Chapter Text
Geralt beheads the sorcerer in the same moment the blast of magic hits him.
“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts from where he’s hiding. Geralt had brought him along, because they were just supposed to be talking, there wasn’t supposed to be a fight, but now the sorcerer’s head is on the ground and Geralt’s collapsed. “Shit!” Jaskier says, scrambling out from behind the upturned table.
The sorcerer’s blood is trailing steadily over the floor, red and sticky, and Jaskier takes care to step around it, over it, as he makes his way to Geralt.
The closer he gets, the more obvious it is that something is wrong. Geralt’s clothes are in a pile on the ground where he fell, but they look shapeless, deflated, and Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s head or hands sticking out of them. He really hopes that whatever the sorcerer has turned Geralt into it’s something small and easily carried to the next available mage.
The pile shifts and Jaskier goes still, readying himself, bent at the knees and on the balls of his feet, ready to move, like Geralt taught him. Just in case Geralt’s been turned into something nasty. Properly scary, that is, not nasty like a slug.
There’s muffled swearing from the pile, which is a relief. At least Geralt hasn’t been turned into a slug or something. Unless he’s been turned into a talking slug, which is a horrible thought.
He hasn’t been. Eventually Geralt frees himself from the pile and he’s…
A child.
Jaskier stares. The child is nude, clearly far too small to fit in any of Geralt’s large witcher clothing. His hair is long, like Geralt’s, but brown and curly. When he turns around Jaskier knows it’s Geralt just from the scowl on his face, even though he still has his baby fat on his cheeks and his skin is tanned, not as unnaturally pale as it would one day become. His eyes are the same sharp gold too, glaring holes through Jaskier.
“Who are you?” the child demands, voice high and unbroken. “What have you done to me?” He already holds his body like it’s a weapon, and Jaskier knows he has to be careful if he doesn’t want to fight Geralt. Even like this, with Geralt small and confused, Jaskier doesn’t think he could win.
He raises his hands, showing he means no harm. “My name is Jaskier. I haven’t done anything to you, that was him,” he says, gesturing with his foot to the decapitated corpse.
Geralt looks at it briefly, clearly unwilling to take his eyes off of Jaskier for long. “Who was he?” All his questions are harsh and clipped, more like demands for information than polite inquiries.
“Some sorcerer. He’d been cursing the livestock of the local townsfolk, they’d paid us to come talk to him.”
“‘Paid us?’” Geralt repeats. “You are no witcher.” There’s something different about his speech, an accent that’s decidedly different from the faint Rivian one he normally has, but one that Jaskier can’t place.
“Well, they paid you,” Jaskier allows. “But you let me come with, and you were going to share your coin with me.”
“Why would I do that?” Geralt asks, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step closer.
“Because we’re…traveling companions,” Jaskier manages. Lovers, partners…he imagines anything like that would send Geralt running. Or make him sound like a liar.
Geralt continues to consider him, every line in his small body tense. “You’re not lying,” he says eventually, sounding surprised about it.
“I am not,” Jaskier promises him.
“What did he do to me? I don’t know any ‘Jaskier’.”
Jaskier can tell that Geralt had been trying to say his name in a mocking way, and if he too was currently less than a decade old himself it would have worked. But instead it just comes across as incredibly adorable, and Jaskier works to smother his smile. “I believe you’ve been cursed,” Jaskier says. “Is deaging a thing? Turning adults into children? When we came in here, you were a tall, imposing, experienced witcher. And right now you’re…what? Nine? Ten?”
Geralt just shrugs. “Something like that. It doesn’t matter.”
Geralt had told Jaskier once that he didn’t know how old he was, but Jaskier had just assumed that he was old enough to have forgotten to keep track. Not that he had never known.
Geralt continues to regard Jaskier suspiciously, but eventually he must decide that Jaskier isn’t a threat – which, good, he’s definitely not – because he turns his head around, taking in the scene around them. He almost looks fidgety, like the situation is starting to get to him.
