"We don't expect an encounter before the day after tomorrow. But I'd like to put you on first watch, just in case. Maurice and Till will share the watch with you." Captain Collins jerks his head towards the two deckhands who are busy with the main sail. He's a small man with graying hair, and Geralt estimates him to be fifty years at least, but his gestures still have the energy of a young man. "From what I've heard, they attack at night."
Geralt nods, arms crossed over his chest. He's been hired to protect the ship, so he has expected to spend most of the nights on deck. It's when a merchant ship is at its weakest. The indicated men are both a lot younger than the captain, in their early twenties at most. They are muscled and fit, as all seamen are, but Geralt doubts that they'll be good fighters. If there really are pirates down the river, he'll likely have to deal with them on his own.
"Is there anything else I should know?"
He has already stowed his belongings under deck, in a chest he shares with Jaskier, and he knows where the most valuable goods are stored. Silk and brocade mostly, but also spices from the south. The complete ship smells of cardamom and at least half a dozen other herbs.
"Not that I can think of." The captain leans his arm against the rail, gaze wandering over to where Jaskier is standing on the other side of the deck. The young man stands completely still save for the morning breeze that tugs at his hair, eyes directed into the distance. "Your friend doesn't seem well."
"He isn't," Geralt says quietly. Jaskier hasn't spoken to anyone since they boarded the ship. Geralt can't remember ever seeing him so closed-off, and he knows that he suffers. Leaving the inn has been hard on him, and their trip to the harbor even more so. He doesn't feel safe anymore, Geralt can tell. "Thanks for reserving a quiet corner for him to sleep. It's much appreciated."
"That's alright," Collins waves off. "We're sailing with half a crew anyway. He's the famous bard, isn't he? Jaskier. Some of my men have been asking."
Geralt confirms the question with a low grunt. He has a feeling about where this is going. Life on a ship can be dull, and a musician is a welcome distraction.
"Don't get your hopes up. He won't perform."
"Yeah, well. It's clear that he injured his hand. But maybe he could do some singing tonight? The men would like it, and it would be good for the morale."
Geralt sighs. "I can ask him if you'd like, but I doubt it. As I already said, he's not feeling well."
"Pity," Collins says, and he looks like he means it. "Well, if you manage to convince him, just let me know."
He claps Geralt on the shoulder, nodding his appreciation, then makes his leave, yelling a commando at the deckhands on his way. Geralt's eyes veer to Jaskier again.
From where he is standing, Geralt can't see his face, but he knows that he is miserable. He skipped breakfast this morning, just downed a swag of the poppy, and slung his bag over his shoulder. Now he's all slumped shoulders and trembling hands. Geralt wouldn't be surprised if he felt nauseous.
The planks creak under his steps as Geralt joins him. He leans his elbows on the rail, following Jaskier's gaze down the river where the silhouette of Oxenfurt slowly dissolves into the mist. The towers of the western gate are blurred rectangles against the sky. Not much longer, and they will have disappeared completely.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Jaskier's words are so low that Geralt has to strain his ears. "Oxenfurt."
Geralt looks at the countless pointed roofs that are barely discernable now, the small pennants. He has never thought of cities in terms like that. But the way it lies in the distance, morning light seeping through the mist, he figures that Jaskier has a point.
"I guess."
Jaskier's mouth twitches, but he doesn't meet Geralt's eyes.
"I've always loved the place. The narrow streets with their small inns and taverns, the little workshops and studios. The academy." He licks his lips and Geralt waits, sensing that he is not done. "I had so many fond memories of the city. Now I'll always think of Oxenfurt as the place where I lost everything."
For a long moment, Geralt doesn't know what to say. Jaskier has every right to be sad. Angry. But the hopelessness that sounds in his words is hard to bear. And it's not justified either, at least not in witcher terms.
"You lost a lot," Geralt says quietly. "But you didn't lose everything. You're still alive, and you're not alone."
