Chapter Text
The best thing about penitent Geralt was that he let Jaskier drag him around.
Geralt preferred rough, uninhabited locations with scarce settlements torn out of the wilderness, where you could travel for days and run into absolutely no one.
Jaskier liked people. He liked the bustle and convenience of towns. He liked wandering through markets and looking at wares he couldn’t afford. So sue him.
In the first couple years of traveling with the Witcher, Jaskier would’ve never even dreamt of suggesting travel plans. Geralt seemed so sure of where they were supposed to go and when. But after their moonlit squabble, Geralt had become extremely accommodating—by his standards, at least. He’d let Jaskier ride Roach the rest of the way to the inn (or rather, Roach let him ride her, though she seemed deeply put out by it), and now planned their routes on where they could find lodgings for the night. He didn’t complain when Jaskier spent a bit of extra coin on ale, or played his lute a bit too long into the night, or murmured lyrics to himself as they journeyed.
Sometimes Jaskier could tell he wanted to, but always managed to stop himself in time.
It was in a bustling hostel just outside Zerrikania that Jaskier found out about the annual interkingdom horse race and fell absolutely head over heels for the idea.
It took a bit of pleading as Geralt sat silently with a strained expression. Garrah wasn’t just a busy town; it was a city, the kind of city that had people travelling from all over to visit. A pilgrimage stop, a mercantile mecca, and a political stomping ground all at once.
A Witcher’s nightmare, basically.
“There aren’t any monsters in Garrah,” said Geralt, before adding under his breath, “besides the human variety.”
“You don’t need to hunt any monsters. I can make enough coin for both of us, trust me,” said Jaskier, eyes glowing. “A big competition like that, people will be looking anywhere for entertainment. It’ll be fun, Geralt. Come on. It’s not like it’s written in the Witcher handbook, ‘Thou shan’t ever have fun,’ right?”
Geralt sighed heavily. Jaskier could tell he was trying to look away from the bard’s hopeful expression to summon the will to reject him, so he didn’t allow it. He grabbed Geralt’s hand in both of his.
“Just a day. A day is all I ask,” he said. “In and out, quick as a fox in a henhouse.”
Geralt’s reluctant “Fine,” sent Jaskier into a fit of ecstasy that had him writing several ballads over the next few nights. By the time they’d actually reached Garrah, Jaskier was so excited he was almost vibrating out of his best jerkin. Within an hour, he’d charmed his way into a performance spot between races.
The arena was huge, the biggest he’d ever seen, though he’d played at several tournaments before; hundreds of horses of every possible shade and size milled outside the gates and ambled at the side of their trainers in the soft sand. It was a hot day, and the sky was a clear, cloudless blue—typical weather in Garrah. He and Geralt were squeezed between strangers at a choice spot in the bleachers.
Geralt didn’t look too warm or uncomfortable in his heavy black armor, just visibly disinterested in all the pageantry. His eyes were closed in half-meditation. People wearing the colours of every nation peered at him with curiosity as they walked by. It reminded Jaskier of how he’d looked when they’d first met; so set on not taking part in anything around him that he ended up drawing all the attention to himself.
A man walked by collecting bets on the next race. Jaskier called him over.
Geralt’s eyes immediately opened. “Jask,” he said in a warning tone.
“Oh, loosen up, Geralt. You have to take a risk once in a while.” Jaskier handed the man ten bronze coins. “Put it all on the favourite, good sir.”
Geralt was frowning. “You’ll lose that money.”
“Oh? Is that a challenge I hear?” Jaskier said, raising a teasing eyebrow. “Well, my good Witcher, which one would you bet on?”
“I wouldn’t,” answered Geralt, and then closed his eyes again.
“Wait, wait just a second, please,” Jaskier said to the bet-collector, who was about to move on. He shook Geralt’s forearm. “You don’t have to bet ten. Just five. Or one. Whatever. But play along. I want to know which one you’ll choose.”
Geralt sent him a long-suffering look. Then he pointed at a tall, muscled bay with a shiny coat.
“Ah, Balthazar. This is his first race,” said the bet-collector.
Jaskier winced. “Ooh. That doesn’t sound too good.”
Geralt reached into his satchel and threw down three coins. “For Balthazar,” he said without a flinch. The bet-collector nodded and wandered off. Geralt turned to Jaskier. “Happy?”
“I think you’ve lost your mind along with your wages. But yes,” said Jaskier, smiling. “I’m happy.”
Geralt grunted softly, then closed his eyes again. Even when the flag went down and the whistle blew, the fences opening so the horses could all stampede out in a flurry of dust, Geralt didn’t open his eyes to watch.
Jaskier threw himself out of his seat against the metal barricade and yelled along with the crowd, although he wasn’t entirely sure which one was his horse. He gleaned rather quickly that it was probably the little palomino mare named Shortbread, as it was the name he heard the most often and shouted with the greatest fervour.
Balthazar, who had been dead in the middle for the first half of the race, started pulling closer to the front. Jaskier glanced back at Geralt, who still hadn’t bothered to look. The man did know a thing or two about horses, Jaskier thought nervously. But there was no possible way that Geralt could so easily predict the outcome of the race.
Right?
He turned back to the track and gripped the barricade more tightly. Shortbread was still in the lead; but whenever the dust cleared enough it seemed like Balthazar was gaining on her. His rider looked oddly at ease, like they were on a scenic trail instead of amongst a hurricane of hooves.
Jaskier forgot to cheer. Instead he started biting his nails.
He felt a tug at the back of his jerkin.
“Sit down,” said Geralt, eyes still closed. “Relax.”
Jaskier obeyed, though he was starting to suspect Geralt of some sleight of hand. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him, taking in his sharp profile, his steady, slow breaths.
What would it take to frazzle this man?
The screaming of the crowd took on a feverish pitch. There were already groans of dismay. Jaskier didn’t even have to look to know Shortbread was now in second.
After a moment of consideration, Jaskier closed his eyes too, and started mimicking the rhythm of Geralt’s breathing. He tried to imagine what Geralt could hear—because he knew he was listening—and envisioned him being able to tell the individual hoofbeats apart, knowing which of the hundreds of thumps against the ground were Balthazar’s; maybe he could hear whispers beyond the yelling and jeering, the quieter comments one friend made to another that made actually watching the race redundant. Maybe he could hear past the arena, the city, to a peaceful, non-stampeded glade where things were quiet and still.
There was a momentary zenith where everyone seemed to gasp at once; and then the crowd noises started fading to a gentler buzz of confusion and mixed commentary. When Jaskier peeked open one eye, Geralt was watching him.
Jaskier’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Balthazar just won.”
“Hmm,” Geralt agreed.
There was something soft in the lines of the Witcher’s face that Jaskier couldn’t quite understand, but it made him itch.
He nudged his shoulder against Geralt’s. “Go collect your winnings. I have a crowd to entertain.”
And spinning his lute around with a wink, he tossed himself over the barricade into the arena.
❀ ❀
Jaskier let out a low whistle when he walked into their room. Everything was tawny sandstone, the ceilings ascending into high interweaving arches. Glassless windows let in a soft breeze with a view out into the palace gardens, and silver dishes of potpourri filled the room with the luxurious smell of sandalwood.
Jaskier threw down his bags and abruptly tossed himself onto the bed with a moan. It was a queen-sized recliner, low to the ground, with bright blue silk sheets that felt like heaven against his skin.
“Sweet Sehanine, if we aren’t the two luckiest bastards in the world,” he sighed.
The emir had enjoyed Jaskier’s performance of “Toss a Coin” so much that he requested for him to play at the banquet that evening. Accommodations, of course, would be provided. Which meant a big room all to themselves in Atalina Palace.
Jaskier rolled from one end of the bed to the other, and was pleased that he could roll his entire body nearly three times over. After a moment of lying there in total contentedness, he slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position and looked over at Geralt, who was standing stiffly in a corner of the room, examining the furniture with deep mistrust.
