Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jaskier is starving. Leaving the path was not one of his better decisions, it turns out.

There’s not much to eat in the forest, in spring. Some beechnuts left over from the winter. He thinks they are poisonous, unroasted, but he doesn’t have anything with him to light a fire, so has to eat them raw. Not more than a thimbleful at a time, he can hardly poison himself that way, right? The few edible roots he can identify, found in the small clearings, left by fallen trees.

By rights he should long be out of this thrice accursed forest. There’s this tree he remembers walking past at least four times now, in as many days. It is very memorable, gnarled, with lichen hanging from its dead lower branches.

There cannot be that many trees like this, surely? Perhaps he is going insane.

It is cold in the shadow of the ancient trees, though during the day, when he sometimes manages to catch a straying ray of sun, his teeth at least stop chattering.

He is digging another root when it happens. Twigs cracking, dry leaves rustling. Jaskier jumps and sees a man stride towards him with purpose. A man obviously in his best years … and yet his hair is white as snow.

Jaskier doesn’t even think before he turns and runs. His heart races.

Moments later, he finds himself pinned under the man’s heavy body, face pressed into the rotting leaves of last year. His body goes soft and pliant as the conditioning kicks in. The situation is familiar, though the location is not.

His mind separates from his body, as it sometimes does. He is not feeling the vise-like grip of the man’s hands anymore. Suddenly clear-headed, Jaskier knows why he ran.

White hair on a young man. That’s wrong. The man looks human, but not. It has been a while since he last travelled, but he remembers what other travelling bards told him.

If someone looks human, but strange, you run. The naked woman in the forest is not a peasant maid from the next village. Peasant maids know better than to bathe naked where men can see them.

The handsome man with duckweed in his hair is not the miller’s journeyman who just wanted to cool his head in the mill pond.
His hair never dries, and the duckweed is always there, and he’s not your friend.

Jaskier is not entirely sure what they say about young men with white hair, but he is sure he is about to find out. Strange, though, the man is just holding him there, as though he’s human. As though he just wants what men always want from Jaskier. Part of him would rather get eaten.

“You fool”, the man growls, and Jaskier can feel his chest vibrate, suddenly pulled back into feeling everything, from the damp of the leaf-mould to the body warmth of the other man. “This forest belongs to a leshen.”

Wait, what? A leshen … no, it wouldn’t call itself that. So this must be a man. Damn. He had almost liked the idea of dying to a monster.

It would have been nice. To be treated like a human being for a change. Even if that meant to be killed. Perhaps eaten. Perhaps have his organs be used as decoration. Whatever.
Someone, even something acknowledging that he is human. It would be nice. And, most important, it would mean that things would be over, soon, forever.

So, a man.

He knows how to handle men. He just wishes he didn’t have to.

“Will you stay put if I let go of you?”, the man asks, voice an annoyed growl.

“Of course, darling”, Jaskier purrs, pure habit.

The man releases him, Jaskier turns around to get a good look at him, and that is when he sees the yellow eyes.

A witcher. Of course it is the witcher. The one he was trying to flee from.

Ten times stronger than any man, they say. When he was young and naive, that had fascinated Jaskier. Now he knows that strength is never used to protect, only to hurt.

Monster enough to invent tortures he has never had to endure. Man enough to treat him as less than human while he enacts them.
Why couldn’t it have been a proper monster?

Yellow eyes narrow. “I am not about to kill you.”

Jaskier’s stomach constricts. The most brutish men like it least when he doesn’t hide his fear well enough. His mind usually goes blank when he’s with a man, lets his conditioned reflexes take over, but not now. Not when he’s out in the forest and the man is a witcher. “I- I mistook you for the leshen.” Not quite a lie.

“Hm. Take off your shirt -”

“Eager, aren’t you?” He feels calmer now. Soon, his mind will go fuzzy, then blank, he will almost feel like he is elsewhere while his body does as he is told.

“Turn it inside out then put it back on.” The witcher’s voice is flat, devoid of emotion.

There is no pleasant fuzzyness.

Jaskier hesitates, confused. He knows what men want when they tell him to undress, but he has never been asked to put his clothes back on.

When he was a travelling bard, he would have laughed at the request. Now … it does not bode well, a man asking anything out of the ordinary. Every fibre of his body is tense as he obeys.

“Good. Now you follow me.”

The man sets a fast pace, Jaskier has to run to keep up with him, though the witcher looks as though to him, this is just a leisurely walk.
Every now and then, the witcher stops and waits for Jaskier to catch up.

He could run away, it occurs to Jaskier after a ridiculously long time. He could. But the witcher would surely catch him again.

At last they arrive at the witcher’s campsite. There is a horse, a fireplace with an as of yet unlit fire, and a bedroll spread out next to the fireplace.
Saddlebags and saddle complete the picture.

It is strangely mundane. Almost like the camps Jasker himself set up, back in the day. But, he cannot allow himself to be deceived. This is not a safe place. Not for him.

“I’m not a monster”, the witcher says, voice level, as though he does not want to show the anger that is boiling inside him.

Jaskier’s father was like that. Still is, for all he knows. Quick to anger, but too well bred to let it show. Noblemen do not need to punch people who displeased them in the face, they have other ways to get their revenge. Worse ones.
So, obviously, do witchers.

“I know. You’re a man.” Which, from Jaskiers’ point of view, does not make much of a difference, really.

Except monsters at least do not get offended when you are afraid of them.

The witcher frowns. He does not believe Jaskier. “Whatever you think of me, believe me, there’s much worse than I out there. I’m trying to protect you, so you’d better not run away. It’d get you killed.”

“I cannot pay for your protection.” He hugs himself, trying to preserve the warmth from the short run.

“I didn’t ask you for money. Could tell you don’t have any.”

Well, obviously. He traded his last good clothes for rags and food before he … ended his career as travelling bard.

“That’s exactly it. I know what you will be asking for instead of money.” And it will be worse, so much worse than usual, because he is still there, in his body, unable to disconnect. He will have to pretend to not be afraid, to not be disgusted … and if he does not pretend well enough … he can only hope the witcher will attribute his trembling to the cold.

“Hm? Hm. You are the first man to worry about that.”

Well, yes. Obviously. Men did not worry – he should not have mentioned it, should not have shown that he was used to it, that he -

“It is usually women who – I don’t – we do not always do that”, the witcher continues.

Not always? Only sometimes then? When the stars aligned in a specific constellation? When the last few towns hadn’t had any brothels?

Jaskier almost let a mirthless laugh escape.

“Don’t worry”, the witcher is not finished, it seems. “You incurred no debt. It is not certain that you were in mortal danger. I just like to be careful.” He sits down next to the firewood and lights it with a gesture of his hand.

Jaskier shivers. Such power would have made him giddy with excitement when he was young and naive. Now it only serves as a reminder of what else the man could do with some flick of his fingers. Not that his hands aren’t bad enough.

“Sit.”

Sitting down next to the fire, Jaskier reassesses his situation. If the witcher doesn’t feel entitled to payment, that is … good. Very good. He might yet get out of this unscathed.
It seems unlikely, but, well, he is still alive.

There is a long silence. Jaskier holds his hands as close to the fire as he can. Fire. It may harm, but it does not mean it. So much more pleasant than the heat of a man’s body. A warmth he can enjoy without bad memories.

The witcher unpacks a ration of beef jerky.

Jaskier cannot take his eyes off it. It seems to be the most delicious thing he has ever seen, even though a small voice in the back of his mind insists it is greasy and looks like it has been sat on.

The witcher hesitates for a moment, then rips off a piece and hands it to Jaskier. “Here. Free of charge.”

Jaskier takes it gingerly. Eats slowly, as an uncomfortable silence descends once again. Does not even thank the witcher, because that would be acknowledging that he owes something.

“I’m Geralt. Of Riva. You?”

It is an awkward attempt at conversation. Men sometimes do that, in order to ease themselves into what they are going to do to him …

Jaskier remembers how adorable he thought shy people when he was young and stupid. He always wanted to coax them out of their shells.

Shy young men have lost their charm. Once they fuck him, they are like every other man.

“Jaskier. Pleased to meet you.” He is everything but, yet the familiar words come to his lips easily. “So, what do you …” At last, his mind realizes that the question he was about to ask is inane. He knows what the witcher does for a living. “How has the hunting been?” Monsters, animals, whatever.

“Fine, thanks.” The witcher – Geralt – frowns in concentration. “What do you do for a living, Jaskier?”

If he were not afraid for his life, those awkward attempts at polite conversation would be hilarious, Jaskier thinks distantly. Behaving as though they were introduced to each other at a ball, instead of him being the witcher’s prisoner. “I, ah … I’m a travelling bard. Or was, before bandits took my lute.” He does not mention how long ago that was.

“Hm.” Geralt looks at him intently. “Not a good time for bards?”

The rags. Of course. “Well I … I am sure, once I would have made a name for myself … getting pelted with dry bread and half-rotten apples isn’t all bad, some days I ate pretty well despite no one liking my music …” It feels like ages ago. He made good coin when he stuck to the well known drinking songs, but he always wanted more. Wanted to write his own. Make a difference in the world.

And the time he tried out a song that had a witcher as the hero – oh how naive he had been! - people made their disapproval very clear.

A hero. As if any man who can snap another in two like a twig would ever feel like protecting people. Or saving them. If he does such things, there is a price. There is always a price to pay.

Jaskier is starving. The little bit of food only made the hunger worse, but asking for more is out of the question. He tears his gaze away from the witcher until the man is finished eating. It doesn’t take long.

The witcher hands him a waterskin. “Drink your fill. It’s just water. You owe me nothing.”

Is he … trying to reassure Jaskier?

It isn’t working, not really, because Jaskier knows what men will do in an attempt to not feel like monsters when they very much are … there’s an underlying need, even in the worst of men, to feel like they aren’t bad people.

For every small kindness, there is a price to pay. A price that, perhaps, will be asked for quite nicely.

What might a witcher ask of him?

‘May I please have one of your eyes? You only need one, really.’

But no. That is silly. Witchers don’t use human body parts for their potions. That is just a rumour, surely.

Though it feels safer to imagine that, than to face the reality that the witcher is just a man like any other, and thus more likely to rip out a piece of Jaskier’s self, until only an empty shell remains.

He doesn’t do that, though. Not yet, at least. He tells Jaskier to sleep, lets him curl up next to the fire.

When Jaskier wakes, it is dark, still. The witcher is tending to the fire. It cannot be very late, then – or does he intend to keep it going through the night? To keep the leshen away? Does that work?

Whatever the reason, Jaskier is grateful for the warmth.

The next time he wakes, it is shortly after dawn, or at least the forest sounds like it is. He is cold, despite the first rays of sun filtering through the canopy of leaves.

“Did you have a camp somewhere?”, the witcher asks.

“No. I – I lost everything to the bandits.”

“Hm. Thought so. We should be out of the forest before night falls.”

The witcher is slower while leading his horse than he is on his own, a small mercy. The horse must be a normal one. Are there witcher horses?

Jaskier would be asking question after question, if he still were a travelling bard. If he had not been told, again and again, that his mouth will be put to a better use, if he doesn’t shut up. (Not that his mouth wasn’t put to that use anyway.)

Now it is just his thoughts providing the running commentary. The questions remain in his head.

It is hard, though, to keep them from spilling out. What are those herbs the witcher stops to pick at the wayside?
And the decidedly deadly looking mushroom – is it picked for use in a poison, or is it actually edible? If the latter, is it edible to witchers, or to humans, too?

Chapter Text

They leave the forest behind in the late afternoon.

“You can turn your shirt back now”, the witcher says out of the blue. “If you care to.”

Jaskier isn’t sure he does. He used to care about his looks a great deal, but with the rags he is currently wearing, it seems rather futile. “Why did you tell me to turn it inside out, then?”

“To protect you from the leshen, obviously.” Apparently noticing his confusion, the witcher adds: “Only way to ward against it. You’d have spent weeks in there, walking in circles, possibly starving, if I had not found you.”

That explains a lot. “Oh. Right. Well. It doesn’t look any better on the other side. Might as well leave it that way, just in case.” He used to take off his shirts the moment the summer heat or being drenched by rain gave him an excuse for it, happy for the appreciative looks … he … doesn’t, not any more. If it is up to him, he’d rather keep it on. “You didn’t want to fight the leshen?”

The witcher shrugs. “No contract.”

When the evening draws near, they reach the outskirts of a village.

A middle-aged woman with a basket stops picking dandelion leaves when she hears the sound of hooves.

She looks up, grabs her basket, and runs.

Very sensible. Jaskier wishes he had the luxury of being sensible, too. Well, part of him wishes that. The part of him that was forced to wise up.

There’s another part, the one that drove him to leave behind a life of luxury to become a travelling bard, that doesn’t want to escape the witcher so urgently anymore. After all, the witcher has not killed him (yet) nor harmed him in any other way, which is really more than he can say about pretty much all the men he met lately, and there are so many questions he has yet to ask.

When they arrive at the entrance of the village, there’s a mob gathered. Part of Jaskier is delighted to see it – an actual mob! All with their pitchforks and scythes and other agricultural tools that can be used as weapons. He heard and read stories about it, but never saw a real proper one.
There are no hatchets, though. No knives. They seem to want to keep the enemy at a distance.

“We don’t want your kind here, witcher. Leave.”

It appears to be the woman they met on the way who is leading the mob. There’s lines on her face that indicate she smiles a lot, though she is not smiling now.
The other people there aren’t smiling either. They look grim and determined. Jaskier kind of expects them to yell insults, bay for blood, but they don’t. They just glare.

“I don’t want any trouble. Just a bed for the night.” The witcher sounds tired.

“Yeah right”, a man in the mob yells. “That’s what the last one said, too. Fuck off!” He throws an apple, and it almost hits Jaskier in the face, except he can catch it.

He bites into the apple.

The woman who leads the mob chuckles at this. “Stop that”, she tells the man who threw the apple, face serious once more. Then turns to the witcher again. “We cannot risk it. Not after last time.”

She is reasonable, for the leader of a mob. The witcher gets to exchange some of his coins for a bag of oats, which is fetched and brought to him by one of the men.

After that, they turn and walk around the village.

“Does that happen often?” Jaskier only realizes he asked the question aloud when the witcher grunts - it feels like a yes.

“Usually, they don’t let me buy food. Must be because of you that they felt generous. Why didn’t you ask to stay?”

“I …” So he is not a prisoner? Apparently not. It seems all that talk of not owing the witcher anything was actually meant to be taken seriously. “I don’t think I’d be welcome. After showing that man who threw that apple up like I did.” It was an action appropriate for a travelling bard, but not for a beggar. People like their beggars a good deal more humble.

And without a lute, begging is his best bet. The leader of the mob might have taken pity on him, if he’d thought to spin a story.
He messed that up.

Still, he has an apple now, so that’s good. Something to fill his stomach, even if only for a short time.

“Hm. They might not have welcomed you, anyway, after seeing you walk next to me. Next time, keep more distance.”

The witcher decides to make camp in the wilderness again.

“You can make yourself useful”, he says, while he unsaddles the horse.

Jaskier freezes. So, now the stars have aligned just right? Now he’ll serve as the evening entertainment?

“You know how to make porridge, do you?”

Oh. Damn, he is stupid. Of course that’s what was meant. The witcher thinks he is a travelling bard, after all.

“Do I know how to make porridge? Do I know how to make porridge? I will have you know that I have spent weeks eating nothing else!” And he learnt fast, after having to eat burnt oats the first time.

The witcher grunts his assent, pulls a pot out of his pack, then busies himself with caring for his horse.

While Jaskier gathers wood for the fire, he occasionally glances towards the witcher. It is a funny image, somehow, seeing this strange and intimidating man be so gentle with his horse. Of course, he would be. Horses are expensive. Crazy expensive, by the standards of a travelling bard. Likely not much less by the standards of a witcher.

The mare doesn’t know how good she has it, really. Standing there, accepting the devoted care of this dangerous man as if it is no more than her due. Like a princess graciously extending her hand to be kissed by a knight, not knowing or perhaps not caring how many died by the same hand that holds hers so gently …

Jaskier only realizes he is staring when the witcher turns to look at him. Fortunately, the witcher seems to interpret his staring as silent request to light the fire.

That works for him. Quietly, he begins to make porridge, almost forgetting the salt, although he was given some. For the first time in years, he feels inspired to compose a song.

For a while, he is lulled into a treacherous sense of safety. Then, the witcher is done with his other tasks, and Jaskier is done with the porridge, and remembers that while his cooking skills always were good enough to keep his stomach filled, he isn’t capable of making water-and-salt porridge taste like … well, anything but what it is. Delicious to him, because he is hungry, but …

The witcher accepts the pot with a grunt and begins to eat. “Good work”, he says after a while. Then he hands the pot to Jaskier. “Eat.”

Jaskier hesitates.

“Consider it payment for doing all the work. We can take turns.”

He is cautious, still. Eats only enough to make the pain in his stomach stop. It still seems like too much.

Once the pot is empty, the witcher sets off to clean it in a nearby stream. “Stay here and guard Roach.”

Roach must be the horse. Jaskier has puzzled together that much, by now.
There is no guarding necessary, of course. The mare – Roach - wouldn’t run away from the man who treats her like a princess.
And if bandits tried to steal her, Jaskier couldn’t offer any resistance. That is, he could tell them this is a witcher’s horse.
Might even work.

He is cautious in approaching the mare. Assumes that she has a bad temper, because she very well might.
Horses are a part of his past life. They are lovely, really, and he may have missed being around them, but they tie you down, ironically enough. You are not that much faster on a horse than on foot, not for long distances. And they need food, lots of it, grass doesn’t cut it, not if the horse cannot spend all day grazing.

So Jaskier never even tried to save the money to buy one, even though he really, really suffered, the first year on the road, having to limit himself to only one nice doublet. One! he saved it for performances, and felt he really knew what it meant to suffer deprivations. Quite ridiculous, now that he thinks back to it. What a pampered, naive fool he was!

He is delighted when the mare deigns to let him pet her mane.

The witcher returns, and lets the horse drink out of the cooking pot.

“Why not make camp nearer to the water?”, Jaskier asks without thinking.

“Rusalki”

That does explain why he did the washing up himself, instead of sending Jaskier to do it, rusalki are dangerous, but … “Can’t you kill those?”

“Can. Won’t. No contract.”

It makes sense. Jaskier assumed that witchers have a calling, like he had, as bard, but apparently this one, at least, is doing it for the money, only.

Chapter Text

It is strange, travelling with the bard. Geralt wonders if it is what a wolf would feel if it picked up a wounded songbird.

There is, constantly, the worry in the back of his mind. Jaskier must be kept away from dangers, must be fed – but always reassured that Geralt isn’t going to ask for his firstborn child in return – be kept warm … it should be an annoyance, but Geralt discovers he feels disproportionately pleased when Jaskier begins to chatter about his ample experience with making porridge.

He could do the cooking himself, it isn’t that. There’s just … this warm feeling in his chest. Like he picked up a wounded bird and it doesn’t fly away, but instead starts singing.

The bard does not sing. Yet. Perhaps he will.

**

The next day of travel, Jaskier catches himself humming to himself as he composes in his head. He looks to the witcher. No reaction. Probably safer to stop, anyway.
Better to blend into the background.

It is not long until he realizes he is doing it again. Damn. His lack of control will probably not get him caned, like it did with his father, but still.

The witcher suddenly stops walking. Will he – but no. He just stopped to pick some flowers.

“Picking flowers? Fancy that. I never thought witchers had such an appreciation for beauty”, Jaskier says, tongue faster than his brain. He is teasing, knows it is probably a herb of some kind, but cannot help himself.

“Herbs”, the witcher grunts.

Jaskier hesitates. But the witcher hasn’t yelled at him, yet, so … “What for?”

“This is wolfsbane”, the witcher begins. “Deadly poison. Don’t eat it. Don’t touch it. Useful to kill monsters.”

