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Jaskier looked up at the darkening sky, noting the gloomy clouds that rolled over him with the promise of heavy rain. He let out a sigh of defeat, kicking a pebble out of his way. It landed with a wet splash on a muddy puddle a few steps away, a couple of droplets reaching the legs of his trousers.
He felt a few wet splashes on his face, cold like winter rain, and groaned. Well, he would definitely not be reaching Holopole before getting soaked to the bone. The heavens themselves had seen fit to turn on him, apparently.
He’d already been raked over the coals by the person he’d considered the closest to him – been told that his company was unrequested and undesirable; that the mere presence of it was enough to make them wish they’d never lay their eyes on him again. And all this after he’d dedicated about a decade of his life to that infuriating man.
He knew he could be a little too much at times, too enthusiastic, too loud, too ridiculous… but he really thought he’d at least earned a measly bit of affection from the grumpy witcher after a decade.
Geralt had never expressed much joy at being around him, but he stopped complaining sometime during the first month they’d started travelling together. Considering he wasn’t all that big on that ‘expressing emotions’ thing -- mostly because he still denied having any (which was complete bull, Jaskier knew better than that, knew him better than that) -- he had taken that as an obvious sign the witcher was warming up to his overbearing character. He had even been stupidly happy about it.
To know that all that time… all that time he’d spent trailing after Geralt like a lovesick fool, too stupid to know better, the witcher had held nothing but distaste and resentment towards him was…
Well, he didn’t think his heart had ever been in this many separate pieces. Not even when he was young and naïve and caught under the charms of one lovely countess de Stael, and oh, how heartbroken he had been then!
He was used to being rejected, but never this thoroughly and crudely, and not after dedicating a good portion of his life to that same person. Geralt’s words had been neatly planned stabs at heart, exacted with knowing precision and intended to hurt.
He’d barely gotten out of that mountaintop without pouring his eyes out, not that he’d admit that anytime soon.
He’d always been quick to emotion – something his father, god unrest his soul, had never approved about him – and Geralt’s words had been… awfully hurtful. Enough to put a knot in his throat that persisted still, and a sting in his eyes that wouldn’t go away no matter how many damned tears allowed to fall afterwards.
It had been over a week since he last saw Geralt’s face and even now, the thought of it brought wetness anew to Jaskier’s eyes. It almost made him wish that he could forget about the witcher altogether. Almost.
Because, even despite how little their time as companions had meant to the witcher, however short it might have seemed to a man who had lived over a century and would likely live plenty more to come, it had meant the world to Jaskier. He would cherish those years, hold them in esteem in a treasured corner of his heart until the day he’d retire to his grave.
Nothing would ever be strong enough to douse the love that burned with a passion in his heart for that bullheaded man, not even the torrent that the skies had finally decided to release upon him. It might be dulled over time, sure, it was already overcast with hurt and resentment, but that would wear off, and leave only aged fondness and longing in its stead. That, he knew with certainty.
The pouring water from the sky, black like his mood, had already soaked through his doublet, making the chemise underneath stick uncomfortably to his skin. His trousers weren’t faring much better.
Thankfully, his sturdy boots were keeping most of the rain from infiltrating his socks, which meant that, at the very least, he wouldn’t need to deal with the absolute misery of soggy socks.
Normally he’d be complaining about it to Geralt by now, but alas, no witcher around with whom to drown his sorrows. Especially considering said witcher was their source.
After being yelled at on that cursed mountain, he’d returned to camp with the dwarves to lick his wounds in solitude. Geralt must have found another way down, as he didn’t join the party when they made their way back down to Barefield.
That had been the last time he’d laid eyes on the witcher, when the man had taken the heart he had unknowingly held in the palm of his hand and crushed it to pieces with his bare fists.
He’d very grudgingly asked Borch and the others if they’d seen him after the fact, but, as expected, got only a cryptic reply from the man-slash-dragon -- and how was that even a thing? -- about how the witcher needed space to get some clarity. The dwarves had mostly given him some disinterested shrugs, as they were most concerned with discussing the uses they would give to their soon to be collected reward.
Yennefer had left even before Geralt did. She’d stormed away in a cloud of rage and resentment right before the witcher told him off, and according to various accounts, disappeared in a vortex of wind and smoke. Probably portalled out. How he wished he possessed the same abilities right about now.
Instead he was cursed to walk the length between Barefield and Holopole with his own two feet, since he’d lost quite a bit of his coin in a round of gwent a fortnight before (he had absolutely been cheated out of his money, that slimy peddling bastard would pay if he ever laid eyes on him again) and was therefore unable to acquire a horse whilst keeping his stomach filled with food.
He actually had an acquaintance in Holopole; a distant cousin of his family with whom he’d spent a part of a summer as a child. They had remained on good terms through the years, and he was sure the other man would lend him shelter for a few nights. And it would be nice to see a friendly face.
He just needed a few days to get back on his feet so he could continue on his travels. Because he might not have Geralt anymore, but he still had this. The path.
It had been his goal for much of his childhood and the entirety of his youth; to embark on a voyage full of adventure and illustrious quests, become the most renowned bard in all of the continent. One who not only sang of great feats and tales but had lived and experienced them for himself.
He would keep going and explore the continent, spreading his music throughout all of the lands. Although, he wasn’t quite ready yet to sing of his most recent heartbreak. That wound was still achingly open and bleeding quite incessantly.
A lot more time would be necessary for it to scab over and heal enough to register only as a dull ache in the back of his head, flaring solely when he sang a particularly heartfelt verse on his golden-eyed muse.
He would get there eventually, but if he kept looking out for a flash of white hair in passing, or a glimpse of a peculiar set of striking yellow eyes in a crowd, it was nobody’s business but his own.
When he reached Holopole, about three hours later, he was trembling like a leaf and had lost all sensation in the tip of his fingers and nose sometime during the past hour.
Night had descended upon the town long ago, and people had retreated to the comfort of their homes to wait out the unforgiving storm currently raining down on Jaskier.
He made his way down the cold empty streets, trying to remember if he was going the right way. All the houses had their shutters shut and clouds of smoke were steadily rising in swirls from the chimneys; there were no distinctive landmarks for him to orient himself, and the last time he’d been here had been a good handful of years ago. Things had changed since then.
He ended up wandering aimlessly for half an hour, before coming face to face with a moderately large red brick house that looked fairly familiar. He had been about to give up and turn back to find the closest inn that would take him at a discount in exchange for a bit of chord picking.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he stumbled over as he tried to wrap the soaked lapels of his doublet tighter around himself, in an attempt to gain some shelter from the raging wind. It wasn’t working.
He knocked on the wooden door a few times and stepped back to wait. A couple of seconds later, the door swung open, revealing the face of a confused Joshua behind it.
The bewildered look on the other man’s face soon gave way to delighted surprise, as he recognized his old friend.
“Jaskier!” He broke into an open smile, opening the door wider to invite him in. “Come in, come in! Get out of that rain!”
Jaskier smiled in gratitude and hurried inside to the cosy little hall. Joshua closed the door after him, locking the icy blowing wind outside as Jaskier blew on his fingers to get some feeling back into them.
A woman stepped out into the hall, coming to see what all the commotion was about.
“Jaskier!” she exclaimed in surprise. Jaskier looked up at the dark-haired matron, returning her smile.
“Hi, Irena.” He managed to grit out through chattering teeth. She regarded him with obvious concern, likely on account of the fact that he resembled a drowned rat.
The last time he’d seen the couple had been when their daughter, Joanna, was born, and that was close to twelve years ago. She must be grown now, almost a teenager.
He had kept in contact with his friend through writing, recounting some of his adventures with the infamous white wolf. They had a bit of an age difference too, him and Joshua, but that hadn’t stopped them from becoming close friends, and it didn’t appear to stand in the way now either.
“You poor thing, you’re soaked through!” Irena fussed over him as Joshua ushered them inside to the living room. “I’ll find you some dry clothes, something old of Joshua’s might fit you.”
Joshua had indeed put on some muscle since the last time Jaskier laid eyes on him, probably from working around the harvest he fields he now owned and oversaw.
“Oh no,” Jaskier refused, not wanting them to go through the trouble. He was already in their home without prior notice, after all. They were kind enough to just let him stay as it was. “These will dry soon enough if I just stand by the fire. There’s no need.”
“Don’t be silly! You’ll catch a cold,” Irena chastised, not giving him a chance to protest as she turned her back and rushed inside one of the other rooms, presumably finding Jaskier some clothing. She wasn’t wrong though; he could already feel his nose clogging up.
A young girl of about 13 summers was sitting by the hearth, idly petting the tabby cat that lazed in her lap. Her hair was as dark as Irena’s, almost black, brushed neatly over her back and giving off light brown reflections in the candlelight. She paused her motions as she noticed Jaskier’s presence in the room, shooting him a curious look.
Jaskier gave her a little wave and brandished the most effusive smile he could manage.
“You must be Joanna! My, you’ve grown!”
Joanna shot him a shy smile in return, giving a little nod of her head.
Jaskier glanced back at Joshua, noting with amusement the pride in his eyes. It was clear that he adored his daughter.
Looking at the little family the other man had carved out for himself when Jaskier had just lost the only one he’d found was a tad despairing, but he did his best to keep the heartache out of his face.
“What brings you this way, Jaskier?” Joshua inquired good-naturedly, beckoning his daughter closer. “Still travelling the lands?”
“I’m afraid so,” he replied, as the young girl stood up and tentatively approached them, tabby jumping out of her arms with an offended yowl and curling back up by the hearth. “I just came down from Barefield, from a dragon hunt that was being held there. I tagged along with one of the hunting parties.”
“Heavens! I heard about that! Were you really there? That must have been a sight!” Joshua was visibly impressed by the news. The young one’s attention had immediately been captured at the word ‘dragon’, she perked up and directed a much more attentive look.
Joshua asked him a few more questions about the ordeal, but all Jaskier could offer in response was half-smiles and vague explanations. His reluctance to speak on the matter, along with his hurt feelings, must have shown through his voice or on his face, for Joshua’s own soon lit up in understanding and he stopped pressing the subject.
His daughter was too young for such comprehensions not to fly over her head though, and her piqued interest at the mention of an adventurous tale far outweighed her shyness. She promptly started begging Jaskier for more details, amber eyes twinkling with excitement.
Jaskier chuckled at the young girl’s antics as her father tried to rein in her enthusiasm and distract her with other topics.
Irena came into the room then, a small pile of clothes in her arms that she unloaded into Jaskier’s. He took the offered clothing with a grateful smile and followed the matriarch to the bathroom so he could change out of his wet rags.
Jaskier had been staying with Joshua’s family for three days now, and was currently in the process of successfully fighting out the cold he’d contracted the night he’d arrived.
Joshua’s family had been nothing short of welcoming and heartwarming to him. They’d offered him a place to stay, a comfortable bed in one of the spare rooms of the house and even supplied him with absolutely delectable meals – there was nothing like spending a week camping out in the wild eating only unseasoned rabbit legs and the occasional bland venison to make one appreciate the finer arts of cooking and seasoning.
The previous night he’d whipped out his lute and gone out to the local tavern to earn some coin. He was planning on repaying Joshua’s hospitality with interest. He’d managed to earn a decent amount of money and was even successful in avoiding the topic of one specific witcher while performing, which was a hard feat these days. Damn him for doing his job too well. Every tavern from the Blue Mountains to the Yaruga rivers clamoured for songs of the white wolf now.
He’d weaseled his way out of performing the aforementioned song request by starting up other well-known jigs and ballads. The ale the patrons were being supplied with did swift work of making them more amenable to whatever Jaskier sang, as long as it was lewd and upbeat.
It also helped that nobody realized he was the actual famed white wolf’s bard. If his identity had been discovered, he would have no way to escape singing his old songs.
He knew Joshua and Irena would kick up a fuss at being offered money in thanks for their hospitality, especially Irena – that woman was fierce – but Jaskier was making plans to leave in the following days and wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d just have to headstrong his way through. It would be fine, Geralt had given him plenty of practice.
He was tuning his lute in the room Joshua had lent him when sudden noises caught his attention. He muffled the lute’s string with the palm of his hand, silencing the chords and straining his hearing to hear what was going on.
The front door burst open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud clang as someone barged inside, and Jaskier could hear fast footsteps heading fast towards the kitchen. He jumped to his feet in alarm, laying his lute on the side of the mattress before rushing towards the hall.
He soon identified the loud voices in the air as belonging to Irena and Joshua, and relaxed minutely at realizing there were no strangers in the house. The sound of urgent talking was coming from the kitchen, so that’s where he headed.
Irena and Joshua were standing by the sink. Irena had a plate in her hand and a rag thrown over her shoulder, it appeared she’d been interrupted while cleaning the silverware. Joshua was obviously distressed, talking in a fast and pressing way to his wife, who was seemingly struggling to figure out what he was saying.
“What’s happening?” he asked, giving the room a cursory look to check if something was amiss.
“It’s Joanna!” Joshua said, turning to shoot him a wide frightened look. Jaskier frowned, dread pooling in his gut at his friend’s anxious behaviour. He truly hoped nothing bad had befallen the young lass. “Old man Vythmor claims she’s disappeared! He saw her playing in the riverbank with Eda’s son, then a white mist rose out of nowhere and made them vanish!”
“A mist?” Irena asked, a baffled look on her face. “Maybe they just wandered off?”
“It happened in a matter of moments, he said! One second they were there and the other they were gone!” Joshua explained, agitated.
That didn’t sound good, it sounded like a job for Geralt. But Jaskier had picked up a few things while travelling with the witcher, maybe he could figure out what had taken the children. If that was what had indeed transpired.
He told Joshua this, and asked his friend to show him the place the children had disappeared from. Joshua was quick to agree, rambling his thanks as he led Jaskier to the front door.
Jaskier did his best to try and calm his friend, who seemed to grow increasingly desperate and afraid by the second, probably conjuring up the most terrible kind of scenarios. He wished he could give Joshua something better for peace of mind than hopeful words of encouragement, but he’d seen first-hand the horrors that could befall even the most innocent of people while travelling with Geralt.
They reached the river Joshua had mentioned, and, aside from a small jacket, kid-sized, that laid discarded on the shore, nothing seemed awry. His first more in-depth assessment of the place didn’t reveal much either, so he started walking alongside the bank, hoping to find something more concrete. Hopefully, there’d be some evidence that could clue him into the children’s whereabouts.
Joshua trailed after him, eyes desperately searching the moving waters and the dense forest beyond for any signs of life.
He was about to turn back and search the other side of the bank when a shimmering glint in the water caught his eye. He squinted. It was a shard of something sharp that reflected the sunlight.
He furrowed his brow and walked closer to the unknown object, crouching down in the shallow water to inspect it.