Jaskier turns his head at the words, a curious expression on his face. It looks like he wants to say something, but then he just shakes his head.
"Thank you, Geralt."
Geralt lays a hand on his arm. "I mean it," he says. "If there's anything I can do, you just let me know. Okay?"
"Sure."
The smile on Jaskier's face is forced but it gets his point across. There is nothing Geralt can do, not right now. Jaskier turns his gaze towards Oxenfurt again, and Geralt stays for a while, unsure what to do. He listens to the sails snap and flap in the wind, the creaking of ropes, and tries not to think of how it has never been quiet like this with Jaskier around. Together, they watch Oxenfurt disappear in the distance, and once the city is lost in the mist, he silently squeezes Jaskier's arm and retreats.
The sun is low in the sky when Geralt talks to Jaskier again. He finds him below deck in a hammock, staring at the beams above him. He still wears the same lost expression on his face, and the shadows under his eyes haven't faded. If anything, they have gotten deeper.
"Hey," Geralt says softly.
Jaskier doesn't avert his eyes from the ceiling. "Hey."
"How are you feeling?"
Jaskier sighs. He looks pale. Tired. If he hadn't spent the complete day in his hammock, Geralt would have told him to get some sleep.
"Can't you already see that?"
Geralt rests his shoulder against a beam, seizing him up. The smell of potatoes and meat wafts down from above, and there's the sound of chatter and laughter. They have anchored for the night, and the crew has gathered on deck to share dinner. It's still warm and a lot more comfortable outside than in the small space of the common's quarters.
"Dinner is ready," Geralt says. "It's nothing special, but since you haven't eaten anything today -"
"I'm not hungry."
In the dim light of the lantern, Jaskier's eyes are large. Geralt can't say if his pupils are blown from the lack of light or the poppy.
"Still, you should try to eat something. Starving yourself doesn't help." Geralt feels like he is talking to a child, and he hopes he doesn't sound condescending. "Come on, I'll help you up."
"Geralt -" Jaskier protests, but when Geralt slips an arm under his shoulders, effectively pulling him upright, he gives in. He is swaying a little and Geralt pulls him against him to keep him from toppling over. As he makes to steer him towards the ladder, Jaskier stops him.
"Wait. Why don't I stay down here and you bring me something?"
Geralt hesitates, and Jaskier looks at him pleadingly. "I'm really not in the mood for company."
It's not that Geralt doesn't understand. With everything Jaskier has been through, it's only natural that he might want to be for himself for a bit. It's just that this isn't him, and Geralt can't get past the impression that the bard might be unintentionally punishing himself. Depriving himself of much-needed food, shying away from social contacts. Jaskier has always enjoyed the stories of an adventurer, and the sailors above are bound to have tales to share. It would provide some distraction at least.
"I know you're uncomfortable with the idea," Geralt says gently. "But I think it would do you good."
Jaskier looks at him unhappily, doubt written all over his face. "I really don't want to," he says weakly.
"Just give it a try. If it gets too much, you can always come back down. Okay?"
He can see the moment Jaskier caves in. "Fine. I'll give it a try. But I'll need a bit of the poppy."
"Jaskier -"
"Please. My hand is killing me."
Geralt doubts that this is about any physical discomfort, but he doesn't say it out loud. If he can make Jaskier come upstairs, if he can make him try and connect with others, it's a small sacrifice to make. Mutely, he gets up to dig the flask from their chest and is surprised when he finds only the one Jaskier got yesterday.
"Where's the opened one?" Worry weighs his stomach and he casts Jaskier a questioning glance.
"I transferred the remains. Didn't make sense to carry more than necessary." When Geralt hesitates, Jaskier gives an exasperated sigh. "I didn't use it all if that's what you're thinking. Sweet Melitele, I'm not an idiot."
"I didn't say that." There's no heat in Geralt's voice, and he sees Jaskier falter.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you."
