Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dark, windowless walls and the dripping of water were all he knew. 

He should have been confused. He wished he was confused. But he knew exactly where he was. What was happening. Why he was here. He knew it all, but didn’t want to. A purple sheen reflected off the knives mounted on the wall to his right. 

He knew those knives far too intimately.

His wrists burned. 

Gods, he was tired. When would it end?

Beyond the doorway, right in front of him, daylight waited. Just out of his reach, like everything else. He knew it couldn’t be real. Nothing down here ever was, except the pain. That was all too real, a constant, unwelcome companion. 

Beyond the door, a shadow appeared, nothing more than a silhouette. But he knew its outline, almost better than he knew himself. All tousled hair and swagger, a lute swung over his shoulder with exaggerated confidence. Geralt breathed out in relief; this hell would be over soon.

But as the shadow drew closer, it became warped. Taller, jagged around the edges, framed in red. He raised a lip in disgust, baring fangs stained crimson—his own blood, of course. 

Then the lord was in front of him, a greasy grin on his face and a spark in his eye. He almost groaned aloud at the appearance, exhausted and devastated in equal parts. He just wanted his bard. Was that truly too much to ask?

But he already knew the answer.

Of course it was too much to ask. How could he wish for such a thing? Only a monster would put his closest companion in such a situation. Perhaps he was proving the lord’s point even in his fantasies, by longing for that which he could never have.

A monster. That’s what he was.  

The lord’s beard was neatly trimmed, his hair tastefully arranged. Perhaps, in a different life, he could have been a handsome man. But the cruelty etched across his face had destroyed any chance of that. 

Then, the knives were in his hands, reflecting purple torchlight and blinding his sensitive eyes. He flinched and squeezed them shut, anticipating what was to come—

“Geralt!” 

What? That was odd.

“Geralt, please.” Suddenly, his surroundings blurred, and he tumbled through darkness for an indiscernible amount of time, limbs colliding with invisible walls. Then he was abruptly aware of a warmth on his shoulder, firm but gentle, shaking him slightly.

“Geralt,” came the voice again, closer, clearer. He knew that voice. 

“You’re having another nightmare. You’re safe. It’s me, Jaskier.” 

Ah, that would explain it. The last of the dream’s influence dripped away like tar, leaving him feeling stripped bare and hollow. His senses came back slowly; the scent of soil close to his nose, the leaves above him rustling in the late autumn breeze. The firm ground beneath him.

Safey, he thought. At least something had proved to be real. 

“...Jask?” He finally managed, taking a shuddering breath. His cheeks felt wet, and he wasn’t sure if it was tears or sweat. Perhaps both.

“That’s it, come back to me.” Geralt resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing that the bard meant him only kindness. It would do neither of them good for him to reject the comfort. 

“Ngh.” He grunted, rolling to face the dimming flames of the fire. Above him, a velvet black sky stretched from horizon to horizon, stars interrupted by branches. He looked to his left, and there was Jaskier, ever steady, the one constant in his ever-unreliable life. 

“Thank the gods. That seemed like a bad one.” Jaskier sat back on his heels, and Geralt tried not to make a face at the heavy concern rolling off of him in waves. The bard was still fully clothed, his doublet unbuttoned. His lute lay abandoned across the campsite, placed haphazardly in its case. 

He must’ve come across the campsite in a rush. It wasn’t like Jaskier to be so careless with his instrument, unless it was urgent.

He intentionally did not dwell on that thought.

Geralt allowed his gaze to flicker up for just a moment, fleetingly meeting the intense blue gaze of Jaskier, before closing his eyes again with a deep sigh.

Jaskier mirrored the sound, satisfied that the witcher had been pulled from whatever hell he’d been in, for now. He rose on silent feet and navigated around their campfire, back to the stump he’d been sitting on before he’d heard the distressed whimpers from Geralt’s rumpled bedroll. 

The fire crackled between them, and through the flames, Jaskier caught the slight movement of Geralt attempting to suppress a shiver. Whether it was due to unsettlement or cold, he couldn’t be certain. The shock of white hair fanned out across the wolf’s sad excuse for a pillow was the only part of the witcher that should have been visible to human eyes. As it was, Jaskier wasn’t quite human— anymore, at least, he thought—and he was able to make out the furrow between Geralt’s eyebrows. 

He elected not to comment on the shiver, just as he’d chosen not to comment on his companion’s newfound hatred of the cold. Before, Jaskier might’ve been the one shaking from the autumn air. Or perhaps he would have indulged in a little light teasing, if there had been reason for it. But things were different now. Geralt would almost certainly interpret either passing jibe or simple statement as a comment on his newfound vulnerability. Jaskier would not harass his friend when he was down. 

Although Geralt didn’t know it, it was almost as if their situations had been reversed. Where the witcher had once been the protector, he was now the protected. Where Geralt had once been the provider, that was now the bard’s duty. Jaskier would have never, in his entire short life, had thought that he would be the one waking his muse from a nightmare, rather than the other way around. 

And Jaskier hated it. 

Not because he minded being the protector, for once. Truth be known, he rather enjoyed being able to provide for the stubborn witcher. It was a nice change of pace. But the circumstances under which the role reversal had happened were less than desirable. He just couldn’t stand the way that fucking menace of a lord had stolen so much of Geralt. 

Given his way, he would will everything to go back to how it had been before they had entered the thrice-cursed village of Yarren. But even with his newfound magical abilities, there was no way he could turn back time to change how things had turned out. He wasn’t sure what he would have done to change the way that things had happened, anyways. He would certainly have a hard time explaining to Geralt why there were suddenly two Jaskiers, without suspicion of a doppler. 

If that was how time travel worked? Jaskier wasn’t an expert in these things. He wondered if Geralt was. 

Regardless of the pipe dreams Jaskier had entertained, running in circles in his own head for a way to make things right again, there was little to be done about the past. And so here they were, once again, racing the clock. This time, though, they weren’t racing the madman Campbell in a competition for Geralt’s fate, they were racing Mother Nature herself to Kaer Morhen. Geralt was poorly equipped to deal with winter weather in his current state, and they still had a little under a quarter of their original distance left to travel. 

They’d taken care to avoid large cities or places where contracts had been posted, much to Geralt’s chagrin. But Jaskier wouldn’t hear any of it, and since Geralt was far too weak to put up much of a fight, they always ended up doing things the bard’s way. 

It left a sour feeling in Jaskier’s stomach, if he thought about it for too long. 

Geralt rolled to face the fire, curling towards it in an attempt to absorb more warmth. Jaskier’s fingers twitched. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he should get up and join the witcher in his bedroll. If his presence would be welcomed. It would be for practical reasons only, he assured himself. Nothing more. It just made sense to share his body heat, seeing as how Geralt seemed to have trouble producing his own these days. That Keep of his would need to be a sight warmer than the brisk nights they were dealing with now, if Geralt were to make any sort of recovery at all. But Jaskier had worries. He remembered well what Geralt had told him the last time he’d asked about his mysterious winter home. 

“We run hot, Jaskier. You wouldn’t be comfortable at Kaer Morhen—hell, you’d likely freeze to death.”

Jaskier caught himself worrying his lip again. He’d already bloodied it twice since leaving Yarren. He must’ve developed the nervous tic sometime during their stay. Perhaps the other wolves would be accommodating, just this once. Stoke up the fire for the both of them. They would hardly live up to the (admittedly skeletal) reputations Geralt had established for them if they refused to do something as simple as warm the Keep.

Jaskier hoped that Kaer Morhen was as inviting as he’d always imagined it. Geralt had done his best to dispel any whimsical images the bard had cooked up when envisioning the ruined fortress, but he hadn’t completely destroyed the bard’s fantasy. After all, the white wolf had a habit of making things sound more dreary than they were in reality. Jaskier knew it wouldn’t be in mint condition. Most ruins weren’t. But even ruins could be picturesque, with the right mindset. And Jaskier privately thought that he might be able to contribute a bit to the atmosphere of the place that Geralt so often described as “dark and gloomy, by your standards.”

They’d been on the road for nary but a month, but Jaskier couldn’t shake the sense that they were cutting it close. The nights had grown crisp, days taking a turn for the cooler as well. He’d never traveled quite as far north as Kaer Morhen was situated, but he was no stranger to racing winter’s cold touch. Such was the life of a traveling bard. As much as he didn’t want to push Geralt harder, he had a bad feeling about taking things too slowly. 

“You’re thinking again,” Geralt grunted, giving up on sleep.

“I might accuse you of the same.” Jaskier breathed out a laugh, poking the fire absently with a dry branch. He watched in idle fascination as the tip caught and flared to life. 

“I’ve made this journey plenty of times before, bard.” Jaskier wondered if he would ever get used to the way Geralt seemed to read his mind. 

“I know that,” Jaskier replied, not unkindly. 

“You don’t need to worry. We’ll make it there.”

Jaskier pursed his lips.

“Jask. My weakness, while detestable, is not a cause for concern.”

Jaskier pretended not to notice the use of the nickname, which had become more and more common since Campbell. 

“I’m not so sure detestable is the right word—”

“ Detestable.” Geralt asserted, leaving no room for argument. Jaskier, sensing a sore spot, decided to let it go. He might’ve offered to play his lute a little bit, perhaps even sing, except Geralt was already irritable this evening. No doubt unnecessary noise would make it worse. The witcher was not in a mood which could be improved by music. 

Jaskier poked at the fire wordlessly again, waiting for his stick to light once more before waving it about in the air, admiring the trails of smoke it left behind. 

“How close are we to Ard Carraigh?” He ventured after a period of semi-comfortable silence. 

“Just a few miles east. I’ve no intent to venture into that city; no use drawing attention right now.” Geralt grunted, turning over in his bedroll.

I don’t have the energy for it, Jaskier sensed in between the words that the witcher had spoken. He wondered when Geralt’s mind had changed. He’d insisted upon returning to business as usual when they’d first left Yarren, contracts and all. He’d even nearly taken a couple of contracts, before Jaskier convinced him it was unwise. Geralt had grumbled and huffed, citing a need for coin, that their expenses were not all Jaskier’s responsibility.

Jaskier suspected that Geralt’s insistence had less to do with coin and more to do with an ever-creeping feeling of uselessness. It was a feeling he was all too familiar with. But it seemed now that Geralt no longer had the energy to keep up the incessant (and useless) argument. He’d finally yielded to Jaskier’s concerns, much to the bard’s simultaneous relief and worry. 

Understanding that their short conversation was over, Jaskier stripped off his doublet and shirt, folding them neatly before tucking them at the bottom of his bedroll. After a brief internal debate, he crawled under his own covers. Best to let Geralt be, tonight. 

