(Geralt x Jaskier)
Geralt cursed inwardly and asked himself for the umpteenth time what had gotten into him to give in to Jaskier's wailing and accompany the bard to the feast at court. He had known he would loathe it, and yet here he stood, trying to melt with the background, counting minutes, watching the bard amuse himself. When Jaskier had whined and rambled and looked at Geralt like a famished hirikka with puppy eyes, it had been damn hard to not give in. Even for a witcher. And yet, he had known the very second he had uttered his consent that it was a mistake.
He glowered at all and sundry, especially those constantly surrounding Jaskier. Other than him, the bard was well liked by his peers and Geralt didn't know why it bothered him to see Jaskier constantly being the focus of attention of a group of admirers. He had never been jealous in his life. He didn't even know what jealousy was, but that apparently didn't stop his need to glower at people.
There was a turmoil at the end of the great hall, where a drunken nobleman seemed to have started a fight with an underling, and everybody craned their neck to see what happened. On looking about, Jaskier's eyes landed on Geralt, and he beamed at him raising his glass to the Witcher.
Geralt nodded lightly, indicating that he had duly noted Jaskier's satisfaction about the provided amusement. At least one of them was having fun. Jaskier zoned in on something else, and Geralt emptied his goblet in one gulp, looking around for a servant. If he had to endure this evening at court, he needed more than the two cups of ale he had already had. He spotted one of the servants with a tray, threading his way through the crowd. He hoped it wouldn't be long until he passed him.
He had kept his eyes glued to the bard ever since they had arrived. Even if Jaskier had said there was no reason to worry that some cuckolded husbands or angry fathers might show up, one never knew. Better safe than sorry, Geralt thought, knowing from experience that Jaskier wasn't a good fighter and, like any other human, tended to bleed a lot if hurt. Jaskier's chosen weapon was words, not swords. The bard stabbed with prose, not with daggers, but his poetry hardly ever fought off any offenders.
“Do tell! Are you not Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher? I thought I saw you come in with the bard.”
Geralt had to take his eyes off the bard and turned his head to face the woman who had addressed him. “The very same,” he grumbled.
The woman's face lit up. “I've never before seen a witcher in person, let alone talked to one. Is it true that witchers don't die?”
“No, that's not true. We die like anyone else, we can get shot and stabbed and beheaded and bleed to death like anyone else. We just tend to live longer than humans.”
“Is it true that you never love in your life? That feelings are completely foreign to you? You would not even fall for the most beautiful woman you'd ever seen if she courted you? No feelings at all?”
Geralt shot a quick glance at Jaskier. “So it is said of witchers, they follow the Path without committing themselves to someone.”
“Oh, that's so sad. Must it not be terribly awful to never love in his life? And such a long life as yours, at that,” she replied with a sad smile, fluttering her eyelashes for whatever reason.
Indeed, Geralt thought. What a sad notion that would be. “Please, madam, don't bother yourself on my behalf. How could I be sad, when I don't even know what sadness is?” he said, convinced she wouldn't even notice the undertone of sarcasm in his voice. The woman started getting on his nerves, and not in the good kind of way like Jaskier's prattle usually did.
“The bard who's travelling with you, he is human, isn't he?”
Geralt squinted his eyes and took a closer look at the woman. Why did she ask about Jaskier just the very minute he thought of the bard? Was she some kind of sorceress who could read his mind? If so, it would definitely be the best disguised sorceress he had ever come across in his life, bulging bosom, bad teeth, sloppy makeup and all.
“Of course, what else should he be?”
“I was just curious, you see. No offence meant, but it's because he is travelling with you. How did you get him to accompany you? What's the reason?”
Geralt growled, he could feel his eyes and mood darken. It was time he got rid of the woman before he said or did something unforgivable. “What, has it never occurred to you that he might be following me of his own free will? Is it so far-fetched that someone would willingly travel with a witcher like me? In fact, it was him who started to follow me, I didn't ask for his company, but I have to admit I got used to not travel alone for a while.”
