Chapter Text
Jaskier would have done his best to keep entirely silent, had he known it was coming. He has to admit that it’s not exactly surprising, what with actively going out on the balcony and Eskel and Aiden waiting for them down below. Still, he didn’t expect Geralt to sweep him off his feet and jump into darkness without warning, and so he can hardly blame himself for the noise of absolute fright that leaves him.
It suddenly feels like his stomach is still stuck up high, while the rest of his body plummets down under the irrevocable influence of gravity. In his panic, Jaskier makes a warbling sort of sound he’ll be embarrassed about later, and grabs onto the only thing that offers him any kind of support.
His fingers curl and clench in the fabric of Geralt’s clothes, and he’s distantly aware he’s likely scraped his nails against the guardian’s skin through the fabric. The sensation of falling doesn’t let up, and it’s dark enough he can’t really judge the distance to the ground below. He has a sudden vision of Geralt slamming him against the library wall, telling him he’ll drop him from the highest tower.
Now, Jaskier is pretty damn sure that even back then, it was a threat the witcher would not have made good on lightly. By now he’s reasonably sure Geralt doesn't want him to smash to bits at the foot of the castle at all. Despite this conviction his mind provides him with an altogether too realistic vision of it, while his stomach still feels like it’s left behind somewhere up on that balcony, and Jaskier whimpers as he clings.
The terrible sensation of falling ceases as suddenly as it began, and instead of plummeting down he’s abruptly and unexpectedly weightless. Geralt’s arms around him are sturdy and strong, keeping a firm hold of him. Despite it, Jaskier cannot make himself loosen the deathgrip he has on the guardian, and neither can he make himself open his eyes. There’s a swooping sensation as he goes down a little before the weightlessness returns. Some distant, rational part of his mind concludes it must be the motion of the witcher’s beating wings, but the squeak of fear is out before he can endeavour to pay heed to logic.
A few seconds later all heart-stopping movement ceases, and the cold bite of the wind he hadn’t even really felt in his fear is replaced by an inexplicable warmth. Jaskier’s heart hammers in his chest, and he expects another drop at any moment. When it doesn’t come, he carefully takes stock. There’s no sensation of falling anymore, and something is sheltering him from the wind. His breaths are coming in pants, his mouth half opened and pressed against something warm that can only be skin, the slow, steady beat of a pulse suddenly noticeable against his lips. He shudders, and the fingers that grip his neck squeeze softly.
“Fuck,” he breathes, before pulling his face from the crook between Geralt’s neck and shoulder. He blinks his eyes open and notices that it’s one of the guardian’s huge wings that’s keeping the wind away, folded all the way around him. It leaves him cocooned in white together with Geralt, the witcher’s warmth obvious now that he’s enveloped by it. Jaskier takes another deep breath. With a return to relative calm, embarrassment sets in, and when he makes eye-contact with Geralt he knows he’s already blushing. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m sorry, I—”
The fingers at his neck squeeze more firmly as Geralt frowns. “Not your fault,” the guardian grits. “I didn’t warn you, and I shouldn’t have dropped like that.” The witcher shakes his head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve flown anyone but Ciri.”
Jaskier huffs a laugh. Even to his own ears, it sounds a little weak. “I’m guessing our little birchling isn’t afraid of heights,” he says shakily.
Geralt is barely visible to Jaskier in the darkness, and so he can’t decipher the expression on the guardian’s face. “She isn’t,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lets himself be distracted by the undercurrent of pride he can hear in his voice. “Though I didn’t drop like that the first time I flew with her either,” the witcher says in a low rumble, shaking his head.
Jaskier cranes his head back to peek just over the edge of Geralt’s wing. The wind stings his cheeks and he thinks he can see there’s still some distance to go until they reach the ground. “Ah, so can we do it without making me feel like I’m plummeting down, perhaps?” he says hesitantly, glancing back at Geralt. “I mean, if I had to guess I’d say you’re able to glide. You have quite the wingspan, after all.” He trails off at the twitch of Geralt’s fingers against his neck, suddenly achingly aware the witcher is still holding onto him there. There’s movement of Geralt’s thumb against the side of his neck as the other man lets him go, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d be tempted to interpret it as a caress.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the guardian rumbles, his wing closing in tighter around him, so much Jaskier can feel the feathers brush against his back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe.”
Jaskier does his best to smile through the residual adrenaline still coursing through his veins. “It definitely startled me, and I suspect heights might not be my favourite thing, after all. It scared me in an instinctual sort of way. I don’t feel unsafe. I know you won’t let me fall,” he says, pouring all of his conviction into the words.
