Chapter Text
Autumn was coming. The air was starting to get crisp in the evening as summer faded into fall. Two years had passed since the festival in Vizima. Essi and Brett had been married for a year now and would be celebrating their first anniversary soon. They were planning on settling in Oxenfurt somewhere near Shani, and they were currently splitting their time between traveling while Essi sang and working at the University during the winter. Jaskier was looking forward to seeing them again. He and Geralt tried to swing by on their way to Kaer Morhen each fall.
Jaskier sighed. He and Geralt were better now. They'd come through the other side of the difficulties they'd been having since Rinde. But Jaskier still felt that odd stretch of distance between them that he didn't know how to bridge. And he still wasn't sure where they were going in the future. It hadn't bothered him so much in the beginning. Everything had been too new, each experience the first of many. But now there was routine and a stretch of years before them. How would they fill the time?
Jaskier was currently sitting on a rock with his lute in his lap and his notebook next to him. He was trying to work out the lyrics of a song while waiting for Geralt to come out of the nearby hole he'd crawled into. A Basilisk had been eating livestock in the local village, and a week before they arrived, it had graduated to killing people. The alderman and the local butcher were standing nearby, arguing about how long it was taking Geralt and what they should do about it. Jaskier was only listening with half an ear, but he looked up from his notebook when the alderman started digging in Geralt's things. “Um, excuse you.”
“Mind your own, Bard,” the butcher said as he loosened the ties on the saddle bags.
“You see, this isn't how hiring a Witcher works,” Jaskier said as he stood and set his lute carefully aside. “He agrees to kill your monster and in return, you pay him money. You don't steal his things. . . “ Jaskier huffed, at a loss of what to do when they grabbed Roach's reins. “Or his horse,” he finished lamely. He wasn't going to try pulling his dagger on them. He didn't think they'd be all that intimidated. The rather large knife at the butcher's belt looked well handled. “You can't do this.”
“Our bargain was with a live Witcher, not a dead one,” the butcher said. “And he's most likely carrion by now.”
“Indeed,” the alderman agreed. “We're taking this to pay someone who can actually get the job done.”
“I wouldn't, if I were you,” a new voice said.
Jaskier turned to see a short, older man in a leather vest watching the two men peacefully.
“And who might you be, Grandpa?” the butcher asked as he shouldered the saddlebags.
“A friend of the Witcher you so willfully intend to rob.” The man's voice was pleasant, and there was an easy confidence to him. He wasn't at all intimidated by the two men even though he appeared to be unarmed.
“I'm sorry, have we met?” Jaskier asked him, baffled by his sudden appearance. When the man turned to him, a flash of gold flooded Jaskier's vision and he sat back down heavily, like his legs suddenly didn't want to hold him up anymore. His heart started to pound. What the hell? The man was smiling at him gently when he vision cleared.
“Steady, my boy. All will be well,” he murmured before turning back to the two would-be thieves. “I'll have you return the Witcher's things now.”
“Who's going to stop us? An old man and a gutless songbird?” The butcher drew his knife and brandished it.
The old man smiled again as two lithe, dark-skinned women in armor prowled forward to stand at his side. One of them had multiple smaller braids bundled together to hold them out of her face and the other had a single thick braid trailing down her back. Both had swords. “My bodyguards will handle it,” the man said calmly.
“What's this then, your-” the butcher didn't finish as the woman with multiple braids stalked forward and kicked him sharply in the groin, making him fall to his knees and drop his weapon. Jaskier winced in sympathy and then shouted in surprise when she quickly snapped his neck with a twist of her hands. The sickening crack of it echoed off the stones. Jaskier swallowed convulsively, as his breakfast threatened to momentarily reemerge.
The alderman squeaked and dropped the reins immediately. Roach moved calmly back to where she'd been standing to continue grazing on a dry patch of grass, unconcerned by what was happening. The alderman put his hands up and carefully moved away from the horse. He swallowed hard when he realized he'd have to walk past the women to get out of the ravine. He jumped when a misshapen, severed head flew out of the hole landed on the ground a few feet away.
