Chapter Text
Jaskier remembered his mother strangely hazy - there were vivid memories and then ones that seemed swathed in a deep fog that he couldn’t quite see clearly. Honestly, he’d thought most childhoods were remembered that way and still found him startled when people could recount a whole year of their younger years.
His mother was intimidating - a tall, graceful woman with hair that hung down past her waist in gentle honey-brown waves. She moved with purpose always - there was calculated strength in her motions and Jaskier never saw her really strike out, not with the power that lurked somewhere within.
Perhaps the thing he remembered most was that she never spoke. There was a scar on her throat, one that he remembered pawing at when he was small enough to be held in her arms.
Jaskier had barely seen ten winters when she died after being ill for nearly three.
His father - a nobleman by birth, a man who could weave words better than the best poets of the Continent - had stood over her. Jaskier had found them when he sought his mother out after a nightmare, mouth tasting of sick after he’d retched into the bucket kept by his bed for such purposes. There was a moment of silence between the two of them - a man who had never had time for them, a man who had wielded razor-laced words around his wife, a man who held a cup--
They didn’t know why his mother died.
Jaskier insisted it was poison.
No one listened to a boy with barely ten winters on him.
When Jaskier had twelve winters on him, he fled Kerack and never spared a backwards glance.
There had been nothing left for him there, nothing save for a father who hated him and high stone walls that were beginning to crumble - the forest would have Kerack again someday , the oldest woman in the village below would rasp as she sewed with shaking hands. She had something ancient and wild deep in her eyes - she had lived in Kerack since Jaskier could remember and sometimes he thought she would live there until it fell.
Jaskier ended up in Oxenfurt with fourteen winters on him.
He was thin and his clothes were rags, but Oxenfurt was like a light in the darkness. There was music on every corner, art on every building, sonnets and poetry and life --
Oxenfurt felt alive .
Until his sixteenth winter, Jaskier struggled. He nearly died during the fifteenth when he caught fever and had to ride it out alone begging for scraps, but the spring that followed found him singing with a group of older students from Oxenfurt - they were bright and merry and when they asked him where he learned to control his voice so well, he didn’t know what to say. They called it talent, herded him towards the university where one of the lecturers made him sit and perform a few songs - and that had been that.
Jaskier became a student and then a professor - briefly - and then, most importantly, a bard.
And that-- that is where the real story begins.
+++
“Gentlemen…” Jaskier started, voice nervous -
Jaskier might have learned a thing or two about talking his way out of things, about running, but he’d never been a fighter. It just wasn’t something he’d been trained for - he’d tried to pick up a blade once and had ended up fumbling, nearly slicing himself in the process.
Best to leave it to professionals he’d decided and turned his attention to honing a silver tongue instead.
So looking down three angry men - one of which was holding a sword and talking about how he’d defiled his daughter (Jaskier hadn’t, if anything she’d been the one to pounce on him actually) - was not a good prospect. There wasn’t much he could say to wriggle free of this one and the wall behind him was cold and damp from the rain -
Melitele save him - had dying in a ditch always been his Fate, then? The fever just hadn’t taken him like it should have.
The sword pierced Jaskier’s side - somewhere below his ribs, through the meat of his middle, and it sent fire through his veins. Jaskier made a sound he didn’t think he’d ever made before -
It bubbled up from his chest, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck, goosebumps breaking over his skin as a shriek of pain ripped from his throat. He’d never screamed like that, from his very core - he’d always been loud, but not like this .
His hand instinctively wrapped around the blade and he gagged, choking on the taste of something rotten. He was pretty sure that’s not how blood was supposed to taste and he heaved, swallowing down bile past his gasping, head falling back with a thunk against the wall as he shuddered. His knees went weak and it was only by leaning his body back against the wall behind him that his weight didn’t drop to the ground.
For a moment the pain, the rot, the way the world spun - it made him think that the thud was actually him and he forced his eyes open; if he were to die, he wanted to look upon the world one more time.
Jaskier was still standing.
The man who had driven the sword through him was pale, shaking, head turned--
Jaskier followed his gaze to see one of the man’s companions crumpled on the ground. Jaskier had seen corpses before - too many on the streets of Kerack - knew the dead gazes, the limp bodies, the way color drained from them as their hearts stopped beating--
He was dead and Jaskier struggled to think past pain, past the taste of death --
The man turned back to him, twisting the sword suddenly, a look of fury - fear - on his face. Jaskier screamed and the man before him tensed, grip tightening around the blade before going slack, dropping just like the first.
