Chapter Text
The deer tastes better than anything Jaskier has ever had once Yennefer has left their presence.
Or at least that’s what Jaskier thinks as he tears into his portion of meat Geralt had so thoughtfully skinned and roasted for him, Cirilla having had her fill first before either of the men.
Yennefer’s arrival and departure left them with much to think about.
Aretuza most certainly was not the right choice. A fortress crawling with mages is one thing, but Jaskier has no doubt there are traitors dwelling in its halls. Dragon or not, he knows now is not the time for Cirilla to be surrounded by members of the Brotherhood and possible spies with questionable loyalties. At least witchers from the School of the Wolf are as loyal as the beasts they had taken as their namesake.
The same could not be said about the fickle whims of sorceresses.
Speaking of sorceresses… “She’s just as beautiful as ever, huh?” Jaskier nudges Geralt with his elbow in a friendly jab, surprisingly finding himself not upset when the witcher grunts in affirmation because the expression tugging his lips downward looks more resigned than Jaskier has ever seen.
Like agreeing wasn’t something he was happy about.
He can’t really blame the white haired man. Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could see her beauty. Hell, if he weren’t so besotted with Geralt and didn’t have a sense of morality, he might have pursued her.
The lack of respect for privacy and general morals would become a problem though.
“She is beautiful.” Geralt agrees as he grinds the bone of the deer leg he’s eating between his sharp teeth, the snap and crack as he chews something Jaskier had gotten used to back when they first began their travels. After all, food is not always available when on the Path. Witcher's digestive systems are much stronger than that of a normal man, and while Jaskier’s own isn't one to laugh at, the truly disgusting things Geralt sometimes ate solely to keep himself going could get a little gross.
“She is,” Cirilla joins in, handing over her bones for Geralt to munch on without a second thought. “But she seems kind of... “
“Witchy?” Jaskier supplies helpfully.
Cirilla rolls her eyes at him in a way they will definitely have to have a talk about later. “Well, she is a sorceress, but the way she spoke to Geralt didn’t seem right.”
“She has always been that way.” Geralt shrugs off the comments even as his expression turns more pensive.
“She wanted to take me from you,” Cirilla points out as she casts large, sorrowful emerald eyes toward her guardian. “I just managed to find you! I don’t want to part with you for a long time yet.”
The clear unwillingness to be taken from their side brings a subtle smile to Geralt’s face, those lips Jaskier has dreamed of kissing so many times pulling back to show just a hint of sharp canines. “Hmm.”
“Speaking of mad witches and Destiny,” Jaskier says in a huff as he smooths his hands over the rough material of his bedroll, “It is way past the bedtime of young princesses. If you’re not careful, you might have a crazy witch on your arse tomorrow morning except this one will have white hair and an unfortunately limited vocabulary.” He stares Geralt square in the eye as he says this, daring the witcher to deny how grumpy he gets when his meditation is postponed.
For a moment Cirilla looks as though she wants to argue but quickly thinks better of it as her mouth stretches around a large yawn. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes from the sheer force of it. Geralt isn’t far behind her in the exhaustion department and at once, Jaskier decides the both of them need rest more than himself.
“I’ll take the first watch.” Jaskier offers as Cirilla gets herself comfortable in her own bedroll that lies between the two men, curled up into a ball to warm up. Geralt opens his mouth to argue but the bard cuts him off with a single wagging finger. “No no no, you don't get to argue with me about this one. You look like you’re barely keeping your eyes open and I am fine to stay up a while longer.” He rifles through his pack turned pillow and pulls out a worn songbook to wiggle in front of Geralt’s face.
Geralt doesn’t look convinced from where he sits on the other side of Cirilla, the draw of his eyebrows creating a crease on his forehead that Jaskier has come to associate with the sound of his own voice. Which, rude. “You can’t see in the dark. How are you going to write?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
“Do your talents include writing songs that contain actual truth?”
“It’s called artistic license, dear.” Jaskier sniffs.
The witcher turns his nose to the air and pulls in a few long huffs through his nostrils before humming and tossing a spare blanket at Jaskier who, in true form, fails to catch it and allows it to smack him in the face. “There isn’t anything within a ten kilometer radius that can harm us,” Geralt concludes. “You should sleep as well.”
Well. Jaskier has never been one to argue with an opportunity to get extra beauty sleep, though he does take a moment to listen to the sounds of the nightlife surrounding them to double check just in case. Crickets and other insects create a soothing background noise as bats come out of their hiding places and head out into the night to search for food.
