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The word comes late, as it always seems to. Geralt is watching Ciri fumble her way through sword forms in the soft grey light of morning when a raven swoops down from the sky, silent and from nowhere. Geralt only notices because the raven’s dark feathers mar the silver of the blade he’s polishing, and the lack of sound and scent gives it away.
By the time the spell-raven has made it to ground level, Geralt is standing and waiting for the message.
Ciri doesn’t notice immediately, but then again, she lacks the enhanced senses of a Witcher. Not hearing or seeing a bird wouldn’t immediately make her suspicious.
The game is up when the raven opens its mouth and a woman’s voice comes out, though.
Geralt, comes Yennefer’s voice. We have a problem.
Her voice is brisk and tight – too tight. Usually her missives are more gentle teasing than anything else, playful and taunting without edging into pain. They’re doing better, now, but Yennefer still has her moments. Then again, so does Geralt, so he can’t exactly throw stones.
“Is that a spell?” Ciri demands, rushing up. On the bright side, she’s kept a good grasp on her sword. On the other hand, she’s left her practice and Geralt didn’t give her leave to do so.
He raises an eyebrow.
She glares right back.
“Yes,” he says finally, because even a few weeks with Ciri have taught him the value of choosing what battles to fight and what battles to concede. “From Yennefer. Usually one time.”
Ciri gets the message, at that, and she falls into a neutral stance, eyeing the raven like she wishes she could absorb the spell merely by staring at it. From what Yennefer has said about her magical potential, it might not even be that far off.
I got word of a bounty by Nilfgaard on a particular bard. I didn’t think much of it – we all are wanted – but last week, I got word that the bounty had been collected.
Geralt tenses. Nilfgaard may be many things, but they do pay well.
I tried scrying for Jaskier, but I came up empty. Something is blocking him from me.
Geralt has a charm now, tucked into his armor, that prevents others from scrying him. Ciri has one too; Yennefer made them almost as soon as she had the time and ingredients. Jaskier has never had such a thing. Being scryed wasn’t really something Geralt worried about, back in the days when it was just Jaskier and Geralt and Roach on the road for weeks or months at a time. The only reason Jaskier would be blocked from Yennefer’s sight is –
I think Nilfgaard has him, Geralt.
Geralt curses. He shouldn’t, with Ciri nearby, but she’s almost certainly heard worse, and she’s seen what Nilfgaard is capable of with her own eyes. Not to mention that he can see the recognition of Jaskier’s name in her eyes; somehow, someway, she knows what Jaskier is. And even if she didn’t, the fact that Yennefer is sending a spell-raven about him probably would tip her off. She’s a smart girl.
The raven spits out a town name where the bounty was collected – it’s almost a week’s ride from Kaer Morhen. It’s long.
Too long.
The raven dissolves into ash and sparks, and Geralt takes a long breath. In and out, as Vesemir taught him once, so long ago.
Then he opens his eyes and looks at Ciri. She stares right back at him, fearless and understanding. Of course. She’d seen Calanthe go off to war before. She knows what comes next.
“All right, Ciri,” Geralt finds himself saying, forcing calm he barely feels. “Change of plans. Today you get to learn how a Witcher packs for battle.”
Jaskier learned to do many things during his years with Geralt: he could scale a fish or skin a rabbit, even though he despised doing it; he could scrub himself in a freezing cold pond or river, even though he complained the entire time; he could even, if pressed, gather a passable and non-poisonous meal of herbs and berries.
Geralt’s Roach is a new one, so he hasn’t had much time to work with her. But he chose her because she fit his needs, and now, even half-trained and still uneasy, she gives him exactly what she needs as she gallops full tilt to his destination.
He holds on tight, watching the trees flash by, and tries hard not to think of Jaskier – beautiful, bright, smiling Jaskier, skipping through buttercup fields or flirting relentlessly with the barmaids or filling the air with song.
If he thinks of Jaskier, after all, he knows what thoughts with follow.
