Jaskier and Geralt stumbling into an inn after a grueling hunt. Geralt is hurt and exhausted, leaning heavily on Jaskier, and is in no position to haggle or argue with the innkeeper. Jaskier can see the darkening looks people are giving them, taking in Geralt’s white hair, his half open yellow eyes, the two swords on his back, and he knows he can’t let a mob form. Geralt’s wounds need to be tended and he needs a warm bed to rest in. They cannot be chased out of this town tonight.
—
Geralt wakes up properly much later. He’s in a bed, wounds cleaned and wrapped. Jaskier sits at the small table a few feet away, dabbing gingerly at a split lip. He turns to Geralt and smiles, making his lip bleed again. His right eye is swollen and bruised and there’s a gash across one cheek.
“What the hell, Jaskier.”
It’s not technically a question but Jaskier answers anyway.
“Oh you know, no respect for hardworking Witchers and their handsome companions in these backwoods places. You should see the other guy.”
Geralt has many more not-questions, but he’s distracted by the weird combination of gratitude, concern, and attraction that’s begun to warm his belly at the sight of his beaten but triumphant bard.
Wanna write about Geralt thinking he’s ugly like in the books? Everybody else thinks he’s scary ugly but I want him to feel the softness of our love that says he’s a handsome lil baby boy. You don’t have to. I just love the way you write and bet you’d come up with an amazing story with his self deprecation as a theme
OMG YES I DO. the books are awesome, btw.
PROMPT FILL: GILDED LILIES (on AO3 here)
Summary:
The world tells Geralt he’s a monster. Jaskier shows him he’s not.
CW: Geralt’s headspace; prejudice and xenophobia; deals heavily with finding oneself unattractive, so please read with care if you have issues with that.
Slightly canon divergent.
——————————
It wasn’t that Geralt wanted to be beautiful. No, he understood that only sorcerers gained beauty along with their inhuman powers, but he wished that he could have remained unremarkable in his looks. The distant memories of Geralt’s childhood told him he had once been perfectly average looking. A dark haired, dark eyed boy of middling height and build. Neither ugly nor handsome, he passed without comment wherever he had gone.
Among the boys at Kaer Morhen, looks were irrelevant to the training process, but even there, standing among boys ranging from Lambert’s strong, handsome features to the scarred visages of those struck by the pox in their youth, Geralt had felt neither confident nor insecure about his appearance. He was so normal, so average, that the thought to consider his looks never cross his mind.
The mutations changed that.
Not only was he one of the few boys to survive the Trial of the Grasses, but he was the only Witcher in history to receive additional mutations. Because of that, not only did he have a Witcher’s characteristic, unnatural, cat-like eyes, but his hair had been bleached white, his teeth elongated, his features sharpened, his very bones thickened to accommodate the enhanced strength afforded by his mutated muscles. The other Witchers had unnatural eyes that flashed in the darkness. He was nearly as much of monster as those they hunted.
Geralt understood the stark difference, the sheer hideousness of his appearance, the first time he left Kaer Morhen after completing his training.
Before, where he had passed without notice, now villagers pointed, stared, and spat. Gasps of shock, expressions of violent disgust, and whispers of “freak”, “mutant”, and “monster” dogged his steps. On his first day, passing through the village at the base of the mountain below Kaer Morhen, he’d heard an elderly peasant woman whisper to her companion, “they’re making them uglier every year, ain’t they? Those thrice damned mutant freaks.”
Compared to the havoc the mutations had wreaked on his body, the impact on his looks should have been insignificant. But it still hurt. Back then, he was young enough to still be idealistic. To still dream of being a hero, a knight protecting the weak and vulnerable in the world.
But the decades that passed showed him that dreams were not for the likes of him. The first time he saved a girl from bandits intent on stealing her virtue, he’d imagined she might be grateful. And she had been. Until she saw Geralt’s face. Then, she’d screamed and thrown her shoes, rocks, dirt, whatever she could lay her hands on at him until he’d retreated.
Once could have been a fluke. A terrified girl reacting to protect her life and her virtue from an unknown stranger. But it happened again, and again, and again. Travelers he saved on the road would chase him off once they got a look at who – at what – saved them. Aldermen who contracted him would curl their lips and sneer when he showed up to accept the contract, giving him the barest of details before hurrying him back out of town to complete his task, the only purpose for which his existence was tolerated. Villagers he’d saved from monsters would throw stones at him, chasing him out of town with vile words if he was lucky, and with pitchforks if he was not.
Geralt knew from the other Witchers that prejudice was common, as was a certain lack of gratitude from those served, but none experienced the depth of vitriol that Geralt suffered. Geralt had long since concluded that the difference was due to his appearance, his hideous, monstrous, inhuman appearance.
And so, he did his best to avoid human settlements. He limited his interactions to the bare minimum required to complete his contracts. He made sure to never raise his voice, to never show his anger. He was unfailingly polite and soft spoken when he was forced to speak. He kept his eyes averted and stayed in the shadows and corners of human settlements. He entered villages only when absolutely required, and spoke to innkeepers and merchants only when his supplies were utterly exhausted. He made sure to keep a supply of gold and precious gems on hand to compensate a healer in the rare event he couldn’t heal himself, knowing they would charge a premium for interacting with him, and even more of one if they were forced to touch him.
After nearly a century living in the shadows because of his monstrous nature, Geralt was resigned to his lifestyle. On occasion, in a quiet village that was more tolerant of him than most, he would take a chance and see if the tavern keeper would be willing to serve him. Every once in a great while, they were, and he would sit in the farthest, darkest corner of the tavern to nurse his ale in silence, hood up and eyes down, trying his best to blend into the background.
It worked well for him. He’d get to enjoy his ale and he’d yet to have a problem with the other patrons, if they noticed him at all.
But all good things must end.
In Posada, on a bright, sunny day before heading out to complete a contract for a “devil” (it was not a devil, but Geralt suspected it might be a sylvan), Geralt sat in his usual dark corner, enjoying a surprisingly good ale. The bard playing for the patrons crowded around the tavern’s large windows was as skilled with his lute playing as he was terrible with his lyrical composition, but Geralt let the words pass through his ears without listening to them, content to enjoy the music alone.
He was shocked to his core when the bard, having completed his set to a rain of bread and jeers, not only came up to him, but sat down. Geralt immediately stood to leave, head down to hide his face in his hood, taking his half-full tankard with him, when the bard stopped him. “I know who you are.”
Geralt froze. The tavern keeper knew, of course, but exposing his identity, his presence, could potentially cause a violent reaction amongst the tavern’s other patrons, who doubtless would want to clear him out of their space as soon as possible.
“You’re Geralt of Rivia.” The bard said, clearly pleased with his identification skills, and, fortunately, quietly.
Geralt leveled a quelling glare at him before he could stop himself. His face fully lit by the sunlight coming through the windows when he raised his head to do so. He took a quick glance around the tavern, seeing they’d not been noticed yet, and stalked out the door, leaving his ale behind, his rare moment of peace shattered. Luckily, he always paid in advance in case he needed to make a quick exit, so the tavern keeper let him go without comment.
Walking swiftly to Roach, he checked her tack before unhitching her from the post, leading her out to the road. As he moved to mount, he heard light, quick steps behind him.
“Wait!” The bard called out, lute banging on his back as he hastily stuffed bread into his shoulder bag, “I’m coming with you!”
Geralt took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm, to remain soft, inoffensive. “No, you’re not.” He said, mounting Roach and turning his head away from the bard.
“Yeah, no, I totally am. Meeting you is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me, and I’m not going to let this chance pass by!” The bard said brightly, moving to stand at Geralt’s left stirrup.
Geralt heaved a sigh, looking down at the young man, and he was a young man, unsure whether he should be annoyed or pleased at his persistence in keeping Geralt’s company.
The bard looked up, meeting his gaze fully for the first time. “Wow, yeah, you’re gorgeous.” He said, staring up at Geralt with an expression Geralt didn’t recognize. Gorgeous? Geralt didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t.
