Chapter Text
The road through the Carbon Mountains was the shortest route from Vengerberg to Wyzima; it saved more than two weeks of travel time. It was early autumn and the weather had been good so far, cold but clear. The trees were already turning red, yet on the ground blooming asters and toadflax still stood out in radiant violet, picturesque against the gray rock faces. Inspired by the beautiful landscape Jaskier had already composed two new songs and written notes for at least four more in his notebook.
The wide path they had followed up the mountain had already carried them a good distance over the last two days. Here, in the higher regions the ground grew rockier, the vegetation looked thicker and stockier, though the panorama was no less stunning. The only thing that troubled them was the increasing cold. Jaskier’s fingers were so clammy already that it was difficult to play the lute, so he had secured it to the saddle and warmed his hands in Pegasus’s mane. By afternoon, snow began to fall.
“We should have taken another route,” Geralt said in front of him.
“Why?”
“The air pressure is low, and it’s gotten so much colder in the last two hours.”
“Yeah, because we’re higher up now.”
“No, because a snowstorm is coming.”
Jaskier watched the snowflakes that drifted gently around him; it didn’t look like a snowstorm at all. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I can smell it,” Geralt said, as if it were a fact, and perhaps it was, so Jaskier decided not to argue. “We’ll ride for another hour and see if we can find a hunting cabin or something like that. Otherwise, we turn back.”
“Are you out of your mind? We’d be riding back for two days, and who’s to say there won’t be a snowstorm the next time we try? Or do you plan to ride all the way south around the mountains? That would take us four weeks before we even...” he began to rant, but Geralt had already pulled up his hood, pretending not to hear him.
In fact, they found a cabin only a short time later. It was small and built of thick, somewhat crooked planks. Vats stood around the shack and cords were stretched out like empty clotheslines. Despite the cold, a heavy and slightly sour smell hung in the air, of fat and astringents.
“A tanner’s cabin!? I am certainly not going in there!” Jaskier said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Of course you can ride back. We’ll meet in Wyzima,” Geralt replied dryly.
Jaskier rolled his eyes and dismounted. The snow here was much firmer and crunched under his boots; it sounded like chewing on rusks. Over the mountain range, clouds could be seen rolling in and the wind became so sharp it made his teeth chatter. Geralt had already begun to inspect the cabin by testing the sturdiness of the door and walls. They wobbled, but only slightly.
“If it thaws, maybe we can build a raft out of it,” Jaskier suggested sarcastically, but Geralt had already disappeared inside where he couldn’t hear him. An icy gust of wind blew around Jaskier’s ears as he tied Pegasus to a nearby tree where Roach was already waiting and unpacked the saddlebags. He shivered and looked up at the sky where the last bit of blue had almost disappeared by now.
When he entered the cabin it took a moment until his snow-dazzled eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. Eventually he could make out a bed, a small table and a few cupboards, the usual sparse furnishings of a hunting cabin. At least there was also an oil lamp and a small stove in the middle of the room, hopefully there would be wood for it too. Only Geralt wasn’t to be seen, until he realized the cabin had a second room at the back. This was apparently the tanner’s workspace, since the walls were filled with shelves that held mostly empty bottles and jars. There was also a huge pile of hides lying on a workbench that Geralt had gathered an armful of and pressed them into Jaskier’s arms.
“Take these. I’ll see if I can find some nails.”
Jaskier looked down at the hides. Most were from hoofed animals, deer and mountain goats, but there was also an enormous bearskin among them.
“Nails?”
One had to hand it to Geralt, Kaer Morhen had taught him a great deal of resourcefulness when it came to thinking practically in difficult situations. He found a tin of nails, and together they hammered the hides to the interior walls of the cabin to provide at least some insulation against the cool wind that was whistling through the drafty planks. It was tedious work, as many of the hides were torn or merely incomplete scraps - likely the reason the tanner had left them behind in the first place.
It didn’t take long until Jaskier’s arm began to ache and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest for a while, but Geralt insisted they hurry. Even when Jaskier slipped with a nail and it resulted in a deep scratch on his wrist, Geralt wouldn't let him take a break. Behind the cabin, they found a massive stack of wood. They brought a big pile of it into the living area and cleared the stove from old, damp ashes.
The weather had changed in the meantime; the sky was completely overcast with heavy, grey-white clouds, and the wind blew low and fast, driving the snowflakes against rocks, tree trunks, and the door of the tanner’s cabin. The horses stood huddled close together, their hindquarters turned against the wind.
