Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There once were a witch and a Witcher

The bard told the latter to ditch her

"Let's head to the sea"

Unheard went his plea

Of heartbreaks he now was one richer

The pamphlet said the contractor could be found at the Jackdaw Inn on most evenings, so that’s where Geralt went when the sun had set and the sky turned dark. The inn was fancier than the usual shithole, a lot fancier than Geralt would like, but it did mean there was less of a chance that someone would attempt to bash his teeth in just for breathing the wrong way. Still, all eyes were drawn to Geralt when he entered the room, but the appearance of the white-haired mutant shocked this lot into silence. The people’s favor seemed to have turned against him these days, but Geralt refused to link it to his spiteful rejection of a certain someone. 

He ignored the bulging eyes and walked straight to the innkeep to ask after his contractor. Or at least, that was Geralt’s full intention. Because when the distinct sound of a lute being strung, a sound he knew as well as Roach’s neigh or the scent of Yennefer’s perfume, cut through the silence from the right-hand corner of the inn, he had to look.

He was dressed in his usual attire, but the color scheme was aggravating. Black. As dark as the night, as her hair, as the void. They locked eyes, and his seemed vacant: there was no warmth for Geralt in Jaskier’s gaze, yet he was staring at him like he’d die if he dared look away. After a couple of chords in this moment of suspense, the bard parted his lips, and sang.

The fairer sex, they often call it

but her love’s as unfair as a crook

It steals all my reason 

commits every treason

Of logic, with naught but a look

His voice was raw, but not off-key. What was the right word? Tender? There was an uncomfortable feeling in Geralt’s throat, like when he’d get sick after drinking too many potions. His limbs wouldn’t move.

A storm breaking on the horizon

Of longing and heartache and lust

She’s always bad news

It’s always lose, lose

So tell me love, tell me love

How is that just?

It was as clear as day that this wasn’t some impersonal jaunt Jaskier had jotted down within five minutes. And there were no other ‘ she ’s on the Continent that Jaskier would serenade with such a song of loathing; but the last of those lines didn’t make any sense to Geralt. He got no time to dwell on it however, as Jaskier’s voice swept him up into the chorus, and a fire in the bard’s eyes drew him in closer.

But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Her sweet kiss

But the story is this

She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss

Geralt’s limbs still refused to cooperate with his conscious mind, but now Geralt found himself moving instead of standing still. An irrational rage drove him towards Jaskier. What was he doing? What did he want? What gave him the right?

What surprised Geralt, is that Jaskier moved towards him as well. He wore a look of determination on his face, one that Geralt had always appreciated when that side of him did come out during their adventures. Now it worried him. Jaskier didn’t stop singing, and he didn’t stop playing. Hurt tainted his vocals.

Her current is pulling you closer

And charging the hot, humid night

The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool

Better stay out of sight

They were about to meet. He could sense many of the patrons holding their breath, but the pounding of Jaskier’s heartbeat was deafening in comparison.

I’m weak my love, and I am wanting

If this is the path I must trudge

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury and-

Jaskier’s lute made a distraught sound as Geralt blocked the snares with the grip of his hand; his voice died soon after. Jaskier tried to stand tall, but his eyes betrayed vulnerability, and Geralt looked down on him all the same. He wondered what Jaskier was expecting to pull off with this little stunt.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, the tension between them feeding that fire that Geralt had seen earlier within the bard. So many emotions were written on Jaskier’s face that Geralt couldn’t even begin to decipher them. He was angry as far as Geralt could tell, and Geralt knew exactly why. It made him feel guilty, but Geralt was sure it didn’t show; His face was a well-composed mask of steel, as it always had been. 

With a swift motion and a surprisingly strong grip, Jaskier pulled his lute from Geralt’s grip and turned to the crowd, raising his free hand to indicate the perplexed Witcher.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” he announced in a tone mimicking joviality, “The White Wolf himself, Geralt of Rivia!”

A couple of cheers paired with uncertain applause rang out as Jaskier made a gesture to a group of musicians gathered in a corner of the inn, and cheerful music soon filled the room. Jaskier turned to him smiling, but the look in his eyes was bitter and cold. Geralt found himself completely confused.

Jaskier made his way back to where he was seated previously, and somehow Geralt only then noticed the two beautiful women at his sides: One with dark eyes and darker hair, the other a blond with a toothy smile. As soon as Jaskier sat down they clung to him, hands raking over his chest and arms and legs, immediately swarming him like vultures to whisper sweet things into his ear. A low, discontent sound escaped Geralt’s throat, and he had to make a conscious effort not to look anymore. Instead he made his way to the innkeep once again, shifting his focus to the contract and the promise of pay, but he soon became distracted by the unmistakable feeling of Jaskier’s gaze on his back. He ignored it, he had to, for Jaskier’s dignity and his own pride, but the question of what the fuck Jaskier wanted from him would not leave Geralt’s thoughts, even when he eventually found his contractor and half-heartedly bartered on the price. He caught himself glancing at Jaskier from the other side of the room too many times, observing the bard as he flirted and laughed and sang and drank. Geralt wanted to go over to him, talk to him, but there was something else, something about the way those two women swooned over him that made him all the more eager to cross the room. And it made no fucking sense. Why would that upset him? Was it a protective instinct that had developed over too many flirtations gone wrong? But he’d seen Jaskier flirt with women before. Was the festering guilt driving him mad? Perhaps the two women were actually Succubi, and they were simply setting of his Witcher senses. It all made more sense than the alternative.

Once the contract was discussed and accepted Geralt was left alone with his ale and no distraction, which meant his gaze drifted back over to Jaskier’s corner of the room. This time however, the bard looked back, his lips curling into a smirk, and that was when Geralt decided he’d had enough. He stood up, strode across the room to where Jaskier was seated, inadvertently scaring the two women into unlatching themselves from Jaskier’s side.  Geralt felt more secure like this, towering over Jaskier, but then the silence lasted a little too long and Geralt realised Jaskier expected him to say something. Right. Fuck.

“Just got a contract,” he told him. “Sirens. They’ve been killing fishermen out in the bay. One of them hired me to take care of it.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. He seemed amused.

“And what does that have to do with me?” He spoke slowly, drawing out the words. Challenging Geralt.

“I, uh- need someone to stir the boat while I take them down.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Why not ask one of the many experienced fishermen present this evening? I’m sure each and every one of them would prove to be a more much more pleasant travel companion than I could ever be. I’m sure their silent brooding will compliment your own quite nicely.”

Geralt sighed. In a game of words Jaskier would always beat him. The fact that his spiteful remarks were justified didn’t help either. 

“I could use the company,” Geralt admitted, and it was true. He’d gotten used to being alone after he left Kaer Morhen, but meeting Jaskier and Yennefer made him realise that he’d missed the presence of another human being. It reminded him that he hadn’t always been on his own, and that even he needed someone to bounce off of once in a while so he wouldn’t go insane.

Jaskier’s lips twisted into a mischievous smile, and Geralt already dreaded whatever came out of his mouth next.

“Are you saying you’re lonely, Geralt?” 

Geralt should have expected Jaskier to see right through him, but it still pissed him off, especially since the comment made the two women next to Jaskier giggle. Geralt didn’t like feeling vulnerable, and today he’d felt it enough to last him a lifetime. 

“No,” Geralt grunted in response, “Nevermind.”

He turned to leave, to focus on the contract, to give up and leave some questions never answered, but then Jaskier stood up in such a hurry that the scrape of his chair stopped Geralt in his tracks.

“Wait!” he called out, “I’ll go with you!” 

Geralt would like to say that he knew Jaskier would give in, that he was holding up a facade and that he would drop it eventually, but he didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure. Still, he wore a smirk of his own when he turned to face Jaskier.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to study sirens,” Jaskier said, trying to sound disinterested. “What better source for a bard to learn from than those who could kill and seduce a man with the same voice?” 

“But what about our plans,” the woman on Jaskier’s left said with a playful lilt in her voice, wrapping a hand around his arm. The other followed suit. “You promised,” she whined, “you said you wanted to forget.”

Jaskier spun out of both of their grasps and went to stand next to Geralt. He pursed his lips, seemingly in thought, but Geralt couldn’t say for sure if he was actually considering.

“Some other time, perhaps?” he offered, but the two women quickly took their losses and walked off. Jaskier didn’t seem all too bothered. He turned to Geralt, his expression faltering as if he was unsure how to compose himself. The result was a sheepish, almost pained look.

“I’ll get my things from my room,” he mumbled, uncharacteristically demure, “If you want to be off right away.”

Geralt grunted and shook his head. 

“You can rest up. We’ll leave at dawn.”

Jaskier nodded, and off he went. Geralt saw him glance around the inn before entering his room, but Geralt knew his efforts would be unrewarded. The two women were long gone. 

Geralt couldn’t help but smile at the prospect of having Jaskier’s companionship once again, but it quickly faded as he sat down and took into consideration everything that had just happened. He was so sure, when he saw Jaskier earlier that night, that he’d lost him somehow, that he fucked up in some irreversible way and that Jaskier would never forgive him. It was as if he was faced with a strange, twisted version of his friend, as if a doppler had taken over his form and turned every aspect of the bard’s character into a mocking copy. And at the same he’d been drawn to it, to this side of Jaskier that challenged Geralt in a way he normally never would. And it was unsettling, even more so, even though it did bring him relief, how quickly he turned back afterwards.

Did something happen to him in the time they’d been apart? Was it something Geralt did? Was he really angry with him, or was he keeping up appearances? Could he trust him? 

Geralt hummed. He focused his senses and listened to the familiar sound of Jaskier’s footsteps on wooden flooring as he scampered around his room, probably packing things in advance or getting ready for bed.

He could, right?

Chapter Text

Though Geralt didn’t need to sleep as much as most did, he enjoyed to lie down and rest nonetheless, especially after a day of stress or a particularly tough hunt. Today, or the last hours of it, had been one of the most stressful days in recent memory, more tiring than any fight with a monster, fiend or foe could have ever been. So, it was very unfortunate, and extremely fucking annoying, that Geralt couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t stop thinking. Normally Geralt’s mind was an organized place, one of logic and of reason. One stray thought distracting him could mean a certain death in his line of work. So it was definitely annoying and rather unlike Geralt that of all things, people and wonders in the world, it was Jaskier haunting the forefront of his mind. And it’s not that Geralt never considered Jaskier, but it had always been in regards to concern over his safety, or mild annoyance at his antics; but now, somehow, every single string of thought circles back to the bard, as if Geralt were under a spell of sorts. But for as long as Geralt had known him, Jaskier had no aptitude for magic, was in fact unsettled by sorcery, and his medallion had not alerted him to any magical occurrences nearby when they’d spoken the night before. That would mean however, that Geralt had to find an explanation in the logical realm, or, even less preferable, the emotional, and that wasn’t exactly the Witcher’s forte.

And so, with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway and the fact the current weight of his coin pouch was the reason he took on this contract in the first place, Geralt felt no need to get a room for the remaining hours till dawn, and opted for meditating somewhere in a quiet corner to try and focus his mind. He warned the innkeep not to disturb, got seated in a chair near the fire, and quickly fell into a steady pattern of breathing as his warring thought made place for blissful quiet. And so he waited, until the heat of the fire was replaced with the warmth of sunlight on his cheek, hoping that when he opened his eyes that same peace of mind would remain. But, when he did, Jaskier was right there in front of him, seated at a table with a plate of breakfast, and he knew there was no chance.

As if he were attuned to Geralt, Jaskier immediately looked up from his food the Witcher once he regained full consciousness. Geralt took in his appearance. He was dressed in different clothing than the night before, a deep forest green jacket with elaborate stitch work over a simple white shirt and tight pants in the same color as the jacket. His hair was a tad messy, and Geralt hadn’t noticed it in the dim light of the night before, but Jaskier was growing a light stubble. Crumbs of bread stuck to the corners of his mouth.

“Morning,” he greeted Geralt, than turned his attention back to his plate again. Geralt found himself feeling annoyed. Jaskier’s breakfast couldn’t be that interesting. He stood up and seated himself across from him. 

“Sleep well?” Geralt asked. 

“Well enough,” he responded without looking up. “Not a lot though. You didn’t exactly give me a full day’s notice.”

Geralt grunted and watched Jaskier as he took a sip of drink. He wasn’t exactly satisfied with Jaskier’s answer: the bard had always been a morning person despite needing more sleep than Geralt, who had always felt more productive at dusk rather than dawn. When Geralt would wake up from trance or sleep while on the road, Jaskier would be waiting with breakfast cooked and a cheerful mood, already strumming his lute in search of inspiration no matter how short the night had been. 

“Doesn’t look like you did,” Geralt commented. It makes Jaskier pause and look up with calm sort of disdain on his face, but he didn’t respond with any remark. It concerned Geralt. He shifted in his seat and looked at Jaskier’s plate; it couldn’t be empty quick enough.

“What are you doing around here?” Geralt asked, grasping at topics to broach. “I thought next time I’d see you it would be at some noble’s court.”

Jaskier shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “I considered it.” he said. He paused to take a bite of bread, taking an annoyingly long time to chew and swallow, but then he did finally, really look Geralt in the eye as he said, “I didn’t think it would please me.”

A laugh escaped Geralt’s throat to which Jaskier responded with an offended huff, but Geralt genuinely wasn’t making fun of him. He didn’t know why he’d laughed, if it was a bitter sort of amusement or genuine surprise. 

“So that’s why you’re here?” Geralt asked, forgoing explaining himself and simply stating what he was thinking. “The coast?”

Jaskier’s lips parted ever so slightly in quiet surprise. He face soon flushed entirely red as he stammered, “No, I’m- that’s not why I’m-”

He gestured with his hands as if it would help him articulate, but nothing intelligible came out for a while. Geralt wonders if perhaps he should have just swallowed his words.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier starts in a shaky voice, “I didn’t think you would- Well-”

“Remember that conversation?” Geralt finished. Jaskier looked at him like he was in pain. They’re both showing more vulnerability than either of them can properly deal with right now, and Geralt felt like he should be careful with his words. “I did, Jaskier.”

Things would have been so much easier if I’d taken you up on that offer. 

Geralt clenched and unclenched his fists. That was the first time he admitted that to himself.

“So why are you here in Redania, then?” Jaskier asked, sitting up. “Headed to Novigrad?”

“No.” Geralt said, then thought about it. His goal was Cintra, but he wasn’t really heading for it, taking virtually any excuse along the way to halt his journey or stray of the path. 

“I’m not sure where I’m going,” he admitted. “But you didn’t answer my question”.

Jaskier blinked. “Oh, right. I’m headed to Oxenfurt, actually.”

“Oxenfurt?” That was the last place Geralt had expected. The city of Oxenfurt was synonymous with its academy. No other reason to go there but study. “Are you finally going to use your wits and become an academic?” It was half a joke, and Geralt smiled delivering it, but Jaskier’s face had fallen and Geralt hadn’t noticed. “Guess you’re never too old to learn.”

“You know,” Jaskier began, and the tone of his voice was enough for Geralt to know that he fucked up. He closed his eyes in frustration, and awaited Jaskier’s beration with bated breath. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ve listened to anything I’ve said for the past two decades.”

Geralt opened his eyes and frowned. The look on Jaskier’s face was the same as the night before, heated and venomous. Under the gaze of night and the surprise of Jaskier’s presence it had been alluring, but now it made Geralt’s heart skip a beat in a different way.

“Remember when we spent a magnificent but ultimately life-endangering though historical night at the court of Queen Calanthe?

“Yes,” Geralt said through gritted teeth. He had to prove to him that he knew.

“And that you disappeared the morning after without a word or a trace.”

Fuck. 

He couldn’t change what he did back then.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Once Geralt had locked eyes with Jaskier he couldn’t look away, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed Jaskier gripping his tankard, knuckles turning white. “After I’d wasted a month or three trying to track you down I’d gotten an offer, several actually, to stay at a noble’s court. I may have mentioned her a few times, a certain Countess de Staël, but I doubt you remember,”

“I do-”

“And after enjoying my talents for some time she offered to cultivate my artistic skill by paying for tutelage at Oxenfurt Academy to study the Seven Arts. So I did, for four years, after which I graduated. But I’m guessing you forgot,” he stood up and threw his arms in the air, nearly sending his tankard flying, “or you just never listened in the first place!”

Geralt knew that anything he’d say would be the wrong thing to say. He really should say nothing, but for some reason he couldn’t stop trying to talk things right even though he was only digging himself into a deeper grave.

“I did notice your lute playing had improved.” he muttered, averting his eyes.

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier took offense to that.

“Oh, well, awfully good to know you can appreciate at least some of my talents, unlike my singing.”

Gerart slowly looked up at Jaskier. It was as if the swirling mess of thoughts and feelings in his head were finally once again contained with an iron grip. He slowly took in the bard’s words. 

“Jaskier.” he sneered, “Is this about what I said to you before we found the Djinn? I hadn’t slept in days. I didn’t mean it. And that was ages ago.”

A simpler time. When the thought of you didn’t drive me to madness.

Jaskier was glaring at him, hands on his hips.

“Well?” Geralt barked at him. “Are you going to accept my apology?”

Jaskier leaned over and planted his hands on the table, getting right up in Geralt’s face. Geralt wasn’t used to that. 

“Oh, was that what that was? An apology?”

Geralt slammed both hands on the table and stood up, seething.

“Yes! It was!”
 
Jaskier pushed himself back from the table and looked away, shaking his head. Geralt tried to slow his breathing. Sometimes he wished he could express something other than anger.

