Chapter Text
Jaskier leaned back against a tree, letting the bark press through his doublet and into his bruises. It was painful but Jaskier felt like he kind of deserved it. The wound on his forearm had been tightly bound with a strip of miscellaneous fabric, much to the relief of Jaskier who had felt himself get decidedly faint at the sight. The same could not be said about his head.
“That’s going to need stitches,” muttered Geralt, pulling out a wickedly sharp needle. It was the last straw for the bard.
“No, no, no. Absolutely fucking not.”
“Jaskier, you know as well as I do that if I don’t, it's going to get infected.”
Jaskier shook his head. “I’d rather it get infected. I will simply die if you put that anywhere near me. I’m not good with blood and I’m especially not good with needles.”
“You either let me sew it up or I’ll pin you down and do it myself.”
There was a challenge in Geralt’s eyes and Jaskier felt his breath catch in his lungs.
“I guess you’ll have to pin me down then.” The words left Jaskier’s mouth completely unbidden and as soon as Jaskier realised what he had just said, a feeling of absolute mortification spread through him. What the fuck did he think he was doing flirting with -
A hand planted on his chest, pressing him down further against the tree, and even as Jaskier tried to squirm against it Geralt leaned forward, needle raised.
“Don’t move Jaskier.”
“Only if you don’t poke my eye out.” He felt breathless and slightly insane that he was allowing this to happen. What was he doing? Geralt made a grunt that Jaskier chose to interpret as a ‘yes’ as he closed his eyes at the first prick of the needle, unsuccessfully trying to keep the wince off his face. The Witcher’s fingers were surprisingly gentle and deft as he sewed Jaskier up, the bard even more surprised to find himself relaxing a little under the touch. He let himself just lie there for a while, even after it became clear that Geralt had finished, allowing himself that little vulnerability.
“Jaskier, wake up.”
It wasn’t until Geralt shook his shoulder that Jaskier realised he had in fact been drifting towards sleep.
“If you’re going to pass out, you might as well do it on your sleeping mat.”
Jaskier heaved himself up, forcing himself into awareness.
“This doesn’t get you out of fighting lessons though.”
“I’m a wounded man Geralt, in my body and my soul.”
Geralt rolled his eyes but helped him over to the mat nonetheless.
“Uh, Geralt.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think those bandits will come back?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Jaskier bit his lip as he set himself down. “They were after you Geralt, I heard them scheming . It was nefarious. It was a pretty shit scheme, but a scheme regardless. Someone wants you dead - wait, what was that?” Jaskier paused, a fresh burst of adrenaline pumping through him as he scanned the forest, sword suddenly appearing in Geralt’s hand.
“What did you hear?”
“A - a voice maybe? It almost sounded like my name.”
At that Geralt relaxed and Jaskier sagged against his mat.
“You don't believe me,” he muttered miserably. Geralt shook his head, crouching down.
“No, but you’re exhausted Jaskier. Go to sleep.”
“But what if the bandits come back?”
“I’ll keep watch.”
“What, all night?”
“Yes.”
At that Geralt turned back to the forest, clearly ending this conversation as Jaskier closed his eyes, willing sleep to come even as the feeling of Geralt’s hands against his skin burned into his mind.
~*~
“Hit me Jaskier.”
“No.”
“Hit me.”
“No!”
“Hit me or I’ll make you hit me.”
“Fine!” Jaskier threw a half-hearted punch at Geralt’s face that was unsurprisingly blocked with ease.
“At least pretend to try.”
“I am - ” Jaskier was forced to duck as Geralt’s fist grazed his head.
“That could have hit me, you oaf!”
“That's the plan.”
It had only been a few days since the incident with the bandits and Geralt had been true to his word; Jaskier had still not been allowed a single day off the fighting lessons, even though they hadn’t touched swords since. Jaskier chose to interpret that as he had mastered the weapon (that was a complete lie, sword fighting lessons had ended after Jaskier had chopped a lock of hair off Geralt’s head and almost maimed himself several times). And if it was possible he was even worse at hand to hand combat.
Supposedly they were growing closer to the city of Daset, but all Jaskier knew was that the trees seemed to be growing denser every day and that civilisation seemed a very long way off. And that every single night since the bandit attack, Jaskier had heard more and more whisperings in the trees just beyond their camp, though he hadn’t dared to mention it to the Witcher, not when he was sure that Geralt wouldn’t believe him.
It didn’t stop Jaskier staring into the inky blackness every single night. It didn’t stop him feeling like he was going insane.
~*~
Jaskier stared hard at the stars above him, willing sleep to come. The goddamn voice had come back, whispering incessantly just beyond the protective ring of firelight.
“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered, turning once again to stare to Geralt - the Witcher was so deep in sleep that Jaskier was pretty sure that not even if the thing making those whispers started yelling, he wouldn’t wake.
“Fuck,” Jaskier said again, but this time sat up, sliding out of the sleeping bag. Out of all the honestly fucking terrible ideas he’d had in his lifetime, this had to be up there, but if he couldn’t get any damned peace, then he was at least going to find out what as causing those whispers. At the very least he would probably be able to make one hell of a ballard out of it.
