Disclaimer: I down not own The Witcher, nor any characters associated with it. No profit is made from this publication.

AUthor's Note: The title of this comes from the poem, "When I Think of Death" by Maya Angelou. It makes me feel the same way I was feeling when writing this. Which is to say, a little angsty. This is my first fore into The Witcher fandom. I have only seen the show so far though I look forward to getting deeper in. :)

I know this has been done before and often, but I got the bug in my head and had to get it out. It's actually kind of a relief. I haven't had the bug to write in a while and I was afraid that I never would again. I'm crossing my fingers the bug extends to my WIPs.

I have an idea to continue this but I also think it works well as a one shot. Please let me know if there's any interest.


In the end it took them three days.

He was a tangle of emotions about it, really, not quite certain what to feel.

There was a part of him that understood. There was so much happening, so much to be taken care of after the attack. There was, of course, the cleanup. The basilisk corpses had to be broken down for the parts that were useful for witcher potions and whatever wasn't useful had to be taken out of the hall to be burned lest the smell of carrion invite other creatures to them. The hall itself had to be put to rights. And then there was the preparing of the bodies of those witchers who hadn't lived through the attack. Geralt, Vesemir, and the others would not allow anyone else to help with the funeral rites and, of course, no one pushed it. It was already hard enough for them. They were already few enough and the battle with Geralt's child of surprise, who they'd all come to care for, had made them fewer. The hall had been silent as Yennefer magically replaced the tree that had been so important to them for so long so that they could once again hang the medallions of their fallen on it.

Ciri had been so silent since they'd broken her of The Deathless Mother's control, tears rolling down her cheeks more often than not as she did was she could to help in the clean up. None of the witchers treated her any differently than they had before. They were old enough, had seen enough on their travels, to know she hadn't been in control, that she would never have intentionally hurt them, that she cared for them as much as they cared for her. They were not a demonstrative bunch, of course, but they put hands to her shoulder, ruffled her hair, spoke to her quietly as she helped them. It was Geralt and Yennefer who had the task of trying to put the young princess back together again when she felt apart in her guilt. The other witchers would clear out when Ciri would fall to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself to try to keep her body from shaking apart, shaking and screaming out sobs that were torn straight from her heart. It was then that Geralt and Yennefer would wrap themselves around her and support her body as they told her again and again that nothing that had come to pass was through fault of hers. That she was still cared for and they would teach her how to make certain that nothing could overtake her again. They were the support that she needed. They were becoming the family she needed.

Alongside the understanding there was an equal part of him that wanted to be angry at them. They were supposed to be his friends or, failing that, they were at least supposed to notice him. And yet…

It was three days after everything was finished that they even noticed that he hadn't been with them. It was even Geralt or Yennefer who finally noticed. It was Lambert, who hadn't even liked him, not that any of them really did, who, finally, when they were all sitting down to another silent meal looked around, his eyebrows up in curiosity.

"Where's Useless? Haven't seen him around in gotta be a couple of days now."

"Useless?" Ciri asked quietly.

"Yeah. The bard that came with you. Did fuck all during the battle. Done fuck all since."

"Useless…" The second time it was a giggle of agreement that sent a dagger through his heart. But, what could he expect? She was a child. She hadn't had time to actually get to know him. She'd been angry when they were travelling to Kaer Morhen, in the all-encompassing way that happened when children were upset. She wouldn't have seen anything. And then all she knew of him was the battle. The battle where he really had done fuck all.

He wasn't even surprised when Geralt's only response was, "He's human."

"But, Lambert is right." Yennefer was the first one to stand, a look of slight concern on her face that actually warmed him a little, "I don't know that I've seen Jaskier since the end of the battle."

"Probably pouting." Geralt grunted, "Not enough people paying attention to him."

Yennefer frowned at the comment, but didn't say anything against it, "All the same."

Geralt heaved a sigh and stood, his expression put upon, "I'll find him."

