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People look away as Geralt walks down the street.
It could be the swords, but he doesn’t think so. Here in the city there’s always someone dressing up like a superhero or movie monster. Last week he’d passed a woman dressed as a purple striped cat with a big smile painted on her face.
No, it’s something else. Something about him says he’s unapproachable. Untouchable.
It's fine. It makes hunting easier.
Most of the time it’s okay, being alone. He spent so many years on the Path with just his horse to keep him company that he’s used to having conversations with things that don’t answer back. (He still has a Roach, but she’s a dog now. It’s impractical, having a horse in the city, and the city is where the monsters live. They go where the people are.)
Most of the time it’s okay. But deep in the heart of winter, when the cold settles over him like a blanket, he misses his brothers. Lambert cursing, Eskel laughing, Vesemir scolding. In the winter everything is muffled, almost quiet, and he finds himself listening for sounds that aren’t there.
Eskel is out there somewhere; he mostly wanders. Lambert and Aiden live far in the south, where it’s always warm; Aiden wants to retire but Lambert can’t let go of the life. At least they have each other. He’s not sure about Cöen. They all try to keep in touch but it’s too painful. When they talk there’s an emptiness there, a space left for the people they’ve lost. For the brothers at rest in the clearing at the end of the Path.
Roach greets him at the door of his flat with a soft woof and several wet licks to his hand.
“Hey, girl. How’s the girl?” He has to clean his weapons and armor, but scratching his soft brown mutt behind her ears takes precedence. He kneels beside her, letting her lick his face.
“I missed you, too. Nothing too dangerous today, just a handful of ghouls in a subway tunnel. Made short work of them.”
Roach woofs and gives him a doggy grin.
“Come on,” he says, standing, stretching. He winces at the ache in his knees. No one ever tells you about what it feels like, living for hundreds of years. “Let’s get this done, then we can watch Bake Off.”
Vesemir is gone.
It’s still hard to think about, and it’s been 74 years since he left the Path for the clearing. Vesemir, the only father he’d ever known. Vesemir, his friend. He’d lost others along his long, lonely Path—too many to dwell on—but Vesemir…
Over the centuries Geralt and Vesemir had many long debates on Witchers and emotions. But when the old man died a chasm opened in Geralt’s chest, an emptiness he couldn’t fill. An ache that couldn’t be soothed.
Just like Vesemir, settling the debate with his own death. He’d been right about Witchers having feelings all along.
There isn’t much magic left in the world. Plenty of monsters, but not much magic. He’s got a theory that humans diluted it by telling so many stories; that by focusing on a prettier, more fantastical version they let real magic fade away. But it’s only a theory. The only ones who might understand are his brothers, and they don’t want to talk about it.
He’s stumbled across a few hedge witches with a hint of real magic, but all the old mages are gone. When the magic started to fade, so did they.
Geralt grits his teeth, downs the vial of Kiss. It’s vile, but he’s bleeding from his thigh and his shoulder and he’s not going to be killed by a fucking bogle. They’re not even supposed to be dangerous, just tricksters. Fuck.
He’s getting lightheaded. Maybe he should have prepared better, should have taken the potion sooner. But it had just been a faerie causing mischief in an abandoned school. There’d been no need for—
“Hey, man, you okay? Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”
Geralt blinks back to semi-consciousness to a pair of bright blue eyes peering at him from a concerned face. “Sword,” he rasps, hand grasping at air.
“Right,” the man says, putting a hilt into Geralt’s icy, questing fingers. “Funny thing, carrying a sword around. Say, is that your blood?” He looks a bit queasy behind the concern.
It’s not the right sword, he needs the silver. “Other sword,” he says. Then, “Blood is mine, but I should be mostly healed by now.”
“Oh.” The man pales. “How did you manage that? The healing, not the injury. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to hear about any kind of shooting or…” He gestures vaguely.
“I was stabbed by a faerie,” Geralt says. “And I took a potion to heal myself.” It’s not like the guy will believe him. He’ll decide Geralt’s a) crazy or b) on drugs; he’ll start making excuses and back away any moment and all Geralt will have to remember him is a set of footprints in the snow.
The man claps his hands and actually laughs. He sounds delighted. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life,” he says. “Oh look, there’s your other sword!”
Jaskier is terrified. There is apparently a faerie going around stabbing people.
Jaskier is thrilled. There is a mysterious stranger wearing armor and carrying swords ready to fight a faerie to protect him.
Well, okay, the man in black isn’t exactly fighting just for Jaskier. But when he’d gotten his swords back he’d insisted on getting to his feet, because the fucker is still hiding inside, and I’m the only one who knows how to kill it. And Jaskier had nearly swooned.
He’d wanted to follow the man inside, but he’d promised, so here he stands, weight shifting from foot to foot, watching the door to the darkened school. He wonders how long it takes to kill a faerie. He wonders how one goes about killing a faerie in the first place.
It never occurs to him to wonder about faeries being real.
Geralt is surprised to see the man waiting for him when he’s done with the bogle. He’s even more surprised to see the man’s sunny smile, to hear the relief whoosh from his lungs.
“Any more injuries?” the man asks. Geralt shakes his head, bewildered.
Humans don’t talk to him like this. Humans don’t usually talk to him at all.
“We should get you cleaned up,” he says, oblivious to Geralt’s confusion. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. Do you often fight faeries? That seems like a bit of a niche market, to be honest.”
“I’m Geralt,” Geralt says, his voice echoing in his own head. “Come—I mean, would you come with me?”
Jaskier just looks at him.
“I’ve got to feed my dog.”
They’ve all three had food—Roach had more than her share because Jaskier insisted on sharing some of his dinner with her—and Geralt’s had a shower and Geralt has been talking for so long that his throat aches.
“So you’ve been fighting monsters for how long?” Jaskier asks. “Because fuck me, you look amazing for your age.” He gives Geralt his winning smile, accompanied by a wink
Geralt just stares at him. “That’s the only thing you have to say?” he asks weakly.
“I was a terrible disappointment to my family.” Jaskier shrugs; if it hurts, it’s an old wound and mostly healed over. “‘Pankratz boys do not imagine.’” he says in what is an obvious mockery of his father’s voice. “I’ve believed in fairy tales since I first learned to read. I knew magic was real, if I could only just find it.”
“I—”
Jaskier pats Geralt on his knee. “I wasn’t expecting to be the one to wake up the handsome knight from an enchanted sleep. I figured it would happen the other way. Not that I’m a beautiful prince, or any kind of prince, for that matter, but that’s how these things—”
“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts.
“Yes?”
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Oh yes. More, sometimes. I sing, too, and play the guitar, and…”
Geralt smiles, letting Jaskier’s chatter wash over him. Good, he thinks. Good.