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ONLY THE BRAVE
The silver blade of the dagger is cool in his hands. The craftmanship of both the blade and the decorative hilt are admirable and must have cost a fair bit of coin. Jaskier turns the dagger over in his hands and runs a thumb over the crest of the wolf. The mark of the Witcher.
This isn’t the first gift Geralt has bestowed upon him recently. His boots, which Geralt offhandedly tossed at Jaskier with a grunt and a curt pronouncement that he was tired of Jaskier’s whining about his feet on their travels. Then, a fortnight ago, it was the cloak as they passed through a night at an Inn in Carreras after the defeat of that nasty pair of Wendigos. Geralt again, growled about not wanting to hear complaining of the weather--Jaskier’s voice hurting Geralt’s ears, and his need for peace and such.
Jaskier is a clever bard, even as bard’s go. The gift of the boots sparked some suspicion that a speck of affection might be behind the gesture, however it was quickly dismissed as a ludicrous idea. Witcher’s, while Jaskier has seen demonstration of a great range of passionate emotions, are solo creatures. Even if they weren’t, the idea that the Witcher would be interested in some way in a simple bard such as himself . . . well, that was too big of a thought to hold onto.
Even if they had shared baths and, on occasion, a bed--or to be more specific a bedroll during long stretches on the road. That was just needs met. Mutual pleasure and saving resources. As the bard well knew, shared warmth and orgasms did not a love story make.
When the cloak was passed over, Jaskier thought perhaps Geralt could sense, or smell out, the affections Jaskier himself was developing for Geralt and appeasing him in some way. But again, the bard discounted this thought, that Giralt was more likely to sniff out the bread rolls in his pants than the emotions of his friend’s heart.
However, even still, Jaskier still feels like there is a possibility that, at moments, when he looks in those amber eyes, he sees the warmth, burning greater than any campfire, and brighter than any star. Jaskier holds on to those moments. Even if they only amount to lines in a song.
He has been silent too long, holding the dagger that bears the crest of the Witcher. The meaning is not lost on him. Nor, as it comes together, is this idea of Giralt having his own language of--dare he say it?--love? Geralt is not a man of poetic language, nor one to bestow flowers or jewels. Not that Jaskier has any need for jewels. Though, he has been known to admire a silver ring or a fine broach from time to time. But Giralt’s language of love is protection. Of safety. And, going by the crest on the dagger, perhaps a wee bit of ownership. For that’s what this was. For Jaskier to wear a dagger this fine on his hip, the emblem of the Witcher so prominent, people would know that he is the Witcher’s bard. It’s what people say anyway, to be fair, but this would be evidence for all to see.
“For protection,” Geralt says, his baritone thrumming over the din of the bar. His attention, seemingly, on the other side of the room.
“Yes,” Jaskier manages, his throat tight with emotion. Though this is not the time or place, which is perhaps why Geralt chose it.
Geralt looks at him now. Jaskier’s reticence seems to slightly alarm him. He looks like he wants to say something, or hit something, or take away the dagger and throw it to the sea if it has displeased the bard. So Jaskier pulls the dagger, and its scabbard and belt, from the table on to his lap.
“Thank you, Geralt,” he says.
The tightness between the Witcher’s brows loosens a fraction. “I’m to my bath,” he says then. There’s a pause following, which perhaps could be seen to be invitation. But Jaskier demurs.
“I have an errand in the village. Never fear, will be returning for the stew the bar wench bragged about and, of course, after dinner drinks and a lively performance if I’m up for it. Or perhaps, an early night.” He holds Geralt’s gaze for as long as Geralt allows. The Witcher soon breaks it with a grunt of affirmation.
“Take Roach, and don’t leave her tack or anything if import in the stables. Remember what the Innkeeper said about thieves,” Geralt says.
In the village, Jaskier cantors swiftly toward the blacksmith, the dagger bumping heavily against his hip as he rides. He wants to find a gift that reciprocates the gesture. A way to speak his affections, in the language that Geralt is accustomed to. Geralt’s love language.
He wants to convey a message. Of love, of devotion, but also be clear that he is looking for a mutual commitment. If he is to belong to the Witcher, and give himself in all fidelity, he expects the same in return. While it would be much more the way of the bard to write a sonnet, or a ballad, he wants to meet Geralt in a way that Geralt will appreciate.