He walked out of the hall with purpose, knowing exactly where he was headed. Yennefer followed him at a more sedate pace after placing a kiss to the crown of Ciri's head. Geralt was hall away when he slowed down, breathing deeply, scenting was Jaskier knew was a lot of blood, human blood. He didn't have a sword on him, but he did pull a wicked dagger out. One that Jaskier knew would be entirely useless.

"What is it?" Yennefer asked when she caught up to him and noticed the tension in him.

"Blood," Geralt said quietly.

"Jaskier!" Yennefer hissed.

To his credit, Geralt moved quicker then. He ran the last bit to the room Jaskier had taken when they'd gotten back to the Kaer. Jaskier had never really asked for much. The small bed and the blanket were enough. He hadn't even insisted on a room with a fire place, despite the snow coming in through the broken window. Geralt stopped just in front of the door. And Jaskier knew that he was coming to the realization of what was waiting for him behind it.

"Open it, Geralt!" Yennefer insisted.

"The blood is old," Geralt said quietly, "Stale."

"Geralt!"

Yennefer was about to push past him when Geralt finally opened the door, slowly, his dagger falling from his hand. Jaskier was used to it after three days, but he imagined it was a shock to them to see him. His body anyway.

"Jaskier," Yennefer said quietly as she moved past Geralt and fell to her knees beside the bed, "Oh, Jaskier." The second was mournful as she ran her hands over him, a half inch above touching him.

All of the spells that had been placed on him before his death had run their course, even spells he hadn't even realized had been there. The most prevalent one had been the spell that kept others from seeing the damage that had been done to him during his torture. So, he wouldn't even be able to seek out someone to heal him, the mage had told him. They wouldn't be able to heal what they couldn't see. His face had been, mercifully, left alone, but his chest was a mess of bruising, dark and angry looking. And his hands were black and mangled, all things that he had fought through to try to be as useful to his friends as he could. The rest of his skin was nearly as white as the bedsheets from the wound that had killed him.

"Yen," Geralt lowered himself slowly to his knees on the other side of the bed.

"I…I didn't have my chaos," Yennefer murmured quietly, "I couldn't see…"

"Yen, what happened to him?" Geralt still wasn't looking at him.

"He must have been injured by a shard when Voleth Mier shattered the monolith. It, Gods, he's human. It ran him through. He bled, slowly. Until he bled out." She gently moved the blanket away from his waist to reveal the blood-soaked mattress before tenderly tucking it back around him as if she was tucking in a child, "Oh, Sandpiper, why didn't you say anything?" She closed his staring, empty eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cool skin.

Jaskier felt rather warm at that, actually. As warm as he could anyway. Though he had to admit, seeing that Geralt still wouldn't even look at him, was making it hard to breathe. Though, really, could it be difficult any longer, when he was dead? He'd only been a ghost for three days. He wasn't sure how any of it worked yet, really. He knew that he was crying, but couldn't feel the tears on his cheeks, as he turned away from the scene in front of him.

He was a hallway away when he realized that Vesemir was purposefully standing in the middle of the hall. And he was staring right at Jaskier. Jaskier hadn't really spoken to the eldest of the wolves at all before his death and he hadn't anticipated doing it when he was dead.

"Any message you want for them, pup?" Vesemir's voice was quiet, strong, supportive in the way he imagined parents were supposed to sound.

Jaskier looked back over his shoulder for a moment and then shrugged as he thought of what he would even say to them. Yen had been kind enough upon learning of his death. Why make her hurt again? And Ciri…she thought he was useless. As much as he'd wanted to support her, love her even, as Geralt's child surprise, was how little she cared for him. As for Geralt, sure he'd come to find Jaskier, but he couldn't even look at him, and he hadn't refuted his uselessness to his brother or his daughter.

"Why bother?" Jaskier asked, looking at Vesemir head on, "Not like he would care anyway."

Jaskier held himself together, even as he passed Vesemir with his kind, sympathetic eyes, until he was just outside in the courtyard. There he allowed himself to fall to his knees.

And scream.