The woman looked genuinely surprised. Geralt realised it had in fact not occurred to her at all that Jaskier had freely chosen to be with him. What angered Geralt even more, however, was the fact that the woman had no problem at all speaking to him the way she did. Not once did she spare a thought for the fact that she offended his feelings with what she said. But then, he was used to that, and how should she act differently, when everyone apparently knew that witchers were incapable of feelings?
“Erm,” the woman muttered. “That's astonishing. A man who chooses to travel with a witcher.”
“Speaking of,” Geralt said, “I need to see what said bard is doing, in case he needs my company. Or help.” He turned his head to look at Jaskier, only to find him gone. Where he had been just a moment ago, was now an elderly lord, talking to two very young maidens. Geralt started scanning the hall.
“Oh, I think he's found company he won't need your help with.”
Geralt turned to see what the woman meant.
“I just saw him leave with a very young and attractive maiden at his side,” the woman said smugly.
And now she winked at him!
“By the look on their faces, he won't need your company for a while, Witcher,” she added, lowering her voice when she continued. “I'm sure they will fool around with each other for some time, if you get what I mean.”
“Hm,” Geralt grunted. Just then, the servant with the tray full of goblets passed by. Geralt grabbed a cup and immediately downed half of its content.
“I see my husband is waiting, I'll take my leave then. Good hunting, or whatever it is one says to the likes of you,” the woman said, turned and left.
Great!
Geralt briefly wondered, if Jaskier had probably seen him talking animatedly with this matron and thought he would enjoy himself. And then cleared off with one of the court ladies to once more hide his sausage in the wrong royal pantry. “Curse you, Jaskier,” he hissed, and then downed the glass in one gulp. At least now he could leave the royal festival and return to their room at the inn. Jaskier would just have to pull himself up by his own bootstraps, if necessary.
**********
A light noise woke Geralt, the creak of stairs or the faint bark of a dog, he wasn't sure. The next moment, however, he sat bolt upright in his bed.
Jaskier.
He could sense the bard's heartbeat, quickened and stuttering, beating uneven and distraught. He could smell him, and what he smelled was fear, and pain, and blood.
Before Geralt could get up from the bed, he heard the door creak and saw a shadow scurry in. Even though the room was dark, his witcher eyes allowed him to see good enough. Jaskier was apparently trying to sneak his way around the bed, making soft, pained sounds. Suddenly, he winced violently, gasping for air.
“For goodness' sake, Geralt!” Jaskier hissed. “You scared me to death! I thought you’d be asleep! What's this, some new kind of witchers-can-sleep-in-any-position thingy? Let's scare the bard witless?”
“What happened?” Geralt gnarled, ignoring Jaskiers prattle.
“What? Nothing,” Jaskier replied. “I got a bit carried away, sorry. I sincerely apologize for ditching you at the feast if that's why you are annoyed, but I thought you wouldn't mind. Really. I know you're not into making merry on such feasts and... yea. I hope I didn't wake you, just go back to sleep then.”
Most certainly not, Geralt thought, getting out of the bed and crossing the room in three strides. Within half a minute he had lit a candle from the embers in the fireplace, and then the lamp on the table, adding more light to illuminate the room. Then he turned to Jaskier to take a closer look.
Jaskier hadn't moved and watched Geralt light the candles and lamp, ruefully staring at the Witcher now.
Geralt nearly gasped. The bard's right eye was swollen, and his upper lip had been split open, purple bruises and bloody cuts covered most of the rest of his face. He also noticed that Jaskier cradled his right arm with his left hand.
“What in Melitele's name happened to you? And don't you dare spilling some nonsense about some love play having spun out of control,” he added before Jaskier could even start making something up.
“Oh, but it's really nothing, it looks much worse than it is. Really. Look, I can still use both my hands.” Jaskier waggled with his hands, contorting his face with pain while doing so. “See? And I have still my left eye in perfect order, that'll do for the next couple of days. The swelling is already receding. Really.”
