Chapter Text
Jaskier wakes more abruptly than he is accustomed to.
Rising in the mornings is usually a slow affair for him – never willing to leave his bed and face the day until he absolutely has to. It is something his friends and lovers have teased him over relentlessly, and his parents added to their ever-growing list of his shortcomings when his voice still cracked. Today, though, he is fully alert the moment he opens his eyes, without a hint of grogginess to be found. Which is strange, especially when he glances around to find that his entire room is out of focus.
He is no stranger to hangovers after wild nights, and this is not how he should feel. There is no throbbing headache, or nausea-inviting vertigo. In fact, aside from his vision, and the unnaturally quick way his mind cleared, he feels perfectly fine.
Besides, he has been coerced into visiting his parents, and would never dare drink more than a couple glasses of wine in their presence. They are quite adamant about voicing their displeasure with all of his life choices already. He hardly wishes to provide them with more ammunition while trapped beneath their roof. So, he doesn’t think he would have risked getting drunk, and has no symptoms of excessive indulgence, except he also doesn’t remember how he got to his bedroom.
He frowns, racking his mind for the last thing he remembers.
He arrived at the estate, endured a multitude of back-handed compliments and snide remarks from his parents about his state of dress, and the lute case on his back. They ordered him to go get cleaned up and changed, told him they expected him to join them for dinner in a few hours, then took their leave. He vaguely remembers unpacking, getting ready, and taking a walk around the grounds, but then… nothing.
Why can’t he remember?
Jaskier sits up slowly, bracing himself for any delayed dizziness, just in case, but feels nothing of the sort. He dabs at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve in an attempt to clear his vision. An attempt that proves futile when he looks around to find his room is still reduced to a blur of shapes and colors. It would be pretty if it wasn’t so concerning.
“Afraid no amount of rubbing or blinking is going to fix it.” The voice is barely more than a whisper, like wind sneaking in through the window.
It is also entirely unexpected.
Jaskier shrieks, scrambling backwards on his bed, flailing for the dagger he’s taken to hiding beneath his pillow. He only has the weapon thanks to the sleepy suggestion of a thief that expertly fleeced Jaskier at cards in one of Oxenfurt’s many taverns. The sex afterwards was absolutely worth the amount of coin he lost, and the dagger has admittedly come in handy, too. Of course, it’s only helpful if he can find it, and no matter how much he pats at the bed, he feels nothing but a strange prickling sensation along his palm.
“Don’t come any closer,” Jaskier demands shakily, eyes darting around frantically, trying to figure out where the intruder is. Jaskier’s room is large, but not enough for a stranger to hide with Jaskier’s eyes raking over it, blurriness or not.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, and I still don’t, but I will have to come closer, I’m afraid,” the voice replies. “Part of the job.”
The voice has changed, now more distinctly male, with some gruffness to it. Like it’s becoming more solid the more words are spoken. Under any other circumstances it would be interesting, but the only thing that holds Jaskier’s attention is the word job. There is only one explanation he can think of for someone to sneak into his room for coin.
“Are you here to kill me?” Jaskier asks. He wishes his voice wasn’t so timid, but he can’t seem to dredge up even a fraction of his stage presence to counteract his fear.
The stranger huffs quietly, but his voice is gentle when he says, “no. That takes place before my skills are required. You need fear no harm from me, or anyone, for that matter. Not for now.”
Only growing more confused, Jaskier starts to ask what the stranger means, but the question gets caught in his throat when the man steps forward from an impossible place into the faint morning light. Jaskier knows he wasn’t in that corner before. There is nowhere for anyone to hide there; no curtains, or furniture, and even if there was, Jaskier surely would have noticed a man that size – tall and broad-shouldered, wearing armor in a startling red.
He wonders if it is meant to help hide blood.
Then Jaskier realizes that he is seeing the man in perfectly crisp detail, while everything else remains a blur. He can see the buckles on his belts, the sword hilts over his shoulder, the scars marring the right side of his face pulling at his upper lip, and then he sees his eyes.
Amber cat’s eyes.
“You’re a Witcher,” Jaskier chokes, shock and terror racing through him.
“Yes,” the man agrees.
“Then, am I… am I – ” Jaskier can’t bring himself to say it. He forces himself to glance down at the bed, going numb when he sees his own body stretched out beneath the covers, looking for all the world like he’s sleeping. “Oh, gods.”
“You’re not dead, if that’s what you’re asking. Not exactly, anyway,” the Witcher says, crossing the room and kneeling in front of him. There is understanding on his face, and perhaps the scars should ruin the effect, but Jaskier finds himself calming already.
Then his words catch up to Jaskier, and he blinks, pulled entirely from his despair. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
The Witcher grimaces. “It’s complicated, but the simple explanation is that you are caught somewhere between life and death. I was sent to be your guide.”
“To the Underworld?” Jaskier asks weakly. “But if I’m not actually dead, why do I have to go? That doesn’t seem fair!”
“To Kaer Morhen, specifically, but yes, it is necessary for you to go, fair or not.” The Witcher takes Jaskier’s hand, squeezing it gently. Trying to comfort him, Jaskier realizes. “You aren’t dead, that’s true, but you are close enough to our side that your soul pulled free. And nothing good comes of wandering about that way, trust me. For your own safety, you must stay in Kaer Morhen, at least until your body crosses the border one way or the other.”
