Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I’m not going to wait for you, Jaskier.”

The bard was undaunted, his vivid purple doublet joining the riot of brightly-colored wildflowers he was crouched amongst, running gentle fingers through them with childlike pleasure. He grinned at the Witcher, teeth flashing and blue eyes alight.

“The colors, Geralt, the colors! Nature’s palette, kissed with afternoon’s golden glow! Have you ever seen anything more lovely?”

“Hmm.” The Witcher did not turn, but he watched the younger man from the corner of his eye. Truth be told, Geralt would prefer the loveliness of a hot bath and a real bed. But there was an innocent joy to Jaskier, and Geralt almost envied his ability to find such deep pleasure in the world around them day by day as they trekked the Continent. ‘Visual poetry’ Jaskier often called it, sometimes dramatically brushing away an invisible tear and laughing at Geralt’s unimpressed expression.

Soon he heard the bard’s quickened footsteps in the dust as he jogged back up beside Roach, his lute case smacking lightly against his back as he did. Not for the first time, the Witcher wondered at the man’s endurance, walking day after day in the company of a horse and rider. It had been enthusiasm at first, the thrill of adventure. He’d seen that before. Then came a stubbornness that surprised Geralt—and even impressed, a little, though he’d never admit it—as the bard kept going through blisters and storms and cold nights on the ground. He complained, loudly and often. But he kept up, as weeks stretched into months and then years, sometimes branching off to play in a festival or winter at Oxenfurt but always returning to the Witcher’s side before long.

Geralt wasn’t sure what kept the bard going now. Surely the novelty of the Path had worn off by this point, the endless road of monsters and survival with too little coin and even fewer proper meals. Certainly far less comfort than the younger man was accustomed to. But Jaskier grinned, and complained, and babbled, and sang, and continued to accompany him.

And if Geralt sometimes kept Roach at a slower pace than he otherwise might on even terrain, or took more breaks, or took advantage of cheap rooms at local inns more often than he ever did before—well, there was no one else there to call him on it. He was a long way from Kaer Morhen.

Geralt had learned his lesson, after all. He remembered the vitriol that had poured from his mouth outside that damned dragon’s cave in King Niedamir’s mountains, his mind clouded by the smoke of anger burning hot and vicious. He remembered the cold dread that settled in his spine once he’d cooled down and realized Jaskier was gone. Geralt had made his way back down the mountain with his heart drumming in his throat, barely daring to breathe as he returned to the tavern in search of his companion. And there Jaskier was, scowling into a tankard at the bar, seemingly waiting for him. Geralt had mumbled his way through something resembling an apology, and the bard had cuffed him over the head and said he was well aware he was just lashing out, but he’d better not say anything of the sort again, thank you very much. Then Jaskier had passed him a room key, patted his shoulder amiably, and wandered off upstairs—leaving Geralt to pay his tab and wonder at the audacity of a man brave enough to casually strike a Witcher without a hint of fear. Not another word was said about it, though Geralt had gone to some pains to make it up to the bard anyway—with new lute strings, and the Redanian honeyed pastries he loved, and a book of Elven poetry he’d found in a dusty little shop in Novigrad.

From time to time Geralt found himself adding and re-adding his coins in his head, wondering if there was enough to get Jaskier his own horse. He always dismissed the idea as soon as he realized what he was doing. He shouldn’t encourage the bard too much. Sooner or later the adventure would wear off and Jaskier would want to settle down in some cozy city, perhaps find a position at court. He was talented enough, though Geralt had never said as much to his face. It would surely only be better for both of them if they eventually parted ways. Everyone left, in the end.

Until then, Jaskier could walk.

********************************

“How much further is this village, anyway?” Jaskier asked, starting to lag a little bit. He wouldn’t admit as much, but his feet were getting sore. Geralt simply pointed, and the bard laughed with relief at the puffs of chimney smoke curling above the trees in the distance. “Just think, Geralt! Food, ale, a dry bed!”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, I hear what you’re decidedly not saying!” the bard continued. “’We don’t have the coin, Jaskier,’ you’re thinking. But rest assured, my friend, between my singing and your slaying whatever it is you heard is lurking around, we’ll make a fine run of it, just you wait!”

Jaskier chanced a glance up, expecting the typical scowl with amusement tucked in hidden corners—an expression that had gradually replaced Geralt’s vocal refusal of the word ‘friend’, several years back—and frowned at the man’s distant look.

“What’s wrong, Geralt? You’re glowering more than usual. Talk to me, what’s on your mind? Are you even listening?”

The Witcher was quiet, his brow furrowed as he rode, but Jaskier could see the twitch in his jaw that meant he was thinking about Jaskier’s question. So he was listening, at least. After years of study, Jaskier could read his companion’s brooding silences and weighted glares reasonably well—or at least better than most. Quiet he may be, but Geralt was surprisingly expressive on a micro-level, once you knew where to look. He kept his emotions tucked in the corners of his eyes, the furrow between his brows, and the set of his jaw.

“I wouldn’t count on staying long,” he said finally, and that was all.

“Care to expand on that? No?” Jaskier sighed. “All right then, keep your broody secrets. But for my sake, I hope you’re wrong. I would quite enjoy sleeping on a real bed tonight.”

The village turned out to be little more than an expanded trading outpost that had seen better days, with a few small ramshackle buildings clustered around the market stalls. Most of the people eyed Geralt with distrust at best, if not open hostility, not bothering to disguise their murmurs and uneasy glances. Jaskier caught the words ‘mutant’ and ‘beast’ and shot a glare at the gossips, pretending not to notice as a frightened-looking woman hurriedly ushered her young children indoors.

The alderman was a lean, wiry fellow with cold eyes who scowled the moment he saw them, standing with his arms crossed outside one of the small cottages.

“We’ve no need of a Witcher,” he spat. “Move along.”

Jaskier stepped up before Geralt could speak. He rather thought the Witcher paused purposely to let him do so. Long experience had proven that Jaskier was better at smoothing the raised hackles of unfriendly villagers.

“How fortunate for you, friend!” he said cheerfully. “Monsters are a foul business, indeed, and not a problem I would wish on any place. But we heard you were having kikimore problems up this way, and thought we’d see if you were in need of assistance.”

Before the man could answer, another voice piped up from a butcher’s stall across the way.

“Oh aye, that we are. Shipments delayed, travelers attacked. Tom the blacksmith’s brother was killed not a week back. And...and my own boy, last month, and him a strong lad.”

“Our sorrow for your loss,” said Jaskier gravely, hand over his heart. From anyone else the flowery words may have sounded overly dramatic, but the man saw Jaskier’s earnest wide blue eyes and smiled sadly.

“I thank ye.” He glanced back and met the alderman’s glare steadily. “Better t’ hire the Witcher and have done with it, Ronan. ‘Fore someone else gets killed.”

The alderman grunted.

“There’s just one o’ the beasts, at a swamp a couple hours’ ride west, not far from th’ road.” He scowled. “There’s little enough coin here. But I s’pose we can work something out.”

Jaskier left Geralt to hash out the details of the contract and wandered amongst the market stalls, ignoring the whispers and suspicious looks that followed him. It was all simple goods, out here where settlements were spread far and few between. Soon he saw Geralt leading Roach over, glancing about with the ghost of distaste making his nostrils flare ever so slightly.

“All set?”

“Hmm.” Affirmative, with a note of something else he couldn’t quite distinguish.

“Excellent. You’ll be heading out at dusk, then? Kikimores are best hunted at night, right?”

Another affirmative grunt. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Shall we grab dinner first, then? The tavern doesn’t look like much, but at least it’s something.”

“No.” The response was sudden, and firm.

“Pardon?”

“We’re not staying here.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier stared pleadingly as the man mounted Roach once more, nudging her towards the western road. He jogged after them, exasperated. Then he noticed the tension in Geralt’s body, the way he gripped the reins—not pulling, but gripping tightly, his jaw clenched shut, face set in an apparently-impassive stony mask. Jaskier chided himself silently for not noticing sooner, distracted by his own eagerness for a night indoors. Of course those damned Witcher senses had carried every cutting comment in the village to Geralt’s ears.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. Or at least, relative silence. The bard hummed to himself, fingers tapping out chords against his leg automatically. Once the village had faded into the distance behind them and Geralt looked a little less tense, Jaskier spoke up.

“They weren’t the friendliest, were they?”

“Hmm.”

“And that’s why you didn’t want to stay?”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but his brows twitched upward in a way that softened his eyes for a moment in what Jaskier knew to be agreement—the man’s subtle equivalent of a nod.

“Okay.”

At that Geralt turned his head to look at him, one brow raised in a silent question.

“Of course I would rather not sleep on the ground again,” replied Jaskier. It was a good thing he’d figured out how to hold conversations when he was the one doing all the talking. “But I’d also rather not be murdered in my sleep. And I trust your Witchery instincts more than I trust those ungrateful swine.”

“Hmm.” Amusement.

Jaskier continued babbling as they walked, watching Geralt’s body language closely as his tension from the village eased. Good. Jaskier tried changing minds everywhere they went—with words both sung and spoken—but he had learned long ago that some minds could not be turned from old prejudices. It stung at his heart, seeing the way people treated the man who did so much for them. Like a monster himself. More than once they’d been run off with stones or pitchforks, sometimes without payment. What hurt even more was seeing the resigned set in Geralt’s shoulders as he walked away, silently accepting their hatred.

“I’d forgotten.”

Jaskier ceased his babble at the sudden words, accustomed to Geralt’s habit of finally elaborating a while later, once he’d had time to think and decide what to say.

“Forgotten?” he prompted, when the man didn’t immediately continue. Geralt sighed.

“I’ve been there before. Once. Long time ago. Didn’t remember until we were too close to turn back.”

“You—oh. That’s why you were tense earlier. Ah, and that’s why you said not to count on staying. I see now.” Jaskier puzzled through the jumbled clues from earlier, piecing them together with satisfaction. As always, Geralt looked perplexed by both Jaskier’s observance and his acceptance. The former made him a little indignant—he was educated, thank you very much, with a fine eye for details. The latter just made him sad. “Well, no matter,” he said lightly. “You’ll smack that kikimore with your big pointy sword, and then we can be on our way soon enough.”

“Hmm.” Agreement.

Chapter Text

The last streaks of dusky pink were fading from the darkening sky when they stopped in a clearing not too far into the woods from the road—clearly a site used by other travelers, with a rough stone fire pit circling some old ashes, Jaskier noted with pleasure. That would save them some work later.

Geralt dismounted and began preparing himself for his fight—checking his armor, rubbing a foul-smelling oil of some kind over the blade of his silver sword, and tinkering with the potion vials in his saddlebag and the small pouch he kept on his belt. His back straightened—not that his posture was ever slouching, but there was a seriousness that came over him before a fight, shoulders squared and jaw set, alert and hyper-focused.

When it was clear he was ready to begin the final stretch to the marshy area the alderman had described, Jaskier stood once more, knocking the dirt and leaves from his trousers. Geralt glared at him.

“No.”

“Geralt!”

“You’re not coming. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s always dangerous,” said Jaskier hotly. “I know that. I have always known that, and it has yet to stop me.” His voice softened. “We need coin, and I need a new song. We both know that I’ll only follow if you try to leave me behind, so if we could skip to the end of this merry debate and get on with things?”

They glared at each other for a long moment, gold eyes locked on blue, before Geralt mounted Roach and began weaving his way through the woods without another word. Jaskier grinned, delighted that the Witcher was increasingly letting him win such arguments. Whether Geralt had become more confident in the bard’s ability to not get in the way or get killed, or whether Jaskier had simply worn him down over the years, he was pleased with the results regardless. What was living without some danger?

The moon was rising bright and steady in the deep blue twilight as they emerged from the trees on the edge of a large marsh, the brush rising in jagged silhouettes from the murky gloom. Geralt drew Roach to a halt and was still for a moment—listening? Smelling? Jaskier couldn’t quite tell, but whatever he sensed seemed to satisfy him.

He dismounted, sparing a quick pat for his horse as he dug in his saddlebag for a moment. He downed two potions one after another, tossing the empty vials back into the pouch and turning to Jaskier, bare sword already in his hand. The Witcher’s eyes had shifted to black pits, dark veins spidering across his face. Jaskier made a mental note to ask later what the second vial had been. He’d recognized the murky green of Cat, which made sense—for all that Witchers could see well in the dark, the extra visibility surely couldn’t hurt. Geralt was usually tight-lipped about his potions, but Jaskier could occasionally wheedle bits of information out of him. It was always in the back of his mind that if he were traveling with a Witcher he should know such things, in case his help was ever needed. Geralt would have snorted at that, surely. But they both knew they’d relied more on each other these last few years than either of them had ever expected to. Even if Geralt would never say so in as many words.

He made a point of looking Geralt in the eye and smiling. I am not afraid of you, he tried to communicate silently. With your black eyes and your dark veins and your skin drained of color. I see you. I trust you. And I know you are no monster. He wasn’t sure how much of his intent Geralt could interpret from his face, but the Witcher placed an almost friendly hand on his shoulder, guiding him over to a large rock and pushing him down behind it.

“Stay,” he ordered gruffly.

And then he was gone.

Jaskier watched from his hiding spot as Geralt prowled forward, his pale skin and silver-white hair almost aglow in the moonlight. He was a predator, his movements steady and carefully deliberate, silver sword gleaming in his grip. Jaskier almost shivered at the poetically perfect sight, lyric fragments already beginning to piece together in his head.

A sound from within the marsh reminded him why they were there, and he shrank back further behind his rock. With a sudden splash an enormous kikimore burst from the reeds, charging at Geralt in a flurry of gangly armored limbs. The Witcher met its furious onslaught head-on, catching one claw on his blade and dodging another sharply barbed leg that thrust towards him.

The bard watched with nervous fascination as the Witcher spun and dodged in a deadly dance, always one step ahead of the towering monster, his sword a flashing extension of his body as it twirled and sang a song of its own. Jaskier was going to make good money off his telling of this fight, he could tell already. A second large shape hurled itself from the reeds and Jaskier jumped. Two of the things? But no matter—Geralt could handle himself. And Jaskier’s song was looking more interesting by the minute.

Geralt chopped through one of the many legs of the first monster, sidestepping a crushing blow from the second. Taking advantage as the first reeled back for a moment, he wheeled and blasted the second kikimore back with a powerful Igni—much stronger than Jaskier usually saw him cast, the flames lingering on the dry branches of some dead brush nearby. The bard began to feel the niggling edge of worry creeping on him. Seeing the Witcher throw so much power into his Sign seemed to indicate something less-than-ideal about the intensity of this fight. Jaskier took a breath, trying to calm himself. Geralt knew what he was doing, he reminded himself firmly.

He watched nervously as Geralt moved faster than any human in his deadly onslaught—chop, spin, thrust, duck, chop, spin...he was everywhere at once. The bard didn’t even have time to react when the man was knocked back into the water before he was on his feet again. The first kikimore was wounded, thick black liquid oozing from two of its leg stumps. It wouldn’t last much longer, but Jaskier wasn’t fooled. Geralt had explained, once, that the deadliest part of any fight came when a monster was spurred into a final frenzy by pain and looming death.

Then his heart skipped a beat as another sound approached, this one closer to his rock. Another one?! He distantly remembered Geralt mentioning that kikimores often favored colonies. Had they stumbled across one? How had the villagers not known? The alderman said they’d only ever seen one!

But that was a problem for later. Jaskier’s heart pounded as the third monster began edging towards the fight. It was somewhat smaller than the other two, though no less terrifying, and surely no less deadly. And it was approaching quietly, from behind. The bard began to panic. Had Geralt heard it? He was still occupied with the first two, facing the other way. About to call out, Jaskier stopped himself. He had no weapon beyond the small dagger tucked in his boot—a useless thing against a kikimore’s exoskeleton. If the creature heard him, he’d be caught unable to protect himself.

Torn with indecision, Jaskier’s eyes fell on the still-smoldering branches of the dead brush nearby. Before he realized he’d made up his mind on anything, he was already creeping towards it. He broke off one of the larger branches with a swift kick, blowing on it gently and waving it until the flames reignited, leaping from twig to twig.

It wasn’t bravery that seized him then. Foolishness, perhaps. Impulsivity, certainly. And above all the thrumming need to make sure Geralt survived his thankless fight with monsters on behalf of ungrateful villagers. Whatever it was, the feeling flooded his veins with adrenaline and he charged forward at the third kikimore with a yell, brandishing his flaming branch.

