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“Do that last series of moves again and then dismount! You’re not pointing your toes when you transition between poses!” Essi declared, slapping the side of Jaskier’s thigh to get him back into position. He readjusted his grip on the wrapped metal hoop and glared down at her.
“You can’t even do this trick,” he griped. The younger woman’s blonde hair bounced as she shrugged.
“My job isn’t to learn or execute your routine, Jask. My job is to help you perfect it before the show so that Leontes doesn’t whinge at you for lost money.”
“You make a fair argument, my lady,” Jaskier acknowledged. He relaxed his shoulders, let his weight fall forward, and moved smoothly through the familiar movements of his last few tricks, making sure to keep his toes pointed the entire time. When he dismounted and bowed, Essi clapped.
“Much better! That’s how you achieve true elegance.”
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“Says you!” Essi laughed. “Anyway, I’m starving. You should pack up Old Bessy and meet me in the mess tent.”
“Alright. Save me a seat by our usual spot,” Jaskier waved her off. Essi Daven, floor tumbler and lyricist extraordinaire, was even more energetic than him, and he was known for his boisterous personality and boundless charisma. Their friendship was natural, but equally competitive.
Jaskier hummed quietly to himself as he unhooked his favorite practice hoop from its rope fixtures and rolled it outside to its carrying crate. He was adjusting the lining of the crate to keep the hoop steady when he heard a carriage approaching from the main road; it was too late in the evening to be any of their regular visitors or deliveries.
On any other evening Jaskier would have ignored the carriage’s odd appearance entirely, but there was something about the way the driver’s gaze flitted nervously back-and-forth between the colorful tents that made the acrobat suspicious. He ducked behind Old Bessy’s wide crate as the horses slowed to a stop and watched from the shadows as two enormous men emerged from the back of the carriage. Both of them turned to reach back inside with their brawny arms, their faces impassive even as they hefted a wriggling burlap sack from the dark cab and held it between them. Jaskier’s well-trained hearing picked up the sounds of panicked grunting as the men, no doubt some kind of hired thugs, dragged the struggling ‘package’ into the ringmaster’s private tent.
Jaskier didn’t like the look of that at all, thank you very much.
The young acrobat slipped noiselessly between through the shadows, hiding himself between fluttering, rainbow-hued tent walls and rows of hanging laundry until he was tucked tightly between a pile of boxes and the thick canvas wall of the ringmaster’s chambers.
“Is this it, then?” he heard Leontes scoff from within. “This miserable creature looks more fit to grace a mortuary slab than a circus freak show.”
“This specimen is perfectly fine, Leontes. You know I only bring you quality goods.”
Jaskier’s stomach rolled and he bit back a wave of nausea, determined to stay quiet and learn all that he could. The young troubadour knew without a doubt that the freak show wasn’t necessarily the best place to work, but he’d befriended a few of the cast members and they’d all joined the troupe willingly. This seemed… How could these people treat another living being so horrifically? His ears pricked back to attention when the ringmaster began to speak again, angrier this time.
“He’s malnourished as all fuck, Prosper! I’m not going to pay you the price you’re asking for a sideshow piece that might not live to see next week. Fuck, I’d barely pay you that anyway. All you did was stick some gryphon wings on this poor fucker! Can he even use them?!”
“It’s a witcher!” the mage retorted, completely ignoring Leontes’ question. “I guarantee you it’ll be fit as a fiddle by this time next week. As soon as you get some proper food into the thing you’ll need Dimeritium cuffs to keep it docile, my friend. I only keep it this hungry because it can do some rather impressive tricks with chaos and I don’t want it getting any ideas about escaping.”
A witcher!? Jaskier wondered. Prosper had experimented on a witcher?! And now he was here to sell yet another failed attempt to the circus, calling the poor dear an ‘it’ and a ‘creature’ like he wasn’t a person beneath those odd mutations.
From what the young acrobat/bard could remember from his studies (and based on some tales from other performers), witchers went through several horrible trials in their youth. The process was meant to sharpen their skills and enhance their senses, making them into the best monster-hunters possible, but it was painful as all hell and many died in the process. Three out of ten, or something equally as terrible.
