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Jaskier wouldn’t say he’d learned anything after his separation from Geralt because he wasn’t going to give the man credit, but something had certainly come to his attention as a result of it.
Despite his best efforts, money couldn’t bring him happiness. Since he’d last left Geralt on that mountain some months ago, he’d grown in popularity amongst the taverns he frequented. People recognised him and welcomed his songs, and though he was rarely in the mood to perform his more jovial tunes, the promise of a decent meal, a decent bed, and perhaps a decent bed mate, were incentive enough to bury his sour mood and force a smile.
The only problem was, everyone wanted to hear songs about the mighty White Wolf. Each time Jaskier began a more generic song (not that any of his songs should be described as ‘generic’, mind you) he was heckled and booed before he could finish the first verse, and the only way to soothe the crowd was to sing about that bloody witcher.
Eventually, he stopped singing altogether, because the longer it went on, the more painful it became to sing about the man who had thrown him away so callously, who had torn their friendship apart with biting words and a furious glare. No amount of coins was worth that stabbing feeling in his heart, and so he retired his voice at a tragically young age and settled for strumming lyric-less tunes on his lute. It didn’t make villagers or townsfolk particularly happy when Jaskier politely refused their requests, but eventually they forgot about him, content to let his music serve as a background melody for whichever tavern he happened to be passing through.
One particular night found Jaskier wandering around tables the same way he did every night, offering charming smiles and hoping that was enough for a coin or two. He’d had to become complacent with simpler dwellings recently, as he’d realised his coin purse was growing lighter at an alarming rate, but as Jaskier caught the eye of a young, blond man sat alone at a table, he wondered if he could offer other services besides music-playing.
He circled the man with an easy grin, humming as he played and taking satisfaction in the way the stranger’s eyes followed him. Money or not, Jaskier was definitely interested in spending some time with this gentleman.
He finished his tune as he stopped at the man’s table, looking down at him with a cocked brow.
The man smiled back, ‘You play that instrument rather well,’ he said, blinking through his lashes.
Jaskier decided to be bold and he set his lute aside and sat on the stranger’s lap. ‘Why, thank you,’ he murmured. ‘You know, I’m sure I could be persuaded to play with some new instruments later tonight.’
The man leaned forward eagerly, and as he came closer Jaskier felt something pressing into his leg. Surprised, he smirked and glanced down.
‘Is that a dagger in your pocket, or are you just pleased to – oh it’s actually a dagger. Wow.’
The stranger produced a delicate dagger with a razor-thin blade, fine jewels embedded in its hilt. He showed it to Jaskier with a sheepish expression before carefully putting it back.
‘Sorry about that,’ he mumbled, ‘Rest assured that I am certainly excited to see you, though.’
‘Good. I think I can excuse the intrusion, then. In fact, I can think of several ways you can make it up to me.’
The stranger titled his head up, his lashes lowered. ‘Do tell.’
Jaskier lowered his head, but before he could make any sort of contact, he heard someone nearby say, ‘...Witcher.’
His head snapped towards the door, his heart suddenly thudding heavily at the thought of Geralt being there, but when he could see no shock of white hair, no fiery eyes, and no stupid stony expression, he relaxed somewhat, realising he heard a man at the bar speaking.
‘Don’t see why we can’t kill it ourselves,’ he was telling three other men. ‘How hard can it be?’
‘The first sign of trouble, now, and contracts are suddenly posted everywhere, begging for a witcher to help us. Like we ain’t good enough,’ another man spoke up.
There was a murmur of bitter agreement, and then the first man said, ‘I seen him. About a mile from here. Set up a camp in the woods somewhere ‘cos he knows he ain’t welcome here. I say we pay him a visit.’
There was another round of agreement, this one more vehement.
‘I say we show him just how capable we are at getting rid of monsters what ain’t wanted.’
The four men jeered, and then they were traipsing out of the tavern, shouting loudly and crowing about their soon to be achieved victory.
Jaskier was not an idiot, despite what many people said. He knew Geralt could take care of himself. And besides, there was a chance it wasn’t even Geralt who had answered the apparent contract. Some other witcher may have arrived. Although, Jaskier knew how Destiny liked to poke fun at him, and he knew for certain that it was definitely Geralt the thugs were seeking out.
