Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Tell me again.” Geralt ordered. He was geared to the teeth for monster-slaying, but at the moment he was just about ready to slay the bard instead.

“I will stay right here.” Jaskier recited.

Geralt nodded.

“I will look after Roach.”

He nodded again.

“I will remain si--”

“Ah--” Geralt pointed at the bard with a scowl that could melt granite.

“I will not touch Roach.”

A satisfied nod.

“I will remain silent.”

“Hm.”

“I will under no circumstances go into the woods.”

“Until?”

“Until you have finished slaying the foul beast.”

“Jaskier…” The threat in the witcher’s voice was almost palpable. 

“Until you have yourself emerged victorious from the forest and declared the monster vanquished.”

“And if something else comes out of the woods?”

“I run.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I get on Roach and run?”

Geralt glared daggers and shook his head.

“I turn Roach loose and we both run.”

“Yes.”

“You realize she runs maybe ten times faster than I do? If the gryphon comes out of the forest and heads our way I’ll be watching your noble steed’s powerful hindquarters disappear into the far distance while the monster devours me for a midday snack.”

The witcher smiled for the first time in quite a long while and gave a sharp nod, “Exactly.”

Jaskier gaped, for once at a loss for words.

“Now, stay .” The witcher ordered one last time, pointing in turn to Jaskier and Roach before unsheathing a sword and walking into the forest. 

“Huh!” Jaskier muttered, “Well at least we know he cares about one of us.” He put a hand up to stroke Roach on the cheek.

From deep in the woods came the immediate call-- “Don’t touch Roach!”

Neither waiting nor being quiet were areas of particular speciality for Jaskier, but he did at least try.

He pulled out his notebook and tried writing a few bars of his latest song, but soon found that he couldn’t really do that without humming the notes and he was getting some extremely judgmental looks from Roach. 

He paced in a circle.

He paced in the opposite direction.

He kept catching himself about to try striking up a conversation with Roach, but he managed to stop himself… most of the time.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably more along the lines of five minutes, noises started emerging from the woods. Jaskier realized instantly that he quite preferred the boredom of waiting in silence.

Several crashes shook the treetops. There was a blood-curdling screech followed by what sounded a lot like metal-on-metal. Another screech was abruptly cut off, followed by eerie silence. 

Jaskier waited. 

Nothing happened.

He took a few hesitant steps towards the forest’s edge before stopping himself. 

A few dozen yards away, a severed head soared through the air and landed with a squishy ‘thud’ in the middle of the road. Sightless gryphon eyes leered in Jaskier’s direction. 

The bard was only barely able to stifle his squeal of horror.

And then total silence resumed. 

Jaskier looked around, trying to peer through the dense foliage of the forest undergrowth. 

“Geralt?” He whispered. 

There was, of course, no reply.

He tiptoed over to the head. Oily blood was oozing sluggishly from the stump of the neck, and there was a faint sizzle of scorched flesh coming off of it. Oh! The silver sword for this one, then. Jaskier noted to himself. He thought about writing that down in his notebook but decided it was perhaps not the best time. 

He looked into the part of the woods from whence the head had been hurled. 

There was no silver-maned witcher to be seen.

“Uh...Geralt?” The bard asked again, a little bit louder this time. “You’ve uh...killed it? Haven’t you? I mean these things can’t possibly do very well without their heads?” 

No reply.

“How about you come out now, Geralt?” He asked, a little bit louder, stepping to the edge of the wood, “This is my favorite bit, now. You know-- the payment, the praise. Wine, women, and song, Geralt, let's get to it.” 

The witcher couldn’t possibly have vanished , could he ? What was going on here…? Jaskier pushed a few steps into the woods.

“If this is your first ever attempt at a joke, Geralt…” he ducked under another branch, “Then, ‘ haha’ , well done! Could do without the actual severed head, but that’s really only a minor critique.” He pushed between a couple of pine boughs. “‘You got me.’ You can come out now and we can go back… Geralt?”

With every further step into the forest Jaskier’s sense of dread was growing, and he could not decide whether he was more afraid of finding the witcher ready to kill him for disobeying orders, or finding that the witcher had been killed by the monster. 

Either way, something wasn’t right. He cursed the curiosity that drove him forward, but he couldn’t resist. 

Off to his right he thought he saw what might be the edge of a clearing, so he angled that way and discovered what amounted to a very small clearing indeed, made smaller by the enormous gryphon corpse that occupied well over a third of it. 

Jaskier’s eyes widened, taking in the gory scene. 

It took him a moment to realize that, while a few miscellaneous body parts did appear to be strewn about, none appeared to belong to the missing witcher. 

It took him another moment to realize that far too many body parts were present for just one gryphon. 

A wicked aquiline head rose up from behind the wing of the dead gryphon, it’s beak dripping blood. The vast, slitted eye of the second gryphon fixed directly on Jasker.

“Oh no, oh s#!&, oh s#!&!” Jaskier half screamed, backpedaling as fast as he could. He didn’t make it more than a meter before his back met a particularly sturdy branch, halting his flight completely. 

The gryphon stepped over the corpse of it’s kin with the lazy grace of a predator who has already cornered it’s next kill. It flicked it’s tail once and then leaped for Jaskier.

“Noooo!” The bard screamed, throwing his hands up in front of him.

He barely saw the dark shape darting in from the undergrowth before it collided with him, throwing him violently to the side. 

Pain erupted into visual fireworks as his head impacted something hard, and he knew no more.

Jaskier awoke to the the sounds of crackling fire and jangling saddle bags.

Languidly he opened one eye, and was pleasantly surprised to find a very scarred, very muscular chest occupying almost his entire rage of vision. 

“Oooo, it’s going to be one of those dreams,” he murmured with a lazy grin, shifting in his bedroll. --only his ‘bedroll’ was actually a smelly saddle blanket and the small movement was enough to send his head into a cascade of agony. 

“Aaaagh.” He yowled, scrunching up his face in pain and curling forward. “Whaaaaaat happened?” He gasped out, putting a hand up to his aching head.

“Be still.” Came a voice that would have been stern if not for a distinct note of relief. A hand restrained the bard’s questing one and moved it slowly but firmly back down to his side. The same hand gently fingered something at the bard’s temple. Bandage… Jaskier’s fuzzy mind finally told him. 