“You really don’t get it do you?” Jaskier said after a while, a wry smile stretching his lips. And Geralt knew that he didn’t.

There was movement behind Jaskier accompanied by footsteps, drawing both of their attention. The innkeep approached with a plate full of a food and dumped it unceremoniously in front of Geralt. 

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt told the innkeep. The man gestured to Jaskier, muttered, “He did,”
and walked off. Geralt raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, who looked uncomfortable.

“Before you woke up,” he eleborated, then looked down at his own plate. Geralt followed suit: it was half empty, and probably cold by now. “You should eat. I’ll wait out front.” And with that, he grabbed his lute and went outside.

The door slammed, and Geralt sat down and sighed. For a moment there, he’d thought that his mind would have been cleared by having a talk and a good shouting match. But the moment Jaskier was out of his sight, he was back in the forefront of Geralt’s thoughts, pestering him and leaving him with this awful, empty feeling of unfulfillment.

Geralt ripped off a piece of bread, and took a bite.

Chapter Text

The sun was just rising, casting everything in a golden light as they made their way to the town’s modest harbour. Grafhaven was by far not the most desolate place the two of them had ever been, with proper streets, a variety of shops, and well-armed guards to boast, but it wasn’t exactly as expansive as a city either. Still, the walk to the waterside was going to take a while, and they hadn’t spoken to each other since Geralt told Jaskier they were leaving when he’d exited the inn that morning after finishing up his breakfast.

The streets were filled with the sounds of all sorts of laborers going about starting up their day, but all Geralt could hear was the silence between him and Jaskier. Geralt didn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, he disliked how foreign it felt, to have Jaskier beside him and to not hear his voice, to not even hear the hum of a new tune he was working on. On the other, wasn’t this what Geralt had always wanted? Blessed silence? He had to admit it was nice, to just walk side by side taking everything in, to be able to hear himself think and to simply enjoy the presence of company. But it felt wrong. Usually, when they were travelling together, Jaskier would talk and talk and Geralt would look straight ahead, or anywhere but at Jaskier really, actively trying to designate his chatter to background noise. But in the quiet between them on the streets of Grafhaven Geralt allowed himself to look at Jaskier and realised what he had failed to appreciate before: Jaskier was bright. In the way he dressed, the look in his eyes, his mannerisms and the tone of his voice he was an unusual spot of colour amongst the grey muddle of people going about their day to day. But now, even as the sunlight bathed his face in a warm glow, the only thing that remained of that brightness was the green of Jaskier’s clothing.

“What exactly are you staring at?” Jaskier asked him, alerting Geralt to the fact that he had, in fact, been staring at him. Geralt decided to be as direct as possible in the hopes that Jaskier would drop it.

“You.”

“Ah,” Jaskier pulled a face, furrowing his brows and wrinkling his nose, an expression he often wore when he tried to decipher one of Geralt’s one-word responses, “How unusual. Why?”

Geralt grumbled and considered his answer for a moment. 

“You’ve changed.”

“Really?” There was an edge to the look in Jaskier’s eyes and a smile in the corners of his lips that painted his expression as smug. Geralt didn’t like the way it looked on him. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” he paused, then added. “You haven’t.”

Geralt scoffed. He couldn’t deny that Jaskier was right. He looked at an old man sweeping the street in front of his shop and wondered if there was anything wrong with that though.

“Not that I’d expected to see a changed man if were to meet again.” Jaskier continued, getting close to Geralt for a moment as he sidestepped a pool of mud. “After all, it did take a good couple of decades and one entire sorceress to make you only slightly less grumpy.”

Geralt looked ahead, to the sea, and tried to ignore the sting of Jaskier’s comment. He wondered briefly where Yennefer was, if she was safe, but the thought quickly left him. Yennefer could take care of herself just fine, and if fate and destiny and unretractable wishes were anything to go by, he’d probably run into her sometime soon anyway. He glanced back at Jaskier, suddenly very aware that the bard was no near-immortal sorceress or mutant and that a day would come relatively quickly where he would be old and withered and Geralt and Yennefer would still be the same.

The thought made him feel a bit sick. He’d never really had to think about the concept of time before.

He’d thought Jaskier was done with after that last comment and that he’d be left to his own grim thoughts until they’d reached the harbour, but he wasn’t, and Geralt was actually thankful for it. “And the Witcher’s path must get awfully monotomous and tedious after a while.” he said, “Tell me, any noteworthy adventures as of late? Or has it just been ghoul nests and endregna pests?”

Oh, how Geralt wished that were true. If the road so far had been filled with insectoids and necrophages his coin purse would be a lot heavier and he wouldn’t be here right now. 

“Running out of inspiration?” Geralt asked him, and he knew it was a low blow.

Jaskier huffed indignantly, but the gravitas of whatever discontent he felt at Geralt’s comment was very much ruined by him almost tripping over a cat that stopped to hiss at Geralt in the middle of the street. A rare smile crept on the Witcher’s face. “There are plenty of things in this world to sing about other then grumpy old witchers and monster slayings,” Jaskier said after composing himself. “Though I have to admit, this whole Siren thing might turn out to be be very helpful in keeping my material fresh.”

“I’m glad you’re able to remain an optimist in the face of the demise of others.”

Geralt expected Jaskier to back down with maybe a slight retort at that, but instead he laughed to himself, as if only he was in on Geralt’s own joke and Geralt wasn’t. “Well, seeing beauty in the face of tragedy is one of a great bard’s many talents.”

“Is it.” Geralt retorted. He felt this turning into another exchange of snide words all too soon, but it seemed Jaskier’s attention had been drawn elsewhere. Geralt followed his gaze to a pretty young woman on the other side of the street  who waved as they passed, then looked back at Jaskier to see that same look on his face that Geralt had seen when they’d locked eyes the night before at the inn, that same suave, dark allure that had pulled Geralt in and hadn’t let him go ever since. Now that he saw that look again, detached from its spell, it looked a lot less attractive. This time he saw a bitterness and a pain in it, things that he didn’t want to see on Jaskier’s face. Or maybe it was just a girl and a bard and a smile, and maybe Geralt had foolishly assumed that that version of Jaskier, the one that could capture a heart and muddle a mind with a single look, only existed for him. 

They passed, and the girl passed, and the shift in Jaskier had past as well. The sea was close now, and as they reached the harbour, the bustle began to lessen. A couple of men and women could be found traversing the docks, but it was eerily quiet compared to the busy streets before. There was the strong smell of salty seawater in the air, but it lacked the note of fish stench one would expect from what’s primarily a fisher’s town, as there were no barrels of the latest catch to be found and barely any boats docked. All in all, it seemed the Siren problem had taken a serious toll on the town’s trade and labor.

“Is there anything I need to know about these Sirens?” Jaskier asked as they walked along the waterside. “How not to get killed by them, for example?”

Talking shop. This, Geralt could do.

“First of all, they’re even more vicious than you think, so don’t even think about getting a closer look at them when we’re on the boat. Second, they have wings-”

“Wait, wings?” Jaskier interrupted, eyes going even bigger than they already were. Geralt had to admit that it pleased him, this uncertainty coming off of Jaskier. He could feel himself regain the upper hand.

“Wings.” Geralt affirmed. “Which means you need to watch the skies as well as the water.”

“Then where did the tales of beautiful women luring men to a watery grave with song come from exactly?” Jaskier asked.

“The stories you bards sing of sirens leading men to throw themselves overboard are true enough,” Geralt said. “though not all species of sirens sing, and what’s worse than the singing is the screams they make once they’ve switched out their beautiful faces for rows of pointed teeth.”

“Oh.” Jaskier muttered, and Geralt almost smiled at how inappropriately disappointed he sounded, ”lovely.”

“Sirens hunt in packs.” Geralt continued, “So if you hunt them, you’ll need to pick them off swiftly or disperse them so they can’t attack all at once. If one does manage to grab you, you pray to all the gods you know that it’s a Nixa so you’ll still have a fighting chance.

“Why’s that?”

“Nixa are more vicious than sirens. Which means that instead of dragging you down and immediately tearing you to shreds they’ll attempt to take you to their lair and devour you piece by piece over the course of days.”

Jaskier winced. “Oh, well,” he mused, “either way you at least get a lovely serenade before your life comes to a horrible end.”

“Yeah. Nixa don’t sing.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier nodded, adjusting the strap of his lute around his shoulder. Why Jaskier had taken it with him Geralt couldn’t quite understand. “Good thing we’re hunting sirens then.”

“I’m hunting sirens,” Geralt corrected. “You’re steering the boat.”

Jaskier stopped in his tracks abruptly. “Remind me again why I’m doing that instead of an experienced sailor?”

Geralt sighed and after a couple of paces, turned around. “Because you agreed to it. And I don’t want to risk anyone else’s life.”

Jaskier put his hands in his hips as he rolled his eyes. “Oh, I love the implication of that.” he complained, and Geralt didn’t really think he deserved that remark. His first impulse was to snark something back, but he stopped himself before he did. For what might have been the first time, he thought about what he was going to say to Jaskier first.

“And,” he started, “you’ve helped me with hunts before. I trust you.”

Jaskier’s arms dropped. In a split second, Geralt witnessed Jaskier’s expression going from surprised, to confused, to surprised again.

“O-Oh,” He stuttered, eyes looking anywhere but at Geralt’s face. “Good. That’s good.”

Geralt quickly turned and started walking again, refusing to linger in the moment, though he listened for Jaskier’s footsteps to see if he followed. He did. Leaving no room for talk, he started briefing Jaskier on the contract.

“There are no survivors so far. But they found the bodies of two fishermen washed up on the shore yesterday morning. According to the man who hired me they gave the bodies to a relative, a boatwright, for burying. If we’re not too late we can examine the bodies and ask the boatwright what he knows. And we need to get a boat. But before that-”

Geralt stopped when he couldn’t hear Jaskier’s footsteps anymore. He turned around. Jaskier had stopped in front of a large boat docked in the harbour, staring at it with a strange look on his face. Geralt had to admit, it was an unusual ship. It wasn’t a war vessel as far as he could tell as there didn’t seem to be any canons on board, but it was still quite large in size. It didn’t look like a boat belonging to a fisherman or a merchant, but more likely to a nobleman, going of the extravagant decorations: on the sides of the ship, various surprisingly accurate depictions of monster were carved into the shiny wooden exterior. Geralt couldn’t immediately tell where the ship was from, but he could see a red banner with a coat of arms: a white arrow pointing upwards crossed with two stripes.

He looked back at Jaskier, who hadn’t moved and still had that unreadable expression on his face. Geralt couldn’t decipher it any further than shock or confusion. 

“We can look for boats later,” Geralt called out. “though I doubt whoever owns this one would let us use it for Siren hunting.”

The sound of Geralt’s voice seemed to snap Jaskier out of whatever thoughts he was having; he nodded absentmindedly and came Geralt’s way. Though Geralt expected him to stop in front of him, Jaskier marched right past him at a surprisingly hurried pace. When Geralt gave him a pointed look as he passed, he stopped and turned. The sunlight didn’t hide the fact that his face had paled.

“Well? Didn’t you say something about being on time?” Jaskier said in a tense voice, “Come on then.”

Geralt chose not to question it. Instead, he followed after him and tried to enjoy the sunlight,the silence and Jaskier’s company for their short walk to the boatwright’s workshop. It proved difficult, because he couldn’t help but notice Jaskier beside him as his eyes kept darting around to every passing face, every house, and every alley with the occasional glance behind him. There was a look to him then, one that Geralt recognised all too well: the look of a creature being hunted.

Chapter Text

The boatwright’s workplace looked well-built and well-maintained, though there was no one currently at work. Where one would expect the sounds of clattering planks, the hitting of a hammer or the sound of sawing, only the noise of the wind and the waves could be heard.  The air inside was cold and damp despite the sunny weather outside, though Geralt heard the timid roar of a fire coming from behind a door to their left, where, judging by the building’s exterior, there was an extension where the boatwright and his family lived. Geralt immediately knew that they’d arrived in time to investigate the bodies: the salty smell of seawater from the harbour was only an undertone to the scent of upcoming rot and death that came from a room in the back.

“Hellooo?” Jaskier called out from behind Geralt, pinching his nose against the stench and twisting his voice into a nasal whine as a result, “Anyone home?”

Geralt heard footsteps coming from the room on the left. A handsome young man wearing simple work clothes came through the door. His hair was a mess of thick mud-brown curls, strands of it falling into long-lashed eyes framed by a sharp, somber face. He looked at Geralt at first, rightfully alarmed and quite confused, but when his eyes skipped over Geralt to fall on Jaskier his expression cleared up into something unexpected: his entire face lit up, and Geralt could even make out a blush on his cheeks in the dim light of the workshop.

“Would you look at that,” the man mused. He leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms, though not in a bad-natured way. “I uh- didn’t think I’d see you again. I was sure you’d have left town by now.” 

Geralt turned to Jaskier with his best non-verbal ‘explain yourself’ look, though Jaskier seemed quite surprised himself. When he caught Geralt’s gaze however he quickly composed his features into a neutral expression before sending the Witcher a sharp look. Geralt found himself involuntarily narrowing his eyes at the bard. There it was again: a challenge. But while Geralt stood there trying to figure out how to best it, Jaskier pushed passed him towards the stranger, planting his hand on the doorframe and leaning in close. 

“I figured, since I’ve had such a lovely time so far here in Grafhaven, which you should know is in no small part thanks to you, I’d stay just a tiny bit longer.” Geralt couldn’t see Jaskier’s face, but from his tone of voice and the way Jaskier’s apparent acquaintance looked absolutely charmed he didn’t have to guess. “But I honestly did not dare to expect to linger in your thoughts for all this time,” Jaskier finished, and Geralt almost scoffed. Jaskier had always been flowerly in his wording, but he’d never been effective or appropriate when aiming those words at other human beings. In song, perhaps, but not in conversation. Definitely not in flirting. 

It seemed that Jaskier wasn’t finished. “If you want to,” he began,  “we could-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt rasped, albeit a lot louder than he had planned. At least it drew the bard’s attention. “Who’s your friend.” 

Jaskier turned his head towards Geralt and put his free hand on his hip. “Right, right,” he murmured, looking off to his left theatrically while his what Geralt is reluctant to call more than an associate looked discontent at the loss of Jaskier’s attention. “It would be my absolute pleasure to properly introduce you two.” Jaskier said, not quite through gritted teeth but similarly unconvincing. “Geralt, this,” he pushed himself off of the wall and used his now free hand to indicate with a flourish, “is Kurt. Kurt, this is-” 

Kurt, who previously looked to be in deep thought, perked up. 

“Geralt of Rivia!” he marveled. Normally this sort of stunned admiration only annoyed Geralt, but this time it was quite pleasing. Especially paired with the sour look that now adorned Jaskier’s face. “I should have known the moment I laid eyes on you.” Kurt said, stepping closer while his eyes slid over Geralt from top to bottom, “I’ve heard many a song about your conquests.”

He smiled at Geralt, then laughed, brief and soft, as if he had just remembered the punchline to an old joke. He turned to Jaskier.

“Good to see you and your White Wolf have been reunited.”

Jaskier’s and Geralt’s eyes found each other instinctively, though they both immediately made a spiteful effort to rip themselves away from the other’s gaze. 

“Well it wasn’t exactly a chance reunion,” Jaskier spluttered, his face visibly heating up, and Geralt hoped he didn’t look just as flustered. “Geralt’s in town for a contract, and it so happened that I’ve decided to join him on his quest.”

Kurt’s face darkened, and for a moment Geralt thought it was purely based on the fact that he’d just learned Jaskier’s presence was only business related, but then he made the connection.

“The Siren killings,” Geralt said. “ We were told that they’d found some of the victims and brought them here.”

 Kurt stared at his feet and nodded. 

Geralt shifted his stance in a flash of discomfort. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

It dawned on Jaskier as well now. He took a staggering step towards Kurt, one hand clasping the boy’s back and the other taking his hand.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier’s voice was mellow and tender, the way it usually got when it broached the topic of death. “I’m so sorry. If I knew what happened, why you weren’t coming around the inn anymore, I would’ve come looking.” Jaskier swallowed, looking genuinely torn up. And although Geralt considered his reaction a bit melodramatic, if there was one thing he admired about Jaskier, it would be his capacity to care so deeply for everyone he met. Because while Geralt did genuinely feel sorry for the kid, he didn’t exactly feel a heart wrenching ache of empathy. He never did when met with the loved ones of a monster’s victim. It was probably better that way.

“Can you bring us to the bodies?” Geralt proposed, earning him a deadly glare from Jaskier. Geralt glanced back unphased; it wasn’t that insensitive, was it? “If we learn more about the Siren’s behaviour from the victim’s wounds, I can hunt them down more efficiently,” Geralt stated, keeping eye contact with Jaskier. “And the quicker this is over with, the more lives will be spared.” 

Does that seem fair to you, Jaskier?

And although it was an unspoken afterthought, Jaskier nodded as if he’d heard it all the same.

Kurt smiled a small smile at Jaskier and gently detached himself from the bard’s tender grip. “Their bodies are in the back,” he said, gesturing to the room that was now confirmed to be the origin of that awful smell. “My father is out making arrangements for the burial, but he should be back soon. He’ll be able to answer any questions you have much better than I could.”

They follow the boatwright’s son to the back room which, from the looks of the stacks of planks and other materials right outside of it, must have been used for storage before. Now, the room is filled with nothing but stench and two bodies wrapped in sails splayed out on the floor. The smell alone, which hit them in an even stronger wave the moment they walked in, was enough for Geralt to tell that the bodies must have been two to three days old. He presumed the stench was bad due to his Witcher senses, but the severity of it was confirmed when he heard Jaskier dry-heave from behind him, stammering apologies to Kurt in the same breath. 

