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Geralt jolts awake, the tingle of magic itching at his skin. He is upright, barely, leaning against a cold pillar of stone with his wrists chained around it.
Around him, through a shimmering shield, he can hear a crowd of murmuring shadows, echoing strangely in the cavern surrounding him.
He reaches for the memory of how he came to be here, but it’s blurred in a thick fog, part magical and part related to the clot of blood he feels tugging at his hair. His bad leg is throbbing in protest, and he has a dozen half-healed injuries that speak of an intense and bloody fight.
The shield abruptly falls, and the cavern hushes, but it is still too bright, too loud. He doesn't remember taking a potion but he feels sensitive, disorientated.
“Who will start the bidding at one thousand crowns?”
Geralt thought the underground auction house was merely a rumour, but he should’ve known better than to doubt a story that spread so far and wide.
If Jaskier has taught him anything…
Jaskier.
Where is his bard?
The memories hit him sharply - the ambush on the road, the sheer numbers of them, telling Jaskier to leave him and not believing for a moment that he actually would.
Did he run for his life, like Geralt demanded? Was he another lot in this perverse auction? Or was he lying dead in the road, abandoned by the auctioneer’s mercenaries as not worth the effort?
He tries to look around, but the lights are blinding and he cannot get his bearings. The auctioneer is taking bids, but Geralt has lost track of how much these cretins think he’s worth. Of how much they think Ciri's location is worth.
He will die first, of that he is certain. A slow and painful death, but he endured the Trials as a mere human child - he can do this for his daughter, for his family.
If Jaskier is gone, it will make it easier to die.
“Who will give me–”
“Fifty thousand crowns.”
The voice is loud and resonant, cutting straight through the muttering and excitement - and Geralt would know that voice anywhere.
He’s going to kill him for this - after he's finished crushing him to his chest like a drowning man.
At least he’s alive to pull this stupid stunt.
Geralt tries to follow the sound, but he can only make out the silhouette of a ridiculous hat adorned with long feathers - the master bard is putting on a show for the crowned heads of the Continent, for the Emperor who hungers for his prize.
The auctioneer is momentarily stunned, not expecting such an escalation in the bidding, but he smoothly recovers.
“In coin, you understand, sir. The coin in your possession, tonight.”
“Oh, I am good for it,” Jaskier says, confidently, and Geralt doesn’t need to see him to know that he is giving the eye to every one of the competition. Impressing upon them the degree of their stupidity if they failed to account for him.
Geralt could kiss him. And then lightly shake him for a fool, for robbing whichever bank gave up that kind of money.
“Fifty-two thousand,” another voice calls - a mage, if Geralt isn’t mistaken, but he cannot place which one. Of course, the nobility hadn’t come themselves - it’s the surviving court mages and spymasters who are playing this game.
“Sixty thousand,” Jaskier says, easily.
Another silence, the soft jingling of coins in pouches. Trying to scrape together something to match that outrageous bid.
“Sixty-one?” comes a tentative venture, even as a hissed whisper tells the man to wait.
Jaskier scoffs. “Sixty-five.”
Geralt senses the defeat, the quick calculations regarding potential alliances - all dismissed. They have the money back in the palaces and vaults, but not here in this cavern, not tonight.
“Going once… going twice…”
Geralt feels the surging anger, the crackling of undischarged chaos - and whatever is holding it all at bay. An ancient dimeritium mine, perhaps.
The mages could probably break through its effects if they worked together - but they won’t, and they can’t burn their bridges to this place and its valuable treasures.
“Sold, to the Viscount de Lettenhove. If you will just bring your coffer, sir.”
The solid thud of a wooden chest hits a slab of rock, and Geralt hears the counting commence, by magic and by hand.
If he listens carefully, he can hear Jaskier humming, the gentle strumming of his lute. He vaguely recognises the song, he thinks, and that is likely the point. Jaskier is reminding him that he’s near, that he’s still able to breathe, to play.
“It is all verified genuine,” the auctioneer declares, clearly a little surprised. “You may remove the lot now.”
“And the auction house guarantee?” Jaskier says, a little sharply.
The auctioneer sighs, before reciting the words dully. “Not for ten years may the same lot pass through this house, dead or alive.”
“Quite right,” Jaskier says, and he’s clearly intimidating the other bidders again, heedless of their relative power.
