Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jaskier is always the one with the words, elaborate sentences and ornate vocabulary - Geralt is not. 

Geralt’s the one with the actions.

He grunts. He’s tired, hungry and soaked to the bone, his armour weighing heavily on him, making the mundane task of bringing the trophy back to the mayor seem almost impossible, even for a witcher. The rain has been relentless, hefty droplets continuously banging on his head, shoulders and hunched back, pouring behind the collar of his gambeson (which he wore just in case and which he regretted immensely as soon as the fight started). One would have thought that the fresh and earthy smell of the ground wetted by the downpour would be a pleasure to Geralt’s heightened senses – it was at the start, but now that the hunt is over, the only thing the witcher can actually smell is the foul odour of the royal griffin’s head that he carries with, truly, increased effort.

Maybe going to hunt a rogue griffin in heat after a fortnight of travelling on horseback in unraveling autumn hasn’t been the best idea. Especially considering the fact that the morning has brought an unexpected endeavour with a horde of alghouls, which already took a toll on Geralt’s stamina and his general wellbeing.

A disgruntled huff escapes the man’s lips. Cursing his stupidity and the lack of logical thinking, Geralt adjusts the bloody sack on his right shoulder (it smells) and quickens his pace. He should have just let it go. But he couldn’t, not really, not when he accidentally sat on Jaskier’s lute the week before – during a drunken brawl started by the bard himself in a tavern, no less – he needs the coin.

Geralt needs the coin and he needs it badly, because Melitele his witness, he cannot stand another comment from Jaskier about his, quote, massive buttocks crushing his beloved instrument mercilessly. It’s not like it’s his fault in the first place - had not the bard, visibly tipsy at that, started insulting a group of men, nothing would have happened. Geralt was exhausted and drunk when it did, and once Jaskier had been pushed for his offensive comments, the witcher’s instincts kicked in; and although he saved his companion from crashing to the ground, he wasn’t able to steady himself in time in his dubious state. Which resulted in him accidentally sitting on Jaskier’s lute that laid on  the vacated bench next to their table. His body alone would have been enough to break the friable thing, not to mention with the added weight of Jaskier. 

Geralt needs the money because he needs to buy a new fucking lute, if only to sew Jaskier’s mouth shut (the lack of the instrument doesn’t seem to have fractured the bard’s ability to compose; and composed he has, all of his new verses about a certain witcher, the lute destroyer).

*

Geralt checks on Roach when he’s collected the contract reward - he left the horse in the stables just to be safe, having learnt that the griffin has been living dangerously close to the town. The mare is standing peacefully in her box, apparently sleeping - the witcher scratches her nose softly and drags himself to the stable doors, before remembering that they’re no longer travelling with one horse. 

In a box neighbouring Roach’s there’s Jaskier’s buckskin stallion, who the bard wittily named Salmon (“What a pair they’ll make, Geralt!”). He’s asleep as well; Geralt doesn't touch him. He’s untamed and seems to only tolerate him when Jaskier’s present, the younger man surprisingly being the only one who Salmon listens to. Come to think of it, the horse’s nature really mirrors that of Jaskier’s, in some aspects - there’s always this weird static of wild energy surrounding them and Geralt ponders whether it really was destiny that brought them together. A farmer they’d encountered a few years earlier paid them with the stallion (instead of the much needed money, which he didn’t have) for Geralt’s killing of some overgrown pest centipedes that were plundering his crops. Geralt didn’t need a second horse, no. But the way Jaskier’s eyes widened at his sight - he knew it was a lost cause and they had to welcome Salmon to their party. Destiny’s bullcrap anyway (or that’s what he’s been telling himself for years now).

It has made their travelling easier, though, Geralt muses, entering the inn, mildly annoyed at himself for keeping his exhausted mind occupied with redundant thoughts of horses.

*

Jaskier’s the one with the words and obviously, obviously he cannot contain himself when Geralt enters their shared room.

“Whoa, what a lovely smell that is, my friend!” the bard exclaims before he’s even turned around from where he’s been sitting at a table, scribbling something in his trusty notebook so furiously that Geralt could hear the squeaking of his quill from the corridor. A weird sight to behold, taking into consideration the fact that the bard is probably as exhausted as Geralt is, in his human way. The road hasn’t been easy on them. “Have you fallen into a swamp?”

A fuck off almost rolls off of the Witcher’s tongue, but he stops himself and says flatly, “Close. Griffin’s gastric juices.”

The only thing Geralt wants to do now is rip his armour off and so he does just that - the studded breastplate, the gambeson and finally his undershirt fall to the floor, reeking of the monster’s bodily fluids, damp fabric and sweat. It feels like a weight had been lifted off of him, not only literally, and Geralt rolls his shoulders back, heeding the ache that’s already foreshadowed in how stiff his muscles feel.

“That’s- that’s disgusting, really,” he hears Jaskier say and feels his movement as the man springs up from the chair and comes closer. “But-”

“But what?” Geralt doesn’t want to open his eyes, not really; he’s so tired he could just stand there and breathe. Jaskier’s too jumpy in his tiredness.

The silence stretches over them so Geralt sighs and opens his eyes. It’s a rare phenomenon when one’s travelling with an overconfident bard who seems to be in love with the sound of his own voice (Geralt’s not really sure that’s a bad thing, but truthfully, he’s not ready to admit that, not even to himself). 

Jaskier’s there, a few steps away from him, his expression pensive but otherwise impenetrable. Well, that’s new.

“But what?” the witcher repeats, something akin to worry? giddiness? slowly  making its way up his back as he looks at his friend. A moment of extreme rarity, seeing him motionless in a situation where he could easily spew out some sarcastic comments regarding Geralt’s poorly state. 

“Why didn’t you deign to tell me you took up a contract?” Jaskier asks, brow furrowed with a note of apprehension. Well, shit. 

Geralt hasn’t exactly told him about his plans to buy him a new lute. Saying that would be equal to admitting that it is his fault that it broke in the first place - and Geralt just refuses to take the blame. Sure, he was the immediate destroying force, but none of the destroying itself would have happened if Jaskier for once. listened. to. him (and didn’t start a broil knowing that the witcher wouldn’t leave him alone, as standing up for the younger man seems to have been engraved into his mutated nervous system at this point, effectively becoming an unconditional reflex). For all Jaskier knows they’re heading to Oxenfurt not only for the sake of having a destination, but also so he can retrieve one of his older, more worn lutes that he left at a friend’s.

“Geralt? I thought you went out to give Roach some exercise.”

“Jaskier, we’ve been travelling for two weeks straight, I don’t think there's a need for that,” Geralt snorts, trying to dodge answering the question, hoping that Jaskier will fall for it. He doesn’t, of course, he can already see that.

Jaskier cocks his head to the side and stares at him, his gaze so piercing that Geralt would probably feel uneasy, weren’t he so utterly weary. Despite his flamboyant demeanour he’s not stupid, the witcher is well aware of that. He didn’t think lying to Jaskier - or omitting the truth - would be difficult in the slightest. He was wrong, apparently.

“So what you’re saying is, you went out, not having told me, ripping me off of the chance to write yet another epic tale, just to do what? Earn some coin?” Jaskier points an accusatory finger at Geralt, back to his more dramatic self, but there’s still something quizzical in him and the witcher’s well aware of that, but decides it best to ignore it.

“Precisely,” Geralt replies, rubbing his face tiredly as another wave of exhaustion engulfs him all of a sudden. He needs sleep and he needs Jakier to cooperate. And a bath, desperately. “It was spontaneous. We need more money, Jaskier, now that-,” he pauses. Now that you don’t have a lute which is not only affecting you, but also our budget since you can't give performances, and now that I can see how much you miss it doesn’t make it past Geralt’s lips. “Now that winter’s nearing.”

The younger man wants to say something, yearns to, Geralt sees that, he feels that in Jaskier’s stance (he’s come to know him well over the years), but he’s beat and the only thing on his mind now is sleep, not even his lute-buying plan. It’s close to midnight, shivers caused by the rain creep up and down his spine, so the man says hoarsely before Jaskier has a chance to speak up, “Just- could you tell them to boil some water for a bath?”

The please is silent, it usually is when Geralt talks to the bard. The younger man looks at him for a moment and nods. Silently grateful, the witcher sets to finding a place for his clothes and armour that will keep the putrid smell away (he eventually decides to put it outside on the windowsill; he’ll deal with that in the morning); he’s about to rummage through his saddlebag in search for something to eat when he senses, more than hears, Jaskier stopping at the door. Averting his eyes from a (somewhat stale) loaf of bread, he sees Jaskier’s hand grip the latch for a moment, probably with more force than necessary.

“You’re not hurt. Are you, Geralt?”

The question is quiet, soothing, with an edge of anticipation woven through it.

“Not a scratch. Just spent.”

The door closes and Geralt is actually glad that Jaskier cannot see the tug of his mouth that threatens to morph into a soft smile. It’s usual and it’s familiar and the witcher sometimes dares to think that it - this concern , the easiness of Jaskier’s presence and his (more often than not) nagging - feels like what he’d call home if he weren’t too scared to get accustomed to anything (anyone), not after what happened in Kaer Morhen all those years ago.

*

Jaskier has always been the one with the words and Geralt finds himself puzzled when he realizes that the bard’s existence is not limited to just being his trusty, albeit mildly irritating, companion. He is well known, famous at this point and, at least in some places, his reputation precedes him. The witcher tends to forget that.

“ And happened what was supposed to, nothing that you can change no more ,” hums the bard as they’re making their way steadily towards Oxenfurt, in no great hurry. “ With red suffused the blade .”

It’s a mild paced ballad, still raw at times but nevertheless sang with confidence, that he’s been working on when they set off on the road to Oxenfurt, merely ten days after Geralt has slain the griffin; Jaskier has been trying to find the right words since this morning, fiddling with verses, deciding back and forth whether they should rhyme or not, asking Geralt for opinion from time to time (which he never got, not really, because even though the witcher could appreciate the fine artistry of Jaskier’s tunes, he didn’t know much about music). Admitting that Jaskier’s singing grew on him over the years hasn’t been easy and Geralt has never really voiced his fondness of the near-constant background music coming from the younger man out loud. Especially now that there’s no lute to accompany his voice.

