Chapter Text
Roach whinnies faintly, nudging him toward the nearby pond with a gentle brush of her snout. Geralt stumbles forward on unsteady legs, peering down into the water’s surface to find－”Ahh, fuck.”
He didn’t want to believe it. But it’s rather difficult to deny the evidence when it’s so, well…
He looks down into the water again, running short, stubby fingers through the mess of chocolate brown curls atop his little head. Judging by his size, he thinks that he’s about six- or seven-years-old, but it’s hard to tell, given that he doesn’t remember much about his own childhood prior to his mother abandoning him when he was eight, and his experience with other children is… also limited.
He’s barefoot, clad only in the black cotton shirt he’d been wearing beneath his armor. Thank Melitele that whatever had happened, happened near Roach－it had been almost comedic to watch him struggle to load the leather armor onto Roach’s saddle, seeing as it weighed nearly half as much as he did and he isn’t quite tall enough to reach her back in this state. It’s… rather chilly to be wandering about in such a state of undress, but none of his other clothes fit him and he’s at least half a day’s walk to the nearest town－
Ah, wait. Half a day in his normal body. Like this, he’ll just as likely die of frostbite before he’s made it even halfway…
Roach taps him with her snout a second time, and he sighs. At least she still recognizes him, even in this state. Not that that does him much good, but… It’s a small comfort, considering everything else that’d gone to actual hell in the last several hours. Yennefer is long gone (and he has a sneaking suspicion that she is at least partially responsible for all this ), and so is Jaskier (but that… that’s his fault, much as it burns to admit it). He can’t remember the last time he felt so alone, so defenseless －
So scared.
Alright, that maybe a lie. His hands twitch around an imaginary pail filled to the brim with ice-cold water from the spring, his mother’s name on his lips as she disappears into the horizon. He’s rather useless in this form (the fact that his swords are still laid out on the ground beside him, mocking him with their tremendous weight, is testament to that fact－his little stick arms would snap the second he tried to lift the bloody things off the ground, which is as infuriating as it is embarrassing). And no-one has need of a useless Witcher.
Gods, this has to be the actual worst way to die－
“We fight it down/And we live it down/Or we bare it bravely well…” steely blue eyes snap up at the sound of a familiar lilting voice. That’s… yes , that’s Jaskier, coming back down the mountain! “But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell…”
“J-Jas－,” he cuts himself off, mid-exclamation, realizing that he looks absolutely nothing like himself and as such, there’s no good reason for him to know the bard’s name. Or to hope that the bard will recognize him in turn. Fuck…
“W-Who…” the bard’s song comes to an abrupt end, his fingers pausing awkwardly on his lute strings as his cornflower blue eyes flit about in search of the cause of the noise. “Roach? What’re you doing down here by your lonesome, darling girl? Shouldn’t you be－,”
His eyes fall on Geralt. The pint-sized Witcher cannot help but swallow uncomfortably, that old childhood shyness rising up inside of him and settling awkwardly in his gut. “Um… hello.”
“Hi,” Jaskier breathes… and then he actually breathes, and it’s easily the most disgusting sound Geralt has ever heard. Everything about him is wet with mucus. “Um… What exactly are you…”
He trails off, and there’s so many different ways to fill in the blank there, Geralt doesn’t even know where to start. What is a tiny child doing, by his lonesome, at the foot of a mountain, with nightfall just around the corner? What is a tiny child doing with a Witcher’s armor, weapons, and horse ? What is a tiny child doing, dressed so horribly for the weather? Jaskier could be trying to ask him any number of things, and to be fair, he knows the answer to absolutely none of those questions, so he sits, silently, and waits.
“Have you seen a Witcher? About yea high, silver hair, amber eyes? Real surly fellow, and in a piss-poor mood.” Geralt purses his lips, but doesn’t answer. Roach proceeds to headbutt him in the shoulder so hard she almost knocks him over. “Whoa, girl. Be gentle. Little ones are fragile.”
Geralt’s expression morphs into a full-on pout, “‘m not fragile .”
“Ah yes, right. I’d forgotten that children are nigh indestructible. Silly me.” Jaskier sniffles again, rubbing at his swollen, red-rimmed eyes. “I should probably wait here for my fri－,” he stops himself mid-word, shaking his head, “for the Witcher to return. To make sure no harm comes to his belongings. But you… you should head home. I’m certain there’s someone out there worried sick about you－,”
Geralt shakes his head, “...I haven’t a home to return to.”
“Oh.” Jaskier sits down beside him, “Well, then… would you like to wait here with me awhile? Just until the Witcher returns? It’ll be safer if we stick together－strength in numbers and all that.”
“I’ll protect you!” Geralt exclaims, only for a cute little blush to stain his rounded cheeks. His voice is so damn squeaky!
“I’m sure you will.” Jaskier concedes with a bright smile. It warbles a bit at the edges, and he still looks like he’ll bust into tears at any moment, but… He seems happier than he was before, and it makes Geralt’s chest feel warm. “Why don’t you go collect some wood, and I’ll build us a fire to keep warm in the meantime.”
Geralt nodded. He could do that－he could be useful, even in this small, inconsequential way. But… just in case… he wouldn’t wander too far off from Roach. As long as Jaskier remains in his line of sight, he can’t run away like… like Visenna. He can’t leave him stranded in this weak, useless body on the side of a mountain, even if he well and truly deserved it after everything that he’d said and done just a short while before. Geralt bites his lip and begins stuffing his arms with as many pieces of wood he can carry.
If he can impress the bard, even in something as mundane in gathering firewood, then maybe… just maybe… he can convince him to allow him to tag along on his travels once he realizes ‘Geralt’ won’t be returning for his belongings.
It won’t get him any closer to reversing whatever had caused… this , but… at least he won’t be alone anymore.