Jaskier saw it this time, the way he just-- collapsed, limbs askew, eyes rolling before looking blankly up at the sky.
The sword slipped from Jaskier’s body, his hand, slicing his palm open and making the wound at his side wider as it clattered to the ground.
Jaskier wasn’t aware enough to see the last man flee, a hand smacking out against the wall behind him to support his weight as he bent nearly in half and emptied what little his stomach had in it - and then more.
Vomit didn’t help the taste in his mouth and it-- it was so much like his nightmares, like breathing in around a corpse that had been there for too long, a corpse with empty holes where the crows had taken their eyes, and no amount of sea salted air could help---
Jaskier heaved again, and again, until he couldn’t breathe, until black spots danced at the edges of his vision--
Jaskier woke sprawled on the ground covered in blood and bile with the stink of death in his nose.
No one had moved them - it wasn’t necessarily a surprise; this village didn’tseem like the kindest but he had needed to rest and--
He’d thought some songs might help, but---
Jaskier staggered back to his room at the inn and requested a bath he could not pay for, cleaned himself, wrapped his middle with the silk he’d stowed in his lute case - he’d intended to get a new doublet made when he made it to Novigrad, but---
Jaskier left the village the next day, unsteady on his feet, something prickling at the back of his mind - it wasn’t quite a whisper, but it was there. A breath just behind him, one that stank of decay, that made his lungs quiver - made him want to cry out. He swallowed it down, played his lute, sang, anything to push it down.
There was something terrible inside of him and suddenly-- suddenly his father’s angry words curled around his spine, made themselves a home where they had previously been thrown from.
And his mother - the scar-- his nightmares-- the poison--
It had been a long time since Jaskier wept , but he had to leave the road, find a place on the forest floor where he could sit, could bow his head and tremble through it, bite his tongue until he tasted blood, bite back the thing that lived in his chest - the thing that he now knew , the thing that had always lurked there.
+++
Jaskier wasn’t sure what he had wanted to happen when he approached the witcher.
He knew of their kind;they’d been the subject of a few songs back in Oxenfurt, ones that painted them as monsters; inhuman mutants with no hearts.
The Butcher of Blaviken looked nothing like that - shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the crowd, back to the wall--
That was defensive.
Jaskier would know.
So the bard approached the witcher, sauntered up as if he had all the confidence in the world. He could feel his breath pushed from him, tamping down on a cry that wanted to escape - it had taken a while to get hold of whatever he had set loose that day he was attacked, but for the most part Jaskier could wrestle it back down below his lungs.
The nights he woke up screaming were usually in the middle of a forest with only animals around - or monsters, though he’d had awfully good luck in that he rarely ran into one.
The witcher looked up from his ale - he could not be less interested in expression if he tried, but there was a spark in those golden eyes. Just a little one - intrigue, perhaps, or annoyance. Either way, it was enough to egg Jaskier on, eyes darting over the man’s expression as he watched him for responses--
(In a small, quiet way that Jaskier would not admit to he had almost hoped that the witcher would recognize the thing that lived in him, the thing that homed itself below his ribs. In a small, quiet way Jaskier almost hoped the witcher would name it, would name Jaskier - would give him an answer even if it meant facing a silver sword for it. Jaskier had killed men - unkind men, but men all the less - it might be what he deserved were he to ask Fate.)
Geralt was not as guarded as he thought if one knew where to look - perhaps it was just Jaskier, perhaps it was just Fate, perhaps it was--
The witcher was lonely.
Jaskier was desperate.
And so Geralt got a new traveling companion - at least, for his brief adventures. Jaskier tried to avoid camping with the not-quite-man if he could, even if that meant missing action, meant making the excuse to sleep in an inn when he had no intention to do so--
He could not risk harming the witcher with his nightmares, with the barely tamed... entity residing within him.
Geralt hadn’t done more than swat at him like he was an annoying fly and as such, Jaskier doubted that it had been found out.
He couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing.
+++
“Geralt--” Jaskier’s voice was panicked, there was no doubt about that.
It had raised in pitch, wavering as Jaskier stared at the creature before him with wide eyes.
The griffin bobbed its head, shaking itself out like a wet dog. Talons thumped against the ground as a wing braced itself, taking a lurching step towards the bard.