Oh. So this is wolfsbane. He heard of it, of course. Used to poison wolves. But he never knew what it looked like, never had reason to learn.

“Strange, isn’t it? How something so deadly can be so beautiful”, he muses. It occurs to him, then, that the witcher is similar. A kind of eerie beauty he has, with the white hair and the yellow eyes.

The danger, maybe, is part of the appeal. Other men are dangerous, too – dangerous in a very mundane sense. Many came close to beating Jaskier to death. Or … fucking him to death, perhaps. If that can be called fucking. A slap and a caress are very different, even though both involve touching.
There is a word for what they did to him, he knows, but he is not sure he is allowed to use it. He didn’t say no, after all, did he?

In any case, the danger there was that of a very humiliating, slow death.

Geralt is different. He is to other men as wolfsbane is to rowan berries. He is the sword, where other men are the dull-bladed hatchet.
There would be, perhaps, some dignity in being killed by him.

After some more hours of walking, Jaskier dares to ask another question. “So, how does one become a witcher?” He read some things, but they might be bullshit.

“Magic. And poison. Many don’t survive.”

“Why did you risk it?” If he does not feel it is his calling to fight monsters, then …

“I was not asked.”

That shocks Jaskier into silence, though only for a moment. He recovers quickly. “That’s barbaric! How is that even allowed?”

“Mages.”

Right. He forgot for a moment that there are plenty people who are powerful enough to be above the law. Plenty places that have horrible laws, too. Growing up as nobility meant he was mostly insulated from that, the only cruelty he had to put up with was his father’s. Sure, his father forced him to do plenty things, but … well, it was all normal things. Making an appropriate marriage and living in a golden cage does not usually kill people. Jaskier felt like it would kill him, back then, but … well.
Poison is much more straightforward.

“How does one become a bard?”

“Well, there are different ways. In my case, I studied in Oxenfurt …” He launches into a lengthy explanation. This is a safe topic. And something he is proud of.

The witcher listens for quite a while, until Jaskier’s stream of words slows down, before interrupting him. “And they let you leave to become a travelling bard?”

So the witcher guessed who he was before he became Jaskier?

“The university? Because it seems like a waste. Years of studying, only to die to bandits.”

Oh, that. “Yes well … they could not very well force me to stay after I graduated. Whoever made you a witcher let you go, did they not?”

“Hm. It is what we are for. The Path. You belong in a noble court.”

The witcher had no idea how true that was. “I wanted to be free.”

“Free? To sleep outside in the rain and be robbed by bandits?”

“It was fun, while it lasted, you know? Not the sleeping outside, no, and not the going hungry, but the performing in a different village each night. I liked that. And. You. Why go to the trouble of magicking you and all, only to let you fend for yourself? Don’t you have, like, a guild or something?”

“There’s schools. We stay, for winter.”

“But they don’t do anything about people hating you.”

“Nothing to be done.”

“Why not? I mean, the last witcher to travel through there was a bad apple, yes? But, see, in Oxenfurt, if a student commits a crime, he gets punished by the academy. That ensures it’s fair, because it’s not up to someone who just doesn’t like students. But also, the academy doesn’t want a bad reputation, so if he really did it, the punishments are severe. Why not for witchers?”

“Hm. Wolf school is like that, somewhat. Others not.”

It is like squeezing blood from a stone, but Jaskier manages to get out of the witcher that the different witcher schools teach different moral codes, but that the general public does not differentiate.

“That is a solvable problem”, Jaskier muses. “All that is needed is information, surely? Teach people that they can trust wolf witchers. Of course, you have to make sure that is the case. Get rid of any bad apples. Might be more difficult with them roaming all over, than it is with an academy or a guild, but surely doable?”

“Hm.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier doesn’t sing, not yet, but he hums. He falls silent whenever he notices, so Geralt does his best not to react.

The stink of fear and misery still clings to the bard’s ragged clothes, but that is all. His fresh sweat smells better. Overall, he still reeks, of course, but the old smells don’t set Geralt’s teeth on edge like the fresh fear and racing heartbeat did.

And now he knows that Jaskier is not just any bard, but a real good one. One who should be happily singing his songs in, the very least, a minor noble’s mansion, instead of traipsing through the forest and getting robbed by bandits.
Or travelling with witchers.

Geralt would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he loves music. Drinking songs, he can take or leave, though those with catchy tunes are fun.
Ballads, though … they make his worries float away, replaced by those of people very unlike him. What does he know of the fears of a woman whose husband is a sailor and should long have returned from sea? What of the hopes of a young lad who is courting a fair maiden?
Nothing, is what, but it feels so good to escape his own miserable existence for a few moments.

And then, rare and precious, there are songs that feel like they are about him. Like the poet understands, and sympathizes.
It isn’t true, of course, it is all illusion, but still, those songs are precious.

All the more because he would never dare request a song. Never let anyone know what he yearns to hear. Never let anyone know that he has feelings they can hurt. He has to wait, patiently, until a bard picks one of those songs, by chance.

**

They reach a village just as the shadows lengthen.

“Stay behind”, the witcher instructs him. “I’ll go see if I’m welcome here.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one to go in first and find out about that?”, Jaskier asks. Questioning the man’s decisions hasn’t yet led to a worse outcome than only getting a grunt in return, so he is feeling brave.

“Then they’d know you’re with me”, the witcher replies. “Wait.”

He isn’t wrong. The fastest way to find out what they think of witchers here would be to ask, and then they’d wonder why he wants to know that.

Jaskier could have gone in first, begged for a place for the night for himself, though, with the witcher going in later. That would have meant they part ways. So … the witcher does not want to part ways with him? Not if it isn’t necessary?

He is not sure how he feels about that. A bard without a lute, his usefulness is limited. To pretty much the one thing he does not want to be used for ever again.

That, and cooking, he supposes. Good thing he learnt that.
If he had grown up a commoner, he supposes, he would be more useful.
He tried, for a while. To do odd jobs at farms. But, except for old widows and young spinsters who needed a man’s strength to move some heavy object, no one really wanted to employ him.
People may not know he’s technically a viscount, but the lack of experience in mucking out stables and chopping firewood, and a thousand other tasks?
It shows.

When the witcher returns, he has a spring in his step. He is not smiling, he never seems to smile, but Jaskier has learnt how to read a man, has had to.
The witcher is harder to read than others, but Jaskier still picked up on some of his tells.

“I negotiated a deal for you.”

Jaskier tenses.

“They have a lute at the inn. They’d let you take it with you, if you play it a couple hours each night, for three days.”

“Oh.” That’s a good deal. A great deal, even. But. The witcher isn’t done. He can tell that there is more.

“There’s only one thing I want in return.”

Jaskier feels his heart beat so fast and loud in his chest the witcher can probably hear it. Every other time he feared the witcher would want to make use of his body, it was a false alarm. Still. This cannot bode well. His stomach twists.

“Don’t get nervous. I’m not going to ask for what you have but don’t know you have. That’s a shit deal, and I already told you, we don’t usually do that.”

He hasn’t, not really. He only told Jaskier he wouldn’t ask to use his body for … oh. So that was what he thought Jaskier was talking of.
So that means …

“In addition to the lute, they’ll give you a bed for the nights you stay there. I want my share of that.”

Jaskier swallows. “You want to share my bed?” He should have known. The witcher likes to think himself a good man. That’s why he waited until he had something substantial to barter with. Something he thinks is a fair payment.

It would have been easy for Jaskier to claim he was in no need of saving from the leshen. And he could have refused the food, he figures.

But the offer of a lute? A livelihood?

He cannot refuse that. It would be foolish.

The witchers’ eyes narrow.

Jaskier’s blood seems to turn to ice in his veins as he realizes he should have pretended to be willing. It’s important. Especially with men who want to believe they’re good men. It is strange. They know they are paying him, know he needs what they offer, but they still want to be lied to …

“I can take the floor”, the witcher says, resigned. Disappointed. “You seemed to have no problem sleeping next to me last night, but … I can take the floor. If that is … acceptable?”

Oh. Of course. Men share beds, to save money. It’s normal. It doesn’t always mean what Jaskier has come to assume it means. What it always meant, those past few years.

“Beds are different”, he replies carefully. “I … steal blankets. Can’t help it. Just don’t want you to kill me over it. You, ah, always do have those swords on hand” It’s true. He is a horrible blanket thief. Or was, the last time he shared a bed with a friend. Ages ago.

The witcher’s face relaxes. Jaskier found the right words, it seems. “So, we have a deal? I can share the room?”

“Yes. Of course. Would have offered it anyway. You shared your campfire with me. It is only fair.” Jaskier tries a smile.

It becomes genuine as the realisation sinks in. He will get a lute! Only if he manages to remember how to play … but he will, won’t he?
Surely he could not forget that, of all things!

They walk into the village, then into the inn.

The woman behind the counter is in her early thirties, and there’s lines of worry etched into her face.

“So, you are the bard?”

Jaskier flinches. “Yes.” It feels like a lie.

She looks him over. “You don’t look much like a bard.”

“I don’t know if …” What was the witcher’s name again? Ah, right. “If Geralt told you, but I was robbed by bandits.”

“And they took your clothes?” She seems sceptical.

“Yes! Normally, I would not be seen dead in such rags, but, well, I cannot very well walk around naked.” He tenses as soon as the words leave his mouth. Jaskier the bard talks like that, but … these days … he really doesn’t want to give anyone an excuse to imagine him naked.

“You can’t perform in that. It would - ”

“He can wear my clothes”, the witcher, no, Geralt, interrupts. “Would that be adequate?”

“Hm. Alright. Beggars can’t be choosers. If you’re as good as advertised, it won’t matter, I suppose.”

She hands Jaskier a key. “Up the stairs, the door on the left. The lute is already there. I expect you down here at sunset.”

“What did you tell her?”, Jaskier hisses as they walk up the stairs. “As good as advertised?” He isn’t as confident as he used to be. If the witcher told her he’s the best bard on the continent, then … he just… he once thought he would be, but …

“What you told me.”

Oh crap. He didn’t lie, of course not, but it feels like it was someone else who studied in Oxenfurt. It was so long ago. And he hasn’t touched a lute in years. All the singing he did was done in secret, with the girls, trying to soothe pain, to soothe grief. No happy drinking songs. Nothing the people here will want to hear.

The lute is in the room, as advertised, carefully propped up on the bed. It isn’t new, it looks a bit shabby, but he is sure he can tune it, and that’s the main thing, really.

“So, I, ah, will have to practice a bit, before my performance”, he announces, apologetically.

The witcher nods as he drops his luggage onto the floor. “I’ll be in the stables.” He sounds unhappy at being driven from the room. Jaskier feels bad, but, well, there is nothing to be done about it. He has to familiarize himself with the new instrument, would have to do that even if he wasn’t out of practice.

Anyway, if the witcher needed to rest so urgently, he could just stay and suffer the off-tune sounds, right? It isn’t that bad.
Well. Jaskier doesn’t exactly enjoy it, the dissonance of it, then, after the main work is done, beginning a song only to stop because it still doesn’t sound right, but they both know that there’s much worse things.

This time though, it is almost pure bliss. He hasn’t forgotten everything. Far from it. There are the failed attempts, yes, and the painfully off-tune sounds as he readjusts the strings, but he is getting there, and he is a bard again, and he is happy.

And it is getting even better. The woman from before – she seems to be the owner – reappears and tells him a bath has been readied for him, and she already laid out the clothes that Geralt is going to loan him for the evening.

The hot bath feels like he died and went to heaven. He hasn’t had anything like it in years. And then the clothes – they’re rough, the shirt especially, almost like Geralt spun and wove the fabric himself, with what little skill at it a trained fighter like he would have, and isn’t that a picture? Not even close to what Jaskier would buy for himself, if he had the choice, but they’re clothes for someone who commands respect.

For the first time in like what feels forever, he feels human again.

Is he dreaming? Can it be true? Years of suffering, ended so easily?

Even with his eerie beauty, Geralt doesn’t really seem to fit into the role of fairy godfather. Besides, in that kind of story, Jaskier would have saved him first, wouldn’t he? At least shared some food. He is an expert on stories, he would know.

There are stories where the Fair Folk help the human first, but that’s usually when it is children, who are not to blame for their misfortune. Not adult men who foolishly left a life of luxury for some vague sense of adventure.

Yet those thoughts don’t distract Jaskier for long.

Just like his subconscious knew what to do when the witcher had him at his mercy, it now remembers what he is to do when he has a lute and an inn, and the sun is setting.

It feels good, like wearing an old shirt, softened by years of wear.

He plays, and he sings, and inbetween he jests, and if the flirting does not come quite as easily as it used to, and he makes eye contact only ever with the women in the audience, no one seems to notice.

When the last guests leave, because it is sowing season and there is work to do tomorrow, Jaskier has blisters on his fingers, but he hardly even notices.

He takes off Geralt’s clothes, folds them carefully, while the witcher is taking a bath. Slips under a blanket that smells of dust.

A bed that smells of dust is a luxury he hasn’t had in quite some time.

When the witcher comes back and settles on his bedroll, Jaskier sits up. “We can share the bed. As long as you stay on your side. And forgive me for stealing the blanket.”

“Hm.” Geralt sounds pleased. “Alright.”

He takes his blanket from his bedroll and pushes the inn’s blanket towards Jaskier, and now they have two blankets, and no reason to fight.

That’s the last thing Jaskier remembers. In the morning, he wakes up with his head on a man's hard chest.

He flinches, his heart picking up speed. So it was a dream after all. It was a dream, and he never actually left, and … but no. The bed smells of dust. And the man’s hair is white as snow.

Oh. Oh shit. That’s … not worse, perhaps, but a different kind of bad.

Especially since they are on Geralt’s side of the bed. Jaskier somehow migrated there during the night. He’s always had a habit of moving too much while he sleeps.

Fuck.

Terrified though he was that the witcher might want to use his body, he still remembers a time where he met men who weren’t into that.
Men who would punch him for flirting with them. If the witcher is like that, then …

He is so dead. Unless he can manage to get back to his side of the bed without waking the witcher.

Slowly, very slowly, he lifts his head. Puts his weight on his knees. Lifts his upper body. Crawls away, out from under the two blankets, to his own side.

Then collapses in a relieved heap.

Still, the witcher does not stir. Good. Very good. Who would have thought the man sleeps so soundly? Means Jaskier could have escaped days ago … not that he wishes he had.
Things turned out alright, now. It was the right decision to stay with the witcher.

He looks around for his rags, but they are nowhere to be found. Decides to put on the witcher’s spare set of clothes again – he already wore them, so it shouldn’t matter too much, they need cleaning anyway.

“Ask them to send my breakfast up.”

Jaskier freezes. Turns towards the witcher. The yellow eyes are open, now. “I … yeah, sure, I can do that. Sure you wouldn’t prefer to eat downstairs? A bit cramped in here.” It is a small room, really only meant for the night. The small stool is only there to sit on to take one’s boots off, the only other piece of furniture the chest at the foot end of the bed.

“I’ll manage.”

Breakfast is on the house for the both of them, the owner being delighted with his performance.

“Your friend didn’t exaggerate”, she beams when she brings him a tray with a steaming mug of tea and two slices of bread covered in slices of cheese almost as thick as the bread. There’s a boiled egg, too. “Wouldn’t have thought an educated man like you could be in such a pitiful state … silly of me, I know. He never claimed you studied magic. It’s just, to simple folk like me, music could as well be magic.”

His friend. Jaskier doesn’t bother to contradict her. They are as good as friends, were they not? Certainly, before he lost his lute, he would have considered anyone with whom he shared a campfire and a bed his friend.

“He doesn’t always get a warm welcome”, he ventures. “With his unusual looks.” If she hasn’t noticed that Geralt is a witcher, Jaskier certainly won’t be the one to tell her.

“Being a witcher, you mean. We’re not fond of witchers here – not that anywhere else is. But the last one who came through here was a decent fellow, and he said the white-haired one can be trusted. So there is that.”

Jaskier nods and smiles and talks, and when he finishes breakfast, he knows that the village had a problem with a vodyanoi in the mill pond, and everyone is very grateful to the witcher who solved it.
He also knows that the lute that he is now promised was left by another bard, in payment, and had been gathering dust as no one here knows how to play it.

That explains the goodwill towards the two of them.

When he tells Geralt what he learnt about his predecessor, the witcher nods. “Eskel”, he says, and there’s almost a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

The innkeeper is unusually friendly, so Geralt tells her about the bard. And she tells him she has a lute. And will give the bard a room for free.
It is all he could have hoped for, so of course, of fucking course, he messes up and asks Jaskier for something in return.

And just like that, the young man reeks of terror, as though Geralt just kindly asked if he would be alright with having his heart cut out of his chest. As though Geralt is a monster.

It’s just sharing a bed. It is nothing special, not really, except a witcher always gets a room of his own, or none at all, because no one wants to share with him.

He must have forgotten, in his excitement, that Jaskier is not a witcher.

But, the man was fine with sleeping near him, outside. So he pleads, desperately. At least the floor.

And just like that, the terror goes away and Jaskier babbles some nonsense about stealing blankets, which isn’t a lie, but certainly not the whole truth, because surely he cannot think Geralt would murder him over something as petty as that?

Things are alright after that. Jaskier sends Geralt out of the room, to be alone with his new lute, and Geralt understands, he really does, and it probably hasn’t anything to do with him being a witcher, it must be an intimate moment for the bard, acquainting himself with a new instrument, but he still feels a pang of disappointment.

Roach understands, and is happy for his company.

And then, the sun sets, and Jaskier plays the lute. And he sings, of young love, of heroic death, and of drinking.
He looks so happy, and it just feels so … so right. That Jaskier is here now. Reunited with a lute.
But then he sings a sad ballad, about a young woman who is seduced by a prince, and then left pregnant and alone. He sings of how she is scorned and driven out of her home, and finally, of how she gently kills her newborn babe, to spare it the pain she lived through.

And instead of baying for the murderess’ blood, people weep for her. Such is the magic of music.

Geralt wonders if they would weep for a witcher, too.

He is preparing for his lonely bed on the floor, when Jaskier calls to him. Invites him to the bed. It feels like a dream, but he has been dreaming all through the evening, so it does not surprise him.

Geralt lies down and breathes in deep. For the first time in days, there is no stink. The bard smells of soap and fresh sweat, happy and content. Like a little songbird whose wing finally healed.

In the morning, Geralt thinks, at first, that it is winter in Kaer Morhen. That he got drunk and fell asleep under the table, in a pile with the others.

Because he is so comfortable, there’s someone lying on him, and it is so warm and … it is warm.

Slowly, he wakes, and remembers. That Jaskier let him sleep in the bed. The bard is now using him as pillow, which cannot be very comfortable, not for him.
It isn’t for Geralt, either, not really, because they are both too skinny, but it still feels good. Like being at home and drunk.

No better.

The little songbird has tucked its head into the lone wolf’s fur, and sleeps without a care in the world, as if he knows that the wolf won’t harm him.

It is a precious moment, so, like all such moments, it ends abruptly. The bard wakes, and it is obvious that he didn’t get so close on purpose.

Geralt, not knowing what else to do, pretends to be asleep.

The bard backs away, slowly, as though from a dangerous animal, then collapses. He no longer smells of fear.

Good. That’s good.

Geralt spends a lazy day repairing his gear. It feels strange. To be so lazy, when it is spring and he ought to be travelling. But, needs must.
And, there’s enough mending to do, already. Having loaned his newest clothes to Jaskier, he has to make sure the older set remains presentable. And then there’s Jaskier’s rags. He removed them from the room while the bard was bathing, and tried to wash them in the nearby river, but in the end, he had to admit defeat, and pay for them to be laundered properly.

Now, the smell is replaced by the much more tolerable aroma of the wood ash lye used to clean them.