Jaskier was not an idiot. He wouldn’t be able to help Geralt fight these men if it came to that. The most combat training he’d ever received was one morning when Geralt had tried to teach him, but that had ended with the witcher throwing his sword down in frustration and marching off to hunt something as a way of venting. Jaskier had been splayed out in the grass, perfectly happy to let Geralt storm off. There was no way he could provide any sort of backup if he tried to intervene.
But at the very least, he suddenly thought, he could offer a warning.
Jaskier was not an idiot, but he was going to do the most idiotic thing he’d ever done. Wait… Nope, it was definitely the most idiotic thing he’d ever done.
‘Fuck,’ he whispered.
‘Mmm, I’d certainly like to.’ The man beneath him, who, throughout this series of internal revelations had been stroking Jaskier’s back, slid a hand up Jaskier’s thigh.
‘Oh, hold that thought,’ Jaskier said as he wiggled out of the man’s hold. He turned and kissed his neck, one hand roaming towards the stranger’s belt. ‘Definitely hold that thought,’ he murmured. ‘I will be right back, I promise.’ Before the man could utter a protest, he was darting away and out the door, slipping the stranger’s dagger under the waistband of his trousers. It was the only time he cursed their tightness.
Jaskier caught up to the thugs on the outskirts of the village, as they were making their way into the forest. Dusk was creeping up on them but it was still light, so there was no need for torches, and Jaskier supposed that suited the men’s plan for a surprise attack perfectly. He stayed hidden as best he could, dashing between trees and concentrating on not breathing too heavily in case they heard him. The thugs themselves had grown silent, any sign of joviality gone the moment they met the treeline. They were serious about confronting the witcher. Jaskier hadn’t missed the various knives and swords stashed in their belts.
He needed to get in front of them, to find Geralt and warn him. Jaskier was sure Geralt wasn’t going to be too pleased to see him but that didn’t matter. As long as the witcher got through the night without being ambushed by some drunkards, he didn’t care if he never saw him again. Alright, maybe he would care, but he could feel sorry for himself once he was back in the tavern and in the arms of that lovely blond haired man.
Jaskier circled around the thugs, hopping lightly across the ground so as not to make much noise. He had no idea where Geralt had supposedly set up camp, so he needed to keep the men within sight in case they took a turn he wasn’t expecting.
What he also wasn’t expecting, was for a female deer to barrel past him, barking loudly in the night. It scared the wits out of him, and Jaskier couldn’t stop a small yelp of surprise as he jumped.
‘What the fuck was that?’ he heard one of the thugs say, and Jaskier swore as he ducked behind a tree. He wasn’t quick enough, though, as the voice shouted, ‘Over there! I saw someone!’
He swore louder and made a break for it, figuring there was a bit of distance between he and them, so there was a chance he’d reach Geralt if he just kept running. This time he was relying on Destiny’s cruel sense of humour to send him in the right direction. He leapt over fallen logs and darted under low branches, all the while trying to work out if the shouting behind him was getting quieter.
It wasn’t. There was a sudden spike of pain in his lower left leg and Jaskier fell, crashing to the ground in a heap of dead leaves and flailing limbs. He looked at his leg and saw with a jolt of nausea a knife sticking out the back of it, blood seeping through his clothes.
‘Fuck.’ He tried to pull himself up, using a tree as support but his leg wouldn’t support him. He heard the thugs catching up to him and then he was being grabbed and shoved against the tree, his back colliding with the trunk painfully.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the apparent ringleader, the one who’d rallied the others to go after Geralt in the first place, snarled at him.
‘Me? Oh, I’m nobody. Just out for an evening stroll. Lovely night for it, wouldn’t you–?’ Jaskier was cut off as a gloved fist met his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.
‘The fuck are you following us for, boy?’
‘Boy? I’ll thank you for noticing my youthful looks but boy is going a little far – ah, shit – alright, alright!’ Jaskier tried to curl in on himself as he was hit repeatedly in the stomach, but the other thugs were holding him back, their meaty hands gripping his arms tightly.
The ringleader bent down out of sight, and in the next moment Jaskier was howling in pain as the knife was slowly pulled from his leg. He jerked and tried to break free but the movement only made the pain worse, and as the ringleader straightened up, holding the bloody knife aloft, Jaskier slumped against the tree, panting.