“Yes, I see,” Geralt snarled. “Damn it, Jaskier, can I really not let you out of my sight for longer than a couple of minutes? Are you making a habit of it or is it just to annoy me?”
“Oh no. No, no, no, don't give me that look! If I may remind you, you are the one who's constantly coming back bathed head to toe in blood and gore and cuts and bruises. And I've seen all your scars, they don't decrease in quantity, you know. And I've never--”
“Shut up,” Geralt shouted, not able to hold his anger back any longer. He saw Jaskier flinch, not much, but it was enough to fuel Geralt's rage even more. He didn't want to shout at the bard, didn't want to scare him any more than he apparently already was, but he loathed having to smell the heavy scent the bard emitted. “You smell of fear, and pain. And men. What did they do to you and why? Did you cuckold another husband?”
Jaskier hesitated, and Geralt could see how the bard was on the brink of answering with yes. Then something changed in Jaskier's mien, his shoulders sagged a little and he seemed to resign himself to his fate.
“No,” Jaskier said. “For once not. I didn't even have the pleasure of ... you know. It's been a while anyway since, well, yeah. No, it's something else entirely, but it doesn't matter. Really. It seems I said a couple things some people didn't take kindly to. You know how I am. Just forget it!”
Jaskier had said it almost cheerfully, too cheerfully for what he had said, and Geralt had very well picked up the undertone in it.
“This doesn't look like taking something you said the wrong way. This looks like who ever beat you up did it seething with rage. And it was not one single man, I smell that. So, what happened?”
Jaskier's carefully put up fake levity crumbled and suddenly he looked exhausted. He finally sat down on the bed, hissing and contorting his face in pain again. “All right. It wasn't just... phew. I will tell you, okay, just not tonight.” He looked at Geralt pleadingly. “I just want to lie down and, you know, close my eyes for a while. I haven’t got the energy to pick a quarrel with you now. Just not, not now. Agreed? Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll tell you what happened, if you insist.”
Geralt stared at Jaskier, hot rage scorching through his veins. Why did he care so much for this human? Why care for someone who would long be gone when Geralt still walked the Path, like fate had foreordained for every human?
“Hm,” Geralt mumbled, turning to where his travel bag lay in the corner.
Jaskier let his body fall back on the mattress, shuffled a bit with his feet until he lay halfway properly on the bed and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Geralt rummaged about in his pack until he had found what he wanted and returned to the bed. “Here,” he said, bending down to softly touch the swollen flesh beneath the bard's left eye.
Jaskier flinched violently, staring at Geralt with wide eyes. “Fuck, Geralt, do you really intend to scare me to death tonight?” he gasped.
Slightly amused, Geralt perked a brow at hearing the bard swear in a choice of words that was usually his. However, it also stung to see the bard flinch away from him again. “I have an ointment you should apply to your bruises and lacerations, it will help the healing. Otherwise they will look really ugly in the morning.” Geralt paused a moment, looking Jaskier over bottom to top. “I mean even more ugly than now.”
Jaskier had closed his eyes again, or at least the left one, the right eye was already buried under purple, swollen flesh. “First thing in the morning,” he muttered. “I promise, now let me just nap for a while.”
Geralt sighed. Well. He pulled up the stool beside the bed with his foot and sat down. “Don't be startled again, okay? I'll put some salves on the wounds, it will take away most of the pain and help healing. Too bad humans always take so long to heal,” he muttered, dipping his finger into the jar. He applied ointment to the wounds on Jaskier's face and hands, rubbing it in as carefully and lightly as he could and he was genuinely surprised how gentle he could be with hands that usually were only good for wielding swords and choking monsters to death.
“There, done! That should help.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier mumbled without opening his one good eye.
Geralt nearly rolled his eyes. When exactly had they swapped roles? “If you take off your clothes, I could take a look where else I could rub in some lotion.”