Much better. They’re still rags, though, and consist of almost more holes than fabric. Under different circumstances, Geralt would try and calculate whether buying new clothes wouldn’t be cheaper than the materials needed to mend them. But he is stuck here, and has time and yarn aplenty, so while Jaskier is downstairs, talking to people, he mends.

In the evening, he settles down with an ale, to listen to the bard.

The drinking songs fly by without Geralt really paying attention to the text. Then, when the evening grows late, a slow melody catches Geralt’s attention. Because he knows it. The bard hummed it while they walked.

It is a ballad about a fearsome black knight, a fighter so fierce there are rumours he made a deal with a demon. He engages in battles, picking sides at random, and the people he sides with are almost as terrified as those he fights against.

And then, there’s a princess, with beautiful, large dark eyes, and Geralt feels a pang of disappointment. He knows that kind of story. The evil knight will abduct her, and try to force her to marry him, and then there’ll be a valiant hero, and …

But no.

The knight takes off his black helmet to reveal a face with gentle eyes, and he kneels before the princess and kisses her hand.

And she lets down her hair and tells the knight to braid it for her, not in the least afraid of the hands that slayed so many.

Usually, Geralt would complain that it’s unrealistic. A knight may get to kiss a princess’ hand, but touching her hair? Not likely.

And yet. There’s so much feeling in Jaskier’s voice, like he feels sad for the black knight, and thinks it is good that the princess does not fear him, and … Geralt yearns.

Jaskier takes a break, there, and the ballad causes quite a debate among the audience. Not because it is unrealistic, no.
People just cannot agree on who the narrator is, and what one is meant to take away from the tale.

The owner of the inn maintains that it is from the point of view of a poor peasant girl who is in love with the knight. “It is obvious”, she says. The knight is misunderstood and noble and valiant, and the peasant girl wishes he would treat her like he treats the princess.

A boy, the smith’s apprentice, apparently, is sure it is about how uncaring nobles are about the deaths of peasants on the battlefield, how they couldn’t care less, and judge a man only for how he treats them, not the common man. The point of view is quite obviously that of a simple, travelling bard, he is convinced.

Jaskier does not comment. He just smiles. “What do you think?”, he asks Geralt.

“The knight. He loves the princess. It is … a dream. Wishful thinking.” Yes, the knight is described from an outsider’s point of view, but, this is poetry, and if Geralt knows anything about poetry, it is the fact that things don’t have to make sense.
A fact that often annoys him. Not now, though. Now he understands why others never care if it makes sense.

Jaskier looks thoughtful for a moment. “I like that interpretation a lot.”

“So, that’s how it is meant?”, the boy asks. “The witcher got it right?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “True art is always ambiguous, so each and every one of you is right. It can be understood in many different ways. What is important is that it speaks to you.”

That it speaks to you.

So perhaps that is his preferred kind of song – the kind that is true art.

The kind that would be most expensive to pay for, if he had the money left for that kind of luxury.

Part of him, though, a silly, childish part, clings to the fact that Jaskier depends on the innkeeper’s goodwill, and couldn’t very well tell her that Geralt is right, and she is wrong, so had to give a diplomatic answer.

Later that night, he does not even think to offer to sleep on the floor, and Jaskier crawls into bed next to him, too tired, perhaps, too care.

In the morning, there’s a foot on his face, and he almost goes back to sleep with a happy sigh, before remembering that it isn’t winter, and he’s not lying on the floor, and also, the foot doesn’t smell of witcher.

It doesn’t stink of fear, either, which was what got him confused.

The scent is what he would, if pressed, describe as ‘happy bard’. There’s a hint of old boot, a hint of blood from open blisters, but mostly, it is … pleasant. Humans don’t smell like that if he is around, usually. Certainly not when alone in a room with him.

He has a creeping suspicion that the bard’s scent will change in an instant once Jaskier wakes up and remembers just who he shares a bed with.

So, instead of going back to sleep, Geralt pretends to be asleep, waiting with growing discomfort for the bard to wake up.

There’s a moment of terror, the bard’s heart races, but no sooner does his foot begin to stink of fear than it is pulled away.

And just like that, the stink goes away.

Jaskier calms down, retreats to the other side of the bed, and … falls asleep again?

After waiting a few moments, just to be sure, Geralt sits up. No reaction. The bard seems sound asleep, his heart rate peaceful. Just like that.

Could it be that he was just worried about being yelled at, for sprawling all over the bed like creeping ivy?

It is a new experience, to Geralt, watching someone who isn’t a witcher sleep. People don’t usually sleep in his presence. They pass out, from blood loss, shock, or fear, depending on how he meets them, but peaceful sleep … he doesn’t see that often.

The sun is high in the sky when Jaskier blinks. Wakes up fully. “I’m sorry!”, he says, and there’s the stench of fear.

“Hm? What for?” Geralt has no intention of admitting to having been awake during the incident in the morning before he knows for sure that is what Jaskier is apologizing for.

“For – you aren’t angry that I slept in?”

“You pay the room”, Geralt points out. He is used to early mornings, but he is also used to sleeping when there is time for sleep.

“Oh. Right. I – I’m not really used to … never mind. How late is it? Did you get breakfast?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I wasn’t hungry yet.” Which isn’t quite true, but also not quite a lie. He didn’t notice he was hungry, is more like it. Watching Jaskier sleep took all his attention.

Rather creepy, now that he thinks about it. The bard must never know of it. “Was thinking about where we ought to travel next.”

“Oh. Good.”

He eats all his meals in the room, which means he has to endure the stench of fear only for as long as it takes the boy who works here to hand him his tray of food.
Only Jaskier’s music is worth enduring the unpleasant smells downstairs.

That evening, there’s a group of men who aren’t local, and frequently toss Jaskier coins and request songs. It would be good, except, they like drinking songs, and Geralt wants what he’s learnt is true art, and he’s spoilt now, and the drinking songs just aren’t worth the stench of fear that lingers in the air.

He is really very spoilt. The locals are only … wary. Not even really afraid. But he isn’t used to it anymore, and so he walks upstairs and gets into the bed that still smells of happy bard.

The door isn’t very sturdy, he can hear the music through it, so this is really preferable.

When he is almost asleep, something startles him awake.

“… can’t possibly not know that song. Come on!”

“I won’t play it. There’s ladies present!”

Ah. Someone requested a bawdy song.

Arguing follows. The group of men, who Geralt knows rented rooms at the inn, are foolish enough to point out that the innkeeper is not a lady, which is true, in that she surely hasn’t a drop of noble blood, but does not endear them to her.

She tells them that it is late, anyway, and that everyone ought to go home, or to their rooms.

There is some arguing, but Geralt doesn’t listen to it, because Jaskier runs up the stairs, into the room, and bars the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?”, Geralt asks, because some men requesting a song he doesn’t want to play doesn’t seem like such a bad problem. That’s when he notices the smell of blood. It is more intense than when he met the bard. “They hurt you?”

“What? No, no one hurt me. They just … when drunk men argue … a poor little wandering bard with his breakable lute is well-advised to take his leave before a fight breaks out.”

The bard’s heart is hammering in his chest, and the sickly smell of fear emanates from him. Is he really just worried for his lute?

“I – I am sure it is nothing, really, I wouldn’t have left the lady alone with them if I thought … I just … bad experiences, you know?”

Geralt knows how it is, yes. When something turned out bad for you often enough, you start running without waiting for the end result.

And indeed, he hears steps on the stairs. The men are making their way to their bedrooms. Geralt focuses on it for a moment. Yes, it is all of them, and the innkeeper is locking her own bedchamber which is located downstairs.
Good.

Now, there’s Jaskier. “You smell of blood.”

“What? You can smell that?”

“Hm. You are hurt. Where?”

Slowly, Jaskier sets the lute down. “It is nothing, really. While I had no lute, I lost my callouses, so it hurts a bit now.”

He shows Geralt his hands. The blisters aren’t new. They’re open now, the skin raw, and bleeding in several places.

“You should have started slow.” He learnt that, one spring, when he had gotten out of the habit of walking much, then had to do a lot of it at once. He figures it must be similar for playing the lute. Only that humans heal slower.

“The deal was that I’d play all evening.”

He isn’t wrong. Geralt wants to tell him that the innkeeper would have understood, but what does he know? Witchers don’t ever get anything for free. He isn’t sure travelling bards do.

“Lute is yours, now.” What’s done is done. The bard will have to rest tomorrow. He finds the ointment he bought from a healer some time ago, the one thing he has on him that isn’t potentially toxic to a human, and starts applying it to Jaskier’s hand without asking.

He freezes when he realizes what he’s doing, but … Jaskier smells nice, now, the old stench of fear slowly overpowered by the other one.

So he continues. Wraps the hands in bandages.

The bard cannot move his fingers anymore, but manages to kick off his boots before he crawls into bed.

Geralt risks getting into bed beside him, and … it’s fine.

In the morning, Jaskier’s head is in his lap, like a loyal dog, and Geralt thanks all the gods the blanket somehow ended up between them. He pretends to be asleep until Jaskier wakes up.

The panic is worse, this time, but by now Geralt is pretty sure the bard is only afraid of his reaction, not of the fact he is in bed with a witcher, so … that’s tolerable.

“So, do you want to eat breakfast before leaving?”, Jaskier asks after Geralt gave a convincing impression of waking up.

“We stay. Your hands need rest.”

Jaskier’s heart beats faster. His smell changes. “I want to leave. How do I know she’ll let me keep the lute if I stay here and don’t play?”

“Hm. You’re right.” This is the way things are for witchers. He thought they were different for bards, but perhaps they’re not, not that much.

Better not to outstay one’s welcome. “Ask her to pack us something for breakfast. We can be out of here in an instant.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier only feels safe again once they’re out of sight of the village. It was not just about the lute. He is afraid of losing it, yes, but there was also the men. They probably aren’t a danger. Probably. The song they requested, he used to like it. Used to not read too deeply into the lyrics. Yet now … now he just cannot sing it any more, and he also knows that men demanding something of him, something he doesn’t want to give … it is a situation he cannot allow himself to be in, ever again.

So he didn’t thank Geralt for mending his rags, because that would be acknowledging that he owes something, and the man probably thinks he is an ungrateful jerk, now.

He paid for their room, yes, but it didn’t cost him anything, really.

Except that his fingers hurt so much, but it is a small price to play for a lute, and the hope for a better life.

They eat well that day, and in the evening, Geralt sets up camp and refuses to let Jaskier do anything. “Keep the bandages on”, he orders, and does all the work himself.

“You are very kind”, Jaskier manages to say, because that’s not acknowledging that he owes anything, is it?

Geralt only grunts in response, and it sounds as though he disagrees, which is ridiculous, really.

Even if he only does this in the hopes of getting a room for free in the next village, too, he would be taking the risk of Jaskier just parting ways with him as soon as his hands are healed.

Making Jaskier feel that he owes something would be the smart thing to do. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Geralt knows that Jaskier would flee, if any kind of debt were mentioned, as he still is not entirely certain what kind of payment would be demanded.

It is well known that witchers are stronger and faster than normal men – but Jaskier begins to suspect they also have enhanced minds.

Either that, or Geralt is really just being kind. Jaskier would like to believe that, but finds he cannot, not quite.

The next day, Jaskier finds the courage to ask about it.

“So, everyone knows witchers are stronger, but do you have other enhancements, too? Like, are you smarter, too?”

Geralt makes a strange noise, which Jaskier deduces after a moment was a chuckle. It’s the first time the witcher shows something approaching mirth. “First time someone suspects me of that”, he adds after a moment.

“It makes sense”, Jaskier defends himself. “I mean, it would be useful for monster hunting?” And while the mages were at it, why not? Perhaps they didn’t want anyone to surpass them in that?

“Hm. Yes. We – we think faster. To keep up with moving fast. What to do next. Not – not for book learning.”

Not for words, apparently. Geralt seems to have to think a lot before talking. Perhaps that is the price he pays for being able to think faster when it comes to moving.

If there’s anything enhancing the wisdom of witchers, then, unless Geralt is lying, of course, it is something they don’t know about.

A sample of one really isn’t much good for a scientific study, but it is all Jaskier has.

They next day, they arrive at a proper town, and there’s a contract. People have gone missing near the river.

“Do you know what it is?” Jaskier asks curiously when Geralt rips the paper off the notice board.

“Might be a vodyanoi, might be a rusalka, might be something else. I’ll find out during the fight.”

“What? That’s how you go about it?” Well, no wonder no one ever suspected Geralt of being overly intelligent.

“How else?”

“You could ask around, who the victims were, what they have in common – I mean, many creatures have preferred victims, don’t they?” Rusalki only ever go for men, from what he heard. Women are at no risk from them.

Surely, there’s other things that could be clues.

“People don’t talk to witchers.”

“They talk to bards. Let me do the talking. Or well, the talking part of talking. You can do the asking part. You can’t go in a fight not knowing the enemy.” Heck, you don’t do that even when you know that you’re going to fight a man.

Jaskier never liked his fencing lessons much, but that’s the one thing that made sense to him. If you know you are going to fight someone, for, say, an honour duel, you spy on him during training. Find out what his favourite moves are. Learn how to exploit his weaknesses.

He thought everyone knew that. It’s just common sense, really.

“Hm. Alright. We can try.”

They find out the victims are two young women, a girl, and a young boy.

“Does that narrow it down?”, Jaskier asks, suddenly tense. “I mean. From what we know so far, it could be a man, could it? Just a murderer.” The only thing hinting at a monster is that the victims all were seen last near the river, or had said they would go there when last seen.

“Could be”, Geralt agrees. “Not a rusalka.”

It is on Jaskier’s insistence that they visit the families of the victims. Not all want to talk to them, but they do find out that the boy was seven years old, a happy child who had many friends, and who liked horses.

It is almost enough to make Jaskier cry. Such a young life, cut short. Still, they need to find out more, so he persists.

The grieving parents of one of the young women are willing to talk, too.

After expressing his sympathies and asking some more general questions, Jaskier transitions to the question he fears might hit a sore spot: “Was she popular with men? Was there a young man who might have taken a rejection badly? You know how it is, some men have tempers and are so unreasonable.” If it was like that, the boy could have been a witness. He was murdered days later, but – he was young enough to perhaps not have understood what he had seen. The murdered girl was young, too young for a decent man to have tried his luck with her, but, well. Old enough it’s a possibility.

“It could be”, the mother concedes, looking at him warily. “She was a beauty, and was in no hurry to decide on one of her admirers.”

Ah. Some men must have badmouthed her because of it. “And why would she be? A beauty would have many superficial young men wooing her, takes time to find the right one.” And sometimes, the right one is only right for one night. It can be like that.

“Exactly.” The woman nods, trusting, now, that he is not one to judge. “And the local lads, well, you know, they pulled on her pigtails when she was a child. It is no wonder it was often a travelling bard like you who caught her fancy.”

He preens. It is all part of the performance. “Indeed, no. Sounds like a young woman of excellent taste.” He swallows his tears down. A woman who knew to enjoy life, and now she cannot. “Alas, travelling bards aren’t eager to settle down, either. Yet surely she would not have left you to run after one?” That would be good, but … no. They are investigating a murder series here. Whether monster or man, it is vanishingly unlikely that one of the victims just ran away.

“No. Certainly not. She told me once she considered it, but … she was a sensible girl. Knew the life on the road was not for her.”

Way more sensible than Jaskier, then.

“So she liked handsome men?”, Geralt interjects.

The father glares at him.

“Well, yes”, the mother admits, with a sad smile. “She had an eye for beauty. It is just – she always told me. She wasn’t like other girls, who go behind their parents’ backs to meet with some good-for-nothing man. If it was a man who murdered her, she would have met him the first time that day. She might have walked beside the river with him, in broad daylight. It is not – she would not have feared - ” Her voice breaks and she turns away to hide her tears.

Jaskier is startled when Geralt promises to avenge the young woman, and leaves. After making their excuses, he follows.

It takes a while to catch up with the witcher. “So, you know what it is, now?”

“Hm. Likely a kelpie. Good to know. Wouldn’t have found out without you.”

A smile spreads across Jaskier’s face. It lightens his heart, to have made at least a small contribution to slaying the monster that took all those lives. Perhaps he can even make a song about it, seeing as he has a lute again, and is a real bard once more. Life is good.

His happiness lasts exactly until he sees that Geralt is walking, with intent, directly towards a brothel.

Perhaps Geralt is just … mistaken? Doesn’t know what this is, because he spends most of his life in small villages, or in the wilderness? And, well, the differences are not always obvious, if you don’t know what to look for. “I don’t think that’s an inn.”

“I know.”

Jaskier stops. Stares while the witcher enters the brothel without a second thought.

Then he walks away, heart beating thunderously, blood rushing in his ears, and bile rising in his throat.

He feels so foolish. Of course the witcher would go to a brothel the moment he found one. Of fucking course the fact he never thought to demand that Jaskier pay him back that way is because he is only interested in women.

Not because he is some kind of saint. Witchers don’t have the reputation they have for nothing, it was damn stupid to think that … what? Everyone on the continent is somehow totally wrong about what witchers are like?

The witcher is no wild beast that kills without reason, but, of course he’s exactly like any other man, and not a bit better.
A monster can occasionally show kindness. Can even seem perfectly normal to everyone who is not its chosen prey.

There’s no reason for Jaskier to be disappointed. No reason for him to bend over in the dark alleyway he finds himself in, and throw up until his stomach is empty.
It stinks of urine, in the alley, which doesn’t help. It conjures images of piss-stained fabric. Unwashed cocks.

The images in his head just won’t go away.

Those hands that gently bandaged his, wrapped around a soft white arm, pressing until a bruise forms …

Those large knuckles slamming into a woman’s delicate face.

But those images give way, all too soon, to memories, mingling with each other. Hard hands pressing him into the mattress. Holding him still while he feels like he’s split in two.
Large fingers pressing into him, but the hair on them isn’t black, it’s white.

Jaskier heaves. There’s still more bile coming up. He’s grateful beyond reason the witcher always sleeps in his underwear, because the images could be even more detailed.

It’s not him, that should be enough, but somehow, it isn’t.

He helped rub ointment onto bruises, held hands and sang soothing songs while broken bones were set. Helped brew herbal concoctions for the internal tears.

It’s not him, but that doesn’t make it better.

With his stomach empty, the nausea fades, but there’s a strange pressure on his heart.
Is this what a heart attack feels like? He is nowhere old enough to have one. And the shock wasn’t that bad, surely?

Or is that what a broken heart feel like? No, that’s ridiculous. Sure, he used to sing about it feeling like that, all the time, but he was rejected countless times, just a byproduct of falling in love all to easily and all too often. It never felt like this.

And he barely knows the witcher. Surely isn’t in love with the man. Sure, his old self would have fallen head over heels for anyone who rescued him from being lost in a forest, even if he couldn’t be sure whether he was rescued from a leshen, or from his own stupidity.

Would have fallen, without hesitation, for someone who tended to his poor, blistered hands oh so gently.

But, that old Jaskier is dead. Died somewhere on that brothel bed.

Nowadays, he knows better than to think one kind gesture is proof of true goodness. Knows better than to fall in love so easily. Or at all, really.

So, it must be some kind of illness.

He finds an inn, and makes a deal to pay for his room by entertaining the guests. No food.

The innkeeper is a shrewd old fox, by Jaskier’s estimation. Knows what side his bread is buttered on, so to speak. It takes some negotiating to even get a room, and not just a pile of hay in the stables.
There’s no witcher, this time, to boast about his Oxenfurt education, and Jaskier feels too sick to even try and do it himself.

He kicks off his boots and collapses on the bed. He can do this. After some rest, he will be well enough to perform. For a few hours, at least. His hands will bleed again, and he tries not to think too hard about that, but … callouses will form, after a while, and then it will be alright.

The strange sickness will either kill him, which really would solve all of his problems, wouldn’t it? Or it won’t, in which case there is nothing to worry about, either.

He has a lute, and that means things will be alright, even if the man who helped him get the lute is not – not as good a man as Jaskier had stupidly hoped.

