Chapter Text
Jaskier saw the blood spray and felt his world go still and quiet.
The ground beneath his feet was distant, the pain in his jaw from the punch delivered by the brawny mercenary holding his arm pinned to his side insignificant. He could hear the laughter of the group like a poison in his veins, sinking deeper as they reveled in the victory they’d attained through trickery and ambush.
Geralt stumbled, the arrow in his shoulder draining his usual grace. The fight with the kikimora that had drawn them out to this corner of the world had already taken too much time and strength from the warrior. They’d been easy targets, tired and eager for a chance to rest in an inn with the coin they’d earned. Yellow eyes flicked towards Jaskier in an instinctive sweep and the bard could see the moment he decided to ignore his own injuries in favor of setting him free.
Only, the group must have been planning for just that.
The archer, who’d been stationed out of reach from even Geralt’s magic and senses, stepped out of the line of trees and carefully selected another arrow. His face was calm--confident as any hunter about to run his quarry to the ground--as he nocked his bow and drew the string back in one fluid movement. He narrowed his eyes at the warrior surrounded by his foes and bleeding bright and beautiful onto the dirt of the path.
The Witcher shoved away at another one of the soldiers attempting to circle him and use their numbers to their advantage, switching his weapon to his uninjured side in an attempt to avoid losing the strength of his attacks. All of Kaer Morhen’s pupils were trained to do the same and Jaskier knew firsthand how well Geralt could fight without slowing against any beast. But it didn’t make him immune to the press of numbers or the pain of the bolt still lodged in his flesh.
Or the archer taking careful aim at him from a distance.
“ Geralt !” Jaskier screamed in warning, thrashing against the hands holding him in place.
Not enough. Not enough.
His eyes darted to where the archer was smiling now, teeth bared in preparation for the release and inevitable fall.
The soldier at Jaskier’s back tightened his hold and twisted his arm until the bard had to bite his lip to keep from crying out at the sharp agony. “Do you enjoy watching him fall because of you?” he sneered, “The perfect little damsel in distress for everyone’s schemes.”
Jaskier went still.
He blinked, slow and resolute. His ears heard the panting, excited breaths of the mercenaries; the rustle of cloth against armor as Geralt whirled to meet the downward swing of a sword; the soft twang of a bow releasing its arrow into the air. It felt like time slowed to a drag designed to allow Jaskier plenty of time to dread and watch the path the arrow sliced through the air.
Then it was striking home in Geralt’s gut, prompting a roar of pain from the Witcher. He stood for a beat, looking stunned and confused by the new burst of pain. Those golden eyes slowly dragged to Jaskier’s horrified expression and slowly fluttered shut.
He fell.
Jaskier must have screamed, must have cursed or roared out his fury, but the sound was drowned out by the sound of Geralt’s body hitting the earth with a heavy thud. One of the mercenaries stepped closer, nudging the too-still Witcher with his boot and smiling when there wasn’t a response. Cruel laughter followed and something deep within Jaskier snapped .
It was easy to shift his hands in the bigger man’s grip so he could grab at the pressure point at the joint of his wrist. He pressed his thumbs in with all his strength and was rewarded with a howl of pain and the arms pinning him in place loosening in surprise. Jaskier spun roughly, stepping inside the man’s guard to bring the heel of his hand up hard .
Bone crunched in tune to the scream of pain when Jaskier felt the arch of his nose gave way beneath his blow. Blood dripped along with tears down the soldier’s cheeks and Jaskier ignored the clumsy, half-blind swipe at his head easily. His next punch sank into the vulnerable flesh of the man’s throat and Jaskier felt a feral smile cross his lips when he felt his windpipe crush beneath the force of his attack.
The soldier had barely fallen at his feet when he whirled to meet the next.
Hours of travelling by Geralt’s side and singing late into the night at each tavern ensures that his body is honed to a knife’s edge and his endurance was enough to bridge the gap between size and skill. He lunged forward, rolling beneath a slash from another mercenary, and let his leg lash out to topple the man’s unsteady stance. The soldier stumbled--his last mistake--before Jaskier relieved him of his belt knife and sank it deep into his gut.