Jaskier raised his hands on instinct, heart in his throat, and it’s just there --
The griffin clicks, opening its beak and lifting a wing - before it pauses. It just sort of looks at Jaskier and the bard doesn’t know whether to run or not, not sure he could even if he wanted to. He felt rooted to the spot, watching as the griffin tipped its head, feathers fluffing out as it blinked at him - curiously?
It didn’t stay that way long - a silver sword sliced through one of those powerful wings and then Jaskier was running, getting as far away as possible, making a beeline for their camp. The griffin was screeching and Jaskier could feel it in the back of his throat, panting as he slid to a stop by the witcher’s pack, eyes scanning the trees he’d just come from.
The sounds of a scuffle died out and it only took a minute for Geralt to emerge, the griffin’s head dragging behind him through the dirt, a length of rope wrapped around its beak.
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathed in relief, bending slightly at the waist, pressing his palms to his thighs as he focused on catching his breath, focused on soothing the restless presence under his lungs.
“You’re an idiot, bard,” the witcher growled, tossing the trophy to the side, just outside the circle of their camp.
Jaskier should be used to the scent of decay by now, the taste, but it never quite settled - always it would upset his stomach and he had to turn his head away from the sight of the griffin’s head.
Geralt grunted, but didn’t say more. He instead turned his attention on starting a fire, one that Jaskier slowly made his way over to, sitting himself down on the ground in front of it with a heaving sigh.
Geralt pulled a disgusting rag out of his pack, starting to wipe down his leather gloves, eyeing Jaskier all the while.
It took nearly ten minutes of Geralt cleaning up the more essential items - with the same disgusting rag, honestly how did he exist like this - before Jaskier cracked. “What?” It came out more like a snap than he’d intended for it to and he flinched at himself, licking his lips and trying to ignore the urge to apologize. Geralt had done far worse than raise his voice a tiny bit - but then again, Geralt’s voice didn’t also have the ability to hurt people.
Jaskier was going to spin himself into a mess if he didn’t stop thinking so he instead turned his gaze onto Geralt, who was now wiping his blade with the already damp rag. It was nearly pointless in Jaskier’s eyes - the rag was wet with blood already from the gloves, it was more like he was just pushing it around on the blade than he was actually cleaning it - but it wasn’t Jaskier’s place to say anything about swords he didn’t think.
Geralt rumbled a soft noise in the back of his throat as he met Jaskier’s gaze. They stared at each other like that for a few moments until -
“Why are you looking at me like that? I know I fucked up, feel free to launch into a lecture at any point, I know you’re holding back - or maybe you’re berating me in your head, that’s a possibility, too. Do you just not talk because they did something to your voice? Oh, you know-- Geralt, I--” Annoyance twisted into concern - he’d never thought about that. Had the mutations done something to his voice? Made it hard to talk? He didn’t get a chance to chase that thought because Geralt spoke up - finally.
“You smell afraid.” Geralt said in that low, rolling voice of his and Jaskier hummed -
“Probably because I was?” Jaskier tipped his head a little.
“You smell afraid a lot.” Geralt corrected himself as he paused in cleaning the blade to lean back a little. “Yet you did not run. Or scream.” It didn’t sound like a question, but Jaskier had known Geralt long enough to know that one lingered in those words. He frowned, hesitating a moment before opening his mouth. He closed it soon after, uncertain of what exactly he should say.
“I couldn’t decide if running would be the best idea and screaming didn’t seem like it would help.” Jaskier muttered, turning his gaze on the fire and narrowing his eyes. His fingers fidgeted, picking at his sleeves to give them something to do.
Geralt rumbled a low noise somewhere in his chest and Jaskier could feel his golden gaze burning into the side of his head. It didn’t last long, Geralt turning his attention back to his blade and exchanging his rag to instead work on sharpening the blade. The rhythmic metallic sounds - ones that Jaskier had oddly gotten used to - soothed him enough to relax the tension between his shoulders.
Geralt didn’t ask him again that night.
+++
The wilds of Velen were the worst.
Jaskier didn’t know why, but the forest made the part of him that wanted to shriek wake - it felt like trying to get a caged predator to lay down, to accept their captivity. In short, it rarely worked. It was those days that as soon as they reached an inn at some tiny little village he’d down at least two ales and spend coin that he should save on whatever treat they had - something baked, sugar, honey, anything to ease the putrid taste at the very back of his throat, one that kept creeping up over his tongue.