As if to remind him that he is still sick, his heart, once more, feels like someone reached into his chest and squeezed it.

A short nap will fix it. Must fix it.

Chapter Text

It’s over. Dan is glad it’s over, and now he only has to clean up, and go downstairs and wait.

Suddenly, unexpected, the man who just fucked him speaks.

“Saw a witcher ride into town. Will be good for business, won’t it? They’re always lonely. I’d pay to watch him destroy that tight hole of yours.”

That hole of his is already destroyed, if the blood he saw when he last used the privy is any indication. The pain has been a constant companion for … quite a while. It’s not exactly like he can take a day off. The room doesn’t pay for itself. Dan shakes his head. “He won’t want a man.” He hopes. He can always refuse a punter, of course, but then word would go round that people get rejected here. It’s bad for business, and he has to pay a penalty for that, and … it isn’t worth it, not with a witcher who will leave town tomorrow and never return.
A witcher who will likely do much, much worse than just complain about the service if he doesn’t get what he wants.

“He’ll take what he’s given. Not like he can be choosy, eh?”

“You can ask him about watching, if you like, darling.” He’s smiling. It’s not a happy smile, but he is smiling and cannot stop.

“Ha, no. I like my head attached to my body. But, do tell me later.”

He had counted on that. It might be a fantasy for many, to watch a pretty boy be fucked by a monster. They would probably watch, too, if they could magically watch from afar, and didn’t have to get close to the monster themselves.

At first it looks like the witcher is going to be turned away. “We don’t serve your kind here”, says the old whore who is in charge of screening the punters. “This is a reputable brothel, mind you.”

The witcher looks around. Dan can’t focus on his face, it is too monstrous, but the eyes are a sickly yellow. Like a rabid wolf’s.

“Hm. I’ll pay double. More, if you have a whore who isn’t afraid of me.”

Double or more. That might get him out of debt, so that he’s legally free to leave and starve on the streets instead.

He steps forward.

“It takes more than those striking yellow eyes to scare me away, darling. But you only go for women, do you? More’s the pity.”

Next to him, Tess tries to meld with the wall. She’s only fourteen, and the tales he’s heard about witchers using human organs for potions are from her.

The receptionist’s lips press into a thin line. “Very well then. You can go upstairs with him. One hour, no matter whether you’re finished or not, and you pay in advance.”

“Hm.” The witcher throws a bag of money at her.

They go upstairs.

“You remind me of someone”, the witcher says as he undresses him.

“Oh? Someone nice, I hope?”

“Hm. A pretty bard I found in the forest. Scared like a little rabbit.”

“Scared that you would ravish him?” He flutters his lashes.

“Not that. Didn’t tell him he’s pretty. Wouldn’t want him to think I’ll demand to fuck him in exchange for saving his life. I’m not that kind of man.”

“Of course not, darling. Why ask that of a respectable bard when you can come to me?”

“Hm. Poor thing had been robbed by bandits. No money, no food. You – you are here by your own choice.”

“How right you are.” The smile freezes on his face.

“You are, aren’t you? Didn’t grow up poor and had no other option, did you?” As the witcher speaks, he bares teeth almost as yellow as his eyes.

Dan almost recoils in disgust when the witcher extends a hand and touches his bare skin. “Oh no, not at all. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually nobility.”

“Hm. So, you’re here by choice.”

“Yes, my own choice.” The words taste like bile.

Chapter Text

His choice. His own choice.

How strange, that he gets this nightmare, now. You’d expect it to come after he’d run away, afraid of this exact outcome. Afraid of what a witcher might do to him that other men haven’t yet.

You’d expect it to come after the witcher captured, well, no, rescued him. Yet part of him must have clung to the hope that … no matter, now.

The nightmare was realistic, except that double the usual rate would never have been enough to pay his debt.
Thinking that paying more money for a whore who isn’t afraid of him … that fits. They do pay more, when you pretend to enjoy it, usually. It’s weird, because they are paying for it, they must know it is just pretend.

There’s a certain irony in the idea that the same man who was so concerned about his bleeding hands would have fucked him when his hole was already fucked raw by the five men who came before him that day, but that part isn’t so unrealistic. Geralt treats him as a bard, because he doesn’t know what he is.
He wouldn’t treat a whore with such consideration. Of course. No one does.

Jaskier is glad the dream ended before that part.

Jaskier pulls himself together, rights his clothes – he’s still wearing Geralt’s second set, they deemed it better upon entering the town for him to look respectable - and walks down the stairs, lute in hand.

“The deal is off”, the innkeeper informs him.

“Am I late?” There is still light outside, and there’s not many people here.

“The witcher doesn’t want you to perform, so you won’t. Paid for the room, too.”

Jaskier tastes bile in his mouth. “He has no right -”

“I’m sorry, lad, but I won’t tell a witcher no. I value my life, and I worked very hard to get where I am, now. But, if you want to run, I’ll just turn around and mind my own business. He was with a whore when he came here, half an hour ago, so if those tales about witchers are to be believed, you have a while yet, to make your escape.”

“Did he take a room, with the whore?” He doesn’t even want to know.

“Not here. This is a decent inn, the whores know they aren’t allowed here.”

“Do you … do you know where he would have gone, then?” He doesn’t want to run into the witcher while he looks for another inn. They will have to meet at least once, so he can give the clothes back, but it doesn’t need to be right now. He needs more time. To get over his stupid emotions. And perhaps earn some more coin before he looks like a vagrant again.

“Beats me. There’s nowhere that would let him bring a whore, apart from the brothel. Though considering he had his swords on him when he left, perhaps he wants to take her outside town? Shouldn’t matter, really, with that hair of his, people will remember where he went.”

Jaskier leaves and asks around, for other inns, and where the witcher went.

It is a nice day, many old women took their work outside, whether it is mending clothes or peeling vegetables, and if the white-haired witcher walked past them, they know.

He went to the riverside, they say, with a whore.

As Jaskier’s bad luck would have it, the first inns he asks at don’t have need of a bard. At last, only the one close to the riverside remains.

It will be alright, he tells himself. It’s been over an hour, now, since the witcher went through there. He likely isn’t there any more.

“Poor girl. Figure we’ll never see her again”, says the old woman who is working on an embroidery when Jaskier asks about it. “No idea how he convinced her to go with him. I called out to her, warned her, but she wouldn’t listen. He came back without her.”

“How was she dressed?”, Jaskier asks, trying to sound neutral, because the innkeeper knew the witcher had a whore with him, and people know how a man gets a whore to follow him.

The old woman clucked her tongue. “Homespun linen, clean and neat. Must be the milkmaid of one of the farms around here, though I’ve never seen her before. I’ve known others like her. They come here, hoping for a better life, but town is treacherous. Not good for a girl to come here all on her lonesome. Evil men offer them respectable employment, and then … though I have to say, she could have known better than to follow a witcher.”

“She could”, Jaskier agrees, and his mouth still tastes like bile.

He could have known better, too. Should have parted ways, before the man began to think Jaskier belongs to him. That he has any right to interfere with his deal with the innkeeper.

It is when he walks to the riverside, in the light of the setting sun, and smells something rotten, that he remembers the kelpie.
A kelpie. The witcher said it was a kelpie, and then he went to the brothel and walked away from it with a whore, and then he had a milkmaid, and … and there’s this rotten carcass of what looks somewhat like a horse. Just missing the head.

Oh.

Jaskier feels a little bit foolish, all of a sudden. Why would the witcher have the whore follow him out of the brothel, if he really just wanted to use her? She would have told him she wouldn’t be welcome in an inn.

And why would he have her change her clothes?

There’s clearly more to it.

Still, there is the fact that the old woman saw the witcher return alone.

He needs to know more.

There will be no more nice old women sitting outside after dark, so he hurries.

An old man, busy carving something from wood, tells him that he saw the witcher carrying the body of a woman.

“Worse than the monsters they’re hired to fight, if you ask me. But, no one dares do anything about them, so he’ll get away with it, mark my words.”

Jaskier walks in the direction the old man said the witcher went, not quite knowing what he is looking for.

“You must be the bard.”

He turns, not particularly worried, because the voice is that of a woman.

She is in her thirties, her mouse-brown hair neatly braided and most of it wrapped in a scarf, her sleeves rolled up. There’s herbs on her windowsill.

“He said you might drop by. Come in.”

Jaskier follows her into the neat little house, because she looks like a healer.

“So, how is he? He said he didn’t have the coin to pay me for tending to his wounds, and that he’d rather use his own potions besides, but he looked bad.”

The mysterious ‘he’ must be Geralt, then. “I … ah …” He is a bard. Spinning tales is his bread and butter, so why does his head feel so empty? “I have to admit I haven’t seen him yet. Went out to look for him, must have missed him. Is it very bad, do you think?”

“He will live, by my estimation. He didn’t collapse after seeing her to safety, as they tend to, with mortal wounds. She has woken up, do you want to talk to her?”

Jaskier attempts a smile. “Yes, please.”

The healer leads him around a folding screen, to the bed behind it.

‘She’ is a woman in her twenties, though the weariness in her striking green eyes makes her look older. Her straight black hair isn’t braided, and there’s a bandage around her head. Her face is pale, seeming stark white against the unbleached bedlinens.

“The bard is here. Don’t turn your head.”

The woman on the bed smiles weakly. “How is Geralt?”

Geralt, huh? “Didn’t meet him yet, I’m afraid. Can you tell me what happened?” It is good he is a bard, otherwise he would feel rather out of his depth, pretending to … well, he isn’t entirely sure what he even is pretending, but a bard is used to improvising.

“I’m not sure, really.” The woman closes her eyes. “He told me it was dangerous. That he’d use me as bait. There should have been a man, but it was a horse. I went to it, pretended I wanted to pet it … I think it kicked me?”

“Nasty head wound, in any case”, the healer supplies. “And a concussion. Will take five days or so until she is fit to travel.”

Bait. Right. The witcher went to a brothel to find a whore, and to then use her … to bait a kelpie. Makes perfect sense.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry! That must hurt like hell!” He is pretending to be friends with Geralt, it seems. “Do you have anything in particular you want me to tell Geralt?”

“Tell him I’m awake, and that I’ll hold him to our deal.”

“Ah, yes, the deal. He didn’t tell me about the exact conditions, I have to admit …”

“He said you wouldn’t mind me tagging along.”

“Oh, my dear, I’d be delighted!” Fit to travel. Tag along. She will come with them?

“He said you make your own songs. What would I need to pay?”

“Pay? I am not a …” He falters, realizing just what he was about to say, and how it isn’t true anymore. Did he really use to say that he was not a common whore? “I am not usually one to take commissions. True art must be free, you know? But you can always make a suggestion.”

“A song about my death.”

What? But she looks to be recovering. “Oh. Yes. The tragic demise of a maiden used to bait the dread kelpie? Why, yes, I will see what I can do.”

“No maiden. I must … they must know …”

The healer interrupts. “That is enough talking, now. Get some rest. And you, bard, out with you. And no word to anyone, except the witcher!”

“My lips are sealed!”

Jaskier walks back to the inn he already has a room in. Which he has to share with Geralt, now. Geralt who … apparently did pay a whore for the use of her body, and got her grievously injured, which is just what Jaskier thought, but …

Somehow, the fact that he used her for bait, and that the injury was getting kicked in the head by a shapeshifting, cannibalistic horse, does change things.
Some would say it is worse, but, well, it is different. And that kelpie did need killing, no doubt about it.

And he did get her to a healer, after, which is more than most punters do. All of them, really.

Darkness has fallen when Jaskier arrives at the inn.

The innkeeper looks at him, confused. “Thought you wanted to leave? He is in no state to follow you, too, now would be a good time.”

“The witcher is a … travel companion. He isn’t keeping me prisoner or anything.” Soothing voice, happy and upbeat. Make it sound like the mere assumption is silly. “He is also not my mother, so he really oughtn’t decide for me whether or not I’m well enough to perform, and rest assured, I will have words with him about that.”

He intends it to be a tale, but as he says it, he realizes it is the truth. Everything falls into place.

Obviously Geralt didn’t want him to play because of his poor fingers. Obviously. He banned Jaskier from doing anything at all with his hands the whole way here.
He interfered with his plans today for the same reason, and …

Jaskier’s heart feels strange, too warm, the way his stomach feels when he drinks whisky. Heartwarming, his mind supplies. That’s a figure of speech, he thought, not real … but it feels like it. Either that, or he has caught some strange sickness, as he suspected.

He can worry about it later.

After he’s seen what state Geralt is in.

Chapter Text

Jaskier opens the door to their room and … there’s a witcher-shaped heap on the floor.

There’s that strange feeling in his heart again, the bad one, and perhaps he is going to have a heart attack, after all.

Just as he kneels beside the heap, there’s a sound.

“I’m sorry”, Geralt rasps. “I should have noticed -”

Whatever he thinks he should have noticed. That the monster was more dangerous than he thought?

“None of that now. Let me tend to your wounds. What do I need to do?”

“You rest. I’ll be fine.”

Jaskier ignores this as the incoherent ramblings of a severely injured man and examines Geralt. There’s a gash in his clothes, just below where the metal armour ends above the elbow. There’s leather, thick leather that would act as some kind of armour normally, but it’s bitten through.

“Oh, nasty. I thought it was a horse? Doesn’t look like something horse teeth could do. Can I get you out of the armour? Or would that hurt you?”

“Would hurt you. Your hands.”

He looks at his hands. They’re healing, this won’t hurt them anywhere as bad as playing the lute would. Jaskier is about to undo the buckles of the armour when something occurs to him. “Is kelpie blood poisonous or something?”

“No, but there’s no need - ”

“Witcher blood, then?” There’s all sorts of strange rumours. Some might be true.

“No, but - ”

“Then don’t be silly.” It takes a while, to get him out of the armour, and Jaskier doesn’t think he can stand the sight of him naked, not after that nightmare, so he leaves it at that. “The healer says you want to use your own potions?”

“Took one. You don’t have to - ”

“Shush. Your arm is bleeding!” Still bleeding, after all this time. It must have slowed somewhat, but … “Do you have something to clean it with? I am not sure I can sew it up, but I can clean and bandage it.”
The sleeves are wide enough, thankfully, that he can just roll this one up to the shoulder.

Geralt claims to have nothing to clean the wound with, so Jaskier orders wine, wine he lets the innkeeper believe he himself is going to drink, because the man clearly doesn’t like witchers, and who knows.

While he is at it, he also lights the candle on the small table next to the bed.

The wine is sour, thank the gods, he would not have wanted to waste a good wine to clean wounds with.

He bandages the wound, with Geralt’s very reluctant cooperation.

“This tight? Are you sure?”

It seems witchers work a bit different than humans. Or you always have to pull a bandage this tight to stem the blood flow – this is not exactly the kind of injury he has experience with. At last, the worst is taken care of. Jaskier is sure there’s plenty of bruises under that shirt, but he can’t deal with that right now. Or ever, probably.

Geralt refuses to lie on his bedroll, because he is still covered in blood, his own and the kelpie’s, and so Jaskier fashions him a makeshift pillow from the bag the oats were in, and some straw from the stables.

He is just washing his hands with the pitiful amount of water the inn provided for the purpose, when Geralt speaks again. “I’ll be alright in the morning. Rest.”

“I am resting.” He wonders if that’s how Geralt usually does things. Kill the monster, save the maiden, crawl somewhere to lie on the ground until the potion takes effect and he heals enough to be able to wash himself.

“Get in the bed. You’re sick.”

“Possibly.” He puts out the candle, then turns his back to Geralt to undress before he crawls under the blanket. “I – I could sing to you. Some find it comforting.”

“Please.”

“Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?”

“The song with the knight. And the princess.” There is something reverent in Geralt’s voice, as though he is asking for something valuable, not just a song.

“Oh. You like that one?” Jaskier feels so pleased he almost reaches for his new lute. Then he remembers his hands. “Of course.”

He sings, softly, as to not get any complaints from the occupants of other rooms.

“Was my guess right?”, Geralt asks after he ended. “I know you said it could mean anything but you must have thought of something when you made it.”

“Each of you was part right, really. You said the knight loves the princess, and that’s … that’s what I thought, too, but it wasn’t supposed to be a dream. It is real, within the song, at least.”

“Unrealistic”, Geralt comments, but he doesn’t seem to mind, much. Jaskier falls asleep shortly after.

Chapter Text

A kelpie then. That means he needs bait, and he while he has had very limited success finding noble souls who’d volunteer as monster bait, he knows exactly where to find people who will do anything for money.

Brothels stink. They are the absolute worst, if anyone asks him, which humans typically don’t. They tend to claim that the part of town where the tanners work is the stinkiest, but that smells like a rose garden compared to brothels.

Not that Geralt has many opportunities to visit rose gardens. Still.

He follows the stench, and has soon found the kind of establishment he was looking for, with Jaskier not-so-helpfully pointing out that it is, indeed, not an inn.

It is when Geralt is inside the brothel that he notices he lost the bard.

He opens the door, and sees Jaskier walk away, apparently with a clear destination in mind. Oh. He did mention that this was not an inn – he must have meant this as reminder that he would like to get to an inn and rest.

Damn. Geralt is bad with people. Or just humans. It is hard to say when the only witchers he has much to do with are ones he has known for so long.

They are in a town now, though, so Jaskier should be able to safely see himself to an inn of his choosing.

The madam of the brothel is not happy with his request to take one of the girls on a field trip, so to speak. Much too dangerous, she claims.

He lifts an eyebrow. “More dangerous than diseases and back-alley abortions and violent men? I know how establishments like yours operate. They are all independent contractors, are they not? They pay handsomely for their rooms. So handsomely that it is only after how many men a day that they begin to make some profit? Five? Ten? Regardless. You do not employ them, so it is not your decision to make.” He isn’t sure she’s actually the owner, it often used to be the case that the profits went to some man higher up in the town’s hierarchy, but … those things change, and anyway, it doesn’t matter.
The basic operation model is the same. For some reason, the owners are allergic to paying the whores steady wages – possibly because they might dare to be unfriendly with the customers, then - and pretend like they’re independent contractors, which … they aren’t really that independent, but officially, it is their decision what they do outside the brothel, as long as they pay for room and board.

Even so, the “girls”, some of whom are over forty, do not seem interested. One after another he talks to them, and they decline. Although he offers to pay enough in advance to cover the absurd fee they have to pay for their rooms, they still don’t want to take the risk of coming with a witcher. They reek of fear, and it overpowers even the general stench.

A shame Jaskier isn’t here. It is baffling how much more willing people are to talk, with him there. Geralt knew people hated witchers, but the difference … though maybe part of that is just Jaskier. He seems to be uncommonly good with people.

“I’m not going to harm you”, he tries, when he is talking to the next one. He usually doesn’t say such things, people either know that already or don’t believe it, but with Jaskier he was desperate enough to try, and it helped, or seemed like it. “You could get hurt, by the monster, but I will do my best to prevent that.” It is a pitiful promise, he knows. And it is wrong, to go and offer those women, who he knows have little choice, so much money for playing bait. But what is the alternative? He could wait, spend the money on a room at the inn, and just wait until someone gets attacked by chance. Maybe he is there when it happens, maybe … not. Perhaps it would be fair, to spread the risk, to make it so that someone wealthy could be next, but …

“I’m travelling with a bard at the moment”, he says, as though Jaskier is a lucky charm and just mentioning him might help.

The woman’s face shows no reaction, but her scent changes.

“He might come with us, if he is not too tired.” If he were human, then telling the woman that she’d be alone with two men instead of just one would make her even more anxious, but … perhaps having a human there would help? And Jaskier seemed very interested in the details of his ‘monster slaying’. Kelpies are very territorial, so there’s no risk of another turning up to attack the humans while he is busy with the first.

“I didn’t know witchers travelled with … people.”