“So, if I recover, if my body recovers, I mean, I’ll be able to leave?” Jaskier’s voice is tentatively hopeful, and the Witcher smiles at him.
“Exactly. In fact, you’ll be nestled back in your body in a blink the moment it happens,” the Witcher assures him.
Jaskier bites his lip. “Do we have to go right now?”
“We do.” The Witcher’s voice is kind, but it is clear this is not negotiable.
“Then I suppose we best have at,” Jaskier says with false bravado.
“That’s the spirit!” The Witcher grins as he rises, pulling Jaskier up with him by his hand.
“No, I’m the spirit,” Jaskier says on reflex. It’s a stupid joke, a terrible joke, and he makes it more to cope than anything, but it still startles a laugh out of the Witcher. “Never heard that one before, huh?”
“Believe it or not, no. People are usually much too angry or terrified to make jokes,” the Witcher admits.
“You don’t say…” Jaskier pauses, realizing he doesn’t actually know what the Witcher’s name is. If Witchers even have names. Most everything he knows are from old wives’ tales whispered by the servants, and the confusing mixture of folklore and religious texts at Oxenfurt.
Some claim they are wicked, fighting over which of them gets to kidnap and harm fresh souls in preparation for the terrible tortures they will endure in the Underworld beneath the appreciative eye of their lord. Others see them as a neutral force, as inevitable as the sunrise and the changing of the seasons, carrying out their duties without malice or compassion. The only thing all sources can agree on is that Witchers are the agents of the Lord of the Dead, angels of death sent to gather up souls of the deceased, willing or not, and that seeing one is an ill omen.
Jaskier can’t recall a single tale that mentioned them being kind, or laughing at jokes.
He supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised. People, no matter how well-meaning, are notoriously fallible storytellers, even when they have witnessed something first-hand. Jaskier suspects the few that have returned from the Underworld, the way he hopes to do, were either eager to forget the experience, or were not believed when they shared their tale with others.
Well, if nothing else, this has the makings of an incredible song, if he lives to sing it.
“What should I call you?” Jaskier asks.
The Witcher’s smile is wide when he responds, “Eskel is fine.”
“Eskel. And you may call me Jaskier, if it pleases you,” Jaskier says.
“Jaskier it is. Now, come along. We have a long walk since you can’t take the normal way down the Gwenllech. That's reserved for the truly dead.” Eskel motions for Jaskier to walk with him, striding confidently toward the wall, passing through it like it isn’t there. Jaskier gapes, jumping when Eskel’s head reappears through it. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt, though it may feel a bit odd.”
Jaskier swallows and nods, following after him. He hesitates for a moment in front of the wall, raising his hand and laying it against the grayish haze. He presses, and that same prickling sensation from earlier slips along his skin as his arm passes through it with barely any resistance. He rushes the rest of the way through before he can second-guess himself, joining Eskel on the other side.
It occurs to him then that his bedroom is on the third floor, and he stares down at the ground dozens of feet below him. He gasps, eyes widening, chest heaving as he tries to take in air to calm his panic.
Air he isn’t actually breathing.
He doesn’t know why that, of all things, is what tips him over into hysterics, but he can’t seem to get his legs to move, or his mouth to work. Jaskier makes some sort of garbled noise, and then there is a hand on his shoulder.
“Easy, easy. I know it’s scary, but you’re fine. Nothing is going to hurt you.” Eskel bends down slightly until their eyes meet. “That’s why I’m here. I’m going to get you to Kaer Morhen, safe and sound, and our laws forbid anyone bringing harm to you once we pass through the gates. Geralt will not allow it, and none would dare challenge him.”
Jaskier doesn’t know who Geralt is, perhaps a captain amongst the Witchers? But Eskel’s assurances do the trick, pulling him back from the brink until he is relatively calm again. “Thank you,” Jaskier rasps. “Sorry, that was silly. You already explained things, and I still–”
“Nonsense. There’s no need to apologize, and there’s still plenty you don’t know. You’re handling this much better than most, trust me.” Eskel claps him on the shoulder, then steps back.
Jaskier straightens and nods, trying to calm the shaking of his hands. “Right. Which way?”
“West,” Eskel answers, turning that direction with purpose.
“Toward the setting sun,” Jaskier murmurs thoughtfully.
Seems that part of the myths is true, at least.
As they move, they float gradually downwards, until they are walking along the road. Well, the brown swath where the road should be. Eskel must see him looking at it.
“You look like you have a question,” Eskel says conversationally.
“I do, yes,” Jaskier admits, just as he spots a flash of black streaking above them that he assumes is a bird. “Everything is hazy. Like I’m looking at it through a set of gauzy curtains. Why is that?”
“Ah,” Eskel replies. “You’re not far off with that comparison. There is a boundary that divides the living and the dead, a thin one, admittedly, but it’s there all the same. You’re simply seeing the world from the other side of it. It’s also what prevents you from interacting with anything properly, like that dagger you were trying to grab.”
Jaskier blushes, or at least, he feels embarrassed enough to blush. Who knows if it is actually showing on his face or not. He thinks about asking Eskel, but it feels too silly. He chooses a more useful question, instead.
“Does this happen often?” Jaskier waves around to encompass them both. Eskel makes a questioning noise, so Jaskier clarifies, “getting stuck in between, I mean.”