Jaskier didn't reply, or at least not immediately. “Nice try, Geralt,” he finally said drowsily. “Tomorrow, maybe. Tonight I lack the energy for mating games.”
Geralt stared at Jaskier. And stared a bit longer. Quite suddenly he had the feeling his head was spinning. Probably too much ale, he thought. And had he really just heard what he thought he had heard?
“-nk you,” Jaskier added, though it was hardly audible for the bard was more asleep than awake.
“One day you'll be the death of me, Jaskier,” Geralt groaned lowly, looking down at the sleeping bard.
Geralt put the jars with the ointments onto the table, extinguishing the lamp and the candles, even though he knew sleep would no longer find him that night.
**********
When Jaskier woke up, he needed a moment to differentiate what was dream and what was truth.
He felt the nightmare fade away, felt how the claws of terror slowly withdrew. What remained was the feeling of safety and great relief he had felt when he'd heard the howl of the white wolf who had come to rescue him. He'd only heard its howling from afar and seen the frantic rush of faceless monsters that had hunted him, but with every howl he had somehow known that he was soon to be safe. He waited for the last remnants of the nightmare to fade, the painful bites of fangs and rips of claws that still itched his skin. Only, the pain increased the more he felt himself come up from the nightmare and back to reality.
Shit! In a flash he remembered what had happened the night before. The pain was real.
He opened the one, good eye that was not completely swollen and immediately shrieked, “Shit! Geralt, what are you doing?” He felt his heart miss a beat. The Witcher's face was only a foot away from his own face, hovering over him with his characteristic, amber gaze. “Were you sitting by my bed staring at me all night? That's a bit weird. Don't tell me you've started a list with weird witcher workings you need to tick off, or something like that. Your behaviour is becoming quite unnerving.”
“You tossed about and muttered,” Geralt replied calmly. “I just tried to find out what you were talking about. What did you dream of?”
“Monsters and witchers,” Jaskier replied. “Oh, no, wait! That's not a dream, that's my life!”
“You're not funny,” Geralt said. “Off with your clothes now,” he added, pulling back the blanket.
Suddenly, Jaskier felt quite naked even with his clothes still on. Certainly it had to do with that amber glare which seemed to be able to burn holes in his soul. Or his mind. Hell, how was Geralt able to always make him feel so... inept? Insufferable? Irksome? He couldn't even specify, what.
“Oh, come on, that's so unfair, Geralt. Now that I'm hardly able to move without pain you finally suggest this?” That hit home! For safety's sake, Jaskier cast a quick glance to his crotch to check if nothing was bulging treacherously in his trousers. He couldn't recall what exactly the dream had been about...
Geralt growled, feral and raw. “We can do this now, or we can do this later, after you've told me exactly what has happened. Not sure if you’ll want my hands anywhere near you after I know what happened, though.”
“All right,” Jaskier said hurriedly, slowly sitting up, not without groaning heartrendingly. Oh, he would make hay while the sun shone. How many times had he rubbed lotions and chamomile on Geralts sore rear? Time for the Witcher to pay back. “I need to pee, and then we can have a look at my upper body, but it's really not as bad as it sounds.” Slowly, he shuffled over to the chamber pot.
Was he stalling for time? Yes....
“Look,” Jaskier said, shuffling back to the bed. “Before we start--”
“No.”
“What? You don't even know what I wanted to say!”
“No, I don't. But I can guess. Look, if you don't want to let me look whether there are some broken or bruised ribs, it's okay by me. I just want to help. And I can feel that you're in pain. But I won't force anything on you.”
“All right,” Jaskier drawled, not knowing where this was leading to.
“But I wish you would tell me the truth about what happened. If not, if you don't want to tell, it's okay as well. I just thought that, we've been travelling together for so long now, and I think keeping secrets from one another is not necessary. If you're hurting, I should know. I'll never judge you for anything you do, but if someone is after you, or if you need help, you can tell me. I'm not bad at the art of sword fighting, you know. Hand-to-hand combat, too.”
