Chapter Text
The morning was crisp, like biting into a fresh green apple and feeling the juice run down your chin. Jaskier could almost taste the delectable sweetness as he meandered along, strumming the occasional chord, happily watching Roach’s tail swish back and forth in front of him. She was having a considerably worse time of it, he thought. The flies were always abominable in fall. But, for Jaskier, it was perfect weather for composing. Nothing gave way to poetry like the crackle of leaves beneath one’s feet, the sweet scent of changing seasons on the air. He was looking forwards to finding a village where they could stop, perhaps by some fall fruits. It had been ages since Jaskier had sunk his teeth into a warm piece of pumpkin roasted over an open fire, or licked the sweetness of a fall apple from his chin. And while Geralt would surely deny it until his dying day, Jaskier knew he would also relish the opportunity to relax and enjoy the comforts of a village for a few nights. Jaskier had once interrogated Geralt about what his favourite season was, for research on a song. After much gnashing of teeth and general emotional illiteracy, Geralt had settled on fall. He liked the smell, he said. And it was easier to hunt while the leaves were falling, but before it was too cold. Jaskier had rolled his eyes at that last bit. Leave it to Geralt to determine his favourite season based on the practicalities it presented in his profession. The man was incurable. It made Jaskier smile fondly. Much had changed since those early days, but Geralt’s constant need for the most practical and logical solution was not one of them.
“Are we giving up our quest to find a town and camping here tonight? Or should we keep going?” Jaskier knew what he would have liked, but Geralt had the horse. And all their coin. He knew the Witcher would not make a decision without consulting him first.
Roach wandered on for a few paces before she stopped and Geralt twisted in the saddle, placing a hand on his mare’s rump.
“I can smell the desire to spend a night in an inn on you as clearly as I can smell that you haven’t washed in at least a week and a half. We’re going on.”
Jaskier shot Geralt an offended look that was mostly an act. They both reeked, he knew. Several weeks of hunting in the high mountains was not conducive to taking long baths. Most of the sources of water in those parts had been ice barely a day before they were tumbling past Geralt’s usual camping spots. Jaskier was surprised all his fingers and toes had survived the ordeal.
“I’m not the only one in need of a bath,” he shot back, “I haven’t been spending my days swimming in werewolf guts.”
“Professional hazard. Come, we need to keep moving if we want a warm place to stay tonight.”
“Before we go on, perhaps you should wipe the blood off your forehead?”
Geralt had suffered a concussive blow while hunting a werewolf in the mountains. While it was nearly healed, the carefully placed sutures Jaskier had made were still leaking blood occasionally, and they made the Witcher look a fright. It was a small cut, but Jaskier had learned a long time ago that head wounds often refused to stop bleeding, even long after the other effects of the concussion were long gone. Villages in these parts were suspicious of strangers, and the bard did not like their chances of getting a room if they entered the town looking like a pair of vagabonds who had come straight from the rough end of a bar fight. Although, for his part, Jaskier thought he looked fine. If one could look past the malleably greasy hair, that was. He felt unclean, and a surreptitious shiver worked its way down his spine.
With an irritated huff that the bard had learned was mostly for show and bore little sway over how Geralt was actually feeling, the Witcher reached up a gloved hand and swiped away the errant strands of blood.
“Much better,” Jaskier nodded in approval, “We’ve enough difficulty finding a room at local inns without looking like a couple of ruffians, no? What with your monstrous reputation and recognizable face.”
The moment he said it, he wanted to take his words back. His heart dropped like a heavy weight and bottomed out somewhere in his gut as he waited for the Witcher’s reaction. In an instant, a beautiful fall day turned sour; the crisp green apple went mushy and rotten at the core. Jaskier swallowed back his own pounding heart. Though Geralt showed no outward reaction, the bard immediately noticed the way his face closed off a bit, the way his hands tightened around Roach’s reins in the slightest, the leather of his gloves creaking a bit. He jogged to catch up, lute bouncing on his back and clanging discordantly into the open air.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, Geralt. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier supposed he had better shut his mouth before he said something else idiotic. Clearly, Geralt was finished talking for the day. Trying not to kick himself for making such a grievous misstep, he fell back into place alongside Roach’s swishing tail, trying to focus on the crunching sound his feet made in the gravel and the soft rustling of the wind shaking the leaves down to earth. It would do him little good to commiserate on his idiocy now, when it was already done.
They rode on like this for some time, until Jaskier had worked himself up into such a state about what he had said that, to his eternal shame, he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He could almost hear his father, admonishing him, breath heavy with drink creeping down his spine. The way he had used to say that there was no use having a son, if that son acted more like a woman than his daughters did, with his sensitivity and his proclivity to speak without thinking. The way he had burned that shame so deep into the bard’s mind that it followed him even now, hundreds of miles from Lettenhove. He sniffed, not wanting Geralt to catch on. Surely, the Witcher would have even less patience for his emotional storms than his father had. Geralt had the emotional range of a turnip. Jaskier would be lucky if he didn’t simply put his heels to Roach and gallop away, leaving the bard in the dust.
When Roach lurched to a halt in front of him, Jaskier swallowed, preparing himself. He knew how this would go. It had happened before. Images of his father breaking his things, smashing them against the flagstones of the courtyard, flashed before his mind. And Geralt’s dubious friendship was more precious to him than any object ever could be.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, as the Witcher took a breath, about to speak, “You should continue on. I’ll find somewhere else to stay.”
