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What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back?
It’s the Countess de Stael that whispers it to him between soft kiss bitten lips and feather-light sheets. She asks it so casually, the words were spoken so softly that Jaskier could almost pretend not to hear it.
Except,
Except the words sink into his skin like a sharp silver knife digging in. Tearing through tissue and sinew and muscle alike. The wound opening up, yielding to the knife and devouring the pain. His body accepts the thinly veiled-barbed words and his mind sinks into them.
This break in the silence that had fallen between the two naked lovers, forces Jaskier back into his reality.
His harsh, bleak, unwanted reality.
The words shatter the illusion he had of the two of them being in love, shatters the dreams he had that said this, this thing between them was enough.
For the Countess to be speaking this out loud, to speak it so bluntly, means not only has Jaskier failed miserably to hide his own love for another but also that she herself does not love him. Because if she did, surely she would not be asking this question as she would already know the answer.
He curses himself for never being enough. Curses himself for loving so much. Why? Why was he doomed to love things that cannot love him back?
But this bittersweet moment? He’s used to them.
So, he leans upon his chest, elbow pressed into the sheets whilst one hand holds his head up. The other delicately runs down the woman’s auburn hair, down across her neck, his fingers leaving a trail of warmth as they gently stroke paths across her bare chest.
He smirks at her, but his eyes glint with his unspoken sadness.
“Like you’ve stayed up all night to watch the sunrise but somewhere in between dusk falling and dawn breaking you fell asleep,
when you wake the sun is shining brightly at you, and the warmth is bittersweet because once again you’ve missed it’s rising but you’re still happy that it rose all the same.”
Her eyebrows raise, and she emits a sweet-sounding giggle. “Ah, always the poet, even in bed.” And Jaskier snorts because she is right and he is.
He always will be. Words come to him easily, yet for some reason, the answer to her question is not that easy to give.
...
It’s not the first time he’s been asked it either, and he knows it won’t be the last.
It’s a question that has bounced around in his own head for years. A question that in his darkest hours plagues his mind and demands he drown in the crushing inevitability of its truth.
“What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back?”
He’s at a tavern and he’s stood at the bar, his head bent in conversation with the barmaid, except he hasn’t spoken to her for quite a while now. His attention had been caught by the sight of a buxom lady draping herself across Geralt’s lap. And Geralt? He had welcomed the intrusion, clasped his arm tightly around her waist and brought her closer to him.
Jaskier could not take his eyes off them, his entire world focussed on the small hands running through the Witcher’s loose hair. But he hears the barmaids words all the same.
They resonate with him after all.
He tears his eyes away from the pair and looks back at the blonde barmaid. Her face shows only kindness and her eyes reflect the all-knowing look a mother has when she asks a question of her son, she already knows the answer to.
He smiles slightly, can’t help that his eyes flicker towards the source of his pain, but then he squares his shoulders, breathes in deeply and turns his back on Geralt and the woman who’s in the place where he himself should be.
“It’s like finding a torn off root from a flower long since departed. It’s like placing that root in a small pot and giving it the soil and the water and nutrients it needs to grow. It’s watching the root grow stronger and find its place in the world.”
And the barmaid watches the bard’s face carefully, sees the cornflower blues fill with unshed tears and so she places her hand upon the bard’s arm and squeezes.
“You watch it grow tall and stand proud, you see the way it sways in sunlight, its flowering petals a sight to behold, but all too soon the pot is too small, the flower needs more room, and so you plant it outside in a meadow and you watch it sway in the wind and you see it grow, but it no longer needs you.”
He stops and she sighs.
“You should make that into a song love.”
The side of his mouth ticks up and he nods his head before saying,
“If you listen carefully, all my songs sing of what you ask.”
Then he’s turning away, walking towards the stairs that will lead him to the room he and Geralt are supposed to be sharing.
Not tonight they won’t be.
...
He’s watching Geralt through the broken window and the relief that floods through his veins is short-lived as he sees the witch from before settling herself down upon the Witcher’s lap.
See’s Geralt thrust up and into her. He sees the two most beautiful people he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on, make love to one another under a crumbling building.
And oh Gods does it hurt.
To see the woman who not two minutes ago was trying to tear Jaskier apart, trying to tear her own self apart by the dark magic within the room.
It hurts to see the man that the bard has come to love, head back inside and risk his life for someone they do not know.
Hurts because this action only helps to further prove to Jaskier why he fell for the man in the first place. But, to now see this man turn back on Jaskier once again? Find solace in someone else, when Jaskier is standing right there? When Jaskier would offer it up in a heartbeat if only the Witcher asked?
The pain is strong and it coats his tongue in a bitter sadness.
When he turns around and faces the elf before him. Whatever the non-human sees in Jaskier it’s not enough to stop him from asking that dreaded question,
“What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back? “
He smiles weakly at Chireadan.