There are no monsters near them.
No stomps or snarls of beasts meet his ears so Jaskier heaves a put upon sigh and acquiesces. The ground under his bedroll is rough and frankly very uncomfortable, but the warmth radiating off of Cirilla from where she’s situated between Geralt and himself is enough to lull him into a sense of peace.
If someone had told him how this day would go when he woke up this morning, Jaskier would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Yennefer since the whole mountain debacle, so it really wasn’t too far-fetched to assume she would avoid his presence like a plague every chance she got.
It was… odd, definitely, for her to just show up and suddenly pretend to care about Geralt beyond her own interests regarding the man.
Geralt is not an overly cautious man. Jaskier knows the witcher has been in much more dangerous situations than the one that prompted a visit, so why had Yenefer not deemed those instances important enough to portal herself there to check up on the White Wolf? Even when her and Geralt had… whatever it is their relationship was, he had been the one to stitch up gnarly gashes on the man. He had been the one to sneak out in the middle of the night while Geralt’s body was drugged on Swallow and mending itself to make sure the threat was truly eliminated.
Why had she not shown up any of those times? Why was today so different?
It isn’t like his chaos is much different than hers. At least, not enough for her to sense so much danger from it. It’s just… older, more ancient, tied closer to Old Magic than-
Oh.
That explains it, then.
Or perhaps she is growing a conscience, however unlikely that may be. Or maybe she decided to put more effort into showing concern for Geralt, though Jaskier doubts that very much. It isn’t common for a person so wrapped up in themselves to notice the hurt of another and try to ease that person’s pain.
The sound of heavy cloth being dragged against dirt breaks the silence of the night, accompanied by a few huffs of effort as Cirilla tries to subtly move the two men’s bedrolls closer to herself where she lay between them.
How she expected to move bedrolls with them sleeping atop said bedrolls baffles Jaskier.
“Cold, princess?” Jaskier whispers by her side, amused at the way she jumps at the sound of his voice, obviously having been under the impression she was being sneaky. To a normal human, the fire their camp emits for warmth would be barely enough to make out vague shapes in the darkness, but Jaskier can see every detail just as clearly as he knows Geralt can.
Can see the way Cirilla shivers as a gentle breeze blows through the forest.
“A little.” Cirilla admits in a quiet tone, large guilty eyes pleading with him to move closer.
And who is he to ignore the plea of a princess?
Jaskier easily scoots his bedroll close enough to hers so the cloth makes one large bedroll. He can see Geralt silently do the same on the other side of the girl, having caught onto the princess’s whims before Jaskier had.
She lays down with a happy sigh as soon as she’s wedged between them both, an arm slung around each of their own as she cuddles them to her sides. A strangled breath Jaskier knows means that Geralt has been caught off guard sounds from somewhere beside Cirilla, but the witcher melts into the contact with an ease Jaskier hadn’t expected.
Perhaps this child is doing more good for the white haired man than he suspected.
The Geralt he knew at the beginning of their travels didn’t much care for physical contact outside of battle. Even the hard earned shoulder pats and permission to wash his hair had taken a ton of convincing and maybe a little bit of crying on Jaskier’s part, so the fact he allows such closeness and even seems to enjoy it spreads something akin to pride through Jaskier’s chest.
“Comfortable?” Jaskier whispers to her as she hums in agreement, scooching a bit closer to tuck her head under his chin in a move that melts his heart, each of her breaths tickling his chest hair where it peeks out beneath his partially unbuttoned chemise. Geralt is easy to make out in the dark; dragons have no problem seeing in scarcely lit places, and neither do witchers.
Said witcher is curled up on his side behind Cirilla, his large form dwarfing even Jaskier, and Jaskier is no small man. When Jaskier had first met Geralt in Posada, the sheer size of the man crammed into that worn down tavern table made him stammer out the first pick up line that came into his head. Even when they met up again in spring each year, the sight of Geralt’s large hands and thighs were truly something to behold. The way the witcher seemed to dwarf him in presence alone despite them being nearly the same height always did funny things to his heart.
But here, laying out under the stars during a cool autumn night, Jaskier feels more at peace than he has in a while. All thoughts of Yennefer and the bad luck she brings are banished from his mind, the only thing he can focus on being those feline eyes a mere foot away from his own and how they seem to absorb what little light there is and reflect it. Pale lashes blink slowly as Geralt stares at him from over the top of Cirilla’s head, silver strands of hair falling over his shoulder like a waterfall as Jaskier forces himself to remain still and not reach out to tuck those silky strands behind the other’s ear.
