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this morning
i told the flowers
what i’d do for you
and they blossomed
– rupi kaur
The world is tinted red. I stumble over a branch that has lost a tug-of-war against the winter storm that causes doors and windows to rattle and children to hide in their room.
For the witcher, heartless, cold
Paid in coin of gold
Blood is running down my sides, I don’t even know what injury from. It’s sticky and cold as soon as it leaves my body, as if the cold wind could freeze it into my skin. I hear men, laughing, shouting, hitting. Any second headlights will appear behind me, and they’ll chase me, for sports, like they have for as long as I remember.
I wonder whether humans are the real monsters.
What clothes I have are stolen from the house I fled. My feet are bare. I’m cold and so very tired. I don’t remember the last time I had food. Or water, for that matter. I haven’t felt this tired in a long time.
I walk into a traffic light. I don’t even feel the pain anymore. At least my guts are still inside me this time.
Time.
Blurs.
I don’t remember how I got here. The silence is so deafening in my ears. I think they’re bleeding, too. I remember Vesemir, covering my ears when it all became too much. After my first round of trials. After the second, any kind of touch overwhelmed me just as much. Living hell.
A dog barks. I quicken my uneven steps, grating my teeth against the pain that comes with irritating broken bone. The cold has numbed the worst of the pain. It would be so much worse if I was in a warmer environment. I don’t remember where I am going. I don’t remember why I was in this blasted city in the first place.
I stagger. I slip on a patch of ice, former snow that was pressed down by the weight of cars. I need to get away. The headlights will find me. They will find me.
I’m cold.
I leave the city, mourning Roach. I am in no condition to ride her, not after the time spent in that basement.
There’s two houses, at the end of a deserted road. One belongs to the most terrifying woman I have ever seen – a petite lawyer with a hissing cat. The other is the home for a man with the bluest eyes, and the widest smile. He’s the reason I keep going. I remember.
Dandelions and buttercups. Poking their fragile heads through the blanket of snow. It aggravates the cut on face, but I smile anyway. They’re like him.
Through the window I see Jaskier, sitting at the kitchen table. Pegasus is perched on his shoulder. The raven’s got only two eyes, and they’re black. Not red.
I knock against the door with my knuckles, not sure if I’d even be able to lift the knocker in a shape of a lark’s head. Jaskier appears in the door, looking as tired as I feel, and relief washes over me so heavily that I almost collapse. Almost.
“Hey,” I say weakly. “Merry Christmas.”
I tip forward and then everything goes black.
The first thing that hits me is pain. It’s everywhere, every fibre of my being wants to cry out. I must have made a sound because only seconds later a hand cups my face. My heart speeds up and my breath catches. They caught me. They’ll hurt me. I flinch away, I try not to, but I can’t stop it. Show no weakness. The hand disappears. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the way pain explodes on my side, and flee.
I don’t even make it to the end of the room before my legs give beneath me, and I fall to the floor. I open my eyes.
I’m not in a basement. I’m not in a basement, and I can see. I can see. There’s no blindfold, no burly men, no women with mean smiles.
“Geralt?”
Jaskier. It’s Jaskier who’s crouching in front of me, hand hovering over me, not touching. Jaskier.
“Geralt, it’s me, Jaskier.”
Jaskier. I nod. I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m here because I promised Jaskier to meet him come winter.
“Can you take my hand? It can’t be comfortable on the ground, love.”
Love. I shake my head. My hands are bound, I can feel the tight rope around my wrists. They used rough rope, something that’ll leave scars should I ever get out of them. How can I take Jaskier’s hand when it’s bound in rope?
I open my mouth to explain myself to him, but all that comes out is a distressed sound.
“Can I touch you?” Jaskier asks quietly. He’s much closer now, how did he get so close? I nod. I ache. I ache for his touch.
This time, I don’t jump when Jaskier’s hand closes around my wrist. His fingers are gentle, his skin warm and dry. He lifts my hand and shows it to me.
“You’re free, Geralt. You’re with me. You’re safe.”
He’s right. My wrists look like they were chafed raw, and Jaskier’s hands feel like burning iron, even if they’re so soft and gentle, but he’s right. There’s no rope. I’m free.
“Come,” Jaskier says, and lets go of my hand. I mourn its loss immediately.