It seemed to be a ceramic jar of sorts, but he couldn’t really tell anything more apart from the fact that it was old and broken. He reached into the water and moved the shard around, finding something else amid the fragments. A sort of cylindrical piece.
He lifted it up into the sun and realized that it was a cork, it must have been bottling the ceramic jar. He turned it around in his hands, and promptly felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. This was no ordinary cork and that was no ordinary ceramic jar.
The cork had a seal, one that was eerily reminiscent of the one he’d once held in his hand a fated summer afternoon in Rinde. This had been a djinn’s doing. Which meant he couldn’t do much, they’d either need a witch or a witcher. And none seemed to be present in this moderately small settlement.
It didn’t make sense that the children had disappeared if they’d discovered the amphora and released the djinn, though. The creature could not attack the ones who freed it, after all. Perhaps one of them had wished them to be elsewhere?
He didn’t know much about djinns, however; he was just spitballing. The only one he’d come across, he’d been either unconscious or grievously injured for the majority of the time, and the seal had been different. He didn’t know if that was simply because the spell to trap the creature was different, or if this was some other kind of djinn altogether.
Was there even such a thing as different kinds of djinn?
His musings were cut short when a sudden wind kicked up and dark clouds seized the sky, which had been completely clear until then, at an unnatural speed. He tensed, leaping to his feet as he realized the scene why the scene was so familiar. That was exactly how it had gone in Rinde. This did not bode well.
He pivoted on his heels, meaning to shout out a warning to Joshua, who had remained a few yards behind him, only to be met with emptiness. There was nothing, Joshua had disappeared and the white kept creeping in on him, blocking his sight as he tried to escape it. He felt the uneasiness that had started brewing in the pit of his stomach when the mist first arose turning into full-blown panic.
He turned on his feet again, intending on breaking into a run, but, before he even got three footsteps in, a shrill screech cut through the silence, resonating in his ears as the world tilted sideways and everything went blank.
Jaskier groaned, shying away from the stray rays of morning light that seeped through the thick curtains. The light hurt his eyes, still used to the numb darkness of sleep, and he squeezed them shut, shying away from it. His movement elicited a rumble from somewhere beside him, though. He could feel the sound resonating against his back.
A small puff of air tickled the back of his neck, and a low grunt of protest reached his ears. He stilled, hearing the rustling of sheets from behind him. He could feel the smooth texture of the fabric -- was that silk? -- sliding over his bare skin, which clued him into the fact that he was unclothed, save for his lower undergarments.
As he drew away from the drowsiness of sleep, questions about the scenario he found himself in started pestering him in the back of his head. The feel of the bed he was in did not elicit any immediate responses to his whereabouts, and even when he tried harder to remember how he had come to be here, he came up blank.
He let his eyes flutter open, squinting against the natural morning light, and raked his mind for answers, but he had no recollection of… well, anything. He couldn’t even pinpoint the last thing he did remember to be honest. It was just a big jumble of fractured moments of awareness all pieced together like a badly constructed puzzle.
What was even more troubling, though, was the big dullness at the forefront of his mind, pushing back and smothering the unquietness that brewed up in the hindbrain. It was like there was a subconscious part of his brain deflecting him away from those lines of thought.
Instead, he found himself marvelling at the softness and fluffiness of the mattress he laid on, possibly one of the best he’d ever been in, and that included the luxurious chambers of his birth home. Life as a viscount was long behind him, though, and he harboured no intentions of ever returning to it.
Maybe he was in some countess’s bedchambers? He hoped, if that was the case, that the cuckolded husband would at least wait until high noon to come charging into the room and demand Jaskier’s head. His utmost wish at the moment was to never leave the bed’s warm embrace.
He frowned, backtracking on the line of thought and trying to figure out why it rang inaccurate in his sleep-addled brain. He took a while getting his mind back on track, but eventually, the knowledge that beds could not, in fact, hold people, as they lacked the limbs necessary to do so, popped up in his head.
Cracking his eyes open, he looked down, realizing that there was a large muscled, very obviously male, arm thrown over his chest. Well, at least he wouldn’t need to be worrying about any cheated husbands, just their vindictive wives. He grimaced at the thought. They were arguably a lot worse to deal with.
He wriggled in the bed, trying to slip out from under the heavy limb. There was a familiar noise of protest from somewhere behind him and the arm tightened around his chest, effectively putting a halt to his attempts of escape.
Jaskier froze, his mind firing at the sparks of recognition that sound had set off. It couldn’t possibly be… No, he was imagining things. It was his foolish broken heart acting up again and making him think ridiculous things.
He rolled over slowly on the bed, being careful to not disturb the limb wrapped around him like a vice, almost dreading what he’d see. The first glimpse of a milky-white lock of hair resting on the bed linen beside him had his heart working double time in his chest. Jaskier gaped, in no small amount of shock, at the man sleeping soundly next to him.
Never in all his time travelling with the witcher had Jaskier entertained the idea that he’d ever lay in the witcher’s bed, much less his arms. It was a secret fantasy he’d reserved for private moments. Something he’d only allow himself to dream about in the cover of the dark when he was alone and deeply in need.
He wasn’t particularly shy about his sexual life, something Geralt could attest to himself, but something about the witcher made him as flustered and self-conscious as his fourteen-year-old clueless self.
Geralt’s face was partly covered by his long silver locks, but there was no denying the man laying next to him – holding him – was the witcher. Geralt’s upper body was bare, safe for the wolf pendant he never seemed to take off hanging around his neck, and Jaskier had an unimpeded view of his torso.
Jaskier would know that build, those bulky strapping muscles everywhere. He’d studied the constellation of scars that littered that broad chest with religious intent.
It wasn’t something he was proud of, but he had drunk in the sight of the witcher’s body whenever he’d been blessed with the opportunity of helping the man bathe. He’d committed the entirety of that ripped figure to mind and he knew he could pick it out of a sea of skelliger streetfighters.
If Geralt had sensed his treacherous thoughts and thinly veiled lust during those times, he’d said nothing of it. He did try to give the witcher his privacy, but it was hard not to let his eyes wander when faced with such a captivating muse. Jaskier had never been known for his self-restraint, after all.
Geralt remained asleep beside him, letting out only the slightest of rumbles that rustled the strands of hair near his face. Jaskier tentatively raised a hand, letting it hover in the air for a few moments before reaching forward and brushing the hair away from the witcher’s face.
Geralt looked oddly at peace during sleep, it was almost strange to see his face without its perpetual scowl. Jaskier felt the corner of his lips involuntarily curl up in a fond smile as he studied the witcher. The rare endearing expression on the man’s face tugged at his heartstrings in the most tender way.
He let his hand linger on the side of Geralt’s face, drinking in the moment that was sure to be ended once the other man awoke. He could almost swear he’d seen a hint of a contented smile tugging at the witcher's own lips, though.
Jaskier was still very much in shock at his current situation, however. He had no memory of how he’d ended up sharing Geralt’s bed, but he had a feeling the witcher wouldn’t be all that pleased with their current situation once he was aware of it.
Perhaps he lacked the same memories as Jaskier. Nevertheless, it was probably for the better that Jaskier escaped the bed and his clutch before the witcher regained consciousness. Not that it was a task Jaskier was particularly eager to complete.
This was the stuff of his dreams, after all. Surely, he could bask in its self-indulgence a while longer.
He could feel the heat radiating off Geralt’s body, acting as his own personal furnace and warming him to his core. His nose gave a little sleepy twitch and Jaskier couldn’t hold back the amused little huff of air that escaped his lips.
Geralt rumbled in response, a pleased note this time, and tightened his grip on Jaskier’s back, tugging him closer. Before Jaskier could realize what was happening, he was pressed up against the length of Geralt’s front, head resting just under his chin.
He would appreciate his current condition more if his brain wasn’t short-circuiting from the fact that he could feel another distinct part of the witcher’s anatomy pressing up against him. A pointy pressing part. Geralt was hard, and... he knew firsthand that the man was well endowed, but knowing it and feeling it against him was another story.
At least Geralt still had his briefs on; thank Melitele for small mercies. Still, he couldn’t hold back the choked sound that left his throat at feeling the arousal of the long-standing object of his desires.
Geralt stirred at the sound, making dread pool alongside the newly formed much more pleasant heat coiling in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. Surely as soon as the witcher opened his eyes and realized the warm body he was moulding himself against belonged to Jaskier, he would shove him away and be disgusted with the invasion of privacy. Wanting to escape that situation at any cost, Jaskier roughly pushed himself away from the witcher and rolled away from under his hold, successfully escaping the bed.
The sudden movement was enough to make Geralt let out a loud grumble and furrow his brow in discontentment.
Jaskier jumped to his feet and froze still for a moment, not even daring to breathe as he checked to see if Geralt would awake. His eyes remained closed though, and he settled back into sleep after a few seconds, even if he was scowling like someone had taken a pair of scissors to his hair. It seemed he was in the clear.
Jaskier stepped back from the bed and surveyed the room, trying to find the closest exit. He needed space to clear his head and try to understand what in the devil’s tits was going on.
He spotted two doors in the room. One was smaller and fit better into the scheme of the room, probably leading to private bath chambers, due to its proximity to the four-poster bed. The other stood on the other side of the room, older looking and taller. It was probably the exit.
He was also surprised by the interior of the chambers he found himself in, which he noticed was surprisingly well decorated, especially to his tastes, and amply spacious.
He had no idea where he was, but whoever owned the place hadn’t spared the luxuries. The polished wooden floors were adorned with rich looking burgundy carpets, and heavy curtain sets hung above the windows, stretching up to the high ceilings which were also decorated with intricate murals of the goddess Caecilia, patron of the music. Odd, he thought, the only place where he’d seen such tributes dedicated to the goddess was in Oxenfurt.
He didn’t have time to dally though, Geralt would likely be awake at any second, and with that came the inevitable questions of what exactly Jaskier was doing in his room, half-naked. And he had no answers to provide him with. He’d like some himself, actually.
He rushed over to the door, grateful that the witcher still seemed too deep in the haze of sleep to notice anything. He tried to keep his steps as silent as he possibly could though, knowing that a witcher’s sense of hearing was deeply attuned.
“Where are you going?” A croaky voice rasped from behind him, making his hand halt in place and hover above the doorknob he was about to reach for.
A chill of trepidation swept through him at the sound of Geralt’s voice and he turned around slowly, preparing himself for the look of confusion followed by irritation on the witcher’s face.
Geralt was lying on the bed in the same position Jaskier had left him in, but he had turned his head and was now peeking at Jaskier from under droopy eyelids, face soft from sleep. Under different circumstances Jaskier would be melting at how cute the other man looked, he didn’t get many chances to see Geralt like this after all.
“Huh, I—” Jaskier sputtered, feeling strangely out of place. The witcher’s face morphed into one of concern, probably as he became more aware and sensed Jaskier’s anxiety in the air. Oh, how he hated that the other man could do that.
Geralt pushed himself up with his hands, using the bed as leverage to sit up and study Jaskier more intently from his new position.
“Are you ok? What’s going on?” Geralt asked, looking much more awake and sporting a look of genuine concern.
Jaskier gaped. He had not anticipated this turn of events. Geralt couldn’t seem to care less about the fact that Jaskier was caught sneaking out of his bed in his current state of dress, he seemed more concerned with the fact that he felt the need to do so. Which… made no sense. As far as Jaskier could remember, at least. What could he be missing?
There was a deep part of his mind screaming at him, a part that rang with wrongness in his head, that rejected this whole situation. There was something that felt untrue about Geralt’s attitude but, no matter how much he racked his brain for a reason, none seemed to come forth.
He tried to think of his last memories with the witcher, and he did recall a lot of past encounters, but he couldn’t seem to find the actual last time they’d seen each other. And he couldn’t find a justification for the hurt and sadness that rang acutely in his heart when he laid eyes on the man.
His brain was a confusion of scrambled memories and recollections, he couldn’t put them in order and he couldn’t find the line of events that led him to this moment here and now. But, more than that, he felt a strange pull at the back of his head that cast a numbness over his panic. Something that pulled him away from trying to remember.
It was an unsettling feeling, to say the least.
Geralt was still regarding him with an increasingly troubled expression, so it was probably best that he broke the silence, if only to ensure the witcher that his voice hadn’t deserted him yet.
“Humm, where are we?” He asked tentatively, taking in his surroundings once more.
Geralt’s frown deepened, worry clearly growing in his face as he stared at Jaskier in contemplative silence.
“You don’t know where we are?” he asked, enunciating slowly and raising an eyebrow in alarm.
“I…” Jaskier trailed off, eyes catching on a familiar banner hanging in an unassuming corner of the room. “Oxenfurt?” he mumbled to himself in confusion, recognizing his Alma mater in the insignia.
“Yeah,” Geralt said, relief in his voice. Jaskier jolted out of his reverie shooting Geralt a bewildered look. It took a second to realize Geralt was confirming what he thought had been Jaskier’s answer to the previous question.
So, they were in Oxenfurt then. How in the heavens had he gotten here? And in such a fancy room to boot? This looked like one of the chambers reserved for the high professors with long-standing tenure. Had he and Geralt snuck in? If so, why?
His attention was then caught by the dresser opposite the bed, the one where one of his favourite doublets rested. He followed the trail of clothes on the floor, evidently Geralt’s -- he’d never treat his precious silks in such a way -- to the witcher’s gear bag tucked in a corner. A sack of carrots rested next to it, presumably for Roach.
Then his eyes jumped to his lute resting on the parapet of the window, and the various stacks of notebooks that were strewn across the desk standing by it. Some of them he recognized as his own, but others he couldn’t remember ever laying eyes on.
It was obvious from the look of the room that they had been staying there for a while, and it wasn’t a coincidence that Jaskier had woken up in bed with Geralt. The witcher seemed to be living here too. Which was all the more baffling to Jaskier.
Geralt didn’t settle down, it was a truth that the witcher took for fact. He’d lost count of how many times the man had told him that witchers didn’t get attached, they didn’t take friends or lovers and they definitely never stayed in one place for more than a fortnight unless they were wintering in Kaer Morhen -- the only place they could ever think of calling home.
So, what was Geralt doing here, with him?
Geralt had seemed sufficiently satisfied by his previous response, and was now getting up from the bed, attention momentarily off of him. Jaskier swallowed nervously as the witcher’s full body came into view, his morning wood even more obvious against the fabric of his briefs in an upright position. Now, that was a sight.
As Jaskier’s eyes were captured by Geralt’s personal… problem, the witcher reached for a white shirt on top of the dresser and threw it on. When Jaskier looked back up, Geralt’s eyes were trained on him, a twinkle of what Jaskier could swear was amusement dancing in them.
“See something you like?”
