Chapter Text
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It starts after Blaviken.
At first, he doesn’t notice, still reeling from Renfri’s death, from Marilka’s cold eyes, from the anger that churns under his skin when he thinks of Stregobor’s smirk.
It creeps up on him, until there is no other explanation.
He is cursed - by Stregobor, by Renfri, by Lillit herself screaming vengeance from the sky, it matters not.
It works on him regardless.
…
When he reaches the first town after the massacre, word has already spread. Screams ring out as he approaches. Doors and shutters close against him, people fleeing from his gaze.
He stands alone in an abandoned square, the tatters of market stalls upturned in the haste to flee him, bolts of cloth flapping gently in the breeze.
A child cries out, three houses over, and he can hear its mother weep and beg the gods for mercy from the Butcher, pleas fervent and haunting in his ears.
Bile rises in his mouth at the sound of her racing heart, the cracked note in her voice as she tries to calm her child and shield it from his notice.
He nearly weeps himself then, and picks through what remains of a grocer’s stall as hurriedly as he can, leaving the coin prominently on display.
He can hear the clang of armour, of men girding themselves to run him off, though their knees shake with fear, and climbs back onto Roach as quickly as he can manage, galloping out of town to avoid another battle, another slaughter.
He never wanted this, but he deserves it.
…
The curse takes hold with a swiftness that is startling.
He escapes Redania as quickly as he can, searching for some respite from the terror his appearance provokes, but rumour travels faster than a Witcher can, humans warning each other about the monster that could appear to darken their own doors, and every word is truth.
Oathbreaker, they call him. Butcher, reaper, monster, killer.
Murderer.
He cannot explain, and no one will give him a moment’s pause to summon his excuses.
Word spreads, and no matter where he turns, humans flee, or sneer, or scream.
They chase him from their villages and towns, threatened by the mere appearance of the rogue Witcher, and he wanders the Path without respite.
…
The curse twists and bucks, sinking into his head and attacking his sleep first.
He wakes from nightmares with a pounding heart, Renfri’s last words echoing in his ear, his throat dry and aching.
Then the world begins to fade and dim in his vision, and there is a heaviness in his chest that anchors him to the ground, tethers him in place even as the landscape shifts and changes around him.
He walks, and rides, and the countryside blurs from forest to mountain to plains once more, but a part of him is always standing in that marketplace in Blaviken, Renfri slipping from his arms.
If he looks down, he is afraid he will see her body there, even with his waking eyes.
Even the smallest setback in battle will rouse his temper for hours; a missed strike, a loose stone making him slip, even Roach not arriving swiftly enough at his call.
He paces, fuming and shaking with fury, cursing his poor fortune until the storm passes and what little energy he has is drained clear away, leaving him weary and maudlin at his own foolishness once more.
…
The curse tightens, a noose that chokes him.
The leaves change and fall off the trees, and he keeps putting off going to Kaer Morhen, until the first snow falls, and the relief he feels now that the decision is out of his hands is stronger than anything he’s felt in weeks.
He doesn’t want to have to face his brothers, see their disappointment and disgust, and have them suffer his presence, trapped in one keep all winter where they can’t avoid him, or worse, make them ask him to leave.
The gates will be barred to him now, the same as they are to any other Witcher who had turned rogue, and when he realises he has singlehandedly made their Paths harder, that they too might feel the consequences of his foolish actions, his breath turns hollow in his lungs, the weight of his guilt too hard to think through.
He comes to himself hours later, trembling for the cold, cheeks damp and eyes burning. He stares at the same patch of tree trunk for hours from the little hollow he finds himself in, teeth chattering, mind blissfully blank.
Roach makes her way to him eventually and snuffs at his hair, and he jerks, flinching from the unexpected touch.
The last time someone touched him was the uncurling of Renfri’s cold hand from the edge of his shirt, and he shakes awake in the dawn, riddled with wanting.
There is ash in his mouth, and his lungs feel hollow and weak in his chest, caught and gasping like a landed fish, sucking in reedy little gulps of air as his mind fractures under the weight of his despair.
He sees her sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, in the gaps between trees or the space between the stars, and each vision smiles the same sharp toothed grin as his own.
….
The curse tightens its grip and turns all his thoughts to misery.
