Chapter Text
Another ‘X’ on the map, another dead end, another failed attempt, in another hopeless city. A vain search, in the jaded hope, of providing a decent apology. Having crossed off most of the gods forsaken Continent he was sure the bard had disappeared into solitude, or worse had died. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he found Jaskier had died, it would be his fault.
Geralt was exhausted; he had spent months searching for the bard. He scoured every inn and every tavern he could find, begging and pleading for answers from anyone willing to speak with him. Desperate for any information about Jaskier. He was down to the last few places on his map, and he was close to giving up. He had begun to convince himself Jaskier wouldn’t want to see him even if did find him. Guilt crept into his bones, curling its spindly, decrepit fingers into his very core.
He had pushed him away.
He had caused the bard’s anguish.
He was to blame for the damage dealt.
He was so afraid of letting someone know him, that he lost his best friend. His only friend. It had been five years, five long years, five lonely years. It was time to make amends, even if that meant driving himself mad in the process.
He found himself missing the constant conversation, and incessant singing. He missed the laughter, the annoyance, but most of all he missed having a friend on the road. Roach could only provide so much in terms of conversation after all – she was a horse.
Upon arriving in Dorian, a small town north of Temaria, he was greeted by aggressive shouting. At first he had assumed it was for him – it was always for him – but the shouting didn't follow him. He glanced towards the noise. They were surrounding something, or perhaps someone, and throwing rocks into the center of the crowd. He sighed deeply and turned back; he knew he couldn’t walk away. The center of the angry mob was a little girl with pale blonde hair – bordering on white. It only took a moment to see her pointed ears. She had a loaf of bread in her hands and was crying on her knees.
She was screaming, her voice broke and every stone that hit her skin ripped a yelp from her. Geralt darted into the center of the crowd and used his body as a shield for the girl. Stones thudded against him and he pulled her into him, protecting her from them as best he could. The crowd began to yell at him instead, taking the attention off of the girl. He kept his arms around her as he pushed back through the crowd. The crowd dispersed leaving Geralt and the elven child alone. Though he knew it was only because they weren’t willing to fight him.
“Are you okay?” Geralt let go of her, kneeling to her height in front of her. He wiped her tears from her face. She nodded, sniffling. “What’s your name?”
“Esra.” A soft whimper escaped her before she continued. She held the small loaf of bread close to her chest.
“Where are your parents, Esra? I'll take you to them.” Tears became choked sobs. Her small hand lifted shakily, and pointed up past Geralt. He turned to look, bodies swung in the gallows. Their faces were blue, their lifeless eyes stained red, all with the same pointed ears. Their bodies were stiff, the tips of their fingers and toes were swollen and deep purple – rigor mortis had long since set in. Piss and shit stained their clothes, and trailed down to the wood beneath them. The tips of their bare feet scraped against the false floor. He had grown used to the smell of death, he almost hadn’t noticed the foul odor in the air. The corpses couldn’t have been there more than a day.
He turned back to Esra and placed his hand on her shoulder. “How old are you?” As he spoke, he rose to his feet and led her away from the gruesome scene and instead towards the inn.
“I’m eight.” She clung to his arm, walking quickly beside him.
“We were headed for Oxenfurt,” she pressed her small hand into the witcher’s calloused mit.
“What’s in Oxenfurt?” His voice was gentle. She sniffled, tears still trailing over her cheeks.
“The Sandpiper.” Her voice was as small as she was, barely audible in the loud village. Geralt had heard many elves speak of Xintrea, and ‘The Sandpiper’ in his search for Jaskier. News traveled fast in Novigrad, within the walls of the city he had heard many echoes of this ‘Sandpiper’ before. Some said he was a local bard – others a cretinous scoundrel. Separately those descriptions wouldn’t have meant anything, but Jaskier studied in Oxenfurt. Jaskier was not known for his monogamy, or loyalty, or discretion, so ‘cretinous scoundrel’ was true enough. It seemed as good a lead as any.
“I’ll take you to Oxenfurt.” He offered her a small smile. She grabbed his hand as they walked. Although people stared and mumbled insults at them, Geralt paid them no mind and simply squeezed the girl's hand when she’d slow down. They came to the entrance of the Inn, Geralt knelt down once more, took off his cloak, and wrapped it around the girl.
“Hood up, and stay close to me.” They entered the inn, and approached the innkeeper.
“I'm looking for a bard.”
