Chapter Text
Malek watched Geralt’s approach with all the indolent interest of a stray cat watching the affairs of humanity. The warmth and kindness that had brought two broken, lonely boys together had vanished long ago, buried beneath Kaer Morhen’s stone with the other failed initiates. Geralt wondered if death would have been a kinder fate for the man Malek had once been.
But all the mercy and fond memories in the world would not be able to save Malek from Geralt’s wrath if he had harmed Jaskier.
Geralt scanned the small, overgrown clearing outside the mill as he made his way closer for any sign of the bard. He firmly ignored the voices in his head that murmured that Jaskier was probably long dead. That he had probably fallen into the eternal stillness scared and alone and wondering why following in Geralt’s wake had cursed him so.
In spite of the violence brewing between the two Witchers, the woods continued to move around them as it always had. Birds fluttered away from the brush as Geralt stepped close enough to spook them and he could hear the thrum of a nearby beehive churning away. Vines had curled and crept their way into the stones and wood of the old mill until the building appeared to be half eaten by the inevitable glide of nature.
He scented the air carefully for any trace of Jaskier and ignored the amused curl of Malek’s lips at the subtle gesture. They were each too aware of each other’s habits to miss the tension riding Geralt’s shoulders or the way Malek’s hands remained close to his blades. Finally, Geralt forced the worry and anxiety for his-- the bard to the side so he could focus on the Witcher waiting near the entrance of the mill.
“Where is he?” His voice was little more than a growl after the days of frantic, fast-paced travel and he could feel the drag of exhaustion like the pull of gravity on his limbs.
“No hellos for an old friend?” Malek asked, “You always were more focused than me.”
Geralt growled in warning at the other man’s coquettishness. “This is between us. The bard is innocent.”
At this, some of Malek’s false humor faded. “Is anyone who travels with a Witcher truly innocent?”
It was madness in those dark eyes now. Madness and ruin.
The sight of it frightened Geralt more than any monster’s roar or shriek of some unseen beast. Fear was meant to be an emotion that the trainers of Kaer Morhen chiseled and chipped away from the souls of each of their students with the aid of backbreaking training and a vicious dedication to sharing the truth of what each nightmare they would face was capable of. There was once a time when Geralt would have sworn he no longer knew the icy drag of fear’s nails down his spine. A time when he would have laughed at the very idea of having to clench his hand tighter around his blade to hide the tremor in his limbs.
But that was before Jaskier. Before he knew the pulse of adrenaline that came when the bard wandered uncomfortably close to the edge of sense and sanity in search of fame and inspiration. He found himself following in the man’s wake like a shadow, irate at the realization that he cared more for Jaskier’s mortality than Jaskier. At the time, he’d considered it a burden, a needless extra weight complicating his simple life.
Now he would kill for the chance to hear Jaskier’s muttered rhymes and the crashing of his feet through the grass as he trailed in Geralt’s wake.
“Please,” Geralt rasped, unable to summon up his usual stoicism, “he is a good man. Better than you or I could ever be. He doesn’t deserve to be harmed for your hatred of me. You can’t do this, Mal--”
“ Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do! ” Malek’s voice raised to a roar that sent the trees around them into silence. The pretense of being amused and unaffected died a quick death as Malek pulled his sword free and pointed it at Geralt. “You lost your right to pretend to be a friend of mine when you let them carve their magic into my bones so I could become another one of Kaer Morhen’s dogs.”
“You chose to--”
“There was no choice! They stole us from our families and pretended to care about us until it no longer suited them! They tricked us, don’t you see, Geralt?” Malek asked, face shifting from fury to cajoling in an uncomfortable heartbeat. “They made us think that we would be heroes to humanity, but all we are is another kind of monster.”
“Witchers protect humanity. We do not harm them,” Geralt said, trying to keep his voice calm as he fought the urge to reach for his weapon.
Malek tossed his head back and laughed, the sword in his hand still pointing toward Geralt’s throat. “Is that so, Butcher of Blaviken? Do the humans welcome you into their cities with open arms now that they understand the violence you are capable of?”
Geralt stayed silent, hating the burn of truth in those words.
All his life he’d tried to do what he saw as right. When given the choice between two evils, he chose neither--content to spend his life remaining on the outskirts of society if it meant that he could walk the path he believed to be true. Maybe there was some piece of the abandoned child he’d been who’d hoped that would be enough to earn him a welcome next to a warm hearth occasionally. How long ago had he begun to realize that that dream would never come true?
Malek prowled forward, only a few feet out of reach of Geralt’s sword if he chose to attack. His voice was flat for all the wounds it left in its wake. “They will never love you, Geralt, because nothing you ever do will ever erase the fact that you are a monster.”