He kicked Roach on, setting her off at a quiet walk toward the village gate. Wouldn’t do to move any faster, no matter how much he wanted to leave this odd bard behind. Faster meant more attention. Faster was dangerous.
The bard kept up, walking more swiftly in his fancy shoes than he had any right to, chattering away about anything and everything, from his latest doublet, to some character named Valdo Marx, to how pleasing Geralt’s hair was when the sun hit it just so.
After a long hour of walking, followed closely by the young bard, Geralt arrived at the hill close to the site of the reported “devil”. He stopped and dismounted Roach, securing her safely to a tree branch with ample room to graze.
The bard trotted right up next to him. “So, where to next? I’m Jaskier, by the way.” He said, thrusting out a hand to shake.
Geralt just looked at it. No one had ever wanted to shake his hand before, but he wouldn’t play into whatever this bard – Jaskier – had planned by going off script.
He just moved on with his hunt, heading out to look for clues on his quarry’s location and identity, tossing a gruff, “stay with the horse” over his shoulder at the bard. If he couldn’t get the bard to leave him, at least he could try and keep him safe.
Jaskier didn’t listen. Not then, not after they eventually escaped from Filavandrel, and not for the next several months he followed Geralt all about the Continent, sharing camp sites, meals, and the occasional room at an inn. With Jaskier’s presence, one in every dozen innkeepers or so was willing to lend Geralt a room, with the understanding he was under the supervision and control of his human keeper. When he was alone, asking for a room was a useless exercise. Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier understood that or not, but he wouldn’t risk losing access to more frequent hot baths and comfortable beds by pointing it out.
The oddest thing about Jaskier though was not his persistence in following Geralt, but his persistence in complimenting him. It was always “your hair is so soft” or “gods, your eyes are to die for” or “you’re so attractive, it’s not fair.” More than that, more than those incomprehensible words, was the fact that Jaskier touched him. Freely and often. A pat on the shoulder, gentle hands combing through his hair while he bathed, a warm body leaning against his by the campfire. People didn’t touch him. Didn’t like to look at him. And yet, Jaskier did. Geralt didn’t understand it.
He knew he was monstrous; he knew he wasn’t fit for human companionship, and yet, Jaskier was seemingly unaware of that obvious fact. At first, Geralt had thought the compliments and the touching were all a great, cruel joke to Jaskier, but months of exposure showed him that Jaskier was as genuine as he was foolhardy, and he held nothing back when he felt Geralt did something that deserve censure. If Jaskier complimented him or touched him, it was because he wanted to, and that was beyond Geralt’s comprehension.
Geralt’s confusion, his frustration with Jaskier not following the script, all came to head when they were preparing to attend a fancy banquet, hosted by one of Jaskier’s friends from Oxenfurt, which Jaskier had convinced Geralt to attend as his companion. “I can’t just show up alone, Geralt!” Jaskier had said. “Besides, I can’t resist a chance to show off my lovely muse.”
As Geralt bathed, scraping drowner blood out of his white hair, Jaskier flitted about the room, laying out finery for Geralt to wear, commenting how nice everything would look on him and how jealous his friends would be when they saw him on the arm of such a gorgeous companion
Geralt couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop it!” He growled, turning a frustrated glare on Jaskier. “Stop saying things like that!”
Jaskier froze. He must have seen something in Geralt’s expression, because he immediately dropped the ribbon he was inspecting, one of his many choices to use on Geralt’s hair, and knelt at the side of the tub by Geralt’s left side.
He reached for Geralt’s cheek and Geralt flinched away, hiding his face behind a curtain of wet hair. Tension thrummed through his frame and his posture was abjectly miserable, fists clenched around the edges of the bath, knuckles white.
Jaskier frowned, uncertain where this upset was coming from, but knowing how reserved Geralt was, he knew the cause was substantial to create this strong a reaction in his normally stoic friend.
He reached out again and gently turned Geralt to face him. Geralt flinched, but didn’t pull away.
Geralt’s eyes remained firmly down, brows drawn together, shame flooding him. He’d shouted at Jaskier, growled at him like an animal, all over the little, innocuous lies Jaskier liked to tell himself about Geralt’s appearance. If he was lucky, Jaskier would simply leave. If he was unlucky, he’d be getting a visit from the guards.
“Geralt?” Jaskier prompted, concern clear in his voice. “Please, tell me what’s wrong.”
Geralt’s jaw clenched, daring a glance up at Jaskier before averting his eyes again. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.” This time he did pull away.
“No, you shouldn’t have, but I’m more concerned with why. Have I upset you? Hurt you? Please, tell me.” Jaskier waited, watching as Geralt’s eyes darted about, jaw clenching and unclenching.
Geralt didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. He had a role, a script, and Jaskier just came in and flipped the papers out of his hands, setting his own, improvised pattern instead. Geralt didn’t know what to do. What to think. He just knew it hurt that Jaskier kept giving him glimpses of his childhood dream, a dream he knew was forever out of reach.
But he had already behaved unforgivably, so he might as well get some information about Jaskier’s incomprehensible actions before he inevitably left. Could serve him well in the future if he ever met anyone else willing to tolerate him for more than a few moments.
Geralt drew in a breath and went for it, heart racing in his chest. “Stop saying things that aren’t true. I don’t understand why you do that.” He spoke to the bathwater, unable to look at Jaskier.
“Whatever do you mean?” Jaskier asked, anxious to ease the pain he saw on his dear friend’s face.
“You call me ‘gorgeous’, you compliment my hair, my looks.” Geralt shook his head, bewilderment evident in his tone. “I know it’s not true, so why do you keep saying it?” Geralt finally looked up, searching Jaskier’s expression, face lined with pained confusion.
Jaskier’s heart clenched in his chest, aching for his friend, for the decades of suffering that simple ask revealed.
He placed a hand gently over Geralt’s where it was clenched around the edge of the wooden tub, meeting Geralt’s eyes calmly. Geralt’s hand jumped beneath his, but did not pull away.
“Because it is true. You’re one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. And one of the most noble, to keep fighting to protect people who will never appreciate all that you do and all that you sacrifice.” Jaskier said, firmly and kindly.
Geralt shook his head sharply, looking away. He knew what he was.
Jaskier leaned forward to keep Geralt’s face in sight, thumb rubbing gently over Geralt’s clenched fist. “What do you think you look like?” He asked.
Geralt scoffed. “Like a monster.” He stated it like the indisputable fact he knew it to be.
Jaskier closed his eyes briefly, devastated to hear confirmed what he always suspected. Geralt had no idea of his own worth, his own beauty, having internalized for far too long the fear and hatred dumped on him by villagers unable to accept that something could be different and still be worthy.
Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s fist, reaching out with his other hand to turn Geralt’s face to his again. Holding his chin gently so he could not look away, Jaskier said firmly, “there is nothing monstrous about you.” Geralt huffed in disbelief, trying to avert his eyes, but Jaskier held him in place. “Your mutations made you unique, gave you the ability to do your job, to protect all of us from the real monsters. Your hair, your eyes, hell, even your teeth, they show the sacrifices you’ve made to protect our Continent. From a purely aesthetic perspective, you are stunning. But as a person, you are beyond compare.”
Geralt stared, unable to respond, unsure of what to say in the face of Jaskier’s firm belief that he was worthy, that he was not monstrous to behold. When he was young, he knew he was unremarkable. After his mutations, he knew he was a monster. Yet, Jaskier seemed equally sure that Geralt was neither of those things.
Jaskier saw the conflict in his friend’s face. He knew that one conversation would not change a lifetime of conviction. He gently leaned his forehead against Geralt’s, closing his eyes. “One day, you’ll believe me, and until then, I’ll remind you every day that you are worthy, that you are gorgeous, and that you mean the world to me.”
Jaskier pulled back, keeping his eyes locked with Geralt’s. Geralt saw nothing but calm assurance in Jaskier’s eyes. No matter how remarkable, how unprecedented his words, Jaskier believed them to his core.