“Geralt!” he called, raising his voice above the sounds of the fight. “There’s another behind you!”

Jaskier had no plan beyond that, and fear flooded back into him as the kikimore wheeled on him with an unearthly shriek. Somewhere behind it he saw Geralt thrust his sword through the head of the first creature and spin to meet an attack from the second, glancing past it at the bard with what sounded like a string of curses.

The bard backed up slowly, swinging his flaming branch back and forth to keep the angry kikimore at bay as it stamped its powerful legs into the shallow muddy water.

“Geralt!” he shouted, panic pitching his voice higher. He heard the Witcher grunt, saw him wound the second kikimore, moving even faster than he had been before, moving his fight towards Jaskier. The bard jumped to the side with a surprised cry as the monster hissing at his flames, unable to reach him, spat a bright green liquid that narrowly missed him.

“Gods, what was that? It’s spitting some sort of fluid, Geralt!”

“Get away, Jaskier! Run!” Geralt had killed the second kikimore and was running towards the third, his outstretched hand ready to cast. Jaskier began to turn away, a tingling sense of relief already easing across his shoulders.

He was too slow.

With a piercing shriek the kikimore spat another stream of its green liquid at him. Too late to dodge, he threw up his arm, stumbling backwards—

—and his world erupted in blinding white fire that consumed him in an instant. Everything was bright and burning and agony, and his ears were filled with a distant screaming that he belatedly realized was his own voice. A massive something struck him as he writhed, not even sure if he was still standing or on the ground, and he fell gratefully into the darkness as it swallowed him whole.

****************************

It all happened slowly.

And far too fast.

One moment Geralt was pulling his sword from the head of the second kikimore, black ichor dripping from his blade. The next he was sprinting towards Jaskier, as the younger man held off a third with nothing but a flaming branch—idiot bard, what was he thinking?!

Time seemed to slow as he watched Jaskier begin to turn, to follow his shouted order to run—he was almost there, beginning to lift his sword for the first swing, his veins pumping with fury and momentum. Then the kikimore spat, infuriated by the fire keeping it from its prey, and Jaskier screamed.

It was a scream that ripped through Geralt, shredding through his enhanced hearing and turning his blood ice-cold. He was shouting, too, and it took him a moment to realize he was calling the bard’s name. Jaskier fell backwards into the muddy water—thankfully shallow enough that even slumped on his side he wouldn’t risk drowning—his branch falling beside him with a soft hiss as its flames were extinguished.

Geralt’s sword slammed into the kikimore in a furious slice that spattered blood everywhere as two of its legs went flying. The thing staggered and spun to meet him, shrieking its fury, but there was no stopping him now, his blade a blur. Within four strokes it collapsed dead into the water and silence fell over the marsh, broken only by the sound of Geralt catching his breath.

Silence.

Jaskier had stopped screaming.

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat and he ran over to the bard’s hunched form. Under the reek of kikimore blood and guts was the coppery scent of human blood. The kikimore must have caught Jaskier on the sharp serrated ridge of its leg after he fell. Dropping his sword in the mud, Geralt knelt beside the unmoving man.

“Jaskier.” The name came out breathless, and he felt an unfamiliar prickling of fear sting at the corners of his mind. He shoved the feeling aside, gently rolling the bard over and dragging him up out of the mud. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The Cat potion he’d swallowed before the battle was beginning to wear off, but Geralt’s enhanced eyes could still see the acid burns covering Jaskier’s lower arm, his skin twisting and blistering as it continued to burn, and—he exhaled sharply—splattered across his face. The bard had blocked much of the spray, but not enough.

“Fuck.” Geralt tried not to think of how Jaskier should be teasing him for his single-word vocabulary, eyes alight with the thrill of fresh material for some new ballad. Now the silence hung heavily over them, pressing on Geralt almost tangibly.

He looked around for Roach, spotting her silhouette among the nearby shadows and giving a piercing whistle. She trotted over obediently and he jogged to meet her, grabbing a waterskin from the side of his saddle and rushing back to Jaskier. Tossing his filthy gloves aside, he popped the cap and poured the water quickly over Jaskier’s face, then his arm, washing away any remaining traces of the kikimore’s acid.

The bard stirred as the liquid struck his face, a flinch followed by a sudden gasp of air that left him choking. He tried to open his eyes, and Geralt pressed a hand gently against his brow, not daring to go any nearer his blistered eyelids.

“Keep your eyes shut,” he growled firmly. “Jaskier. Do you hear me? Don’t open them.”

“G-Geralt—” the bard’s voice was a shredded whisper that quickly turned into a cry of pain, his back arching in clear agony as his uninjured hand clawed at Geralt’s knee, but he did as instructed and kept his eyes shut.

“Try to lie still.” Geralt pressed against Jaskier’s shoulder, keeping him from moving too much before he could evaluate his injuries. “Idiot bard, what did you think you were doing, going after it like that?” He clenched his jaw, swallowing his frustration. Time enough for that later. He could still smell blood—where was he bleeding? Jaskier was mumbling unintelligibly, fading in and out of consciousness. Geralt ran careful hands over the man’s muddy neck and torso, avoiding his blistered right arm. He heard a sharp gasp as he pressed Jaskier’s left side, and his hand came away red.

Swiftly ripping open the once-fancy purple doublet—it was ruined now, anyway—and white chemise to get a closer look, he swore vividly. A deep gash bled sluggishly from his side up towards his belly. He prodded gently at the edge, checking how bad it was, and Jaskier gave another gurgling cry. Not good. They had some time, but not a lot.

Geralt tore a wide strip from Jaskier’s chemise and wadded it against his side, pressing firmly as the bard groaned, shuddering weakly.

“Jaskier. Jaskier! Stay awake!”

****************************

Jaskier hovered on the edge of darkness. He wondered distantly how he could feel so far away, and yet feel vivid pain devouring his body at the same time. Geralt was saying something, his gruff voice repeating...his name? The man was pressing something against his side, and the pain washed over him in waves that threatened to drown him, making him gasp for air, his body shuddering. He felt a hand against the side of his neck and pressed into the contact, grounding himself in its comfort as he tried to focus on the words above him.

“...you need to stay awake, Jaskier....do you hear....need to get away from here before....just hold on...”

Geralt was moving Jaskier’s hand to replace his own, holding a damp wad of cloth against the stabbing pain in his side.

“Hold this. Damnit, Jaskier! Focus. Hold this, tightly. You have to keep the pressure.”

Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt that he’d rarely heard so many words from him in a short time before, but his tongue felt heavy and language was far away. He was about to try to open his eyes before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to. Why not? He tried to remember, but they were too heavy anyway, and his face was on fire. He was supposed to be doing something else. Holding the cloth, that was it. He tried, but his hand was weak, not nearly as firm as Geralt’s had been. Where was Geralt—?

Jaskier felt strong arms slipping under his shoulders and knees and he was lifted gently, but he couldn’t help the howl that ripped from his lungs, the darkness flooding closer as he tried to keep a hold on the cloth. His head rested against the Witcher’s damp leather pauldron, and he could feel the rumble of Geralt’s chest as he spoke.

“Stay with me, keep pressing, just stay with me—”

He sounded worried, and some part of Jaskier knew that that should terrify him, but there was only pain and exhaustion—and perhaps a passing thread of satisfaction that whispered ‘He does care, I knew he did....’

He heard Roach whicker softly, felt Geralt settling him gently in the saddle and keeping him upright as he mounted up behind him. One strong arm wrapped around his waist, holding him in place and pressing over his hand on his side, helping him keep the pressure on the wad that felt wetter than it had before. His head lolled back on Geralt’s shoulder as the man gathered the reins in his other hand and nudged Roach forward, away from the swamp and the dead kikimores. Away from death.

Chapter Text

Jaskier awoke slowly, his consciousness sinking gradually and reluctantly into his body like easing into cold water. He immediately wished he hadn’t. His face and arm were on fire, a piercing burning pain that ate through him and stole his breath. His side hurt too, a stabbing ache that sent sharp ripples through his torso every time he inhaled. His head was pillowed on something soft, and he could hear the familiar crackle of a fire and nighttime forest stirrings.

He tried to open his eyes, but found they were kept closed by something on his face. Confused, he lifted a hand—the one not enveloped in agonizing pain—and his fingers met linen wrappings. A large hand caught his and gently guided it away from his face.

“Don’t touch,” rumbled a familiar deep voice from somewhere next to him.

“G’ralt?” Jaskier’s voice felt raspy and slurred. “What.....?”

“You were injured.” His head was lifted slightly, and a small bowl was held to his lips. “You need to drink.”

Jaskier did his best, choking a bit at first, and the cool liquid eased his throat. The water was infused with something herbal but not unpleasant. Then the bowl was replaced with a small vial.

“This will help with the pain,” murmured Geralt, gently tipping the viscous liquid into Jaskier’s mouth. He grimaced at the bitter medicinal taste but forced himself to swallow, relieved when it was followed by more water.

“What—I....” His words felt loose and far away, and Jaskier struggled to string his thoughts together with any coherence, grasping at drifting strands of memory. His head was lowered back down onto its soft pillow—a bundled cloak, probably—and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, its weight a grounding comfort.

“D’nt leave,” he mumbled, already slipping away.

“I won’t.” Geralt’s steady voice wrapped around him as he fell back into oblivion.

********************************

Geralt watched Jaskier uneasily, uncomfortably aware of his hand still resting on his shoulder. He’d wanted to keep the bard calm, keep him from tearing the new stitches in his side. Ease him back towards the sleep he needed to heal. It had been one thing to use Axii to keep him asleep while Geralt cleaned and treated his wounds—flushing his eyes, stitching the gash in his side, dabbing salve on the burns. But he hated to use it more than he had to, hated the feeling of the magic slipping against another’s mind. And it felt especially wrong to use it on the free-spirited bard.

But Jaskier was a tactile person, forever running his long dexterous fingers over fine silks in marketplaces, or tracing knots in the wooden tables at inns, or stroking the furs he huddled under on cold nights camped under the stars. And that instinct to touch extended to Geralt—an arm slung around his shoulders, gentle touches in conversation, silent communication in the presence of nosy villagers. He had washed Geralt’s hair after difficult fights, stitched wounds the Witcher struggled to reach himself, huddled against him for warmth when early winter winds bit with harsh cold late in the night. Jaskier liked to touch. So of course it made sense that physical contact would provide the necessary soothing to keep him calm now.

And yet.

It wasn’t just for Jaskier that Geralt kept his hand there after the bard’s breathing had evened out into the level rhythm of sleep. He needed to feel the warmth beneath his hand, the rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart. Needed the confirmation that Jaskier was alive.

Geralt swallowed. It was all his fault. Jaskier had been hurt before, of course. No one could follow the Path for long without some scars to show for it. But nothing like this. Nothing that left the scent of his blood harsh in the back of Geralt’s throat. Even the djinn’s attack had been easier than this, if only because they had been closer to help.

And it was Geralt’s fault. His fault for not remembering the unfriendly village. His fault for allowing Jaskier to come. His fault for underestimating the fight he walked into. His fault for not paying close enough attention to the third damn kikimore approaching. His fault for not getting to Jaskier’s side sooner. His fault for—for being distracted. That was the truth of it, really. No point denying it. He’d been distracted for weeks, and it had all led to this. He knew what Vesemir would say. A distracted Witcher is a dead Witcher. But now it was Jaskier paying the price instead of him, and that was far worse.

If he hadn’t kept finding his mind conflicted, pulled back to her—

But no. He would not think of her now. Not when Jaskier lay pale before him, not when he’d come so close to losing him.

He stared helplessly at the sleeping bard, wondering when he’d gotten so attached. He was prone to such weakness, despite his efforts to avoid it, but he’d tried. The stubborn fool clung like a burr, until his chatter and his singing and his lute-strumming and his little touches somehow worked their way into Geralt’s routine, becoming so normal that he’d lost track of his carefully-constructed walls. And now—now here he sat, the sharp ache of attachment pulling on him harder than it should, crawling along his skin and making his jaw twitch.

He needed to re-center himself. With a sigh, Geralt closed his eyes and sank down into a light meditation, leaving part of his mind focused on Jaskier’s heartbeat in case he should wake, and allowing the rest to drift.

Geralt returned swiftly to alertness the moment he sensed Jaskier’s heartbeat quickening, as dawn’s first glow was gathering along the horizon. The bard woke faster this time, jolting awake with a gasp of pain that turned quickly into an anguished cry.

“G-Geralt—” his voice broke off into a pained sob as his good hand grasped at Geralt’s still resting on his shoulder.

“Jaskier, you need to breathe,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. Calm, he reminded himself silently. The bard was trying, but the pain was clearly swamping his mind, making him panic.

“Geralt it—guhh, f-fuck—it hurts,” he hissed, teeth clenched and face contorted in an expression that was surely only making it worse, pulling on his burns.

“I know. I know it hurts. I—” Geralt swallowed. “I’m sorry. I can’t give you more of the medicine yet.” The words felt heavy on his tongue. He wasn’t used to speaking so much, especially not when there was nothing to say, nothing he could do.

He let Jaskier grip his hand tightly—a grip that probably would have bruised, if he were human—as the bard seemed to wrestle with himself, trying to acclimate, trying to catch his breath. Geralt knew the feeling all too well, but there was something wrong about seeing that expression on Jaskier.

Once he seemed a bit calmer, Geralt lifted the younger man’s head and held the nearby bowl to his lips again.

“Drink,” he ordered quietly. He could not give more of the pain-relieving tincture, not yet—and he was keenly aware that his limited supply of human-safe medicine would need to be spread out even further than he would have liked. But in the meantime fluids were important, and the herbs he’d crushed into the water would at least help to calm.

Jaskier seemed exhausted even from the slight effort of drinking, a sigh of relief escaping him as his head sank back into the bundled cloak pillowing his head.

“I know you want to rest,” said Geralt. “But I want to check your wounds, and change the bandages.” He was answered with a weary nod, and reached first for Jaskier’s arm, unwinding the bandages as gently as possible. He checked the burned skin carefully for signs of infection before applying more salve, keeping his touch feather-light and trying not to cringe at Jaskier’s whimpers. Once it was re-wrapped he gently lifted the bard into a sitting position to check the wound on his side. It was nasty, and would surely scar, but the stitches were holding and there wasn’t too much blood staining the bandages, and Geralt felt a wave of relief. There was still the danger of infection and fever, but the worst urgency was behind them, at the very least.

At last he moved on to Jaskier’s face, still holding him upright with one arm behind his shoulders and his leg propped up behind his back for support.

“Don’t try to open your eyes,” he warned. “Not yet. They need to heal.”

Jaskier opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it. Either he was too tired, or he wasn’t ready to ask the question Geralt knew was coming. That was fine by him. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to think about it. He wasn’t ready to face the knowledge that lay buried deep in his mind—that kikimore acid was intended to blind, and its damage was usually permanent for humans.

Jaskier, to his credit, stayed relatively quiet as Geralt applied his salve and wound fresh bandages around his head, aside from soft gasps and moans from time to time. When Geralt finished, Jaskier grabbed his arm again. Touch. He needs touch.

The Witcher hesitated. This was not his strong suit. He was too used to humans shying away from him, too used to the stink of fear and the efforts to avoid contact with his skin. But Jaskier was different. Had always been different. Jaskier, the man who looked at Geralt’s eyes potion-blackened and framed by dark veins and smiled with something like fondness, without a hint of fear or revulsion in his scent. Who had been undaunted by his flinches at every contact at first, when he was confused and unsettled by the human who touched him without apparent motive or expectation, and never questioned or pressured him over it. Jaskier, who had become his—friend. Not just the empty word used politely with some acquaintances, but a real friend. It scared him, more than he cared to admit.

Slowly, unsure if it was the right thing, Geralt shifted until his back was against the tree behind the bard and then eased Jaskier back until he was resting against the Witcher, his head against his chest. He wrapped one hesitant arm around him, his hand reaching up to settle against Jaskier’s chest, holding him protectively. Geralt breathed slowly, inhaling Jaskier’s earthy scent of rosin and the juniper soap he went out of his way to purchase every time they passed through a major city. Jaskier melted back against him, relaxing in his hold, heart beating steadily under his hand.

“Thank you,” the younger man whispered, and Geralt exhaled, relieved.

“Sleep,” he rumbled quietly. And Jaskier did.

