What You See Is Not The Dark

by Chlorokin

Summary:

Geralt is a god of death who really doesn't want to be worshipped by anyone.

Jaskier, of course, has other ideas.

~~~

“Geralt, forgive me, I…I should not have come here, shouldn’t have disturbed you. Please allow me to withdraw my prayer, no one needs to die,” Jaskier says shakily, and even though there is fear in the bard’s heart for his own life, largely there is regret and horror that he asked for Valdo’s death.

The demigod sighs softly, going down to one knee in front of the mortal, and very gently tilting Jaskier’s face to look up at him with a gloved finger under the bard’s chin. The witcher tries to make his stern countenance a gentler one and offers the man a small but sad smile as he murmurs in his gravelly baritone, “That’s not how this works, Jaskier. I can…set aside your request, as it were, but it doesn’t just go away. A prayer made must be answered.”

~~~

“And what you see is not the dark. It's just the gods upturning ink pots 'cause they know what you'll become,”
-“Inkpot Gods” by The Amazing Devil

Notes:

• Inspired by The Reckless Song of Life and Death by phiaura

Chapter 1

There are a great many gods and demigods that inhabit or influence the different Spheres, and many mortals on the Continent acknowledge or worship the deities that they believe contribute most to their lives. 

Largely the divines move about unseen, but on occasion one might take the form of a mortal to walk among the men and elves, either for their own ends or for those who call upon them. It’s usually easier for mortals to garner favor from a demigod, as they tend to be more present in this Sphere, instead of transcending several Spheres like the major gods. But of course, demigods have a much more limited range of powers and affinities.

One such group of demigods are known collectively as Witchers. They hail from the hallowed halls of Kaer Morhen, a place of protection for the deities high up in the Blue Mountains, largely unreachable to mortals.

Primarily, Witchers are prayed to when someone is having trouble with monsters, and largely they are distrusted by mortals despite the help they give ridding the Continent of problematic monsters. No one quite knows how the minor deities do it, but if a prayer is made at the notice board of a settlement and an appropriate offering given there, the monsters tend to turn up dead shortly after. 

Besides their primary role as monster hunters, witchers are also known to have other, lesser alignments more traditional to a deity. And in order for mortals to call upon those blessings in prayer, there exist many shrines for the demigods and at least one large temple dedicated to each of the more well-known witchers, most of which are often depicted in the forms of wolves or dual-bladed warriors in the murals that adorn their temples. 

There are any number of witchers with more specific alignments, but those with the most notoriety of the minor deities number just six.

The demigod Lambert is associated with passion and resilience, Aiden is known for stealth and cunning, Coën is sought out for wisdom and patience, Eskel is associated with charisma and luck, Vesemir is regarded for knowledge and familial bonds, and the demigod Geralt is known to be aligned with death and mercy.

It is the last of these witchers that finds himself in the near-ruins of his own temple in Rivia, and Geralt is honestly quite bored. 

Rarely does the White Wolf visit his shrines or the derelict temple, and no one else visits either. 

Though Geralt is rumored to be stronger than the other witchers and more powerful in many ways, the mortals fear him most. Being a demigod of death doesn’t do wonders for his reputation, and while his temple is not desecrated per se, it certainly does not see much by way of pilgrimage or veneration.

And largely, Geralt just doesn’t care anymore.

He really should care, it should bother the demigod that the prayers in his name are few and far between, that offerings to him specifically are nearly nonexistent now. A witcher’s true power, like most divines, comes from the devotion of their followers. Being worshiped-even begrudgingly-gives the deities the very strengths and abilities that the people ask of them, and it’s what makes witchers strong enough to take down monsters.

It is an old magic, a Chaos as ancient as the Conjunction of the Spheres itself. And while witchers may be demigods and practically immortal because of that deep magic, most gods that fall from grace and lose the worship of the mortals find themselves diminished, only a husk of what they once were, and they fade slowly and finally die.

For witchers, however, things are a little different.

Because they are worshipped as a group and are prayed to as such, witchers don’t tend to fade. When an offering is made for a monster to be vanquished, any witcher may answer the call. 

So Geralt answers many prayers asking for defeat of a monster, much more than his brothers, and fulfilling those contracts gives him enough power to continue on. It does not, however, give him the strength that direct worship would grant him. Nor does Geralt have access to the glut of divine power that his more well-liked brothers get from having devout followers. The kind of power that only comes from offerings made in their own temples or in their names, and from prayers to the individual witcher asking of them that which the demigods are each known for.

Because mortals learned long ago to be wary when praying to the witcher demigod of death.

At the height of his power, when his temple was newly constructed and the witcher was revered instead of feared, Geralt was far stronger than all of his brothers. His name was uttered on the last breaths of many a dying mortal wishing for a quick and peaceful death, and Geralt gave them that mercy. He would snuff out the fading embers of their soul without causing any pain, and in their last moments, they would praise him.

Across the battlefields of countless wars, Geralt would patrol silently, unseen, to offer the merciful boon of death to the mortally wounded, and it was not uncommon for memorials to those lost in war to also pay homage to the White Wolf. His temple and shrines were largely visited by the grieving and mournful, and they would offer up prayers and tributes to Geralt in gratitude for the peaceful passing of their loved one, or to honor the memory of the one who had died.

But mortals are fickle creatures, greedy, and vicious.

After five hundred years or so, more and more people visited Geralt’s temple and his shrines to ask for the demigod to bring death upon another mortal.

Some were righteous in their want for vengeance or justice. But for the most part it was terrible people who would come, and they would try to offer up to the witcher what they thought was fair recompense for stealing the life away from another.

And it enraged Geralt.

He was not a cruel demigod, not evil or malicious, he did not take delight in causing death, but neither could he refuse the offerings of those worshipping him, their devotion gave him his power, and he was bound by their veneration, he had to act. 

But Geralt would never allow himself to be a puppet for the sadistic or maligned.

Mortals learned very quickly that those praying and giving offerings for the death of another, were just as likely to find themselves struck dead where they kneeled.

The demigod took no pleasure in cutting short a life that was not meant to end, but a deal was a deal. So the witcher would look into the heart of the person praying for the death of another, and if it was a justified death, if the person meant to die was wicked and hurting others, he would grant the prayer of his devotee. But if it was the heart of the supplicant instead who proved to be malevolent and cruel, Geralt would take their life, piling bodies in his temple during the darkest times of the mortals’ greed.

An offering was made, a death was doled out, but rumors spread far and wide that Geralt being a demigod of death meant he was dangerous to worship. People didn’t understand how he chose who should die, and many thought he took the lives of innocent worshipers of his, without ever knowing the darkened hearts of their peers.

People feared the witcher, and slowly, visits to his temple and shrines became fewer and fewer. Even those just grieving stopped coming to pay tribute, fearing the god’s seemingly volatile moods. And the practice of those suffering breathing their last with Geralt’s name on their lips slowly faded into obscurity and history.

If it wasn’t for the witchers still being needed as monster hunters, the White Wolf would have faded away entirely long ago. As it is now, he barely manages to stay strong enough to endure by answering prayers for monsters that need eliminating.

It isn’t always easy, either. Monsters are very powerful, often imbued with inherent Chaos themselves in a way only a deity would notice. And without devout followers of his own, Geralt’s diminished power is just enough for him to be able to defeat some monsters. Even utilizing the special potions and blade oils that witchers use, his silver blade is still barely able to cut them down, and often only after they manage to wound him as well.

Witchers might be impossible to truly kill, but that does not mean they cannot be gravely hurt, or that they can’t feel pain. 

Of course, it takes quite a lot more force to actually wound the demigods than it would a human or elf, and they can suffer the sort of pain and injury that would kill a mortal many times over without dying themselves. And though witchers do heal quite quickly as well, it still takes time. Geralt has lost more time than he cares to admit laid up in a healing state for wounds he wouldn’t have gotten if he were stronger, and with injuries that would heal far faster if he had actual devotees empowering him with their worship.

It’s frustrating for Geralt, but it’s also boring.

His brothers can portal to any of their shrines or temples at will, and they often do so while they walk the Paths among the mortals, hiding in plain sight and fighting monsters. But without his power, the White Wolf is largely just stuck among the mortals, able to obscure people from seeing him if he wishes, but not able to leave them behind as flippantly as the other witchers can. 

Geralt still returns to Kaer Morhen every winter, as do his brothers; it is widely known that all witchers return to their home up near the clouds for the cold months. It is usually only then that the White Wolf gets to spend time with his brothers, for whom he cares deeply.

The other witchers worry for Geralt, they have great concern to see their once strongest brother brought so very low.

But Geralt doesn’t want his power if it comes at the cost of being a pawn for wicked mortals. He doesn’t want true strength if it means becoming a monster himself.

The demigod’s rumination is cut short by the clatter of uneven footsteps on the cracked stone floor of his abandoned temple. Geralt is surprised someone has dared to enter the derelict ruin, especially considering the hour is currently very late in the night. He silently steps behind a still-standing marble pillar, not bothering to waste the power it would take to cloak himself entirely from mortal eyes, as he doubts the visitor will stay long.

From his hidden alcove, Geralt watches a brightly dressed and handsome young man struggling to make his way through the moonlit wreckage of the temple, a lute at his back and a nearly empty bottle of wine in his hand.

“Must’ve lost all of my fucking marbles, this is never gonna work,” the inebriated bard mumbles to himself as he goes, and it would surely be an easier trek if he weren’t swaying on his feet with every step on the rubble.

Geralt raises his heavy brows, watching curiously as the blue-eyed brunette finally arrives at the raised dais that holds the main altar situated before a large marble statue of the White Wolf himself.

The bard falls to his knees before the altar, looking up at the stone visage of Geralt in the light of the full moon streaming through a high window. His big blue eyes are a little more sober for a moment as he takes in the sight of the imposing square jaw, carved muscles, long hair, and two swords of the demigod of death.

After taking one last fortifying sip of his wine, the blue-eyed man begins to speak up to the statue, his melodic voice broken with sadness, “I don’t even know if you’re real. Fuck, I don’t know if half of you gods and demigods are real. I just know that you’re supposed to be the one who can deal out death and judgment, and I need your help. He’s taken everything from me, over and over, for years. Tormented me and broken me. And he’s taken away the woman I love, my muse, my heart. Valdo Marx has stolen away the Countess de Staelle, and without her, I have…nothing. I feel Valdo deserves to die, but if you don’t agree, if you want, take me instead. Only one of us should live in this awful world, and you win either way, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf of Death.”

It’s a pretty speech, and Geralt feels a familiar warmth spreading in his chest to finally have someone praying in his name. But the demigod frowns as well, saddened to once again be called on only to bear judgement and dole out a death. Luckily for Geralt, the bard has made no offering and his prayer was rather ambiguously worded, so the magical compulsion to actually answer the call is fairly low for the deity.

From his vantage point behind the pillar, the demigod reaches out with his mind to get a measure of this young man’s heart. Even before he does, he suspects this bard is not cruel or evil, just heartsick and very, very drunk. As Geralt filters through the thoughts and soul of the man, his name comes to the witcher. 

Jaskier. 

But that is not his only name, he’s a nobleman as well, a viscount. And he is a bard through and through, as the music in his heart is so powerful that it gives Geralt a slight thrill, but still the deity searches. He sees through Jaskier’s memories the measure of the man he has been called on to smite, and Valdo has not been kind to Jaskier.

Valdo has bullied Jaskier since their days together at Oxenfurt, he’s humiliated and sabotaged the brunette many times, and stolen more than one of Jaskier’s “muses”. And yet, Valdo is not a wicked man, either. He’s certainly a pretentious asshole, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die short of his destined time. 

Geralt carefully reflects on the heart of Jaskier, and finds without a shred of doubt that the blue-eyed bard does not deserve to die early, either. He is not cruel, far from it, Jaskier is often altruistic, especially to the downtrodden or weak. The bard loves so easily and so fiercely, and his absolute loyalty to those he cares for is intoxicating to a demigod like Geralt.

As the White Wolf silently considers the issue at hand, Jaskier stays there on his knees at the altar, sniffling quietly and sipping his wine, glancing up at the stone idol of Geralt now and again. “Y’know, they really did a good job of making you look quite sexy, Geralt. I mean, I have no clue if deities really look like anything, but I have heard it said that you witchers walk among us disguised as lowly mortals. But if this is what you truly look like, well, I’m certainly impressed,” Jaskier says almost conversationally, both his blatant flattery and familiarity surprising the demigod, who blinks a few times from his hiding spot.

“Yup, you’re one handsome fucker. I am really daft, aren’t I? Sitting here, talking to a statue, feeling sorry for myself. I dunno how I would even know if this worked. I don’t know if you can hear me, or how you would tell me whether or not you’re gonna kill Valdo, if you’re gonna kill me, I have no clue about anything,” the bard continues with a slur to his speech, sighing as he slips sideways from his knees to sit normally instead on the uncomfortable stone dais.

Jaskier has turned so his back is resting against the stone altar, and too late, Geralt realizes he himself will be in the bard’s line of sight from this angle if the man looks up. The witcher is uncertain if the midnight shadows in the temple will be enough to fully cloak his form from mortal eyes, and rather than waste the power it would take to make himself invisible, Geralt decides to step out of the shadows to address his would-be supplicant himself.

“I won’t kill you, Jaskier, and I won’t kill Valdo, either,” Geralt says plainly, his voice a gravelly growl.

The bard’s head snaps up at the voice and the movement from the shadows, and his blue eyes widen impossibly large in shock, wonder, and terror.

Geralt is truly something to behold, especially for a mortal. The demigod is tall, well over six feet, and his statue does not exaggerate the breadth of his shoulders or the sheer size of his muscles. His silvery white hair is worn long as it is on his effigy, and the two hilts of his swords stick up from over his shoulder. Not shown on his idol, are his intense yellow eyes, the pupils slitted like a cat’s. While most of Geralt’s body is covered in sturdy ink-black armor with metal studs, the armor itself is formed tight to his impressive musculature, and a dark cloak around his shoulders completes what is a fairly intimidating silhouette.

“Melitele preserve me, you’re real,” Jaskier barely chokes out in a whisper, and the witcher can’t help but smirk and exhale a snort at the bard’s invocation of the goddess’ name.

“Hmm, now Her, I wouldn’t cross. But, it isn’t Melitele’s temple you were kneeling in, nor Her altar that you’re leaning on,” Geralt remarks, amusement plain even in his gruff monotone voice.

Jaskier swallows hard a few times, his eyes still taking in every inch of the demigod of death before him. “I…you…shit, sorry,” the bard manages, sitting up away from the altar, and trying to stand to his feet. 

However, the young man is still quite drunk, and almost nearly trips right into the witcher’s arms. The shocked yelp that escapes Jaskier as he is caught and set back on his feet is quite funny to Geralt, but he doesn’t actually wish to startle the man any further, so he lets go of the bard's arms as soon as Jaskier can stand on his own.

“I didn’t really expect you to be…solid,” Jaskier says in confusion, blinking several times at the deity before him.

Geralt manages to suppress his amusement; mortals are so comically ill-informed. “I’m not a spirit. I could make myself incorporeal if I really needed to, but I see no current need,” the witcher points out, watching how the bard is looking down at the wine bottle in his hand.

“I must be drunk, like really drunk. I must’ve drank so much that I’m sleeping right now, and this is all a dream. Yeah, that’s what happened,” Jaskier mumbles slowly to himself, and Geralt rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his massive chest.

“A mortal implying that I’m not real in my own temple? Tsk, tsk, how rude,” the White Wolf says sarcastically, a small quirk of his lips letting on that he’s not actually offended.

“Fuck, sorry, I don’t know how to do any of this! Or what to do, or what to say, or what…not to say. I’m not terribly religious,” the bard says hastily, glancing uncertainly back the way he came, but he’d have to pass Geralt to get back to the exit.

“Kneeling was good, that’s a good start. But, usually you wouldn’t come to a temple while drunk, though I do like offerings of drinks, myself. Also, it’s customary to give a tribute when asking for a blessing, so you’re two for two on that. Though I am glad you didn’t make an offering with your prayer, because neither you nor Valdo deserve to die so young, and I abhor a needless death,” the demigod of death says, his amused tone shifting to one of frustration.

Jaskier pales further, his breath catching as he processes what seems to be an angry deity before him. The many drinks the bard had imbibed might’ve told him this was a smart plan at first, but logic finally seems to win through, and Jaskier realizes he doesn’t want to die. 

The mortal falls to his knees again, this time before the demigod himself, and Jaskier even bows his head more respectfully, though partially from fear, and Geralt wrinkles his nose a little at the scent of the young man’s terror.

“Geralt, forgive me, I…I should not have come here, shouldn’t have disturbed you. Please allow me to withdraw my prayer, no one needs to die,” Jaskier says shakily, and even though there is fear in the bard’s heart for his own life, largely there is regret and horror that he asked for Valdo’s death.

The demigod sighs softly, going down to one knee in front of the mortal, and very gently tilting Jaskier’s face to look up at him with a gloved finger under the bard’s chin. The witcher tries to make his stern countenance a gentler one and offers the man a small but sad smile as he murmurs in his gravelly baritone, “That’s not how this works, Jaskier. I can…set aside your request, as it were, but it doesn’t just go away. A prayer made must be answered eventually. As I said, because you offered nothing in exchange for your blessing, I do not feel the need to fulfill your request right away, but it will be answered one day.”

Large tears well up and fall without ceasing down Jaskier’s fair face, and he closes his eyes against the sight of the deity before him. “Then take me, Geralt, when the time must come. I know you’ve been known to choose, so leave Valdo out of it, and take me instead,” the bard says, his wavering voice scared but resolute in his desire to right his wrong.

The sincerity of Jaskier’s statement hits Geralt somewhere in his chest, adding to the pull of the first prayer Jaskier asked of him, and the witcher frowns a little, wondering at what exactly it is that his divine nature wants him to fulfill with this misguided blessing. Regardless, it is easy enough to ignore the pull, and the White Wolf helps the mortal back to his feet. “I hear you, Jaskier. And I will do what I can to make this right. You should go home, get some rest,” Geralt says kindly.

Jaskier nods quickly, collecting his wine bottle and lute before hurrying out of the temple as fast as his inebriation will allow. The witcher sighs and sits down against a felled piece of rubble, closing his yellow eyes against the ruins of his temple, and he rests.

The divines might not be able to perish just by going without food, water, or sleep, but they still enjoy these comforts, and can diminish and grow weak without them. When a deity is wounded or their divine power stretched thin, such comforts also do much towards reinvigorating them, most especially if the food or drink is offered up to them, or if the rest they seek is at a temple or shrine dedicated in their name. 

It’s why Geralt is even here in the first place, he always has to come back eventually, to rest in the ruins of what’s left, to gain some power back from the echoes of worship that has long since stopped. And besides a bone-deep weariness from being so cut off from his normal power, Geralt now has the added effort of having to resist the bard’s prayer to him, though the demigod does find some of his fatigue is soothed as well by what little supplication Jaskier did offer.

The White Wolf does not dream when he sleeps, nor does he usually ever truly sleep well here in the mortal realm, but meditate he does this night, thinking on the misguided deeds of the lovely bard. For practicality, the witcher cloaks himself in invisibility while he rests in his temple, and the hours of the night pass as Geralt exists in a meditative state there in his temple.

It is quite a shock to the demigod when he is risen from his rest by the sounds of footsteps yet again ringing out in his temple as morning comes.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

7/22/25 Minor chapter editing to correct a continuity error.

Chapter 2

Notes:

This chapter and subsequent chapters will reference blood sacrificing and potentially triggering descriptions of self-inflected wounds, heed the tags, this will be the only warning

The bright morning sunlight streaming in through the broken temple doors backlights the silhouette of a man approaching as Geralt looks on from where he sits, unseen in his shroud of shadows. 

The witcher is both surprised and confused to see Jaskier once again picking his way towards the altar through the rubble with his lute and a pack slung over his shoulders, a determined look on the mortal’s handsome face.

His steps are steady and graceful even, free from wine, as Jaskier arrives before the altar and falls to his knees before Geralt’s effigy. 

“I’m back, I…I’m still not entirely certain last night wasn’t a dream, or an illusion, or a hallucination, I don’t know. But…I’ve never felt anything like I felt last night. It was terrifying, and-and exhilarating, and I think I finally know what the devout mean when they speak of divinity, of how it feels to behold such…power. Power you don’t abuse, even when you could’ve, could’ve struck me down for any number of my transgressions. 

“And I know, I still have the consequences of my prayer to face someday, I’m not trying to get out of that. But, Geralt, I…please, allow me to worship you, to devote my life to your greatness. I don’t ask anything in return, your mercy thus far has been blessing enough,” Jaskier barely whispers, his voice heavy with emotion and his head down this time as he prays, and Geralt is hit with the full weight and force of the bard’s earnest devotion.

It feels like finally being able to take a full breath after centuries of half-measures, and the White Wolf has to close his eyes against the exhilarating sensation of being truly worshipped again after so much time. 

Yet Geralt’s heart feels heavy.

He doesn’t want Jaskier’s regret, doesn’t crave atonement for the innocent missteps of a young man who was only following his heart. As tempting as it is to remain unseen, to just bask in Jaskier’s reverence of Geralt, to finally feel whole after so very long, the demigod does not want this worship if it comes at the cost of fear from the vibrant mortal before him.

The scent of salt hangs in the air as Jaskier’s tears fall to the offering plate laid before the altar while he remains there on his knees. Silently, Geralt stands and removes the shroud of shadows around him that lets him remain invisible to mortal eyes, and he walks up behind the young man. 

“I did not expect to see you here again, Jaskier,” the witcher says, watching how his voice in the silence makes Jaskier startle, but the bard remains where he kneels, head bowed, and doesn’t turn back to look at Geralt.

“I-I’m sorry, for everything, a-and if you'd really like me to leave, I can, but…I brought some things for you,” Jaskier stammers, opening the pack he’s brought with him.

The White Wolf sighs, walking over to lean back against the giant statue of himself and looking down at the bard who hesitantly turns his face up to see Geralt. 

The sight of the deity has Jaskier’s blue eyes widening again. By the light of day, Geralt himself is surprised to see that Jaskier is even lovelier than he had realized. The bard seems similarly awestruck by what he sees of the witcher, if the blush on his fair cheeks and nervous scent are anything to go by.

There is a slight frown on Geralt’s face as he lowers himself to sit at the plinth of his idol so the height between the mortal and himself is less imposing. “You don’t have to bring me offerings, bard. And you needn’t live in fear, either. I’m not vindictive, and you have nothing to atone for,” the witcher says firmly, watching with surprise how his words bring more tears to Jaskier’s eyes.

“Please, don’t send me away so soon, Geralt. It’s just…you are more beautiful and wonderful than anything I’ve ever experienced in my whole life. Please just…allow me to be in your presence, to write songs of your virtues,” the bard begs on his knees, and his pleading sends a thrill through the demigod of death before him.

A heavy sigh emanates from Geralt’s massive chest and he regards the mortal before him, his tone careful, “What is it you brought as tribute?” The White Wolf looks on in amusement as Jaskier hastily digs into his pack right away, needing no more permission than that.

“Many things, I wasn’t sure what was…appropriate, as I’ve heard conflicting reports on what makes a proper offering to a divine. But, you did mention that you enjoyed offerings of drinks, and I had been saving this bottle of wine that I picked up in my travels through Toussaint recently,” Jaskier says, pulling the expensive liquor from his pack and setting it aside. “I also brought food offerings, those seemed to be universally popular in my research. I brought coin, though truth be told I have little enough to spare of it, and I brought flowers.”

It almost warms Geralt’s heart to see such fervor, and he tries his best not to smile. “That is quite a lot. Do you offer it all, or am I meant to pick my favorite?” the deity teases in his gravelly monotone voice and watches with quiet satisfaction as that pretty blush returns to the bard’s face.

“I-umm, it’s up to you? I don’t know how to do this,” Jaskier admits, his lovely brows knitting together in concern.

Geralt nods slowly, scuffing the toe of one of his heavy leather boots on the stone floor. “Hmm. The coin you can keep, I have little need for it. The others are each fine, but you have to offer them to me willingly, and if there is anything you do not truly wish to give, it will do me no good to accept it.”

“Would all the rest of it at once be too much for you? Is that a thing?” the bard asks, worrying his plush lower lip with his teeth.

Geralt lets out a sigh. “No, it wouldn’t be too much, but it’s really not necessary, Jaskier. I can see how sincere you are, and a small tribute given with great feeling means far more than an extravagant offering given with an empty heart.”

Jaskier blinks a couple times and nods, putting the wine and some of the food back into his pack. The mortal carefully sets a small round loaf of fine, fresh bread on the offering plate along with the delicate bunch of hand-picked flowers: bright yellow buttercups and cornflowers that are the exact color of the man’s eyes. 

As Jaskier sits back onto his heels, his head bowed once again, Geralt feels the weight of the bard’s intention with his offering, the pure devotion to him that resounds from the simple tribute. The witcher inhales deeply, the thrum of power rushing through his veins, and he accepts the offering. 

Jaskier looks on in shock to see both bread and bouquet disappear slowly in a swirl of golden light particles the same color as Geralt’s eyes. The bard glances up at the demigod, some fear on Jaskier’s face to finally see something inexplicably divine from him. 

Geralt exhales softly, feeling some color returning to his face as the bard’s act of worship spreads through the witcher and its energy nourishes his body.

“That was…wow, I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t…that,” Jaskier muses once he’s gotten over being surprised, tying his pack closed.

The White Wolf snorts out a chuckle, crossing his arms and leaning back against the marble statue. “It can look different, depends on what’s being given. If you were to, for instance, light a candle in my name, you might see the flame flicker briefly. If you were to sing of your devotion to me, you would likely feel some of that same exhilaration you mentioned from before. It really just depends on the offering.” Geralt watches how Jaskier pulls his lute around to his lap, the young man’s face thoughtful as he plucks absently at the strings.

“And other tributes? I…I’ve heard some gods and demigods like…sacrifices, animal or…otherwise,” Jaskier says tentatively with thinly veiled disgust, and there is something like fear once again in those blue eyes.

Anger ripples across the demigod’s face, and he has to look away so as not to focus his thunderous scowl on the innocent bard. “No, sacrificing the life and blood of another is not an offering that a witcher would ever accept. There may be gods who would, but not us,” the White Wolf says evenly, looking back at the mortal who once again has his head bowed in supplication.

“Forgive me, I did not know. What about…if someone offered their own life or body in tribute?” Jaskier asks slowly, tilting his head up again to look at Geralt through his eyelashes.

Hot desire surges through the witcher and he has to close his eyes so he won’t stare at the enchanting sight of the young man on his knees before him saying things that could mean so much more than Jaskier surely wishes to give. “That…isn’t necessary, but anything given willingly of oneself is usually acceptable,” Geralt grits out begrudgingly after a moment, internally wondering how many decades it’s been since he last laid with a mortal. Perhaps half a century, probably more. 

It’s not as if it’s unheard of. Far from it, many demigods who walk among the mortals may take a willing lover from time to time, as acts of intimacy themselves tend to be a very pure expression of devotion, even if it is an equal exchange. Usually the deity is in disguise as a mortal themselves, but occasionally they may allow their lover to see them in their true form. 

However, it’s not common as an actual offering for most demigods, and rarely would a witcher knowingly accept pleasure as a tribute to them, especially in exchange for a blessing. It tends to feel disingenuous for the deity and calls into question the true level of consent given, if the mortal feels as though they must give up their own body in order to have their prayers answered or their monster vanquished.

“Anything given willingly of oneself?” Jaskier echoes, his curiosity getting the better of him, and the bard retrieves a small knife meant for sharpening quills from his pack.

Before Geralt can stop him, Jaskier has pricked one of his fingertips, wincing only a little, and the mortal holds his hand over the offering plate, letting three drops of his blood fall into the stone dish.

The White Wolf shudders hard, and Jaskier sees all three drops seem to sink into the impermeable stone and disappear. When the bard looks up at Geralt, the witcher’s face is slightly flushed, the warm offering of Jaskier’s lifeblood not unlike an aphrodisiac to the demigod.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Geralt grunts reprovingly, frowning at the grinning young man even as the sacrifice itself fills him with heat. The deity shifts discreetly where he sits, letting his cloak fall from his shoulder to cover the evidence of his arousal as he adjusts himself in his trousers.

“I have a naturally inquisitive mind, and that was fascinating,” Jaskier says in delight as he pulls out a leather bound notebook to write some things down. If he notices just how intensely the blood offering has truly affected Geralt, the bard certainly doesn’t let on.

The witcher sighs and rolls his eyes, quietly regarding the mortal as he scratches away with his quill pen on the page. 

Jaskier is uncommonly pretty, with his cornflower blue eyes accented lightly with black kohl and rimmed with long lashes, his long and skillful lutanist's fingers scribbling away, and his shorter-cropped brunette hair curling slightly at his forehead. Today the young man wears an outfit of deep burgundy velvet, intricately embroidered with golden thread in the shapes of many flowers. Geralt can’t help but smile a little at the parallels of Jaskier’s offering of flowers, and his chosen name meaning “buttercup” as well, along with the man’s clear affinity for the beauty among plant-life.

“What I want to know is, why did you appear to me? Almost no one ever sees deities, especially…well, especially forgotten ones,” Jaskier says, looking up from his notes and cringing already in fear that his brazen words will once again anger the witcher.

But Geralt only sighs, standing and walking slowly around the cracked stone dias of his ruined temple altar. “Most divines receive so many prayers and offerings that it’s not practical for them to appear to every mortal asking their blessing. Witchers, we would rather remain unseen, anyways. You just happened to get lucky, bard, in that I was already here in my temple when you arrived. I would have heard your prayer regardless, but without being here myself, I couldn’t have appeared before you in a physical form to answer personally.”

As Geralt wanders amongst the rubble while he speaks, Jaskier’s intelligent gaze follows the demigod, and he seems utterly enthralled by the revelation. “That’s amazing, though I am still confused, I thought gods could be in all kinds of places sort of…all at once?” the bard questions, putting away his notebook in his pack.

“Hmm. Major gods, maybe, not witchers. I’m only a minor deity, Jaskier, a demigod. And as you said, a forgotten one, at that. My brothers can portal themselves to visit all their temples and shrines dutifully. I’m only a shadow of my former glory, and can only wander by foot or by horse, not unlike a mortal,” Geralt says quietly, melancholy creeping into his soft growl.

“Well that’s just not fair! And how did this place get like this in the first place? Because truth be told, I hadn’t heard your name until my own travels brought me here to Rivia, though I’m certain I’ve seen your image on other shrines and the like in my wanderings all across the Continent. What happened, Geralt? Or more importantly, how do we fix it?” Jaskier scowls in determination and even the implication of his devotion is enough to send a small shiver through the weakened demigod.

“We? Are you truly so impressed with what you’ve seen here that you intend to make a habit of paying homage to me? Even though the other mortals think I indiscriminately kill any who might dare to utter my name?” the White Wolf teases with just a little scorn, half-smiling despite himself when the bard rolls his eyes rather emphatically.

“Okay, they’re all idiots if that’s what they believe, and yes, I do intend to continue in my devotion to you. I’m not so fickle a mortal as to witness a miracle and then turn tail and run for good,” Jaskier says resolutely, starting to pluck at the strings of his lute idly again.

“A miracle? Surely you don’t mean the bread and flowers?” Geralt scoffs, trailing his fingers over a fallen pillar.

“No, though that was rather impressive as well if I might say so. However, I meant the miracle of your choosing not to smite me for any number of reasons last night, Geralt. I’m sure there are plenty of gods and the like who would’ve, and I honestly wouldn’t have blamed them, or you. I should’ve known better. I’ve heard tales of what happens to mortals who desecrate temples or invoke the wrath of a divine. Honestly, I feel rather lucky to still have all of my guts on the inside,” Jaskier says with a shudder, letting his lute fall back to his side by the strap across his shoulder. He is still on his knees before the altar, but the young man is starting to show signs of discomfort from his long stint on the stone floor.

“You didn’t desecrate anything, Jaskier, and I wouldn’t consider myself particularly wrathful. Certainly not when I looked into your heart and saw you are not an evil man,” Geralt explains, walking back over towards the bard. 

Though his heartbeat quickens when the witcher approaches him, Jaskier holds his ground as Geralt kneels down and gently pulls the young man to stand to his feet.

The deity releases his grip as soon as Jaskier is upright, aware of how disconcerting his touch can be to some mortals. Still, he can see that the brief contact on the bard’s arms even through all the layers of his clothing seems to either have terrified or thrilled Jaskier. 

It has certainly worked him up to the point that he’s gasping for breath, paradoxically pale in the face and flushing high in his cheeks. “You did say the kneeling was good,” Jaskier chokes out almost in accusation while taking an unconscious step back away from the demigod of death.

“I did, and it is, but if you stay there like that on nothing but the stone, you’re going to hurt yourself. I would not have you cause yourself injury or pain on my behalf, Jaskier,” Geralt says sternly, glancing at the no-longer bleeding pricked finger of the bard’s right hand.

“Right, so maybe I need to bring a rug or pillow, or…something. Speaking of interior decorating, this place…it has certainly seen better days,” Jaskier says awkwardly, looking around the temple. 

There is an empathetic sadness in his blue eyes that comforts the White Wolf some, and Geralt sighs softly. “That it has. It doesn’t feel good, having it in ruins like this. But I can’t fix it myself. It’s not a temple unless it’s built and maintained by the hands or the means of the devout. No one comes here to light candles and sweep up the dust. No one pays to have masons make the stonework whole again,” he says, agony thick in his voice at the nagging wound he feels from his ruined temple. He’s not sure why he’s explaining so much to this mortal who found him by happenstance, Geralt certainly doesn’t expect Jaskier to restore his temple.

But perhaps the witcher should’ve learned by now, how true the bard’s loyalty is.

With a determined look to his face, Jaskier pulls a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully starts to wipe the thick layers of grime from the altar. He cleans the offering plate, straightens up the few candles there, and knocks down the cobwebs around it all all. Geralt stands by in wonder, watching as the bard cleans and hums a soft tune to himself.

When Jaskier has completed what he can without more tools at his disposal, he turns to face the witcher again, a hopeful smile on his pretty lips. “There, how does that feel?” the bard asks, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The deity takes a deep breath, letting the act of worship to his temple fill him with its power, and some tension leaves from Geralt’s broad shoulders and from his furrowed brows. “That feels…wonderful, you have no idea,” the demigod of death murmurs, his low growl causing a flush to bloom in Jaskier’s cheeks yet again.

“Right, well, I have to get going now, but I will be back. Will you still be here?” the mortal asks uncertainly, shouldering his pack and his lute by its strap.

Geralt considers the question, and nods once. “I think I shall stay for a little while here, though I will have to move on eventually,” the White Wolf says, walking over to touch the clean altar.

“Good, right, okay, well, I will endeavor to be back tomorrow, or the day after at the very latest. But I suppose, if we were to get separated, I could still pray to you here or at one of your shrines, and you would hear me?” Jaskier asks, his lovely face worried.

The witcher chuckles softly and nods, drawing the hood of his cloak up to cover his bright hair and cast his face into shadow. “That you could, Jaskier, I would hear you. And an offering at any of my shrines or dedicated in my name at a shrine for witchers will always reach me,” Geralt says in quiet amusement, letting the shadows make him slowly invisible before the mortal, who inhales in surprise.

“O-okay, well, I um, I don’t know if you’re still here, or what, but I will be back. I won’t forget my promise to you, Geralt,” Jaskier says a bit louder, and the deity lets his own answering chuckle echo softly through the temple, not heard from any one place.