“ On the threshold of the unknown stand, no more gazing behind, and go alone into the broad- no! ...and go alone into the wide world, the sword will show you the way ...”

The road is easy, the air crispy and loaded with the threat of upcoming cold, the continuous melody of Jaskier’s voice easing Geralt’s mind as they ride on.

“ And happened what was supposed to, noth -” Jaskier stops suddenly. Geralt doesn’t have to look at the younger man to know that he’s seen what the witcher heard some time ago already. There’s a caravan - a few armour-clad horse riders surrounding an elegant, richly carved carriage - coming their way. “Who could that be?”

“No idea,” Geralt replies simply, pulling Roach’s reins for a slower stride (Jaskier and Salmon following suit) as his eyes automatically scrutinize the riders for a possible danger. There’s none, he doesn’t think; both him and Jaskier are just surprised to meet such an elaborate escort on the outskirts of Dorian, when it’s been only a few days after Savoine and most people resign from travelling for the forthcoming winter. Something doesn’t seem right, however, but Geralt tries to blame his unsettling premonition on his witcher senses. 

The party is inevitably coming closer, taking the major part of the road; Geralt stiffens when two of the riders gallop ahead to seemingly meet them sooner.

“Geralt?” Jaskier turns his head towards him, his expression carefully level as he looks at the witcher. There’s a mute question; Geralt moves a bit closer, discreetly blocking Jaskier and Salmon from the strangers, were something to happen. Moments like this remind him that he finally, finally has to convince Jaskier to carry not only a dagger, but preferably a sword (which he is actually decent at wielding, having come from a noble background, fencing lessons as important as calligraphy).

“Hello, mighty wanderers!” exclaims one of the men, his armour shiny and greatly cared for, Geralt notices, with a flare that no knight errant from Toussaint would be ashamed of. “Which one of you is Jaskier, the great bard?”

A shadow that doesn’t go unnoticed by the witcher crosses over the knight’s face as he takes in the scenery in front of them as soon as he finishes speaking and realizes that Geralt is definitely not the great bard.

“Um, uh, that is me, I suppose?” the words stumble out of Jaskier’s mouth uncharacteristically gracelessly; he’s surprised, not really scared, Geralt notices.

“Splendid!” the other knight speaks up for the first time, his tone as pompous as his companion’s. The witcher lets go of the steel sword on his back he wasn’t trying to hide he had grabbed just in case. The carriage has caught up to them and he can tell there’s no threat, just- the overwhelming weirdness of the situation.

Jaskier is the one with the words and he adapts to the exalted tone of the newcomers seamlessly, enrobing that theatrical and dramatic aura that he usually does when he is performing and that Geralt knows for a fact only partly reflects his personality. 

A quick, telling glance is thrown towards Geralt warning him to let him carry the conversation. He complies without hesitation, smirking slightly - Jaskier is better at communicating anyway. And he cannot really deny that he is pretty damn curious what the whole deal is about.

*

Geralt’s curiosity gives way to discontent and more than likely poorly concealed animosity when the realisation dawns on him as they make their way to Dorian, the merry carriage with its extravagant knights turning back and around with them. They ride together in a flurry of excited voices to secure themselves a place in the inn for the night and Jaskier’s eyes sparkle with joy and eagerness with each passing minute.

The proposition comes as no surprise, at least not to him, when they are huddled together in a tavern finally, Geralt sitting off to the side a bit, the whole commotion too much for him. They want Jaskier to join their count in Kovir for winter. Geralt doesn’t say anything, trying to avoid Jaskier’s searching looks.

They’ve been travelling for so long now without parting ways that the idea of having him go off to be someone’s bard of court sounds utterly alien and out of place.

Geralt doesn’t say anything when Jaskier wonders out loud, weighing the pros and cons in front of the strangers, his excitement clearly visible. He doesn’t say anything when the younger man points out that he’s not equipped with a lute for now, only to be reassured that, as expected in that part of the Continent said to be overflowing with riches, the mysterious count owns a myriad of most exquisite instruments for his choosing. Geralt doesn’t say anything when Jaskier looks back at him yet again, expectantly, like a little child asking for permission.

It is pretty obvious that Jaskier is tired of being on the road, Geralt has been well aware of that for some time. Now devoid of his lute, he’s been making remarks of settling somewhere for the colder months quite often, but the witcher stubbornly brushed them off - he did not have enough money yet to rebuy the instrument for his friend, he needs to take up some more contracts. 

Jaskier is tough, maybe a bit overdramatic, but he is not squeamish, he knows his way in the wilderness and how to survive. The road, visiting different places, meeting new people and partaking in adventures is his calling, as it is Geralt’s. Yet the witcher knows that even Jaskier needs a purpose, a goal in their travels - and they didn’t have one for so long. As much as he likes living on the road, he enjoys performances and being in the centre of attention, and gods , if only Geralt knew how to connect these two right now. 

The guests at the inn are a rowdy crowd that demands that Jaskier sings as soon as word about him being a poet and bard circles the room. Greedy, grasping hands, that make Geralt flinch internally, pull at the younger man, swiftly putting him onto the counter, a random lute soon placed in his hands. Jaskier only has time to grin at Geralt, widely and so, so sincerely, before he starts vocalising loudly one of the naughtier, lewd songs, at which the crowd roars with excitement.

Geralt listens, once in a while meeting Jaskier’s merry eyes as the bard switches through melodies, trying to make sure he doesn’t get too deep into his head and into those unnerving, dangerous thoughts; he tries to occupy his hands and his mind with a pint of ale.

Suddenly there’s movement in Geralt’s peripheral vision, forcing him to look away from Jaskier, who just radiates positivity, warmth, and softness. One of the envoys from the carriage scoots over to him, leaning too much into Geralt’s personal space for his liking.

The man has a haughty look to him, regarding Geralt with what can only be pity and disgust that the witcher is so familiar with, encountering it often, wherever they go.

“You know, witcher,” he starts, spitting to the floor before he speaks. Geralt only stares, imagining what Jaskier would say at such an unmannerly display in public. “Count’s invitation only stands for the bard. I do hope we are indeed clear on that matter.”

“ Indeed .” 

Well, that settles it, then.

*

Geralt has been staring at the ceiling of their rented room counting growth rings in the wooden planks for what feels like hours when he finally registers what definitely is Jaskier coming up the stairs. Soon enough the man stumbles through the door, flushed and happy, his doublet unfastened, but surprisingly sober.

“Are you asleep?” he asks, voice hushed, taking silent steps to his bed on the opposite side of the room. The urge to pretend to be is strong, but Geralt resists, not moving, not averting his eyes.

“No,” he replies, raspy, and clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything else. He feels strange.

“So, pray tell, what do you think? Should we go? I absolutely know we should , just think, Geralt! A winter, spent in a place farther north than Kaedwen, with an abundance of food, drinks and entertainment, beautiful people all around, oh, the riches!” each word rolling off of the bard’s tongue is marked with increasing excitement and judging by the pace of his steps, Geralt is sure he rose from his pallet and is spinning around. He winces. “The winter! Warm beds and chambers, and, Geralt! The tales to write and the sights to behold!”

So he doesn’t know, does he. Geralt sits up slowly, rubs the back of his hand on his forehead and looks at Jaskier, who stares at him back with the widest possible grin. He thinks they will be going together. They haven’t told him that the witcher is not welcome. And Geralt is definitely not in the habit of staying where they do not want him, he has never been. Jaskier needs it, though, a break, a taste of luxury, a temporary comeback to his old life, possibly a break from Geralt himself. 

Geralt is perfectly aware of that and he wishes his social skills were better, because he doesn’t know how to go about this. If he refuses to go, or better yet, tells Jaskier the truth, the man won’t agree. He won’t leave Geralt, losing his opportunity for a peaceful and plentiful winter.

“No.”

“Whatever do you mean ‘no’?” Jaskier falters immediately, coming to a stop and pointing his eyes straight at the witcher’s face.

“I don’t want to go,” Geralt says, forcing a fake, nonchalant shrug.

“But- what do you propose we do, then? There’s no time to go back to Kaer Morhen before it’s not passable - not that I expect you to invite me, however amazing it would be to finally go there and see it with my own eyes - and you and I both know that neither of us has enough money to lodge somewhere…?”

“You should go,” Geralt looks to the side, discreetly digging his fist into the mattress. He used to be immune to Jaskier’s never ending babble, a useful skill in their circumstances, really; now, he’s rather prone to it. “Without you I’ll be able to make it to Kaedwen in time. You’re slowing me down anyway, I’ll be better off.”

The only thing that can be heard in the room now is Jaskier’s quickened breathing. He is standing there, in complete darkness, staring at Geralt who at this point hates his witcher sight and that he can clearly see the expression on the younger man’s face. Disbelief that’s ineptly masking hurt.

“Better off-” Jaskier says and it sounds like a choke and Geralt knows he’s been too cruel in his falsehood. But he doesn’t know what else to do. “Better off without me, you meant, did you not. Frankly, you cannot be serious. That’s complete shite and you know it, Geralt. How long have we been on the road together...! Fine, then, if you’re not going, I am certainly not leaving you alone to PERISH-”

“Damn it, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, the anger inside him vividly real now, not fake. “You’re fucking thirty two, you don’t need me to chaperone you wherever you go, you don’t need me to protect you and you don’t need me to second your decisions! Just go and give me a fucking break!”

Jaskier startles, then tenses - not from petrification, Geralt knows that, he’s never been afraid of him; he’s just astonished, surely hurt and disappointed. It doesn’t suit him, the witcher muses hurriedly, Jaskier- Jaskier’s not for hurt and not for sorrow, Jaskier’s for the good, and the soft, the happiness and the warm - Geralt freezes internally. He cannot let himself think like that, it will just complicate everything that managed not to screw up just now.

“Very well, then,” the bard composes himself shortly after, visibly shaking off the anguish that Geralt has so easily read from his expression mere seconds before. Turning around, he undresses and gets into bed, facing the wall.