And this man, this poor man whom Jaskier had yet to lay eyes on, had undergone even more experimentation at Prosper’s sadistic hands. No doubt the witcher was exhausted and hurting, and now he was being sold like livestock. Jaskier covered his mouth with both hands to keep from crying, screaming, or throwing up. He’d need to keep his emotions in check if he was going to help this man.
Because by the gods above he was going to help this man. As certain as the sun rose in the East and set in the West, Jaskier was going to free the witcher from the freak show and help him return to wherever it was he came from.
With his decision made and his information gathered, Jaskier slipped away towards the mess tent as silently as he’d come.
“They’ve got a what for the freak show!?” Essi gasped. Jaskier shushed her with a shake of his head, quickly placing both of his hands over her mouth.
“They have a witcher,” he whispered. He didn’t want any of his fellow acrobats overhearing and gaining an interest; he wanted to meet the stranger first and see what he could do to help free the poor thing. “And he’s been… altered. They put wings on him, I guess. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’m sure he won’t be difficult to locate in the menagerie. There can’t be many other winged humanoids in there. Mostly monsters, from what I remember.”
“Fuck Prosper,” the young woman gave a muffled growl, her fists bunching in her skirts. Jaskier slowly removed his hands from her mouth once he was certain she wouldn’t give him away to the others. “Damn that bastard mage to every one of the nine hells.”
“I’m sure that asshole Prosper’s fate will be a dark one,” Jaskier nodded. “But will you help me with this or not?”
“You’re right, Jaskier. He deserves better…” Essi sighed. “Don’t ask me to do anything that will risk my job, but I’ll help as much as I can.”
“Thank you, Essi. You are a dear friend.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all excited about it.”
Jaskier slunk through the dark menagerie, weaving between the rows of half-occupied, hay-scattered cages as he searched for the witcher. He noted several monsters with varying degrees of intelligence but no humanoids; they tended to stay in the tents with their other troupe members. Leontes had inflicted a special kind of humiliation onto his latest purchase, then, by storing the witcher alongside the animals rather than giving him real living quarters.
The young acrobat wasn’t even sure why he was so invested. He’d only seen the man’s delivery by accident; there was no real reason for him to risk his livelihood and life to save a stranger, and yet- and yet Jaskier couldn’t keep the image of the struggling, grunting burlap sack out of his head. He couldn’t stop that horrible aching that started up between his ribs and echoed out with each heartbeat, begging him to lend a hand.
When the acrobat finally ducked around the last dark corner and came upon the witcher’s pen, his breath caught in his throat. The most beautiful man Jaskier had ever seen before knelt in the center of a large cage, his ragged trousers the only thing shielding his knees from the hard metal floor. His long, tangled hair fell across his face in a curtain of silver-white and shone dully in the light of a single oil lamp. The witcher was paler than any normal human, almost porcelain-white, and his arms and torso were littered with scars of varying sizes and shapes. The witcher’s ribs were obvious enough to count and his shoulders were hunched forward uncomfortably, but even malnourished as he was, Jaskier could see the lines of corded muscle twisting and snaking beneath his skin.
Still, the strangest things about the captive witcher were the two enormous wings folded almost delicately behind his broad shoulders. They weren’t angel wings, per say, but they were huge and feathered. The largest feathers gleamed orange at the joints and slowly tapered down to sharp blue flight feathers. His wings look like they’re made of flame, Jaskier thought. His hands ached to touch and his fingers itched to run through all that gorgeous down and smooth it properly, but that would be incredibly rude without introducing himself first. In order to make himself seem smaller and less threatening, Jaskier went to his knees on the ground and crawled slowly towards the bars of the witcher’s cell.
“Hello?” he whispered. His heart was thundering in his chest and it felt as if he might not ever breathe again. Still, he crept slowly forward. He nearly leapt into the air when the witcher’s eyes snapped open and found him in an instant, pupils adjusting quickly in the dim light. Jaskier noted their honey-gold color and catlike irises. “I’m Jaskier.”
“Hmm,” the witcher hummed tunelessly and closed his eyes again.
“I want… I want to get you out of here,” Jaskier added. When the witcher didn’t say anything or move a muscle, he hurried forward with his speech: “This is all bullshit. They shouldn’t be able to treat you - or anyone - like this. I know there’s no real reason for you to trust me, and I probably wouldn’t either if I was in your situation, but you, especially you, a witcher of all people, deserve happiness. Freedom. Those are basic human rights and you - despite the whole -” Jaskier gestured vaguely “-aside from the whole added wings thing you have going on there, you are absolutely human. You deserve those things, too.”
