Chapter Text
It was supposed to be an easy contract. Three women had been killed brutally a couple of years ago and haunted the villages surrounding the swamp where they disappeared. As usual with this sort of thing their essence required vengeance. Unfortunate young men, had been cut up in retribution for a killer which had never been found.
All Geralt had to do was find the remains, burn them and lay the spirits to rest … first lesson of Witcher bootcamp, straightforward assignment, page one of the bestiary. How did he manage to fuck this up?
Blood trailed down Geralt’s forehead, across his nose and dripped on the floorboards where his hands were chained. He only let his head hang when his assailants left him be, wailing on a chained man must be tiring indeed. They were taking a breather outside the tent.
Fuck everything about this contract! Fuck the townsfolk, fuck the wraiths, fuck the group of Nilfgardian soldiers that crossed his path and most of all fuck the stinking swamp and screeching Nekkers that overwhelmed his Witcher senses … a literal army managed to sneak up on him … Gods Vesemir will put him through basics again when he hears about this.
Perhaps if he hadn’t been travelling with the loudest companion in existence, his senses would be more attuned to subtilies such as booths scuffling through mud or men complaining about fucking everything. ‘Cause that was more infuriating than the beating Geralt had taken … the soldier’s unending wining … hells even Jaskier would roll his eyes at this incessant string of complaints.
The two guardsmen sitting outside of Geralt’s tent were particularly annoying.
The camp is too cold, the woods are too scary, did you hear that?, Now we have a prisoner too, are we getting paid extra for this?, Who’s going to feed him, I would kill for some entertainment …
“Oh, shut up!” Geralt yelled, when his last string of patience was cut. This caused the guard, with a portly belly squished into tight armour, to enter the tent. He greeted Geralt with a sigh and a punch to the face. Geralt smiled through the pain and spat the blood that had pooled into his mouth at the man. The sight of a furious bloody Witcher, eyes burning in the darkness gave the man a little pause.
“You better hope I never get my hands on you, you son of a whore.”
Wrists and ankles were tied and restrained, so only when the guard got close enough could Geralt smash his forehead against the pudgy nose.
Stars jumped across his vision when the rim of the Nilfgardian helmet cut into his brow. The blood flowed in earnest now, hindering his vision where it flowed over his eyebrows. The guard, cursed and spat but didn’t dare venture closer again. His fat cheeks were red in anger and tears were rolling down as he nursed his broken nose.
His companion laughed and the guard had another thing to complain about. The pounding head ache made it difficult to argue whether or not this exchange had been worth it. He decided not when a loud bunch, a raiding party perhaps, returned to camp, towing in a cart filled with food beer and wine.
“Fuck!”
Loud voices pounded on his skull. This evening had been an embarrassment. He’d get out of this. The white wolf wouldn’t meet his end in a mudhole. At least, if this were his last moments he could trust Jaskier to spin this humiliation in some sort of heroic tale.
Geralt would never admit it, but after Jaskier had upped the credibility of his songs with actual facts and common sense … his songs were not half bad, catchy even. Though, Geralt would never sing along in public, whenever he traveled alone he caught himself humming their tune. Jaskier had found the Witcher bestiary journal an interesting read, though he did feel the need to point out its lack for flair and storytelling.
‘This would be so much better with a romance, a damsel in distress, a plot twist, betrayal.’
Geralt winced as he once again tried to twist his wrists free from the chains. His possessions had been taken, even his boots which housed at least three blades had been missing when he woke up. If he had oil he could lubricate his wrists to shimmy out of the cuff, or if the cuffs hadn’t been made of Dimeritium he could melt the chain with an Igni sign. They had taken his potions and Geralt hoped at least one of them would be foolish enough to try a sip.
A ruckus of joyous cheers erupted from outside again his head pounded in response. His eyes felt like they could burst from their sockets and were as sensitive as if someone held a torch in front of his cat-potion induced eyes.
A chord struck through the camp and reached Geralt’s ears. The hair on his arms stood on end and he strained against his chains to look outside the tent flap. That chord, Jaskier always used it at the start of his performances.