They stared at one another for a breathless moment--one set of eyes wide with pain and surprise, the other flat and dark with rage--before the mercenary fell to his knees.
Jaskier followed him down, giving the knife in his hands a final twist before getting back to his feet.
He heard the sharp hum of displaced air and barely managed to jerk aside before another arrow carved a burning path along his cheek. His eyes narrowed in concentration a moment before he flipped the knife in his hand into a new grip and let it whirl through the air. The movement was graceful, familiar, despite the years of allowing himself to be protected by Geralt’s bulk and he watched the knife spin through the air with satisfaction.
The archer had been overconfident--sure in his belief that the bard was the least dangerous of the two men they’d been sent to attack. He hadn’t even bothered to reach for another one of his bolts. It made it all the more satisfying to watch the blade sink deep into his throat. The man choked, scrabbling at the blade that Jaskier already knew would lead to his death. He doesn’t bother to wait for the end, just turned to face the last of the mercenaries.
Three down. Three more stood between him and Geralt.
The one closest to him raised his trembling sword with a panicked expression at the unexpected violence. “Wh--what the fuck? You’re just a bard.”
Jaskier’s smile was more a baring of his teeth, made more alarming with the blood sprayed across his skin and clothing. “You’re first mistake was believing that.”
He moved with all the speed he possessed, hampered by the lack of a weapon--like hell would he use his lute on these buffoons--and strengthened by the force of his fury. He let the flat of the blade slap against his open palm while his other hand dropped down to grab the man around the hand holding the hilt of the weapon. They struggled, grunting with the effort to control the sword and end the fight quickly.
Jaskier could see the other soldiers recovering from their shock and beginning to move closer. They circled the two struggling men looking for an opening to use force and strength of numbers to defeat the unexpected threat of a bard’s vengeance.
He caught sight of a flicker of metal in the muted sunlight and turned in time to let the blade meant for his head sink into the meat of his opponent’s should. The man screamed, dropping his sword and clutching at the wound. Jaskier didn’t give him time to recover, just grabbed the heavy broadsword from the ground of half-dropped, half-stabbed it into the man’s chest.
“You’re second mistake,” he spat as he pulled the sword free from the dead man’s body and turned to face the others, “was laying a fucking hand on my Witcher.”
His mind blanked with the simple rhythm of struggling to survive. Block. Dodge and roll. The crunch of bone breaking beneath his foot. The elegant slice of a blade through the air.
Then he is alone, panting above the bodies of the mercenaries.
Jaskier lifts his hands away from the sword hilt that felt practically welded onto his palm and found his hands sticky with drying blood. He could feel it itching along his face, sinking into the folds of his shirt and breaches. There was a manic sort of thought in his mind that he must look like Geralt after he’d been chewed up and spat out by countless monsters.
The reminder of the cause of this unfettered violence made Jaskier stumble away from the carcasses towards the only one that mattered.
Geralt was sprawled across the ground on his back, somehow beautiful even with dirt and blood covering nearly every inch of him. Jaskier found his hands shaking now in a way they hadn’t during the quick skirmish as he reached out to trail his fingers across Geralt’s cheek.
“Geralt?” he whispered plaintively, “Oh gods, Geralt. Please be okay.”
The Witcher stirred at the sound of his name, brows furrowing in a familiar scowl before his eyes finally came open and focused on Jaskier’s face. He took in the sight of the bard’s bloody face and clothes and tensed, hands weakly seeking his weapons from their familiar hilts until Jaskier caught them between his.
“I’m fine. I’m okay, I promise. You--you got shot. I need you to stay still, alright?”
Geralt grunted, no doubt beginning to feel the dull agony of the two arrow wounds without adrenaline to dull them.
