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“In my defense,” Jaskier always says, even centuries later, “you were brooding in a dark corner with your hood up and your cloak covering everything that was, you know, Witcher-y.”
And Geralt, even centuries later, will simply grunt.
I
Probably the first thing that should have given away Geralt being a Witcher, really, was his yellow cat eyes. Beautiful, luminous, and definitely a mutation. And everyone knows that Witchers go through many round of mutations to become less-than-human, giving them, for example, cat-like eyes to see in the dark.
Unfortunately, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head is not Witcher. No, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head – and, somewhat terribly, his mouth – is “Well, everyone has interesting birth defects, I can’t exactly judge.”
To which Geralt gives him a look across the campfire and says, “You think this . . . is a birth defect?”
“Spell gone wrong, perhaps? I knew someone at Oxenfurt like that. Had a mottled pattern over the skin of their back, they did,” Jaskier replies. “Their skin was, mmm, very sensitive there.”
“ . . . You had sex with them?”
“What do you take me for, some kind of beauty judge that turns down people based on a birth mark?” Jaskier demands, all thoughts of cat eyes and Witcher mutations displaced by righteous indignation. “I’ll have you know that I have tumbled my fair share of gentlemen, gentle ladies, and gentle beings, no matter the cruel marks that fate has deigned to leave upon their skin! Besides, not all skin that is fair remains so. See here, my good sir, where once I tripped over a set of stands and grazed my hip something awful? It left a bad scar – ”
“I don’t even see anything,” Geralt says dryly.
“ – a very bad scar, but none of my bed partners has done me the disservice of remarking upon it, and so neither have I!”
Geralt stirs the pot of simmering stew upon the fire and says nothing. He’s been doing so for several minutes, and Jaskier isn’t quite sure why; it smells amazing already. But the last time Jaskier tried to cook, Geralt snatched half of his ingredients out of his hands muttering about “poisonous roots” and “dangerous mushrooms” so now Jaskier has no choice but to wait until Geralt deems dinner good and ready for them to partake of.
After several more minutes, Jaskier demands, “Well?”
“Well what.”
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Geralt merely grunts. He’s not a very wordy companion, Jaskier has learned. But he does silently fill Jaskier’s bowl and hand it to him, which is as good at capitulation in Jaskier’s books.
“See, and now you have a greater understanding and appreciation for why it is not good to judge others for the whims of fate,” Jaskier declares in contentment, and digs into his soup.
II
Probably the second thing that should have given away Geralt being a Witcher, really, was his silver and steel swords. He carries them everywhere and is rarely parted from them, even sleeping with both in easy reach whether they are securely inside of an inn or outside under the stars.
Unfortunately, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head is not Witcher. No, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head – and, somewhat terribly, his mouth – is “And I thought my family had some impressive heirlooms.”
To which Geralt gives him a look across the room and says, “You think these . . . are family heirlooms?”
“Well, no offense, Geralt, but most days you barely have two coins to rub together. If you’ll recall, it was I who secured the deal for our room this night, and the night before last, and the night before that.” Jaskier rubs his hands briskly; the playing has done wonderfully to fill their purses, but it has left him with aching fingers and a sore throat. The throat he can fix with some tea and honey. The fingers – that just takes rest and time.
Geralt helpfully passes him said tea when he makes hand motions at it, and then he continues going back to sharpening his very fine, very expensive, very old steel sword. Or doing whatever one does with swords.
“Do you really need to do that every night?” Jaskier asks curiously.
Geralt grunts. “You tune that thing every night.”
“That thing is a beautiful gorgeous lady who has kept us fed and sheltered,” Jaskier reminds him. “But, honestly, doesn’t that sword just . . . stay sharp?”
Geralt doesn’t answer, but he does give Jaskier a look that speaks volumes.
“Yes, yes, I know nothing of swords, you know this.”
“Clearly.”
“So?”
“So.”
“Sooooooo what is the story with your very shiny, very sharp, very expensive swords? I mean, swords that look like that must have a sword. Did your father fight in the war, maybe? Or I suppose the style is a bit old for that – maybe grandfather? And also why the wolf insignia, Rivia isn’t exactly known for its wolves, at least as far as I’m aware, although now that I think upon it, we don’t really travel to Rivia, do we? Wait, does that mean there’s some drama between you and Rivia? Geralt, did you steal these from the rightful heir to your house and make off into the dead of night to – ”
Geralt slides the sword back into its scabbard with a sharp grunt. “The only thing I’m stealing tonight is your half of the bed if you don’t shut up.”