He isn’t sure the touch would be welcomed. Especially not after everything that had happened between them.
A few minutes later, Cirilla releases their arms and wiggles her way down a bit to snuffle sleepily against his chest more closely, leaving Geralt and Jaskier face to face with nothing obstructing their vision.
Blue eyes clash with yellow as they stare at one another, neither willing to break the silence as Cirilla drools against Jaskier’s chest, the cold spot of fabric sticking to his skin acting as a sort of anchor for him. Eventually, as is always the case, Jaskier breaks the silence first and lowers his gaze to pale, soft lips surrounded by stubble. “Can I ask you something?”
A low questioning rumble sounds deep in Geralt’s chest. “Hmm.”
Asking sounded much easier in his head, but Jaskier is already in this deep; he may as well just go for it. “Back when we ran into each other again by the river,” he pauses to lick his suddenly dry lips, “The one with the Djinn. I never asked… what did you wish for, when you used your last one?”
He has an inkling of what it was, but in light of recent events, Jaskier pushes aside the misery his memories involving the witch bring out in him and demands the truth. A plea for Geralt to give him answers he’s gone so long without.
A plea to meet him in the middle. To put effort into fixing what had been broken.
“I didn’t use it to bring Valdo Marx an early demise, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Jaskier knows the other man is trying to soften the blow of whatever he is about to reveal, and he truly doesn’t appreciate it because it would be so much easier to just come clean.
But also, fuck Valdo Marx.
Geralt is silent for a moment before eyelids flutter over those catlike irises, and Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away from the sight as the witcher searches for the right words. Like this, bathed in pale moonlight and scouring his mind for the right thing to say, he looks centuries older than he really is. “I didn’t want her to die.” Is the eventual response. “She saved you. I couldn’t let her die.”
Jaskier releases a breath before shifting so he can rest his arm beneath his head, mirroring the position Geralt is in, though his biceps aren’t nearly as comfortable looking as the other man’s. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know. I’m… trying,” Geralt insists, clearly frustrated with his difficulty in stringing together meaningful words. They have always been a problem for him whereas prose comes easy as breathing to Jaskier.
And, like he has always done, Jaskier gives him the time and space to find the right ones.
“Yennefer is… power hungry. She’s not satisfied with anything she has, so she’s always wanting more. I… back then, if I hadn’t made the wish I did, both her and I would have died.” Geralt stresses as he attempts damage control before any damage has been done.
Jaskier simply hums in response. They both know what he thinks of the witch.
But that still doesn’t answer his question.
“Geralt-”
“I wished to bind our fates together. If she was to die, the only thing I could do to save her was tie her to myself.”
And just like that, the truth is out in the open and Jaskier feels like throwing up.
Somehow it’s both worse and not as bad as he imagined. What Geralt is saying implies that if this mad witch dies on her self appointed crusade for power, so will the witcher, and the both of them know which is the more likely scenario. Jaskier would not weep for Yennefer were she to meet an early demise, though he would be saddened, in a way. Beings with a drive as strong as hers are rare and though he hates what she’s done to their lives, he can’t deny she’s strong in her own right.
After all, who has the guts to stand up to both a witcher of legend and a dragon who has lived through the Conjunction of the Spheres without an ounce of fear?
But if the same untimely demise were to meet Geralt, however…
Jaskier would not cope well, to say the least.
“Oh.” Jaskier closes his eyes for a brief moment to pull himself together. It is said in nothing short of a whisper, a broken realization that no matter what he does, the two of them are bound together by something other than Destiny.
A Destiny that does not involve Jaskier.
Why had he not tried harder to stop Geralt from going into that crumbling house? His strength is equally matched with the witcher’s in his human form, perhaps even more so. So why had he allowed Destiny to alter their lives when he had a chance to stop it before the mess even began?
“Jaskier…” Geralt begins, yellow eyes pleading with Jaskier to look at the witcher, something the bard can't bring himself to do even as he feels their weight burning a hole in his face.
“Please don’t,” he begs, struggling to focus on the deep breaths Cirilla takes against him as she sleeps, warm and safe against his chest with Geralt at her back. “At least tell me you know how foolish that wish is.”
“It wasn’t a situation I could have changed-”
“It was.” Jaskier denies, refusing to break eye contact with Geralt. “Had you listened to me, left the witch to her inevitable demise like I advised, our lives would be much different.”
