Chapter Text

Jaskier is six when he gets his first scar and it is not his own.

The wound bleeds sluggishly and nearly causes his mother to faint. His sleeve is drenched, dripping onto the dirt; while his elder brother’s voice can he heard swearing to their father that he didn’t do anything.

“He just started bleeding out of nowhere!”

His other siblings corroborate the story and if possible his mother pales further. Jaskier is the only one not gripped by panic. He’s in pain, a dull throb threatens to pull him under, but his curiosity keeps him tethered to the waking world.

“How is he even still standing?”

Jaskier’s grandmother cups his chin and Jaskier leans into her withered touch. Her eyes are kind and hold decades of understanding in their milky depths.

“Destiny has blessed you, my child.”

Her calm seeps into Jaskier’s mind and he’s the first to realize the wound has stopped bleeding. The tourniquet his mother fixed on his bicep hurts more than the injury itself so he unties it when she’s not looking. It takes four hours for the scar to appear – the defeat on his parent’s face stays with him for years afterwards.

Jaskier’s fingers run over the raised flesh, wondering if his soulmate can feel his touch. His listens to a hushed argument in the middle of the night when he cannot sleep. His grandmother believes his condition to be a positive development, but his mother disagrees.

“What kind of person is my son tied to that they suffer such an injury and continue to breathe? It should have killed Jaskier!”

“Soulmates feel a fraction of pain; no injury will result in his death.”

“And what happens when his soulmate dies? I saw what it did to you and I cannot watch Jaskier suffer through the same heartbreak.”

“It is done – there is nothing you can do.”

His mother’s sobs echo in the house until sunrise chases them away. Breakfast is a quiet affair and every time Jaskier touches his shoulder, someone at the table flinches. Unable to stand the quiet, Jaskier flees the oppressive atmosphere the moment is plate is clear.

His grandmother finds him beneath a willow tree hours later.

Relishing the taste of the cherry tarts she brought him, Jaskier leans into her embrace as she tells his favorite story.

“I was already married to the smithy’s son and your mother was just a babe when one day the most peculiar thing happened. A horse had gotten loose, driven mad by the water sickness, and nearly ran me down, but someone tackled me. When the dust settled, I saw blood on my palm from landing on a sharp rock.”

Jaskier’s thumb traces the familiar scar.

“I turned to thank my rescuer and saw her cradling the same hand, blood dripping onto her blue skirt. The words were knocked clean from our mouths when we saw identical scars splitting our left eyebrows. She reached out and the second our hands touched I knew she was mine.”

“And you were hers,” Jaskier finishes with a romantic sigh.

She hums, “and I was hers.”

They sit in silence, the wind tousling their hair as crickets chirp their comforting melody. Jaskier already knows how the story ends; hazy recollection of seeing his grandmother drop to her knees in the middle of the market when someone took a knife to a woman because he was desperate for coin.

The look on her face tells Jaskier she’s remembering that day so he presses a kiss to her palm and delights in the way her eyes crinkle.

“Now remember Jaskier, destiny has seen fit to forge a bond between you and someone else. This person’s body will be marked when you are so tread lightly. It is a magic few understand, but when you find them… well, songs and poems don’t do the feeling justice.”

“What if they don’t like me?”

She laughs, “Oh Jaskier, my sweet child, who wouldn’t love you on sight?”

By the time he’s eighteen, Jaskier has acquired fourteen scars – only one is his own.

“Your soulmate is a witcher.”

Jaskier winces as cloth drags along his back, catching on the edge of his latest wound. He’d been in sleep’s warm embrace when his back split beneath an invisible weapon, bloodying the silk sheets of his latest paramour. She’d been horrified of course, but her eyes were tinged with longing once she left him at the healer’s door.

“What – ah!” Jaskier gasps, “What makes you say that?”

Once finished applying a poultice, the healer’s fingers trail down until they touch three circular scars above his right hip.

“Wyvern attack; their poison is known to kill quickly and few humans make it to a healer in time. Witchers’ are resistant to their venom and often carry potions to counteract the effects.”

She helps Jaskier sit up, the pain slowly fading until it was nothing but an unpleasant memory.

“Besides, most of these scars are so deep no human could possibly have survived whatever made them.”

