So, after two longer stories about Geralt and Triss, I decided to write something shorter and explore Geralt and Jaskier's friendship. Though I love whumping Geralt, in this one Jaskier is going to take the worst of it. Sorry, little bard. I don't know why I can't keep my characters in one piece. There's probably something wrong with me XD
My warmest thanks to Sammys_Girl who offered to continue beating my work. It is very sweet of them and highly appreciated :-)
"Geralt, for the umpteenth time, could you please slow down!"
Jaskier's voice sounded strained, if a little over-dramatic, and Geralt let out a sigh.
"Stop complaining."
They had been on the trail for the better part of the morning, and now that it was going towards noon, it was starting to get truly hot. Geralt's shirt was clinging uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat, and his boots felt at least one size too small around his swollen feet. It would become worse in the afternoon though. Better to make some pace now.
He ducked his head to avoid a low hanging branch, then settled back into the rhythm of Roach's steady gait. Behind him, Jaskier's footfalls were interrupted by a stumble, followed by a low curse.
"For Melitele's sake, Geralt, stop. I'm about to collapse."
It was close to an actual whine this time, and Geralt leniently tugged at the reins to allow the bard to catch up. A glance over his shoulder revealed the younger man flounder up the steep mountain path behind him, lute bobbing against his back, his chestnut hair plastered against his skin. He had rolled up the sleeves of his chemise and opened the buttons at the neck, the delicate fabric bearing dark stains under his arms. He was panting, and Geralt had to admit that he did look a little pale.
It wasn't just the heat though, it was also the toll of last night. After completing his latest contract, the people of Whitemill had met them with surprising gratitude, and they had spent most of the night at the tavern celebrating. Jaskier had enthusiastically entertained a more than generous crowd, and the ale had been on the house. Both of them had drunken more than they should have. But while Geralt had woken fairly rested this morning, Jaskier had suffered a hangover from hell. Too bad that the innkeeper's daughter had ended up in the bard's bed, or they might have just stayed another day, sleeping it off.
"You really should have passed on that last ale," Geralt pointed out.
"More like the last three."
Jaskier's answer was almost lost in his canteen as he took a deep gulp. He grimaced, then forcibly swallowed against a bout of nausea while squeezing his eyes shut. Geralt shook his head at the sorry sight. He couldn't help but think of Vesemir, who had once kicked him out of bed in a similar condition after he had spent a night boozing with his brothers. It hadn't been undeserved, of course; Vesemir had told them to call it quits, and since a hangover was no excuse for staying in bed, the older witcher had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head and dragged him into the courtyard. The training that day had been merciless. Not a pleasant experience, but he had gotten the message. Maybe it was a lesson Jaskier needed to learn as well.
Geralt told him as such.
"You're one to talk," Jasker huffed, a little indignant with the sting of perceived injustice. "With your witcher stamina, you probably don't even know what a real hangover feels like." He made a shaky gesture that was a shadow of the grand motions usually accompanying his speech. "The unrelenting pounding behind the temples that keeps you from hanging on to a proper thought. The trembling cramps of a disturbed stomach. The dizziness that engulfs you like a buzzing torrent of sickness in the heat of - "
"Maybe you should write a song about it."
Jaskier cast him a dark look and clumsily screwed the lid back on.
"Very funny."
"Come on, let's get going."
"Geralt, just as second, please." He sank to the ground to rest on his haunches and rubbed his temples. "How about some sympathy here? I'm human, you know. My body doesn't metabolize toxins like yours."
Geralt merely raised his brows. In his experience, self-pity didn't help one bit. You had to get your shit together and bear the consequences of your actions. Be wiser next time. Honestly, if Jaskier expected to travel with him, he'd better get rid of some bad habits. Trying to keep up drinking with a witcher ranked pretty high on that list.
"Should have thought about that earlier."
"Yeah, well, maybe," Jaskier admitted weakly. "But in my defense, it's been quite a while since I've had such a great audience, and the female company was quite charming. Plus, your reputation got quite a boost."
"Hmm."
"I guess that means thank you." Jaskier shot him a pointed look. "You're welcome."
Geralt all but rolled his eyes. Only Jaskier could get all wasted and claim his hangover as some kind of heroic sacrifice. He gave the bard another minute to get himself together, and when he was sure the younger man wouldn't just keel over, he nudged Roach back into motion.
However, it wasn't long until another complaint sounded from behind his back.
"Geralt, for Melitele's sake, slow down!"
This time, he couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice.
"There's a stream about an hour from here. We can rest there."
"How about now?"
"No."
He didn't mind camping in the wilderness, but the air was becoming increasingly thick and humid, smelling of a heat thunderstorm. It would probably hit them by evening. If they wanted to reach the next village before then, they'd better press on.
"Geralt, don't be like that. Come on, you're traveling with a human."