The army erupted in cheer and shouts … song requests Geralt realized.
It could be anyone really, he tried to tell himself “… he wouldn’t …”
Before Geralt could finish his thinking of the wishful kind … “Oh Fishmonger, Oh Fishmonger!” … well fuck. Geralt let his head hang once more and couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. There was only one person on this plane who would sing such raunchy songs with melodious care and perfection.
What the fuck is that idiot doing? Did they capture him too? No, from the sound of it he was flitting about the camp dancing from one racy tune to the next. Greasy, drunk laughter and horribly belted lyrics followed him.
Geralt doubled his efforts to liberate his wrist. Jaskier is a loose cannon and Geralt has never seen one of his crazy ideas work without at least one Witcher present as backup.
If they figure out who he is … panic gnawed at Geralt’s insides. Fear should have been burned from his person during the trails of the grasses. But the thought of Jaskier chained next to him summoned the emotion forth from the depths.
Jaskier’s songs about Witcher adventures had spread through the continent. Even when Jaskier didn’t accompany him on his journeys, people asked about him. ‘Geralt of Rivia!’ and then curious eyes scurry around … ‘Oh, your bard isn’t here?’
Of course the songs wouldn’t be as popular in Nilfgard … but their affiliation certainly wasn’t a secret. If they had been tasked with capturing the white wolf alive … they would know of his frequent travelling companion.
But as usual, Jaskier seemed oblivious to any danger and lacked any self-preservation. He frolicked through camp, dancing and singing among the drunken soldiers. Geralt got a kink in his neck trying to follow him … Stand still for fuck’s sake! Then Jaskier passed in front of his tent. Piercing blue eyes flew open wide and he missed a chord … the first time Geralt had ever heard Jaskier slip up during a performance.
The exchange lasted a moment, then his vision was obscured by the two guards jumping up from their seats … grievances forgotten and cheered the bard who had come to pay them some attention. The bard flitted away again, the soldiers were too drunk and joyous to have missed their interaction … or at least he hoped. Geralt closed his eyes and focused on his hearing, trying to discern any indication that the exchange had betrayed their bond.
Jaskier took his time and played on. Geralt had never been able to anticipate Jaskier’s special bland of crazy. He had no idea if the bard had a convoluted plan or any plan at all. Jaskier was a fair fighter when he had to … Geralt had seen to that. And during their travels the Witcher had forced him to wear at least one dagger on his person at all times … he drilled that lesson into him so hard, Jaskier even kept it within arm’s reach when bathing.
But he wasn’t skilled enough to take on an army. Jaskier also didn’t possess a subtle bone in his body and would never be able to nick … say a set of keys away from a someone unnoticed … even if said person was sleeping off a drunken stupor.
No, what Geralt feared most of all was that Jaskier was a vicious, vindictive thing with a flair for dramatics. So, it didn’t come as a surprise when he clawed his way up on the platform next to the fire and struck the dramatic chord again. ‘Oh no, don’t do it’ Geralt prayed.
There was an angry, guttural under tone to Jaskier’s song now, one that he only reserved for tragic endings, “When a humble bard, graced a ride along, to Geralt of Rivia … along came this song!”
Sweat poured down Geralt’s back, no one was singing now. The few soldiers who were awake were confused as to why this bard was singing a Witcher’s song. Even the two idiot guards stood up, hands on the pommel of their swords. Their gaze went from Geralt to the bard and back again.
Geralt could see him through the tent flap, the moon big in the sky behind Jaskier as he shouldered his lute and took hold of a package. The silver necklace vibrated underneath his shirt. Jaskier kept singing without the help of his lute as he held the package high above his head.
‘Explosives?’ Geralt guessed, and hid his ears against his shoulders as best as he could.
“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty!” he cried, slightly off tune as he threw the package into the fire. It sizzled and burned up without any apparent result. The soldiers looked around, confused at the turn of events. A couple of them were chuckling, certain that they just missed the joke.
Geralt blinked, not an explosive then … or a badly constructed one.
