"Here should be safe to set up camp," Geralt says, scanning the treeline with his eyes in that odd witcher way. Like he's seeing much more than a mere mortal could.
"Thank the gods," sighs Jaskier, who's been really starting to regret skiving off those physical fitness courses at Oxenfurt.
"Get a fire started while I tend to Roach."
"Oh Geralt, I'd love to, I would. Truly it's colder than a sorceress' shapely—"
"Well, as they say: you can lead a bard to timber, but you can't make him—"
"I don't know how! All right? I've never built a fire in the middle of nowhere before! It's not one of the seven liberal arts, and I much prefer my fires stoked by comely barmaids in taverns."
Geralt looks at him for a long moment. It's a complicated look—frustration and amusement and a hint of regret. Mostly it's a look that says Jaskier is an idiot for joining him on the Path.
"Right," Geralt says slowly. He begins building the campfire himself.
"I imagine they teach wilderness survival to baby witchers at witcher school."
Geralt looks at him again and there's something different in his expression. The ghost of a smile? Jaskier doesn't quite know how to read it.
"Kaer Morhen," he says. "And yeah. Something like that."
"Oh?" Jaskier has to rein in his enthusiasm, his curious questions. Geralt so rarely reveals anything personal about himself or his past. Not that Jaskier has been forthcoming in that regard either. They live in the moment, day by day, but some context would help his creative process.
Besides all that, he genuinely wants to get to know Geralt a little better.
"Vesemir took me out into the forest one day. Gave me a knife and left me there for a month."
There is no bitterness in his words. If anything, the witcher sounds...almost fond. Nostalgic. Proud of his younger self for overcoming the challenges his mentors set before him.
It takes a moment for the true meaning of that to sink in and, once it does, Jaskier is horrified. His own parents weren't great, but even they would never simply abandon him.
"He just— like as a test— what—?"
"Real eloquent, bard. I doubt he had any choice. Probably wasn't even supposed to give me anything."
"How old were you?" he demands, unsure if any answer will make this revelation less abhorrent.
"Six? Seven? Maybe eight. I don't know." Geralt makes a gesture with his fingers and the pile of wood beneath his hand sparks with flame. "Not old enough to have learned Igni yet."
He can picture it, too, so vividly. Curse his dammed artist's imagination. Geralt, just a kid, alone and scared and definitely cold—because no one bothered to teach him how to start a fire.
"Stop it," the witcher snaps.
"Looking at me like that. I'm fine. I was fine back then. Wasn't so bad at all compared to the Grasses. Vesemir came back for me like he said he would. I survived the trial—no, I didn't just survive; I exceeded all expectations, which is why they..." The witcher trails off. Takes a breath.
All of that... It's quite a lot of words for Geralt. Honest words, even.
It's his job to talk, to sing, to commit the most painful and difficult experiences to beautiful poetic verse. But Jaskier doesn't know what to say to his friend right now. Surely he has to say something.
"Don't waste your pity. Save it for the ones who didn't make it through. I did."
"Okay," the bard replies, careful and tentative. He isn't a brave man, nor a particularly kind one. But Jaskier considers himself an honest fellow so he adds, "Just because you made it through, you know, that doesn't mean what happened to you was all right, Geralt. Children aren't supposed to be left alone to fend for themselves."
The witcher laughs—a humorless, wretched sound. He doesn't say anything at all to that. Which is okay, really; Jaskier just needed him to hear it.
There is a long silence. The fire crackles. Jaskier absently strums his lute.
"You're gonna write a ballad about this, aren't you," Geralt says after a while.
"No!" Maybe. Yes. He won't perform it.
Quite out of the blue, Geralt tells him, "I befriended a wolf back then."
"Witchers don't have a sense of humor. Common knowledge."
"Common misconception. Most people are just stupid. No, hang on, stop distracting me—You had a pet wolf?!"
"Not a pet," the witcher corrects, smiling faintly. "Fangtooth was her own wolf."
"Fangtooth?" Jaskier repeats, struggling to contain his amusement. "Not Roach?"
"Forgive me, but that's adorable."
"I was just a child. I wanted to stay with her in the wilderness. Be a wolf, too. Or a knight." He shakes his head dismissively. Silly childish dreams.
"But you didn't," Jaskier says. And feels stupid for saying something so obvious.
"Too late for that," Geralt replies without reproach. "I was already a witcher."
"As a child, I wanted to run away and join the circus," the bard offers.
They're quiet for a moment then. Comfortable, shared silence. Just the sounds of birds and forest creatures, and Roach contentedly eating grass. The fire crackles.
"Geralt, will you teach me to light a fire? Without witcher magic, obviously, since I don't have any."
"Because...well, because I could be a more useful traveling companion. Like Fangtooth must've been."
"...Fine," Geralt agrees after some thought.
It is a skill he will be very grateful to have on freezing nights in the coming years, especially whenever the witcher is too injured or ill from those dreadful potions to help set up camp. He will try not to think of the child Geralt once was, subjected to horrific tests of his ability to survive all on his own.
Except he hadn't been on his own back then, not completely. And he isn't alone anymore, either.
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