#tldr: geralt relives all his (unhappy) birthdays

[jaskiersvalley]

Ok so this is an idea that's been plaguing me but couldn't find it in fic anywhere. Feel free to not write it btw, I just had to share it with SOMEONE. Anyway, imagine a de-aging curse that wears off gradually and in the process, the cursed individual gets older. Like, aging years in a night while staying mostly the same during the day. Imagine the angst potential of Jaskier meeting a pre-Blaviken Geralt who's chatty as fuck. Imagine him meeting Geralt who's just heard of the sacking of KM.

You. I love the way you think. Because this is an idea that I had been toying with about three fandoms ago but wasn’t writing at that point so it never came to anything. Now you come along and reignite the spark. Thank you for the excuse to write it!

CW for injury and past abuse (of the witcher trials kind)

If Only Every Day Was A Birthday

In the grand scheme of things, it was a dumb as fuck thing to do. A ring of toadstools had cropped up on the doorstep of Kaer Morhen one winter morning. Naturally, it was Jaskier who found it and decided that this was within his skill set to deal with, primarily in the form of charming the fae with his songs, charm and overall delightful existence. Even worse, it worked. The witchers watched him chatter away with their less than desirable guests, filling a whole morning with stories, songs, poetry and even a few cruder jokes. In the end, Jaskier talked about birthdays and how sad he was for his witchers that they had forgotten when theirs should be celebrated.

“We wish to reward you for your time,” the fae crooned, getting ready to leave.

“Oh thank you but I couldn’t possibly accept. I have everything I need to make me happy right here.” Jaskier shot Geralt a soft glance.

“Very well. Your reward can be transferred. May the birthdays be as good as you described.” Just like that, the fae melted back into their realm and the toadstools withered.

Looking around, nothing had changed so Jaskier shrugged. Maybe the fae were mistaken or their reward was something like a cake being delivered on a certain day. Cake was always good, Jaskier hoped it would be chocolate. If only the gift had been a simple cake. Nobody was any wiser until the next morning.

“What the fuck?!” Lambert’s shriek was heard throughout the keep and everyone rushed to him in a panic.

In the hall where they had a tendency to gather after dinner, there was a child sleeping in Geralt’s chair. The very chair he had fallen asleep on in fact.

“Where’s Geralt?” Jaskier asked, a sinking feeling in his gut.

The child stirred and blinked sleepily up at the men peering down at him. Brown eyes, brown hair but the features were familiar despite the changes.

“Fuck.”

Child Geralt was chatty as anything. He happily followed them all around, was inquisitive and playful. Jaskier watched him beg Eskel to throw him in the air again or for Lambert to spin him. Even Vesemir was approached with a request to read him a story for an afternoon nap. Maybe the fae were onto something, Geralt had needed a break from everything and if this gave him a chance to enjoy life, Jaskier wouldn’t dream of begrudging him a few days.

Only, it wasn’t just a few days. It was all fine for the first few days. Eskel especially seemed happy to dote on Geralt, carried him around on his hip and even showing him how to cook things in the kitchen. Truthfully, Jaskier was a little enamoured, especially when he walked into the kitchen to see Eskel had Geralt sat on the counter, a whisk clutched in tiny hands as it was licked clean diligently.

If only things could have been so simple. Nobody expected Geralt to wake up on the third morning in tears, crying out for his “mama” and rushing around the keep, trying to find her.

“It took him a while to settle here,” Vesemir said sadly. “He was loyal from a young age.”

Each day, Geralt changed a little, grew older. A tension settled around the witchers that Jaskier just didn’t understand. On the whole, after that one day of Geralt tearfully looking for Visenna, he seemed to settle. A little quieter but still bright eyed and eager to please.

Then Geralt woke up with a black eye, a gash across his arm and looking generally miserable.

“Training.” That was all Lambert had managed to grit out before he stormed out. “Means he’s about eight.”

A birthday a day. Jaskier swallowed at the realisation and the knowledge that it was his fault. He watched from the sidelines as Eskel patched Geralt up, brought in a cloth packed with snow to put over the bruising. In a way, Jaskier envied Lambert and the fact he could just storm off to deal with his emotions. It wasn’t a luxury Jaskier was afforded. This was all his doing and he wasn’t a coward to run from his mess.

The next day the bruising and the cut were gone. However Geralt was timid, especially around Vesemir, kept his eyes to the ground. The only one who could coax a smile from him was Eskel. Not even Jaskier’s singing and attempts to pull Geralt into activities seemed to do much. That night, Geralt went to bed and the others sat in a heavy silence around the hearth.

“He’s what, 10 tomorrow?” At least Lambert had come back but he was no less agitated. If anything, he seemed to avoid Geralt at all costs. “I really hope this spell wears off tomorrow.”

The spell didn’t wear off. A bloodcurdling scream signalled the fact Geralt was awake. As one, the witchers were rushing to the room he had been given considering he didn’t remember his own and Jaskier couldn’t face leaving what had been their shared room.