Jaskier, bones shattered or bruised or broken.
Jaskier, covered in blood and burns and wounds.
Jaskier, screaming – Jaskier, begging – Jaskier, dying.
Geralt hunches lower over Roach, saying a silent apology, and digs his heels in to urge her faster.
But for some reason, Jaskier never mastered the setting of a campfire. Every time, without fail, Geralt would return to find the wood pristine and the flint abandoned. So, eventually, Geralt took on the permanent duty of making the fires, if only because hunger took precedence over teaching a foolish bard.
Geralt kills the first guard he finds, and the second, and the third. Normally he would feel pity – these are young farm boys, dragged away from home and conscripted into service, barely understanding what end of the sword to wave at him – but with his blood alive with potions, he’s almost drowning in the scent of Jaskier’s blood, Jaskier’s fear, Jaskier’s agony. They may not have been the ones to hold a knife or flame to Jaskier, but they are standing in between Geralt and Jaskier, and that is unacceptable.
It had been torture, waiting for night to fall to make his approach, but the darkness helps him now. He walks on cat-soft feet, dropping guards left and right, because they might not be able to see in the darkness of a new moon, but he certainly can.
He’s almost made it to the second level before an alarm gets raised, and mostly it’s because a soldier happens on Geralt as he’s killing four more. An Aard sends the soldier flying into the nearest wall with a sickening crack, but the damage is done; the noise is definitely not something that can be explained as just tree branches or wild animals outside.
Geralt kills a lot more men, after that.
He finally finds Jaskier deep in the basement, more blood outside of him than in him, covered in more wounds than skin, barely conscious.
He also finds the mage that’s responsible for the torture.
“White Wolf,” says the mage, a flame cradled in one hand and a knife in the other. “Take one more step, and I kill him.”
And, well, fair is fair. Geralt hefts his sword. “Touch him,” he replies, voice distorted by potions and rage, “and you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing for death.”
“Hmm, tempting offer,” the mage says. “But I think I’ll take my chances.”
The knife flashes, just once; silver, like moonlight dancing on a rippling pond. Jaskier gurgles, blood spurts, and a wordless scream tears itself out of Geralt’s throat – he could not say if it was rage or grief or both, honestly – as he throws himself at the mage –
And then the whole room lights up in fire.
He’d never questioned whether it was lack of knowledge or merely lack of wanting that led Jaskier to fail at the fires.
Geralt slits the mage’s throat, in the end. It’s more a mercy kill than vengeance, because the mage is screaming from being roasted alive, but if the only thing left for him to do is spill blood over the ashes of Jaskier, then he will do it.
Meanwhile, Jaskier and his clothes and his chair have been reduced the smoldering cinders. The heat is intense; Geralt has no idea whether it was the mage’s intention or a spell rebounded or what, but he is forced to cover his mouth and nose as he crouches and begins sifting through the remains. There’s no way Jaskier could have survived, none at all, but any Witcher worth his salt would check anyways.
After all, he can’t let Jaskier come back as a vengeful spirit, no matter what.
He’s in the middle of smearing ash clumps around when the faintest sound hits his ear: the tiniest, faintest, sweet little chirp.
At first, he dismisses it as noise from the outside or his own imagination, but then the chirps get more and more insistent, until at last one of the clumps he brushes through moves when he touches it and Geralt can hardly dare to breathe as he lifts the clump to eye level.
It’s a bird. A tiny baby bird, that is, with soot on its eyes and ash on its feathers and a beak gasping weakly for air or food.
His medallion vibrates against his chest, subtle and short but unmistakable. This is no ordinary bird, even if it isn’t a threat. And there’s only one type of bird that is birthed in flame and reborn in the ashes –
“Jaskier?”
And Jaskier the gods be damned phoenix opens one bright blue eye, chirps weakly, and rubs his head against Geralt’s palm.