“Your horse is still in the village,” Jaskier says slowly. It’s a vague plan, but he’s hoping that having one will help settle Geralt. “I can get her for you. We need to find someone else who can undo this spell, because I don’t think that guy,” he gestures again at the corpse, “is in any condition to do it.”
Geralt’s gaze snaps back to him, but it’s less confrontational now, and he tilts his head. It’s…odd to see him so expressive, to see what he must have been like before all such tells were trained out of him. “I will come with,” he says decisively.
“Naked?” Jaskier asks.
Geralt pauses and looks down at himself, and then at the pile of far-too large clothes. As a child he’s small, not yet muscled but skinny and lanky. Side by side, he’d probably only come up to about Jaskier’s chest. Geralt makes a grumpy sounding noise, shooting Jaskier once last glance before he squats down and starts rummaging through the pile.
As he rummages, Jaskier pulls off his doublet and then the chemise underneath before shrugging the doublet back on. The fabric scratches unpleasantly at his skin, rough and coarse, and he’ll have to do it up, but it’s manageable.
Geralt emerges from the pile of clothes with the dagger he keeps in his boot in one hand, which is the only thing that seems to fit his child sized body, and his medallion in the other.
“Here,” Jaskier says, offering his shirt to Geralt. It’s barely shorter than Geralt’s own, but it’s definitely narrower and less likely to slip off Geralt’s shoulders immediately, especially if he buttons it up.
Geralt looks at the shirt and then at Jaskier with an expression of vague offense.
“I know it’s still too big, but it’ll be more likely to stay on than any of yours. It should be long enough to cover you too, until we can get you some pants.”
“I don’t need your shirt,” Geralt spits, sounding annoyed.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Fine then, ride your horse naked. I’m sure it will be pleasant.”
Geralt glares at him. “Get clothes from the village,” he says.
“And how am I to explain why I need them?”
“Say you found me in the woods.”
“And I’m sure they won’t want to take you off my hands and take care of you themselves.”
“Why would they want to do that?” Geralt asks, wrinkling his nose.
It’s adorable. “People like kids, Geralt,” Jaskier says.
“They don’t,” Geralt counters quickly, too quickly, which makes Jaskier’s heart clench. “Besides, I’m not a child, I’m a witcher.” He tilts his chin up defiantly.
Jaskier really wishes that everything Geralt did was less cute. As it is, it’s very hard to be properly grumpy at him. “You’re a very argumentative child,” he tells Geralt, and unsurprisingly, it comes out warm and fond.
“Is this a surprise?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier snorts. “You don’t normally speak this much,” he says, smiling despite himself.
“Hmm,” Geralt muses, and Jaskier’s laughs.
“That’s more like it,” he says. “Come on, just put the shirt on while I get your horse and our stuff okay? I’ll make your excuses so you won’t have to interact with anyone and meet you back here. Will you stay and wait for me?” He tries to look pleading. He is worried about leaving Geralt, half convinced that Geralt is about to abandon him and run off naked into the woods with just a dagger, and then where would they be?
Geralt stares at him, intense, like he’s looking for something in Jaskier’s face. Eventually though, he takes the shirt. “Do not steal my horse,” he orders. “Or my coin.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaskier promises him.
Geralt continues to look at him, piercing.
“Will you wait?” Jaskier asks again.
Geralt nods. “I will be here,” he says.
Jaskier makes to leave, and then hesitates. Technically, Geralt had done the job, and deserves the coin for it, after all. Jaskier takes the sorcerer’s bloody cloak as proof, unable to bring himself to carry the man’s head, and heads back down to the village.
Getting Roach from the village goes relatively smoothly. The villagers recognize him from coming in with Geralt, and the stableboy doesn’t give him a hard time once he explains that Geralt was simply still recovering from the fight. The alderman is a bit harder to convince, but Jaskier offers him the cloak and the promise of quite a mess in the cottage. Jaskier has always been better at sweettalking the aldermen anyways, and he even manages to get the full, promised pay from him.
