Chapter Text
There’s something in the mud, just off the road. Geralt would think it dead, but it’s still breathing, flexing its fingers woefully towards the path, like it’s begging.
Ciri reaches out to gently tap at the too-soft fringe of the thing’s hair, the puff of his frumpy clothing. Geralt deftly moves her back. Often, the deceptively welcoming can cloak the worst of threats. Geralt didn’t take in his child surprise, against his best judgment, to let her prod at every oddity until one revealed fangs.
“Don’t know where it’s been.”
“But look at him,” Ciri commands. “He’s dirty, and probably hungry. Geralt, can’t we help? We have plenty of coin, after your last fight.”
Geralt gives her a look that communicates, he could be dangerous.
Ciri scoffs. “I could explode him with a scream, and you could probably snap him in half with your pinky.”
The odd being raises its head. Below the scent of dirt and grime, he smells—delightful. Like—like fucking fields of daisies. Like scented handkerchiefs, and wood well-treated with oil, and the rich, sweet earthiness of leather that hasn’t been splattered with blood a thousand times.
That smell is a danger all its own, Geralt recognizes. And then the terrible thing opens up its mouth.
“Hello!” He’s scrambling to his feet, and trying to dust himself off. Unfortunately, mud clings, so he just begins dripping. “Hello, fellow travelers, I—my name is Jaskier. I’m sorry to bother—“ no you’re not, Geralt thinks “—it’s just that, that I seem to be a little lost.”
“Village is half a day’s walk south,” Geralt grunts.
“Oh!” The creature sways towards him. Geralt shoves Ciri behind him, and bares his teeth. The wretched thing smiles, bright and guileless, the exact opposite response. “You know the way. You see, I’m just looking for my home. I decided to leave the Grand and Sparkling Castle, and its Esteemed Court in Andalasia. To go back to my forest friends, and my dear little cottage.”
“There aren’t cottages around here,” Ciri pipes up. The thing tilts at its high waist, puffy clothes yielding, to smile at her.
“Hello, little one. It’s wonderful to have run into friends to help me along my way.”
“Not friends, you loon,” Geralt grunts. Now the situation is clearer—this is not a threat. This is a madman.
Now the madman looks concerned. He’s clasping his hands together, in front of him, still dripping mud, looking—pathetic. Lost and mad and helpless. Hopeful, in the middle of a fucking forest ravaged by beasts. His eyes are robin’s-egg blue, standing out in the grime.
“Please,” he says, softly. His voice is almost melodic.
“Hey,” Ciri says, from his waist, and he groans like his soul’s about to depart his body.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Geralt,” Ciri urges. She’s watched him help too many poor people with too little coin. Gods, parenthood is terrible. All these shit morals she expects him to display, constantly, especially when it’s least convenient. Even when her grandmother had been a sociopath, half the time—she has expectations for Geralt. This, among a million other reasons, is why he didn't want to take her in, especially at ten. But it's been a few years, and she's alive, if maybe bearing a few scars. As usual, some of Geralt's life is firmly outside of his control. And any rationality.
“Fine,” he grunts. “Where, exactly, is this cottage?” He’s going to regret this, he can already tell.
The thing—Jaskier—brightens. “Of course,” he says, “it’s right past the Waterfall of Wishes, on your way to the Fields of Fair Dreams.”
So much regret.
“Fuck,” Geralt exhales, with feeling. Jaskier blinks at him.
“Fuck,” he echoes back, as if he doesn’t know the word. “Fuck! Oh, that’s a fun sound, is that your name?”
“Yes,” Ciri confirms with glee, before Geralt can stop her.
“Glorious Fuck,” Jaskier half-sings, “and his lovely little companion, my guides to home sweet home. Such fun, with his distinguished white hair, his brooding dark clothes, his—his two swords?” He gasps. “Oh! Oh, you didn’t say.”
“Say what?” Ciri asks.
“He’s a Hero,” Jaskier replies, practically whispering. “Who else would bear a sword? He’s a Glorious Hero, of old.”
“He’s pretty old,” she agrees.
“Glorious Hero Fuck,” Jaskier says, sticking out one grimy hand. “You honor me with your presence. Thank you for letting me accompany you on this adventure, if just for a time.”
