Chapter Text
Jaskier is caught in a very familiar position when the mage curses him: in bed with a woman, his dark hair mussed and messy, his cheeks flushed deep red. The woman sits across from him in a similar state of disrepair, blinking dully up at her husband.
The mage does not have much to say on the matter. His hands do all the talking, crackling with magic. Jaskier doesn't even have time to plead his case—and plead he would have, given the opportunity—when the mage flicks his fingers and Jaskier goes from an uncursed bard to a cursed one.
The worst part, Jaskier thinks to himself, is that they did not even make love like the mage assumed. That had been Jaskier’s original plan, of course. He had seen the lovely woman drinking an ale all by her lonesome at the tavern downstairs, brown ringlets like ribbons and a round, sweet face. Older, perhaps, but nothing to be scared away by.
He slid into the seat across from her with an easy grin and seductive eyes, watching her for any signs of discomfort. But she smiled back, and waved the barmaid over for another drink, and Jaskier had sighed with relief. He desperately needed company tonight who was not Geralt.
He loved Geralt, of course he did—but that was rather the problem. He loved him too much, and it hurt sometimes, knowing the witcher did not love him back. That he considered Jaskier a harmless nuisance at best, and that that would have to be enough.
But then Jaskier brought the lovely woman, Lily, back to their room—Geralt would not be back from his contract until tomorrow, so what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him—and realized she sought his company for a similar reason. She kissed him deeply, her fingers stroking through his hair, but then salty tears dripped into both their mouths. She hiccuped a woman’s name, and when Jaskier pulled away with a grimace, Lily sobbed her way through a story of unrequited love—something Jaskier was very, very familiar with.
“Oh my,” Jaskier said, frowning. Careful not to cut her with his rings, he thumbed the tears off her red cheeks and wet nose. “I believe this calls for the best wine this establishment has to offer, dear. Which is likely rather awful, mind you, but it shall do in a pinch.”
And so Jaskier retrieved a bottle of red wine and two finger-stained glasses. He sat cross-legged across from her on the bed, wine glass wobbling between his fingertips. Then he nodded at her in encouragement: “Okay, now we’re ready. Tell me everything.”
They had not quite gotten to the mage husband part of the story—Lily’s description of her unrequited love could have filled books, it was so well-described—when the mage quietly opened the door and walked in. If they had reached that part of the story earlier, Jaskier would likely have taken their conversation to more neutral grounds, such as the public tavern tables and chairs. Not a bed with sheets still spilling tantalizingly over the edge.
And so Jaskier is cursed, just like that. The magic is not flashy, not like a bolt of fire or lightning or anything of that nature. Instead, it looks the way dust does in a sunbeam, glittery and near invisible. It is almost disappointing, anticlimactic.
It sinks into his skin, and nothing happens at first. He sneezes, and wonders if it truly is dust, if this mage is a fraud with a handful of parlor tricks.
But then his stomach swoops, like he’s fallen from a very great height. He loses all feeling in his feet, in his calves, in his legs. Unable to stay upright on the bed any longer, he topples to his side, lost in a mess of wine-wet sheets. Even his mouth is numbing, his tongue useless between his teeth. He tries to yelp, or shriek, or cry, but nothing comes out at all.
“Robert, no!” Lily cries in his stead. She clambers off the bed, but wobbles thanks to the wine in her veins. The mage steadies her with a limp grasp on her arm.
The mage—Robert—what an unromantic name—stands quietly over Jaskier, watching the curse take root, one hand still held aloft, surrounded by his dust magic. Even in this act of supposed vengeance, his eyes are empty, as if he is punishing Jaskier for decorum’s sake, rather than passion or love or hatred. Also very unromantic, Jaskier thinks.
Numbness tingles in Jaskier’s fingers. He cannot feel his body anymore; he feels like his mind has detached from everything else, like a broken ship anchor sinking, sinking, sinking. He is almost too numb to feel the fear that rabbits in his chest. Almost.