Jaskier’s jaw might have hit the floor. Had Geralt actually said those words to him just now or was he hallucinating? He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, and he knew he had to be blushing from how hard they were burning. Jaskier didn’t blush! He made people blush. To have the game turned around on him so unexpectedly left him completely flustered and speechless.
Before Jaskier could recover from the shock, Geralt let out an honest to god chuckle and turned around, heading towards his gear bags. He didn't think he’d ever heard Geralt chuckle.
He watched as Geralt grabbed one of the bags and winced when he heaved it onto the bed -- those were silk sheets, and he knew for a fact those bags had been in some unfavourable places.
“What are you doing?”
Jaskier jumped in surprise at Geralt’s question, eyes shooting up to look at him. The witcher shot him a glance over his shoulder, an expectant expression on his face. Was Jaskier supposed to be doing something? He had no idea, he didn’t even know how he’d gotten here in the first place!
“Hmm, nothing? What are you doing?”
Geralt paused, turning to face him.
“Well, first I might deal with this,” he said, gesturing loosely towards his crotch, “since you make it such an important point not to go sporting sex-hair to your morning classes. But then I’m going down to feed Roach and take a look round, see if anyone needs a witcher. The usual.”
Once Jaskier’s brain unfroze from the heavy implication in Geralt’s words -- when the hell did they start making casual suggestions to sex with each other? Because he’s pretty sure he missed that notice -- he focused on the other very strange part of that sentence.
Morning classes?
He was starting to get the feeling he was missing a much bigger chunk of his memory than he first assumed. He graduated -- with honours -- a good number of years ago now. There was nothing some middle-aged court-numbed troubadour could teach him that he didn’t already know. He should be the one giving the classes.
“Not that I don’t appreciate you hanging around, but shouldn’t you be going?” Geralt asked, raising both his eyebrows at him. “You always make sure to be there at least a quarter of an hour before your students.”
Oh, turned out he was the one giving the classes... that made more sense. In so much that it still completely didn’t. He still felt completely lost. What in the world was happening?
He weighed his options. He could try telling Geralt the truth, that he’d found himself with a terrifyingly large gap in his memory that made him question the authenticity of his own reality; or he could go, play his part, figure out what class he was supposed to be teaching and try to find out what in the holy hell he’d gotten himself into.
The former was probably the more sensible of the two, but his current reality involved a half-naked Geralt who voluntarily cuddled him in bed and wasn’t against getting up close and personal -- as evidenced by the boner remarks. This felt a lot like walking through fire without getting burnt, and he didn’t want to give up that rush of a feeling quite yet. Plus, going with option two had the added benefit of not coming across as completely mental and getting tossed in an asylum.
“Right, my students. I should go.”
He pivoted, reaching for the door handle and actually managing to grab it this time.
He had the door open and was about to finally leave the room when Geralt called out to him, “Jaskier!”
He froze, turning to face the witcher again.
“What?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, raising his brow in bemusement.
Jaskier frowned, racking his brain for what he might be missing. Books? Professors carried around books, right? Was he supposed to bring some to his class? What kind, though? There were literally dozens strewn around the room, and he had no idea what he was supposed to be teaching yet.
“Your lute?”
Jaskier shot his eyes up to him in surprise, glancing at his lute right after, where it was lying on the windowsill. How could he have forgotten his most prized possession? It spoke volumes to how out of it he truly was.
If Geralt was pointing it out to him to take for his class though, maybe the subject of his lecturings was a bit more practical than theoretical? Thank Melitele, if he was going to have to spend the next four hours droning on about the old schemes of scaling and retrograde mindsets in the history of barding, he would have most likely ended up handing in a resignation letter to a job he didn’t even remember getting.
“Oh, right.” He gave a little nervous laugh and glanced back at Geralt. “I couldn’t possibly forget her.”
Geralt rolled his eyes at the pronoun use, that way he usually did when Jaskier employed such theatrics, although he could have sworn the annoyance was expressed a lot more openly fond than it ever was before.
He crossed the room and grabbed his lute, throwing the strap of the case over his shoulder. Geralt watched him all the while, a suspicious look on his face.
Oh no, was he cluing into the fact Jaskier had no actual idea what he was doing? Jaskier liked to pride himself on his acting skills, but he was never much of a liar around Geralt. Not only because the witcher possessed an unnatural ability to tell whether he was lying, but also because it made him unusually nervous to do it to that particular person.
“Hey, are you sure you’re ok?” he prompted, making Jaskier look up to face him.
What he saw in those molten gold eyes was genuine concern, so plain that it quite honestly left him reeling. He always suspected the witcher cared more about him than he let on -- why else would he allow Jaskier to tag along and annoy him for weeks on end? -- but he never expected to see the feeling so openly conveyed.
Geralt liked to keep all of his so-called nonexistent emotions curled deeply behind the walls he built around himself, which is a completely normal ingrained behaviour for people who are run out of towns with curses and insults thrown at his name and brethren to have.
The only time he caught sight of them was when something big or bad enough managed to blow a hole in those walls and some came pouring out. Usually, only extreme sorrow and anger leaked through, like that time he’d tried to save a young boy-- he must have been five, the poor little thing -- from a nightwraith but couldn’t get to him in time. He could barely get Geralt to utter more than three words to him per day for two weeks after that.
To have Geralt demonstrate his feelings so candidly and voluntarily, without extreme circumstances forcing it out of him was… not something Jaskier was expecting.
Which is probably why he ended up stammering through his reply. “I-- I’m fine.”
Geralt’s brows drew a little closer together, but he nodded and backed down, turning back to his things. Jaskier let out a little sigh of relief and made for the door, leaving the witcher and this whole very confusing and disconcerting situation behind him, at least temporarily.
Finding the class he was supposed to teach hadn’t been that hard, thankfully. Once he left the bedroom, he wandered down to the main hall, where most of the students used to congregate and mill about in his day. Unsurprisingly, some things stayed the same, and the hall was as crowded as he remembered it.
It wasn’t long until he found himself surrounded by a gang of overeager wide-eyed college students barely out of their teens. He was a bit taken by surprise by how much they seemed to idolize him-- they were all but tripping over themselves in their eagerness to reply to Jaskier’s questions, he didn't think he’d ever liked any of his professors this much -- but he promptly regained his composure. He’d been born to thrive under the spotlight, after all.
Some of them were apparently attending the class Jaskier was supposed to teach, so he simply told them he’d walk them to it and let them inadvertently lead the way. They talked about the process of finding creative muses as they walked, first about the elven case models and then about Jaskier himself.
Jaskier was not proud to admit he felt his cheeks colour when the students immediately asked after Geralt, very explicitly. Looks like his infatuation with the witcher was yesterday’s news here. He tried to divert the subject to something else again, thanking whatever godly entities there were that the kids were so enthralled with him they didn’t even notice the obvious redirection.
He had a very decent sized class. When he stepped into the auditorium he was supposed to lecture in -- he’d even gotten a lecture hall, they must really like him here -- most of the seats were already occupied by his students. All of which quietened down and readied their class materials as soon as they caught sight of him.
Which was infinitely surprising to him. From what he remembered from his wild years at college, the professors usually needed to shout out an insult or two and bang on the board at least three times to get a completely silent room. This was… very odd.
Not that he’s not flattered by all these demonstrations of awe and respect but, what in the world had gotten him here? What could he be missing in his memory gaps that could possibly justify this?
It’s not that Jaskier had a low opinion of himself. He knew he was good at what he did --he was getting famous all throughout the continent, and that wasn’t due to his lack of ability, quite on the contrary -- but other people didn’t usually tend to acknowledge that. The moderate fame he’d acquired during these last few years at Geralt’s side, could never be enough reason for him to get a teaching position at Oxenfurt with such a large patronage.
There was definitely something else going on here. Some higher forces at play.
He settled into his spot at the front of the room and gave his best to provide an hour-long interesting lecture on the entendres and intricacies behind lyrical drafting and rearranging. It was actually quite nice, his pupils were engrossed in the subjects he explained and engaged in productive conversation with him.
He’d actually started to enjoy himself, theorizing on the origins of the muse behind A fair elven maiden.
“Of course the metaphors and allegory in the first verses of the ballad suggest--” he cut himself off when a sudden overbearing feeling of fear and wrongness befell him. There was something--something not right in this room. There was…
He cast his eyes across the space, jumping over the attentive students who were now starting to look up at him with various degrees of confusion, until he caught a glimpse of a man.
He was among the students, to a far corner of the room, but he obviously didn’t belong to the group. He was dressed in rags, soiled with dirt and bits of what appeared to be blood, although it looked like his clothing had been fine and expensive before all the filth had tarnished it.
The man himself didn’t look to be in a much better state than his outfit. He was white as a sheet, the sickly pallor of the dead almost, with streaks of sweat and blood marring his face and hair. He had a bit of a beard, that had clearly grown unchecked and ungroomed, and he was staring at Jaskier dead in the eyes -- eyes which were as lifeless and empty as the rest of him.
Jaskier shuddered, a cold chill creeping up his spine, unable to look away from the disturbing sight. The room around him seemed to narrow to just him and the man, who looked unbearably familiar, now that Jaskier realized. He could swear he knew that face -- knew it well, even.
When he tried to remember it, though, the answer seemed to slip away from him, just like trying to remember a pesky word for a song verse that was sitting right under his tongue.
He could have sworn he saw the room itself flicker around him from the corner of his eye, like a flash of thunder. One moment a student-packed well lit auditorium, and then suddenly, in less than a fraction of a second, somewhere dark and hazy, a darkness enveloping him whole. He started to hear a buzzing in his ears, escalating as the room funnelled further around him, weirdly reminiscent of the feeling he’d gotten when he’d tried some fishnet in one of his best left forgotten years of his youth.
“Professor?”
He gasped, torn out of whatever headspace he’d been in and whipped his head down to look at the student who’d prompted him.
“Are you ok?” the young man asked, a deep frown on his face. All of his peers shared similar expressions of alarm and concern.
Jaskier swallowed and looked back up to where he’d seen the man, but he was gone, and no one else had seemed to react to his presence.
“I’m feeling a bit under the weather, I apologize. Class dismissed,” he announced, turning his back on his audience to gather his stuff and get the hell out of there.
Maybe it was time to talk to Geralt.
Geralt dropped the severed cockatrice head onto the alderman’s table with little preamble, feeling a slight twinge of satisfaction at the obvious look of discomfort and disgust the action elicited on the man. Blood still dripped from the cut vessels on the beast’s neck, spreading across the tablecloth and staining muted grey with bright red.
He was once again being cheated out of his payment, the greying pot-bellied man trying to talk down his price with excuses of the monster not having been as vicious or as terrible to deal with, seeing as Geralt had dispatched it in less time than he’d expected.
He was more than used to prejudiced old men trying to weasel their way out of what they owed, but he’d been on a short fuse these past couple of weeks, for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely. Loud and obnoxious reasons, who liked wearing blue and had a penchant for theatrics.
He shut down the thought with a huff and a rough shake of his head. He wasn’t here to dwell on past affairs -- affairs which he had no intentions of laying eyes on ever again -- he was here to get paid and get gone.
Thankfully, the alderman recognized that the witcher was in no mood to be trifled with and coughed up the total amount of coin he had promised. Not before leering and grumbling a few choice words and insults beneath his breath, though. Geralt was used to it.
He grabbed the coin bag, more forcefully than necessary perhaps, and turned his back, marching his way outside to where his mare awaited.
He was more than eager to get out of Holopole, but he’d just been paid and he really could use a drink. There were bound to be some taverns around, with as moderately large a settlement as this was -- a couple of inns too -- so he figured he was fine postponing his departure until tomorrow, at the least. A warm bed instead of the hard forest floor, even under his bedroll, would surely work wonders on his bad disposition.
So, that was how he found himself heading to the nearest tavern, Roach in tow and newly acquired coin bag heavy in his cloak’s pocket. He left his mare in the stables, making sure she had enough food and clean quarters to stay the night, and headed upstairs.
It seemed to be a slow night, thankfully, with only a handful of men milling about the bar and scattered through the grubby looking tables. It suited Geralt just fine, he’d prefer being left to his own devices in his little designated corner over being fawned over or ridiculed any given day of the week.
He headed towards the barkeeper and paid for a pint, ignoring the obvious signs of disgust on the man’s face as he served the witcher. It looked like Jaskier’s songs hadn’t reached this far inland, either that or they simply hadn’t been enough to sway the establishment’s patrons' beliefs.
Although the bard’s influence across the continent had slightly shifted the public opinion in his favour, it wasn’t anywhere near uncommon to find towns completely unaffected by it and set in their own ways. Sometimes he even preferred it.
To experience blind acceptance felt like... cheating, somehow. Unworthy.
He took his tankard and settled in the table he’d had his eye on as soon as he stepped foot inside the tavern. He could stay out of sight and out of the way, and hopefully be left alone.
His plan worked fine for the most part; he drank his beer and stayed in his corner, keeping an absent ear on the conversations unfolding around him, but not really paying attention to its topics. He was almost done with his drink when one of the patrons chatting with the bartender said something that grabbed his attention.
“Hey Signod, what happened to that bard playin’ for us the other night? Ye think he’ll come back?”
“They say he disappeared with Joshua two nights ago, I think we’ve seen the last of’em,” he heard the barkeeper say, his arm stilling as he brought the tankard to his mouth.
Now, the chances that the particular bard in question just happened to be Jaskier were arguably close to null. There were hundreds of bards across the continent. Any one of them could have easily stopped to make some coin in this village and absconded with a local man. But, still...
He couldn’t stop wondering about it. What if it really was Jaskier? And what if something bad had actually happened? Geralt may have said some… things, at the mountain, but he still somehow felt responsible for the bard. Which is exactly what he hadn’t wanted to feel anymore, he didn’t want any of this -- he didn’t want to care. But distance had apparently done nothing to correct that problem, because he still found himself unable to shake the thought of Jaskier in trouble.
He had to know.
He set his tankard down with a move of frustration, the remaining contents splashing around in the cup and a few droplets escaping to land on the table.
The patrons were still engaged in conversation, something about the wheat crops, so he took that moment to get up and head towards the bar.
The barkeeper was wiping down the counter as he approached, an old rag in his hand that had seen better days and was definitely due for a wash.
“The bard you mentioned,” Geralt started, earning a sneer from the man as soon as he realized who was addressing him. “Who was he?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Answer the question,” Geralt snarled, feeling his patience wearing thin. The last thing he wanted was to be run out of yet another town, but if he’d been in a bad mood before, this situation was just escalating it.
“Or what?” he leered, scrunching his nose.
“Or…” Geralt trailed off, dropping ice into his voice as he uncoiled his shoulders and straightened his stance to full height, towering threateningly over the paltry man. “I find another use for the steel sword at my back.”
That seemed to cool the man down a bit, an unmistakable glimmer of fear and uncertainty clouding his eyes as he backed away instinctively. Good.
