Chapter Text
The sort-of hug is unexpected. Jaskier had gone over this reunion constantly in his head. In the most realistic scenarios he’s been able to conjure, Geralt had been physically aloof, but concerned and (when Jaskier dared to hope for the best) pleased to see him. The hug is extremely welcome though. Jaskier is unable to stop himself from leaning in and resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder. He can feel the witcher’s breath ruffle the top of his head and pick out his heartbeat.
He takes a deep breath of his own and this is what forces him to pull back, far too soon, from the embrace.
“You really need a bath,” he wrinkles his nose against the scent. Geralt is rarely the most freshly smelling of men, but he’s presently giving off the strong stench of blood, mud, sweat and horse.
Geralt chuckles, and it rises through his chest, vibrating against Jaskier’s cheek. It’s enough for him to put up with the odour for a few moments more, but the smell really is that bad. He pushes the witcher off him, ignoring how his own eyes feel slightly damp.
“Bath,” he demands. “Get out of that armour, I’ll go get someone to fill the tub. I’ll see if I can arrange some food while I’m at it.”
He hurries out of the room, and if this gives him a moment to collect himself, calm his racing heart and unsteady nerves, then no one need know.
It’s an unusually subdued evening. It’s not like Geralt has ever been a big talker, and for once Jaskier is not sure what to talk about. There are too many things he wants to say whirling around his brain for him to be able to pick one out of the muddle and voice it.
Dinner is quiet in a slightly awkward, but not too uncomfortable way. Geralt seems content to just watch him and the fluttering Jaskier feels at having that amber gaze focused solely on him translates well into a little tune he starts humming. It probably has the makings of a nice little ditty, if he can find some appropriate words to go with it.
Geralt doesn’t question when Jaskier slips into the bed, obviously intending to sleep by the witcher’s side instead of procuring a room of his own. He blows out the candle and joins the bard under the covers. Jaskier lies on his side, facing the witcher, just able to make out his shape in the dark. He knows Geralt can probably see him perfectly, a witcher’s night vision being much better than his own, so he closes his eyes to try and feign sleep.
“The bath,” Geralt speaks into the darkness. “It stayed warmer longer than usual. That was always you, wasn’t it? They’ve been colder without you.”
“Yes,” Jaskier admits, his lips curling in a small, self-indulgent smile. “Only the best for my witcher.”
Geralt lets out one of his half-amused grunts, before rolling onto his back to sleep. Jaskier spends a long time just lying there, curled up on his side, enjoying the heat Geralt always gives off. He feels a small piece of himself, one he hadn’t been aware he’d been missing, return to its rightful place (between the steady beats of his heart).
When Jaskier wakes up the next morning, Geralt is already dressed for the day and has ordered breakfast. It is the smell of cooked bacon, fresh bread and kippers that rouse the bard from his slumber and he hastily tugs on his trousers and shirt to join the witcher at the small table by the window where his meal is waiting for him.
“You,” he gestures to Geralt with a bit of bacon, having already scoffed the kippers, before shoving it into his mouth. “Are a truly amazing friend.”
Except Geralt does not like the praise, he pulls back from it, physically distancing himself from Jaskier.
“It was my fault you got hurt,” he counters. “I was the one who went searching for a djinn. I was the one who released it. I…” He can’t seem to say the rest, but he gestures brusquely to Jaskier’s scarred shoulder.
“Geralt,” Jaskier tries to speak softly, but the witcher just glares angrily at him, refusing to be calmed.
“Geralt,” the bard is firmer this time. It seems the conversation they’d been putting off the previous night needs to happen now. “What happened was a shit-show of truly epic proportions. If the events in question didn’t directly concern me, I’d be happily composing a new epic song about them. But you did your best Geralt. You didn’t know what that witch planned to do with me. I didn’t know until it happened. And, ultimately, you saved me. You got me to the river in time. I’d be dead if you hadn’t managed that.”
Any comfort his speech is meant to bring is lost with that last line, because Geralt jumps furiously from his seat to march around the room. His right hand tries to clench around a sword handle that is not there, and the stubborn line of his jaw tightens angrily.
“Two years, Jaskier. It’s taken you two years to recover!”
