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The door to the tavern swung open allowing a cold wind to invade the interior and cut into Jaskir’s sense of satisfaction. He had just got off the stage after performing a selection of his most popular songs, leading the locals of this mid-sized town on the border of Redania in a sing along. The tavern had been crammed to the rafters with townsfolk clamouring to see the storied bard, their enthusiastic if tactless singing chasing away the darkness for a few hours filling him with pride. Of course, his ego had only swollen at the attention he had received afterwards with the patrons bombarding him with their praise- and more importantly their money.
One by one they had staggered off to their little homes, allowed an escape from their mundane lives for a few hours, until the room had all but emptied. He had now been left in peace to count the fistfuls of coin he had collected in his felt cap, letting the toil of the barkeep fade into the background. Despite the heaviness that had entered his limbs and his skin felt warm his spirit was light. His soul vibrated feeling as if it may leave his body at any time with the customary exhilaration of performing splitting his face in a wild grin. It was hardly a royal court, but a crowd was a crowd.
So lost basking in the sensation he nearly missed the figure now standing before him.
“Thank you, thank you,” Jaskir consoled him breathlessly, “But the show is over. Now I need to-“
The words froze in his throat as he shifted his attention to the stranger, his gaze immediately seizing upon their eyes. It was unmistakable. Amber eyes like a cat’s. A witchers eyes. Jaskir’s mind raced as it immediately slipped into survival mode. His muscles tensed sculpting his stance into one less of foppish swagger and now one of wary defensiveness. Things tended to get complicated when a witcher showed up as his many long years travelling with Geralt had taught him.
He did not recognise this one either which deepened his unease. They had a tapering face with narrow, close set yellow eyes which glared out steadily from bellow lowered brows. His hair was long and white much like Geralt’s, hanging loose around his shoulders like his too. His stance was likewise reminiscent to Geralts, a little narrower of shoulder but had that same tense, hunched readiness for action. The expected two swords strapped to his back and wolf headed medallion were accompanied by travel worn grey cloak and hunting leathers. A scent of cold night and pine needles clung around the witcher.
“Are you a friend of Geralt’s?” he asked with a fake sense of casualness.
“Something like that,” the witcher drawled sardonically.
The sound of the voice caused the hair on the back of Jaskir’s neck to rise. It was unmistakable with it’s low husky tone and intense focus on each syllable. But the face it came out of was less square, the cheeks shallower and nose sharper. It was like a winter lake, dark and cold and filled with boundless depths. He had heard it countless times in every tone, it inhabited foundational parts of his mind. His ear as a bard made him sure of it, it wasn’t just wistful thinking. His heart raced and his palms sweated, not out of fear now.
“Geralt?” he asked, his brows knit in confusion.
“The very same, Jaskir,” he bowed his head in greeting.
Jaskir’s mind reeled trying to put the pieces together, he paced with restless agitation but could not tear his eyes from the puzzle before him. It sounded like Geralt, it felt like Geralt but it didn’t look like him. There was no way he had misremembered the details of his face in the months they had been parted, they were simply too different.
“What is this? You’ve been away for months, and you turn up out of the blue looking all,” Jaskir flapped his hands uselessly about, his words suddenly struggling against each other with their magnitude, “Looking all this!”
Jaskir paced, rubbing his mouth in agitation.
“It’s a trick, isn’t it? You’re not Geralt, you’re a changeling or a wizard or something trying to look like him. I’ll commend your skill from one performer to another; you did a pretty good job with the voice and the posture but it’s the face. You got it all wrong. It’s all squished up.”
He twirled a finger in the fake Geralt’s face to no reaction.
“You may have heard rumours about how foolish I was. Jaskir the wastrel. But I am a bard sir, you won’t catch me out easily.”
Jaskir finished his rant with a triumphant, smug grin that did little to mask how heavy he was breathing. The witcher hung his head, supressing a sigh.
“I’m not trying to trick you Jaskir. Thing’s just got…complicated,” he raised his head and fixed Jaskir with a challenging amber stare, “Ask me something only I would know.”
Jaskir placed his fists on his hips defiantly, “Alright then. I’ll take your challenge. If you really know me then how big is-“
“I said something nobody else would know,” the Geralt imposter cut him off with a hint of brittle amusement.
“You have Geralt’s presumptuousness down,” Jaskir responded with a sniff, “I was going to say how big was the blue dragon we saw in the Ramhorn hills was?”
“We’ve never seen a blue dragon” Geralt answered, “The closest thing to a monster we came across was that surly goat that chased you up a tree.”
Jaskir was caught between the sudden surge of hope and the spike of embarrassment that caused his cheeks to prickle with sudden heat. He did not give in yet however and rallied, unwilling to so easily be outwitted.
“Convincing but it could be a reasonable guess,” he stuck his chin out defiantly, “It’ll take more than that to convince me.”
He saw the witcher roll his eyes, inhaling softly.
“What happened on the night after the Countess of Vorgen hosted a feast for you after defeating a nest of drowners?” Jaskir forged on, staring down the witcher. His heart seemed to be creeping ever slower up his throat.
“You got severely drunk on expensive wine and cried yourself to sleep over a three legged dog you saw earlier that day,” Geralt answered, “And they weren’t technically drowners, they had a subtle-“
“What happened to you, Geralt” Jaskir interjected before Geralt could continue his lecture or Jaskir could remember the tragic three legged dog.
“It’s complicated,” Geralt started hesitantly.
“You disappear for three months and then come back looking like that and all you have to say is its complicated?” Jaskir flailed once more, “What was it then? Witcher mutagen? A disguise potion? Witches curse?”
Geralt sighed at the sight of Jaskir making himself more flustered and stepped forwards. He wrapped his large arms around Jaskir, leaning his head on the bard’s shoulder. At first Jaskir was taken by surprise, so rare was it for Geralt to volunteer such an act but quickly he was soothed. It felt right. There was a comfort and sincerity to it he knew could not be faked. It was as if a missing piece of himself had slotted flush back into place. Jaskir didn’t notice when he had slipped his own arm around Geralt.
They held together like that for some time, all too brief, before Geralt broke away.
“Better?” Geralt asked.
“I can get used to it,” Jaskir said coyly, before adding, “Is it permanent?”
“It is a long story.”
“Good thing we’ve got a long time for you tell it then.”