Geralt stares at him in thinly veiled astonishment, the judgement Jaskier sees in those eyes burning his insides with a vortex of emotions. “You truly would have rather I left her to die?”
That, Jaskier can’t deny. If he had known how Destiny would play with their lives like this... perhaps this all could have turned out differently. “I know I say a lot of flowery words, Geralt, but I do not say things I don’t mean. I do not lie. Her death would have been a merciful one. I have seen you put monsters and other such beings out of their misery when there was no chance to save them. Leaving that place would have been a mercy.”
Geralt looks stricken. “You really wished death upon her?”
This conversation is going nowhere at an alarming speed, though Jaskier can appreciate the effort Geralt is putting into answering him instead of closing himself off and stomping into the woods to let his frustrations out on whatever unfortunate beast he comes across. “Tell me, dear heart, what has tying your life to a power hungry sorceress done for either of you?” It’s a low blow but he can’t stop once he’s started, desperate for the witcher to see what galavanting with a sorceress as power hungry as Yennefer is doing to them both. “She’s unhappy, you’re unhappy, and I’m here just picking up the pieces every time you two run into each other.”
Why couldn’t Geralt have tied himself to Jaskier? Dragons are infinitely harder to kill than a sorceress; they could have lived side by side for centuries.
Perhaps this is what Borch meant when he said to not dwell on what could have been. Keeping his head up and looking forward to what will be doesn’t invoke the same emotions as the other. Had Villentretenmerth essentially told him to mourn his lost chance by looking toward a future where Geralt and Yennefer come to terms with one another and get to play happy families?
Oh, words were definitely going to be had with Borch when they run into each other again.
Geralt doesn’t refute the claim that they’re both unhappy with each other. In fact, he looks almost guilty. “Yennefer is a safe choice.”
Jaskier waits for more explanation. When none comes, he feels a whisper of fury and bewilderment simmer beneath soft, forgiving skin that houses his true form. “How so?”
Geralt drops his eyes to rest on the crown of moonlight colored hair splayed over narrow shoulders, that piercing gaze softening into something sad as he watches Cirilla sleep. “She’s not human. She’s… she can survive a lot of things and live considerably longer than even myself. I don’t have to be cautious with my strength around her, nor her with me. She’s… the most suited person to the life of a witcher I’ve come across in all my years of living this lifestyle.”
Hearing Geralt’s reasoning makes Jaskier’s heart hurt for more than one reason. That Geralt thinks his only chance for love lies in the hands of someone so profoundly greedy, someone so twisted by life, cuts deeper than the words themselves.
The fact he doesn’t see Jaskier in front of him, a powerful being who loves the famed Geralt the White Wolf just as much as Geralt the man, stings like saltwater on an open wound.
Never mind the fact he has been following the witcher for the past two decades without a single word of complaint. Never mind the nights he stayed up to watch over Geralt after a bad fight, keeping vigil over his injured form as the other man healed.
The look Jaskier gives Geralt is full of sorrow, tears threatening to spill from tired eyes as he offers the witcher a wobbly smile he doesn’t actually feel. “Love, if your criteria for a life partner is simply ‘immortal with a mind absolutely bereft of marbles,’ then you truly don’t know your own worth.”
This hurt so much more than Jaskier anticipated. Geralt being open and honest with him is what he had asked for, begged for, but never in his wildest dreams did he think this would cut him so deeply.
At least Geralt was giving him his wish.
The uncomfortable silence stretches on for a few moments before Geralt, surprisingly, is the one to break it this time. “...Thank you.”
Jaskier closes his eyes against a wave of tears that threaten to break free at that. It feels like so long ago when the witcher had last thanked him for something, though at that time he had been a dragon half the size of Crow’s Perch.
When was the last time Geralt had thanked Jaskier the bard?
The only instance he can recall is a time when Geralt had suffered two broken legs and a handful of cracked ribs. With her owner down for the count, Jaskier had taken it upon himself to remove Roach’s tack and pamper her with a long brush down and treats as a thank you for carrying Geralt’s dead weight from the forest of kikimores. Hell, after he had coaxed a few gulps of Swallow down the injured man’s throat, the troubadour went back out and braided Roach’s mane as a way to keep his hands busy lest he aggravate the healing process with his inability to sit still.
Geralt hadn’t appreciated the braids when he was well enough to walk, but he still wheezed his thanks when Roach headbutted his chest and jostled his healing ribs.
The memory is bittersweet.
