Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Here.”

“Um...what’s this?”

“A sword.”

“Yes, I know what it is but why are you handing it to me?”

“I’m going to teach you how to fight.”

Jaskier can’t quite suppress the startled laugh that bubbles out of him. He sobers a second later at the Witcher’s deadpan expression. “Oh, you’re serious.”

Geralt sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes. “If you’re going to continue to follow me around like a lost child you should at least learn how to defend yourself. You’ve seen the people I do business with, most would rather kill me than pay me, and sometimes it comes down to your head or theirs. Being defenseless will get you killed and I can’t always be around to protect you if things go south so it’s better to know at least a few ways to keep yourself alive should it ever come to it.”

Jaskier stares at the sword blankly and makes no motion to take it. “Yes, but Geralt,” he says with a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “You’ve been training for battle your whole life, you probably picked up a sword before you could walk, and you know how to kill people in more ways than they know how to die.”

“Now look at me,” he says, gesturing to himself with a small sweep of his hand. “I’m not intimidating in the least nor would anyone ever assume I was. The closest thing to a sword I’ve ever handled was a letter opener when I was eleven and I was even clumsy and awkward with that. Do you really think I’m going to have any better luck with an actual sword?”

Geralt rolls his eyes again and pushes the hilt of the sword into Jaskier’s hands before he can object again. “I would rather see you die with a sword in your hand than defenseless and on your knees, praying that their blade is sharp enough to kill you in one blow.” He steps forward and claps one large hand on the bard’s bony shoulder. “Besides, you said it yourself, I’ve been training for battle my entire life so you’ll find no better teacher in all of the Continent.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to object further but reconsiders once he realizes the futility of it. Geralt has his mind made up and there’s very little on this world or the next that could sway him from it. If he was determined to teach him how to fight, then it was happening one way or another; it was better to just play along and let the lessons happen rather than try to find a way around it.

The sword is much heavier than he expects it to be and he nearly drops it when Geralt lets go. He frowns at the weight as he struggles to hold it aloft; he’s watched Geralt fight with it countless times and has always marveled at how the blade appears to become weightless when he wields it. It could have something to do with the fact that Geralt is built like a brick shithouse and treats the weapon as an extension of his own body but Jaskier becomes aware of a rather glaring issue almost immediately.

He can barely lift the sword and hold it steady, let alone wield it with any kind of grace or efficiency. The blade is wide and long and the hilt is too big for his hand; hell, it takes two hands for him to lift it at all, let alone fight with it. Geralt could teach him every move he knows and it won’t do a bit of good if he can’t even lift the damn sword.

“Uh, Geralt,” he says but the Witcher is eyeing him in a peculiar way that indicates he’s realizing the same thing. A sword is not a one-size-fits-most weapon and to use one efficiently Jaskier would need a blade more suitable to his size. Also, Jaskier is not the most graceful man Geralt has ever met and he realizes pretty quickly that handing him a very sharp, very heavy weapon will probably result in disaster by day’s end.

He frowns and looks around the clearing, eyes settling on a cluster of trees near the edge as an idea begins to form in his mind. He takes the sword back from Jaskier and walks across the clearing, slicing two long, thin branches from the nearest tree. True, it’s not exactly like the real thing but he figures they both stand less of a chance of losing a hand or getting impaled if they’re practicing with a tree branch.

He tosses one of the branches to Jaskier, frowning when the bard fumbles the catch and juggles the branch awkwardly for a few seconds before getting a decent grip. For all the skill and finesse Jaskier employs with his hands, he apparently has no idea what to do with anything that’s not a musical instrument.

“Alright, first lesson,” Geralt begins, hefting his own branch comfortably in his hand. “There are eight basic angles of attack when it comes to fighting with a sword.” He takes his branch and traces several lines in the air in front of Jaskier’s body, first an X across the middle, then one line straight down through the middle of the X followed by a single line horizontally through the middle.

“For obvious reasons most attacks will be directed in this area,” he explains, gesturing with the branch toward Jaskier’s torso. “It’s the easiest way to assure victory either through injury or death. Think of these angles as a death zone because any blow that lands in this area can and likely will result in death.”

“I’m already not enjoying this lesson,” Jaskier mumbles, his skin taking on a slightly green hue at all the conversation surrounding his likely and imminent death.

“My point,” Geralt continues, shooting him a mild glare. “Is that during a fight you want to protect this area while attempting to strike a blow in the same area of your opponent.”

He motions Jaskier forward with his branch. “Come here.”

“Are you going to hit me with that tree branch?”

“I will if you don’t come over here.”

The bard sighs and trudges forward with his own branch dragging along the ground behind him. When he gets close enough Geralt reaches out and grabs his hand, repositioning his wrist and tucking his thumb under the branch so it’s mostly hidden by the wood.

“Someone who fights dirty will go for the hands first,” he says by way of explanation, correcting a few more aspects of Jaskier’s grip. “They’ll try to take off your thumb or a couple fingers to prevent you from holding the sword properly. They might even try to lop off your hand, possibly even your arm to get the advantage.”

“Lop off my-?!” Jaskier balks, his face draining entirely of color. “No, no, no, Geralt I’m a bard. A bard! My hands are my livelihood and last I checked it’s pretty difficult to play a lute with no fingers. What the hell am I going to do if some villager with a grudge decides to cut off my hand because we failed to rid the town of the banshee or goblin or whatever they can’t deal with themselves?”

“Find a new instrument.”

“Oh, haha,” Jaskier snips back, fixing the Witcher with a glare of his own. “It’s easy for you to say, I’m pretty sure you could still mangle someone with no hands, just those massive thighs of yours.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Focus.”

“Hard to when you keep talking about me getting maimed and/or killed.”

“That’s what I’m trying to prevent,” the Witcher insists, his patience already beginning to wear thin. “I’m trying to teach you how to defend yourself so that doesn’t happen.”

“Well you could be a little less graphic,” Jaskier mutters with a pout.

“Noted, now lift your sword...er, branch.”

Jaskier mumbles something under his breath but obeys, lifting his branch while attempting to maintain the proper grip.

“You want to treat your weapon like an extension of yourself,” Geralt explains, lifting his own branch as well. “Which means you also want to be aware of the mechanics of your movement. Pretend you’re going to attack me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but again obeys, lunging forward while hefting his branch overhead like a club. Geralt counters it easily and jabs his own branch in the bard’s bony ribs, ignoring the nasty name Jaskier calls him in response. “An overhead attack leaves your chest and torso exposed and you’ll end up with a blade between your ribs before you even realize it’s happened.”

He takes a step back and nods to Jaskier. “Try again.”

To his credit, Jaskier takes a moment to consider his next attack before engaging. He takes a step forward and swings his branch horizontally, aiming for Geralt’s torso. Again, the Witcher easily avoids the slow, clumsy attack and sweeps the branch away from him with his own, landing the blunt end of the branch against Jaskier’s ribs again. It’s not a heavy blow but it’s enough to make the bard wince when the branch bounces off his chest.

