Imagine if the Djinn didn’t take Jaskier’s voice, didn’t do something as cruel as twist peace into violence. The Djinn is smart, after all, and it knows who holds its reigns, who has control over its every move. It does not feel anything for the brightly dressed human, but the one in black, the one who dared attempt to control the entity as glorious, as powerful as itself, has earned its ire.
And, if it is peace the man wants, it shall give it to him. Peace for the man who finds trying to fit in with his mutagens so hard, who even now struggles to communicate with the other man.
So yes, it will give him peace. Painlessly in fact, too.
After all, being deaf and mute isn’t painful, is it? The man in black should just feel fortunate that it didn’t take his other senses as well, with his poorly worded wish.
And Jaskier doesn’t know how he’s supposed to help Geralt. Even when they manage to find Yennefer, promising her the second and third wish if she can just fix this, she discovers her powers aren’t great enough to overcome those of the Djinn.
So, with few options left, the witcher and the bard start traveling the continent looking for another Djinn to counteract the actions of the first Djinn. Which is not as easy as either would like, with Jaskier budgeting as much as he can to make up for Geralt not earning money, no matter how much the witcher tries to insist he can still take contracts even if he can’t hear or yell for help, as if that’s a good idea—
And it’s…it’s hard. Geralt doesn’t want to stay in town, finds himself hiding under his cloak to avoid catching the attention of the townspeople in case there is a contract. What good is a witcher, a mutant, a monster who can’t even help those in need? What’s the point of a broken tool, except to be thrown out and—
So one day, when he wakes up at an inn to find that Jaskier is gone, Geralt doesn’t blame the bard. At least before, he could offer Jaskier protection, but now? He’s a leech eating off of the other man, a useless tag along like he’d always accused the bard of being, and it’s only fair that Jaskier try to get rid of him like—
Geralt flinches harshly at the view of Jaskier in front of him, taking in quickly the bag of supplies and pinched brow as the bard tilts his head in a silent question. And Geralt looks away, not sure how he could communicate that he thought he’d been abandoned, aware that even if he did have his voice he couldn’t have formed the words.
So Geralt closes his eyes, trying to calm his erratic heart, feeling foolish for being so scared of abandonment. He would be fine on his own, he had Roach and could maybe go to Kaer Morhen soon, as winter was approaching—
His eyes snapped open at the tapping on his shoulder, gaze drawn instantly to the ripped out page of Jaskier’s journal the man was handing to him.
He wasn’t sure if he felt more relieved or guilty at the words written there, assuring him that the bard wouldn’t leave him, that they’d keep looking for a solution no matter how long it took.
And if Geralt folded the paper and carefully tucked it into his pocket?
Well, it’s not like he could hear Jaskier tease him about having feelings right now anyways.
Geralt gritted his teeth, fighting through the pain, as he limped through the forest.
The Kikimora had been easy enough to kill, but in a dying effort, the beast had managed to put a decent gash in his left thigh.
Whilst the pain was only temporary and only a scar would serve memory to this fight, for now, the blood dripping down his leg was all the Witcher could think about whilst trying to get back to his campsite.
The rising sun made him find his way quicker than expected and he could already see the smoke from his bonfire rising when he heard a familiar voice.
„Oh thank the gods you are back! I was about to go out there looking for you!“ exclaimed Jaskier, running towards him.
Geralt only grunted as he made his way past the bard, who hadn’t yet seen his injury.
A/N: This was meant to be an answer to a prompt I was sent but....it strayed quite a bit from the prompt sooo I'm posting it as a stand-alone. Here's 2.7k of hurt/comfort with sick!Geralt. Title is from Savage Garden's "Truly Madly Deeply".
Warnings: None I don't think? Tell me if I'm mistaken and I'll add the needed warnings.
Word Count: 2,743
Geralt didn't know where he was. That, coupled with the fact that he couldn't move, triggered all sorts of alarm bells.
Unable to open his eyes, his other senses strained to pick up any sort of outside stimuli that would provide insight for his current circumstances.
Touch: something cool and damp on his forehead, probably a washcloth based on the rough texture. He could feel a cool sheet against his chest, which told him that his torso was bare other than his medallion laying there. That it was still, no humming, soothed his unease a small amount.
Sound: A quiet, steady heartbeat and even breathing. To his left, close enough that he could hear the quiet click of what sounded like knitting needles and the swish of fabric as they shifted their weight. Someone was in the room with him. Not reassuring when he was so helpless, but not taking any measures at this precise moment to cause him harm.
Scent: Soaps, medicine, herbs. The bittersweet scent of worry, the faded stench of sour fear. A light perfume that made him want to sneeze.
Taste: Something bitter lingering underneath the familiar foulness of his usual potion. That was what finally triggered his memories: the basilisk he'd been hired to kill had managed to pierce his armor and envenomate him. He'd downed his potion as he stumbled back to the village to collect his coin. He couldn't remember much after that…..the poison must have circulated, made him pass out.
Which meant he was most likely being tended to by the village's healer. That much satisfied, he breathed in deep through his nose and threw all his gathered energy into the attempt to move.
His intention was to spring to his feet and roll away from the unfamiliar presence at his side, preferably with a wall at his back.
The results were….underwhelming, to say the least.
His eyes flew open and….his hands twitched at his sides. Other than that, he remained flat on his back, unmoving.
At his side, the click of needles went still. The formerly steady heartbeat sped up, and he wrinkled his nose, braced for a resurgence of the bitter fear-scent.
What wafted instead to his nose was….the gentle, citrus-sweet scent of gratitude. His nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes darted back and forth trying to see anything other than the damned ceiling.
A young woman leaned over him, smiling gently and looking rather pleased.
"Welcome back," you spoke softly. His eyes narrowed to slits as you reached up, but you only took the cloth from his forehead, dipping it in a bowl at your side and then draping it -- blessedly cool and damp once more -- across his forehead. "You gave us quite a scare, you know. Three fangs buried deep in your ribs, no telling how much blood you'd lost, and your fever has just refused to go down."
Geralt made a noise -- he meant to convey his frustration, wanted to growl and curse. But he was mortified that what came out of his throat sounded more like a pained groan. He despised having such weakness displayed before a stranger, hated how tired and hurt he felt, but there was no helping it.
He watched your brows crease in response to the sound he'd made.
"Take it easy," you murmured. "You're safe." He doubted that. "Your body is working incredibly hard to purge itself of the toxins." He could feel as much. "You need to rest. I'll watch over you until you're better."
Geralt narrowed his eyes into slits in your direction, inhaling deeply through his nose, trying to trace any hint of deception or ill will through your scent. He could identify none and that just made him more uneasy. What exactly did you want from him? Was this some sick study of him, taking advantage of his weakness to study a Witcher and their healing abilities? He knew many who would do awful things for such an opportunity.
His heartbeat elevated as his thoughts raced. You frowned down at him.
"Are you in pain?" you asked him. He was bewildered when you stroked his hair back from his face -- there was no lust in the touch, nor possession. What did you want from him? "I'll give you something to help you sleep."
He made another noise, wanting to protest, but you stood and shuffled around the dimly lit room. You returned with a glass vial. He despised that he was unable to resist as you slid a hand under his head to prop it up gently, unable to turn away as you tipped the vial to his lips.
He was going to spit it out just to be spiteful, but he caught a whiff of the concoction as you held it up, and he recognized the brew; it was similar to one he sometimes made himself, when he could get his hands on the necessary components.
Still confused, but slightly less suspicious, he swallowed the liquid you poured into his mouth.
The effect was almost immediate as you eased him back down, distancing him from his pain and making his eyelids heavy.
"That's better….you've earned some rest." The sound of your voice and the dim impression of your fingers smoothing his hair down were the last things he was aware of before he slid back into darkness.
**~°~°~°~**
When Geralt next roused, he instinctively stretched. And was pleased to find that, though still a bit tender, his body was responding normally again. He opened his eyes and sat up in a fluid motion, looking around him warily.