Since they’d left Yarren, Jaskier had noticed a very subtle but clear decline in Geralt’s health. He wasn’t sure if the witcher had even picked up on his own state yet, miserable as he seemed to be. Jaskier had originally thought that they were past the worst, with everything behind them. There had even been a period of time, shortly after they’d left Yarren, when Jaskeir thought that he’d been improving. But that had all gone to hell rather quickly, when the cold weather set in. Jaskier couldn’t help but wonder how much of Geralt’s healing at the Silver Oak had been but a temporary fix on Rosa’s part, just enough to get them to the Keep. Jaskier had held out hope that his friend’s witchery mutagens would to at least a bit to heal the persistent wounds littering his body. 

But Geralt hadn’t shown any sign of improvement in the past month. It had been unusual that some of Geralt’s smallest injuries were taking the longest to heal, but it wasn’t until a week and a half after they’d set out on the Path that they’d been forced to accept that Geralt simply wasn’t healing. Scores carved into his skin that he still wouldn’t explain refused to close. He was constantly changing his bandages—always bloodied—citing “avoiding infection”. But Jaskier had seen what was underneath. The ugly gashes had not changed in appearance since the bard had found him strung up in the dungeon. At least they hadn’t gotten worse, he supposed, and thank Melitele for that miracle, but they certainly hadn’t gotten better either. 