“You’re still leaving yourself exposed,” Geralt explains, dropping his branch and taking a step toward Jaskier. He positions him carefully, correcting his posture and stance so that he’s facing more to the side rather than standing straight in front of him. “The best way to protect yourself during a sword fight is to make your stance as narrow as possible, you have less angles exposed like this which means there’s less of a chance of getting hit somewhere vital.”

He steps back again and nods for the fight to continue. Jaskier eyes him critically for a few seconds as if trying to determine the best point of attack that won’t get him jabbed in the ribs again. When he lunges forward this time, he swings low toward the knee.

Again, Geralt blocks it easily but this time he nods in approval. “Good,” he says, offering one of his very rare, blink-and-it’s-gone smiles.

“Wait, really?”

The Witcher nods again and straightens. “Defensive action often requires offensive consideration. For instance, you’re short-”

“Thank you.”

“Which means you should use that to your advantage. Rather than focusing an attack on the upper body, focus instead on the legs.” He draws an imaginary line across his abdomen with one hand. “Think in terms of opposites: if your opponent is taller than you, aim for the lower body; it’s more difficult to deflect a low attack than it is to block one from above. If they’re shorter than you-”

“Upper body,” Jaskier fills in with a small nod.

“Good. Your goal should be to disable your opponent and prevent them from coming after you while giving yourself a chance to escape.”

Jaskier frowns and allows his branch to droop slightly. “Wouldn’t that be seen as cowardly? Running away from a fight?”

“Pride has killed more men than a sword ever will.”

“Fair point. But what if I can’t get away? What if I’m forced to...you know…” he fades off, making a small stabbing gesture with his branch.

“Well then I’d say you already have some experience with that.”

Geralt realizes pretty quickly that that was the incorrect thing to say because Jaskier begins to take on that pale, greenish color again. Several months back, Jaskier had been forced to kill two men in self defense and although he’s usually pretty good at adopting a casual, carefree demeanor, it’s clear the action still haunts him even now. It had been an accident mostly, a few uncoordinated yet lucky strikes on his part, but it still ended with two men dead and him holding the blade. It had taken weeks before he’d even look at the dagger Geralt had given him, let alone touch it again. No matter how many times Geralt reminded him that he shouldn’t bear any guilt or remorse for the killings, he was just defending himself after all, it didn’t change the fact that Jaskier still walked around with the weight of metaphorical blood on his hands.

Geralt sighs quietly and lowers his own branch. “Listen, I can’t guarantee you’ll never find yourself in a situation like that again; sometimes the only resolution in a fight is to kill your opponent,” he says, stepping forward to correct Jaskier’s posture once more. “But not every fight will end that way. Sometimes winning a fight is as simple as surviving to see another day.”

Jaskier tips his head in a nod and says nothing.

Satisfied with his corrected posture and stance, Geralt steps back again. “I’m not teaching you to kill anyone Jaskier, I’m teaching you to defend yourself and stay alive. With any luck you’ll never need to use this but you should know it in case you ever need to.”

“Now,” he says, stepping back and motioning with his branch. “Try again.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon working through various fighting techniques, both defensive and offensive. Geralt teaches him basic blocking techniques, deflection, and feinting, breaking each lesson down to its barest foundation. He briefly considers trying to condense several decades worth of knowledge into a single afternoon but quickly realizes that would be impossible. These are things he’s known since he was a child but teaching them to someone who has never even picked up a sword, let alone used one in any kind of training, is more difficult than he imagined.

One lesson typically spirals into several sub lessons as he remembers, corrects, and adds in additional information to each element. He continuously corrects Jaskier’s posture, helps him widen his stances, alters his grip and tries to make each lesson as straightforward as possible (which usually just ends with a confused expression on the bard’s face).

Jaskier, for his part, absorbs the knowledge with several questions but little protest. He’s still clumsy and awkward with his movements but he’s a fast learner and it usually only takes a few tries for him to get the hang of a new technique. Granted, he hasn’t mastered any of them and still gets confused when Geralt recalls something from an earlier lesson but he’s learning and that’s all that matters for the moment.

The sun is a low, fiery glow along the horizon when Geralt finally puts an end to their lessons for the day. It’s becoming too dark to see and frankly he’s tired of talking; he thinks he’s spoken more in this one afternoon than he has all month. He’s not used to being the vocal member of their party and welcomes the blissful silence when it occurs.

Jaskier appears equally relieved when the lessons finally come to an end for the day; while they may not be using actual swords, he did not manage to escape the day unscathed. He has long, branch-width bruises all over his body and while none of the blows actually broke the skin, he’s already beginning to feel stiff and sore from the intensity of the training. He knows there’s more to come, there’s no way Geralt is going to drop the lessons after just one day, but he’s a little surprised when the Witcher stops him from tossing his branch at the end of the day.

“Keep it,” he tells him as he adjusts Roach’s reins. “Consider it your practice sword until further notice.”

“Shouldn’t I start practicing with a real blade?”

“Not until I’m convinced you won’t accidentally impale yourself or me with one, no.”

Jaskier examines the branch silently for a second. “It’s not very intimidating, you know? The worst I could do with this is give someone a rather devastating splinter.”

“You could always try singing at them, that would scare anyone away.”

“Arse.”

“Hm.”

OOOOO

“You know,” Jaskier grumbles as he’s tossed into the dirt for the third time that hour. “I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this.”

“Whatever would give you that idea?” Geralt asks, straightening carefully and extending his hand down toward Jaskier.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jaskier snips, accepting the Witcher’s hand and allowing him to drag him up off the ground. “Maybe the fact that each lesson in hand-to-hand combat somehow ends up with me in the dirt and you standing in triumph. Call it a hunch.”

Geralt offers the barest hint of a smirk and rolls his eyes. “You will fall one hundred times before you learn to walk.”

“I have fallen two hundred times and I’m not even crawling yet.”

“All the more reason to keep practicing.”

“Oh come on,” Jaskier mutters, dusting yet another layer of dirt off his already filthy pants. It’s a pointless endeavor really, he’s just going to end up back on the ground in a few minutes anyway. “There’s a small, evil part of you that secretly enjoys flipping me into the dirt. Admit it.”

“I will admit no such thing,” Geralt tells him although the smirk is still there, hovering just below the surface. It’s like a mirage on a hot day, an indistinguishable shape the flickers and fades by the second. “Falling is part of the learning process. Even when it happens a lot.”

Jaskier just shakes his head and steps back a few feet, dropping down into the defensive crouch Geralt had taught him a few weeks before. “Well, if you’re going to keep throwing me into the dirt then the least you can do is pay for the wash house in the next town we come across. My clothes are filthy and I can’t perform looking like this.”

“What a shame.”

“You’re awfully dismissive for someone who is enjoying the fruits of my labor. May I remind you that I’ve been the one to keep coins in our pockets between your monster hunting jobs?”

