Chapter Text
Posada isn’t a destination so much as a rest stop on his way. It barely even qualifies as that. There aren’t many people in the dusty little tavern, but they glance his way suspiciously until Geralt parks himself at a table away from everyone else. He just needs a drink and he’ll be on his way. Luckily for the witcher, some poor sod is plucking out a tune in the corner and the tavern patrons are quick to turn their ire on him instead.
The ale is watery and bitter on his tongue, not at all worth the coin he paid for it. However, it’s an excuse to sit without those suspicious glares turning into anything more pointed, and Geralt has been on the road so long that even he can’t help relishing the opportunity to take a break. The bard in the corner stops playing, instead protesting something, judging from the indignant tone he’s sporting. Geralt tunes it out, and stares at his half empty mug, wishing for a little bit of peace.
Peace is… not what he gets. A creak in the floor boards makes Geralt’s gaze snap upward to see the bard leaning against one of the support beams. “I love how you just… sit in the corner and brood.”
Is that a pickup line? Maybe. It’s the worst one Geralt has ever heard in his very long life, but that isn’t the problem. The problem races, red hot down the length of his forearm, pooling uncomfortably around his soulmark. The scrawled out writing on the underside of his wrist had told Geralt the first thing his soulmate was going to say to him as soon as he could read. Silly as it had sounded, it’s even more ridiculous out loud.
Geralt looks the bard over and resists the urge to laugh at the idea that there could be any truth to soulmates. The bard is young and wide eyed, wrapped up in too bright colors. He looks like a damned peacock. There’s no room for someone so gaudy in a life like Geralt’s and certainly no space for anyone remotely serious beside this young man.
And yet, the mark on Geralt’s wrist still pulses.
Just in time, Geralt stops himself from trying to shoo the bard away. As he’s opening his mouth, it occurs to him that right now he can still avert this slow motion disaster. Whatever he says first is inevitably etched upon the bard’s skin, and when he speaks, two things will happen. The first is that the bard will feel it and probably want to run off together or some other fool thing. The second is that the bond between them will snap into place, drawing tighter until the only escape from each other is to complete it.
So Geralt gives the bard a baleful look instead, a look said bard seems determined to misinterpret as ‘why yes, please do sit across the table from me’. He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on them, smiling like Geralt is currently the most fascinating thing on the entire continent. “I can’t tell if there’s some secret, tragic reason you don’t say anything or if the silent frowny face is your… schtick. Working for you though. It’s veeeeery mysterious.”
Geralt sighs and resists the urge to cuff the bard upside his head just to shut the man up. Under the witcher’s sleeve, his soulmark throbs like it's reaching for it’s entirely unfortunate mate. Honestly, what has he done so horribly, completely wrong in his life that this is his soulmate? He didn’t even want one, but if they had to exist, this is proof enough for Geralt that soulmates are just the universe’s idea of a cruel joke.
“Those both look, umm, sharp.” The bard waves his hand vaguely at Geralt’s swords, currently not looking anything of the sort considering they’re sheathed. “Wait. Two swords. You’re a witcher! Geralt of Rivia, if the hair is anything to judge by.”
This is quite enough, actually, as it’s become very clear to Geralt that his soulmate isn’t going to leave of his own volition. He’ll be damned if he risks tying them together, so Geralt doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even growl menacingly as much as he’d really like to. As pointedly as he can, he scowls at the bard and gathers up his swords. It’s not a retreat. He was always going to leave. He’s only moved up his timeline a little.
If someone hadn’t heard the bard announcing his profession to the whole damned bar, it probably would have even worked out that way. Before he can reach the door, one of the villagers is stopping him, begging Geralt to sort out some ‘devil’ they’re convinced is tormenting Posada. Geralt thinks about turning it down in favor of engineering an escape, but the man looks so truly desperate, he can’t bring himself to.
It’s that decision that sets everything else in motion. The beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning maybe. Either way, it’s a violent upheaval of the life he’d lived, the ruins a foundation for something new.
***
The bard follows, because of course he does, running up the hill after Geralt and Roach.
