Geralt may not have Jaskier or Yennefer, but he has Ciri. Having a child was never a goal of his; like he told Yennefer - their lives were not conducive to child-rearing, but Ciri is a breath of fresh air. She guides him back when his thoughts darken and wander to places they shouldn't. She tells him stories her carers told her when she was small, replacing those told by a baritone, melodic voice. She reminds him that the world is not completely doomed, that there is still space for hope.

Since looking after Ciri, his days have become quieter. He splits his time between ensuring they aren't being followed, training Ciri, and keeping their pockets full enough that they are able to lead a semi-comfortable life. It's due to this new semblance of peace that he immediately notices the sudden thrum of magic vibrating through their campsite, signalling that a portal has opened nearby.

"Stay here, Ciri."

There should only be one mage capable of locating them, and sure enough, Yennefer is striding towards him. Her posture is stiff and her hands are clenched by her sides. Geralt would think her merely furious, if not for her eyes. They betray her worry.

Something is wrong.

"Your bard, he's hurt. Cursed. He asked for you."

Geralt's heart skips a beat, and he inhales sharply. "What happened?"

"We were both attending the same ball. He was performing. An old acquaintance of mine was there too. She attempted to curse me when I turned my back on her. Jaskier, the fool, got in the way."

"What's the damage?" Geralt pretends that it's not Jaskier they are talking about, that it is simply some important nobleman whose death would simply inconvenience them, so they ought to at least try to prevent it.

"The curse was designed to slowly drain my magic, unnoticeable until I was close to death, too weak to get help. To a human...it is slowly attacking him from the inside, attacking flesh and bone instead of the magic it was designed for. It causes a great deal of pain. I have managed to stabilise him for now, but the cure requires the light of a full moon."

"Two days time."

Yennefer nods. "I am doing my best to keep him alive until then."

It makes even more sense why Yen is here now. She could have ignored Jaskier's pleas if this had been a simple ailment. To deny the man who saved your life a final wish would be cold even for her.

Even if that wish is Geralt.

From the corner of his eyes, Geralt spies Ciri's head peeking through the tent flap. He gestures her forward, watching as Yennefer's eyes widen. He will explain everything to her, but not now.

"Take me to him.

The portal takes them just outside Yennefer's house, which looks to be an old, decrepit cottage until they step inside. Inside reveals a modest, but cosy living space with corridors spanning out each direction.

"He is through there, the first door on the right," Yennefer says, tilting her head towards the north corridor. "I have potions to help with the pain but he can only take them every four hours. He may take another when the sun has fully risen."

Geralt nods and is about to go to Jaskier when Yennefer grabs his arm, holding tight.

"There is something else," she murmurs lowly. "When I was identifying the curse, I didn't just find the one that bitch struck him with. There's another one there, something old, potentially centuries old. I haven't yet had time to ascertain what it is, but I do know that it affects his eyes."

Yennefer's own eyes are knowing and Geralt's jaw clenches, the sick feeling in his stomach growing ten-fold.

A curse that afflicts the eyes, but to his knowledge hasn't impeded Jaskier's sight beyond the lack of colours? He swallows, tells Ciri to stay with Yen, and then goes to his bard.

He doesn't knock before he enters, but he is careful in his movements so that he doesn't disturb Jaskier. The room is dark, the windows covered, but there are a few candles lit. There is a faint moaning sound coming from a lump on the bed, and Geralt gravitates towards it, hand outreaching instinctively before he pulls it back. He spots a stool and moves it towards the bed before sitting on it.

"Jaskier." His voice is quiet, in case Jaskier is sleeping, but the lump beneath the sheet freezes.

"G-Geralt?"

Geralt ends up needing to help Jaskier turn around, as the bard is quickly overcome by a set of violent twitches and tremors, each one causing him to hiss and groan in pain. Geralt aches to do something, to fix it, but there is nothing he can do. He's fucking helpless.

When Jaskier's face finally turns to him, it's pale and damp with sweat. His eyes are glassy but still alert when they focus on Geralt. The Witcher has imagined seeing Jaskier again, but not like this.

"Am I dead?" Jaskier croaks and Geralt rolls his eyes for appearance's sake.

"No, and you won't be any time soon," Geralt tells him. It's rare for Geralt to make such assurances, especially since Yen's prognosis had not been optimistic, but seeing Jaskier like this, knowing what he knows, he can't lose Jaskier now. Fate or whatever bastard has been fucking with Geralt thus far can go screw itself. Geralt will do all he can to help Jaskier cling on until the cure is ready.

