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There were few—if any—days Geralt could honestly call good. On the rare occasions they happened, he cherished them fiercely, like fragile things that might vanish if he looked away too long.
What Geralt could say, without hesitation, was that he’d had bad days.
So calling something the worst day meant something.
And the day he lost Jaskier on the mountain—lost him to anger, pride, and words he never should have said—ranked high among them.
Of course, life had a habit of kicking Geralt when he was already down.
The day only worsened when he learned Nilfgaard had captured Jaskier.
Geralt had always known that, to protect Ciri, forces like Nilfgaard would forever hunt them. That he would always be running, always calculating, always planning three steps ahead.
But Jaskier—
Jaskier deserved better than that.
The bard was good. Kind. Warm in a way the world tried endlessly to snuff out. He deserved safety. He deserved love. He deserved to be kept fed and sheltered and far away from empires that saw people as pieces on a board.
And when Nilfgaard had Jaskier, Geralt knew—without question—that he would follow the bard to the end of the world.
Which was how Geralt found himself now, tracking the garrison that had been holding Jaskier prisoner. Monsters fell. Soldiers followed. The trail led upward, into thin air and stone.
Terrible things always seemed to happen to Geralt on mountainsides.
At the edge of a cliff, he found them.
Rience—the fire mage, or more accurately, the fire fucker—sat at a small table as if enjoying a pleasant afternoon. Jaskier was seated beside him, hands bound, eyes blindfolded.
Rience held a small flame dangerously close to Jaskier’s neck.
“So, witcher,” Rience said pleasantly, “it’s down to you and me.”
Geralt stepped closer.
“If you wish him dead,” Geralt said calmly, “by all means—keep moving that flame.”
“Let me explain,” Geralt continued.
The witcher noted how still Jaskier was. The bard—normally incapable of silence—had gone utterly rigid.
“There’s nothing to explain,” Rience interrupted, gesturing lazily toward Jaskier. “You’re attempting to reclaim something I’ve rightfully stolen.”
“He’s my bard,” Geralt said.
Fighting would be easier. Simple, even. But the flame was too close. One misstep, one wrong angle, and Jaskier would be burned.
“But perhaps,” Geralt added, “an arrangement can be reached.”
Rience yanked Jaskier’s arms sharply. “There will be no arrangement. Someone paid good money for this bard, and I don’t intend to lose my investment.”
He moved the flame closer. Jaskier’s skin began to redden.
“Well,” Geralt said evenly, “if there can be no arrangement… then we have an impasse.”
“Indeed,” Rience replied smugly. “I can’t compete with you physically—and you’re no match for my mind.”
There it was. The inevitable mage’s pride.
Geralt had been wondering when it would surface.
“Really,” Geralt asked dryly. “You’re that clever?”
“All those scholars at Oxenfurt Academy?” Rience scoffed. “Morons.”
“Alright,” Geralt said, a plan forming. “Then I challenge you to a battle of wits.”
“For the bard?” Rience asked.
Geralt nodded.
“To the death,” Rience said, withdrawing the flame. “I accept.”
“Good. Then pour the wine.”
“Smell this,” Geralt instructed, holding out a pinch of powder. “Do not touch.”
“I smell nothing.”
“That,” Geralt said, “is iocane powder. Odorless. Tasteless. Dissolves instantly. Lethal—even to witchers.”
He poured two goblets, turned away, and let the powder fall into one.
“The battle of wits begins,” Geralt said. “We drink when you decide.”
Rience talked. And talked. And talked.
Logic piled upon logic, arrogance twisting itself into knots as he reasoned endlessly about which goblet must be safe. Geralt said little, letting the mage spiral, letting pride do its work.
Finally, Rience pointed behind Geralt. “What’s that?”
Geralt turned, just as planned.
They drank.
“You guessed wrong,” Geralt said calmly.
Rience laughed—until he didn’t. Until he fell, lifeless, the poison finally silencing him.
Jaskier blinked rapidly as sunlight flooded his eyes after so long beneath the blindfold. He squinted up at the witcher, confusion and relief tangling in his chest.
“Geralt?”
Geralt’s hands were already at the ropes, binding Jaskier’s wrists, fingers working quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“We don’t have time,” Geralt said, cutting him off. “We have to go.” He had a plan—half-formed, reckless—but it ended with Jaskier somewhere safe.
Jaskier hesitated. “Are you sure?” His voice wavered, sharp with old hurt. “Because the last time we saw each other, you basically told me to fuck off.”
That was the part Geralt hated. Action was easy. Steel and monsters made sense. Words did not. His gaze dropped to the ground.
“And,” Jaskier went on, anger creeping in, “you left me on a mountain. Have you seen these boots? I practically slid all the way back down to Caingorn.”
Geralt had seen the boots. He had also told Jaskier—repeatedly—to replace them. “Jaskier—”
“Don’t fucking Jaskier me,” the bard snapped. “I’m talking to you. That’s how this works.”
Silence fell.
Then Geralt leaned in and kissed him.
It was quiet. Gentle. Perfectly, devastatingly real.
Without thinking, Jaskier shoved him.
Geralt vanished over the edge of the cliff.
Jaskier stared after him, horror dawning. “Oh—Geralt.”
That had not been the plan. With no time to think, Jaskier scrambled forward and followed, tumbling down the slope and hitting the ground with a painful thud.
“Jaskier!” Geralt shouted, already rushing to his side. “Can you move?”
Jaskier grinned up at him despite the ache. “You’re here,” he said softly. “And you just kissed me. Honestly, if you’d asked, I could’ve flown.”