Taking one last look at Geralt, how the white hair draped over his face fluttered with every breath, Jaskier had to fight the ridiculous urge to brush it behind his ear. He knew full well that if he got in trouble he could just scream and Geralt would come to his rescue, but it still didn’t help his feeling of trepidation as he crept out into the darkness. For good measure, he paused to slide Geralt’s silver sword out of its scabbard.
The hilt was cold against his skin, but in the brutal darkness of the forest that hardly mattered. Branches ran their rough fingers through his hair, across his skin, making him shiver as the night swallowed up the campfire behind him. Jaskier paused, suddenly having the insight to what it would be like to be swallowed by a colossal monster. His imagination turned the wind into breathing, twigs into fingers, the rustling bracken into footsteps. It wasn’t until an actual footstep broke a stick behind him that Jaskier twisted, almost dropping the sword in shock at the figure draped in white standing to his left.
Jaskier had never considered himself a religious man, but then again, he’d never found himself face to face with a literal god before. The Lady of Light, his awe-struck brain helpfully provided. The primary deity of Daset, the very city they were travelling to. Jaskier had stayed there for some time at one point and this figure matched the very statue that had been erected in the town centre, right down to the guttering candle she held in her hand.
Was this the cause of the whispers?
Jaskier took a step towards her, torn between being being even moderately respectful and screaming ‘what the fuck??’. A hand slammed down on Jaskier’s shoulder, and he jumped out of his skin, one hand slapping across his mouth to muffle his yell and the other grabbing his wrist, preventing him from swinging the sword.
“It’s me, you fool,” Geralt hissed in his ear and Jaskier relaxed, pulling away.
“Fucking hell Geralt, thats-”
“Whatever that is, that's not a god - and you need to leave. Now.”
“But-”
“This is not up for debate, Jaskier.”
Geralt’s jaw was set in a grim line and Jaskier finally noticed the glint of metal in his fingers. He began to back away, still clutching his own sword desperately and eyes not leaving the deity before them. Heart pounding in his chest so loudly he could barely hear its rasping words.
“Daset contains only death and misery for you.”
It took a single step backwards into the blackness and vanished. Geralt strode forwards, yanking a bottle out of his pocket, uncorking it with his teeth and downing it in one. For a moment it looked as if he too was going to vanish into the night as the bard started forward.
“Geralt-”
The Witcher turned back to him and Jaskier recoiled at the sight of dark eyes and even darker veins radiating out staring back at him. It felt like he’d been slapped awake.
“Fucking go, Jaskier,” the words were growled and Jaskier had to fight the fear that had taken hold of his spine and violently shaken it. He had forgotten - he had forgotten that Geralt was a Witcher and that this was what he did. That horrible gaze flickered over him once more before the Witcher strode into the dark and disappeared.
He was completely alone and at a loss for what to do. The feeling of helplessness was not entirely alien to Jaskier, but neither was it particularly familiar. If he tried to follow he’d only get himself lost or killed or even run into the Witcher. The only option was to retreat back to their camp and hope that Geralt returned before morning.
“Fuck sake Geralt, I - fuck,” he hissed to himself, making his way back to the campfire and clutching the sword like a lifeline. The camp was exactly how he’d left it, which was a relief as it meant that the flask of alcohol was still tucked away under his pillow. Jaskier yanked it out, considered it for a second and took a long, long drink. It was definitely not the smartest idea, but when had smart ever been his speciality?
“If I can’t drink after meeting a god, being scared half to death by the man I love, and lost in the fucking woods, when can I?” He muttered, taking another sip. It was vile, especially since it was slightly warm, but honestly Jaskier did not want to be sober when Geralt returned. He didn’t care.
It was a good half an hour of solid drinking before Geralt returned, unharmed and eyes back to their normal orange, clearly having lost the figure in the woods. He regarded Jaskier with an unreadable expression as the bard lifted his flask in the Witcher’s direction.
“You’re very fucking terrifying with those black eyes,” he informed the Witcher, knowing full well that he was far too pissed to have this conversation and plowing on anyway.
“We’re in the middle of the fucking woods Jaskier, where did you get alcohol.”
“I,” announced Jaskier, trying and failing to stand with the world swimming before him, “am a man of many talents. Including, I’ll have you know, being a frankly incredible lover.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows and plucked the flask out of his hands, took a sip and poured the rest out onto the grass.
“Hey! That’s not fucking fair! I was drinking that.”
Again, Geralt didn’t respond, this time hauling him up and all but carrying the bard over to his sleeping mat.
“Go to sleep, Jaskier. You’re pissed.”
“That I am. And you’re a Witcher. Did you know that you’re normally quite pretty but not when you take those potions? Because you are.”
“Is that so?”
“I shall compose a song about it, I think. The Witcher with eyes as black as pitch and the bard who he left behind. Or maybe not. It doesn’t have a particularly good ring to it.”
Geralt sighed. “If it means anything to you right now, I’m sorry I scared you, Jaskier, but you should remember I’m also a Witcher. I’m not here to look nice and flash a sword around.”
“I disagree. I think you do very fucking nice.” Jaskier mumbled, closing his eyes. “Did you find the goddess?”
“No. Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I want to,” muttered Jaskier, seconds before he passed out.