"A hungover one who should have known better. Learn your limits."
"You're a pain to travel with, you know that?"
Geralt made a pause for effect, something he had learned from Jaskier.
"Well, you can always go back."
That shut him up. It usually did. After all, it wasn't like he had asked Jaskier to travel with him, and right now, the constant whining was starting to grate on his nerves. It wasn't like he was immune to the heat himself. Thankfully, Jaskier seemed to get the point. He fell into sulking silence, quietly trudging in Roach's wake as they ascended the mountain path among the shadows of giant pines.
They reached the stream in the early afternoon, the distant roar of water announcing their destination some time before it came into view. It sounded of blessed coolness, and even Roach flicked her ears in excitement. Jaskier caught on to the sound a little later, but when he did, let out a sigh that sounded heartfelt.
"Gods, I think I've never been so glad to see a river."
The bard quickened his pace, the promise of cooling and rest inciting his remaining energy, and made to take over Geralt and Roach as he headed straight for the water that glistened in the near distance. However, Geralt's hand snapped forward to catch him by his sleeve.
"Wait."
He pulled Roach to a halt. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was wrong. Warily, his eyes scanned the trees around him, trying to identify the source of his sudden unease. The birds had stopped chirping.
"Geralt," the bard protested, vainly tugging to free his arm. "Let me go!"
He froze when he saw the expression on Geralt's face. "What is it?"
"We're being watched."
It was instinct only, a prickling sensation in the back of his neck, but he had learned to trust that feeling. It had saved his life more often than he could count. Quietly, he swung from his saddle and unsheathed his sword, straining his ears. Jaskier's breathing was unnaturally loud against the soft breeze in the trees and Roach's nervous shuffling.
"Are you sure?" Jaskier whispered. "I can't hear anything."
"Shush."
The wind picked up a little, and this time he was certain. It carried the scratchy soot of campfire, the stench of human sweat.
Before he could point it out, a sharp whirr sliced the air, and the bard yelped in surprise as an arrow buried itself into the tree trunk next to his head.
Geralt swung around, eyes darting into the direction the shot had come from, just as a leather-clad man stepped into the road. In his muscled hands, he weighed a sturdy battle-ax.
"Well, well. Who do we have here?"
The man was built like an ox, broad-shouldered and bald, his skin weather-beaten and leathery. A ragged scar marred the right side of his face, running from his brow to his square jaw where it disappeared into a filthy beard. Geralt's eyes briefly flickered up to where he spotted movement among the branches of an oak tree. An archer. Clever.
Three more shapes emerged from the shadows among the trees, two of them holding swords, the last one armed with a crude mace.
"Stay back," Geralt quietly growled at Jaskier who had already taken a step back, never taking his eyes from the bandits before him. "And stay out of the way."
Jaskier swallowed audibly. "Never planned to do anything else."
The bald man, apparently the leader, took a menacing step towards them, weighing this weapon in his hands like it was nothing. Automatically, Geralt's eyes scanned for weak points in his armor and noticed that his leather breastplate apparently had been built for a smaller man. It was too short by several inches, making the femoral artery an easy target. If he could get past the considerable range of his weapon.
"What do you want?" Geralt clutched the hilt of his weapon tighter. He'd have to be quick about this. Usually, he wouldn't be overly concerned about a bunch of robbers, even without his armor, but the archer above him was undoubtedly about to nock another arrow just now and he had to consider Jaskier as well. The bard was an easy target.
"What I want," the bandit barked out with a dirty laugh, "is your horse and your coin. The boy as well." He jerked his head towards Jaskier whose eyes widened in alarm. "He's pretty enough, don't you think, boys?"
The last remark was aimed at the men behind him who snickered as if he had just made a great joke. Geralt bared his teeth and stepped between the bandits and Jaskier.
"You obviously don't know who you're dealing with," the bard spoke up behind him, voice high-pitched and a little shaky. "This is Geralt of Rivia, the famous White Wolf." When the man's face remained unimpressed, he clarified, "The Butcher of Blaviken."
"Is that right?" The robber tilted his head slightly, interest in his eyes. "You're a witcher? Now, isn't that a coincidence?"
He adjusted the grip on his ax and took a step forward.
"Make your move, witcher."
Geralt did.
He took care of the archer first, knocking him down from his perch with a blow of Aard. The lithe body hit the ground along with a spray of leaves and branches, and Geralt deflected the stray arrow that tumbled from the bowstring with a quick strike of his blade. Face grim, he fixated his gaze on the leader who all but threw himself at him with an angry roar.