“We had no reason to call for a coroner,” Kurt explained. “Everyone already knew who, or rather what, had killed them. No crime, only monsters.”  Geralt turned around to see Jaskier doubled over with Kurt patting his back sympathetically. The boy didn’t seem to be bothered by the smell, which wasn’t all that strange: he had to have been living in it for a while now.

He looked up at Geralt. “They were fishermen, my uncle and nephew,” Kurt continued. “Two of many who fell victim over the past month. In the beginning, no bodies had washed up. So we assumed they’d simply gone missing, or had been shipwrecked somehow. Then, after a week or so, we started seeing them over the bay.”

The three men all look up at the sound of the door opening and being closed shut with a bang.

“Father?” Kurt called out, “We’re in here!”

A couple of footsteps.

“Who’s we?” came a low, rumbling voice, laced with a weariness that was hard to miss.

“A witcher came for the contract,” Kurt replied, “Geralt of Rivia.”

For a moment, there was no sound from the other room. Then, a quick succession of heavy footsteps later, a man stepped into the room. He was quite built, short sleeves showing sun-tanned skin and muscle, though his stature was the shortest out of all of them. The same curly hair signified him as his son’s father, though his was coloured salt-and-pepper, and he seemed to be about the same age as Geralt looked. His expression was worn, but there was a glimmer of hope in his eye as he looked at Geralt.

“Thank the fucking gods you’re here,” the man said as he stepped forward to shake Geralt’s hand with a firm grip. “About bloody time there came an end to this pest. We’ve all suffered enough ‘round here, us especially.” He only then seemed to notice Jaskier, who had propped himself up against Kurt’s side. “What’s he doing here?” the boatwright asked his son.

Geralt answered instead. “He’s with me.” He looked at Jaskier, who didn’t look all too concerned with the presence of Kurt’s father. Good. Geralt wasn’t in the mood for a family feud. Kurt however seemed a lot more eager to get Jaskier out of his father’s face.

“If you’re hunting these creatures, you’re gonna need a boat, aren’t you? Why don’t we,” he looked at Jaskier, “sort one out for you, yeah? We don’t have much left, but if Jaskier could tell me what you need, I can get you one that’s seaworthy at least.” He looked to his father, who nodded in approval, then at Jaskier with an eager grin that told Geralt that Kurt wasn’t planning on talking about boats exclusively. Geralt was already preparing himself for Jaskier’s glance, ready to tell him no, stay here, you’re not going anywhere, you’re supposed give me the impression that you’re just here for the contract while in actuality you want to be by my side what happened to that, when Jaskier followed Kurt out the door with a nod, a smile, and not a single sign of communication directed at Geralt. Geralt’s last hope as he watched the two exit was for the father to intervene, to catch on, but the man remained oblivious.

“Well,” he told Geralt. “get on with it, yeah? I’ve got a brother and a nephew to bury.”

Geralt begrudgingly bent over the nearest body, carefully unfolding the sails the bodies were wrapped in, his mind half-occupied with the two pairs of footsteps on the other side of the wall.

The body had been found in water, which meant it had been better preserved, though it was already beyond bloated and well into the early stages of decay. Geralt could barely make out that the body in front of him belonged to an older man, as it was covered in wounds and bites and tears: an eye was missing as well as part of the man’s right arm, and big chunks of flesh had been torn off most of the body. Geralt leaned in closer, and quickly established that it hadn’t been a siren: the teeth marks weren’t nearly deep enough. The man probably fell overboard and got away only to drown and have his body eviscerated by other creatures of the sea. That, or the siren had been sloppy.

“I wish I could tell you why they’re here, Witcher,” Geralt looked up to his right and saw the boatwright looking at the wall with a fixed stare, his discomfort and sorrow clear as day. “but I honestly don’t know. Best guess is that one of the summer storms brought them here, waves and wind carrying them over all the way from Skellige. Gods forbid the alternative.”

Geralt grunted in affirmation. He knew all too well what the boatwright meant with the alternative. There were people among the likes of trophy hunters, reckless sailors or bored nobles who would hunt sirens, not to kill them, but to keep them for whatever foolish endeavor they’d dreamed up. Sooner or later it would become apparent that Sirens were not simply comely maids of the ocean with a slight affliction, but were in fact vicious predators, and in the rare case that fate was kind and let the Siren’s captor live, the Sirens themselves were promptly dumped in the nearest bay to become someone else’s problem.

“You can wait outside if you want,” Geralt proposed to the boatwright considering the man’s pale complexion, but he declined. 

“Don’t mind me,” he said, “Go on with your investigation, the sooner this is done the better.”

Geralt nodded, then went to look at the second body. This time, the marks of a siren’s attack were difficult to miss. The boy wore the vicious tears of a Siren’s claws on both shoulders, meaning the Siren must have tried to carry him off. Geralt could make out the cause of death rather quickly: on the right side of the boy’s shoulder the claws had dug into his neck as well, slitting his throat and causing him to bleed out. Unfortunately, that didn’t give Geralt any remarkable clues, as that way of hunting was inherent to all sub-species of Sirens.

Geralt re-covered the bodies and stood up. “The contractor,” he said to the boatwright, “he told me the amount of sightings have increased with every passing week. Gives me reason to believe there might be a nest.”

“It’s true,” the boatwright responded, “we’ve been having this problem for over a month. Not only are our sons and fathers and brothers dying at sea, but it’s hurting trade and labor. At first we couldn’t keep up with demand with those damned Sirens wrecking every boat that sails out of this harbour, but now nobody’s wanting to come around here anymore.”

He stopped for a moment, deep in thought, then said, “They won’t stop coming. It has to be a nest.”

Geralt grunted to himself, discontent. If it really was a nest instead of just a couple of Sirens to get rid off, he couldn’t just go in blind. He had to come up with a strategy. And not only that, it made the fact that he’d brought Jaskier along about ten times more dangerous.

“Did any of the sailors ever think of any precautions once they figured out what they were dealing with?” Geralt asked the man. “Something to help with the singing.” 

As soon as he’d finished his sentence, Geralt heard the sound of laughter coming from the workshop. He looked at the boatwright to see if the man had noticed, but it seemed it wasn’t loud enough for normal human to hear. As the boatwright began answering Geralt’s question, the Witcher focused on the noise on the other side of the wall instead. Their tone of voice was muddled and he couldn’t make out every single word, but it was enough for Geralt to listen in anyway.

“.... fun that night. My dad ….. your witcher” 

It was Kurt. Geralt found his restraint loosening up once again as the words the boatwright’s son spoke started a low fire in his belly. He tried to sharpen his focus, straining every muscle in his body to do so even though he knew it would be more useful to relax.

 “.. not my .. onto us”

“between ...two of us .. pick” 

Now that sparked Geralt’s curiosity. He had just enough self-restraint left to not blast the wooden wall between them apart and come running.

“I like to ... options open actually .. don’t mind”

It wasn’t enough for Geralt. It didn’t seem enough for Kurt as well.

“but if you had to choose”

It was the first sentence Geralt could make out completely. He honestly couldn’t say that he knew for certain what Jaskier would answer to that. The slightest spark could send Geralt over the edge.

 “fine ..Kurt ... that old buzzkill .. you”

Geralt didn’t know if his interpretation of Jaskier’s words was correct. He would never know. But right then, after the way Jaskier had been, how the two of them had always been, and the state Geralt was in right now, he was in no mood to be reasonable, though he didn’t let his fury blind him. Instead, he made a leveled decision to do something he knew he had no right to, with Jaskier’s unspoken rejection doubling as his approval.

The boatwright had stopped talking for a while now, and whatever response he’d given had been lost to Geralt. It didn’t matter. Geralt grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged him close, away from the door opening so no one else would hear.

“The big boat, out in the harbour,” Geralt spoke in a low voice. “You must have noticed it the moment it arrived. You’d be a real shit boatwright if you hadn’t.” 

The man seemed alarmed, but nodded. 

“I have.”

“Good,” Geralt said. “Tell me everything you know.”

And he did. The ship had arrived yesterday morning, a little while before Geralt had come into town. Only a handful of soldiers in no distinct armour had come off the boat since, going into town and asking after the Sirens though notably without taking the contract. They hadn’t given any names themselves, but the family crest that Geralt had spotted previously belonged to the De Ruyters, a prominent Redanian noble family who owned land far to the east of Grafhaven. 

“Exactly who it could be aboard that ship, no one knows,” the boatwright told Geralt. “It can’t be the count himself, ‘cause for what we’ve heard he’s on his deathbed. And it’s not like that lot comes ‘round here often-”

Geralt’s attention was drawn elsewhere when he heard the sound of footsteps followed by the slam of a door: Kurt and Jaskier must have gone outside.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Geralt muttered to the boatwright as he pushed past him, marching out the room and through the door until he was standing in the streets and then kept on going.

“Uhm, Geralt?” Jaskier called from behind him. “Where are you going?”

So he did notice. Geralt told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t turn, kept walking as he grumbled, “Making preparations!”

“Do I need to come with you?” Jaskier asked, his tone not questioning but rather perplexed with Geralt’s actions.

“Make your own decisions!” Geralt yelled, ignoring the awful feeling that he was going down a path whereof he had made a conscious effort to try not to retread it.  

“Fine! I think I will!” came Jaskier’s final answer. 

“Good!”

Geralt kept walking. Jaskier didn’t follow.

On his way back into town Geralt passed the spot where the mysterious boat had been docked before. It was gone now, though looking out over the bay he could still see the ship. He almost envied Jaskier: whatever it was that the bard had previously worried about had sailed off towards the open sea.

Geralt just hoped he hadn’t lost him as well.

Chapter Text

Geralt tried to finish up his preparations as quickly as possible. When he’d first left Jaskier at the harbour he’d tried to deliberately slow himself down, tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter to him whether or not Jaskier would be long gone by the time he’d returned, but that had been one big lie, held up for about ten minutes with the notion of keeping Geralt’s supposed pride intact. After that he’d quickly stopped fooling himself and started going about town making his purchases with a speed that was more akin to something that said ‘I obviously care a lot’.

After about an hour and a half Geralt was walking along the harbour once again, this time with freshly made potions stashed in the inside of his jacket and a light crossbow slung across his back. He’d been extremely fortunate that the local herbalist had the ingredients he himself had lacked for both a Killer Whale and an extra Swallow, and while it may have taken excruciatingly long to not only run back to the Jackdaw Inn to get the required spirits but to brew the potions as well, he knew that it was very much worth it in the long run. Even though he could barely afford it. And even though every second spent preparing was an another second in which Jaskier could decide that he was fed up with Geralt and leave.

When the boatwright’s shop came into view with no immediate sign of Jaskier, Geralt felt every ounce of breath leave his lungs within a second. However, he only had to listen and look a little further than his worry allowed him to, because he simply had to follow the faint sound of a lute coming from the waterside to spot Jaskier sitting on one of the docks, legs dangling and with his back towards Geralt, strumming a cluttered cacophony of notes into a vague tune. The Witcher quickly approached. Hearing Geralt’s footsteps over the creaky wood of the dock, Jaskier turned to look. 

“I thought you were going to decide for yourself,” was the first thing Geralt said.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier responded, continuing to play as he looked out over the sea, “I did.”

“Good,” Geralt grunted, though it didn’t make much sense to him: nothing he’d done or said today would’ve inclined a sane person to stay.

“Where’s Kurt?” Geralt asked him, feeling unreasonably cocky, “I was almost certain you two would have sailed off into the sunset by now.”

Jaskier stopped playing. He looked up at Geralt, squinting as he did; the sun was higher now, shining just above Geralt’s silhouette as he stood over the bard. 

“Ha, ha, very clever, Geralt” the bard said in a deadpan tone of voice, “Well If you really want to know, Kurt happens to be preparing a ship for us as we speak because I convinced him to let us have it for free.” 

“Hm.”

Geralt crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on the horizon and the waves rolling towards them. Not only had Jaskier chosen to stay, he was apparently still determined to join Geralt on his hunt. Geralt felt like he should be happier about this revelation: He was happy, but concern for Jaskier’s safety was clawing at his consciousness at a relentless pace.

“He didn’t need a lot of convincing, actually.” Jaskier prattled on, “As a matter of fact, he insisted. Or, more accurately, he offered. Alright, maybe I didn’t have to convince him at all-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted.

“What?”

“Thank you.”

Jaskier seemed to consider Geralt’s show of gratitude for a second, after which a satisfied smile spread across his face. 

“You’re welcome,” he boasted, pushing himself up to his feet as he did. He slung his lute over his shoulder and turned to Geralt. “How’d the preparations go?” Jaskier asked, leaning forward to look at the weapon Geralt now carried on his back. “Got yourself a crossbow, I see. That’s new.” He stepped back and scrunched his nose. “Now that I think about it, I’ve never actually seen you use one before. Do you even know how to use it?”

Geralt gave him a level stare.

“You probably do, don’t you.” Jaskier decided on, putting his other hand on his hip and shifting his stance. Geralt noted Jaskier was talking a lot all of a sudden, much more than he had been since their reunion. Geralt found it equal parts annoying and surprisingly reassuring. Maybe a bit more of the latter.

“I’ve got you something as well.” Geralt told Jaskier, retrieving a package from the inside of his jacket. It wasn’t very big or impressive, just about the length and width of a book, wrapped in cloth and bound together with a piece of hemp string.

“What, like a gift? You got me a gift?” Jaskier questioned, taking the package with a careful hand and an awfully suspicious look on his face. It made Geralt aware of the fact that Jaskier’s usually the one buying Geralt things; from meals after a long day of travel and repairs to his clothes and weapons, to indulgent, overtly expensive treats from local bakeries and random trinkets that Geralt didn’t need but didn’t have the heart to toss. This might be the first thing Geralt had ever bought for Jaskier.

“It’s not a gift,” he quickly elaborated in the hopes of moderating any upcoming disappointment as Jaskier untied the string and opened the package, revealing its contents. “The tub is for the hunt, but the dagger is more of a necessity. Truth be told, I don’t know how you’ve managed to survive all this time without any sort of weapon.”

Geralt watched as Jaskier analysed the objects amidst the cloth with a frown, though the curiosity in his eyes was hard to miss. He went for the dagger first, drawing it from its sheath and letting it dangle from between his thumb and pointer finger like it was some dead rodent. Geralt briefly wondered if it was a good idea to give Jaskier a weapon.

“I appreciate the gesture, Geralt, but couldn’t you have gotten me something nicer?” Jaskier chided, holding the weapon up to his face and turning it around its axis for inspection. “No gold plating, maybe some gemstones embedded into the hilt.. not even an engraving, no?”

Geralt was aware that the dagger was only a simple thing and probably the cheapest thing Jaskier now owned. He refrained from mentioning that it had cost him the last of his coin.

“I don’t expect you to charge into battle with that,” Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier’s comment. “Strap the sheath to your leg, inside of your boot. Only draw it in self-defense.” he took the weapon from Jaskier’s hand and slit it back into the sheath. “And don’t go around stabbing anyone who looks at you funny.”

Jaskier muttered a quick affirmation, his focus already shifted to the object next to the dagger. He took the iron tub into the palm of his hand, turning, tapping, shaking and weighing it as to discover its contents. Geralt sighed at the bard’s theatrics. 

“Just open it.”

Jaskier looked up at Geralt, giving the tub three more unnecessary taps in a display of defiance before twisting the lid open. 

“Great,” he drawled, examining the contents of the tub with a wrinkled nose and a furrowed brow. He brought it up to his nose to smell it, but when that didn’t harbor any new information he stuck two fingers inside and dragged them through the waxy white substance. “What is it?”

“It’s wax.”

“Wax?” Jaskier repeated. “Why would I need wax?”

“To plug your ears,” Geralt explained, a hint of annoyance to his tone. “Sirens are far less likely to risk attacking if their song isn’t affecting anyone. I’m immune to that sort of magic, but you would instantly become entranced at the sound of a single note. So unless you want go for an involuntary swim-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jaskier spluttered, pointing an accusatory finger at Geralt, “that wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“You get my help with your contract by me steering a boat for you or whatever, I get to hear a Siren’s song,” Jaskier reminded him, clearly annoyed. “Remember?”

“Oh yeah?” Geralt scoffed. He took the unwrapped package and its contents from Jaskier with an amused grin and a sceptic look. “Be honest, Jaskier. Are you sure that wasn’t just an excuse to justify to yourself that you passed on the prospect of lavishing two pairs of peaches so you could spend time with me?"

Jaskier’s face darkened. He closed his eyes for a second, frowning as hurt and disbelief flashed across his face. When he opened them again, Geralt found himself staring into fire laced with venom. 

“Do you really think the only reason I’ve been by your side for all these years is because of your sunny disposition and loving companionship?” he sneered. “I hate to tell you this, Geralt, but if it was, I would have left on my own accord a long time ago.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” Geralt refuted. “If you truly couldn’t stand me all this time, Jaskier, then why didn’t you leave?”

Jaskier looked away, exhaling sharply through his nose: he was still tense with rage, but Geralt’s words doused his flame just a bit. Geralt wasn’t sure if his next words would add fuel to it or put it out, but the flare of anger in his own chest caused the words to spill over his lips.

“It’s because you know that if it weren’t for me you’d be nothing. You’d still be scraping crumbs of the floor of some desolate tavern to get by instead of prancing around the highest courts, telling my tales, spreading my name-”

“Clearing your name,” Jaskier corrected weakly, but Geralt kept going.