“Can I ask you a question?” The deep voice shocks Jaskier as he opens his eyes to see Geralt turning his head to look at the sky, the sparse moonlight casting his profile in such a beautiful light that had Jaskier decided to pursue a career as an artist, he would have immortalized this moment on as big a canvas as money could buy.
But he’s a bard, and bards words are their livelihood.
“Of course.” He breathes, more intrigued about what Geralt could possibly be wanting to ask about than any consequence that can come from it. Very rarely has the other man ever asked anything of Jaskier aside from gruff orders to stay put and not get in the way.
What else could go wrong?
Geralt starts and stops forming words a couple times before he shifts completely to lie on his back, hands clasped over his chest as he reclines against his bedroll. It’s probably easier for him to ask direct questions when he doesn’t have to look the person he’s asking in the eye. “When we met again, by the river. You mentioned a Countess.”
Ah. Jaskier suspected this might come up eventually.
Just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. Geralt usually takes a good few years to truly digest things like this.
“The Countess de Stael.” The name doesn’t bring with it the misery and frustration it had back then. The Countess was stunning, beautiful in the same way Yennefer is terrifying, but she hadn’t been anything special.
She was nothing more than a distraction. Every song he wrote about her, every dinner party he played at, all of it was to forget the wolf who once confided in Jaskier that he needs no one, wants no one.
What was he supposed to do at that point? They had parted ways amicably that fall, each going their own way on their respective paths: one headed to Kaer Morhen to wait out the snow and one desperate to find a distraction so he wouldn’t tear off after the witcher.
Geralt hums in confirmation, though he looks oddly uncomfortable.
“I was invited to stay at her family's mansion for the winter and part of the spring. It was a mutually beneficial setup: I got a free room and meals if I played at her family’s parties, and she in turn got to have her parents off her back about finding a prospective husband. You see, the Countess wasn’t in the market for sausages; she much preferred the pantries.”
It takes Geralt a beat to understand what he’s implying, and when he does, a pleasantly surprised snort leaves him and his body relaxes. “Can’t believe you stayed there for an entire winter without making any trouble.”
A grin stretches his lips before Jaskier can think to tone it down. Hearing Geralt laugh in his own brutish way never failed to fill his stomach with butterflies. “Now who said anything about not making trouble?”
Geralt’s eyes roll in a show of fond exasperation. “Jaskier...”
“Oh, don’t get your smallclothes in a twist, Geralt. The Stael family’s cooks had the best fancy cheeses; they were simply to die for. The cooks never noticed the few wheels that went missing every couple weeks.”
“Unbelievable.”
“As I said before, I am a man of many talents.”
“Hmm.”
The sound of leather and linens shuffling as Geralt rolls onto the side of his hip for a moment to pull something out of his belt is the only noise for a few moments. Then, almost like if he moved too quickly the moment would be broken, Geralt holds out a dagger Jaskier never thought he would see again. Trembling hands reach over Cirilla to grasp at the bejeweled hilt of the blade, fingers brushing over thick skinned ones as Jaskier fights the urge to weep.
“Geralt, where did you find this?” He breathes in awe as he turns the blade this way and that, taking note of how well it has been taken care of since the night he threw it to the dirt and demanded Destiny tell him what the fuck she thinks she’s doing with his life.
The witcher simply offers a soft hum as an answer before he can’t take Jaskier staring at him imploringly and cracks. “Alright, alright, fine. I found it when Cirilla and I were looking for you. It had been kicked off the main path. The moon glinted off the jewel on the hilt. Cirilla was the one to find it.”
“You remembered it.” Jaskier can’t believe what he’s hearing through the rush of giddiness making his hands tremble as he carefully slips it back into the sheath he still keeps on his belt.
Geralt makes an offended noise. “Of course I did. I was the one who bought it for you.”
And well, Jaskier doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
A soft companionable silence evolves naturally between them as Cirilla makes soft noises in her sleep. The late hour and their revealing discussion finally begins to tug on Jaskier’s tired eyes, and before he knows it, he’s whispering a ‘goodnight’ to Geralt and slipping into a calm sleep.
*
Consciousness snags Jaskier from his dreams and throws him back to the world of the living with brutal efficiency.
For a few disorienting seconds, he can’t place what it was that had woken him up so suddenly. The sky is a soft pink as the sun begins to rise, the trees around them rustling with each gentle breeze rolling through their leaves.
It’s the very picture of serene.