It’s difficult to breathe at first but Geralt is a master at disguising emotional discomfort so he does just that and lies back down on his bed, also turning to the wall. He’s fuming with fury and tries to fall asleep to conceal, even from himself, that the anger he feels is unquestionably not directed at Jaskier, but at his own disability to express emotions and taking shortcuts in matters he shouldn’t fucking take shortcuts. The feeling he has been trying to bury deep within himself that’s irrevocably connected with Jaskier, has been for close to a decade of their friendship, blooms a little more, resurfaces; Geralt doesn’t feel too well.

*

They part ways after a quiet, tense morning, the witcher heading west and the caravan with its number increased by one bard and his horse going north.

It’s getting colder. Geralt’s eyes prickle for a moment, which definitely, definitely is caused by the rapidly cooling air. It must be. Not entirely consciously, he tries to stifle the piercing feeling of regret that lingers in the pit of his stomach since the previous evening.

“ And happened what was supposed to, nothing that you can change no more, though the sun's glare faded, with red suffused the blade, with red suffused the blade… ” Jaskier's new ballad falters as the distance between them grows and soon enough his resonant, clear voice, however a bit dimmed with what has happened the night before, is out of the witcher’s earshot, no matter how much he strains his enhanced senses.

Soon enough the only sounds Geralt hears are his weirdly accelerated breaths and the steady pace of Roach’s hoof beats.

*

The nights are silent now. The evenings, too. There’s no laughter, no impromptu songs, melodies and sonnets, no late night talks, no random objects flying at him from the other side of the room or campsite when Geralt becomes too mercilessly broody (the bard would say) or when he meditates too long instead of sleeping. It’s different.

The nights are silent, because Jaskier’s the one with the words, even in his sleep. It’s only when he’s bonelessly tired or sick, or hurt, that he doesn’t sleeptalk; Geralt has learnt about when he wouldn’t yet admit that the younger man was his friend - an acquaintance at best. It was unnerving at first, annoying and disrupting his already poor sleeping schedule. However, he did get accustomed to it and stopped paying it any mind soon enough; Geralt cannot recall when Jaskier’s constant sleep-babble became as much of their nightly routine as cooking or taking care of the horses. Now he only expressed his irritation only when they were low on coin and had to share a bed in rented rooms (as they couldn’t afford one with two), because when Jaskier sleeptalked, he also kicked and flailed his arms about, hard - never a good combination with Geralt’s hyperawareness and their close proximity.

The unusual silence is so eerie to him, so foreign, that Geralt stupidly fears that his eardrums will burst with the unfamiliar lack of sound ; it’s illogical and impossible but he needs to drown the absence of his friend and on a spur of a moment decides to head for Novigrad instead of Oxenfurt. It will add some miles to his journey, but, really he doesn’t have an exact plan now and Novigrad brings the promise of bigger crowds, more ruckus, possibly some new contracts - stimuli that should hopefully occupy his mind.

*

Novigrad reeks of piss, sewage and unwashed residents no less it always had, the poorly concealed aura of bigotry and racism present as always. There is a mass of people, mooching around the streets and alleys, doing errands, trading and screaming their lungs out. A dozen or so of contracts, of various difficulty and worth, presents itself to the witcher and he fulfills over a half of them before he decides he has enough money to live through the cold months. And to buy that stupid lute, if he ever gets to it, that is.

Navigating through bigger settlements never was Geralt’s problem - he despised it, truthfully, but keeping to himself and frowning constantly for good measure was a good guarantee that he would be left alone.

But people are looking at him now and there’s no bard at his side to take up their attention or to look at him knowingly to ease his mind, or to throw some creative insults if there's need. It's tiresome and maybe coming here was a horrendous idea in the long run.

It’s been a week since Geralt arrived and he’s not really sure what to do. He thinks of going to Kaer Morhen to hibernate with the rest of the witchers as usual, but a persistent tug at his mind prevents him from doing so. 

He doesn’t know when he’ll see Jaskier - if he gets to see him ever again. They have never had a row quite like this, not where Geralt has hurt Jaskier’s feelings this deeply and when the bard didn’t laugh it off or told him off. They didn’t fight, not really, and now that Geralt has time to ponder about it in his (miserable) solitude he knows he fucked up and majorly at that. He should have told the truth, and that would settle it. The bard was already ready not to go but of course the witcher had known better what the younger man needed - what Geralt had thought he needed. 

One of the witcher’s greatest vices is his unique certainty that the majority of society is less intelligent than him (which doesn’t come from prejudice, or a high self-esteem, no - Geralt, having been mutated, has always thought that human emotions often cloud people’s perception of what they need for themselves); and for whatever reason he often forgets that Jaskier has proven to be brilliantly intelligent and clear-headed, times and times again. Despite his extravagant demeanour, he could also be quite reasonable, not always thinking with his heart or other, more primal parts of his body.

Geralt takes a stroll through the docks, breathing in the fresh scent of water, albeit tinted by the smell of fish, when he decides and turns on his heel. There’s one person here that can help him and he hopes she’s still around.

*

The irony of going to one of Jaskier’s previous lovers to ask for advice what lute to buy for him is crippling, but it’s already too late. Geralt asks around for a bit and soon enough learns that Priscilla, the young troubadour, should be in one of the high-end, newly opened cabarets. Geralt sets off, trying to hide his embarrassment under determination.

“Geralt!” the young woman exclaims as if on cue as soon as he steps into the building where he hopes to find her. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“Likewise,” scrutinising her discreetly, Geralt notes that there are visible scars on her neck that she doesn’t try to hide. Her voice is a bit more raspy and deeper than it used to, but relief washes over him when he realises that the gruesome attack on her hasn’t left many consequences. “I am actually here to see you. If you have got some free time, that is.”

“Word travels fast in a city like Novigrad, you know, Geralt,” Priscilla beams and gestures for the witcher to follow her, presumably to a quieter corner, as he orders two ciders for them in passing. “As soon as I heard a witcher was asking about me this morning I knew it just had to be you.”

They sit at a corner table, a waiter bringing two tankards with hot apple cider for them as soon as Geralt is done settling his sword to the side. Priscilla doesn’t say anything, sips her drink and just smiles.

“So how have you been?” Geralt asks sheepishly, trying to delay the moment when he'll have to say what the real purpose of this impromptu meeting is. “You seem to have recovered well.”

“Nothing to complain about, yes. I feel like my ‘new’ voice gives me some edge, don’t you think?” the girl cackles, her laugh as melodic as her singing has always been. The witcher relaxes a little, noting with pleasure that some people just don’t change. “So where’s Jaskier, anyway? Has he left you alone to go shopping?”

The stiffness that suddenly overcomes him Geralt directs into his hands, gloved fingers gripping the metal handle of his tankard just a tad too tightly. Priscilla seems to notice that, a waft of understanding coming off of her in an instant. He sighs.

“Yes, well. About that, actually.”

*

The explanation Geralt gives is laconic and devoid of details he deems unnecessary, something Jaskier would surely berate him for. What he has to communicate is that he needs a new lute for the bard, one that will hopefully equal the one he was gifted from an elven king, so he does just that. A heightened perceptivity seems to be a recurring feature within bards and Geralt would rather Priscilla remained oblivious as to how lousily he treated her idol, friend and ex-lover at that.

Priscilla is more than happy to help, however, and soon enough Geralt is trailing after her awkwardly (the awkwardness thankfully hidden by decades of physical practice in swordfighting), the moneybag heavy in his pocket, to what the young woman said was the best luthier on this side of Pontar.

A small bell chimes over Geralt’s head when they enter the workshop and he takes in the quite pleasant smell of wood and various specifics that he can only guess are needed to help the instruments persevere. A lean man enters the room from a backdoor, a quarter, or a half of his blood clearly elven, Geralt notices.

“Good day,” Priscialla greets with a smile, coming to a chirpy stop. “We would like to purchase a lute.”

The luthier smiles at her but his piercing eyes remain fixed to Geralt, recognition apparent in them.

“The white wolf”, he drawls slowly, but his voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of hatred or the usual detestation. Geralt stares. “I am not certain we carry something that would withstand a witcher’s strength.” 

Priscilla hurries to explain, but the shopkeeper continues before she has a chance to say anything. “Yet I assume it is not for you but for Julian, I do believe?”

There are only a few people Geralt knows of who use Jaskier’s given name and he didn’t expect to meet one in such circumstances. The bard has always been honest about how feels about it (he doesn’t like it; Geralt has always accepted it, no questions asked). Suddenly he is not sure that coming here was the best idea, but it is already too late. He’s grateful that Priscilla takes the lead from now on.

They come over to the other side of the room, where the man shows them lutes of different colours, sizes and shapes. Geralt knows jack shite about them, so the only thing he says is:

“The previous one Jask- the previous one was a gift from an elf. I think it was elven-made, then.”

The recognition that paints on the luthier’s face is a factor that affects Geralt’s unreasonable nerves, slightly just calming them. The man appears to understand the quality Geralt is looking for (the witcher tries not to think about the fact that the man might be suspecting why such a lavish purchase is needed), furrowing his thick rows in consideration.

Geralt busies himself with observing the lutes on display, amateurishly appreciating the skill that went into creating them, carving the decorative details and bending the wood to a desired shape, when Priscilla and the shopkeeper venture to retrieve the right instrument, he assumes.

“Here,” minutes later a lute is gingerly handed to Geralt by the luthier, Priscilla looking at it with admiration and a smile yet again spreading over her lips. “It’s of great uniqueness, we do not carry any copies of this one. It’s been made by my wife from the finest spruce, just enough for one instrument, from the regions of Shaerrawedd, harvested during a waning moon in Feainn, which will give it the most exquisite features-”

“Thank you,” Geralt interrupts, taking in what he thinks is sheer beauty of the lute. It will fit Jaskier well. For now, he needs to go - Priscilla will explain those exquisite features to him, he’s sure of that. Jaskier will be well aware of them, too; Geralt tries not to bite his tongue at the thought that, because of his own stupidity, he may not have the chance to present the younger man with the instrument.  “Do you have a case that could go with it? To keep it safe.”

