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Jaskier understood, fundamentally, that witchers and others considered non-human or not-human enough were treated horribly. He supposed, though, that he didn’t actually understand what that entailed. He thought about the stories of elves being hung or stoned in the streets, or even the rumors of mercenaries and normal townsfolk beating down a mutant. However, he didn’t realize just how horribly the world viewed them.
Jaskier never understood what his mother believed. Neither did his sister. Jaskier remembered when last summer he bought a book that wasn’t biased from Oxenfurt and brought it back home to Cintra, to which his sister adored. Their mother found it, saw it praised elves and burned it. She then threatened harm to come until Jaskier caved in and spoke up. He hadn’t returned home since, too afraid. But running from home was nothing new to him, so he coped.
He coped by immediately graduating from Oxenfurt and latching onto the most amazing man alive. Others like his mother would argue that Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, was not an amazing anything, but Jaskier knew the truth. Geralt cared much more than what he was raised to believe. Jaskier knew he shouldn’t have continued to follow the mysterious witcher, but he needed something to do– he needed a purpose.
“I’m going to change how the world thinks of you,” promised Jaskier. They had been camping just off the road with a small fire crackling in front of them. “They’ll see you for what you truly are.”
Geralt, the hopeful bard learned, didn’t like to talk a whole bunch. Jaskier assumed it was trauma, stress, and the whole new-traveling-companion thing. It was probably a lot. Jaskier was adjusting to it himself. It had only been a few weeks, though Jaskier knew his life was forever changed. It’s a fickle thing, life. A year ago Jaskier was running away from arranged marriages and suitors, and now he’s happy that a horse doesn’t kick at him anymore.
Things happened, he supposed.
Each town they passed seemed to detest Geralt, but they didn’t act physically. The worst greeting was from an old man who spat on Geralt’s boot. Geralt seemed used to it but Jaskier was horrified enough for the both of them. He didn’t understand one bit how entire generations hated witchers and non-humans for simply existing and helping protect their lives. Even mages got odd looks in some of those off-beat towns.
Jaskier was slowly getting used to the towns and their reactions. He was not accustomed to Geralt’s easy-going way of how he brushed off the insults, but he understood that fighting against it would make life harder on Geralt. However, Jaskier made a promise. The muses sang to him every minute he was in Geralt’s presence.
The town was somewhere along the Kaedwen border. Honestly, Jaskier wasn’t sure where they were. Geralt was the one who directed him from place to place. Jaskier simply followed alongside or behind like a small duckling. He was a dedicated duck, he decided. A dedicated duck that was going to make all of the other ducks in the world know how great the wolf was.
Things went wrong as soon as Geralt left. Jaskier fought with him quietly at the inn, but had lost as soon as Geralt barked out a, “I am not going to have your death on my conscience, bard.” It was the longest sentence the witcher had spoken to Jaskier, so the bard tried to comply to it.
So, Jaskier ate a loaf of bread in the stables with Roach. Apparently, Roach also couldn’t go on the hunt. That made Jaskier feel better, as Roach was glued to Geralt’s side. It really must have been serious for Geralt to leave the wondrous mare behind. Jaskier hummed to the sweet horse, who was being charmed by sugar cubes and braids in her mane. His belongings were in the room of the inn, including his lute.
Jaskier was through a rendition of the Fishmonger’s Daughter, which Roach absolutely loved to hear, when he heard a group of footsteps. He knew it wasn’t Geralt, as the witcher was quite swift and quiet on his feet. He stood up, thinking perhaps a small group was going to inquire for any news on the witcher they sent off on a contract.
Instead, he was met with a mob. Jaskier realized belatedly that there was nothing in the stables to use as a weapon– not even a broom or brush. They seemed to be stored elsewhere so they wouldn’t be stolen. Jaskier put on a fake smile and asked them innocently what was going on. He knew, fundamentally, that the punch coming at him would hurt, but that was a lot different than actually feeling the pain.
Jaskier hoped his face hurt the man’s knuckles, cause it sure hurt him. Jaskier didn’t have time to bask about his first injury, as another man entered the fray. He carried a torch and threw it at Jaskier. Jaskier managed to duck but was pushed down onto the ground by a set of rough hands. The next thing he knew, the hay in the stable caught fire and Roach was protesting furiously.
