Chapter Text
NOW:
Geralt only notices the quiet when his contact sits back from the table, their discussion complete. The woman's focus is no longer on the witcher – her attention's been caught the same as the rest of the folks in the great hall. Geralt's nostrils flare as he scents the air; something familiar-and-yet-different that he had smelled on entering the hall is suddenly so much stronger than the smell of sweat and warm bodies and alcohol, and then his ears finally register the voice, familiar and yet different as the scent.
The bard had clearly been singing for a while, and with the ringing tones that spoke of words worn smooth with almost prayerful repetition, he sings of the sky and darkness and heartbreak. As he reaches the climax of the chorus, Geralt closes his eyes, turns to face the bard, and opens his eyes on a sight he hasn't seen for... months. Has it been a year yet?
Jaskier's appearance hasn't changed as much as part of Geralt had feared – he has no grey in his hair, but with Geralt's enhanced eyes he can see a few more lines around the bard's eyes than there had been in Niedamir's mountains. He is, however, dressed in a more subdued manner than he had been; most of his tunic and trousers are black, shot with a bright blue-grey that matched his eyes and lined in a darker, deeper blue around the edges. He stands there on the stage, and Geralt watches him and wonders.
Perhaps Jaskier will give him the chance to apologize.
THEN:
The moon was barely visible over the trees when Geralt stirred from his meditation beside the fire. A deep scenting of the air revealed nothing of concern – just the smells of the forest, Roach, his leathers, and...
The bard.
Geralt still wasn't sure why he allowed the young man to accompany him. Companions had... not been a part of his life for a very long time, and definitely not since the clusterfuck that was Blaviken.
He huffed out a breath and registered the quiet sounds of distress coming from the human. Craning his neck to see around the fire, he saw how the bard was curled on himself, asleep on the hardpacked dirt but hissing out stuttered breaths from the cold. He had no bedroll, not even a cloak to keep him warm; it had to be pure exhaustion from the day that was keeping him unconscious.
What the hells was that young fool doing out in the world with so little protection against even a chilly night? At least Geralt had the protection of his Witcher's blood to keep the cold from biting him.
Another trembling hiss from the bard spurred Geralt into reluctant action. With a soft grunt he pushed himself up from the ground. After shaking his legs to return the feeling to them he passed the fire and stood over where the bard curled. The little idiot had turned away from the fire, so with with another soft grunt he sat with his back to the bard's belly. Before he could even scoot closer to the young man, he heard a shuffle as the bard immediately curled up against him; even in his sleep the bard had registered Geralt's heat and moved towards it.
He'd meditate just as easily there by the bard as on the other side of the fire. By noon the next day they would reach the next settlement, and while there he'd see about some supplies.
NOW:
Jaskier's song finishes and he takes a bow when the thunderous applause erupts around the Great Hall. He descends the steps from the little stage and is immediately swarmed by those wishing to speak to the great bard.
Geralt watches for a few moments more, but before he can pull his eyes from the bard's slim form the woman, his contact, leans forward again and catches his attention.
“He journeyed with you, didn't he, Witcher?” There's a bright cynicism in her eyes, like that of a mockingbird. “He won't sing any of the songs he wrote about the White Wolf these days, but I saw him perform about ten years ago in Cintra. Wrote that song about tossing coins, right?” She hums the chorus, and Geralt stifles a flinch.
“I'll be back in less than two days' time with the proof of death. Will I find you here or are you returning home before the end of the celebration?”
The woman flashes her teeth in a grin. “Oh, I'll be here, Witcher.”
He nods to her and leaves, trying not to feel like he's fleeing the sight of someone he wronged.
THEN:
The bard – Jaskier – had travelled with him on and off for four years when Temeria called for Geralt – and any other nearby witcher – to aid them. Something was preying on the healthy citizens of Vizima, leaving them drained nearly to death of their vitality. Geralt answered the desperate summons, but on arrival he and Jaskier fought viciously over the bard accompanying him on the trail into the sewers under the Lower City. The witcher won, and the bard remained behind in the castle.
