Author's Note: Double-size chapter, for extra sofdness!
Geralt drifted for a long while, drawn back to consciousness by pain or breathlessness or fever, only to slide away again into sleep, but gradually, he felt his strength growing. A couple times he woke to confusion and couldn't remember how he'd come to be here, injured so badly, nearly to the point of death. Usually if he was hurt badly, there would be grass under his back, damp with dew or itching where it brushed his skin. Usually he'd smell the blood of whatever beast had laid him low, its blood and his mingled in the air until, as time passed, the scent changed to that of decay. Usually, he'd lay and try to rest, to meditate or sleep until his body healed enough for him to drag himself up and to where Roach waited with potions and bandages in the packs across her back. If he was lucky, he'd sometimes be found by grateful villagers who checked to see if he was successful in his hunt of the beast that plagued their families. Sometimes they'd take him with them and he'd wake in a healer's hut.
This was different. Not a healer's hut, but not the vulnerable openness of the wild either. No stink of rot or wild animals wandering past, no herbs drying in the windows, flavoring the air with their bitter leaves. Here there were new things. Things that he'd never had before. Words and gestures never before directed at him.
His memory was a patchwork of them. There were moments missing, turning up fractured and confused, but from the jumble of memories, Geralt could piece together that he'd been tended, night and day, without fail. He'd felt Jaskier changing the bandage on his leg, checking and rewrapping the wounds on both of his wrists, peering at the bruising to the witcher's head and chest as if he could gauge their progress at a glance. That meant this had happened more times than Geralt knew, more times than he remembered.
And in among the tangled lines of the past were things that confused him… at least at first.
It confused him that something as simple as a flask held to his lips could have such meaning, could make his heart ache with gratitude. That something as small as the circles traced on his arm by the bard's restless fingers could be so mesmerizing, so soothing to his exhausted mind and body. That those motions, paired with the steady thump of his friend's heart against his back could lull his mind into drowsy comfort swifter than any amount of drink ever had.
Then there were the words. You're okay… I'm right here… I've got you… Lines so simple he'd expected his mind to identify and dismiss them as meaningless talk, but instead they remained, curled around his heart like the warmth of a winter cloak. Had he been well, he might have brushed them off, but when he was lying there shivering and miserable, they'd been… helpful. Comforting.
He'd never had someone else try to comfort him except for Roach, who, when a hunt went very badly, might nuzzle his hair or huff at his chest in concern for her master. But she couldn't do more than that. No more than being there, listening, waiting, helping him up when he was finally well enough to call to her. This was different. Jaskier's words had been as deliberate as a strike with a blade, as doggedly constant as the turning of the sun and moon, and they'd had no purpose other than to soothe and reassure.
Just simple words and simple gestures.
An arm around his shoulders, pulling him up from suffocating shadows.
Slow and easy.
A cloak when he shivered with fever.
There you go.
Small circles traced on his sleeve.
Just rest.
Even when his tending had required putting the witcher through some level of pain while wrapping or cleaning his wounds, Jaskier had worked quickly, taken time to check his breathing and pulse after, and whispered endless apologies. Those words lingered as well, had become a sort of mantra that the bard repeated to him nearly every time he woke.
I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left.
I'm sorry, I've got you.
I'm sorry, I know it hurts.
The apologies especially confused him. This miserable state was in no way Jaskier's fault, yet he seemed to blame himself for every discomfort Geralt experienced while in his care. And all of these, apologies and assurances alike, were words he'd never had in any healer's hut and certainly never from Roach, supportive though she was. Since he'd never had them and had always recovered without them, Geralt had figured they were superfluous. Just words, with little to no meaning and no discernable purpose beyond giving the speaker something to say, to conform to some unanimously-decided social rule that one must speak to another, that silence was indifference.
Now though… Geralt was fascinated by these tiny gifts, by how they could warm his heart and soothe his aches, calm fear and summon restful, healing sleep.
Just words and gestures.
Simple, and yet far more complex than he'd ever thought possible.
Geralt drifted through the memories, surfacing briefly when Jaskier roused him for a drink of water or tea or broth. At some point, he was lowered to lie on his back in the straw, his head pillowed on bundled-up fabric, and a part of him missed the warmth and closeness of before, feared the suffocating pressure that had built in his chest the last time Jaskier had left him. But this time he continued to breathe peacefully, the weight on his chest relieved and the ache in his abdomen fading day by day.
Time continued in brief moments of wakefulness, sometimes to daylight, sometimes to moonlight, always to the beat of his friend's heart nearby. Daylight brought the sounds of movement and work, and sometimes he would take a few minutes to just listen before Jaskier realized he was awake and came to offer water or broth or fuss over his bandages. He listened as the bard gave Roach a thorough brush-down, talking to her all the while and exclaiming on his luck at having caught two more rabbits, presumably with the simple snares taken from Geralt's pack. He listened to the mutterings and curses as Jaskier prepared the meal, and cracked his eyes open when the scent of cooked meat reached him.
He ate a little and then slept, and woke again to moonlight and crickets and soft breathing at his side that told him Jaskier was sleeping. Usually the bard slept with his lute close at hand, one arm slung over the case protectively, but tonight the lute was settled a few feet away with their things. Jaskier had his back turned so he faced the wide expanse of the barn, and Geralt lay for a time, drowsily puzzling through the change. Jaskier's hands hadn't been hurt, not as far as Geralt had seen, anyway. There was no reason for the bard to shun the instrument he so adored. But then a fox darted through the barn, deft paws scuffing the earth, and Jaskier startled awake, sitting up with his dagger in hand almost before the animal's bushy tail had vanished into the night.
A bizarre warmth spread in Geralt's chest as the bard mumbled a curse in the animal's direction, then glanced his way in the dark before settling back down to sleep, a solid wall between Geralt and the world. Witchers weren't rescued, weren't mourned, and they certainly weren't protected. But then, Geralt thought, as sleep tugged at his awareness once more, witchers also didn't usually have friends, and he found that, strange though it might be, it was... nice, to know that someone was there, keeping watch. And in between the wakeful moments of sun and moon, care and keeping, Geralt pondered.