“Don’t go in,” Lambert had warned but it was too late. Jaskier had peered into the room and blanched. There was blood. So much blood. Eskel was sat on the edge of the bed, holding Geralt down who was crying red tears, fingers flexing, trying to fight off the grip so he could claw at his own face. A foot caught Eskel in the ribs and he grunted but didn’t let go of Geralt.

There was hope in Jaskier that maybe the pain would last maybe a few minutes. At worse, an hour. He was proven wrong when the gurgle screams and cries lasted into the afternoon. Not once did Eskel leave him. It was only as midnight came that silence fell across Kaer Morhen once again. That night, Jaskier stayed outside Geralt’s room, the sheets had been freshly changed from filth sodden to something cleaner. The Lambert had dragged Eskel to his room and Jaskier was grateful he didn’t have witcher hearing. Even his human ones could pick up on the dry sobs coming from the room.

In the morning, a yellow eyed but still brown hairs Geralt greeted them with his arm in a sling. As Jaskier made conversation with him, he could hear Vesemir’s murmur of “one down, four to go” and that was the most chilling thing Jaskier had heard.

Sure enough the next day was more choking screams. Eskel looked haggard and they didn’t even snap at Jaskier to get out. Even though Vesemir tried to give Geralt potions to numb him or even knock him out, they didn’t seem to work. Three days of torture. On the second day Eskel barked at Lambert to take over and he hurried out. Each night found not just Lambert and Eskel curled up but Vesemir and Jaskier also ended up in the pile. It wasn’t a pile borne of good moods and love though. Some nights Jaskier watched the witchers, they all looked lost in their own heads, hollow and haunted. It wasn’t a good look on any of them.

White hair on a young teenager looked odd. But Geralt didn’t seem too fazed by it, he looked almost proud when he next woke up coherent. He was also a lot more inclined to tussle with Lambert and Eskel, gleeful in their battles. Even when he woke up with broken bones, on one memorable morning a locked jaw, he still seemed in good spirits. On the surface, the others were too but more than once Jaskier had walked in on Lambert and Eskel looking downtrodden.

“I’d forgotten how bright he was,” Vesemir said, leaning against the wall next to Jaskier while the others were engaged in some kind of strange wrestling that seemed to end up with Lambert and Geralt teaming up against Eskel and tickling him until he was on his knees and laughing while begging for mercy. “The Path had not been kind to him.”

It was an understatement. Watching Geralt grow up and become a witcher was difficult enough. To see him each year, sometimes cocky and sometimes lean with a spark of fury burning through him was fascinating. Until he woke up sullen and quiet. Still a young man but so much more like what Jaskier knew.

“I should have been there,” Geralt murmured and looked at the other witchers. “We’re all that’s left.”

That evening was somber, Geralt leaning heavily against Lambert’s shoulder as they drank.

“It doesn’t get easier,” Lambert murmured darkly. “But you learn to live with it.”

The next day Geralt seemed better but the others were clearly suffering, unable to shake everything that each of Geralt’s birthdays was bringing up. And just when Jaskier thought things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

Things had been going vaguely okay in their own way. Injuries, aches and pains came and went. Until Geralt woke up and didn’t get out of bed. He was scarily thin, looking worn and in pain on a level beyond physical.

“Renfri,” Eskel had muttered and, without another word, slipped into Geralt’s bed, curled up behind him.

“The year the whole Butcher of Blaviken shit went down, Geralt didn’t come home for winter. Never did tell us where he went or what happened.” Lambert cast a look into the room where Eskel was holding a shaking Geralt. In the end, Vesemir brought them up food and drinks, a second serving for Geralt when he saw how emaciated he was. Everyone ended up curled together in Geralt’s bed that night, quietly grateful that Geralt did actually come back from that disaster.

Not that the next several days were much better. Gone was the cocky, confident Geralt. In his place was a ghost. He ate, he replied is spoken to but stayed out of the way. Lambert was the one to track him down to any hiding place and try to forcibly draw Geralt out.

“It’s what I wish I had done all those winters,” he admitted quietly in the dark one night.

When Geralt laughed about a week later, Vesemir looked ready to cry. He hurriedly excused himself to the kitchen and Jaskier followed.

“He’ll be back to his usual soon,” Vesemir said, trying to keep himself busy by starting on dinner preparations - only three hours too early. “It gets better from now.”

“What changed?”

“You came along.”

Sure enough, Geralt slowly blossomed again. Not at all like what he was, he was more thoughtful, much less likely to rise to Lambert’s asinine riling. But he was no longer a storm cloud haunting the halls of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier went from a terse “bard” to “Jaskier” to “Jask” and, in the end, he was “mine” which was a relief.

They lost track of the years, not like any of them knew exactly how old Geralt was. But the last few days of the spell were only trackable by the scars Geralt’s skin bore.

“Do you think it’s worn off?” Eskel asked one morning.

Geralt gave him a funny look. “What’s worn off?”

So probably not. It was another two days before Geralt sat up in the middle of the pile eyes wide and he growled.

“Fucking fae.”