Chapter Text
The death of summer crept in behind them like a ghost. Pale, cool fingers traced Geralt's cheek and stirred his hair, lifting away the last of the sun's warmth from his skin. The breeze left only a hint of woodsmoke, stolen from some far-off chimney. Every so often, golden autumn light dappled through the canopy onto the blue sky of Jaskier's doublet, but for the most part their path was shadowed by towering ancient firs. The shade had been so deliciously cool in midsummer, Geralt remembered. Now it felt like a thief.
The trees grew dense enough to muffle their world, shrinking it to only the path; the scuff of boots, the occasional far-off caw of a crow or soft whicker from Roach. The firs murmured overhead, a quiet creak of branches. It would have been peaceful, but for the bard.
"The only explanation I can find," Jaskier declared, one finger held aloft for emphasis, "is that something on this Continent, some - some arcane power, some otherworldly balancing force, has decided that I am too powerful, and this is the only way to give those poor wretched sods a chance. Which is true, I will acknowledge, I have a gift - but a well-honed, hard-won gift! Hours and hours, days and weeks and months of practice, of perfecting my craft -"
Geralt's breath was the softest sigh, barely audible even to his ears. He didn't realise it had left him until Jaskier whirled to face him, an aggrieved hand to his breast.
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I boring you?! I didn't think my suffering would be such a trial for you to bear. It's not like the future of my, my illustrious career is in dire straits, or anything..."
Exasperation plucked at Geralt's brow. He fought to keep his face a mask and almost won. The only slip was a minute tightening of the lips, a twitch so tiny that to notice it, one would have to be a witcher...
... or a travel companion of twenty years, who had - through sheer pigheaded stubbornness - learned to read every line of Geralt's weathered face.
But not always correctly.
"Are you - you're laughing at me! I knew you were a heartless bastard, but this-"
The bard's voice was rising in pitch and volume and Geralt winced, levelling a hand in plea. "Jaskier-"
"No, don't bother!" the bard spat, and Geralt blinked at the sudden vitriol. "I don't know why I expected you to care." Jaskier span on his heel and stalked off ahead down the forest path, dead pine needles crunching beneath his boots.
Frustration swelled in the witcher's chest. Something jerked at his hand and he realised he'd been gripping Roach's reins too tightly, to which she had - understandably - taken umbrage.
He let out a slow, controlled exhale, running his scarred palm down her muscled neck, worn leather bridle soft beneath his hand. The wind ruffled her wiry mane and Geralt's fingers tingled in the cool air. When Jaskier glanced back to scowl at him, the tip of his nose was delicately pink.
Autumn brought with it a festival that Geralt would dearly love to avoid. The drunken crowds, the noise and drink and smoke, the countless curious eyes fixed upon him... but Jaskier had been SO excited, jabbing at the map and telling him how the venue was directly on his favourite route back to Kaer Morhen, wasn't that just perfect? Geralt would have plenty of time to get back for winter, he'd said, eyes full of light, and besides, wouldn't it be nice to spend more time together before they parted, to have something good to remember through the cold months?
"Hmm," Geralt had replied, just to watch the way Jaskier's nose crinkled with fond exasperation. The fireplace had been warm beside them, and the room had smelled like spiced mead. In Geralt's view, there were already plenty of good things to remember.
Roach nudged the witcher's shoulder with her nose, sending a warm huff of breath down his neck, but Geralt's eyes didn't leave the distant figure. Jaskier's excitement had continued as expected, a constant jabber of planning and wondering who might be there, who might enter the competition, what should I sing, Geralt, what am I going to wear?! - but then it had taken on a strangely nervous edge, and the witcher couldn't figure out why.
Jaskier had a good voice. Geralt had spent enough time in taverns to know that most bards were considerably less talented. He'd never tell him, of course; the bard's ego might actually swell large enough to choke him, no djinn required. More's the point, he had never needed to. Jaskier knew how good he was, and he'd spent so many years bragging that it was very hard to believe he was now feeling insecure. But the nervous chatter had turned to fretting, and this had become so frequent and protracted that Geralt had actually begun to drop subtle, stilted hints of appreciation, hoping to soothe whatever had rattled the bard's nerves.
He was wary of going too far, convinced he'd never hear the end of any genuine compliment, but apparently needn't have worried; his opinion seemed poor currency these days. Jaskier flung each song aside as if searching for one specific shirt at the bottom of a cedar chest, strewing a chaos of melody behind them. He cycled through lyrics even Geralt had never heard, through harmonies so faintly familiar that they itched at the back of his mind, etched there from decades of mindless humming. It had been fascinating, at first, to hear the threads of each woven tune, but Jaskier had reached - and, impressively, maintained - a fever pitch of hysterical anxiety for several weeks now, and the urge to stuff the bard's notebook down his throat had grown accordingly.
This morning, Jaskier had sneezed - once - and all hell had broken loose.
"I honestly don't know how I'm supposed to perform in these conditions," the bard was muttering as Geralt drew closer, kicking sulkily at a clump of dead foliage. "I was already struggling with the passagio in 'Elusive', there's no way I can pull it off with this -" he flourished a limb angrily at his throat, sniffling for effect, "-bloody plague! Oh, sure, I could substitute 'The Stars', if I wanted Valdo fucking Marx to laugh me out of Redania..."
Roach snorted and Geralt adjusted his grip on the reins, giving her a warning look. The golden patterns playing across Jaskier's shoulders had faded beneath a fast-greying sky, and those heavy clouds promised a further dampening of the spirits. "Maybe you should rest your voice?" he offered carefully, scanning the brush for a likely campsite.
"Rest my-!" The bard's voice leapt an octave, and the witcher winced once more. "Geralt, how can I rest my voice when I need so badly to rehearse?! I suppose you think I can just waltz into an inn and pull a song out of thin air. Nobody has any respect for artists these days. Do you know how much work it takes to maintain these vocal cords, and now they're compromised...!"