His bard was more capable than he'd given him credit for. Geralt had always assumed that because Jaskier had grown up in and around cities, he'd never be quite adept in preparing his own food, let alone setting a snare to catch it in the first place. Certainly he'd been learning quickly since his travels with the witcher, but Geralt had still thought of him as a fish out of water, floundering along as best he could in an environment he couldn't be expected to thrive in. And yet here he was, keeping not only himself but a witcher and his horse alive in a run-down barn in the woods, with nothing but his wits and endless determination to keep him going. It was amazing and strange and ever-so-slightly embarrassing, a feeling Geralt felt certain would only grow when he was well enough for the bard to tease him for his past disparaging comments on Jaskier's inability to make a fire.
The next time he woke, it was without the press of still-needed sleep over his eyelids, and Geralt blinked into the sunny interior of the barn, surveying their makeshift camp with clarity for the first time. There was a wide swath of straw across the ground, the saddle and blanket beside it marking the space as Roach's, though the mare herself was nowhere to be seen. The remains of a campfire whispered smoke nearby, cookpot and utensils arranged beside it. Closer at hand were the saddlebags and other items, lute and swords tucked safely to one side, and a bedroll laid out beside Geralt's makeshift sickbed.
Geralt raised his head, grimacing at the ache in his neck, and gingerly sat up, leaning back against the bales as the world tipped dizzily. Hunger grumbled in his belly and thirst sat stubbornly in his throat, but he paid them no mind, frowning as he realized he was alone. Both Jaskier and Roach were missing, and for a moment worry churned uncomfortably in his empty stomach, but then he realized the flasks were gone as well, and a tapering trail of straw led from Roach's corner to the door. He settled back, blowing out a breath as worry turned to peace once more.
Within minutes, the merry chirping of birds outside faltered, startled by the thump of hooves on packed earth, and Jaskier appeared in the wide doorway, Roach's reins in hand and the water flasks slung over his shoulder. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled, the turquoise of his trousers faded and stained, still crusted with dirt that had dug into the fabric in a way that would ordinarily draw deep annoyance and endless complaint from the bard. But instead, Jaskier just looked tired, his hair and clothes rumpled like he'd just woken up.
The bard's eyes roved immediately to where Geralt sat, as if the glance were a natural part of his stepping over the threshold, and he stopped so suddenly Roach knocked him forward a step. She snorted in annoyance, sidestepping Jaskier, who let her reins go as he said, "Geralt! You shouldn't be sitting up…. Should you?" He crossed the barn quickly, a frown overtaking his features, and set the flasks down as he crouched beside Geralt, casting a suspicious eye over the witcher and the arm wrapped around his sore ribs. "I mean, you don't look as dreadful as you did, but you still don't look…" Another skeptical once-over. "... y'know, well, yet."
Geralt snorted, shifting in a failed attempt to find a more comfortable position.
"I'm not a child. I know I look like-"
"I was trying to be diplomatic," Jaskier said pointedly as he sat down in the straw and reached to drag the saddlebags to his side. "How are you feeling?" he added tentatively, and Geralt considered the question. In all honesty? Like he'd been run over by a two-ton kikimora, but somehow he didn't think that description would ease the worry hidden beneath his friend's hopeful tone. So instead he went with, "Rough," and left it at that for now.
"Right. Good... Is that good? It sounds… better, at least."
Geralt gave a brief grunt of agreement, and Jaskier went on, "Well, since you might actually stay awake long enough this time to answer, I did have a question…" Hands occupied with untangling strips of bandages, Jaskier still managed to gesture toward Geralt with his eyebrows, wincing slightly as the movement pressed on the dark bruise over his eye. "Is there anything we ought to do about your hands before I take a look at your leg again? Or do your potions sort out things like, um, broken bones, too?"
Geralt was distracted from his frowning survey of the bard's bruised face and he looked down, a curse slipping past his lips at the sight of his hands. He'd estimated two broken fingers on his left, one on his right, and that seemed to be the case, going by the dull ache that sharpened with every attempted movement of those fingers. All but one were minor enough breaks that they'd remained in place, begun to heal without the need for resetting. But his right index finger was bent at an angle, stiff and wrong. The bone should have been set long ago - the day it had happened, if he'd had any say in it. Jaskier couldn't be faulted for leaving it, not when Geralt's death had seemed so certain only a short time ago, but now he felt his heart sink at the realization that while he could still move his hands, he couldn't curl his fingers without increasing the throbbing pain that circled them like overly-tight gloves. With the potions working in his system, the damage had started to heal, but in the case of that one finger, that healing would have to be undone to get it in the right position again.
That meant re-breaking, and while Geralt was fairly certain he could talk Jaskier through setting a bone, he wasn't so sure the bard could handle breaking the bone first without losing his lunch. Geralt was not keen to add the scent of fresh vomit to the list of unpleasant smells he currently carried on his person after kneeling for a week in mud and blood and spending the next few days drenched in fever sweats.
With only the index finger on his right hand needing immediate attention, he could probably handle it on his own without too much trouble. It would hurt, certainly, hurt like he was yanking his own finger off completely, but the pain would be only slightly lessened by Jaskier doing it himself, and the bard had already done so much.
To Jaskier he just said, "I'll have to set this one. The rest are in place and healing."
"Right. Um, so," the bard began, bandages now laid in neat, folded strips across his leg, "with the caveat that I did spend my university days studying music, not medicine - much to my parents' dismay - I am pretty sure that you're not supposed to use your currently-broken bones to set your other currently-broken bones."
Geralt gave a disinterested hum. There were probably countless things Jaskier's professors at Oxenfurt would turn their noses up at and say weren't supposed to be done, and Geralt had a feeling that, their collective misadventures pooled together, he and Jaskier had burned through much of that list just in the past few days.