“Naturally. I dare say, your bard will be most pleased with it.”

He’s not my bard is not even close to escaping Geralt’s lips this time, as it usually would. This time, he just nods.

*

Jaskier’s the one with the words and Geralt cannot help but wonder what the bard would say, how he would mock him relentlessly, had he seen him leaving Novigrad the next day, an embroidered lute case strapped safely to his back, next to the steel sword.

*

There’s not much to do for Geralt now that he’s back to travelling alone and in a matter of weeks he rides up north, too far, not exactly involuntarily. The contracts on the way dwindle, a usual occurrence when winter looms closer and trade routes empty, people not meeting monsters and some beasts starting hibernation themselves. Moneywise it’s of no concern to the witcher as he managed to gather enough coin while fulfilling quests around Novigrad, even after he has spent more than half on it on the stupid lute. 

It’s getting colder by the day and Geralt has to stop in Barefield to buy thicker clothes to go underneath his armour and preferably a new cloak; he has to admit with shame he ruined them on his way to Novigrad, working too much and not taking care of the garments properly later. More often than not Jaskier had been the one to remind him to do so right after a hunt, sometimes undertaking the task of washing, mending and sewing himself, and with him gone, Geralt forgets how easy it is to get too caught up in monster-slaying and that, apparently, he is not the best at remembering to take care of more mundane tasks anymore. He might have gotten too comfortable having a companion on the road with him.

The windows in the tiny inn room Geralt is staying at for the night are draughty, letting the warm air escape and bringing the cold breeze inside. He settles on the wide windowsill nevertheless and prepares the well-known routine of cleaning his and Roach’s gear which he brought from the stable, where the mare is comfortably settled. 

Geralt’s movements are well-practiced, repeated so often that he doesn’t even have to look at his hands anymore, letting them work, cleaning and wiping. His mind wanders.

The air is warm on his face as Geralt soaks a clean rag in argentia and sets off to rub it steadily onto the silver blade. They’ve stopped in an old hunting shack on their way from Dol Blathanna to Lyria; it’s easy to tell it’s been long abandoned, tucked on the edge of a forest, close to a small crop field and an overgrown, wild orchard that must have abounded with apples in its prime. 

Summer is nearing its end and the lazy atmosphere engulfs the witcher as he barely focuses on the task, movements automatic, sitting on the crumpling veranda of the small house. Roach and Salmon are grazing lazily, partially hidden between the trees, while Jaskier walks around them, collecting ripe apples and reaching for some growing on shorter trees. 

It’s peaceful, quiet and blissfully warm, the slight wind heavy with the sweet scent of fruit and wildflowers. Having eaten in the village an hour before they don’t even have a fire going and Geralt drowns out his hearing as much as he can, limiting it only to summer crickets, horses huffing and Jaskier’s melodious, languid humming.

“Here,” sometime later the bard comes over and hands him an apple, obviously pleased with the number he collected into his shirt, his doublet long discarded in the hot evening sun. Geralt carefully places the sword behind himself and takes the fruit, Jaskier dropping down beside him. “A magnificent spot we chose, didn’t we?”

Geralt’s eyebrows rise as he looks at the younger man with amusement.

“ We chose? I was under the impression that I found this place, while you were whinging about trying to turn back and beg villagers for a bed. Possibly with someone already in it.”

“Ah, semantics,” Jaskier grins, waving his hand dismissively as he puts the apples he harvested on the steps, stretching his legs out and propping himself on his elbows. He’s smiling softly, continuously, and Geralt watches him for a moment, feeling a smile curling around his mouth as well.

They fall silent, just sitting and looking ahead at the blooming nature, dusk already settling around them, bringing a late-summer-early-autumn chill. It’s not prominent, they could probably sit like that for hours to come, Geralt muses, eyelids half-closed; he could, at least, but judging by the heat radiating off of Jaskier’s body close to him, he supposes the bard could, too. The witcher sighs with contentment, eyes closing fully.

“ It smelled like a breeze of autumn, with cold wind vanished the meaning of words ,” Jaskier’s voice that resounds next to Geralt is mellow, the verse soft, barely above a whisper but sang with perfect diction and melody, even though the younger man is too lazy to get up and get his lute from the shack. Geralt doesn’t mind, feeling his muscles relax further at the familiarity of the situation, almost as if he was under the influence of Axii.

“ It has to be, the diamonds at the end of your lashes cannot change anything anymore. White with snow is the place you live, with ice glisten lakes and marshes, ” Jaskier continues and the ballad brings up Geralt’s memories, those fond of Kaer Morhen in winter, merry end-of-summer festivals in Oxenfurt, the disappointment that has the colour of certain violet eyes and smells of gooseberry and lilac.

“ It must be so, the longing hidden in your eyes cannot change anything anymore. Spring will come back, roads will flow with the rain, hearts will warm with the warmth of the sun. ”

Geralt’s mind unconsciously enters a half-meditating state, more images of the past flowing before his closed eyes; the first time it had happened years ago he rose suddenly and pushed the flat side of his silver sword against a surprised Jaskier’s throat to check if it really was the bard, not an estranged doppler or sorcerer impersonating him, trying to put a spell on him. It wasn’t, and Geralt soon realized that Jaskier’s singing was just so familiar, radiating softness and warmth and something he couldn’t quite put a finger on, that it allowed Geralt to put his guard down almost completely.

He sees a laughing Eskel, smile crooked, Vesemir and Lambert sparring half-heartedly in the courtyard, Nenneke embracing him in a hug and yelling for something or other at the same time, visibly trying to look more stern that she really was, Regis and his persistent smell of herbs, picking nettles into a linen bag, Jaskier as he braids flowers into Roach’s and Salmon’s manes, a dandelion tucked behind his ear, as he looks at Geralt, eyes shining, with the kindest of smiles on his face-

“ It must be so, because there is still fire within us, the eternal fire that is hope .”

Geralt shudders heavily as Jaskier stops, eyes springing open and mind clambering out of the strange haze caused by the melody.

The younger man’s hand lands softly on his back as Geralt sighs, hoping to shake off the hypnotizing charm that overcame him.

“Geralt? Are you not feeling well?” concern laces Jaskier’s question thoroughly, his eyes searching, staring pointedly into Geralt’s own.

“I’m fine,” the witcher exhales and smiles slightly for good measure, desperately trying to ignore how the bard’s touch burns on his shoulder now, how the heat of his body envelopes Geralt in the already warm summer air, still managing to kindle a peculiar, soaring feeling in the witcher’s heart, which he otherwise would deny has the ability to feel such strong emotions. 

He almost, almost leans in, closer, mind hazy and wonderfully warm. It’s only when Geralt realizes that Jaskier isn’t moving, staring at him, almost quivering with something Geralt can’t decipher, that the witcher pulls back, standing up swiftly and stretching his arms, if only for something to do.

“We should get the horses ready for the night,” he says but doesn’t walk away - just stares at the younger man and momentarily entranced, in a fleeting moment of confusion, brushes Jaskier’s soft hair out of his eyes.

 A strong gust of wind pushes the window open, the old latch clattering. Geralt’s breath catches for a moment, violently pulling him out of the memories that he desperately tries not to mull over, again and again.

“The winter will be here in no time, aye,” he hears a man say below, on the street, his words heavy with a skelligian accent. “Look at t’ sky - we’ll ha’ snow soon enough, better ge’ ready.”

Geralt pushes the window open wider, braces himself on the frame and looks out into the evening, inhaling deeply. The sky is clear, a mass of gray, but there’s a prickling freshness to it that announces the cold.

*

Geralt knows he messed up when he goes get Roach the next morning and the ground crunches under his boots with hoarfrost. He’s too far north and if the skelligian man was right and snowfall starts earlier than he anticipated, he will have no time to turn around and go to Kaer Morhen before the trail is snowed-over and impassable. If he wants to make it in time and not scramble around looking for a place to spend winter in, Geralt muses as he puts a brand-new horsecloth over Roach and fastens of all his bags and the case with Jaskier’s new lute to the saddle, he’ll have to pass through the Kestrel Mountains that are separating him from Kaedwen, and pass through from the north at that. 

It’s risky but not impossible. Geralt has done it a few times, even during winter, but he was younger, better equipped and planned it beforehand. Now the task seems slightly tricky, but being a witcher and having spent a few decades in that region he knows of a web of crossings and caves (suitable for a witcher and his horse, not for a human, really) that would grant him a safe(ish) passage and shelter if he needed one. Geralt just hopes that not much changed since the last time he has been there, maybe two decades ago, and that once he’s done crossing the mountains he’ll be able to visit the bathhouse in Aedd Gynvael from where the road to Kaer Morhen is quite quick. 

While buying his clothes at the tailor he’s heard gossip about a sorceress staying at Aedd Gynvael, too, and he thinks maybe it’s one from the myriad of those that he knows (he doesn’t want to admit to himself it would be nice to see a familiar face).

*

As Geralt has suspected, his way through the Kestler Mountains is manageable, but tiresome. The wind howls loudly, constantly, making his ears ring uncontrollably, both he and Roach slip one too many times on snow and ice, his underclothes are constantly wet due to the freezing humidity of the caves and on a particularly freezing evening Geralt watches with both amazement and disgust how his urine freezes as soon as he’s done relieving himself before going to sleep. 

At least the passage is considerably safe, monster-wise. Geralt encounters a pack of wolves which have ventured too far, trying to attack, and at one point he’s sure there are arachnomorphs in one of the tunnels, but he throws a quick Aard to block the entrance and they pass it before he even has to unfasten the silver blade from the saddle.

Geralt is exhausted to the bone but pushes forward just to get the road over with. The biggest problem is that it’s also boring. He’s alone with his thoughts (one can only talk to a horse so much) and he cannot even sightsee - everything is either white with snow when he passes through mountain slopes or wet and with a sickly-bluish tint of mold when they’re going through caves. Cursing his stupidity, his lack of tact and, what Jaskier likes to call, his emotional capacity of a scurver that led him to become absurdly alone, Geralt tries to take as good care of Roach as he can muster in such poor conditions, making sure that the mare is always fed, brushed, cleaned and warm, not letting her gear get wet. The horse shouldn’t have to suffer for his unwise decisions and foolish outbursts. He can cope with his clothes being unpleasantly moist, Roach can’t.