Witchers are not, of course, people. It stings, even though he knows all too well. “We don’t. I … picked him up after he ran into some bandits. I’m just … going to find him some nice noble who needs a bard.”

Her eyes narrow. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

She says her name is Celandine. It probably isn’t the name her mother gave her, but it isn’t any of his business.
“I will risk my life, but only if there’s something in it for me. I want out of here. If I die, I die. If I don’t … then you will let everyone believe that I died.”

Sounds like a plan. “Hm. You have debts?”

“Are you going to lecture me about morals?”

“Not you. I know how it works. All of you are in debt.”

They have to pay for the rooms, many times what an inn would cost, even if the sheets aren’t laundered any more often, and they have to pay no matter how much they earn that day, and if that weren’t enough to land them in debt, most of them drink. Humans have this joke that anyone will be beautiful enough to take home after you’ve had a few to many, and perhaps that’s true, and that’s why brothels tend to smell of alcohol, too.
Or perhaps they use it to dull the general pain of everything. He’s been there. Does that, every winter, when he can afford to be vulnerable.

“That, or they haven’t saved enough to leave. If they have any experience doing anything else in the first place. I don’t.”

He nods. “Sold to pay your parents’ debts?” It is a common enough biography for witchers.

“My father drank.” That’s a yes. “You say you have a bard, so … I can tag along, too, can’t I? I’m no good for anything – a bit of cooking and cleaning, nothing more, and if I survive that monster, I won’t spread my legs for any man ever again. But I’ll play bait for your next monster, too, if I get half of the payment.”

“Most monsters are stupid enough to attack a witcher.” Kelpies are cunning, that’s why he needs the bait. That, and this one seems to go only for women and children. “But there’s a … a house for fallen women, some seven day’s journey from here. It’s … they’d put you to work doing laundry, spinning flax, it’d not be an easy life, but there’s only women there. You’d sleep alone.”

Her scent changes, the stench of misery lessening. Hope. “I have heard of such places. They take away your newborn babes and bury them under the floor.”

He sees her eyes flicker to the floor of the brothel, and knows that it is not much different, here. Maybe the babes are not taken, perhaps they’re stillborn because of diseases, but the grief is the same.

“I did some work there. That place is different. It smells nice.” Humans cannot smell misery, can they? “I mean … the women there seemed happy. The noblewomen who founded it and pay for the upkeep really do mean well.” They don’t understand, not really, which was how they ended up with a Botchling problem, not having taken enough care to make the fallen women understand that there was no need to hide a stillborn infant, that there would be no punishment.
But they learnt, and for all he knows, they are still muddling through, making mistakes, but … trying.

“Alright then. I will risk it. When do you need me?”

“Now, preferably. We will make a detour to the inn, to stable my horse, and then a pawnbroker, to get you a new dress. I’m not sure how picky the kelpie is, but it won’t hurt if you look …” Less like a whore. “More naive. Besides, you need something decent to wear if you want to travel with me.”

She is shrewd. Makes him swear on Roach’s life that he will keep to the deal, having guessed within seconds that the mare is more or less the only thing he holds dear.

When he manages to locate Jaskier’s scent, he realizes that the bard smells bad. There’s … hurt, he thinks, not being familiar with that smell on humans. Hurt, and the distinct smell of vomit.

The bard is sick, and he didn’t notice, dragged him along without mercy.

It is strange, the hurt. Fellow witchers are disappointed with him, sometimes, but never humans. Humans never expect him to be any better than he is.

He finds the inn easily enough, and pays for the room, makes sure Jaskier won’t perform when he should be resting.

The innkeeper stinks of fear, as usual. At least he won’t try to overcharge, then.

From then on, things work pretty well, at first. The pawnbroker has just the kind of dress they need, and it is only a little bit too large, which Celandine doesn’t mind.

“Should I braid my hair?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I think you should go for the look of naive peasant girl. Willing to believe the sweet talk of a handsome stranger. Do girls wear their hair open or braided these days?” He should know, but he never paid attention. It seems to change so fast, such things.

She considers it for a moment. “Open, with a wreath of flowers, at least that’s what men request, sometimes. When they feel like ravaging a maiden.”

He wants to tell her it’s ‘ravish’, then realizes her choice of word was probably intentional.

There’s a healer nearby, and he pays in advance, because he can’t go back to the inn, to Jaskier, his eyes black, and dripping blood all over the floor.

It all goes awry when Celandine walks around at the water’s edge, picking flowers, humming a little song … she tries her best, she really does, while Geralt hides behind some shrubs, but what eventually emerges from the water isn’t a handsome young man, but a beautiful black horse.

There’s a waterlily in its wet mane, and only an idiot would pet it, but Celandine is a masterful actress, as she would be, considering.

“Oh, aren’t you a beauty?”, she coos, and even he would almost not be able to detect the lie. She does not smell of fear, only a bit nervous, and he is not sure whether that makes her brave or foolish. “Did you get lost? Don’t worry, we’ll find your owner. Only after you have eaten your fill of the nice lush grass here, of course.” The last sentence is spoken in a conspirational whisper, and perhaps that is what makes the kelpie draw closer to her, away from the river.

It isn’t what he expected, and it is not ideal – the man would be weaker, and the kelpie would be vulnerable while shifting back to the horse form – but he can make do.

Or so he thinks.

The kelpie panics once Geralt leaps out of the shrubs.

It panics, and the hooves hit Celandine, and because he is a witcher, not a good man, he uses the moment to drive his silver sword into the kelpie’s heart instead of running to her aid.

He carries her to the healer before taking the kelpie’s head as a trophy, because while he is not a good man, he is no monster, either.

She asked him to pretend she is dead, but there is not much pretending needed. She is alive, but barely so, bleeding profusely from somewhere in her hair.

“Head wounds always bleed a lot”, the healer comments. “Concussion, probably.” She pokes and prods Celandine’s head, and to his relief, her frown does not deepen, and the smell of anxiety does not turn into that of fear.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

“Not so fast! Your arm -”

“I can’t afford to pay you more. And I have to take the monster’s head before someone else does. Don’t tell anyone she’s alive. That is … there’s the bard.” He should probably give a description. “Jaskier. He has the most stunning blue eyes, you’ll know it is him. You can tell him. But no one else.”

At this point in time, he isn’t sure whether tomorrow, Jaskier will be well enough to check on Celandine, or whether he’ll get the healer to check on Jaskier.

“Yes, of course, but your arm - ”

“I paid for one patient. Save her. I’ll be fine. My own potions work better anyway.”

He downs one as he walks away from the healer’s house.

Then, he gets the kelpie’s head, collects payment, and returns to the inn, where he proceeds to drip blood all over the floor, just like he didn’t want to. There’s no helping it, bandaging his own arm never works, it always is too loose even when he uses his teeth to hold the end of the bandage.

The room is empty, but the smell of Jaskier’s misery is all over the bed. Where is the bard? Did he try to go find a healer all by himself?

Geralt collapses on the floor. He has no strength left, and can only hope that Jaskier will be alright. That the short rest on the bed helped.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when the door opens and there’s a wave of … he doesn’t know that smell.

And then Jaskier insists on helping him. Him! As if he were the one needing help!

It is nice, though. Very nice.

He stops resisting, at some point. There’s a soft pillow under his head, and he isn’t lying on his armour, which is much more comfortable, even though the floor is cold.

When Jaskier offers to sing for him, he wonders, for a moment, if he was a better man than he thought he was, and this is the afterlife.

His favourite song of all times, sung for him and him alone, just like that. And the room smells lilke winter.

If this is death, then his only regret is that he didn’t die earlier.

Bright sunlight wakes him. He is most decidedly not dead. The floor is uncomfortable, but his arm feels surprisingly well.

And the room smells good, apart from the lingering aroma of kelpie blood.

Ah. Jaskier. He sits up. The arm is bandaged, almost as good as he himself would have … no, better, because it never turns out quite right if he can only use one hand.

The bard is getting his well-deserved sleep, happily curled up on the side of the bed, one arm dangling to the side. With how much the man moves around in his sleep, it is a wonder he hasn’t fallen out of bed, yet.

Geralt makes a mental note to not make camp near steep ravines. Then scolds himself for assuming that the bard will stay.

Even if Jaskier isn’t angry at him – it seems he isn’t – this is only temporary.

Chapter Text

It is the best morning Jaskier has had in … in years, really.

He wakes up in a nice clean bed, sees that the sun is up, puts the pillow over his head and promptly goes back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, he remembers, faintly. There was someone he was worried about, someone wounded, sleeping on the floor. Somehow, he is not worried. Perhaps to do with the fact that the floor is empty, and clean, and …

“Breakfast?”

A tray is placed on the bed. Jaskier can smell fresh bread.

“Oh, dear heart, you spoil me.”

He turns around and only when he sees the white-haired man does he fully wake up.

Damn. Geralt. The witcher. They may have spent the night together, but not in the way that used to result in breakfast in bed, so …

“Ah. Apologies. I was not quite awake. Uh. Thank you, but shouldn’t you … you were half dead yesterday!”

“I heal fast. You were sick yesterday. And I dragged you through the whole town. I’m sorry.”

Sick? Oh. But … “How do you know? I mean, I did throw up, but … not in here, did I?” Or did he?

Geralt shrugs. “I could smell it. Are you feeling better today?”

“I – yes, I think, I was just a bit … tired.” Foolish. Jumping to conclusions. Reasonable conclusions, really, but … “I am sorry. For not being here when you came back from your fight. You needed help.” He reaches for the cup. Chamomile tea. He does not need it, he feels perfectly well, but the taste is pleasant enough.

“You helped me more than anyone ever did. I am fine.”

“Mh.” Geralt does look fine, in every sense of the word. He seems to have bathed and washed his clothes, which are still slightly damp, and there’s no trace of injury. “Oh, before I forget it. I talked to the healer. The whore you hired is alive and will be able to travel in a few days.”

“Hm. Her name is Celandine. She will travel with us, if you don’t mind. I … I’m assuming you’ll want to find a good position. I know some noblewomen who might want a bard.”

“Well. I …” What if it turns out Geralt is just a ‘work before pleasure’ guy and is going to have Celandine pay him … that way?
He doesn’t think he could endure travelling with him any longer, in that case. But at the same time, he hasn’t asked all his questions, yet, and perhaps Geralt isn’t like that, and …

“I shall be delighted to travel with a lovely lady.”

“You seem worried, though.”

Damn. Why is Geralt so perceptive? “It is nothing. I just … she wants you to pretend that she died. That will ruin your reputation. What is in it for you?”

Any moment now. The witcher will leer, and tell him it is obvious, and ...

“I don’t intend to demand her firstborn child, if that’s what you are worried about.”

Ah. That. “Figures. I mean, her firstborn child is probably long dead, anyway.”

There is a long pause.

“Do you know her? Why would her firstborn child …” Geralt looks confused. Shocked.

“You picked her up in the whorehouse, yes? I thought … I assumed she’s a working girl.” Nice euphemism. As though it was just mucking stables.

“She is, but … yes, she might have been pregnant, but there’s … herbs, I don’t think it would count …”

“I don’t know if an abortion would count, but, you know, they don’t always have the money for those, and other things get in the way, and some men like a pregnant woman …” He wishes he didn’t know that.

“You are well informed”, Geralt says, slowly, as though he is solving a puzzle.

“Ah! Well, yes, bard! We know things! It is the job description! And there was this one time I was asked to … ah, sing at a funeral. An unmarked grave, you know, because plots at the graveyard cost money, so we went into the forest, and … she was the most beautiful little girl.” There are tears in his eyes, even though that was a year ago and he ought to be over it. “It, uh … was a stillbirth. They said it was a stillbirth.” He wipes his eyes with the blanket.

“Hm. You don’t think it was a stillbirth.”

“Must have been. A little girl … would have been her ticket to retirement, wouldn’t it? A daughter who can continue the family business. Would be insane to waste that opportunity.” Damn. He talked too much. Again.

“Hm. You don’t have to worry about Celandine. She played the bait, and in return I will escort her to a … safe place. That is … are you worried it will hurt your chances for a good position? Travelling with a whore?”

“What? No! Not at all, I was just … well. Not sure if life on the road isn’t too rough on a lady.” That’s a terribly bad lie, he knows. Even if women generally were too soft for such hardships (they aren’t), a whore who volunteered to play kelpie bait certainly is the last person who would complain about having to sleep on the ground.

“She will cope. And we can part ways before …”

“It is fine, truly! So, we are faking her death? Like, our very own little conspiracy? And I get to write a song about it?” He will need something to write. One new song, he can keep in his head, but two … it might get crowded, in there. “You don’t happen to have some pieces of paper on you?”

“I only have a notebook”, Geralt replies, sounding apologetic. “I could rip a page out, for you?”

“You would do that?” It is touching. That Geralt would ruin his notebook for him.

“Hm.”

He goes and really does that, and it’s another thing that would have made old Jaskier fall in love in an instant.

New Jaskier knows better, and just eats his breakfast. In bed.

Geralt rips the two middle pages out of his notebook and hands them to Jaskier. “Be careful with the sheets”, he advises as he hands Jaskier a charcoal pen.

It would definitely cost extra if he stained the sheets. “I should get up.” If he was left alone in the room for long enough to put his clothes on.

“You need rest. I … I’ll go and visit Roach.”

Jaskier isn’t really sick. He doesn’t have to stay in bed. But, he can do his work composing a song – it is work, even if he isn’t going to take payment – from here, and there isn’t much else to do … except mending clothes, which is what Geralt busies himself with once he returns.

Mending clothes is another thing Jaskier is pretty useless at. He learnt to sew torn clothing back together, in his time as travelling bard, but later on, there just seemed to be no point in learning.

Geralt is good at it. Probably because he gets his clothes torn by monsters so often.

So he sits there, and mends, while Jaskier works on the new song, and … Jaskier could get used to that.

“If you feel better tomorrow”, Geralt begins. “I got clothes for you. The pawnbroker said they were acceptable attire for a bard … not sure about that. Can take them back.”

“Show me?”

Geralt goes to his pack and retrieves a set of folded clothes. There’s trousers, and the green is a bit too muted for Jaskier’s taste, but the doublet is bright blue and … “That’s my doublet!”

“Oh? The bandits must have sold it here. I’ll track them - ”

“No, that’d only slow you down. We have to safely deliver the lady to that safe place, don’t we? It’s likely impossible to track them down, anyway.” Certainly impossible, because the doublet was one of the things they didn’t take. Perhaps they didn’t see it under his cloak, perhaps they were afraid of being caught while they stood there, waiting for him to take it off.
Or perhaps they fooled themselves into thinking that as long as they didn’t take the clothes off his back, they weren’t really bad people.

His best doublet. It is old, now, visibly used, which is not surprising seeing as he spent five years parted from it.
If it hadn’t spent most of its time in pawnbroker’s shops, it would likely be unwearable by now, but as things are, it is fine. A bit shabby, but … he almost can’t believe it.

The next day, Geralt returns to the inn with a whole heap of new purchases.

“Would you be alright with carrying some more things?”, he asks. “You said you were worried about the road being too rough on the lady. I bought her a bedroll.”

“You bought two.” At least two. Jaskier cannot see a third in the heap.

“Yes.” Geralt hesitates. “It’s … she told me to use half of the money I would have been paying her to buy things for the journey. And I don’t think she would want to make you sleep on the floor. She seemed … nice.”

Jaskier smells bullshit.

So, Geralt still thinks Jaskier thinks he’s going to demand his firstborn child (or whatever greets him first when he returns home, or whatnot) for anything nice he does for him.

It’s rather awkward, and Jaskier would like to tell him he isn’t worried about that, but then he would have to admit what he was worried about (still is, but only a tiny bit) and that … no, he does not want to have that conversation, especially since if Geralt found out what he was … what he still is, because you don’t get to leave that behind ...

No.

“As long as you are sure that’s what she’d want …”

Over the next few days, his hands heal, and he plays a little longer each day, to get the tender skin to form calluses.
Plays the new song he composed, in which the lovely lady who volunteered as kelpie bait tragically dies in the witcher’s arms, before the kelpie’s venom dissolves her into foam on the river. He hints that she is a whore, because the madam she’s in debt with must think her dead, but he keeps it tasteful. Likens her to a rosebud whose petals were torn open by a nasty insect, to a dove that’s fallen into the gutter.

Sharing a bed with Geralt is … complicated. He does not mind it in the evenings, when he is under the blankets. Then it just feels like no time passed and he’s just a travelling bard, sharing a bed because it’s cheaper that way.

Mornings, though … thank the gods that Geralt sleeps like the dead. It was worst when he woke with his head on the man’s groin. If there hadn’t been a blanket between, he might have freaked out and woken Geralt. As things were, he realized just in time that he wasn’t back, that he was safe ..ish, that he just needed to crawl away quietly.

The time he had his foot in Geralt’s face was the most likely to get him killed, probably, but Geralt slept soundly through that, too.

Jaskier is not an early riser, not by choice in any case, but he does often wake up before he’s quite finished sleeping.

Still, he will be glad when they are on the road again and he has his own bedroll. He’ll have to make sure to put it far enough away from Geralt’s. And far enough away from Celandine’s. She wouldn’t kill him over it, but molesting her in his sleep is the last thing he wants to do.

He visits her at the healer’s, the day before she’s supposed to be ready for travel.

She looks much improved, and tells him if it were up to her, she would have left yesterday. “The sooner I am gone, the better.”

He nods. “I know the feeling.”

Geralt actually has not touched her, Jaskier manages to confirm. It isn’t part of their deal that he would get to, either, which is a relief. Somewhat.

Deals can be re-negotiated, once on party is at the mercy of the other. Geralt does not seem the type, but …

One can never be sure.

They leave before dawn, Celandine in the new used cloak Geralt bought for Jaskier, and which Jaskier has worn a couple times. Carrying his lute, too.

Jaskier is draped over Roach’s saddle, doing his best imitation of a bag of oats. It’s uncomfortable, and it would shake Celandine’s concussed head way too much, which is why he volunteered to do it.

If someone questions them, she will run, and will be long away before anyone realizes they only got a bard, who doesn’t have any debts in this town’s brothel.

No one does question them. Geralt lifts Jaskier out of the saddle, and gently puts him on his feet. Jaskier only gets a little bit nervous at being manhandled. He feels silly for getting nervous at all. He was the one to suggest this.

“Thank you.” Celandine smiles at him. It is not a fawning smile, and her eyes crinkle as she hands him back his lute.

“It was my pleasure, gentle lady!” He gives a little bow, and he could swear he heard Geralt chuckle.

No one comes after them, and after they’ve walked a while, Celandine asks, shyly, for the song he wrote about her death, he gladly complies.
When he ends, he sees, to his gratification, that she is crying.

“Now you made me sad”, she says. “It is … marvellous. Do you truly not want anything in return?”

“Truly. Your gratitude is my reward, milady. Well, that, and the coin I have earned, and will continue to earn with this song. People love a sad ballad.”

“It’s like magic”, Geralt comments, suddenly. “People cry when you play it.”

“It is sad”, Celandine interjects. “Why would they not cry?”

“Because he says all this … stuff about me looking into your eyes and seeing myself there, and …”

“You said it was alright?” He did ask. He wouldn’t have sung it without asking first.

“I don’t mind.” The witcher’s voice is flat and emotionless. As though he is suppressing anger. Perhaps he decided it was worth it, likening him to a whore, to get her out. “It’s just. Yes, she would have died, scorned by the people she helped save, with no one mourning her. And that is the fate that is in store for me, too. It’s just. People don’t care. About a witcher or a whore. Unless you sing about it. Then they cry.”

“Oh! Yes, that is … hm.” He could make more songs about the witcher. More, that is, about his fights. The one about the knight and the princess is very popular, though with Geralt’s interpretation of it, he’d better not let the man know that it’s about him and his horse.

“Are you working on a new song?” Celandine interrupts his thoughts, and Jaskier notices that he was humming.

“Er, yes. Possibly. Just a very vague idea.”