On those days he sang and laughed uproariously - made loud noise to at least appease it, to settle it enough that it would accept his clumsy attempt at satiating it.
Geralt would watch him from the corner of the inn if he wasn’t out hunting the latest creature, back to the wall, his gaze burning a hole through the back of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier didn’t like that gaze - if Geralt knew something he wouldn’t say anything that the knowing silence was worse than harsh words.
In a tiny village outside of a swamp, Jaskier couldn’t hold it any longer. Geralt had come back from a hunt for drowners covered in swamp mud and blood, soaked to the bone. Jaskier paid for a bath with the coins he’d gotten from his performance and after the witcher’s hair had been cleaned, he fled the room with the excuse that he was going to retrieve some extra soap.
When he returned to the room, it was nearly the middle of the night. His throat was raw and sore - there was a rancid taste in his mouth that had only been eased a minor bit by the sugar cubes that he’d tucked into his pockets for situations like this. It hadn’t helped, but on the other hand, he wasn’t vomiting so perhaps he ought to look on the bright side.
If there was one.
The room was dark and Jaskier truly thought that the witcher was sleep - he hadn’t stirred at all as Jaskier walked into the room so he had honestly thought he was good.
“Jaskier.” The gruff acknowledgement made Jaskier nearly jump out of his skin, his heartbeat in his throat as he gasped quietly.
“ Gods .” Jaskier breathed pressing his hand to his chest. “Geralt. Gods, warn a man.” He mumbled, leaning back against the closed door to their room.
Geralt made a low rolling noise.
Jaskier stumbled his way over to the second bed, fumbling his boots off and trying to ignore the air of expectation lingering in the room ementating from Geralt’s bed.
“Where?” It wasn’t even a full sentence, but Jaskier knows what Geralt’s really asking - which is a string of questions much longer than one word.
“I just needed a walk.” Jaskier muttered, exhausted. He fell into his bed facefirst, doing little more than shed his doublet. He’s tired and wanted to rest.
“Did you try to find the drowners?” Annoyed. Low. Angry?
“What?” Jaskier slurred in confusion.
“You smell like rot.” Geralt muttered and Jaskier froze. He didn’t know what to say to that, his heart in his throat again, fingers curling in the thin blanket he had wrapped around himself.
“You never describe them well enough.” Jaskier responded, lying through his teeth. Geralt grunted.
“Don’t do it again.” The witcher growled, and then rolled onto his side, facing towards the door. Jaskier hated that it made that stubborn warmth rise in his chest.
Jaskier didn’t say anything, didn’t want to risk saying something that would change everything in the worst way - instead he forced himself to calm down, to steady his heart in the way he’d had to learn how.
It was easier when he’d had a release.
Jaskier succumbed to sleep only moments later, too used to forcing himself under.
+++
They were halfway to Novigrad when Geralt tensed, bringing Roach to a halt.
Jaskier stopped, opening his mouth to speak and finding that Geralt had raised a hand to tell him without words to be silent. Jaskier thought about telling him off for such a movement, but then something broke in the underbrush and Jaskier tensed, eyes scanning the road around them.
The road had always been a dangerous place to be, but more so with a witcher - some attacks were not even to loot them, it was simply anger and hatred. Jaskier tended to hurl insults from the sides while Geralt fought them off on those days - once, memorably, he’d kicked a downed man in the side and spat on him. How does it feel? He’d snarled, and did not look at Geralt as they continued down the road. Geralt had never asked, but Jaskier had offered - further down the road - you shouldn’t have to deal with that.
The world was rarely ever fair, though.
As such it was how Jaskier rather lost a battle he had been fighting a long time.
The men that surrounded them were armed to the teeth, and Jaskier for a moment - just one - felt that terrible urge to scream, in some ways he’d discovered that it was a protection measure an instinct that wanted to protect Jaskier from harm. In some ways, in those moments, it felt like it was a parasite more than it was a part of him that he worked to control.
There were days where he thought maybe Geralt felt the same way - the days where he came back from a hunt with black eyes and veins, breathing like a racehorse even as he sat utterly still.
“Gentlemen -” Jaskier started, and stopped as Geralt swung down from Roach’s saddle, already unsheathing his steel blade - steel for men, silver for monsters. Would Geralt use the silver on him?
Geralt didn’t move to engage the men until one of them took a step towards them, it had been a silent offer for them to think about their actions before committing. They had and as such Geralt had as well. Jaskier should not know him so well, but he did .
It should have been easy.