“That’s incredibly unsettling,” the bard mutters under his breath to himself, carefully and quickly making his way out of the ruined temple.

~~~

Jaskier does not return the following day, but Geralt isn’t worried. He knows how flighty mortals are, and while it would be sad to have already lost his only devotee in a century, the witcher gained a lot from what worship the bard had been willing to give him.

Resting in his temple just feels more restful now, after Jaskier’s simple and quick tidy up of the main altar. And the strength Geralt feels from the bard’s offerings gives him a peace he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

The demigod of death is inhabiting his stone idol, finding better rest for his limited power while incorporeal inside the effigy itself, when Jaskier finally returns on the third morning.

The exuberant bard once again has his pack and lute, but also carries under one arm what appears to be a long wrapped bundle and he clutches a lit oil lantern in his other hand. Jaskier is even quicker this time to find his way through the rubble to the altar, and he looks around as he walks up.

“Geralt? Are you here?” the mortal asks hopefully.

Geralt decides to test the man’s faith, as he’s made it entirely too easy so far to win Jaskier’s devotion, and it simply isn’t sustainable for the demigod to reward the bard’s every whim. That, and Geralt is actually quite comfortable within the stone statue, and isn’t so sure he wants to be corporeal right now, if he’s honest with himself. He still feels tired, the trickle of power from Jaskier’s previous worship has mostly gone towards healing the last of Geralt’s injuries from the monster he most recently vanquished, and the witcher doesn’t have the energy to do parlor tricks for the mortal right now.

When there is no answer to his call, Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Right, he said he might be gone, that’s…that’s fine. ‘Cause he’s not really gone, he can still hear me speak to him,” the bard says to himself, looking up at the stern gaze of the stone god before him.

After setting aside his pack and such on the ground, Jaskier goes to his knees gently in front of the cleaned altar. He pulls from his pack a handpicked bouquet of irises and lilies, along with three ripe and shiny apples. The bard carefully arranges the fruit and the flowers in the offering plate and bows his head, his blue eyes fluttering closed. “I’m back, Geralt. I brought some things to help, and I brought this offering for you…and I still have no clue how to do this right, and I feel somewhat silly to be speaking to myself, but I believe what you said, that you will hear me and that this tribute will reach you still,” Jaskier says, opening his eyes slowly.

Geralt feels a deep sense of pleasure at the bard’s devotion, and accepts Jaskier’s prayer and offering, the fruit and flowers disappearing in a similar golden shimmer as before. The smile that lights up the mortal’s face sends another thrill through the witcher, and unseen as he is right now, the White Wolf lets himself watch the graceful strength of Jaskier as he gets back to his feet.

It’s almost a pity, Geralt thinks, that the bard has come to him as a supplicant like this. Because if the witcher had happened upon the mortal while out on the Path, he could’ve had a clear conscience to press for the truth behind Jaskier’s many flatteries of Geralt’s physical form. The deity would have felt no guilt in taking the pretty bard to bed, if Jaskier had desired him and thought Geralt to be nothing more than a mortal man, himself.

Jaskier, meanwhile, is making himself busy, unrolling what turns out to be a fine rug, inside which the bard has tucked a sturdy shovel and broom. The young man unbuttons today’s doublet in dark green, shrugging it off to reveal an airy linen chemise tucked into his trousers. Divested of the thick outer shirt, Jaskier rolls up his sleeves to reveal lean muscled forearms, and he begins to sweep off the entirety of the raised dais that contains the main altar.

As he works, the bard sings softly in his beautiful melodic voice the tales of many things, and Geralt listens and basks in the glow of Jaskier’s service to the temple. Unbound by a corporeal form as he is at the moment, the demigod of death feels the devotion so much more intensely than he’s used to . It is a deeply sensual and cathartic feeling for Geralt as the bard sweeps and carefully lays out the woven rug on the stone floor before the dais, adding the same sort of fine ornamentation to the temple that had been lost to time and neglect.

Next, Jaskier adds several thick new candles to those already atop the altar, and lights them all with a candle spill that he lights from the oil lantern he brought with him. Every candle lit gives a small and deliberate flicker, and the bard smiles to himself, clearly remembering Geralt’s words to him.

“I had hoped you would like that. I brought incense as well, not saying it’s a bit stale in here, but uh…well, it is,” Jaskier teases with a chuckle. The mortal uses the sort of irreverent familiarity with Geralt that the deity has come to expect from the man, and it’s charming. So the witcher makes all of the candle flames flicker one after another as if the fire itself is laughing along with Jaskier, who smiles all the more.

The bard lights and places several sticks of fine incense in the holders on the altar, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s devotion not unlike a loving caress, heightening the desire that the demigod already has for the lovely man. The witcher is truly grateful now for his hiding place and state of being incorporeal inside the statue. Were he in his physical form, it might well startle and horrify Jaskier to see Geralt before him, as the demigod is certain he’d be very noticeably aroused by the worship being shown by the bard.

As it is, Geralt lets the smoke from both incense and candles alike twine together in spirals as it lifts up and away. Enraptured, Jaskier watches the intimate dance of the white wisps, shivering lightly as he seems to feel some of the sense of pleasure that he is bestowing upon Geralt. The bard goes about sweeping as much of the temple floor as he can, using the shovel to shift the smaller piles of rubble as well. Jaskier has brought along a thick cloth tarp, and he piles it with the dust and broken stone before pulling it to dump the refuse outside the temple, over and over.

It is hard and sweaty work, and the demigod watches on, impressed with the strength that Jaskier hides beneath his fancy clothes, the bard’s muscles rippling as he toils. With every shovel of rubble and dirt removed from the temple, Geralt feels more and more invigorated, the power settling somewhere deep inside him. 

When Jaskier finally takes a break from his work, sitting on a small stone bench he’d found and turned back right-side up, the witcher decides he’s had enough hiding and his devotee has more than proven his faith. 

Between one moment and the next, Geralt steps down and out of his statue, nearly causing the bard to choke on the water he had been gulping from his waterskin. 

“Geralt! You are here! Should I kneel? Bow? Curtsy? Your clothes have changed. Are those real clothes? Or are they an illusion? Wait, don’t answer that, that’s rude, sorry,” Jaskier babbles, nervous no doubt from being startled and also from being confronted yet again by a deity in the flesh.

“You don’t have to do anything, I’m not a stickler for tradition, clearly,” Geralt murmurs in quiet amusement, glancing at his own more casual and modern ensemble of a black long-sleeved linen shirt and leather trousers instead of his usual wolf witcher armor. It is in fact an illusion, albeit a simple one, as even sorcerers can magic their clothing. The clothing itself is as solid and real as the witcher’s corporeal form, none of which is something he feels like explaining at length to the mortal at the moment.

“Right, okay, good. So, I know you got the offerings, and I’m fairly certain it was you making the candles and the incense do what they did, so I imagine you’ve also been aware of all the cleanup, yeah?” Jaskier prattles on, corking his waterskin so he can stand to survey his work so far. The bard has managed to clear a narrow but straight path from the broken wooden doors at the front of the temple, all the way to the pristine altar with its new rug.

Geralt smiles radiantly, and Jaskier gasps softly and has to look down as the sight is too magnificent for him to behold. The witcher chuckles and tones it back a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yes, I’ve noticed everything you’ve done for me, Jaskier, and I must say, you are perhaps the most pious worshipper I’ve ever had,” the demigod says with a light tease, and he’s really only half-joking. Perhaps it’s because Geralt has been so long removed from any recognition, but the devotions the mortal has given to the witcher today, especially without having seen him until just now, fill Geralt up with a power he hasn’t known in centuries.

Jaskier blushes beautifully and humbly accepts the praise, running a hand through the sweat-dampened locks at the back of his neck. “I’m just making it up as I go along, honestly, but I’m glad it’s working. You…you are actually glowing, Geralt, and you just look so much more…alive? Than you did that first night? If that makes any sense,” the bard says, concern pulling his brows together again to consider the weakened shell of a deity that he’d encountered while drunk.

“As I said, your worship gives me strength, and it gives me the power to give back to you as well,” Geralt says, laying a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, only the thin linen between their skin.

The mortal’s eyes widen and he gasps as he feels the divine power seeping into him from where the demigod touches him. Jaskier’s shoulders straighten a little and he stands just a bit taller as Geralt uses just the tiniest fraction of the power given him by the bard to revitalize all of the young man’s many aching muscles and to restore the energy he’s spent clearing the temple.

“Oh! That…well, that was quite something else, I…thank you, but you didn’t have to do that. I’m trying to worship you, Geralt. I honestly don’t expect anything in return,” Jaskier says with the slightest frown, watching the witcher pull his hand away from the mortal.

“I know. And that is what makes your devotion so very powerful, Jaskier. It’s pure, there’s no agenda. I’ve done nothing to earn your favor, and you revere me anyways. It’s…I’ve never felt this kind of supplication from a follower before. I’d heard of it, knew some of my brothers had that sort of following at one point or another, but experiencing it firsthand myself, it’s…intoxicating,” Geralt admits, trying to keep the full extent of his exhilaration from leaking into his voice, as it still sends thrills through the White Wolf’s body to think of the almost blinding pleasure he’d felt in his incorporeal form. Pleasure he truly wouldn’t mind delivering back onto the body of the bard, if only Jaskier were willing.

“I’m glad you are enjoying it, because I’ve thought of a plan. You’d said you have to travel like a mortal for now, what if I travel with you? You banish monsters and whatnot, however it is that witchers do their…witchering, we stop by any of your shrines that we can, and I spruce them up. I play and sing for extra coin along the way, which I can have sent back here to finance the necessary craftsmen and materials it will take to properly restore your temple. I may be a determined bastard, but even I can only shift so much tonnage of stone by my lonesome, and you do not want to see me attempting to wield a hammer, believe you me,” Jaskier says, his eyes brightly hopeful as he bites his lower lip and awaits the demigod’s response.

Geralt is certainly intrigued by the offer and surprised at the extent of the bard’s wit and cunning. The witcher considers the proposition, his yellow cat-like eyes thoughtful as he glances around the ruins of his temple. “I’ve never travelled with a mortal before. Not sure many divines have, you are all very…breakable, and needy,” the White Wolf points out and Jaskier frowns slightly, crossing his arms.

“I’d wager we are more durable than you lot give us credit for, and I’m quite capable of supplying all my own needs for myself, thank you very much,” the bard replies, his tone careful like he might normally employ more sass to the perceived slight, but because it is a deity he’s addressing, he’s attempting to remain respectful.

The tenacity of the mortal amuses Geralt and he chuckles and walks over to the altar, running his fingers through the candle flames without being burned by them. “I leave tomorrow, at first light. If you can keep up, I’ll allow you to follow,” the witcher says, shivering minutely when Jaskier bows his head to Geralt, accepting those terms.

The young man packs up the tools he’s brought with him and pulls his doublet back on, his blue eyes on the demigod at his altar.

“I’ll be here first thing in the morning, I have some loose ends to tie up before we go,” Jaskier says, and Geralt nods, first sinking to sit on the plush rug, and then he lies down on it, taking a deep breath.

For a moment, the bard watches the witcher stretch across the rug somewhat like a napping dog, or perhaps more like a wolf. There is a proud and amused smile on Jaskier’s lips, and the mortal gives one last slight bow to Geralt, before turning and quietly taking his leave of the temple.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I'm having a crisis about my writing.
What is a decent word count for a chapter? Mine vary wildly anywhere between 3K-6K at times, and I'm not certain if they are overwhelming for the average reader.
Does it depend on the fic?
Would you prefer shorter chapters but quicker updates?
Does anyone even care?
Am I overthinking literally everything for no reason?

Feel free to comment and let me know, I'll just be over here, screaming into the void.

And my cat just nearly jumped on my keyboard as I wrote that. She does not approve of void-screaming unless she's the one doing it.

Chapter 3

The next morning, Geralt waits unseen atop one of the decorative pillars that still stands, some twenty feet up in the air or more. The mortal is late, but the deity is in no rush to leave. The rest that Geralt has gotten in his slightly improved temple has been glorious, and the witcher is intrigued by Jaskier’s plan, though uncertain if traveling together will work for them in the long-run.

Just as the first rays of sun stream in through the high cutout window of the temple wall, basking the altar in light, the hurried footsteps of the bard sound on the temple steps and he slips in, his lovely face panicked.

“Geralt? I’m here, I’m so sorry, I overslept. I have no clue how, I’m not normally that deep of a sleeper,” Jaskier says pleadingly, his voice echoing in the temple as he hurries to the altar and sinks to his knees in supplication.

It makes Geralt smile, and the witcher leaps lightly from his perch, landing almost silently despite the distance and his own weight. The White Wolf is dressed once again in his black armor and travel cloak, his twin blades in their sheaths at his back. The bard looks up at the sound of his impact, and then lowers his gaze again when he realizes it is the demigod that he’s heard.

“Please, don’t be angry with me,” Jaskier says shakily, and the fear in the man’s voice and in his scent has the witcher frowning as he walks over.

“I’m not angry,” Geralt says plainly, sinking to sit casually beside his own altar, facing the mortal kneeling there.

A relieved breath gasps from the bard’s chest, and he swallows thickly, nodding his gratitude towards the god. Jaskier pulls an apple from his pack and places it reverently on the offering plate, unable to keep his blue eyes off the deity when he is so close to him.

A smirk plays on Geralt’s lips, and faster than the mortal can really comprehend, the witcher snatches up the apple from the offering plate. He waits until he knows Jaskier has seen him do so, and then Geralt parts his lips and sinks his sharper-than-a-human’s teeth into the ripe fruit, thoughtfully chewing the sweet, crisp apple.

“…I didn’t know you could actually eat. Does that still count as an offering? If you just want breakfast, I have some other food, too?” Jaskier manages to say, and his surprise and continued devotion to the demigod is absolutely adorable.

Geralt absently licks the fruit’s juice from his lips, not missing how Jaskier’s eyes focus on the movement, and the witcher regards the apple in his hand, letting the rest of the fruit dissolve away in golden motes of light. 

“Yes, demigods can and do eat, and yes, your offering still ‘counts’. Whether a mortal sees us consume an offering of food or not, it goes towards sustaining our physical body. We can’t starve to death, but food tastes good and its energy is still beneficial to us, maybe in a different way than it is for you mortals. Same goes for drinks, though I would not become truly drunk on your wines and ales,” the White Wolf says with quiet amusement, watching how the information he imparts satisfies some curious part of the bard.

“What do you do with the flowers and the blood, then?” Jaskier has to ask, and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Energy is energy, though the power of something like flowers being given for their beauty feels different to me than a food offering. It’s hard to explain,” the witcher says dryly, giving a small smile.

“…blood has energy? I mean, I know I certainly need mine to stay on the inside when at all possible, and I suppose I’ve never seen a less energetic man than one who has unfortunately been relieved of all his lifeblood, but I guess that one doesn’t entirely make sense to me,” the mortal muses, pulling his notebook out to jot a few things down.

A soft sigh passes the witcher’s lips, and he looks idly at his large hands, addressing the floor rather than trying to maintain eye contact with Jaskier while he speaks, “Blood is different, since it’s something given directly from the body of a worshipper. Even if it’s not a sacrifice of someone’s actual life, an offering of one’s blood can be…very powerful and…invigorating. It’s almost too good, that’s why most witchers at least, don’t tend to like accepting such…personal offerings.”

Jaskier raises his brows, considering what it is that Geralt is trying to say. Carefully, the bard pulls the same small knife as before from his pack, holding the White Wolf’s gaze as the demigod looks up with a frown.

“Jaskier, don’t-” Geralt starts to protest, but the young man just smirks as he meticulously slices across his left palm shallowly and lets his blood well up in the cut, before pressing his hand down to the offering plate between them.

The demigod gasps softly and feels heat rush to his cheeks right away, and unfortunately to other places as well. Geralt growls quietly, struggling to keep his eyes open under the thrilling onslaught of reverence and power from Jaskier’s blood tribute. The witcher scowls ferociously and shakes his head, his breathing very much affected by the near-ecstasy of the weighty offering. 

“That is very interesting to see,” the bard remarks in delight, searching through his pack with his uninjured hand. He pulls his wounded hand away from the offering plate and takes care not to drip blood on today’s eccentric cobalt blue outfit.

Geralt reaches out and grabs Jaskier’s hurt palm, his bare fingers against the mortal’s skin for the first time. 

The demigod presses his thumb over the cut there, and the bard gasps as the cut heals right away. The skin knits together without scar or blemish, and the last of the blood sinks into his skin and just disappears. Jaskier’s eyes are wide and his hand trembles gently in the witcher’s grip, a lovely blush high on the young man’s cheeks.

“Please stop hurting yourself, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, smoothing his calloused thumb gently across the man’s healed skin.

“I-it really didn’t hurt that badly, and you didn’t have to heal me. What’s the point of giving you power if you just keep giving it right back?” Jaskier argues quietly, not moving to pull his hand from the demigod’s grasp.

“It doesn’t take much power to heal you, it’s nothing compared to what you just gave me. But please, I don’t require this many tributes so often, and you need to take care of yourself, first, Jask,” Geralt pleads, releasing the bard’s hand as the mortal blushes even darker. Whether it is from the demigod’s concern or his casual use of a nickname for the young man, Geralt can’t be sure, as Jaskier’s scent is a confusing jumble of blood and satisfaction at the moment.

“Right, okay, I’ll endeavor to keep my blood on the inside for now, but I won’t promise to never offer it to you again. It’s too intriguing to know how much it does for you, and who knows, you might need the boost of power someday,” Jaskier says placatingly, stretching and inspecting his hand. The bard tilts his head in curiosity, looking back up at Geralt. “Your skin was warm, I…I didn’t really expect that, to be honest,” the young man says, reaching out hesitantly towards the witcher’s hand again.

Geralt allows Jaskier to take his hand, holding back his power so the touch doesn’t overwhelm the young man, and the bard leans in close to inspect the calloused skin there, flipping the White Wolf’s hand back and forth. The mortal’s warm breath ghosts over Geralt’s knuckles, and Jaskier strokes his own lute string-calloused fingertips across the skin of the demigod’s hand. When the bard slips his fingers feather-light under Geralt’s wrist at the edge of his vambrace, the witcher startles lightly and chuckles when Jaskier freezes. “That tickles,” the demigod explains in his gravelly tones, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile.

A shocked laugh breaks free from the bard and he lets go of Geralt’s hand, clearing his throat before he speaks in half a tease, “Well, I’ve managed to tickle the apparently warm-blooded god of death, everything I’ve ever known in life is a lie.”

“I’m not the only deity associated with death, far from it. And people do seem to forget my gifts are both death and mercy,” Geralt points out, pulling his leather gauntlets on over his hands and standing to his feet.

Jaskier has to crane his head back to look all the way up at the tall witcher, and Geralt steps back to give the man space to get off his knees. The White Wolf deliberately tries not to focus on how the bard looks there, kneeling so prettily before Geralt. 

Once the bard has gotten to his own feet, his pack and lute secured, he follows the witcher out of the temple and into the sunlight. Jaskier blinks in surprise when Geralt pulls his hood up to cover his silver-white hair, and the demigod’s whole appearance seems to dull down just a little. 

The golden glow of his eyes settles into a less alarming hue, his slitted pupils rounding out to look more like a human’s, the soft way Geralt’s hair had almost billowed on its own around his face settles under his cloak to look like anyone’s hair. Most noticeably, the whole subtly shining aura around the demigod that had only grown brighter with every act of worship Jaskier bestowed upon him, fades away to nothing. 

For all the world to see, Geralt is just a man, not unlike any other, and the bard scoffs softly.

“This is how you normally look among us lowly mortals? You’re still too pretty to be human, but you could almost pass for half-elven, I suppose,” Jaskier muses, seeming slightly saddened that the witcher has to disguise himself at all.

“Mortals aren’t meant to look upon unbridled divinity, can make them go blind or mad, even. Not that I have that kind of power myself, especially not at the moment, but still. Best not to attract attention or cause disturbances,” Geralt explains, beginning his walk down away from the temple.

Jaskier hastens to follow, keeping a respectful distance between the two of them as they walk. The bard seems to be trying his best to stay quiet, but when he’s not humming, the young man asks halting questions about anything and everything he can think of. If it’s not something Geralt wishes to speak on, he will give only a noncommittal hum in response, and Jaskier knows well enough to drop it.

Once they’ve left the city behind, Geralt whistles sharply, and from the distance comes the sound of a horse neighing. Around the corner trots a beautiful brown mare, already saddled and bridled. She walks up to the witcher, blowing air through her nose in what seems to be an exasperated way.

“Hey Roach. Missed you too, girl,” Geralt murmurs fondly, petting over her muzzle.

“You have a horse? Where did she come from?” Jaskier asks, trying to lean around the corner to see if there is somehow a hidden stable he didn’t see.

“She is my companion animal, lots of deities have them. Witchers tend to choose horses, since we spend the most time in the mortal realm. And walking is slow,” the White Wolf says in his monotone tease, easily hauling himself up into the saddle.

“But is she a real horse? How can she just stay saddled? Where does she go when you don’t need her? How did she hear you whistle?” the bard questions rapid-fire, adjusting his pack and reaching out a tentative hand towards Roach’s muzzle.

The mare flicks her ears back but holds still as Jaskier carefully pets her silky coat, while Geralt watches on. “You sure do ask a lot about how ‘real’ things are. You can see her, touch her, you can hear and smell her. How much more real does something need be?” the witcher says flatly as they begin their trek. Geralt feels some irritation crawling across his shoulders that tells him his true issue is not with the lack of belief about his horse, but in himself. 

Jaskier has been wonderfully devout, more than Geralt has ever known, but still seems to have certain notions of what exactly the witcher is, and how Geralt should look or feel. And for some reason, that bothers the White Wolf. He wants to be perceived by the young man and he has no clue why, but it’s upsetting for Geralt that Jaskier doesn’t quite seem to understand the deity. 

And how could he? Mortals aren’t made to understand the complexities of the divine. 

But for some reason, Geralt wants nothing more than to be truly seen by the beautiful man at his side. 

“You’re angry with me. I’m sorry,” Jaskier says quietly as they walk, his eyes cast down away from the witcher.

The deity sighs and glances at the bard beside him. “I’m not angry, I’m just…unused to interacting so much with mortals, I tend to keep to myself in your world. I think this is the most I’ve ever spoken to any one person,” Geralt admits somewhat wryly, and Jaskier nods his understanding.

“I spent the whole of the day I didn’t see you in an old library combing through texts on gods, demigods, divines in general, witchers in particular, on you and those associated with you, on everything really. And by my research, the only mortals who found themselves speaking at length with a deity would usually be a high priest, or perhaps a prophet or two,” the bard says as he walks, his expression thoughtful.

“You want to be my priest?” the White Wolf questions, trying to hide his amusement. Witchers have never been revered enough to have priests or priestesses, and Geralt truly can’t picture the exuberant young man conscripting himself to such strict servitude.

An undignified snort bursts out of Jaskier. “Gods, no! Celibacy is not for me, and I’m not shaving my head, either. Perhaps I’d be considered more like a prophet. Because I would greatly like to improve your reputation, and spreading your words and good deeds across the Continent in song and in prose seems a fair way to manage that,” Jaskier says, skipping over a pothole in the dirt road.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, not certain about having a prophet, especially knowing the bard will not be well received by other mortals if he is very openly associated with a witcher, least of all with Geralt himself. 

Even though mortals need witchers to hunt their monsters, it doesn’t mean the demigods are largely trusted, or even liked. There are still places on the Continent where Geralt himself is called “Butcher” with more than distrust, and the demigod of death is fiercely hated by many mortals. And while an angry mob wouldn’t be able to damage the witcher, they could do damage and worse to Jaskier. 

And Geralt would never be able to live with that on his conscience.

~~~

The two of them travel for several long hours that day before finally, Jaskier asks to rest.

The witcher had noticed the mortal’s fatigue and wondered how long he would continue on before requesting a break, but didn’t want to call Jaskier on it until the bard was ready to admit defeat. 

Geralt slips down from Roach’s saddle, leading his horse by the reins over to a shady place with an overturned log for the young man to sit on to rest.

“And here I thought I usually made decent time on my travels, but you certainly outshine me there as well,” Jaskier pants out, drinking from his waterskin and watching the witcher standing silently to the side.

Geralt doesn’t look tired, doesn’t show any sign of fatigue, he’s not even sweating. The demigod glances over at the sweaty and red-faced young man, raising his eyebrows at how the bard is unbuttoning his doublet to strip down some layers of clothing.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, I highly doubt even true nudity would bother you. Seems like most religious depictions have everyone with their tits and cocks out all the time, anyways,” Jaskier quips, leaning back to shrug off his doublet, his linen chemise stuck to the long lines of his torso with sweat.

The White Wolf tears his eyes away from the enticing sight, knowing his staring would quickly be noticed. As ever, Geralt does not feel the need to actually reply to most of the bard’s colorful diatribes, and Jaskier continues on unbidden anyways.

“Speaking of those rather lewd temple decorations and paintings, do you demigods have…I mean, are you all actually…shaped like mortals? All over?” the young man questions carefully, his neverending curiosity clearly piqued.

The witcher turns to look back at the blue-eyed bard, a measure of amused irritation on Geralt’s stern face. “Are you asking if I have a cock, Jaskier?” the deity growls dryly, smirking when the mortal blushes fiercely.

“I-well-I mean, I suppose yes, but also not exactly, I wouldn’t have worded it quite like that, but-just pretend I didn’t ask, sorry,” Jaskier sputters, averting his gaze.

A warm chuckle comes up from Geralt’s chest, and he can’t help rolling his yellow eyes. “Would you like me to whip it out right here? Yes, I have a cock. Most minor deities have a mortal form of a usual gender, and as far as I know, all of us tend to have the usual bits one might expect,” the witcher says rather sardonically, glancing back to see the absolutely scandalized expression on Jaskier’s flushed face.

“I-okay, that’s…good to know, I suppose, ahem…but does it work though?” the bard says like he truly can’t stop himself, and Geralt sighs heavily and remounts his horse.

“Break time is over, keep up,” the demigod barks, leading Roach back to the road to continue their journey.

Notes:

How are we feeling about the tags for this story? I don't want to have to put trigger warnings on every chapter, and this story might get somewhat dark, or already has depending on one's stance on blood sacrifices lol. Idk, just want everyone to know what they're getting into. If there are any tags that you all think the story could use, please let me know. I'll add more if/when they become relevant

Chapter 4

Those first few days of travel certainly have some growing pains for the duo, as demigod and man try to learn how to accommodate one another as harmoniously as possible on their trek.

Geralt finds he is not overly vexed with the regular rests that Jaskier requires as a human, it gives the witcher an excuse to slow down enough to appreciate the frankly quite beautiful mortal realm. 

They pause regularly for meals and spend several nights camped out together under the stars. And though the demigod doesn’t really need food and sleep every day, there is a certain comforting routine to having dinner together and lying down by the fire at night, watching the heavens above as the bard sleeps on his own bedroll nearby.

The days themselves are filled with endless chatter from Jaskier, and it does take a while for Geralt to get used to that. The White Wolf still finds plenty of the young man’s inquisitions too much, but Jaskier also seems to handle well that there are many things that will remain unknown about his divine travel companion.

Finally, the pair come across a settlement on the main road worth checking out, and the bard’s incessant talking is halted for a moment as the witcher walks up to the town notice board and inspects for any requests for his help. 

There is just one, a paper pinned to the board along with a cloth-wrapped offering, set beside a lit candle on which is carved the head of a wolf. Geralt absently touches his fingers to his own wolf’s head medallion on the chain around his neck and takes a deep breath. 

Jaskier watches in awe as the offering fades into golden light, and the candle snuffs out on its own. “A monster to fight?” the mortal asks tentatively, looking around as there is no one nearby, and Jaskier seems a bit jumpy to enter the settlement.

“A kikimora, by the sounds of it. This is where we part ways for now, bard. Monster hunting is not meant for mortal men,” Geralt grunts out, double-checking Roach’s saddlebags for various items he will need for his hunt.

“It sounds fascinating, I would love to see,” Jaskier says with curiosity. However, he immediately steps back and pales with the force of the instant glare that the witcher throws his way.

“Absolutely not. I protect mortals from monsters. Letting you anywhere near a hunt, it’s out of the question, Jask,” the demigod snaps, only attempting to lighten his gaze when his follower looks shockingly like he might actually cry.

The bard swallows thickly, his breathing unsteady, but he nods. “I understand. I only express interest because I think it would make for a good song, a song of your glory, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly, and the witcher sighs.

“Don’t let your devotion get you killed. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not that kind of deity,” Geralt says a bit more kindly, swinging himself back up into Roach’s saddle.

“Right, well, I suppose I will head to the inn, see if I can manage to play for some coin tonight, maybe even a room for us,” Jaskier says uncertainly, and the witcher nods, turning his horse to head towards the nearby swamp that is most likely to be where this town’s monster is hiding.

~~~

The hour is late, and Jaskier has been playing and singing for a good long while that evening. 

His songs are being better received than usual, especially a new one he’s testing out about a certain merciful witcher, who the bard leaves unnamed for now.

As Jaskier performs, he moves in a dance all his own around the common room of the inn, and at first he doesn’t notice the hulking figure seating himself in a dark corner, away from prying eyes. When Jaskier looks up and makes eye contact with Geralt in the shadows, it very nearly makes the bard stumble in his performance, but he is a professional after all.

The bard throws a brilliant smile to the demigod in the corner, and quickly wraps up his final song, bowing to the raucous applause that follows and collecting the offered coins of his many new fans. Jaskier stops by the bar and gives a saucy wink to the barmaid there, securing himself two pints of ale, and heading to the corner where the witcher waits.

“So, how went the witchering?” Jaskier teases, pushing the tankard of ale to the hooded and cloaked deity as he pulls up a chair to sit with his travel companion.

“Hmm, went well enough. The kikimora is dead, the prayer is answered,” Geralt grunts as he takes the ale and drinks deeply. But the demigod sounds…fatigued.

Jaskier frowns lightly and takes a gulp of his own drink, regarding how quiet Geralt is. “Well that’s…good. I was able to get us a room for the night, I know you don’t really sleep much, but I figured even you might enjoy a soft bed now and again,” Jaskier jokes lightly, watching Geralt drain the last of his ale and nod.

The bard finishes his drink as quickly as he can as well, before leading the witcher up the stairs to their room for the night. 

Something feels wrong, Geralt is not acting as Jaskier has come to know him, and it’s highly concerning for the mortal. Once the pair has gotten into the room, the demigod sets his two sheathed swords aside and sits heavily on the edge of the lone bed. 

The deity lets his hood fall back, and Jaskier sees a deep slash at the side of Geralt’s neck. It is utterly shocking to see the deep crimson blood slowly dripping from the witcher’s wound and staining his silvery hair, as he never considered that a demigod could be hurt, nor did Jaskier expect a divine being to bleed red.

“What happened?!” Jaskier gasps, walking over quickly to look closer at the injury.

“Monsters are strong. And I’m not infallible, especially weak as I am,” Geralt says tiredly, unbuckling his armor slowly to reveal another deep and penetrating wound where the monster's vicious claws had pierced through the hardened leather of his breastplate and into his ribs.

A strangled inhale slips through Jaskier’s lips. “What do we do?! I-I didn’t think you could get hurt! You’re supposed to be immortal or something!” he says in panic while quickly helping the witcher to take off the rest of his armor, seemingly unfazed to have his hands so close to a deity.

A weary half-smile pulls on Geralt’s lips as he tosses aside the last of his armor, wearing plain dark underclothes beneath, although his shirt is also sliced through across his ribs. “I’m not going to die from this, Jaskier. It doesn’t feel good, but I’ll be mostly fine by morning,” Geralt says, unlacing his boots sluggishly and wincing at the effort it takes to do so.

Jaskier swallows hard, tears filling his cornflower blue eyes. “I don’t understand. I…you’re bleeding, Geralt! I thought you were this untouchable being, I didn’t think you could feel pain,” the young man says brokenly, falling to his knees before Geralt.

The witcher frowns and sighs softly, tilting Jaskier’s chin with a gentle touch to look up at him. “I’m not so different from you in many ways, bard. And there are plenty of monsters strong enough to harm a witcher, especially one who isn’t well prepared. I don’t have as many of my potions with me as I should, they would’ve helped a little. But really, Jaskier, I’ll survive,” Geralt says firmly.

“How can I help? Please, let me help,” Jaskier begs, his shaky hands assisting the witcher in getting his boots off while the bard desperately thinks through anything he’d read that might help with how to heal a deity.

“Hmm, you could sing me a song as tribute, if you’re not too tired,” Geralt suggests with a small smile, pulling his ruined shirt up and off.

The sight of the demigod’s bare chest and abs freezes Jaskier for a moment. Even as awful as the injuries to his ribs and neck looks, the witcher’s body is every bit as divine as he is. The bard manages to clear his throat and nod, getting back to his feet and retrieving his lute. Jaskier plays his newly written song about the merciful witcher, but this time, the mortal uses the demigod’s name as he sings.

As the song goes on, Geralt seems to relax a little, his yellow eyes fluttering shut, and a very faint golden glow surrounds the witcher. By the time Jaskier’s song is done, he sees the wounds on Geralt have stopped bleeding and they have even closed up quite a bit. A rush of something like euphoria hits Jaskier and he gasps, causing the demigod to open his eyes slowly. 

He seems to understand how Jaskier is feeling because Geralt smiles ruefully, standing from the bed and getting a rag wet at the washbasin to clean up the drying blood on his body. “Don’t get too addicted to that feeling, that’s how zealots are born,” the witcher teases in his growly voice, glancing back at the mortal.

“It feels like…well honestly it feels rather a lot like sex, I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, I’ve always enjoyed performing but I’ve never gotten off on it,” Jaskier protests softly, feeling how darkly he’s blushing, and he hastily sits on the edge of the bed to allow his lute to cover the evidence of his arousal.

Geralt walks back over to the bed, frowning in understanding while regarding the mortal man who is failing to keep his composure. “It can be intense, I apologize, I would not have asked for a tribute that I knew would make you uncomfortable,” the demigod says, sighing softly.

Jaskier blinks several times and scoffs, tapping his fingers over the body of his lute. “I’m not uncomfortable, and it was certainly exhilarating, just something to keep in mind. Does it ever feel like that for you?” Jaskier says, looking up through his lashes at Geralt.

The witcher raises his eyebrows and considers the question while slowly undoing the laces of his trousers, which Jaskier finds himself watching hypnotically, his breath catching in his throat. 

“In a way, it can be. Exhilarating is a good word for it,” Geralt grunts, pushing his trousers off so he’s down to his braies. Without further explanation, the demigod goes to the other side of the bed and lies down, stretching out fully and only wincing lightly at how that pulls at his injured side.

There are so very many questions on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but the bard glances at Geralt and sees he is truly exhausted, and so he asks none of them. Instead, Jaskier strips down to his underclothes as well and climbs in bed quietly. 

Jaskier can’t help but notice as he lays down that this is physically closer than he has been yet to Geralt, and the young man finds himself staring at his face as the demigod drifts off to sleep. Geralt’s fair visage is much less intense without his yellow eyes boring into Jaskier’s very soul, and he memorizes every detail of this divine being he’s stumbled across. Soon enough however, sleep takes him, too.

~~~

The next few days after the kikimora hunt, Geralt’s demeanor is far more subdued than it had been when Jaskier had empowered him with all of his initial offerings. He knows he’s been very quiet, and that it has been discomfiting for his human companion, who has not spoken much either in response.

It’s not as if the witcher can help it, he’d been far more gravely injured than he’d let on to his concerned bard. He hadn't wanted to alarm Jaskier, but the true extent of the pain from his injuries was quite debilitating. 

When Geralt had managed to get to the inn and heard the bard performing for an audience for the first time, it was only focusing on the lovely music that had kept the demigod from collapsing into a deep sleep that he would not have woken from until he’d properly healed.

And for the weakened witcher, it might’ve been years that he would’ve been beyond the reach of anyone. Never before had the prospect of the loss of time truly bothered Geralt as much as it did now that he had a very mortal companion, someone whose life would be gone in the blink of the demigod’s eye if he weren’t careful.

It was the only reason Geralt had requested a song in tribute from Jaskier. Seeing how desperate the bard was to help, how fearful he was for the witcher’s wounds, it moved something within Geralt.

And the offered song had been so beautiful, Jaskier had sung of the demigod’s mercy, even called on his name in tribute, and Geralt had been healed. Not fully, it would still take time or more acts of worship to truly mend the damage done by the kikimora, but the witcher had felt so much of his pain ease that he fell deeply asleep beside the mortal man.

The way Jaskier had reacted after his offering, however, was of some concern to Geralt. It was clear that the act of devotion to the witcher had echoed back on the bard in a way that thrilled him to the point of arousal, and Jaskier hadn’t seemed entirely comfortable with it. 

Geralt would never wish to impose on anyone like that, and resolves himself to not recommend a song as tribute in the future, lest he take more from Jaskier than the mortal is willing to give.

The demigod’s musings are cut short as he and his human companion come upon a fork in the path they tread upon.

Roach nickers softly, drawing Jaskier’s attention as Geralt pulls her reins to bring the horse to a stop.

The energetic bard looks up at the deity at his side, giving a tentative smile to Geralt. “There a reason we’re stopping? Not quite lunchtime yet,” Jaskier says playfully, knowing the duo often only take breaks to tend to his mortal needs.

Geralt can’t quite muster a smile, but nods his head down the more disused footpath that splits from the main road. “A quarter of a mile up that way, there’s a monument. You had mentioned…we don’t have to stop, I just didn’t know if you were aware of the locations of my shrines.” It’s clear that the witcher is uncomfortable reminding Jaskier of his declaration to tend to Geralt’s places of worship, but it is nearly the whole reason for their journeying together.

“Oh! Wonderful, I was going to ask when we’d come across one eventually!” Jaskier says enthusiastically, quickly leading the way down the narrow trail with no hesitation. 

It doesn’t take long for the pair to reach the small way-side shrine: a simple effigy of a white wolf set into a simple stone shelter cut out of a large boulder that was likely already there in the landscape. It’s only large enough to house one person kneeling at the plain altar, and there is faded depictions of Geralt in his black armor painted onto the carved stone.

There is plenty of dirt and dust coating everything, and only a single fully burned out candle on the altar, large sooty pools of melted wax marring the surface. There are also the remains of very old offerings scattered about, and the whole thing is covered in cobwebs.

“Oh…no, this won’t do at all,” Jaskier says tightly, his handsome brows knitted together in concern.

Geralt slides down from Roach’s saddle, barely catching himself as his feet hit the ground and struggling to stay upright. The demigod walks over slowly to sit against the side of the shrine, shifting his swords so he can lean back against the rock warmed by the late morning sun. “This isn’t even the worst of them,” Geralt tries to joke, but he feels unpleasantly weak. 

Visiting his places of veneration might empower the witcher when they are maintained or still contain some vestige of the worship that took place there, but a fully abandoned and desolate shrine like this one almost pulls away from what little power the demigod has left.

Jaskier frowns, shrugging off his lute case and pack to set them aside as he walks over to go to one knee beside Geralt. The bard very gently pushes the witcher’s hood from his face, sucking in a breath through his teeth when he sees how pale Geralt has gone and the dark circles under the demigod’s nearly lifeless eyes. “Geralt…just cleaning this up isn’t going to be enough. It’s been days since I gave any sort of tribute to you, please allow me to make an offering to you once I’ve restored your shrine,” Jaskier pleads gently, knowing the pushback he sometimes gets for giving tribute to the reluctant deity.

Geralt doesn’t have the strength to fight back this time, and just shrugs noncommittally at the mortal, watching with tired eyes as the Jaskier gets back to his feet and digs into his pack.

The bard had previously equipped himself with many travel-sized tools before they set out to aid in his endeavors to restore the witcher’s shrines, and produces a small hand broom and trowel, along with a wash rag and the small knife he carries. He uses the hand broom to quickly knock down all of the cobwebs and evict the spiders making them, and clears as much of the loose dust and dirt as he can easily.

Then, Jaskier uses the small trowel to assist in removing any number of stubborn piles of decayed old offerings and other unknown detritus from the offering plate and altar. The mortal makes mildly disgusted faces as he does so, but he hums quietly the whole time he works. Jaskier uses his knife to pry up the melted wax from the altar, and lastly wets the wash rag with water from his own water skin to wipe down any particularly stubborn patches of dirt and grime.

Once the shrine is clean, the bard sets a new candle in the center of the altar, using a flint and steel to light it easily enough, and Jaskier steps back to survey his work.

Geralt glances up from his resting place, feeling just slightly better now that the shrine is tidied up. He sits up carefully, absently pressing his hand over the wound across his ribs that is still not fully healed. Giving thanks feels odd to offer up in return for worship, so Geralt doesn’t know what to say to Jaskier, but it seems the mortal truly isn't looking for any sort of adulation.

Jaskier takes a walk around the shrine, singing softly to himself as he picks any number of vibrant wildflowers from the meadow around them until he has a nicely arranged little bouquet, which he ties off with a short length of fine ribbon. From his pack, the bard produces a small jar of honey that he’d purchased in the last town they’d passed through, and he drizzles plenty of the decadent syrup on two small round dense bread loaves of the sort that keeps well for travel. 

Jaskier kneels quietly before the altar, setting the flowers and one of the baked treats on the offering plate before lowering his head and clasping his hands. “Allow me to offer this humble tribute to you, White Wolf. I ask no boon from you in return, save the favor of remaining in your good graces,” Jaskier whispers reverently, and Geralt takes a deep and shuddering breath beside him.

The demigod takes the offering in another sparkle of golden light, and the bard smiles softly, his blue eyes flitting over to Geralt where he rests. The witcher’s coloring returns while the dark circles beneath his eyes lighten quite a bit, and Geralt sits up straight now, feeling much better even as begrudging as he is to accept Jaskier’s devotion.

“How do you feel now, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, shifting to sit cross-legged and picking up the second honey-topped bread.

Geralt considers the question, offering half a smile to the mortal. “Better. Not perfect, but better. Thank you.” The demigod sounds awkward giving appreciation, and Jaskier waves it off right away.

“No thanks necessary, the whole world owes you better than you’ve been treated, dear. Are you hungry?” Jaskier says lightly, breaking the bread he holds and offering half to Geralt directly.

Surprise has the witcher blinking a couple times, and he pulls off his gauntlets to take the offered treat. His fingers brush Jaskier’s own as he does so, and Geralt swallows hard when he feels a slight thrill from the contact. Jaskier absently licks the honey from his own fingers after Geralt takes his portion, and the sight of that has the demigod closing his eyes for a moment to attempt to calm the sudden fire in his veins.

Geralt takes a bite of the bread and savors the light sweetness of the honey on the chewy bread, marveling at the way it coats his tongue. The witcher can’t rightly remember the last time he actually ate something so decadent, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Jaskier watching him with an indulgently proud smile on his handsome face.

“You should actually eat food more often, it seems like you really enjoy it,” Jaskier teases lightly while taking a bite of his half of the bread. His tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of honey from the corner of his mouth and Geralt stands rather suddenly, clearing his throat and turning away from the pretty bard.

Shoving the last of his bread into his mouth, Geralt strides over to Roach under the pretense of adjusting some of the straps on her saddle, when in reality he’s desperately trying to fight back from getting fully erect over nothing. Once he’s certain he’s calmed himself, Geralt glances back at Jaskier where he sits by the shrine, and the witcher frowns when he realizes the bard is watching him with concern, still.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You still seem…weakened?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, likely not wishing to cause offense.

Geralt frowns more while clearing his throat again, having swallowed his food rather quickly, and he gives a half-shrug, petting over Roach’s mane. “I’m fine, Jask. You’ve already done more than enough,” Geralt says, cringing internally at how harsh his tone sounds, but he’s finding himself somewhat untethered by his confusing mix of feelings for the mortal.

“I saw how much those injuries bled, Geralt. If you were human, I would’ve advised us to stay a few days back at the inn so you could recuperate, but I knew you wouldn’t agree to that. I don’t expect you to be fully healed within a few days, but I feel like I can tell that you're not anywhere near as strong as we had you when we left Rivia,” Jaskier says reprovingly, and the paradox of having a mortal concerned for him has Geralt scowling.

“There’s nothing in that pack of yours that you could offer to heal me any sooner,” the demigod grits out, pulling his hood back up to cover his hair and face as he’s feeling uncharacteristically exposed right now.

“I wasn’t offering anything in my pack. And you didn’t seem to agree much with the song either, so I figure there’s really only one other tribute I know to give,” Jaskier points out calmly, wiping down his knife with a wet rag he hadn’t ended up using for cleaning.

“Don’t even think about it, bard,” Geralt snaps, taking several quick steps towards where Jaskier sits by the altar, but the mortal is surprisingly fast.

Before the witcher can get to him, Jaskier has yanked up his sleeve and ran the razor sharp edge of his blade along his inner forearm, opening a decently sized cut away from any major vessels, but it still bleeds plenty. The bard maintains eye contact with Geralt as he holds his bleeding arm out over the offering plate, and the demigod freezes in his tracks as Jaskier’s hot blood spills onto the stone.

Like lightning in his veins, Geralt feels the rush of the blood sacrifice filling him up, and the witcher grunts softly at the flood of power sent through to him. As Jaskier is watching him more closely this time, there is no way the young man won’t see the high blush in Geralt’s cheeks, nor can the demigod hide how intensely his body reacts to the flow of blood elsewhere.

Quickly though, Geralt turns away from Jaskier, his breathing labored and something like a whine caught in his throat, but outwardly the witcher curses viciously under his breath. He speaks in exasperation over his shoulder to the mortal behind him, too ashamed to turn and face the man, “Would you please stop hurting yourself?”

“Is that what really bothers you about it?” Jaskier quips back, his usually endearing quick-wit just aggravating at this moment.

“Yes, I don’t need you bleeding yourself on my account, Jask,” Geralt growls, looking more fully behind him to see that the bard has bound his bleeding arm with some bandages he’s pulled from his pack.

“Yet you bled for that town to be safe from the kikimora. Tell me how that’s fair, Geralt,” Jaskier replies calmly, starting to pack away all of his tools and such.

“That’s my purpose, that’s who I am,” Geralt argues, turning to face his companion and letting his riding cloak conceal his shameful arousal from the bard’s blood offering.

“And this is who I am. You deserve more than the devotion I can give you, but at the very least, I can give you all that I have to give,” Jaskier replies, his tone brokering no further argument as he shoulders his pack and lute.

Geralt growls under his breath, reaching for Jaskier’s injured arm as the man walks past the demigod towards where Roach is waiting.

But Jaskier skirts out of Geralt’s grasp, his expression smug. “Nuh-uh, no wasting your power on healing this time, dearest,” he retorts, smirking when Geralt scowls darkly at him.

“You try my patience, bard,” the White Wolf snarls, but he climbs into Roach’s saddle.

“Get used to it, witcher. Try not to get hurt next time you take out a monster,” Jaskier sasses irreverently, and the demigod scoffs at the mortal’s utterly bold familiarity with him already.

“I’m beginning to consider fulfilling your first prayer,” Geralt mutters under his breath, smirking when Jaskier gasps in affront.

“Oh now you’re making jokes, are you?”

Geralt chuckles despite himself, just rolling his eyes at the bard and leading Roach back to the main road alongside his travel companion so they can continue their trek.

That night as Jaskier falls asleep by their campfire, Geralt sits at his own bedroll and waits. He does want to sleep tonight, though he’s all but healed of his own injuries now, yet there is something that he has to do first.

Once he’s certain the bard is asleep, the witcher leans over and gently slips his bare fingers beneath Jaskier’s bandage to touch the wound on his arm. It takes almost no power at all for Geralt to heal the shallow cut, and the demigod smirks to himself, pulling his hand back and stretching out to lie down on his own bedroll now.

Morning brings with it Jaskier’s melodramatic ranting about how Geralt needn’t have healed him, and how dare he be sneaky like that, but the witcher largely ignores the young man’s whinging. He doesn’t regret healing Jaskier, he just wishes the bard would stop hurting himself on Geralt’s behalf.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Slowburn is not my forte, I'm trying to expand my horizons as an author, and all I've learned is I am not very patient lol. Also, is it still slowburn if Jaskier sleeps around, just not with Geralt? Cause we know our bard, he's not going to spend any length of time on the Path and NOT get some lol. Questions to ponder for next chapter.

Chapter 5

The demigod and the mortal find themselves in an easy enough routine to fall into as they continue to travel together. 

When they come across a settlement that needs Geralt’s help, the witcher will take out their monster while Jaskier earns up some extra coin by performing at the local inn or tavern. The bard usually endeavors to secure a room for them as well on the rare nights they are in a town, as the vibrant young man really doesn’t prefer sleeping rough if given any other choice.

Besides which, their stints in town lend themselves well to Jaskier’s apparently insatiably high libido, as it turns out. The bard will often stumble back to their shared room slightly tipsy and smelling quite strongly of sex, giggling to himself as he collapses in the bed.

It doesn’t take long at all for Geralt to realize that if he makes any argument that as a demigod, he doesn’t need sleep, and therefore shouldn’t encroach on Jaskier’s space by sharing the usually solitary bed with him, it will be met with much resistance and outright bullying from the mortal until the witcher concedes and gets some rest for the night in the bed with him, anyways. 

Not that Geralt sleeps very well on those nights that Jaskier has been with whichever willing man or woman he’d smooth-talked himself between the legs of for that particular evening. 

It’s not as if the witcher minds the smell of sex and lust on the bard, and that is perhaps part of the problem. Because Geralt can’t understand why his stomach lurches in an odd way when he catches the scents of pleasure on Jaskier as the young man sleeps beside him. 

Normally, he wouldn’t care to catalog a mortal’s scent at all unless the information was useful to him in some way. And the demigod can’t for the life of him divine why it is useful for him to know or dwell on Jaskier’s tendencies to sleep around as they travel the Continent.

Meanwhile, any shrine or monument of Geralt’s that the duo come across is treated to Jaskier’s best attempts at restoration and reverence. After some time, the bard even begins to secure additional supplies in the nearest towns to each monument to help really set the shrines up nicely, going beyond functional cleaning or repair, and adding back ornamentation and decoration to the sites as is practical.

It fills Geralt with a warm sort of calm to see Jaskier tying colorful prayer ribbons to one of the White Wolf’s shrines, the rainbow of bright hues catching on the breeze reminiscent of the many colorful outfits that the bard himself dons.

And of course, Jaskier never leaves a shrine without making at least a small offering and prayer to the demigod. Geralt does his best to continue to allow the mortal’s faithful and unerring devotion to him, though part of the deity still feels torn at effectively monopolizing Jaskier’s life.

Slowly but surely, the bard’s plan does start to work, and Geralt grows stronger and more powerful as they travel together. Finally, the witcher doesn’t find himself bested by nearly every monster he comes across. His injuries become fewer and less severe as he also heals so much more quickly when he does get wounded.

And all the while, Jaskier has begun slowly popularizing songs about the White Wolf himself, never drawing attention to the actual demigod often lurking in the corner, but enthralling his audiences with tales of the witcher’s heroism in defeating their monsters. 

It is tense, the first few times the bard mentions Geralt by name and the crowd reacted uneasily. But witty charmer that he is, Jaskier quickly spins a song and story so captivating that his listeners find themselves put at ease and entertained all at once.

Jaskier makes certain that all of his songs about the demigod reference only his prowess in fighting monsters, or emphasize his mercy to those already passing over into death’s embrace. Somehow, Jaskier manages with his words to paint a portrait of Geralt as a benevolent protector of the people, a deity of compassion to those in mourning, and it works.

Geralt, of course, finds many of the embellished tales to be utter horseshit, even when he’s been stingy with the details of certain fights and the bard has simply had to fill in the gaps as best he can, or so Jaskier says.

It’s hard for the witcher to accept when his companion points out that Geralt is in fact very compassionate, and that Jaskier tells no lie when it comes to the extent of the White Wolf’s mercy. 