“I don’t know his name, he was staying with that Joshua fellow.”
Geralt felt a surge of annoyance rising in his chest, focusing his glare on the barkeeper. The man visibly swallowed under the attention, taking a few steps backwards.
“What did he look like?”
“What?” the man blurted out, an incredulous look on his face. Geralt's unwavering glower was enough to make him reconsider and stumble out a reply, though, “I don’t know! He was wiry! Brown hair, cocksure attitude. Good for the business, bad for my patience.”
Geralt let out a huff of irritation. Sure, Jaskier fit that description, but so did two handfuls of bards from here to the Yaruga. The barkeeper did mention something about who he’d been staying with, so maybe he could ask there, and put this whole thing behind him.
He couldn’t believe he was actually going through all this trouble to make sure Jaskier was ok, but that pesky feeling in the back of his head wouldn’t leave him alone. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it was guilt.
With one last glare at the barkeeper, he turned around and headed back towards the door. Time to find out who this Joshua was.
Jaskier rushed through the foyers outside the lecture hall he’d just hightailed out of, with no particular destination in mind. He just knew he needed to get away from that room and the creepy vision he’d just experienced.
Why had that man seemed so familiar? Why had no one else noticed his presence? And the way he’d looked… what had happened to him? He barely even appeared alive.
It’s a good thing he’d remembered to grab his lute in his frenzy to leave the room.
That same strange numbness from before, from when he’d woken up with Geralt, was once again muffling the panic and confusion he felt, trying to push them down to the back of his mind even as he struggled to keep them at the forefront. It was just freaking him out more. This feeling wasn’t normal. He should be feeling worry over the sudden apparition in his own lecture hall, not nonchalance.
At least he was somewhat successful in stressing about not being stressed out, since he didn’t even notice the other person in the hall until he was bumping face first into their muscly chest. And what a mighty muscled chest it was.
The person in question pulled back, large hands steadying over his shoulders, and Jaskier looked up to be met with molten gold eyes. His heart did a little flip in response and he could feel heat rising to his cheeks, either due to close proximity or to the memories of their morning interactions that popped up unsolicited in his head.
“Are you ok?” Geralt asked, a concerned wrinkle between his brows. His nostrils flared slightly and Jaskier was once again reminded that Geralt had the very annoying and frustrating ability to sniff out pesky things like anxiety.
“I don’t know?” he tried, breaking into a tentative smile that felt more like a grimace.
Geralt frowned at the response, that single wrinkle in his brow deepening and being joined by two others.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he started asking as he pulled Jaskier aside, hands still warm and comforting over his shoulders. And this… this wasn’t right either. Geralt was never this handsy with him, or openly concerned. He wasn’t even assuming it was Jaskier’s own fault first!
“No, I just…” he trailed off, swallowing as he looked up at Geralt’s focused gaze. He should tell Geralt the truth, he should explain what was happening. He opened his mouth to let out the words, but… he couldn’t make himself say anything. He let his mouth fall shut again, feeling like he was doing a great job of impersonating a fish out of water. “I’m hungry.”
Ugh, he wanted to bang his head against a wall. Maybe he could use Geralt’s pecs -- they were hard enough, they’d get the job done. Why couldn’t he make himself say anything?
Geralt’s brow furrowed further even as the corners of his mouth turned up in a slightly amused expression. “Okaayy, if you say so. I was just about to head down for the dining hall, if you want we can raid the kitchens and hole up in the gardens instead?”
Jaskier looked up at Geralt, surprised. That actually sounded nice, and thoughtful. But why was he so taken aback by it? His brain insisted on telling him Geralt would never behave like this, that his actions were strange and out of the ordinary, that he should be treating Jaskier with barely veiled irritation and impatience. He even felt a few tendrils of grief and betrayal coiling in his chest when he regarded the witcher, like a trigger response. But what grounds did he have to be feeling in such a way?
Why was this Geralt wrong as opposed to the pre-envisioned image of him Jaskier had in his brain? What made one thing correct or incorrect? He couldn’t remember.
“That sounds nice,” he found himself saying, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he was the one in the wrong. Maybe this was the right Geralt.
Geralt smiled in response, a genuine smile, making Jaskier blanch from the sheer unexpectedness of it. Geralt was truly beautiful like this, the pearly whites of his teeth showing through the inviting crack of his lips. It was a sight to behold. He should make Geralt smile more often.
Geralt turned to slip one arm around his shoulder and pull him closer, and Jaskier went willingly, moulding himself to his side like a bar of clay, warm and pliable. That same heady feeling he experienced when he woke up enveloped in Geralt’s arms came back to him, warming his insides and making his heart flutter in his chest. He was still not used to the closed proximity that seemed to come so naturally to Geralt.
Geralt pushed them forward and Jaskier forced his feet to move, trying to keep pace with him.
They walked through the halls, Jaskier tucked comfortably in the curve of Geralt’s side, and every time they crossed paths with someone, Jaskier found himself either expecting the person to direct them some disgruntled or disgusted looks, or for Geralt to pull away himself, but he never did. No one minded, they acted like this was a regular occurrence, like the sight of a bard tucked into a witcher’s side as they strolled the halls of Oxenfurt was normal.
After a few minutes, he started relaxing, letting his head drop sideways to rest against the witcher’s shoulder.
He realized Geralt must know the layout of the university himself, since Jaskier wasn’t doing much in the directions department, letting Geralt guide their path as they walked. He must really be familiar with the place. He wondered how long they’d been here.
They made it to the kitchens sooner than Jaskier was expecting, the smell of freshly baked bread and stew filling his nose and making his stomach rumble in response. Turns out he really was hungry, more than he was expecting, at least.
The large room was in a flurry of activity, probably the reason no one had noticed their presence yet, with the cooks bustling about with pots and pans, trays with dough carried from table to table.
He felt Geralt's arm slip from his shoulders as the man stepped forward, heading towards one of the maids at the working tables. She had her brown hair tied in a bun low at her nape, a smear of flour across her cheek. She seemed to recognize Geralt as he walked up to her, as she smiled and excused herself to scurry into another room.
Jaskier frowned in confusion, moving forwards to join Geralt’s side again.
“What was that about?”
“Just something I asked for,” Geralt replied as the girl reappeared with a burlap sack. She handed the bag to Geralt with a smile and a wink Jaskier’s way. Jaskier managed a surprised smile in response, his brows still furrowed in confusion.
Geralt laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, not a strong hold, just a guiding pressure, and directed him back outside the kitchens.
Jaskier, intrigued and surprised, let him herd them back through the corridors until they ended up outside in a small inner garden.
He’d never been here before, not even in his years as a student. It’s not the sort of place he’d ever envision Geralt taking him to. It was beautiful, for one, climbing plants with bright colourful flowers lining the walls of the small inner courtyard. There was a little fountain in the centre with a statute of Caecilia and little carpets of green grass scattered around.
Geralt let go of his shoulder and headed over to one of the little spots of green, settling down and leaning against the wall.
He reached inside the bag and retrieved what appeared to be their lunch. A few slices of beef jerky, a couple loaves of breath and a bottle of red. He took out a small almond cake next, Jaskier’s favourite. How did Geralt even know that? Jaskier wasn’t exactly quiet about the things he enjoyed, granted, but he never thought Geralt was actually listening.
“Are you going to sit down, or are you just going to stand there?” Geralt asked, an amused grin breaking across his face.
Right. Food—lunch. In a romantic garden with red wine and the witcher he’d been in love for over a decade. He had so many questions, but he wasn’t strong enough to deny himself this moment.
He stepped forward and sat down next to Geralt, accepting the bread with beef jerky that was passed his way.
Lunch was perfect. They talked and laughed, Geralt smiled— more than Jaskier had ever seen him do it— and slid an arm across Jaskier’s shoulder somewhere between mouthfuls of red wine and eating the last of the bread. They split the almond cake in half and each ate their own. It was the best cake Jaskier ever remembered eating.
He’d never felt more at ease, never happier than he felt right that second, with Geralt’s arm wrapped around him securely and the sweet aftertaste of red wine in his mouth.
He closed his eyes and imagined the world stopping right there and then, immortalizing the perfect moment in the halls of Oxenfurt history. He could stay there forever.
He wished he could.
Right then, though, he opened his eyes and he was back. The man from the lecture hall. He was standing smack in the middle of the garden, next to the fountain, and staring right at Jaskier, those horrible lifeless eyes burrowing straight to Jaskier’s soul.
Jaskier tensed, feeling a sudden chill sweep through him and bristle all the hairs on his body.
He couldn’t look away. There was something terrifyingly eye-catching that physically prevented him from doing so. He felt frozen, unable to move a muscle as a feeling of abject terror and panic rose in his chest as an impossible weight, a vice threatening to suffocate him.
He held his breath.
Suddenly the luscious green garden and the remnants of their perfect lunch were gone and he was enveloped in a cold darkness, pressing in on him from every side and smothering him in its starkness.
He was standing right in front of him. Joshua.
He felt the breath being pushed out of his lungs with a breathless huff as the memories came back like a sucker punch to the stomach.
His childhood friend, how had he forgotten about him? Why?
Where are they?
“Joshua!” He tried to cry out, mouthing the words, but no sound came out. He tried again, being met with the same result. He couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t move.
Why couldn’t he move? His limbs felt like lead, and he couldn’t even force himself to wave a toe. He didn’t have the strength to hold himself up, but he was upright. He had been sitting before, he was sure. He was in a garden. Now he was hanging limp like a fish from a hook, arms heavy and useless and feet dragging on the ground.
He didn’t understand. Why was he here? Where was Geralt?
The thought of his name opened another floodgate in his brain and different sets of memories came pouring in. He felt the heartbreak choking him as if he were experiencing it for the first time.
Geralt had left him, alone on a mountaintop to pick up the pieces of the heart he shattered. Weeks ago. How much of a fool had he been?
Leftover images of a beautiful garden flickered in his mind, competing with the waves of hurt that coursed through him.
He felt numb, pain and heartbreak swirling in the bottom of his chest, trying to claw their way out and take the stage for themselves, but he didn’t have the strength to feel anything else. He was tired. So tired.
A strange wind picked up then, strange because he could feel it in his core. Cool and sharp, leaving tendrils of fear coiling in its wake.
And Joshua— he was still staring at him, eyes as lifeless as ever, but there was something different. His eyes weren’t just devoid of life, hopeless, they were unmoving, a wrongness to them that resonated deeply in Jaskier. He didn’t stand either, hanging limply from an unseen ceiling as Jaskier did.
Jaskier knew then, with stark certainty, that he was not alone, but Joshua wasn’t with him anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. Never would be again.
He was alone with whatever killed him, and it was killing Jaskier too.
Jaskier was only sad that the last thought he had before the darkness swallowed him again, was of the man that broke his heart on a mountaintop just as pretty and alive as the dream garden he had dreamt up for the both of them.
Geralt walked along the creek’s edge, searching for any signs or clues for what may have transpired there.
After the tavern barkeep proved to be no help, he had paid a visit to the family the town bard was supposed to have been staying with. There, he found a grieving wife and her young traumatized daughter.
A short conversation with the woman was enough for him to find out that the bard had indeed been Jaskier, because destiny just liked to fuck him over like that, he guessed. It was just his luck that the one time he behaved badly and hurtfully enough to drive Jaskier away, he’d driven him right to danger’s doorstep.
He had thought the bard would be better off without him, truly. But look at what happened, not even two months had passed and Jaskier was already missing, taken by some creature. All because Geralt hadn’t been there. He could have protected him, could have avoided this whole thing— Jaskier could be dead for all he knew. But the thought of that left a hollow feeling in his chest that tugged painfully at his heart and knotted his throat. He couldn’t think about it.
Instead, he focused on the situation, thought of it as an ordinary contract, even if no one was paying for him to stick his neck out and put his life on the line that time. Jaskier safe and sound, playing his lute in a small-town tavern, would be reward enough.
He hadn’t gotten much information out of the girl. Apparently, she’d been among the first to be taken, her and another boy. They had both since returned, but neither had spoken a word about what ills they’d endured. They hadn’t uttered any words since.
It was a common enough behaviour among victims of this sort and age, but it was one that was not helpful in the least to Geralt, nonetheless. And it’s not like he could terrify a young girl into speaking, there were some lines he wouldn’t cross.
A fishmonger and a blacksmith, along with the girl’s father and Jaskier, had disappeared afterwards, but none had returned.
He tried not to think about how that was over two weeks ago.
No bodies had been found, so that was a good sign, at the very least. Even if in most cases, in his experience, it meant nothing at all.
Irena, the girl’s mother, told him of the mist said to have risen at the time of the disappearances, even if it had only been sighted once, when the children disappeared. It was enough for him to rule out some possible suspect creatures.
The woman offered him some lunch before he left, a kindness which took him by surprise, but he refused. He didn’t have an appetite, and he didn’t want to take anything from a distraught widow, especially one that seemed to care for Jaskier.
Now he walked the steady trek from the village to the mountain chapel, which was lined by the river’s margin and willows on either side. This was where the disappearances were reported to have occurred, and where he hoped to find a clue to Jaskier’s whereabouts. If he could only find the exact place where they went missing, he might be able to find tracks and investigate them. He wouldn’t find any marks by the river’s edge — the water was sure to have washed away any traces that remained, but maybe he’d find something else, something the water didn’t take and erase.
He was passing an ordinary stretch of the river, nothing about it that caught his senses, when he felt a slight hum drumming against his chest in a crescendo. A hand flew up to clutch at his medallion instinctively, and he felt the metal reverberating in his hand. Magic.
He was close.
Jaskier came to, slowly and sluggishly, as if rising from a deep slumber. There was a hand in his hair, brushing it back and tracing circles on his scalp in soothing motions. The smell of leather and horse filled his nose and he almost laid back and melted into the enveloping hold, feeling lulled by the familiar comforting scent, but then he remembered.
Joshua’s deathly pale visage shot across his eyes in a haunting sight and he jerked out of the arms wrapped around him in a gentle grasp.
He was back in the garden, the empty burlap sack that had contained their lunch resting limply by Geralt's feet. Geralt himself was staring worriedly at Jaskier, his arms held in the air where Jaskier had parted them to get away and shoot to his feet, as if waiting for Jaskier to settle back into them, to the place where he belonged.
But this was wrong. He knew now. And not even that unsettling numbness was enough for him to disregard his confusion. He could feel it even now, trying to smother the sharp panic and frustration that simmered on the surface, begging to be let loose.
“Jaskier?” he heard Geralt’s voice call to him, and he sounded so concerned, so… vulnerable. This couldn’t be true, it was too good to be true.
“What’s going on?” Jaskier managed. He sounded breathless. “Who are you?”