And even Jaskier, in his limited knowledge of healing, knew that poison doesn’t normally have that effect. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Geralt, wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what had happened…but he knew that the other wolves at Kaer Morhen would know a cure. They had to. 

~~~

Sunlight assaulted his eyes, even though they were closed. Stifling a groan, Gerat threw an arm over his face, ignoring the sudden chill caused by removing it from under the blankets. 

Cold didn’t used to affect him this way. He didn’t used to be plagued by this ever-present exhaustion. He tried to hide it, for the bard’s sake, but there was only so much he could do when he was run ragged. Little things slipped through his mask. He was no fool. He’d seen Jaskier’s concerned glances, had noticed the way the bard had tried to take on more and more of the work. He’d coddled him to the point of excession over the past weeks. 

He had found it endearing at first. If he were honest, he still did. But it also irritated him to no end. It was an ever-present reminder of his weakness. Of his failure to take care of himself. He shouldn’t need to rely on the help of another, let alone a human, to save him. Had Jaskier not been a steady companion by his side for the last two ( nearly three, he thought) years, he would not have ever seen beyond the walls of Campbell’s dungeon again. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the rescue. That wasn’t it at all. And although his pride had suffered, that wasn’t really it either. He’d failed to uphold his responsibility to the bard. The problem was that he had placed the one human he cared about in grave danger. Jaskier had risked life and limb to return to the castle to save him. And he had allowed it to happen, because he’d been complacent and ignored all of the red flags that Campbell had been flying.

Guilt weight on him constantly, a perpetual sinking feeling in his stomach, making him sick all of the time. Nothing piqued his appetite anymore. Everything tasted like ash on his tongue. He couldn’t look at food without thinking about that damn feast the lord had laid out for them before it had all gone to shit. 

He should have just taken the contract. Or at least played along and pretended to. If he’d had even a modicum of tact, he would have picked up on the trap. The exhaustion from their days of travel was no excuse; a witcher always had to be prepared for the worst, and he’d become complacent. Slow.

It was a well-known fact: slow witchers are dead witchers.

That he wasn’t dead right now was a testament to Jaskier’s unwavering (and perhaps foolishly-placed) loyalty. Following a witcher around, and particularly one as notorious as Geralt, was a serious detriment to the bard’s longevity. 

But Geralt, selfish as he was, couldn’t bring himself to drive the bard away. It would hurt them both too much. So instead, he had allowed them to fall into an obvious trap—one that, if he was honest with himself, he still didn’t fully understand the reasons for. One that had very nearly spelled the end of him and Jaskier both. 

Jaskier could accompany him to the Keep this winter. But when spring came, he had to send the bard away without him. He couldn’t keep pushing the man into his grave and hoping he wouldn’t fall in.

Oblivious to Geralt’s foreboding thoughts, Jaskier was cheerily packing up his things. Geralt pulled the covers over his head to block out the sunlight and rolled onto his side, dreading rising. The movement pulled at his old wounds, still as fresh as the day he’d received them. 

He grimaced. It was getting more and more difficult to dispel the bard’s constant worry. The bandages were perpetually—albeit slowly—staining deep red; if he weren’t a witcher, he would certainly be dead already from sheer blood loss alone. As it was, the constant bleeding made him exhausted and irritable at best, less-than-coherent and useless at worst. The stitches and bandages helped a little, but when nothing bothered to heal the most they did was hold him together like a threadbare shirt. 

He couldn’t be truly certain what the cause was of the chronic bleeding and lack of healing. Undoubtedly it was a result of the concoction that Campbell had so gleefully coated his blades with. But his memory of what the potion had been brewed with was fuzzy at best. He suspected that the dimeritium infused in the potion had somehow interacted with the rest of its ingredients to create a particularly potent,slow-killing poison that even Campbell hadn’t planned for. But beyond that, Geralt couldn’t fathom why his mutations refused to do their job. Worse, he had no clue how to fix it. 

He’d refused to explain it to Jaskier for a myriad of reasons.

For one, it was a difficult subject to talk about. Whenever the bard would start to bring it up, one look at Geralt’s expression was enough to warn him to leave it. Geralt didn’t understand why this particular experience was so hard for him to wrap his head around; he’d survived plenty of other unpleasant encounters with humans out to get him. But as soon as Jaskier looked at his wounds like that, tried to ask questions, anything, he just couldn’t make the words come out. Even if he’d wanted to. Talking about it somehow made it too real. If he didn’t speak the words aloud, he could pretend it had all been a nightmare. Even when the linen he was swathed in stained right before his eyes. 

And there was no use talking about it because there was nothing to be done, except to continue towards the Keep. He certainly didn’t possess the knowledge needed to take care of whatever ill had befallen him. No doubt Jaskier didn’t, either, else he would have already solved their problem. Vesemir would know what to do. Hell, even Eskel might. His brother did have a strange knack for all things magic. And Lambert’s casual jibes and teasing might help him transition back to some semblance of normal, rather than the wrecked shell he felt himself to be now. 

Jaskier had been acting strange ever since he’d appeared in front of him in the dungeon like magic. Geralt didn’t think he would ever forget the look on the bard’s face when he’d laid eyes on him. It had taken weeks for Geralt to convince himself that Jaskier’s disgust and horror hadn’t been directed at him. It was obvious that the incident had severely impacted Jaskier; likely he hadn’t had it very nice wherever he’d been taken, either. Geralt hadn’t the nerve to ask the bard what had happened to him when they’d been separated. He wasn’t sure he would be able to take whatever the lord had done to Jaskier without cracking. 

Best to leave that conversation, along with the strange fluttery feelings he got around Jaskier, for a time when he was equipped to handle both. 

A gentle touch on his shoulder dragged him from his musings. 

“...Geralt? It’s getting pretty late in the morning. I think we should get moving, soon.” The bard spoke gently. Geralt summoned all his willpower and pulled the blanket off of his head.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” The bard’s eyes always seemed so much brighter in the mornings. It was like a balm, waking up to his face. Not that Geralt was about to admit as much. 

However bad their situation was, it was always nice to watch the bard’s face light up when he woke him in the morning. Geralt couldn’t fathom why Jaskier seemed to glow upon his waking—nothing all that cheering about a grumpy, sleep-rumpled, bedraggled witcher—but he refused to question it, lest he scare the regular morning greeting away.

“M’rnin.” He grunted, pushing the blanket the rest of the way off with a shiver. Jaskier’s eyes flicked briefly down across his bare chest with a mixture of concern and something slightly more carnal. Geralt raised an eyebrow and followed his gaze.

“Probably need some fresh dressings,” he admitted, feeling his cheeks color under his companion’s scrutiny. Witchers weren’t supposed to have a problem with blushing, least of all Geralt, but it had become a bit of a commonality with Jaskier’s continued presence. It made him feel vulnerable, being this easily read. But he trusted the bard.

Surprisingly, a matching blush rose on Jaskier’s face as well, and he turned away to rifle through their belongings for the requested bandages.

Puzzled, Geralt got to work untucking the ends of the wraps circling his arms and torso. By the time he’d undone the first set, Jaskier had returned with bandages in hand. 

“We’re low on fresh ones,” The bard informed him.

“Hm. We’ll clean these tonight.” Geralt said, indicating the soiled ones next to him. Jaskier eyed the slowly bleeding wounds littering Geralt’s upper body, horrified at the thought that there were even more where he couldn’t see them. Geralt glanced up at Jaskier and nearly rolled his eyes.

“Are you done packing, bard?” His voice was carefully measured, clipped. Jaskier grimaced, realizing he’d been staring in an unflattering manner for a bit too long.

“Nearly done.” He replied. No doubt he’d made Geralt uncomfortable. He’d learned early on in their friendship that the man did not appreciate scrutiny, especially when it came to vulnerabilities. There had been plenty of occasions in which Jaskier had been allowed to dress them, but the majority involved some level of incapacitation on Geralt’s behalf. When he was able to, he preferred to deal with his injuries himself. 

Face flaming, Jaskier turned back to his previous task and began kicking dust over the smoldering ashes from the previous night, and wondered idly if Geralt had gotten any decent sleep.

Bard should learn to mind his own business, Geralt thought somewhat acidly, afraid to examine his feelings deeper than that lest he find something even more alarming. He was independent. He didn’t need Jaskier’s pity on top of everything else. Nevermind that it was somewhat endearing that the young man worried over him the way he did. 

With his wounds refusing to heal even a little bit, an odd, deeper-than-bones ache had settled under his skin. Sometimes it felt like the pain had reached his very soul. 

He rummaged through his uncharacteristically messy pack for a moment before producing a handful of various balms. Luckily (and thanks in no small part to Jaskier’s busking), he had yet to run low on any of the salves he’d been using to keep infection and gangrene at bay. The bard never said anything when he returned to their campsites, just dropped whatever he’d retrieved in the city next to the rest of their belongings with a tired grin. 

He smeared a generous amount of the stuff on his wounds, nose burning at the intense herbal smell, and covered them back up with fresh bandages. While Jaskier busied himself with loading Hellebore’s saddle, Geralt quickly turned his back and dealt with the remainder of the injuries below his waist. As he turned back around, the bard caught his eye. 

“Your back…probably those need to be changed as well.” He ventured, gesturing vaguely at Geralt. He’d thought—no, he definitely had —been making progress with offering to dress Geralt’s wounds before the whole Campbell fiasco, but the witcher had been very guarded about who he let help him since then. But still, the linen wrapped around his back was obviously beyond being useful, and Jaskier knew that the witcher was overdue for a change.

“...Fine.” Geralt finally lamented.

Thank the gods, Jaskier prayed silently.

Geralt hesitated for a moment before turning his back to the bard, shoulders tensing, and took a shuddering breath. Jaskier tried not to think about the implications of that hesitation. He approached slowly, recognizing the fragile control Geralt was desperately clinging to, making sure his footsteps were loud and obvious. Gera;t sank into a kneeling position and Jaskier followed suit behind him.

“Can I unwrap these?” He asked, knowing it needed to be done but still feeling an urgent need to obtain Geralt’s consent.

“Don’t see how else you’re going to dress them, bard.”

Jaskier hummed in discontent. Geralt seemed to shutter his emotions and revert back to the man he’d met in Posada whenever he was feeling defensive, these days. He hadn’t heard the nickname bard spoken with such clipped detachedness since the first months after he’d begun following his witcher.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, Jaskier. Go ahead.” Geralt’s discomfort seeped into his voice, making him sound more irritated than he perhaps truly was. Jaskier chose not to take his tone to heart. The small knot that had formed in his stomach loosened, just a bit, and the bard allowed some of the tension to leave his own shoulders. Geralt, for his part, remained coiled for attack, but his breathing did steady somewhat.

“Ok. I’ll try to make this as quick as possible.” True to his word, Jaskier deftly stripped Geralt of the used bandages, biting his lip in worry at the way small streams of blood immediately began trickling their way down the pale skin of Geralt’s back, slowing when they met long-healed scars, but never stopping.

“Would you like me to put on the salve?”

Geralt wordlessly pushed it back within Jaskier’s reach. Their fingers met briefly as it was passed, and Jaskier tried not to dwell on the touch. Contact between them had become increasingly rare since they’d left Rosa’s; at first, all the witcher had wanted was to be near him, actively seeking closeness out. But something had changed when they’d left, and he’d stopped. 

“I’m going to put this on now, if that’s alright.”

Geralt nodded and Jaskier held back a sigh of relief. He scooped a generous amount of the stuff onto his fingertips, gently applying it across all of the slices littering the witcher’s skin. His hands were tingling by the time he was done. 

“Okay, all that’s left is to wrap you up. Could you lift your arms?” Geralt complied, and Jaskier wound the linen in a steady spiral around his torso, careful not to make it too loose or too tight, or to let his thoughts wander in inappropriate directions. When he was satisfied with the coverage, he handed the end to Geralt to tuck in the front. 

“All done.” Jaskier stood up and dusted the back of his pants off, then offered his hand to Geralt. For a moment, the witcher hesitated, eyeing Jaskier’s proffered hand with skepticism. Jaskier held his breath. Then, finally, he took it slowly and allowed the bard to haul him to his feet, marveling at how much strength he seemed to have built recently.

“Been working out, Jask?” He rumbled, impressed at how easily he’d lifted him from the ground.

“Er, something like that!” Jaskier replied hastily, his voice rising inexplicably. Geralt raised an eyebrow, perturbed. 

“I suppose nearly three years on the Path with a witcher could do that.” Jaskier mumbled, more to himself than to Geralt, blushing furiously as he went about gathering Geralt’s bedroll and folding it neatly. Geralt almost didn’t register what he’d done until he was packing it onto Roach’s back.

“I can do that myself, you know.” He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and smiled. 

“I know. I guess I just got…carried away, or something.”

“Or something.” Geralt repeated. Jaskier wasn’t sure if the statement was meant to be a question or not, so he said nothing, instead flushing self-consciously and turning back to the straps of Roach’s saddebags. Behind him, a heavy sigh.

“I’m not mad, Jaskier. Just frustrated. With myself.” 

It took Jaskier a moment to process. He wasn’t used to such bald admissions from his friend, let alone unprompted admissions. Something in his face must have given away his discomfort. 

“I know, Geralt. We are going to figure this out, though.”

Geralt didn’t respond. Jaskier hoped he was telling the truth. 

Together, they both mounted their steeds and continued east.

Chapter Text

It couldn’t have been more than a few hours into their ride, but Jaskier was already certain that Geralt was having one of his not-so-great days. Not quite terrible, but certainly not good. The circles under his eyes had been deep that morning, and dark with exhaustion. 

Jaskier had taken the rear today, under the pretense that Geralt knew the area better and was more equipped to handle the terrain. Truthfully, he’d wanted to watch Geralt to make sure that he wasn’t pushing the witcher too hard; probably, Geralt saw right through the half-baked lie, but he didn’t say anything to protest. 

The path they walked was narrow, trees dense on either side of them and blocking a good majority of the sunlight. Geralt was hunched in on himself, pretending not to be cold, but not doing a very good job of it. He swayed often in his saddle, seeming not to notice his own lapses. For the moment, Roach was easily compensating for the shift in her rider’s weight, but it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to travel for as long as Jaskier had hoped. The black tunic Geralt was wearing hid the bandages wrapped around his body, but the bard knew that if it were to be removed they would be more crimson than white. 

He glanced up at the sky, pursing his lips. It wa clear now, but if winter weather chose to close in one them, they would be well and truly fucked. The sky had a heavy feeling to it that Jaskier didn’t like at all. His skin prickled with the sense that there was unpleasant weather dogging them.

Still, the day was gorgeous, for now. The forest was set in deep emerald hues, and the damp air had stirred up the pleasant smell of undergrowth and fallen leaves. Somewhere nearby, a thrush sang cheerily, flitting from branch to branch. If he listened closely, he could hear the pat-pat of falling leaves hitting the forest floor. 

Best of all, the forest was full of sound. He could sense no real danger hidden between the close-set trees. He’d become quite adept at picking up on telltale signs of danger, human or otherwise; if a threat was present, the woods would grow too quiet, the warmth of the air would falter, all movement would cease. While he was nowhere near as versed in monster detection as Geralt, he’d picked up a few things in the past years. And his newfound supernatural abilities meant he knew enough to get by, at least.

Fear of monsters was an unfamiliar plague to him. After all, what better safety net than a witcher by your side for all of your travels? He fought the urge to scoff at such a naive conviction. He longed for the days when he’d been able to dismiss his fears so easily and tried to forget the hope that they might ever return. He needed to be vigilant, for both of their sakes. Should they be attacked now, Jaskier wasn’t so sure that Geralt would put up much of a fight. They’d been lucky so far, but it was only a matter of time before said luck ran out. 

Ahead of him, Roach slowed slightly as the path widened out somewhat. Hellebore eagerly sidled up to her friend, not waiting for the signal from Jaskier. She snorted at the taller mare companionably. Jaskier rolled his eyes; the two had become fast friends, and together they caused more trouble than he ever could have anticipated. 

“All right, bard? You’ve been quiet.” Geralt grunted with forced nonchalance. Jaskier was surprised at the observation, and tried not to show it. He was still getting used to the witcher’s newfound openness, though it seemed inconsistent at best. 

“Just thinking, that’s all.” He admitted.

“Worrying, you mean.” Came Geralt’s deadpan reply. Roach nickered in agreement and Jaskier fought the temptation to scoff at the pair. Hellebore tossed her head, and then he did scoff.

“I don’t know why all three of you are ganging up on me, I’m not worrying… Oh, come on, Geralt, don’t look at me like that—”

“It’s not hard to figure out, bard. You read like an open book.”

“I do not!” 

“You do.”

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or annoyed. How long Geralt had been cataloguing his tells, he couldn’t say for sure. Not that he’d ever tried to hide his emotions from Geralt—it was true that he wore his heart on his sleeve, most of the time. He’d hardly anticipated Geralt would call him out, though. Jaskier was well-versed in the witcher’s language of grunts and microexpressions, so he perhaps shouldn’t have been surprised that Geralt was just as versed in his own language. He just hadn’t expected the same scrutiny he directed at Geralt to be turned back on himself. 

“Jaskier, you reek of worry. I can smell it on you even from up here.”

“You’re joking. Or lying. You can’t possibly smell my worry.”

“So you do admit you’re worrying.”

“You bastard!”

Geralt smirked, his victory won. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be truly upset, if the reward for his defeat was a genuine smile. 

“We’re not as far from Kaer Morhen as you seem to think, bard. Only about a week’s travel left, if we make good time. We’ll be in well before the first snows.”

“Knock on wood, Geralt. You’re tempting fate.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“So much faith, Jaskier.” Geralt jibed, the grin never quite leaving his face.

“I have plenty of faith in you, my dear witcher, I just don’t have any faith in the weather.” At this, the breeze picked up slightly and blew a lock of his hair into his eyes, and he spluttered indignantly.

“And you say I’m the one tempting higher powers.”

“ Pfft. The weather and I are old friends.” Jaskier replied flippantly.

Hmm. Jaskier thought, suddenly distracted from their banter. The weather. He’d controlled it by accident in Yarren. Could he do it again?

He shook himself. No. Bad idea. He could almost hear Rosa’s scolding from here, the old witch shaking her ever-present wooden spoon at him and clicking her tongue in disapproval. It wasn’t worth the phenomenal risk he would have to undertake. If he overtaxed himself, not only would he leave Geralt to fend for himself in his poor state, he would have to explain how it had happened. He wouldn’t be able to cover up the real reason for his sudden turn in health the way that he’d done after the battle at Campbell’s castle.

And Jaskier wasn’t sure if he could share that part of himself with Geralt yet—his magic, that he wasn’t quite human. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Geralt, not at all. Just that, if the witcher took it badly…well. Geralt likely wouldn’t survive the journey to the keep in one piece by himself, and Jaskier wasn’t sure if he could survive being abandoned by the one person he cared about most in the world. 

“Jaskier.” Came the exasperated call from next to him. Jaskier made a concerted effort to unfurrow his brow, head aching from the tension he was carrying. 

“It’s exhausting just to watch you brooding.”

“Taste of your own medicine, eh?” Jaskier deflected.

“Do you want to share?”

“I’m not worrying,” Jaskier lied. Geralt raised an eyebrow wordlessly.

“If you’re truly having that hard a time keeping your mind at ease, play a damn song, bard.” Geralt grunted, not unkindly. Jaskier struggled to tame his shock, reeling. Geralt never suggested singing. Geralt rolled his eyes and urged Roach forward.

Instead of challenging the exceedingly rare request for music, Jaskier happily removed his lute from its case and began belting out a particularly bawdy tune.