Geralt pulled himself over the lip of the hole, only pausing briefly to scan the area, before hauling himself out onto solid ground. He was a little dusty and his hair was disheveled, but he appeared to be uninjured.
“What's going on?” he rumbled.
“She just killed a man for trying to steal your horse,” Jaskier said, as he stood and gestured to one of the bodyguards.
“At least someone was willing to keep an eye on things,” Geralt muttered.
“Oi.” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, severely put out. “What would piss you off more, someone stealing your horse, or me getting myself stabbed because I tried to stop them? It's not like I've gotten any better with a knife or anything.”
Geralt sighed, not answering as he and went over to the alderman, nudging the severed head so it rolled over to the man's feet. “The Basilisk is dead, I'll take what I'm owed.”
“No harm meant, Master Witcher,” the man said with a quaver in his voice as he pulled out a pouch with shaking fingers. When Geralt hefted it in his palm and raised a brow, the alderman scrambled in his pockets for more before handing over a second pouch and retreating. As he passed the second woman with the single, thick braid, she snarled and snapped her teeth at him. He made a small frightened noise and started running. The girls smiled at each other before settling on either side of the the older man who'd been watching the scene play out with apparent amusement.
“Who are you?” Geralt asked as he picked up his saddlebags from the fallen butcher and put them back on the horse.
“I am Borch Three Jackdaws, and I've been looking for you, Geralt of Rivia.”
Geralt glanced at him before looking askance at Jaskier.
“Don't look at me. I have no idea what's going on. They just showed up and we haven't exactly had time to chat,” Jaskier said, glancing at Borch again. He couldn't see the golden glow anymore. Whatever it was, Borch had hidden it away. He just looked like a man now with kind eyes, graying hair, and a well kept beard.
“These are my bodyguards from Zerrikania, Tea and Vea,” Borch continued. “Come with me towards Barefield. I have a proposition for you.”
Geralt led Roach toward the entrance of the ravine. “What is it?”
Borch fell into step beside him easily and Jaskier had to quickly pack up his things to catch up. He tried to walk beside Roach, but the baleful glances from the Zerrikanians had him adjusting his stride so he ended up trailing behind them. Well, really.
“I find that conversations are best had over a good meal,” Borch said as they walked along. “There's a tavern called The Pensive Dragon that serves a tasty soup full of delightful morsels.”
“We're not headed in that direction,” Geralt said as he mounted. Turning in the saddle, he held his hand out to Jaskier who blinked up at him in surprise. It wasn't often he was invited to ride and he scrambled forward to let himself be pulled up behind the saddle.
“Are you sure you won't reconsider?” Borch asked.
“Not unless you state your business clearly.” When Borch didn't reply, Geralt urged Roach forward out of the ravine. Oddly enough, Borch didn't really look all that disappointed. Jaskier felt an odd tug in his middle as they started riding away, leaving the strange man and his bodyguards behind them.
“Barefield isn't that far out of the way,” Jaskier said as he settled and wrapped his arms around Geralt's middle. “And we'd get a decent meal out of it.” They were currently somewhere south of Barefield and there weren't very many villages with good inns or taverns in the area between here and Yspaden where they were headed next.
“Autumn is setting in. We should be heading south.”
“Which is why we have warm clothing with us. But it's not that cold yet.” The red embroidered fabric of Jaskier's doublet and trousers was lined and it kept him fairly warm even when it was chilly. Elihal had been pleased with the fabric Jaskier had brought home from the festival a couple years ago. He saved the outfit for special occasions and for traveling when it was cooler. But he was warm enough now. “What harm could it do to hear him out?”
“That's the worst question to ask,” Geralt grumbled. “We have no idea what he's going to ask of me. People who are unwilling to be honest up front are usually hiding something.”
Borch was definitely hiding something, but Jaskier didn't share what he'd seen. It was too vague to describe. “You're the one who's been bitching about not being able to find work lately,” he said instead. “And we'll never find out what he wants unless we go with him.”
“Need I remind you of what curiosity did to the cat?”
“Wow, you really are ruffled.”
