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He hadn’t slept since the mountain.
Oh, he’d tried certainly. Jaskier had tried, and tried, and tried some more. The first few nights, he’d chalked it up to his senses doing exactly what they were meant to. With no Witcher to protect him as he took the perilous trail down from the summit, he had to be even more ready than usual for danger.
When he’d reached the inn at long last and still sleep eluded him, he’d considered that perhaps it was bad ale, or the quality of the mattress. Indeed, he’d tried no less than three different mattresses in three different rooms across three nights before the innkeeper had threatened to toss him into the street.
With no plans as to where he was headed next, Jaskier had granted that his current sleeping accommodations were just fine as a matter of fact, and perhaps it was a nagging idea at the back of his bardic brain that was troubling him for attention. Surely, once he exercised the demon of his next epic ballad, his mind and body would be allowed to rest.
There was just one problem: It was not a ballad he was prepared to write. He knew that he should, every grand tale eventually reached its conclusion and as far as finales would go this surely would be something spectacular. Dragons, witches, and a mysterious child—the peoples’ imaginations would have plenty to feed on. They need not know what came next.
He need not know…
And perhaps there it was: the problem. To sleep now, to allow the world to fade to blackness for even just a few moments, was to draw the curtain on that final day—now past. The end of his greatest story, his greatest friendship bond, more than a decade of a his life.
And he’d never once considered, as he’d spun and spun those bardic tales mixed with half-truth, and truth, and lie, that the greatest lie of all might have been whatever friendship he’d imagined between the Witcher and himself. Witchers, after all, Geralt had told him again and again, did not have friends. They did not feel things in the same way as humans.
Although, Jaskier, mused...Witchers certainly did seem prone to similar effects of sleep deprivation. He recalled quite clearly the irate expression that had dawned on Geralt’s face as he’d spat his confession to Jaskier at the lake that day—that he hadn’t slept in days. Someone had been quite grumpy—which, if he was not mistaken, was an incredibly human quality.
Apparently so was being an ass. Which is exactly what Geralt had been to him during their last encounter, blaming him for every little thing that had gone wrong in his life.
As if Jaskier had been the one to force him to fish that Djinn from the lake instead of confronting his own problems and compounding them—and wounding Jaskier in the process!
As if Jaskier had forced him to get involved at that party, really he’d only asked for his company. Everything else that unfolded, that was all Geralt!
What’s more, Jaskier never forced Geralt to sleep with a psychotic sorceress bent on...well he wasn’t quite sure what her deal was. Either way, if walking into a room full of mind controlled nudists wasn’t a giant red flag than could Jaskier really be blamed for the Witcher’s lack of common sense?
He stifled a scream into the lumpy mattress on which he’d been laying, sleepless, for the past half hour. It was nearing midnight and still his struggles persisted. Would finishing the tale really help?
Surely, it couldn’t be that hard. That last conversation between the two of them, it was so clearly an end to something. After all, he’d thought of nothing else since he and Geralt had parted ways.
Aha!
That was it! The bard shot up like a bolt. He just needed to think of something—anything else! Endings, after all, were also beginnings. If he could find his next tale...if he could look forward instead of looking backward.
Let someone else finish the story of Geralt of Rivia! Surely the tales were popular enough by now, he’d already heard a multitude of speculative endings and forgeries at other inns and bars. True, none of them were quite as good as his own work—but well, maybe Geralt didn’t deserve that quality of an ending to his story anyway.
Let him stew in the poorly contrived spin-offs of those who hadn’t devoted so much...everything really...to telling his story. The story of a hero.
Geralt himself had said he was no hero.
Jaskier leapt to his feet then. There was no point in dallying about not getting a wink of sleep. His next muse was waiting for him somewhere out there.
It was nearing the witching hour, and could one think of a more magical time to begin his next tale? Perhaps he was feeling a bit reckless, and perhaps a less sleep addled brain might have reasoned that the timing of his story could be managed by one of those half-truths...those lies...but no. No, he was done with lies. He was simply too good at what he did, and if he built his next story on lies he would run the risk of believing them, the way he had come to believe in Geralt and his friendship.
This was the best way! His mind insisted. His next ballad would be even better and it would be built on something real.
He didn’t even lock up for the night as he clamored out of his room, taking only his lute with him and not thinking to also bring the dagger he’d shoved into the furthest corner of the room sometime ago, where he need not look at it, nor cut himself on it—again—when reaching into his rucksack.
Geralt was running out of inns. This was the fourth he’d tried in as many nights, hoping to run into the bard. He’d considered asking around, but that would almost certainly arouse distrust and suspicion—more so than his mere presence alone had already accomplished.
Anyway, Jaskier couldn’t have gone far. He’d likely only made it to the base of the mountain a few days ago at most.
