Chapter Text
The first day after leaving Kaer Morhen passed quietly, the witchers taking their usual pace until Geralt called a halt for a late lunch. Lambert opened his mouth to comment — they’d usually keep walking until nightfall — but Eskel’s sharp elbow silenced him, and his scowl of protest faded when Eskel’s eyes flicked pointedly over to Jaskier, whose long limbs trembled beneath warm woolen breeches, his hands nervous at his sides in their fur lined gloves.
Suddenly guilty that he’d been striding along with little regard for the other man, Lambert settled himself on a rock and brushed off the space next to him, his horse nudging at his shoulder.
“Here, Jaskier, sit with me. I’m better company than Geralt.”
With a sigh of thanks, Jaskier flopped down on the rock. “I can’t believe I made it down here in mid-winter snow, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Running away from a castle filled with big scary witchers probably seemed a good idea at the time.”
“Scary? You lot? I’ve seen fiercer puppies.” Still, Jaskier offered him a grateful smile as he rummaged in his pack for food.
It wasn’t long before they were refuelled and ready again, Geralt and Roach taking up the rear with Jaskier in front of them, sharp eyes watching for signs of fatigue in the cut of his shoulders and the rise of his foot.
Buoyed by the food, and by the sunshine breaking through the clouds to glint off the last few streaks of snow on the mountainsides, Jaskier’s fingers began to tap a little against his leg, and Geralt had to bite back a smile. Irrepressible, his bard.
Soon after came the humming, a bouncy little thing in time with their steps as they crunched through slush.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly, the few sounds of nature waking after a long winter drowned out by idle chatter and Jaskier’s cheerful rhythms, but as the night started to draw in the snatches of words settled into humming and then into trudging silence. It was Vesemir who called the halt, declaring the next wide point in the path the perfect place to rest for the night.
Eskel cleared the floor of stones as Vesemir and Jaskier settled the horses, Geralt fetching firewood and laying a fire, helped along with a hefty blast of igni to light the damp wood; Lambert crept into the bushes and returned triumphantly with three winter-thin rabbits, skinned and ready for the pot, and threw in a few of the last winter vegetables brought from Kaer Morhen.
When it came time to retire, Geralt paused at the sight of the bedrolls. Jaskier’s was laid a good foot away from his own, the man already tucked under his furs with his back turned to the fire. Without commenting he settled in his own bed, and some of the tension faded from Jaskier’s shoulders.
“Goodnight,” someone said, and it echoed round the camp, Jaskier raising his head to speak but not making eye contact with Geralt. He burrowed back under the blankets, seemingly content to lie apart.
They hadn’t spent every night in the keep in the same bed — certainly not before the collar had been removed, and even after Jaskier’s mind became his own and they began to lie together the bard had often retreated to sleep alone — and Geralt was used to being alone on the path, but it seemed he had become accustomed to a slim body beside him. Sleep proved elusive enough that he forced himself to meditate, eventually drifting off into unconsciousness long after the moon had set.
There was no morning kiss, either, though Geralt rose before Jaskier had the chance to poke his tousled head from the blanket. The bard was last to stir, after Eskel caught at his shoulder, awakening with a start and a wave of sour fear-scent that had the witchers frozen, all heads snapping up to stare at him.
“Sorry,” Jaskier muttered, shoving the bedding away and rubbing at his eyes where heavy bags gathered. “Didn’t sleep well.”
Without comment Vesemir broke the tableau, standing to pass him the last of the porridge, and the camp disassembled quickly around the yawning lad.
Later that day they passed the short cliff where, many weeks and a lifetime ago, Jaskier’s misguided attempt at fleeing the keep had so nearly ended in tragedy. Face dubious, he peered over the edge, Geralt hovering close enough to grab him if needed. “All the way down there?”
He shuffled back and Geralt relaxed enough to point out a scattering of rocks. “Edge gave way.”
“Huh. I don’t remember.” He frowned. “It’s all a bit of a blur. Just... snow. And fear.”
There was a long silence.
“Hauled you back up too,” Lambert eventually remarked, a little too loud. “Glad we hadn’t fed you too much by that point.”
Jaskier snorted and shoved at him ineffectively, the moment broken. “Good thing it wasn’t you down there, then.”
Wolf eyes sparked with mischief. “I wonder if we fed you too much this winter,” Lambert grinned, slinking forward, pack and reins dropping from his grip as his fingers wriggled threateningly.