He is helpless to save himself, now, and Geralt is not here to save him, either.
Geralt is going to be so mad.
The mage sighs. “Larger than life, you are. I have always admired your ballads. Perhaps I should have . . .”
Another sigh, much deeper. “Oh, well. In another life. Liliana, I’m sure we have much to . . .”
As Jaskier’s eyes close, and gray unconsciousness beckons, he hopes that Lily finds more romance in her life. Melitele knows she deserves it.
#
Sometimes, after a curse—because this is not the first time Jaskier has been cursed, and it will not be the last—it’s hard to tell what exactly has been altered.
Once, Jaskier was cursed with the inability to say the word “lute,” which was annoying once he realized, but nothing that could not be worked around. Another time, he was cursed so that his hats would always fall off his head, even on a windless day. Again, annoying, but hats were not even trending at the time, so he did not catch on to that one for weeks.
This time, when he wakes at dawn, it becomes immediately clear how he has been cursed. Stretching obnoxiously, he yawns. His stretch comes to a halt when he hits glass. The low thunk makes him frown, and he opens his eyes wider.
A wall of glass lies in front of him, oddly curved. His palm presses into the clear surface and leaves smudges behind. Like a window, or a very large vase, or—
Or a wine glass, still stained with red.
His handprint is swallowed by the glass around it. Even when he splays out his fingers, he only covers a tiny portion. He certainly could not hold this wine glass anymore; it looks big enough for him to crawl inside and take an uncomfortable nap instead.
This can mean one of two things. Either the mage cursed him so that his wine glass is incredibly large, bigger than he is, or the mage cursed him so that he is incredibly tiny. Dread trickles in, slow but potent. He can hazard a guess as to which one.
“Fuck,” he says, muffled. His voice feels so small, like it traveled the length of the bed and then stopped.
Painful shivers run through him as he stands, his body waking after the numbness. He pads on wrinkled, wine-stained sheets.
His head should be close to the ceiling, standing on the bed like this. It’s not. Instead, the bunched sheets surround him like hills of white, climbing taller than his head. His black heeled boots—which shrunk with him, along with the rest of his clothing—barely indent the mattress, his weight equivalent to a mouse scampering on the covers (a sight Jaskier has witnessed too many times to count now at taverns. This does not make him shriek for Geralt any less when it happens).
If the sheets are hills to Jaskier, the rest of the furniture are mountains. The little end table with Jaskier’s nice blue leather-bound notebook is not so little anymore; it is several lengths taller than he. He’s not even sure that he could make the leap from the edge of the bed to the little table. The notebook could make a suitable bed for Jaskier—in size if not in comfort.
Hidden partly by a curtain, the wooden bathtub looks more like a canyon than a one-person bath. Next to that, the door leading to the hallway yawns up to the ceiling, like a cavern entrance, so tall that Jaskier has to painfully crane his neck. Even the doorknob looks impossible to reach.
Jaskier holds his hand up to the sun illuminating the window, ignoring how his rings jangle anxiously, a musical mess. His hand looks normal to him, proportional and unharmed. His whole body feels fine, really, except for the teeny tiny problem that he is teeny tiny.
“Don’t panic, Jaskier,” he says, but then his voice comes out all squeaky and small, and his breath goes wheezy when he hears it. Because Jaskier’s voice has always filled a room, even a crowded one, and now he worries no one will be able to hear him at all.
How will he sing? His eyes land on his lute, his very large lute that he could climb like a tree branch, his very large lute that sits on a very large chair that he can’t even reach—
Oh Melitele. Will Geralt even be able to hear him? Is he too small and quiet for even a witcher’s ears now?
“Okay, you’re panicking, Jaskier, you’re panicking, you’re panicking, quit panicking—”
He doesn’t want to look at the giant room anymore. He crawls underneath the hilly white sheets and then closes his eyes, willing his heart to slow the fuck down. The heavy sheets drown him, but it's almost comforting, like how Geralt’s arm bands around Jaskier when he tries to fight at a tavern. He focuses on that comparison, that line of warmth, and slowly his panic eases.
