Visiting Marilka - Chapter 1
Title: Visiting Marilka
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
Summary: Months after the mountain breakup, Geralt finds Jaskier performing in a tavern. Before Geralt can consider apologizing, the bard is interrupted by a messenger who notifies Jaskier that his father has died. Jaskier prepares to set off for Lettenhove to console his mother and siblings. Geralt gets caught up in the drama and accompanies Jaskier as he travels to his childhood home. On their journey, Geralt learns that a witcher’s Path needn’t have a predetermined destination.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.
-David Mitchell ~ Cloud Atlas
I want more.
Marilka ~ The Witcher - Episode 1
Geralt stood motionless at the top of the ridge. Fresh wyvern blood dripped from the harvested organs and claws that he had tucked away into a satchel tied to Roach’s saddlebag. A trail of poison followed the witcher from the jagged cliffs where the wyvern took its last breath to where he now stood high above the valley and the outskirts of Kovir.
For months, Geralt had wandered the lowlands of the Continent, seeking his way back to the Path of monster-hunting after what transpired on the mountain. The godforsaken mountain in Barefield had seen Geralt lose both Yennefer and Jaskier within moments of each other.
Witchers must travel alone, according to Vesemir’s sound advice.
Geralt had no choice but to believe.
With two swords on his back, a supply of potions in his kit, and the skills to dispatch monsters for coin, Geralt rarely strayed from the lessons he had learned in Kaer Morhen. They always had been taught for a reason. In this case, the departure of his companions after Borch’s truth-telling and Geralt’s angry words directed at Jaskier proved Vesemir a wise mentor.
Geralt’s hunger finally made it necessary to accept a contract. He needed coin to quell at least one of his aches. The pain that beat beneath his breast was less easily relieved than the starvation he forced upon himself. With muddy boots and armour in a state of disrepair, he led Roach from one town to the next, searching for contracts that would set him back on the life-long journey to fulfil a witcher’s purpose. He had driven off his only companions. They were sure to be better off without him. His angry words could never be forgiven.
Roach whinnied, impatient for Geralt to move.
In the dusky twilight, the candles glowed from the dirty windows of the town below. A cluster of buildings promised shelter for horses and wandering travellers. With his mutated eyesight, Geralt followed what few people meandered through the square. Like so many other towns, from Blaviken to Verdun, townsfolk gathered with friends and family to pass the early evening together in safety. Humans enjoyed the warmth of companionship. The dinner hour called to them, the dim glow of the tavern lights promising food and a bed for the hungry and weary. Such comforts of the Continent were seldom offered to a witcher. Geralt would take his leave as soon as he collected the thirty orens from the alderman.
The wind carried the sound of a plucked lute string.
From his perch above the valley, Geralt shook his head. He filed the sound away, attributing it to his imagination, a memory of a lifetime ago, although only a few months had passed since Geralt directed his outburst at the bard.
A drop of wyvern blood fell onto the ground, landing like a ruby on the rocky outcropping.
Geralt had quickly gutted the creature and harvested what he could use for his potions. The Path had been difficult in the months since he berated Jaskier. Wounds in need of stitching went untended by gentle hands and a sure needle. Scars formed, a testament to a witcher who had no choice but to look after himself, where once he had permitted intervention by a cheerful bard. It had been a mistake to allow Jaskier to follow him for so long. Witchers were never meant to travel with a companion. Geralt should have learned his lesson in Kaer Morhen. He wouldn’t forget it again.
The autumn wind carried another note from a lute across the valley.
Geralt focused, but the sound vanished when Roach swayed, thumping her great head against the witcher’s shoulder.
“You’re ready to go, girl,” Geralt confirmed the horse’s impatience. He reached for her mane. He dug his tattered gloves into the coarse hair, hoping to offer some semblance of comfort to the animal.
Red twilight streaked across the sky like rivulets of blood after a kill. The next day promised to be fair.
Geralt led Roach by her reins. They descended the rocky trail toward the town and the alderman’s office where Geralt could collect his coin. Geralt’s boots disturbed pebbles which skittered down the dark hillside. As they lost elevation, the overgrowth of greenery muffled any noise that might have come from the town’s only tavern. Neither the shouts of revellers nor notes played on a lute could penetrate the brush.
The trail levelled as Geralt led Roach deeper into the valley. At nightfall, the loose gravel turned to bright sand, visible even to a traveller without a witcher’s eyesight.
Somewhere ahead, a voice emanated from the dark, “Is that you, witcher?”
Geralt stopped in his tracks, halting Roach with a wave of his hand. Sand crunched beneath his feet. The wolf medallion that dangled from his neck remained still. No vibration alerted him to magic in the air, a call to wariness.
“Geralt?”
The witcher focused his amber eyes, pupils wide and black as coal in the fading light of the day.
No one had used his name in a very long time, not since a sullen Jaskier acquiesced that he would someday see him around.
“Show yourself,” Geralt demanded.
The waifish girl took three steps toward the hill. She wore a knitted shawl that covered her shoulders, her hair cropped short as if her parents had wished for a boy, only to react with dismay at the midwife’s proclamation of a female babe. The glint of a blade sparkled from beneath the collar of her roughspun shirt.
“I’ve been sent to look for you,” she said.
Deeming the girl no threat, despite her blade, Geralt asked, “And who sent you?”
The girl stepped up to Roach and petted her nose. “It’s more like I volunteered my services,” she said.
“I have no business with you,” Geralt assured her.
“No, but I plan to earn half a crown for giving you a message from the alderman.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.
The girl turned away and gazed toward the town. “He says to tell you he won’t be in his office when you return.”
“No?” Geralt asked, keenly aware that he did not want to be cheated out of payment for slaying the wyvern. “Where can I find him, then?”
“He’s in the tavern with half the population of the village,” the girl turned her head to call to Geralt before she trotted down the trail. “A famous bard is performing there tonight, and he didn’t want to miss it.”
Geralt tightened his grip on Roach’s reins. He watched the girl, surefooted upon her retreat as she scampered out of sight.
Geralt inhaled deeply. He considered the wyvern’s remains that Roach carried, proof that he had fulfilled his contract with the alderman.
A famous bard? With any luck, Valdo Marx would be in town. But Geralt was never one who luck smiled upon. Destiny had a habit of scorching him at every turn.
Another note from a lute shot like an arrow from the tavern to the scrubby woods.
Geralt muttered, “Fuck.”
~
Geralt pulled his hood over his head as he entered the tavern. Preparing to be entertained, a crowd of townspeople had gathered in the dingy establishment. Geralt quickly located the alderman, taking the man to the stable to view the contents of Roach’s saddlebag.
Pleased with the slaying of the wyvern that had plagued the livestock of the valley, the alderman insisted that Geralt enjoy a hot meal before departing. Few upstanding citizens, such as he, would look twice at a witcher, let alone offer hospitality to one, no matter that the monsters had been dispatched as requested.
Geralt reluctantly accepted the offer of a meal, although he would have preferred to go on his way after stuffing a saddlebag with some dried meat and cheese. But his curiosity about the bard’s performance tugged at him as effectively as the hunger for a hot meal did his belly.
The alderman, wanting to gain favour in the next election, stood by the door so he could greet each tavern-goer to share the news that the wyvern had been killed.
Settling on a bench in the darkest corner, Geralt sipped his ale and gobbled down the bowl of warm stew the barmaid offered. The flavour of salted broth and tender meat overwhelmed his senses and let him ignore the tavern’s atmosphere, the air ripe with piss and ale. He barely noticed the surge of the crowd when the strum on the lute strings demanded the patrons’ attention.
Musical notes, both familiar and foreign, drifted from a makeshift stage.