Geralt’s wing around him presses closer still, and though Jaskier still can’t make out the guardian’s expression, he can now feel slow puffs of breath against his face. “Hmh,” Geralt hums eventually. “Hold on.”
Jaskier dutifully grabs onto Geralt’s shoulders as he is lifted from their perch somewhere on the castle walls. Geralt’s arms around him are steady, and Jaskier takes a deep breath as the guardian spreads his wings once more. He’s buffeted by the cold wind, and burrows into the warmth of the witcher’s chest.
This time when Geralt steps off the stone, the sensation of dropping falls away before Jaskier can truly even register it, and they smoothly spiral down toward the ground.
—000—
When Geralt lands, Eskel and Aiden are already waiting for them. Enough light brightens Kaer Morhen’s stained glass windows that Jaskier can tell how they avidly take in the way Geralt carefully sets him down. Aiden’s eyes linger on the strap over his chest, and Jaskier swings his lute case forward, tapping it affectionately, showing the witcher he’s brought his instrument.
“Everything alright?” Eskel asks him, stepping forward.
Jaskier hears the slight rustle of Geralt’s wings behind him, and grins valiantly up at the dark haired witcher. “Peachy,” he says. “Flying was just a little more frightening than I imagined it to be, that’s all.”
Eskel looks sharply at Geralt, and though the white haired guardian doesn’t respond verbally, a moment later Eskel’s nostrils flare and he nods. “You do look a little pale,” the scarred witcher says looking back at him. “But you’ve made it down in one piece. You’re still prepared to fly?”
“Psh,” Jaskier dismisses Eskel’s concerns. “A bit of a free fall won’t make me change my mind. Besides, it was hardly as bad as taking a portal.”
Geralt steps up beside him. “Portals are hateful things,” he says, deadpan enough it makes Jaskier chuckle.
A gust of wind cools some of the fear-sweat that beads at the back of his neck, and he shivers as he looks up at the clouds.
“Take off your coat,” Geralt growls next to him.
“Excuse me?” Jaskier blinks in surprise, before looking down at the light coat he’s only donned moments before. “I know my garments aren't exactly up to your standards, darling. But again, they’re all I have, and they will have to do.”
“You need an extra layer,” Geralt says. “Take it off.”
Part of Jaskier wants to be petty and tell the guardian taking it off definitely constitutes losing a layer, and part of him wants to see where Geralt is actually going with this. He huffs a breath, and quickly undoes the thankfully secure fastenings. Geralt takes his coat from him with one hand, smoothly tucks his wings, and reaches behind himself to pull off his top layer made from some sturdy, slightly oiled looking material. Jaskier is very aware of his soft intake of breath when the witcher takes off his undershirt next, leaving him bare chested and exposed to the elements.
He knows the guardians aren’t as vulnerable to the cold winds that blow down from the glaciers above, but he still imagines he can see Geralt’s skin pebble, even in the low light. He sternly tells himself not to look, but helplessly glances down to see the witcher react to the chill. When he looks back up at the guardian, he swallows heavily to find Geralt’s golden gaze already resting on him. He licks his lips in preparation to apologize, but before he can, the witcher shoves his undershirt at him and pulls his outer garment back on.
“Put that on under your coat,” Geralt says roughly, still holding onto Jaskier’s lighter, frivolous courtier's coat.
Jaskier nods quickly, pulling the soft undershirt over his head. The fabric is warm as it settles over him, as if it’s still holding onto some of Geralt’s heat. It’s too wide in the shoulders by a margin, but thankfully doesn’t slip off. It reaches lower on his thighs than Geralt’s, and the sleeves cover part of his hands. It’s too large, but it fits him well enough. He can already feel the added warmth it will grant him for the coming flight, even without his coat over it, and he murmurs soft words of apologetic gratitude as he’s handed the latter garment.
“I’m sure the shirt won’t be the only thing keeping you warm on the flight,” Aiden says, smirking and folding his arms over his chest.
Eskel elbows the cat, and Jaskier feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment. It’s clear that his attraction to Geralt isn’t only obvious to the witcher himself, but to the other guardians as well. He supposes he’s already betrayed as much previously, but he’d at least like to be a little less transparent, even if that’s nigh on impossible surrounded by witcher senses.