"Why are you here?" A bead of sweat runs down the side of Jaskier's face and instead of answering straight away, Geralt grabs a piece of cloth and wets it with some cold water. He drapes it across Jaskier's forehead and the bard sighs in relief.

"Yen found me. Said you asked for me."

"I...don't actually remember that. But, you came?" His eyes flutter shut as another wave of pain undoubtedly hits. Geralt's hand moves on its own accord and grips Jaskier's, allowing him to squeeze it as hard as he needs to.

"Obviously."

Thankfully, Jaskier recognises the joke and the corner of his mouth tilts up. Geralt wants to say more, has a lot he ought to say, but as per usual, he doesn't know where to begin. He is running through ways of how best to apologise when-

"I forgive you."

"What?"

Jaskier's smile is crooked. His eyes, though creased from pain, are open and full of fondness. "I forgive you. Even if you weren't just thinking about apologising to me, I can't go without you knowing that."

Geralt has suffered many blows, but this one hurts worst of all.

"You are not going to die," he says sharply. "And I am. I am sorry. For everything. You didn't deserve my anger that day."

"True," Jaskier says, "But let's talk of it no more. You're here now, and that's all that matters."

Gods above, what Geralt wouldn't do to have Jaskier standing in front of him, face alive with glee as he prodded Geralt to give him a better apology, to grovel on his knees or maybe even try his hand at composing his own apology ballad. Anything other than this, this which feels like an ending.

He needs to talk about something else, anything else, but unfortunately, the only thing he can think to say is, "Jaskier, Yen said you have another curse."

"Ugh, another one? I think this one is bad enough. Go on, what is it? Curse of forever being annoying? Of never shutting up?"

"She said it afflicted your eyes."

Jaskier's smile fades. "My eyes?"

Geralt nods. "She couldn't give me any more information apart from that it seemed old."

"Oh." Jaskier's voice is quiet. "I didn't...I mean I thought...shit," he breathes.

"What is it?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier licks his dried, cracked lips. "When I was a child, maybe about nine, my grandfather came to visit. He took me aside and said that he had something to tell me, something my father had forbidden him from mentioning. Agh." Jaskier grips Geralt's hand with both of his and Geralt uses his free hand to cup them, trying to stabilise the shakes. He takes a few deep breaths before continuing. "He told me that my family was cursed. That an ancestor of ours had cheated on his soulmate, a sorceress. She had been so angry that she cursed him, and their children, and the rest of their line. She cursed them never to find their soulmate so that they wouldn't be able to put them through the pain she went through. He said that my grandmother was not his soulmate, that he never got his colours, and that my father was lying when he said he had his. Of course, my father came in not long after that and threw him out. Said he was a crazy old fool and that I should take no heed of it. So, I didn't. I thought, I thought I just hadn't met them yet, but, oh Melitele, Geralt, what if…"

Geralt should not have brought this up. The only thing that could soothe Jaskier now is the very thing that might send him to an early grave from shock. He has no idea how the bard will react to knowing that Geralt gained his colours from him years ago and said nothing. That he has deceived him for over a decade.

"We will look into it when you're better," Geralt tells him. "I promise. I'm sure, given time, Yennefer will be able to find a cure for that as well." It's the best he can do, considering the circumstances and thankfully, though he doesn't look entirely appeased, he accepts Geralt's words.

"You should get some sleep," Geralt says before he lets something else fucking stupid slip, and Jaskier graces him with a pained smile.

"Would love to, Geralt. As it is, I don't think the, agh fuck, the pain will let me."

He wants to give Jaskier one of the numbing potions sat on the table, but he also knows that too much and it will just end up poisoning Jaskier, worsening his condition quicker.

"What can I do to help?" He hates this. He hates this with a fucking passion. He wishes there were something he could swing his sword at, something physical he could see and destroy to make this better. Sitting beside someone's bedside...he doesn't know how to do this. It doesn't feel like enough.

"Tell me a story."

"What?"

"A story, Geralt. Has a beginning, middle and an end. Tell me one. Not too bloody, if you please."

He's not asking for much, so Geralt cannot see fit to deny him the small request, despite the fact he has no clue what to tell. He scours his memory for something at least marginally pleasant when an old sight from the beginning of his travels hits him. Geralt replaces the cloth on Jaskier's head that has already warmed, holds Jaskier's hand once more, and begins.

"During my first year of travelling, I visited a village that is now long gone. The people there, they kept to themselves. Grew their own produce, sourced all the materials they needed. They didn't listen to the gossip from the outside towns. I was apparently the first Witcher they'd seen."

