They left the city through the Oxenfurt Gate. Every few steps Jaskier stopped dead and threw his right hand forward, fingers outstretched except for the middle one.

He panted in exhaustion.

"It's broken," Jaskier decided as he lowered his hand after his 45th attempt to cast Aard. Behind Jaskier's back, Geralt had tried to conjure the power himself, silently aiming at his bard's back. But to no avail. The power he had reliably felt rushing through his body for decades felt painfully absent.

"You're not doing it right. You have to manifest it," Geralt repeated once again while shaking his own hand in frustration as if the magic just needed a good stir for it to show itself.

Once they were out of sight and close to the forest, Geralt tried his best to teach Jaskier how to use a sword. At least the initial stance was fine. But the moment movement was added, Jaskier seemed to stumble over his own feet.

"Ciri had this figured out in no time," Geralt offered when he once again disarmed Jaskier despite his newly acquired weakness.

"Good for her," Jaskier wheezed with a shrill edge in his voice. "Why don't you do the fighting? There is no point in trying to teach me now. It's not going to work."

Frustrated, he rammed the sword into the ground, grossly underestimating his new strength and burying it nearly to the hilt. He shot an apologetic glance at Geralt who he knew, despite keeping his always stoic face, was about to faint from witnessing what the bard had done to his sword. That or he was plotting how to murder Jaskier. It was anyone's guess as to what was really going on the witcher turned bard's head.

"When you attack me, I can see it coming so clearly, as if time slows down, but I don't know what to do about it," Jaskier explained as he sat down on a rock where he, conscience-stricken, tried to clean the earth off the sword as best as he could. "I have the strength, the speed – and no idea what to do with it."

Geralt hummed. Instead of the usual deep grumble a musical note left his throat.

"Try to breathe from your stomach," Jaskier offered, not taking his eyes off the sword in his hands, desperately trying to polish a spot with the sleeve of his shirt.

"You're teaching me to sing now?"

"Well…", Jaskier looked at him, "if we survive this, then one of us needs to entertain the masses tonight. And," he took a deep breath and screeched: "IT'S NOT GOING TO BE MEEEE!"

While Jaskier clearly made a much better singer in Geralt's body than Geralt would have ever been, he struggled with his new timbre. High notes seemed to be lost to him – which was a problem.

"We should just leave," Geralt finally said. "No point in getting us killed. We need to find someone who can undo this and give us back our bodies. Reputation be damned, I'm not dying in this body!"

He had barely finished speaking when a shriek tore through the otherwise quiet forest.

"Oh, that's not good," Jaskier commented. "I can hear it, I can literally hear it coming towards us with every single step."

Geralt heard the noise but his spatial hearing was so dull compared to before when he always knew where something was going to bust out of the bushes.

"Fuck!" he shouted and took the much too heavy silver sword into his weak, soft hands.

Jaskier tightened his grip around the hilt of the still dirty steel sword.

They looked at each other and nodded. They had to try and if it was the last thing they were doing – which it likely was. No witcher had ever died in his bed, Geralt reminded himself. But they had all most certainly died in their own bodies.

Oh well, there had to be a first for everything.

The creature blasted through the dense line of trees. Geralt quickly estimated that it was about three meters from head to tail – rather small for a wyvern. The wyvern seemed unbothered by Geralt's opinion on its size and lurched forward. Jaskier fell over backwards with a shriek so high that Geralt for a moment could not help but think that his vocal cords must have been broken in for an entirely new set of octaves.

Even though the sword in his hands felt as if it had been made of lead, he jumped towards the creature as quickly as he could and managed to strike it superficially across the face. The wyvern shrieked and stood itself up on its hindlegs to its full height. Which, considering its tail alone measured about half its body size, was not that much. It was smaller even than Jaskier.

But before Geralt could get his hopes up, the wyvern reminded him of its sharp teeth and claws as it lashed out when he tried to get near it.

Being as slow as he was, his usual techniques of fast spins would not work here, he understood quickly. What was left was a much more straightforward way of attacking.

"Great," he pressed between teeth clenched in concentration.

He jabbed and struck, jumping back after every brief attack because he had no trust in his human reflexes. He felt safer stepping back after every strike rather than risking a longer attack and then being unable to evade whatever was coming at him.

He began to realize that his technique did not impress the wyvern all that much. In fact, it seemed like it was starting to get angry. Geralt had hardly managed to hurt it aside from some superficial scratches.

"Jaskier!" he called out without taking his eyes off the furious beast. "What are you doing?"

"Gathering courage?" he answered in a shaky voice. Even in this moment of deadly peril, Geralt still noticed that he had never ever heard his voice shake. This was odd. And wrong.

