Chapter Text
“Can we please witcher in some vineyards next year?” Jaskier asks with a whine, kicking a stone. For all that it’s out of peevishness, however, he’s careful to direct it well away from being at risk of hitting Roach. Geralt looks to him briefly, the bard walking along as steadily as ever while Geralt rides. It’s getting close to when he should call them to a halt for the sake of Jaskier getting to eat something and rest his feet, but Geralt wants to get a bit more distance for the day.
“‘We?’” Geralt asks, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“Yes, we. We’re a double act, you and me. And I think our double act deserves good wine next year between all of the witchering.”
Geralt doesn’t respond, and Jaskier sets off on what sounds like it’s going to be a long argument about how bards who do excellent work deserve to be spoiled with tasty wine and food that Geralt tunes out. It still fills him with a wild sense of disbelief, Jaskier so casually referring to the fact that he’ll still be with Geralt next year; it has since their first fall parting, when Geralt had been convinced he’d never see the bard again, only to be jumped on in spring in a wild attempt at a hug that had ended with Jaskier backhanded into a table of cabbages entirely on reflex.
Their meetings since then have gone more smoothly each spring, even as Geralt has still had at least a little doubt about them even happening up until the very moment that they do. It’s fall now, and they’re due to part again within the month, Geralt to travel to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier to travel to wherever it is he goes when he’s not following around after a witcher and getting himself into mischief. The bard is always in relatively good spirits when it happens, insisting on a hug and sneaking in a kiss to the cheek the past two years, trotting off along the road with his usual good humor to wait until they meet again.
“So what’s the bet?” The change in the cadence of Jaskier’s voice is Geralt’s signal to tune back in. Even with his limited foreknowledge of the track of thought Jaskier’s been following in pushing his vineyard agenda, the question seems to be a non-sequitur, even by Jaskier’s standards, and Geralt doesn’t actually know what he’s referring to. The bard seems to sense this in the silence and continues.
“Vampire? Fiend? Goblin? What do we think we’re going to find at this village you’re insisting we go to?”
The ‘you’re’ of that question comes out a bit pointed. Jaskier hadn’t wanted to take on this contract that isn’t really a contract at all, uninterested in wandering far away from civilization for a problem they haven’t even been asked to handle, but Geralt had insisted. He’d heard vague whispers from a few villages over about disappearances, and despite the lack of details, he’s done this job long enough to have a sense for when it involves something he deals in.
“I’ll know when we get there,” he tells Jaskier, who sighs and looks skyward, evidently in supplication to some deity.
“No imagination on this one,” Jaskier tells the sky before he looks back to Geralt. “You’re just no fun at all, do you know that? You could at least play the game with me.”
“What game?”
“The guessing game. Keep up, Geralt. We’re going to a mysterious village with a beast we know nothing about other than the fact that it makes people vanish. Perfect guessing game material.”
“Witchers don’t play guessing games.” Witchers know what they’re dealing with, or they die finding out.
“‘Witchers don’t play guessing games.’’’ Jaskier says in a terrible impression of Geralt’s voice. “I would like to remind you, dear heart, of the lovely hour we spent playing ‘I spy’ at the harvest festival last fall. You, a witcher, most certainly do play guessing games.”
“Only when drunk,” Geralt defends, and Jaskier laughs.
“Well, you did bet yourself that you could down an entire bottle of schnapps without needing to take a breath.”
“You bet me to do that,” Geralt corrects, and Jaskier gives him a cheeky smile.
“Hm, not how I remember it. Or how I’ve told people about it since.”
Geralt rolls his eyes and nudges Roach faster, leaving Jaskier behind in a cloud of dust and grumbling.
It’s a relief, frankly, to be able to joke with the bard, even if he doesn’t want to discuss drinking games he may or may not have started. He’s felt tongue tied ever since fall set in in earnest, the leaves changing and the nights cooling down significantly. It’s going to be time for them to part soon, and Geralt feels every minute as it slips away, bringing them closer to when they’ll have to say goodbye.
This year, he doesn’t want to say goodbye.
