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Geralt does his best to appear relaxed and distracted caring for Roach as the footsteps enter the clearing where he has made camp.
“Well met, white hair!” a cheery voice calls out. Geralt turns, keeping one hand on the sword he’s hidden under Roach’s saddleblanket. A roughly dressed man is standing a few feet away, posture relaxed but with a hand resting on the pommel of a sword.
Geralt gives a polite nod. When the man doesn’t move on, he asks, “‘You looking for something?”
“Well, to be plain, there’s talk of something fierce lurking in this here part of the woods, and I’d have to be a fool not to recognize a Witcher when I sees one. I was wonderin’ if you’d be willing to share camp for a bit with me and my few friends, maybe join paths til the end of the woods? We’ve food and ale we’d be willing to share, in exchange for help with the watch during the night.”
Geralt snorts, “I’d have to be a fool not to recognize a roadside bandit when I see one. To be plain, I’m not looking to be robbed at my own campfire.”
The man raised his hands in a placating gesture, “A fair observation, but you have my word, Master Witcher, none of my lads will go near your goods. We don’t normally pass this way, for word of the beast in these woods, but we’ve taken in a man with a sizable bounty and this is the only way to get to town to turn him in. We lost a good man last night, and it’s all I can do to keep the remaining from turning back. We just want to make it out of here without any more losses.”
Geralt sighs, “Anyone touches my supplies, I’ll cut them down where they stand. Anyone touches my horse, she’ll bite them and then I’ll cut them down where they stand. I’ll go with you as long as we’re headed in the same direction.”
The man nods, then waves, “C’mon, we’ve a good camp set up nearby.”
On the walk to the camp, Geralt manages to shoot a pair of plump rabbits, much to the delight of his new companion. He’s in the midst of detailing the supplies they have at camp that will allow them to round the game out into a proper feast when Geralt hears a familiar sound.
“Does someone at your camp play lute?”
“I guess all that talk about Witcher senses being keener than a normal man’s is true! Aye, our bounty happens to be a musical sort, and it seems those at camp decided we could do with a bit of entertainment to lighten the mood tonight. Apparently the bard’s some noble brat who’s been avoiding home for too long. His father’s willing to pay quite a pretty penny for the person who can bring him home discreetly. At least, that’s what the contract we found on the posh mercenary said. Seems like daddy overestimated that man’s skill, seeing he couldn’t even find a safe road out of Varlburg, but I say a job done is a job done no matter who does it.”
“Where are you taking him?” Geralt asks, a sour sense of dread starting to curl in his gut as he recognizes the melody being played as they draw closer.
“Lettenhove.”
They break through into the clearing, and Geralt instantly spots the familiar man. One of the bandits has Jaskier, legs bound tight enough he has no chance of making any effective movements, pulled up onto his lap. They’ve untied his hands and given him his lute, but the gleam of a knife at his side makes it clear it wasn’t Jaskier’s idea to play.
“You found him?!” the woman posted on the edge of the camp as guard asks eagerly.
“I did!” the leader crows, indicating Geralt with a wave, “The Witcher has agreed to travel with us a ways. What’s on for dinner?”
“We were starting water for soup.”
“Pour it out. We’ve got fresh meat, let’s make a proper meal for our guest.”
Jaskier, who had stopped playing and looked up when the first came into the clearing, stares at Geralt with a look in his eyes the monster hunter can’t even begin to name. It’s a cold look that somehow still makes his skin feel like it’s searing when Jaskier’s eyes meet his. He looks like he’s about to speak, when the bandit holding him prods pointedly with the knife, “Go on, welcome our guest with a song, bard!”
Jaskier’s face contorts, before smoothing out into a hollow mask of his normal performer’s smile, “Of course, how about a new composition? This is a piece I’ve had the opportunity to share with an audience before.”
The tune starts almost wistful and sweet.
~ A Voice called from the brink of the day
It said, "Hey, darling, hey, hey, darling, hey"
"I'm the hardest goodbye that you'll ever have to say" ~
Before Jaskier’s voice takes a dark, almost warning tone that grows more and more vicious.
~ You don't know it yet, but I'm the keeper of things
That you just didn't get, that you struggled to say
I'm the djinn sunk deep and trapped in your net
I'm your bloody choked silence, your stolen breath. ~
Geralt winces at the memory and tries to turn away and fuss at Roach. He needs to think of how he can get Jaskier out of here as safely as possible. The man may hate him now, and rightfully so after the things he had said on that thrice-cursed mountain, but he hopes that he’s still a more welcome option than being held captive by bandits.
Another change in the song grabs his attention and all but demands he look back again.
~ Because Farewell Destiny, you've been, oh, so kind
You brought me to this mountain, but you left me here behind
So long to the person you begged me to be
He's down, he's dead
Instead what is left but this old silk chemise
And the mess that you left when you told me that I was your curse. ~
There’s a long pause and then Jaskier spends a verse doing what he once informed Geralt was called ‘vocalizing’, but Geralt still thought of as singing nonsense sounds instead of proper words. He would normally roll his eyes at Jaskier at this point in a performance, but he’s frozen, staring, caught in the sudden look of fury that is growing on his former friend’s face.
~ I promise you I'm not broken
I promise you there's more
More to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door
Goodbye to all my darkness, there's nothing here but light
Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night
This here is not poetry, it's a literary tomb
And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune ~
Geralt hopes that the stillness around him is a sign that everyone else is entranced the same way he is- sucked into the raw pain shining from those blue eyes, speared through on the catch and break in his voice. Geralt steps closer without thinking about it until he’s standing close enough to the fire to feel the singeing heat, staring through the smoke at Jaskier and reaching out a hand, trying to find the words to fix this.