They spent another two days in the clearing, with Geralt doing what he could to keep Jaskier as calm and comfortable as possible. The bard was still sleeping much of the time—a combination of the pain tincture, calming herbs, and the simple exhaustion that came with wound recovery. Even Geralt, with his dampened sense of pain and quickened capacity for healing, hated acid burns. Give him a bloody gash any day over the searing pain and bone-deep weariness of a burn. He did what he could, keeping things clean and bandaged and applying salve liberally, with a careful eye for any signs of infection.

But soon, he knew, they would have to move on. It was time he returned to the village for his pay, so they could seek out a larger town with a proper healer. He’d have to go back to the swamp for proof of his kills, first, he remembered. He’d been in too much of a hurry immediately after the fight, all his focus on Jaskier. Thankfully most animals wouldn’t go near the foul odor of a kikimore carcass—they should still be intact enough for his purposes by the following day.

He was roused from his musing by a faint stirring from the bard against his chest. Geralt had settled into the position behind him as often as he could—leaving only to gather water, fetch more bandages from his saddlebags, relieve himself, or to catch a couple rabbits he’d stewed into a weak broth for Jaskier when it was clear his stomach couldn’t hold down much else. He made a softer surface to rest against than the ground, at least, and the contact seemed to soothe the man. Geralt wouldn’t admit that it was the only thing keeping him sane, the steady rhythm of Jaskier’s heartbeat interweaving with his own breath in a constant reassuring reminder: he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive. At one point, when he’d realized how comfortable he’d become with the contact, alarm seeped into him and he’d started to move away. But Jaskier had grabbed his hand and mumbled something about how being propped up pulled less at the wound in his side, and who was Geralt to argue? So he’d settled back in behind him, and if some part of him was secretly relieved, secretly pleased...well, no one had to know.

Two fingers tapped gently against his wrist, twice, and he glanced down. At some point Jaskier had begun tapping to subtly alert him that he was awake, in lieu of his eyes being open. He’d become increasingly lucid during his waking periods, these last few hours, but the signal at least helped Geralt to avoid unintentionally rousing him.

“Water?” he asked automatically. Jaskier nodded, and Geralt held the bowl to his lips, letting him drink his fill. The Witcher knew the importance of hydration at times like this, and had kept at it diligently. Humans were fragile, after all.

Jaskier was quiet, even more so than he had been last time he’d woken, as Geralt went about once again checking and tending to his wounds.

“Geralt?” The bard’s voice was a whisper, halting, hesitant. It sounded wrong on his lips. When it was clear Jaskier was waiting for a reply before continuing, he hummed to show he was listening.

“I’m sorry.”

The Witcher’s hands faltered for a moment. That was not what he’d been expecting. He frowned, trying to choose his words carefully. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Jaskier swallowed, his good hand fiddling with the edge of his shirt—Geralt’s shirt, actually, as he’d dressed the bard in one of his own, not wanting to ruin Jaskier’s spare with blood. Besides, it hung loosely enough on his slender frame that it made checking the wound on his side easier. And if something inside Geralt curled with a strangely possessive pleasure at seeing Jaskier in his clothes, he buried it deep down where it did not need to be acknowledged.

“I shouldn’t have gone after it,” whispered Jaskier hoarsely, face tilted down. “And now I’m just making more work for you.”

Geralt did not reply immediately, focusing his attention on examining Jaskier’s arm as he let the words process. What was he supposed to say to that? There was no point in calling him an idiot now—especially when they were both gravely aware that he was paying a steep price for his mistake. Geralt may not always be patient with him, may fall back too often on biting sarcasm to keep Jaskier from worming any further past his carefully-built defenses. But he never wished pain on him, never wanted to see him like this. Finally he sighed.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked gruffly. “What were you trying to prove?”

Jaskier’s head came up abruptly at that, even though he couldn’t see anything, and Geralt could imagine his blue eyes bright and sharp with indignation.

"Prove?” he sputtered. “I wasn’t– I wouldn’t— it was never about proving anything.” He paused. “I just...I didn’t think. I know, it was stupid, but it was coming up quietly from behind, and the only thing I could think was what if you didn’t hear it coming?”

“I would have noticed it,” grumbled Geralt, ignoring the inner voice that sneered, would you? Would you really, as distracted as you were, and already with your hands full battling the other two when you were expecting one?

“Well excuse me for worrying!” Jaskier snapped, his voice pitching higher with indignation. “I’m sorry I didn’t want you to get hurt! Especially for a bunch of ungrateful humans who treated you like dirt! I’m sorry I care so much, but I do.” His voice broke and Geralt blinked, staring at him, trying to make sense of the flood of words as they poured from the bard’s lips dripping with emotion.

“You...were trying to protect me,” he said slowly, a question in the words, not quite sure what to make of it. Not that it was new, not really. Jaskier was always starting fights on his behalf, with words and fists alike, defending him against sneers and cutting comments. But he’d have thought it was obvious to them both that of the two of them, Geralt was the one competent enough to go after monsters. It was the one thing he was good at, what he was made to do. And Jaskier had dived in anyway, because he’d been worried? Foolish, idiot bard who cared too much. Impulsive, jumping in without thinking for someone most considered as much a monster as those he killed. Geralt didn’t deserve loyalty like that, and the result—the smell of the bard’s blood and the echo of his screams still lingering in his mind—made something flare inside him, something dark and ugly.

He stood abruptly and stalked away to the other side of the clearing. Not leaving, but he needed to clear his head, needed to breathe, needed to escape the uncomfortable thoughts crowding in on him. Guilt, anger, frustration, sorrow, appreciation, more guilt— the emotions swarmed in around him and he clenched his teeth tightly, shoving them back. It was too much.

“Are...are you angry with me?” a small voice asked quietly behind him, the soft words clear to his sharp hearing even from across the campsite. Geralt closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself calm. Inhale. Exhale.

“Not with you,” he said finally. And before he’d really decided he was ready, his feet were already carrying him back to Jaskier’s side, an unshakable force pulling on him.

“We’ll leave in the morning,” he mumbled, settling into his place behind him, before Jaskier could speak again and ask more uncomfortable questions. “Get the proof, get paid, then go find a proper healer.”

“Mmm.” Jaskier was already drifting off, relaxing against him. Geralt raised a tentative hand and slowly brushed the hair from the man’s forehead, allowing his calloused fingers to comb gently through the soft brown strands.

What am I doing? The thought echoed around and around in his mind, sharp corners bouncing off buried tender spots and bruises.

But he didn’t stop, and just for a moment, the Witcher relaxed into the tender peace of holding his bard against him.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was almost sorry when they broke camp.

True, his body ached after days on the ground, which certainly didn’t help with the pain from his wounds. He craved the warm softness of a real bed. A healer wouldn’t be amiss, either, for all Geralt’s gentle ministrations—and he knew his companion was worried about infection, out here in the woods.

And yet.

Geralt’s warm body behind him, the hours of extended contact, had been a steadying presence keeping him anchored amidst a tempest of pain and medicine-addled wits. The slow beat of the Witcher’s heart beneath his head was a calming rhythm that carried him as he drifted through a haze of scattered thoughts and unwelcome sensations. The large hand resting on his chest kept him grounded, holding him protectively, and he knew he was safe.

He’d be sorry to lose the contact, though he knew he was foolish to cling to it. Geralt was not a tactile person. He’d seemed almost baffled, at first, when Jaskier willingly touched him. The first time the bard’s lute-calloused fingertips brushed the bare skin of his arm, the Witcher had jerked back as if burned.

Jaskier had not been daunted. He was nothing if not persistent, and the Witcher—even with all his brooding grumpiness and sarcastic deflections, was too alluring for him to resist. Slowly Geralt had stopped flinching at his touches, stopped casting him puzzled glances as if trying to guess his motivations. And when his stony mask slipped, usually amidst the weariness and post-potions crash after a difficult hunt, he gradually began to lean in to Jaskier’s gentle touches as he helped untie his armor or wash the blood from his long hair. Jaskier wasn’t even sure the Witcher was consciously aware of it—he was too guarded, too hesitant to indulge in such things as touch when he had a chance to think about it. But Jaskier treasured those little moments he got away with, telling himself it sated his deeper wishes for more intimate touching with the man he followed back and forth across the Continent.

So for all the pain and fuzziness of mind that crowded around Jaskier however long they’d been in this forest clearing, he’d delighted in the feeling of Geralt’s strong arms cradling him close like something fragile, something precious. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but he floated in the contented warmth of it while he could.

But now the birds were singing in the daybreak, even if he couldn't see the light cresting the horizon, and he could hear Geralt moving about packing up camp.

Finally he came for Jaskier, gently sliding his arms under his shoulders and knees and lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

“I can walk!” Jaskier protested. “Well....probably.” He wasn’t actually sure, to be honest, but he despised feeling like an invalid. And the old fear unfurled deep within him, whispering that if he burdened others then he would be abandoned.

“Perhaps,” said Geralt, though something in his voice made Jaskier suspect he was humoring him. “But I don’t want you pulling at your stitches. We still have a long ride ahead.”

He settled Jaskier atop Roach’s saddle, and the change in position made the bard’s head swim and his stomach churn. He swayed with the overwhelming wave of nausea and dizziness and pain—gods, the pain—and if not for Geralt’s steadying hand he would likely have toppled to the ground. The Witcher mounted swiftly behind him, one arm snaking around his waist to hold him in place, not unlike their position against the tree.

“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Jaskier’s awareness drifted for a while, focused only on breathing and Geralt’s steady presence pressed against him. Eventually he realized that Roach had come to a stop, and the Witcher seemed to be hesitating.

“If I dismount, can you hold yourself up for a couple minutes?” he asked, the question edged with what Jaskier thought might be concern, which was rather nice.

“Sure.” He tried to make his voice confident, and tried to straighten his posture a bit, though he immediately regretted it as a starburst of pain seared through his side.

“Hm.” Geralt sounded unconvinced, but he guided Jaskier’s good hand to the pommel of the saddle. “Hold onto that. Don’t fall off.” Jaskier nodded, and after a moment he heard Geralt rummaging in his saddle bags, the gentle swish of a sword being drawn, and his booted footsteps moving away. Soon there was a small explosion not too far away, and he knew Geralt must have found the nest he’d suspected was concealed amongst the reeds. Then came the faint sounds of Geralt removing the claws from the kikimore carcasses, one from each. But after the third swing of his sword there was a pause, followed by a flurry of angry hacking noises, and an almost feral growling.

“Geralt?” called Jaskier, alarmed. Was the Witcher being attacked? Panic rose in his chest. At the sound of his voice, though, the sword blows stopped, and he heard the approach of Geralt’s steps.

“Is...is everything all right?” he asked hesitantly.

“It’s fine,” growled Geralt. He settled his things and mounted up again, pulling Jaskier back against his chest. “Rest if you can.” And he nudged Roach into an easy walk, keeping her pace slow and gentle to avoid jostling the injured man.

Jaskier was pulled from his dozing by unfamiliar voices.

“He’s back.”

“The Butcher’s returned.”

“Filthy mutant.”

“What’s happened to the other one?”

“Maybe the Witcher was too rough with his toy.”

Jaskier wanted to snap at them, to tell them they should be grateful or keep their mouths shut. But he was too tired, his tongue thick with weariness and his limbs dragging on him, the burning pain in his arm overwhelming. Distantly he wondered why his exhaustion seemed to be getting worse, not better, but shrugged it off. After two days of resting, perhaps sitting upright atop a horse was rather a shock to his wounded body. Or something. He realized Roach had come to a halt, and Geralt was speaking to someone.

“Thought you'd run off,” an unpleasant voice was sneering. The alderman, Jaskier’s mind supplied as he tried to focus on what was happening.

“Tell me that your claim of only one kikimore wasn’t deliberate,” growled Geralt, and Jaskier could feel it vibrate through his spine. “Tell me you didn’t purposely mislead me.”

“Now why would I do that?” The reply had a mocking edge.
“It will cost you. There were three. All dead now.” There was a rummaging sound, and then a rattling series of thuds as Geralt tossed the kikimore claws to the ground.

“And who’s to say you didn’t cut them all off one to cheat us?”

“They’re all right fore-claws. You can tell by the angle of the spines.” Geralt’s voice was cold. “My companion is injured, and my patience is wearing thin. Pay up and I’ll be on my way.”

There was the sound of a man spitting, and Jaskier could feel the Witcher tense with anger.

“We had a contract,” he snarled.

“You took too long.” It was a weak excuse and they all knew it. “Take this and leave.” Jaskier heard Geralt catch a small coin purse, weighing it in one expert hand.

“That’s not half what you owe.” Jaskier could almost hear him scowling.

“Are you threatening me, Butcher?” The alderman’s voice pitched loudly, and with a sinking feeling the bard immediately understood why. Other voices began to surround them, rising in volume and vehemence as they swelled closer.

“Degenerate mutant!”

“Get outta here!”

“Filthy Witcher!”

“You won’t slaughter innocent folks here!”

“Fuck off, beast!”

And without another word, Geralt turned Roach and urged her into a smooth canter, carrying them away from the crowd before stones could be thrown.

He eased her back to a walk soon after, and Jaskier struggled to form hazy thoughts into words.

“’m s’rry,” he mumbled finally. Geralt sighed.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. His voice sounded weary. Resigned.

He stopped Roach suddenly, wheeling her about and half-drawing his sword as running footsteps approached.

“Master Witcher!” someone called. “Master Witcher, wait!”

The footsteps drew closer.

“I’m sorry ’bout all that,” said a winded voice. “We’re but simple folk ’round ’ere. Not that that’s any excuse, but….” There was a clinking sound as Geralt caught something tossed to him. It sounded like another coin purse. “It’s not what ye’re owed, for all ye’ve done,” continued the voice. “But it’s all I ’ave.”

“Thank you.” Geralt’s voice was gruff as always, but Jaskier could feel just a little of the tightly-wound tension in him bleed away.

“Yer companion….is ’e all right?”

“We need a healer,” Geralt rumbled, his arm tightening slightly around Jaskier. “Is there one to be found somewhere near?”

“Hmm...follow th’ road north a couple o’ days’ ride, then take th’ western turnoff. Should be a healer o’ some kind in Sarton.”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier heard the man begin to walk away, back towards the village.

“G’luck, Witcher,” his voice drifted back towards them.

Too tired for words, Jaskier tapped his fingers twice against Geralt’s wrist. The man seemed to understand his unspoken question.

“The butcher. The one who lost his son.”

Ah, that made sense. Jaskier nodded wearily.

“Jaskier?” A hand came up to rest against his forehead, and he leaned into the cool touch. “Fuck, you’re warm.” Geralt sounded worried.

Roach began to canter again and Jaskier fell into a restless slumber, head lolling back against Geralt’s shoulder, hoofbeats drumming steadily in his ears.

**********************************

The ride to Sarton was one Geralt would remember only as a blur of rain, mud, and worry as Jaskier went from warm to hot in his arms. He pushed Roach as hard as he dared, stopping only for the briefest of rests to let her drink and catch her breath, checking her hooves and feeding her handfuls of oats. She seemed to sense his urgency and ran hard without complaint, even as the rain soaked her coat.

Geralt stayed hunched over, his oiled cloak draped around both himself and Jaskier, keeping the bard as dry as he could even as he could feel Jaskier’s shirt become damp with fever-sweat. There was little he could do now but get him to Sarton and hope there was a healer willing to help a Witcher.

The guards at the town gate looked a little alarmed to see a Witcher gallop up covered in mud and holding a bandaged and shivering man close to his chest, his horse breathing hard with exertion. But they pointed him to the inn, and he was relieved to see the brightly-painted sign outside a sturdy-looking building. He handed Roach’s reins to a startled stableboy, taking a moment to be sure the lad knew what he was doing and would treat her royally after her hard ride. Then with Jaskier cradled in his arms he made his way into the inn, ignoring the stares as he moved swiftly towards the bar.

“A room,” he said gruffly to the innkeeper, without preamble. “And if you could send for a healer.” The man’s brows crept up his forehead, but he warmed well enough when Geralt tossed a bag of coins on the counter.

“Marta, go fetch Helen, quick-like,” called a woman who came up beside the man, probably his wife. A maid nodded and hurried out into the afternoon drizzle. The woman seemed stern but kind, and she offered Geralt a slight smile. “Our healer doesn’t live far, she’ll be here soon. And you’ll want a bath, I’m sure.” She gave Geralt’s muddy clothes a pointed look. “Go ahead up, we’ll send Helen along when she gets here, and hot water for a bath after.”