The silver head whipped around sharply then, and when Jaskier dared to look up he saw dark eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Geralt’s jaw was tense as well, but not in the way that the bard associated with rage. It was a softer sort of tension, and his teeth worked like he was trying very hard to understand something.
“What are you talking about?”
Jaskier had put up his hood in a last ditch attempt to hide his agony from Geralt. After all, he was not the one who should be feeling such acute pain after basically insinuating his very best friend was a monster, not fit to stay in a human establishment. Geralt reached over now, though, and ripped it back. His eyebrows only drew further together when he appraised the dampness on Jaskier’s cheeks.
“Jaskier.” The tone was soft, admonishing, encouraging. All at once. The bard hadn’t even realized Geralt had the ability to embody such traits. Though he supposed he had been too quick to judge; they had only known each other a few months.
He sniffed and looked up.
“I should find somewhere else to stay. I can’t even keep my own tongue and prejudiced mind from causing you pain, I don’t know how I’m supposed to help improve your reputation. Which is the only reason you’re letting me follow you around, clearly. I can’t imagine why else I would still be here.”
Geralt frowned even more deeply, if that was possible. His canines worried at his lower lip, a habit that Jaskier had quickly noted and would have found unbearably attractive if he hadn’t been so abjectly miserable. He shivered as the Witcher considered his words, watching as the man’s face became more and more perplexed the longer he mulled it over. After nearly ten minutes of silence, during which Jaskier flip-flopped between simply turning tail and leaving, to outrightly asking why Geralt insisted on torturing him so, the Witcher took a breath in.
“Come.”
He held out one of his hands, the leather of his pauldrons creaking at the unfamiliar movement. Clearly, he didn’t often offer people help onto Roach’s back. Though Jaskier could have guessed that, from his near volcanic reactions to the bard trying to pet her or give her treats in the past.
“W-what?”
“Sit behind me. Clearly you’re exhausted. I can’t have you collapsing in the middle of the road. You need food, and a warm bed.”
“Oh.”
Jaskier swallowed dryly as he was swung up onto Roach’s back without so much as a grunt of effort from Geralt. Perhaps the Witcher was simply taking care of his obvious bodily needs. Perhaps he was just trying to get to town so he no longer had to deal with a sniffling, useless bard as well as his own aches and pains while still on the road. A small part of him hoped that it was something more, that maybe there was a chance Geralt thought of him as more than just someone who refused to stop following him around. The bard doubted it, though. Especially after his most recent performance. Witchers had famously low tolerance for time-wasting displays of emotion. Jaskier doubted that Geralt was impressed with his own airing of his traumas.
Still, when he was seated on Roach, awkwardly perched halfway on the lip of the saddle but also leaning onto the hot, sweaty expanse of the mare’s back, swaying and trying to find his balance, Geralt did something very unexpected. Reaching back and grabbing the bard’s arms, he hauled him none-too-gently forwards, wrapping Jaskier’s arms around his torso. The bard nearly stopped breathing, and Geralt grunted at him in a way that almost sounded amused.
“The last thing you need right now is to take a fall into the ditch.”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose you’re right.”
Timidly, Jaskier adjusted his grip, trying to ignore how easy it was to feel Geralt’s lungs expanding and contracting under his arms, the way he could feel the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he guided Roach. Even his heart, far too slow and very strong, beat through the bard’s body, reverberating as though Jaskier were nothing more than the tight skin stretched taut over a drum, meant only to vibrate at its call. He took a shaky breath, tried to focus on the trees sliding by. His own breaths were still shaky, the way they always got after he cried. They mirrored the whispering of the trembling aspen leaves high overhead, which shivered as the day melted into pale pink evening, and then, finally, darkness.
----
Jaskier was jolted awake very suddenly, and the first thing he noticed was the smell. An unfamiliar musk, definitely not the scent of his own bedroll. Something he had once commented on, he thought. Along with some undertones of onion. There was also a tingling sort of itch in his cheek, and when he raised his head, he felt the skin disengage from a ridge, like the stitches in a jacket. Then, he put two and two together, and jerked upright with a gasp, mortified. Something deep within him felt shaken and fragile, the way it always did after he experienced some sort of mental anguish. It was not a pleasant feeling.
“Ah! Gods, Geralt, what the fuck…”
He trailed off nervously, now that he could see why he had woken in the first place.
“Geralt…what’s happening? Why are there soldiers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are we in danger?” Jaskier’s heart sank at the thought; it had, after all, been his idea to stop in a town in the first place.
“I don’t know. Stay quiet. Don’t say anything idiotic. In fact, it might be better if you just keep your mouth shut altogether, yes?”
Jaskier bit his lip, the normal snarky reply that would have jumped off his tongue still buried deep under his residual misery. Now that he was less groggy, the earlier events of the evening were coming back to him. He felt his face colour, flushed with anger and humiliation. Geralt was right. The moment he opened his mouth, he couldn’t be trusted to keep his idiotic comments at bay.
