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“Oooh, that’s a really intricate carving!” Jaskier cooed as he tilted his head while regarding the colourful alteration some daft sod had felt the need to make to the tree.
It was an old tree, long since dead. The bark had been stripped at some point far enough in the past that the exposed wood was grey from age and weather. The only exception was a rather recent carving of sword unlike any Geralt had seen before, sloppily painted in grey and blue and purple.
Something about the tree was off, though. It looked normal enough, for all that it hadn’t yet rotted away. But that could be explained by good conditions, or someone coming out to tend to the wood, and so it wasn’t truly what put him on edge. No, there was something else.
He mulled it over as he watched Jaskier circle the tree once and then twice, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Only after he’d completed his third circuit did he fall quiet, and in the comparative silence, Geralt realised his medallion was giving the mildest hum he’d ever felt. It was barely enough to register as such against his skin even after he carefully opened his senses.
He eyed the tree suspiciously.
Jaskier appeared to have no such concerns and took a step closer. Geralt followed as he was wont to, drawn by an invisible string that had nothing to do with Destiny and everything with concern for the kind of trouble Jaskier invited with his utter lack of self-preservation.
The hum in his medallion increased.
“I do wonder if it has some sort of meaning…” Jaskier trailed off. He had his hands behind his back, each holding the opposite forearm as though he physically had to keep from reaching out for the tree. Geralt couldn’t see his face but could picture it easily: the squint in Jaskier’s eyes, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, the flush as his mind whirred with ever more fantastical stories to explain a simple carving.
Footfalls on a forest floor sounded behind Geralt. He concentrated for a moment, but all he could smell was the mossy damp of the forest and the chamomile Jaskier favoured. Ciri, meanwhile, had recently begun using Geralt’s almost scentless soap.
Geralt smiled as listened to her pick her way carefully towards them. She was far from stealthy to a Witcher, but her progress was undeniable. Even just two weeks ago, she would have been given away by the swishing and catching of tree branches.
The moment of inattention from Geralt was all it took for Jaskier’s curiosity to kill the proverbial cat.
“Don’t —” Geralt hissed, but it was already too late.
Jaskier jerked at Geralt’s tone, and the fingers he’d brushed over the purple hilt of the sword slipped.
“Fucking — shit shit shit,” Jaskier cursed before he shut himself up by sticking his bleeding finger into his mouth.
A drop of his blood clung to the edge of the sword blade carved into the tree, but nothing else happened. The hum in his medallion didn’t increase, and Geralt released a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.
“Everything all right?” Yenn called from deeper into the woods where she had found a clearing with various berries, not all of poisonous.
“Fine,” Geralt replied, glaring at Jaskier for his reckless behaviour.
“Did you find something interesting?” Ciri asked as she broke through the clearing.
Jaskier pulled the fingers from his mouth, revealing a small cut that looked very unlike a wound caused by a splinter. Tension crept back into Geralt’s shoulder.
“No,” Geralt told her at the same time as Jaskier said, “Yes! There is the most intriguing drawing on this tree!”
Geralt shot Jaskier a dirty look, but the damage was done. Ciri was grinning brightly as she came closer, and no sooner had she come within 10 feet of the tree than the sword blade started glowing.
It was bright enough that they all had to cover their eyes and by the time it had faded back into the crude drawing of a sword, the drop of blood was gone.
The humming in Geralt’s medallion increased until it was audible. Apprehension filled the clearing with no small amount of chagrin on Jaskier’s part.
He cast a wide-eyed look at Geralt before straightening. “Yenn?” Jaskier pitched his voice out, steady and strong even though Geralt could see the faintest tremble in his lips. “Now might be a good time to come back here.”
Whatever Yenn replied was lost as the wind suddenly picked up, moving from quiet to a susurrus in the treetops to a full on bluster in the span of a handful of heartbeats. It tore at Geralt’s armour, whipping leaves and small branches into his face. He thought he could hear Ciri scream, though it might also have been a ringing in his ears.
Squinting, he took two quick steps towards Ciri, scooped her into his arms, and then met Jaskier where he was fighting against the unrelenting wind to get to Geralt. They huddled into each other, Ciri safe between them while Geralt tried to keep as much of the detritus from battering Jaskier’s much less protected back as he could. He wasn’t very successful.
“— the fuck —” Jaskier yelled, barely audible over the ruckus.
The storm seemed intent to consume them entirely; it certainly ripped away all sounds and smells before Geralt could properly perceive them, and the stinging wind made his eyes blur whenever he opened them enough to see. What it couldn’t take from Geralt was touch. He clung to Jaskier with one arm and Ciri with the other. He could feel their heartbeats through their clothes, the way their chests expanded with each breath. It was a lifeline he clung to while the storm tore at him and pushed at him and seemed intent on carrying them away just like it did any sound they made.