Geralt laid Jaskier down gently on the bed, dragging off his wet boots and tossing them towards the door. He hesitated a moment, then gently brushed the sweat-soaked hair back from the bard’s forehead. The man mumbled something unintelligible, but did not wake.

The Witcher sighed, and went about removing his own mud-splattered boots and armor, leaving them in a heap in the corner to deal with later. With satisfaction he noted a steaming bucket of hot water sitting before the hearth, and a stack of clean cloths on the small table. After using it to wipe down his face and arms he went about gently cleaning what he could reach of Jaskier’s skin, washing away two days’ worth of fever-sweat and a hard ride through a storm.

Before long there was a knock at the door, and a small no-nonsense woman swept into the room, raindrops scattering as she shook off her cloak. Sparing a polite nod for Geralt she went immediately to Jaskier, feeling the warmth in his forehead and checking his pulse.

“Tell me everything.”

It didn’t take long for Geralt to explain the kikimore fight, his ministrations in the woods, and the onset of fever, watching the healer poke and prod at Jaskier’s wounds. She tutted over the bard’s arm once the wrappings fell away, and the sickly odor of infection made Geralt’s nostrils flare.

“Don’t stand there looking guilty, come here and hold him still,” she said sharply. Geralt raised his brows but did as instructed, holding Jaskier down and watching as the healer scrubbed out the infection and covered it in a strong-smelling yellow paste. She seemed satisfied with the stitches on Jaskier’s side, dabbing a liquid of some sort over the wound to speed its healing.

Jaskier was unaware through it all, mumbling incoherently under his breath from time to time but lost to the haze of fever. As the healer unwound the bandages from his face, Geralt couldn’t help but be glad that the bard wasn’t in any state of awareness. The woman very gently pulled back Jaskier’s eyelids and the Witcher felt his jaw tense, struggling to control the icy feeling that ran through his veins at the sight. The healer sighed and glanced at Geralt.

“You know that damage is probably permanent,” she said, her tone direct but kind. Geralt nodded stiffly. He knew, had known since the moment it happened. Kikimore acid was made to blind; a human stood little chance against it. But there was knowing, and there was seeing the damage for himself, on Jaskier of all people.

“I can help with the fever and infection, and speed the healing on the acid burns and the wound on his side,” she continued. “But there’s nothing more I can do for his eyes. Once he’s doing better I’d find a mage, a good one, if you can. Have them do deeper healing on the scars, and see if they can do anything for his sight.” She glanced doubtfully at Jaskier’s now cleanly-rebandaged face. “But it’s unlikely.”

She coaxed Jaskier to swallow a potion of some kind, instructed Geralt in its use to keep the fever down, and left with a promise to return the next day.

For a moment Geralt simply stood looking at the bard, his cheeks flushed and sweaty, chest rising and falling shakily as he fought through fever dreams.

Blind. Jaskier will be blind. The thought made him shiver—with guilt, with sorrow, with worry. This was Geralt’s fault. Humans didn’t belong on the Path, and here was the evidence of that. Geralt brought destruction everywhere he went, and now Jaskier had been dragged into darkness. It would be the end of their travels together, he realized with a sinking feeling. Jaskier followed him to watch his exploits, to create new material for his music. He would have no need for Geralt now. He would surely settle down somewhere—a court position, or teaching at Oxenfurt. Perhaps even return to Lettenhove. He never mentioned his home, but he might wish to return somewhere familiar, somewhere where people could look after him.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, an acrid burn that surprised him with its sudden vehemence. He struggled a moment to shove the sensation aside, breathing deeply to focus his mind as he’d been trained.

First step was to beat the fever. Geralt moved to fetch a damp cloth for Jaskier’s forehead.

Chapter Text

Jaskier was running.

Grasping branches tore at his clothes as he stumbled his way through a thick forest, tripping over roots and slipping on wet leaves. He didn’t know what he was running from—or to?—only that he had to keep moving, else a cold fear began to settle in his chest and steal his breath.

He chanced a glance back, and for a dizzying moment he almost thought he was lying down. How strange. He could feel a soft bed beneath him, though he was oddly chilled. Someone’s hands were gently touching his forehead, then there was a bitter liquid of some sort burning its way down his throat. But then the hands pulled away, and he was running in the forest again, and none of it made any sense at all.

A dense mist was swirling between the trees, licking at his sweat-slicked skin as he pushed further and further into the shadowed depths of the woods where high boughs blocked the sunlight. It rose around him until he couldn’t see his feet, couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He spun, trying to orient himself, but there was only thick white mist wrapping around him like a cocoon. He was lost, lost and alone, and he could feel his heart pounding a frantic beat in his ears—

“Jaskier.” The deep voice was painfully familiar and he raced towards it, reaching blindly.

“Jaskier, wake up.”

Jaskier gasped awake—was he awake? He couldn’t see anything, was he somewhere dark? Panic gripped him and he thrust out a grasping hand, his fingers brushing against something—or perhaps someone.

“Easy,” a low voice rumbled. “You’re safe.”

“Geralt?” Jasker winced at the hoarseness of his voice.

“Hmm.” The familiar hum soothed his nerves, and he took a shaky breath.

His head was lifted and water held to his lips. He gulped at it greedily, and grumbled as it was withdrawn.

“Not too much at once,” said Geralt. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“What— what happened?” There was a pause, and he could picture the Witcher’s furrowed brow as he gathered his thoughts.

“Do you remember the kikimores?”

The kiki— oh. Right. The fragmented pieces began to fall into place. There was a dull ache as he remembered his wounds, but it wasn’t too bad, all things considered.

“Where are we, then?”

“At an inn in Sarton. A town a couple days’ ride from the village.”

“Days?! How long have I been asleep?”

“Hmm. Five days, almost? Your arm was infected. Fever finally broke this morning.”

Jaskier nodded wearily, processing Geralt’s words. The Witcher sounded...tired. When was the last time he’d slept? Had the man been tending him the entire time?

“How’s the pain?”

“Not bad, really. Surprisingly so, in fact.” Not that he was complaining, not at all. He remembered the agony from before, and bit back a shudder of relief that that was behind him.

“Hmm. Good. Healer’s been here daily. She does good work.”

“That...sounds expensive.”

There was no response, and Jasker swallowed with guilt and shame. Geralt must be angry. He’d been such a burden, and now he’d probably used up whatever coin the Witcher had gotten from the kikimore contract.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Truly, I am. I-I can pay you back, as soon as I can get the coin—”

“What?” Geralt’s voice interrupted him abruptly, and Jaskier fell silent. The Witcher sounded confused. Then he sighed. “Oh. I...uh. I shrugged. Sorry.” There was an undercurrent of something in his tone, but Jasker couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Geralt cleared his throat. “It’s fine. I cleared up a nekker nest, outside town. They paid well. We’ll be all right.”

Jaskier let out a breath of air he hadn’t realized he was holding in at the word ‘we’. So maybe Geralt wasn’t getting rid of him yet after all. There was hope, anyway. Unless… Jaskier reached up to brush his fingers along the bandages over his eyes. He needed to ask the question he’d been avoiding. Putting it off would only make it harder, he knew. He opened his mouth—

“You should eat something.”

“Oh. I...yes, I suppose.”

“Wait here.” He could hear the dry edge to Geralt’s voice, and could imagine the corners of his eyes were drawn slightly in a hidden smile.

Jaskier sputtered. “And what else would I do?” he said indignantly, but it was all a matter of form, the familiar banter easing some of the tension from the room.

Geralt soon returned, helping Jaskier adjust his pillow so he was propped up against the wall behind the bed with something soft to lean against. It was strange to think he’d been asleep for five days, given how weary and weak he still felt.

A warm bowl of something was set carefully in his lap, and a spoon pressed into his hand. He took a spoonful of whatever it was and sniffed cautiously before taking a bite. It was a good stew of some kind, hearty and reasonably flavorful. Mutton, probably. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He ate voraciously, scraping the bowl until he was sure he’d gotten it all.

Geralt remained quiet. And typical though that was for the man, Jaskier began to wonder if the Witcher was deliberately avoiding the question he himself had been tip-toeing around. He felt Geralt remove his bowl, heard him set it aside and fiddle with some other things—bottles and jars, sounded like—and the words tumbled out of him before he’d really decided he was ready.

“Will my eyes be okay?”

He was met with silence, and that answer spoke loudly enough to pop the tiny bubble of hope he’d been nursing.

“Oh.” His fingers began to fidget, tapping faster and faster as he tried to process, tried to swallow what that really meant. Gods, his sight, he was blind, what was he going to do? Geralt would leave him somewhere to be tended, and that would be the end of everything—

A large hand dropped over his wrist, calming his anxious tapping and interrupting his panicked spiral of thoughts.

“Kikimore acid is made to blind,” said Geralt quietly. “We’ll find a mage. See if they can do anything more, but…” His voice trailed off, and Jaskier took pity on the man’s lack of communication skills.

“But it’s unlikely. I understand.” He was grateful his voice did not wobble, even as there was a ringing in his ears and his chest tightened almost painfully.

“Jaskier…”

“It’s all right, Geralt. I just—I think I’d like to be alone for a bit, if it’s all the same to you.” He rolled over onto his good side, turning his back on the Witcher and curling into himself.

Geralt said nothing. But after a moment his footsteps retreated, paused a moment, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Jaskier stayed that way for a long time, lost in the dark recesses of his own mind. Ugly thoughts wove grasping threads around his grief, strangling him with the knowledge of his own worthlessness as dry sobs wracked his body. A mangled, primal sound of jagged sorrow and fear scraped its way from his chest to his throat and he bit hard on his knuckles to stifle it, smothered where no one could witness. Time unraveled and voices of his past clawed into the present with a chilling familiarity that tore at everything he had forged himself to be. You are a useless burden, naught but a fool. You will be abandoned and alone, unknown and unwanted.

Wrapped in the gaping darkness that had swallowed him, Jaskier relinquished himself to the tide of emotions that flooded his being, washed away in a deluge that echoed with broken chords and dissonant notes.

**********************************

Geralt glared at his tankard, not even bothering to sip at the ale within any longer. Not that it was bad—he’d had far worse, many times, without complaint. But today it was only a distraction, an excuse to occupy the shadowed corner table for hours of the afternoon, and he had no desire to drink more.

The memory of Jaskier turning away from him prickled at his mind, needling insistently at tender spots he’d prefer to ignore. Not for the first time he cursed his failure to communicate as others did. He’d known what Jaskier was going to ask, had been waiting for the question since the moment he saw his face after the battle in the swamp. But he did not have the bard’s way with words. His thoughts always tangled on their way to his mouth, wrapping around his tongue and stumbling out clumsily. And that was assuming he even knew what to think in the first place.

He didn’t know what to think.

He remembered the feeling of holding Jaskier in the woods, human heartbeat drumming a steady rhythm under his hand, the warmth of another body against his own. He remembered Jaskier relaxing against him, without fear or hesitation, only trust.

Now the bard was shuttered away, and Geralt found himself craving the closeness–a desire that sparked alarm in his chest and made the muscle in his jaw twitch. He was a Witcher, made to walk his Path alone. He was not supposed to get attached, not supposed to be distracted by emotions or desires or the affairs of men. He took contracts, killed monsters, got paid in coin, and moved on.

But he couldn’t move on. He kept circling back to Jaskier like a drowning man chasing a gasp of fresh air, and he didn’t even know why.

The one thing he did know was that the thought of Jaskier leaving him to walk the Path alone once more stabbed at some deep rawness buried behind his naval, sinking heavily into a pit of something unfamiliar, something suspiciously like…dread. His nostrils flared with irritation at the very idea of such a fear. Everyone left, in the end. Geralt had learned that lesson early, and often, and he’d never forgotten—wrapped the knowledge of his need for self-sufficiently about himself like a cloak against the winds of temporary presences swirling around and past him.

He had always known Jasker would leave eventually, whether by choice or by the steady onward march of his mortality. The bard would live the rest of his days as a blind man now, and Geralt would carry the weight of that failure with him forever, just as he carried the weight of Renfri’s death, and so many other mistakes—countless faces with empty eyes that haunted his dreams.

Jaskier would leave him soon. That was inevitable now. But Geralt was resolved to be selfish, just a little longer. He would not ask the bard outright where he wanted to be delivered to settle into his new life. He would wait for Jaskier to tell him. And in the meantime, he would try to make the most of the time they had left.

With that thought echoing hollowly, Geralt rose from his table and headed toward the stairs.

The Witcher paused halfway through the door to their room as his sensitive nose was assaulted with a wave of heady emotions—the bitter, salty, earthy scent of mingled sorrow and grief, and through it all the sour stench of fear. His nose wrinkled with distaste. He was well accustomed to the reek of human fear in his presence, but not from Jaskier.

Geralt took a moment to exhale, clearing his senses. Jaskier was still curled in the same position he’d left him in hours ago. He was quiet and still, though his heartbeat and breathing lacked the smoothness of sleep.

“I uh…” Geralt paused, cleared his throat, tried again. “I thought you might like a bath.” It was even true. But he was also impatient to wash away the reek of fear, if he could.

Jaskier was quiet, and for a moment Geralt feared he might pretend he had not heard. But then the bard gave the barest of nods, and Geralt felt his shoulders relax a bit with relief.

It didn’t take long for the inn’s strong-armed maids to fill the wooden wash tub with large buckets of steaming water. Geralt nodded his thanks as they left, then turned to Jaskier.

“Do you want to try to stand?” he asked, trying for something between a suggestion and a request. Jaskier slowly uncurled himself and rolled over, levering himself up with a slight wince and swinging his legs around until he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I could use a hand,” he admitted softly.

“Of course.” Geralt slipped his left arm around Jaskier’s back and lifted his right under the bard’s own right arm so he would know it was there to grab on. Jaskier exhaled as he got to his feet for the first time in days, taking a moment to shakily adjust to stiff legs. Then his grip tightened on Geralt’s arm as he realized he didn’t know where to go—clearly struck for the first time with the feeling of being stranded without the ability to see where he was going.

“Take your time,” murmured Geralt as he gently moved forward, giving Jaskier at least some semblance of feeling in control even as he guided him. They stopped a couple paces from the bath, and Geralt pulled away. Jaskier took the hint and began undressing until he stood bare, all modesty between them having been discarded years ago after countless baths in streams and inns alike. Geralt gently unwrapped the bandages, humming with satisfaction at how much work the healer’s salves had done. The marks of his wounds were still slightly puffy, but covered in shiny new pink skin that would soon fade to scars.

Jaskier did not try to open his eyes. It was probably just as well—the healer had been treating them daily to reduce the swelling, but exposure to air at this point would probably still be painful. But more poignantly, he suspected Jaskier was not yet ready to face opening his eyes to darkness. He didn’t blame him.

“The bath is a couple feet ahead of you,” said Geralt. “I won’t let you fall.” He kept a steadying hand on Jaskier’s back, more for the comfort of contact, as the man reached out hesitantly in front of him. His groping fingers grabbed at the side of the basin and he eased himself slowly into the water, hissing slightly at the temperature as he adjusted. Then his muscles unclenched and he began to relax, the heat smoothing away the tension knotted beneath his skin.

Geralt silently fetched Jaskier’s favorite juniper soap from his bag, grabbing a cloth and working it into a lather before reaching for the bard. Jaskier startled when Geralt began to massage along his shoulders, gently scrubbing away a week’s worth of grime.

“I could do that myself,” Jaskier said quietly, his voice weighted with something Geralt couldn’t quite read. The Witcher hummed.

“You could,” he agreed.

“You don’t have to.” Geralt paused, but Jaskier wasn’t pulling away, and there was a hint of a question in the slight tilt of his head.

“I want to,” he said, the admission spilling from his chest in a rumble. “Is that all right?”

“Yes...yes, of course.”

Geralt hadn’t bathed another person before, not like this. But he recalled the times Jaskier had tended him after difficult hunts, and tried to apply what he remembered. He massaged gently with both hands along the lines of the bard’s muscles, unrushed and thorough, paying careful attention to every inch of skin he could reach.

“I’m sorry,” said Geralt as he rubbed his way slowly along each of Jaskier’s long fingers.

“Whatever for?” Jaskier’s look of surprise made something inside him twist even further. Did he really not know?

“For earlier,” he said slowly, poking through his words in his head in an attempt to shape them properly. “I didn’t...I should have…” He swallowed, frustration bubbling in his throat. “I wanted that conversation to go differently.”

Jaskier’s mouth curled in a wry smile.

