Chapter Text
NOW:
The scent of Jaskier's sweat and perfumed oils – as well as the smell of fresh blackberries, for some reason – leads Geralt to one nondescript door in a long line of other doors. He knocks, and a muffled “Enter” sounds from the other side of the door. Geralt takes a deep breath and opens the door.
Jaskier starts speaking as soon as the witcher steps through the doorway. The bard's back is to him as he deposits the bowl on a nearby desk. “I was expecting you to come up during the set. Was that not dramatic enough for you?” It's only his familiarity with the bard that lets Geralt see the tension singing through his body – his movements are calculated to look languid as he runs his gloved fingers over the edge of the bowl.
Caught off-guard, Geralt answers truthfully. “I didn't want to interrupt.” He registers that he is still a bit tipsy, but he hopes this means at least he can get his words out without making a fool of himself.
Jaskier spins and his face has shock writ across it. His eyes are lightly lined with kohl, something Geralt has seen on other performers but never on the bard before him. It makes Jaskier's eyes all the more large and startling in their pale blue-grey. “Geralt.” He looks behind the witcher, his expression going remote. “You have terrible timing.”
“What?”
“That's a question for me, dear witcher,” Jasker responds with a touch of bitterness. His eyes travel back from behind the witcher and lock onto Geralt's face. “Or, rather, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I wanted to-” Geralt starts, but he's interrupted by the sound of rushing footsteps. He ducks to the side of the doorway, automatically grabbing for his sword. His hand closes on air. Fuck, he's more drunk than he thought he was, forgetting his lack of a sword. The cloaked figure darts past him, headed straight for the bard. The figure has a dagger clenched in one hand. Geralt reaches for his own dagger, but before his hand touches the hilt the bard is already countering.
Jaskier hisses out a curse and throws his hand forward, as if it could stop the blade headed for his heart. Then he does something that Geralt's never witnessed, though after the performance earlier tonight he should have had a clue it was a possibility.
He snarls out words, lyrics, and they reverberate with power. “Run until your lungs are numb.”
The spell hits the would-be assassin and Geralt can suddenly hear two hearts pounding as if they would burst. Before he can react further, Jaskier moves in a blur – fast as a striking snake, faster than a witcher – and in a second he's against the figure's back, the dagger twisted to sink beneath their ribs. Even from the angle he's looking Geralt can tell the point goes directly into the heart. He also sees Jaskier's wrist twist in a vicious little move to guarantee the maximum pain, even as the assassin dies.
THEN:
The silver studs were easier to find than Geralt expected, and after sketching out a few ideas on some scraps of leftover parchment he settled on several sigils. He considered working only in his room, but the silence quickly started to eat at him. He retreated down the stairs to the kitchen where the other witchers gathered around the main table. He nodded in greeting to Eskel and Lambert and sat his project down across from them with several soft thumps. He heard Vesemir let out an amused noise from his corner of the table nearest the food stores and did not meet his teacher's eye. He opened the Kaer Seren book to the page he needed and picked up the first silver stud. He studied it closely for any signs of impurity in the metal.
The room stayed quiet except for the sound of the fire. Eventually Vesemir resumed grinding ingredients in a mortar and the other two continued grumbling at each other over their dice game.
Geralt placed the flawless stud on the table, situating the back into a convenient hole in the wood so that it laid flat to the table. Picking up the small hammer he'd found in the armory, he carefully tapped away at the stud until it was no longer domed but still roughly circular. When he deemed it smooth enough, he used his sharpened thumbnail press into the soft metal with painstaking slowness.
Luckily the pattern wasn't too complex – a few lines and the design was complete. After pondering his left hand for a moment, he made a choice and brought it to his mouth, using a sharp canine to prick his ring fingertip. The faint smell of witcher blood met his nose and he eyed his blood critically before pressing the fingertip to the sigil.
With a glance at the book to check his pronounciation, he hissed a quiet word in Elder, and the spell sank into the metal with a faint sucking sensation from his hand. He pried the stud from the table and set it aside to pick up the next one. He looked up from his task when he realized quiet had decended again.
Eskel and Lambert were watching him, Eskel with interest as he glanced at the old book, Lambert with something that looked like suspicion.
Geralt braced himself.
Unsuprisingly, Lambert spoke up first. “First, the witcher that usually comes in right before the first big blizzard of the season shows up before even the old man gets here.” Vesemir let out a warning growl which the youngest witcher ignored. “Then, that same witcher goes on a mad cleaning and clearing spree throughout the keep. And now this,” he gestured at the book and the studs. “Working what looks like damned old magic that,” he sniffed expansively, “smells like protection of some sort that you're lacing with your own blood. Tell us, brother,” Lambert asked with a mocking tone and a smile that exposed most of his teeth, “are you courting someone? Planning on bringing some sweet little thing up here next year if the den is pretty enough? Going to introduce someone to the family?”