The witcher opened his eyes again and raised one eyebrow curiously. “I’m listening.”
The stranger’s voice was rough and gravelly, lower on the register than Jaskier thought humanly possible. It sent a shiver down the brunette’s spine that he fought to keep concealed. He bit his lip and nervously swiped a piece of hair out of his eyes before barreling onward with his speech. “I don’t know how yet, but I want to get you out of here. It’s not fair that you had to suffer all that nasty witcher stuff and now you’re… here. Like this. I think you should be able to do whatever you want, whether that’s fighting monsters or performing with the troupe. People can’t be property.”
The witcher’s nostrils flared and he inhaled. Then, he blinked. “You really believe that. Huh. You’re strange for a human.”
“Other humans think I’m strange, too,” Jaskier smiled a bit, flicking his hand towards the tent wall and the world beyond. He crossed his legs comfortably and sat near the bars, his face practically smooshed between them as he spoke with his new acquaintance. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind? I can’t just keep calling you witcher; it feels incredibly rude.”
“Geralt.”
“Geralt,” the acrobat rolled it around on his tongue. It was strong. He liked the way it sounded as it slipped from between his lips. “It’s very nice to meet you, Geralt.”
“Thank you, Jaskier.”
That time the young brunette did shudder a bit, but if the witcher noticed Jaskier’s reaction to his voice he didn’t say anything.
The two men talked late into the night, and when morning arrived, they both felt much better about where their lives were headed.
“Here,” Jaskier smiled, slipping an entire loaf of bread and a full waterskin through the bars of Geralt’s cage. He winked playfully and added, “Don’t tell the ringmaster, okay? Leontes would have my ass.”
“They keep me like this on purpose,” Geralt explained, gesturing down at his sorry state. “Usually witchers are more… well, more.”
Jaskier heard the pain behind Geralt’s words but didn’t feel their relationship was far enough along to warrant his usual prying. The anxious young acrobat bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment and then said: “The things that were done to you, by Prosper and before… they’re wrong. And I’m sorry they happened. But we’re going to get you out of here.”
“Hmm.”
“Your wings, do they- do they work?”
—
Geralt’s stomach tied itself in a complicated knot as soon as the strange lad asked, “Your wings, do they-” Jaskier paused and his hand fluttered in semblance of a gesture “-do they work?”
The witcher rolled his shoulders, hiding his shudder at the memory of his first flight test. Instead of laying out his whole sob story for the poor, foolish young acrobat, Geralt nodded. “Yes.”
“You-” the lad bit his lip again, a habit Geralt had picked up on halfway through their first evening together (this was their eighth? Ninth? It was hard to tell how many days had passed in the constant semi-dim of the menagerie). “We just need to get you strong enough to fly again, and then I can pick the lock and get you out of here.”
“Could you pick the cuffs open, too?”
“Huh?”
“The cuffs,” Geralt said, holding up his wrists, which were manacled, linked by a little more than a foot of jingling chain. The locks glowed slightly. “They’re made to dampen my magic.”
“Can you really use magic?!” Jaskier beamed, scooting even closer, hand inching its way between the bars as if to touch. Geralt found himself balking internally at the careless behavior the young human constantly displayed. Getting so casually close to a witcher, chained and caged or not, was unheard of by Geralt or his brothers. Most of Jaskier’s kind found them terrifying. Horrible to look at with their scars and strange eyes. Witchers were a sign of bad luck, a portent of doom, a pox to be cured from the land (just like the monsters they fought, ironically). Witchers were a waste.
And yet, sitting before him in a bright blue tunic and delicate black dance slippers, his even brighter blue eyes fixed on Geralt’s impassive expression, was the embodiment of sunshine itself.
The witcher realized he’d never actually answered the question and flushed a ruddy red, glad for the darkness of his prison that hid it from Jaskier. “Yes, I can do magic. Just a few useful signs, though.”
“Which signs!? What do they do!?” Jaskier whispered harshly. He wasn’t demanding to know; he was honestly curious about the witcher’s abilities. Geralt, for some strange reason, slid closer to the acrobat, letting his arm rest against one of the cage’s cool metal bars. He went through the hand signs with Jaskier, explaining how it felt to pull the chaos from within and how draining it could be if he wasn’t careful. He explained their purposes and usefulness, voice gravelly and low from underuse.