It took three days to find the culprit – a peculiar sphere that had somehow made its way into the system of wells that the entirety of Vizima's citizenry drank from – and during those few hours when Geralt returned for supplies or a moment to breathe without the stink of the sewers, he made sure to check in on the bard. The first night took Geralt the longest to find the bard; Jaskier's scent was throughout much of the castle, and he'd clearly been busy to judge by the strength of the smell of his sweat.
He finally tracked the bard down in, of all places, a nursery. Many of the victims had children, and as the sickness struck the adults of the families but bypassed their babes, King Foltest had ordered the children of the victims gathered for safety. Geralt had initially planned to bypass the wing entirely – Jaskier's damned Witcher songs were not quite so popular that the sight of the witcher's coloring and swords didn't still sometimes send small children fleeing from him – but the soft sounds of the bard's lute caught his ear. Of course Jaskier was with the children. With a silent sigh and a bracing of his nerves the witcher stepped through the main doorway into the wing and followed the sounds of the bard.
It was near the end of the corridor that Geralt found the young man. He paused at the doorway into what was clearly a child's room, set up with numerous cots and at least a dozen lit candles. There were fourteen children of various ages curled up singly or in pairs on the cots, and the ones still awake were listening with rapt attention to the quiet little lullaby Jaskier played.
As the minutes passed and Geralt watched, the last few children closed their eyes and fell into deep asleep. Soon after that, Jaskier's fingers slowed and then finally stopped. A woman Geralt had barely noticed pressed a cup into the bard's hand and he accepted with a small smile, draining it and handing it back before standing with a faint groan. His hands automatically settled the lute against his back and he glanced up to see Geralt still standing in the doorway. The bard beamed a greeting, and Geralt felt his lips twitch almost into a smile. Or a grimace.
After blowing out the last of the lit candles, the woman ushered the bard out of the room and closed the door with a quiet click, nodding a greeting at Geralt before turning back to Jaskier with a relieved smile. “Melitele's blessing to you and your lute, Jaskier,” she said in near a whisper. “The little ones haven't been able to sleep a wink with their parents so ill. We were starting to seriously consider dosing their dinners with a sleeping draught.”
The bard huffed a quiet laugh. “I'm just glad that I actually remembered so many of these lullabies. They aren't exactly my usual songs, and they aren't terribly popular in Oxenfurt.”
“Well, whatever the reason, you've taken a great stress off of our shoulders tonight, and we thank you.” She looked questioningly in Geralt's direction. “Have you had any luck tracking the sickness, Witcher?”
Geralt shook his head. Before the woman's face could fall, Jaskier spoke quickly. “Have no worries, Mistress Turpin - the White Wolf will find the creature responsible. Soon, this will be like a bad dream and those children will be back with their parents.” He winked outrageously at the woman. “Trust us.”
The woman – Mistress Turpin – snorted in amusement. “All right, then, Master Troublemaker.” Her smile faded after a moment, and then she asked hesitantly, “If you're here for a while, is there a chance..?”
Jaskier nodded and clasped her hands in his. “I'll come by after the sun sets. Unless my companion needs me?” He glanced questioningly up at Geralt. The witcher shrugged, and taking that as an answer the bard turned his attention back to Mistress Turpin. “I'll see you tomorrow evening,” he promised.
“Bless you,” Mistress Turpin said again, before dipping into a small bow and heading into another nearby room.
Jaskier watched her go with a faint smile, and then, feeling Geralt's eyes on him he glanced up to the witcher again. He wrinkled his nose. “I didn't want to say it in front of Mistress Turpin, but you smell rank. Have you considered taking advantage of the accommodations and calling for a bath in your quarters?”
Geralt furrowed his brow at the bard. “Quarters?”
The bard beamed. “I may have talked to your sorceress friend and arranged for you to use one of the guest rooms near her work room.” At Geralt's stare, his smile faded to more normal levels and he shrugged. “Apparently it's usually used for visiting mages. But I thought a visiting witcher – who is helping the king and has already saved his princess – would be an acceptable substitute. Triss agreed.”