“Alright, I know this isn’t exactly your scene,” said Jaskier, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, “but we have a free room, and it beats sleeping in the stables with Roach, don’t you think?”
Geralt released an ambivalent hum. He wandered over to the window and peered down, as if he was calculating exactly how much damage he would take from jumping out of it.
Jaskier moved slowly to join him and took in the view outside. The late afternoon sky was a dusty blue, and the leaves in the garden were a lush green, with irrigations of water staving through the ground in even lines from a trickling fountain. Jaskier breathed in the clean air.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked Geralt, smiling.
He wasn’t prepared for Geralt’s reaction: he put his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and then pushed him up against the wall.
Jaskier didn’t have the time or willpower to steel himself against the visceral experience of having his face so close to Geralt’s: to see the stubble growing in, the pale, barely-visible scar under the right side of his jaw.
For a second, Jaskier could barely get the name out, he was so tongue-tied. “G-G-Geralt?”
“Shh,” Geralt said. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier, but out the window with a narrow-eyed squint. Jaskier turned his head to try to see what he was seeing, and caught a little bit of movement in the garden.
“What is it? Please don’t say a goddamn harpy.”
Geralt shook his head minutely. “Human.”
At this, Jaskier pinched his brows together. He pushed Geralt away and turned to lean out the windowsill himself, only to find an old man with a wide sunhat clipping at the hedges.
“Geralt,” he sighed, rolling his eyes, “it’s just the gardener.”
Geralt grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him away from the window and back against the wall. He was hiding him, Jaskier suddenly realized.
“Nobody is ever just anything,” Geralt growled.
“Geralt.” Jaskier tried to make his tone as soothing as possible, placing a gentle hand against Geralt’s chest. His heartbeat felt quicker than usual. “We’re in a palace. The guy who owns this place is crazy stinking rich. I’m talking swimming-in-gold rich. He’ll have, like, a thousand servants cooking dinner alone. There’s going to be people around.”
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was uneasy. “Something’s not right.”
Jaskier blinked at him. “Not right? What do you mean?”
Geralt looked deeply conflicted. He shut his eyes, but not in a peaceful, meditative way. His brow was tense.
“Hey.” Jaskier ran his hand up to Geralt’s neck and gently massaged the knotted muscle there. “I believe you.”
“Something…” Geralt said slowly, through gritted teeth, “smells…off.”
“Should we look into it?” asked Jaskier. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Geralt’s tense face, like he was in pain.
Geralt shook his head. “You have the banquet. I can do it alone.”
“Oh,” said Jaskier, totally not sulking. “I didn’t think we’d be splitting up.”
He couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through his entire body when Geralt’s hand glided down to his lower back and squeezed.
“Be careful,” Geralt said softly. They were so close he could have just breathed it and Jaskier would’ve understood.
“Sure,” Jaskier whispered back.
There was a moment where neither of them moved. The breeze that came in through the window was audible in the sudden quiet. Every single one of Jaskier’s nerve endings were concentrated on Geralt’s hand on his lower back, but his gaze was trained on his lips, a mere inch away. He dug his fingers into Geralt’s shoulder.
Then Geralt abruptly pulled away, this time causing Jaskier to almost fall face-first to the floor. He hadn’t even realized he’d been leaning forward.
“Don’t drink anything,” said Geralt as he opened the door.
“What?” Jaskier said. “What about water?”
“Anything,” snarled Geralt, and then he was gone.
❀ ❀
The lonely white wolf
With its moonlit fur
howls
among the shadows.
(For whom am I waiting,
oh gods,
for whom am I waiting?)
The mighty white wolf
stalks slowly toward me
scattering the stars
into the night.
(What is for me here,
not there,
but right here?)
The solemn white wolf:
a burst of light
dies and is born again
in its yellow eyes.
Jaskier finished the song with a melodic howl, which, as usual, provoked several accompanying howls from the audience. The emir grinned from his elevated seat and applauded enthusiastically.
Jaskier bowed, thanked everyone, and looked around the lit courtyard for Geralt; but of course, he wasn’t there. He was starting to suspect, with the mind-clearing effect of physical distance, that Geralt had made up the whole “weird smell” thing to get out of having to attend this event.
Not that Jaskier needed emotional support to perform. No, of course, playing music made him happy; he didn’t need anyone to hold his hand during it—in fact, hand-holding would quite get in the way of his lute-playing.
He scowled anyway.
There was a tap on his shoulder.
“Pardon me. I just wanted to tell you how wonderful I think your songs are,” said a sweet-looking young woman who smelled like lilies.
“Oh, thank you.” Jaskier gave her as bright a smile as he could manage. “That means a lot.”
“Can I ask, the white wolf—”
“Not a metaphor,” Jaskier interrupted shortly.
“Oh…no, I was just going to ask if you’d ever seen one? We don’t get wolves in this kind of climate. How big do they get? Do they travel in packs? Do they hibernate?”
Jaskier’s posture relaxed. So this woman actually wanted to know about wolves.
“Hmm. Where to start with all that?” he mused. “I feel like I’m meant to be the fount of all wolf knowledge now, and I don’t want to disappoint.”
“Oh, goodness! Sorry. How rude of me,” said the woman. She reached for a carafe. “Let me get you something to drink.”
“Ah. Um. Actually,” said Jaskier, rising to his feet. “I just remembered I have something to do. But it was wonderful meeting you, really.”
The woman seemed disappointed, but she took his rejection on the chin. Jaskier decided that if he couldn’t eat and drink at this lustrous banquet, he might as well find Geralt and give him a hand.
He didn’t know where exactly the Witcher had gone off to, but their room seemed as good a place to start looking as any. As he entered their particular corridor, though, he started hearing strange noises. A slam against a wall. A moan. A dish breaking. A grunt.
Jaskier thought he could recognize the source of that grunt and broke into a sprint. He was about to throw the door open when he heard another moan—clearly a woman’s—and it was long and high-pitched in the way a person in pain never sounded.
Jaskier’s hand dropped away from the door handle. He stood frozen, disbelieving, unable to tear himself away from the sound of Geralt’s ragged breaths and skin hitting skin.
He drew a hand up to his mouth, thinking there was about a 50% chance he would be sick, but then realized that he had nothing in his stomach to throw up.
“Fuck it,” he hissed, and forced himself to walk back down the hallway, return to the festive decorations and friendly chatter of the banquet, and start gorging himself on everything within reach.
After his third glass of wine, he approached the lovely woman who smelled like lilies.
“Did you finish what you needed to do?” she asked him with a hopeful smile.
“Oh, yes. Consider it finished.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Now, how do you feel about picking up our conversation somewhere more…private?”
❀ ❀
He was standing in front of the door again. His hand hovered uncertainly above the handle. The hallway was quiet this time, and—despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed—Jaskier automatically woke up a bit before dawn, which was when Geralt rose like clockwork every day. He could’ve stayed in bed, he’d supposed—she really was very lovely, the kind of girl you would introduce to your parents, not ditch after a night of cavorting—but somehow the thought of seeing Geralt was still more tempting.
He wasn’t just whipped, he thought morosely. He was bridled, saddled, dragging the whole cart.
But only when he was face-to-face with the door did the unsettling thought come to him that the woman could still be in there. And he didn’t know how he would react if he saw Geralt in bed with someone else. The sounds alone were haunting him, and would probably be burned into his brain ad infinitum.
Of course, he knew Geralt hadn’t taken a vow of chastity or anything. And sure, there were nights they had spent in towns where he had strongly suspected something had happened; but suspecting and actually hearing it…well, those were two different things entirely.
He swallowed. This was ridiculous. So what if Geralt had slept with someone? He slept with people all the time and Geralt had never cared.
That’s right, he thought. Never even blinked an eye.
Great. Now he felt even worse than before.
The door swung open, slamming roughly into the sandstone wall.
“Where the fuck have you been?” growled Geralt.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Jaskier said dryly.
When he moved to push by Geralt into the room—noticing with relief the empty bed—Geralt grabbed his arm.