“Oh, okay. All right.” Jaskier was stunned. Where had Geralt found all the words, when usually his vocabulary consisted of 'hm' and 'fuck' and grunts and grumbles? It was nice, though, hearing that the Witcher quite obviously cared for him so much, and not only because he was the one who did all the talking to get Geralt some contracts for monster hunting.
And it would give Jaskier the chance to consider what exactly he would tell him, because tell he would, though he just as well knew from experience that Geralt always responded badly to the fact that someone had used violence towards the bard. Throwing eggs and vegetables at him during performances was acceptable to Geralt, just as was insulting his singing skills, his lute-playing skills and his verse skills. And it was definitely acceptable to Geralt to bawl him out for nothing, whenever it pleased him. But oh-hoho, woe betide anyone who pissed on Geralt’s parade. Metaphorically speaking, and Jaskier being the parade in this case.
Well, Jaskier liked to think that the Witcher reacted so violently to these things because he was important to Geralt. Unlikely as this was, probably.
He sighed and realised that he had been lost in thought for a bit too long. Geralt's eyes were fixed on him.
“Fine,” Jaskier replied. “I'll tell you everything over breakfast. And if you help me get out of my clothes, you can look for some more bruises you can put a salve on. It sure hurts like hell. Well?” he added, when Geralt made no move to help but looked at him, perking his eyebrows. “As far as I remember you wasn't so reluctant tonight when you offered to rip my clothes off and, you know, do whatever you wanted to do with your … hands,” he added lamely. A bit too forward, maybe, he thought when he saw Geralt's eyes darken. Whether it was from anger, irritation or lust, Jaskier couldn't place it, but he decided he didn't want to find out right now. “No problem, I can do it on my own,” he mumbled hurriedly, unbuttoning his shirt. And if his hands trembled a little in the process it was because of the injuries he had received last night, and not because of those dark, amber eyes burning a hole into his soul.
**********
Geralt had left Jaskier to put on fresh clothes after he had examined the injuries the bard had incurred from having been brutally beaten. As far as he could see, nothing was broken and only one rib was bruised, though that probably hurt more than a clean fracture. He hoped some of his potions and ointments would help, but he had been reluctant in regard to the dosage. He had no experience with how humans reacted to it.
Jaskier joined him a while later and the innkeeper's daughter brought breakfast. Even though she tried to hide it, she stared, and Geralt's mood soured. In daylight, Jaskier looked even worse than he had in the candle's warm glow at night. And he had not been there to prevent it...
“Look, if I tell you what happened, you must promise me not to get angry,” Jaskier said, finally broaching the topic that hung between them like a sour herring. “Least of all on me. If you so much as even mutter something like 'what were you thinking' or 'how stupid can you get' or the like, we are done. I promise you I'll get up, take my lute and go. And that's it,” Jaskier said, emphasizing his word by stabbing Geralt's broad chest with his index finger.
“Promise,” Geralt rumbled, wondering why Jaskier would think he might hold the bard responsible for what had happened to him. Had it been a cuckolded husband, after all?
“When we were at the feast at court, I really enjoyed myself and you might have noticed that a load of people there really liked my performance. I was stunned to see how many of them knew at least one or two of my songs, whereby--”
“I was there,” Geralt grumbled. “I've seen how you enjoyed yourself. Can we skip that part?”
Jaskier almost looked a bit disappointed, though he really should know by now that Geralt was not an enthusiast of lengthy speeches.
“I've seen you with all your admirers, and I already knew you left with a willing lady of the court.”
“Ah, yes, right. Well, turned out she wasn't so willing, at least not towards what I would have liked. She told me of the beautiful garden behind the palace, and did you know there's a huge garden with a maze, and fishponds and a wonderful rose garden and, well. She asked me if I would like to see it and I thought what she really meant was, erm, you know, especially since she was flirting with me all evening.”