The bard winces, because what must Geralt have thought over those two years? They hadn’t seemed all that long to Jaskier, but he’d not been very coherent for a large part of them.
When Geralt had lowered him into the river, all Jaskier had been able to feel was relief as the cool water started to numb the burning in his shoulder and chest. He could feel Old Father Pontar’s alarm the moment he was fully submerged and had been unable to resist the call downstream. He’d let himself drift apart and flow towards the summons, letting go of the pesky consciousness that was causing him such pain; trusting the arms of the only father figure he’d ever known to gather him softly to safety.
He is pretty sure he hadn’t been corporeal for several months after that. Occasionally he’d regain coherent thought and feel the mind of the Old Man brush against his own, pushing soothing thoughts and feelings towards his own battered psyche.
Old memories would seep into his dreams. He could vividly recall how he used to sit on Old Father Pontar’s lap and scrunch up his little lips into a pout so he could rest one of the long tails of the River’s moustache on the shelf he’d created between his nose and top lip, making a moustache of his own. His siblings and Old Father Pontar’s children had thought this was hilarious, the fake grey moustache contrasting comically with Jaskier’s own brown locks (maybe this was why they never took him seriously?). The Old Man’s bony shoulder would shake with his own chuckles until the moustache got displaced and Jaskier would turn up his tiny face to glare at the older god, smooshing his little hands into smiling, wrinkled cheeks.
He’d felt his mother as well; unable to properly connect with him out of her own territory, but a soothing presence in the corner of his mind.
At some point, the bits of Jaskier that flowed freely all along the Pontar had been gathered together again. Carefully nudged and guided by Embla and Duppa, as well as the rest of the Old Man’s children. They’d lent him their strength and prodded him back into a single corporeal entity, resting peacefully at the bottom of the river near Oxenfurt.
The next time Jaskier had regained consciousness though, he’d awoken in agony. They’d dragged him from the water and placed him in the most luxurious of caravans. He’d been cocooned in soft silks and furs, but every rut and bump in the road had been a torment that caused his shoulder and chest to scream in distress.
On one occasion on the journey, he’d awoken to a face full of dark hair that had caused panic to seize his limbs, jarring his injury and sending a fresh wave of pain crashing over him. But it had just been his sister; sweet, kind, quiet Adalette, whose tight, bouncy curls resembled the sorceress’ in colour only.
He’d feebly grabbed her hand, stroking a thumb along the smooth, toffee coloured skin in reassurance as she cried over him, tears dripping down her narrow face. He’d wanted to reach up and dry them, tuck her stray curls behind her pointed ears, but he had no strength in his arms for such a gesture.
“Just rest,” she’d told him. “Embla and I are here. You’re safe. We’ll be home soon.”
She had always been his most comforting sibling. He used to hide under her bed after playing tricks and mischief on Trava and Ina. While they’d torn the house apart in search of him, Adalette would sneak him treats and toys to keep himself entertained while he waited for the danger to pass. Sometimes she would crawl under her bed to join him and they’d whisper and giggle until they fell asleep in their private fort.
Those memories had comforted him and let him drift back to sleep, reassured that he was protected.
The relief he had felt when Adalette had carried him into her own river could not be described in any language that Jaskier knew. The familiar stream had welcomed him home as Mama took him from his sister and cradled him tenderly under the water, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead and whispering frantic words of love and protection into his ear.
His moments of consciousness had occurred more frequently after that, and there had always been someone there by his side to ground him in the moment. Most frequently it had been Mama, but he’d once woken to Ina scolding him for all the worry he’d caused, even as her voice trembled. Trava had also been a frequent companion filling his ears with wild stories and sharing the bald-faced lies he liked to come up with, trying to convince Jaskier they were facts (Jaskier had believed that men could also get pregnant until he was eight).
It had taken him just under a year to properly regain consciousness, to be well enough to be pulled from the Yaruga and inside Mama’s house. He’d barely stayed awake long enough to be set up in his old room, and fed some flavourless broth, but when he’d fallen asleep, it was for the night and not for days.