“Hmm.”
The bard's face lit up again. “Which translates to: thank you, dear Jaskier, for looking out for my comforts and well-being. Please, do show me the way to these rooms.” He made an extravagant gesture down the corridor.
Geralt huffed in amusement but let the bard lead the way. “Where's Roach?”
“In the royal stables, eating richly and biting impertinent stallions and stable boys alike. I've already caught hell from one of the more experienced hands, but after he learned who, exactly, that spirited filly belonged to he backed down and offered to very carefully give her several apples. Using a bucket and a pole, so as not to get too close.” Jaskier chuckled wickedly. “She doesn't seem to like most of the stable hands. But she's warm and will probably be fatter by the time we leave if this takes longer than a day or two. It'll be good for her.”
Geralt grunted. “And you?”
The bard paused and blinked at him. “And me? What about me?”
“Where are you stabled tonight, bard? Comforting a wife of one of the victims?”
Jaskier made a rude noise. “Not tonight, thank you. And don't think I didn't notice your order of importance, Geralt. I know that I rate less than Roach, but you don't have to rub it in.” When Geralt didn't deign to respond, the bard continued. “With how many people are ill here I haven't been down from the palace, but I can easily find an inn or tavern with a room to rent. I've made decent enough coin to do that, even if it's not as luxurious as the rooms here.”
By that point, they had reached the guest quarters and Jaskier opened the door with a flourish. “And here we are.”
Geralt peered around his shoulder. Before the bard could head back down the halls, the witcher snagged him by his lute strap and tugged him into the guest quarters.
Jaskier staggered as he was dragged in, stuttering out, “W-what?”
Geralt released him and nodded to the bed. “That thing is plenty big enough for both of us. Save your coin.” He glanced at the bard's face in time to see a tense expression flicker and then be smoothed out.
“In exchange for what, exactly?” The bard's scent sharpened with a hint of something bitter.
Geralt stifled a growl. “In exchange for nothing, bard.” He watched Jaskier's shoulders slowly relax and continued, “You helped around the castle where you could, and got those children to sleep. That sounds like enough to have earned half of that bed.” He glanced back at the bed with a grimace. “The damned thing is enormous. I probably won't even notice you're there.”
Jaskier let out a slightly nervous giggle and nodded. “I've seen orgies that required less room,” he remarked, eyeing the bed as he walked around it to investigate more of the room.
Geralt paid him little mind, more focused on building a decent fire in the fireplace than the bard's running commentary. His casting of Igni nearly missed the kindling entirely when he heard a decadent moan from one of the other rooms. His soft curse was drowned out by the bard's excited voice.
“Geralt, you have to see this tub. I'm fairly sure you could drown a bull in this thing.” A loud clang echoed through the room, followed by an excited yelp. “There's a pump for the water in here! No need to summon some poor servant to fill this thing, the lucky bastards! This has to be the work of the mages, or maybe even dwarven work – I remember reading that the small folk are damned good with their metal.”
Geralt closed his eyes and searched himself for some patience. He was also fighting a small smile.
NOW:
It takes less than a day to clear out the flock of basilisks in the cave system just a few miles past the outskirts of town, and the woman who hired him is pleased that he managed to bring back more than just the two hides she had asked for. She is less pleased at the smell of dead basilisk clinging to his leathers, but still gives him extra coin for the extra hides, pointedly suggesting he take himself to the inn just outside the castle gates for a good soaking.
He can't disagree. Roach had taken one sniff of him when he'd walked out of the caves with his prizes and refused to let him on her back. It had taken more sweet talking than Geralt cares to admit to before the mare was even willing to carry the basilisk hides, and only promises of the prettiest, shiniest apples he could find would coax her into letting him grab her reins.
