Chapter Text
He parts ways with Chireadan just outside the gates of the mayor’s slowly crumbling home. The elf is heading back to his unit’s camp, while Jaskier intends to make a quick trip back to the inn on the outskirts of Rinde proper. He clasps the healer’s hand, speaks genuine but hurried words of thanks and farewell. His voice is clear, but still manages to irritate his throat somewhat, now that he has half a moment to reflect on it.
Well. It’s not like the witch’s cure was a miracle. It was magic, and there was bound to be some lingering effects. He wouldn’t complain.
To Chireadan, at least.
The mayor’s home was close to town, so he finds himself back in the tavern soon enough. The room is nearly deserted, most of the usual patrons nowhere in sight, likely due to the commotion earlier.
Whether that was because they headed towards the mayor’s house, or skipped town for awhile would entirely depend on which of one’s instincts were stronger: curiosity or survival.
In Jaskier’s case, he finds those two battling frequently.
But for now, they find themselves in rare agreement, both instincts urging him to track down Geralt before he skips town.
The woman tending the bar is still present, and she lowers the glass she was cleaning, halfheartedly at best, when Jaskier steps through the doors.
She gives him a quick once-over, taking note of the blood on his face and clothes, and decides not to comment on either. Whether that choice is based on tact or indifference, Jaskier isn’t sure. “Oi, bard. What’s been happenin’ out there?”
He doesn’t slow his pace as he heads for the steps and his rented room on the second floor. “Bit of a situation at the mayor’s house. Don’t worry yourself, my good woman, it seems to have resolved itself. More or less.”
“Oh, I wasn’t worried none. That smug fucker, a shame he weren’t killed,” she pauses for half a moment, brushes some flyaway grey hairs from her face before continuing with a touch of hope colouring her question. “Was he?”
“I don’t think so, no. Sorry?” Jaskier is now more certain her lack of concern regarding his wellbeing is firmly rooted in the ‘indifferent’ camp. He’s about to ascend the stairs when her next words cause him to pause.
“Nothing for you up there, bard.”
“I beg your pardon? I’ve been staying here over a week, my -”
“Weren’t here last night. Figured you was probably dead,” she shrugs, and Jaskier mentally shifts her attitude once again, it’s now residing quite comfortably in not a camp, but a whole town of ‘completely uncaring’. “Wouldn’t be a shock, if’m bein’ honest.”
He forces an empty smile, ignores the sting of her comment because he’s heard far worse from people whose opinions he respects more highly. “Well, as you can see, I’m far from it. So if you’ll excuse me, I really need to -”
She interrupts him again as she places the glass on the shelf behind the bar, despite the fact it doesn’t seem any cleaner. “Your things ain’t up there. I got rid of ‘em.”
He falters then, stares at her in shock as his voice tries to keep up with the words his brain is trying to string together in alarm. “Y-you what? But my clothes, my lute -”
“Ah, ‘ve still got that, couldn’t find a buyer this mornin’,” she reaches underneath the bar and sets the familiar case on the counter between them. She gestures to it, as if she’s doing him a hugely generous favour. “Best take it and be on your way then, aye? Consider the rest payment for the room.”
He still can’t quite believe what he’s hearing - as if this hadn’t already been one of the worst days of his life - and he wants to argue, to yell and offer up some gestures of his own and maybe get the local authorities involved, but then he remembers why that would decidedly be a very bad idea.
Chireadan had told him, briefly, what had happened at the town prison.
That, and he wants to hurry. Who knew how long Geralt would stick around once he parted ways with the sorceress.
So Jaskier smiles tightly again, steps up to the bar and takes the lute with only slightly trembling hands. “Of course, thank you so much for your charming hospitality.” Slow-simmering rage and unabashed sarcasm are positively dripping from his words, but the barkeep pays absolutely no mind.
In fact, she responds with a leering smile of her own, full of browning teeth and unspoken insults. “Welcome back anytime, providin’ you’ve got some more coin by then,” she calls after his retreating back.