Unless he hadn’t made it down at all.
The thought was sharp and taunting, like the drag of a kikimora’s claws as it toyed with its food.
No, there’s been no indication of any kind of monster on the clearest path down.
Geralt reminded himself. He had slayed such monsters before.
He made his way upstairs for the night. It was just after midnight now, and as he sought out his room at the end of the hall he passed an open door. He hadn’t intended to look inside, if some drunkard had passed out before thinking to secure his room it was certainly no business of Geralt’s...but his keen eyes landed on something in the dark.
It was in a far corner of the room, too dark to normally be visible from the doorway, too far from the window to be reached by the small sliver of moonlight that illuminated the empty bed.
He knew that dagger.
Without thinking, he entered the room. Even without the light of the moon he knew it was empty. There were no sounds from within, no so much as a heartbeat. His eyes scanned the dark finding only inanimate objects...a bed, a desk, a small rucksack that smelled faintly of the fragrant soaps used to wash its contents. He knew that scent, knew the one who favored it and now, if he was careful and if he tried hard to concentrate he could pick up on the familiar undertones of paths recently travelled, campfire smoke, and the carefully selected polish used to ensure a beautifully carved lute gleamed in the tavern lights.
But, where was Jaskier?
And why was the door to his room ajar? Something prickled at the back of Geralt’s senses.
The lute was gone, but everything else remained. The dagger remained.
Wherever Jaskier was, three things were very likely true: It was late, he was unarmed, and he was carrying around—for all the world to see—an exquisitely crafted expensive looking instrument.
They’d been waylaid by bandits for less on their travels.
But back then, Geralt had been there to ensure Jaskier hadn’t been hurt. He scanned the room for clues, but there was nothing. The scent was trail was strong enough to suggest he’d been there for more than a night, but not by much.
Exiting the room once more, the Witcher closed the door behind him. No need to invite trouble, or further trouble as was likely the case with the bard. He made his way to his own room long enough to deposit his rucksack on the floor select a few extra potions to bring with him—just in case—after all, this was Jaskier.
Tracking the bard did not prove terribly difficult, though as he made his way deeper into the woods on the edge of town Geralt wondered what exactly he would find when he caught up to the other man.
A feeling, something he supposed was similar to guilt, wormed its way into his thoughts. Whatever had happened, might it have been because of him?
Their parting on the mountain had been less than ideal.
Certainly, Geralt had leveled some strongly worded accusations the bard’s way. He’d been angry and Jaskier had been a convenient target, having been the spectator to all of Geralts bungling, the primary witness to his own foolishness. His weakness.
And perhaps Jaskier had played some small part in some of his troubles. Perhaps his impish prodding could be grating even at the best of times. And perhaps that was a price Geralt was willing to pay to keep the bard around. That was what friendship was—wasn’t it? Tolerating each other’s minor faults in favor of all the good that outweighed them? Was impish prodding really too steep a price?
Jaskier had spent years attempting to turn the tides of public scrutiny in his favor. He hadn’t always succeeded, but where he had, there’d suddenly been warm beds available at the inn, merchants willing to do business with him—sometimes even at reasonable rates for their services. There’d been fewer jeers, and whispers, and rocks pelted his way.
Even Roach had benefited from the odd slice of apple—a treat from a curious stable boy who’d heard Jaskier’s ballads and been slightly less afraid of the looming monster hunter.
It hadn’t come without its costs either. Where the tide turned the other way, where people resisted, the two had been run from entire towns. Jaskier fleeing beside him when he might have otherwise enjoyed comfort in his anonymity, instead dodging stones and rotten fruit lobbed perilously close to his head.
He was deep within the forest now, deeper still within his own brooding. A crunch in this distance—the snapping of twigs—brought him back. And suddenly he was keenly aware that sound had been the only thing he’d heard for some time.
The Witcher cursed. Forests were living things themselves filled with living things—they were seldom quiet. And when they were…
He drew his blade, slowly, careful not to disturb the eerie peace that foreshadowed the hunt.
The sound had been a one-off—a mistake most likely—something was moving in the forest and it was taking great care not to be heard.
Not Jaskier, then. He thought and in another time and another place it might have brought a wry smile to his lips.
A familiar scent reached out to him then, carried on the slight nighttime breeze: fragrant soaps, campfire, polish...and oh…
Oh, Geralt could smell the blood even from here.
When had he—at long last—fallen asleep?
It was the first thought the flitted in Jaskier’s mind upon waking. It couldn’t have been long, he didn’t feel nearly rested enough and if the pounding in his head and if the ache in his body was anything to go by, it hadn’t nearly the rejuvenating effects he’d hoped. Come to think of it, his whole body ached...which was likely an effect of all the jostling...and...was he moving?