“Hmmm… not very often. Most people either cling to life, and their body by extension, or they accept their passing, and their soul slips free just before they die.” Eskel tilts his head in thought. “Honestly, it’s unusual for someone’s soul to pull completely free with no apparent effect on their body. Well, unless they’re trying to run away from something.”
“Run away from something?” Jaskier echoes, baffled. “I certainly don’t care to be around my parents, and intend to leave the estate as soon as I may, but I have no desire to die doing so. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t suppose you remember what happened just before we met?” Eskel asks, though he doesn’t sound optimistic.
“No, nothing after my walk yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday. Is that normal – not remembering?” Jaskier hopes it is. Normally he likes standing out, but under these circumstances he would much prefer not being an exception to the rule.
“I suspected as much, and it is entirely normal. Very few souls I have guided recall what happened to them. It’s a mercy, most of the time. Few deaths are pleasant, and even the peaceful ones can be jarring to recall. In your case, whatever caused your current state was upsetting enough that you have suppressed it, in which case you will likely remember given enough time.” Eskel says nothing further, cutting through a stand of trees that Jaskier doesn’t recall ever seeing near the estate.
“You say that like there’s another possibility,” Jaskier points out, squinting around them. He’s sure these trees are all wrong.
Eskel winces. “There is, I just didn’t wish to alarm you, especially since I have no way of knowing whether it applies.”
“Tell me anyway. If you don’t, I assure you I’ll manage to think of something worse, and will worry myself over nothing.” If Jaskier is being honest with himself, he is only half joking.
“Alright,” Eskel sighs, leading them onto a cobblestone path lit with lanterns, floating lanterns with blue flames that Jaskier can see clearly. Which must mean the path and the lanterns both are on their side of the boundary. A product of the realm of the dead. Jaskier clenches and unclenches his fists to calm his nerves, while Eskel continues speaking like their new surroundings aren’t worth noticing. To him, they must not be. “It’s possible that whatever is keeping you unconscious is also preventing you from remembering what happened to you. It’s a long shot, though. Very few people could manage that sort of magic.”
Jaskier snorts. “I can’t think of anyone willing to waste that sort of effort on me without money on the line. And you can hardly claim a ransom by leaving me abed in my own room, in the middle of my family’s estate. Though even if someone did kidnap me, there’s a very real chance my parents wouldn’t be willing to pay. Too much trouble, and think of the scandal.”
Jaskier means for that last bit to be funny, but Eskel looks pained when he says, “I see,” then clears his throat. “Like I said, it’s an unlikely explanation. And there’s nothing we can do to interfere, regardless of the cause.”
“What do you mean, you can’t interfere?” Jaskier asks, perplexed. “ Isn’t that you and your lord’s entire purpose? Stepping in to take over in matters of… of,” –Jaskier’s courage suddenly runs dry at the prospect of saying death aloud. Which is foolish. Eskel has already explained that he isn’t actually dead. He forces himself to finish– “of death, and the like?”
“Yes and no,” Eskel replies. There’s a twist to his mouth that isn’t caused by his scars. If Jaskier’s any judge, he is unhappy thinking about his answer. “It is our duty to guide souls to their rest, or to their judgment, as the case may be. We lead them to the nearest dock along the Gwenllech, or along the Path, if there is some reason they cannot by ferried. We guard them until they have safely boarded a boat, or are within Kaer Morhen’s walls. But we cannot prevent a death, or a revival, nor are we to investigate the causes of either. There are laws, ancient ones, and they demand balance in all things. Our lord’s domain is the Underworld, its denizens, and the travelers making their way there.”
The way Eskel says our lord is a little odd, as if he’s amused by the words, but Jaskier can’t imagine why. He shakes his head and attempts to focus as Eskel continues speaking.
“Anything else is a matter for the living. Besides, if we tried to bring justice to every soul that was wronged, or stars forbid, started trying to prevent any deaths we deemed undeserved, we would have no time to perform our duties. The world would be overrun with wandering spirits, confused, and unable to find peace. Eventually, their memories of their life would fade, until they wouldn’t even remember who they were. And they would be the lucky ones.” Eskel grimaces, the expression emphasizing his scars and making him look far more formidable than he has thus far.
“What do you mean? What could be worse than that?” Jaskier shudders at just the thought of it. Of drifting listlessly for eternity, slowly losing himself until he cannot even recall who he was.
“There are many things that prey upon the dead in the living world – scavengers looking for an easy meal, graverobbers padding their pockets with sentimental baubles, mages or academics who need test subjects that can’t protest; the list goes on.” Jaskier nods along in understanding, uncertain where Eskel is going with this, but dreading it all the same. “But the body is only part of a person, and the less important one by far. The true prize is their soul. There are beings that trick mortals into forfeiting theirs, necromancers that call them back to puppet vessels for them, monsters that would gladly rend them to pieces and devour them, and darker things I will not speak of lest I draw their attention.”
Terror courses through Jaskier. Like many children, he was brought up on frightening tales of the things that lurk in the darkness, on the edges of night, and desperation, and despair. He always thought they were rather trite little warnings for children – don’t stay out too late, or the monsters will get you. Eat all of your vegetables, or you’ll be cursed to eat nothing else for all eternity. Say your prayers every night, or a demon will steal your soul. Behave, or a Witcher will take you to the Underworld early. A list of boogeymen designed to keep wayward children in line. And Jaskier was certainly a wayward child.