Geralt lets all his air out, very slowly, through his nose. “Ciri.”
“Come on,” she says, patting Roach’s flank. “If he’s still annoying in an hour, you can just push him into a different pile of mud.”
“May I know,” Jaskier asks, continuing to stare at Geralt like one might at a king on his throne, “what your great adventure is?”
Geralt takes jerky from his pack, and rips into it with his teeth.
In a crescendo, Jaskier continues: “What do you seek? Fortune? Fame? Destiny—“
“No,” Geralt snaps. From atop Roach, his gangly, half-grown child of destiny smiles slyly down at him. He gives her a look that attempts to silently communicate, give Roach a break, stretch your legs. Get down. He is ignored.
Before he can voice the request, Jaskier is reaching up to help swing her to the ground. “Come smell the wildflowers!”
“I’ve seen wildflowers,” she mutters, scrunching her nose at him, but she does it without protest. Geralt takes the opportunity to check Roach’s girth, to rearrange their things.
“Well,” Jaskier says, after another mile, a flower crown for Ciri half-made in his hands. Ciri hands him a daisy from her makeshift bouquet, and he expertly weaves it in amongst the leaves and blooms. “If not fortune, fame, or destiny. May I ask what you seek?”
Ciri’s true answer is not one Geralt is ready to share. His not-quite-human, royal child surprise.
Instead, Geralt grunts: “creatures.”
“Creatures?” Jaskier repeats, a delighted question in his tone.
“Beings,” Ciri clarifies helpfully. “An alp. Kikimora.” She pauses. “…a werewolf?”
Jaskier grins. “I know that one. To be a werewolf,” he declares, dreamily. “They’re always so handsome!”
Ciri gives Geralt a look that says, this man is disturbed. Maybe we should’ve left him in the mud.
He may not have raised her, but he’s proud.
“For what majestic creature do we search?” Jaskier says. “A unicorn? Pegasi? This is so thrilling! What quests we seek—“
“A striga,” Geralt grunts. Several days of travel further.
“Ooh? Some kind of bird, perhaps? With feathers a rainbow—“
“Mutilated, cursed aberration of a woman,” Geralt corrects.
“…interesting,” Jaskier says. He recovers faster than Geralt expected. “We don’t have that, where I come from.”
“Not even past the edge of the Whimsical Daisy Forest?” Ciri asks, clearly too influenced by Yen’s brand of sarcasm. Even if they haven’t seen Yen in months, the sorceress disappeared off to some court or lavish estate of her own, he has to deal with her.
“No,” Jaskier sighs, completely genuine, “not even there.” Geralt may be immune to this, but Ciri instantly transforms from skeptic to awed.
“Tell me more of your land’s regions,” she demands, speeding up to walk by his side. Geralt tries to nudge Roach into slowing down more so he doesn’t have to listen, but Roach refuses.
It is going to be a very, very long day.
Thankfully, halfway through the afternoon, a giant centipede comes at them from the deep, damp woods. Jaskier shuts up just long enough for Geralt to dispatch it. (Geralt should’ve let the thing hunt him. Should’ve taken Ciri and Roach and continued down the forest path. It was smart enough to know he was the weak link.)
“Wow!” Jaskier gasps, clapping, like Geralt is in—in a fucking ring with spectators. “Incredible! A great hero indeed! Was that a striga? You saved my life! Oh ho, you won’t regret this.” (Geralt already does. Still, he’d hidden his face till his black eyes faded. He’d told himself it was for Ciri’s sake, not their companion’s.)
The respite is brief.
They make it to a suitable campsite by sunset. Jaskier has no useful information about where he’s going, where he’s actually coming from, or why. This is somehow less aggravating than the fact that he insists on humming and whistling whenever Geralt and Ciri aren’t talking. Geralt is almost never talking. Ciri quiets just for the sheer joy of watching Geralt’s already strained patience crumble further. Or, possibly, from his increasingly ridiculous tales.
The next morning, the nightmare begins again. This time, Geralt’s already done. This time, Geralt hadn’t closed his eyes once all night. Even lanky, floppy, seemingly friendly strangers can hurt a young sleeping girl.