The bard’s eyes snapped open with a start and a sharp intake of breath. His vision still blurred from sleep, he tried to take in his surroundings.
“Easy now.” A familiar voice said from very nearby—just above him.
It took Jaskier a moment to piece together that he was being carried.
“You suffered quite a blow...or three.” It might have been a joke, but there was nothing in the tone to suggest either way.
Ah, ah Jaskier knew that dry timbre.
“S’Roach?” Was all he could think to reply. He had intended to ask ‘Where’s Roach?’ but was dismayed to find his speech ever so lightly slurred.
“She’s having a rest. She deserved a break.” Geralt responded as though making casual conversation with the bleeding man in his arms was normal—and wait when had he started bleeding?!
“W’happened?” Perhaps there had been something foul about the ale. He hadn’t had that much.
“You tell me. You’re the one who wandered off alone into the woods at night.”
If Witchers did express emotion—other than anger—Jaskier might have been tempted to read this one as annoyance, perhaps with a hint of concern. When no answer followed, Geralt took the unusual step of attempting to carry the conversation.
“Was it bandits?” He asked then. The anger made its way into his tone after all.
“M’sorry?” Jaskier didn’t quite follow.
“Is that what possessed you to run off into the wilds in the middle of the night? Did they steal your lute? You didn’t even think to shut the door behind you!” Yes, indeed. Geralt was angry.
“No it was—it was just...” And he must have sounded quite pathetic then because Geralts grip adjusted ever so slightly and when he spoke again his voice had almost, dare he say, softened.
“Then what was it?” The anger was probably still there, lurking beneath the unusual gentleness of his tone, but Jaskier was too tired to care. The only sleep he’d had in ages had apparently come at quite a cost, and it had not been nearly enough to qualify as a rest.
“I was looking for… I wanted a new beginning…” He finally murmured, feeling foolish even as he said it. “I wanted to start a new ballad. I couldn’t write an ending, so I thought I’d write a beginning and this time...this time it would be based on something real.” He finished lamely.
There was a long pause.
“What wasn’t real?” Geralt’s gaze was fixed straight ahead even as he spoke.
Jaskier was starting to be able to make out his features, the gold of his eyes glinting in the moonlight that broke through the trees now as they reached the edge of the forest.
“You were always fond of pointing out the parts of my stories that were...” He struggled to find the right word.
“Bullshit?” Geralt offered.
“Exaggerated.” Jaskier settled on with a groan. And then, “Ok, yes. Yes, they were bullshit. They were lies Geralt. The whole damned thing was a lie, the stories, our friendship...” He gestured broadly, nearly causing the Witcher to drop him.
Geralt’s grip tightened and he didn’t stop walking toward the inn.
“Were they?” His tone was even, neither mocking nor revealing of any particular emotion. Jaskier suddenly felt terribly stupid, and terribly vulnerable. It didn’t help that he was in pain, and bleeding from some as of yet un-ascertained location and—
“My lute!” He said suddenly, panic seizing his chest. He’d brought it with him hadn’t he? Or had he left it behind? Hadn’t Geralt mentioned something about the door being left open? And bandits?!
“Let me down this instant! I have to go back for it—” What little energy he’d gained from his brief interlude went all at once into struggling against the iron grip the Witcher had on him.
Geralt did not drop him, though he’d have been well within his rights, Jaskier would later suppose.
“Your lute’s fine. It’s right here.” Geralt sighed.
“Right where?” The panic had yet to subside, and it was too dark to see wherever Geralt might have indicated.
“It’s strapped across my back. I couldn’t carry both of you.” He stated as if it were obvious.
“And it’s...she’s unharmed?” The bard whimpered.
“Your lute is fine. You are the one who was harmed. So, let’s worry about that for now.”
“You saved my lute!” Jaskier breathed, gratitude flooding his voice.
“Oh for fu—...I saved you!” Geralt groused, exasperated.
“You didn’t have to!” If the words had registered, Jaskier gave no indication.
“What do you mean I didn’t have to?! You’re my best friend! ” And Geralt very nearly did drop him that time.
A candle flared to life inside one of the villager’s windows.
“It’s the middle of the night!” A rough voice hissed from somewhere beyond the flickering beacon.
Jaskier swallowed.
“I meant...you didn’t have to save my lute.” He whispered.
Geralt sighed.
“I’m not going to say it again.” He muttered finally.
“So...what was it?” He wasn’t about to argue with the man, anyway, his eyes were growing heavier by the second.
“Hmm?”
“What bloody curse of nature caused...my bleeding.” The bard quipped.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s dead now.” Was all he got in return.
“Geralt...” Jaskier continued.
“Bard?” Brusque, matter of fact.
“Thank you...”
“You’re welcome… Now, let’s get you to a healer.”