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It should have been the other way around. Jaskier was a creature of sunshine, bright as a summer flower and gaudier than a whole circus. Jaskier was all color and light. Jaskier should have gotten the day.
For his own reasons, too, Geralt would have preferred the night. It would be more practical – there were some monsters that only came out under cover of darkness, and he couldn’t hunt them at all now. (It would be more fitting. There was no part of him left that was made for the light.) And, selfishly, he wished he could have had this excuse to not have to deal with people anymore. To finally just let Jaskier handle it all, start to finish, the way he’d so often insisted he should.
Usually while insulting Geralt’s ability to communicate in something other than threats and insults, mind, which was rude and uncalled-for. Geralt only communicated in threats and insults maybe half the time. Less, when the bard wasn’t around to get on his nerves.
Though these last few months, he’d been communicating mostly through glares. So maybe that wasn’t entirely true either.
The lark came back, then, putting an end to his wistful musing. It flitted around his head, twittering furiously, until Geralt raised a hand for it to perch on. Then it preened itself, fluffing its breast and poking at its wings in swift, fussy little motions. Geralt had to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.
It was so small. He didn’t even feel its weight on his hand. It was such a delicate, beautiful thing, with its bright yellow face striped dramatically in black, the gentle blurring of light brown wings to dun-white breast and the black collar round its throat. It had two little black tufts of feathers like fierce little eyebrows, giving it a permanent flair of drama.
Its talons weren’t even long enough to pierce the leather of his gloves. It was so small.
I miss you, he didn’t say. Sometimes it was easier to talk to the bird than it had ever been to talk to the man, but sometimes it wasn’t. I’m sorry. I still don’t know how to fix this.
The bird took off again, chirping up a storm, only to land again at once on Roach’s head. Roach flicked an ear, but otherwise ignored it, plodding staidly on. The bird pulled at the swirl of fur at the top of her mane, preening her too.
Sometimes it would land on Geralt’s shoulder and preen his hair, too. Sometimes it would sidle along his shoulder and hop down past the edge of his pauldron and then nestle there, just beside his ear, peeping softly to itself as it drifted off to sleep. The brush of feathers was so soft against the side of his throat. So fragile, and so warm.
It wasn’t exactly Jaskier in there, Geralt knew. This wasn’t a choice Jaskier was consciously making. Geralt was just familiar, like Roach, and tiny little songbirds need somewhere protected to sleep. It didn’t mean anything, not really.
Geralt wondered, often, what he did during the night. Jaskier left him notes, so he knew he became a wolf – a huge silver-white wolf, which was so fitting it made him want to vomit – and that he’d never yet hurt Jaskier. Wouldn’t, Jaskier insisted, when Geralt had responded to learning this by chaining himself to the nearest tree the following sunset. In the mornings, Geralt remembered strange, stretching dreams of smell and sound and the layered silences of a nighttime wood, and – he never knew if he was just making this part up – he remembered warmth. A gentle hand stroking between his ears. Singing and chatter over the crackling of the campfires he was careful to assemble and light before darkness fell. A body pressed against his, trusting and tired.
The lark took off again, flitting out over the side of the road to swoop joyfully over a meadow of wildflowers. Geralt sighed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Roach flicked an ear at him, and he patted the side of her neck.
The road stretched on, endless. The lark soared against the brilliant blue sky, singing without a care in its tiny, delicate heart. Geralt watched, silence clogging his throat, and wished he still believed in promises he didn’t know how to keep. Wished he could promise, even to himself, that he’d see Jaskier again.