He felt sweat running down his back. A seam under his arm ripped, then under the under arm. Jaskier's fine clothing was not made for fighting, it hindered his range of motion.

At least he would be a neatly dressed corpse, he thought.

Forward, strike, backwards, forward, strike… He repeated the pattern, dancing around the wyvern, trying his best to cause as much damage as possible. Finally, he managed to sink the tip of the sword into the monster's shoulder. It howled in pain and his right wing dropped to the ground. Whether he had severed a muscle or a tendon Geralt did not know – but the creature was now severely limited in its movements.

"Jaskier!" Geralt called out again as he felt his strength wain. "Do something!"

After what felt like an eternity he saw Jaskier appear in his peripheral vision. He shook and whimpered as he held his sword tightly, knuckles shining white against his pale skin.

A cowardly witcher was not a sight to behold, Geralt realized. But he could not win on his own. Maybe if Jaskier's body had been trained in fighting at all he would have stood a chance.

Geralt's muscles ached in protest of the unusual strain that was put on them. He became aware of how sweaty his hands had gotten. He feared to lose the grip on his sword any moment now.

Finally, he managed to get another strike in, deeper this time, leaving a deep gash over the creature's belly.

It howled in fury but if Geralt had expected the injury to stop the creature he was wrong: It reared up and lurched forward – something the witcher had not expected and not seen coming. He stumbled backwards in a desperate attempt to get out of the way of the sharp teeth - and fell.

The ugly mouth with all its razor-sharp teeth was a second away from ending him when Geralt felt a strong wind and the wyvern was blasted to the side.

No, not wind.

Jaskier stood panting and eyes widened in disbelief, hand still outstretched and pointed at the monster. Aard. He had managed to do it. The wyvern was scrambling on the forest floor, unable to get up because of its immobilized wing. Geralt got to his feet, threw all caution over board and rammed his silver sword into the monster's skull. For a few more seconds the wyvern's tail twitched before all went still.

Both Geralt and Jaskier watched for a while.

"Is it dead?" Jaskier finally asked, fear written all over his face.

Geralt, without answering, pulled a knife from the still stunned bard's belt, and cut off the head.

"It's definitely dead." He grabbed the head and threw it towards Jaskier. "Money for trophy," he added at Jaskier's disgusted expression.

A moment passed.

"But did you see it? I did it!" Jaskier finally cheered. "I did an actual witcher thing! And it wasn't even that hard!"

"Not that hard? You just stood there. Definitely not hard. I did the fighting."

"But I saved you! I did…" Jaskier pushed his hand forward. It had no effect. He tried again. "Why isn't this working?" He shook his hand. "Is it broken?"

Geralt sighed and dropped onto the soft forest floor.

"You got lucky," he finally said.

"No. No. No no no." With more determination than even during the fight, Jaskier started to throw both hands forward again and again.

"Stop making a fool out of myself. If anybody sees me like this I can kiss my reputation goodbye."

Jaskier pulled a face but sat down next to his friend.

"You look like shit," he remarked.

"No, you look like shit." Geralt reminded him.

In all honesty, they probably both looked like shit – or worse.

The bard huffed.

"Next time maybe be more careful. This doublet was new, a gift from…" But he did not manage to finish the sentence.

"If you want your precious garments to stay safe then maybe next time consider helping me? Or don't take on contracts that we can't handle? These," he shook his arms, "are useless. Do you have any strength at all?"

"Chose your words wisely," Jaskier threatened and pointed his hand at Geralt.

"Try your best," Geralt challenged him without batting an eyelash and leaned forwards.

They were both taken by surprise when Jaskier actually managed to emit the weakest of blasts. A curl on Geralt's forehead moved hesitantly.

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"It did… something," Jaskier pouted.

Geralt groaned.

"Do not take on any more contracts, understood? We only got out of this one alive because this wyvern wasn't fully grown and because you got lucky."

Jaskier looked at the wyvern's separated head with disgust but said nothing.

"What now?" Jaskier wondered when they finally had recovered and gotten up. "What will we do about tonight?"

The bard had allowed Geralt to hold his sacred lute for all of five minutes before he tore it from his hands again. "You can't hold it like a sword, you need a lighter touch!" he had screamed, panicking, when Geralt nearly tore off one of the lute's strings.

"Since you won't let me touch it," he nodded at the instrument, "you'll have to play."

"And you'll sing?" Jaskier surmised, his tone somewhere between disbelief and desperation.

"I cannot sing."

"Because you're not breathing from your belly."

"Whether I breathe from there or from my arse makes no difference."

"It would if you could be bothered to try," Jaskier lectured him. "If I managed to cast a sign then you can sing."

"You cannot cast a sign though," Geralt argued.