Geralt didn’t believe them. He had nearly a century of evidence to the contrary. But if this one remarkable man believed him worthy, believed him beautiful, then at least in Jaskier’s world, Geralt didn’t have to be a monster.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Aaand one more Witcher fanfic. Geralt/Jaskier, with lots of angst and hurt/comfort :)
Jaskier is attracted to women. Usually. Mostly. With a few exceptions. Well, maybe more than just a few, but that’s not the point. The point is, Geralt could be one of these exceptions if he ever were in the mood, but it’s unlikely, isn’t it?
CW: Geralt's headspace, mentions of blood, prejudice and xenophobia.
Link to AO3
Approx. 5600 words under the cut
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
II. SOUND – Summer, Year 1252
It was mid-summer and Geralt and Jaskier were winding their way slowly northward through Kaedwen, keeping close to the Kestrel Mountains. The oppressive heat was eased by the cool breezes meandering down off the snowy peaks high above them. The warm, long days lent an air of relaxation to their trek and Geralt settled into a languid rhythm, long legs easily covering the trail as he breathed deeply of the warm, pleasantly scented air and tilted his face up to catch the warm rays of the noon sun high above.
As they walked along narrow trails through meadows buzzing with insects and full of the bounty of summer flowers, of which Roach frequently availed herself, Jaskier trailed several paces behind, focusing intently on his lute as he practiced, perfected, and practiced again his newest set of songs.
They were headed to the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, a qualifying event for the Continental Finals that winter in Novigrad. When Geralt had gone to the Alderman to turn in his last contract, Jaskier had caught sight of the notice posted for the Regional Competition on the village board.
With only five leagues and three days between their current location and the Regional Competition, and no pending contract to give them their next heading, Geralt had agreed to travel with Jaskier to the competition, held in a small town in Northern Kaedwen at the base of the Kestrel Mountains. That close to dragon territory, Geralt would likely find a profitable contract on some type of draconid, Jaskier had argued. Geralt could see how much the competition meant to Jaskier and could not bring himself to refuse.
So, they set off, Jaskier taking the long hours spent walking as ample opportunity to fine-tune and practice the new ballads he’d written based on their adventures together that past Spring. Apparently, old material “simply wouldn’t do, Geralt!” Or so Jaskier had insisted. Geralt was unsure of the difference, given they’d yet to travel this far North, so it was unlikely anyone here had heard Jaskier’s ballads, and certainty not yet from the source, but he held his tongue, unwilling to risk dimming his dearest (his only) friend’s enthusiasm. If it made them some extra coin or put him in range of a profitable contract, all the better.
At their current rate, they would arrive at the Competition by late afternoon. As Jaskier explained it, preliminaries would be held the following morning, with each bard given a private meeting with the Judges. The winners of the preliminary phase would then hold a public competition in the evening at the local inn, with each bard running through a set of three songs on which they would be judged. The top three bards would receive a certificate granting them entrance to the Continental Finals, along with a monetary prize.
And so, they walked, Geralt and Roach leading the way through the sun-drenched meadows accompanied by Jaskier’s lilting melodies. Geralt had thought all his life that he preferred silence, but this, perhaps, might be even better.
________________________________________
By that evening, Jaskier and Geralt were settled into the last available room at the local inn and Roach was comfortably bedded down in a large stall with a thick blanket of straw and fresh-smelling oats.
On the way in to town, Geralt had taken a contract from the village’s notice board for a wyvern that had recently taken a liking for mutton. As this village relied largely on sheep farming for their trade and subsistence, the wyvern needed to be eliminated.
As Geralt buckled on his armor in preparation to meet the Alderman, having removed it in the day’s heat, Jaskier was annotating his sheet music for the competition ahead, picking out a few notes on his lute here and there as he went along.
Geralt strapped his swords across his back and said, “I’m going to meet the Alderman.”
“Wait!” Jaskier jumped up, sheets of parchment fluttering to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”
Geralt held up a hand. “No need, it’s too late to start the hunt now. I just need to speak to him about the details. At most, I’ll perhaps scout the location the wyvern has been seen stealing sheep.”
Jaskier moved to disagree, but Geralt insisted. “Stay. Finish your preparations.”
Jaskier moved as if to follow, then stepped back with a huff. “All right. But if you change your plan, promise you’ll come back and tell me. If you get hurt, I can’t find you unless I know where you are.”
Geralt tilted his head and stared at Jaskier, confused. “Why would you need to come find me?”
“Because, dear one, if you get hurt and can’t easily make it back, I don’t want you stuck in the woods for hours bleeding out!”
Geralt shrugged. “I’d make it back once I healed enough.”
Jaskier threw up his hands. “Not the point! I don’t want you to suffer needlessly.”
Geralt couldn’t understand the cause of Jaskier’s sudden upset. He’d always taken care of himself, patched himself up after hunts. Sure, it was nice when Jaskier was there to help with the hard to reach spots, but he would survive without assistance. He always had, and he would again when Jaskier decided he’d had enough of travelling with a witcher.
Jaskier expression faded from exasperation into consternation? Sadness? Geralt wasn’t sure, it was an odd sort of expression. Jaskier shook his head and gently, sadly, smiled at Geralt. “Go on, talk to the Alderman. We’ll talk about your appalling lack of self-care later.” He sat back on the bed and took up his notes.
Geralt didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, and walked out the door.
_____________________________________________
The following afternoon, Geralt hauled himself back into the inn after a successful hunt. Contrary to the Alderman’s description, it was not a solitary juvenile wyvern, but a mated pair with a clutch of eggs. They'd given Geralt a good chase, covering close to a league over several hours, and a hairy fight once Geralt had finally caught up, but he was able to subdue both in the end. He kicked the eggs over the edge of the cliffside nest to ensure they had no chance of viability, removed the two heads as trophies, and started the trek back to the village, dripping blood, a mix of his own and the wyverns’, along behind him.
Given that horse was definitely on a wyvern’s menu, Geralt had left Roach safely back at the inn’s stables, a decision he was equally glad about and regretting as the large heads pulled on his already sore and tired shoulders.
It was fortunate he’d insisted Jaskier stay behind. The hunt had taken much longer than planned and Jaskier would have missed his morning preliminary slot with the judges had he accompanied Geralt as usual, something Geralt had been unwilling to risk. He had given Jaskier a detailed description of where he was heading, at Jaskier’s insistence, and they planned to meet up that afternoon at the inn so Jaskier could be sure of Geralt’s continued survival.
As Geralt stalked through the throng of people awaiting the results of the morning’s preliminary competition, they parted easily around him, many turning to spit and curse at him as he passed. Geralt was used to such a reaction and tuned it out. Just because he took care of their monsters didn’t mean he was different enough from his quarry that normal people wanted to associate with him without cause.
He reached the Alderman, pushing open the door with his foot before dropping the two, bloody heads on the waiting burlap sack. The Alderman started at the sight of him, coated in entrails and blood, dark shadows under his wild eyes.
Geralt sharply indicated the two heads. “Wasn’t a juvenile, but a mated pair. Think we need to renegotiate payment.”
The Alderman frowned, color rising in his cheeks. “Now, see here, you took the contract based on the information I gave you, information you knew was not that given by an expert. It’s your risk that the situation might be different than you expect.”
Geralt’s expression turned murderous. “Alderman, you contracted me for a single wyvern, not a pair. Would you rather I had left the second one alone?”
“How dare you!” The Alderman spat, “you’d leave innocent people to suffer for your greed? You truly are no better than the monsters!”
Geralt took a measured breath in through his nose, attempting to control his anger. This pushback was not an uncommon occurrence, and it would do him no good to snap. “I wouldn’t leave it and I didn’t. The remaining wyvern would have rampaged over the death of his mate, and I would not prompt a slaughter. I’m simply asking that you compensate me for the additional kill.” Despite his best efforts, Geralt’s voice grew louder as he went on, drawing attention from the crowd outside.
“What’s this now?” A large man, a farmer by the look of him, red faced and sweating, stepped across the threshold and into Geralt’s space. “You threatening our Alderman here, freak?”
“No,” Geralt ground out, well aware of how quickly this could turn into him getting run out of town without any pay, or worse, by a stoning. “I’m explaining to him that the contract price was based on one wyvern, but there were two. A payment adjustment is therefore required.” His tone was carefully measured.