The blacksmith in Vizima is an agreeable man, especially after seeing his craftmanship worn so proudly on Jaskier’s hip, and hearing his words of gratitude and praise. They spend half the hour working out a design for two medallions. One which would be worn by Geralt, and one by the bard.
From there, Jaskier makes his way to the apothecary. He’s hoping to procure some oils. Thus far, in the progression of baths and hastily shared orgasms on shared bedrolls, they have not had the need for oils. Jaskier is hoping that with the mood created by the symbolic gifts of such commitment, the needs will be thus.
He spends the last of his coin on a nice bottle of mead, and some sweets. Perhaps they will take their stew in their room, and forego his planned performance, for more privacy for the two of them. Coin can be made another day.
The blacksmith has done a fine job on his task and places the medallions in a drawstring leather pouch for safekeeping. His spirit is light, as Jaskier reaches the Inn. In his haste, he dismounts Roach quickly, leaving most of his purchases in the saddle bags and tossing a coin to the stable boy. He places their dinner order with the Innkeeper and takes the stairs two at a time in his hurry to reach their door. To reach Geralt.
“I’ve bought you something Geralt,” he says proudly, finding his Witcher still damp from his bath, but unfortunately reclothed.
“I have no needs,” Geralt says.
Jaskier hums, disappointedly, as this attitude does not bode well for his plans for the evening. He sits across from Geralt at their small table by the window.
“You have been very kind, as of late. I merely wanted to return the gesture.” He slides the leather pouch across the table toward Geralt. “Don’t be obstinate, Witcher,”Jaskier scolds, when the Witcher doesn’t immediately reach for it.
Geralt opens the pouch strings, pouring the contents into one of his large hands. He takes time to examine each of the medallions. “The first of the medallions, the one with the wolf, would obviously be worn by me,” Jaskier stammers to explain, in answer to Geralt’s perplexed expression.
“The other represents me, with the lark and the dandelion, as you can see. To be worn by you. If you wanted. If you wish,” he adds softly.
Jaskier is very glad that he is sitting. Because when Geralt sets down the gift on the table and not so subtly pushes it away from himself, Jaskier can feel the blood drain to the point of lightheadedness. It’s as he originally feared. The gifts were just about lessoning the burden on the Witcher that traveling with the bard puts on him. Not at all about growing affections.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says. As if to a child. As if to soften the blow.
Jaskier holds up his hand to halt Geralt before he can continue. “It seems I have misstepped. Misscalcuted. Misformulated.” He feels the blood return to his cheeks all at once in a warm blush. He tries not think of the oils still tucked away. Clearly the intimacies they shared were just physical. Long hours on the road. Jaskier was simply cheaper than a prostitute. Not something to celebrate. Not something that would grow into something more. He swallows. “Please say no more. Anything further is not needed, my friend. Anything further will merely embarrass us both, I’m afraid.”
Geralt opens his mouth again nonetheless, just as there is an urgent knock at the door.
Jaskier lets Geralt answer, limbs still numb to the point of immobility. The Innkeeper is at the door, not bearing stew, but bad news. There’s been trouble in the stables.
Geralt leads, pushing past the Innkeeper and foraging ahead. Jaskier gathers the medallions in their pouch and follows.
The stable boy, who Jaskier had handed a coin to not even an hour ago, lay dead on the stall floor with a knife protruding from his neck. His eyes were open and vacant, straw sticking to his face in a splash of blood. Geralt gives him a perfunctory once over, before moving to check Roach. She holds her back leg aloft, and she starts, violently, when Giralt touches her.
The Witcher shushes her gently, looking for other injuries and murmurring softly with words Jaskier can’t make out.
“Thieves,” the Innkeeper states, from next to him. “As I’d said, my brother owns the Inn down the road, and he reports similar. Most likely they’ve cleared town after the hasty murder.”
Indeed, Roaches saddle and, in fact, entire tack are missing. As are the saddle bags containing Jaskier’s other purchases, spare clothes, trail food, and Jaskier’s travel cloak.
“This is my fault,” Jaskier says, suddenly.
The Innkeeper and Geralt turn to look at him.