He heard all of the stories so many times that they eventually grew too familiar to scare him, until the only ones that really stuck at all were the ones about Witchers, and those only because he knew Witchers to be real. But the others? He always thought they were just fairytales. And if a Witcher won’t even speak of some of them, how terrible must they be?
Jaskier scrambles to distract himself before he simply curls up in a ball on the ground and refuses to move. Normally, singing does the trick, but it feels wildly inappropriate to burst into humming or a song after Eskel has told him all of this in so solemn a tone. He settles on a joke instead, since that seemed to work earlier.
“I always thought there was a guild of nannies somewhere that made all of that up, and sent out letters to the others to keep them abreast of the newest tall tales to terrify their wards with.” Jaskier means for it to come off as confident, but his voice wavers far too much for that.
Eskel certainly notices. Rather than laughing, his eyes cut toward Jaskier, and he smiles sympathetically. “The only guild of women I know of is already eccentric enough without being given that idea. If the Fates hear you, and take a shine to the suggestion, I am holding you responsible, so keep your voice down.”
Jaskier realizes that Eskel is teasing him, trying to lighten the mood before he spirals into another panic. He is walking down a road toward the Underworld, apparently being hounded on all sides by unknowable threats, accompanied by a Witcher of legend, and the Witcher is trying to cheer him up. A slightly nervous giggle escapes him. Is this his life, no, un-life, now?
“I will endeavor to do so, Eskel,” Jaskier says at last, unable to smother a few more nervous giggles.
“Good.” His voice softens, “I would say it gets easier knowing what’s out there, but it would seem patronizing when I’ve had millenia to get used to it.”
“And swords,” Jaskier mutters, feeling suddenly naked without at least his single dagger.
Eskel huffs a laugh. “And swords.”
“And those… things you talked about. They’re what the swords are for? Why Witchers have to guide the dead?” Jaskier prompts. He hopes Eskel doesn’t mind the probing, but as frightening as the prospect is, it is also fascinating. Jaskier has always adored learning new things, and if he frames it all as a lesson, it will feel a bit less like his entire world has been upended.
“Exactly. Most of the scavengers will be scared off simply upon seeing us, and the rest will at least be wary. If they do decide to test their luck, we fell them, or distract them long enough for the soul we’re guiding to escape. Though, if we have resorted to that, we usually send a distress signal out to other Witchers, and those closest come to our aid. There are few creatures, no matter how strong, that can stand against a group of us.” Eskel pauses, and brushes his fingers along the scars on his face. “Those few, though, are dangerous beyond words. They sow such dread with their mere presence that we can feel them coming. In such a dire situation as that, we call upon Geralt directly.”
“I see. That sounds awful.” Jaskier means it, too. To be such an accomplished warrior that monsters will flee at the sight of you, and despite it, to suddenly feel in your bones that you are outmatched, must be harrowing. Geralt truly must be the best of them, then, if he is who they cry out to for help.
What sort of warrior is he, that his victory is assumed against such a foe? Jaskier amends his previous assumptions. Surely Geralt must be their general, rather than a mere captain.
“It is. But those kinds of fights are few and far between. I got these a few centuries ago, and none of us have needed to summon Geralt since.” Eskel shoots Jaskier a grin, the melancholy from moments ago evaporating into the air, and Jaskier feels some of the tension leave him.
“That is a relief to hear.” Something has been bothering him about Eskel’s explanation though. It takes a few minutes of walking in silence before Jaskier finally puts his finger on it. “Didn’t you forget something when you were describing what falls under your lord’s domain?”
Eskel’s brow furrows, and he makes a questioning sound. “I don’t believe so. What do you mean?”
He doesn’t sound upset by the suggestion, thank the gods. Jaskier has always accounted himself skilled at reading people, and while a Witcher is not a human, he is fairly certain he’s a good person, but there is always the chance that he’s wrong. Or that Eskel’s patience does not extend quite as far as he hopes it will. He hardly wants to be abandoned here, especially after everything Eskel has just told him.
“Wouldn’t his worshippers also fall within his purview?” Jaskier isn’t expecting the impressively loud snort Eskel lets out. It makes him jump a little, and Eskel murmurs “sorry” while shaking his head. “What’s funny about that? He’s a god, isn’t he?”
“He is, but when’s the last time you met someone that wanted to worship the god of the dead?” Eskel’s tone is rueful, and Jaskier winces. “Most people are terrified of even the thought of death, let alone what will happen after they die. It’s easy to demonize him when he assists in judging souls whose fates are unclear, or whose trespasses are so great they require his personal attention. There are also plenty of people that see us as an ill omen, as if we are the cause of death, rather than simply responding to it. And, since we serve him, that fear and mistrust is extended to him. We can’t correct people’s assumptions beforehand since we don’t interact with mortals until they’ve died. Besides, why would they trust that we speak the truth when it would serve us to lie? They don’t even believe the handful that return after being caught between. They are usually forced to keep to themselves, because they are cruelly dismissed as delirious if they try to protest against what most mortals see as proven knowledge.”
Oh, gods. That is a much more depressing explanation than Jaskier expected.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. It can’t be easy to be dismissed and vilified by the very people you have protected for so long, and continue to protect.” Jaskier dares to reach out a hand and rest it briefly on Eskel’s shoulder, before letting it fall.