“Jaskier?” Geralt repeated, voice immediately alarmed as a frown formed on his face and he jumped to his feet after Jaskier. He took a step forward, arms wavering at his side like he wanted to raise them and wrap Jaskier in them, but he seemed unsure of himself.
“Don’t,” Jaskier muttered, taking a step back in tandem. He knew if he gave in then he wouldn’t be strong enough to back out again.
Geralt stayed in place at the request, although the expression on his face told Jaskier he wanted to do everything but.
“You know who I am,” Geralt said, low and hurt, a painful softness on his face. “I’m Geralt.”
“No,” Jaskier whispered. He shook his head. “No. Geralt left me on that mountain top. You’re not him, you’re not—“
Something changed in Geralt’s expression at the mention of the mountain. He looked sad, almost… broken.
“Jaskier, you know I’m sorry about that. You know how much I regret it. Please, honey, just tell me what’s going on.”
“That!” Jaskier cried, shooting his hand up with his palm outstretched to wave at Geralt. His voice cracked pitifully in the middle of the syllable, making the sound sharp and unpleasant. “You never call me honey, you never pretend to like me, and the last memory I have of you is you telling me how much shittier your life is because I’m in it. Why am I here, Geralt?”
Geralt gave a slight shake of his head, confusion evident in his features.
“You think I’m pretending to like you?”
“I don’t know,” Jaskier breathed, wanting to look away, hide his pain, but unable to tear his eyes away from those molten pools of gold.
“Jaskier, I’ve always liked you. You know that, I’ve told you that. What’s this really about? You said your last memory of me was on that mountain top?”
Jaskier swallowed, looked away, nodded softly. He heard Geralt let out a heavy breath in front of him, and let his eyes waver back to him, uncertain.
“Was that what this morning was about?” Geralt asked, understanding dawning on his face. “I knew something was off. How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you say anything, honey?”
“No,” Jaskier repeated, like a prayer. “This is wrong.”
“What is?” Geralt asked, frustration growing in his voice. Jaskier just gave a slight shake of his head again in response. “Jaskier, please. I want to help you, but you have to tell me what’s wrong.”
Jaskier looked up, studied Geralt’s eyes, searching for any signs of falsehood, but he found nothing but confusion and concern there.
“I saw— I saw Joshua—“ he tried to continue, but his breath caught in his throat, making a choking sound.
“Oh, honey,” Geralt says softly, closing the distance between them.
Jaskier doesn’t step backwards this time. Geralt’s strong arms come around his sides and envelop him in their hold and as the witcher pulls him closer to his chest. A comforting embrace.
“I should have known that’s what this was about. It’s been a few months now, but it’s coming up on his second anniversary now, isn’t it? I’m so sorry.”
“What?” Jaskier whispers brokenly against the smooth cloth of his chemise. It felt like something Jaskier would have bought for Geralt, he couldn’t imagine the witcher fabric shopping for something this soft. He clutches the fabric between his fingers.
“The anniversary of his death, honey. I know how much that weighs on you. You did the best you could.”
The best he could? Death anniversary? No, that’s-- no. That couldn’t be right.
“What are you talking about?” Jaskier mumbled, hating how small and vulnerable his voice sounded.
Geralt pushed him back gently by the shoulders, just enough so they could make eye contact.
“You went to Holopole after the mountain, honey. I followed you there after a week to apologize but by then it was too late, the rusalka had taken your friend.”
“Rusalka? That wasn’t—” The image of a broken shard of clay glimmering beneath shallow water flickered momentarily in his mind. He still didn’t know what it meant, though. He couldn’t make sense of anything, but Geralt was patiently waiting for him to continue with an expectant look on his face. “How did we get here?”
“After Joshua died, you wanted to stay and help your friend’s family, so we did, for a while. Then we moved on, passed by Oxenfurt, and you received an invitation from the university to occupy a teaching position. We’ve been here for a little over a year, now.”
“And you’re ok with that? Staying in one place like that?” Jaskier asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “You always said you’d never settle down.”
Geralt smiled softly.
“With you? I’d go anywhere.”
Jaskier stared at Geralt, unable to believe him fully. It just didn’t seem like something Geralt would do at all. To tell the truth, he didn’t imagine himself settling down in one place either, at least not for a while. There was still so much to see, so much continent to explore. He couldn’t deny there was a part of him that longed for this, that revelled in the possibility of it, but… It just didn’t seem like something Geralt would be comfortable in doing.
“You want to turn in for the day? We could go to our room, lounge around. Nothing I picked up today needs to be dealt with immediately, I can postpone everything until tomorrow.”
“That’s it?” Jaskier questioned, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. “You don’t find the memory gap disconcerting? At all?”
“It is a bit strange, admittedly, but you’ve been a bit stressed lately with finals and grading.” Geralt said, shrugging. “And winter is beginning to set in. I know how much you hate being alone here while I head up to Kaer Morhen.”
“What?”
“I was considering skipping this one, especially with this happening now. What do you think? Spending the winter by the firelight, as many almond cakes and red wine as you could possibly want?”
Jaskier didn’t answer, he didn't think he could force his mouth to move and expel sound either way. He was too taken back by what Geralt just told him.
Geralt’s smile deepened at the reaction, and he brought a hand up to settle against the curve of Jaskier’s jaw, brushing a thumb across his lower cheek. Jaskier was too entranced by the pools of gold swimming in his eyes to realize they were getting closer, but he wouldn’t have moved out of the way, either way. He didn’t have that kind of self-control.
His brain all but short-circuited when he finally felt the warm smoothness of another pair of lips grazing against his own. He was too shocked to respond properly, but Geralt didn’t seem to mind. He kept kissing him softly, in slow coaxing movements, and eventually, Jaskier found himself moving in tune.
The forest quieted as Geralt transversed it, following the very faint tracks he had picked up by the river’s edge. The silence was off-putting, unnatural. It was like every single living being had abandoned this neck of the woods. Usually, whenever that happened, they had good reason too.
It was a good sign, though, it meant that whatever had been here, had taken those people — had taken Jaskier— was still here. He was going to find it. And he was going to kill it.
He’d found a few shards of broken clay by the river, laying in the ground next to a bush. There hadn’t been anything else around, but there had to be a reason his medallion had started resonating. So, he’d investigated the surrounding area until he found tracks along a path that slightly increased the steady hum of the enchanted metal against his chest.
The trek the path forced him to take was tortuous and lengthy, but it led him to a sombre remote part of the surrounding forest.
He was not sure how much he walked, but he knew from his own ingrained sense of direction that he ended up northeast from the riverside and where he’d left Roach.
He made a left turn guided by the crescent vibrations of his medallion and came up to the mouth of an ominous-looking cave. The cave appeared to be a man-made creation, perhaps an old dungeon. There were broken pieces of metal bars embedded on the rocks outside, rusted by time and rain.
He ducked inside, wishing he had brought a cat potion along with him. There was just enough light from him to make out the path, though, small rays shining in from tiny openings drilled into the rock wall.
The odour of mould and damp moss was strong, almost overpowering his sense of smell. But he picked up something else under it, drifting in from further inside; rotting flesh, sweat and urine. The smell of human suffering -- it was unmistakable.
He lets the corners of his mouth lift in an instinctive snarl as he curls his fists at his sides, hands itching to grab for his sword and cut something.
He picked up his pace, letting his nose guide him this time. The deeper he went inside the cave, the stronger the scent got, until the corridor finally widened into a room of sorts. It was dark, but he could still make out body shapes hanging in chains from the ceiling, and suggestive lumps on the floor.
He felt his breath catch in his throat as he went from body to body, checking to see if any were familiar and if there was anyone left alive.
Each cold stiff corpse he checked made the foreboding knot in his gut coil tighter and tighter, until he felt like he could burst from the frustrated desperation alone.
His hands were shaking when he reached out for one of the figures hanging from the chains who had an uncomfortably familiar profile.
He held his breath as he tugged on the silky chemise of the men, stained and dirtied. It looked like it had been pretty once, with small little embroidered flowers sewed into its linings. It’s something Jaskier would have worn.
The face that turned around to greet him was the one he had both been dreading and hoping for. He felt a weight drop in his stomach, like a pebble sinking in a creek, and lifted trembling hands to Jaskier’s neck, searching for a pulse.
It seemed like an eternity until he finally felt the weak pulsing beat beneath his finger, making him expel the breath he’d been holding. Another beat followed, then another. Weak, but still there -- Jaskier was still there. He wasn’t too late. The relief was heady.
He only removed his hand when he felt sure the faint pulsing rhythm wouldn’t just up and stop on its own if he wasn't checking.
He grabbed for his sword, cutting through the restraints in one clean swipe. He caught Jaskier unconscious form immediately when he sagged against him, not letting him drop to the dirty cave floor.
He couldn’t help noticing how distressingly light Jaskier felt in his arms when he caught him, though, he must have been languishing here these past two weeks. His lips were dried and cracked from dehydration, feet bare and all scratched up, probably from scraping on the hard rock ground. He was a right mess, one that tugged at Geralt’s chest in the most painful way.
“Jaskier,” he muttered, hoping to stir a sign of wakefulness or awareness from the younger man. He remained limp in his arms, though, face lax and unmoving in slumber.
“Jaskier,” he tried again, giving him a gentle shake. Nothing.
He wouldn’t wake up. He was alive, though, so Geralt needed to get him out of here. Bring him to a healer maybe, one that would be able to fix whatever had been done to him. He stored his sword in his scabbard and heaved Jaskier up over his shoulder, steadying him with a hand at his back.
He was turning to leave when he spotted something on the ground, shards of clay like the ones he’d found near the river. He walked towards them and crouched down, careful to not dislodge Jaskier as he did so.
There was a seemingly unbroken piece among the fragments, one that looked like a cork of sorts. He reached out towards it and picked it up, feeling a rising sense of apprehension as he did so. He was pretty sure he knew what it was.
His suspicions proved to be corrected when he lifted the cork and turned it around in his hand, seeing the sigil. A djinn.
Just then, as if punctuating his discovery, a white fog started to rise inside the cave, accompanied by a steady increase in the vibrations his medallion was putting off. He shot to his feet, immediately on alert as he surveyed his surroundings. It seemed the djinn had become aware of the intruder in his domain.
Last time a simple aard had been enough to discourage and dispel the creature, but it could have been a whole different kind of djinn, not to mention he had been its master at the time. He wasn’t sure what it would take to fight him off this time. He shouldn’t stick around to find out.
With a hand around Jaskier’s back, he turned towards where he’d come from and set off.
“What happened to Joshua?” Jaskier asked as they stepped through the open doorway, the same scenario from the morning greeting him as they entered the room. He walked forward, setting his lute case on top of a dresser and picking up a book on the merits of the elven methods of lyricism. He thumbed the cover absently, waiting for Geralt to respond.
“Are you sure you want to know that?” Came the reply a few seconds after. Geralt had approached him by then, standing a few feet away from him -- Jaskier knew even with his back was to him. He was always deeply attuned to the witcher, could feel his presence in his very bones. It was his superpower.
He took a deep breath, as steadying as he could manage it, and put the book back, turning around so he could face Geralt.
“Tell me.”
Geralt looked at him for a second, searching for something in his features, resolve or doubt, perhaps, and nodded.
“Ok,” he said. “Like I said, I wasn’t there for most of it, but I know you went to look for your friend’s daughter that day. She had disappeared by the river.”
Broken fragments of memories came back to Jaskier at the words, like separate pieces of pictures puzzled together with no continuity or reason. He saw the face of the young girl Joanna, sitting by the hearth with a tabby cat in her lap. He saw a creek, clear and shallow, something shining just beneath the water.
“You went with your friend to look for the girl,” Geralt continued as Jaskier crossed the distance between them and sat next to him on the duvet. “That’s when the Rusalka showed up.”
“What happened?” Jaskier asked, voice low and unsure.
“She took your friend underwater, drowned him,” Geralt explained, laying a comforting hand on his knee.
“Joanna?”
“She was ok, I got her to her mother.”
“What about me? What did I do?”
“You tried to save your friend, dove in after him. I was already looking for you by then, so I got there in time to drag you back from the river and away from the Rusalka. You didn’t want to come, but it was too late for your friend.”
“And after?”
“We took the girl back to her mother, stayed for a while, like I said. Moved on to Oxenfurt.”
Jaskier hummed, bringing his legs up on the bed and wrapping his arms around them.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Geralt confirmed, pivoting his position slightly so he could face Jaskier more fully.
“I still can’t remember the rest of it.”
“Well,” Geralt drawled, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I know something that might help jog your memory.”
Jaskier looked up, noting with surprise the sudden heat that had seemed to pool in the molten golden eyes. He gaped, too shocked at the suggestive nature of the words to manage a verbal response of his own. He felt his body respond in tune, though. He twisted to his left to face Geralt, letting his legs fall from the hold that kept them loosely caged against his chest, and felt his mouth drying in expectation as his blood rushed south.
He darted out his tongue to lick and bring some moisture back to his suddenly dried lips, and saw the way Geralt’s eyes traced the motion, his pupils dilating and drowning out the gold.
He wanted to bring his hands up to touch, to feel, but he was afraid of moving, felt like any sudden gesture would break the moment he found himself in. Geralt didn’t seem to be plagued by such concerns, though. He lifted his hands to Jaskier’s face, taking his jaw in his palms like it was something precious and swiped a thumb across Jaskier’s bottom lip, over the place his tongue had been before.
He felt the skin of his digit dragging on the wetness left there, slow and purposeful.
“Let me take care of you,” Geralt said softly, gaze wavering momentarily up to his eyes.
Jaskier swallowed, feeling the words ignite a new wave of heat inside him, and nodded his assent promptly, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, judging from the way Geralt’s lips tipped up.
He didn’t have a lot of time to feel embarrassed, though. Geralt surged forward and took his lips in an almost bruising kiss, sloppy and wet. He moved his mouth against the witcher’s, feeling wave after wave of heat flowing through him and rushing down to pool in the pit of his belly, hot and wanting.
He lost himself in the kiss, disconnecting from the world around them and grounding himself through any point of contact he could get from the witcher. He raised his arms to wrap around Geralt’s neck, his hands settling in the roots of his hair. He’d always loved brushing them through Geralt’s long locks, watching the silver strands slip through his fingers like threads of liquid moonlight.
He felt Geralt’s warm tongue prodding at the crack between his lips and opened his mouth, granting him access. He slipped inside easily, licking inside as his hands slipped spanned Jaskier’s waist to manoeuvre him on the bed.
He felt himself being lifted in the air effortlessly and moved up on the bed, not once breaking contact with Geralt. He was deposited on his back, gently and comfortably, his head falling back to rest on the soft fluffy pillows as Geralt pulled back momentarily, lips leaving his mouth.
