Chapter Text
“One, two, three, and GUARD!”
The branch smacked into Jaskier’s ribs with enough force to make him stumble back, spluttering. He glared at Geralt who only raised an eyebrow at his watering eyes.
“That hurt!” The bard groaned, swiping up his branch from where it had fallen and running his fingers over the already forming bruise.
“It would have hurt a hell of a lot more if it was a real blade, Jaskier.”
Jaskier huffed a little at the Witcher’s flat tone but settled back into his fighting stance nonetheless. Geralt just shook his head, tapping Jaskier’s knees with his own makeshift sword.
“You’re getting into bad habits again, bard. If you don’t bend your knees, then you won’t engage your back when you carry the weight of steel.”
Obediently, Jaskier adjusted his posture, watching as still Geralt ran a critical eye over the rest of him.
“And here, your arm should be bent like this, otherwise an opponent can just knock it out of your hand.”
His calloused skin brushed Jaskier’s arm, positioning it correctly and Jaskier damned himself to every god out there as his heart picked up speed at the sensation. He couldn’t tell if Geralt didn’t notice or didn’t care as he threw himself at the bard again.
“One, two, three, and GUARD!”
His opponent moved like quicksilver and Jaskier was too slow and too flustered to block, earning another bruise for his efforts. It was more anger that he’d let himself get so distracted than frustration at failing that sent Jaskier throwing down his branch.
“I don’t see the point of all this! We’ve been doing this all week and it’s clear I’m no fighter! Can I just go to bed?”
Geralt just stared at him. “You know the rules. If you insist on following me around like a lost puppy then you need to defend yourself.”
“I know, I know, something, something, something I’m a liability.”
The pair had been travelling between cities for about two weeks through the wilderness and not even a day had passed before Geralt had decided Jaskier was truly too pathetic to be travelling with him. It was about then when the sword fighting lessons had started. Even when Jaskier stared harbouring the suspicion that they were lost, and even when it became apparent that he was inept, they continued, leaving the poet bruised and beaten every night.
Sighing, Jaskier readied himself.
“One, two, three and guard!”
This time, Jaskier’s branch was flung up barely in time to block Geralt’s before it made contact, an inch before his chest.
“Ha!” Jaskier’s elation was short-lived however, as Geralt chose that moment to sweep Jaskier’s legs out from under him. The bard fell hard to the forest floor, head smacking the dirt and air being knocked out of his lungs.
“What the bloody hell was that for?!”
“You need to focus on all of me, not just the weapon before you.”
Jaskier’s eyes widened incredulously, even as he struggled to suck in a breath. “I - w - oh go to hell!”
Picking himself off the ground with enough anger as he could manage under Geralt’s almost amused gaze, Jaskier kicked his branch and stormed off into the forest. He didn’t even know where he was headed, but still he walked, pushing past brambles that snared his clothes. Why couldn’t Geralt just let him have his little victories? It wasn’t as if Jaskier had many of them these days anyway and for Geralt to constantly undermine them, it was… humiliating. It was humiliating to be constantly reminded that there were things Jaskier couldn’t do, that he was lacking, that he was weak. Even if he was the best gods damned bard this side of Nilfgaard, that didn’t mean he liked reminders that he was a failure in other aspects. And his inability to master even the basics of sword fighting was just one of those.
As much as he wanted to remain angry, at least until he could formulate a suitably fitting rebuke for Geralt, Jaskier found himself calming in the coolness of dusk. A gust of rain-kissed wind brushed across his face, lifting his hair as Jaskier aimed a half-hearted kick at a pile of dead leaves.
“Geralt of Rivia, you are a massive pick,” Jaskier announced to his audience of trees and shadows, though it carried none of the bite he intended for it to have. It didn’t make him feel any better. The wind picked up even more and Jaskier began to shiver, all of a sudden realising how the forest began looming menacingly towards him in the dark. The trees he might have likened to a particularly beautiful lover in the golden light of dusk were now anything but at night. As much as he was loath to return to camp with the sting of his bruises and the sting of his humiliation still very much present, Jaskier was even more loath to remain.
Jaskier was shivering in earnest now as he began his slow way back to their camp, feeling almost offended that Geralt hadn’t come to search for him. The glaring light of their campfire through the trees revealed itself and any relief that Jaskier felt melted away as the sound of multiple voices floated towards him through the dark. His first thought was that Geralt had brought back some company and it was the reflexive pang of jealousy in his heart that caused him to almost turn back around into the night. The thought of Geralt sleeping with someone - the rational part of his brain decided to kick in then as Jaskier came to the obvious conclusion that there wasn’t exactly an overflowing abundance of women in the middle of a frozen forest. Gods, he was such a fool.
But there was the next problem - if not a lover, then who? A feeling of dread grew as Jaskier snuck closer.
“I say we kill him. Mutant freak.” The sound of someone spitting on the dirt.
“Stay your hand Nasir. She wanted him brought in alive, didn’t she.”