“-All in service of your own selfish quest to gain fame!” 

It was like the world had turned upside down: there they stood, accompanied by an interlude of crashing waves, Geralt succumbing to emotion, his heart nearly beating at a human pace as Jaskier stood silent, his expression pained but demure, like Geralt never had to say it for him to know. Like he’d heard it all before.

“I won’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it.” Jaskier started, still refusing to meet Geralt’s gaze. “But it was never just the fame that I was after. If I wanted to dine in the halls and play around the fires of noble lords, trust me, I could have been doing that long before I managed to achieve it alongside you.”

Jaskier seemed unfocused as he looked out over the sea. Geralt could tell he was somewhere else for a moment, remembering some other place, some other time. The expression he wore was similar to the way his face would twist up if something confused him, but with his usual erratic energy switched out for a strange sort of calm. It was a foreign look on Jaskier’s face; Geralt didn’t remember him ever dwelling on his past.

“But I chose to get there by treading the path I wanted to follow.” Jaskier continued. “And when I met you, all I wanted was an adventure. So I took the risk of chatting up the big, scary man in the corner of the tavern in the hopes of finding one, and well,” 

He looked up at Geralt, a small smile gracing the corners of his lips, 

“You delivered. And it was more than enough for me to spend over a decade of my life by your side, chasing after the next one, a fool thinking he was wanted.”

Jaskier licked his lips, then parted them slightly as if there was something else he wanted to say, but instead he turned away from Geralt and towards the sea.

“Is that truly all you ever wanted from me?” Geralt asked, finding himself desperate to say something that pleased Jaskier. “Adventure. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Jaskier’s head shifted slightly to the left but he didn’t turn around. He swallowed, and the sound was deafening.

“Yes.”

It’s an answer that should be, by all accounts, to Geralt’s absolute satisfaction. It wasn’t. But he bit through inexplicit sting of disappointment to give Jaskier the answer he deserved.

“Then I’ll deliver once again.”

The couple of seconds Geralt had to wait for a reaction were aggravating, but then Jaskier turned around and smiled at him with pressed lips. There was still a trace of hurt in his eyes and he didn’t exactly seem elated but fuck, Geralt couldn’t really blame him, could he? Right now, he’d gladly take it, this truce of sorts, called in unspoken agreement.

“But not without the wax.” Geralt added, holding up the package. Jaskier sighed, though more in reluctant acceptance rather than defiance, and took it from him.

“Geralt, don’t you realise by now that if I were truly afraid of danger I would have just stayed at the local inn every time you went on one of your hunts?” Jaskier complained.

“It’s not about that. You could die.” Geralt took a moment to decide on his next words, “And if there’s one thing I can promise you, Jaskier, it’s that you’ll never die when you’re by my side.

Jaskier huffed. “If only that were true,” he said with an amused lilt in his voice as he started walking down the dock towards the harbour. Geralt waited for a moment, watching the bard with his lute slung across his back, the lush green fabric of his clothes shimmering in the sun as he strode across the wooden walkway. 

Geralt hummed to himself, then followed.

Chapter Text

“She’s no beauty,” Kurt admitted, “but she’ll sail well enough. And with those monsters wrecking anything that sails out of this harbour, it’s all we have left.”

Geralt crossed his arms and considered the vessel Kurt was offering to them: with worn planks and weathered sails the small sailing boat looked like it had seen better days. 

“It’s a bit.. rustic, isn’t it?” Jaskier commented, glaring at the ship as if it was some horrible seabeast in disguise, but Geralt didn’t care as much. If it would stay afloat for more than a day or so he’d be satisfied.

“It’ll do,” Geralt simply stated, which caused an immediate splutter of protest from Jaskier, who was standing along with Kurt to his left. But when Geralt turned his head to look at him it was Kurt who caught the witcher’s eye instead. Geralt thought that, all things considered, the boy looked a bit moody. It crossed his mind that the boatwright’s son was simply jealous at the prospect of Jaskier venturing off with him, but from what Geralt had overheard in the shop that morning, that wouldn’t have to be a concern for Kurt. 

“Are you sure you don’t want payment?” Geralt asked him, “I imagine you could use it right now. And I don’t stand for a man of his craft being cheated out of fair pay.”

Kurt made a dismissive gesture, and Geralt breathed an inner sigh of relief. He’d offered out of courtesy more than anything, as the current weight of his coin pouch wouldn’t be able to back up his intent.

“To be rid of these monsters is more than enough pay for us, master witcher,” Kurt assured him. Geralt didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to Jaskier for a second before he finished with, “as long as it’s not at the cost of your lives.” 

“I’ll try,” Geralt muttered dryly before stepping inside the boat. The wood groaned under his weight, and the smell of rot he’d picked up on the dock became even more invasive, but it stayed afloat. It could fit both him and Jaskier easily.

“See?” he remarked, looking up at Jaskier, “I’m not at the bottom of the ocean, am I?”

Jaskier huffed, and Geralt could hear the “Not yet” that the bard muttered under his breath loud and clear, but he did take a step forward, intent on entering the boat as well. 

“So this is goodbye, then, isn’t it?” Kurt called after him, his voice heavy with resignation, making Jaskier stop in his tracks and turn. 

“Eh, well, yes,” Jaskier stammered, “I suppose, it is.”

A moment passed. The way Kurt had just spoken up made Geralt re-examine his previous assessment of the boy’s sour mood and considered chalking it up to a romantic concern for Jaskier’s safety; but the way the two faced each other there on the dock didn’t exactly boast the same flirtatious tone that Geralt had resented before. Instead, they both seemed frozen in place aside from the impatient tap of Jaskier’s foot and the slight sway in Kurt’s stance as slowly nodded his head with pressed lips.

Eventually Jaskier broke their stand-off: he slid the strap of his lute off of his shoulder and held out the instrument to Kurt with a sincerely exasperated sigh. 

“You’re not obliged to, in any way, whatsoever, but- could you perhaps take my lute to the inn for me?” he asked Kurt, barely looking him in the eye throughout. “I paid in advance for three more days so just- give it to Marcel, and if we’re not back by then I would be very grateful if you retrieved the rest of my things and held onto them until we, hopefully, return.”

Kurt looked at Jaskier for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “Look,” he said as he moved towards Jaskier, hugging his arms close to his chest. “How about I hold on to it for now? That way, I know you’ll have to come back for it. A promise of your safe return, so to say. And then, if you want, we could head to the Jackdaw where you’ll tell me all about how the witcher and the bard saved Grafhaven from a siren plague.” 

“Well, in that case,” Jaskier mused, “you could finally repay me for all those bottles of Est Est we emptied at my expense.” Geralt couldn’t see his face from where he was standing, but he could hear the smile in Jaskier’s voice, “And I will not be accepting payment in coin.”

“Only if the witcher will join us,” Kurt countered, much to Geralt’s surprise. They caught each other’s eye as Kurt elaborated, “because while I am in favour of your proposal , if we’re going to drink that much in one night it might be useful if at least one of us can’t die of alcohol poisoning.”

The comment made Geralt smile, genuinely. The sound he made, a fleeting hum of laughter, drew the attention of both men standing on the dock. The look of surprise on their faces at his uncharacteristic display of emotion was all the more amusing. “Actually, witchers can die of alcohol poisoning,” he commented with a smirk. “Though it would take a lot of time, and a lot of alcohol. Even so, no witcher has ever met their end at the bottom of a bottle as far as I can remember. Would be as good a time as any to try and make history.”

Kurt looked pleased, his previously cloudy mood making way for a much sunnier disposition. “Agreed,” he said, then with a mock flourish, “May the tales of your deeds only be outshined by the tales of your demise.”

Kurt then turned to Jaskier. His chosen goodbye, a kiss on the cheek, had Geralt once again guessing at the exact nature of their relationship. Notably, he didn’t feel that same sting of blind, raging jealousy anymore, but whether that was due to a shift in the two men before him or a shift within Geralt himself was unclear. But, as Kurt’s lips lingered a hair’s breadth away from Jaskier’s ear, Geralt caught his whispered words on the wind: 

don’t let yourself get hurt

And while it seemed like a trivial comment, the secretive nature of the way it was voiced made Geralt wonder if there was more to Kurt’s parting advice.

Nevertheless, Jaskier came aboard, and soon enough the two of them had left Grafhaven’s harbour. Jaskier was no stranger to this particular task of helping Geralt on sea-bound hunts, and before long he had reclined into a comfortable position on the back end of the boat, his hand resting on the tiller for the occasional adjustment. Geralt, on the other hand, was looking significantly more restless. He’d positioned himself in the middle of the boat, one hand holding on to the mast to keep himself steady amidst the strong ocean winds and the sway of the ship, eyes trained on the sky and the sea before him for any sign of sirens. 

They sailed in silence. In fact, Jaskier was breaking his record of longest-amount-of-time-spent-without-speaking-or-singing-while-fully-conscious’ by a long run, but perhaps he had correctly guessed that right now Geralt was so highly strung that the same snark he might tolerate any other day would make him snap. The problem wasn’t the beast they were hunting: he’d dealt with sirens before, and he’d done so quickly and efficiently; but Geralt was self-conscious enough to recognise that for the past twenty-four hours he’d been about as sharp as a pebble, which was dangerous in his line of work. Common folk might see witchers as invincible, impeccable masters of combat, but Geralt knew that a muddled mind during a crucial moment could very well mean his end. Not to mention, Jaskier’s end. In hindsight he maybe should’ve brought anyone other than Jaskier along for this hunt, but whatever forces kept tugging on his heartstrings lately wanted to keep the bard close.

Geralt stayed on the lookout without interruption for what might’ve been several hours on end, but to no avail. They’d left early in the afternoon, and with Geralt’s eyes fixed on the horizon near constantly he was ever so aware of the sun inching closer to its edge. He estimated that within an hour or two the sky would be tinted in shades of orange and pink, and not long after that it would be dark. Geralt didn’t like to admit defeat, but they might have to return to Grafhaven soon if they wanted to make it back before nightfall.

“Geralt?”

He felt his shoulders tense. He found himself in between hoping that whatever Jaskier had to say wasn’t anything too concerning and hoping it was at least worth his time.

“Hm.”

“I just realised that you haven’t exactly told me what your grand master plan is for taking on our little siren problem. I mean-” he cut his sentence short to focus on steering around a sandbank on their trajectory before continuing, “I’m sure it’s an excellent plan, I would just like to know what it is, that’s all.”

Fuck. Geralt hadn’t realised just how far the extent of his inattentiveness went.

“Fair enough,” Geralt said with a tilted nod, then finally turned to face Jaskier. He looked tired. “If we were simply dealing with a couple of stray sirens we wouldn’t need a plan. We’d find them. I’d kill them. But from what I gathered from the boatwright it’s more likely to be a nest, which means-”

“-that we’re definitely going to negotiate a higher reward.”

While Geralt did not necessarily disapprove of Jaskier’s mindset, he still paused to fix him a glare. Jaskier looked up at him with a glint in his eye, a paragon of feigned innocence, his head in his free hand as he rested his arm on the edge of the hull. The attitude didn’t faze Geralt as much as it should have. He could tell it was hiding a strong sense of unease, which might be due to the bard sensing Geralt’s own lack of confidence in the situation. 

“Which means,” Geralt continued unwavering, “that we do need a plan. Use their instincts against them. An injured and isolated siren will instinctively flee back to its nest, even when pursued, because they know their strength lies in numbers.” Geralt paused for a second to regain his balance as Jaskier steered them around a large sandbank, causing the boat to sway. “Once we find a flock I’ll take them down one by one, then wound the remaining siren causing it to retreat. I’ll protect you. All you need to do is steer when we chase it down and pray to whichever god you’d like that there’s only one nest.”

Geralt paused, gazing up at the sky.

“But you can sleep on that soon enough. Sun’s getting low and there’s still no sign of the damn things.” 

Geralt awaited a response, a confirmation at least, but nothing came his way. Instead, Jaskier stared at him. Not a blank stare per se, but one accompanied by pursed lips and raised eyebrows that Geralt knew meant something in the bard’s head wasn’t clicking.

“Well,” he drawled. “that whole thing sounded awfully convoluted.”

“It will work,” Geralt simply stated, thinking it would be more than enough to dismiss Jaskier. It wasn’t.

“Because it doesn’t really sound like the safest approach in the world to me. One might even call it dangerous, not to mention ludicrous and incredibly-”

“You wanted adventure, did you not?”

“Well, you usually have a better plan.”

“We’ll be fine.” 

“You mean you will be fine.”

“No, we ’ll be fine,” Geralt snapped back. “I don’t recall the boatwright mentioning any of the sailors using precautions beyond useless superstitions which means they simply weren’t prepared. We are prepared.” 

“Prepared?” Jaskier huffed. “Oh, you mean my wax and your crossbow.”

Geralt grunted in frustration. He realised that reasoning was futile, and if Jaskier could make a mockery out of it all, so could he.

“I do have a backup plan.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” he quipped, bracing his hands on his thighs as he stood up as he stood up before placing them on his hips. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Human bait.”

Jaskier gaped at him as he fumbled over the beginnings of a protest, which was greatly amusing to Geralt, though he was relieved when Jaskier caught on to the joke after a second or so and fell back into his seat.

“You know what, Geralt,” he said, scowling, “I’m glad you haven’t lost that sense of humour of yours.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the bard. He couldn’t tell if Jaskier was actually mad at him or not and it fueled his guilt into a sweltering blaze. On one hand, it was easy to blame his inability to read his companion on Jaskier’s own efforts to close himself off to him as of late, but at the same time Geralt was starting to wonder if Jaskier had always been genuinely fed up with Geralt’s behaviour and he just hadn’t noticed. Or, he hadn’t cared. 

“Please, Jaskier,” he scoffed. “Do not tell me you actually believed that.”

Jaskier looked away and muttered something incoherent. His resignation quickly wiped the mocking look off of Geralt’s face.

“No,” Geralt stated firmly. “I would never.. I wouldn't.. I-” 

His failing to speak piqued Jaskier’s attention, and the heavy weight of his gaze made Geralt even more conscious about saying the right thing. Geralt did have a way with words when it came to snark or the occasional colourful threat, but that skill did not translate to actually expressing himself.

“It would be a waste of a.. perfectly adequate travel companion.”

He scrunched his eyes shut and clenched his fist as he was immediately hit with a full-body wave of regret, only hearing how absolutely untactful his words were once they left his mouth. But, Jaskier didn’t allow Geralt to wallow in self-pity for long; the soft sound of laughter that soon followed had Geralt quickly re-opening his eyes.

“Perfectly adequate,” Jaskier repeated, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “I’ll make sure to work that nugget into my next ballad. Doesn’t really rhyme with anything, but I’m no stranger to miraculous feats of-”

Jaskier fell silent mid-sentence. Geralt watched as his bright expression morphed into something grave as his eyes strayed from Geralt’s face to somewhere behind him. 

“..poetry.”

The hairs on his arms stood up before he heard it. A loud, high-pitched screech, somewhere between a womanly wail and a bird-like shriek, pierced Geralt’s sensitive eardrums, making him wince. Then he turned.

From this distance he could not make out their comely faces, nor their ferocious talons or the exact shade of their slick skin, but their slim forms combined with the shape of their dark, draconic wings against the bright blue sky were enough for Geralt to know: a flock of sirens, four of them to be exact, was flying above the waves a considerable distance away from them, circling the sky like vultures drawn to a freshly-mauled cadaver. 

Another screech echoed through the air. Geralt couldn’t tell if the creatures had spotted them already.

“Jaskier,”

He kept his eyes trained on the flock ahead.

“Stay calm.”

There was a rustling sound behind him followed by a thud. In a moment of instinctual concern, Geralt let his eyes wander and turned around to see Jaskier with his boot off, strapping the knife Geralt got for him to his lower leg. Somewhat reassured he quickly turned his gaze back towards the open sea; 

Just in time to see the tip of a siren’s tail disappear below the waves as the flock dove beneath the water.

It became eerily quiet. For a moment, Geralt froze, scenarios, strategies and skills running through his mind at a rapid speed. Then, he began to prepare for the onslaught.

Chapter Text

“Geralt, what are we doing?” 

The witcher fastened the crossbow quiver to his belt and skimmed his finger over the fletchings of the six bolts inside. 

“We stay put.” Geralt didn’t look at him as he talked. He reached over his shoulder to grab the crossbow strapped to his back and checked the firing mechanism. 

“They managed to get the jump on us, which means we’re the ones being hunted for now,” 

He quickly unsheathed his silver sword, twirled it in his hand, then sheathed it again. “Get the wax and plug your ears. And when they’re here, just- try not to make eye contact.” He tore open the left side of his jacket to check his potion belt for the glimmer of liquids sloshing in their vials, one amber and two a deep orange, then closed it with a quick tug.

For his final preparation, Geralt took the time to center himself:

A deep breath in- 

feel the chill and taste the salt on the cold air, focus on the hum of the crashing waves

- and a deep breath out - 

feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, the wind in your hair, focus on-

Focus on-

Focus-

Fuck.

Check on Jaskier.

His companion was staring straight ahead all steely-eyed and jaw set. He looked determined, but the pungent smell of his sweat and the way his hand tightly gripped the tiller as if it were a lifeline gave away his fear. Despite that, Geralt could admit that the man sitting in front of him truly was stronger than the boy he’d met at the edge of the world, but there was still such a strong urge within him to protect Jaskier, to get him out of this mess Geralt had made, even though he knew that wasn’t fair: he should have felt that when Jaskier needed that from him. The only thing Geralt could do now was trust him.