After centuries of being reviled and forgotten, it is not an easy thing for Geralt to be reminded that like his brothers and many deities besides, the demigod of death has always existed to help mortals. It’s difficult for Geralt to feel good about using his strength and unique powers to aid those who call upon him because while he’s always known his purpose, for so very long there was no one who wanted him to truly fulfill that purpose.

~~~

“C’mon, Geralt, you can’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t want to go to the Midsummer festival! Decadent food and dandelion wine, beautiful maidens wearing next to nothing and lighting things on fire?! Even you and your perpetual brooding can’t say that doesn’t get you at least a little hot!?” Jaskier groans, pacing the length of their camp in the wilds just outside Hochebuz.

There hadn’t been any contracts for Geralt when they’d checked the notice board in town just that morning, but Jaskier had caught word of the impending festival starting that evening for the summer solstice, and it seems there is to be an especially extravagant Midsummer gathering this year to celebrate the recent birth of the local baron’s first male heir.

“I don’t go to festivals, especially summer ones,” the demigod grunts, settling himself on a log and irreverently scraping mud out of the treads of his boots with one of many daggers he carries.

“I adore festivals! There will be music and dancing, drinks and fine foods, just imagine it all! Bonfires and fireworks, it’s the most magical thing us boring mortals can get up to without pissing off a sorcerer,” Jaskier teases, picking up his lute to strum through a quick and fiery tune of his own.

Geralt levels an unamused look at the excitable bard, unstrapping the twin blades from his back to set them aside. “Will you be attending as a performer, or as yourself?”

Jaskier whirls around to face his divine companion, the mortal’s face highly offended. “Both! Always both, my dearest of all Witchers. I am fully a bard, and completely myself. And, it would probably be a great way to earn us some extra coin, if we’re honest with one another. Since there are no contracts to be had and it seems most people offer coin for your witchering and whatnot. Not that money will do us a ton of good here in Hochebuz. I already checked, all the inns are completely full for the festival, even if we did have the money for a proper room,” Jaskier bemoans, sitting beside Geralt on the log, his shoulder brushing against the demigod’s leather pauldron.

Geralt shifts slightly away from the young man, trying to be discreet as he does so.

It’s not as if the witcher is actually opposed to the contact. 

On the contrary, Geralt has found he’s increasingly craving those little, casual touches from Jaskier. The bard is such a tactile and familiar person, the true epitome of someone who has “never met a stranger”, and the mortal has grown ever more careless in the platonic touches he bestows upon the deity.

Whether it’s a brush of the shoulders or their knees resting against one another, Jaskier seems to have lost all reservation with physical contact between he and Geralt, and it’s been incredibly unnerving for the demigod.

Mortals don’t touch him, ever. If they can see him, they will give Geralt a wide berth and look away, especially if they know or suspect he is more than human. While in the mortal realm, the witcher just expects the distance and lack of touch, it’s never bothered him, because he’s never known any different.

When he goes back to Kaer Morhen for Winters, there is plenty of easy physical affection from his demigod brothers. 

But this casual and easy touch from Jaskier is also unsettling for Geralt.

How did this become his new normal? The incessantly chatty bard taking up his personal space and brushing his calloused lutanist’s fingers over Geralt’s wrist, seemingly unaffected by the direct contact of Jaskier’s skin against the deity’s. 

Geralt knows that mortals feel something when they touch him. If he isn’t actively suppressing the quiet thrum of power that surges through him, growing day by day because of Jaskier’s devotion, the witcher is well aware that his power will leech through his skin and be felt by the very human man beside him.

But Jaskier doesn’t react at all anymore. If the thrill of unbridled divinity shocks or unnerves the bard, he doesn’t let on, and continues in his casual contact with Geralt as if he were mortal himself.

And the witcher is concerned about why he finds himself unable to rebuff Jaskier. When did he let himself be cowed by a mortal? What keeps Geralt from glaring at every touch from the young man until he wouldn’t dare lay a finger on the demigod?

“You’ve gone all quiet on me, Geralt. What’s going through your mind? I imagine it must be quite a lot all at once. More than a regular person’s, certainly,” Jaskier pipes up, glancing sideways at the witcher.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Geralt remarks too harshly, standing and beginning to unbuckle his armor, mostly to get away from the unnerving pull he seems to feel towards the young man.

Jaskier scoffs and makes a face at that, muttering under his breath about how somebody needs to get laid, and Geralt gives him a sharp scowl, which the bard has the decency to look at least a bit chagrined at. “Right, well, if you’d rather spend the evening doing your brooding by the campfire, far be it from me to stop you. I, however, am going to the festival, I’ll be back by morning,” Jaskier says, hopping up from the log and giving his head a slight bow towards the deity, who only grunts his response.

Watching the bard disappear around the bend has Geralt feeling uncharacteristically perturbed, but he does his best to ignore the feeling, instead taking some time to meditate. By relaxing parts of his conscious mind, the demigod is able to mentally check in on his many places of veneration across the Continent.

He finds a few prayers waiting for him out in the world, thankfully no requests for murder, though there is also little by way of any recent tribute for him, either. To get the most from an offering left to him, it would be best for Geralt to visit the physical locations themselves, but he still doesn’t have anywhere near the power needed to portal himself about everywhere to collect tribute, so he has to make do with the fraction of strength he can gather from his remote location.

By the time he’s opened his eyes from his meditation, dusk has fallen all around Geralt.

In the distance, the witcher can hear and see evidence of the Midsummer revelry really getting underway, as darkness lends itself to the large bonfires being built and the fireworks being let off. The scents of smoke and fried festival foods linger over on the wind, and Geralt sighs softly to himself.

It is dark enough now that when the demigod stands and pulls his travel cloak back on over his dark undershirt and trousers, that he doubts he’ll be given a second glance by most anyone. Geralt pulls his hood up to cover his silver-white hair as well and meanders towards the festival, unsure why he’s even bothering.

As the witcher approaches Hochebuz, he can more clearly hear the lively music from more than one performer across the settlement, the sizzle of firecrackers, and people of all ages running about and laughing joyfully. No one pays any mind to the dark-cloaked demigod as Geralt slips through the crowd, looking around idly as if he isn’t searching for one man in particular.

It’s not hard to find Jaskier as he has quite a crowd around himself, all listening and cheering. Jaskier is of course expertly playing his lute, his ethereal voice ringing out loudly into the night as he spins a sensual ballad about a battle between Geralt and a deathly beautiful bruxa.

Geralt rolls his eyes at the fairly obvious exaggerations in the tale, though he finds himself somewhat amused at the way the bard describes the vampiress' apparent attempt to seduce the witcher. To hear Jaskier sing of it, Geralt may or may not have brought the bruxa to her peak several times before mercifully parting her lovely head from her alabaster shoulders.

The bawdy retelling is a hit amongst the festival crowd, who laugh and cheer in all the right places throughout the song, and as the the bard ends his epic tale, applause rings out and many a coin are tossed into Jaskier’s nearby opened lute case.

After taking several bows, the grinning young man goes to collect his coin, the crowd happily dispersing to other attractions of the festival as he does. A passing wine vendor all but shoves a horn of dandelion wine into Geralt’s hand as the witcher quietly makes his way over to his travel companion.

Jaskier is humming happily to himself as he scoops his earnings into his coin purse, having taken a seat on a nearby wooden crate. The bard smells fairly heavily of the warming summer wine himself, and Geralt tilts his head slightly, catching a subtle scent on the mortal and from the drink the demigod himself holds.

Geralt’s heavy sigh is what has Jaskier looking up, the young man’s face lighting up as he catches sight of the witcher, and Jaskier smiles as if Geralt himself hung the stars in the sky.

“Well, well, well, look who has graced us with his divine presence after all!” the bard coos, smirking and leaning back leisurely against the stack of crates, his bright blue eyes piercing as they regard the cloaked demigod before him.

“Hmm, had to make sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble. How much have you had to drink?” Geralt says flatly, taking another sniff of the wine he holds just to make sure of what he’s smelled.

Jaskier kicks his gaudy boots up onto his throne of boxes, crossing his long legs slowly and somehow managing to look quite debonair as he does so. “Hard to say. I haven’t had to pay for a single drink, so probably quite a bit more than I should, if I wish to continue performing at my very best. The wine vendors are terribly aggressive, it seems they’re giving away more free samples than actually making anyone pay. Why do you ask?”

“Because someone spiked the wine with an aphrodisiac,” the witcher remarks, his nostrils flaring lightly and his heavy brow furrowing further as he goes to dump out the drink in his hand.

Quicker than he thought the mortal could move especially whilst tipsy, Jaskier is on his feet and in Geralt’s space all at once, the bard’s skilled hands grasped over the witcher’s where he holds the horn of wine, preventing Geralt from discarding it.

“And why is that a bad thing, darling Witcher?” Jaskier whispers coyly, utterly unfazed to have both of his hands pressed against the bare skin of a demigod.

The sweet dandelion wine on the young man’s breath is somehow many times more compelling than it has any right to be to the deity, and Geralt swallows thickly against the rush of heat he feels pooling low in his gut. Geralt releases his hold on the drinking horn, withdrawing his hand carefully from beneath Jaskier’s grasp. The bard gracefully takes the wine from him as he does, smirking at the dazed expression on the witcher’s face. 

It takes more than a moment for Geralt to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing, just thought you ought to know. Sometimes festivals like this are used as a way for local leaders to ensure a population boom in times of plenty,” the White Wolf says, watching Jaskier take a small, unbothered sip of the wine.

“I’m well aware, dearest. It’s not a very well-kept secret even among mortals, since we humans always need more workers for the fields. Was that why you were so concerned as to come and find me? Afraid I might add to the population this evening, as it were?” Jaskier teases, his tongue darting out to catch a spare drop of dandelion wine from his lips.

Geralt ignores his shiver at that, scoffing lightly and rolling his yellow eyes, finding himself glancing sidelong at a nearby group of young maidens. They are all blushing from the drinks they’ve had at the festival, and several of them are eyeing Jaskier rather appreciatively indeed. “If that was my concern, I would’ve said something weeks ago. Not even a demigod could begin to calculate the number of bastard children you likely have scattered across the Continent, bard,” Geralt counters with a bit more bite to his growl than he intended.

Jaskier’s handsome eyebrows pull up in an expression of slightly annoyed surprise, and his amused tone has an undercurrent of something sharp, “You’ve never commented on my sexual habits before, Geralt, no need to start now. Though I must admit I am rather affronted by your lack of faith in me. I’m a responsible man, I take every reasonable precaution not to ‘add to the population’, when it is a woman I’m taking to bed.”

The witcher concedes that point with a slight wince, crossing his arms beneath his cloak and unintentionally showing off how his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his well-defined forearms. 

The sight of Geralt’s skin seems to draw in Jaskier’s gaze for a moment before the young man tears his blue eyes away to casually throw a salacious wink to the women crowded nearby. They giggle and whisper among themselves about how many of them would willingly have the bard all at once, and Geralt feels the uncomfortable thrill of an unpleasant emotion hitting him in the gut.

It’s not jealousy, truly it isn’t. The witcher doesn’t believe he owns Jaskier in any way, certainly not in the sort of way that would begrudge the mortal taking any number of partners whenever he wishes to.

No, what fills Geralt’s stomach with sharp thorns is envy, an ugly envy of those who are lucky enough to bed the vibrant bard. Bitter envy that Geralt might have nearly every bit of Jaskier’s waking attention, but he will never have Jaskier himself.

The realization of what has had his mood so taciturn of late all but freezes Geralt in place. He knows he should’ve said something to reply to Jaskier’s previous statement, but the demigod is quite shocked with himself. He has never been envious of a mortal, ever. 

In his always fleeting past trysts with mortals, Geralt didn’t have to try overmuch to get a partner into bed. People either desired him or they didn’t, and it was not complicated for him to navigate a tumble between the sheets. And it never meant anything, as Geralt would sleep with whomever had caught his eyes among the mortals and was willing, and the deity would be gone well before morning, never to see the person again.

But Jaskier means entirely too much to Geralt, so much more than the witcher can even admit to himself, and this growing physical draw that Geralt feels for the bard is dangerous. Someone is liable to get hurt, and it will likely be Jaskier. 

And that is assuming the young man would even reciprocate. In all of their many weeks together and despite the various partners Jaskier has slept with, never once has he alluded to any desire to bed the deity he travels with.

Geralt’s moment of self-doubt has stretched long enough that Jaskier’s frustration with him has ebbed towards concern, the bard’s lovely brows furrowed delicately. “Geralt? Are you alright?” Jaskier asks quietly, stepping closer to the demigod.

“Just…weary, still. From the selkiemore hunt,” Geralt lies quietly, referencing the last monster he’d bested with relative ease a couple of days prior. Though it had been a gory sight with the witcher returning from the hunt covered in its guts and blood, having allowed himself to be swallowed whole in order to cut through the beast from the inside, the monster itself hadn’t truly put up much of a fight against the deity.

Jaskier frowns more, all his ire gone now. “I didn’t know you were still recovering, my apologies. Here,” Jaskier murmurs gently, stepping even closer and holding the horn of dandelion wine to Geralt’s lips in offering. 

There is truly no way for the witcher to refuse any tribute so willingly given, especially without admitting to his falsehood and inviting the bard’s ridicule. Geralt’s lips part almost of their own volition as Jaskier tips the drinking horn and pours the sweet summer wine into the demigod’s mouth.

As Geralt drinks, he can feel his golden eyes glowing with the intense power of the bard’s personal offering, and the golden light reflects beautifully on Jaskier’s visage as he stands so close to the witcher.

A triumphant smile plays on the mortal’s handsome face, something mischievous sparking to life in those blue, blue eyes as Jaskier tilts the cup ever further. It’s a clear test for Geralt, as his choices are either to swallow down everything Jaskier is giving to him, or end up wearing the rest of the wine as it spills. 

Combined with the inherent intimacy of being made to drink directly from Jaskier’s hands, the further tease of the power-play has the witcher stifling a moan in the back of his throat, Geralt’s eyes slipping closed at the rush of strength and arousal both that threaten to undo him.

When the horn is empty, Jaskier pulls it from the demigod’s lips, the bard’s soft chuckle burning like flames along the back of Geralt’s neck. It takes more effort than Geralt would like for him to open his eyes, and he can feel the heat rising on his face as he stares at Jaskier. His blush is as much from the current situation as it is from the liquor, as the aphrodisiac-laced dandelion wine fills Geralt with more than divine power.

Jaskier bites his plush lower lip, his eyes taking in the overwhelmingly lustful heat in the witcher’s gaze. “How do you feel now, Geralt?” the bard murmurs, bowing his head just enough that he can look up at Geralt through his dark eyelashes.

Never before has the demigod felt such overwhelming need, but he is rescued from having to give voice to his desires as a buxom young blue-eyed blonde has walked over to shyly get Jaskier’s attention.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but I heard your song. It was…amazing. You’re a traveling bard?” the maiden asks, trying to keep her eyes on Jaskier only, as any glance she sends towards Geralt seems to frighten the mortal woman just a little.

Ever the charmer, Jaskier smiles and turns to face the maiden, offering a flourishing bow. “Jaskier the bard at your service, my dear lady. And what, pray tell, might your name be?” Jaskier says smoothly.

A pretty blush blooms on the blonde’s face and she gives a small curtsy in response. “Agatha, good sir. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Agatha says, giving a fearful glance over at the witcher again.

When Jaskier looks back at him as well, Geralt has gritted his teeth and wrestled his traitorous libido into check so his expression becomes somewhat cold and closed off, and for some reason Jaskier sighs almost sadly at that.

The bard turns back to the maiden, his smile effortless. “Perish the thought, my dear friend here was just taking his leave. Unless of course, you have a very brave friend yourself who finds the strong, silent type to be endearing,” Jaskier teases flirtatiously, and Agatha giggles and turns back to her group of friends.

“Sorsha?” she asks coyly, and another young woman walks over a bit more boldly than her blonde friend. Sorsha is tall and slender, her long, tight auburn curls framing a speculative and lovely face with bright green eyes. 

She’s objectively just as beautiful as Agatha, and Jaskier gives her another winning smile, gesturing over to the witcher as he speaks, “This is my friend, Geralt. I promise he doesn’t bite. Not hard, anyways,” the bard jokes, shooting Geralt a look that entreats the demigod to be nice.

Geralt does his best not to glare at Jaskier, and turns a neutral expression towards both women.

While Agatha looks rather intimidated and takes a step closer to Jaskier, who smoothly slips his arm around the blonde’s shoulders, Sorsha looks intrigued by Geralt’s harshly beautiful countenance. The auburn-haired maiden steps up to the witcher, her delicate hands coming to rest on Geralt’s massive chest.

One last glance at Jaskier shows the demigod that the bard is already whispering filth into Agatha’s ear and the blushing maiden giggles as she pulls Jaskier away. The young man throws a wink to his travel companion, and then he’s out of sight around the corner.

Geralt glances down at Sorsha, who looks up at him expectantly, her green eyes showing a sharp interest that seems to see more than most. The maiden slips her fingers up the hard planes of Geralt’s pecs, and her voice is calm and confident, “My home isn’t far, just behind the apothecary shop. Walk me home, Geralt?”

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Writer's block is kicking my ass.

I am curious, clearly if Geralt plays his cards right, he's about to get some. How do we feel about a tiny bit of smut when it's not between the main pair? I can always manage more of a fade-to-black, if there's no interest in this momentary side tryst.

I always appreciate your comments!

Chapter 6

Notes:

Some minor Geralt/Female OC smut in this chapter

The witcher sighs heavily at the fairly obvious proposition but nods, letting Sorsha take his arm as they head through the town. The solstice festival continues on around them, fireworks bursting in many colors in the night sky, and bonfires raging out in the open.

Sorsha doesn’t fill the silence with idle banter as they walk, something Geralt is immensely grateful for. As they stroll, the auburn-haired maiden snags a bottle of dandelion wine from one of the vendor carts, and before long they are stepping inside the small cottage that makes up the back half of the apothecary shop.

A humble home by all means, there are only dimly glowing coals in the hearth giving some light to the space, but Sorsha quickly gets a small fire going and lights a few candles to brighten the one-room cottage. It is clear to Geralt that Sorsha is the apothecary herself, as there are many bundles of herbs tied up to dry around her home, various herbal remedies half-made across most of the work surfaces, and no indication of anyone else but the woman living in the space. 

Which is all the better for Geralt, he doesn’t actually feel like dealing with the ire of a cuckolded spouse, especially for a dalliance he isn’t even sure he truly desires.

Sorsha pulls two simple metal goblets from a shelf and pours them each a cup of the dandelion wine, handing the larger of the two to Geralt. While the gesture is hospitable enough, the demigod can’t stifle the small sigh that escapes his lips as he takes the offered drink. 

The simple tribute does very little for him without true reverence behind the gesture, and it only serves to remind him of the much more intense offering of the same wine that Jaskier had given him earlier. Right before he’d gone off with a woman he’d just met, leaving Geralt to do the same.

“So, how long have you been in love with the bard?” Sorsha asks casually, taking a delicate sip of wine.

Geralt had unfortunately just taken a rather large swig of his own drink, and nearly chokes on it at the maiden’s words. Once he’s composed himself, he narrows his eyes at the mortal woman, trying to temper his glare at least a little. “I’m not in love with him,” Geralt growls flatly, quickly finishing his wine and setting the goblet down on the table a bit harder than is strictly necessary.

An impish smile turns up the corners of Sorsha’s pink lips and she takes another slow drink, nodding carefully. “My mistake, then,” she says simply, the sharp intelligence in her eyes and tone belying her belief in the witcher’s words.

A soft noise of frustration rumbles in the back of Geralt’s throat but Sorsha sets her cup aside and steps forward to put her hands on his shoulders, leaning up boldly to kiss the deity into silence. 

It’s nice enough, as kisses go, and Geralt huffs softly but he does kiss her back, letting Sorsha walk the both of them back until the witcher is pressed back to sit on the edge of her bed. Geralt looks up at the auburn-haired maiden as she stands between his legs, and his breath hitches in his throat as Sorsha deftly unlaces her dress. 

She lets the garment and her underskirt slip off and pool down onto the floor, fully nude before the witcher. Sorsha smirks at the clear arousal on Geralt’s face, before glancing pointedly down at where he’s started to tent up his trousers. “So, it’s not just the bard for you, then. That’s a relief,” she says cheekily, finally pushing Geralt’s hood back and off, revealing his long, silvery-white locks.

The witcher is scowling at Sorsha’s teasing, but his arguments are quickly smothered by her kissing him fiercely yet again. Geralt does his best to relax and just enjoy the moment for what it is, his hands slipping up to grasp the auburn-haired maidens bare hips.

A soft shiver runs through Sorsha, and she carefully unties the demigod’s cloak before moving on to swiftly undo the buttons holding Geralt’s shirt closed.

While not unexpected, the soft gasp from Sorsha when she sees the extensive scars across the Witcher’s chest and abs still makes him frown, and Geralt looks away. He’s certain he’s about to get kicked out, so he loosens his grip on the mortal woman before him, sighing in resignation.

But Sorsha hasn’t shoved him away in disgust just yet, and Geralt looks up when she hesitantly lets her fingers trace over the ridges of the many healed injuries. She still smells interested in him, and the witcher looks back at her, his heavy brows furrowed. “Not going to ask what happened?” Geralt questions flatly, letting his hands gently skim up Sorsha’s ribs, daring to brush a thumb against the side of one of her perky breasts.

Goosebumps break out across the maiden’s skin and she gasps again, blushing further and biting her lower lip. “I think I already know what happened.” Sorsha gracefully straddles Geralt’s lap and leans down to brush her lips across the crown of his head, her breasts very tantalizingly in the witcher’s face. “Long white hair but a young face, intense yellow eyes, a stranger clad in all black, sporting a great many battlescars? You’re a Witcher,” Sorsha whispers, smirking when Geralt pulls her back away from him quickly, his eyes narrowed as he regards her.

“You knew, and you still invited me into your home? Into your bed?” Geralt grits out, his expression full of suspicion.

“I suspected, I wasn’t certain until I saw the scars. The bard’s songs have reached us here in Hochebuz ahead of you both, though I don’t think many of my fellow townsfolk really believed Jaskier to be traveling with the Geralt of Rivia, god of Death,” Sorsha says quietly, only now showing a bit of uncertainty or fear, but largely she seems mostly curious.

Hearing the title still rankles for Geralt, and he looks away again, letting his hands fall away from the mortal entirely. “I’m a Witcher first and foremost, I hunt monsters, not men.”

Sorsha sits more fully across Geralt’s lap, her hands coming up to stroke through his hair, freeing it from the leather tie holding the top half back in a ponytail. The way she doesn’t shrink back in fear emboldens the demigod a little, and he carefully shrugs off his unbuttoned shirt, watching how the maiden eyes his well-muscled arms.

“And what about monstrous men?” she asks softly, letting her hands smooth down the scars on his shoulders and biceps.

Geralt gives a shrug, catching how Sorsha’s delicate scent of arousal flares once again to see his muscles rippling as he does so. “On occasion, but I’m not an assassin or a mercenary. I should be no more feared than any other Witcher, at least.”

“I’m not afraid,” Sorsha whispers, and it is true that there is no more apprehension in her scent as she reaches down to start unlacing the ties of Geralt’s trousers.

Geralt shudders and sits back, leaning his weight onto his hands behind him on the mattress so the young woman can get his pants fully undone. When Sorsha reaches in to pull Geralt’s cock free, the demigod groans lightly at her gentle touch as she gives him a few teasing strokes. 

He grabs the maiden and whirls to pin her on her back on the bed, holding himself up over her so she doesn’t feel his weight. The sudden and graceful movement has Sorsha’s green eyes widen but she still parts her legs more than willingly. It takes just a moment for the witcher to sit back and kick his boots off, shoving his trousers away with just as much haste, before getting back up over the auburn-haired young woman.

She runs her hands over Geralt’s shoulders and down his sides, feeling appreciatively over the many defined muscles there, her touch gentler as she passes over his scarred ribs. “You must have fought a great many monsters to have so many marks like this,” Sorsha murmurs in awe, and the witcher feels her sudden reverence like a slight burn everywhere she touches him.

“More than I could count,” Geralt agrees, ducking his head to nuzzle across the maiden’s chest, pressing open mouthed kisses to her nipples as one of his hands slips down to swirl a fingertip against her clit.

Sorsha gasps and shifts into his touch, a soft moan escaping her as the deity presses two of his large fingers inside her slowly. Geralt leans back up to catch her mouth in a deep kiss, fucking her slowly on his fingers alone, and the witcher smirks when Sorsha peaks quickly with a desperate little moan against his lips. 

He withdraws his fingers carefully, nudging her legs open wider to accommodate him, but Geralt stills when a Sorsha places a hesitant hand against his chest. “I’ve heard stories, of the sorts of babies born to women who lay with gods. I have no desire to carry such a child,” she says quietly, her tone and expression seeming to anticipate that her words might anger the witcher.

A light scoff comes from Geralt and he shakes his head, an almost amused smile on his lips. “Fear not. Witchers are sterile, we always have been,” the White Wolf says with a soft chuckle, but he holds himself back from going any further, holding still and awaiting her consent.

“So, there’s truly no danger to lying with you?” Sorsha questions, her boldness somehow endearing to Geralt.

He feels a more easy smile tug at his lips and brushes a thumb across the maiden’s cheekbone. “No danger whatsoever. On the contrary, it’s been known to be beneficial for a mortal to lie with a divine. There are some blessings that can only be bestowed rather…physically,” Geralt murmurs, his husky voice amused and full of gravel.

“Hmm, I think I have heard something about demigods healing people with sex,” Sorsha teases, her bright green eyes curious and mirthful as she lets her hands explore up over his muscular shoulders.

Geralt chuckles and leans down to brush his lips across her collarbone, shifting between her legs but still holding himself back from taking her as he gives her a thoughtful look. “That’s not untrue, exactly, but I could heal you without all that. It’s more like…giving something of my body to a mortal also gives them the divine power that it’s imbued with, in a way.”

“Are you trying to say you actually have holy seed?” Sorsha demands with a giggle, idly hitching her legs up over his hips and pulling him down closer to her.

A light chuckle works its way from Geralt’s chest and he lines his cock up to brush against her entrance, smirking when Sorsha shivers. “In a way, I guess. Now, do you still want this?” Geralt murmurs, his eyes taking in her expression as he carefully presses lightly against her. She’s wet enough that it’s an easy slide, but the witcher waits to see how Sorsha responds.

She relaxes minutely beneath him, her answering smile relieved and trusting as she nods quickly, and Geralt slots his mouth against hers in an intense and biting kiss. The demigod presses slowly inside her, taking his time and letting her adjust to his rather impressive size. 

The ecstasy on Sorsha’s flushed face has Geralt thrusting his hips into her just a bit faster, and he shudders when the maiden moans, her slim legs hitching up higher around his hips, her ankles crossing behind his back to seat him fully to the hilt.

Geralt shudders and rocks his hips into Sorsha, almost gently at first, but quickly gains speed and intensity as he finds a good angle for them both. The mortal woman beneath him lets out a near constant litany of soft gasps and little moans, urging him to go faster and harder with breathless whimpers.

With the extensive experience of past millennia to guide him, Geralt easily pulls Sorsha through several very intense orgasms before he himself starts to get close to his own. 

Geralt feels the heat pooling low in his gut and is so fucking close that he can’t seem to catch his breath. But right as he’s about to tip over that edge, there is a sudden loud knock at Sorsha’s front door.

“Sorsha? Are you home?” comes the voice of Agatha through the door, the wood muffling her voice just a little, but Geralt hears her clearly, hears how upset she sounds.

It’s not unlike a bucket of ice water thrown down Geralt’s back, for him to think about how she must’ve just come from wherever it was that she dragged Jaskier off to, and the witcher’s climax stalls hard.

He pulls out of Sorsha, trying to ignore her soft gasp of surprised discomfort at his hasty withdrawal, and Geralt stands to quickly start to pull his clothes on.

Agatha knocks again and Sorsha manages to catch her breath and clear her head enough to call out to her friend, “Just a moment, Athy.” The auburn-haired maiden scrambles up off her bed and pulls a dressing gown to cover herself, her face flushed with embarrassment and shame at how shaky her legs seem to be, and she can’t seem to look at Geralt.

That’s fine by him, he’s just pulled his cloak back on, drawing the hood up to hide his silvery white hair and yellow eyes, and Sorsha unlocks her door and pulls it open to see her friend standing there, teary-eyed and sniffling.

Agatha looks up and sees Geralt standing there, looking as if he wished he was anywhere else, and she chokes out a rather wet laugh. “Guess I would’ve had better luck with him, instead,” the blonde maiden says, her scent a confusing jumble of embarrassed tears and frustration.

“Athy, what happened? Did the bard hurt you?” Sorsha demands, throwing a baleful look at Geralt, who raises his eyebrows.

“No, nothing like that. I just…everything seemed like it was going so well, I really liked him, and we were kissing, and then he…he apologized, told me he couldn’t do it, that I was ‘very pretty’, but that his heart wasn’t in it, and then he just left,” Agatha says in a shaky voice, the pain of rejection making her scent cold like rusty iron.

Sorsha gives the witcher another tight-lipped look, letting her friend inside, and Agatha sits despondently at the table. “I think you should go,” Sorsha says quietly to Geralt, who says nothing in return, leaving the apothecary behind.

The two women speak quietly as the door shuts behind Geralt, but he feels incredibly numb and off-kilter by the whole situation. The demigod makes his way back through town and heads back to where they had set up camp, unable to keep himself from wondering if Jaskier has made it back yet. 

Geralt isn’t sure how he feels about Jaskier rejecting Agatha, he’s not sure he’s ever heard the bard turn anyone down, really, especially not someone who was clearly very into him, as well. And the abrupt ending to his time with Sorsha also doesn’t bother Geralt as much as he thinks it should. Sure, it’s mildly irritating to get so close and then not get off, but he really has no one but himself to blame for that. 

It seemed like Sorsha enjoyed herself, up until her friend’s sadness interrupted them, but by the looks she kept giving Geralt, she certainly seemed to think him at least partially at fault for Jaskier’s lack of interest in Agatha, which is just absurd.

Before long, Geralt is just outside camp, not paying as much attention to his surroundings as he rightfully should, when a soft noise draws him up short just outside the last ring of trees before the clearing where they’ve set up their gear.

It’s a sound that Geralt thinks he knows, but he’s never heard it so clearly, usually only through the thin walls of an inn and from a distance, on the nights Jaskier took a lover before coming back to the room he shared with Geralt.

The witcher’s keen eyesight is able to rather quickly find the shape of Jaskier laid out on his bedroll by the fire, and Geralt’s eyes widen minutely when he realizes the bard is rather frantically stroking himself off.

The soft sounds of need and desire that escape Jaskier’s bitten lips are more compelling than all the aphrodisiac-laced wine in the world, and Geralt’s muscles all lock up, trying desperately to keep his composure and not stalk into camp and claim Jaskier right here and right now. 

It feels wrong for Geralt to just watch the bard desperately chasing his pleasure by his own hand, but the demigod fears that if he moves even to turn away, that he will either be spotted or his composure will snap and he will do something drastic and likely unwanted by Jaskier.

Just when Geralt is certain he will go mad if he doesn’t do something, anything, Jaskier’s quick breathing stutters and he lets out a needy whimper while his back arches lightly. Right as the bard starts to come, splattering messily over his hand, he groans out with his voice hoarse with need, “Ohhh, Geralt!”

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I know this chapter is shorter than usual, and if it seems less polished, that's 'cause it is.
Writer's block and health issues continue to kill me, and I'm trying my best, be gentle with me lol
Also, sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger, I had to

Chapter 7

Shock registers for Geralt just a split-second before a dizzying wave of power blindsides the demigod, as Jaskier’s declaration in his name and unknowing offering of his seed gives Geralt a rush of divine power that very nearly brings him down to his knees.

The witcher pants softly for breath, the power surge filling him with an inferno of light so bright that it feels like he’s burning up from the inside out, and Geralt bites back a moan when he grows hard so fast that it makes his head spin. 

A single ragged inhale is all Geralt allows himself, the heady scent of Jaskier’s arousal and his spend enticing even from across the width of the clearing, but then Geralt takes off running in the opposite direction as quickly and silently as he can. 

He’s desperate to put distance between himself and Jaskier, unable to process how he feels about what’s happened, and utterly certain that seeing the demigod so undone would be frightening for the bard, would be the last straw that has Jaskier leaving his side forever.

Soon enough, Geralt can’t put it off any longer, and he falls harshly to his knees deep in the forest, one hand grasping at a weathered tree trunk to keep himself from falling over, his chest heaving with ragged breaths that have nothing to do with the distance he just ran.

He rips frantically through the laces of his trousers, heedless of the tearing fabric as he yanks the obstructive clothing aside to get his achingly hard cock into his hand.

It only takes a few desperate strokes for Geralt to come, something like a feral growl ripping from him as he spurts his thick shots of spend into the bracken of the forest floor. And there is so very much of it, rope after rope of white pulsing from him like endless waves on the ocean, and Geralt almost sobs at the intensity of his release.

The jagged bark of the tree beneath his other hand crushes like so much soft clay with how tightly he digs his fingers in, and Geralt shudders as he feels the still building thrum of divine power growing just under his skin, heedless of what he’s already let go of along with his peak.

As the witcher attempts to reign in his unsteady breathing, he glances down and notices in a daze that everywhere his seed has landed in the dirt, bunches of softly glowing white chrysanthemums have sprouted up and bloomed all at once.

Geralt scowls and blushes rather furiously, putting his prick away and using some of his magic to mend the ripped clothing so he won’t be exposed. It takes another moment for him to be able to stand back to his feet, and Geralt swallows hard, trying in vain to compose himself.

It doesn’t take him long to return to camp, and to the Witcher’s immense relief, Jaskier is asleep when he gets back. Geralt silently lies down on his bedroll beside Jaskier’s, facing away from him and not wishing to disturb the mortal.

But seeming to somehow sense his presence anyways, Jaskier curls closer to him in his sleep, and Geralt just doesn’t have the heart to push him away. The demigod exhales softly as Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s black cloak, and something about the sensation stirs Jaskier to gentle wakefulness.

He blinks bleary blue eyes up at Geralt and smiles tiredly as the demigod takes the opportunity to roll onto his back, subtly giving himself just a bit of distance between himself and Jaskier. “Hello, there, you. I see you found your way back. Did you have a good time tonight with the festival and your maiden?” Jaskier murmurs cheerfully, but there is something almost sad deep in those blue eyes.

Geralt tries to just give a noncommittal shrug and leave it at that, but Jaskier sighs and the bard sits up, looking down expectantly at the deity in the shape of a man. “Hmm, I…tonight was…confusing,” Geralt hedges awkwardly, not sure how to begin to bring up what Agatha had said, nor what he himself witnessed from Jaskier.

A deeply weary sigh escapes Jaskier’s plump lips. “It was, at that. Perhaps the wine wasn’t all it was made out to be. I dunno, I…I never usually have any sort of problem with these sorts of things, but I must admit, I was unable to enjoy the company of dear Agatha. I hope your time with Sorsha was more rewarding, at least,” Jaskier says with false joviality, playing with the hem of his chemise since he tends to sleep without being clothed in one of his characteristically bright doublets.

Geralt could lie, he even considers it for a moment, but discards the thought right away. He’s not fae, untruths aren’t impossible for deities, but Geralt himself has always considered himself honest, even to a fault. “Her company was pleasant enough, for a time. But we were…ah, ultimately interrupted, by Agatha coming to speak with Sorsha after her time with you. I was…encouraged to leave, rather quickly after that,” Geralt murmurs cautiously, his eyes on the stars so far above their heads.

The scent of Jaskier’s surprise, then his sharp embarrassment and shame hits the witcher and Geralt winces imperceptibly as the bard groans and hides his face in his hands. “That is entirely my fault, and I am more mortified than you could ever know. I truly didn’t mean to ruin your evening as well, Geralt. And after I was the one who pushed you into taking companionship in the first place!” Jaskier says woefully, those bright blue eyes peeking at Geralt from between the lutanist’s skilled fingers.

A riot of unfamiliar nerves turns in Geralt’s stomach and he clears his throat carefully. “I don’t blame you, Jaskier. Sorsha knew what I was, it was a somewhat unnerving coupling anyways.”

That seems to give Jaskier pause for a moment. “She knew you were a demigod, and she slept with you anyways?” Jaskier clarifies, some guarded emotion hiding behind his enchanting eyes.

Geralt nods and unfastens his cloak, letting the soft material fall away from his shoulders as he bends his arms and pillows his interlaced fingers up behind his head. “Not the first time I’ve been perceived thusly by a bedpartner, just been quite some time since it happened. Well, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve had a bedpartner at all, honestly,” Geralt admits, watching how the plummeting temperature of a cold wind rolling through the summer night has Jaskier shivering.

“That’s ah, that is interesting to know. I suppose I figured you would have the same appetite as a mortal man might. Though, I’ve not seen you take a tumble with anyone since we have been travelling together,” Jaskier says, blinking in surprise when the witcher sits up and gracefully bundles his own cloak up over the bard's shoulders. Jaskier shivers harder and huddles down into the warmth of the garment, something like grateful wonder in his expression.

“I do, most of us do have similar appetites to mortals in many ways. I’ve just been too busy and too weak for the last few decades to really indulge any such compulsion,” Geralt says, lying back down on his bedroll and watching how Jaskier slowly lays down and curls up on his as well, still clutching Geralt’s cloak around his shoulders like it might be taken from him.

“The last few decades? Geralt, please tell me you have not been without release in my entire godsdamned lifetime?! You poor, poor man,” Jaskier says fiercely, obviously quite mortified to imagine abstaining from pleasures of the flesh for such a length of time.

A slight smile tugs at Geralt’s lips and he finally kicks off his muddied boots so he can properly lie down without dirtying the bedroll. “Make no mistake, I am no man, Jaskier. And I didn’t say I’d been without release for that long, just that I hadn’t had a partner in that time,” Geralt teases, feeling an uncharacteristic warmth at Jaskier’s concern for the deity’s baser needs. It just so happens that Geralt is also trying not to vividly remember his very recent release encouraged by Jaskier’s own unknowing veneration.

“You are shaped like all of an entire man, you know what I meant, darling Witcher,” Jaskier retorts, tiredness seeming to slowly come back to him now that he’s properly warm and has seen his companion safely returned.

“I know what you meant, and as I said, I’m fine. When you live as long as I do, such stretches of years are nothing to my eyes,” Geralt says, going for levity, but Jaskier frowns and his fingers trace the hem of Geralt’s cloak.

“I suppose you’re right. I doubt any mortal would ever hold interest for you for any length of time, anyways. Though that does sound rather lonely and sad, if I’m to be honest. An entire eternity of short-lived partnerships,” Jaskier muses solemnly, and something sharp twists in Geralt’s chest.

The deity finds his words are all caught oddly in his mouth and he rolls to his side to behold the mortal at his side. “Some of us do find partners in other immortals. One of my brothers has taken a Cat witcher for his beloved, they’ve been together for the better part of a half a millenia,” Geralt says quietly, nearly smiling to think of how Aiden had been all but adopted by the pantheon of Wolf witchers, once Lambert had finally gotten his head out of his ass long enough to admit to the Cat Witcher demigod about his feelings.

“And do you have such a partner? You’d never mentioned one,” Jaskier says in an odd tone, his face somewhat blank.

Geralt frowns and tilts his head, letting the image of his brother-at-arms, Eskel, fill his mind, and then fade away. “I used to think I had such a partner. But…when I fell from the mortals’ grace, I pulled away from him,” Geralt admits quietly, wondering why he is sharing such a deeply personal thing with the human bard.

“Why would you do that?” Jaskier asks with more genuine curiosity, his shoulders relaxing, and Geralt couldn’t help missing the way the bard’s interest piqued when Geralt mentioned that his former lover was male.

A deep sigh escapes Geralt’s chest. “I couldn’t face him anymore. I’d gone from the strongest demigod in our pantheon, to just a shell of my former self. I’d never felt such damning inadequacy, and Eskel, he’s…he’s so certain of himself, so sensible and steadfast and sure. And I was so ashamed of my failure, I knew I was ruined and worthless to the rest of them, even if they’d never admit it,” Geralt says through gritted teeth, shocked to feel tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

It had been a great many years since Geralt had allowed himself to cry. More than decades, it had been centuries.

“Eskel? He’s the demigod that performing artists such as myself often pay homage to, to aid us in the courage it takes to stand before a crowd and give of our art as our livelihood,” Jaskier says in surprise and quiet reverence, and Geralt can’t help the soft smile that spreads across his face to hear his brother spoken so highly of.

Geralt quietly wipes the tears from his eyes, glad for the darkness that hides his weakness from the mortal. “He delights in artists, and Eskel has a particular fondness for poetry,” Geralt says in agreement, his smile turning sad again.

“Somehow, I can’t imagine such a benevolent deity shunning you for the failings of mortal men, Geralt. From what I know of witchers, you are all of you more level-headed and more tightly knit than that. I am sure your brethren would be appalled to hear you speaking so lowly of yourself, especially in deference to them,” Jaskier chides gently, so gently that Geralt feels more wet heat building in his eyes, and he has to close his eyes to stem the flood.

“Eskel never did understand why I walled off my heart to him. It’s been…a couple centuries, since I had him,” Geralt admits, appalled that his tears roughen his voice to the point that Jaskier might possibly notice his distress.

“I suppose I can see why you’ve been hesitant to take mortal lovers. I mean, who could ever live up to such a legacy? Who would ever want a human when their heart is held by a god?” Jaskier says rather suddenly, his voice hard even as he tries to make it cheerfully unaffected.

A frown knits Geralt’s brows together and he opens his eyes to glance over at his human companion. “It was never like that for us, neither Eskel nor I were ever the jealous sort. Even when we were together, often one or the other of us would take a mortal lover for a time. Those dalliances never lasted, but mostly because the mortals wouldn’t wish to waste their relatively short life on someone they could never build a true future with.”

Jaskier scoffs and the righteous anger shown on his handsome brow stirs something in Geralt. “They were all idiots, then. The beloved favor of a deity? That is a gift that most could never even dream to hope for. To have it and toss it aside so callously is just despicable,” Jaskier rants, and Geralt gives the bard a weary smile.

“I don’t blame them, Jaskier. It is the cost of divinity, I’ve long since came to terms with having to pay it. I cannot really offer anyone my whole heart or my whole self, because I have a responsibility to those who call upon me. Any time spent with me is only ever time that is borrowed. Time that has to be repaid,” Geralt says with feeling, his intense golden eyes trying to impress upon Jaskier that the bard deserves better, so much better than Geralt can give.

There is a stubborn look to Jaskier’s brilliant blue eyes in the faded light of the dying fire as he scoffs, “Well I’ve already offered you my life, Geralt. What kind of man would I be if I tried to take it back? I might not mean anything to you like those other mortals did, but you mean everything to me.”

There is a tangled mess of emotions in Geralt’s chest and the air around the demigod crackles with the threat of his frustration at his inability to sort through them properly. Jaskier’s eyes widen minutely, having not seen such a display yet from Geralt, and even the desensitized bard seems to feel the riot of power buzzing around the witcher right now. 

“I wish you had never offered your life to me. Damn it all, Jaskier! You’re impulsive and naïve, and you are just… reckless, with yourself,” Geralt snarls, sitting up in his irritation to glower down at the mortal.

Anger sparks in those endless blue eyes and Jaskier sits up as well, the set of his shoulders now defensive and tense. “As if I didn’t know that about myself?! As if I’d not wagered from a very young age, that it would always be me that would be my very own undoing?!” Jaskier rages, and the bard stands abruptly to his feet, Geralt’s cloak slipping from his shoulders as he does so. His tone turns bitter as he stares at the glowing coals of their campfire. “I know I’m not a worthy companion for you, oh great White Wolf. I never deluded myself into thinking that I would grow in your esteem simply for joining you and venerating you. I didn’t do it for any recognition or favor, from you or from others.”

It wounds Geralt to his core to hear such bitterness and self-hatred from the usually bright and lively mortal, but Geralt’s own anger has not yet ebbed away enough for him to hold his tongue as he stands as well to face Jaskier. “Then why give up everything to devote yourself to me? You have a full life yet to live, it could be up ‘til the end of your natural lifetime before I’d ever come to collect on your initial prayer. There’s no reason for you to give me the devotion you have, there’s nothing I’ve done to earn it, nothing I could ever do to–” Geralt argues, his tone still too harsh, too judgmental even as he turns away and stops himself from saying “to earn you.”

The silence between them is full of unspoken words and pain, and when Jaskier finally speaks, his voice is quiet and broken in a way Geralt hasn’t heard since that very first night, the night they met when Jaskier knelt before the demigod and thought his life was forfeit. “Do you truly not see what it is that I feel for you, Geralt?”

It’s like the claws of a vicious monster tearing into his chest, the pain that Geralt realizes he has caused his bard, injuring him even without blood. All of the fire of his anger goes cold inside the witcher and he inhales harshly, looking back over his shoulder at the mortal. “Jaskier, I–” he tries to explain, tone heavy with regret, but Jaskier holds up a hand to quiet him.

“You don’t need to say it, Geralt. Even I can tell when I’ve worn out my welcome. We’ll go our separate ways come morning,” Jaskier says, voice empty as the grave. And when Geralt turns to look at him, it looks like the light, the life, has gone out in Jaskier’s eyes.

The chasm between them grows insurmountable, and Geralt feels ice crashing down around his own heart. 

“As you wish,” Geralt says neutrally, sinking back to his bedroll to lie down as if he needs the sleep, as if he will actually be able to rest now. 

As if he will ever know rest again.

Jaskier says nothing more, the mortal lying down and burrowing into his bedroll like he can block out the cruelness of the world with nothing more than wool and silence. The salt of Jaskier’s tears in the air reaches Geralt where he lies, though the bard makes no sound as he cries until his breathing and heartbeat have evened out in sleep.

Once Geralt is certain that Jaskier will not wake, the deity gets quietly to his feet, collecting all of his belongings to himself easily and separating out Jaskier’s belongings into the bard’s bags neatly.

Roach seems surprised when Geralt wakes and saddles her, though the divine animal companion doesn’t truly need sleep either. She whickers softly as Geralt loads her saddlebags with his swords, his potions and other things, and as the witcher looks back over at the bard, he realizes that his cloak is still pooled at the foot of the man’s bedroll.

After a moment of thought, Geralt silently goes to Jaskier and tucks his midnight black travel cloak up and over the sleeping bard, the added warmth soothing the bite of the storm Geralt senses on the horizon of the next day.

He thinks it is likely to be lost on Jaskier, what it means for Geralt to leave the human his cloak, but the demigod makes sure that his innate power imbued into the garment remains strong. Geralt knows it will protect its wearer from frost, from fire, from arrow, blade, tooth or claw, and will allow Jaskier to move largely unseen by danger if needed.

Geralt hauls himself into Roach’s saddle once all traces of him save for his cloak have been removed from Jaskier’s life. A pain unlike the witcher has ever known curls up tightly in his chest, and before he can lose his resolve, he turns and leads Roach by her reins away from the clearing and onto the Path.

The overwhelming power that Jaskier offered him earlier that night still crackles within Geralt, though it feels like it’s been years since Geralt felt that near-perfect moment of the man’s devotion and desire. 

Calling upon some of that power in a way he hasn’t made use of in many years, Geralt portals himself and Roach between one breath and the next, all the way to one of his more sizable shrines in Kaedwen, just outside Ard Carraigh, leaving Jaskier behind in Cintra, free from the burden of the demigod’s presence.

And Geralt’s heart grows colder and more despairing, and he pushes it all away from his mind as he continues on his Path.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Look, this fic took even this author for a hard left, and maybe that's why I've been so blocked on it for so long.
The muses want what they want, and what they want is apparently slowburn Geraskier with eventual Geralt/Eskel/Jaskier, and more imminently, Eskel/Jaskier?
Tags will be updated to reflect, let's all enjoy the ride I guess?

Chapter 8

Jaskier isn’t exactly surprised when he wakes in the morning to find himself alone.

He knew with the way things ended last night, that Geralt would leave him.

The bard is used to being left.

He’s too much, too loud, too impatient, too quick to lash out with his savage wit, too much for anyone to ever want to stay.

As Jaskier sits up from his bedroll, he realizes the reason he slept so comfortably despite his heavy heart is Geralt’s black riding cloak draped over him atop his blankets, and the garment still smells like the Witcher, like sandalwood incense and leather.

In a fit of hurt, Jaskier balls up the cloak and tosses it onto the dying coals of their campfire, screaming out in his anger.

The thick fabric hisses as it hits the smoldering coals, and panic quickly envelopes Jaskier as he realizes he’s just ruined the one thing Geralt left him with, the only proof that the demigod ever even cared for him, and he quickly snatches the cloak from the fire, which has been thoroughly smothered by the garment.

Shaking out the cloak, Jaskier realizes to his immense surprise that there is no hole burned through the cloth, no singes discoloring the inky black fabric.

Once he’s shaken and swatted away the last of the ashes clinging to it, there is no sign that the cloak was touched by the fire at all.

“Hmm, handy, that,” Jaskier mutters to himself, setting about to pack up camp, and trying desperately not to think about how it's been months since he’s had to do this alone, and how likely it is that he will be alone forever, now.

Distant thunder pricks at Jaskier’s ears as he regards the impending stormclouds that rolled over while he slept, and he sighs and dons the cloak once he’s pulled on his pack and lute case. He knows that the travel cloak always seemed to keep Geralt dry from the rain, and Jaskier hopes that it is something to do with the garment itself being resistant to water and not just the inherent magic of the deity.

The fabric is unusually soft against his skin as Jaskier pulls the hood up to cover his hair as well, and he begins the journey to the next village that he and Geralt had been headed towards, not hoping for even a moment that he will run into the deity either on the way there, or in the town itself.