“Have you ever met one?” Jaskier asks.

The healer – Vivienne – nods and hands him a waterskin.

“I’ve met a few in my travels, even patched one up a few years back.”

Jaskier wants to know everything and she indulges in his questions until the bleeding stops and a new scar joins its brothers.

“A word of caution bard,” Vivienne warns before Jaskier leaves, “I’d be wary of any witcher you encounter. Soulmates are rare and precious to be sure, but witcher’s are dangerous and callous creatures: Incapable of love and affection. Destiny did you a disservice; best ignore those scars and live without.”

Not trusting his voice, Jaskier nods solemnly and ventures into the bustling city. Jaskier had heard similar rumors about witcher’s and their love for nothing more than coin and ale. He wonders if destiny is punishing him for something he hasn’t done yet – or perhaps for a sin in a past life.

Vivienne’s words keep him company on the road until he stops to fill his pockets at a tavern in Posada.

Before setting up, Jaskier thinks about his grandmother and shakes his head. Surely the person – witcher or not – that is tied to his soul would bring him great joy just as his grandmother had promised they would.

With that pleasant thought, Jaskier decides to liven the place up with some music. He quickly discovers that his talents are wasted on the common folk, but Jaskier’s attention eventually gravitates to the figure in the far corner.

Something twinges in the back of his mind as he saunters over to the stranger. Jaskier’s eyes take in the white hair and form fitting armor and when he locks eyes with Geralt of Rivia, he knows with utter certainty he’s right where he’s supposed to be.

Afterwards, Jaskier will blame the stress of his first adventure with Geralt for being the reason he didn’t connect the dots sooner. Four days will pass and the bruises on his face have healed when they stop by a lake for the night. Jaskier, battling with synonyms, will lose his voice completely when Geralt strolls into their campsite, shirtless, with his scars on display.

Tongue heavy in his mouth, the wild notion of saying something will come and go too quickly for Jaskier to comprehend when Geralt comments on the blissful quiet. His back will ache in sympathy, his heart a tender mess, and Jaskier will slide into his bedroll having experienced the heartbreak his mother feared.

When they part the first time, Jaskier is beaten and left for dead in the forest.

He knows when he wakes, that his latest injuries are Geralt’s. Blood loss held him hostage for two days and the people who found him said he called out for the witcher several times. They feared for his health, but upon further inspection their fear turned to sympathy when they realized what happened.

“Soulmates are supposed to be careful!” Hilda – the wife of the huntsman who found Jaskier – scolds.

“They are supposed to treat their bodies like temples. To put oneself in danger, to cause your soulmate such pain, is a terrible crime.”

Both Hilda and her husband Mika are missing the tips of their left index finger. Jaskier can feel a warmth the hearth is not responsible for in the air whenever they touch. He envies their relationship and tries to hide how his heart aches beneath his healing chest, but he fails.

“Spirits know it’s not an easy thing,” Mika confesses, “but I wouldn’t trade our connection for anything. Give him time, my friend. No one can outrun Destiny.”

Jaskier travels.

Traven to tavern he sings about Geralt until his pockets are heavy and people begin to recognize his voice. When they meet again Jaskier has acquired three more scars, but they are easily hidden. Geralt tries several times to dissuade Jaskier, but eventually he realizes it is a lost cause.

An odd routine is established from that point on.

Jaskier comes to the conclusion that destiny is a cruel mistress when he’s forced to act like a bumbling idiot to hide his identical wounds from Geralt’s incredible senses. Jaskier loses count how many times he ‘trips’ over logs and ‘cuts’ himself of rocks when Geralt scents the air.

“You’d bruise yourself on wind if it were possible,” Geralt grumbles and Jaskier’s laugh is tinged with hysteria, but Geralt ignores it.

Hiding preexisting scars from Geralt is twice as difficult. Eventually, Geralt caves and asks Jaskier why he insists on bathing at separate times after returning from the river. Jaskier fumbles with his change of clothes before tossing a sultry wink over his shoulder.

“Why Geralt, I’m only doing this to protect you. After all, I wouldn’t want you to fall madly in love with me after seeing my naked visage.”

“… idiot.”