The witcher grunted, “Bleeding’s stopped. Good.” 

Doesn’t feel bloody ‘good’. Jaskier kept the thought to himself. 

The bard finally cracked an eye open again. 

Geralt was now sat on a log across from a small campfire, his armor and gear arrayed beside him along with a few bandages and potions. He was working awkwardly to affix a large bandage to the back of his right shoulder.

“Geralt!?” Jaskier half squeaked in alarm. He tried to get up, but only made it halfway to sitting before the forest started spinning around him and he collapsed back onto the saddle blanket. 

“I told you to be still .” The witcher seemed to have materialized at his side again, this time sounding considerably more annoyed than relieved. 

“I’m so dizzy, Geralt.” He looked up plaintively at his sometime friend, reaching out for his arm. “Why am I so… oh no ! This is how it ends, isn’t it? The sting of the gryphon? I’m dying aren’t I? How long have I got?” 

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped back. “Gryphons don’t have stings. I know I told you that.” He walked back over to the log and sat down gingerly, picking up the momentarily discarded bandages. 

“You hit your head.” He growled. “Cut it open a little too. Head wounds bleed a lot, so you’re dizzy. Nothing some food and rest won’t fix.” As an afterthought, he picked up a chunk of bread from one of the saddlebags and tossed it at Jaskier. It hit the bard softly in the chest, where he let it lie.

“What about you?” Jaskier asked hesitantly. 

“I’m not dying either.” Geralt replied, preoccupied once again with attempting to bandage himself. “No thanks to you…” he added, throwing a glare over his shoulder.

Jaskier winced, and not because of the headache.

“Look, Geralt, I know I shouldn’t have been there. It’s just… well… you had clearly already killed the gryphon, and then there was no sign of you. Who knows what could have happened! How was I to know there was another gryphon? You could’ve told me…”

“I couldn’t have told you.” Geralt snarled. Some real anger in his voice now as he finished with the bandages and shrugged stiffly back into his blood-soaked shirt. “I didn’t know there were two gryphons until I was in the middle of killing the first one. What I should have known is that you would find some excuse to traipse into the woods, looking for a story. Well is that story enough for you? Two gryphons and one bard f#*$ing it all up playing gryphon bait?”

 Jaskier looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“I’m sorry too.” The witcher growled, clearly meaning it as an indictment rather than an apology. He stood up, and picked up his steel sword with his left hand. “Eat your bread.” He ordered, tossing another piece at the dejected bard, “I’m going to find some meat.” 

He strode away from the campfire but then paused, “Roach?” He looked to the horse, whose ears pricked up at the mention of her name. “Keep an eye on this one.” 

Roach snorted and tossed her head.

The witcher stalked off into the woods. 

“Sit up.” Jaskier heard the gruff order before he was fully awake. He found himself being levered bodily into a seated position and leaned up against what took him far too long to realize was Geralt’s saddle turned pommel-down. 

“Urrrg.” Was all he could manage as the dizziness returned in rush. 

A warm hand leaned his head back against the rolled up saddle blanket and held it there for several moments. “It’ll pass. Breathe.”

Jaskier did, and the dizziness did indeed subside. 

A warm bowl of something fragrant was placed carefully into his hands. “Eat while it’s hot.”

The bard cautiously opened first one eye then the other, finally satisfied that the world had stopped spinning. 

“Geralt?” He asked, and then looked down at the bowl without moving his head, “Is this stew?”

The witcher sat opposite him once again, holding his own bowl and tucking into the meal with the efficiency of one who has already gotten a lot of work done while hungry. Geralt grunted an affirmative without pausing.

Jaskier looked at the fire askance. Something was decidedly odd. “You didn’t have a cook-pot in your saddle bags this whole time, did you?” He asked.

“No.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to tell me how you--?”

“No.”

Jaskier gave a dramatic sigh, “You see, Geralt, here we get to the root of the problem. You simply refuse to share the details of your exploits with me. How am I supposed to sing of your glorious deeds and daring adventures if you refuse to share even a few words with me about how those deeds and adventures transpired. I am dying of thirst in the middle of a lake here, Geralt.” 

The witcher rolled his eyes and continued eating his stew.

“The scars that adorn your magnificent frame like stars in the night sky--each one could tell a tale of great heroism and daring. But the mouth that speaks for them is silent. One story, Geralt, just one story of one scar. It could be my greatest ballad, the song on everyone’s lips inspiring welcome and accolades wherever you go. Just one story Geralt, I’m begging you.”

Geralt snorted. “A story of a scar? I’ve got a couple of fresh ones right here.” He pointed to his shoulder, “You want to hear that story? I was trying to have a quiet drink in some s&#*hole tavern in Posada, when a yappy bard with bread in his pants walks up begging for a story. Ah, but I think you know the rest of that one.” 

“Bread in my...Geralt! I am positively tantalized! That was the day we met-- in that most unappreciative little tavern in Posada. If your memory is as sharp as that-- ooooh the epic tales locked in that gristly steel trap of a mind, just waiting for the right bard to prize it open and set them free to astound and entertain a waiting world with deep and overflowing pockets!”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “Your stew is getting cold.” 

Jaskier huffed, but brought a spoonful up to his lips all the same, careful not to move his head. 

His eyes lit up in surprise.

“Geralt, this is quite good. You could do reasonably well as a chef, should you tire of monster slaying.” 

“Jaskier” 

“Shut up?” 

Geralt shook his head. “Empty compliments will not get you your story. Just eat your stew, get some rest, and we can get back to town and collect on the gryphons.”

Jaskier took another bite before putting the bowl back down in his lap. Inspiration striking him once again, “But what will get me my story?”

Geralt looked up at him sharply.

“By telling me what won’t get me my story you’ve implied, albeit accidentally perhaps, that there may, in fact, be something that would get me my story. What shall I do, Geralt? Ply you with ale? Find you a woman as comely as fair Yennefer but, say, three quarters less crazy? Sing you into the good graces of the Nilfgaardian Emperor? By all means, Geralt, name your price and it shall become my quest.”

Geralt was silent for long enough that Jaskier began to doubt that an answer would be forthcoming. If anything, the witcher’s face made it clear he was tempted to say something particularly nasty and then storm away. 

To the bard’s surprise, he finally answered in a level tone, “Alright, Jaskier. Your price for a story-- just one story: you pay your debt.”