The large man stepped back to stand next to the Alderman, facing the curious onlookers outside. His lip curled, contempt dripping off his words, “I think you’d best take what was agreed and move on, Witcher.” The way he spat out the title made his true feelings clear. This was a man who, like many, saw little difference between a witcher and a monster.
Geralt scanned the crowd outside, seeing largely aggressive faces looking back, itching for a bloodletting and sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him. What was one more unfair payment? He couldn’t risk getting run out of the village and ruining Jaskier’s chances in the competition.
“Fine. Give me the coin and I’ll go.”
The Alderman flung the bag at Geralt’s chest. Geralt caught it before it could hit him, tucked it into the pocket of his pants, and left, the crowd at the door parting for him, but just barely. He felt their stares on his back until he turned the corner toward the inn, more than ready to scrub himself down. He would need to be careful until they could leave again, a crowd like that was only too happy to turn into a mob.
____________________________________________
As Geralt was brushing Roach, murmuring the details of the morning’s hunt to her as he worked the soft bristles over her gleaming coat, Jaskier burst into the stable.
“Geralt! I got into the final!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming.
“Hmm.” Geralt gave him a small smile, looking up at him over Roach’s withers. “Well done.”
Jaskier bounded into the stall to Geralt’s side, passing a juicy red apple to Roach and scratching her favorite spot on her forehead.
“The final competition is this evening at the inn! There are six bards in the final, and I go third in line. I’m to choose a set of three songs, one ballad, one jig, and one of my choice.” Jaskier smiled at Geralt, hands waving in his excitement. “I’m going to be able to play all the new ones I’ve been working on! For my largest crowd yet!”
“Hmm.” Geralt smiled as he listened, eyes crinkling as his hands continued to brush down Roach.
“You’ll come, won’t you?” Jaskier said, a hint of nerves dampening his excitement.
Geralt caught his eye briefly before returning his attention to Roach. “Of course.”
Jaskier’s smile rivaled the sun and he grasped Geralt’s shoulder in a firm hand, gripping once before releasing him, sliding his hand down Geralt’s arm. Geralt jumped at the contact, but relaxed immediately, warmth spreading from the spot Jaskier touched.
“So,” Jaskier said, leaning back against the stall door, “how was the hunt? I see you survived.”
“Fine. They’re dead.”
“Descriptive as usual.” Jaskier rolled his eyes before straightening. “Wait, ‘they’re’ dead? I thought you said it was one juvenile?” Jaskier asked.
“That’s what the contract said, but it was a mated pair.” Geralt explained, eyes firmly training on Roach.
Jaskier’s tone sharpened with concern as he pushed away from the stall door. “A mated pair? Geralt, are you hurt? That can’t have been an easy fight.”
“Just a few bumps and scratches, nothing serious.” Geralt reassured him, mostly honestly. The deeper contusions and cuts would heal in time, none serious enough to warrant a healer. Geralt knew if he mentioned the injuries, Jaskier would insist on a full treatment, and Geralt would never forgive himself if he distracted Jaskier from his successful completion of the competition.
Jaskier frowned, staring Geralt down looking for any trace of falsehood. Satisfied, he relaxed again. “All right, but I hope you were appropriately paid for the extra trouble.”
Geralt winced, glad his expression was mostly hidden by Roach. “I collected my pay from the Alderman before returning.” It wasn’t a lie. He wouldn’t lie, not to Jaskier, but neither would he rile him up over nothing before his performance. It was expected that people wouldn’t pay him for unexpected additions to the contract. He was used to it. He couldn’t even keep his temper this time when his request for a pay adjustment was refused, so he deserved to be docked for his lack of control.
Jaskier sensed there was more to the story, but knew it wasn’t the time to push. Geralt might be persuaded to tell him when they were comfortable and alone, but not here in a public stable with the crowd outside. “All right, good.”
Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and Jaskier knew he’d made the right decision to leave it for now. He continued, “I asked the innkeep to reserve the corner table by the stairs for us this evening. I know you won’t want to be in the middle of things, but you should be able to see and hear everything from there.”
Geralt turned to look at Jaskier, frowning at the thought of Jaskier taking time away from his competition for something so insignificant as Geralt’s comfort. “You didn’t need to do that. I would have managed to find a place to watch.”
Jaskier smiled softly at him. “I know, but I wanted to be sure you were as comfortable as possible. I know you don’t enjoy crowded spaces.”
Geralt was surprised Jaskier had noticed. They didn’t often visit large gatherings, and Geralt preferred to avoid cities. There was little chance in their travels for the issue to come up. Regardless, the consideration made something lighten in his chest, something he’d rarely felt before. It felt like gratitude, like affection. Like something of which he never believed, would never believe, he could be worthy. But he wouldn’t upset his friend by refusing the considerate gesture. “Thank you.” He said quietly.
Jaskier gave him a jaunty salute before turning to leave. “The competition starts at last light, but your table will be ready for you starting at dinnertime. I am told I must eat with the other finalists to avoid any chance of impropriety, so I will see you at the competition.” Jaskier flashed one more, bright smile over his shoulder before heading back out to rejoin the other competitors.
Geralt smiled down at Roach, the warmth of Jaskier’s presence, of his unlikely, extraordinary friendship with one such as Geralt, easing the bitter exhaustion caused by the morning’s events. He didn’t deserve Jaskier, but he would enjoy whatever Jaskier deigned to offer and hope that, maybe one day, he could offer something back.
______________________________________________
Geralt sat at his corner table, alone, back to wall, with a large tankard of ale held in a loose fist. The competition was about to kick off and the inn was bursting with people visiting from across the region for the famous competition. The chatter of near a hundred souls crammed into the modest room bounced against the low ceiling, coupling with the sounds of tankards hitting tables, chairs scraping the floor, and the barkeep’s yelled orders to render a deafening din.
Geralt took a slow breath, thankful, for once, that he was given a wide berth in human settlements. His ears already rang, but at least he wasn’t crowded. The exhaustion from the day, the fights with both the wyverns and the Alderman, weighing heavily on him, making every sound seem that much louder.
He heard the inn’s large front door bang open and watched as Jaskier filed in with the other finalists, the judges leading the way. The six bards lined up on the impromptu stage set in the center of the inn’s main room. One by one, the three judges introduced the six bards in the order they would perform, each bard prompting cheers from their fans that rattled the windows and sent spikes of pain through Geralt’s temples.
When Jaskier was introduced, he flourished a bow at the crowd, catching Geralt’s eye with smile and a wink. Geralt saluted him with his tankard, careful to keep any trace of his discomfort from his expression.
As the first bard took the stage, a lithe woman from the southwest, the audience pounded their tankards on the table and stomped their feet, cheering her on. Geralt barely contained a flinch as the noise level rose, fingers tightening on the pewter tankard almost hard enough to dent the metal.
The other five bards, Jaskier included, sat in a line behind the performer. The judges, all three in elaborate black robes with hood liners made from various colors of crushed velvet, sat in front of the stage with the performer’s submitted sheet music in hand, quills ready to take notes.
The woman launched into her first song, an upbeat jig that well matched her strong alto, stomping her feet to the beat as her fingers flew across the neck of her lute. The crowd responded, clapping, stomping, and singing along to the chorus in a variety of discordant keys. Clearly, unlike Jaskier, this bard had chosen a well-known favorite.
The wave of sound felt like a physical blow, slamming into Geralt from all sides as the walls and low ceiling caused the noise to ricochet. His fingers crushed into the pewter tankard, leaving obvious dents and causing warm ale to spill over his hand. The feel of the liquid jolted him back to attention and he deliberately unclenched his fingers, glad the angle of view prevented Jaskier from seeing him from where he sat in line.
Geralt clasped his hands together and rested them on the table in front of him, mentally running through his alchemy recipes as a distraction from the noise in the room. It wasn’t Jaskier’s turn yet, and he was sequestered in the darkened corner, so he could safely turn a portion of his attention inward to bolster his flagging control. The memory of a small, coastal fishing village abruptly came to mind and he forced down the memory of (the longing for) the comfort Jaskier had provided. He would not be that weak again. It may have been forgiven then, but interrupting Jaskier’s competition would be completely unacceptable. Running away and missing it would be equally so. Even Jaskier might not forgive him for that.
