A Little Life

Jaskier

Without a home in Jaskier, his unmoored anger ebbs quickly and gives way to something heavier - a detached fatigue settles over him instead, blanketing him in a familiar numbness. Perhaps there is no more room left in him for pain.

It takes some time for Jaskier to move, but he does. By the time the last shadows in Geralt's bed chamber are cast out, he has uncurled around the bolt thrown through his chest and crawled out of the bed to pull on his borrowed clothes. They smell like him, and not like him, and - ah , there is room enough for that.

In the meager daylight that slips into the room, Geralt's presence looms as surely as if he were standing in it again. The very walls push at Jaskier to leave - each rumpled fur upon the bed feels an accusation, each discarded piece of clothing a judgment. What had he thought would happen, cornering a witcher? The great White Wolf, given an ultimatum - Jaskier could laugh at himself now, if he thought the jagged edges of it wouldn't cut him on the way out.

Rounding the bed, his eyes fall on his lute case. Some part of the wound in him tugs together as he gingerly picks it up and cradles it in his arms, but now the room feels truly empty. Move, he urges himself, the way he did in the weeks it took his wretched feet to carry him from Cairngorn to Oxenfurt. He had waited for so long in that inn at the bottom of the mountain - he will not wait so long again.

**

Jaskier wanders down the drafty hall with all the grace and speed of a salted slug, grasping along the wall for balance. A sick, petty satisfaction grows in him as his leg starts to throb, the movement and the cold stone on his bare feet going straight to the still-healing bones that Geralt had barked at him about walking on. It stands out from the numbness, in any case, but it also serves as a reminder that he won't be walking across the Continent on his own again any time soon. Figure it out later. Just move.

He passes the narrow little room he had taken up after delivering Ciri the first time and considers stopping there, but it won't work - it's too close to everyone else left in the keep, the last thing he wants. He keeps going, lute in hand, turning shadowy corners until he's sure he's lost. Fucking witchers and their cat eyes - there are no sconces along the dark walls, and he wouldn't have chaos on his side to light them anyway. This is not my home. Groping his way along, pulled forward by curiosity alone, he finally stumbles out into the barest light.

Vesemir's lab. Good, that's good. He can orient himself and get back to the main hall, at least, but... Well, it wouldn't hurt to rest, and he is so tired.

Jaskier finds himself drawn forward, past the shelves of dubious potions and surgical instruments that make him shiver. With a little digging and a lot more luck, he's able to light enough candles for his human eyes to become useful again. He settles onto a low table, tucking his legs up away from a dark stain that he very much wants to be old wine.

He plucks at his lute and merciful gods , that is a new kind of hurt. The cuff around his left wrist pulls tight as he bends it beneath the neck of his lute, the muscles there feeling short and stiff. He plays simply, slowly for a moment, finally peaceful until something crashes to the floor behind him and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
" Fuck! Fuck. Vesemir, sorry, I wasn't- I got lost, and-" a quiet chuckle interrupts him from the shadowy edge of the room.

"Cirilla?" he calls out, peering into the darkness. "Princess?"

Another giggle floats into the air, this time behind him, and it just barely reaches his ears over the slamming in his chest. Something sparks in the corner of his eye, golden and shining. Jaskier whips around to face it, holding his lute in front of his body, and finds nothing.