Over the next few weeks, he’d managed to be alert and aware for a few hours a day. He’d rasped out words of thanks and gratitude as his family had gathered around him and slowly managed to describe what had happened to him. It had hurt to see their reactions. Mama wouldn’t look at him, unwilling to show him the extent of her wrath.
“She will regret ever thinking about us and our gifts,” she’d snarled, and her voice was quiet, certain, unmovable. She’d turned back to him, face now clear of anger and brushed a kiss over his hair before sweeping from the room.
His siblings had made no effort to hide their own fury, but Trava had been able to banish it the most quickly as he’d smugly told Jaskier of the retribution they’d been enacting on the witch so far.
“Now that you’re awake and Mama knows the full extent of everything, I’ve no doubt she’ll think of her own reprisals.”
Jaskier’d never found out what it was, only knew anything had been done because of the self-satisfied faces all his visitors had worn for the week. He did not (and still doesn’t) like to let his mind linger on Yennefer (as he’d eventually learned she was called). Did not like to recollect how powerless she’d made him, how weak she had made him feel. The iron dagger in his shoulder was almost a preferable sensation to that.
He’d had many nightmares over the next several months and the water by the docks had remained unusually high.
But eventually he’d begun to get stronger and move about. He’d got a shock the first time he’d been able to move across the room on his own two legs and had caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He was old.
Grey’d been peppered all throughout his hair, while the beard he’d been unable to shave off had been completely white. Deep lines had marked the corners of his eyes and mouth. He’d been painfully thin and his back had been stooped like an old man’s.
Trava had been hovering at his side, unwilling to let his little brother attempt to walk on his own without assistance nearby. He’d seen his brother’s distress and had tried to make light of Jaskier’s appearance.
“Lucky dog, if you ever decide to let yourself grow older then at least you know you’ll be a handsome silver fox. You should have seen me when I once tried to go for an older look. My hair started to thin and fall out.”
Perhaps Trava was right. As he’d slowly gained weight and straightened his spine, the horror he had felt at his looks had lessened slightly. It just… didn’t feel like him. Or perhaps the problem was that it did? He was thirty-four, still in the prime of his life for a human and young for a god, but his bones had ached, and he was still so tired.
Mama and Ina had forbidden him from trying to do anything about it. Ina had lectured him on healing first; he could focus on his vanity later. But he’d covered up the mirror in his room and every few weeks it had been Etta who’d come and trim his new beard. She had always been the sister he was most distant from, but she shared his vanity and sympathised with his predicament (having never allowed herself to look a day over twenty-five in her one hundred years of life).
It’d been Etta whom he’d eventually persuaded to help him up from his bed and out into the city. She’d supported him (or rather had convinced two strong dock men to support him) through the streets and up to the palace. She’d been the one who’d persuaded the occupants to pay no attention to them, apart from a mousy looking servant girl who’d directed them to the right room.
She had him set down on a long couch, tucked a blanket securely around his legs and told him she’d be back to get him in a week.
He’d dozed as he waited, unable to stay alert, until a familiar hand brushed his cheek and he’d peeled open his eyes to see Mousesack’s face swimming before his own.
“Thank the gods,” the druid had breathed out in relief. “Irina told me that you would make a full recovery but without seeing you it was hard to believe.”
He had kissed Jaskier then. A slow, tender kiss that the god had found impossible to resist, allowing himself to be anchored in that moment by the warm lips on his and the sweep of the druid’s thumbs along his cheeks.
Mousesack had pulled back, grinning slightly, before diving back in for another, much filthier kiss.
“What?” had been Jaskier’s less than elegant reply.
“The first was from me,” the druid had explained. “The second was the one I promised Kate I would give you on her behalf should I see you first.”
“Ahh…” Jaskier had been dazed still. “I see you two have kept in touch while I’ve been away then.”
“Nothing official, not with my current employment.” Mousesack’d perched at the end of the couch, resting a hand on Jaskier’s ankle. “But we have an informal understanding that suits us well. She was very worried for you. As was I.” He’d paused slightly. “Irina told us what happened.”
Jaskier had just nodded tiredly.
“Ciri?” he’d questioned. “I missed our appointment.”
