Chapter Text
It was supposed to be just like any other trip in which Jaskier followed the ever-begrudging Geralt of Rivia; as he accompanied the Witcher on foot while the grumpy monster-slayer would traverse on horseback - “Don’t touch Roach,” he would always grumble - the bard would go on his normal tangents about… well, anything. The wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Some woman in his past whose husband he made a cuckold. He even managed to go on a ten-minute diatribe about a pebble in his shoe, and it took him making an impromptu parody of his own song - "Toss a rock in your footwear, oh valley of… rocks. Seriously, why are there so many rocks? I didn’t think a forest would have-" before Geralt pulled the reins and stopped for a moment, letting Jaskier solve such an obviously agonizing problem without making the bard fall behind in their trek.
Honestly, it astounded Geralt - though it shouldn’t have - how Jaskier could use his voice as much as he did. Not only for his constant ramblings, but also for the lyrics that just seemed to stream from him like a waterfall as his fingers found the right notes so naturally that it was like they were acting on their own.
Though Geralt never admitted it, he sometimes found himself thinking about how much he wanted those fingers to interlock with his own.
Despite the cold statements he made about Jaskier’s singing, the Witcher couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed by the bard’s tune, no matter how hard he tried - and he tried very, very hard. The only true problem he found with Jaskier’s singing and blathering was that it kept his lips from being on Geralt’s.
Well, it would be more honest to say that if anything were keeping their lips apart, it was probably the fact that Geralt kept using his to push away his beloved songbird. “Fuck off, Bard,” “Shut up, Jaskier,” and “I’m not your friend,” seemed to roll off his tongue, unfortunately. He wasn’t used to his heart harboring these kinds of feelings towards anyone...
...At least, not in a way that didn’t quickly turn into heartbreak and tragedy.
He still couldn't imagine caressing Jaskier's cheek without remembering how Renfri's blood soaked his hands.
Now, many days had passed since Geralt realized the quiet yet constant adoration he held for his canary, and surely enough, his heart was still beating, his chest still rose and fell while he slept, and his eyes - those breathtaking eyes, such a piercing shade of blue that it felt like Geralt was gazing into the sky when he looked into them - were still so full of light and life.
And Geralt wanted to keep it that way, even if it meant repressing his feelings. Such was a practice he’d done his entire life, so it should have been easy, but it got harder and harder the more he heard Jaskier’s sweet voice.
Geralt knew one thing; if his bard were silenced, the Witcher would have no clue what to do with himself.
But he would find out soon enough.
“Er… what are we going after, again?" After hours of blathering and verse-mumbling, which Geralt felt much more content listening to than he thought he would ever admit to the bard, Jaskier finally posed a statement that Geralt would respond to with more than a hum.
“Same as every other time you follow me around,” the Witcher grumbled, “A monster.”
“Right, right.” Jaskier nodded, blinking in the sun as he looked up at Geralt, “Quite the startling revelation, truly.”
Geralt may not have understood his own emotions very well, but the language of sarcasm was still one he could speak and understand fluently. He rolled his eyes, as he knew Jaskier would expect from him, but he did manage to catch a glimpse of how the sunlight bounced off his hair so iridescently - fuck, it must have been illegal for anyone to be this lovely - before he looked ahead again.
“An arachnid monster.” Geralt decided that keeping Jaskier in the dark would probably do more harm than good. “In plain terms for you, a giant spider.”
“Methinks I should feel insulted!” Jaskier threw his arms up in fabricated offense. “You think I - one of the most noteworthy bards in the Continent-”
Geralt stared down at him and raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of this. Jaskier backtracked his statement.
“One of the… er… bards… of the Continent-” yes, that was something neither of them could deny, “-wouldn’t know what that is?”
“You’re the one who forgot we were looking for one.”
“Well, you can’t blame me! That guy in the pub just kept blathering on, and on, and on, and-”
“I thought you of all people would be unfazed when people don’t know how to shut up.” Geralt grumbled. There was a twinge of regret when those words left his lips, signaling that even for him, that was an especially cold thing to say.
He looked down at Jaskier to monitor his reaction. Initially, the statement seemed to sting the bard, judging by his furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, but he quickly deflected it by continuing to ramble.
“Yeah, I’ve never been a big fan of spiders. I definitely love a fine pair of legs, but two legs or less is fine enough for me, thank you!”
Roach neighed.
“Present company excluded, of course.” Jaskier added, “Yes, I’m perfectly satisfied with a nice, strong, toned, sexy, horseback-riding…”
Geralt looked down at him - from atop his horse that he was very clearly riding - with a raised eyebrow again.
"Pair… of… legs.” Jaskier nervously finished his sentence, punctuating it with the clearing of his throat. “Again, present company excluded.”