“You reek of alcohol,” he snarled. “I told you to be careful.”
“Gods, Geralt. My mother’s still alive, you know. I’m not taking applications,” Jaskier snapped, pulling roughly out of his grip. He set his lute down, but this time didn’t throw himself down on the bed; he could barely bring himself to look at it.
Geralt glared at him. He looked like he wanted to toss Jaskier out the open window. “How hard is it to do what I tell you? They were simple instructions, Jaskier.”
“Yeah, hilarious too. I bet you’ve been laughing it up, the idea of me pointlessly dehydrating all night. You should just be thanking me for staying out of your hair.”
Geralt didn’t say anything. It was the kind of careful silence that indicated he had finally read Jaskier’s energy and realized he was angry. And even though Geralt was clearly trying to avoid a fight, Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from pushing anyway.
“How was the monster hunt, by the way? Did you find the source of all evil in this wicked den of sin? Develop any new methods of conquering it?”
As he spoke, Jaskier refused to look at Geralt, choosing instead to do a terrible job of tuning his lute with shaking fingers.
“It was a djinn,” Geralt said finally, tone slow and cautious.
Jaskier’s curiosity was piqued despite himself. “Like, the kind that grants wishes?”
“Hmm. A vizier was keeping it here for their own ends. Devising different ways to overthrow the kingdom. And they would’ve succeeded, with that kind of power.”
“Geralt of Rivia saves the day again,” Jaskier said sarcastically, although the words themselves had no reason to be sarcastic.
A moment passed. “Not exactly,” said Geralt.
Jaskier’s fingers paused over his tuning pegs.
“Someone else got to the djinn first.”
Jaskier spun around to ask, “Who?”
Geralt released a tired-old-man sigh that sounded like a thousand words not being said. “Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Never heard of her,” he said, then continued to occupy himself with his lute.
“She’s a mage. The temptation of a djinn…I should’ve known one of them would show up,” Geralt mused.
“So. What happened?” asked Jaskier, telling himself firmly that his stomach was not clenched and his teeth most certainly not gritted.
“Well. I managed to get it away from her before she did anything stupid,” said Geralt. The sentence hung in the air, sounding woefully incomplete.
“And?” Jaskier prompted.
Silence.
Jaskier whipped around, expression fierce. “What did you do after that, Geralt?”
Geralt’s jaw was alternately clenching and unclenching as he glared back at him. He wouldn’t give an inch, Jaskier knew. So he stood up and took the rest of the mile himself.
“You fucked her, didn’t you? I’m just trying to get from Point A to Point Z here,” he said. To anyone else, his tone would sound almost reasonable. But the lack of its usual good-humoured cadence is what gave it a hard edge.
Geralt crossed his arms. “And what if I did, bard? What business is it of yours?”
Jaskier stepped close to him, radiating fury—a fury that may have been less than righteous, but felt better than the alternative.
“It’s not,” he said with a mean smirk. “Fuck whoever you want. I couldn’t care less. In fact, I was hoping a good shag would get the log out of your ass, but I guess I was wrong.”
Geralt’s eyes flashed. His voice was a low growl. “Careful.”
“Or what? What are you going to do, Geralt? Hit me?”
And then Geralt snarled. An actual snarl, positively animalistic, that caused Jaskier to take a startled step back.
“Oh, wow,” said a voice laced with cold humour, “I seem to have walked in on quite the conversation.”
Jaskier and Geralt turned in tandem to the doorway, where a woman clad in a form-fitting black dress stood watching them with an unsettling smile on her pretty face.
“Yen. What are you doing here?” asked Geralt.
Yen. The nickname washed over Jaskier in a wave of contempt, and he met her humorous gaze with a degree of loathing he had never felt before.
“I wanted to pay a last visit to the man who stole my wish. Make sure you were as handsome as I remembered before I started resenting you for it,” said Yennefer casually. She tilted her head at Jaskier. “I have to say, you don’t seem like the kind of man to have a keeper.”
Jaskier clenched his hands into fists. He violently tossed his lute onto his back and stormed out of the room, only barely preventing himself from shoving past Yennefer.
“Nice meeting you,” she said, that ever-present sardonic tinge in her tone, and it made Jaskier want to put his own head through a wall. He didn’t stop walking until he was outside, in the gardens, away from any sign of people. He threw himself down at the base of a tree full of apple blossoms, and slammed on his lute strings to work some of his frustration out.
A few birds took off, squawking in protest at the noise. Jaskier thumped the back of his head against the tree trunk.
“You idiot,” he hissed at himself. “Acting like a scorned wife.”
I was hoping a good shag would make you less of an ass, but I guess I was wrong.
The words bounced around in his empty skull, spitting venom. Jaskier covered his face with his hands and let out a groan. He couldn’t believe he had actually said that to Geralt’s face. Had he put his head on backwards this morning?
Jaskier had said a lot of stupid things in his life. But this was just mortifying.
A little brown bird fluttered down to the ground in front of him and started foraging in the soil with its beak.
“He snarled at me,” Jaskier complained to the bird, who peered at him with round black eyes. “Actually bared his teeth. Like—like a…”
No. He was not doing the metaphor thing this early in the morning, gods preserve him.
He sighed and put his forehead against his knees. The bird hopped closer to him and sang out a shrill melody.
Jaskier dragged his face up and gave the bird a soft smile when it released another call. He whistled a poor imitation of its song back.
The bird hopped backward, surprised.
“Sorry, friend,” he said. “I’m not exactly at my best today.”
The bird hopped forward again and sang out another sharp melody. Jaskier brightened considerably. He sat up properly and started plucking gingerly at his lute, accompanying the little animal’s performance. They continued making music together as the sun rose and turned the powdery sky to a more vivid blue.
“New song?”
Jaskier’s finger caught on a string with a twang and the bird gave him a chirped reprimand.
He looked up with wild, desperate hope as Geralt settled next to him against the tree.
A small loaf of freshly baked bread with cinnamon and raisins was shoved into Jaskier’s face. He took it and then looked shamefaced down at the ground.
Geralt tossed a piece of his own bread to the bird, who started pecking at it with gusto.
“Nightingale,” noted Geralt, gesturing at the bird with his chin, for once the first to break the silence. “Damn thing sings all day and all night. Never takes a break.”
Jaskier watched the nightingale hop almost ceremonially around the piece of bread, like it was an offering from heaven. He bit into his own loaf and chewed slowly without really tasting it.
Geralt nudged him. “Relative of yours?”
Jaskier sat quietly for a few more seconds before turning to stare owlishly at the Witcher.
“Geralt of Rivia. Did you just make a joke?” he asked in disbelief.
“Hmm,” said Geralt noncommittally.
Something in Jaskier’s chest unclenched. He sat up on his knees and took no care over grass stains.
“I’m so, so deeply sorry, Geralt. I made a total ass of myself back there. Forgive me,” he said.
Geralt didn’t blink. “It’s fine. Forget it.”
“But it isn’t fine. Not in the slightest. You see—” Jaskier licked his lips and tapped his fingers nervously against his lute. “I think I’ve become rather entitled. To your attention, I mean. And I—I suppose I’m more of the jealous type than I thought. I promise to be less of a brat about sharing you in the future.”
Geralt’s face didn’t betray anything, but his voice held a trace of amusement when he said, “I’m not a pie, Jaskier.”
“Maybe we’re all just pies in the end,” Jaskier replied. “And nobody else should have a say in how we divide ourselves.”
Geralt looked skeptical. “Sounds like a metaphor.”
“I suppose they have their uses sometimes.” The banter having returned to more-or-less a comfortable normal, Jaskier settled back down beside Geralt. “What happened with the mage?”
“Gone,” said Geralt, with no inflection. “Her kind doesn’t stick around anywhere for long.”
Jaskier glanced warily at him. “And…are you…alright with that?”
Geralt shrugged.
The nightingale hopped closer to them and trilled demandingly. Geralt tossed her another piece of bread.