~~~

It is not until three days after Geralt leaves Jaskier, that the demigod allows himself to meditate and check in on prayers left for himself at his places of worship.

Sitting cross-legged by his campfire with Roach tethered not far off, Geralt closes his eyes and lets his mind stretch out to his wayshrines and his temple, and his first surprise is there are several simple prayers from workers at his temple back in Rivia. 

It seems the money and instructions that Jaskier had sent back to the temple have finally been put to use, and the craftsmen that have been repairing the structural needs of the temple also left small offerings to the “merciful White Wolf,” 

Their prayers are still mostly scared, as if the men feared for their lives for simply entering the derelict temple even to repair it, but Jaskier must’ve paid them well for them to take on the work despite their misgivings.

And then, bubbling up to the front of Geralt’s consciousness, is a prayer and an offering from Jaskier, left at the demigod’s shrine just outside Coldwater in Cintra from earlier that day.

Geralt can feel the echoes of Jaskier’s voice, could see his visage as well if he chose to but he can’t make himself face Jaskier even like this, and Geralt finds himself holding his breath as he listens to the bard’s words, the emptiness in his lovely voice not unlike a sharp blade piercing into his heart:

“I offer you this tribute in veneration, that it might please you, Geralt of Rivia.”

The offering itself, a handful of coins, feels just as impersonal as the words of the prayer, and despite the clear devotion and belief imparted by Jaskier, the coldness there makes Geralt choke back tears.

He accepts the offering and prayer nonetheless, knowing that Jaskier is long gone from the shrine itself at this point, and no one is around to witness the shimmer of golden light that comes from Geralt calling the tribute to himself even across the Continent. The thrum of gentle power in his veins from the workmen’s prayers and Jaskier’s own do very little to fill the hollow feeling inside the deity, and they pale in comparison to the energy he still has from his last night with the bard.

It continues like that as days turn to weeks, and every few days Geralt receives prayers and small tributes from Jaskier as the bard continues his travels. Unwavering in his devotion still, the bard even continues to tidy up the White Wolf’s many shrines as he journeys from Cintra up through Temeria.

While it offers Geralt some comfort to know that Jaskier yet lives, that he can mentally track the bard’s travel by the prayers the mortal leaves to Geralt, it does nothing to heal the rift that Geralt feels in his heart. Jaskier’s prayers become a bit less stiff and formal as time passes, but they do not become any less sad or broken, and that in turn breaks something inside the demigod of death.

His own journey across Kaedwen is spent taking on as many monsters as he can vanquish, and the only thing keeping Geralt from being truly reckless and allowing himself to get unnecessarily hurt, is knowing that healing will only eat through the power that Jaskier has gifted to him, and even in Geralt’s pain, he doesn’t wish to squander the devotion given to him by the mortal man that he fears he must have fallen in love with, and subsequently lost.

~~~

“This is the least helpful map I’ve ever wasted my coin on, I swear to Melitele!” Jaskier mutters darkly, smoothing over the parchment he’s been scowling at for the last ten minutes where it is laid out on a rather sizable boulder.

Purchased at a temple outside Brugge, the map is supposed to have detailed locations of Witcher shrines across Temeria and Cidaris, but Jaskier has found to his endless frustration that many of the shrines are mislabelled or their locations are just not precisely marked at all. 

Jaskier knows how to bloody well read a fucking map, unlike whichever whoreson produced this particular cursed bit of parchment!!

And though Jaskier was respectful and left small offerings and prayers to the Witchers Lambert, Vesemir, and Aiden when it was their shrines that the bard stumbled across when he was allegedly being led to either direct shrines to Geralt, or more generalized shrines meant to venerate all Witchers, Jaskier is finding his patience worn very thin as he searches for the shrine he’s attempting to find in the Magpie Forest near Gors Velen.

This one is allegedly one of the shrines to all Witchers, and depending on how Jaskier feels once he’s made his offering there, the bard has half a mind to just travel onwards east to Lettenhove. He’s sorely tempted to go home with his tail between his legs and rest for a while at the manor home that still belongs to him, though as an absentee Viscount, the estate is largely managed by his cousin in his stead.

He really should just turn over his seat to Ferrant, Jaskier thinks idly as he trudges through what is marked on the godsforsaken map as a path to the shrine, though if it is, it is greatly overgrown.

It’s not as though Jaskier often returns home to Lettenhove, nor does he draw on the salary he’s owed as a minor lord, and Ferrant does a good enough job of keeping things in order, he deserves the title. Especially as Jaskier has no plans of siring an heir to pass the title onto, and Ferrant already has two sons and a little girl–

“For fuck’s sake!” Jaskier snarls under his breath as a wayward vine catches his ankle and sends him sprawling onto something painfully solid buried beneath the bracken of fallen leaves.

Continuing to swear quietly, Jaskier stands to his feet and dusts off the now dampened and dirtied knees of his orange breeches and he uses the edge of his boot to sweep off the buried pathstone beneath him to see a waymarker very clearly pointing ahead across what no longer even remotely resembles a path.

“I should’ve invested in a fucking folding knife to hack my way through this shit,” Jaskier mutters darkly, picking his way around the bend, and heaving a sigh of relief when he finally sees a small very and sturdy looking, if somewhat neglected, outbuilding that clearly houses the shrine, if the insignia carved above the door is anything to go by.

It looks like a converted hunter’s lodge, which is just ironic enough to make Jaskier snort as he quickly pulls down the crawling vines that have managed to seal the entrance shut. Once he’s pulled the door open, an unnatural wind blows out from the empty building, and Jaskier finds himself shivering lightly and pulling Geralt’s cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Inside the lodge, the bulk of the far side of the single room is taken up by the shrine itself, clearly abandoned with many burnt out candles and decayed offerings cluttering the altars, and on the wooden wall itself is painted a very pretty mural depicting several of the Witchers in their human forms along with their associated sigils, though the largest and center Witcher shown is one that Jaskier knows well.

His scarred visage serene and yet mirthful, Eskel is depicted as he sometimes is, holding a violin and its bow, even as his twin blades are still visible over his shoulder.

The paint is flaking slightly and faded with age, and Jaskier sighs softly to himself as he shrugs off his pack and gets to work clearing cobwebs and sweeping up leaves, thankful for the straw broom already there in the cabin. There is a hearth in the corner and a small cot, which will prove handy because it’s taken Jaskier so long to hack his way through the underbrush to get here, that there is no way he will be able to make his way to Gors Velen before nightfall.

And as miserable as the journey was with the weak autumn-afternoon sunlight filtering through the tree canopy to guide him, Jaskier has absolutely no desire to try to make a return journey through the forest in the darkness, and there’s no sense in setting up his camp outside when a roof overhead has been provided to him.

Jaskier props open the door to the hunters lodge and collects enough firewood to make it through the night and even some extra to leave behind for the next weary traveller to the shrine, a thankless task that Jaskier just has to tell himself means something to the Witchers that the locale is dedicated to.

After getting a fire burning to light up the cabin and chase out the growing chill as twilight falls, Jaskier clears the old discarded candles and offerings and tosses them outside, setting out three large new candles across the altar shelves, which he lights with a spill lit at the hearthfire.

“This mural seems a little confusing and I don’t know what to think anymore, fucking map, so I guess whoever is listening: please hear my prayer and accept this offering I give in your glory, oh mighty Witcher,” Jaskier says somewhat flatly as he sets out a decently sized bundle of wildflowers that he’d gathered on his trek through the more hospitable parts of the forest.

Having weathered weeks of thankless offerings in the aftermath of Geralt’s abandonment, Jaskier has learned to just have faith that what he’s doing means something to someone up there. He hasn’t once seen any indication that anyone has been hearing his prayers or receiving his blessings since he’s been on his own, so Jaskier leaves the altar pretty much right away to pour water from his waterskin into his small travel cauldron. The water he is heating will either be for tea or stew, he just hasn’t quite decided yet.

Then from the corner of Jaskier’s eye, he catches the faintest shimmer of silver light, and his head snaps up to see all three candles across the shelves blow out simultaneously as the bundle of flowers dissolves in motes of silver light, something like the opposite of Geralt’s power.

A cold breeze whispers through the cabin and a deep, amused voice sounds from behind Jaskier.

“That has to be the most piss-poor excuse for a prayer that I have ever heard, I’m actually quite impressed.”

Slowly, feeling just like a deer caught by a wolf, Jaskier turns his head to see a man leaning in the open doorway to the cabin, his arms crossed and some of his medium length dark hair loose over the scarred side of his face.

The Witcher’s burning amber eyes regard Jaskier with mirth, and as he straightens up, Jaskier realizes he is just as tall as Geralt, if not taller, and similarly outfitted in tight leather armor. But in contrast to the White Wolf’s monochrome palette, this Witcher wears a black and red striped gambeson with wicked looking silver spikes across his insanely broad shoulders.

Realization hits Jaskier like a brick to the head and he falls to his knees so quickly that distantly he realizes it did hurt him to do so, but the bard ignores his pain in honor of bowing his head before the demigod, his fingers knotted together in deference as he makes his tone appropriately repentant and reverent, “Forgive me, Eskel of the Blue Mountains, I…I offer no real excuse for my lack of decorum, only that I have been travelling for far too long on far too little sleep.”

“Oh none of that, you’re hurting my knees just seeing you kneel like that,” Eskel says dismissively, a small smile tugging at the vicious scars across his face, and he himself takes a casual seat on the rather dusty cot in the corner of the room.

Jaskier swallows hard and hesitantly looks up, before sitting back more comfortably and rooting through his pack to find his sachet of chamomile tea. There is a lull of silence that couldn’t be much more awkward, and Jaskier pulls a mug from his pack before regarding the deity watching him in amusement. “...would you like some tea?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, producing a second earthenware mug from the depths of his bag.

A comfortable chuckle rumbles up from Eskel’s chest and he crosses his legs beneath him and tilts his head to regard the mortal before him. “Sure, why not?” Eskel teases lightly, watching Jaskier carefully pour the hot water into both cups and stir in a spoon of the loose tea leaves, and then after only a moment’s hesitation, he adds a hefty spoonful of honey to both mugs as well before standing to cross the cabin and offers the cup to the demigod perched on the cot.

As Jaskier hands the tea to Eskel, he sees the slight silver glow that sparkles around the mug, and for some reason that makes Jaskier’s heart ache just a little.

“You aren’t like any mortal I’ve ever met, you know that, right?” Eskel says warmly while still smiling at Jaskier, and the bard can’t help the blush that rises to his cheeks at the easy praise from a Witcher of all people.

“I might’ve once taken that as a compliment,” Jaskier murmurs diplomatically, retaking his seat by the hearth and blowing on his own tea as it is still too hot for his mortal lips.

Eskel has no such shortcoming, and takes a fortifying sip of the hot drink right away, more of his silver power dancing in the air for a moment as he regards the quiet bard before him. “I certainly meant it as a compliment, but now you have me curious, on multiple counts,” Eskel says quietly, tapping his fingertips on his cup, and only now does his smile begin to wane.

“I’m an open book, darling. Fire away,” Jaskier says with a coy smile of his own, but even he knows it doesn’t reach his blue eyes.

“Alright then. How does a mortal bard come by the cloak of a Witcher? Because unless I am mistaken, that one belongs to my brother, Geralt,” Eskel says, more seriousness in his lovely scarred face as he gestures with one hand to the black travel cloak across Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Well I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying. He left it to me, we had been travelling together for a time. I’ve been singing his praises and raising money to restore his temple in Rivia,” Jaskier says rather flatly, setting his mug aside to shrug off the cloak in question, folding it carefully and offering it out to Eskel.

The demigod of luck stands to his feet and sets his own tea on the mantleplace, gently taking the offered garment and regarding it in his hands for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, nearly affectionate, “You’re Jaskier, the bard that’s been singing of Witchers all across the Continent. What did my brother do to earn your devotion, little lark?”

A mirthless laugh escapes Jaskier before he can stop himself, earning him a surprised look from Eskel, and the bard looks away to school his expression and tone into something less acerbic. “He spared my life. I went to his temple, quite drunk, seeking the death of my greatest foe, and Geralt should’ve smote me where I stood, but he didn’t.”

“He never did enjoy petty mortal squabbles,” Eskel says neutrally, gently setting the cloak atop Jaskier’s pack, and then the demigod slowly lowers himself to sit cross-legged beside Jaskier at the hearth. “But I’d wager there’s more to it than that. I know Geralt, he doesn’t have followers or priests, and he’s never indulged a mortal companion for any length of time, certainly he’s not taken to travelling with one. And why isn’t he travelling with you now? If you’re…what, his prophet maybe? Why leave you to the Path alone?”

Jaskier can’t help the slight flinch at the reminder that he’s been abandoned by the deity he was dumb enough to fall in love with, and he slowly looks up to meet Eskel’s amber gaze. “You’d have to ask him that. I haven’t seen or heard from him since Midsummer. He left.”

“I haven’t heard from Geralt since winter, so you’re ahead of me on that,” Eskel says easily enough, but there are more questions in his intelligent gaze.

Needing something to do with his hands, Jaskier pulls his lute case closer and opens it, pulling the instrument into his hands and allowing himself to calm slightly at the familiar weight and softness of the wood beneath his fingers. He absently plucks out a soft tune and regards the deity before him now. “You’re far more verbose than he ever was,” Jaskier says, attempting levity, but the past-tense stings more than he’d like to admit.

A warm laugh bursts from Eskel and he gives Jaskier a dazzling smile that isn’t detracted from in the slightest by the crescent-shaped scar across his cheek and the corner of his mouth. “Now that sounds more like Geralt. He’s never been known for being a very chatty bastard. I think he genuinely went an entire year without speaking once, didn’t even realize he was doing it ‘til we pointed it out to him,” Eskel jokes, and Jaskier’s stomach lurches slightly to realize that the tone of Eskel’s voice and the expression on the Witcher’s face is undoubtedly flirtatious.

And damn it all, Eskel is handsome, and Jaskier feels his traitorous heart fluttering faster at the attention. To his surprise, the bard belatedly realizes he hasn’t even tried to indulge in his more carnal desires since the disaster that was Midsummer, no one has piqued his interest since Geralt left him.

But Jaskier knows this isn’t fair to Eskel, that there is every possibility that Jaskier’s arousal is at least partially his scorned heart bitterly wishing to get back at Geralt in any way he can.

At Jaskier’s silence, Eskel’s mirth fades again and he frowns slightly, tilting his head to regard the mortal’s poorly concealed distress. “...you cared for him,” Eskel says softly, offering Jaskier a sad smile now as he realizes the source of the bard’s discomfort in discussing the White Wolf.

A lump blocks Jaskier’s throat and he swallows hard. “I loved him. Foolish of me, I know,” Jaskier admits quietly, looking down at the lute that has fallen silent in his hands.

“You would not be the first to suffer such a folly,” Eskel says with a sigh, shaking his head slowly and regarding the mural on the cabin wall. 

Only now does Jaskier see that Geralt is in fact depicted there as well, but in his Wolf form and tucked into the background in a way where he is not easy to see.

“He told me about you, and about how he pushed you away when he lost favor with the mortals,” Jaskier says softly, looking back at Eskel, who gives him a wry smile.

“To love Geralt is to know heartbreak intimately. Still, I wouldn’t trade my bygone memories of him for anything,” Eskel says simply, pulling his hair back from his face to tie it up more neatly, though it’s barely long enough to do so.

The two sit in silence for a little while, watching the fire crackle gently in the hearth.

“Why come to me in person? I’m sure you get plenty of prayers and offerings, and as you said, mine was…lackluster, at best,” Jaskier says finally, looking back at his immortal companion.

Amusement plays on Eskel’s lips and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he regards Jaskier. “Would you believe me if I said I was curious what sort of mortal would have the audacity to be so bold with a deity?” Eskel teases, the charismatic edge back to his voice, and Jaskier can’t help but smirk a little at how easy flirtation seems to come to the demigod.

“Don’t lie to me, Witcher. You came down from your lofty halls of Kaer Morhen with far more nefarious intentions once you saw the handsome bard making the offering,” Jaskier teases, a coy smirk on his lips.

Eskel chuckles and licks his lips absently, glancing back at the altar with a twinkle in his amber eyes, his slitted pupils dilating ever so slightly. “I will admit, seeing how you went to the trouble of cleaning up the shrine was objectively a tiny bit sexy, your own obvious loveliness aside.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to chuckle and he gives a seated little bow to the demigod before playing a flourish on his lute. “Ever a pleasure to serve, my darling Witcher,” he says, leaning up against his packs luxuriously as he starts to play one of his more popular songs dedicated to witchers.

When Jaskier starts to sing, Eskel leans against the warm stone of the hearth, listening attentively and watching the bard with some measure of heat in his amber eyes. As the song draws to its end, Eskel claps only half-jokingly, his lovely smile stretched once again across his scarred visage. “Absolutely wonderful, you truly are a delight, Jaskier the Bard. Now that I think on it, I believe I recall several prayers from you back in your days at Oxenfurt. You know, you never needed my luck to win any of those competitions, little lark. Your talent is firmly your own,” Eskel says warmly, bowing his head respectfully to Jaskier.

Whether it is the endearing praises or the effects of offering a song to a deity, Jaskier feels a surge of hot desire roll up his spine and he exhales softly, shifting where he sits. He sees right away how Eskel’s gaze sharpens, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly, and Jaskier knows that his arousal is likely enough to be scented by the Witcher’s enhanced senses.

A slight blush colors Jaskier’s cheeks and he half-shrugs nonchalantly, picking an invisible piece of dust from his doublet. “You flatter me, Eskel. I must admit, you’re entirely more personable than I expected from a Witcher, though I suppose it was unfair of me to judge the whole lot of you against the one personality.”

“Most of us are a touch more friendly than the White Wolf, yes. Not Lambert, maybe. He’s got a vicious mouth on him, but even he has been somewhat more approachable since he and Aiden got together,” Eskel says cheerfully, pulling off his leather gauntlets to hold his hands to the warmth of the fire.

When Jaskier pulls travel rations from his pack and offers some to the deity, Eskel declines with a small smile and a slight shake of his head, and the two of them sit in companionable silence while Jaskier tucks into his meager dinner.

“What is the most memorable monster hunt you can think of?” Jaskier asks between bites, his blue eyes intent upon the demigod to his side.

The question seems to surprise Eskel but he smiles, glancing up as he considers the enquiry. “Hmm, well, there was the time I was called upon to kill a monster that turned out to just be a succubus.” At Jaskier’s intrigued expression, Eskel stretches out his legs and continues his explanation, “Succubi and incubi aren’t monsters, just non-humans that can sometimes be dangerous to mortals, so killing wasn’t necessary, I just had to encourage the succubus to move along.”

“And how did you manage that?” Jaskier asks with eager curiosity, pulling out his notebook and quickly jotting down a few things, feeling tendrils of the sort of inspiration he hasn’t had since Geralt left him.

“Well, once she was…happily sated, the succubus was more than willing to leave the area behind,” Eskel says airily, a salaciously crooked smirk on his face as he gives the bard a meaningful wink.

Jaskier gasps and his eyes widen. “You did not!”

“I did, and I’d do it again. It was one of the easiest and more enjoyable prayers I’d ever answered. I almost felt bad accepting tribute for it,” Eskel says with a coy smile, chuckling when Jaskier sputters in indignation.

“That almost seems like cheating! You’d be under no danger from a succubus I imagine, what with the immortality and all, and she could just…take as much energy as she needed from you,” Jaskier protests petulantly, and Eskel lets out a real laugh.

“Oh trust me, I heard all of those arguments and more when I returned to Kaer Morhen and recounted the tale to my brother. And Vesemir, though we are all technically equals in power in the pantheon, he has always been like a father figure for us all, and suffice to say, Vesemir was certainly not amused by my…unorthodox approach. But even he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of my methods. The succubus in question didn’t feed off a mortal for nearly half a century after that,” Eskel says smugly, earning him a shocked laugh from Jaskier.

“Okay, now you’re just bragging about your sexual prowess. That’s naughty, you,” Jaskier teases, biting his lip when Eskel’s eyes unabashedly take in the whole line of Jaskier’s body.

“I’d be willing to offer a demonstration of that prowess up close, if you’d like. Might prove to be helpful for you in crafting a song from the story, having the experience firsthand for yourself,” Eskel almost purrs, and Jaskier shivers and absently fans himself, very aware of the blood heating his cheeks.

“Demigod of charisma, indeed. You’re more dangerous than one might expect,” Jaskier murmurs, trying to remember his earlier reasoning for trying to resist Eskel’s flirtations.

Eskel holds up his hands in a sign of surrender, his smile still playful. “I use no power I possess to sway those I would take to bed, that would hardly be proper. Consent is paramount to Witchers, we derive no pleasure in charming mortals.”

“What about the succubus? Did you charm her?” Jaskier blurts out nervously, finding himself stalling for time for some reason.

“Hmm, believe it or not, she propositioned me. Shocking, I know, a succubus attempting to seduce someone they saw as prey. Once she knew what I really was, she was worried I was there to slay her, but I was able to convince her easily enough that I was sure we could find a more diplomatic answer to the whole situation,” Eskel murmurs, dropping his hands back to his lap.

Jaskier curses himself internally when the movement draws his eye and he only now realizes the Witcher has a fairly substantial codpiece to his trousers, and surely that’s just more subtle braggery and not actually an indication of how enormous the demigod’s manhood must be beneath.

“You’re staring, bard,” Eskel teases hotly, letting one of his hands rest high on his thigh next to his codpiece and Jaskier tears his gaze away to meet Eskel’s eyes.

Having gone entirely bright red in the face now, Jaskier clears his throat absently. “Hmm? I must’ve gotten distracted, it is growing very late and I am quite fatigued,” Jaskier murmurs lamely, but Eskel chuckles good-naturedly nonetheless.

“Should I leave you to your rest then, Jaskier?” Eskel asks, and Jaskier knows that the demigod would genuinely leave with no further fuss if he asked it of him.

But Jaskier doesn’t want Eskel to leave.

“No! No, that’s truly not necessary, I just fear I won’t be much for conversation for very much longer,” Jaskier says apologetically, putting his lute away in his case and finishing off his tea which has gone very cold at this point.

“If you need rest, don’t let me keep you from it, little lark,” Eskel says almost tenderly, and he waves a hand back at the dusty cot in the corner.

Jaskier watches in awe as it is transformed into a decently sized sturdy bed with a fresh straw mattress and a goose down pillow. “Well, that’s a neat trick,” Jaskier says, standing to cross over and run a hand over the clean sheet tucked over the mattress.

“Not a trick, just returning a little of the veneration you gave me with your flowers and that lovely cup of tea,” Eskel remarks easily, standing as well and crossing over to stand a few paces from Jaskier, not crowding him in, just a comforting presence. “Surely after spending months with Geralt, you’ve seen more impressive things than this?” 

Eskel seems cautiously curious, and something in his tone makes Jaskier certain that the Witcher fears that mentioning his brother will bring pain to Jaskier again.

The gesture and his concern touch Jaskier deeply, and the bard lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “He healed me a few times, he really didn’t use his power very often. As I understand it, Geralt has been largely cut off from the bulk of his power since his fall from the mortal’s grace.”

A pained expression twists Eskel’s face for a moment and he frowns, stepping closer to hesitantly lift Jaskier’s face up with two of his fingers under the mortal’s chin. “Why were you hurt enough around him to need healing magic?” Eskel asks with something like dread in his tone, and the slight buzz of the deity’s power that Jaskier can feel through where their skin touches is both familiar and new all at once.

“Ah, well, I might’ve made a few teensy little offerings to him on occasion of the…ahem, blood variety?” Jaskier admits, his face the picture of chagrin as he avoids Eskel’s eyes.

The crackle of power in the room around Jaskier has him inhaling in shock, and he looks up to see the thunderous expression on Eskel’s face. “You gave him blood offerings and he still left you?” the Witcher asks, a steely edge to his deep voice.

Jaskier squirms minutely in place, stopping just short of pulling his face from Eskel’s grasp and shrugging lamely again. “He never asked for them, seemed quite peeved that I offered them anyways, but he was hurting and weak after a hunt that went bad, and I hadn’t even known deities could bleed, themselves,” Jaskier explains weakly, wincing at the anger he can feel billowing from the demigod beside him.

“My brother is a fucking idiot for a great many things, not the least of which was him managing to lose you, Jaskier,” Eskel murmurs, his voice raw with emotion, and then he leans in and presses his lips firmly to Jaskier’s.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Sorry not sorry, this is a long chapter, and it was going to be longer but I had to find some place to break it.
Which of course made a lovely cliffhanger, and we all know how much I love those hehehe.
Much of my characterization for Eskel in this story is inspired by the works of fellow fanfic writers, namely Wildpoet and inexplicifics.
Just check out all of their works, I couldn't name one specifically as inspiration, they're all great.

Chapter 9

Notes:

No one is surprised right? There's smut in this chapter.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to process what’s happening right now, but then his eyes flutter shut and he kisses Eskel back fervently, his arms winding up around Eskel’s neck, narrowly avoiding the spikes on his gambeson in his haste to bury his hands in the demigod’s thick hair.

Eskel holds Jaskier’s face between sword-calloused hands as he slots their mouths together desperately, the scars across his mouth giving differently beneath Jaskier’s lips than the rest of Eskel’s mouth, but it’s not not an unpleasant sensation.

Pressing forward against the Witcher’s body, Jaskier gasps into his mouth when he feels the ample bulge of Eskel’s codpiece, and the demigod takes the moment to slip his tongue between Jaskier’s lips. The kiss deepens and drags on until Jaskier has to pull away, gasping for air.

“Some of us…actually need to breathe,” Jaskier pants out teasingly, and Eskel chuckles hotly, releasing Jaskier to shrug off his swords from his back before he effortlessly undoes the ties keeping his gambeson on, and the deity sets his armor aside carefully.

Only belatedly does Jaskier realize Eskel is hesitating as he does so, giving Jaskier the opportunity to halt things before they go any further if he wishes to, but Jaskier just yanks impatiently at the light colored linen undershirt that Eskel has on, the long-sleeves of which are rolled up to the demigod’s elbows, and Eskel smiles softly and helps Jaskier untuck the shirt from his leather trousers.

Between somewhat desperate kisses and wandering hands, Jaskier manages to get the shirt up and off of Eskel, leaving his scarred torso bared to the mortal. The Witcher’s wolf’s head medallion rests against his sculpted chest, and Jaskier presses a soft kiss next to it, right over Eskel’s heart, causing the deity to shudder.

“Knew your mouth was a dangerous thing, little lark,” Eskel murmurs with a smile, his calloused fingers gracefully undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s deep orange doublet and pushing it off his shoulders.

“I have certainly been accused of such before,” Jaskier teases rather breathlessly, his own nimble fingers swiftly undoing the ties of Eskel’s trousers.

Piece by piece, man and immortal divest one another of their clothing, and Jaskier barely gets a glance at the absolutely unreal size of Eskel’s cock before the Witcher is pulling him into another heady kiss, gently walking Jaskier back ‘til the side of the mattress hits the back of Jaskier’s legs.

Eskel settles over Jaskier on the bed, kissing down the bard’s throat in slow and biting kisses that will undoubtedly bruise, and Jaskier can’t be bothered to care, his hands grasping desperately at every inch of Eskel’s skin as he shudders through his desire. 

When the demigod rocks his hips gently against Jaskier’s and the bard feels Eskel’s stiff prick grind against his own, all Jaskier can manage is a punched-out moan and he hitches a leg up over Eskel’s hip, pressing their lengths closer together.

A warm chuckle rumbles from Eskel’s chest and he glides his nose against the edge of Jaskier’s jaw, his voice amused and thick with arousal, “What do you want, little lark? Use those pretty words of yours.”

“You, Eskel! Your huge fucking cock, inside me, if that’s even fucking possible! I may be merely mortal, but let it not be said that I am not adventurous. My hubris might be my undoing, but if I’m meant to meet my end speared upon your glorious prick, then it would be a fitting end for me,” Jaskier pants out, smiling when Eskel laughs warmly.

“Melodramatic bard,” Eskel teases, kissing under Jaskier’s ear, and he groans hard and squirms under the Witcher.

“We’re all melodramatic. You know this, you’re practically the patron saint of performers,” Jaskier points out, rocking his hips impatiently into Eskel’s, just needing the friction so he doesn’t lose his godsdamned mind at how much his cock aches right now.

“Hmm, I’ve certainly never been accused of sainthood before,” Eskel whispers lasciviously, and finally he slips a rough hand around Jaskier’s cock.

The bard nearly keens at the contact, pulling Eskel in for another heady kiss that’s all biting teeth and searching tongue and desperate need. “I was serious about taking you, though. I’m not inexperienced in taking a man, but I must admit, you do far overshadow any mortal man,” Jaskier murmurs against the Witcher’s lips, and Eskel chuckles softly, pressing soft kisses to Jaskier’s jaw.

“As you wish,” Eskel whispers, shifting to his side and releasing Jaskier’s cock in favor of making a gesture with his hand. To Jaskier’s surprise, he sees that the demigod has managed to conjure some sort of slick from thin air to coat his fingers, and he has about half a moment to consider how useful that particular trick is, when Eskel reaches down and swirls a slick fingertip against Jaskier’s entrance.

“Oh! Fuck, Eskel!” Jaskier chokes out when the Witcher breaches him with a single finger and crooks it unerringly to brush against that spot inside Jaskier that has his whole body thrumming with pleasure.

Eskel doesn’t let up his ministrations, stretching Jaskier gently and adding a second finger as soon as the bard can take it, and Jaskier pants and writhes beneath his touch, breathlessly mumbling praises and curses in turn.

“I didn’t realize you were going to be singing for me again, little lark,” Eskel whispers with a smirk, adding a third finger and massaging into Jaskier’s prostate in a way that has him babbling almost incoherently.

“Oh fuck you, you know exactly what you’re doing to me! Gods, fuck! Your fingers are so fucking big, Eskel, I may actually perish!” Jaskier whines desperately, his moans ringing out in the small cabin.

“You do realize that offering yourself to me in one of our shrines is something of a serious tribute in and of itself, yes?” Eskel murmurs idly, fucking Jaskier on his fingers while he watches in amusement at the mortal shaking apart beneath him.

“I’d gathered it might be, yes. And believe me, I offer myself very willingly to you. Please, please take me, Eskel,” Jaskier begs, his nails digging into the skin of Eskel’s back, and the Witcher shudders lightly.

Eskel pulls his fingers slowly from Jaskier before hitching one of Jaskier’s legs up over his shoulder, making space for the demigod to settle between Jaskier’s thighs.

At the first press of Eskel’s cock against Jaskier’s stretched hole, the bard gasps and forces himself to relax and bear down slightly, flushing ever darker from the soft murmurs of praise that Eskel gives him, and slowly the demigod presses inside Jaskier.

The stretch is intense and very nearly painful even with Eskel’s careful preparation, and Jaskier sobs out his moans at how full he feels, and yet Eskel is still pressing inside him.

By the time Eskel has bottomed out, Jaskier is one stiff breeze from finishing rather dramatically, and Eskel seems to sense this because he pauses, just giving Jaskier time to attempt to adjust to the impossible length and girth of his cock inside him.

Jaskier is choking back breathless moans, staring up at Eskel and marvelling at the divine sight that he makes, haloed by the light coming from the fire. The deity smiles almost tenderly down at Jaskier, before finally pulling back just enough to thrust back into Jaskier, and there’s no space at all for Eskel to not immediately grind against that spot inside Jaskier and have him see stars.

And then Eskel starts to fucking speak.

“You feel so perfect around me, little lark. So tight and warm, and so willing for me. I could keep you here forever, take everything you offer up to me. Your devotion is so lovely, nearly as lovely as that voice of yours. Sing for me, Jaskier, all for me.”

Eskel punctuates his words with savage thrusts of his hips and biting kisses to Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier can’t hold back his screams of pleasure as the Witcher fucks into him and whispers such filth to him that even well-travelled Jaskier is blushing at the praise.

So embarrassingly fast, Jaskier feels his peak barrelling towards him, and he whines brokenly, shaking beneath Eskel. “I-I can’t last, it’s too much! Fuck, Eskel, please!” Jaskier pleads, dimly aware that tears are streaming from his eyes with the overwhelming pleasure coiling in his gut, and Eskel kisses over his tear-stained cheeks, not slowing the ruthless thrusting of his cock inside Jaskier in the slightest.

“Then come for me, lark. Offer yourself to me as you come on my cock,” Eskel murmurs, rolling his hips just perfectly, and Jaskier cries out as he comes.

“Oh, Eskel!”

The orgasm that rolls over Jaskier nearly makes him blackout, and he is only dimly aware of Eskel gasping his name as well, and the warmth of the demigod flooding him with his spend as he comes as well just moments later.

There is this odd ethereal silver glow around the both of them and Jaskier watches it through hazy eyes, wondering idly if he’s just imagining that he’s seeing things because of how his insanely intense climax rendered him nearly deaf, dumb and blind.

Eskel is breathing hard, which feels like a feat in itself for Jaskier, and the Witcher pulls out of him gently. From seemingly nowhere, Eskel produces a damp cloth and tenderly wipes Jaskier clean of his spend and the bard’s own, and then Eskel is pulling a deep red cloak up over Jaskier, and idly he realizes this must be Eskel’s cloak, as Geralt’s black one lies forgotten on Jaskier’s pack across the cabin.

The silver glow is still around them as Jaskier comes back to himself some more, and he realizes that the fire in the hearth has gone out, but there is a comfortable warmth and light around them still despite the dark autumn night outside.

“Do you always glow after sex?” Jaskier manages to mumble to Eskel who is lying beside him, holding him and petting the bard’s hair, and the deity chuckles softly.

“Not always, no. The way you called out my name like that when you came, well…that’s a lot of power, Jask. Arguably even more than an offering of your lifeblood, because you offered to me that which could give life, itself from you,” Eskel teases gently, brushing the sweat-drenched locks of Jaskier’s hair from his face.

Something occurs to Jaskier and his eyes go wide, the bard sitting bolt upright in bed all at once. “That bastard!” Jaskier swears viciously, thinking about how he’d taken himself in hand on Midsummer, how he tried to be quick because he was certain Geralt would be back soon.

How he hadn’t managed anything intimate with Agatha that night because he could only think of Geralt.

How he is certain he must’ve had Geralt’s name on his lips when he came.

And then how it had taken far longer than it should’ve for the Witcher to return to camp, how Jaskier had fallen asleep waiting for him, feeling far more sated than he usually did after a simple wank…

“Something wrong?” Eskel asks when Jaskier doesn’t expound upon his exclamation, and Jaskier finds he can’t look Eskel in the eye, his shame too great, and the bard lies back down slowly.

“I think I just realized why Geralt left me, is all,” Jaskier mumbles, his voice almost as numb as he feels.

“...you two slept together as well?” Eskel ventures to guess quietly, and Jaskier laughs darkly.

“No, he was never interested in me like that, I didn’t think he realized the…depth of my feelings for him. But the night he left, I…I must have unintentionally made him a rather…similar offering, on my own of course, I didn’t realize it would work like that. I can only assume he didn’t appreciate it,” Jaskier says bitterly, rolling away from Eskel to try to hide the pain that is taking up residence in the bard’s chest now, curling around the most vulnerable parts of him like choking vines.

Eskel is quiet for a moment, and Jaskier closes his eyes to try to hold back the flood of tears he feels threatening to spillover. When Jaskier feels a warm hand on his shoulder and Eskel’s soft lips pressing into his hair, the tears overflow and Jaskier chokes back a sob. 

“I don’t like to imagine that my brother would be idiotic enough to resent or squander such a pure act of devotion and worship from someone as wonderful as you, Jaskier, but…Geralt has always been utter shit at things like ‘feelings’ and ‘speaking’. And I wouldn’t put it past him to…freak out and push you away, too, when he realized how you felt about him, even if he did return your affections,” Eskel explains so tenderly that more tears pour hot and fast down Jaskier’s cheeks, but the bard turns back to look at the kind face of the demigod holding him in his arms like he’s precious.

Like Jaskier matters to him.

Jaskier swallows hard and burrows into Eskel’s side, allowing the deity to once again cover him with his red cloak, and Jaskier clears his throat to try to strengthen his voice and keep it from shaking, “Well, it’s a moot point anyways. He left, I’m on my own, I survived so far. And he has to kill me someday anyways, I’m sure that day will be the only time I ever get to see him again. So, ‘til the end’s beginning for me, I’ll never know if he felt the same.”

“I wouldn’t be quite so pessimistic if I were you,” Eskel hedges gently, but he leaves the conversation alone as Jaskier closes his eyes and feels his long weeks of solo travel and the heightened emotions of the evening hitting him rather all at once.

~~~

When Jaskier wakes in the morning, he’s fairly surprised to find Eskel still at his side, though the demigod is dressed back in his clothes, forgoing his spiky armor for now as he’s cuddled up against Jaskier, seemingly having held one of Jaskier’s hands while he slept. 

Eskel offers Jaskier a brilliant smile and presses a gentle kiss to the bard’s knuckles, playing absently with the mortal’s lute-calloused fingertips. “Good morning, little lark,” Eskel murmurs sweetly, watching Jaskier blinking away the sleep from his eyes.

“I half-thought last night was a dream,” Jaskier mumbles, his voice still rough with sleep, and Eskel chuckles and leans down to press a soft kiss to Jaskier’s throat, which wakes the bard a hell of a lot faster as heat pools low in his groin almost right away.

“Hmm, sounds like it would’ve been a lovely dream. But for what it’s worth, I’m rather glad it was real,” Eskel teases, smirking at how Jaskier blushes and shifts the way he’s laying so his now-obvious morning wood is a bit less on display beneath Eskel’s cloak, as it were.

“Is there a demigod of being a horny little shit? Because you might have a claim to that title, too,” Jaskier mutters without any real venom, and Eskel laughs for real and sits up, stretching indulgently and smirking when Jaskier watches, enraptured.

“Between my gifts being ‘charisma’ and ‘luck’, I’ve certainly heard jokes implying the same, before. Perhaps it takes a certain measure of charisma for most people to ‘get lucky’, but largely I just enjoy beautiful things. Beautiful music, beautiful poetry, beautiful blue-eyed bards with silver tongues,” Eskel muses, glancing sideways at Jaskier, who snorts and gets up from the bed to start getting dressed.

“Flattery will get you…well, quite far, admittedly,” Jaskier says wryly as he pulls on enough clothing to not be stark naked, and slips outside to relieve himself quickly.

When he slips back into the cabin, Eskel is fully dressed in his armor, his red cloak attached at his shoulders just behind his very pokey spikes, and a deep sadness wells up in Jaskier’s stomach.

“I suppose you’ll be off now? Lot’s of prayers to answer, monsters to slay, all that,” Jaskier says, trying his best to infuse his tone with carefree cheer, but with the sympathetic smile Eskel gives him, he imagines he isn’t very successful.

“This isn’t goodbye forever, Jaskier. I have some things to take care of, but I imagine you already know how to reach out to me, if Geralt told you anything of worth in your time travelling together,” Eskel says quietly, strapping on his dual sword sheaths.

“Well, then I suppose you can expect another lackluster prayer to be coming your way soon. As soon as I find a better map of Witcher shrines and temples, that is,” Jaskier says, resignation squaring his shoulders as he finishes pulling his own clothes on.

Eskel chuckles and watches with something like sadness as Jaskier hesitates for only a moment before he pulls Geralt’s cloak on after shouldering his pack and lute case. It’s too cold out in the early autumn morning for him to be picky, and the demigod’s cloak has proven the perfect garment for keeping him warm and dry without him overheating.

“I have a temple in Oxenfurt, you’ve been there before. While you were sleeping, I went back and revisited the prayers you made to me all those years back, and I’ll admit, it was rather cute to see you so fresh-faced and innocent,” Eskel teases as Jaskier makes sure the coals in the hearth are thoroughly put out, lest they risk reigniting and burning the cabin down.

Jasker levels Eskel with an incredulous look. “I was never innocent back at Oxenfurt, I’ve been a harlot and a hedon for as long as I can remember. And I can’t even begin to imagine how it is that you demigods are even able to parse through prayers from across the entire Continent, and then you just have access to those memories from years ago, like letters sent that you’ve kept all this time or something? How does that even work? Do you ever forget things?”

The Witcher smirks and taps his own forehead gently. “It’s too complicated to truly explain to a mortal, it would give you a headache at best, and could make you go mad at worst. But no, we don’t forget things, not really. I can go back to both see and hear every prayer that’s ever been made to me, or any prayer that I’ve personally answered even if it was addressed to Witchers in general. I don’t recall all of them all at once, all the time, that would be too much for any being to handle, even an immortal one. Imagine it as something like a giant library, with endless shelves holding every prayer and offering as if they were tomes. I can ‘read’ one whenever I wish, I just have to find it.”

“That…makes a lot of sense, actually,” Jaskier admits, following Eskel out of the cabin, and securely closing the door behind them.

“I imagine Geralt tried to explain the compulsion that comes with prayer, as well? That prayers made with offerings must be answered, even if the answer is not what one might expect?” Eskel questions, watching Jaskier adjust the straps of his pack, clearly delaying their parting as long as he can.

“He did. It’s how he said he was able to refuse to kill me outright, because I didn’t give any sort of ‘proper’ offering with my ill-conceived prayer, just my own sorry life,” Jaskier says, trying not to wince at the painful memory of seeing Geralt in all his glory that very first night, and losing him still.

“Hmm, yeah, that. That’s one of the things I want to look into, I’m fairly certain we can find a way for him to not have to kill you at all,” Eskel says, a hard expression on his marred face.

Jaskier sighs and gives a helpless shrug. “Geralt said the compulsion was so weak that he could probably manage to wait until I’m about to die of old age, and just take me then,” Jaskier says weakly, unable to keep the rawness from his voice at knowing in his heart that he will never see Geralt again, until it’s far too late.

“Be that as it may, I’d still like to explore our possibilities. In the meantime, where will your Path take you, bard?” Eskel asks, resting one large hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Oxenfurt, I suppose. It’s been a couple years since I’ve been back, and visiting your temple again is as good an excuse as any to go up that way. It’ll be nice to see some of my friends as well,” Jaskier says, a real smile pulling at his lips now to think about visiting Priscilla, Essi and Shani.

Eskel nods once, and puts his fingers to his mouth to let out a loud whistle. Far off, Jaskier hears the whinny of a horse, and he tilts his head to watch a gorgeous black stallion come around the corner, already saddled and bridled like Roach always was.

It makes Jaskier sad to realize he misses the ornery mare almost as much as he misses Geralt, but he forces a smile when Eskel reaches out to take the stallion’s reins as he trots over to them.

“This is Scorpion, my companion animal. I imagine you must’ve met Roach,” Eskel says fondly, patting over his stallion’s black mane.

“I did indeed. A fussier lady I have never met, but she’s still a good girl. And you seem like a very good boy, as well, Scorpion, darling,” Jaskier says, offering his hand for the stallion to sniff at.

The large draft horse blows hot air over Jaskier’s hand and lips gently at his fingers. On impulse, Jaskier pulls a dried apple slice from his provisions bag and offers it to Scorpion, who happily takes and crunches on the treat, earning a chuckle from Eskel.

“You know they don’t really need to eat,” he teases gently, looking at Jaskier with something like wonder as the bard pets the horse’s muzzle.

“Yes, well, some things we do for their own sake. And good boys deserve a little treat now and again,” Jaskier says simply, smiling when Scorpion sniffs delicately around Jaskier’s neck like he will find more apple slices there.

“That they do. And I know you will keep each other very good company ‘til we meet again,” Eskel says with a certain nod, handing Scorpion’s reins over to Jaskier.

Jaskier blinks at the demigod in shock, gently taking them. “You’re letting him come with me?” 