It should have been over in moments.
Things rarely ever go how they should, though, Jaskier had learned that the hard and unwilling way.
“ Geralt-- ” Jaskier tried to get it out, but the bowman had already let loose an arrow that flew by the witcher’s shoulder. It hadn’t embedded itself in the witcher, but the sharp inhale told Jaskier that he’d probably gotten grazed -
Geralt whirled to take on the bowman, Jaskier could see the fury on his face, but another one of the bandits - that’s what Jaskier has to call them because who knows what they were really after, they’d not said much - rushed the witcher and Geralt had to turn his attention away.
The bowman notched another arrow and Jaskier tried not to panic despite the way he could feel it bubbling up into his throat. He breathed in and instant everything seemed to freeze -
Jaskier had a few choices, he knew that.
Geralt would probably be okay, probably - he knew him. That being said, he also knew more than anyone else that Geralt was mortal. He had seen him injured far too often - shredded flesh that miraculously healed in only a few days, injuries that would have killed a regular man.
That thought was perhaps what lurched him into motion - the image of Geralt falling to his knees, an arrow embedded somewhere vital, Jaskier struggling -
He let the panic bubble up and over, let loose, didn’t fight the sound--
Jaskier screams - it was wrenched from his throat. He’d known it was coming but to feel it was still surprised him - it did every time. He bent slightly at the waist, hands pressing just below his ribs--
The bowman goes pale, lips parting - his grip on the bow falters, brows drawing together as everyone seemed to freeze.
Jaskier tasted the decay and the swordsman clashing with Geralt dropped .
(Art provided by the amazing Daryshkart)
Geralt’s eyes snapped to Jaskier, he could feel his gaze as he struggled to get in a breath, a half scream stuttering out of him once more before he could get a handle on it. He swallowed it down as his stomach twisted.
It only took a moment for Geralt to lunge towards the bowman, a man who had gone green while a furious snarl contorted his features as he roared a sound of loss. It didn’t even last for a second, Geralt’s sword slicing through the air and taking the man’s head clean from his shoulders.
Jaskier pressed a hand over his mouth, tried to fight it back--
He could hear the sounds of scuffle - he half wondered if any of the others bandits had been stupid enough to stay and raise their weapons against the witcher.
Jaskier couldn’t look, stumbling to the side of the road to bend at his waist, emptying his stomach into the pitiful patch of grass beside the dirt of the road. He shuddered, hands trembling as he pressed them to his thighs to brace himself.
The bard breathed through it, trying to get a handle on himself, but his stomach didn’t want to settle. Panic was still a wild creature in his gut, tearing and trying to escape.
“ Jaskier. ” The witcher demanded and Jaskier couldn’t even raise his gaze, closing his eyes and humming a weak noise in the back of his throat.
In through his nose, out through his mouth -
“Jaskier, what the fuck?” Geralt snarled it and Jaskier shook his head helplessly.
“I don’t know.” He rasped, voice wrecked, “Geralt, I’m sorry , it’s only happened a few times, I don’t know --” There was a moment where he was sure he’d hear silver whistle through the air, but it never comes. Instead, something almost nearly as shocking happened -
Geralt’s hand landed on the back of Jaskier’s neck, squeezing on the edge of too hard. Jaskier inhaled sharply - “Calm.” The witcher rumbled and Jaskier’s tense shoulders dropped as he sucked in his real first breath since the men had surrounded them.
“Easy for you to say.” Jaskier managed to grind out and to his surprise, Geralt snorted. He turned his head just a bit - as much as he could manage with Geralt’s hand on his neck - to look at the witcher. Those golden eyes were more worried, more kind, than he had expected.
“Calm.” Geralt requested again, as if it was something that Jaskier could summon. Somehow, it actually worked to a degree. “Won’t hurt you, Jaskier.”
Jaskier made a quiet, almost wounded noise as he closed his eyes.
“Ah.” The bard muttered, and it took nearly five minutes for him to calm himself enough to straighten up - which is when Geralt dropped his hand from the back of the bard’s neck.
+++
Geralt hadn’t stopped watching him yet.
They’d made it only far enough down the road for Geralt to deem it safe enough for them to set up camp - Jaskier had been unsteady on his feet the whole time. Something felt fundamentally wrong and right all at once, like something that clicked into place into him but in a bad way.