“And what a kind benefactor you’ve been.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier replies before lunging toward him again. He has every intention of catching Geralt around the waist and using his full body weight to drag him to the ground but best laid plans rarely ever work out in one’s favor when their opponent has a foot and a half and at least one hundred pounds of pure muscle to their advantage. As such there’s a quick movement, too quick to follow really, and suddenly Jaskier is on his back again, breathless and dirty and staring straight up at the afternoon sky.

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“Hm,” Geralt replies, offering him his hand once again and tugging him back up off the ground. In spite of Jaskier’s numerous complaints, he’s actually doing quite well with the hand-to-hand combat training. True, he still ends up in the dirt more often than not (which is a powermove on Geralt’s part only about 50% of the time) but he’s getting better day by day.

While he's continued teaching Jaskier basic sword fighting techniques, he’s also started incorporating elements of hand-to-hand fighting in their lessons as well. He knows all too well that not every fight involves a weapon and the ones that don’t tend to be much dirtier and more violent than those that do. A shocking level of brutality comes in trying to disable or kill your opponent when you’re doing it with your bare hands and that’s the mindset he tries to instill in Jaskier during their hand-to hand training. All the sword training on the Continent would do him no good if someone tackled him into the dirt and gouged out his eyes with their thumbs.

He maintains the same fighting tactics as the sword training, focusing on defensive maneuvers and teaching Jaskier how to stay low and use his size and speed to his advantage. What he lacks in physical strength the bard makes up for in agility; he’s remarkably limber and has excelled in dodging and deflection.

He’s also light and buoyant on his feet which makes teaching footwork much easier. It didn’t take long for Jaskier to realize that a moving target was much more difficult to deal with and he quickly began to develop his own style of fighting during their sparring sessions. It focused heavily on evasion, quick footwork and even quicker attacks followed by rapid retreat. He may not be able to take Geralt down physically (it has all the effect of a hummingbird trying to move a boulder) but he’s gotten a few lucky strikes in during their sword fighting lessons.

The constant training has also succeeded in toughening a few of the bard’s softer edges. He’s always been on the smaller side, a slight build with long, lanky limbs, but the near daily sparring sessions have started to sculpt and outline the underlying muscle tissue, his arms and shoulders becoming more defined with each passing week. He’s getting stronger and faster, if only marginally, but it’s a change he doesn’t complain about.

A warm breeze rustles through the trees around them, bringing with it the smell of sweetgrass and flowers and the gentle reminder that spring was right around the corner. Which was just as well in Jaskier’s book because he always found it easier to get inspiration and compose new songs in the spring than he did in the cold, grey, winter months. He’d been working on one for a few weeks now and hoped to test it out at the next decent sized tavern they stumbled across. Whether the audience loved it or hated it didn’t really matter; they still ended up with a handful of coins by the end of the night which was usually more than enough to get them from one town to the next.

He dusts his pants off again, silently noting how pointless the action is, and stares off at the curve of the horizon. “You know, there should be a town a couple miles northeast of here. Care to pass through?”

Geralt considers the request for a moment before shrugging one shoulder loosely. “Might as well, we’re low on supplies as it is.”

Jaskier suppresses a smile, silently pleased with himself for how well the distraction worked out. Supplies aside, they’ve spent the last several nights sleeping on the cold, unforgiving ground and while Geralt might be fine with using a rock for a pillow, Jaskier was ready to sleep in an actual bed for a change.

Also, with any luck they’ll be able to find someone with a monster problem that needs tending to and Geralt will have an excuse to kill something. He tends to get more churlish than usual when he goes for too long without a job and he’s starting to develop that prickly, irritable demeanor that Jaskier is all too used to navigating around. A good monster hunt will tide him over for a few weeks at least and blunt the sharper edges of his personality. It’s a win for both of them honestly.

“I’m serious about the wash house,” Jaskier reminds him as they make their way back to the main road. “Consider it compensation for ruining my clothes.”

“A bit of dirt hardly counts as ruining your clothes.”

“Says the man who is usually covered in a combination of mud, blood, and everything in between.”

“Exactly, your clothes aren’t ruined until you can’t tell what color they were originally.”

“Now I see why all the ladies flock to you; who could possibly resist such charms?”

“We’ll travel faster if you stop talking.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“Well then let’s test that theory. Starting now.”

Jaskier tries to come up with a witty retort but nothing comes to mind so instead he just grumbles to himself and keeps walking.

“See, we’re moving faster already,” Geralt tells him, smirking at the rude gesture Jaskier makes at his back.

Chapter Text

They probably should have realized something was wrong when the man with the vegetable cart hissed under his breath and spit into the dirt when they crossed his path. It was an intentional reaction, not something coincidental or involuntary; it was a clear sign that they were not welcome in the town.

“Hmm, not exactly a friendly reception,” Jaskier mutters as the man hurries past them, leaving a wide berth between his cart and their small party.

Geralt says nothing and simply allows Roach to amble down the dirt road into town. It’s not the first time someone has whispered a hex upon seeing him and he doubts it will be the last. People’s attitudes toward Witchers tended to range from cautious wariness to outright hostility with very little in between. Where one person saw them as a savior, another would view them as a portent of death and destruction to come. Geralt wasn’t concerned with changing anyone’s opinion of him, he didn’t care in the slightest, but it made things infinitely more difficult to pass quietly through a town if the townspeople were actively hostile toward him.

Their circumstances don’t exactly help matters either. They’re very low on supplies as it is and this town is the only one with a decent sized market for miles. Not only that but the sun had already sunk low past the horizon and it didn’t make much sense to push through the night if they were going to have to stop here for supplies anyway. Like it or not, this little no name town filled with it’s no name people would be their home for the night.

The innkeeper isn’t exactly welcoming either when they request a room for the night. “Full up,” he grumbles shortly. “Nothin’ available but the stables. ‘Specially not for Witchers.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jaskier balks, looking appalled at the very suggestion. “Do you have any idea who this man is-”

“Stables are fine,” Geralt interrupts, slapping a coin down on the table loudly, causing the innkeeper to flinch just slightly. He elbows Jaskier in the side and nods for him to follow as he walks back toward the door. It’s not an argument either of them will win and it’s more trouble than it’s worth to try to convince the innkeeper that they mean no harm and are just passing through. The explanation alone would require more speaking than he was willing to engage in at the moment and honestly he just doesn’t care enough to try. Besides, stables are usually just as comfortable as the rooms in some of these small town inns and cost half of what a room would.

Jaskier isn’t ready to drop the subject though and is clearly coming up with some kind of persuasive and very loquacious argument as to why they should be granted a room and the Witcher decides to intervene before the innkeeper turns them away completely.

“Come on,” he says, snagging a fistful of the bard’s jacket and dragging him bodily out of the room. Jaskier resists as much as he’s able to (which isn’t a lot) before finally giving in and allowing himself to be dragged outside and around the side of the inn toward the stables.

“You shouldn’t have let him treat you that way,” Jaskier mutters as they walk Roach (and themselves) into the stables, finding a large, empty stall toward the back. It’s a little drafty inside but there’s a fresh layer of dry hay on the ground which will provide some insulation against the cool evening air.