He opened his eyes, which he hadn’t even realized he’d closed at some point, and met Geralt’s hungry gaze, feeling the heat pooled in his belly ignite. Geralt gave him a wolfish smirk from where he hovered above him, every inch a predator playing with his prey, and ducked his head down to lick a path down Jaskier’s jaw, peppering the side of his neck with kisses and bites as he made his way to his chest.
Jaskier was still wearing his chemise, but Geralt made quick work of that, working the buttons with surprising dexterity and pulling it off in record time. To be honest, Jaskier was past the point of caring if the witcher had indeed just torn the whole thing off like he’d been expecting.
He dug his fingers in Geralt’s hair as the man continued to lick and nip at his chest, bucking his hips involuntarily when he found a nipple and tugged at it.
He could feel his erection stretching against the fabric of his cotton breeches, and thrust upwards, desperate for any kind of friction. He could feel Geralt’s own hardness bulging through his pants and he rubbed against him, earning a reprehensive tut and a harder nibble from the witcher for his troubles.
He huffed out in frustration as Geralt pulled back and let out an amused chuckle, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Someone’s eager,” he teased, moving his hands down to work at the strings of Jaskier’s pants.
Jaskier was impatient to get out of the constricting clothes, but he forced himself to lay still for a moment so Geralt could help him do it. He worked on the rest of the knots and Jaskier wriggled his hips, trying to slip out of the fabric. When the pants finally came loose, Geralt slid them down with his breeches, releasing his painfully hard cock from its confines and letting it tip towards his stomach.
Jaskier let out a breath of pleasured relief, which turned into a sharp intake of air when strong calloused hands wrapped around his shaft and pumped once, sending sparks of pure lightning up his spine.
He moaned and arched his back, too crazed out from lust to manage the words he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs-- namely, ordering Geralt to keep doing what he was doing and never ever stop. He dug his fingers harder into the witcher’s scalp instead, trying to jerk his hips but having the motion cut short by firm hands planted on his sides like two blazing brands.
He whined pitifully at the loss of contact on his cock. Thankfully, Geralt didn’t seem to be in that much of a teasing mood, as he slipped his hands back to their place and resumed a steady pumping rhythm.
He could feel his orgasm rising up from the depths, a stormy swell, growing and spreading to every last nerve in his body. He started to thrust up to meet Geralt’s movements, trying to fuck himself desperately into the tight heat of his hands, but before he could tip completely over the edge and lose himself in the waves of bliss, a pressure tightened at the base of cock, cutting off his orgasm at the root.
He keened in pained desperation, a few rogue tears slipping out the sides of his eyes, and brought his hands down so he could give himself a few last tugs and find release, but the hand around the base of his cock wouldn’t dislodge.
“Not yet,” Geralt’s voice whispered in his ear, causing a full-body shudder.
He whined in protest, but Geralt didn’t give. He left him right there, teetering on the edge, unable to find release until the urgency faded marginally. Jaskier was ready to cry from the sheer torture when Geralt finally let up his hold on his cock.
Before he could fully appreciate the newfound freedom, Geralt was ducking down and replacing his hands with his mouth.
Jaskier cried out, louder than before, hands finding purchase on the sheets as Geralt started bobbing his head. The warm wet heat that engulfed him was perfect, glorious. He was so close.
He could feel Geralt’s tongue licking around him, swiping over the slit of his head when he brought his head up, right before he sunk in again.
He’d lost track of the litany of moans and pleas that escaped his mouth, too lost in the feel of Geralt around him, working him, licking him. He felt his orgasm coming up again, and the sounds that slipped from him became more desperate in nature, more rushed.
“That’s it,” he heard Geralt’s voice rasp as he slipped off his cock with a loud pop. “Come for me, honey.”
He felt his release bursting out of him, like an explosion of heat and so much pleasure it almost felt like pain.
His eyelids fluttered open as he was coming down from his high, to be met with Geralt’s dark and hooded eyes drinking him in hungrily as he pumped himself in his hand. Jaskier’s spunk was spread across Geralt’s chemise, which he hadn’t taken off. It was almost a pity to have such fine silk thoroughly soiled with his come, almost.
A satisfied blissed-out grin tugged at his lips and he settled back to watch the show.
Geralt knocked on the surprisingly imposing door, one that looked out of place in the modest village cottage he’d been directed to. The village was quiet around him, the day calm and sunny, no hints of wind or rolling clouds overhead. It seemed almost paradoxical to his state of spirit. His mind was in complete turmoil.
After he’d found Jaskier unconscious and sickly looking in the forest lair, he’d brought him back to the woman’s house, the widow he’d talked to before. She ran outside as he rode in, tears shining in her eyes when she spotted Jaskier’s prone figure in his arms, a glimmer of hope sparking in them.
Geralt had felt almost guilty about it, he hadn’t cared about the others after all. He’d barely given the bodies a second look besides checking to see if Jaskier was one of them. He shook his head slightly, a simple negative that had the brief spell of joy flicker out of existence on the woman’s face. Her husband was still dead.
She’d helped him still, handled Jaskier with care when he brought him inside, brought water and wet rags to help bring down the slight fever. They’d worried at Jaskier’s bedside for a full day, dread growing thicker in their guts, taking root and rising when the bard remained unresponsive.
He made no sounds besides moans of pain when provoked, eyes were blind behind his eyelids, not tracking any movement. He wouldn’t eat, and he was thin enough as it was. Geralt was beginning to fear the worst -- that he’d saved Jaskier only to watch him die regardless. The irony was painful.
He had to do something, a last-ditch effort to save him at least, anything. He tried going back to the cave, but the djinn was gone, or it had avoided him, nevertheless, he couldn’t reach it, not without help. Which is why he went searching for someone who could.
The search did not come up with promising results, on the contrary, really, because he was reasonably sure that if there was anyone on the continent less likely to want to hear anything he had to say, much less help him, it would Yennefer of Vengerberg. He had to try, though. It was his last option. Jaskier wouldn’t last another week -- Geralt wasn’t even sure if he’d last the night, from how bad he was looking -- not nearly enough time for him to go looking for help in another village.
So he made peace with his fate and came here. Hoping he would at least manage to get a word in before the door was unceremoniously shut in his face or, probably -- most likely -- worse, punishment of the hexing variety.
The door swung back abruptly, sharp and noisily, the hinges complaining at the sudden harsh movement. It was obvious Yennefer already knew who was seeking her out, and her mood did not bode well. Seconds later her face came into view, violet eyes blazing with fury and long raven locks whipping around her as she stepped forward menacingly, oozing authority and power.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she spat, a hand flying forward and slapping his chest to push him away.
He stepped backwards, not fighting the jab, and tried to make himself look as regretful and sombre as he felt. It wasn't hard.
“I need help,” he admitted, looking her in the eye.
“And why should I care?” she scoffed, a challenge clear in her voice.
“I know you hate me, I don’t blame you. But I wouldn’t have come here if I had any other choice,” he said, raising his palms up in a mollifying gesture. “Please Yennefer, I’ll pay you whatever you want, I’ll disappear after this. You won’t ever have to see my face again -- I’ll make sure of it, if that’s what you want -- but please. You’re my last resort. He’ll die.”
Yennefer regarded him in silence, the stony coldness in her eyes not cracking one bit. She did relent enough to ask, “Who?” though.
Geralt looked away, setting his jaw. He was aware of how reminiscing the scene seemed of Rinde. He knew how Yennefer would react, how unfortunate the situation was and how it just dug deeper into the wound and threw salt in it. But he was out of options. He needed help.
“Jaskier.”
Yennefer let out an incredulous little huff or air. Geralt was sure if he were to look at her right now he'd find a perfectly trimmed arched eyebrow and a disbelieving expression to match.
“The bard?” she asked, a note of bemused humour in her voice. “Again? Geralt, you can't be serious.”
Geralt scowled, glancing at her with a deep hopeless feeling like a weight settling in the deep of his stomach. He needed her help. He needed Jaskier. Needed to tell him how sorry he was and how stupid he’d been and how he just wished he had done things differently. He’d be better this time, he’d do the things he was supposed to and he’d do them right.
“You are,” she stated, her voice taking on a tone of slight wonderment, as if he’d just done something fascinating to her. “What is he to you?”
Geralt looked away again, chewing on his bottom lip. He had no idea what he should tell her, what would convince her to help.
“Please,” he settled on. He’d never been one for words and he didn’t want them to fail him now when it mattered, but he couldn’t make himself utter more than that single word. He didn’t know what to say. And he didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing.
Something changed in Yennefer’s expression at the silent plea, though, a softness that Geralt had never seen before. It almost seemed like longing. Not for him, though, Geralt knew better than that, so for what? Maybe it was simply the relationship itself, the unconditional caring for someone else.
“I see,” she said simply, unwavering gaze set on him. “What ails him this time?”
Geralt’s breath escaped him in a relieved exhale. It wasn’t an agreement or even an offer to help, but it was more than he had hoped for from her. It’s a glimmer of hope.
“I don’t know,” Geralt rushed to explain before she changed her mind and decided she was not interested in hearing about the matter. “I didn’t even know he was here until the villagers mentioned something about a missing bard. It’s some kind of monster, non-corporeal. It appeared to be a djinn, contained in a clay amphora like last time, but it’s unlike any I’ve seen.”
Yennefer raised an eyebrow.
“And you’ve seen plenty?”
“No,” Geralt admitted, “but they were part of the studying at Kaer Morhen, and while the possibility of different subspecies of djinns was broached, their existence was unconfirmed.”
“It appears you’ve received your confirmation, then. What of the bard?”
“I can’t wake him,” Geralt revealed. “I found him unconscious among the other corpses — he was the only one left alive — but he won’t awake. I’ve tried everything I could think of.”
There was a glimmer of interest in Yennefer’s eyes at the description, a shadow of recognition.
“You know what this is?” he charged immediately, eager to find a way to save Jaskier.
“Not exactly. But I’ve heard rumours,” she said, turning around and heading inside. She left the door open.
Geralt felt a daring rush of hope sweeping through his chest and took the opportunity before it was swept from under his feet. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him and hurried to match pace with Yennefer, keeping behind her.
She continued indifferent to his presence, but she wasn’t telling him to leave, so he took that as a victory and continued following her to what seemed to be her alchemy study.
“I may know what’s wrong with your bard,” she said as she walked over to one of the herb cabinets, strides long and purposeful.
“So you’re helping him?” he asked, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.
Yennefer shot him a harsh look, whipping her head around to glare at him. “I’m not doing it for you, and Melitele knows I’m not doing it for that idiot either. You’re just fortunate that I still hold an invested interest in djinns -- because of you, incidentally -- and your bard seems to have struck up a connection with one yet again. It seems he’s quite skilled at that don’t you think?”
He hummed noncommittal in response, hoping to avoid bringing up the sore topics of Rinde into the conversation. What Yennefer was talking about, though… Seeking djinns out again?
“You want the djinn?” he asked tentatively, unwilling to anger her.
“I want to undo what you’ve done,” she growled, eyes burning into him.
He felt his eyes widen, understanding dawning on him.
“You want to undo the wish.”
“And this will make me go in his mind?” Geralt asked, staring suspiciously at the blue-tinged liquid bubbling in the small vial. At least it didn’t smell too discouraging… it didn’t smell like much actually, and that was what was most disconcerting to him. Everything had a scent, and his enhanced sense of smell picked up unbelievably small traces of anything. When something didn’t have an obvious smell, it just felt... off.
He could hear Yennefer roll her eyes.
“No, I will. That will put you in the suggestive trance I require to fuse your consciousnesses,” she explained, annoyance clear in her tone of voice, “and give you a small amount of control within the djinn’s territory.”
He stared at it some more, unconvinced.
“Don’t worry,” Yennefer sighed. “It’ll feel like going to sleep.”
That still wasn’t very comforting, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Yennefer had agreed to help despite all odds, even if it was so she could get something she wanted in return -- she needed the djinn unattached, so she had to break its hold on Jaskier.
The strange slumber Jaskier was in was magical in nature, he found out when he brought him to her. The djinn had him trapped inside his own mind as he fed on him, and he wouldn’t wake up unless someone brought him out of it.
“And you can’t do it yourself?” he had asked Yennefer when she first told him she’d have to send him in.
“I doubt he’d listen to me,” she had explained, working on the potion. “He has to want to wake up. You’ll have to convince him.”
“He has to want it? What do you mean? Don’t I just need to tell him he’s sleeping?”
“Since the djinn’s food supply relies on its victims not being awoken, he has probably concocted the best scenario to keep them from doing so.”
Geralt had stared at her, not understanding.
“He’s in his own personalized paradise,” Yennefer said, rolling her eyes, “devised and customized to him by the djinn. He won’t want to wake up, not unless he has a big reason to.”
That had sunk a hefty stone of dismay in his stomach. He wasn’t sure he was enough, wasn’t sure if he’d be able to convince Jaskier to wake up. Jaskier must hate him, after all. He’d have to explain it to him, how he’d die unless he woke up, surely he wouldn’t want to stay then.
He still had to try, he owed Jaskier that much. So he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, taking down the potion with one gulp. It burned on its way down, leaving a nasty feeling in his insides, but it wasn’t as bad as some witcher potions.
He laid back on the cot, turning his head to stare at Jaskier’s dozing figure on the bed across from him. His face was lax with sleep, gaunt and pale looking, but he was alive, and next time Geralt looked at him, he could be awake. That was all Geralt asked for.
Having Yennefer’s spell performed on him while under the influence of whatever potion she concocted to give him a semblance of control in Jaskier’s head was like free-falling through a never-ending portal loop. Geralt hated portals. But he’d manage -- Jaskier’s life was on the line, after all -- he had to.
Yennefer had warned him that being inside Jaskier’s head would not be a pleasant experience — the illusion wasn’t designed to hold more than one person at once, and it would try to kick Geralt out at all costs. The discomfort he’d feel while in it would just be the start of it.
When he came to, head-spinning furiously and sense of balance and direction absolutely shot, he found himself standing in some kind of great hall. His legs felt a bit unstable, like gravity wasn’t quite doing its job holding him down properly like it was supposed to, and he had to lean against the wall for support.
He bumped against some sort of metal object, knocking it down to the floor with a clang that rang painfully in his eardrums. A quick annoyed glance at the offending source of the raucous revealed the culprit to be a floor candelabrum, one that looked pretty lavish to boot.
He cast a look around his surroundings, taking in the rest of the large room. The architecture, with high arches and towering stained-glass windows, had an old Radovidan style to it, which presumably placed him in one of the big cities of Redania. Considering the person whose mind he was currently crashing, and that the djinn caters to its victims wants and desires, he’d wager a hefty coin bag they were in Oxenfurt -- or a dream version of it, anyway.