‘I don’t take kindly to others sticking their noses where it don’t belong.’ The tip of the knife was held against his neck.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Jaskier gasped, craning his head away as far as his limited movement could allow. ‘I won’t breathe a word, I promise. I don’t even know what you’re all doing.’
The ringleader looked at one of the other thugs and nodded, and then Jaskier was being struck across the face again. He slumped further, held up only by his assailants, and spat a wad of blood onto the ground.
‘I don’t take kindly to liars neither. Do you know the witcher we’re after? Do you know where he is?’
‘Witcher?’ he croaked, ‘No, no, I’ve never seen a – I haven’t, I swear!” he cried as the knife was brandished closer to his face, looming threateningly above his right eye. Some rescue party he had turned out to be. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for a miracle.
A horse nickering interrupted them, and Jaskier glanced out of the corner of his eye towards the road to his right, where, to his dismay, Geralt was sitting atop Roach, watching them all with an inscrutable expression.
Destiny, you inconsiderate bitch.
Geralt’s fierce gaze lingered on Jaskier longer than it ever had, and a frown slowly grew across his hard features.
‘Jaskier.’
‘Geralt,’ he wheezed, offering a small wave.
‘Who are your friends?’
‘Delightful gentlemen. Eager to meet you, I’ve learned.’
Geralt hummed. ‘Well,’ He dismounted Roach and approached them, slowly drawing his sword. ‘I’m here now. You can let the bard go.’
The thugs seemed to need a moment to adjust to the witcher’s sudden appearance, before all four of them forgot about Jaskier and lunged for Geralt, their weapons raised. Geralt deflected each blow and moved smoothly between the thugs as Jaskier slid to the ground, gasping for breath. The entire lower half of his left trouser leg was drenched in blood, but Jaskier refused to panic about it as he forced himself to his feet.
‘Shit, fuck,’ he hissed as he began staggering over to the fight. Geralt must have heard him for he suddenly locked eyes with Jaskier as he dodged and blocked blows, the frown back on his face.
‘Get to Roach,’ he called.
‘Yeah, yeah, in a minute,’ he muttered, eyeing up the nearest thug, who had his back to him.
‘Jaskier, don’t!’ Jaskier threw himself at the man, his arms wrapping around his throat as he yanked him back and away from Geralt. The thug lost his footing and tripped, and Jaskier took the opportunity to sit on his chest, grab the nearest rock, and bash it against his head. The thug collapsed with a low groan, and Jaskier felt a stirring of triumph in his gut. Or perhaps that was vomit.
‘Jaskier!’
He was tackled off the unconscious man by a second thug, his vision blurring as his leg was jarred. He faintly realised the hoarse shouting was coming from him as he caught the arm wielding a knife that was headed for his chest. Jaskier risked a look at Geralt but noted he was too busy fending off the last two attackers, his eyes near glowing as he tried to reach the bard, but the thugs were relentless.
Jaskier grimaced as the knife above him was dropping closer and closer towards him as his strength faded and he struggled to keep the thug away. A sudden flash of inspiration struck him and he fumbled with one hand for his belt, thanking the gods he hadn’t lost the dagger he’d nicked as he swung it towards the man’s head, the jewelled hilt knocking him off Jaskier with a satisfying thud. Jaskier rolled away in case the thug was still moving, but one look over his shoulder assured him he wasn’t, and he resisted the strong temptation to collapse into the dirt and instead struggled to his feet once more.
Geralt, meanwhile, had thrown one thug aside and easily dispatched the other by running his sword through him, and as he spun and saw Jaskier was on his feet, he paused. Jaskier hoped it was out of admiration and not surprise that he’d actually survived, but there was little time to think about it any further as the last thug – the ringleader – was up again and charging at Geralt’s back, a snarl of fury on his lips. Jaskier didn’t even think about warning the witcher; instead, he took aim and flung his dagger at the advancing man.
Geralt’s eyes widened, undoubtedly thinking Jaskier had finally snapped, and moved aside in time to watch the thin blade bury itself in the thug’s collarbone. The thug screamed and scrabbled for the dagger, but could do little more as Geralt stepped up and decapitated him in one swift motion. The headless corpse sunk to its knees before toppling over.
