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leiawritesstories · 3 years ago

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Keeping It Safe--Alternate Version

because i did promise an alternate ending that doesn't involve knife twisting and death tropes...@morganofthewildfire here you go darling ❤️

Word count: ~4.8k

Warnings: grief, sadness, loss, mentions of war and death, lots of emotions, brief mentions of labor, NO DEATH TROPES THIS TIME I PROMISE

Enjoy

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The picture hung in a frame the exact shade of the dog tags hanging on a nail just to the left--dull gleaming iron gray with a faint attempt at a sheen when the light was just so, smoothly polished from loving care and the years of little and larger fingers that passed over it every time someone walked through the hallway. The glass, smooth as water and clearer than crystal, not a single fingerprint or hint of contact blurring its pristine surface, laid gently over the sepia-toned photograph in the frame, lovingly preserving the two brilliant smiles captured in time.

An old war photograph, a young soldier headed across the wide ocean without knowing whether he would come back, a young woman who loved him fiercely clinging as tightly as she could in the few moments they had left together, a camera’s brilliant flash catching the last desperate bright burning smile the couple ever shared. The decades since had not so much as touched the measure of impossible joy trapped in that photograph, despite the ocean of emptiness that the sight of that photograph brought.

Twenty-seven years now since Rhoe Galathynius kissed Evalin Ashryver goodbye and boarded the silver and brown bus that whisked him away, first to an army camp and then across an ocean, his only bridge of connection to the woman he loved the few letters he had time to dash off and slip into the post before the mail carrier left.

Twenty-seven years now since the attack that abruptly ended his final letter.

Rhoe Galathynius died without ever knowing that Evalin had been pregnant when he left. She found out days before the attack, guarded the secret closely in her heart and wrote it down in her journal and in her letter, black ink licking across ivory pages, so much life and love and laughter contained in a few simple words.

To the right of the photograph--that letter, encased in its own frame, the clear glass revealing all of Evalin’s hopes and fears, all the emotions of a war wife. She’d barely been married three months before Rhoe got the draft notice, barely three months overflowing with joy and passion to hide that ever- lurking knowledge that he could be called away at any moment. Three months of proudly displaying the matching gold bands on their left hands before Rhoe slipped the band from his finger, knelt down before her, and pressed the ring into her hand.

“Keep it safe for me, my Fireheart.”

Evalin still wore that ring on a simple chain around her neck. Growing up, Aelin remembered asking why Mama had a ring on her necklace, and she remembered the way her mother’s voice caught when she whispered that it was Dad’s ring.

That soft hitch in Evalin’s voice was the only outward sign of grief she’d ever shown her daughter, even as Aelin grew into a woman and fully understood her father’s death. Even still, Evalin never cried in front of her daughter, not even when Aelin turned eighteen and looked into the box of carefully preserved letters and mementos, almost able to hear her father’s voice for the first time.

“‘Keep it safe for me, my Fireheart,’” Evalin whispered that night as she held Aelin close to her, closing her eyes against the sudden swell of memories. “Keep it safe for me.”

Though her eyes had shone with unshed tears, Evalin still hadn’t cried on the day of Aelin’s wedding when she slipped into her daughter’s changing room and removed the chain from around her neck, settling herself into a chair at Aelin’s side. Aelin grasped her mother’s hand, willing herself to keep from crying and ruining her makeup as Evalin pressed the golden band into her daughter’s free hand.

“Your father told me to keep it safe, Fireheart, and now I’m telling you the same.” Evalin unclasped the chain, sliding the ring free. “He would want you to have it.”

“Mama,” Aelin whispered, the word something she hadn’t called her mother for years, turning Rhoe’s wedding band over in her hands.

“We’re so proud of you, Fireheart.” Evalin kissed her daughter’s forehead. “So proud.”

And when Aelin placed her father’s ring onto Rowan’s finger, claiming him as her husband, the bright burning joy of that moment could almost drown out the pins and insignias and medals and marks of honor adorning the fine navy fabric of his jacket. The sheer overwhelming happiness filling her heart and mind and soul and body could almost blot out the rigid stance of her new husband’s posture, years of military training having drilled that posture into his bones.

Just like her mother, she fell in love with a military man knowing he could at any time be called away to duty.

And he had been.

When they were dating, Rowan had knocked on Aelin’s door at the crack of dawn one foggy November morning, his standard-issue duffel bag at his feet and a storm of emotions seething in his face.

“I’ve been called up, Fireheart.”

She hadn’t said anything, just pulled him by the collar into her apartment and clung to him like her buoy in a writhing ocean, burying her face into his broad chest and inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of pine and mountain breezes that so calmed her heart. He’d wrapped her into his arms, tucking his face against her hair, whispering promise after promise into the messy blonde strands.

“Come home to me,” she breathed, fisting her hands in his jacket. “Come home.”

“Always,” he swore.

That time, he had.

Aelin remembered the strangled cry of relief and love and worry she’d released when Rowan texted her from New York, saying simply that he was back and when his flight would be landing at their local airport. She still remembered the way she gasped with all the emotions she couldn’t yet let loose when he walked through the doors, his pine-green eyes immediately latching onto her, the way her legs took on a mind of their own and brought her sprinting to him, the way he dropped his duffel and caught her and held her as close as physically possible.

So many tears shed that day, and all of them were of pure joy.

Eight months after they were married, Aelin came home from work to find Rowan sitting on the sofa twisting the wedding band around and around his tattooed finger, an opened envelope on the coffee table next to him, the military insignia stamped onto the paper blaring out the damning message.

Duty.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered softly, voice broken into a thousand thousand shards as she held him, his head tucked into the crook of her neck, his broad, honed body draped over hers, her fingers carding through his short-cropped hair.

“I know,” she breathed. “I know.”

Both of them were crying that evening, that night, curling into each other’s bodies in a tangle of limbs and skin and unspoken promises, the faint tang of steel and sweat in the air seeming like every kind of foreboding omen. Aelin’s eyes glittered with an ocean of tears when she awoke with the dawn light, stealing one precious moment of looking at her husband relaxed in his sleep, one last moment to cherish in her heart until he came home to her.

For he would come home. She would hear nothing else.

She stood strong and tall by his side at the airbase, hand laced with his until the call for boarding came and he had to leave.

“I love you,” she whispered. “Come home to me.”

“I promise.” Rowan kissed her wedding band. “I love you, Fireheart.” Softly, tenderly, he slipped the wedding band from his finger, cupping her hand with his and placing the ring into her hands.

Aelin swallowed her sob as she wrapped her fingers around the warm gold band, the warmth of her husband’s hand lingering in the precious metal.

“Keep it safe for me, my Fireheart.”

She broke at that, wrapping her arms around him and holding so tight his breath went short, her tears dripping into his jacket. Her kiss was desperate, longing, filled with a million things she couldn’t find the words to say.

“You’re coming back to me,” she gasped fiercely as she let him go, their linked hands the only point of contact. “You are.”

“I promise.”

And then Rowan’s hand fell from hers as he walked away, keeping his eyes locked on hers until the distance became too great.

Nine weeks later, she fainted in her office.

Elide Lochan, her dear friend since childhood and her coworker at the publishing firm, heard her collapse and came running into her office, reviving her and whisking her off to urgent care, where the nurse hooked her up to an IV drip, took a few samples, and came back bearing the news that nearly made Aelin faint again.

She was pregnant.

She asked the doctor for an extra set of ultrasound photos at her first scan appointment, tucking the little black-and-white images of the fourteen-week baby inside of her into the next letter she sent to Rowan.

His voice in their next phone call was broken for a far different reason than it had been when he left for this deployment.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” She sniffled, wishing and wishing she could be sharing this news face to face. “I’m pregnant, Rowan.”

“Gods,” he breathed, a muffled sob echoing faintly from his end of the call. “Gods, we’re having a baby.”

“Come home to us,” Aelin whispered when the call ended.

His promise that time was even more fervent than ever.

Six months of sharing ultrasounds and photos of her growing bump and brief phone calls whenever he was allowed time to call home passed so quickly, and before either of them knew it, Rowan was once again on the phone, this time with very good news.

He’d be home in ten days, his tour of duty over.

The baby kicked as Aelin gasped, tears springing to her eyes for a hundred different reasons. She rubbed her free hand atop her bump, soothing the baby. “That’s right, my little love, Dad’s going to be here so soon. You’d better wait until he gets here, I need to have his hand to shatter.”

Rowan’s soft, raspy chuckle was a sound that Aelin wished she could bottle up and keep forever.

Because a week after that call, his CO was the one on the other end of the line.

She didn’t remember collapsing on the kitchen floor after hanging up the phone, torrents of shock and grief and confusion and terror washing over her. She didn’t remember reaching shakily for the phone again when a searing blaze of pain speared through her lower body, didn’t remember calling her mother or the ambulance that arrived moments later or the tension and terror of that long blurry hazy night first in the ambulance and then in the hospital.

She remembered how Alanna wailed when she came into the world, the tiny baby girl’s lungs screaming out her arrival as if she, too, somehow knew what triggered her mother’s labor.

We must inform you that Captain Rowan Whitethorn is missing in action.