He jerked his head to ward off the remaining numbness that addled his brain, like a thick cloud of cotton that filled his head and made it hard to think through. It was like his senses and perspective were being filtered through a hazy lens, leaving him disoriented and grasping at a reality that slipped, thin and fractured, through his fingertips.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly in the controlled breathing technique all witchers were taught in their training at the kaers, a way to ground his senses and quiet his mind enough to a state where meditation was possible. That was not the end goal here, but it would help focus his thoughts processes, which were all pretty scattered at the moment.
The confusion was likely a side-effect of being in an illusioned reality, one not even his own to start with. He’d really have appreciated it if Yennefer had given him a bit of more detailed warning than ‘Oh, and Geralt. It will not be pleasant’ beforehand.
It could have been an oversight on her part, but that was highly unlikely. Yennefer may lack some arguably important qualities (such as patience), but intelligence wasn’t one of them. It was also possible that she was unaware of the effect such excursions had on an infiltrator’s minds, or that it perhaps affected witchers differently, on account of their mutations, but he found it much more believable that it was just her exacting petty although deserving retribution.
He hadn’t even been certain that she’d help him after the way they’d parted ways in the mountain, but he wouldn’t dwell on the fact that she did too much or bring it up with her any more than necessary. He saw enough of himself in her to recognize when gratitude is not taken well to, but avoided. He’d have to pay the favour back in some way.
He did a quick examination of himself, noting that he was no longer clad in the undershirt and leather pants he was sporting when Yennefer put him under, but donning the full set of armour he usually did, worn and burnt from the sun in most of its surface, but still up to doing its job in deflecting wayward blades and trigger-happy arbalists. He palmed at his back, comforted to find the reassuring shape of his scabbard strapped to his back.
Normally the weight at his back would have been enough to tell him if he had it -- he’s intimately familiar with his weapons, could pick them out blindfolded by weight and feel alone -- but his perception was currently next to nonexistent, which he guessed was close to human standards. Besides leaving him with a constant revolting feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach, his displaced sense of orientation was probably going to make fighting in this plane exceedingly difficult. He was relieved that Yennefer managed to grant him this one layer of protection, at the very least.
Feeling as steadied as he was probably going to get, he pushed back from the wall, walking towards what he guessed was the way to the inner belly of the keep. Moving through space in the illusion was strange, a bit like an afterthought in itself. The action seemed muddled, like wading through mud after a downpour in a bog, and the movement felt disconnected from his body.
He reached the open archway, but the easy accessibility and exposure of the path gave him pause. Yennefer had told him to look for the least obvious options and passages wherever he went, that the unassuming and obscure ones were being hidden by the illusion and would lead him to the bard. The djinn would try to fight him every step of the way before relinquishing its hold on its prey -- that could either take the form of misdirection and vague dissuasion attempts or direct offensive assaults with more proactive measures.
The big open archway that opened in front of him seemed like too much of an obvious choice: its well-lighted path and the spacious hallway that laid beyond an invitation that screamed, ‘come this way’. The deterrence was pretty harmless to start with, so the djinn was obviously not viewing him as much of a threat yet, if it even was aware of his presence. He hoped he could keep it that way.
He looked around for another path, trying a few doors that all turned out to be locked. He was about to take the well-lit archway when he noticed a narrow set of stairs cast in shadows to his left. He turned, regarding the unassuming little stairwell, looking old and out of use from the way dust gathered in the sole stained glass window overlooking it.
He stepped towards it, noting the way the air seemed to darken as he approached. He would wager he was on the right path.
He climbed the old creaking stairwell, the steps groaning loudly under his feet as he walked, clinging to the railing to retain his balance. He was still getting the hang of movement inside the illusion.
The upper level seemed like an abandoned storage room of sorts. The walls looked old and mouldy, with paint cracking in long tears along the sides. It was filled with wooden boxes, empty mostly, and not much else. There was a door across the room, though, so Geralt headed that way.
He was coming up to the middle of the room when the alarming sound of old stucco and brittle wood giving under its own weight reached his ears. He barely had time to cast a quick Quen above his head before the ceiling came crashing down on him. At least his magic seemed to work -- he hadn’t counted on it, he wasn’t confident on what the rules inside this non-reality were, but it had been instinctual.
He took the shield down when the collapse seemed to come to an end, And stepped over the rubble to reach the exit door. He reached for the handle, but it was stuck, so he rammed his weight against it and the fragile wood broke in two.
He stepped through it into a hall that looked to be in much better condition. It seemed like one of the higher up dormitory quarters, but there were no doors -- just two narrow walls that seem to go on forever. He moved forward, because it was the only way to go, and focused his sense of hearing as much as he could inside this distorted reality.
The corridor went on and on, steady and relentless, but he wasn’t giving up now. Not on Jaskier.
His patience and determination paid off, because a few yards away, maybe more, maybe less -- space and measurement were some of an abstract concept in a place like this -- he came across a sturdy old-looking door. It stood alone and looming in the darkened hall, but he had a feeling its aged and worn look would not correlate with its breachability. Predictably, when he reached out to turn the knob, the door refused to budge.
He groaned in frustration and pushed the whole of his weight against the wooden frame in a second attempt. He couldn’t even hear a creak.
“Jaskier!” he tried shouting through the door, banging on it with his fists. It was useless.
He punched the wood one more time, more out of frustration than an actual attempt to make himself heard and started thinking of other ways to get inside. If he couldn’t make it through the front door, perhaps there was a back way in?
He stepped back, taking another look at his surroundings and -- was that a window? He could have sworn there was nothing there before. It was a tall one, and it looked like it opened into a balcony. Maybe he could access the blocked room from the outside.
He strode forward and came to a stop in front of the window, reaching out to unlock the catch. This one, thankfully, slid open with little resistance. He stepped out onto the terrace, a small space fenced by a waist-high railing.
There was an identical balcony to his right, about eight feet away, he should be able to make the jump. He was in one of the higher levels of the keep, so the drop between the two, should he fail to reach the other side was considerable. He’d done far worse for far less, though. He wouldn’t die even if he were to take the plunge. Probably.
He stepped over the railing, leaning back against the fence as he judged the distance and determined the strength to put in. He could make it.
He pushed with his feet and vaulted off the balcony. He was weightless, cutting through the air, for a few endless minutes - time also seemed to pass by differently here -- and then the railing on the other side was nearing his face, and going lower, and he had to thrust his arms up to grab a hold of it before he slammed into its side and lost his chance entirely.
The force of the movement tore painfully at his shoulder, but he managed to keep his hold on the fencing. After that, it was just a matter of pulling himself up and dropping to the floor on the other side. Which he did with admittedly less elegance and dexterity than he would have liked to admit. He hated dreams and their stupid impaired movement problems.
He pushed himself up again and reached for his sword -- it was probably safer if he had it at hand already, he wasn’t sure what the djinn was about to throw at him now. Hopefully, there was only Jaskier on the other side of that door, but he knew better than to stake his chances on wishful thinking. That never worked out for him.
He brought his sword forward, ready to lift it up in a defensive block if the situation called for it, and charged forward, bursting through the glass door and barreling into the room.
The sight that greeted him was... not what he had been expecting, to say the least.
Jaskier was in the room alright, but he wasn’t alone. A mirror version of himself, as true as if a doppler had decided to take a joyride in his skin, was with him -- under him.
They were both lying on a large four-poster bed, ornate and polished, in a nest of fur quilts and feathered pillows, some of them were even on the floor. Although the scenario heavily implied the nature of the actions that likely transpired there, namely their clothing state, or lack thereof -- Jaskier was bare-chested, clad in only his undershorts as the mirror version of himself had on his typical armour undershirt and some loose dark pats --- they seemed to be simply lazing now.
Jaskier was spread across the other him’s lap, with his head resting on his chest, and there was a mess of loose papers on his stomach and strewn across the bed, although he only seemed to be worrying about one of them right now. The other Geralt had a book of his own, a bestiary if he was seeing the cover correctly, and was carding his fingers through the mop of thick hair on Jaskier’s head with his free hand as he cast his eyes through the pages. There was a contented smile playing on his lips, which immediately died when he became aware of the third person in the room.
Geralt was frozen at the sight, his gaze caught in the way the pair was positioned on the bed. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the unobtrusive hand, resting like a brand, on Jaskier’s head. An ugly possessive feeling surged in him, something that had him baring his teeth in anger and tightening his hand around the hilt of his sword.
Jaskier jerked in surprise, sputtering and scrambling back as the other Geralt shot forward and almost threw him off the bed.
Geralt shook off his bewilderment and shock at the situation, swinging his sword arm back to gain momentum and striding forward to meet the mirror version of himself.
“What the hell?” he heard Jaskier shriek, and his eyes flickered momentarily to him, leaving the threat. He didn’t think the djinn would do anything to harm Jaskier in the illusion, so he could afford to keep the brunt of his focus on this other him -- who had just picked up an exact copy of his witcher sword from the mess of gear besides the bed on the floor-- his silver sword.
Geralt frowned in confusion at the peculiarity of the action, but his unvoiced question was answered some mere seconds later, when the other him hissed, “Stay back, it’s a rogue doppler”.
The words of caution were obviously meant for Jaskier, but the mirror image of himself didn’t take his eyes off him for one second, his frown deepening into a glower. It was deeply disconcerting, to say the least, to be faced with a mirror copy of himself with such a great level of detail.
He’d had dopplers taking his appearance once or twice -- during a contract and never on amicable terms -- but there was always something off. That was another being pretending to be him, and, while the person in front of him was obviously not him, he’d been put together out of Jaskier’s own memories and recollections, and given life by the djinn. Jaskier was the one behind the accuracy and likeness of the image, and he had more of a deeper understanding of Geralt than even he himself was comfortable with sometimes. This would be harder than fighting a random doppler.
It was also trying to justify itself to Jaskier, making Geralt’s job to convince the bard of the situation he found himself in all that more difficult.
The fake Geralt sneered at him and charged forward, using one of his signature upward lunges that Geralt just barely managed to block. The swords clashed and slid against each other, metal on metal, making a loud piercing shrill noise that echoed through the air and assaulted Geralt’s deregulated enhanced sense of hearing.
“Stop, stop-- STOP!” Jaskier’s voice clamoured, sounding closer than before.
Geralt was forced to look sideways, momentarily taking his attention away from the fight when he realized that Jaskier was preparing to bodily put himself between them, which was something just like the idiot to do. He had to throw himself off to the side, taking the momentum from the last parry to further his motion, so he could shove the bard to the side, and ended up taking a slash to the back for his efforts.
The armour took most of the blow, but he could still feel the tip of the blade cutting into the side of his back. Which shouldn’t be happening -- that sword was made of silver, a material witchers only took up for specific supernatural creatures because of its paranormal attributes. It was virtually useless in an actual sword fight. Silver was way too soft to be able to parry off steel without taking any kind of damage, and the fake him’s sword still swung unchiselled and wickedly sharp -- he should have realized something was off from the start.
The djinn was obviously giving himself some sort of edge in this fight, and Geralt had no means to do the same. He had no power here, aside from the sword he took with himself and the armour that was being shredded by silver. But.... this was happening inside Jaskier’s head and, in the end, he had to have some sort of dormant control over what he dreams. Maybe if he can plant some doubt in Jaskier’s mind, can make him start to believe that he really was Geralt, he’d manage to gain some ground on the djinn.
Jaskier stumbled back, pushed back by the strange person who had entered the room wearing Geralt’s face. He looked so authentic, it was uncanny. Jaskier wondered if he’d even be able to pick out the real Geralt from the both of them if they hadn’t been wearing different clothing. Probably not, which was frightening indeed.
Despite his Geralt’s warning that this other person, or creature -- if it really was a doppler -- was not on their side, he couldn’t help the reflexive anguish and pain that struck him as he watched him get hurt. He still looked like Geralt, after all.
It had driven him to step between them, trying to break the fight apart. He’d been discarded swiftly, only… it wasn’t his Geralt that had pushed him away, and while the shove had been harsh, it seemed like its intent wasn’t to harm him so much as to push him out of harm’s way.
If that were true then it couldn’t be that this other Geralt was hostile.
“STOP!” he tried again, but only the other Geralt’s head swivelled to face him. The distraction cost him another long gash across his arm, dealt by his Geralt’s sword, and Jaskier couldn’t take it anymore.
He dashed forward, ducking under the other Geralt’s outstretched arm and planted both his palms on his witcher’s chest, putting in all of his strength to push him backwards -- Geralt was stupidly stronger than him, if Jaskier aimed to move him, especially in a situation like this, he had to employ all the muscle strength at his disposal.
He grabbed Geralt’s sword arm and glared at him, trying to get him to pause. Geralt barely looked at him, too busy glowering at his mirror version, and when he did, it was to shoot him a callous glance, like Jaskier was merely being a bothersome hindrance.
“Stay back and keep quiet,” Geralt hissed, venom poisoning his words, and Jaskier reeled back in surprise at the blatant steel and coldness in his voice.
“Jaskier,” he heard another voice call out from behind him, Geralt’s voice. It sounded pained.
He turned his head, looking at the man giving him an almost pleading look. Why? Who was he and why was he here?
“Who are you?” Jaskier asked, unable to keep a tremor of confusion and fear out of his voice.
“I’m Geralt,” he stated simply, a complicated familiar wrinkle deepening between his brow.
Geralt let out a growl of protest from behind him and tried to charge forward. Jaskier grabbed his sword arm before he got too far, to try and keep him from barreling towards the other while he was still trying to figure out what was going on, and, to his surprise, Geralt stopped. He definitely wasn’t strong enough to stop the witcher if he really wanted to tear out of his grasp and attack, but, while he was paused at his side, Jaskier’s hand wrapped tightly around his biceps, he didn’t look too happy about it.
“You can’t listen to anything it says,” Geralt growled in his ear. “It’s lying. Let me kill it.”
“No,” Jaskier bit out immediately, almost reflexively. “He’s not attacking,” he added as an excuse, feeling the need to justify himself to Geralt.
The other Geralt seemed to unwind at his reaction, expression going soft with something that looked a lot like hope. He gave a tentative step forward before Jaskier shook his head no, wanting him to keep his distance for now.
He paused, a shadow of hurt sweeping over his face in a flash that Jaskier would have missed if he’d blinked.
“Why are you here?” he tried instead, approaching the situation from another angle.
“I’m here for you,” the other Geralt revealed with a note of vulnerability. “I’m here to bring you back, Jaskier. This isn’t real.” His gaze wavered over to Jaskier’s right, a glint of confusion in his eyes. “He isn’t real.”
Jaskier faltered at the words, anger rising in the stead of fear and uncertainty, as he refused to open that can of worms.
“What the hell are you going on about,” he bit out, letting a bit of his angered indignation show through in a low rumble. “He is Geralt, you’re the one who just showed up. So tell me what you want and stop wearing his face or I won’t hold him back anymore.”
Geralt held his hands up, palms outstretched in the universal language of surrender.
