When Jaskier rubbed sleep from his eyes on the third morning to see Geralt already up, roaming their room, collecting his few belongings and packing them away, the bard hid his smile behind a luxurious yawn. Geralt never willingly spent more than a few days in one place, and to see him moving easily and clearly ready to get back on the road was a welcome sight.
The pause had given them both a much-needed chance to rest up, and to get three hearty meals a day into the recovering witcher. Jaskier had spent one entire day simply napping and composing, while Geralt had given his armor a meticulous going-over, cleaning and repairing the leather pieces with careful hands. His witcher healing was back in full force, it seemed; the makeshift splints had vanished the night before and had never reappeared, despite Jaskier's nettling. In the end, Jaskier had fixed his gaze on the innocent-eyed witcher using his splintless hands to mend a tear in his spare shirt, and said, "Fine, then - stitch away! But don't expect sympathy when you end up with fingers that don't point where you want them to!" Geralt had only raised amused eyes to the heavens in mock gratitude.
And just a few hours later, they were tramping down the dusty road under full sun, cloaks relegated to their packs, as if the past two weeks had never happened. Well, almost, Jaskier mused, spinning an early honeysuckle blossom between thumb and forefinger as he watched Geralt methodically flexing his healing hands as he rode. Like playing scales, he curled one finger at a time into a fist, then stretched them absently, cat-like. Apart from that extra care with his hands, the slight limp in the witcher's stride at the end of the day and a grimace if he twisted his torso too quickly were the only lingering physical signs that they had not simply met in the streets of Gelibol as they'd planned all along.
As for other signs… Geralt had made a silent but noticeable point of wearing his armor anytime they had passed through a town or stayed in one of the inns. The witcher's usual impassive demeanor had sharpened ever-so-slightly, eyes flashing quick to the barkeep's sudden gesture, and he had barely stayed in the common room long enough to finish his drink, leaving Jaskier to his performance. Geralt didn't seem apprehensive so much as cautious, perhaps wary of being caught in a situation that might call upon his still-returning strength. Not that Jaskier could blame the other man in the slightest; he himself had seen a dark beard amongst his audience, seen narrow eyes and a quick grin, and nearly snapped a lute string before he'd seen the man was far younger and closer-shaven than Tomas.
What they both needed was a change of scene, Jaskier decided, as he studied the witcher's broad shoulders ahead of him, no longer curved in weariness, but not yet firm with their usual confidence. While there was a certain comfort in returning to their rambling search for monsters or contracts, surely they could do better than falling back into the familiar, as if the harrowing days so close behind them had never happened.
For that would almost certainly be what happened, if Geralt were left to himself on the matter. The witcher had always displayed that primal instinct to bury the shock and impact of whatever had happened to him and walk on, like a wolf that couldn't afford to show weakness to its foes. But Geralt was far more than a wolf, and deserved so much more than the life of one, deserved the chance to step away from everything and just enjoy his life now and again…. Jaskier chuckled softly to himself, eyeing the back of the other man's head, already imagining the scoff and wry growl of, "Witchers don't have the luxury of 'enjoying' life. We're here to give others the chance to."
Absolute rubbish. Everybody deserved to enjoy life, to go somewhere that made their heart leap for joy or sink into quiet peace. But if he suggested a holiday to Geralt in so many words, the witcher would dismiss the notion in a heartbeat. A more subtle hand was necessary here, if he could manage it…. A little prodding, perhaps, to turn the witcher's mind to the question of where he wanted to go, as opposed to letting contracts and creatures dictate their path for them. A quick few steps brought Jaskier level with Roach's head. She eagerly accepted his offering, the flower disappearing beneath her soft muzzle in an instant.
"So," he said breezily, looking up at Geralt. "Where are we off to, then?" The witcher cast a slightly annoyed glance down at him as Roach paused, nuzzling Jaskier's jacket in search of more treats.
"South."
The ready answer suited Jaskier well enough for the moment; south was the bard's preference as well, that compass point being diametrically opposed to the nightmare behind them. He fell back a step and swung his lute around into his hands, picking out a gentle, ambling melody that wove in and out of Roach's easy stride.
Over the next days, they traveled from the rugged northern terrain into the plains and forests of the central Continent, finally leaving the chill behind them when they joined a larger road that was better trafficked. The merchants and farmers who passed them on occasion eyed them warily, but one young man driving a cart of produce unexpectedly offered them both a nod and Geralt a tug of his forelock. Geralt blinked, then nodded back solemnly, and Jaskier was quietly gratified to see the witcher's posture both straighten and settle as they continued on.
He returned from a foray out to find firewood that afternoon to see Geralt stepping carefully through a drill with his sword in their camp's little clearing, focusing on the dextrous twirl and fluidity of motion that characterized his unique fighting style. The witcher moved slowly through a twisting parry over one shoulder, the tightness around his eyes and jaw betraying the ache of his still-healing injuries. He finished the set of movements by returning to guard, then turned to raise an eyebrow at Jaskier, who thought he'd approached fairly quietly even with his arms full of wood. Sheathing the sword with amusement in his eyes, Geralt strode over to join the bard in preparing their dinner.
"We need honeysuckle," the witcher announced over the crackling fire later, and Jaskier looked up from his lyric-writing to see a sprig of something held out for his observation. "The leaves, not the flowers you keep sneaking to Roach. Perhaps you can make yourself useful tomorrow and gather some as we go."
"Do my musical improvisations not strike you as useful, then?" he quipped, but caught the bit of branch tossed his way, idly angling the leaves so the firelight glossed miniature sunsets over their smooth surfaces. "We should be passing through the next town tomorrow anyway. We could find an herbalist there, I'm sure. Even stay the night, if you feel like it. I've still got plenty of coin for it." Not nearly as much as when he'd left Novigrad, but still more than enough to carry them along for another few weeks.
A low "hmm" was the only reply, and the bard squinted over at Geralt, picking up on a dissatisfied undercurrent that didn't sound like the witcher's usual disdain for a loud tavern full of enthusiastic listeners. Maybe it was just the play of the fire on the other man's face, but Jaskier thought he saw something like chagrin in the thoughtful gaze, and suddenly realized the leaves he'd been handed were meant as an invitation, not a chore.