Aelin cradled her baby girl in a dazed state of shock, murmuring softly to her daughter and letting herself be grounded in the simple act of learning to nurse. Alanna calmed so quickly once she was fed, her little green eyes blinking sleepily up at her mother.

She looked so much like Rowan.

Lana grew so quickly, the tiny bundle of blankets she’d been at the hospital soon giving way to soft baby clothes and blankets and a beautiful crocheted hawk that Evalin had made for the baby. Every night that Lana’s cries drew Aelin out of slumber to feed and soothe her daughter made her wish for Rowan, made her wish that her beloved husband were there to see their daughter’s firsts.

But for all her efforts and searches and trips to the base to meet with the commander--nothing.

Silence.

Lana took her first bites of food, said her first words, grew her first teeth, took her first wobbling steps, had her first birthday without Rowan there to see any of it. Aelin took pictures of it all, writing down the things she couldn’t capture on a camera, building a book of Lana’s first months and years for Rowan. If and when he ever returned.

Every time the small girl woke herself up crying, Aelin wished Rowan were there.

Sometimes, she just held her daughter and cried with her, whispering that it was okay, that Mama was okay, that it was all okay, until Lana calmed down and slept in her mother’s arms, her breathing steady against Aelin’s skin.

Sometimes, she sat in the rocking chair and rocked and told her daughter stories of her father, building a picture of the strong, kind, loyal, steadfast man who loved her even when she was just a set of pictures of her growing self inside Aelin’s womb. Sometimes, she told Lana all about the way they met, that night in the crowded, dimly lit bar when Aelin in her “slight tipsiness” stumbled into Rowan hunched atop his stool at the end of the bar, nursing a beer and wearing a frightening scowl. Gods, how she wished he was there to laugh his dry, deep laugh and whisper to their precious little daughter that Mama was totally lying, that she was more than a little tipsy, that he’d been captivated by her since the moment he met her in that dingy dive bar.

Sometimes, she danced slowly around Lana’s sage-green and dove-grey room, holding her daughter against her shoulder and hiding her silent tears as her daughter grew from a little baby she could cradle in her arms to a toddler whose sleepy head slumped against her mother’s shoulder.

Always, she lingered for as long as possible, overcome by the yearning for Rowan that she thought she’d been able to control.

Always, her hand went to the ring hanging from a cord around her neck, fingers tracing over the smooth golden band as if she could still feel his warmth emanating from it.

Keep it safe for me, my Fireheart.

Gods damn it all to hell, he’d promised to come back.

Another photo hung next to the print of Rhoe and Evalin in Evalin’s house, one of Rowan and Aelin’s wedding portraits. In the image, Rowan beamed down at Aelin and she up at him, her head canted up to meet his gaze, the early evening sun washing over the scene and gilding the young couple in a bath of soft, golden light. In the image, their hands were linked, the golden band gleaming on Rowan’s finger like it gleamed on Rhoe’s hand in his and Evalin’s photograph. Aelin’s throat tightened every time she ran her finger along the smooth silver frame of that portrait, tracing the edge of her and Rowan’s all-too-brief happiness before the choking reality that he was still MIA crashed back down over her.

Lana loved seeing the pictures, her big green eyes widening when Aelin held her up to see. Indeed, one of her first words had been “Dada,” spoken not long after her first birthday when Aelin was over at her mother’s house.

Hearing those syllables in her daughter’s sweet little voice ripped the scab clean off the wound in Aelin’s fragile heart.

Only a handful of weeks away from her second birthday, Lana had taken to running all around the house and yard and nearly stopping Aelin’s heart when she turned around and her daughter had run off to another room. Mother and daughter were upstairs folding the laundry--well, Aelin was folding, Lana was playing with a couple of washcloths and talking away in toddler babble.

Four knocks thudded against the front door.

Lana dropped her washcloths. “Door!” she exclaimed, running out of the bedroom and down the hallway.

Aelin caught her before she could try and scoot down the stairs. “Uh-uh, lovey, Mama has to help you go downstairs, remember?”

“I big!” Lana pouted, wriggling a little in Aelin’s hold as they descended the stairs. “Down Mama! Dow’!”

“All right,” Aelin laughed, releasing her daughter.

Lana ran to the door and reached up for the lock, straining, her little arms still just unable to reach it. She pouted and clung to her mother’s leg. “Wanna open.”

“Of course,” Aelin smiled. “Here, help Mama open the door, lovey.”

One small hand and one larger hand turned the doorknob, swinging the front door open to find--

“Fireheart.”

Aelin’s legs wavered and she grabbed the doorframe to keep herself upright, the whirling maelstrom of emotions she’d shoved and locked away when she grew despairing of ever hearing news of Rowan bursting free from its prison and crashing over her.

For there was her husband standing in the doorway, his hair overgrown, his body haggard, his clothes not properly fitting, a fine pale scar slashing across his forehead and through his left eyebrow, his worn old duffel bag in his hand and all the oceans’ worth of tears spilling over in his eyes.

“Rowan,” Aelin choked out, somehow finding the strength to stand and reach out and touch his solid, stable frame and pull him into the house, sobbing, two years of pent-up strain at last relieved.

“Aelin,” Rowan breathed, dropping the bag in his hand and carefully pulling her into his arms, staring in shock and wonder at her and at Lana, who was in her mother’s arms.

It was their daughter who broke the silence.

“Dada?”

Rowan heaved a strangled sob, nodding, reaching out so tenderly, so hesitantly, to touch his daughter’s soft cheek. “Hi, my little one.”

“Dada,” Lana repeated, reaching out to him.

Aelin nodded, her sob a half-laugh, and carefully shifted Lana into Rowan’s arms.

The little girl stared into her father’s face, patting her small hand on his cheek, along the tattoos flicking up the side of his neck and onto his cheekbone. “Dada daw-in’s.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “Dada’s got drawings, Lana.”

He looked over to Aelin, unabashedly crying, holding Lana so gently, like he was afraid she might vanish if he so much as moved in the wrong direction.

“We love you,” she murmured, taking one hesitant step closer to him, almost like she, too, was half-worried she would blink and wake up and realize that it had all been a dream.

Rowan closed the gap, pulling his wife into his embrace, his whole family--his whole life--united at last in his arms. His shoulders quaked with the force of his sobs as he buried his face into Aelin’s hair, hiding his tears from his daughter. When he could speak again, he heaved a deep, shuddering breath and touched the cord around her neck, tracing the way it disappeared into the neckline of her shirt.

She tugged it free, revealing his wedding band--Rhoe’s wedding band--hanging from the cord, glinting in the electric light.

“I…I kept this for you while you were…away,” Aelin whispered, sliding the ring off of the cord.

Rowan’s throat bobbed. “It’s been two years.”

“I know.” An entire ocean--an entire world of grief and sadness and terror and fear and loneliness packed into those two simple words. “I know, Rowan.” Reaching down to his tattooed hand, she quietly, gently lifted his hand up, tracing her thumb over the scarred skin of his knuckles, the rough calluses on his palm, the intricate inked characters of his tattoo, some newer than others. “I love you, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius.”

“I love you, Aelin Whitethorn Galathynius,” he croaked, eyes and heart overflowing as his wife slipped his wedding band back onto his finger and softly kissed the gold, her lips caressing his skin.

Still perched in her father’s embrace, Lana clapped her little hands, babbling a stream of toddler talk of which they could only make out Mama Dada yay! “Tiss!” she squealed. “Tiss, tiss!”

Rowan blinked. “What?”

Lana wriggled and squirmed, so he set her down and followed her as she tugged him out to the hallway. Down to where another of Rowan and Aelin’s wedding portraits hung.

In this one, they were kissing.

“Tiss Mama!” she declared, beaming.

Aelin’s soft laughter echoed through the hallway. “Is that what Dada and Mama need to do, lovey?”

“Ya!” Lana nodded enthusiastically. “Mama Dada tiss!”

“Can’t say no to her, can we?” Rowan murmured, sliding his arms around his wife.

“Of course not.” Aelin ran her fingertips along his face, tracing over the new scar, her touch delicate, uncertain, yet so so familiar.

He slipped one hand into her hair, gingerly tilting her head up. “To whatever end, my Fireheart,” he breathed.

And he kissed her slowly, tenderly, reveling in the astonishing reality of holding his wife in his arms again after two long years apart

A new photo hung next to the carefully preserved photograph of Rhoe and Evalin, this one framed in polished chestnut, the wood not yet bearing the grooves of many years of hands running along its surface, the glass protecting Rowan and Aelin and Lana’s beaming faces. It was their first family portrait since Rowan returned home, the first glimpse of the three of them reunited and beyond content to bask in each other’s embrace. Rowan’s soft, fond smile brought joy to his whole pose, his bright green eyes melting as he looked to Aelin, who had Lana in her arms, the little girl beaming at her parents. There was so much happiness contained in that photo, so many months and years of quietly stifled grieving giving way to unfiltered elation. So many promises whispered in the darkest hours of the night when Rowan jolted out of troubled dreams and Aelin just held him, promising that he would never leave her again, that he would never have to leave her again. So many promises to remain at each other’s sides through it all, complete with Aelin’s fiery promise to damn the whole world to hell if it ever tried to take Rowan from her again.