After that Geralt does not bring up Jaskier’s secretive bathing habits though Jaskier wishes he would. Jaskier wishes for a lot of things, most of them revolving around Geralt shoving him against a door and ravishing Jaskier until he cannot think straight. However, the witcher remains ignorant of the fact they’re soulmates.

“And yet, here we are.”

It’s the closest Jaskier’s come to voicing how he feels.

Destiny never felt more real than it had crouched next to Geralt’s bath, hands itching to touch every inch of skin. Golden eyes seemed to peer into Jaskier’s soul and he nearly says it all: Nearly confesses how entwined he knows they are, but something pulls the words back until they fester in his throat.

Jaskier’s seen monsters of all kinds, but nothing terrifies him more than Geralt’s disinterest.

‘This is it,’ Jaskier mourns, ‘he has to know now.’

Jaskier cannot breathe for two different reasons: The first one being the huge tumor on his throat, slowly compressing his airways and apparently killing him. The second being the fact Geralt remains completely unaffected by Jaskier’s current predicament; both physically and emotionally.

There’s no trace of Jaskier’s curse causing Geralt any discomfort: No swollen throat, hoarse voice, or inability to breathe.

Jaskier can feel his heart straining beneath the weight of this revelation and it hurts worse than dying.

Eyes watering, Jaskier fights to speak, but Geralt hushes him every single time until Jaskier’s crying with frustration. He swears at Geralt in his mind; combinations of words that would make his mother spank him like an errant babe. Hopelessness wars with anger until someone touches his forehead and all goes black.

The scary witch with an amphora on her abdomen spells danger, and Jaskier runs as fast as he can from that nightmare.

“Jaskier, you’re alive.”

It has to be relief in Geralt’s voice because it soothes the deepest part of Jaskier which burns every moment they’re together. Once they get away from this hell-scape, Jaskier is going to show Geralt his scars – he’s going to bare it all because he almost died and he decided not knowing is worse.

When Geralt runs back into the building to save the witch who saved Jaskier, his mind starts spinning until he feels as if he may collapse.

Instead the roof collapses and Jaskier’s mind goes silent before exploding into chaos. His whole body jerks expecting the rush of pain that leaves him covered in bruises. Ears ringing, Jaskier can barely make out the words coming from Chireadan, but eventually they click into place.

‘Of course he isn’t dead; I’d feel it,’ Jaskier reasons and jogs over to the window. A lesser man would crumble beneath the rush of emotions experienced in the span of a second. Time, if anything, speeds up until Jaskier’s down the hill and vomiting in a flowering bush.

Jaskier had been wrong.

Watching Geralt rut into the witch feels worse than dying.

Chireadan finds him and together they go back to the village, neither one speaking but understanding flits between them like a hummingbird.

“Here,” Chireadan says the next morning when Geralt has returned with Jaskier’s belongings in tow, “for the pain.”

Jaskier’s fingers clench around the bottle until they turn white and there’s a different lump in his throat, but he doesn’t forget to thank the elf for his kindness.

He contemplates staying, but Geralt calls his name and Jaskier’s feet are moving toward him without hesitation. Chireadan wishes him well, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier waves it away.

“You know they say the death of a soulmate is excruciating.”

Geralt mounts Roach and turns to call Jaskier’s name a second time, irritation bleeding into his gruff voice.

“I wonder if he’d feel anything.”

Once more, Jaskier changes his mind. While choking on blood and desperation, Jaskier once believed knowing how Geralt felt about him was better than not.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

A sword in the gut would’ve been kinder.

Walking as if possessed by another, Jaskier finds the dwarves and writes down their account of the dragon encounter. If they notice a change in his attitude they don’t mention it – happy to exaggerate their part in the adventure.

Night falls, but Jaskier continues down the mountain without stopping. Something withered and fragile in his chest commands him to put as much distance between him and Geralt as possible. He stumbles and the sharp pain on his palm doesn’t register until he’s face to face with Yennefer.

“He doesn’t know you’re soulmates.”

She reaches out and Jaskier flinches when she squeezes his hand. Blood pools along his lifeline and Yennefer pulls a white scrap of cloth out of thin air. Once the knot is tied she pulls his collar down far enough until the scar above his heart is exposed to the cool air.

Her hands map the rest and Jaskier lets her; trying to ignore the tiny voice in the back of his mind dripping poison in his ear.