So, Geralt clenched his hands together, ground his teeth, and ran through his alchemy recipes as the first bard gave way to the second, who drew an equally loud series of cheers and stomps, and, finally, thankfully, to Jaskier.
Jaskier jumped lightly up onto the stage, Filavandrel’s lute in hand, and bowed gracefully to the judges and to the crowd. He caught Geralt’s eye, a frown of concern darting across his face as he saw the tension in Geralt’s jaw, but it was gone as soon as he turned back to the judges to begin his set.
As he launched into the first song, a powerful ballad about the White Wolf’s fight that past spring against a fearsome Bruxa, he caught Geralt’s eye and indicted the stairs with his chin, giving him permission to leave.
Geralt caught the gesture and froze. He couldn’t leave, not while Jaskier was performing. How would that look? If the judges noticed the person who left mid-song was none other than its subject? The risk was unacceptable. No, Geralt would stay and support Jaskier. He could control himself. He was trained for control, mutated for control. He wouldn’t shame his friend by failing again.
Geralt closed his eyes and focused his acute hearing entirely on Jaskier’s voice, on the melodies drawn out of the lute by his skilled fingers. He discreetly sniffed the air, catching the comforting scent of Jaskier’s rosin and honey. He forced his attention to stay on Jaskier and Jaskier alone, trusting that no great harm would come to him while under Jaskier’s eye. The familiar voice, even if the melody and lyrics were new, soothed his frayed nerves and some of the pressure in Geralt’s head eased.
As Jaskier finished his set to the most raucous applause yet, he ran his eyes over Geralt again, pleased to see he looked more relaxed than earlier, but still concerned. Geralt wouldn’t thank him for drawing attention to his discomfort, but Jaskier planned to get Geralt out of there as soon as he was released from the stage for the judges’ deliberations. He sent Geralt a reassuring smile before returning to his seat and losing sight of him behind a large pillar.
Geralt tried desperately to cling to the calm brought about by Jaskier’s performance, but the fourth and fifth bards each belted out loud, fast, tunes replete with banging chords and stomps, riling the large, increasingly drunken audience up more and more.
By the time the sixth bard, an older man with an aristocratic air, took the stage, Geralt was nearly at his limit. The clapping echoed in his skull, the stomping rattled his bones, and the singing sent piercing pain through his temples.
The volume increased as the end of the performance neared, audience members losing all control of their voices as the ale took firm hold. When the sixth bard struck his final note and bowed, the crowd exploded, jumping to their feet and screaming out the names of their favorites.
The windows rattled in their frames from the noise. In the wall of sound, the sudden, sharp scrape of a chair shoved backwards against the wood floor close to his right side made Geralt flinch violently into the left-hand wall, cracking his head on a wooden beam. He felt his breathing rapidly increase, his heart pounding in his chest, as his body interpreted the aural assault and the sudden pain from the strike to his left temple as an attack.
Alchemy recipes were no longer a distraction. The pain in his head, the pain in his jaw, from where his nails dug into his clenched fists, none of it was sufficient to overcome the overwhelming assault on his senses. Geralt felt his control slipping away and hated himself for it, for failing again to restrain his reactions. He felt panic rise, the corner suddenly feeling less like a reassuring embrace and more like a prison, trapping him between the immovable walls and the relentless, painfully loud noise of the crowd.
Suddenly, there was a presence on his right side. A hand landed gently on his right forearm and Geralt flinched, baring his teeth and spinning to face the intruder.
Jaskier took in the tension in his friend’s frame, the bruise blossoming over his left eye, and the wild, unfocused expression. He instantly remembered the coast, how painful the overwhelming smell had been for his friend and how long he had fought against the pain before finally succumbing. His heart dropped. Geralt had been pushed past his limits yet again and he knew the public nature of the breakdown would make it that much worse.
Jaskier spoke softly, gently rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s forearm. “Geralt? It’s Jaskier. It’s past dark and you’re in the inn for the bardic competition. Can you look at me, please?” This was the first time Jaskier was grateful people did not stray too close to his Witcher. In the dark corner, Geralt was largely hidden from the eyes of others and people were unlikely to disturb them.
Geralt’s eyes darted around room, tracking spikes in sound, before slowly focusing on Jaskier, the familiar voice and grounding words breaking through the panic. Geralt couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond, his words stolen away, overwhelmed by the assault on his sensitive ears. Geralt felt unable to escape the storm of noise causing his distress but looked to Jaskier for a port of calm.
“There you are.” Jaskier smiled, keeping his voice light and cheerful. “The judges are deliberating, so I think it’s time for us to head upstairs. I could use a rest, and they’ll be a while.” Jaskier knew focusing on his own needs, rather than Geralt’s would be more likely to prod Geralt into motion. Jaskier desperately wanted to soothe his friend, to ease his tension, to embrace him, but knew Geralt would not, could not, relax in public and would be deeply shamed by displaying anything he perceived as weakness where others could see.
Geralt frowned, eyes focusing more as concern for Jaskier penetrated his overwhelmed mind. He nodded and rose from the bench, letting Jaskier lead him toward the stairs. As they ascended, one of the local bards not in the competition struck up a lively tune to keep the waiting crowd entertained. As the noise level suddenly rose again, this time at his open back, Geralt flinched away, a whine caught in his throat, hands raising as if to cover his ears before he forcibly stopped himself, digging his hands into his thighs.
Jaskier reached back and took Geralt’s hand, drawing him quickly up the stairs and into their room – thankfully at the back of the inn – and shutting the heavy wooden door.
As the noise suddenly diminished to a dull background hum, Geralt stopped in the middle of the room, panting with relief. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, eyes darting around before landing on Jaskier with a silent plea. Geralt didn’t know what he needed, just that he needed, and he was still unbalanced enough to forget himself and ask for help, albeit without words.
Jaskier answered immediately, stepping into Geralt’s space and guiding him over to sit on the bed, gently directing him until he was lying down, head in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier covered Geralt’s ears with his hands and rubbed soothing circles across his temples and jaw. Geralt’s eyes closed, trusting Jaskier to keep him safe.
Slowly, slowly the tension left Geralt’s face. He heaved a sigh and his eyes opened. Jaskier could see the moment he fully returned to himself, as Geralt’s expression shifted quickly from soft relief into deep shame. Geralt moved to sit up and Jaskier stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“Easy, just lie back.” Jaskier instructed, calm and authoritative. “You need to let your body recover.”
Geralt briefly pressed up against the restraining hand before giving in, eyes flicking up and away from Jaskier’s, shame coloring his cheeks and warming the tips of his ears.
Geralt took a breath, opening his mouth to speak several times before it took. “Forgive me. Again. My lack of control is inexcusable.”
Jaskier’s lips pressed into a thin line, heart aching for his friend, for the impossible standards to which he held himself. For the lack of care, of comfort, in his long lifetime that had led him to believe such things were unwarranted when applied to him.
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jaskier said gently, firmly, echoing their earlier conversation on the coast. “I only ask one thing.”
Geralt looked up, eager to hear how he could fix this, how he could please his friend, repay him for having to coddle him through yet another breakdown.
“Tell me next time so I can help you before it gets to this point. Or, if you can't, just leave, give yourself some distance from whatever is hurting you.” Jaskier was almost begging, pleading with his friend to take even this modicum of care for his own needs.
Geralt blanched. “I wouldn’t leave you.” He said, an almost frantic note in his normally measured tone.
Jaskier rubbed a hand across Geralt’s forehead, smoothing back his hair before pressing a kiss between his eyes. “I know, and I wouldn’t leave you either. I just want you to go far enough that it’s not too loud, or too stinky, or too whatever for you. I couldn’t abide it if I were the cause of your distress because you felt you needed to stay somewhere for me. If you need to leave, I will understand, and I will find you again in that safer place.”
