Chapter Text
The sun was setting over the horizon, draining the last vestiges of colour from the sky. Gentle waves, which moments earlier reflected a vibrant red glow, now turned to a cold, metallic grey. Geralt could feel the subtle, uneasy shift in the atmosphere. Dusk was a magnet, drawing creatures out and quieting all songs — all songs, save for one.
“Come paddle by the shore. You are your own magician; let the ocean give to you- its waves, oh, the waves…”
Beside Geralt, Jaskier plucked a simple, haunting tune on his lute. He sang softly, the sound barely audible yet deeply beautiful — a lullaby for the approaching night. A sudden, sharp gust of wind pushed grains of sand against Geralt’s leather boots and tousled the loose, dark hairs near Jaskier’s ears. The bard shivered, exhaling a visible cloud of breath. His blue eyes, wide and unnaturally bright in the fading light, flickered over Geralt’s body in a quick, almost panicked assessment.
“What, Jaskier?”
“Not that I don’t like the beach, but I am hardly dressed for the occasion. It’s cold, Geralt, and slipping over some wet sand when we arrived has done no wonders for me. This fabric does not dry quickly. Shouldn’t we head back to town? Find an inn? Geralt?”
The witcher didn’t acknowledge the suggestion. Geralt’s focus was fixed on the encroaching shadows, his senses straining. He tried to ignore the bard’s chattering teeth.
“I’m sure any old inn will do.” Jaskier begrudgingly put his instrument back into its case. The dampness in the air would do the wood no wonders. “If my fingers ever warm again, I may be able to earn a loaf of bread or two. How does that sound?”
Geralt groaned. He muttered, “If you want to turn back, I won’t stop you.”
“Yet you will stay here.”
“The sun is setting, and the creature has only been sighted at night.”
“I know,” admitted Jaskier. The witcher watched as his eyes wandered again, this time over their surroundings, also with caution. There was a flicker of doubt in his expression. Geralt opened his mouth, tasting the air. He pushed the flavour over his tongue, noticing salt and a twinge of fear. “I just-”
Geralt could count on his fingers the number of times Jaskier had been lost for words.
“I just have a bad feeling, that’s all,” he finished.
“Cold? Afraid?” asked Geralt, bemused internally, annoyed externally. He pushed back strands of white hair that had fallen into disarray with the relentless breeze.
“Yes, and no. You know me, Geralt. I’ll stay here with you. It’s just — there’s something else. I don’t like it here.” Jaskier pulled his lute case closer to his body. In doing so, he could steal some warmth from his core for his exposed hands. He sighed. “Let’s, at least, build a fire.”
Geralt agreed, “Hmm.”
Jaskier hummed as he gathered kindling. It was the same tune as before. Geralt thought it sounded melancholic — a stark contrast to other songs in the bard’s repertoire. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed Jaskier’s singing.
Night had fallen by the time Jaskier returned. The stars were brilliant, taking advantage of the waning moon — its light barely a crescent, yet bright enough to paint silver streaks through Jaskier’s loose hair. He dropped the small collection of twigs, grasses, and dampened driftwood at Geralt’s feet and sighed.
They crouched together, arranging the pile. Geralt reached for a piece of wood, and his fingers accidentally brushed Jaskier’s. The bard’s hand was lean and nimble, flecked with sand, and cool to the touch.
“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered, as if the accidental contact was a transgression. He shivered and snatched his hand away. Geralt watched a subtle shade of rose bloom across his cheeks. The witcher noted Jaskier’s elevated heart rate. With a subtle casting of Igni, the fire sparked to life. They both watched the tendrils of smoke and embers rise into the sky.
“When I was young,” Jaskier began, “I believed the sparks were fairies dancing.”
Geralt looked at him. The bard was settled, cross-legged, in front of the growing fire, holding his palms out. His cheeks, still flushed, were now illuminated by the flickering orange glow. He smiled softly. “I know it sounds strange.”
“Go to sleep, Jaskier.” The witcher removed his cloak and placed it over the bard’s shoulders. His eyes widened in surprise, but he gladly accepted the additional warmth. Geralt caught him nestling further into the fabric and inhaling deeply. Some of the fear faded from the air.
