Chapter Text
Jaskier was half way through a lackluster rendition of one of his least popular songs when his world went static.
In his ears, a foreign heartbeat thundered, ragged and wounded. It felt as though his lungs had gone sideways with the sensation. Even the air itself tasted like it was charged with lightning, bright and bitter as ozone. Deep in his gut, he felt something urging himself forward, pulling him like some invisible string towards an unknown destination.
Something brushed across his senses, rough as tree bark, and sinking into his skin to crawl like ants beneath. He froze, eyes darting around the room like he could spot whoever it was that had sent his senses scrambling against the hard earned shields he was always careful to maintain. In his hands, his fingers faltered, melody disappearing beneath the wave of wrong that felt like it was choking him.
The answer was simple--and impossible.
There was a Sentinel here.
It was impossible, his mind repeated. Sentinels were a dying breed--the prized possessions of kings and queens who needed warriors that were nearly impossible to defeat. They had been the monster lurking in the darkest corners of the Continent for centuries until the Cull and still were enough to make any human stop and take notice. The stories of monster hunters and Witchers were already enough to alarm even the bravest of humankind--add in the knowledge that Witcher Schools were almost entirely made up of sentinels without any loyalty to any kingdom and you had a threat that couldn't be allowed to continue to exist.
Jaskier took a breath, trying to anchor himself against the instinctive urge to soothe whatever madness that had settled over the mysterious Sentinel. Against his shields, he could feel the emotions of the crowd pressing against him in familiar waves. Irritation. Humor. Exhaustion. All of them forming a wall of sensation that would leave him curled in a tight ball of agony without his barriers.
His eyes darted around the room, passing over each face without interest to follow the pull in his gut that had him stepping further away from the cleared space that passed for a stage in this tiny town. Distantly, he heard someone speaking to him, but he only brushed them aside. It was impossible to think of anything but the silent siren’s call pulling him forward.
Compared to the chaos and pain of the Sentinel that was shivering through the air around them, Jaskier’s own talents were infantile in comparison. His skills were largely self-taught and assembled with the help of small snippets of lore and legend found in dusty corners of forgotten libraries. He’d been lucky to find one low level guide in Oxenfurt to help him learn how to create shields solid enough to keep him from buckling beneath the weight of a crowd’s emotions or the heartbreak of a passing villager.
Even luckier was his ability to avoid the notice of local mages and the sharp eyed scouts who were always searching for new recruits for Aretuza.
The realization made him move through the crowd with greater impatience--whoever this Sentinel was, they were hurtling towards a full collapse. Their shields felt like they were completely down and it wouldn’t be long before they’d zoned too deeply for him to be able to pull them back out. As it was, they’d both be lucky if the Sentinel hadn’t called down every Guide hunter in the kingdom to Posada.
Jaskier pushed through a group of farmers and, as though drawn by some invisible magnet, felt his eyes lock on a solitary figure in the darkest corner of the tavern. Immediately, he knew whatever hope he’d had of escaping this day without drawing unwanted attention was impossible.
Witcher , he mouthed, silent with awe.
One of the last of the fabled race of sentinel warriors sat silently at the abandoned table in the furthest corner of the room. Golden eyes stared at the table in front of him without seeing, pupils blown wide with a level of pain that made Jaskier’s stomach roil. If he looked closely, he could see the faint tremor that shivered through muscles that were coiled tight with tension.
Even without his own guide abilities urging himself forward, Jaskier liked to think he’d be able to tell that the warrior was in distress. The man flinched at every sound and seemed torn between making a run from the door to brave the smells of the small herd of cows moving down the road or remaining trapped in a room full of strangers laughing, shouting, and cursing at one another. It didn’t take much to imagine what the enhanced senses of a sentinel on top of the rumors of Witcher adaptations would do to someone without a guide to anchor them.
It made it easier to close the distance between them and slide into the seat across from the sentinel, noting absently the way the Witcher seemed to turn toward him minutely. The broad chest of the other man expanded on a slow inhale that Jaskier pretended didn’t make him notice the breadth of his shoulders or the angle of his jaw.