“Lambert,” Jaskier warned, laughter bubbling in his voice even as he held up his hands to fend off the witcher, placing his leather-wrapped lute neatly on the ground before making an ineffective attempt at escape. The others watched, amused, though Geralt’s jaw clenched a little as the two roughhoused.
Once Jaskier was slung over Lambert’s shoulder, legs kicking as he squealed at the witcher’s hand pinching his bottom, Vesemir scolded the pair of them. “Put him down, you don’t know where he’s been.”
“Oh I know exactly where he’s been,” Lambert leered at Geralt, whose unamused face didn’t soften, but obligingly returned Jaskier to his feet, ruffled and pink.
“Brute,” Jaskier informed him tartly, lips still twitching as he stalked away.
The others followed, Roach breaking into a trot as Geralt outpaced his brothers to catch up with Jaskier, who offered him a shy smile as they walked in silence.
That night Jaskier placed their bedrolls side by side, not as close as Geralt would have liked but not the unfamiliar distance of their first night on the path. The bard lay still as he slept, not curling closer even as the light of morning woke him.
Geralt tried not to take it personally.
It took four full days before the path from Kaer Morhen levelled off. The landscape was still rocky and bleak, the melting snow spread in great swathes across the mountainsides, but the signs of spring were there in the green glimpses of the valley beyond and in the animals stirring from their hibernation, more than one of which had ended up in their stewpot.
Leaving his brothers and Vesemir at the crossroads was the pang of sorrow it always was. Geralt sent a quick prayer to whichever gods might be listening that he would see them all unharmed next autumn, to give them the strength to triumph over monsters and the cruelty of men.
The scent of his family lingered long after they had parted, traces of their sweat and blood worn into the seams of his clothing, into the leather of his gloves. They would fade within a few days, but he would forever be able to pick them out of a crowd.
The two of them walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Jaskier dropped back a little, giving Geralt his space, though his footsteps were steady and even behind him.
Finally shaking off his malaise Geralt turned with a half smile to drag Jaskier up beside him, but when he turned to face the bard he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Jaskier’s face was wet with tears, twin tracks down exertion flushed cheeks, eyes red rimmed, his lips turned down and pinched tightly shut.
“Jaskier!”
“Sorry,” he said miserably, “Sorry, sorry.”
Geralt dropped Roach’s reins in an instant, but pulled up short as Jaskier dashed away the tears with an already-damp sleeve and ducked his head, shoulders curled to shrink his frame in a way he hadn’t done in weeks. “Hug?”
Jaskier let out a wet laugh and nodded, and Geralt bundled him up in his arms, the first time he’d been permitted to embrace the bard since their last night in Kaer Morhen, a wide hand splayed across the back of his head to draw him closer still.
The scent of his hair was familiar, even overlaid as it was with salt-sadness and fresh sweat, and Geralt inhaled deeply before speaking.
“What’s wrong?”
Jaskier made a thin sound and shook his head, and Geralt held him closer until the trembling had subsided and his breaths were steady. He shifted just enough for his low tone to reach Jaskier’s ear. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” came the hoarse voice, and then, after a woeful sniff, “I’m being ridiculous.”
Arms wrapped solidly around Jaskier, Geralt was content to stand and wait.
“I’m just really, really going to miss them.”
Oh.
“We can turn back, you can go with them if you want.” Years of dealing with humanity’s ire kept his face implacable.
“No, that’s not what I meant!” Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt let him go, but he didn’t step out of reach, anxious reddened eyes scanning Geralt’s fixed expression. “I want to go with you, it’s just... Six years, Geralt. Six years.” He swallowed hard. “The four of you are the only people in all that time that I’ve trusted. And now I won’t see them until winter again, and that feels like a lifetime.”
Something in Geralt’s belly that had tightened unhappily softened. You’ll see them again seemed trite, when there was no guarantee. I feel the same way, every year, would be the truth of it, but he couldn’t say it, couldn’t admit to the gut wrenching fear of loss that had clawed at him every spring since the keep had been sacked and left him with just an ever-diminishing handful of brothers. Instead he caught at Jaskier’s hand, lifting it to press a kiss to the bare knuckles, and ran his thumb over the unsubtle ridges.
“You have a continent to see. And I’ll be by your side.”
The damp grin Jaskier offered told him it was the right thing to say, and they set off again, Jaskier still wiping at his eyes occasionally with the back of his free hand, the other tightly twined around Geralt’s own.
*-*-*-*-*
The three witchers watched Jaskier and Geralt take the south path, standing in silence for long minutes until the pair made a final turn and dropped out of even witcher eyesight. Eskel coughed quietly, and Lambert screwed a foot into the thaw-damp dirt, but it was Vesemir who finally spoke, his words falling into the silence.
