“Oh, yes, that’s what you started with. You want me to give you the whole speech? Because, believe me, I have it memorized word for word.”
Geralt looks conflicted, confused, but also like he is trying desperately to hide everything away again. He takes one step toward Jaskier, and Jaskier twitches, not sure if he wants to step backwards or forwards, so he just stays.
“It’s not the sort of thing you forget.” Jaskier shrugs. “There are very, very few things that could have ever made me even look at you again,” he lies, and spreads out his arms. “It’s your lucky day.”
Geralt is still looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost – oops. Jaskier keeps forgetting.
“But you can’t be,” Geralt says, completely stiff. “That would mean that Jaskier –“
He reaches out to grab Jaskier’s wrist, but his hand glides right through it.
“No. No, you’re not him,” Geralt is nearly shouting now. He is clenching his jaw and has to turn around. He has so much presence in the world. He would leave craters, if he were ever gone. Whole cliffs.
Jaskier gives Geralt one more glance. It’s not like he really expected anything. He’s not Geralt’s problem anymore. Jaskier only really stayed because he thought Geralt would never know.
“How about the last words I said to you, then?” Jaskier says, because he knows when he is defeated. Even when it takes him twenty years to realize. “See you around, Geralt.”
He turns around and doesn’t know where to go and goes anyway. It’s colder now. There is no body to drag around, but Jaskier feels heavy. He is walking down a mountain. He can hear something shuffling in the bushes. He is alone and he can never learn from his mistakes because he is addicted to this one, even though it leaves him bleeding every time.
With every step, he feels himself fading a little more. It would take so little to just –
“Wait!”
He should keep walking, but disaster smells so sweet.
Geralt is standing in the same spot, like he is frozen, but Jaskier comes back to him.
“What happened to you?” Geralt asks.
“Ah, I was just, you know, enjoying the afterlife and then I thought to myself, I’m gonna fucking haunt your ass.”
Geralt looks so unhappy and somehow, Jaskier regrets waiting for him to wake up even more now.
“I’ve known my share of vengeful spirits,” Geralt says warily.
“Melitele, Geralt, I was kidding. You’re so self-absorbed.” Kind words have grown tired, don’t find their way onto Jaskier’s lips any longer and sleep at the bottom of his stomach instead. “I know this is the last thing you want, but I need a favour.”
And he doesn’t mention that Geralt is possibly the only person who can see him and he doesn’t want to be alone.
Doesn’t mention he has dreamed of Geralt every night and thought of him every day.
Doesn’t mention he would do it all again, even with the heart ache. (He knew what he was signing up for from the start.)
“What do you want?” Geralt presses out.
Jaskier doesn’t want to be just another person who takes from Geralt, who doesn’t know how to stop giving. But he is not asking for protection or shelter or food. He is only a shadow now, in the corner of Geralt’s eye. And he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I want to know how I died. And why.”
Just let me keep you, he does not say. Just for a little bit.
Geralt sheathes his sword. “What do you remember?”
“I was headed home, I think. Maybe.”
Jaskier watches Geralt’s face carefully, trying to analyse his expressions, but not quite daring to come to a definitive conclusion, seeing how badly he misread the room – or, well, the open mountain plane - the last time.
He decides to skip the reaction.
“So? Come on. Avenge me or something.”
“Really?”
“It’s the least you could do. After what you said to me.”
Geralt grumbles, but he starts to pick up his bags, which Jaskier takes to assume they’re going. Which is good. Geralt will know what to do. Once they know more - (Once Geralt doesn’t feel guilty any longer -)
Roach neighs softly, and even though she might not be able to see him, Jaskier walks toward her, intending to say something.
“Get away from Roach,” Geralt calls immediately, although Jaskier was reasonably sure he hadn’t even been looking in their direction.
Jaskier starts pouting.
“You know what you did,” Geralt says.
“Can’t touch her anyway.”
Jaskier lifts his hands and backs away.