~~~

Twilight was falling and Jaskier, surprisingly, took convincing to stop for the night. Geralt had noticed this stubbornness more and more, and could only chalk it up to anxiety about the approaching winter. While he wished he could attribute that anxiety to Jaskier’s intense dislike of the cold—a dislike that, up until recently, he had never hesitated to announce loudly and with great enthusiasm—he knew that it was for his own benefit that the bard worried so. 

He didn’t know if he found the notion offensive or endearing. He hoped it was the latter, but he’d never been skilled at understanding his own feelings. That was more Jaskier’s forte than his. Witcher training had taught him that emotions were often useless, and it had taken him longer than he would rather admit to recover from past hurts. Renfri and Blaviken came to mind. He had yet to explain that whole tale to Jaskier, but the young man seemed to understand that deep wounds lay in the direction of that story. It was one of the few topics he hadn’t pushed since their early days. 

What had he been thinking about?

Right. Feelings. In particular, regarding his bard.

Hm. 

His thoughts ground to a halt for a moment, creaking in protest as he considered his traitorous brain. 

When, exactly, had he started thinking of Jaskier as his? 

“Alright there, Geralt?” Jaskier called from where he was attempting to gather firewood that wasn’t wet from the drizzle that had started around noon. He didn’t appear to be having much luck.

“...Fine.” Geralt finally forced out, brow still furrowed in bewilderment. Jaskier cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced, but said nothing in reply. 

After a moment’s silence, somewhat tense, Jaskier spoke again. 

“Rosa’s reserves have nearly reached their end. Probably need to do some proper hunting soon, or go into town for provisions.” Glad to be given a distraction from his roiling emotions concerning his companion, Geralt abandoned his and Jaskier’s bedrolls in favor of checking Roach’s saddlebags.

True to Jaskier’s observation, there wasn’t much left of the generous supplies Rosa had sent them off with. For a stretch of time, their stock had seemed to mysteriously never grow smaller, but it had eventually begun to show a sizable reduction. Some cured meat still remained ( far too tough for Jaskier’s tastes ), along with some stale tack and dried berries. 

Truthfully, they were probably long overdue for a stock-up. Geralt had to wonder if Jaskier had actually been eating his fill or not. But he had long since—reluctantly—given in to Jaskier’s sudden urge to avoid civilization. Geralt was no fool; he knew he was in no shape to take on any major contracts. But contrary to Jaskier’s belief, he was still capable of taking on a few drowners or alghouls. 

They’d created a problem for themselves by avoiding any settlements. They’d cut themselves off from other supplies aside from coin—most importantly, food. Water was easy. They just had to follow Geralt’s nose and ears to running streams (though Jaskier had become quite adept at finding water on his own, oddly enough…perhaps he had picked up some skills during their time together). Neither of them had hunted game for quite some time, and the dent in their food supply had been steadily growing. 

“I’ll lay some snares.” Geralt grunted, already knowing that Jaskier would object to anything more intense. He buckled Roach’s saddlebags once more and slung them over a low-hanging branch.

“Are you sure? I can take care of it, if you want—”

“Jaskier. I’m not completely inept.” The bard cast a doubtful glance at his bandage-covered arms, but seemed to decide against arguing. 

“Right, of course I wasn’t trying to imply any—I was just offering. In case you wanted help. That’s all.” Jaskier had a habit of using too many words to convey his meaning when he was flustered.

“You can help by readying the fire so that we can cook when I return.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes affectionately—it was no secret that Geralt hated gathering firewood, so he knew that this was likely an attempt to get out of the tedious chore. But the witcher was also much more skilled at setting snares than Jaskier, so he acquiesced. Geralt watched as a litany of expressions crossed the bard’s face before he eventually settled on agreement.

“Fine. But be quick. You know I don’t like being alone in the woods after dark.” Jaskier warned, shooting Geralt a look of emphasis.

Satisfied with that answer, Geralt gathered the twine out of Roach’s bags and set out beyond their campsite, his night vision serving him well in the fading light of the day. Though he was loathe to admit it, Jaskier had been wise to ask him if he needed help. While setting snares was a low-effort task, Geralt was exhausted and he ached fiercely all over. But complaining would get them no further than if he kept his mouth shut, so he stayed quiet for the sake of Jaskier’s nerves.

Luckily, this deep in the woods, rabbit trails were plentiful and he had no worries  about snaring at least a couple for their dinner tonight without too much effort. This was the time of day when the hares were most active. If he was diligent in his stealth, he would need only lay a few snares before there was enough food for both of them to eat. If any remained, they could salt it and smoke it overnight. Or perhaps Jaskier could do the salting and smoking, and Geralt could take the second watch, after he’d slept a bit. 

The forest around him was alight with life. Fireflies flickered through the trees and somewhere distant, an owl sang. Leaves settled silently underfoot as he crept through the forest on light toes. It didn’t take him long to pick out several viable rabbit trails, his nose leading him to them easily. 

It was embarrassing to admit, he thought as he set the first snare, just how tired he was. It wasn’t just on occasion, either—it was complete, all-consuming, and constant. His stay at Campbell’s had made him slow, and he knew all too well that without Jaskier at his side, there was a chance he would have perished long before they had reached this point. He was almost afraid to hope that they would arrive at Kaer Morhen without incident. 

What was it that Jaskier had said? Knock on wood? Human superstitions were silly, but knocking on wood might perhaps be appropriate at the moment. If he were one to be superstitious, that is. 

But of course, Geralt was a man of reason, and had no such beliefs about wood and knocking. His knuckles rapping lightly against the sapling he was using as a support for his snare was merely coincidence. Nothing more. 

He placed several traps before turning back towards their camp. Just as he was about to begin navigating towards the fire he could now smell, smoke drifting through the trees, he spotted one more location for a snare, too good to pass up. 

Shaking his head to dispel the fog slowly settling in his brain, he knelt where the rabbit trail bottlenecked and twisted his twine into a loop. He then inserted the loose end of the twine into itself to form a noose. A dead tree was conveniently placed next to the rabbit path, so he attached the twine securely to it. Satisfied with his work, he stood. 

Stood just a bit too fast, he guessed, as his surroundings rapidly darkened and he felt his limbs go numb.

Before he could register what was happening, his legs buckled. He crashed through the underbrush surrounding him with a volume bound to alert any prey within a mile of his presence. So much for dinner.

He tried to catch himself, but his arms moved too slowly and he fell flat on his stomach, breath leaving his lungs with a heavy grunt. The remaining few snares flew from his hands to lad some unknown distance away.

His vision had narrowed to a pinpoint. He distantly registered that the wounds on his chest were smarting from the abuse. Somehow, the pain felt worlds away.

He lay on the ground for a moment, dazed at the sudden fall, cool soil and fallen leaves pressing into his cheek. It took him a while to catch his breath, much to his foggy irritation. 

“Fuck.” He growled. His hands tingled. 

A fox laughed in the distance. The pat-pat-pat of light rain began again, drumming on the foliage.

After some time, he regained enough control of his limbs. He rubbed his eyes, trying to dispel the grey mass still encroaching on his vision. Gods damned poison and bleeding. These wounds were beginning to surpass annoying to become something increasingly dangerous. 

He’d been trying to hide how much worse things were getting from his bard. If Jaskier found out about this, he would never—

“Geralt!”

Double fuck.

Geralt’s ears picked up easily on the bard thundering through the underbrush. He hadn’t been gone that long. Setting the traps must have taken half an hour, maybe a bit longer, no cause for concern just yet. Damn Jaskier and his weird sense for trouble.

Geralt listened dazedly as the bard came closer, not thinking to summon the strength to call to him. Guiltily, he realized he was glad for the lapse in thought, for calling for help would only add to his humiliation. 

Finally, the clumsy snapping of branches and thwip, thwap of plants springing back into place came to a halt next to his head. 

“Are you alright?” Before Geralt had time to truly register Jaskier’s closeness, his warm palm was spread across his back, firm but gentle. It was a comfort Geralt was loathe to admit. How long had he been on the forest floor, anyways? It hadn’t felt like more than a minute or two, but the way the debris stuck to his skin suggested otherwise. 

Perhaps he had lost consciousness after all?

“What are you doing, Jask?”

“I was just—”

“Were you following me?” Geral growled incredulously, struggling to get his hands underneath himself. This was quite a task, since the leaves were now slippery with rain.

“Gods no! You would have turned me inside out. But it’s been nearly two hours, and you promised you would be back soon…”

“Hm.”

“—and then I realized that the crash I had heard must’ve been you, because what else could it have been, with what you being gone for so long, and Roach and Hellebore weren’t raising the alarm, so I thought that it couldn’t be monsters—” 

“Jask.”

“Right, sorry, I just got worried and came to check and it’s a good thing I did, because look at the state of you! You’re covered in mud.” Geralt allowed a puff of breath to escape his lungs, close enough to a laugh that Jaskier relaxed somewhat.

“Besides. You would have heard me following you.”

Geralt’s vision finally cleared, and he looked up at the bard. The man looked beyond disheveled, twigs tangled in his usually well-kept hair, his face and arms covered in a litany of red scratches, a few weeping blood. It was obvious he came in a hurry. Geralt steadfastly ignored the way his own face warmed as he took in Jaskier’s flushed appearance and heavy breathing.

“Jaskier, you damn mother hen. If my falling didn’t alert the rabbits to our presence, your crashing through the forest did.”

“Well it’s a good thing then that you already managed to catch some.” Jaskier grinned, offering Geralt his hand.

The witcher took Jaskier’s offered hand and allowed the bard to pull him to his feet. Jaskier did so with practiced ease, and Geralt found himself wondering just how long ago the bard had developed such strength. They’d only been traveling together for two years, but it seemed that the time had done him some favors, particularly in the muscle department.

Jaskier steadied his dizziness once more, waiting patiently until he’d regained his senses to walk back to their camp. 

If it took Geralt a little longer than was strictly necessary to gather himself, leaning heavily on Jaskier’s sturdy shoulders, no one needed to know but him. He was allowed to have his little moments of weakness, right? As long as it was with Jaskier. He could let down his guard when it was just the two of them. 

Together, they wandered back to the previously laid snares, taking their time and avoiding large obstacles. Sure enough, two of the snares had already been successful. Geralt’s eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise, but he gathered the game all the same, pleased that for once things had gone relatively smoothly. 

It was funny, though. Come to think of it, how had Jaskier known that they had—

“Geralt, you’re bleeding again.”

“Jaskier, I’m always bleeding. Be specific.” The bard rolled his eyes, not quite successfully hiding the unfettered worry that crossed his face.

“No, you dolt, from somewhere new.” He pointed to Geralt’s face. Geralt frowned, but now that Jaskier mentioned it there was a warm feeling across his right cheek that hadn’t been there before. He swiped the back of his hand across it, unsurprised to see it come away smeared with a small streak of dark red.