He faltered when those oddly colored eyes were dragged up from the table to fix on his face, ignored the way his skin burned and flushed like a boy with a crush. The Witcher’s abilities thrummed through the air between them, triggering the rise of his own and rumbling out of his chest in a soft hum that made the stranger’s eyes widen in surprise.
“You’re okay,” Jaskier started, working to keep his own voice even and projecting as much calm as he could into the space around himself. “We need to get you out of here. Get you somewhere safe so you can meditate.”
The Witcher didn’t respond, but Jaskier felt himself take heart in the way the other man seemed to sway closer with every word. Figuring words could act as an anchor, he forced himself to keep talking.
“Where is your Guide?” he asked gently, forcing himself to look away from the Witcher to scan the room. He couldn’t imagine any guide being heartless enough to leave their bondmate in such a state, but he had to be sure.
Guides and sentinels were designed for one another--or so the stories said. A guide kept their sentinel anchored to the earth when their senses threatened to pull them away from the earth. They were meant to bond, to find the other half of their abilities and soul in each other. It was the only way to truly be happy within your designation.
A Sentinel protects the people. The Guide protects the Sentinel.
A raw, kicked sound brought his focus back to the Witcher and he tried not to think about the warmth that blossomed in his chest when the warrior relaxed minutely as soon as Jaskier was looking back at him. Immediately, he sent out another wave of soothing calm and ignored the blooming protectiveness in his chest. It was meaningless, he lectured himself, just the reaction of a sentinel who was barely holding on to their sanity and control.
“You’re zoning pretty bad, huh?” the bard whispered, lowering his voice to a register that only a sentinel could pick up. “I’m surprised you’re still able to move.”
The other man grunted and Jaskier grinned a little.
“Good thing I’ve always had a soft spot for the strong, silent types.”
A group of merchants came into the tavern, laughing loudly. Instinctively, Jaskier reached out to wrap his fingers around the bare skin of the Witcher’s wrist. His thumb brushed over the pulse that pounded in time with the rhythm in his mind and he pretended not to notice the way the warrior shivered.
“We need to get you out of here,” he said, eyes returning to the features of the stranger who was beginning to look pale and unfocused even with Jaskier’s own abilities surging forward to cloak them like a shield. “Somewhere safe. Can you walk?”
In answer, a small muscle in the Witcher’s jaw fluttered as he gritted his teeth and nodded in one, sharp jerk. Jaskier kept his hand firmly linked around the man’s wrist as he pushed off the table and got to his feet. The bard moved closer, tucking his slightly smaller body under one muscular arm and allowing the warrior to lean on him as he moved them toward the door he’d spotted earlier that led to the stables.
As they limped along, he hummed a nameless tune under his breath, hoping it would give the Witcher something to focus on besides the overwhelming sensory overload. If the Witcher was zoning, it would mean that his senses had completely broken through whatever shields he possessed. Every sound, every smell, every touch against his skin would grate like razors and bury themselves deep within his mind. If Jaskier wasn’t able to pull him back from the ledge, it was possible that the Witcher would go completely feral or catatonic--neither of which he wanted to see.
Later, when he wasn’t fighting the edge of his own panic, he would consider why he’d been so hellbent on saving a stranger. He would think about the way his chest ached whenever he thought about breaking his hold on the stranger’s hands or the way his own shields seemed to tremble with the need to envelope the Witcher within them. He’d never had a reaction this strong, this visceral to any of the sentinels he’d seen from a distance in his childhood or in passing in the cities he’d traveled through. If anything, he’d always avoided any mention of other sentinels or guides and dodged any city that boasted a mage’s guild or the hunters that sought out any untested guides.
As it was, he had his hands full trying to keep the other man upright and moving without collapsing under the weight of him. “Come on, Witcher,” he chanted, “Don’t stop now.”
The Witcher made another one of those rough sounds of pain as they made their way into the crowd. He tried to keep them from touching any of the other villagers, but it came with the price of slowing their pace and drawing more attention to them.
“Drank too much, I’m afraid,” Jaskier called out to the barmaid with a pasted on smile. “I’m going to let him sleep it off.”
She stared at him with a suspicion that only deepened when the Witcher shifted to bury his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathing in like he was desperate for air. Jaskier felt himself flush bright red and tried to keep his voice from cracking.
