"…a promise made must be honored. As true for a commoner as it is for a queen."
"Is it now?" Calanthe's eyes flicked quickly to the right and in an instant and to the complete surprise of the witcher, a soldier grabbed Jaskier and held a knife to his throat.
"What the fuck is this," Geralt spat.
"Tell me witcher, what promises have you made to this one," Calanthe taunted. "I hope it wasn't one of protection."
"I told you I was helping relieve him of his coin," was his retort. "Now leave off! He's just a bard!"
Calanthe tilted her head up ever so slightly. A display of superiority that frankly pissed Geralt off. "Oh, but you've shown your hand. Your eyes gave you away even while spouting your little lie."
Geralt growled low in is his throat. He felt exposed, vulnerable. A dangerous position for a witcher. It was true Jaskier hadn't offered payment and Geralt hadn't asked for any. He still wasn't certain why he agreed to accompany the bard, but coin wasn't it.
The queen smiled cruel and wicked. "Now that I have your attention, kill the creature as your profession demands. Otherwise, the bard will be relieved of his life."
"Geralt –" Jaskier's choked plea was quickly cut off as the soldier pressed the knife further into flesh causing a small ribbon of blood to trickle down Jaskier's throat.
Geralt clenched his fists, pressing nails into his own skin as if he could replace Jaskier's blood by shedding his own. "Why involve us in your fucked up fight with destiny!?" But he knew why. He had openly defied her, and she was not a woman to accept such without recompence. She could not have kept her kingdom otherwise.
"You involved yourself when you defended the monster! Now, make your choice, butcher."
Her words echoed deep and ominous through the hall. No one dared move to intervene. No one was willing to defy a lioness baring claws and teeth. Usually, it was Geralt who would step where others feared to tread, but she had read him too well. She knew the one thing that would make him heel like a tamed dog.
He could make no other choice. Retrieving his discarded sword, he moved the blade slowly toward Duny. The man with a creature's head made no move to stop him. Geralt saw the naked fear in his eyes, but he also read an understanding and knew Duny would not blame the witcher. That made this all the worse.
Geralt pulled his arm back, preparing to strike. He hesitated only an instant.
A scream.
Chaos.
Suddenly Geralt was flying backward, his back colliding painfully with a stone pillar. He managed to keep his feet under him and locked his sight on Duny and Pavetta. They rose into the air calm and ethereal while everything else was being blown apart. Geralt struggled forward pitting his own magic against the storm. It was too strong. He hit the pillar again. A potion. His spell again. And it was over.
The couple fell, a heavy silence settling after the abrupt halt to chaos. Geralt spared a glance to Mousack and at the sorcerer's nod, a small assurance the danger had passed, the witcher was moving. He stormed toward the wall Jaskier had been flung against. Said bard was sitting half slumped against it looking dazed with one hand pressed against the back of his head. Geralt knelt down, attempting to maneuver his face into the line of sight of the smaller man's bowed head.
"Jaskier, are you alright," the witcher asked.
Jaskier tried to shift his gazed up. "I think I hit my head," he answered. Hesitantly, he pulled his hand away from his head only to gape as it came away red. Geralt fought to school his features to prevent his rising panic from showing. As it was, he nearly pounced on the bard as he attempted to assess the injury. As far as he could tell, the cut wasn't deep or life threatening. He told Jaskier as much, then quickly shrugged out of his sad silk trader's jacket, bundled it up, and had the bard press it to the wound to stem the blood. At least he has an excuse not to wear it again.
"We're leaving," Geralt spoke, his gruff tone leaving no room for argument.
Of course, that never stopped Jaskier. "But my lute," he practically pouted.
Geralt huffed his annoyance, but despite his eagerness to leave, he was not subjecting himself to the tirade that would be Jaskier without his lute. "Where is it."
"It was by the stage."
Geralt marched toward the stage raking his eyes over the pile of wood chips and strings that used to be various instruments of the band. At the center of this massacre, however, sat the pristine, unharmed elven lute the witcher had become so familiar with. He hastily grabbed it wondering, not for the first time, if Filivandral had placed enchantments over the unassuming instrument. Returning to the bard, his attention was pulled back to the fallout of the ruined banquet. Duny beckoned to him spouting some ridiculous proclamation of a debt owed as if he ended this for their sake. Foolish talk of destiny as if their own decisions didn't lead to this. He wanted to spit in destiny's face. Apparently, destiny knows how to spit back.
After his colossal fuck up that was obtaining a child surprise, Geralt hauled Jaskier to his feet (a little too roughly judging by the way the man nearly tipped back over). He clasped a firm arm around the bard's shoulder to steady him and led them out into the hall. Mousack followed with some bullshit about destiny and duty. He was a witcher for Melitele's sake. When has destiny ever cared about a witcher beyond monster killing.
Geralt pulled Jaskier along outside of the castle. Thankfullly it wasn't a long walk to the inn where they'd been staying. The innkeeper was happy to house the bard singing for the royal court providing an encore performance would be given at the inn the following night. Looking at the bard now, Geralt was doubtful any such performance would take place. Tucked tightly into the witcher's side, Jaskier still managed to sway from side to side. His normally vibrant eyes were glassy and a little dim, his gaze occasionally losing focus. Worst of all, Jaskier was quiet. As much as Geralt would complain about the bard's incessant rambling, singing, and humming, he absolutely hated it when the man was quiet. A quiet Jaskier was a hurt Jaskier.