“You didn’t smell like rot because of drowners.” Geralt said, about the time that he was pulling jerky from his pack. Jaskier hated jerky, but truthfully he wasn’t just he wanted Geralt out of his sight right now -
For more reasons than one.
“I didn’t.” Jaskier agreed and there was a moment where Geralt pulled a few pieces of Jerky for Jaskier, holding them out for the bard to take afterwards. Jaskier did without a thought, biting into a piece and chewing if just to keep his mouth occupied from saying anything stupid.
“It’s you.” It wasn’t a question, but Jaskier knew what Geralt meant. Jaskier nodded, grimacing a bit.
“I didn’t realize until I started on the road, you know.” Jaskier told the witcher as he chewed on his bottom lip, eyes locked on the prepared area where Geralt would light a fire when evening wore on and took the sunlight with it. “Got stabbed.”
Geralt eyed him - “The scar on your side.” He murmured and Jaskier nodded slowly.
“Screamed then, for the first time since I was a kid and-- and that happened.” Jaskier spoke quietly. “I got-- sick a lot when I woke up from nightmares and-- my mother, she had a scar--”
“Jaskier.” Geralt started, voice just as low as the bard’s, the witcher’s back suddenly straight as he sat to attention.
Jaskier looked over at him in question.
“Where are you from?” Geralt really asked .
Jaskier’s brows furrowed and he frowned. He had never willingly told anyone else that, never knew how far rumors and information reached from-- “Kerack.” Jaskier gave up, the sound foreign on his tongue. It had been so long since he had uttered the word out loud.
“Kerack,” Geralt repeated flatly, staring at Jaskier with a peculiar look in his eyes that he had never seen before.
Jaskier nodded once and turned his gaze away, unable to take in the sight of the witcher any longer. He took great interest in eating his jerky, then, eyes on the grass between his feet.
“Julian?”
Jaskier flinched on instinct, his breath catching in his throat as his pulse thundered in his ears. He curled his hands into fists, closing his eyes and making a rough noise in the back of his throat.
Geralt made a deep noise of his own and then there was suddenly a presence dropping himself down beside Jaskier on the fallen tree Jaskier had claimed as his seat.
Jaskier tensed in muted shock, unable to even turn his head.
“I knew of your mother,” Geralt rumbled then, and there was something almost mournful ther.
Jaskier grit his teeth.
“Because she was some sort of monster?” Jaskier prompted, voice far more bitter than he had intended for it to come out.
“Yes.” Geralt answered bluntly - “As a human might define it.”
Jaskier finally found the strength to turn his head and look at the witcher insilent question.
“Banshee,” Geralt answered, and Jaskier blinked slowly.
“That’s-- a myth,” Jaskier tried, but even as he said it knew he was wrong.
“Hardly. They stay hidden from prying eyes. Private. Easily swayed by beautiful words,” Geralt murmured, eyes focused on a far point, slightly unfocused. Not an ounce of threat in his posture.
“Beautiful words,” Jaskier scoffed, jaw clenched.
“Your father was talented at speeches,” Geralt informed and added, “No matter what was at his core.”
“A piece of shit.”
“Hmm.” Geralt acknowledged.
“He killed my mother,” Jaskier said aloud for the first time in at least a decade. “And--”
“Took her voice,” Geralt answered with a slight nod, turning his gaze on Jaskier. “I knew of her,” he said again, and Jaskier shook his head a little.
“A banshee with no voice,” Jaskier muttered.
“She was bound to him.” Geralt said deliberately , his gaze falling to the forest floor as if-- as if he were ashamed .
“You met her,” Jaskier breathed, straightening up himself. Geralt nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured, “There are some magics that are too powerful to break.” He said, slowly.
Jaskier didn’t know what to do with this information, couldn’t find an appropriate response. He just felt-- drained. He slumped a little, shoulder pressing up against Geralt’s side - the witcher didn’t move away from him, allowing the contact. Perhaps as part of his apology.
“Is there a way to control it? Target it?” Jaskier asked abruptly.
Geralt hesitated - “In a way.”
Jaskier waited and when nothing else came, he bumped his shoulder against Geralt’s side with a little bit of force. It didn’t even jostle him.
“Tell me.”
It took Geralt nearly five minutes to make up his mind before he did.
+++
The forest was--
Wrong.
Jaskier couldn’t tell how or why, but something was just on the side of not-right. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as they walked.
The trees were beautiful, there was no denying that. Their leaves were thick and green, some bending slightly at the top, bowing their heads together - Jaskier thought he might hear them whispering if he tried hard enough.