“I’ll be back to finish my set in a few minutes,” he lied and ignored the slight prickle against his skin that told him he was being watched.
Some part of him knew it wouldn’t be long before the town was crawling with hunters.
Outside, the bright sunlight made him wince and instinctively raise a hand to shade the Witcher’s sensitive eyes from it. The warrior seemed incapable of anything, but stumbling forward at Jaskier’s insistence so he assumed it was up to him to figure out how the fuck they were going to get out of here.
“Right then,” he said, trying to fake his way through the panic of what was happening. “We need to find a way out of here--I don’t suppose you have a horse?”
The Witcher doesn’t respond.
“Of course.”
A soft huff against his skin made goosebumps break out over his skin and Jaskier gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Now was not the time to investigate the way he wanted to curl up around the warrior until the world around them faded away.
They limped along the edge of the tavern toward the smell of hay and horses with a barely formed idea that maybe they could steal a horse and flee the town before the hunters came for them both. He had no interest in spending the rest of his life rotting away in a cell.
The gods must have felt sympathetic to his silent prayers because as soon as they turned the corner, they came face to face with what could only be the Witcher’s horse. The brown mare looked up with interest at the sight of them and whickered at her disoriented rider. Two large swords were strapped to her saddle to match the simple black saddle and reins still attached to her. She stamped a foot at him as they approached, ears going flat as her nostrils flared to take in the scent of the stranger.
“Easy. Easy there,” he crooned, shifting to take more of the Witcher’s weight. “Good horsey.”
The mare narrowed her eyes at him as if she was saying that she was not, in fact, a ‘ good horsey .’
Somewhere nearby he heard the sound of raised, excited voices and felt his own heart began to race. The Witcher shifted in reaction, reminding Jaskier of the stories of the instinctive protectiveness of sentinels toward their guides. He looked at the horse with more determination.
“Look. The only way your owner gets out of here alive is if you don’t bite my arm off.” He leveled her with a stern look instead of thinking about how ridiculous it was to be speaking to a horse. That bravery faltered when he was forced to move closer and reach out, “ Please don’t freak out.”
Warm muscle twitched beneath his fingers when he stroked over her shoulder, but--aside from an irritable swish of her tail--she didn’t react. Jaskier released a soft, relieved breath and considered his next hurdle--getting the Witcher into the saddle.
“Fuck,” he grunted after his first attempt to lift the Witcher up. He panted. “This isn’t working.”
He considered the Witcher and the mental countdown in his mind that marked how long it would be before someone came to stop them. It was no secret that guides and sentinels weren’t trusted by the rest of the population. Most considered the Cull as a necessary evil along with the rumors of children being dragged off to be trained and bound to the ‘schools’ that dotted the Continent.
Jaskier shivered at the idea of being forced into one of those hellholes.
With that in mind, he shifted his grip until he could cup one hand on the sentinel’s cheek and force those dazed golden eyes up to his. “Sentinel,” he murmured, trying to project some manner of authority into his voice, “I need your help.”
The Witcher shifted almost immediately and Jaskier swallowed hard when he felt a calloused hand slip around his hip, fingers moving beneath his shirt to brush against warm skin.
“You want to keep me safe, right?” he continued, trying to play off the instinctive urges of their designations, “We need to get out of here. We need to get somewhere safe.”
For a moment, Jaskier thought it wouldn’t work. The sentinel’s eyes were glazed over and seemed to be barely clinging to consciousness. He felt the growing panic within him reach new heights as he tried to think of a way to get out of this mess.
“Please please please, sentinel,” he nearly sobbed, glancing back at the sound of the tavern door opening and voices calling out, “you have to move. I can’t do this alone.”
Then,
The Witcher’s muscles bunched and Jaskier heard a barely smothered sound of pain as the man reached out to grab the saddle horn and haul himself clumsily into the saddle. Jaskier reached for the reins to keep the mare from spooking, but she seemed remarkably used to hauling an almost comatose sentinel on her back. He patted her neck in silent praise and looked around to see if he could spot a quiet escape route out of this city, silently saying goodbye to the promise of a night indoors.
“ Guide .”