Then a twig snaps in the darkness around them and a sharp inhalation sounds beside him, the sheer volume of it nearly shattering his eardrums as Geralt roars to life as he scrambles to his feet from his bedroll, cursing and swearing up a storm as he tries to throw up a Quen shield only to bite back a snarl as an arrow comes whizzing out of the woods and embeds itself in his upper arm before his magic has the chance to materialize.
Normally an arrow wouldn’t be nearly enough to fell the White Wolf, but the way Geralt’s body seizes up and he groans against his bedroll in agony hints that something is very, very wrong.
The scent of blood fills Jaskier’s nose and immediately he feels the itch to shift. The longer the copper smell persists, the more his mind screams that Geralt is hurt, the harder he struggles to keep his chaos in check. A feeling of dread fills Jaskier as he instinctively reaches to his side for Cirilla and feels nothing but bedroll where the girl had been fast asleep hours before.
All at once he pushes himself to his feet. A muffled whimper causes his neck to nearly snap with how fast he turns it to face the edge of the clearing and is met by the sight of the princess being held hostage over the faint glow of the campfire still roaring. A half elf with haphazardly chopped blonde hair is holding her with a knife to her throat and a dirty hand clapped over her mouth to keep her quiet. His mind struggles to comprehend how both a dragon and a witcher were able to be ambushed as ten figures step out of the shadows cast by branches and wildlife around them, each man rough looking in the way only life on the road can do to a person.
Melitele above. How had both himself and Geralt missed the sheer smell of these men? They appeared as though they hadn’t bathed in weeks and their scent was even worse. Not only that, but they managed to get Cirilla out of her bedroll between them without either of them batting an eye.
The acrid scent of lilac and gooseberries still lingered around their belongings, but that wasn’t enough to dull senses as honed as Jaskier’s. The lingering smell of powerful magic Yennefer left behind in her departure also shouldn’t have lulled them into a sense of complacency so easily.
What the fuck was going on?
“The alderman was right,” A voice sounds from somewhere near Roach at the edge of the treeline, the mare stomping her hooves and shifting around in nervousness. “Dimeritium is one hell o’ a witcher killer.”
Fuck.
Dimeritium isn’t easily found, and how these brigands managed to get their grimy hands on it and make it into arrowheads, Jaskier hasn’t the slightest clue. By all accounts it should be near impossible to get something so pricy and sparse this far North. Especially with the people who seek out their magical dampening abilities on mages. No being who wields chaos is immune to its effects, and Jaskier knows Geralt is no different. He was practically made from chaos; created to protect humanity and injected with the essence of so many monsters, the bard can’t even begin to imagine how badly it would hurt Geralt.
Is hurting him.
Panic threatens to force his body to lose control of itself as Jaskier takes in the sheer number of brigands surrounding them. With Cirilla held captive and Geralt all but incapacitated on the ground beside him, Jaskier doesn’t have the space to transform without causing injury to everyone in the vicinity. And even if he had enough room, the transformation wouldn’t be quick enough to get Cirilla away from the knife at her throat.
There were no more options.
“Ah, not just any witcher! This, my lads, is the famous Gwynbleidd!” The archer who shot Geralt grins as he comes out from the thicket to their left, his faint elvish features making his sneer all the more disturbing. The large, jagged scar that tugs on his lips from where it spans from his collarbone up and over his neck and jaw is deep; definitely made by a weapon that had nearly taken his life with how uneven the skin healed. But that isn’t his focus right now. What’s worse is the amount of arrows in the quiver slung over his back, another one already notched in his bow and aimed at Geralt.
One dimeritium arrow lodged into his witcher is enough. Two would be catastrophic.
“Forgive us, vatt’ghern, but we have no business with you or your bard.”
“We just want yer coin!” Another halfling from the right of their bedrolls speaks out, body nearly hidden by the darkness. The glint of his broadsword as he steps closer to the fire gives away his position. “An’ maybe this little lass right here. Looks about the right age to fetch a pretty penny.”
Jaskier’s stomach rolls at the implication.
“We don’t need ta sell ‘er. She’d do fine stickin around with us for a while.” A long haired halfling cheers from the other side of Cirilla as he steps around their scattered belongings on the ground. “She’s certainly pretty enough to last a while.”
“Don’t touch her. We have no coin, only food. take whatever you want, just leave her alone.” Geralt gasps like every word pains him. He clutches his upper arm where the end of the arrow sticks out of his flesh, clenching his jaw against a pained keen as another wave of agony from the dimeritium arrowhead courses through his body, a cold sweat giving his already nearly translucent skin a sickly sheen. Blood steadily seeps through the gaps of his fingers and pools in a crimson puddle on the cloth below him.