“I hope you don’t mind my tagging along,” the bard says, though he doesn’t shut up long enough for Geralt to convey that he actually minds very much. “This is just too much of an adventure to pass up.”
Adventure? The landscape is a sallow combination of dirt and sparse, dead grass. The devil he’s hunting down doesn’t even exist, most likely. There are activities he might consider even less like an adventure, but right now Geralt doesn’t know what they are.
“- Oh, and I’m Jaskier. I think I neglected to say.” Geralt catches that much and realizes the bard, Jaskier, has been talking this whole time.
Geralt glares at Jaskier, who either has the self-preservation instincts of an infant or is the most unorthodox human Geralt has ever met. He hopes it conveys how very much he doesn’t want to have a conversation.
“So, I just figured, you know-” Jaskier’s hands sweep out in a grand, pointless gesture. “You could use the help with your reputation, and I could use some writing material. See? Everyone wins.”
Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier is on about except that it sounds like he’s trying to invite himself on the road with a witcher. That is very much not going to happen. Even if it weren’t a terrible idea from a normal, standard human standpoint, this particular one suffers from a complete inability to stop talking.
“So? What do you think?”
"Fuck off, bard," Geralt snaps impulsively, breaking his carefully curated silence. Too late, he recognizes the mistake of that particular outburst. He shuts his mouth with a faint click of teeth, for all the good it does. If there were any possibility that this wasn’t a disaster, it fades away with the odd, warm sensation of a connection made.
For a moment, there’s only tense silence between them. Geralt glowers at Jaskier. Jaskier stares back, his eyes wide with shock, slapping a hand instinctively over his sleeve where his mark must be, and gaping wordlessly in a way that might be a welcome change of pace under any other circumstances. Right now, the quiet is only a brief delay of an inescapable complication. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Geralt mutters, "Fuck."
"You... that's...I..." the bard begins in fits and starts, remarkably ineloquent after the deluge of one sided conversation he'd subjected Geralt to. He must know he’s floundering though, and eventually just shoves his wrist in Geralt's direction, the Witcher's aggravation scrawled across the delicate skin there. That’s a hell of a sentence to carry around one’s entire life and it’s the sort of thing that would be funny if only Geralt weren't stuck in the middle of it. Jaskier finally strings two words together in a row, in the shape of an indignant accusation. "You knew."
Annnnnnd there it is, any hope Geralt had of escaping unnoticed is summarily lost. Probably. It doesn’t stop him from trying though. Geralt arches a brow at Jaskier, his voice carefully neutral. "Is it really that uncommon for someone to curse at you?"
“Sure. Usually it comes with projectile rotten vegetables,” Jaskier sourly retorts. It’s the first thing he’s said that wasn’t accompanied by unnecessary theatrics. He sheds his doublet, and rolls up the sleeve of his chemise just enough to show the proof of their connection, red and angry like a new tattoo. “Not this.”
Geralt lets his gaze settle on the mark Jaskier is sporting. His own throbs with unspent energy. That destiny would tie him to someone at all is preposterous, but Jaskier? Absolutely not. No amount of ‘fate tied us together’ nonsense is going to make them any less wrong for each other.
So, Geralt does what he usually does when he’s decided a debate is over. He settles his grip on Roach’s reins and leads her further up the hill, away from Jaskier. “I don’t do soulmates.”
*****
Hopeless, star-crossed romance is the sort of thing Jaskier thrives on. He’s dreamed up so many ways he and his soulmate might fall into each other’s lives. He’s dedicated many pages of many notebooks to imagining what his soulmate might be like. He’s faced every new person he ever met like they were brimming with possibility. Every new touch, every greeting could be the start of happily ever after, as much as anyone ever truly gets that.
Not a single one of those daydreams played out anything like this. He managed to ignore the fact that Geralt was literally so unenthusiastic about Jaskier’s existence as to try and dodge fate entirely. At least until now. Now, with Geralt obstinately walking away, shoulders squared in a sort of dismissal, even Jaskier can’t pretend not to notice.
A knot twists in the pit of his stomach at the unequivocal rejection. Jaskier had considered that meeting might be awkward, or that he might not immediately see the beauty of them. He hadn’t ever thought to brace himself for being unwanted, though. That didn’t happen.
