The Witcher (One shots)

Alone.

(Geralt x Jaskier)

It shouldn’t have happened.

Yes, yes, he knows. He knows that something like this could have happened at some point. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like. He was advised, on several occasions, by several different people, to bury whatever feelings he had for the Witcher because one day, he wasn’t going to make it home.

And Jaskier being Jaskier, he brushed all of it off. He laughed in the face of destiny; who had been tormenting his Witcher for years, pushing all sorts of things in his way. Jaskier loves Geralt He loves him so much that his chest hurts whenever he’s with the Witcher and when he’s without. They have weathered too many storms together for him not to cherish the ground Geralt walked on. And despite all of the Witcher’s grumblings, he’s sure that Geralt felt the same about him too.

And then something like this happens.

He can’t remember a lot of it. Some healer brought in from a neighbouring town mentioned something about trauma. Yes, well, Jaskier thought bitterly, the world is very traumatising. Especially when it tries to destroy and take away everything you hold dear. So according to that healer, his memory might be a bit sketchy for a while. And he doesn’t know if he wants to take it as a blessing or a curse.

Neither of them was alone. Maybe that’s the only good thing he can gather from the ashes.

Geralt had his brothers when the contract was given to them. They set out into the forest together, joking and roughing among themselves like wolves. Jaskier watched them slowly stalk out of the town and disappearing beyond the horizon. They would be fine. He assured himself of it over and over again.

The Witcher wasn’t alone when he went out on his hunt.

And Jaskier wasn’t alone when Geralt died.

It all starts to blur after a while. No matter how many times he tries to blearily bat the fog away, he can’t make out the start of one memory or the end of another. He remembers some things vividly. His throat red and raw from screaming at the sight of a bloodied Witcher hauled into the tavern. The panic that seized his whole body at how pale and sullen Geralt’s skin had turned within moments, when the healer brought in had turned away just to grab some new cloth strips.

And the shake of the healer’s head when he pulled away from Geralt’s torn chest. Red stained her hands and her arms. She wore a hollow look, her eyes not quite meeting theirs, but she mumbled what Jaskier didn’t want to hear anyway.

He’s gone.

No.

No, he wasn’t.

He does remember firm arms catching him, holding him against a solid chest, even when he tried to lurch forward. Whether it was to fall to Geralt’s side, gather him into his arms and try and lure him back, or to roar and scream at the healer to keep trying, he doesn’t know. Maybe a bit of both. But Lambert held on to him all the same, until the last trace of fury sizzled out of him. And then his legs gave out, and Lambert followed him to the floor.

The healer left, muttering something about fetching a godswife down the road to say the last rites.

After that, Jaskier remembers nothing.