Chapter Text
i
It’s been two months since Jaskier joined them on the road – them being Ciri and Geralt; since their group had exploded with liveliness and music and someone else to talk to other than Roach. In those two months, Ciri’s quite sure Roach spoke to her than Geralt did. Don’t get her wrong, she likes Geralt. But he’s not exactly an easy conversationalist.
Still, he always puts her first. The best bits of rabbit in her rabbit stew or new shoes from the shoemaker while he patches his own up with old strips of leather. So, it’s no surprise when they get to the tavern–their first tavern in a week– that Geralt throws Ciri the key to her room.
‘Jaskier and I will share.’
Ciri looks down at the key. ‘Aren’t there enough rooms?’
‘Not enough coin,’ Geralt grunts. ‘Go. Bathe. I have to discuss a vampire contract with the mayor.’
When Geralt gets back, covered in what Ciri is quite sure is intestines, they eat quietly in the corner of the inn. Jaskier plays his music, his hat out for coins. He sings well, Ciri has to admit, and there’s an entrancing quality about the way he performs, luring all eyes to him. Even Geralt’s eyes seem to wander back to Jaskier, lingering on him just long enough that Ciri manages to steal a few mouthfuls of ale.
‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that,’ Geralt mutters as Ciri slides the large stein back in place.
‘Girls in Cintra drink at ten,’ Ciri replies matter-of-factly.
‘No, they don’t.’ Geralt takes another mouthful of ale before sliding it towards Ciri. ‘Don’t let Jaskier see.’
‘Stealth training?’
Geralt rolls his eyes. ‘Sure.’
Later, as Ciri prepares for bed–not that the lump of hay and blankets in the middle of the room should be called a bed–she hears arguing through the wall. Jaskier’s voice raises an octave as he whines Geralt’s name, long and loudly. It’s not uncommon, they’ve got into more rows than Queen Calanthe had battles since the bard’s joined them on the road, and some days they spend hours alternating between bickering and ignoring each other. Even now, with a warm meal in their guts and roof over their head, they still find something to argue about. Ciri shakes her head and pulls the blankets over her shoulder.
ii
It’s a week later when Jaskier sneezes so loudly it spooks Roach. Geralt soothes her with a murmur, glaring at Jaskier.
‘Sorry,’ he sniffs. ‘Spring. Flowers. Ugh. My head’s a mess.’
By the time they make camp, Jaskier is shivering and pallid.
‘You’re sick,’ Geralt says.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look horrible,’ Ciri adds, trying to be helpful.
Jaskier rolls his eyes. ‘Thank you. Really.’
Geralt presses a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. ‘Obviously not sick enough if you’re still mouthing off.’
Ciri notices the edge of Geralt’s mouth twitch as he drops his hand. ‘There’s a stream nearby. Go cool off. I’m getting dinner. Ciri, you’re in charge.’
‘What!’ Jaskier shrieks as Geralt begins to trudge off into the thick forest around them in search of their dinner. ‘She’s a child.’
‘A child who can raze a city with a scream,’ Geralt responds. ‘She’s in charge.’
Jaskier huffs, but there’s no real intention behind it but gathers his things to bathe. ‘First Roach is in charge, now a child.’
Geralt gets back before Jaskier and makes quick work of the rabbit they’re eating for dinner. He pours a little water into a kettle and lets it boil for a long while before adding crushed up flowers and a few curiosities from his backpack. Ciri watches Geralt silently from across the camp, trying to figure out the flowers he’s used and why, hoping he’ll explain before she needs to ask, but then Jaskier is trudging back to camp, dressed in a clean tunic. Still sniffing and groaning.
He falls on his bedroll with a moan. Geralt takes the kettle off the fire and pours the tea into Jaskier’s stew bowl.
‘Drink.’
Jaskier makes a face. ‘What kind of potion you trying to force into me now, Witcher?’
Geralt touches Jaskier’s forehead again as the bard blows over the tea.
‘You’re burning. Drink it.’
Jaskier takes a slow sip. ‘Wow,’ he blanches. ‘This is disgusting.’
Geralt glowers and tips the cup back to Jaskier’s mouth. ‘All of it.’
‘Yeah all right,’ Jaskier huffs. ‘Don’t Axii me into it.’
‘I’m not. I’m forcing you.’
With a sigh, Jaskier downs the rest of the tea. Geralt stays by Jaskier’s side and suddenly they’re speaking too low for Ciri to hear and Jaskier is looking at Geralt all dreamlike, and Geralt shoots an arm out to straighten him.