Except, apparently, to him.
Well, it wasn’t like he could trade out for someone who maybe loathed him a little less, so Jaskier does the only thing he can think of. Cursing his ill suited boots, he runs after the witcher, “It’s not really an opt out kind of thing.”
The witcher doesn’t slow down, but he doesn’t run Jaskier off either. That’s… probably positive, right? The bard is practically an expert at salvaging unhappy situations, and given how stuck he is with this one, he decides to give it another go.
“Look, at least it took our, our lifestyles into consideration? I travel around bringing the masses together with music. You travel around, umm, looking really very menacing…” Jaskier trails off as they get to the top of the hill and Geralt gives him a withering look. “Is that necessary?”
“Be quiet, Jaskier.” Well, that was just patently unfair, because Jaskier wanted to be cross and ask where Geralt got off telling him what to do in the middle of rejecting him. Only then the witcher said his name, and it’s really a shame they got off to such a rocky start because in most other circumstances the sound of it on Geralt’s lips would be shivering delightfully down his spine.
“Now, you just wait a minute-” is all Jaskier gets out before Geralt turns on him and slaps a gloved hand over his mouth. They’re so close that Jaskier can pick out the hairline streaks of ochre in Geralt’s golden eyes. It’s breathtaking, even though Geralt’s gaze is currently on the verge of something violent, punctuated with an irritated dip of the witcher’s eyebrows.
“Stop. Talking.” Whatever else Geralt might have said (which is probably nothing if Jaskier is being honest) is cut off by a marble sized projectile smacking against the rocks beside them. Geralt releases Jaskier, already reaching for his sword, and spinning to face the bushes it had come from.
It’s some small consolation that if Jaskier meeting his soulmate has been a complete disaster so far, at least he’ll get an adventure out of it. He thinks so anyway, but then another projectile hurtles in his direction. It smacks into his temple and the world goes black, and it turns out the adventure is pretty much a wash too.
Unless, of course, one defines adventure as being tied up with a witcher at the mercy of an angry band of elves. Jaskier had been hoping for a lot less threat of imminent demise and a lot more vanquishing of monsters. This is a terrible consolation prize.
Funny how this morning Jaskier had woken up still believing the biggest hurdle to connecting with his eventual soulmate was going to be if they were attracted to each other enough to learn the rest. That’s the only part of anything that’s happened today that isn’t a problem. Geralt is striking in ways Jaskier never would have guessed from the stories about the Butcher of Blaviken. When the light catches his eyes, he’s really quite beautiful. Now, if only he wasn’t also rude and unbelievably grouchy.
There are moments in the whole ordeal when Jaskier is certain this is going to be the end of them both. And wouldn’t that be rich? Dying at the back of a soulmate who doesn’t even want him would make for quite the story anyway. Jaskier wishes he could be angry about it and he almost gets there. Only, it’s just then that Geralt has to go and be noble, trying to protect Jaskier from a fate the bard had really sort of walked himself into in the first place, trying to help the people ready to cut him down.
“Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.”
Maybe it’s just that he’s lived his life steeped in poetry and romance, but the words feel significant, like he’s learned something Geralt didn’t mean to tell him. The echo of them lingers long after they’ve been set free, and alongside them are all the terrible stories he’s been told of what witchers are like. Geralt isn’t like any of the stories. He’s gruff and scathing, but the man Geralt of Rivia is underneath all that is undeniably good.
It could be a product of Jaskier’s vibrant imagination, but somewhere along the way, he theorizes Geralt’s sharp edges might be largely a matter of circumstance rather than of who he is. People are scared of witchers at the best of times so maybe nobody has ever bothered to show him any other way. It’s that firmly rooted belief that makes Jaskier determined to start over. This time, he’ll get it right.
***
Geralt doesn’t get it. Jaskier should be running for the hills now that he knows how reality compares to whatever it was he was expecting traipsing after a witcher. Most humans shy away from his kind over far less. But Jaskier looks to be perfectly content to pluck the strings of his newly gifted lute and feel out the lyrics of a song.