He spent so much time with Lana, the little girl taking to her father immediately, almost always by his side. Aelin didn’t know how badly he’d been wounded--physically, mentally, emotionally--but as the days and weeks passed by, his strength came back, the pallor of his skin once again giving way to health and life and vigor. Many were the mornings when she’d wake up to his head tucked into her neck, his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding on like he was afraid that she’d be gone when he opened his eyes.

Many were the mornings when she felt the same way, when she reached blindly out to touch Rowan while still half-asleep herself, when she needed the reassurance that he was here, solid and warm and breathing and real beside her, that the last two long years of separation and fear and terror and hopelessness had finally ended.

Every time she walked into the living room and found Rowan and Lana on the couch or the floor or the chair looking through the albums of memories she’d preserved, Aelin felt her heart swell a little bit more. Often, she would set down whatever she was doing and join her family, smiling and laughing and telling Rowan all about Lana’s first years. With input from their daughter herself, of course.

They spent several months in that incredulous kind of peace, living in the moment and for the moment and pushing away the lingering hovering reality that Rowan’s commanders could at any point call for him and…and send him away. Again.

And eventually, his commander did call.

Rowan set the phone down heavily, shoulders slumping, and lifted his suddenly weary eyes to Aelin, standing a couple paces away with Lana in her arms, mother and daughter having listened tensely to the conversation. “Damn,” he finally whispered, his breath whooshing out in a great heaving sigh.

“Ro…” Aelin’s voice wavered. “Are you…?”

“No.” Swiftly, he gathered her and Lana into his arms, kissed both blonde heads. “No, Fireheart, I’m not going back to duty. I think.”

Her brows furrowed. “That’s not a promising answer.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “Commander told me I’m to show up at the base tomorrow morning for a meeting. Didn’t say what the--what that meeting would be, though.”

Aelin shuddered a little. “Well…it’s not new deployment orders?” She nibbled at her lower lip, forcing herself to keep calm. “Right?”

“Right.” Rowan stroked his thumb along her cheekbone, comforting her as he could. “It could be almost anything, but I don’t think I’m being sent back.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing thickly. “Not after getting hurt.”

“Dada sad?” Lana piped up, the two-and-a-half-year-old girl reaching for her father.

He took her into his arms, patting her back, tousling her soft blonde curls. “No, lovey, Dada’s not sad, just uncertain.”

Her little fingers touched the furrow in his forehead. “No be sad, Dada.”

His lips quirked up a tinge. “I’ll try, little love.” He planted a great smacking kiss onto her cheek, making her squeal and squirm.

“Nooo dada!”

Aelin huffed a soft chuckle, watching her husband tease their daughter before setting her down, letting her return to her mother’s side and wrap her little arms around her leg. “It’s okay, Lana love.” She knelt down to hug her. “It’s going to be okay.”

Rowan’s fingers tapped erratically against his thigh as he sat in the car, staring straight out the window to keep his mind fixed on something rather than letting it run loose. In the driver’s seat, Aelin slipped him a glance, wishing she could reach over and hold his hand but keeping herself fixed on the road.

All too soon, they arrived at the military base and stopped at the visitor gate, Rowan showing the guard his credentials so they could pass through. When they parked, he just stayed still, not ready to reach for the seatbelt and unbuckle himself and walk into the base to face whatever the hell his fate was going to be. Sitting there in his navy dress uniform, hair neatly brushed and badges of honor in tidy gleaming rows along the breast of the jacket, he looked like a statue. Frozen, immobile, his breath barely visible.

“I love you,” Aelin whispered, reaching across to softly, lightly touch her fingertips to the back of his hand. “I love you, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius.”

Slowly, his hand curled around hers. “To whatever end, Aelin Whitethorn Galathynius,” he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears, unspoken words. “To whatever end.”

They all walked into the building together, Rowan in his dress uniform and Aelin and Lana in dresses and nice shoes, hand in hand in hand. The officer who met them was every picture of a proper soldier, down to the crisp salute he gave Rowan.

“My apologies, ma’am, but the orders are thet Captain Whitethorn comes alone.”

So Aelin and Lana waited, sitting in a quiet earth-toned room with a couple of armchairs and a small bin of blocks and books for young children. Aelin tried to keep herself together, whispering over and over that it was just a meeting. Even Lana picked up on the fear layering the atmosphere, the little girl quiet and subdued, clinging to her mother rather than going over to see the toys.

It was the longest hour of Aelin’s life.

When the young officer--the same one who’d escorted her to the waiting room before walking away with Rowan--knocked politely on the door and entered, she shot up from her chair, ready to bombard the young man with questions. Anticipating that, he simply offered her the open door.

“Captain is waiting for you, Mrs. Whitethorn.”

Out in the lobby, Rowan stood facing the windows, his hands clasped behind his back in that old familiar military posture of his. He turned at the sound of her and Lana’s footsteps, a tiny little grin curving one corner of his lips.

“Tell me you’re not leaving again,” Aelin whispered haltingly, wrapping her hands around his. “Please, Rowan.”

That fraction of happiness curling his lips broke into a broad joyous grin the size of the whole entire sky. “I’m staying right here, my Fireheart.”

She covered her mouth to stifle the sob that escaped, half-disbelieving. “You--”

“I’ve been honorably discharged,” he murmured, sweeping her and their daughter into his embrace. “I’m never going back into duty, my love.”

She muffled her emotion, tucking her face into his dress jacket to keep her tears from falling. “I don’t--I don’t know what to do, Ro,” she croaked.