Jaskier jumped from the stage and crawled underneath it, as if he did expect something to explode eventually.
One of the guards put two and two together, “Shit! He’s the Witcher’s bard … get ‘em!”
The necklace twirled and burned against Geralt’s chest and a ghostly wail echoed through the camp.
Fuck the Wraiths! Geralt realized. The package must have contained the remains.
Geralt pulled at his wrists, that idiot is going to get them all killed! The boards creaked underneath the strain, but he was too weak to break them loose.
The soldiers cried as the creatures tore through them, their steel swords useless against this foe. Geralt’s guards fled, those foolish enough to fight perished.
In the chaos Geralt had lost sight of Jaskier. One of the spirits passed his tent, chasing terrified soldiers around the camp. When it managed to cut down its victims the Wraith turned and Geralt’s necklace pulled hard against the chain.
The next time he looked up, Geralt wasn’t surprised to feel the ghostly form looming over him. He could sense the claws raising, ready to tear through him. He could have rolled out of the way if he wasn’t chained to the floor.
Someone entered and Geralt got a whiff of camomile oil. He could see Jaskier’s terrified expression through the Wraith’s transparent form.
Next was an explosion of dust and sulfur … Geralt coughed and retched as his sensitive nose wasn’t prepared for this onslaught.
Moon dust bomb, Geralt realized, he coughed again, very high in quality.
The Wraith evaporated, it’s remains no longer binding it to this plane and it vanished into thin air.
Jaskier hurried forward, stomping on the essence and dust of the remains.
“I have two more bombs, you tell me if another one shows up right?” Jaskier took out a large keychain and tried to find which locks occurred with which key.
“Jaskier, are out of your fucking mind?!” Geralt’s heart hadn’t beat this fast in at least fifty years.
“Oh hush, great performance right?” he joked, one of the restraints of his ankles gave way. “Yes! One down,” he called, ever the optimist. Though Geralt could feel from the tremble in Jaskier’s hands he wasn’t as calm as he wanted him to believe.
“Get ready,” Geralt warned when another Wraith passed through the fabric of the tent.
Geralt was ready this time for the bomb and held his breath. He was still was too close to the explosion for comfort.
The Wraith went down and Jaskier released a short laugh of relief and continued fiddling with the locks, “I don’t know why you are always complaining about this … this isn’t so hard,” Jaskier joked. Though Geralt noticed that his friend didn’t smell at all of the confidence he was trying to convey.
Only one wrist remained bound, the soldiers had gone quiet. Which meant the remaining Wraith could turn its full attention on them.
Geralt could feel it advance and warned Jaskier, who took out the last moon dust bomb.
A skeletal hand passed through the fabric and Jaskier squealed and fired the bomb. “No wait!” Geralt tried to warn, but it was too late. Jaskier let the bomb fly prematurely and the Wraith pulled back from the tent.
Jaskier’s eyes went wide, his little rabbit heart beat so fast he could dance to it. “I … I … I’m sorry,” he whispered. The tent was ripped apart from around them, the remains of the bomb scattered to the wind.
“Focus on the lock!” Geralt got to his feet, as best as he could with one hand tied to the ground. Jaskier fumbled with the keys, but was too nervous and jittery to make much progress.
The last remaining Wraith screamed as it soared over the battle field, finding a couple more soldiers left alive. As soon as their screams died out it focussed again on them. Geralt tried to step in front of Jaskier.
He had one hand free, he could sign at least. When the Wraith got close enough Geralt managed to trap it with Yrden. Or at least he would have if his powers weren’t hampered by the one Dimeritium shackle remaining on his wrist.
The Wraith was slowed down, but managed to break free and tear a claw through Geralt’s chest.
“No!” Jaskier called and kept him standing. The Wraith pulled back and disappeared. It would be back soon.
“The keys, Jaskier!” Geralt yelled, the wraith advanced faster than he expected and he barely managed to trap it again as it suddenly appeared behind them. Geralt poured everything he had into the Yrden sign, but the claw advanced towards him nonetheless.