It turned out that the man was quite skilled, using the reach of his weapon and his massive weight to his advantage. For agonizingly long moments, Geralt had all hands full trying to evade the powerful swings of the ax while keeping the remaining bandits at a distance, until another blow of Aard allowed him to gain the upper hand. Once he had the first one of them on his back, he made short work of him by thrusting his sword between his ribs. Blood sprayed across the giant oak trunk. His fellow swordsman didn't even have the time to be demoralized as Geralt whirled around, cutting his throat in the same movement. The man went down gurgling and spitting blood, and the third robber dropped his mace and ran.
The bandit leader, however, stood his ground. Now that he was the only opponent left, it became apparent that Geralt was indeed facing a battle-wise warrior. Twice, the sharpened edge of the ax sliced across his skin before he found an opening in the defense that allowed him to move in. Aiming to kill, he thrust his sword deep into his thigh just below the rim of the breastplate and felt a surge of grim satisfaction as the tell-tale spurt of blood revealed he had indeed hit a major vessel. The man grunted as his leg gave out, ax slipping from his grasp, and Geralt wrenched it from his hands before pulling his sword free with a smack.
Placing a foot on the man's heaving chest, Geralt stared into the pain-contorted face, heart pulsing with adrenaline and anger. Somewhere behind him, he heard Jaskier sob with relief.
"Geralt, are you alright?"
Jaskier's shadow fell on him from behind, but he didn't look up. His gaze was glued to the silver pendant the man wore around his neck, its disc engraved with the familiar picture of a wolf's head. A witcher's medallion. Setting his jaw, he dropped to his knees and removed it with a sharp yank at the chain.
"I'll be damned." Jaskier's breath felt warm on Geralt's neck as he peered across his shoulder. "That looks exactly like yours."
No shit.
"Does that mean he's a witcher?"
"No. But it probably means that he met one."
Roughly grabbing the bandit's chin, Geralt forced the man's heavy-lidded gaze in his direction and held up the medallion for him to see.
"How did you get this?" He was surprised at how hoarse he sounded.
The man's eyes zeroed in on the pendant, then flickered up to Geralt's face. A weak sound rumbled in his chest, something akin to a chuckle, and his lips contorted into a lopsided grin. Inadvertently, Geralt's fingers tightened around the man's chin. This was a medallion of the wolf's school, and while there was indeed the chance that it belonged to a witcher who was long dead, Geralt's instincts told him otherwise.
"Don't make me repeat myself," he threatened. "Answer."
He backhanded the man across his face before grabbing him by the neck of his shirt, ignoring the startled noise Jaskier made from behind. The man grunted, but it didn't take long for the smirk to reappear on his lips.
"Belongs to one of your mutant friends, doesn't it?" He wheezed, malice in his drooping eyes. His breath rattled in his chest, and when he made a clumsy attempt to fight Geralt's grip, the soil beneath him squelched, soaked with blood. With a surge of frustration, Geralt realized that he didn't have much time. The man was bleeding out under his hands, and he was uncooperative at best.
Setting his jaw, he lifted his hand into the man's field of vision and watched the half-lidded eyes lose focus as Axii flickered from his fingers.
"Geralt, what are you doing?"
"Shut up, Jaskier." He didn't avert his eyes from the bandit's face. "How did you get the medallion?"
Beads of sweat formed on his pale skin, the jagged scar suddenly very prominent. His breaths came quickly now, labored and shallow. It took a moment until he answered.
"Took it from a witcher up in the mountains along with his coin." The words were slurred, and Geralt instinctively leaned closer, heart pounding. "When we came across him, he was … already half-dead."
Geralt's hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Where? When?"
"Cave further up the stream," he choked out between breaths. "Two days ago."
Geralt let out a curse, gut clenching with helpless anger. He didn't have much left in terms of family. Actually, he could count the people close to him on one hand. If something had happened to his brothers, to Vesemir -
His hands suddenly felt very cold.
"What did he look like?"
The man stared at him blankly, lips moving to form an answer, and a wheeze left his lips. His eyelids fluttered. Damn it, this son of a bitch was giving out.
"Don't you dare," he threatened, shaking the man roughly. "What did he look like?"
Heavy-lidded eyes slipped closed, and Geralt shook him again, willing the man to answer. The bald head lolled limply to the side, and again, Geralt slapped him across his face, mad with frustration.
"Answer, you son of a bitch!"
Another slap, harder than before.
"I said answer!"
"Geralt -"
He almost jumped when a tentative hand came to rest on his shoulder. Jaskier. Only now did he remember that the bard was even there.
"He's dead," Jaskier said softly.
He tensed, a sharp answer sitting on his tongue, but he resisted the urge to voice it at the last moment. Jaskier was right. The man was dead, and there was nothing he could do about it. Still, he felt like ripping somebody's head off. For lack of a better outlet, he grabbed the battle-ax and flung it into the next tree with a guttural scream.
Livid, he reached for his sword to crudely wipe it clean on the dead man's breeches, then pushed to his feet. His gaze fell on Jaskier, who looked rattled, his face almost white. With a pang of guilt, he realized that he was probably scaring the hell out of him.