Geralt remained hidden as ever, in the dark, away from the raucous crowd. He watched the performance from above the rim of his tankard and through the gaps between the townspeople as they danced and clapped.
A feathered hat caught Geralt’s eye. The movement of hair, longer than Geralt remembered, mainly because it had been pulled back into a leather thong at the bard’s nape, proved this couldn’t be Jaskier. Geralt thought he knew Jaskier’s hair and every article of clothing in his possession. It hadn’t occurred to Geralt that the bard might have changed. This bogus entertainer was some other bard, although the way his fingers plucked the lute seemed familiar. Suspicion that this other bard had plagiarized Jaskier’s music raised a spike of anger in Geralt. The twenty-year habit of defending the bard’s talents did not die easily. But when the singing began, a heartfelt tune about an unrequited love, Geralt’s doubts vanished like raindrops falling onto a dusty road.
Jaskier wailed as he strummed the lute. In command of the crowd, the bard sang about the horrible garroter, jury, and judge that had ruined the poor lover for any other.
Geralt didn’t deserve this. He was not worthy of the bard’s songs of love. Not tonight, not ever. Once Geralt dared to believe that they were meant for him, but that was no longer possible now. Not after the words he spat through clenched teeth on a barren mountain. The Path of a witcher spread out before him, a path meant to be walked alone.
At least Jaskier looked well. He had obviously come into some coin, judging by the rich leather coat that swung at his heels as he danced around the room. The supple crimson of the leather hugged Jaskier’s torso like Toussaint’s finest red poured into a shapely glass. Filavandrel’s lute sounded better than Geralt remembered. Or perhaps the tunes were more polished from months of practice that went undisturbed by a witcher in need of stitches or a tangle of soaped white hair that begged for Jaskier’s nimble fingers.
Geralt had done Jaskier a favour by cutting him loose.
With a full belly, Geralt could step onto the Path once more. He decided he would stay for one more song, waiting until Jaskier moved to the opposite side of the room. He would make his escape unnoticed. He needn’t think about Jaskier again, now that he knew the bard had thrived without him. Geralt stood and hoisted his swords upon his shoulder.
“You’re not even going to say hello?” Jaskier asked, stepping into Geralt’s space.
The music had stopped and Jaskier seemed to appear out of nowhere. The tavern went silent. The scent of sage and bergamot wafted through the air. Only Jaskier’s words echoed amongst the clanging of tankards and the slide of dishes across the bar from the kitchen.
“I was just leaving,” Geralt said. He cursed the memories that took his attention from watching Jaskier’s location in the tavern. A moment’s lapse and the bard found Geralt as he prepared to leave him to his anguished tunes of lost love.
Jaskier licked his lips but said no more.
Geralt had no need to lie to Jaskier. If he stayed, he would only make things worse. Jaskier had every right to be furious with him.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, finding his voice as he swung his lute around to his back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You look well,” Geralt said awkwardly.
If a rush of humanity had flowed through Geralt’s veins, he would know that he owed the bard an apology. But Geralt was no human. For twenty years, he fought against the human desire to call Jaskier a friend. An apology would return them back to where they stood before the dragon hunt. Jaskier, with his heart on his sleeve, would insist on following Geralt on the Path again, seeking inspiration for his ballads and shanties. He may as well compose a dirge now. The Path was no place for a human. Geralt had excised himself from Jaskier’s life months ago, like a tumour cut from an ailing patient.
“Of course I do,” Jaskier said, straightening the collar of his long coat. “I always strive to look flawless. You should know that by now.”
“Your hair,” Geralt said, trying not to stutter. “It’s different.”
Certainly Jaskier’s locks had grown long in the months that he and Geralt had been apart, but the strands still fell in warm chestnut waves that looked soft to the touch. If anything, the way Jaskier had swept the hair from his forehead now made his eyes gleam like sapphires since his fringe no longer shadowed their brilliance.
Since the music had stopped, the tavern-goers dissolved into both quiet conversation and lively arguments during the break in the entertainment. Jaskier snatched a tankard of ale from a passing barmaid who brought a new round of drinks to anyone with coin to pay for it. He downed the ale without stopping for a breath.
Geralt watched Jaskier drink. Tension thrummed through the witcher like a lute string that had been strung too tight. He wanted to snap, to get some relief from the atmosphere of the tavern and seeing this new version of Jaskier in front of him. He hadn’t anticipated seeing Jaskier again, but he never expected that the bard would change his appearance so drastically.
“I’m glad you safely descended the mountain, I worried…” Geralt said, stopping from admitting that he had struggled sleeplessly for thoughts of the bard during the past months.
“As well you should have worried, mate,” Jaskier said, forcefully planting the tankard on the nearest table. “It’s not every day you denounce your best friend and leave him to wander down a mountain alone.”
“Jaskier…” Geralt began, but the words wouldn’t come. If he apologized to Jaskier, told him how lonely the Path had become without him, Jaskier would want to join him again. Geralt wasn’t worthy of the bard’s companionship. He would never ask for it again, not after the futility of allowing Jaskier to follow him for so many years.
Jaskier deserved someone who loved him. Someone brilliant and brimming with human emotion. Someone he could write songs about. Someone who he could grow old with-not a hundred-year-old scarred and irascible witcher.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jaskier said, hands on his hips. “I sulked around the old ruins of Sodden for a day or two before I hit the road again. It seems there are some places where my many talents are welcome.”
Geralt winced at the implication. He didn’t know how to deal with humans, least of all with a scorned bard. He growled softly to himself, cursing his inhumanity. He made no attempt to run for the door, nor to embrace Jaskier begging for his forgiveness, or anything in between. He barely noticed the hoofbeats of a horse and rider hurriedly approaching the town in darkness.
Jaskier tossed his hands in the air with a flourish. He brought the lute into position and prepared to launch into his second set of the evening.
Geralt looked up when the rider threw open the door of the tavern. He clenched his fists for want of a sword at the sudden intrusion in his dark corner.
“I’m here to see Jaskier, the bard,” the rider said. He removed his hat and bowed to the alderman, who hadn’t left the doorway since Geralt had shown him the remains of the wyvern.
Other tavern-goers continued their conversations, not paying the rider much attention. Jaskier’s patrons followed him toward the stage where he would perform.
“I have an urgent message for Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” the rider announced.
From across the tavern, Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. He slipped off his lute, leaning it against a chair. Striding through the crowd, he stopped when he reached the rider.
“I believe you are looking for me, good man,” Jaskier said.
“And urgent message, my lord,” the rider said, producing a rolled sheet of parchment.
Jaskier’s mouth opened in surprise. He took the parchment in hand and studied the wax seal that joined the scroll to itself.
Geralt caught the scent of anxiety wafting from Jaskier, his clothes, his hair, his skin. The seal bore the letter W pressed into the wax, or perhaps it was the letter M.
Jaskier pried away the wax seal that closed the scroll.
Geralt shifted his stance. Whatever the message, he wanted to leave the tavern at once. He had already caused enough strife in Jaskier’s life, he wasn’t about to cause more.
Jaskier opened the scroll carefully. A gaggle of tavern patrons swept by him, jostling the parchment as Jaskier read its message.
Geralt knew he should leave, but something about the straightening of Jaskier’s spine, the furrow between his eyes made Geralt stay. It couldn’t hurt to inquire what the message said.
“It’s from my mother,” Jaskier said, glancing from the parchment momentarily to meet Geralt’s amber eyes.
Geralt nodded. Geralt had never thought of Jaskier as having a mother and a father. He never mentioned them, or any of his family, before. Not that Geralt could recall. Geralt knew Jaskier had been raised as a minor noble, but that he had set off to become a travelling bard soon after graduating from Oxenfurt.
Jaskier chewed on his lip. He sniffled loudly and said, “My father is dead.”
