Chapter Text
They left their things at the Kingfisher, who were so gracious as to host the bard and his companion for free in exchange for nightly shows. That meant more money to push to their oneiromancer, which meant more dreams, so it was really a win-win-win-win.
Triss had given them an address that Jaskier recognized as the Golden Sturgeon, which was only a little worrying, as it was the type of inn that didn’t really host people for long periods of time. But as of now, it was the only lead on her that they had.
Both taverns were a welcome, familiar thing to the bard. The smells of alcohol, sweat and roasting food made him feel right at home, further than his actual home really did. Geralt, however, seemed to have reverted. He kept the hood of his cloak up, his eyes darting from person to person, waiting for… something. Be that an attack, a monster, a glare. He became the man which the public knew him as, the man Jaskier had not truly seen since the amnesia set in.
So Jaskier quickly, gently ushered him to the stairs, up to the second floor. He got him away from the crowds, away from the smells, and towards the reason they were here.
The room which Correen supposedly called home was called The Silverfish Room (“What’s this city’s deal with fish?” Geralt had asked), located at the very back of the second floor. It was marked as such, closed and hung with a ‘do not disturb’ sign. Disturb, though, they did, with Geralt’s heavy knocking that echoed down the empty hallway.
The girl who appeared in the doorway could be no more than twenty summers old, skin smooth and unmarred by wrinkles, scars or spots. Her hair fell long and dark over her shoulders and chest, and her eyes sparkled in a strange way. “Can I help you?” she asked, holding onto the door and leaning against it.
“Correen Tilly?” Geralt asked.
“That is me,” she confirmed. She tilted her head, seeming to look through the two of them, rather than at them. “You are in need of my services?” she asked. Geralt nodded, pushing his hood back. She observed him closely, his white hair, his strange eyes, his scarred face. “A Witcher. I did not know your kind still walked the city.”
“I guess we don’t,” Geralt sighed.
“Come in,” she invited, opening the door further. “And tell me what it is you need.”
Jaskier followed closely behind Geralt, looking around. The room certainly looked lived in, decorated with hanging talismans and cosy furs. Geralt looked back to the bard, silently asking him to use the words he couldn’t seem to find.
Jaskier couldn’t decide if he felt special in that, or not. Lately, Geralt spoke so freely to him, but when others were involved, he fell silent. Sure, there was an exception in Ciri, but there was always an exception in Ciri.
“I’m Jaskier,” he introduced. “And this is Geralt.”
“You, I know of,” Correen hummed. “So I suppose I’ve heard of both of you. White Wolf.”
“Great! So introductions can be tossed aside.” He clasped his hands behind his back, meeting her eyes. “Triss Merigold sent us to you.”
“I remember her,” Coreen said. “She healed me as a child. What has she sent you here for?”
“Memory loss,” Jaskier said, looking between Correen and Geralt. “He… incurred some sort of injury last winter, got a very bad case of amnesia. We were told—”
“That he may dream his memories, yes,” she finished. “However, I will need—”
“Pins,” Geralt said. “She mentioned it. I gathered a few, and Jaskier’s a pretty good storyteller.”
She sat down on one of the several beds which filled the room, tucking her hands under her thighs. “I see you are well prepared. But just as Witchers and bards, oneiromancers don’t work for free.”
“Name your price,” Jaskier said.
“I cannot give you anything quantitative until the dreams have been executed. Some dreams take more of a toll than others, that which involve heavy violence or pain. It also depends on how many memories you wish to recreate, and how many days the entire process takes.”
Jaskier nodded slowly, bringing a finger to his chin. “I’ve five hundred crowns—give or take—and could certainly get more.”
Correen smiled brightly, nodding. She looked more awake when she smiled, Jaskier thought. “Five hundred should be more than enough. I’m confident your total wouldn’t exceed two hundred, if that.”
“Wonderful!” Jaskier clapped his hands together, looking up at Geralt. He knew Geralt could see, or sense, the lingering nerves in Jaskier’s movements and voice, but he was hiding it well enough that the Witcher didn’t mention it.
“We should start with more pleasant memories,” Coreen said. “Ideally, ones you have both witnessed. Having a second perspective will aid me greatly in digging your memories up, and will allow me to know your mind better. I assume the two of you meeting would be one such memory?”
“I’d guess as much,” Geralt said. If Jaskier really looked at him, he was still guarded, caging himself in with his body. He supposed allowing another person to see your memories was a massive show of vulnerability, one which Geralt wasn’t terribly excited to display.
“I will need a bit of information before we begin,” she said. “Get yourselves comfortable, lay on a bed if you’d like. And Jaskier, you may tell me how you met.”