Eskel looks pleasantly surprised by the gesture, and his smile is warm when he replies. “That is very kind of you, Jaskier. Few would consider our feelings at all.”
Jaskier returns his smile, and lets the subject lie for now. Eskel said they have a long walk, and for once in his life, he doesn’t feel the urge to talk through all of it, too busy caught in his head. He has had more revelations over the past few minutes than he thinks he has in his entire life, and he needs time to mull them over.
Though he knows it was mostly due to how he was raised, he can’t help but feel guilty that he ever harbored similar opinions regarding Witchers. Oh, he discarded much of the worst of it, but even so, it must have been hard on Eskel to see how afraid Jaskier was from the moment he saw the Witcher’s eyes. Is that what they all must endure every time they reveal themselves to the people they guide? How exhausting and disheartening that must be. Jaskier doesn’t think he could bear it.
And then there’s the way Eskel spoke of the Lord of the Dead. His comments all seemed so jarringly casual, affectionate even. As if he was speaking of a friend or brother rather than his god. Jaskier has always understood the gods to be fickle, and extremely particular about the way mortals speak of them – demanding deference and awe, at the very least. Perhaps that is simply another myth, though it’s one he won’t risk testing. It is likely only because Eskel himself is immortal, and fulfilling a crucial duty, that he is allowed to speak with such familiarity. He doubts a mere mortal would fare so well.
Jaskier’s sense of time begins to warp the further they walk. There are more trees now, becoming denser, and the way they are growing seems improbable – their branches twisting into strange shapes that hurt Jaskier’s eyes to look at for too long, their roots twined together, giving the impression that there can’t be any left underground, except the trees are far too large to not have them buried deep. Then one of the more twisted ones shifts, despite there being no wind, and Jaskier would almost swear he saw a flash of bleached bone, and the blink of a glowing eye.
“Ah, you’ve started to notice them. I was wondering if you would,” Eskel says, like he’s commenting on the weather, rather than on monsters that have apparently been lurking a mere lunge away from them.
“What are they, and why in the hells aren’t you worried about them?” Jaskier is not proud of the way his voice squeaks, but he can’t help it. He’s never actually seen a monster before, and while he doesn’t doubt Eskel’s capabilities, he would still rather not witness them being tested from so perilously close.
“Relax, they won’t hurt you. They’re called leshens. They tend to the trees on the borders of the Path, and in the rest of the Underworld, which keeps the wards strong. While we’re all trained to fight when we have to, our lord,” – and there's that unusual inflection again. How odd – “decided that there was no sense in making us fight more than necessary, and that forcing any invaders to waste energy to get through the wards first would make it much easier for us to triumph without injury or loss of life, so to speak. He made alliances with some of the oldest and most powerful creatures he could – leshens, the guardians of the woods, and naiads, the guardians of the water. They have been around for so long that most mortals, and even some immortals, have forgotten that they exist. They are able to live peacefully within the borders of this realm, and their efforts protect the Underworld in turn. He doesn’t like taking chances when it comes to the safety of those within his domain. The big softie.”
That is most certainly blasphemy, and Jaskier half expects Eskel to be swallowed by the earth, or attacked by one of the leshens whose allegiance must lie with the Lord of the Dead. But there is only the sound of their boots on the Path, and the faint creaking of Eskel’s armor. Jaskier chooses to ignore the comment, in the hopes that if the Lord of the Dead is offended, he will not cast any of his ire onto Jaskier for lending emphasis to the insult by mentioning it. Then, something occurs to him, and he is suddenly very annoyed.
“You couldn’t have told me about the leshens before I noticed them? Or, perhaps the wards, instead of letting me sweat over a monster attack?” The words have more bite to them than Jaskier intends, but he can’t help it. He’s been so worried; why would Eskel not tell him when he’s been so kind in everything else?
Eskel holds up his hands placatingly. “I didn’t say anything only because I’m not supposed to. Part of the agreement with the leshens and the naiads is that they are left alone unless they are needed, or allow themselves to be seen. Besides, the people we guide are often already frightened, and telling them that there are powerful creatures all around them rarely helps. As for the wards, we don’t bring them up for much the same reason. They can be… disconcerting to mortals, so it’s often more comfortable for our charges if we don’t draw attention to them.”
“And the monsters that I thought were going to swoop down upon us at any moment?” Jaskier asks pointedy.
“The wards are created to maintain the separation between the lands of the living and the dead, and most of the monsters are native to this place,” Eskel explains gently. “The wards around the Path and the Gwenllech do slow them down because of the sheer amount of magic being used, but they won’t do much more than that unless the monsters actually try to cross over. Wouldn’t be much use for Witchers if the wards were enough on their own, after all.”
“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.” Jaskier suddenly feels very sheepish. “I apologize for my reaction.”
“No need. You are handling this remarkably well, as you have everything else. Trust me when I say I am used to far worse when my charges become upset.” Eskel does seem entirely unbothered, which actually makes Jaskier feel worse. A reminder that Witchers are accustomed to poor treatment. How is that just?
Rather than dwell on that depressing thought, Jaskier casts about for something less weighty to ask.
