Chapter Text
What starts as a normal journey turns to shit in a spectacular way very quickly.
They’re on their way to Yennefer’s current address. It’s more secluded than normal, and Jaskier is complaining very loudly about it all.
“We’re going to meet the most evil woman we know in the middle of nowhere,” he whines.
“You didn’t have to come,” Geralt reminds him, and Jaskier glares at him.
“I can’t very well leave you to be enslaved by her on your own!” he snaps back.
Geralt knows that they don’t hate each other as much as they let on. Sometimes, he almost thinks they might be friends, in a strange sort of way that he’ll never try to understand. That does not keep them from pretending they’re the worst of enemies in his presence, though, and he knows better than to argue.
Suddenly, their bickering is interrupted by an arrow that very narrowly misses the younger man. It sinks into the dirt in front of him as he stops short, before Geralt is jumping off of Roach and drawing his steel sword. The witcher easily parries the arrows that come at them now that their assailants no longer have the element of surprise, and it forces them out into the open.
Bandits. Of course it’s fucking bandits, who else would be stupid enough to attack a witcher in the middle of the woods?
Despite having to protect Jaskier as he fights them off, Geralt makes short work of the small group. There are only a handful of them, not really enough to fully surround them, and he keeps the bard between his own back and a large tree. One of them goes down directly in front of him, spraying him with blood from the slash he makes across her throat. With only one bandit left, trembling maybe ten feet in front of him, he feels that it’s safe enough to leave Jaskier on his own to take care of the last loose end.
After dispatching their last assailant with practised ease, Geralt bends down to wipe his blade on the clean patch of the dead man’s tunic before sheathing it. As he slides the sword home, he notices that Jaskier is unusually quiet, and turns to face him.
Jaskier’s hands are covering his mouth and nose, as if he’s afraid to breathe. His eyes are wide, staring at the bandit lying in front of him, gurgling her last breaths through the blood spilling from her mouth. Geralt has never seen him shake so badly, has never smelled fear on him like this. It doesn’t make sense. The bandits are all dead or dying, and Jaskier has seen bloodshed before. He has seen Geralt kill in self-defense before. Why is he afraid now?
“Jaskier?” he asks tentatively. He sees blood spilling from between Jaskier’s fingers, and it’s alarming. “You’re hurt,” he says, striding closer, but the trembling bard shakes his head.
“N-no,” he says, muffled by his hands. “It’s… fuck, Geralt, you have to believe me, I didn’t know it would happen like this — I thought it wasn’t going to happen at all!”
Now the witcher’s worry is topped with a healthy layer of confusion. “What do you mean? Thought what wouldn’t happen?”
“I-I need to get to Yennefer,” says the bard, which only adds to Geralt’s confusion and concern.
“What has Yen got to do with it?” he asks.
“She said she’d help when— if it happened,” Jaskier says.
Geralt is getting tired of this cryptic bullshit. “If what happened, bard?” he demands, and Jaskier flinches.
“Geralt, I can’t,” he says. “Not here, not now. We have to get moving, please, there isn’t time.”
“You will tell me on the way,” the witcher says firmly.
“Yeah. Yes.” He brings his hands away from his face, and Geralt sees that his nose is bleeding. A lot. Before he can ask — again — the bard tries to step forward and immediately falls. “Fuck’s sake,” he spits, trying and failing to push himself up with trembling arms.
“Here,” Geralt says, stepping closer and picking the bard up. He doesn’t know how else they’re supposed to leave, if Jaskier can’t even stand on his own, so he’s resigned to carrying him like he’s cradling an infant.
“It’s coming on faster than I thought,” Jaskier murmurs.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, trying very hard to be at least somewhat patient, “I am not going to ask again. What is happening?”
“I suppose I should have mentioned it,” the bard says evasively. “I’m… sort of becoming a vampire.”
The witcher glares at him. “Vampires are born,” he says, “you can’t just become one.”
The bard glares back. “No offense — strike that, a moderate amount of offense intended — but you don’t know fuck-all about this, witcher.”
“And you do, bard?”
“As a matter of fact, when one’s father is a higher vampire, one tends to know a thing or two about them,” Jaskier snaps.
Geralt almost drops him.