“Given the amenities provided, I’m afraid the rates are a bit high for my taste.” Jaskier slams the door on his way out, and takes some small satisfaction in several of the windows rattling.
If he’d had any hesitations about joining Geralt for awhile before, those thoughts are long gone.
Much like his clothes. His notebook. His coin.
Jaskier doesn’t swing the lute over his shoulder as he walks back out of Rinde. It stays secure in his hands as he makes his way towards the river, and he doesn’t loosen his grip until he’s found Geralt’s makeshift camp near yesterday’s meeting place sometime later.
There’s a bedroll laid out beside the cold remains of a fire, and a saddlebag leaning against a nearby tree. The witcher is nowhere in sight, but there is -
“Roach! I knew you’d find your way back here as well. Gods, is it ever good to see a familiar, friendly, face. Even one of an equine nature.”
The mare seems to agree, and gives him a gentle, affectionate nudge as he finally lets go of the lute with one hand to pat her neck.
“You won’t mind if I tag along for awhile, right? Oh, of course not. Neither will Geralt, he never minds. Not really.”
He’s acutely aware of the fact that he’s speaking to a horse, who won’t offer him much in the way of conversation - even if she is the smartest horse he’s ever met. But it’s easier to talk to her, pretend she’s the one he’s trying to convince that Geralt won’t take issue with his unannounced rejoining of their little party.
He continues making one-sided small talk as he sets the lute down on the bedroll and moves to unsaddle the mare. He’s no expert, but he’s seen others do it often enough to be able to follow suit. The setting sun is casting long shadows through the trees by the time Roach is seen to, and Jaskier considers the idea of trying to start a fire.
“He can’t possibly be much longer though, can he?” The question is answered with a nicker from the mare, and Jaskier nods in agreement. “Exactly. We’ll just wait.”
But the shadows grow longer, before eventually fading as night settles through the forest, and a chill comes with it.
Jaskier, huddled against a tree with a thin blanket from the bedroll around his shoulders and the lute in hand once again, whispers to the mare standing several feet to his left. “We’re fine, aren’t we? A fire might attract unwanted attention.”
It was true, at least. Bandits, drowners, maybe worse. He didn’t care to meet any of them on his own.
Jaskier didn’t think it often, but perhaps for now it was best to keep quiet and unnoticed.
So he waits, stifles his yawns, ignores the grumbling of his stomach and the dull ache in his throat, and takes comfort in Roach’s calm demeanour whenever he thinks he hears a sound in the trees. He can just barely see her outline thanks to the moonlight, but if the mare felt no cause for concern, he’s relatively assured he has nothing to worry about.
The night passes too slowly, gives him far too much time to think. Dawn is starting to break when Jaskier has nearly convinced himself that the witch must have done any number of terrible things to Geralt and that he would have to go back to the house soon.
He has no idea what he could possibly do to help, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.
The sky is a dull pink and slowly beginning to wash the forest with filtered light when Roach’s ears prick forward, bright eyes trained on something he has no hope of noticing yet. But she still doesn’t seem distressed in any way, so he figures the wait is almost over.
Jaskier sighs, with weariness and relief in equal measure. He rests his head against the trunk of the tree and finally closes his eyes for longer than a moment. “About fucking time.”
~
Geralt exits the house shortly before dawn, intending to leave the focus of his final wish and all associated thoughts inside it’s cracked walls, with varying degrees of success.
Yennefer had remained sleeping peacefully, but her face stays in his mind with sharp clarity even after he looks away for the final time and takes quick but measured strides towards the riverbank.
He won’t stay with her. He can’t. He’ll go back to camp, pack up and be well on his way before the sun has fully crested the hills in the distance.
And he’ll check on Jaskier on his way out.
He adds that small addition to his plan with the smallest twinge of guilt. Surely the bard was fine, he’d seen him before running back into the house, but he owes it to Jaskier to let him know he’s safe as well. He was likely staying somewhere in town, and Rinde was relatively small, it shouldn’t be difficult to find the man.
River. Pack. Jaskier. Back to the Path. Simple.