The food he gets, when he gets it, is bland and tasteless, and some nights he can barely muster himself to bother hunting and goes to sleep hungry.
He catches a glimpse of himself in a placid lake one evening, and startles before he realises. He is hollow and shrunken, pale skin stretched over sharp bones. His armour fits him poorly, and is worn and tattered, in need of repair or replacement, with coin he does not have.
He still manages to care for Roach, if barely, grateful that the curse allows him that much, that at least he can make sure she is fed, and he braves even the worst towns to keep her shod and healthy. He talks to her a lot more than he did before, now that he is more likely to receive a stoning than a smile from a human, and she seems to appreciate it, flicking her ears in his direction when he speaks.
He listens at the edges of human settlements for work, hiding from view and never daring to cause another panic. He waits until someone mentions a curse or a monster, and then approaches them directly, hooded and cloaked in the hush of darkness, accepting any coin for any contract.
He slips unseen through the world, and if it is even lonelier than before, then it is only his own doing.
…
The first year is a nightmare, and it does not stop, it does not cease, it does not end.
It only gets worse.
He barely makes enough coin to keep Roach’s shoes in order, and as the Continent hears of his infamy, he starts to forget what a moment’s succour with another soul feels like.
The memories of the night with Renfri are tainted utterly by the haunting of her eyes clouding over in death, and desire abandons him completely.
The viciousness he receives when spotted at the edges of town is enough to warn him that he will not be welcome at a brothel, even to lay in the presence of another, and he cannot spare the money for it.
He can feel his grip slipping.
The Witcher and his horse ride on, for days, weeks, years, centuries unchanging.
…
The curse tightens its hold, and there is only numb acceptance left to him now. He scrapes what little fight he has left into his contracts, and he manages.
He is worn down to the bone in Posada. There is a tavern, with the sounds of merriment pouring from the windows and the happy cheers of humans ringing through his head. He wants so badly he can taste it, and he slips inside and sits, quiet and still, in the corner, praying for five minutes of solace. The barmaid even serves him an ale, distracted and talking over her shoulder to the innkeeper, and he sips at his bounty carefully, stretching out the moment as long as he can.
He watches the patrons, smiling and joking and talking, wistful with a longing he can no longer bear to conceal. If he stays as still as he can, fades into the background, doesn’t bother anyone, then perhaps he can eke out a minute more of warm sunshine, pretending to be one of them.
The table is empty, as it always is, and if he doesn’t look away from the opposite wall, then perhaps he can imagine that Eskel has just gone to fetch another round, or that Lambert is about to walk in and greet him with his usual biting humour.
He used to shy away from feeble fantasies, knowing how bitter reality is when it washes back in and reasserts itself, but after a decade, all he has are daydreams.
He pretends his company has stepped away for just a moment, and tries to remember what Eskel’s booming laugh used to sound like, or Vesemir’s gruff tones, and the loneliness stabs all the deeper.
He listens to the music, and the tavern-goers throw bread at the bard playing in the corner.
A small step from bread to stones, he thinks, wincing in sympathy.
The bard turns his head, and looks straight at him.
The Witcher lets his eyes flick back to the wall, the empty table, anywhere else.
A flutter of breath, and his legs shift under the table, ready to run.
The bard approaches.
He has not realised what the Witcher is.
There is no mistaking him, even at a distance, the Witcher is recognisable as a ghost from tales to terrify children, from wanted posters and nightmares that stretch their shadows across kingdoms.
The bard steps closer, and he freezes, anticipating the blow, the pointed finger, the yell to alert his fellow humans to what has managed to sneak inside their safe tavern. His instincts fail him, and he is stuck in place, waiting for the screams and the silence.
The bard speaks to him, and the Witcher can barely make out a word over the roaring in his ears.
The bard smiles at him, and sits down at the empty table.
The bard smiles at him.
He blinks, and time slips through his fingers. He speaks, voice rusty and croaking with disuse, waiting for the trap to descend.
Then the bard works out what he is, and the Witcher escapes before the curse can wind itself up to strike again and leave more bodies in his wake.
‘I know who you are. You’re the Witcher... Geralt of Rivia.’
Ten winters have passed since the last time someone said his name.
