Mae govannen
This came to me one night before bed, and I needed to get it out. The following few days were full of rather a lot of tears, I'll have to admit. Because this fic has really broken my heart to write.
So, Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine
The song that Jaskier sings was giving me a massive amount of trouble. So a massive shout out to PKClarine for writing and sending me almost the entire lyrics. That song belongs to PK, folks.
I cannot thank you enough.
Namarïe
The City of Redania
The Year 2100- nine decades since the Modernization of the Continent.
Jaskier's mother had often told him that the world was going to eat him alive.
One would think that a parent would have slightly more confidence in their child, but no.
It was the most common thing out of her mouth, every fucking time she saw him. Every evening she just happened to walk into the bars where he was playing. Or when she simply had the nerve to come calling at his apartment and found him lying sprawled on the old moth-eaten sofa with a glass of wine at his elbow and a sheet of music on his knees with ink-stains all over his knuckles. Even when she ran into him on the streets doing entirely mundane things of the most ordinary nature. (Like his weekly shopping)
It was always, "Julian, this world will walk right over you." or his personal favorite, "Julian, love, you are too goddamn soft for this cruel, hard world."
Ouch.
Jaskier knew that he might not be the toughest man on the streets, but he could handle himself by now. He was turning thirty in two weeks, for Gods' sakes! Best thing he could do was simply nod and let her go on. Because there really was no safe way to tell your mother to fuck off.
So, he let her fuss and carry on. And he got on with his life.
He had always been an especially odd boy. Dancing out in the garden after the rain, amongst the cotton wool heads of the Dandelion flowers, the dew sparkling on their lavish green stems like diamonds, the little toadstool houses of ruby and white. He had chased fairies and fireflies on camping trips, watched the streams and brooks outside the city for hours in the hope of spotting a unicorn. Once, he had even convinced his closest friends to join him on a hike into the nearby hills, after rumour had said that a green dragon might have been nesting in the crags there. As a child, he had loved the allure of the magical creatures one so rarely saw. The unearthly beauty that came with the sense of time stood still.
He knew that the world had its fair share of shadowed places. Those cracks in the marble that often spilled its stench of death into lands previously untarnished by rot and decay.
Monsters.
Not that they were a new occurrence. After all, they had been here on the Continent for eons.
And besides, why brood on the bad things when your life was (mostly) a good one?
So he forged on. Studying Music and Literature at the University of Oxenfurt, watching as new buildings were erected like skeletons of metal and silver. As another art festival came and went in a blur of glitter, song and laughter. As the trees in the park grew slowly, casting longer and longer shadows each passing season. As the wall was finally completed after what people said was a decade of hard work. An imposing ring of solid steel and concrete that encircled the city in an iron embrace. It was meant to keep the evil out.
To keep them safe.
It hadn't worked. Death tolls still went up incrementally every year. Ever more new and gruesome news reports. Children found torn to shreds in their homes. Families drained of blood with their skin a frozen blue. People missing with only a garish red smear to tell that something had taken them.
Paintings of gore and malice.
Jaskier honestly didn't pay much attention to all this. At that time, he was far too busy trying to help support his friend, Pavetta and her husband, Duny as they struggled through the sapping feat of raising their firstborn child. Jaskier's goddaughter, Cirilla.
Then, after that, he took some time to himself. He began to write songs. And people began to listen. He graduated with honors and spent his off time writing songs and melodies in the nook of the library. His mother continued to pester him. He helped Duny and Pavetta with Cirilla. He found a few people to love for a short while, but never quite managed to tie anyone down- even though they were fun while they lasted.
And so, Jaskier continued on. Scattered, but content in what he had.
And then, one cold winter's night, he found the witcher.
It wasn't uncommon to find blood smeared along the walls of alleys here in Redania. In the dark bowels of the festering heart of the city. It had been infested with monsters long since the Conjunction of the Spheres, that event when the fabric of the worlds had torn and spilled their dark, foul broods into the world of elves and dwarves. (Men had made their first appearance then too, but Jaskier had never really bothered to dwell on that) And while things often changed with time, this city didn't seem to want to conform. There was also the issue of the wall doing nothing to keep the things out. As a result, they were one of the only congregations left who still had witchers roaming the streets. The slightly more human breed of monster.
Mutant dogs, Half-breeds, Abominations, Children of the Devil, Jaskier had heard all the insults flung in their absence, but had yet to actually lay his eyes on one in person. He'd heard all the stories from his mother. Claws, horns, fangs, you name it. They were massively strong, with eyes like blazing pits of hellfire and voices like the snarl of a wild beast. Swords sharper than razors. And it was said that they feasted on the flesh of the creatures they slew.
