Work Text:
He did the best he could with all he had to keep Jaskier alive, but in the end humans will be humans, and if they are lucky enough, they'll die like humans
As the tears dry and youth fades away, Geralt wielded that heavy sword with the blood of many, many monsters and others as monstrous as humans who were torn apart for someone's safety, the silver seemed not so shiny as he paid for the hotel room where he had spent the night and quietly walked out the door with a broken bell above it, both it and the door worn down by time.
To the bard's sadness, his death was not as dramatic as most poets would have wanted, there were no rivers of blood or a true battle, he did not go with a heroic act that would make him - more - known and like most poets, he would not be remembered if not for a few verses written during the stupor of drink or particular melancholy. He did not die of unhappiness like his more dramatic colleagues, or in prison like the more angry ones. He died like someone whose body no longer wanted to live.
He was sleeping peacefully in a hotel room with Geralt when his heart refused to beat one more time. Oh, what a disappointing end for the bard.
Geralt, of course, sought nothing more in his companion's death than what he had to find in his own eyes. Jaskier was old, obviously he would die at some point, but it occurred to him that he had not considered that the human would meet his end before himself, who risked his life killing demons for a few silver and gold coins. The death of his singer did things to him that he would share with no one but Roach, who watched him draw closer to her in an unusual way. Not that she particularly complained about the company and affection, but he could spend hours just watching the fire burn while resting his back on her belly, a habit he had previously reserved only for the coldest places, so even she could see that something was wrong.
He spoke even less than before, the constant grief in his chest occupying most of his thoughts, and the little conversation he had with the merchants—Jarkier used to be the one who did that kind of thing, asking unusual and inappropriate questions about the work, haggling with sellers—had practically disappeared.
He would sit in bars with a drink and listen to other bards sing the songs he himself had witnessed being composed, none of them had a similar voice, none of them were Jaskier, they would never even come close to him, and bitterly, he would get up and go up to a room, not to sleep - Jaskier had also been the one to instill in Geralt the habit of resting, a habit that died with him - just lying down to escape the longing that permeated his brain, causing the lyrics to mix with his memories. It had been years since Jask had released that ballad, and yet many still sang it. Would they never let the music fade away too?
He clearly remembered seeing him dancing on dirty tables and stages with lights coming from everywhere, his personal favorites coming from cheap hostels in small towns where they passed through, the bard grabbing him to dance with the door locked, just the two of them isolated from the world. Geralt never had a love for the art of dance and music, but watching Jaskier dance and sing to him became a cherished sight. He danced distractedly under the stars formed on the floor by the corrugated zinc roof, which was penetrated by the white moonlight responsible for illuminating the night and warding off evil. Little did he know of the misfortune that awaited him. Poor creature
Hunger and sleep did not reach him at the distance he was, but sometimes when fatigue got the better of him and his head found a soft pillow, he dreamed, dreamed of the happiness he could no longer have. In the confusion of memories mixed with adventures that formed new stories, Geralt saw that Jarkier was all he had, the only one who had him. At night, he combed his hair without being asked, and while he lost himself in the land of dreams, he clung to Geralt's neck as if the witcher were about to disappear in the middle of the night through the loose window frame.
He woke up with his body covered in cold sweat and a bitter taste in his mouth, a taste that would bother him for days on end like a sore tooth, taking away the flavor of things. He briefly considered visiting a healer, because somehow it also affected his vision, now eternally opaque. When the pain passed and fatigue cornered him in a city, he surrendered to sleep again, like a vicious cycle of torture that was impossible to escape.
He sat down at the table in the tavern where some men were playing cards, waited a few seconds for his presence to be recognized and approved. He had no particular passion for games of luck, but he just needed some futile distraction.
Four men sat at the table, the fifth had the pile of cards in his hand. They talked among themselves and paid little attention to him. As he watched them from afar, he could see that gambling was a regular occurrence, and although they were old, their hands were as nimble as those of archers in their prime. He dealt the cards but hesitated for a moment before skipping Geralt, not giving him any cards. The witcher was not particularly offended; it was quite common for many men and women to exclude him or generally ignore him, so he just started to get up. Before he could get out of his chair, the man held out his hand to stop him.
"Don't get me wrong," he finished handing out the nine cards to everyone and placed the remaining ones in the corner of the table. "You would lose, and it's not fun to play when you just lose." He didn't look Geralt in the eye as he said this, busy tidying up the cards in his hand.
"Why?" He tried to keep his tone non-threatening, so as not to scare the man out of the establishment, as had happened before. But it didn't take much more for him to realize that the man did not fear him.
"Victory doesn't belong nor looks good with the unhappy."
He raised his head and looked directly into Geralt's eyes, his heartbeat showing nothing but the truth, and a scent of pity hanging over them. His words held no malice, but a warning of certainty: Geralt would lose.
He calmly left the table and, without closing the door, went to look for Roach, which he had left tied up in a stable a few meters behind the bar. He climbed on and rode aimlessly down the road again, a long life that predestined an even longer road to travel. As the sun rose on the horizon, the bohemians' time passed along with the birds that woke up singing in the trees.
He walked down the road hoping to see a head of brown hair with a comforting presence, but he also struggled with the desire not to see anyone.
Perhaps, naturally, fate would take him back to the top of that green hill where he was buried among the dandelions that broke fragile when they collided with the wind
And as his head filled with memories of a beautiful voice singing songs that never reached the ears of the general public, Geralt felt something warm and wet run down his face, and even if only a little, a weight lifted from his chest