The Miner's Whistle is not the best place that Geralt has ever rented a room, but it is far from the worst. It has a tub large enough that his back and the soles of his feet can just touch the opposite walls if he stretches out, and that is good enough for him to be content. He orders extra buckets of water, well aware that just the one soaking will not be enough, and after the innkeeper's son deposits the last bucket in the room and departs with a nod Geralt starts stripping. After laying his armor out for cleaning later, he steps into the tub.
He pauses, heaves a heavy sigh, and goes digging in his saddlebags, emerging with a few sweet-smelling sachets and a bottle of... something... that smells like what Jaskier had used the night before Princess Pavetta's betrothal party.
The least he can do before he confronts Jaskier is smell as inoffensive as possible.
THEN:
Gargoyles, Geralt decided, were obnoxious beings to fight. The only plus side he could see as he stalked out of the ruins was that at least they didn't leave behind gore and ichor that ate through his armor. Or flesh. He fought the urge to sneeze. Again.
“Geralt?” The sounds of Jaskier's lute that Geralt was using to track the bard paused. “That is you, Witcher, not some overgrown dust kitten, right?”
Geralt growled. Then sneezed again. He could hear the bard shuffling some items then approach.
“Geralt, are you alright? Did the golem-”
“Not a golem.”
“Ah.” Jaskier paused for a beat, then asked hesitantly, “What-”
“Gargoyles.”
“Ah.” Jaskier repeated, this time sounding as if he understood the problem. “More than one, then? And clearly at least one blew up in your face...”
“The second to last one caused the last to explode.”
“Right then,” the bard muttered. “And of course there's no lake or stream within easy walking distance to wash off the dust. Geralt, can you even see?”
No, he could not really see – he had been using his senses of smell (when he could inhale without immediately starting to sneeze) and hearing to track down the bard at the camp. He didn't really want to admit to this, however, so merely grunted and angled towards his saddlebags. And tripped over the damned things. He managed to catch himself on the fallen log that his bags were leaning against but he knew that the bard had seen him.
Thankfully, Jaskier didn't laugh. Instead, his voice going high with worry he said, “Why don't you just sit by the fire there – please don't set yourself ablaze – and I'll see what we've got that can help. Maybe take your hair down and shake the dust out of it to start.”
Geralt sighed through his nose, sneezed again, and settled himself on the log, facing the fire's heat. He started to grab the tie holding his hair back and let out an irritated and pained snarl. He'd forgotten about his hands. A shifting in the air and a hint of Jaskier's scent was warning enough that Geralt didn't reach for one of his knives, but he still twitched at the bard's touch on his head.
“Let me see them,” Jaskier said quietly. Geralt felt his brows furrow but he allowed the bard to gently pull his hands up closer to the bard's sightline. Jaskier hissed in sympathy as he inspected the wounds.
Geralt huffed. He'd been lucky he'd gotten his hands up to his face in time, else those shards of stone would be embedded in his eyes.
“Right then,” Jaskier said, releasing the witcher's hands. “Let's start at the top and work our way to that.” With unexpected patience, the bard carefully tilted Geralt's head towards the ground, pulled the tie from Geralt's hair and started shaking loose the worst of the dust and debris. He made no complaint, not even when Geralt caught a scent of Jaskier's own blood.
Geralt huffed in a breath, scenting to discover if the wound was something that would need attention, but the smell of human blood was faint. He decided that if it was a concern, the bard would deal with it himself. Soon, he felt Jaskier's slim fingers start to brush his hair back from his face, pulling the part closest towards the back of his head. With surprising gentleness the bard tied Geralt's hair back from his eyes, then leaned close enough that Geralt could easily hear his heartbeat. “That's better,” the bard murmured, then he was leaning back and rustling with some of the supplies. “Keep your eyes closed, dear Witcher – this is sadly going to be cold and a bit wet.”
Even with the warning Geralt flinched back from the feeling of cold wetness – cloth, soaked in water? He felt gentle fingers hold his chin in place and when he settled again the bard began cleaning his face, starting at his forehead and working his way down.