Julian remembered when he was old enough to have his Revealing. He was twelve, and his parents had paid for the court mage to come to their house and perform the ceremony. It wasn't all that elaborate for young men; young women, of course, had flashy parties that ended with an entourage of them shopping for the perfect glove to hide their soul mark as a symbol of their growth. Julian hadn't been interested in any of the frills -he'd just wanted to know what his mark was. His cousin, Ferrant, had a furled document on his wrist with handcuffs around it; Julian's school friends had gotten their marks revealed as well. Henry had pulled his glove off and shown off the bold ship on his wrist; Roderick had flashed his, a crossbow firing a lightning bolt.

Everyone had a unique soul mark, and the choice to have it revealed by a mage if they so chose. Julian had been overjoyed to hear that the mage was coming to their mansion, so much so he could barely sit still through dinner. The Revealing was meant to be a painless ceremony -it simply activated a bond between you and the person you were meant to be with, your perfect half. But it was an accepted fact that if there was pain during the ceremony, that the one you were meant to be with, was someone of magic, or destiny. Julian remembered dropping to his knees, his arm on fire -literal fire -before he passed out from the pain.

Soul marks bound two people together. Destiny could interfere, had interfered before, and overnight a new mark would appear. For some, their first marks faded away. For others, they simply had multiple soul marks. It wasn't uncommon for death and grief to leave marks faded; sometimes, they never fully vanished, and other times they did. It was an imperfect science and barely-understood magic.

Elves were a perfect example of how soul marks were meant to function. They were higher beings, more finely attuned to magic, and so they only ever had one soul mark. That one perfect person with whom they would spend their lives with. It was not uncommon, or so Julian had heard, for elves to remain celibate until they encountered their match. Elves had less trouble than humans and other races did in identifying their other half, for they seemed most able to interpret the symbols that appeared. Julian envied them.

He woke up two days after his Revealing ceremony, his arm bandaged from wrist to elbow. It took weeks before he could return to school without people asking too many questions, and it was months before he could even tell what his soul mark was. He was lucky the scarring from the burn wasn't severe. But there, on his forearm, was the face of a white wolf with golden eyes staring back. Julian touched it with a trembling finger.

Somewhere, out there, was his other half.

The Trial of the Grasses always obscured or twisted any Revealed marks. Lambert had gotten drunk enough once to admit that he had a snow-white hare on his wrist before the Trial, and afterward, there was only a cotton-tail left. Eskel didn't get his mark Revealed until long after the Trial, and according to him, the process had been exceedingly painful. What did he get for his troubles? The face of a griffin. Lambert was fond of calling him "griffin fucker" when no one else was around to hear. Coen arrived late that winter, baffled by it all. He had never developed a soul mark; his Reveal ceremonies failed, a result he assumed, from the Trial of the Grasses.

Some soul marks weren't about romance. After all, it couldn't always be. Some soul marks were the closest of friends, others were lovers. Never enemies. Kindred souls brought to fight against each other? It wasn't possible. Sure, there were stories about Tristianna and Isador, whose families fought to keep them apart. There was even conflict between her father and lover, but Tristianna could no more have raised a weapon against her soulmate than she could stop the world moving.

By the time he was nearing adulthood, he started to share dreams with his other. It was rare between soulmates, but Jaskier always knew he was special. He was going to be the most famous bard the Continent had ever seen, after all, of course, his soulmate had to be someone equally special. He hoped that his other half wasn't too bored watching Jaskier read and attempt to follow along. Most of all, he hoped his other half didn't have to witness the canings.

Jaskier's dreams were seldom pleasant. Men and women handing over coin purses, muttering under their breath as they did so. There was always blood. A lot of it. On his soulmate, or around him, but it seemed to always be present. The first dreams had been more of a nightmare -he thought his other half was dying and spent days gripping his arm, watching his soul mark for any signs that it was growing pale. But the golden eyes stayed golden, and Jaskier learned to accept that whatever his soulmate did, was a thankless job.

His parents were overjoyed when he asked for sword lessons. As a young child, he'd never been particularly keen for them, and had celebrated when everyone threw the towel in -his instructor included. Jaskier had one love in his life, and one love alone, and that was for song. But one day, his soulmate might need help. Or worse, his soulmate could find Jaskier to be a liability. So Jaskier started studying the sword with diligence second only to the energy he poured into learning how to sing and play the lute.