Jaskier fumbled with the medallion around Geralt’s neck, using his slippery fingers to locate the charm Yennefer had left behind the last time she’d visited. He’d never felt such a bright rush of gratitude as when his fingers touched the simple charm and the blood on his fingertips activated the rune carved in its side.
“Yennefer!” he panted, shaking Geralt slightly when the bigger man began to close his eyes again, “Stay awake, damn you. Yennefer ! Get your ridiculously attractive ass over here!”
There was a woosh of misplaced air behind him and Jaskier whirled around in a crouch, ready to face a new threat. His hands closed around two of the daggers Geralt carried at his waist and he moved them into a defensive position with ease.
Instead of another foe, a witch stepped free of the twisting streaks of power and bright color. Her dark hair fell in artful curls around a jet black dress that only highlighted the dangerous curves of her body. The high mandorin collar was cut low to show off the curve of her breasts. In another life, Jaskier would have been eager to trace each inch of skin with his eyes and drip poetry from his lips like a fine wine, but that was before he’d fallen for a gruff, emotionally stunted Witcher. That was before Geralt.
“Yen…” Geralt groaned, fingers loose on the back of Jaskier’s shirt.
Yennefer’s eyes took in the scene around her with a curious expression before narrowing in on the bard and the fallen Witcher. She stepped closer, power crackling at her fingertips. “What happened?”
“Mercenaries,” Jaskier grunted, relaxing for his ready position enough to let her begin her examination. She eyed the knives but didn’t comment about the way he didn’t put them away. “They shot Geralt in the shoulder and ambushed us on the way to collect our coin.”
As the mage got to work on Geralt, Jaskier took the opportunity to look over one of the closest bodies for identification. His lips pursed angrily when he saw a familiar sigil carved into the metal and leather armor. The same sigil as the beady eyed lordling who’d hired them to come out here. It was easy to guess why the nobleman too cheap to pay his villagers a decent wage would hire a bunch of mercenaries to catch a Witcher when he was worn down from a monster fight.
Jaskier made a mental note to repay the favor. With interest.
“The wound is deeper than I’d like,” Yennefer murmured, eyes dark as she channeled her power into the Witcher’s still body, “We need Tris.”
The bard nodded, too terrified of the pallor clinging to Geralt’s lips to protest traveling to another mage’s location. He usually preferred to avoid Yennefer and her strange friends, but anything was worth making sure Geralt was alright.
His eyes drifted to where Roach was grazing patiently at the edge of the wood. Past experience had taught him the horse couldn’t travel the same portals mages used. He reached down to brush a strand of pale hair away from the hard panes of Geralt’s face. Without the usual bad mood and thrum of energy that powered each of the Witcher’s movements, Geralt looked smaller somehow. More fragile.
Jaskier swallowed hard and looked back at the mage. “Take him to her. I’ll follow with Roach.”
“There may be more of the Lord’s men around. It’ll be dangerous for you to travel alone.”
“I’m not a damsel and I’m not in distress,” he snapped, twisting the knife in his left hand in a complicated pattern, “I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”
Yennefer watched the movement with open curiosity. She opened her mouth to speak, but paused when Geralt shifted restlessly on the ground.
“Go. I’ll bring Roach--that way Geralt doesn’t kill us both.”
She hesitated for another beat before nodding. Her strong arms wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders while one hand cast out in a complicated pattern that pulled another portal open from the air. Geralt’s head rolled limply against her chest and helped chase away any hesitation Jaskier still felt at the prospect of traveling alone. He would not be the reason the Witcher died from his injuries.
Yennefer stepped toward the portal, but Jaskier stopped her with a quick hand on her arm. He winced at her expression, pulling his hand away just as quickly.
“Just...just take care of him, alright?” he said after a moment, eyes on the unconscious Witcher. “He has to be okay.”
She nodded solemnly. “He won’t come to harm under my watch.”
The mage tightened her hold on Geralt before she turned and walked into the portal. There was a soft pop, like a displacement of air, and the portal disappeared. In its wake, the forest was silent and still aside from the slow slump of Jaskier’s shoulders.
He was alone again.