“I don’t expect eloquence from you, Geralt,” he said gently. His voice was soft and rounded on the edges, drifting to settle around Geralt’s shoulders the way the bard liked to throw a friendly arm over him. It could have sounded harsh, from someone else, but not Jaskier. He made it gentle, accepting the Witcher as he was. Geralt thought about that for a moment, and Jaskier let him.

“In truth,” Jaskier continued after giving him a minute to process, “It wouldn’t have mattered if it had gone differently. This... is going to be hard. You can’t change that.”

Geralt hummed. He gently rinsed the soap from Jaskier’s face, taking care not to rub at the tender new skin. Before he even realized what he was doing, he traced calloused fingertips along the bard’s cheek, wondering distantly at the circumstances that brought his battle-roughened hands to touch Jaskier’s soft human skin so gently, without the sour scent of fear flooding his nostrils. Then he pulled away.

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.” The words were bitter on his tongue, and made his skin crawl with cold derision. He did not bother to hide the twist of self-disgust that pulled at his face. Jaskier couldn’t see it anyway.

The bard froze.

********************************

Jaskier bit back a shudder as Geralt’s fingertips ran lightly along his face, relishing the prickle of heat the soft contact left against his skin. His mind stuttered to a halt as all else faded away, lost in a moment that flowed thick and slow as honey. Geralt had never touched him like that before, except perhaps in a few dreams he kept buried deep in his memories where they could not tempt him.

Then the Witcher abruptly pulled away, and the loss of contact made his skin feel suddenly chilled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.” The words were hard and bitter, and Jaskier could picture the muscle in Geralt’s jaw twitching, see the twist of his mouth that curled when he felt guilty.

Guilt.

Jaskier’s heart drummed as his stomach sank down into the base of the tub, his shoulders tensing as he froze. Of course Geralt was being so kind, being tender. He felt guilty. Jaskier had seen before the power guilt could hold over Geralt, driving him to extreme lengths to compensate. This softness meant nothing. He was still a burden, still an inconvenience. Geralt would still leave him, once the guilt had faded to a more manageable ache instead of the sharp sting clearly needling him now.

Jaskier grappled for words, knowing Geralt was waiting for a response of some kind. What was he supposed to say? They both knew it was his own rash impulsivity that had landed him here, and the Witcher could hardly have done anything more. The fact that he was alive at all was thanks to Geralt. Jaskier owed it to the man to relieve him of his guilt, and he would not deny him. But once he did, once Geralt had made his peace with it, that would be the end. He would leave Jaskier somewhere to burden someone else and grope his way through the world in darkness, and how could a blind man track down a Witcher?

He heard Geralt’s footsteps moving and panicked for a moment, but then a hand was gently pressing on his head.

“Tilt back.”

Jaskier did, and Geralt poured more warm water carefully over his hair, running his fingers through the strands to comb out tangles. He smelled mint—Geralt must have fetched his favorite oil—and felt the man’s fingertips rubbing lightly at his scalp. Jaskier swallowed. He owed it to his friend to be brave, to give him the reassurance he needed to let go.

“It’s not your fault,” he said softly. The fingers in his hair stilled.

“Hm.” Geralt’s hum was thick with skepticism. That wouldn’t do. Jaskier turned and grabbed for Geralt’s arm, holding his wrist.

“I mean it, Geralt. It’s not your fault.” There was silence, and Jaskier wished desperately that he could see the man’s face. He forced a smile, trying for something lighter. “Come on, when have you ever been able to save me from my own recklessness?” Geralt snorted softly, then paused again.

“Hmm.” It was a hesitant sound, still edged with doubt, but closer to acceptance. Large hands turned him gently back around and resumed working the oil through his hair, the fresh scent of mint a bright note in the air.

It was the fresh breath that Jaskier needed, slicing through the fog that had been choking his mind. Geralt would walk the path he always had, and Jaskier would not keep him from it. But he would treasure the time they had left. Geralt had mentioned taking him to find a mage, so they had at least a little time. Jaskier was determined to make the most of it.

Chapter Text

Jaskier wasn’t sure what he had expected of the first couple weeks after leaving Sarton. Feeling constantly stranded and afraid without sight to guide him, certainly. Boredom, perhaps. Disconnection from the world around him, with the loss of all that he had so reveled in seeing. And despite Geralt’s mention of heading to find a mage, he had certainly expected to be left behind somewhere.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise the first morning Geralt steered him to Roach’s side and grunted “Mount up” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Of course he couldn’t follow on foot as he always had, so it should have been a predictable change. Geralt walked next to him, leading Roach, and it was odd to hear his hummed responses to Jaskier’s babble from below instead of above.

What was a surprise, however, was the vibrant engagement Jaskier felt with the world around him. Yes, he missed the colors and the views. He missed watching birds in flight and admiring shapely figures of all genders, missed the rosy blush of sunrise and the last golden streaks of sunset. He missed watching the dancing flames of their campfire, and looking up at a night sky speckled with so many stars he felt dizzy with the scope of it. And above all he missed being able to see Geralt—the quirks of his lips and twitches of his brows that said so much more than the man ever spoke with words.

But in other ways Jaskier felt he was experiencing the world anew, shaped by scents and sounds and textures. He had always rather prided himself on his perceptive observation skills—after all, he relied on his attention to detail to enrich his songs (and to communicate with a certain laconic Witcher). And yet suddenly he found himself awash in a flood of sensory input that he had filtered out before, and the thrill of it made him feel strangely alive in a way he hadn’t expected. He missed his sight, of course he did, but now he almost shuddered to think how much he’d been missing before.

He hadn’t realized Roach’s scent could smell familiarly distinct from a horse in the next stall, or that he could taste petrichor in the air so long before a storm actually arrived overhead. He’d long known the sound of Geralt’s footsteps and how his natural musky scent mingled with the rich aroma of leather, but now he could follow them easily in a crowded tavern, could detect the earthy undertone that lingered about the Witcher as if years in the woods had seeped into his pores so deeply that no amount of scrubbing would remove its clinging essence. Jaskier loved it, often breathing in deeply and letting the scent roll across his tongue.

And the sounds! He had always listened sharply to the world around him, enamored with the music of life and of the land itself. He’d had a sharp ear since childhood, further fine-tuned by years of musical training. But now he was immersed in the melodies of the earth and sky, the rhythm of his own breath harmonizing with the gurgling of forest streams and the whisper of wind in the trees and the steady beat of Roach’s hooves in the dirt. He had long navigated the world by sound, in his own way, and now as that became a more literal necessity he felt almost as if he’d discovered a lost piece of himself he hadn’t realized was missing.

That said, he also had more mishaps than he could count, from knocking over a tankard as he gesticulated in a tavern to tripping over roots every time they stopped to make camp. He collected bruises faster than he could keep track of them, bumping into things and knocking his elbows and stumbling on uneven ground. It took some practice for Geralt to remember all the changes, too—one notable evening he strolled right out of the stable and left Jaskier stranded without a clue where to go, returning for him a minute later with a sheepish apology. But they tried to be patient with one another, and succeeded more often than not.

And so on they went. Geralt seemed to have a destination in mind because they never stopped anywhere longer than one night, always moving steadily onward, but Jaskier could never quite bring himself to ask where they were heading. So he babbled and sang as he always had, filling the silences. He mourned what he’d lost and reveled in what he’d gained. He had some dark nights where his tears flowed openly and sorrow consumed him, and moments when fear dug its claws deep into his insecurities, and times when he felt utterly lost and alone. And there were other moments when he felt simply grateful to still be alive, to have more time to experience what it meant to exist in the world. So perhaps, despite the rhythm changes, life’s song continued as it always had in a rolling melody of highs and lows and every note in-between.

One day not long after one of his root-tripping episodes, Geralt returned to the room they’d rented for the night and told Jaskier to remove his worn dust-coated boots. Mystified, Jaskier sat on the bed and did so, and was surprised when something—or two somethings—were shoved onto his lap.

“New boots?” he asked, puzzled. Not that he wasn’t pleased by the gesture, but his current ones were still serviceable, especially since he’d been riding Roach instead of walking all day.

“Just put them on.”

Jaskier slipped the first one on cautiously, and was immediately surprised. Instead of a rigid sturdy base it had a softer leather sole, flexible like court shoes—the kind of footwear Geralt had scoffed at him for wearing, once upon a time, before he wisened up and invested in boots that would hold up longer than a week on the road. Geralt had still grumbled that he sacrificed durability for the sake of style, but Jaskier had only grinned and said that he’d rather replace them once a season than detract from his outfits.

Geralt grunted as Jaskier stood, wiggling slightly to get the feel of the new leather, supple though it was.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, quite comfortable indeed, but...I don’t understand. I thought you said soles like this were useless.”

“Hmm. Turns out they have a use after all.”

Jaskier frowned, trying to work out what the man was talking about. Really, did he always have to be so opaque? Geralt huffed a sigh. There was a moment of rummaging, then a softer sound of cloth hitting the floor.

“Walk towards me.”

He did so cautiously, still not sure what he was supposed to be noticing. The boots were comfortable, the leather flexible and well-shaped to his foot, yet reinforced enough to be more durable than most soft-soled footwear. He hesitated as he took a step and felt a ridge of some kind under his foot—a pile of something soft. Jaskier bent down and picked up the shirt Geralt had dropped there.

Suddenly he realized what the Witcher was telling him, and his face cracked into a grin.

“I can feel what’s under my feet!” he said in a rush, the words tumbling out of him as his mind spun with the implications. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course he’d trip less if he could better feel the ground beneath his feet. And since he was riding most of the time these days, they wouldn’t wear out as fast as they would have before.

“Geralt, thank you!” He stepped forward until he smelled the man’s musky scent and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Geralt stiffened for a moment, then tentatively rested his hands against Jaskier’s back, holding him for a moment as if not sure he was allowed.

“Hmm.” He sounded pleased.

Jaskier was almost vibrating in the saddle with barely-contained excitement as they approached the gates of Maribor at last, ignoring Roach’s huff of annoyance at his squirming. After weeks of camping in the woods and backcountry taverns with lousy ale, he was very much looking forward to the vibrancy and excitement of a bustling city. As always, Geralt was less than thrilled with the prospect of entering a crowded area. But his pauldrons were getting too worn to continue mending, and some of his potion ingredient supplies were low, and Roach could use new shoes. And besides, Jaskier had reminded him cheerfully, most cities usually had a few contracts for a willing Witcher.

Before long they had settled Roach into the stable at an inn, deposited their things in a room bought for the night, and finished a light lunch in the tavern. The ale was good and the food even better, and Geralt had already picked up word of a potential contract for ghouls in the cemetery just outside the city walls.

Jaskier kept one hand on Geralt’s shoulder for guidance as they made their way towards the market soon after, his soft-soled boots helping him avoid tripping on uneven cobblestones, though he suspected the Witcher was carefully avoiding the worst spots. The morning’s clouds had parted to reveal a hot afternoon sun that beat down upon the wide streets of Maribor, travelers and residents alike seeking refuge from the heat in any bit of shade they could find. Jaskier generally thought he managed warm temperatures rather well, but already he could feel the sweat beading on the back of his neck.

Geralt wove his way confidently along the maze of side streets, the buzz of voices growing louder as they approached the Market District. They stepped at last into the main square, and the noise swelled in a sudden burst of jumbled sounds bouncing off the surrounding buildings—merchants calling, shoppers bartering, children shrieking, and the pulsing drone of many voices babbling and gossiping and arguing. Jaskier almost stumbled, disoriented by the press of sound against his head from all sides, instinctively inching closer to Geralt as the Witcher made his way through the late summer crowds. He cringed from the cloud of smells that assaulted his nose as they walked, the pleasant aromas of flowery perfumes and spice displays and roasting pork sausages blending into a blurred haze with the stench of animals, piss, and too many sweaty humans in one area. The scents coated his tongue and flooded his throat, making him choke. A dog barked sharply, and sweat was trickling down his back, and the rough shoulders of passers-by knocked him about, and it was all too much, too much, and his breath was clenching in his chest. His body felt far away and he was drowning, dizziness swamping his mind in the constant press of noise and odors and heat until he couldn’t move his feet any further, frozen in place by the overwhelm gripping his airway in an icy vice from the inside—and before he could think to prevent it, his hand had slipped from Geralt’s shoulder.

Panic washed over him like a wave, until he gradually became aware of a familiar voice filtering through his hazy grasp on reality. There were steady hands on his shoulders and Jaskier grabbed for the arms that must be connected to them. His fingertips felt the ridges of scars on warm skin, and somehow that detail clarified the voice until the words began to make sense.

“...breathe, Jaskier, you’re all right.”

Jaskier gripped Geralt’s wrists like a lifeline anchoring him in a storm as the waves of panic threatened to drag him under. He whimpered as the hands shifted, breaking his grasp, but then they were holding his shoulders from behind instead of in front, urging him forward. Soothed by the feeling of Geralt’s presence close behind him, Jaskier allowed himself to be steered. He could feel a pleasant coolness fall over his skin as they moved into the shade, the Witcher guiding him down what must be a back alleyway that wrapped behind one of the buildings on the periphery of the market square, halting once the noise had become muffled.

“You’re safe, Jaskier.”

********************************

Safe in a back alley away from the hustle and bustle of the crowded market square, Geralt eyed Jaskier with concern. The man was breathing in ragged gasps, his voice unusually absent and his shoulders rigid. The Witcher silently berated himself; he of all people should have expected this, knowing first-hand what it felt like to have newly-sharpened senses overwhelmed with too many stimuli at once. But it was too late now. Jaskier was lost in the dark recesses of his mind, and Geralt wasn’t sure his words were getting through to the bard. He recalled Vesemir slapping him at such times—not terribly hard, but enough to break through the overwhelm and draw his focus. That wasn’t a good option for Jaskier, but…touch, it reminded him. Jaskier is grounded by touch.

Slowly, hoping it was the right thing, Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and pulled him close. He could feel the man trembling against him and focused on breathing slowly and deeply, hoping Jaskier would begin to match his rhythm. It was one of the first things children at Kaer Morhen were taught—when emotions rise, stop to breathe. Gradually the stiff set of Jaskier’s spine began to soften, his trembling easing. The bard let his head sag, burying his nose in the crook of Geralt’s neck. His breathing gradually evened to match the Witcher’s, and they stood quietly that way for some time.

Geralt tried not to think about how comfortable it was. Jaskier needed touch to ground him; that was his only motivation in initiating such contact. He remembered holding the bard by the tree in the woods, what felt like ages ago. He’d been keeping Jaskier from tearing his stitches, then. And now he was keeping him from losing himself to panic. It wasn’t about Geralt, it was about what Jaskier needed.

So why, then, did the skin on his neck tingle pleasantly where Jaskier’s nose brushed against it, his breath stirring lightly at Geralt’s hair? Why did he feel a ripple of satisfaction at the way his arms fit neatly around the man’s slender figure, their chests pressed together and their breathing synchronized? It was...nice. Touching Yen had never been like this. Being close to her was all fire and driven movement, frantic kisses and rushed sex. It wasn’t tender, and it wasn’t about comfort. But this— Jaskier trusted him, he knew that. Knew from the way the bard never stank of fear directed at him, the way his posture relaxed in his presence, the way he teased without concern at having his head ripped off. But his willingness to seek comfort in Geralt when Jaskier was at his most vulnerable was...unsettling. Confusing. And nice.

At last Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt ignored the odd sense of loss that unfurled under his skin, consciously choosing not to examine it too closely.

“I’m sorry,” said Jaskier quietly, brow furrowed. “I...don’t know what came over me.”

“You don’t need to be,” Geralt replied evenly. “Markets are a lot.”

“But it’s never bothered me before!” Jaskier’s voice swelled with frustration.

“But not since you lost your sight.”

“I–” Jaskier trailed off, rubbing at his forehead. “Yes, I suppose.”

“Your other senses are sharper now.” Geralt frowned, choosing his words with care. “It will take time to adjust.” He watched the bard carefully as his words sank in, and saw the moment their implied meaning truly registered for Jaskier.

“Is this what it was like for you? After…”

Geralt hummed. “Yes and no,” he replied at last. “Kaer Morhen was at least isolated in the mountains, so there was less around to begin with. But after the Trial of the Grasses… everyone needed time to adjust.” His mouth quirked down to one side. “Everyone who survived, that is.” He hesitated, thinking back to all those years ago, trying to remember what it was like. They were memories he usually preferred to forget. “It was—painful. My first time in a big city was horrible.”