~
Not since the mountain, and Borch’s revelation that drove Yennefer from him, did Geralt feel so torn. He wanted to reach out, to comfort Jaskier in his grief. But the two men had already become estranged from each other. It wouldn’t be fair for Geralt to hold Jaskier, to rub a gloved hand across his back, to squeeze his shoulders, the supple crimson leather melting beneath his witcher fingertips as he tried his best to provide some human comfort.
The words he had uttered through gritted teeth on a mountain in Barefield condemned him.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
Geralt had left no room for a rebuttal.
More than half of Jaskier’s life had been spent, wasted following Geralt from town to town. Jaskier wouldn’t live much longer before he became an old man, incapable of mustering the stamina to wander like a leaf on the wind. Geralt could hardly imagine the bard travelling between towns hoping for warm taverns and villagers who would spare a coin, dropping one into his lute case if the fancy struck them. He should spend his life doing something more worthwhile than following a witcher.
Geralt ensured Jaskier’s freedom, berating him, even though the bard had been his faithful travelling companion for so many years. Despite Jaskier’s ostentatious clothing and his unwillingness to limit his words, Geralt had confusedly accepted the companionship that Jaskier was willing to give. No one had ever treated Geralt in the way that the bard did, composing songs about Geralt’s feats. Those songs and their popularity went a long way toward changing the public’s perception of the witcher. No longer shunned, denied a room, cheated out of payment, and spat on at every turn, Geralt had every reason to be grateful for Jaskier.
He had come a long way from Blaviken.
But the tavern in Kovir felt like Blaviken all over again.
Geralt had shown Renfri that she could abandon her pledge to kill Stregobor. He gave her a way to escape-just as he showed Jaskier that he could travel the Continent alone as a wandering troubadour, without the witcher as a companion. The bard obviously did well for himself in the months that passed after they went their separate ways.
Geralt had given Jaskier a good reason to leave, banishing him with the harshness of his words.
It was a gift. Geralt gave Jaskier his freedom.
And yet, here they were.
“I’m sorry… about your father,” Geralt said, making sure to emphasize the last three words. There could be no misunderstanding about the reason for his apology.
Jaskier nodded in acknowledgement. He cleared his throat and said, “I need to go to Lettenhove, to comfort my mother, my sisters. I’m going to cut tonight’s performance short. I’ll leave here at first light.”
Geralt snorted. For Jaskier, first light usually meant sometime around noon.
A few of Jaskier’s more loyal patrons booed at the news.
Geralt made a fist and clasped it in the palm of his other hand. He intended to refrain from advancing toward the bard, stopping himself from offering an embrace or the comfort of his shoulder. Withholding comfort proved difficult. He cursed himself for wanting to slow Jaskier’s racing heartbeat, to wash the scent of worry from him. This was not what he intended when he set the bard free.
Geralt tried to convince himself this wasn’t about Jaskier alone. He told himself that he would have offered comfort to any fragile human if the occasion dictated.
Jaskier was no different than any other human Geralt came across on the Path.
For a man who had never spoken much about his family in the past twenty years, Jaskier seemed keen to visit them upon the death of his father. Perhaps there was money in it for him, although Jaskier never cared too much about coin, unless it was to hand it over to a tailor for an expensive new doublet.
Still, the loss of a parent would be difficult for a human to withstand. Geralt knew this because of his dealings with humans through the decades of his long life. He didn’t need to feel it in his absent heart.
Jaskier took a breath and quietly asked, “Were you going to stay here at the inn tonight?”
Geralt hadn’t planned to stay. He intended to collect his fee for the wyvern and find a spot to make camp in the woods outside the town. “I’m leaving,” he grumbled.
Jaskier’s lip trembled. “I understand,” he said.
If this had been a scene in a tavern months ago, Geralt could not imagine even having such a conversation. They would spend the night in a shared room, often times a shared bed. He would push his witcher tendencies aside to become soft for Jaskier. He’d heat a bath for the bard, and he wouldn’t complain when Jaskier wanted to pour all manner of fragrances into the bathwater, despite them overwhelming Geralt’s mutated senses.
But now, Geralt’s plan to give Jaskier his freedom had hit a snag that tangled him as thoroughly as a kikimora in a swamp overgrown with vines. He could only stand dumbly in the tavern, with no answer for the bard who seemed to have forgotten that Geralt had sent him away.
“If you change your mind, I’m in the second room on the left at the top of the stairs,” Jaskier said.
Geralt nodded, indicating neither that he would stay nor that he would go, only that he had heard Jaskier’s words.
The crowd in the tavern seemed blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had unfolded in Jaskier’s life. They pounded on the tables and stomped their feet, demanding to be entertained.
Geralt considered what Jaskier had told him about the room upstairs in the inn. He let his shoulders sink with a sigh. Although they had been apart for a few months, the familiarity Geralt had with Jaskier could not be forgotten in the span of a season.
Geralt believed that he had successfully pushed Jaskier away so he could find his own happiness. He wanted to turn away, to ride out of town, leaving Jaskier to find the success that his fame would bring him as he travelled the Continent. Geralt wanted to believe it was wrong to keep company with Jaskier again. He had finally mustered the strength to cut Jaskier from his life, sending him off for his own good, but now Jaskier seemed to need him again. They had spent twenty years together.
He had just lost a parent.
And he hadn’t even demanded that Geralt apologize for what he said on the mountain.
To spend one more night in his company was the least Geralt could do. Geralt owed him that much.
Besides, Geralt supposed he could do with a bath.
“Let me go take care of Roach first, and I’ll meet you up there,” Geralt said.
Jaskier brightened slightly. He took the stage and put forth a minimal effort for the rest of the evening. His second set consisted of a half-dozen of his most popular songs. They were so familiar to Geralt that the witcher could have played them on the lute himself.
~
Geralt stepped into Jaskier’s room and began to unbuckle his armour. The room contained a small bed, designed for one occupant. The ceiling pitched steeply toward the front of the inn. A small desk and chair sat against the shortest wall of the room beneath the angled ceiling. Against the rear wall, a low table was strewn with Jaskier’s belongings, familiar doublets, and notebooks. His bedroll lay haphazardly packed beneath the table.
The past months had taken a toll on Geralt’s supplies. He had hunted unsuccessfully for materials to replenish some of his potions. He reached into the saddlebag and, one by one, pulled out the bottles that contained the witcher’s elixirs. He pushed some of Jaskier’s things aside to make room and set each bottle onto the small desk. Liquid of various compositions filled a few bottles to the halfway mark, but too many bottles contained only a trace of the substances that once filled them.
There would be time to harvest the necessary components for the elixirs when he set off upon the Path in the morning.
In the centre of the room, a bath had been drawn while Geralt tended to Roach. He had tipped the stableboy an extra coin for providing the horse with comfortable quarters, fresh hay, and a thorough brushing. Geralt made the sign for Igni, heating the water to his preferred temperature. After stepping out of his armour and clothing, he sunk into the steaming bath.
Downstairs in the inn, Jaskier’s performance ended. The walls of the aging building shook as applause rang out for the bard. With any luck, Jaskier would set off from Kovir with a full coin pouch. The thought provided Geralt with relief that Jaskier could travel to Lettenhove without suffering too many inconveniences for lack of funds.
He leaned back to dip his hair into the bath. A good soak was just what he needed after the struggle with the wyvern. No injuries, no scars. He barely had any viscera to wash from his armour, although his sword could do with a good sharpening.
Minutes passed, time enough for Jaskier to enjoy a tankard of ale, a reward for a job well done. Geralt finished his soak and stood in the bath. Steam rose in soft waves off his shoulders. Since he barely dirtied the water, Jaskier might enjoy a soak for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time they had shared bath water. Geralt could be helpful and use a sign to reheat the water to the bard’s preferred temperature. There would be no need for the tavern girls to disturb them.