As nights fall, the horse is tended to, a small fire built and burning, Geralt lies as close to it as he can without the heat becoming unbearable, curled on his bedroll under the new cloak and a few layers of rough blankets, he lets himself think what Kovir looks like now, imagining a rich court, a palace with high ceilings, elegant but slightly trashy ornaments, a poet and a musician dressed in brocade garments; he lets himself wish there was a blue-eyed, tall bard with him, laughing and singing and brightening the days with his obscene and utterly stupid jokes, and he lets himself miss him and his melodious voice a little too much.

And then the mornings come and Geralt is hungover with how much he lets himself feel in the evenings, how deeply he’s fallen and how much he screwed up.

*

Geralt has lost count of how much time has passed since he set off on his journey through the mountains - even with his witcher senses it’s difficult to say as they’ve been going through caves and caves and caves, seeing no daylight for hours; since the witcher tries to travel as fast as possible without tiring the horse, he doesn’t let himself sleep too much, sometimes resorting to meditating on horseback, so counting hours to estimate which day it is doesn’t help much either.

“At least I know we’re on the right track, Roach,” Geralt repeats every time he thinks they’re getting closer to the exit and is disappointed when it turns out they’re positively not . “At least we’re not lost.”

They definitely aren’t lost, because it’s the only way, really. It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s the only shred of comfort that Geralt can think of, so it has to do. 

The tense silence of the grottos they’re trying to conquer, with the constant howling of wind that sometimes sounds like cries, is almost deafening to the witcher so he rides, trying to drown out almost everything and obstructing his ears with the hood of his cloak.

That, the lack of sleep, his overthinking and physical fatigue that’s been there since before he parted ways with Jaskier, is a challenge Geralt hasn’t anticipated to encounter during his passage. 

He’s mentally exhausted and maybe for the first time in his life he cannot wait to stumble into an obscure tavern just to meet people. The perpetual concentration that the witcher has to work on to keep his sharpened senses suppressed is putting a strain on him that he wishes he could just let go. So he allows Roach to take the lead (it’s not like she could deviate from the course anyway), blocking his hearing and closing his eyes, rounding his shoulders forward and slumping a little, letting himself doze off shallowly.

Finally a gust of fresher air hits Geralt’s face under the hood and without opening his eyes or waking up from the half-meditation he knows soon they will enter the open landscape, maybe a day’s worth of travel on horseback down the side of the mountain range for him to reach the first settlements neighbouring Aedd Gynvael.

When the sounds of Roach’s hooves crunching on the untouched snow reach Geralt’s blocked-off hearing, relief washes over him because they have fucking made it after all. The witcher shakes himself off, stretches his back and takes in the area, if only to feast his eyes on the sight that’s not rock walls or stone summits.

Roach is ambling steadily until the natural trail becomes a path that’s too narrow for her to carry him safely; Geralt unmounts her gladly.

The snow is fresh but there’s not enough of it for Geralt to start worrying that the pass to Kaer Morhen has snowed over. It’s growing dark, so it must be evening apparently. Soon enough the witcher spots a rock shelf, sheltered from the wind by some lone pine trees and decides to set camp and finally allow himself some deep, undisturbed sleep, to then set off early in the morning and make it to a town hopefully before dusk.

Quickly building a campfire, both for warmth and safekeeping, Geralt takes care of Roach, eats the remnants of his food and settles down, excited like a child for a nap after a long day of play. He’s so overwhelmed with relief from having made it out of the wearisome passage that the fatigue successfully stops his tired mind from thinking about anything, be it about the need for a bath or a certain man he came to miss more than he thought possible.

Settling into the bedroll with last conscious effort of this evening Geralt casts a quick Axii both at Roach and at himself for a better slumber, and he’s knocked out cold in an instant, for the first time in what seems like forever.

*

Jaskier’s the one with the words and he’s saying something inaudibly, a smile playing on his face as he pushes the lute onto his back and extends his hand out. Geralt feels himself smiling, too, brimming with happiness as he tries to take the proffered hand but can’t quite reach it and he tries and tries but his own outstretched arm hurts, prickles with ache-

Not even an exhausted wither’s dreams can be this vivid. Geralt opens his eyes, suddenly awake, leaps to his feet swiftly (somehow managing not to get tangled up in the bedding) and yells at Roach to get out of the way as he hurriedly seizes his silver sword; she’s been biting furiously at his hand that he must have thrashed out from under the covers and for a good reason - Geralt was in such a deep sleep that his senses haven’t picked up on two overgrown rock trolls, one with a primitive club in his fist, approaching their camp. 

Geralt manages to get a grip on the blade’s hilt with mere seconds to spare (and only thanks to the horse). The monsters roar almost in unison - there’s no talking to those two - and charge at him, thankfully paying no mind to the mare.

Not wearing armour, the potions safe in a saddlebag on the other side of the now diminishing fire, tiredness and drowsiness still present in his body, senses adjusting back to normal after being forcefully muted for much too long, Geralt realizes it’s going to be one hell of a fight, one that he might not leave unscathed. Or at all.

The trolls are bigger than normally, their rock-covered skin, a natural armour, thicker because they live so deep in the mountains; Geralt tries to rely on footwork, leaping from one creature to another in what he hopes is too fast movements for them, trying to slash his blade in controlled, well-thought-out strokes so as not to lose too much momentum and energy that he already desperately lacks.

He is barely aware that he takes some punches and scrapes as he tries for the trolls’ armpits and bellies where the skin is softer and easier to pierce. The one with the club roars as Geralt manages to graze his torso and lurches at him, the other one flailing his massive arms somewhere to the right; the witcher’s cornered. Casting a Quen shield that’s too weak to hold more than maybe one blow, Geralt steps back, shielding himself with the sword. The monster that’s closer swings the club yet again, barely missing Geralt’s ear, the sheer force of the missed hit sending his white hair flying into his face, the sign crackling around him and disappearing. He sputters, spitting the strands out of his mouth, his vision instantaneously obstructed.

Geralt’s feet tangle into the crumpled bedroll and he trips backwards, hardly having any chance to register what actually is happening; he hears the trolls growl again, feels the wind of the club being swung at him, and with the last exertion musters all his leftover adrenaline as he falls onto his arse, smashing his left hand on the ground in what he hopes is a powerful Aard.

Searing pain almost tears Geralt’s head apart; he’s been hit.

Everything goes black and the witcher loses consciousness.

*

It’s probably only seconds later when Geralt sits up and staggers to his feet, trying to see through the ichor flooding his eyes closed and drenching his shirt; his falling backwards made the troll’s club land on his head with a lessened force, only grazing, but still managing to knock him out for a moment (he’s thankful - a blow this hard would instantly end a normal human). Roach is neighing loudly, stomping her legs; the trolls are a few feet away, stunned with the strength of the sign he cast. Their unusual mutation that resulted in their overgrown, rocky backs proves useful for the moment - they cannot get back on their feet quickly enough, still influenced by Aard, so Geralt stumbles over and with unbearable strain draws the sword through their hearts, one after another.

The camp is packed quickly and hastily, Geralt moving in a haze, murmuring calming words at Roach, wiping the ever coming blood from his brow and dressing himself. He hauls himself onto the horse - it’s still a couple hours before sunrise but he has to go; he cannot stay, not when the snow is soaked with blood and when there are two dead trolls, a perfect bait for necrophages. 

The throbbing in Geralt’s head is dangerously close to crossing the threshold he’s able to withstand while awake, his body wearing down with the effort of the fight.

“Go, girl, down the path,” he mumbles bent over, mouth close to Roach’s ear. He hopes she’ll make it down the narrow trail herself - he knows he’s going to pass out soon, either from the blow to the head or from blood loss. “Get us to safety.”

His vision becomes blurry, his ears are ringing impossibly and with the remains of  consciousness Geralt picks up a weird sound - dozens of legs behind him, coming down from the mountains. Arachnomorphs, possibly the ones he thought he had trapped. Fuck .

The witcher screams at his horse, patting her side clumsily, trying to get her to gallop. They need to escape.

Suddenly there’s fire coursing through him, incandescent needles painfully piercing through the veins and Geralt goes limp in the saddle, his beaten body lulled to the steady, fast-paced rhythm of Roach’s steps.

*

“Good grief, what’s wrong with the lad? Is he-”

“Healer! We need a healer!”

“Quick, take the horse-”

The voices are muffled; Geralt cannot see and tries to say something, anything, but yet, he’s not the one with the words.

*

It’s difficult to tell what the actual hell is going on. Geralt thinks, in flashes of awareness, that he manages to open his eyes a few times, only barely; once he sees light, then there’s darkness again, then there’s something cold to the touch on his forehead, sometimes there are hushed voices, something scratchy under his fingertips.

*

It’s with a pained groan and a throbbing headache that Geralt finally wakes up and is acutely aware that this time he’s awake for sure - the pain is too real.

Squeezing his eyelids tighter he tries to assess his surroundings, only with hearing and smell. It’s warm, fire crackling to the left and he’s definitely on a bed of sorts, the sheet rough and the blanket scratchy. Geralt hears voices and floorboards creaking in what he can only assume is different rooms of wherever he’s at. 

Letting out a long exhale he opens his eyes, grunts some more and sits up slowly, mindful not to cause a blood rush. He feels like shite. There’s a bandage on his head, a few bruises and scratches on his arms and torso and when Geralt moves to stand up he feels something pull at the base of his neck - another bandage, most likely.

“Hey,” he croaks out and realises how dry his throat is. He hears someone behind the door to the room he’s in. “I’m awake.”

The door flies open and an energetic-looking, middle-aged woman comes in and looks him up and down.

“Finally, sir witcher,” she smiles at him, nodding her head as if giving approval. She hands him a pitcher with water and he gulps it at once without a second thought, still a bit dazed. “You were out cold so long I was worried you would get bedsores.”