‘She only knows where they are because she’s touched him.’

Eventually, Jaskier shakes her off and straightens his tunic. He eyes her with cold disinterest, though she is not fooled for a second. Cocking her hip she crosses her arms and fixes him with a frown.

“I don’t know whether to pity you or be jealous. A wish didn’t bind you together – destiny did long before he met me.”

“Destiny made fools of us all,” Jaskier muses and brushes past her: She follows.

They walk in silence down the mountain until he stumbles again and nearly goes over the edge of a cliff.

“Come on,” Yennefer commands and shoves him into a portal. It’s suddenly warm and Jaskier realizes they’re inside – a fire burning bright in the hearth. The smell of potato stew fills his nose.

“You can stay as long as you want. I’m sure Temeria is in want of a bard.”

Jaskier turns, “Wait! Where will you go?”

The air swirls around the second portal and Jaskier can smell rain. Yennefer slowly turns around and Jaskier sees the same sadness he’s been carrying around for years in her eyes.

“Somewhere he won’t expect. I’ll be in touch Jaskier – try not to get yourself killed.”

“Same,” Jaskier replies and her amused snort makes his lips twitch. The door opens; drawing Jaskier’s attention away from the portal and when he looks back Yennefer is gone. The lingering scent of lilac and gooseberries the only sign she had been there.

“Ah, you must be Jaskier. I’m Triss Merigold – welcome to King Foltest’s estate.”

Months pass and suddenly he’s delirious with fever and can feel the life leaving Geralt’s body.

It breaks and Jaskier’s thrust back into the world.

“Poor bastard,” Vivienne tsks as she wipes the sweat from his brow. “I see your witcher is as careless as ever.”

He doesn’t correct her; Geralt was never his. It still hurts, but the relief he feels when he realizes Geralt is still alive cancels out the heartache – for now. He sends a quiet thank you to destiny and dreams of tender kisses stolen between songs.

Triss is long gone, having left when word of Nilfgards’ impending attack on Cintra had reached them. Jaskier urged her to go, making her promise to come back alive. Yennefer had given Jaskier a xenovox during one of her visits and told him to stay put.

“I will find you when it’s safe.”

He doesn’t hear from Triss or Yennefer for two months.  

Remnants of Foltest’s army return, filing into the city like an endless dirge. Jaskier waits patiently, flitting from place to place using his voice to lift spirts as he waits for the next scar.

He wonders if Geralt made it to Cintra in time to claim his child surprise. Princess Cirilla was a beauty like her mother and Jaskier finds himself wishing he hadn’t avoided the kingdom on his latest trek east. True, Cintra reminded him of Geralt and thinking about Geralt made his whole body wince, but the princess enjoyed his music and the Queen Calanthe laughed at his bawdiest tales.

He mourns their deaths quietly and keeps his ears to the ground for trouble.

Trouble inevitably finds him.

Rumors of a witcher traveling along the Yaruga toward Rivia filter through the tavern and Jaskier is alight with curiosity especially when he hears that a child is with him.

‘What are the odds?’ Jaskier wonders knowing full well it’s not a conspiracy that has him packing a bag. Vivienne doesn’t try to stop him, deciding her time was better spent explaining which bottle held which potion.

“I won’t be there to heal you if something happens, but these should keep both of you alive long enough to seek help.”

Jaskier has a feeling if anything does happen that Yennefer will be nearby, but his thanks are sincere and plenty.

Someone once said that people couldn’t run from destiny so Jaskier decides it’s time to run towards it. He rides for three days when he comes across a skirmish in the woods. Soldiers decked in black circle Geralt and Princess Cirilla, swords drawn and Jaskier is pleased to see a handful of bodies strewn on the leafy ground.

“Two against nine hardly seems like a fair fight,” he shouts and throws a pitch grenade at the soldiers closest to him and Bluebell.

They’re instantly engulfed in black tar which solidifies and immobilizes allowing Geralt a window to shove Ciri to safety.

“Grab her and go!”

Jaskier doesn’t have a lot of riding experience, but he and Bluebell make a great team so he leans down and pulls Ciri onto the saddle.

“Hello Princess, fancy meeting you here.”

Ciri clings to Jaskier as they swivel around. Normally Jaskier would have reservations about leaving Geralt, but a fireball crashes into the clearing and he can hear Yennefer’s chanting.