“Okay,” he whispers, some time later, once he feels calm enough. “Now think, Jaskier. What would Geralt do?”
Carefully, Jaskier lifts a corner of the sheets, crawling on his belly until he can peek out again. The room swims back into view, giant and awful. Jaskier resists the temptation to pull himself back under the covers.
Jaskier swallows hard. “Geralt would evaluate the area for any threats first. Let me see here . . .”
Most obviously in terms of threat, the mage is long gone, along with Lily. They’re likely not in the tavern anymore. But when they left, they left the door unlocked behind them, which could pose a concern. Any drunkard could stumble in. Or maid. Or someone who dislikes witchers. Or bards.
Truthfully, though, Jaskier’s main concern for threats lies in the room's dusty corners. He squints fearfully into those shadows and listens for any whiskers rustling or claws scratching. If a rat is down there . . . or under the bed . . .
Well, Jaskier was scared of rats when he was twenty times their size. Now? When even the smallest rat would be bigger than him?
He doesn't even wish to dwell on it. He shudders.
“I shall wait for Geralt to return,” he declares. “Then I can see for myself what Geralt would do. Yes, that is an excellent plan. Good thinking, Jaskier.”
Jaskier nods firmly to himself, satisfied with his wise decision.
(What would Geralt do? Truly? Are you half-witted? What makes you think he won’t take one disgusted look at you and leave you behind? You’re no use to him like this. To anyone.)
The voice in Jaskier’s head is somehow even worse than the squeaky one. He crawls back under the sheets, to the middle of the bed where no one can bother him (hopefully not even a rat), eyes watering, and does his best to quiet them both.
#
The sun has moved a few notches to the west by the time Geralt comes back. Jaskier only knows this because he has moved every so often to follow the sunbeam like a cat, seeking the yellowy warmth.
Geralt’s key clacks in the door lock, then stops. There’s a creak as the door swings open, the confident footfall of Geralt’s boots, and then his voice, tired and annoyed: “Bard, if you got yourself killed because you left the door unlocked again, I’m not—” His words cut off.
For Jaskier’s button-size ears, Geralt’s voice is loud. It rattles in his skull like broken bits of bone, and he cups his ears, bunching sheets around them for protection.
He wonders if this is how Geralt feels when Jaskier rambles too loud on the Path. His stomach sinks.
“What the fuck?” Geralt mutters, lower now, like he’s speaking only to himself. “He’s not—But then why do I—?”
Footfalls grow quieter, and there’s a soft swoosh as Geralt draws aside the bathtub curtain, likely looking for Jaskier soaking there.
“Bard?” Geralt says into the room at large, confused, and perhaps even concerned, although Jaskier is surely hearing only what he wants to hear. He inhales deeply, and Jaskier realizes he must smell Jaskier, even if he can’t see him.
Still hidden under hills of sheets, Jaskier decides this moment is as good as any for his debut. His heart in his throat, he pipes up, “Hi.”
The heavy weight of Geralt’s gaze is on him instantly. “Jaskier.”
In a flash, Geralt is at the bedside, hand falling on the blanket to yank it away, to expose him. Geralt is almost close enough to brush over top of Jaskier’s head.
“No!” Jaskier shrieks. “Wait, wait, stop!”
Geralt stops, thank Melitele, but his hand doesn’t move. His voice betrays his gritted teeth. “What the fuck,” he says, “did you do?”
"Not even a hello for your favorite bard?"
Silence.
Jaskier laughs hollowly. “I might have gotten into a teeny tiny spot of trouble while you were off witchering. Just a smidge, really. It’s nothing to even concern yourself with. In the grand scheme of trouble I have gotten into, this does not even rank in the top ten—”
“Jaskier, tell me what is wrong with you right now, or I’m finding out myself.” Geralt’s hand tightens in warning. His thumb brushes over Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier jumps, startled. Scared.
