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„It seems like you’ve gotten yourself into quite the pickle.”
Geralt didn’t deem the comment worthy of a response, too busy trying to catch his breath. He was sitting with his back against the rough bark of a tree, his silver sword several metres away and still buried inside the Endrega queen. The beast had long since succumbed to its wounds, but the torn up grass and earth all around it told the story of its last moments, a final desperate scramble for life.
Not that Geralt was doing much better. He could almost feel the icy venom spreading through his veins with every beat of his heart, even though he knew intellectually that it was impossible. Despite the warm afternoon sun peaking through the trees, there was a strange chill settling into his bones as each beat brought him a little closer to his last.
Normally, the slow heartbeat would protect him until he could swallow a vial or two of White Honey to counteract the venom. Now, it was only prolonging the inevitable. He had noticed halfway through the fight that the satchel with his potions had come loose, but by then it was already too late. The small vials were strewn out across the clearing, far from his reach. One last way the universe had decided to mock him. Dying from a simple venom, less than a dozen metres from the remedy that could have saved him.
“Pickle. Such a funny word when you think about it. You humans make up the best sayings, truly.”
“Not human” Geralt grunted and the man- boy- creature lounging comfortably on a rock on the other side of the small clearing gave him a dazzling smile.
“Near enough, I dare say. So fragile, the whole lot of you. Even the famed witchers are brought low by a few drops of poison.”
“Hm.”
Geralt didn’t bother pointing out how much of an understatement 'a few drops' was, nor did he argue the differences between poison and venom. The creature was probably only trying to wind him up, though for what reason he couldn't tell. It wasn't as if he could fight it now.
He had been on his way back west towards Temeria when he had (quite literally) stumbled across a whole nest of Endregas, only noticing the distinct cocoons when it was already far too late. By the time he realised what he was looking at, the warriors had already charged. Endregas had become extremely rare over the past decades. Still, Geralt couldn’t bring himself to feel any real remorse at having eradicated another nest. They looked like they had sprung straight from a nightmare, the chitinous red exoskeleton and long, flat muzzles resembling a horrible cross between scorpion and lizard. The Endregas had scuttled across the forest floor on long spidery legs, spittle and venom oozing from their wide open maws as they scrambled across each other in their haste to reach him. Geralt's entire armour was drenched in the stuff, burning where it touched his bare skin.
“Honestly, I expected better. I had heard so many tales about your kind, witcher.”
The voice was suddenly much closer and Geralt instinctively tensed, blinking up at the creature. It was now standing just barely out of arm’s reach, a disappointed frown marring its slightly too even features. Geralt wasn't sure if it had used some sort of magic to approach so quickly and silently or if he had blacked out for a second. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.
“Stories lie” he replied as the cold slowly crept towards his chest. His fingers were itching for a sword, even though he doubted he could still lift his arms, much less swing a weapon. Instead, he settled for glaring at the creature.
“So it seems.”
The creature could have almost passed as human, all light skin and tousled brown hair that was nearly long enough to fall into bright blue eyes. And yet, Geralt would have never mistaken it for a normal man. It was simply a bit too much – skin just a tad too clear, eyes a little too blue, smile too wide and toothy. It almost screamed of fae glamour.
“What a waste” the fae added and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was talking about untrue stories or about his own life. Then it seemed to think of something else and the frown fell from its face again as quickly as it had appeared. “Would you give me your name?”
Geralt nearly rolled his eyes. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for fae games at the moment. Strangely, wasting away in the middle of a forest with only a supernatural creature for company wasn't a very pleasant experience.
“No” he grunted finally, because the fae was still watching him expectantly and it wasn’t as if he could do much else. “But you may call me Geralt.”
“Geralt” the fae repeated, dragging out each syllable like it was savouring the name on its tongue. Apparently it came to a positive conclusion. Once again, its smile was nearly blinding. “You may call me Jaskier.” It clapped its hands. “A name for a name, as is fair.”
Geralt had never heard of the fae folk being particularly concerned about fairness, at least not in the human sense. They may not be able to lie outright and were very adamant about their bargains, but Vesemir had spent a long time drilling into each of his students to never trust an offer made by one of the fae, no matter how tempting. The price was always too high.
“You know, I could save your life” the fae – Jaskier – said in that moment, as if it had read his thoughts. Its shrewd look was betraying the casual tone of voice, eyes fixed on Geralt with an intent he couldn’t decipher. Whether it was the venom clouding his thoughts or regular fae strangeness, Geralt didn’t know. “I wouldn’t even need any of those disgusting smelling potions you so carelessly threw all over my clearing. A bit of magic would be enough.”
Geralt bristled at the words, though he couldn’t do much more. The pain in his arms and legs had given way to a sort of numbness that was even more disconcerting. Only his head was still able to move without any trouble and Geralt swallowed harshly, mouth drier than the Korath desert. Fae were dangerous, he reminded himself. They could not be trusted in any case.
Then again, he was already dying. What could be worse than this?
“What do you want in return?”
Jaskier’s smile was anything but reassuring. “Oh, nothing you will miss. Nothing you have ever wanted.”
Geralt tried to puzzle over the words, but quickly gave up. He would be dead several times over before the fae made sense.
