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The Continent was a strange place. It was an amalgamation of different spheres, different universes and worlds all shoved together without any rhyme or reason. It shouldn't exist. It should have been destroyed in its creation, but somehow, it survived. It was more, much more, than it had been before; filled with all sorts of monsters and magic and people.
It shouldn't be surprising that not all the humans came from the same sphere originally. Some came from places that magic did not exist; others, from places it did, but worked on completely different principles: and others still from places where people were inherently magical.
1500 years is a very long time for a mixing of these cultures, these people. It is also a very long time for the monsters from the spheres to destroy those cultures irreparably. Truths only passed on in stories, stories told and lost and changed and repeated until the truths are lost and only rumor or legend remains.
During those centuries, names like Guide and Sentinel were lost, but their functions remained the same. Sentinels had enhanced senses, were stronger and faster and better than other humans. But those gifts came at a price. They could be overwhelmed without an anchor to focus on, a Guide who could coax them out of the downward spiral of a zone-out.
Guides were empaths, able to read the emotions of those around them without any of a mage's telepathic abilities. They could project their emotions onto people around them, making them able to charm or frighten on a whim. But their abilities relied on their perception of themself. Sentinels were able to cope with the excess of emotions, acting as a sink for the Guide to unload all the unneeded emotions into.
They balanced each other out, drawn to one another by their own abilities. A Sentinel and a Guide could survive all on their own, lost and hurting and strange. But together they could live.
"That's still strange." Jaskier commented offhandedly as Geralt picked up a lemon along with the apples and trail rations from the market stall. Geralt shot him a look that to the shopkeep read as 'murder' but Jaskier somehow, inscrutably read correctly as 'confusion'. "Oh, don't give me that look, Witcher. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"Hrm?" One snow white eyebrow raised in question at the bard. He just sighed dramatically before plucking the lemon out of the pile.
"This! This lemon is yellow!" He waved it in Geralt's face with a flourish. Geralt grimaced at that, flinching back slightly from the movement. Jaskier noticed it immediately and dropped his hand, though he dropped it with a carefully crafted look of disgust on his handsome face.
"All lemons are yellow?" Geralt questioned, now genuinely confused. A glance at the shopkeep's confused expression confirmed Geralt's feelings. Leave it to the bard to make someone like Geralt question a universal truth. Monsters are feared. Witchers are hated. Lemons are yellow.
"Not where I'm from. They're green." Jaskier said with a smug look on his face.
"That's a lime. They're smaller'n lemons too." The shopkeep sneered and Jaskier smiled at him, oozing charm and sass.
"Not so, my good fellow. Limes are more tart, more acrid, with a distinct bitterness to them. These lemons were green as grass on the outside and had a lovely bittersweet bite. Just the right amount of sour to balance out the sweet, if you understand me." Geralt tuned out the rest of the conversation.
Geralt had learned early on that Jaskier could talk for hours about food, drink, medicine… anything that could be put in the mouth and tasted really. It was amazing. Geralt hadn't realized how detailed someone could be when describing a roasted hare or a bottle of cheap wine or a bedmate's eating and washing habits based on taste alone.
Jaskier was constantly trying new foods on the road. It could almost be described as a compulsive habit, really. Back during that first week they'd travelled together, Geralt had lost one of nearly every herb and flower he'd picked because the bard wanted to try it. He picked berries from every plant they passed on the road, and Geralt had had to slap poisonous things from his hands more times than he'd like to count.
"You're from Kerack." Geralt said suddenly, soft enough that the shopkeep wouldn't overhear him. Jaskier shot him an uncomfortable look but didn't break off the conversation. He ended up talking the shopkeep into a deep discount, for which their shared coin purse was very grateful.
Later that night, once they were settled into their shared inn room after an enthusiastic performance from the bard, Jaskier let the conversation from the fruit vendor pick back up.