"Must have been exciting for them," Jaskier says and Geralt shrugs.

"They treated me as I believe they would have treated any stranger who wandered through their village, as long as they meant no harm. My swords made them wary, but they still treated me to a hot dinner and gave me a bed to sleep in. When the carpenter mentioned seeing ghouls nearby, I gladly dealt with them."

"Always the hero." Jaskier's voice is quieter as he shuts his eyes, his head settling more comfortably on the pillow beneath it.

"As thanks, the villagers told me of a spring a few miles away. They said that it offered a certain tranquillity you would struggle to find elsewhere. I decided to visit, to see for myself and it was...amazing. It held a waterfall, surrounded by flowers which must have been planted by a mage because they belonged in climates far warmer. Animals roamed freely around the parts and there was a stone beside it that you could sit on, bathed in the sun's light no matter its position in the sky. For years, when I struggled to meditate, I would go there. For a long time, it was the only place I felt at peace."

When Geralt finishes talking, he notices that Jaskier's face is lax, soft snores coming from him. He still holds onto Geralt's hand though, and Geralt cannot bring himself to let go. He shuts his eyes, pictures the clearing that has long since been destroyed by invading troops and eager, land-hungry nobility, and imagines bringing Jaskier there.

With every hour, Jaskier's condition worsens. When he manages to stay conscious longer than a few minutes, Geralt continues to tell him stories, many from when he was young and still finding his feet as a Witcher, when the world was less burdened by darkness and demons.

When Jaskier can only wake to take potions that immediately knock him out again, he finds Yen. He asks her for more, for something to help Jaskier until he is screaming in her face. She never loses her calm though, she just tells him to get back in there, do whatever Jaskier needs, and keep him from slipping. Geralt does his best until the four-hour mark has passed and Jaskier's eyes can no longer open, and the rise and fall of his chest becomes shallower. The full moon is only an hour away, but Yen still needs to create the potion in that time, and Jaskier can't hold on much longer.

"Surely you can fucking start now," Geralt snaps as Jaskier's pulse slows further beneath his fingertips. Yennefer has set up everything she needs in Jaskier's room, but she's just standing there, waiting, while Jaskier's life fades in front of him.

"As I've told you, the potion will only work if started at the precise moment the full moon has risen." She's anxious too, Geralt can tell, but at that moment, he doesn't care. The only thing he cares about is that she heals Jaskier.

Geralt turns back to Jaskier and lifts the bard's hand to his lips, not pressing a kiss against it, but holding it in prayer. He's not prayed in decades, has never thought it worth his time, but now he prays, he prays to anyone out there that might be listening to save Jaskier.

"It's time." Geralt hears Yennefer prepare the potion and keeps his gaze fixed on Jaskier's pale face. He cannot see the curse itself, but he can see its effects. Every breath Jaskier takes is a struggle, sending tremors running down his spine. Veins poke through his sickly skin and his pulse continues to slow down even more.

"Hurry," Geralt orders through gritted teeth. Yen doesn't answer, just continues in silence until she's shoving Geralt aside and pouring a potion down Jaskier's throat. She massages his throat, encouraging the bard to swallow it down.

"Come on you idiotic, self-sacrificing bard," Yennefer coaxes as the potion is ingested. Geralt can still feel Jaskier's pulse, can still feel it dying.

"It's not working, Yen. Why isn't it working?"

"It must need time to take effect," Yen snaps. "Contrary to popular belief, I do not know everything and I have never had to make this particular potion before!"

"Make it work!" Geralt roars, letting go of Jaskier's hand as he stands, the stool clattering to the ground.

"Stop acting like an overgrown child having a tantrum!"

"I'm sorry that the fact my soulmate is dying is fucking upsetting me!"

"Um, your what now?"

Both Yennefer and Geralt spin to face the bed. Jaskier's eyes are open, if a bit dazed, and already colour is returning to his face. Shakes still run through his body but they're better than they were.

Next to him, a smirk blossoms on Yennefer's face. "I believe you two ought to have a little talk. You can apologise to me in the morning, you oaf. Don't worry about Ciri."

She checks Jaskier's eyes and pulse before nodding in satisfaction and leaving. Geralt, as much as he wants to be here, witnessing Jaskier's alive form, holding him, also wants to follow her.

"What's just happened?" Jaskier asks. He checks his body over, wincing as he leans up in the bed. It's instinctive that Geralt helps him. His hand lingers on the bard's shoulder, unable to break contact.

"You nearly died."

"I gathered that. And I gather that I'm better now? Well, mostly?"