The Wraith screamed as it fought against the circle. Geralt was so focussed on the sign he didn’t notice Jaskier trapped between them taking out his weapon stabbing the Wraith with his dagger … his steel dagger.
“No!” He yelled, Jaskier cried out and stabbed it over and over again. A fruitless pursuit, seeing steel wouldn’t do anything against these creatures.
As soon as Geralt released the sign it would tear Jaskier apart in retribution nonetheless. With a great heave of strength the floorboard shattered and Geralt finally was free to move. He wrapped one arm around Jaskier and pulled him back, just in time for the sign to weaken and the Wraith to brake free.
He hunched around Jaskier in a futile attempt to protect him from claws that can tear through any corporal form, but Geralt was surprised when the Wraith wailed in pain and evaporated.
Geralt didn’t understand, though the lack of vibration from the silver necklace suggested that the Wraiths had indeed gone. Jaskier hissed and threw his blade from one hand to the other before giving up and letting the red glowing metal fall to the ground. It sizzled and crumbled into dust as it was quenched in the moist soil.
Geralt realized he was still crushing him to his chest and released the shivering bard. Jaskier turned around, face ashen white and cursed under his breath. His hands trembled, they were burned and bleeding.
“How?” Geralt breathed, when the first hysterical laugh escaped his friend.
“Specter oil,” Jaskier explained.
Specter oil was supposed to be used only as an enhancement to the silver sword. The wraith was probably weakened already that it was enough to push it over the edge. Or perhaps the metal had been of a silver alloy? Geralt couldn’t wait to hear Vesemir’s theories about this.
Jaskier hissed as his bloody and burned hands fumbled for the keys again. Geralt had enough and took them from him.
“Sit down,” he ordered and Jaskier flopped down next to him without any complaints.
“I can’t believe it worked,” Jaskier had the brightest smile on his face and it infuriated Geralt, “Did you see me on stage? I hoped you would.”
“You’re a blasted fool,” Geralt was upset when the fourth key he tried didn’t work, how many keys could one person need in a dump like this?
“Excuse me, this was a tremendous success!” he huffed, the stage crumbled down and some spooked horses ran through the destroyed camp. Jaskier had the decency to look a bit peeved.
“How did you figure out where I was anyways?”
But Jaskier didn’t hear him, he was already composing his next hit. “What rhymes with heroic rescue? Is it too arrogant to reference to your own songs?”
“Yes,” Geralt deadpanned.
Of course the very last key he tried was the one to set him free. He pulled the rambling bard up by the scruff of his shirt. Together they search through the debris until they found Geralt’s swords and equipment.
“Come on,” they weren’t that far from where they had made camp, but it was still a brutal walk away and neither one of them were in prime sludge dredging condition.
“Ugh, Roach should be around here somewhere,” Jaskier admitted, he would have scratched his hair in that cheeky way if his hands weren’t a bloody shaky mess.
“I figured you wouldn’t mind considering you were in trouble and time was sort of an issue with the wraiths and all,”
Geralt froze in his spot, Jaskier had dug up the remains of the Wraiths … which would mean that no matter what he did, come midnight the Wraiths would be coming for him. Also Geralt carried all Moon dust bombs with him when he went into the swamp to slay the Wraiths. All of them were still strapped to his belt which he found next to his swords ... which meant Jaskier had to have fabricated the bombs from scratch.
Geralt wasn't very often impressed. The bard complained at his ruined pants and shoes as he trudged through the mud ... How?
“You know, I’m not sure where I left her actually, do your whistle thing," Jaskier waved at him.
If Jaskier’s hands weren’t messed up Geralt would have cuffed him already. Instead, he took a deep soothing breath … or as soothing as could be considering the slaughter around them … and he whistled for Roach. If she was anywhere near, she would come running.
He could already hear her whinny. She bonked her snout quite forcefully against his face as she sniffed Geralt’s hair.
“It’s alright girl, I’m fine,” he smiled and stroked her neck.
“Of course you’re comforting the horse,” Jaskier muttered and walked on, stumbling over corpses and mud.