“I don’t feel like being roasted alive so let’s get out of the way.”

Bluebell obeys his quick nudging and puts a significant distance between them and the battle. They would’ve gotten farther if Jaskier hadn’t fallen out of his saddle – a sharp pain in his gut making him cry out.

He rolls so Ciri lands on him instead of the other way around.

Blood gushes from between his lips and Ciri’s frantic cries for help pluck painfully at his heartstrings.

“Princess, it’s okay – I’m not hurt… it’s Geralt. We have to go back.”

“You’re bleeding!”

“And I’m sorry it’s all over your lovely cloak, but trust me. I’m okay.”

Bluebell nudges him with her nose, lapping at his damp hair until he’s able to stand with Ciri’s assistance. He can’t get back on his horse, but he helps Ciri up in case she needs to make a swift getaway. It feels like hours before they get back to the others and when Ciri sees Yennefer hunched over Geralt, bloodied hands pressed into his abdomen, she slides off Bluebell and rushes to their side.

“Geralt!”

Yennefer is quick to assure her that he’ll recover.

“Jaskier on the other hand…” Yennefer watches Jaskier sway and is torn between helping him and Geralt.

“He needs you more; we both know mine isn’t lethal.”

“Can’t imagine it feels good,” Yennefer says and Jaskier chuckles.

“I have something for the pain.”

While Ciri and Yennefer patch Geralt’s wound Jaskier digs around his bag for Vivienne’s elixirs. Once the liquid hits his tongue Jaskier feels instant relief and amuses himself by imagining her exasperated expression.

Eventually he’s able to help Yennefer get Geralt on Roach’s back and she opens a portal guiding them to safety. Jaskier laughs in delight when he sees Triss on the other side and her grin is just as bright. They settle in, both witches tending to Geralt as Jaskier and Ciri take care of the horses.

“I don’t get it…” Ciri begins and Jaskier already knows what she’s going to ask.

“How come you got injured too? And in the same spot as Geralt?”

“They’re soulmates, sweet thing.”

Ciri gasps, stars dancing in her vibrant blue eyes and Jaskier sighs when Yennefer joins them.

“Let me take a look,” she says leaving no room for argument.

“If you wanted to get me naked Yennefer…” he teases.

“Gross.”

He laughs at Ciri until he starts bleeding again and then reluctantly follows Yennefer into a tent he knows is bigger on the inside. He’s not disappointed. Geralt rests on the bed, shirtless and glistening.

He shoots her a dirty glare and her cackle fills the warm space.

“Shirt off.”

He lets her poke and prod until she’s satisfied. If his math is correct this beauty is number twenty-eight: If he were counting bruises and poisonings… forty-two. Yennefer circles him like a hawk, hissing in sympathy when she sees the latticework.

“These are new.”

The twin scars on his right bicep remind him of claws and he says as much. There are stories on his skin he is not privy to and it stings as much as ever.

Jaskier’s lovers enjoyed guessing where his scars came from; thinking him a bard by day and a pirate – or something equally romantic – by night. Rarely did Jaskier admit the truth because the mention of soulmates was known to sour a physical encounter, especially if feelings were blossoming.

Yennefer sees the grimace on Jaskier’s face and reaches out to squeeze his hand, thumb catching on the vertical scar at the base of his thumb just above his wrist.

“That one’s mine.”

She wants to ask and Jaskier finds himself wanting to tell her; something healing in him recognizing a similar crack in her, but a familiar groan steals his attention.

“Jaskier.”

He doesn’t remembering walking to the bed, but Jaskier is standing at Geralt’s side in time to see golden eyes trace the curves of his face. Jaskier’s cheeks heat beneath the scrutiny and surely he must be hallucinating because it looks like Geralt’s smirking at his reaction.

It’s not until Geralt’s eyes dart down to Jaskier’s naked chest that reality comes crashing down. Jaskier’s imagined this moment a million time; imagined a million different reactions, but nothing could have prepared him for the look on Geralt’s face.

Instead of shock or disgust, Geralt’s face wears a mask of resignation and Jaskier’s heart sinks into his stomach.

“You knew.”

Geralt winces and attempts to sit up; hand reaching out for someone who’s no longer there.