“Oh, no you do not, it was my coin who paid for it!”
III
Probably the third thing that should have given away Geralt being a Witcher, really, was his deep and extensive knowledge of monsters. He can identify by battle wounds, by weeks old tracks, or even simply their hunting habits.
Unfortunately, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head is not Witcher. No, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head – and, somewhat terribly, his mouth – is “And people said I chose a strange major at Oxenfurt.”
To which Geralt gives him a look across the table and says, “You think this . . . is something I studied at university?”
“I know there’s an entire section filled with bestiaries and chronicles and studies, but frankly I was never very interested in them,” Jaskier says, briskly cutting into his meat. “The masters were very insistent on me practicing almost every moment I was awake.”
“Sounds like a very well-rounded education.”
“Well, I didn’t say I obeyed that instruction,” Jaskier notes. “I mostly did, anyways. I just also took some time to, ah, explore everything I could.”
“Sleep with everything in sight, you mean.”
“I do not sleep with everything – ”
Geralt wrinkles his nose, and Jaskier shuts up, mostly because even he can still smell the perfume of the very nice housekeeper he had tumbled the night before on his skin, and if he can smell it, Geralt most definitely can. Geralt is strange like that, although usually he refrains from passing any commentary.
Unless Jaskier gets them thrown out of town, of course. Then Jaskier gets treated to sulky silence.
“Well,” Jaskier says, after hastily shoving more meat in his mouth, “she was interested, and I certainly wasn’t going to refuse. She might have tumbled you too, my friend, had you not snuck off to examine – what was it? – ah yes, tracks in the forest.”
“Tracks can say a lot about what’s around the town.”
“And what did those tracks tell you?”
“That there is a bruxa in the forest,” Geralt replies, and helpfully does not elaborate for the other people at the table who did not bury themselves in monster grimoires at university. “And that this is not venison.”
“What?!”
“Deer all got chased away by the bruxa.”
Jaskier slowly sets his knife down. He’s already eaten half his share, but still . . . “Then what are we eating?” he asks warily.
Geralt takes another bite and chews placidly. It’s annoying how calm he is, sometimes. “Rat, I think.”
“ . . . Rat?”
“What, they didn’t serve rat at Oxenfurt?”
“I’ll have you know that lutists have a delicate constitution and we require the finest of meals to enable us to produce the sweet compositions that we do,” Jaskier informs him. “Trade you for your bread?”
IV
Probably the fourth thing that should have given away Geralt being a Witcher, really, was his tendency to come back bloody and beaten. It doesn’t matter what time – morning, day, or night – or even where they are – small village, medium town, large city – Geralt always stumbles in eventually bleeding and bruised and utterly filthy.
Unfortunately, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head is not Witcher. No, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head – and, somewhat terribly, his mouth – is “You really need to stop getting bar fights.”
To which Geralt gives him a look across the room and says, “You think this . . . is from a bar fight?”
“Well, you did get into a fight last night,” Jaskier points out, after he has shouted for a bath and a tankard. He has learned that Geralt disdains being dirty, even seeking out ice cold rivers and ponds to dunk himself in if they are days away from inns or villages, but more importantly he has learned that the promise of a drink is usually enough to get Geralt to actually listen to Jaskier.
“A fight you started,” Geralt says grumpily.
“I did no such thing. I merely made note of a man’s intelligence.”
Geralt gives a very disbelieving grunt at that, although it cuts off halfway and turns into a pained grunt. Jaskier turns around from where he’s been settling the tankard and the tray of food and finds Geralt with his pants half off from where he’s apparently tried to yank the whole lot off, never mind that half of it is ripped clean in two and that he is sporting a rather large thigh wound.
“Let me help, you silly man,” Jaskier fusses. And then: “Are those teeth marks?”
Geralt grunts again.
“I don’t even want to know. Now please get in the bath tub; I’ll send these out to be thoroughly cleaned. Maybe they can even be salvaged.”
The maid gives Jaskier a very dubious look when he hands her the ripped pants and stained shirt, but she takes them and the coin he offers her, so it’s better than nothing. They can always buy more clothes, although sometimes it becomes an issue because Geralt is simply such a large man, and also prone to glaring when sellers ask him questions.