It was still dark, but the approaching soldiers were easily identifiable by their torches, row upon row of them, and the beat of their synchronized feet. In the distance, beyond them, Jaskier could make out a large settlement, big enough to have walls and a stone gate. He was surprised, having not expected to encounter such a large city so far out of the way. If he had known, he would never have suggested they stop.
Geralt had reined in Roach, and waited with visible impatience as they soldiers halted in front of them, turning about and saluting their commander in a display of completely unnecessary pageantry. The commanding officer, who headed the column, was an enormous man, wearing armour that appeared to have been specially made to accommodate his girth. A large handlebar moustache protruded from his face, and in the backlight of the torches, it gave his head the appearance of having wings. The thought cheered Jaskier a little, considering the circumstances, and he nearly shared it with Geralt before thinking better of it.
The commander stepped forward, and gave a pompous, overstated cough before launching into what was very obviously a meticulously prepared speech.
“Witcher of Rivia! And…companion. Greetings, and welcome to Errowhal! We’ve been expecting your arrival for some time now. Please, if you’d follow myself and my humble escort, we can take you forthwith to our lord, who will give you further instructions.”
Jaskier peered around to get a better look at Geralt’s face, which was wrinkled with as much confusion as he assumed his own was. The commander’s nasally voice still echoed in his ears, far higher than most of the men he was accustomed to encountering, who often deepened their voices more than was strictly necessary. Particularly in Geralt’s presence.
“You…don’t know these people, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Ah. Good. Any idea why they’re expecting us here?”
Geralt shrugged, and turned back to the pompous commander, raising his voice from the growl he had been using to communicate with the bard.
“Should I have been expecting such a prodigious welcoming committee?”
“Ah,” the commander took a step forward, and rested a gloved hand on Geralt’s knee, looking up at him with small, piggy eyes of a watery blue, “I suppose not. Because, while we know much of you, Witcher, you’ve probably not yet heard of us. Fear not. All will be revealed, in good time.”
“I’d rather it was revealed now.”
Jaskier immediately recognized the dangerous quiver that was entering Geralt’s voice, and he wasn’t at all surprised. He did not take well to being touched, and the commander’s hand was still fixed firmly on his leg. There was an awkward silence, during which Jaskier heard the tinkling and clanging of the armoured column before them, soldiers shifting minutely from one foot to the other. He thought he could hear the crackling of the torches as well, if he listened carefully enough. It was enough to make any man unsettled, not to mention that the bard was already feeling not his best, as well as extremely guilty for inadvertently putting Geralt in such a strange predicament.
Suddenly, a great, booming laugh shattered the uncomfortable silence. The commander threw back his head, barring unnaturally large teeth, previously hidden by his moustache. Jaskier cringed a bit at the sound, and felt Geralt flinch away from the noise as well.
“Well, my dear Witcher, we’ve heard nothing if not that you’re clear in your demands. And you certainly don’t fall short on any account,” here the man’s eyes roved up and down Geralt’s body in a manner that made Jaskier supremely uncomfortable, “so we shouldn’t have expected you to ask for anything less! Our lord, the most honourable and venerable Lord Corvin, has long awaited a Witcher brave enough to help with a…local pest problem in the catacombs under Errowhal. As such, he keeps close tabs on the Witchers roving the Continent, hoping one will pass through. We’ve been hearing rumours you were in the area for several weeks, White Wolf. It was only a matter of time until you were destined to pass by.”
Geralt shuddered minutely at the use of the word “destined”, and Jaskier wondered why. Then, he appeared to compose himself, straightening in the saddle and urging Roach forward, successfully dislodging the commander’s hand from his knee as well as the first few rows of men from their assigned locations in one fell swoop. Leaving the soldiers scrambling to catch up, he rode forwards, through the gates and into the empty city streets, where only then he allowed the escort to take the lead.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know this would happen. And I don’t like the look of it.”
“Neither do I. But you couldn’t have known. Unless you’re part of some plot to betray me to Nilfgaard or suchlike, which I don’t believe you are.”
The words stung until Jaskier noticed what appeared to be the faintest flicker of a smile on Geralt’s face. A little burst of relief swept over him. Perhaps the Witcher was not as angry with him as he had previously assumed. The thought was nearly too good to be true. He had not read Geralt as being the forgiving type.
“You know I’m sorry, right? For what I said earlier. I spoke without thinking. I don’t see you in that way, not at all. Less so, in fact, with each and every day.”
Geralt nodded minutely.
“I would have left you in the dust in Posada if you did.”
“Ah.”
Though Jaskier still felt shaken by the stirred up memories of his father, there was cool relief seeping through him now as well. It was a difficult combination to deal with, particularly as a different type of cold seeped into his veins, taking the form of fear. Geralt was not angry with him. But these men were strange, and the further they rode into the city, the more ill at ease Jaskier felt. There was something evil at work here, and it turned his veins to ice.