It’s an idea that’s been dogging him for a few years now, the idea of inviting Jaskier to Kaer Morhen if he wants. It sends a mix of anticipation and unease through him, the idea of taking Jaskier back to the closest thing he has to a home, to see the bard interacting with the other Wolves, exploring the keep with what Geralt knows would be genuine enthusiasm.
Now if he could just actually manage to ask.
It’s been on the tip of his tongue a dozen times, even more frequently in recent weeks.
He’s running out of time now, and it only makes the pressure feel worse. It doesn’t even make sense to be as worried as he is. This is Jaskier, for gods’ sakes, the one person in the world who Geralt knows better than anyone else. The one person in the world who knows Geralt better than anyone else. He’s seen the man naked hundreds of times and had the bard’s hands on his bare body washing and tending him hundreds of times in return. It’s beyond stupid to feel shy about inviting him back to Kaer Morhen.
If it weren’t for the fucking feelings Geralt’s become aware of developing against his consent, it would be easy.
He can’t place a date on when his thoughts about the bard had shifted from annoyance to fondness, but it had still happened without any effort on his part. With the years, they’ve only gotten sickeningly softer, to the point that his brothers now tease him each winter about mooning over the man. He absolutely does not moon, but he does miss Jaskier when they’re apart. Annoyingly, he’s at his happiest when Jaskier is at his side. The world somehow seems brighter when he has the chatterbox beside him, talking his ear off about any and everything the second it crosses the bard’s mind. Jaskier feels like home now, like there’s nowhere else Geralt should be than with him.
It’s fucking obnoxious, frankly.
It’s been on the tip of his tongue the past five autumns to ask Jaskier to come with him, but he always stops himself at the last minute. He worries about what Jaskier would think of Kaer Morhen, of the closest thing Geralt has to a home. He worries that Jaskier would find it lacking, and as much as he decries otherwise, the bard is not a good liar. Not to Geralt, anyway. He doesn’t want to have to look at Kaer Morhen through a critical eye, and Jaskier, connoisseur of the finer things in life, is sure to have a developed view of what a home should and should not be.
He also worries, which he admits only to himself and only occasionally, that Jaskier will say no.
He’d already set up the perfect opportunity to finally ask, letting Jaskier drag him along to a market to pick out some wine and foods to have as a picnic near some cliffs to watch the sunset a couple of weeks ago. It had been an ideal setting, the world painted in soft pinks and golds. Jaskier had seemed to almost glow in the light, his face happy and relaxed from wine and getting his way (as if he didn’t regularly). Geralt had even had his mouth open to finally give voice to the question, to get it off his chest one way or another.
Still, the sun had set, and the question had remained unasked, Geralt too afraid of ruining a perfect memory with a rejection.
For all that the bard has always seemed enthusiastic about learning more about Geralt’s life, there’s a difference between adventuring with him across the continent and being snowed into a drafty keep for an entire winter. Geralt knows his brothers want to meet Jaskier, but he also doubts the bard would find them the sort of audience he’s accustomed to. He knows exactly what Jaskier would be giving up for a season in order to go with him, and he has a horrible suspicion that it far outweighs anything that could make him want to say yes.
Even lost in thought, he immediately sees the shine of the sun reflecting on a smooth surface, a sparkle that seems to swing slightly. He squints in the hopes of getting a better idea of what it is before he gets too close, but the sun is facing him, and it limits how far he can see. He looks over his shoulder to Jaskier to find the bard animatedly talking to himself–insults to Geralt himself if the body language is anything to go by–and debates between waiting for him to catch up and going ahead to check on the potential threat. If the shine is something they should avoid, it would be helpful to know before Jaskier gets too close, but he also doesn’t want the bard too far away from him in case they do need to make a hasty retreat.
Whatever the reflection is, it appears to be stationary in distance even if it’s swinging slightly, so he decides to let Jaskier catch up so they can investigate together. When the bard sees him waiting, he shifts into a jog to get to his side faster, well-trained enough to recognize when Geralt wants him close for something.