All in all, Jaskier could hardly be blamed that night when he saw the hulking corpse bleeding in the alley, smelling of rot and something darker, and considered fleeing. He knew of the monsters roaming Redania, yes, but did he have to see them?
No.
It was the abandoned silver sword, lying like a splinter of moonlight in the mouth of the gore-streaked alley, that made him step inside. Shimmering like a fallen star, stained with a black, tarry substance that Jaskier would bet was the monster's blood. Of course, his mind said reasonably, it couldn't be pure silver. That would never be strong enough to withstand contact. But it was beautiful all the same; elegant and simple, the blade scored with runes along the shaft. He reached for it, but a harsh cough halted his fingers.
The man who lay against the chipped bricks didn't have horns or claws. He was dressed in torn clothes of simple, silver-studded leather, looking like a cross between armor and that which a biker might wear. His hair was streaked with grime and blood, but that of it which was still clean was a pale silver, almost white- an odd color, for his face was far from old. It was rough, handsome, and currently contorted in barely concealed pain. Eyes of bright gold narrowed in something a bit like surprise.
One muscled arm was curled tightly against his stomach, but Jaskier could see the blood seeping over the torn fabric. See how pale the man's face was. There were strange black spidery lines slowly fading from around those shining golden orbs, like ink in his veins
"What… the fuck… d'you want?" His voice was a deep bass timbre, made hoarse from the pain, no doubt. Jaskier could detect a slight slur in the gravel of the halting tone, and all other thoughts fled now. He knelt beside the man, who was a good deal stronger looking than he was.
No, not a man. This… this was a witcher. And he looked not much different from a human man.
What a lot of shit the stories were.
"Can I help?" Jaskier put out a hand, but froze as a low growl rumbled in the witcher's chest. His bloodied chest was rising and falling rapidly as he struggled for breath, golden eyes never leaving Jaskier. Was he scared that Jaskier would hurt him? More blood spilled in a slow ooze down over the witcher's shirt, and he dared to pull the leather back from the wound to get a better look.
Fuck, Jaskier's gut roiled at the sight.
The witcher coughed, but he sounded amused. "You city folk… You're all t'same." He huffed a breath of what might have been laughter, but then winced, his head falling back. A soft breath of, "fuck," left his bloodless lips.
"What is that thing?" Jaskier glanced over at the mound of dead monster flesh, shuddering. It had several legs, almost like a mutant spider.
"Kikimora." The witcher hissed with pain as the younger man peeled more fabric away from his bloodied skin. A pale hand came up to grab his wrist. "Don't. M'dying anyway… No need to… t'make it worse."
Jaskier stared at him. He couldn't be serious, surely? "You… that's a little dramatic for a flesh wound, isn't it?"
The witcher's look held something almost akin to a weary resignation. "Does it look… like a flesh… wound t'you?"
No. It really didn't. Jaskier knew what death smelt like. It was cold and clammy and final. That scent was in the alley tonight. Nothing like the reek of the Kikimora corpse. Those bubbling slices in the witcher's stomach were enough to kill a human man on the spot. It was a testament to the witcher's strength that he was still breathing, albeit hoarsely. Jaskier fought off the bile still hovering somewhere in the upper region of his throat. "Was this a contract, or…"
"No." The witcher shifted, hissing in pain as it sent a fresh wave of blood spilling over his sleeve. He swallowed with what looked like some difficulty, throat bobbing. His voice came out in a broken stumble. "It… attacked a couple… o-out for a stroll. I … I was… in th'area."
And they hadn't even stopped to help him. Unbelievable. They had probably just run, leaving the witcher to bleed out all alone on a cloudy winter's night. Jaskier shivered, feeling the chill keenly as a puff of frosted wind nipped at his neck. Perhaps he should grow out his hair… it would be convenient for the winter.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "No one deserves to die alone. Like this."
The witcher let out a soft whuff of laughter. "I'm not alone…" he replied in that deep rumble, now growing jagged around the edges. " 'nless you're a ghost… and no one else can… c-can s-see you." He coughed again, a thread of violently red blood sliding from the corner of his pale mouth. "Then… well…"
"I'm not a ghost," said Jaskier quietly. "At least, not since I last checked." He settled down beside the witcher, close enough that their shoulders were pressed together. The mutant's body was like a heater, and Jaskier snuggled closer, not caring as blood splattered his shirt. If all he could do for this man was offer comfort, then he was fucking well going to do it. No matter the means.
But holy shit the wall at his back was cold.
"Hm," murmured the witcher, his head slipping to rest against Jaskier's shoulder. All the tension seemed to seep from him. As if the human contact were a balm to his suffering. Jaskier's chest was aching. A sharp, stabbing agony that pulsed in time to his breathing.
Life was so fucking unfair sometimes.