Geralt blinked, staring at the ceiling. He'd been dreaming, he was sure, of a young man who was exceptionally bad at sword fighting. It was painful to watch, actually. Kid needed to learn when to call it quit. Some people could learn with practice and repetition, but there were those others who could not. Geralt highly doubted any amount of practice could turn that young man into a halfway decent fighter.

Witchers weren't supposed to dream, he knew. But like his white hair, and emotions, he thought it another oddity unique to him. He didn't tell the others about the poor swordfighter that winter. The dreams were infrequent anyway, and boring enough to send him into a deeper sleep.

"Part of having a soul mark is recognizing your other half," the lecturer explained. He had to be nearly as old as dust, but there was something musical about his voice. Jaskier found himself transfixed by each word. "Some of you will be lucky, you will know at a glance exactly who you're meant to be with. But for most of us, it involves sharing the most intimate part of ourselves. Our mark. Seeing your soul staring back at you, from someone else's body is often the trigger. Sometimes, you have to share those hard memories. The things you've done or thought about doing, things you know no one but your soulmate could ever accept in you for.

"But once you have triggered the start of the bond, the Acceptance begins then. We've studied this thoroughly in soul-matches, and the steps that follow after the Acceptance are always vital. Reciprocating gestures -a gift for a gift, a confession for a confession; complete honesty and transparency about what you want from each other; and fidelity above all lead to a happy life. And, once Accepted, you'll find your marks have combined, at last reflecting that two halves have become one."

"But sir," Lorrie asked, raising her hand higher. "Sir, what if someone doesn't Accept?"

Mikhail's caterpillar-bushy brows drew together. "It has happened. It's much harder to study, because the few who are rejected, are typically rejected for a very real, very difficult reason. Some of us have soulmates who have done unforgivable things, the kind of vileness, that although the potential to love them is there, the ability to forgive… is not."

"What then?" Lorrie pressed.

Mikhail crossed his arms. "Many of them opt to take their own lives. Others, others refuse their Destiny. The mark fades; it wasn't meant to be, and another forms in its place. Or, doesn't."

"So then you could be out there, sharing your deepest darkest secrets with this person who's meant to Accept you and -and they'll reject you?" Desmond demanded.

The lecturer blew out a breath, mustache wavering. "If your soulmate came to you, showed you the symbol that was your heart and soul, and told you they had ransomed and murdered children for profit, would you be able or willing to accept that?"

Desmond dropped back into his seat. "I guess not…"

"Don't fool yourselves into thinking Destiny is a kind mistress, looking after all of us. Our other half can and will take us to task for the things we've done in this life. Strive to be the best you can be, for them."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose but didn't say anything. He thought it was rather more important to be the best you can be for yourself first. He hoped his soulmate would accept him for who he was -he wouldn't want to be accepted for striving to be someone he thought his stranger-soulmate would want.

"Sir, do you know anything about how magic affects these marks?" Jaskier asked.

Mikhail tweaked his mustache, considering. "I've heard that sorcerers and sorceresses must surrender their marks, to complete their transformation. Unlike their elven counterparts, it is suspected that the magics used in the transformation itself are incompatible with the magic inherent in soul marks."

"Yes," Jaskier said, rather impatiently. "But what of Witchers?"

Mikhail blinked. "What about them?"

"Do they have soul marks? How does that work, if they do, but experience no emotions?"

Mikhail shook his head. Jaskier heard some of his classmates stifle a laugh. Nothing new then.

"I've never heard of a Witcher retaining one," Mikhail said, rather waspishly. "Then, they are rather secretive and I've heard of a Witcher not having one. I suggest you ask one yourself if you're so curious."

It was just a question, Jaskier thought, leaning back in his seat. No need to be rude about it.

"Any other questions?" Mikhail demanded loftily.

Lorrie leaned over, idly rolling her quill pen between fingers. "Why the sudden curiosity about Witchers?" she asked quietly.

Jaskier shrugged. "Thinking about writing a love song about one of them." The lie came easily.

Lorrie arched a brow. "I don't think that'll go over very well. Who wants to listen about an emotionless monster slayer falling in love? Who could ever love one? I can't imagine how painful it would be. To love, and not be loved in return." Her pen stilled, she rested her hand on her gloved forearm.