“What’s happened?” He asks once he’s in range, and Geralt gestures to the reflection with his chin. Jaskier squints but doesn’t appear to have much luck. “To scare birds away?” Jaskier guesses, and Geralt shrugs.
“Maybe,” he allows, and nudges Roach into motion again, keeping her pace slow enough for Jaskier to keep up easily. If they will need to make a quick retreat, he doesn’t want the bard already tired.
He keeps one hand free to draw a blade in case he needs it, but when he finally draws close enough to see it, it’s more puzzling than threatening: a lantern.
One lantern of many, he sees once he’s crested the hill, a long line of swinging glass reflecting light. He looks down to Jaskier, who observes the lanterns with a crinkled brow.
“Is this for a festival?” He asks the bard, who has a much better grasp on which festivities require which rituals, but Jaskier just shrugs.
“Not for any of them that I know of.” He walks forward to tap at the lantern with a finger, and Geralt allows him, not feeling any vibration from his medallion to suggest that it’s a bad idea. He turns back to Geralt, looking puzzled. “Maybe a local tradition? Something something welcoming light back something something darkness of winter?”
Geralt shrugs and dismounts to investigate the lantern himself, Jaskier moving back to stand by his side as if to offer a second opinion if needed. It’s a well-crafted lantern, the glass smooth and perfect, unmarred by bubbles or uneven blowing. It’s the work of a craftsman who knows their work, small etchings in the shape of apples around the base of it. It would have been expensive to produce.
Which makes its current presence even more confusing.
“It’s still full of oil even though the wick is burnt,” Jaskier observes, “so whatever it’s for, it apparently hasn’t been used yet today.”
Geralt makes a noise of acknowledgement, rubbing his thumb along the curve of one of the glass apples. He walks with Jaskier to the next one and finds a nearly identical lantern, still expertly crafted and ready for lighting.
“I vote we steal some, turn around, and sell them for a profit,” Jaskier proposes, a note of unease in his voice even beneath the joke. “Thoughts and feelings?”
“We keep going,” Geralt says, remounting Roach and giving Jaskier a look, knowing the bard’s tendencies around pretty things he wants. “Do not steal any of them.”
“One?” Jaskier says hopefully, fingering the metal handle thoughtfully.
Geralt doesn’t respond, nudging Roach into motion.
Jaskier pulls an unhappy face, but he follows obediently, leaving the lantern swinging slightly in his wake.
*
They reach the village around twenty minutes later, a group of well-kept buildings clustered around a central square. It looks to be an unusually prosperous community for one so far from any other signs of civilization, the villagers well-dressed and cleanly kept, the buildings sturdy, their shutters neatly white-washed. Even the thatch of the buildings without tiles looks freshly laid and pristine. Jaskier exchanges a look with Geralt at the oddity of such a place so far out of the way of anything. Usually anything this far from other towns is ragged and destitute, suffering from a lack of traffic and trade.
For all that their village seems well-kept, however, the people themselves don’t seem overly friendly. A few children run up to them with bright eyes and questions sparked by seeing a witcher–an occurrence they apparently haven’t experienced before–but the group is soon enough chased away by a woman leaning out of a window. She shuts it with a snap the second the children have been dispersed, and Jaskier wishes again that they could have just not come here. Of all of the places they could have ended up before winter, it had to be a village that hasn’t been influenced by his songs yet.
Perfect.
Still, Jaskier understands his role, and he saunters over to a group of men gathered on the porch of what seems to be a tailor’s shop. He’s distracted briefly by the bright colors within, but he makes himself refocus, greeting the group with a winning smile that is not returned in the slightest.
“Hello, my dear gentlemen,” he begins grandly with a little half-bow. “We’ve heard word of disappearances plaguing your fair village and have come to offer our aid. My name is Jaskier, famous troubadour and bard of the White Wolf himself, Geralt of Rivia.” He gestures grandly to his witcher, still mounted on Roach and looking as unfriendly around strangers as ever, which certainly isn’t helping with the current lack of welcome. “Do tell me, where might we find-”
“We’ve no beasts and no need for you here,” interrupts a man with a thick mustache, the ends of it flicking up and down with every word. “You might as well be on your way now.”