To his utmost surprise, Jaskier stayed. The smiling acrobat didn’t scream or cry or run away with his hands covering his ears. He sat pressed as close to Geralt’s side as he could get, eyes wide and shining even in the gloom, and listened intently for several hours. Jaskier didn’t leave Geralt’s side until the sun began to climb over the horizon and he ran the risk of being caught.
As Geralt silently meditated his way through another boring day in the cage, he found his mind’s eye focused on the color blue. The scents of chamomile and gymnast’s chalk, which always stuck in the grooves of Jaskier’s calloused palms and fingers, filled his nose even hours after the lad had disappeared. The more he tried to clear his head and rest the more found his mind, irritatingly enough, focused on Jaskier.
The acrobat returned to the menagerie every night, bringing a steady supply of hearty food and fresh water (sometimes even ale or wine when he could manage). He watched Geralt’s body fill back out all too slowly, minimally aided by the series of short exercises the witcher could still manage to do while confined. Jaskier occasionally snuck a bowl and towel into the dim tent to wash the witcher’s hair and skin, ridding him of the circus’s natural grime. Geralt had been waiting nervously for the acrobat’s reaction the first time Jaskier laid eyes on his scars. Rather than reeling away in disgust, however, Jaskier’s calloused fingers had traced the raised lines of tissue very slowly, one by one, murmuring apologies for each mark as he caressed the witcher almost reverently. Geralt had bitten back soft whimpers the entire time, overwhelmed by and grateful for the friendship and tenderness shown by this strange young human.
After a month of stolen conversations, lingering touches, and pantry pilfering, Jaskier came to Geralt’s cage with a worried frown etched across his face. His hands wrung uselessly at his sides and his lithe frame practically vibrated with nervous energy. “Geralt, I have bad news.”
“What’s wrong?” the witcher asked, reaching instinctively out through the bars to comfort Jaskier, his gesture stopped short by the chain connecting the manacles on his wrists. The movement startled them both, but the acrobat darted forward to take the offered hand anyway, curling their fingers together slowly.
“The show is going to be moving soon; we need a fresh pool of audience members to scam and disillusion. I heard Leontes talking to Ariel about packing up the hanging rigs today,” he explained. “Our next stop is near the outskirts of Oxenfurt in Novigrad, where it’s more populated and better for visitors. It’ll be harder to free you somewhere like that so we need to act soon.”
Geralt nodded his agreement. His eyebrows bunched together the way they always did when he was thinking hard and Jaskier felt his heart beat its way up into his throat. The witcher’s nostrils flared and he glanced over at the acrobat. “What’s wrong? You smell… uhm- you smell nervous.”
“You can smell my feelings?” Jaskier gaped, crossing his arms over his chest as if covering himself for modesty’s sake. Geralt rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I’m a witcher, remember?”
“I hadn’t forgotten, no,” Jaskier glared playfully. His face had flushed a bit and he started flapping his hands anxiously, “Anyway, I’m sorry. I just- it’s just that I- Nevermind.”
Geralt hid his disappointment; it had almost seemed like Jaskier was romantically nervous. Nervous about being in Geralt’s proximity, which was a good sign. Geralt had been feeling a little nervous around the acrobat lately, as well. Perhaps, after they were both free…
But who would willingly leave respectable society behind for a mangled, thrice-mutated witcher? Geralt felt his heart sinking at the realization and was glad when Jaskier changed the subject back to their imminent break-out.
“Will you be able to use your signs and blast our way out of here if I pick your cuff locks?”
“Probably, thanks to you. I feel considerably stronger and more battle-ready after all your care.” The witcher squeezed Jaskier’s hand and pressed a gentle kiss against the boy’s knuckles. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes shone. “Now, let’s get out of here, shall we?”
“What about your swords and your medallion?”
“We can think about those things later,” Geralt shook his head. He’d likely never see them again; that bastard mage had made sure to get rid of what few items tied him to the outside world. “Right now, we need to figure out a plan. Tell me, where’s the best place for me to take off?”
“Probably a field to the east. It’s a nicely sized clearing just past the big red and black striped tent. You’ll see it on your left when we leave. I suppose that means I’ll have to go right.”