The first oddity here was that there were no pyres dedicated to the Eternal Fire. They were almost always present in cities these days, particularly since Nilfgaard had begun its conquests. But there were none here, no telltale columns of smoke or flickering light to brighten up the deepness of the night. In fact, there was no light at all. No windows were glowing warmly, and there were no street lamps casting their pools of gentle luminescence into the cobbled roads. Except for the marching feet of the escort, there was no noise either, no signs of life. Not even a horse tethered outside a home or a stray cat scurrying along a gutter. Nothing but empty, darkened windows staring out at them like vacant, foreboding eyes, warning them to turn back. The houses were ramshackle, and everything had an air of being broken down, but recently tidied, as though the whole city had been preparing for this night. It set Jaskier’s teeth on edge, and from the tension he felt in Geralt’s shoulders and the slight uptick in his heart rate, the Witcher was feeling similarly unsettled. Roach’s hooves clopped hollowly against the stones, a stark contrast to the pounding feet of the soldiers. Jaskier wrapped his arms a bit more tightly around Geralt’s waist, hoping the Witcher wouldn’t mind. He didn’t pull away, which was sign enough.
Finally, after nearly twenty minutes of winding their way through vast, empty streets, the enormous commander lifted his fist, calling for a halt. As one, the soldiers stopped their march, and completed the same odd saluting ritual that Jaskier and Geralt had witnessed on the road. Then they parted, like long grass in a farmer’s field, creating a pathway from Roach to the commander, who still stood at the head of the column.
“Please, Sir Witcher. Dismount and follow me. Your companion may accompany you, if he wishes.”
Geralt turned to Jaskier and gave him a sharp nod, signalling that he could come, if he was amenable to it. The bard eagerly nodded in return, not at all enthusiastic about the idea of waiting out here in the eerily empty streets, surrounded by what had to be at least a hundred armed men. They swung down together, Geralt adjusted his swords surreptitiously as they approached the commander. Now that they were on the ground, Jaskier realized how short the man was, barely up to his shoulder. It made him feel a bit less intimidated.
“Your weapons, if you please.” A flabby hand extended, and Jaskier shuddered at the long emphasis of the ’s’ sound in the word please. It sounded like the way a snake would speak, if it had suddenly become human.
A flash of darkness passed over Geralt’s face at his words.
“You said you had a contract for me. How do you expect me to complete it without any weapons?”
“They will be returned to you at the appropriate time. No one is allowed to carry weapons before his lordship.”
Geralt gave a pointed look at the sword and dagger strapped to the commander’s waist, nearly hidden by a roll of fat that was beginning to seep out from underneath his chest plate. The commander ignored him, keeping his hand extended. Jaskier noticed, to his revulsion, that there was sweat dripping off it.
Grunting, Geralt unfastened his sword harness, swinging it over his shoulder and placing it with more force than was strictly necessary in the outstretched hand. He followed with several daggers from the sheath on his leg, as well as a hunting knife he kept fastened to the inside of his arm while they were travelling. It was with a good amount of relief that Jaskier noticed he did not surrender the dagger that the bard knew was hidden in his boot, nor was he asked about it. Though, considering the sheer amount of weapons already dispensed into the commander’s care, Jaskier wasn’t particularly surprised they didn’t suspect the Witcher of having any more. He was surprised, though, when the commander turned and held out his hand to him, next.
“I’m a bard. What makes you suspect I’m carrying any sort of weapon?”
“Your choice of travelling companion.” There was a measure of distaste in the nasal voice that didn’t match his earlier jovial disposition. Shuddering, Jaskier quickly handed over the small, delicately designed dagger her carried at his side, hidden inside the waistline of his pants. A gift from his sister. The weapon with which his father had encouraged him to take his own life. He carried it with him as a reminder that he had not.
Geralt shot him a surprised look as the commander tossed the ornate dagger up into a barrel along with the Witcher’s swords with an air of supreme satisfaction. Jaskier shrugged.
“I’m not completely thoughtless.” There was very little humour in the sentiment. He was still pained about the earlier incident.
“Hmm.”
Having falsely satisfied himself that there were no more weapons left on either the Witcher or the bard, the commander beckoned for them to follow him through a small, dingy-looking side door. Anxiously, Jaskier stuck close to Geralt’s back as they passed through, feeling as though there were a million eyes watching him from every nook and cranny. The hall that they had entered into appeared to be at least partially naturally formed. The result was an odd combination of clay and rock walls, fortified in places with bricks and stones, and sometimes old beams. The whole place was very damp and cold, and Jaskier could feel the moisture sticking to his skin and throat. He took a moment to lament the damage it would surely cause his vocal cords.
The journey through the tunnel-hall was long and cold, and for a while Jaskier could focus on nothing but the squelching of his boots as they sunk again and again into the strange, sludge-like muck that seemed to cover the ground. He wanted to ask what kind of grand lord lived in such a dreary place, but he dared not. There was enough of a sense of imminent doom about this whole venture already. And Geralt had asked him to stay quiet. After all, his mouth did nothing but get them in trouble, it seemed.
They did not stop until the tunnel suddenly widened out, giving way to a strange great hall, partially naturally formed, with great stalagmites and stalactites glittering in the light of sparsely placed torches. Jaskier gaped, and nearly smacked into Geralt’s back.
“Stay behind me,” the Witcher hissed to him under his breath, “This place reeks of fear.”
Geralt was not usually so open about his intuitions, at least not in the bard’s limited experience. He gulped, and stood at Geralt’s shoulder, rather missing the comforting view of his swords. A chill breeze shuddered around them, and the commander disappeared, his boots echoing through the enormous chamber. It appeared to have no end, Jaskier thought. It just melted off into the darkness. The thought made him feel extremely vulnerable. He was always calmed by having a wall to put his back to.