He ran his hand down her back, soothing, calming. “Anything, Fireheart. We can do anything.”

~~~

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#my writing #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin #alternate ending fic #still angsty though #not gonna lie #it's not a fluffy one #but i fixed the ending #angst #rowaelin angst #but it's angst with hea

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a-kind-of-merry-war · 4 years ago

Text

The Spirit of Belleteyn

Geralt & Jaskier are invited to a Belleteyn celebration thanks to the uncanny similarities between Geralt’s most recent hunt and a famous ballad about the festival. But the story is just a story, and the magic of true love’s kiss doesn’t exist. Right?

9.6k words. Contains: Dual POV, painful mutual pining, fairy tales and heavy angst with a happy ending. Rated T/M(ish).

The setting sun throws a golden light over the handful of buildings at the edge of town, casting long shadows down the dirt path. Jaskier leans against the low stone wall, the perfect size for a bard to perch on, half-heartedly tuning the strings of his lute as he awaits Geralt’s return. For once, he isn’t alone in his vigil: he’s been joined by a dozen or so townsfolk, all apparently waiting for the witcher. Even the mayor is here, hovering nervously.

It’s an odd little scene, all these folk clustered at the edge of the town. No doubt this is because of the festival, he thinks: tomorrow is Belleteyn, and they must be keen to be rid of the creatures that plague their fields so they can celebrate.

It’s not often that Geralt has a party waiting for his return, and Jaskier is doubtful that he’ll be pleased. He’s much happier dealing with contracts one-on-one, so he can barter payment in peace, and he does not enjoy being greeted like some hero with cheering and applause. He’s wondering if it might be a good idea to attempt to move the crowd along, when he’s approached by a pair of little girls.

“You with the knight?” One asks, getting straight to the point.

Jaskier looks down at them. “Do you mean Geralt?”

She nods furiously. “Do you think he’ll kill the wyverns?”

“Of course he will,” says Jaskier, without hesitation.

“Good.” She looks extremely serious. “And what about the spirit?”

Jaskier pauses. The contract had said nothing about a wraith - just a pair of wyverns nesting in a nearby barn. Anxiety twists in him; Geralt had not prepared for a wraith.

“The spirit?” He asks.

“The Spirit of Belleteyn!” Says the child, rolling her eyes at Jaskier’s ignorance. “Obviously.”

Slowly, Jaskier realises what she’s talking about, and why so many people have gathered to wait. There’s a story about this - a ballad that he learned before he’d even stepped foot in the academy. A knight who saves a town the day before Belleteyn, the woman he woos, the magic that springs beneath her feet.

He realises why, when they’d come across the contract two weeks ago, he recognised the name of the town. This is Mirstone: this is where the story comes from.

But, oh, the artist in him simply cannot resist. Now he knows that this little town on the edge of nowhere is the centre of one of the most famous courtly ballads of all time, he has to explore. It’s like he can feel the ground beneath his feet trembling with magical potential, with chaos. And with Belleteyn so close he can already smell the bonfires....

It would go against his reputation as a bard and a lover to leave.

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “I can’t make any promises about the Spirit of Belleteyn, but I’m quite sure about the wyverns.”

The little girls don’t seem particularly pleased by this, but Jaskier has no intentions to promise the impossible. The Spirit of Belleteyn is no more than a story - the wyverns are real and deadly and, unfortunately, quickly making their way through the town’s increasingly limited supply of sheep.

But when he was young he too was more interested in fairy stories than real life, even if real life included terrible raging beasts. Anyway: he’d seen his fair share of things he’d thought impossible. Perhaps the Spirit of Belleteyn was real, after all, and they’d all see her tomorrow evening.

He’s about to ask the pair more about the knight, and how he relates to Geralt, when a man rushes over, kicking up dust along the road.

“Ada, Mia!”

The two little girls turn, their faces suddenly matching pictures of innocence.

“I’m sorry,” the man says, looking a little flustered. “Were they bothering you?”

“Not at all,” Jaskier chuckles. “They’re very sweet.”

“He said the man is going to kill the wyverns!” One of the little girls says, tugging at the man’s sleeve.

“Is that right?”

"He's a gallant knight, saving us from the monsters!" Says the other.

Jaskier can’t help but burst out laughing. “He’s a witcher,” he says, “not a knight.”

“But he kills monsters?”

“Well, yes.”

“And it’s Belleteyn eve!”

“It is.”

She gives him a long, withering stare, as if waiting for him to work it out.

“So he’s the knight,” she says, finally. “Like in the song.”

There is no reasoning with the irrefutable logic of small children. “I suppose,” Jaskier says, defeated.

The man - presumably the father of one or both of the girls - gives him an apologetic smile before moving them along.

“—but it’s Belleteyn,” one of them moans as he ushers them down the road.

“It’s Belleteyn tomorrow,” he says. “Today is Wednesday, which means it’s time to clean out the chickens before it gets too dark.”

Jaskier listens to the girls’ grumbles of complaint with a small smile.

He can’t help but think they may be a little misguided in their assumptions that Geralt is their gallant knight. Knights in the stories very rarely leave monster guts under their fingernails for five whole days, nor do they swear at you when their hair needs to be untangled after rolling around in swamp muck. The sorts of knights Jaskier sings about - used to sing about - don’t fucking bite the things they’ve been tasked to stop.

He’s also fairly certain that knights, or at least the ones in the tales, don’t take pay for their work. If someone refused to pay Geralt, blood would be spilled.

Geralt is a great many things, but he's not a knight. If Jaskier had attached himself to a knight, he’d actually have a dance partner for the occasional ball or banquet they’re forced to attend. If he’d attached himself to a knight, when he was barely more than eighteen, he’d witness acts of grand courtly love, the highs and lows in his ballads more fact than fiction. If he was a knight’s bard, and not a witcher’s…

Maybe his muse would love him back. That’s what knights do, afterall; more than the slaying and the fighting and the glorious battles. They love.

Jaskier grips his lute a little tighter and shakes his head, trying to rid himself of that thought. He doesn’t want to be caught moping.

Thankfully, before he can muse any more on his hopeless situation, he’s interrupted by the man of the hour, trudging grumpily down the road towards the town. He’s got a pair of wyvern heads dangling bloodily from one hand, uncaring for the splattering mess he’s leaving on the road behind him.

Jaskier bites back a laugh. A gallant knight indeed.

Geralt spots him through the crowd with a little scowl. Jaskier raises his hands and mouths at him - not my fault! - before Geralt shakes his head, sighs, and heads towards the mayor, lingering at the very edge of the gathering.

He dumps the heads at his feet.

“Done.” He says. “My pay?”

Jaskier watches the mayor reach into the recesses of his robe for Geralt’s money. Keen to assess whatever damage Geralt has managed to take during the fight, Jaskier hops down from the wall and saunters over, ignoring the little string of people following behind.

“Geralt,” he says, cooly. “All went well, I trust?”

Geralt doesn’t take his eyes off of the mayor. “As well as could be expected.”

The mayor, to his credit, does not back down beneath that hard gaze, but passes Geralt a heavy pouch of coins that clink merrily as he does. Geralt nods, stows the bag into some hidden pocket, and turns to leave before the mayor calls after him. Jaskier knows what he’s going to ask before he’s even finished speaking.

“You’ll be staying, of course? For the festival?”

Geralt stills. He turns. “What? Why?”

Jaskier takes this moment to step forward. “Geralt!” He says, cheerily. “Remember how I told you I was sure I recognised the name of this town?”

“You said no such thing.”

Jaskier huffs. So much for diplomacy. “Perhaps I only thought I told you…” he muses, catching the eye of the mayor. “Anyway! This is Mirstone, Geralt!”

“I’m aware.”

“The Mirstone!”

“And?”

“And you know the tale of the Knight and the Spirit of Belleteyn, yes?”

Geralt peers at him. “No.”

Jaskier can sense that the townspeople are watching them. They’re keen for Geralt to become part of their story, just for one night. It’s a sentiment Jaskier can empathise with. And, truthfully, he’d rather like to stay himself. It’s not often that the fates align so that he’s both with Geralt and at a festival when Belleteyn rolls around. It’s typically one or the other.

“It’s a famous story!” He says, quickly. “And there’s a ballad...” He swings his lute around to his front and runs his fingers up and down the strings in a hasty warm-up. He takes a breath, ready to sing—

And Geralt cuts him off. “Is there an abridged version?”

Jaskier stutters, the lyrics dying in his mouth. “Geralt!” He whines, “You’ve no romantic soul at all.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Apparently not,” he agrees. “Well?”

Jaskier sags his shoulders, moving the lute back beneath his arm.

“Fine.” He shifts position, easily sliding into the timbre of a storyteller. “The tale, briefly…” He spots the doubtful expression Geralt is giving him, “somewhat briefly… two hundred years ago a courtly knight travels through Mirstone—” He gestures widley around them “—the day before Belleteyn, and finds that it's being ravaged by some terrible beasty. Our knightly hero rides in, slays the beast, saves the day and is invited to stay for the celebrations. He agrees, and everyone is very excited about him because he’s so virtuous and valourous. It helps, of course,” he gives a wink to the ladies watching, and a few of them titter at him, “that the knight is devastatingly handsome.

“That evening, at the Belleteyn celebration, he’s extremely popular. Everyone wants to dance with the man who saved their town, and everyone is clamouring for a kiss. But, alas: there’s only one lady he’s interested in.

“Just before the evening ends, he walks out across the fields and finds a rose bush. He plucks one of the roses and returns to the party, then gives the rose to the lovely lady, saying that she’s, gods… what was it? The loveliest of face and heart. She blushes, they dance, they kiss, and then, because it’s a fairy story, she becomes the Spirit of Belleteyn.”

Jaskier punctuates this with a flutter of his fingers.

“The Spirit of Belleteyn?” Geralt does not look convinced.

“Oh, you know,” Jaskier says, “petals fall from her hair, flowers grow where'er she walks, that sort of thing.”

“Right.”

“That’s just part of the ballad, obviously. I’m quite sure in the real story they just had a bit of a fumble behind the stables, but one has to sell the thing, you know.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway. After Belleteyn, our dear Knight has to leave to fight in some battle, but he promises he’ll return a year from the day, and they’ll be married at the next festival. Which, frankly,” he suddenly drops the fairytale tone, “seems absurd, promising to marry someone you’ve only just met. Imagine! One quick kiss and they’re all gowns and wedding bells.” He rolls his eyes, then picks up the thread once more. “Anyway, as this is a ballad, there's no happy ending.

“Sir Knight gets killed in battle, and next Belleteyn the lovely lady spends all day and night awaiting his return… but of course, he never comes. In the morning, they find her dead in the fields, and say she died of a broken heart.” He snaps out of his reverie once more, with a harsh shrug. “Once again I feel compelled to note that dying of a broken heart for a man you spent less than twelve hours with may be a little dramatic. There’s plenty of equally desirable men out there, I’m sure!”

“And that’s the story?”

