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Have you ever considered other worlds beside our own?
If you haven’t, it’s important that you do.
For the doorways to these worlds come in many shapes and sizes,
and someday one may just sneak up on you...
--+--+--+--
“Geralt, are you sure I can’t ride your horse? She seems strong enough to carry two.” Jaskier knows the answer, but he likes poking at Geralt. He likes hearing all the different ways the man can say ‘hmm.’ He especially likes when Geralt tells him he can leave anytime he chooses, or other things like that.
It makes him feel appreciated. Wanted, even.
“Hmm.” This time it’s half annoyed, half amused.
Jaskier almost laughs.
“Alright then. Shall I sing for a bit?” He plays at the strings of his lute, marveling as always at the beautiful sounds that come from his instrument. He hums a few bars, finding a melody, then begins to sing. “The sunlight fell through the trees of the wood, as our Witcher rode on down his path–”
“Is it your plan to narrate our entire journey, Jaskier? In song?” Geralt doesn’t turn around when he speaks, but Jaskier can hear the resigned tone in his voice.
Grinning, Jaskier strums his lute and sings, “Only if you don’t wish to join me in conversa–tion!” He draws out the ‘say’ in conversation with a flourish, and Geralt actually slumps in the saddle.
“I think it’s time to stop and eat,” Geralt says. He halts Roach and slides off the saddle in one practiced movement.
“Excellent.” Jaskier sidles up to Roach to dig into her saddlebags; she stands patiently, waiting. She’s grown accustomed to Jaskier over the years. He pulls out a loaf of bread and a couple of apples; he tosses an apple to Geralt before settling onto a log conveniently fallen–months or years ago, but still convenient–a few steps away from where they’d stopped. Geralt sits next to him, his body resting but his eyes ever alert for anything that could be lurking nearby.
The apples are sweet and crisp, plucked from a tree only a few days ago. To Jaskier they taste of autumn, of colored leaves and cooler nights with skies heavy with stars. He wrote a poem about autumn once, about pumpkins and cider and the warmth of an embrace. Unlike most of his poems, this one had stayed in his papers; written down but never shared.
Some things aren’t for speaking aloud.
But Jaskier isn’t in a quiet contemplation sort of mood, so he tries again to engage Geralt in some sort of conversation. He takes a bite out of his apple, and after swallowing he nods at Geralt and asks, “Good?”
“Yes,” Geralt says.
Right. The master of one word answers, this one.
“We’ve got more if you’d like another,” Jaskier offers. They’ve both finished their bread and are nearing the cores of their apples.
Geralt shakes his head. “No.”
Jaskier sighs as he stands up. “I’m going to see what’s about,” he says. “You sit here and rest. Give your horse an apple.” After he turns away he mutters under his breath, “She deserves it for putting up with you.”
“I heard that.”
“That’s why I said it,” Jaskier says over his shoulder. He doesn’t hide the amusement in his voice.
--+--+--+--
Jaskier isn’t sure how far he’s wandered from Geralt, or how long he’s been gone, when he steps into the ring of trees. “This is...interesting,” he says.
Stepping into the ring was probably a mistake, but it’s too late to back out now. He’s already inside. And besides, from outside it had looked like everything else. Like an autumn wood. And then he’d taken a step and…
He’d been in an ordinary forest, with ordinary trees and red and yellow and brown leaves scattered on the ground. But now he is in a circle of gigantic trees, each one too big for him to put his arms all the way around, and so tall he can’t see their gently swaying tops in the clouds above.
And those trees.
Each tree trunk has a door carved into its base. A door. Does someone–or something–live inside these trees? They aren’t quite human-sized, but Jaskier thinks he could fit through if he ducked.
At closer inspection, the doors aren’t quite all the same. Each has a unique carving just to the left of the handles. One has a rough cut pine tree, another what looks like a wooden stick sticking into a heart, one has a stylistic letter A. He’s trying to decipher a carving of an upright rectangular box, wondering what the significance of the blue paint is, when a shushing sound makes Jaskier whip around. At first he doesn’t see anything, but then he notices that one of the doors opposite him, this one decorated with a pumpkin, is slightly ajar.
Later, looking back, he doesn’t remember deciding to cross to the open door. He doesn’t remember taking the steps or reaching out to grasp the handle either. He does, however, remember quite clearly the feeling of being sucked through a portal as soon as his fingers brushed against the wood of the door. “Oh fu–” he starts to say, but everything else is cut off as he makes his way from the continent to somewhere entirely new.
--+--+--+--
It doesn’t take Geralt long to find the ring of trees.
Of course Jaskier would wander straight into the only magical place in this great stretch of woods. He’s a talented musician, certainly, and a renowned poet, but he’s also got a knack for stumbling into dangerous situations. How many times has Geralt had to rescue him now? He’d stopped counting after that run in with the bruxa, and that had been… He can’t even remember how long ago that had been.