Before Geralt could regret and withdraw the suggestion, Jaskier shrugged and said aloud, "I suppose harvesting your own herbs does have a sort of rustic self-sufficiency about it… Plus you won't have unscrupulous herbalists giving you celery disguised as celandine." His off-hand tone seemed to do the trick, as the discomfort in the witcher's expression eased, and Geralt grumbled around the hints of a smile, "Probably end up with celery anyway. Just how much foraging have you done in the past?"
"I've… foraged." Years ago, because he'd been out of money, between towns, and very hungry. All it had earned him was a handful of blackberries and a healthy respect for briars and nettles, but the witcher didn't need to know that. Geralt responded with a "hmm", and Jaskier thought that would be the end of it.
Instead, the conversation resumed as soon as Roach had been saddled the next morning, while Jaskier was still yawning. At first, juggling all the names and descriptions of the half-dozen plants he'd been tasked with finding, let alone actually finding said plants while also keeping pace with Geralt, seemed an impossible task. Jaskier would leave the path to snap off a few slender branches of honeysuckle, then spot the bright blush of verbena among the long grass, gather a handful before seeing the leaves were wrong for verbena, toss them aside, tramp back to the road, and find the witcher and his mount waiting patiently a little way down the path.
He repeated this process several times throughout the day, to Geralt's amusement, but with not only Jaskier's own pride at stake, but also Geralt's newly-expanded trust in him, the bard kept at it. As he gradually grew faster at spotting each plant, Geralt began to add a sentence or two with each bundle of herbs Jaskier delivered to him: arenaria is best when the flowers are in full bloom, while verbena would be most potent in the unopened buds; they would need the full fruit in the case of berbercane, but only the tiny white petals were necessary from the sprigs of white myrtle.
Jaskier committed each piece of knowledge to memory with the same energy he'd put into learning the most intricate details of lute technique, and soon, Roach's saddlebags were lined with neat bunches of herbs drying in the sun. By the time the next town came into view, Jaskier was pleased to see something settled and sure in the set of Geralt's shoulders and brow. As a bonus, thanks to his own persistence, they were also now well-stocked on nearly all the herbs Geralt needed for his potions without having spent a single coin on it.
Some things, like rosin for his lute and fresh vials for potions, did not spring so cooperatively from the earth, however, and Jaskier split off when they reached town to reprovision them. He returned to the wide square to find Geralt waiting for him, a weathered sheet of paper in one gloved hand. As the bard approached, Geralt raised the paper and said, "Drowners," with a firmness that brooked no argument over sore ribs or stiff fingers.
"Ooh, fun. A late night in store for us, then," was all Jaskier said, his tone light and cheerful as he eyed the modest sum listed at the bottom of the paper, then stowed their purchases in the saddlebags. If Geralt felt ready to take on some pest control, that was good, he assured himself. The odd protective role Jaskier had adopted of late had begun to wear on the witcher's nerves, he suspected, which was also good. It meant Geralt was practically back to his old self, grumping and "hmm"ing at whatever life sent his way. Now if only Jaskier could figure out how to shoo away the mother hen that had taken up residence in his ribcage, ruffling its feathers every time Geralt so much as winced...
They took the contract, confirming the fee with the mayor before heading out to the lake in question. Drowners prefered to come out after dark, so Geralt spent the rest of the morning brewing a few potions with the herbs Jaskier had gathered, and as the sun began to set, Jaskier settled himself on a low branch at about eye level, his back comfortably against the trunk, and turned to the next blank page in his notebook, pencil at the ready. Drowners weren't anywhere near the most dangerous or interesting monster Geralt had faced - almost run-of-the-mill at this point. Grabby, ugly things, and more a nuisance than a threat, unless you liked walking alone by the water's edge in the dark. But Jaskier hadn't had the pleasure of watching the witcher on a hunt for months, even one as routine as this. If the perfect phrase for a particularly magnificent bout of swordsmanship sprang to mind, Jaskier would be ready for it. Plus, he admitted to himself, with only the fireflies to see him, watching Geralt successfully smite something would be the best cure for that stubborn prickle of protectiveness he'd developed of late.
Geralt was seated a few yards away on the lake's grassy bank, the carcass of a deer laid out as bait across the pebbly shore between him and the water's edge. The witcher had the silver sword held casually across his lap, his back to Jaskier, silhouetted against the sunset-soaked water, as if he were simply savoring the view before turning in for the night. The bard had absolutely no reason to doubt Geralt's ability to handle such a basic contract. He could clear out a whole pack of drowners without even getting winded; Jaskier had witnessed this himself countless times. Along the margin of the page, he began writing out words to rhyme with "drowner", focusing his attention on the exercise rather than his unreasonable worries.
As the light dimmed and twilight slid into dusk, Geralt stood and moved to crouch behind a tree. The water rippled subtly against the breeze and Geralt waited until the four ungainly shapes that emerged from the water were huddled around the carcass, squabbling in grunts and hisses over the choicest parts. Jaskier held his breath while the witcher waited, a dark shape in the shadows, until it was clear there were no other creatures lurking beneath the water weeds. Then Geralt circled round in long-ground-eating strides to cut off their escape, dispatching all four in a series of swift, smooth strokes. The bodies fell with a succession of sandy thumps while their screeches still hung in the air, and the whole fight was over before Jaskier had even set pencil to paper.
While that was precisely what past experience had told him would happen, he couldn't help feeling a little miffed at the waste of a perfect perch. The next hunt would probably see him chest-deep in swamp or crouched in brambles just to catch a glimpse of the witcher's feats. With a parting sigh, he slid off the branch to solid ground and headed to join Geralt on the shore. For a split-second, alarm flickered in his mind as Geralt winced, one gloved hand landing against his own chest, but Jaskier's immediate concerns about re-broken ribs were quelled when Geralt finished wiping slime off his hand across his armor and hefted his sword again with no sign of discomfort. The sight pulled something back into alignment in Jaskier's heart, something that filled his lungs with a contented breath and spread a smile onto the bard's face.
"I needn't have bothered seeking refuge in the shadows," Jaskier said, planting his feet in the pebbles on the other side of the stack of drowners. "I could have been standing within arm's reach and they wouldn't have had time to do more than blink at me." Jaskier tilted his head to squint at the ghoulish face of the nearest creature, much less human-looking when seen up close like this.
