Chapter Text
Geralt
The world smelled wrong. There was no scent of sheep gut string and wood varnish to remind Geralt of music. There was no heady mix of citrus, cinnamon and mulled wine to alleviate the stench of a successful hunt.
The world looked wrong. Roach’s braids had fallen out. Geralt didn’t have the heart to recreate them.
The world sounded wrong. There was no laughter on long rides. No plucking of strings. No whispered songs at night.
The sounds that remained in the world grated and frayed Geralt’s nerves. No lilting voice softened their edges, so they stuck to him like thorns. He laid awake every night until the moon rose full in the sky. When he did fall asleep he dreamed of a cyan arctic river swallowing him.
First he tried to ignore the emptiness. But it gnawed so nastily. So he tried to reason with it. He explained to his aching chest that a witcher was always alone. That this was natural. Better even. Much, much better. The bard was far better off whether he knew that yet or not. But it would not listen to reason and good sense.
Geralt carried the emptiness with him everywhere he went, slung over his back like a corpse. It exhausted him and soured his mood. He knew he looked worse for wear. His black tunic was dusty, his long white hair knotted. He caught himself snarling at anything that moved. One day he even terrified a small child.
Children used to hide from him when he rode into town. Geralt never had figured out how to look friendly. His face just sort of sunk into a permanent scowl. And there was no hiding the vestiges of violence on his skin. And if his unwelcoming appearance hadn’t alienated people, his inhuman qualities did. His golden eyes. His increased senses. No human wanted to be smelled or heard a hundred yards away.
But even so, it was mostly superstition and prejudice against witchers repeated to the children by their parents that kept them hiding in houses. Mutants. Demons. Affronts to decency and gentleness. An insult to the gods. Brutal. Violent. Hide your women, and so on. And of course Geralt was himself the Butcher of Blaviken.
But then a young bard with lips like petals and more charm than good sense, had attached himself to Geralt and composed glowing portraits of him to the masses. Even twenty years of it hadn’t been enough to change every heart and mind. But kids were the most receptive audience to the reputation rehabilitation of the white wolf. They were still learning. Little sponges. And now their little heads were filled with Jaskier’s songs calling Geralt a friend of humanity.
The boy had run right up to Roach yelping about the witcher and his bard and real life golden dragons. He’d waved a wooden sword that had been carved to look like the silver one Geralt carried. But Geralt had been so encased in his misery that he’d been startled. He had growled and flinched for his hilt before he realized what he was doing. Fear welled in the boy’s eyes.
Geralt had secretly always wanted children to stop hiding from him. To smile at him. He had somewhat gotten his wish. But one month without Jaskier and he was scaring them once more. He couldn’t go one month without that ridiculous bard without fucking up all the hard work of his goddamn lute and poetry and voice of an angel. That bard who had never been afraid of him a moment of his life. The one he had crushed. The ripple of shame Geralt felt finally broke him open.
So the witcher walked next to Roach and told the story out loud at last. He described to the mare every detail of the quest in King Niedamier’s mountains, and did not varnish his own behavior. He admitted his jealousy of the imbecile knight and his insensitivity to Yennefer. That was easy to do because he was not a man who bothered much with ego. And Roach, after all, was a horse. But even so, he gagged on the words he had shouted at Jaskier. After a few false starts he managed to recount that part as well. As Geralt spoke, he saw Jaskier’s stricken face again clearly. At the time he had been too busy lashing out to notice. Loudly indulging in self pity and spite. He hadn’t taken note of the exact second Jaskier’s heart broke. But now he saw in slow motion. Again and again.