“Three weeks to Lettenhove. Time to change your mind.”
“I won’t change mine,” Eskel said grimly.
“Nor I,” said Lambert.
“He is monstrous but he is no monster. It will be murder. Cold blooded.” His voice was low and steady.
Lambert jutted out his chin, standing tall, taking advantage of the scant inch he had over Vesemir. “The colder the better.”
The heavy gaze flicked from Lambert to Eskel. “Eskel?”
“I’ve done worse to nicer men.”
Vesemir nodded, sharp and decisive. “Mount up, witchers. We ride to Lettenhove.”
*-*-*-*-*
The camp that night was lonely, just the two of them, Roach and the fire. Jaskier strummed absently at his lute, gaze distant, and they didn’t speak. Quiet sounds, animals scurrying through undergrowth, or the wind in the trees, seemed to catch Jaskier’s notice as much as they did Geralt’s, lifting his head with every sound. Each time he would stare into the shadows, pass his gaze across Geralt’s unmoving frame, and then back down at the ground.
It was almost a relief when Jaskier declared he was tired, settling the lute with care into the makeshift case and stripping off his doublet to settle into his bedroll, which was once again separated by far more distance than the witcher would have liked.
Geralt stayed up late, watching the flames. Had he made the right choice, letting Jaskier travel with him? It didn’t feel like it. Between long silences, tears, and the distance that had somehow crept in between them, it seemed like Jaskier was regretting it. And the bard hadn’t even seen him in full witcher form, hadn’t seen him black eyed and chalk skinned and bloody.
The twig he’d been fiddling with snapped in two, and with a sigh he tossed both pieces in the fire to be consumed by the embers.
Beside him, tucked under the bedroll, Jaskier’s feet twitched, and Geralt stilled until the bard had settled again.
Unfastening his own jacket, he laid it neatly over his pack. A final check that Roach was securely fastened to a tree, and that he had suitable weaponry within reach — the steel sword, plus a dagger in each boot — and he retired to his bedroll.
Before he could settle into sleep, or into meditation when sleep was inevitably elusive, there was a sound from Jaskier’s bedroll, the faintest hum of vocal cords.
After a few seconds it came again, a low groan devolving into yipping, yelping cries. When he sat up, pushing back the fur, the faint glow of the firelight flickered over Jaskier’s face, twisted and tight. A normal reaction to a nightmare? Or some remnant of the damned speech spell that had taken his voice? He’d not heard those sounds in their nights together at Kaer Morhen, but perhaps sleeping on the road had triggered unhappy memories.
“Jaskier,” he called in a low voice, not wanting to startle the bard. It didn’t wake him; if anything the awful sound worsened.
Clambering to his knees, the cold night air sending the hairs on his forearms prickling, he half-crawled to the bard’s side, reaching out a tentative hand to touch his shoulder.
Jaskier awoke with a shout, jerking away from Geralt’s grip, eyes wide and terrified as he tangled in the blanket.
When Jaskier’s bright gaze finally settled on Geralt’s hands where they were held up in surrender, he was panting hard, and Geralt could hear his heart racing.
“Fuck,” he said emphatically, and covered his face with his hands, tense body going limp. “I was... I was back with Ike.”
Ike, of three years of slavery, Jaskier’s penultimate owner. Ike of bad card playing, of paying a mage to weave a spell of silence and embed it in a cruel steel collar. Ike of find another use for an enslaved boy whose music he found irritating.
“Fuck,” Geralt agreed, and beneath his hands the corner of Jaskier’s mouth twitched.
“Yeah.”
After a long moment he wiped his eyes and tugged the blanket back up around his chest, curling on his side to stare at the fire. There was silence as Jaskier’s heart slowly settled into a regular pattern, still too fast but not as though it was about to burst from his chest, and Geralt sat back on his heels. “Think you can sleep?”
“Can I have some water?” He sounded more uncertain than Geralt had heard him in weeks, and it hurt the witcher’s heart to hear it.
Handing over the waterskin Jaskier drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though he still didn’t make eye contact. “Thanks.”
“Jaskier...”
“Goodnight, Geralt.”
He squirmed determinedly in his bedroll, buried up to his nose in the blanket, and by all appearances went to sleep. To a witcher, his forced slow breathing and still-quickened heart were a giveaway, but Geralt didn’t call him on it, instead settling back on his own bedroll, staring up at the clawed branches twisting above them.