“That’s the story. Oh!” Jaskier remembers, suddenly, “Not quite. They say that where both their bodies fell sprung magical rose bushes that are always in bloom with the most beautiful, sweet smelling flowers one could imagine, no matter the season.” He hesitates, waiting for a response. “And that’s the story.”

Geralt blinks at him impassively. Clearly, he has not been moved by the tale.

“So,” Jaskier says, still hoping he can win Geralt over. “Shall we stay? It’s just you have killed those wyverns, and it fits, doesn’t it? Even you with your grumpy visage and endearing cynicism must see that.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, so Jaskier continues. "Surely you can't mean to leave, Geralt. We're part of the mythos, now." He thinks. "Well, you are. I'm just here to sing about it."

“Fine,” Geralt says, finally. “We can stay. But we’re leaving the day after Belleteyn.”

Jaskier winces at him. “After all that drinking and dancing? At least give me a day to reco—”

“The day after. No later.”

It’s a small victory: but a victory nonetheless. Jaskier grins. He isn’t the only one: the townspeople seem equally delighted at Geralt’s decision to stay.

“Come!” The mayor steps forward again, apparently pleased that Jaskier took on the hard work of actually convincing Geralt to remain in Mirstone. “We’ll set you up in our best inn, hmm? Free of charge.”

Jaskier notices Geralt’s expression shift. He never turns down a free room.

“It’s rather busy,” the mayor continues in an apologetic tone as he leads Geralt towards the centre of town, “what with the festival and all, but I’m sure we can squeeze you in…”

As Jaskier trails behind, Geralt peers over his shoulder at him. His expression is unreadable. He doesn’t look cross, at least, so Jaskier assumes that he’s gotten away with convincing him to join in the celebration. He winks at him, just once, in silent acknowledgement: See, Geralt? It isn’t so bad.

Geralt blinks at him. For a moment, there’s a neat line between his brows, a tilt to his head, his lips parting—

But it passes quickly. He turns back to the mayor and allows him to guide him towards their finest inn, Jaskier following close behind.

The mayor is correct that the town is busy, but a mix of his municipal powers and Geralt’s presence means - after a lot of low, hurried conversations - they’re bundled into a reasonably sized room above the largest tavern in Mirstone. They are sharing a bed, but Jaskier certainly wouldn’t describe it as a squeeze considering some of the less pleasant places they’ve found themselves in.

The bed even looks big enough for them to sleep side by side without actually touching - although from several years experience Jaskier knows that it’s likely they’ll wind their way across the mattress and into each other’s arms regardless. It’s nothing more than habit, by this point, he’s sure: although he’s loath to admit he does sleep better when Geralt is in the bed beside him.

Not that they’ll be sleeping for some time. It appears that most of the damage from the wyverns is superficial slices to Geralt’s armour, but they’ll need to check him over regardless, looking for wounds. Wyverns are venomous, but Geralt had downed a glimmering vial of Golden Oriole before heading off towards the fields and if the creatures have pierced him, the venom doesn’t appear to have taken.

Jaskier sends for a bath as Geralt begins to strip his armour away. He’s not too badly injured, and for once there’s no open wounds, but there are enormous purple bruises mottling his back and shoulders where one of the wyverns had grabbed him. As soon as the tub is full, Jaskier virtually pushes him into the hot water then adds a few drops of peppermint - one of the more expensive of his precious bath oils - and gets to clearing the room.

After a few minutes, Geralt speaks.

“This Belleteyn celebration…”

Jaskier turns from where he’s sorting through his pack, looking for something suitable for the festival.

“What about it?”

“They’re expecting a knight.”

Jaskier sniffs, shoves the two chemises he was trying to choose between back into the bag, and turns.

“They’re expecting you, Geralt. They’re well aware you’re not a knight.”

There’s a hollow sort of silence.

“And the ballad?” Geralt says finally, the water sloshing around him as he begins to lather soap up and down his arms. “The dancing?”

Jaskier walks across the room, settling himself on his knees beside the tub.

“You don’t have to dance with anyone,” he says. “That’s the point of the story, isn’t it? That the Knight refuses everyone’s advances.”

“Not until the end.”

“Yes, well, by that stage in the evening everyone will be so thoroughly sozzled that they’ve forgotten the whole thing, I’m sure. Anyway…” Jaskier shrugs, trying to keep his expression level, “Perhaps you will find someone lovely to kiss, hmm?”

Geralt glances at him. He does not look cheered by the prospect. Instead of responding, he ducks beneath the surface of the water, rubbing soap through his hair.

Truthfully, Jaskier doesn’t particularly want Geralt to find someone to kiss, lovely or otherwise. It’s an entirely selfish compulsion, but he has no desire to watch on the sidelines once again as Geralt wraps himself around somebody else. He won’t stop him, of course - he wants Geralt to be happy more than he wants to ease his own jealousy - but it would hurt regardless.

There’s a treacherous little hope, too, lodged somewhere very deep in his chest. Perhaps Geralt won’t want to kiss someone else.

Sometimes, he thinks, there might be a chance that he isn’t just helplessly pining. Sometimes he’s sure he’s caught Geralt staring at him. He could be convinced by the way Geralt smiles when he sings, or the way he wraps an arm around him when they share a bed.

Jaskier is the first to describe himself as foolishly cheerful, always attempting to bring a little lightness with him. But even he knows that those thoughts are too much: closer to delusion than optimism. That’s not love, it’s friendship. Companionship. Still, they bring him a little comfort, even if they’re only daydreams.

He goes back to his bags while Geralt emerges from the tub and dries himself off before tugging on a fresh pair of smalls and the cotton trousers he’s taken to wearing after a hunt. Those had been Jaskier’s idea some time ago: the leather was very nice, but it was not exactly a fabric in which one could relax.

The chemises are both inadequate. Mirstone isn’t exactly a small town - no doubt he can find a seamstress or a tailor tomorrow morning and find something more suitable. He’ll need to, anyway: he memorised Geralt’s clothes years ago, and he knows for a fact that none of his tunics are suitable for a Belleteyn festival. He drops his bag back to the floor just as Geralt lowers himself onto the bed with a barely-stifled groan.

“Shoulders?” Jaskier asks.

“Hmm.”

“Alright, lie down.”

Geralt does as he’s told, lying on his stomach across the bed without bothering to put a shirt on. The salve they keep for bruises is in Geralt’s pack, tucked amongst his potions and bandages in a side pocket that Jaskier could find blindfolded. He pops off the lid, placing it on the little bedside table so it won’t get lost, then sits next to Geralt’s side against the mattress. It’s softer than either of them are used to.

“Right,” he says, dipping his fingers into the strong-smelling salve and leaning over Geralt’s back. “Don’t move…”

The Belleteyn celebration started early in the afternoon, and Geralt had grown tired of the festivities hours before the sun had begun to set. Now the sky is dark, and he’s quite ready for the whole thing to be over.

He takes another sip of his ale, all too aware of eyes upon him. Jaskier’s reassurances that he wouldn’t find himself being harassed by townsfolk inspired by the story of the knight and the Spirit of bloody Belleteyn had been, predictably, inaccurate, and he’d yet to rest longer than ten minutes without someone coming to talk to him, asking him to dance, fluttering their lashes at him or begging for a kiss.

Geralt isn’t used to receiving such attention - certainly not such amorous attention. It was amusing, at first, and he and Jaskier had laughed as he’d sent away yet another young romantic. But soon Jaskier had been distracted by music and dancing, and Geralt had been left alone.

Perhaps it would be sensible to take someone up on their offer. Perhaps if he did find someone lovely to kiss, as Jaskier suggested earlier, he can smother the jealousy he feels as he twirls past in the arms of a beautiful woman.

Yesterday, when the mayor had promised to squeeze them in, something had compelled him to look at Jaskier. He was just gauging his reaction, he told himself: trying to work out if he'd be happy with the prospect of "squeezing in" beside a witcher when the Belleteyn festival held the promise of much more lovely bedmates.

He had been expecting, perhaps, a grimace, which would have been a firm refusal, or a shrug, to show begrudging acceptance. But Jaskier had winked at him. They would need to squeeze in, and Jaskier had fucking winked, and Geralt hadn’t quite know what to do with that.

It had lingered on his mind for the rest of the evening, through the rigmarole of removing his armour and washing away the muck and monster blood from the day’s hunt. He’d assumed that it was an explicit flirtation, promising more, but after finding themselves finally alone in their room Jaskier had failed to follow up on the gesture, slipping into their usual routine.

Geralt, of course, had not pressed the issue. Clearly his assumption had been wrong: Jaskier wasn’t implying anything after all. He was just being Jaskier.

He’d kept that crucial fact in mind as he’d bathed, with Jaskier hovering right next to the tub, his fingertips dangling in the warm, minty-smelling water. He’d clung to it when Jaskier had tended to the bruises on his back and shoulders, rubbing the salve into Geralt’s skin with his sturdy, slightly calloused fingers. When Jaskier had muttered something under his breath about being impossible to reach and had, in a swift movement, swung his leg over Geralt’s hips to straddle him Geralt had buried his face into the pillow, reminded himself that Jaskier didn’t mean anything by it, and thanked every god he could name that he was lying face down on the bed.

That night, Geralt had vowed that he wouldn’t sleep curled around Jaskier. He would keep his distance, maintaining a passive gap between their bodies.

He’d woken with Jaskier's head against his chest, his hair tickling his nose. So much for vows.

Jaskier had taken himself off late that morning, saying he had things to do in town, and the few hours alone had been a blessing, giving Geralt time to gather his thoughts. He had meditated, eaten, and walked around the boundaries of the town twice, moving between groups of people setting up the day’s celebrations. When he’d returned to the room - legs covered in dust - he felt like he had a surer grip over his feelings.

And then Jaskier had entered with soft, paper-wrapped bundles beneath his arms and a smile on his face and ordered Geralt to remove his clothes, and all that introspection and effort had crumbled.

Hours later, sitting on the very edge of the celebrations, Geralt is forced to admit that the outfit he procured for him is probably more suitable for the proceedings than one of his own. Jaskier has chosen more muted colours for Geralt than the bright greens and golds he’s picked for himself - both tunic and doublet in shades of grey.

The drabness of the grey fabric is ruined, somewhat, by the embroidery. Delicately sewn flowers in a veritable rainbow of shades twist around the cuffs and collar of the tunic, dark green vines snaking around the wrists and down the chest. Oddly, he doesn't hate it.

Being forced into clothes he’d never usually wear while Jaskier had appraised him with a critical eye made him feel a little like a doll being toyed with, but at the time he’d privately enjoyed having Jaskier’s attention on him. Geralt had been uncomfortably aware that at the festival he’d no longer have Jaskier to himself, and had enjoyed the hour or so they’d spent together where he hadn’t had to share him.

With the festival in full swing, he’s being forced to share. But being dressed in clothes that Jaskier has chosen does make Geralt feel a little like he’s leaving his mark on him - claiming him as his own.

Geralt doesn’t hate that, either.