A fire burnt in the hearth, and a window was open to let in what he judged to be midday sunlight. It also allowed a breeze that felt pleasant against his sweat-sticky skin. Shoving the thin sheet that smelled of fever and medicine off of himself, Geralt climbed to his feet. Standing nude in the center of the room, he sniffed and followed the trail of his own faded scent to find his clothes, freshly washed and smelling crisply of soap and the scent that clung to your skin, folded on a chair in the corner. His swords rested against the wall next to the chair and his satchel was on the ground in front of them. When he picked them up he noticed that you'd also mended his clothes, no more tears or gashes. He frowned, tracing the lines of stitching with his fingers.
He was just sorting through his bag to ensure all his belongings were still there when you re-entered the room.
As soon as he heard the door knob turning he spun around, instinctively dropping into a fighting stance.
He watched you take in the empty bed, saw worry sadness flash across your features before your eyes lit on him, crouched in the corner and watching you with slitted eyes. You relaxed and smiled at him, though you smelled embarrassed and a blush tinged your cheeks as he watched.
"Feeling better, I see. I'm glad. If, erm, if you'd like to get dressed, I was just making lunch." Your eyes slid away from his then, your blush darkening. "You're welcome to join me, I'm sure you must be famished. I'll just--I'll be downstairs, feel free to join me whenever you're ready." He watched with interest as you turned, bumped into a table next to the door, and shot him a flustered look before slipping out the door.
Geralt waited until the sound of your footsteps had faded down the stairs before finally relaxing and straightening up. He could hear the quiet sounds of you puttering around downstairs, the clink of pots, and a hint of spices drifted up to him.
He should leave. Collect his coin and be on his way. But…
The faint scent of spices drifted up to him, and he scowled when his stomach rumbled.
Deciding a meal he didn't have to catch and cook himself might not be a bad idea, Geralt stiffly pulled on his clothes. Sliding his swords into place across his back was familiar and soothing in the midst of all this strangeness. Fortified, he padded down the stairs, following his nose and ears to the kitchen.
He paused in the doorway, watching as you sliced bread and stirred a pot of what he hoped his nose was correctly informing him was beef stew. He listened to you hum and he felt….puzzled. Unsure of what was expected of him in this situation, his instincts prickled uneasily, fingers twitching and flexing restlessly at his sides.
After a few minutes you finally caught him, jumping like a frightened rabbit when you turned and spotted him lurking. "Goodness! I didn't hear you come down."
Geralt didn't respond, watching you as he tried to puzzle out your motives. Tried to understand why, despite your thudding heart, he scented no fear or unease on you. Only a resurgence of citrus gratitude. His brows furrowed.
You smiled kindly at him as he regarded you warily. "Have a seat, it'll be ready soon." You pointed to a table in the dining room and, careful to never expose his back to you, Geralt went and sat. He chose a chair on the far side that kept his back to the wall and allowed him to keep his eyes on you unobstructed.
You went back and forth, bringing over bowls and silverware, the pot of stew, a tray with slices of bread and some cheese. A pitcher of lemonade was the last to be set on the table before you sat across from him.
"Help yourself," you encouraged, smiling warmly at him.
"Why are you doing this?" Geralt demanded, making no move to touch any of the food despite the gnawing ache of hunger twisting his stomach.
You tilted your head slightly. "I can't claim I know much about a Witcher's needs, but your metabolism worked a lot to burn out those toxins. Not to mention you lost a lot of blood, and we're under for almost two days. Some protein will help you get back on your feet."
Geralt made a frustrated gesture. "That's not what I meant."
Your brows wrinkled as you regarded him, as though he were the one behaving oddly. "Then what--?"
"All of--this," he interrupted harshly with a vague, agitated gesture that made his still-sore ribs protest. He watched comprehension dawn in your eyes.
And he felt irritation flare up as you had the audacity to look offended.
"You suspect me of ulterior motives?" Rather than answering, Geralt narrowed his eyes at you. "I don't...I wouldn't…."
"What do you want from me?" Geralt snapped. He only felt more confused and agitated when you didn't flinch, only pursed your lips and fidgeted with your spoon on the table. These responses weren't normal, damn it, and it had him unsure where he stood, uneasy and unable to relax until he was back on familiar ground.
"The basilisk," you spoke quietly. "It killed my father." Geralt frowned, sensing there was more to it than that. You sighed, shoulders slumping a bit. "My brother tried to kill it in vengeance, and it claimed his life as well as many others. Until you." You looked up and met Geralt's eyes again, and he was disconcerted by the warm, soft look in your gaze, unused to seeing such looks directed his way. "You did not have to help us, but you did."
Geralt grunted, suddenly uncomfortable. "I did not do it for free."
"And you think that somehow lessens the good that you've done?" you countered. Almost chiding him, it seemed. "A monster has plagued our village, and you freed us from its terror. Tending any wounds you sustained, giving you a bit of food and a safe place to rest, it is the least we could do as thanks." You looked determined now as you stared into his eyes.
"....and how do the other villagers feel about that sentiment?" he asked. Watched as your jaw flexed, and that was answer enough really.
"It's none of their business. I am the healer, and who I treat and welcome into my home is my decision." You set your shoulders, cheeks flushing with a hint of irritation.
"I'm not worth that trouble," Geralt said quietly. You looked at him, startled, and then you looked sad and he didn't understand.
"That's my decision," you said again. "Eat, and then I'll check on your injuries."
"I don't need--" Geralt tried to protest. You fixed him with a firm look.
"Eat, and then I will check on your injuries, Witcher," you repeated sternly. Geralt gaped at you.
".....Geralt," he finally said. At last he reached for the stew, serving himself a helping. The pleased smile it earned him from you seemed reward enough.
"I'm Y/N."
**~°~°~°~**
"I still don't think this is necessary," Geralt grumbled.
He was sat on a stool as you had him test his range of motion with his arms, checked on the rapidly healing cuts over his ribs that would soon blend in with the rest of his scars.
A particularly hard poke of your fingers made him hiss and he glared at you.
"Stop arguing with your healer, Geralt," you tutted at him without looking up. He stared at you, marveling at the fact that you were so…..at ease. Not only lacking fear, but comfortable, sure enough of your safety in his presence to tease and reprimand him.
It was…..unusual. But he found he didn't mind as much as he had initially, now that he understood the motives behind your actions better.
And you touched him without reservation, fingers skirting over his ribs feather-light. There was no lust in your touch, no morbid fascination, no demanding the stories behind his many scars. Only compassion as you smoothed a soothing salve over the inflamed skin.
It made him feel oddly…...small. Vulnerable, to be so thoroughly taken care of, with nothing asked of him in return....it was unfamiliar and left something in him raw and aching, but not in a wholly unpleasant way. He felt vaguely guilty, unsure that he deserved this treatment, but warm and content in a way he was unfamiliar with but savored nonetheless.
You worked with a small smile on your face, helped him gently back into his shirt once you were satisfied. He was unable to stop watching you, riveted. He watched your cheeks flush again and found it a pleasing look.
"What, have I got something on my face?" you asked self-consciously, touching your fingers to your cheek. Geralt shook his head with an amused quirk of his brow. You huffed. "What is it, why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like…..like….I don't know, like that!" you huffed, flapping a hand at him vaguely. "You're not still suspicious of me, are you?"
"No," he spoke, felt the minute softening of his features and allowed it so you would see. He heard your heart begin to thump and it made him stifle a smile.
"Then what?" you asked quietly. You were still rather close, standing next to where he sat on the stool.
"Perhaps this is just how I look at things," Geralt suggested. Allowed his mouth to quirk at one corner, knowing there would be a flicker of mischief in his eyes if you looked.
You were looking, and you caught it. Huffing, you gathered up the soiled bandages you'd removed from him and began to clean up. He chuckled, quiet enough that he knew you wouldn't hear, and tracked you as you moved about the room.