The voice was gravel over icy snow and laced with pain. Jaskier turned in surprise and saw the Witcher twitching, teeth chattering as the pain within him reached new heights. Driven by instinct, the guide immediately reached out and looped his fingers around the sentinel’s wrist again, hoping the skin to skin contact would help along with a redoubled attempt to project soothing waves of his power.
Whatever bond that was growing between them made it feel like his own panic waned, replaced with a calm sort of focus. He took a deep breath that was echoed by the sentinel and nodded to himself. There would be time to freak out later over the way his powers were surging in a way they never had before or the way his body seemed to crave the touch of the Witcher. For now, they needed to get out of here.
His first attempt to release his hold on Geralt’s wrist felt like a body blow. They both let out choked noises of pain and Jaskier reached out blindly to cling to the warm skin of the man’s back beneath his armor.
“Fuck,” he panted into the leather saddle and shivered again when the Witcher’s hand dropped to thread through his hair. “Stay touching. Got it.”
The mare shifted again, ears pricking ahead of her in warning a moment before a group of men turned the corner and caught sight of them.
“Bard!” A man with a stained red shirt called imperiously, “Where do you think you’re going?”
A subvocal growl rumbled from the Witcher, vibrating against Jaskier’s fingers. He didn’t need the reminder of the threat they were both facing.
He gave the group a smile while he subtly untied the mare’s reins from the post. “It looks like my friend is getting sick,” he said easily, pouring on the charm he’d learned from years of dealing with irate crowds and pushy nobles. Just in case, he ensured his shields were firmly in place and he wasn’t in danger of driving the town around him into a frenzy. “I’m going to take him to find a healer.”
“You’re not going anywhere, boy.”
There was no mistaking the menace in the man’s voice now and Jaskier resisted the urge to curse. The group was beginning to spread out, trying to circle him to cut off his escape routes.
Before they could get close enough to grab the mare’s reins, Jaskier shifted his grip and pulled himself onto the saddle in front of the sentinel. The movement was awkward, but unexpected enough that he managed to get situated before the group rushed them. His lute banged against the saddle with a worrying noise that he ignored in favor of shoving his feet into the stirrups.
The mare reared up--lashing her hooves out with deadly accuracy--and Jaskier nearly toppled over if not for the strong hands that wrapped around his waist and kept him steady.
The sentinel was a line of heat along his back and shockingly intimate after so many years since he’d allowed someone this close. He could feel the warm brush of his breath against the sensitive skin of his neck with each move of the broad chest behind him. Large, sword calloused hands spread out over his stomach, bracing and teasing all at once. His abilities felt like they were singing with each point of contact, filling his senses like a drug. He wanted to curl up against the sentinel until he disappeared inside. He wanted to turn and drag his lips down the line of the other man’s throat, taste the sounds that he--
Another shout forced him back to the present with jarring efficiency. Jaskier pulled at the mare’s reins and pointed her in the direction of a gap in the group of villagers. She shot forward like an arrow, pouring on an impressive amount of speed for a horse carrying two grown men. He felt clawing hands snag on his clothing before falling away as they continued implacably forward.
Their shouts grew fainter as the mare continued along the road, nearly knocking over a woman carrying a handful of firewood in their dash for freedom. Jaskier turned in the saddle to look over the Witcher’s shoulder for any sign of pursuers and was rewarded with only the disappearing buildings of Posada. He let the reins go loose, letting the mare make up for his terrible horsemanship by choosing her own path forward.
There was a reason why he’d never bothered to save up for a horse of his own, he thought when the mare slowed from a ground-eating canter to a walk. His thighs and ass were aching from the saddle and his muscles trembled from the exhaustion of trying to keep the both of them from falling off. At his back, the Witcher was worryingly limp against him with his face tucked into the joint of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder.
“Almost safe,” he said, repeating the words like eventually he would believe them. “Not long now and we both can take a nice long nap.”
Jaskier tugged at the reins, leading the mare off the dirt road and onto a narrow game path. He hoped that they’d gotten enough of a lead on their pursuers that they would be able to sleep for a bit and attempt to pull the sentinel out of his spiral. The bard wasn’t sure how he intended to bring the Witcher out of the overwhelming sensory overload that came with falling into a zone, let alone how he was going to manage to keep them from being captured by hunters--but that was a problem for future Jaskier.