Roach eyes Jaskier suspiciously and butts him with her head, but Jaskier feeds her an apple from the stash he tries to keep on hand for just such occasions, and she allows him to take his reins and lead her back up the path to the sorcerer’s cottage.
“Stay, there’s a good girl,” Jaskier tells her, petting her neck and leaving her to feed on the grass.
He opens the door to the cottage and is immediately greeted by Geralt’s dagger pointed at his sternum.
“Woah, hello to you too, Geralt.”
“Oh,” Geralt says, pulling back. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Jaskier confirms. “Got your horse and,” he jingles the pouch in his hand, “your coin. Like I said.”
Geralt stares at him. “You returned,” he says blankly.
“I did,” Jaskier says. “And you kept your end of the bargain too.”
Geralt is dressed in Jaskier’s shirt. Even buttoned and tied at the top the neckline slips down beneath his collarbone and Geralt has taken a length of rope to use to the belt the shirt on. It comes just down to his thighs, barely, not long enough to be considered modest by any standards, but it’s far better than him being naked. His adult clothes are folded into a neat pile set next to the door, his sword sheathed and resting on top beside the wolf head medallion.
“All packed?” Jaskier asks.
Geralt nods.
“Alright let’s get this on Roach,” Jaskier says, reaching for the pile, but Geralt smacks his hand with the flat of his blade.
Jaskier yanks his hands back.
“I will carry it,” Geralt says. “They belong to me.”
“They do,” Jaskier says.
It’s quite the sight. Geralt’s armor is large and bulky, and there’s only so much folding one can do to make it more compact. Not to mention his sword, which is now taller than he is. Roach is taller than him too, and Jaskier does have to gently coax her to kneel so Geralt can repack his things on her.
Roach is clearly interested, sniffing and whiffing at Geralt. He must smell like himself, Jaskier assumes, even if he doesn’t much look like himself.
Geralt’s always been a logical packer, strategic, and it’s clearly easy for this younger version of him to work out where his older self usually put his belongings. The only thing he’s unsure about is obviously the medallion, now the one thing left in his hand.
“You don’t want to wear it?” Jaskier asks.
Geralt whips around, as if surprised to hear Jaskier’s voice. “I…I haven’t earned it yet,” he says. “I have not passed the Trial of the Medallion.” Yet he clearly seems unwilling to part with it.
“Would you like me to keep it safe for you?” Jaskier offers.
“No,” Geralt says immediately, too fast, clutching the medallion close to his chest.
Jaskier reminds himself not to be offended. Geralt has no reason to trust him after all. He doesn’t know him. Eventually Geralt slides it into one of the saddle bags, looking unhappy about it but doing it nevertheless.
“All set?” Jaskier asks him.
Geralt looks at him, seemingly confused. “Yes,” he says. “Clearly.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes. “There’s no need to be a brat,” he says, giving Geralt a cheeky grin. “That’s my job in our relationship.”
“We have a relationship?” Geralt asks, pure shock across his face.
Jaskier has to remind himself again not to be offended. He knows well enough that at first glance he and Geralt don’t seem like a match, not even as friends, and he knows that Geralt isn’t likely to have met anyone other than his fellow witchers at this point in his life. He also knows he’s too young to understand the second meaning in his question, one Jaskier himself can barely believe is true even when he falls asleep in Geralt’s arms and wakes up with them around him. “I told you we were friends,” Jaskier says, trying to keep his voice light.
“You said we were ‘traveling companions’,” Geralt corrects.
“And why would you travel with someone you don’t like, hm?”
Geralt gives him another look like he’s stupid. “Because it can be convenient. Perhaps we were merely going the same way.”
“And that’s obviously why you brought me to the sorcerer’s house with you,” Jaskier says.
Geralt frowns. “I do not understand why you were there,” he says at last.