Geralt’s fingers twitched around his blade as he gritted his teeth. “Is that why you’ve killed so many of us, Malek?”
“They deserved to die. We all do.”
He shook his head, staring into Malek’s dark eyes with a dull sort of sadness. “They were good men. Men who tried to make the world safer for those who cannot protect themselves.”
The glint of silver in the sunlight was the only warning Geralt got before Malek was slicing through the air, aiming for the soft skin of his belly. He jumped back out of reach, but only barely managed to pull his sword free in time to block the back hand cut. Each attack was delivered with icy precision, the effect of years of practice and hunting making themselves evident in both men. The joyous meeting of blades from their childhood was quickly erased by the bitter struggle to carve out their vengeance through the other’s flesh.
Geralt twisted his sword in a complicated move that Malek parried just as easily. Their hilts locked together, their muscles straining to push the other one into a more vulnerable position.
“They were monsters ,” Malek hissed. “The world is a better place without their shadows darkening the earth.” Metal shrieked as they shifted in another rapid parry and cut. “Imagine how they will cheer when I mount the White Wolf’s head in the city center.”
Geralt let his left hand fall to his belt to reach for the dagger he’d taken to carrying there since his battle with Renfri, but froze mid-motion when a familiar voice called out over the noise of their battle.
“ Geralt !”
Jerking in shock and panic at the fear in Jaskier’s voice, Geralt shoved Malek away to put distance between them and scanned the field for the bard. His name fell from his lips almost frantically, “Jaskier! Where are you?”
Malek’s malevolent chuckle was ignored when a quick movement brought Geralt’s eyes to the familiar sight of Jaskier outlined against the darkness of the interior of the mill.
The bard’s fine scarlet tunic was ripped in a jagged line across his chest that revealed flashes of paler skin beneath and highlighted the dark bruises blooming on his face. He stood balanced precariously on a stool that wobbled dangerously with each jerk of his body. Geralt felt his mouth go dry with panic when he traced the line of rope circling the man’s thin neck that was tied in a makeshift noose to the crossbeam. Jaskier’s hands were pinned behind his back and Geralt could see the remains of a gag spat on the ground at his feet. All of the bard’s attention was divided between staring plaintively at the Witcher and trying to keep himself from falling forward and bringing the noose tighter around his neck.
Jaskier’s blue eyes went to Geralt’s with a kind of relief that the Witcher had no right to feel so warmed by. A dizzying mixture of emotions flooded through his mind at the sight of the other man, still alive and mostly unhurt despite being captive for so long. All he could think about was ripping that rope away from Jaskier and pulling the man into his arms where he could be safe.
Geralt started towards him instinctively, but hesitated when Jaskier’s gaze flicked behind him with a look of horror. “Geralt! Watch out!”
He turned, but it was too slow. Silver cut like white fire along his side and into his belly. He was saved from spilling his guts onto the ground only by the leather armor he still wore.
Geralt couldn’t help but think of Vesemir’s first rule for Witchers:
Silver for monsters, steel for humans.
Breathing through the pain, Geralt managed to shove Malek back and pressed his advantage in a blazing rush of attacks. There was none of the testing, teasing maneuvers of their first encounter. Now, all Geralt could think about were the dark circles marring the pale skin of Jaskier’s face and the fear that seemed permanently burned into his eyes. The pain of his wounds were nothing against the pain of realizing that every bit of hurt the bard had felt was his fault.
They moved in a blur of power and speed that emphasized the distinct difficulty of facing someone with the same enhancements that sped Geralt’s blade. It was nothing like the attack of a beast. Their movements were always primal, instinctive against the urge to cause pain and taste the blood pulsing through the body beneath a layer of skin.
Fighting the mad Witcher was something else entirely.
Malek knew all of the attacks and blocks of Vesemir’s tutelage and was driven by a vicious need to cause pain before the fight would end. Geralt was forced to rely on the dirty tricks he’d picked up from his years on the road to bridge the gap caused by his exhaustion and the drain of his injury.
He caught a lucky break when Malek stumbled against a hidden root and pressed his advantage ruthlessly. There was no place for mercy when Jaskier’s life was on the line.
Geralt twisted his blade roughly and felt the satisfying release when Malek’s blade was ripped free and fell to the earth a few feet away. He held his steel sword against Malek’s heaving neck with grim satisfaction. “Surrender.”
Malek eyed him with a complicated mixture of pride and fury. “You’ve gotten better, Geralt.”
“Stand down or I will kill you,” Geralt snapped.