Jaskier frowns.
“Well, dear sir, I am glad to hear you’re unbothered by monsters, but we did travel a great way to get here. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a look around while we’re in the area?”
“We don’t need strangers poking about where they don’t belong,” refutes a man with thinning ginger hair, the set of his lips suggesting a mean nature, or at least a stubborn one.
Jaskier forces himself to keep smiling. It figures that they’d go on a wild goose chase instead of a grand adventure for their last contract of the year, and it’s only made worse by the unfriendly locals.
“Well then, in that case, perhaps you could simply direct us to a place where we might find lodgings for the night. I dare say it will be too dark soon for us to brave the woods with winter’s chill coming so soon.”
There’s a general noise of dissatisfaction at the idea of them staying, but apparently a consensus in their favor is reached. Mustache man, evidently the leader of the small group, steps forward, gesturing down the road, which appears to be the high street of the community given how many buildings face it.
“Follow the road to the corner next to the oak tree, then take a left. We’ve a small inn.” He gives Jaskier a severe look before flicking his eyes briefly to Geralt. “Mind you’re gone soon as you’re able. We’ve no need for more mouths to feed this close to winter.”
It’s a rude thing to say, and puzzling given how well-off the village seems to be, but Jaskier decides not to pick a fight about it. He wouldn’t mind a bit of verbal fisticuffs to blow off some steam, but he would mind having to camp in the woods, especially when Geralt would likely punish him for starting a conflict by not letting him sleep close to steal his body heat. He bows to the men again, jumping easily from the porch and returning to Geralt.
“Thank you, my good men, for your warm hospitality and heartening good cheer,” he calls back, ignoring the low warning noise Geralt makes at him at the sass.
“They started it,” he says under his breath, quiet enough that only Geralt can pick it up.
The witcher just makes another warning noise as he guides Roach down the street.
*
The inn, a small white-plastered building painted over with flowers in a pattern that Geralt knows Jaskier must be delighted with, is easy enough to find, a sign dangling above the door with The Spring Blossom written on it neatly next to a painting of what appears to be an apple bloom. Geralt dismounts and ignores the looks they get from the people passing by. Thanks to Jaskier’s effort towards the issue, it’s been quite some time since he’s been to a village so suspicious of him, and it’s one of the even rarer situations in which even Jaskier doesn’t appear to be welcome.
He’s hesitant to let the bard out of his sight given the general energy of the villagers, but he’s even more hesitant to hand Roach off to the wide-eyed boy who comes up to serve as stablehand. He nods to the inn.
“Go get us a room, and I’ll meet you,” he says, trusting that he’ll be able to hear any trouble if it arises. Separating might also give Jaskier the chance to get some more information from someone not distracted by their mistrust of a witcher. It’s a technique they’ve used before, and he trusts Jaskier to fall into it without needing to be asked.
Jaskier gives him a playful salute and moves to obey the direction as Geralt walks to the stable, pushing past the boy, who lets him go meekly. The inside of the structure is reflective of the prosperity of the rest of the community: clean, dry, and well-appointed, with a wall of sparklingly clean tack and brushes. The other horses are sleek and well-fed, looking over their stall doors with interest, ears swiveling to the new arrivals. Geralt greets one with a stroke to the muzzle as they pass by, and Roach makes a warning noise to let him know she doesn’t appreciate his acknowledgement of another horse, especially right in front of her. He strokes her neck in apology. The hay is fresh, scenting the air with its sweet smell, and Roach seems pleased to be led to a stall laid with a fresh cover on the floor and a wire rack of the grass for grazing. She starts eating before he even starts to untack her, and he gives her an affectionate pat at her greediness.
“The bard’s rubbing off on you,” he tells her. “Soon you’ll be asking for a silk saddle blanket.”