Deep in his thoughts, Jaskier notices only much later that no one said anything in quite a while. Geralt is taciturn at the best of times, but Celandine seemed quite a bit chattier.

Chapter Text

Jaskier thinks he might be offended at being compared to a whore. Geralt would almost laugh, if he didn’t want to cry.
He probably looks strange, whenever it comes up, because … this is more compassion than he ever got from a human. The song is downright sappy. And yes, it makes him cringe, the way Jaskier boldly asks his audience to feel sorry for Geralt. It’s … he would die with shame if he ever caught himself begging for pity this way, but when Jaskier does it, it works!

“It’s a song”, Jaskier assured him. “People won’t assume that it is completely truthful. And everyone knows witchers have no feelings, so you needn’t worry they’ll think you weak. They’ll put that down to artistic license.”

He’s right, most people will think it is utter bullshit once their music-induced tears have dried and they can think clearly once more.

What unsettles Geralt is that Jaskier, in the quest of writing a sappy song that would convince people that Celandine actually died, accidentally stumbled across what Geralt would probably have felt like if she had died.

Do they learn that at Oxenfurt academy? Is everyone who studied music there a fine-tuned weapon, able to correctly read anyone’s emotions, then use that knowledge to utterly and completely crush them? He is afraid to ask.

Knowing Jaskier – yes, he thinks he can say he knows him, now – he doesn’t think it ever occurred to the bard to weaponize that skill, which is reassuring.
However, he never mentioned that Oxenfurt academy has a moral code it teaches to its students. Nothing that stays with them once they’ve left the place.
The thought is rather chilling.

Geralt would know, probably, if bards routinely used their knowledge for evil … would he?

It makes him feel vulnerable. But he must get a grip on himself. Jaskier doesn’t constantly whine about the fact that Geralt could kill him with his bare hands. So Geralt has no right to act weird about the fact that Jaskier could probably force him to his knees with a few well-aimed words.

Especially since Jaskier has obviously no intention of hurting him.

Geralt feels strangely at peace, travelling with two soft and vulnerable humans he has to protect. Two pretty little flowers, a buttercup and a celandine … fuck, they even match in colour!

Jaskier is probably a stage name. With the man’s bright blond hair and sunny personality – he does have a sunny personality, there’s just … way too many clouds over it – the name fits.

It feels gratifying, to have picked them up and to deliver them to safe places. He likes setting things to right, he had hoped, as a boy, that being a witcher would be about that. And it is, somewhat, but mostly, it is about killing.

This here … reminds him of the time Eskel brought home a baby squirrel that had almost frozen to death in the snow.

Lovingly warmed and fed with a mixture of milk from several animals – Eskel devoted his whole time to it – the squirrel became tame, and it was … it felt right. To have that soft little creature not be afraid of them. It was ...

But that was at Kaer Morhen.

Geralt cannot allow himself to indulge in the feeling of helping those humans, he needs to get the job done, fast and efficiently, before something attacks them that he cannot protect them from.

Of course, fast is relative. They aren’t slowing him down much more than Roach already does, but still, with them here, he feels a need to make a proper campfire every night. Geralt likes sleep, and warmth, and food, but he can do without for quite a while. Humans can’t.

For all that she claimed to have no skills, not even those that would get her employed at an inn, Celandine is quite good at collecting firewood, and Geralt notices, amused, that she watches Jaskier’s preparations for the stew with hawk-eyes.

Too embarrassed to ask questions, it seems, not wanting him to know that she was never taught any of this.
He sneaks looks all the while he takes care of Roach.

The dynamic between the two humans is … adorable. A word not usually in his active vocabulary, but he picked it up somewhere, and it fits.

Jaskier treats the young woman like she’s an audience of one, calling her a lady when she’s everything but, bowing and smiling. As if he has no idea she used to be a whore.
She, in turn, easily asks questions and makes conversation, drawing out the bard’s sunny disposition.

It’s a weight off Geralt’s heart. He had worried, a bit, that Jaskier might have objections. Or, perhaps worse, be happy to travel with her, but treat her like a whore.

It isn’t like that, not at all.

When night falls, Geralt stays awake for a while, watching the humans sleep. Jaskier has always moved around in his sleep, every time after the exhausted sleep of the first night after they met, but he never moved into the fire, and Geralt wants to know how that can be, now that he’s witnessed the nightly migration from one side of the bed to the other.

It is amusing to watch. Jaskier will move closer to the fire, until he is almost too close, then draw back. He will move off his bedroll until almost his whole body is on the ground, then feel cold and move onto it again.

The bard’s sleeping mind is clearly able to tell that the fire is danger, and that the ground is cold.

It does not seem to consider Geralt a danger, or a discomfort, even, judging from how Jaskier was draped over him some mornings.

Geralt shouldn’t read into that. He really shouldn’t.

He also shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

Yet he did, and when the wind turns in the morning, there’s the scent of blood. Lots of blood. It’s Celandine’s.

He’s up in an instant. At first, the woman seems unharmed. He crawls closer. Internal bleeding? Was the concussion too severe after all? Did all the walking rupture an internal wound a man caused to her?

Geralt scents the air, and his fears are confirmed, the bleeding clearly originates from her private parts.
And he has no idea what to do.

Then she startles awake. Sits up.

She doesn’t scream. Just looks at him like a startled deer, then relaxes. Still reeks of fear, though. “Gods, witcher, you gave me a fright. What is it? Do we have to get up before dawn?”

“You’re bleeding. I … I can’t treat such wounds. I don’t know what …” Perhaps he can run back to the town to get the healer? If he leaves his armour behind, he can be there in half a day …

“What? Oh. Damn. You have never been with a woman, have you?”

**

Jaskier wakes up when Geralt starts to move around, but he tries to fall asleep again. Only when he detects the extremely worried tone in Geralt’s voice does he sit up.

“You have never been with a woman, have you?”

Oh. Oh, she must have her monthlies. And Geralt … oh, that’s so darling!

“So what if I haven’t?”, Geralt growls.

“Oh, that’s fine, it’s totally fine - ” Celandine is wheezing with suppressed laughter. Then she can’t hold it back anymore, a chuckle escapes. “Sorry, I just … the big bad witcher who everyone’s afraid of is a virgin, that’s just so …”

“I’m not.” There’s a warning in the tone. One that Jaskier never heard before. Celandine is poking the bear, and she’d better stop, now.

“Ah, sorry for assuming. I know that many men prefer very young girls, who -“

“No!”

That now sounds like murderous rage. Shit. It was nice knowing her. Though really, once the witcher starts ripping people apart, perhaps Jaskier should make his escape as long as he still …

“Or men. Some men like men”, Celandine continues in a desperate tone.

“Mh.”

Jaskier blinks. That’s a yes, in Geralt-speak.

And that means … he doesn’t want to think about what that means.
With Celandine eyeing the blood on her skirt with clear chagrin he has an excuse to get away.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? Blood is best washed out while it is still fresh. I’ll help you scrub that out …” He gesticulates in the direction of the little brook nearby.

“Thank you, but there is no need. I can do it myself.”

Jaskier recognizes a polite no when he hears it, so he deflates. “Oh, of course.” Of course she doesn’t want him to – even if she’s a whore, and even if the whores he knew were grateful for his assistance and not used to have privacy anyway … he’s a stranger to her.

“Very well then.” He gets up. “I’ll … uh … I can brush Roach?”

He has never done that, and didn’t really expect for Geralt to wordlessly hand him the brush.

What he expected even less was for Geralt to vanish in the forest, mumbling something about herbs.
Brushing horses is something Jaskier can do. The mucking of the stables was, of course, not fit to be done by the young master, but brushing the horses was clean enough to be allowed.

By the time Celandine returns, he has braided Roach’s mane.

“Where’s Geralt?”

“Off to collect herbs, or so he says. You embarrassed him.”

“I’m sorry, but … you must admit … the thought of him being a virgin ...”

Jaskier cannot help the smile. “Yes.” It would have been so darling. And he would feel so safe.

“Is it a problem for you? That he’s into men?”

It is. It very much is. “No, of course not. I’ve … bedded the occasional man myself. Don’t tell him, though.”

“You don’t want him to get any wrong ideas?”

“Exactly.” She understands, of course she does.

“I’m glad to know that he … won’t be getting any wrong ideas regarding me.”

Chapter Text

Geralt stays in the vicinity, scenting the air occasionally.

Only when the scent of blood is almost gone does he return. Jaskier is done brushing Roach, and has even added little braids in her mane.

But the bard smells of … at the very least mild anxiety, now.

Celandine, in turn, smells better. Now that she is sure that Geralt isn’t interested in women. Which … he feels like a liar. He doesn’t know, is the truth. Women are beautiful, often. Perhaps he’d like to kiss the hand of a beautiful princess. It’s just nothing that’s ever been even a remote possibility.

He’ll keep his hands off her, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?

Neither of them mentions the incident, neither pokes fun at him for not knowing that, apparently, a woman waking up in a puddle of her own blood is just normal women things?

Perhaps he’d feel better if they did. If they felt safe enough to.

Jaskier is even more chivalrous than before, calling for breaks so that the lady can go behind some bushes to ‘powder her nose’, but otherwise, nothing changes.

Except that Jaskier smells of fear, now. It isn’t strong, but it is there, and it sets Geralt’s teeth on edge.

What can he say? ‘Don’t worry, I won’t stare at your arse’?

Everything he could say would only worry the bard more.

There’s another night outside before they’ll reach the next village. One last night, before he’ll have to sleep on the floor, because there’s no chance that the bard will let him sleep in the bed, now.

And separate rooms aren’t an option. Celandine will need a separate room, because people will talk, otherwise, and … perhaps there’s other women there with whom she can share a room, so the cost won’t be that steep.

He’ll have to talk to them, about that.

They talk to each other, and it’s … it’s nice, to be allowed to sit with them, listen to their happy chatter.
Sometimes, when he began to walk the Path, he listened in on conversations and pretended to himself to be part of the group, but … it was always only ever pretend.
Winters were the only time he ever wasn’t alone.

When they put down their bedrolls, Geralt is relieved to see that Jaskier has his in the same place he put it yesterday. Not further away. Though perhaps that’s because he wants to be close to the fire.

Geralt pretends to fall asleep as soon as he lies down, but he isn’t really asleep. The smell of anxiety lingers on the bard, and it keeps him on edge.

And then, it’s replaced by fear.

Geralt opens his eyes. Jaskier is moving, frantically, not the way he usually slowly migrates this way or the other.
“Please … hurts … my mouth instead ...”

It is mumblings, and perhaps Geralt misunderstands, he certainly does, but it’s no good to tell himself that, because he breaks out in cold sweat and his heart races and he’s … he’s almost back there, in the dormitory, can almost smell the bad breath of the mage who’s face he’s managed to forget -

A cry of anguish breaks free, and Geralt clamps his hand over his mouth.

Too late. Everyone is awake now.

“Are we under attack?”, Celandine whispers.

“No. No … go back to sleep. It’s just … the bard had a nightmare. Thought I’d wake him. Sorry.”

“Thank you”, Jaskier smiles in the darkness.

They settle back down.

“Jaskier?” He just has to know.

“Yes?”

“Did you … when you studied in Oxenfurt, did they have a dormitory in the university or did you have your own room?”

“Hm? Oh. No, I … I was old enough to live on my own. Rented a room in the empty house of a widow, she was glad to have someone to mother. Why?”

Good. He misunderstood. No men creeping into a tiny bard’s bedroom at night. Of course. “No reason. Sleep.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier has a creeping suspicion that Geralt noticed something. He just doesn’t know what that something is. The nightmare? Has Geralt noticed other nightmares, ones that Jaskier doesn’t even remember, and is … putting things together?

It is a peaceful night. Celandine seems to be changing her towels more frequently now that she’s realized the men aren’t going to act all disgusted about being told why she has to leave camp, and she’ll be able to wash them out tomorrow, too, because Geralt found another campsite with a little (monster-free, by his assurance) brook nearby.

At breakfast, Geralt brings up the town.

“When we stay at an inn … we can’t all share a room.”

Well, yes, obviously. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about the lady they’re travelling with.

“You two could pretend to be a married couple, I suppose.” Geralt frowns. “We need a story, in any case. What do you think, bard? I don’t think the two of you look alike enough to be siblings.”

The prospect of sharing a room with Celandine is … a relief, honestly, but also … he cannot share a bed with her. Risking the witcher killing him … or worse, is one thing, but he can’t risk … she’s been through enough.

“Can’t you two share?” Celandine asks.

“Yes, well …” Geralt stares into the fire. “We need two rooms either way. And we need an explanation for why we’re travelling together.”

“It makes more sense for you two to share. Either that, or if there’s a man there willing to share, Jaskier can share with him and I’ll share with you.”

“Hm. Can’t pretend to be married. Witchers don’t marry.”

She shrugs. “So what? They’ll think I’m a whore? I don’t have much of a reputation left to ruin.”

“If anyone suspects you are alive, they’ll look for a whore. Not for a respectable married wife.”

“They will know that Jaskier the bard didn’t have a wife with him last time he came through, though”, Jaskier points out. He isn’t sure he wants a pretend wife. Bards have a certain reputation, no matter what, but he doesn’t want to be known as the guy who ditched his wife after a couple days of being married.

“Hm. True.” Geralt bites his lip. “Still, people will behave differently.”

“Let’s not make things too complicated. She can be some innocent peasant maid you saved from a leshen, and because it made her lose her way, she’s now far away from home and you accompany her back.”

“Hm”, Geralt growls. “I don’t do that. Working for no pay. If I did, I’d have taken you back to that Oxenfurt place.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. It is true that Geralt didn’t exactly go out of his way to help him, he just let Jaskier tag along, but … well, he did let him tag along for no pay. “Perhaps she told you her parents would give you a nice big wheel of cheese, or whatever.”

“Maybe.” Geralt frowns, then nods. “Alright. That’s probably for the best.”

“I’ll just stay away from people”, Celandine agrees. “As long as no one tries to discuss cheesemaking with me, it’ll be fine.”

At first, all goes well. Jaskier sells the tale they agreed on masterfully, if he does says so himself, and while he cannot get more than a discount of half for the room in exchange for performing, that’s as good as he expected.

Celandine can share a room with a woman who travelled to town to sell eggs, and who will be away all day, anyway, so conversations regarding cheesemaking are an unlikely threat.

It is after they’ve taken their belongings to the rooms that it all goes to shit. Geralt hides in the room, as he usually does, and Celandine hides in her room, so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone, and Jaskier is bored, and he has a few coins he can use to buy an ale with, and while he shouldn’t spend on himself while he owes Geralt so much – it was never mentioned, but he knows he owes a favour, and hopes he’ll be allowed to choose how to repay it - he just needs an ale right now.

So he does. He gets an ale and sits in a nice quiet corner.

And that’s when a man he didn’t pay attention to sidles up to him.

“Dandelion”, he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Jaskier freezes.

“The witcher won’t object if you earn some coin on the side, will he?” Foul breath, hot on his ear.

Jaskier feels nauseous. The man knows him, but Jaskier … Jaskier probably did his best to forget him. “I, ah, don’t do that anymore. Changed professions, you see?”

His heart is racing, his palms already sweaty around the tankard of ale. This one must be one of the more polite ones, perhaps he’ll go away … please go away.

“Oh, what a pity, you were just made to suck cock. Made for it. Just one time, for old time’s sake? You’ve always loved my cock. Always said you ought to pay me instead of the other way round.”

Did he? Yes, he probably …

“I lied.” Of course he did, he’d say everything so it’d be over faster.

“What? You’re kidding.”

“I lied. You paid me to lie, that’s all there was to it. You are actually quite bad in bed, I am afraid.” He shouldn’t say that, it’s not safe, but … it just spills out. Part of him feels it is safe to say it, now, though he is not sure why.

“You lying slut!”

The man slams him against the wall.

And then, things happen very fast, and when they slow down again, Jaskier is slumped in the corner bench, and the man is on the floor, and Geralt is standing above him.

“Leave him the fuck alone”, Geralt growls. “I won’t repeat myself. Next time you try anything …” He mimics a strike of his sword. “And no spreading nasty rumours, either. I will know.”

Gods! Geralt must have heard … part of the conversation, at least?

And now he knows that Jaskier is a whore, and will treat him like a whore, and he is into men, and …

It really was a waste to pay for the ale, because half of it is spilled all over the table, and the other half is coming up again. Jaskier does his best to not get any vomit on his clothes, but his hair is a lost cause.

“Hm. Sorry about the mess.” Geralt is talking to the innkeeper now. “I’ll need water in the room.”

He kneels next to Jaskier. “Easy, bard. Where are you hurt? He got you in the stomach?”

“I – I’m fine.” He very much isn’t.

“Obviously not. Tell me.”

“Really! I … everything hurts a bit, because he slammed me against the wall, but it’s just bruises, I think. It’s just the shock.”

“Hm. Come upstairs. You can lean on me. Are you alright, getting up?”

“I – I think so.” He takes the offered hand. Should he go somewhere they’re alone, now that Geralt knows? He doesn’t know, but he has no alternative.

Geralt pulls Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder and helps him up the stairs. They’re too close, and Jaskier’s heart doesn’t stop racing.

“So, what was this about? Did he accuse you of making advances on his wife?”

Oh thank the gods! Geralt only heard that last part.

“He, uh, I am not sure, he wasn’t very clear, but … bards do have that reputation … so yes, he probably thought I slept with his wife.” The worst thing about it, the man probably does have a wife.
Which might have been why he travelled so far to find a brothel where no one would know him.

“Hm. Let’s hope his wife has all the children she wants. I didn’t kick him as hard as I could, but … ” Geralt shrugs. “Might have done some damage there.”

It is almost enough to make Jaskier chuckle despite his misery.

When the water is brought up, Geralt uses his fire magic to warm it before handing the bucket to Jaskier. “To clean your hair. Are you sure you want to perform later? I can pay for the room.”

“No, no, I promised.” And the man won’t bother Jaskier anymore, not after Geralt made his opinion clear.

“Hm. I will take a short walk. Lock the room while I’m away.”

Jaskier wouldn’t have needed the reminder. He’s glad when Geralt returns before his performance, and then comes downstairs with him to watch.

Chapter Text

When they retire to the room, rather early in the evening, because Jaskier’s poor fingers still need to grow calluses, Geralt gets the journal from his saddlebags and sits on the only chair in the room. “Go to bed”, he says. “I’ve got some work to do.”

In the morning, Jaskier wakes from the noise of Geralt moving around the room, packing.

“We’d better leave before it gets too busy.”

**

The lie tastes like ash on Geralt’s tongue. He knows exactly what the man wanted from Jaskier, and it was nothing so righteous as revenge for adultery. But the bard’s heart stops racing almost in an instant.
Jaskier wasn’t afraid of the rapist fucker downstairs anymore, he was afraid of Geralt.

Now, the stench of fear is lessening, but Geralt feels like killing something – someone – and if he lets that show, Jaskier will be afraid once more, so he leaves.

His walk leads around the inn, again and again. Making sure no one enters without him noticing.

It was the right decision not to kill the fucker, he’s sure. Celandine doesn’t need that kind of attention. Nor does Jaskier, really.
But gods, he wants to. Jaskier has smelled of anxiety ever since that morning, but he wasn’t afraid. Now …

There’s no pretending anymore, that he is just worried Geralt might appreciate his looks in a way he doesn’t mind women appreciating his looks.

He’s afraid of being raped. Has all this time, and Geralt was too daft to see it.

It’s not that he didn’t know there’s male whores. It’s just … they’re mostly boys, too young to earn their keep by the strength of their arms. Jaskier told him about studying in Oxenfurt, and he didn’t lie about it, so …

Must have been after those bandits. Whom he didn’t lie about, either, but that must have been much longer ago than he let Geralt believe.

Did they sell him? Did they leave him so destitute that he didn’t have a choice but sell himself? It hardly makes a difference.