She’s a bit too loud for the way Geralt feels his head had been split in two, but there’s genuine concern in her eyes and he knows he should be grateful. He nods a silent thanks and carefully puts the empty pitcher on the floor. There’s a lot he wants to ask (where’s Roach, where are his swords, how has he not frozen to death, who took care of the spiders and of him) but the post-injury weakness is too overwhelming for now.

“How long?” he asks only, rubbing his face, careful not to touch the wrapped forehead.

“Two days. Sit down, dear, food will be here soon,” the woman points to the bed and shuffles over a chair on which she sits promptly. She’s straightforward which immediately wins Geralt over. “Do you know where you are?”

“No,” the witcher answers truthfully, shrugging his shoulders; he regrets it instantly, wincing at the soreness. “What’s your name?”

“My name’s Esthere, white wolf,” Esthere, apparently, smirks mildly. “So. You are in Aedd Gynvael, at the Sturgeon-”

Oh. Geralt has stayed at the tavern, years before and probably in a different lodging room, but that doesn’t explain how he got here. “...how? It’s impossi-”

“Shh,” the woman raises a finger, effectively shutting him up. “Let me finish. You’re at the Sturgeon, my tavern. Three days ago a couple of farmers spotted your horse racing from the mountains. You were, as you can imagine, unconscious. There’s a healer in the neighbourhood, but she was here, in town, so they made do, the local herbalist patched you up and they brought you here on a wagon-”

“What about-”

“Your horse too. A feisty beast, I must say, trustworthy,” Esthere smiles and fondness washes over Geralt at the thought of Roach who effectively probably saved his life (again). “Your equipment is in the chest, all of it,” she points to the corner of the room where indeed a sizable trunk stands, both of Geralt swords and the lute propped neatly on it. “They brought you here. The healer did what she could, you heal well. She only needed a little help from the sorceress to identify the venom you were…”

Venom! That finally makes sense to him, understanding hitting Geralt like a punch from a troll. The arachnomorphs were chasing them - he must have gotten hit with their venom, that’s why he lost consciousness so unexpectedly; his mind races, hand springing up and behind to touch the gauze at his neck - it must have been exposed, a gash made by a troll. That’s why his body’s reaction was so strong - the spider’s poison had to have hit him right into the wound, which paired up with the fatigue from the journey and the bash to the head couldn’t have ended differently. He’s lucky he’s alive. It’s not every day that you are saved selflessly total strangers.

“You’ve been asleep for pretty much two days, and now we’re here,” the woman says finally, looking at him with anticipation. “Any questions?”

“What sorceress?” Geralt asks, only now remembering the gossip about one staying here. “Did you get her name?”

“Margarita something-or-other,” Esthere replies, shrugging slightly. “She was here for business close to a month; when you arrived she was already leaving, stayed a bit longer to help, and then left.”

Geralt has met Rita a few times when he was still in the nonsensical quasi-relationship with Yennefer, who she had been close friends with. When he gets better. and probably after winter is over. he will have to find a way to thank her, he muses, relaxing slightly, letting himself drop into the bed. His head hurts with too much information.

Esthere seems to sense that, stands up, claps her hands at which a girl with a tray of food appears and she ushers Geralt to lay down.

“Now, eat as much as you can, sleep some more and tomorrow morning you’ll be as good as new,”  she smiles softly, mother-like. “Let me know if you need help changing the dressing on your wounds, but I’d rather not see you downstairs today. Even witchers need rest.”

Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice; the innkeeper leaves him alone and he inhales as much food as he can before he feels the need to lie down again, having gulped half a Swallow for even faster healing.

*

When the next morning rolls, after a dreamless night Geralt wakes up feeling considerably better. His head doesn’t hurt as much, the rest of the fractures not at all. He orders hot water and takes a quick but relaxing bath in his room, washing himself clean off of dried blood and dirt. He notices with pleasure that the clothes he has been wearing were washed thoroughly, not a trace of blood on them, and are waiting for him next to the tub - he makes a promise to himself to tip the innkeeper generously for the care she didn’t have to provide.

Geralt dresses and scrutinizes the wound on his head, deciding that Swallow did its job and he can forego the bandage; there’s a bump on his forehead, skin reddened and adorned with an ugly blood clot, but it’s healing nicely, so it’s a better idea to leave it to air-dry.

The witcher takes his cloak and money and goes downstairs. The handful of people at the inn pay him no mind, and that’s why Geralt likes to go back to Kaedwen - the witchers are not exactly liked there, but people are used to them appearing in the region pretty much every winter, and the hostility that contributed to the siege of Kaer Morhen has been lost over the decades. 

Geralt talks briefly with Esthere at the counter, paying her generously for his stay and her help, also leaving some coin for the healer if she happens to appear in town, then orders scrambled eggs, a pot of herbal tea and an abundance of treats for Roach.

He eats quickly, his mind occupied with plans for the day. Those three days of unconsciousness apparently have done wonders to regenerate his body, despite having taken a hefty beating - Geralt feels overall sore but rested enough to be on his way to Kaer Morhen (nothing like being taken care of by a skilled healer, he admits timidly to himself). He will just need to replenish some food provisions at the market.

At some point Esthere comes over to talk to him some more. The conversation is trivial, easy, non-committal and perfectly friendly. She’s an easy going-woman, laid-back and with a sense of humour that Geralt appreciates because it reminds him very much of Jaskier. Silently, he marvels at the fact that he’s either so damned obsessed with the bard or that a decade spent together influenced how he perceives people, finding reasons to warm to them more easily. Or he just has a bias when it comes to people’s personalities, but he’d rather not think about that. He’d rather not think about Jaskier at all for the time being, having learnt the hard way over the past dozen of days that a whirlwind of strong emotions and forceful tries to suppress them ends badly for him, both physically and mentally. Geralt just needs a break from his own head, but he doesn’t deem it possible to achieve without dabbling in magic and that is a sure no-no, not after all the times that mingling with sorcerers and sorceresses brought him impending doom in various degrees. He’d prefers to stick with humans after all.

Soon enough Geralt leaves the warmth of the tavern deciding to visit Roach at the stables before going to do errands. It’s snowing outside and the breeze makes him shiver a little; he tightens the cloak around himself and quickens his pace, a fleeting thought of how Jaskier would scold him for not dressing warm enough for winter appearing. So much for not thinking. His mind wanders back to the lute tucked safely in the room and there’s something akin to sorrow that Geralt feels at the mere vision of waiting long winter months for a meeting and an apology that might not even happen.

Roach’s ears perk up when he enters the stable and the mare huffs at him, a greeting. Geralt comes over, eyes searching, looking for any possible injuries she might have sustained while he was unconscious, but she seems perfectly okay. Feeling a momentary pang of guilt in his chest, Geralt lets himself slump against the horse’s elegant neck, hugging her close to him in wordless thanks. He acted like a brainless moron letting himself go on like that, taking on a journey this tiresome without proper preparations and an earlier start. Oh, the witcher can just imagine what Vesemir would say, calling him too proud for his own good, his cockiness resulting in perilous circumstances that only rookies would find themselves in. 

And Geralt would have to agree, hell, he agrees already, because he’s certain it was his own fault, getting too caught up in his stupid feelings, emotions he had been squashing for too long, and it was really the driving force that caused all of this, Geralt pushing himself dangerously just a tad bit too far.

Never having been able to lie to Vesemir, Geralt knows he will have a lot of explaining to do once he reaches the fortress. Maybe, he hopes, maybe he will at least be able to smuggle the lute inside Kaer Morhen without the other witchers noticing and asking uncomfortable questions, ones that he’s not ready to answer yet, not ready to admit some things even to himself.

*

Roach is well taken care of, brushed and fed with apples, carrots and sugar cubes, by the time Geralt leaves the stables. He has lost himself in the familiar tasks of combing through her mane and cleaning hooves, letting his mind slip and wander, mentally preparing for the rest of the journey to Kaer Morhen.

He takes a slow stroll through the town, visiting a market and buying a bagful of food for himself and the horse. The snow has stopped and the sun is shining at its highest point - it’s noon and Geralt knows he has to set off soon, so he hurries back to the tavern.

*

Only when Geralt starts packing does he realize what a mess he made, frantically throwing everything into bags back on the mountain. Sighing, he unpacks everything, and packs it back in, mildly annoyed at the mundane task; but he supposes it serves him right. Having cleaned his armour he puts it on after dressing in thicker clothes and taking a few sips of Swallow just in case.

Careful not to cause unnecessary painful tension in his head, Geralt picks up his equipment and tries not to think about what the fact that a lute is slung over his back, not only his steel sword, entails.

Now that it’s the middle of the day, there are more people at the tables, but none of them turn their attention to him, still. Apparently he’ll have to get used to not being watched, too, without a vibrant bards at his side. He nods at Esthere behind the counter, his lips curling up involuntarily as another thank you for her help.

Geralt is giddy when he goes to get Roach because, by the gods, is he ready to get to Kaer Morhen and leave the whole ordeal behind. Of course there’s no telling with certainty that staying at the fortress will magically calm his nerves down or make anything easier, for that matter, but the thought of seeing his old friends is still absolutely appealing.

*

There’s some sort of commotion at the edge of town when Geralt and Roach try to leave. However unbothered by his presence they are, the witcher decides to turn back and take the longer route around the settlement. The three-day long rest in a comfortable and warm stable must have done Roach some good, too; there definitely is a slight energetic skip to her steps. Geralt feels awful for what he put her through.

The snow gets deeper and the wind more biting as soon as they leave the comfort of shielding buildings and street braziers that some townsfolk have already put out and lit fire in. Geralt doesn’t mind - when he concentrates and strains his vision just enough he can see the slopes between which the path to Kaer Morhen is situated. If he’s a reasonable traveler this time and no more rogue trolls or other monsters decide Geralt and his horse would make for a great dish, they should make it to the keep in two days' time (one and a half if he’s optimistic about it).

Although the man doesn’t like to admit it out loud, and he certainly wouldn’t do so in the presence of the other witchers, spending winters at Kaer Morhen has always been dear to him, a time he looks forward to every year if the circumstances allow him to get back. It’s not exactly a home -it is a place full of painful memories, trauma, a snatched childhood and loss of friends, but it is also a place where people closest to family gather, where Geralt can be himself without restraints, judging stares and the constant aura of fear and disgust.