‘What have you done to me-,’ Jaskier slurs as he leans forward on Geralt’s body, face resting in the crook of his neck. Geralt hesitates before gently moving him off. Jaskier murmurs something Ciri can’t hear and Geralt replies something equally hushed and then Geralt places him down on the bedroll gently.
Jaskier smiles, briefly, and then he’s asleep.
Geralt turns back to the fire. His amber eyes flick towards Ciri.
‘Holy rope, elderflower and thyme treat colds in humans,’ he says. ‘Honey makes it taste better and enough Alcohest makes sure they stay out long enough for the others to take effect.’
Then, he leans forward and spoons them both a generous helping of rabbit stew.
iii
Ciri stays at camp with Jaskier and Roach–and is in charge again–while Geralt takes care of a werewolf nearby. The night is silent and still. There is no wind and yet a shiver runs up Ciri’s spine. Jaskier lounges by the fire and picks at his lute.
‘Where is he?’ Ciri asks Jaskier. ‘He should be back by now.’
‘He’ll be back when the job is done,’ Jaskier says as he strums. ‘No use going after him. You’ll just get in the way. I know from experience.’
‘But I could help,’ she says.
‘You’re more help here. Protecting me,’ Jaskier says but not like he believes it. Ciri huffs and resists the urge to stamp her foot. She hates being treated like a child but acting like one is only going to ensure that continues. Jaskier gives her a meaningful look as if he sees right through her. ‘He’ll be back.’
‘But what if he’s not.’
‘Then he’s dead.’ Jaskier plucks a chord.
She is asleep before Geralt gets back to camp but wakes at the sound of Jaskier rising, of the sound of crushed forest underneath his feet, of Roach’s whinnies Geralt presses a hand to her side.
Are you okay?
I’m fine. Go back to sleep.
Let me help you out of your armour.
Ciri-
She’s asleep. She was worried about you.
Hm.
Ciri opens her eyes. The fire is banked but still burns lowly and in the dim light she can see the outlines of their bodies pressed close.
Your eyes–
They’ll wear off.
Geralt moves slightly, obstructing her vision. Jaskier brings his arms up to Geralt's neck to unfasten the buckles of his armour, but then there’s the sound of something wet – blood maybe? – and Geralt lets out a long, tired sigh.
You’re really okay?
Not my first werewolf, Jas.
Ciri’s never heard call him Jas. It’s so loose and easy, the name falls from his mouth so naturally that all at once Ciri feels uncomfortable listening in on a conversation not meant for her. She closes her eyes and makes a show of rolling over, but if they notice her, neither say anything.
iv
The winter is bitingly cold. They’re down to their last few coins. Work has been scarce. Coin scarcer. Last night they’d all shared a room in a run-down tavern after Jaskier had agreed to sing for a roof over their head and old potatoes in their stomach. On the road, it’s even worse. The land is covered in snow. Occasionally Geralt tracks a rabbit, but the meat is lean and barely feeds the three of them. Sometimes he’ll come back empty-handed, muttering that the doe he’d tracked was pregnant. They go to sleep hungry most nights.
Their empty stomachs lead to irritable heads. Geralt and Jaskier fight more often now. There are fewer bickers and more quarrels. In the longest one, they did not speak to each other for two days. Geralt remarked that it was the quietest it had been for a long time. Ciri had to agree.
They hear that Yennefer is in Oxenfurt and decide to change course. Despite the harshness of the winter, there will be coin to make in Oxenfurt from people who don’t rely on the land. It’s still a day’s ride away, so they camp off the road. Jaskier finds an old cabbage on the remains of some poor bastard who’s been mauled by wolves. A cabbage and eight marks.
Jaskier makes a stew out of the old cabbage. It’s awful. They all know it is. Still, no one says a thing.
It’s late at night when Ciri wakes to the movement of Geralt’s bedroll. He walks away from camp to piss, adjusting Roach’s blanket as he comes back. Ciri closes her eyes as his gaze sweeps over her.
‘Jaskier.’ A hushed whisper. Jaskier groans sleepily. ‘It’s freezing. Get over here.’
‘Mmkay.’
Ciri hears the rustle of bodies and Jaskier’s murmur of thanks before everything settles down again.
v
Yennefer’s gone by the time they arrive in Oxenfurt (Of course she is Geralt mutters when he hears of the news) but the day isn’t wasted: there’s a couple of Drowners harassing the edges of the city, and Jaskier finds himself a spot at a local tavern.
‘Coming then?’ Geralt asks Ciri as they prepare to part ways.
‘Geralt,’ Jaskier says sternly. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Never stopped you.’