“Probably happened when I fell, should be fine soon.”

“Are you sure? With the other ones…maybe this one won’t stop either?” Geralt resisted the urge to scoff. It was only a scratch, after all. He likely wouldn’t have ever noticed it, if it hadn’t been pointed out.

“It’s fine, Jask. This isn’t the first scrape I’ve acquired since we left.”

“Oh.”

“You, though…” Geralt looked pointedly up and down Jaskier’s body, waving the hand not currently occupied with dead rabbits vaguely at him.

“What?” Jaskier’s lips twisted into a bemused grin. 

“You’re in worse shape than I am, you’ve got no business worrying about me.”

“Not true, Geralt, and you know it.”

“From where I’m standing, it looks like you went several rounds with some trees and lost.” Geralt teased.

The campfire was in sight now, its flames visible through the trees. Roach and Hellebore whickered in greeting, barely looking up from their small patch of grass. 

“Go clean yourself up, Jask.” Geralt shoved the bard away affectionately, trying and failing to ignore the flutter in his stomach at the way Jaskier’s laugh echoed through the rainy forest like bells. 

“I smelled a stream not too far. Refill our waterskins and wash your scrapes—if you’re comfortable alone.” Geralt said as he skinned the rabbits, tossing the entrails aside to be buried.

“Is it within earshot?”

“For me, yes.”

“If I call, you’ll hear?”

“Yes.” 

“Then I’ll go.”

Geralt hummed in response, pointing in the direction that Jaskier needed to go while focusing on butchering the rabbits. Maybe they could get some coin for the hides; they were rather large, especially for this time of the year.

“Take the rabbit hides. Soak them in cold water—might be able to sell them.”

Jaskier eyed the hides with poorly disguised distaste, but did not protest.

As Geralt continued his work, Jaskier dug through Hellebore’s saddlebags and his own belongings, which had been thrown over the same branch as Roach’s. Finally, he produced a bar of soap and a small towel from the depths of his bags with a small chirp of victory. 

“I’m going to take a quick bath. Make sure to come running if you hear me scream.” He warned seriously before setting off towards the creek, rabbit skins held out in front of him as if they would attack. Geralt kept his ears tuned to the bard’s actions; he didn’t think there would be drowners this far out in the wilderness, but it was always better to err on the side of caution.

There was the rustle of clothing as Jaskier stripped, and a yelp of surprise at the water’s temperature. 

Jaskier’s light splashing as he bathed was an admittedly soothing backdrop to Geralt’s work, and he was half asleep by the time he put the rabbits on spits to roast over the fire. Jerking upwards, he shook his head, alarmed at his lapse.

Jaskier was still humming pleasantly in the distance, and the fire crackled innocently.

Geralt shook himself again, frustrated. He never allowed himself to become complacent like this. Whatever was wrong with him truly was getting worse.

There came the sound of Jaskier emerging from the water, and shivering in the cold. The path to the creek was clear, but Jaskier still managed to stumble several times before emerging from the trees. The bard was wrapped in his towel, dirty clothes thrown over one shoulder. In each of his hands he carried a dripping rabbit skin as far away from himself as possible. The image was ridiculous in every way, but Geralt’s stomach flipped all the same.

“Forgot my other clothes. Here,” Jaskier tossed the rabbit skins over a low branch with a wet smack sound. 

Geralt cleared his throat and turned the rabbits over the fire. Jaskier went about rummaging through his belongings once more.

“D’you remember where I packed my blue doublet?”

“Why would I know that?” Geralt said, and, “Try the other bag. No, not that one, Roach’s.”

The mournful hooting of a lone owl sounded in the distance and Jaskier repeated the noise. 

“Ah, here we are.” Jaskier revealed a chemise and his warmest blue doublet from Roach’s saddlebags. Geralt wondered at what point they had stopped bothering to separate their belongings.

Then, quite without warning (and why would he warn Geralt? They had been traveling together for far too long to care about nudity), Jaskier dropped his towel to reveal his full figure. 

Geralt coughed loudly and turned to tend the rabbits, but he couldn’t help his gaze wandering back to the bard as he dressed. He didn’t remember Jaskier being quite so… chiseled… the last time he saw the bard sans clothes. 

“Creek was a sight bit colder than I was anticipating, hope you’ve got that fire stoked—” Jaskier cut himself off as he glanced at Geralt, startled to find his golden eyes fixed quite firmly on him. 

“Ah—Geralt?”

Geralt, for his part, took a moment to register the call of his name. When he did finally hear it, he shook his head and once again attempted to return to his work, motions less coordinated than they perhaps should have been. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt caught a sly grin cross Jaskier’s face, and he felt his face warm. Jaskier quickly picked his towel back up to drape it over the nearest branch, pointedly taking his time dressing. 

“Go any slower and you’ll catch your death.” Geralt grunted.

This did not spur Jaskier to move any faster. It wasn’t until Geralt removed the rabbits from the spit that the bard finished dressing with any level of enthusiasm. 

As Geralt served their food, he grimaced at the state of the meat—under-seasoned and overcooked. No doubt Jaskier would have done a better job, but if his companion found the food offensive he chose to keep it to himself. Geralt had never been fantastic at cooking—all the purpose food served for him was fuel—but his capabilities had become decidedly worse the longer they were on the road. 

Best not examine that too much. Nothing to be done about it until they reached the keep, anyways.

The pair ate dinner in companionable silence, and few words were exchanged as they prepared their bedrolls. Before Jaskier had even finished laying his out, Geralt was already asleep.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was tucked in thoroughly against the autumn chill, cozy and exhausted. And there were roots digging into his back. 

Geralt had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow, and his uncharacteristic behavior had Jaskier buzzing with concern. He was certain his worry was driving Geralt to his wits end, but he couldn’t help it. Jaskier was beginning to entertain the possibility that they would not make it to the Keep at all. 

He hadn’t been able to shake the gnawing sense that there was some terrible winter weather dogging them, that they were just barely outpacing it. He couldn’t explain it, just knew that he could feel it in his bones and knew it to be true. How he wished that Rosa were with them, if only to console him, or at the very least validate his concerns. It wasn’t as if Jaskier were in the position to tell Geralt that there was a storm on their trail with no explanation. The declaration would only lead to questions he was unwilling to answer, at least until he knew Geralt was safe.

And if the storm caught up with them, then what? Geralt had told him long ago that the path they must take was impassible after the first heavy storm. He’d described in great detail exactly how treacherous it was, even in perfect conditions, in an attempt to dissuade Jaskier from escorting him to the Keep. Obviously, it hadn’t worked. All the tale had really done was convince the bard even more so that he needed to come along, lest Geralt, in his poor state, take a tumble into a ravine and end up dead.

If they suffered any delays at all, Geralt would have to winter away from Kaer Morhen, which would spell certain death for the White Wolf.

Jaskier shuddered at the images that particular thought dredged up. In an attempt to dispel his fears, he turned his attention to the owl’s lullaby and near-imperceptible sound of mist landing on the leaves. It was a pleasant noise, soothing to the ear and to the soul. By all means, it should have put him to sleep. But relaxation seemed to be nothing but a pipe dream for the poor bard, and he tapped his fingers on the ground restlessly. 

Geralt had taught him once, about the concept of meditation. He’d tried it before and failed miserably, but perhaps all he needed was more practice. 

He closed his eyes and paid attention to his breath. As a musician, Jaskier was perhaps more in tune with his breathing than most folks. 

In, out. In, out. Focus on how the air feels on your lips. Cold, but not unpleasantly so. A gentle breeze on the face. The whisper of the leaves. Shit, right, breathing. In, out. In, out. Damn these roots in my back—

Jaskier huffed and turned on his side. His hair fell over his eyes and tickled his nose. He needed a haircut. Perhaps he could ask one of the witchers to do it, at Kaer Morhen—if they ever made it there.

And that was just the problem, because no matter what he tried to direct his attention to, it always circled back to his biggest worry.

The night had turned foggy with the cold. The darkness grew deeper and Jaskier ever more restless. He began to see his breath even in his proximity to their humbly sputtering fire. It was fighting the settling damp valiantly, but probably wouldn’t last the night. 

Jaskier emerged from his bedroll to place an additional branch on the fire. Though it had been hours since Geralt had fallen asleep, he hadn’t shifted once. When he did sleep, Geralt was usually a light, active sleeper. Since Campbell’s, he’d been nigh impossible to wake, and Jaskier was always the first up and around. 