He and Jaskier have been together for quite a time.
Though he doesn’t know exactly where they go, he knows the trees for what they are: portals to other worlds. Geralt immediately notices the slightly open door and hopes it’s the portal that attracted Jaskier’s attention as well. Standing near it he closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose; yes, though the scent is faint, Jaskier had been here, and not long ago, either. The corner of his mouth quirks up in an almost smile. Jaskier would tell him it’s not nice to go around smelling people, but today it’s coming in handy.
The symbol carved on the tree is a pumpkin. He flicks through decades of knowledge but can’t think where this portal could lead, or if it could be a dangerous place. Best to just go, rather than overthink, so he steels himself to go through the portal. He hates them, even when they’re necessary...but this is for Jaskier.
--+--+--+--
“What’s this?” Geralt mutters to himself. This land is so strange, he feels like he’s tumbled into someone’s jumbled dream. There’s a skeleton walking around singing about something called “halloween,” and there are assorted...things singing along. He understands the pumpkin on the tree now; there are pumpkins everywhere, though most have been opened up, hollowed out, carved with strange faces, and now have flickering candles burning inside. There’s also a tall man with a rotating head–Geralt thinks he sees several different faces rotate to the front–and a walking, talking rag doll.
There’s a giant spider and something that looks like a very large worm; there are bats swooping everywhere and a dog that Geralt is fairly certain is actually a ghost. This is a world of monsters. But no one is fighting, or attacking, or in any way hostile at all. In fact, they’re all smiling and some of them are even singing.
“What did you get us into, Jaskier?” Geralt mutters under his breath.
“Jaskier?”
The voice is squeaky and high-pitched, the voice of a child. He looks down to see three children in eerie masks looking up at him with wide eyes.
When he doesn’t say anything, the voice repeats its question. “Jaskier? Are you looking for the bard?”
“Hmm,” Geralt says, unwilling to commit.
“Are you Geralt?” another of the children asks.
“He said you’d come,” the third child says.
Geralt waits a moment longer, taking stock of these strange children. He doesn’t trust them, doesn’t trust people who feel the need to hide their faces. Even children. But half the people here are wearing masks, or odd clothing, and they seem to know where Jaskier is. He shrugs internally, then says, “I am Geralt. Please, lead the way.”
Immediately the three children begin weaving their way through the peculiar crowd. Geralt keeps up, but only just, and only because he keeps his focus on the three children and ignores the rest. This plan is complicated when the tall man with the rotating face steps into his path and says, “You’re new here! Welcome to Halloweentown!” in a booming voice, but Geralt sidesteps his outstretched arm with practiced ease.
Soon they are on the edge of the little town, in a little grove of dead trees and dead flowers. “Lovely place you’ve got here,” Geralt says, his voice so dry.
“Isn’t it?” says one of the children with utter sincerity, apparently missing Geralt’s sarcasm.
“Hmm,” Geralt says.
“Now that’s the Witcher I’ve come to adore,” says a familiar voice from behind him.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, not turning around.
“I see you’ve met my new friends,” Jaskier says.
“We haven’t been formally introduced. But they’re oh so friendly, I can see why you latched onto them as soon as you arrived. Their manners are rather like yours.”
Jaskier laughs, and Geralt’s stomach does a little swoop. It’s something that’s begun to happen around Jaskier lately. Especially when the bard laughs. Geralt mostly tries to ignore it.
“Since when do manners matter to you, Geralt of Rivia? You spend most nights with your horse.” Jaskier makes a show of sniffing loudly, but he can’t hold the act so instead of reacting to any real or imagined smell he simply laughs. Again.
Geralt cannot ignore the swooping sensation this time.
“Alright, fine,” Jaskier says, putting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he sidles up next to him. “Geralt of Rivia, meet Lock, Shock, and Barrel. You lot, this is Geralt, though surely you know that since you brought him to me like I asked.”
The masks grin on in their spooky way, but Geralt can hear that the children behind them are grinning as well as they flock to Jaskier and clamor over one another to tell him about finding Geralt and their subsequent journey through the odd little town.
“Oh, and you should meet Mr. Squeakers too,” Jaskier says. He scratches at the back of his neck–no, actually, he plucks something from the collar of his shirt.
A mouse.
“Say hello to Mr. Squeakers, Geralt. I’ve been telling him about you, he’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
Geralt looks at Jaskier, concern wrinkling his brow. “Are you feeling alright, Jask? Did you hit your head when you went through the portal?”
Jaskier gives him a disgusted look. “What, am I not allowed to make new friends? I’m always polite to whoever you introduce me to. The least you could do is reciprocate.”