Geralt gives him a wan smile and mixes five drops into a cup of water. When he presses it into Jaskier's hands, he can feel them shaking. Jaskier downs it in one go.
"Ready?"
"Yeah. Let's get something to eat."
The sailors are cheerful company, and Geralt soon finds that he has made the right call. Before long, Jaskier is involved in a conversation with one of the deckhands, and while he is far from his usual lighthearted self, he seems genuinely interested in what the other man has to say. It's some bogus story about a hobgoblin than haunted the last ship the lad sailed on, and it's so contradictory that even a fool would notice it was made up, but Geralt keeps his insight to himself. For the first time in days, Jaskier isn't brooding, and the content of his bowl disappears bit by bit.
After dinner, a bottle of rum is passed around, and it doesn't take long until the jokes get dirtier and the mood more wanton. When one of the deckhands starts an old shanty, the others join in.
Our anchor's aweigh and our sails are all set
Bold Riley, oh, boom-a-lay
The folks we are leaving, we'll never forget
Bold Riley, oh, gone away
Geralt takes a swag from the bottle and passes it on. There is clapping and cheering, and he finds himself relaxing until he senses Jaskier quietly get up beside him.
"Hey, where're ya going?" One of the men calls out loud. "Evening's just starting. The boys were hoping you'd sing one of your own compositions. Maybe the one with the golden dragon?"
Jaskier stops, his shoulders tense. He turns and gives the man a taut smile. "Maybe some other time."
"Aw, lad. That's an awful disappointment. Just one song!"
There's a murmur of agreement from the others but Jaskier just shakes his head.
"Please! How about the fishmonger's daughter?"
"Or the one with the burning butcher?"
Someone sings the first notes, and all color drains from Jaskier's face.
"Sorry." He basically flees the scene, and Geralt curses himself for not thinking ahead. Of course, there would be singing. Of course, it would cause him distress. He sets down his cup and mumbles an apology of his own before making his way under deck.
He finds Jaskier sitting on the edge of their chest, the flask of poppy sap in his shaking hands. The cork is already on the floor.
"Jaskier, stop. Your last dose was just an hour ago."
"I'm in pain."
"I can see that." Geralt lets go of a long breath. "But this is a remedy for physical pain only. You've had enough."
"Don't you dare patronize me!" Jaskier lashes out, eyes hard and shining. "You're not a healer. You're not even human. You know shit about this."
The words cut like glass into his chest but Geralt knows that Jaskier doesn't mean it. Not really.
"This is not about burns or broken ribs. You're upset about the singing. It reminds you of what you've lost, and it's hard to bear. I understand. But that's no reason to drug yourself to sleep."
The way Jaskier's mouth is twitching tells him that he's right. However, it doesn't mean Jaskier is willing to stop. Geralt takes a slow step forward, trying to project calm into his movements, and Jaskier clutches the flask even tighter.
"You understand shit!" Jaskier's voice is sharp, his eyes glistening with anger and naked torment. His hands are shaking. "Fuck, you don't have the slightest idea of what I've been through! What I'm going through every single day."
"Then why don't you tell me?"
Geralt's voice is gentle, carefully void of all signs of frustration regardless of how much this gets to him. This is his fault. He has caused Jaskier's suffering, and tonight, he has made it worse, albeit unintentionally. For a moment, it seems like Jaskier is actually going to answer, but then he merely lifts the flask to his lips. Geralt feels his patience waning.
"Jaskier, please. This stuff is not to be toyed with. If you take too much, it can kill you. Fuck it, Jaskier - "
Angrily, he grabs Jaskier's wrist. His grip is hard, and Jaskier's eyes widen. He twists his hand in Geralt's grasp, a choked whimper trembling from his lips. "Please, don't – " His voice breaks as he yanks at his hand. "Please let me go."
"Let go of the flask," he says calmly. "I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't know anything!"
Tears well up in Jaskier's eyes, pupils wide and unseeing. Geralt can feel the rabbiting of Jaskier's heart under his fingertips, smells Jaskier's fear, and that's the moment Geralt understands.
