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“Your arrogance, Geralt. I will disabuse you of your arrogance.”
“I’m trembling with impatience.”
The stone floor underneath him was too hard and unforgiving on his broken bones, and the cold seeping into them was not helping. He was covered in something warm and sticky and so red – no, so hot it was almost burning – and only after an embarrassingly long moment Geralt realized what it was. His own blood.
“I could smash your brain out through your ears…”
Memories of the fight were clashing together in his mind, making everything hurt even more. He could hear someone breathing with difficulty, almost keening, desperate and afraid – and another long moment passed before Geralt discovered that that sound was him as well.
“…but this was supposed to be a lesson. You were mistaken, witcher. You mistook the stars reflected in a pond at night for the sky. Oh, are you vomiting? Good. Concussion. Bleeding from the nose? Excellent. Well, I shall see you later. One day. Perhaps.”
“G-Geralt…”
A pair of warm hands. Good, because he felt so cold. Was it because of the floor? Or because of those broken, practically shattered bones in his leg and arm? Fuck. It was so hard to gather thoughts right now; they kept escaping between his shaky fingers, painful, slippery and— and— resembling slugs. Slugs that were too slow and almost viscous for him to pick up and see for what they were.
“Yes, yes, I’m going to take your groans and moans for expressions of endless gratitude for finding you. You can’t die. You can’t die, you horse’s arse, so just hang in there, alright? You need to- Shit, Geralt. Can you get up? No, of course you can’t get up, your leg is- is so very wrong. Oh g-gods. Help! Anyone here?! HELP, I’M BEGGING YOU!”
Stop, he wanted to say. Stop, he’ll come back, shut up, Jaskier. Why are you here? Why didn’t you run away? But no words came out of his throat. All he felt was a mouthful of heavy fluid, of darkness that was weighing him down, weighing his tongue down. Anything he wanted to say was being drowned in the darkness immediately, swallowing him whole.
It engulfed him fully the moment Jaskier heaved him up with a choked groan.
*-*
Brokilon looked dark. It looked dark when Jaskier first saw it after Tissaia – whom he’d found by some godsgiven miracle – had thrown them through her portal, helping them escape from Thanedd, and it continued to look dark now.
From what Jaskier had heard of it, it was supposed to be this wonderful, magical forest, yes? Great ballad material, fantastic— everything, basically, except for this one little thing he also heard. Dryads. They had stopped giving that first warning shot. Now, if a human set his foot too close, they were also making their last step, no matter if they were a young, lost girl or an old man in search of some firewood.
And now Jaskier was here, shirt all but soaked in blood, and with Geralt’s heavy, unconscious body half held up by him, half dragged across the frozen ground. Geralt was just – so – damn – heavy – and it didn’t help that Jaskier wasn’t even sure if the man was still breathing. He remembered frantically patting around Geralt’s chest to feel his heart beating – and almost crying in fucking relief when he felt that slow thump under his hands. Four long seconds of nothing, and then another thump. He also remembered – wait, no, no, he was still feeling it now – that terrible sickness and nausea that rose all the way up to his throat when he— when he—
Jaskier risked a look at the broken body he was dragging towards the forest. Geralt’s leg was unnaturally bent in all the wrong places and seemed downright shorter than the other. His arm wasn’t better, it was— Fuck, Jaskier could see the white of the bone sticking out. Another dry swallow before he would vomit all over himself and Geralt. Geralt… who was bleeding from his mouth, ears and his nose. Geralt who had told him to go, to run, to leave him because he had to get to Ciri, and yet he hadn’t. Geralt who was his best friend in the whole wide world, and yet suddenly this world seemed to become very, very small. Shrunk to that slow, slow thump of Geralt’s heart, beating four times slower than normal and making him also so much more vulnerable to the cold. And how fucking cold it was now—
“H-Hey, uh,” Jaskier started, licking his unbelievably dry lips. He was terrified, and not only for Geralt. Geralt was what kept him going, but it didn’t mean that Jaskier wasn’t almost paralyzed with fear of getting an arrow straight through his heart and then dropping down and dying on top of the witcher. Dying with the witcher. Fuck, he was supposed to save him, and yet both of them would end up as nothing but rotting corpses. “Hey- ha, a b-blade and voice shining bright against— the— the cold, of tales and of legends— and stories yet untold— No, ah, dammit, this is all wrong, this- a hero gets shot and then a whole pack of crows comes down to peck out his eyes and swallow them, and wait, wait, Geralt, come on, I want some input here, is a big group of crows called a pack? I mean, no, no, by all means, stay silent, you stupid witcher, you never praise my songs enough, do you? Yeah, okay, shut up then, I’ll just go on like I always do, I don’t need you.”