Geralt bared his teeth right back. “Why, Lambert?” He narrowed his eyes and stared the younger witcher down. “Jealous?”
Lambert started to rise, a rumbling growl rising from his throat. Geralt put the stud down and did the same, nudging his bench out of the way. Eskel heaved a sigh and reached across the table to snag the book and pull it to relative safety. Vesemir tapped his pestle to the edge of his mortar with a loud clang and snapped, “Not in the kitchen, lads.”
As if that was the sign he was waiting for, Lambert launched himself over the table towards Geralt. The older witcher was already on the move, however, and dodged to the side so that he could grab his opponent and fling him through the doorway. Geralt followed Lambert's tumble with a bound and almost managed to land directly on top of him, but at the last moment Lambert rolled out of the way. The two paused, eyeing each other.
The next breath, they were grappling on the flagstones. Dust shook from the rafters whenever one of the combatants was thrown into a wall, and more than one pile of firewood was scattered across the hallway. They rolled and snarled at one other in such a way that to the untrained eye it looked like they were trying to kill eachother. There was a decided lack of blood on the floor, however, and the wrestling continued until Lambert wound up under Geralt in a choke hold.
“Yield,” Geralt growled into the younger witcher's ear as he slowly squeezed. Lambert squirmed and swore, but the hold was too good. Eventually, he sighed and tapped the floor twice.
They broke apart with relative ease and Lambert rolled his neck, wincing slightly at the feeling of bruises that would fade before they'd fully formed.
A clearing of a throat at the kitchen doorway caught their attention and they turned to see Eskel leaning against the frame.
“So,” he said deliberately. He crossed his arms and stared Geralt down.
Geralt felt his hackles start to raise.
“Are you ready to tell us what's going on?”
NOW:
There is a moment of stillness and Geralt can now only hear the one heart beating as if about to burst.
Jaskier catches the assassin under the arms as they start to fall and drags the body out of view of the hallway. He locks eyes with the witcher and jerks his head towards the door. Geralt swings the door shut, keeping the bard in his peripheral vision as he does so. He approaches the bard and the body. He's ignored as the bard pulls back the cowl hiding the body's face.
“He doesn't have a scent,” Geralt offers. The assassin barely had a heartbeat before Jaskier's spell hit him, for that matter. There is also a lack of the smell of blood, but that could be due to the muffling of the body's clothes, or the fact that the dagger is still wedged tight.
Jaskier tsks in annoyance and bares the skin behind the body's left ear. There's a rapidly-fading symbol that Geralt tries to memorize but Jaskier shifts again, blocking the view, and speaks.
“It's not supposed to.”
Geralt snorts. “Every human and creature has a scent.”
“This is neither.” Jaskier rocks back on his heels and takes a deep breath. Geralt can hear his heartbeat start to slow down, but his shoulders are still rigid with tension. “It's a construct. It'll turn into its component parts within an hour.”
That explained the lack of a smell of blood, now that the witcher thinks of it.
“Constructs like this are rare.” Geralt immediately regrets his – what had Jaskier called it, exposition? - but Jaskier just shrugs.
“Not in Oxenfurt.”
Geralt kneels beside the bard and reaches for the dagger's hilt. Jaskier slaps his hand away with the back of his own. “Don't touch that. It's spelled.” Geralt pulls his hand back, his brows drawing down. He studies the bard. He can't read Jaskier's normally expressive face. This... bothers him.
“Jaskier, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Jaskier starts laughing. At first it has a sharp, bitter bite but as he keeps going his shoulders start to drop and the sound changes to genuine amusement. By the time he's stopped, Geralt can tell his heart is beating at its normal rate.
The bard rises smoothly back to his feet, carefully removes his gloves without touching the outsides to his skin. Geralt notices that the bard's fingernails are dyed with Zerrikanian henna. For some reason, the dark stain suits the bard. He also catches a familiar whiff of magic when the gloves are off – had Jaskier stolen them from a healer, to prevent contagion? What in all the hells did he need them for?
Jaskier tosses the gloves into a nearby wash basin filled with salt water and offers a hand down to the witcher. “A better question is, still, what the hell are you doing here, Geralt?”