He moved to begin, but just the act of curling the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to grip his right proved more painful than he'd anticipated, drawing a grimace across his muscles had become stiff and cramped, and Geralt cursed under his breath. Jaskier winced in sympathetic reflection of the witcher's expression.
"You know… I could…"
Geralt grit his teeth and tried again, curling his fingers as far as he could and feeling muscle and bone protest with a vengeance. He pushed it until nausea started churning in his gut and his jaw began to ache.
"Geralt? I can… I mean, I can… if-"
He let his head fall back against the bales, breathing through his nose and letting his fingers relax back into their stiffened places. It was clear he wouldn't be setting any bones himself today. Not without passing out a couple times. Had he been alone, that would have been the only course of action. Re-break the bone, pass out, wake up, and set it. But with Jaskier fidgeting more and more with Geralt's every attempt, it would do them both good to just let the bard handle this one, give him something to do beyond watch and fret.
"Fine…" His voice was more strained than he liked, but he could see the relief in the younger man's face as he jutted his chin, indicating his right hand. "You'll have to break it first."
"Wait, what?" Jaskier stammered. "I thought it needed to be set! Why on earth would you…?"
Geralt shook his head, saying, "It's been left too long." Then as Jaskier's face fell in a way that looked far too much like guilt, he added, "It should've been set that first day. By the time you'd arrived, it had already begun to heal."
The bard's rueful frown only dug deeper, notching between his brows, and he said, "Should have gotten there that much sooner then, shouldn't I?"
As Jaskier carefully lifted Geralt's hand, the witcher spoke again.
"I'm glad you didn't." The bard's blue eyes met his in surprise, and Geralt felt a flare of fondness warm his heart, tempered by the memory of Tomas's violent ways and Geralt made sure his tone was one of absolute sincerity. "You couldn't have prevented that first blow, and after that, I wouldn't have been able to stop him. You would've fought and he would have caught you, too - or worse."
That took some of the shadow from the bard's eyes, and he straightened a little, nodding.
"So... what do you need me to do?"
Geralt kept the instructions short and to the point, showing the bard how to place his own fingers at the healing break, making sure he understood how much force to apply. Jaskier listened with concern pinching his features, and took a deep breath when Geralt finished.
"Geralt…. You're absolutely certain it won't heal right if I don't do this?"
"Witcher healing can mend broken bones, but it can't move them, and it's already started healing in place." Jaskier still looked doubtful so Geralt made sure he sounded both firm and encouraging and nodded. "I'm certain."
The bard nodded reluctantly, then set his jaw determinedly, and Geralt fixed his eyes on the patch of blue sky rimmed by broken boards overhead, bracing himself. To his credit, Jaskier did use a fair amount of force, and as the shifting bone sent fire lancing up his arm, Geralt couldn't help but groan, eyes shut tightly against the pain.
"Ohh, gods! Sorry. Uh… sorry. But I think it's, uh…"
He gave a short nod in answer.
Jaskier painstakingly set the bone, a heartfelt wince stamped on his face. Geralt let out a slow, measured breath while the bard went to gather some flat bits of wood from the small heap by the fire.
The bits of wood Jaskier brought looked as if they'd been broken from the barn itself somewhere, but they served well enough as splints, which the bard, with a little coaching, wrapped in place with smaller strips of cloth that bound his fingers to their unbroken fellows for added stability. When it was done, Geralt breathed in, slow and steady, and opened his eyes. Jaskier looked fairly haggard himself, but straightened under Geralt's eye and said, "Right. So, that's done. Let's have a look at your leg."
Geralt leaned forward and found that with the bandages removed, the wound looked practically harmless compared to the bloody, infected mess it had been. The swelling had gone down significantly, and even the bruising around it had faded to mottled yellows and browns. Jaskier uttered a short, curious hum.
"That's… amazing. It looks like you're back to healing at your usual unbelievable speed again, thank goodness."
Geralt inclined his head in agreement, eyebrows raised in surprise. The bard had done well. He was already gathering the old set of bandages aside for cleaning, and arranging a fresh set to replace them with a practiced speed that told Geralt this had been done regularly for some time. In fact, the wound looked too well healed to be simply the work of careful cleaning. A hazy memory came to mind of deep, burning pain in his leg, the sound of his own groans overlaid with more desperate apologies and a warm, steadying hand on his wrist.
"The potions?" Geralt queried, casting a light frown over at the bard. A guilty expression flickered across Jaskier's face, like he'd been caught sneaking Roach a sugar cube again.
"I… may have poured some over the wound. Only because I've seen you do it before. Was that wrong?"
"No, it's… good," he finished lamely, glancing at Jaskier's fidgeting before leaning back and letting him clean and re-wrap the wound. So not only had Jaskier successfully brewed potions only a witcher had ever made before, he'd also paid enough attention to Geralt's own healing practices to know how to use them to fight infection in deep wounds. It was… odd, and a little discomfiting to realize someone existed who knew a witcher well enough to make his potions and tend his wounds without being a witcher himself. It was strange and different, but not entirely unpleasant, Geralt decided, to know that if he ever was hurt beyond what his own strength and capabilities could handle, it would not necessarily mean his death. That was a thought that would take some time to get used to.
From the moment those potions had been crushed under the blacksmith's heel, Geralt had assumed that he would die in the coming few days. Even rescued, even tended, even lying in relative comfort, he would die. Allowing Jaskier to attempt the potion brewing had been more for the bard's sake than his own. He'd been too exhausted to fight the hardened determination in the stubborn man's eyes, and he'd figured it would, at best, give Jaskier a little more time to adjust to the idea of his passing.
Instead, the bard had ridden to and from town in record time, fought off at least one assailant with minimal injury to himself, successfully brewed a witcher's healing draughts and administered them, all before Geralt's condition had deteriorated beyond the point of recovery. It was… singularly astounding, and Geralt found he hadn't the words to express this. Jaskier had settled back, the wrapping tight and clean and tied off with deft movements, but something thoughtful lingered in his eyes, in the shadowed frown on his brow, and after a quick glance up at Geralt, the bard set aside his brooding to reach into one pocket.