“I’m sorry-- what debt?”

“Today I saved your life from a gryphon. The day you save my life-- I’ll give you a story.”

“Save... your life.” The bard sputtered a bit at that. “Well that...certainly...is a challenge.” Then he looked up at Geralt again with the gleam back in his eye, “A challenge I accept!”

“Wonderful.” Geralt rolled his eyes again, “Now will you eat your stew?”

“Oh, right, of course.” Jaskier almost had spoon to lips when, “Oh, just one more thing.”

“What?” The dangerous growl was back in the witcher’s voice.

“I get to choose the scar.”

“Fine.”

“That short, curved one above your right hip.”

The witcher froze mid-bite. “...Why?”

Jaskier shrugged lightly. “It looks like it was deep. Must have hurt a lot. That, and your reaction just now confirms it-- something about that scar unsettles even you, Geralt.” He emptied the contents of his spoon and wagged it at the witcher. “That has to be a story worth hearing.”

“Hm.” Geralt gave a mean smile, “Pity you’ll never hear it then. Now for gods’ sake, will you eat your stew! ”

“Alright, alright. Who knew you could be such a mother hen when you get your knickers in a twist.” He muttered that bit quietly, knowing full well Geralt’s heightened hearing couldn’t possibly miss it.

He took a bite of stew-- and then spat it back out, making a face.

Geralt fixed him with a furious glare. 

The bard cringed sheepishly, “...it’s cold.”

“ Jaskier!”

Chapter Text

--- Several months and many monsters later ---

“Alright, so this is or is not a Rusalka?” Jaskier asked as he poked the small campfire with a long stick. 

“That’s the question.” Geralt replied. He was waiting for dusk to give over to true night.

“That...is singularly unhelpful, Geralt. Thank you. Have I done something recently to provoke your special ire? Or are you just in another of your moods.”

Geralt scowled, then sighed, “They hired me to kill a Rusalka. Doesn't mean that’s actually what we have here. The reports were...mixed, and their knowledge of mutated creatures is limited, small thanks to your kind.”

“My kind?! What’s that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know that if it weren’t for ‘my kind’ they’d probably be calling it a ‘water witcher’ and throwing stones at you for having spawned it. It’s thanks to ‘my kind’ that people in these villages at least have vocabulary for some of the things lurking in the shadows, thank you very much. If ‘your kind’ weren’t so stingy with your vast wealth of knowledge of nasty beasties, then ‘my kind’ wouldn’t have to leave so much to our magnificently creative imaginations.”

“Hm.” Geralt shrugged. It was about as much of a concession as Jaskier was likely to get.

“So it may or may not be a Rusalka, but you’re reasonably sure it’s a water-dwelling monster that only makes its appearance at night. Hence all the extra preparation.”

Geralt grunted as he finished arranging items around their makeshift camp. He had indeed prepared beyond the normal. Whatever the monster was, it was clear the witcher was taking it seriously. They had borrowed extra blankets from the village’s only inn, they had started a campfire and gathered a truly impressive amount of firewood well in advance of nightfall, and Geralt was pulling out potions from his saddle bags.

Jaskier leaned forward, interest piqued. Geralt never talked about his potions, other than to caution Jaskier that they were deadly to humans. Jaskier still wasn’t completely sure whether the witcher meant that they were inherently toxic to humans or that he would automatically kill anyone who touched his potions. He had wisely decided that pressing for the answer could be bad for his health.

Geralt looked to Jaskier, frowning as if coming to a decision, then pointed to a couple vials he had grouped together. “For poison.” He said, then pointed to the other set of vials, “For healing.”

“Okay.” Jaskier said, nodding fervently and leaning down to scrutinize the vials. He was careful not to give the impression that he was about to touch any of them. “Poison on the left, healing on the right, poison on the left, healing on the right. Got it.” He looked back up at the witcher, “Geralt, this is an abnormal amount of caution, even for you. Is everything alright?”

The witcher gave a short laugh. “The wise don’t f&#$ around with water mutants. That’s all. It’s a normal amount of caution for a job like this.”

Jaskier frowned, “I don’t recall this amount of fuss before that selkimore.” He noted questioningly.

“Hm.” Geralt nodded, “Selkimore’s a mindless beast-- a straightforward kill. The rusalka and its like have human origins-- they retain a low cunning and should not be underestimated.” 

Jaskier nodded appreciatively, “Is that witcher wisdom or Geralt wisdom?”

The witcher cocked his head for a moment. Jaskier could practically see memories being called to his companion’s mind before Geralt shook them off and shrugged. “Some of both.”

“I see.” Jaskier said carefully. He wanted at those stories more desperately than even he would admit, but after traveling with Geralt for some time now he was learning when, and when not, to press his advantage. Those stories would stay locked away...for now. 

“It’s almost time.” Geralt stood, “Tell me again.”

“Oh, right, of course, let’s see… ‘I will stay here. I will look after Roach. I will not touch Roach . I will keep the fire going. I will under no circumstances venture closer to the lake, until you return victorious and declare the monster vanquished. And if something else comes out of the lake after us I will turn Roach loose and run.” He paused, having finished the recitation, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

The witcher turned away and unsheathed his silver sword. Taking up a potion from a belt pouch, he popped the cork, downed it in one swallow, and tossed the empty vial beside one of the saddle bags. 

Jaskier knew it was a potion that increased Geralt’s physical capabilities-- and turned his eyes a terrifying black. He had also come to realize that Geralt was intensely uncomfortable being seen by humans in this state. The fact that he would even drink that potion in the bard’s presence was a small testament to the tenuous friendship they shared. 

The witcher stalked off toward the lake.

“Be careful, Geralt.” The bard called after him.

Geralt grunted what may have been an agreement, and did not slow.

_____________________________________________________________________

They were closer to the lake than Jaskier had thought, at least judging by the noises.

Roach pricked her ears forward, her head bobbing up nervously as she stared into the darkness. Horses had better night vision than humans, right? The thought was unsettling. What was she watching?

It had started with an awful lot of splashing. Then the splashing became commingled with what almost sounded like song. The voice (if it could be called that) was somehow both entrancing and revolting. 

The interplay of splash and almost-melody continued for a time, before escalating, becoming more frantic. Thrown in were some grunts and curses that could only be coming from the witcher himself. 