Jaskier was rambling and he knew that he was rambling, but his voice was also the only thing allowing him to stay sane right now. The forest was silent and dark – not even a squirrel in sight, and that made Jaskier even more scared than before. “Alright! Going on - wolves asleep amidst the trees, bats all swaying in the breeze, but one soul lies anxious, wide awake – you’re a terrible listener, Geralt. I hate you. Hear that, witcher? Hear— oh gods, did you hear that?!”
There was a very deliberate crack of a branch being broken under someone’s foot and suddenly trees had fucking eyes.
Jaskier froze where he was standing, almost dropping Geralt on the ground. Dryads. Dryads. They were surrounded, and –
“GWYNBLEIDD!” If Geralt were conscious, he’d be already wincing at the sheer volume of Jaskier’s trained, terrified, and yet hurried voice. “I’m here with Gwynbleidd! The White Wolf! You know him, right? Of course you know him. We need help! We need help, please!”
One of the trees moved, and a tall, lithe dryad stepped forward. She was holding a bow in her hands, but Jaskier thanked all the gods (those he knew and those he didn’t, just to be safe) for the fact that the arrow was pointed at the forest floor.
“Gwynbleidd?” she asked with clear distrust, and yet— with something almost like longing as she watched Jaskier. “Keep singing.”
“Keep— Of all the times for someone to want me to keep singing—” Jaskier would’ve thrown his hands up in sheer frustration if he could. “I’ll keep singing all you want! Just later, please, Geralt here needs help—“
“Gwynbleidd,” the dryad repeated. It was clear that she was struggling with Common, much more used to their own Elder dialect. “Help?”
“Gwynbleidd, yeah. Vatt'ghern?” Jaskier tried, trying to remember words from Elder. “Witcher. Geralt of Rivia. And, uh. Sorry. Ceádmil, Wedd Brokiloéne! Sorry for not saying it earlier.”
“Aecáemm.”
The dryad turned around, starting to walk without even looking back at them. Jaskier cursed under his breath, struggling to follow her. “Te beag, bloed bleidd,” he muttered quietly, for some reason huffing at Geralt, frustrated with how hard it was to drag his unconscious form. Maybe it was all the adrenaline of not being killed by the dryad, maybe it was because every movement was jostling Geralt’s broken bones, or maybe he just wanted to complain about stupid wolf pups. Whatever it was, it made the dryad laugh loudly, and Jaskier smiled, too.
For the first time he thought that maybe everything would be alright.
*-*
Nothing was alright.
Despite Geralt being known among the dryads, they didn’t allow the pair to go to the very heart of their secret almost-city, to Duen Canell. Instead, they simply got to a clearing and were told to wait there while one dryad disappeared quickly in-between trees, going to fetch them the Waters. The safer kind, at least, because apparently – like they had told Jaskier in bad Common – Geralt had drunk from their sacred cup… almost on a dare, and immediately lost his consciousness, going into a seizure attack.
Somehow, Jaskier wasn’t surprised.
“Ess've vort shaente aen Ettariel? Shaente a'vean vort?” One of the dryads that stayed with them spoke up. Jaskier looked up at her and winced, almost apologetic.
“No,” he admitted, trying to think hard of the right words in their dialect of Elder Speech. Geralt had told him once that if one wanted to know if they offended a dryad, they should check for a knife in their stomach. Jaskier very, very much didn’t want to check for any sharp objects in his abdomen. “I’m sorry, I don’t know that song. But I’ll sing for you later. I— I’m just worried. About my friend. Will he be alright?”
The dryad merely shrugged and retracted into the darkness. If not for her big, bright eyes, Jaskier wouldn’t even be able to notice her, not with her clothes and green paint covering her body. The bard let out a long sigh before he finally dared to look down – at a still unconscious and bloody Geralt – and reach out to touch his cheek.
Fuck. His hand was shaking.