Geralt ignored him, severing the heads before shoving the bodies back to the water where the fish could finish the dirty work of cleaning up the corpses.
"You know, I've never understood why people can't be satisfied with your word that you've dispatched whatever monster they're paying you for." Dark slime slowly pooled under the heads, dribbling from the stumps of their necks, and Jaskier took a careful step uphill to protect his boots. "Nobody ever actually looks happy when you walk up with a sack full of heads or tongues or… tentacles, or whatever. You'd think turning up splattered with the insides of said monster would be proof enough. I mean, what do they do with them after we leave, anyway? Hmm - there's a question: can you eat, say, kikimora? Is that a thing people do? A delicacy in some odd little corner of the continent?" Geralt, predictably, didn't grace his musing with an answer, too busy wiping his sword clean and sheathing it. "Either way, I suppose there is a certain satisfaction in having your proof literally staring them in the face. Is that why you… Um, Geralt? What are you doing….?"
Geralt had knelt with his hunting knife now in hand, the blade's tip hovering over one disembodied head, the thing's pale eyes bulging as if in shock at the prospect of further desecration. Without acknowledging Jaskier's question, he simply jammed the knife deep into the creature's skull with a crunch, cracking it open with a few efficient movements.
Despite having developed something of a tolerance for such sights and sounds in the company of a witcher, Jaskier couldn't restrain a heartfelt exclamation of disgust at the sight of Geralt scooping out the grey jellied brain into a sack, like shelling a large, slimy walnut.
"In the name of all things decent, Geralt, why….?"
"Have you ever known local shops to carry drowner brain?" Geralt intoned innocently, moving on to the next severed head. "You don't have to watch." Then like the thought had only just come to him, the golden eyes flicked with apprehension from Jaskier to the open skull near the bard's boots and the words "Don't touch," were added with wary caution, as if Jaskier was really likely to start pawing around inside the thing's empty skull cavity.
"No fear of that," he retorted, a shudder twitching through his shoulders. How Geralt could do that without batting an eye…. The witcher in question seemed more amused than anything, a sneaky quirk to the corner of his mouth he probably thought Jaskier couldn't see. He kept at his gruesome task, while Jaskier pointedly studied the starlight on the water, until heads and brains were in their respective sacks and it was time to head back to town. The mayor's expression of shock was flavored with horror at the state of the heads that were deposited in front of him and as they stretched out on their bedrolls back at camp, Jaskier made a mental note to suggest Geralt start choosing less visibly-harvested body parts for evidence in future.
Only a few hours later, Jaskier was robbed of a dream of the Countess de Stael's appreciative hospitality by the sick pat of mucous-coated brain landing close enough to waft the smell of death into his face. Geralt had the gall to look offended at Jaskier's windmilling scramble to the other side of their small encampment, as if he hadn't been the one tossing viscera around at the crack of dawn.
"Did I do something to you?" the bard demanded, once the threat of dry-heaving mid-rant had passed. "Is this some childish attempt to get back at me for something?" Geralt studied him for a moment before shrugging and dumping the rest of the brains out onto the flat rock in the sun.
"You snore."
It was too early for this. Jaskier tried to rub sleep from his eyes and think of a properly cutting response, but only succeeded in embedding tiredness deeper into his head. The best he could do, while trudging across to the saddlebags, was to snipe, "Well, if I do - which is not an admission of guilt, by the way - I'm sure it's more melodious than your imitation of a rockslide I'm subjected to every other night." The witcher's lips pursed in annoyance and Jaskier smugly helped himself to an apple before sitting down near Roach, who snuffed interestedly at the treat. "Ah! Not for you, girl."
"They'll need to stay in direct sunlight for at least ten hours. The sooner it's started, the sooner it'll be done." Apparently Jaskier had been too subtle. Geralt clearly thought this monologue on properly sun-drying monster brains was welcome at this hour.
Geralt eyed him for a few moments, then left for the nearby stream, and Jaskier ate his apple in the morning sunshine under Roach's watchful eye. Geralt's armor and the silver sword were already shining like new on the grass by their things, suggesting Geralt had been up a good while before him. Even though they wouldn't be traveling today, there would be no idle enjoyment of this lovely spring morning. The witcher was nothing if not efficient.
Roach huffed down his collar, hot breath tickling, and Jaskier squirmed around to face her, saying, "Fine, fine!" She eagerly accepted the rest of his breakfast, crunching happily as he scritched her jaw. "Greedy this morning, aren't we?"
Geralt returned with clean hands and dripping gloves, eyebrow raised at the bard's pampering of his horse, but Jaskier ignored the disapproval, having seen the witcher himself whispering sweet nothings to the mare as he brushed her down on many occasions.
Geralt settled cross-legged on the ground by the stone-circled ashes of last night's fire and started rummaging through the saddlebags, setting a small collection of familiar vials out by his side.
"You're not having one of those for breakfast, are you?"
The witcher chose not to dignify that with an answer and instead glanced meaningfully between Jaskier and the little line of jars and herbs in front of him. When Jaskier didn't immediately react, a small flicker of self-doubt crossed Geralt's face, and beat later, the bard's mind caught up with Geralt's wordless dialogue. An expectant-looking witcher, an array of mysterious containers in front of him, and freshly-harvested drowner brain glistening in the sun nearby…. Geralt was offering to share another helping of witcher knowledge, if Jaskier was open to it, and he'd have to be as brainless as last night's drowners to turn that gift down.
"Ooh, is class back in session then?" he said quickly as he sat cross-legged facing Geralt, who gave him a look. "Not touching, see?" His display of empty, obedient hands seemed to do the trick of reassuring the other man he wasn't about to start opening all the jars up immediately. He recognized one group of vials as the inky potions that had so narrowly saved Geralt's life; alongside them were a few filled with what looked like watered-down milk.
More intriguing were the two groupings of ingredients gathered near Geralt's boots. He recognized the flowers, leaves, and fruits he'd spent their recent travels collecting, but could only guess at the nature of what looked like dust, marbles, and even blood in the other jars.
"So which of us gets the dubious honor of, um, powdering the, eh, brains once they're ready?"
"I'll powder them. You will sit upwind and try not to touch anything."
Geralt ignored his affronted look and flipped a knife into his hand from one boot, gesturing to the vials set off to one side against a log.
