Crossroads

[deerna]

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt
Tags: pre-slash, game-related shenanigans in a netflix timeline, implied underage bc jaskier is a gremlin and is lying about his age
Wordcount: 1445 / 1406 on a03
Notes: largely unbetaed, old as fuck

Summary:

Excerpt:

He looks so young, he thinks. “How old are you, again?” Geralt asks, the question out of his mouth before he can think better of it. [...] “I’ll be nineteen next spring,” he says, in a tone that implies I’m old enough to travel the world with a monster killer, thank you very much. Geralt doesn’t even remember being nineteen.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

“There is nothing glamorous, fashionable or heroic about walking the Path,” Geralt warns the bard when Jaskier refuses to stop following him around. “It’s mud, sludge and shit.”

“I’ve been through mud, sludge and shit before,” Jaskier replies, shouldering Filavandrel’s precious lute like it always belonged to him.

Geralt grunts, clicks his tongue at Roach, and off they go.

*

The first contract mentions a cockatrice terrorizing the livestock. Geralt gives his doubts to the original poster, but the old man won’t hear any different — his father was killed by a cockatrice, he says. He knows the signs, he says. Geralt bites his tongue; he climbs the nearby mountain looking for nests, and almost breaks his leg sticking his foot down a rabbit hole as he runs away from the mated pair of forktails that were actually to blame for the whole disaster. He manages to kill both of them by the skin of his teeth, ignores Jaskier as he politely steps away to go throw up in the bushes when he sees Geralt come back with the severed heads, and rides back to the village with the trophies. The old man turns his nose at the bloody mess dripping from Roach’s saddle; he pays him half the sum and bard and witcher on their way, no matter how unsubtly Jaskier keeps singing that silly tune of his.

They stumble on a contract about a harpy nest the next day; the monstes’ hideout is perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff, full of shiny things and bones picked clean. Geralt destroys it and kills most of its occupants, but one of the hybrids manages to steal one of his bags and almost takes off with Jaskier’s new lute. The bard screams himself hoarse in fear; Geralt’s instincts kick in. He curses himself for it later, when the money from the reward is barely sufficient to replenish the ingredients from the wasted potions. They spend a couple weeks eating whatever Geralt’s traps can catch and the wild roots that grow in the lean land. The bard’s stomach is loud enough to be heard over the click of Roach’s hooves on the dusty path, but the only words that come out of his mouth are new verses for that stupid song.

The countryside at the edge of the world is rotten and overrun by ghouls; Geralt cleans the abandoned village out and watches as the people slowly come back from where they had fled in search for safety. Nobody acknowledges the witcher, everyone denies him shelter. Jaskier seethes; Geralt is too used to it to feel hurt. They find respite in some abandoned ruins, and they’re woken up by unruly wraiths shrieking in the darkness. Every carriage upturned on the side of the road is covered in dead leaves and blood, and has rotfiends feasting around them. Geralt gets rid of the necrophages and steals stale bread and cold coin from the dead’s pockets. The bard is very quiet, his knuckles pale around the lute’s neck.

They keep travelling West, through the mud, the sludge and the shit, and Geralt wonders why Jaskier hasn’t fucked off yet; the bard still walks next to Roach’s flank like he belongs there, sometimes keeping a running commentary of anything and everything that comes to his mind — stories, songs, new ballads and old complaints, questions he doesn’t wait a reply for, jokes with obscure punchlines — sometimes quiet and somber, plucking at his lute.

Geralt should find it annoying, but the prattling is easy to tune out until it turns into white noise, melting in the background of his enhanced senses like the wind rustling through the falling leaves and the growling pack of wolves in the distance, and the quiet feels like understanding. Both prick at him in strange ways.

*

They make camp one night, and while Geralt should be looking through his pack — to check his stock and plan for the rest of what is starting to look like a very lean season — he gets distracted looking at Jaskier. The kid looks tired but content, a spare blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape to chase away the night chill, a smudge of dirt across his cheek, plucking absently at the lute on his lap.

He looks so young, he thinks.

“How old are you, again?” Geralt asks, the question out of his mouth before he can think better of it.

Jaskier blinks. “Oh. You’re talking to me!” Jaskier blurts out, clearly startled. He coughs, composes himself. “I mean—sorry, what?”

Geralt frowns. “Yes, you. What’s your age, again?”

Jaskier straightens up, pulling the lute higher against his chest in what Geralt imagines is a proper bard stance or some shit, the blanket slipping a little.

“I’ll be nineteen next spring,” he says, in a tone that implies I’m old enough to travel the world with a monster killer, thank you very much.

Geralt doesn’t even remember being nineteen. He’s vaguely aware that he must have been the same age when he was given his very first proper silver sword, and sent out on the Path. A long time ago.

He looks at Jaskier’s bony hands and thin throat, and is suddenly worried about their dinner. The stew is so light it’s basically broth, thickened with a few wild roots, what meat he could scrape off a small rabbit, its bones broken to try and coax whatever nutrients he could from the marrow. A witcher could live off it. Could a human?

Jaskier seems untroubled, unaware of Geralt’s worries. “By the way, I’ve been thinking of adding a stanza to Toss a coin, what do you think?” he says, brightly. “Maybe something about keeping the villages safe from those terrifying goblins that were eating corpses off the streets—”

“Rotfiends,” Geralt corrects him absently. He takes the broth off the fire, scoops a careful portion into the tin cup he’s been using as a dish for the past week since Jaskier joined him.

“Eh, ‘goblins’ is fine. People wouldn’t know the difference either way.”

“Hmm.” That’s true enough. He doesn’t have to like it, though. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

Jaskier hums, puts the lute down and eats the broth. Geralt breathes out.

*

They part ways just after Saovine, when people start cursing at Jaskier for bringing bad luck with his playing around the villages. Jaskier laughs, shakes his head at the local superstitions, and bids Geralt goodbye. “We’ll meet again come Imbaelk,” he promises. “When I will be finally allowed to play again. The song will be ready by then, you’ll see. I’ll make you the richest man on the Continent!”

Geralt’s goodbyes stick to the back of his throat. It doesn’t sound any different from his usual grunting.

For the whole ride towards Kaer Morhen he tries to unsuccessfully put the bard out of his mind. When he mentions him to his brothers — muttering in his cup of White Gull, like confessing something shameful — they tease him for growing attached to a random friendly human he’s had a brief encounter with. Geralt shuts them up beating them all black and blue on the training grounds the morning after.

*

Winter eventually ends. The witchers give farewell, and scatter around the Continent, each following their own Path. Decorations for Imbaelk and spring wildflowers dot roads, fields and towns.

The board at the Crossroads is ripe with flower garlands and new contracts. Geralt studies it for a long minute, looking for clues and frowning at the crude sketches of mysteroious sightings; he forgets all about it when a familiar voice addresses him, loud and unexpected.

“Witcher! Geralt!”

Jaskier is wearing a green doublet, with red lining showing through some gashes in his sleeves every time he moves his arms, and a smile that shines bright and dazzling like the sun shining above him. He rushes over to Geralt, his lute dangling from his back.

“Spring looks good on you,” the bard greets him, squeezing his shoulder.

Geralt blinks down at the hand resting on his jerkin. He considers telling him off, shoving him away roughly, sending him and his misplaced cheer on the floor.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he settles on, slowly removing Jaskier from his proximity with the back of his arm.

The bard laughs. “Me neither! That’s destiny for you.” He grins. “I have your song! I’ll play it for you on the Path. Where to?”