Geralt reached for a towel when he heard Jaskier’s boots on the stairway. He could distinguish the sound from a hundred different people as they tramped up a flight of stairs, such were the many times Geralt had heard the familiar boots and the bard’s distinctive gait.
The door opened as Geralt towelled off from his bath. He tied the sheet of linen around his waist, preserving some sense of propriety in front of the bard.
“Hey,” Jaskier said, entering the room. He let the strap from the lute case slip off his shoulder.
Geralt ran a hand through his white hair, tangled horribly from the lack of care he gave it during his soak.
“I left the water from the bath, in case you wanted it,” Geralt said. “It’s not very dirty.”
The walls and beams of the inn creaked as guests mounted the stairs and found the doors to their respective accommodations.
There was nothing unusual about the men sharing a room, but the awkwardness of their conversation after what transpired on the mountain made Geralt feel as if he had never met Jaskier before. He was a stranger to him, different in appearance, and different in mind than he had been in any other reunion that had played out in a tavern at winter’s end.
“Thanks,” Jaskier said, setting his lute in the corner of the room by the door. “I didn’t know whether you would come or not.”
Geralt grunted as he searched through the saddlebag for a shirt and braies that were clean enough to wear after his bath.
“I suppose a bath would do me good,” Jaskier said, shrugging off the long leather coat and arranging it on the back of the chair that accompanied the small desk.
“Hmm,” Geralt said, finding the shirt he sought and throwing it over his head. The rough linen stuck to his bath-dampened skin.
Jaskier pulled the chair out and tugged off his boots. “Although I would much prefer a bath for the pure luxury of a good soak, not because I hoped it would sooth me of the sadness about my father’s death.”
“Of course,” Geralt said. He unravelled the towel and tossed it to the floor, tugging his shirt low so it covered his thighs modestly. He quickly pulled on a pair of braies. “Would you like me to reheat the water for you?”
Jaskier looked listlessly at the bath. “I just want to sleep,” he said sullenly.
Geralt tilted his head. Usually Jaskier buzzed with energy when he returned to their room after a performance. But tonight, the mourning over his father’s death took him far away from their usual banter, something Geralt now realized he missed desperately since their parting on the mountain. Now, with Jaskier right in front of him, it seemed that the bard that Geralt knew so well was gone.
“I’ll take the floor,” Geralt said. He had no intention of sleeping anyway. He would spend a few hours in silent meditation, regaining the strength that had been depleted in the wyvern hunt.
“You don’t need to,” Jaskier said, undoing the only remaining button that held his chemise closed.
“Jaskier…” Geralt said. He faltered before he could say more.
Jaskier turned from Geralt. He walked to the tub and pulled a washcloth from the tub’s rim. Dipping the cloth into the water, he soaked it and wrang it out, twisting it between his hands.
Geralt averted his eyes, turning his attention to the potions on the desk.
Jaskier slipped out of his ruffled chemise and used the cloth to wipe his skin. Long strokes of the wet cloth ran down Jaskier’s arms. He manoeuvred the cloth across his back and dragged it from side to side to cleanse away the sweat from his performance.
Geralt fought to keep his eyes on the potion bottles. He turned each one, reading the faded words of the labels that had once been sharp and clear. The scent of sage and bergamot overpowered any scent coming from the potion bottles. He hadn’t realized that he missed seeing the long line of Jaskier’s back at the end of the day. The frilly chemises and extravagant doublets padded with embellishments, belied the strength of Jaskier’s arms, the toned muscle, and the firm unblemished skin.
“We have some things to talk about,” Jaskier said.
Geralt’s head jerked to give Jaskier attention. To his relief, Jaskier had donned a nightshirt, foregoing the bath.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Jaskier said with a half-hearted smile. “And I’m never at a loss for words.”
“I noticed,” Geralt grunted in affirmation.
Jaskier raised his arms and combed his fingers through his hair. He tugged at the leather thong, removing it and allowing his long dark locks to spill freely around his face.
“It’s understandable. The loss of your father has given you a shock,” Geralt said.
Jaskier stepped out of his trousers, wrinkling his nose when he tossed them onto the pile of Geralt’s soiled clothes.
Something as simple as combining their clothing for the launderess once seemed like the most natural thing in the world, but now the act was fraught with a sad nostalgia.
“Your clothes could do with a wash,” Jaskier said. “When was the last time you bathed?”
“It had been a while,” Geralt said with a sigh.
Exasperated, Jaskier looked to the ceiling.
“The wyvern guts added to what was already there,” Geralt said, as if it provided a good excuse for not caring for his belongings.
Jaskier walked from the tub to the bed and sat wearily upon the straw-stuffed mattress. “When I was a child, we used to have a dog that would roll in shit, every chance he got,” he began.
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged, not remembering Jaskier mentioning a dog, or any kind of pet, before.
“His name was Baron-one of my sisters named him-because he ruled over us kids like a lordling,” Jaskier said with a small laugh. “He would find droppings from any horse that visited our village. He’d roll in it and come home stinking of shit.”
Geralt snorted. Surely his clothing and armour didn’t smell that bad. But perhaps he was accustomed to the smell of death that came from hunting monsters.
“My mother didn’t get angry about it though,” Jaskier said. “No. She would bathe the dog and comb his fur until it was clean, no matter how shit-encrusted he got.”
“She wasn’t a typical mother,” Geralt said with a nod.
For a moment Geralt craved such stories about Jaskier’s mother. They somehow brought him closer to Jaskier’s world. His world had always existed during the time they travelled together, but Geralt never bothered to learn very much about the bard.
“No, it turned out, she often mistreated animals when she was a kid-she admitted this to us,” Jaskier said waving his hands to make his point. “Bathing old shitty Baron… this was her way of making up for it.”
“People change,” Geralt sighed.
“They do, thank Melitele,” Jaskier tutted. “Baron! I haven’t thought of him in years. But the stink of your clothes made me remember. My mother always did a good job of caring for things, animals, and people. She’ll miss my father terribly.”
Geralt hadn’t heard Jaskier mention his family more than a handful of times in the years that they travelled together. Jaskier always showed a great interest in Geralt’s tales of the Trial of the Grasses, Kaer Morhen, and his monster hunting. Geralt regretted not asking more about Jaskier’s life when he had the opportunity. He had heard of Lettenhove, of course, but it seemed like someplace Jaskier made up, just to prove he had roots like any other human.
“You should get some sleep if you are to leave for Lettenhove in the morning,” Geralt said.
“And you must need some sleep after battling a wyvern,” Jaskier said.
“The wyvern… how did you know about it?” Geralt asked.
“Word travels in a small place like Kovir,” Jaskier said.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He rested his fingers on the desk and looked aimlessly at the potion bottles.
“The alderman told me he had called for a witcher,” Jaskier said, studying the hem of his nightshirt. “I was hoping-”
“I’m only staying until tomorrow,” Geralt said.
“I know,” Jaskier said quietly.
Geralt watched as Jaskier snuffed out the candle beside the bed. He settled on the floor where he would spend the night in meditation.
Jaskier tossed one of the bed pillows onto the floor beside Geralt.
Geralt snorted in appreciation that the bard had sacrificed some of his comfort for the feeling that he was helping his old friend.
But they weren’t friends anymore. Maybe they never had been.
~
Author: gwyllion
Genre: Canon era
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia | Geralt z Rivii/Jaskier |Dandelion
Rating: R
Words: 57,262
Warnings: Brief mention of sexual desires by an underaged minor character. Genderfluid minor character.