Jaskier managed to stand back up with some hope to escape the stable and confront his attackers, but then the doors to the make-shift barn closed. He pounded at them, but could only hear murmurs about getting rid of the “filth.” Jaskier looked back to Roach. She was clearly agitated and worried. Jaskier knew he couldn’t soothe her no matter how many treats he sneaked her.
Jaskier raised his shirt up and breathed under it as the smoke got thicker. He tried to assess his surroundings, looking for an escape route, but they were all blocked. The fire grew stronger and wider with every second. The bard was not adept to figuring out how to escape places on fire. However, he did have some logic and common sense on his side.
He spotted a weak board in the corner. He plowed his entire body at it until it crumbled. It was large enough that he could slip through, but Roach wouldn’t make it. He then started to use himself as a battering ram against the following boards of the shack. Eventually, it was a big enough gap that Jaskier looked to Roach and slapped by her tail. Roach saw her opportunity and ran.
Jaskier stepped out, then, only to be greeted with the mob. Still wheezing and just excited to be breathing air that wasn’t completely overrun with smoke, Jaskier was fragile. He needed a moment to regroup and figure out a new solution. He did not receive that time, as he felt something rough to his side. He thought it was a stone, but found it was the missing stable broom being poked at him by the innocent-looking innkeeper’s daughter.
Jaskier, once again, couldn’t believe what was taught over and over.
The mob enclosed him, then. A few more punches, whacks, and a last push caused him to fall to the ground. The kicks and spitting started. The spitting was disgusting and frankly barbaric and so last season, but the kicking was what truly hurt. He tried to protect his ribs and head, but then his fingers were getting hit. He needed his fingers, so he stuffed his hands to his chest and curled up as the mob reigned down their grievances.
That was how Geralt found him. The witcher returned on Roach’s beautiful, majestic back. He gracefully slid off his horse in one swift move and pushed the townspeople – the people in the mob – away with forceful thuds. They cowered against him as his eyes burned into their faces. Then, as if all the anger was gone, Geralt lifted up Jaskier and piled him onto Roach.
They rode to the inn. Jaskier stayed on the horse while Geralt got their belongings. The white-haired man returned a short while later. He didn’t climb onto Roach behind Jaskier, instead leading her at a quick pace down the road. The walk was brisk and happened as the suns et for the day.
Jaskier didn’t speak for a long while. He didn’t want to admit something horrible– something that would make his muse judge him. Yet, as his body burned from his injuries, he couldn’t construct what that something was. He wanted to speak to his savior, but couldn’t find the wording.
When the moon was up in the sky, Geralt led Roach off the road. Geralt laid down Jaskier’s bedroll– it was a cheap thing Jaskier bought last-minute in Posada when he realized that Geralt didn’t like staying at inns, and now he knew why. He then focused his gaze on the bard. Jaskier gave the witcher a weak smile as he diligently willed his body down from Roach. Geralt helped Jaskier lay down, then he prepared the rest of camp.
Jaskier hated every minute of it. He could push aside his pain, but he couldn’t stand that Geralt accepted it without a word. It was normal for him. Jaskier hated it with all of his being. He vowed to himself to do better as Geralt started a fire using Igni. The bard didn’t want to feel useless, but he was if he couldn’t make one small town see that witchers were great.
Once a rabbit was roasting above the fire, Geralt focused his attention back to Jaskier. The witcher had already assessed the human’s injuries, concluding bruised ribs as the worst injury, but knew that humans were a whole different type of fragile. Geralt wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t treat humans, or anyone really. If there was a problem, he’d fix it with a potion or salve.
Geralt was broken away from his thoughts when he heard the bard’s raspy voice say, “I’m sorry.”
Geralt didn’t understand what Jaskier was apologizing for. Didn’t the human know that it was Geralt’s fault that Jaskier was beaten? He wasn’t liked no matter if the odd little bard fresh out of Oxenfurt liked him. Geralt was raised to expect hate from humans. Jaskier was the oddity amongst them.
Gruffly, Geralt replied, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His eyes turned to the bard, who gave a wet, sad chuckle in response. “Bard, I am the one that–”
“I wish I met you sooner so these people liked you.”