"I've, um… been holding onto this for you."
Shining silver, polished bright, hung from his hesitant hand and Geralt stared, taking it slowly and letting the chain spill over his freshly-splinted fingers. Before he could ask, Jaskier continued quietly, "I took it back from Tomas and… I was-" Another glance, and a breath that wavered almost imperceptibly. "I was going to take it to Kaer Morhen, like you asked, but to my profound and inexpressible relief, it looks like I won't have to make that particular trip anytime soon." He paused, smile dimming slightly as he said, "You… are definitely gonna be all right now… right?"
Geralt just gazed at him, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tousled hair, the glimmer of fear that spoke of sleepless nights and constant worry. How could the inability to walk a mile without complaint or to watch game be skinned and prepared without a theatrical gag have so completely hidden the truth? Not only had Jaskier sought him out, but he had gone to lengths that no human had ever attempted before to ensure Geralt's survival. Then, as if that hadn't been trial enough, Jaskier had gone toe-to-toe with the witcher's brutish captor and come out of it with little more than a bruise and the silver chain and medallion Geralt held now, taken right off the smith's ugly head, Geralt was sure.
His bard had been brave, capable, violent even, and Geralt found he was rather disappointed to have missed the look on Tomas's face when he'd been soundly trounced by an unexpectedly feral bard.
Jasker was watching him with growing concern, and Geralt found he could only answer with a nod. Yes, he would be all right, and he owed that entirely to Jaskier, whose whole body seemed to slump at once, relief gusting from him.
"Good! That's…" He ducked his head, scrubbing lightly at the bruise on his forehead, but his chuckle ended in a sniffle. "That's good. Um…" Another quick breath that sounded distinctly tearful. "Gods. Sorry, it's just…" The bard left his head resting on his hand, face hidden as his shoulders shook very quietly.
Geralt sat awkwardly for a moment, unsure. But as the soft gasps continued, far too reminiscent of those broken sounds that had followed him into sleep that first night in the barn, Geralt found he had to do something.
An embrace had always looked more like an attack than a comfort to Geralt, when performed between two able-bodied men, but then most, if not all, of the physical interaction he'd had with other men had been violent and bloody. The few exceptions were the other witchers, who would clap each other on the back, give a shove or a punch to show some meager amount of affection, born more out of their shared traumas than any real familial sentiment. This felt different, and while Geralt himself might be more comfortable with a clap on the back, he doubted it would do much more right now than knock the wind out of Jaskier, and that didn't sound quite as helpful as Geralt hoped to be.
Instead, he reached out hesitantly. One arm around the back, the other at the head, pulling them to your shoulder. That was how it was done, right? That was how Jaskier had held him when he'd needed it most, and it had been a world of comfort he'd never known. Now, with the bard so clearly exhausted, emotionally and physically spent, Geralt wanted to express that same safety and comfort to his friend, as well as a wealth of gratitude he had no words to impart. So he went through the motions, hoping the stiff splints around his fingers wouldn't ruin the effect.
At first, all Jaskier offered was a confused hum, muffled against the witcher's shoulder, but it didn't take long before the bewilderment gave way and the bard's hands came around to his back. Geralt counted that as a success, but now there was a damp patch soaking his shoulder, and Jaskier was trying but not yet fully able to stifle his tears. Geralt tried tightening his grip just a little, and felt the bard's arms mirror the motion around his sore ribs.
Something in Geralt's heart ached at that, at the hands clinging to the back of his shirt just like he'd longed to do at that post. Jaskier must be feeling something similar now, similar to that desperate need to hold the other close and not let the world or its cruelty separate them again. Geralt scanned the sun-gilt boards of the wall across the way, turning his head just a little in an attempt to replicate the comforting pressure he'd felt against his head, and he brought to mind all those little gifts Jaskier had given him over these past days, trying to channel that warmth from his heart to his arms. He didn't know if he was successful. His arms had started to tremble, weak and weary still, and it didn't seem like nearly enough.
This was the part where people usually said something, Geralt suddenly realized….
Jaskier had been talking to him that dark night at the post, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what had been said. In the days that had followed, the bard had given him several examples of how to soothe and calm another, but every time the witcher tried to form them, to say them, they felt unwieldy and sentimental to the point of embarrassment on his tongue, so he swallowed them back. Geralt found his mind utterly blank, gracing him with only an awkward "Um…" and that had definitely not been the thing to say, because Jaskier quickly let go and sat back. Geralt's hand slid from the bard's head to his shoulder, his other hovering uncertain to the side, the medallion still clutched in his fist.
"Sorry," Jaskier sniffed, wiping at his eyes and making a token effort to brush away the wetness that dotted the dark fabric at Geralt's shoulder. "I'm sure the last thing you want right now is a silly bard turning on the waterworks over something as ridiculous as you not dying…"
"You're not-" Geralt broke off. He knew he had to say something. He couldn't just leave it at 'You're not silly,' and a simple 'Thank you' seemed far too little a thing, more suited to someone buying you a drink than them saving your stupid hide from a slow and painful death. Geralt clenched his jaw, mind working furiously as Jaskier dipped his head a little to catch his eye.
"I'm not… what?"
His gaze lowered, Geralt caught the brilliant flash of silver in his own hand and gratitude welled up again in his chest, forcing words along with it. He met the bard's curious gaze, the blue eyes still rimmed in red, and voiced the first words that came to him.
"You…" He took a breath and plowed on, "You are a blessing, Jaskier…. I owe you a debt I cannot hope to repay."