“I am. You’ve been travelling all this way by foot and that just sounds exhausting. Plus it would make me feel better to know you aren’t out on the Path alone. Scorpion can’t be hurt, neither by nature nor man, and while you’re more than welcome to stable him and care for him as you would a normal horse, you needn’t worry about letting any neglect or harm befall him, because he isn’t of this Sphere and can’t be damaged as horses here would be. If you get separated from him, whistle for him as I have, and he will find you, no matter how far,” Eskel says confidently, and Scorpion whinnies softly, nodding his head as if he can understand his master.

“I…I was never allowed to ride Roach,” Jaskier says quietly, and for a moment, anger flashes across Eskel’s face, but he takes a deep breath and lets his expression smooth out.

“Be that as it may, I am allowing you to ride Scorpion,” Eskel says coolly, and after a moment’s uncertainty, Jaskier shrugs off his pack and lute case to carefully stow them away on the stallion.

Then, Jaskier turns to regard Eskel, and before he can talk himself out of it, the bard leans up and presses a kiss to the Witcher’s lips.

Eskel catches his jaw in a gloved hand and kisses Jaskier back deeply for just a moment, a small smile on his scarred face. “We will meet again, little lark. ‘Til then, keep yourself safe.”

Jaskier swallows hard and nods, hauling himself easily enough up into Scorpion’s saddle and looking back down at Eskel as Jaskier arranges Geralt’s travel cloak more comfortably around the saddle.

There is something like pride and contentment in Eskel’s expression as he smiles up at Jaskier and gives the bard a small wink. “See you soon, bard.”

“See you soon, Eskel,” Jaskier manages, his voice a hoarse whisper, and he turns away and leads Scorpion on the dense path away from the shrine, resisting the urge to look back and see if Eskel is still there watching him leave.

With Geralt’s cloak still around his shoulders, and Eskel’s horse beneath him, Jaskier finds that his heart does not feel quite so heavy as he feared, and he squares his shoulders and makes his way forward on the Path.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I manage that this is still technically sorta slow burn as an overall story, because TECHNICALLY the original plot was for Geralt/Jaskier, and we still haven't had that!
Eskel wasn't going to wait for them to figure out their abysmal communication(or lack thereof)
He may, however, now be on his way to kick Geralt's immortal ass on behalf of a certain bard, but that's neither here nor there!
For some reason the image of Jaskier collecting such integral parts of his demigods as he went, it just felt right, made me a little emotional and everything.
How long do we think it will take for Eskel to catch up with Geralt?
How will Geralt feel when he learns that his former lover slept with the mortal he wanted as his future lover?
Drama?
Angst?
Hurt?
And also fluff and smut and comfort?
It's more likely than you think!

Chapter 10

Notes:

*Mind the updated tags/warning*
TW for Graphic Injury/Gore, violence against monsters

Geralt hasn’t received a prayer from Jaskier in over a week, which is longer than the bard has ever gone.

And although the demigod knows he shouldn’t care, that he shouldn’t be on edge and anxious, waiting and checking near constantly for any small sign of Jaskier at some far-flung shrine, Geralt can’t help himself.

It’s driven the Witcher to the sort of distraction that has caused him a few usually avoidable injuries during hunts, and that just makes the issue of Jaskier’s silence all the more poignant, as the reserve of power that Geralt has to heal and use his Signs diminishes with the injuries and the lack of incoming tribute besides the meager ones he gets in payment for monsters slain.

He’s still nowhere near as weak as he was that first night that Jaskier found his temple, but Geralt is starting to fear that maybe Jaskier finally wised up and realized that he could do so much better than a life devoted to the demigod of death.

And fear is not an emotion that Witchers are supposed to feel.

Geralt is passing through the Kestrel mountains, making his way from Kaedwen into Redania, and he tells himself it is not because it seemed that was likely where the bard was headed before he stopped hearing from him somewhere in the northwest of Temeria. 

There’s plenty of monsters that need slaying on the way, so Geralt is unsurprised to see a request for what sounds like a griffin when he enters the first village across the Redanian border. He hasn’t been bothering entering towns past their notice board, feeling oddly out of place the few times he decided to get a room at an inn.

It’s not as if he is unused to passing alongside mortals day in and day out, disguised best he can as one of them. He's done it for almost two millennia, so why does he suddenly feel like something is missing on the nights he allows himself the comfort of a bed?

He leads Roach out past the furthest windmill of the village to where the prayer indicated and sees right away the signs of their monster problem. Large claw marks score the earth, but no footprints, confirming that whatever has been swooping in on the unsuspecting livestock and now two villagers has been doing so from the air.

Geralt leaves Roach some ways away, tucked out of sight but with plenty of room for grazing because he knows she likes it, and he pulls his silver sword from its sheath, stalking back to start searching for the griffin’s nest and hoping he’s not dealing with a mated pair. He finds among the underbrush a few lone feathers of impressive size, and then he spots the nest in a clearing up ahead.

Lowering himself into a crouch to take advantage of the ample ground cover, Geralt slowly makes his way towards the clearing, keeping as many trees between himself and the sight line of the griffin he can hear preening its feathers in its nest. He manages to circle around to the back of the creature and has just stepped away from the cover of the trees, intent on a stealthy kill from behind, when an ear-splitting shriek rings out overhead.

A second griffin swoops down and nearly takes a chunk out of Geralt’s side, but the Witcher tucks and rolls away at the last moment, blasting the attacking monster with an Aard to knock it back. The element of surprise is clearly lost, and the griffin in the nest takes to the sky as well, calling out to its mate in another roaring screech.

Ducking back under the cover of the forest, Geralt finds himself largely on the defensive, swinging his sword out to stop huge talons from piercing into him, barely dodging out of the way of sharp beaks aimed at his eyes, and blocking with Quen to keep as much of his own blood on the inside where it belongs.

Geralt has managed to likely fatally wound one of the griffins, but it flies off before he can insure its death, and in a blind fury, the griffin's mate redoubles its efforts to drag Geralt to death’s door, as well.

He has just managed to land the killing blow on the griffin still in the clearing, and Geralt is thoroughly exhausted from his many wounds at this point, so the Witcher doesn’t hear the harsh beating of wings announcing the other griffin’s return until it’s almost too late.

In alarm, Geralt turns, arm raised against what will be a nasty injury from the dying monster’s nearly foot-long talons, when a blur of red and the glint of a silver sword flashes between Geralt and the griffin, first severing its talons, and then swinging back around to savagely lop the creature’s head clean off.

Ichor splatters across Geralt’s face from the killing blow done in such close proximity to him, and he blinks a couple times at the impossible sight of his brother, Eskel, smirking at him and wiping his silver sword clean on the feathers of the decapitated monster.

“You’re getting slow, White Wolf,” Eskel teases, something of a manic glint to his smirk as he sheaths his sword, letting his long red cloak fall back over both blades.

“Eskel, what are you doing here?” Geralt manages, taking a couple unsteady steps to sit on a nearby boulder.

“Apparently I’m saving your inept arse from an ill-planned hunt. Honestly, Geralt, what were you thinking? Taking on two griffins alone with no potions?” Eskel says, his amber eyes steely as they regard Geralt’s multiple injuries sluggishly oozing blood.

“Didn’t know it was two, villagers only mentioned one creature,” Geralt grunts, shucking off his armor and inspecting the deep cuts to his ribs first.

“Nest almost always means two, you daft idiot,” Eskel mutters, kneeling beside Geralt to examine the injuries himself.

Geralt attempts to push Eskel away feebly, but the scarred Witcher gives him a withering gaze until Geralt concedes and allows his brother to look him over.

“I should make you heal these on your own, but the fact that you’re obviously slowed enough to get this injured in the first place means you don’t have the power to spare, do you?” Eskel says sharply, the anger in his eyes seeming a bit disproportionate to come from just having to rescue Geralt from a hunt gone sideways.

“I’ll manage,” Geralt grunts, ripping strips off his black linen shirt to bandage his wounds like a mortal, though the injuries at his side would also benefit from some stitches.

Eskel sighs heavily and gives Geralt the most exasperated look he’s seen from his brother in a long time, before the scarred demigod digs his fingers into the open wounds over Geralt’s ribs, silver light pouring out and sizzling into Geralt’s skin.

“Fuck! Ow, that hurts, you bastard,” Geralt snarls, shoving Eskel’s arm away and looking down to see his worst injuries healed.

“Deep wounds require deep healing. And you could stand to feel a little pain, if it will help you to learn your lesson,” Eskel says irritably as he wipes his bloodied fingers on Geralt's ruined shirt, some lines of fatigue around his eyes now from the amount of power he had to use to heal a fellow immortal. Eskel helps Geralt to more properly bandage the wounds that he wasn’t able to heal, and the scarred Witcher sighs heavily as Geralt collects his damaged armor and stands to start limping back towards Roach.

“Why are you here, Esk?” Geralt asks tiredly, whistling for Roach and leaning heavily on a tree as the horse heads over.

“I met someone. In one of our abandoned shrines in Temeria, he’d cleaned the whole place up. I didn’t think anyone even knew of that shrine anymore,” Eskel says, watching Geralt struggle to haul himself up into Roach’s saddle, the White Wolf too embarrassed to ask for help.

Longing and sadness lurch in Geralt’s stomach, and he glances at Eskel as he starts to lead Roach back down the path towards the area he wanted to make his camp in. “You met Jaskier,” Geralt says stiffly, not looking at his brother as he walks beside his horse.

“I did. What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Geralt? Why did you send the bard off on his own?” Eskel says, the barely contained anger in his tone almost a physical presence between them.

Geralt presses his lips into a thin line and glances sideways at Eskel for just a moment, something occurring to him. “It’s a long walk to make camp, where is Scorpion?” 

Eskel gives Geralt a long, hard look, and his tone gives away nothing when he speaks. “I left him with Jaskier. The bard had been travelling alone, by foot, at a pace that mortals aren’t meant to sustain, all to venerate every Witcher’s shrine in the whole northwest of the Continent.”

Something ugly like jealousy swirls in the back of Geralt’s throat, and he grits his teeth to keep his angry words from spilling all over his brother. When he does speak, Geralt’s voice is as flat and monotone as it’s ever been. “You left Scorpion with Jaskier. You have enough power to do that? Keep your horse summoned to this Sphere, but a whole kingdom away?”

An ugly laugh comes from Eskel at that, no humor in the sound. “That’s what you’re jealous about? My power? I’m not trying to show off, Geralt! You never should have left him!”

“What do you know about it?! He was my bard!” Geralt snarls viciously, glaring at Eskel.

The scarred witcher doesn’t seem impressed, stopping in his tracks to cross his arms over his red and black striped gambeson. “Exactly! He was your bard! A mortal, in your charge! Beholden to you, devoted to you! Why the fuck would you toss him aside?”

“Because I love him!” Geralt screams.

A painfully long moment of quiet passes between the two immortals, and Eskel lets out a long exhale, shaking his head slowly. “And he loves you, Geralt. It was plain as day. You hurt him, by pushing him away. You didn’t save him from anything, you didn’t protect him from yourself, you just crushed his soul,” Eskel says, the deep pain in his voice clearly deeper than simple sympathy for a mortal scorned.

Geralt feels exhausted in a way that shouldn’t be possible for a demigod, and he slips from his saddle to lead Roach over to the first spot that looks like a decent place to camp. “Why do I feel like we aren’t just speaking about Jaskier anymore?” Geralt asks wearily, beginning to gather up firewood.

Eskel huffs and helps him, lighting the campfire with his own Igni as soon as Geralt finishes stacking the kindling. “Maybe we aren’t. Maybe I saw the mortal bard’s plight, and I couldn’t help but draw some parallels to my own existence,” Eskel says dryly, leaning his back against a tree trunk as Geralt painfully lowers himself to the ground to sit by the fire.

“You’re both better off without me,” Geralt mumbles, staring into the fire.

“Self-pity doesn’t become you, Geralt. And really, shouldn’t you let us make those sorts of choices for ourselves?” Eskel points out, folding himself to sit across the fire from his brother.

“He deserves better. Jaskier is…he’s mortal, but he’s so full of life. He deserves to spend what little time he has doing the things he wants to do, not waste away his limited years following after me,” Geralt argues, resting his back on the root of a large shade tree.

“And if he wants to spend his short life following you? Is he not allowed to make that choice?” Eskel presses, his amber eyes catching the light of the fire in a way that makes them even more intense.

Geralt glowers at the flames, his jaw set stubbornly, and Eskel sighs deeply.

“I’m going to meet back up with Jaskier in Oxenfurt in three days time, you should make your way there as well. I was planning on finding you quickly and portalling you with me so you could go talk things out with him, but you were a difficult fucker to track down and then you had to go and get yourself maimed. I’m tapped out, I’ll be lucky to portal myself there, and it’s my fucking temple,” Eskel says with a long-suffering glare at Geralt.

“He doesn’t want to speak to me,” Geralt says despondently, closing his eyes to avoid the look on Eskel’s face.

“Humor me. I’ll make sure he stays in Oxenfurt for at least a fortnight hence my arrival. That’s plenty of time for you to drag your sorry arse there,” Eskel says bluntly, kicking at a pinecone that goes flying across the forest and shatters against a tree trunk.

Geralt opens his eyes, desperation setting into their gold depths, and his tone is vulnerable, “What would I even say to him?”

“You could try apologizing. Novel concept, I know,” Eskel snarks sarcastically, smirking when Geralt scowls at him again.

“An apology would fix this?” Geralt asks in disbelief, and Eskel’s eyes soften as he looks at the battered demigod.

“An apology would be a good start.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

Eskel laughs and rolls his eyes, leveling Geralt with a look of annoyed indulgence. “Are you saying that to me, or practicing what you’ll say to your bard?”

“I’m saying it to you,” Geralt says quietly, the vulnerability in his voice making him sound almost frightened. “I’m fucking sorry, Esk. I was caught inside my own head for…for too long. I didn’t even realize how far gone I was, how much time we had lost.”

The scarred witcher swallows hard and looks down at his boots. “Why did you do it? Pull away from me, that is. Was it like with Jaskier? Were you trying to protect me from something? Or…or was I just not what you wanted anymore? Was ‘forever’ just a little too long to be forced to look at my ruined face?” Eskel says with a pitiful attempt at levity through self-deprecation, but his voice is raw, centuries worth of pain and insecurity ripping through his words and welling up as tears in his eyes.

Geralt is shaking his head before Eskel is even finished speaking, and the White Wolf forces himself to his feet to walk around the campfire. He drops to his knees beside Eskel and wraps his arms around the other demigod, narrowly avoiding the spikes across Eskel’s shoulders.

Eskel takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes as a few tears make their escape down his face, but Geralt brushes them away with trembling fingers. “Everything was crashing down around me. The mortals had revolted against me, I was losing control over my powers, I was the one ruined, Eskel. Not you, never you.”

“None of us held it against you, Geralt. What happened wasn’t your fault,” Eskel insists, opening his eyes to pin them on his brother holding him.

“The whole pantheon almost came crashing down because of me! Witchers were hated, not revered! Even those of you with benevolent gifts suffered the mistrust and lack of faith that I brought on!” Geralt argues, loosening his hold on Eskel.

“You did what you thought was best! None of us would’ve wanted to be in your shoes, forced to choose the ‘lesser evil’, it was bullshit that it went that way!” Eskel says fiercely, grabbing Geralt’s hands as he tries to pull away.

Because Eskel had removed his leather gauntlets to help Geralt tend to his wounds, there is nothing now between their skin. The scarred demigod’s power thrums just below the surface, almost calling to Geralt as his kindred spirit.

Geralt shakes his head, brushing his thumbs over the backs of Eskel’s hands, and he sighs heavily. “You were everything bright and good about us, Esk. You were always the sunlight, and I was only a shadow.”

The ghost of a smile tugs at the scarred corner of Eskel’s mouth. “Don’t you start getting poetic on me now, you brooding bastard! I’ve waited centuries to hear your sad attempts at romance. Who would’ve guessed it would take a human bard to teach you how to speak properly?” Eskel teases, but there’s still sadness there in his amber eyes, and Geralt gives him a thin smile in return.

“Jaskier taught me a lot of things. Things I didn’t know that I needed to know. He taught me…how to be human, in a way,” Geralt admits wryly, and the agony of heartbreak clenches in Geralt’s chest as he considers how badly he’s ruined things.

“Tell him that. Join us in Oxenfurt, tell Jaskier how you feel. He’ll forgive you, I just know it,” Eskel says passionately, squeezing Geralt’s fingers.

“How did you get to know him so well? Well enough even to leave Scorpion with him, and to make plans to meet up again,” Geralt has to ask, tilting his head as he looks into Eskel’s face.

Something like mischief lights up Eskel’s eyes, and his lips are pulled into a crooked smirk that lights a fire in Geralt’s belly. “I answered his very vague prayer to Witchers in general, he wasn’t in a very good mood and it was truly a shit prayer. But, once I realized who he was, he and I had a little chat. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, Geralt, but the bard’s songs have spread to every corner of the Continent. Songs of reverence to the White Wolf, and songs lauding Witchers in general. Devotion is surging, it hasn’t been this good for centuries, since before…well, you know.”

Geralt frowns slightly and searches Eskel’s eyes. “So you thanked him for his songs by giving him an immortal horse?” Geralt asks, his tone skeptical.

Eskel throws his head back as he laughs and he gives Geralt a sympathetic little smile. “I ‘thanked’ Jaskier for his songs by fucking him ‘til he came so hard that he passed out. I let him borrow Scorpion because I fear I grew fairly attached to the little lark, short though our time may have been,” Eskel teases fondly, humor dancing in his amber eyes now.

An almost comical look of confusion twists Geralt’s face, and Eskel only smirks more as the White Wolf processes what he’s said. “You slept with Jaskier? He slept with you?” Geralt asks, blinking several times in his shock.

“How could I not? He cleaned up the whole shrine, even though by rights he should’ve cursed all Witchers for your fuck-up with him, honestly. That sort of devotion is fucking addictive, and hot as hell. And I mean, c’mon. You’ve seen the man, Geralt! I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Jaskier was a deity himself, ‘cause his ass certainly was divine,” Eskel says ruthlessly, smirking when Geralt blushes and scowls darkly.

“Did you fuck him just to try and hurt me?” Geralt asks quietly, and Eskel’s smile fades.

“Of course not, you know me better than that. Yes, I suppose part of his charm and allure to me was how much he loves you, Geralt. With how I love you, it made me more happy than I can say, to see such a bright little thing that sees you the way I do. The way you should be seen,” Eskel says insistently, letting go of one of Geralt’s hands to place a palm against the White Wolf’s cheek.

“And how should I be seen?” Geralt asks cynically, nearly trembling under the other Witcher’s touch.

“Like you’re everything.” Eskel says, holding Geralt’s face in both his hands now as he speaks with such utter surety, his amber eyes so intense that his gaze could burn Geralt away to nothing. “If you say I’m the sunlight, Geralt, then you are the whole fucking sky. You’re the foundation of me, you’re the constant in day or in night, surrounding everything.”

Geralt swallows roughly and closes his eyes to hide his tears, his voice wavering with them, “What does that make Jaskier? ‘Cause I love him, too, Eskel. And I fucking miss him.”

Eskel chuckles lightly and his thumb brushes over Geralt’s cheekbone. “Our little lark truly is something special. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, myself. But oh , did the world sway beneath my feet when I saw him kneeling for me. He must be a comet, blazing bright past the both of us. It’s a pity he can’t stay forever, such is the way of mortals. They burn so brightly, but then they burn out,” Eskel says softly, and when Geralt opens his eyes, he sees a profound sadness in Eskel.

That same fear and sadness is echoed in Geralt, and the demigod of death starts to cry in earnest. “It’s going to be me that has to snuff him out. Why did he have to make that fucking prayer?! How can I try to have Jaskier, only to be the one that has to take him away from us both!” Geralt chokes out bitterly, and he wrenches his face from Eskel’s grasp with a sharp turn of his head, not looking at his brother anymore.

“Do you feel pulled to end his life?” Eskel asks bluntly, and Geralt flinches, looking down at his hands.

If he focuses, Geralt can feel it there, deep beneath his skin. 

Jaskier’s unanswered prayer.

It’s been at the back of his mind for months now, slowly growing into something complicated, like an array of knots. The bard’s words were so vague, and there were so many of them, pulling the prayer, pulling Geralt, in so many directions at once.

“I don’t know,” Geralt answers honestly, and Eskel sighs.

“All the more reason to come to Oxenfurt and speak to him. I’m certain we can resolve the prayer at least, there has to be something we’ve overlooked. And if we can free you from the prayer, then would you allow yourself the gift of having Jaskier while we still can? Just because something will end, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy it while it lasts,” Eskel says, reaching out and taking Geralt’s hand again gently.

“You’re right,” Geralt murmurs, taking a shuddering breath.

“Oh, I’m gonna need to hear that about a million more times, my beloved,” Eskel teases mercilessly, and the use of his old endearment for Geralt at the end, said so easily like he always used to, it makes Geralt’s heart leap into his throat.

“Am I?” Geralt says quietly, and when Eskel quirks his eyebrows as if he doesn’t understand, the demigod of death takes a deep breath to try to steady his voice. “Your beloved?”

Eskel’s expression softens and he lifts Geralt’s hand to press a soft kiss over the bruised and split knuckles from his hunt. “If you’ll allow yourself to be, of course. If you’ll allow me to have you again, Geralt.”

Geralt blinks back the traitorous tears that prick the corners of his eyes yet again and he nods, leaning in hesitantly.

The scarred witcher meets him halfway, seizing Geralt’s mouth in a claiming kiss that feels like finally coming home.

And though Geralt never wants it to end, eventually Eskel breaks the kiss and gives the other Witcher a rueful smile. “You need rest and meditation to heal,” Eskel says sensibly, and Geralt sighs, but nods his reluctant agreement.

He lets Eskel set up his bedroll for him and Geralt stretches out, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at his injuries. Night is falling around them, and Eskel piles some more wood on the fire.

“I have to get going. I hope to see you in Oxenfurt,” Eskel says, and Geralt makes a noncommittal noise that Eskel knows means yes. He chuckles and kneels down beside where Geralt is lying, his lips almost brushing the shell of Geralt’s ear as he whispers, “If you’re lucky, by the time you arrive, I’ll have convinced our little lark that we don’t mind sharing him.”

Geralt shudders and scowls, accepting the chaste parting kiss from Eskel, and he watches the other demigod step away and open a portal. Eskel looks back at Geralt one last time and offers a small smile, before he steps through the portal and it snaps shut behind him with a sound like a thunderclap.

A heavy sigh escapes Geralt as he closes his eyes and relaxes his limbs, slipping into meditation as best he can, directing his energy to heal his injuries, and mentally checking through his temple and shrines. There is little by way of veneration, but Geralt pulls from it nonetheless, needing every bit to restore what he’s lost today.

He’s nowhere near fully healed, but Geralt manages to get comfortable enough to sleep for the first time since he and Jaskier parted ways.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I'm in a whump mood, apparently. Idk what's wrong with me.
Fair warning, Eskel has it coming next chapter, and it is SO much worse, dear reader.

The angst grabbed me in a chokehold this chapter and didn't let go, I was actually trying not to cry, so hugs if you need 'em!
Also, I have way too much fun making my dialogue inconsistently anachronistic for certain characters.
Because I think it's funny af for a character to say both "what the actual fuck is wrong with you, Geralt" AND "at least a fortnight hence my arrival"
idk why that tickles me so much, but it does.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Mind the updated tags

It takes Jaskier nearly a week to reach Oxenfurt, several days longer than he would’ve liked.

He probably could’ve made better time as he’d been travelling on horseback, but Jaskier finds himself too tempted to stay in each town he comes across in order to perform every night, as he’s had a resurgence of inspiration for new songs since meeting Eskel.

The charismatic demigod occupies a good chunk of Jaskier’s mind as he writes down his new song ideas in his notebook before bed every night, his coin purse heavy with gold from the adoring crowds who are taking quite well to Jaskier’s newest material. The bard still sings his most popular songs about Geralt by request, of course, and somehow it hurts just a little less now to have to do so.

Jaskier is honestly surprised at how much he misses both Witchers, and he finds it exasperating, mentally berating himself at his tendency to fall in love far too easily. 

Eskel is kind, nothing more, and of course he is gorgeous and skilled with his fingers and his body, but Jaskier doesn’t assume he means anything to the deity, just like he clearly didn’t mean that much to Geralt.

As if Scorpion can sense the dark path Jaskier’s thoughts have wandered down as they finally cross through the southern gates of Oxenfurt, the black stallion tosses his head back a little to get Jaskier’s attention, neighing impatiently. The bard absently pats the horse’s neck, leading him down familiar streets until he’s reached their destination.

As an adjunct professor at Oxenfurt University during most winters, Jaskier has lodgings set aside for him by the university to use whenever he is in town. It is only a small townhouse, but it’s comfortable and quiet, and the nearby shared stable finally comes in handy for Jaskier as he settles Scorpion into one of the stalls before removing his saddle and tack and brushing down the huge draft horse.

Though Eskel insisted the stallion wouldn’t need such care, Jaskier has found that one of his favorite parts of having the demigod’s horse with him is the routine of caring for the animal. Jaskier is no stranger to horses, due to his noble upbringing requiring he learn to ride from a young age, and Jaskier’s self-sufficient nature as a child and humility in insisting on caring for his own horse back then certainly comes in handy with the Witcher’s horse now.

He could easily afford to pay the stableboy to take care of Scorpion, but there’s something very soothing about brushing down the stallion’s inky coat and mane himself, dutifully picking the rocks from his hooves, and letting the immortal horse indulge in good oats and hay. 

Jaskier speaks quietly to Scorpion the whole time as well, telling the steed stories of his youth and the sorts of mischief he’d get up to, all manner of things that young lords should most certainly not be doing(like caring for their own horse, for instance). 

Scorpion is quieter than Roach was, and seems much more tolerant of Jaskier’s constant prattling on, the stallion’s strangely intelligent eyes keen on the bard while he speaks, as if he can understand what Jaskier is saying. And who knows? Maybe he can, he is a divine animal companion after all, and Jaskier has seen stranger things these last few months.

Like that odd patch of out-of-season chrysanthemums Jaskier had found in the forest as he’d wandered alone the day after Midsummer. The flowers had an ethereal glow to them even in the sunlight, and for some reason seeing them had forced Jaskier to come to terms with losing Geralt, and he had hastened away from the forest, tears blurring his vision.

“Where did you get this beautiful boy?” comes a very familiar female voice from behind Jaskier, and the bard looks up to see a waifish woman with bright red hair grinning and leaning against the stall door.

A genuine smile lightens Jaskier’s face, and he sets aside Scorpion’s brush so he can step forward to lift the woman up into his arms and spin her in a circle before hugging her, much to her shocked amusement. “Shani! It’s so good to see you again! How did you know I was in town?”

Shani laughs as she is set back on her feet and she smoothes her hands over her green healer’s robes. “Word travels fast in Oxenfurt, I heard whispers on the wind that ‘Jaskier, the famous Bard’ was spotted coming into town…and then one of my students mentioned seeing you in the administration office picking up the key to your apartments,” Shani teases, resting her hands on her slender hips.

Jaskier chuckles and puts away the rest of Scorpion’s gear, grabbing his packs to sling over his shoulders so he can carry them inside. He allows Shani to carry his lute case, which is proof that he trusts the skilled healer with more than his life, as his precious lute is Jaskier’s very soul.

“So, what brings you to town on a horse that looks like you stole it from a king?” Shani teases as Jaskier unlocks his door and lets them both in, wrinkling his nose at the fine layer of dust on everything.

“Can’t I just be here to visit my favorite redhead?” Jaskier asks innocently, whipping the dust-covers off the furniture and smirking when Shani coughs and opens the window to let the townhouse air out.

“Triss was in Novigrad last I heard,” Shani jokes, and Jaskier rolls his eyes as he quickly wipes down the worst of the dusty surfaces.

“Yes, because I certainly meant your mistress-sorceress, she’s my favorite, despite the fact that I’ve met her all of once,” Jaskier teases, crossing over to the hearth to get the fire going; as autumn wears on, the days are growing colder, and there’s a chill in the air of his long vacant home.

“You could meet her more often if you weren’t traipsing across the whole Continent most seasons,” Shani says, taking a seat in one of the chairs by the fire as Jaskier pulls two wine glasses from a cupboard and pulls a bottle of wine from his bags.

Jaskier pours them each a drink and sits in the chair opposite his friend, sipping his wine and regarding her. “You know I can’t stay in one place too long. I have a wanderer’s heart, I have to go where the wind wills me!” Jaskier intones poetically, smirking when Shani snorts into her glass.

“You like getting laid from here to Nazair, you mean. And you keep moving so jealous spouses don’t take your head or your cock,” Shani teases, earning a real laugh from Jaskier, his first in a long while.

“Yes, well, there hasn’t been nearly as much of that of late as I might’ve liked,” Jaskier says jokingly, his eyes drifting to the fire and his smiling fading a little.

“Jask? Everything alright?” Shani asks, his friend, as always, far too perceptive to his maudlin thoughts.

He plasters on as convincing of a smile as he can manage, taking another fortifying sip of his wine. “As right as rain, darling, I’m just weary from my travels. Come, let us sally forth to the tavern with all haste! I’m in need of more wine than I have with me, and some food wouldn’t go amiss either.”

Shani laughs at his antics and Jaskier banks the fire before leaving arm-in-arm with his dear friend to celebrate the bard’s triumphant return.

~~~

The slow drip of Eskel’s blood from his parted lips onto the rocks beneath his face seems far too loud, and it is the only sound Eskel can focus on besides his ragged breath drifting in and out and the slowing beat of his own heart.

It was just sheer, dumb luck that he landed on this narrow cliff ledge only a few dozen feet down, rather than the wider one several hundred meters farther, which sports some much pointier rocks than the mostly flat shelf Eskel currently finds himself laid out on.

The hunt had been going fine, he was confident, Eskel had slain plenty of Leshies in his time with little true difficulty. 

Usually, it only took some well placed Ignis and avoidance of the bulk of the grasping roots and slashing vines that the forest elemental controlled with wicked ease. And the massive gorge that rends through this forest was something that Eskel was using to his advantage, slowly forcing the monster back ‘til it had nowhere to run to. 

What he didn’t account for was the Leshy lashing out with all of its remaining strength in its death throes, striking at him with its gnarled branches and piercing Eskel’s shoulder through like so much meat on a butcher’s hook.

As bad as that was(and it hurt badly, as the jagged wood likely punctured his lung and certainly shattered his collarbone and several ribs) what was worse came as the Leshy staggered and fell backwards in death. Its grasping limbs locked through and around the Witcher as they cut into his battered flesh, dragging Eskel along with the monster as it fell, pulling them both to plummet over the edge of the canyon.

In moments like these, Eskel wonders if he really is immortal, as his injuries feel so severe that he just knows he should succumb to the darkness, and let himself drift out of thought and time.

He hasn’t been wounded this gravely in a very long time, with injuries so severe that he’s at risk of losing his corporeal form entirely and slipping into a deep and involuntary unconsciousness beyond the touch of this Sphere, a place where deities go to heal from the brink of a death they cannot achieve.

But that sort of deathless sleep and the loss of his physical body could take months to heal, maybe even years, and Eskel had promised Jaskier that he would meet him in Oxenfurt tomorrow.  

That promise is all that keeps Eskel largely conscious as he tries to move his broken limbs in order to get on his feet.

A nagging voice in the back of his mind that sounds a lot like Vesemir tells Eskel that if he hadn’t healed Geralt a couple days ago, Eskel would certainly be much better off right now. Healing a demigod takes significantly more power than healing a mortal, and between that and the sheer amount of portals Eskel has been using lately just to find Geralt, not to mention the amount of Signs he used to fight the Leshy, and the demigod of luck seems to have finally run out of his own.

Eskel’s silver sword glints in the fading light of the sunset, teetering at the edge of the cliff where it landed beside him, and he manages to grasp the hilt and pull it towards him slowly before he can move no further, not even to sheath the blade.

A wet, ragged cough racks through Eskel’s whole body as he groans and spits out a mouthful of blood onto the rocks below him, resting his forehead on the stone as he tries to find some last reserve of power to get up and make the final portal to his temple. He knows he will heal more quickly there in the physical presence of the prayers and tributes made to him by those from the university and travelers alike.

Eskel just needs to get there.

Painstakingly, the demigod pulls himself to sit back against the sheer limestone wall of the canyon, shoving his silver sword into its sheath while ignoring how it's still stained with ichor and ash from the charred Leshy. He uses his teeth to pull off his left gauntlet, largely unable to even lift his right arm because of the damage done to his shoulder, and Eskel prods at the wound there with his fingers, his vision swimming as he looks down to see that there is still a huge chunk of shattered wood impaled within his chest.

“Fuck,” Eskel sighs hoarsely, gripping the remnant of the monster that’s run him clean through, the branch itself as thick around as his own wrist and probably a foot long.

He gives a tentative pull , but the overwhelming pain and fresh stream of blood as the foreign object is dislodged only a few centimeters is enough to have Eskel gasping and slumping back against the cliff face. Without removing the branch, there’s no way the wound will heal. And without healing at least a little, there’s no way he can open a portal on his own, even if he finds the power to do so.

Blackness creeps across Eskel’s eyes and he closes them, allowing himself to succumb to the darkness for just a little while.

~~~

Eskel eventually awakens to voices echoing distantly, a man and a woman, and it doesn’t make sense, he should be too far from any village to be found, huddled out of sight where he’d landed.

“Julian Pankratz, what are you doing going in there?!”

“I just have to go say a prayer really quickly before we head back, don’t mind me!”

“Do you hear yourself? You’re drunk! Since when are you religious? You don’t really do ‘devotion’, it’s why you have so many scorned lovers.”

“Blasphemy, darling! I am the most devout, just only to the truly properly deserving.”

“I don’t understand why that means you have to pray to a Witcher after a night of drinking, hoping to get lucky or something?”

“Oh, maybe something like that, but we will see! Anyways, you wait right there, Shani. I have supplication to see to, be back in just a moment!”

“You get weirder and weirder every time you come home, Jask.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Jaskier’s voice is louder and more clear, and Eskel realizes the voices he’s hearing are in his mind, and are coming from the goings on in his temple in Oxenfurt. 

“Dearest Eskel, I know I am a day early from when you said you’d meet me, and I hope you’re not too put out to hear from me so soon, and also I have had a couple of drinks but I swear I am not drunk! I only wanted to let you know that I have arrived here in Oxenfurt, and I will be visiting your temple every day until you choose to grace me with your presence once again. I hope that’s not too bold to say. 

“Also, I’m offering you the rest of this bottle of very nice Toussaintois wine, as I certainly should not finish it myself, and perhaps it shall help you to consider allowing me to gift you another more personal offering again soon,” Jaskier says softly, his prayer spoken like one might speak to their lover, and as he sets the bottle of wine on Eskel’s altar and bows his head, the power of the offering and prayer reaches Eskel across the many miles still between them.

Using the pull of Jaskier’s prayer at his consecrated temple as a tether, Eskel is just able to get to his feet and open a portal to Oxenfurt. As he falls forward through the portal, he has just enough wherewithal to be glad he was successful, else he’d have fallen over the ledge he’d previously landed on, and surely would’ve found himself impaled on the jagged rock spikes at the true bottom of the canyon.

Instead, Eskel falls face-first onto the white marble floor of his own temple just to the side of his altar, much to the shock and startlement of one very slightly inebriated mortal bard.

“Melitele’s left tit, what’s happened to you, Eskel?!” Jaskier cries out, hurrying to his side and barely managing to roll the damaged deity onto his back. “But, gods, you’re heavy,” the bard mutters to himself, stilling when he sees the blood now smeared across his hands, and as he looks down at the Witcher, he sees that his red cloak and red stripped gambeson hide just how drenched Eskel is in his own blood.

“Jaskier, what are you shouting about, what’s taking you so long—who the fuck is that?!” a slight redheaded woman says, coming around the decorative fountain to see Jaskier kneeling beside a terribly wounded man that is heavily armored as well as armed to the teeth.

“Ah, he’s a friend of mine! Please, Shani, some help!” Jaskier squeaks out, and Eskel’s eyes flutter over to focus on the woman, Shani, to see she’s wearing the dark green robes that mortal healers wear.

After her brief moment of utter shock, Shani’s face hardens into a stoic mask and she nods once, running over and kneeling beside Eskel’s crumpled form, quickly examining his visible wounds with a calm countenance. “Jask…this is bad,” Shani says gently, and her tone is full of regret as she looks at Jaskier, her eyes conveying that there isn’t anything to be done, that the man is well beyond too far gone.

Jaskier shakes his head emphatically, tears filling his eyes but not grief, not yet. “It’s complicated, Shani, but I know for a fact that he’s not going to die from this, though he does still need healing. Please,” Jaskier pleads, his bloodied hands grasping one of Eskel’s and holding tight.

The commotion seems to have awoken the caretaker of the temple, an older man who bustles out in his dressing gown, a candle in his hand to add to the illumination of the few candles left lit overnight at the altar. He gasps and hurries over, his eyes wide when he sees the extent of Eskel’s injuries. “Here, help me lift him, lad. I’ve some healing supplies in my rooms,” the man says in a thick Skelliger accent, setting aside his candle on the altar to grasp Eskel’s upper half up under his armpits, careful of his spiked gambeson.

Hastening to comply, Jaskier grabs Eskel’s legs so that he and the caretaker can manage to lift the barely conscious Witcher and carry him off to the humble residence tucked into the back of the temple with Shani fast on their heels. The healer sweeps aside the few items on the caretaker’s kitchen table, and the two men lower Eskel to the elevated surface.

Jaskier makes quick work of unbuckling Eskel’s swords so they can be set aside before removing his armor as well, all while Shani calls calm and confident orders to the caretaker to fetch water to boil and gather as much clean linen as he can get his hands on, along with the healing kit he mentioned.

Though his eyes have largely remained open, Eskel hasn’t yet spoken, but as Shani takes a blade and slices Eskel’s ruined shirt down the middle to reveal the true measure of the damages, all the demigod can focus on is how pale Jaskier goes at the sight of his mangled body. It takes every ounce of energy he has, but Eskel grasps Jaskier’s bloodied hand, squeezing it briefly and forcing himself to speak, his voice raw and barely audible as he swallows back blood, “It’s…alright, little lark. Thank…you.”

Tears spill freely down Jaskier’s face as he clings onto Eskel’s hand and his words as Shani pauses yet again, her eyes almost comically wide as she regards the large section of wood speared through the man’s chest. “How the fuck are you still alive? Who are you? ” Shani asks quietly, taking in the obvious impalement, along with the dark blooming bruises and many deep, sluggishly bleeding lacerations, and that’s just what’s visible on his torso.

“Ah, I’m just a stubborn bastard,” Eskel teases weakly, pale from blood loss and covered in enough grime and blood that the very recognizably scarred half of his face is concealed for the moment.

“Whatever you are, you’re no human nor elf like I’ve ever treated,” Shani mutters under her breath even as she hastens to clean the bloodied wounds across his torso and stitches them closed with practiced swiftness, ignoring his devastated shoulder for now. She instructs the caretaker(who, when asked, brusquely informs them that his name is Einar) where and how to hold pressure on the worst of the wounds while she closes the others. Shani then quickly sets and splints his multitude of fractured and broken bones, and piece by piece, they slowly knit Eskel back together.

Jaskier does his best to stay out of the way, assisting Shani as she needs but not letting go of Eskel’s hand unless he absolutely has to. With the way the bard’s blue eyes bore into Eskel, the Witcher can’t help but crack a pained smile. “I found our mutual friend, by the way,” Eskel manages to say, and Jaskier presses his lips into a tight line.

“Was he with you when this happened?” Jaskier asks curtly, his concern snapping straight over into anger.

Eskel barely manages to shake his head, and then he has to turn his head to the side to cough up a rather alarming gob of blood.

“He shouldn’t be speaking,” Shani says sharply, handing Jaskier a wet cloth to wipe Eskel’s face with, and he takes it and tenderly begins to clean the blood from the Witcher’s lips before moving onto the gore covering his face.

Faster than he should move around unsuspecting mortals, Eskel’s hand flies up to gently grasp Jaskier’s wrist before he can wipe away the mess covering the scarred side of Eskel’s face, and the deity shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He and Jaskier share a brief conversation with their eyes that has them in agreement that it might be best for Eskel’s identity to remain obscured for the time being.

If either Shani or Einar notice the uncanny movement, neither says anything, and Shani sets her sight on the last major obstacle: the severed Leshy limb still curved through Eskel’s shoulder like a giant gnarled wooden fish hook. “Alright. Jaskier, I need you to sit him up and hold him there. Einar, I’m going to need you to pull this…branch out from his back, I don’t think it will come out any other way. I’m going to hold pressure on both sides of the wound, and then Einar, you secure the dressings with bandages,” Shani instructs with all the practiced authority of a master healer, and both men nod their understanding of their roles.

“I’ll just sit still and look pretty, then? I could help with the sitting up, at least,” Eskel rasps, giving Jaskier a tired wink, and Jaskier bites on his lip to hold back a bout of hysterical giggles.

“I said no talking,” Shani snaps, gesturing for Jaskier to move him now.

Jaskier grasps Eskel’s forearm and uninjured shoulder while the Witcher likewise grips Jaskier’s forearm, gritting his teeth as he engages his stomach muscles and sits up with massive effort. Eskel falls forward just a bit before Jaskier catches him, his surprisingly strong arms slipping around the least injured parts of Eskel’s torso to hold him up. The demigod lets his face rest in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, his free hand grasping around the back of Jaskier’s doublet with trembling fingers.

“This is going to fucking hurt, isn’t it?” Eskel whispers weakly, his breath hot on Jaskier’s neck.

The bard shivers and his hold tightens ever so slightly, a softly nervous chuckle his only reply.

At Shani’s gesture to do so, Einar grasps the fractured branch and yanks it free of Eskel’s flesh with a terrible squelching noise that has Jaskier humming rather loudly in an effort not to lose his liquor, while the only vocalization from Eskel himself is a gasped inhale.

“If you vomit on my patient, Jaskier, I swear I will never drink with you again,” Shani warns, her hands already in place either side of Eskel’s shoulder pressing neatly folded wads of clean linen tightly over the wounds.

Einar quickly secures the dressings with long strips of bandaging around Eskel’s torso, shoulder, and upper arm, and finally Shani steps back and assesses the Witcher as a whole, pressing her lips together in consternation.

“Well then, I dunno about the rest of ya, but I could use a drop or two to drink,” Einar sighs, the older man chuckling tiredly as he starts to clean up the kitchen as best he can.

“I certainly wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a stiff drink right about now,” Eskel croaks out, looking up from his hiding place on Jaskier’s shoulder, and Shani glares at him, her bloodied hands on her hips.

Whereas Jaskier’s shock has rendered him largely mute this whole time, Shani’s shock is making her angry. She takes a deep breath, but her face is still red and she still looks like she’s seething as she speaks coldly, “That…thing, whatever it was, it punctured your lung. You should’ve choked to death on your own blood well before you ever got here, except of course that you’ve also lost enough blood from your injuries that you shouldn’t have had any left! That’s not even to mention your broken tibia, fractured femur, multitude of cracked and broken ribs, or your shattered clavicle and scapula. 

“You look like you fell down into a giant tree from the fucking sky, and fist-fought every branch on the way down to the ground, yet here you sit, cracking jokes. What the fuck is going on here, and who are you?”

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Our first time seeing Eskel's POV, and he is not having a good time at all.
The next chapter or two will also be his POV, just depends if I split it up 'cause it's a lot.
Also, I much prefer writing fantasy realm triage to trying to write medical shit for my modern AU fic, 'cause if something is inaccurate or bad medical practice here, well of course it is! They didn't know shit about the human body in ye olden days, and as the Witcher universe is quasi-medieval, there's a lot less pressure to be accurate lol
Hopefully you all don't hate me too much for banging up our boys so much lately, it get's better from here!...for the witchers at least :)

Edit to add: guys, you HAVE to check out the work inspired by this chapter, written by WhatTheHeckHaveIDone, the link should be at the end of this work or in the comments for this chapter. I just about died laughing, and I’m making their ficlet a legit part of the lore for this AU, let it be known! XD

Chapter 12

Notes:

The end of this one gets super steamy

Eskel sighs heavily, wincing when the motion aggravates the aforementioned punctured lung. 

He pushes back from Jaskier to sit under his own power, though the demigod is trembling slightly. “Would it not be enough for you to know that you’ve done a great thing here tonight? I will be forever grateful for your assistance, both of you,” Eskel says with deep sincerity, making eye contact with both Shani and Einar in turn.

The caretaker narrows his eyes slightly, seeming to finally take in Eskel’s slitted amber pupils and to look past the dried blood flaking away from his rather very distinctive facial scarring. Einar’s eyes suddenly widen as he falls to his knees and bows his head, terror shaking through his voice, “I beg of you, please forgive me, Master Eskel! I-I did not recognize you! I have never seen you here in your temple!” At Einar’s words, a very faint and diffuse silver glow rises off of him and up towards Eskel, who inhales it deeply and sits up just a little bit straighter.

Shani blinks a couple times and looks between the nearly prostrate caretaker, the dual swords that Jaskier had carefully set aside, and Eskel himself. “You’re…a Witcher? As in, an actual monster-hunting demigod? The one this temple is dedicated to?” she says, her hands sliding off her hips as more of the shock starts to set in.