Just when Jaskier thought the battle could not possibly go on much longer, the melody stopped and the splashing subsided to a soft bubbling.

He looked at Roach and she looked at him. 

Then a keening scream tore the night air, so loud that Jaskier covered his ears. Splashing crescendoed as the scream did and there were several loud cracking impacts.

Then silence.

Jaskier breathed deeply, ears straining for some sign of the witcher’s return. Roach, too, looked worried. Seconds ticked past at a snail's pace.

Damn it. 

Memories of the battle with the not-one-but-two gryphons streamed through his head. If he went to the lake and there was a second monster… well...what if he got Geralt killed this time? How could he live with himself? But on the other hand, how could he live with himself if he let the man die within earshot because he was too much of a coward to try and help? 

“Aaarrgh.” He wrung his hands and furrowed his brow. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He grabbed a paring knife from beside the fire. It was the only thing resembling a weapon in the vicinity. He almost stepped out of the firelight right away, but then he noticed the potions laid out by the saddle bags. 

Left is for poison, right is for healing. 

He hesitated for a moment, before grabbing one of each and shoving them into his pockets. “Ohhhh, he is going to kill me now for sure…” Jaskier grimaced and started walking in the direction of the lake. 

He went quietly this time, or tried to, as his night vision was nowhere close to that of a horse or a witcher so he kept smacking into things. Geralt had told him that none of the likely water mutants, rusalka included, had particularly good hearing on land, so he figured if he was as quiet as possible and stayed out of the water, he had at least a chance of not becoming an immediate target. 

He could see moonlight reflected on water ahead and finally inched out of the tree-line onto the shore. 

It was not an especially large lake, one could make an argument for ‘pond,’ really, and the shoreline was mostly cobble-sized stones with the occasional boulder thrown in for variety. One such boulder protruded from the water off to Jaskier’s right. It was the only break in the smooth surface of the lake in the near vicinity. 

Neither the witcher nor the monster were anywhere to be seen.

“S$&%... ” Jaskier whispered to himself, “Not good, not good, not good.” Somebody was surely going to die tonight and he had the strong suspicion that it would end up being him.

After a moment’s hesitation he decided to make for the boulder. It should be possible to climb on top of it without getting in the water, and it might afford him a better vantage in the dim moonlight. Grasping the paring-knife in a trembling hand, he crept along the shoreline, wincing every time his boot made the stones clatter.

He was almost to the rock when he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks and sent his heart plummeting to his boots.

In the water on the far side of the boulder something dark was floating, motionless. Something wearing armor with glistening silver studs. 

“NO!” Jaskier shouted, abandoning all attempt at stealth. He sprinted forward. 

Geralt of Rivia was floating face-down in the still water. Behind him, a hulking twisted monster floated as well, the silver sword that had cleaved it almost in half still sticking out of it’s twisted flesh. 

“GERALT!” Jasker splashed the final few feet into the water and grabbed his friend’s closest hand, yanking him over to the shore with all of his none-too-considerable might, scrabbling and struggling to find purchase in the loose stones. 

He had barely gotten the witcher’s chest up onto the shore when he discovered part of the reason for his difficulty. 

The monster still had Geralt by the leg.

Some hideous appendage that Jaskier dared not attempt to name had bitten hard into the flesh of the witcher’s lower thigh, and, upon the creature’s death, had neglected to let go. 

Jaskier splashed back into the water and immediately set to work prying the-- whatever it was -- off of Geralt’s leg.

Slimy, of course it’s slimy. Jaskier shuddered. 

Whatever it was, it seemed to have achieved suction on the witcher’s flesh, and it wasn’t until Jaskier managed to wriggle a few fingers under one ‘lip’ that he was able to work it free with a meaty slurping sound. 

The ‘mouth’ had rings of concentric, razor-sharp teeth, many of which were now threaded with chunks of Geralt. 

“Uuuwrg!” Jaskier vocalized involuntarily, tossing the monstrosity back at it’s dismembered owner. He turned quickly back to Geralt but paused when he realized the slime on his hands was now causing a tingling, burning sensation that was quite unrelated to the chill of the cold lake. 

“F@$%ing no!” He yelped, and frantically splashed his hands through the water, wringing them free of the slime and wiping them on his soaked pants for good measure. The tingling didn’t disappear entirely, but at least it began to subside. 

Jaskier managed to haul the witcher the rest of the way up on to the the shore, and an extra meter besides, just in case there were more of--whatever that thing was-- nearby. Geralt hadn’t moved even a twitch. It was time for Jaskier to change that.

“Geralt? Geralt! You need to wake up now, alright old buddy?” Jaskier tried poking, shaking, and a few good thumps to the chest. 

Nothing.

“Don’t kill me for this one, ok? I just need you to snap out of it.” He cringed, before slapping the witcher hard across the cheek. 

Still no response. 

In the moonlight Jaskier thought he could make out shadows and dark lines around Geralt’s eyes, meaning he was still under the effect of that potion.

Or he died while under its effects… The grim thought pushed into his mind unbidden. 

“No! Geralt of Rivia you are not dead, you are not dying, I will not allow it!” He hoped he sounded more certain than he felt as he grabbed the witcher by the dripping pauldrons and wrestled him into a sitting position. 

When Geralt’s head slumped lifelessly onto his shoulder Jaskier finally noticed the deep cut just above the witcher’s hairline. A recollection made him pause in his efforts at thumping his friend’s back. 

“Head wounds bleed a lot .” He could distinctly remember Geralt growling at him. 

Yet this one released only a single drop of blood which slowly mingled with the lakewater coating Geralt’s deathly pale face. 

Jaskier turned sharply and looked down at the leg wound. Despite the sizeable chunk of missing flesh, there was very little blood. More slime than blood, really… more slime…

“Poison.” Jaskier said out loud. Finally making the connection. 

He darted back to the lake, letting Geralt slump over onto his side, and scooped water out onto the leg with his hands and shirt, then furiously wiped at the toxic slime with his sleeve. 

Jaskier pulled a vial out of his pocket, “Left is for poison.” He muttered, then looked back at Geralt. “Curse you for a fool--never showing me how to use these properly.”

He pulled out the cork and poured half the contents on the gaping leg-wound. He recoiled as it hissed and bubbled. “Well that may have been a terrible idea.”