‘I know but,’ Jaskier hesitates and looks between Ciri and Geralt. ‘Fine. I’ll go put Roach away.’
Ciri almost skips alongside Geralt as they make their way down to the shoreline. She’s ordered to stay back on the shoreline and observe, keeping mind of Geralt’s pack. The Drowners gracefully rise from the water, advancing on Geralt as he wades deeper. A flash of his sword and they fall. When he’s sure they’re all gone, he calls Ciri out into the shallows.
Ciri toes off her boots and hitches up her skirts as she wades out. Geralt has a dagger in one hand and the skull of a Drowner in the other, prying it open gruesomely.
‘Drowner’s brains,’ he says as he fishes the organ out. It’s not big – the size of Geralt’s fist. ‘Key ingredient for Swallow. Get them while you can. As soon as you run out, chances are you’ll be fucked to find one.’
Geralt grabs another Drowner head and fishes out the brain and tongue before leading Ciri back towards the shoreline.
‘Blood moss,’ he points out as Ciri puts her shoes back on. ‘Good for treating wounds. Staunches the bleeding.’
Jaskier is singing when they enter the tavern. They’re dry but no less stinking of seawater. But the stench is a mark of victory, evidence of a hard day’s work done. When Geralt offers her a mouthful of his ale, she drinks it down greedily. There’s not much to say for the taste – she doesn’t really like beer. She likes what it represents.
Jaskier finishes his song and comes over to greet them, much to the disappointment of the gathering crowd. Immediately, his face screws up.
‘You both reek like a festering pond.’
Geralt shrugs. ‘Drowner’s smell.’
‘I have enough coin for two rooms upstairs. Go get cleaned up.’ Then, he reaches down to grab Geralt’s ale and takes a swig. ‘And don’t think I missed you giving the child your beer.’
‘I’m thirteen!’ Ciri says.
‘She’s thirteen.’ Geralt reiterates.
Jaskier huffs, exasperated. ‘Bathe. Both of you.’
Geralt rolls his eyes and finishes his beer as Jaskier sparks up another tune.
‘Come on,’ he mutters. ‘We need to brush down Roach.’
They eat dinner in the tavern while Jaskier plays away. Ciri’s lost count of how much coin he’s collected now. Geralt does a good job of pretending not to listen to him, but now and then he winces at the bard’s lyrics. Most of the songs, after all, are about Geralt.
Ciri’s about to excuse herself for a bath – the brine smell was fun for a while, but now she just feels sticky, when suddenly there’s a commotion on the other side of the tavern. Lute string twinge. Someone cries out, ‘Shut the fuck up, Witcher whore!’
Geralt rises to his feet immediately as Ciri cranes her neck to see the commotion. There’s a group of drunk men on the other side of the room, all crowding around Jaskier.
‘Now, now, fellas,’ he tries to placate them. ‘They’re just, you know, the greatest hits. I can play others if you have a request.’
One of the men sneers loudly. ‘Sounds to me like you know how to wield his silver sword.’
‘Go to your room,’ Geralt tells Ciri.
‘But-.’ Suddenly, Jaskier lets out a cry and Geralt is across the room in a flash. He catches the second fist flying towards Jaskier’s face in one hand as his other uppercuts. The drunk man heaves, tips forward, and vomits out onto the floor.
Another comes at him and Geralt catches him by the collar. Jaskier finds Ciri and takes her by the shoulders.
‘Come on, we should go upstairs.’
She doesn’t want to go upstairs. She wants to watch.
‘Fuck you,’ the drunken man wheezes as he fights against Geralt’s grip. ‘Get your filthy hands off me, Witcher.’
Ciri watches as Geralt tosses the drunken man out the door and into the mud and shit by the horse posts. The crowd cheer drunk off ale and the action. The barmaid straightens out the rest of the crew, hauling the vomiting man to his feet and out the door. A few of the others spit at Geralt as they file out of the tavern.
Jaskier cradles a sore as the barmaid gives them another round, on the house. There’s a foul mood prickling off Geralt; Ciri doesn’t bother asking him for a sip, but she needs to know–
‘Why did they spit at you?’
‘Because they don’t like me,’ Geralt replies reluctantly. He pauses, clarifies. ‘What I am.’
‘So they hurt Jaskier?’ Ciri asks and catches Jaskier’s wary glance at Geralt.
‘Because they were too shit scared to fight me.’
She turns to Jaskier now. ‘Why did they call you the-,’
‘Okay, a lot of questions for tonight,’ Jaskier cries suddenly with a nervous laugh. ‘Would you look at the time. It’s late. Time for bed.’