"How did you guess Kerack?" Jaskier asked, voice calm even as Geralt could hear his heartbeat increasing from across the room. Nervousness was pouring from the bard now. Geralt set his sword and cloth down on the floor in front of him, turning on his knees gracefully to watch Jaskier at the bed going through his nighttime routines.
"Kerack is known for its odd fruits." Geralt started haltingly. He watched the bard absently, and wondered for not the first time why words seemed to come much more easily when around him. "One of my brother's brought home a purple apple years ago." Jaskier's face lit up in a big grin at that.
"Oh yes. They are simply divine. It's a shame none of them travel well." He sighed. There was silence for a long time, as Geralt just sat and watched. It was meditative, watching Jaskier, just being in his presence. The buzz of emotions he felt suffocated by around other people seemed to fall away whenever he travelled with the bard.
Winter never seemed so long until after Geralt met the bard a decade or so ago. Winters before that always seemed to pass so quickly, with just enough time to rest and heal from the hardships of the Path before descending back down the mountains into the routine of contract, kill, coin.
Now though, it seemed to take ages. Geralt was on edge when they parted ways in Hagge or Elleander or Ban Gleán until they met again come spring. And sometimes Geralt wondered about that, thinking back to all the years he spent alone on the Path.
Geralt remembered the Trials more vividly than Eskel, Gwain, or Everard ever did. He remembered screaming until his throat bled, strapped down to Sad Albert as potion after potion was forced through his bloodstream. He remembered waking as Vesemir placed him in the dark recovery room, buried in the heart of Kaer Morhen, where no light or sound could reach newly enhanced senses.
He remembered the yelling, as Vesemir fought the mages and Delgan about him and ultimately lost; being strapped back down to Sad Albert as more poison was pushed through his veins. He remembered being paralyzed from fear and pain, reaching out in his mind for something -someone- who could take him away from this torture.
He remembered something snapping, deep in his soul and mind, opening a floodgate that had been sealed away. Panic and pain settled into his mind, fear and love twined together so strongly it ached, and the unpleasant slick feeling of satisfaction at causing pain weighed heavily on him.
He didn't understand.
It wasn't until later, when his throat had finally healed so he could talk again, in a hushed whisper he described what he could now feel to Vesemir in a quiet secluded area of the library.
Vesemir was the only one of the trainers Geralt could trust, because he was the only adult in Kaer Morhen that looked at the newly Grassed trainees and saw children. They were disappointments to Delgan and Varin, nothing but experiments to the mages. Vesemir looked at them with pride and love.
"Don't tell any of the others about this." Vesmir told him after Geralt had explained himself. "I need to do some research into this, but if the mages find out…" Geralt shook at that warning. He knew. There was a reason Witchers were burned instead of buried; mages could not be trusted with their bodies. Not even the school mages and children not strong enough to survive the Trials.
"Are the nobles there really all pirates?" Geralt asked, shaking himself from his memories. Jaskier chuckled at the question.
"They used to be. My- I- The nobles of my town were at the very least." Jaskier was rubbing his fingers together and over the hem of his shirt in his nervous habit. Geralt snorted at the poor cover-up job.
"Relax, Jaskier. I've always known you were noble." Jaskier's eyes blew wide at that admission, stunned. "At the very least, a very wealthy merchant's son."
"How?" He asked. Geralt shrugged. He could answer honestly. He could.
"I can smell nobles for miles." And he smirked at his travelling companion, just a tiny little thing. But Jaskier's eyes went narrow as he gave Geralt his best withering look.
"How dare you imply I smell like anything other than the open road and adventure." He was down to just his smallclothes, ready for bed finally. He waded up his discarded shirt angrily before pitching it straight in Geralt's face. It hit him with surprising accuracy and strength, flooding Geralt's enhanced senses with the distinctly not-noble smell of sweat and road dust and a little horse. "Get into bed you arsehole before I change my mind and make you sleep in the stables." He huffed before crawling into the bed, a smile on his face despite his best attempts to look haughty.