"So, am I well enough to travel?" he asked you after a few moments. You glanced at him over your shoulder, and he didn't miss the way your eyes flickered over his body in interest. Something warm stirred low in his belly.
"Not just yet, but if my estimations are accurate you will be by morning."
"May I stay here again tonight?" he asked. You paused and turned to face him, face open with a sweet and sincere smile.
"Of course, Geralt. As long as you need."
As soon as he saw that smile Geralt knew he was well and truly fucked. Dangerous, to get attached. You were human, it was playing with fire.
But….watching you hum and resume cleaning up the room, Geralt decided one more night couldn't hurt.
Chapter Summary: Geralt clears out some foglets for a village with a shockingly pleasant Alderman and Jaskier and Geralt have some soft time watching fireworks.
Story Summary: Geralt's senses are extraordinarily acute, allowing him to perceive far more than average. As necessary as those senses are for his profession, they can become overwhelming.
Or
Five times Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload, plus one time he didn't have to.
CW: Battle scene, mentions of blood and injury (minor), Geralt's headspace, mentions of brothel prostitution (canon typical, brief, non-explicit mention), prejudice from villagers toward Witchers, witcher potion toxicity
LINK TO AO3
Approximately 6500 words under the cut.
SIGHT – Mid-Summer, Year 1253
As summer reached its height, the sun beating down on the land and sending drought racing across the continent, Geralt and Jaskier reached Lindenvale, a small, impoverished village in Velen. Surrounded by swamp lands and devastated by the epidemic that followed the ever-northward march of the Nilfgaardian army, Lindenvale had the air of a village for which survival had become the goal, and thriving an unattainable dream.
Geralt had received word from Vesemir about an unusual increase in the number of traveler deaths in Velen, especially for this time of year when drought restricted the territory of the native drowners. It was rare for Vesemir to dictate a Witcher’s Path, and the rarity of the order made clear its urgency. So, immediately upon receipt, Geralt and Jaskier had packed up Roach and changed course for Lindenvale.
As they walked up the road to the village, Roach led between them, Geralt scanned the swampland on either side of the road, eyes narrowing as he took in the unusual stillness. No birds chirped in the trees. No bugs danced across the stagnant water. No village children scampered about looking for frogs. It was as if the world had died, leaving only the swamp.
Geralt felt unease fill him and stopped to mount Roach, pulling Jaskier up behind him. Without a word, he kicked Roach into a gallop, anxious to put as much distance between them and the dead swamp as possible. He would come back to investigate, but he would not put Jaskier or Roach at risk doing so now.
Jaskier was surprised at the sudden change, but seeing the tension in Geralt’s face, kept quiet, holding on tightly around Geralt’s middle as they raced over the narrow, dirt road toward Lindenvale.
As the gate to the village came into view, Nilfgaardian guards flanking it, Geralt slowed to avoid causing undue alarm. As they reached the gate, he stopped, dismounting and offering Jaskier a hand down before nodding to the guards and leading Roach through the gate.
“You’ll be wanting to see the Alderman, Witcher.” One of the guards called after them. “Bad times afoot.”
Geralt looked over his shoulder and nodded sharply before continuing on.
“Damn freak.” The other guard muttered, just loud enough for Geralt to hear.
“Shaddup! We can’t afford to refuse his help!” The first said, elbowing his mate.
Their bickering faded even from Geralt’s hearing as they continued deeper into the village seeking the Alderman. As in most villages, the people they passed whispered and pointed at Geralt, fear and revulsion in their eyes. But, unlike in most villages, that fear and revulsion was tempered with a grudging relief. That edge of relief told Geralt just how bad the monster problem must have become for the average villager to feel that way about a Witcher.
Jaskier frowned as he picked up on the usual whispers. He’d been doing his best to improve Geralt’s reputation through songs and stories, and this village clearly needed a dose of his best. With as dire as the problem was rumored to be, the villagers should have been delighted to see Geralt, not barely tolerant. Jaskier glanced over at Geralt, checking in but knowing any public display of concern would be unwanted. As usual, Geralt’s face was impassive, seemingly unconcerned about the reception he received. But after their years of travelling together, Jaskier could see the small lines of tension, the way his eyes lost their brightness, and vowed to do whatever he could to show people here, and everywhere, that the Geralt he knew was very different from the horror stories told to children about feral Witchers. Far from stealing children in the night, his Witcher was a noble protector who would shield them from harm with his very life.
Within moments, they reached the Alderman’s house, a relatively large two room thatched hut in the center of the modest village. Geralt tied Roach to the hitching post outside, giving her a pat and making sure the water in the trough was clean before approaching the entrance.
Outside the Alderman’s door, a large notice was posted, “Witcher needed! Dangerous specters about!” it said in roughly scrawled letters, charcoal on an old linen cloth. Geralt hummed as he looked at the notice, trailing his fingers over the frayed edges of the cloth.
“They must be desperate to ask for a Witcher.” He said quietly.
“Don’t most contracts?” Jaskier asked, confused by Geralt’s surprise.
“Hm.” Geralt dropped his hand away from the notice. “Not so explicitly. People always hold out hope that someone else, someone human, can save them. It’s why they’re always so disappointed when I show up.” He said flatly, pushing open the Alderman’s door before Jaskier could respond to the layers of wrongness in that statement. His heart clenched for Geralt, but he shoved the issue aside. Now was not the time.
The Alderman jumped to his feet when they entered, startled by their sudden appearance. The village accounting book was spread out on the table before him. He was an older man, stooped by age, as most Alderman were, but his watery eyes were free of the usual distrust, and he greeted Geralt warmly.
“Ah, Witcher!” He said, smiling broadly, “I’m so glad to see you! Judging by your hair, you must be the famous White Wolf of Rivia!” He thrust out his hand and vigorously shook Geralt’s.
Geralt blinked at him, taken aback by the rare welcome, hand trapped in the Alderman’s enthusiastic grip. Jaskier grinned from behind him, pleased to see someone finally greeting Geralt properly.
“And you must be his bard!” The Alderman dropped Geralt’s hand, grabbing Jaskier’s instead in both his frail hands. “How wonderful to finally meet you both!”
Geralt was frozen, unsure of how to respond to such a warm, joyful greeting. Was it a trap? Was it genuine? The indecision paralyzed him. Jaskier saw Geralt’s discomfort and immediately stepped in, placing his other hand over the Alderman’s gnarled ones and smiling down at him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well! You are correct, this is Geralt of Rivia and I am Jaskier, his humble, travelling bard.” Jaskier released the Alderman’s hands and bowed with a flourish.
The Alderman beamed, displaying the deep smile lines around his aging eyes.
“How delightful!” He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “I’ve heard your songs, Bard, but I never dreamed to have the chance to meet either you or your famous subject!” The Alderman sighed happily, simply staring at Geralt and Jaskier, grinning.
After a moment, the Alderman came back to himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. “My wife will be so jealous she missed you! Her sister is unwell, so she’s off caring for her, you know.”
Jaskier could barely contain himself from cooing over the adorable old man. It was always nice to meet a true fan.
Geralt had no idea how to react. He’d never been faced with such naked admiration, with someone so genuinely chuffed to see him. He wasn’t sure if he should feel pleased or alarmed, so he fell back on the set pattern of picking up a contract from an Alderman.
“I hear you have a contract for me, Alderman.” He said, attempting to direct the Alderman back onto familiar footing.
The Alderman clapped his hands together decisively. “Quite right, quite right.” He shuffled over to the desk and pulled out a piece of thick parchment. “Right here, Master Geralt.” He said, handing it over.
Geralt eyes widened, shocked again by this diminutive man who treated him like a favorite friend. He’d never been called “Master Geralt” in all his long life, that courtesy, that familiarity reserved only for humans, not mutants. The closest he’d ever heard was “Master Witcher”, but that was always said with a note of disdain, making it clear the nominal respect afforded by that title would only be extended as long as Geralt made himself useful. It was the rare person who even called him by name.