“Come to the point,” Geralt gnarled. “I'm not interested in your woman affairs.”
“What? Does it bother you?” Jaskier asked, but hurriedly continued when Geralt glared at him.
“She asked if I wanted to see the maze, even though it was pretty dark in the gardens and we really didn't see much, but I said yes and when we were there I turned and looked about, and then quite suddenly, she was gone. I thought she might have gone into the maze and wanted me to follow, but then there were men, the intimidating kind of, not the ones you like to meet at a dark corner in a dark night. I thought, great, that's probably the father and brothers of the young lady and why didn't I just stay back in the hall. But then it turned out they had completely different intentions.”
Geralt waited, but Jaskier seemed to have finished his story. He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe he had so misjudged the intentions of ... everybody that had been involved in the night's activities? Geralt waited a little longer but nothing happened.
“Do you intent to continue or should I just envision what happened then?” Geralt finally asked.
“Oh,” Jaskier said, “right. Did you know that there are certain groups or assemblies of people who have made it their business to free the world from all magic? Wipe out everything that's not human? Mages, sorcerers, elves, monsters, mutants. Witchers,” he added quietly.
“I'm aware of them and I have no doubt that one day they'll succeed. They just need to get enough people on their side.”
“Hm,” Jaskier replied.
“What's that got to do with all this?” Geralt asked impatiently. He didn't know what the bard was up to.
“Well, turned out these dubiously looking fellas were a group of such fanatics. They didn't like what I sang and demanded I should never again sing a song about magical creatures or monster or, erm, well. Naturally, I declined politely, which wasn't well received and then one word led to another until finally they tried to beat reason into me.”
“And then?” Geralt asked.
“Then I told them to bugger off and that I can sing whatever I want and about whomever I want and that it's my choice to travel with whomever I like and that I won't listen to any of their bloody stupid demands and that I wasn't bewitched by you but that you're my friend. And that I don’t give a fuck about what they say.”
Geralt felt cold anger surge up within him. When Jaskier had returned that night, he had been angry with himself that he had left the feast without making sure that the bard was all right. Back then, he had thought Jaskier had once again painted himself into a corner with his wicked tongue. But now he knew someone had to pay for beating up Jaskier, otherwise he might never be able to shake off that feeling of guilt.
“Forget about them, okay? They are just a bunch of short-sighted people. Think of all the songs I can compose so much more realistically, now that I have felt what you must feel every time you're fighting monsters.” Jaskier grinned at him. “Just forget about them, okay?”
“I can't,” Geralt replied, and it was a promise, not a statement. Rage still raved in his veins.
Jaskier looked at him in an indefinable way. Finally, he smiled lightly. “Thank you, by the way, for the ointments and all. It definitely helped with the pain, and I'm sure before long I'll be the handsome bard again who's travelling with the broody Witcher.” He raised his glass to Geralt and downed the rest of his ale.
Geralt harrumphed and had to look away. How could Jaskier give thanks to him and look at him like that when in the first place he was the reason for Jaskier's suffering?
**********
A day later
“Geralt, Geralt!” Jaskier hissed.
“What?” Geralt grumbled, and just then he could pick up the change in Jaskier's smell. He turned and looked at the bard.
“There, that's them. The men who, you know, try to wipe anything magical from the face of the earth.”
“You mean the men who beat you up and hurt you?” Geralt said in a harsh voice, and it wasn't a question, just a statement.
“Yea,” Jaskier drawled. “The leader of them is called Folkvar, and his right-hand man Osfrid, I think. He's the brute with the bald head.”
Geralt turned, staring icily to where a handful of men stood at the fountain on the marketplace. “Hey, you there,” he shouted. “Are you the ones who dared to hurt my bard?”
The men turned, and when they had made out who had called out to them, their miens darkened and Geralt could see the hatred in their eyes.