Jaskier settled back against the tree and tried to focus on the peace of the moment, the gentleness. But something within him was still a bit broken. Nothing between him and Geralt had changed; that should have been a good thing.
Should have been, but.
He started strumming his lute again, and the nightingale sang along as if it was her duty.
Nightingale,
oh happy nightingale,
You feel in your agony
all the weight of the blue.
Nightingale,
enchanted nightingale,
you’ll die singing,
wrapped in sound
and heavenly light.
Geralt frowned. “A bit depressing for your average tavern fare.”
Jaskier continued playing. “I’ll workshop it.”
❀ ❀
At the insistence of the emir, they stayed in Atalina Palace another night. Geralt didn’t show up to the banquet again, and he didn’t give a reason this time, nor did he regale Jaskier with warnings like he had the night before. The danger had been alleviated; the djinn was gone—flown up into the sky, off to wherever djinns go. It was the perfect night, then, for Jaskier to really let loose; a taste of city life to keep him going for the next few months on unpaved roads and campfire dinners. He played the first draft of “Nightingale” to great success, as it turns out the locals were enamored with the obnoxious little birds, which were native to the region. Jaskier had managed to settle on at least one verse he was sure he would keep:
Let my heart be a nightingale
over heavenly fields.
Let it die singing slow,
wounded by the blue sky.
And, as it fades,
let the man in front of me
scatter it through the dust
with his hands.
The woman who smelled like lilies was nowhere to be seen, but a young man with an open vest gestured him over to an array of cushions in the corner. He was smoking from an ornate gold waterpipe, and had a sharp smile that warmed Jaskier up on the inside like hot coals.
“I’ve noticed something about you these past few days,” said the man, leaning forward on purpose so that his and Jaskier’s arms were touching.
Jaskier smiled coyly at him. “Oh, yes? Pray tell.”
“You have a sweet voice. The kind that drips honey. And you smile as brightly as the sun.” The man traced the designs on Jaskier’s sleeve with his finger. “But when you actually listen to your lyrics, most of them are full of sorrow.”
Jaskier swallowed. “Yes, well. No one wants to hear a ballad about two people being happy and emotionally stable together.”
The man laughed. “You have a point. I suppose there is something alluring about a broken heart.” He leaned back against the purple cushions, eyelids lowering. “But let’s mend it just for tonight. What can I do for you, sweet bird?”
Jaskier looked into the man’s dark eyes, twinkling with such warm invitation. He placed a hand suggestively high on his thigh.
“I’d like to forget about everything for a couple of hours,” said Jaskier. “Do you think you could manage that?”
The man’s grin widened, and then, not breaking eye contact with Jaskier, took a deep inhale from his pipe. He leaned forward slowly and touched his lips to Jaskier’s with a feather-light pressure, blowing the smoke into Jaskier’s open mouth. Jaskier’s fingers dug into the man’s clothes. The smoke tasted like green apple.
“Again?” asked the man, pulling away a fraction of an inch.
Jaskier nodded and eagerly swallowed another of the man’s smiles, and when his mind started floating away, he fell back against the cushions and pulled the man on top him so they could start kissing in earnest, in full view of everyone at the party.
It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had made out with someone in the dark corner of a banquet hall. But there was something particularly cathartic about this experience, with the open night sky overhead, and the twinkling of the string lights, and the sweet smoke filling his brain so that there was no more room for thought.
“You’re a wonder,” he breathed in between kisses.
The man’s eyes darkened, though his smile stayed fixed. “Little bird, you tempt me entirely too much.”
“Not enough, apparently. Our clothes are still on,” observed Jaskier. The man laughed and, to placate him, started unbuttoning Jaskier’s jerkin and kissing down his neck.
Jaskier lolled his head back. Everything was a bit hazy; not because his senses had dulled, but because the details of the world no longer seemed to hold any significance. But as his gaze wandered lazily and without focus, he suddenly caught a flash of yellow eyes from the shadows of the balustrade. His whole body jolted, thighs clenching around the man who had him pinned to the cushions.
Whatever he had smoked was more potent than he thought. He had to be hallucinating. But he couldn’t look away from those phantom eyes, and the silhouette of a man dressed all in black, carefully at a distance from the festivities.
Lips reached his collarbone and a tongue gently teased the delicate skin there. Jaskier shuddered so deeply he could feel it in his bones.
“So sensitive,” his cushion-mate remarked with approval.
The yellow eyes were still watching him. Suddenly Jaskier was covered in goosebumps at just the glide of a hand on his ribcage. He moaned when fingers made their way up his shirt to tease his nipple; convulsed when teeth dug gingerly into the skin of his neck.
“Little bird, maybe we should go to a room we have to ourselves,” suggested the stranger, pulling away for a moment. He looked as red and worked up as Jaskier felt.
“No!” said Jaskier. Then, at the man’s confusion, added more placatingly, “I mean…I’d like to stay out here a little longer, if you wouldn’t mind.”
The man gave him an appeasing smile. “I can’t tell if you’re more demure or more indecent than I thought,” he said.
“I have layers,” said Jaskier.
The man chuckled, and kissed him again, and thankfully kept his eyes closed so he didn’t notice Jaskier’s fixation on the balustrade, seeking out with desperation the shadowy figure still standing there.
He wasn’t real. He wasn’t real but Jaskier didn’t care. He acted like the silent, stoic, real thing; unblinking as Jaskier bit down on a stranger’s earlobe, unmoving as he moaned and bucked his hips against a stranger’s, unstirred as Jaskier panted, open-mouthed, a dark blush blossoming over his entire body. Constantly, Jaskier kept glancing back at the spectre, mutely imploring it with growing desperation to come steal him away, even though he knew, in the ever-shrinking rational part of his brain, that it never would.
But the yellow eyes remained fixed on him.
He collapsed forward with a groan of relief when a hand traveled lower so he could finally press himself into it. “Geralt,” he gasped.
As soon as the name left his lips, there was an immediate halt in proceedings. The man stopped moving, and so did he, and awkwardness fell over both of them like a shroud. Jaskier pulled back.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” he said.
The man looked a little dazed, but not upset. Finally, he smiled nonchalantly. “I should be the one apologizing. I couldn’t help you forget after all.”
Jaskier looked back at the balustrade, and, just as he’d thought, the yellow eyes had disappeared. He stumbled up, his clothes in complete disarray, and felt more miserable than he had all day.
“I really am sorry about this,” said Jaskier. “You’re very skilled at…well, you know. I’m just a complete and utter mess.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself over this,” insisted the stranger. He took another thoughtful puff of the water-pipe, giving Jaskier a considering look. “I just hope that man learns to appreciate what he has.”
Jaskier didn’t know whether to smile or not; he didn’t even know how to accept the strangely timed compliment. So he apologized one more time, buttoned up his clothes, and fast-walked back to the room he was sharing with Geralt.
He didn’t know what exactly he was hoping to find. Seeing Geralt would be humiliating; not seeing Geralt would be concerning. But something inside him needed to be with Geralt right now; every nerve was quivering for him, adding a sense of urgency to his every step.
He opened the door to an empty room.
Jaskier ruffled his hair in frustration. If Geralt wasn’t here, could he have…really been at the banquet?
He swallowed hard, his legs shaking at the possibility.
Or…could he be in someone else’s room?
A sour taste bloomed in the back of his mouth.
No.
The voice in his head was clear, masculine, calming. Almost like Geralt’s, without the gruffness. And immediately Jaskier knew Geralt wasn’t in the palace.
He followed his gut instinct and walked with purpose out of the room, the corridor, the courtyard, the front gate. He kept walking down the lit streets of Garrah, to the main entranceway through the city walls, down through the irrigated fields, and finally came to a halt at the sharp divide between the watered pastures and the untamed drylands; an almost perfectly horizontal line between dark soil and powdery sand.
“You shouldn’t have left the palace, nightingale,” said a cool, slippery voice. “But you’ve certainly made my job a lot easier.”
Jaskier whipped around, but it was too late. Hideously sharp chains wrapped around him and pinned him to the ground, almost on their own accord.