“Wake me if anything happens or if you need a break.”
“Hm.”
Jaskier settled onto the sand and propped his head up on his arm. Geralt waited for his breathing to deepen and become steady before turning back to the fire. He nudged the pile with a stick. The driftwood spat a flurry of sparks into the sky. Geralt tried to picture the fairies Jaskier spoke of dancing to the melody now stuck in his head.
The stars vanished, one by one. Geralt might have thought it was dawn, but the sky stayed pitch-black. Not a single bird called out, nor a cricket chirped. Only the moon persisted, a solitary silver eye watching from above.
Until it disappeared, too.
The sudden onset of true, suffocating darkness was something no amount of enhanced senses could prepare him for. Geralt unsheathed his sword and commanded Igni. The air remained cold. The fire refused to obey. He swam blindly through the prison inkpot, kicking at shadows; disoriented, scrambling. The sand scattered from frantic footfalls. Geralt stumbled, plunging into the ocean, the frigid shock immediately clinging to his legs.
Something wet pulled at his hair — strong enough to snap the witcher’s head back and throw him off balance. Seaweed curled around his ankles, wrists, and neck, dragging him deep beneath the surface. Geralt thrashed in the water. The unseen force was overwhelming, too powerful, too other for him to effectively fight. Putrid, icy water forced its way into his mouth. It tasted of salt, sediment, and blood. His own? Or something else entirely?
With a desperate, near-final burst of strength, Geralt managed to free his dominant hand. He roughly threw Aard in the direction of the creature. It succeeded, if only briefly. He kicked upwards, discovering the surface was closer than he had thought.
“Jaskier!” the witcher roared, sloshing to his feet. The shadowy thing slammed against him once more, a force more like a tidal wave than a living creature. It was impenetrable, even to his sword, and it was determined to pull him under again. Geralt stumbled onto his hands and knees, swinging blindly. “Get out of here! Run!”
“Let him go!” Geralt heard Jaskier’s futile cry before his head submerged again. He kicked, thrashed, punched, and enchanted Signs as the riptide pulled him further from the coast. At some point, his sword slipped from his grasp. He had not felt so helpless since the Trials. Then the thought hit him:
I am going to die.
Geralt was aware of the consequences of his profession. There was no retirement, only death. Witchers worked thanklessly each day until they slowed enough to get themselves killed. He was slowing, each movement weaker than the last. His muscles burned without the air he desperately needed. He tried to accept the looming outcome of the night as he ceased his struggle.
The wind stung his face as Geralt surfaced. He could feel someone holding him, pulling him through the water. It was cold. So cold. It took a second for Geralt to remember where he was, and an agonising moment longer to realise he was still alive. His lungs burned, reminding him he needed to breathe. He jerked upright and immediately wretched, coughing up water and bile as he sought the air he so desperately needed.
Geralt found his balance against the sand and turned toward his rescuer. Jaskier kneeled beside Geralt, form highlighted by the returning starlight, holding his sword. Jaskier’s clothes were plastered to his body, making his gasping breaths more defined. The bard’s pupils were blown wide, and he reeked of fear.
“Geralt,” he sighed, relieved. Jaskier continued to support Geralt as he vomited the last of the seawater. “Thank the gods…”
“What-” Geralt rasped, his throat raw, “-did you do?! What happened? Why didn’t you run?”
Jaskier’s head twitched to the side.
“I saved your life.” He forced a strained, uneasy smile as he passed Geralt the sword when the witcher was steady enough to take it. Jaskier remained half-submerged in the wash of the waves, his hand staying firmly on Geralt’s shoulder. “You were down there way too long, even for you. Are you okay?”
Geralt looked over the waters. “Where is it?”
“It’s gone. Come on, Geralt, it’s freezing. Let’s get out of here and get your payment.”
“How?” Jaskier tried to stand, but Geralt’s grip on his wrist stopped him. He pulled the bard back toward him. Jaskier offered an apathetic struggle. Geralt shook him lightly. “Tell me, Jaskier!”
The bard ceased his efforts. He forced a shaky, rattling breath.
“I bought us time.”