Getting to the bed is an ordeal. I need Jaskier’s help, and the witch helps without fuss. He’s stronger than he looks, and I wonder if I could kiss him. I have been thinking about kissing him for a long while.
Jaskier grabs a blanket and tucks me in before grabbing a stool and taking a seat next to my bed.
“Give me your hand, love,” he says, reaching out, but waiting for me to close the space between our hands. He’s so fucking gentle that I’d cry if I could. But it seems as if I’m empty. That’s okay.
Jaskier concentrates. His tongue always peeks through his lips when he’s concentrated, and his brows furrow adorably. A tingling sensation washes over me, and then I can see with my own eyes how the wound scabs over and closes, looking several days older as it should.
“I’ll get you something for the pain,” Jaskier says when he’s done caring for my wounds. He’s strangely distant all of a sudden. I frown.
His tea is good, as I knew it would be. I sip it slowly, glad for the honey that’s sweetening it. Jaskier stands next to my bed, fiddling with his crocheting needle, looking distant and awkward at the same time.
“Jask,” I say. “Sit.”
He obeys, still avoiding my eyes.
“You’re angry,” I deduce.
“I’m not … you know what, Geralt? Yes, I’m angry. I’m fucking furious because you promised to be with me come Christmas, yet you weren’t. I spent my Christmas Eve with fucking Yennefer of all people, and her monster of a cat tried to eat Pegasus, I’ll get back at her for that, by the way, but that’s beside the point. I waited. At first I thought, maybe a contract was more difficult to handle than he anticipated, he’ll be here. When you hadn’t turned up by the time that Yenna was peacefully snoring on my couch I got worried. After a week of not hearing from you, she tried to console me with the usual bullshit. ‘He’s a man, Jaskier. Men are jerks.’ – ‘Don’t worry, Jaskier, he wasn’t even half as hot as you’re painting him right now.’ And then you turn up, half dead again, bleeding all over me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re – I’m not angry at you, you idiot!”
He looks as surprised about his outburst as I feel. There are tears running down his face. I lift a hand to carefully wipe them away.
“I admit, I hated you a bit, when you didn’t show up. But the longer you were missing, the more I got worried. I almost went on a search for you. And then you’re there, on my doorstep, there’s blood everywhere, yet you seemed so happy to see me. Geralt, I’m so glad you’re not off worse.”
Jaskier leans into my hand, and I feel like I’m holding the most precious thing in the world.
“I saw what they did to you,” Jaskier says quietly. His eyes are closed, his eyebrows drawn close to a frown, his mouth a thin hard line.
“I never invade my patients’ privacy, and you guard your mind well, but when you were unconscious, your mental walls fell away, and I was suddenly assaulted with all those images, the sounds, smells, emotions, all that pain. I saw what they did to you, Geralt.”
Fists, boots, and steel to my stomach, my shoulders and chest, knives to sensitive skin. Lights, blinding, pulsing behind my eyes. Sounds so loud that blood trickles from my ears. Mutant scum. Monster. Beast. Butcher.
Jaskier’s hand on mine brings me back to reality. I’m in his living room. I’m with the only mage I trust, the man who brought me back from the brink of death twice now. Jaskier opens his eyes, and my breath catches.
“I want to kill them, Geralt. I want to go after every single one of them, and I want to rip them apart limb by limb. I want to tear their throats out with my teeth, and feed their intimate parts to the dogs. I want to dance on their graves, and curse the land on which they stood.”
His eyes are glowing an eerie blue, the doors and windows rattling as Chaos whips through the room. Candles flicker and die, cutlery rattles in the cupboard, a glass falls to the ground and smashes into a thousand pieces.
“I want them to suffer for what they did to you.”
Pegasus lands on Jaskier’s shoulder, cawing once. His eyes are red, and then he blinks and a third eye opens on his forehead.
“Jask,” I say quietly. “Jaskier.”
He needs a minute to calm down, but I hold his hands. I couldn’t look away from him, even if I tried. He’s always beautiful, but this is the first time I realise how powerful he is. He could crush me effortlessly if he wanted to, and I am very lucky that he wants to hold and kiss me instead. I refuse to think that him seeking revenge on my behalf is hot. It’s not.
“There you are.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, “I’m so sorry.”
I kiss him.