“Still so predictable though,” the other Witcher sighed, his eyes sly and cruel in a way that settled oddly against handsome features. “You’ve never been good at protecting your weak spots.”
The sword pressed more firmly against Malek’s neck. “Last chance.”
Malek bared his teeth in a smile and threw his hand out in the direction of the mill and Jaskier. Geralt caught the gesture with a sort of dazed panic--too slow to do anything but watch the streak of Witcher magic slam into Jaskier and knock him off the stool so the noose went taut around his neck.
“ Jaskier !” he roared, forgetting Malek in the wake of his horrified terror.
The other Witcher twisted away from the blade at his neck and snatched up his sword from the ground and lunged for Geralt before he could do more than step towards Jaskier’s spasming body. The sting of the knife against his arm was almost a relief against the pain in his soul.
He had failed.
Jaskier felt the stool shudder beneath his feet like it was happening to someone else entirely. All of his focus remained fixed on the blur of silver hair and flashing golden eyes as the two Witchers met in a clash of steel and silver. Their movements were dizzyingly quick and a brutal reminder of just how much of their humanity had been erased by their abilities.
His wrists tugged uselessly against the rough hemp rope that kept him pinned and helpless in Malek’s trap. He could feel the rope around his neck stretched just tight enough to make breathing slightly painful and movement terrifying. Even so, he could never watch Geralt risk his life so recklessly to save him without wanting to rip himself free and keep Malek far away from his Witcher.
Just the sight of Geralt marching into the clearing had been enough to send a complicated wave of excitementfearwantanxiety streaking through his veins. He’d redoubled his efforts to spit out the wad of dirty fabric Malek had unceremoniously shoved into his mouth in time to shout a warning that nearly cost Geralt his life.
The relief at finally seeing Geralt again was quickly replaced by mindless panic when he felt Malek’s magic slam into him and knock him free from the stool.
Instantly, his world became narrowed to the pull of gravity at his neck and the burn of oxygen incapable of reaching his aching lungs. He jerked, toes scrabbling in his boots for some kind of purchase on the dusty earth. His muscles bulged with the effort of trying and failing to break through his bonds and sapped his failing strength like water draining from a pool.
It made him think of the agony of the djinn and Geralt’s wish in a sick sort of familiarity. Helplessness has always tangled at his feet like the roots of the vines choking the stones around him, inescapable, unending.
Now it will be his undoing.
Somewhere distantly, he could hear Geralt’s voice shouting his name, but it’s meaningless against the agony of tasting air with his mouth but being unable to fill his lungs. He knew his training would allow him to survive longer without his breath, but now that skill feels like a cruel new form of torture. That he’ll be trapped here forever in the endless fire licking through his veins and blacking out his vision.
The ring of steel and silver continued to rage and chase away whatever peace would come with his descent into silence. He could almost hear the tense violence that Geralt released each time he was truly enraged the thought made him smile, there was no way Malek would survive Geralt now
As though in punctuation to the thought, there was a grunt of pain and shock from an unknown voice. The slick slide of metal through flesh worked well against the backdrop of Jaskier’s dimming vision.
The excitement and faith he’d felt at the sight of his Witcher was like a child’s trust in a toy’s ability to chase away the monsters that lurked in the shadows. His mortality was the noose around his neck, tightening inevitably no matter how many times Geralt was forced to save him. It was always meant to end this way--with Jaskier’s vision slowly dimming and Geralt continuing forward against his enemies’ blades.
A bard’s mortality perfectly balanced against a Witcher’s endless war against those who sought to exploit it.
It was good, at least, he thought that he had this moment with Geralt before he died. He could imagine that the concern on his rugged features hinted at some deeper emotion that could heal the gaping wound in Jaskier’s heart that the Witcher had left behind. He let himself imagine with the last of his breath that Geralt would mourn his passing on occasion and let go of some of the hurt anger that lingered in his heart. He could forgive him. He had never been good at holding a grudge against Geralt of Rivia.
Jaskier smiled faintly with the last of his strength, amused even now at the way his heart still clung to the romance of their ruined relationship. It balanced out the practical part of him that knew Geralt would always survive without him--he was the only one unable to live on his own.
Yes, it was better to let it end this way before he was forced to watch Geralt walk away again.
With that in mind, Jaskier let his eyes closed and surrendered to the darkness pulling his spirit into the earth….
Then jerked awake with a ragged gasp when air filled his lungs and the ropes at his neck and wrists were roughly cut away.
Hands pet over his neck and the raw skin of his arms, trying to massage blood into pale limbs while Jaskier coughed and gasped against the agony of being reintroduced to oxygen. His head throbbed with every beat of his heart, nearing drowning out the achingly familiar voice above him.