"I, um, found your sword," ventured Jaskier, unsure of whether he should have brought it with him to the wounded man's side. "Um… what do I…"
"Would you be… able to take it with a… message to my home?" The witcher's voice was carefully calm, his body trembling ever so slightly now. Fear? Sorrow?
"Of course," said Jaskier, softly.
"Around my neck," rasped the witcher. "Take it off."
Jaskier gently guided the witcher to lower his head, baring the back of his pale neck. He could feel the knotted muscle and scarred skin as he uncovered a silver chain draped under the black leather and silver hair. With nimble fingers, Jaskier undid the clasp and a circular disk fell into his waiting palm, depicting a snarling wolf's head.
The witcher's medallion.
Jaskier felt tears stinging his eyes as the witcher lay back against him, breath grating a little as it huffed in and out of his bloodied chest. "Take that and the sword to Kaer Morhen." His voice was steady now, strong with something a little like urgency. "It's the black marble mansion on the street corner, near the temple. Tell Vesemir… tell him I'm…" -Here he paused, biting his lip like he was fighting with tears- "that I'm… sorry."
"I will." Jaskier's own voice was small, his stomach turning as the witcher coughed again, more violently this time and spat a mouthful of dark, tarry blood onto the stones.
"What's your name?" asked the witcher softly. He sounded curious. No doubt wondering at this man who seemed unafraid of him.
"Jaskier." He felt the witcher's smile on the curve of his shoulder- a small, sad thing.
"Buttercup…" mused the man, huffing another little laugh. "Like the flower?"
"Like the flower."
"I owe… you a debt, Jaskier," murmured the witcher, his body shaking a little as though he was cold. "I cannot… I… fuck." He let out a sound almost like a whimper as his form shook with harsh, wet-sounding coughs, and Jaskier slid an arm about his strong shoulders, trying to stay calm. It was hard when he knew that this brave man, this man who had given his life over to keeping humankind safe, was dying here in an alleyway because those same humans could not have extended the same courtesy. Jaskier wanted to protest the unfairness of it all on the poor witcher's behalf. Somehow though, he got the feeling that the witcher's only remark to that would be a dry comment on how life was far from fair. He seemed the type.
So he swallowed back his tears, and asked, "What's your name?"
The witcher's breath was warm on Jaskier's throat, damp, sticky blood from his mouth drying on the purple knit sweater that Jaskier was wearing. He couldn't care less.
The witcher shuddered into momentary stillness after the coughing fit, his voice hoarse and ragged as he said, "Geralt of Rivia."
Rivia?
Fuck, how long had it been now since that city had fallen? Taken first by Kaedwen, and then sacked and burned to the ground in the Nilfgaardian wars- with Queen Maeve herself being hung from the remains of the battlements of her own castle after all had settled into smoke and ash. Rivia was a ghost story that mothers told their children on nights when the wind moaned, and thunder split the sky into fractals of shuddering power.
The bones of a once proud kingdom... gone. Just like that. Long before the Continent had begun to change with the times. Back when the world was ruled by swords and blood, and the largest army dictated who got to destroy who.
The people... massacred.
Yet another display of how humans and monsters were not so very different.
"It's an honour to meet you, Geralt of Rivia," was all Jaskier could bring himself to say, feeling like he might choke on the tears that were damming behind his eyes. On this fraying knot clogging his throat. "If the circumstances had been different... maybe we could have been friends."
He felt the witcher smile against his throat, and his heart ached. "I would... have liked that," he rasped. "To be able to... to call you... a friend. You s-seem like... a good man, Jask..." He trailed off, seeming to lack the strength to finish Jaskier's name. He swallowed, like he was thinking of trying again, but Jaskier rubbed a hand across his shoulder.
"Shh, Geralt," he soothed, voice cracking. "It's alright. Save your strength."
The witcher let out a soft hum as Jaskier gently combed his fingers through the dirty silver hair, teasing out the knots. His body rumbled quietly against Jaskier's, almost as if he were purring. The next coughing fit that gripped him was so much weaker than before. His powerful body shuddering, blood seeping from the wound freely as his arm dropped away. A groan of pain, fluttering eyes.
Time was relentless.
Jaskier moved so he was kneeling, facing the dying witcher. Tentatively, he reached out and took that handsome face into his own shaking hands. "Hey," He murmured. "Look at me, Geralt."
The witcher met his gaze, eyes distant with suffering. "Jask..." He coughed, once, harsh and tearing as Jaskier leant forward and gathered the witcher into his arms. Geralt was colder now, shivering with a cold, clammy dew on his exposed skin. He seemed unaware of his surroundings. All save Jaskier. As the younger man held him and rocked slowly in a soothing beat, humming one of his latest songs.