“And now?” Jaskier’s voice was soft.

“I still don’t like it,” Geralt admitted frankly. “But I have learned to live with it. As you will, with time.”

Geralt watched Jaskier consideringly, from the furrow between his brows to the fingers tapping absently against his leg as he thought. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he still had something to offer the bard after all, a way that he could help more than others might. It was a dangerous thought.

********************************
Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn. Five steps.

Jaskier paced the small room they’d rented at The Golden Donkey, his footsteps drumming a steady rhythm across the creaking old wooden floor. Geralt was off on a contract, doubtless enjoying the excuse to get out and hack at things with his sword instead of playing babysitter to a blind bard.

Jaskier’s fists curled, fingernails biting into his palms as his steps quickened, echoing with his frustration. He’d been trying so hard to minimize the burden he placed on the Witcher as they traveled, blundering his way through navigating their campsites and rented rooms without asking Geralt for guidance more than he could help it. He was clinging to borrowed time, he knew—surely it wouldn’t be much longer before Geralt left him somewhere for good. But he was trying, until his little meltdown over nothing at the market had thrown all his efforts away. His stomach curled in a sickly pit behind his navel, reaching dark tendrils up to wrap around his chest and claw at his throat. Melitele bless, what must Geralt think of him? The Witcher had made it clear early on in their travels together that he didn’t want to be needed. ‘I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.’ Oh yes, Jaskier remembered those words clearly. And now here he was, having fallen apart in public and relied on Geralt for something so small as remembering how to breathe.

Feeling suddenly trapped by the warm stale air in the room, he made his way toward the wall—cursing when he bumped his shin on the bedpost along the way—and followed it until he found the window shutters, throwing them open with a sigh of relief at the cool nighttime breeze that greeted him. He drank in the fresh air, letting it soothe the heat that prickled along his skin. The streets were mostly quiet, the earlier raucous laughter from the tavern below now mostly faded as drunken patrons staggered home for the night. It was late, and Geralt would probably be back before much longer.

Jaskier leaned on the windowsill, letting the breeze ruffle his hair and lick at the bare skin of his arms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. Slowly his frustration eased, leaving behind only the wistful taste of regret and reluctant acceptance of his fate. What good was he to a Witcher, anyway? He hadn’t even been performing recently to bring in extra coin. Perhaps it would be better if he simply told Geralt to leave him with the Sisters of Melitele. They’d take him in until he could figure something else out. At least that way he could part with Geralt on good terms, instead of waiting until the Witcher ran out of patience and became irritably sharp. It was a good plan—if only the thought didn’t make grief claw at his insides and shred his willpower to ribbons.

Jaskier spun at the sound of familiar footsteps in the hall. Geralt was surprisingly light on his feet for a large, solid man, so his heavier steps alone spoke of weariness—or injury. The creak of the door opening and closing was immediately followed by the scent of death.

“Geralt! How’d it go?” Jaskier automatically moved towards him and then stopped, tapping his fingers absently against his leg as he wished he could examine the Witcher for wounds. Geralt only grunted, carefully setting his sword aside and kicking his boots into the corner, just as he always did. It was a familiar routine, and Jaskier could picture every movement perfectly. He reached out before he could change his mind and the Witcher stilled, Jaskier’s fingers tracing grime-coated leather until he found the familiar ties.

“You don’t—” Geralt began, but Jaskier cut him off.

“Hush.”

And to his surprise the Witcher did, standing quiet and still as Jaskier’s clever, dexterous fingers made quick work of the ties and buckles, setting each piece of armor in a pile at his feet. He’d done this before, plenty of times—had even done it in the dark, once, when Geralt returned from a hunt with his pupils still blown and light-sensitive from his potions. So doing it now without his sight wasn’t much of a problem at all, really. Letting the final piece slip to the floor, the bard ran careful hands lightly down Geralt’s shoulders to his arms, feeling for any obvious injuries. The Witcher shuddered slightly, but did not pull away.

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier asked.

“No.”

“Are you lying?”

There was a faint huff, the barest ghost of a laugh. That was a good sign.

“No.”

“Alright then. There’s a bath waiting for you.”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s hum held a rumbling note of gratitude and Jaskier smiled, stepping aside to let the man move towards the tub. He’d had the maids fill it not too long before, and knew the water should still be warm enough. The slight splashing as Geralt sank into the wooden basin was quickly followed by a satisfied groan.

Jaskier gave Geralt a few minutes to scrub the gore from his skin before rummaging in his own pack for the small vial of mild pine-and-herb scented oil that Geralt liked—or at least, that didn’t make him wrinkle his sensitive nose in disgust. Then Jaskier padded over towards the bath, listening carefully to guide his steps without going too far and tripping into the tub. He situated himself behind Geralt without too much trouble, and began the familiar process of combing oil-slicked fingers through his dirty hair, untangling the snarls and removing lingering bits of dirt and goodness knew what else. Geralt let him, but his shoulders were stiff.

“You’re awfully tense,” Jaskier commented quietly. “Was it a difficult fight?”

“No.”

Jaskier began gently massaging the oil into Geralt’s scalp, humming softly. Enough to fill the silence, but leaving an opening in case the Witcher wanted to say more. He let his fingers slide down to rub lightly behind the man’s jaw, rewarded with a long exhale as Geralt softened into his touch.

“There was a child,” said Geralt finally, his voice rough. “Dead. Not more than an hour or two before I got there.” He sighed. “Guess the ghouls got there first.”

Jaskier’s fingers stilled. He laid a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

“Oh, Geralt. I’m sorry.”

The Witcher hummed in response, and Jaskier returned to his task. Fishing the carved bone comb he’d bought Geralt years ago from the pocket he’d tucked it in earlier, he began working it through the long strands. No wonder the man was tense. He would have reported the corpse to someone, and Jaskier knew from past hunts that people rarely took such news kindly from the mouth of a Witcher. There was nothing he could say that Geralt didn’t already know—it wasn’t his fault, just a poor coincidence of timing. But that didn’t make it easier to swallow the untimely death of a child.

At last Jaskier patted Geralt’s shoulder and set the comb aside.

“All set.” He corked the vial of oil and moved to put it away, leaving Geralt to dry himself and dress.

Jaskier startled slightly when large hands came to rest on his shoulders from behind a couple minutes later. Sweet Melitele, that man could move quietly.

“Thank you,” Geralt rumbled softly. Jaskier tried not to preen at the words, but he could not ignore the warmth that seeped into his bones as he memorized the sound. Geralt had never thanked him for tending his hair before—not with words, anyway, rather than a nod or grunt.

Jaskier turned to face the Witcher. Not that it really mattered, he supposed, except it did, because this was important.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said quietly, biting his lip. “At the market. I never wanted to be a burden.” There was a beat of silence, and he wished desperately that he could see Geralt’s face.

“You aren’t a burden.” The words were gentle but firm, and Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with them. He frowned and opened his mouth to respond, but a finger pressed against his lips, silencing his protests before they could tumble out. “You are not a burden,” Geralt repeated, slower this time, each word emphasized clearly. The finger dropped, and for once Jaskier was scrambling for words.

“I thought you didn’t want to be needed,” he whispered at last, fragile and hesitant. Vulnerability blossomed in his chest, his heart beginning to drum a faster rhythm—and he had no doubt the Witcher would notice. Jaskier felt as much as heard Geralt exhale a soft puff of a sigh, and then warm hands were cupping his neck, and to his shock the man rested his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“I didn’t,” he agreed softly, and what was Jaskier supposed to think of that, with their heads pressed together in a show of tenderness he’d never known from the man, and—

“I was wrong,” said Geralt. And Jaskier could feel how much he meant it, could feel the soft, earnest set of Geralt’s brow pressed against his own, the almost imperceptible tightening of warm hands cradling him like something precious, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. He wanted to ask if Geralt also now thought he’d been wrong about needing no one himself, but couldn’t seem to push the words past his throat. The moment stretched and wrapped around them both, anchored in the warmth of their contact and shared breath. Then Geralt pulled away, and Jaskier found himself adrift at the loss.

“It’s late,” said the Witcher. “You should get some rest.”

**********************************

Geralt’s eyes opened with the dawn, the sun’s early rays reaching golden fingers in through the open window to pull him from somewhere between sleep and meditation into wakefulness. He turned to look at Jaskier, who was snuffling in his sleep with a crease between his brows, one arm wrapped around his pillow. The bard muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his hand twitching. Geralt’s mouth curled fondly. Even in sleep Jaskier was neither quiet nor still.

It was a wonder, really, that he’d become used to sharing a bed with the man. It had started with the occasional huddling for warmth during cold nights under the stars, taking pity on Jaskier’s shivers and chattering teeth and pushing their bedrolls together. Then there was Geralt's reluctance to spend coin on rented rooms to begin with, let alone separate rooms for each of them whenever they stayed at an inn. So they shared, and the bard had never complained at the presence of a Witcher in the same bed. And somewhere along the way, his sleep-muffled mumbles and twitches and steady human heartbeat had woven their way into Geralt’s nighttime routine, a predictable warmth that grounded him in a peace he had rarely known in years of restless nights along the Path.

Nights with Yen had felt nothing like that. He’d thought they did, at first—finding in her a comfortable presence that allowed him to let go of some of the constant hyper-vigilance that hung about him like a cloak out in the wide world. And yet being around her required a particular attention of its own kind. They would circle each other like the predators they were before crashing together in a storm of blazing heat, all passion and intensity, swapping barbs and wary glances around the fierce press of lips and tongues and bodies. But there was none of the ease and trust he found in Jaskier. He’d never really minded that Yen thought only of herself; he knew it was her mechanism for survival in a cold world, and accepted it. But Jaskier, for all his vanity, was selfless in the tender care he showed for Geralt—treating him with a gentleness he’d never known at another’s hands. And he found himself experiencing new emotions that swelled behind his chest and pulsed with a gentle warmth that trickled along his veins, emotions he had no name for and didn’t know what to do with.

He still felt the pull toward Yen that always whispered under his skin, but it was beginning to feel like something very different—something that made an uneasiness rise in the shadows of his mind. Perhaps she’d been right, when she yelled at him back on that mountain top. Geralt pushed that thought aside to grapple with another time.

The city was stirring outside, the murmur of voices and the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones rising from the streets below. Geralt saw the moment the sounds roused Jaskier from his slumber, grumbling into his pillow with a frown before stretching his lanky form like a cat.

“G’ralt?” Jaskier’s voice was still husky and muddled with sleep.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier echoed blearily, a sleepy smile pulling at his lips. He scrubbed a hand across his face, the smile slipping back into a frown as his fingertips traced the puffy scars rising from his skin.

“Geralt?” he said again, sounding more awake now.

“Mm?”

“What does it look like?”

Geralt hummed, reaching over to gently trace his own fingers along the scars’ jagged edges. “Reddish. Still puffy. A bit ridged.” Jaskier bit his lip, the wrinkle back between his brows.

“And these?” he asked softly, opening his eyes to stare blankly towards Geralt.

“Milky,” said Geralt, his tone gentle but honest. Jaskier would not want falsehoods. “A hint of blue underneath. But mostly white-washed with the scarring.”

The bard sighed and tried to turn away, but Geralt kept his hand where it was, palm coming to rest against Jaskier’s cheek and anchoring him in place.

“You don’t have to hide,” he murmured. Jaskier’s mouth twisted to the side in disagreement, his white eyes gazing blankly over Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher huffed a sigh and grabbed Jaskier’s hand, wrapping around his index and middle fingers and bringing them to trace the scar above his own eyebrow, the one to the right of his eye, the ones on his neck and shoulders. Eventually he let go, allowing Jaskier to continue on his own. And he did, lute-calloused fingertips running feather-light along his skin to find them, from thin lines barely rising above the surface to thick ropy ones that twisted their surroundings into jagged ridges. Geralt’s skin was etched with tales of perseverance and survival, and Jaskier’s fingertips danced silently from story to story, mapping the ones he knew and the ones he didn’t.

“Do you think less of me for them?” asked Geralt.

“Of course not,” said Jaskier, and Geralt did not push. He’d made his point. He returned his own fingertips to Jaskier’s face, thumb drawing lightly along the splattered scarring under his eye.

“Is this why you haven’t been performing?”

Jaskier’s fingers stilled briefly, before continuing their idle exploration.

“Yes, a bit,” he answered slowly. “I’m still getting flexibility back in my hand, too, from the scarring on the back. But I suppose…” he paused, gathering his thoughts. “I wasn’t ready to become someone new. The moment I step up there now I’ll be known forever after as the Blind Bard, I’m sure.” His mouth quirked to one side. “I suppose it does have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Geralt knew Jaskier could read the amusement in his tone.

“But I haven’t been brave enough yet,” he continued with a sigh. “I’ll get there. I just...I don’t know.” Geralt exhaled, sorting through his words carefully.

“You always wear a mask when you perform,” he said finally. “Always reinventing yourself, playing a role.” He paused. “Maybe you just need to find the right mask.”

“That’s….very perceptive, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt wandered the market alone, his purse significantly lighter after purchasing the supplies he needed. The grumpy old apothecary had overcharged him, but at least he’d managed to haggle the prices down a bit. Now he had just one purchase left to make, if only he could find what he was looking for. He wandered the stalls idly, wrinkling his nose at the flood of smells and doing his best to block out the press of sound all around him. At last a stall caught his eye, and the woman tending it didn’t glare as he approached, so he examined her goods carefully. He knew he’d found what he was looking for the moment he saw it. He paid swiftly and tucked it away carefully amongst the other packages he held, feeling pleased with himself.

When he returned to their room Jaskier was running scales on his lute, humming to himself.

“Geralt! Find everything you needed?”

“I did.” Geralt packed his purchases away neatly, making sure everything would be ready to leave. He didn’t want to stay in this crowded city any longer than they had to, so as long as the farrier finished with Roach that afternoon, Geralt intended to return to the road the following morning. But he kept his last purchase back, and approached the bard.

“Got something for you.”

“A gift!” Jaskier set his lute aside and bounced up, all eagerness and smiles. Geralt took his hand and pressed the narrow black silk scarf into it, watching as Jaskier brushed it with curious fingertips, tracing the small embroidered dandelions.

“To help you find your mask,” Geralt said simply. “Just remember that you needn’t always wear it.” No need to belabor the point—Jaskier would understand his meaning.

The bard was silent, and for a moment Geralt feared he had misjudged horribly. His heart leapt with alarm as the man tilted his face up toward Geralt, tears trickling down his cheeks. But then Jaskier smiled, and threw his arms around Geralt.

“Thank you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Geralt, thank you. This means so much to me.” Geralt relaxed into his hold, patting his back lightly until Jaskier pulled away with a sniffle.

“What does it look like?” he asked.

“Black. With dandelions.”

Jaskier laughed joyfully, cradling the silk to his chest.

“I will treasure it.” Then his expression became thoughtful, and he returned to the bed to reach for his lute. “I’m out of practice,” he said mildly. “If I’m to think about performing again, I’d best get to it.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier was alive.

The music vibrated through his entire body, a warmth that pulsed through his veins as his fingers danced nimbly along the strings of his lute, pitching his voice to draw the audience in. He did not need to see their faces to know they were appreciative—he could hear them clapping and stomping along, drunken voices joining his own in the familiar chorus of a rowdy drinking song. It was getting late and he’d be wrapping up soon, leaving them on a high note before they stumbled home for a few hours’ sleep ahead of another day toiling in the lumber camp that was the village’s livelihood. He threaded his music through the air to wrap around his listeners, feeding them color and vibrancy and life to sustain them through the weariness of their hard labor.

He let the final chord hover in the air as he took a quick gulp from his ale on the bar where he’d left it, swiping a hand at the sweat on his forehead as the crowded tavern cheered and stamped and laughed, calling for more.

“Thank you, you’ve been a lovely audience!” said Jaskier cheerfully, flashing a charming grin. “I’ll leave you with one more before retiring for the evening, in honor of the man currently clearing up your drowner problem!”

His words were met by appreciative whoops and thumps of tankards on tables, and he struck a dramatic pose as he lifted the first chord of ‘Toss a Coin’ from his lute-strings and sent it spiraling lazily through the warm air.