“Magic chains? Seriously?” Jaskier huffed. He tried to roll into a position where he could get a good look at his captor, but the chains were far too restrictive to allow for that. “Where’d you even get these, a wizard sex shop?”
“Typical bard. All talk, no substance.” A gold dagger pressed against the side of his neck almost casually. There was the small, but nevertheless detectable, scent of lilies. “Yet the Witcher still seems to value you enough to pay your ransom.”
“We don’t have any—” Jaskier winced as the sharp points of the chains tightened around his wrists, “money, you stupid bastard.”
A derisive snort. “Money. Worthless chunks of metal.” The dagger traced a line up to the underside of Jaskier’s chin. “I want my djinn.”
Jaskier wriggled his ankles to test the tightness of the chains and was dismayed when they tightened automatically. “The djinn’s long gone already,” he snapped. “Why didn’t you use your wishes when you had the chance? What were you doing, saving them for a rainy day?”
The tip of the blade left a long, thin cut that only broke the surface of Jaskier’s skin, but started to bleed immediately.
“A lesson that may have come too late for you, little bird. Never play all your cards at once. Always wait for the right time.”
“Excellent advice,” Jaskier said, and then threw his weight backward, using his backside to cause his captor to stumble off-balance. Not the most elegant of moves, but at least it was something. He thrashed, ignoring the chains that were becoming tighter and tighter to the point of pain, and managed to roll over and sit up just in time for a dagger to press into the skin above his heart.
He locked eyes with the pretty girl who had smiled sweetly at him and taken him up to her room the night before.
“So you’re the batshit vizier. How disappointing,” he noted, and then winced as the chains dug deeper into his flesh.
“Not as disappointing as last night,” she said. The tip of the dagger sunk into Jaskier’s skin a millimetre.
Witch’s tits. He was being attacked from all possible angles here.
“I should kill you for the mere fact that you served as a distraction so your Witcher could steal from me,” she said. “But I need you alive so you can deliver a message to him. You’re a man of letters, so I trust you’ll remember how to recite this: ‘Geralt of Rivia, if you don’t return my djinn to me within 24 hours, my chains will slowly strangle your bard to death. Either exchange the djinn for the key, or you’ll be burying his body in slices.’” She smiled at him; that same unrelentingly lovely smile. “Have you got all that?”
Jaskier swallowed. A bit of sand had gotten into his throat when he’d been thrashing on the ground. Everything hurt.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here,” he said finally. “Or, rather, several misunderstandings. If you could kindly move your dagger, we could sit down and have a reasonable conversation—”
“I have no interest in anything you have to say.” The vizier slid her dagger a couple inches along Jaskier’s chest, her eyes taking on a darker look, mixed pools of greed and desperation and rage. “I want my djinn! And if you won’t comply, I’ll just have to carve the message into your skin. Here’s hoping your filthy Witcher can read—”
A howl echoed over the sand dunes.
Jaskier and his captor exchanged an oddly companionable look of bewildered terror before a mountainous ball of white fur crested over a sand dune and tackled the vizier to the ground. Jaskier cringed at the sounds of tearing flesh and agonized screams as he tried desperately to roll away to safety. He’d managed to make it about ten metres closer to the populated city before he rolled into an irrigation ditch.
He spat out muddy water and struggled to sit up. The chains clenched tighter around him and he was forced back down with a whimper of pain. His chin was still bleeding and it was probably going to get infected.
“Fuck! This! Day!” Jaskier shouted at the sky. “Fuck every god in the sky! I hope every last one of you tumbles down into the fiery pits of hell!”
It was cathartic for about nine seconds, before he realized that his screaming had attracted the wolf.
Shit. The vizier had been right. All talk, no substance.
He looked up at the giant animal, perched at the edge of the irrigation ditch, looking down at him. The yellow eyes that glowed in the darkness were unmistakable.
“It’s—you,” breathed Jaskier.
The white wolf.
His wolf.
“But…how? How is this possible? You can’t…you can’t be here.” Jaskier managed to roll up onto one shoulder to look a bit closer at the wolf. He remembered the questions the vizier had asked him, eager for knowledge about a foreign animal. “Pup, this is the desert,” he said, like he was giving a pilgrim some directions. “This is no place for wolves.”
The wolf peered down at him blankly. Was he hallucinating? Again? What the fuck had that guy given him?
The chains contracted painfully across his shoulders and he hissed.
The wolf growled.
Jaskier noticed the blood on its muzzle for the first time. The vizier had fallen silent some minutes ago.
Somehow, amidst the shock of recognizing the white wolf, he had forgotten that it was a killer.
“Pup,” he said, voice shaking. “It’s me. Jaskier. Don’t you remember? I’m the bard who pissed his pants when he met you. I’m sure you think of me fondly.”
The white wolf slowly made its way down into the ditch, being very careful not to slip in the mud.
“Please.” Jaskier was too exhausted to plead or cry and his limbs felt like they were about to cave in on each other. He closed his eyes. “I can’t have my life end like this. It’s humiliating.”
He thought of the nightingale, singing until the end of its life. The last time he’d run into this wolf, he’d had a revelation of how he wanted his life to end: with a song on his lips, surrounded by loved ones.
A ditch with a wolf was a little different. But he still had the music inside, at least.
“The mighty white wolf / stalks slowly toward me / scattering the stars / into the night,” he sang with a trembling cadence.
The wolf snuffled at his chained wrists.
Where are you, my love? / Were you ever real, my love?
The wolf bit into the chains and started dragging him across the ground.
The solemn white wolf: / a burst of light / dies and is born again / in its yellow eyes.
It was a slow, bumpy journey back up the hill of the irrigation ditch as the wolf lost its footing more than a couple times.
Yellow eyes are the last thing I’ll see. / Yes, let yellow eyes be the last thing I see.
The wolf nudged Jaskier’s shoulder with its nose, causing the chains to more insistently pin his arms down to his sides, almost certainly leaving mean bruises.
Jaskier winced, finally relinquishing to the existential dread of facing the carnivorous beast directly. The poor thing looked confused, like it was trying to figure out how to cut the twine off a particularly plump turkey.
“There’s a key,” explained Jaskier, arms spasming from the pain. “A magic key. The vizier was keeping it as leverage.”
The wolf promptly did an about-face and padded away. Jaskier was about to sink into the even greater horror of dying slowly, in pain, alone, with no giant predator even to distract him, when he heard the squishy, grotesque sound of someone digging through flesh—one he was all too familiar with nowadays.
The wolf returned and dropped a bloody key into Jaskier’s lap. Immediately the chains loosened and collapsed around him.
“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier groaned, sitting up to rub at the deep red gouges on his wrists and rolling back his aching shoulders. “That was fucking agony.”
He glanced up to find the wolf two inches away from his face.
“I suppose you want to eat me now?” Jaskier said with resignation. “Well, you’ve certainly earned the privilege.”
Then he froze as he actually realized what had just occurred.
“Wait a minute. Can you understand me?” he asked.
The wolf didn’t react, but Jaskier was used to dealing with that kind of stoicism.
“Come here,” said Jaskier, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and like the stupidest man alive.
The wolf closed the inch-wide gap between them and snuffled at the wound at his neck, licking it gently.
“Sit,” said Jaskier.
The wolf sat back on its haunches, looking almost surprised at its own obedience.
Jaskier reached out tentatively and let the wolf sniff his hand before it acquiesced to a pet and then a light scratching behind his ears.
“You sweet, sweet thing,” whispered Jaskier, full of reverence and awe. “You absolute miracle. You just saved my life. You’re a godsend.”
After a moment of thought, he looked up at the sky.
“Er, sorry about that whole ‘fiery pits of hell’ thing. I didn’t, um, really mean it,” he lied.
When he brought his attention back to the matter at hand, the white wolf was still staring at him, curious, like he was trying to figure out where Jaskier fit into his list of wolf priorities.