It wasn’t long until Jaskier caught him staring. Geralt wanted to tell him something, nothing specific, just anything really, but it would be futile: Geralt could see the glossy white of the wax in his ears as Jaskier narrowed his eyebrows at him, head tilted just a little, probably thinking Geralt’s staring was in expectation of an answer to a question that Jaskier hadn’t heard. How Geralt was supposed to communicate that it wasn’t was beyond him, so he just smiled at Jaskier in a way he hoped would read as reassuring. Jaskier didn’t pick up on his intention -in fact looked even more concerned-  but in the end gave an affirming nod. 

It would have to do, because a spot of movement in the corner of his eye put Geralt right back on edge. He gripped the heft of his crossbow, and looked to the water surrounding them. Dark shapes, slim but tall, slithered around their boat. Geralt trailed the largest one as it moved towards the nock before going around the right side. This close, the humanoid shape of its body was unmistakable.

Geralt felt the boat rock behind him and turned. A beautiful young woman draped herself over the hull of the boat, her long, wine red hair clinging to her pale shoulders. A necklace made of seashells adorned her neck, covering both skin and scales, her chest covered in glittering dark blue scales for as long as Geralt could see before the water obscured it. She smiled a sweet smile at Geralt, though the mischievous glint in her rose-colored eyes was hard to ignore.

This pleasant illusion of beauty was quickly ruined for Geralt as his mutations mercilessly dispelled the siren’s magic, the creature’s natural scent of seawater, fish and rotting blood invading his nostrils and making him sick to the point of bile burning in the back of his throat. Geralt had to push himself through the urge to retch. He took a step back and covered his nose and mouth with the palm of his hand briefly before he turned his attention back to the creature in front of him. 

The lustful look that seemed to be the default for sirens in this form had not changed, but Geralt could tell it was sizing him up. He simply stayed put and let its gaze wander over him, and soon enough her pleasant look turned into one decidedly more pissed off. She let herself fall into the water and swam off. Despite the situation Geralt couldn’t help but be amused at the rejection. Geralt followed it as it went, traced the sway of its tail, observed how its shell-pink and sky-blue coloring seemed darker in the depths of the water. He couldn’t deny that as deceptive as he knew it was, some monsters could be entrancingly beautiful. 

Not that it mattered. He grabbed his crossbow and docked a bolt; he still had a job to do.

But when he glanced to the back of the boat while loading his weapon he caught a sight that made his heart jump in his chest: two sirens had flocked to Jaskier, who sat there like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s trap. The one furthest removed from the bard peered over the hull at him with icy blue eyes framed by locks of hair the color of new  autumn leaves, while the other, a green-eyed specimen with long, blonde curls had pushed itself up over the boat to be even closer to its prey. Their smiles were wide, too white; alluring, and terrifying. The expression on Jaskier’s face was not too dissimilar from the one he wore when Geralt ran into him after his first encounter with Yennefer in Rinde. 

Previous plans be damned, Geralt aimed his crossbow at the blonde-haired siren. The creature didn’t notice. He adjusted his grip, adjusted it again. Ran through every bit of knowledge he had, every piece of information they’d gathered, and frowned. It wasn’t making sense. If Jaskier couldn’t hear the sirens’ song they would ignore him. Geralt knew that for a fact, and with matters of the monster-hunting kind he was rarely wrong.

And then it occured to Geralt.

He could hear seagulls cawing in the distance; the ebb and flow of the waves; the creaking of the wooden boards and the flapping of the sail in the wind; and through it all, as a steady rhythm to the melody of seafaring sounds, he heard both his and Jaskier’s breathing; slow, and rapid. 

He hadn’t heard any singing. He was still waiting for those first notes, and he was starting to realise that he was simply anticipating something that would never come. He wouldn’t describe it as some huge revelation, a putting together of pieces or clouds parting to reveal the truth. In that moment, his brain simply supplied what he should’ve known long before: these weren’t sirens they’re dealing with; they’re nixa.

“Jaskier!”

They locked eyes. Geralt charged towards his companion on a rush of adrenaline, crossbow in hand, reaching out to grab him with the other, when another hand grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder. He looked upwards, and found himself staring into the fierce green eyes of the nixa, right before it unleashed a deafening scream. Geralt recoiled, taking a step back backwards. He could feel droplets of blood trickling from his ears. 

Its horrific transformation took only seconds. The moisture on the nixa’s long blond hair spontaneously evaporated, drying and shriveling further and further until it resembled black, dead, seaweed. The flesh of its shoulders started to shift as if something was alive beneath, bones ripping through as two grotesque, draconic wings unfolded from its back, spraying a mist of blood that covered everything around it in specks of red. Its facial features morphed into a mockery of its previous beauty. The skin paled and stretched thin, the eyes turned to empty black pools and its mouth ripped into a maul with long, jagged, teeth, not unlike the sharp claws that were rapidly growing from its fingers; one of which was digging into Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier looked at it, petrified.

Geralt fired. The bolt hit the creature right below the collarbone, sending it sprawling backwards. As it fell, the nixa dragged its nails across Jaskier’s shoulder, tearing through his doublet and leaving a bloody wound before it hit the water, its wild screeching drowning out Jaskier’s screams of pain. 

Geralt cursed. He knew he couldn’t tend to him. The best way to help him was to fight and protect him, but the fear and pain in Jaskier’s eyes as he clutched his wounded shoulder tore through any rational thought. Nevertheless, his witcher’s senses would always be stronger than whatever his heart desired, for when the sound of sloshing water behind Geralt reached his ears he whirled around without a moment’s hesitation, drew his sword, and in one swift motion slashed the stomach of the nixa that had leapt up behind him. It fell to the deck of the boat and layed there for a second, writhing like a fish on dry land, before stilling. The shell necklace still glistened around its neck.

Geralt took the window of opportunity to load up his crossbow again, but as he drew back the mechanism another nixa dove from the waters and lunged straight for Geralt. He threw  himself to the deck, landing on his shoulder and rolling unto his back quickly enough to watch his attacker fly past, raining down flecks of skin like dead leaves as it finishes its transformation mid-air. Its scream was almost impossibly loud, filling his entire skull and leaving his ears ringing through the chorus of screeches that followed from the others in a sort of call-and-response. Geralt caught a flash of silver hair turning black, blood-red scales, and a crown of shimmery fins unfolding from the nixa’s head before it dove beneath the waves again.

Geralt stayed down for a moment to grab the bolt that had dislodged from his crossbow and reload it. Terrible mistake. Because just as he finished, a fourth nixa flew over, dove downwards, grabbed Jaskier -who was still reeling from pain- and lifted him off his seat.

“Geralt!” 

He scrambled to get on his feet, eyes set on Jaskier as the bard fought to remain with his feet on the floor. He watched with quite a lot of pride as Jaskier managed to shrug off his boot by hooking the heel on the edge of the hull, then tried to reach for, but failed to get, the knife he’d strapped to his leg. 

Geralt lined up a shot and moved forward, closing distance as he zeroed in on his prey. He failed to sense the sway of the boat to his left however, and as his finger touched the lever a nixa sprung up between him and Jaskier and pushed him to the ground again. Pain singed through his skull as his head smashed against the hull. He tried to regain himself, had no other choice, as the nixa was on him within seconds. Its wet body slithered against him as Geralt tried to hold it back, gripping the crossbow bolt still lodged beneath its collarbone from when he’d shot it before and pushing with one hand while reaching for his sword with the other, but the pain in his head and the wave of the creature’s rotten smell invading the air he breathed made it nearly impossible to focus. And despite his own very pressing issue right now, he found himself looking to the back of the boat rather than into the eyes of the nixa trying to tear him limb from limb. It was justified. Because Jaskier was nowhere to be seen, and that single fact turned out to be better motivation to fight back than any fear for his own life. Geralt could actually feel the adrenaline rushing through him, mind, body and heart now all working together towards a singular goal. His fingers found the pummel of his sword, and with his surging strength he pushed the nixa back and swung for its neck with his silver. 

The nixa reacted quickly, raising its wing to block Geralt’s strike, and while the move succeeded in making Geralt miss its throat he managed to hack off about half of the defending limb. It immediately leapt back into the water, proving Geralt’s earlier theory about dewinging them to be correct. Knowing that his plan would have worked if he hadn’t managed to fuck it up so severely was barely a comfort to the witcher.

He got to his feet, this time undisturbed, and looked to the sea with a heavy heart. Relief cut through his adrenaline boosted focus. He could see Jaskier, far away as he was, still within the claws of the Nixa flying towards the horizon, hanging limply instead of struggling furiously like he had just seconds before. A bolt from his crossbow wouldn’t be able to reach them now. He had to act quickly.

Geralt sheathed his sword and moved to the back of the boat, put his crossbow on the bench and placed his hand on the tiller, before pointing his hand at the limp sail and drawing the sign of Aard. A blast of wind erupted from his palm, filling the sail within seconds, yanking the boat forward just quick enough that the nixa diving at him from the sea missed him by a hair. He was forced to turn it first, a process that didn’t go nearly as fast as Geralt would like, who was starting to feel distressed in a way he hadn’t felt a lot in his life. It wasn’t like Jaskier’s life had never been in danger over the many years they’d traveled together, but there was a stark difference this time around that even Geralt could recognise. He’d cared about him before, of course, but at some point Jaskier had stopped being just another brief occurrence in Geralt’s oh so lengthy lifespan and had become a beloved mainstay. And now, if Jaskier were to die, he’d do so with their last moment together consisting of bitter arguments and petty, childish behaviour.

Before long Geralt was sailing straight. He quickly gained speed, and after a couple of seconds Geralt’s closed his palm, stopping the stream of air. The momentum of the boat now would be enough to carry him closer than he needed to. He picked up the crossbow from the bench, loaded it, aimed it, and took a deep breath in, concentrated on the sway of the nixa as it flew: Up, down, up, down, its head visible to him every time its body swayed downwards. He let the bolt fly. Hit. Its dying screech echoed through the warm ocean air. It dropped Jaskier just before it fell from the sky, his and its body hitting the waves one after the other. Geralt waited for him to emerge as the boat slid across the waves. 

He didn’t.

A screech from behind drew his immediate attention; the nixa with the blood red colouring had caught up with him and now dove through the air towards him. His hand flew to the handle of his sword but didn’t draw it as the nixa altered course, instead ripping through the sail above him. He aimed, fired, missed. 

A loud noise that Geralt couldn’t place peaked his attention. Turning towards the source, he was met with a concerning vision: the nixa he’d dewinged previously had emerged at the back of the boat and was shredding through the wood with its claws. Splinters flew as planks and nails were torn from its place. The creature pulled itself upwards by its nails as they tore through the deck, slamming its own body into the boat as it’s broken wing flapped weakly in an effort to lift off.

Geralt was forced to change his footing, his balance faltering, as the boat started to sink. It was cantering quickly, sending him sliding towards the nixa clawing towards him. Stumbling, he aimed his crossbow, a bolt still loaded and docked into place, and fired it straight into the skull of the advancing beast. It slumped to the deck and slid down, lifeless, into the water.

The boat was still sinking, rapidly, and a quick glance told Geralt Jaskier had still not surfaced. He had few bolts and few options left. He let the crossbow slip from his grip, unbuckled the quiver with bolts, and looked ahead. The nock of the boat just touched the setting sun, fracturing rays of sunlight into his sensitive eyes. He reached inside his jacket, grabbed, uncorked and chugged the whale potion, ran up the tilted deck of the boat and lept of the nock.

He hadn’t seen the nixa flying towards him.

Just before he hit the water it grabbed him from the sky, digging its claws into his shoulders. He writhed, breathless, a paralyzing pain shooting up his body as the jagged claws shifted and twisted inside of him. The nixa was lifting him higher and higher as he struggled to dislodge his arm from the creature’s grip and reach for the sword on his back. It was strong, incredibly so, but due to the slickness of its skin Geralt could slip free. His hand found the hilt of his silver sword and unsheathed it, raising it above his head and lodging it into the side of the nixa’s head just as it opened its jaw to scream. 

One moment Geralt watched the beast go slack-jawed, the next he was falling. He hit the water and immediately was dragged beneath the waves by the weight on top of him, the nixa’s claws still lodged into his body. Clouds of red blossomed around him as he ripped them from his back, his screams of pain muffled, the Whale potion enabling him to breath despite the water flooding his lungs. The last nixa’s corpse drifted down, its crimson scales glittering in the light shining in from above until it disappeared into the depths below.

He needed to re-orient himself. There was still enough light from the sun that the sea below wasn’t just a deep dark depth, and combined with his witcher senses he could see well enough. Just beyond the wooden planks drifting right in front of him Geralt saw their ship, or what remained of it, sinking deeper down into the water, so he turned around and started swimming in the direction he watched Jaskier fall. Fear had formed a thick lump in Geralt’s throat. He kept swimming, kept looking, kept trying to push the thought that he might be going in the wrong direction or that Jaskier had sunk too far for him to see or that by the time he got to him it would already be too late to the back of his head. 

Then he finally saw him. Jaskier looked strangely peaceful as he sank closer to the darkness below, rays of sunlight falling from the surface, illuminating him and the blots of blood trailing behind him, his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape in unconsciousness, the water moving his clothes and hair in a way that made it look like was floating in a calm void. Geralt felt no trouble disturbing the scene. He quickly reached him, hooked his arms underneath Jaskier’s own, and swam upwards.

It’s only when they emerged above the surface that Geralt noticed Jaskier’s heart wasn’t beating. 

He had to be wrong. Geralt held Jaskier closer to his chest to tried to feel for a heartbeat, but he could not hear, feel, or see the slightest sign of a steady rhythm. Panic seized his throat, and the pain and fatigue of all of his efforts were burning in his limbs and lungs. Their boat had sunk. There were no other seafarers in sight. They were far, far away from land. Geralt looked around frantically. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be it. 

In the distance, the far distance, beyond the wreckage of their ship, Geralt spotted what could be their salvation. A strip of yellow sand stretched out amongst the sea of blue. A sandbank. If he could make it there, there would still be a chance.

He spotted a thick plank drifting on the water a couple of metres away and started swimming towards it with one arm, the other dragging Jaskier behind him, making sure to keep his head above water. When he reached it he draped Jaskier’s arms and chest over the piece of driftwood and held onto it himself, lodging Jaskier’s body between himself and the plank. He took a second to catch his breath, the intake of air burning through his lungs. Fuck he was tired. But when he looked down at Jaskier’s head resting on his chest, all pale, strands of hair clinging to his forehead, the notion that they wouldn’t make it didn’t feel like an actual possibility. 

For the second time that day he drew the sign of Aard, creating a gust of wind to push them forward and in addition started kicking his legs in the water. Slowly, they gained momentum.

Geralt didn’t know exactly how much time was passing. He didn’t dare look down at Jaskier, and all he could do instead was stare out over the sea as the sun inched closer towards the horizon for what seemed like an eternity until the sound of waves rushing over land told him they were close. Geralt tried to go over what he needed to do, but stress and fatigue clouded his conscious thoughts. But as water lapped around his waist and his feet touched land, a memory resurfaced. 

They’d been practicing their stance on the lake outside of Kaer Morhen, the harsh winter months turning its surface into ice. He didn’t remember what he hadn’t been able to perfect, or who he had been sparring with. All he knew was that he was on the ice while Vesemir and the other witchers-in-training had already returned to the lake’s shore, and that Lambert had remained behind as well. At some point Lambert had wandered off, Geralt fully engrossed in whatever error he was trying to correct, with no one noticing his disappearance until they heard it: crack, scream, splash . All Geralt can recall from his effort to save him were the biting cold as he’d acted much as he had now, pure adrenaline driving his actions, and that when he’d gotten Lambert out Vesemir was there, pushing him aside, starting something that Geralt made sure never to forget. 

He layed Jaskier down in the sand, placed his hands on top of his chest, and started pressing.

Geralt heard a crack, restrained his strength, didn’t stop. Pinched Jaskier’s nose, touched his own lips to his, didn’t think about it. Started pushing again, lost count, didn’t matter, just continue. His arms were burning, longs were on fire, didn’t stop, kept going. Breathed more air into his lungs, kept pressing. He was getting lightheaded, kept going. Tears were starting to blur his sight. 

Keep going. Don’t stop.

Nothing happened.

Don’t stop. 

Keep pressing.

The sun was going down.

“You’re not going to die. You’re not going to die, you hear me? You’ll die in some fancy fucking castle surrounded by every stupid sinful thing you loved years after I’ve gotten myself killed on some poor-paying contract. I promised you. I promised you, damnit!”

Geralt looked at Jaskier’s face, the last light of the day dousing his feautues with a warm glow. He had missed him, so much, more than he would ever dare to admit. He couldn’t do that again.

“I’m sorry.”

A tear slipped from his cheek and dripped onto his hands still folded over Jaskier’s chest, still moving. He stared at it. Smiled. He knew then that if he’d had to do this until it would kill him, he would.

“Damnit, Jaskier,” he muttered.

 “I-”

Water spilled from Jaskier’s lips as he gasped for air, and Geralt felt Jaskier’s chest rise beneath his hands. He gasped, blinked rapidly, eyes flicking around before settling on Geralt’s face. He didn’t speak, preoccupied with coughing, but to see the life in those eyes was all Geralt needed. He kept a hand on Jaskier’s chest to remind himself of the steady heartbeat there and collapsed to the sand, exhausted.