“Jaskier,” Ciri says as they walk, “can I ask you a question?” to which he beams and says,
“Yes, Glorious Fuck’s child?”
Geralt’s patience does not crumble, instead swilling about thirty potions and mutating into something else entirely. Before he’s registered it, his sword is out, the blade pressed to that thin, pale neck.
“Geralt,” he says, easy and low. He’s managed to back the poor fool up into a tree.
“That’s his actual name,” Ciri adds from behind them, not sounding apologetic about it. Precious brat. Jaskier swallows. It is not the kind of swallowing Geralt is accustomed to, from those a Witcher has pinned.
“All right,” he says, eyeing the weapon, “while I’d normally love to get on a first name basis,” Geralt is getting the impression that wretched nickname is going to remain, forever, “and have some romantic tension at the tip of your literal blade, I have…” he pauses here, to give a dreamy sigh. “I have a True Love already.”
Sheathing his sword, Geralt steps back. “Do you?” Ciri asks, intrigued. Without a doubt, Jaskier the madman is one of the more interesting, if harmless, things they’ll find on their travels.
“Yes,” Jaskier says, nodding. One arm encased in a puffy shirt sleeve wraps about Geralt’s shoulders, who feels his lip curl. They begin walking, Jaskier spreading his other hand out before them, up into the sky. “Oh, Glorious Hero Geralt, if you’d seen her you would understand why we can never be!” Geralt grunts. “The loveliest of maidens in the Esteemed Court! Her voice sweet and somber as a nightingale! And—and oh, she has the absolute biggest and softest of—“ Ciri, delighted, sways towards them, and Geralt bares his teeth at her “—eyes! Also, such a tender and passionate… heart within her breast!” He cuts a hand over his lips, lowers his voice. “Speaking of, those are pretty—“
“Who is she?” Ciri asks.
“The Duchess,” Jaskier breathes, on a reverent inhale. “Many a wonderful night we’ve spent together—erm, reading poetry and passionately professing our dearest emotion. Alas, I have bravely sallied forth to seek my fortunes before we, doubtlessly, elope off together.”
Geralt gives an eye roll that, strangely enough, the loon translates for what it is.
“You’re wondering how I make my coin! Well, let me show you. Behold!” From his pantaloons, somehow without pausing their steps, he pulls a muddy, sad-looking shape. Neither of them can really guess at what it is meant to be. “No!” He gasps. “No no no no, this won’t do. Please, we have to find a—a clear, babbling brook! Maybe a reedy, slow-moving river.”
“No,” Ciri protests immediately. The corner of Geralt’s mouth ticks up. Ten minutes later, they are beside an ugly, muddy stream. “Now we have to wait while he fishes,” she balefully informs Jaskier. Cheerfully, Jaskier rips off one of what is apparently many layers of his pantaloons, and dips it into the water. Throwing the net just so, Geralt can nick their unwanted traveling companion in the calf.
Although Jaskier squeaks and stumbles a little, he dutifully returns to swabbing his muddy treasure. While he does this, he hums some kind of—cleaning song. A cleaning song. Gods, Geralt wants to—to bind him up, and gag him, and fling him somewhere. Make him splutter and protest. It’s a very strange, pressing feeling. It is not a feeling he’s familiar with.
“It’ll be alright,” Jaskier tells Ciri, “once this is clean, we’ll have hours of entertainment!”
“It’s a game?” Ciri says, with cautious interest, and while they’re distracted Geralt finds peace in the swaying of the net, the clean smell of the forest. “Oh! You’re a musician.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jaskier answers her brightly. There is the terrifying, grating sound of a string being plucked. Just once. “I’m not a musician.” Geralt freezes. Clearly, he is undergoing karmic punishment for something. Renfri, perhaps, still. “I’m a bard!”
Fuck.
“When we stop for the night,” Geralt growls in explanation, after the fifth time Jaskier has given him the same weepy, shining look. When they stop for the night, and part ways in the village, the bard can have the cursed thing back. Geralt has heard one note. He doesn’t need to hear another.
Enough of his time has been wasted, sitting in pubs that stank of piss and pungent ferment that barely passed as ale. Listening to some waifish sod yowl about—about endowed, timid maidens and fearless, scarless heroes, and righteous kings. In all his travels, Geralt’s never met a person matching any of their descriptions.