Geralt forced himself back to the present moment, relying on his training to carry him through the interaction with this perplexing man. He took the contract and read it over carefully, Jaskier looking over his shoulder. It was a dispatch from the Nilfgaardian Army, given to the Alderman to execute. It described a vague threat in the swamps, lights in the fog, travelers led astray to their deaths in the muddy water, large parties of people and horses ripped apart. It was breaking down supply lines and must be stopped, the contract said. The pay was appropriately generous for such a vague and dangerous assignment.
Geralt hummed over the words, considering them carefully. “Sounds like foglets,” he said after a moment. “Nasty bastards.” He folded the contract and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll get to it now before nightfall.” He nodded to the Alderman and turned to leave. Jaskier reached out to shake the old man’s hand.
“Wait!” The Alderman said.
Geralt turned back, raising an eyebrow.
“You’ll need a place to stay for the night. There are no inns here, but I have a small hut on the ridge overlooking the village. I used to use it as a hunting base, but I’m far too old for that now.” He said as he rummaged through his desk drawer, finally pulling out a large, rusted key. “Here we are, take this.” He handed over the key. “If you go to the village gate and look eastward and up, you’ll see it on the ridgeline. I’ll send one of the boys to stock it with food, water, and firewood for you now so it’s ready when you return.”
Geralt handed the key to Jaskier, who placed it safely in the inner pocket of his light blue doublet. “Thank you, my dear sir!” Jaskier said brightly. “Shelter for the night is always much appreciated!”
The Alderman smiled at him. “It’s the least I can do, my boy. We’ve no inn and I’m full up with visitors already or I’d offer you lodging here with me. You see, the Nilfgaardians are supposed to be putting on some sort of fire and light show on the lake over yonder tonight, something to cheer us up, I suppose, and folk have come from all over to see it.”
“A fire and light show?” Jaskier asked.
“Aye, Bard.” The Alderman shrugged. “Not sure what they mean by it, but I suppose we’ll all find out.” He sighed, stress showing on his face for the first time. “If they really wanted to cheer us, we’d rather they lower the tithes than give us a light show. It’s been a hard enough year without them taking our grain stores for the Army.” He shook his head at the thought, before smiling up at Geralt. “But at least they gave us the coin to hire you, brave Witcher! Once those devils are gone from the swamp, we’ll be able to forage safely again and that will be a great boon.”
Geralt gave him a firm nod. “I can’t change the taxes, but I will clear the foglets from your swamp, Alderman.”
The Alderman dropped into a deep bow. “May the Gods bless and protect you, Master Geralt.”
Geralt felt utterly stunned. He had no idea how to react to this open gratitude, this deep respect, so he kept his focus on the job. “I’ll return when I’ve completed the contract.” He said, bewilderment coloring his voice, before striding out the door. Tasks and hunts he understood, this unusual old man he did not.
Jaskier watched him go before placing a hand on the Alderman’s bowed shoulder. “Thank you, Alderman.” He said, feeling a gratitude so deep it almost hurt.
The Alderman straightened up. “Whatever for, dear boy?”
“For treating him kindly.” Jaskier smiled sadly, looking out at Geralt unhitching Roach and checking the fastenings on her tack. “He’s always used to deal with people’s problems, but no one ever thanks him for it.”
The Alderman sighed deeply. “Aye, Bard. I know the Witcher’s plight. One came to our village when I was but a child, not Master Geralt, a different one, older. He took care of a pack of drowners that had killed several of us, but the elders ran him back out of town as soon as he collected his payment, didn’t even let him stop to rest.” The Alderman was lost in the memory, face pinched in remembered regret. “I think he was wounded, too. But he didn’t object, just took the coin and left. I couldn’t do anything about it then, but I promised myself that if I ever saw a Witcher again, I would thank him. Even if he didn’t do anything for me, I would thank him for what he did for our world.”
Jaskier placed a hand on his heart and bowed slightly to the Alderman. “You are a rare soul, Alderman. I only wish there were more like you on the Path.” They shared a look of understanding before Jaskier followed Geralt out the door.
Geralt and Jaskier found the Alderman’s hut right where he said it would be, high on the eastern ridgeline over the village with an unobstructed view of the lake below. Geralt tied Roach to the hitching line outside, leaving her with ample room to graze and filling her trough with fresh water from the nearby stream before untacking her and bringing their packs inside.
The hut was small, but well kept. The Alderman’s boy hadn’t arrived yet with the provisions, but Jaskier went through the usual motions of settling in, laying out their bedrolls by the cold hearth as Geralt buckled on his armor.
Finished, Jaskier moved to help Geralt with his armor, securing buckles and checking to make everything was perfectly in place. “So, what’s the story with foglets?” He asked, “I haven’t seen you fight those before.”
Geralt hummed as he turned to his alchemy bag, armor in place. He selected a bottle of necrophage oil and sat with his silver sword, rubbing the oil carefully into the blade. “Nasty things.” He said finally. “Hunt in packs. They can create a cover of fog and use it to lure travelers off the path by flashing a light.”
Jaskier sat back on his bedroll, watching Geralt. “My mother did always say to never follow a light in the fog.”
“She was right.” Geralt said, finishing with the oil and sheathing his sword. “They’re tricksters. They can appear and disappear at will, and they like to make copies of themselves. The copies can’t do much damage, but the distraction is dangerous enough.”
Geralt selected three bottles from his store of Witcher potions: Cat, for vision, Swallow, for health, and Thunderbolt, for attack. “Fucking hate them.” He muttered, tucking the three bottles carefully away. The deep scar on his left side ached. Foglet’s claws cut deep.
Jaskier saw the tension in Geralt’s face, knowing those three potions meant Geralt expected a tough fight. “How can I help?” He asked.
“Stay here.” Geralt said simply, strapping the swords to his back. Jaskier immediately moved to object, but Geralt stopped him with a sharp glance. “I can’t fight them fully if I’m worried about keeping track of you in the fog.”
Jaskier frowned, but relented. “Fine, but I’m coming to look for you if you’re gone too long.”
Geralt shook his head firmly. “No, it’s too dangerous. I don’t know how many there are or how long this will take. I have to know you’re safely away.” Geralt sighed, softening his tone as he looked at Jaskier’s mulish expression. “I appreciate the concern, but Foglets are dangerous, and I can’t afford to stop and question whether the movement in the fog is friend or foe.” The thought of striking Jaskier, even unwittingly, made Geralt’s blood run cold.
Some of that imagined horror must have shown on his face, because Jaskier gave in, accepting the logic offered. “All right, but I’ll have bandages and food waiting for you when you get back. I don’t think there’s a bath here, but I’ll heat some water for washing.”
Geralt offered a small smile. The thought of a warm return bolstering his courage. It was a dangerous thing to rely upon, but Jaskier had proved a constant all these years, and Geralt was finally starting to believe he might stay, might continue to offer Geralt his exceptional care and companionship. “Might need some White Honey too, for the toxicity.” He said, “it’s the white bottle in my bag.”
Jaskier blinked up at him, startled that Geralt would offer him access to his potion stores. He never had before, and the directive was a display of trust. A smile bloomed across Jaskier’s face. “I’ll have it ready for you.”
Geralt nodded, offering Jaskier one more small smile before heading off down toward the swamp, the mid-afternoon sun lighting his way.
Geralt stood knee deep in muddy swamp water, sword raised in a defensive hold as he strained his eyes, scanning the deep fog for any signs of movement. The bodies of six Foglets already littered the ground, but he had tracked at least three more in the dense, unnatural fog surrounding him. Adrenaline thrummed through him, muscles poised to explode at the slightest sign of movement. Blood dripped from a deep cut on his shoulder where a Foglet’s claw had made it past his defenses. He’d been fighting for hours, chasing the Foglets around the vast swamp, pushing them hard to force them to retreat to their nest so he could find it and destroy it.