Geralt smiled at the bard's antics, but complied, quickly packing away his sword and miscellany before blowing out the candles and crawling into the bed as well. It was comfortable, domestic almost, in a way he never thought he'd get.
Life on the Path was hard and cruel. His first kill on leaving the sheltered walls of Kaer Morhen had proven that. Less than fifty miles on the Path, his very first excursion from behind those impressive walls, and a gut feeling had led him to his first monster.
It was a group of bandits surrounding a peasant's wagon. Their leader, a bald and ugly man, had pulled the peasant's daughter from the cart, ripping and pulling her dress off as his men held her father down to watch.
The air was thick with distress and the greasy slick feeling of lust from the bandits, the thrill of taking what they wanted from someone so unwilling and young. Geralt had killed him with two ferocious strikes, sending the rest of the bandits running, fear hanging around them like a cloud, Geralt's rage turning into something almost tangible to make sure they did not come back.
Vesemir had warned him, time and time again, that Witchers weren't knight-errants. 'Don't get involved with human matters.' They were monster-slayers for hire; nothing more than specialized contract killers with a pack of neutrality with the kingdoms of the Continent.
Nothing taught that better than offering a small smile to the girl and watching her back away from him in horror, retch onto the bandit's body, and faint straight out.
He had believed that first terrible lesson for decades. Blaviken just cemented it. And then a foolish bard marched up to the Butcher in a shitty tavern at the end of the world, unafraid. And taught Geralt that maybe a Witcher could hope for something more.
They left the town the next morning together, heading toward Kaedwen. There was still time for a few more contracts before Geralt headed up into the mountains for winter.
"So, the pirate nobles of Kerack?" Geralt asked once they were far enough from the town. Jaskier was walking beside Roach, strumming his lute thoughtfully. Jaskier glanced up at the Witcher, a mischievous grin plastered on.
Geralt loved that look most of the time. It spoke of fun, of camaraderie, on the roads between towns and cities. It spoke of relief, of not having to be the cold unfeeling Witcher, because Jaskier had seen through that facade from the moment they met. No, he'd never seen it to begin with.
It wasn't as exciting a look when they were in the middle of a tavern and some shitty local said something… less than kind about the Witcher.
Somehow, it was always comments on Geralt that warranted that look and not comments on Jaskier's musical talents.
"Oh yes!" Jaskier spoke, his hands strumming along with his tale, providing gentle background music. "My grandmother was a vicious thing. She captained her own ship under Osmyk's banner, and was rewarded her own title and town when he became King. She found herself a gently-bred nobleman from Brokilon to produce heirs, and kept her first mate in her bedchambers."
"Her first mate sterile?" Geralt asked, somewhat confused. He knew most noble men kept a mistress or two on the side, but it was unheard of for the woman to keep a man on the side. Jaskier snorted at that.
"No. She was also a woman. They loved each other desperately, but also wanted children. So they picked up a nice looking noble who wouldn't mind the arrangement, and had my father."
"Hm…" Geralt made the acknowledgement when Jaskier didn't pick back up the story immediately.
"He turned out more like Grandfather than she expected." Jaskier's face turned sour when he hit a discordant note. "I more than made up for it, however, inheriting her fire." He smiled, but it was a brittle thing.
"You and your parents didn't get along?" Geralt asked, softly. He didn't want to push, but he did want to listen. For all their years together, Jaskier spoke very little about himself or his past.
"No. They loved me, but they knew when I was very young that the life of a Viscount was not for me. My younger sister, however, will be an excellent heir." He sighed, looking off into the distance and something only he could see. Geralt could feel the tension rising from the bard, faint and muted as his strongest emotions ever were, but Geralt knew when to leave well enough alone.