And normally he’d come up with some poetic flowery verse, something that said everything and nothing . Something weaved to make those who asked it feel like they had been answered honestly. Yet, he always held some truth back, no one needed to know the true heartbreak felt.
But he’s not an idiot, and when he looks upon the elves face he shakes his head at what he sees. Sorrow fills his bones and makes him weary, he knows heartbreak when he sees it.
“I feel you already know the answer to that my friend.”
Chireadan looks startled and then drops his head, teeth biting his bottom lip. Jaskier watches the man breathe in deeply, glance back at the broken window, square his shoulders and stare determinedly at the bard.
“You’re right. We should go.”
So, once again Jaskier walks away.
...
He’s walking away.
He’s on a mountain top, far from civilisation, a weeks trek away from a tavern where he can drown in his sorrows. He’s on a fucking mountain that he never wanted to be on, to begin with.
He’s on a stupid fucking mountain that has opened old wounds and created new ones. He doesn’t know where the pain beings and if it will ever end.
It’s like his life has been forging ahead to this moment, like every choice and step forward he has ever made was all to bring him to this place. To this moment in time where that god damn question would finally be answered.
“What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back? “
His mind repeats the question again and again and again...
It’s like this he thinks, as he stumbles down rocky mountain paths, has his feet scramble to find purchase on the gravely ground, as his hands and arms shoot out to try to help find his balance, it’s like this he thinks:
“It starts with your heart. That thing that beats only for you, that thing that beats to keep you alive, but somewhere along the way it starts to beat for another. The pitter-patter happiness of its beats brings you joy, makes you laugh and smile. Your heart once beat only for you now beats for the love you have fallen for.
And you’re okay with that.
You relish in it in fact. So, you happily offer up your heart, the heart that’s so easily accepted its fate. And you watch as the heart sits waiting. Sits by itself. The pitter-patter slows as it waits to be seen.
Darkness grows.
The heart grows weak.
Where’s the light? Where’s the warmth? Where’s the care and attention that you yourself have always given it?
It starts with the offering up of the heart and ends with the offer being torn to shreds. It ends with the heart being sneered at. It finishes with the heart being wished to be elsewhere. But your heart belongs to that person, your heart cannot leave, your heart is stuck forever waiting.”
Jaskier stumbles and he falls, but he picks himself back up. His hands clutch tightly to his lute’s strap and his tears fall rapidly down his cheeks.
He wishes for once his head would quieten down. He wishes for once that he was no poet. He wishes for once that he could not put words to how he feels, because it only makes it worse.
He wishes he were somewhere else too.
...
Months have gone by,
or is it years?
Jaskier does not know. His head is clearer now. His heart no longer bleeds but it still waits in silence and in darkness to be seen.
Jaskier thought he knew pain before,
Before the mountain. But he was wrong. It was only after, that he learned of true pain.
But it’s the pain that keeps him alive. It’s the pain that keeps him awake now as he screams in his bounds. As he roars against the stinging magic that rains down on him. The cuts and slashes that are gouged into him.
He loses consciousness he thinks but his brain is still active. His mind still reels and rebels against the torture. But his mind is also torturing him. In its haste to keep Jaskier awake it flashes image after image of the man he loves, the man he offered his heart too, the man he gave his heart away too, the man that never took it.
And Jaskier thinks this hurts worse. Worse than the mage standing over him now as he breaks, and mewls and cries and falls to the floor. Worse than the man using a blunt steel knife to slash into his skin.
He hates his brain for bringing up memories that only taste bittersweet. Hates his head for filling up with warmth at the mere mention of the Witcher’s name.
“Where is he little lamb? Where’s the white wolf you love so much?”
He hates her. He hates this witch and the man at his side cutting into him. Hates that he cannot hate Geralt. Hates that even now, amidst his pain he will continue to love and cherish the Witcher.
It gives him strength, somewhere deep inside him, like a root taking place and burying itself deep within him and unfurling its stems, it shoots upwards and pushes Jaskier back to his feet.
“What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back? “
“It does not matter.” He thinks. “It does not matter because I chose to love it. I chose him and I’ll always choose him. Love is to give and to share. Love is what I am made of and love is what will heal me.”
“You’ll die if you do not tell me where your damn Witcher is.”
And so be it, Jaskier thinks. So be it. If I die here today, protecting the thing that I love then I shall die a happy man.
The pain continues and his screams echo into the dark night,
he blacks out.
...
“He’s awake- Geralt come quick.”
Jaskier can hear a grunt and knees click as a body comes to rest by his side. He feels roughened hands gentle on his face as it is tipped upwards and his eyes open at last.
His heart clenches at seeing the Witcher so close.
He can see golden eyes staring back at him and sees pain and fear etched into Geralt’s face. Huh.
“Try not to move so much, you’ve been out cold for three days at least.” Gods how Jaskier has missed this gruff voice. He stills his body at the man’s words and attempts to speak but stops when he finds his throat sore and overused.