Roach dismisses him with a whinny and shake of her whole body as an indication that she’d like to be left to her meal in peace. Geralt obliges, removing her tack and the bags, setting the former in an appointed place beside the stall and slinging the latter over his shoulder after he brushes her out. The trough is already full of what looks to be fresh water, but he still brings a palmful to his mouth to check, confirming that it is perfectly clean and untainted by anything that could hurt Roach. He looks to the boy, who is lurking like a shadow at the door to the barn, cowed by Geralt’s presence but apparently too curious to leave entirely.
“Is she a normal horse?” The boy calls, evidently finding the nerve to speak when there’s still a solid deal of space between them.
Geralt nods, mildly amused, and the boy takes courage from the response and edges closer.
“Is she friendly?”
“No,” Geralt tells him, “she likes to stomp children and eat their fingers.”
The boy’s eyes go wider at that, and Geralt resists the urge to snort. He passes the boy and leaves him to ogle Roach.
When he gets to the inn, he finds Jaskier leaning over the bar, talking to a pretty woman in a bright green dress. The bard appears to be putting on his best effort at charming her, but the woman’s body language shows that she isn’t receptive. Jaskier looks over at the noise of Geralt’s entry, and he catches the flicker of frustration in the bard’s eyes.
“Ah, and here’s the man himself.” He turns back to the woman, who seems to be a barmaid by the way she’s sorting glasses, scrubbing a few with a cloth before adding them to neat stacks.
“We don’t need you here,” the woman says curtly, setting down a glass with more force than necessary. She smells nervous, for some reason, which is a new thing to smell from someone interacting with Jaskier. For all that the bard is tall and well-muscled, he dresses and carries himself in a way that makes him seem entirely approachable. It’s a rare person indeed who isn’t fooled by the performance.
“Still, love, it couldn’t hurt to have a little look-see,” Jaskier says, clearly still trying to win her over. “Might as well since you’ve already got the skills of the best witcher the continent has to offer.”
“There’s nothing wrong here,” the woman says firmly, moving the glasses onto a tray. Once he’s close enough, Geralt notes that even the glassware suggests the wealth of this town. Not a single one is chipped, and all are detailed with little vines of flowers around the rim. It’s a frivolous thing for a pub to have at all, let alone to have for all of their glasses.
When the woman turns away to pick up a pitcher also detailed with flowers, Geralt looks from the corner of his eye at Jaskier, who tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement. So, the bard has picked up on the continuance of the strange energy of the town as well. Suspicion confirmed, Geralt turns back to the woman, who is studiously not looking at either of them when she speaks again.
“So really, there’s no need for your services, witcher.” She pauses and looks to Jaskier. “Or yours, bard, truly. We’ve no monsters here and no need of their stories, either. We’re perfectly happy as we are.”
Geralt sees Jaskier’s eyes narrow ever so slightly before his expression smooths out again into a perfunctory look of friendliness. Geralt steps back slightly to make himself seem less of a potential threat and lets the bard take over once more, Jaskier much more capable of ironing out whatever is happening here.
He accepts the key Jaskier tosses to him, seeing the number 4 inscribed on the tag and making his way up the stairs to find the corresponding room, the second one down the hall on the right. It’s a well-appointed space, the bed lush and the ropes beneath pulled tight, a pink basin and pitcher waiting on a washstand with a stack of clean linens beside it. There’s a mirror in one corner with floral chasing around the edge of it, and an armchair pulled beside the small fireplace has a pillow embroidered in bright purple blooms.
It looks like a room Jaskier would design, frankly, and Geralt can’t help the way it makes him smile slightly, even as he sets out the bags to begin sorting through them.
*
Jaskier makes his way up to the room around five minutes after Geralt goes up, giving up the barmaid as a loss for the time being. The woman had carried the same air of determined unfriendliness as the men, and Jaskier feels rather flustered about it, frankly. Even when he hasn’t been able to charm his way into a flirtation, he’s still always made friends easily, and having two failures in a row rubs at him the wrong way.
Still, the interactions have at least made it clear to him that they should be able to leave soon. For all that villages may not like having Geralt in their midst, Jaskier has still yet to see one that wasn’t at least willing to immediately bombard them both with their problems and demands for them to be fixed. If the people here are that determined that Geralt doesn’t need to stay, then it must be all clear.