He swallows another mouthful of his beer before sliding the stein towards Geralt and corrals Ciri from her seat. She’s thirteen. She’s been travelling with them long enough to know all the bad words and what they mean–hell, half of all words Geralt speaks are the bad words. She knows what whore means. But she doesn’t know why they’d call Jaskier such a thing, especially when he can barely wield a dagger, let alone a silver sword of his own.
Jaskier sees Ciri to her room. His, of course, is next door. ‘Best to get some rest. We’re back on the road tomorrow if Yennefer doesn’t show up.’
‘What about Geralt?’
Jaskier shrugs. ‘He’s fine. Just drowning his feelings. Or whatever things Witchers have in place of them.’
Eight months on the road with Geralt, now six with Jaskier, and she knows that Witcher’s have feelings. Muted ones. Badly communicated ones. But feelings none-the-less. She hears Geralt comes up the stairs not thirty minutes later. His gate his staggered from the booze but she knows it’s him. The walls of the tavern are thin, even if they keep their voices down low.
What happened to not getting involved in the squabbles of men?
Seems I do. All of the time.
A pause.
I should have killed him.
Not in front of Ciri, Geralt. Ouch, it still stings. Be gentle.
Hm. I have a salve in my backpack. Take off your clothes.
Always the romantic.
Their hushed voices eventually die down like the flames in her fireplace and Ciri drifts to sleep.
vi
It’s a cold spring morning when Ciri wakes up before both Jaskier and Geralt. Even Roach is still asleep, lying on her side underneath a tree, her reigns looped around one of the branches. Ciri wonders if even if she wasn’t tethered, would she walk off?
Shuffling out of her bedroll, Ciri straightens out her clothing and casts an eye across the campsite. Geralt and Jaskier are sleeping against each other like they did that winter’s night. Geralt’s arm is draped over Jaskier’s hip. The blanket’s been tossed of Geralt during the night, revealing his bare chest. The early morning light catches his scars.
She leaves the campsite to relieve herself nearby. While early spring still kept some of the winter’s bite, it hadn’t been a particularly cold night.
And then the words of the drunken fool come back to her, as fresh as the day they were spoken, despite it being almost a month ago. She recalls the late-night arguments, the heady look in Jaskier’s eyes as he’d succumbed to Geralt’s tonic, the gentle words and touches she’s brushed off as concern, and the unspoken agreement that whenever they’re in a tavern, Ciri gets a room to herself and they share–despite since their few days in Oxenfurt, their purses have been heavy with coin.
When she gets back to camp, Geralt is awake. His armour his back on. His bedroll is packed away. The only evidence of Ciri having seen what she saw is the way Jaskier’s body is peculiarly curled on his bedroll, like how scales of a fish slip perfectly against one another.
Geralt nudges Jaskier with the toe of his boot. ‘Up.’
vii
Ciri quickly realises that Jaskier doesn’t like Yennefer. He bristles at her tone and Yennefer revels in his annoyance. She’s gorgeous and Jaskier’s jealous. Even Ciri can see this as Yennefer welcomes Geralt into her lavish Ovenfurt apartment.
‘Glad to have found you at home,’ Jaskier mutters. ‘For once.’
‘Been busy,’ Yennefer shrugs. ‘Drink?’
They don’t so much catch up as Yennefer tells Geralt exactly what she thinks, the moment she thinks it, whether he’ll like it or not. And he doesn’t like being told he’ll have to travel to Skellige. At least, Ciri thinks, she’ll get a straight answer out of Yennefer. She just as to get the witch alone.
It happens just after dinner. Geralt is outside brushing down Roach and Jaskier is letting himself turn into a prune in the bathtub upstairs. Ciri approaches Yennefer just as she finishes writing a letter and says, ‘May I ask you something?’
Yennefer raises an eyebrow. ‘You just did.’
She hesitates, unsure how to phrase it and worried about being rebuked. It’s not her business, of course. Still.
‘What are they to each other?’
Yennefer’s face cracks into a smile. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, child.’
viii
They run into trouble just outside of Brugge. A contract on a Griffin goes awry. It swoops down low and diverts its course at the last second. Geralt ducks and rolls. Jaskier doesn’t.
The tear in the flesh of his back is deep, but Geralt says it’s missed his spine. Still, it doesn’t placate Ciri’s worry as Jaskier screeches and cries in Geralt’s arms until he finally, finally uses Axii to knock him out and take him back to camp.