Chapter Text

Geralt wished he could stay like this for a moment longer. He wished that lying here in the sand, bathing his burning lungs in the cool, salty sea air one deep breath at the time was a luxury he could afford. That perhaps, if he closed his eyes and faked a prayer, he might be able to leave this place and time. 

He couldn’t. Geralt knew that. What he s hould know by now was that ignoring his problems always lead to having to face them down the road anyway, except by then they’ll have mutated and grown four extra heads with which to bite him in the ass five times over.

Geralt sat up. He instantly felt the claw wounds on his back flare up again. Before the pain had been an inconvenience at most, like the buzz of a persistent fly when one is desperate to sleep, but now that the adrenaline had left his system it felt like someone ripping off his back skin every time so much as he shifted. 

He couldn’t let it matter. He gritted his teeth so hard they might shatter and got to his feet.

Geralt looked to where he’d left Jaskier before he’d collapsed as well, on an innocuous stretch of sand a few feet away from himself and the seaside that could have been marked with Jaskier’s death. His eyes were closed, but the rise and fall of his chest disproved the unthinkable.

The witcher in him, made and trained, told him the first thing he should do was to observe his surroundings, to figure out how to survive. 

He went to Jaskier. 

Geralt collapsed onto his knees at his companion’s side, wincing as he paid for that action in searing pain, and listened when some strange urge from deep within told him to brush Jaskier’s matted bangs from his face. His forehead felt cold and wet from sweat and water, but the heat of ailment brewed underneath. Geralt watched him for a moment, drawing slow circles into Jaskier’s skin with his thumb. The last light of day didn’t hide how pale he looked.

It only took the brief flutter of Jaskier’s closed eyelids for Geralt to retreat. A moment passed before they opened. The blue of his eyes brought out the blue of his lips.

“Geralt?” he croaked.

“Jaskier. You’re okay,” Geralt stated. 

Reconsidered that statement. 

“You’re alive.”

His words went adrift on the ocean wind as Jaskier paid them no mind. He was pushing himself into an upwards position, forearms braced in the sand. 

Geralt wasn’t keen on waiting for his eventual collapse. He braced a hand on and underneath Jaskier’s torso, ignoring the sour look on Jaskier’s face as he gently guided him back down into the sand.

“Careful, Jaskier,” Geralt chided. “I wasn’t joking. You’re not well.”

Jaskier drew in a sharp breath. Instead of what would’ve surely been an epic tirade, a god awful sound escaped his parted lips - quickly followed by the contents of his stomach. Geralt didn’t flinch. He simply turned Jaskier onto his side, hands never leaving him as he lay there heaving and shuddering for at least a full minute until he finally stilled.

“ Fuck ,” Jaskier cursed hoarsely. He glanced over his shoulder at Geralt. 

“Are you just going to gawk at me or are you going to help me up?”

Geralt slowly rolled him onto his back again. He could still feel Jaskier trembling. “Are you sure-”

“I’m sure, Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted, “I don't think there's anything left to.. Well, you know," he placed a hand on his stomach and molded his pained expression into a smile. It was far from his best performance, but Geralt didn’t refuse him. 

As soon as Jaskier sat as close to upright as could be achieved in his condition Geralt asked, “Are you alright?”

Jaskier grimaced. “From what I can tell I just came back from the throes of death, so-” Another fit of coughs left him short for breath, but Jaskier was determined to finish his statement, “So, I’d have to say, no .”

Geralt smiled. Usually Jaskier was the one to remain relentlessly upbeat amidst the mountain of utter shit the two of them usually found themselves shoveling, but something possessed Geralt to take on the task in his stead.

“At least you haven’t lost your wits,” Geralt remarked fondly. “How’s your arm?”

“ Arms, ” Jaskier corrected.

Geralt bowed over him to look at his other side. His own wounds flared up again, but when he saw Jaskier’s shoulder his own pain became irrelevant. The torn fabric of his now ruined doublet revealed two streaks of mauled flesh covered in bloodied sand. They were a near perfect match to the wounds on his right in size but not depth; Geralt could clearly see the bone, a piece of quartz settled in a wall of gore.

Realistically, Jaskier’s wounds would become fatal within a couple of hours. He'd be extremely lucky if he lived to see the sun rise.

Geralt’s throat tightened. 

“Oh gods. Is it that bad.”

But Geralt only heard the rush of his blood and the crashing of the waves swell in his ears. He got to his feet, walked from the surf to the center of the sandbank, and did what he should’ve done first: He observed their surroundings.

The stroke of land they'd washed up on was by no definition large; with a couple of big steps he'd be able to cross it in its entirety. A hint of wood buried in the sand near the opposite surf was the only tangible thing other than sand and shells and themselves that Geralt could find on their island, a fact which shaped their fate in a positive way. Wood meant fire, and fire meant survival in more ways than one. Soon the stars and the moon would be their only source of illumination, and while Geralt did not need much light to see there was nothing his mutations could do against the chill of an early autumn night and his soaking wet clothes. In the long term fire could also mean proper food, though Geralt would rather form his plan around the assumption that they'd be long gone by the time they had to worry about starving.

“Geralt? What’s happening?”

He had to stop looking. Too light-headed. Somehow, Geralt realised, he hadn’t been breathing for a while now. The last time that happened he was a child, stressed over some alchemy formula he couldn’t wrap his head around, and he’ad forgotten to breathe for ten full minutes until he’d fainted and smashed his cheek into a flask and some other boys in training, all of them dead now, had mocked him for his first battle scar being won against a bottle. He’d never made that mistake since then; until now. 

Geralt couldn’t deny it anymore. They’d found themselves in a dark pit with no way up, and while they could light a candle, with no ladder or rope or rescue in sight its light would only make their demise slightly more pleasant.

His heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest. He clawed at the claps on his jacket until it ripped, growling like some beast when cold air dug into his back wounds like splinter thin needles. He sunk to his knees. He was too aware: aware of the pain, the clammy warmth, the wetness of his skin, the sound of seabirds, the smell of his blood and Jaskier’s intermingling, burrowing its way unto his nostrils- 

“Geralt, say something, damnit!”

His head snapped around. Jaskier lay in the sand on his stomach, closer than before. There was a trail in the sand where he’d dragged himself towards Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut in relief when. Geralt hurried to be at his side and helped him up once again.

“Thank the gods.” 

“I’m.. sorry.”

Jaskier looked at him curiously.

“That shouldn’t have happened. I don’t what came over me, it shouldn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier snapped. “What matters is now. I need you to listen to me.”

Geralt took a deep breath in and nodded. 

“We’re not dying on a pile of sand, you hear me? We need to do... Something. Anything other than sit around and die.” Jaskier suppressed a wince as he moved his hand to Geralt’s shoulder. Blazing blue met hazy gold. 

“I don’t like to admit it, but I’m more of a burden than of use right now. Only you can get us out of here, Geralt. I need you to be strong, and-”

Jaskier sniffled.

“I need you to,” He paused for a moment, but quickly gave up on finding the right words:

“I need you to not die before I do.”

Jaskier’s other hand found his chest, but Geralt couldn’t feel any warmth. He was close enough now to grab a waist or bridge a gap if Geralt wasn’t afraid it would break both of them. 

Before Geralt could do something unreasonable Jaskier retracted his hand, and a warm golden shimmer appeared on Jaskier’s face. Geralt frowned, but then saw the swallow potion clasped in Jaskier’s trembling fingers. It beamed a halo of light as it refracted stray rays of sun through the healing liquid inside. Geralt patted his chest and found an empty strap.

He looked up at Jaskier and saw pure desperation.

“ No. ” 

Jaskier withdrew at the vicious tone of his voice. Geralt winced. 

“What I mean is,” he held up his hands as if to calm a wounded animal, “it wouldn’t be fair. You’re hurt worse than I am and I don’t deserve-”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier snapped, “this isn’t about fairness, or a competition of suffering. It’s not like I can drink it in your stead.” He thrusted the flask forward. “You save me, I try not to get in your way.”

As always.

“You know what will happen once I drink it,” Geralt argued. “The process could take hours. What if something happens while I lie there drivelling? What then?”

Jaskier’s face fell, but he didn’t stand down, 

“Then the same thing happens as if you wouldn’t take it.”

He knew Jaskier was right. Didn’t mean he liked it. 

“Fine.”

He made preparations. First he cleaned both of their wounds, eliciting a duet of winces as the salt stung their exposed flesh. Once that was done with Geralt took the driftwood, (thanked the fucking gods it had been dried by the autumn sun) lit it with igni to make fire and placed Jaskier beside it, al the while thinking about the possibility - the likelyhood - that he would go under and wake up next to a corpse.

Eventually Geralt sat down near the fire himself, opposite Jaskier. He held out the regenerative potion in front of him, sloshing the liquid inside. He looked at the stars and the dark of the night’s sky, at the flames, at his own face and Jaskier’s face, all warped and reflected in the glass. 

He looked over the fire at the unblemished version of his companion and took a moment to commit it all to memory: The shape of his face. The wrinkles he’d gained. The way his nose scrunched when he was thinking. That unchanging boyish haircut, so understated compared to the rest of him. Eyes he could describe in a thousand different ways but always bright and always blue. His singing voice after he’d chattered through an entire day of travel. His lips.

Jaskier inevitably caught him staring. For once Geralt didn’t look away. Jaskier smiled, like he’d done so many times before, and Geralt knew that he’d never be contend.

He broke the seal, put the bottle to his lips and drank the bitter potion.

Chapter Text

Geralt closed his eyes and he was falling, not through air but drowning in sand. There was no relief. Instead the pain only grew louder, spreading from his back until his entire body except for his feet screamed with fire. Geralt looked down at his boots and felt water wash over bare skin.

There are stars in the sky, on the ceiling, and when he sits up he finds himself at Cintra’s court. An endless sea of faceless guests glides silently along the surface of the flooded floors. Their colourful attire is too fucking loud, but averting his eyes makes the beige brickwork walls ripple in a way that made his head burst. There is nothing but darkness outside. Something smells of burned flesh. 

He stands up in the middle of the crowd of attendants. People with blurred faces are speaking and laughing and asking him things but there’s an echo in this hall and he can’t understand what they are saying. He tries to respond but even his own words muddle in his head. He starts pushing people, stumbling over feet without getting anywhere, every intake of breath stoking a fire inside his torso. Eventually he falls to his knees, splashing water and splaying his hands on the water beneath him. A cool tingle spreads from his fingers to his toes. Geralt sighs and closes his eyes. 

Clapping. Then, music, dark and dissonant but beautiful all the same. Geralt’s standing in front of rows and rows of banquet tables as far as the eye can see. A main course of raw flesh with sides of seaweed and fishbones on silver platters is being served, but everyone’s enthralled by something else entirely. Geralt looks behind him. 

There’s a podium where the throne would be upon which Jaskier has taken his place. He’s dressed up like the stranger he had reunited with lifetimes ago, black clothes and black eyes. The bard looks down at him, impossibly tall, as deep blue light streams in from the stained glass windows. 

Someone’s pulling Geralt away. Their hand on his hand ignites an itch that sparks through his arm and prickles his back. The tempo of the music shifts as Jaskier’s gloomy tune turns into a boisterous stampede. A legion of drums heralded her entrance; 

Yennefer, as it always will be. 

The fierce purple of her eyes is a stark and welcome contrast to the blur of people that has  gathered around him once again. The sorceress is smiling. Yennefer’s smiling because of him, and it’s a sight Geralt wishes he could capture in a bottle and indulge in whenever. Lilac and gooseberries seizes his senses as his world turns violet. 

She pulls him into a stance and starts spinning. Geralt doesn’t know this dance. He feels dizzy but he’s drunk on her touch, and even if he fucks up he can’t stop moving. The rhythmic claps of the crowd around them is joined by the stomps of feet on the ocean floor.

The crowd regains faces. He only sees them in flashes as pairs of people dance around them as they spin and spin and spin. Renfri’s forest greens muddled with pain. Vissena’s smile as she leaves him. The valleys of Vesemir’s aging face. A flash of Lambert’s teeth. Eskel’s cheek curved by a smile and scar tissue. Each feature he recognises makes the nausea in his stomach and the tempo of the music grow faster.

Yennefer spins him violently, and he barely has time to be afraid she’ll rip his arm off before he trips over his own feet and she lets him fall. Drums strike the song to a halt. Geralt closes his eyes as the floor approaches. 

But two hands catch him. One on his back, one clasping his hand. He opens his eyes and it’s Jaskier, patient, kind, waiting for him to make the first move. This time Geralt does know the steps. 

The thought of Yennefer still aches at the back of his head but he soon gets lost in blue. Some high-pitched string instruments that Geralt doesn’t recognise sore above the miasma of music with a sweet tune as the music picks up speed again, and it takes an eternity for Geralt to realise that he’s not leading anymore. 

Once Geralt does it’s like a spell has been broken. Everything stops.

Feet float above the floor. Water drops freeze in the air. Expressions and muscles twist temporarily into place. All Geralt can do is look at his dance partner and breath. The world moves only in the curl of Jaskier’s lip and the swirl of his eyes before Geralt’s shoved to the floor and sinks right through. 

Dark surrounds him. It’s peaceful, but frightening. There’s a circle of light above him, like a window to the world he fell from. He can see Yennefer and Jaskier and the others, their backs turned towards him and their arms raised to the sky, but slowly, as he’s being dragged down by the tendons dripping from his open wound, the image grows smaller. And smaller. Until it disappears into the night’s sky and the ocean’s depths.

A drowsy discord of melodies echoes through the water. A siren’s song. For the first time in a long time, Geralt is bewitched. Warm lips touch his. He can’t see a thing but his eyes flutter shut anyway. He feels the sun on his skin.

Geralt opens his eyes again to see a face inches apart from his. Jaskier drifts in front of him, a puppet suspended in the waves by rays of sunlight. His lids are half shut and slack like his limbs. Geralt reaches for him.

Geralt’s fingers barely ghost over his skin when his eyes open. Suddenly, Jaskier’s drowning, feet kicking and face twisted with a raw, primal fear and Geralt can only watch as bubbles of air escape his blue lips in bursts. 

Eventually Jaskier stills, mid-gasp. A drifting corpse. There’s a song on the waves again but louder this time, like it’s drifting through his ears, and he almost doesn’t notice the flecks of skin peeling off of Jaskier's face because of it. Piece by piece they fade like embers, revealing rotten flesh underneath. Geralt can smell it. 

Then all of a sudden it’s like a switch has been flicked. The song speeds up, clouds of crimson rapidly bleed into the waves, and Jaskier’s face is stripped away with the effortlessness of a gust of wind sweeping up a pile of dry leaves. 

Leathery wings rip through his back; 

A crown of fins bursts through his forehead; 

And a maw of teeth opens so close Geralt can see the back of his throat. 

Jaskier’s about to swallow him whole when

he opened his eyes to the night’s sky. 

Geralt blinked and the world stayed the same. He blinked a couple more times just to make sure it stayed that way and sat up. Instead of pain Geralt felt the hum of magic prickling his back. He stretched and looked around. The sight of the sandbank, unchanged except for the shroud of nighttime, was reassuring for once. 

An even more assuring sight was Jaskier, alive, still sitting by the fire. He was deeply focussed on something in front of him, back bent over and  beads of sweat on his forehead, glistened in the dim glow of the flames. Geralt tilted his head and smiled a little when he realised that his companion was drawing in the sand with a piece of driftwood. Jaskier hadn’t noticed him yet. His witcher instincts urged him to remain unnoticed for just a moment longer.

It paid off. Not in the translation of whatever secrets Jaskier was entrusting to the sand, but in something more significant. As Geralt’s focus wandered from Jaskier’s scrabbles to his eyes, he noticed Jaskier's gaze was too still to be looking at his own writings. Indeed, he wasn’t. He was looking at his hand. His left hand, to be exact. This wouldn’t be all too significant if it weren’t for the fact that even though he’d stopped writing, his hand was shaking like the snares on a strummed lute. 

Jaskier dropped the stick, but the shaking remained. He looked at his own hand as if it had grown wings and teeth. 

He threw the stick into the fire with a snarl, and that’s when he noticed Geralt. Their eyes only met for a second before Jaskier’s gaze dashed to the fire.

“Have you been awake for long?” Jaskier said to the flames. 

Geralt hummed in response. To his surprise, Jaskier seemed to accept it.

“I’d tell you how long you were under, but it’s been a while is the best I can do. Did it work?”

Geralt slipped a hand underneath his shirt just to be sure and nodded. 

“Good.” Jaskier grabbed the knife Geralt gave him from the sand beside him. Geralt hadn’t noticed it before. It seemed to have miraculously remained in its sheath through it all, unlike Geralt’s silver that would probably remain buried in a nixa on the ocean floor until the end of time. Jaskier weakly waved it at the general direction of a pile of green that Geralt recognised as the remains of Jaskier’s doublet. The fabric had somehow gone from shredded to completely torn.

“I tried to be clever and make bandages of sorts. But I fucked it up,” He bent over and passed the knife from his right hand to his left, presumably to put it back in its sheath, but he stopped halfway through and simply dropped it beside him again. ”So. There’s that.”

Geralt sighed. Moved hypothermia up the list in his head. Noticed the crimson stains on Jaskier’s undershirt had grown in size. Moved some other things around.

“I should’ve done it before.” Geralt said, “It slipped my mind.”

A lie. The tattered fabric simply wouldn’t have covered the wounds. But Jaskier didn’t need to know that.