The bard once again levered Geralt upright so that the witcher leaned heavily against him. He held his head steady with one hand and took the vial in the other. “Lets try an even worse one.” He said, and winced as he poured the rest of the potion into Geralt’s mouth. 

He didn’t know if the potion would get where it needed to go. Hells, he wasn’t even completely certain he’d used the right potion. But it was the last chance Geralt had, wasn’t it? It had to work…

He hugged the witcher’s chest tightly to his own as he rocked back and forth, pounding his friend’s back, perhaps more out of frustration now than hope that it would spur some reaction. “Come on, now, Geralt-- just breathe.” He dug his fingers into the tangled silver hair, pressing the side of Geralt’s head into his own. 

He should have noticed the warm blood now trickling from the witcher’s forehead.

“I need you to breathe, you stubborn, hurtful, prickly fool.” Jaskier pleaded, tears starting to cloud his vision, preventing him from seeing the rush of crimson now spilling from Geralt’s leg. 

“You magnificent, hateful, noble, bastard. This is not how your story ends! This is not how you--”

Geralt’s chest suddenly spasmed in a wave so powerful it completely broke Jaskier’s grip and sent him tumbling backwards onto the stones. A torrent of water was forced from the witcher’s chest in one massive retch.

Geralt threw his head back and gasped in a deep, ragged, breath, his eyes wide, black and unseeing. Then he hunched forward again as the coughs seized him, expelling more lake-water with each painful heave. 

Jaskier could do nothing but hold his friend as he hacked and coughed, clawing at his own throat, shaking from the effort as much as the cold. “You’re alive!” the bard kept repeating softly through the tears that were flowing freely now. “Stay with me.”

Slowly the coughs subsided and Geralt slumped into the bard, who lay the great blood-soaked head in his lap, pushing damp silver hair out of the witcher’s eyes. 

Eyes which, as Jaskier watched, faded back from black to gold. 

Geralt looked up at the bard, crimson streaked brow furrowed in what? pain? confusion? “Jas...kier?” The croak was barely audible. He reached a shaking hand up to his friend but it dropped and his eyes rolled back and then closed again.  

“Damn it, Geralt.” Jaskier’s fists clenched around the witcher’s armor, but then relaxed as he heard the ragged breaths continue to follow one after the other. The tremor running through Geralt’s body continued unabated, and blood still gushed from the man’s leg and head every few seconds with each beat of that abnormally slow heart. 

“Okay, oooookay. Not dead.” He told himself out loud because he needed to hear something other than his friend struggling to breathe. “But maybe dying, if we don’t get a handle on this right now.”

He looked over his left shoulder, back towards the faint flicker of firelight just visible through the trees. Their camp was barely a hundred meters away, with supplies and provisions all carefully laid out by Geralt himself.

Jaskier nodded, decision made. He shucked off his doublet and rested the unconscious witcher’s head on it. Better two minutes fetching supplies than twenty dragging him through the woods as he bleeds out. He told himself.

He addressed Geralt, “Don’t move. I mean it-- don’t you dare move. You had better be here and still alive when I get back or, so help me I’ll...sell Roach to the glue-maker!” 

And he hared off through the forest toward the campfire.

“Ruschlaena,” Geralt mumbled. He was finally laid out by the fire, free of soggy clothes and armor, ensconced in a truly impressive cocoon of blankets, wounds tended to the best of Jaskier’s (admittedly limited) ability. He had been laid out there for some time now. 

Jaskier perked up and leaned over his friend, “What was that?” He asked, brushing silver hair out of the witcher’s face and putting a hand to his brow. “You finally waking up, now, Geralt?”

“...waza ruschlaena” the attempt at speech devolved into a coughing fit, and Jaskier threw a protective arm around Geralt’s shoulder to prevent him from rolling too close to the fire. 

“You know, this is just my luck.” The bard said as he tucked blankets back in around the witcher when the coughing eased. “I go to truly extraordinary lengths to revive you and drag your dead weight through that unspeakably spiny forest, and now I come to find your lovely brain has been addled. Have you lost what scant powers of speech you had?” 

Jaskier found himself irrationally delighted when he saw a look of irritation cross the witcher’s face at the jibe. 

“...the mutant…” he coughed “...was a ruschlaena.” 

Gods. How could his voice be that much more ragged than it’s customary growl?

“Now pardon my unavoidable ignorance on the subject, but I’m fairly certain that ‘ruschlaena’ was not one of the potentialities you mentioned when we embarked on this ill fated venture. Am I wrong?”

Geralt shook his head marginally, “...’s rare…” another cough, “and da--” the coughing took him hard again and Jaskier did what little he could to help him ride it out.

“‘Dangerous,’ you were going to say? Yeah, no s&#$, Geralt. By the time I got to you it had drowned you and made a meal out of your leg, despite having already been chopped near in half. And, yes, before you ask, I did bring your sword back.” He saw the witcher eying his wounded leg. “That’s right, it had it’s nasty, toothy sucker-thing, attached to you right here,” he pointed but did not touch--

“...proboscis.” Geralt muttered.

“Really? Uh huh? Thank you, but I am never going to need to use that word again because this conversation will be the last time I ever speak, or even think, of that vile thing,” he shuddered involuntarily, “Anyway, I had to pry the slimy thing off of you with my own two hands.” he held them up, bandages and all, “And it was quite possibly the most disgusting moment of my life. And I’ve been to the red-light district of Carrera, so that is really saying something.”

He looked down and saw that the witcher’s golden eyes had gone wide and somewhat wild, with a look that, on anyone else, Jaskier would take for fear.

“...your hands!” Geralt coughed out, and started scrambling feebly against the blankets, clearly trying to rise, just as clearly quite incapable. 

Seeing the witcher so undeniably weak sent a chill through Jaskier’s veins, but he shook it off and moved to gently restrain his friend, “Easy, Geralt, my hands are fine. You need to rest.”

“Did it cut you?” He coughed, “Even a little? Did it get into your blood?”

“No, no. Geralt, look.” He unwrapped his fingers and presented both his hands to the witcher for inspection. There were a few red splotches, like fading burns, where the toxic slime had irritated his skin but no cuts or scratches were in evidence. 