“It was just supposed to be a chat,” Jaskier says. “Neither of us were supposed to be in any danger.”
Geralt continues to frown. “Why would you be there for a chat?” he asks.
“Because I am your friend,” Jaskier says. “You might not say it, but you keep me around.”
“Your heartbeat is steady, you’re calm, not nervous,” Geralt says, tilting his head. “You don’t seem to be lying. Unless you are skilled at hiding the fact.”
“Oh, I am a very skilled liar,” Jaskier assures him, winking. “But I am not lying right now.”
“I do not understand you,” Geralt says bluntly, and Jaskier laughs.
“I am often befuddling, my dear witcher,” he says.
Geralt frowns at the endearment, and Jaskier makes a mental note to try and stop those. “Here, let me help you up.”
“I don’t need your help,” Geralt says.
“Alright then, get on,” Jaskier says, coaxing Roach back into standing, just to be difficult.
Geralt continues to frown. If he were to reach up, he could get his hand around Roach’s stirrup, but obviously not his feet.
Roach stamps a little in anticipation.
“Let me help you,” Jaskier says.
“No,” Geralt says firmly, still trying to figure a way up the horse.
Jaskier has seen Geralt take standing leaps that could easily clear Roach, but that had been a fully grown, fully trained Geralt. This younger version looks unsure, something that Jaskier doesn’t usually associate with Geralt. “Don’t hurt the poor girl by clambering uselessly all over her,” he says, breaking the silence like usual.
“I wouldn’t,” Geralt says, even though Jaskier is certain he had been working out some way to leverage himself up using her saddle and stirrups.
Jaskeir gives Geralt up as a lost cause. Clearly, his stubbornness is something intrinsic, and not something he merely developed over the years. “Stay, darling Roach,” he says, patting the horse’s nose.
Being a good, obedient horse, and not a wild, stubborn witcher, Roach does as he says, standing perfectly still, swishing her tail idly, even after Jaskier drops the reins.
He comes to stand by Geralt at her side. “Got a plan?”
Geralt ignores him.
“That’s a ‘no’,” Jaskier drawls. “Luckily, I do.” Readying himself, he takes a chance and stoops, lifting Geralt up by the waist.
Geralt shrieks immediately and twists, trying to free himself. “Unhand me!” he demands.
His obvious surprise gives Jaskier enough time to stop the expected stabbing, grabbing Geralt’s fist with the dagger just before he jams it into his thigh. “Stop it,” Jaskier says, trying to sound firm even as he struggles with Geralt’s wriggling form. “Let me put you on the horse.”
“Let me go!” Geralt shrieks, growling and spitting, clearly furious. He pounds his feet against Jaskier’s kneecaps, which hurts, but Jaskier just digs his fingers into the soft skin of Geralt’s wrist and clamps his arm around him hard. He’s learned a few things from the many times he’s been grabbed. For once, he has size and weight to his advantage, even if Geralt seems to be just as strong as his adult self.
Geralt snarls and throws his head back, smacking it back into Jaskier’s shoulder, Jaskier having moved his head and saved his nose just in time.
“You are ridiculous,” Jaskier accuses. “Calm down and get on the bloody horse.”
“Put me down!” Geralt shouts.
“Get on the horse.”
Geralt howls, thrashing wildly, making himself impossible to hold.
Jaskier sighs and lets go, letting him drop to the ground. Geralt falls the few feet as an uncoordinated thrashing mess, but he lands lightly, like a cat, and comes up snarling, brandishing his dagger.
It would be more effective, Jaskier thinks, if the snarl didn’t reveal that Geralt is missing one of his front teeth. Along with the fat on his cheeks and jaw, it makes Geralt look incredibly young and Jaskier mostly just wants to hold his face and pinch his cheeks. He manages to simply cross his arms and stare at Geralt, trying not to smile.
Geralt holds his position for a long time until he seems to realize that Jaskier isn’t going to try and fight him. “What the fuck what that?” he demands.