“And I'm looking for a day off. Try somewhere else, Witcher.”
“His name is Jaskier.” The innkeep scoffed and began to walk away. “I’ll give you coin. Just- please, I need to find him.”
“How much coin are we talking?” He turned back to Geralt, who hastily reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse.
“Will this do?” He tossed it to the man and blankly stared at him. The man caught it and rifled through the contents.
“A month back, he played here. Last I heard he was making for Oxenfurt. Now get out, I don’t want your kind here.” Geralt grunted, and left with Esra. Once they were back outside he leaned down to her.
“Have you ever ridden a horse?” She shook her head and took a bite of her bread. “Would you like to?” She looked at him, her eyes wide, and nodded quickly. They walked to the stables. “This-” he tugged on the lead pulling a horse forward, “is Roach, hold your hand out to her.” Esra hesitantly did as she was told. Roach dipped her head down, placing her soft, velveteen nose into the girl's hand. Esra giggled excitedly.
“Hello, Roach!” She was looking up at the horse with wonder.
“Up you go.” As he leaned down she placed a hand on his shoulder to brace against. He hoisted her up into the saddle, as though she were weightless. Once she was comfortable, he untied Roach from the stables and they began their journey to Oxenfurt.
With an extra person, Geralt figured it would take a few extra hours to arrive. Still, he was sure they’d make it just before nightfall. He glanced up at Esra, who was tugging at and scratching beneath the cloak over her head. His cloak was still over her and sheltered her pointed ears. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would work until he could ensure her safety.
The trail ahead was lined with pine needles and hollowed shrubs. The winter cold had set in, shaking the forest of its color. Geralt could hear the echo from the twigs and leaves that crunched under each hoofbeat. The pair traveled in silence for about five minutes, before – much like his bard – she spoke, filling the silence.
“Thank you, for saving me.” She whispered. Geralt hummed, tilting his head back slightly to listen. “No one has ever done something like that for me before.” He felt his anger prickle under his skin, and felt the current of boiling rage flood his veins. The unjust treatment of the elves was no mystery to him, and on most occasions, he did all he could to stay out of large issues like that. Children are where he drew the line; there was nothing they could do so wrong. He took a deep breath and adjusted his grip on the reins.
“Don’t mention it,” he sighed. “We’re going to be passing through a town in a few hours, when we get there I’ll get food. Keep your hood up and stay on Roach.” He glanced at her, she seemed nervous.
“I heard witchers were mean, cruel people with no hearts, but you're not. I always knew people were wrong about you.” Geralt smiled to himself.
“Much like elves, people look at witchers and see the worst. They say we feel nothing. Love nothing. It lets them justify their hate. We let them believe it. It's easier to ignore.”
“I wish more people saw witcher’s like you.” He spared a gentle glance at the naive girl and picked up the pace towards their destination. They walked in silence for a while, the only sound between them was that of Roach’s rhythmic hoofbeat. The sun was high in the sky, golden light shone through the orange and red leaves making the trees glow as if they were burning. He hadn’t stopped to appreciate the beauty around him since the wars began, most paths were lined with the corpses of elves or deserters – this one still held on to the final breaths of autumn and for at least a mile, there was no evidence of the senseless death scattered across all of Velen. As the signs of town speckled itself over the path, so too did the hanging bodies.
Upon entering the town there were hushed whispers, and long stares at the witcher. Some people yelled insults or threw things, but they mostly left him alone. He stopped outside of the inn, throwing the reins to Esra.
“Stay here, I'll be right back.” She nodded once, and tugged her hood down further on her face. Geralt marched through the door and nearly collided with a drunkard on his way to the bar.
“Out Witcher, I don’t serve beasts.” Geralt sighed and responded loud enough for only the innkeep to hear.
“I’m not staying, I need some food for-” he hesitated. He hadn't thought about what he would say once he got there. His eyes darted around the room, landing on a father and son at a nearby table, “-my daughter.” Geralt's blank stare burned holes in the barkeep, who didn’t share Geralt’s discretion.
“Give me a break, a daughter? What poor whore was unlucky enough to have your child?” He laughed loudly causing the whole tavern to erupt. A few of the men around the bar got up from their seats and left.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m not asking, I need a meal and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I thought I told you,” he walked over to the witcher, getting in his face, “I don’t serve beasts. Leave.” He spat in the witcher's face, challenging him to pull his swords. Geralt wiped the thick, slimy droplets from his cheek, his expression unchanging. Their standoff was interrupted by yelling outside.