"Potions." The knife glinted as it shifted to the two groups. "Ingredients."
"I had actually worked that out for myself, believe it or not. So what is that?" He pointed to a jar filled with what appeared to be several large greenish marbles, each with a strange black patch in its center. His hand had hardly ventured beyond his own crossed legs before Geralt had slapped it with the flat of the blade; Jaskier snatched his hand back to safety, rubbing away the sting as he glared back at Geralt. The witcher only flicked the knife upward to aim pointedly at Jaskier's face with a warning look.
"Those…" Geralt inclined his head slightly to indicate the jar in question, his yellow gaze unwavering from Jaskier's face. "… are endrega embryos."
"Ugh…" The bard took another look at the not-marbles. They were grotesque, but didn't look particularly dangerous. "So were they about to bite me or something? Do they already have venomous fangs at that size? You can't just go around slapping people with knives, Geralt."
The shadow of a smirk said Geralt had heard him, but rather than answer, he just held up the jar of already-powdered drowner brain, only half full now that the witcher had brewed several more healing potions.
"This one you know will kill you. Painfully." He waited for Jaskier's tentative, "Yes…?" before he set the jar back with its fellows and glanced down at the gathered containers. "So…?" the witcher prompted.
Of course Geralt would make the whole thing a test. Why make something easy when you could make it torturous? But Jaskier bent forward, studying the containers, because Geralt opened up so rarely, especially about something as sacred as these mysterious elixirs, and the bard wasn't about to squander this chance to learn more. The jars all showed a little wear and tear, but quite a few had a sharp notch cut into the cork's edge. Upon further inspection, all the ones sitting near the powdered brain were notched, as were the dark potions.
"These will kill me painfully…" he hazarded, gesturing at the notched jars with a careful eye on Geralt's knife hand. The small nod he received was encouraging so he continued, "And these over here," he continued, indicating the other set of ingredients, including the half-dried bundles of herbs he'd collected, "will… not kill me?" Geralt gave him a satisfied nod.
"Those are the ones that won't try to kill you for taking them." He nodded to the notched group of jars. "The others I'll collect myself."
Apparently he'd done well enough to be awarded the role of "herb-gatherer" in an ongoing capacity. Jaskier spent a moment savoring the glow of warm pride that Geralt was willing to entrust this small but crucial task to him, then replied, "Right… Ingredients that fight back are more your area of expertise, I would think. So all those are bits of things you've hunted?" Jaskier asked, unable to resist the macabre urge to squint closer at the notched jars.
"Usually they are. These came from Kaer Morhen's stores." Immediately, the image came to his mind of a massive castle dungeon full of shelves and clouded bottles, talons and fangs cluttered around them…. For a moment, the idea was so intriguing the air left his lungs, a physical pang of yearning to see this place pulsing through him.
"Wait - so you've got this… this treasure-trove of mysterious ingredients just tucked away in your pantry? What other secrets have you got hidden away from everyone in that castle of yours?"
Instead of answers, Jaskier received a stare tinged with exasperation, and Geralt's dry command, "Focus." Then the witcher launched into a description of each ingredient that had Jaskier scrambling for his notebook, taking down potion names, ingredients, amounts of each ingredient, and more.
Over the next few days, Geralt brewed one of each of his witcher potions, the golden-eyed gaze watchful between the simmering liquid and Jaskier's note-taking as he provided concise instruction. Most of them, Geralt made very clear to him over the noxious steam, were only to be made by Geralt himself. In the unlikely event that the witcher was incapacitated again and they were out of a particular potion he needed, though, Jaskier had permission to brew a select few - once Geralt was satisfied with the bard's ability to do so safely.
Three days later and many miles further south-west, they were seated again by the campfire, an array of nine potions laid out between them. Geralt held up the last in the line, the milky white liquid setting it apart from the other potions that gleamed in the firelit evening like dark gems.
"And last, but not least," Jaskier said confidently, "White Honey. Equal portions dwarven spirits and honeysuckle - leaf, not the flower."
The nod he received was the witcher equivalent of a "Good job" and Jaskier unabashedly savored the praise as Geralt set the potion back in line, then cast his gaze across their camp till he fixed on something over Jaskier's shoulder.
"Fetch me that stick."
A look over his shoulder showed woodland, underbrush, and no distinctive sticks that Jaskier's human eyes could pick out in the twilight.
"What stick?" Was this Geralt's blunt way of signalling that lessons were over for tonight, time to tend the fire and go to sleep? "The fire looks fine." The witcher's long-suffering sigh was unwarranted, Jaskier felt, but he gave in to the heavy stare, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the closest patch of underbrush. "Have you got your heart set on a certain branch, or shall I surprise you?"
Only the click and tick of vials against each other answered him, and when he came back with the first stick he saw, Geralt calmly accepted it, tossed it into the fire, and gestured for Jaskier to look at the freshly-shuffled potions.
"On a contract to handle an archespore, I've already taken Cat, Thunderbolt, and Petri's Philter." Jaskier's annoyance at the obvious tactic to distract him faded as he sat and considered the scenario set before him. Geralt looked up expectantly and added, "When you inevitably fail to remain at the inn, you find that I've been bitten and badly wounded. There were seven archespores instead of one."
"Well, that's what you get for trusting the locals," Jaskier said wryly as he leaned forward to peer at the potions. "Am I to assume, then, that you're currently sprawled in heroic anguish amidst a litter of dead foes, hanging all your hopes upon the shining beacon of your closest friend arriving with these little beauties?" He trailed his fingers across the bottles between them, awaiting Geralt's reply with his most charming smile.
The witcher's grim expression remained unchanged as he blinked once, sighed through his nose, and deadpanned, "Archespore venom is acidic." That rang a vaguely familiar bell, but didn't quite answer the question, so Jaskier held position, waiting. His reward was a slightly testier, "In the time it's taken you to ask that question, it would have burned through armor and started on flesh."