"I only have a couple of memories of my mother, before I was found by the Witchers." Geralt offered. Jaskier stopped dead in his tracks, staring up at Geralt. It was… a massive display of trust in the bard. Geralt looked back at the bard as Roach kept walking along, raising an eyebrow and motioning for him to catch up. Jaskier picked up his jaw and jogged so he could catch up, but did not say anything. "She left me on the side of the road. I never met my father, but I remember her getting a letter and weeping."
"That's awful." Jaskier's voice did not shake, but it was soft and filled with emotion that Geralt could not identify.
"It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't mean it can't still hurt." Jaskier was staring up at him again, his eyes bright and shining in the afternoon light. Geralt shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, unable to keep eye contact anymore. "As terrible as it sounds, I am glad she did that. I got to meet you, after all." And that admission hurt.
Geralt did not respond, he couldn't. He watched the road and fell silent, trying his best to wrangle his emotions back under his control. They were nearing a town, he could feel the wall of emotion at the edge of his thoughts. He would need his emotions wrangled back under his control if he wanted to avoid being overwhelmed.
Jaskier could read him like a book, and started lightly playing his lute, soft lullabies and old folk songs that were easy on the senses. It helped ground the Witcher again. It was one of the things the bard shared with him, actually.
It had been the spring after Posada; Jaskier had insisted on meeting with the Witcher again in Ard Carraigh. Geralt didn't think the bard would actually show, so he didn't hurry down the mountains. He took his time, picking up a drowner contract that Lambert had avoided like the plague itself.
The innkeep at the Hen Evall did not seem surprised to see a Witcher walk through his doors. In fact, he looked grateful.
"Yer bard's been holed up in 'is room fer three days now." The innkeep said before Geralt could even get all the way up to the counter. "Sent him food th' first two days fine, but yesterday he didn' eat."
"Not my bard." Geralt frowned at the man. He just looked at the Witcher skeptically and slid a key across the counter. Geralt climbed the stairs, unsettled and confused.
He could hear the soft strumming of a lute if he focused even from the lower floor, but no singing. As he got closer to the room, he could feel the almost void the bard took up; that absence of overflowing emotions that Geralt had found comforting all last year.
He turned the key and entered the room, and froze.
Jaskier was sitting in the middle of the little room on the floor, legs crossed with his lute in his lap, still strumming nonsense softly. His back was to the door, to Geralt, and his head was hanging low. The linens from the bed had been stripped and thrown over the window, leaving the room mostly dark. Even Geralt with his enhanced night vision had a hard time seeing in the gloom. There were no candles lit, though the couple of stubs on the little nightstand suggested Jaskier had let them burn down completely.
"Jaskier." Geralt spoke softly, trying not to scare the bard. There was no reply, no acknowledgement. Geralt took a deep breath and listened. Jaskier's heartbeat was elevated, like he had been running. His breathing was shallow and coming in little gasps, like he couldn't fill his lungs completely.
"Jaskier?" Geralt spoke a little louder as he eased the door shut behind him. A visible shudder went through the bard, and Geralt's mind was suddenly assaulted.
Painpainhelppainithurtsmake it STOP
Geralt rushed to the bard's side, sinking down onto his knees in front of him. He'd never felt such a blatant cry for help before. Jaskier's eyes were wide and unseeing, pupils narrowed down to pinpricks in an ocean of blue despite the lack of light. His body was shaking with small tremors, like a bowstring pulled too tightly waiting to snap.
"...Ger-?" Jaskier's voice was rough, barely more than a whisper, broken off with a sob. Geralt was reminded vividly of Lambert, just after the Trials, frozen and lost as his newly enhanced senses overwhelmed him. But Jaskier was human. He couldn't get overwhelmed like that, could he?
"I'm here." Geralt spoke softly, steadying himself and projecting calm that he was not feeling, but Jaskier needed it. It was only fair, after all. Geralt had shamelessly let the bard follow him for months to feel that blessed silence. So, he swallowed down his emotions and only thought soothing calming thoughts.