“Don’t be mad,” Jaskier says miserably. “Please please don’t be mad.”
Geralt says nothing. Jaskier’s shoulders droop, but there’s nothing for it—he cannot hide in this bed forever. Not when this angry witcher is his only chance of reversing the curse in the first place.
He crawls to the edge of the bed, avoiding Geralt’s wide hand. Or at least he thinks that is where he's going—the sheets are like a maze, tangling around his short arms and legs and tussling his hair. He tries to pull the fabric over his head, but it is rather heavy now, actually, and he cannot tell where it begins and ends. Maybe it will never end. Why did he think crawling to the middle of the bed would be a good idea? He’s like a swimmer who swam to the middle of the lake and can’t reach the shore.
“Um.” His cheeks redden. “I fear I might have lost my way. Would you mind—?”
White sheets fly up and over his head. The wine glass rolls off the edge and crashes into slivers on the floor. Sunlight pierces Jaskier’s eyes, too much at once, making him squint.
Geralt's scowl is there to greet him. Like everything else in his world now, Geralt is big. Geralt the Giant, Jaskier thinks with a delusional little giggle.
Jaskier can see every beautiful fleck in Geralt’s wide yellow eyes; he can see the stressed scrunch at the bridge of his angular, very long nose; he can see the dried circles of mud on his cheekbones. Jaskier’s fingers are so small now that he could probably draw tiny smiley faces in the mud if that weren’t gross.
Geralt isn’t saying anything, but his expression is darkening by the second.
Jaskier gives a little wave and tries very hard not to feel like a cornered mouse. “Good to see you as always, Geralt. How did the contract go? What was it you were fighting again—a striga, yes?”
Geralt continues to stare at him. The scowl might become permanent if he maintains it like this, Jaskier thinks with a sniff.
“Have I mentioned yet that I might have also been slightly cursed?”
“I guessed as much.”
“Oh, good.” Jaskier claps his hands together. The sound is about as loud as a dropped pin. “Glad we are on the same page.”
Also very glad you can hear me with those witchery ears of yours, he almost says, but doesn’t. If he says it, the leftover fear will still be there, burnt into his words, and he doesn’t need Geralt to hear that.
“The same page? Are you serious?” Geralt’s hand indents sharply into the mattress as he leans forward, and Jaskier’s body sinks down with it. His eyes have that frazzled look they get after a potion, wild and dangerous. “I leave for one day, one day, and come back to you the size of a literal rat. What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”
Jaskier’s voice gets even smaller, which he did not know was possible. “Please don’t compare me to a rat. You are not making my phobia any better, if you must know. Also, I am much prettier than a rat. Could a rat ever dress this stylishly? No, it could not.”
Jaskier focuses on the rat part so he does not have to focus on the what the fuck am I supposed to do with you part. The rat part might be scary, but the second part is terrifying.
After a moment, Geralt leans back. The angry lines in his face fade some. He places his swords and potions bag on the floor (normally he throws them on the bed, but thankfully he must realize that would send Jaskier flying). Then he drags up the chair, rehoming Jaskier’s lute on the floor in a surprisingly careful manner, and sits down. “Okay,” he says finally, calmer. “Tell me what trouble you got yourself into this time.”
Jaskier fidgets. “Are you sure you do not wish to bathe first? Surely all that pesky mud is irking you—”
“Talk.”
Jaskier sighs in defeat. He brings his legs up and rests his chin on his knees. He’s always had to look up at Geralt, but this is ridiculous now, the way he tilts to meet the man’s disappointed eyes. “There was a lovely woman—”
Geralt snorts. An indecipherable shadow crosses his face. “Of course there was.”
“Are you telling this tale, or am I?” Jaskier continues, “There was a lovely woman. Caught in the whirlwinds of love and romance—”
“Lust.”
“The same thing, really, lust and love—”
“No, they’re not.”