Those songs are fairytale. Worse than that, even. They’re propaganda, making his work harder. Handsome, nameless figures inspiring common men into foolishness. Why hire a Witcher, when you could become a hero yourself, taking on a monster? Why give your hard-earned coin to a man barely better than the monster you’re hiring him to fight?
“No instrument,” Jaskier bemoans, “no homey cottage.”
Oh, they’re all aware that Jaskier hasn’t found his cottage yet. Geralt doubts it exists outside of Jaskier’s addled mind. That, and any of the locations he’s mentioned in their shared travels. He’s beginning to suspect the last poor souls saddled with Jaskier shoved him face-first in that ditch and took off, fast as they could, while he continued to blather on about fantastical quests into the mud.
Unfortunately, Ciri, who previously lived with increasingly desperate and horrible people (and also Geralt’s gruffness), is enchanted. His cheer, his openness, his sincere grandeur. Perhaps the fact that she scooped him off the side of the road, like a ragged, stumbling, half-blind kitten. Madmen are pleasant to be around, for children. Geralt needs to separate them as quickly as possible, before Ciri forms a true attachment.
One meal at the inn’s pub, and they’ll part ways.
Geralt would be willing to give any coin to fill up that—that ceaseless mouth. Just. To fill it. To make it stop. Gods.
But when the barkeep looks at them, expectantly, over plates, Jaskier beams and pulls a solid gold coin out of his bag.
“How much do I owe you?” He asks, like maybe the gold won’t cover all their meals.
Not just a madman, then. A rich madman. That’s how he’s survived.
“You’re going to get us robbed,” Ciri mutters to him, half-concerned. At least she’s learned something, on the road with him. Geralt doesn’t like that she’s also learned to call the three of them us. At least she no longer assumes it’s easy for Geralt to fend off bandits and muggers. It isn’t difficult, but Geralt would rather spend some time at rest or without attracting attention.
The barkeep takes their gold, and even easily lets them remain at the bar, despite Geralt’s presence. Some of them would prefer he move to the corner, even if they’d never dare say it aloud.
“Oh, no,” Jaskier assures her, “I’m not rich. Or taking people’s taxes unfairly! No well-meaning rogue would be interested in my purse.”
The look she gives him is dubious, but it relaxes into a smile when he grins at her, well-meaning and bright. He taps her nose, and spins his mug around on the bartop, and is much too enthusiastic.
Even madmen realize, though, when no one will enter a 10-foot circle about them.
“They’re intimidated by our handsome visages,” Jaskier whispers to Geralt. One of Geralt’s two ‘handsome visages’ is indeed clearly visible from within its sheath at his hip. Geralt keeps waiting for it to dawn, the realization that he’s keeping company with a Witcher. Possibly he’s been blinded by dirt, his lack of brains, and the presence of what mostly appears to be a harmless child—but still. A Witcher is a Witcher. “Maybe if you smiled a little?” Jaskier prompts, and Ciri laughs.
“They’re scared of him,” Ciri explains. “But not for his fearsome scowl.”
Jaskier blinks. “Are… are they monsters? Are they villains to his hero?”
Ciri doesn’t answer. To fill it in, Geralt simply says, “I’m a Witcher,” and waits.
The realization doesn’t come. “I know a few witches,” Jaskier says. “Very intelligent, smart girls. Ready to help brew up love potions, or make you magic shoes—“ Ciri shoots Geralt that look again, his girl, and Jaskier, for the first time, stops talking. “This is like the alp,” he realizes. “The striga. You’re something I haven’t heard of!”
Ciri tilts her head at him. “Really,” she hums. “They’re—they’re monster hunters. Everyone’s heard of them.”
“Not me,” Jaskier says simply, straightening, and turns those blue eyes onto Geralt. “But it sounds enough like a hero with adventures. Adventures to save the kingdom from its fears!”
No, Geralt wants to say. Not like that at all.
He doesn’t say it.
“You make it sound like a walk through a sunny meadow,” Geralt tells him. “It’s not.”
Jaskier, rather than continuing to blabber, quietly surveys the empty circle around them again.