“Alive doesn’t mean unharmed.”
There was a pause in which Jaskier was sure his heart was about to pound out of his chest.
“No broken bones. We need him to be able to walk at least.”
Bandits or bounty hunters, Jaskier couldn’t tell, but as he grew nearer and glimpsed his Witcher bound against a tree, a seed of anger took hold. The bloody head wound matting Geralt’s white hair shouldn’t have been enough to put the Witcher down, but the iron chains pinning him against the sure were. The spark of fury in Jaskier’s head erupted into a bonfire.
Anger isn’t a useful emotion, Geralt had told him the day before on one of their lessons, but right now it felt very fucking useful as Jaskier reached out to grasp the hit of one of Geralt’s swords that had been kicked into the undergrowth, forgotten. He was almost shaking with rage as he heaved it up, surprised at the weight compared to wood.
Geralt noticed the gleam of silver at the edge of the camp first and narrowed his eyes, shaking his head at Jaskier who pointedly ignored him as he stepped forward into the light.
Oh, this was such a bad idea.
The three men who stood on the edge of the fire finally turned, nasty smiles on the faces of all three.
“Well, well, well. Did we miss a little rat scurrying about in the dark?” The one with ginger hair stepped forward, pulling out a curved blade. Jaskier stared at it, and the blood that hadn’t been cleaned off it properly. He didn’t trust himself to speak as the man looked over Jaskier, as if noticing the sloppy stance, how his arm trembled with the weight of metal.
“You’re no fighter, rat. Put that down and let's be sensible about this.”
Jaskier took a single breath. “You first.”
The man smirked, and then stuck.
“Guard!” Geralt roared from his left and Jaskier heaved the blade up between the two, catching the other’s sword an inch from his face. The shock on the man’s face as he did so was almost worth all those hideous sword fighting lessons he’d endured. Jaskier had time to grin before he swept the man’s legs out from under him in the exact same way that Geralt had done to him earlier. The other two lunged and Jaskier met another swing at his stomach with a counter. It was a poor move and the other blade slid off his, slicing into his forearm.
Jaskier gasped. “Fuck!”
The blood made the handle slippery as Jaskier tried not to look at it, barely managing to keep up with one of the combinations Geralt had shown him as he was set upon. It was clear he was outmatched, but still managed to meet every blow with one of his own, even as he was pushed back towards Geralt. The sword made his arms burn and sweat pour down his brow and it was only a matter of time before he made a mistake - and then the bard stumbled, tripping on something behind him just as the flat of a blade smacked against his head.
Jaskier’s sight split into two, and then again as he tried to keep his vision straight, sword slipping from suddenly numb fingers - and right into Geralt’s lap. The pommel of a sword was the next thing to connect with his skull, vision immediately flashing black as he crumpled.
Jaskier grappled with his consciousness, willing himself not to pass out as there was the screech of metal against metal, the snap of chains breaking and a very loud ‘oh shit!’ as the distinct sounds of a swordfight reached his ears as if from a million miles away. Forcing his eyes open, despite the splitting headache, Jaskier watched as Geralt drove the men back into the forest, sword looking weightless in his hands as he struck again and again until his opponents vanished into the night, retreating.
Silence.
Jaskier took the opportunity to try and heave himself up and did pretty well to miraculously remain upright, even as the world tilted dangerously under his feet as he swayed. Or maybe not so miraculous as he came back to his body with Geralt’s hands tightly clutching his shoulders, holding him upright. The weird expression of concern on his face made Jaskier reconsider walking and he sank back down, feeling thoroughly drained.
“Worry isn’t a good look on you, Geralt,” The attempt at comedy fell flat as the Witcher shook his head a little.
“Jaskier, that was stupid and dangerous and you could have died, but…” Geralt worked his jaw for a moment, “thank you.”
Jaskier huffed a laugh, “What, the mighty Geralt admitting I saved his sorry ass?”
“Don’t push it bard.”
“You know, that would make a pretty good ballad. The Witcher the damsel in distress, humbled and rescued by the heroic bard bard-”
“Jaskier, your lute is looking particularly burnable right now.”
Jaskier placed a hand on his chest in mock apology, wincing at both the cut on his forearm and the wound on his head as he did so. Geralt stared at him a moment more, gaze assessing his injuries and Jaskier wished the flush on his cheeks at the gaze could be explained away by the cold. Geralt’s fingers brushed the wound on his head and it was a stupid, indulgent feeling, that left Jaskier feeling like he was both drawing and being saved at the same time. It was a feeling that wouldn’t ever be reciprocated because his foolish heart picked a Witcher. So instead of responding to the whatever energy he was imagining between the two, Jaskier pulled away, glancing down even as it felt like the biggest mistake of his life.
“Geralt, I’m fine. If Lord Aubry throwing me in a river after I slept with his daughter couldn’t finish me off then this won't either.”
He didn’t look at Geralt again, even as the poor attempt of humor fell flat. Geralt sighed.
“Let's get you cleaned up then.”