Mousesack had grimaced. “Not your fault,” he’d assured. “I thought it best to tell her something the week before her birthday. Give her time to come to terms with it before her party. She was very upset, but not with you. She tried to steal her grandmother’s sword. She had a whole plan worked out about how she was going to deal with that sorceress. Luckily, Eist caught her before she sneaked out of the palace.
“He was so proud of her bloodthirstiness that he didn’t even tell Queen Calanthe.” The druid had chuckled but Jaskier’d winced.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’d been injured by a powerful sorceress. That you were badly hurt but you would recover, and that this was the only thing that could keep you from your promised visit.
“Don’t worry. Somehow the Queen has been convinced to give the princess a week off her lessons. I’m sure that she'll be over here first thing in the morning.”
Mama bless Etta.
Mousesack had proved to be a much more agreeable healer than Ina. He’d let Jaskier share a glass of wine with him and had fed him a dinner that had actual flavour to it. He’d helped Jaskier to his bed and had made no mention of the way the god’s limbs shook with the effort of his day.
Jaskier had woken the next morning to a whirlwind of skinny limbs as his favourite little girl in the entire world had clambered up beside him on the bed and thrown herself on top of him. Thankfully, she’d landed on his unblemished shoulder as she burrowed her face into his neck and sobbed.
It’d taken many reassurances and songs to soothe her, and she had spent the rest of the day curled up by his side in bed, telling him all the stories of her life that he had missed.
“I was going to bring you the witch’s head,” she’d told him haughtily, an almost perfect imitation of her fearsome grandmother. “But Grandfather stopped me and Mousesack laughed at my plan, even though it was a good one.”
“What was it?” Jaskier’d asked, idly braiding the strands of her hair within his reach.
“Well, no one would tell me who the witch was,” she’d glared at the River, but he was no more likely to give her name than anyone else. The thought of Ciri facing down Yennefer had filled him with a fear so strong it tied his stomach in knots.
“So,” she’d continued. “I was going to have to find your friend first. You know, Geralt. The one you’re always travelling with because he keeps getting into trouble. I figured he must have been the one to upset the witch, which is why you got hurt. And he’s your friend, so he must want to kill her as well.
“So, once I found him, he’d be able to take us to the sorceress and I would have chopped off her head with Grandmother’s sword. See, it was a good plan.”
The simple, beautiful logic of a child.
“Uh huh. How exactly were you planning to find Geralt?” Jaskier had had to check, even thought of the meeting of his two favourite individuals had filled him with a weird combination of elation and dread.
“I was going to ask around, obviously . How many Geralts can there be?”
“Obviously,” Jaskier had muttered back, unable to contain his grin at the precociousness of the princess before him. She would make a grand queen one day.
For the rest of the week, Ciri had acted as his diligent companion and nursemaid. She’d brought him his meals, played games with him during the day, and some nights she’d sneaked from her room and wormed her way in between Jaskier and Mousesack, falling asleep with her head on the River’s chest, her favourite toy horse practically shoved up his nose.
The only upset came when the week had ended and it had been time for him to return to Mama’s. Ciri had thrown an epic tantrum, screaming and outright ordering him to stay.
“I’m your princess, you have to do as I say!” she’d yelled, small face red with rage. Jaskier had been at a loss. He’d never experienced this side of the girl before. She’d barreled towards him, tiny fists striking at his chest, getting dangerously close to the still tender wound.
“Enough,” he’d snapped, grabbing her wrists to prevent her accidentally causing him any further damage. “This is no way for an educated, privileged, young princess to behave. Stop that before you actually manage to hurt me.” Her rage had died down and she was left blinking up at him with unshed tears in her big green eyes.
Jaskier could feel his resolve crumbling but had managed to hold onto his stern tone. “What do you need to say to me?”
“I’m sorry,” she’d sniffed, and he’d dropped her wrists so he could crouch down to her height. “But you can’t go Jaskier. Last time you left you got hurt. It’s safest here. Grandmother says so.”
The power she wielded over his guilt was a mighty thing indeed, and he’d drawn her into a tight hug. “I’m not going far, my Cirilla-pad,” he’d muttered against her ear. “I won’t be leaving the city for a good while yet. I promise you’ll see me again soon.”