Golden eyes scrutinized the hands closely before closing as Geralt sighed and sunk back down, breathing heavily. “Good,” he finally rasped, “One drop in the blood...lethal to humans.” 

Jaskier gulped, face going a shade paler. That had been close, then.

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Geralt looked back up at the bard, “Rub the burns… with some ash from the fire...should start to neutralize any residual toxin.”

Jaskier nodded and followed the directions to the witcher’s satisfaction. He was surprised to find that the ash did reduce the lingering sting immediately. 

“Any clothes that got slimed...will need to be burnt.”

“Geraaaalt.” Jaskier whined. 

“The toxin lasts,” more coughs, “...a long time. If it gets rubbed into a small cut...thats it.” He mimed a slash to the throat.

Jaskier swallowed again, thinking uncomfortably of the numerous small scrapes he’d received fighting to drag the unconscious witcher through the forest back to the campfire. 

“Fine.” he grumbled, and stood to collect his shirt and pants from where they were drying beside the fire. He shook his head mournfully, “I really liked this shirt. You’re going to owe me a new shirt- at least as nice as this one.” He tossed the clothes in the flames and returned to Geralt’s side.

“What about you, then?” he asked the witcher, “you got a hell of a lot more than one drop in your blood. Not quite lethal to witchers?”

Geralt shook his head slightly. “Lethal...if you hadn’t come with the Golden Oriole.”

“I’m sorry, the what now?”

He coughed, “...potion for poison.”

“Ohhhhh, of course. You mean that potion. One of the ones you left here without ever telling me what they were actually called or even a word about how they’re actually meant to be used. That potion?”

Geralt winced, but nodded, “...you did well.”

Jaskier huffed, but then had a thought, “Wait, but how’d you know I came and used the potion correctly?” He asked, “You weren’t... no ...come on Geralt, you can’t possibly have been awake.” 

Geralt nodded, wearing a pained expression. “...toxin’s a paralytic...stops everything but the brain. She got my leg... then dashed my head into the rock...knocked me out long enough...for the toxin to set in. Woke up underwater…”

Jasker hugged his knees to his chest. “That’s awful, Geralt.”

The witcher gave a tired nod and closed his eyes.

“Hey, now. --Hold on.” Jaskier leaned forward and took his friend by the shoulder. “No falling asleep on me just yet. You still look like death warmed over. What can I do ?”

Geralt seemed to think about the question for too long, as though holding the thought was difficult. He finally answered, “Hm...can barely feel my leg...and I can’t move well,” he flexed a shaky hand very slowly, “...you said the wound was deep?”

“Ho ho-- deep might be a bit of an understatement. That thing took a chunk out of you, Geralt.” The bard gestured to show the approximate size of the bite. 

“F#^$.” Geralt grimaced. “Another of each potion, then. Golden Oriole first."

Jaskier fetched the potions over and then, remembering the witcher’s previous futile efforts to rise, proceeded to prop Geralt's head and shoulders up in his lap.

The witcher endured the minior indignity without comment, but turned slightly to look up at Jaskier. “This will be unpleasant.” His raspy tone was almost...apologetic. 

Jaskier’s stomach clenched, but he plastered on a grin, “Unpleasant? So just everyday Geralt, then? You cheerless grump.” He gave the witcher’s shoulder a friendly thump and then handed him the potion. Then he leaned down, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

Geralt gave a weak nod, then tossed back the Golden Oriole in one gulp.

Instantly his body arced into a sequence of violent spasms. A choked cry tore from his throat. 

Jaskier struggled to keep ahold of his friend, to hold him steady and keep him from doing himself harm as he thrashed. It was not an easy task. 

Though the spasms probably didn’t last more than a minute, it felt far longer before Geralt finally sunk heavily back into bard’s lap, breathing hard and sweating profusely. 

“'Unpleasant'?” Jaskier managed a shaky laugh as he pulled the blankets back around his charge and tugged strands of sweat-soaked hair out of his face. “Ever the talent for understatement, Geralt.”

The witcher almost huffed a laugh, but it turned into a fresh groan as Geralt scowled down at his lower half. 

“Finally feeling the gaping hole in your leg, are you?”

Geralt gave him an all too familiar look-- it was the one that wordlessly told him to ‘f#$% off.’ 

Jaskier flashed a genuine grin in return. Geralt being Geralt was surely a good sign. “Now, for the love of gods and women, please tell me the other potion isn’t that bad.”

Geralt shook his head. “It’s fine. Should help with the--” he coughed.

“Enormous bleeding leg wound?”

Geralt grunted, "That."

Jaskier grabbed the other potion and then paused. “We really should get you to a healer.” 

To the bard’s surprise, Geralt nodded, “But I can’t walk or ride...and no healer would come out here for a witcher.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to object, but found he couldn’t. He was struck by how Geralt could say something so sad, so matter-of-factly. Decades of experience had taught this man that his life was worth next to nothing, even to those in the business of saving lives. 

“Well this will help for now,” his words sounded hollow in his own ears, but he handed Geralt the other potion and hauled the witcher up a little further for ease of drinking. 

The witcher downed this one more slowly, though he still grimaced at the taste, and seemed to breathe more easily almost at once. 

Jaskier eased him down to the ground again, cushioning his head and helping him settle into a comfortable position for rest. 

“You’ll be alright now, Geralt?” 

“I’ll be alright.”

Geralt extended a hand from underneath the blankets, slowly, like it weighed more than a millstone. “Jaskier?”

The bard frowned and cocked his head suspiciously, but clasped the hand in his own. 

“Thanks.” The witcher said softly and gave the hand a light squeeze before apparently dropping back off to sleep.

The bard sat in silence, still holding that hand well into the night.

Chapter Text

Jaskier stretched lazily as sunlight flickered through the leaves above him and a faint breeze tickled his face. It was good to have a lie-in on a warm fall morning...on the soft ground...under a canopy of leaves... 

The bard sat up abruptly, the events of the previous night returning to him in a chaotic rush, and looked around frantically for the injured witcher. He was, thankfully, present, but not at all where Jaskier had left him.

“Geralt!” The bard exclaimed, “You look…” he blinked in surprise, ”...remarkably well.”

And indeed, the witcher did.