Jaskier hadn't really thought about it like that. It was a fact he had a soul mark, that he had another half out there. And love, in his opinion, was the greatest reason to live. Of course, he would fall in love with his soulmate -it was as natural as breathing. He didn't need to meet the man (and he was sure it was a man; they didn't make women Witchers, after all) to know he would love him. But would the Witcher love him back?

For the first time, he wondered if his plan was quite so great after all.

It wasn't a very grand plan. He would meet a Witcher, befriend them, ask about the monsters in his dreams, and make his way towards his soulmate. Maybe, he would get lucky and he might meet a Witcher who even knew his soulmate's identity. But this plan hinged on several important, deciding factors. Like were Witchers capable of love? Did his soulmate also have a mark? Or was it some twisted joke that Destiny had decided to play on Jaskier? All good questions, with answers he had no idea how to find. But the start was easy, at least. Graduate, then hit the road. Earn board and food by singing, and keep traveling until he could find a Witcher.

Geralt sighed as he opened his eyes. Lyrics to a song he didn't know bounced through his mind irritatingly. They were partial lyrics, not complete, and there was no tune or melody to accompany them. Just listless repeating words.

It was annoying.

Jaskier sang; it was coarser than he would have liked, but his mind was distracted, and the words came easily. But his audience was full of unappreciative clowns, who booed and tossed bread at him. But the most distracting thing was the white-haired stranger with two swords. Jaskier hadn't noticed him when he walked downstairs to start singing for his dinner, but now that he had, he couldn't ignore him. He knew from his dreams, from the murky corpses of dead monsters that his other half was a witcher. There was no other explanation; not a single one.

"I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood," Jaskier said, leaning against the beam.

"I'm here to drink alone," the Witcher said gruffly.

Chills went down Jaskier's back. "Good, yeah, good," he replied, staring at the Witcher. "No one else hesitated to comment on my performance. Except… for you," he added, approaching the table. "Come on, you don't want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less."

"They don't exist."

Jaskier blinked, sitting down. "What don't exist?" Words? There were plenty of words, good ones, bad ones. Some in-between. There were certainly enough words to provide him with a performance review!

"The creatures in your song."

"And how would you know?" he asked reflexively. "Oh, fun. White hair, big old loner, two very, very scary looking swords. I know who you are. Geralt of Rivia."

"Go away," Geralt said. He'd heard the bard coming from a mile away, his hurried footsteps, and his heavy breathing.

"I won't be but silent back-up. Look I heard your note, and yes you're right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you sir, smell chock full of them. Amongst other things. You smell of death and destiny, heartbreak…"

"It's onion," Geralt deadpanned.

This was not what he had signed up for.

"Oh! I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the Butcher of Blaviken!"

Geralt stopped in his tracks. He beckoned the bard over, who was only too eager to comply and promptly punched him in the gut. Not enough to hurt, or cause any lasting damage, but enough to take the wind out of his sails and drop the topic. Hopefully, for good.

Jaskier wondered if all Witchers were like Geralt. It was hard watching Geralt wade in to fight a monster two or three times his size, and each time, he would come back victorious. But Geralt never let Jaskier too close to the action. Someone had to look after Roach, he'd say. Someone has to make sure the townsfolk don't decide to get in my way, he'd say. Someone should entertain them, after all this death, he'd suggest, in a perfectly cool and reasonable tone. And he was right; he usually was. But Jaskier longed to know what he looked like in action. Common sense kept his feet cooling in the inn, next to Roach, surrounded by anxious and frightened villagers. He would bring out Filavandrel's lute, and sing what cheerful songs he knew.

But the road wasn't always safe at night. It was bodies of water that concerned him the most; if he could have convinced Geralt to camp twenty feet away, he would have. It wasn't always possible. But he was tired of waking up to drowners crawling out of the water, and Geralt dispatching them like they were little more than flies. Drowners killed hundreds of people a year. Not all of them were caught off guard, but certainly enough. To Geralt though, they were a nuisance at best. Worst of all, no one paid for dead drowners either.

