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Ever since winter had given way to spring and the snow had melted away, Geralt had been steadily travelling south. If asked, he would say there was simply more work to be had in that direction. Of course he wasn’t heading for Oxenfurt, hoping to cross paths with a certain bard. That would be silly.
Even to himself, that argument sounded weak. He knew of course that he and Jaskier were friends, and he hoped Jaskier knew that too. Geralt just couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud. Not just yet. He was, above all else, afraid of messing it up somehow by speaking the words, that he might accidentally drive away the only non-witcher who ever gave a damn about him. Unfortunately, it would likely be another few weeks before he came across Jaskier.
The sun had set some time ago by now, the sky gradually darkening until the only light source came from the crescent-moon above and the small fire he now sat beside. He’d only lit a small cooking fire, having little need for the light or warmth. He had no plans to keep it going through the night, but also there was no need to snuff it out just yet, so for now he was content to let it burn itself out.
Despite missing Jaskier, he enjoyed quiet nights like these. The sounds of the forest surrounding him, the disconnected feeling from society and its expectations. Out here, no one cared if he was a mutant or not. It was a peace he rarely found outside of Kaer Morhen.
That peace was broken when Geralt’s sensitive hearing picked up on footsteps nearby. The pattern was clearly human, or at least it walked on two legs. His hand went to his medallion which remained still where it rested against his chest. Human then, and the only reasons he could think of for someone to be sneaking around the woods weren’t good.
He stood, kicking dirt over the fire, extinguishing the flames and plunging the forest into darkness, illuminated only by the weak moonlight. His eyes adjusted quickly, but he knew the human would have a harder time in the dark.
He could just make out a shadowy form through the trees. They didn’t move, probably unable to see their surroundings. Geralt took the opportunity to get a little bit closer, circling around behind on silent feet. He kept an eye out for signs of others nearby but found nothing. Whoever this was, they had come alone.
Just as Geralt came to a stop, the person reached down and drew a knife from their boot, holding it out in front of them. It would do little good.
Geralt lunged out of the undergrowth and effortlessly tackled them to the ground, dislodging the knife from their grip. There was a loud crack as they hit the ground.
“Ah fuck!”
Geralt froze, recognising the voice immediately. “Jaskier?”
“Oh thank Melitele, it’s just you,” he sighed with almost palpable relief. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Sorry,” Geralt said, climbing off Jaskier. He brushed himself off before offering him a hand up. Jaskier sat up, clutching at his head. He didn’t seem to notice Geralt’s offered hand as he just groaned again. Geralt could faintly smell blood.
“Shit, did I hurt you bad?” he said, kneeling back down to gingerly pry Jaskier’s hand away from his head. His fingers and palm were dark with blood, though thankfully not much. Geralt couldn’t see much of the actual injury in the dim light.
“You almost knocked me out.”
“Fuck. Come on, let me take a look at it properly.” He helped Jaskier to his feet before taking him by the arm, leading him the short distance through the dark to his camp. With a quick flash of igni he got the fire going again. In the light he could now clearly see Jaskier. He looked well, save for the blood still trickling down the side of his head. He was wearing a garish orange doublet, now slightly covered in dirt. Geralt didn’t recognise it, not that he usually paid much attention to Jaskier’s clothes. It was probably new. Oxenfurt was always good for Jaskier.
“Sit here,” Geralt said, indicating the spot he’d occupied before Jaskier had come along. Jaskier did as he was told without fuss.
“I’m sorry Jaskier,” he mumbled, unable to take the guilt. “I didn’t know it was you.”
Jaskier shrugged. “You’d think I’d know better than to sneak up on witcher. Though to be fair, I didn’t know it was you either.”
“So why did you come here?” he asked as he searched his pack for a clean cloth to help stop the bleeding.
“Truth be told, I was hoping it was some friendly traveller willing to share a fire for a night. Safety in numbers and all that,” he shrugged.
“What if it was bandits?”
“That’s why I was trying to be quiet.”
That made Geralt smile. “So, your plan was to sneak into a stranger’s camp and hope you didn’t get noticed before deciding if they were friendly or not?” he asked, going back to Jaskier’s side. He tilted his head so that the wound was better lit and Geralt could see what he was doing.
“Pretty much. Ouch, careful,” he yelped as Geralt pressed the cloth against the gash on his head to stop the bleeding.
“Serves you right,” he said, keeping steady pressure on it. “In the future, maybe you should just make your own camp.”
“It’s served me well so far.”
“And how many times has it not worked out?”
Jaskier didn’t say anything, telling Geralt everything he needed to know. After a minute or two, Geralt slowly removed the cloth. The bleeding had stopped which was good. Head wounds always bled the worst.
“The cut isn’t deep. You won’t need stitches.” He got back up to fetch his waterskin to clean the injury, as well as some salve to help speed up healing. It would do no good if Jaskier got an infection because of him.
“Why did you attack me anyway?” Jaskier asked. Geralt grimaced at the choice of words.
“Thought you meant to either kill me or steal my possessions. Like I said, I didn’t know it was you.”
“Seems we’re both idiots then.”
Geralt gave him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow. “One of us more than the other.”
“Alright, alright. I’m the injured one here.”
“I am sorry about that.”
“I know.”
Geralt cleaned the blood from Jaskier’s head, making sure there was not dirt remaining before applying a thin layer of salve over it. As he did, he asked Jaskier a few questions to determine if he might have a concussion. Did he have double vision? A splitting headache? Did he feel nauseous?
“It hurts, but it’s not too bad. I don’t think anything else is wrong.”
Geralt only gave a satisfied “hmm,” to that.
When he was done cleaning, Geralt wrapped a bandage around Jaskier’s head which he was not particularly happy about.
“Isn’t it a bit overkill?” he asked.
“You won’t need to keep it on for long. Maybe a day or two. Just until it’s scabbed over properly.”
“Fine. As long as it’s gone by the time we come across civilisation. I can’t have my adoring audience seeing me like this.”
“What makes you think they’d care?”
Jaskier spluttered with mock outrage. “I’ll have you know my fans care very much about me.”
His ranting went on for several minutes, about how Geralt never truly appreciated his work, et cetera, et cetera. Geralt only half paid attention to him, which Jaskier was well aware of as he kept going. Eventually he started telling Geralt how he ended up here in the first place, leaving Oxenfurt a little earlier than usual to seek him out. It warmed Geralt to know Jaskier missed him too. Maybe he would admit they were friends out loud sooner than Geralt was expecting.