The small cut on the witcher’s cheek was nearly healed. A month ago, it would have disappeared minutes after he’d received it. Now, even very minor injuries required hours to heal. He thought back to Geralt’s earlier mishap. He hadn’t thought anything of the extended absence. Setting snares was a time-consuming process, even for a hunter as seasoned as Geralt. And the alone time had provided a rare chance for Jaskier to hone a skill he’d been desperately practicing in secret for weeks: magic.

~~~

As Geralt slipped into the forest, snares in hand, Jaskier considered the opportunity before him.

He knew almost nothing about the practice of healing magic, aside from the small tidbits he’d picked up from Rosa during his extended stay—most of these tidbits had been heavy-handed warnings.

“Do not overexert yourself, young man. You are no use to your witcher dead.”

“Do not practice the healing arts lightly. All energy has to come from a source.”

“Fool with what you do not understand again and you may not live to tell the tale.”

“The element of Life is not one to be trifled with, bard.”

She’d made her point, quite effectively. Jaskier did not intend to make any mistakes he would regret. He just needed to be careful that he didn’t bite off more than he could chew. 

If there was one thing he’d learned from Rosa, it was that whatever he thought he could easily handle would unfailingly kick his sorry arse to kingdom come. So he needed to start with something humiliatingly easy, and then knock it down another few rungs. Then, maybe, (and it was a big maybe), he could manage.

Animals were out of the question. Far too advanced.

An insect.

Too complex.

Plants, then. Mend a branch, perhaps.

Smaller, bard. Think smaller. Came Rosa’s counseling.

Okay, smaller. What was smaller than a branch? A twig? A leaf?

That’s it. 

Fine.

But Rosa’s advice had never failed him. Starting excruciatingly simple was a safe bet, right? Something easy. He just needed to start easy.

He knew enough to recognize his limits, and when he was approaching them. He would know if, and when, he needed to stop. Theoretically, at least. Jaskier scrounged the campsite for a leaf to practice on. 

After a quick scan, he came across the perfect test subject—a sapling with a few spotted leaves.

Briefly pausing, he listened for sounds of Geralt’s return. The last thing he wanted to deal with was his companion returning to his practicing magic. Then there would have to be explanations, and Jaskier was ill-equipped to deal with that as it were now. 

His ears told him that Geralt was still a good distance away, focused on his work.

Good.

Jaskier knelt next to the sapling, taking care not to muddy the fabric of his pants. It was no more than a couple of feet tall. Most of its leaves were green and healthy, but a few had clearly been nibbled at by something, and sported some brown spots.

He took a moment to get acquainted with the sapling, trying to follow what little guidance Rosa had imparted in their short time together. He remembered something about understanding the energy of the being he was working with. While that would have been easy for someone he knew as well as, say, Geralt, it was more difficult for a tree he’d just met.

Still, he closed his eyes and focused on what he was able to feel. His second sight was blurry at best, lacking practice and discipline. But if he concentrated with enough intensity, he could begin to distinguish the auras around him from one another. They each had their own energy source. He zeroed in on the one closest to him, knowing it to be the sapling, and attempted to tune out the rest.

Somewhere in the woods, two rabbit-sized auras snuffed out.

It was not easy work. His focus had never been very easy to control, but there was the physical labor of using his magic too. He found it hard to believe that Rosa was able to heal so effortlessly, even as seasoned as she was.

The sapling was a sturdy little thing, with an attitude. It seemed to regard the spots on its leaves with mere annoyance. Jaskier focused on the few sections that sported the damage, and ever so carefully, began to funnel his own energy into them.

Distantly, he was aware of a crash like a tree limb falling to the forest floor, but a task of this intensity required all of his concentration, so he pushed the knowledge aside to deal with it in a moment.

The sensation of siphoning his own energy was difficult to describe—a bit like hunger, but different. It was like a deep gnawing in the pit of his stomach, a different kind of hunger that went beyond the need for food. It dug deeper, with more intensity, than that. He felt hollow, empty, and instinctively understood that only time or magic could sate it.

He felt each cell in the leaves regrow, until they were all complete and whole once more. The tree seemed grateful, if a bit confused. Jaskier sat back, winded.

It had taken more out of him than he had anticipated. As a bead of sweat rolled down his temple, despite the chill, he was grateful that he’d heeded Rosa’s warnings. A slight breeze ruffled his hair and he welcomed it.

Behind him, a log settled in the fire, and he turned. It was burning lower than he would have expected—how long, exactly, had he been working with the sapling? It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but the state of their campfire suggested that it had been at least two or three hours. 

The crash in the woods.

Jaskier once again listened for Geralt, but there was no sound of movement.

Shit. 

At once, Jaskier was on his feet, pausing briefly to ensure his boot dagger was on his person. He didn’t want to stop to retrieve his sword—if Geralt was hurt, and he’d been distracted—he didn’t dare to think about it. He tramped into the gloom with a great deal less consideration than Geralt had done, barely registering the sting of thorns and twigs grabbing at him.

He followed his ears; he would never have a sense of smell like Geralt’s, but his recently-discovered fae blood (or perhaps it was the Elder portion—it didn’t matter, except that it was his) had enhanced his hearing tenfold, and it was almost better than Geralt’s now. He was easily able to make out the sound of the witcher’s slow heartbeat in the distance.

~~~

A drop of water fell from the pine needles above him to land on his face. Jaskier sighed and turned over, pulling the blankets over his head. It was far past midnight now, and the fire was nearly out. 

He wasn’t sure how long he lay like that, trying and failing to sleep, feeling the wet seep through his covers. It must have been some stretch of time, because his joints began to ache the way that they do when you don’t sleep enough. His eyes felt gritty, yet still sleep evaded him. 

It dawned on him slowly, like the dripping of molasses, that the sounds of the forest had at some point been replaced by a deep, unnatural silence.

Even less comforting, Jaskier was suddenly aware of the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

Stricken, he flipped the blankets off, drawing in a sharp breath at the cold. The moon had gone behind the clouds and the fog still lay thick on the ground. Trees stood like sentries around them, columns of pale bark against the velvet black of the forest beyond. 

Geralt was in the same position Jaskier remembered him in. The space between his eyebrows was creased with pain, or chill, or both. Roach and Hellebore stood at attention, their ears pricked and eyes trained on something outside the reach of the glow of the embers.

Wind whispered through the leaves. 

Jaskier followed their eyes, a chill unrelated to the cold running down his spine. Without looking away from the trees, he felt around blindly for his boots, and slipped them on as silently as he could. 

His doublet was just beyond his reach. He scooted backwards towards the horses, unwilling to look away from whatever threat they had spotted. Like his boots, he slipped the doublet on with as much stealth as possible.

Jaskier rose to a crouch, unreasonably feeling as if standing to his full height would make him more vulnerable. 

Lucky Geralt always slept with his swords within reach. Well—not lucky, really, but more by design. Jaskier crept over to where the witcher was sleeping, and felt around for the weapons. The ground around them had become damp, but not yet muddy. 

His fingers brushed along the sheaths of the swords, slippery with dew. Jaskier held his breath and located the pommels, gaze still riveted on the trees.

There was only one reason the woods ever quieted like this.

A predator. 

The silence was complete, save for the crackling of the fire’s dying embers. It pressed down on Jaskier, making his limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated. His skin prickled with the feeling of being watched.

He risked a glance at Geralt, heart pounding. Dark circles rested heavily underneath the witcher’s closed eyes. The bandages peeking above his collar were almost soaked through with crimson. Jaskier quickly decided that he should handle this alone, if possible. 

He knew Geralt’s swords by heart, so he could tell by the feel of the pommels which was the silver and which was the steel.

He focused on the well of magic he’d learned to find inside himself, and called on his fae blood to help him. 

At once, he felt the rush of magic in his veins. It shot up his spine like a drug and he felt his vision sharpen and brighten. He needn’t have relied on his magic to determine the nature of the threat, though; the wind suddenly changed direction and the acrid stench of swamp water and rot filled his nostrils. The sword he needed was quickly revealed. 

He tightened his grip on the leather of the grip and its sheath, and the silver sword slid out of its housing like silk. 

As he lifted the sword in two hands, the hulking shadows in the woods swiveled as one to look at him, blank white eyes reflecting the firelight like an animal’s. They stood a few paces into the brush, sleek and hunched and hungry.

Drowners.

Jaskier knew drowners were supposed to be easy. Geralt had dispatched entire nests of them with hardly a blink. The witcher didn’t even think  them dangerous enough to send Jaskier away when it was necessary to fight one (or two, or ten). 

Drowners weren’t usually this far from human civilization; the farther they strayed from settlements, the more scarce their food became. He frowned and gripped the sword tighter.

It was heavy, of course, and unbalanced for a man of his stature. It had been designed for a witcher that was twice his weight, and Jaskier had never trained with two-handers, only single-handed blades. Jaskier grunted with effort, but the steel shortsword Rosa had granted him would have little effect on a creature of magical nature. Jaskier was good with his sword, knew it like an old friend, but it was no match for a nest of starving drowners. And if he were being quite honest, he didn’t want the drowners as close as they would have to get for him to strike them with his shortsword.

The drowners had not yet moved. Somehow, their waiting made Jaskier more nervous. He took the opening to quickly place a few additional branches on the fire, grateful that he’d thought ahead to retrieve more kindling. Hopefully, the fire would at least dissuade the drowners from venturing too close to their campsite.

Hellebore whuffed nervously, something Jaskier couldn’t fault her for. Unlike Roach, she was not a seasoned witcher’s mare with specialized monster training. She likely had never seen a monster in her life in Campbell’s stables. Jaskier shushed her gently and crept closer to the edge of their campsite. 

The drowners stood eerily still, dripping onto the dirt and being generally horrible. They were hideous beasts—pale blue, smeared with algae, sporting fins all over. They were vaguely human in shape, but just wrong enough to set off your nerves. Worst were the eyes: vacant and bloodthirsty, with a layer of film that made them look dead. 

There were only three. They remained in a group, for now. Jaskier tightened his grip and widened his stance. 

Then the wind once again changed direction, and he learned two things very quickly: one, drowners can move quite fast, when they want to. Two, drowner claws hurt.

Almost as quickly as they had spotted him, they disappeared into the soggy ground, leaving mounds of upturned soil in their wake. It took a moment for Jaskier to realize that they were burrowing, until he felt the rumble. He turned his focus to his feet, and sure enough, one leaped out of the mud at him. 

He reacted on pure reflex.

The drowner sailed towards him, and time felt as though it had slowed; its jaw was agape, revealing several rows of horrid teeth, rotting flesh stuck between them. Its hands were outstretched, fingers tipped with nails too long and sharp to resemble anything human. 

He raised the sword, more out of surprise than any real preparation, and watched in frozen disgust as the creature launched itself directly onto the blade of the sword, uncaring that it had just impaled itself. 

It sank to the hilt of the sword with a squishy sound, flailing with blind hunger, and landed a heavy blow to his shoulder as it died.

Jaskier bit back a hiss of pain, absurdly trying to avoid waking Geralt, and staggered backwards with the force of the attack. There were drowner guts all over his hands and the grip of the sword, putrid and reeking. 

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his dinner down. 

The two remaining drowners let out hideous screeches as their comrade died, and any hope of Geralt remaining asleep died with it. Their distraction gave Jaskier just enough time to sling the dead body off the blade of the sword. 

Before they could regain their momentum, Jaskier charged the one closest to Geralt, heart pounding in his ears and bile rising in his throat.

This one was also brave or foolish enough to attack him directly, and he easily lobbed off one of its arms before it got wise. 

While the second drowner was mourning its lost limb, the third one scrambled behind him on all fours, hissing. Jaskier was alerted by the sudden heavy weight on his back that he hadn’t reacted quickly enough. 

He whirled around, immediately feeling stupid about it because it was on his back, and growled. 

As he spun, he caught a glimpse of Geralt half-out of his bedroll, barely awake and watching the whole battle incredulously.

The drowner on his back screeched with hunger or rage, or maybe just to make noise, and the sound made his ears ring. He hefted the sword again and, unbalanced, teetered over backwards.

He landed hard on his back, the drowner taking most of the weight. Its grip temporarily weakened, and he slammed his head back into its face, stunning it and accidentally biting his own tongue.

Shit. Fangs. He’d forgotten about those.

He’d also lost track of the other drowner, and hoped that it wasn’t currently eating Geralt’s face.

Jaskier rolled to his side and scrambled to his feet as quickly as gravity would allow, tasting blood. His pulse sang in his ears. 

The drowner he’d stunned was still on the ground, and he took its head off before it could regain its senses. 

Two down, one to go. 

Jaskier spun, searching wildly for the final drowner. A quick glimpse at Geralt confirmed that it at least wasn’t eating off his best friend’s face. Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

The horses. 

“Oh, no you don’t, slimy bastard,” Jaskier growled, jumping over the fire to place himself between the drowner and the horses. 