“Is it?” Geralt asked rhetorically as he had Roach stop a few meters away from a cave. “We’re here. This is where he said it was.”
The trees around them stopped before a great mound of rock. A gaping hole - easily big enough for one grumpy witcher to walk through without the need to crawl, or even to duck - bore through this mound, and the ground seemed to dip downward to lead into it’s maw. It might have, in fact, been able to fit a Witcher and a bard if the latter wasn't disgusted by the thought.
“Eugh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, fidgeting nervously with the strings of his lute, “Please tell me that’s not where we’re going.”
“It’s not.” Geralt came down from atop Roach.
Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief.
“It’s where I’m going.”
Jaskier gasped the stress back into his body.
“Wha - Geralt!” he staggered back in shock before stepping in front of the White Wolf to block his path, “Er, do you honestly think you can head down there and just deal with it on your own? I mean, that’s it’s lair.” The bard continued to step backward as Geralt continued towards the cave. “You will be in it’s house! You may have all your swords and, er, witchery potions, but you won’t know the cave like that thing does!”
“I can handle a spider.” Geralt told him in response.
“Well, I can’t!” Jaskier stopped walking. “What if it’s actually out here, and you go down into that cave like some… some… caveman, or something, and I get left out here with a horse and a spider?”
Geralt tilted his head and smirked, such a rare occasion that even Jaskier stopped in his tracks.
“Well then, you can sing it a lullaby. I’m sure you have something in your repertoire for singing a monster to sleep. Depending on how bad it’s hearing is, it may actually like your voice.” Geralt stepped aside the bard, who still stood there in shock at both Geralt's smirk and his use of sarcasm to insult his singing. “Stay with Roach.”
With that, he stepped into the cave, leaving the disgruntled bard to watch his Witcher’s equestrian companion. The bard sat against a tree and fiddled with his lute. It was an odd thing - fiddling with a lute. He could fiddle with a lute, but he couldn't lute with a fiddle. This may have crossed Jaskier's mind if he wasn't still reeling at what Geralt said about his singing.
“He doesn’t mean all that about my voice. He’ll never admit it, but I’m music to his ears, and we all know it.” Jaskier said as he glanced up at Roach, though in all honesty, he was mostly telling this to himself, “I think that if Geralt ever gave anyone an honest compliment, it would throw his body into shock. He’d say that he liked the color of my doublet, and the next thing you know, he’d spasm and foam at the mouth!”
Roach didn’t warrant much of a response, aside from a little head shake.
“He can’t bear to appreciate my exceptional conversation skills, but he can carry on a one-sided conversation with a horse just fine!”
Roach huffed.
“Hm, not entirely one-sided, I suppose.” This was followed by a sigh. Sometimes, despite how much he foolishly adored Geralt, insecurity ate away at Jaskier’s heart. What if this coldness wasn’t just part of Geralt, but it truly was because of Jaskier? What if every chord he played was like a pest flying past Geralt’s ear? What if every note he sang - every incessant word he spoke - was nothing to Geralt but the cause of a headache?
Jaskier didn’t have much time to think on the subject of his insecurity before it was cut off by a rustle in the bushes that preceded Roach’s ears pointing up, her body stiffening as if something dangerous was nearby.
There were two rules of thumb about Roach that Jaskier followed just as loyally as he followed his Witcher. One was made clear on the day they met: Don’t touch Roach. The second was one not so much about not irritating Geralt as it was about bettering your chances of survival, even though those two things went hand in hand: when Roach starts acting like something is wrong, something is wrong.
Jaskier switched gears from melodramatic to attentive as he delicately set down his lute and reached for the dagger on his hip. He didn’t like to fight, but he thought having some sort of instrument (not his lute) for self defense would be useful while traveling with someone with as many adversaries as his White Wolf.
Taking deep breaths in an attempt to slow the rapid hammering inside of his chest as his heart seemed to beat so loudly that the noise pounded in his ears like a drum, Jaskier tentatively stood up and stepped a few paces away from Roach. He slowly turned in a circle to assess if any threats were nearby, and another rustle in nearby bushes only made his panic skyrocket. It could have been a little woodland creature, or even just the wind, but something deep in the buttercup’s stomach told him that something was watching him, and he was in very, very big trouble.
What can I do? Jaskier thought to himself. Could I get away on foot?
No, I’d get lost, and Geralt and I would get separated. Bad times all around.
What about taking Roach?
What, and leave Geralt stranded?
Geralt can handle himself!
Despite Jaskier’s panic, Geralt’s name seemed to echo in his mind. Something deep inside his heart implored him to call out for his Witcher, and though the thought of being unable to handle a threat without Geralt was frustrating, this instinct - call out to him, call out to him, FOR THE LOVE OF MELITELE, CALL OUT TO HIM - was the thought that seemed to be the loudest out of all the thoughts whirling around his mind, so he called out.