The wind don’t cower to powerful men.
The bindings release, and it takes everything Geralt has not to collapse to the ground. Jaskier may be strong, but he can’t carry him out of there. They cannot afford to show any weakness to these predators and their masters.
The auction guards clear a path between him and his new owner, who he still can’t see all that clearly. Is he well? Favouring injuries? Everything within him longs to know.
Someone laughs in the crowd. “He’ll fall before you’re free, little bard. And then we’ll have him.”
Suddenly, Geralt feels something descend over him, very like a cloak. The light and sound is muffled again, and the crowd roars as if deprived of a spectacle.
“The lot will be concealed for ten minutes only,” the auctioneer intones. “After that, the auction will end and all participants may depart.”
Jaskier, apparently unperturbed, bows to his audience - and turns his back on Geralt. And he walks away, playing the same tune again and humming, not even glancing back over his shoulder.
Geralt stumbles after, concentrating on keeping his feet under him. He thinks it must have been some time since he was rested and fed, because his body would usually tolerate magic and deprivation better than this.
The tunnel is narrow ahead, and he bumps against the walls occasionally, keeping his eyes fixed on Jaskier. The bard is singing now, and Geralt finally recognises the Song of the Seven. Because Jaskier cannot help but prod the lions in their dens.
Every step feels like an eternity, but Jaskier doesn't speak to him, doesn’t run - he just swaggers onward, playing and singing as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
At first, he thinks he imagines the faint glow of light ahead, but as it grows, he recognises the silvery fall of moonlight. They are nearing the end, their escape.
He hopes Jaskier has a plan, because he isn’t sure he could fight a kitten right now.
Jaskier steps out into the full night, but still does not turn. He plays a few more notes, as Geralt doggedly follows, step after agonising step until he is just behind the bard.
A roar of sound rushes up the tunnel behind them, and Geralt feels the cloak of magic fall away.
Jaskier finally turns, his face lighting up as he sees Geralt, naked relief on his face and infusing his scent.
He steps forward, an embrace and a necessary intervention to stop Geralt falling to his knees.
Geralt hears the urgent whisper - “Yen, I have him.” - before the telltale light of a portal opens before them, lilacs and gooseberries spilling out into the clear night.
Jaskier drags him forward, all but carrying him, and Geralt feels Yen’s lips brush his cheek with the briefest touch.
But it does not stop there - another portal, and another, and yet another, each carrying a different scent and another dizzying, nauseating blow to Geralt’s self-control.
Finally, he stumbles into a room that radiates safety, Jaskier hauling him over to a bed he calls his own.
“--barely conscious, could hardly–”
“--risk with potions. I would need–”
“--promised she’ll be back before I could miss her, and she always–”
The fragments wash over him, and he allows his eyes to close.
When he opens them again, he finds himself propped up in bed, with Jaskier’s chest for a pillow and Ciri’s hands warming his, as she sleeps in the chair. Yennefer is busying herself by the table with Vesemir, sorting through various ingredients and tinctures, quietly debating what will and won’t work for whatever ails him.
A gentle kiss brushes against his ear. “Welcome back,” Jaskier murmurs.
His voice draws Yennefer and Vesemir’s attention away from their alchemy, and Ciri stirs at their movements. Geralt feels minutely scrutinised and overwhelmingly loved, which he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“How…?” he rasps.
“Drink first,” Yennefer says, producing first water and then a series of potions in consultation with Vesemir, before he leaves to prepare…breakfast? Geralt has no idea what hour it is, what meal he should eat, or even what day or month.
The potions all taste awful, but he can feel them working within him, knitting him back together from the inside. Still, Yennefer hovers close by, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch over him.
Jaskier is back to humming, rocking him very gently, and Geralt can smell the stale fear, exhaustion, and guilt on his clothes.
He means to tell him that he did the right thing in running, that he was unbelievably stupid to come and rescue him, and that he’s glad to be home.
Instead, he says, “Sixty five thousand crowns.”
“We actually had sixty-seven,” Ciri pipes up, excitable in a way only a child could be when discussing the budget of a small kingdom. “So I think you were a bargain, really.”
“How?” he says, again, because he doesn’t know how to ask why?
“Oh, this and that,” Jaskier says, evasively, as if this were the kind of spare change one found in the bottom of a pack.