“What’s the funniest reaction you’ve ever seen to, well, all of this?” Jaskier waves around to encompass the Path, the eerie blue glow of the lanterns, and the trees around them. He catches movement in the corner of his eye – as if something very large is tilting its head to follow the motion of his arms. Like a great big cat watching a bit of string, which amuses him for a moment, until he realizes that makes him the string, and he would prefer not to be pounced upon.
“Hmmm, let me think,” Eskel says, clearly amused by the question. “Ah, I know. I had only been a Witcher for about a decade, and…” Eskel trails off. At first, Jaskier thinks he has lost his train of thought, until he looks at the Witcher and sees he is tilting his head slightly, much like the leshen did, though he seems to be listening to something. Before Jaskier can ask what he’s hearing, a gruff voice calls out from their left.
“Eskel, you bastard! What the hells are you doing on the Path? Thought you had an assignment!” There’s a rustle of leaves, and then a dark shape leaps impressively far out of the trees, landing neatly in front of Jaskier.
If Jaskier was still in his body, he thinks his heart would have given out from shock. As it is, he clutches his chest, inhaling panic-quick despite not needing the air, just like he did outside of his window. Through the fog of fear, the shape resolves itself into another Witcher.
He is wearing armor dyed a green so deep it’s almost black, a wicked smile, and a startling amount of knives scattered along his hips and chest in addition to the swords at his back. He has a single long scar along the side of his face, though it does not hold a candle to Eskel’s, and his eyes are a shade kin to topaz. Jaskier wonders if it was the wards that blurred his form before, or if he was simply moving that quickly. He’s not sure which would bother him more, at this point.
“Lambert, what the hells are you thinking? You know better than to take a short-cut through the wards like that,” Eskel snaps. The other Witcher, Lambert, apparently, opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, but Eskel keeps talking, “Have you gone blind, or did you just decide not to use your eyes before jumping out?” Eskel gestures angrily toward Jaskier. “I’m on the Path because my charge couldn’t take the Gwenllech, and you know very well what that means. And now you’ve scared him.” He sounds like he’s scolding a child, and to Jaskier’s surprise, Lambert shrinks in on himself a little, his eyes going wide when he catches sight of Jaskier.
“Shit. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He seems genuinely remorseful, to his credit, though Jaskier is finding it difficult to forgive him when he feels like he’s going to pass out at any moment. Can he even do that, now? He doesn’t particularly want to find out, but he might not have a choice if he can’t calm down.
“What did you think was going to happen, tearing out of the woods without looking?” Eskel asks as he rubs a hand along Jaskier’s back. His voice pitches down into a soothing tone. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Lambert’s just an asshole who leaps before thinking about the consequences.”
Lambert grumbles, but doesn’t disagree. Slowly, Jaskier brings his emotions back under control, until the world around him is clear again, and he can breathe. Or, at least, he feels like he can breathe again.
“You’re a bit of a dick, Lambert,” Jaskier says without thinking. It’s the sort of jab he’d make at Oxenfurt if someone came barreling around a corner without a care for anyone on the other side, but he’s just said that to a Witcher. Gods, Eskel has been perfectly lovely, but what if he’s the exception. What if–
Lambert lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Well-spotted. If anyone says otherwise, they’re a fucking liar.”
“Or fucking you,” Eskel says, “speaking of, where’s Aiden?”
Lambert rolls his eyes. “Not here, obviously. We’re not actually attached at the hip, despite what all of you seem to think.”
“I see.” Eskel doesn’t sound convinced. “What are you doing here, then? I didn’t think you were on duty today.”
“I was scouting,” he replies a little too quickly, in Jaskier’s opinion. Like he’s hiding something.
“Scouting,” Eskel repeats dryly. “Is that why you smell like alcohol?”
“Some of us can multitask, asshole. I’m more than capable of scouting while having a drink.” Lambert’s smile is showing an awful lot of teeth, but Jaskier finds it’s not frightening for some reason. He has the sudden mental image of a small bird trying to puff itself up to make itself look bigger, attempting to ward off a predator. Like, say, an older brother who’s just caught you in a lie.
“Uh-huh. Is Aiden still at the tavern?” Eskel asks, raising an expectant eyebrow.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re– ”
“There you are, puppy! You were in such a hurry, I almost lost track of you.” Another Witcher strides through the trees, much less abruptly than Lambert. His eyes are a striking emerald green, and the color of his armor matches Lambert’s, though it seems less heavy, made more for ease of movement than protection. Bogglingly, he has even more knives than Lambert does, and both his voice and face are unexpectedly attractive. He presses a loud kiss to Lambert’s flushed cheek with a wide smile, like the blush is exactly the reaction he wanted. When he glances over to Eskel and Jaskier, his smile grows even wider. “Hello, Eskel. And hello, Eskel’s new, very pretty friend,” he purrs. “I’m Aiden, what’s your name?”
Well, Eskel’s comments suddenly make a lot more sense.
Lambert squawks in affront at the obviously fake flirting, and Jaskier bites his lip to contain his laughter. He fails utterly when Aiden gives him the most exaggerated wink he’s ever seen, sending him into a laughing fit so intense that he bends over to hold his sides, despite there being no ache there.
“It’s not that fucking funny,” Lambert grouses, which only makes Jaskier laugh harder.
“I like him,” Aiden announces, “he’s delightful.”
“Agreed,” Eskel says, smothering a laugh as Lambert mutters angrily to himself.