“It’s fine,” Geralt tells his indignant bard, ready to drop the subject and just move on but Jaskier is having none of it.

“No, Geralt, it’s not,” Jaskier insists, glaring at the side of the inn outside the stable windows. “That man had no right-”

“What do you suggest I do?” Geralt cuts him off as he loosens the saddlebags across Roach’s back. “Storm back in there and threaten him with my sword? Demand a room with the threat of bodily harm?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “No, of course not. But he speaks of Witchers like they’re no better than the monsters they hunt.”

“Some aren’t,” Geralt replies with a small shrug. “Some Witchers use threats and violence to get what they want, killing and terrorizing everyone they come across. It’s possible this town has had a bad experience with one in the past and uses that as basis for their prejudice.”

Roach knickers at him irritably as the strap on one of the saddlebags catches in her mane and pulls. Geralt takes the hint and carefully detangles the strap, patting the horse on the neck once he finishes. “Suspicion and narrowmindedness are near incurable conditions and you’ll waste your breath and time trying to change the mind of someone who doesn’t care to listen.”

Jaskier sighs and slumps in defeat. “You’re right but he didn’t have to be so rude about it.”

Geralt offers a noncommittal “hm” in response and sets to work removing Roach’s saddle. The man’s remarks don’t bother him as much as they do Jaskier and they’ll be out of this town and on their way by morning so he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s more concerned with restocking their supplies than he is the mood and opinion of the innkeeper and with any luck he’ll be able to gather everything they need without fuss from the market in town.

He’ll be able to accomplish a lot more on his own without distraction so he sends Jaskier off to wander the town with the promise that he’ll meet him at the tavern in an hour. It was a simple enough suggestion, divide and conquer and all that, but Jaskier doesn’t take the bait right away. Normally the bard would be all too happy to take his advice but the encounter with the cart peddler and the innkeeper has left him unusually hesitant.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” he asks, frowning at his companion when he tells him the plan.

“I’ll be fine,” Geralt tells him, pushing past him and making his way to the front of the stables. “Surely you can keep yourself out of trouble until I get back.”

“Not worried about myself,” Jaskier grumbles at the Witcher’s retreating back but it has little effect. Geralt disappears out of the stables and into the town, leaving Jaskier and Roach in his wake.

OOOOO

It’s easy enough to gather what he needs from the town but it appears most, if not all, of the townspeople share the innkeeper’s sentiment. Everywhere he goes he’s met with wariness and suspicion and while the merchants he speaks with are not nearly as callous as the innkeeper they keep their interaction with him to a bare minimum. Men avoid him in the street, women pull their children away as they pass, and there’s an overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly unwelcome in this town.

Again, Geralt doesn’t really care; this isn’t the first town he’s passed through that rolled up and burned the welcome mat the minute he stepped foot within the city limits. He tends to avoid people when possible anyway so when they avoided him in turn it just made things easier. As long as no one was actively hostile or threatening he didn’t care.

“Don’t let them get to you, lad,” the merchant selling horse tack and supplies tells him as he gathers different lengths of leather and rope from his stall. “A Witcher passed through here a couple years back and shortly after he left a big storm leveled half the town. People ‘round here like to think the Witcher offended a vila out near the foothills and that she sent a storm to destroy the town as punishment. Probably not true, mind you, but it doesn’t stop them from eyeing Witchers with contempt and suspicion.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Geralt tells him, passing an extra coin to the merchant for his help. He’s the first decent person he’s dealt with in this town and the only one to attempt more than a single sentence interaction. At least now he knew the reason behind the townspeople’s cold reaction toward him; there was nothing he could do to change it but at least he understood the animosity.

He shoves the supplies into the satchel he brought with him and cinches the top, tossing the bag over his shoulder as he steps out of the shop. The town streets are dark and quiet now, the dusty road illuminated only slightly by the glow from windows and doors from the houses and shops that run beside it.

Truth be told, he’d rather head back to the stables and call it a night but he also wonders what kind of trouble Jaskier had gotten himself into while they were separated. He figures the sooner he can confirm the bard hasn’t gotten himself killed for shacking up with someone’s wife or daughter, the sooner he can turn in. With a sigh, he makes his way toward the light and noise of the tavern at the end of the street.

The building isn’t very big although it needs to be to accommodate the swell of patrons inside. Apparently this is where most of the town comes in the evening and the atmosphere is warm and jovial.

At least it was until he walked in.

An immediate hush falls over the tavern when he steps through the door, all eyes fixed on him warily. Some people leave, purposely bumping into him as they pass, some begin whispering to one another as he walks by, some spit on the ground at his feet. Geralt doesn’t care; he makes his way to the back of the tavern, the crowd giving him a wide berth as he passes, and finds Jaskier sitting in a corner idly strumming his lute.

“I see you’re making friends,” the bard remarks with a smirk as his companion sinks into the chair across from him.

“If by friends you mean a potential lynch mob then yes, I’m on the right track.”

Jaskier chuckles and passes him a mug of ale that had been sitting at his elbow. There are a couple of coins on the table indicating that he’s done at least a few songs in

Geralt’s absence although the crowd seems to have accepted the entertainment with only modest interest. Some of Jaskier’s performances will garner a pouch full of coins while others only bring in a handful, it all depends on the location and the crowd. This town, with its wary and suspicious citizens, apparently didn’t readily welcome newcomers regardless of who they were.

“Did you find what you needed?” Jaskier asks, absently plucking out a few chords as he surveys the room.

“Hm,” Geralt replies, taking a deep gulp of ale before setting the mug back on the table. “Also found out why this town seems to hate Witchers so much.”

“Really?” Jaskier asks, feigning ignorance. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “The town was nearly destroyed a few years ago and the townspeople blamed it on a Witcher.”

Jaskier stops strumming and stares at his companion. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you had the power to create devastating storms, Geralt?”

“That’s not-”

“All our time together and you never mentioned it. I should be insulted.”

“Stop-”

“I could have written a song about it.”

“Jaskier!”

The bard smirks and shakes his head. “You know as well as I do that people will search for any kind of explanation for the tragedies and hardships that befall them. Some blame Destiny, some blame Witchers with mystical, storm-bring powers. You know how it goes.”

“They don’t blame the storm on a Witcher, they blame it on a storm spirit,” Geralt clarifies, leaning back in his chair. “They think the Witcher pissed off the storm spirit and she destroyed the town in retaliation.”

“Oh well, that makes more sense,” Jaskier allows with a small shrug as he turns his attention back to his lute.

They sit in companionable silence for another minute or so before a harsh shove at the back of Geralt’s chair ruins the moment. He growls low in the back of his throat and turns to face the person responsible. “Is there a problem here?”

The man in front of him is large, burly, and reeks of ale. There are a few slightly shorter men flanking him on either side but they’re all bearing down on him maliciously like hungry wolves eyeing prey.