The light is faint when Geralt reaches his camp, but he can see well enough. Roach is there, as he expected, but so is someone else.
Not so expected.
Jaskier is huddled against a tree beside the horse, Geralt’s blanket doing little to stop the shivers noticeable even across the clearing. He’s holding his lute loosely on his lap, and, curiously, he’s still wearing the blood-stained shirt from the previous day. In fact, a quick scan of the camp and Geralt knows the bard hasn’t brought anything other than his instrument. He’s about to comment, but as always, Jaskier speaks first.
“Good morning, Geralt. So kind of you to join us,” the bard stretches his arms above his head in an exaggerated motion, but the slight rasp in his voice and the dark smudges beneath bloodshot eyes tells Geralt without words that Jaskier hasn’t slept all night.
With the exception of the previous day, he’s never seen the bard in such a sorry state. In fact, he might go so far as to call his appearance near pathetic, if it were someone else.
But it’s not someone else, and the slight guilt shifts noticeably in his chest as it grows.
“Are you alright?” Geralt asks him, voice gruff as ever but perhaps lacking some of its usual bite as he crosses the camp to give Roach a pat in greeting. And to give the bard a closer once-over. The shivering is painfully noticeable up close, and Geralt sets a small fire to blazing with a quick motion of Igni.
Jaskier laughs as he uses the tree as support to pull himself up on shaky legs, as if the witcher had told a clever joke. “Am I alright? Of course I’m alright. I’m not the one who was inside a collapsing building and then, you know...” he shrugs a little, grins cheekily even though the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rough night. Maybe. Probably. I don’t know, perhaps you can share the details later. The important thing is, though, are you alright?” He sways his way closer to the fire, makes no intention of acting casual as he holds his hands out to warm.
He sounds so sincere in his question, though, he always does. Jaskier has always asked after his wellbeing, has always been genuine in that, has always waited for a truthful answer even though he would rarely receive one.
Has been a friend to him, for years now, for reasons Geralt honestly couldn’t fully understand. He certainly hadn’t often returned the favour.
The thought had occurred to him yesterday as well, as he all but threw the bard on Roach’s back when he began coughing up blood, when he stopped him from keeling over in the healer’s tent, when he watched him sleep silently after Yennefer had worked her magic.
And now, watching Jaskier wiggle stiff fingers at a crackling fire, with only a lute and a bloodstained shirt and a story he miraculously (alarmingly?) hasn’t told yet, that thought has only been reinforced.
He has a chance to change yesterday’s words, he won’t waste it.
“A little banged up, nothing a few quiet days won’t fix.” He answers Jaskier’s question honestly, although several long seconds after it had been asked. Nevertheless, Jaskier smiles knowingly again.
“A little banged up, right. Fair.”
Geralt doesn’t reply to that, only moves to retrieve a slightly bruised apple from his pack when he hears the bard’s stomach rumble. He holds it out as he steps into place beside Jaskier, who takes it without fanfare.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” He asks again, and his concern must truly be more noticeable than usual, as his friend turns to look at him with a raised brow. “What were you doing out here?”
Jaskier answers after a moment, waving the apple in hand thoughtfully. “I wanted to see you before you were off. Couldn’t have you slinking off alone at first light like so many other times, right?” He nudges the witcher lightly, who only grunts noncommittally. “Anyway, I was thinking I might join you for a time. Rinde is nice, except for the fact that it’s actually not and I never want to be back here ever again, so we might as well head off together! What do you say?”
Geralt considers the hope in his tone, and his lack of belongings in hand. He doesn’t need to know the details to piece together a rough assumption of what might have happened. “Fine.” The word is rough without thinking, and he sighs and amends it immediately after. “Alright.”
“Really?” The hope is instantly replaced with blatant delight. Geralt feels the guilt curl again, realising that of course such a simple but positive answer would warrant such a response. But Jaskier immediately shrugs again, tones down his voice as he takes a nonchalant bite of apple. “That’s great. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Just the three of us?”
“Been awhile,” Geralt agrees as he begins breaking camp and saddling Roach, leaving Jaskier at the fire with the blanket and half an apple.