“I greatly prefer to arrive unfrozen and still able to play,” he says with a wink, deciding to pretend he isn’t blushing. The mention of his playing sobers Aiden up visibly, strained concern reappearing on the guardian’s face. Jaskier steps up to him, briefly laying a hand on his shoulder in silent support and reassurance.
The witchers do a final check of their gear and weaponry, and Jaskier tries not to think about Geralt or Eskel being forced to use those swords strapped to their backs, or Aiden having to draw one of his knives, once they reach the well-warden and her spring. He checks over the strap of his lute case himself, and mentally reviews lyrics and melodies. When Geralt picks him up it’s hardly a surprise anymore, though the guardian’s wings coming back out and spreading before taking them up into the sky will surely never cease to leave him awed.
All three guardians bend their knees and jump as they bring their wings down. Aiden is light and fast, and rises quickest out of all of them. Eskel follows close behind, his midnight black feathers blending into the darkness of night. Geralt rises noticeably slower, the beat of his wings even and regular. Jaskier suspects the slower ascent doesn’t have as much to do with the added weight, as it is for his benefit. Still, when he glances down and sees the lights of Kaer Morhen falling away into the distance he shivers despite the welcome layer of warmth Geralt’s undershirt provides him. He thinks Geralt hums, but the wind takes the sound away from them before Jaskier can hear it. He feels it though, the slow vibration of it in Geralt’s chest. “Don’t look down,” the guardian speaks against his ear, sturdy arms pulling him close. Jaskier nods, turns his face into the safety and warmth of Geralt’s neck, and lets himself be carried.
—000—
It’s still dark when they finally land, and Jaskier has no idea how long they have flown. He’s cold despite the extra shirt and being cradled against Geralt’s heat. When the witcher carefully sets him down unto the springy forest floor, he runs his body through a few quick movements to get his blood back to flowing. He rubs his arms vigorously, curling and stretching out his fingers repeatedly.
The three witchers tuck their wings and watch as he moves, their slitted eyes almost glowing in the darkness. Jaskier suspects the sunrise might not be far off. He can’t see the distant sky lightening through the trees, but the fact he can make out the silhouettes of the forest at all makes him think it can’t be long until morning arrives.
He swallows heavily as he eyes the shadows between the trunks. They are dense and dark, and it doesn’t take much to imagine one of them becoming solid, stretching out to form grasping hands and—
Geralt’s hand lands on his shoulder, thumb accidentally brushing against the exposed skin of his neck. “Even if it could follow, I won’t let it get to you,” the guardian rumbles.
Jaskier tries to smile up at him, aware nerves warp the expression into something stiff and untrue, and nods. The other two witchers tilt their heads curiously, until Eskel makes a sudden noise of understanding and murmurs something to Aiden. For a moment, all three witchers close in tightly.
Aiden takes the lead when they walk the final stretch toward Kelda’s spring. Geralt moves in at his back, and Eskel takes position to his right and just a few steps behind. Jaskier doesn’t know much about strategic positioning. He’s read a book on it once, and remembers being curious about the different formations, the ideal one changing depending on the number of people and factors such as opponents or terrain. He recognises this one, and breathes a little easier, sheltered as he is by the guardians forming an impenetrable barrier of protection around him.
They’ve been walking for a while when from one moment to the next, without any discernible warning, the forest floor squelches with every step they take. About ten steps onward, the squelch transforms into a definite slosh, and ten steps beyond that they’re splashing through shallow water. The sky is definitely more dark blue than black now, and Jaskier is glad he can actually see where he’s putting his feet now, or he’d be in danger of tripping and soaking himself in the shallow pool they’re trekking through.
In front of him, Aiden pauses between the trees, turning half toward those behind him. When Jaskier catches up to him he sees they’ve reached the edge of the forest, farmland stretching out beyond, the silhouette of what may be a farmhouse visible in the distance. Around their feet, the water begins to churn.
The ripples originate from what seems to be a deep well sheltered between rocks and trees, and Jaskier realises they’ve reached the spring. He swings his lute case in front of him as he steps forward, quickly undoing the clasps and settling the instrument in his hands. He can hear Aiden hiss through his teeth behind him, and glances up.
Rising from the well is a figure with long black hair, water dripping from her locks and down her arms. A dress made of aquatic foliage clings to her, her skin a light, bluish grey. When he meets Kelda’s eyes, there’s nothing there but mindless rage, the young well-warden’s face contorted with fury. There’s no recognition in her gaze, and Jaskier briefly wonders what happens to well-wardens who become enraged and have no way of coming back. He realises he knows what happens. They are branded monsters, enforcing human superstition about anything other, and die an inevitably violent death. The alternative is a guardian of Kaer Morhen finding them first. Jaskier clenches his teeth, ignoring the water rising from around his calves to lick at his knees, and takes another step forward. If there’s anything he can do about it, this will remain a rescue. Not a hunt.