As it turns out, Jaskier is no less opinionated as a helpless baby bird than he is as a noisy human. He point blank refuses to be tucked safely in Geralt’s bag, even after Geralt painstakingly empties it of vials and herbs. He won’t stop chirping either, which means Geralt leaves a rather messy trail of bodies behind him. And he won’t stop fluttering his wings, as if trying to fly.
Roach, when she sees them, blood-splattered and ash-smeared, snorts and lays back her ears.
“Don’t you start,” Geralt warns. “I’ll bathe later.”
And then he promptly says “Ouch!” as Jaskier takes offense to Geralt paying attention to anything other than him and nips him sharply on the finger.
Geralt scowls. “I thought phoenixes ate flame, not blood.”
Jaskier clacks his beak smugly.
They compromise, in the end. Geralt needs both hands free – one to guide Roach and the other in case he needs to draw a sword or cast a Sign – so Jaskier does not get his preferred perch of Geralt’s palm. But Geralt doesn’t win the battle to put Jaskier in a bag, so instead he fashions a sling across his chest and settles Jaskier in that. Jaskier sneezes a few times, but then he curls up and ceases chirping, so Geralt takes that for the victory it is and kicks Roach into a run.
He doesn’t ride her as hard as before, but he keeps them at a steady pace, because while Geralt can fight off more men, he has no desire too. Especially with Jaskier in such a vulnerable position.
He imagines, after all, that a phoenix would fetch a pretty price from Nilfgaard – perhaps even a prettier price than a princess, given the legends surrounding a phoenix’s ability.
Jaskier hadn’t demonstrated any of those abilities, of course. But then again, Geralt and he separated during the coldest months, and hot summers would not bother a bird of fire. And phoenixes were said to have died out long ago, driven to extinction by zealous hunters who did not understand how taxing the rebirth cycle was – and how, while water was a sufficient deterrent to corral a phoenix, it also was a death sentence if not used carefully.
Geralt thinks back on every bath, every splash into the ice cold river, every plunge into tepid ponds, and wonders just how Jaskier kept alive.
When he fells they’ve put enough distance between them and the wreckage Geralt left behind, Geralt pulls Roach to a stop. By route, he goes through the tradition of untacking her, brushing her down, and letting her loose to feed and drink to her heart’s content, but everything takes almost twice as long now, because he stops every few minutes to press a hand to his chest, where a warm lump of feathers rustles reassuringly against his armor.
“How can I help you?” Geralt murmurs, stroking a finger over Jaskier’s tiny head. “What do you need?”
Jaskier nips him, gently but firmly, and then taps his armor with his beak. He’s not even strong enough to put any pressure into the tap, but the clink of beak-on-armor rings out. Jaskier does it again, and again, and the rhythm and sound are known to Geralt, somehow, deep in his bones, almost like striking a flint –
“You need fire?”
Jaskier chirps and flutters his wings.
Geralt curses and looks at the moon. It’s a waning moon, so there isn’t that much light, which makes it risky to light a fire. If it was just him, on a normal hunt, Geralt wouldn’t have bothered, because he doesn’t intend to cook anything and he can see in the dark well enough on his own. Besides, fires tend to attract visitors, and Geralt is in no mood for company.
But Jaskier died today, right in front of Geralt, and Geralt really can’t find the heart to deny him anything.
“Fine,” he sighs, and stomps into the forest to gather wood.
Once he gathers enough, a short blast of Igni gets the campfire started. It’s small and contained, so that Geralt could stomp it out in a second, but he still crouches by the fire and opens the sling so Jaskier can see.
“It’s not much,” Geralt says, feeling slightly ridiculous, “and I’m not sure what you can do with it, but – ”
Which is when Jaskier dives headfirst into the flames with a screech.
“Jaskier!”
Jaskier dodges his hand, ignoring his cursing, and curls up defiantly in the middle of the campfire. He even closes his eyes, like he’s finally able to go to sleep. It looks absolutely and completely ridiculous.