They start walking then, the Witcher and Viscount de Can’t-take-a-hint. Side by side. And it’s almost like it used to be. And it’s almost perfect – if he had a lute, if Geralt weren’t so unnaturally tense next to him, if it weren’t for the overwhelming tiredness seated deep in his bones. But all anyone would see is a lone Witcher wandering by himself. (And it’s true - Jaskier has long since been written out of that story.)
(When a humble bard
graced a ride along with
Geralt of Rivia)
Geralt can’t look. Looking makes real. The sound is bad enough, but can be written off as a memory, an earworm, a voice in a deranged head.
(Impossible to touch what he so often flinched away from.)
(Impossible to hold what has always flown and flickered.)
(All those sweet, tender things Geralt never wanted.)
Jaskier is safe. Jaskier is somewhere. Jaskier has a pulse and a breath and a fluttering heartbeat.
It’s just him and Roach and a faint hallucination to keep him company. Anything else. Any other option. There are no other options.
(So much to miss when you almost have it.)
(Such a distantly warm feeling in his chest where he was once happy.)
(His worst mistake cuts deeper now.)
Jaskier is at the coast. He is playing in taverns. He is safe from Geralt. Safe.
Geralt is doing what he does. He gets scowled at in the streets. He takes a room.
Lies in a lonely bed.
Safe. Warm. Breathing.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep again. It’s simply rude at this point. After all, it’s not like I can join you.”
Closes his eyes, all by himself.
“Have you never heard of ‘no rest for the wicked’?”
Safe. Warm. Breathing.
“So how is the mourning going? Maybe you should start wearing black. Oh, wait.”
Sleep makes it go away, for a little bit. Guilt he doesn’t know how not to feel. Regret, his most cherished companion. His… (safe.)
(He must be.)
Waking to a nightmare. Geralt does what he does. He sharpens his sword.
“Am I just supposed to sit here and watch you make the same hand motion over and over? Not gonna lie, I’m a little starved for entertainment here in ghost-land.”
Geralt lays a book open on the table, for no particular reason at all. At random times, he turns the page.
(Still whole.)
(He must be.)
A monster to hunt, that’s what he does.
“Oh my, finally I can see one of your hunts from the premium seat.”
Geralt talks to himself sometimes.
“It’s a hunt, not a performance.”
“You really haven’t seen yourself, have you?”
A group of rotfiends. Looking dead, rotten flesh hanging off their bodies. Necrophage oil coats Geralt’s sword.
“Geralt! Watch out!”
He twirls around, takes off the head of one that was about to lurch at him. Geralt keeps moving, slicing his way through more, but they get up again, stubbornly hard to kill.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”
A shriek, the rotfiend is about to miss him, but right behind him is… Geralt twists his body, ensures the rotfiend doesn’t miss. It manages to scratch his chest before he kills it too.
“Why, by the Gods, did you do that?”
Only one left now. He kills that one too. Does what he does.
“How is your furniture doing? Because I suspect very strongly that you have got more than one screw loose.”
He wipes the blood and oil off his sword and sheathes it.
“Are you a squirrel? No? Then how come you are behaving like such a nutter?”
Geralt starts walking, grits his teeth. He’ll have to tend to the wounds back at the tavern.
“I’m dead! I’m literally dead, gone, pushing daisies, bit the dust. It’s a little late for the sacrifice game, understood?”
He arrives alone, with a rotfiend head for proof. Gets disgusted looks in the tavern.
“What were you even thinking? Melitele forbid Jaskier gets stumbled through by a rotfiend? How will I ever live with myself knowing I let a rotfiend unknowingly touch the same air as my deceased friend? What is wrong with you?”
“I’ve done what you asked,” Geralt says.
The man who hired Geralt slides over a bag of coin. Geralt doesn’t count.
Safe. Warm. Breathing. Somewhere far away from monsters and witchers and a life not suited to humans who are far too fragile, who have lives far too short…
(He has never known a vengeful spirit like…)
On his own, he goes to his room. There is no one to tend to his wounds but himself.