The bard's initial response of open-mouthed shock was not exactly what Geralt had been aiming for, and he averted his gaze, a sting of embarrassment catching in his chest as his own words played over in his head, emotional and flowery and probably deserving of the disbelieving chuckle that escaped the bard's lips. But before he could lower his hand from the other man's shoulder, Jaskier was hugging him again, not with quite as much force as before, but just as genuinely, and Geralt figured he must've done something right when the bard's smile was clearly audible where it pulled his words wider.
"That… is the kindest thing that you have ever said to me. And," he went on, sitting back to raise a finger between them, "never again can you give me that 'we're not friends' rubbish, because you've just demonstrated that to be a complete and baseless lie. You're a terrible liar anyway, but now…" His bright smile bordered on triumphant, but it was a good sight better than the worry that had hung so heavily on him for so long.
Geralt sat back, unable to completely hide his own smile as Jaskier brushed his palm across his eyes again, then began cleaning up the unused bandages and packing the others away to be washed later. Geralt was in dire need of a wash himself, but he set that thought aside for now, slipping the chain over his head and feeling finally whole again as the medallion's weight settled on his chest.
While Jaskier dug out the supplies for breakfast, Geralt watched him, aware that his own expression had softened to one of outright fondness. He didn't bother to hide it for now, not when the best story the bard could ever tell was hanging against his chest, the wolf's teeth bared in a snarl he could almost picture on the bard's face with the smith staring dumbfounded in return.
"What happened?" he asked, answering the bard's curious gaze with a glance down at the medallion.
"Would you believe they actually thought they were rescuing me?" the younger man replied, eyebrows and voice arching in affront. He gathered them both a breakfast of leftover rabbit stew before launching into a retelling of the entire battle from start to finish with far more description than was really needed. Geralt suspected there had been a bit of embellishment regarding the dialogue between him and Tomas, as it sounded more like some melodramatic play than the actual bare-knuckle brawl it had to have been. The blow-by-blow sounded more realistic and Geralt felt a swell of pride at the news that Jaskier had not only taken up the sword as suggested, but he'd actually gotten a good hit in that would likely limit the blacksmith's mobility for weeks, making it all the more unlikely he would come after them again.
"I must have got hold of his hammer at some point... um... And Roach quite viciously took a piece out of the other fellow, so by the time I'd made it back in here, they all heartily regretted butting in where they weren't wanted." Jaskier finished with satisfaction, his gaze returning from the middle distance where he'd been stepping through the fray in his memory. "I think the two fellows he brought with him would have listened to me, actually, if Tomas hadn't been bullying them on with that monumental grudge of his, insisting I was in thrall to you."
His smile twisted scornfully and Geralt breathed a laugh, shaking his head.
"I'd have liked to see the look on his face."
"The sight remains an infinitely-gratifying balm to my soul," Jaskier agreed, laying hand to heart. "If I thought I could do the whole thing justice, I might even commit it to verse at some point. Take center stage myself, as it were."
Geralt finished his food, a little disappointed that he was already full after only a small helping. "You were far more the hero of this one," he admitted. "Though," he added with a slight wince. "This is one tale I'd rather not have spread too far…." He could just picture the look on Vesemir's face. If the other witchers ever got wind of how the great White Wolf was rescued like a damsel in distress by a reckless fool of a bard, he'd never live it down.
Jaskier turned a look of exaggerated concern on him.
"Was that yet another compliment from you, Geralt? Are you still feeling all right?" The bard leaned to press the back of his hand to Geralt's brow and the witcher fixed him with an annoyed frown. The invading arm tactfully retreated and Jaskier returned to his food.
"Were you listening?" Geralt said, after a few moments.
"What? When?"
Geralt sighed through his nose and canted his head to one side.
"About the song…" he drawled, waiting for his warning frown to sink his meaning in past the bard's fleeting attention span. Jaskier set his bowl aside with a long-suffering sigh saying, "I should have known the compliments wouldn't last long. When have I ever set hand to lute or uttered a single note that did not cover you in glory and praise? Hmm?" Blue eyes searched his face keenly, and Geralt knew he'd been found out when Jaskier's tone shifted, dropping to a more serious timbre.
"You do know that you've got nothing to be ashamed of, right? Just because you happened to run into one of the worst examples of humanity the Continent has to offer, and you weren't able to fight off literally the entire village…." He shook his head, quick and impatient, dismissing Geralt's embarrassment as unwarranted. "That makes them the monsters, and they're just lucky you're too honorable to go back there and give them good reason to be afraid of you."
Geralt nodded in agreement, trading his own dish for a water flask while he quipped dryly, "They're certainly the monsters, but I was the fool who thought it a good idea to stop in for a drink." The fresh spring water was better than the finest ale on the continent. Setting the flask aside, Geralt leaned back and shut his eyes for a moment to savor the feeling of not being thirsty.
"And there's the true measure of their intelligence, if they choose to assault one of the five paying customers they get every year," Jaskier huffed. The witcher hummed in response, a small smile playing at his lips as he added, "Not a paying customer. Tomas bought the drink." He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Jaskier. "Although it does say something about the folk in these parts that when they are presented with the heads of beasts who've been killing their families for generations, they think it best to attack and rob the man in return."
And wasn't that an embittering thought, Geralt mused, that all the coin he'd had with him was weighing the pockets of his attackers when it could have gone toward a much-needed bath in the next welcoming town over the border. But when he surfaced from his longing thoughts, Jaskier was smirking at him, looking strangely pleased with himself.
"As it happens," he said, "though I didn't find your coin purse on the smith's tables with everything else, I did take a fair bit of coin in with my performance that night, so between that and my parting gift from Novigrad…. Not sure how much you left home sweet home with, but I certainly have enough to get us both a proper bath and real beds for a night or two."
The weary resignation in Geralt's heart lifted at once and he suggested they leave the barn as soon as possible. Jaskier was reluctant to agree, pointing out all-too-accurately that Geralt couldn't even cross the barn under his own power yet, but even the bard had felt the ever-present threat of their proximity to that mud hole of a town looming dark and dangerous over their shoulders. He soon caved to Geralt's logic, and agreed they ought to move far enough away that Tomas would no longer be a threat. Then, Jaskier insisted, they would stop and stay put until Geralt was well enough to sit up for more than an hour at a time.