~ Because Farewell Destiny, you've been ever so kind
You brought me through this darkness, but you left me here behind
And so long to the person you begged me to be
He's down, he's dead
Now take a good long look at what you've done to me ~
Geralt is staring at his friend and yet, even with all his training, he still can barely follow what happens. One moment, Jaskier is belting out the last line of his song and playing his lute, and then in the space of a breath, he’s somehow managed to get hold of the knife that had been held to his side and is jamming it into the throat of the man holding him.
He uses the momentum to follow the body down onto the far side of the log, pulling the knife out and trying to maneuver his bound body away while the others are still frozen in shock. The space of another breath, and the campsite is filled with shouting.
Geralt shakes himself from his own stunned paralysis and jumps forward, vaulting over the campfire and cutting down the bandit closest to Jaskier. He positions himself between the bard and the rest of the camp.
“Start working on the ropes,” he instructs over his shoulder, throwing out Aard to stumble a few of the bandits to space out the attacks. He takes down the first man with a few parries and a well-placed thrust to the gut.
Another comes at him, as his ears fill with the sound of Jaskier’s impressively creative profanity, and it’s incredible the feeling of calm and rightness that the familiar curses bring him. The warm sense of rightness allows him to focus strictly on the fight, falling into the bone-deep patterns of attacks and defenses. It’s all going well until he hears a yelp from behind him, and turns to see Jaskier scrambling back, legs tangled in half-cut rope, from the woman who had been standing guard on the edge of the camp. Rather than run into the fight, she must have slipped back into the treeline to find a better position unnoticed. Now, she’s made it around and is bearing down on the bard.
Geralt doesn’t think, he just charges, yelling something unintelligible, and launches himself at the woman just as she raises to strike down at the bard. He feels two points of sharp pain bloom as he hits the woman, and Jaskier shouts beneath him. He shoves her back, her blade carving along his chest as they separate. The pain in his back throbs sharply, and a glance reveals that Jaskier had apparently thrown a knife at the woman which Geralt intercepted with his jump.
Geralt, Jaskier, and the woman stand still for a moment, sizing up their new positions, only to be taken by surprise when, from the edge of the camp, a deep roar sounds. Geralt turns to look and then swears as he sees the leshen that serves as guardian of this forest.
He looks between the woman, clearly debating between running and taking one last shot at Jaskier, and the monster stalking closer.
“Geralt, do your damned job and go deal with the monster,” Jaskier snarls, grabbing Geralt’s steel sword from his hand and shoving him at the leshen, “I’m fine.”
Geralt follows the direction, still trying to keep half an ear out for Jaskier’s fight. Leshens are always a bitch to fight unprepared, all the more so when he’s already injured. Luckily he keeps it too distracted to call up any wolves. Unluckily, it’s trading him blow for blow pretty evenly and he’s tiring quickly.
One particularly nasty hit to his gut has Geralt falling to the ground, dark spots dancing across his eyes. He just manages to make out the leshen turning its attention towards Jaskier who seems to have taken down the bandit woman. Taken by instinct and fear, Geralt thrusts out his hand, shapes Igni, and lets the flames spew without care for the exhaustion he feels dragging him down. He sees the leshen fall and finally lets himself succumb to the darkness beckoning as someone shouts his name.
He comes back to the sound of disgruntled muttering and the feeling of someone bandaging his wounds.
“...swear if you die before I get a proper apology from you, you emotionally-stunted brute, I will get that terrifying witch of yours to bring you back just so I have the pleasure of killing you again.”
“Yen doesn’t practice necromancy,” Geralt says with a groan, opening his eyes and sitting up, “though she might make an exception if you presented her with such a noble cause.”
“You would deserve it, you bloody idiot,” Jaskier snaps, hands gentle as ever cleaning Geralt’s wounds, despite his harsh tone, “bad enough you come blundering in, completely ruining all my escape plans, forcing me to improvise. Not that I at all struggle with improvisation, mind you, I just normally only have to practice it in song, not in escape plans--”
“I’m sorry,” Geralt interrupts, “not--not about ruining your plans, I mean...I guess, sorry about that...but that’s not what I---I’m sorry about the mountain. I shouldn’t have said any of what I said, I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry and lashed out like a fucking feral beast, biting the hand trying to heal it. I got so used to you staying, even when I act like an ass and treat you horribly, I don’t think I considered what it would be like if you left. I’ve been trying to find you ever since I got off that damned mountain and if you’ll let me...I want to fix this. Please let me try.”
Geralt’s vision goes black again for a moment and he falls back back to the ground with a grunt. He hears Jaskier shouting his name and when he comes back to himself the bard is propping up his head and pressing a potion bottle to his lips.
The salty tang of tears drifts through the air.
“You are never again allowed to call me dramatic,” Jaskier sniffs, tipping the healing potion into Geralt’s mouth, “after this. Jumping in front of my knife and then nearly dying to save me just to try and make your apology a bit less shit, even when some of that was damn near poetic. And I should know.”
Geralt feels the press of lips to his forehead and the shaky warmth of a relieved sigh as he swallows the last of the potion.
“I’m stealing that line about a beast lashing out, by the way, just try and stop me,” Jaskier mumbles wetly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Geralt whispers, pulling his bard- yes, he can call the bard his again, and everything about that feels right- down so he can reach the lips lingering against his forehead with his own.