It hesitated, unsure where to go next but clearly not interested in attacking him now that it was wounded and alone. But a wounded monster was a desperate monster, and Jaskier wasn’t letting his guard down just yet.

It halfheartedly charged him, seething wetly, and took a dive for his ankles.

Jaskier lowered the sword to point at its face, and it wheeled away at the last minute, repelled by the silver.

Fuck. How did Geralt take out whole nests of these damn things regularly?

Jaskier took a breath, frustrated. His magic was welling up of its own accord, responding to the danger. He shoved it down mercilessly. Geralt was awake; he couldn’t risk revealing anything right now.

The drowner had seemed to realize that Geralt was now vulnerable, and began to circle the campsite. Jaskier growled, startled by the sound of it. He shuffled to match the drowner’s movement, keeping his back to Geralt and the campfire. The sword was growing heavier in his grip by the minute; he was unused to wielding such a behemoth. 

He daren’t go on the offensive. His enemy was liable to be unpredictable. It felt safer to wait for it to attack, and meet it halfway with the sword instead.

Behind him, Geralt was beginning to move around. In a few seconds, he would likely try to join the fight.

Jaskier couldn’t allow it to come to that.

Much more of this fighting would only attract more drowners, or, gods forbid, something worse. He needed to end this.

Jaskier released some of the pressure he’d kept on his magic, just enough to feel it prickle with delight at his fingertips. He channeled the energy into the blade, just enough to make it feel lighter, help him move faster. Nothing more. Geralt wouldn’t notice a thing. 

Suddenly, everything was happening too fast.

The drowner was on the ground one second, and on him in the next.

It buried its teeth in his shoulder, and the pain was such a shock Jaskier couldn’t even make a noise in response. It shook its head like a rabid dog, tearing at his flesh. He moved automatically, magic and inhuman instincts taking over for him in absence of higher thought.

In a flash, the drowner had been cut in half at the waist. Jaskier wasn’t sure if there had been visible magic or not, too distracted by the multiple rows of teeth buried in his muscles. 

The drowner was dead before it hit the ground. 

Jaskier released a shaky breath and put his magic away while he still had the sense for it. He stood to his full height, trembling. There was blood running in rivers down his left arm. He gripped the wound tightly, willing the bleeding to stop before it became a problem. 

There was a rustle of fabric.

“…Jask?”

Chapter Text

A horrible screech rang through the dark encasing him. Something rotten floated on the breeze.

Trouble.

The relative calm of a dreamless sleep was ripped away from him and he plunged into the icy cold shock of reality.

The screech continued.

He would know that sound anywhere.

Drowners.

Shit. 

Geralt rolled over, his body refusing to move as quickly as he needed it to. 

A weapon. He needed a weapon. 

He opened his eyes, foggy with sleep, and was greeted with the corpse of a drowner, dead eyes wide open.

Fucking hell. 

He blinked the rest of the sleep from his eyes, scrambling for his silver sword, halfway out of his bedroll before he’d even surveyed the scene.

“Fuck,” He growled aloud when his silver sword came up missing. He was sure he’d set it with the steel—

There was a heavy thud-thud that vibrated the ground. He turned, and Jaskier was sprinting towards him, or, rather, towards something behind him. 

The bard’s face was a picture of panic and, curiously, nausea. Held tightly in his hands, and covered in drowner viscera all the way to the pommel, was Geralt’s silver sword. It was far too large for him. He wasn’t even holding it right, his grip was all wrong. It looked like a drowner had exploded on him. The image might have been rather comical, were the bard not in the midst of a fight. 

Geralt was suddenly certain that if their positions were reversed, Jaskier would threaten to write a song about it. The kind designed to generate laughter.

Jaskier flew past him with speed enough to ruffle his hair. He raised the weapon—poor form, he was obviously suited to a one-hander—and chopped off the arm of a second drowner with all the grace of a newborn foal that happened to be wielding a sword.

Then there was the sound of too-long claws scrabbling for purchase on the ground, and a third drowner launched itself at Jaskier’s back before Geralt could bark out a warning.

Jaskier’s face contorted with shock and he spun on his heel, reaching over his shoulder as if to pull the drowner off.

This, obviously, did not work. 

The drowner screamed directly into Jaskier’s ear, and he tripped backwards. All of the air left the bard’s lungs with a whoof and Geralt grimaced. 

He threw his covers all the way off.

So Jaskier had his silver sword. Fine. Steel was less useful than silver, but it could still kill.

His other sword was just out of reach; he rose to one knee, glancing away from the battle just long enough to retrieve it.

A thonk sound returned his attention to Jaskier. The drowner had been stunned and Jaskier spat blood with distaste, running his tongue over his teeth.

Hm. Had they always been that sharp?

Trick of the light, probably.

An ugly sound came from behind Geralt, and he caught sight of the one-armed drowner, making its way towards their horses.

A growl escaped his lips unbidden. Jaskier was one step ahead of him.

“Oh, no you don’t, slimy bastard.” His voice dripped venom. Geralt suppressed an unexpected shiver.

The bard took a running leap over the fire and Geralt had a brief vision of Jaskier setting his own ass on fire. He resisted the desire to run a hand over his face.

He debated the utility of using one of his Signs. Jaskier was directly in the line of fire, and drowners were only really vulnerable to Igni. His bard had already narrowly avoided catching fire once tonight. Geralt wasn’t interested in testing his luck a second time.

The drowner scampered towards Jaskier’s feet. He only just managed to react in time.

Damn it. 

Geralt needed to get involved before Jaskier got seriously hurt.

He crouched, trying not to draw the drowner’s attention, and held his sword low.

There was a sudden spike of static that made Geralt’s hair stand on end. He glanced skyward in alam, but it wasn’t storming. Still, he knew all too well the taste of lightning. 

A sudden snarl divided his attention, even as the hum in the air increased in intensity.

Then there was the telltale squelching of flesh being rent asunder. He snapped towards the sound just in time to watch the bottom half of the last drowner hit the ground.

The electricity dissipated.

Jaskier stood, panting heavily. The silver sword was heavy in his hand, the tip grazing the ground. He was disheveled and sweaty, hair completely mussed.

Geralt allowed his stance to relax, adrenaline receding. A litany of feelings he didn’t possess the energy to analyze ran amok in his head.

“…Jask?” He called.

Jaskier turned, lightning-quick, eyes flashing dangerously blue. Geralt might have forgotten to breathe. Why, he hadn’t the slightest clue.

Then Jaskier turned to face him. His doublet had been turned to mere shreds. Angry red gashes showed through the blue silk, slowly weeping blood. He had clamped his hand so tightly over his shoulder that his fingertips had turned white, where they weren’t bathed in red. His sleeves had been torn at the seams and were falling off, revealing arms dirtied with sweat and mud and blood.

Geralt sighed deeply.

“What the fuck?”

Jaskier released a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. It did exactly nothing to fix the tousled strands.

“Drowners.” Jaskier replied simply.

“Obviously. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“No time.” He replied simply, flopping down next to him. Geralt sat as well, setting his steel sword aside, the blade perfectly clean and unused. Again, a feeling Geralt didn’t understand assaulted him. His pulse rang in his ears loudly.

No time? What, Jaskier hadn’t found the spare millisecond calling his name required?

“How many?” Geralt kept his tone measured and level, but Jaskier was not a stupid man. He surely picked up on the emotion behind the clipped statement. This awareness upset Geralt more.

“Three.”

“Hmm.”

Three drowners, and Jaskier hadn’t woken him. 

He knew Jaskier was competent. He’d seen him in action, plenty. He knew he was well-versed in the art of swordsmanship. He could hold his own in a fight, without doubt. 

But for Melitele’s sake, why the fuck hadn’t Jaskier asked for help? 

He’d certainly been nearly out of his depth with the drowners—the new injuries he sported said as much. Help would not have hurt him. It wasn’t just a matter of swordsmanship, but the matter of being outnumbered three-to-one.

Did he really think Geralt was that incompetent? Had he lost that much faith in him?

Geralt took a breath, tired and hurt and angry though he knew there was likely a good reason behind Jaskier’s decision. He attempted to tone his temper, counting his breaths until the ringing in his ears had quieted somewhat.

Jaskier silently set the silver sword on the ground in front of himself and began the arduous process of removing his doublet.

Geralt ground his teeth, trying to choose his next words carefully.

“Do you truly see me as this useless?” 

Jaskier paused, frowning deeply. 

“Why on earth would you think that?” He held the crumpled ruins of his doublet in his lap. 

“You didn’t wake me. There were three drowners, bard. They could have killed you.”

“But they didn’t.”

“They could have. Did you not trust me to help?”

“I just—it’s not that at all, Geralt, I assure you—”

“Then what?”

“I didn’t want to wake you! You haven’t been sleeping well—don’t give me that look, it’s obvious. The dark circles, the way you carry yourself. I’ve been witness to plenty of your nightmares.” Geralt flushed deeply but remained unmoved.

“You would have me sleep while you fight?”

“Melitele help me, yes! Don’t you dare tell me you wouldn’t do the same, were our situations reversed. My point is, you’re getting worse, and you’re not telling me anything! I’m watching it happen! I’m not stupid, Geralt!”

“I’m beyond Rosa’s help. Telling you only causes you more distress.” 

“Yes, Geralt, you ass, but that’s not my point. There are other ways for me to help short of creating a miracle cure. And I can only help you if you let me.”

“Coddling will only slow us down.”

“No, it won’t. Why do you refuse to accept assistance?”

Geralt’s patience was wearing thin.

“Because, Jaskier, witchers don’t need help. We provide help.”

“Will you please let go of your ‘I’m Geralt of Rivia, I walk the Path alone, I accept help from no one’ nonsense?”

“It’s gotten me this far.”

“No, it hasn’t. We both know that.”

A beat of silence.

“This isn’t easy, Jaskier.”

“I would be a fool to say that it is. But I thought we had reached a turning point at Rosa’s. You were talking to me! We were properly communicating! And now it’s like we’ve returned to square one.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“I’m not asking you to bare your soul to me. I know you’ve been through horrible things. I don’t expect you to tell me what happened. Tell me about it if you want to. But how can you expect me to trust you when you aren’t being honest? How am I supposed to know that you’re okay, when you’re lying to me that you are? Gods damn it, Geralt, you’re my best friend. I don’t want to lose you.”

When Geralt finally did speak, it was slowly, each word carefully thought out.

“I…am not hiding things to— deceive you.” He paused, staring into the flames and trying to interpret his own motivations. It was some time before he spoke again.

“I was taught to hide weakness. Any deficiency can be exploited.”