“We knew about the thieves in town. You told me not to leave our valuables down with Roach, Geralt.”
“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt says.
Geralt looks back down at the stable boy. Cut down in youth. “Does he have family?” Geralt asks. Jaskier’s head snaps up.
“Yes. A mother, in the Outskirts, with two younger siblings. Father was killed in a dispute with a soldier last winter,” the Innkeeper supplied.
Geralt pulls his coin purse from his belt and hands it to the Innkeeper. “Be sure that she gets that.”
“Geralt--” Jaskier starts.
“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt says again, more sharply.
Geralt turns again to the Innkeeper. “We will need a healer for Roach, and a monster to kill to pay for it. Do you know of anyone looking for a monster killer?”
The Innkeeper runs his hand over the whiskers on his chin. “Could be. Heard that the Brickmakers were battling with a monster of sorts. You’d have to see the ferryman for boat passage. Through the swamp in the Druid’s Grove, it is. Perilous territory, to be sure. Full of drowners and the occasional bloedzuiger.”
The Witcher nods. “I’m familiar with the area. I’ll leave immediately. Inform the healer, if you will.”
“Sell the gifts,” Jaskier says, catching Geralt’s arm once the Innkeeper is out of earshot. He takes the sheathed dagger from his belt and the leather pouch and holds them out to Geralt. “The blacksmith can buy them back and melt them down. I know it won’t be enough to replace everything, but it will help.”
Geralt takes the items.
“I wish to accompany you. I know I’m not much help, but I want to try. I still feel like I have myself to blame,” Jaskier says.
The Witcher looks down at him. “I was going to ask you to come,” he finally said. “Ask the bar wench for some trail food, and I’ll gather supplies. We should head out immediately.”
Jaskier gave Roach a final pat, an apology of sorts, and she huffed in return.
They are well into the swamps, making their way through dense foliage, and ignoring the putrid smell. They had so far traveled in silence, even though Jaskier had chosen to carry his lute on his back. He isn’t in the mood for song, but had hesitated to leave it behind if the thieves remained.
The Witcher stops suddenly and turns to Jaskier. “I want you to wear the dagger,” he says.
Jaskier nods and begins to replace the sheath to his belt. “I get it, Geralt. I will try to be brave. I will try to be useful.”
Geralt takes a step toward Jaskier. “I don’t keep you with me for your usefulness.”
Jaskier laughs. “Thank goodness for that. But I am here so I might as well serve a purpose.”
The Witcher pins him with a look, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
“Why else would you continue to keep me around? Why do you allow me to follow you, surely making your life more difficult at every turn, Geralt? We both know that what you get from me sexually, you could get from any prostitute or beautiful mage, though they are more few and far between on the trail. There isn’t much else I provide these days, so why do you keep me?”
“Are you waiting for me to set you free? I do not own or seek to own you. And as for any ‘services’ you provide, none of that is a requirement of our relationship, Jaskier.”
Jaskier looks away. “I know that.”
“And as for prostitutes and beautiful mages, I know not one that would wash my hair in the bath humming soft tunes or hold me while I sleep, or allow me to hold them, or sing to me silly songs to pass the time.”
“I’m sure if you paid them enough-- ”
“Do not be obtuse, Jaskier. You asked me what you provide on our journeys. You provide me with peace. And with a gentleness I have maybe never known. In a world of violence, you are dulcet.” He waits a beat and for Jaskier to look at him then says, “And you are also often ridiculous in both physical and lyrical sense. Both amuse me, which I also found was needed in my life.”
“Well. I am glad that I can provide those things to you, Geralt.” He looks around the swamp, listening for a moment to the frogs and the flies. “That is my language of love. My gentleness. My song. I just perhaps thought that you recognized that and also were communicating love back, in your own way. In what you provide for me, in the form of safety, and acceptance.” Jaskier turns his back on Geralt. “You have provided what has felt like home to me, Geralt. Something I have not had in a very long time.”
“Jaskier--”
“No, Geralt. I cannot bear it. If we are meant to be friends, then friends we will be. That alone is too valuable to me to thwart, or to gamble away. Perhaps though, we should cut back on the more intimate of exercises in our relationship so as not to have my silly head run away with itself by misunderstanding your feelings on the matter.”