"Ah. Right. With time then being of the essence, I would…" He scanned his options, now jumbled entirely out of the familiar order he'd created a perfect mnemonic for, which he suspected was Geralt's intention. "I would start with… this one," he said, pushing the distinctive milky bottle toward Geralt. White Honey would clear the other potions from a witcher's body, allowing him to take others without danger of poisoning himself with too many potions. "And there's the venom, so…." One of the magical-looking golden ones would take care of the venom, but in the rippling firelight, the pair of them looked absolutely identical. "This one and that one," he finished, sliding a golden bottle and a dark one he was fairly sure was the healing Swallow toward the witcher, before sitting back confidently and lifting his chin to await confirmation.
Geralt just stared down at his selection, looking like a fisherman who'd just watched his son try to cast a line and instead chucked the whole rod into the river. The humor-tinged disappointment was not a good sign.
"Well?" Jaskier prompted.
"Two out of three."
"Oh. That's not too bad, then. A passing grade, at least….?"
Geralt tilted his head in half-hearted agreement, eyebrows raised in a helpless sort of amusement.
"Perhaps. And I suppose even if there is venom burning through my ribcage, at least I won't drown."
"What? But the Golden Oriole-"
"That's Whale, not Oriole." Jaskier flung up his hands in exasperation; true, he'd had a fifty-percent chance of guessing right, but Geralt's expression was uncomfortably close to patronizing, as if Jaskier should have been able to identify each potion at a glance.
"And how was I supposed to know when they look exactly alike?" the bard demanded.
Geralt frowned at him, then down at the potions. He took the two golden vials in hand and stared down at them for several long seconds, and Jaskier waited. But Geralt only made an annoyed grunt at the vials in his hands and began putting them away, one by one, and Jaskier sputtered, "You can't tell them apart either, can you?"
"I can," came the terse response. "But if you can't in this lighting there's no point in trying. Most monsters prefer the dark. I'll have to come up with something else." He finished packing the potions away and tucked the bag with the others by Roach's saddle, settling once more to stoke the fire, commenting lightly, "Or, I suppose I could find myself a bard with better eyesight."
Jaskier snorted as he stood, circling the fire to stretch out on his bedroll before replying, "Good luck with that. Even if you found someone with keener eyes, which I doubt, they would undoubtedly have painfully inferior musical tastes."
The low hum from the witcher likely meant he wasn't really listening anymore, but Jaskier chose to take it as agreement. He laced his fingers behind his head and let his eyes wander through the stars as he continued, "There are some genuinely decadent cities surrounding the Brokilon Forest, though, where you can hardly walk the length of a street without hearing a lyre or flute. Not that you'd find a more charming or talented travel companion there, mind you." Geralt didn't bat an eye at the admonishment, but his lips quirked ever so slightly. "But apart from all that, I think you'd be pleasantly surprised by your reception in one of those cities. There are decent people out there, believe it or not. I think they just prefer more temperate weather."
The witcher didn't reply, watching the fire with a thoughtful sort of look on his face. He still held one of the vials, turning it over and over in one hand, and Jaskier watched the movements, glad to see the easy, fluid motion of his healed fingers. Never had Geralt's accelerated healing been on such stark display as this past month, picking up potency with every day after that first terrible night, like a pendulum that had passed its lowest point and begun soaring upward once more.
Jaskier never wanted to spend a night like that again, felt his heart constrict painfully at the memory even now. The jolting realization that he had somehow dozed off while Geralt fought for his last breaths had summoned such a flood of shame to his soul that Jaskier would willingly have died in that moment as restitution. Now, drawing a long breath as he watched Geralt brood comfortably in the firelight, hair unbloodied and brow pinched in thought, Jaskier knew he simply hadn't kept his fingers against that elusive pulse firmly enough. At the time, though, with the witcher's skin so unexpectedly cool under his hand, his heart had already begun to break and mourn, and had dragged him helplessly down with it.
He had barely heard Geralt say his name. He'd felt it more than heard it, the faintest warmth against his throat, and the worst day of his life had turned itself head over heels into the best instead. Geralt's story hadn't ended. Their story together hadn't ended, not yet, and Geralt deserved to choose where the next chapter would take place.
"Where do you want to head next?" he asked, letting a yawn stretch the words out. If nothing else, he could get Geralt thinking, asking himself the same question of where he wanted to go, until Jaskier finally managed to coax it out of him. When no answer was forthcoming, the other man's eyes still resting on the flickering fire, Jaskier gave a mental shrug, saying, "Surprise me, then," before settling in for sleep.
And surprise him Geralt did, though not with their destination. When they made camp the following afternoon, the witcher directed Jaskier to fetch the potions from the saddlebags, and the bard braced himself for another frustrating session. As he set the bottles out, however, his fingertips caught odd points and angles and he frowned at the one in his hand, a dark potion that could have been either Swallow or Cat. Except that along with the warning notch in the cork's edge, an angular oval eye had been carved neatly into the top, complete with slit pupil like a cat's, while the other inky potion he picked up next bore the Elder rune for 'S', and Jaskier smiled.
This time, he successfully kept Geralt alive through three different scenarios, and where anyone else would have simply seen a satisfied nod and a wry smile, Jaskier easily saw Geralt's pride and approval. Jaskier awarded himself a congratulatory extra helping of dinner, Geralt stowed the potions away, and a little while later, as they both rested in the glow of full stomachs and a warm fire, the bard felt emboldened enough to look over at Geralt from his bedroll and ask, "So… given any thought to a destination? Or are we doomed to wander the wilds at random and let the monsters decide for us…?" Geralt didn't look at him, leaning back comfortably against a tree with his eyes closed, his voice a drowsy hum that lightened slightly with his quirked smile.
"I thought you liked to 'wander the wilds'…"
"Oh, I do," Jaskier replied immediately, to quash any suggestion that he was unhappy traveling in the White Witcher's company. "It's the only way to come face to face with the gritty, glorious reality of adventure so I can weave it into story and song for the people. It's nice to have a destination sometimes, though. Especially if it's someplace you like, something you're looking forward to…?" He let his wheedling tone hang in the air with his question, hoping Geralt was in a benevolent enough mood to humor him.
Maybe Geralt preferred to wander. That was entirely possible, given that it was apparently how he'd always done things, roaming from one chance encounter and contract to the next. But the introspective look the witcher got when Jaskier asked made him suspect Geralt had a place or two in mind; it was just a matter of nettling him into admitting that to himself.