As dusk fell, visibility dropped and Geralt quickly tossed back the Cat potion with his free hand. Adding that to the Swallow and Thunderbolt already in his system sent a painful wave of nausea through him as his blood toxicity reached dangerous levels. His eyes flooded black, skin paling as the delicate veins under his eyes darkened, clearly visible through his near-transparent skin. The pale skin came as a result of his body concentrating blood on his heart and liver, keeping him alive at the expense of his extremities and causing a head rush that would be fatal unless Geralt could keep himself under control. Geralt’s head swam briefly, sword tip wavering, before his training kicked in, his body sublimating the pain and the vertigo to steady his sword arm and sharpen his concentration.
Cat allowed him to see through the dark as if it were high noon, pupils blown out to capture as much light as possible. This heightened sensitivity made the Foglets’ bursts of light stand out like a beacon through the thick fog.
Geralt caught sight of a burst of light on his right side and spun, sword raised to parry the Foglet’s long, sharp claw, feet planted firmly beneath him. He caught the Foglet’s claw on his silver blade, rocking back in his stance to absorb the force of the blow before lunging forward, throwing the Foglet to the ground and stabbing his silver sword through its heart.
Another burst of light appeared on his left, too close for him to raise his sword in time, but Geralt ducked under the swipe and rolled away, pulling his sword with him, jumping back to his feet just in time to spin out of the way of the Foglet’s follow up charge, dealing a fatal blow to the Foglet’s back as it flashed past him.
Swamp water streaming into his eyes, head spinning from the toxins and the acrobatic moves, he took a harsh breath in and out, forcing his muscles to still and he waited, straining all his senses for the third, and hopefully final, Foglet. They had stopped running, so the nest must be close.
He heard a chatter behind him, whirling around just as a Foglet’s false double bashed into him, throwing him off balance. Knowing the real Foglet would be nearby, he cast the sign of Quen as he stumbled back. Before he could regain his footing, the real Foglet struck, claws slashing across Geralt’s exposed back. The Quen shield protected Geralt from most of the damage, exploding outward and throwing the Foglet back. Geralt gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of him. He heard a splash to his left and quickly cast the sign of Aard, hoping his aim would be true.
The Foglet screeched as it was knocked back into a tree, propelled by the powerful blast. Geralt forced himself to lunge forward, breathless still, and thrust his sword into the Foglet’s heart, pinning it to the tree. The double disappeared.
Geralt panted, leaning on his sword, swamp water and blood dripping into his blown-out eyes. His muscles ached. His head swam. His blood burned in his veins. With sheer will, Geralt straightened, pulling his sword back out of the Foglet and the tree with a push from his foot on the trunk. The thought that he’d have to sharpen his sword later flitted through his mind.
Geralt strained his ears and eyes into the fog, searching for any sign of additional Foglets. After several long moments of silence and stillness, Geralt relaxed his stance, sheathing his sword. He pulled out his dagger and set to work harvesting the Foglet corpses. With the valuable parts safely retrieved, Geralt pulled his steel sword (no need to risk further damage to the valuable silver blade) and swiftly decapitated the corpses, stuffing the heads into the thin sack he’d brought with him. Harvest completed, he picked up the sack and moved to the next task.
With the death of the last Foglet, the unnatural fog had slowly dissipated. With his eyes enhanced by Cat, Geralt could easily see through the darkness to the Foglet’s nest. Hefting a small bomb, he strode toward the nest, lobbing the bomb into its center from a safe distance. After the bomb discharged, sending wooden shrapnel and dank swamp water through the air, coating Geralt yet again, he carefully inspected the site to ensure no piece remained that might host another Foglet.
Satisfied, he hefted the bag of heads and began the slow trek back to the Alderman. Fortunately, despite all the running about in the swamp, the nest wasn’t far from the village. Geralt knew the walk wouldn’t take long, barely half an hour, but he felt as if he were wading through thick molasses, exhaustion weighing him down even as the potions burning through him caused his limbs to shake with the need to move. Geralt’s eyes ached and his head felt disconnected from his body, blood still concentrated in his overworked liver and heart as his body attempted to process the toxic potions. His left shoulder burned from the deep cut, blood coating his armor. He desired nothing more than to collapse on the ground and sleep.
But he was used to ignoring his body’s demands and continued to place one foot in front of the other, hoping the deathly pallor and black veins would ease before he returned to the village. The Alderman had been uncommonly amenable to his presence, but showing up looking as monstrous as he did now would surely put an end to that.
Geralt thought of Jaskier waiting for him as he trudged along, warm dinner and clean bandages at the ready. It was enough to invigorate him and he stood a bit straighter, stride lengthening as he caught sight of the village gate.
Seeking to avoid causing alarm, Geralt waded through the swamp and entered the village by hopping over the Alderman’s back garden gate. Dropping the heads well away from the house, he rubbed at his face to remove the worst of the blood, and knocked on the back door.
As the door opened, Geralt braced himself for the usual shock and vitriol his post-battle appearance caused, knowing he looked no better than the Foglets with his black eyes and white skin, soaked in blood, viscera, and swamp water, but the Alderman again surprised him.
The Alderman smiled broadly, no hint of hesitation in his face. “Welcome back, Master Geralt!” He said warmly. “Are you well?”
Geralt averted his eyes from the bright lights behind the Alderman, pupils still too blown out from the Cat to tolerate anything but darkness. He said gruffly, to the wall. “The hunt is complete. It was a Foglet nest. I eliminated it.” He gestured to the sack. “The heads are there as proof.”
The Alderman must have realized Geralt’s discomfort, because he stepped forward, closing the door behind him and leaving them in darkness. Geralt quickly yielded, stepping back to give him room. He didn’t understand the odd, tight expression on the Alderman’s face when he did that. It almost seemed sad, but that couldn’t be right. His head ached too much to give it any more thought.
“You’re a treasure, Master Geralt. Thank you for saving our vilage.” The Alderman said, bowing deeply to Geralt again.
Geralt had no idea how to react, so he didn’t.
The Alderman straightened and smiled, holding out a bag heavy with coin. “Your coin, Master Geralt, plus a little extra from the village fund to express our gratitude.”
Geralt took the bag, tucking it away. Still looking down, he thanked the Alderman, unsure how to react to his generosity or his kindness. It made him vaguely uncomfortable, but he didn’t know why.
Geralt nodded to the Alderman before turning back toward the back fence.
“Be safe, Master Geralt, and go with our thanks.” The Alderman called after him.
Geralt looked briefly back over his shoulder, blackened eyes pits in the darkness, before raising a hand in acknowledgment and hopping over the fence.
____________________________________________
It was full dark by the time Geralt returned to the small hut. Exhaustion made his legs shake beneath him as he climbed up to the door. His head pounded, any speck of light sending a sharp pain shooting through his eyes. The toxins in his blood caused fever to burn through him. It took an extraordinary exercise of will to keep his spent body moving.
Jaskier must have been watching out for him, because the door opened before he could touch the handle, and Jaskier was immediately there to support him, slinging Geralt’s uninjured right arm over his shoulders. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut against the firelight in the room, dim as it was, and trusted Jaskier to lead him.
Jaskier led him to the corner by the roaring hearth where a basin of steaming water was waiting, delicately scented with chamomile oil. Jaskier pressed gently on Geralt’s hale right shoulder, urging him to sit on the small stool he’d set out.
As soon as Geralt was settled, Jaskier pressed the vial of White Honey into his hand, knowing that the black veins he could see under Geralt’s closed eyes meant his toxicity level needed to be brought down as soon as possible. Geralt took the vial and swallowed down without even looking at it. Despite his concern for Geralt’s state, the trust inherent in that gesture warmed Jaskier through.