Jaskier huffs, looking at the witcher he is very much in love with, hating that he is right. “Hush, dear. Anyway, I brought this lovely lady up to our room, for the purposes of making love”—Geralt glares at him, and he throws up his hands, “They do not call it making lust, now do they, Geralt? That would be silly.”
“Yeah, that’s why it’s just called fucking—”
“Would you let me be a romantic for one moment?” Jaskier scowls. “Regardless of the terminology used, we did not do either. Rather, we talked instead, had a lovely conversation and some not so lovely wine. That’s when the mage found us.”
“Her husband,” Geralt says flatly.
Jaskier nods. “You can see the results of that encounter for yourself.” Glumly, he points a tiny hand at himself, buried in a bed several times his size. “On the bright side—my clothes shrunk with me. Small blessings, no?”
Geralt is looking at him like he sees no blessings here.
“If it helps my case any,” Jaskier says, meekly, “she did not enlighten me as to the mage husband’s existence.”
“They never do, with you.” Geralt scoffs. “What were you even talking with her about? You don’t—you don’t usually do that with them. Talk, I mean.” If Jaskier did not know any better, he would almost say Geralt looked hurt, his eyebrows adorably scrunched together.
Jaskier flushes. “Does it matter?”
“It does when I’m the one who has to save your ass. Again.”
“Sorry,” Jaskier says quietly. He wrings his hands in his lap. “The conversation was nothing important. The mage didn’t even hear it. He just saw us together and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Can you blame him? You were drinking with his wife in your bed. What were you thinking? Do you realize how fucking helpless you are like this? People can crush you like a fucking bug, Jaskier. How am I supposed to pro—” Geralt cuts himself off abruptly. His expression shutters.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says again. For once, words do not feel like enough. Much to his shame, his eyes water. “I’m not trying to make things more difficult for you, Geralt. You’re my very best friend,” he sniffs. “I want to make your life better. The best, if I can. You know that, right?”
Geralt says nothing. He won’t even look at him. The silence goes so long, in fact, the quiet disappointment, that Jaskier can bear it no longer. He gets his feet under him, teetering on the soft mattress like a drunkard on perfectly smooth floors. He’s not sure where he’s going—closer to Geralt? Who can say?
Also like a drunkard, he makes it two steps before he faceplants, forehead smushed into the sheets. He whines. “Ow.”
“What the hell, Jaskier? Where did you think you were even going? Off the bed so you can plummet to the floor?”
Much to his shock, a hand swoops around him, clasped gingerly around his waist. He is lifted back into an upright position, sitting, not standing. Then the fingers let go, the warmth gone just like that.
On his ass, Jaskier blinks at Geralt, baffled. He is used to Geralt manhandling him sometimes on the Path—gripping his elbow when he trips over a rock, pulling him out the way of a merchant’s cart when he’s distracted by pretty roadside flowers—but this is something else entirely. Geralt’s large hand is the size of Jaskier himself, now. He’s not sure how to feel about it.
Geralt seems to feel the same bafflement. His fingers hover in the air like he has forgotten how to use them. “Sorry,” he says gruffly. “Force of habit. I’ll stop.”
Jaskier blinks at him again, then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Truly.”
And he doesn’t. Like Geralt said, it’s frightening, how small he is. How fragile. How helpless. He could be crushed by a person’s mere hand now. By strong fingers wrapped around his waist, breaking his bones one by one. People like to kill the little things.
But this is Geralt. He trusts this witcher, always. He has always happily placed his life in Geralt’s hands—so what if that becomes more literal now?
And so Jaskier does not mind.
(So long as Geralt does not leave him, Geralt can’t hurt him.)
He does a little mock bow, which looks rather silly sitting down like he is, but needs must. He grins playfully. “I am at your mercy, dear witcher. Won’t you help a humble, very sorry bard be restored to his former glory?” Silence, and then, slightly less teasing, slightly more desperate: “Please?”