Geralt made that sound, between a sigh and a growl, that Jaskier knew was his 'I know I'm being goaded' sound, one that usually was followed by an adamant refusal to dish out the details of a story. This time, though, the witcher just asked, "And you want to know what sort of place a witcher would look forward to?"
Jaskier frowned slightly, leaning up on his elbow to frown at Geralt's face, but deliberately kept his voice light and conversational.
"I couldn't care less where 'a witcher' wants to go. I'm not traveling with 'a witcher'. I'm curious where you would choose to go, if you could just… pluck the opportunity out of the air and make it happen. Which you can, though I don't think you've let yourself do it before." He let that sit between them for a few moments, watching it turn over in the other man's mind in the minute shifts of the witcher's brow and jaw, pale in the deepening twilight. Then he tacked on, "So…?" with a lilt that predictably drew those grey eyebrows lower in exasperation again.
"That's easier done when you don't have half the townsfolk thinking you're devil spawn." A fair point, though Jaskier didn't find it quite as amusing as Geralt seemed to; the low flames caught the glimmer of his eyes and glinted off the witcher's teeth in his crooked smile. "A bard can go anywhere and he's sure to find some welcome." Geralt cast him a sidelong glance. "Not so easy for my kind, unless there's a monster involved."
"Not when you're among such open-minded folk as we artists," Jaskier said, gesturing at himself elegantly. "And, not to mention, that now word has spread, all sorts of people are beginning to turn a friendlier eye on the hero whose deeds allow them to sleep without fear. These grimy clusters of huts simply don't have the advantage of a bustling economy and port of trade to broaden their minds."
Geralt considered that for a long moment and Jaskier could almost see the map of the continent being scoured by the wolf-eyed gaze until, without a word, Geralt rose, doused the fire and began to lay out his bedroll. Jaskier only had time to take in a breath, more wheedling and prying right on the tip of his tongue before Geralt spoke.
"The coast."
Jaskier sat right up at that unexpected answer, cheering, "There you go, Geralt! Bravo! I knew you had someplace in mind, you rogue. We are literally spoiled for choice along the coast, just a ribbon of welcoming arms and open city gates all the way to Cintra herself. I was born on the coast, in Kerack, did you know? That's where my family's estate sits, mere miles from Cidaris, which is the absolute heart of arts and culture on the continent! King Ethain himself is an old friend, in fact. I'm sure he'd be happy to host us - honored, in fact, and-"
"We'll go to Kerack, then," came the willing reply, with a smirk thrown briefly over the witcher's shoulder.
"Wh- Really?" Jaskier could hardly contain his excitement. Not only was Cidaris barely a day's travel from there, but the idea of turning up unexpectedly in his old stomping grounds with the renowned Geralt of Rivia traveling alongside him was a tantalizing thought. That would certainly shut several mouths that had continued to criticize his choice of career. Geralt didn't answer, stretching out on his bedroll and shrugging a blanket up over his shoulders, and Jaskier asked, "Have you ever been to Kerack before? What's caught your mind's eye there in particular?"
From the shadowy lump came a monotone grumble, "There's an item I have that needs returning."
For the briefest of moments, Jaskier ran through their baggage in his mind. Then Geralt's smirk and enthusiastic tone belatedly registered in his mind, revealing his statement for the insolent quip it had actually been. Geralt couldn't see the narrow glare Jaskier fixed on the back of his head, but he could probably feel it, and delivering it was a matter of principle, either way.
"I hope you recognize how incredibly lucky you are," he said, pitching his voice so that Geralt couldn't possibly ignore him, "to have me as your friend. Because anybody else would have taken deeply personal offense to your implication that I am in any way replaceable or a temporary fixture in your life. I am not a rental, Geralt, nor am I going to dishonor our friendship by pretending you actually meant something so hurtful." He sniffed, loudly and pointedly, as he tugged his own blanket snugly to his chin. "My heart, by nature, is open and giving, as befits a poet. And when we get to the coast, you'll see what I mean about the people there. They'll love you too, if you don't run them off with your growls and glares first."
In the starlit quiet, Jaskier just barely heard the amused huff of breath from his dark-shrouded companion, and allowed himself a small smile of his own. The witcher deserved to walk through at least one busy marketplace without a single person spitting at him or warding themselves just because he happened to glance their way. Amid the lively bustle of a coastal city's streets, a witcher would certainly earn curious looks, but no worse, and Jaskier suspected that Geralt would find himself far more a celebrity than an outcast. And who better to act as guide than a man who had already climbed and conquered the giddy heights of popularity? Geralt had put an incredible amount of trust in him over the past month, and Jaskier fully intended to deliver on that trust by providing a summer tour of the most welcoming cities the continent had to offer.
Author's Note
Thank you all SO MUCH for riding this roller-coaster of whump with us! A bonus selection of Tips and Trivia has been awarded to you all with our thanks!
This epilogue leads directly into our next fic, in which Geralt is "not" going to a festival and he will "not" enjoy himself there (heavy emphasis on those quotation marks. The witcher resists, but he's gonna take a vacation whether he likes it or not). We figured we owed them a proper vacation after what they went through here. ;)
My apologies for the MASSIVE author's note, but FFN has a rule against making a whole separate chapter for notes so… here ya go! Some bonus behind the scenes trivia and writing tips!
The full rundown of Geralt's injuries
If any of you lovely readers are medical professionals, please feel free to let us know how we did! I know we have at least one EMT among our reviewers! We went in depth and researched for this to try and find a method of whump that would bring a Witcher close enough to death for the drama, without actually causing irreparable damage. Fancy magic potions help a lot and witcher stamina and healing cover the rest, but the hardest part was stopping Geralt from busting loose and taking Tomas down… A couple times, we had to stop and marvel at how very adept Geralt was at tactics and escape. We had to stage out the entire fight scene (when Geralt first breaks loose from the post) to figure out how the heck these villagers survived having Geralt coming at them with ANY sort of weapon. In total, Geralt suffered from:
Major concussion from that first strike with the hammer, causing nausea, ringing ears, headache, dizziness, vision disturbances, sensitivity to light, and difficulty concentrating
Tomas's strikes to Geralt's hands broke two fingers on his left hand (minor breaks/fractures, not in need of setting but still hurts like heck) and one severe break to his right index finger. We had to add these injuries in when we realized Aard or Igni could easily knock tools loose or burn ropes and Geralt would be loose again in no time. The hard part was figuring out how long a broken bone could go without setting before you'd lose range of motion permanently. Info was sparse on that point. It sounds like bones will start to heal within days. I'd suggest not leaving your broken bones for nearly as long as Geralt had to here, but we figured if most of the fingers were in the right places and healing normally, witcher mutation healing could handle restoring range of motion to the one finger despite it being left long enough to start to heal.