Geralt looked so pale, and yet so… unreal. They couldn’t start a fire here, dryads would’ve killed them, so Jaskier was left with the moon as the only source of barely-there light. And fuck, if Geralt didn’t look ethereal in the moonlight. Ethereal and practically dead. If it weren’t for Geralt’s chest rising up and down, Jaskier could’ve sworn that he… he…
No. He couldn’t think like that. He was ever an optimist, wasn’t he? So yeah, the dryad – what was her name, Braenn? – would return to them fast enough, yes? With the Waters. The healing ones. And then Geralt would drink them, and wake up, and yell at Jaskier for not running away in the first place, and then complain about him singing earlier, and—
“Just wake up,” Jaskier muttered, touching Geralt’s face and smearing the blood everywhere. “Just wake up, alright? You big oaf. You’re my best friend, alright? My very best friend in the whole wide world. I can’t just… go on without you. That’s not the deal here. I didn’t sign up for you dying before me and leaving me alone here to— to— oh, you horse’s arse, I—” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut when he felt a big lump in his throat and some wetness travelling down his cheeks. There was something deeper there, something he’d been scared of admitting to himself before. Geralt was his best friend, but it wasn’t why he was so afraid of losing him. “I love you, alright?” he pressed out between gritted teeth and choked up sobs that were getting stronger and louder. “You’re incredibly stupid and stubborn, and self-sacrificial, and I know how worried about Ciri you are right now, but listen to me: you’re going to get her back, and I will help you. I won’t leave you, Geralt, because I fucking love you.”
“Great argument. Pure poetry, even. H-Hard to rival you at that.”
Jaskier startled so hard that Geralt’s head dropped harshly on the ground from where it was pillowed on the bard’s lap.
“You—!” he practically wheezed, words trapped in his throat. Jaskier was pretty sure he looked like a gaping fish in that very moment, his mouth opening and closing uselessly without any other sound. There was some rustling in the bushes behind him, and Braenn – Bran? – returned carrying carefully a bowl full of something shimmering and magical. She was clearly aware of her every step, wary of spilling even one drop.
“Yeah, me,” Geralt managed to answer with a pained grimace. His golden eyes were glowing in the darkness, reflecting the moon’s light, and Jaskier decided to focus on it – and on suffering twisting his witcher’s features – because in any other case he’d have slapped the man.
Mostly to let out some tension, but also because Geralt had been listening in! Or hadn’t. Hard to say, really. Jaskier was going to give him some benefit of the doubt there, because in any other case he would have to run away to hide in sheer mortification.
“Gwynbleidd,” the dryad crouched next to them and – with surprising tenderness that made Jaskier squint at her, shocked – moved Geralt’s head up. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”
She was surprisingly good at Common and that made Jaskier squint even harder. No one had been talking in Common to him.
“M-Mona?” Geralt blinked at her too, then glanced down – at the bone sticking out of his arm, at his weirdly bent leg at the knee – and swallowed with difficulty. “Mona, g-good to see—”
“Braenn,” the dryad corrected him sharply. “My name is Braenn, Gwynbleidd, and you’d do better if you shut up and drink. I don’t think human limbs should look like yours.”
“Because they shouldn’t,” Jaskier added helpfully, earning himself a downright murderous look from the dryad. And Geralt, who somehow found enough strength to look exasperated. “Alright, fine, gods, I won’t speak anymore! Talk about not being appreciated here.”
Humor always helped him deal with things he most definitely didn’t want to deal with.
“N-not possible,” the witcher coughed. Jaskier squinted at him – was that a weak smile tugging on the corners of Geralt’s mouth? Also not possible. “You never keep y-your trap sh-shut.”
“Oh? Oh! Oh, no, I mean, fine, let me fucking list you all the times I shut up in my life—“
“Zero.”
Apparently Geralt’s dry humor still existed despite the pain. Jaskier glared at him while Braenn forced him to sip the Waters slowly. The witcher choked a few times, but still swallowed enough of the liquid, even though some of it dripped down his chin.
What happened next was easily considered one of the worst possible hours in Jaskier’s life. Braenn stuck a leather belt between Geralt’s teeth, squeezed his hand in a fleeting moment of sympathy, then moved to set the bones of his arm and leg. Jaskier was told to hold the witcher down for that, and— seriously? Him? Hold down a man who, yeah, sure, was as tall as him, but still weighed about twice as much?! And was a witcher?!
And listen to screams bound to shatter his heart?
Fortunately - Jaskier found out - Geralt wasn’t really a screamer.
What he was instead, was much, much worse.
Geralt arched against the ground, golden eyes wide and unblinking, forehead glistening with droplets of sweat running down his temples. If it was even possible, he looked paler than normal, breathing with difficulty and letting out small, choked out noises of pain between each sharp wheeze while Jaskier sat down on his hips and pressed down on his shoulders, not letting him trash underneath him.