Then again: what does Geralt know about phoenixes? Until today, he didn’t even know they could have human forms.
He clutches at his slightly burnt hand and narrows his eyes. “Jaskier.”
Jaskier makes an annoyed clack with his beak.
“ . . . Fine, I’ll get more wood.”
When he comes back a few minutes later, wood and sticks piled in his arms, he finds that Jaskier is no longer covered in soot and ash. He now is a bright orange, like clouds at sunset, and the rise and fall of his chest is perfectly at peace.
Geralt settles into a meditation pose and waits for the night to pass.
By morning, Jaskier’s feathers are a deep vibrant red-orange, with not a trace of the wounds carved into Jaskier’s human skin or the soot from his explosive death.
He is also bigger. Too big, in fact, to sit in Geralt’s makeshift sling.
“You can’t fly,” Geralt tells him, after a minute of watching Jaskier hop from foot to foot on the wood and fall flat on his face. “Not that you should, anyways. You look like no bird I’ve ever seen.”
Jaskier gives him a deeply offended look from where he’s sprawled on the forest floor.
Geralt silently offers him the bag.
This time, when Jaskier nips at him, he does draw blood.
They fall into a pattern, just like before. Jaskier curls up around Geralt’s neck, like some kind of fluffy scarf, and Geralt sticks to the less traveled paths to avoid being seen. By day they travel, stopping only for short breaks, and by night, Geralt builds campfires big enough to accommodate a slowly but surely growing Jaskier.
Jaskier grows sleek and long and beautiful, with feathers that shine in the light, and he preens them as carefully as he used to tune his lute. His claws grow sharp and strong, enough that when he grips Geralt’s shoulders he sometimes punctures holes in his shirt. He shows no interest in food or water, although sometimes, when Geralt presses, he accepts bits of squirrel or rabbit or deer and swallows them down hole.
And every day, he gets bigger and stronger.
And then comes the day where it’s too risky to light a fire.
“We’re too close to town,” Geralt says, even as Jaskier chirps mournfully in his ear. “It’s too great of a risk.”
He risks a stroke down Jaskier’s wing. He doesn’t touch Jaskier too often, if he can help it; while he knows how to moderate his strength around humans and horses and normal birds, he has no idea what a phoenix can take. Especially a young phoenix still growing back to full strength. Jaskier would no doubt let him know if he was hurt – one time he fell off Roach and got entangled in some weeds and raised hell until Geralt came and rescued him – but Geralt’s already hurt him so much; he can’t hurt him more.
Jaskier sulks all the way through the untacking of Roach and the sharpening of Geralt’s swords and the settling under a blanket, cheeping quietly like he’s muttering rude things under his breath. It’s so familiar that Geralt almost makes room for Jaskier before he remembers that his friend is now a small bird, not a small bard.
Which is when Jaskier wriggles away from his perch on Geralt’s neck and crawls under his shirt.
Geralt blinks. “Jaskier?”
Jaskier shuffles a little, his feathers just the edge of ticklish on Geralt’s skin, and curls up, just like he would in a campfire. It would be endearing if Geralt wasn’t afraid to squash him flat.
“Come on, that isn’t safe – ouch!”
Jaskier clicks his beak in satisfaction.
And, yes, Witchers do run hotter than humans, and Jaskier does sometimes doze in his lap while he gets the campfire ready, but there’s a difference between curling up on his lap and sleeping under his shirt. It makes Geralt hyper aware of the fact that he could crush Jaskier in seconds with his weight and strength.
“Jaskier,” he tries again, and gets pecked for good measure. “All right, fine! If you get squashed, it’s not my fault.”
Jaskier fluffs his feathers in satisfaction.
A monster attacks them only a day’s ride from Kaer Morhen, because of course it does. Fortunately, they are stopping for a rest, and so Jaskier is curled up on Roach’s saddle instead of his normal perch around Geralt’s neck or lap or under his shirt.