There was no telling how long they waited like that. Somehow, time, like the walls of the cavern, seemed to simply melt away. Jaskier began to shift anxiously from one foot to the other. His normal nervous chatter was gone; it seemed almost unholy to speak in such a huge, echoing space. He felt as though something might be eavesdropping.
Geralt stayed perfectly still in front of him, but the bard could tell he was not idle. Every muscle in his body thrummed with so much pent-up energy that Jaskier could almost feel it leaking out into his own stance. Geralt was always tense, but now he was practically vibrating with the urge to leap, to attack something. Only, there was nothing to attack. The only sound other than their own breathing was the distant dripping of stalactites onto their stalagmite siblings, a continuous, maddening noise that was incessant in the dark.
At first, the footsteps sounded so similar to this dripping that Jaskier was unable to distinguish one from the other. However, he saw Geralt get even more impossible tense, and he pricked up his ears. Sure enough, there was a certain ringing quality to the echoes of what must have been boots on the uneven, damp floor that separated it from the dripping. Jaskier swallowed nervously. His heart was thumping so hard in his chest he thought it would surely beat against his ribs until they broke. There was a sudden warmth encircling his leg and for a moment the bard thought he had pissed himself until he looked down and saw, to his shock, that Geralt’s hand was wrapped around his thigh.
“Stay behind me. Don’t speak.”
Jaskier nodded silently, not trusting that anything more than a frightened whimper would escape his mouth if he opened it. He had never felt so wrong about a situation, or so put off by a location. There was something very strange happening here, and he felt so completely out of his depth. As though he had been drawn into a plot far beyond his ability to comprehend or defend himself from. He wondered how often Geralt felt this way, and how often he hid those fears from those around him, including Jaskier himself.
The footsteps approached them for what seemed to be a neverendingly long time. As they got closer, Jaskier could hear now that there were two sets, one that sounded heavy and that he deduced to be the returning commander, and the other set which was light and feathery, barely there, a brush against the muddy stones. Geralt must have heard it too. His face was creased into a frown of confusion.
Whatever suspicions the two of them might have harboured as to who this strange person was, the kept them to themselves until there could be no more doubt. As the commander lumbered forwards out of the blackness, he was followed by an impossibly tall, lithe figure.
“Aen Seidhe…” Jaskier breathed, but he seemed to have spoken too soon. For though the figure that emerged from the darkness, walking delicately and gracefully in a way only a nonhuman could appeared to be an elf, when his ears came into the light it became clear he was not. Jaskier sucked in a breath of surprise.
“Geralt…”
“Glamour. Probably keeps the locals from killing him. Though his heritage explains the lack of temples to the Eternal Fire here.”
The two figures moved closer to them, and with a gruesome smile, the commander stepped aside. Jaskier could see now that his teeth were rotten and blackening, and some had already fallen out. In the darkness, it had not been evident. But now that he was lit by the guttering flames, the bard was beginning to wonder if everything in this place was slowly rotting away, crumbling from the inside out. The husks of the houses and cavern in which they were currently standing only helped his theory, and he shuddered at the thought.
“At last, the White Wolf of Rivia. I have waited a long time to make your acquaintance.”
“Longer than you would have your subjects guess, it seems.”
A hissing breathe escaped the dark figure, who was still mostly cloaked in the velvety shadow given off by a large stalactite. He stepped forward, all delicate brows and high features, with beautiful silky hair. In many ways, Jaskier thought a bit indulgently, this man was what he would look like were he an elf. And a good portion more handsome. His stomach twisted in knots at the thought of all the people that Geralt must have met who put the bard’s own meagre attractiveness to shame. No wonder the Witcher was less than enthused to have him stay at his side. That and his inability to keep his mouth shut. He winced again at the memory.
“Your insolence is astonishing, for a man in your position. If I were you, I would put a good deal of effort into being more courteous, yes?”
“Hmm. I thought you were the one in need of my services, not the other way round. And you accosted me on the road and insisted I come here, disregarding that I might have had somewhere else to be.”
“Once again, Wolf, I would advise you to school your tongue into some sense of diplomacy. Lest you fancy losing it. You won’t need it to complete the task I require of you.”
Jaskier had to hide a small smile, despite his fear. Geralt was not skilled in the art of diplomacy. Asking him to be courteous towards someone who had brought him into their home in such an untoward manner was like asking him to set down his swords and take up wine making. The bard nearly snorted out loud. The thought of his prickly friend bent over plants in a vineyard was enough to lighten even this, the most dire of circumstances.
Geralt had stepped forward now, but his usually imposing height put him barely on level with the lord. Jaskier considered that the man might be wearing heeled boots for this exact reason, but he also knew that people of elven descent were notoriously tall. It was strange to see Geralt in a situation where he didn’t have the physical upper hand. Though he was considerably bulkier and probably far more skilled a fighter than a man who spent his days in silken robes, safely tended by legions of men armed to the teeth.
They stood there for a moment, the well-dressed lord not backing down, catching Geralt’s eye and holding it with disturbing resolve. Most people could not hold a Witcher’s eye for long. Eventually, he started to laugh, a disturbing peal that echoed about the cave, making it seem as though multitudes of other men were cackling along in the shadows. Jaskier shuddered.