“Dammit, Jaskier!”
Jaskier spins to look at Geralt whose face is a wild thunderstorm of activity. “Might I, once, have the opportunity to speak my own mind and heart without being interrupted?”
Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, his head beginning to nod when Geralt is just . . . gone. In a wind. Through a portal? No, he can see now the wake of destruction leading into the dark of the trees beyond where his sight reaches.
“Geralt?!” Jaskier yells as he hurtles himself toward the broken copse of trees and foliage. His lute case banging against his back as he runs. Jaskier is no tracker and soon the wreckage looks no different from the damage done by, perhaps nature itself. The trees are so dense it blocks out whatever benefit he could receive from the moonlight.
He stands very still, trying to determine which direction the sounds of fighting are coming from, for it echos, in a disturbing way, from all sides. He hears it then.
“Jaskier! Help me!” Jaskier freezes, a shiver running the length of his spine. It sounds like Geralt. But, Jaskier is more clever than that. He recalls Geralt telling him that there are creatures who lure people to their deaths with their voices. Like a siren, except appealing because of its mimicry of familiarity, rather than mere generic beauty. A Crocotta, he called it. Part hyena, part human. Which parts, Jaskier wasn’t certain. He was certain that while he would always be willing to help Geralt, he had never once heard him ask for it. It was creepy.
Jaskier sets his lute on the ground, and then removes his dagger from the sheath on his belt. He turns in a slow circle, again trying to hear which way the fighting is occurring. Although now, he noticed that even the frogs had let go of their songs, and even the flies were holding their breath.
The trees explode to his left and he barely is able to lift his arms up to protect his face and neck as the creature slams into him teeth first. His dagger is knocked from his hand on impact. The jaw of the creature is impossibly large, unhinged, and several rows of teeth, all of which were clamping into his right forearm. The momentum has propelled him back until force of it is halted by the immovable trunk of a mighty oak tree slamming into Jaskier’s upper back and, unable to keep his footing, he slides to the ground.
Jaskier hears the crack of the bone in his arm before he even registered the pain. When the pain does register, it is so intense, it takes his breath away, and with it the ability to scream. A slight relief comes when the Crocotta unlocks his jaw, but then immediately dives again for Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier is able to dodge, or really it is probably more of a collapse but the Crocotta misses his mark and latches to his right shoulder. Jaskier’s voice rings out in pain this time, helpless as if the scream was torn from him along with his flesh. The beast again releases him, to go for the throat and Jaskier is too weak to move. This bite will surely be the last.
The beast is pulled backward, from Jaskier, by the scruff of his neck and a sword plunges straight through until it protrudes from the front of this throat.
Then Geralt is on him. Blood splatter on his face, but otherwise intact--no doubt the benefit of his armor.
Geralt’s hand goes to Jaskier’s shoulder, the worst of his wounds, and Jaskier’s shout is only a weak cry.
“I need to stop the bleeding, Jaskier. Stay with me.”
The blood is wet underneath him. Jaskier can feel it, as it pools beneath his neck and down his jacket. “I tried to be brave,” Jaskier says, though it only comes out in a whisper, his mouth dry as stone.
“You are always brave,” Geralt says, fiercely.
Jaskier is distracted then, by a thought of a song. The melody just beyond his reach. He looks for it. He hums, chasing notes. “Have mercy, mercy on me,” he sings softly. He hums through until the words come back to him. “And it’s only for the brave.”
“Jaskier! Jaskier Fucking dammit, Jaskier!”
Jaskier reaches up with the fingertips of his good arm, and touches Geralt’s face. “I would have liked to belong to you, Geralt. What an honor it’s been to call you home for these many years.” At least he thinks he says it. He sure some of those words come out. He hopes. He mouths the word ‘home’ one more time to be sure. Then goes back to humming the melody, determined to follow it wherever it leads him.
He feels more than sees Geralt lower his face onto Jaskier’s chest. The primal scream is muffled by the fabric there, but the vibration of it is felt throughout Jaskier’s body.
Over Geralt’s shoulders, Jaskier sees a man. Or a being, in a cloak. He approaches steadily. Jasker means to call out a warning. Though he’s unsure if it should be to Geralt, or to the man who might find himself run through by a sword if he startles Geralt in this state. But as he chases the melody, the blackness is chasing him.