It’s a song that makes Geralt out to be heroic, well, heroic in the ways that humans measure. Even if it were true, Geralt doesn’t consider fighting elves to be the makings of any kind of hero, “That’s not how it happened.”
Jaskier turns on his heel to look up at Geralt, a smile tugging at his lips, “The idea is to reach people, Geralt. Sometimes the naked truth isn’t how you do it.”
Geralt had thought he had the bard figured out, but it’s nothing so simple as the vapid enthusiasm Jaskier cloaks himself in. His complaining in what Geralt assumed was Elder suggested and education he hides under a foppish demeanor, but it isn’t only that. Jaskier had chosen to spend what certainly seemed like it was going to be the last few minutes of their lives shouting at the elves in Geralt’s defense. He’s spinning out a song like a skein of yarn that’s clearly meant to soften the world around Geralt, though the witcher has given him no reason at all to do so. Quite the opposite, Geralt can acknowledge, at least to himself.
So, Jaskier is a little bit more than what Geralt had thought. It doesn’t make the bard less aggravating, and it doesn’t change that he’s far too human for the life Geralt lives. There’s no amount of moxie that’s likely to sway Geralt, but it’s interesting all the same.
By the time they reach Posada, Jaskier has settled on lyrics to this song about elves and coin tossing, and whatever else. Geralt had honestly stopped listening. He sticks around long enough to lead Jaskier to the crossroads before addressing him, “This is where we part ways.”
“What?” Jaskier looks so genuinely stricken, it’s startling. Why would anyone want their life tied to someone else? Why would anyone want it tied to a witcher? But however much Jaskier has subverted his expectations, what was true before is true now. Geralt has no intention of indulging in this soulmate nonsense.
When Geralt doesn’t reply, Jaskier takes a step closer, and then another. He looks up, though the sun must be nearly in his eyes, and frowns deeply at Geralt, “Surely, you wouldn’t just leave.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Geralt had thought it was pretty obvious. He’s already on Roach. There’s no contract to turn in. Nothing at all is keeping him in Posada at this point.
Jaskier’s scandalized expression suggests he’s missed something. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said this isn’t a thing you opt out of. If you leave me here, you’re just going to torture us both.”
The bard meets Geralt’s eye remarkably steady, enough that the witcher is very nearly convinced to at least think about it. He’s never studied anything related to soul marks, but he can’t think of any stories he’s heard about soulmates being unable to separate. “That isn’t how it works.”
“Oh really?” Somewhere along the way, Jaskier put his lute away, which Geralt might not have paid much attention to, but now he’s crossing his arms like someone’s disappointed parent. “Tell me, witcher. Of the two of us, who probably took the time to know what they’re talking about because, however stupidly, they were looking forward to it? Because I really don’t think it was you.”
Jaskier makes a good argument, forcing Geralt to stop and think. It might be, if they proceed as normal, that things will be fine and Geralt will walk away with a little more than an uncomfortably warm tattoo for his efforts. But if Jaskier is right, he’s just going to have to come back for the bard later for both their sakes, which is a hassle for everyone.
And then there’s Jaskier’s expression. Without the excitement of a monster hunt or a kidnapping, and without a song to throw himself into, Jaskier’s perpetually sunshiney expression falters. He’s clearly trying to hide it, turning away where Geralt can’t see, but the witcher can smell the sorrow and distress all over him.
Humans care a lot about soulmates in both the abstract and the concrete. They build their lives around this concept. While Geralt has no need for one in his own life, it’s obvious that it matters to Jaskier. Idly, Geralt wonders if it’s the bond holding them together, but he feels… something about Jaskier’s wounded expression. It’s dismay, he decides.
He’s just shaken the foundations of everything Jaskier has been planning for, Geralt finally realizes. Whether it’s the bond or a crisis of conscience, Geralt’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want a soulmate, but he also has no interest in orchestrating a lifetime of misery for someone whose only real crime has been an inability to shut up.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Geralt lets out a quiet sigh. He’s going to hate himself for this. He already hates himself for this. So, before he can decide to be sensible again, Geralt concedes, “Don’t slow me down.”