“You bet your ass there’s a problem,” the burly man snarls, his thick, meaty fists clenched at his sides like clubs. “You aren’t welcome in this town, Witcher. Your kind brings nothing but death and destruction and we’ve had enough of that here already.”

Geralt resists the urge to sigh again and instead pushes himself up from the table, meeting the man at his full height. “Yes, I’m aware. A vengeful storm spirit destroyed your town and you think a Witcher had something to do with it. Take it out on him, I had nothing to do with that.”

“I lost my wife in that storm, you bastard!” the burly man growls, inching forward threateningly.

Geralt does sigh this time and pushes his chair in. He can tell the situation is about to take a nasty turn if he doesn’t leave and he’d rather diffuse it without violence if at all possible.

“Fine, I’m leaving,” he tells the crowd, glancing over his shoulder at Jaskier and nodding toward the door. He doesn’t feel comfortable leaving him here alone now that this lot knows they’re traveling together; they might decide that Jaskier is guilty by association and take their anger out on him.

“Allow me to show you to the door,” the burly man grumbles, slapping one meaty hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

The Witcher stares at the hand on his shoulder and then shrugs it off with a glare. “Touch me again and it will be the last time you have hands.”

The man makes a sound somewhere between a snarl and a battlecry and that’s all it takes for the entire tavern to descend into chaos. All at once the burly man is lunging at him, taking a wild swing with little accuracy or forethought. It’s easy enough to dodge and he sweeps the man’s feet out from under him, stepping back as he disappears and gets trampled beneath another wave of furious villagers that surges forward.

Geralt casts a glance over his shoulder and curses when he realizes that their secluded table in the back of the tavern has left them essentially cornered with a frothing mass of murderous villagers blocking their only exit. He somersaults over the table, grabbing Jaskier by the back of his shirt as he does so and dragging the bard down with him. They land in a messy heap behind the table and Geralt flips it on it’s side, creating a temporary and all too flimsy barrier between them and the mob before them.

He stands quickly, pulling Jaskier up and wedging him into the corner and as far away from the melee as possible. He positions himself in front of him and readies himself for the full brunt of the crowd.

He knows he can hold his own for a while but he also knows it won’t be enough, not with the force of the crowd bearing down on them. There are too many people and the corner is too small for him to pull his sword and even if he could he knows it would only escalate the situation further. Their best option is to try to make it to the door but that would mean pushing through dozens of furious villagers and that will probably do nothing but get them killed at this point.

The first wave of the mob falls on him violently and the table is pulled away from the corner. Geralt growls as he’s dragged forward by dozens of hands and thrust into the middle of the mob. He fights back as best he can, still struggling to come up with a plan on how to get them out of there alive, when he hears a panicked cry behind him.

Two of the men who had been flanking the burly man have grabbed Jaskier and are now dragging him bodily into the roil of the crowd as well. The bard is struggling against them desperately but it’s not enough, they’re too strong and the crowd is too big. Over the deafening roar of the crowd he hears a panicked “Geralt!” before the hapless bard disappears into the mob.

He does draw his sword then and has every intention of cutting his way through the crowd to get to Jaskier but he never gets the chance. Something heavy and blunt slams into the back of his head and he crumples to his knees heavily. His vision blurs immediately and the sound of the crowd becomes muffled and distant.

He tastes blood.

He tries to force himself up but his legs won’t cooperate. Blood is streaming down the side of his face, slipping into his eyes and blurring his sight with red. He grits his teeth and tries to stand again but whatever had hit him before comes down again hard.

There’s a tremendous crack and then the world goes dark.

Chapter Text

“Oh, good. It seems you’re alive after all.”

Geralt regrets everything about being alive. Being dead would have been so much simpler; it’s quiet, it’s peaceful, no one would bother him. At least if he was dead he wouldn’t have to suffer through this skull-splitting headache.

He groans and tries to open his eyes but finds nothing but darkness. For an alarming moment he thinks he’s gone blind but then something damp and cold is lifted off his eyes and he can see again. He blinks up at the shadowy haze of the ceiling above him and groans again.

“Sorry about that,” an unfamiliar voice says again somewhere off to his left. “The cloth was to keep the blood out of your eyes. Figured it would help with the pain too.”

A gnarled, bony hand appears above his head and passes slowly in front of him. “You see this alright?”

Geralt groans again but manages a nod. “Yes.”

“Good, that makes one of us,” the voice says and Geralt manages to turn his head just enough to see a blind old man sitting next to him. The man looks every bit of one hundred and twelve and has the hunched, rounded posture of someone who has carried a long life over long years. He has a grizzled white beard that camouflages his mouth and bushy white eyebrows to match. His pale eyes are dull and sightless but they’re fixed on the Witcher in front of him.

“You’re lucky, lad,” the man tells him, dripping the cloth that had been laid across his eyes into a small bucket of water at his feet. “A blow like that would have killed a normal man.” He pulls the cloth out of the bucket and wrings it out deftly. “But then I guess Witchers are made of stronger stuff.”

He reaches forward and presses the damp cloth against a painful lump on the side of Geralt’s head, stretching along his hairline. The Witcher hisses and curses under his breath but stays still under the blind man’s ministrations.

“Where are we?” he asks after a second once the pain smolders down to a deep throb rather than a white-hot stab.

“Safe,” the blind man tells him, keeping one hand pressed to the side of Geralt’s head while the other fumbles for a stick to poke the fire behind him. “You’re in my home, a couple of miles outside of that little town you passed through.”

“How did I get here?” he asks, wincing when the cloth presses a little harder against his skull. He remembers the town and the fight in the tavern but it bothers him that he can’t remember anything after that.

“Your friend brought you in,” the man tells him, turning back to face him fully. “Lucky he knew how to find me too, I’m the only healer around these parts. The next closest one is a three-days ride.”

“Wait,” Geralt says, the man’s words tumbling through his head messily. “Jaskier brought me to you?”

“Jaskier? That his name?” the man frowns and then shrugs like it’s inconsequential. “Thought he said Jasper. But yes, he dragged you in a few days ago begging for help. Swore he’d pay any price as long as I saved you.”

The man chuckles and pulls the cloth away, probing the lumps gently with his fingers as he does so. Geralt grimaces and bites back another curse. “Scrappy little fellow, too,” the man muses quietly, deep in concentration as he inspects the wounds. “Refused to let me treat him until I took care of you first.”

“Was he injured?”

The man shrugs again. “Can’t say he made it out unscathed but he wasn’t too worse for it. Couple of bruises and a fractured wrist but otherwise he was alright.”

“Was?”

The man glares at him with his sightless eyes and sits back. “Was. Is. Irrelevant, he’s fine.”

“Where is he?”

“You’re awfully full of questions for someone who was mostly dead two days ago,” the man mumbles as he pulls the cloth away again and drops it back into the bucket. “He’s in the next room,” he tells him, nodding over his shoulder. “He lost consciousness a few hours ago.”

Geralt feels a flash of concern and looks over his shoulder toward the door. “I thought you said he was fine.”

“He is fine. I drugged him.”