Geralt blinked at the kiss, shocked. No one had ever done that to him before. It was unexpected. Nice? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how to respond. But Jaskier had done it, so it must be all right.
He heard the words, saw how important this was to Jaskier. “I will try.” He said finally. He couldn’t promise more. Wouldn’t leave if Jaskier could get hurt. Or disappointed. That wasn’t worth it. But maybe if there was no harm, he could give himself a little break when things got to be too much. He should be able to control himself, to let the overstimulation wash off his back, but if his control failed, if he were already shamed, maybe a little relief wouldn’t hurt? He’d consider it.
A sudden shout cut through the hum from below. Not loud, not startling, just enough for Geralt to make out that results would be announced shortly.
“We should go down.” He said to Jaskier, “results are about to be announced.” He sat up and straightened his clothes, taking a fortifying breath as if he were about to head into a battle. In a way, he was.
Jaskier wanted to stay, wanted to keep Geralt here in this quiet room, wanted to protect his friend, to sooth the furrows and lines of tension and shame from his face. But he knew that wouldn’t help now. Geralt would blame himself for Jaskier missing the announcement, and that would overpower any relief staying in the quiet could provide.
Jaskier sighed and smiled up at his impossible, selfless, stubborn friend. “All right, but let me do something for you before we go.” He held up an admonishing finger when he saw Geralt about to protest. “No arguments.”
Jaskier stretched across the bed and grabbed the strap of his bag, pulling it over and digging around inside. Triumphantly, he brandished the linen handkerchief he’d found before tearing off two strips of the cloth and forming them into tight balls.
“Come here,” Jaskier directed, patting the bed. Geralt sat. “Now, face me, please.”
Jaskier reached up and placed a ball of linen in each of Geralt’s ears, gently positioning them to fully block the ear canal without forcing them in far enough to hurt.
Geralt scrunched up his face at the tickling sensation. As Jaskier settled the balls of linen into place, the noise around him was muffled by half. His eyes widened.
Jaskier smiled at him. “Better?” Geralt nodded. “Good. We can go now.” He said, standing and holding out a hand to Geralt.
Geralt took his hand and stood. Just before placing his hand on the doorknob, Jaskier turned back and pointed a finger at Geralt, saying firmly, “if it gets too loud, you’re to come back up here right away, you hear?”
Geralt frowned. “I can handle it, especially with these sound blockers you’ve made.”
Jaskier poked his finger into Geralt’s chest, emphasizing his words. “Not the point. I don’t want you to suffer. If it’s too loud, if it hurts, come up.” Jaskier softened his tone, flattening his palm to Geralt’s chest. “Please.”
Geralt’s shoulders loosened, hearing the honest plea. “I promise.” If it would make Jaskier happy, he would do it.
Jaskier beamed at him and they walked back down the stairs, hand in hand.
Jaskier positioned Geralt at the base of the stairs, leaving him with a clear route of escape. With the linen in his ears, the sound was greatly diminished. Still loud, but not loud enough that Geralt would need to leave or risk breaking his word.
As Jaskier joined the other five finalists on stage, the crowd hushed. The judges announced their winners. In third place, the first bard, the lithe southwestern woman, in second, the aristocratic uncle.
The crowd held its breath.
“And, in first place,” the announcing judge took a dramatic pause, “Master Jaskier!”
Jaskier face lit up and he immediately caught Geralt’s eye. The ensuing cheers were loud, but not painfully so, and Geralt allowed a fond, proud smile to form, nodding at Jaskier warmly.
Jaskier beamed at him before turning to accept his prize.
If allowing Jaskier to help made him this happy, if it allowed him to witness Jaskier’s triumphs, maybe it would be all right to accept the help.
As Geralt watched Jaskier accept the adulation of the crowd, gaining the recognition he fully deserved as the cheers flowed around Geralt without assaulting his sensitive ears, protected as they were by Jaskier’s invention, Geralt's chest filled with an unfamiliar warmth. It felt suspiciously like joy.
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
Notes: Timeline context: This is after the Child Surprise banquet in Cintra, which occurred when Pavetta was 15 in 1252.
CW: mentions of skipped meals, Geralt's headspace, nausea, sensory overload
SUMMARY: The third time Jaskier helps Geralt through sensory overload. Or, Geralt and Jaskier have a soft winter in Oxenfurt.
LINK TO AO3
Approx. 4000 words under the cut
For the first time in the several years of their acquaintance, Geralt chose to spend the winter with Jaskier in Oxenfurt. The last contract of the prior Autumn had run long, leaving Geralt with little time to make the long trek back to Kaer Morhen before winter froze the mountain pass.
As they were already near Oxenfurt, Jaskier offered to host Geralt for the winter. Upon assurance that Jaskier’s lodgings had an appropriate stall for Roach, and that they were far from the hubbub of the city center, Geralt agreed. He sent word to Vesemir of his plans – so as not to worry his mentor when he failed to return – and settled in for the winter with Jaskier.
Jaskier was set to teach a class that winter on advanced song writing, limited to only the most talented students, and he had been planning the curriculum for weeks. Although he had spent the past several winters teaching, this was the first time he had been tapped to lead an advanced seminar.
Doubtless, the honor was bestowed in large part due to his win at the Kaedwen Regional Bardic Competition, which he had followed up with a solid, top tier finish at the Continental Finals in Novigrad. Geralt had no doubt that he would win the next year, and already had plans to set the coming Spring’s itinerary to ensure Jaskier would be able to compete in at least one of the regional qualifiers.
The winter passed quietly. Unlike the rest of the year, Jaskier’s schedule ruled, and Geralt spent his days exercising Roach, replenishing his stocks of potions, and conducting in-depth maintenance on his armor and weaponry.
Around his self-imposed tasks, Geralt found himself with a lot of free time, something he had never before experienced. When wintering at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir always had a list of tasks, everything from hunting, to collecting firewood, to repairing the crumbling façade of the castle itself.
Geralt had tried attending Jaskier’s class, but while he enjoyed seeing his friend in his element, his presence was overly distracting for the students. Delighted at Geralt’s academic interest, Jaskier arranged with the university librarian for Geralt to have unlimited access to Oxenfurt’s vast collection. And so, after completing his chores for the day, Geralt would spend hours buried in the stacks, for once letting his interests dictate his choice of reading material. It was a novel experience and one he deeply enjoyed.
At Kaer Morhen, there were always new, topical tomes to study, but here, given that Oxenfurt did not have any bestiaries in its collection, Geralt allowed himself the luxury of learning about new topics. He read deeply on everything he could, studying up on topics from folklore to blacksmithing to farming practices. When he was sure no one was in the library with him, he even indulged in the occasional epic poem or novel. He always felt a certain anxiety when reading for pure pleasure, but, if he studied first and had already completed his chores, he felt it might be all right to indulge just a little.
Every night, over dinner brought to their rooms by the University kitchens, Geralt listened to Jaskier’s report on that day’s classes. With gentle prompting, Geralt shared his day as well, telling Jaskier about anything new he discovered on his outings with Roach, as well as any interesting information he learned during his daily study in the library. At first, Geralt could only manage a few words, unused to casual conversation and embarrassed at the topics of study he chose. But, over the weeks they spent together in those warm, wood paneled rooms, enjoying hearty, simple fare together at the small table by the fire, Geralt relaxed, sharing more and more each day.
One day, about halfway through the long winter, Geralt even brought himself to share the epic poem he had read that day, color tinging his cheeks as he revealed his secret pleasure, unable to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Since then, Jaskier would inquire about any poems or novels Geralt had read, including them in the conversation with no special attention given. Geralt didn’t know how to express his gratitude, his relief at Jaskier’s understanding of his internal conflict over pleasure reading, other than to share as much as he was able.
As they spoke, as Geralt’s words started to come more easily, they would occasionally share historical or personal information as well. Geralt learned that Jaskier was born the Viscount de Lettenhove, and that he left home to follow his calling. His parents were dismayed, but ultimately understanding. He still retained his title, as he was the eldest son, but his younger brother inherited the estate and its lands and was doing well as the estate manager.