“When a humble bard
Graced a ride along
With Geralt of Rivia
Along came this song…”

Jaskier pranced around his corner of the tavern as he sang, part of his mind set aside to guard his awareness of the physical space he had to work with—a skill Geralt had helped him develop, committing a space to memory before a performance so he wouldn’t go tumbling, just as the Witcher memorized a battleground before attacking his quarry. True, Jaskier didn’t peacock around as much as he used to, but at least he wasn’t standing stationary all evening either. A part of him missed weaving through the crowd as he sang, dancing and twirling in their midst with a friendly nod here and a saucy wink there. But he was more connected to his music than ever, more attuned to his audience as he read the sounds of the room and wove his music around them, plucking at heart strings and setting new tempos for moods to follow, allowing the definition of himself to melt at the edges as he became part of something greater.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher
O Valley of Plenty
O Valley of Plenty, oh
Toss a coin to your Witcher
A friend of humanityyy!”

His final high note soared to the rafters and Jaskier took a dramatic bow to great applause.

“Thank you, you’re too kind! Toss a coin to your bard, too, if you’ve enjoyed yourselves—into the case, if you don’t mind!” He gestured approximately toward his open lute case, and heard the satisfying clink of coins landing inside. “I bid you all a good night!”

He turned to lean on the bar, swigging the rest of his ale with relief. The heat of many bodies crowded inside on a summer evening made for a warm performance space, and he could feel the sweat trickling down the small of his back. For a moment the sounds and smells and heat pressed in on him in the absence of his music’s distraction, and he longed for a breath of fresh air.

He knocked his knuckles lightly on the bar.

“I’m going for some air, Alvin, keep an eye on my lute for me?”

“Of course, Master Bard.” The barkeep sounded in good spirits -- Jaskier’s performance had brought a good crowd, and it had doubtless been a profitable evening for them both.

Jasker felt his way to the nearby side door, silently thanking Geralt for his insistence that he always memorize the location of the nearest exit in case of a brawl or fire, and slipped out into the evening. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh outside air that tasted of meadowgrass and wildflowers, and relishing the cool puff of a breeze that hummed along the alleyway. The chorus of crickets and peepers drifting from the nearby woods made him smile, glad he wasn’t the only one singing on such a lovely evening. Leaning back against the building he contented himself with listening, simply being, enjoying the lingering bubbling happiness that buzzed through his body after a performance.

He could hear the drunken laughter and staggering footsteps as more people began to wander off to their homes for the night, most fading quickly.

Until some did not.

These voices were rougher, harsher, rubbing against the evening’s calm. Jaskier ignored them until he heard their heavy steps drawing closer, the voices growing louder.

“...it’s that bard,” one was saying, a little slurred but still clear. “The Witcher’s bard!” The steps came nearer, several of them.

Jaskier schooled his face into a friendly expression, muffling the alarm bells ringing in his mind.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it, gentlemen?” he said mildly.

“Aye, it’s him,” said another voice, low and unfriendly, and Jaskier did not need to see the man’s expression to hear the scowl that colored his tone. “Flowery prick.”

“Mutant-fucker,” said a third, followed by an ugly spitting sound.

The bard swallowed, groping with one hand for the handle of the door.

“We’ve no quarrel here,” he said placatingly, nostrils flaring with alarm as the smell of alcohol began to crowd him.

Rough hands pushed him back, away from the door, away from safety, and Jaskier’s heart began pounding in his throat.

“We’ve no need of Witcher scum here,” growled one of the men. “Or his whore, spoiling the air in our tavern with that shite.” Jaskier was shoved back again, harder, and he stumbled a bit before he was dragged back up by a large hand fisted in his doublet.

“Are you really blind? Or is that just an act to rob decent folk of their coin?”

Jaskier scrabbled against the hands that held him as they roughly dragged the scarf from his face.

“Please, there’s no need for this--”

“Hah, fucker really is blind, look at those milky whites!”

“Guess he can’t see this, then!”

A heavy fist socked the bard in the gut and he gasped, winded.

“Now really, I know you’re uncivilized swine, but that’s just low,” Jaskier spat. He hissed and staggered back again as another fist connected with his nose, tasting the blood that dribbled freely over his lips.

Jaskier swung one fist wildly, making an approximate guess and grinning at the grunted "oomph” as he connected with something solid. Bulky arms wrapped around him from behind, only to let go as he knocked his head back sharply into someone’s face. Another fist split his lip and he kicked out, spitting blood and baring his teeth like an animal. He was no fool, he knew he was about to be beaten to a pulp—but Jaskier was no coward, either, and he refused to go down without fighting back, lack of vision be damned.

Then a feral snarl shivered down the alleyway, and the fists stopped flying.

“It’s the Witcher!” yelped one of the men, and Jaskier began to laugh, blood still dripping from his nose and his lips, his knuckles burning where the skin had split.

“You’re fucked,” he chuckled, hearing Geralt’s familiar footsteps draw near, steps that were steady and confident and angry.

“Don’t touch my bard,” a deep voice growled fiercely, pulsing with fury.

“His eyes, the fuck….?” The man never finished his sentence. There was a fast series of hard thumps, a few moaned gasps, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. A low growl hovered in the quiet that followed, then there was a methodical series of four sharp cracks as the Witcher moved about. Jaskier was familiar enough with the sound of bone breaking to know it when he heard it.

“Geralt,” he said lightly, as if they’d simply crossed paths at the market. “Impeccable timing, I must say.”

The Witcher did not speak, but Jaskier could hear him breathing, getting himself under control, and then familiar hands grasped his shoulders.

“Are they…” Jaskier’s voice trailed off. There was a beat of silence.

“They’ll live,” Geralt rasped, his voice tense.

“That wasn’t their necks breaking, then?”

“No.” Geralt sounded almost disappointed beneath the anger still underlying his tone. “Their right arms.”

“Well that’s all right then,” said Jaskier with determined cheerfulness. “They won’t be punching anyone for a while, will they?”

Geralt rumbled again, his hands tightening on Jaskier’s shoulders.

The bard reached a hand up slowly, fingertips tracing the slightly raised vein pulsing hotly down Geralt’s forehead.

“I thought so,” he said calmly. “Potions still high in your blood, hm?”

There was an answering grunt, and he nodded.

“I know. Words are always harder when toxicity’s high, aren’t they? Not to worry. Let’s go in and clean up, yeah?”

A low hum was enough of an agreement, and Jaskier allowed Geralt to steer him towards the door, the Witcher keeping one hand protectively on his bard’s shoulder. After all, Jaskier was his bard. Geralt had said it himself, back there. ‘Don’t touch my bard.’ Jaskier would be lying if he claimed that hadn’t sent a shiver of joy through him from top to toes.

**********************************

The barkeep paled as they stepped inside, immediately reeking with the sour stench of fear that quickly spread throughout the now-quiet room. Geralt knew the sight they must make—a Witcher in muck-covered armor, eyes twin ink-black pools and dark veins spidered across the deathly pale skin of his face and neck, keeping an almost possessive hold on the shoulder of a bloody-faced and split-knuckled bard whose colorful clothes were dirt-streaked and sporting tears that had not been there earlier. Jaskier turned white eyes towards the bar and flashed what was probably supposed to be a cheerful grin, though if the barkeep’s reaction was anything to go by, his blood-stained teeth rather ruined the effect.

“My lute, Alvin, if you don’t mind.”

Geralt took the silently proffered instrument and pressed it into Jaskier’s hands, grabbing the case off a nearby table and fastening it to prevent the many coins clinking inside from escaping.

“Bucket of hot water,” he growled at the barkeep, rougher than he really meant, but everything was still too sharp, too loud, too bright, and words felt clumsy on his tongue. The man gulped and nodded, and Geralt steered Jaskier toward the stairs.

Soon he had Jaskier seated on the edge of the bed as Geralt probed gently at his nose.

“Not broken,” he mumbled, to Jaskier’s obvious relief. He went about cleaning the man up, wiping away the blood and rubbing salve over the splits on his knuckles.

Jaskier was surprisingly quiet through it all, whether subdued from the fight or simply being mindful of Geralt’s sensitive ears while his body burned the potion toxicity from his blood. With the bard taken care of, the Witcher began peeling off his armor and washing the gore from his own skin. He would have enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath, but he’d rather not spend the coin.

“I didn’t start it,” said Jaskier abruptly, and Geralt winced at the sudden noise.

He hummed in response, as he dried his hands and changed into his spare shirt. He’d expected as much—the bard had been a bit more cautious since...well.

“You did well,” murmured Geralt at last. Better than he would have expected for a blind man. Jaskier had taken to navigating by sound far quicker than Geralt would have anticipated, showing an aptitude for spatial memory and sensory recognition that surprised him in a human. But perhaps that was his own mistake—how often had he heard the bard tuning his lute, only satisfied after the minutest shifts that made no real difference to Geralt’s own ear? He of all people should know by now that there was a great deal to Jaskier hidden beneath the cheerful grins and flamboyance he projected.

“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Jaskier, but he was frowning, his brow furrowed in thought. “If you hadn’t…” His voice trailed off and he nibbled at his bottom lip, fingers tapping idly against his leg as they always did when he was turning something over in his mind.

Geralt watched him closely, eyes narrowed. He could hear the slight increase in the man’s heart beat, smell the faint tang of his uncertainty. Was he hurt? Had Geralt missed some injury? He sniffed the air carefully: no scent of blood, perhaps something internal? Jaskier didn’t seem in pain, but—

“I need you,” the bard blurted out, the words tumbling from him all at once like a river rushing through a broken dam. “You’ve been taking so many contracts, and I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make me more independent, give me space to get used to the changes,” he gestured vaguely at his face. “And I appreciate that, I do, but I still need you Geralt. I can’t do this alone, not anymore, and we both know I’d be a bloody pulp on the ground right now if you hadn’t come when you did, and…” He swallowed and licked his lips. “And I just need you to promise me, one thing, please just promise you’ll never leave me at Lettenhove. Drop me at Oxenfurt, or with the Sisters of Melitele, gods, even just some tavern in Novigrad. But please, don’t leave me in Lettenhove.” His voice held an edge of desperation Geralt hadn’t heard before, and there was a slight note of fear souring the air. Jaskier’s fingers were tracing the thin line of a barely-noticeable scar that ran across the back of his left hand. It had been there as long as Geralt had known him, and only now did it occur to him to really wonder where it was from. “Promise me, Geralt.” His voice was firm, determinedly steady, but forced.

Geralt carefully sat beside him on the bed. After a brief moment of hesitation he shifted slightly to let his arm press against Jaskier’s, the heat of the contact shocking his skin even through the thin linen and silk of their respective shirts. He bit back a shiver. It felt good—contact with a human had never felt like this before Jaskier, the simple touch flooding him with something that felt right in a way he could never have imagined, and— He realized he hadn’t answered Jaskier yet.

“I promise.” He felt Jaskier’s shoulders loosen with relief, exhaling a puff of breath he must have been holding. Was he really that afraid of his home? Geralt had never asked about Lettenhove before, and only now did he realize that for all his babble on every topic under the sun, Jaskier had been carefully tight-lipped about his childhood.

“Well, that’s that, then,” said Jaskier lightly, flashing the same cheerful grin he’d shown the barkeep downstairs, albeit without the blood this time. The smile he used to distract people, out in public. The smile that was fake. Geralt frowned.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered gruffly. The smile faltered.

“I...what?”

“That,” he said. “That smile you show other people. The fake one.” Jaskier looked surprised now. Geralt frowned, trying to wrangle his words properly. “It’s not...it’s not you. Not really. You don’t— there’s no need to perform here. Now. With… with me.”

Jaskier’s head was tilted slightly as his blank eyes stared through Geralt, and then his lips curled slightly into a small smile—a real one, that smoothed his forehead and pulled at the corners of his eyes.

“Hmm.”

For once, Geralt found himself sympathetic to Jaskier’s frequent exasperation with his own hummed responses.

“Do you want me to leave you somewhere?” he asked, the question sour on his tongue.

“No! I just thought…” Jaskier trailed off, and a faint blush dusted the tips of his ears and crawled down his neck. Geralt couldn’t keep his own shoulders from sagging a bit with relief, and judging by the pleased twitch of Jaskier’s mouth, it didn’t escape the bard’s notice.

“I needed the coin,” said Geralt carefully. Jaskier looked confused, and Geralt pushed himself to continue before the bard could interrupt. “The extra contracts. Not— because of what you said. I just needed the coin.”

“I...oh.” Jaskier’s fingers were tapping again as he thought. “Do you need some from me, Geralt? I’ve been earning well, you know, I’m happy to help—”

“No,” said Geralt, a little too quickly. “I— No. I should have enough now, after the drowner nests tonight.” So long as the seller he’d spoken to didn’t cheat him when he went back tomorrow with the promised money.

Jaskier hummed, looking a little skeptical, but he let it slide. Then he frowned.

“You’ve been overworking,” he said firmly. It wasn’t a question. “That’s why you needed so many potions for a drowner contract, of all things, isn’t it? You’re tired.”

Geralt grunted. He should have argued, could have, but it would be a waste of breath. Jaskier knew him too well, could read him too well, even without sight—a thought that was at once terrifying and oddly pleasing, with the same strange warmth that came from pressing their arms together. ‘You’ve gotten attached,’ grumbled Vesemir’s voice in the back of his mind. He ignored it.

“You are going to rest,” said Jaskier, standing and pushing against Geralt’s shoulders. Amused, the Witcher allowed the bard to nudge him to lie down. “And you are going to sleep. Actually sleep, not that meditation thing you do. And then you are going to take a few days off from contracts, and let me cover things now that you have enough for whatever it is you needed.” His tone dared Geralt to argue.

“Hmm.”

“Indeed.” Jaskier walked around the bed to crawl in on the other side. “Good night, Geralt.”

**********************************

Jaskier lay quietly, listening as Geralt’s breath gradually slipped into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. He knew the Witcher still didn’t sleep as deeply as most people, staying quick to awaken in case of attack. But at least he was resting. Jaskier blushed with warm pleasure at the gesture he knew it to be. The first few nights after he’d first started following the man, he had awoken during the night to see gleaming golden eyes watching him warily from across the campsite. Eventually Geralt began spending the nights kneeling in light meditation, eyes flying open with immediate concentrated awareness at the slightest sound. It had taken some time before he began laying out his own bedroll—not always fully sleeping, but at least comfortable enough to slip into something deeper than he’d shown around the bard before. Witchers didn’t need anywhere near as much sleep as humans did, Jaskier knew, though he’d been careful to take a few days away—or spend a night with a pretty bedmate in whatever town they were passing through—whenever Geralt seemed to be wearying and in need of a night to himself.

So now, as he lay listening to his Witcher sleep in truth beside him, Jaskier basked in the knowledge of the trust it showed. How few people would ever get to experience this side of Geralt, he wondered? Jaskier smiled to himself, and in that happy frame of mind, he slipped away towards sleep himself.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice pulled him back to wakefulness. He would have sworn it couldn’t be morning yet, but the sunshine warming his face disputed that thought. Jaskier turned to grumble into his pillow. He’d never been a morning person.

“I let you sleep in,” said Geralt, not without a hint of amusement. “It’s two hours past dawn. Time to move on.” And well, that was rather nice of him, Jaskier had to admit. Still, he wouldn’t have minded more. The things he put up with for the sake of this man.

He stretched sleepily, wincing at the lingering aches from the night before and hissing softly when he bumped a hand against his bruised nose. But all things considered, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He’d certainly had worse, on occasion, and doubtless would again.

Geralt smelled of horses, Jaskier noted as he dressed and splashed water over his face, accepting the bread and fruit juice the Witcher handed him with a grumble of thanks. He must have already been down to the stable, readying Roach. He’d been up for some time, then. Jaskier wondered idly if Geralt was even capable of sleeping past dawn, after a long lifetime of rising early.

“Did you make your purchase, then? Whatever you’ve been saving up for?” Jaskier couldn’t hide his curiosity. Whatever it was had to be expensive, given the amount Geralt seemed to have been saving. A new sword? Fresh armor? Something magically-enhanced, perhaps? Mage-work always cost an arm and a leg.

“I did.” Jaskier huffed at the lack of follow up information. Typical. He wished he could see whether anything was different about Geralt today.

The familiar aroma of leather and hay met them as they entered the stable. Jaskier stopped when he smelled Roach’s familiar scent, but Geralt kept a hand on his shoulder and urged him forward.

“Keep going,” he rumbled. Baffled, Jaskier took a few more steps, until Geralt halted him at what must be the next stall.

“Geralt?” he asked, confused.

“I want Roach back,” said the Witcher drily, and Jaskier could hear the hint of laughter hiding in his tone, backed with just a note of smugness. “This is your mount now.”