A Druid, Jaskier thinks. What great luck to find a Druid in Druid’s Grove. Under an Oak.
And then everything goes black.
When Jaskier awakens many things occur to him all at once. He is warm, he is dry, and he is not alone. It also occurs to him, secondarily, that he is not dying or presumably already dead. Part of his reason being that something stinks, which, call him naïve, he didn’t thing would be case beyond heaven’s gates.
“Either I need a bath, or you do, Geralt,” Jaskier says.
The Witcher’s head snaps up from where it had been resting on the bed next to Jaskier, his body curved in what looked like an uncomfortable posture. He marvels a bit at the bard before seeming to remember he was spoken to. “Both, most likely. However, what you are smelling is the potions that the Druid has been pouring on your wounds for healing.”
Jaskier glances to his right arm which is, at the moment, heavily bandaged from top to bottom. He flexes his fingers and while he winces at the sting of pain, he is quite pleased to find he still has function.
The Witcher sits up fully at the bard’s noise of discomfort, and Jaskier’s eye catches on Geralt’s medallion. Or rather, his two medallions hanging around his neck. His Witcher medallion that he always wears, and the one Jaskier gifted him, with the lark and the dandelion.
“I thought you didn’t want to belong to me,” Jaskier says, indicating the medallion.
“I’m sorry that I made you think that. You have held my heart for many months, nay years, I suppose. I was merely hesitant only, that the lavish gesture might put you in danger, while the original intent of the gifts were to ensure your safety and well-being,” Geralt says.
“None of this life, of this land, of this time, can ensure my safety, Geralt.”
“Yes. But you are safest when you are with me.”
“True,” Jaskier says.
“And I am happiest when I am with you,” Geralt says.
Jaskier smiles. “Be still my heart, Witcher. Did you just profess to being happy?”
“Mmmm. Well, as happy as a Witcher can be, I suppose,” Geralt says.
“I am quite content, as well. I would be more content if you were to produce the wolf medallion and allow me to wear it,” Jaskier says.
Geralt does produce the medallion, and clasp it around Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier then feels his face break into a smile he cannot fight, nor would he want to.
“We are sweethearts now, Geralt. I may never be a great fighter, but I have been told I am a great lover.”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “I do not seek a great fighter in a partner. I wish for someone who complements me.”
“I compliment you all the time, I wrote an entire song about your lovely bottom,” Jaskier says.
“I meant--”
“I know what you meant, Geralt. I am the wordsmith in this relationship. Complement is to complete, or to add to, to make perfect. Only together we are complete, only together can we be perfect,” Jaskier says.
Geralt grunts his agreement.
“Now get up here and kiss me, you fool. And then find us a bath before that creepy Druid returns.”
“That creepy Druid saved your life and is traveling with a severed Crocotta head to collect our bounty from the Brickmakers,” Geralt says. “I had to kindly explain to him that while I am grateful, I would not leave your side, and his traveling to the Brickmakers was the only way to ensure his payment.”
“It’s funny, Geralt.”
“What is?”
“I am the one that is accused of being verbose and yet I am still being made to wait for a kiss while you blather.”
Geralt makes him wait no more.
Jaskier holds his bandaged arm above the lip of the copper tub. Behind him, Geralt struggles with his fingers in Jaskiers hair, soap flying this way and that.
“My eyes, Geralt!” Jaskier calls, as the froth runs toward his brow. Geralt empties a pitcher of water over Jaskier’s head. He squacks, indignantly, until they are both chuckling over the action. As Jaskier leans back into the broad chest of the Witcher, he still feels the vibration of his low laugh.
“I’m not as adept at this, as you,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s ear.
“Tut tut. Practice makes perfect, my love,” Jaskier says.
“I am well practiced in other endeavors, or so I am told,” Geralt says, both of his hands breaching the water line to encircle the bard’s waist.
“Be gentle, Witcher, I am still on the mend,” Jaskier says.
“I can be gentle. I have been known, on occasion, to speak your language.”
“Yes, Geralt.”
Geralt’s hands make their way lower, guided by the sweet sounds his bard is making. “Sing for me, Jaskier.”
He does.