Summary: Months after the mountain breakup, Geralt finds Jaskier performing in a tavern. Before Geralt can consider apologizing, the bard is interrupted by a messenger who notifies Jaskier that his father has died. Jaskier prepares to set off for Lettenhove to console his mother and siblings. Geralt gets caught up in the drama and accompanies Jaskier as he travels to his childhood home. On their journey, Geralt learns that a witcher’s Path needn’t have a predetermined destination.
A/N: Visiting Marilka was written for the 2021 Witcher Big Bang. Thanks to my artist, Rogue Pyrola whose awesome artwork can be seen below, seren and the Witcher Big Bang mod team, and my wonderful beta Gillian who always makes my writing better. Thanks to The Witcher’s author, showrunners, and actors, (especially Mia McKenna-Bruce!), who inspire us to make more art.
This fic is dedicated to Nathan, who conceived it to be so.
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so.
-David Mitchell ~ Cloud Atlas
I want more.
Marilka ~ The Witcher - Episode 1
Geralt stood motionless at the top of the ridge. Fresh wyvern blood dripped from the harvested organs and claws that he had tucked away into a satchel tied to Roach’s saddlebag. A trail of poison followed the witcher from the jagged cliffs where the wyvern took its last breath to where he now stood high above the valley and the outskirts of Kovir.
For months, Geralt had wandered the lowlands of the Continent, seeking his way back to the Path of monster-hunting after what transpired on the mountain. The godforsaken mountain in Barefield had seen Geralt lose both Yennefer and Jaskier within moments of each other.
Witchers must travel alone, according to Vesemir’s sound advice.
Geralt had no choice but to believe.
With two swords on his back, a supply of potions in his kit, and the skills to dispatch monsters for coin, Geralt rarely strayed from the lessons he had learned in Kaer Morhen. They always had been taught for a reason. In this case, the departure of his companions after Borch’s truth-telling and Geralt’s angry words directed at Jaskier proved Vesemir a wise mentor.
Geralt’s hunger finally made it necessary to accept a contract. He needed coin to quell at least one of his aches. The pain that beat beneath his breast was less easily relieved than the starvation he forced upon himself. With muddy boots and armour in a state of disrepair, he led Roach from one town to the next, searching for contracts that would set him back on the life-long journey to fulfil a witcher’s purpose. He had driven off his only companions. They were sure to be better off without him. His angry words could never be forgiven.
Roach whinnied, impatient for Geralt to move.
In the dusky twilight, the candles glowed from the dirty windows of the town below. A cluster of buildings promised shelter for horses and wandering travellers. With his mutated eyesight, Geralt followed what few people meandered through the square. Like so many other towns, from Blaviken to Verdun, townsfolk gathered with friends and family to pass the early evening together in safety. Humans enjoyed the warmth of companionship. The dinner hour called to them, the dim glow of the tavern lights promising food and a bed for the hungry and weary. Such comforts of the Continent were seldom offered to a witcher. Geralt would take his leave as soon as he collected the thirty orens from the alderman.
The wind carried the sound of a plucked lute string.
From his perch above the valley, Geralt shook his head. He filed the sound away, attributing it to his imagination, a memory of a lifetime ago, although only a few months had passed since Geralt directed his outburst at the bard.
A drop of wyvern blood fell onto the ground, landing like a ruby on the rocky outcropping.
Geralt had quickly gutted the creature and harvested what he could use for his potions. The Path had been difficult in the months since he berated Jaskier. Wounds in need of stitching went untended by gentle hands and a sure needle. Scars formed, a testament to a witcher who had no choice but to look after himself, where once he had permitted intervention by a cheerful bard. It had been a mistake to allow Jaskier to follow him for so long. Witchers were never meant to travel with a companion. Geralt should have learned his lesson in Kaer Morhen. He wouldn’t forget it again.
The autumn wind carried another note from a lute across the valley.
Geralt focused, but the sound vanished when Roach swayed, thumping her great head against the witcher’s shoulder.
“You’re ready to go, girl,” Geralt confirmed the horse’s impatience. He reached for her mane. He dug his tattered gloves into the coarse hair, hoping to offer some semblance of comfort to the animal.
Red twilight streaked across the sky like rivulets of blood after a kill. The next day promised to be fair.
Geralt led Roach by her reins. They descended the rocky trail toward the town and the alderman’s office where Geralt could collect his coin. Geralt’s boots disturbed pebbles which skittered down the dark hillside. As they lost elevation, the overgrowth of greenery muffled any noise that might have come from the town’s only tavern. Neither the shouts of revellers nor notes played on a lute could penetrate the brush.
The trail levelled as Geralt led Roach deeper into the valley. At nightfall, the loose gravel turned to bright sand, visible even to a traveller without a witcher’s eyesight.
Somewhere ahead, a voice emanated from the dark, “Is that you, witcher?”
Geralt stopped in his tracks, halting Roach with a wave of his hand. Sand crunched beneath his feet. The wolf medallion that dangled from his neck remained still. No vibration alerted him to magic in the air, a call to wariness.
“Geralt?”
The witcher focused his amber eyes, pupils wide and black as coal in the fading light of the day.
No one had used his name in a very long time, not since a sullen Jaskier acquiesced that he would someday see him around.
“Show yourself,” Geralt demanded.
The waifish girl took three steps toward the hill. She wore a knitted shawl that covered her shoulders, her hair cropped short as if her parents had wished for a boy, only to react with dismay at the midwife’s proclamation of a female babe. The glint of a blade sparkled from beneath the collar of her roughspun shirt.
“I’ve been sent to look for you,” she said.
Deeming the girl no threat, despite her blade, Geralt asked, “And who sent you?”
The girl stepped up to Roach and petted her nose. “It’s more like I volunteered my services,” she said.
“I have no business with you,” Geralt assured her.
“No, but I plan to earn half a crown for giving you a message from the alderman.”
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.
The girl turned away and gazed toward the town. “He says to tell you he won’t be in his office when you return.”
“No?” Geralt asked, keenly aware that he did not want to be cheated out of payment for slaying the wyvern. “Where can I find him, then?”
“He’s in the tavern with half the population of the village,” the girl turned her head to call to Geralt before she trotted down the trail. “A famous bard is performing there tonight, and he didn’t want to miss it.”
Geralt tightened his grip on Roach’s reins. He watched the girl, surefooted upon her retreat as she scampered out of sight.
Geralt inhaled deeply. He considered the wyvern’s remains that Roach carried, proof that he had fulfilled his contract with the alderman.
A famous bard? With any luck, Valdo Marx would be in town. But Geralt was never one who luck smiled upon. Destiny had a habit of scorching him at every turn.
Another note from a lute shot like an arrow from the tavern to the scrubby woods.
Geralt muttered, “Fuck.”
~
Geralt pulled his hood over his head as he entered the tavern. Preparing to be entertained, a crowd of townspeople had gathered in the dingy establishment. Geralt quickly located the alderman, taking the man to the stable to view the contents of Roach’s saddlebag.
Pleased with the slaying of the wyvern that had plagued the livestock of the valley, the alderman insisted that Geralt enjoy a hot meal before departing. Few upstanding citizens, such as he, would look twice at a witcher, let alone offer hospitality to one, no matter that the monsters had been dispatched as requested.
Geralt reluctantly accepted the offer of a meal, although he would have preferred to go on his way after stuffing a saddlebag with some dried meat and cheese. But his curiosity about the bard’s performance tugged at him as effectively as the hunger for a hot meal did his belly.
The alderman, wanting to gain favour in the next election, stood by the door so he could greet each tavern-goer to share the news that the wyvern had been killed.
Settling on a bench in the darkest corner, Geralt sipped his ale and gobbled down the bowl of warm stew the barmaid offered. The flavour of salted broth and tender meat overwhelmed his senses and let him ignore the tavern’s atmosphere, the air ripe with piss and ale. He barely noticed the surge of the crowd when the strum on the lute strings demanded the patrons’ attention.