“I...what?” Jaskier turned to the Witcher, shock buzzing in his ears and fizzling down his arms. “You bought me a horse?”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier moved closer until he brushed the half-door of the stall and held out a tentative hand. A velvety nose immediately pressed into his palm, huffing a warm breath against his fingers. The bard grinned. The horse moved to inspect his face, whiskers tickling his chin, before butting lightly against his chest.

“I think we’ll get along very well,” Jaskier said with a chuckle, burying his face against his horse’s neck and inhaling deeply, memorizing the scent.

“Geralt, I don’t know what to say,” he said hoarsely, turning back to the Witcher. “‘Thank you’ doesn’t even seem to cover it. You did all this for me?”

Geralt was quiet for a moment.

“It was time,” he said at last. “He’s no speedster, but he’s sound, and steady. Seller said he’s reliable and not easily spooked, inclined to follow other mounts. Should do well on the Path.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, hearing the meaning that hovered on the edges of Geralt’s words. The Witcher was telling him, in his own way, that he wanted Jaskier to stay with him. He wasn’t going to leave him somewhere; instead he had gone out of his way to give Jaskier the means to continue following along with him. Geralt always had preferred to speak through actions rather than words.

Jaskier pushed forward to wrap his arms around the man, and Geralt patted his back gently, if a little awkwardly, and said nothing about the wet spots Jaskier left on his shirt.

“He’ll need a name,” he realized as he pulled away. “What’s he look like, Geralt?”

“Sturdy gelding. Grey. Some faint dappling.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier returned to stroking his new mount’s nose as he thought, holding the image in his mind built on Geralt’s description. “I think I’ll call him Pegasus. What do you think of that, boy?” Pegasus snorted and left a smear of something on his shirt. Good enough. Geralt snorted too, and Jaskier turned on him with righteous indignation, nose raised haughtily as he poked the Witcher in the chest. “You, sir, have no grounds for judging my naming choices. You have named every horse you’ve had after the same small fish.”

“It’s a good name,” Geralt grumbled, and Roach huffed as if in agreement.

**********************************

Sunlight gleamed across the water as they crossed the old stone bridge over the river Trava, Pegasus following dutifully just off Roach’s flank. The mare flicked her tail at him with annoyance from time to time, particularly if he moved close enough to rub his nose against her, but otherwise tolerated his presence well enough. The placid gelding was unbothered, stolid in his willingness to simply follow without complaint. It was particularly fortunate given Jaskier’s habit of letting the reins lie slack on his horse’s neck in favor of strumming his lute in the saddle, as he was just then.

“What rhymes with basilisk, anyway? Whisk? Frisk? Hmm.” Jaskier tried a different chord, still muttering to himself.

Geralt tuned him out, letting the familiar chatter become part of the background noise. It was a beautifully mild day, a light breeze humming off the water to relieve the warmth of the afternoon sun. He watched the dipping, swooping flight of a swallow overhead with the echo of a smile tucked in the corners of his eyes, enjoying the calm. It took him a minute to realize Jaskier had asked him a question.

“What?”

“I said, where are we headed, anyway? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re focused on some destination, these last few days. I’m blind, not oblivious.”

“Brugge, I think,” said Geralt, feeling reasonably confident about the guess.

“You-- you think?”

“Mm.”

“Right. Brugge, you think. Because that makes perfect sense. Honestly, Geralt, a person would think you want to be confusing.” Jaskier huffed, grumbling to himself about broody Witchers being opaque and difficult. “Fine then. Why Brugge?”

Geralt stiffened slightly, listening to the bard strumming idle chords as he waited for an answer. He’d been hoping to avoid this particular line of inquiry until...well. As long as possible. He sighed.

“Yennefer.” He said simply, and winced at the discordant twang as Jaskier’s hand slipped against the lute-strings--whether a genuine slip or a dramatic statement, he couldn’t quite be sure.

“Right. Scary sorceress. Great.” Jaskier lapsed into sullen silence, and Geralt frowned.

“I thought we’d agreed on finding a mage.”

“And of all the mages across the Continent, the only one you could think of was her?” Jaskier’s tone was exasperated.

“She’s talented,” said Geralt, though even to his ears the protest sounded hollow. He paused. “At least we know her.”

“Yes, I’m well aware how familiar you two are,” muttered the bard. Geralt scowled a bit at that, not dignifying the comment with a reply. But when he glanced back at his companion, he noted the slump in the man’s shoulders. True, Yen and Jaskier didn’t have the best history, constantly sniping at each other with backhanded insults and sharp side-eyed glares during their limited interactions since the djinn incident. But, as far as he could trust any mage, Geralt trusted Yen. Sort of. Generally. Well enough.

“Do we even know that she’ll help?” asked Jaskier after a minute. “You didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, up on that mountain.”

“No,” replied Geralt frankly, and the bard sighed.

But all Geralt could do was follow the fizzling draw in his gut, leading him somewhere ahead when he gave into its tug. Once, he’d thought the feeling was love. He knew better now. There had been lust, perhaps. But he should have realized the truth sooner. Djinn magic may feel different from the channeled Chaos of humans and Witchers, but it was magic all the same—anchored somewhere deep behind his naval and tethered to the sorceress somewhere at its other end, niggling at the edge of his awareness like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Yennefer had been right after all. He dreaded to think what Lambert would say if he ever learned Geralt had mistaken a foolish magic bond for love. His brother would never let him live it down.

The manor, when they arrived at it, was exactly the sort of place he’d expect to find Yennefer of Vengerberg—well-maintained and clearly expensive, with large glass windows and immaculately manicured grounds. Geralt wondered in passing where the owners were, after Yen had doubtless “convinced” them to loan her their property for a time. He didn’t need the humming of the djinn’s tether to tell him she was here. The whole place pulsed with the aura of magic, a heady power that shivered in the air just below conscious perception, and made his medallion vibrate lightly in response.

With the horses safely picketed, Geralt knocked firmly on the dark polished wood of the manor’s front door. He was half-expecting a servant, if there was any answer at all. Instead the door flew open a moment later to reveal Yennefer herself, purple eyes blazing with cold fury and the sharp prickling ozone scent of her Chaos crackling through the air around her.

“Geralt,” she said archly, her silky voice saturated with the venom of resentment. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t blast you where you stand.”

Chapter Text

Geralt paced a path across the lush carpet of a sitting room, brows pulled down in a frown that had sent the butler scurrying. The sorceress had sequestered herself with Jaskier, shooing Geralt away to “scowl somewhere else”. There was enough latent magic in the air to muffle the quiet voices that buzzed distantly across the hall, so he’d been resigned to waiting until Yen deigned to give him an update.

He froze in his path as the door opened at last.

Yen closed the door behind her and stood watching him, frowning.

“I can’t fix his eyes,” she said at last.

“I figured.”

She arched one eyebrow at that, unimpressed, but let the comment slide.

“I did what I could to reduce the scarring and improve the flexibility in his hand. I’ll give him a salve to help. But that’s all I can do. You know as well as I do that injuries like this are resistant to magic beyond a certain point, without taking undue risk.”

“I know.”

“Why bother, then?”

“Because anything that helps him, even a little, is worth it.”

“Mm.” Yen was watching him sharply, eyes slightly narrowed as if trying to decide whether or not to say something further. But she pursed her lips and remained silent.

“Thank you,” said Geralt at least. “I— truly.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” snapped Yennefer, glaring at him again. Geralt sighed.

“I know. But even still.”

The tense silence stretched between them, and Geralt shifted uncomfortably. There was no way to fix what he had broken, here. But he was tired of frayed threads and toppled bridges. Tired of walking away before he could be left behind. Tired of the cold press of loneliness wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His life was not what it once was—the bard had made sure of that. He was not who he used to be—Jaskier had seen to that, too. And perhaps he ought to at least try to embrace that shift where he could.

“You were right.” For all that the words were true, they were difficult to say, lying heavy and thick across his tongue. Yennefer’s eyes darted towards him, spearing him with that intense gaze. Her face was schooled into the chilly disinterested mask she wore with the ease of long practice, but he could scent the flicker of a shift in her anger—not lessened, necessarily, but intrigued enough to open a gap for receptivity. Geralt swallowed, wanting to get this right.

“We have no way of knowing what was real between us, and what was the magic. And you...” Geralt made sure to meet her eyes unflinchingly, and kept his own expression as earnest as he knew how. “You deserve better. I took the option I saw in the moment to save both our skins. Right or wrong, it was the choice I made. But you—” He sighed. “Neither of us has chosen much in our lives. You deserve that much—to choose someone, and have them choose you.” Geralt clenched his jaw and thinned his mental walls just a little, just enough to allow her to glimpse his sincerity, like a light glowing behind fogged glass.

Yen’s gaze flickered between his eyes, down to his lips, to his hands, back up to his brows, reading his full expression with skeptical thoroughness. Her lips pursed again, fingers absently tracing the curve of the pendant glittering at her throat.

“Yes. I do deserve better,” she said finally, but her tone had lost some of its bite.

“You’re still important to me.” It was the wrong thing to say, and as her expression began curling into a snarl he shook his head. “I don’t mean— fuck.” He frowned, grasping for the words he needed. “We’re still bound, unless you can remove djinn magic.” Her mouth twitched slightly at that, and he knew it for the answer it was. “But now we set the terms. We choose what it looks like. Not love. But...something.” Geralt grimaced internally, woefully aware of the inadequacy of his ability to communicate this sort of thing.

“Mm.” Yen’s hum was still serious, still displeased, but there was the barest ghost of consideration in her eyes.

“I’m going to check on Jaskier.” It was an excuse, and they both knew it. They each needed time and space to breathe. But there was also truth in his words; he thought of the warmth of Jaskier’s touch, the grounding comfort of his presence. The urge to seek out his bard crawled along his skin and seeped into the hollow in his chest. He turned to the door.

“Geralt.”

He paused, head angled slightly to show he was listening, but not looking back.

“You deserve better, too.” Yen’s voice was softer—not quite gentle, but eased in its intensity, its sharp edges sheathed.

Geralt did turn back at that, and she cocked an eyebrow ever so slightly at him. He blinked, looked away, and left the room.

********************************

Jaskier slouched in his chair, the lingering dizziness from Yen’s healing magic still buzzing in the periphery of his mind. In his hands he clutched a familiar battered leather journal, idly tracing the worn edges with a gentle fingertip. He knew every inch of it by heart—the soft leather burnished by countless trips shoved in a small pack, pages warped by rain and puddles, stained with mud-smears and monster ichor and Melitele knows what else. It was a notebook soaked in as many stories from the marks the Path had left upon it as in the ink that flowed along its pages, detailing his adventures with Geralt in verse and prose and hastily-scrawled notes.

But although Jaskier held his faithful notebook in his hands, it felt suddenly far away from him. He could not retrace its stories in the flickering glow of an evening campfire or the dim light in a tavern. He could not ink his future experiences upon its pages, safe where he could cling to them. Jaskier’s memory was superb, and he didn’t really need to write things down as he composed—and certainly any finished works were permanently imprinted in his mind and his fingers alike. But the notebook had been his most constant companion through everything, bleeding with his experiences and emotions on every page—a backup log he could return to when insecurity flooded his brain and tried to tangle the threads of memory.

Now as it lay in his grasp, so close and yet inaccessible, the reality of his situation washed over him more tangibly.

Oh, he’d known not to expect—or even hope for—a different outcome. Really, he had. But there was knowing, and there was knowing. The hazy ‘perhaps’ had darkened in the dusk of his past, slipping below the horizon as Yen confirmed what he had already known with a new solid finality.

Meandering through the shadowed spirals of his mind, Jaskier didn’t notice Geralt’s approach until he spoke.

“Are you alright?”

Jaskier thought for a moment, considering.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I didn’t really expect anything different. And I have made my peace with it, generally speaking.” He paused, fingers drumming an unsettled rhythm against the notebook’s leather cover. “But…” He trailed off, words escaping him. It was never a comfortable feeling for a bard.

“But,” agreed Geralt.

A dense quiet swelled between them.

“Are you sure you still want me as a travel companion?” Jaskier asked at last. He kept his tone light, almost playful. But the darker undercurrent of insecurity hovered behind it, pulling at his brow and prickling a chilly path down his spine.

There was a heavy pause, and for a moment panic began to bubble in Jaskier’s throat, before Geralt spoke.

“I did not choose to become a Witcher,” he said quietly. The words were deep and heavy, rumbling under the weight of decades. “I did not choose to undergo additional Trials. I did not choose to survive them.”

Jaskier held his breath, not daring to interrupt.

“I did not choose to become the Butcher of Blaviken, or to be bound to Yen.” Geralt paused, then amended, “Well, I suppose I did, but I didn’t intend it that way.” He sighed. “I have chosen little in my life, Jaskier.”

Jaskier swallowed, opening his mouth to ask...something. He wasn’t sure what. But large hands covered his own where he gripped his notebook, silencing him as he heard Geralt kneel before him.

“I choose you.” It was a quiet rumble, so low Jaskier almost missed it. He blinked and shifted in his seat, convincing himself he hadn’t imagined it.

“Oh,” he said softly, for how did one even respond to such a declaration? Tears beaded in his eyes as he smiled at his Witcher, a tingling warmth flooding from his chest out through his veins. “I choose you, too.”

“Hm,” said Geralt, his familiar dry amusement colored with warm fondness.

********************************

The week that followed soon fell into a familiar pattern. Jaskier and Yennefer still swapped barbs every time they found themselves in the same room, but the previous bitter animosity had gradually eased in an apparent truce of sorts. Geralt was glad of it, though his amusement soured when faced with the teamed force of both their wits at once. In those moments he would retreat to the stables, where at least Roach kept her humor to herself. He spent his days cleaning muck from the harder-to-reach crevisses in his armor, replenishing potion supplies, and hunting some difficult-to-obtain ingredients for Yen from the creatures that inhabited the local forests and hills. In quiet moments he sometimes caught the sorceress watching him speculatively, just as he spotted her frequently observing Jaskier. But she kept her thoughts to herself, and he knew better than to ask. If she had something to say, he had no doubt she’d do so in her own time.

After a few days of ease at the manor, however, the urge to return to the Path began to itch beneath Geralt’s skin, and he and Jaskier prepared to head on their way again the following morning.

The Witcher sat on the edge of a bluff outside the house as brilliant streaks of pink and orange illuminated the sky in a fiery glow at sunset. The corners of his mouth twitched fondly as he heard Jaskier humming to himself somewhere inside, the melody drifting through the open window to twine around him.

He barely turned as Yennefer joined him, arranging her dress neatly around her as she sat at his side and looked out across the colorful horizon.

“You’ve changed,” she said at last. Geralt glanced at her, the sky’s glow warming her skin and reflecting in her eyes. He raised an eyebrow, and waited.

“He’s good for you,” she continued quietly, her voice almost wistful.

“Hmm.”

She rolled her eyes. “Eloquent as ever. You know I’m right.”

The quiet between them was easier now, the tension slackened by the promise of a different future. A better future.

“There’s residual djinn magic tangled in his essence,” she said after a long pause, and Geralt’s gaze swung sharply towards her, a cold feeling creeping down his spine.

“How?” His voice sounded strained.

“Elven blood,” she said calmly, and Geralt’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. It wasn’t as uncommon as some liked to claim, even among the nobility, but Jaskier had never mentioned it. Yen shook her head. “Only a few drops. He may not even know.” She shrugged. “Chaos attracts Chaos. Small amounts of Elven blood are usually inconsequential, but the power of a curse or spell can cling to it. Traces of the djinn’s magic must have remained behind, after Rinde, just in a dormant state. I wouldn’t even have noticed it, if I hadn’t become particularly acquainted with the intricacies of djinn magic in recent months.”

Geralt pushed aside the prickling shame at that, trying to grasp the implications of what she was saying.

Yen rolled her eyes again, jabbing her sharp elbow at his side.

“Stop looking like a kicked puppy,” she scolded. “He’s fine. But in learning to focus his senses more, he’s stirring those traces of Elven blood a bit. And that may rouse the djinn magic.” Her lips pursed. “I don’t know what that might look like. There’s little enough research on the nature of djinns’ power to begin with, let alone how it might interact with traces of Elven blood in a human. I wouldn’t worry about it. Just keep an eye out.”

Geralt sighed, scrubbing at his face with one hand.

“Life used to be simple,” he muttered. Yen snorted.

“Simple is boring,” she retorted drily, and Geralt huffed to hide his chuckle.