“GERA-”
He tried to, at least, but a gloved hand clamped a rag over his mouth and nose before he could get the whole word out. The attack caught him by surprise, causing his body to betray him when he took a sharp, deep breath.
Shit.
He shouldn’t have done that. He really, really, really shouldn’t have fucking done that.
A bitter, nauseating fume was the first thing he registered, and it made his panic turn into full-blown terror.
He tried to swing his dagger at his attacker - behind him, in front of him, above him, wherever - as he tried to use his other hand to claw his attacker’s grip loose. Both attempts at freeing himself failed miserably as his dagger failed to make contact with anything but air and he failed to pry so much as one finger off his face. Fatigue and drowsiness began to replace his short-lived adrenaline as he dropped the dagger and his knees buckled. The attacker wrapped his other arm around his waist. Jaskier’s head felt like it was underwater, but he could still hear a familiar voice - a very incessant, blathering voice - humming one the bard’s most notable pieces: Toss A Coin To Your Witcher.
The next words were the last thing Jaskier heard before he succumbed to the drug and blacked out.
“If your Witcher paid just a touch less attention to the coins tossed his way, maybe he would’ve paid more attention to his little songbird...”
The darkness of the cave was no problem for Geralt’s vision. His eyes weren’t unlike those of a cat; no matter the darkness or light, Geralt’s eyes adapted to give him the best possible sight for finding his target.
But after a few minutes of descending deeper and deeper, the light from the outside growing dimmer as he stepped through the pungent, eerie, web-draped cave, Geralt found that even though he could make out the webbing along the cave walls and remains of what was likely a spider’s prey, he couldn’t see any signs of a spider being in the cave presently.
He even went so far as to heighten the sensitivity of his hearing. While the Witcher’s hearing was already very good, he didn’t like to enhance it outside of situations of total necessity due to the fact that otherwise, everything and everyone around him would have irritated him far quicker than they already did on the regular. Regardless, his heightened sense did nothing but make the crunching of rocks and bones under his feet, the dripping of water from the stalactites to the ground, and the sound of his own breathing that much louder.
Eventually, he did come across a spider; standing, it must have come up to his knees, and it must have been horrifying for any prey who crossed it’s path.
At least, that’s what he would assume if the thing was still alive.
However, when he noticed how still the creature was, and how it was on it’s back with its eight, spindly black legs curled inward, he was all but certain that it was dead. The spider’s death was confirmed when he realized he sensed absolutely no life in the creature; that’s why it had been impossible to see, hear, or use his own extraordinary senses to pick up on any signs of the spider’s life, let alone it’s whereabouts.
He would have just shaken his head with a grumble and headed back up the cave to reunite with his dandelion, writing off that some other hunter got to it first - or it simply fell victim to the brutal circumstances of the wild between the time of the blathering pubgoer’s request and Geralt’s arrival - if he didn’t notice something peculiar.
Upon closer inspection of the creature - something Geralt amusedly pictured Jaskier cringing and dramatically recoiling at the sight of - he realized that a thick layer of dust had collected on the corpse, which had already begun to turn white, and when he poked one of the legs, it was so decayed that it crumbled under his finger.
This thing had been dead for years.
But that didn’t make sense. It was only a few days ago - not even a week - when that pubgoer told the Witcher and his bard about a terrifying spider that lived in this cave, coming out to terrorize the people of a nearby village. That clearly wasn’t true, so why would he lie? What did he have to gain from-
“GERA-”
With just a fraction of a word screamed by his sweet Jaskier, panic dug its claws into Geralt’s chest and held his heart in an iron grip. He couldn’t tell if that panic was his own, or that which he sensed from Jaskier, but he didn’t take much time to ponder it as he turned around and started to run back to the entrance - back to Jaskier. That was all that mattered. Get to Jaskier. Get to Jaskier. Get the FUCK to Jaskier.
His path to the cave opening was cut off by spider webs.
Walls upon walls of webbing seemed to stretch out before him, even though mere minutes ago, the only webbing he initially passed took form in sparing, draping webs that stretched across gauges and spaces between stalactites - nothing like the stuff that must have formed while his back was turned to the entrance. This was bizarre, but Geralt didn’t take the time to think about that. As he brought out his sword and sliced through the web layers, running as fast as he could when each section of newly sliced webs would give him the opportunity to do so, there was one rage-fueled thought in his mind; his dandelion should never sound so afraid, and the second Geralt found whatever made him so terrified, he would... he would... he would...
Whatever Geralt would have done, he didn’t get the chance.
By the time he cut his way through all the webs and broke through to the surface, Jaskier was gone.
Fuck.