It rings out strangely, and hangs in the dusty air.
It halts the merriment in the tavern entirely, and he wants to flee, barely holding on while the farmer who corners him talks about devils, as if he does not stand, quaking in his boots, mere feet from one in the flesh.
He honours the farmer’s courage, and what must be desperate need, to face such a horror as he in the daylight hours when the human world should be safe.
He stands firm and accepts the contract, as quickly as he can, and then leaves the tavern, and the little peace he found there behind.
The bard follows him.
His shoulders hunch tight, and he focuses on Roach, his grip on the reins flexing and shifting as his knuckles turn white.
The boy babbles and mocks him. The cruelties of humans are well known to him, though to pretend interest in being the barker of the Butcher is a new one. Better to warn of his approach.
He does not turn to look, but he does not know why the bard follows him. Perhaps he was dared to brave a conversation with the Witcher. Or he plays distraction to keep his attention off an ambush.
He cannot rally the strength to care. Weariness sucks at the marrow of him.
The bard calls him Butcher, and the anger shrieks and coats his tongue with bile, that even the succour of hearing his own name once more should be stripped from him. He snaps and punches the boy, a dog too beaten down to know what kindness is anymore.
He strides on, and the bard follows.
The bard questions him, and he tries to ignore him and concentrate on the reality of the contract, but answers slip from him regardless.
The bard says his name, and each repetition sets his slow heart pounding, head dizzy, trying and failing to keep this phantom at the edge of his vision where it belongs.
They reach the devil’s den, and he waves away the wishing. The coin purse he got from the farmer is real and noisy when he taps it, and the boy is too colourful and bold to be anything but a haunting.
He tries and fails to focus on the contract.
The trap is baited, and he steps in anyway.
…
The world spins back into focus, and he can feel the warmth of the bard behind him, but he cannot see him.
He bares his throat to the elf-king, and pleads as best he can for the boy’s life. He too, knows what it is to be subject to the hatred of humans, but the only difference between them is that he earned it. If this is to be his end, then it is a kinder one than he deserves.
…
Geralt walks out of Filavandrel’s trap a free man, and the bard follows him.
Geralt rides on Roach, and makes camp, and the bard follows him.
Geralt wakes up the next morning, and the bard follows him.
…
He has to check Jaskier’s scent every time the wind shifts.
His mind has played tricks on him before, and the sudden appearance of a charming companion, when Geralt is at his lowest, could be the work of any number of monsters. The curse could be growing in power, twisting his mind further against him.
He does not dare touch the bard, though it would be easier to believe with reality in his grip.
He watches what the bard touches, what he moves and shifts around their shared fire, and the bedrolls are moved in truth, not merely hallucinated.
He listens for Jaskier’s breathing, in case he rolls over one night and all trace of him is gone completely.
Sometimes, Jaskier steps close enough for Geralt to feel the heat rising off his body, and it makes his skin ache, shudders skittering in little shivers down his spine.
Jaskier is beautiful and clever, a merry man by nature, and so kind.
Geralt has done nothing to earn his company, but he is grateful for it.
…
He hunts for whatever he thinks Jaskier will fancy, and he slowly regains some of his shed weight as the bard fusses at him to eat more, to bow to the routine of breaking fast and fetching dinner suitable for a human’s constitution.
He submits to bearing the hostile stares of humans and follows him to inns and taverns across the land. Jaskier sings songs of love and songs of Witcher’s battles, and people cheer and applaud. If Geralt is barred from entering, then Jaskier will not either, and he cannot bring the scales to weigh equally between them by any measure, for all the bard does.
He makes sure Jaskier at least, is dry and warm and safe when he sleeps, too used to keeping watch himself for it to make much difference.
It is a paltry offering, in return for the muted happiness Geralt feels when Jaskier smiles at him, but it is all he can do.
Sometimes, when Jaskier plays his lute by the light of the fire, he almost forgets the curse entirely.
There are days when he can listen to Jaskier talk, and lose himself in the stories he tells, and the day flies past despite their steady pace.
There are days when he travels alone, even with company, senses too dull to make out individual words, where food and water sometimes appear before him, and sometimes don’t, and it makes little difference either way.