All those months ago, in Possada, Geralt had been right. Since tagging along with the Witcher, he'd learned more about adventure and stories than he could have imagined. He'd seen heroism falter, and cowardice win. He'd seen Geralt walk into the middle of an overrun town and walk out alive. Of all the famous heroes bards had written ballad after ballad about, not one of them belonged to a Witcher. Jaskier found it hard to imagine a heroic and brave knight standing his ground a night wraith. He'd heard those bone-chilling screams as Geralt dispatched the poor maiden before returning to town.

And despite all that, the townspeople still reacted with fear at the sight of Geralt. Some of them openly recoiled from him, others spat at his feet. Geralt was either so accustomed to it, he didn't react. Or perhaps it was some of the famed Witcher's emotionlessness because he never reacted. Jaskier was the one who had to shout at townspeople -didn't they know what Geralt had done for them? The man was a hero, and a little respect went a long way. Often, Geralt would set a heavy hand on Jaskier's shoulder, and the bard would drop it. But only because it was the closest he'd seen Geralt come to requesting something from him, and only because he was willing to start fights for the Witcher.

Underneath it all, Jaskier wondered if his soul mark had to go through exactly this. He'd learned from Geralt that the man was from the School of the Wolf, and he thought his soul mark must be from there too. At night, Jaskier slept with one hand over his gloved mark, hoping to share a dream of his Witcher's once more. It had been several months since he'd last caught a glimpse of what his soulmate was up to -which frustrated him because now he was in the company of a Witcher would could help identify the monsters his soulmate was slaying. Which, of course, meant that he didn't get to see those fleeting images anymore.

Geralt didn't realize it right away, but it had been months and months since the last time he'd woken up with a nameless song in his head. He might have said it was peaceful, but now he had a bard composing songs next to his ear all day long.

Jaskier, maybe, wasn't as bad as he thought.

It was going to happen eventually, Geralt realized as he hauled the Ekimmara trophy from the cave. It had been so fucking dark he'd downed a cat's potion, and then a decoction to deal with the ancient bloodsucker, not to mention a dose of Swallow to keep his health up. But he didn't need a mirror to know his eyes were pitch black, and he was covered in more blood than he would have liked. He'd left Jaskier to guard the cave entrance with Roach. Jaskier hadn't seen him like this before. Those who had seen him had run screaming.

"Jaskier, we're leaving," Geralt announced, fastening the trophy to Roach.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice was higher than normal.

Geralt ground his teeth together and turned to look at him. "Still want to be my travel companion?"

Jaskier grinned. "Oh, my dear Witcher. You have no idea, do you?"

Geralt frowned. "What."

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. "You look positively -"

Monstrous. Inhuman. Frightening. Demonic, even. Grotesque.

"Powerful! I bet you could take on a whole herd of - of wyverns!"

"Flock," Geralt corrected automatically. "And they don't flock in large numbers. Just small families."

"Of course," Jaskier said, subtly jotting that into his notebook.

The bard was almost out of ink again. Geralt would have to pick up more at the next town, or forever listen to Jaskier bemoaning his loss of ability to record inspiration and stories and whatever else piqued his interest.

"You're not…" Geralt trailed off awkwardly, finishing off the knot that would secure the Ekimmara head to Roach's saddle.

"What?" Jaskier asked, distracted. His quill flew across the pages. "Scared? Of you?" He laughed like it was a ludicrous idea.

It was.

But no one ever thought the Butcher of Blaviken capable of self-control.

"Do Witchers have marks?" Jaskier asked, one midsummer night.

Geralt looked at him in surprise. The bard had never shown an interest before.

"Why?"

Jaskier tensed, worked his jaw for a moment. "I believe my soulmate is a Witcher. I'm looking for him."

Geralt blinked. "A Witcher's life is no life for you." It was no life for anyone, really. Geralt wouldn't recommend it.

Jaskier strummed a discordant note on his lute, setting it aside. "What, you don't think I'm cut out for it?"

Geralt glanced at him, observing the stormy cast to his blue eyes, the way his body was coiled like he was prepared to fight if necessary. "You're human, Jask," Geralt said, as gently as he could. "Your reflexes are slow, your strength -"

"Is lacking," Jaskier said bitterly. "Tell me Geralt: do you have a mark?"

"I don't know," he admitted, watching the bard with concern.

Was this because of the wedding in the town they'd passed? He wasn't sure what had brought this mood on, but he wasn't sure he liked it. He was familiar with Jaskier's melodramatics, and his penchant for overexaggerating everything. But this felt different.