“I hate you both.” Lambert shoves Aiden away, and stomps a little further down the Path.
“Maybe if you say it enough, you’ll start believing it, puppy,” Aiden teases.
Once his laughter has died out, Jaskier holds out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Aiden. I’m Jaskier.”
Aiden seems momentarily taken aback, though he recovers quickly, accepting Jaskier’s hand and shaking it before the pause becomes awkward. “My condolences on your presence here, Jaskier. But you have one of the best possible guides at your side.” Aiden then leans down, and says in a stage whisper, “Eskel and Lambert aren’t too bad, either.”
“Menace,” Eskel accuses him fondly.
“Prick!” Lambert yells back.
“You’ve never had any complaints about my prick before. Don’t start pretending now,” Aiden retorts, then waggles his eyebrows at Jaskier, startling another laugh out of him.
Eskel chuckles and shakes his head. “You two are going to make me go white well before my time. I’m going to look like Geralt.”
Aiden shrugs unrepentantly. “You’d still look good, regardless, so what’s the harm?”
Eskel snorts. “Thanks, I think.” He then turns toward Jaskier, taking in the way he’s still laughing a little. “That’s better, yeah? The gates are close if you’re ready to keep going, and don’t mind these two ruffians accompanying us.”
“Ruffians? Really? You’ve been spending too much time around Coën.” If Lambert is trying to get a rise out of Eskel, it doesn’t work.
“No such thing,” Eskel replies, wearing a serene and slightly lovesick expression.
“Ugh, you two are fucking disgusting, and I can’t even give you shit for it because you have no shame. You’re the worst,” Lambert laments. He draws a blade and starts flipping it idly, like he wants to stop thinking about Eskel and Coën, who Jaskier presumes is a fellow Witcher, as well as Eskel’s lover.
And isn’t that sweet? It has never occurred to Jaskier that Witchers would have friends, let alone lovers.
He always pictured them shimmering into existence when they were needed, and then disappearing once the job was done. Which, now that he thinks about it, is frankly absurd, and he hopes he never has to admit to it. Though, the best cure for ignorance is to drink up new information to fill in the gaps, so he carefully adjusts the expectations in his mind to include Witcher couples. Some of which are so attached to their partner that everyone knows if they see one, the other is not far behind, and some that are apparently so affectionate with each other that their brothers complain about it.
It is perhaps the most astounding thing he has discovered today, which likely exposes his tendency to prioritize romance and a good story over most other things, no matter how important they may be.
“Don’t be like that, puppy. We’re just as bad, in our own way,” Aiden points out, ruffling Lambert’s hair before snatching away his knife, only to start flipping it himself. Lambert doesn’t make a comment, simply reaching out to steal a knife from Aiden’s hip to replace his own. It’s such a practiced motion that Jaskier assumes it’s a common occurrence. Like they both prefer to use their partner’s things over their own. It’s adorable, and Jaskier could use the distraction.
“I’d be happy for them to join us the rest of the way,” Jaskier says with confidence.
Lambert whoops, and Aiden performs a celebratory spin, tossing Lambert’s knife high into the air, and catching it easily behind his back.
“Show off.” Lambert’s voice is too full of affection for it to be a true insult. Aiden just smiles, and starts bickering with his lover, both of them effortlessly keeping their blades in the air, even occasionally tossing them back and forth with no signal that Jaskier can see. It is very entertaining to watch, and he actually starts to enjoy himself.
This isn’t how he pictured his journey to the Underworld would be.
Honestly, his imagination made it seem far drearier and foreboding, and perhaps it would be, without the company of the Witchers. Protecting souls from monsters is all well and good, but Jaskier is starting to think that this is their real purpose. To ease the transition between life and death, to help assuage the fear of their charges, and to offer what comfort they can. In Jasier’s personal opinion, they are very good at it. Even Lambert’s unfortunate entrance helped more than it hurt once Jaskier had calmed down. It’s much more difficult to worry about abominations lurking in the shadows when Lambert blushes every time Aiden kisses him, Eskel makes teasing comments, and they all set themselves to bickering like family.
Well, like Jaskier imagines families are supposed to bicker, when they get along.
He is in good humor until he hears a strange sound, growing louder and louder as they walk. Jaskier struggles to make sense of it. It is almost like notes played on a wooden flute, but only if someone haphazardly scattered the instruments all around them, high and low, letting them catch the wind however it blows, creating a chorus that is both beautiful and very unsettling.
Eskel explains without Jaskier having to ask, “it’s another defense against the monsters. They don’t like the sound.”
“Why not?” Jaskier asks. He certainly doesn’t know how to feel about it, but it wouldn’t send him running either. And if the monsters are as fearsome as Eskel claims, why would sound run them off?
“They fear the gatekeepers. Music is the source of their magic, and few monsters would dare face them. It would be a waste of their magic and breath for them to play all the time, so we’ve mimicked the sound as best we can. Most monsters avoid this area entirely without the gatekeepers ever needing to show face at all.”
It’s sound logic, although it doesn’t explain everything. Like what the gatekeepers actually are. It’s making Jaskier a bit nervous that he hasn’t just told him. “The gatekeepers are like the leshens and the naiads, then?” He guesses.
“They are,” Eskel confirms.
