Chapter Text
Jaskier didn’t know if he’d felt grief like this before. Sure, he’d been tossed broken-hearted from bedchambers; he’d cried watching two lovers reunite; hell, he’d even outlived an aunt or two. But this- this was his heart, the rhythm of his day, his constant companion. They had travelled together for so very long, and okay; they hadn’t always gotten on: sometimes when feeling uncooperative, there was little Jaskier’s honeyed words and gentle fingers could do to soothe the tides, but still. Still. A dearer, more loyal friend had never been had.
“Fuck sake, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted, “Stop being so fucking dramatic.”
Jaskier looked up from where he knelt, cradling the shattered pieces of his lute.
“Dramatic?” He began indignantly. “Oh, I’m so sorry, how would you like me to respond to the loss of my reflection, my voice, my true-“
“Quietly.”
Jaskier could only give a small, outraged cry. “That lute made you famous, and this is how you reply to that? Where is the empathy?”
“Somewhere far away, probably with my patience. We need to get going.”
Jaskier sniffed, then reached out to gather the ruined remains of his lute. Despite his playing up of the loss, a lump rose up in his throat none the less. The rosewood; once beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl sweeping up the bow, was no more. The worst part was, Jaskier wasn’t even sure how it had happened: there had been a werewolf; running; fear, and a brief tussle ending with a twist of Geralt’s sword and the usual god-awful spray of monster blood.
The lute had been slung across Jaskier’s back, nestled safely in its home between his shoulder blades, with the weight of it as natural as a limb. And somewhere between there and the way Jaskier had fallen, awkward and desperate, in his struggle to get the fuck out of the way, thank you very much- was this. Shattered rosewood, and mother of pearls scattered across the ground.
The lute was old; given to him by the elves on his and Geralt’s first trip together: in many ways it marked the start of their relationship: the places where the threads of their lives began to tangle, where Jaskier’s life had begun.
He gathered up each shard, placing each carefully in his saddlebag. His hands shook only slightly. He stayed on his knees a moment longer.
“Well,” He said, forcing some brevity into his too-loud voice. “A tragic end for a loyal companion. I’d almost want to write a song about it, except, well, I’d nothing to write it on. We must stop in the next village anyhow, to recover from this tragedy. I plan on getting absolutely, ridiculously drunk on the finest ale this side of Cintra. I must drown my sorrows somehow.”
“We’re not stopping.” Geralt said, turning to lead Roach away. “We’ve too much ground to cover.”
“Geralt, it’s been weeks since I’ve slept in an actual bed; seen anyone’s face beside your fine specimen, or had an actual two-sided conversation. Come on, what could one night hurt? I mean, sure, it’s not like we’ve got much money, and without my lute, it’s not like we can earn any-“
“I’m sorry about your lute.” Geralt snapped, seemingly losing patience. “But we’re not stopping. If you want a soft bed and someone to pander to your ego, then fine. Go. I’m not stopping you.” Geralt turned away, cold anger lining his face, as Jaskier tried very hard not to take his words to heart. He failed. It hurt almost as much as the way the lute had shattered beneath his weight. You’d think, by now, he’d be immune to the hurt Geralt’s words could bring- in fact, Geralt had said much worse, much more often. With the loss of his lute so fresh in his mind though, these words seemed to sink much deeper than usual, and just for a moment, just for a heartbeat, Jaskier considered it.
Later, Jaskier would wonder what would have happened if he had taken Geralt at his word. If he had said fine: strapped the remains of his lute a little tighter against his back, found some lively tavern to sing his woes to, some other whitehaired Witcher to break his heart. If he’d cut his losses before they’d etched themselves into his heart. Yet even then, he was too late, too deep.
Jaskier pretended to consider Geralt’s offer, then shook his head as he bounded to his feet. “Nah, I couldn’t do that to you. You’d miss me too much, and then where would we be?”
Geralt sighed: Jaskier pretended it was one of relief, despite the annoyance he could hear so plainly.
“Right then, oh mighty Witcher, where to, then, if not the homely comforts of a tavern and soft beds?”
“North.”
“Any specifics, or are we just going with a general direction here?”
Geralt settled into silence as they walked, ignoring the majority of Jaskier’s conversation, other than the odd grunt when a question did demand an answer. Eventually though, even Jaskier tailed off, exhaustion getting the better of him. They had been travelling the better part of a day: the werewolf had attacked in the last hour before dawn, and now the sun was beginning its gentle descent, waltzing slowly towards the horizon, as if wanting to savour the day. Jaskier wished it would hurry the fuck up: even Geralt couldn’t travel in the dark of the moon: not with terrain like this.
At least, that’s what Jaskier was hoping; his feet hurt like fuck.
“Don’t suppose we fancy a nap at some point?” He edged. Geralt looked to the road ahead, then to where Jaskier walked just astride Roach’s flank, and let out one of his little grunts, which could have meant anything at all. Jaskier took it to mean acquiescence. “Excellent, I am exhausted.”
Camp that night was a simple one: no soft beds, no adoring crowds, just a deer Geralt had caught for their dinner, and Jaskier’s soft humming in place of the murmur of his lute. The forest was quiet around them: most creatures of the day were at rest, and the creatures of the night had not yet woken. They sat for some minutes in peace, just them and the slow crackle of the fire.
“What’s it like?” He asked softly into the silence. “Being a Witcher?”
Geralt looked sideways at him, wry and open in a way he so rarely was.
“I don’t know. It’s all there is.”
“But how does it feel?”
Geralt’s smile was a small thing, more bitterness than mirth. He leant against the tree beside him: closed his eyes. His voice was the rasp of gravel across rock.
“Didn’t you hear, bard? Witcher’s don’t have feelings.”
Jaskier could not help his smile. “Horseshit.”
The smile that curved Geralt’s lips was more genuine: a small, quicksilver thing of surprising sweetness. Jaskier hated the way it transformed his face; softening as it went. He hated that he could not look away.
Geralt opened his eyes, and Jaskier tried to school his expression, almost sure that the way he felt was written across his features; was pouring from him, and into the space between them.
He blurted out the first question that came to mind: “Where d’you reckon that story came from anyway?”
Geralt sighed, shifting back against the tree. “People wanted a reason to hate our kind. People wanted a reason to cast out those too different to fit in. It’s always the same story. Why give Witcher’s bed or board or hospitality when they are just as bad as the monsters they hunt?”
Jaskier considered this for a moment. “What morons.”
There was a rumble of a chuckle, which Jaskier immediately committed to memory: rough, like the rest of Geralt, but with kindness hidden between the cracks. There was quiet for a few more minutes: just the sound of the forest slowly coming to life around them; the soft hoot of an owl: the insects in the undergrowth.
“I am sorry about your lute.” Geralt said softly, unexpectedly. Jaskier smiled, trying not to show the way the words caused warmth to trickle through him, slow and insidious.
“It’s okay. In the end, it was just wood and strings. It was the songs, the stories, that mattered, and they’re doing just fine. In fact,” He said, needing to brighten the atmosphere. “Did you want me to share with you my latest composition?”
Geralt rolled his eyes, then shifted himself until he was sat on his haunches, the way he always did when he needed to meditate.
“Go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier. We’ve got a long way to go tomorrow.”
Jaskier turned his face to hide his smile, then settled down for the night. And slowly, he drifted to sleep, with the gentle burring of the insects and the life of the forest around him, lulled by Geralt’s deep, even breaths.