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The sun is shining, pleasantly warm with just enough breeze to make it comfortable, and they’ve taken a rare break from the road and monster hunting and performing to just sit in the town square, munching on fresh pastries.
Jaskier has out his song book, although he’s hardly written a word, too distracted by a handful of youngsters playing jump rope.
They’d eyed Geralt warily when he sat down, and Jaskier’s heart had twisted briefly at the way his witcher pointedly focussed on his food, facing away from the children, not even looking at them. Too familiar, seeing fear even on the youngest of humans. At least there hadn’t been mothers pulling them away, hiding them inside; that always made for hours of silence as Geralt brooded.
With the pastries gone, the last mouthful fed surreptitiously to Roach, Geralt brushes down his shirt and stands, a meeting with the mayor next on the agenda. Jaskier waves him away, not wanting to stir from his repose, enjoying the sun and a full belly and the quiet droning of town life.
It’s a quick meeting, with little to show for it aside from vague rumours of some creature bothering a village a day south, and Geralt returns soon enough. Jaskier’s not where he left him, which is usually a cause for concern, but today it gives him a chance to watch the bard hopping and skipping between the children’s ropes, pink cheeked and laughing, jacket thrown aside and sleeves rolled up.
"I thought you knew how to dance," Geralt says scathingly, when Jaskier stumbles over and collapses, panting, beside him.
"I'd like to see you keep up with a load of kids playing skipping rope, being all happy and cheerful," Jaskier mocks back, though something of the sting is lost with the pinkness of his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes. "Although I bet you'd be good at it, it's just a matter of moving at the right time and—" He trailed off as narrowed eyes flicked in his direction, accompanied by a slightly raised brow. "Ah, perhaps not."
The next few days are filled with irritatingly bouncy, simple strumming, keeping pace with their steps.
In the next town, Geralt takes a contract. Afterwards, coin collected, blood washed from his skin, he tracks down Jaskier, lounging outside a pub overlooking the market, ale in one hand, notebook in the other. A handful of grubby children are playing with a skipping rope, singing.
Mister Witcher, where's my sister?
Taken from a meadow sweet
Mister Witcher, find my sister
Will you have her, next we meet?
Mister Witcher, where's my brother?
Taken by a nasty witch
Mister Witcher, find my brother
Or he'll end up in a ditch
Call the witcher, he is wise
Watching land and trees and skies
Call the witcher, he will know
You must pay him what he’s owed
White and golden, call the witcher,
Call the witcher, our last hope
Mister Witcher, Mister Witcher,
Caught up in my skipping rope!
The children descend into peals of laughter, the skipping rope tangling around the pigtailed girl doing the skipping until she breaks free and it devolves into a haphazard game of chase.
On the low bench overlooking the market, hat pulled low over his face to hide scars and eyes and telltale hair, Geralt sits in silence. Beside him Jaskier swallows, opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it. After a long moment he lifts his head to look at Geralt, still unmoving.
At the expression on the witcher’s face Jaskier straightens, lifting a hand as though to touch. “Geralt—”
“Why?”
“Why...?”
Geralt’s voice is gruff, but he doesn’t look away from the cavorting children. “Why teach them that nonsense?”
Fidgeting with his lute strap, Jaskier looks away. “When those children are grown and think of witchers, will their first thought be the Butcher? Or will they think of a happy little rhyme they once knew, where a witcher saved everyone and there was no fear, only laughter and joy. And they will pass on that song, and that hope, to their own children, and perhaps over time... things will change.”
He licks his lips, heart aching a little, and offers a quick little smile, there and gone in an instant. “And when I am long gone, and nothing but a faint memory, you will hear children playing and remember that once, a silly bard wrote you a few silly songs.”
Jaskier reaches out a hand to settle it gently on Geralt’s knee. The witcher draws in a sharp breath, and finally tears himself away from the sight of the youngsters to meet his gaze. “Thank you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier smiles, and gives him a little toast with the last of his ale. “Think nothing of it, my dear witcher.”