“I’m sorry,” the bard whispered, holding back tears, and yet not allowing any of them drop. Seeing Geralt in pain like that was terrible and he hoped to never, ever, see his friend, his— doesn’t matter whom, Geralt hadn’t heard that, had he? – in pain again. “I’m so sorry, it’ll be alright. I promise, I’m sorry.”
When Geralt lost his consciousness again, it felt like a blessing.
*-*
I can’t stay here. I have to go and find water. If I don’t find water I’ll die.
Who said that? He wasn’t sure. And then he became sure.
Ciri – his Ciri, his daughter – was stumbling through sand under terrible, merciless sun. Geralt curled in on himself when he felt the gut-wrenching pain in her belly and the dry, nagging, burning sensation in her throat.
“Ciri,” he croaked out. “Yennefer.”
There were hands touching him, soothing him, but not soothing Ciri. He needed them to soothe Ciri.
“Shh, Geralt.” Who was that? The voice was familiar, like a balm put on an itching wound. Jaskier? “Shh, you’re dreaming. You must rest.”
But how could he rest now when he had to find Ciri? He saw her crawling under a large boulder with no strength left to cry. He knew – he knew that under his skin – that she’d been walking like that for hours, lost, thirsty, hungry, hopeless, and just arrived at the same place she’d started her journey in. She needed him. His daughter needed him, and like fuck he was going to leave her alone. She was his to protect, to keep safe, to – to love. His cub. His Destiny. His Something More.
When Ciri screamed his name, he screamed hers.
*-*
Geralt shot up to a sitting position, eyes wide and almost crazed as he screamed Ciri’s name, causing Jaskier to fall off of him, since the bard had been lying with his head on the witcher’s chest, shushing him from time to time and trying to keep asleep.
“It’s fine!” he squawked at well, hands immediately flying to Geralt’s shoulder to try and push him back down. “Geralt, we’ll find her. Alright? We will find her.”
Geralt didn’t even manage to answer him, groaning in pain and clutching at his arm that apparently had been put in a makeshift sling by Braenn. And it was really – makeshift. The dryad didn’t know what to do with him, she wasn’t a healer, and certainly hadn’t ever dealt with injuries like that. Both his arm and leg were held in place by splints and put in traction, swathed in a thick layer of a healing climbing plant and turfs of knitbone. Geralt grimaced, turning away from Jaskier in a poor attempt to hide in how much agony he was. His leg hurt like fuck, and he didn’t even dare to move it. He only nodded to show that he heard the bard.
“We will find her,” Jaskier repeated, determined. He sat up, then reached to take Geralt’s free hand and squeeze. He knew that sometimes the touch was the best comfort one could offer. “And you won’t be alone in this. I’m going with you, you know that, right? When your arm and leg are fine again, we’ll get new horses and we’ll go on a search for the princess.”
“She’s no princess,” Geralt said slowly, breathing through the pain, but he still gave Jaskier a look that – that wasn’t completely unreadable. There was something like gratitude there. “She’s a witcher.”
“Yeah, alright, I’m trying to be all supportive here, and you, mister grumpy pants, are already nitpicking. Thank you. Yes, Geralt, thank you so much—”
“No,” Geralt interrupted him suddenly. He let go of his arm carefully and put his hand on top of Jaskier, looking him in the eyes with intent, all focused. “Thank you. You saved me.”
“I— what?” Jaskier repeated, dumbfounded. He wasn’t… used to that, especially from Geralt.
“You saved me,” the witcher repeated. “And so I’m grateful. But you can’t go with me.”
That was enough for Jaskier. He swatted Geralt’s hand away only to throw in the air his own both hands, exasperated.
“Really? Really. Oh, he says, you can’t go with me!” the bard parodied. “This is too dangerous, not a ballad-worthy adventure, but something that might cost you your life—”
“Well, yes—”
“Well, shut up, if you so please, Geralt. Or if you don’t please, I couldn’t care less. The point is – my point is – that we’re going. Together. As best friends. Because no best friend abandons another in need, and you’re clearly in need, my friend. You and Ciri. And Yennefer, because I heard that she disappeared. After you know, the whole… fiasco.” Jaskier grimaced slightly, continuing his gesturing around. “We’ll find them, alright? Best friends, Geralt, fuck it. No one deserves to be left alone, and you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”
Geralt’s mouth twitched, as something different took over his expression. Something that looked almost like… fondness, maybe?