The next morning, Geralt rode in a pained slump while Jaskier led Roach at a slow, careful pace. By that evening, they'd bypassed the town Jaskier had stopped in for the herbs and went a mile or two further for safety's sake. Finally, they settled in the forest a safe distance from the main road, and Geralt had gratefully fallen into an exhausted slumber the minute Jaskier had helped him down to the bedroll.
The witcher had slept through much of the next day, waking for food and water and one more potion, but little else. He hadn't thought the simple act of just riding a horse would wear him out so much, but then, he'd also been starved and without water for a full week. It would take time to build his strength back up. But he was restless, frustrated, still felt the urge to get up and move even if his body wasn't really up to it.
So it was that when Jaskier went to fetch more water the next morning, Geralt waited until the bard was out of earshot before calling Roach over to him with a low whistle. She'd often helped him get about with injuries in the past, and she was used to the slow steps and intermittent weight her master put on her as he tried to remind his stiff muscles how to move, but this time even she seemed leery of his plan, huffing and stomping a hoof before reluctantly obeying.
He'd only intended to take a quick walk around the clearing and back to the bedroll. Just one short loop, and then more rest. But he'd only just got to his feet and taken his first wobbly step when he realized his splinted hands couldn't hold onto Roach's mane like he usually did. Another two steps and he felt like he'd just run a mile carrying a millstone, sweat gathering on his brow, his shoulders burning, and his chest aching with each rapid breath. One more half-step and a groan later, and Jaskier had rushed in at his elbow, panicking and nearly dropping the pot of water in his haste to take Geralt's weight.
Naturally, Roach took offence to this, and nearly caught the bard's hand in her teeth before Geralt told her off and let Jaskier help him back to the bedroll. The bard's concern was less about Roach being untrustworthy than it was the witcher pushing his injured body too far too soon, Geralt admitted to himself with chagrin. He must've looked a pretty pathetic figure as Jaskier arrived, knees quaking, arms slipping as Roach bent for another mouthful of grass. Had he fallen, he could easily have rebroken a rib. He just… wasn't used to being able to take it slow. Whenever he'd been hurt in the past, he'd either had to be on his feet immediately to slay the beast that had injured him, or else he'd needed to get back to town before impatient locals sold Roach or his things, thinking him done for.
Geralt spent the rest of that day under Jaskier's watchful eye, trying to adjust to the idea that he was free to just sit… just sit and wait for his body to heal. He didn't try to walk again for a while, restricting himself to standing propped against a tree and just practicing putting weight on his leg. When Jaskier came back from gathering firewood that evening and presented him with a sturdy stick of about the right height, Geralt accepted it without complaint. It might've been a blow to his pride, using a crutch to hobble around their camp, but Jaskier wasn't quite his usual self, overlooking every opportunity to nettle the witcher when he would ordinarily have leapt at the chance to tease and taunt. No quips, no jibes, no lyrical comments rife with innuendo, the sort that the bard was adept at and enjoyed tossing his way just to bring out that particularly exasperated glower Geralt had set aside for just those occasions.
No, rather, Jaskier still seemed tired, edgy, protective, and it was a strange and confusing role-reversal that Geralt pondered as they made their way down to the stream to wash off the worst of the past weeks' grime. It wasn't as good as a hot bath, but their combined stink had begun to offend even Roach, who had developed a habit of subtly standing upwind of them whenever they were near.
Once Geralt had been escorted to the riverbank, he waved off his hovering shadow, suggesting Jaskier go check the snares he'd set. Geralt had managed bathing himself with a myriad of wounds over the years, and he wasn't about to let the encroaching mother hen in the bard's jumpy gestures take control. Of course, said ruffled hen returned shortly thereafter to stand on the bank, hands on his hips like a scolding mother.
"I know it's been a while since your last bath, but, uh, little reminder: people do generally remove their clothing first, you know."
Geralt just offered a low hum from his place seated in the shallows, cold water up to his chest, hands occupied scrubbing the last flecks of dried blood from his arms, then said, "I thought you'd rather I kill two birds with one stone than kill myself trying to get these off."
He'd considered undressing, but with his fingers still splinted and ribs aching, he'd be lucky to get his shirt off, let alone the trousers. Might as well wash them and himself in one go. A flicker of guilt pulled the bard's eyes aside for a moment, his hands beginning their characteristic anxious movements, thumb and forefinger rubbing circles against each other as he spoke.
"Ah. Well… yes. Fair point." For a moment or two the younger man was quiet, and Geralt moved on to his bloodstained sleeves, wondering if there was really any point in trying to get the deep, crusted marks out of the dark material. Then Jaskier took an uncertain step forward, boots hushed on the moss, adding, "So do you…" One hand fluttered in Geralt's direction, like he was shooing away a stray dog that had drawn just a little too close for comfort. "Are you, um, asking if I'd…?"
The look Geralt gave him was a carefully-tailored expression of warning and exasperated humor, eyebrows raised and lips pressed thin as he raised a hand between them to halt Jaskier's approach. He waited until the awkward fretting of the bard's hands stilled, proof he was paying attention, before the witcher gave him a simple but firm, "No," and relief crossed the younger man's brow. Jaskier blew out a breath and plunked himself down on the bank beside the makeshift crutch.
"Thank the gods for that. There are enough rumors circulating the Continent without adding fuel to that fire."
Geralt hoped the glare he fixed on the bard properly conveyed his feelings. He was gratified when Jaskier, momentarily distracted by a passing dragonfly, did a double-take and then frowned at him.
"Now, there's no need to look like that about it. You could do worse, you know!"
Geralt snorted and turned back to scrubbing the fabric at his leg slightly cleaner. He might be able to salvage the material, but whatever washerwoman he or Jaskier passed it to for mending would hate them for it. The fabric was stiff with blood that was only just beginning to loosen.