Jaskier shrugs. “I was trying to help you.”
“You grabbed me.”
“How else was I to lift you?” Jaskier says, keeping his voice light.
“I did not want to be lifted!” Geralt points out, gesturing with his free arm.
“How were you going to get on the horse?”
“I will figure it out!”
“Well figure it out fast, Roach is getting impatient.”
Like the good listener that she is, Roach stamps her hooves in the dirt and tosses her head, annoyed and confused by their dallying.
“Just let me help you,” Jaskier says. “I won’t tell.”
Geralt stares blankly at him. Eventually he says, “Fine,” and crosses his arms.
“No stabbing this time,” Jaskier says.
Geralt growls but holds himself still when Jaskier lifts him high enough that he can get a leg over the horse. He feet fall short of the stirrups, which just makes Jaskier want to grab at them and tickle them, dirty and bare and vulnerable. But he resists.
“Hm, maybe you ought to ride sidesaddle for now,” he muses, looking at Geralt in his borrowed shirt. “You don’t look exactly-”
Geralt makes an angry noise and kicks Jaskier in the head.
It hurts.
“Son of a whore,” Jaskier mutters, holding his pounding head. “What was that for?”
“Do not make fun of me,” Geralt demands, his voice trying to be dark and deep and scary, even though he’s stuck with his high child tones.
“Here,” Jaskier says, still rubbing his head. He rummages in one of the bags strapped to Roach and finds his cloak, tossing it up to Geralt. “Cover yourself.”
“Hmph,” Geralt says, but he does pull it around his shoulders, tying it, letting the front folds pool in his lap. The cloak hangs down past his knees despite the saddle.
“If we get lost, it’s because you just gave me brain damage,” Jaskier tells him, taking Roach’s reins in one hand and rubbing at his throbbing head with the other.
“I wouldn’t be able to tell,” Geralt says, and Jaskier bursts into startled laugher. He’s glad, so glad, to hear Geralt relaxing into his terrible sense of humor.
He glances back at the boy as he starts leading Roach, glad to see a self-satisfied look on his face.
“Where are you taking us?” Geralt asks, not five minutes into it.
“We were working our way north along this road,” Jaskier says. “Figured I’d follow your plan, ask around, see if we can’t find ourselves a mage.” Or Yennefer, his mind supplies. As much as Jaskier dislikes the witch, there’s no denying that she’s the most likely person out there with the skill to reverse whatever spell Geralt what hit with, and the one Geralt would be most comfortable seeing once he grew again. Jaskier even supposes that she’s reasonably trustworthy, at least enough that she isn’t likely to try to take advantage of a child witcher by kidnapping or killing or torturing Geralt. But it’s Geralt who always seems to run across her, and Jaskier has no idea how he manages to find her. So. North it is.
Jaskier keeps them off the road at the start, not wanting anyone from the village to see them and wonder why Geralt has suddenly lost almost half his height, but back onto it as they move further and further into the wild. Usually he would be strumming his lute, trying to annoy a conversation out of Geralt, but now his lute just hangs on his back as Geralt sits quietly atop Roach.
It’s not necessarily that unusual, except Geralt’s hair isn’t usually brown, and he’s usually wearing clothes, and he usually is leading Roach because usually, his feet can reach her stirrups. But instead her reins are in Jaskier’s hand.
Jaskier had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they’d come across a small village, or even a merchant, someone who could point them in a more concrete direction, or at least provide them proper clothes for Geralt. But the sky continues to darken, and it gets harder and harder for Jaskier to see, and he’s forced to decide that they have to make camp for the night.
“Here,” he says, clicking his tongue gently at Roach as he steps off the rough road.
She trots after him dutifully, unminding of the rougher terrain.
“Why are we leaving the road?” Geralt asks, his first words in hours.