He had draped his saddle over a log, making a back-rest for himself, and with a fresh shirt on and a single blanket over his shoulders-- even a cup of...something...warm and steaming in his hand-- Geralt looked...practically comfortable. If not for the sizable bandage still adorning his leg, Jaskier could easily have taken him for any traveler having a rest by his campfire after a long day's ride. Well, a white haired, grumpy, deadly-looking traveler, anyway.

He must have been gaping, because Geralt raised an eyebrow. Was that ...amusement lurking in his expression? “Yeah.” He said, “Swallow does it’s job.”

“Swallow?” The bard asked, sitting up fully. A blanket that he didn’t remember taking slid down his shoulder.

Geralt winced marginally. “The healing potion.”

“Oh, right, right. Of course.” Jaskier got to his feet with another expansive stretch, wringing out muscles still sore from the night’s travails. “Named for the bird? Or what you do with it?” He asked.

Geralt cocked his head, evidently not having thought about it. ”The bird.“ He answered, after a beat. His voice had returned to its normal steady growl, the bard was relieved to notice.

“Huh,” Jaskier returned, with Geralt-like brevity, and yawned. He picked up the blanket and walked over to the witcher. To his eternal surprise, Geralt picked up a second steaming mug and nodded toward the spot next to him.

“Why thank you!” Jaskier wrapped the blanket around himself with a flourish and sat down, “Who knew near-death experiences could bring out your generous side.”

Geralt frowned darkly and gave one of his signature grunts, but still proffered the mug until the bard took it. 

“You’ve been a busy witcher,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the state of Geralt and the camp in general, “May I?” He paused, reaching over the witcher for the bag of hard tack. 

Geralt nodded.

“Thanks,” he bit into a piece and sat back down. “You should have woken me, though.” He said with his mouth full, gnawing dramatically on the dense, dry bread. 

“You earned a rest.” Geralt said, taking a sip from his mug. “It’s barely midday anyway.”

“Midday?” Jaskier coughed out, choking on his hard tack. 

Geralt gave him a single hard thump on the back which dislodged the offending piece, and left Jaskier holding his throat looking wounded.

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere for a while,” he put a hand above the bandaged part of his leg, “thought you could use the sleep.”

“That’s nonsense, Geralt. We have fees to collect and nice soft beds waiting for us at the inn. You can sit, yeah? So you can sit a horse, surely?”

“And how do you propose I get on the horse?” He nodded towards Roach, who really did look very tall from this angle. 

Jaskier shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe she can, you know, sort of lie down over here,” he gestured to clear space by the fire, “And you can, maybe kind of, crawl onto her back. And she just,” he made a popping gesture, “stands up! And there you are-- on the horse!”

Geralt was looking at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “You really don’t know horses, do you.”

“I...I take exception to that comment.” Jaskier said, “I just thought, as picky as you are about her, maybe you had her specially trained. You hear that, Roach? I thought you were special, he says you’re not.” He thumbed toward Geralt.

Roach tossed her head and stomped a foot.

“You’re special.” Geralt growled at Jaskier, making it anything but a compliment.

“Nice. Glad you’re back to your ordinarily mean self. What IS this?” He had just taken a sip of whatever was in the mug, and his face scrunched up in disgust.

“That tea you picked up in Torreville...I think.” 

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste?” He took another sip and almost spit it out. “Nope, nooooo thank you. That is gods awful. Geralt how can you stand that?”

Geralt shrugged indifferently and took a sip of his own.

Jaskier shuddered, “All those potions must have dulled your sense of taste.”

“Possibly.” Geralt agreed. 

“Well I’ll just let you finish this.” He set the mug down next to Geralt with just two fingers, handling it as if it was going to bite him. “And I’ll have some…” he uncorked a nearby skin “...water. Plain, stale, water.” he finished, clearly disappointed.

“Jaskier, there’s nothing stopping you going back to the village.”

The bard’s gaze involuntarily flicked over to Roach.

“...on your own two feet.” Geralt added.

“Ahhh,” Jaskier leaned back on the log throwing his arms behind it and stretching out his legs, “I’m not in the mood for a long walk. And I’m not sure how welcome I’d be, returning without you. You know, it’s amazing how quickly people assume you’ve died when you don’t return immediately with the beastie’s head on the end of your sword.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Geralt gave him a pointed look.

Jaskier ignored it. “Besides, what would you do here without me?”

“Enjoy some peace and quiet.”

“Ha! Lovely! Again with the brutal humor. But actually what I meant was-- what will you do when, for example, you need to get more water or firewood?”

The witcher looked down, lip curled in annoyance.

“Oh, I’m right, aren’t I?" The bard rubbed his hands together, "There’s already something you need to ask me to do and you’re too stubborn and self-reliant to say it. Come on, Geralt, it’s time. It’ll be good for you.” He completely failed to hold back the grin.

Geralt closed his eyes briefly before glaring back up at Jaskier. “Roach needs to be fed and watered.” He said through gritted teeth. 

Jaskier couldn’t contain his glee. “And I am at your service.” He sprang to his feet, “And of course at yours, milady.” He made an elaborate bow in the horse’s direction. 

She eyed him warily. 

The bard turned back to Geralt, “You do acknowledge that at some point in the performance of this task I will more than likely find it necessary to-- touch Roach.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and nodded his assent. 

“Splendid . So- I assume you have instructions for me?”

“There was a grassy clearing we passed through on the way here-- over that way.” Geralt pointed. “Had a creek at the far end. Take her over there, tie this rope to her lead.” He reached behind the log he was leaning against and grabbed a length of rope to toss to Jaskier. “Then tie it to a sturdy tree in range of the grass and the creek. We can leave her be ‘til just before dusk, and she can graze and drink as needed.”

“You hear that, Roach? You’re to be better provisioned then we are.” He walked over to the horse and gave her several friendly pats on the shoulder, smiling and making eye contact with Geralt all the while. 

Geralt just shook his head.

“Alright now, girl, let’s get you untied…” He moved to her head and leaned down to undo the knot connecting her lead to the tree. 

Roach eyed him placidly for a moment, and then casually reached her head down and gave him a none too gentle nip in the seat of the trousers. 

Jaskier yelped, jumped up and hit his head on a branch, and then tumbled away cursing.

Geralt just put a hand up to the bridge of his nose and shook his head, hiding the half-smile that threatened to cross his face. “Leave off, Roach.” he told the horse sternly. “He’s alright.” 

Roach stamped her foot again and did not appear entirely convinced. 