"Those rumors are a little ridiculous, though. The world seems to have forgotten the chivalrous bond between brothers-in-arms," the bard mused pensively, bootheels crossed and swaying comfortably in Geralt's peripheral vision.
Geralt sent him a sympathetically doubtful look over his shoulder. The younger man only stared back archly and repeated, "Yes, that's right. Brothers. In. Arms. I have swung a sword more than once, for your information. And in your defense, in fact, so you can wipe that look off your face right now, witcher."
Geralt chuckled and accepted Jaskier's helping hand to haul himself upright and retrieve the crutch. The bard was right, though. He had 'borne arms' so to speak, not just against Tomas, but all the times before that when he'd foolishly lashed out at drunks or angry villagers, returning the insults and stones they'd thrown with his own. That was another phrase to mull over, he thought: 'brothers in arms.'
They picked their way over the needles and nettles and crossed the few steps back to their camp, where Geralt rested in a patch of sunlight while Jaskier took his turn to get clean. They moved on the next morning and at their campsite Geralt tried to remember to use the crutch, he really did, but sometimes Roach was a better support. After all, she could step forward to catch him when he stupidly attempted to walk across the clearing to meet her rather than calling her to him, nearly earning himself a mouthful of leaves and dirt for his troubles.
After a day or two of cautious practice and healing rest, Geralt had finally regained near-full mobility, even if that mobility was hampered by a heavy limp and he found himself out of breath from something as simple as saddling his horse. Jaskier's incessant hovering didn't help either, but every time Geralt found himself growing annoyed by the bard's nonstop chatter and scolding, he'd feel the thump of weighted silver against his chest as he moved or catch sight of his own tightly-splinted fingers and settle again into thoughtful silence.
They were officially out of potions once more, and it would be nigh impossible to get the supplies this far north with a witcher riding tall and silent in the bard's wake, even with his white hair almost dark grey with nearly two weeks worth of dirt, blood, and sweat. A stream could only work out so much dirt, and without the aid of soap, they both still looked a little worse for wear.
They set off as soon as Jaskier was convinced that his charge was well enough to travel, though the bard did insist on being told the minute Geralt grew tired or his condition changed in the slightest, an arrangement that Geralt reluctantly agreed to. And he found that frequent stops did help the fire in his leg and chest to not become quite so sharp. His hands were a difficulty he hadn't anticipated. It was one thing to sling his arm over a horse's back or loosely tuck a stick under one arm, but another thing entirely to curl his fingers around the reins, especially with the splints still hampering his movements. He did his best to ignore the ache, though, ready to put some proper distance between them and the grim suspicion of northern towns at last.
They kept a steady pace, Geralt finding himself just as eager to reach civilization as Jaskier was, for once. Two nights in the brush were all it took to get them across the border and through the gates of the nearest town. Jaskier had gone ahead, feeling out the town's opinions on witchers before he returned and led the way, chattering excitedly about how eager the innkeeper had been to host them. Apparently they'd finally reached a place where the northern chill had not completely warded off the spread of Jaskier's influence. Geralt was able to walk with only a slight limp, maintaining an air of impassivity as Jaskier negotiated them a room and meal and explained away their disheveled appearance as that of many weeks' travel. The innkeeper looked doubtful, and Geralt couldn't blame him. Even spending a month in the wild didn't usually involve gaping tears in one's shirt or trousers, though he tried to cover both with the edge of his cloak. Geralt caught the bard eyeing his hands partway through his chatting, but the gloves he'd pulled on over the splints weren't horribly uncomfortable, and he preferred the townsfolk not to know he was currently unable to wield either of the blades he carried.
By nightfall every minute of aching, exhausting travel was rewarded as Geralt was neck deep in blissfully hot water, steam filling the room with a heady moisture that seeped into his sore muscles like a massage. A dull thump at the door and the subsequent curse made him smirk. Jaskier's offended voice came hollowly through the wooden panel.
"Geralt? Did you- Did you bar this door?" Industrious rattling followed, demonstrating the necessity of having done exactly that. "You'd better not have taken those splints off, or…."
Geralt scrubbed soap into his hair, bare fingers hurting, but not overly so.
"I mean it, Geralt! I swear, if you undo all my hard work just because you were too stubborn to let me help you… Let me in, Geralt!"
He didn't. Not until he was clean and dressed in warm, dry clothes and the muttering on the other side of the door had fallen into sullen silence. Only then did he unbar the oak panel, opening it to see Jaskier shoot a glare up at him from where he was seated with his back against the door, arms crossed.
"Pleased with yourself?" The bard stood, dusted himself off, ignored Geralt's self-satisfied hum, and followed the witcher down the hall to their room. Once inside, Jaskier said, "Now sit down - I'm going to mother you, and I'll hear no complaints over it."
He let Jaskier rewrap his fingers and replace the splints with only a little grumbling, too happy to finally be free of the muck and grime of that foul village to really care that he could technically have handled the bandaging on his own, or that his fingers really didn't need the splints anymore. He just let the bard fuss over him, order him to eat, and then steer him to bed despite there being no complaint whatsoever on Geralt's side. He was getting stronger every day, and before long he'd be able to chuck Jaskier in the river again if his fretting got out of hand.
To be fair, though, the whole ordeal had to have been nearly as horrible for Jaskier as it had for the witcher himself. The bard hadn't endured the physical damage, but the memory of the broken sobs breathed over his head in the dark still clung to Geralt's heart, and those words... I am really, really gonna miss you, Geralt. Those few words whispered in his ear had surprised him, had sent a frisson of pain through his heart that had nothing to do with the damage his body had endured. At the time Geralt had tried to answer in kind, tried to tell his friend he, too, would be missed, had been missed for seven nightmarish days and nights and a whole winter's span of months before that. But he'd been too weak, hardly able to draw breath, let alone form words.
Geralt had held onto consciousness as long as he'd been able, not wanting to leave so soon.