Any time he thought it couldn’t get worse, the storm seemed to pick up until the only thing keeping them in their spot was their combined weight and Geralt’s Witcher strength, and possibly Jaskier and Ciri’s sheer stubbornness. Geralt’s medallion was vibrating almost painfully where it had gotten lodged between his breastplate and his sternum and he could do nothing but grit his teeth and bear it.
And then the storm seemed to swell one final time with a mighty howl through the canopy, raining leaves and twigs down on their heads, before it stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
The absence of such unrelenting force made Geralt overbalance, pulling Jaskier and Ciri down on top of him. His breath left him in a rush, Ciri’s pointy elbows somehow unerringly finding all the softest patches where his cuirass stopped.
They lay there for a moment, quietly panting, until Yenn burst into the clearing.
“Ciri?” she asked, worry clear in her voice, “Jaskier? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Ciri said, still a little out of breath while Jaskier mumbled something unintelligible into Geralt’s neck. It tickled, but Geralt couldn’t find it in him to mind. Not when it was such an unmistakable reminder that they were still alive. He rubbed his cheek against Jaskier’s hair, filling his nostrils with the calming scent of chamomile and Jaskier and the faintest hint of remembered lilac.
Jaskier let him for a surprising amount of time before he rolled away and sat up. He stretched with a drawn-out groan. “Ho boy,” he said as he climbed to his feet so Yenn could give him a once over. “Am I sure glad I left my lute at our camp this morning.”
Yenn snorted and turned back to Ciri, apparently satisfied that Jaskier was unharmed. “Maybe you’ll remember this next time you plan to drag your heels on leaving your lute where it’s safe.”
Jaskier grinned but didn’t argue, well-aware that he would put up as much of a fuss the next time as he had this time. He always did.
“Hm,” Geralt said when Yenn kept fussing over Ciri, pulling twigs and leaves from her braid. The sky above them was clear blue and the treetops didn’t even sway in the breeze. It was wind still, just as it had been for most of the day. Just as it hadn’t been for the past eternity that probably lasted no longer than the duration of a Superior Cat.
She scoffed. “I know you are fine,” she said flippantly, though there was a tenderness to her face and the hand up she offered that belied her tone. He didn’t need the help but took it nonetheless. “Your thoughts certainly are leaking over the place loud enough, and none of them are particularly distressed.”
“Hm,” he said again. Contrary to her own words, she ran a critical eye over him. When it turned out that he was not, in fact, hiding an injury other than already-fading bruises from the final fall she nodded once, decisively.
“So, what did you do to cause this sort of mayhem?”
Jaskier squawked under her gaze, but before he could attempt to deny his involvement, a groan drew their attention. In a way, it was generous to call it a groan. It was more of a slightly pained exhale.
Geralt blamed the clearly magical storm for his lapse in attention and ignored the fact that, if anything, this should have made him more attentive.
Another huffing exhale followed by the crinkle of clothes broke them out of their stupor.
Where before had stood the old and dead tree, there now was something resembling an archway. Geralt blinked. It was undeniably still the tree but it had split apart in such an unusual fashion that he could feel his mind rebel when he thought too closely about it. But that didn’t change the picture in front of him: instead of cracking in half from the top down its roots seemed to have been turned into two separate pieces a couple of feet apart, the halves of the tree bowing inwards until they met in a slightly pointed archway at Geralt’s eye height. The wood showed no sign of having been part of the same log before except in its coloration. Any edges that might have been there seemed sanded down.
And in front of the archway, roughly where Jaskier had been standing before the storm had broken out, a figure of indeterminate gender was sitting up. They were slight, considerably shorter than Ciri, with hair a touch darker than hers and curiously pointed ears. They bore a distinct resemblance to Filavandrel, though their scent was like nothing Geralt had ever smelled before. Their clothes, too, seemed entirely foreign; close-fitting and in an almost unreal shade of blue, with silver bracers and greaves and strange footwear that was reminiscent of webbed frog feet. In certain places, it looked more like scales than metal, and it could have been armour if it weren’t for the way both stomach and groin were protected by nothing but the strange blue fabric.
The stranger’s eyes were blue, almost exactly the same shade as Jaskier’s. They seemed to pierce through Geralt in a similar fashion, assessing and judging him in a flash.
They raised their hands, fingers moving into distinct shapes with purpose, and Geralt blinked before it slotted into meaning. They weren’t quite what Witchers were taught to cope with sensory overload right after their trials but what he could glean made enough sense that they were at least related.
Though where this non-elf stranger had learned their private handspeak, he’d really like to know.