Jaskier isn't here right now, not really, and his wide-eyed gaze is not directed at Geralt. He is seeing someone else. Someone with dark hair and a burn scar across his face, and he expects him to hurt him. When Jaskier yanks at his hand again, Geralt lets go and the abrupt motion sends the flask flying. Jaskier brings his hand close to his chest, a sob ripping from his throat.
"No more. Please, let me go."
Tears streak his cheeks as he starts to shiver in earnest, and Geralt feels a hole tear up in his heart. This is what Jaskier has been through, and now he suffers it again because of him. Because Geralt didn't realize what he was doing. Again.
"Jaskier?"
Another violent shiver shakes the bard, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Sweat glistens on his forehead. Geralt feels a lump the size of Temeria in his throat and slowly, very slowly raises a hand to cup Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier flinches, a pitiful whimper escaping his lips, and Geralt withdraws his hand.
His stomach twists with worry. Everything in him screams to pull Jaskier into his arms, to comfort him, hold him. But he fears that it might make things worse. Right now, he is not Geralt to him. He is the worst monster Jaskier has ever encountered.
"Jaskier, it's me. Geralt. Look at me."
He fights the impulse to touch him again. There's no telling what it will do in his state. Instead, he resumes to words. Not his strong suit, but he'll have to try.
"Jaskier, please. Look at me. Really look at me."
Something shifts in Jaskier's eyes, a brief flicker of awareness, and Geralt takes that as an encouragement.
"That's it," he says as softly as he can. "Look at me. We're on board of the Maribor, heading for Vizima. I'm here with you. You're safe."
He touches his hand to Jaskier's shoulder and the bard squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he looks disoriented, scared out of his mind, but then recognition sets in.
"Geralt?"
His voice is small, breaking on the last syllable. Geralt breathes a sigh of relief.
"Yeah, it's me. Gods, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to …"
He pulls Jaskier into his arms and wraps his arms around the shaking body. Jaskier chokes out a sob as he presses his face into Geralt's chest. He clutches at him hard, desperately, like a drowning man clutches to a spar. Geralt gently runs a hand down the back of his head, letting it rest along his neck to hold him. He feels short bursts of air huff against his sternum. Jaskier is still panicking, but he is calming down.
"You're here with me now. You're safe." He whispers the words into Jaskier's hair. It still carries a hint of lavender. "You're safe."
Geralt still wants to kick himself, but he knows it won't do Jaskier any good. Jaskier needs him level-headed and calm, a shoulder to lean on. He can beat himself up later about what happened.
He doesn't know how long they stay like this, but eventually, Jaskier's breathing calms down, and the choked-out sobs that wreck him grow sparser. When Geralt loosens his grip, pulling back a little to have a look at the tear-streaked face, the panic in his eyes is gone.
"Are you okay?" He asks softly, and Jaskier nods. He looks exhausted. Geralt can't blame him. "Would you like to lie down?"
Jaskier nods again and Geralt helps him into his hammock, propping him up on pillows so they are supporting his injured ribs, and draping a blanket over his still shivering form. Then he pulls a chest close and sits. The floor is littered with shards. He tries not to think of what that means.
"How are you feeling?" He asks quietly.
Jaskier throws an arm across his face. His breath still comes in ragged gasps, but it's a lot calmer than it had been. He is still ghostly pale though. "Miserable?" He lets go of a shuddering breath.
"What happened?"
Geralt has a fairly good idea of what the answer will be, but he still feels that he should ask. It's always better to be sure rather than assume.
"I don't know." Jaskier's voice sounds muffled as he's speaking into his sleeve. One moment I'm here with you, arguing, the next one I'm back in that god-awful chair and -" he stops, clamping his mouth shut. He lowers his arm and gazes at the wooden ceiling. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Has this ever happened before?"