“You really are very cute,” said Jaskier. He couldn’t resist going in for another ear rub, which the wolf readily accepted. “Very, very big and very, very cute. But where did you come from, love?”
The wolf only seemed to understand Jaskier occasionally, or at least it was pretending this was the case. It seemed completely unwilling to point Jaskier toward any clue to its origins. It was late, and every part of Jaskier’s body was sore, and he was in a dry land with a sandy throat, and he didn’t have enough mental energy in him to solve any kind of mystery.
“Geralt must be worried,” Jaskier told the wolf absentmindedly. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Or maybe he’s not. Could go either way, really.”
One of the wolf’s ears flickered. Jaskier pinched his eyebrows together when he thought about how he’d only gone out here in the first place to find Geralt.
But why out here? What reason did he have to assume that Geralt had left the city? Because a voice told him to?
“I thought the smoke tasted like apples, but it must have been shrooms or something,” groaned Jaskier.
He stood up and the wolf stood too. In Jaskier’s peripheral vision, he could see the still body of the vizier, and it sent shivers down his spine. Not wanting to look any closer, he started making his way back toward the city. Only a minute or so later, when he had reached the point where the fields started evening out and he could see the paved road back to the gate very clearly, did he consciously register that the wolf was following him. It was amazing, really, considering that the wolf came up to his shoulder, that it could move so stealthily.
“Oh, love,” he said gently. “You can’t come with me into the city. That won’t turn out well for anyone.”
The wolf, once again, did not seem to understand. When Jaskier took a few more steps, so did the wolf.
“Tell you what,” offered Jaskier, “if you’re still here in the morning, I’ll come bring you a big, juicy steak. How does that sound?”
The wolf seemed slightly intrigued by this. Maybe the word “steak” was the key, or “juicy.” But when Jaskier took a few steps backward, the wolf, perhaps not understanding that this was a bartering situation, still moved to follow. So Jaskier said, “Sit.”
The wolf sat.
“Stay.” Jaskier made sure the order came out firm.
He took a few more steps backward, and this time the wolf didn’t come after him. So Jaskier turned away to walk toward the gate.
The wolf let out a pitiful whine.
Jaskier’s footsteps came to an abrupt halt as guilt came wriggling up from his belly. He nearly turned back. But then what? What would he do then? Get the giant wolf a dog collar? Sleep out in the desert for the night?
He swiveled a bit to look back at the wolf, who was still sitting obediently but who looked unmistakably sad, in his canine way: drooping ears, shiny eyes, twitching paws.
“I’ll come back,” promised Jaskier. “I’ll find you.”
Then he stiffened his shoulders and forced himself to turn around, forced himself to ignore the strong pull in his chest, and speed-walked back toward the city as fast as his aching body would allow, and managed to keep moving past the dim, torchlit streets, to ignore every stranger who tried to speak to him, to breeze past the guards standing outside Atalina Palace, before collapsing inside his room.
Geralt wasn’t there.
Jaskier summoned up his last strength to drag himself over to Geralt’s rucksack for ointment and bandages. He peeled off his clothes, which were caked in blood, sand, and mud, and wiped off the dirt best he could in the water basin, and then started dressing every open wound he could find.
The whole process felt like it took seven years, at least. His arms felt weighed down by anchors and his fingers kept shaking.
“Dammit, Geralt, where the fuck are you?” he hissed under his breath.
He was usually spoiled when it came to his injuries, he realized. Geralt was always the one who took care of them, changed his bandages, applied the right herbs. He only stopped short of kissing them better.
And now, he realized, if he had been left as a human ransom notice for Geralt in this room, he might not have been found till morning. All his bones could’ve been ground to dust by then.
Maybe Geralt had lied to him. Maybe Yennefer was still in Garrah.
Jaskier dropped the various items he had used where he stood. He could deal with cleaning all that shit up in the morning. He stumbled over to the bed and sagged into it, barely managing to get a sheet over himself before he crumpled into a ball and fell asleep.
❀ ❀
The sun was already a fourth of the way through the sky when Jaskier woke up. He managed to drag himself out of bed and get things relatively in order (he could never remember exactly where each item went in Geralt’s rucksack, which drove Geralt completely up the wall) before splashing water on his face and trying to make himself look somewhat human. He was still getting dressed—which was a slow process, when absolutely everything hurt and creaked in protest when he so much as tried to lift a limb beyond a ninety-degree angle—when Geralt finally burst into the room like a rhinoceros.
They stared at each other for a second. Geralt had circles under his eyes so dark they were almost purple, and his hair was even scruffier than usual. He looked about as lousy as Jaskier felt. His eyes took Jaskier in, the bruises from the chains clearly visible under his still unbuttoned shirt, the bandages that he had haphazardly applied in what were unfortunately conspicuous places: under his chin, his wrists, his clavicle.
“I won’t ask if you don’t,” Jaskier joked weakly.
Geralt was speechless. Whatever colour had been in his face quickly drained out of it.
Jaskier watched and waited as Geralt took a few steps forward, still staring at his body like it was covered in live snakes. Finally he was close enough to reach out and pull back the white linen of Jaskier’s undershirt to examine the bruises and—in a few places—welts, that the chains had left around Jaskier’s chest, arms, ribcage, and legs.
“Please don’t make me take my pants off,” said Jaskier tiredly. “It took years to get them on.”
Geralt visibly swallowed. He brought his hand over to one of Jaskier’s bandaged wrists. Jaskier patiently turned his wrist over for examination.
Geralt stared at it for a long time. His expression was very tight.
“I know it’s kind of slapdash. But I did the best I could,” said Jaskier.
Geralt didn’t say anything. Didn’t meet his eyes, even. It was like he was frozen in time, completely paralyzed.
Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek. The silence was killing him. He put his other hand on Geralt’s forearm.
“Hey, before we leave Garrah, can we stop by the marketplace? I think the clothes I wore last night are unsalvageable. On the bright side, I would say I look much better in blue than red, so it’s not as big a loss as it could’ve been. I could acquire a new shade. Yellow’s a bit bold, but it might be worth trying—” He was babbling almost incoherently, hoping that one of the words waterfalling out of his mouth would erase the terrible expression on Geralt’s face.
He finally stopped talking when, cautiously, Geralt lifted Jaskier’s wrist to his nose.
And immediately turned white as a sheet.
Geralt dropped the wrist. And then he started backing away with wild eyes, like a cornered animal.
“Geralt,” said Jaskier. “Geralt, I’m fine.”
Geralt shook his head, let out a noise that Jaskier had never heard before—something like a growl, but more high-pitched—and then immediately lunged for the door.
“No,” said Jaskier, managing to move fast enough to slam the door shut before Geralt could slip out of it. “No, we are not doing this again.”
Geralt snarled. “Let me go.”
This time, Jaskier would not be daunted. “No. We’re talking this out like adults.”
Geralt was radiating agitation—it came off him in waves, layering the entire room. Jaskier reached out to put a soothing hand on his shoulder, but Geralt pulled violently back, like he’d been burned.
“Stay away from me.” The words came out not quite human-sounding, like his mouth was full of teeth.
Jaskier’s heart was beating so fast and hard he could feel it in his throat. He didn’t know what to do, or say; nothing made sense, nothing was fixable. Any normal person would have hightailed out of this room; anyone with their brain still intact would assume they were in danger. He didn’t understand Geralt, he probably never would. But—
“I can’t,” he said, slumping back against the door.
Geralt glared at him, still irrationally angry, still trapped in the mess of his own head.
“How haven’t you gotten this yet?” Jaskier let out a bitter huff of laughter. “I can’t stay away from you, Geralt.”
Something shifted in the air between them then. Geralt’s shoulders loosened slightly, and his face was still tight, but more from confusion than anger.
“I need you,” Jaskier said, with his stupid tongue that never stopped once it got going, “and I don’t have the energy to chase after you today. So please, could you just—?”
Jaskier had no words to end his sentence with. He didn’t know what he needed exactly from Geralt, just that he needed him around; that the time without him had been hell on earth; and that whenever he experienced pain, his first thought was Geralt, full stop.
