Chapter Text
The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.
One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.
“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.
Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.
For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.
The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.
“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”
“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”
“Does this metal look fake to you?”
Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.
“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.
As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.
...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.
“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”
If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.
Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.
Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.
He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.
“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.
The woman smiled. “I know.”
Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.
The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.
“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.
Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”
“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”
But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.
Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.
A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.
Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.
“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”
He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.
“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”
Another silver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.
“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”
Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.
He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.
“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”
Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”
“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”
If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vial of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.
He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.
The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.
It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.
Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.
Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.
Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.