Where? the stranger kept signing.
Geralt’s hands felt clumsy as he moved through the gestures he hadn’t needed in too long. “We’re close to Brokilon,” he signed. When the stranger stared uncomprehendingly he spelled out B–r–o–k–i–l–o–n and added Forest.
“What are you talking about?” Ciri asked.
He felt pride swell up inside him that she had recognised handspeak for what it was.
The stranger signed back equally slowly. Geralt didn’t understand all the words they used, but what he could understand made it sound like —
“You can hear us?” Geralt repeated out loud.
The stranger smiled and nodded. “Correct,” they said, still in that almost familiar version of handspeak. Words flowed from their hands, and Geralt did his best to translate them into spoken words for his companions.
“If I speak out loud it’s easier because your handspeak differs from ours?” Geralt guessed.
The stranger nodded again and gestured to the other three who were looking on with varying degrees of confusion.
It was Jaskier who laughed. “Not sure if having Geralt of all people have to uphold an entire conversation is so very helpful,” he said. His bravado covered neither his apprehension nor his budding relief, both shining cleanly through in his scent.
Ciri seemed mostly curious while Yenn looked serenely calm, undoubtedly monitoring the situation with magical means.
They continued like that, the stranger speaking with slow and deliberate movements and Geralt doing his best to keep his companions in the loop.
They learned the stranger was a young man called Link and came from a land called Hyrule, which none of them had heard of before. It made Link’s face fall and his signs become small and lacklustre for a couple of sentences until Ciri chimed in with an unrelated question about the handspeak. It did well to distract the stranger.
Geralt and Yenn shared a glance over his head.
Jaskier, who was picking up on handspeak with alarming speed that eclipsed even what Geralt remembered from young trainees with nothing else to do, joined Ciri, though he kept darting glances at Geralt and Yenn as they tried to figure out how Link had shown up in their world — for that he was not from the Continent was clear, even with their shared languages.
“It must have been the sword,” Geralt said even though it was obvious. But better obvious than unsubstantiated speculation which was all they had otherwise.
Yenn scoffed but a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.
“Sword?” Link asked. So he had been listening after all.
“I got some blood on a carving on a tree.” Jaskier darted a chagrined glance at Yenn before concentrating fully on Link again. “And then it… got activated and formed into this archway.”
Oh, said Links expression as his hands fluttered wordlessly in front of his stomach.
Geralt’s stomach clenched as Link took a step closer to the arch, just as Jaskier had, but he didn’t circle it.
“You said a sword?” Link asked, half turned towards them but clearly distracted.
“I did say sword,” Jaskier confirmed uncertainly, beaming when Link nodded at his correct translation. “Look, it’s moved over here.”
Jaskier showed Link the new location of the sword, and Link said something in rapid fire handspeak that Geralt had no chance following. His face and scent were pure excitement though, and when he realised he’d left Geralt behind, his movements slowed.
“It’s my sword,” he said, giving the sword a special name that Geralt didn’t catch. It looked faintly reminiscent of royal, but that might just be a reference to the colour. “That must be why I was sent here! It’s —” Geralt didn’t catch the rest again, but it seemed akin to Jaskier’s excited babbling, and it never really mattered either that he catch every single word there.
He made the mistake of relaxing and payed dearly when Link pulled off one of his gloves and reached out, running his finger along the carved edge of the sword lightly. The coppery smell of blood suffused the clearing almost immediately and before Geralt could do something like grab Link to get him out of the danger zone, the doorway glowed again.
It was less brightly than before and while Geralt braced himself, the only thing that happened was a brief but intense burst of vibration from his medallion that quieted almost before it had begun.
When he blinked the stars from his eyes, the carving had withered, all colour leached from its details. Instead, in front of the stranger, a stone was sitting with a sword sticking out of it that looked suspiciously like a more realistic version of the drawn sword .
Link hesitated briefly. “Don’t interrupt me,” he said, his movements precise and imploring. “Even if it looks like I’m in danger. Especially then.” He hesitated. “If it does kill me, it will do the same to anyone who tries to save me. Don’t get yourself killed.”
He narrowed his eyes until they all agreed verbally. Only once they’d all given their assent did he turn back to the sword.
With one deep breath, he wrapped his hands around the hilt and pulled.
It seemed to take an eternity, watching him struggle and pale and sway with his hands on the hilt. Geralt itched to pull him back, but his warning had been quite forceful, and so he stayed back. It was helped by the fact that his medallion picked its humming back up, increasing the longer Link had his hands on the sword.
Not long after it had started, Ciri came to Geralt’s side, pressing against him in a way she seldomly did. She was joined shortly after by Jaskier on Geralt’s other side, followed by Yenn who pressed against Ciri more than she did against Geralt’s side.