Unfortunately, it means that when Geralt slaps Roach to get her moving away from the monster, Jaskier shrieks in surprise and, well, if the monster didn’t know there was a tasty human and a tasty bird, it sure does now.
Geralt curses, downs a potion, and draws his sword.
The monster is quite willing to follow Geralt, at least, so he draws it away from Roach, slicing and hacking when it gets too close. Blood rains down onto the grass, making the formerly green stalks hiss and curdle under the toxicity, and a few times Geralt nearly slips on the now-muddy ground and has to save himself with a desperate Quen.
He does manage to chop two of its limbs off, though, which is when the tide of the battle turns.
Sadly, it does not turn in Geralt’s favor.
A second monster lurches out of the shadows and snaps at Geralt, just barely missing his shoulder when he turns to meet the attack. Instead it takes a chunk out of his armor and arm, which means he has to switch to his left hand. And Witchers are trained to wield whatever weapon they can find in whatever hand they have free, but it certainly doesn’t make it easier to fight when one arm is bleeding profusely. If not for the potions running wild in his bloodstream, he’d be stalled from the pain alone.
Fighting two monsters is very different than fighting one. Geralt slides out of offensive and into defensive, applying liberal amounts of Igni to buy himself space.
Or tries to, anyways. The monster who is missing half of its limbs decides to stick its face in the fire and bite Geralt’s leg, which does not help.
It also means that Geralt ends up dragged underneath said monster, leaving his head in prime position for biting.
Geralt raises a Quen and knifes the monster’s leg and prays that Roach is far away enough that she can make it to Kaer Morhen without trouble. She knows the way, at least, and she’ll start moving on her own if he doesn’t come after her in a day or two. He’s managed at least that training. He doesn’t know how his brothers will react to seeing a phoenix on Roach instead of him, but they’ll figure it out. Jaskier is never shy about making himself known.
And just as he’s wondering what kind of song Jaskier will make for his death, a piercing screech echoes through the clearing and a red-orange flaming blur shoots down from the sky.
“Jaskier, go away!” Geralt shouts.
Jaskier digs his claws into the monster’s shoulder, flaps his wings twice, and his feathers turn to molten flame.
The monster didn’t care about Igni. It most certainly cares for phoenix flame.
Two minutes later, both monsters are so burnt that Geralt’s nose will likely be clogged with smoke for hours, Geralt has a broken leg and a hurt arm, and Jaskier is sitting on the ground, preening his feathers like he didn’t just save Geralt’s life by roasting two monsters to death and fly.
Especially the flying bit.
Geralt staggers to his feet and cuts both of the monsters’ heads off, because it always pay to be safe. He might even use more Igni to make sure they’re truly dead. Either way, after that is done, he stumbles over to Jaskier, sits down, and strips part of his strip to begin binding his wounds.
And chastises Jaskier, of course. “I told you to go away!” Geralt says. “Roach would have brought you back to Kaer Morhen, you would be safe there.”
Jaskier cheerfully ignores him in favor of pecking gore out of his claws.
“And since when can you fly?”
Jaskier is still growing – he’s now as long as Geralt’s arm from head to tail, and weighty enough that when he lands Geralt needs to brace himself – but he’s shown no sign of flight beforehand, preferring to hop on the ground or, more likely, chirp at Geralt until Geralt gets annoyed and picks him up.
Jaskier spreads his left wing to nuzzle through it, and a new thought occurs to Geralt. “Have you been making me carry you around instead of flying?” he demands.
He doesn’t get an answer, of course. He just gets a cocked head and one bright blue eye staring at him.
Geralt groans. In retrospect, he’s not sure why he expected an answer. Jaskier the human never shut up, not even on the pain of death, but Jaskier isn’t a human right now; he’s a phoenix. A phoenix born less than a week ago, to boot. His primary concern is probably whether or not his Witcher heater would survive.