Though the worst of the shame had eased by confiding in the patient mare, Geralt still felt a small stabbing knot in his chest. It was manageable now, but he still devised ways to be rid of it. As he rode, he found himself daydreaming of rescuing Jaskier from various threats. Monsters. Vengeful lords. Natural disasters. He would never admit to these fantasies, not under threat of death. But although they were deeply embarrassing, they were his only reliable way to feel better. They loosened the knot. Several nights in a row he even rescued Jaskier in his dreams. Drowners. A hellhound. A shaky looking ladder. But like an anesthetic, it never lasted long enough. Every time he snapped back to reality, the pain would dig back in, reminding him that the world was wrong. That he had done this to himself. Without admitting it to himself why, Geralt decided to forget about the vesper in the Blue Mountains he was half-heartedly pursuing, and head to the nearest town.
Chessa
The only child of King Kazimir of Dol Blathanna sung quietly to herself as her pen scratched across the parchment. The song was called Her Sweet Kiss and singing it made Chessa feel like she knew a daring secret. Now that the princess was of marriageable age (though at the age of 15 she certainly didn’t feel old enough for marriage) her father wouldn’t let her leave the large drafty castle walls. So Chessa had to be resourceful to learn her favorite bard’s new songs.
She had learned that several of the cooks had left town to see Jaskier perform last week. So when they returned, she had snuck out of her cavernous room and down to the kitchens. Chessa had hid outside the kitchen behind the broom stand until a curly haired boy had come out with an armful of plates and a crooked smile.
His name was Antoni and he’d balanced the parchment on his greasy apron covered knee to write down all the lyrics for her. He’d also sung them for her. Chessa was deaf and many people thought that meant she couldn’t enjoy music but that wasn’t true. Antoni sat close to her as he sung so she could feel the vibrations of his voice through their pressed together shoulders. Then she begged him to perform it just as Jaskier had. So the tall gangly boy had gamely pirouetted around the hallway, winking and gesturing dramatically to the delight of Chessa who had giggled and applauded wildly.
Then Chessa’s governess Katarina had found them and whisked her back to her room. Katarina had cared for her since she was an infant, so she was more like her mother, though they looked nothing alike. And since her own mother died before she had turned one year old, Chessa had once asked her father if she could call Katarina her mother. Her father had told her to never say such an offensive thing again or he would send Katarina away. Katarina was a commoner. Katarina had come from an impoverished family and was saved from gutter living only by his largess. In fact, the only reason he didn’t give her governess duties to a well-educated well-bred woman was because Katarina knew how to speak in sign and Chessa needed that for her every day communication.
So Chessa had learned to appreciate Katarina. And when she made her governess’s life particularly stressful, she worked harder the next day at her lessons. Today they were working on calligraphy and sketching in the study adjoining her room. It was a sleek room with towering bookshelves carefully stacked with books about the Kazimir family history. The floors were covered in hand woven rugs imported from Oxenfurt. Katarina sat in a corner knitting something that looked cozy. The princess sat quietly at her large mahogany desk. The wood of the desk was polished so fastidiously that Chessa could see the reflections of her black braids looping around her head. The princess had spent the last hour carefully copying down the lyrics to her new favorite song in wobbly calligraphy. There were still rogue droplets of ink scattered throughout, but far fewer than last week. Now she was working on the accompanying drawing, and singing as she went.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting
If this is the path I must trudge
I welcome my sentence
Give to you my penance
Garrotter, jury and judge
Chessa finished her drawing. Katarina put her knitting down and got up to take a look. She signed to Katarina “Let me take a look princess.” The governess picked up the parchment and scrutinized it then placed it back on the desk.
“Beautiful penmanship, you are really improving,” she signed.
“Thank you Rina,” signed Chessa.
“I’m proud of you.”
Chessa beamed.
Katarina continued. “Your sketches are also improving. The detail is impressive. But what is the handsome man holding in his hand?”
“A garroter.”
Katarina looked concerned.
“The device that crushes people’s throats to death?” She asked.
“That’s the one,” answered Chessa.
“Princess. Are you ok?” Worry clouded her governess’s face.
“Yes, it’s a metaphor Rina. I’m not dreaming of executions.”
Katarina shuddered. Chessa laughed.