Geralt froze. His mind raced at the statement. Jaskier clearly didn’t resent him, not even after that act of violence. Instead, Jaskier was wishing for something very different than never meeting Geralt. The witcher didn’t know what to do with the kind words.
“Hmm.”
Jaskier then went on to explain, “It would have given me a few extra years to tell the world how great you are, dear Witcher. It would have made it so that these towns we passed weren’t so narrow-minded. I… I’m sorry that I never understood how pain festered through generations. You don’t deserve to be treated the way you are.”
“You’re delirious,” stated the witcher. He turned the rabbit over the fire to the next side for roasting. “Go to sleep. Rest.”
The peaceful sounds of breathing echoed around Geralt. He ate his roasted rabbit and looked up to the sky. The sky stayed the same no matter what. He glanced down at the bard. It would be for the best if Geralt did something irrational so that the bard would just leave and give up on his dream of changing society.
But he couldn’t. He had grown to like the bard. Jaskier was everything Geralt wasn’t. Human, for one. Emotional, understanding, and loving for another. Jaskier shone brightly compared to Geralt’s horrid moods and wasted days spent in the woods alone. Roach was great, but she wasn’t the company he craved.
Geralt knew he was being selfish. He rolled out his bed and fell asleep to the popping fire. It’d be out by the time he woke in the morning. He gave one last look to the bard in the darkness. It was a wonder that the man stuck around for so long. Geralt expected the bard to give up when the first stone was thrown at them. Instead, it just made Jaskier even prouder and greedier to change the views on witchers.
In the morning, he packed up camp quietly. The bard was resting, asleep even when Roach neighed and kicked up dirt when Geralt piled the saddle on. It seemed Roach understood what Geralt was trying to do. He became quicker after that. He covered up the fire just in case there was still something left, though there wasn’t. He then gave one last look. All that was left was Jaskier and his belongings.
Geralt started to climb onto Roach, but she kicked up another fuss. The witcher had never seen her like this before. He slid down from her and attempted to calm any of her nerves. The mare didn’t listen. She snorted and neighed and brayed. It was too late when he realized why she was being so loud. Geralt heard the small groan from behind him.
“Geralt?” murmured Jaskier. He sat up slowly, small sounds of pain emptying out of his mouth subconsciously.
“Bard.”
Jaskier squinted at Roach and her rider. “Are we leaving so soon?”
Geralt bit his tongue. He needed a good lie otherwise Jaskier would argue and fuss just as bad as Roach did. He never got to that, however, as Jaskier stood up and packed up the last of his bag. Geralt wanted to stop the human but found that he couldn’t. Even though the bard radiated pain, there was hidden glee as well. The human wanted to continue on with Geralt.
So, selfishly, Geralt piled the bard’s bag onto Roach. They left the campsite together. Geralt rode Roach slowly and Jaskier walked next to them with his lute clutched lovingly in his hand.
“Where to, darling?”
Geralt hummed. “Contract in the north. I believe it’s a sabbath of Devourers.”
“Ah, how quaint.” Jaskier then glanced up to the White Wolf. “What is, exactly, a Devourer? A bird-like creature? A cool name for a witch? Or, is it perhaps, a codename for something else entirely?”
“They like to eat their victims alive.”
Jaskier cocked his head to get a better look at the witcher. When the man didn’t even so much as twitch, Jaskier realized that the statement was real. “Huh. Not fun, I bet.”
“Many creatures like their prey pulsing in the first bite.”
“Are you trying to scare me off–”
“I’ll be there.”
Jaskier narrowed his gaze at his friend. He asked bluntly, and with a horrible giddyness in him, “Are you saying you’ll protect me, dear? I believe you did. You know, this means you can’t get rid of me. I’m like a leech– that monstrous overgrown leech you were talking to be about the other day. You won’t be able to get rid of me, oh knight in shining armor.”
Geralt huffed in amusement. He liked being selfish.
Then Jaskier started up, “What did you kill last night, Geralt? I don’t believe you bathed. Is that a piece of brain matter in your hair?” He reached out to inspect it. Geralt batted the bard’s hand away. Perhaps he shouldn't be selfish after all.