But then a kiss had been pressed to his head and the hushed voice had whispered it was okay… that he was ready. Geralt hadn't been ready, but exhaustion had won out over his will before he could do more than wish he'd had more time.
And something else was right at the edge of his understanding now, just out of reach. Something that made the small room seem… different. It was new and good but he couldn't quite put his finger on just what had changed.
Jaskier tied off the bandage at his leg and Geralt winced slightly, pulled from his thoughts by the sting and ache of his wound.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm done."
Geralt sat up gingerly with a frown. The words had fallen from Jaskier's lips like they were as natural as breathing, and the sound of them had made that new, strange feeling in Geralt's chest waver.
"Why?"
"What?" The confusion in the bard's tone was genuine and only made Geralt's frown deepen as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.
"You keep apologizing. Why?"
Jaskier turned back to him, old bandages still in hand, and met Geralt's perplexed frown with one of his own.
"Um… because I am? Sorry, that is?"
"What for?" Geralt asked. He knew apologies could be both sympathetic and remorseful. That people would apologize to one another for illness or misfortune they had no part in inflicting as well as expressing their regret for actions that were of their doing. Both were often equally as meaningless. People would think that a quick and simple, "I'm sorry" meant they could go on with their lives guilt-free. Others believed that those same words expressed to a grieving mother would provide some level of comfort to her in the midst of her mourning. In Geralt's experience, apologies were empty promises, masks of compassion or repentance donned to rid the wearer of some level of pity or guilt. But the apologies Jaskier had showered him with didn't suit either of these. Jaskier was a man ruled by emotion, enamored with words. Geralt couldn't picture the bard opening his mouth to speak without his heart being right behind his tongue, riding words of elaborate fancy or heated temper. So why the repetition of these words Geralt knew as self-serving shields?
"Uh… just at the minute?" Jaskier nodded at Geralt's leg. "I'm sorry I hurt you when I finished with your leg just now."
The bard seemed sincere, serious, honest, but –
"That covers the one. What about the rest?"
Jaskier blinked and his gaze moved to the wall over Geralt's head, one hand rubbing at his neck.
"Well… we've had a bit to be sorry about over the past fortnight, haven't we?" The small chuckle didn't sound half as lighthearted as it should have and Geralt only watched him, waiting as the bard glanced back at him. "I mean…" A small sigh, uncomfortable, self-conscious. "I'm sorry you're still hurting at all - although you are very nearly back to your invulnerable self, thankfully. I'm, um… I'm sorry you ever got waylaid in that pigsty of a village to begin with…" Jaskier's hands began to fiddle with the bandages he still held and he finished with a small shrug, not meeting Geralt's eye. "I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. "
That was a simple enough answer. But there was no need for apologies. Jaskier apologized as if every second after the bard's arrival at that muddy post hadn't been a gift, hadn't been so, so much better than the awful place the witcher's mind and body had sunk to. One apology Geralt could understand - that much made sense. But Jaskier was apologizing as if the hurt he'd inflicted on the witcher in the course of his healing was compounding the damage done by Tomas. Geralt supposed the bard just hadn't stopped to think that if he hadn't come, that even if Geralt had managed to get free, then there would have been pain without potions, bleeding without bandages, cold with no cloak to cover him.
But this was a season for revelations it seemed, for meaning found in the meaningless, substance in the emptiness, new purpose in words Geralt had thrown aside long ago. Because Jaskier's apologies were neither empty nor concealing. They were the true use of the word, when 'sorry' meant 'sorrow'; just like the comforting phrases in the barn, where 'I'm here' from Jaskier meant 'You're safe,' 'I'm sorry' meant 'I am sorrowful.' It was an expression of empathy, not sympathy, a joining in suffering rather than an observation of it.
And Geralt realized then what the strange feeling in the room was… another thing he'd never thought to find beyond Kaer Morhen's stony halls.
This was home.
This was family.
Now that he'd identified it, Geralt could see that he'd realized it a while back. That it had been in those gentle moments, when whispered words and quiet comforts had been gifted to him every time he woke and Jaskier had been there, every time. It was then that he'd realized the truth. That Jaskier was more than he'd thought, not just a friend but a brother, family Geralt had never truly had beyond the militant closeness of the witchers. And that realization spread a soft smile across his lips as he caught the bard's eye again.
"You saved my life, Jaskier," he said sincerely, adding with a hint of gruff humor, "Stop apologizing."
The smile and chuckle he received in return was far more genuine than before.
"Yeahhh, I suppose that's fair." The glance Jaskier tossed him was both smug and ever so slightly sheepish. Then he moved to set the bandages aside, talking over his shoulder to the seated witcher. "And in return for my heroic efforts, you are going to lie down and have a proper night's rest in an actual bed."
The bard turned and watched him, hands on his hips until Geralt huffed a short laugh and complied. The feeling in his chest had settled to bewildered contentment and Geralt felt both lost and found all at once. Now that they had been graced with more time, something greater would have to be done, something to show Jaskier he was valued, that Geralt's silence and reluctance to follow Jaskier's lead weren't meant to downplay the bard's capabilities. On the contrary, he'd proven himself worthy of far more trust than Geralt would ever have imagined on their first meeting.
Something would need to be done, but for now, he just lay back on the bed, reveling in the softness of it and listening as Jaskier padded around the room, gathering their things to be washed before settling on the neighboring bed. A tentative melody rippled across the room and Geralt lay still, feigning sleep as the quiet notes grew in confidence when no objection was found. He lay and listened, finding beneath the starlight-soft strumming the familiar cadence that he'd missed: two heartbeats, Lark keeping pace with the strings, no longer frantic but calm and sure, and in his own chest, the Wolf settling in grateful sleep.
Author's Note
We have one epilogue to go! Thank you all SO MUCH for your wonderful reviews! They are seriously the highlight of my day! I reread them often and refresh the page, like, every couple minutes to check for new ones. 3