“I don’t break curses for free, bard.” This is what Geralt always says, right before he breaks the latest curse that has befallen Jaskier, free of charge. Geralt’s heroic actions have always spoken louder than his gruff words.
“What are contracts between friends?” Jaskier shoots back. “My exquisite company should be payment enough, don’t you think?” A pause, then: “And one bag of dried cherries, once I am at a suitable enough size to shop at a market again. Take it or leave it, witcher.”
Silence. Jaskier’s palms are wet with sweat. Slowly, his smile fades. Why isn’t Geralt saying anything? Perhaps Geralt’s words are not meaningless, this time, perhaps he truly is well and done with Jaskier, perhaps he is about to stand up, retrieve his swords, and leave Jaskier here to fend—
“Deal. Come on, then.”
Jaskier looks up. Tentatively, Geralt is holding a hand out, palm up and fingers flat. His hand is steady in the way that only a witcher’s can be.
“We’ll track down the mage who cursed you first,” Geralt says, matter of fact. “He’s our best bet. If he can’t break it, we’ll find someone who can.” His gaze hardens with resolve. “You won’t stay like this, bard.”
The promise twines around Jaskier like a warm scarf in winter, coils of protection. Jaskier’s heart grows too big for his body, nestling against shrunken bones.
His smile returns, bright and trusting. Geralt doesn’t smile back, but his eyes aren't disappointed anymore, at least.
“Oh, wow. I mean, wow. Thank you, Geralt. I don't understand what all the fuss is about for knights in shining armor—you trump all of them, clearly. In heroics, in charming declarations, in looks, in, well, everything. I am in fine hands here. Fine metaphorical hands. However, from a literal perspective—” Jaskier scrunches his nose. “Your hand is still covered in guts, darling. If this is to be my means of transportation for the foreseeable future, I prefer it to be clean. Please wash your hands first.”
If Jaskier thought Geralt was scowling earlier, that’s nothing on his expression now. “You insolent—”
“You can apply some of my moisturizer while you’re at it. My treat.”
Geralt swipes at him, gently, so he does not actually harm him. Jaskier rolls away, giggling.
And so the contract between witcher and bard begins.
#
Later, they do not find Robert in town. Not in the tavern, not in the shops, not even in his residence, a well-to-do house with a locked door and dark windows.
“He took off. Probably didn’t know ya bard was friendly with a witcher,” a nosy old woman tells Geralt, having overheard Geralt’s unsuccessful conversation with the apothecary. “When he heard, I’m sure he ran for the hills. I don’t blame ‘im—you’re pretty scary, you know that?”
Geralt hums.
“A nice braid or two would do ya wonders,” the woman scolds him, gesturing to his straggly, unwashed hair. “Just a thought.”
“Which way did he go?”
“East, he did.” The woman points confidently West. “Don’t kill him, you hear? Best mage we’ve ever had, that old boy.”
Geralt nods. With that, they’re on their way Westward, on the track of Robert the mage, who apparently not only lacks passion in his vengeance, but a spine, too. Geralt rides on Roach, bags and lute tacked to the saddle, swords strapped to his back.
And then there is Jaskier, popping his head up further from one of the pack's side pockets with an indignant huff.
“If you do not free me from this imprisonment right this very instant, I shall—”
“You want someone to see you?”
“Of course not, but we’re on the road now. There’s not a soul around. Let me out. I need to breathe.” Scrunching his nose, he adds, “Remind me when I’m me again that your potions bag needs a thorough scrubbing. It stinks like death in here.”
“That would be the crow's eyes—they spilled in that pocket once.”
“Ew, Geralt!” With effort—the pocket is fairly tight, pressed snug to the bag—Jaskier wrestles one arm free, then the other. He flails them around like a man drowning. “Let me out. Let me out. Let me—”
Before Jaskier can so much as yelp, fingers scoop him out of the pocket, and he is in the air. They have done this a few times now—this transfer from pocket to palm—but that makes it no less dizzying. The first time it happened, Jaskier almost threw up all over Geralt’s freshly washed hands, which would have been quite the lesson. Jaskier is a little sorry that he did not. Regardless, Geralt knows to make his movements slower, now.