They listened to the ceaseless stirring of the ocean. Geralt longed for the sounds of the land at night - the crickets, the howling of wolves or worse, passing boots and hooves if they stuck to the road - over the monotony of the open sea. More so, he longed for the time when their silences weren’t so uneasy.

Eventually, fortunately, Jaskier finds a topic to speak on. 

“This isn’t how I imagined the last night of my life.”

“Actually,“ Geralt said, “this is close to what I had in mind,” he caught Jaskier looking up at him from the corner of his eye. “less water. More pain. Quicker, too.” 

He turned to Jaskier. “Let me guess. Food, wine and women.”

“Something like that.”

On cue, Jaskier’s stomach grumbled audibly. They both smiled a little. Geralt cursed the way Jaskier’s eyes were so dim.

“Once we survive this-” 

Jaskier shot him a look.

“- If .”

“- When ”

“-In the unlikely event that-”

“- Assuming we make it out alive,” Geralt paused, but no retort came, “what will you do?”

Jaskier shrugged, then looked at Geralt as if he’d given his answer. 

“And you? Will you look for Yennefer?”

Geralt thought about it for a moment.

“She doesn’t want to be found. If we reunite it will be by destiny’s doing, not mine.”

Destiny. Was this his destiny? Dragging someone he cared about into a witcher’s cold, lonely death? He’d been foolish. He thought that once he’d regained his strength a way out would naturally come to him. What did he think he could’ve done? Take Jaskier and paddle his way to shore in complete darkness? No. They were going to die here, and Geralt was starting to accept it. He’d already been prepared to lose Jaskier earlier that night, but somehow the prospect of meeting their end together was more harrowing. Was destiny so cruel that it wouldn’t even let them find solace in each other, or was that Geralt’s own doing? 

He thought of his ailing dream; of Yennefer and Jaskier, that horrible end and the certain sense it all made but didn’t.

“Why Oxenfurt?”

“What?”

If this was it, Geralt wanted some things to finally make sense.

“You told me you were going to Oxenfurt.” Geralt urged. He moved himself around the fire so he could be face to face with Jaskier without the flames licking at the corners of his vision. “Why? And why now?”

“Well,” Jaskier takes his knife in his right hand and picks at the wooden handle, “as you so gracelessly forgot before,”

Geralt grumbled. He did remember, damn it. 

“I attended Oxenfurt as a student in those rare years I wasn’t trailing after you and I’ve returned to do guest lectures before. Then,” Jaskier paused and licked his lips, “some time ago when we were around Crow’s Perch, I received a letter. An offer, from the academy, for a permanent position as professor of the seven liberal arts.”

“So,” Jaskier stabs his knife in the sand. “There’s your why.”

Geralt remembered that hunt vividly. A village with secrets and the spectre of a murdered girl who wouldn’t keep them. He didn’t remember a letter. 

“Why didn't you say anything?” Geralt tried not to sound affronted. It came out desperate instead.

Jaskier’s eyes remained trained on the dagger in the sand. “I suppose that’s where the why now comes in,” He didn’t give any further explanation. He didn’t need to: Geralt remembered the conversation they had on the pier. Still, he couldn’t wrap his head around one thing.

“Did something.. happen to you on the way to Oxenfurt?” 

Jaskier gave him a dull look. Geralt swallowed around the strain in his throat. 

“Like.. a lover’s quarrel. Were you with the countess again? Or did you suffer some heartbreak?” 

Jaskier looked like he was trying not to sneeze, but when Geralt heard a muffled snicker he realised Jaskier was holding in laughter. Geralt felt that rage boil up again, the one he hadn’t known until that day and the day before.

“What’s so funny.”

Jaskier shook his head. A smile dripping with poison split his lips. “Nothing. Really, it’s not funny at all.” 

“Explain this to me, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is low and dangerous, “I’ve been watching you for years skipping from lover to lover, but can only recount a handful of days when you didn’t trip over your own feet and fall.”

Jaskier processed his words. Took a deep breath.

“What do you mean by that, Geralt?”

If Geralt’s tone of voice had been dangerous before, Jaskier’s was lethal.

“No more pretty words or offhand comments, no more euphemisms, metaphors, allegories, and least of all solemn silence. If there’s something you want to say to me, say it.”

Jaskier was searching for something. Something that, if Geralt presumed correctly, he wasn’t near ready to adress. Geralt knew that he was postponing the inevitable, that he had been doing so ever since he’d first laid eyes on Jaskier after months apart (and far before then, if he would ever dare to be that honest with himself) and that with nothing but the sand and the sea and the stars between them it would come to light sooner rather than later.

He had to try.

“You’re.. Different.”

“Different?”

“More confident,” Geralt corrected. “You always have been, but now it’s- enigmatic. In less than a day I’ve seen people gravitate towards you like it’s natural law.”

“Ah. And you just can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“No. I can’t.”

Geralt couldn’t even tell if it was a lie, but Jaskier seemed to have no doubt that it was.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he scoffed, “don’t tell me it’s the same as it’s always been.”

It’s an accusation, and they both know Geralt’s guilty.

“It’s not. But I’m not the one who changed.”

“You’re right. I did.” Jaskier picked up the knife again. It shook despite the fact that he’d taken it with his right. “Do you want to know why, Geralt? I’ve been by your side for well over a decade and still you talk to me like I’m some town’s fool you just can’t get rid of.”

He looked up at Geralt, pained in a way he’d never seen Jaskier before.

“And if I’d say that you broke my heart when you told me to fuck off I’d be lying, because after years of loving you to no avail there is nothing left to break.”

It shouldn’t have been a revelation to Geralt, but it was. He was sure he could have aligned all the signs and clues spanning decades in his head if his thoughts weren’t completely blanking. He felt very light in that moment, but without the mind to be concerned he only felt a lack of weight. 

“I didn’t know.” 

It was all Geralt could think of to say.

Jaskier huffed, a mix of scoffing and sniffing. “I gathered from our conversation earlier today.” 

“Jaskier, look-”

“It’s fine, Geralt. Well, actually, it’s not, but you know what? This widely appreciated reinvention of myself, I owe it to your neglect!”

Jaskier wasn’t angry. His tone high and flippant, almost enthusiastic, as if he was recounting some amusing tale. Geralt would have preferred anger. 

“After you sent me away, I was just drowning in a- in a vortex, of my own melancholy! And it took me to a place so dark, and so deep, but ironically- it made me see the light!

Because you see, Geralt, rejection had never bothered me before. I could always see it on their faces. The disgust. The exasperation. But it never wounded me. I had a lot of love to give and experience taught me that if they didn’t want it, someone else would be glad to receive it. But after your rejection I started wondering why. Why doesn’t he want me? Why does anyone truly want me? And I realised that.. I don’t know why women are charmed with me. And that if they are, it never lasts. And then I knew that it was something I’d feared all along.

It’s pity. Everyone I ever thought genuinely liked my company or wanted to help me as an act of kindness, they all pitied me. Every high born lady and their husbands who fancied a lay with the humble bard, every shopkeeper, tavern owner or merchant who didn’t mind an alternative method of pay in those first years by myself on the road,”

A pure, bittersweet malice as scathing as the fire in his eyes dripped from his words,

“and you . I didn't want to see it but it’s true. Why else would you tolerate my company if you so clearly despise it?

So, if nobody wants me, what is a bard to do? I learned not to care for how people perceived me, but what if I did? I had turned the public favor before, for you. I could perform an act, craft a character that was desirable. I took from the stories, the ballads, from experience.. And a lot from watching you, actually. And sweet Melitele did it work. I’d forgotten what it was like to be truly desired. I’m telling you, Geralt, you’re taking it for granted! I felt powerful. In charge, for once.” 

Jaskier put a hand on his knee and smiled at him. Geralt actually felt threatened.

“I do have to say, Geralt, I don’t know how you do it. The way you toss people aside for your convenience, I couldn’t if I tried, and I have definitely tried. I suppose I don’t quite possess the complete lack of emotion and empathy that’s required to do such a thing.”

He flicked the knife in his hand, nicking his own palm. Geralt watched the blood flow. 

“Anywho,” Jaskier continued. “by the time I’d arrived in Grafhaven I’d almost forgotten that it was a performance. I stayed for a while. Typical me, getting sentimental. Not to say I was being particularly monogamous during my stay, far from it, but I started realising I could take my pick. There was Kurt, of course. And Jeanne, the fishmonger’s daughter, which, yes, I went with her for irony’s sake. I doubt you remember Anna and Julia. The brunette and the blonde from the tavern? They were on their way to Ellander, to become priestesses. Wouldn’t that be something.”  

Geralt grit his teeth. He remembered them alright. 

“Of course you do,” Jaskier smiled a cruel smile. He was that enigmatic stranger once again. “How common of you. I don’t blame you. It’s a good performance, no? Once again, Geralt, you were a major inspiration for this particular character. 

So no apologies. I want to be done with bemoaning this.. this decade spanning jester act. And truly, any hurt I’ve felt is ultimately my own fault, because believe me when I say that it is baffling that I don’t know better by now.”

It was a lot for any man to take, but Geralt deserved all of it and more. Jaskier, however, didn't.

“Doesn’t matter what you think you should know,” Geralt said, sure and true, “You still deserve an apology.”

Jaskier refused to look at him then. Geralt deserved that too. Nothing but pure sentiment moved Geralt to sit closer to him. So he can see my face if he does look up , was the excuse that Geralt’s rationale came up with.

“I’ve realised a lot of things ever since I’ve met you again. Amongst them, how foolish I’ve been. I treated you like a nuisance, but.. we’ve been apart so many times that I never realised how much you comfort me until I had to face the fear that one day I’d never be with you again.” 

Geralt paused. His next words would have to say it all. 

“I’ve made many mistakes. Only regret a few. But of all the things I’ve said and done, my treatment of you is the greatest wrong. And while I don’t expect forgiveness, I still want you to know that I’m sorry.”

Geralt didn’t need to look him in the eye to see the tears that slipped down Jaskier’s cheeks, gleaming in the dim light of dying flames. 

Jaskier didn’t cry a lot. Even through great stress, heartache or pain. Sure, he would panic a fair amount, and that panic would turn to aimless ramblings, but never tears. Yet there they were: glimmering on his cheeks in the dim light of dying flames, as clear as the stars in the sky. 

Jaslier didn’t try to hide it, and Geralt didn’t look away. Their closeness felt inevitable, like damp summer heat you can’t escape beyond the shedding of clothes. It scared Geralt. He’d been scared for a while. He met Jaskier and felt truly afraid for the first time in ages but didn’t know why. The incident with the Djinn made him realize it was the fear of losing someone he cared for, and he'd thought that was all there was to it. Then the incident with the dragon made him realize it was really the fear of losing someone he loved. 

Geralt had thought all of this was about Yennefer. Except, here and now he realized he might just be afraid of loving someone altogether.

And Yennefer wasn’t here. 

Geralt took Jaskier’s face in his hands and kissed him.

It was far from perfect. Geralt was too rough and Jaskier was too cold, but it was everything Geralt never knew he needed. To feel those lips against his was intoxicating.

So much so, that Geralt almost failed to notice that Jaskier was pulling away.

He could only stare, perplexed, still stuck in the moments before. Jaskier hadn’t stopped crying. In fact, he looked even more saddened. 

Wasn’t this everything they wanted?

Jaskier murmured some words Geralt barely heard nor understood:

“ Just like the rest of them .” 

He turned away from Geralt and curled up in the sand. The wounds marking his shoulders mocked Geralt with horrible crimson grins.

And that was that.

It was very quiet for a while. Geralt didn’t know what would happen next, but he clung to the memory of that kiss - of everything making sense for once - like a lifeline. It faded faster every time he tried to grasp it. 

Then, when the sun began to rise again, distant shouting.

Whether it was causality, destiny or simply a miracle didn’t matter. What mattered was that there was a boat on the horizon, a single silhouette carved out by the first light of day behind it. Geralt stood up then, running to the waterside to make their presence known. The ship was already moving towards them.

As it came closer, Geralt started to realise he’d seen it before. 

He looked to his right. The last embers didn’t do much to illuminate his face, but even if Geralt had taken the sun from the sky he still wouldn’t have been able to tell what went through Jaskier’s head as he stared at their salvation.

They were already lowering a row boat into the water. On it, a figure stood tall.

Chapter Text

Geralt could tell the man on the boat was some sort of nobility. His posture was perfect despite the sway of the waves, hands clasped behind his back all rigidly composed. His dress, seemingly plain, betrayed his status too: a royal blue doublet with delicate stitching, tight pants the color of wine made of something much more expensive than simple leather or cloth, and a heavy, true-black cloak. He had a silver brooch shaped like some sort of animal pinned to his chest where a coat of arms would be, but Geralt could assume it was the same white, striped arrow that marked the red flags on the ship. His hair, stark black, was pulled back into a ponytail. A pair of equally black spectacles with round frames prevented Geralt from affirming if the man was staring straight at him. 

The real dead give away however was the fact that the man was the only one standing while three other people were doing the rowing for him. One of them, an older woman in chainmail and a rust red braid, jumped into the water once the boat was close enough to drag it on shore. Geralt remained where he stood at the edge of the water. His feet were grounded, but his hand itched for his sword. 

The nobleman’s head shifted ever so slightly. His jaw set. Then, he did something Geralt did not anticipate: He took off his glasses, revealing eyes narrowed not at him, but at Jaskier. Geralt turned to him. His companion was looking much more alert than before, but Geralt could barely hear him breathing. 

“Julian?” 

The nobleman’s tone of voice betrayed various shades of emotion: high-pitched surprise, warm glee, and something Geralt could only describe as constricted. But it was the use of that name by a stranger that made Geralt’s stomach flip twice over. 

Geralt was surprised once more as the man leaped out of the boat before it had reached shore, dirtying his fancy clothing. The woman, now almost at the shoreline, called after him. He didn’t stop, simply silencing her with a single hand gesture while he waded towards them.

Geralt looked to Jaskier again. He was holding himself like something hunted, unsure whether to pounce or flee. It spurred Geralt to move, to place himself in between the man’s projected warpath, but a sword at his neck stopped him. Geralt slowly turned his head. The woman in chainmail glared at him in warning. 

“That’s Count Hugo de Ruyter van Boschhove you’re about to threaten,” she said. “Now, I don’t know how he knows your friend but he means to help you both. You should let him.”

Geralt’s jaw set in frustration. He looked past her to where the count kneeled beside Jaskier, his body blocking Geralt’s line of side. They conversed in low voices. Geralt strained to hear. 

“I saw your boat in the harbor.” Jaskier said. The words strung together into a slur. Maybe that’s why the count didn’t respond to it.

“What did this to you?” he asked instead. “The nixa?” 

Jaskier’s head swayed in an approximation of a nod. 

“I see.” 

The count’s arms moved. 

“It’s unlike you to be reckless, Julian.”

Jaskier scoffed. Geralt felt a swell of pride.

“It’s been a while since you knew me.” 

“It has.”

Geralt didn’t notice he’d taken a step forward until he felt the sword on his throat dig into his skin. 

“Stand down, master witcher.” 

Geralt didn’t turn to look his assailant in the eye. He barely registered the threat. Not when the count, without hesitation or Jaskier’s affirmation, scooped Jaskier up in his arms and carried him to the boat. Geralt was starting to consider a fight: no one had addressed him so far with anything other than threats and a sword to the throat. It pissed him off. 

Geralt slowly turned towards the woman.

“I’m giving you one chance to stay out of my way.”

He saw a warrior’s stubbornness flash in her smoke-grey eyes and knew she wasn’t backing down. Geralt was already calculating the first three moves he’d be making when a voice rang out to end the inevitable. 

“It’s alright, Maud.” The count came up behind the woman and put a hand on her shoulder. “This is Geralt of Rivia, no?” he looked at Geralt. The witcher glared daggers instead of answering. “He’s a friend of Julian’s, so he's a friend of ours, yes?”

The woman - Maud - lowered her sword, but not the glare she’d leveled at Geralt - not until she nodded to her master and trudged off to the rowboat.  

This left Geralt to face the count. The man stood unmoving, accessing the witcher calmly, once again taking on that regal stance. 

“My name is Hugo,” he said, his tone so calm and leveled it almost seemed deceitful. “I hope you forgive my ill-mannered approach, Geralt. I can tell you have a lot of questions, but you are just as aware as I am that none of those are as important as getting Julian the medical care he needs. So, please, come along.”

Geralt gestured to the desolate island around them. “Don’t have a choice, do I?”

Hugo smiled warmly. 

“You don’t.”

He turned and walked to the boat, where Maud and his men were waiting for him. Geralt sighed. He really did have no other choice. 

It was only a short distance to get to the larger ship, but Geralt felt it was entirely too long. He’d never liked being surrounded by strangers who knew him all too well. He coped by keeping his eyes trained on Jaskier, who was slumped against this mysterious count, perched on the edge of consciousness. The way Jaskier allowed himself to be held by Hugo told Geralt enough. 

He studied the decorations on the hull as he approached. Geralt had noticed them before in the harbor but hadn’t taken the time to observe them. He recognized them now as intricate wooden carvings of all sorts of monsters. He spotted a flock of harpies, a manticore fighting a griffin, a cockatrice surrounded by petrified victims and many more. Each depiction was surprisingly accurate.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier surprised them all as he spoke up, very softly. Hugo looked down at him. 
 
“For what?”

“You know.”

The count pressed his lips together. The return of the glasses meant Geralt couldn’t do much to guess what he was thinking. 

“You didn’t want to go.”

“Yes,” Jaskier’s voice tightened, “but..”

Hugo remained very still for a moment.