“But surely by now you know that you can trust me.” Jaskier sounded desperate. Geralt hated that he was the cause.

“I know. I do trust you, Jaskier. As much as any of my brothers.”

Jaskier was silent, but some of the lines on his face eased.

Geralt didn’t have the words he needed. He wished for Eskel. His brother would be able to explain it to Jaskier without hurting anyone’s feelings. He was always better with emotions than Geralt had been. He’d been stripped of his ability to understand himself when he became the White Wolf. 

“I don’t know how to explain, Jaskier. I want to tell you, but I can’t.”

Some sort of understanding seemed to dawn on Jaskier, a sort of sympathy that Geralt hadn’t been expecting.

“I think I get it. A bit, at least.”

The crickets had started singing again. They didn’t speak for a while. The cool night breeze caressed Geralt’s cheek, and he wished that its touch was warmer. The air between them calmed until it was comfortable once more. 

Jaskier shifted and hissed, having forgotten that his shoulder had been shredded. He picked up the bloodied silver sword and began slowly swiping an oilcloth over the blade.

“Here.” Geralt held out his hand, intending to take it and begin cleaning it. 

What landed in his hand was not the sword.

Jaskier absently placed his own hand in Geralt’s.

It had been a long day for Jaskier. He hadn’t slept since dawn the day prior, and the sun had already started to brighten the sky. Geralt tried to remember this, and remained stock-still. Jaskier’s hand was warm on his own. Geralt swore he felt something electric pass from the bard’s fingers to his own. 

It took Jaskier a moment to realize his mistake, and longer to correct it. He glanced at their connected hands, then back up at Geralt with wide eyes.

“Bard—”

“Ah, sorry—”

Jaskier snatched his hand away, flushing wonderfully red all the way to the tips of his ears. Geralt looked away, startled and embarrassed in equal parts.

Jaskier scratched the back of his head and laughed.

“What were you—oh, the sword, of course, what else would you—”

“It’s fine.” Geralt interrupted quickly. Jaskier placed the heavy weight of the weapon in his hands as if it would burn him, and turned back to the task of cleaning himself up. 

“So much for that bath, huh?” Jaskier chuckled with forced humor. He turned his doublet over in his hands. He looked genuinely upset about the garment.

“We can stop to have it mended tomorrow.” Geralt gestured at the wreckage of Jaskier’s clothing.

“Nonsense. Weather is coming in.” 

Geralt glanced up, unsure how Jaskier had come to that conclusion. Jaskier stripped his shirt—or rather, the shreds of what used to be his shirt—off, shuddering as the cold touched his bare skin.

Geralt focused intently on his sword.

“Jaskier, you need clothes that aren’t in pieces. Kaer Morhen is not warm.”

“I can mend my own clothes, Geralt.”

“Only if there’s enough fabric left to mend.” Geralt countered, looking pointedly at the chemise Jaskier held. He made a mental note to have Eskel or Lambert help him dig up some of the old trainees’ clothes. It would be a shame if they made it all the way there only for Jaskier to perish from the mountain cold.

Jaksier wouldn’t hear Geralt’s argument.

“We’ll wash these when it’s light, along with your bandages. No point in risking another drowner encounter tonight.”

With the mess of fabric torn out of the way, Geralt got a full view of Jaskier’s new collection of injuries. Most of them would heal quickly with a little encouragement. 

But his shoulder…

It was deep, and ugly. Drowners had a rather unfortunate habit of creating dirty, untidy wounds that were impossible to stitch up. This one was no exception. One look, and Geralt knew that it would scar, badly, without the help of magic.

Jaskier would start looking like a proper witcher if he spent too much more time with Geralt, at this rate. Geralt wasn’t a fan of the thought.

Jaskier wrapped his ruined clothes and stuffed them into Hellebore’s saddlebags, heavily favoring his left arm. The mare turned to smell them and huffed with disgust.

“Sorry, I know. Only for a bit.” Jaskier apologized to her. She snorted in his face and turned away.

Jaskier ignored her display of temper and began digging through the bags. He produced a roll of bandages, along with a bundle of herbs and a small jar of salve. He then returned to his spot near the fire.

After a few minutes of struggling to dress the bite himself, Jaskier finally gave up and turned to Geralt, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Ah…would you? It’s a bit hard to reach.”

“Was beginning to wonder if you were going to ask.” Geralt grunted, his exasperation sounding far too close to affection.

Jaskier scooted over until he was sitting in front of the witcher, his back turned to him.

Geralt hadn’t been this close to Jaskier, shirtless, in a…very long time. He couldn’t help but marvel at how much he had changed.

Jaskier had never been a slight man, by any means. He’d always been one irritating inch taller than Geralt, a fact that the bard had never failed to bring up when the occasion called for it. But he’d packed on a considerable amount of muscle—Geralt wasn’t quite sure when it had happened. He was almost certain that he hadn’t been this toned when he’d last seen Jaskier topless, at Campbell’s. 

But his memory of that night was fuzzy and unpleasant to think of, so he didn’t dwell on it for very long. 

Jaskier shifted in front of him and he was reminded of his task.

No wonder Jaskier got into so much trouble wherever he went. It was no surprise that the townspeople could hardly keep their hands off of him. 

Geralt had never dared to think of Jaskier like that. He considered himself lucky to have such a kind and steady friend. He would never push the bard for anything beyond a friendship. Their occasional trysts were solely the fault of loneliness and lack of options. Geralt was at peace with the knowledge that Jaskier would surely choose a bedmate besides him, given the choice.

Geralt could look, though, so long as he never wanted for something he couldn’t have. They were close enough for that.

“Alright there, Geralt?”

He shook himself, and wondered how long he had been staring at Jaskier’s very toned back in silence.

He shifted to the work he should have been doing. 

Jaskier’s bleeding had slowed significantly. That was a perk of being healthy and not pumped to the gills full of poison, Geralt supposed. He leaned over to retrieve his waterskin and a mortar and pestle from his pack.

Though it had been quite some time since he’d required anything herbal to heal an injury, he remembered his teachings well. 

Drowners were vile by nature, and carried around sickness like a cloak. Almost any drowner wound was guaranteed to become infected. This was what worried Geralt the most. Jaskier was sturdy and handled blood loss as well as the most seasoned of warriors, and he’d managed to avoid getting completely mauled. So blood loss wasn’t really the issue. 

The fact that this wasn’t just a drowner scrape, caused by claws, but a drowner bite, was the problem. 

He needed to prevent infection. 

He dug through the bundle of herbs and began removing what he needed. 

First and foremost, to address infection: yarrow root—Jaskier would complain about the smell, but it was effective. Agrimony, calendula, and echinacea, for good measure. They would keep the inflammation to a minimum.

For bleeding: yarrow worked twofold here, one reason why Geralt favored it. Calendula, too.

For pain: again, calendula and echinacea. Throw in some marshmallow root for good measure.

The familiar motion of grinding herbs was soothing, and he soon found himself immersed in his element. He liked the sound the stone made as it scraped against the bowl.

It was a few minutes of grinding before they were satisfactorily powdered, during which time Jaskier began to droop forward. Geralt added water from the waterskin, little by little, until he had achieved an acceptable poultice.

“Awake, bard?”

“Hmm? Yes, just resting my eyes.”

“This might sting a little.”

Jaskier did an admirable job of remaining still while Geralt packed the herbs into his wound. He knew it had to hurt, but all the bard did was wince and take a sharp breath. Then the hardest part was done, and Geralt wrapped it up neatly. 

Since he was already helping Jaskier anyways, he continued on to his other injuries as well. 

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself—”

“It’s no trouble. Easier for me than you.”

Geralt made quick work of the rest of his cuts, using the salve on them and taking care to be gentle. Jaskier had done the same for him in the past. It was only fair to repay the bard in kind. 

“Finished,” Geralt said, placing the lid back on the jar. He packed away the supplies, bundling each of the herbs in its own cloth before placing them all in the pack. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier mumbled and rose, shivering from the chill. He made his way over to Hellebore and stowed the herbs away once more. 

Geralt stoked the fire and watched Jaskier with mild interest. He spent a few minutes digging through Hellebore’s saddlebags until he found what he was looking for: one of Geralt’s threadbare black tunics.

Geralt quickly pretended he hadn’t been watching as Jaskier turned back around, inspecting the garment with a critical eye.

“You’re one to talk about beat-up clothes, dear witcher. Your entire wardrobe looks like it’s been through a grain mill.”

“I replace my clothes yearly in Gwenllech.”

Jaskier’s interest visibly perked; this was the first time Geralt had volunteered more than the bare minimum of information about their route.

“Gwenllech?”

“The last of human civilization before we begin the most trying part of our journey. And the first village we will encounter in the spring.” Geralt returned to the sword he had been cleaning, retrieving a polishing cloth from his belongings.

“How far is it from here?”

“Three days, minimum. What are you doing with my shirt, bard?”

Said bard slipped the oversized black tunic over his head without a word of explanation. With a spark in his eye, he twirled around for inspection, arms spread wide.

“Well, Geralt? Do I look the part of witcher? Bet I’ll fit right in at Kaer Morhen like this.”

The shirt was far too wide for Jaskier, and the arms were enormous. It fit him better than Geralt would have predicted. The laces were loose and more than a bit of the bard’s chest hair peeked out. The shirt was just large enough on Jaskier that the collar slipped to reveal his shoulder in a manner that was extremely distracting.

Geralt’s poor overworked brain ground to a screeching halt. 

Jaskier. In my shirt. 

Geralt forgot what he was doing and fumbled his sword, the sharp blade making quick work of his palm. 

“Shit.” He hissed, baring his teeth. 

“Gods above, Geralt,” Jaskier said, tone somewhere between exasperated and concerned. He rushed over, unaware of what his proximity was doing to Geralt, and knelt in front of him. The tunic gaped open. 

“I’m fine, give it a few minutes.” Geralt growled, snatching his hand away before Jaskier could worry over it. 

Jaskier sat back, hands raised in surrender, and grinned.

Geralt broke eye contact, feeling far too visible in the firelight.

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed and he looked closer at the witcher. A knowing grin spread across his face and he laughed. 

“Geralt, are you…are you blushing?” 

“No. Fire’s just warm.” The coals glowed a deep red, and put off almost no heat.

“Uh-huh.”

“Put on some damn clothes, bard. You look like a common whore.”

“Sure I do. Melitele’s tits, Geralt, if we need to visit a brothel before we get to the Keep you should have said so!” Jaskier cackled, slipping under his blankets.

Geralt couldn’t begin to explain that a whorehouse was not, in fact, what he wanted. He hadn’t even figured it out himself. Instead, he turned his back to the bard and pretended to meditate.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”