Geralt turns his attention to binding his arm again. The leg is a lost cause; it’ll be healed by later tonight, and he can limp to Roach for now. There is no pain, but there will be when the potions wear off; Geralt learned a long ago to treat things when he still couldn’t feel the pain.
It doesn’t always stem the flood of agony when the pain returns, but sometimes it helps when one needs to cauterize a wound.
He’s just starting to wrap the lowest edge when a feathers brush over his leg. Geralt jerks away on reflex, but Jaskier trills in annoyance and hops closer again, bending his feathered head over the wound like he thinks he can actually make a difference.
“It’ll be fine. Should be good later tonight. Wait, are you . . . crying?”
A single tear, glittering like a diamond under the sun, drops from Jaskier’s beak to his leg. For a moment, it’s just weird, and then his bone starts shifting under his skin and Geralt has to dig his hands into the ground before he strangles Jaskier by instinct instead. He’s been healed by magic before, of course, but this is different – no chanting, no foreign sensation of someone else’s life force against his own, no scent of herbs or paste. Just a few tears that smell faintly of smoke.
By the time Jaskier is done weeping, Geralt’s leg is healed.
“Um,” Geralt says.
Jaskier seizes the edge of the ratty bandage Geralt is trying to wind around his arm and pulls.
“Okay, okay, fine,” Geralt says, hastily pulling the bandage away before Jaskier decides to do something insane like set it on fire, and then gets to feel the unnerving sensation of muscle and skin knitting together on his arm.
Geralt looks at his now healed leg and arm, and then back at Jaskier. Jaskier blinks placidly at him.
“Well,” Geralt says, “maybe I can at least collect a bounty.”
He actually does a rather nice payout. Turns out the monsters were terrorizing the local farmers, carrying off sheep and cattle – and sometimes children – and bringing proof of roasted monster heads earns Geralt a nice stall for Roach, a nice meal for him, and a nice heated bath to wash.
Jaskier, hiding in Geralt’s hood, promptly makes a beeline for the roaring fire and curls up there once the door is closed and locked.
Geralt undresses, crawls into the bath, and runs his fingers over his leg. There isn’t even the faintest mark or the slightest bit of soreness. It’s like the injury never happened. Even the best healing spells leave some kind of mark or take their toll in the person’s energy, but Geralt feels only the lethargy from the potions wearing off and a difficult hunt.
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier chirps.
“Is this why you never liked me seeing you cry?” Geralt asks, because Jaskier loves to cry on stage or dramatically lament while cavorting around taverns, but whenever he was truly hurt, he’d react rather like a cat – finding a small and dark place to hide until he’d managed to put himself back together. It always used to be awkward, until Geralt realized that he couldn’t pry Jaskier out and the best course of action was just to stand guard until Jaskier was ready to face the world again.
Jaskier cocks his head at him and chirps again. Then he opens his beak wide, as if yawning, and swallows a small spark before closing his eyes again.
Which is when Geralt is reminded that he is, once again, trying to make conversation with a week old baby bird. A magical bird, true, but still.
“ . . . Never mind,” Geralt says, and sinks into his bath.
Jaskier hops into bed with Geralt once he slides under the covers. He takes up his customary position around Geralt’s neck, like a fluffy scarf, and pulls affectionately at Geralt’s hair like he’s trying to preen the strands.
Geralt puts a hand over him and wonders if Jaskier cried when Geralt abandoned him on the mountain.
He wonders who guarded Jaskier then.
Geralt isn’t very good at apologies – in fact, he knows he’s rather terrible at them – but he’s trying to be better, now that he has Ciri. And since Jaskier likely won’t remember anything. . .
“Jaskier,” he whispers, and then, louder. “Jaskier.”
The phoenix nesting in his hair flutters its wings.
“I’m sorry,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard by a human, and curls his fingers around Jaskier’s feathery body. He’ll give him a better apology when he’s human, but practice in this, as in everything else, can’t hurt. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”
Jaskier chirps softly, and they sleep.