He finds the room easily and steps inside, shutting the door behind himself and leaning against it in a performance of exhaustion. Geralt ignores his display and continues on his task, laying out his knives and testing the edges of them one by one. Jaskier tries sighing to draw his attention, but the witcher remains focused. Jaskier takes a moment to appreciate the room, charmed by its lovely decor. He eyes the pillow thoughtfully as a potential souvenir but sets aside the thought for the moment.
“They really spare no expense on welcoming newcomers,” he offers dryly.
Geralt grunts in acknowledgement.
“Listen, why don’t we just get out of here tomorrow morning?” Jaskier says in his most tempting tone. “We’ve only got a bit longer before we’re not going to see each other for an entire season. Why don’t we go do something memorable instead of hanging around a town that doesn’t even want us here?”
It’s a bit annoying, the idea of turning around and walking back the way they’ve just come and using so much of their time on travel, but he’d rather do that than watch Geralt grow frustrated at not finding what he’d expected to here, which is certainly what’s bound to happen. He doesn’t want the witcher to leave for Kaer Morhen when he’s in a bad mood and have time to simmer on it all winter without Jaskier there to make sure he gets back into a good one. Jaskier doesn’t want their parting for months to be soured by bad feelings when he already hates it enough as it is given that he’s going to miss the stubborn bastard so much.
“There’s a job here,” Geralt says, not even bothering to look up from where he’s sorting through his bag, taking stock of his potions now. Jaskier is a little annoyed that he’s not even being granted the witcher’s full attention, and his sore feet and empty stomach certainly don’t help keep his voice sweet when he speaks again.
“All evidence to the contrary, Geralt,” Jaskier says, plopping down on the bed. “If you got it wrong, you can just say so. You don’t have to try and find an evil beastie just to soothe your own pride. I’ll only tease you about it a little bit.”
“I’m not wrong,” Geralt says, fixing Jaskier with a sharp look briefly before he returns to sorting through his things, opening a jar of White Honey to gauge how much remains. “If you’re so keen to leave, you can go.”
The dismissal hurts a little bit, and it makes Jaskier feel a little mean in return. He hates that Geralt won’t just admit that he likes having Jaskier with him, despite the fact that if he didn’t, he could have left him in the dust long ago. Jaskier has long given up on Geralt returning the way he loves the witcher, but it would be nice to at least have a confirmation of being liked.
“Look, I know you’re paranoid to your bones, but sometimes weird things are just weird things. People go missing all the time. There doesn’t have to be a monster behind it for it to happen.”
“And you’re an expert on monsters now?” Geralt asks in a tone of dismissal. “I’ve been doing this job since before you were born, Jaskier.”
“Oh yes, because I certainly haven’t learned anything in my years at your side.” Jaskier is properly annoyed now and frustrated that they’re even having a fight over something so stupid. If Geralt would just admit he was wrong, they could leave this behind them and have a grand adventure before they have to say goodbye. “Just say you’re wrong, and let’s go.”
“You’re being a brat,” Geralt tells him plainly. “If I say there’s a monster, there’s a monster. If you’re not happy, then you should go.”
“Maybe I will,” Jaskier snaps back. “Maybe I’ll take myself off and find another witcher to follow around come spring. Maybe he’ll be a little more grateful.”
He regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, even before he sees Geralt’s face close over into the icy mask he presents to the world as he rises to his feet. Jaskier feels the start of tears stinging his eyes, immediately horrifically guilty at hurting Geralt just because he was in a mood.
“Geralt-” He starts, crossing and reaching out a hand, but the witcher shrugs him off, turning without a word and leaving the room.
Jaskier sways in the direction, wanting to follow as a course of habit as much as of a desire to make amends, but he’s also spent enough time with the witcher to know that a little bit of time to cool off will do them both good. He forces himself to cross back to the window seat, tossing himself down in frustration and tilting his head to look out of the window. His suspicions are confirmed after a few minutes when the clop of hooves precedes Geralt riding Roach out of the courtyard. As careful as ever with his horse, he doesn’t push her into a gallop on the cobblestones, but Jaskier knows him well enough to know that the witcher will be out for a while yet riding until he’s cooled down.