"I did it twice," Jaskier insisted.

"One and a half times at most." Geralt rolled his eyes.

"Fine. But still one and half times more than I heard you sing. Publicly at least." The had added the second part of the sentence quietly but even with his human ears Geralt had heard him.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you sing and hum my songs when you wash yourself."

Geralt felt himself blush. Those stupid songs were forever ingrained in his brain. There was absolutely no way to forget about them when you had to listen to them all the time. They were too catchy.

"Are you telling me you are watching when I wash myself?" Geralt, who felt like his toenails rolled up at the mere thought of having to sing in front of people, tried to deflect.

"I mean, I…", Jaskier stumbled, feeling caught. "It's just whenever you get to have a bath, you're so happy. And then you hum, and you sing a little and…" Jaskier took a moment too long to avert his face. Who knew his witcher body had the ability to turn beet red when feeling caught? Geralt of Rivia, blushing like a little girl. Odd times.

They went on in silence. And then Geralt smiled. As annoying and thoughtless as his friend was, it was nice to know there was someone out there who knew him so well, who could be bothered to pay attention to him.

Maybe, when he got his body back, he would start walking a little slower for his friend.

"I'll do it," Geralt suddenly said.

"What?"

"I'll sing tonight. You play the lute because there is no way I can learn that quickly. But I'll sing."

Jaskier looked at him with his mouth open.

"Really?"

Geralt nodded and smiled to himself. Oh yes, he was going to sing his emotionally stunted heart out because nobody would know it was him. If he failed? No consequences for him, it would all be on Jaskier once they had each returned to their respective bodies. If it ended up being a catastrophic failure? Not his problem. He was going to have a little fun tonight. And maybe, just maybe, he felt an urge to take revenge on his friend for what he had done to his sword.

He did not resist when Jaskier asked him to practice. For all their differences it turned out they knew fairly well how to level with each other and while this was not going to be one of Jaskier's best evenings, maybe not even a good one, it certainly was not the worst they could have done.

Surprising himself but not so much Jaskier, it actually did turn out that the witcher did know all the lyrics by heart. All he had to do now was get those words out of his mouth in an accident-free manner. And while he knew little about singing, especially when sober, Jaskier's vocal cords seemed to know exactly what to do.

Only when Jaskier put one hand on Geralt's stomach and shook it a little – "remember to breathe from here, and louder," did Geralt seriously think about sabotaging the performance. But only a little.

"Are you ready?" Jaskier asked. "You have to make sure it comes across as a joke when you announce that your witcher-sidekick," he pointed at himself, "will be accompanying you on your lute."

Geralt felt sick as he watched from behind the curtain of the little stage. The inn was full of people, most of them drunk and all of them noisy. Who would even want to listen to them? Maybe it was good if nobody paid them any mind at all. Geralt was all of a sudden not at all convinced that this had been a good idea. Fuck Jaskier's reputation, he could not go out there and make a fool of himself – even if tonight he was not himself.

He felt Jaskier's hand on his arm.

"A little stage fright has never hurt anybody," the bard said quietly before he pushed his friend hard so that Geralt tumbled onto the stage. Jaskier followed right after.

"Do something," he whispered at Geralt who had become completely immobile.

But Geralt could not. He was not sure what had happened but it seemed like he had forgotten how words worked. He managed to think how very inconvenient that was but then Jaskier started speaking in his stead.

"Lords and Ladies, may I introduce to you the incomparable, the one and only: Jaskier!"

This got everybody's attention which Geralt found not helpful at all. Who knew that someone who fought all kinds of monsters and put his life on the line on a regular basis, could be suffering such severe stage fright? Because they did not teach us that in Kaer Morhen, Geralt thought before his mind went blank again.

Jaskier, having realized the degree of incapacitation that his friend was suffering from, continued to speak.

"Tonight will be quite special, that is a promise. Because I, the witcher, the white wolf, have practiced humbleness – and the lute. Master Jaskier, true luminary that he is, has been teaching me to play with and for him." The people began to cheer and even those that did not all turned towards the stage to look at the pair.

"Tonight you will be witnesses to this special performance, watch Master Jaskier's true genius shine. He tamed me, the brutish, savage monster hunter, and elevated me." He started playing the first few chords. "Be our guests. Enjoy!"

Geralt listened, only with great presence of mind keeping his mouth shut despite all the bullshit his friend was spewing. But whether it was Jaskier's usual egomania or a fiendish ruse to make Geralt mad and forget about his fears, it worked. The first few lines of Whoreson Prison Blues left Geralt's lips – maybe a little more aggressive than the original interpretation of the song had foreseen but at least he sang. And not even that badly. Jaskier though began feeling a little miffed when Geralt would look straight at him with every repetition of "Go fuck yourself, you whoreson".