As the storm grew rapidly, it was out of the question to let the horses stay outside overnight. So they brought them into the cabin, and set up a makeshift stable for them in the workspace. It was a bit cramped for two horses, but it would do for one night. Geralt unhinged the door and laid it sideways in front of the doorframe, creating a waist-high barrier. Now, the two of them could look out to them. Another advantage of bringing the horses inside was that their body heat would help warm the cabin, as it had become bitterly cold by now. The wind rattles the wooden planks, and the hides they had used to seal the walls fluttered and slapped against the wood from time to time, creating an eerie sound in the deepening darkness.
Jaskier didn’t like storms, and especially not a snowstorm. As a child, he had hated it when the wind fluttered the shutters and tossed branches and buckets around the courtyard. He had been so terrified that he hadn't even dared to go to the outhouse. A fact that once prompted his brothers to lock him in the chicken coop during a storm, hoping the eight-year-old boy would finally "become a man." If he was a man today, he certainly hadn’t become one during that terrible night; he knew that much for certain.
Geralt, on the other hand, seemed perfectly relaxed. He calmed the horses with ease and searched the cabin for anything useful, rummaging through the cupboards until he found oil for the lamp, blankets and a pot.
“Go outside and get us some snow, will you?” he said, while stacking wood in the small black stove.
“I’m sorry, what?” He was already freezing inside the cabin, Jaskier had no desire to step outside.
“I want you to get some snow so we have water,” Geralt repeated.
“Okay,” Jaskier replied, but remained exactly where he was, sitting on the bed wrapped in one of the blankets. Geralt stopped working at the stove and turned around, studying him in silence long enough for it to become uncomfortable. “Are you afraid of the storm?” he asked, eyeing him with critically narrowed brows.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jaskier answered with a confident smile. He stood up, grabbed the pot and headed for the door.
In a way, he had thought that the storm might be no more eerie outside the door than inside the cabin, but the snow had become so thick that in the deepening twilight he could hardly see more than a few feet ahead. The flakes whipped against his face like tiny white projectiles, and the wind howled and roared through the nearby mountain pines, which groaned and creaked under the pressure. It was both fascinating and terrifying how quickly the mountain scenery could turn from a peaceful panorama into an icy death trap. He realised that without Geralt, he would never have noticed the storm in time.
He quickly bent down and scooped the pot full of snow, filling it to the brim and even higher, just so he wouldn't have to step outside again anytime soon. For a moment, he thought he saw a shadow and heard something rustle in the nearby bushes, but surely his fear was playing tricks on him. With chattering teeth and shaky knees, he grabbed the full pot and hurried back into the cabin, which suddenly didn't seem so cold and uninviting after all. Geralt had lit the fire, and the stove was already radiating a faint heat. He set the pot of snow down in front of it to melt and crawled onto the bed next to Geralt.
“Thanks,” Geralt said, wrapping the blanket back around him and giving him a brief squeeze. Then he took a small bottle from his bag. At first, Jaskier thought it was a witcher potion and wondered what was going on, but when Geralt uncorked the bottle, an intense smell of dwarven spirit filled the air. He grabbed the bottle from Geralt and took a deep swig. It burned pleasantly in his throat and belly.
“Does the weather not bother you at all?” Jaskier asked. “No. I used to like playing in the snow as a child.” “Your idea of playing in the snow might be a little different from mine.” “We dug holes and covered them with fir branches to spend the night under. Whoever managed to do it without losing a toe didn’t have to do kitchen duty the next day.”
Jaskier looked at him, as often unsure whether Geralt was serious. He took another sip from the bottle and was just beginning to calm down when a particularly violent gust rattled the cabin. The hides and wood clattered. Outside, the loud crash of a falling tree could be heard.
“Geralt!” Jaskier couldn't help himself and clung to him. “This damn cabin is going to collapse and bury us, and we’ll lie here in the ice forever, like two frozen monuments to the recklessness of mountain crossings, until someone finds us in 6000 years or so and our mummies are put on display in a museum along with your swords and the remains of my lute and…”
“Of course, this is absolute horseshit,” Geralt said calmly, putting an arm around him. “This cabin is sturdy enough. Besides, in 6000 years, there’d be nothing left of us. It doesn't even stay frozen here all winter. By spring at the latest, the thaw would come and our corpses would bloat and then gradually be eaten by raccoons and rats. The wood of your lute would disintegrate, my swords would rust.” Geralt pulled him closer, wrapping him tighter in the blanket, rubbing his arm to warm him. “Then only our bones would be left. They might last for a while, but by the start of summer, the tanner would return, and he’d grind our skeletons into bone meal, just like he does with the animal bones and then he will sell the meal to the potter, who uses it to make porcelain.”