The first notes he plays only seem to enrage the well-warden further. Water sloshes against his thighs now, and both Geralt and Eskel step forward, hands reaching behind their backs, to the hilts of their swords. “No!” Jaskier says, shaking his head and urging them back as Kelda bares her teeth, the drip of water down her limbs increasing. “No, let me try a different melody, a different song,” he pleads desperately, quickly cycling through his repertoire.
None of it seems to be working, and the water from the well is bubbling and turbulent now, the level where it reaches them at mid thigh. Kelda doesn’t move, her gaze locked on him, and Jaskier has to try. If Kelda cannot come out of her rage, she cannot live.
“Kelda!” Aiden yells loudly to be heard over Jaskier’s music and the sounds of rushing water. “You stubborn, willful well-girl! Will you just listen? You asked for help, we’re here to help!”
The words are filled with angry desperation, and Jaskier can’t think of a song he knows to reflect all the terrible emotion he can see in Kelda and Aiden, and that he can feel spilling past the confines of his heart. He doesn’t have a song for this, and so he just plays.
Rapid sequences of notes converge into a melody, and he didn’t realise he was going to sing until his voice rings in his ears, wordless and raw. He feels Kelda’s anger at having her spring attacked, her life giving water polluted. He feels her dread at what was coming, her desperate call for help to the guardian who tethered to her when she was a student at Kaer Morhen. He feels how far away she is, from herself and everything she wants to be, how instinct has swallowed her whole. He feels Aiden’s anger, his fear of losing that final tethered thread to someone he treasures, and the inevitable gaping maw of grief that would attempt to swallow him after. He feels Eskel’s and Geralt’s worry, and their hesitance to let things unfold as the water rises.
Droplets start to bead at his lips, and Jaskier knows it’s well-water. He hears the ring of a sword leaving its sheath behind him together with the rush of a guardian’s wings unfolding, and swallows reflexively. He sings despite it. He pours everything he feels into words, only half aware of the song he’s singing, and ignores the flood of water at his lips.
—000—
“Jaskier! Breathe!” Geralt snaps. The guardian has grabbed onto his shoulders, the press of his fingers harsh and painful. Geralt’s wings are spread wide behind him, and Jaskier realises he indeed isn’t breathing.
He is distantly aware of the lack of water surrounding them, the well once again pulled back into its natural state. Kelda is settled on a rock, crying softly and holding onto Aiden. He finds Eskel standing close by, wings tucked tightly against his back, hands curled into fists at his sides. Water no longer flows from Jaskier’s nose and mouth, but somehow it is still stuck in his throat, and Geralt is telling him to breathe again, but he can’t.
His heart pounds and he feels lightheaded. He hears what he thinks is Eskel’s voice, and then a curt, snapped agreement from Geralt. The next thing he knows he’s unceremoniously hoisted up and flipped upsidedown. He hardly has time to register the sudden inversion of his world view before he’s smacked rather harshly between the shoulder blades. It dislodges something in his throat and chest, and he coughs violently before weakly trying to lean away from Geralt and throwing up what feels like an entire river of well-water.
—000—
Jaskier doesn’t register much of the flight back to Kaer Morhen. Despite the sun now beating down on them as they soar, he’s cold enough he has to burrow into Geralt’s warmth. Parts of his clothes are soaked through, and his feet especially feel like they have had all warmth drained from them.
Kelda apologised profusely for nearly drowning him before they left, and though Jaskier had welcomed her hug, Geralt had growled threateningly until the well-warden stepped away. Both Aiden and Eskel had their wings tucked away by that time, but Geralt’s had remained spread out behind his back.
The longer they fly, the more trouble Jaskier has keeping his eyes open. He endeavours to do so anyway, eager to see Kaer Morhen’s valley from high above upon their return. Despite his best efforts, when he next opens his eyes it’s to Willow’s flickering, pale blue light, the wisp excitedly circling above where he lies curled up under his blankets. Through the windows and the balcony doors pours in early morning light. He has apparently slept away the remainder of the day, and the entire night, after arriving back at the keep.
Not only has Jaskier missed the view, but he’s entirely missed how he has come to be so carefully tucked in.