“I get it now,” Jaskier says, which means he probably doesn’t get anything at all. “You’re a Tragically Misunderstood Hero. I’d pegged you all wrong. And normally, I’m terribly good at pegging.”
Geralt eyes him sidelong, curls up his lip, and can only grunt in disapproval. “No.”
“Yes,” Jaskier informs him, grabbing Ciri’s hands between his. “Ciri, do you not find him lovable and inspiring?”
He deserves to be staked. Ciri, though, just replies, softly, “yes?”
Hmm. She’s never said that before. Geralt’s never even tried to imagine her seeing him as—as something good. Not just something Destiny threw her at as some kind of joke. Just a child, thrown about by her beloved Queen grandmother, who finally bowed to the whims of Destiny—and also Yen’s fury—when Ciri turned ten. The child surprise is his, and you’ll all bring ruin on yourselves by keeping her in Cintra. Take her now.
Ciri had lost her grandmother, her family. Lost a castle and servants and velvet drapes, and gained looting carcasses and sleeping on rocks. Resentment towards him was safe to assume. Resentment isn't what gently lights her eyes now.
“See?” Jaskier says.
“Not really,” Ciri admits, blinking.
“No, no!” Jaskier insists, bouncing up and down on his barstool, taking his hands back to wave them through the air emphatically in Geralt’s direction. “Look, it’s just that they don’t know you. I’m sure if they knew you, and all of the great things you’ve doubtlessly done, they’d like you just fine.”
“Hmph,” Geralt grunts.
“Have you seen Geralt?” Ciri asks. “He speaks to order a specific beer at the pub, or to describe a monster. I haven’t even heard all his adventures! Geralt, tell me the one with the alp.”
“Stabbed it with silver,” Geralt states. To demonstrate, he spears a bite of rabbit with his knife. The plate practically cracks.
Ciri crosses her arms, and looks to Jaskier. “Does that inspire you to love him?”
Jaskier raises his arms, smiles with an enthusiasm it doesn’t deserve. “Never hurts to try, you know! Besides, he saved my life. He’s a True Hero.”
That emphasis earns him a snickering smile. “Okay. Well, I’ll just be here watching your elocution lessons. I used to have these with my grandmother. I’m looking forward to hearing Geralt practice his tongue twisters.”
“Elocution lessons?” Jaskier turns, begins to fiddle with his pack. “Little cub, there’s only one solution I know of for a stalwart, if admittedly extremely stoic, True Hero to get praise.”
Levering himself up by the shoddy crate that’s serving as a barstool, he hops up upon a grimy table. Raises what they can both now see is a beloved, decorated lute. He gives a single strum.
“What is he doing,” Ciri whispers, eyes practically sparkling. Geralt gives a growling sigh. “He’s going to get eaten alive by the patrons.”
“Let him,” Geralt snorts. “At least then we’ll actually have entertainment.”
The strumming becomes melodic. There’s at least three rough and rowdy barmen looking their way, including the owner of the pub. And Jaskier opens his mouth.
“When a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia,” comes the song. It’s enchanting. Bewitching. The men are gathering, but it doesn’t seem to be to cut Jaskier up into pieces and swallow him as a snack. “Along came this song. When the white wolf fought,” he continues. More and more people are surrounding him. Heads bobbing, some beginning a slow stomp, until it crests. Until Jaskier is singing, “toss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty—“
And the entirety of the gathered men begin to sing along.
“O valley of plenty, o valley of plenty--!”
Some of them are—dancing. They’re dancing. Merrymaking, with Jaskier at the center of it all.
“What the fuck,” Geralt spits.
“I don’t know this song,” Ciri laughs, breathless, clapping along, “how do they all know this song about you—“
“He’s a fucking—fae,” Geralt snarls, which he knows isn’t right. Ciri seems to know it too—she raises one pale eyebrow. He grabs her clapping hands and stills them anyway. Unfortunately, the barkeep whirls by, snagging her now free hands and pulling her into a jig.
“Hey, this is fun,” Ciri calls. “Geralt, join in!”
“Stop dancing,” Geralt roars. Danger hiding in deceptive packages, as predicted. Who knows what lies at the end of these two dance lines? Who knows what dastardly moves of death can come out of slapping knees and rusty tambourines?