There are days when even with Jaskier there and present and real beside him, the bard seems to slip out of his eyesight, and he is cold to his bones, and it takes all his strength just to keep one foot in front of the other.
…
The idea that he could let Jaskier take care of Roach, just once, just for one day, so that he might sleep, and not have to face the world at all, the notion winds through his mind and trembles sweetly at the edge of every thought.
He holds the line there, but barely.
If he succumbs that far, there is no telling if he will ever get up again.
…
Sometimes Jaskier and Roach feel more like burdens than anything else, now that he has two creatures dependent on him, when he must watch over them, keep them safe, protect them and keep them well fed.
He manages, one day at a time.
Guilt keeps him company, when he is unfit for anything else.
…
It is a blur when it happens.
He follows Jaskier to a tavern, in a town he does not know the name of, and a man in fine armour bumps his shoulder viciously as he passes through the door.
Geralt startles, trained to fend off attacks since before he can remember.
His traitorous hand is on the hilt of his sword before he can even turn his head to face the man in armour, and then the screams begin.
The drinkers abandon their pints and run, a swarm of madly scrabbling people pushing to escape. Yells of ‘Butcher’ ring in his ears, and he loses Jaskier in the rush and the fury.
A whole table of armed men rises in defence of their own, pinning him to the ground, forcing him to his knees, swords drawn and smiles savage.
He does not move, does not fight, does not twist his hand into Aard and push them off, just lets his body go limp against the biting grip shackled in his hair, only his eyes betraying his wildness, frantic to see Jaskier once more.
‘The Butcher of Blaviken.’ The armoured man sneers, and his men await the final order.
‘Stop.’ Jaskier’s sweet voice rings out too loudly, as the tavern empties behind him, and Geralt closes his eyes in fear.
He cannot watch this.
He cannot watch Jaskier fall.
‘When a wolf turns on you, you put it down like a dog.’ The man jeers, and Jaskier snarls in answer.
Geralt’s eyes betray him and open, and he finds Jaskier, standing proud and brave, defending the Butcher alone.
He shakes his head against the wrenching grip, desperate. Leave, he thinks, please, don’t make me see this.
The armoured man steps closer, and Geralt can hear the creak of his leather gloves as he nods at his men and turns to face Jaskier.
‘You will not touch him.’ Brave Jaskier. He tries to look resolute, and hopes Jaskier will know how grateful he is before the end.
‘And who be you to give me orders, boy?’
Jaskier’s posture shifts, the jovial bard slipping away in front of Geralt’s eyes. He doesn’t move an inch, but he seems taller, the candlelight playing over his face illuminating something darker beneath.
‘The Viscount de Lettenhove. And I am perfectly amenable to settling this in arbitration, if necessary.’
Jaskier’s ever-present smile turns cold and brittle.
‘For this freak?’
‘Release him.’ Jaskier says, prowling closer to the guards, tone deceptively mild, the hush of his voice echoing strangely across the stone floors. ‘Or I’ll have you whipped for your insolence.’
‘Your Grace.’ The man’s face twists, expression hideous and bitter. ‘I’m sure the Earl will be delighted to hear news of your doings.’
Jaskier snaps his head round and glares at him.
The sword at his throat scrapes over the edge of his armour with a threatening hiss, but the clutching grip of the guardsmen eases on his shoulders.
Jaskier strides over and hauls him to his feet, ignoring the mutters of the men around them, and then a firm hand is on his arm, Jaskier nudging him out of the door, and keeping his own fragile little body between the Witcher and the guards.
Geralt scrambles to keep up, vision blurred and still shaking.
When they reach the stables again, Jaskier checks to make sure they aren’t being followed and then almost reaches out, visibly stopping himself.
His eyes catch on Geralt’s hands, trembling despite his best efforts, but he can still hold a sword if necessary.
‘Can you run?’ He asks, eyes darting to Roach.
‘Yes. It’ll be faster.’
Jaskier mounts Roach easily, and looks at him once, nodding.
They burst through the stable doors together, Roach carrying Jaskier at a steady canter and Geralt keeping pace alongside, letting out some of the battle-readiness churning his blood as his boots pound the flagstones.
Jaskier glances over his shoulder behind them and spurs Roach into a gallop, and Geralt lets him keep watch for once, using all his hard-won speed to run alongside as fast as he can.