The storm shook the walls, and Jaskier practically crawled into Geralt’s embrace. “I hope they don’t turn me into a chamber pot,” he muttered, and Geralt chuckled softly.
“Shame. I bet the sound of pissing into it would be nothing short of symphonic.”
“You are a barbarian, Geralt! A philistine! A cold-hearted, tasteless mutant! No one with any self-respect should ever associate with you!” Jaskier ranted, though his voice was muffled by the way he pressed his face fearful into Geralt’s shoulder.
Suddenly, there was a thud against one of the walls, followed by a scraping sound. “What was…that?!” Jaskier cried, startled, nearly leaping into Geralt’s lap. Another thud came from the opposite wall. Geralt paused, listening intently. “Nothing. Just snow falling from the roof, most likely. Calm down.”
The sound did not return, and Jaskier eventually relaxed, not least because they shared what remained of the dwarven spirit. The storm persisted, but eventually, it stopped growing in intensity. Gradually, Jaskier grew accustomed to the sounds of the wind, the howling and the clattering of the hides and wooden planks. They sat on the bed, which they had pushed into a corner by the stove and lined thickly with some of the hides. By now, Jaskier wasn't even feeling quite so cold anymore. As the flames in the stove burned low, Geralt stood up to add more wood.
“Do you think it will ever be possible to cross these mountains faster?” he asked, expressing a thought.
“There are plenty of horses faster than Pegasus,” Geralt replied, placing several resinous logs into the embers, which caught fire immediately. Jaskier glanced over at the horses, who stood huddled together, dozing.
“That’s not what I mean. Perhaps one day, it will be possible to simply fly over them. Right through the air. Imagine, Geralt, a great machine with wooden wings that you can sit inside. What do you think?”
“I think the booze and your imagination are getting the better of you.” The flames in the stove flared up, and Geralt stepped back from the rapidly spreading heat. He rummaged through his bag, poured some of the now-melted snow from the pot into a shallow bowl, and returned to the bed.
“But just imagine how much of the world you could see if only you could travel faster. Flying would save so much time.”
Geralt sat down beside him, set the bowl of water on the floor, and dipped a rag into it. “But is it even a journey then?” he asked, without letting himself be distracted.
“What do you mean? Of course it is.”
“When you say you're going on a journey, do you mean the arrival at the destination, or the way to get there?” Geralt eased Jaskier’s arm out of the blanket and pushed up his sleeve.
“Both, I suppose.” Jaskier answered, lost in thought.
“And if you cut the path short, have you really saved time, or have you perhaps simply traveled less?” Geralt added.
Jaskier had to think about that, watching Geralt as he inspected the scratch on his wrist, turning it toward the light. He had almost forgotten the small injury and was surprised that Geralt had remembered it. “Perhaps you’re right. At the moment, we aren't moving at all, and yet this is part of our journey. But when you’re trapped in a tanner’s cabin during a storm, it feels as if time passes more slowly than if you were arriving quickly and comfortably at your destination.”
“Time always passes at the same speed,” Geralt said, beginning to wash the wound with the wet rag. It hurt, but not much. As always, Geralt’s touch was practical but also caring, almost tender.
“Who says so? How long have we been here? Seven hours? Seven days? Perhaps this is some kind of magic mountain and we’ll be stuck up here for seven years. I read something like that in a story once.”
Geralt set the rag aside and picked up a small tin of ointment. “There are only two kinds of time one can distinguish,” Geralt said, opening the tin, scooping out some salve with two fingers. “The kind of time you want to hold onto, and the kind you want to leave behind.”
Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath as the ointment burned in his wound. Geralt looked at him, wordlessly asking if he could bear it. Jaskier nodded, and Geralt continued.
“That’s a good thought.” Jaskier replied. Ever since they had entered the cabin and for the entire time the storm had been raging, Jaskier had felt nothing but discomfort, cold, and fear, but right now, sitting by the fire philosophizing with Geralt he was in no hurry for time to pass. “I just think that there isn’t always a clear-cut answer to that.”