"Yes. Yen made the cure."

"Great, great. Wonderful. Um. So. That thing you just said. The soulmate thing. Care to explain?"

Geralt would rather not if he's honest. At least, not now. Maybe after he's had some ale.

"Geralt?"

Fuck it. "You're my soulmate."

"Ha, it's funny Geralt, I think I must still be feeling the effects of the curse because it sounded like you just said I'm your soulmate and that would be impossible."

Geralt inhales deeply and exhales slowly. "It's the truth."

Jaskier's face, which had been regaining its healthy colour, starts to turn pink. He jerks so that Geralt's hand leaves his shoulder, and Geralt tries to ignore how the action stings.

"No, see, it can't be true, because my good friend Geralt would not have kept something like this a secret from me for over 10 years. He would have said something because that's what people do, they tell a person if they give them their colours. If they're their soulmate."

Geralt feels rooted to the spot, has never felt more uncomfortable in his whole life. This was not how he wanted this conversation to go. He at least wanted time beforehand, so they could both appreciate Jaskier being healed.

"You didn't get your colours. I thought it wasn't returned."

Jaskier's palm covers his mouth as he thinks. "Right, right, I understand how that might have been a bit concerning but still, Geralt, Melitele's tits. When did you get them? That...the curse. Fucking shit! 10 years!" He grabs fistfuls of his hair and Geralt takes a step forward, reaching out but not daring to touch this time.

"Careful. You're still healing."

Jaskier glares at him, and as if making a stubborn point, decides the best course of action is to try and get out of bed. His legs quickly collapse under him and it's only Geralt's quick reflexes that save him from dropping to the floor. It leaves Jaskier in Geralt's arms, and Geralt fights the urge not to draw him even closer and never let him go.

Jaskier solves that urge by punching him in the arm. It hurts little more than getting hit with a twig, but it still stuns him.

"You are a fucking idiot, imbecile, oh, toss a coin to your witcher, how about toss a coin to this absolute pisshead! You, 10 years! 10 fucking years! And the curse... we could have sorted through this so much earlier!"

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, unsure what else he can say that won't earn him another punch.

"Oh, he's sorry," Jaskier mocks. "You, my dear Witcher, have got a lot of making up to do. And I mean absolute years of it. Go on, tell me when you got your colours. Let's find out how long."

Geralt hesitates before saying, "The moment I saw you in that tavern."

Jaskier pauses, and his mouth falls open. "You...I...I don't know whether to hit you again or kiss you."

Want spikes, sudden and sharp, in Geralt's stomach. "I find the second option preferable," he says, voice low with cautious want and Jaskier reacts to the tone.

"Fucking Witcher. You are so lucky I love you."

Jaskier kisses Geralt, putting as much will and force behind it as he can, but since he's still recovering, Geralt takes the opportunity to turn it softer and deepen it slowly. He keeps one palm flat on Jaskier's back to steady him and moves the other hand to cradle his neck. Jaskier's breath tastes horrible from the potions he's been fed, and he smells stale for having been in bed for days, but he's awake. He's Geralt's, and Geralt is his. Except...

"What if we find a cure for your sight and it's not me," Geralt says when they part, trying to hide how much that would hurt him.

"Screw a cure," Jaskier says vehemently. "I have wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you. I just assumed that since you never said anything, you were just waiting for your soulmate. Whom I thought was Yennefer."

Ah. That would be a story for another time. Perhaps when he can soften the blow with some glorious make-up sex, he'll tell it.

"It was you. It's always been you. At first, I didn't want a soulmate, and then, later, I didn't want to stop you from finding happiness."

Jaskier sighs. "Melitele save me from noble Witchers. I can't believe you never noticed how I was head over heels for you." He bites his lip, and Geralt resists the urge to capture it between his own teeth. "Tell me. Is this only because of fate? Would you still want me if you hadn't got your colours?"

"They alerted me to you," Geralt admits. "But you were the one to approach me. I didn't want to like you Jaskier. Fuck, I wanted to keep you as far away from me as possible, but you didn't, and then I couldn't imagine a world without you. I thought I was keeping you safe by pushing you away. I'm sorry."

"Well, you can make it up to me by going to bed with me," Jaskier says promptly, and Geralt has to wonder what expression must be on his face because Jaskier laughs. "Not like that you horny devil. To sleep. Nearly dying really takes it out of you and I've been wishing to be held by those arms for years. You can begin making everything up to me in all sorts of fun positions later."

"Fuck," is all Geralt says and Jaskier laughs again as he gets back into bed.

For once, Geralt follows.