Geralt deposits Jaskier into his left palm, his non-dominant hand. His dominant hand stays on Roach’s reins.
They assume what Jaskier now likes to call the helping hand position: Jaskier seated sideways in Geralt’s flattened palm, legs swinging cheerfully in the air. Jaskier steadies himself with one arm curled around Geralt’s thumb, which Geralt leaves at an upward angle, while the rest of his fingers curl up slightly, acting like an armrest.
Any human would tire of holding this position for long. Luckily, Geralt is no human.
Geralt stares down at him, unimpressed. “Happy?”
“Yes, very. Thank you for the helping hand, my hero.”
“For the last time, don’t call it that, or I’ll stop doing it,” Geralt growls.
“If you even try to stuff me in that bag again,” Jaskier says sweetly, “I will rip it apart with my teeth.”
Geralt, settling into his stoic-witcher-on-the-path-who-craves-silence-like-air mood, says nothing to that. He focuses on the empty road in front of them. But Jaskier is not ready for the conversation to be over yet, especially since he did not get to have any fun conversing with the townspeople, cooped up in the pack on his lonesome.
“I thought I told you to ask about Lily,” Jaskier scolds. “It doesn’t sound like she’s with Robert anymore. I wished to know where she went off to.”
“I forgot.”
“Liar. You just didn’t want to talk to people, you grouch. Which I will never be able to fathom, by the way. What would life be without conversation? It would be dreadful, dull, dastardly—”
“Peaceful,” Geralt replies. “That’s what it would be.”
Jaskier pretends to ponder that, steepling his fingers together in his lap. “No, I don’t think so, Geralt. Thank you for your input, and I would love to give you the benefit of the doubt here, but I simply cannot. I am the wordsmith between us—so you can leave the words to me.”
Geralt seems to wholeheartedly agree with that—he goes silent, thus leaving all words to Jaskier. Jaskier sighs.
“I hope Lily ran off with that woman. What was her name? Rose, I believe.” He frowns. “Were their names truly both flowers? Yes, I think they were. I cannot decide if that is romantic—flowers blooming together like fate—or rather contrived. Which do you think?”
Jaskier twists around, glancing at their grassy surroundings for any flower patches, since he is thinking of them. Perhaps he could make Geralt a flower crown, although his hands might prove too small for the task. Geralt’s hand shifts reflexively around him so he doesn’t fall, like armor made of skin and muscle. Gold eyes flash at him in warning. Sadly, Jaskier doesn’t find any flowers.
Jaskier lifts his chin. “I’m deciding for the both of us—we find it romantic. Lily deserves her happy ending, flowery names and all. I hope she gets it.”
Jaskier is not one to talk, anyway, since he is named after a flower too. Geralt might pretend not to listen, but based on the flat stare Geralt levels him with, Jaskier imagines that Geralt is thinking the same thing.
They make better time than usual, since Jaskier doesn't slow them down by walking on foot. Jaskier swings his boots back and forth, watching the ground sway far below him with Roach’s heavy footfalls.
For a moment, the voice in his head wonders if Geralt might like him better this way. If he is less of a burden like this, small like a doll, like a puppet with its strings cut. Then he remembers he is a burden this way, too, that that is one characteristic forever unchanged. Too much, not enough—it does not matter. The thought dead ends.
He goes back to flower watching. He listens to the birds above, too, trying to recognize their calls, until Geralt scratches Roach behind her ear, and she blows happily out her nose, scaring the birds away.
Sometime later, there are still no flowers, still no birds, and Jaskier is still bored. Quite frankly, without his lute, unable to even walk around to burn off energy, he is bored out of his wits.
He asks, “Where are we going?”
“West.”
“Well, yes, I know that much,” Jaskier says haughtily. “The woman told you Robert traveled East, you know.”