And she did. Mama had not been happy with his unannounced week’s absence, but even she could not deny the way that visit, and all the future ones, had lifted his spirits and helped speed up his recovery.
Still, even when he’d been fully healed and had began gradually shedding the years he’d put on, Mama had still found excuses to keep him with her. When Beltane and Ciri’s eighth birthday had passed, he’d begun dropping hints about travelling again, but these had all been pointedly ignored. His beloved lute, which Vda had assured him Embla had rescued from the destroyed house in Rinde and returned to Mama, had remained hidden from Jaskier’s sight.
Her refusal to let him go had made him short-tempered and restless. He’d spend his days striding around the city and his nights in some bawdy tavern getting drunk, starting fights and sleeping with as many admirers as he could.
He’d needed to get back to Geralt, to see his witcher with his own two eyes. Trava had assured him much earlier on in his recovery that the witcher was being kept informed of Jaskier’s progress, but that hadn’t been enough anymore.
It had been Ina who’d eventually persuaded Mama to let him go, after the tenth time Trava had been sent out to drag him away from the bar and back home. Jaskier didn’t know what had been said, but the next morning Mama had given him permission to go. He had beamed his gratitude at her, but it had done little to relieve the sadness from her face.
The next day he had shaved off his beard (now much more brown than white) and secured his beloved lute to his back before hugging his mother goodbye.
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“You had better be, my Buttercup. There will be consequences if you don’t.” But she’d tempered the warning with a farewell gift; half a dozen hand-embroidered shirts with a multitude of patterns and colours decorating the neckline and sleeves.
After that, it had been simple to find Geralt, to convince the serving girl to let him into his room.
But now is the hard part. When he must try and say everything he wants while his famous silver tongue turns to lead.
“But I did recover Geralt,” he presses. “I’m sorry it took me so long. And I’m sorry I never told you what I was. I didn’t…” He trails off, unsure how to explain in a satisfactory way that he didn’t tell Geralt for the sole reason of being unsure how to tell anybody. “I didn’t know how.” It sounds lame, even to his own ears.
Geralt has stopped pacing. He’s looking at Jaskier with a kind of determined consideration.
“Lairdswell,” he states, nodding knowingly as the bard jerks his head uncontrollably. “You’re the baby from Lairdswell. The one who…” Now it’s Geralt who can’t continue.
“Was thrown in a sack and drowned by his bastard grandfather?” Jaskier suggests with a falsely bright tone. “Yes, that was me. Not a great first memory, if I’m being perfectly honest.”
Geralt actually looks appalled. “You remember? You were a newborn.”
“All Rivers remember how they were made Geralt, that’s part of the price. You don’t gain power like mine without paying something.”
Geralt considers this for a moment, before taking his seat opposite Jaskier again. Jaskier slathers a slice of warm bread in butter and piles some bacon on top of it before pushing it towards his witcher.
The witcher takes a mouthful, chewing thoughtfully, before changing the topic of the conversation entirely.
“I was going to head east next,” Geralt states, and Jaskier’s heart speeds up. From his taciturn friend that was essentially a signed invitation to join him.
“I bet there are plenty of nasty things for you to stick your sword into in that direction,” Jaskier agrees. “I imagine all my old repertoire must be very out of date by now. People have probably already sung the last few songs I wrote to death. I’m in desperate need of some new material.”
Geralt raises a sardonic eyebrow. It’s basically his version of a shit-eating grin.
“I thought we’d stick to following the Yaruga’s course. Gives your family a chance to keep an eye on you.”
“Geralt!” Jaskier squawks, highly offended by the insinuation that he needs looking after.
“I’m sure your brother will be most grateful. He might even buy me a drink next time I see him.”
Jaskier eyes him suspiciously. He’s not sure he approves of Trava and Geralt talking to each other, especially when Jaskier hasn’t been around for damage control.
“What did you two actually talk about? He wouldn’t say.”
“Come on,” Geralt ignores him, stuffing the last of the breakfast in his mouth and getting up to pack away his things. “Time to get moving.”
“Geralt, what did he say? Stop ignoring me. Geralt! ”