It was a sweet melody, but it held a hint of hope. That was all Jaskier could offer. Hope that Geralt's suffering was almost over. Hope that he would find the world beyond better than this one.
The land of the Apple Trees, with a smell of summer and light warm on his skin. Free from pain and fear.
So he held on, whispering halting lines of music and soft comforts, until the witcher in his arms drew his last shuddering breath, and died with a small smile curling his lips.
Geralt of Rivia
Beloved brother, shield of men.
1980-2100
'If I have to choose between one evil and another; Then I prefer not to choose at all.'
So witchers really were long lived like it said in the stories...
Jaskier wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting. But this elegant black marble tombstone, carved with bold lettering and set amid the rolling grass was certainly not it.
Redania's cemetery was outside the walls, in a meadow known as The Weeping Hill. No surprises there. Gently curving tussocks of grass, speckled with memories and stones dedicated to folk long since gone.
And now Geralt had joined them.
The older witcher, Vesemir, had cried when Jaskier brought him Geralt's sword and medallion. Cried like he had lost a son- great, heaving, tearless sobs that had shaken his frame to the core. Perhaps Jaskier had cried too, when the witcher with the ragged hair and scarred face had embraced him like his life depended on it and thanked him for staying by Geralt's side. Rasped out his gratitude that his white-haired brother had not died alone.
Jaskier had lost control on his sorrow and anger at the world then, and he and the scarred witcher had helped each other remain standing.
Eskel was his name, Jaskier had found out later.
So here he was, knee deep in the whispering grass, with a slender hand resting on Geralt's gravestone. His eyes were stinging, but Jaskier knew he wouldn't cry. Not yet.
There was something he needed to do first.
Crouching, he swung his guitar case off his shoulder, settling it down in a sea of green. Popping the latches, he raised the lid before glancing back at the grave. He swallowed, heart aching as he remembered the witcher's small smile. His deep rumble of a voice. Those golden eyes crinkling at the edges when Jaskier had stayed.
The sun made the lacquered wood of the guitar turn to amber and gold, the strings a burnished copper as he lifted it from the case, settling it on his knee.
Clearing his throat, Jaskier said hesitantly, "Hello again, Geralt. Um, So I took your things to Kaer Morhen... and met the others. I didn't know how close you all were. You're like a big family..." Jaskier swallowed back a sob and instead released a choked little laugh. "Eskel's nice... There were all... really nice. I'm sorry you had to loose them. That they had to loose you..."
He played a minor chords, drawing a breath before he said, "I, um... wrote you something. I suppose you can take it as a thank you for keeping all of us ungrateful mortals safe... or a goodbye. You... you can take your pick."
Settling down in the bed of grass, resting with his back against Geralt's headstone, Jaskier closed his eyes and began to sing softly.
"In the meadow, the wolf I found,
Scattered with snowy dandelions.
Fighting heart, with fangs of steel,
White hair with rich green crowned.
-
Fear no shadow tonight, little one,
A furious wolf has cast them away.
-
The White-haired witcher, he let me near,
The beast did not growl nor stir.
Valorous heart and tired body,
He faced darkness with no fear.
-
Fear no monster tonight, little one,
The White Wolf has chased them away.
-
I watched over the wolf 'till night,
As long as he fought to stay.
Bloody flowers and golden eyes,
A smile he gave despite.
-
Fear no dark cloud tonight, little one,
The wind has blown them away.
-
To my songs, the wolf I rocked,
His sad eyes he closed.
Silver tears and vermillion spilled,
He whom the people had mocked.
-
Wait on no bard tonight, little one,
For the brave wolf he has to bury.
-
In the meadow I left the White Wolf,
Underground in a flowery tomb.
Red eyes and a freely bleeding heart,
Here at the end of Destiny's loom."
The final chords rang silver in the dewed air, the sun warm on the nape of his neck. His hands were shaking, but Jaskier let the tears fall down his cheeks, because Geralt of Rivia deserved someone to mourn him.
And so, on every anniversary of that day, when the young singer had found the witcher in that alley, and had stayed, music rang over the grass sea of The Weeping Hill. Always the same melody, the same voice.
Though, in time, it rang not alone. In two years, it was joined by a small girl with pale hair and her parents laughing as she ran through the grass, giggling and singing along. A witcher with a scarred face and a gentle smile. Two women with sparks crackling at their fingers...
And so was the White Wolf remembered.
So there were some songs I was listening to whole writing this fic, and I though I might just share them with you, in case there are fellow music lovers put there :)
- Geralt of Rivia (from "The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt") [Epic Orchestral Remix] by Pascal Michael Stiefel
-Dandelion Wine by Blackmore's Night
- Unbroken by Really Slow Motion