Jaskier brings his knees up and drops his forehead onto them, wrapping his arms around his shins.
“Damn it,” he says to the room at large.
Geralt’s left behind most of his belongings and rode out only partially armored, as dressed-down as the witcher ever gets when he has to be in public, so Jaskier is at least reassured that he will be coming back.
Please, gods, let him come back.
*
Once sure Roach is warmed up and the ground is clear enough to pose no hazards, Geralt nudges her into motion and lets her break into a gallop, the wind whipping through his hair and sending it snapping behind him. He leans low over her neck, feeling her respond with more speed, her body practically vibrating with excitement at the chance to run. Given how much he asks of her, it’s a rare opportunity that she gets to gallop at her full ability, and she’s clearly pleased by the chance.
He knows from the conversation with the hostler he’d bought her from that she comes from a line of racers on her sire’s side, something he’d been pleased by with the thought that it would let her have an advantage at getting away from hunts gone bad more quickly. He’d once lost a Roach to being slightly too slow to get away from a griffin that had managed to knock him down, and he’s now careful to find horses with a balance of endurance and speed. This Roach certainly has no problems moving into a gallop, tossing her head briefly in joy before she manages to push on even faster.
Geralt leans into the motion, moving with her easily after so many years on horseback. It’s tempting, the thought of letting her run until she’s taken him far beyond where he’s going to have to deal with Jaskier again, but he knows he’s going to have to go back eventually, and he savors the freedom while he has it.
It had hurt more than it should, the childish threat of Jaskier seeking out another witcher, as if Geralt was simply interchangeable with any other man mutated from childhood. It’s true, in many ways, Geralt’s extra mutations not erasing the fact that he’d been through the same process and training as every other boy who had gone through the Trials, but it had stabbed a soft part of him that he’d thought had been lost years ago, the desire to be an individual.
To be special to someone.
He gives Roach her head even more, trusting her to pick a good path. With his mind in such a tangle, he’s likely to do something like steer her into a tree and doom them both in the process.
He’s mad, at Jaskier and himself. He’s frustrated that the bard is so eager to discount Geralt’s own knowledge and read of the situation to insist on leaving, and he’s even angrier at himself for being frustrated about it. So what if the bard doesn’t trust him on this? He shouldn’t need him to.
It’s just that he very much does need him to.
“Fuck,” he says, the word lost immediately to the wind rushing past him.
*
When the knock comes at the door around an hour later, Jaskier looks up hopefully. It’s sooner than he expected for Geralt to return, but this close to their annual parting, he’d like to flatter himself with the idea that the witcher wouldn’t want to lose more time than they have to. He sets aside the bit of bread he’d been nibbling at and makes his way quickly to the door, eager to make amends.
“Geralt, I’m so sor-” is all Jaskier manages to get out before he finds a bag over his head, a heavy body tackling his to the ground. He kicks out immediately, catching someone in what feels like a groin with his knee. He has the briefest moment of enjoying a feeling of victory before a new body crushes him to the floor, pinning him even as he tries to buck like a horse. He snarls in rage and fear, managing to get one arm free. He gropes blindly for eyes, hoping to gouge them out. You can’t chase what you can’t see, comes Geralt’s voice in his head, one of many mildly concerning takeaways from the witcher’s lessons on self-defense that he’d insisted Jaskier take part in despite solid attempts at complaining his way out of them.
His hand meets soft cheek, and he digs his nails in, hearing a howl of pain and rage. He wrenches his fingers upwards, hoping to hit an eye socket, but another hand grasps his arm, slamming it against the doorway until he thinks for a moment it might be broken. He cries out in pain before he resumes trying to twist his way to freedom, but there are two bodies over him now, pressing him to the floor until he can barely draw breath. He tries to get enough air to yell for help, but a cloth soaked in something vaguely chemical comes over his mouth and nose, cutting off his supply as he tries to hold his breath. A knee to his gut makes him suck in air on instinct, and then the world goes fuzzy, fading into black.