In response, Geralt shared brief outlines of his past, unwilling to delve into detail but equally unwilling to fail to reciprocate when Jaskier shared personal information with him. Geralt knew the power of shared history, could hear the old, scabbed over pain in Jaskier’s words, and was driven to respond. So, he told Jaskier that all witchers were Child Surprises. That most failed to survive the training. About the agony of the Trial of the Grasses, about being the only witcher in history to receive additional mutations. When the sharing became too raw, when Geralt couldn’t bring himself to speak further, Jaskier would place a gentle hand on his, smile, and change the topic to something light, something cheerful, and they would move on.
Geralt had never experienced a life like this. It was a glimpse of what might have been had he never been left on the side of the road for Vesemir. Had he not been mutated into something monstrous, something that must live outside regular, human life. Jaskier was the first friend Geralt had ever had, and likely would be the last. Jaskier was someone extraordinary, someone who looked at Geralt and saw nobility, morality, someone he wanted to share his life with.
Geralt didn’t see that when he looked at himself. He knew he was a mutated monster barely a step above those he hunted. He knew this brief time with Jaskier was a dream unlikely to be repeated. He knew he didn’t deserve Jaskier, didn’t deserve this calm, comfortable winter, but he knew that Jaskier was happy he was there, happy to care for the witcher he called his dearest friend.
Geralt didn’t understand why Jaskier granted him such gentle care, such affectionate attention, but, after all these years, he understood that allowing Jaskier in, allowing Jaskier to care for him, made Jaskier happy. And Geralt would do anything to ensure Jaskier’s happiness.
Toward the end of winter, as the snowbells were poking their heads out of the thick, icy ground to greet the coming Spring, Jaskier burst back into their shared quarters in the late afternoon, bursting with excitement.
“Lord Navelle has a contract for you and had invited us to his banquet this evening!” Jaskier stood in front of Geralt where he sat by the fire, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes bright.
“Who?”
“Lord Navelle!” Jaskier said, excitement driving up both the pitch and volume of his voice. “He’s a prominent Southern noble, driven here by the war, and he’s one of the most sought-after patrons of the bardic arts! He’s been supporting bards for decades and getting an invitation to one of his banquets has been my dream since I was a student.” Jaskier paced around the room, too delighted to remain still. “The things I could learn from him! The access he might grant to his collection of music! It’s beyond my wildest dreams!”
“Hmm.” Geralt didn’t enjoy the company of nobility – Jaskier excepted, of course – but he would do anything in his power to keep that smile on Jaskier’s face. “What contract does he have for me?”
“His herald didn’t say, just that Lord Navelle wanted to discuss it with you in person and asked that you and I attend the banquet tonight as his guests.” Jaskier turned pleading eyes on Geralt. “We can go, can’t we?” He bit his lip as if he thought Geralt might refuse. Geralt could never refuse Jaskier.
“Of course. When do we need to be there?” Geralt said, rising to his feet and putting his book away.
Jaskier beamed. “The herald said Lord Navelle will send a carriage at sundown, so we have about an hour.” He spun toward the door. “I’ll send for a bath! We have to look our best for the occasion!”
Geralt smiled fondly as Jaskier darted out to order the bath from the housemaid. Banquets weren’t his favorite evening activity, he far preferred a quiet dinner with Jaskier, but he wouldn’t dampen his friend’s excitement by showing his reticence. Fortunately, Jaskier had obtained formal clothes for Geralt in case of such an occasion, this time choosing simple, muted colors much more to Geralt’s taste than the pale green monstrosity he chose in Cintra the year prior.
Geralt pulled out the finery, hearing Jaskier running back down the hall, and was content.
Geralt and Jaskier sat at the high table with Lord Navelle, looking out over the gathered crowd. Apparently, the inspiration for this banquet was Lord Navelle’s recent receipt of a much-anticipated shipment of produce and spices from his Southern holdings. With the supply lines largely shut down by the war with Nilfgaard, getting anything through was cause for great celebration. Or, as Lord Navelle had put it, “a celebration to relieve the culinary doldrums of the North with the fiery cuisine of the South!” Geralt didn’t see the great appeal, but if he got a good, filling meal out of it, that was enough.
Lord Navelle had sent the carriage at sundown as promised. It was Geralt’s first time in a carriage, having only previously ridden in wheeled carts, but Jaskier looked completely at home among the velvet seats and gilded walls, peeking out the sheer curtains with almost childlike glee as they drove through the city, the hoof beats of the four-in-hand team echoing off the buildings surrounding them.
It was times like these when Geralt was struck again with just how fortunate he was that Jaskier chose to travel with one such as him. To the manor born, Jaskier could easily handle all social situations. He sat gracefully in a fine carriage dressed in fashionable silk, he knew which utensils to use at any table, and he could speak eloquently with any interlocutor. Geralt, however, felt like a hunting dog who had been given the rare pleasure of being allowed indoors, too large and too rough for the elegant surroundings.
He knew he was getting dangerously used to Jaskier’s company, to the comfort he provided, and that it would be all the harder to readapt to his prior, solitary ways when Jaskier finally tired of him. But for Jaskier’s presence, Geralt was sure the contract would have been delivered to him by the herald at the back of the Lord’s home, keeping him well out of reach of any eyes who might spy a degenerate at the Lord’s gate.
Lord Navelle had called them to his manor well before the banquet was due to start and received them in the formal sitting room to discuss the details of the contract with Geralt. From the sound of it, it was a basilisk that had taken up roost in one of the abandoned silos on Lord Navelle’s small, Northern holdings. Unlike his vast Southern holdings, Lord Navelle had only a small plot of large for raising sheep this far north and did not have the range to simply relocate the herd away from the new predator. He had already lost near a quarter of the herd and could not afford to lose more, lest the beast turn to human prey instead for lack of mutton.
Basilisks were tough hunts. Enormous, crafty beasts somewhere between a bird of prey and a reptile, they were deadly quick, and their tough hide made precise, close quarters strikes the only way to dispatch them. But the long range of their large talons and sharp, hooked beaks made close quarters fighting treacherous, and Geralt had many a large scar from encounters with prior basilisks. Nevertheless, the pay was generous and Geralt would not risk offending Jaskier’s hero by refusing the contract. It was his Path to walk and he was well aware of the inherent dangers.
Naturally, during the course of their meeting, Jaskier had completely charmed Lord Navelle, and the two of them happily discussed bardic history, musical composition, and their theories on the next great artistic trends until the other guests began to arrive. Interested in continuing their conversation, Lord Navelle seated Jaskier on his right, a place of honor, with Geralt on Jaskier’s other side.
As the food and drink started to arrive, Jaskier and Lord Navelle were arguing the finer points of melodic motifs and Geralt was listening with half an ear to the elderly woman on his right. Geralt could see the cataracts clouding her eyes and did not correct her when she assumed his white hair was a sign of age and not the mark of advanced mutation. She seemed as hard of hearing as she was of sight, and Geralt’s minimal contributions to the conversation had not yet deterred her from telling tales of the “good old days” confident that Geralt was sharing in her nostalgia.
The first course arrived on large silver platters, placed on the table before them with a flourish by the uniformed footmen. It was a series of small canapes comprised of what appeared to be bright fruits and vegetables coated in either sugar or spices.
Geralt’s nose burned at the smell of the intense spices, but spotlighted as his was at Lord Navelle’s table, he knew he could not simply abstain. He scanned the platter for the simplest looking and mildest smelling morsel, choosing what looked like a piece of sugared apple in a simple pastry.
He bit into the pastry and a flood of heavily spiced, sweet, baked apple burst into his mouth. The strong spices were immediately overpowering, and he choked down the mouthful, violently suppressing the urge to gag. Glancing quickly around to make sure no one was watching him he surreptitiously tossed the rest of the pastry into the vase behind his elderly neighbor.
Taking a deep draw of his ale, which fortunately tasted as expected, he took several deep, slow breaths to calm his roiling stomach. Fortunately, his dinner companion had made no note of either his distress or his disposal of the offending pastry, simply continuing to chatter away as she ate an alarming number of the spiced canapes.