And Geralt couldn’t even enjoy the closeness of his strange family, riveted as he was by Link’s struggle.
Finally, the sword came free with an unholy screech. Link tumbled back, his knees giving out, and Geralt’s medallion stopped humming. Before he moved in to help, he cast a questioning look at Yenn. She briefly worried at her lip before nodding.
“Should be safe,” she said.
They got Link stretched out on his side in a safe position, though they were loathe to touch the sword.
And then all that was left to do was wait for Link to regain his consciousness. Geralt used it to look at the sword. It was pretty; too small for him but perfect for a fighter of Link’s size. The blade was made from a metal Geralt had never encountered before. It seemed to glow from within to his eyes, a soft blue that matched Link’s and Jaskier’s eye colour. The cross guard was royal purple and shaped like a pair of wings, and the hilt was wrapped with a blue-ish green fabric. It looked too short to even accommodate one of Geralt’s hands, but his hands easily dwarved Link’s. A strange design of a triangle subdivided into four further triangles decorated the blade. It seemed familiar, but Geralt could not place why.
The sword was also undeniably magic, and that alone was enough to keep Geralt’s hands well away from it. Yenn looked a little like she was itching to take a closer look but was likely discouraged by the fact that none of them had any idea what the sword would do.
It didn’t take long for Link to rejoin them properly. “Thanks,” he said, balancing the sword across his knees. It fit his outfit quite well — almost like it had been made for him.
“No problem,” Geralt said while Jaskier repeated the same thing haltingly in handspeak. It made Link’s eyes light up, which made him look like he could be Jaskier’s brother. A brother from a different dimension, maybe? Was this Destiny’s way of getting back at Jaskier for having so far evaded her touch?
“I think I can get you back to your world,” Yenn announced suddenly, and if Geralt had thought that Link’s smile had been bright before, it was like a measly tea light compared to the sun in the face of his beaming grin.
“If it’s not too much trouble…?” Link asked hesitantly, but his movements were just a little sloppy with barely contained excitement.
Yen scoffed after Geralt translated. “You reek of Destiny,” she said, “As fascinating as it would be to talk to you longer, I shudder what would happen if we didn’t do everything in our might to help you get back.”
She tossed a brief glare at Geralt. “Destiny certainly hasn’t been very … much of a fan for how we’ve handled her directives so far.”
Geralt winced. It was the truth, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
Link looked curious, but the draw of home was too strong. Yenn gave him instructions what to do, and then started chanting.
“If you can find a way,” Jaskier said as they watched the preparations. “Do let us know you’ve made it back safely? I would kill to get you to tell me more stories of your fight against the evil man you mentioned.”
Link smiled and nodded.
Geralt couldn’t help but be impressed. He shouldn’t have doubted Jaskier’s determination to get all the stories he could, of course, but between the language barrier and the limited time he nonetheless was surprised by how much they’d talked.
And then his medallion picked up its humming again, just as a swirling purple portal appeared in the wooden archway.
“Thank you,” Link said again and then picked up his sword. With one bow towards their group, he turned to the portal and stepped through without hesitation.
There was a flash of light and a horrendous sound again, and when all had quieted and returned to its natural state of lighting again, the doorway had reformed into the dead tree. The carving alone was not as it had been. It was still colourless as it had been on the doorway, no different than the weathered wood, but it also had a burnt scar running through it, splitting it in half.
For a long while they just stood there and stared.
“Well,” Jaskier said after a while. The chill of impending nightfall had crept up on them before they’d sent Link home and was undeniable now. “Nobody will believe this story.”
Yenn laughed a little disbelievingly while Ciri giggled. “Of course that’s the thing you’d be concerned with.”
Jaskier flashed her a winning smile. “My dear, it’s either that or lose my mind over the fact that we just had someone visit from a different world just to grab a sword out of a dead tree, and I think I’d rather focus on the story I will spin.”
This made Yenn laugh, a lovely and pleasant sound. “When you put it like that…”
But above all, Jaskier’s pronouncement had put to rest the strange mood they’d all fallen into after the doorway had disappeared.
And as they turned to make their way back to their campsite, Ciri looked at him keenly. “Can you teach us more of that hand language?” she asked eagerly.
Witcher handspeak hadn’t been taught in half a century, and never to a human with no intentions of taking the grasses, much less a little girl. Or a bard, if he read Jaskier’s eager expression correctly. But it seemed silly, now, to let himself be constrained by that.
“We’ll start tomorrow morning,” he said gruffly, and Ciri was mindful enough to cheer quietly so as to not chase away all game they might want for dinner.