He knocks back his ale, and tries to focus on the celebrations happening around him instead of that dangerous thought.

The festival stretches across Mirstone, but this is the heart of it, in a field just beyond the boundary of the town. In the centre of the grassy space is an enormous bonfire, aromatic with herbs and sweet-smelling boughs of fragrant wood. Around the fire has been cleared a space for dancing, people twirling and reeling to the music being played by a rough band - made of townsfolk rather than courtly musicians.

Jaskier is there, right in the heart of it. They’d eaten together, but as soon as the plates were clean he’d been approached by a woman asking for a dance, and since then he’s barely left the floor for more than a few moments to sip some wine and take a breath before being pulled back into the fray.

He dances with everyone who asks: with pretty women and handsome men, people younger and older than him, those who gaze at him like he’s a romantic hero and those who only laugh. He dances with little old ladies and wizened grandfathers and even tiny children, swinging them around as they squeal in delight.

Each dance ends in a kiss - a peck to a cheek, the crown of someone’s head, the back of their hand in a mock bow. He presses a quick kiss to the lips of a woman who is, by Geralt’s estimations, at least ninety years old, and she cackles loud enough that Geralt can hear it from the other side of the field.

Everyone loves him, that much is clear. He gives everyone so much of himself, laughing at their jokes, listening to their stories. He looks at people like he really is looking at them, making them feel like the centre of the world.

But they aren’t, of course. Jaskier’s gaze can make anyone feel like the planets dance around them, but it’s Jaskier there, at the middle of it all, as bright as the sun. Geralt is sure that if Jaskier turns that gaze upon himself, he’ll set ablaze, unable to weather the heat.

He’s so bright, so much, but Geralt can’t help but stare anyway, half-blinded, watching him dance and sing and laugh, his hands always held against someone else, his hair tousled around his head and his eyes flashing. However much it hurts, Geralt can’t look away, can’t stop, because— because—

Oh.

He needs to get away. The music, suddenly, is too loud, the bonfire too hot, the chatter and singing of the crowd too much. He stands swiftly, and with a quick glance towards Jaskier - stuck in an intricate little jig with a giggling couple - heads away from the celebrations and towards the dark, silent farmland beyond.

Even in the empty fields, illuminated only by the moon, Geralt can still hear the distant noise of the festival. It’s cooler, out here, away from the roaring fires, and he can feel the tightness in his chest receding a little.

His mind drifts back to Jaskier, as it always does. He’s been so foolish, for so long, never being able to put a name to this thing that has coiled around his heart and nested there. He’s never tried to, never trusted himself to examine it too closely, scared about what he might find there.

And now he’s been forced to look.

Finding Jaskier attractive is no surprise at all. He is attractive, and he spends so much time flirting and fucking that he often carries with him the scent of sex and arousal. It’s a cruel comparison, but being near Jaskier often feels like standing beside a bakery: it makes Geralt’s mouth water. He’s come to associate Jaskier with that smell, and the smell subconsciously sparks desire in himself, too. It’s a vicious cycle, but it provides him with a reasonable excuse for why he feels such a strong pull towards the bard.

Desiring Jaskier is reasonable. This new, painful thing that has buried itself between his lungs is not.

Fuck.

Geralt strides through the fields, head down, heart pounding.

After ten minutes or so of hard walking, he comes across a ruin, taken over by ivy. It’s little more than tumbled bricks, the stone cracked and ancient. He takes a moment to rest, leaning against what once may have been an outer wall, when he spots it.

Growing beside the stone is a single rose bush. He approaches cautiously, and in the pale light the blooms are blood red. Geralt is not one for flowers and romance, but the roses are truly beautiful, the heads wide and the petals velvet soft.

It feels right, when he takes his knife and slices the stem of the largest flower, plucking it from the bush. He uses the tip of the blade to remove the thorns, one by one, making sure it’s safe. The gesture, to him, feels a little saccharine - a little too obvious. But Jaskier, he knows, will appreciate it. He’ll probably appreciate it more for knowing how cynical Geralt is about these things.

He twists the stem between his fingers, for a moment, considering if he’s really about to do this. Perhaps he can play it off as a joke, if Jaskier doesn’t reciprocate - say that it was the only way to ease the pressure of being forced into the role of the Knight, knowing that he can rely on his closest friend to save him, for once.

The dawn is drawing ever-closer, so he grips the rose a little tighter and turns, heading back towards the faint glow of the bonfires.

The celebrations are more subdued, when he finally ducks back beneath the bunting and towards the bonfire. The exuberant music has stopped, and the gathered revellers have fallen into a soft hush.

He realises why almost instantly. Jaskier is singing, standing in a lopsided circle of people beside the bonfire. Geralt doesn’t know the ballad, but he recognises the story - the Spirit of Belleteyn. Jaskier spots him approaching, and when there’s a space to breathe between stanzas he shoots him a wide, dazzling grin.

Geralt’s heart skips a slow beat, and his fingers squeeze around the rose stem.

Usually, he isn’t the romantic sort. But Jaskier’s voice is clear and strong, and he could be singing anything - Geralt would still be enraptured. He hovers on the very edge, listening with his breath caught in his throat.

He’s so distracted by the song that he doesn’t sense the unseasonable chill that descends. He’s so lost in the play of Jaskier’s fingers on the strings of his lute that the fog encroaching from the far-off fields goes unchecked. He’s so enamoured with the soft movement of Jaskier’s lips that he doesn’t notice his medallion begin to vibrate around his neck.

He doesn’t notice, until it’s too late.

With a rush of wind like an intake of breath, the enormous fire sputters out. Someone in the audience yells, and Jaskier leaps away from the heap of charred wood that remains, but before anyone can act there’s an explosion of sparks and from the space where the flames had been bursts a wailing, ghostly figure.

She’s little more than a skeleton, dressed in the tattered remains of ancient-looking clothing. Long, thin strands of yellow hair cling to her greying skull, floating around her face as if suspended beneath water. Embedded in her chest like a dagger is a dark red rose.

It’s her. The Spirit of Belleteyn.

The screaming begins, and the festival-goers scatter, running in all directions to get away from the spectre. The only ones who don’t move are Geralt and - he realises with horror - Jaskier, who stands stock-still, watching the writhing thing emerge from the ash and smoke.

She looks around, her eyes little more than hollow dips in her skeletal face, until her head turns towards Geralt. The chill in the air grows even icier, and with a rattling gasp she throws herself towards him. Even at a distance, he can feel the hate radiating from her, the devastating magical energy she’s emanating, making his medallion bounce wildly on his chest. She’s quick - quicker than any usual wraith - and he readies himself, planting his feet, wishing desperately that he’d brought his swords with him.

But before she can reach him - before that wave of magic can engulf him - there’s a shout, and suddenly Jaskier is throwing himself between Geralt and the spectre, wielding his lute like a weapon, feet skidding across the grass.

“No!” He shouts, just feet away from the hissing ghost, “No, you can’t—”

She stops. She’s a good foot taller than Jaskier, the difference in their height made even more apparent by the way she hovers above the dying grass. She stares down at him, wisps of fog oozing from her like steam.

“It’s not him,” Jaskier says, desperately. “He’s not who you’re looking for, please—”

Geralt realises what he’s doing. Jaskier must have worked out who the spectre is, but unlike Geralt, he’s worked out what she wants, too. She glances at him, peering straight over Jaskier’s head, but she doesn’t move.

“Please,” Jaskier is saying, standing on his toes to better look into her hollow eyes, “I’m sorry, I really am, but he’s dead.”

Now she looks at him, and Geralt can feel the magic building, bubbling the air around her.

“He died in battle,” Jaskier continues, “he died. He didn’t leave you, he wanted to come back, I’m sure.” He grips his lute in his arms, fingers pressed tight to the strings. “There’s a song, you’ve got a whole song about your love.”

She stoops, her skull-like face only a foot or so from Jaskier’s. Geralt can hear his heart frantically pounding in his chest, but he doesn’t back away.

“Let me sing to you,” he says, “Please.”

There’s a heavy silence, broken only by the coarse huff of the spectre’s breath. After a moment, when he deems it safe, Jaskier begins to play.

The spectre stills. Jaskier doesn’t break her gaze as he sings, rooted to the spot, the only part of him moving his lips and his hands as they dance up and down the strings. The ghost seems to be calming, the hate ebbing away. It’s working, Geralt realises - it’s working.

Jaskier sings through the ballad, and there’s no bravado or performance anymore, just words sung into the night. He stutters some of the words, but his voice is strong and he continues, even though he must be terrified.

Finally, he reaches the denouement of the tale - the rose and the kiss. The lady, loveliest of face and heart.

Everything darkens. The spirit screams, the noise like a wave, pushing him back. Jaskier stumbles and the ghost launches herself at him - launches herself through him in another shower of glittering sparks, absorbing into him, through his skin.

The force of it launches Jaskier from his feet and for a moment, he’s suspended in the air, the tips of his toes brushing the grass. The lute drops from his hands to the floor with a hollow clunk, his skin shimmering with a ghostly, haunting glow.

And then the glow recedes, the air warms again, and he drops.

Geralt catches him before he can hit the ground, falling to his knees, Jaskier clasped to his chest.

His eyes are wide open, staring at nothing, eyelids twitching. He’s breathing, but it’s wrong, air going in but not coming back out in shallow, gasping bursts. There’s nothing Geralt can do - no sign he can use to stop whatever this is - to free Jaskier from the grip of the spirit.

“No,” Geralt gasps, holding him, “Jaskier, please—”

Jaskier doesn’t respond. Geralt realises he’s still gripping the rose in one hand, and brings it up, holding it in front of Jaskier’s unseeing eyes. He waves the scented bloom beneath his nose, but Jaskier doesn’t even blink.

His skin is pale and cold, clammy beneath Geralt’s fingers, and there’s a horrible greyness around his lips. Geralt helplessly clings to him, and he can only watch as his breathing grows more laboured and his eyes slide shut.

Panic claws in Geralt’s chest, desperate to get out. He heaves Jaskier up, limp in his arms.

“It was you,” he mutters, “I was going to ask you…” He sighs a hot breath against Jaskier’s cold skin, feeling it beneath his lips. “Loveliest of face and heart,” he says, with a stifled noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Jaskier…”

He pulls back, and he can barely detect Jaskier’s breathing any more. His heartbeat, which had been so frantic when he’d been staring down the spectre with only his lute between them, is near imperceptible. Perhaps it is imperceptible, and Geralt is only imagining those last, wing-soft beats, unable to accept this new, painful reality.

Jaskier hangs lifelessly in his arms. His lips are parted, his jaw loose. And - gods - there’s a pain in Geralt’s chest like a knife, and he bends down over him and presses a wild, desperate kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

He does not kiss him back.