Geralt grit his teeth as the potion hit his stomach, curling in on himself with a breathy whine as the White Honey seared through his veins, neutralizing the Cat, Swallow, and Thunderbolt with brutal efficiency. Just as rapidly as it came on, the searing pain stopped, and Geralt gasped at the abrupt change. His awareness narrowed to a point and an intense feeling of vertigo overcame him as he clung desperately to consciousness.
His heart raced in his chest, breaths coming in labored pants, as he slowly came back to awareness of his surroundings, breathing in the comforting scent of rosin and honey emanating from Jaskier’s shoulder where it supported his aching head. Jaskier’s strong hands rubbed gently down Geralt’s back as he shook through the comedown off the toxic high.
Even a year ago he would have pulled away at this point, ashamed to need the support, but Jaskier had worn down his resistance with his steadfast companionship. Geralt let out a sigh and relaxed into Jaskier’s hold. Jaskier would decide to leave him one day, everyone did, if they ever stayed at all, but Geralt would allow himself this indulgence of care until that day came.
They sat together for several long moments, Geralt’s breathing and heart rate returning to normal as Jaskier supported him. When Jaskier felt Geralt relax completely, he sat back, keeping one hand on Geralt’s knee, and reached for the warm basin. He dipped a soft cloth in the warm, scented water and carefully rubbed the blood, viscera, and swamp water from Geralt’s face and neck. The water was black by the time he finished.
“Geralt?” Jaskier prodded, “are you all right if I go refill the basin?”
Geralt nodded, reaching up to unbuckle his armor.
“All right, but call me the moment you need something. And keep those eyes closed! I can’t smother the fire until I’ve finished with the water, so we’ll have to work around it until we can make it dark enough for you in here.” Jaskier instructed firmly before heading out to dump and refill the basin.
Geralt’s hands were frozen on his armor. He hadn’t realized Jaskier had taken notice of how long it took for his eyes to return to normal after he used Cat. Usually, after White Honey got rid of the worst of it, he’d just push through the pain until his pupils started to adjust properly to the light again.
He shook himself and went back to his task. Jaskier’s thoughtfulness would never cease surprising him both in its breadth and in its application to one such as him.
Having completely removed his armor, laying it out by feel away from the fire, Geralt chanced opening his eyes briefly to examine the damage done to it by the water and the fight. Squinting against the light, he mentally catalogued the repairs and maintenance he’d need to complete before the armor was ready to use again. As he looked, the pounding in his head increased steadily until the intensity made him sway where he sat as nausea flooded him again.
Jaskier walked in just as Geralt slammed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands to them in an attempt to ease the agony.
“Geralt!” He said, concern sharpening his tone. He quickly placed the refilled basin over the fire and grabbed a clean cloth. Gently pulling Geralt’s hands away from his face, he tied the cloth firmly around Geralt’s eyes, blocking all light. Jaskier smoothed the cloth with his hands and pressed a gentle kiss over the fabric.
“Let me be your eyes for now, dear one.” He said, tone as gentle as it was commanding. Geralt startled at the kiss, covered eyes following Jaskier by sound. No one had ever done that before. Whores would never kiss him, they would barely consent to lay with him even for the premium he paid, and the few experiences he’d had where coin had not been required had been quick and impersonal. It seemed there was no end to Jaskier’s undeserved benedictions.
“I can hear you thinking, Geralt.” Jaskier said wryly. “Tell me what about while I look at the mess you made of your shoulder.”
Geralt wordlessly pulled his bloodied and torn tunic over his head, dropping to the side of the stool to wash and mend later. He sat quietly while Jaskier wiped the blood and gore off his chest, paying careful attention to the wound on his left shoulder, working away while he waited patiently for Geralt to gather his thoughts.
Once Geralt’s chest was clean and the shoulder wound carefully flushed out, Jaskier rummaged through the pack containing their medical supplies, pulled out a soothing poultice and wrapped it around Geralt’s shoulder. The wound, while painful, was not terribly deep and thankfully did not require stiches. With a Witcher’s metabolism and healing power, it would be mere scar by the end of the next day. Satisfied that the wound would heal well without further intervention, Jaskier began wiping down Geralt’s hair, pulling out the worst of the detritus and blood.
“You’ll need a real bath, or at least a stream, to get this totally clean, but I’ll do my best.” Jaskier said as he worked.
While Jaskier worked on his hair, Geralt pulled off his sodden boots and pants, leaving himself only in his small clothes, and held out a hand for a cloth. One was immediately provided, and he started wiping down his legs and feet. It felt hopelessly indulgent to have Jaskier help him like this, but Geralt was starting to believe, just a little, that Jaskier did not see helping him as a burden.
When he felt he’d gotten off the bulk of the swamp water and blood, he dropped the soiled cloth on top of his tunic and pants for washing. He took a fortifying breath, choosing his words carefully. “You always care for me so gently,” he said, sounding almost lost. “Why?”
Jaskier’s hands stilled in Geralt’s hair before pulling away. For a brief, terrible moment, Geralt felt as if he’d said exactly the wrong thing, exactly the thing that would finally wake him from this dream and send Jaskier running away. His breath stilled in his chest as cold pain gripped him.
He must have made some unwitting noise of distress, because Jaskier was there immediately to soothe him, embracing him from behind and nuzzling into the nape of his neck, mindless of the filth that still clung to him.
“My dearest friend, after all these years, you must know that you are the most important person in my life and that my greatest pleasure is to see you cared for and happy.” Jaskier tightened his embrace, pulling himself flush with Geralt’s broad back. “I want nothing more than to show you how much I care for you, and I hope one day you’ll believe it.”
Geralt raised his arms and covered Jaskier’s as much as he could, given the angle of the embrace, squeezing his hands on Jaskier’s bare forearms. He opened his mouth to speak, lost his words, and fell silent. He felt Jaskier’s warmth against his back, his hot breath against his neck, and felt safe in a way he’d never felt before. His voice unlocking, he said, “I’m starting to.”
He felt Jaskier’s smile and his embrace tightened once more. Jaskier placed a fleeting kiss to the side of Geralt’s neck before stepping back and returning to his task, careful not to jostle the cloth protecting Geralt’s eyes as he worked the battle’s detritus out of Geralt’s hair.
The silence between them was soft and comfortable, and Geralt felt himself drifting. After a long moment, the silence was broken suddenly by a loud boom from the direction of the lake. Geralt startled badly, thrown out of his peaceful doze, and jumped to his feet, eyes darting behind the blindfold as he sought the source of the unnatural noise.
Jaskier ran to the door and thrust it open, peering into the night. Another boom and Geralt spun toward the source of the noise, a snarl rising in his throat. He was startled out of his battle stance when Jaskier laughed with unrestrained delight.
“A fire and light show!” He said, smile evident in his voice. “They meant fireworks!”
Geralt relaxed immediately. He’d never seen fireworks before, just heard of the new invention in passing, but if Jaskier was unconcerned, then he was unconcerned. He felt around the packs for his own, pulling out a fresh tunic and pants and putting them on before joining Jaskier at the door.
He peered out into the night, seeing nothing through the blindfold, but he listened to the booms and Jaskier’s exclamations of joy and wonder. Geralt wanted to resume their closeness from before, but wasn’t certain he would be allowed. He swallowed hard and gathered his courage. Not even daring to breathe, he gently placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders from behind, moving to embrace him completely when Jaskier let out a happy sigh at the contact. When Jaskier leaned back into him, Geralt let out a sigh of relief, relaxing into the contact and resting his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder.
Jaskier huffed a laugh at his big sigh and pressed a kiss to Geralt’s temple. “I enjoy your touch, dear one, no need to be nervous.”
“But you’ve never done that before.” Geralt said, meaning the embrace, a note of awed confusion in his voice, like he’d been given a great treat he couldn’t possibly deserve.