Musical notes, both familiar and foreign, drifted from a makeshift stage.
Geralt remained hidden as ever, in the dark, away from the raucous crowd. He watched the performance from above the rim of his tankard and through the gaps between the townspeople as they danced and clapped.
A feathered hat caught Geralt’s eye. The movement of hair, longer than Geralt remembered, mainly because it had been pulled back into a leather thong at the bard’s nape, proved this couldn’t be Jaskier. Geralt thought he knew Jaskier’s hair and every article of clothing in his possession. It hadn’t occurred to Geralt that the bard might have changed. This bogus entertainer was some other bard, although the way his fingers plucked the lute seemed familiar. Suspicion that this other bard had plagiarized Jaskier’s music raised a spike of anger in Geralt. The twenty-year habit of defending the bard’s talents did not die easily. But when the singing began, a heartfelt tune about an unrequited love, Geralt’s doubts vanished like raindrops falling onto a dusty road.
Jaskier wailed as he strummed the lute. In command of the crowd, the bard sang about the horrible garroter, jury, and judge that had ruined the poor lover for any other.
Geralt didn’t deserve this. He was not worthy of the bard’s songs of love. Not tonight, not ever. Once Geralt dared to believe that they were meant for him, but that was no longer possible now. Not after the words he spat through clenched teeth on a barren mountain. The Path of a witcher spread out before him, a path meant to be walked alone.
At least Jaskier looked well. He had obviously come into some coin, judging by the rich leather coat that swung at his heels as he danced around the room. The supple crimson of the leather hugged Jaskier’s torso like Toussaint’s finest red poured into a shapely glass. Filavandrel’s lute sounded better than Geralt remembered. Or perhaps the tunes were more polished from months of practice that went undisturbed by a witcher in need of stitches or a tangle of soaped white hair that begged for Jaskier’s nimble fingers.
Geralt had done Jaskier a favour by cutting him loose.
With a full belly, Geralt could step onto the Path once more. He decided he would stay for one more song, waiting until Jaskier moved to the opposite side of the room. He would make his escape unnoticed. He needn’t think about Jaskier again, now that he knew the bard had thrived without him. Geralt stood and hoisted his swords upon his shoulder.
“You’re not even going to say hello?” Jaskier asked, stepping into Geralt’s space.
The music had stopped and Jaskier seemed to appear out of nowhere. The tavern went silent. The scent of sage and bergamot wafted through the air. Only Jaskier’s words echoed amongst the clanging of tankards and the slide of dishes across the bar from the kitchen.
“I was just leaving,” Geralt said. He cursed the memories that took his attention from watching Jaskier’s location in the tavern. A moment’s lapse and the bard found Geralt as he prepared to leave him to his anguished tunes of lost love.
Jaskier licked his lips but said no more.
Geralt had no need to lie to Jaskier. If he stayed, he would only make things worse. Jaskier had every right to be furious with him.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, finding his voice as he swung his lute around to his back. “It’s good to see you.”
“You look well,” Geralt said awkwardly.
If a rush of humanity had flowed through Geralt’s veins, he would know that he owed the bard an apology. But Geralt was no human. For twenty years, he fought against the human desire to call Jaskier a friend. An apology would return them back to where they stood before the dragon hunt. Jaskier, with his heart on his sleeve, would insist on following Geralt on the Path again, seeking inspiration for his ballads and shanties. He may as well compose a dirge now. The Path was no place for a human. Geralt had excised himself from Jaskier’s life months ago, like a tumour cut from an ailing patient.
“Of course I do,” Jaskier said, straightening the collar of his long coat. “I always strive to look flawless. You should know that by now.”
“Your hair,” Geralt said, trying not to stutter. “It’s different.”
Certainly Jaskier’s locks had grown long in the months that he and Geralt had been apart, but the strands still fell in warm chestnut waves that looked soft to the touch. If anything, the way Jaskier had swept the hair from his forehead now made his eyes gleam like sapphires since his fringe no longer shadowed their brilliance.
Since the music had stopped, the tavern-goers dissolved into both quiet conversation and lively arguments during the break in the entertainment. Jaskier snatched a tankard of ale from a passing barmaid who brought a new round of drinks to anyone with coin to pay for it. He downed the ale without stopping for a breath.
Geralt watched Jaskier drink. Tension thrummed through the witcher like a lute string that had been strung too tight. He wanted to snap, to get some relief from the atmosphere of the tavern and seeing this new version of Jaskier in front of him. He hadn’t anticipated seeing Jaskier again, but he never expected that the bard would change his appearance so drastically.
“I’m glad you safely descended the mountain, I worried…” Geralt said, stopping from admitting that he had struggled sleeplessly for thoughts of the bard during the past months.
“As well you should have worried, mate,” Jaskier said, forcefully planting the tankard on the nearest table. “It’s not every day you denounce your best friend and leave him to wander down a mountain alone.”
“Jaskier…” Geralt began, but the words wouldn’t come. If he apologized to Jaskier, told him how lonely the Path had become without him, Jaskier would want to join him again. Geralt wasn’t worthy of the bard’s companionship. He would never ask for it again, not after the futility of allowing Jaskier to follow him for so many years.
Jaskier deserved someone who loved him. Someone brilliant and brimming with human emotion. Someone he could write songs about. Someone who he could grow old with-not a hundred-year-old scarred and irascible witcher.
“Don’t worry about me,” Jaskier said, hands on his hips. “I sulked around the old ruins of Sodden for a day or two before I hit the road again. It seems there are some places where my many talents are welcome.”
Geralt winced at the implication. He didn’t know how to deal with humans, least of all with a scorned bard. He growled softly to himself, cursing his inhumanity. He made no attempt to run for the door, nor to embrace Jaskier begging for his forgiveness, or anything in between. He barely noticed the hoofbeats of a horse and rider hurriedly approaching the town in darkness.
Jaskier tossed his hands in the air with a flourish. He brought the lute into position and prepared to launch into his second set of the evening.
Geralt looked up when the rider threw open the door of the tavern. He clenched his fists for want of a sword at the sudden intrusion in his dark corner.
“I’m here to see Jaskier, the bard,” the rider said. He removed his hat and bowed to the alderman, who hadn’t left the doorway since Geralt had shown him the remains of the wyvern.
Other tavern-goers continued their conversations, not paying the rider much attention. Jaskier’s patrons followed him toward the stage where he would perform.
“I have an urgent message for Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” the rider announced.
From across the tavern, Jaskier’s eyes narrowed. He slipped off his lute, leaning it against a chair. Striding through the crowd, he stopped when he reached the rider.
“I believe you are looking for me, good man,” Jaskier said.
“And urgent message, my lord,” the rider said, producing a rolled sheet of parchment.
Jaskier’s mouth opened in surprise. He took the parchment in hand and studied the wax seal that joined the scroll to itself.
Geralt caught the scent of anxiety wafting from Jaskier, his clothes, his hair, his skin. The seal bore the letter W pressed into the wax, or perhaps it was the letter M.
Jaskier pried away the wax seal that closed the scroll.
Geralt shifted his stance. Whatever the message, he wanted to leave the tavern at once. He had already caused enough strife in Jaskier’s life, he wasn’t about to cause more.
Jaskier opened the scroll carefully. A gaggle of tavern patrons swept by him, jostling the parchment as Jaskier read its message.
Geralt knew he should leave, but something about the straightening of Jaskier’s spine, the furrow between his eyes made Geralt stay. It couldn’t hurt to inquire what the message said.
“It’s from my mother,” Jaskier said, glancing from the parchment momentarily to meet Geralt’s amber eyes.