By the time they ride back into Kaer Morhen, Jaskier is bigger than Geralt’s head and longer than his leg. He flies above Geralt’s head, seemingly unbothered by the cold, mostly because Geralt pushed him off his shoulder after he sneezed and set part of Geralt’s shirt on fire.
Ciri rushes up to greet them, two wooden practice daggers tucked under her arm, a sure sign that Lambert has taken over where Geralt left off.
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “I thought I told you to study with Vesemir?’
“He fell asleep,” Ciri says, eyeing the empty saddle of Roach suspicious. “I thought you were bringing back Jaskier?”
Geralt wordlessly points over his head.
Ciri squints. “Is that a bird?”
“It’s Jaskier,” Geralt says, and extends his arm.
Jaskier trills in joy and swoops down, alighting on Geralt’s arm like a particularly heavy hawk. His feathers are gleaming and brilliant under the sun, and he cranes his neck forward to nuzzle at Ciri too, as if he recognizes her the same way he recognizes Geralt.
Ciri looks at Jaskier, looks at Geralt, and then back at Jaskier. “What – ”
“Oi!” Lambert yells from the courtyard. “I thought you were bringing back a bard, not a bird! Have you gone blind, White Wolf?”
Geralt sighs.
“Fascinating,” Vesemir says, after Jaskier has suspiciously let him examine Jaskier’s claws and one of his wings before apparently deciding enough was enough and fluttering up on Geralt’s shoulder again. “I thought phoenixes had all died out.”
“I thought they were birds,” Lambert says. “ . . . Just birds.”
“Villentretenmerth,” Geralt reminds them, and then he puts his hand up to coax Jaskier off his shoulder. “Get off, you’re heavy.”
Jaskier slinks into his lap, clacking his beak and ruffling his feathers, so Geralt offers him a slice of venison. Jaskier gives him a look.
“Well, you can go to the fire instead,” Geralt offers, because there’s always a giant roaring fire in the main hall even when it’s only Vesemir manning the place. It makes it easy to have a quick avenue to cook or to drive the chill off after climbing up to Kaer Morhen. It’s also extremely hot, so much so that Geralt usually gets Ciri’s food so she doesn’t burn herself, but he doubts that’ll be a problem for Jaskier.
Jaskier makes a soft sound and curls up instead.
Geralt shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says.
Eventually, after a long dinner and night of trading stories, they all start drifting off to bed. Vesemir goes first, taking a protesting but yawning Ciri with him. Eskel goes next, clapping Geralt on the shoulder and murmuring a respectful good night to the dozing phoenix on Geralt’s lap. When Lambert starts getting a drunken manic glint in his eye, glancing between Jaskier and the fire, Geralt decides it’s a sign and stands up.
Jaskier squawks indignantly and slaps Geralt in the face with his tail, so Geralt ends up staggering out of the hall trying to balance a writhing and grumpy phoenix in his arms. By the time he’s found balance, he’s sweaty and tired, so he takes the stairs down instead of up, ignoring Jaskier’s questioning chirps.
He balances Jaskier on one of the stone benches, grateful that the heat won’t bother him, and then strips and climbs into the nearest pool. Baths in inns and taverns are great, better than icy rivers or freezing ponds, but nothing beats the almost scalding intensity of Kaer Morhen’s hot springs. Even Ciri, used to royal palaces and the finer things in life, found the hot springs a certified treat after a long day of sword practice, and Geralt regrets that he couldn’t show Jaskier.
“Hot springs,” he tells Jaskier, who has his head cocked curiously. “Mages made them, a long time ago. Magic keeps them clean.”
Jaskier chirps.
“I don’t think you should get in,” Geralt warns, when he sees Jaskier ruffle his wings. “I don’t think hot water and feathers mix. Or you’ll just get steamed alive.”
Jaskier gives him an insulted look – and then promptly dives into the waters faster than Geralt can catch him.