“Explain,” he says, adjusting his grip on the bard as he continues to walk at as brisk a pace as he can without jostling him.
“People don’t know much about higher vampires,” Jaskier tells him. “For good reason. They— we— don’t want the attention. So I swear, if you try to use this for your— your witchering, or if you tell anyone—”
“I won’t,” Geralt assures him.
“Fine,” answers the bard, deflating a little as his anger recedes. “When a higher vampire has a child, the child is, for all intents and purposes, human. At some point, that human child will take on the traits of their kind, a sort of… rebirth. It’s not… there’s no way to determine when it will happen, this coming of age. For me… I’m only half, and I’m nearly in my sixties. I thought that if it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. I’d assumed that I’d inherited my father’s longevity and nothing else.
“The change is… not pretty,” he continues, gritting his teeth in obvious pain. “Nor is it fun, I’ll have you know. Never have looked forward to it. Didn’t think it would take so fucking quickly. I think… the bandits’ blood might have set it off.”
“And the nosebleed?” Geralt asks, unconsciously clutching the bard tighter.
Jaskier gives a sort of tired, half-shrug. “Body’s remaking itself,” he murmurs like it’s no big deal. “Dying, sort of — like melting inside.”
The witcher really does not like the sound of that. He’s worried that they won’t make it to Yennefer’s place in time on foot, but he’s also pretty sure that he won’t be able to keep the bard on Roach. They were so close before this happened and now it feels so far away.
“What can Yen do about it?” Geralt asks. He isn’t sure which of them he’s trying to distract.
“Nothing really, during,” says the bard. “Mostly, need help with adjusting after. She can’t do much before that, except keep me inside. Quiet the screaming, if it comes to that. Maybe dull the pain — not counting on it, though. Still dying. Not forever, mind — but dying all the same.” He cries out in obvious pain, before biting back the sound. “Don’t wanna worry you. I-I’ll be fine a-after. Just h-hurts now,” he adds.
“I don’t like it,” Geralt growls.
Jaskier starts to laugh, but it quickly turns to coughing, and the blood that comes out with each cough is not a comfort. “That makes t-two of us,” he grits out.
Moments later, thankfully, he sees Yennefer’s current home in the distance. “Will you be okay if I run?” he asks.
The bard shrugs again. “Gonna hurt no matter what,” he answers. “Best to get there faster.”
As much as he doesn’t like it, Geralt does as the other says and starts running. He does his best to ignore the pained noises that Jaskier is making while cradled against his chest. Even though he was told not to worry, the word ‘dying’ repeats itself over and over in his head like a sick mantra. Jaskier is dying in his arms, painfully, and there is nothing he can do.
“Yen!” he bellows as he gets to the door. He’s not willing to let go of the other to knock, so he kicks at the door — not hard enough to break it down, but enough to make a solid thud.
Thankfully, moments later the door opens to a very annoyed-looking sorceress. “Geralt, do you have any idea what time—” she starts, snapping her mouth shut as she lays her eyes on the bard. “It’s happened, then?”
“Happening,” Jaskier corrects weakly. “Fast. Feels like shit.”
“Yes, I expect it would,” she says. Geralt doesn’t miss the concerned furrow of her brow. “Get him in here, he’s in for a long few days.”
“Days?” Geralt repeats, horrified.
“It could be up to a week,” Yennefer says. She’s already busying herself with vials and herbs and who knows what else.
“Won’t,” the bard grits out. “I can… feel it. Won’t drag out too long.”
“I suppose you’re one of the lucky ones, then,” the sorceress teases absently.
Jaskier makes a weak, wheezing sort of noise that is probably meant to be laughter.
“Set him down already,” Yennefer snaps at Geralt. She gestures vaguely and there’s a cot — he doesn’t think it was there before, but that doesn’t actually matter. As gently as he can, he sets the bard down on it. When he does, she turns and pins him with a piercing look. “Your hovering won’t be of any use,” she decides. “Here’s a list. Go make yourself useful and gather these.”
Normally, he wouldn’t be as accepting of being ordered around like this — and he doesn’t want to leave Jaskier alone when he’s in pain like this — but he knows she’s right. If he can be of any help, he wants to, and keeping busy will calm his thoughts.