Geralt nodded. Geralt had never thought of Jaskier as having a mother and a father. He never mentioned them, or any of his family, before. Not that Geralt could recall. Geralt knew Jaskier had been raised as a minor noble, but that he had set off to become a travelling bard soon after graduating from Oxenfurt.
Jaskier chewed on his lip. He sniffled loudly and said, “My father is dead.”
~
Not since the mountain, and Borch’s revelation that drove Yennefer from him, did Geralt feel so torn. He wanted to reach out, to comfort Jaskier in his grief. But the two men had already become estranged from each other. It wouldn’t be fair for Geralt to hold Jaskier, to rub a gloved hand across his back, to squeeze his shoulders, the supple crimson leather melting beneath his witcher fingertips as he tried his best to provide some human comfort.
The words he had uttered through gritted teeth on a mountain in Barefield condemned him.
“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”
Geralt had left no room for a rebuttal.
More than half of Jaskier’s life had been spent, wasted following Geralt from town to town. Jaskier wouldn’t live much longer before he became an old man, incapable of mustering the stamina to wander like a leaf on the wind. Geralt could hardly imagine the bard travelling between towns hoping for warm taverns and villagers who would spare a coin, dropping one into his lute case if the fancy struck them. He should spend his life doing something more worthwhile than following a witcher.
Geralt ensured Jaskier’s freedom, berating him, even though the bard had been his faithful travelling companion for so many years. Despite Jaskier’s ostentatious clothing and his unwillingness to limit his words, Geralt had confusedly accepted the companionship that Jaskier was willing to give. No one had ever treated Geralt in the way that the bard did, composing songs about Geralt’s feats. Those songs and their popularity went a long way toward changing the public’s perception of the witcher. No longer shunned, denied a room, cheated out of payment, and spat on at every turn, Geralt had every reason to be grateful for Jaskier.
He had come a long way from Blaviken.
But the tavern in Kovir felt like Blaviken all over again.
Geralt had shown Renfri that she could abandon her pledge to kill Stregobor. He gave her a way to escape-just as he showed Jaskier that he could travel the Continent alone as a wandering troubadour, without the witcher as a companion. The bard obviously did well for himself in the months that passed after they went their separate ways.
Geralt had given Jaskier a good reason to leave, banishing him with the harshness of his words.
It was a gift. Geralt gave Jaskier his freedom.
And yet, here they were.
“I’m sorry… about your father,” Geralt said, making sure to emphasize the last three words. There could be no misunderstanding about the reason for his apology.
Jaskier nodded in acknowledgement. He cleared his throat and said, “I need to go to Lettenhove, to comfort my mother, my sisters. I’m going to cut tonight’s performance short. I’ll leave here at first light.”
Geralt snorted. For Jaskier, first light usually meant sometime around noon.
A few of Jaskier’s more loyal patrons booed at the news.
Geralt made a fist and clasped it in the palm of his other hand. He intended to refrain from advancing toward the bard, stopping himself from offering an embrace or the comfort of his shoulder. Withholding comfort proved difficult. He cursed himself for wanting to slow Jaskier’s racing heartbeat, to wash the scent of worry from him. This was not what he intended when he set the bard free.
Geralt tried to convince himself this wasn’t about Jaskier alone. He told himself that he would have offered comfort to any fragile human if the occasion dictated.
Jaskier was no different than any other human Geralt came across on the Path.
For a man who had never spoken much about his family in the past twenty years, Jaskier seemed keen to visit them upon the death of his father. Perhaps there was money in it for him, although Jaskier never cared too much about coin, unless it was to hand it over to a tailor for an expensive new doublet.
Still, the loss of a parent would be difficult for a human to withstand. Geralt knew this because of his dealings with humans through the decades of his long life. He didn’t need to feel it in his absent heart.
Jaskier took a breath and quietly asked, “Were you going to stay here at the inn tonight?”
Geralt hadn’t planned to stay. He intended to collect his fee for the wyvern and find a spot to make camp in the woods outside the town. “I’m leaving,” he grumbled.
Jaskier’s lip trembled. “I understand,” he said.
If this had been a scene in a tavern months ago, Geralt could not imagine even having such a conversation. They would spend the night in a shared room, often times a shared bed. He would push his witcher tendencies aside to become soft for Jaskier. He’d heat a bath for the bard, and he wouldn’t complain when Jaskier wanted to pour all manner of fragrances into the bathwater, despite them overwhelming Geralt’s mutated senses.
But now, Geralt’s plan to give Jaskier his freedom had hit a snag that tangled him as thoroughly as a kikimora in a swamp overgrown with vines. He could only stand dumbly in the tavern, with no answer for the bard who seemed to have forgotten that Geralt had sent him away.
“If you change your mind, I’m in the second room on the left at the top of the stairs,” Jaskier said.
Geralt nodded, indicating neither that he would stay nor that he would go, only that he had heard Jaskier’s words.
The crowd in the tavern seemed blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had unfolded in Jaskier’s life. They pounded on the tables and stomped their feet, demanding to be entertained.
Geralt considered what Jaskier had told him about the room upstairs in the inn. He let his shoulders sink with a sigh. Although they had been apart for a few months, the familiarity Geralt had with Jaskier could not be forgotten in the span of a season.
Geralt believed that he had successfully pushed Jaskier away so he could find his own happiness. He wanted to turn away, to ride out of town, leaving Jaskier to find the success that his fame would bring him as he travelled the Continent. Geralt wanted to believe it was wrong to keep company with Jaskier again. He had finally mustered the strength to cut Jaskier from his life, sending him off for his own good, but now Jaskier seemed to need him again. They had spent twenty years together.
He had just lost a parent.
And he hadn’t even demanded that Geralt apologize for what he said on the mountain.
To spend one more night in his company was the least Geralt could do. Geralt owed him that much.
Besides, Geralt supposed he could do with a bath.
“Let me go take care of Roach first, and I’ll meet you up there,” Geralt said.
Jaskier brightened slightly. He took the stage and put forth a minimal effort for the rest of the evening. His second set consisted of a half-dozen of his most popular songs. They were so familiar to Geralt that the witcher could have played them on the lute himself.
~
Geralt stepped into Jaskier’s room and began to unbuckle his armour. The room contained a small bed, designed for one occupant. The ceiling pitched steeply toward the front of the inn. A small desk and chair sat against the shortest wall of the room beneath the angled ceiling. Against the rear wall, a low table was strewn with Jaskier’s belongings, familiar doublets, and notebooks. His bedroll lay haphazardly packed beneath the table.
The past months had taken a toll on Geralt’s supplies. He had hunted unsuccessfully for materials to replenish some of his potions. He reached into the saddlebag and, one by one, pulled out the bottles that contained the witcher’s elixirs. He pushed some of Jaskier’s things aside to make room and set each bottle onto the small desk. Liquid of various compositions filled a few bottles to the halfway mark, but too many bottles contained only a trace of the substances that once filled them.
There would be time to harvest the necessary components for the elixirs when he set off upon the Path in the morning.
In the centre of the room, a bath had been drawn while Geralt tended to Roach. He had tipped the stableboy an extra coin for providing the horse with comfortable quarters, fresh hay, and a thorough brushing. Geralt made the sign for Igni, heating the water to his preferred temperature. After stepping out of his armour and clothing, he sunk into the steaming bath.
Downstairs in the inn, Jaskier’s performance ended. The walls of the aging building shook as applause rang out for the bard. With any luck, Jaskier would set off from Kovir with a full coin pouch. The thought provided Geralt with relief that Jaskier could travel to Lettenhove without suffering too many inconveniences for lack of funds.
He leaned back to dip his hair into the bath. A good soak was just what he needed after the struggle with the wyvern. No injuries, no scars. He barely had any viscera to wash from his armour, although his sword could do with a good sharpening.