“I don't know what you mean.” Geralt's relaxed posture was starting to stiffen against him.
“Well, you usually give me some kind lecture from your Witcher training. You're kind of scraping the bottom of the barrel if you're dragging out rubbish idioms.”
“You're going to keep nagging me about this, aren't you?”
“Oh, probably. I'll get tired of it eventually, but until then, you'll just have to suffer through it. I don't think I've seen a Zerrikanian warrior in action before. She was incredibly fast.” Ephrema, the Baroness of Hamm, was from Zerrikania and she'd traveled to the Northern Kingdoms with her father, who was a trader. But she was far more delicate and refined than the two women who had prowled into the ravine looking ready to take on an army. With the way they moved, he figured their swords weren't just for show. “I'm really curious about what he needs a Witcher for with that kind of fighting power on his side. Surely they could take care of whatever it is.”
“Jaskier.”
“What?” Jaskier noticed that they'd stopped despite Geralt trying to urge Roach on.
“Fuck.”
“Right now? In the middle of the road? Really, Geralt. Roach carries us both easily enough for a short time, but I think she might protest if we-”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier chuckled at his exasperated tone. “Maybe she's curious too. And you're never going to force her to go somewhere she doesn't want to go.” As if demonstrating his point, Roach reached around to nip at Geralt's knee to get him to stop prodding her.
“I hate it when both of you agree on something,” Geralt muttered as he turned her around. She went agreeably once they switched directions and he sighed again. Jaskier just laughed and tightened his arms around him.
When they got back to the ravine, Borch and his bodyguards were waiting where they'd left them like they'd fully expected them to come back.
“I'll come to the tavern,” Geralt told him. “But I'm not promising anything until I've heard what you have to say.”
“That's a fair offer. Let us move on before the day wanes any further.”
*******
It was early evening by the time they reached The Pensive Dragon. It sat at a crossroads and it appeared to be busy even from the outside. There were several laden carts and a lot of horses picketed outside. People milled around in small camps along the roadside and there was a steady trickle of people going in and out of the large building.
Inside, Borch secured them a table and ordered an obscene amount of food and drinks. Jaskier raised a brow but didn't say anything as he settled in a seat by the enormous hearth that had been carved to look like a Dragon's toothy maw. By the time he'd shucked his doublet and they were comfortably full and soft from drinking, Borch turned to Geralt and started talking to him about mortality and the value of having new things to do in a long life that was lacking in experiences that hadn't already been savored.
Jaskier sat quietly with his beer, tapping the ring on his index finger on the side of his tankard until Geralt reached over without looking to still him. He felt the warmth of the other man's hand on his and sighed. All this talk of mortality and aging was making him maudlin again. What would he and Geralt be to each other in ten years? In twenty? What would they be doing a hundred years from now? He didn't know. He never thought he'd live that long.
“Golden Dragons are a myth,” Geralt said, snapping Jaskier out of his thoughts.
“They are real, my dear Witcher.” Borch sat back with his own tankard and raised it to take a long swallow of ale. “But it's not a Golden Dragon we'll be hunting. It's a green one.”
“I don't hunt Dragons.”
“What kind of Witcher doesn't hunt beasts and monsters?” Borch asked him.
“Dragons are intelligent. It's not for me to end the life of a being that can reason.”
“But you have killed men,” the other man reminded him.
Geralt's expression darkened. “Who weren't at all reasonable.”
“But you and I won't be the only ones going up the mountain in search of the Dragon.” Borch started telling him about the offer from King Niedamir of Caingorn to kill the Green Dragon that had been spotted in the mountains around Barefield. Several interested parties were going to hunt for its supposed treasure trove and others were after the Dragon itself, as several of its organs and body parts were quite valuable. The idea of chopping up an intelligent being and selling bits of it for money made Jaskier feel ill.
“But Caingorn is a Modern City,” Jaskier said, speaking for the first time since they'd sat down. “What does Niedamir want with a dragon? It would be of no use to him in the city.” Except as a trophy, he thought with distaste.
“I believe he thinks it will bring him renown among his peers and further his political ambitions,” Borch said, his tone unimpressed. “He's young, but it's rumored that he already has his eye on Malleore.”
