Of Bards and Witchers

Twenty-Second

   Later that night, Jaskier cradles her delicately in his arms; fingers of one hand find themselves brushing over every familiar plain and crevice. He brings his hand down the curve of her bodice-- there's a sharp crackle to his left. The bard lifts his head and finds his companion staring unabashedly from his seat before the fireplace. Geralt shifts as he holds his gaze.

    "You look at it like some woman you've taken to," he says.

    "She," Jaskier says, "is undoubtedly the love of my life— and unlike any woman—" he dips his head some, at the same time lifts his instrument to see her better— "she will never break my heart."

    The Witcher snorts. "It's a piece of wood," he counters. "You could replace it."

    Jaskier tucks her into his chest again, rests his cheek on her neck and scowls at the man. "Ettariel is far more than a piece of wood, you brute. She was a gift, for starters, and—"

    "You named it," the other deadpans.

    He watches Geralt rise and make way to the water basin. "No," he says, and the Witcher levels him with an odd look as he dampens a rag. "She already had the name, just here—" Jaskier turns his lute over to show the etchings in the back of her neck. They sit, delicately carved, just below her head.

    Geralt pauses by his hip at the edge of the bed and then leans some, both to catch sight of the markings and press the dampened cloth just beneath his nose. The bard furrows his brows as he lifts his hand to replace Geralt's-- he hadn't even noticed the bleeding had started up again.

    "You read Elder," the Witcher states.

    Bewildered, Jaskier peers up. "Pardon?"

    "You read Elder," Geralt says, again. "The markings." He juts his chin toward the instrument.

    "Oh."

    No, he doesn't— though he knows what Elder looks like, and, thoroughly perplexed, he looks from Geralt back to her neck; this certainly isn't it. Its written plain as day in the common tongue.

    Peering up at Geralt once more, though, the man's interest might be subdued ( as are all his other feelings, really, when he chooses to show them ), but certainly genuine.

    "Where did you learn it?"

    Dumbfounded, Jaskier lowers the cloth from his face and stammers, "I- Well, I learned quite a few languages in Oxenfurt— Nilfgaardian among them, which, as I'm sure you know—"

    "Is derived from the Elder Speech," Geralt finishes for him. "Bring the cloth up again."

    The bard does so as he continues, "I can hold conversation well enough in the Skellige jargon," he says, "or with a Toussiant native for that matter— my Ofiri doesn't fare too well at all, though." All of which is true enough, but as he peers back at his instrument he's more than certain Geralt is seeing things— or worse yet that he is seeing things, because it does make more sense, he supposes, for an elven-made lute to harbor Elder scripture as opposed to the common tongue.

    He looks up again— Geralt sighs, though looks rather amused, and guides his hand back to his face— "Do you— right, thank you— do you happen to know it, Geralt? You recognized the langauge."

    Geralt hums. "I understand some," he offers. "My father... might know it. At least, more than I do. He is much older. Wiser."

     Jaskier raises his brows. "Your father?"

    "Hmm."

    The bard waves his hand about, prompting the man to elaborate— he'd known of a brother ( "Eskel," he'd said by the light of their fire. "Not by blood, but my brother nonetheless. A good man." ), but Geralt wasn't overly forthcoming. Presently he sighs again and guides Jaskier's hand— again— to his face.

    "Vesemir," he says. "My mentor. He raised myself and my brothers. Father, not by blood."

    "Brothers," the bard hums. "You've only ever mentioned one--"

    "Eskel. Lambert is young. Stupid, though he is a fine Witcher." A thoughtful look passes the man's features. "He's also an ass. Cynical."

    Jaskier raises a brow. "You don't like him?"

    "No— I mean, yes," Geralt pauses, furrows his brows. "I do. He's... eccentric. But... good."

    Bemusedly, Jaskier parts his lips—

    Geralt waves him off. "In any case," the man says. "Vesemir— I don't know how old exactly he is, but if he is not yet two centuries he is most certainly nearing it—"

    "Two centuries—"

    "He was there when the keep itself was built," Geralt continues, unperturbed. "So yes," he says, "he might know more."

    "So we're brushing past the bit where your father is older than the founding of Kerack?" Jaskier raises his brows.

    "You would like him," Geralt says, suddenly.

    The bard blinks, then sets his lute in his lap and pats the empty spot beside him. It takes a moment of deliberation, it seems, but Geralt does eventually round the bed and join him. It's a large-ish bed, certainly, but while Jaskier is lean he's by no means a small man-- he comes up at least to the Witcher's nose-- and Geralt most definitely isn't small in any sense of the word, so they end up shoulder to shoulder as they sit against the headboard.

    "Is he much like you?" He questions— because for once, he feels, Geralt is in the mood to talk, and Jaskier himself is curious, and he has no intention of squandering such an opportunity.

    "Hmm," Geralt says. Then, "Vesemir is... better. Wise, as I said, but that comes with being the oldest of our kind. He... likes books."

    Jaskier can't quite keep the smile off his lips, so he dips his head a bit. Geralt catches it anyways, he supposes, because he hears the man huff.

    "He likes books like you like books," he continues, as if that clears up anything. "Sees more than just paper and ink. Vesemir likes knowing."

    The bard shifts, tilting his head Geralt's way thoughtfully. "Is that why I would like him?"

    "Hmm."

    "I do like knowing," he says. "And I do like books. I'm a curious man by nature, as you know. Always looking for the why behind things, I suppose."

    "Yes." Geralt shifts a bit. "You like knowing, Vesemir knows. And he likes talking, like you do. Though I think to him he enjoys teaching, you just like the sound of your voice."

    Jaskier huffs indignantly and tilts his head some to rest it on the other's shoulder. "That was a very unnecessary jab." He pauses, then tosses his dampened rag to the foot of the bed and pulls his lute into a position where he can play.

    "It's true."

    Jaskier can't argue with that.

    "I suppose you're saying that Vesemir is a wisened scholar with experience to boot," he says, "and that I would be interested in hearing of his exploits among his more common knowledge."

    There's a lapse of almost-silence. Quiet enough to hear his thumb brush against the wood of his lute's neck over the faint crackle of the fire. He tilts his head up. Geralt peers back at him curiously— it's almost as if his amber eyes glow in the dim light.

    "Yes," he says.

    Jaskier pulls a note from his lute.

    They feel it together, and their gazes drop. Geralt's medallion stills as the note dies.

    "Oh," the bard says. "Yes, that reminds me—" he lifts his gaze again and Geralt meets it with furrowed brows— "I think Ettariel speaks to me."

    "What."