Geralt watches his face for a moment, still trying and failing to read it. He looks down at the extended hand and accepts the offer. He stands without putting anything but the minimum of pressure on the bard and as soon as he's steady Jaskier pulls away. Geralt fights to keep from trying to hold on longer – the contact feels good. Jaskier's skin is still soft other than his instrument calluses, and Geralt could feel the comforting strength lurking under the well cared for skin. The dye on the fingernails was beautifully done – none of the nearby skin is stained like Geralt has seen in the past.
Jaskier walks with smooth grace – where is the near-dancing bounce in his steps that Geralt remembers so well? – back to the desk. He hops up onto it, crossing his legs and pulling the bowl filled with blackberries into his lap. He stares at the witcher, waiting.
Geralt stifles a twitch but meets the bard's eyes. “I was looking for you.”
Jaskier snorts. “Obviously.” He chooses a blackberry and gestures in a 'continue' manner before popping it in his mouth.
The words feel like gravel stuck in Geralt's throat and he looks away. He coughs, as if that would actually dislodge them, but to his surprise it makes the moment easier.
“I'm taking responsibility for my actions.” He watches Jaskier eat another berry and heaves a sigh. “I'm on my way to Cintra to claim the child. I've heard whispers of the war, and I've had a few run-ins with Nilfgaardian spies and assassins. Somehow they found out about him being my Child Surprise.”
He pauses when Jaskier chokes on a berry, but at the bard's gesture he continues. “For whatever reason, they see me as a threat but if I move quickly and quietly enough the child and I can be gone from Cintra before the main forces arrive.”
Geralt's gaze drops again to Jaskier's fingers, now stained with juice and the henna as he brings another berry to his lips. “I wanted to see you first.” He sees Jaskier's face start to change, hardening like a mask. It's almost startling to see the bard's mouth move enough to release one word.
“Why?”
The words get lodged in Geralt's throat again. At his hesitation, Jaskier sets the bowl to the side and leans forward. His face is blank.
“Say it.”
THEN:
Making the small sigils took nearly the whole of winter – far longer than Geralt expected. The small magics were draining, and he learned to only do a few at a time after passing out at the kitchen table the first time. The rest of the time, he spent his restless energies where he could.
One early morning before the first blizzard he took Roach down and around the trail to the old Western keep. It had been where the youngest boys had been kept and trained, and Geralt had the idea that perhaps some of the training equipment would still be there. After all, leather could last for a damned long time if properly taken care of, and even if the practice swords were rusted to hell at least they would be small enough for a child to use. It was something that he could look in to, since he still hadn't found a proper strap for Jaskier's gift.
The fact that he wanted to avoid his fellow witchers and their sometimes biting tongues was just an added benefit.
When he told Vesemir where he was headed, the older witcher's mouth tightened. “There's nothing there,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing worth anything, at least.”
“Not even in the lower levels?”
Vesemir'd snorted. “Maybe. It's got a lot of collapsed tunnels – there used to be one joining this keep to it – but I'd be surprised if there was much of anything.”
So Geralt went alone, and when he first walked Roach through one of the decrepit gates he understood what Vesemir had meant.
It only took an hour or so to search the upper and ground levels, to no avail. He had just turned back towards the main doors when he caught a glimpse of a shadowed alcove, almost hidden by the main staircase. When he approached it, he sensed nothing but as soon as his hand touched the wood of the door hiding in the darkness, he could feel an old spell humming. His medallion buzzed.
He leaned forward and sniffed the wood. Nothing. He reached out his other hand, hovering it just over the door. Nothing.
He touched the door with his second hand and lightning shot through his body, the shock sending him flying a short distance. When he landed he lay there for a moment, then growled and sat up. He blew his hair out of his face from where part of it had been released from its tie. He glared at the door.
He seriously considered using one of his swords' hilts to batter the damned thing down. Or he could have kicked it until it shattered. Instead, he went for the possibly most destructive route – he used Aard and blew the door to smithereens.
If it had been a supply closet or the like, its contents would have also been destroyed. Luckily, the door had blocked a hallway that ended at a staircase Geralt could see led down.
Geralt fixed his hair back out of his face and walked down the hallway.
The sun was almost down when he left the western keep, a large ish irregularly-shaped bundle wrapped in his cloak held to his chest. Roach shied away from the bundle, but after a soft command she allowed the witcher and his burden onto her back.
Vesemir greeted him at the doorway. He looked at the bundle, sniffed the air, and led Geralt down the main hallway to the room that had once been the armory. He watched as Geralt placed the bundle on the floor and opened it with care. “They'll need proper cleaning before use,” he commented. Geralt nodded. “They're in better shape than I would have expected.”