Jaskier watched as Geralt slowly, nervously sat, as far as he could from Coreen. Jaskier smiled at him, humming, trying to make him more comfortable. “Hmm. We were in Posada, a shitty little tavern at the edge of nowhere. I was not yet very well liked, and my skills had yet to be honed, so the song I played was rather… crass. Really quite bad. Bad enough that I was pelted with old bread, which I proceeded to collect in case I could not afford my next meal. Over in the corner, he sat, covered in that same cloak. He was the only one who did not react to my song, so naturally, I asked for an opinion. He told me my ballad was bullshit, and he’d know, because he was a Witcher. I recognized him as Geralt of Rivia, and thought, oh, I could make a hero out of this man yet. I offered to be his barker, he refused, but I followed anyway. I eventually annoyed him enough that he punched me in the gut, and yet, I followed. I’m sure he absolutely hated me for the first few months, with me badgering him for stories and never shutting up. He came around eventually, though.”
Correen was smiling, thinking. “I believe that will do.”
“Do we not need a—a pin?” Geralt asked, gesturing vaguely.
“Is Jaskier, himself, not a pin?” She asked. Her smile was knowing, and it shut Geralt up. “Lay back, do your best to relax. Try to fall asleep, or get as close as you can. I understand that this will be uncomfortable for you, but your bard is here to protect you.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, but there was the smallest smile on his lips as he laid down.
And could not, for the life of him, find sleep.
He moved every now and again, minute and inadmissible to the untrained eye, but Jaskier saw. It was the sort of movement, frequent and flighty, that he made at banquets and taverns. Too many noises, none steady enough to focus on. He hummed, reaching back to grab hold of his lute's neck as gently as he could.
He climbed onto the bed beside Geralt, close enough that the Witcher would be able to feel the heat of his skin and hear the beating of his heart over the noise. He sat the lute in his lap, and began to strum.
It wasn’t anything in particular. Really, it was the sound of a bard trying to keep his hands busy, but it worked. Geralt visibly relaxed when the quiet chords began, and fell asleep not long after.
“Works like a charm,” Jaskier whispered, triumphantly.
“I’m impressed,” Coreen hums. “You could dream, too, it may help.”
“I do not need to be told twice to take a nap,” Jaskier says, jumping at the opportunity. He set his instrument a safe distance away from any potential tossing and turning, and snuggled into his Witcher.
He wasn’t terribly sure what to expect from the dream. Would he see it from the outside, like he was just another patron at the tavern paying a little too much attention to the strange duo in the corner? Or would it be precisely how he remembered it? Would he be able to experience that first rush of adoration he felt when he met this gorgeous brute? Perhaps it was a mix of both, it was anyone’s guess.
He did not, in fact, expect the memory in his dream to be the exact same as Geralt’s, seen from his eyes, his mind.
He was sat in the corner, hood drawn far enough that he was able to see the rough edge of linen out of the corner of his eye. Jaskier was already singing. He sounded much younger, which was, he supposed, to be expected. His voice was still untrained, though there was some raw talent there. And the lute? Abysmal.
Louder than the song, though, was the noise. Jaskier had heard several times over about the overload Geralt heard, but it was another thing altogether to experience it. Heartbeats, creaking floorboards, three people fucking upstairs. He could hear every single bit of it, down to the steady drip, drip of a shoddily sealed keg behind the counter.
“Need old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion,”
Oh gods, here we go,
“So that your lady may get an abortion!”
“Abort yourself!”
It was awful. He couldn’t blame people for the bread they hurled at his head, nor could he be particularly upset about the jeers. Past-Jaskier could, though. “Oh, oi!” He shouted, gathering the bread all the same. “I’m so glad I could bring you all together like this.”
“Sit down and shut up!” A man yelled.
“Unbelievable!” Jaskier scoffed, gathering the last of the bread to shove into his pockets. Geralt didn’t even look up at him, just peered down into the dark, flat ale in his pint. He could hear Jaskier scoop up a cup of something from a less than happy barmaid and make his way over, stupid boots clicking on the wood. Geralt tensed, the muscles in his arms and back going rigid as he got closer.
Jaskier chose his spot on the beam, hands clasped together. “I love the way you just…” he waved his hands in a small circle. “Sit in the corner and brood.”
Geralt didn’t look up at him. His vision was fuzzy around the edges, eyes lacking something to focus on. “I’m here to drink alone,” he said, voice flat as his beer.
“Good. Yeah, good,” Jaskier murmured, and Geralt could smell the irritation on him behind the rot of old bread. “You know, no one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you.” With a movement quick enough to catch the Witcher’s full attention, he sat across from him. “Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting, you must have some review for me.” He clasped his hands together, resting his chin on his laced fingers. “Three words or less.”
Jaskier distinctly remembered feeling like Geralt was looking through him, not at him. But his eyes were darting over the bard, fast enough that a human couldn’t have noticed. The bread spilling from his pockets, his delicate hands and calloused fingers, his eyes and his mussed hair. He listened to his heart, the steady, confident beat a wonder for him. There wasn’t a trace of fear on the air. Just honey, orange and mint. “They. Dont. Exist.” Geralt tapped his fingers on the table, one, two, three. Jaskier’s face dropped.