“Come now,” he chuckled, slapping Geralt’s shoulder so hard that the Witcher tipped forward a bit, looking very displeased, “There’s no need to start out the evening with such unpleasantness. I’m a poor host, not even inviting you to my dining hall. Follow me, good sirs. We should discuss this contract over a glass of fine wine, and a warm bowl of stew. You look as though you’ve been travelling for many weary days.”
The constant flip-flopping was beginning to exhaust the bard, and he couldn’t even fathom how it was affecting Geralt. He looked up at the Witcher, but could glean nothing from his expression. He was rather confused the man hadn’t tried to leave yet. There was clearly something very wrong here. The lord, who hadn’t even had the courtesy to introduce himself, instead leaving that job to his commander, hadn’t even bothered to veil his threats. If there was ever a time to make a hasty escape, Jaskier thought surely it must be now. Though, he hadn’t been travelling with the Witcher for that long. Perhaps there was some unfathomable reason why he was subjecting them to this instead of simply fighting his way out.
They followed Lord Corvin, for Jaskier had now remembered that was his name, through another dank passageway. He wrinkled his nose against the smell of rot and decay that permeated the whole place, sticking close to Geralt’s back. Eventually, they ascended a treacherously slippery set of stairs hewn straight out of the rock, and came out in a barren dining hall, at the far end of which there was an imposing table and single chair set upon a dais, as well as a hearth that stood nearly twelve feet up from the floor. The whole place was cold, colder even that the cavern from whence they had come. There was frost on the windows and the walls, which was strange, since it was not winter. Jaskier shivered fearfully. His heart was still pounding.
Lord Corvin’s velvet cloak brushed along the floor, making the noise of rustling autumn leaves. It was the only sound to be heard besides the clacking of boots. About halfway through the hall he made a dramatic half turn and halted, lifting a hand and snapping his fingers imperiously.
“Wine!”
A woman, dressed all in rags, shuffled out from the passage. She presented Corvin with a tray, cowering. There was a bruise around her right eye that had left it nearly swollen shut. Jaskier did not have to think for long to guess who had given it to her.
Corvin passed them the wine, then snapped again, and the girl dragged a bench into the middle of the room. It took an uncomfortably long time for her to complete the task, and Jaskier was left staring awkwardly at his boots as a loud scraping noise echoed through the hall. He sat with a good amount of relief, and was glad to see the girl scurrying away as soon as she had completed her task. Hopefully to somewhere where she would not be injured by her master.
Geralt sank down on the bench next to Jaskier, and Corvin ascended the dais and settled himself daintily in the high-backed black chair that resided there. It was extremely uncomfortable, to be seated so far below him. Sometime during their ascent from the cavern, the captain had also disappeared. Despite the emptiness of the room, Jaskier felt as though it could not contain the strange, stormy energy that radiated off Corvin. It made him shiver. He sipped at his wine nervously, though he knew Geralt would have knocked it out of his hand long ago had there been anything amiss with it.
“So,” Corvin spread his hands, long sleeves draping out like the wings of some great beast, spreading across the floor, “We come to the crux of the matter. I suppose you’re wondering why you’ve been asked to come here?”
“I don’t recall any asking.”
A flicker of anger passed over Corvin’s pale face, and Jaskier resisted the urge to elbow Geralt in the ribs. Now was not the time to be making smart remarks. And Jaskier never missed an opportunity to make a smart remark.
“As I said, Witcher, guard your tongue carefully. It is…a most precious ornament. Both in and out of your mouth.”
“Get to the point,” Geralt snarled, and Jaskier could feel impatience and irritation radiating off every tensed muscle in his body, “I don’t intend to waste my day exchanging pleasantries. Or any other sort of small talk.”
“Ah,” the smile that split Corvin’s face was so broad that Jaskier thought it looked more like a slashing cut than a mouth, “Well, I instructed my captain to give you…limited details, when he went to retrieve you. So I trust you have at least a basic understanding of what it is I require of you?”
“Barely. I need details if I’m going to complete any sort of contract. Saying you have a pest problem in the sewers is not detailed enough for me to accept work. Such conditions could apply to nearly every mid-sized city on the Continent.”
“Ah. And that is why you’ve been brought here, Witcher. Can’t be sowing fear through the streets of my city, now, can I?”
“As far as I could tell, there was no one there to sow fear to. No scent of people occupying those streets for weeks. Not so much as a horse stabled at the inn. You can’t expect me to believe everyone simply left of their own volition.”
Corvin waved a lazy hand, which fluttered through the air, flickering slightly as it encountered the dusty light filtering in through a dirty window.
“Not entirely, no. They left out of fear, took refuge in the mountains until the danger passes. No one wants to be snatched from his own home in the middle of the night.”
“Indeed.”
“Hence why you’ve been brought here. I need you to travel into the sewers, eradicate whatever it is that’s been stealing our people. Unfortunately, I can’t give you much more information beyond that. Only that it attacks at night, drags people away, and they are never seen again. No blood, no screams, no sign of a fight. Just…vanished.”
Corvin’s face seemed to cloud over with sadness at this last bit, shadowing and suddenly aging in the greyish light of the room. His hand, before so animated, hung limply from his arm, dead weight. It was a poetic image, highlighted in the dusty emptiness of the vast chamber. Geralt, however, did not look saddened by this news. His brows were crinkled, and he looked confused.