“She pointed West.”
Jaskier shrugs innocently. “All I am saying is that perhaps you should have lended more credence to her words. She was old and wise, Geralt.”
Geralt hums.
“Perhaps she was a wise prophet, guiding us on our cursed journey. And now that we have not heeded her wisdom, both directionally and in . . . other ways, we shall both suffer horrid fates the like of which we have never—”
Geralt quirks a tired eyebrow. “Are you trying to get at something here, bard? Spit it out.”
“She suggested a braid might be nice. Wisely.”
“No.”
“Geralt,” whines Jaskier. He swoons on Geralt’s palm like it is a fainting couch, one wrist splayed dramatically over his forehead. “Just one teeny tiny braid.”
“Jaskier.”
“Okay, two teeny tiny braids, but that’s it. One on each side. For the symmetry!”
Geralt sighs. Finally, he asks, voice low, “What, do you think I need that or something? To look—more pleasant?”
The halted words are to Jaskier’s heart what prodding fingers are to a fresh bruise. Jaskier’s face falls. “Oh no, dear heart—oh, I’m so sorry. I should have never pushed. I was just bored—I feel a little like a doll, sitting here like this, or in the pocket—and you know how I adore playing with your hair. I thought braids might be fun.” He curls closer around Geralt’s thumb, like a hand hug. “You don’t need to change any part of yourself for others, Geralt. You are perfect the way you are, monster guts and all.”
Geralt’s shoulders have stiffened. His eyes widen, although so slightly it is hard to notice. Jaskier likely would not have if he were regular-sized. But now Geralt’s eyes look so round and intense, like miniature suns.
Jaskier’s hand hug is broken by Geralt lifting him in the air without warning, sudden but steady. His hand is warm, pleasantly so, and smells like Jaskier’s moisturizer.
Carefully, he is settled on Geralt’s shoulder, wobbly. “Hold on tight,” Geralt warns. “I’m not catching you if you fall.”
Jaskier chooses to ignore that hopefully bald-faced lie and gazes around from his new perch. For balance, he grasps a rope of Geralt’s hair. “Geralt, why did you—”
“We’re taking them out once we make camp. Not a moment later.”
Jaskier stares dumbly at Geralt’s beautiful hair that he is holding, hair that Geralt is giving him permission to braid.
Before he can stop himself, he is leaning forward to give Geralt a tiny kiss on the cheek. “Really? You mean it? Oh, you will not regret this, Geralt, you will look like a goddess by the time I—”
Geralt has stilled beneath him. Probably discomfited by the sudden kiss. Jaskier scolds himself and leans away.
“Just braid the hair, bard.” Geralt’s words rumble around the edges.
“R-Right.”
By the time they stop to make camp, Jaskier has woven not two tiny braids in Geralt’s lovely hair, but six, tapping Geralt impatiently on the shoulder like a persistent woodpecker whenever he needed a lift to the other side. Oddly enough, his small size made the process much more fun, like he was braiding curtains and not hair.
An absolute shameless liar, Geralt does not remove the braids until the next morning. At one point, Jaskier catches Geralt watching his reflection in a pond they settled by for the night, touching a braid with a rare calm on his face. When Geralt does take the braids out, right before they are to leave for the day, his hair cascades down in white waves.
“Like a goddess,” Jaskier teases, but his words pull some of his heart along with them, softening the syllables to mush.
Geralt goes all stiff, like he did with the sudden kiss last night. But then he mumbles, “Thanks,” stilted and sincere. After a moment: “I need to take a piss. Before we go.”
He makes a beeline for the pond. Jaskier grins.
(Jaskier is not dumb, either. It does not escape his notice that Geralt let him play with his hair, let him tug and weave and manhandle it like a toy. That Geralt pretended not to listen, but when Jaskier told him he felt like a doll, Geralt turned the tables. Even if only for an evening.)
Perhaps, he thinks, this curse will not be so awful after all.