I don’t think I will ever tire of kissing Jaskier. He’s soft and pliant in front of me. Most of me is in bandages, but my hands are uncovered, and I want to feel skin. I want to feel and smell and taste. Jaskier makes a happy noise as I slip my tongue between his lips. His hands are fluttering, as if he’s unsure where to put them. I growl, enjoying the shudder that runs through the witch, and I grab his hands place them firmly around my waist.
“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers against my lips. I hum.
In the next moment we’re kissing again, and I grab him and pull him into my lap. Jaskier squeaks and breaks apart, eyes wide and shocked.
“Geralt no, you’re still wounded.”
“I’ll be able to handle a twink on my lap,” I tease. Jaskier squawks in mock-outrage, and before he can retort I shut him up with my mouth.
His jumper is soft and red this time, and it’s easy to slip my hands beneath it and touch. Jaskier gasps, presses closer. I need him just like I need air.
The thought hits me like a truck. My heart skips a beat, and then it doubles its pace, rabbiting in my chest, so fast it almost hurts. Jaskier opens his eyes and looks at me, concern written on his face.
“Is something wrong? Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly. I quickly shake my head, then bury it in his neck.
“Your scent,” I murmur into his skin. “On the pillow. You were gone, and all I had left of you was that quickly fading scent on that stupid pumpkin pillow. They took it when they ambushed me. They took everything.”
“I can make you a new one,” Jaskier says.
“Don’t want a new one,” I say. “Want you.”
A beat of silence.
“Oh, Geralt. You have me. You have all of me.”
I feel strangely warm inside. Like my heart has grown and is now too big to fit the space carved into my body for it. Like it’s going to burst and make me explode. I don’t know what to do with it, so I continue to hide from it in the crook of Jaskier’s neck. His nimble fingers pet my hair and he hums a soothing tune. We sit like that for a long while.
“It’s almost midnight, love. Would you like to come outside with me?”
“Cold.”
He laughs at that, lovely and carefree.
“Magic, remember.”
I grunt.
“Come, let’s get you into a wheel chair.”
“Jaskier.”
But Jaskier tuts and fusses, and it’s not like I could refuse him anything, so after a while we’re outside, Jaskier with that ridiculous hat and scarf combination, me in the thickest coat he owns, sitting in a wheel chair. A bubble of warmth follws the witch wherever he goes which means I have to stay close to stay warm, something I don’t mind one bit. The storm has died down enough to be able to be outside.
There’s a Christmas tree in Jaskier’s backyard, lovingly decorated with ornaments and – as Jaskier explains proudly – a biblically accurate depiction of an angel at the top. It looks like someone took a chicken and dumped it into ten different paints, emptied a cup of glitter over it, and then glued as many googley eyes on it as they could find. Jaskier snaps his fingers, and the bell shaped ornaments begin to glow faintly, like candles would. Pegasus sits on the highest twig and glances at the glitter-feather-explosion with something akin to disgust.
Jaskier stands behind me, his hands toying with my hair as he begins the countdown. Yennefer on the other side of the field seems to have invited half the city to celebrate with her, and as soon as Jaskier gets to ‘Happy New Year’, fireworks erupt, painting shortlived but vibrant pictures in the night sky. I turn in Jaskier’s arms, grab his scarf to pull him down to me, kissing him softly. He smiles, and kisses me back, and we stay in that embrace until I feel tired from being awake so long and Jaskier shakes from keeping the bubble of warmth around us. We move inside, Jaskier helps me out of the wheel chair and into the bed. With a flick of his wrist the lights in the room turn off.
“Jaskier,” I say. “You’re looming.”
“Hm? Oh, no, not at all.”
I grab his hand and drag him down to me.
“Geralt? Geralt, let go!”
“Hm,” I say. “Mine.”
“The bed is too small, I’ll hurt you.”
“Bed is okay.”
Jaskier turns a bit, then rests his head on my chest. I press a kiss into his hair.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes, Jaskier. This is okay.”
“Good.”
“Hm. Sleep.”
“Sleep, yes. Already sleeping. Geralt?”
“Jaskier?” I resigned myself to not getting much sleep tonight.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m glad, too.”
“Goodnight, Geralt.”
“Night, Jaskier.”
“Geralt?”
“If you don’t let me sleep I’ll use Somne on you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
He knows me too well. I find that I don’t mind that much.