Jaskier approached again more cautiously, rubbing his injured backside with a scowl. “Of course you have your master’s temperament. How did I not see that coming…”  He came at the knot from a different angle this time, keeping an eye on Roach’s face and his rear away from it. Once the lead rope was free he took the very furthest end of it and gave a small tug. “Alright you spiteful hellsteed, lets go get you some lunch. That’s it, easy does it.” 

The horse seemed to decide it was in her best interest to go along with him after all, so the two of them made their way away from the campfire, leaving Geralt to his treasured peace and quiet.

Jaskier returned shortly, having sustained just a couple more nips that he definitely wasn’t going to tell Geralt about, and found that the witcher had set to the task of re-bandaging his leg. 

The bard was about to offer his assistance, but was momentarily struck by the change in the wound. “Geralt, that looks like it’s three days healed, not just barely one.” He correctly assumed that the witcher had heard him return and perch on the log behind him. 

Geralt grunted. The wound was still profoundly deep and at risk of infection. He used some bandage and water from the skin to rinse and clean it before he started re-wrapping. 

“That’s amazing.” Jaskier climbed over the log and sat on top of it. “Your head too,” he leaned forward to get a closer look, “That one’s already well scabbed over. Is that your mutation or that ‘Swallow’ potion at work?”

“Hm. Both.” Geralt replied, “Our bodies are engineered to react this way to specific chemical combinations that are toxic to regular humans.” 

This was more than the witcher had ever told Jaskier about his origins, so the bard couldn’t resist the temptation to probe further, with caution. “But you were born a regular human?” He hazarded, genuinely unsure of the answer.

Geralt grunted an affirmative as he finished re-wrapping the wound. “The transformation process was… not pleasant.” The way Geralt said those last two words gave Jaskier the distinct impression that they were the witcher’s biggest understatement yet. They also did not invite further questions- a point which the bard, for once, decided to respect. 

Jaskier nodded thoughtfully and slid over the log to sit next to the witcher. He could see a few lines of pain etched on the grim face and wasn’t sure whether they were from the leg wound or the memories. 

“Well you certainly seem to be prepared for anything.” The bard leaned back on the log as Geralt also sat back against his saddle. “But tell, me-- if I weren’t here right now, how would you be managing?” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, would you let Roach fend for herself and just, I dunno, hibernate till you’re well enough to walk? Or would you be hobbling all over the place getting your chores done?”

Geralt’s face twitched and Jaskier could practically see him biting back the snide remark that had automatically come to his mind. Instead he gave a long-suffering sigh, leaned his head back against the saddle seat, and closed his eyes. 

Jaskier definitely thought he had pushed the questions too far when Geralt surprised him by answering in a flat tone. “In a day or two Roach would slip her halter. She’d wander off, probably back to the road. Hopefully she’d be found by good farmer or tradesman-- somebody who would treat her well, give her work, but not the dangerous so--”

“I’m sorry, what? ” Jaskier interjected. “That’s nonsense, Geralt, you would never let Roach… ohhhhhhhh.” He looked back at the witcher as his mind caught up. “You mean…”

Geralt opened his eyes, giving the bard a look that almost begged not to make him say it. But Jaskier waited.

“You saved my life, Jaskier.” He looked away, “One mistake is generally all a witcher gets. No second chances. If you hadn’t been here...I’d be dead.”

Jaskier let the statement hang in the air. “Wow.” He finally said, “That clearly took a lot for you to admit. I’m going to just let that sit there for another minute.” As he did, he noticed the distinct lack of curses or flying objects raining down on him.

“Hold on, that’s why you’re being so strangely nice to me today? Ok, let’s not accuse you of ‘nice’-- that’s going too far, maybe ‘less grouchy’ would be better.” He peered over at Geralt who avoided his gaze. “You let me sleep late, made me horrible tea, haven’t thrown anything at me all morning, you asked Roach not to bite me. And how many times have you told me to ‘shut up’ so far today?" 

Geralt ventured an annoyed glance before looking away again.

“Exactly-- none! It’s downright unsettling.” Jaskier leaned forward around the witcher’s front, trying to catch his avoidant eyes. “So you’re feeling guilty, indebted, maybe even a little grateful, am I right?” 

He was far enough into his friend’s personal space that he realized he was in danger of being hit, gratitude notwithstanding, so he backed off.

“But you’re forgetting something.” Jaskier added, wagging a finger at the witcher.

“What am I forgetting, bard…” Geralt ground out, clearly struggling to control his irritation.

“I was simply repaying my debt.”

“Your what?”

“Surely you remember that little incident with the two gryphons a few months back? You told me to pay my debt and save your life in exchange for a…” He extended a hand and left the sentence unfinished for Geralt to reach the inevitable conclusion.

“F&$#.”

“Well, actually, no. It was a story. I’m not opposed to a good f&$#, but this hardly seems the time nor place.” 

“Jaskier.” The familiar threat was back in his voice.

“Kidding, Geralt, you never can take a joke. Don’t you see though? This is perfect! You can discharge that pesky sense of gratitude, and I can get the story that I’ve wanted for such a long, long time, straight from the mouth of the White Wolf himself.”

Geralt seemed to think about it for a moment before conceding with a growl. “Fine.”

“Splendid!” Jaskier exclaimed, “It was that one.” He almost poked Geralt in the gut before realizing how much he’d like to keep all his fingers and thinking better of it.

“The kikimora.” Geralt stated.

“Oooo, the kikimora.” Jaskier intoned. “Hold on.” He leaned over and withdrew his notebook and quill from his satchel. “I’m taking notes. Both kinds, in fact!” He hummed a few bars of something unintelligible while scribbling.

“Jaskier...”

“Right, shutting up. Go ooooon.” The bard added a musical lilt to the last syllable. 

“Alright,” Geralt said, defeated. “Well to start-- I only tell people this scar was from the Kikimora. It’s not exactly true.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widened in excitement.

“It all started with a Kikimora, but the stab-wound was actually from a princess.” 

“A princess??? ” the bard rolled onto his front and kicked his feet together behind him in absolute glee. “Geralt you blessed miser. You’ve barely spoken a dozen words and this is already going to be the best ballad I’ve ever written! I mean, really-- starts with a monster, ends with a princess? It doesn’t get better than that! I--”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”