“--gods, I thought you were...Come on, Jaskier, breathe . Damnit, you idiotic bard, you’ve got to breathe.”
Only Geralt could manage to insult him while ordering him to survive, Jaskier thought with a hint of a smile. Even that seemed to take a tremendous amount of effort and he let his head loll back against the packed earth of the mill’s floor. He focused on doing as he was told for once in his life, content to listen to Geralt babbling--babbling!--while his lungs remembered how to process oxygen.
Despite his rough words, Geralt’s hands were gentle as they stroked over Jaskier’s body in search of any hidden injuries. Their warmth helped chase away the worst of the chill from his most recent brush with death and he was selfish enough to lean into the touch before Geralt realized he was recovering. Hands roughened by years of swordplay cupped his cheek briefly and it was the familiar drag of sticky liquid that finally caused Jaskier to blink his eyes open against the afternoon sunlight.
Geralt was haloed against the glow of the sun like the bloodied warrior angels of the priests’ tales. His brow was furrowed in worry that eased only slightly when Jaskier blinked again and focused on him.
“Jaskier?”
The bard licked his lips and nodded, his voice raspy as if he’d spent too many nights singing in smoky rooms. “It would seem the latest attempt to rid the earth of my beautiful voice has failed.”
Geralt made a rough noise and, before Jaskier could do more than gape in surprise, curled his arm around the bard’s shoulders so he could yank him upright and kiss him.
It was thanks to years of training under the finest tutors available and the greatest wordsmiths of the era that Jaskier possessed the rapier wit and spectacular skill to formulate the perfect reaction to such an unexpected action.
It went something like:
“Hnnng...wha?”
Geralt’s mouth twitched into one of those half-smiles that sank into Jaskier’s blood like a fine wine. This time when he lowered his mouth to Jaskier’s it was slow, a teasing flirtation that highlighted just how helpless the bard was to his charm. He gave him plenty of time to resist, to argue, to reject his advances, but--as always--Jaskier was helpless as the tide against the pull of Geralt’s moon.
When they pulled away, Jaskier could feel a flush warming his cheeks to match the color darkening the Witcher’s. They stared at each other for a long moment before Jaskier licked his lips, chasing the taste of fire and magic and something uniquely Geralt . He didn’t miss the way golden eyes dropped to follow the movement. Or the way he was now basically sitting in the Witcher’s lap.
“Oh shit,” he breathed, “I’ve died, haven’t I? That damned psychotic bastard actually killed me.”
Geralt growled and leaned forward to rest his face where Jaskier’s neck met his shoulder, breathing deeply. He could feel the way the bigger man was trembling slightly from the effort to remain upright after the battle. Jaskier shivered helplessly.
“You’re still alive,” the Witcher said, “though there was a moment where I began to doubt.”
Jaskier stared at the silver hair at the edge of his vision in astonishment, his hands tentatively reaching to stroke his fingers through it then again when the gesture was met with an approving rumble. Who knew you could tame a Witcher just as you would a stray cat?
He frowned slightly. “Then...that means you came to save me…but” Geralt stiffened slightly at the surprise in his voice, but he continued doggedly. Never let it be said that Jaskier was afraid of hearing the truth, “-but you left. You left me.”
And dammit, he hated himself for the way his voice trembled at the words.
Geralt’s stubbled jaw scraped against the delicate skin of his neck like he was resisting the urge to scent him as he tilted to stare at Jaskier head on. Shame colored his expression in a way Jaskier had never witnessed and he sighed, breath hot.
“I...I have no excuse for what I did,” he began, sounding as if each word had to be ripped free from some deep mooring, “I--I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Jaskier’s voice was soft despite the anxiety twisting in his gut. This moment of unexpected fragility from the Witcher felt as though it would break as easily as the surface of the water against the weight of his words.
“You. You’re just so--” Geralt leaned back and raked his fingers through his hair in frustration before he began again, “I was happy on my own. Not needing anyone and not allowing anyone to need me. I had Roach and I had my mission and that was all I needed. And then you showed up and--and you destroyed all the peace I had achieved.”
Jaskier flinched, curling away until Geralt’s hand curled around his arm in a gentle restraint.
“You showed me how much more there could be. That I could do more than just kill and I began to think about what would happen if I let you change me.”
There was a long moment of silence while Geralt tried to sort through his emotions.
“So why did you leave?” Jaskier asked.
“Because if I found out what it was like to have you, to hold you like you were mine, and then I lost you….I couldn’t survive it.” Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but Geralt shook his head. “I knew my world could never be safe enough for you. Eventually I would be too slow or too late to come for you and you would face the punishment for my own mistakes. And I can’t allow that to happen.”