“Gonna make camp,” Jaskier tells him. “Usually you prefer doing it away from the road. Unless, you’d rather-”
“No,” Geralt says. “That’s…not a bad plan. If we don’t go too deep we’re unlikely to find monsters, but bandits will be forced to be noisy in their approach.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jaskier agrees. It’s almost exactly the reasoning Geralt had given him the first time he asked about their campsite.
Eventually he finds a suitable place and brings Roach to a halt. “Here let me help-” he starts, going to lift Geralt down, but Geralt simply slides easily off Roach, landing lightly on his feet, the overlong cloak pooling on the ground around him.
“I do not need your help,” he says.
Jaskier huffs at him. “Fine. Does the ground hurt your feet?”
Geralt shakes his head. “We often train barefoot,” he says.
Jaskier can’t help but find that strange, although from what he’s managed to gather from Geralt, the witcher school of teaching was to be prepared for any and all eventualities.
“Would you rather set up camp or get wood for a fire?” Jaskier asks him. Usually Geralt stomps off into the woods and comes back with an armful of firewood before Jaskier is done unpacking Roach. But he wants to let Geralt choose what to do right now.
Geralt thinks for a few seconds before saying, “I will collect the wood.”
Jaskier nods at him. “Don’t go too far,” he can’t help saying.
Geralt frowns. “I will need a sword,” he says, matter of fact.
“Your swords are too big,” Jaskier points out bluntly. “Besides, what are you going to do? Stab a tree?”
Geralt continues to frown. “It isn’t right to wander into the unknown while unarmed.”
“You have your dagger,” Jaskier says.
“It’s small,” Geralt says, almost sulkily.
“It’s a dagger. I cannot produce swords out of thin air, Geralt.”
Geralt huffs. “At the next town then,” he says with a decisive nod. “When you procure my clothing.”
Jaskier sighs. “Honestly? I doubt even in the largest city that I will be able to find a sword both small enough for your current size and sharp enough for a witcher.”
Geralt looks immensely unhappy. As an adult he usually looks grumpy, or annoyed, but as a child he’s more dramatic about it. Jaskier knows that he’s finding it much more adorable than it should be.
“Get wood,” Jaskier tells him. “I’ll try to get you something more when I can.”
“Where is your sword?” Geralt asks, his expression shifting to curiosity as he peers at Jaskier, as if something other than his lute case will appear.
“I don’t have one,” Jaskier says with a shrug.
Geralt’s expression shifts again, this time to shock, and Jaskier marvels. How expressive he is at this age!
“Are you stupid?” Geralt asks bluntly.
Jaskier laughs. “Not the first to ask that, little witcher,” he says with a wink.
Geralt wrinkles his nose. It’s so cute Jaskier thinks he might do something embarrassing, like coo, or cry, or try to hug the boy.
“Traveling unarmed is unwise,” Geralt tells him, still so matter of fact.
“Is that concern for me?” Jaskier teases.
Geralt hesitates before he answers. Jaskier notices him lick his lip quickly before taking it between his teeth, highlighting the gap in them. “I do not understand,” he says. “You carry no weapons, and your shirt is thin. Your doublet is too fine to serve as armor.”
“I do have a dagger,” Jaskier says lightly. “In my boot. You gave it to me.”
“Because it is absurd to have nothing,” Geralt says, sounding frustrated. “There is any amount of trouble that could befall to you which you could do nothing against.”
“That’s almost what you said when you gave it to me,” Jaskier says, remembering. “You said, ‘Since you insist on getting yourself into trouble, you should have something to help you get out of it yourself.’”
“Why didn’t you listen?” Geralt demands.
“I did. The dagger is in my boot right now.”
“But you need more than a dagger that is difficult to access,” Geralt insists.
“I don’t,” Jaskier says.
“You do,” Geralt argues. “Traveling as you do is foolish, reckless. Especially at a witcher’s side.”
“I always feel quite safe with you, you know,” Jaskier says gently. It’s true, honest, but he doesn’t think this younger Geralt will believe him any more readily than his adult self.