He badly wants to say, ‘Don’t you realize you’re talking to a mouse?’ but instead he says, never breaking eye contact with Jaskier, “Hello Mr. Squeakers.”
Geralt nearly loses his balance when a low, powerful voice comes from the tiny mouse. “Hello, Geralt. It’s very nice to meet you.”
Jaskier nearly drops Mr. Squeakers in his riot of laughter.
“Can we go home?” Geralt asks. “I don’t like it here. It isn’t...right.”
“I rather like it,” Jaskier says, bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s as they walk back around the edge of town toward where the ring of portal trees waits for them. “Lock, Shock, and Barrel taught me how to carve a pumpkin. And have you heard the people here? They sing more than I do!”
“No one sings more than you do,” Geralt says automatically, but he’s smiling.
“Take us with you!” shouts Lock. (or is that Barrel? Geralt can’t tell.)
“Sorry kids,” Jaskier says, winking at Geralt. “Where we go, none can follow.”
“What about Mr. Squeakers?” calls Shock. (or possibly Lock.)
“Oh!” Jaskier stoops to put the tiny mouse onto the dusty grey ground. “You should have said something,” he scolds.
The mouse gives a deep laugh. Geralt manages to keep still but shudders internally; such a sound should not come from such a small creature.
“Your world sounds exciting,” Mr. Squeakers says.
“Maybe next time,” Jaskier says. Geralt shoots him a look, incredulous, but Jaskier just winks at him. Again.
When they near the ring of trees the others stop, all lined up at an invisible line they will not cross. They shout their goodbyes, even the tiny mouse, now riding on Barrel’s shoulder. (Is it Barrel? Yes, this time he’s certain he’s got it right.) Jaskier waves and then sketches a dramatic bow, sweeping an imaginary hat from his head. “Fare thee well, dear friends!” he calls to them. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He’s walking backwards as he speaks, drawing farther and farther away from them, and when they reach the ring of trees he turns to face Geralt. “Hey, I like that. ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’ Pity I don’t have any way to write that down.”
Geralt glares at him, grabs his hand, and reaches out to touch the portal tree back to their world with his other hand.
Fuck this place.
--+--+--+--
Geralt is still pulling Jaskier by the hand when they get back to the circle of trees in the forest, the same strange place that started this whole little adventure he’s been on. He doesn’t stop to talk or take in any of the other trees or even check to see if Jaskier is alright, he just drags Jaskier out of the circle and into the greater wood beyond.
“Enough, Geralt!” Jaskier shouts. “I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
“Yes you are,” Geralt says, stopping abruptly and turning to look directly into Jaskier’s face. “You walk quite well. Directly into the nearest pit of trouble.”
“It wasn’t–” Jaskier starts to say, but then he looks at Geralt’s face. Really looks. And hears what’s hiding under the anger in Geralt’s voice.
Fear.
“Thank you for coming to find me,” he says instead, in a much softer and more sincere tone.
“Hmm.”
“I knew you would. You always do. I’m not sure what I’d do without you, Geralt.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier considers Geralt’s face, from his deep, ageless eyes to the concern etched onto his drawn down brow, to the determined set of his jaw. He decides it’s worth a chance.
“Do you know, my friend, that you are still holding my hand?”
“I–” Geralt’s eyes widen and he tries to jerk his hand back. He’s clearly not trying too hard, however, since Jaskier is able to hold fast and keep Geralt from getting away.
“It’s alright,” Jaskier says, keeping his tone light. “I don’t mind.”
“You don’t–” Geralt swallows, unable to finish.
“No,” Jaskier says. “I don’t.”
Geralt steps closer, and in the space of a breath the thumb of his free hand is ghosting across Jaskier’s lower lip. Neither of them speaks. Jaskier, knowing of Geralt’s enhanced hearing, rather thinks the pounding of his heart speaks for itself.
Either he’s right or Geralt reads something in his eyes; either way Geralt replaces his thumb with his lips and for a moment or an hour or a lifetime they are lost. He’s a poet, he’s supposed to be able to write about such things, but all he can think is, Oh. Geralt tastes like rain.
--+--+--+--
Sometime later, walking back to where they left Roach and their food and other supplies, Jaskier asks, “Now will you let me ride your horse?”
“Hmm.”
“I’ll make you sound brave and true in the ballad. I’ll even leave out the part about you talking to the mouse, if that makes you feel better. Though truly, Mr. Squeakers had quite a lot to say. He’s–”
Geralt makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. Jaskier grins.
“You’re not going to tell me to go away, are you?” Jaskier can’t hide the laughter in his voice.
After a minute of silence, Geralt gives in. Squeezing Jaskier’s hand–which he yet refuses to drop–he says, “No. Not this time.”