“They were behind a preserving spell,” Geralt answered, his hands lightly tracing the lacing on the smallest bracers.
“Alone?”
“No. But I dealt with the remains.”
“How many?”
“Five boys and a mage. I buried the boys together with full honors.”
“The mage?”
“Cremated, as is custom.”
Vesemir sighed. “Good lad.” He reached out to clasp Geralt's shoulder, and the younger witcher leaned into him.
“They weren't wearing the armor. My guess is they got too hot. Or they knew it wouldn't matter.” Geralt swallowed. His throat clicked.
“Aye, lad.”
The quiet was deafening.
Geralt finally stirred. “Do you still have some White Gull?”
“I do. Let's go make a proper dent in it.”
“Yes, sir.”
NOW:
Say it.
Geralt takes a breath.
“I'm sorry.”
THEN:
Geralt doesn't remember the night after he returned from the Western Keep.
After about a week he went into the old armory and started meticulously cleaning the child-sized armor.
The first blizzard of the year howled outside. It almost sounded like screaming children.
NOW:
Dead silence meets Geralt's words. He meets Jaskier's eyes, and sees he should really do better – it isn't enough by a long shot. His eyes drop, he swallows, and his throat clicks. “I'm sorry for denying our friendship, over and over again. For leaving you sleeping in inns in the middle of the night after agreeing to travel together. For punching you when we first met, and for calling your music a filling-less pie.” He inhales, exhales. “I'm sorry for every belittling, rude comment I made about your self, your abilities, and your music.” He manages to look Jaskier dead in the eye and continues with, “But most of all, I'm sorry for how cruel I was after Yennefer left. I deliberately looked for the worst things to say to you, and spat them at you like you'd ever done anything to deserve my hatred.”
He notices his hand is throbbing and glances down at it. His nails are digging in so hard that he's bleeding sluggishly. He looks back up at Jaskier's face, sees that Jaskier still has no expression on his face.
Geralt looks away again and sighs, his shoulders dropping. “And now I have to live with the knowledge that I took something as important as our friendship and broke it like a child throwing a temper tantrum.” He starts to turn towards the door. “I'll not bother you again, though I'd ask you to be careful. Nilfgaard knows that we travelled together.”
He leaves the room. Jaskier doesn't stop him.
Before he leaves the tavern, he begs a pen and ink from the elf boy behind the bar. “It's only because this place gets filled with students that I've got it,” the youth grumbles, setting the reed pen and the small bottle of ink before the witcher. “And it's not free, mind.”
Geralt offers him some coins and, after ripping the empty space off the parchment the girl at the front had given him for his blades, composes a quick note. “You know the bard – the man – singing earlier?”
“Aye, I know Master Jaskier. Everyone knows him in Oxenfurt.” His focus still on the parchment, he can hear the boy roll his eyes. He feels his lips quirk in a pained smile and digs in one of the pouches at his belt. He fishes out a cloth bag and offers it and the note to the boy.
“Can you see to it that he gets these?”
The youth eyed the bag and note. “It'll cost you.”
A delicate hand reaches from the side and plucks the bag out of Geralt's hand. “I'll give it to him when he finishes eating,” the woman who was singing with Jaskier says. Her eyes are lined with thick kohl and her lips are stained bright red, and she is of a height with Jaskier – tall, for a woman.
“Oi! I could have used that coin, Mags.” The boy tries to grab the note but Geralt moves it out of reach.
The woman cuts a sharp look at the boy. “You like your tongue, don't you, little bird?”
The boy sighs. “Yes, Miss Magdalena.”
She quirks a smile then turns to the witcher. She looks at him appraisingly. “So. You're Jaskier's witcher then.” She cocks her head and frowns. “Why aren't you delivering this directly to him?”
Geralt finds his eyes straying to the bag, then sets the note directly before the woman. He doesn't trust himself to touch anyone right now. “I don't want to bother him. I would appreciate it if you would see he gets these.”
The woman – Magdalena – picks up the paper and hums. She reads the note, not giving a damn for any sort of privacy. She raises her eyebrow at the witcher, then nods. “I'll give it to him tonight.”
Geralt offers a small bow. “You have my thanks,” he says, the words nearly swallowed by the noise of the tavern around them.
He then flees the tavern. When he returns the slip of parchment to the girl in possession of his weapons, she sighs heavily at the sight of its ragged edge but retrieves his blades.
He stops himself from slamming the door to the outside world.
THEN:
When winter finally ended Geralt rode Roach out of Kaer Morhen with a small bag full of sigils and not a clue what to put them on. Nothing he'd found had been... right and so he took to the roads with the hope that something would come to him.