He ducked beneath several low hanging branches and raised a hand to ensure the Witcher wasn’t hit. Above them, the sky rumbled ominously and he sighed when raindrops began to trickle through the leaves. As much as they could use the extra help the rain would offer in slowing their pursuers and covering their tracks, Jaskier wasn’t looking forward to spending a night soaking wet.
To their left, he heard the soft sounds of moving water so he directed the mare closer. Depending on what kinds of gear the Witcher had in the pack still lashed to the saddle, he might be able to set a few snares or catch some fish to fill his growling belly. That, of course, would be next to impossible if he couldn’t separate himself from the sentinel without that crippling pain again. Even the reminder was enough to make him drop his hand to run his fingers over the scarred skin of the Witcher’s arm.
At his back, he felt the man shift and smiled.
“Still with me, big guy?”
There was no response, but Jaskier didn’t press. His own stores of energy were dangerously low and he could feel his shields beginning to flicker, letting in little bursts of painpainpainpain and a burning wash of sensations.
Jaskier shuddered, trembling all over as he tried to balance out the overload. The limited lessons he’d picked up from the occasional low-level guide and the information left in forgotten books weren’t enough to handle the terrifying amount of power that came from a real life sentinel. If he had to guess, the Witcher was more powerful than most sentinels were rumored to be, controlling at least three of the five senses that a sentinel abilities could amplify.
He didn’t want to think about what it must have felt like to be buried beneath them all.
The mare came to a stop while he was distracted by the dizzying pull from the other man and looked up to see the horse had stopped along a rocky outcropping against a quick-moving stream. Ahead of him, he could make out a few naturally occurring caves in the spaces between rocks and he let out a relieved breath at the thought of getting somewhere warm and dry. Night was falling fast and he didn’t want to risk being out in the open when there might be hunters roaming the area.
“Smart girl,” he said to the mare, who stamped her foot as if disgusted with the idea of him complimenting her.
The thought made him grin and he patted the Witcher’s hand gently. “I’m beginning to think your horse is smarter than most.”
When he went to slide his leg over to dismount, the sentinel’s arms tightened around him and the warrior released a desperate sound of protest.
“We need to get shelter,” he soothed. “I need to get your horse taken care of and make sure we’re safe--” The sentinel growled as if offended by the notion that Jaskier wasn’t already safe with him, forcing Jaskier to continue forward quickly, “--and that we have food. Don’t you want to eat?”
The Witcher didn’t respond, but his hold loosened slightly which Jaskier took as agreement. Truly, the sentinel was already showing remarkable control compared to the legends of berserkers and half-feral sentinels preying on innocents. Jaskier rewarded him with another gentle pat before sliding off the saddle and half-collapsing on the ground.
He groaned at his aching legs and ignored the judgemental look the mare leveled at him. “Not all of us enjoy riding horses,” he told her sternly.
She bumped into his side, causing him to scramble to hold on to the saddle to avoid falling face first into the mud.
Scowling, he grabbed her reins and limped forward, trying to ignore the waves of agony that continued to pulse through his mind courtesy of the unnamed sentinel. Desperate for relief, Jaskier began to sing softly under his breath, lacing each syllable with some of his own power. It was almost soothing to allow his shields to drop. He hardly ever relaxed enough to risk it, but he supposed knowing that the hunters were already searching for them had removed the need for subtlety.
He could feel the sentinel at the edges of his senses like a piece of a pebble in his boot. It felt like his designation was fighting against each step that kept him from fully focusing on the sentinel and soothing away the other man’s pain. Without the shields, his own guide abilities surged forward, eager to smooth away the lines of tension bracketing his mouth and hiding those handsome features behind a pained frown. The Witcher had slumped forward limply without Jaskier there to hold him upright, but somehow the guide knew the other man was still alert to every step he took.
The sight of a shadowed cave big enough to keep the mare and both men out of the rain made him make a soft sound of relief. He stumbled forward gracelessly and ducked his head inside, praying that no wildlife had already taken up residence there. When nothing came rushing out to eat him, he let the reins drop and walked around the mare to carefully pull off the neatly folded bedroll and pack behind the saddle and set it safely inside before going back for the Witcher.