The princess tried to explain. “It’s like when you love someone so much you are utterly at their mercy. You have no defense. His words are so sad. I want to cry. But in a good way.”
Katarina still looked doubtful.
Chessa felt a thump behind her and she knew the door had been thrown open. It was Malitza, the elegant court mage. She was a stunning woman with dark brown skin and short shorn hair. She was tall, regal, and commanding with a silken black gown clinging to her body from neck to toe. Her breathing looked a bit labored, like she had been rushing.
“Her father is on his way.” She said, and pointed at Chessa.
Chessa jumped up and handed her parchment to Katarina, who rolled it up and slid it into the pockets of her dress. Then Katarina produced and unrolled a different parchment. This one was covered with sketches of family coats of arms and lists of royal names in Chessa’s handwriting.
Katarina turned back to Malitza. “And?” she signed. Malitza looked regretful. “I’m sorry love, I tried. I really tried. But you know him.”
“Ok. I’ll see you later tonight,” signed Katarina. Malitza whisked away and closed the door. It was like she’d never been there.
“Why does she never want to be seen with us?” Asked Chessa.
“Just by the king, princess. Just by the king.”
Just then, Kazimir strolled in flanked by several bobbing servants and a guard, whose armor clanked as he walked. The king wore golden brocade and an air of superiority. He looked around the room as though it were an inspection. Then he looked at Chessa.
“Princess.” Said the king.
Katarina started to sign and Kazimir waved her away.
“Halt that flapping at once.” He said. “The princess is perfectly capable of reading my lips.”
Katarina’s face stayed placid. “Yes, your majesty.”
“I’ve told you before,” he snarled. “Stop testing me.”
“Yes my king. My apologies.” Katarina bowed low.
Kazimir sniffed and turned to his daughter.
“I have wonderful news for you, princess. I have located someone to do the operation. By next week, you will have full hearing capacity. And then we can arrange a suitable marriage for you.”
“Father.” Chessa knew her voice sounded a little different from others, but she also knew she was perfectly understandable. “Please. I don’t want this. I’m fine the way I am. And I know people die from operations.”
“Oh, dying in operations, that’s for the poor. We have the best doctors. You are from strong stock. Prepare yourself. The operation will go forward tomorrow.”
“Can’t we at least wait until after the festival?”
“Nonsense,” said the king. “I want you fixed for the festival.”
Chessa’s shoulders drooped. Her father continued.
“Also, I am here to warn you. A witcher will be visiting court tomorrow. Witchers look like men more or less, but are dangerous beasts with mutations that make them an affront to god. So dress in subdued colors and stay silent. Stay away from him and you’ll be safe.”
“If he is so dangerous father, why is he coming here?” Asked Chessa. She knew it sounded like she was talking back, which he hated. But he answered anyway.
“Because we have a bruxa loose in the forest and sometimes you need a monster to kill a monster.”
Chessa nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Good.” Said Kazimir. He spun and left the room, his anxious retinue clattering out behind him.
Chessa sat quietly. Katarina walked over to her and put one hand on her shoulder and stroked her hair with the other. Her governess leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She felt a tear threaten to drop from her eyes. She only had one day. Katarina pulled back and signed to her,
“Everything will be fine princess, you’ll see. Now here,” she tapped on the parchment and placed the quill back in Chessa’s hand “finish your perfectly gruesome drawing.”
But Chessa had seen in Katarina’s face that she was scared. And Chessa had never seen Katarina scared.
Geralt
As Geralt progressed towards the closest town, he heard travelers approaching around the bend. They were so loud, he had ample time to check his surroundings and prepare himself. The day was clear. Visibility was good. The grasses along the path were low. There were boulders strewn around that could function as cover, were danger to befall him. When they did come into sight, Geralt relaxed.
The entire party looked like a mass of drunken peacocks carrying musical instruments. The travelers wore brightly colored embroidered clothing that involved puffy breeches and several absurd feathered hats. There were three of them in an open wagon pulled by a pair of donkeys. They were singing with zeal and Geralt had not needed his enhanced witcher senses to suss out the smell of ale.