When Eskel doesn’t say anything further, Lambert huffs in annoyance. “The gatekeepers are satyrs,” he says bluntly, shooting an exasperated look at Eskel over his shoulder. “Bold of you to accuse me of not using my eyes, when you can’t tell that’s what he wanted to fucking know.”
“Touché, Lamb.” Eskel tilts his head toward Lambert, then gives Jaskier an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Jaskier. Sometimes when I try to avoid giving an overwhelming amount of information, I walk right back around to not giving enough. Bad habit. Should’ve just told you since you already know about the rest.”
“It’s fine,” Jaskier replies, a little dazed. Satyrs are real, too? It was a childhood fantasy of his to find a satyr in the woods that would play music with him. The temptation to ask about them is too great to let pass. “Do they ever play in Kaer Morhen?”
He tries to keep his voice measured, but his eagerness must bleed through, because the Witchers all exchange an amused look.
“They do,” Aiden says. “Any particular reason you were wondering?”
“It’s embarrassing.” Jaskier really does intend to keep it to himself, but Aiden and Eskel are both giving him encouraging smiles, and Lambert is very determinedly not looking at him, as if he’s trying to give the impression that Jaskier has less of an audience. Gods, they’re all sweethearts, aren’t they? Jaskier sighs and gives in. “When I was little, I used to play amongst the trees around the estate, few as there were, because of a fairytale my nanny told me about satyrs. She said if you sang or played an instrument well enough where they could hear you, they would accompany you on their flutes. I used to sing my little heart out for hours in the hopes one would show up. Then I grew up and became a bard, and I must confess the wish has not quite gone away, silly as it is.”
Jaskier half expects to be made fun of, even if it is gentle ribbing, but Aiden just grins, and Eskel hums in understanding. It’s Lambert that breaks the silence.
“They do that sometimes, but only on this side of the boundary, now. Too many mortal hunters got stupid fucking ideas for them to risk visiting anymore. It’s one of the reasons they were offered sanctuary and duties here.” Lambert never stops flipping his knife, though his motions seem more jagged somehow, as if thinking about the satyrs makes him angry. He makes a disgruntled noise, and the arc of the knife smooths out again. “You could try singing once we get past the gates. If you’re any good, at least one of them will come running.”
“Really?” Jaskier asks, hardly daring to believe it.
“Really,” Aiden says, “the young ones can’t resist a duet. And there are few enough people in Kaer Morhen that play or sing that they’ll see it as a treat. Eskel’s shadow, in particular, might actually knock you over in her enthusiasm.”
Eskel lets out a heavy sigh, and Jaskier gives him a questioning look. “Your shadow?”
“One of the youngest satyrs we have. She took a shine to me, and likes to follow me around when I’m not on duty,” Eskel explains. “We call her Lil’ Bleater, because she hasn’t quite mastered common yet, but she can already play the flute quite well, and regularly badgers me into playing with her, even though her skill far surpasses mine.”
“That is too sweet for words,” Jaskier says emphatically. It’s making his teeth ache just thinking about it.
“It is adorable the way she trails after him. Who knows, if you start singing for her, she might just abandon poor Eskel to follow you instead, since you’re a trained bard.” Aiden pretends to swoon at the imagined horror, slumping over onto Lambert, without either of them pausing their knife tricks for even a moment.
Dear gods, Jaskier doesn’t know whether he is more impressed by it or intimidated. He certainly wouldn’t wish to challenge one of them to knife-throwing, that’s for certain.
“At least Jaskier is a worthy adversary,” Eskel replies solemnly.
Jaskier snorts. “I suspect music is about the only thing I could best you in, so I’ll take it.”
“Yeah, not gonna win any fights in your fucking nightclothes,” Lambert jokes.
Jaskier blinks, then looks down at himself, only just now noticing that he is wearing his nightclothes. The same ones his body is currently wearing. They aren’t revealing in any way, and are honestly quite comfortable, but his feet are bare but for socks, and…
“Please tell me there’s a way to change once we get to Kaer Morhen. I’d rather not be wandering about in my nightclothes for the foreseeable future,” Jaskier says plaintively.
The Witchers all chuckle. “No worries there. I’m sure we can find you something that’s to your liking,” Eskel assures him.
“Or nothing at all, if you’re willing to cater to my whims,” Aiden croons.
Lambert catches his knife, flips it, and strikes Aiden in the side with the handle, lightning-quick. Aiden grunts, Eskel makes a despairing noise, and Jaskier laughs, but his amusement is quickly doused when there’s a sudden break in the trees, and he gets his first look at the gates.
They're massive, made of twisting black metal, spiraling vines, and bits of what Jaskier thinks might be bone. It hurts to look at them, much like the wards, but so much worse. Jaskier gets dizzy after only a few moments, averting his eyes upwards, only to find multiple sets of eyes looking back at him from the top.
“Gods,” he whispers.
“Only one god here,” Lambert snarks, continuing to walk forward without a care in the world. Of course he does. This is his home, after all.
Jaskier swallows hard, struggling to make his feet move, until Eskel says, “I’m right beside you. We just have to pass through, let Roach check you over to make sure you’re supposed to be here, and then we can get you settled in a room. You’ll be fine, I promise.”
Right. He can do this. He has to do this. Even if the idea of being checked over isn’t exactly comforting. And who the hells is Roach? One of the gatekeepers, perhaps?
He’s about to find out.