By the end of the song Geralt did not mind the attention anymore, he even began to see why Jaskier was always asking for it. It was a strange feeling but a pleasant one nevertheless. He further had to admit that Jaskier had been right when he had claimed that singing louder made it easier to hit the right notes. The fact that Geralt was able to hit them at all never ceased to amaze him.

People demanded encores – and received them. Jaskier smiled at Geralt and Geralt felt caught – if Jaskier realized how much fun he was having he would never hear the end of it. So he made sure to put on an appropriately grumpy face right after the performance was over. Under thunderous cheers they left for the backyard to gather their breath.

"That had potential," Jaskier concluded. "But you need to work on those lower notes."

"Be careful," Geralt reminded him with poisonous spite in his voice to be sure to properly mask the fact that he had been having a blast.

"So nice, good job."

They both turned around to find the old dumpling lady standing next to them. "No fighting anymore. Is beautiful night," she said with a big smile.

"Thanks?" Jaskier said, no less confused than Geralt at her sudden appearance seemingly out of nowhere.

"Here," she held out a wooden box whose top emitted a little steam through its woven cover. She removed the cover to present two dumplings.

"Well deserved." She continued to smile encouragingly.

Unsure what to do and somewhat overwhelmed both reached for a dumpling.

"Must eat while hot," the woman suggested. Geralt shot Jaskier a glance, inducing the latter to carefully sniff the dumpling. He shrugged as in: No poisons detected. And stuffed it into his mouth. Geralt, who was actually fairly hungry after their performance, followed his example.

"Very good. Have good night." She made quick, tiny steps back to the door but then turned around again: "Remember, no fighting." She vigorously shook her index finger to drive the point home.

The men nodded and looked at each other once the woman had disappeared into the inn again.

Jaskier was about to open his mouth but Geralt simply shrugged.

Before they went to bed, the innkeeper gave them a small sack of coins – the collection from the audience. Geralt weighted it in his hands and wondered how many meals this would buy them and how long it would keep them afloat in their current circumstances. Tomorrow was another day. They would have to put more effort into trying to find out how they could return to their bodies.

They lay in bed, shoulder against shoulder.

"Sucks to be you," Geralt said.

"You don't mean that," Jaskier answered airily.

"No, I don't…" he admitted before he fell asleep.

He dreamed of learning how to play the lute, of becoming a proper bard, of becoming… Jaskier. And Jaskier became him, gained control over his powers. He protected him and in return, Geralt ran after him on his weak human legs like a puppy. He was sad to lose his powers for good but at least when people would talk about him, they would do it with admiration in their voices and not fear or hate.

Maybe this was not the worst thing to have ever happened to him.

Geralt woke up to Jaskier's feet in his back. At least that was never going to change he thought as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A small spider was crawling above their heads before it vanished in a crack.

His eyesight is not so terrible after all, Geralt thought. It seemed he had gotten used to it. Nothing looked fuzzy anymore.

He got up and grabbed the colorful pants from a nearby chair. He would have to order different garments for himself if he was to remain in Jaskier's body. More black, less cerulean. He tried to fumble his foot through the leg of the pants but failed. It seemed Jaskier's things had shrunk during the night. And only then did he realize that his hands and arms were covered in scars and scratches again.

He spun around to look at Jaskier – Jaskier in his very own body.

Geralt slapped himself to make sure he was not dreaming. Then, for good measure, he slapped Jaskier as well who shot upright immediately.

"What the hell, Geralt?" Then he too noticed. "Geralt?" Jaskier first examined his friend and then himself.

"Is it true? This is not a dream?" he asked.

"It appears so. But I can slap you again, just to be sure," Geralt suggested.

The soft smile on Geralt's face, such a rare occurrence, made Jaskier laugh out loud before he fell back into his pillow.

"I dreamed that I was covered in monster goo all the time," he said and turned his head towards Geralt. "But that's a look that suits you much better than me." He grinned.

And Geralt, glad to be back in his own body, grinned.

"I wonder what happened," Jaskier added as he stared at the ceiling. "Will it happen again?"

Geralt shrugged. "I hope not. I prefer wearing monster goo to cerulean blue."

Jaskier rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively.

They decided to leave the city as soon as possible. Neither of them understood what had happened but each was glad to have returned to their normal form and it did not seem worth questioning the rest. Maybe they would meet one of their magically inclined friends sooner or later who could tell them what had happened. Already, the previous day had started to feel like an odd dream.

When they left through the gates, Jaskier plucking the strings of his lute, humming quietly behind him, Geralt made sure to walk a little slower.