“Everything hurts,” he whined, in his usual petulant tone, “and I think there’s a very real possibility I might be going to prison for second-degree murder, so I forbid you to leave me to deal with this alone. Consider yourself forbidden, Geralt.”
Geralt had been looking at him like he’d been speaking in tongues. But after Jaskier’s more characteristic tirade, the final layer of tension seemed to drop from his face. He didn’t move any closer, but sighed and said, “Sit down. Let me take a look.”
In his relief, Jaskier practically skipped over to the bed, and when he was propped at the edge of it, Geralt crouched down in front of him and helped him out of his sleeves. He looked closer at the chain marks with his typical industriousness, his ghost-faced reaction from before almost unimaginable.
“Tell me what happened,” said Geralt, his tone heartbreakingly gentle.
Jaskier released a dramatic sigh. “Very well. But just so you know, I’m going to tell it my way. I.e., in saga format.”
Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn’t object.
“Our tale begins the night prior, during a lush palace banquet after a rousing performance that everybody loved—” Jaskier immediately began, and continued prattling on as Geralt carefully checked over his body. He didn’t even stop talking when Geralt eventually did, in fact, make him take off his pants, this time in a much more clinical fashion, so he could start treating the harder-to-reach places on Jaskier’s legs and back.
“—and then, just as the wicked vizier was about to carve her words into the poet’s skin, a howl soared over the sand dunes. And the white wolf leaped out from beyond, felling her to the ground!”
Geralt, who had been industriously applying ointment and bandages to Jaskier’s lower back, halted in his ministrations.
“What?” he grunted.
“I know, it’s very confusing; honestly, I haven’t quite caught up myself,” said Jaskier. “I don’t know how he got into the desert or why he attacked the vizier. But it was the white wolf, Geralt. I mean, my wolf. He even recognized me, I think.”
“…He saved you,” said Geralt, the statement coming out more like a flat, non-believing question.
“He did more than kill the vizier. He helped me out of the ditch, got me out of my chains, he—ugh, Geralt. You’re mixing me all up, I’m skipping all the details,” huffed Jaskier.
“He saved you,” repeated Geralt, this time with a bit more vehemence.
“No question about it. He even let me pet him afterward and tried to follow me home. I told you he was cute. You never believe me, but I swear I have good instincts about these things.” A pause. “Hey, Geralt, are Witchers allowed to have pets on the Path? I mean, you have Roach. Do horses count as pets? I guess what I’m asking is, are there any Witchers that have…I don’t know…dogs, for example?”
He waited for a moment longer, staring up at the ceiling, before prompting, “Geralt? Are you still listening to me?”
There was the soft thump of a warm weight against his shoulder. Jaskier breathed in sharply through his nose.
Geralt turned his head so his lips were against Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier couldn’t control the shiver that ran through his whole body. He pressed back against Geralt on instinct.
“Is it Sehanine?” Geralt muttered quietly; so quietly that it was barely audible, like he was only talking to himself. “Or the djinn?”
Jaskier huffed in irritation, and sat up straight so that he could turn to look Geralt in the eye.
“Any time I think we’re getting somewhere, you have to bring up Sehanine,” he said crossly. “I already told you that whole thing’s bullocks, Geralt. There’s no curse.”
Geralt looked skeptical, but his eyes were surprisingly unshielded.
“...No one’s ever said that to me,” he said finally.
“Uhhh, I have. Remember? The Little Sisters?” prompted Jaskier.
Geralt shook his head. “Not that. No one’s ever said…” Geralt glanced down at the blanket, suddenly avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. His shoulders tensed. “That…they needed me.”
Jaskier blinked, and then was immediately appalled. “A great many people have needed you, Geralt,” he insisted. “If I’d kept a tally of the lives you’ve saved the past year alone, I would run out of pages.”
“But no one would ever admit to it.”
Jaskier didn’t know how to respond to such a calmly-stated radical injustice, so he just sat there looking vexed.
“Why aren’t you afraid?” Geralt finally asked.
Jaskier’s face contorted as he reached mentally for the right words, but they kept escaping his grasp, like hateful little birds. He made a noise of frustration.
“Because you’re not scary, Geralt!” he said.
Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and Jaskier knew that look: it was the one he gave when someone said something particularly suspicious, and inevitably a doll full of needles or a bottle of human eyeballs would turn up in their trunk.
“You don’t believe me,” said Jaskier. He seriously considered flicking Geralt’s forehead to make the look go away.
“…I believe you,” said Geralt after a moment, but the suspicion didn’t leave his eyes.
Jaskier decided the only way he could possibly salvage this conversation was to distract him. “You know, you never told me what you wished for. With the djinn.”
Geralt shifted uncomfortably.
“I suppose you don’t have to tell me. But considering I painted a whole picture for you of my night, it seems only fair,” reasoned Jaskier.
Geralt sighed through his nose and crossed his arms. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.
“I wished for peace,” he said.
Jaskier hadn’t been expecting that. “Peace? Like, peace on earth?”
Geralt shook his head. “Peace,” he said slowly, “for me. And Yen.”
A lot of things came together for Jaskier then. Yennefer had clearly tried to perform some sort of crazy witch ritual with the djinn, and Geralt had managed to wrestle it away from her. Then he had wished for the only thing that made sense in the moment.
And afterward, they had found peace in each other.
Jaskier turned back around so he wouldn’t have to look at Geralt anymore. “Don’t wishes normally come in threes?” he asked in a faux-casual tone.
Geralt’s fingers skimmed over a dark bruise on his lower back, and even the feather-light touch made Jaskier wince.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Geralt gruffly. “It didn’t work.”
❀ ❀
The emir was surprisingly understanding about the dead vizier. Maybe too understanding.
Geralt had explained everything in his typically expedient fashion: handed him the broken shards of the djinn’s lamp, gestured to the chain marks still clearly imprinted on Jaskier’s skin, and grunted a few words about the wolf attack. And though the evidence was considerable, one still wouldn’t expect the emir to smile and thank them at the news; he should at least ask a few more questions, for decorum’s sake. But he stood up and shook their hands.
“It is sad, terribly sad, yes. But Leilah had been going off the rails for quite some time,” noted the emir. “She served me well; she had a sharp mind. A very strategic diplomat. So she should have known that when a potential alliance comes up, one must seize the chance. Instead she stirred up quite a fuss. I am thus not surprised she wished to usurp me.”
“You were trying to marry her off,” said Geralt, getting a read of the situation much quicker than Jaskier.
“Well…yes.” The emir twirled the end of his moustache. “Trust must be built somehow.”
“Did you consider asking her if she wanted to get married? She had a whole life here,” said Jaskier, already starting to flush under his collar.
“It wasn’t the marriage she opposed so much as the kingdom,” explained the emir.
“And which kingdom is that?” asked Geralt.
“Nilfgaard.”
Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Hmm.”
This meant nothing to Jaskier. He had heard of Nilfgaard, of course; and there were tales of its invasions into neighbouring territories in the south. But those were distant politics. And that’s what lords always did, invade each other’s territories and raze villages to the ground—it was pretty much their job. He didn’t know why anyone would take particular objection to Nilfgaard.
“The Nilfgaardians are ancient enemies of ours,” the emir explained. “We have lost many family members to skirmishes with them. But the nature of having an enemy for centuries means that there must be moments of peace and agreement. Leilah, however, could not accept this simple fact.”
“Hmm.” This time Geralt and Jaskier hummed in sync.
“But she was more desperate than I thought,” the emir continued, suddenly looking more solemn. “To leave one’s plans in the hands of a djinn is the greatest folly.”
“Why?” Jaskier asked. “Because after the third plan, you’re fucked?”
The emir laughed, his expression changing on a dime. He smiled warmly at Jaskier. “Oh, bards. This is why I love having your kind around,” he said. “But no. It is because, as any sage will tell you, a djinn does not alter reality. It merely presents you with what is already possible.”