Jaskier scoffed. “Malleore is run by a democratic council. They'll never allow a monarch to take over without a fight.” And that fight would kill a lot of people. Modern warfare was different than wars fought in the Wood, but they were no less deadly.
“Be that as it may,” Borch continued. “Here and now, there is a dragon being hunted. The political maneuvering of kings and councils does not concern me.”
True enough, Jaskier thought. He didn't care about any of that either. Looking around the room, he glanced at the groups Borch started pointing out. The Reavers were a rough bunch who put Dwarven lack of decorum to shame, and they had none of the joy. Loud, blatantly rude, and covered in tattoos, they were the sort that Jaskier would avoid on a good day and he hoped never to cross them. One of them had a barmaid in his lap and his hand was deep up under her bodice. She didn't seem to mind, but it was a tawdry display in a tavern that didn't seem to cater to that kind of entertainment.
When the Reaver caught Jaskier looking, he winked at him and blew him a messy kiss. Jaskier swallowed and looked away, trying not to appear intimidated as he fought the urge to slide closer to Geralt. As forward and flirtatious as he could be himself, he wasn't completely stupid. The man oozed danger and didn't seem to have any inhibitions at all.
But the Dwarves who walked in the door were another matter entirely. Jaskier felt his spirits lifting immediately when he saw Yarpen Zigrin and his boys come inside, all full of laughter as they slapped each other on the back and headed to the bar. Jaskier excused himself to go over when Yarpen hopped up onto the bar and started arguing with the bartender.
“He said: Four. Pints!” Yarpen barked as gripped the man's lapels.
“How is he supposed to pour your beer when you're shouting at him?” Jaskier asked as he leaned casually against the bar next to him.
“Jaskier!” Yarpen beamed, his fury melting into surprised joy as he hopped down to wrap his arms around him in a back-cracking hug.
Jaskier chuckled as his toes left the floor briefly. Reaching out to snag the bartender's sleeve before he could slink away, he passed a few coins over.
“Four pints and whatever else they asked for.” He held the man's gaze until he took the money and headed for the taproom.
“Don't be a cock, ya daft bird. We can pay fer our own drinks,” Yarpen said with a hard slap to Jaskier's back.
“Of course you can, but this way you can avoid getting thrown out before you get a chance to start drinking. Tell me how you've been since I last saw you and we'll call it even.”
“You could have had that for a song.” Yarpen barked a laugh. “No pun intended but that was pretty fuckin' good.” He grabbed the tankards the man brought and passed them round before raising his. “To old friends becoming reacquainted.”
Jaskier raised his own and drank before they settled at another table. He hadn't seen the Dwarves since Geralt defeated a Noonwraith in Gelibol years ago. Afterwards, they'd come to Jaskier's rescue in a rather timely manner.
“Please tell me you're not after the Dragon.”
“And why not, eh? You have any idea what kind of prize is on the table?” Yarpen took a long drink and brought the tankard down on the boards with a sloshing thunk. “Niedamir is offering a Kingly sum for the dragon's head and we could do for a decent payday for once.”
“Not much luck in hunting lately?” Jaskier asked him.
“It's alright. But Dragons are rare beasts these days. It's said there's not many that survived the conjunction.” Yarpen took another drink and wiped his mustache. “This would set us up handsomely for some time. Might actually think about retirin' and settlin' down somewhere like Lucas. This'll be his last hunt before he gets himself married right and proper.”
Once again, Jaskier thought about what the future might hold. It seemed he couldn't avoid it. While he'd once delighted in the fact that he would live a long life so he wouldn't leave Geralt alone after a short mortal existence, he was starting to consider the downside. While he was technically forty three years old now, he still felt like he was in his twenties. But he wasn't sure how long that feeling would last. How would the weight of years affect him? Would he even remember all of it? There were huge chunks of his childhood that were missing from his memory because he'd been experimented on as a child by the man who pretended to be his father. Gods, he hadn't thought about that shit in years. Taking another drink of ale, he tried not to dwell on it.