Geralt will have to come back tomorrow to slay all the necro’s attracted to this mess. Jaskier made a pitiful sight, as he struggled through the mud.
Geralt sighed, his headache pounded at his eyes, “Get on the horse Jaskier.”
The bard stopped in his tracks and whirled around, as if it was the most atrocious thing Geralt had ever uttered.
“What?” he looked around but no other horses were around, “you Geralt of Rivia, want ME to get on Roach? Did I hear that correctly?”
“You can walk, if you prefer,”
Jaskier scurried back to his side, smiling from ear to ear. “No, no I didn’t say anything, I’d love a ride on Roach, I’m exhausted,” he complained but then looked over Geralt.
“If of course you aren’t too injured?” he fussed.
“I prefer walking, I need to stretch my legs,”
He watched Jaskier hop at the saddle and try to lift his leg in the stirrup without using his hands. Geralt sighed, how did this idiot save his life? He was happy to watch him struggle for a while. He made quite a sight, one heel hooked in the stirrup, his wrists crossed over the pommel of the saddle, trying to save his burned fingers. Jaskier looked over his shoulder and gave the most sheepish, pitiful look.
“A little help, per chance?” he blinked. Geralt had to fight the smile trying to ruin his stoic demeanor. With one shove he lifted Jaskier high enough to get comfortable.
“Alright! Roach, we’re quickly becoming best friends. I understand now why you talk to her so much.” Jaskier chattered.
Geralt lead the both of them to the camping spot. He let Jaskier prattle on and on the entire way there. It didn’t help his head ache, but Geralt did owe him and this was easier than forcing the ‘Thank you’ – that was stuck in his throat – into the world.
The sun had risen by the time they got back to the camp site, Geralt’s hands tightened on Roach’s reigns. As if the last 24 hours hadn’t been hell enough, someone thought it was a good idea to raid a Witcher’s camp. Every single thing he owned was spread out and uprooted from the saddlebags, his and Jaskier’s bedrolls were covered in … something and all of their clothes were either ripped or strewn about.
“I’ll kill them,” he growled, Geralt had so looked forward to some shut eye, some peace and quiet while he suffered through his migraine. Geralt sniffed he couldn’t detect any other smell indicating thieves had ransacked the place. The entire contents of his bags were overturned, every single one of his medicine bottles and concoctions were laid out.
No scent trail? That’s impossible, the only smells around here belonged to Roach, the Witcher and …
“Geralt, Geralt, help me down. Geralt, wooow …” Jaskier slid from the saddle and landed on his ass.
Geralt ignored Jaskier’s indignant huffs, “What the fuck happened here?” He stood over Jaskier sprawled on the ground.
Jaskier let out an indignant huff, “I saved your ass and you let me fall to my doom!” Geralt was not amused. Jaskier sighed “I had to make the oil and the bomb … you know it is all your fault!” he jumped to his feet and kicked at the dirt.
“The fuck it is.”
“None of these bottles have labels Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice cracked as he lost his temper, he flailed his arms around like a chicken, “And they all look the same! I had to make everything from scratch! I thought I did alright all things considering.”
Geralt sighed, he just wanted to sleep and regain his strength, not clean up every single item he owned. Jaskier helped but there was something about his behaviour that threw him off. Geralt observed him for a second and it hit him, Jaskier was being quiet.
He kept his back to Geralt while he picked up the books he had scattered around. The only sound he made was the occasional hiss that escaped. Jaskier didn’t have witcher healing.
“Sit down,” Geralt manhandled him towards his sleep roll. Jaskier was all elbows and Geralt ignored him kicking at his shins.
“What? I was just fixing my mistake. Because apparently on my way to save your ass, I should have stopped to organize your bag first.”
“Shut up,” he opened a bottle and put it at Jaskiers feet, along with some bandages, “For the burns, dress them, go to sleep. I’ll clean up.”
Jaskier looked like he wasn’t quite finished snapping and cursing, before he could continue with a tirade Geralt shut him up with a well earned, “Thank you,”