The arrow must have struck an artery.
“We don’t want yer food, ya fuckin’ mutant,” The only dwarf in the lot brandishing a bat with nails hammered into it spits as he comes closer, his long red beard unkempt with bits of leaves and twigs sticking out of it. The fire that separates them makes the dwarf’s facial hair appear to be dancing with the flames. “We know ya have coin. The town we came from said they paid you a fat sum fer killing a werewolf a week or so back.”
“You’d be wise to just give up the gold.” Another half elf speaks up from where he leans against the trunk of a tree and tosses his dagger from hand to hand disinterestedly.
“Aye,” The red bearded dwarf agrees, “If ya don’t got the gold, the money we’ll make selling ya and the girl will make up fer it. Tell me, bard, does dressing like a pompous dandy do ya any favors?”
Whatever witcher the townsfolk had paid for a contract on a werewolf, it was not this one. How anyone could mistake Geralt for some other run of the mill witcher was beyond him, but he wasn’t about to let these bandits get away with robbing and hurting them.
Especially not with what they were muttering to each other in Elder, clearly thinking the ancient language gave them an advantage as they plotted how to get the most coin out of selling them to slave drivers. Their plans for himself and Cirilla were deplorable, their intentions regarding Geralt none too pleasant either.
Jaskier isn’t surprised when the half elves begin to speak in Elder. It is the ancient language of the elves, one in which they hold dear. So no, it isn’t far fetched to hear it being spoken.
It is a mistake on their part to think a bard wouldn’t be able to understand them.
It was insulting, even, to not know how decorated of a scholar the White Wolf’s bard is. Oxenfurt was one thing, but actually living through what was taught in classrooms made him one of their top students.
Especially in the language curriculum.
The red bearded dwarf makes a move to stalk around the fire toward himself and Geralt before Jaskier makes his mind up about how to go about their rather delicate situation.
He would rather Geralt hate him than see the witcher suffer everything these brigands were planning for him, and the mere thought of something happening to Cirilla was enough to send goosebumps prickling over his skin.
”Va vort a me vatt’ghern. N'aen te a dice'n.” Don’t come near my witcher. I won’t say anything to you. Jaskier hisses at the group of halflings and their dwarf leader as he steps to the side to intercept the short man’s path, not missing the shock that overtakes their faces at his flawless use of Elder Speech.
Jaskier keeps his eyes on Cirilla’s wide fear filled ones until the dwarf is standing exactly where he wants him, a minute shake of his head all he manages for her before he mouths the words, ‘close your eyes.’
From there, it’s a bloodbath.
The first halfling to hit the ground is the one holding Cirilla hostage. With a speed he never thought he would have to use in front of Geralt, Jaskier grabs for the dagger Geralt had gifted him from his belt and whips it at the brigand in one fluid move. His aim is true as the blade makes a home for itself in the middle of the man’s forehead with a sick thunk, a gargled noise of confusion all he is able to mutter before he releases Cirilla and hits the grassy floor.
As soon as he sees Cirilla make a break for Geralt, Jaskier lets himself go.
Chaos cloaks him like a second skin as he kicks the smouldering embers of the fire in front of himself into the red bearded dwarf, the flames licking the bandit’s clothes and scorching his vulnerable skin as he screams. Bits of ash and embers get into his eyes as he makes a futile swipe at his face to wipe them away, only managing to further blind himself as Jaskier steps into the fire and grabs the man by the throat.
The fury of the flames have nothing on Jaskier as he snaps the man’s neck in one clean move and allows his body to fall into the fire pit, his emerald trousers untouched by the one fear of every living creature as he revels in the warmth of the fire for a moment.
Fire can’t burn a dragon.
All attention swiftly shifts from Geralt and his daughter to settle on Jaskier as the halfling gang’s leader is engulfed in flames, the jovial mood completely wiped from the bandit’s faces as weapons are aimed at him with shaky arms, the stench of fear so potent in the air that Jaskier can’t help but wrinkle his nose.
The ear splitting screams of the dwarf burning to death only add to the horrible experience.
“M'aespar que va'en, ell'ea?”Are you going to shoot me or what? Jaskier taunts one of the archers as none of the several remaining bandits make a move to attack him, their eyes wide with terror and hands trembling but unwilling to back down now that they’ve picked a fight they have no chance of winning.