He heard the shuddering long exhale as the emotions hit the void that was Jaskier. Geralt dug in his pack quickly, noticing the small flinches from the bard at the noise. He pulled out some (relatively) clean bandages and the two small bundles of waxed cloth he kept for his own emergencies.
"Can I touch you?" Geralt asked, voice barely a whisper. Jaskier nodded with a small whimper. "Close your eyes and trust me." Geralt could hardly believe it when the bard's eyes closed after a few seconds. Humans didn't trust Witchers like this. Humans didn't trust the Butcher like this.
"I do." Geralt pushed the small earplugs of wax into each of Jaskier's ears before wrapping the bandage around his eyes a few times to finish blocking out the light, tying it in a sturdy knot. Relief started to wash over the bard, and his breathing was starting to resemble something more normal for a human.
Geralt didn't want to touch Jaskier more than he had to, acutely aware how even the softest lightest touches can feel excruciating like this. So he tapped gently on Jaskier's hands, making them go still and relaxed around the lute's neck. He extracted the instrument carefully, setting it out of the way. A whimper caused Geralt to double down on the emotion he was emitting.
It had been a long time since he'd done this. It felt like no time. It was just easy.
He lifted Jaskier easily and carried him to the bed. He laid him down gently, and prevented the bard from curling up into a ball. Jaskier whimpered but did not fight, so Geralt was grateful. Lambert had fought him so much that Geralt had been forced to just lay on him until he was able to break out of it. Geralt did not want to try to fight against the squishy human bard.
Geralt knelt down at the side of the bed, still emitting those pleasant calming waves. He could feel the tension and pain draining away quicker now that he was settled somewhat comfortably. It took less than an hour before Jaskier's heartbeat and breathing were at a normal rate. He kept lying there, however, basking in the warmth and comforting emotions Geralt was providing.
"It's never been that bad, before." Jaskier finally spoke, voice a little louder than he probably meant it to be because of the earplugs. "The doctors told me I was just prone to panic."
"Jaskier?" Geralt asked at around the same volume, and Jaskier turned his head toward him and nodded. "You've gone through this before?" Another small nod. "We call it sensory overload. Where everything becomes too much to bear and the mind shuts down from pain."
"You too?" He asked.
"All Witchers, especially when we were young." A small shaky smile appeared on the bard's face.
"Well, at least I'm in good company."
They continued travelling together north and east, deeper into Kaedwen. There were few contracts to be had; Witchers had been sweeping through the past several weeks on their Paths back home. Jaskier was quieter than usual, with a thin mask of his normal happy-go-lucky persona barely containing the growing melancholy underneath.
"Come with me." Geralt almost regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. They were staying at the Hen Evall again; they had arrived too late for the market that day, and Geralt would need supplies to bring up to the keep.
"What?" Jaskier stared at him over his mug of ale. Geralt looked away.
"Come with me to Kaer Morhen this year."
"You're serious? I- Geralt!" Jaskier stammered, struck speechless for once.
"Don't then." Geralt growled out, standing up suddenly. A warm hand caught his wrist before he could leave, however.
"Geralt, sit back down please." Jaskier asked so softly that Geralt couldn't help but obey. "Don't jump to the worst conclusion. You have a terribly bad habit of it, my friend."
"It's usually the outcome I get." Geralt huffed.
"I would be honored to winter with you this year." Jaskier said as seriously as he never was. Geralt gave him a small smile. "I'll need to send some letters off before we leave. Is there a place that collects mail for you lot during the winter?"
"Yes. There's a small town called Wolvenburg at the base of the mountains. Address them to the care of the Wolf Witchers and the tavern owner collects them for us. We can stop on the way back down in the spring to collect them." Geralt explained softly, hardly believing his luck.
"Alright, then."