But Geralt surprises him. “Do we travel together at all times?” he asks, his head tilting slightly.
Another tell that Jaskier notes and keeps in his mind. He treasures, hoards, really, these glimpses of a more open Geralt. “Not all the time, no,” Jaskier admits. “Sometimes our professions take us in different directions. But we travel together when we can.”
“What is your profession?” Geralt asks, taking Jaskier by surprise again.
Jaskier smiles at him. “Can’t you guess?” he asks, gesturing to the lute on his back.
Geralt shakes his head. “I do not know what that is,” he says, flat and honest. “I have never seen something that shape.”
That brings Jaskier up short. He’d theorized that music had not been exactly plentiful at Kaer Morhen, and that witchers, except for his witcher, would have little use for bards – though he does hope that he’s started to prove the lot of them wrong. But he somehow hadn’t considered that boys old enough to undergo the trials would have no idea what instruments even looked like. He supposes that it’s not exactly necessary knowledge for Geralt’s trade, but it’s such a basic part of society. A society that witcher’s try not to participate in, of course. “It’s a lute,” he says, forcing himself to say something before the silence gets too long.
“Lute,” Geralt repeats quietly, so quietly that Jaskier thinks he probably doesn’t mean for Jaskier to overhear. There’s no recognition in his face or voice.
“Would…you like to see it?” Jaskier asks. Geralt has never shown any real interest in Jaskier’s music, beyond the occasional comment or suggestion that lets Jaskier know that he does listen.
“Yes,” Geralt says, nodding his head.
Jaskier swings the case around to his front, opening it and pulling his lute out. “Here,” he says softly, holding it out for Geralt.
Geralt reaches out to take it, but stops just before he makes contact. “Is it delicate?” he asks.
Jaskier smiles at him. “Just don’t go dropping it or bashing it on anything,” he says.
“I would not,” Geralt assures him, and after a moment more, takes the lute. He holds it lightly, inspecting it, his right hand curling around the neck, and his left around the body. He turns it around a little, tilting his head again, before he rests the neck on his right arm and runs a finger softly down the strings. “You make music with this,” he says eventually.
“I do,” Jaskier says. “I’m a bard.”
“Do you sing as well?”
“Yes.”
Geralt continues holding the lute, looking at it, until he startles a little, going straight. “Here,” he says brusquely, handing it back. “I did not mean to take it for so long.”
Jaskier waves his hand and doesn’t take the lute back. “I’m right here,” he says. Then he takes a risk. “Would you like to learn how to hold it correctly?”
“I didn’t know I was doing it incorrectly,” Geralt says quietly. “I did not mean to damage it.”
“You haven’t damaged it,” Jaskier assures him. “It’s like…there’s a way you hold a sword properly right? So it doesn’t go flying out of your hand when you move. The same is true for the lute.”
“That makes sense,” Geralt murmurs, considering. Then he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Please show me.”
Jaskier beams at him. “Alright sit down, so you can rest it in your lap.”
Geralt gets down on the ground easily and smoothly, right into the dirt.
Jaskier smiles and follows him down, scooting closer so he can touch the lute Geralt is still holding awkwardly. “You’re going to hold it like this,” Jaskier says, taking the lute lightly and flipping it around, “with your left hand over the strings on the neck, right here.”
Geralt puts his hand in the correct spot.
“Your right hand is going to strum the strings, right over the circle there.”
Geralt gives a tentative strum, but the strings just kind of twang with him holding them down at the neck. He frowns.
“Here, back up on the neck,” Jaskier says. “You have to put your hands in specific places to make the right notes.” Gently, he guides Geralt’s fingers into an easy chord. The lute is actually too large for his child sized hands, and it makes Jaskier smile. “Try now.”
Geralt does, producing a strong, clear note.
“Great!” Jaskier says, grinning at him.
“It…was?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier nods. “It was! You got a clear sound, nothing muddled or hesitant. That’s good. Now here.” He rearranges Geralt’s fingers again. “And strum.”