Jaskier bleeds all over Geralt’s bedroll as Geralt makes fast work of stitching up the wound. It doesn’t take long. Ciri helps by giving Geralt things as he needs them – a warm cloth, a hot needle, blood moss, salve to rub on the bloody stitches that now run jaggedly down three inches of Jaskier’s left shoulder. Eventually, he rolls Jaskier up into the sleeping bag and drinks a long guzzle of whatever liquid is in his flask. Then, he hands it to Ciri.
‘Here.’
Ciri takes the flask apprehensively. It mustn’t be potions because Geralt’s eyes are clear and amber and wild.
‘It’s a Redanian spirit. It’ll help you sleep.’
Anything to get the sound of Jaskier’s scream out of her head. Ciri takes a long gulp and it burns all the way down. She coughs as Geralt takes his flask back.
‘Will he be okay?’
‘He’ll be fine. The cut wasn’t as deep as I’d feared.’
‘He’s not going to die?’ she looks down at the bedroll. It’s stained with blood.
‘Not if I can help it.’
Jaskier groans a little between them and begins to stir. Geralt’s eyes light up as me makes a hand signal and then Jaskier is peaceful again.
‘Axii,’ he explains to her unspoken question. ‘Manipulates the mind. Calms down humans and beasts alike. In battle, it could make a Manticore fight alongside you. Like this,’ he motions to Jaskier. ‘You can use it to take away the pain.’
He takes another sip from his flask and looks to Ciri. ‘You good?’
Ciri nods apprehensively. ‘Yes.’
‘Get some rest. We need to get him to Brugge tomorrow.’
Ciri slides into her bedroll. They haven’t eaten tonight, but it’s no matter. She couldn’t stomach it anyway and the spirits feel warm and heavy in her belly.
It’s not a long way to Brugge and Jaskier rides on Roach, pressed against Geralt’s chest. When they arrive, Geralt manages to negotiate for two rooms at the local Inn. If the Innkeeper feels sorry for Jaskier, the bloodied and unconscious mess in Geralt’s arms, he certainly doesn’t reduce his price. Occasionally he stirs, but Geralt does something to silence him again, feeds him a little potion, casts magic on him.
‘It’s easier this way,’ he says to Ciri’s silent question.
Jaskier wakes up in the late afternoon, groaning. Ciri’s immediately by his side.
‘You’re awake.’
‘Am I?’ Jaskier mutters. ‘Ah, fuck, my shoulder.’
‘The Griffon snared you.’
Jaskier groans and adjusts against the hay mattress. ‘Yes, of course, that beast.’ His eyes search the room. ‘Geralt?’
‘With Roach downstairs,’ she says. ‘He told me to give you water if you woke up, do you want some?’
‘Not just yet, thank you, Ciri.’
Ciri sits by his bedside as Jaskier shifts and tries to get comfortable.
‘He was worried about you, you know,’ she says after a long while. ‘I could tell.’
Jaskier lets out a half-laugh. ‘Good, maybe he’ll treat me a little better,’ but there’s no real malice in it.
When Geralt appears at the doorway ten minutes later, Ciri feels it best that she leave them alone. Closing the door behind her, she hears Jakier’s loud moan as he’s shifted on the bed.
Fuck, Geralt, my head. What did you Axii me into brain trauma?
I don’t think that’s possible.
Ciri knows she should keep going. It’s wrong to listen in on them like this. Geralt probably knows. But she can’t make herself move.
You need to eat. You’ve been out almost a day. Steps come toward the door. Ciri panics. She's going to get caught listening in, she's going to-
Wait. Stay here a moment. I’m not hungry.
The boots stop. Turn. Walk back to the bed.
Sit down Jaskier again. There's a shuffle. Ciri presumes Geralt sits.
My one thought when that Griffin swooped was that I was going to die without telling you that I love you.
Your one thought when the Griffin swooped should have been to duck and roll.
I’m trying to do a thing here.
I can see that.
You’ve always been a man of few words, I get it. I don’t expect you to tell me it back, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to hear it.
Jaskier–
I almost died, Geralt. Let me tell you I love you.
You didn’t almost die.
I was slashed open by a Griffin. I thought it had torn my arm off!
At worst, it’s a deep scratch.
You’re ridiculous!
Then Ciri hears nothing and then a moan and perhaps Geralt is moving Jaskier again–
Oh for god’s sake, get in the bed, Geralt.
Ciri?
She’s downstairs. Probably playing Gwent. Leave her. Get in the bed.
The sound of boots hitting the floor, not in movement but to be discarded is followed by the sound of Geralt’s swords being thrown to the ground, then what Ciri presumes is his breastplate.
Suddenly a game of Gwent doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.