By the time he has returned, Geralt has managed to help himself to the tankard but not the soap, because he has no sense of self preservation.
“Honestly,” Jaskier tuts, rolling up his sleeves and picking up the soap, “how have you managed to survive all these years?”
“Just fine,” Geralt says dryly.
“The fact that you haven’t keeled over from infection boggles my mind,” Jaskier says, and starts cleaning dirt out of the copious wounds Geralt has on his shoulders, arms, and chest. He has to be careful, of course; Geralt shies away when he tries to go for his legs or back, but as long as he moves slowly and gives plenty of warning, arms and shoulders are generally fair game. “Or long since run out of clothes, since you seem not to care when they get ripped.”
“Better the clothes than me.” Geralt moves his arm when Jaskier tugs at it, and then he says, “You didn’t need to do that, you know.”
“Yes, I did, unless you want this to scar into a – ”
“My clothes. I could have bought more.”
“Yes, you could have. But you hate going shopping. So many people – it bothers you.”
Geralt blinks at him, like no one else has ever connected the dots. It makes Jaskier’s poor besotted heart flutter in his chest. He tells it very firmly to sit back down. The last thing Geralt needs now is – well, anything but a decent and calm night’s sleep.
“I’ve dealt with worse things bothering me,” Geralt says slowly.
“Yes, yes, we’re all aware and in awe of your ability to manfully grit your teeth and carry on. But sometimes it’s okay to take shortcuts, you know?”
“Shortcuts don’t end well for people like me.”
“Well,” Jaskier says, wringing out the wash cloth, “maybe you’re taking the wrong shortcuts.”
V
Probably the fifth thing that should have given away Geralt being a Witcher, really, was his strength. No normal man should be able to lift another grown man clear off his feet and pin him against a wall, especially when he started the position sitting down and also sopping wet from a bath.
Unfortunately, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head is not Witcher. No, the first thing that goes through Jaskier’s head – and, somewhat terribly, his mouth – is “Harder, please, harder!”
To which Geralt gives him a grunt, lifts him higher against the wall, and gives him exactly what he asked for.
Twice.
In the end, what really gives away Geralt being a Witcher is, of all things, his ability to swim.
“Oh my god, look at this lake, Geralt! Just look at it! So clear and clean and beautiful and – and, oh, I could write so many odes to the smooth tranquility of the water, the delicate grasses at the edge, the proud trees standing watch, the – Geralt, where are you going?”
Geralt gives him a look. “The town is that way.”
“But the lake, Geralt!”
Geralt shrugs.
Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. “You, my friend, have been even more tight-lipped about your adventures recently than usual, and so I have had very little fodder for my lovely lute, and I must provide my audience with fresh and exciting compositions! Otherwise I shall grow boring and stale, as an antique that sits upon the mantel and gathers dust, and then my name shall be forgotten in the annals of history and – ”
“So you’ll compose about a lake.”
“Well, it’s that or you tell me why you came home two days ago with slash marks on your back,” Jaskier says.
Geralt sighs and dismounts.
“Yes, I thought so,” Jaskier says triumphantly.
Geralt, bless him, does the hard work of untacking Roach and letting her graze while he stomps into the woods to gather fruits or nuts or something for them to eat. Jaskier is then free to gaze into the depths of the clear water and strum his lute and let the words flow from ripple to note.
Right up until the beautiful, clear, pristine lake explodes into a mass of thrashing tentacles that drag Jaskier rudely off the shore.
Fortunately, Jaskier manages to fling his lute higher up on the bank. Unfortunately, this means that he does not have the opportunity to free his leg from the monster currently trying to drag him to his doom.
Jaskier does the reasonable thing, of course: he screams.
He screams as he gets yanked across the grass, he screams as he gets pulled into the shallows, and he definitely screams as he gets dragged into water so deep he can’t even reach the bottom with his feet. Mostly screams, anyways; sometimes he gets a mouthful of water instead of air, and everything comes out gurgling and muffled.
Jaskier is so preoccupied with screaming and flailing and his imminent doom, actually, that he doesn’t even realize Geralt has sprinted out of the forest and dove into the lake until that beautiful, expensive, family heirloom of a silver sword flashes like lightning at his side, and the monster’s terrible earthshaking screech is followed by the blessed sensation of the tentacle falling away from his leg. Geralt seizes him by the shoulders and pushes him with his gorgeous strength, hard enough that Jaskier is sent spluttering backwards from the enraged monster, and then brandishes his sword again.