“Julian,” he said. “listen to me,” His hand reached out to Jaskier’s cheek, turning his head gently to face him. “I’m sorry you’ve felt like you had to apologize for that all this time.”

Jaskier nodded. Closed his eyes. Then his head lulled backwards, and did not rise again.

“Faster,” Hugo ordered. “Now.”

The other two guardsmen in the boat started rowing like their own lives depended on it. Once they reached the ship Maud took Jaskier’s limp body and effortlessly raised him up to have two other guards on deck take him before Geralt could even try to help. Hugo went up first. Geralt was second. 

By the time he’d clambered onto the ship Jaskier was already being carried off to the back by Hugo and his men. He briefly registered four other guards spread out over the deck, hands on their weapons, as he followed the group into the captain’s cabin. One stood in front of the door. The woman barely had time to unsheath her sword before Geralt ushered her away with a quick drawing of Axii. 

Geralt opened the door and dodged a silver can that flew towards him; Hugo had dragged a table into the middle of the spacious cabin and was sending objects flying off it with a swipe of his arm. Once cleared, Jaskier was placed on its surface. Geralt pushed aside the guards and made his way to the edge of the table. 

A young man dressed in a faded-blue tunic was standing on the other side, gawking at Jaskier with a pair of big brown eyes half hidden by a curtain of sand-blonde locks. 

“How?” he glanced at Hugo, who was standing at the head of the table, “How is it Jaskier?”

“It doesn’t matter now. Focus, Otis.”

Geralt ignored the discussion between the two and fixed his gaze on Jaskier’s pale face instead. He idly wondered how many more times he would have to see him like this before things would finally fare better. Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s chest. The gentle rise calmed him at least, for a moment, before his hand was swatted away. He looked up and locked eyes with the young man named Otis. His hands were now gloved and holding a rag drenched in fluid. The previous panic in his eyes had made way for a stern look.

“If you want to help, you can turn him over and let me examine his wounds.”

Geralt obliged. His jaw set when he saw the wounds again. 

Otis winced as well. He bent down to look closer, tucking strands of hair behind his ear with his free hand as they tumbled into his face.

“Hugo,” he said without looking, “Get my stitching kit from my cabin.”

Hugo didn’t move. Otis didn’t notice at first. The room was silent for a moment save for the sound of Jaskier’s strained breaths. Then, when he did look up at the count, Geralt saw a flash of fear in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he spoke carefully, “If you please, of course.”

Geralt didn’t have time for the courtesies of the noble hierarchy. He felt like forcing Otis’ hands back to Jaskier’s broken body but luckily, Hugo obliged this time. He nodded to the space behind Geralt, who turned around to see Maud scurry off. He hadn’t noticed her coming in after him. Damn he was tired. 

He watched as Otis, who reassuringly had to be doctor of sorts, took his rag and started rinsing the wounds of sand and blood and puss. Geralt flinched when he saw a hint of bone. In hindsight, it might have been a blessing that Jaskier had lost consciousness.

“It might be for the best if we let Otis work.” Hugo said in the silence. He stepped around the table towards the door, probably expecting Geralt to follow, but the witcher remained where he was. He tried to glare at Hugo, but the black glasses once again made it impossible. 

“Come, Geralt,” Hugo said, “You need to recover as well. We have food and drink. And perhaps a bath will do.”

Fuck. Geralt knew he was right. Swallow might have healed his wounds, but it did nothing for the deep ache in his bones and his stomach.

He looked back at Jaskier and Otis, who was murmuring something as he worked. 

“It will be alright. Everything will be alright”

Whether it was to himself or to Jaskier, Geralt couldn’t tell. 

He grumbled loudly, just to make sure everyone knew how displeased he was, and stormed out the door. He recoiled slightly once he set foot outside the captain’s cabin - the sun was high enough to blind him now. Once his vision adjusted it was hard not to notice the guards pointing their weapons at him. 

“Stand down” came Hugo’s leveled voice behind him. The guards looked displeased but complied. When they put away their weapons, Geralt noted they all had a second sword in its sheath attached to their belts.

Geralt didn't have time - or the peace of mind - to dwell on it; Hugo addressed two of his men and within seconds a table and two chairs were placed on the deck at the bow of the ship. Silverware, tankards, and a meal of bread and some sort of fish liver soon followed. Geralt wished he’d projected less eagerness as he quickly took place at the table opposite of the count. He couldn’t say he felt at ease at all, but fuck he was hungry.

He scarfed his meal down eagerly. Whenever Geralt stopped and reached for his tankard he couldn’t help but watch the sandbank on which they’d spent the previous night shrink down to a spot on the horizon as he drank his ale. Though, gratifying as it might have felt at the moment to watch it disappear, Geralt suspected he wouldn’t be able to leave it behind that easily.

He eventually shifted his gaze to Hugo and took the time to examine the count now that he was up close. Aside from the few strands of white in his hair or the ribbed fabric of his doublet, there wasn’t anything particular that Geralt hadn't noticed.

Except-

“Where did you get that?” Geralt sat up straighter. He looked pointedly to the count’s broach. It was shaped like a griffin. “We don’t tend to give those away.”

“I’m aware.” Hugo said. He didn’t refrain from his own meal. “And not to worry, I didn’t steal it. There was this witcher, you see, who was often in the employment of my father. The woods on the west side of our territory were absolutely infested with monsters. We grew fond of him and he grew fond of us. He stayed around. Then he got killed. By a royal griffin, ironically. As you can imagine, there was no next of kin to contact, and we didn’t exactly know how to get a message out to the others of his kind. So when we burned his body, my mother took his amulet. When she died, it passed down to me.”

“Quite the honor. Witchers don’t tend to grow fond.” 

The count simply hummed before taking a long drink. Geralt suddenly understood how frustrating he could be. 

“But on to other matters.” Hugo said, placing his tankard on the table and picking up his cutlery. “So you’ve found that the sirens you were looking for were actually nixa.”

“Found out the hard way. Unlike you.”

The count speared bread and liver unto his fork.

“Did I?”

“I heard you mention nixa to Jaskier. Everyone else thought they were sirens.”

“True.” Hugo admitted.  “I came here to study them. I’m a Zoologist by choice, specialized in the supermundus, much like yourself.” He looked up at Geralt. The witcher tried to pierce the black glass, but to no avail. “The fact that they are in fact nixa came as a pleasant surprise to me. There’s not a lot of research on that type of siren, so my findings could be extremely valuable, you see.” 

Geralt scoffed. “Wasn’t as pleasant of a surprise to us, unfortunately.” 

“I can imagine.” 

Hugo paused. He placed his cutlery onto the plate. His hands flew up to his face to remove the glasses at last. Geralt found himself staring into rings of brown and grey and green speckled with gold.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Hugo started. 

“I’m sure you don’t.”  

He continued undisturbed, “I know witchers don’t like to share their knowledge with outsiders, but I would be honored with any information on the nixa species you would be willing to disclose to me,” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“I would give you something in return,” Hugo continued, “but I can’t imagine us scholars have managed to uncover more than your kind have.”

Geralt crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. It creaked in unison with the floorboards beneath it. 

“You might be underestimating yourself. You managed to figure out the specific subset of siren from distant observation alone. I didn’t draw the same conclusion until one was snapping its teeth at me.” 

“Ah.” Hugo’s lips split into a smile. “I wouldn’t say my observation was distant.” Suddenly he stood up. The scrape of his chair made the guards on the other side of the deck immediately stand to attention. Geralt stood up too. “That reminds me,” Hugo’s smile tempered down to a quirk of the lips. It seemed more natural than before. “I think I have something that might interest you.” 

The plates and the chairs are taken away as soon as Hugo steps away from the table. Geralt follows him down into the hull of the ship. It’s surprisingly big and equally ornate below, as Geralt is taken down another set of stairs and led through another decorated hallway lined with many doors. The last door, at the very end, is made of iron bars instead of wood. Hugo produced a small key from a pocket in his tunic and unlocked the door. Geralt’s hands ached for a weapon as the door swung back with a creak. 

It was dark in there. He heard glass clinking with every sway of the ship. The room smelled of something strong and sour and clean. Geralt couldn’t place it exactly. Not until Hugo started lighting the lanterns hanging on the walls, revealing the contents of the room. The floors along the walls were lined with crates filled with jars. Geralt recognized paws, glands, eyes, gills and more preserved in fluids. 

“Come.” Hugo said. He stood in front of an opening in the wall leading deeper into the room. “I’ll let you observe them later.”

Geralt followed after him, passing an old wooden table painted with stains before he entered the doorway. It was dark once again here, except for several purple lights faintly glowing all the way back in the blackness. They illuminated Hugo’s form ever so slightly as his hands wandered the walls to find a lantern to light. 

Geralt heard a dull thud. Then another. It was insistent. The clinking of the jars in the other room had masked it before. He listened in closer, than heard it too: a muted, steady whine of sorts, like the warning mewls of a cat in danger. Geralt took a step into the room - his amulet tugged on its chain. 

“What is this?”

Hugo didn’t answer. Instead Geralt heard the strike of a match as light filled the room. 

Geralt heard its muffled screech before he noticed it. At the very back of the room was a large, glass chest filled with water, humming with the magic of several guarding runes. Inside it was a nixa; black and red-scaled with a crown of crimson fins. It threw its body against the glass uselessly, eyes vacant, over and over again.

Most notable of all was Geralt’s silver sword protruding from the side of its head. 

Chapter Text

Geralt stepped closer to the glass to examine the creature before him. Its image was twisted. The right half of its face, the half that had Geralt’s sword entombed in its temple, belonged to a beautiful woman with long silver hair dancing along to the sway of the water. The eye on this side was a brilliant emerald green, deep and strong, an outlier to the otherwise slack expression the creature formed with its parted lips. The other half of its face revealed the beast in its true form. The hairline stopped straight down the middle, with only a few strands of hair attached to the left side of the skull, similar to how one half of its mouth peeled back to reveal a jaw full of sharp teeth. The torso was much the same, one arm slim and pale-skinned, the other awkwardly folded in on itself, the wing attached to it barely fitting within its glass containment. The sight of its talon made Geralt’s back itch. 

The inky black eye on the monstrous side darted around the room but never truly looked at Geralt. The witcher’s lip curled in disgust. Not at the creature, but at the conditions of its imprisonment. Despite the hurt he’d suffered because of it he truly felt pity for the creature, seeing it folded into a box like this. It was making soft, high sounds, like dampened whining. Geralt doubted Hugo heard it over the constant thumping that the beast produced as it dashed into the right side of the glass chest every other second. Every time it did, the runes engraved into the steel edges pulsed with a purple glow. 

“It’s fine craftsmanship, no?”

Geralt turned to Hugo.

“I can’t take credit.” Hugo continued, “My great-aunt is a sorceress, you see,” he tilted his head and smiled faintly. Geralt could see reflection of the pulsing runes in the dark of his spectacles. “It’s certainly strange to know someone so long and intimately but to never see them age. Though I suppose, as a witcher, that observation has lost its eccentricity a long time ago.”

Geralt didn’t feel like entertaining the count’s theory. He crossed his arms, shifted his stance. 

“I want my sword back.”

Hugo folded his hands behind his back and sighed. Geralt was suddenly very aware that the count was blocking the only exit to the room. “I can’t allow that."

Geralt looked to the glass chest behind him. “I don’t think it belongs to you, actually. Perhaps I should ask the nixa instead if I can take it,” he turned back to Hugo with a smirk that barely twisted his lips but was all too visible in his eyes, “Silence is permission. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Geralt, please,” Hugo urged, “you misunderstand completely-”

“-Is that so.”

“-Since I am, in fact, speaking on its behalf.”

Now this Geralt wanted to hear. 

“Go on.”

Hugo stepped into the other room and positioned himself next to the door frame, waving a hand like he was inviting Geralt into his home. Geralt glanced back at the Nixa. A strange sort of guilt wrapped around him further and tighter the longer he looked at it, so Geralt went inside the other room before it managed to root him to the spot.

As soon as he entered, Hugo’s previously statue-esq stance was replaced with slow pacing. 

“When I found it adrift at sea late last night I assumed I was simply lucky to stumble upon a nixa already slain. Fit for post mortem dissection,” He stopped by the old table next to the door frame and brushed a hand over the stained wood. “Valuable still, but nothing that wouldn’t have been recorded by my peers before me. You can imagine my delight when it showed signs of life once we fished it out of the water.”

Hugo chuckled before continuing.

“Great surprise too, of course. My men almost dropped it right back into the ocean.”

Hugo looked to Geralt, supposedly for a reaction, but Geralt wasn’t interested in the count’s tale. To his credit, Hugo noticed. He took off his glasses, put them in his pocket, and cleared his throat. 

“Listen, Geralt. The creature is a remarkable find. To study it is as it is in its current state- it could tell us more about the biology of these creatures than one dead or alive and well ever could. If I were to remove your sword, it would surely die. As a man of science, I cannot let an opportunity like this pass me by.”

Geralt turned to look at some of the glass containers behind him. They were secured into a wooden rack with lengths of rope tied in intricate knots. He tried to see what was inside but he couldn't tell, since he could barely focus at all. Not with the ever-present cries, wails, and thumps of the nixa one room over.

“Creatures like these weren’t made to be contained,” Geralt said simply. “You and most of the men and women aboard this ship will be killed sooner or later if you don’t let it go. Or kill it.”

“If Otis is to be believed, which I tend to, It won’t live for long. Besides, I can provide a replacement for your sword.”  

Geralt turned around slowly. Planks creaked violently beneath his feet.

“It’s not just any sword-”

“It’s a silver sword,” Hugo raised a hand, a placating gesture, “I know.” 

He looked down and tapped his broach. 

“This isn’t the only thing I inherited from Arold. I’ve started a collection since then. Quite the collection, actually. Most of them specifically forged per my request. I can usually spare a few for my men. It would be an honour to extend the same courtesy to a witcher such as yourself.”

Geralt glared. He tried to read the man but the removal of Hugo’s spectacles barely made a difference. The corners of his eyes might have crinkled pleasantly, but the green inside was as hard as glass. 

Hugo unfurled his hands and took a step closer. Geralt remained stagnant in protest. “You know. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time now. I’ve suggested to Julian before that he could introduce us, but he always seemed reluctant. I can’t say I’ve figured out why, so far.” 

Geralt pressed his lips together, denting his shell of indifference. Now that Geralt knew of his own past neglect he felt singed with guilt and shame every time it crossed his mind. Geralt was sure Hugo could tell, but the count didn’t change his amicable tune.

“Nevertheless, it’s a pleasure to have you on board.” he continued, “If there’s anything else I can do for you don’t be afraid to treat me like a friend and ask. Though I do have one request for you.”

Geralt crossed his arms, braced himself. They both knew he was in no position to disagree. 

“I want to join you on your hunt.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

“If you think you can trick me into doing all the work while you claim the price, then I’m afraid I’ve been fucked over too many times already to fall for that horseshit.”

Hugo laughed without malice or humor. “Geralt. You get ahead of yourself once again. I’m proposing a partnership. Yes, I admit, I won’t be the one doing the hunting, but I can provide men, arms, provisions,” He spread his arms, “The very ship you’re standing on.”

A pause. Hugo crossed his arms against his chest and briefly glanced down at his feet. Geralt couldn’t help but note that even the slightest trace of uncertainty looked odd on him. 

“Let’s just say. I’m not requesting as much as I’m pleading. It’s always been a dream of mine to work with a witcher. Arold never let me. A good decision, I was too young then. But I can’t deny that this wish has driven me to this field of study. And the truth is, I desperately need your expertise. As I mentioned, I only have scraps of knowledge to go off. Which is exactly why I need this breakthrough. I simply wish to learn.”

Geralt inhaled sharply through his nose and clenched his fists, then took a step forward for good measure. “I’m not here to kill nixa for your dissections, or to find the nest as an educational field trip,” he said, just the slightest threat to his tone. “My contract is to make sure these waters are safe. And if I do my job correctly, there will be nothing left for you to study.” 

Hugo’s eyes widened, though not in any fearful way like Geralt has hoped. “The nest. Of course.” The count tilted his head ever so slightly. “You see. I assumed the nixa were strays, brought here by the drift from the coast of Skellige. But a nest.. that is a very likely theory.”

Geralt sighed. He didn’t have the patience to deal with this man. To be frank, he just wanted this contract to be done with. Still. Working with strangers had never boded well for him, and he wasn’t about to trust a man blindly just because he happened to know Jaskier once upon a time. Though, now that Geralt kept finding out that there was more to Jaskier than he could ever see, part of him longed to solve the puzzle that was his longtime companion; and that part saw an opportunity in spending more time with this piece of Jaskier’s past. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt stated. “I’m not hunting until I know Jaskier is safe.”

“Of course!” Hugo exclaimed. “Trust me, Geralt, Julian is my priority as well. But you know him as well as I do. He wouldn’t want to be a nuisance.”

“Hm. In my experience he’s never shied away from being a nuisance.”

“Then you know him better.”

Geralt pondered the truth of that statement. 

“Think about it.” Hugo’s hand found his back. Geralt considered violence. “But first you should rest. How about I have my men set up a bath in one of the storage rooms below deck.”

“So I can scrub myself with cold seawater?”

“Warm seawater.” Hugo countered, “It’s a self-heating tub. The enchantment was expensive, sure, but I find a warm bath helps when pondering something difficult, no?”

Geralt hummed in agreement. A bath would be nice. Hugo removed his hand from Geralt’s back before he led the witcher out the room and down the corridor. 

Good. Geralt would not let himself be placated.