Jaskier knew that a heavy discussion would be too much for Geralt, who struggled to express himself at the best of times. Asking him to have an emotional talk while exhausted and hurting would be unfair. Besides, his actions spoke louder than he ever could.
Jaskier kept his tone purposefully light and affectionate. “Then we’ll simply have to make up for lost time.”
Geralt hummed and fell silent. He didn’t understand why Jaskier would want to touch him, let alone want any sort of physical affection from him. Geralt had no prior experience with gentle, affectionate touch to guide him, but if he mirrored Jaskier’s gestures and stayed within those boundaries, he thought it might be all right to try and reciprocate what Jaskier offered. He’d matched Jaskier’s embrace from moments before and that had been well received. Maybe he didn’t need to understand it. Maybe he could just follow Jaskier’s lead and enjoy whatever Jaskier was willing to give. He still felt a pull in his gut telling him it was selfish, it was improper, that there was no way Jaskier truly wanted to care for him, much less touch him, but years of Jaskier’s steady affection had muffled that pull.
As he stood quietly, listening to the booms of the fireworks and Jaskier’s delighted reactions, he decided to chance one more request. “Will you describe them for me?” He asked quietly.
Jaskier beamed, leaning his head into Geralt’s and letting him feel the smile that lit up his face at the simple request. “It would be my pleasure.”
And so, they stood there in the doorway of the simple hut, Jaskier held in Geralt’s warm embrace, Geralt’s chin tucked over Jaskier’s shoulder, listening as Jaskier described the colors that burst and danced across the sky.
Warmth filled Geralt’s chest and this time he was certain it was joy.
REQUESTED TAGS FOR UPDATES: @thesunshinemanman @animaniac1017
The monsters were a tough fight, beginning with the fact that there were two of them, which was already twice more than they were expecting, and continuing with the fact that neither of them, Jaskier and Geralt both, were able to identify it. As much as he’d like to claim otherwise, Jaskier’s knowledge of the myriad of creatures that existed on the continent could be described as somewhat lacking. Geralt’s, on the other hand, was a veritable encyclopedia. He was also a very strong witcher. So it was quite surprising when upon setting sight on the creature, Geralt became quite grumpy indeed.
“You should head back,” he grunted.
“You’d said I could come!” Jaskier complained. The alderman’s description of the monster had seemed harmless enough. So harmless in fact, that Geralt didn’t say a word when Jaskier hopped up beside him to follow him and Roach to track down the corn-stealing creature.
Geralt readied his silver sword. Evidently he thought it was the better bet. Jaskier crept up along behind him, still staying at a safe distance of course.
“Stay back,” Geralt whisper-growled. Jaskier frowned at him. “I don’t know what they are,” Geralt admitted. Obviously, they were not what Geralt thought. They were still miles from the creatures, which looked sort of like the normal non-monster creatures that liked to roam such forests, such as deer, one could say, although...
Eurgh!
Jaskier stopped looking at them. Looking at them gave him a headache.
Geralt motioned for him to stay quiet, and stay back. Jaskier sullenly stayed where he was. He watched as Geralt watched the creatures for long moments, and slowly, inch by inch, crept forward towards it. The creatures paid him no mind, seeming content to graze on the grass. So far so good...
Geralt took a step too near. Six blood-red pairs of eyes snapped up. Six, on two creatures. Geralt raised his sword, just in time to meet the impossibly quick charge of the creature-not-a-dear. It bore down on him as the other came to snap at his flanks. That one tore a bloody chunk out of the witcher’s side as the witcher fought off its fellow. Luckily, in this time, Jaskier had scrambled and gotten his hands on a dagger and he threw it towards the monsters without thinking, which was just as well, because otherwise he would have realized that Geralt was in the hold of those two monsters, and he would have just as likely hit the witcher as the awful not-creatures. Well, luckily again, he didn’t think, for he wouldn’t have thrown if he did, and indeed, his intent came through for once in his bloody life, and it hurt the thing on top of Geralt, causing it to shriek something awful, but which allowed the witcher to carve through it, and turn to the other one, which was apparently still trying to gobble up what it already had of Geralt. It snapped up as Geralt swung his sword towards it, and it had just barely closed those not-a-deer teeth around his forearm when Geralt drew his sword back and those teeth scratched bloody lines on his arm as the body fell dead to the ground.
“Geralt!”
Jaskier scrambled to his witcher, unheeding of the carcasses around the man’s feet. He pulled the witcher’s bag off his shoulder and yanked it open, scrabbling around inside to produce the correct potions. With shaking hands, he yanked off the stopper and began to pour the life-saving Swallow onto Geralt’s wound. Both of them hissed as the potion began to take effect, and Jaskier quickly led the bottle to his witcher’s lips so he could swallow the rest of it.
The potion gone, Jaskier was able to better take stock of the situation. The things were clearly dead, not a twitch left in them, and the witcher was clearly shaken, but healing. Jaskier watched him as they stood there for a while longer. Geralt made no move to leave the circle of bodies he’d created, so the bard made to take a watchful step away, intent on leading, when a hand shot out to grab his arm. It was shaking. Violently. Jaskier glanced sharply at Geralt, whose face was twisted in pain.
That...
Jaskier had never seen Geralt in this sort of pain before.
“Geralt,” he asked.
“The creatures,” Geralt replied, “their venom must be very strong.”
Jaskier huffed gaily. “Those were not creatures,” he tried.
It startled a puff of laughter from Geralt. He grimaced in more pain. Jaskier leaned closer.
“Those were not deers,” Geralt agreed.
“Do you have a headache?”
“Yes. Do you not? When you look at them?”
“I didn’t look at them for too long. And I wasn’t staring them down to cut them up,” Jaskier replied. He took Geralt’s hands and led him out of the circle. They could afford to rest a while before they had to bring the not-deers back to the village.
Back in town, the alderman greeted them with a grim mien. Geralt hauled the bodies of the non-pleasants onto the table between them.
“That’s not a deer!” a lurking townsmen squawked. His fellows hooted at him from the bar.
“It’s not,” Jaskier agreed. “Well said, my man.”
“There was more than one,” Geralt gruffed, shoving open the assembled cloth bag to reveal two heads. “And they were not the harmless creatures we thought they were.”
The alderman’s lips pursed. Jaskier backed Geralt in glaring him down, shifting his lute pack meaningfully. “No,” the man finally agreed, “they were more dangerous than we thought.”
So they left the town with a bit more coin than was initially expected, which made it a win as far as Jaskier was concerned. He trooped after Geralt happily as they made their way out to their next destination, strumming happy tunes on his lute.
After a while of this, he found his head going fuzzy. He hadn’t drank that much ale... It was piss-weak anyway... It shouldn’t affect him now...
“Jaskier?” Geralt asked. He’d ridden a little in front. Roach made an annoyed sound at being stopped. His beautiful golden eyes were narrowed into slits.
Jaskier felt something drip onto his upper lip. He swiped a hand under his nose and it came away bright red.
Oh, he thought, hoping Geralt would catch his lute—
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Shani (The Witcher), Original Male Character(s)
Additional Tags: Mac is writing a thing, Whump, Geralt Whump, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Geralt freaks out medics, Shani's an EMT in this, Not Beta Read, at least not in detail, Rating May Change, How Do I Tag, Titles are hard, Canon-Typical Violence, violence levels seem subjective to me which makes them hard, I'm Bad At Summaries, threw in an oc since I couldn't think of anyone else to put in
Series: Part 1 of Well I got into the Witcher...
Summary:
Witchers freak out medics because their biology is weird. Also, Geralt has a bad day.
@cardiaccadillac I finally got to a point where I’m just like “screw it, it’s written, it’s not beta read or anything like that, but I wanna show it off” and posted the first bit.
Imagine if Geralt was taken while on a contract by slavers, and sent to be sold off at an auction to the highest bidder. To be…used, or worse.