The wind picks up a little, howling, and Geralt tightens the cloak around himself once more. A wind like this is an often occurrence at the keep, so high up in the mountains, reveling in the draughty stone corridors and deserted chambers that are much too big for the four witchers (at most) who winter there; he ponders with amazement how differently it can be perceived depending on where one’s at - the constant roar was never a problem to him, not until he was travelling through the caves, alone and miserable (and brokenhearted , a voice that sounds suspiciously like one one of his friends prompts in his head).

Nevertheless, Kaer Morhen has been one of the few constants in Geralt’s life and it has to count for something - a witcher shouldn’t be really attached to anything or anyone. Yet here he is, coming back to his adopted family, to some of the only people he can rely on with his life. There’s comfort in that, Geralt muses, and his mind automatically wanders to those who have persisted in his life, making him feel like maybe he doesn’t have a home per se, but he sure as hell has people who can make him feel like he does. Geralt braces himself before thinking that Yen used to be among them (not anymore) and tries, tries so hard not to think about Jaskier, who objectively has spent the most time with him in the past decade, who he could always trust (even if to only brighten the mood) and who he had stupidly pushed away, due to internalised cowardice and hidden emotions he couldn’t cope with like a human.

They don’t make it very far from the settlement when Roach guffaws and neighs, as if to express her opinion that Geralt is, indeed, a fool and the witcher almost says something to her when suddenly he feels her body tense under him; immediately Geralt’s mind clears and he braces for whatever is to come, shearing his hearing and reaching for the steel sword but not turning away. 

The howling of the wind and the considerable layer of snow make everything sound muted, but soon enough Geralt hears what Roach’s sensed through the ground just before him - a heavy beating of hooves on the frozen ground and a voice, screaming something.

Before he manages to pull the reins, Roach stops and turns around without a command, correctly sensing what Geralt is about to do. They both observe in growing consternation a figure on a horse galloping towards them in a flurry of snow that billows from the ground due to the crazy speed of the movement.

The hit to the head served by the troll must have been harder than everyone thought; Geralt considers whether he possibly sustained any permanent brain damage, because it takes him only a split second to recognize the dashing person and it  just cannot be . They’re bundled up in layers of clothing and the snow, the fucking snow , really makes it hard to see, but he just can’t be wrong, also judging by how restless Roach acts, huffing puffs of steam through her nose and kicking her front legs.

It has got to be Jaskier, riding on Salmon like a lunatic and screaming his lungs out (Geralt can’t decipher what).

The sight is so unusual that Geralt doesn’t even try to invent an explainable reason how that is possible; he just stares and waits, looking at the approaching man in bewilderment. The tornado of kicked-out snow around Jaskier is probably equal to what the witcher is feeling at the moment.

Finally the man comes within Geralt’s hearing range and he realizes that the bard has been singing - he doesn’t know what and why but Jaskier has stopped now, visibly out of breath.

Roach neighs excitedly when Salmon and his rider finally, finally make it closer to them (close enough to touch if he extends his arm, Geralt pushes the thought aside). Still not moving, the witcher takes in the ridiculousness in front of him, not saying a word.

Jaskier is sitting on Salmon, dressed in a thick hooded cloak that’s a brilliant shade of navy blue; the hood has slipped off his head as he’s bent in half, pressing a hand to his ribs, greedily sucking in deep breaths as he loosens a scarf wound around his neck under the coat. His brown hair is mussed, longer than Geralt remembers, cheeks reddened by either the cold air or  the effort. He looks good. Geralt doesn’t say anything again.

Apparently needing a moment to collect himself, Jaskier eventually straightens his back, wincing a little at what the witcher assumes is a colic, and wheezes out, “Gods.... Geralt… Couldn’t you… have… just stopped?”

He sounds airy, voice squeezed and feigning annoyance but Geralt looks just at his blue eyes, ones that sparkle with underlying mirth. He doesn’t know what to think about it. There is a slight possibility that it is only a fever dream, maybe caused by some remaining arachnomorph venom is his system.

Jaskier doesn’t seem fazed by his silence, he never does, really. He coughs seriously, having levelled his breathing, and continues.

“Perhaps I should have listened to when tons of people told me not to trust a  witcher, then. Of course you had to step outside the norm and choose a different trail to leave the town! A primitive mistake on my part, isn’t it?” overwhelmed by the slurry of indignant words Geralt opens his must to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Hell, did he miss it. Jaskier just lifts his head haughtily. “Thus, this may not be the way I imagined, or planned, to deliver my performance, but alas! You will not worm your way out of it, witcher.”

Still not being able to utter a single word, Geralt has to steady himself in the saddle when Jaskier starts singing, unprompted, his pound stance clashing immensely with the witty, quick tune and how disheveled he looks in general after the crazy gallop. He doesn’t sound out of breath anymore which is probably due to years and years of musical training and experience of a professional performer; Geralt has to forcefully steer his mind on the right track to actually hear what he’s singing about and manages to catch the very end of the short song.

“...snapped in two, my lute was gone! The one who broke it, no remorse has shown. And here was I, going away, my instrument broken, the sensations between us, as always misspoken.”

As soon as he finishes the unbelievable pies Jaskier just babbles on , and Geralt doesn’t even have a chance to squeeze a word in, much less react. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway. The control he has to produce in order not to give in to the urge to hop off Roach and get closer to the younger man is immense. He closes his eyes.

“...believe me when I tell you, I desired to use the word ‘butt’ while composing this,” Jaskier waves his gloved hand right before Geralt’s face making his eyes snap open. “But it does rhyme with ‘mutt’, so that wouldn't be the wisest idea considering the fact that you’re known as the white wolf - my doing, mind you - and it just wouldn’t bring the most positive connotations. People at Aedd Gynvael didn’t appear to mind, however.”

“So that was you?” Geralt’s mind races back to the crowd at the entrance to the town he omitted. That would explain a lot, but not everything, not how Jaskier got there in the first place. Geralt may not be the one to believe in fate but he is also almost a century old – he doesn’t believe in coincidences either. Not ones concerning his cunning friend, anyway. “The crowd…?”

“Well, who else would it be?” Jaskier smiles but it’s fleeting, expression melting into a more serious one. “Should have predicted you would choose not to ride through it.”

There’s more questions than answers springing up in Geralt’s head and he cannot tell whether he feels relieved, happy, or utterly terrified. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say, he wants to do nothing and everything at once; so he just opts to exhale, deeply, painfully. He raises his hand and drops it immediately.

“Jaskier, I-”

“We need to talk, I know,” Jaskier interrupts but his tone is gentle, eyes warm with a hint of uncertainty in them. “How about we ride on? It’s almost time for dinner anyway, we’ll set camp in some time to eat. You know I’m a human with basic needs, yeah?”

Nodding his approval Geralt turns Roach around and they set off.

*

Jaskier’s the one with the words; the mixture of relief and fear as they go is almost agonizing and Geralt hasn’t got the faintest idea how to cope with it. He hasn’t spoken once, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, or pretends not to, more likely, riding next to him and filling the tense silence with humming and singing; some songs he’s never heard Geralt notices guiltily. He must have learnt them in Kovir. When he’s not singing Jaskier also talks about what he’s been up to, but it’s careful, Geralt knows, as the younger man sticks to trivial anecdotes without actually telling him what’s been happening with him.

There’s a bridge between them, or maybe a wedge, that the bard tries to get rid of, but it seems like he won’t be able to do it without Geralt’s input. And rightfully so, as he’s not the one who caused it in the first place.

*

It’s maybe two hours later when they find a good place to eat, a forgotten shed hidden between trees, one that smells suspiciously of moonshine.

It’s only when their makeshift camp is set, flames licking a pot with stew, that Geralt allows himself to put his guard down and look at Jaskier fully, comprehending what he sees.

The man has fallen silent as they got off their horses and has been keeping to himself while they unpacked what they needed. He’s sitting next to the fire, waiting for the food, a bottle of moonshine he found in the shack in his hand. Jaskier looks good – healthy, well-fed and taken care of, his hair clean and clothes maintained. Geralt watches as he opens it, sniffs the liquid inside and grimaces. The witcher sighs. There is something bothering him and Geralt wishes he didn’t know what.

“It smells fine,” he says, eyes fixed to the bard. “Won’t leave you blind.”

“Great,” Jaskier shrugs only and takes a long gulp. 

Geralt knows there’s no going around it and braces himself before asking. “So how did you find me? ...if you were looking, that is.”

There’s another moment of silence that seems to drag on forever. Jaskier spins the bottle in his hands, staring at it intently.

“Wow. Who would have thought that suddenly I’ll be the one who can’t talk?” he laughs shortly, takes another sip, then turns to Geralt, handing him the alcohol. It tastes vile but the witcher downs half of it anyway. It’s not like this situation is in any way predictable for him, he muses, not anymore; he might as well take it on while under its influence. Possibly best not to mix it with Swallow, but it would not be the first time.

“You know, Geralt,” Jaskier gazes at him and Geralt feels like a child for some reason. “You do realise you know a shiteload of sorceresses, which, by extension, means I do, too.”

“Yes…?”

“Triss is in Kovir, Geralt. With the ruler. I was with a count, same entourage, really,” his tone is dismissive but Geralt knows better. “What I mean is- before we even got there I knew I made a mistake. And I won’t say it again, so be aware,” Jaskier smiles under his nose and Geralt involuntarily smiles back, an inkling of relaxation seeping into his tense body at that. “So, let’s say, the court wasn’t really what I wanted, right? Then I met Triss and, well, might have asked her-”

“You asked her to track me down,” Geralt supplies matter-of-factly, barely containing the satisfaction that fills him, watching intently how Jaskier shifts in his place. It’s not easy to embarrass the bard, not when he wears his heart on his sleeve and is used to crowds of people looking at him.