“Fuck.” Geralt sprinted out of the tavern, some of the men from in the bar were yelling insults at Esra, one of them reached out to her knocking the hood from her head.
“She’s an elf! We got ourselves an elf, boys!” The group of men laughed and grabbed her, trying to pull her from the horse. Geralt darted to her in an instant, thrusting his elbow into the stomach of the assailant reaching for the girl. He snapped his other hand out, tightly squeezing around the throat of another one of the men.
“Do you want to find out what happens if you cross me?” The men backed off, save the one struggling in Geralt’s grasp. “Cowards.” Geralt lifted the man and tightened his grip. His toes barely scraped the dirt below him. The man's trousers darkened. The rancid smell of fear and piss filled Geralt’s nose. Geralt threw the terrified man to the ground and growled, “Run.”
The men scrambled away leaving Geralt and Esra alone in front of the tavern. The next few minutes passed in a haze. Geralt jumped on Roach’s back behind Esra, and pulled her hood back up. His heels squeezed around Roach, hurling her into a gallop. The town passed by in a blur, the road was scarcely more than a streak of brown below them. Esra was holding on tightly, the sheer speed forcing her back into his chest. Geralt was livid his mind was racing, he kept imagining what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it out of the inn in time. He knew the violence of humans, knew the irony of them calling him a monster, when they were capable of such horrors.
“Slow down!” She was screaming, her grip on his wrists tearing his flesh. He yanked back the reins, pulling Roach to an abrupt stop. She reeled back on her hind legs, throwing the girl back into him with a hearty thud. His knuckles were white around the leather strip, and when the horse had settled again, he threw himself out of the saddle. He paced on the trail, visibly attempting to calm himself, his breathing was ragged, his fist balled tightly at his sides. The crisp autumn air cooled the fire in his blood, but the embers still smoldered. He wondered for a moment if it would even be worth having Jaskier back, traveling with others complicated things. Unfortunately, his experience with Esra proved that to him. His existence put others at risk. He hated the unnecessary jeer’s, hated the constant assaults on him and anyone who got too close.
As he paced he thought of Jaskier, he remembered how pleasant it was to have someone to care about – to protect. Jaskier was foolish, and sometimes relentlessly annoying, but he gave Geralt a purpose – a reason to keep fighting. His rage dissipated, replaced with a tightness in his chest, a resurgence of hope and heartbreak. When the molten embers cooled to ash, he returned to Esra and Roach.
“Change of plans, we can eat in Oxenfurt.” He climbed back on Roach, and they began moving, slower this time. “We can’t stop. I have some food in my pack.” He paused, she hadn’t done anything to deserve his coldness, he softened his tone. “If you’d like it, that is.” He realized that apologies were still a monster he couldn’t defeat. The words were as thin as air, they lingered on his tongue for a brief moment before he swallowed them down, and sighed.
“I still have bread. I’ll be okay.” She looked back at him. “Thank you, again.” She smiled apprehensively, looking up over her shoulder at him.
They passed through the next town without incident. The sun was beginning to set, the golden light filtered over the distant mountains. The sun had stained the horizon a vibrant crimson, the clouds held an orange glow as they floated by. Esra had fallen asleep a few hours back. As she slept soundly, resting against the witcher, worry plagued his mind.
He worried Jaskier wouldn’t forgive him, or that he wouldn’t be there when they arrived. It would be just another ‘X’ on his map, another dead end. Then again, even if he found him, he had no idea how to apologize. Words were not his strong suit, they were Jaskier’s. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Esra waking up. She must’ve been watching him for a while because her eyes were wide open when he caught her stare.
“What happened, with you and your friend?” Geralt let out a pained sigh, he must’ve been mumbling to himself for some time. He furrowed his brow and looked down at the girl.
“I said something hurtful, and we parted ways.” Geralt looked back to the road ahead, they only had about an hour of daylight left. “We have to hurry.”
They crossed into Oxenfurt just as the final whisper of the day silenced. The city was mostly quiet too, there were people working on boats at the dock, and the taverns and brothels were brightly lit. He maneuvered through the streets, finding a small stables near the city gate. Geralt helped Esra off of Roach and tied the horse away. They walked quickly through the streets, sticking close to the back of most buildings. The inn came into sight and Geralt knelt down in front of her.