They headed up to their rented room not too much longer after that, and Jaskier wrote several letters that night, sealed with his signet ring. Jaskier seemed to be much more comfortable around Geralt since his birth status was out in the open now. Geralt was glad for that. Jaskier shouldn't have to hide any part of him from Geralt. They were friends. Geralt was certainly trying to show more of himself to the bard.
Geralt made sure to gather extra provisions, and bullied the bard into buying a heavier winter cloak. Jaskier sent his letters off without a hitch. They set off from the capitol in high spirits. They travelled quickly even as the days got shorter and the nights got colder.
"Oh, Geralt. It's gorgeous." Jaskier breathed as they finally caught sight of the keep. This high up the mountains had already received several light snowfalls, setting off the dark stone of the keep even more. Roach whinnied and pulled forward hard, just as eager to be home as Geralt was.
Vesemir met them at the gates, arms crossed and scowling; the very picture of irate Witcher as he glared at the bard in his newest doublet and trousers ("They compliment my complexion, Geralt, and I will not meet your family in anything less than my best."). Jaskier just put on his very brightest smile, sweeping ahead of Geralt to stand in front of the eldest Witcher. He gave a full courtly bow, sweeping his cloak back elegantly.
"Master Vesemir, it is an honor and privilege to make your acquaintance. I am the Bard Jaskier." He held the bow for a few seconds before he straightened. Vesemir did not let his expression waver though Geralt could feel his amusement. Geralt just stepped forward and pulled the man into a hug.
"Missed you, Ves." His words were soft.
"You, too, Wolf." It echoed back equally as soft. Vesemir let Geralt break the hug before he took Roach's reins from Geralt's lax grip. "Hope you know what you're getting yourself into, Bard."
"Of course!" Jaskier shot back as they entered the keep. Geralt took his saddlebags and pack, handing off Jaskier's lute and pack to him, as they reached the stables. Jaskier followed along, narrating all the while as he twirled and spun, trying to look at everything all at once. It was endearing. Geralt led them into the dining hall, where he could hear many witcher-slow heartbeats already.
Jaskier settled into the keep like he'd always been there. The other witchers had growled and snapped at the bard, just like Geralt had years ago. The last time humans had come to the keep, it had been razed. But Jaskier was unafraid as always. He gave as good as he got, and even managed to hold his own in a wrestling match against Lambert, of all Wolves. The red-head had vastly underestimated the bard.
His silks were tailored specifically to make him look smaller. It took many a man by surprise when this bright peacock of a bard could punch a man clear across a tavern.
Two weeks after Geralt's arrival, Eskel arrived, carrying a magiked bag. It was a nice reunion. Out of all the witchers, Eskel was the one Geralt was closest to. He was the one who, while not necessarily understanding what the second mutations had unlocked, could help him though the best.
"What's this then, Eskel?" Vesemir asked, holding up one of his bags, medallion humming wildly against his chest.
"I picked them up in Ard Carriagh. Look!" He grinned, scars stretching along the side of his face into a wild look. He pulled something green from the bag. "Fresh from the coast. Mage owed me big time for a contract."
"Limes?" Lambert asked, crowding in, curious. Eskel shook his head.
"Lemons!" Jaskier clapped his hands together as he spotted it. "Green lemons, from Kerack!"
"No way!"
"Cut it! You'll see!" Lambert sliced one in half easily, and sure enough, inside the bright green fruit was a soft yellow.
"I'll be damned."
While the rest of the Witchers were pawing through the magic bag of strange fruit from the coast, Eskel pulled Geralt off to the side.
"Here." He pressed a small worn book into Geralt's hands. "This was my real payment. The fruit was extra. The pirate king of Kerack had it in his library." Geralt flipped open the ancient book carefully.
"A book on empathy and their relationships with Sentinels." He read softly, confused.
"It sounded like what you go through. Vesemir never did find an explanation for it." Eskel shrugged. Geralt hummed at that before pulling his brother into a hug. He gave a quick glance to Jaskier before he tucked the book into his belt. A problem for another day.
"Welcome home, Eskel."