“Here, some water.” And this voice is new and not new. Soft and light and kind of familiar to him.
He turns his head to see a little girl that looks like the mirror image of Princess Pavetta and he gasps because that means Geralt has found his destiny. Geralt has listened and Geralt has accepted his fate.
He tries to smile weakly and he greedily gulps down the offered water, savouring the feel of Geralt’s hand on the back of his neck as he helps the bard drink from the water skin.
“You found her then.” he manages to croak out.
A snort, then, “More like she found me.” Jaskier watches in amazement as a smile spreads across the stubborn Witchers face, a smile so clearly full of affection for the little girl.
And Jaskier’s heart soars once more.
He loves this man and he hates that he loves him still, but he cannot help who his heart has chosen.
Geralt sends Ciri to get more firewood as he notices Jaskier beginning to shiver. They have made some sort of camp up in a woodland that Jaskier has no energy to start guessing where in the world it belongs too.
He watches Geralt watch Ciri walk away slowly, making sure he can see her in the distance as she begins to pick up piece after piece of dried wood. Happy that she is safe Geralt’s attention drifts back to the bard and he helps to lean Jaskier up against a tree.
“I wanted to say thank you.”
Jaskier is startled out of his thoughts and his eyes drift back to Geralt’s own. Doesn’t quite know what to say back, or what exactly Geralt is thanking him for.
As if sensing the bard’s questions he answers with, “Thank you for enduring all of that, going through what you did, all that pain, just for me.”
Jaskier snorts out loud because, “Oh darling. I’m used to the feeling of pain by now.”
And Geralt looks confused and anguished. “What do you mean? Have you been torture-” he’s cut off though by the bard shaking his head at him.
Of course, he wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t understand Jaskier’s poetic meaning. Wouldn’t get that the pain felt from that mage and her handyman was nothing compared to the pain he’s carried with him all these years.
He feels brave and stupid all at once as he gets the courage to finally just let it out. “That pain was nothing compared to the pain of loving something and knowing they will never love you back.”
He stares imploringly at Geralt, prays that he understands what he means. Gets that this is him laying his heart at the wolf’s door yet again. Presenting it feebly but presenting it all the same. Because he’s done.
He’s done with scrambling to pick it back up after every offering. He’s done pretending that it doesn’t exist, exist solely for Geralt. His heart belongs with his Witcher whether he wants it to or not. And he’s done feeling sorry for himself that he won’t get the white wolf’s heart offered up to him in return.
Except,
Except Geralt looks at the bards face, studies it quietly and his eyes are downcast and appear wet and his breathing is shallow and his voice seems to be closing up as he says,
“Is that- is that what you thought? That I don’t love you back.”
Jaskier gasps and his mouth drops open slightly because what? What is Geralt saying?
And then Geralt is kneeling closer to him, carefully placing both hands on either side of Jaskier’s face. He gently runs a thumb down the bard’s cheek and wipes away the tear that Jaskier didn’t know he had released.
“I’m sorry I let you believe that, but I need you to know now, that I love you. have loved you for years, and...if you’ll let me, I’ll love you for more to come.”
Jaskier cannot believe it, he thinks perhaps he is still in that mage’s cave being tortured and that this is his brain’s way of coping, tricking him into believing something that could never be true.
But then, Geralt is closing the gap between them.
He’s pressing his lips softly against the bard’s own and Jaskier’s brain could never imagine this. He sighs into the kiss and his own hand comes up to tug Geralt closer.
The Witcher goes willingly and their soft gentle kisses turn more passionate, turn more frantic. They both pour the contents of their broken hearts into it. They both relish in the feel of their hearts knitting themselves back together, joining as one.
They kiss for what seems like a lifetime and what feels like a second.
They break apart to catch their breaths and Jaskier cannot help the grin that overtakes his face, laughs happily as Geralt’s own is reflected back.
“Gods I love you,” Jaskier says so happy to be free from the chains that had held him back.
Geralt’s eyes shine and then he’s leaning back down to kiss the bard again and Jaskier can feel the grin on the Witcher’s lips. He thinks he could get used to this.
“Ahem. Please stop, I would like to keep my dinner down thanks.”
Geralt laughs uproariously at Ciri’s interruption and he turns away from Jaskier but keeps his hand on the bard’s neck, stroking softly the skin there. Then with his free hand, he grabs Ciri around the waist and plonks her on the floor between them.
“Ciri meet Jaskier, Jaskier meet Ciri.”
Jaskier can feel his insides stretch and fill with golden warmth. Can feel a lightness within in him as he looks from the small adorable child back to the man that he loves.
Yes, he could very easily get used to this.
...
His brain sometimes still asks him this question,
“What’s it like to love something that cannot love you back? “
But this time his answer is simple,
“I don’t know,” he replies, “that something loved me back all along.”
...