“What don’t exist?”
“The creatures in your song.”
“And how would you know?”
Geralt took that as his cue. He dumped a single coin from his otherwise empty purse onto the table.
“Ooh, fun. White hair, big old loner, two very…” Jaskier’s eyes followed Geralt’s hand as he retrieved them, “very scary-looking swords. I know who you are.”
Geralt growled, honest to the gods, growled—a low, rumbling in his chest. Since when do witchers growl? He got to his feet, his cloak dragging on the ground as he made his leave. Jaskier followed him with his fanciful little movements, leaning from another beam.
“You’re the Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.” Geralt kept walking, not bothering to glance back. “Called it,” Jaskier said.
He was almost to the door when the second lad stood. He smelled of straw, piss, and desperation. He didn’t think twice about it now, but Jaskier just knew exactly what desperation smelled like right now. It was a bit unnerving. “A job I’ve got for ye,” he said. “I beg you.”
Geralt stopped, letting out a hefty sigh. His purse was well and truly empty now. He wasn’t exactly in a place to turn up his nose, here.
“A devil… he’s been stealing our grain. In advance, I’ll pay you. A hundred ducats.”
He mulled it over for a moment. “One-fifty.”
The boy’s heart beat twice when it should have beat once. Nevertheless, he reached into his vest to pull out a purse, fat with coin. He handed it over. The weight suggested something closer to a hundred and thirty, but he wouldn’t push it. “I’ve no doubt you’ll come through, sir,” he said, “You take no prisoners, so I hear.”
And what a load of bullshit that was.
By the time Jaskier had stowed his lute and caught up to him, Geralt was well on his way to Dol Blathana. He could smell Jaskier before he heard him, and heard his panting before his rapidly beating heart. Geralt did not slow, he did not look back.
“Uh,” Jaskier breathed, slowing to a jog beside him. “Need a hand? I’ve got two. One for each of the, uh… devil’s horns.”
“Go away.” He said it with no real malice, didn’t even seem to feel it.
“I won’t be but… silent backup.” Another load of bullshit. “I heard your note. And yes, you’re right. Maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of ‘em. Amongst other things, I mean, what is that? Onion?” Silence. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death, and destiny, heroics and heartbreak—”
“It’s onion.”
For a change, it was Jaskier that now noticed the rapid heartbeat of a liar. Somehow, he knew that it was the smell of drowner blood.
“Right, yeah. Yeah.” He continued jogging beside Roach, his hands gripping the strap of his lute. “Ooh! I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the—the Butcher of Blaviken.”
What he felt then was the closest, he thought, to fear that a Witcher could feel. His hair stood on end, his heartbeat stuttered, and everything was suddenly much louder. He stopped, looking at Roach, before turning around. “Come here,” he said, motioning him over with two fingers. Jaskier had really walked right into this, hadn’t he? He should have known following that order would not end well.
Still, he said, “Yeah?”
He realised, with no small amount of terror, that Geralt had hardly tried when he punched him. He broke his rib, and there was no effort. What a man.
He tumbled to the floor, kicking up dust and nearly landing on his lute. It was enough to start both of them awake. It was disorienting. The dream, the memory, had been so detailed, that both of them forgot they were not in Posada. They woke to soft candlelight and furs, Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s knee. Coreen was slower to wake, more used to the sensation, he supposed.
“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier whispered. Everything seemed so silent all of a sudden. “How the fuck do you deal with that?”
“Hm?” Geralt asked, still a bit groggy. His eyes were unfocused and glassy.
“The noise, the smells, dear gods, you live like that?”
“You get used to it,” he said. There was a strange edge on his voice, a confused clarity, if that was even possible. “Shit.”
“Are you alright, dear heart?” Jaskier asked, pushing himself up. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head.
“He’s just dazed,” Coreen sighed. She was still down, holding a pillow to her chest and resting her chin atop it. “I see this a lot in memory recovery. Which is…” she paused to yawn, “mm, which is why I only do a memory a day.”
“I see,” Jaskier murmured, urging Geralt to sit up.
“Take the night to sleep properly, eat well, and drink fresh water. I will take you at the same time tomorrow, if it’s amenable.”
“It is,” Geralt murmured. He rubbed his face and head, shaking it, as if he were trying to shock himself back to reality.
“Wonderful,” she hummed. “And please… use a little less force to knock tomorrow.”
“I will guarantee nothing,” Jaskier chirped. “It’s a horrible habit of his, really.”
“Shut up,” Geralt grumbled, shoving himself up to stand. “Thank you, Coreen.”
“You take care of yourself, alright? I know the entire Witcher schtick is to endure pain, but we are playing with very delicate and important parts of your mind. Understood?”
“Understood. I… think?”
“Good. Now, off with you both.”She swung her legs over the bed, making a shooing motion. The two of them gathered themselves as well as they could, and took their leave.