“I sold four manor houses,” Yennefer said, rolling her eyes at Jaskier, which slightly dulled the blow of four manor houses. “And I called in some favours of a financial nature.”
“Yen…” he says, though it comes out rough, his body fighting fatigue and foundering with it.
Her hand strokes over his arm, catching on a bandage, and he belatedly realises he’s bare-chested save for bandages. A great many bandages.
“Please. What need have I for manor houses when I have a winter holiday home in the mountains?” She gestures to the room, which Geralt’s brain sluggishly informs him is his bedroom at Kaer Morhen. Their bedroom.
“But Jaskier…” Ciri begins, then trails off.
Geralt can almost feel the intensity of the look Jaskier is shooting her from beside his ear, and he tries to turn his body to catch sight of his bard’s face.
But he really is too tired even for that small movement, and instead submits to drinking more water and some kind of bone broth that uncomfortably reminds him of recovering from the Trials.
“I think they kept you in some kind of cursed sleep for the past two weeks,” Yennefer says, with distaste. “Not a proper stasis, which is why your body has barely healed and you’ve lost so much strength - amateurs.”
That’s why it feels as if Jaskier is holding him up, why that familiar embrace feels so much more like support.
That, and the sum of sixty five thousand crowns smothering him.
“He’s brooding,” Yennefer teases, fondly, directing the remark over Geralt’s shoulder. “You’ll have to tell him.”
“When he’s better,” Jaskier says, firmly, trying to shut down the conversation again.
But that comment only worries Geralt more - what can’t he be told now, in his present state? Is he really so frail, or is Jaskier’s secret so terrible as to destroy him?
“He looks pretty upset now,” Ciri says, dubiously.
Jaskier sighs deeply, knowing when he’s outnumbered.
“I sold my title,” he says, blandly, as if talking about some cheap trinket. “The title, the holdings, my place in the succession for the Earldom. It’s not like I was doing anything with them anyway.”
Geralt knows very little about Jaskier’s noble life, but he knows enough to see that this is not some trivial thing. A noble title is currency, power and privilege. “I’m sorry, Jask.”
“Oh, really, Ferrant will be a much better Earl. Don’t get all emotional on me again.”
Geralt still can’t see Jaskier’s face, but he can see Yennefer and Ciri well enough. He’s missing something here.
“That…doesn’t add up,” he says, quietly. Even with the addition of the manor houses, he doesn't see how a minor Earldom in Redania could raise that kind of capital.
A quieter, more subdued sigh. “And Valdo Marx paid an extortionate sum for me never to play in a tournament or court again.”
Geralt cannot help his involuntary gasp, searching Yennefer and Ciri’s faces for the truth of it.
“You didn't.”
“Geralt, I don’t care about accolades half as much as Valdo does. I haven't entered a tournament in three years. No court will pay me after I just swiped you out from under their noses.”
“We got what we wanted,” Yennefer says, softly, her eyes boring into his to make him understand.
“And we wanted what we got,” Jaskier adds, quietly, pressing another kiss to Geralt’s ear and drawing his arms tighter around him.
“It’s too much,” Geralt whispers, brokenly. “I’m not–”
“If you dare say you’re not worth it,” Ciri says, sharply, “I’ll remind you of all the times you've told me never to say that or to even think it.”
They close in around him then, Yennefer and Ciri enfolding him in their arms, as Jaskier continues to hold him. His family, a fortress greater than any built of stone or silver.
He feels his breath hitch in his chest, even if the tears that should fall deserted him long ago.
“How did you know…I was there?”
“The auction house broadcast their find–,” Yennefer begins, but Geralt shakes his head, trying to find the right words.
“After, with the spell?” He turns his head slightly towards Jaskier. “You knew I was there.”
To his surprise, Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “I’m supposed to say something grand here about true love and destiny and that sort of thing. But the truth is that I could hear it. I was playing so I could hear the echoes in the cavern - I knew there was a solid something blocking the sound behind me and I just hoped it was you.”
“That is appallingly clever, bard,” Yennefer says, clearly impressed.
“That was scarily complimentary, witch.”
“I love you. All of you.”
It takes him a moment to realise that he’s the one who’s spoken, but then they fold themselves around him again, closer. And he feels that perhaps he could be worthy of it.