“Why aren’t we going in the same direction?’
“I thought- you won’t be able to carry me away, will you?”
“That was my plan…”
“Well then,” Jaskier blushed brighter. “I suppose we’re both going left.”
“Once we’re in the air we should be safe,” Geralt grimaced. “I’ll find us somewhere safe to spend the night and rest.”
“And then you’ll- I’m sure you’ll be going back to wherever you call home?”
“The only home I have is Kaer Morhen, where myself and the other Wolf witchers spend the winters together; but I’m not sure that I’ll be welcome there any more,” he said, fluttering his wings quietly. Jaskier had nearly forgotten that their presence on Geralt’s body was abnormal. He’d only ever known the witcher with the two enormous flame-colored appendages. “And I doubt any townspeople will want to hire me to hunt monsters now that I’ve become one myself.”
“You are not a monster,” Jaskier snarled. The witcher glanced up, startled by the boy’s angry tone. “You are gorgeous and kind and sweet. You survived your Trials. You survived the Path. You’ve told me so many stories about nearly dying or brushing against Death like an old friend. You made it through Prosper’s bullshit experiments and now you’re saving me from wasting my life at this carnival of disappointment, Geralt, so don’t sell yourself short. I love you and your wings, regardless of-”
He clapped a hand over his mouth and took a slow step back. Geralt reached for him, the chain between his wrists rattling against the bars of his cage. “Wait, Jaskier-”
“Geralt, I’m so sorry, I-”
“Jaskier, don’t go! I love you too!” Geralt pleaded. “Well… I think I do. I’m growing to love you, if I don’t already. I certainly care an awful lot about your safety and wellbeing.”
“Really?” Jaskier asked, stepping slowly forward.
“I’d never lie to you, Julek.”
Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat again and he coughed out a short laugh. “Let’s get out of here, dear heart. We’ve other places to be.”
He pulled the key to Geralt’s cage from his back pocket (Essi’s contribution to their escape plan) and fitted it into the lock. With a quiet click and a groan, the door swung slowly open.
As soon as they were able to, the two men fell into each other’s arms. Geralt cradled Jaskier’s face between his hands, the chain of his manacles jingling quietly as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead. “Oh, Julek. I owe you my life.”
Moments later Jaskier had picked the cuffs free as well, watching them fall to the floor of the cage with incredible satisfaction. He grinned up at his witcher and gestured towards the flap-door of the tent. “Shall we, my love?”
“Yes,” Geralt nodded, grinning wildly. “Let’s.”
Flying was the most exhilarating experience of Jaskier’s life, and he’d performed for thousands of screaming people. It felt amazing to be so far above the fields and treetops with the breeze in his hair and Geralt’s strong arms around his waist.
They’d been flying for a couple hours, getting as far from the circus as physically possible, when Geralt finally spoke up again: “I’m tiring out, Julek. I’ll need to land soon.”
“Why not land there?” Jaskier asked, pointing towards a large, crumbling stone structure in the near distance. “I think it’s a temple. Or it used to be; we could stay there for awhile and have a roof over our heads while you recuperate and rest.”
“It might also something leftover from the elves,” Geralt added. “Will you be staying with me for long?"
They descended slowly and carefully, Geralt alighting first and helping Jaskier get stable on his feet. The brunette glanced up at the witcher with confusion shining in his lovely blue eyes. “Huh?”
“This place…” the witcher blushed as much as he could through the mutations and glanced around. The walls were sturdy, if overgrown. What pieces had broken apart could be repaired. “Stay with me for awhile, until I figure out what I’m going to do. Write your songs, like you wanted, and… and stay?”
“Oh, Geralt,” the acrobat beamed, leaning up to press a kiss to the witcher’s cheek. “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. Plus, you told me yourself that you're horrible at cooking. Who will make sure you're fed and cared for if you're all alone?”
Geralt leaned forward, cupping his hand around the back of Jaskier’s skull. He tilted the boy’s head back a bit, angling their lips together softly. The kiss was soft and full of promise. Full of hope. Jaskier felt his heart overflowing and his hands found their way into the warm downy joints of Geralt’s wings. The witcher gasped and pulled back, eyes gleaming. “I do. I love you.”
“Good,” Jaskier grinned even more brightly. “I love you, too.”