"Would you pursue your soulmate? Or would you let your -your Witcherness stop you?"

"Never thought about it."

He could remember Lambert saying years ago, that he wasn't ever going to meet his soulmate; his life was fucked up enough without dragging someone else into the mud with him. Eskel had shrugged and said duty had to come first, right? They were both right, Geralt had thought at the time. A Witcher's life was no place for anyone else, not even a bard, even less for a squishy human. He'd seen enough death to last a lifetime.

Jaskier sighed, plopping back onto the ground. "There's nothing in this world more important than love. One day, I'm going to find him. Monster or no monster, he isn't going to be able to get rid of me."

Geralt looked at his shoes and his heart gave a strange clench at the thought that one day Jaskier might not be around.

"Not until I've made you into a household favourite," Jaskier added, strumming on his lute. "I promised you, didn't I? I'd change your reputation and I intend to keep my word."

But, Geralt knew, once Jaskier found his soulmate, he would leave without a second look back. He couldn't say he would blame the bard, when the day came. But his heart gave that funny clench again, and he got up to check the perimeter of their camp though he'd already done it. Jaskier didn't notice, or perhaps chose not to comment.

Jaskier came to slowly, the right half of his face pounding. Someone grabbed his arm roughly, shoving the glove down roughly. Consciousness flooded his mind and he jerked, desperate, desperate to hide the mark. It could be used against him, used against his soulmate, used to destroy everything he'd been building towards.

"It matches alright," the man said, yanking thee glove back into place unceremoniously. He leaned back, leering at Jaskier. "He'll do whatever we say to get you back in one piece."

What. But Jaskier couldn't talk, there was a gag in his mouth. He was bound and tied to a chair in a shack, somewhere. No matter, a gag wasn't enough to stop him. "I have money, I can pay you handsomely. We can all just go about pretending this didn't happen."

The ruffian waved his concern off. "You don't have anything to worry about, bard. Your soulmate will be here any second."

Jaskier didn't even know who his soulmate was, so that seemed highly improbable. "Who?" he demanded, working at the rag that had been shoved into his mouth at some point. Likely while he was unconscious. Barbarians.

"And if he doesn't, well, no one comes out to this place anyway," the ruffian said, more to himself. "No one will find your body out here. 'Cept maybe the wolves."

Jaskier swallowed, his heart pounding.

Time seemed to crawl past. Day turned to night. The ruffian started pacing the floor, and the hard look in his eye changed to desperation. Jaskier struggled to keep silent, but he was terrified of pushing the man any further. He had no weapons at hand, and there were none in sight except for the mace the ruffian had started tossing from hand to hand.

"He got the note this morning," the ruffian muttered darkly. His clothes were little more than rags at this point, and dirt stained his skin. "So why isn't he here yet?" he demanded, scowling at Jaskier.

Jaskier shrugged, his heart thudding. "Maybe he went on a Hunt," he tried to say around the gag.

He adjusted his grip on the mace, eyeing Jaskier. "I need the money," the man said simply. "What idiot doesn't come to get his soulmate?"

Jaskier struggled against his bonds. "He doesn't know who I am!" he shouted, his words muffled and garbled by the rag in his mouth. His jaw ached around the cloth material. "He doesn't know!"

"You're telling me Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, doesn't know you have a soul-mark of a white wolf?" He slammed the handle of the mace against Jaskier's knee. "I don't like liars."

"I'm not lying!" Jaskier protested against his gag, but got a back hand for his trouble.

Geralt? His soulmate? Impossible. The man barely tolerated Jaskier.

But the ruffian didn't believe him. And as the night wore on, the beatings got worse. Jaskier couldn't tell him why Geralt hadn't come, or even where to find Geralt. Though it weighed heavily in his mind, the one serious threat the Witcher had ever uttered:

"If you aren't ready to go, I'm leaving without you."

He said it often, but there was a different tone when he did. Jaskier never tested that rule; it wasn't worth it. Geralt was a wealth of storied adventure, after all. And limited patience.

The ruffian didn't like that idea any more than the rest Jaskier could supply about why the Witcher hadn't shown up.

"Show me," Geralt said, pushing the purse of coins towards the sorceress.