One of them, based on his demeanour clearly the leader of the group, Folkvar, took a couple of steps towards them. “What of it?” he shouted. “Serves him right!” The man spat down onto the cobblestone to emphasize what he thought of Jaskier. “Hanging around with mutants and spreading lies about monsters like you, Witcher. The likes of you must be wiped from this earth, and along with you all those who think there's nothing wrong with magic, monsters and mages.”
While speaking, Folkvar had come closer, followed by his companions who had drawn their weapons, holding them up ostentatiously.
“If you're so keen to wipe all the magic from the world, why don't you get down to the root of the problem? Why lay hands on him?” Geralt gestured to Jaskier who had stayed a couple of feet behind the Witcher. Geralt could already sense the tension emitting from the young man. “He's just a bard, bringing joy and happiness to the people with the songs he sings, he's never done anything wrong in his life. Half of what he sings isn't true anyway. So, why not fight me in the first place, if you despise me and my kin so much?”
“Oh, we will, Witcher,” the man replied, unsheathing his sword. Madly, he grinned at the Witcher.
“That's just what I hoped you would say,” Geralt said, glaring at the mob with a brutish smirk. Slowly, he unsheathed his sword and dagger. “Jaskier, stay back,” he muttered in a low voice.
One of the men fired a crossbow, and Geralt parried it with a quick twist of his sword, hurling the arrow away. Using the momentum of the move, he brought up his left hand with the dagger, and blocked Folkvar's attack with one smooth motion. With a twist of his wrist he levered the short sword out of the leader's hand, breaking his elbow along with it. The man groaned and Geralt kicked him sideways in the knee, sending the man crushing and cursing to the ground. Without sparing a glance at the felled leader, Geralt made a half-turn, wielding sword and dagger, and parried another blow aimed at his heart. With a quick, hard stroke with the pommel of his sword he knocked the second attacker unconscious.
Four attackers were left, and as one they launched themselves on Geralt.
Slashing and hacking, he fought off two of them, ducking away under the third man's strike. With a quick motion of his sword arm he disarmed him, sending him staggering back with the force of the blow.
Swivelling around, he brought his sword up, ramming it into the ribcage of the man just trying to deal a deadly strike at him. Dagger in his left hand, Geralt blocked the strike with his arm but couldn't avoid the tip of the man's sword slicing open his coat, leaving a gap in his skin that quickly filled with blood. Yanking his sword with a sucking sound from his opponent's chest, Geralt simultaneously brought up his left arm, slicing open the man's throat in one swift motion, dragging the dagger from left to right. Whirling around, Geralt's eyes returned to the remaining two men who had lost some of their vicious expressions.
New rage, however, was fuelled in them when they saw one of their friends writhing in his death throes at the feet of the Witcher, another one lying unconscious and their leader having difficulties coming up again. The sixth member of their group had apparently taken to his heels.
Geralt raised his sword, pointing with the tip of it to their faces. “Go now and I'll spare you. Killing men is not part of my business, even if they are a load of shit like you.”
With a feral growl, one of the men hurled himself at the Witcher, sword raised high.
Geralt's arm shot up, his dagger meeting the man's shoulder blade in time to break the force of the blow, the momentum driving the blade deep into the flesh. It didn't stop the man from crashing onto Geralt's right side, though, and he headbutted the other to send him down. With a smacking sound he yanked the dagger from the other's shoulder, hurling it with a quick twist of the wrist at the last man standing. He watched the dagger find its goal, sinking itself deep into the flesh of the man's throat.
The man froze, looking at Geralt with wide eyes before he frantically tried to pull the dagger out. His knees buckled and he fell face-first to the ground.
The man beneath Geralt rolled on his side to come up again. Geralt kicked him hard in the side of his head, causing him to buckle, unconscious.
Geralt took a deep breath, looking around the marketplace that had somehow turned into a battlefield. Faint wailing and groaning could be heard from the men writhing on the ground, at least from those who were not unconscious or dead.
Finally, the leader of the mob and another of his henchman managed to get up. They both were injured, but they would live, if they managed to keep the wounds clean and uninfected. They glowered at Geralt.