“You...what?”

“I drugged him,” the man tells him again like the explanation was perfectly logical. “Stubborn boy wouldn’t leave your side for two days even though I told him you were well on your way to recovery. He has his own injuries to take care of but he wouldn’t listen to me, no sir, why listen to a healer after all? So I had to take a more forceful approach.”

He reaches down and plucks a small metal cup from the ground next to the bed and taps his fingers against it as indication. “I wasn’t lying when I told him it was tea, he just didn’t need to know it also contained a rather strong sedative as well.”

Geralt chuckles, which hurts, and offers a small smile which he knows the healer can’t see. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

The old man sets the cup back down and pushes himself up off the stool, catching his wobbling frame on a wooden cane. “I’ve had some strange customers during my time, lad, but you and your little party is by far the strangest I’ve had in awhile. An injured Witcher, a fretful horse, and a half-feral bard were not what I was expecting when I opened my door the other night.”

He hobbles over to the door but points back at Geralt as a warning. “You stay in bed,” he orders over his shoulder. “You may heal faster than a normal man but that doesn’t change that fact that you arrived on my doorstep with a skull full of splinters the other day. I’m going to check on your friend and then I’ll make you some tea to help with the pain.”

With that the man disappears into the shadows beyond the doorway and Geralt is left alone. He can hear him in the next room, muttering to himself and rustling around as he tends to Jaskier. In spite of the warning Geralt is tempted to get up and go check on Jaskier himself, just to reassure himself that the bard is still alive and somewhat uninjured.

The healer had assured him that his injuries were minimal but he would feel better seeing that for himself. Part of him wonders how Jaskier was able to escape relatively unscathed but the other part of him is just relieved he wasn’t gutted in the process.

He lays there in silence and tries to ignore the throbbing in his head by retracing his memories again. Tavern, fight, blank. He can remember right up to the point where his skull was cracked and then nothing. With the ferocity of the fight in the tavern they both should have been killed so he’s still not sure how they made it out and ended up here.

Someone must have helped them escape, broken up the fight enough to provide an opening, but he can’t think of who. The whole town seemed pretty hellbent on killing him.

The more he tries to piece things together the more his head aches and spins so eventually he gives up and stares up at the shadows on the ceiling. The soft jangle and shuffle of jars echoes from the other room and he can hear the healer muttering to himself again as he mixes something together in a bowl. It’s mesmerizing in a way, the soft scrape and rasp as the mixture is ground together blocks out the rest of his senses and makes his body feel sluggish and heavy. He’s almost allowed himself to drift off again when the healer re-enters the room, a small stone bowl and another metal cup tucked in the crook of his bony arm.

“How’s Jaskier?” Geralt hears himself mumble but his head still feels foggy and dull and the words sound the same as they come out.

The healer waves a dismissive hand at him and scoffs under his breath. “If it’s not one of you fretting it’s the other,” he says, dumping the contents of the bowl into the mug and swirling it with some water. He sets the mug by the fire to warm and hobbles back to his stool. “He’s fine,” he tells him, sinking down onto the stool with a soft groan.

“Sleeping like the dead but he’s fine.”

“You said Jaskier brought me to you,” Geralt says, mulling the words through his mind before he speaks. He’s still trying to pin down the details between the tavern and waking up here. “Was anyone else with him?”

The healer considers this for a moment before shaking his head. “No, he arrived alone. Had you slung over the back of your horse like a fresh kill but I’m sure there was no one else with him; I would have heard them,” he says, tapping one ear knowingly.

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“Not much,” the old man admits, turning his attention down to the cup and testing the temperature with his fingertips. “Told me there was some kind of fight in the local tavern and that you got ambushed. Not surprising, really; the people in that town are a rough and tumble sort and I’ve had more than a few end up on my doorstep with a broken bone or a knife wound because someone couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

He swirls the cup carefully and sets it back down a little closer to the fire. “Those people barely like each other, let alone a Witcher who comes wandering through town. There was a big storm a couple years back and the whole town has blamed Witchers for it ever since.”

“So I’ve heard,” Geralt mumbles with a small huff, recalling the angry villagers’ words right before they tried to crush his skull.

“I wouldn’t worry yourself too much,” the healer tells him, testing the temperature of the cup one more time before removing it from the hearth and handing it to his charge.

“I’m sure your friend will fill you in on all the details once he wakes up.”

Geralt accepts the cup and takes a tentative sip, wincing as the hot water scalds his parched throat. The tea smells heavy with herbs, a thick floral scent mingled with sweet, deep notes that almost certainly indicate some kind of sedative. The taste isn’t unpleasant but there’s a sharp bitterness that lingers on the back of the tongue like an afterthought; if he had to guess he’d say some variation of willow bark. Between the taste and the smell, it takes a moment of convincing but eventually he sucks in a breath, holds it, and drains the cup in a few long gulps.

The healer chuckles quietly as he takes back the empty cup. “I usually recommend drinking the tea slowly but I suppose your method works too.” He pushes himself up again and grabs his cane, hobbling back toward the door. He stops to poke at the fire a few times, muttering to himself, and turns back toward the bed. “Rest well, Witcher; the tea will help with the pain. I’ll come back to check on you later.” He turns and shuffles out of the room, leaving Geralt alone once more.

It takes a while but eventually the persistent throbbing in his head begins to ebb and fade, hovering just on the edge of his consciousness instead of taking up residence right in the forefront. It’s not a dramatic improvement but it allows him to relax a bit more and let his mind drift to something other than the splitting headache.

He still has questions about the tavern, how they got here, but he can’t bring himself to focus on them for more than a few seconds at a time. His thoughts feel hazy and dull and his body feels heavy but he’s not sure how much of that is due to whatever herbs were in the tea and how much is leftover from a traumatic head injury.

He feels himself begin to drift again, his ties to consciousness fraying and splitting apart at the seams. He doesn’t try to fight it this time; instead he just stares up at the shadows on the ceiling until his eyes slide shut and that’s it.

OOOOO

It’s still dark the next time Geralt opens his eyes but he has no way to gauge the passage of time; it could be midnight or it could be morning, he can’t tell for sure. The headache is mostly gone when he wakes up, the vicious throb tamped down to a dull ache that settles somewhere at the base of his skull. His thoughts are still a little hazy, slow and thick from sleep, but he remembers the healer and most of their conversation from before.

He groans as he pushes himself up off the bed, bracing himself on the frame and staring at the smoldering embers of the fire in the hearth. Considering the embers are still bright and glowing, he figures the fire burned down only a few hours before meaning it’s probably sometime in the middle of the night. At least that answers one question.

He tries to stand and frowns when a wave of dizziness sweeps over him and forces him right back down onto the bed. He grumbles a curse under his breath and tries again, this time making it all the way up with only a few wobbles once he’s upright. It takes a second for his legs to accept the weight and another to cooperate when he tries to walk.

He doesn’t fall but it’s a close save a few times as he makes his way out of the room.