“Such beasts always leave a distinct sign, something to mark their passage, even if it’s just a track or a trace of blood. Sewer-dwelling creatures are not like wraiths or wights, they can’t simply enter and exit without a trace. They are physical beings, and leave physical signs. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’ve been nothing but honest with you, Witcher.”
“Then why the need to coerce me into coming here? Why not simply post a notice like everyone else?”
The lord smiled a bit, not the grin of before, but something equally as unsettling, for reasons Jaskier couldn’t quite put his finger on. He chuckled.
“Because, Witcher, I knew you would refuse. The rest of them certainly did. It is of little consequence to me now.”
It was nothing. Barely a flick of the head; a motion Jaskier would never have noticed if he hadn’t reflected on what must have tipped Geralt off later on. But a moment after the slightest flicker of the lord’s dark hair, the bard found himself on his back, spine and ribs smarting. The bench upon which he and Geralt had been sitting had toppled, and he saw now that the Witcher was holding one of its wooden legs in his gloved hands, crouched menacingly, teeth bared. He also saw, once he had shaken out the stars that clouded his vision and the confusion that clouded his mind, that there were armed men advancing on all sides. Their visors pulled low, armour painted a matte black, leather boots scuffing with barely a noise on the stone floor. Terrified, the bard scrambled back against the bench, wishing very much that he had resisted more strongly to his weapons being taken.
Geralt waited until the men were nearly upon them before he attacked. And when he did, he relied on the element of surprised almost immediately, throwing the leg of the bench at the tallest of the men and drawing the dagger that he had not been relieved of. He cut down the first soldiers easily, fighting to incapacitate, but not kill. It was a habit that Jaskier had noted as a constant in the Witcher’s fighting style whenever he found himself in an altercation with humans. The first several men fell clutching wounded legs and arms, groaning but unable to regain their feet. Another man fell nearly in front of Jaskier, causing him to scrabble backwards a bit further as blood poured from under his visor. The man was moaning, a low, agonized sound.
When the bard looked up again, Geralt had managed to acquire a sword, and was facing several adversaries at once. Jaskier winced. It seemed that for every man the Witcher cut down, Corvin had two more ready to take his place. He thought back to the armed column outside. If that was only a glimpse of the military capacity held in this fortress, Jaskier hated to think how long this could go on for. And Geralt would, eventually, tire.
As he watched, the Witcher pirouetted away from one blade, crossing his sword and dagger behind his back to catch another. He spun that blade and the man holding it around to his front and pushed him into one of his armed counterparts, sending the two of them stumbling backwards. During this moment of confusion, he kicked the legs out from under the third man, slashing his side on the way down. It was a graceful maneuver, far too easily executed for someone who had already felled nearly thirty men. Jaskier was reminded, with a shiver, that Geralt was anything but human.
He was, however, beginning to reach the end of his endurance. Corvin was chuckling, motioning more men into the hall. It had been nearly twenty minutes since the fight had begun. Geralt’s shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, and his breath was coming heavily. Jaskier recognized the signs of his exhaustion, and his own heart began to speed up. He didn’t even understand why they were being attacked, other than that Corvin wanted to coerce Geralt into entering his sewers. It was a frightening, confusing situation, and one that Jaskier very much wanted a sudden and daring rescue from.
Finally, ten men in black armour ran into the room. They poured in in bursts, as though waiting for some cue to be given, rather like Jaskier did before going on stage. This group, though, was different. They moved as one, as a coordinated group of fighters as opposed to the individual, desperate motions of the previous men. They drew their swords in one breath. Attacked as one man. And Jaskier’s heart sank deep into his boots even as Corvin’s high, piercing laugh echoed through the hall.
“Even you grow tired, mutant. I learned that the first go round. And it had proved most useful in the subsequent times.”
Jaskier felt his blood run cold, as he began to suss out exactly what might have happened, why Corvin wanted Geralt so badly. And then, he felt the icy sharpness of a steel blade, pressed to his throat. It cut into him as he swallowed, let out a surprised squeak. Blood dribbled down his neck, and Geralt whirled and met his eyes. The Witcher’s expression flashed with anger, and the bard winced.
“I’m…sorry,” he whispered, trying to move as little as possible against the blade, “Shouldn’t’ve come here.”
Again, Geralt’s eyes flashed furiously. There was blood dribbling from his nose, setting a tandem beat with the liquids dripping off his blade. He whirled and faced Corvin, and Jaskier let his eyes droop to the floor. He had failed Geralt far too many times already. The Witcher was right. He would do nothing but hold him back.
“Drop your weapon, mutant. Or your whore dies.”
Jaskier thought he heard Geralt snarl at that, which made his face colour a bit. Was the Witcher truly so repulsed at the thought that he could be bedding him?
Geralt dropped his sword, and it clanged hollowly against the stone floor. Jaskier winced. He was proving to be a weakness. A liability. If they made it out of here alive, the bard hoped that Geralt would dismiss him from his side. He was proving to be nothing but trouble. And he couldn’t bring himself to leave Geralt without being asked. Another weakness on his part. He felt a tear prickle at the corner of his eye, heard his father’s angry words again. The world blurred for a time and he swayed against his captor’s grip.