It’s clear each bandit comes to that same conclusion as Jaskier takes a step forward and they all take a hasty step back.
How boring.
He never did understand how humans seem to finally understand their own morality when faced with certain death and yet have no qualms about putting themselves in such predicaments. These half elves were no different than any other unfortunate mortal that got in Jaskier’s way.
They collectively breathe for a second on borrowed time before Jaskier is on the move.
The first halfling he goes after is the one with the dagger. He falls with one swift drag of the weapon against his jugular, the spray of blood warm when it splatters against the skin of Jaskier’s face and soaks his clothes.
From there, the next four go down much like the last. Their own weapons are turned against them before they have the chance to attack as Jaskier darts around like a harbinger of death, blue eyes with slitted pupils not missing a single move until there are only two frantic heartbeats in the clearing that don’t belong to his witcher or the lioness.
“What, you were content with your plans for her; what about me? Caen me a'baethe?” give me a kiss? Jaskier mocks as he rounds on the long haired man who dared threaten Cirilla with becoming their captive, noting with great pleasure the darkening stain soiling his crotch area as he pisses himself in fear. In fact, Jaskier nearly laughs when the man tosses aside his broadsword and falls to his knees in a groveling position, ducking his head as he begs for mercy between choked sobs.
“P-please…oh, Gods above, please...” The half elf whimpers as his only remaining gang member stares on in shock, rooted to the spot as he watches what would have been an easy robbery turn into the worst day of their lives.
Jaskier doesn’t doubt it. Underestimating your opponent was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was threatening his witcher and their charge.
“I am no God. And even if I were, I don’t listen to the pleas of monsters like you.”
That response, delivered in a voice devoid of emotion and flat in tone, sends the man into shivers so strong they’re almost full on convulsions. “W-what… what are you?”
Jaskier releases a sigh from deep in his chest. “I’m a pompous bard, remember?” And with a flick of his wrist, Jaskier allows his chaos to flow from his fingertips and cut off the man’s airway, ignoring his strangled gasps for breath and teary eyes as he rounds on the last remaining bandit that dared threaten his hoard.
The skinny elf is easy to catch, caught off guard in his shock as Jaskier snatches him by the throat before the pureblooded elf can get a chance to make a run for it.
The red haired elf spits a strangled, “Fuck you!” as Jaskier tightens his grip on his neck until he begins to scratch at his hand to release him.
“Ire lokke, ire tedd, pherian.” Another place, another time, halfling. Jaskier replies in a dead tone as he tears his head clean off his shoulders with stomach rolling squelch. Arterial blood sprays his doublet in a macabre imitation of war paint as his two halves hit the ground, some spinal cord still attached to the head as it rolls for a bit before coming to a stop near Cirilla where she crouches at Geralt’s side, applying pressure to the arrow wound and tying a scrap of cloth from one of Roach’s saddle blankets around his upper arm to slow the bleeding.
The blood still flows from Geralt’s body; the scent of it is strong in the air, and Jaskier knows he has to be the one to dig the dimeritium arrowhead out of the witcher’s arm. With the way he can hear Geralt’s strained breaths, it’s unlikely the yellow eyed man will be able to keep a steady hand while attempting to pull the arrow out.
Jaskier stands with his back to his hoard as he struggles to calm himself down.
He knows what he looks like: pupils slitted, teeth on the wrong side of too sharp, the sickening haze of magic surrounding him as he struggles to lock away everything not human, not what Gearlt and Cirilla know him as back inside the cage in his chest.
It doesn’t work. The scent of freshly spilled blood and ash spread around the clearing are too strong to overcome. They fill his nostrils and coat the back of his tongue as hitching sobs fight their way through the haze in his mind, giving him the strength to finally wrangle his chaos back into order, though he knows his pupils will remain slitted for a while yet.
Slowly, afraid to meet the sight he knows he will find, Jaskier locks eyes with a shocked Geralt over Cirilla’s head, those yellow catlike orbs filled with so much betrayal and confusion that it makes Jaskier physically sick.
Truth be told, Jaskier has given much thought to how Geralt would find out about his draconic heritage. He had imagined blurting it out one day while they were on the road, envisioned Geralt finally piecing the hints together and drawing the conclusion on his own, had even imagined whispering it to him after a tumble in the hay.
Of all his expected outcomes, this is the worst.
Never did he believe Geralt capable of looking at him as he is now, nostrils flared and teeth bared as though Jaskier being there was simply a threat.
Never did he think his heart would shatter so quickly.