“I’m not here to hurt you Jaskier. This is an illusion--”
“No!” Jaskier shouted, affronted. He felt Geralt pushing insistently at his back from behind, but kept his hold on him for the moment.
The other Geralt closed his mouth, setting his jaw and working his throat. Jaskier’s eyes traced the movements of the muscles as he swallowed.
“Remember Murivel?”
“What?” Jaskier said, caught off guard by the randomness of the question.
“You were flirting with the barmaid and playing your ballads -- you’d just finished composing that one about the basilisk that turned out to be a cockatrice,” Geralt started recounting, the tale eliciting a spark of recognition in Jaskier. He remembered that, it had just been before--the mountain. “People enjoyed the stupid song so much they gave you a barrel of ale. You got so drunk you couldn’t tell your left foot from your right.”
Jaskier frowned in confusion, glancing up at the other Geralt.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I carried you up to your room that night. You said...some things, and then you--” He shook his head. “I left. I didn’t know if you’d remember anything and the next time we met you didn’t say anything about it, so I assumed you didn’t.”
Jaskier shook his head in denial.
“No.”
Jaskier knew exactly the night he was talking about. He’d… had a dream that night. One that hadn’t been out of place at the time, or any time since he’d realized he was in love with the witcher, really. He remembered it clearly, and he never once had entertained the idea that it had been more than a simple dream. For Melitele’s soul if it had been real then, why--
“That night was when I knew,” the other Geralt continued with a grimace, looking away from Jaskier with a pained expression. “I was letting you get too close.”
“So you cut me loose,” Jaskier whispered, a vivid picture of a mountain and a heartbreak flashing before his eyes.
“Jaskier--”
“Stop.” Jaskier barked, turning back and stepping away. He needed some air, he needed to think. None of this made sense, how could the other Geralt be telling him this, why hadn’t his ever mentioned it. The frightening doubt that had started seething in his stomach since the other Geralt had tried to tell him none of this was real started rearing its ugly head, even as he desperately tried to smother it down with denials and refusals that felt mostly empty.
Hadn’t he doubted the same thing himself not but a few months ago? When he found himself in Geralt's bed with no memories of the previous weeks? He still hadn’t recovered the missing memories, but he had learnt to stop being suspicious of them, especially when he had Geralt at his side to reassure him. What if it was all a lie? What if--
He didn’t have much more time to dwell on the intimidating possibility presented to him. The second he removed his hand from Geralt’s arm, the witcher charged forward, as if he had only been held back by the small show of strength. The other Geralt was unprepared for the attack, and wasn’t able to block it in time, managing only to throw his body to the left so the blade slid along his side.
“No!” Jaskier yelled in horror, rushing forward to shove Geralt off.
The other Geralt had stumbled backwards, holding a hand to the side bleeding from the long gash that pierced through the armour.
He managed to throw Geralt off, to his surprise. He shouldn’t be able to move Geralt so easily unless he wanted to be moved, but everything that had happened so far -- stopping him with a hand on his chest, holding his arm, this -- it was like Geralt couldn’t stop him. It didn’t make any sense.
The other Geralt wasn’t down for the count, though. When Jaskier managed to get his Geralt off balance, the other witcher rushed forward, despite the wounds in his side, and grabbed Geralt, careening with him until they went tumbling outside.
Only the other Geralt reappeared after, closing the door soundly behind him as he panted, still holding his side.
“Fuck, you’d think it’d hurt less in a dream,” he hissed, moving his hand away to examine the red.
“What-- Why-- What’s going on?” Jaskier stuttered, fully aware that he was staring at this other Geralt with eyes as big as sausages and a bit steamy pile of bewilderment and confusion.
“You were taken by a djinn, Jaskier,” Geralt explained, moving closer to him. Jaskier took a few steps back reflexively and Geralt raised his hands appeasingly again. “ You need to listen to me, I don’t know how much time we have. You’re dying.”
“What?” Jaskier muttered, voice wavering with a mix of fear and disbelief. “But--”
“The djinn put in some kind of illusioned dream. I found you and got you away from it, but I couldn’t wake you.”
“If I’m dreaming, you’re not real either,” Jaskier countered, wishing he sounded more confident and sure than he did. He felt like he was grasping at straws, he didn’t know what was or wasn’t anymore. It was a terrible feeling.
“I’m here. I’m really here. I-- I went to Yennefer--”
Jaskier scoffed, unable to keep the resentment and hurt out of his face. Geralt read it like an open book, obviously, judging by the way his expression turned chagrined and pained.
“--for help. She made this possible.”
“Oh yeah? Out of the kindness of her heart?” Jaskier bit out viciously, aware that he was being crueller and more spiteful than the situation called for. He couldn’t help it, though. He crossed his arms defensively, looking away from Geralt to glare at the copper lamp resting on his desk.
“She’s helping,” Geralt sighed. “So, you believe me?”
Jaskier looked back at Geralt suddenly, surprised. He guessed so -- a small part of him did, at least, always had, even if he didn’t want to listen to it.
“Maybe.”
Geralt let out a breath, tension leaking out of his frame like water from a rag. The relief on his face was obvious. Jaskier felt a small piece of his heart twinge at the sight, he’d only ever wanted to make Geralt happy, after all.
A few seconds ticked by, up to a minute perhaps. Jaskier fidgeted in place, confused as to what was supposed to be happening, since Geralt appeared to be waiting for something. Geralt’s relief started turning into a frown of confusion.
“Why aren’t you waking up?”
“What?” Jaskier sputtered, bewildered. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to wake up?”
Geralt’s frown deepens as he contemplates the matter, the wheels turning in his head before a slow deep kind of realization takes over his face.
“You… have to want to.”
Jaskier blinks.
”Oh.”
Did he want to? The obvious fact that was his prolonged existence here was pointing him towards the answer that: no, he didn’t. He wanted to keep his perfect life in Oxenfurt with his beloved by his side and their long leisurely meals in their garden with romantic -- even longer -- nights to follow suit.
A sound of a loud banging starting on the door made Jaskier jump in surprise.
“Jaskier!” He heard Geralt’s voice shout from behind the door. “You don’t have to go! You can stay in here, with me!”
Jaskier’s eyes flickered over to the Geralt in front of him, noting the dismay that had started appearing on his face.
He couldn’t deny he felt tempted to open the door and step into his Geralt’s arms, to forget this ever happened and continue on with this perfect lie. It didn’t really matter that it wasn’t real, it felt real enough.
Why should he go back out into the real world where everything that expected him was a broken heart and shards of his previous foolhardy dreams? He wanted to stay, he did… but. He’d never say no to Geralt, and he couldn’t even begin to think about putting something like his death on the witcher’s consciousness. He knew Geralt, and he knew that in spite of how annoyed with Jaskier he felt, he would blame himself for it.
He couldn’t let that happen, no matter what his own desires and wishes were. But apparently, the illusion required more than a sense of self-sacrifice to allow him to leave.
“Jaskier, if you stay in here you’ll die,” Geralt, the one in front of him, pleaded, fear obvious in his golden eyes. “You have a few days, a week at most.”
Jaskier gasped, eyes widening at the admission, but the Geralt behind the door was already shouting.
“You may die out there, but in here it’ll feel like a lifetime!” The door gave with a loud creak and swung open, lock broken off. “You’ll get to spend that time with me, and I’ll love you. Better than he ever did,” Geralt swore, face contorting into a sneer as he pointed towards the other Geralt.
Jaskier tore his eyes away from the Geralt trying to sell him on paradise and the soothing smile he sported to glance at the crestfallen one, the one that looked like someone just kicked his Roach, and he knew. He knew he couldn’t bear to bring the witcher anymore heartache, even if it came at the cost of his own happiness. But he also knew that if the illusion clung itself to any tendril of self-doubt it found in him, he’d never be able to pull himself out of it on his own -- he couldn’t stop himself from wanting, from how much he wanted this. A life with Geralt. He didn’t want to leave, but he would for Geralt -- the real one.
So he thought up a plan. He knew he had to act fast. If either Geralt realized what he intended to do before he could carry it out, he wouldn’t be able to. And the plan may be a tad suicidal, but he’d never claimed to be the one with plans, did he? And when one died in a dream they woke up in real life, right?
He dove for the sword that had been discarded on the floor when the real Geralt tackled the other one to shut him out of the room. He heard twin shouts of alarm as he grasped the hilt in his hand but didn’t give himself any time to react to them as he whirled the blade, set it against his chest, took a deep preparing breath and pushed hard, fast.
The pain caught him a bit by surprise. He realized intellectually that it would hurt, but he wasn’t sure how much, considering he was supposed to be in a dream. It hurt. A lot.
He gasped for breath, distantly noting that the noise sounded wet, and slumped forward. He didn’t fall all the way to the ground from where he was kneeling, though. He was steadied mid-air, realizing only later that it was Geralt that stopped him from tipping all the way down. Geralt’s arms wrapped around him. The real Geralt looked at him with a simultaneously stupefied, irate and horrified expression.
He was saying something, shouting or pleading or cursing, one of the above surely. Probably cursing. Jaskier didn’t have a chance to find out.
Suddenly the room was tunnelling around him, reality warping and dragging him away like a whirlwind.
A noise rang loudly in the air — too loudly — assaulting his eardrums and making him wince. He hurt everywhere, really, but there was the ghost of a piercing pain in his chest, and he wanted to bring his hand up to rub at the area. His limbs were heavy with slumber, though, and he couldn’t manage to move them just yet.
The noise repeated, and this time he had enough sense of place and orientation to realize why the sound felt familiar. It was his name.
A second later the bed he was in dipped under a new weight and there were hands pushing insistently at his chest. He cracked his eyes open to see Geralt, fumbling with his chemise, ripping the buttons off in his chaste to get it open.
There was a warm hand on his chest then, right over the place where he’d felt the phantom pain, and he remembered.
A small exhale left his mouth as he remembered the pain of running himself through with that sword. Who knew dreams could feel that realistic? A smile tugged at his lips, a bit of a hysterical amusement if he was being honest. His plan worked, it hurt like hell, but it worked. He couldn’t believe it. He wanted to laugh.
One look at Geralt was enough to sober him up, though. He looked livid.
“What. The fuck. Was that, Jaskier?”
He opened his mouth, trying to reply, but a hacking cough left his mouth instead. His lungs constricted painfully with the movement and he wheezed.
There were hands at his back, then, holding him up, and a voice urging him to take deep even breaths. The familiar low timbre of it was a soothing balm for his mind. He tried to comply with the comforting voice and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing.
He opened his eyes to look at Geralt, noting with relief that the ire so clear in his face before had softened somewhat.
There was a noise to his right, a throat being cleared pointedly and he turned his head to be met with the sight of Yennefer levelling one unimpressed eyebrow at them.
“I’m ok,” he rasped, the sound scratching at his throat and almost making him go into another coughing fit. He managed to hold it back this time.
“What were you thinking?” Geralt asked, confusion and anger showing through the grumbled tone.
“I was trying to wake up. It worked didn’t it?”
“You could have died,” Geralt said gravely, staring disapprovingly at him. Well, he’d had enough of disapproval, really.
An affronted kind of anger rose in him and he was unable to keep the forced derision out of his voice as he rolled his eyes and scoffed, “In a dream?”.
Geralt levelled him with an unimpressed look, but there was a bit of hurt behind his eyes, Jaskier could see it. Jaskier sighed.
“I believed you, but… that wasn’t enough.”
“You wanted to stay?” Geralt asked, a frown of confusion gracing his face. “Why? There was only…”
“You,” Jaskier admitted, looking away from Geralt. He didn’t feel able to face him right now. “I wanted to stay with you,” he whispered, staring intently at the vase of jasmine flowers atop the dresser.
Geralt was quiet for a second and when Jaskier stole a glance at him, he noted his frown had deepened.
“Why?” he asked, full of bewilderment and disbelief.
Jaskier shot him an incredulous look, but he was beaten to the punch by Yennefer.
“Geralt, are you really that daft? ” she berated, rolling her eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck at the back of her head. “I’m leaving. Call for me when you’ve pulled your head out of your ass.”
She turned around and left the room, shutting the door loudly behind her. Jaskier flinched and looked at Geralt, hesitant.
Geralt looked confused still, looking at the door Yennefer had disappeared behind with a baffled expression.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and the witcher’s head shot back to look at him. “If you remember Murivel, you know why.”
Geralt frowned, giving a slight shake of his head. “But... I hurt you.”
“Yeah, you did,” Jaskier admitted, letting out a dry chuckle. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving you.”
He lifted a hand to Geralt’s forehead, rubbing a thumb at the wrinkled spot between his brows. It relaxed beneath his fingers, like Geralt hadn’t realized he’d been doing it. He started to lower his arm, but Geralt’s hand shot up to grab at his wrist, keeping it in place.
Jaskier looked up at Geralt, breath catching in his throat in a hopeful hitch. Something darker was swimming in the golden pools, something intense and sharp. Jaskier found himself edging forward before he knew what he was doing.
Geralt made no move to stop him, though, so Jaskier closed his eyes and let himself go.
Geralt’s lips were warm and soft against his, silky and smooth. It felt just like kissing him in the dream had, but with an edge to it. A thrill that had been absent, coiling and pooling in his stomach. He lifted his other hand to Geralt’s head and clasped them behind his neck, threading his fingers through the locks as they kissed.
The kiss was slow and smooth on its own, a little wet. Geralt wasn’t doing much other than following Jaskier’s movements, like an afterthought, so Jaskier nibbled on his bottom lip, trying to tease him into action.
It worked, Geralt’s mouth started moving more urgently against his, and he started pushing at Jaskier’s lips, battling for entrance. Jaskier gave it willingly, letting Geralt lick inside his mouth all he wanted. It was good. It was perfect.
Geralt pulled back when air started getting tight for Jaskier, leaning his forehead against his. Jaskier kept still, feeling Geralt’s presence and their breaths intermingling.
He opened his eyes to see Geralt staring back at him, a troubled look on his face.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he muttered, stroking a thumb across Jaskier’s lower cheek.
“The kiss? I don’t think it was that bad,” Jaskier joked, trying to break a smile.
Geralt pulled back, giving him a meaningful glare.
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t do something like that without knowing the consequences, or giving me fair warning first. I thought...”
“Ok,” he agreed, pressing a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips in an attempt to reassure him. “Should we call in the witch now, or do we have some time?”
The corners of Geralt’s mouth tipped up, and Jaskier almost didn’t realize what a usual sight that was. He’d gotten used to the seemingly small action after so long in the illusion seeing it daily. He’d try to appreciate it more now, and induce it whenever he could.
“Don’t let her hear you call her that. I’d hate to lose you so soon after getting you back,” Geralt warned, a teasing note to his voice. “But I think we have some time.”
“Good,” Jaskier said, and he kissed Geralt.