They made it to the room where Geralt unceremoniously deposited Jaskier on the bed. As a witcher, he wasn't accustomed to tenderness and never had he regretted this lack more than now. Still, he managed to roughly clean the wound eliciting several hisses from his companion that nearly had the witcher flinching in sympathy. Those were the only sounds Jaskier made despite the crude handling which set Geralt even more on edge making his ministrations even rougher. The cut wasn't large, thankfully, and required little bandaging once the bleeding stopped. It wasn't until Geralt finished the dressing and began hastily tossing things into a saddle bag that Jaskier found his voice.
"Are we going somewhere," the bard asked, a dazed look still lingering in his eyes.
"No. I'm going, you're staying," Geralt replied with a brusque finality to his voice that would quell most people into subdued agreement. Jaskier has never been most people.
"Hang on just a minute," he spluttered, the dazed look fleeing from his eyes. "You're just going to leave me! Alone and injured I might add!"
"Yes."
"Why!"
"You're hurt."
"What!?" Jaskier squawked. "Do you think I'm not strong enough or something? I'll be fine in a few days. I can keep – "
"No."
"No!? No what!? No, I'm not strong enough! No, I can't keep going!"
"You're hurt!"
"Yes, we've established that, Geralt."
"Because of me!" he shouted, throwing a shirt into his pack with far more force than necessary. Why can't the bard see he's in danger?
Of course, that's too much to ask. "What are you talking about, Geralt? Pavetta made the – "
"She knew," Geralt cut in again, though judging by the baffled look on his companion's face, he realized he should elaborate for once. "Calanthe. She knew that I…fuck," he huffed.
Jaskier had calmed now and gazed at the witcher with quiet contemplation. "She knew what, Geralt?" he all but whispered.
"That I, hmm, care…about you."
Jaskier's eyes grew a little wide at that. Geralt still stubbornly refused to call him friend, so to admit that he cared for the bard, well that was just…a little overwhelming if Jaskier was being honest with himself. And yet… "I still don't understand. If you care about me, why are you ditching me?"
Geralt released a sigh that sounded more like he'd just been gut punched. "The soldier grabbed you so Calanthe could control me. She would have gone through with her threat. You'd be lying choking on your own blood just because you know me." His voice was rising again, bordering on fury. "You're not safe with me, don't you get that!?"
"I never asked to be safe."
"You should!" Geralt glared at Jaskier. "You're a bard! You should be at court! Entertaining lords and ladies and getting drunk off expensive wine, not sleeping in dirty inns and having your life threatened by monsters and spiteful queens!" Honestly, the man made no sense to Geralt.
In fact, his response managed to surprise Geralt. Instead of a dramatic retort as the performer is known for, he merely huffed a laugh and shook his head, a small wince accompanying the action. "Yes, Geralt I am a bard. Do you know why?"
Truthfully, Geralt never thought about it. I hadn't seemed important when he thought the man would be gone in a day or week. "You like music," was all he could come up with.
Jaskier scoffed, "Well, yes of course, but I'm a viscount. How many viscounts do you know go gallivanting around the continent whether they like music or not?"
Again, Geralt had never thought about it. He was beginning to think maybe he should have. Jaskier took the answering silence as invitation to continue. "Do you know what waits for me back there?"
Geralt scrambled for words. "Safety, comfort – "
"Oblivion."
Jaskier spat the word with such hatred and disgust, Geralt was taken back a bit. What the hell does that mean?
"Yes, I see it now," Jaskier proclaimed. "I'll be another fat, useless lord in a long line of fat, useless lords. I'll drink that expensive wine bought off the backs of people who worked far harder and deserve it far more than I would. And when I die, there will be a great ceremony for the last day anyone heard of Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz." He finished his tirade with a small bow and a flourish.
"You could be different," Geralt tried.
Jaskier offered a sneer and a scoff. "I've seen the ones who try, Geralt. They get eaten alive at court." He nearly shook his head again but thought better of it. "No, I want my life to mean something. Out here, delighting people with song, changing your reputation – no don't give me that look, you know it's true – It means something."
After his speech, Jaskier seemed to deflate as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Geralt suddenly felt foolish, riling up a man with a concussion. The bard's words rippled around in his head cooling his ire from before. He couldn't exactly agree with the speech, but he couldn't deny it either. The witcher often struggled to find meaning in the mutated life he was cursed with. Yet here was this bard taking meaning out of it for himself. Geralt didn't fully understand why he would choose to find meaning in a witcher, but Jaskier was an artist, or so he says. It wouldn't surprise Geralt if the bard could see something the monster hunter was blind to.
Geralt stared at Jaskier for one long moment before making up his mind. "There's, um, word of a harpy's nest in the next town to the east."
Jaskier snapped his head up then nearly toppled over with a dizzy spell. Geralt reached for his companion, starting to rethink his choice. With one hand pressed to his forehead, Jaskier waved Geralt off with the other. "What about a harpy's nest?"
"Hmm," Geralt replied. "Next town over. We can sleep in tomorrow and still make it by sundown…if you're up for it."
Jaskier beamed. "Yes, of course! Sexy ladies with wings. Wouldn't miss it."
Geralt snorted. He was looking forward to the bard's reaction when he realized that there was absolutely nothing sexy about a harpy. As the two settled into their beds, Geralt continued to ponder Jaskier's words. He wondered how someone so colorful, someone so joyful could find meaning with a grumpy, gray witcher. Still, if the bard could find meaning, maybe Geralt could borrow it from time to time.