Something eventually did come to him, in the form of a grateful daughter of a dead leatherworker. Her mother had been killed by a pack of wolves when she had been returning from a nearby village's market day. As payment for tracking and killing the wolves the young woman offered the witcher his pick amongst her mother's wares.
“I've not the skill for it,” the woman stated, brushing her fingertips over one of the beautifully-designed belts in her mother's work room. “I'll probably just sell what I can and give or sell the tools and the rest of the materials to one of her old students.”
Geralt sorted through the leather and considered getting some of the worked leather for wrapping a sword's grip, but his eye was caught by something hanging next to the work bench. He reached for it.
“Oh, you don't want that one,” the woman said, frowning at the strap. “Ma never finished it. Couldn't figure out what was needed for those big spaces.”
Geralt rubbed his thumb over one of the little flowers. “I've got something that would work.” He looked around. “Do you know where your mother kept her tools?”
The woman nodded at the drawers to the right of the work bench. “Everything should be there.”
“Thank you.”
He went out to Roach and opened the compartment that held the bag of sigils. When he returned, the woman watched for a while as he laid them out and sketched a pattern on the strap with a piece of charcoal, making sure that the pattern was even. He then dug out the tools he needed, and within two hours he had finished, the tools cleaned and returned to their places. He carefully folded up the strap and settled it snugly in the bag the sigils had been in.
The woman returned when she heard the drawers close with a solid thump and tried to offer Geralt some stew as further payment for the wolves.
Geralt refused, offered a small nod in goodbye, and left.
NOW:
Geralt is less than a day from Oxenfurt when a tiny brown bird starts making itself a nuisance around Roach's head. It chirps and twitters, flying in circles around Roach before trying to land between her ears. The mare is having none of it; she jerks her head side to side to avoid her little would-be boarder. The bird tries again, and Roach dodges again.
After a few minutes of the acrobatics between the horse and the bird, Geralt finally sighs and catches the bird in his cupped hands. He's careful not to crush the little creature and makes enough space so that its head pops out between his fingers.
The bird is surprisingly docile once in his hands, and seems quite happy to be there. Geralt removes one of his hands and the bird just perches on his remaining hand, grooming himself for a moment before giving Geralt what looks to be an extremely expectant look.
Geralt stares at the bird. “Yes?” he asks, feeling like either an idiot or a madman. He wonders if the bird is magic.
The bird's look becomes decidedly judgemental.
Geralt looks around, hoping to spot the owner of the bird, but there's no one in evidence. He looks down at the bird again. It tweedles in a manner that somehow comes across as patronizing.
“Don't judge me,” he says to the bird. It whistles shrilly in response.
He flinches and gently tries to cover the little bird again to muffle the noise. His palm brushes against its head, and the little bird presses into his palm.
The light touch activates magic that's strong enough his medallion responds. He nearly flings the little bird away when it begins to speak in what is definitely Jaskier's voice.
“Geralt.”
The bird pauses, then continues. “I'm not going to apologize for letting you leave without saying anything, and I definitely considered setting this lute strap on fire, along with your note.” The bird sighs.
“But I do forgive you. For the time being, though, it's best if it's known that we aren't on speaking terms. I know about the Nilfgaardians, and have seen spies around Oxenfurt since I arrived.”
The bird hesitates, then continues, “But they aren't all just Nilfgaardians. You asked what I had gotten myself into, and I didn't answer because I knew there were ears listening, waiting for me to incriminate myself. I won't go into detail because it's a very long story covering many years, and little Horatio's head can only hold so many words.
“So I'll just say, I know what I'm doing, and I have a plan set in motion for getting out of here with something that people would be very interested in getting a hold of. If you still want to talk after you collect your lion cub, I'll be traveling alongside the Pontar.” Geralt could hear the faint smile in the bard's voice when he spoke again, “I think you can find me from there.”
His voice goes brisk again. “Take care of Horatio. He's a dear little nightingale, and you're his retirement from active duty. I know how you care for your Roaches, and I'm trusting you to show the same kindness to him.” His voice goes quiet. “Until we meet again, Geralt. Whenever that is. And thank you for the strap – whenever I smell its scent of overprotectiveness and horses, I'll think of you.”
The magic fades and Geralt's medallion stops humming. The bird – nightingale – preens himself smugly.
“Horatio, are you?” Geralt asks, his voice cracking just a little. “Welcome. I hope you can feed yourself for a while, as I have no idea what nightingales eat.”
The nightingale chirps cheerfully in response.