The next time they shared a boat, Jaskier had been with him five years, and the journey was much less kind. When they'd boarded in Novigrad, Geralt fresh from Kaer Morhen after the winter and Jaskier direct from a position in the Countess de Stael's court, Jaskier had looked a touch unwell - a little paler than usual, a little less chatty. Jaskier hadn't even tried to hug him once, despite the long months apart - but the man had assured him he felt well enough to join him on his trip to the islands. He'd never been, he explained, and how could he possibly give up this opportunity to travel the islands with Geralt, witnessing the death-defying hunts he would no doubt face there and writing glorious songs about it if he didn't come along?
Geralt knew better than to argue, but the concern, wrapped heavily in veiled interest for his own convenience, was on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it back and rolled his eyes when Jaskier gathered himself and dove headfirst into the tales of his winter exploits. Geralt's lips twitched into what could possibly be construed as a smile as he watched Jaskier's animated features describing a rather dimwitted courtier and her unfortunate encounter with a vielle, so he turned his face away, unwilling to let the man who could so easily read not just humans but also him and his minute expressions see and interpret the uncomfortable, bewildering feelings whose existence he cursed. Vesemir would be so disappointed in him. Witchers weren't meant to feel like this.
It was three days' journey from Novigrad to Skellige. On the third day, after they'd rounded the point at Bremervoord and now sailed closer to the islands than to the continent, the wind turned sharper and colder and the seas rougher. He interrupted Jaskier's story - this time, yet another rageful and woeful tale of Jaskier's arch-nemesis, Valdo Marx, and how the man had "quite unfairly, I assure you, Geralt! Nothing but nepotism and bribes" won a songwriting contest that Jaskier had been simply fated to win - to tell a tale of his own.
In a quiet voice, he recounted a story he'd heard on one of his last trips to Skellige, of a Cintran merchant ship that had a pompous fool of a captain who'd arrogantly sailed straight through the Sedna Abyss. His ship and crew disappeared, never to be seen again, lost with most of its treasures, but the captain's body was found months later washed up on the Faroe shore, with most of his organs mysteriously missing. Locals claimed no fish could do what had been done to that man's body, but no one was willing to believe it.
As much as Jaskier liked to hear himself talk, he stayed quiet while Geralt spoke, apart from appreciative gasps and small comments that Geralt was sure weren't merited by his much duller style of storytelling, but it did make him feel warm inside. He chose to believe that was just his new, extra thick woollen cloak with a soft fur lining.
The cold wind cut through Jaskier's thin doublet that was better suited for a warm summer spent in Zerrikania, even with the marginally more functional cape he wore atop. Every time Geralt thought Jaskier couldn't possibly find a more inappropriate or gaudy outfit, the man proved him wrong. A bard, Jaskier had told him once, simply must wear the latest and most expensive fashions to attract the fame and fortune due him, just as the peacock must wear the brightest feathers to attract a mate.
Particularly with the large feather in the bard's oversized magenta hat, Geralt thought the comparison rather fitting.
Jaskier shivered again, and Geralt unhooked his cloak and put it around his friend's shoulders. He would be fine without it, the witcher mutations helped regulate his internal temperature. Even without proper clothing, it would take much longer for the cold to be a danger to him than it would for Jaskier's fragile human constitution.
The silence at the end of Geralt's story fell upon them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was unusual. Jaskier almost always filled any silence with mindless chatter, drawing upon a seemingly endless well of stories and facts he felt compelled to share. Geralt frowned softly as he surreptitiously studied Jaskier. Did he look paler than before, or was that just the cold? There were two small bright spots of red on Jaskier's cheeks but that made him seem even more wan.
Before he could do more than take a quick step back, Jaskier pulled away from the side where they stood and vomited. It missed his shoes, but his cloak slipped off Jaskier's shoulders and fell into the mess. Geralt's eyes shut, and he counted until he felt the initial surge of anger subside. Jaskier should have told him he wasn't feeling well. Geralt should have trusted his own senses and, for once, left the man behind.
Jaskier began to babble, but Geralt didn't listen. He cut him off with a curt jerk of his head, then he grabbed his soiled cloak with one hand and Jaskier's arm with the other. "Come." It was almost a growl, but Geralt was trying to soften his tone. Jaskier looked plenty miserable already.
He steered Jaskier back to their cabin below deck. If this was seasickness, that might make it worse, but it would be only for a moment. "Sit. Stay," he said as he bodily sat Jaskier on the bed. He set the cloak down beside a basin, but left it there so he could first pour a cup of water for Jaskier to sip and then rummage through his supplies. He pulled out a small clay pot filled with candied ginger root and selected a couple. He'd purchased these from a merchant in Novigrad especially for Jaskier, remembering the story of boyhood seasickness he'd once been told. "Eat these," he said as he held them out to Jaskier. "Slowly. And breathe."
Jaskier simply did as he was told, which was frankly a little alarming for Geralt. He watched Jaskier critically as he ate the first piece of ginger, then turned away to rinse his cloak of the grime. It was only a small bit of a bottom corner, so when he was done he put it back around Jaskier but affixed it properly so it wouldn't fall off again.
He nodded in approval of his own work and guided Jaskier back up to the deck amidships. Standing beside him at the railing, he rested a steadying hand on Jaskier's back and pointed. "Look at the horizon, and breathe in and out slowly and calmly." Jaskier planted his palms on the wood and leaned over slightly, and Geralt's grip tightened slightly on him. It wouldn't do to have him fall overboard.
They stayed there like that until the boat docked. Geralt roughly patted Jaskier's back as they moved away to debark. With his feet on solid ground once more, Jaskier's colour and personality returned, and Geralt's eyes smiled as Jaskier excitedly offered his predictions and hopes for their stay in Skellige as they walked along the road to the nearest inn.