“What? Then what’s the point of the wishes?” asked Jaskier. He glanced over at Geralt, who seemed to be listening with great consternation.
“People think that djinns look for ways to convolute wishes, to use people’s desires against them, to trick people. This is not true,” said the emir. “Djinns are not mean-spirited. Nor are they good-spirited, mind you. They just…are. Forces of nature, so to speak. It is just that people often wish for things that are against nature; and so the wishes rebound in unpredictable ways, turned into something that can make sense with reality. That’s why one must always be extremely careful with their words to get a positive result.”
Jaskier contemplated this. “So that’s why she waited to use the wishes…” he mused.
“There are some who have an even more cynical view than this,” said the emir. “That djinns simply bring about the destiny that already awaits you. Rather than granters of any kind of boon, they call them harbingers of fate. They answer to a higher power than people, in other words; so what you wish for doesn’t really matter. But I myself don’t ascribe to this interpretation. Fate is rarely so straightforward.”
Jaskier nodded, but he had stopped listening. Instead he was watching Geralt, who looked lost in thought, his brow furrowed and his eyes nearly closed. He wanted to know what he was mulling over, but he knew Geralt would never answer him directly if he asked.
Probably Yennefer.
Jaskier nearly rolled his eyes. Stupid djinn.
“I happen to think people’s choices matter,” said Jaskier. “Destiny and divine interference and all of that—it’s all just people trying to find meaning in the chaos. I want to create my own meaning.”
“Ah,” said the emir with approval. “Spoken like a true poet.”
When Jaskier looked back over, he was startled to find Geralt watching him. He felt a blush work its way to the tips of his ears. The Witcher was probably thinking about how silly he was, with his pedantic human philosophies. But Geralt could mind his own business; he was already, like, seventy years old. Jaskier would be lucky to reach that age.
So yes, he often thought about the meaning of life. Sue him.
The emir walked them to the palace entryway after paying them both lavishly. He stood with his hands behind his back, smiling benignly, but his benevolence now seemed to have an ominous sheen to it.
“You are both always welcome in Atalina Palace,” he announced. “Especially you, nightingale. We pay handsomely.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jaskier, fully intending to never return as long as he lived.
They exchanged awkward goodbyes; then he and Geralt wandered into the outer square. After a considerable silence and several covert glances, Jaskier finally decided he had to address the elephant in the room.
“What’s crawled up your trousers?” asked Jaskier. “You’ve been frowning even more than usual. Has your face finally gotten stuck that way?”
Geralt harrumphed. “I’m thinking about the vizier.”
“Oh. Yes.” Jaskier quickly sobered. “There is something quite tragic about it, isn’t there?”
Geralt’s expression became more severe. “It wouldn’t be tragic if she wasn’t dead.”
“Riiight,” said Jaskier slowly. “Well. It’s not that I disagree with you. But surely she would be executed if she had lived?”
“That’s not the point, Jaskier,” Geralt growled.
“Then what is? Please enlighten me,” said Jaskier, only a bit sassily because he was really very curious.
“The wolf shouldn’t have killed her,” Geralt said. “There could’ve been another way.”
Jaskier peered at him with more vexation. “I suppose. But…it’s a wild animal, Geralt. You can’t blame it. I mean, we aren’t going around accusing boars of murder for charging people trying to stab them with spears, are we?”
“That’s different. This wasn’t self-defense.”
“No, you’re right. It wasn’t. It was coming to my defense,” said Jaskier, halting abruptly. “What do you want me to say, Geralt? Fine, I admit it’s a sad thing she died. But am I angry at the creature that saved me from being carved up like a turkey? No. These things happen all the time. We’ve seen far worse deaths than this. So why are you harping on this one?”
“Why are you so set on defending the damn beast?” snapped Geralt, stepping closer to Jaskier, blocking out the sun, his shadow swallowing him up.
“Maybe because I owe that damn beast my damn life, Geralt! Or is that not valuable enough to you?” Jaskier snapped back, his voice escalating.
The two of them were up in each other’s faces, almost nose-to-nose, and they were both furious for no discernible reason. Jaskier wasn’t quite sure what they were fighting about, but he did know he felt very passionate about it, so he refused to back down. It was unclear what the outcome of this quarrel would be, so it was almost a relief to be interrupted. Almost.
“Little bird!” The handsome man with the green apple smoke from the night before was just coming in through the front gate. He smiled his big, sharp grin that still gave Jaskier butterflies; but the primary emotion he experienced upon seeing him again was overwhelming embarrassment. It didn’t help that Geralt was looming over him, a dark, palpable presence that caught the man’s eye immediately. Jaskier turned red as a tomato when he remembered what happened at the banquet.
“H-Hello again,” he said.
“Are you leaving? So soon?” asked the man. He seemed actually disappointed, for some unhinged reason.
“Yes. I think I’ve held us back long enough,” said Jaskier, determined not to look over or acknowledge Geralt in any way.
“Well. I hope you return someday,” said the man. “If you ever want to find me, my name is Salvador.”
“Salvador,” repeated Jaskier numbly, only half his brain functioning. “Salvador of Garrah.”
“That’s right,” said Salvador, smiling. Then he leaned forward and kissed him.
Jaskier stumbled against him in surprise but didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a dark-corner-in-a-banquet kiss, but it wasn’t a morning-in-the-town-square kiss either—something in between that left Jaskier a little dizzy.
Jaskier looked up at him, pinned as he was to his chest. “Wow. You really believe in giving people second chances,” he said with a slow smile.
“And third chances, if they merit it,” said Salvador, mirroring his smile. “Consider this a farewell gift.”
He gestured meaningfully with a tip of his head to the left, and when Jaskier looked in that direction, he saw Geralt already walking away.
“Geralt!” he called, and was of course completely ignored. He huffed. “That bullheaded jerk—”
He didn’t even realize that Salvador had let go of him until he said, “If you change your mind, little bird, you know where to find me.” Then he winked and turned away to re-enter the palace.
Jaskier stared after him.
“Melitele,” he said under his breath.
There was something really wrong with him to not want to follow up on that.
Instead, he automatically broke into a sprint after Geralt, only to remember that his entire body was still pretty much in shambles. So instead he opted for a light jog, going, “Ow, ow, ow,” with every step.
Geralt must have heard him coming, but he didn’t turn around. He just slowed a noticeable amount.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” gasped Jaskier.
“Roach,” said Geralt shortly.
“I’m sure she’s—” Jaskier wheezed as a sharp pang shot through his right side. “Ow—fine. And I wanted to—mother of—see the marketplace.”
Geralt stopped so suddenly that Jaskier almost ran right into him.
“The marketplace,” said Geralt, turning abruptly. “That’s what you want to stay here for?”
He was giving Jaskier his do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot look. So Jaskier gave him his yes-I-do-in-fact-think-that look.
“Geralt, literally all I have left are the clothes on my back. We just made a metric ton of coin. Garrah has a huge marketplace. It would be a waste not to—”
“Fine,” interrupted Geralt. “Go then.”
It seemed he was planning to be intolerable all day. Jaskier rolled his eyes, but decided to stick his hand into the horse’s mouth anyway.
“You aren’t coming?” he said.
Geralt’s angry face quickly shifted into Geralt’s confused face. Lately Jaskier was always getting some variation between these two.
“You—” Geralt looked at him, then past him, over his head, then back again. “You’re actually going to the marketplace?”
“Gods above, Geralt, yes. I’ve only told you that about a hundred times. Am I speaking Elvish or something?”
Geralt cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly.
“Alright then,” he said. “I’ll come.”
Something about the way Geralt looked just then—a bit embarrassed with still a hint of petulance—was abominably cute to Jaskier. He resisted the suddenly strong urge to pat him on the head.
“Good,” Jaskier said instead. “I need you.”
Geralt’s eyes seemed to flare up for a second, but it may have just been a trick of the light.
“I can barely move my arms. You’re going to have to carry things for me.”
Geralt’s immediate look of exasperation set things right between them again. And everything went back to normal.
For a few more weeks, at least.