“We don't want you here!” A man shouted from the group of bystanders.
Geralt briefly closed his eyes. Theoretically, it wasn't his fault that the town's marketplace now looked like a battlefield, but he knew it was him they would hold responsible for and chase out of town. Wasn't the first time, after all. Slowly, he turned to face the man who had spoken. In astonishment, he realised that the man was not looking at him.
The man glared at Folkvar and his men. “We don't want you here. Take your followers and leave this town,” he repeated.
“The likes of you are not welcome here!” another bystander shouted. “Gather your dead and wounded and go.”
Geralt looked at Jaskier who grinned at him contentedly, as if what had just happened was the most normal thing in the world. The smile looked odd in the maltreated face, though.
“Usually it's me they send packing,” Geralt said lowly. “I think that's a first.”
Jaskier's mirth increased. “I know, the Butcher of Blaviken,” he teased. “That's in the past. I told you when we first met you just need someone who puts the record straight for you. You didn't believe me and now look at the people.” Jaskier nodded towards the bystanders that had gathered to watch Geralt fight.
Geralt let his eyes wander and realised, that not one of the people in the crowd was glowering at him. Their ire was targeted solely at the group of fanatics and there was even one or another amongst the crowd who nodded at him approvingly.
“See, it's a win-win, I told you from the first day. I sing your praises and raise your fame and you can save my arse from time to time. Or, in this case, revenge me.” Jaskier patted Geralt's arm, watching the men who had beaten him so furiously two nights ago limp from the marketplace, dragging their dead or dying comrades with them. “Oh,” he added in surprise. “You're bleeding. Let's take a look at it.”
“Hm,” Geralt grunted, and followed the bard back to their lodging.
He didn't know why the bard still chose to follow him, through danger and hardship, when he could just as well walk away. He didn't know what it was, that made Jaskier stay at his side, put up with his bad temper and bad reputation, but he intended to hold fast onto it for as long as it lasted.
**********
Another day later
It wasn't that Geralt had regrets about letting Jaskier ride on Roach, it was more that he questioned his own decision to let the bard ride behind him. There was really no need for the bard to cling to him so heavily!
He had not trusted to let him sit on Roach on his own, lest his horse decided to throw one of her rare tantrums and send Jaskier flying, and walking at the side of his horse while Jaskier rode was inappropriate. So he had hauled Jaskier up to sit behind him, after the bard had whimpered and moaned with every step he had taken since they had left the village.
Now Jaskier clung to his back like a baby to his mother, singing his songs one after the other and, from time to time, resting his head on Geralt's shoulders with a content moan. Every time, that sent a shiver down his spine, and Jaskier's arms around his waist didn't help either.
“And, are we going to talk about it?” Jaskier asked suddenly, straightening behind him.
“Talk about what?” Geralt asked.
“Talk about that... thing, that night after the feast.”
“Hm?” Geralt grunted. He had no idea what the bard was going on about.
Jaskier huffed. “You know what I mean. What you said. To me. What you wanted to... do.”
Geralt straightened. “I've no idea what you mean,” he said gruffly.
“Oh come on,” Jaskier whined. “You damn well know what I mean. Don't tell me you didn't consider --”
“No,” Geralt barked brusquely.
“No? You didn't consider taking advantage of the moment and--”
“No, we won't talk about it,” Geralt grunted. And why in the world seemed Jaskier to be the only human who wouldn't accept the widespread assumption that witchers were void of all human feelings?
“Okay then! Fine. See if I care,” Jaskier huffed.
Geralt took a deep breath. “Jaskier,” he said, hoping his deep voice carried the apologising tone he had strived for. He really didn't want to snub the bard.
“It's okay, Geralt. Grumble as much as you like, I know what I've seen. One day we'll talk about it.”
Geralt didn't know if he should take that as threat or promise, didn't even know what he preferred, but somehow he was looking forward to it.
Just not today...