“I heard you,” he said. Nothing more.
“Well, good. I’d hate to repeat myself, since I believe that it was a pretty nice speech, and—”
“No. Before. I heard you before.”
“Oh.”
Jaskier felt silent. Yeah, it was damn unusual of him, and he felt as if he were going into some kind of cardiac arrest, but— the lump in his throat and the sudden tightness in his chest indicated something wrong with his lungs. Right? Of course! There was no option that he was simply nervous, pfft, no, he was not, he was not afraid that Geralt would tell him to get out and never show up near him again—
“Yeah,” Geralt confirmed, still watching Jaskier. He cocked his head to the side, making a couple of sweat-soaked strands of white hair fall down on his face and stick to it. “Hmm.”
“That’s…” Jaskier started, found his voice way too high, and so he cleared his throat, embarrassed. “That’s all you have to say? Fucking hmm?”
“What? Not good enough for you?” Geralt slowly lay down again, grunting and wincing with every movement. Surprisingly so, he was almost smiling. That sight made Jaskier stop breathing for a moment – and then he had his answer.
Geralt was smiling. Ciri and Yennefer were gone, and yet his confession made Geralt smile.
He could wait for more. He could wait until Geralt was ready to say more, to confess more.
“Roll over, you horse’s arse,” Jaskier grumbled, pushing at Geralt’s good arm and making the witcher try to curl on his side in a way that would allow Jaskier to wrap his limbs around him, spooning him from behind. He was still mindful of not putting his leg over Geralt’s fucked up one. “You’ve been having nightmares for a whole day, I’m exhausted. Come on, let’s sleep.”
Geralt let out a grunt, then fell quiet. For all of a couple of seconds, because, like Jaskier knew perfectly well, sometimes there was no shutting up Geralt if he was in the right mood for one of his patronizing speeches.
Or, well, just in the right mood to talk. Jaskier didn’t think he’d actually earned a speech about good and evil in this world. Fortunately. He really was so damn tired.
And so damn happy – even though with a great deal of hesitancy – could he be happy now? When Ciri was in danger?
“You said we were going to get new horses,” the witcher said after a while, shifting to get more comfortable, and, well, to not feel as if he were eaten alive by pain every moment he took a breath. “I don’t know how to name mine.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier mocked him. “Why not Roach?”
“Roach,” came with a pleased, soft sound. “Nice.”
The bard couldn’t help but roll his eyes with almost overwhelming amusement. Stupid witchers. Roach. Yup. Every – fucking – time. And Geralt had the balls to make fun of him once for naming his own lazy steed Pegasus.
Everything would be fine, wouldn’t it?
He pressed a kiss to the nape of Geralt’s neck and felt the witcher relax in his arms.
Yeah. It would. Be fine.
“Good pup,” Jaskier tested the new ground between them with something that was half joke, half an actual term of endearment. He wanted to show Geralt some affection, and, well, he was the White Wolf, right? Geralt of Rivia, the mighty—
“Pup? Really?” Geralt snorted in response, making Jaskier splutter indignantly behind him. “I’m older than you, idiot. If anyone’s a pup here, it’s you.”
“Excuse me, I’m not the wolf here, Geralt, and believe me, you’d do better if you shut up. Remember Braenn? Yeah, listen to her. By the way, who is she and how do you know her? Wait, no. Don’t answer, you were supposed to shut up and sleep.”
Geralt let out a long exhale mixed with low, rumbling laugh. Fucker.
“Make me.”
“Very well,” Jaskier said, sniffing, and moved his hips to rut against Geralt’s backside. Given how he could feel Geralt stiffening and readying to snap at him, offended, Jaskier congratulated himself mentally on the victory here.
Yet, before Geralt’s response could come, a tall woman with hard eyes and golden brown hair braided in one long plait stepped into their little clearing. Jaskier pressed down on Geralt’s shoulder, not letting him get up. She didn’t look like a dryad, but the dryads wouldn’t let any danger come to them, would they?
“Lady Eithné sent me to help you,” the woman said curtly, clearly annoyed with the whole situation and not overly happy about being here. She fixed the strap of her arrow-case so it wouldn’t bite into her shoulder. “I’m—”
“You are Milva. You lead Squirrels to safety in Brokilon,” Geralt spoke up, suddenly much more serious than he’d been moments before. Jaskier froze behind him. “You…”
“I’ve come with the news about the young girl.”