“Jaskier,” he groans, eyes pleading to hear him out, but all Jaskier can hear is the venom pouring from his wobbling lips.

“Fuck you.”

Jaskier doesn’t speak to Geralt for two weeks.

Triss offers him a formal place in Foltest’s court before she goes back to Temeria. He wants to accept, but Ciri looks up at him – pins him with a pout that could probably start a war – and he declines.

“Yennefer is accompanying Geralt and Ciri to the witcher fortress Kaer Morhen and she’ll probably curse me if I don’t come along.”

“There’s no probably about it.”

Yennefer reaches out and embraces Triss. A silent conversation passes between them before Triss is the one pulling Jaskier into her arms. Her parting words linger in the air like the smell of lightning after a storm.

“Call it destiny, call it fate, or call it luck if that makes you feel better, but something big brought you into his life when he needed you the most. Hear him out Jaskier: Let him prove that he's worthy of such a gift.”

Jaskier doesn’t want to admit and she and Yennefer have been wearing him down, but his sigh is like blood in the water.

“Is today the day?”

Jaskier jumps at Yennefer’s voice and almost doesn’t answer out of spite until he sees Geralt and Ciri training with wooden swords. The level of care he shows Ciri is enough to melt the snow on mountain tops: Jaskier never stood a chance.

“If I say yes, who owes you coin?”

“Vivienne.”

 “Hmm… do I piss off my favorite healer or the incredibly scary witch who just so happens to be my friend? Decisions, decisions.”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer threatens and Jaskier throws his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, you win.”

Before she can celebrate an arrow flies through the trees and embeds itself in Jaskier’s right shoulder.

Twin cries fill the clearing and Jaskier’s knees hit the ground in time with Geralt’s. Yennefer spins around sets the trees ablaze.

Familiar with the pain of secondhand injuries, the wound in Jaskier’s shoulder hurts ten times worse; the intensity nearly making him faint from the shock. Heat from the fire scorches his back, but he’s too tired to move away from the flickering flames. Eventually he registers someone half-dragging, half-carrying him towards Roach.

Once seated, Geralt slides behind him and Jaskier has the wherewithal to look for his mare. Yennefer’s voice fills the air and a large iridescent shield blocks incoming arrows long enough for her to pull Ciri onto Bluebell.

“Go!”

Roach flies through the forest, dodging tress before Jaskier can comprehend their existence. Geralt’s good arm is wrapped firmly around Jaskier’s waist, keeping his tucked close so he doesn’t fall.

“Stay with me Jaskier, don’t close your eyes.”

“Does it hurt?”

Geralt huffs, “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Geralt presses his forehead into the back of Jaskier’s neck and breathes deep before replying.

“Seeing your hurt is worse than some phantom pain. Knowing that my life has marred your skin… that you’ve felt every hit I’ve taken…”

Geralt trails off and Jaskier’s heart is racing faster than Roach. When he feels the press of Geralt’s lips to the scar at the base of his skull Jaskier nearly blacks out.

“I’ll answer whatever question you want when we’re safe, but I need you to know that I didn’t tell you because destiny had to be mistaken.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he can take much more, but Geralt continues.

“Witcher's don’t get happy endings Jaskier: We die bloody and alone – we’re seen as monsters to the common folk and normal lives are dreams from a childhood long forgotten. I didn’t want you to suffer and yet, I failed. I made you believe you were unwanted when the truth is… you’re all I want. I’m sorry Jaskier.”

Tears stream down Jaskier’s cheeks; drenching his lips in a reprieve he is unable to voice. Once more his words trip over themselves in his throat until they’re a tangled mess; one he sorts with a deep breath. Jaskier leans his head back, looking up at the bright green canopy and the beams of light from the sun.

His shoulder is on fire, but for the first time in decades Jaskier’s heart beats steadily – happily – behind his ribcage.

“You’re going to tell me the story behind every scar – in detail – and I’m going to write songs about every single one until you become so fed up with my singing that you have no choice but to kiss me: Repeatedly.”

Geralt’s chuckle washes over Jaskier and Roach slows in time for their lips to meet, gently and without haste. When they pull away, Geralt’s eyes melt beneath Jaskier’s watery smile.

“Deal.”