When Jaskier finally managed to pull himself back from the memories of his father, two guards had taken Geralt by the shoulders and pushed him to his knees in front of Corvin. There were copious streams of blood dribbling from the Witcher’s face, and a wicked bruise was blooming under his right eye.
“I have long desired to get my hands on you, White Wolf. The others, they couldn’t survive my game. For all their mutations and skills with the blade, they couldn’t make it through. But I’ve heard that you’re different, even from your fellow Witchers. And I’m very curious to put that theory to the test.”
Jaskier trembled and watched as Geralt lifted his battered head. The bard wondered how long he had drifted for. Geralt looked very much so worse for wear. His head was hanging dizzily on his neck, and his blinking suggested he was having difficulty focusing. Jaskier felt hot anger curl in his gut, along with a healthy amount of shame that he was powerless to stop the sick exchange playing out in front of him. He was weak. Too weak to be a worthy travelling companion for a Witcher. And now Geralt was going to pay the price for that weakness.
“The fuck do you want from me?” Geralt’s whole jaw was clenched, and his voice was tight, controlled, as though he was swallowing back his words.
“You are a curiosity, Witcher,” Corvin leaned languidly to one side, tipping the fine edges of his face into the dusty light, creating a dramatic picture, “And I would like to learn from you and your kind. I am, after all, a scientist. So, I have devised a test. A game, of sorts, located in the sewers and designed to test the abilities of your mutations. Survive, and your bard will meet you outside the city’s walls. Die…and, well, I don’t suppose you’d like to hear what will happen to him. I hear that the brain structure of those inclined towards the liberal arts is very interesting. Especially when studied while the subject is still alive.”
Jaskier shuddered and tried not to whimper. This was not what he had meant when he had sung odes to heroics and heartbreak. Geralt twisted a bit in the grip of the men holding him, caught the bard’s eye. His expression was unreadable, and Jaskier felt himself slump. He felt utterly hopeless, utterly useless. It was his fault they had come here, and now he couldn’t even keep Geralt from meeting what would probably be a gruesome fate. As the Witcher turned away, Jaskier felt another tear pool in his eye. He didn’t particularly care for his fate at this point. Only that he had dragged someone else into danger with him. Someone who hadn’t even asked for his company.
“Once you enter the sewers, you will be given a dagger. I will observe you along the way, but know now that you will not be helped. The corpses of your predecessors are down there. Perhaps they can serve as a reminder that you are on your own, now?”
Geralt kicked one of his captors, but it was mostly for show. The room was filled with guards now, and he was disarmed and disoriented. Everyone there knew he had no choice but to do what the lord said. Corvin jerked his head again, and the two men dragged Geralt from the room, not even giving him the time to get his feet underneath him, leaving his boots tripping and dragging on the stones. Jaskier watched him go, hatred for himself and for the whole ordeal pooling in his gut like a black sickness. He couldn’t even lift his head once Geralt was gone. The guard pushed his chin up with the dagger, but his eyes were blurry and his mind was floating somewhere else. It took several hard slaps to bring him back, and when he did return it was to spit blood on the floor and stare with revulsion at his own injury and weakness, paling in comparison to what Geralt was about to experience.
“Ah, bard,” Corvin had descended from his chair now, and his robes swished across the floor, delicate hands fluttering in time with his speech, “I suppose you and I will have plenty of time to get to know one another, now that your valiant knight is currently fighting for your freedom. It’s strange, don’t you think, how Witchers claim to be attached to no one, and yet the instant I threatened you he dropped his weapons? Tell me, little lark, what he feels like. What it feels like to warm yourself against his flesh, to take your pleasure from his skin. It must be different, with one who feels nothing in return.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier’s voice trembled, and he wished very desperately that it wouldn’t, “He doesn’t even want me. I all but forced him to allow me to travel with him.”
Corvin laughed then, and ran a long, pale finger down Jaskier’s cheek. The bard resisted the urge to bite him, knowing it would only make things worse for him in the end. When the hand settled around his neck, he couldn’t even struggle backwards. It squeezed uncomfortably, and he gasped for air, heart rabbiting in his chest.
“For all the time you artists spend watching others, you mustn’t be very in tune with their desires. He hungers for you, bard. I can practically see the drool running down his chin. I’m surprised he was able to control his urges. After all, he is little more than a beast.”
The lord licked his finger then, and traced the warm wetness over Jaskier’s collarbone. He wanted to puke as he felt the saliva grow cold on his skin. It prickled and felt burning all at once, and he thought he had never felt so violated by such a benign gesture.
With a sharp change in demeanour, Corvin suddenly snapped upright. He fisted his hand around Jaskier’s hair and pulled the bard up with him, smiling wickedly when he winced and shuddered.
“Come with me, little lark. Let’s go see how your Witcher fares, no? I’m sure you’re as interested as I am. After all, the trials I’m about to put him through will be worthy of the best ballads. And I have been reassured that you work at the top of your craft.”
Corvin turned and marched down the hall, not releasing his unforgiving grip on Jaskier’s hair. Disoriented and frightened and pulled down by his insurmountable guilt, the bard couldn’t even struggle as the lord dragged him down damp and musty hallways, deep into the belly of the earth and away from even the faintest memory of the light.