He let go of a long breath.
"Are you alright?" His voice sounded rough despite his efforts to speak gently. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"
Jaskier shook his head. "I'm fine."
He looked anything but fine. However, Geralt didn't see any obvious wounds, so it was probably just his emotional reaction to the events. That and his fucking hangover.
He noticed the way the bard stared at his sword-arm though, and when he inspected it, he was surprised to find it bleeding. The ax had slit his sleeve down to the skin and drawn blood, and when he reached, he found another cut across the back of his shoulder. The wounds were shallow, nothing that wouldn't heal in a couple of days. Faster, if he used a witcher potion. Nothing to worry about.
Sheathing his sword, he walked among the fallen bandits, checking for vital signs, and was frustrated to find them all dead. The archer had at some point stolen away unnoticed. He cursed at the realization, opening and closing his fists in agitation. He was desperate for answers, and he wanted them now.
"Let's rest a moment," Jaskier offered carefully, the weary look in his eyes overshadowed by worry. The gentleness in his voice made him bristle.
"I don't need to rest."
Jaskier sighed.
"I know you don't, but I do. And we need to refill our canteens." Jaskier bent to pick up his lute and slung it over his shoulder. "I could help you bind your arm."
Geralt opened his mouth in a sharp response, then thought better of it. Jaskier looked like he was about to faint, and Roach needed to drink too. He might as well take the time to clean his wounds and bandage them properly. Maybe eat something as well. Still, he couldn't shake the thought of a brother lying in the wilderness, bleeding. Two days was a long time to lie wounded without help, even for a witcher.
"Fine," he conceded. "Let's rest a couple of minutes. But then we'll be on our way."
"Won't argue with that."
They found a good spot by the water's edge, a small clearing where the water was shallow. Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, he could feel the throb of his injuries more prominently, and he bit back a groan as he pulled the shirt over his head. Without comment, Jaskier settled next to him, a clean rag in hand. Prompted by Jaskier's hands, Geralt turned his back and pulled his hair out of the way, so Jaskier could do his work.
"I can't believe you wanted to leave this untreated," Jaskier muttered as he examined the cut.
"It's not that bad."
"How do you even know? You can't see it."
"Don't have to."
Behind him, Jaskier deftly uncorked the flask of alcohol, and Geralt winced as he started to methodically dab at the cut on his shoulder. It wasn't the first time the younger man assisted him like that, and by now he was familiar with Jaskier's careful ministrations, the soft touch of musical fingers against his skin. They were ice-cold.
He frowned. The sun was burning on his back, mosquitoes buzzing around his sweaty skin. It was positively hot, so why were his hands so cold? While he sat, hunched forward so Jaskier had easier access, he focused on the human heartbeat behind him, caught on to the accelerated rhythm, the slightly faster pace of the bard's breaths. There was a scent about him, too, that was off somehow. Sour. For the first time, he wondered if it really was just a hangover that plagued him.
He pondered on that, waiting until Jaskier had finished smearing adstringent salve onto the cut and bandaged it, and when he had, he chanced a look into the bard's face. He looked exhausted.
"Thank you. I'll take care of the rest."
Jaskier gamely handed over the alcohol, and Geralt cleaned the cut on his arm with efficient strokes while the bard hovered close, waiting in case another pair of hands were needed. He wasn't surprised when Jaskier helpfully passed him the jar with the salve before he could ask. From up close, the scent of underlying sickness was even more prominent.
"You don't have to come along, you know."
"Why would you say that?"
Jaskier's face dropped and he actually sounded hurt.
"You're still hungover," he pointed out matter-of-factly. "If you're not feeling well, you could just head to the next town by yourself. Sleep in a real bed."
"And leave you to deal with this all alone?"
Geralt sighed.
"I'm not planning to dally, Jaskier. I'll set a quick pace."
"You're afraid I won't be able to keep up."
That was one way of putting it. He grunted his agreement and felt Jaskier tense up beside him. Mutely, the bard reached for the bandages and started to wrap Geralt's arm, dressing the wound as expertly as Geralt would have done himself.
"Don't worry," Jaskier said quietly, tying the cloth bandage in place. "I know that this is important to you. I won't slow you down, I promise. You'll see, I'll be a worthy travel companion."
Geralt looked at him doubtfully. Jaskier looked pale under his tanned skin, and there was a glaze to his eyes he didn't like. On the other hand, what did he know about human physiology? In the end, it was just a hangover, no big deal, and if the bard said he could handle it, who was he to tell him otherwise?
He gave a shrug.
"Sure hope you're right."
The relieved smile on Jaskier's face made him feel a little guilty.
"I am," Jaskier declared happily. "And don't you worry, I won't be a burden. You'll see, by the end of the day, you'll be glad I came along.