~~~

There’s blood on his hands. It seeps into the lines of his palms, crusting in dark channels beneath his nails. It’s still warm, he thinks: still fresh.

But… not his hands. These hands are smaller, the digits shorter, the fingertips smooth and soft, not marred with callouses from so many years plucking strings. There’s a golden band on the littlest finger on the left hand, one that he doesn’t recognise.

Jaskier steps forward. Or rather - the body that Jaskier is currently inhabiting steps forward, and he is drawn along with it. He’s in a tiny, cramped room that smells of blood and herbs, and he can feel the swish of light, linen skirts around his legs. The heart that’s wildly beating within his chest doesn’t belong to him, but the fluttering fills him with panic regardless.

Something is wrong.

He can only wait, an unwilling passenger, watching what’s happening around him. The bloodstained hands are washed with acrid smelling soap, a basin is filled with fresh water. The body he’s inhabiting looks up, and—

A mirror. The face in the glass is not his face, but he wasn’t expecting it to be.

The woman who looks back at him is young - younger than him, he thinks. Her skin is tanned, nearly sunburned on her nose and cheekbones, her face a galaxy of freckles. Over one shoulder hangs a long, thick braid of straw-coloured hair. Her eyes are blue, and she looks exhausted.

She only peers at her reflection for a moment, and Jaskier attempts to memorise it before she swiftly moves away, the basin clutched in shaking hands. Cool water slops over her fingers, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

She carries both the water and Jaskier down a corridor, and the smell of blood and herbs grows stronger. Then finally through a doorway and into another, even smaller room.

There’s a bed in the far corner, low and hard-looking, and upon the bed—

A man. The thin blankets are bundled around his waist, revealing a torso wrapped in blood-stained bandages. He appears to be asleep - or unconscious. As the woman approaches, his head turns on the pillow and he opens his eyes: they’re dark and bloodshot.

Quite suddenly, Jaskier realises what he’s seeing. Where he is.

The Knight. The Lady, loveliest of face and heart. The Spirit of Belleteyn.

The man in the bed mumbles something, clearly reeling with pain, and she stoops beside the bed making calming shushing noises. Jaskier watches from behind her eyes as she brushes his dark, sweaty hair from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. He seems to calm at the touch, and she gets to work.

Jaskier is glad he isn’t squeamish as she removes the bandages and begins to treat the wounds beneath. It looks like he’s been struck several times, by claw and fang. The gashes across the knight’s chest and back are deep and angry looking, the skin red and weeping. Beneath the woman’s fingers, Jaskier can feel how hot it is.

She works quickly, cleaning the injuries then applying a thick, rich-smelling poultice. She wraps the whole thing in clean linens, tossing the soiled ones into the basin. When she’s done, she lowers the man back into the bed and pulls the sheet lightly over his chest.

When she goes to leave, he reaches out, grabbing her wrist. Jaskier jumps at the touch, but the woman doesn’t - she simply turns, and kneels once more by the side of the bed. Jaskier can feel her smiling.

She stays there until the Knight falls asleep once more, and there’s a little ache in her chest that Jaskier feels all too familiar with.

In ballads, no one has names, just monikers. The Knight and the Lady, the Ghost and the Beast, the Witch, the Wizard, the Lovers.

In reality, or memory, or perhaps just the final, vibrant dreams of a dying man, everyone has a name.

The Spirit of Belleteyn is called Iris. It becomes clear, as Jaskier clings to her mind, that she’s the assistant of a local healer, still learning the trade. The Knight, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, is Elric - although it takes some time for either of them to learn his name.

Time passes very oddly, here, in fits and starts. Weeks slough by like hours. When Iris sleeps, Jaskier remains, locked in darkness. He doesn’t feel tired, or hungry, or anything - he simply exists, an unwitting stowaway in someone else’s mind. Even his senses are blunted, experienced only through someone else’s body - taste is muted, sounds are dulled, his fingertips numb whenever Iris touches something.

When Elric becomes lucid enough to speak, the first thing he does is attempt to leave. He’s lucid, but still feverish, and his wounds have yet to heal, flaring with infection. He thanks Iris for her help - his words slurred - and makes a valiant effort to rise from the bed.

Iris merely shakes her head, places her palms flat to his shoulders, and forces him back down. He looks so startled that Jaskier bursts into laughter, although he has no mouth with which to laugh, no lungs to make the noise.

Elric reminds him of—

Of someone. There’s a fog in his head that he cannot lift, that grows only thicker the longer he stays as a passenger in someone else’s memories. After so long, Jaskier cannot tell if the fondness he feels for Elric is truly his, or merely the reflection of Iris’ feelings.

He watches as the days pass, and Elric grows stronger, the pair growing closer. She tends his wounds, forces him back into bed when he’s too weak to stand, feeds him when he can’t feed himself. When the infection has passed, she hooks herself beneath his arm and it’s resting on her shoulders that he takes his first, tentative steps around the tiny room.

At night, she lies in her bed, skin tingling where he’d grabbed her arm to stop himself from falling or slotted their fingers together when she stayed vigilant by his bedside during the worst nights of fever. She’s exhausted - just because she has an injured knight to care for doesn’t mean the rest of her duties can go ignored - and Jaskier can feel the ache in her limbs when she lies wide awake, long into the night.

Jaskier knows, of course, what this feeling is. He knows it oh so well, and his disconnected thoughts float atop it like dandelion seeds on the breeze.

She gives so much, and she loves so much, and yet beneath that all, ever-present and solid, is doubt. Jaskier can see the way Elric looks at her, even if she can’t, and yet still she doubts. It’s why she never tells him.

Once, she comes close. Jaskier is an eager audience to her near-confession, the words that tumble from her mouth as she and Elric walk in unsteady steps around the village, stretching his wounded leg to prevent it from seizing up.

“Elric,” she says, tucked beneath his arm as he leans on her for support. “I…”

Tell him! Jaskier screams at her, within her own head. Tell him!

“I care for you very much,” she says.

It’s not nearly enough, and certainly doesn’t convey the depth of her feelings for her wounded knight. Elric smiles, and squeezes her shoulder.

“I care for you too,” he says.

Jaskier feels Iris’ heart skip a beat, feels her face flush. And he feels doubt flare - overwhelming the rest.

She doesn’t say anything else.

Elric heals. It takes time, but he heals, and the wounds that had threatened his life are now little more than scars that tingle whenever a storm brews overhead. He’s strong enough to return to his chivalric duties, but Belleteyn is only a few days away, and it’s the most important holiday of the year, and - he says - it would be improper to leave now. It would be rude.

So he stays.

Jaskier’s memories - his own memories - have become blurry and broken. He can remember feelings more than he can remember events: little snippets of song, the smell of leather and ash. But the Belleteyn celebrations dislodge something, something that he pokes at, something that he cannot let rest.

When Elric approaches Iris with the rose, Jaskier remembers. And suddenly he knows what’s going to happen.

Iris holds the stem in trembling fingers. Elric leans towards her, brushing her hair away from her face, and whispers into her ear - My Lady, loveliest of face and heart - my Iris.

Her heart feels like it’s going to burst from her chest. Elric kisses her, and she trembles, and Jaskier yells with a noiseless cry - he loves you so much! Why can’t you see he loves you?

Elric kisses her, and she still doesn’t tell him, and then—

He leaves. He has to leave, after all. He’s a knight.

He grips her hands and promises to return, and she only lets herself cry once she can no longer see the dust kicked up around his horse. Jaskier weeps for her, too. She never told him.