Minutes passed, time enough for Jaskier to enjoy a tankard of ale, a reward for a job well done. Geralt finished his soak and stood in the bath. Steam rose in soft waves off his shoulders. Since he barely dirtied the water, Jaskier might enjoy a soak for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time they had shared bath water. Geralt could be helpful and use a sign to reheat the water to the bard’s preferred temperature. There would be no need for the tavern girls to disturb them.
Geralt reached for a towel when he heard Jaskier’s boots on the stairway. He could distinguish the sound from a hundred different people as they tramped up a flight of stairs, such were the many times Geralt had heard the familiar boots and the bard’s distinctive gait.
The door opened as Geralt towelled off from his bath. He tied the sheet of linen around his waist, preserving some sense of propriety in front of the bard.
“Hey,” Jaskier said, entering the room. He let the strap from the lute case slip off his shoulder.
Geralt ran a hand through his white hair, tangled horribly from the lack of care he gave it during his soak.
“I left the water from the bath, in case you wanted it,” Geralt said. “It’s not very dirty.”
The walls and beams of the inn creaked as guests mounted the stairs and found the doors to their respective accommodations.
There was nothing unusual about the men sharing a room, but the awkwardness of their conversation after what transpired on the mountain made Geralt feel as if he had never met Jaskier before. He was a stranger to him, different in appearance, and different in mind than he had been in any other reunion that had played out in a tavern at winter’s end.
“Thanks,” Jaskier said, setting his lute in the corner of the room by the door. “I didn’t know whether you would come or not.”
Geralt grunted as he searched through the saddlebag for a shirt and braies that were clean enough to wear after his bath.
“I suppose a bath would do me good,” Jaskier said, shrugging off the long leather coat and arranging it on the back of the chair that accompanied the small desk.
“Hmm,” Geralt said, finding the shirt he sought and throwing it over his head. The rough linen stuck to his bath-dampened skin.
Jaskier pulled the chair out and tugged off his boots. “Although I would much prefer a bath for the pure luxury of a good soak, not because I hoped it would sooth me of the sadness about my father’s death.”
“Of course,” Geralt said. He unravelled the towel and tossed it to the floor, tugging his shirt low so it covered his thighs modestly. He quickly pulled on a pair of braies. “Would you like me to reheat the water for you?”
Jaskier looked listlessly at the bath. “I just want to sleep,” he said sullenly.
Geralt tilted his head. Usually Jaskier buzzed with energy when he returned to their room after a performance. But tonight, the mourning over his father’s death took him far away from their usual banter, something Geralt now realized he missed desperately since their parting on the mountain. Now, with Jaskier right in front of him, it seemed that the bard that Geralt knew so well was gone.
“I’ll take the floor,” Geralt said. He had no intention of sleeping anyway. He would spend a few hours in silent meditation, regaining the strength that had been depleted in the wyvern hunt.
“You don’t need to,” Jaskier said, undoing the only remaining button that held his chemise closed.
“Jaskier…” Geralt said. He faltered before he could say more.
Jaskier turned from Geralt. He walked to the tub and pulled a washcloth from the tub’s rim. Dipping the cloth into the water, he soaked it and wrang it out, twisting it between his hands.
Geralt averted his eyes, turning his attention to the potions on the desk.
Jaskier slipped out of his ruffled chemise and used the cloth to wipe his skin. Long strokes of the wet cloth ran down Jaskier’s arms. He manoeuvred the cloth across his back and dragged it from side to side to cleanse away the sweat from his performance.
Geralt fought to keep his eyes on the potion bottles. He turned each one, reading the faded words of the labels that had once been sharp and clear. The scent of sage and bergamot overpowered any scent coming from the potion bottles. He hadn’t realized that he missed seeing the long line of Jaskier’s back at the end of the day. The frilly chemises and extravagant doublets padded with embellishments, belied the strength of Jaskier’s arms, the toned muscle, and the firm unblemished skin.
“We have some things to talk about,” Jaskier said.
Geralt’s head jerked to give Jaskier attention. To his relief, Jaskier had donned a nightshirt, foregoing the bath.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Jaskier said with a half-hearted smile. “And I’m never at a loss for words.”
“I noticed,” Geralt grunted in affirmation.
Jaskier raised his arms and combed his fingers through his hair. He tugged at the leather thong, removing it and allowing his long dark locks to spill freely around his face.
“It’s understandable. The loss of your father has given you a shock,” Geralt said.
Jaskier stepped out of his trousers, wrinkling his nose when he tossed them onto the pile of Geralt’s soiled clothes.
Something as simple as combining their clothing for the launderess once seemed like the most natural thing in the world, but now the act was fraught with a sad nostalgia.
“Your clothes could do with a wash,” Jaskier said. “When was the last time you bathed?”
“It had been a while,” Geralt said with a sigh.
Exasperated, Jaskier looked to the ceiling.
“The wyvern guts added to what was already there,” Geralt said, as if it provided a good excuse for not caring for his belongings.
Jaskier walked from the tub to the bed and sat wearily upon the straw-stuffed mattress. “When I was a child, we used to have a dog that would roll in shit, every chance he got,” he began.
“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged, not remembering Jaskier mentioning a dog, or any kind of pet, before.
“His name was Baron-one of my sisters named him-because he ruled over us kids like a lordling,” Jaskier said with a small laugh. “He would find droppings from any horse that visited our village. He’d roll in it and come home stinking of shit.”
Geralt snorted. Surely his clothing and armour didn’t smell that bad. But perhaps he was accustomed to the smell of death that came from hunting monsters.
“My mother didn’t get angry about it though,” Jaskier said. “No. She would bathe the dog and comb his fur until it was clean, no matter how shit-encrusted he got.”
“She wasn’t a typical mother,” Geralt said with a nod.
For a moment Geralt craved such stories about Jaskier’s mother. They somehow brought him closer to Jaskier’s world. His world had always existed during the time they travelled together, but Geralt never bothered to learn very much about the bard.
“No, it turned out, she often mistreated animals when she was a kid-she admitted this to us,” Jaskier said waving his hands to make his point. “Bathing old shitty Baron… this was her way of making up for it.”
“People change,” Geralt sighed.
“They do, thank Melitele,” Jaskier tutted. “Baron! I haven’t thought of him in years. But the stink of your clothes made me remember. My mother always did a good job of caring for things, animals, and people. She’ll miss my father terribly.”
Geralt hadn’t heard Jaskier mention his family more than a handful of times in the years that they travelled together. Jaskier always showed a great interest in Geralt’s tales of the Trial of the Grasses, Kaer Morhen, and his monster hunting. Geralt regretted not asking more about Jaskier’s life when he had the opportunity. He had heard of Lettenhove, of course, but it seemed like someplace Jaskier made up, just to prove he had roots like any other human.
“You should get some sleep if you are to leave for Lettenhove in the morning,” Geralt said.
“And you must need some sleep after battling a wyvern,” Jaskier said.
“The wyvern… how did you know about it?” Geralt asked.
“Word travels in a small place like Kovir,” Jaskier said.
“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He rested his fingers on the desk and looked aimlessly at the potion bottles.
“The alderman told me he had called for a witcher,” Jaskier said, studying the hem of his nightshirt. “I was hoping-”
“I’m only staying until tomorrow,” Geralt said.
“I know,” Jaskier said quietly.
Geralt watched as Jaskier snuffed out the candle beside the bed. He settled on the floor where he would spend the night in meditation.
Jaskier tossed one of the bed pillows onto the floor beside Geralt.
Geralt snorted in appreciation that the bard had sacrificed some of his comfort for the feeling that he was helping his old friend.
But they weren’t friends anymore. Maybe they never had been.
~