Before he had a chance to greet them, one of the men in the front shouted at him. The man was bald and burly and looked more like an iron ore miner than a musician, except for the alert mustache and a crushed purple velvet jacket.
“Good citizen! Would you like a song!?” The man swept his arms open in a gesture of exaggerated showmanship. At that very moment he hiccuped, immediately killing any sense of drama that had survived his wobbly delivery.
“It doesn’t seem as though I have a choice,” Geralt shouted back. He probably should have been more charming. Maybe they knew where Jaskier was. Not that he was looking for the bard, who surely wanted nothing to do with him and was certainly better off without him.
“Come now, a request perhaps?” the man continued unfazed.
“Wait a second!” called a second traveler from the back of the wagon. A dark haired woman with full red stained lips stood up, legs wobbling and eyes squinting at Geralt. “Get closer, Boris!”
“What do you think I’m doing, woman?” he answered good-naturedly. The rickety cart and its two donkeys came to a stop in front of Geralt. Now Geralt could see that the woman was cinched into and spilling out of a bright corset and had a broad smile that made him want to smile too.
“Yes!!” the woman cried. “That’s the witcher! The one from the song! He’s Jaskier’s man.”
There was a collective cry from the wagon. Geralt’s heart leapt. He hoped he hadn’t flushed. Witchers didn’t flush right?
As though on cue, they all burst into song and a stringed instrument and cymbals joined in.
“WHEN A HUMBLE BARD GRACED A RIDE ALONG WITH GERALT OF RIVIA..”
Geralt couldn't help himself. He gave a tiny nod at his name as he folded his arms across his chest. A sharp mix of pride, grief, and something else he could not identify welled in him. He wanted them to never stop singing but also to shut the fuck up right fucking now. He felt special. He felt like an asshole. It was a lot. So he just waited until they finished.
“Ay what do you think, witcher?” said the man who was apparently Boris.
“It was...satisfactory,” Geralt said in his low gravely voice. He had meant to be more generous. Why didn’t charm come easily to him like it did Jaskier? You would think that in twenty years with the man, some of it would have rubbed off on him. Thankfully the group cared most for pleasing themselves, and by that standard the song had been a smashing success.
“No one sings it like your own bard, we know,” said the woman, laughing.
Geralt’s spirits lifted a little with her loud free laugh.
“My name is Zophia, this is Boris, and this is Filip.” The men nodded and waved amiably. Boris was the miner looking fellow. Filip was a thin pretty man with a delicate face. Then Zophia looked around. “Wait. Where is Jaskier?”
“Hmmm.” (*ugh goddamnit)
Zophia looked at Geralt as though waiting for more than one singular grunt. When she realized there were no actual words forthcoming she continued.
“Did you lose him? How could you lose someone so loud? And brightly colored. You have to make him wear a feather in his hat. The bigger the better. You can always find him that way.” she was slurring a little. She plopped back down on the bench.
“You know Jaskier, I take it,” said Geralt.
“Yes, of course, witcher. We’ve played many a show together. I’m also a bard, I play the lute. Filip here,” Filip raised a flask “plays the harp and the violin. And Boris,” Boris burped “Plays the cymbals and timbrel.”
Geralt nodded. Zophia paused again and when she realized he would not be speaking, she kept going.
“Jaskier and I have written quite a few duets together,” she said brightly. “He’s a lovely chap. And you’ve lost him?”
“Zoph, Jaskier has gone to enroll himself in the festival I’m sure of it,” said the man named Filip. He was much quieter than the other two but Geralt didn’t have to strain to hear him. Witcher sense and all that. “I think he’s going to win the whole thing. It’s his year.”
“The festival?” asked Geralt.
“Or he’s been kidnapped!” said Boris. Geralt tensed a little.
No one noticed that Geralt had finally said actual words.