“Asked! That might be an exaggeration, really!” Jaskier throws his hands in the air dramatically but Geralt knows it’s only theatrics to mask awkwardness. “I merely suggested that if she came across the information I would like to be notified. Not my fault that all witches have a knack for pure drama and that she extended her magical tentacles so far,” Geralt snorts. “Which, by the way, wasn’t so easy. We- she was looking for you in Oxenfurt. Only when we got word from Priscilla, in Novigrad, it was easier.”

Shuffling his boots in the beaten snow Geralt pointedly stops looking at Jaskier. He is grateful that he cannot pale or flush as quick as humans do; he hopes Priscilla was stingy with words and didn’t say too much. Discreetly, he averts his eyes to the lute, laid with his other things neatly beside the shed, deciding that he made the right decision to wrap it in an old blanket not to ruin the case. Maybe Jaskier hasn't noticed.

“Then, you know. Apparently you came to Aedd Gynvael, all bloody and unconscious and Rita was there. And here I am.”

“She portalled you,” Geralt sighs, resigned. “With your horse?”

“It was a bit tricky,” Jaskier admits. “But Triss did it, only after Margarita left. I had some things to take care of, goodbyes to deliver, I portalled in only this morning.”

“How did Salmon take it?”

At that Jaskier bursts out laughing and laughs and laughs, and laughs until there are tears welled up in his squinted eyes and Geralt is so confused. Not really a reaction he anticipated.

“So, I am here,” Jaskier manages to say finally, dragging the words pointedly, voice strained, wiping his face and still giggling slightly. He looks beautiful like that and Geralt recognizes with astonishment just how much he missed the younger man. Uncanny. “Looking for you all over the place, chasing after you, employing sodding sorceresses to do so, following you to Kaer Morhen without an invitation, and you’re worried about my horse?

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. It is easier than what he thinks will come if they continue this conversation. Sure, he is dumbfounded at having met Jaskier (or rather, been stalked by him)  here, but not even he (again, ‘possessing the emotional capacity of a scurver’, his mind supplies quickly) is that dense. The reason why Jaskier followed him, moved heaven and earth to find him, is pretty obvious and Geralt fears he won’t be able to deal with someone who cares for him that deeply. His care for the younger man is a different matter, though - Geralt can stifle his own feelings but cannot really force someone to do so themselves if necessary. He’s a witcher, damn it, a life like this, full of monsters and beasts, constant moving and travels is not suitable for the other person. But gods, does he wish for it.

“He took it pretty good,” the younger man replies finally and busies himself for a moment with pouring the stew into two bowls and giving one to Geralt. It’s aromatic, steam rising to his nostrils encouragingly, the bowl warming Geralt’s hands nicely. 

Jaskier stuffs his face, surely burning his tongue around the spoon, and eats as if his life depended on it, washing the broth down with moonshine. Geralt takes a few deep breaths, sets the bowl aside and tries to regain some of his witcher composure.

He needs to explain. He needs to make things clear and lay everything out, and maybe he’ll manage to say what he wants. And maybe Jaskier will forgive him and maybe they’ll find a way.

“Jaskier, I am sorry,” he knows it won’t do, saying just that, not this time, not even for himself. “What I said in Dorian… it wasn’t right. I was lying. I didn’t need a break from you and I sure as hell wasn’t better off without you-”

“I can see that quite clearly,” Jaskier mumbles, mouth full, gesturing with his spoon to the clot on Geralt’s head. His eyes are wide open but otherwise Geralt can’t sense what he’s feeling. He musters the courage and decides to concentrate on what he wants to communicate, not what may be the outcome of his words.

“I wasn’t better off. I don’t think I’ll ever be, frankly, not for now at least,” Geralt grunts tiredly, running one hand over his face a few times, if only for something to do. “If… if you’re willing, I want you to come with me to Kaer Morhen.” please . “Please. You’re my best- you’re more than anyone else.”

There’s silence between the two of them. Jaskier finishes eating and Geralt just sits there, waiting, tense, and fucking hopeful. He hates that the only thing he can feel off of the younger man is the scent of the hooch he has drank, that he cannot read him easily because of that. Truthfully, though, the reason could also be that Geralt is just hopeless at speaking about matters that concern, possibly, his feelings.

Finally Jaskier shudders a bit, sighs and reaches over to him and Geralt stops thinking momentarily, and just-

-reaches out and grabs Jaskier’s outstretched hand. It’s warm, without a glove, he can feel it even through the leather on his own fingers. It feels good and for the first time Geralt actually thinks about the touch - it’s not like they’ve never held hands over the decade of their friendship. Yet it is different this time.

He knows he made a mistake when Jaskier’s breath hitches in what clearly is surprise and he mutters something about wanting Geralt’s stew.

Geralt is back to his feet before he knows it, the ghost of the touch scorching. Not sparing a look at the bard, terrified, he walks over, shuffles through his equipment and takes out the lute.

The blanket unwrapped, he turns back to the fire and without a word marches over to Jaskier, almost pushing the richly embroidered case into the younger man’s hands, who must have stood up at some point.

Geralt’s the one with the actions and he hopes that this gift will say more than he can. That Jaskier, with the brain of an artist, will be able to read into it what his stupid witcher mouth will never be able to say gracefully – that he’s sorry, that he misses him, that he hopes they can continue their friendship if that’s only what Jaskier is willing to give (he’ll take everything), that he cares for him and that perhaps he took their bong and Jaskier’s presence for granted, forgetting that he is his own person, not only a witcher’s companion. That Jaskier is so much more than that.

Geralt freezes, unmoving, when Jaskier looks down at the lute with confusion which slowly turns into understanding as he hastily takes the casing off, revealing the instrument inside. His hands wander over the details and the ornaments, barely touching, admiring.

“That’s why you killed that griffin, isn’t it,” he says, letting himself touch the strings, resulting in a soft sound that to Geralt seems like it cuts through the tension between them.

“Uh, yes. It’s elven, it was made-” Geralt doesn’t get to finish his explanation, a fraction of him happy that Priscilla hasn’t said anything, but the rest still utterly horrified with what’s happening. Jaskier looks over the lute again, almost lovingly, then sets it aside and takes a step closer to him. Then hesitates and starts laughing again. If Geralt wasn’t lost before he definitely is now.

“You were miserable without me, weren’t you? You poor, poor witcher creature,” the grin that splits Jaskier’s face is so out of place, so unexpected, that Geralt just manages to nod stiffly, observing as a hawk how the nab comes even closer, close enough that he can feel his body heat. “One would have thought, since you’ve spent close to a decade with me, you would learn how to express yourself properly by now.”

Maybe Geralt doesn’t know how to express himself, that much is true, but suddenly there’s no need for words when Jaskier is the one with an unlimited supply of those, it seems. 

The bard is looking at him, eyes bright, a timid smile shaping on his lips, and immediately Geralt regards his previous doubts incredulously.

How could he be afraid? Being with Jaskier has always been easy, not like with Yennefer or any other person where there was constant turmoil and chaos. Being with Jaskier has always been safe, a constant that grounded Geralt when he needed it most, were it after a particularly difficult hunt where he was badly hurt or when living among people with their bigotry and prejudices, that the witcher was otherwise immune to, became a bit too much to handle on his own. At this point, being with Jaskier was as natural to him as breathing; and only when he started thinking about it, paying attention to it, it became a stupid difficulty that could be solved so easily if he just let himself forget about the mechanics and stopped overthinking – exactly like starting to breathe consciously and eventually forgetting about it, the process going back to normal. In a moment of astonishment Geralt thinks that this comparison is quite poetic and that he’ll have to share it with Jaskier. Later, because now Jaskier is looking at him like that and he has more important things on his mind because he feels as if the earth stopped spinning.

Geralt is the one with the actions and the most natural thing to do for him right now is to grasp Jaskier’s cloak (a new one, probably a gift from Kovir - he’ll have to ask about that later) and pull him closer, possibly too violently for a human; Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t seem to even notice he was yanked so strongly, he’s just there and he doesn’t oppose and that’s simply amazing. 

They're the same height, Geralt notices maybe for the first time, before his mind goes blissfully blank as he kisses Jaskier, no trace of doubt left.

The time freezes for a moment before Jaskier responds, unsuccessfully grabbing and trying to hold on to Geralt’s armour, and the witcher can feel him smiling against his own lips and it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.

“So I guess it’s safe to assume that you enjoyed my masterpiece about your butt breaking my lute,” the bard says, pulling away only slightly, forgoing his attempts to hold on to Geralt’s breastplate and instead resting his hands delicately on his shoulders. It feels electric and deliciously full of feelings they both know they share but don’t need to say out loud to understand correctly.

“There was no butt, bard. You said yourself it didn’t rhyme well,” Geralt smirks. He doesn’t let go as well and repeats what he had unconsciously let himself do a few summers ago, brushing Jaskier’s fringe aside, marveling at how naturally and finally rightfully it comes to him.

“I can change that whenever I want, witcher. So be warned and do not ever try me.”

*

The arrival to Kaer Morhen will happen later than Geralt has assumed, but he doesn’t mind it one bit. They make themselves comfortable in the moonshiner’s shack, deciding to stay for the night. Jaskier has a lot of stories to tell and many songs to fill the evening and the better part of the night.

It’s as easy as it has always been and as it will be for the next many years (he hopes). They talk and Jaskier sings and plays and then protectively cradles his new lute to his chest. He talks about the court and the count, the food he ate and how he came to a stunning realization that a life like this is no longer for him. He tells Geralt how much he missed him a few times and Geralt is embarrassed, but tells Jaskier about the road and the unsettling trail though the caves and how Roach had saved him and how out of place he felt alone, without him. 

Geralt finally feels at peace. They get drunk on moonshine and laugh and it’s familiar and at the same time completely new , the brushing of hands, leaning on shoulders and knees bumping in the tight space not so accidental anymore, a little awkward, but otherwise wonderful.

They will make it and they will figure it out, eventually - plenty of space and time to do so during the winter in Kaer Morhen, Geralt muses with contentment.

*

(Geralts dies internally and wants the ground to swallow him whole when two and a half days later they enter the main courtyard and he sees Lambert’s shite-eating grin as Jaskier makes a show of introducing himself as ‘ his bard vel best friend vel love’. It’s going to be a long winter but Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind it at all).