He’s still chattering away several minutes later as the witcher finishes his work, gestures for the bard to climb onto Roach’s back. The stream of words dies down as he regards Geralt suspiciously. “What for?”
“You seem tired is all.”
Jaskier crosses his arms. “You never let me ride.”
“It’s your lucky day. I’ll walk for awhile, maybe you can even catch some sleep.”
“You just want me to stop talking,” Jaskier replies matter-of-factly, but nevertheless finally leaves the dying fire to clamber onto Roach’s back, blanket still pulled tight around his shoulders.
“That’s not it.” It might be it, partly. But Geralt thinks back to yesterday, to the bard choking on blood, grasping at his arm and staring at him with pleading, terrified eyes, and he’s loathe to voice such thoughts aloud again. He hands the lute up to Jaskier, who loops it over his back with the same familiar ease the witcher does with his swords.
“Well, my throat is a little sore, truth be told.” Remarkably, Jaskier doesn’t comment further, instead only asks where they’re headed.
“West.”
“Oh, excellent! Novigrad, Oxenfurt, the coast! Not to mention the adventures to be had along the way. Did I ever tell you about this time in Novigrad...”
Jaskier has, in fact, told him about the time in Novigrad. More than once. But Geralt doesn’t say as much, only listens attentively as he leads Roach into a smooth walk and heads back towards the main road.
All of those places are west of them, that was true. But before any of them there were other towns as well, with tailors and other shops for necessities. Like notebooks and ink.
His renown was growing all the time, and with it his pockets. He has enough coin for two.
~
Hours later, they’re camped some ways off the road, a fire crackling merrily between them as Geralt stretches himself out on his bedroll. Across the fire, Jaskier is plucking gently at the strings on his lute, quietly humming a tune the witcher doesn’t recognize. He’s sitting on a new bedroll of his own, and wearing a near-gaudy pink shirt that he’d “absolutely had to have, no question about it Geralt, this is the one.”
Between that, the meal of fish they’d shared earlier, and the nap he’d managed to have on Roach’s back, the bard is already looking much better. Geralt closes his eyes and allows himself a small smile at the thought, but that disappears soon enough as he continues listening to the soft humming.
“Jaskier.”
The humming stops, the notes on the lute cut off abruptly with a hand to the strings. “Sorry.”
The witcher raises his head and cracks his eyes open again, to glance at his friend through the flames. “What are you sorry for?”
He gestures to his instrument in hand. “I’ll be quiet.”
The guilt twists a final time, and Geralt knows he has one last thing he needs to say. “It’s not that.”
A pause, then, before a curiously subdued, “Oh?”
“I wanted to say...” Another pause, a heavy sigh, before a quick string of words. “Your singing doesn’t sound like fillingless pie.”
Even through the fading daylight and shadows cast by dancing flames, Geralt can see the bard’s face positively light up, a slight cheerful flush across cheeks that suits him much better than the weary look he’d been greeted with that morning.
“Oh, I know that,” Jaskier agrees with a tone of airy nonchalance that is entirely betrayed by the expression on his face. “But I’m glad you do too. You know -”
“I’m sorry. That I said it.”
“...ah, that’s alright. Don’t trouble yourself over it, we all have bad days. And yesterday was a very bad day.”
Geralt hums his vague agreement and turns back to stare up towards the stars, but Jaskier speaks up again.
“Just one question.”
“Just one?”
“What kind of pie is it? You know, if it’s not fillingless.”
Geralt closes his eyes as he sighs deeply.
But he’ll humour the bard. Just this once.
“I don’t know. Probably strawberry.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Geralt once again allows himself a small grin. “Right, well, don’t get too used to it. But play on, my friend.”
His eyes are still closed, so he doesn’t see the surprised falter in Jaskier’s expression for half a moment before it’s replaced with an even brighter smile.
But Geralt can hear it in his voice, as gentle notes soon meet his ears again, this time accompanied by soft words.
And for the second night in a row, the witcher has no trouble drifting off to sleep.