Jaskier closes his eyes, tears leaking out beneath closed lids, and shakes his head. He looks so feeble, so pale. Geralt wants to draw the blanket closer around him. Not that it will do any good.
"I've had nightmares, but this - " he bites his lip, then turns his head to cast a quick look at Geralt. "Fuck, I'm a mess." He runs his hand over his eyes and sighs. There is a moment of silence in which neither of them speaks. "I'm just glad none of the crew saw me."
"Fuck the crew." Geralt says angrily. "I don't care what they think and neither should you. And if their singing is a problem, I'll make them shut the fuck up." He falls quiet, worrying his lower lip. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "Jaskier, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. For any of this."
"I know."
Jaskier shifts a little, turning on his side, and reaches for Geralt's hand. His fingers are cold.
"Would you fix me another dose?"
Geralt feels his heart sink. Part of him hoped that Jaskier might have forgotten about it. That he might get to evade the inevitable a while longer. He feels an icy hand clutching his heart and he swallows.
"I can't."
"Please, Geralt," Jaskier begs. "I know I'm not supposed to take it against – feeling like this. You're right about that, and I'll work on it, I promise. But it helps, and I'm feeling really awful right now."
Geralt sees the pleading in his eyes, the torment, and it makes what he's about to say that much harder.
"I can't," he repeats as quietly as he can, hating himself with every word. Because he is well aware of what this means for Jaskier. This is about more than a lack of pain relief. "The flask is broken."
The look that Jaskier gives him shakes him to the bone. It constricts his heart and slits his gut. It claws through his insides like the talons of a striga, and it hurts a thousand times worse.
"You're lying," Jaskier rasps. "You just want to keep it from me."
"I'm not." It's difficult to meet that gaze and Geralt has to summon all his resolve not to falter. "When you were… reliving what happened to you, I let go of your hand. It slipped from your grasp. It's broken. There are shards everywhere."
He makes a vague gesture to indicate the floor, and Jaskier's gaze follows in horror. Geralt can see the moment when realization hits him. When his features distort into a grimace that is helplessness and anger and sheer desperation.
"How could you?" He chokes out. "Why did you have to try to take it from me? You realize there's not a second one, do you? That it's impossible to get a replacement until we reach fucking Vizima?" He struggles to sit up against the pillows and curses when the sudden movement causes him pain. Geralt's helpfully extended hand is swatted away. "Don't you dare and touch me! What the fuck were you thinking? Don't you think my life is miserable enough? Do you really have to waltz in and add more shit to this stinking cesspool I'm drowning in?"
"Jaskier - "
Tears are streaming down Jaskier's face, and this time, he doesn't even attempt to wipe them away. He is raging. He is bitter, and he is disappointed. And though he probably doesn't want to admit it, he's scared. Geralt can see it in his eyes. If he's right about this, Jaskier needs the poppy more than he dares to admit. And stopping a drug like that, from one day to the next, it's nothing he would wish on his worst enemy. Even less a friend.
"Shut the fuck up." Jaskier's voice is dangerously low. His nostrils are flaring. "Get out. Get the fuck out."
Geralt reaches out once more, but the livid expression in Jaskier's eyes makes him change his mind. He won't get through to him right now. Not without use of his signs, and he promised not to use them. Everything in him wants to curl his fingers, cast Axii and calm Jaskier's mind. It would be merciful. But it's against his word, and Geralt knows that it will destroy what little trust he has managed to build between the two of them. Maybe Jaskier will forgive him yet. When he is better. When this is over.
Until then, he'll respect the boundaries Jaskier has set for him and be there for him as well as he is capable. The gods know that Jaskier will need a friend in the upcoming days, whether he realizes it or not. And the pain Geralt feels right now, the one that wreaks havoc on his insides, he knows he deserves every bit of it.
"Alright," he says, barely keeping his voice from breaking. Accepting. "Try to rest. I'll drop by later."
Jaskier averts his gaze, and Geralt hesitates just a moment before he quietly takes his leave.