“In which case, you’ll only need to wait a day or two and they’ll run right back begging you to take him off your hands.” Boris continued. They roared with laughter.
“He looks sweet but don’t be fooled,” laughed Zophia.
“He is exactly how he looks,” muttered Geralt to himself.
“He didn’t tell you about the festival?” asked Zophia. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Just tell me where he is,” said Geralt, perhaps more loudly than he had intended.
“Aren’t you worried another witcher is going to snatch him up Geralt of Rivia?” Teased Boris. Filip smacked him on the leg but he continued unabashed. “After all, his songs have made you the most in demand witcher on the continent. Maybe another man will want the kind of fame and money afforded by a good bard.”
“HEYYYY” cried Zophia in raucous agreement. Boris clashed his cymbals on an enthusiastic beat.
Apart from children, bards were the next most receptive group to Geralt of Rivia’s reputation rehabilitation. They all knew one another and were proud of each other’s accomplishments. Right about now Geralt was feeling some nostalgia for the days when they were intimidated by him.
“I don’t care about that,” said Geralt.
“The bard? Or the money?” needled Zophia.
Geralt did not know what to say so he just stared at her and huffed a petulant hmmmm.
Zophia sighed dramatically. “They never appreciate us until we’re gone.”
“Oh leave him be, you lot of degenerates,” said Filip. “I’ll give you the story. The music festival is in Dol Blathanna. King Kazimir struggle with his popularity these days. He’s seized a lot of land from working folks. But instead of treating them fairly, once a year he tries to bribe his citizenry with a good time. It’s called the Festival of the Valley of Flowers. They have a huge purse for the winner, bragging rights, fame, a permanent spot at court…you don't have to pay for drinks the rest of your days. It’s where we’re going.”
“It’s late though, so we’ll stay in Posada first,” said Zophia. “Join us! We have ale! And when you get there, you can apologize and get your bard back. See? Every problem solved,” said Zophia.
Geralt nodded and drew Roach along their wagon matching pace. Solve his problem. Yes. He would solve his problem. He would just tell Jaskier he hadn’t meant what he said. Of course he hadn’t! It isn’t like anyone forced him to be friends with Jaskier for so many years. That had to be proof of it. He’d gotten Jaskier jobs, saved his life, showed his friendship in many ways. This would be fine. He felt the pressure easing. His spirits lifting. He accepted a flask.
Geralt didn’t drink much on the trip, but hearing the familiar plucking of the lute and the harmonies of the musicians calmed his nerves so he stuck with them the entire way.
Once they arrived in Posada, he had actually begun to enjoy their company somewhat. So he joined them at the tavern before checking into a room. He elbowed his way to the bar, and caught the attention of a barmaid. After ordering and finding a seat, he was feeling a little more optimistic. There was no reason he couldn’t fix this. But then something caught his eye behind the bar. A very familiar lute leaned up against a back wall. A lute that had leaned next to his pack in encampments and danced in front of his eyes during performances. A sense of dread settled over him. Jaskier would never abandon his lute. Sometime was wrong. He waved the barmaid back over.
“Do you know who left this? This is my bard’s lute and he would never just leave this unprotected.”
“I don’t know, sir. If you want to wait, you can ask Jakub. He’s probably out front right now bringing in extra wine barrels. All these bards can really drink you out of house and home.”
Geralt had stopped listening because he was storming outside. He saw a man who looked like a barkeeper, towel fastened to his belt and sleeves rolled up. He was unloading wine barrels.
Geralt walked right up to him. If he had been paying attention he would’ve noticed he was too close. Most people would be deeply uncomfortable with an angry witcher this close to their person.
“You!” He growled low. ”Someone gave you a lute. It is leaning up against the wall of your tavern. Jaskier would never leave it unattended. Not with strangers. Is he safe? Where is my bard?”
The man looked a guilty. He swallowed. The barrel he was holding began shaking and the wine splashing. Geralt was losing patience.
“Where the fuck is my bard?”