The scarred wolf sighs again and glances at Jaskier, who is still rather pale himself, before first regarding Einar. Eskel’s voice is kind, but tired, “Your devotion to me is commendable, Master Einar. Go, take your leave and rest, my faithful servant.” Once Einar has nodded and scrambled back to his bedchambers, hopefully not to die of a heart attack from fright in his sleep, Eskel looks back up at Shani. “I am a Witcher, yes. I was hunting a monster, and it went awry. Only by luck did Jaskier’s prayer reach me and give me the strength to come to him,” Eskel explains, watching how Jaskier finally seems to snap out of his catatonic state.

“My prayer brought you here? You didn’t come here solely under your own power? You were that weakened?” Jaskier asks, his voice cracking as his hands hover over Eskel, not sure where he would be safe to touch without causing pain.

A wry smile tugs at the scar on Eskel’s lip. “I got run through by a Leshy probably about four hours ago, now. The fucker dragged me off a cliff as it died. And there I stayed because I had neither strength nor power enough to move. I’d say about half my injuries were from the fight, half were from being tossed into a canyon onto my face. But hey, it’s not like I could get any uglier.”

Jaskier makes an angry noise and grabs a clean wet cloth to wipe the blood and dirt from Eskel’s hands before he starts to properly clean off Eskel’s face. “Absolutely none of that, darling. You have a very strong face, it tells the tales of your sacrifices for humanity and mortals the Continent over,” Jaskier snaps, only slowing his ministrations when Eskel winces slightly.

“He probably has a skull fracture, too,” Shani points out almost numbly, and Eskel sighs.

“Jask, grab her, she’s gonna pass out,” he says tiredly, watching how the bard whirls around just in time to grab Shani as she, indeed, faints.

“What’s wrong with her, what happened?” Jaskier demands, carefully lowering his friend to the ground.

“Shock. Mortals don’t really handle traumatizing situations and world-shattering revelations very well,” Eskel says, shifting uncomfortably on the table.

“She’s used to seeing trauma, she’s the best healer for a hundred miles!” Jaskier argues, finally going to frantically scrub the blood from his own hands in a pail of clean water, before grabbing another cloth to do the same for Shani. She stirs a little at the feel of the cold water on her hands, but doesn’t wake.

“She’s used to seeing people die from my sorts of injuries. Having to stabilize a patient that should’ve been dead ten times over was likely too much for her brain to comprehend. Add alongside that the shock of meeting a deity made flesh, and I don’t really blame her for subconsciously choosing unconsciousness over having to process this clusterfuck. Can you lift her? There are soft sitting areas back in the temple proper, pillows for kneeling. Gather some close to one of the braziers, she’ll need the warmth,” Eskel points out, and Jaskier nods and hastens to follow his instructions.

When Jaskier returns to the kitchen, Eskel is attempting to stand on his own, and Jaskier squawks angrily and hurries over, slipping under Eskel’s uninjured shoulder. “And where do you think you’re going! You need to meditate! And you shouldn’t be walking on a fucking broken leg!”

“Just get me to the altar, Jaskier. I can meditate there, it’s where my power will be strongest,” Eskel grunts, trying not to lean too heavily on Jaskier as the two make their way back into the temple.

Eskel sees Shani set up carefully on a pallet of soft pillows, curled up on her side as she rests. The Witcher chuckles softly to himself as Jaskier helps him sit on the ground against the side of his altar. “What’s funny?” Jaskier murmurs, grabbing more pillows for Eskel to sit on and to pad between his back and the hard stone altar as the demigod rests.

“My luck. When the Leshy pulled me into the canyon, I landed on the very first ledge that was wide enough to hold me, instead of careening to splatter at the bottom much farther down. Then, when my power was spent, you just so happen to visit my temple a day early with a lovely prayer, and that wine was wonderful by the way, whilst in visiting my temple, you just happen to be with your dear friend, who just happens to be the best healer around. I suppose I do have some luck left, after all,” Eskel recounts, a slim smile on his face.

Jaskier stares at him for a second, and then groans and tugs at his own hair. “And I don’t even have my notebook on me! Can you just imagine the song that this will make, Eskel, darling?! It might be my greatest work yet! Maybe ‘the Lucky, the Lover, the Lady, and the Leshy’! Hmm, that one might be too alliterative, even for me. I’ll work on it!” Jaskier declares, his hands on his hips in his triumph, but Eskel gives him a weary smile and soft sigh.

“I would heal best if I weren’t corporeal right now, little lark. I did so sorely miss you, and I do hate to leave you alone with your ailing friend,” Eskel says with regret, looking up at Jaskier with a bone-weary expression.

“Nonsense, do whatever you need, dear. I believe I once caught Geralt napping inside one of his stone idols as well, nothing surprises me about you demigods anymore. But you do realize there is an even simpler option for a boost of power to heal you, yes?” Jaskier says, spreading his hands as if referencing his entire bardic self.

“I’m afraid even I can be damaged to the point where amorous pursuits are beyond me, bard,” Eskel teases, smiling when Jaskier blushes bright red and scowls.

“That is not what I meant! Shani is like a sister to me and she is right there, albeit unconscious, so get your mind out of the gutter, Witcher! I meant something unfortunately less fun for me, but terribly effective nonetheless. I mean, what’s a little more blood when everyone is already drenched in it?” Jaskier points out to a vehement glare from the demigod.

“Absolutely not, Jaskier. I will heal in time, say another prayer if you’re feeling generous, but keep your blood for yourself. You humans need every drop you carry,” Eskel insists harshly, his amber eyes entreating Jaskier to comply.

But Jaskier is already holding a small knife, one he must’ve nicked from the caretaker’s kitchen, and he steps to the far side of the altar where Eskel can’t reach him unless he lunges towards him with his injured arm.

The shit-eating grin on the bard’s face is enough to have Eskel actually snarling, and Jaskier chuckles as he rolls up one of his sleeves. “Now you sound like Geralt, who you still haven’t told me about bumping into, by the way. Did you go looking for him directly on my behalf?” Jaskier speaks casually, drawing the blade down across his arm in a neat line and opening up a large cut that starts to well up with blood right away. “When you’d mentioned wanting to look into that little niggle of him needing to rip my soul from my mortal coil, I rather assumed you were going to a library or ask around, or something. However it is you demigods learn how your powers work.”

Jaskier turns his bleeding arm over the offering plate, and his blood spills audibly into the shallow stone basin. 

A flash of heat and power rips through Eskel and he groans, leaning his forehead against the cool marble of the altar as he pants for breath. Many of his lesser injuries heal in bright flashes of silver light, and Eskel shudders as the intimacy of the offering itself has his cock stirring against all odds.

“That almost sounds painful, is it painful? I’m sorry if it is,” Jaskier says, half-concerned and half-joking, and Eskel glares up at him, a blush high in his cheeks at the reactions of his body to Jaskier’s blood offering.

“You’ve made your point, bard, now let me heal you,” Eskel snaps in a husky growl, and Jaskier bites his lip and raises his eyebrows at the embarrassed arousal on the Witcher's scarred face.

“So it really is like that for you all. Fascinating. The few times I’ve offered blood to Geralt, I couldn’t be sure how it really affected him, he was so stubbornly stoic about the whole thing. And no, I shan’t be having you heal me, dear heart. You need your power to heal you, thank you very much,” Jaskier says, pulling a roll of bandages from his pockets to quickly wrap over his arm, proving beyond a doubt that he’s had this particular stunt planned since they were back in the kitchen.

With a movement too fast for the human’s eyes to catch, Eskel is standing and in Jaskier’s face, glaring down at him in a way that seems to freeze the bard in place.

But instead of fear, now Jaskier smells of arousal as well.

Eskel refuses to be distracted by it, his voice low and steely and his mouth is so close to Jaskier that the mortal's small startled exhales puff hot with the scent of red wine against Eskel’s lips as he speaks, “Let. Me. Heal. You. Just one drop of your blood would give me enough power to heal a wound worse than that on you. It isn’t anywhere close to an even exchange like it is for sorcerers, I am a deity, I take the power you give me and I magnify it.”

Jaskier’s long eyelashes flutter slightly, the pretty blue of his eyes largely taken up by the black of his pupils blown out in desire, and Jaskier nods meekly and quickly, offering his injured arm to the Witcher.

“Thank you,” Eskel says, still some measure of righteously angry fire to his voice, and he slips his fingers beneath Jaskier’s bandage with a featherlight touch.

The bard gasps softly and looks down at the sparkle of silver light dissipating as fast as it came. He unwinds the bloodied bandage to see his skin fully healed, smooth and unblemished, while even the very last dredges of his hangover and fatigue lift from him as if he hadn’t been on the road most of the day, drank for the rest of it, and spent his evening playing hospital to a Witcher.

Eskel watches Jaskier hang his head in either shame or reverence, he can’t quite tell. “Thank you, Eskel. I am sorry I made you angry. I’m not sorry for what I offered you, and I will apologize in advance for angering you further, because I am going to do it again if you need it. It’s a meager thing, my blood and comfort, against the vastness of you Witchers, and if I’d not already offered my life up to Geralt, I would offer it to you, too, if you required it. I don’t know, perhaps you two could manage to share it between you somehow,” Jaskier says quietly but firmly, and he blinks in surprise when Eskel tilts his face by his chin to look up at the demigod, whose gaze has softened.

“Neither Geralt nor I would ever ask you for your life, little lark. Not like that. Besides which, the subject of sharing you has already come up between Geralt and I, and he certainly seemed…amenable to the proposition,” Eskel teases softly, his amber eyes smoldering now instead of burning.

Jaskier shivers all over and his eyes widen, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “You spoke to Geralt about me? About-about more than just the prayer? He knows how I feel about him?” Jaskier asks rapid-fire, his voice wavering, and Eskel nods, his thumb slipping up from Jaskier’s chin to trace slowly across the bard’s full lower lip.

“I’ll let him tell you more about it when he gets here, I had to leave him behind at the border to Kaedwen. It took me several days more than I thought to locate him, and I had already expended much of my power in portaling across the Continent to do so. Then I had to save his arse from a raggedy pair of griffins, it seems he’s quite tapped out for power as well right now. I really shouldn’t have healed him, but he was fairly badly hurt so I don’t regret it. Yet in doing so, I left myself vulnerable, and I’m sure he’ll be furious with me once he hears about it,” Eskel murmurs, sighing softly at himself, and Jaskier makes a small sound of agony.

“Geralt was hurt?! I…I haven’t prayed to him since just before I met you, Eskel. I wasn’t intentionally shirking my devotion to him, I just…I’ve been so busy lately, with travelling and writing new songs, and the only other Witcher shrine I even stumbled across since I met you back in Temeria was a shrine to someone named Coën, and of course I left him an offering and a prayer, but…all of this is my fault,” Jaskier says, his voice scraped raw as tears well up in his blue eyes.

Eskel scoffs and holds Jaskier’s face in both of his hands, wiping tears from his face with his sword-calloused fingers. “Don’t even go there, little lark. Geralt made his own choices with how he prioritized his power usage, and I made my choices as well. We are each responsible for our own Fates. That is part of why I can’t stand to see you hurt yourself for me. My Path is my own, it is often thankless and painful, but it is my purpose. And when I make mistakes, the very last thing I want is for you to have to pay the price for them,” Eskel says passionately, letting his nose brush against Jaskier’s cheek.

“What is the other part? Of why you don’t like me offering blood?” Jaskier asks, sniffling softly, his devastated expression showing he still feels he is somehow at fault.

“Well, partly I just can’t bear the thought of you ever being in pain, especially on my behalf. The other part…you see how it is. It’s…intense, it’s arousing for me. And I don’t ever want you to think that I’m getting off on your suffering,” Eskel says, his mouth turning down in disgust and dismay.

“Oh…and if I said that maybe I like knowing how it affects you, because sometimes I rather…like…pain?” Jaskier says hesitantly now, a blush high in his cheeks, and Eskel looks at him like he thinks Jaskier must’ve taken a hit to the head at some point. “Just little bits of pain!” Jaskier continues hastily, almost babbling in his embarrassment. “Nothing unsafe or life threatening, just…I dunno, I’ve dabbled in a healthy variety of bedsports over the years, and I found that there is a certain…thrill that comes with pain and minor injury. I believe the technical term is ‘masochism’, but that usually has such negative connotations. It’s not my fault that I just happen to enjoy things hurting me perhaps more than the average mortal.”

“Neither Geralt nor I are particularly sadistic, Jaskier, but when you explain it like that…I don’t know how I feel about it, that feels like a conversation for another day. Maybe a day where we aren’t both of us already drenched in blood,” Eskel says with a weary smile, and Jaskier nods quickly.

“Right, yeah, no, of course. Of course you’re right about that, another day.” Jaskier says in a rush, still blushing brightly, and Eskel finds it more difficult than it should be to bully his libido back into check.

“We should probably take your friend home so she can wake up in a proper bed and not on a blood-soaked temple floor,” Eskel says wryly, glancing at the pool of dried blood from where he portalled in.

“‘We’? Are you coming with? I figured you’d need to stay here and soak up all the prayers and stuff,” Jaskier says in surprise, and Eskel crosses his arms and smirks, somehow managing to look haughty even with most of his filthy hair having escaped his hair tie, shirtless, and covered head-to-toe in bandages, dirt, ichor and blood.

“I would’ve had to stay here tonight to heal, you are correct. But some noble idiot insisted on bleeding himself like a stuck pig all over my altar, so now I should be able to make do with a normal night’s rest in any decent sort of bed,” Eskel sasses, smirking when Jaskier scowls adorably.

“Still not sorry for that!” Jaskier retorts, stepping down off the dais and leaning down to gently scoop up the still-unconscious Shani.

“Do you need me to carry her?” Eskel asks over his shoulder, going back to the kitchen to pull on his blood-stained red cloak to hide his lack of shirt and to grab his sword sheaths and armor.

“How weak do you believe me to be? I may only be a mortal man, but Shani weighs maybe ninety pounds, soaking wet, I think I can manage,” Jaskier calls back derisively, his voice echoing in the temple, and Shani groans slightly, making Jaskier wince and lower his voice to just above a whisper. “I always forget I don’t need to do that, you can hear me just fine like this can’t you? Witchers and their tricks.”

Eskel walks back around the corner with his kit in hand, smirking and winking at Jaskier in confirmation, and the bard rolls his eyes.

“Are we off then? Lovely,” Jaskier says, leading their rag-tag group out of the temple and onto the streets of Oxenfurt.

It’s not a terribly long walk to Jaskier’s townhouse beneath the flickering light of the street lanterns, and true to his word, the mortal has no issue carrying Shani the entire way. When they come up on where Scorpion is stabled, the horse whinnies loudly at his master, and Eskel grins, walking over to pat his neck. “I missed you, fella. I hope you’ve been good for Jaskier,” Eskel says, and Scorpion whickers softly.

“Oh, I suppose one of us could’ve just whistled for him, and he could’ve carried us back,” Jaskier says, frowning as if he feels dumb for not realizing.

Eskel offers a shrug of his good shoulder, following Jaskier up into the house. “There wouldn’t have been enough space for all three of us on his back, so one of us still would’ve been walking anyways, and it’s more trouble than it’s worth keeping an unconscious person on horseback for such a short distance,” Eskel reasons, lighting the dormant fire in the hearth with a blast of Igni.

Jaskier carries Shani up the stairs and Eskel follows to help turn down the bed. When the bard frowns at the general dustiness of the room, Eskel waves him off and uses a couple small and well-placed Aards to blow all of the dust up and out of the open bedroom window, which has Jaskier rolling his eyes.

“Show-off,” Jaskier jokes, setting Shani in the bed and pulling the covers over her.

“Someone gave me a bunch of power, it’s burning a hole in my pocket,” Eskel jokes back with a flirtatious wink that makes Jaskier bite his lip as they step out of the room and close the door to give the healer the rest and privacy she deserves.

“I guess I still don’t quite understand how that works. You got a huge surge of power that mostly healed you all the way, but not entirely, yet you still have an excess of power that you can use for other things,” Jaskier says as they walk back down the stairs. The bard gathers a few wooden pails and heads outside to the well. 

Eskel follows and helps him draw up the heavy buckets of water, using only his non-injured arm at the crank as he thinks about how to explain it. “The best way I can describe it to a mortal is that energy is often complex, it’s not made up of all the same…element, I suppose you might say. Take this water for instance. If you’re thirsty, you drink, and your thirst goes away, water has that power. But if you’re tired, you can drink all the water you want, but it won’t make you any less sleepy. 

“Offerings almost always break down into different sorts of power, my physical body used all that it could to heal for now, and there was no more of that particular ‘element’ of the energy left from your blood offering. But, there is still plenty of energy left for maintaining my other powers, because it’s a different ‘element’. All of this happens rather subconsciously, mind you, unless I meditate and deliberately force my powers to do very specific things, like healing myself the rest of the way by sacrificing my power for Signs, for instance,” Eskel explains, and Jaskier blinks slowly at him.

“I’m sure that will all make some amount of sense in the morning, but right now, my brain is going to melt and pour into a puddle of goo and out of my ears,” Jaskier says after a moment and Eskel laughs heartily, helping Jaskier bring the water back inside to fill up a wooden tub in a small subdivided bathing room on the lower floor of the townhouse. Once they’ve filled the tub, Eskel heats it with a quick Igni, and Jaskier gasps in happy surprise. “Oh, thank you, darling! I was rather resigned to a very quick and very cold bath because I’ve neither the time nor the energy to heat that much water in a cauldron tonight, but I simply must get all of this blood off of me or I’ll never be able to truly sleep!”

Eskel smiles and shrugs his bloodied cloak off, hanging it to the side with his armor so that it can all be cleaned later. The Witcher turns away to give Jaskier some privacy as he undresses, but the bard snorts and chuckles. “Not like you haven’t seen it all before, dear heart,” Jaskier points out, and Eskel turns back around with a wry smile, letting his amber eyes drift indulgently over the mortal’s form.

Besides the places that Jaskier is bloodied from where his clothing got soaked through with it, he looks pristine and just as enticing as the last time they met. Jaskier slips into the tub and groans in a way that has Eskel exhaling hard, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his composure. “Wicked mouth on you, little lark,” Eskel grunts, watching how Jaskier smirks and reaches for a bar of soap and a washcloth, lathering it up and wiping his skin down far slower than he needs to.

“I don’t suppose you should join me here in the tub, with all of your bandages and whatnot. Shani will have my head if we remove them before she’s done her assessment, demigod or not,” Jaskier says with false regret, clicking his tongue.

The scarred witcher kneels beside the tub and takes the washcloth from Jaskier with his uninjured arm, smirking when the bard’s eyes widen as Eskel runs the cloth over Jaskier’s skin even more indulgently than he had. “Let’s not incur the wrath of the healer, I still owe her a boon. I should l, however, like to clean up a bit myself when you’re done soaking, Your Highness,” Eskel murmurs with a smirk.

Jaskier scowls and shivers all the same, tilting his head as Eskel runs the cloth along the sensitive skin of his neck, his throat. “Ah, well, I’m sure I can help with that. We could even manage to get most of the blood out of your hair with a couple well utilized buckets,” Jaskier says, going for a nonchalant tone, but his breathing spikes to breathlessness when Eskel slips the washcloth down the bard’s front and lets his calloused hand grasp around Jaskier’s half-hard prick with the cloth. 

“I would appreciate that. I could just use my powers to ‘magic’ off all the blood on me, but that seems like a rather frivolous waste of energy when we have so much lovely hot water in this bird bath. Don’t we, little lark?” Eskel purrs, stroking Jaskier slowly with nothing between them but the thin cotton cloth, the texture of which seems to just add to the sensation, if the involuntary bucking of Jaskier’s hips are anything to go by.

“Shouldn’t we-ahh-should we not then attempt to keep the water fairly clean , if we’re to use it to wash you up as well?” Jaskier points out almost begrudgingly, his breath coming in pants as he gets closer to his peak fairly quickly.

“Mm, you have a point there, lark. What a shame,” Eskel says, releasing his hold on Jaskier and withdrawing his hand from the tub right as Jaskier starts to make the tiny desperate noises that mean he’s almost painfully close to coming, while Eskel just smirks and watches him.

“Fucking fuck, Witcher! Youuuu, you are a menace! Was I not incredibly useful to you today?! What with the prayers and-and the blood and wine?!” Jaskier gasps, squirming in his bath but not moving to touch himself, which makes Eskel very pleased.

“Again, more good points. You do deserve a reward for your devotion,” Eskel says indulgently, and before Jaskier can spew any more curses at him, Eskel plucks the bard out of the bath as if he weighs nothing, and sets Jaskier, sopping wet, upon the wooden chair set aside in front of a vanity table with a polished bronze mirror.

The demigod pushes Jaskier and the chair away from the table so there is a little more space, and he gets to his knees before the dripping bard.

“Ohhh, you are wicked. Now I know why they say Witchers will steal your soul,” Jaskier jokes breathlessly, unable to keep his eyes from darting between the pretty picture that Eskel makes down before him, then up to the reflection of the both of them as the deity leans down and licks a long stripe up the underside of Jaskier’s reddened and aching cock.

“Is this where you keep your soul?” Eskel asks in quiet amusement, placing teasing kisses light as air down the length of Jaskier’s prick.

“I think if you asked any man that question, the answer would be a resounding and unanimous ‘Yes!’, Eskel, dearest,” Jaskier teases back before his lips part in ecstasy as Eskel takes Jaskier’s cock into his mouth.

He sinks down nearly to the base, his sword-calloused hand working the rest of Jaskier’s length that doesn’t easily fit in Eskel’s mouth. Jaskier gasps and moans through a litany of blessings and obscenities and choked off attempts at Eskel’s name as the Witcher hollows his cheeks around the man’s prick, bobbing his head to slowly take more and more of him down, until the tip is pressing into the back of Eskel’s throat.

“Melitele have mercy, you are trying to kill me!” Jaskier groans, keening loudly when Eskel chuckles around the length of him before pulling off slowly.

“Why appeal to the Goddess? You could always pray to Geralt for mercy, as well. I know we aren’t at a temple, but if a mortal is truly devout, sometimes the prayers still come through,” Eskel points out, his voice rough and ruined in a way that has Jaskier whimpering where he sits.

“Y-you want me to call out Geralt’s name while you suck me off?” Jaskier asks in disbelief, already too blissed out to keep his eyes open properly, and he squirms and moans when Eskel shrugs his unhurt shoulder and fucking winks, before swallowing Jaskier all the way to the hilt at once this time.

“Fucking hells! I knew one Witcher or another would be the death of me, fuck your fucking mouth!” Jaskier swears, slipping his fingers to grip tightly into Eskel’s blood-and-dirt matted hair.

Eskel chuckles again and adjusts his position slightly over Jaskier, looking up at him as if to say “Go ahead, then.”

Jaskier blinks blearily for a moment until he finally gets the memo and moans impossibly louder, grasping Eskel’s hair tighter as the Witcher holds himself in place by grasping the chair Jaskier is in. 

The first roll of Jaskier’s hips up into that tight heat has the bard’s cock pressing right at the entrance to Eskel’s throat, and the demigod moans around his length, encouraging Jaskier to snap his hips forward farther and faster, the bard gasping his moans all the while. 

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier’s pace to grow erratic as he fucks into Eskel’s throat, the bard both looking down to see his cock disappearing into the Witcher’s mouth, and glancing up at the mirror to watch the picture they make together. 

Eskel feels the tension building in his own body as Jaskier uses him to chase his pleasure, and the demigod presses in to meet each thrust of Jaskier’s hips, relaxing his throat so he can truly swallow Jaskier all the way down.

“Oh fuck, Eskel, I-I’m gonna fucking cum, I–” Jaskier gasps out, taking one last look down at Eskel before squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back, his lips parted with nearly soundless moans. Jaskier’s whole body is taut as a bow string and he sucks in a breath and gasps quietly and brokenly, “Fuck, Geralt–”

The hot coil of pleasure building in Eskel’s gut finally crests as Jaskier fills the Witcher’s mouth with his release, and Eskel groans softly around the length of him, spurting hot and wet into his own leather trousers without so much as a touch.

A heated moment passes where man and demigod regard one another, both attempting to catch their breath as Eskel lets Jaskier’s softening cock slip from his lips.

Jaskier pets through Eskel’s hair with something that looks dangerously like love in his eyes, and the bard chuckles softly. “There is every possibility, that somewhere off in the Redanian countryside, Geralt just got very powerful, and he might not even know why,” Jaskier jokes and Eskel laughs with him, slowly getting to his feet. 

“He’ll know, it might take him a minute to put together the prayer and the offering, but if the power reached him, then he’ll know why,” Eskal says as he stands and peels off his filthy leather trousers and ruined braies, his voice certainly very fucked out, but nothing that won’t be resolved by morning.

Once Jaskier regains the use of his legs, he cleans himself off again before carefully helping Eskel to wash the grit and grime from his dark hair. Then Jaskier gently sponges the Witcher off around his bandages and he pilfers through his travel bags still on his kitchen table for his clean sleep clothes. 

“I genuinely don’t think I have anything that will fit you,” Jaskier says apologetically, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

“You needn’t worry,” Eskel reassures him, tilting his head for just a moment, and as Jaskier watches, a loose linen shirt and soft linen breeches in neutral colors just appear on Eskel’s nude body, covering most of his bandages and the worst of his injuries.

Jaskier blinks in shock and steps forward to feel the fabric between his fingers, glancing up with a question already on his lips, when Eskel laughs and places his fingers over Jaskier’s mouth.

“It’s late, little lark. No more questions about my powers this night,” the demigod teases, and Jaskier sighs.

“Alright, that’s fair, I suppose,” Jaskier gripes, leading Eskel over to a large plush sofa against the wall opposite the hearth.

It makes Eskel chuckle, but he and Jaskier curl up on the couch together, both men barely fitting, but Eskel takes the outside and cages the bard in carefully so Jaskier doesn’t roll off, and the Witcher closes his eyes as he listens to the sounds of Jaskier’s soft breaths.

“Goodnight, Eskel,” Jaskier mumbles, already more asleep than anything.

“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Eskel murmurs with a smile, pressing his lips to Jaskier’s clean, damp hair and drifting off to sleep himself.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Two chapters in one day?! Yes, I am quite mad, all the best people are.
Sometimes I just get so proud of a chapter(and so rarely am I proud of myself), that I want to share it with you all ASAP
I don't have the discipline to sit on a ton of pre-written material, just a couple chapters usually.
So here, have some explanations, some more blood, some poorly timed kink negotiations, and one of the best blow job scenes I've ever written, IMO.
Probably too predictably, next chapter will start with Geralt's reaction to that 'prayer' of Jask's :)
Edit to add: spot the obvious easter egg, I snorted as I wrote it

Chapter 13

Notes:

Geralt receives Jaskier's prayer :)

Geralt thinks it’s a dream, even though he never really dreams.

He does know for a fact that he’s asleep, he remembers lying down for the night. And he’s only a couple days out from reaching Oxenfurt now, as he’d pushed himself and Roach to travel straight through several days and nights at a steady pace despite his still healing injuries, but they both were finally feeling the effects of fatigue that could be ignored no longer.

In the dream, he has an overwhelming sense of peace, like he usually only gets close to feeling when he is home in Kaer Morhen for the winter. The house around him doesn’t seem familiar at all, just a nondescript house that could be anywhere on the Continent.

What does register for Geralt is that both Eskel and Jaskier are there in the house. And in that way dreams sometimes are, Geralt is both on the outside watching the dream unfold, and somehow simultaneously seeing the scene from Jaskier’s eyes.

And what a scene it is, albeit a confusing one.

Jaskier keeps glancing in a mirror, so Geralt feels he has a fairly complete picture of things, and the sight he sees has desire so intensely raging through Geralt, that it is very nearly painful.

For starters, Jaskier is very naked, not in a way that Geralt has ever seen the bard, despite their months of travel and occasional river-baths near one another, because Jaskier’s cock is fully hardened and clearly aching. He is wet all over, as if he’d just stepped out of a bath, and he’s seated in a plain chair.

And between Jaskier’s legs whilst down on his knees, is Eskel.

But Eskel looks like he’s been through all hells, chest bare save for huge swaths of bandages that don’t obscure how much of the demigod is marked with healing bruises and huge lacerations. Copious amounts of dried blood, ichor, and dirt coat most of Eskel, though some effort seems to have been made to clean his face and his hands, at least.

It’s clear enough to Geralt where this dream is going, though he can’t quite seem to hear what is being said by either party. And while on the one hand, Geralt is mortified that his subconscious is imagining things he hasn’t yet been given consent to see from Jaskier or Eskel, on the other hand, Geralt feels a desperate need to know where this goes.

He couldn’t look away if he tried, seeing everything from Jaskier’s view, and the bard is clearly fully onboard for what’s happening as Eskel swallows down the bard’s cock like he’s been starving for it.

From his own memories of Eskel, Geralt knows very intimately exactly how that would feel, and perhaps that’s why this dream feels so very real, why Geralt fully feels all the same pleasure and sensation that Jaskier is clearly experiencing in this lovely moment in time. 

It seems to last forever, and yet it ends before Geralt wants it to, and as he feels very viscerally the exact pleasure of coming so fucking hard, he hears Jaskier cry out, “Fuck, Geralt–”

Geralt gasps awake, sitting bolt-upright and trembling all over.

For a moment, the darkness disorients him, and he looks around wildly before realizing where he is, where he fell asleep. 

And he knows that what happened was certainly no dream.

If the wet mess of his own spend drenching his braies weren’t enough of a clue for Geralt, the rather intense thrum of power surging through the Witcher’s veins would complete the picture for him.

Jaskier and Eskel are together, or were within the last couple of hours, and Eskel seemed like he had recently been badly injured, but was tended to by someone with healing knowledge. While a confusing and slightly alarming revelation, it could certainly be worse.

Why his name came from Jaskier’s mouth instead of Eskel’s, Geralt doesn’t understand, and he hopes that the bard hasn’t upset the other Witcher with such a misstep in a potentially vulnerable moment for Eskel.

There’s no way Geralt could possibly get to sleep after that, so the demigod hauls himself up off his bedroll and to the nearby river to bathe, feeling embarrassed when Roach snorts at him as if she knows what happened, and is unimpressed with Geralt.

With his energy and power far more than renewed and all of his remaining injuries healed, Geralt makes for Oxenfurt as quickly as he can push Roach without making her full-on gallop. The mare can sense his desperation to reach their destination, so she only gives him minimal attitude for the extreme pace.

They travel through the whole night, and just before noon, Geralt can see Oxenfurt off in the distance, so he finally allows Roach to slow down to a trot, and the horse tosses her head at him in irritation.

“We are going to see Jaskier and Eskel, and Scorpion will be there. You want to see them, don’t you?” Geralt mutters to the unruly mare, who whinnies loud enough to startle a man leading a horsecart travelling the opposite direction.

The Witcher grunts an apology, leading Roach along the road heading into the northern gates of Oxenfurt. Without his cloak, Geralt feels uncomfortably exposed, despite the fact that no one is really giving him a second glance, his usual glamor dulling his divinity seeming sufficient to have the average mortal unbothered by his appearance.

Though Geralt doesn’t know where in Oxenfurt his ‘dream’ took place, he knows where Eskel’s temple is, and knows for certain that his brother would’ve gone there at some point if he was recently injured in Oxenfurt, and that he can likely track him from there.

So the Witcher leads Roach through the streets, feeling skittish around so many people after weeks of voluntary solitude, and big cities like Oxenfurt always make Geralt twitchy anyways. There’s too many sounds, smells, too many living souls, just too much. 

Somehow, when Geralt travelled with Jaskier, things hadn’t been nearly so bad. Something about the bard(even with the addition of the man’s own bombastic personality) always managed to dull the worst of what Geralt hates about crowds.

Finally though, Geralt slips from Roach’s saddle in front of Eskel’s temple, hitching her to the post outside. She would stay even if he didn’t, but it makes mortals nervous and more likely to attempt to steal her if he doesn’t.

Walking in through the temple doors, Geralt is not surprised to see the temple seemingly empty at first, Witcher temples aren’t terribly popular like the bigger deities’ are. Geralt sees all of one person in the temple, an elderly human mopping up a section of the floor, whistling a jaunty sea shanty.

The scent of Eskel’s blood is heavy in the air, right where the man is cleaning, and the pink tinge to his mop water is unmistakable.

Logic tells Geralt that Eskel is fine now, that he saw how fine he was with his own mind’s eye, even. But so much of Eskel’s blood in the air makes Geralt deeply upset on a very instinctual level, and with this amount of his blood spilled and no obvious trail into the temple, then he was likely either injured here, or potentially portalled here while very heavily injured, and Geralt doesn’t like those odds at all.

Stalking across the temple floor with footsteps like thunder as his boots hit the marble, Geralt lets his glamor drop and fully shows the Demigod of Death that the mortals have nightmares about. 

With his eyes blazing in a golden glow, slitted pupils narrowing in the light from the braziers, his black armor covered in vicious spikes, and an unnatural glowing aura all around him, Geralt grabs the man by his tunic, lifting him from the floor and glaring at him with all the fire he has.

“Where is he?” Geralt snarls, uncaring that the man looks harmless and absolutely terrified as he trembles.

“I-I don’t know who you mean!” the older man says in a fairly thick Skelliger accent, made nearly unintelligible with fear.

And he’s lying, Geralt can smell it, can hear it in the man’s heartbeat.

“My brother, Eskel. Where is he? I will not ask a third time, mortal,” Geralt growls out, shaking the man a little.

The man frowns slightly, somehow looking less intimidated now as he glances down to spy the Wolf’s head medallion clearly visible overlying Geralt’s black leather breastplate, and then looks back up into his inhuman yellow eyes. The mortal’s shoulders slacken in relief, and he takes a gasping breath. “Gods be good, you’re kin to Master Eskel! I thought you some vicious monster come to hurt him all over again like the one what hurt him last night, begging your pardon, of course, Master…Geralt?” the man guesses, the familiarity in his voice unexpected, and the respectful reverence equally as unnerving.

Geralt slowly lowers the man back to the floor and lets his glamor slip back into place, doing everything he can to keep his voice more even and less threatening. “Yes. Geralt. And who are you? How do you know Eskel? What happened?”

“I am called Einar, and I am the caretaker of this temple. Master Eskel came in last night, mind you I’ve never in my life seen hide nor hair of a Witcher, just took care of this place from blind devotion on the off chance that you lot were real. He was beat something fierce, but there was a bard here and a healer, we three of us patched him back together best we could. I had to pull this great big chunk of…wood, out of where it had pierced his shoulder clean through his back, but it weren’t no ordinary wood, ‘twas the flesh of some foul monster, so I tossed it in the fire straight away,” Einar explains in a rush, seeming desperate not to invoke Geralt’s wrath again.

“Hmm, sounds like a Leshy,” Geralt mutters mostly to himself, slowly releasing his hold on Einar’s tunic, and the caretaker hesitantly retrieves his mop, dropped in his moment of fear.

“Anyways, once we’d patched him up, Master Eskel–well, I hadn’t known it were really him until just then, and he thanked me and sent me off back to my bed, neat as you please. And I swear to you, Witcher, I slept better than I have in a decade, ‘tis why I’m so late in waking to clean up the rest of this. I don’t rightly know where Master Eskel nor the lad or lass went, as they were all three of ‘em gone by the time I woke meself,” Einar says sincerely, and Geralt smells no lie this time.

His reaction-his overreaction -occurs to Geralt in full force, and he flushes hot in shame, taking a small step back from the caretaker.

“My apologies, Einar. You have been a good and faithful man, and I…I made assumptions. I knew my kinsman to be injured, and when I caught the scent of so much of his blood—” Geralt speaks slowly, awkwardly, and finds himself choked up with emotion.

“Aye, you thought I’d a hand in his murder, or at least in the cleanin’ up of it afterwards. Only…the bard assured us that Master Eskel couldn’t be killed, and I’d thought the same of all you demigods,” Einar says, understanding and then confusion crossing his face in turn.

“We can’t be killed in any way that matters, nothing permanent. But, we can be hurt, as you saw. And if we are hurt badly enough, our bodies would slip from this corporeal Sphere and be lost for as long as it took to heal. Could be months, could be years, decades, even centuries. I…the thought of losing him for that long–” Geralt feels the need to explain his rage in penance for his behavior against the caretaker, but he truly can’t bring himself to say it, and Einar’s expression softens.

“You love him. I’d worried about him, when I awoke to see them three gone, but knowing he has you looking out for him…Aye, I’ll be sleeping easier tonight as well, Master Geralt, and much obliged to ya,” Einar says, bowing his head in deference to Geralt, who winces lightly at what feels like fully unearned reverence.

“You have my thanks, for your upkeep of my brother’s temple, your assistance in his healing, and your understanding in the light of my…outburst. I will take my search elsewhere,” Geralt says stiffly, turning to leave.

“I pray you are successful, as I’ll be prayin’ for some sign that he really is alright, to ease my own mind,” Einar says fervently, nodding to himself as he returns to his mopping while Geralt leaves the temple so quickly that he’s nearly running.

Geralt unties Roach from the hitching post and takes a deep breath, half to calm himself, and half to try to pick up on Eskel’s scent.

It takes a moment, as it rained just this morning at dawn, but beneath the rain and the mud and the horseshit, there is the slight scent of Eskel’s blood. Not as if he were still bleeding, just the odd bit that would flake or smudge off as he walked down the street, and it gives Geralt a direction to head in.

As he leads Roach on foot, concentrating on Eskel’s scent, he picks up the very faint scent of Jaskier, and it nearly makes Geralt stumblenicer the cobblestones.

Sandalwood and rosin, ink and lavender, Jaskier’s unique jumble of scents that shouldn’t work together, but they do. And it’s the first time Geralt has scented it since he left Jaskier all those weeks ago.

The dream that wasn’t a dream comes, unbidden, to the forefront of Geralt’s mind, and he tightens his grip on Roach’s reins, willing himself to not dwell on it, else he’ll have another problem.

Geralt follows the scent trail down the streets of Oxenfurt, ‘til he comes upon a row of townhouses that seems to be part of the University housing, and that tracks for what Geralt knows of his bard.

His bard.

Jaskier isn’t his, never really was, and Geralt knows now that he could’ve been, if Geralt had let himself see it, if he had let Jaskier in.

If he had just let himself love Jaskier before he was gone.

He won’t make the same mistake again.

Geralt finds a nearby stable, and is unsurprised to see Scorpion in one of the stalls, but still, the sight of his brother’s companion animal gives Geralt the last reassurance he needs to know that Eskel is truly alright, as Scorpion would’ve been sent back to his own Sphere if Eskel left this Sphere himself. The stallion whickers softly in greeting to Roach, who tosses her head in his direction, and Geralt gets Roach settled into a stall of her own, taking care of brushing her down as quickly as he can. He knows she doesn’t need it, but she likes it, and he owes her for how hard he had to ride her to get here.

If Geralt’s swift ministrations are unsatisfactory, Roach only gives him a little attitude by nipping at his fingers, and he sighs. “I know, but I have to see them both, to know that they are safe, before I can rest.”

Roach, of course, does not reply, and goes to resolutely ignore her master in favor of the hay in her manger.

Geralt squares his shoulders and follows the newest scent of Eskel and Jaskier to one of the townhouses, where he also catches layers of Jaskier’s scent, some older than others, and also the scent of a house long empty, which makes sense since Jaskier has been on the Path.

He knows he’s stalling, but he can’t bring himself to do it, to just knock on the fucking door.

One more deep breath.

Geralt lifts his fist to knock three times, not loud or rushed, as he doesn’t wish to disturb neighbors or alarm either of those he is searching for.

He hears some muffled voices quieting, and then Jaskier’s voice, getting louder as he approaches the door from the other side, “Better not be some bloody door-to-door salesman, I swear if it is, I’m gonna take his wares, and I’m gonna shove them right up his–” Jaskier yanks the front door open, freezing on the spot. “Geralt?”

There is a moment, a long, tense moment, where neither man nor Witcher says anything, they just stare at one another, faces relatively blank.

“Julian, who’s at the door? Are you really accosting a salesman?” comes a female voice further back over Jaskier’s shoulder, but the bard doesn’t even react, as if he can’t hear her.

“Fuck it,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, clearly having come to some decision, and he reaches for Geralt, going to pull him into an embrace.

But that’s not enough, Geralt needs Jaskier to know how he feels, that he knows how Jaskier feels, or at least how he felt before Geralt ruined it all and sent him away alone.

So fast it’s almost unseen, Geralt pulls Jaskier into his arms as well, but with his hold on the bard, Geralt turns and dips him, graceful as if they were dancing together, and kisses Jaskier full on the mouth.

A moment of shock registers for the mortal man, but almost right away, Jaskier is kissing him back, a soft little confused whine muffled against Geralt’s lips.

“You didn’t answer me, Jask, who–oh come on! How many are there?! How can you be sleeping with all of them?!” says a redheaded woman in exasperation, having rounded the corner and caught sight of Jaskier with a demigod’s tongue down his throat.

Geralt doesn’t much care for explaining himself, or anything else that requires him to stop kissing Jaskier right now, but the bard chuckles against his mouth and very gently presses his lute-calloused fingertips to Geralt’s lips, pushing them apart. “Hold that thought for me?” Jaskier asks softly, something like hope softening the smile in his eyes.

There’s a lump in Geralt’s throat but he nods, setting Jaskier upright on his feet, and the bard clears his throat and straightens his doublet, turning to the woman at the door, who has her hands on her hips and looks very unimpressed with Jaskier. “Well?” she asks expectantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

For such a slight woman, she is incredibly intimidating, and Jaskier tries his most winning smile, which doesn’t get him far based on how her eyes only narrow further. “Ah, okay then. Shani, this is Geralt–” Jaskier starts to say, but Shani cuts him off, her voice rising both in octaves and decibels.

“The fucking God of Death?! Julian Alfred Pankratz, what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Why are you surprised? You’ve heard the songs!”

“I didn’t think they were real! I thought you were just as full of bullshit as you have always been!”

“Hey, I resent that!”

Finally, Eskel appears, looking quite like he just woke up and wandered over to see what all the yelling is about. The sight of him still a little banged up but clearly almost fully healed and clean now(not to mention adorably sleep-rumbled and bedraggled) does things to Geralt, so he swallows hard and takes a deep breath, which Shani misinterprets as an attempt to start speaking, and then Geralt becomes the object of her rage.

“And you! Incidentally, I have heard Jaskier’s songs spreading around, and I’ve heard his latest songs! If you’re Geralt, then you broke his fucking heart! You have some nerve to just show up like this! Swooping in like some sort of white knight, right as Jaskier has moved on with a better Witcher! One who doesn’t toss him aside like garbage!”

Geralt flinches far harder than he would’ve if Shani had slapped him across the face, and Jaskier steps between Geralt and his friend, the bard’s shoulders squared like he’s facing down an angry griffin of his own.

“That’s not fair to Geralt, Shani. You don’t quite have the full story, so please, can we all just go back inside, before all of this becomes the talk of the town by sundown? Hmm?” Jaskier says firmly but fairly, and the glaring redhead steps aside, flinching away from Eskel who she didn’t see standing there, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

Jaskier leads Geralt inside by his hand, shutting and latching the door behind him, and Jaskier lets out a weary exhale. Eskel heads straight for a sofa against the wall that was clearly where the Witcher was previously sleeping, and Geralt silently goes to follow, his eyes on the floor. He sits, fully armed and armored, on the couch beside Eskel.

Shani takes a seat by the hearth, glaring daggers with her arms crossed, while Jaskier rolls his eyes and mutters something about going to get himself a glass of wine.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I know, me, adding final chapter counts? Ever? They might change though, but we are wrapping up.
And then I will start working on the sequel for this story :)
Cause I'm not done with this AU, far from it, I have more ideas.
Would you read another work in this same universe? Let me know

Chapter 14

“Hell of a way to be woken up,” Eskel jokes quietly to Geralt as he leans over to him, nudging the death demigod’s knee with his own where they sit together on the couch, and Geralt gives him a look of uncertainty and hurt that has the scarred Witcher sighing sympathetically, his scarred face softening. “Oh, my dear beloved,” Eskel whispers as he pulls Geralt into a sweet and chaste kiss, pulling Geralt’s head to rest on his uninjured shoulder afterwards and stroking his fingers through the demigod’s silvery locks.

“What the–oh…so it's…all three of you…together, then?” Shani says slowly, blinking as all of her anger rushes out of her as some measure of understanding settles over her, and she almost visibly deflates, showing now how absolutely exhausted she truly is.

“It’s a long story,” Eskel says wryly, and Jaskier snorts out an affirming laugh from the kitchen, coming around to the sitting area with a tray of wine goblets.

After handing a goblet each to Eskel and Geralt, giving them both meaningful looks as he does so, Jaskier turns with the last two goblets of wine to sit in the chair across from Shani and offers her one of them.

“Jaskier, it’s barely noon,” Shani says disapprovingly, and Jaskier gives her a hard look, saying nothing in response.

The bard, however, pours one goblet of wine into the other, setting the empty one on the side table with a dismissive flick of his wrist before he leisurely crosses one leg over the other in his chair whilst taking a very hearty sip of his now double-pour of wine, and raising his quite expressive eyebrows in a challenge for her to dare to object once again.

There is half a beat of silence, and then Eskel laughs so hard that he’s nearly doubled over with it, a few tears of mirth pricking at the corners of his eyes. Jaskier does his best not to break, but it’s soon clear he’s forcing himself not to smile and Shani sighs heavily, throwing her hands up in the air as if appealing to less-infuriating deities.