The stab wound was an interesting point only because Lark and I have a tendency (and by that I mean it happens every single time) to imagine scenes in mirror image. If I think Jask is on Geralt's left, she has him on Geralt's right in her mind. As a result, we got all the way to the barn before realizing we'd imagined the stab wound in opposite legs. Inability to prove our point one way or another led us to remove the directions entirely. So… let us know! Which leg was Geralt stabbed in for you? (The right answer is his right, but don't tell Lark I told you that. She swears Tomas went to his left side).
The beatings were generally only able to produce bruising since Geralt is a tough cookie. It's only when Tomas brings out the poker that we start getting broken ribs. Two broken in the first beating and another when Tomas hears about the boy Geralt supposedly "lured in."
The first beating with the poker also caused internal bleeding and/or swelling. After much research, we determined Geralt had what is called "Hemothorax" or internal bleeding where blood collects between the chest wall and the lungs. This causes pain (duh), heaviness in the chest, anxiety, trouble breathing, rapid breathing, rapid pulse, cold sweats, pale skin, and a high fever (so Geralt had a fever from two sources, both the internal bleeding and the infected stab wound). Here's where our medical knowledge failed us a bit and we had to go with logical reasoning.
The lungs are high up in the chest cavity. Hypothetically, sitting the person up would cause the bleeding to pool lower in the chest cavity and make breathing easier (a couple sites mentioned this as well). Lying the person down again would cause the accumulating blood to shift and surround the lungs again, causing the pressure and coughing Geralt experienced when Jaskier went to set the traps. I can't find the source now, but I swear I've read that internal bleeding in the chest cavity can cause a dry cough. I figured that was because the body would feel the pressure on the lungs and, since pressure in lungs is usually caused by something IN the lungs, the body would attempt to relieve that pressure by coughing. It unfortunately doesn't help much and especially doesn't help Geralt feel any better since coughing with broken ribs hurts. Add to this the fact that Geralt hadn't had a proper drink in a week and one dry cough due to pressure on the lungs triggers multiple dry coughs due to (surprise surprise!) a very dry throat.
Speaking of which, Geralt was also suffering from lack of food, water, and sleep. The human body can survive without food for a surprisingly long time, but water is far more essential. We gave Geralt a slightly stronger system than the average human (who can survive about three days with no water at all). I figured Geralt could probably go from 5-7 days without any water. Geralt was able to get a little water from the rain, which boosted him through the rest of the days at the post, but honestly, internal bleeding, vomiting, and general damage to the body makes a person need even more food and water to sustain the healing process. This, I think, is where we stretched Geralt's abilities the furthest.
Geralt's healing process
By the time Jaskier has the first potions available, the internal bleeding has caused blood-loss symptoms of confusion, drowsiness, and anxiety/unease. That first potion dose begins its work immediately, but it's got a lot to handle so it takes a little while to really get going. Geralt could still have died after those first two potions only because the pressure around his lungs had reached a dangerous level. Jaskier doubly saved his life by sitting him upright so he could breathe while the potion took effect.
When Geralt speaks, asking Jaskier where he'll go once this is all over, he's actually started the climb back to good health. He's just so exhausted from a week of deprivation and little to no sleep that neither of them realize it at the time. Geralt figures he's feeling slightly better right before the end and he's not gonna question it. (We only realized this after writing the chapter's first draft. This was one of those bonus moments that wasn't planned but works out perfectly!). Once he's had a good night's sleep, the healing process begins to gain speed, helped along by more potions (and, according to the witcher wiki where we got the entirety of our potion knowledge, Swallow also helps with nausea which allows Geralt to eat and drink more too).
Our headcanon for Tomas
We debated including rumors the boys would hear about Tomas's fate, but figured it worked out fine to leave that up to your imaginations. Our personal headcanon is that the cumulative damage Tomas received was enough to keep him in recovery for weeks. Jaskier slashed his upper arm (no more hammering for a while!), stabbed him in the leg (no walkin' neither), AND gave him one heck of a major concussion (no more thinkin' mean thoughts for a while, bro). We figure Tomas eventually recovered, but nowhere near in time to catch up to our boys or cause them any further trouble. He still works at his forge but with a major blow to his pride. He has no more centipedes to fend off which gives him less of a sense of purpose and authority in the village. Because Tomas left before Geralt recovered, he hopes/figures the witcher died of his injuries. As for Jaskier, Tomas is convinced the bard was mind-controlled and doesn't really hold any hard feelings toward him for the injuries, though he is frustrated and feels like he failed in his mission to free the innocent bard from the mean old witcher.
Deleted Concepts/Scenes!
At first, the plan was to have the whole village be 100% in on the capture and torture of the witcher. They even had a platform and post in the middle of their square for restraining and torturing criminals. In this version, Tomas was just the ringleader of the gang who liked to come by and mess with Geralt nightly after they got drunk. Tomas even had throwing knives he'd clumsily use. Not accurate enough when drunk to cause life threatening damage, but adding to the cumulative damage Geralt would receive.
The "Don't panic" line was in there from the beginning but several of Geralt's other lines were composed on the spot (after much rewatching of clips and gathering of pics). Several of Geralt's lines were also significantly shortened. Similar to Henry Cavill's replacing lines with a "Hmm" and leaving Joey Batey to fill in the lost spaces, our Geralt would craft nice long sentences in Draft One that we realized could be easily said with just a few words. Geralt prefers to save breath and speak plainly, so we let him cut out some of his more lengthy portions of dialogue in favor of shorter sentences. Jaskier was often the opposite, getting the bare bones of the dialogue down and then embellishing and sprucing it up in Draft Two!
The hardest parts of dialogue for me were the ones where I could hear Geralt's voice perfectly… but the line included some very crass language… Lark and I are of the opinion that, while it may be in character for Geralt to cuss up a storm, there are clever ways of avoiding the actual words and we'd rather not up the rating of a story for language that we try to avoid using in our own lives. "He cursed," "Jaskier swore venomously," "A curse slipped past his lips," are all examples of ways to leave the actual cursing up to the reader's imagination.