Geralt sipped his ale slowly, grabbing a few broken off pieces of canape to put on his plate and disguise his abstention from the first course. Nobles were often easily offended if a guest did not like their food, and doubly so when it was a witcher, whom they assumed should be grateful for any scraps thrown their way. Geralt had no idea whether or not Lord Navelle ascribed to that view, but he wasn’t about to test it and risk interrupting Jaskier’s evening.
Finally, the canapes were removed, and the main course was presented, brought to the table in large, steaming, silver tureens.
As the tureens were brought out, Lord Navelle stood to address the crowd. “Friends, tonight we have a special dish for your pleasure, the fiery specialty of my hometown in the beleaguered South, its preparation tonight only made possible due to the stunning bravery and persistence of the Captain and crew of my shipping fleet. Made of the freshest mollusks, prawns, and fat ocean fish, slow simmered in the finest mix of peppers and spices from my Southern holdings, please enjoy this Southern Seafood Curry!” Lord Navelle boomed with all the drama of a king bestowing a boon. Serving himself a generous helping from the tureen set in front of him, he gestured to all to eat and eat well, before sitting and digging into his meal with obvious pleasure.
Turning to Jaskier, he said, “it’s devilishly hard to get these ingredients, and none of them store well for long. I couldn’t bear to waste anything we received, and what better cause for a banquet than sharing one’s homeland specialties!” He indicated the tureen in front of Jaskier, “please, eat and don’t hold back. I’m enormously proud of the produce from my home and I’m eager to hear your thoughts.”
“Geralt and I are honored and pleased to have been invited to dine with you, my Lord. The chance to try your homeland’s famed seafood curry is an unexpected and deeply appreciated pleasure.” Jaskier responded, taking his own serving, excited to try the new dish with the spices he’d heard of, but had never before tasted. He turned a smile on Geralt before focusing on his meal, making a pleased noise when he tasted the unfamiliar, complex spices.
Lord Navelle watched as Jaskier tried the dish, flashed a pleased grin when he saw Jaskier’s obvious enjoyment, and turned to his left, indicating to the entire banquet hall that it was time to speak to one’s other dinner companion.
Geralt looked at the curry in Jaskier’s bowl, felt his nostrils burn from the spice, felt is mouth fill with saliva as nausea rose in his stomach. He watched the mollusks squish under Jaskier’s fork, their fat bodies shining, and bile rose in his throat. The prawns and fish, typically inoffensive, were cooked down and overly soft, completely engorged in the fiery, red chili sauce. The rice completing the curry was cooked so long as to be almost unrecognizable, changing in texture from grains to something almost like porridge. Just looking at it made Geralt’s stomach sink and roil, forcing him to choke down a gag.
With his stomach already sensitive from the unfortunate apple pastry, Geralt knew he could not even place a serving on his plate, let alone eat it, without becoming ill. He could barely stand to look at the dish, purposefully focusing his attention on the fine detailing on the cutlery, reciting blade oil recipes in his head as a distraction.
Fortunately, the large room and high ceilings kept the smell from being overwhelming, so as long as he didn’t try to touch or taste the heavily spiced, oddly textured curry, he thought he could hold it together. Even the thought of disrupting Jaskier’s evening by becoming ill was enough to make his face burn with shame.
Jaskier was happily humming to himself as he worked through his curry, clearly enjoying the exotic spices. Lord Navelle had turned to the companion on his left for conversation, as was appropriate, so Jaskier turned to Geralt and noticed the empty plate.
He put his fork down, immediately concerned. “Geralt?” He asked, “are you feeling unwell?”
Geralt swallowed hard against the nausea roiling in his stomach, gathering himself before he responded. “I’m fine,” he said curtly, not wanting to interrupt the otherwise jovial banquet.
Jaskier frowned, seeing the tight lines on Geralt’s face and the way he carefully kept his eyes down. “Geralt, you promised to tell me if something was wrong, remember?”
Geralt’s lips thinned in distress, caught between breaking his promise and breaking up the evening, unwilling to do either.
“Geralt?” Jaskier prodded, voice soft enough to avoid drawing attention. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Do you need to leave? Is it too loud?”
Geralt heard the increasing concern in Jaskier’s voice and pushed himself to respond. A promise made must be kept, he firmly told himself. He took a fortifying breath, careful to breathe through his mouth and avoid burning his nose on the spices. “I don’t need to leave. I just can’t eat that.” He indicated the tureen without looking at it.
Jaskier’s brows drew together, confused. “Do you not like spice?”
Geralt forced himself to explain. “It’s too much. The spices, the textures, all of it. It’s too much.” He finally met Jaskier’s eyes, hoping he would understand what Geralt could not say.
Jaskier looked down, examining his meal, seeing the intense flavors and various, unusual textures. “I understand.” He said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jaskier turned to Lord Navelle, begging his forgiveness for the interruption. “My Lord, I have a favor to ask of you.” Geralt’s eyes widened behind him. Surely Jaskier wasn’t going to risk offending Lord Navelle over something so trivial as Geralt missing a meal.
Lord Navelle raised his eyebrows, indicating Jaskier should continue, allowing the interruption out of his growing affection for the talented bard.
“It is Witcher custom to eat only the plainest foods before a hunt so as to ensure their battle potions retain the utmost efficacy. As wonderful as this curry is – and it is a delightful treat! – Geralt asked if he might have something simple. Basilisks are a tough beast to hunt and he does not wish to add any unnecessary risk. He understands how important it is to you that this is handled with the utmost speed and discretion.”
Lord Navelle looked over at Geralt, seeing the empty plate, and asked, “is that true, Witcher?”
“Yes, Lord Navelle.” Geralt felt the words drag against his throat, dread filling him as he anticipated Lord Navelle’s reaction. Requests like this never ended well.
Lord Navelle pursed his lips before nodding. “Very well, it is unfortunate you cannot enjoy this special dish, but I would not want to interfere with your work.” He waved over one of the footmen. “Take the Witcher’s order and have Cook make him whatever he requires.” He directed before returning to his conversation partner.
The footman turned to Geralt, waiting. Geralt almost couldn’t respond, struck nearly dumb by the easy acceptance offered by Lord Navelle. Adrenaline coursed through him, deprived of an outlet.
“Anything Cook has on hand that’s simple and without spice.” Geralt managed to request and the footman nodded before running off. Another footman cleared the tureen from in front of Geralt and whisked away his unused plate.
Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt’s thigh under the table. “You all right?” He asked quietly.
Geralt nodded, surprised at how well that had gone. Jaskier had managed to save him yet again.
Jaskier squeezed his thigh before returning to his dinner, carefully angling the bowl out of Geralt’s eye line.
Shortly, the footman hurried back and placed a large platter in front of Geralt. Bread, cold meats, and plain, boiled vegetables were heaped on it. The footman bowed, and left Geralt to his meal.
Jaskier smiled as he saw Geralt immediately dig in. “Better?” He asked.
Geralt nodded, taking a big bite of a chicken leg before pausing. He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, before turning to Jaskier. “Thank you. Again.” He looked down, ashamed. “Forgive me for interrupting your evening.”
Jaskier huffed, exasperated and fond, before saying quietly, voice pitched to be audible to Geralt alone. “Thank you for telling me what the problem was so I could help. I told you before, I want to know when something is wrong so I can help before it gets to be too much.”
Geralt still didn’t understand Jaskier’s insistence on helping him even when it was his own lack of control that was the cause of the problem. But he couldn’t deny the results – Jaskier was happy and he had an edible dinner before him. He hadn’t pushed himself to choke down the food, hadn’t risked a humiliating, public breakdown. He hadn’t had to go hungry either. gerliontold Jaskier what was wrong and the problem had been solved.
Geralt felt something lighten within him, warmth filling a space inside he’d never been aware of before. He reached out, placing his hand on Jaskier’s thigh under the table, squeezing lightly, mirroring Jaskier’s prior gesture. He leaned toward Jaskier, breathing in his comforting scent, and continued eating his simple dinner, smiling slightly as he felt Jaskier’s warm hand cover his own.