Blinking back tears--because he knew what would come next--Jaskier nodded slowly and turned his head away to try to hide his emotions. “Right...so you’re only here to send me on my way again.”
Geralt’s hands tightened around Jaskier in a reflexive pull that did nothing to erase the ache in his heart. A calloused finger curled under his chin and tilted his head up until he was forced to stare into bright golden eyes.
“I should tell you that the kiss meant nothing. That it was a fleeting affection that could never be allowed to continue--” Jaskier’s eyes closed and he felt the slow slide of a tear roll down his cheek, “--but I can’t.”
Eyes flying open in surprise, he stared at the Witcher with near painful desperation.
Geralt smiled softly and used his thumb to brush away the tear. He curled around Jaskier like he could shield the smaller man from the world with his body alone.
“Walking away from you once nearly killed me--I won’t do it again.”
Every bard worth his salt knew the taste of heartbreak, but Jaskier found himself forgetting as Geralt’s head lowered to his to seal his promise with a kiss.
The End.
Epilogue:
“Let me get my lute,” he called to Geralt before turning back toward the mill. Jaskier tried not to think about the body beginning to cool and grow stiff in the clearing or the way his neck was aching from the noose.
They were free now. He had survived a Witcher’s madness, somehow.
Geralt had come back for him.
The thought and the memory of the kisses pressed into his skin like they could chase away the pain of the last few days gave him the strength he needed to return to the stone room where he’d been kept waiting for Geralt. It felt oddly empty without Malek’s terrifying pacing and muttered ramblings about monsters, real and imagined. The part of him that felt sympathy for the man was buried for now beneath the exhaustion of days of fear and pain.
His lute was leaning against the simple pack he carried on his journeys as though Malek hadn’t bothered to search through them. The instrument was a welcome weight in his hands and he gave it a fond pat before slipping the strap across his shoulders. His pack came next and he turned slowly in the space for anything useful.
Malek’s meager belongings were spread across a sturdy stone bench across one wall and Jaskier’s curiosity was enough that he drifted closer to inspect them more closely. He flicked open a small leather bag and winced at the sight of several Witcher medallions lying in a bloody mess within. Despite his distaste, he pulled the bag free and added it to his pack. Geralt and Vesemir would probably appreciate the chance to lay what was left of their brethren to rest.
His eyes fell on a simple piece of parchment tucked under a sharp looking dagger and whetstone and he reached out to tug it free.
“Jaskier,” Geralt called from the entrance, his voice a complicated mixture of the emotions Witchers weren’t supposed to possess.
“Ah, just a moment!”
Jaskier cursed under his breath when he knocked over the knife and had to scramble to catch it before it hit the ground. The hilt was uncomfortably familiar in his palm even after all this time and he weighed it carefully for a beat to decide if it was worth bringing with him. Footsteps padding closer--Geralt was either more tired than he’d revealed or was being polite and making noise to warn Jaskier’s human senses of his approach--made him slide it onto his belt before he could second-guess the choice.
The Witcher appeared in the doorway, his hand pressed against his side where blood still trickled from his wound. “We should leave before nightfall. There is a village nearby where we can get a room and some food if we hurry.”
Jaskier smiled and nodded, his body seemingly helpless against the delight at the thought of traveling with Geralt again. At Geralt actually choosing to stay with him.
“I knew staying indoors was beginning to grow on you,” he crowed, ignoring Geralt’s annoyed grunt. “If I could just convince you to perhaps invest in some nice silks or sturdy leather--”
“Hmm.”
Despite his attempts at remaining stern in the wake of Jaskier’s cheerful ramblings, the bard caught sight of the smile twitching at his lips and felt a curl of warmth bloom in his chest. Geralt moved through the door ahead of him--no doubt returning to wherever Roach was tied--but Jaskier hesitated at the entrance to look at the parchment still clutched in his hand.
The words--scrawled in a painfully familiar script--tasted like devastation and terror despite their conciseness. He felt the world pull away in a roar of blood that made his hands tremble in a way none of Malek’s threats had ever managed.
I’ll be there soon.
--Kiel
“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice was soft with worry as the Witcher turned back to find the bard standing frozen in place.
Jaskier licked his lips and swallowed through the ash in his mouth. It took two tries to find his voice. “Yes, I--I, uh, I’m coming.”
His fingers closed around the parchment in a painful clench that left it crumpled and scarred in his fist. When Geralt turned back to continue along the path, Jaskier let the message fall to the earth and tried not to think about what the future would bring.
He failed.