She arched a brow. "Aren't you a little old for this?"

"I wasn't aware there was an age limit," Geralt deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing Geralt by the forearm. "You get curious all of a sudden?"

Geralt met her gaze. "I'm not paying you to talk."

She smiled, cat-like and dangerous. She waved her hands, and his arm lit up in colour. He grunted at the pain, feeling magic prick and dig into his skin, and when he opened his eyes he could see the mark.

A robin clutching a single buttercup.

His heart thundered.

"It's done," the sorceress said, releasing his arm. "You know who you belong to?"

He did.

There was only one person he belonged to. He shoved his chair back and left quickly.

Jaskier wasn't at their camp. He wasn't at the tavern, the inn, or the marketplace. No boats had left in the last week. He was simply… gone.

Geralt had told Jaskier he was going on a hunt, and to make himself comfortable because he didn't know how long he would be. He'd spent half a day riding to meet the sorceress. He didn't need Jaskier knowing that he was delaying their adventures on a fleeting whim. He'd never wanted to know before, about his soul mark. Whether he had one or not, until recently.

Jaskier kept talking about how excited he was to meet his soulmate. And his songs. His songs lately were about soulmates finding each other, embracing, and becoming one. It was aggravating. But Jaskier had never asked Geralt about his mark, not since that summer day so many months ago.

No one in town had seen him. Geralt followed the scent of his cologne, and for once, thanked the bard for being so heavy handed in applying it. He chased the scent to a run-down shack in the middle of the forest. Relief was washed away when he picked up the acrid scent of blood. Jaskier's blood.

He kicks the door open, sword drawn and decapitates the bandit without a moment's hesitation.

Jaskier's head lolls against his chest, face bloodied and bruised. Geralt unties him swiftly, lifting the bard up.

"G'rlt?" Jaskier slurred.

Geralt grunted in response, knowing if he spoke, he wouldn't be able to stop. His heart pounded against his throat, holding back the well of words living there.

One day, he might not get there in time.

Blink.

White hair brushes against Jaskier's forehead. The Witcher says something, low and grumbled, forehead to forehead with Jaskier.

Blink.

His sleeves are rolled back, and there's something on his forearm.

Blink.

It's a robin, clutching a single buttercup.

Blink.

Jaskier wakes up in a healer's hut, alone. They said Geralt brought him in, stayed awake all night, and then left without notice before the sun had started to rise.

It feels like he had all the answers staring him in the face, only for them to have slipped away with the dawn.

The dreams start up again like they'd never stopped. They're a blessing and a curse. Sleeping through the night was impossible; he would wake often to dreams of Jaskier singing sorrowful songs, completely unlike him. The man was dedicated and determined to bringing smiles to his audiences. He wasn't one for investing in getting their tears. But he watches as Jaskier heals from his wounds, and knows he did the right thing.

Jaskier woke in the middle of the night, smiling. His dreams had returned. It wasn't hard to figure out where Geralt was, now that he knew what monsters the man was encountering. Background markers -mountain ridges and bodies of water helped him narrow down his possibilities. Townspeople were only too eager to share stories of the monsters that plagued them, even of monsters they'd heard terrorizing their sister's village.

So Jaskier stuck to the road, hot on Geralt's trail. He sung his newest composed song, the one about the merchant who awoke alone after bedding their soulmate, heart ripped bear. Each time he sang, he relieved the moment again.

Those memories, lying on the sickbed, Geralt's forehead against his. His sleeves rolled back, exposing a mark Jaskier had never seen before, revealing Jaskier's soul for the world to see. At night, Jaskier would lay and stare at his own mark. A white wolf. He'd really never believed meeting his soulmate could be so easy. The first Witcher he'd ever met!

Geralt, a man made of iron-willpower, afraid to lose control like he did in Blaviken. A tightly coiled spring of anger when he witnessed injustice. But he was kind too. Jaskier had seen him return lost children's toys when he thought no one was watching. He'd seen Geralt loom menacingly when humans tried to start fights with elves, or dwarves. He'd seen Geralt lie about werewolves, once he knew they were feeding on sheep because of a faulty lock, once the lock was repaired.

It wasn't that Witchers couldn't feel, Jaskier knew. It was that one thing in their life came before all else, and it was protecting people from monsters.