And Geralt, trapped in dimeritium cuffs, spends three days thinking this is the end for him. He would never see his brothers again, they’d never know what had happened to him. Would one of them take the contract for the bruxae he’d been fighting, and find his swords? Would they be left to wonder forever what had happened to him, what had gone so wrong?
And Ciri, his poor Child Surprise. Would she try to use her magic to look for him, only to find nothing? Beg Yennefer to search as well, only for the witch to have to tell Ciri that…that he was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
Not to mention Jaskier, who had been performing at the tavern when Geralt was taken. Would he go looking for Geralt, when he didn’t come back? Did his capturers even leave any of his things behind? Would…
Geralt clenched his jaw tightly against the prickling in his eyes, desperately hoping the slavers left behind some sort of clue. Some sign that Geralt hadn’t wanted to leave Jaskier behind, hadn’t tried to abandon him like all those other times years ago.
Please, Geralt thought, prayed, don’t let Jaskier—
Geralt blinked, not having noticed the approaching footsteps somehow until they stopped right outside of his cell. He looked up, teeth bared in a snarl, only to freeze, because—
“Jaskier?”
Jaskier—because it was Jaskier, Geralt hadn’t been here long enough to start hallucinating—and they hadn’t given him anything to eat or drink so—
The bard, his bard, grimaced, clearly doing his best to give Geralt a smile as he used the key in his hand—where on earth did he get a key?!—to unlock first the door and then Geralt’s cuffs.
Geralt rubbed his wrists, listening intently for any guards that may come running at the intrusion. Distantly, he wondered just what distraction Jaskier had set up to get down here, how he’d made it so far through the heavily manned auction house.
“You shouldn’t have come, Jaskier. What if you—”
“Can you walk?”
Geralt scowled.
“Yes, but—”
“Come on then, I don’t want to spend another second in here dear witcher.” Jaskier calmly walked back out the door, making his way to the stairs a few steps before being yanked back by Geralt.
Jaskier hissed, pulling his arm from Geralt’s grip.
“What was that for?! I—”
“Be quiet!” Geralt whisper-yelled. “If the guards come—”
“Guards?”
“—don’t have my swords, so I need you to run, Jaskier. I—”
Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s shoulders.
“Geralt, look at me.”
“Jaskier, we don’t have time for—”
“This isn’t some grand escape, or—or whatever you’re thinking. They gave me the key.” Jaskier said slowly, waiting until the tension eased some from Geralt’s body before giving a squeeze and letting go.
“You…the auction…?” Geralt tried to ask, wondering how much money Jaskier had spent to…to purchase the witcher. He didn’t want to even think about what the bard had to do in order to acquire what must have been a hefty sum so quickly.
“There was none.”
Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm, gently leading him to the stairs. Geralt blinked, his brows furrowing.
“Honestly, Geralt, did you really think I’d let them parade you around like some—some pet, no better than livestock?”
Geralt frowned.
“But how—”
The witcher stopped mid-sentence, wincing at the sudden light as Jaskier opened the door to the main floor, which was—
Geralt went rigid at the two rows of armed men lining the way from where he and Jaskier stood to the door leading outside. He—Jaskier said they’d given him the key, but he hadn’t bought him, there was no auction, so—
“Ah, thank you, we’ll be taking those.”
Geralt resisted the urge to pull Jaskier back as he approached the first man, who seemed to be the captain of sorts, and was holding—
“And his bags?” Jaskier asked, grabbing Geralt’s swords and looping them around his own back before taking Geralt’s three daggers and holding them out to the witcher.
Geralt stared at them for a moment, before taking them and hiding them back in various spots on his person. He kept his eyes trained on the man who’d had his weapons though as he responded.
“Untouched, including his…concoctions. The witcher’s—”
“Geralt’s.”
Geralt’s lips thinned, and he internally cursed Jaskier for having to defend the witcher now of all times. Didn’t he understand the situation they were in? Geralt had weapons now, yes, but there were easily twenty likely well-trained men in this room who were standing between them and the exit. This wasn’t the time to be mouthing off, especially when Geralt was weakened from the lack of food and water and the bard was standing right next to their leader.
Geralt gaped at the man as he looked at Jaskier and simply nodded.
“Geralt’s things are on his horse, which has been cared for and prepped for departure.”
…Melitele help him, his captors had a mage. A very creative, very…stupid, mage, because why on earth did they think Geralt would believe this, this crazy—
“You’ll be hearing from my proxy, Piotr, about further orders. In the meantime, I’ve made myself clear that this—” Jaskier motioned to Geralt, voice imperial in a way the witcher had never heard before—“is not to happen again, yes?”
The leader nodded.
“Understood, sir. We shall make plans to discontinue our…agreement, with the slavers.
Jaskier nodded back to him.
“Good. We’ll be taking our leave now.”
Jaskier glanced back at Geralt, frowning. Geralt suddenly realized his mouth was still open, and hurried to shut it with a small click as he grabbed Jaskier’s arm again.
He tugged the bard towards the entrance, gentle but insistent as he walked briskly past the men who stood ramrod straight, eyes trained forwards. The sound of their boots echoed on the stone flooring, Jaskier seeming to sense Geralt’s unease and remaining silent for now.
Good, Geralt thought, his own eyes darting back and forth between every enemy they passed. Who knew exactly what ruse Jaskier had planned, what noble he’d impersonated to get the guards to react so well. Any second now a messenger could come or some other man may barge in and call Jaskier’s bluff.
It wasn’t until they were out the door, until they’d gotten Roach—sweet, wonderful Roach who he’d never thought he’d see again—and placed the bard in front of him on said mare that he finally felt like he could breathe. He pushed Roach to run as fast as she could, only relaxing when they left the street, the city, the entire road behind, cutting into the forest as day turned to night.
Geralt led Roach to a semi-flat clearing, before dismounting and helping Jaskier down. He shook his head at the bard, fond exasperation mixing with the remaining anxiety of what exactly the bard had done to get Geralt out.
“Jaskier, I…thank you.”
Jaskier blinked, the smile he gave the witcher small and a bit sad.
“Geralt, you don’t have to—”
“But you shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what…what favors you promised, or lies you told, but it wasn’t worth the risk. You should never have—”
“Geralt—”
“No, Jaskier, I—”
“Geralt.”
The witcher’s mouth slammed shut at the authoritative tone Jaskier used, the same he’d had earlier with the guard.
Even Jaskier seemed surprised at his own voice, pausing for a moment before continuing, softer, “you are worth making such risks, even if you don’t…can’t, see that. And before you try to—to argue, or insist I never try to rescue you or something, you should know nothing you do or say is going to stop me from doing my utmost to help you when you’re in danger.”
Jaskier shook his head, tone lightening as he added, “dear witcher, you’ve known me for twenty years—I can pretend to listen to you if you’d like, but I think we both know what would happen if something like this occurred again.”
And that was—Jaskier shouldn’t—
Geralt growled, turning to his bag to grab some dried meat and his waterskin, which was—
Jaskier traded the skin for his own, which was still half-full. Geralt grunted in thanks as he drank deeply, the cool water soothing his parched throat.
“Also, you should know that I wasn’t actually acting back there.”
Geralt had to remind himself to swallow, pulling the skin away before he could choke.
“What—Jaskier, he called you sir.”
Jaskier smiled, clearly reveling in his own success.
“As he should his new boss.”
Geralt stared.
“Honestly, Geralt, I’m the viscount of a rather well off, large portion of land. Well, actually marquess now, as soon as I find the time to go back and sign the papers. Apparently my proxies have been doing a very good job these past few years, I should honestly give them a raise—”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier, head tilted in thought, hummed absentmindedly.
“Did you…did you buy off all the guards?”
Jaskier laughed, and Geralt almost joined in as well. Honestly the idea was ridiculous, the sum it would have taken more coin than Geralt and the bard earned in an entire year most likely. There was no way Jaskier had that much money to spend, even if he was well off—
“Don’t be silly, Geralt.”
The witcher rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to retort—
