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It was midday, and the sun cast its warm, gold light upon the ancient stones of Kaer Morhen. The rays of the sun stretched across the keep to soften the rugged edges of the fortress with a quiet, unassuming warmth. History still tarried here, strung into the air to whisper tales of courage, magic, and resilience. Yet, inside, a different kind of drama was afoot as one particular bard worked through his fifth attempted escape of the day.
Carefully, he set one foot onto the cold stone floor and felt the shiver inch through him as he emerged from his cocoon of blankets. He crept inch by inch toward the door, his heart racing in expectation. Just as he pulled it open, he came all but face-to-face with Geralt, who was standing there, arms across his chest, an eyebrow arched in that eternally fascinating mixture of curiosity and mild disapproval.
"And just where would that be?" The deep voice of Geralt rumbled, his tone commanding, yet softened by a glint of fond amusement that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat.
"Geralt," he replied in an attempt at a casual tone, though strained with suppressed excitement, "I was only going for a walk. This bed smothers me; I might be bored if I don't get some fresh air."
"Back. To. Bed." Geralt spoke the words with deliberate slowness, although his eyes gentled slightly as he laid a steady but tender hand on Jaskier's shoulder, turning him back toward the bed. "You're still sick. You need to rest."
It had been only days since Jaskier's unluckily eventful escapade. Lured by the mere thrill of it, upon some stroke of childlike excitement, he and Ciri ventured out onto a frozen lake. But as the ice gave way under their combined weight, Jaskier managed to push Ciri clear of danger before he plunged through the rent in the ice. Geralt had leapt to his rescue in time, pulling him from the freezing water, but what this ordeal left Jaskier with was more than just a memory: he now had an unstoppable cold and an order to stay in bed.
"Rest, rest, rest!" exclaimed Jaskier, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. "At this rate, I'll end up fused to the mattress!
A shadow of a smile danced on Geralt's lips-good enough for Jaskier, who watched as Geralt laboriously arranged the blankets around him. "Good little bards stay in bed when they're unwell," Geralt whispered, pushing a loose strand of hair off Jaskier's forehead with unexpected delicacy.
"A good little bard?" he snorted, though the words caught in a fit of coughs that shook his frame. "No such creature exists! I am a free spirit, doomed to roam!"
"Not when they're sick," Geralt countered, his arms crossing, though the affection in his voice was unmistakable. "You may charm half the Northern Kingdoms, but no amount of charisma is getting you out of bed rest."
Jaskier flung a hand over his forehead and cast his eyes heavenward with melodramatic abandon. "So you are unmoved by my plight?"
"Jaskier," Geralt said, exasperation and tenderness tangled in his voice, "if I were unmoved, I wouldn't be sitting here making sure you stay tucked in." He slightly smirked as he paused. "You're not invincible, as much as you like to think.
Jaskier's eyes have softened, though his voice remained playful. "Oh, but I could always… slip away when you're not looking. Feel the wind in my hair, the freedom—"
"Not a chance," Geralt said, his voice low and leaning closer to him, his gaze steady. "Not until you're fully recovered.
A wicked glint danced in his eye as he grasped Geralt's hand, hauling it near his chest. "Alright, monster," he whispered with a grin. "If I'm going to be your prisoner, at least try to keep me entertained." He pulled Geralt onto the bed beside him with a light jerk, catching the witcher off guard and nearly tumbling him over.
Geralt grinned, threw himself onto the bed and supported himself with an elbow. "So, what is it you want, bard?"
"Tell me a story," Jaskier said. His eyes were alight with the sparkle of his boundless curiosity, although signs of fatigue still shrouded his features. "One of those Witcher tales. The ones you think I never listen to.
Geralt cast him a mock suspicious look. "Oh, you listen. And half the time, I catch you writing songs about them."
"Well, surely I deserve the comfort of a tale!" Jaskier grinned, tracing lazy patterns on Geralt's arm. "You could tell me about that mountain troll or the wyvern that ambushed us in the fields."
Geralt chuckled, the sound rough but warm. "The wyvern? You fainted the instant it showed up.
"The heat overcame me!" Jaskier protested, launching in a second into his theatrical boasts.
"And the troll?" Geralt raised an eyebrow. "You thought you'd 'charmed' it until it tossed you into a tree."
"Ah, yes, the early days of my troll diplomacy," Jaskier said, winking, snuggling closer. "Tell me more! Who else fainted? Or who lost a battle of wits?
With a resigned sigh, Geralt relented, telling his tale in his sparse but colourful way and leaving Jaskier to ask questions, make teasing asides, and offer suggestions for song lyrics. Geralt's calm, melodious voice was soothing; as the night wore on, the story lulled Jaskier's eyes to heaviness, sleep slowly overtaking him.
Mumbling, he said, "You're good at this… 'caring for a helpless bard' business."
"Good little bards, rest quietly," Geralt reminded him again, smoothing the blanket over Jaskier again.
"Mmhmm," Jaskier mumbled, his hand still entwined with Geralt's as he nestled into the pillows.
Geralt remained close, a faint smile softening his features as he watched over Jaskier. Lulled by the shared warmth of the moment, he was indulging in the strong, silent bond between them.