Originally, Jaskier was going to kill Tomas in the fight. Tomas's other friends would flee as soon as their boss was down, but Jask was going to go full feral bard and stab the jerk. Until we realized that might make Jask a little more traumatized… and we'd have to deal with the dead body….
Bonus Trivia!
Tomas had been digging pits or setting snares to catch the centipedes, but he was only really able to catch the younger, less experienced insects. These things can grow to twelve feet long according to the witcher wiki bestiary and there's no way Tomas could handle one that big without getting bitten. He probably had something similar to a bear trap that would pin or crush the creature and he could then approach a little more safely.
Potion ingredients differ between Witcher games, according to the wiki. We went with the most clear cut version for Swallow and assumed the "Drowner brain" was probably not going to be kept fresh and would be easier to mix if it was in powder form. That's just our decision, no clue how Game Geralt handles his potion making, but it's probably not pretty.
The other ingredients Jaskier sees in the jars are actual ingredients from the wiki. Endrega embryos and ghoul's blood. Fun stuff to choke down when you're in the middle of a fight. Also our research leads us to believe that at the Cintran feast, when Geralt drinks a potion and then shoots Aard at Duny and Pavetta, it is either Thunderbolt (increases attack power in the games) or Petri's Philter (increases sign strength in the game).
Writer's Tips! We got so many reviews praising our writing style/talent so we thought we'd share some of our tips and tricks!
Pictures are your friends! We have entire folders of pictures (and gifs on our phones) of characters in various expressions/situations. HappyJask, SadJask, AngryBard, SmugWitcher, pics, pics, and more pics! Then we'll split up our computer screens: one half is the document we're working on, the other is a collage of images so we can glance over and get a picture more clear in our heads for how our guys should look! (Tech Tip: Go to a picture in your folder and right click. The drop down menu that appears should have an option toward the top that says "preview." Click that to have the image opened in a separate, size-adjustable window! I usually have at least four of those open as a collage!)
Hand in hand with the pictures comes rewatching clips. As time goes by, you'll find your characters veering off from the original simply because your memory of the scenes isn't as clear. To get a character's voice clear in your head, rewatch scenes! This helps a lot with dialogue. If you have the character's voice clear in your head, you can figure out which phrases sound like them and which just sound awkward or out of character in their voice.
Use Music! If you want a mood to come across clearly, listen to a song that evokes that mood before/while writing. Some good ones for this fic were "Tears of an Angel" (RyanDan) and "Brother" (Kodaline).
Fight scenes: Block 'em out. Use visual tools to be sure YOU know how the fight goes, blow-by-blow. The reader may not need all the details, but if you can see this fight as clearly as possible, you can describe it easier without losing track of a thug or having characters teleport around obstacles you forgot were there. Geralt just hangin' out in the middle of the barn for a full fight scene caused some trouble, but we made it through without stepping on him or hitting him with anything, thank goodness.
Multiple Drafts: Draft One is your Stupid Draft. This is just to get the basic blocking on the page. Who moved where? Who said what (generally)? What actions occurred? Dialogue can be placeholder to be spruced up in a later draft, whole sections can be skipped if you're getting stuck on them and have "Geralt skims 3-4 days at the post" until you're ready to go back to it! Stupid Draft is allowed to be as stupid as it has to be. Use cliches, shaky metaphors, cumbersome sentences, whatever it takes to get the basic feel of the scene across.
Draft Two is where the real work comes in! Go back through from the top and start filling in those places you skipped before. Rewatch some scenes and go back over dialogue to make sure it suits the character's voices/personalities.
Do as many run throughs as it takes to clear up all those skipped or placeholder spots and then do one final read-through, watching for typos, switching around word choice to make it flow better, and (if you're us) marking which words are WAY too overused. We've found that words like Steady, Expression, Shaky, and Quiet are some of the more overused ones in this fic. The thesaurus is your friend. Use it liberally.
Use all your senses: Draft One usually covers the major senses well, but to make the story more real and immersive, go back over your story and find places where you can add in the subtler senses. We say Geralt's hair is dirty (sight), what does that feel like (touch)? Instead of general terms like "uncomfortable" or "painful," you can use more specific phrases like where exactly the aches and pains are, how they feel (like a hammer in your head? A hot poker in your side? Sharp pain? Dull pain? Pounding or stinging? etc…). Don't forget that your characters can smell and taste too! And they don't just hear what's said to them. Geralt might be able to hear things further away as well, like the music from the tavern or the birds outside the barn. But a character's senses don't always have to tell the truth either! Jaskier thought he saw far more damage to Geralt's hands when he got his first look at the post because of the shadows cast by the lantern and the bruising. Geralt hears someone coming and thinks it's Jaskier returning, until other senses prove otherwise. (Geralt is especially fun for senses since his are enhanced and he can actually sniff out some stuff Jaskier couldn't, like the scent of smoke and ash on Tomas's clothing as he approached the barn).
Make a Wishlist: of things you want the story to include, from moments of introspection and narration to scraps of dialogue. Some of ours for this fic were Jaskier sharing his jacket/cloak at the post, Tomas taking Geralt's medallion and showing it to Jaskier at the inn, Geralt prompting Jaskier to use his sword, and Geralt's attempt to comfort his buddy with a hug.
Have an ending in mind: To avoid your fic growing out of control, have an ending scene in mind when you start. We wanted to have Geralt teach Jaskier how to make his potions as a sign of trust and faith in the bard as well as adding a little humor in at the end. Having an end in mind (even a rough draft stupid version of the sort of scene you want) keeps you from writing yourself into a corner.
Just write! Only have one scene and no fic to go with it? Write that one scene! Maybe it won't be worthy of posting, but I bet you'll get some good lines out of it that you could use in a later fic! If not, writing it out can help build the fic around it AND give your mind a creative outlet to get the juices flowing. Feel like writing a sappy self-insert story? Go for it! Need ALL the drama? Write it! Any practice with writing is good practice. You might only get one workable line out of your shameless drama-fest, but it'll get your imagination going and might even spark a whole storyline! Just get out there and WRITE!