Jaskier raised his arms in victory, ‘Three out of four, Geralt!’ he panted, ‘What do you say to that?’
Geralt wiped his sword on the corpse’s front. ‘I killed the last one.’
‘Um, only because I incapacitated him. Not so useless now, eh?’ He hobbled over to where Geralt had picked up the small dagger and was examining it, and snatched it out of the witcher’s hold. Geralt’s eyes rose to meet his, calculating something Jaskier would never know, before turning and walking away.
‘Had I not come, you would be dead.’
‘Had I not come, you would be dead,’ Jaskier called after him, and when Geralt didn’t stop, he cursed and began staggering after him, a small, prideful part of him demanding he let the witcher walk away. The large, relieved part of him begged him to go after him, and that is what he was listening to. ‘Those men were out to kill you.’
‘I would’ve handle it. You got in the way.’
Jaskier ignored the sting of hurt as old memories threatened to resurface, and continued to snap at the man’s back instead, ‘Oh sure, like you would’ve handled that man’s sword going through you if I hadn’t – fuck.’ He stumbled over something and as he tried to rebalance himself, his leg buckled and he was forced to his knees, catching himself before his face met the dirt.
Leaves rustled nearby and a hand touched his shoulder. ‘What happened?’ Geralt asked.
‘I’m fine,’ Jaskier hissed.
‘I need to apply a tourniquet.’
‘Geralt–’
The hand moved to his face, swiping at the blood beneath his lip. ‘And these wounds need to be cleaned.’
‘I said I’m fine.’ He swatted Geralt’s hand away and got one foot under him, standing without Geralt’s help, but as soon as he put pressure on his wounded leg he wobbled and would have fallen had Geralt not caught his arms and guided him closer. He slipped under Jaskier and curled an arm around his waist, ignoring Jaskier’s protests.
‘If you stopped being stubborn for one moment you’d see that I’m trying to help you.’
‘I’m being stubborn? I wasn’t the one who – you know what? No. I’m not doing this with you. Just get me to the road and I’ll leave you to it.’
Geralt sighed. ‘Now you’re just being foolish.’
‘Is it foolish, Geralt of Rivia, to want to let the man who wished he’d rather be alone than have me around, be alone? I don’t know about you but I’d rather not stick around people who dislike me. I know what they do when they get really angry.’ He gestured to his leg.
‘I would never–’ Geralt stopped whatever he was going to say, and let out a frustrated breath. ‘Let me escort you back to the village, at least. Despite whatever you think, I don’t want you dead.’
Jaskier accepted with a terse nod, and let Geralt steer him towards Roach. He leant against the mare as Geralt readied the saddle, smiling softly when she bumped his hand affectionately.
‘Missed you too,’ he murmured. He glanced at Geralt and felt himself turning red when he realised the other man was watching him. Geralt gestured to the saddle.
‘Ready?’
‘Oh, I thought I was… ok, yeah. Thank you.’ He begrudgingly accepted the witcher’s help in getting him on top of Roach, and settled himself as Geralt took Roach’s reins and began walking alongside her. The pain in his leg had simmered down to a constant throbbing, and while it wasn’t the most pleasant of sensations, it was a damn sight better than the agonising pain he’d felt when the knife had been both in and out of his leg.
The moon was in the sky by now, shining down on them and lighting the way. Jaskier absentmindedly watched Roach’s head bob up and down as they travelled down the road, and he felt his eyes blinking heavily. He wondered if it was the blood loss or exhaustion from the fight. He hoped it was the latter.
‘I don’t dislike you.’
‘Hmm?’ he asked, blinking out of his daze.
Geralt was staring dead ahead of them, one hand clutching the reins tightly. He shot a brief look up at Jaskier before looking ahead again. ‘I said I don’t dislike you. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought.’
‘Is that what you’re sorry for?’ Jaskier muttered, although he could sense the peace offering. It wasn’t quite good enough. Not when he’d just run headlong into danger and taken a knife for the man.
There was a brief spell of uneasy silence before Geralt spoke again. ‘And… I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. On the mountain.’
‘Mm-hm.’