The healer is asleep on a pallet in the middle section of the house, snoring softly next to a small fire burning in another hearth. Geralt realizes rather suddenly that he was probably taking up the old man’s bed and considers waking him up so he can reclaim his room. Then he realizes the healer would probably order him back into bed and he wouldn’t be able to check on Jaskier. He vows to wake the old man as soon as he’s assured himself of his bard’s wellbeing and makes his way into the last room.

The back room is dark and clearly intended for storage and little else. It’s small and cramped, just big enough for a few narrow makeshift shelves cluttered with clay jars and bowls. The air smells sweet and damp and several long strings of drying herbs hang from the ceiling and along the walls. A small cot has been wedged against the wall and

Jaskier is stretched out across it; luckily he wasn’t any taller, otherwise he wouldn’t have fit.

It’s too dark for Geralt to make out the extent of Jaskier’s injuries but he can see the bard’s left wrist, splinted and wrapped, resting on top of his stomach. The darkness makes him look more pale and gaunt than he probably is but he seems to be sleeping peacefully, the long, slow push and pull of his breathing filling the room.

For the moment that’s all the reassurance Geralt needs; Jaskier is alive, breathing, and relatively uninjured and he’s content enough to leave him that way for the time being. But Jaskier, contrary as ever, decides that now is the perfect time to wake from his sedative-induced sleep. He twitches in his sleep and winces, opening his eyes slowly and looking around the room like he’s confused about where he is and how he got here. His eyes land on Geralt and he frowns, blinking heavily in the dim light.

“Geralt?” he mumbles, half statement and half question.

“Hmm,” the Witcher replies, noticing the way Jaskier is squinting at him and shifting his weight so he’s leaning against the door frame and blocking the glow coming from the next room.

“Are you alright?” the bard asks, still somewhat unsure of his surroundings. For all he knows he might be dreaming the whole encounter.

“I’ll live,” Geralt tells him, again taking stock of the throbbing in his head. He probably has another few days of healing before he’s back to normal but it’s good enough for the moment.

Jaskier lets out a relieved sigh that shifts into a soft chuckle. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, trying to push himself up on the cot with his uninjured arm. “I was so worried-”

Geralt doesn’t let him finish as he steps into the room and places a hand in the center of the bard’s chest, forcing him back down. “Lay still,” he says, making a point of preventing Jaskier from sitting up any further. “If you mess up the healer’s handiwork he’ll sedate you again,” he continues, nodding toward the bandages around the bard’s wrist.

Jaskier sighs and does as he’s told, slumping back against the mattress with a huff. He reaches out with his right hand and catches Geralt’s wrist like he’s trying to prevent him from leaving. It’s a small effort but it works and the Witcher allows himself to be tugged down onto the floor next to the cot.

“So you’re really alright?” Jaskier asks again like he’s still not quite sure that he’s actually awake and not dreaming the whole thing. The sedative in the tea probably has a much stronger effect on him and it’s more difficult to shake off the lingering drowsiness.

The Witcher nods once with a hum. “Thanks to you, apparently. The healer told me you brought me here a few days ago.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says with a small tip of his head. “One of the villagers who wasn’t trying to kill you told me about this place after I got you out. Good thing, too; I never would have found this place on my own.”

“You got me out?”

“Well, of course,” Jaskier replied with a frown, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “I had to. They were going to kill you, Geralt.”

“And they would have,” Geralt agrees, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position on the floor. “If it hadn’t been for you, so thank you.”

The bard chuckles. “Don’t thank me,” he chides lightly. “You like to pretend you wouldn’t but I know you’d do the same for me.”

He goes quiet then, his gaze going distant and somber. “I thought you were dead,” he admits after a moment of silence passes between them, the words hesitant and quiet like he’s afraid to even say them out loud.

“When you hit the floor and you didn’t get up I thought...well, I thought this is it, this is the end of Geralt of Rivia, the Great White Wolf, the noble Witcher, and then I thought how silly it seemed that after all the monsters you’d slain, after all the dangers and perils you’ve faced, that you should be taken down by some villagers with hammers.”

He shakes his head, expression twisting in something akin to disgust. “And the thought of it just made me so angry. Like, how could this have happened? How could this mob of foolish, intolerant, ordinary men do what no monster has been able to? And I just couldn’t let it happen…” he shakes his head again as if banishing the thought. “If they had killed you or even if you didn’t survive for long after, I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of it. I would have rather been tied and quartered than let them gloat and celebrate your fall.”

“So what did you do?” Geralt prods gently. He’s still trying to fill in the gaps in his memory but he has a decent enough idea of what happened next.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier admits quietly. “I just remember grabbing your sword and standing over you. I was determined to drag you out of there if it killed me and nothing was going to stop me.”

The Witcher smirks at his companion. “So you fought your way out?”

Jaskier frowns at the implication of the statement and rolls his eyes. “Yes, I fought my way out with your heavy, unconscious ass in tow,” he replies defensively. “Considering I was the only one in that tavern with a sword, er, your sword, I’d say I had the advantage. As it turns out, a sword is a much better weapon against hammers and pitchforks and a couple of the villagers closest to us discovered just how difficult it is to fight with your knees sliced open.”

Geralt smirks again; apparently Jaskier took his advice of “go for the knees” literally.

“I was ready to cut a path through all of them if that’s what it took but luckily it didn’t get to that point,” Jaskier continues, the fingers of his right hand tugging absently at the frayed edges of the bandage around his wrist. “Threatening to slit someone from stem to sternum tends to act as a good deterrent and the mob backed down after that. One of the villagers, the one who told me about this place, stepped in and helped me carry you out to Roach.” He raises his right arm and motions around the room loosely. “And here we are.”

Geralt smirks again and says nothing. Apparently he’d underestimated the bard once again. It wasn’t that he thought Jaskier couldn’t defend himself in a fight (well, maybe he thought that a few months back) but facing the ferocity of that mob in the tavern would have been an incredible feat even for someone who was a trained and skilled fighter.

They had obviously been too much for him but Jaskier was able to not only hold his own against them but also clear a path for escape without getting killed in the process. It’s clearly not an ideal situation but apparently Jaskier fights best under pressure and chaos.

“I kept your sword, by the way,” Jaskier continues, shifting a bit and wincing when it jostles his arm. “I wasn’t sure we wouldn’t be followed once we left the town so I kept it until we got here.” He glances around the room and frowns. “It’s somewhere around here.”

“It seems I owe you an apology.”

“For what…?”

“For doubting you,” Geralt explains, leaning back against the cot frame a bit more. His head doesn’t hurt as much as it did before but sitting up straight still makes him dizzy. “I don’t trust people to fight by my side; either they want something or they’re waiting for an opportunity to kill me themselves. I prefer to rely on my sword and my skills rather than entrust my life to someone else’s hand.”

It had happened before, a lifetime ago when he was still young and inexperienced; he learned the harsh lesson that the person at your back could just as easily slide a knife into it and it was not an experience he was eager to replicate. He had never worried about that with Jaskier (the bard was wide-eyed and loyal to a fault) but he never relied on Jaskier to have his back in a fight.