The sentinel was still far too large for Jaskier to manage to lift even without the exhaustion of the day, but gravity was on his side this time and he managed to pull the man out of the saddle. He half collapsed when the full weight of the Witcher fell against him, but he gritted his teeth and half dragged, half walked into the shelter of their makeshift camp. The nearly unconscious warrior went onto the bedroll and Jaskier flopped onto the ground beside him, panting with effort.
“What do they feed you? Boulders?”
He probably would have fallen asleep in his muddy and ruined clothes were it not for the irritable huff from the mare a few feet away. Narrowing blue eyes at her, he considered the ramifications of just letting her wander away and let his tired body sleep for a week or so.
As if sensing his thoughts, the mare stepped closer, rumbling a warning that he didn’t need to speak horse to understand. Don’t even think about it, bard.
Releasing a growl of his own, Jaskier rolled to his side and forced himself onto his knees then upright. Every move made him ache like he’d been running nonstop for days instead of riding a horse for a few hours. Still, it was hardly fair to leave her in the sweat soaked saddle and reins while he slept.
With fumbling fingers, Jaskier managed to unlace the girth and straps using the long-forgotten riding lessons of his youth. His parents had hardly intended for him to apply their dressage training to help care for a horse after fleeing a town with a Witcher sentinel. The knowledge of his parent’s general disgust with his decisions and way of life were old wounds and he ignored them with the ease of long practice. There were far more pressing issues at stake.
He forced himself to concentrate on each motion to avoid acknowledging his protesting body. His mind felt like it was floating oddly--at times centered on the silent, unmoving man behind him and at times drifting through cottony numbness. Instinct told him that he was probably edging toward a dangerous overload of his abilities.
When it became impossible to ignore the pull to return to the sentinel behind him, Jaskier settled the saddle and riding gear in a mostly neat pile out of the rain and tied the mare’s bridle where she could graze at the patchy grass or stay dry if she preferred. She deigned to let him pat her shoulder one last time before he stumbled into the cave.
Jaskier pulled off his sweat soaked doublet and gave it a cursory look. It probably wouldn’t ever be its original color again, but it hadn’t ripped in their mad-dash to freedom so he considered it a win. He shivered when the cold air hit his rain soaked skin and carefully draped it over a nearby rock to dry out. His pants followed, leaving him only in his smalls and undershirt. Briefly, he considered going out to try to find wood for a fire before deciding it was too much of a risk when there were potentially people hunting for them both.
The thought made his hands tremble. He’d spent years carefully avoiding attracting the attention of the hunters that were always searching for new guides to drag back for ‘retraining’ only to ruin it all at the first sign of a sentinel in distress. A Witcher sentinel, no less.
If he had any sense, he would take the horse and leave the sentinel to recover on his own. There was no way that the sentinel hadn’t pulled himself out of a zone before, old as he was. Jaskier didn’t owe him any more than he’d already sacrificed in an effort to keep this stranger safe. For all he knew, there was a reason why the Witchers had been nearly wiped out in the Cull.
And yet…
The thought of walking away now made him want to vomit. Even being separated long enough to take care of the mare had been like walking over glass and swallowing fire. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he actually tried to leave for good.
There was no going back.
Jaskier shoved the thought of what might come in the morning in favor of walking over to where he’d left the sentinel laying sprawled over the bed roll. With tired motions, he tugged at the leather armor that protected the warriors chest and tossed them in the pile next to the saddle. The added weight probably hadn’t helped lower the overstimulation that had gotten them into this mess. He couldn’t help, but run his fingers over the stubborn edge of his chin or the slightly furrowed brow.
As if sensing who was touching him, the sentinel stirred, golden eyes slitting to look up at him. “Guide.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if you can say anything else.”
Instead of answering, the Witcher tugged on his hand until Jaskier was tucked into the curve of his body. The sensation of the bare skin of his arms against the sentinels made him shudder, more sensitive than anything he’d ever felt even during sex. He let himself linger in the feedback loop that only grew stronger with every passing moment, trying to ignore the voice in his mind whispering over and over again.
Mine. My sentinel. Mine.
“What have I gotten myself into?” he asked the rough stone ceiling.