They flee into the woods beyond the town, and stop only when Roach tires.
Jaskier slides off her back, and stands, fists clenched, in the clearing while Geralt whispers hushed praise in her ear and unsaddles her swiftly, leading her round in circles to cool her down.
Jaskier’s breath is unsteady, and Geralt keeps his eyes down, awaiting his fury, pacing alongside Roach as the bard’s heart trembles wildly in his chest, filling the hollow grove like the tension of a drumbeat.
A tang of salt stirs on the breeze, and Jaskier rounds on him, eyes wet and lip trembling.
‘Why didn’t you fight back?’
Geralt stares.
‘You didn’t fight Filavandrel either. You asked him to spare my life, not yours. Why don’t you ever fight?’
There are no words to explain the way the curse saps his strength, but if he owes anyone in the world the truth, it is the man before him.
He takes a halting breath, and the truth wavers out from his lips before he can soften it.
‘I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. I never wanted to hurt anybody.’
His knees falter beneath him at the heaviness of it, and the world swims before him. Then Jaskier is there, kneeling with him, fine silks sullied by mud and face strewn with tears.
‘Geralt.’ Jaskier weeps, and reaches out a warm hand to touch his. The weight of it, the feel of his skin, it unlocks the screaming corner of his head where he is trapped and helpless. He huffs out another weak breath, and lets himself reach back, as gently as he can, as though caught in a dream.
Jaskier lets out a tiny cracked sob, and clutches his hand tightly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not.’
He shakes his head once, and makes sure to look Jaskier in the eye, so he can see the honesty in his words.
‘I killed her, I did, and now I’m cursed, and I can’t escape it. I’m exactly what they call me. A freak, a monster.’
Jaskier grabs his shoulders and shakes him gently, before he can even blink.
‘Geralt, you’re not, I swear.’ He tears his gaze away, shame and guilt clenching his stomach tight with nerves. Jaskier is too willing to believe in the kindness of others, heart brimming with easy care for even such a lost cause.
‘Look at me. Look at me.’ Haltingly, he meets Jaskier’s eyes, blue and wet with tears.
‘You’re not a freak. You’re not a monster. You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met. And you are a man, not a monster. Please, Geralt. Please, you tried your best.’
‘You don’t even know what happened.’ He says, frantic to stem the tide of honey-sweet words.
‘I know you. I know you Geralt. You would never slaughter innocents. I would never believe that of you, not if Melitele herself came down and told me.’
‘I killed them, and I killed her, and I deserve what’s coming to me.’
‘Never. I won’t let you. You don’t deserve any of this. I swear to you Geralt, I can help you. I will, as best I’m able. Allow me the chance to try. Please. Before…’ He falters, and then swallows harshly.
‘Before you do anything drastic.’
The words hang in the air between them, and Geralt is rigid with tension, muscles straining to run.
‘I’m not…‘
All those slippery silver-spun thoughts that glide through his head before he goes to sleep are tugged to the forefront of his mind, thinking of how his worn armour will mean his death sooner rather than later, and struggling to muster the energy to care.
He would not actively court death, any more than usual for a Witcher, but its wings cast a shadow over him regardless.
Jaskier watches him, and they are both breathless in the pause.
He gulps, mouth dry, and his teeth click as he closes his mouth again helplessly.
‘Please. Geralt. Come with me for the winter, please.’
Jaskier is on his knees, begging him. There is little he would not do for more of the bard’s kindness, and he nods, hollowed out and exhausted.
Jaskier surges into his arms and clutches him so tightly his armour creaks at the force of it. Warm drops trickle onto his skin, and a little wisp of wonder unfurls in his chest, that he has stirred the bard to tears, that Jaskier reaches for him, and does not flinch when Geralt haltingly reaches back.
Jaskier truly cares for him, he does, and that knowledge is enough to make him bring his own hands up to the bard’s back and tug him a little closer.
Jaskier does not let go, does not wince or shudder at his touch, and Geralt shakes to pieces in his arms, trembling at the warmth of him, real and breathing and alive in his grasp.
They sit together on the ground, and Jaskier winds a hand up to his hair and strokes through it gently, face stained with streaks of salt, lit golden and true in the sunset.
...