“Jaskier!” Geralt yells, flinging one hand out to grasp a feather, a wing, a claw, whatever he can –
And then his hand fingers a shoulder, an arm, a hand, and he hauls out a very human bard.
“Wow, these are really, really hot!” Jaskier says, as upbeat and chirpy as he ever is. “I’m truly insulted that you never mentioned these, Geralt, they would have made a wonderful addition to my ballads about Kaer Morhen – Geralt?”
“ . . . You’re . . . human,” Geralt says stupidly.
“Well, yes. I apologize for not turning back earlier, but even my magic has its limits. Turning back into a full sized human from baby bird stage would have been, hmm, unpleasant. Also I don’t think you had spare clothes for me, and frankly, I would drown in your spares. That or suffocate from the fumes of dead monster blood.”
“I washed those out,” Geralt mutters. “Ciri.”
“Oh, that makes sense. Is she the reason Roach’s hair is braided too? Love the new Roach, by the way.”
Geralt goes to say yes, because one day Ciri had just gotten incredibly bored and starting braiding anything that stood still long enough, but then he freezes, because he never braided any of his horses when he had traveled with Jaskier, which means –
“Geralt?”
“You were conscious. When I saved you. This whole time.”
Jaskier blinks at him. “Yesssss,” he says, drawing out the word slowly like he thinks Geralt is being slow. “I mean, I was running mostly on instinct until the first fire, but I’ve been alive for a long time, Geralt. If I regressed to an infant’s mind every time I was reborn, I would have been caught a long time ago.”
It’s completely sensible and reasonable. It’s also terrifying.
Geralt swallows. He can’t make his hand let go of Jaskier, even though he must be squeezing tight enough to bruise. “So then you heard me when – ”
“Yes, I did.” Jaskier kicks his legs and swims closer, until their chests touch. “I must say, I would have preferred a more lavish apology, but, well, beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take it.”
“You shouldn’t just – ”
“That’s my call, not yours,” Jaskier interrupts firmly, poking him in the chest exactly like when he used to peck at Geralt’s fingers. “I am the injured party, therefore I decide when the injury is over with. Besides, you did rescue me in a rather dashing fashion. Although I will miss my lute.”
“We’ve got one around here somewhere.”
“Excellent! Um, Geralt.”
“What.”
“Are you going to let me go? I promise I can’t drown. Well,” he revises, “I can, but I’d just come back, so, you know.”
“No dying allowed,” Geralt says roughly.
Jaskier smiles and cups his cheek. “Dying is sort of part of life for a phoenix.”
“Never again.”
“Okay,” Jaskier says softly, and they both know that it’s more than just acquiescing to Geralt’s promise.
That’s Jaskier, all right. Always making room for Geralt – or, more likely, elbowing his way into Geralt’s life and making space for himself, enriching Geralt’s life beyond what he ever could have had on his own, letting him pass through the fires of friendship and still accepting the slightly burnt man at the end with open arms.
“Okay,” Jaskier says again, and Geralt has to kiss him for that.
Jaskier tastes like smoke and minerals and clean, rejuvenating fire. It’s like coming home. It’s everything Geralt has ever wanted.
It also, unfortunately, causes actual smoke when Jaskier sets some of the water on fire.
“That’s it,” Geralt coughs. “No more transforming in the hot springs.”
“What – it’s not my fault! You went and kissed me! You can’t blame a man for being excited when the love of his life finally – Geralt, why are you looking at me like that?”
“You love me?”
“Honestly,” Jaskier complains, and hauls him in for a second kiss, bruising and hot and absolutely perfect.
Jaskier sets some of the pillows on fire too. Geralt sighs and stomps them out on the floor and resigns himself to being Jaskier’s pillow instead.
“You’re so warm,” Jaskier says drowsily. “Please never move from this spot again.”
“We need to clean up.”
“Or we could stay right here and sleep.”
“ . . . Or we could sleep,” Geralt concedes, and folds his arms around Jaskier, and lets himself finally sleep.
FINIS