He clearly was upset after Geralt went to the brothel, and … was he even really sick? Or was that just disgust, fear, whatever? Not just disappointment over Geralt not noticing that he needed to rest, that’s for sure.

Geralt could have known, then. But he didn’t want to.
Wanted to believe that there was something right with the world, that his little songbird was safe and happy, and … of fucking course that couldn’t be true.

It changes things. Now he can’t just leave Jaskier with any noble whatsoever. He needs to find a noblewoman. One who has no men in her household who would outrank a bard … fuck. That’s not really possible.

Part of him just wants to keep the bard, but that’s less possible now than it was before, even. Before, there was the fact that he hunts monsters, and that’s not safe for a human. That would be reason enough. Even knowing what he was going to fight, even having taken the necessary potions in advance, even with that the kelpie was too dangerous for Celandine.

But now, there’s the fact that anything he does will trigger the bard’s bad memories. Geralt would know. He’s had decades to get over it, but the sight of a mage still makes his stomach churn.

And Geralt can take any human man in a fight, which is why he gets by just fine, these days. Mages aren’t that common. And no one knows they did that to him.

Jaskier … he’s only human, he needs protection, and the place where Geralt is taking Celandine doesn’t take men, of course not, that would defy the whole idea.

And there’s no similar places for men. Male nobles seem to be less charitably inclined, less motivated to help out their own sex.

It’s just as well, Geralt isn’t really sure he would trust them. No, he’ll have to find a noblewoman for Jaskier. A noblewoman who shuns the company of men, but will make an exception for the pretty bard. But it can’t be because the bard is pretty. Women don’t visit brothels often, but it does occasionally happen, and noblewomen keeping lovers who may or may not be attracted to them for anything other than their wealth … that happens more often.
And it may be something many young men don’t mind, because fucking one woman as often as she wants doesn’t hurt them, and in that respect it’s very different from taking it up the arse from dozens of male strangers who see no reason to be gentle because they’ll not be there to witness the aftermath.

But … back then … no woman sneaked into the dorms to do things with them, but if it had happened, he thinks, he might not have been in pain, but he still would have felt defiled.

Jaskier will probably feel safe with a woman, but only as long as she doesn’t give him a good reason to feel unsafe.

Alright. He needs a music lover who dislikes men, but loves music so much that she’d make an exception … hm.

Hard to find, but not impossible, perhaps.

Chapter Text

Jaskier feels on edge all day, partly because he fears Geralt might ask questions, but also because Geralt is almost never with them, always scouting ahead or making sure no one is following them.

And somehow, Jaskier had felt safer with the witcher there. Sure, Geralt is the most dangerous man he has ever met, but … well. That is it, actually. With Geralt there, no one else is a danger, not physically.

He does wonder, though … “Weren’t you afraid of Geralt, when you met him first?”, he asks Celandine.

She nods. “Of course I was. Though less so when he made it clear that he didn’t want the usual. There’s plenty of rumours about witchers. That they have endless stamina. That they’re hung like horses. I thought he’d kill one of us. When he said he would pay extra so that we’d risk being killed by a monster …” Celandine shrugs. “It seemed a more interesting way to die, than just have a punter strangle me. There’s … there’s quite a few who are into that …”

“Yeah, I know.” Damn. He didn’t mean to say that. She feels safe, but -

“What? Oh. I didn’t know they did that with …” She hesitates. “You said you bedded some men. Did you get paid?”

Jaskier decides it’s not worth it, to try and lie about it. Celandine, at least, will not think less of him, he hopes. “What gave it away?”

“I just didn’t think they’d do that to their wives, or male lovers. One of us died, days after a man strangled her until she passed out. They wouldn’t risk that with someone who would be missed.”

He knows that, too. “Yeah. There’s … a rather stark difference, isn’t there? Between a lover, and …” He rests his trembling hand on Roach’s saddle. The mare’s presence is calming. “I was foolish to think it’d be the same. You know what they say about bards, but … it’s not the same. Even when they’re handsome.”

“I wouldn’t know. I was sold to the brothel before I had even kissed a boy. Some say being a whore is better because at least you get paid.”

He wonders, briefly, if he ought to express his sympathy, but then decides she probably would scorn anything she thinks is pity. “It’s not the same. Selfish lovers happen, sure, and I even had some who were violent, but if you’re … if they’re lovers, you can throw them out.” It feels like the man who did that was a whole different person. Jaskier doesn’t think he could, nowadays. It’s just too ingrained, that he doesn’t get to do it.

“Not when they’re stronger than you”, Celandine points out.

“Oh. Right.” Perhaps it isn’t very different, then. “I guess it’s true, in a way.” Now that he thinks about it, some of the women he had sex with, back then, were so surprised that he made it good for them. Like that was not normal.
He’d been proud of his prowess, but perhaps it was just that he wasn’t as selfish as they had come to expect.

“You could just not sleep with strangers, though? If you’re … when you’re not a whore. You know.”

She shrugs. “It seems to be part of the job description for maidservants, too, when there’s a young master in the house … and sometimes also when there’s not. It’s not as likely to get murdered, when you’re a maidservant, and it’s only one man, but still. I’m not going to do that. The witcher promised he’d get me to a place where there’s only women. Where I’ll be safe.”

Which reminds Jaskier. “You won’t tell him, will you? About me?”

“Of course not. I’m not stupid. Just because he’s been kind to me doesn’t mean anything. Not when he’s not into women.”

When Geralt is there, and they can’t talk about such things, Celandine proves a very grateful audience for Jaskier’s tales of his adventures as travelling bard. She’s never seen much of the world outside the brothel, so even his anecdotes about Oxenfurt are fascinating to her.

In the evening, they make camp and after taking care of Roach, Geralt vanishes, mumbling something about hunting.

Darkness falls, and he does not return.

“Do you think something happened to him?”, Jaskier asks. He has not forgotten the sight of Geralt slowly bleeding out on the wooden floor of that room.

“More likely he happened to someone, or something.” Celandine stirs the porridge again. “Do you think he would mind if we start dinner without him?”

It is only then that Geralt returns. He rejects Jaskier’s offer to help with skinning the two rabbits he’s caught. “Play the lute instead. To get your hands used to it.”

Jaskier plays a travelling song, and finds he has missed this, too. Playing for an audience of … friends.
People who are not his colleagues and not going to give constructive criticism, but just enjoy.

They share the meat evenly between them, and it doesn’t feels like Jaskier is expected to pay for it. It feels like … friendship.

Geralt retires to his bedroll first, and falls asleep fast.

Jaskier feels relieved that the other man is asleep and unlikely to wake before the morning … and at the same time, feels bad about his relief. There’s no reason to think that Geralt would do anything untoward in the night. He never …

Though of course, he does not know.

**

When they arrive at a village that’s likely to have only one inn, Geralt sends Jaskier ahead to secure two rooms. Them separating if Geralt is not welcome is not an option any longer. He doesn’t even like letting Jaskier go into the village alone.

The bard returns, successful. “They’re wary of witchers there, but my tale about your daring rescue of a maiden made them reconsider.”

“Hm.” There’s hardly any need for heroics. Leshens don’t usually get violent with people, unless those people cut down the whole forest, or similar. Normal trespassers just get lost, like Jaskier did.

Doesn’t matter, though. If anyone asks, he’ll just tell them to ask the bard, who will remember the made-up story better in any case.

It’s a nice inn, all things considered, and after a while, the people get used enough to Geralt that the stink of fear lessens a bit.

Of course, that’s mostly due to Jaskier.

His music stirs up other emotions. Excitement at first, with the drinking songs. Laughter with silly nonsense songs. Later in the evening, it is the bittersweet sadness that comes with a sad ballad.

Except, there’s some men there who aren’t in the mood for ballads, yet, or ever. They grumble a bit at the first one, and after Jaskier plays the song about the black knight and his princess, they voice their discontent louder.

“Unrealistic nonsense. No princess would let a knight braid her hair. Where’s her ladies, eh?”

Geralt desperately wants to defend the song, but… it’s true. It is nonsense. It is just … beautiful nonsense.
Jaskier only smiles. “Ah, but I never said she was human. Perhaps she’s a unicorn princess, and her ladies in waiting have no hands.”

“That’s even stupider”, complains another of the group. “Everyone knows unicorns only like virgins.”

“Well, obviously.” Jaskier draws himself up to his full height, and looks down at the man like he said something extremely stupid. “Obviously, the knight is a virgin.”

Geralt can’t help but wonder if it is his almost-virginity which gave Jaskier the idea that a knight could be a virgin.

“A seasoned warrior? Don’t make me laugh.”

Jaskier sighs theatrically. “It is called artistic license, you uncultured brute.”

The man gets up from his chair, rolling up his sleeves. “Now, listen bard ...”

Geralt is faster to get up, and seizes the man’s collar, pulling him closer. “Now you listen. I don’t know how knight training works, but I, at least, don’t wield my swords with my cock.”

There’s nervous laughter behind him.

Content that he’s made his point, he lets the man go.

When Jaskier sings his next peaceful ballad, no one tries to pick it apart.

Chapter Text

Jaskier has enough stage experience to not let it show just how much the almost-attack scared him. Still, after one more ballad, he calls it a day.

He has only just undressed and gotten into the bed when Geralt enters the room.

“Is the princess really a unicorn?”, he asks.

Jaskier cannot help it, he smiles. “Not quite. But her lovely dark eyes? I admit I was inspired by Roach.”

“And you decided the knight was a virgin after learning that I… that I’ve never been with a woman? Did that give you the idea?”

“Mh.” Perhaps he should be more wary of the witcher, but … the way Geralt is so invested in his songs is endearing.

Rationally, he knows, of course, that just because a man appreciates the arts doesn’t mean he is a good person, but … well. As bard, he cannot help but be charmed by such an avid interest in his work.

He falls asleep soon after.

In the morning, Geralt is up before him once more.

Jaskier is really worried now, that he did something during the night. Perhaps a nightmare during which he hit the other man?

But Geralt claims to have gotten up early, and behaves like normal otherwise.

So perhaps he really just likes to take advantage of the time they spend in inns to write in his journal. It is much easier with a flat surface to put the journal onto, after all.

It’s just that they spent a lot of time at that inn after the kelpie fight, and Geralt didn’t do much writing, then. Perhaps so that Jaskier would have more space to compose his new song, and write down the one he’d made earlier?

Or perhaps Geralt is worried about them being pursued. Because he scouts ahead and looks behind again, all day, on the next day of their travels.

And the one after that.

At last, they enter the city that had been their destination from the moment they had picked up Celandine.

Jaskier could have left, by then. He has one set of decent clothes, the callouses on his hands are back, and he is not much worse off than when he had started out as travelling bard. Better, in fact, because his new songs are very popular.

But … Geralt needs someone to look out for him.

Someone to tell people he isn’t a monster.

He is so lonely, and he loves that song that actually is about him and Roach so much, and the yearning on his face when he listens to it breaks Jaskier’s heart, and well a bard is not the same as a princess, but …

Perhaps he feels less lonely with Jaskier around.

Celandine had never meant to stay, and they deliver her safely to the “Home For Destitute Women”, where she is given a tour while the men wait at the entrance, not being allowed to enter.

Quite a few women come out to greet Geralt, ask him how he is doing, and tell him how they are doing, and Jaskier is rather amazed, as he hadn’t pegged the witcher as someone who likes small talk. He tried to make small talk when they met, yes, but it was so stilted Jaskier was sure he isn’t used to it.

Then Jaskier realizes that this is not small talk, but information exchange, at least from Geralt’s point of view.

He wants to know that they are safe and this is a good place to leave Celandine.

“It doesn’t look like they have babies buried under the floorboards”, she tells Jaskier when she returns from the tour. “They’ll have me work hard, but for a change, it will be actual work that won’t hurt me, or get me pregnant, or anything like that. Visit me, when your travels take you here next time?”

“Most certainly, my dear. In fact, I am quite definitely planning to come and see how you are doing! You must tell me all about your endeavour to learn how to bake – and, ideally, give me some cake.” He bows over her hand, not quite kissing it, because she doesn’t like that kind of touch, but treating her like a lady, because it makes her chuckle. “Rest assured, the next time my travels take me anywhere near, I will drop by.”

“As will I”, Geralt nods. “I wish you well.”

They walk in companionable silence for a while, until Jaskier begins to find the silence oppressive, and to feel that he ought to say something. “Well. That went well, didn’t it?”

“Hm. The house is still a good place.”

“As it shall remain, hopefully. All those ladies, they know you?”

“I often make such deals. When I need bait. Nothing quite like almost being killed by a monster to make you realize you want more out of life than what you got so far.”

Jaskier thinks about that for a moment. “What about you? Do you … want more out of life?”

“Mh. There’s no place for witchers who don’t want to be witchers anymore.”

“You are right. That was insensitive of me. I just … I just …” The thought of a ‘Home for Lonely Witchers’ almost makes him chuckle. Of course, that isn’t possible.

But he can stick with Geralt. Help at least him.

“Mh.”

“You know what? We should celebrate that we got Celandine here safely.” Well, it is Geralt who has seen to the safety, but Jaskier definitely wants to include himself in the celebration. “Drinks are on me.”

“I don’t get drunk on the Path.”

“Didn’t say you have to get drunk! Just a drink or two, you said your potions are poison to humans, surely you can hold your drink?”

“Hm.”

It sounds like a yes, so Jaskier finds a nice looking tavern and ordered them drinks.

He isn’t too concerned about it getting late – they stabled Roach at an inn that had no free rooms, but the innkeeper said they could sleep in the stable, in the space allotted to Roach.

Not the most luxurious of accommodations, but safe and warm.

So he has a second drink. And then a third, because while alcohol seems to have little effect on Geralt, the man smiled twice at some joke or the other, and Jaskier aspires to make him smile a third time. Just when he is thinking about whether a fourth is too risky, he needs to piss, so he walks outside.

Perhaps he would have noticed someone following him into the alley if he hadn’t been pleasantly tipsy.

But he doesn’t, not until the man – a noble by his clothes – smirks at him. “Danny, what a pleasant surprise!”

Jaskier learns from experience, he really does. “Excuse me? Do I know you? My name isn’t Danny.”

“Dandelion, then. Don’t pretend you don’t remember me.”

He does remember, is the thing. Many of the punters desperately wanted to believe that they were good men, and that he loved having sex with them, just like he said, even though the fact that they paid him should really have clued them in.

This guy … this voice … he remembers him, because he is one of the ones who didn’t need to feel as though they were good men.
He was never given a name to go with the face and the voice, but he remembers well enough.

“So you’re a witcher’s pet now, eh?”

Jaskier’s stomach twists. “It’s not like that.” He hopes it is not like that. Will never be like that.

“Oh really? Well, then, he will have no problem with me having a little fun with you, will he?” The man crowds him against the wall. Not touching, thank the gods but …

“I told him I’d be back in a second. He will come investigate.” Jaskier hopes he won’t, because he doesn’t think he could get away with the mistaken identity excuse twice.

“Perhaps. Does he know you’re a whore, I wonder?”

Fuck. No. Not that! “He knows I was. The last man who didn’t understand that I’m not doing that anymore lost his testicles, so I suggest that you walk away before the witcher finds you here.”

“You’re lying, Danny.” An arm slides around his middle. Stinking breath on his ear. “He doesn’t know. He thinks you love him, doesn’t he? Pathetic mutant, so naive. You can tell him that you’re going to visit my town house for the next few days, willingly, and that he’d better travel on without you … or I will tell him all.”

Everything but that.

“There’s no need for that, darling. I’ll be happy to enjoy your hospitality, I’m sure.”

It is as though his self is floating above the scene, just watching while Jaskier’s body touches the disgusting man. Begs. Whispers promises.

Watches as Geralt steps around the corner.

“Let go of him”, he growls. Grabs the man’s neck.

“Danny, tell him it’s a misunderstanding! Tell him we’re old friends!”

“Geralt, dear, it’s not like that! My old friend here just invited me to stay at his town house. I’ll get out of your hair, isn’t that lovely?”

Jaskier hates his body for saying that, though he cannot think of any good alternative, either.

Suddenly, a blade gleams in the dim moonlight. “Yeah, I heard what form that invitation took. On your knees, scum. I’ll give you taste of what you did to my friend.”

With a dagger at his throat, the man doesn’t dare fight back as Geralt pushes him to his knees in front of Jaskier’s body.

Oh dear. He wouldn’t … Geralt is a good man, surely he wouldn’t make this man …

“Lick his boots. Until they’re nice and clean. You’re not fit to lick his boots, of course, but I’m feeling generous.”

“Do you know who I am, witcher? You can’t - ”

“I can just kill you instead, if you prefer?”

He does not prefer.

It is horrible to watch, and even more horrible, somehow, suddenly, Jaskier is back in his body.

“Stop! Stop it! Go away!”

“You heard him.” Geralt removes the dagger and pulls the man to his feet. “I’ll let you go, because he wants you to – but be warned, if I hear any rumours about his past life, I’ll know who spread them. Leave, and never take his name into your filthy mouth ever again.”

Geralt tilts his head as though listening to the man run away. “Sorry, Jaskier. I didn’t … I should not have let him touch you at all.”

He wants to answer, but all he can do is bend over enough so that he doesn’t get vomit on his clothes.

Geralt wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay darling. You defended my honour.” Jaskier feels fuzzy. Half inside his body, half out. Perhaps it is better to stay out. Now that Geralt knows. Now that he’ll expect Jaskier to thank him. On his knees, probably.

“I’m not … not your darling. Come.”

Not his darling. Of course. No need to pretend at affection.

Jaskier watches his body lean on the witcher as they walk away.

The witcher navigates them through streets Jaskier hasn’t seen before, and soon arrives in the nice part of town. Where the nobleman who had attacked Jaskier has likely gone.

What is his plan?

He knocks at a door.

It takes a while until a servant opens.

“I’m Geralt of Rivia, it’s urgent, please, I -”

“Lady Minfrouwe is not at home. If you knock at the kitchen door, I am sure the cook will be happy to give you some scraps.”

Oh. Jaskier knows how to handle that kind of situation.

Somehow back inside his body, he draws himself up to full height. “Not at home? Are you quite sure? What a pity. Do tell her that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, has called.”

The servant hesitates. “Certainly, if you would please wait a moment?”

Geralt looks at him as if he has grown a second head.

They do not wait for long until the door is opened a second time, this time by a noblewoman.

“Geralt! Do come in. Please do excuse Yimes, he’s new, and I did tell him that I am not at home, because I can’t deal with people right now, but … do come in.” She looks at Jaskier. “And you – are you really the Viscont de Lettenhove?”

“Ah, yes. Please do excuse the state of my clothes. It is a long story.”

Chapter Text

Geralt is impressed. Even in this state, tipsy, and in a state of inner turmoil, Jaskier still manages to spin a tale that grants them entry into a noblewoman’s house. He could probably have gotten in through the kitchen, in any case, but this is faster.

“I do apologize for inconveniencing you at this hour of the night, my lady”, Jaskier says with a pretty bow. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your service. My dear friend Geralt here has an emergency he needs your help with. I understand you are acquainted?”

She curtseys and introduces herself with her full name, before giving Geralt an expectant look.

“Ah, yes, I …” He had expected for Jaskier to remain in the semi-conscious state he was while Geralt dragged him through the streets. “I need a word with you, in private.”

“Of course. Come on in, put your cloaks here, Yimes will take them.”

She leads them into a spacious sitting room, and offers Jaskier a seat, before taking Geralts arm and leading him out into a hallway leading to other rooms.

"What's the matter?", she whispers.

"I don't know, Jaskier is - this is Jaskier, he’s a poor travelling bard, he just spun a story to get us entry here. He’s … he escaped from a brothel before I met him, I think, but he didn’t know I knew, until some man who raped him back then recognized him and I had to intervene. And when that man grabbed him his eyes went vacant and he was all like 'Yes darling', and 'Of course, darling' and ... and then I got rid of the man and ever since he has been like that with me, too, and he stinks of brothel -"

"I don't notice a smell."