“And if I don’t agree?” he asked instead. Jaskier’s expression didn’t change.
“My dear Geralt, you know the answer to that. I’m certain that the feeling has already left your arms and legs. In a little while, the numbess will reach your lungs, paralysing every muscle until you will struggle to take even the shallowest of breaths. If you are lucky, it will reach your heart before you suffocate.” The fae spread its arms in an easy gesture, as if they were merely discussing the weather or the current trading rates for ducats. Not Geralt's life. “Really, what do you expect me to ask of you that could be worse than your current fate?”
“I’m sure you could find something” Geralt retorted, talking as much to himself as to the fae. This was a horrible idea.
If anything, Jaskier’s smile widened. “Most certainly” it confirmed. “But I would not enjoy doing so. I have seen a glimpse of the fate you could have if you survived today. Your future is very interesting.”
A future deemed ‘interesting’ by one of the fae would almost certainly be horrible. Maybe dying today was the better choice after all.
Jaskier must have seen the doubts on Geralt’s face, for it rolled its eyes in a strangely human gesture. “I promise it is not as terrible as you seem to think.”
“What do you want?” Geralt asked again. His breath was coming noticeably shorter, but he still didn’t like the instant gleam of triumph in Jaskier’s eyes.
“Like I said, nothing you have ever wanted. I only ask for your first child.”
Geralt might have laughed if he wasn’t struggling to breathe. The fae had to know that witchers were all sterile, especially if it had glanced into his future. He would never father a child. Which of course meant that this had to be some sort of trap. Unfortunately, Geralt didn’t have the time to figure out the angle. His face was tingling, his tongue weirdly big and unwieldy in his mouth.
“A child.”
“Your first child” Jaskier repeated pleasantly, still far too casual for Geralt's taste. It knelt down on the ground in one fluid motion to hold Geralt’s gaze even when his head began to droop, growing too heavy to keep looking up.
“Let me help you, Geralt of Rivia.” Fingers touched his cheek, surprisingly warm and soft as they cradled his head. Geralt only barely suppressed a growl, suddenly very aware how helpless he was in front of this strange creature. “Don’t let your life go to waste.”
Really, there was only one answer. Geralt had always expected to die on the Path, killed by a monster's claws or fangs once he got too slow. But now that his time had apparently come, he found that he... wanted more. In all the decades he had been alive, he had not even faced half the monsters they had been taught about in Kaer Morhen. He had never travelled all the way down south past Nilfgaard or east through the Blue Mountains. There was so much more this world still had to offer, so much more he could still offer to the people in his mission to rid the world of monsters.
And maybe Jaskier was such a monster, but as the fae had said, Geralt had never wanted a child nor could he imagine ever having one. Kaer Morhen lay in ruins and the Path was not made for children to endure. Whatever made witchers sterile, it was one of the easiest, one of the kindest changes he had had to undergo during the trials.
Geralt allowed himself another moment of hesitation, even though he knew his answer. If by some chance he did ever come by a child, it would not have a better life with him than with the fair folk. He resolutely shut down the warning voice whispering in the back of his mind, the voice that sounded suspiciously like Vesemir.
“Do it” Geralt rasped out, his own voice coming out as barely more than a breath. From the way the fingers stilled against his skin, he knew Jaskier had still heard him.
“Then we have a deal. Your life for the child.”
Geralt tried to nod, tried to push through the renewed sharp sting of doubts, but his body didn’t obey anymore. Still, Jaskier must have sensed his struggle. He could feel the fae leaning closer, the scent of forest and spring rain filling his nose even as a cool breath ghosted his ear.
“Sleep now, Geralt of Rivia. No harm will come to you today.”
Fingers carded through his hair and Geralt meant to protest. He meant to say something, to take it back or to growl at the fae for the way those hands touched his skin so easily - but then his mind was already slipping away into blessed silence. He couldn't do anything more than hope that he had made the right choice as he drifted off, left at the mercy of the fae.
Suddenly alone as the only conscious creature in the clearing, Jaskier regarded the witcher for a long moment, his hands still idly stroking the white hair. It was like silk beneath his fingertips, so much softer than expected despite the blood and viscera that had gotten stuck in it during the fight. Even unconscious, Geralt was still scowling, jaw tense with lingering pain from the venom. Jaskier couldn't help the burning sting of curiousity at this strange being who insisted so adamantly that he was not human - and yet was perhaps more so than most of the humans that dared enter the forest.
It reminded him again of his dreams the night before. Long hair as pale as the witcher's and a scream that shook the very earth with its power. Steel and bloodshed and fire and death, so much death all around. Nothing good ever came from fae trying to mingle with humans. And yet...
For a moment Jaskier nearly pulled back and walked away, ready to leave the witcher and this cursed deal behind with nothing more than the trees as his witnesses. Then Geralt's face spasmed in pain and the thought was gone again as quickly as it had come. This had the potential to end badly either way and for now, Jaskier had a bargain to uphold. Closing his eyes, he let his hands rest on Geralt's chest as he turned his focus inwards, searching for the right words to save the witcher. He had work to do.
And thus the wheels of fate were set into motion.