He was young and naive and could get himself killed before he even knew what had happened. And honestly, if it came down to it, he would have prefered the bard to simply run away or seek shelter because otherwise he served as a distraction. So no, he never assumed Jaskier could guard his back in a fight, at least until now.

“I’m glad you were there at the tavern,” he tells him earnestly. “I owe you my life.”

Jaskier smiles and laughs quietly. “I think that might be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“Mmm.”

The conversation dies down after that and they sit in close, comfortable silence for a while. Geralt feels the urge to go check on Roach now that he’s checked on Jaskier but he also feels the urge to lay down on the floor and not move for a while. He may have overtaxed himself with the short walk from one room to the next; his head is beginning to ache again and his limbs feel heavy and sluggish. He contemplates sitting there for a while longer but knows that Jaskier needs to rest too which he won’t do if he’s fretting over Geralt.

It takes some effort but he’s eventually able to convince himself to move, slowly pushing up from the floor and balancing one hand against the wall. He’s pretty sure the bard is asleep again so he tries to be as quiet as possible when he gets up, keeping his movements slow and measured so as not to wake Jaskier or the healer in the next room.

“Geralt?”

Apparently Jaskier wasn’t as asleep as he thought.

“Hmm.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

He nods once. “Yes, Jaskier, I’m sure. Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t wait for the bard’s response, turning and stepping out of the room quietly and leaving his bard in a half-asleep daze.

Chapter Text

The healer insists they stay four more days before he agrees to release them from his custody: two because that’s how long it takes before Geralt is able to remain on his feet for longer than a few minutes at a time and an additional two for Jaskier. On top of the bruises and fractured wrist, the bard apparently has a cracked rib or two that were still on the mend and, considering he is regrettably human and doesn’t have the advantage of enhanced healing on his side, the healer forbade them from leaving until he was satisfied that the bones weren’t in danger of further damage.

Arguing was useless, as was protesting, because both were well aware that the old man could easily slip something into their drink again and knock them out for the transgression. So they sucked it up and stayed and allowed themselves a few days to heal.

It’s a tremendously slow process when they do eventually leave and the healer waves them on their way and politely tells them not to come back unless they’re dead or dying, a promise they’re both more than happy to keep. They also have very little intention of ever passing this way again if at all possible.

Roach knickers irritably at Geralt for the first quarter mile, nudging his shoulder with her nose like she’s equal parts frustrated with him and concerned. The healer had taken excellent care of her while they were both laid up but that didn’t soothe her agitation for being left alone for days at a time. Geralt vows to find her some apples to make up for it.

They take a break about a mile away from the healer’s house, both winded from the short journey already. Moving as slow as they are it will likely take them the rest of the day to get back to the main road but neither of them are willing to push forward any faster. They stop just on the crest of a small hill, the land sloping down into a shallow valley with the village right in the center.

Jaskier glares at it.

“If I never step foot in that miserable little town again it will be too soon,” he mutters to himself, carefully lowering himself down to the ground and leaning back against the base of a tree.

The bruises on his face are still dark but they’re healing well and will fade away in a few days time. His wrist is still bandaged tightly, smooth splints bracing his arm on each side. That injury would take the longest to heal; the healer estimated at least a month, probably longer, and warned him not to remove the bandages unless he wanted to break the bone completely. The warning doesn’t stop Jaskier from absently tugging at the corners of the bandages, the cloth starting to fray already.

Geralt nudges him with his knee to get him to stop.

“I assumed you’d write a ballad about it,” he says, carefully working out a coarse knot in Roach’s mane from where the reins weren’t sitting quite right. She huffs at him but stays still.

“Put the fight at the tavern to song and spread the tale of your victory far and wide.” It’s a very mild, half-hearted attempt at teasing because he’s all too aware that Jaskier could write a twelve verse sonnet about a moth fart in May and he has no reason to expect him not to transform this particular tale into some kind of sweeping epic. Especially if it’s something he thinks will impress a female audience. So he’s admittedly a little surprised when Jaskier frowns and shakes his head.

“No, not this time,” the bard tells him simply, still glaring down at the town. “If I did I’d have to relive that night every time I played and I don’t want to do that.”

He’s not saying it but apparently the night at the tavern bothered him a lot more than he was willing to speak of. Maybe later when it’s not so fresh in his mind he’ll open up about it but Geralt knows better than to pry.

“Also, it’d do me little good to travel the Continent hyping up your image with songs and stories about all the monsters you’ve slain just to ruin it with a song about how you got your ass handed to you by an angry mob in a no-name town.” Jaskier continues, sliding a glance in the Witcher’s direction for emphasis. “I’ve spent the better part of the past few years using your bravery and heroics as my muse and I won’t change that now.”

“Besides,” he says, clearing his throat in a moderately self-conscious way. “I couldn’t compose a song about it even if I wanted to. I broke my lute.”

That catches Geralt’s attention and he frowns in confusion. “You broke it?”

It hadn’t occurred to him when they were still laid up at the healer’s house but now that he thinks about it he doesn’t recall seeing Jaskier’s prized instrument anywhere over the past few days. Which is concerning considering the damn thing is usually affixed to the bard’s hand like a growth.

“Yup,” said bard replies with a tip of his head. “I uh...used it as a bat before I could get to your sword. Broke it over the head of some random villager who got too close.”

Geralt almost smirks. “You turned your lute into a weapon?”

“Appears that way, yes.”

“Did it work?”

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder and a pained look crosses his expression. “For a minute or so,” he admits. “I tossed it once the body splintered and went for a chair instead. Much sturdier, the legs make a much better club than a lute.”

This time Geralt does smirk and even offers his companion a soft chuckle.

Jaskier frowns in confusion and looks up. “What?”

“Had I known you were a melee fighter I would have trained you differently. I would have spent less time with a sword and more time with rocks and tree branches.”

The bard rolls his eyes. “It’s not funny,” he grumbles defensively but there’s the barest hint of a smile when he speaks.

“I never said it was. It’s good information to have and I’ll keep that in mind moving forward. The next time we get into a fight I’ll just throw you a tree stump and call it good.”

“Alright, well if you feel well enough to be a snarky bastard again I assume you feel well enough to keep walking. Let’s go,” Jaskier mutters, pushing himself up from the tree and grudgingly accepting the Witcher’s hand.

He still looks a little too pale for Geralt’s liking, a little too winded, so he nods him over to Roach.

“I’m fine, Geralt.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“Honestly, I’m-”

“Get on the horse, Jaskier.”

“Fine.”

It takes a lot of effort between the splinted wrist and the cracked ribs but eventually Jaskier manages to get into the saddle (although most of it was because Geralt practically manhandled him into it). It’s still going to take the majority of the day to reach the main road but it will go faster if he’s not worried about Jaskier taking a header between now and then.

There’s probably another town within a day’s ride of where they are now and they can stop to recover more there. And with any luck Geralt can inquire about how much the commission for a steel-backed lute would be.