"It's not perfume or anything, it's the general smell, humans can't ..." He shakes his head. It doesn't matter right now. "I thought he'd feel safe with a woman there. But I didn’t expect this to happen. He is … lucid, I think? Trying to help me out by spinning a tale? Perhaps he thinks I will harm him if he doesn’t do what I want … I need to leave him with you for a while. I know you like your peace and quiet and he’s … well, he is not quiet, not when he is happy.” She doesn’t like men much, and doesn’t socialize with them, Geralt is an exception only because they’re working together, so Jaskier will be safe.

“Should I pretend to believe his tale? To not give him further alarm?”

Geralt nods slowly. “I think that would be for the best. So, can he stay?”

“For a few weeks. We need to talk more, but not now. I advised Yimes to have two bedrooms ready. Go to bed, we can talk tomorrow.”

“I am not sure he feels safe. With me there. Perhaps it is better if I sleep in the stables.”

“Geralt of Rivia, are you insane? You are now, per your bard’s lie, the dear friend of the Viscount de Lettenhove. Making you sleep in the stables would be a faux pas my reputation would never recover from.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I will pretend that I believe his tale, and tell him that you are the nice man who rescues women from brothels and takes them here.”

“He knows that already. I picked one up while travelling with him. I just … I may accidentally have said something that made him think that I, ah ... prefer men.”

“Do you?”

“I’m a witcher. What I prefer is irrelevant. I am not going to get it either way.”

“So you do. Don’t worry, I’m the last person who would have a problem with a man not lusting after me. If you find an excuse to leave us alone together, I will do my best to reassure him.”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier gets up when they enter the room again.

**

Jaskier is sitting in a very comfortable armchair, and while the room is a bit cool, due to the fire being out, he still is more comfortable than he was before, and slowly relaxes.

What does Geralt have to talk about with the lady? The emergency … what happened before … oh. They were celebrating at a tavern. Geralt said he would get him to safety. Is he the emergency?

He rises when the lady enters again.

“Now that the emergency is dealt with …” She smiles at Jaskier. “I would be honoured if you would visit for a while. Two guest rooms are being prepared as we speak. Would you care for a drink?”

“If it is no inconvenience?”

Before long a maidservant appears, and the lady sends her for wine.

Geralt excuses himself to go to the privy.

“So, how do you know Geralt?”, the lady asks Jaskier once he’s gone.

“Oh, it is a long story, and the evening is growing late. The short version is, I was robbed by bandits, which by the way is the reason my attire is not quite what you would expect. And I …” He tugs on the strand of hair that got into the way when he vomited. “We went to a tavern, and my memory of that is a bit fuzzy. I think the ale was bad. Did Geralt tell you anything?”

“He did say you were not quite lucid on the way here.”

“Ah, yes, quite.” He takes a sip of wine. “It was not the alcohol, though. I did not have too much of that. I can feel my stomach settle already.” He is feeling the effects, surely, but is still far from drunk. Politeness demands that he take one sip, he can just 'forget' to drink the rest.

She nods. “He was very worried about you. I thought you might require a healer. You feel quite well?”

“Oh yes, I do not think a healer is warranted. Please, do tell me, how do you know Geralt? I did not think he had many friends – not because he is not good company, mind, he just seems …”

“More like a lone wolf? Indeed. I set up the Home For Destitute Women, with a few others, and had to hire a witcher when … well. We help all women, no questions asked, and some of them are pregnant out of wedlock, and some of them hide it, and … that is a long story, too. Apparently, when you bury an infant in an unmarked grave, they come back. It was rather unfortunate. Geralt did good work, and he has been back a couple of times since them, always bringing a woman. They all talk well of him. He is still a witcher, of course … I am surprised you would count him among your friends.”

“You do not?” He cannot keep the annoyance out of his voice, not tipsy as he is.

“Well I … it would not be seemly for a woman of my station to call a witcher her friend, you understand. They are not exactly … they are rather in the same category as the city watch, are they not? I do think well of him. Would recommend him to all my friends, in fact, if they had any monster problems.”

He supposes he has to live with that. It would definitely not be seemly for a viscount to count a witcher among his friends, either, but he is – or was, depending on what his father has been up to – of high enough station that he can pretty much do what he wants. And of course, a man doesn’t have to be as careful with his reputation. Usually. If it became known that he is a whore … it is not something he can leave behind, he learnt that the hard way.

“And of course he will be welcome to stay here for as long as you do. You will need a couple weeks to recover from that robbery, I expect. Bandits! Scandalous!”

“Yes, it is a scandal. But I could not possibly impose on you for weeks!”

“It would not be an imposition. I admit that I do not usually have male visitors. I am unmarried and intend to stay so. But Geralt assured me that you are to be trusted, and well, hosting a viscount could not possibly damage my reputation.”

Later, they are shown to their guest rooms, and Jaskier locks the door behind him and washes the vomit out of his hair in a nice porcelain basin that might have cost more than the clothes he’s currently wearing, and then takes those clothes off and falls into a soft bed.

He is safe. For the first time in years, he is perfectly and completely safe. Just so long as the man from earlier does not talk.

Hells, perhaps even if he does talk. Jaskier might actually outrank him. Probably does. Men who are higher up would feel able to molest their pretty servant boys instead of going to the same brothel as the rabble.

Only if the man talks, and Geralt talks, too, then Jaskier is fucked. Literally.

Geralt does not seem inclined to talk, though. Perhaps waiting to use it for blackmail material?

Jaskier’s heart hurts at the thought, and now he can admit to himself that … yes, he likes Geralt, a lot, and really hopes the man won’t take advantage.

It’s just so hard to believe, that there could be a man who would not take advantage.

But he wants to. Oh, he wants to so much.

Just, Geralt made that man lick Jaskier’s boots, and that’s … that’s creepy. Normal people don’t do that kind of thing.

Granted, he knows that Geralt is not exactly normal, but … he had hoped he was good.

In the morning, there’s a knock at his door. A maidservant asking him if he wants breakfast.

“Yes, please, if you would wait a moment?”

He gets dressed in a hurry, only to be faced with the returned maidservant offering him a tray with all his favourite breakfast items.

Oh. He is to eat in his room. Now he remembers – it is not uncommon for the lady of the house to breakfast in bed.

He won’t have to face anyone anytime soon. What a relief.

After asking the maidservant to relay his thanks to the lady of the house – thanking the servant herself would be very, very improper, and since his mother told him that it might be taken as an attempt to flirt, he respects that rule – he retires to bed.

Flirting with commoners is all nice and good for a travelling bard, but very unseemly for a viscount, and Jaskier wants to be loved for his sparkling personality, not his title.

Speaking of which. What does Geralt think?

While not exactly chatty, Geralt is forthcoming enough when it is about his potions, the herbs he needs to brew them, or the daily life of a witcher.

He does not talk of feelings much.

If he doesn’t think he can be friends with a viscount, he didn’t say so.

Or … does he think Jaskier is lying? Maybe he does.

Jaskier lied to him about his past before. Only by omission, granted, but … well.

A lie is a lie.

And really, a viscount becoming a whore? Very hard to believe.

Chapter Text

Jaskier has just finished his breakfast when the servant returns and informs him that Geralt wishes to speak to him and is waiting for him in the breakfast room, and Jaskier can summon her with the string in the corner of the room, anytime.

Right. The string that’s connected to a bell in the servant’s room so that you don’t get tempted to do something for yourself instead of getting a servant to do it.

Jaskier had come to consider it a symptom of everything wrong with nobility and the lifestyle that goes with it, but now he’s grateful, because that way, if Geralt … if something goes wrong, he can summon the maid, and he knows that Geralt wouldn’t do anything untoward in her presence.

Geralt is sitting on a dainty chair at a dainty table in the breakfast room, looking very out of place, but in an endearing way.

“Viscount de Lettenhove, hm? You didn’t tell me about that.”

So he believes it. “It, ah, didn’t come up? And I didn’t want the title, I left to be a travelling bard instead. Just thought it would be useful, yesterday. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … keep it from you. We – we’re still friends?”

“Seems like it. I was told that the dear friend of a viscount is not allowed, under any circumstances, to sleep in the stables. They did let me fetch Roach and put her in the stables here, though.”

“Oh. Good.” Jaskier sits down opposite him. “So … uh … last night?”

Geralt closes his eyes. “About that. I’ve known for a while. Ever since that man … I knew he didn’t think you’d slept with his wife. I heard every word he said to you.”

Jaskier’s stomach clenches. His hands tremble. “You did?”
All this time. And he didn’t know.

And Geralt never laid a hand on him. Never demanded anything.

“Hm. You were so scared. I thought I’d better just … pretend not to know. So I did, and because of that, you almost went with that other arsehole. If I hadn’t followed you …”

“You followed me?”

“Sorry. I know it sounds … wrong. I just. After that other man… I just went outside and kept an ear out for … you know. My hearing is improved by the mutations.”

“Right. Couldn’t you have turned up sooner?” He freezes. What is he doing, being this ungrateful to the man who saved him from being raped not once, but twice?

“I wanted to, but. They recognize you. I needed a plan … I thought … I know I shouldn’t have made him lick your boots, but it was the best plan I could come up with. Didn’t want to kill him. Needed to humiliate him so he’d be too ashamed to ever tell anyone. Too ashamed to risk it going before a judge, where I could mention it. I should have made him lick my boots instead.”

“Oh. Oh that. It’s … it’s fine.” It makes sense. There’s a saying among bards, that if you want to keep a man from attacking you because you made a song about him, you just have to mention that he has a small cock in your song. Then he’ll never admit to resembling the man in the song.

And, well. The man will not want to accuse Geralt of threatening him with a knife. Not if Geralt could then tell everyone that he was so afraid of being killed that he knelt down and licked the boots of a whore.

It was scary, mostly, because it seemed like torture for the sheer joy of it. Now that he knows there was a reason … well. That helps.

“I don’t think any differently about you. Because of … you know.” Geralt stares at his hands. Those large, gentle hands. “It is … I …”

Jaskier’s stomach unclenches a bit. Geralt isn’t good at talking about feelings, so it is all the more precious when he tries to.

“Do you remember, when I asked whether you slept in a dorm?”

“Yes …?” That had been after the nightmare.

“It is … I slept in a dorm. The mages … some of them used to come in at night. They. Well. I … know what it feels like.”

What. The. Fuck.

Jaskier’s heart feels weird, again, but he is sure it is just emotions this time. Well, it isn’t like that’s not serious.

“They raped you.” He thinks of himself as peaceful man, and he wouldn’t stand a chance against a mage, anyway, but oh, he wants to murder them. Slowly.
And wrap little Geralt in a blanket and protect him forever and ever and ever.

Jaskier feels like an impostor. “I wasn’t raped, you know? I … I just thought … what they say about bards, it was true, about me, and I thought being paid for sex … that it would be like with music. Being paid for something I love doing anyway. It … was not like that. Turns out playing a song I don't like, for the coin, isn't anywhere nearly as bad as ... But I chose it.” Now he’s the one avoiding the other’s gaze. What right has he to complain? It’s all his own fault, and not at all like what Geralt went through.

“You said the bandits took our lute. You did not lie about that. And you were in debt, were you not? Most brothels I’ve come across operate like that. Taking fees for everything. Landing you in debt, if you weren’t indentured in the first place.”

“I was. But it was not just that. I could have ran. I just … I don’t deserve charity. I ran away from being a viscount. Hells. I didn’t even want to beg. Begging money from people who wouldn’t see, in their whole lives, the money I used to spend in a year? I don’t deserve your pity, either.”

He is not afraid, he realizes. Geralt wouldn’t turn on him, even though it is all his own fault. He just wouldn’t ever take advantage, Jaskier knows that now.

“You did run, eventually”, Geralt observes quietly.

“Yeah, well. I did. Do you know why?” Tears are running down his face. He had not noticed. “A man told me a witcher was coming. A witcher was coming, and he couldn’t be choosy, and I had a higher chance of surviving him than the girls.” A sob escapes him. “So I ran, like the coward I am, leaving the girls to the tender mercies of the monster.”

“I don’t go to brothels”; Geralt replies, voice flat and emotionless. “Not … for that. I couldn’t. That man who attacked you first – he told himself you liked it. Believed your pretty lies. I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.” And isn’t he ever so grateful for that.

“No, can’t. I can smell your fear, Jaskier. And when I smell fear, I feel afraid myself, a little bit. Just like you would feel afraid if you heard someone scream in fear. Being in a brothel? It’s torture. It’s … I’m used to unpleasant smells. Many of the creatures I hunt don’t smell like a rose garden. A tannery or a privy where no one bothered to use sawdust to prevent the smell, it may be bad, but it won’t make you feel miserable.” Geralt covers his face with his hands. “Being in bed with someone who fears me? Doing something to make them fear me even more? It’s not … I wouldn’t pay for it. I would pay to avoid it.”

“Oh.” So he knew. He knew all this time. “Wait. Why didn’t you realize I was … had been a whore when you suggested that we share a bed? I was … well. Scared. Very much.”

“I thought you were just worried about being so close to a witcher.” Geralt looks so sad, so defeated.

“Oh, dear heart, no! I never – in fact, if we had met before that unpleasant episode in my life -” He stops himself just in time. Before he can say something that makes Geralt uncomfortable. Because now Jaskier knows why he isn’t a virgin, and that he may very well not even be into men at all.
May very well count as virgin when it comes to fictional unicorn princesses, because surely, rape does not count. It shouldn’t. It’d not be fair.

“Well. That is to say. I didn’t mind, sharing a bed. You must have noticed. I never was any more afraid of you than of any other man.”

“I noticed. It was … nice.” Geralt pushes his chair back, gets up. “Do you want to go back? To being a viscount, I mean? I thought I could keep an eye out for good positions for bards. Let you know when I find one. But, if you want to go back to Lettenhove …”

“I never wanted to go back there, when I was a travelling bard and slept on the ground, and ate the stale bread people had thrown at me. And now that I’m a whore … I cannot go back, and I don’t want to, and I have a lute now, so I do not have to, either. Staying as some noble’s personal bard is not something I want to do with my life, not forever.” He gets up, too. “I’m back in the barding business, now, and I intend to stay there.”

“Alright, then. I will write to you when I hear of a suitable position.”

Wait, what? “So, you are leaving? Without me?” He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course they wouldn’t stay together. Geralt is a lone wolf. “Who will persuade innkeepers to give you a room?”

“No one, I guess.” Geralt hesitates. “It’s alright, Jaskier. I understand. You cannot just switch off the feelings being near a man causes in you. I’m … I’m over it, mostly, but mages … let’s just say I have a bad reputation in Blaviken because … he was a mage, and someone told me he was bad, and … he probably deserved it, but I cannot really claim to have made an impartial decision.”

**

He knows how it is. And he is glad that Jaskier wants to trust him. Calls him a friend. That is more than he could ever have hoped for, really.

So what if the Path will be lonelier than ever, with the bard gone? What of it, if even his winters will seem lacking, because even winter in Kaer Morhen cannot compare to having a bard sing for him, just him, in his room or at his campfire.

A witcher’s path is like that. Lonely. Devoid of beauty.

“Hey! You don’t get to – to just leave like that! Wait! Do I smell of fear, just now?”

Geralt scents the air. There’s the stench in Jaskier’s clothes, and there’s the fresh scent of … of compassion, it’s what the rooms smell like when Jaskier sings his sad ballads. And anxiety, too.

“Don’t you want to help me achieve my dreams?”, the bard pleads.

“Of course. I just said I would - ”

“Then let me travel with you! I can’t travel alone, not now that I know how many men are monsters inside. Not now that they know that I won’t fight back. And I always wanted to be a travelling bard. Please!”

Geralt stares. It is all he can do to close his mouth. “You want to travel with me?”

“It worked quite nicely, so far, didn’t it?”

He can have what he wants. For once in his miserable life, he can have what he wants, and he knows that he shouldn’t, that it is wrong to just seize his happiness with both hands, not when this is likely not what Jaskier truly wants, just the best Jaskier thinks he can get, but …

“Fine. But I’ll sleep on the floor when we share rooms.”

“Oh.” Jaskier smiles, brightly, blindingly. “Yes, of course, whatever you want.”

It’s a lie. But, it matters little.

Because when he scents the air, it smells good.

Chapter Text

They start travelling after a day’s rest and a nice hot bath. After what Geralt told him about being able to smell fear, Jaskier made a mental note to wash after any unpleasant incidence, if he can.

He loves travelling with Geralt. They agreed they’ll follow the witcher’s Path, that is, go wherever there’s a monster that needs slaying. It suits Jaskier just fine, because music is needed almost everywhere, and the monsters will provide him with material for songs.

The first evening after leaving the city, they make camp, and for once, there are no secrets between them, and Jaskier feels safer than ever.

He sits down to play the song about the black knight. “To be honest”, he says after he ended. “It’s about you.”

“Me?” Geralt’s mouth hangs open, and no one would ever believe him that he saw that expression on a witcher, and it is adorable.

“I got inspired when I saw you brush Roach. You’re so gentle with her.” And gods, does he want those gentle hands on him. Perhaps he needs to get his hands injured again. Not other body parts, but … his hands. Yes.

“So the princess is a horse?”

“I’m afraid yes. I hope that’s alright with you. I thought you were a little bit in love with the princess, and I guess that’s weird now … I … uh … are you into women, actually? I mean, I thought you were into men, but then you told me about the mages, so I figure that’s why you are not a virgin, and …”

Geralt shrugs. “I don’t know. Never had the chance to find out. I … I kissed a boy, once.”

“Oh?”

“We. Ah. Did a bit more than kissing, too. Some might say that we were too young, and perhaps we would not have done it at all, if the mages had not … we wanted to get that piece of ourselves back if that makes sense. We were friends.” Geralt stares into the fire. “He died in the trials, and I … I don’t want to disrespect his memory by saying I’m a virgin. That is all.”

“Oh.” That’s so sad. So very sad. His heart breaks for Geralt all over again, but by now he is used enough to the sensation to not fear he’s having a heart attack. “I’m so sorry. But also … I’m glad you got to experience that. It’s … very good, kissing.” It is, really, he remembers. He hopes he will be able to enjoy it again, one day.

“Hm. So. You only like men?”

“Both, actually. It’s just … I’m not sure, I can do it, ever again. I feel like I’d get dirt on a woman by kissing her, because I’m so defiled. And men, well. They tend to remind me of … well. It’s not …”

“Yes. I was serious, about the bed, you know? We cannot share one.”

“You said you only have a problem with mages.” He is glad of that. Glad he is not one of the people Geralt is afraid of.

“You have a problem with men.”

“Yes, but …” He does. “It is alright, though. With you. You look young, and have white hair, and that’s kinda scary, but also, no human looks like that, so that’s … I never had a punter like that. And your eyes are golden, so that helps, too. Of course, I move around too much while I sleep, and you might end up with my stinky feet in your face, so I get you not wanting to share a bed, but it’s me who should sleep on the floor.”

“Your feet don’t stink.”

“What? Of course they do, after a day of walking.”

“No. I … I only pretended to sleep, that morning. When you had your foot in my face. It smelled a bit of leather and blood and sweat, but it didn’t stink, not much. There was an old stink, but no new fear.” Geralt scratches his chin. “I don’t mind, really, so I should be the one to sleep on the floor.”

It makes sense, perhaps, that normal stinky things don’t affect Geralt as much as the smell of fear. “Absolutely not! You get hurt killing monsters, you need a bed!”

“I would only get blood all over the bed.”

“I will force you to take a bath!”

“You are human and travelling is much harder on you, and you pay for our room by singing all evening, so you need the bed more.”

They bicker amiably about it until they are too tired, and Jaskier knows that he won’t care how the argument turns out.

All will be well, regardless.