If Geralt was less exhausted, he would have noticed the smell right away. But after so much time on the road, he didn't realize Jaskier's cologne was out of place until he came to a stop at his campfire. There Jaskier stood, arms crossed, lute strung across his back, petting Roach.

"You're… here."

"Yes Geralt, very astute of you," Jaskier said, turning from Roach.

"Why."

"You clearly weren't coming back, so I figured I'd better catch up," Jaskier said, like it made all the sense in the world.

Geralt realized Jaskier's glove was off. He took a step back.

"Geralt. Please. I -I just want answers." He hesitated. "I need to know."

"I don't have anything to say," Geralt said gruffly.

Jaskier frowned. "I saw your mark, that night when you left. I recognized it."

Geralt remained silent, thoughts windmilling through his mind.

"I know I'm human, I'm weak and a liability… I know you must have been afraid you were going to lose me."

"A Witcher's life is not one for a human to tread."

"I'll stay at the taverns, the inns, out of your way."

"You were out of the way and still got hurt."

Jaskier threw his hands into the air. "I'm human. I'm mortal, Geralt. A bad fall could kill me just as easily as one bandit with a sword."

"I don't want to hurt you," Geralt said, with difficulty.

Jaskier took a step closer. "Then don't."

Geralt stared at him, torn.

"I've been dreaming about your monsters since before I was old enough to know what they were. I've known my other half was a Witcher, throwing himself into dangers jaws to keep humanity safe since I was a teenager. And I've spent years wondering what it would be like to finally meet him… only to realize I already had. That I couldn't imagine sharing my life with anyone else."

"Jaskier…"

The bard stepped closer, their noses nearly touching. "Don't try to martyr yourself, please. It'll hurt you as much as it'll hurt me." His lips twitched into a smile.

Geralt glanced past him, towards Roach, towards freedom. If he didn't stand here, if he didn't listen to Jaskier's words, he stood a chance to make a clean break for the both of them.

"You know better than anyone destiny won't be ignored, and I promise, I'm a lot more annoying and a lot harder to get rid of than destiny could ever be," Jaskier continued. Geralt could feel his breath against his jaw.

"And looking at your face for all my life," Jaskier added, indicating the soul mark on his forearm.

Unable to help himself, Geralt looked at the white wolf. Prideful yellow eyes, a cold exterior, and a fiercely loyal heart lay within. He felt the magic surge between them and clenched his eyes shut.

Geralt looked terrified, like a horse about to bolt, so Jaskier did the only thing he could think of. He put his arms around the other man.

"I've been falling for you before I ever wondered about this stupid mark," Geralt admitted slowly, reluctantly. "I bought you those quills, the papers, because I knew they would make you happy."

Jaskier tightened his hold on the other man. Please, he wished fervently, please let me have this moment. If Geralt decided to flee, there wasn't much he could do about it. Jaskier desperately wanted to look at his arm, to see what their combined mark would look like, but he was afraid to let go.

"I wanted to make you happy," Geralt muttered against Jaskier's hair, his breath hot against his ear.

"You did," Jaskier replied hoarsely.

"I thought… maybe. Something would be there."

Jaskier smiled to himself. "It's me, no one can resist my charm."

Geralt chuckled, pulling Jaskier flush against his body. "If that's what you want to call it."

They stayed like that for seconds, minutes, and then they drew back from one another. A beat. Jaskier's eyes traced the shape of Geralt's lips, wondering what it would be like to kiss his soulmate. He'd kissed many others, but none of them were his other half. Geralt cupped the back of his head and drew him into a kiss unlike any other.

A wolf pranced across Jaskier's forearms, tail erect, ears perked for adventure. On the wolf's shoulder stood a robin with a crown of buttercups atop its head.

Everyone knew the story of Geralt of Rivia, of his fierce loyalty, and his accompanying bard. It was said that time Geralt was seen smiling was when he gazed upon his soulmate, Jaskier. The rumour about Witchers being emotionless took decades to fade away, conveniently around the same time Lambert and Keira Metz's stories began to gain popularity. But, without fail, once a year, Geralt would return to Kaer Mohren with his bard by his side.

Revealers would later say that bearing the mark of the wolf meant your other half was stubborn to a fault. And songbirds? Those with the mark of a songbird were said to be gifted with a silver tongue only Jaskier could rival.