“You know, maybe we should not do this--” Jaskier started, pursing his lips as he trailed after the witcher where he walked beside Roach. “I’m regretting insisting--”
Geralt snorted - “As you usually do.” It startled a half laugh from Jaskier’s throat and he let out a shaking breath.
Jaskier shook his head, turning his gaze away from Geralt for a few moments - it wasn’t more than a few seconds, but he ran into the solid wall of Geralt’s back. He grumbled, rubbing at his face as he circled around Geralt to peer into the forest, blinking in surprise as a man stepped forward - he seemed to melt right out of the trees, appearing before them with hardly any noise.
“Geralt of Rivia.” The man greeted, with a smooth voice. His long hair fell in loose waves around his shoulders - it nearly reached his lower back and he wore loose, flowing silks. He was-- beautiful. In a way opposite to Geralt entirely. He was lithe and tall, all flowing lines, really. Jaskier gaped for a moment, forcing himself to pick his jaw up off the ground when bright green eyes turned on him.
The man cocked his head to the side and Jaskier swallowed thickly. The motion was a quick one, like an animal hearing an intriguing noise. It made his skin prickle under the stare.
“Ah.” The man said and smiled - it was worse than Geralt’s smiles (though Jaskier liked Geralt’s smiles now), all snarl, all animal showing off canines that could tear. Jaskier shivered. “Julian.” The man greeted and Jaskier’s eyes didn’t leave the man’s face even as he reached out a hand, offering it in greeting.
“Jaskier, actually.” The bard corrected, quietly, and the man hummed in surprise, brows rising.
“Jaskier, then.” The man corrected and then, “I am Arel. And I do believe I know why you’ve come.”
“Right.” Jaskier muttered, and found himself pressing his side up against Geralt’s for reassurance. The witcher did not push him away - Geralt certainly found ways to still surprise him.
“Come on.” Geralt murmured, clicking at Roach and urging her into a walk. Jaskier’s side bumped with Geralt’s as Arel dipped his head and turned to lead them further through the trees.
The trunks grew wider as they ventured further in, until sunlight only dappled the forest floor. It was quiet here, only the occasional bird call - perhaps a rustle here or there - disturbing the sound of wind through the leaves. It was… oddly unsettling. Worse than the sound of a monster - at least then Jaskier knew what lurked in the woods.
The trees thinned out quite suddenly and they stepped into a clearing - Jaskier would have said it was magically made by how the trees curved around the quaint cottages in a wide circle. He breathed out a surprised noise - this, too, was beautiful. Too picture-esque, though. Hiding something.
“Welcome to what should have been your home.” Arel said with a slight wave of his hand. His voice holds some kind of contempt and Jaskier shivered despite understanding that it was not aimed at him.
Geralt hummed softly. “You’ll be safe here for a while. They will help you.” The witcher said it calmly and Jaskier whirled on him in surprise.
“I’m sorry, you’re leaving me here? ” Jaskier snapped.
Geralt blinked slowly, frowning a bit. “Yes.” It sounded like a question.
“Alone? Really? Are you serious?” Jaskier resisted the urge to shove at him - it wouldn’t do anything at all, so why even try?
“You’ll be fine, Jaskier. This is--” Geralt paused for a moment, brows furrowing. Jaskier watched him, trying to puzzle out his thoughts - one learns to do that with someone like Geralt. “Your family. Extended. But yours . You will be fine. They are-- good.” The witcher’s voice was gentle, some part of it holding a note he wasn’t sure he recognized in the gruff voice - perhaps jealousy .
You’re good, Jaskier could feel hysteria bubbling in his chest.
“Geralt--” Jaskier started, but the witcher pulled himself up onto Roach’s saddle, settling in.
“Take care of him.” Geralt said, meeting Arel’s gaze unflinchingly. Arel gave a slight nod, giving the witcher a genial quirk of his lips.
“Of course, Geralt. Safe travels, witcher.” Arel murmured.
“Geralt, hang on-- wait a minute--” Jaskier tried, because it suddenly felt like he didn’t have much of a say in things and that also felt wrong.
“We’ll meet again, I’m sure. You have an uncanny way of locating me.” Geralt snorted, now looking at Jaskier. “Go, this is where you belong.” And then the witcher turns Roach around and prods her sides with his heels, sending her into a canter that leaves Jaskier staring after him.
I belong with you , he wanted to scream.
And he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.