*-*-*-*-*
Geralt woke early, the dew on his bedroll catching the dawn light, but Jaskier had apparently woken earlier, judging by the light breaths from the neighbouring bedroll.
“Morning,” he groused.
Jaskier flinched before responding, his voice forcedly level. “Morning, Geralt.”
They rose at the same time, stretching in silence, and Geralt could feel the weight of the lad’s gaze as they folded away the bedrolls.
“Stream down that way if you want to wash. Snow melt, it’ll be cold.”
Jaskier swallowed, and Geralt could hear his throat click, though he couldn’t see the expression on the bard’s face, deliberately occupying himself with feeding Roach.
“Of course. Yes. Back in a minute.”
He stumbled away, first in one direction to pee and then back to the deep stream, and Geralt listened carefully for the sounds of him bathing in too-cold water—a familiar gasp, and a faint grind as he clenched his teeth and strode in anyway.
With a frown, Geralt rummaged in one of the packs, drawing out soap, a washcloth and a thin towel before heading towards the stream.
Breaking through the trees, he found Jaskier in the water up to his chest, skin blue-white under the rushing water as he scrubbed vigorously at his arms. He had to be kneeling and was surely half frozen.
“Jaskier,” he called, concerned, “What are you doing?”
The bard stood, pale skin prickling as it met the cool morning air. “Washing?” The water was still up to his hips, quick and clear with snow melt.
“Soap,” Geralt said slowly, holding out his offering. “And a washcloth.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Jaskier looked surprised.
After a long moment where Jaskier didn’t come any closer, Geralt added, “Why are you in the water?”
“You said wash.” He shrugged, sending a cascade of water down his bare chest, trickling through the dark hairs, watching Geralt’s face closely.
“I didn’t say get in the damn river!”
Jaskier blinked at him. “I’m... sorry? I thought you...”
“A quick wash. Not freeze your balls off.”
“Oh.” When he finally moved, it was slow, and his eyes were wary. He didn’t leave the water, standing naked and uncovered in the shallows as ice cold water buffeted the dark hairs around his calves.
Geralt put down the towel and washcloth on the stony bank, the soap piled on top, and stepped back. “I’ll get breakfast ready.”
He could feel Jaskier’s gaze as he left, watching him through the trees.
The lad was quick to return after that, towel-damp hair dripping down the back of his shirt, though he stared at the fire rather than looking at Geralt.
“I’m sorry,” Jaskier ventured, after a long moment of silence.
Sighing, Geralt stirred at the porridge, serving half of it up into a bowl. “Come here.”
He could hear Jaskier’s heart pounding, but the bard crept closer all the same, and the bravery made his chest ache. Reaching out, he caught at a pale, chilled hand, pulling Jaskier down beside him, and pressed the bowl into the bard’s hand. “Eat.”
Tentatively Jaskier spooned up the thick porridge, swapping hands as the heat soaked through the bowl to burn his fingertips. After a moment, Geralt lifted an arm and draped it over Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him close enough to press a kiss to his still-damp hair.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, and Jaskier fumbled at the bowl, looking up with wide blue eyes.
“For what?”
“I... had forgotten that it’s been a long time since you travelled freely. That your experience of travelling was... crueller than mine, in many ways.”
Jaskier’s mouth dipped into a miserable grimace, and he looked down at the oats. “We’ve both had a fairly shit deal, I think.”
Geralt snorted, and squeezed him tightly before letting go and returning to his own food. “I won’t argue with that, bard.”
They ate in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder.
“I’ll come and wash the dishes with you,” Jaskier offered. “I’m still not sure Roach won’t try and bite me if I try to tack her up when you’re not here.”
The horse in question eyed him balefully across the clearing, swishing her tail. “Perhaps that’s wise,” Geralt agreed.
As Jaskier cleaned the bowls, Geralt knelt at the riverside and scrubbed himself quickly with the washcloth and soap, the way any reasonable man would wash in icy water. He barely took longer than the bard did with the dishes, and Jaskier waited obligingly for him to finish and dress before heading back to camp.
“Are we far from town?”
“Another day, maybe two. Sometimes the snow melt can make it tricky, but I think we’re early enough.”
They’d been on the road for ten minutes before Jaskier spoke again. “Is this... the same place we came through on the way up? White-something?”
“Whiteriver Falls. No. The others should pass through there. We’ll see Glean Carraigh first. It’s bigger, and should have word on a contract already if we’re lucky. Then Ard Carraigh a few days after that unless the path leads us elsewhere.”
“And it often does that? The path mapping itself at your feet?”
He gave Jaskier an amused glance. “If you have to put it like that.”