“You can’t fight in a lake!” Jaskier shouts.
“Swim!” Geralt yells back.
“Well, then there is a slight problem because I can’t swim!”
Geralt does a dizzyingly fast maneuver that slices off yet another tentacle. It makes an unbidden and ill-timed flash of heat echo in Jaskier’s nethers, right alongside the fear that still has his heart racing. No man should be able to look so good or move so fast in water, and with a sword no less.
“Fine!” Geralt shouts. “Then stay clear!”
And then the insane man throws himself at the monster, and they both go underwater.
Jaskier stares, and splutters, and tries not to drown.
After a few minutes, he begins to sing, because why not. “And here – here ends the life of – Jaskier the bard,” he hums in between mouthfuls of water. “Who went into a lake and – oh my god, you can swim?”
Geralt stops mid-stroke from where he’s reemerged and is steadily swimming over to Jaskier, covered in gore and eyes black as night, and gives him a look. “Seriously?” he grumbles.
“Also, what on earth happened to your eyes?”
“Potion,” Geralt says shortly.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jaskier says, as Geralt grabs him by one arm and starts pulling him towards the shore. “You killed a monster, you take potions, and you can swim? Geralt – Geralt, are you a Witcher?”
“In my defense,” Jaskier says, as Geralt dumps more wood onto their steadily growing campfire, “you were brooding in a dark corner with your hood up and your cloak covering everything that was, you know, Witcher-y.”
Geralt grunts and goes to poke at the tree branches where they are hanging their clothes to dry.
“But seriously, Geralt? All these years and you never said anything.”
Geralt turns around and gestures flatly at his face. Jaskier looks at the silver medallion, the cat eyes, and white hair, and swallows hard.
“I thought it was just, you know. Birth defects,” he says weakly. “They’re, um, mutations. Right?”
“What did they teach you at Oxenfurt,” Geralt complains, but his hands are gentle as he drapes another blanket around Jaskier’s shivering shoulders.
He does not drape another blanket around himself, though.
Jaskier sighs and lifts up one corner. “We can share, you know. Body heat, and all that.”
Geralt is a little leery, but Jaskier flaps the blanket at him a few more times and eventually he slinks over and settles against Jaskier’s side, broad and warm and reassuringly alive. He even puts an arm around Jaskier’s back, as if needing his own reassurance.
“I, um. I thought the monster killed you. When you went over,” Jaskier confesses, after a long moment of silence.
“Some Witcher I’d be, to be taken down by a yearling like that.”
“So . . . you are a Witcher?”
“Yes,” Geralt says, and his body goes taut like a string wound too tight. “I thought . . . you knew.”
“If I knew,” Jaskier says crossly, “do you think I’d still be singing of Geralt of Rivia the man?”
“Many of your songs don’t make sense.”
Jaskier gapes. “You – Please tell me you jest!”
Geralt gives him a look.
“That’s it,” Jaskier declares. “We are stopping at the next inn or town or village with a suitable room with a bed, because you, my friend, need a nap!”
Geralt blinks. “Are we still . . . friends?”
“Of course!” Jaskier pauses. “Wait. Unless . . . you don’t want to be?”
Geralt stares into the campfire like it holds the secrets to life and the universe. And maybe it does; Witchers are said to be able to see much, much more than humans with their cat eyes. That or Geralt is just uncomfortable again.
Finally, Geralt says awkwardly, “Would be weird. Without you making a racket. Puts me right to sleep.”
“Take that back, you heathen!”
“No.”
“Wait, Geralt,” Jaskier says, after they’ve dried and redressed (and had a round of truly invigorating thank god you’re alive sex where Geralt proved he can hoist Jaskier up against trees as well as walls) and are on their way, “you’re a Witcher.”
“Yes, we’ve covered this,” Geralt says, sounding annoyed.
Jaskier takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Breathes in again. “So, does this mean,” he says, “that all of this time, I’ve been singing second-rate songs about Geralt of Rivia the man when I could have been singing first-rate songs about Geralt of Rivia the Witcher?”
Geralt kicks Roach into a trot.
“GERALT!”
FINIS