Once Eskel has composed himself, he sighs and chuckles softly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you only mean well as a healer, Shani, and I am still so grateful for your knowledge and skilled healing, plus your obvious concern for Jaskier’s health and well-being. You have been a very true friend to him, and I am indebted to you for that, and for healing me.”

Shani scowls with less fire than before, but she also looks like she’s seconds away from having a nervous breakdown. “I don’t want you to be in my debt for being Jaskier’s friend. I love him, he has been one of my very dearest friends for nearly fifteen years, and I would move heavens and hells for him,” she declares passionately, and even Geralt has to smile just a little at that, at her true and unwavering loyalty to the bard they love as well.

“All the same, a debt is owed. Name it, and if it is in the realm of possibility for my powers to grant, then you will have it,” Eskel says solemnly as he crosses his right arm over his heart, which makes Geralt’s stomach lurch and he turns to him in shock, the paler demigod’s eyes widened at his brother’s powerful declaration to a mortal he met only last night.

Both Shani and Jaskier similarly seem to recognize the gravity of such a debt and such a favor, and the two of them share a look of concern and uncertainty.

“Eskel, that’s–” Jaskier starts hesitantly.

“Too much,” Shani interjects firmly.

“He can’t take it back now,” Geralt says with a sigh, taking a large drink of his wine, which dimly glows golden as he fully accepts it as the offering Jaskier meant of it.

Eskel nods resolutely, sipping his own wine, which glows silver, and Shani groans and rubs her eyes like she hasn’t slept in a week.

“Fucking bards! How did you even manage to seduce two fucking gods, Julian?”

“Demigods,” Jaskier corrects between rather big sips of wine, himself.

“Same difference!” she snaps, and all three men shake their heads.

“Gods can transcend Spheres at will, rip holes between one Sphere and another, and even collapse Spheres into each other, rather cataclysmically I might add,” Eskel says gravely, and Geralt nods his agreement.

“Like the Conjunction?” Jaskier asks, perking up at this fascinating new knowledge, and Eskel smiles at his inquisitive nature.

“Exactly, little lark. No one knows for certain which exact god or goddess is to thank or to blame for the Conjunction, depending on your opinion on it, but most seem to credit Melitele. Demigods, Witchers specifically like Geralt and I, we were…’born’ due to the Conjunction, to combat the monsters that crossed to this Sphere as well. But by whose magic we were created, we do not properly know. One of the major deities, certainly, and there were a couple generations of us created before it finally stopped. 

“We age more similarly to elves than to humans, in that we reach adulthood fairly soon but remain youthful in appearance for most of our thus-far unknown lifespans, which we assume to be unending. By our best efforts, we’ve found that our blood is neither truly elven nor human, nor any normal interbreeding between them, but a mutation of both that could never form naturally. And as we are sterile, our numbers have decreased over the years, and cannot be added to by any power we ourselves possess.” Eskel says, taking another sip of his wine to wet his lips after his explanation.

Geralt feels somewhat uncomfortably vulnerable with his brother telling so many of their more closely held secrets to two humans. It’s not that he minds Jaskier knowing, but Geralt still doesn’t really trust Shani, and the way Geralt is shifting in his seat draws Jaskier’s eye.

The bard frowns as he regards Geralt, tilting his head as if something just occurred to him. “When you say your numbers have decreased, how is that possible when you’re immortal?”

Eskel glances at Geralt, entreating him to speak and explain it, and Geralt knows his kinsman’s expressions well enough to see that Eskel means Geralt to endear himself to Shani by making her more comfortable with the deities by being informed about them, by them. Both of them.

It isn’t a tactic Geralt would usually be comfortable with, but then he remembers that he offered Einar a similar explanation earlier in Eskel’s temple, which Eskel likely ‘overheard’ even while he was asleep, and the White Wolf gives his brother an exasperated look, which Eskel returns with a shit eating grin.

Shani leans slightly sideways and whispers conspiratorially to Jaskier, “They really can have whole-ass conversations with just their facial expressions. Usually that only happens with people who have been married for like a hundred years.”

“They’ve been together for longer than that-well they've been apart for longer than that here more recently as well, but before that, they were together for a lot longer than a hundred years, or so I gathered,” Jaskier whispers back, even though he knows both Witchers are fully aware of everything said.

Geralt clears his throat, having lost the face-argument with Eskel, and turns to look at the two humans before them. His voice is hesitant and awkward, and his displeasure with speaking before others is very clear as he begins to explain, “Witchers have…discovered that we don’t seem to be able to be killed permanently. But, if our bodies are damaged beyond a certain point, we can temporarily lose physical form. We shift into an involuntary incorporeal state where we leave this Sphere entirely, and we don’t return until we have healed well enough to retake a corporeal shape here. And that takes time, time that is lost to us.”

“How much time?” Shani asks, begrudgingly curious about the intricacies of immortal healing as she’s a healer of mortals. But it’s also the first time she’s addressed Geralt even remotely kindly, so he’ll take it.

“It can vary. Depends on the extent of the damage, and also if we are still being actively worshipped, as the power of veneration can reach us across Spheres to aid in healing, it’s just more muted.” Geralt says, finishing his wine and wishing desperately that it was spiked with White Gull, the special alcohol that Witchers make that can get even a demigod truly drunk.

Jaskier sees his glass is empty and silently offers Geralt the rest of his own glass, which the demigod takes carefully, actually blushing when their fingers briefly brush together. When Geralt goes to take the first sip of Jaskier’s wine, the golden glow surrounding it for a moment is much brighter this time than with his first glass.

“And what is all that? All the silver and the gold sparkles? Sometimes it’s so subtle I almost don’t even notice, but that one was bigger,” Shani asks, and Jaskier, the adorable fucking bastard, raises his hand like they’re all in class.

“Can I take this one? At least, I’m fairly certain I know the proper answer,” Jaskier says cheerfully, and Eskel smiles indulgently.

“Go ahead, little lark. I bet you’d figured it out by the end of your time traveling with Geralt, even,” Eskel says in amusement, his smile slipping a little when Geralt grows almost imperceptibly tense at the mention of their parting.

Jaskier either doesn’t notice, or does Geralt the favor of keeping everyone’s attention, which is what the bard usually prefers anyways. “It’s about the energy they get from any particular offering. Geralt’s power is gold, Eskel’s is silver, I’ve never seen the other Witchers, so I can’t tell you if there are other colors, but I digress! Right, so, different offerings have different levels of energy for them, but it’s not a one to one ratio or anything, it’s much more about the intent of the devotee, like how much reverence they’re really imparting on an offering. 

“So, me offering darling Geralt my own wine that second time, a glass that I was quite enjoying and would’ve gladly consumed all of by my humble self, that glass means more than a glass of wine I had more casually offered him, that I had no particular feelings towards apart from wanting him to rest and to enjoy a nice Toussaintois red.”

Eskel’s easy smile is Jaskier’s answer over whether or not he was correct, and the bard claps his hands in joy when his theory is confirmed, which makes Geralt smile slightly.

“That almost makes sense. But, we got sidetracked, sorry. Geralt, you were mentioning how the time it takes Witchers to heal from, well, undeath, can vary. And Eskel, you mentioned that most of the Witchers are gone. Would it be correct to assume that something bad happened where a lot of Witchers got so awfully injured, that they have been healing for centuries and have not yet come back?” Shani says, and Geralt is rather impressed with her intelligence and quick thinking, even while clearly exhausted. 

He glances at Eskel who nods and takes over. “Perceptive, Shani. You‘ve pretty much guessed it in one. Nearly all of our elders, the first generations of Witchers, were ‘slain’ hundreds of years ago in each of our Keeps in winter, an event called the Pogroms. One of the second generation elders managed to hide a number of the youngest Wolf Witchers, Including Geralt and myself, and so we escaped the massacre at Kaer Morhen. Most other Schools were decimated nearly in their entirety, save the very few who were on the Path at the time for one reason or another, instead of wintering in their Keep as Witchers almost always do,” Eskel says, both he and Geralt growing more somber.

“And none of them are back yet?” Jaskier asks quietly, tears in his eyes for their fallen comrades, and Geralt’s heart soars to see the bard so overcome with emotion for Witchers he never even knew.

Eskel offers Jaskier a sad smile. “None of them are back, little lark. To be honest, we don’t know if they will come back. We don’t know what actual damage was done to them or how, because by the time the screaming stopped and we were sure the attackers were all either dead or had left, we came out from hiding and the Witchers’ corporeal bodies were already gone.

“But that’s just awful! Who were the attackers? Did you see them? What sort of terrible beings would kill Witchers?” Jaskier asks mournfully, squirming in his chair by the fire like he’d very badly like to go sit on the couch to comfort Geralt and Eskel.

“Humans,” Geralt growls, and both Shani and Jaskier flinch and go still.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Bit of a shorter chapter for this one.
Things are gonna get dialogue and world-building heavy for a bit, so I needed somewhere to cut things so it is manageable.
Jaskier's wine-sass had me giggling, Idk why I found it so amusing

Chapter 15

Notes:

Potential TW: brief allusion to suicidal ideation by a main character

Jaskier stands, torn between the desperate need to go comfort his Witchers, and the overwhelming feeling that they would not want him in this moment.

Humans.

The very people most likely to need the aid of the demigods in fighting their monsters, and it was humans who committed such atrocities against them.

In their travels months back, Jaskier had asked Geralt in distaste if Witchers were like some deities, who held clear affinities for certain mortal races over others, and his answer comes back to Jaskier now.

“Witchers don’t discriminate against non-humans, we aren’t human ourselves. We might be a newer creation than the elves or dwarves, our arrival in this Sphere coinciding with humans coming here, but the monsters of the Conjunction don’t hesitate to slay anyone, human or not. So we protect all people. Even the races that don’t venerate us until they need their monster killed.”

It’s Shani who breaks the silence. “Humans managed that? A wholesale slaughter of multiple pantheons of demigods?” She doesn’t sound rude in her disbelief, largely her mournful expression just holds the same question that Jaskier cannot help but think as well: why?

Why would humans hunt down and harm the very deities clearly sent by the highest gods themselves to aid in humanity’s survival?

“It was orchestrated and planned very well. Almost simultaneous raids upon our Keeps across the Continent, by humans sent acting under the orders of their kings, and they had the help of some traitorous members of the Cat School of Witchers. Who were, of course, then quickly turned upon by the humans, themselves, and similarly decimated,” Eskel explains darkly, closing his eyes.

Something awful occurs to Jaskier, and he pales, looking at Geralt, who is staring at the rest of his wine with the deepest look of grief imaginable.

“The Pogroms…they happened when, exactly?” Jaskier asks tentatively, and by the flash of pain in Geralt’s golden eyes, he knows he’s hit the mark dead-on.

Eskel opens his eyes and scowls at Geralt, a fierce protectiveness in his eyes. “Don’t even go there, Geralt,” Eskel warns in a murmur so low, Jaskier doubts Shani heard it, since he barely did and he’s closer than she is.

But Geralt isn't listening, his eyes are on Jaskier, looking far more human and vulnerable than the bard has ever seen the demigod of death. “It was my fault. The humans turned on all of us, because I wasn’t strong enough to keep them from slaughtering one another first. I wasn’t strong enough to keep them from using me to do so. All it took was a couple Cats seeking a misguided scramble for more power, and our whole existence went up like a powder keg.”

“No!” Eskel snarls, rebuking his brother more harshly than Jaskier has ever heard the charismatic demigod speak, but Eskel looks positively enraged, and Shani sinks into her chair, clearly startled by the display. “No one but you truly believes that, Geralt! You were manipulated and forced to choose the lesser evil, it wasn’t your fault! The Cats and the humans made their own choices!” Eskel insists rather viciously, glaring down the other Witcher.

“I should’ve removed myself from the picture long before it ever came to that!” Geralt snarls, and Eskel flinches like he’d been slapped.

“You don’t mean that. You wouldn’t.” Eskel says hollowly, tears filling his eyes.

Shani turns to Jaskier, her voice low, “I feel like I should go. This is personal, and I’m an outsider here.”

Eskel looks to her, softening his expression into something less intense. “I still owe you that favor, Shani. If you haven't decided by the time I depart Oxenfurt, then you can always reach me through prayer at my temple here or any of my shrines,” Eskel says calmly, and Shani nods quickly, bowing her head to both deities in an awkward bob of reverence.

“I’ll show you out,” Jaskier says, hearing the choked back pain in his own voice at Geralt’s exclamation, so the bard hastens to stand and walks Shani to his door, pulling her into a tight hug. “Thank you again, Shani. I’m ever so grateful to you, for everything,” Jaskier declares fervently, kissing his dear friend on the cheek.

She smiles sadly and returns the affections, sighing and lowering her voice further, unaware that she will be heard by the Witchers anyways, “I fear my harsh words to Geralt did more harm than I could’ve known, please…apologize to him for me? I still don’t really trust either of them, and I worry for you as my friend, but Geralt seems a decent fellow, and he didn’t deserve my ire. I should stay and tell him myself, but I have got to go get some more sleep. Some loud-ass bard woke me by rather exuberantly fucking a demigod last night.” The twinkle of a smirk in her eye and her words are more than enough to have Jaskier blushing bright red, and he clears his throat.

“Ah, yes, well. In the bard’s defense, he was left unsupervised,” Jaskier points out, and Shani tries to stifle her giggle.

“I’d passed out from shock, you horse’s arse!” she whisper-yells, and Jaskier chuckles, giving her one last hug.

“Bye, Shani. See you soon,” he promises, and she smiles.

“See you soon, Jask, I’ll let you buy me a drink,” Shani teases, pecking his cheek and heading off to her own home.

When Jaskier heads back into his sitting room, he sees to his surprise that neither demigod is speaking. He mostly expected them to continue their very intense and clearly personal conversation in hushed tones now that they didn’t have an audience of blasted humans.

“Shani doesn’t need to apologize, she was right about me,” Geralt says, his voice painfully flat.

Eskel makes an angry noise and turns to glare at his brother again. “I’m not a ‘better’ Witcher than you, Geralt. Nor am I somehow any more worthy to Jaskier’s affections than you are,” Eskel snaps, and Jaskier makes a decision he hopes will help and not cause further hurt.

The bard crosses the room and sits very deliberately between the both of them, settling in on the couch and taking one of each of their hands, making crystal clear of his opinions on where they all stand in his eyes.

And it does seem to help, both Witchers relaxing just a little, but Jaskier can work with that. “Now, I wish to say something, and I’d like you both to listen without interrupting me, is that fair?” Jaskier asks, glancing between them both.

“Before we start this conversation, can Geralt get comfortable? He still has his armor on and he must have rode like a devil to get here from where I last saw him,” Eskel says kindly but sternly, his glance to the other demigod leaving no room for argument from Geralt.

“That’s perfectly fine, dear, of course,” Jaskier agrees, squeezing Geralt’s hand gently, and the White Wolf sighs, but he stands and sets aside his now empty wine goblet and starts divesting himself of his weapons and armor.

Both Eskel and Jaskier watch him rather blatantly, and a blush colors Geralt’s cheeks as he gets down to his soft black linen shirt, half the buttons of which are left undone, and his leather trousers and boots. With his swords and armor set aside, Geralt retakes his spot on the couch, certainly seeming more comfortable, and Jaskier smiles brightly at him, before sombering himself.

“Right. So, both of you humor me for a moment, as I feel this needs to be said. Firstly, the terrible way in which humans have and largely continue to treat Witchers, is appalling, and it is to my utter shame to be counted among their kind. Secondly, and please listen closely to me, Geralt, darling: the Pogroms were not your fault. I know you. I know your heart, and when I tell you that you are one of the best people to ever walk this Sphere, know that I count among that number every mortal, immortal, god or deity known to mortals and immortals alike. You are kind and good, self-sacrificing and noble to a fault, and this Sphere would be a far darker place without you in it,” Jaskier says with utter sincerity, staring into Geralt's face even though the demigod refuses to meet his gaze.

There is silence in the room, save for the crackling fire in the hearth chasing away the autumn chill, when Eskel speaks huskily, pressing himself impossibly closer to Jaskier’s side and wrapping his arm around the bard’s waist, “I could take you right here, right now, little lark. You have no idea how it warms my heart to hear you speak thusly of Geralt.”

Jaskier feels heat rush to his face and elsewhere as well, and he clears his throat, knowing he must smell about as lusty as he suddenly feels, because both Witchers inhale deeply, and Geralt makes a soft sound of wanting that threatens to derail Jaskier’s entire train of thought. “As lovely as that sounds, and I will take you up on that offer in the very near future, dearest Eskel, I believe there is more that needs to be said between the three of us before we get sidetracked with…other pursuits,” Jaskier says, his voice wavering slightly with his rising arousal.

Eskel chuckles and nods into Jaskier’s neck, reaching out with the hand not holding Jaskier’s waist to grasp onto Geralt’s hand that Jaskier is holding as well. “You’re right, of course, but it needed to be said,” Eskel murmurs, his hot breath against Jaskier’s throat making the bard break out in goosebumps.

Geralt is still very quiet but he strokes his thumb across the others’ hands before he glances up at the two of them, swallowing hard. “I can’t really let myself believe all of that, Jaskier. Not yet, anyways. And I owe you an apology. I am sorry, more than you know. I never should’ve left you the way I did. I just…I was overwhelmed and I thought that you would be happier without me. A mortal’s life is so very short, and you deserve to spend it with better company than a disgraced Witcher like me,” Geralt says softly, and Jaskier sighs.

“Did you not hear me that very first day, Geralt? I choose to devote my life to you, and to that I hold. I’d rather spend one mortal lifetime with you both, than to have immortality myself and lose either one of you,” Jaskier declares with all honesty, and he watches as Geralt’s pupils dilate, his very genuine words having a profound effect on the demigod. 

By the way Eskel groans wantonly in Jaskier’s ear, he must feel similarly affected. “Fuck, lark. I’m going to need a cold bath at this rate, your silver tongue will surely be my undoing,” Eskel murmurs, his deep voice even huskier with his desire.

Jaskier squirms minutely, taking a deep breath to try to compose himself, but he’s finding it harder and harder not to get hard. “I’m only speaking the truth as I see it,” Jaskier argues weakly, and Eskel chuckles low, the sound rasping in Jaskier’s ear.

“Even so, bard,” Eskel whispers, pressing his lips to the skin beneath Jaskier’s ear, and the bard swallows back a moan.

“Focus, Eskel, Demigod of Horny Bastards!” Jaskier chides in a strangled voice, and both Eskel and Geralt laugh, lightening the mood in the room considerably. Once Jaskier can no longer feel his racing heartbeat in his fucking cock, he clears his throat. “Right, so, correct me if I get anything wrong, but to sum up: we all care deeply for one another, we would all like to act upon that with the others’ knowledge and consent, Geralt is not to blame for humans being more monstrous than monsters, Eskel has promised a very potent favor to Shani for saving him possibly years of time lost, I still have my ruinous first prayer to somehow weather, and despite some rather annoying odds against us, we are all three of us fairly hale and hearty at this exact moment. Did I get all of that right?” 

Eskel tilts his head as he thinks, and Geralt nods quietly. “As far as I’m aware, that all sounds correct. Though I would like to know, what kicked your arse so badly, Esk? And why?” Geralt says with a frown, watching how Eskel and Jaskier share a look that Geralt immediately seems to be concerned by, but before Geralt can start ranting, Eskel cuts him off.

“A Leshy, big one. I had it sorted, even backed the bastard up against a canyon. But it got the last laugh, skewered me with one of its branches,” Eskel explains, pulling aside his thickest bandages and the neckline of his linen shirt to show the barely closed wound through his shoulder: a large and gnarly divot almost four inches across, no longer bleeding but not quite scabbed over, and there is clearly still bone and muscle that hasn’t yet regenerated beneath the skin. “Which sucked, but what’s worse is it did that, and then pulled the both of us over the edge of the cliff, which was not exactly a short fall.”

Jaskier hadn’t realized how bad the wound still was under Eskel’s heavy bandages, and Jaskier feels tears flooding his eyes yet again. “I thought it was further along with healing than that, Eskel. Why didn’t you say anything?” Jaskier asks wetly, turning to hug the scarred demigod tightly.

Eskel scoffs and narrows his eyes at Jaskier. “Because someone might think of doing something stupid like slicing himself open again,” Eskel retorts, much to Jaskier’s chagrin, especially given how Geralt’s expression has gone from concern, to anger, to something like fear, and then straight back to anger, as the demigod of death pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Of course Jaskier decided to help with that, bard never learns. But back up a bit, you portalled to your temple in that bad of a shape, and just happened to bump into Jaskier and Shani?” Geralt asks for clarification, his tone deeply unimpressed as he looks over his hand at Eskel with a cutting scowl that the bard knows well, himself, and certainly did not miss being aimed at him.

“Lucky bastard, remember?” Eskel points out with a smugly sweet smile that only barely fails to hide the tension still in his eyes.

“You missed the part where I was actually a day early in praying to you at your temple, and that’s apparently how you had the power to get there. Oh, and that I just happened to have Shani with me, who happens to be the best healer in all of Redania and at least half of Temeria,” Jaskier says cheekily, trying to use humor like Eskel is, to get ahead of the vicious backlash once Geralt realizes why Eskel was low on power in the first place.

Geralt groans and rubs his hand over his face, looking both annoyed and tired, but mostly he seems resigned and sad. “You are a lucky bastard, except when you come looking for me. I’m sure you healing me after the griffins and trying to find me in the first place was not helpful to you having the power you needed to hunt the fucking Leshy, or to heal. Vesemir would kick both our arses if he knew,” Geralt says with clear irritation, but as Jaskier and Eskel both assumed his reaction would be far worse, they relax slightly.

“I chose to heal you, Geralt. I knew the dangers, I did it anyway, and I don’t regret it,” Eskel says rather stubbornly, scowling right back at Geralt’s scowl.

“Really, it’s all my fault in the first place. I hadn’t kept up with my offerings and prayers to Geralt for a while, and it almost cost us everything,” Jaskier tries to argue, but both demigods immediately focus their glares on him instead.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Geralt insists fiercely.

“I already told you Jaskier, no!” Eskel rushes to say as well.

With both Witchers talking over one another, Jaskier just blinks and hunches his shoulders in, appropriately chagrined, but also not willing to let himself off the hook yet. The room lapses into silence for a moment, a loud snap from a burning log breaking in half enough to make Jaskier startle slightly, and the tension is broken.

“Besides, I’m fine and here now instead of weeks from now, because you did give me an offering and a prayer last night,” Geralt says eventually, cutting his eyes at both Jaskier and Eskel.

The bard blushes bright red, but Eskel only smirks and winks at Geralt, who rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling fondly at his kinsman.

“So uh, you got that, did you? How does that one work? What did you…did you see everything?” Jaskier asks hesitantly as his voice goes an octave higher and he squirms uncomfortably between the two very hot, very close-to-him demigods, who both look down at him like wolves eyeing their prey, and gods alive, Jaskier wants that.

Geralt leans down so his lips brush the shell of Jaskier’s ear as he growls out his whisper, “I saw everything, bard. I got to watch the whole thing, and I heard you call out my name when you came down Eskel’s throat.”

Eskel groans softly from his seat, palming his growing hardness already. Jaskier finds it suddenly excessively difficult to breathe evenly and he shifts his legs as he knows his own thickening cock will soon be blatantly obvious, as if his companions couldn’t already smell that on him.

Seemingly impassive as ever, Geralt looks far more calm than even Eskel, but a slight bulge down the leg of his leather trousers has Jaskier’s mouth going dry and his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment before he’s brave enough to look back at Geralt. “And uh, you’re not-you’re not mad about that, are you? It was Eskel’s idea, to be fair. But I was rather thoroughly on board, as you saw,” Jaskier rushes to point out, and Eskel laughs while Geralt fucking smirks, and yeah, Jaskier is getting completely hard, there’s no holding it back.

“I’m wounded, little lark! Threw me to the wolves, first chance you got!” Eskel teases with a laugh, his eyes sparkling with his own witty double entendres.

“It was your idea! All of it! The-the nearly bringing me off in the bath with the washcloth, the blow job, the mirror, calling on him for mercy!” Jaskier protests indignantly, his gaze darting back and forth between the two Witchers. Eskel chuckles suggestively and glances at his brother.

Geralt raises his eyebrows and licks his lips absently, his tone amused and husky in a way Jaskier has never really heard as he murmurs, “Hmm, I didn’t actually get to see the bath. Though I’d gathered that was likely what precipitated things, as you were absolutely soaking wet. It’s a good look on you, Jask.”

Jaskier feels himself uncharacteristically overwhelmed.

He wants, gods he wants so much, he wants everything.

Doesn’t he?

This, the way this is heading, it wouldn’t be Jaskier’s first threesome, far from it, but he’s just gotten Geralt back into his life, they’ve only just had their first kiss. 

And while it felt completely natural to go from first kiss to first fuck with Eskel all at once, for some reason, Jaskier finds himself…scared. He’s afraid to lose Geralt again, the very idea of losing him paralyzes Jaskier with fear, and the room starts spinning, and very belatedly, Jaskier realizes he might not actually have been breathing and that both Witchers are staring at him in concern.

Eskel’s voice drifts to Jaskier like he’s hearing it from the bottom of the well out back, “Lark? Jaskier? Hey, it’s okay. Here, take a deep breath with me, okay? That’s good, now let it out, slowly. Are you okay?”

Strong arms are around him, he has to look down to realize they are Eskel’s arms. Geralt looks…heartbroken, his hands firmly to his sides, touching no one, and Jaskier feels tears in his eyes, because Geralt shouldn’t be sad, it shouldn’t be allowed.

Jaskier reaches out and takes Geralt’s hand, needing to have that closeness. Some of the agony leaves Geralt’s eyes but he exhales hard. “I…I scared you, Jaskier?” Geralt asks so softly, his voice broken into jagged pieces, and Jaskier dives deep into himself to find his voice right away, because despite what his scent might have been telling them, that's not right.

“No! Geralt, no, I’ve never been scared of you, well, not since very early on, you are a demigod after all, and I’m a rather squishy mortal. And…I want you, I do, I truly, really do. But…I’m afraid I’m not…ready?” Jaskier chokes out as his tears spillover, and he knows he probably smells confused and hurting, and he’s ruined the mood, and that’s embarrassing–

“Jaskier, breathe. It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. We aren’t angry with you, Geralt and I care about your comfort above anything else. If you don’t want to take this any further right now, that’s more than alright. We go at your pace, okay?” Eskel says with such surety, tightening his hold on Jaskier, and it makes the bard feel safer.

Geralt seems calmer now that he knows Jaskier isn’t afraid of him but of losing him, yet there is still some sadness to his smile when he very gently presses a kiss to the backs of Jaskier’s knuckles. “I know I hurt you, and I still need to prove myself to you again. Having this, having you just as you are, that’s more than enough for me, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs quietly, and Jaskier’s heart clenches painfully in his chest.

Because he desperately wants to believe Geralt, to let go of the past and start anew, but his heart won’t let him, and it hurts.

“Do you need to lie down, little lark? You didn’t get much sleep last night, and you’ve been through a lot in the last day,” Eskel offers calmly, rubbing soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, and Geralt nods encouragingly.

Jaskier can feel his eyelids drooping and they weigh about a thousand pounds, so that’s probably not a bad idea. He looks between both his Witchers. “C-can someone stay with me? I don’t want to be alone,” Jaskier admits, cringing at his own weakness.

“Of course, lark. How about I take you up to your bed and we lie down, and Geralt can take a bath to wash the Path off him, then he will come join us? How does that sound?” Eskel says, and Jaskier nods right away. “Should he lie down beside me, or beside you?” Eskel adds, and it’s said so casually, that Jaskier is confused for a moment, ‘til he sees the protective glint to Eskel’s eye, and realizes that the scarred demigod doesn’t want Jaskier to feel vulnerable while he sleeps.

But that’s not a worry he has. “He can lie beside me, being between you both like this, it’s nice,” Jaskier says with certainty, and Geralt lets out a breath Jaskier didn’t know he was holding.

“Thank you, Jask,” Geralt says, standing and pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head while the bard smiles tiredly.

When Jaskier’s legs seem a little shaky upon standing, Eskel takes no chances and no questions, scooping him into his arms, much to the protests of the bard. “Your fucking shoulder is still fucked, put me down!”

Eskel chuckles and heads up the stairs with his arms full of Jaskier, his grip somehow inescapable and yet not too tight. “Nope, last thing we need is you tripping down the stairs and taking a hit to the head. And my shoulder is fine. I need to build the muscle back up, and you are the perfect starting weight for that,” Eskel teases, nudging Jaskier’s bedroom door open.

Jaskier scoffs in indignation, crossing his arms as Eskel lays him out in the middle of his bed. “I’m six feet tall! And I’m no lightweight, myself! You Witchers are going to give me a complex!” Jaskier complains without any real heat, somewhat mollified when Eskel slips into bed with him and pulls the covers over them both, pulling Jaskier to rest his head on the uninjured side of his chest.

“Yes, you’re very strong, and not just strong for a bard, but really strong. It surprised me a little to see all of your muscle tone beneath that very flowery orange doublet the night we met. Do you have them tailored to make you look slighter?” Eskel murmurs, petting over Jaskier’s hair, and the bard huffs quietly.

“Yes. It’s a trade secret. People prefer their traveling minstrels to be…effeminate, they expect it. Bright and varied colors, fancy and flowery and no use for anything besides the arts. If I looked like a fit, able-bodied man, some idiot might try to put a sword in my hand and conscript me to the army or something,” Jaskier mumbles petulantly as he’s in a foul mood, but mostly just with himself.

“Well, I vehemently oppose you implying that you aren’t good for anything besides your music. I love your music, but you are so much more than any one thing, little lark. And I’ve never found you particularly effeminate, you are just you. You are Jaskier, and that means beauty, and more than physical beauty, though you’ve plenty of that as well,” Eskel muses, looking down at the unhappy man in his arms.

Jaskier has other arguments swirling in his head, but he’s just too tired to keep conversing, so he closes his eyes. 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, the bed dips slightly at Jaskier’s other side, and soon he feels another warm body up against his, the scents he associates with Geralt mingling with the warmth that already smells like Eskel and like Jaskier’s favorite soap, so Jaskier takes a deep breath, rolling onto his other side and pillowing his head against the new warmth.

For some reason that makes someone chuckle, and his new pillow rather hesitantly wraps his arms around Jaskier, who feels more at ease than he’s been in a very long time, and he finally falls deeply asleep.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I did say slow burn for Geraskier, didn't I? Legit I almost started writing the smut for that heated moment, considered ending the whole fic in this chapter even, and my brain screeched to a halt and let me know there was more plot still to have. Did it tell me all the plot? No. Am I still winging every single one of my stories without writing down plotlines like I should? YUP

Chapter 16

Geralt doesn’t get any sleep.

He was already well rested from Jaskier’s previous offering, and while the hard ride to Oxenfurt took some of his energy, it wasn’t enough for him to be able to nap when Eskel took a very emotionally and physically exhausted Jaskier up to bed.

After a brief bath to rinse off the worst of the Path, Geralt joined the other two up in Jaskier’s room, and he himself felt oddly emotional when Jaskier curled up against him even in sleep. Eskel found the confused look on Geralt’s face endlessly amusing, but they both stayed silent as the human bard got some much needed rest.

Eskel wasn’t sleeping either, but he was meditating, his eyes closed, as he likely went through the prayers and offerings in his name at his various temples and shrines across the Continent in his mind. Geralt does the same, but it doesn't even take him an hour, as he just doesn't receive that much veneration.

His brother, on the other hand, meditates for over three hours, while Jaskier sleeps rather peacefully. When Eskel is done meditating, his eyes open slowly and he glances over the bard’s sleeping form against Geralt, a soft smile pulling at the scarred corner of his mouth.

“Has he always clung on like a leech when he sleeps?” Eskel teases in the softest whisper, the fondness for Jaskier in his amber eyes impossible to miss.

“Wouldn’t know. He was always clingy, though. Wanted his bedroll right next to mine any time he could manage. But we’ve never…this is new,” Geralt murmurs back and gestures vaguely to the bard cuddling him, his own voice soft enough not to disturb the sleeping mortal even with Jaskier’s ear pressed to Geralt’s bare chest.

“I guess I can see why he got overwhelmed earlier. He’s loved you for months, thinking you didn’t feel the same. It’s hard for him to reconcile the Geralt who kept him at arm’s-length, with the Geralt that would gallantly ride across the country to sweep him off his feet,” Eskel whispers thoughtfully, rolling onto his side to face the both of them and propping himself up on his good arm.

Geralt frowns and sighs softly, his breath barely ruffling Jaskier’s brunette hair. “I’m trying to reconcile those Geralts, too. How did you so easily accept the amount of…love, that this random human bard is willing to give? He loves so easily, but with so much devotion, so selflessly. You’ve only known him a few weeks, but he loves you already, too, Esk, I can see it,” Geralt says, searching Eskel’s eyes for his reaction.

The demigod looks utterly besotted as he smiles crookedly and half-shrugs. “You know me, Geralt. Better than anyone. I’m a sucker for all things bright and beautiful, and Jaskier is…he’s everything that humanity should be. Intelligent and witty, soft and caring, fierce and righteous, strong and certain. He’s able to make such compelling music because he sees and then understands so much more about the human condition than any human I’ve ever met,” Eskel explains, reaching out a finger to very gently brush a lock of Jaskier’s hair from his face. His hand keeps on its trajectory then, and he slips his fingers into Geralt’s long white locks, clean and dry now and laid out in a fan around his head on the pillow.

The touch, casual and affectionate, makes Geralt blush lightly, and Eskel gives him that special smile that’s really only for him. Geralt chews at his lower lip and takes a deep breath before he can make himself say it, “You meant what you said before? That you and I…that we can try again?”

Eskel’s smile only grows, his amber eyes twinkling in a way that takes Geralt’s breath away. “Of course, my beloved. I always hoped we would find ourselves here, having wandered back together where we belong, no matter how long it took,” Eskel says softly, gracefully pulling himself up the bed without jostling Jaskier, and pressing a chaste kiss to Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt runs his tongue along his lips when Eskel pulls away, chasing the taste of him, and the charismatic demigod’s smile morphs into a smirk and he winks.

“If you want to do something about that, you need to wake him up. I’m not fooling around next to a sleeping person who can’t consent, and if we sneak off and Jaskier wakes alone and vulnerable, I’ll never forgive you,” Eskel declares, only partially joking.

“You wake him up! He likes you better than me,” Geralt counters in a whispered exclamation, but there is mirth in his golden eyes, and Eskel laughs almost silently.

“You know how hard it is to wake Jaskier, he is not fond of it,” Eskel replies, stretching out his damaged shoulder, which seems marginally less stiff after Eskel meditated.

Geralt sighs and brushes his hand up and down Jaskier’s spine in soothing pets, before speaking louder now, but still quiet enough to not be jarring to the bard, “Jaskier, it’s time to get up. It’s nearly dinner time for you mortals, and I wager you only had wine for lunch. Shani is going to castrate Eskel and I if we don’t start taking better care of you.”

Eskel snickers at his brother’s choice of wake-up speech, speaking more conversationally as well, the humor in his tone unmistakable, “She would, too. I hope she doesn’t ask for my balls as her favor, I am rather attached to them if I’m honest.”

Jaskier stirs as the Witchers speak, rubbing his face against Geralt’s chest and groaning softly as he stretches. Geralt smiles and stays still, watching the bard slowly peel open his bright blue eyes to regard them both with an unamused look. “Confound you Witchers and your lack of need for sleep or food or other necessities,” he curses rather mildly, and they both chuckle and watch Jaskier pull himself out of bed with some effort.

The bard heads downstairs to relieve himself, and both Geralt and Eskel change from sleep clothes to something more appropriate as daywear, though neither bothers with their armor while they’re here with Jaskier. 

They go downstairs as well to find Jaskier rifling through a cluttered desk until he finds a scrap of paper and a quill. “I need to go to the shops before they close, as I have no food in the house and not nearly enough wine for all of us. Is there anything you two need?” Jaskier asks as he jots down a few items on his shopping list, glancing up at the demigods who have both taken up residence on his couch.

“I could stand to refill my potion ingredients, is there an apothecary nearby?” Eskel muses, and Jaskier nods, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment as he thinks.

“Go right out the door, down three streets, turn left, then go straight a ways and you’ll see it. I’m not sure if they’ll carry what you’re looking for,” Jaskier says, tapping the feather quill against his lips as he looks at his own list to see if he’s forgotten anything.

“There is a chance they’ll have a few of the things I need, the others are monster parts, and Witchers tend to harvest those themselves. But sometimes healers and apothecaries have them, as well, or are willing to trade them for other ingredients that are harder to come by,” Eskel says, pulling on his boots.

“Couldn’t you just do the sparkly magic and poof! There it is?” Jaskier questions with a wiggle of the fingers before corking his ink vial and grabbing his overcoat off its hook.

Eskel snorts and gives the bard an amused smile. “Sure, I could portal myself all the way across the Continent to harvest an herb that only grows in one part of that one kingdom, but that is a huge waste of my very finite amount of power. We Witchers have always been taught to leave uses of our powers on ourselves as something of a last resort, as we never know when we will need them for something important, and it isn’t bad advice,” Eskel counters, glancing at Geralt, who has already put his boots on and is feeling rather uncomfortably exposed still.

“Oh! Here, I’d almost forgotten, darling!” Jaskier says, opening his pack from the Path, still not having unpacked because of the chaos, and pulling Geralt’s cloak from its depths.

The demigod almost smiles and pulls it on, letting the black fabric settle over him and aid his glamor in making mortals want to overlook him.

“Hmm, why do I feel like I didn’t look nearly so mysterious or debonair when I wore that?” Jaskier teases, and Eskel laughs.

“A demigod’s cloak isn’t just any old garment, little lark. As part of our armor set, they’re a physical extension of ourselves, maintained by our hands and our powers, and imbued with useful attributes by those powers,” Eskel says, and looks up when Geralt slips to the bathroom, and comes back with Eskel’s cloak, which has been washed and the few larger tears mended.

“After my bath, I cleaned it up for you really quick and hung it to dry,” Geralt explains, and Eskel beams at him like he hung the stars.

The sight is a little dazzling to Jaskier and he actually has to squint and winces away from the light a little, laughing. “Well, I did notice it seemed to be fire-resistant and water repellant, but I didn’t realize anything more than that,” Jaskier admits, watching Geralt pin on Eskel’s cloak for him.

As Eskel straightens his shoulders, a small ripple goes through his cloak, the last ragged bits mended and any deep stains removed as his powers reinvigorate the fabric.

“Oooh, that is fancy! How does that work? Geralt lent me his cloak, was it still all magical for me? Besides the fire and water stuff, obviously,” Jaskier says, and Geralt blushes to have both Jaskier and Eskel looking at him fondly.

Geralt sighs and fusses with the edge of the cloak. “Yes, it protected you as it would have protected me. That’s why I couldn’t replace it. Having more than one cloak at once, it doesn’t really work, even if I had more powers. To maintain something like that, it's a constant passive draw of my energy. Like keeping Roach or Scorpion summoned, our armor and weapons are tied to us. If we lose them, we can pull them back to us up to a certain distance, but that also costs power. If they are very far from us, we usually sever the tie and summon them anew. Which would’ve left you without a cloak,” Geralt murmurs, and he doesn’t miss the slight inhale of breath from Jaskier at his admission.

“You were protecting me. Even when you left me, you left a part of yourself behind to protect me, straining your own powers in the process,” Jaskier realizes, and then turns to level Eskel with a similar look of almost frustrated adoration. “And you did the same thing by letting me borrow Scorpion! Neither of you would’ve gotten so hurt if you weren’t so focused on protecting me, the fragile human,” Jaskier says bitterly, no small amount of self-loathing in his voice.

Geralt starts to shake his head right away, and Eskel steps over to pull Jaskier into his arms and make the bard look at him. “Stop that. We make our own choices, Jaskier. You are worth it to us. And yes, those things do cost us some power, but the amount is not nearly as dramatic as you seem to think. You not having Scorpion wouldn’t have saved me from that Leshy. Geralt having his cloak wouldn’t have saved him from the griffins. So don’t for a moment think that you aren’t worth everything we pour into you. Everything you’ve given us in return, it far outweighs what we’ve done for you. Please,” Eskel says with utter sincerity, and Geralt steps over to very gently brush some of Jaskier’s hair from his face, trying to put into that touch all of the words he can’t articulate to reinforce what Eskel said.

Jaskier makes a wet sound and blinks back tears that darken his eyelashes and clump them together. “I’m not sure that I’m as special as you seem to think I am, but we have to get going or we will run out of time. Are both of you going off for your Witchering supplies?” Jaskier says, clearing his throat, and Geralt frowns, sharing a look with Eskel.

“I’ll grab potion ingredients, Geralt will go with you, Jask. You know how overprotective he is,” Eskel jokes, cackling and dodging the slap upside the head that Geralt aims at him, but Geralt looks at Jaskier hopefully, uncertain if the bard will want to be alone with him.

“Just like old times, then!” Jaskier says cheerfully, grabbing an empty basket to store his purchases in and leading both Witchers out into the fading daylight.

Geralt worries for a moment that it will be awkward to shop with Jaskier again, to have to hold conversation with the human when there are still so many things left unspoken between them. But, due to the time crunch, there is little room for much idle chatter, except of course for the ongoing conversation that Jaskier always manages to hold with himself as he rushes from stall to stall, shop to shop, picking up what he needs before the merchants close up shop for the day.

If this were before, Geralt would’ve rankled to be reduced to a pack mule as Jaskier shucks off his more heavy purchases on the demigod, but as things stand now, Geralt would gladly carry a million crates of wine for Jaskier if it meant he gets to stay in his presence and have a chance to truly tell and show the bard how he feels for him. 

Words have never been Geralt’s strong suit, but actions he can handle, and so he bears the burden of Jaskier’s shopping with good grace, following behind the happily-humming musician as they return to his home.

Eskel is perched on the doorstep, having completed his shopping much more quickly, and as Jaskier fishes for his key in his pocket, he frowns. “Two things I just thought of. First, where did you get money? I should’ve lent you some, I wasn’t even thinking about it. Second, I’m sure you could’ve gotten inside in any number of ways without having to wait for me. Why wait?”

The charismatic demigod chuckles and takes the other parcels from Jaskier so the mortal can open the front door and let them all in. “No need, I’m not too high-and-mighty to wait a bit on a crisp autumn day, enjoying the birdsong. And, it’s rude to break into people’s houses,” Eskel jokes, helping unstack some of the things Geralt is carrying, as the stack looks rather precarious at this point.

“Huh. Well, you’re both far more scrupulous than I would be as a deity. I have the moral compass of a slime eel, and it wouldn’t be hard for me to convince myself that something small wasn’t that bad,” Jaskier muses, busying himself with preparing dinner.

Eskel in turn busies himself cleaning and mending his armor in the other room, while Geralt finds himself feeling incredibly out of place. It has been a very long time now since he’s bothered trying to eat normally since he’s been alone, and he’s unsure if Jaskier would appreciate his probably sad attempts to prepare a meal that a mortal would find palatable.

“If you’re looking for something to do, I wouldn’t protest to you emptying the tub outside and bringing in enough fresh water to refill it. I think I would like another bath before I turn in for the night, given that my last ended up containing quite a bit more blood than I usually like to bathe in. And then I can wash up some laundry in the water afterwards, as well” Jaskier instructs cheerfully, watching Geralt immediately go to do as he was bid.

Once everyone had finished their tasks, the three reconvened in the sitting room, and Eskel blasted an impressive Igni to get the smoldering fire roaring once again. Jaskier seems impressed, bringing both demigods a plate and goblet of wine each. The expression on the mortal’s face seems contemplative, and as he passes the plate to Geralt, the demigod of death can hear his rather loud thoughts, “If I don’t say the prayer out loud, does it still work? ‘Cause I would say ‘to your glory, oh great White Wolf’, but do prayers thought and not spoken count?”

“Yes, they count,” Geralt says aloud bluntly, taking the offerings from the startled human.

“So you lot can read minds! I did wonder how you knew enough about Valdo that first night to parse out that while he is very much a coward and a cad, he probably doesn’t deserve to drop dead just yet,” Jaskier grouses, offering Eskel his dinner, next, and by the smirk on his brother’s face and the soft gasp from Jaskier, Geralt can guess that Eskel answered Jaskier’s prayer to him inside the bard’s own mind. “I don’t know how I feel about that!” Jaskier says, looking thoroughly perturbed.

Eskel chuckles and takes a bite of cheese, winking at Jaskier when silver motes of light swirl around it. “We don’t tend to be invasive if we can help it, but a prayer is a prayer. It’s certainly stronger to say it aloud, but some of the more fervent and heartfelt prayers I’ve heard in my existence were thought and not spoken. It does take quite a lot of devotion to manage it, however, so you should be proud of yourself, little lark,” Eskel says, watching Geralt go for his wine first and the shower of gold around the goblet as he does so makes Eskel smile even wider.

“Fascinating. Though I suppose, even sorcerers can read minds unless one has a very solid mental fortitude. But they certainly can’t do so across the Continent!” Jaskier says, plopping himself in one of the chairs by the fire instead of joining the Witchers on the couch, that way everyone has ample elbow room to have their dinner. “So, how come Geralt never lit up like a Winter Solstice tree when we would eat together at a tavern?” Jaskier wonders aloud, taking a bite of his apple.