He’d let his guard down for a fool, and look where it had gotten him.
In the center of the pub floor, Jaskier is being lifted, in a disturbingly coordinated and syncopated effort, by several local thugs. Geralt’s never even heard of a monster like this before; no tales passed down by other Witchers, no rumors on the wind. That can only mean one thing.
No one survives to tell of this monster.
He shatters a window, and half-tosses a protesting Ciri out it. Then, he reaches for his pack and his potions. Just a few swills, and he’s ready to face it down. Strangely, no men lie dead yet. Even the alcohol-poisoned drunkard they’d passed on the way in is up, dancing on his feet.
He draws his swords, and turns to face what is masquerading as a bard.
The music abruptly stops. The dancing, too.
“Oh!” Jaskier takes in a little gasp. “Geralt, are you—are you feeling alright?”
He hops down from his cradle of hands. Everyone just looks dazed, even though they still smile.
“Hey, hey,” Jaskier says, and of course, he’s pushing at the barkeep’s shoulder lightly. Predictably, a mind-altering monster would sic its victims on him first. “Will you get a drink of water for my friend?”
Strangely, he does. Jaskier slings his lute over his shoulder, and comes for him. Without the others. Geralt has no idea why, but he doesn’t stab the monster clean through.
Jaskier frowns up at him. “Your eyes look awful. Does that hurt?”
This will hurt, Geralt thinks fiercely, bracing his better sword arm to swing, and then—he’s singing something else.
Geralt had been too slow. He can feel the song, eating away at his insides, thinks—Ciri—
“There,” Jaskier says, decisively. “Now isn’t that better?”
The giant centipede had gored him yesterday, just a scrape, in his side. A week past, a chunk of his knee had been taken by a Drowner. For some strange reason, Geralt can’t feel either ache. Just a cozy bubbling—like foamy ale. A warm bath.
“What,” Geralt snarls, “did you do? Why do I feel—“
Good. He feels good.
“Yes, you’re welcome, you lug,” Jaskier beams, hearing the end of the sentence that never came, then to the barkeep, “do all your rooms have a bath?”
Maybe the bloody fake bard can succumb to drowning. Maybe his music doesn’t work underwater. Unless he’s something of a siren, and then—then maybe that’s exactly what it wants. Death by bath. At the very least, Geralt can rest in the fact that—
“Why is Ciri standing outside that broken window with Roach?”
If they survive this, they’re going to have a talk about what leave me and run means.
“Oh, so you’re going to have a nice, warm, soothing bath clothed in all your leather?” Jaskier scolds, after it’s tried to leave Geralt defenseless several times. Geralt knows better than to give up his weapons. However, Jaskier refuses to be shoved off.
Sorceresses can have healing capabilities, right alongside their more unspeakable skills. It’s not the magic itself that throws him. Still, Geralt’s never met a monster so eager to convince him it’s completely harmless. Or at least, not one that does it so well. It’s prattling on like nothing’s amiss, like choreographed musical numbers in bars with strangers are a daily occurrence. Worst of all, Ciri has clearly fallen under its charm. They’d left her tucked up in bed next door without a care in the world.
“He healed you,” Ciri reminded him, as they had exited the room.
And Geralt thinks about that. Considers it, sitting there in his stubborn grime, wide awake, watching as the thing rolls over in bed, snuffling. Somehow, his hair remains perfect and floppy and soft. Over the smell of his own sweat, of Roach, of the cling of Ciri’s bright airy scent, there is still the impenetrable meadow of daisies. Of earthy woods, and starlit nights.
Geralt is well aware that being inhuman does not necessarily mean dangerous, or evil.
The men of this town are crushed under the boot of their rulers, the weight of their vices, and the beast he’s going to slay tomorrow to earn his gold. Jaskier made them sing, and dance. Jaskier made them smile. When the giant centipede had come from the woods, Jaskier had stumbled in front of Ciri, a puffy arm outstretched. Useless. Foolish. Not evil.
Sometimes inhuman just means vulnerable. Hunted. Precious and rare.
Geralt gets out his mortar and pestle, and settles in for the night.