Geralt does.
“Good!” Jaskier says again.
Geralt looks disbelieving but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he forms the first chord again and strums, alternating between the two Jaskier’s shown him.
“Perfect!” Jaskier exclaims. The lute’s untuned and the chords aren’t exactly meant for altering between, but he feels like he’s bursting with joy. “You’re a natural.”
“I do not know what I’m doing,” Geralt says.
“You’re making music,” Jaskier tells him, and he can hear his beaming smile in his own voice.
Geralt ducks his head a little, and it’s too dark to see, but Jaskier imagines that he might be blushing. He plays a few more chords before he stops. “Would you play?” he asks quietly.
“I’d be delighted too,” Jaskier says, genuine and heartfelt. Gently he takes the lute back from Geralt and starts to tune it. “Any requests?”
Geralt shakes his head. “I do not know any songs. When the older witchers return, sometimes they sing rude ones at dinner.”
Jaskier laughs. “You don’t want a rude song, then?”
Geralt shakes it head. “I would like to hear something different.”
Jaskier hums absentmindedly, thinking. All of his recent songs are about Geralt, of course, and somehow he can sense that Geralt doesn’t want to hear about himself. He picks through his brain until he remembers an old lullaby he learned at Oxenfurt. It’s slow and sweet, though a little dark, as most lullabies are, but Geralt looks enraptured, sitting across from him.
“Please play more,” he breathes when Jaskier finishes.
Jaskier plays late into the night, far past the point where a fire would be useful. Geralt shifts closer and closer with each song, until their knees are almost touching. Eventually Geralt actually settles on the ground, his head almost in Jaskier’s lap with the lute. Jaskier wonders if it’s loud for him, right next to the instrument, with his sensitive ears, and tries to play only the softest songs he knows. Eventually though, his fingers start to hurt, and he can see Geralt’s eyes starting a rhythm of long, slow blinks. “Enough for tonight,” Jaskier says quietly. “I need to sleep. I’ll play for you again tomorrow if you like.”
“You would?” Geralt asks, picking his head up.
Jaskier nods. “I like it,” he says.
“I enjoyed it too,” Geralt admits, quiet, like a secret. “Thank you, Bard Jaskier.”
Jaskier sniggers a little at the title, setting his lute in its case. “You’ve never called me that before,” he says.
“What do you I normally call you?” Geralt asks.
“Just ‘Jaskier’.”
Geralt hums a little as Jaskier rises and gets their bedrolls from Roach. He runs his hand along her neck in apology before taking off her kit. “Sorry, girl,” he murmurs.
Roach huffs at him, but still lets him lead her to a large patch of grass and tie her loosely to a tree. Jaskier gives her a carrot he’d squirreled away as an extra apology. Geralt always complains that he spoils her, but, well, he’s not here to complain.
Jaskier grabs some jerky for himself and Geralt before returning to the boy.
He’s lying on the ground again, watching Jaskier, his eyes glittering in the moonlight.
“Here,” Jaskier says, handing him the jerky. “I know it’s not much of a dinner.”
Geralt just shrugs and take it, eating contentedly as Jaskier spreads out their bedrolls.
“Do we usually sleep so close?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier pauses. He likes the closeness he has with Geralt, that he had with him as an adult and the closeness he’d just found while playing for him. They usually share, but he doesn’t think that’s exactly wise to bring up. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Easier to keep warm on cold nights.”
“It is summer,” Geralt points out.
Jaskier shrugs. “Why have multiple sleeping arrangements?”
Geralt seems to think about that, still eating his jerky.
Jaskier settles onto his bedroll, biting into his as well. “Is it alright?” he asks. “You can move if you’d like.”
Geralt shakes his head. “It is fine,” he says, settling down.
Jaskier mirrors him. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says, restraining himself from reaching out.
It’s several moments, long enough that Jaskier’s eyes have started to close, before he hears a, “Goodnight, Jaskier,” in return.