“If I order food myself and pay for it, it’s not an offering, it’s transactional. There is no devotion from the barmaid handing the plate over, I asked for food and she asked for coin,” Geralt grunts out between bites.

“And the times I bought our meal and brought you the plate?” Jaskier asks.

“Did you intend those meals as tribute, or was it more that you simply got us both food because you’re a kind person and that’s what you do?” Geralt questions, tilting his head as he regards Jaskier.

The bard blinks and sips his own wine, mulling that over. “I suppose it was more passive in thought, feeding myself and my companion so I wasn’t eating alone and no one feels left out. I guess the intent really does matter, more so than I thought,” Jaskier says, and Eskel nods, picking through his dinner.

“Intent is everything. If someone is being purely performative and loudly boasting about how many coppers they dropped in the offering plate for the temple’s upkeep, but in their heart they were indifferent, then that ‘tribute’ would do nothing in the way of veneration. If a heartbroken young girl with nothing to her name brings a handful of flowers picked especially for their beauty to say a prayer in honor of her mother’s peaceful passing after a long illness, that would be a powerful offering indeed,” Eskel says, watching how Geralt almost smiles at his second example.

Jaskier seems mollified by the explanation, and the rest of dinner is mostly the bard making conversation from nothing, as is his skill. Neither Witcher has the sort of daily life that inspires smalltalk, but Jaskier coaxes each of them into telling some more personal stories of either past hunts, prayers, or antics back home in Kaer Morhen.

Some of the tales are sorrowful, some are silly, others are so entertaining and unbelievable to the bard that he nearly falls out of his chair. Geralt hasn’t smiled this much since last winter, and the thought of the impending end of autumn makes his chest tight.

Perceptive as ever, Jaskier looks up and frowns, clearing away their dishes. “Something the matter, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, carefully, like he’s unsure of how their dynamic works now, and if he’s allowed to ask.

“Winter is coming. Soon, Eskel and I will make for Kaer Morhen for the season,” Geralt explains quietly, and both he and Eskel watch how Jaskier stills.

“Ah. Yes, I had nearly forgotten about all of that. I myself teach at the university over the winter, hence this lovely university housing. I…well, I knew that you two wouldn’t be able to stay and play house with me forever. Travelling together on the Path made sense, I was just accompanying you somewhere you already had to be. But I can’t expect you to stay with me all winter, and I know mortals are forbidden to enter Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says with false levity, pouring himself more wine.

Eskel stands and goes to Jaskier, tilting his face up to brush his lips to the bard’s. “I’d bring you with us if I could. Introduce you to everyone, show you what the world looks like from the top of it, keep you warm between Geralt and I all winter,” Eskel murmurs sensually, and Jaskier shudders.

Geralt heaves a sigh at the nice picture his brother paints with words, and Jaskier looks over at him as well. “I feel like I just got you back, Geralt, and soon I’ll lose you again,” Jaskier says in a strained voice, smiling miserably.

“You won’t lose me. I know it’s somewhat one-sided, but you could pray to either or both of us as often as you wish, you know we will hear it,” Geralt insists, standing and joining the other two at the counter Jaskier is leaning against.

“I know Eskel’s temple is here in Oxenfurt, but I couldn’t even find your nearest shrine on a map, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, going willingly when Eskel passes the bard into Geralt’s arms.

“Hmm, you could always make your own. A small one, for your home. It’s not unheard of, it just takes the proper devotion, which we know you have,” Geralt points out, brushing his lips across Jaskier’s forehead.

The bard shivers and winds his arms around Geralt’s shoulders slowly, giving the Witcher time to pull away. He doesn’t, just tightens his hold on Jaskier and leans in halfway, letting Jaskier decide if he wants the kiss.

When Jaskier leans up eagerly and kisses Geralt back rather fiercely, Eskel sighs longingly. “Now, that’s a pretty sight,” Eskel says almost dreamily, the smirk on his face somewhat glazed over as he watches them unabashedly.

Geralt manages to flip Eskel off as he deepens the kiss with Jaskier, and Eskel laughs good-naturedly, taking over where Jaskier left off with cleaning up dinner. Slowly, Jaskier’s kisses grow softer and sweeter, instead of more hungry and passionate.

Jaskier sighs as he breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead to Geralt’s. “I love you, Geralt. And I’ve never been shy a day in my life, I don’t know why I can’t just…the timing, it’s against me,” Jaskier murmurs in frustration, and Geralt shakes his head and holds the bard to his chest.

“I don’t have any expectations, Jaskier. I mean, I know you tend to be a promiscuous bastard, but that doesn’t mean I expect you to just fall into bed with me. All of this is new to me, too. I never…I’ve never had a relationship with anyone but Eskel, and my dalliances with mortals were both fleeting and far between. I don’t want you to treat me like your fleeting lovers,” Geralt murmurs in his low, gravelly tones, and Jaskier bites his lower lip, glancing over at Eskel, who is leaning against the counter, watching them still with a rather heated gaze.

“What about you, Eskel? We seemed to do everything backwards, fucked first and fell for one another later, in a way,” Jaskier teases softly, watching Eskel pull his chin-length dark hair from the tie holding it back as he shakes it out and untangles it with his fingers.

“I’m a different sort than Geralt. I’ve had plenty of mortal lovers that I saw for a little while, but nothing like the intensity of…this. And Geralt and I, we had been a near constant thing, together for the better part of a millennia at least. The last few hundred years without him has been…hollow,” Eskel says, his voice slipping from thoughtful to pained, and Geralt makes an unhappy sound in the back of his throat.

He looks down to make sure Jaskier is okay, and at the bard’s nod of reassurance, Geralt steps over and pulls Eskel into his arms, cupping Eskel’s scarred cheek in his hand. “I’m so sorry, Esk. I’ll spend the rest of forever making it up to you, if you’ll let me,” Geralt says brusquely, slipping his fingers into Eskel’s hair that he knows only looks brown, but is actually dark blond in the sunlight. Eskel gives a sad sort of smile and leans in, capturing Geralt’s lips in a kiss.

“Oh …I see what you meant, Eskel darling. That is…a very pretty sight,” Jaskier comments, trying to come across as contemplative, but he sounds rather breathless, and Eskel makes a soft noise against Geralt’s lips.

“You taste like Jaskier,” Eskel teases in a murmur, glancing over at the bard, who is gripping his wine goblet like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

Geralt spares a look at Jaskier, but then takes Eskel’s distraction as an opportunity to start kissing down Eskel’s neck, and the charismatic demigod bites back a moan. Jaskier clears his throat and Geralt looks up, smirking. “Did you need something, Jask?” he asks, the gravel in his voice thicker with desire, and Jaskier whines softly.

“I know I just said I wasn’t ready, Geralt, but I…could I watch? You two? Star-crossed lovers returned to one another after centuries of pining, it’s terribly romantic. And you both are very pretty,” Jaskier explains in a rush, taking another fortifying sip of his wine.

“I don’t mind at all, little lark. Maybe seeing how good Geralt is in bed will help you get through your hangup about him. And if not, hey, at least you got a nice show,” Eskel teases, glancing to Geralt for his approval.

He nods and goes back to his lingering kisses down the other Witcher’s neck, barely aware of Jaskier tossing back the rest of his wine and heading upstairs. Geralt and Eskel follow after a moment and find Jaskier seated at a chair in the corner, very clearly hot and bothered, but still fully dressed and seeming out of sorts.

“Go ahead and get comfortable, lark. This is your bedroom after all, make yourself at home,” Eskel says coyly as he pulls Geralt to sit with him on the edge of Jaskier’s bed.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I had to find a place to break this chapter, 'cause we are about to have our first hint at all three of them together, and our first time seeing Eskel and Geralt. I imagine Jaskier is in for quite an entertaining show :)

Chapter 17

Notes:

TW in end notes
Smut first

Jaskier hastily unbuttons his doublet and sets that aside before untucking his linen chemise from his breeches, but his hands slow as Geralt starts to undress Eskel. 

The charismatic demigod smirks the whole time he does, seeming amused with Geralt being rendered mute and perhaps a bit frantic as he divests Eskel of everything but his braies. “Your turn, beloved,” Eskel whispers, not allowing Geralt to go any further until he lets Eskel undress him similarly.

Geralt doesn’t hesitate to help his lover strip him fully nude, and Jaskier is finally seeing Geralt’s body as he’s fantasized about it for months, since he first met the deity.

“Ahh, fuck,” Jaskier mumbles, his fingers trembling as he gets the ties to his breeches undone so he can shove them away, also discarding his chemise onto the floor and retaking his seat before his shaking legs can give him away.

“Isn’t Geralt so pretty? He doesn’t ever let me tell him how beautiful he is,” Eskel brags with a smirk, pushing off his own braies and tossing them aside while he lies down on the bed as Geralt gets up over him, a predatory glint to the White Wolf’s gaze.

“‘m not pretty, you are,” Geralt murmurs huskily, kissing slowly over Eskel’s scarred face, across his throat, and down his body. 

He’s extra gentle in the kisses he places over Eskel's bandages, and the charismatic demigod moans softly, hooking a leg around Geralt’s lower back to pull him in closer, both Witchers groaning when the motion makes their stiff cocks brush together.

Jaskier exhales hard and runs his fingers over his own still-clothed prick, letting the thin material of his braies help to contain the desire that is threatening to run roughshod right over him.

“How do you want it, Esk?” Geralt murmurs when his kisses have reached Eskel’s hip.

“I missed having you inside me,” Eskel admits in a gruff murmur, glancing across to Jaskier and smirking again when the bard chokes back a whimper at the heated amber gaze freezing him in place. “Would you like to see that, little lark? I’ve had you already, would you like to see how Geralt would have you if you choose to let him?”

“Ohh by the gods, yes. B-by all means, do whatever pleases you, just pretend I’m not here,” Jaskier blurts out, acutely aware that his face is most likely a rather alarming shade of red at the moment, and Eskel chuckles up until Geralt presses a magically slicked finger inside him to work him open.

The scarred Witcher groans, his back arching off the bed just so while his legs fall open greedily, and Geralt glances back at Jaskier for a moment. “I don’t want to pretend you’re not here, Jask. It would please me to know that you’re enjoying yourself while watching me worship Eskel like he should be worshipped,” Geralt murmurs, pressing a second finger inside Eskel, who moans softly.

Jaskier presses the heel of his palm down over his aching cock and stares open-mouthed at the heavenly sight that is Geralt fucking Eskel open on his sword-calloused fingers.

The two deities are an awe-inspiring and lovely juxtaposition of one another.

 Eskel is all glowing suntanned skin and the darkest blonde hair, strands of near-gold picked out in it by the fire of the lamplight, yet his power shines silver. And Geralt, with his miles of alabaster skin and long, silver-white hair offset by his golden power. 

A million ballads write themselves in Jaskier’s mind, but the words flee as quickly as he tries to grasp at them, because what he beholds before him enraptures Jaskier well beyond the point of distraction.

Geralt slips a third finger inside Eskel, and Jaskier squirms in his seat, trying to convince himself that he’s not desperately envious of Eskel’s place spread out before the demigod of death. The needy sounds that Eskel makes as he writhes under Geralt’s touch has Jaskier’s blood boiling as he slips his hand down into his braies and wraps a hand around the base of his cock to stave off his steadily building peak.

Once Eskel is prepared, Geralt has the other Witcher turn onto his front, conjuring more of that magical slick to stroke himself with as Eskel gets up on his hands and knees on the bed, his cock hanging heavy between his legs as it drips with precum. Geralt seems quite similarly worked up, and he kneels behind Eskel to line up his cock, pressing inside with a languid roll of his hips into his kinsman.

Jaskier shudders and bites back an embarrassing sound at the heady moans both Witchers exhale as they’re coupled, and he allows himself a slow stroke over his straining prick in his undershorts as he watches those that he loves bringing pleasure to each other. Their strength and stamina are clearly matched as Geralt and Eskel move together in the sinuous sort of dance that deserves to be captured for all time in the carvings or murals of a temple wall.

“Gods, I want— fuck, I want so much,” Jaskier mutters to himself, bucking into the touch of his own hand as he watches, nearly squirming out of his seat.

Geralt slows the steady thrusts of his cock into Eskel, earning him a soft and needy whine from the scarred witcher, but Geralt is looking back at Jaskier again, amusement lightening the expression of pure ecstasy on his face. “You are more than welcome to join in whatever way you see fit, Jask. Even if you only wish to kiss Eskel as I have him,” Geralt says, his voice thick with arousal, and the answering soft gasp from Eskel certainly sounds like assent. 

Jaskier scrambles over to his bed, pausing as he gets close and sees the sight before him from a new angle, his heart fluttering at how very beautiful his two loves look, entwined so that they’ve become one. The bard sits on the bed in front of Eskel, hauling his scarred face up with gentle yet desperate fingers so Jaskier can kiss him, and Geralt lets out a devious chuckle, redoubling the speed and force with which he’s pounding his cock into Eskel as he does.

The charismatic demigod moans brokenly into Jaskier’s mouth and kisses him back, unable to reach for Jaskier because of how he’s holding himself up as Geralt rails him. Seeming to sense Eskel’s need, Geralt reaches around and hauls Eskel up and back by his throat so that he is stood on his knees the same as Geralt is, and still the White Wolf fucks into him without ceasing, his free arm winding tight around Eskel’s chest.

One of Eskel’s arms goes back to hold Geralt’s shoulder flush up against Eskel’s back, his other hand pulling Jaskier up to kiss him again, and the almost begging moans that Eskel lets out are unlike anything Jaskier has heard from him before. Jaskier is filled with a suddenly needy determination and lies down on his side, quickly propping himself up on his elbow to be at a proper height to swallow down as much of Eskel’s massive cock as he can manage.

There isn’t any way for Jaskier to know what language it is that Eskel starts swearing loudly in, but it certainly doesn’t sound like any of the known tongues of men or the Elder races. Geralt in turn chuckles darkly, angling Eskel’s head back over his shoulder so Geralt can kiss the strange words from him languidly.

Then, the demigod of death murmurs heated words in his brother’s ear as he tightens his large hand around the front of Eskel’s throat, punctuating what he says with hard thrusts of his cock, “Look at Jaskier, lain prostrate to worship you just like you deserve, Esk. He saved you, and he saved me, too. Determined little bard, his devotion is so fucking intoxicating and sweet, isn’t it? Won’t you give him what he deserves?“

Eskel is trembling, made temporarily speechless by his pleasure when he suddenly gasps and cries out as Jaskier swallows down more of his cock at the same time that Geralt rams into Eskel at that perfect angle. 

The spend that floods Jaskier’s mouth as Eskel peaks tastes reminiscent of the dandelion wine from the summer solstice, and Jaskier moans hard around the thick length of him still jammed down his throat. Jaskier barely manages to get a hand on himself in his braies before he’s spilling thick and hot over his knuckles, quite thoroughly ruining his undergarments, and he’s too far gone to hear the way Eskel gasps when Jaskier finishes.

Right on the heels of Eskel’s release, Geralt’s steady rhythm falters as he groans, looking down to make eye contact with Jaskier who is swallowing down his brother's seed and thoroughly getting off on it himself. So it is perhaps unsurprising that as soon as their eyes meet, Geralt grunts out a low moan, his hips stilling as he buries himself deep in Eskel and rides out his own orgasm, earning a full body shudder from the scarred Witcher still ensnared in his grasp.

Jaskier lets Eskel’s prick slip from his mouth before he absently licks over his lips, smirking with just a small blush as Eskel makes a garbled moan at the sight of that, and Jaskier sits back as Geralt pulls Eskel and himself to lie down on their sides, loosening his hold on his brother’s throat.

Eskel yanks Jaskier down to cuddle against his chest as well, shivering one last time as Geralt withdraws from him and presses soft kisses to the back of his injured shoulder. “That…was not the plan, you are both…going to kill me,” Eskel pants out in ruined admonishment, and Jaskier smirks, having never seen one of the demigods truly breathless before, and feeling quite smug that he had a hand in it.

“You can’t die, and if you try to, I’m just gonna bring you back to life, myself,” Jaskier jokes with a cheeky peck to Eskel’s throat, somewhat out of breath himself.

Geralt chuckles and winds an arm over Eskel’s hip to grasp Jaskier’s hand and hold it tenderly. “He’s just whining because he’s used to being the one who is in control,” Geralt teases, laughing without restraint when Eskel full on pouts, and Jaskier curls up closer with a tired giggle of his own, taking a moment to bask in the afterglow with both of his Witchers.

“Who are we volunteering to get up for clean rags and water?” Jaskier sighs eventually, sitting up and wrinkling his nose at the feeling of sticky fabric clinging to him.

Eskel makes a tired little gesture with one of his hands as inexplicably Jaskier’s braies are both cleaned and dry, and judging by the way that Eskel and Geralt each relax minutely, they’ve also been cleaned up as well and are neither of them laying in the wet spot any longer.

“That’s a handy trick, but what happened to not frivolously using powers?” Jaskier teases, grabbing the suddenly conjured goblet of cool water from his nightstand to take a drink.

“You didn’t notice? You gave me quite a power boost of my own when you came this time, little lark,” Eskel says wryly, smirking when Jaskier chokes on his water.

“But I didn’t say anyone’s name! My mouth was rather full at the time, even!”

“Mm-hmm, and you must have so thoroughly enjoyed it, that it made you rather grateful to me, it seems,” Eskel teases, rolling onto his back and folding his arms up behind his head.

It makes the charismatic demigod look unfairly attractive and smug, his golden biceps bulging as he smiles coyly, and Jaskier scowls rather petulantly. “Geralt, Eskel’s being a little shit again,” Jaskier whines, not unlike a small child, and the bard looks up when Geralt sits up to grasp his chin.

“He’s always a little shit, get used to it,” Geralt murmurs in his usual deadpan while leaning across the other Witcher to kiss Jaskier, his tongue plunging between the bard’s lips to lick into his mouth and get a taste of Eskel for himself.

Jaskier moans out another whine and scowls when Geralt makes an appreciative sound before breaking the kiss. “You’re both impossible!” Jaskier gasps, throwing himself back onto the bed to lie down and sulk, but Geralt only smirks and leans down to kiss Eskel next.

The charismatic demigod shudders into the kiss and makes a soft noise of wanting as it ends, which Jaskier firmly tries to ignore, focusing instead on his tantrum and resolutely ignoring his lovers.

“Doesn’t Eskel taste wonderful?” Geralt goads the mortal, smirking when Jaskier blushes darker this time, unwillingly distracted by the thought.

“Like sweet summer wine,” Jaskier admits with a mutter, staring up at the ceiling whilst the Witchers beside him both snicker.

“Geralt is better, he tastes like fucking crisp autumn starlight,” Eskel reminisces dreamily, and Jaskier shudders and groans, rubbing his fists into his eyes to attempt to banish that particularly inticing thought.

“This very mortal bard needs a full night of uninterrupted sleep before any more talk of anyone tasting like anything else, okay!“ Jaskier insists with an edge of hysteria to his voice, climbing over Eskel to lie in his preferred spot between the demigods, though they are the both of them still stark naked and he in only his braies.

“As you wish, little lark,” Eskel concedes, pulling the covers up over them all as Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s soft hair while drowsiness rather quickly overtakes the human.

“You’ve always smelled like springtime,” Geralt whispers to Jaskier, who isn’t entirely sure he’s not already dreaming.

“He tastes like springtime,” Eskel teases in a whisper as well, and Jaskier frowns to himself as he burrows deeper into Geralt’s embrace.

“I can’t wait ‘til I get to try him,” Geralt remarks so softly that Jaskier is sure his mind only made it up, and anything else said is lost on him as sleep takes him.

~~~

It’s been two weeks since Geralt found Eskel and Jaskier in Oxenfurt, and the demigod of death is slowly going insane.

He didn’t even think it was possible for a Witcher to suffer from madness, thought that it was a purely mortal affliction, but now Geralt is questioning everything he thought he knew.

At first it was fine, he was fine. 

Geralt had reunited with them both, explanations and understandings were traded, and he and Jaskier had arrived at a good place, together. He had even been able to have Eskel again, in every way he’d wished, and Geralt had been privileged enough to watch Eskel having Jaskier as well.

But neither Geralt nor Jaskier had quite been able to bridge that very last gap for themselves.

Countless steamy kisses had been exchanged, and Jaskier had even been bold enough to touch Geralt just once(that’s to say nothing for the time that Jaskier had made a point to very deliberately kiss Eskel after the scarred Witcher had sucked Geralt off, and the moan that Jaskier had let out at the taste of Geralt on Eskel’s tongue had nearly ruined the demigod of death), but besides a caress or implication here or there, things still haven’t gone further for Geralt and Jaskier.

On Jaskier’s part, he still seems too spooked by the idea of losing Geralt after finally having him, and Geralt would never push the bard before he’s ready for such an intimate step. Further complicating matters is Geralt’s own reason for holding back from directly pursuing Jaskier.

Geralt is losing his mind.

The longer Geralt spends here in Oxenfurt, the more persistent he feels the growing pull of Jaskier’s first prayer to him.

It’s enough to terrify Geralt, the compulsion hadn’t been nearly this strong in the months he travelled with Jaskier, but now the pull seems to double day-by-day. What was once an easy annoyance to ignore, has become an all consuming push into every corner of Geralt’s mind, and he’s never before tried so very hard to resist fulfilling a prayer.

He’s terrified to mention it to either Eskel or Jaskier, because how can he? How can Geralt admit aloud that he is in agony and mental anguish, that he is being compelled to do as Jaskier asked, to take the mortal bard’s life?

Jaskier would be terrified to know that Geralt’s original assumption of the pull being weak enough to not answer for decades, has now been whittled away to a minute-to-minute fight in Geralt’s mind. And Eskel would be absolutely disgusted with Geralt for being too weak himself to put off such a small prayer, for not being able to find a way around this.

Eskel will hate Geralt and leave him forever, when he eventually ruins everything and kills the human they both love.

So Geralt says nothing and less as the days tick by, telling himself that once he and Eskel can leave for Kaer Morhen, that maybe the distance over the winter will grow his resolve and dampen the prayer’s intensity. And neither Jaskier nor Eskel let on that they’re any the wiser to Geralt’s struggles, so the demigod of death thinks that maybe he’s managed to keep his suffering to himself.

That is, until Geralt returns from taking some time out in the stable to talk with Roach and groom her, and he finds both Eskel and Jaskier sitting on the couch, clearly waiting for him with somber expressions on their faces. Geralt is quite taken aback, as when he’d left to get some air, Eskel and Jaskier had been quite happily entwined, the sounds of his brother pounding into Jaskier upstairs having been part of what drove Geralt to seek solitude in the first place.

“Have a seat, beloved,” Eskel says quietly, gesturing to one of the chairs near the fireplace and across from the couch.

Geralt walks over to do so quietly, risking a glance at Jaskier who looks both sad and resigned, and Geralt feels a twisting in his gut that could be nausea, not something that the deity usually has to contend with.

“Is something wrong?” Geralt asks carefully, letting his cloak fall over his shoulders in a bid to hide how he’s wringing his hands together tightly to keep them from trembling.

“We know you’re struggling, Geralt,” Jaskier says with a weak smile, and the tenderness in his voice is an arrow fired straight into Geralt’s heart.

“So, we need to figure out this prayer before it’s too late,” Eskel adds firmly, the out of place frown on his face pulling at his scarred cheek.

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” Geralt tries to argue, but even he can tell how unconvincing his denial sounds.

“But you’re not, darling. You’re suffering, and it’s not right,” Jaskier insists calmly, sitting forward and not seeming to see the scowl that Eskel throws his way.

“There has to be a way to answer the prayer without hurting Jaskier,” Eskel insists harshly, and the terse look he shares with the frowning bard betrays the fact that perhaps they’ve had this particular argument between themselves prior to the current confrontation with Geralt.

“But even if there’s not, it’s not fair for you to keep struggling, you shouldn’t have to be hurting and fighting this on my behalf,” Jaskier protests, his face determined even as Eskel scowls thunderously.

“He’s not killing you, lark. Stop being so fucking noble,” Eskel snaps in a snarl, and Geralt makes a pained sound at the very thought of losing Jaskier like that.

“I made my bed, and I fully intend to lie in it, Eskel. I knew this day would come sooner or later, and I accept the consequences of my mistakes!” Jaskier fires back, his own glare at the charismatic demigod making Geralt’s heart ache.

They shouldn’t be fighting because of him, they shouldn’t be hurting because of him. It’s not right that Jaskier should have to die, that Eskel should have to suffer that loss…

Maybe a different loss would be more palatable to his brother.

“There is another option,” Geralt says quietly but neutrally, and Jaskier looks up in confusion, not understanding, while Eskel’s surprise quickly turns to a mask of unbridled rage as he connects the dots.

“Absolutely not, Geralt! We will find another way!” Eskel roars as he leaps to his feet, seemingly unaware or uncaring of how his righteous anger makes Jaskier flinch and shrink back in instinctual fear.

Anger sparks in Geralt as well, anger at his own weakness and ineptitude, and he stands to stare down his brother, a dark shadow filling the room while his golden eyes flash as he bares his teeth in a snarl. “It’s the only way, Eskel! I’ll not be responsible for his death! You think I can look you in the eye for the rest of eternity, knowing that I was the one who killed the only mortal you’ve ever loved?! You think I’d be able to live with myself after that?! I can’t lose him either! Not to that! I’ll take death and nothingness myself and gladly, over harming a single hair on Jaskier’s head! I’ve spent enough time away from this Sphere, been dead enough times to know what will keep me gone long enough to make it count, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d considered leaving voluntarily!”

The magnitude of Geralt’s admission seems to hit Jaskier like a physical blow, and all of the color drains from his face as he stands slowly, his hands limp at his sides as he looks at Geralt in horror. “No, Geralt. No, Eskel is right, you can’t do that. Please, the Continent needs you. I’m just a human bard, I’d have grown old and been gone before either of you knew it anyways! Don’t let my paltry life come between what you two have had for centuries, don’t let me be the reason you’re not around to save others from their monsters,” Jaskier insists with a resigned smile that makes Eskel sob and fall to his knees, burying his scarred face in his hands.

“No, lark, no! I-I can’t lose either of you! This isn’t some fucking contest of self-righteous sacrifice, both of you need to live!” Eskel all but screams, silvery tears like moonlight streaming down his marred face.

Geralt barely manages not to cry himself as he kneels before Eskel, placing a hand on his fully-healed shoulder. “What if I wasn’t gone for long, Esk? Just long enough to let Jaskier live his life? You two could spend it together, you would be happy. And…and when the end comes, when he’s nearly out of time, anyways, I’ll be back. And we’ll all be together when he leaves,” Geralt says softly, finally losing the battle with his own tears as they course, hot and shining golden, over his cheeks.

Jaskier chokes on a hiccuping sob, crying freely as he comes to join both Witchers, and the bard goes all the way down on his knees, his face to the rug on the floor between where Eskel and Geralt’s legs are nearly touching. “Then I would lose you, Geralt. I love Eskel, I do. But I love you, too. I don’t know that I could live my entire life without you, knowing that it’s my fault that you’re gone. Eskel and I would both be miserable without you,” Jaskier chokes out in a groan, the grief in his voice twisting Geralt’s heart in his chest.

“I don’t think there are any perfect answers, Jask. But you can’t ask me to be the one who steals a full and happy life away from you,” Geralt whispers brokenly, his hands flexing as he stops himself from reaching out to touch the soft brown hair of Jaskier’s head.

“That’s the thing, I don’t want a full life without you! I won't have a happy one with you dead and gone!” Jaskier cries, pressing his forehead into the rug as he shakes his head in denial.

Eskel’s voice is hollow and lifeless when he speaks quietly, his amber eyes looking through Geralt with mournful resignation, “How do you know you can be gone long enough to not have to put us through this again, but not so long that you miss out on everything?”

Jaskier looks up sharply, his expression horrified through his tears as he glares in betrayal up at Eskel. “Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this ridiculous idea, Eskel!”

“I’m trying to figure out which is the lesser evil, lark!” Eskel snaps, his anger quickly dissolving back into grief as he sobs.

Geralt works to make his voice calm as he lays out the facts. “I’ve spent more time in death than any Witcher still living. I spent centuries so weakened, that many hunts ended in me fatally wounded, with no veneration to save me. Any time I wasn’t home for winter, it wasn’t just because I was avoiding you, Esk. I was gone. The longest time I spent beyond this Sphere all at once was–”

“Fifty years. I worried you’d never be back,” Eskel whispers in horror, his hands tightening into fists in his lap as he relives the memory from the century prior.

“Just so. I was injured in a way I hadn’t experienced before or since, so I’m confident that the timing would be consistent, especially if Jaskier stops worshipping me and singing his songs about me. The other mortals will forget me easily enough,” Geralt says resolutely, and Jaskier shakes his head frantically, his breathing coming fast and panicked.

“NO! No, Geralt, you can’t! Please, you can’t do this! You can’t ask this of me! To live my whole life without you, not even able to sing in your memory?! No!” Jaskier groans, grasping tightly at the edge of Geralt’s black cloak in desperation.

“How were you injured?” Eskel asks softly, ignoring Jaskier’s sobbing pleas.

“Ironically enough, I’d had my heart ripped out by a striga, though I did still manage to break her curse before I died,” Geralt says, a touch of gallows humor coloring his tone with bleak amusement.

Eskel winces and looks down at his own shaking hands, knowing just as well as Geralt that the number of monsters strong enough to manage such a feat against a Witcher are few and far between, and that the only other option to replicate the injury would have to come at the hands of another demigod.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

CW/TW: suicidal ideation, implied past suicide attempts, discussion of euthanasia/murder/self-sacrifice by suicide of major character

This one got...dark. And I know, the cliffhanger doesn't help.
I want you all to know that I truly cried several times while writing this chapter, it's heavy, I know it's heavy.
There WILL be a happy ending to this fic, I promise, trust the process.
If you're reading this as it's posted and in case you need some levity while waiting for the next chapter, I'm going to link a humorous ficlet inspired by a scene in chapter 11, written by WhatTheHeckHaveIDone. I added this fic to the notes for that chapter as well, but in the IRL timeline, they posted that ficlet right before I got ready to post this chapter, so here is a good chance for you all to go read it. The fic should also be linked at the end of this work.
Take care of yourselves, the night is darkest before the dawn <3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68887351

Chapter 18

Notes:

TW for very mildy dubious consent, considering circumstances

Jaskier forces himself between Geralt and Eskel there on the floor, facing the demigod of death with the fiercest scowl any mortal has ever sent his way.

“Enough, I won’t be allowing this conversation to continue for any longer. No one is ripping anyone else’s heart out, we will find another way. We have to,” Jaskier snaps, punctuating his words with jabs of his finger into Geralt’s chest as he glances back and forth between Eskel and Geralt, looking terrified at the matching resignation he finds in both Witcher’s faces.

The smile that Geralt gives Jaskier then is both sad and sweet, and he gently touches Jaskier’s face, wiping away the now-angry tears that are falling from the bard’s blue, blue eyes. “I will miss you, Jask. I think I’m somewhat glad that we never took that final step together. It would be too hard to leave, knowing what I’d be losing, and I don’t want to leave you with more regrets than I already am. If I don’t make it back from where I’ve gone, just know that I’ve loved you all along.”

A harsh sob rips from Jaskier’s throat and he shakes his head, grabbing fistfuls of Geralt’s shirt and attempting to shake him, though he’s not strong enough to move the deity much. “No! Fuck that! Fuck your self-sacrifical bullshit, Geralt! If you’re going to leave me again, I’m not going to make it easy for you! I want you to know everything you’re going to miss!” Jaskier declares viciously, surging forward to kiss Geralt with an intensity that sets the demigod’s blood on fire.

Geralt’s mumbled protests against Jaskier’s lips are drowned out by the desperate and shaky little involuntary moans that Jaskier is making as he straddles Geralt’s lap and kisses him harder, near-frantically grinding down against the Witcher in a semi-successful attempt to urge him towards hardness.

A soft groan passes Geralt’s lips and he focuses in order to send a thought to Eskel, “Shouldn’t we stop him? He’s only going to make himself miserable, and I meant it when I said I don’t wish to leave him with regrets.”

“You might as well let him have this, Geralt. Maybe it will help to give him some closure,” Eskel thinks mournfully back to Geralt, the charismatic demigod slipping his hands around to hold Jaskier by the waist between them.

Jaskier seems to sense Geralt’s hesitation, and the bard pulls back to look at the Witcher with a miserable look on his tear-stained face. “Please, Geralt. I-I don’t want you to leave, but don’t leave me without this last memory of you. Please,” Jaskier says so brokenly that Geralt feels his resolve slip ever so slightly.

Geralt groans in his frustration and hauls Jaskier closer to kiss him desperately, holding the bard’s face in hands that really shouldn’t be trembling, he’s a deity, godsdammit!

His internal struggle seems to be lost on Jaskier, who only kisses him like Geralt is the only water to be found in a vast and unforgiving desert. Jaskier unfastens Geralt’s cloak and pushes it back off his shoulders, kneeling up on his knees over Geralt’s lap as he bites the witcher’s lower lip rather savagely.

All of Jaskier’s anger and frustration at their rather doomed and intertwined Destinies comes out in his kisses as he plunders Geralt’s mouth with a ferocity that has the demigod’s cock quickly stiffening in his trousers, situation be damned. When Jaskier feels the hot ridge of Geralt’s hardness, he moans into their kisses and rolls his hips down onto Geralt’s erection with a bold sort of determination.

Eskel exhales softly, clearly not wishing to interfere, but when Jaskier’s kisses leave Geralt’s mouth in favor of working down the witcher’s throat, Geralt looks over at his brother and sees the agony in his amber eyes along with his own begrudging arousal at watching Jaskier attempting to take Geralt apart. Jaskier’s hands fumble as he struggles to get Geralt’s shirt untucked from his trousers so he can pull it up and off, and Eskel reaches around Jaskier’s front to deftly unlace the mortal’s breeches.

Geralt pulls his own shirt off and tosses it aside before helping Jaskier with his chemise. Somehow they go from sitting together to laying on the plush rug, and Geralt is holding himself up over Jaskier as they kiss and undress in a rush.

When they’re both bare to one another, Geralt reaches down to gently press a finger to Jaskier’s entrance, finding him still stretched and slick from his time with the charismatic demigod not an hour past. Eskel stands rather suddenly to walk out the front door, and Geralt can smell his brother's tears falling until the front door slams shut behind him. 

Jaskier startles at the noise, looking over in confusion, and Geralt sighs, kissing him again to distract him. “Leave him, he’s trying to be strong for us both,” Geralt murmurs to Jaskier’s mouth, and the bard only nods, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and pulling him down so their bodies are pressed together.

The brush of Jaskier’s hard cock against Geralt’s own has a bolt of sensation rushing through the deity, and a moan catches in the witcher’s throat while he feels tears in his eyes again, his resolve cracking as he holds himself back.

“Don’t stop now, Geralt. Please,” Jaskier pleads, looking up at Geralt with blue, blue eyes swimming with tears of his own.

“I can’t, Jaskier, I can’t. To have you and lose you…it’s torture,” Geralt almost sobs, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck as he holds himself up over the man so that Jaskier won’t feel any of his weight.

“I know, love. I know. But, please. If I must lose you, leave me with this. Leave me with the knowledge that I had all of you when I could, that you had all of me. Please, Geralt, take me,” Jaskier croaks out in a voice wrecked by tears.

The overwhelming pull of the prayer nearly overwhelms Geralt in that moment, a white-hot surge of power that wracks through Geralt’s body, and the fear of losing Jaskier has the witcher groaning in pain. 

“I can’t!”

Geralt’s cry is overshadowed by the front door banging back open with a force that knocks chunks of plaster from the wall as Eskel strides back inside, his expression intense and his eyes wide. “Geralt, you have to. You have to take him,” Eskel says in a rush, barely pausing to close the door behind him as he falls to his knees beside where his lovers lie tangled together on the rug.

“What?” Geralt asks, confused by his brother’s sudden change of heart, and Eskel smiles with a desperate sort of hope.

“Jaskier’s first prayer, he shared the memory with me some days ago, and I’ve been going over it ever since then, looking for any way to fix this. What you both said just now, it made me realize that Jaskier never asked you to kill him, Geralt,” Eskel says triumphantly, and while Jaskier looks confused, Geralt inhales quickly, closing his eyes to recall Jaskier’s exact wording in his prayer.

“Then take me, Geralt, when the time must come. I know you’ve been known to choose, so leave Valdo out of it, and take me instead.”

Geralt’s golden eyes fly open and he looks down at Jaskier in wonder, holding the bard’s face in his hands with infinite tenderness. “You asked me to take you. If I wasn’t going to kill Valdo, you told me to take you instead,” Geralt whispers softly, his fingers tracing the lines of Jaskier’s face as the specific wording of the prayer clicks into place for the mortal as well.

Jaskier gasps softly and smiles so fiercely that it makes Geralt think that the bard could rival a deity with how brightly he shines. “Then take me, Geralt. Take me, and never let me go,” Jaskier whispers back, parting his legs to bracket Geralt’s hips.

Though Jaskier is ready for him, Geralt is still gentle in pressing inside Jaskier’s tight hole, and both demigod and man exhale a moan that makes Eskel sigh gently, the scarred witcher leaning against the leg of one of the chairs as relief leaves him weary.

It’s all Geralt can do to not be too rough with his mortal lover now, but he’s rather giddy with relief, himself, and Jaskier feels better than he ever could’ve imagined as he rocks his hips down to fuck into Jaskier with a claiming sort of possessiveness.

The way Jaskier moans has heat pooling low in Geralt’s gut, and he groans out a breathless laugh. “Fuck, I’m not going to last, Jask,” Geralt murmurs as he speeds up his thrusts.

“Me neither, love, fuck, please! Take me and own me, I’m yours!” Jaskier cries, gasping as Geralt grasps his cock and strokes him off roughly in time with his thrusts inside the mortal.

“That’s it, bard. Give me everything,” Geralt whispers, angling his hips so his cock perfectly presses into Jaskier’s prostate, and the bard nearly screams his pleasure.

“Ohh gods, Geralt!!” Jaskier moans as he comes, and the burst of power from his offering hits Geralt hard, pushing him over the edge as spills inside Jaskier with a soft grunt.

Time almost seems to slow as Geralt holds Jaskier close, their breath intermingling as Jaskier tries to calm his racing heart. Geralt strokes his fingers through the damp hair stuck to Jaskier’s forehead, and Eskel lies down on his side on the floor there with them, seemingly uncaring of the sweat and spend covering them both as he wraps his arms around his lovers and holds them.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be cuckolded in my whole existence,” Eskel murmurs in a half-hearted tease, and after a moment, Jaskier starts to laugh.

His musical laugh is full of relief and hope, joy and so very much love, and Geralt smiles ruefully at his ridiculous lovers, carefully pulling out of Jaskier and shifting to lie on Jaskier’s other side so he’s not crushing the mortal.

“What would we do without your sound logic to save the day, Eskel?” Jaskier asks wryly, and the charismatic demigod smirks as he kisses Jaskier deeply for just a moment.

“You’d both be utterly hopeless without me, don’t even bother trying,” Eskel murmurs against Jaskier’s lips, before looking up to yank Geralt over and kiss him soundly as well.

“It worked, though, right? Prayer fulfilled?” Jaskier asks quietly, biting his lower lip.

Geralt smiles and he presses a tender kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “Prayer fulfilled, you wanted me to take you, and I took you,” Geralt teases lightly, feeling overwhelmed with relief.

“That you did, witcher. That you did,” Jaskier admits with a soft groan as he stretches and basks in more than just the afterglow.

~~~

“And you’re sure I can’t persuade you both to just stay here in Oxenfurt with me for the winter?” Jaskier asks, bundled against the cold of the swiftly approaching season as his Witchers secure their few possessions to their steeds.

It’s Eskel who answers, smiling wryly as he pulls Jaskier in close so his murmured words spread his warm breath on Jaskier’s chilled face. “As lovely as this last month has been, little lark, we do have to go home. Our brothers await us, and they’d be terribly put-out if we didn’t come home to rest and convene with them for the winter.”

Geralt snorts and glances sideways at Eskel, a smirk tugging at the corner of the death demigod’s mouth. “Lambert would be ecstatic if neither of us came home. He’s been threatening to turn our rooms into extra distilleries for decades,” Geralt points out, and Eskel rolls his eyes, holding Jaskier close in a comforting hug.

“He’s mellowed out some since he and Aiden finally admitted their feelings to one another,” Eskel counters, chuckling softly at how Jaskier wriggles against his front, it’s not subtle. “Hoping to convince me to go back in for another last minute goodbye, little lark?”

“Well, now that you mention it,” Jaskier starts, but the charismatic demigod rolls his eyes, kissing Jaskier chastely on the mouth before pushing him into Geralt’s arms.

“We’ve been ‘saying goodbye’ for two days now. We still have to make much of the trek home on horseback, as portalling that far all at once for either of us would make for a very tired winter, especially with no prayers for monster contracts being fulfilled,” Eskel points out, ever the practical one, and Jaskier pouts as Geralt crushes him into a tight hug.

“Fiiiine, but I better be your first stop come spring! Besides all the monsters to be beheaded and such,” Jaskier says with a melodramatic sniff.

Geralt smiles and pulls Jaskier into a slow, sweet kiss that has the very human bard flushing very warm beneath his scarf and winter hat. “Mm, my first stop is usually my temple, as you saw this past year. Care to meet me there in spring? You deserve to see for yourself the quality of the repairs all of your hard-earned coin has paid for. It is glorious,” Geralt murmurs, his hot lips brushing the shell of Jaskier’s ear, and the mortal whines in his arms.

“Alright, beloved, enough winding up the lark. We have to get going,” Eskel says wryly, pulling Jaskier into one last hug himself.

“I’ll pray to either one or both of you, every day! And tell you all about how my classes are going at the University!” Jaskier promises, watching both deities mounting their otherworldly steeds.

“I imagine Geralt will receive most of those prayers, seeing as though his shrine is in your actual home,” Eskel teases, referring to the small altar space that Jaskier has managed to put together in the corner of his downstairs living area.

It is humble, only a small wooden altar table at the right height for someone kneeling, adorned with a black altar cloth and a small carved marble wolf as its centerpiece along with incense and candle holders, and an offering plate of course. Jaskier had decorated the shrine with all manner of little things that “reminded him of Geralt”, and while there didn’t seem to be any sort of rhyme or reason to the ornamentation, they’d already tested and proven on more than one occasion that the shrine works as well as any of Geralt’s others.

Any prayers Jaskier has made there have reached Geralt with ease, even when the demigod had been quite some distance away, taking care of a last minute monster request in a nearby town. When the bard had realized how relatively easy it was to construct and consecrate a shrine, the look in his eyes had Geralt convinced that the wily mortal was likely hatching some sort of elaborate scheme to add to the number of Witcher shrines across the Continent very soon, and as with any aspect of his devotion, Jaskier would likely not be dissuaded from doing so.

“Fear not darling Eskel, I will still make the regrettably long walk just a few streets over to visit your temple as well,” Jaskier retorts, drawing Geralt from his reminiscing on the past few, much more pleasant weeks that had passed in Oxenfurt with his lovers, once Jaskier’s first prayer had been fulfilled.

“I look forward to it. Veneration always slows down in the winters, people know we aren’t around, so they don’t bother praying much,” Eskel says, tightening his gloved-hands on Scorpion’s reins.

“Well, perhaps I can change that with some songs as well,” Jaskier retorts cheekily, his hands on his hips as he smiles up at the Witchers while they turn to properly depart.

Geralt reaches his hand out to cup Jaskier’s cheek briefly, an amused smile on the face of the demigod of death. “Jaskier, you could change the world if you had half a mind to do so.”

“And don’t you forget it!” Jaskier says brightly, but there are some tears in his eyes as he watches the deities head on their way home for the winter, knowing they will be sure to reunite with him as soon as they can.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Well, this is officially the very first multi-chapter work I have ever actually finished.
It's bittersweet, but I'm proud of myself for seeing it through, and so grateful to each and every one of you who have read, left kudos, and commented!
Fear not, dear readers, for I am utterly unwilling to give up this AU yet!
After a short(hopefully) hiatus, I plan to start adding other works to this AU, which I have given its own series.
The next work is likely to be a collection of Jaskier's prayers to his Witchers over the winter, and then maybe a one shot or two looking into how Geralt and Eskel are spending their first winter in centuries as lovers again.
All of that is going to be much lighter and largely more humorous and/or PWP, but after THAT, I do in fact have plans for a proper, multi-chapter sequel!
I have at least one whole plot arc for that sequel, and who knows what else will happen along the way!
So please do subscribe to the series for this work if you would like to keep up with all of that!
And while you're waiting on me to write more for this AU, feel free to check out the other stories I have ongoing, or the couple of one shots that I've tossed out now and again!
I love you all <3
(The line “If I don't make it back from where l've gone…Just know I loved you all along” is from the song “Inkpot Gods” by The Amazing Devil, the same song that the title is from, and largely what started this all)

Notes:

I wanted to try my hand at slow burn, and here we are. Comments are always appreciated!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of To Worship A Witcher(Inkpot Gods)