Geralt sighed again, his grip tightening for a moment. Jaskier didn’t care how uncomfortable he was.
‘I was angry and frustrated, but it was wrong of me to take it out on you. I do consider you… a friend.’ He looked up at Jaskier, this time holding his gaze. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jaskier couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at his lips. He nodded, and Geralt’s head snapped back to the road before he could say anything. From the slump in his shoulders, though, Jaskier could tell he was relieved.
‘Did you find your Child Surprise?’ Jaskier asked after some time, noting the thankful expression that flitted across the witcher’s face at the change in conversation. He knew Geralt had trouble expressing himself, and getting a coherent I’m sorry was more than Jaskier ever thought he’d get. Hell, he never in a thousand years thought he’d hear Geralt say the F word, let alone tell Jaskier outright he thought of them as friends. He truly had been granted a miracle.
Let’s forget I called you a bitch, he mused, hoping Destiny was smiling down on them and not plotting a cruel twist of fate for him.
‘No,’ Geralt said in answer to his question. ‘Not yet.’
‘Hmm. Where’s the next place we’re looking?’
Jaskier didn’t miss the twist of Geralt’s lips as he considered his words. ‘It’ll be dangerous. Are you sure you can handle yourself?’
‘Three thugs, Geralt, for pity’s sake. Surely that’s proof enough.’
‘You might still lose your leg because of those thugs. What happens when it’s a monster? An army?’
‘I think I’ll get pretty far with this little thing.’ Jaskier pulled out the thin dagger that had saved his life (and Geralt’s, no matter what the witcher said) and twirled it nimbly between his fingers.
‘Hmm,’ Geralt said. ‘May I see it?’
‘You may kiss it, as far as I’m concerned,’ he answered, passing it down. ‘Without it, we’d both be – hey!’ He stared, open-mouthed, as Geralt barely glanced at it before tossing the weapon into the woods. ‘That… wasn’t mine.’
‘Whose was it?’
‘A young gentleman admirer gave it to me, I’ll have you know.’
‘It was a bad gift.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a gift, per se, but rather–’
‘The blade was too small. Too thin. It would have snapped after a little more use. Here,’ Geralt rummaged in one of the satchels on Roach before withdrawing a larger dagger with a dark handle and shining blade. ‘This one’s thicker. It’ll serve you better.’
Jaskier found himself speechless as he accepted the new weapon. ‘Are we still talking about daggers?’
Geralt rolled his eyes. ‘The village is just around the corner.’
‘Oh! We need to collect my lute, I left it in the tavern.’ He suddenly had the urge to start singing again. It was high time he brought his voice out of retirement, especially now that he’d been reunited with his grumpy muse. And, he supposed, he had better let down that gentleman. It wouldn’t help his reputation to just abandon the man with no explanation.
‘Healer first, then we’ll find your lute.’
‘Geralt, that is my livelihood that I left behind for you, and for all I know it’s been stolen by some–’
‘Do you want that leg or not? Your insistence on not cutting off the blood means the longer you leave it, the more likely you’ll be learning to use a crutch, and then what good will you be to me?’
‘Oho, no, you can’t play that card anymore Geralt. You told me we were friends, you told me you didn’t mean what you said. I know now any threats you make are empty. Ha.’
Geralt fell silent with a huff, no doubt already regretting the choices he’d made today. Jaskier watched him with a contented smile, and when they reached the healer’s he was more accepting of Geralt’s offered hands than before.
‘What?’ Geralt asked, sounding resigned.
‘Nothing,’ Jaskier said with a shrug. Geralt made to take his arm but Jaskier stopped him, catching his hand.
‘I’m glad you found me, Geralt. Sometimes I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Hmm,’ Geralt said. ‘Must have lost more blood than I’d thought. Come on.’ He held Jaskier’s waist and moved as slowly as the bard as they made their way across the street, offering small grunts of encouragement each time Jaskier cursed at the pain. When Jaskier was laid on a cot while a woman took a look at his leg, he glanced around the room until Geralt stepped closer so he could see him, his large arms crossed as he watched the healer closely.
‘You can rest,’ Geralt murmured, his features softening. ‘I’ll be here.’
Money didn’t bring him happiness, but Geralt of Rivia certainly did.