Jaskier is there, for that long, silent year alone. She waits, and it hurts so much - and it hurts all the more because he knows exactly what’s going to happen next. All he can do is wait, aware that time is running out. He wonders what this means for him, too - if he’ll go with her, or if he’ll linger, trapped in this unreal place.

Iris waits, and hurts, for a year. And then it’s Belleteyn again.

And Elric never arrives.

She waits till the very end of the celebrations before taking herself away, quickly and quietly. She still has the rose - pressed beneath the pages of a heavy book the day after last year’s celebrations - and she holds the dry stem between her fingers as she walks, barefoot, across the fields.

The grass is wet, the dew staining the hem of her skirts. Jaskier doesn’t know what’s going to happen next: all the ballad tells him is that she dies. They never specify how. Her pain overwhelms them both, like there’s a blade lodged in her chest, like her heart is being squeezed. She walks for hours, until the moon has vanished and the sky is purpling with the dawn.

Please don’t, Jaskier begs. Please don’t.

She doesn’t, as it happens. She’s walking by an old, stone building when she’s caught utterly aware by the arachnomorph that stumbles from the structure towards her. It takes Jaskier by surprise, too - no bigger than a cat, it’s a far smaller specimen than the ones he’s experienced on the road with…

With…

The memory blurs, and there’s no time to chase it before Iris is collapsing down, the sting of the venom shooting from her ankle and upwards, cloying her blood, choking her. Jaskier can only watch, experiencing it alongside her in a muted, broken reflection.

She remembers - they both remember, together. Elric. The celebration. The rose and his whispered words. The kiss.

Yet... it’s wrong.

Why does the rose, which at the time Jaskier could barely even detect, suddenly smell so sweet and strong - so painfully vibrant?

Why does Elric's voice, which is lilting and honey-smooth, suddenly sound so familiar - so gruff and low and gravelled?

Why can Jaskier feel the kiss on his mouth, too - rough and urgent and desperate - where before he could only watch through Iris’ eyes while feeling nothing at all? He can feel strong lips against his own, feel the heat of another body, feel fingers carding through his hair. He can taste it - salt and ale and meat.

Iris fades. He feels like he’s dissolving, like his shadow is finally being released, like a fogged breath in chilly air.

He takes a desperate gasp and - oh - his lungs are tight and burning and very much his -

Jaskier opens his eyes.

Smoke - the smell of bonfires. Leather, horse, ale. Strong arms, clinging around his shoulders, bundling him close. Too strong: the grip is bruising, squeezing tight. The press of lips to his own is gone, but there’s stubbled skin brushing his cheek, ticking hair on his face, the hot huff of a desperate breath against his neck.

He takes a gulp of air with a gasping cry, and the grip loosens.

“Jaskier?”

A face swims into vision. Yellow eyes, scarred skin, white hair—

“Geralt?” His memories suddenly coalesce into something wild and urgent. “Geralt!”

His skin tingles, like it’s on fire, his nerves suddenly firing back to life. It hurts, and his flesh is tender where Geralt holds him, but he clings to him anyway, his face buried into his neck. His lungs expand and his eyes sting and there’s no stopping the shaking sobs that escape his lips.

“She was in love with him,” he says, between the tears, “It wasn’t just a day, it was weeks, and she loved him so much but she never told him and then she died, and, and—”

He tries to calm himself, tries to ground himself in the feeling of Geralt’s hands wrapped around him, but all he can feel is swirling panic, and the still-lingering ache of Iris’ heartbreak.

“She should have told him, before he left...” he tries to breathe, but he cant, “fuck, Geralt, she was trapped, and she didn’t tell him—”

Then - like the dawn, like the first shafts of light that chase away the darkness - he knows what he has to do.

“Geralt,” he says, face buried in the space between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, the embroidered linen damp beneath him, “Geralt, I have to… I can’t… I love you.”

Geralt doesn’t speak - just holds him. Jaskier can feel his chest rising and falling, his own breathing broken. He pulls away, so he can see Geralt’s face and his anxious eyes. He still doesn’t speak, but cups Jaskier’s jaw, his eyes darting around his face as if searching for something.

There’s something in Geralt’s hand. Jaskier reaches up, feeling for the thing trapped beneath his fingers, and Geralt hands it to him without breaking his gaze.

It’s a rose. At least: it was a rose. Now, the stem is blackened, the petals dried and dead - like the bloom has been dead for a while. As Jaskier takes it, the fragile thing crumbles, the petals scattering to the floor like ash.

He realises, suddenly, why the scent of rose had been so strong. Who had whispered those words in his ear - who had kissed him.

But he remembers Iris’ doubt, too, and how aligned it is with his own. How much his own doubt gnaws at him, and his foolish hypocrisy.

“Did you mean it?” He says, breathlessly. “Or did you just know it would get rid of her? Was it just what you needed to do to let her go?”

For a moment, Geralt looks confused, then his breath catches and he tugs Jaskier closer, holding his face to his neck.

“I didn’t think it would do anything,” he mutters. “I had no idea it would… that you’d…” he takes a deep breath, and Jaskier can feel him exhale against his skin. “Fuck, Jask. I love you.”

Jaskier isn’t quite sure he can believe it - that this isn’t just part of the dream, that he really has died and this is the afterlife. But when Geralt releases him, and leans back with shining eyes, and presses his lips to Jaskier’s mouth in a kiss that’s desperate and warm and real... He can believe that.

He doesn’t hesitate in kissing Geralt back, in looping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer, refusing to ever let him go again. Geralt chuckles at his eagerness, and Jaskier can feel the laugh against his lips, sending little waves down his spine, pooling in his stomach.

“Geralt,” he whispers into his mouth, “I love you.”

And Geralt - his arms wrapped tightly around him - whispers it back.

Geralt moves around the room with swift certainty, placing potions into the pouch on his hip and strapping his dual swords to his back. Staying in an inn is an unnecessary luxury, especially when the contract in the village is so small, but the coin earned in Mirstone for the wyverns - and the additional payment for the spirit, pushed into his hands no matter how many times he tried to refuse - is enough to allow for frivolities.

Jaskier sits cross-legged on the stool next to the tiny table, his bare legs bouncing to the tune he’s composing in his head.

“How’s the ballad?” Geralt asks, peering down at Jaskier’s dishevelled form.

Jaskier pauses, hands hovering above the parchment. He had been getting dressed after his morning bath, but had been struck with inspiration partway through the process and been thoroughly distracted, his breeches lying discarded on the bed where he’d left them hours ago.

He looks up, the quill between his lips, a little black ink stain smudged across the corner of his mouth.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine enough. I need to re-work the entire rhythm, you see, if I want to get their names in, which means having to remove some of these—” he taps at the words on the page “—more famous lines, which is proving troublesome.” He puts the quill down with a sigh. “I’m concerned no one will listen to it if they don’t recognise it, especially now…”

This has been worrying Jaskier since he started to re-write the ballad. It’s not enough any more to sing about the Knight and the Lady, and he’s been trying to work Iris and Elric’s names into the lyrics for days. He’d woken with a start just before dawn two weeks after Belleteyn, the idea fresh and urgent in his mind. The events of that night have been hanging heavily over him, Geralt knows, but the sudden idea is bringing him a kind of relief: like he’s paying something back.

“They’ll love it,” Geralt says, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder.

Jaskier smiles at him. “You have to say that.” He yawns, wriggling his shoulders and stretching out his back where he’s been sitting hunched over the table for too long. His eyes dart down, taking in Geralt’s armour and swords with a little frown. “Are you off already?” He asks, confused.

“It’s nearly midday.”

Jaskier twists in the seat, leaning backwards to peer out of the tiny window at the sky beyond. “Oh.” He leans back a little further. “I hadn’t even—”

He inelligantly topples from the stool with a shout. Geralt catches him before he can hit the floor and heaves him to his feet, pulling him close.

“You should take a break,” he says, voice stern. “Go and get something to eat.”

“But—”

“We’ve enough coin for something that’s not bread and meat, for once. And a bottle of wine.”

“Fine,” Jaskier sniffs like it’s some great imposition to drink something that isn’t watered down ale. “But not till you’re back. Not while you’re out there fighting.”

“How noble of you.”

Jaskier smiles coyly, placing a gentle hand to Geralt’s shoulder. “I am, aren’t I?”

He tilts just a fraction closer, eyes sparkling, pressing his hip to Geralt’s side.

“Save it for later,” Geralt says with a smirk. “I’ve got a pack of alghouls to kill.”

Jaskier winces. “Later you’ll be covered in blood and muck and alghoul intestinal juices.”

“Then you better have a bath waiting for me.” He places a quick, light kiss to Jaskier’s lips. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

He heads towards the door, but Jaskier grabs his arm before he can go. “Geralt—”

“I said lat—”

His words are smothered beneath a kiss. A real kiss. Jaskier lingers, one of his hands gripping tight around Geralt’s arm. After a moment, he releases him, but doesn’t pull away - leaving their lips brushing.

“Make sure you are,” he mutters. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #trying again after my tags broke #sorry if you've already seen this #it does go quite heavy on the angst #but there is a HEA #and honestly the mutual pining is obscene even for ME

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