“I suppose, this is where we part ways. Do you know where you need to go?” Geralt spoke softly to her.
“There’s supposed to be a cellar.” She looked at Geralt with wet eyes. “Please, don't make me go alone.”
He sighed. “Alright,” he held out his hand.
“Come on!” She pulled Geralt softly before he had fully stood up, almost knocking him off balance. They crept through the shadows around the tavern to a weathered set of cellar doors, with a hand painted sign nailed to it that read ‘Employees Only’. Geralt closed his eyes to listen closer, and heard whispers and shuffling on the other side. The hinges squealed as he pried the doors open. The whispers died instantly; the room suddenly became still. Esra ran down the steep stone steps, and frowned at the empty room in front of her.
“It’s alright,” he announced, pulling the hood off Esra's head. Some of the elves peaked their heads around the barrels to see them. Hope etched into their expressions, some seemed to recognise Esra and opened their arms to her, pulling her into a loving embrace. Their eyes now shifted to him, hopeful and expectant.
“I'm not the person you’re waiting for.” There was a loud collective sigh from all of the elves, who now moved out of hiding. As he turned to leave she grabbed his hand.
“Thank you, for everything, Geralt.” She pulled him into a tight hug. “Good luck with your friend.” He returned the hug, squeezing her and then gently resting his hand on her cheek. She shrugged his cloak off and pressed it into his arms. Loud shuffling from above drew his attention. He could hear the boisterous laughter, and drunken conversations, and then his heart felt as though it stopped. A voice thundered through the floorboards, melodic and sweet. It was devastatingly familiar. It was Jaskier.
All those lonely miles, that you ride,
Now you'll walk, with no one by your side.
Did you ever even care, with your swords and your stupid hair?
Now watch me laugh, as I burn all the memories of you.
Geralt walked slowly away from the elves, his eyes filled with disbelief. He made his way carefully up the stairs. He could smell the familiar comforting scent of cedarwood and lavender seeping through the pine walls, drawing him nearer, into the bard's gravity. He looked through the cracks in the wall. It was his bard, he was there. His search was moments from coming to its end. He traced his eyes over Jaskier. He had stubble and his hair was longer now, brushing over his now broadened shoulders. He wore a long maroon, leather coat, it trailed over his hips, and rested at his ankles. His lute was new, and the strings had just been changed; the bard never clipped the extra metal. There were a few new wrinkles by his eyes, and mouth. He flashed his dizzying smile, and winked at a woman watching the show. He still performed with the same enchanting enthusiasm that he did five years ago. Geralt listened to the bard's words, hanging on every sweetened note and quickly realized they were about him.
What for d’you yearn? It’s the point of no return.
After everything we did, we saw. You turned your back on me,
What for d’you yearn? Watch that butcher burn!
At the end of my days when I’m through,
No word that I’ve written, will ring quite as true as
“Burn!”,
Burn, Butcher, Burn!
He could feel the bard’s unyielding anguish. The anger that had festered in the years that had passed. ‘Butcher’ – The very thing Jaskier had fought so hard to remove from Geralt all those years ago. He couldn’t bring himself to walk away. He watched as Jaskier’s rage turned to grief and watched him stumble and collapse into a nearby chair.
Watch me burn, all the memories of you.
Jaskier looked distant, he only began smiling again when the audience started to cheer, this smile didn’t reach his eyes. Geralt felt a tug on his shirt.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Esra asked, also enraptured by the performance. The witcher's eyes never left Jaskier.
“Yeah. Yeah that's- that's him.” Geralt turned on his heel and walked back through the cellar doors, making sure no one saw him leave. He paced in around the back of the tavern, desperately trying to make a half-decent apology – better yet, a good one. The words were a mess, nothing felt right. They all sat like lead in his mouth. Words were hard enough, apologies were a different monster.
Geralt would’ve preferred a monster to this. Monsters were easy, swing and strike, duck and dash, survive or die. There were no second chances…but that’s where they became similar. This was his last shot. One mistake, the wrong word at the wrong time and Jaskier would be gone. For good this time. Geralt would simply have to keep living, death wasn't a mercy Jaskier would provide. Jaskier wasn’t a monster. He sighed, limbs hanging limply from his body. Feeling hopelessly dejected he walked to the stable and sat with Roach.
“What do I say? I can’t just say sorry. That's not good enough, not for what I did at least.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Gods Roach, what do I do.” He sighed, swimming though his endless regret and failed words.