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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

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Navigating - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

Warnings: None (Geraskier Getting Together; Injured Roach)

Word Count: 6,837

Originally posted on my AO3

The Witcher is a cantankerous old bastard; not entirely fond of talking, which is fine for Jaskier (he talks enough for both of them), and with a deep scowl permanently etched into his face. It’s been a few weeks since Jaskier adhered himself to the Witcher’s side. The soles of his boots are beginning to wane and his joints protest every hour spent walking from town to town. Even when they come upon an inn, and Jaskier’s muscles graciously steep in a warm bath, the ache still lingers in his bones.

But the Witcher keeps going. Jaskier idly wonders how many circuits of the Continent he’s done. What villages and towns does he spend the most amount of time in? Which city is his favourite? But the Witcher stays quiet, perched up on his horse and leading them to the next town. It’s a small trading post, straddling a crossroads between some major mid-continent cities. Even though the town itself is small, it has enough taverns and inns in it to feed and house travellers. And the people don’t mind Witchers – something Jaskier has had to take into consideration when he asks for board.

Jaskier watches merchants and their aides pull the last of their wares into storage for the night. They’ll be gone by morning, on their way to whatever regent’s city who is demanding silks or spices or the most recent harvest.

Taverns and inns are filling up quickly. They manage to snag the last rooms available in a quaint enough inn with stables around the back. Jaskier slides the innkeep the necessary coins, as well as two pieces of silver for two portions of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and some mead. Jaskier’s stomach trembles with the promised of being warmed and filled.

Geralt’s horse is his own responsibility. In the weeks of following the Witcher around Jaskier’s hasn’t so much as touched the mare. Not that she would let him. Any time Jaskier so much as glances in her direction, her ears flatten and she gives him a glare that could rival her master’s.

So Jaskier nabs a small table within the inn for them as Geralt settles Roach down for the night. The smallest of chips cracks in the Witcher’s stern expression whenever his mare is concerned. He’s sure that he’s out there now, slipping off her tack for the night, making sure that stablehands don’t mess with her. A full feed bucket, a hay net, and a soft bed; that’s what Roach deserves with carrying Geralt around the Continent.

The Witcher steps into the inn just as their dinner arrives. Two bowls amply filled with stewed venison and root vegetables, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, and tankards of ale that look newly brewed. Jaskier’s stomach almost seizes at the sight.

“Hope this will be enough,” he says as Geralt sits opposite him. Because he’s seen the Witcher go for days without eating a thing – giving Jaskier his portions of rations when they started to get low – and eat an entire store of food in one sitting. There is very rarely is anything in between.

Geralt grunts. As much of an answer as Jaskier is going to get out of him.

They eat mostly in silence; Jaskier offering short bursts of conversation when he can because sometimes the silence can be deafening, despite the inn humming with noise around them. His lute sits by his leg, propped up against him. If he can stave off sleep, he might perform a few songs – if the innkeep doesn’t mind, of course. But she looks like a kind-enough soul who would appreciate a ballad of adventure.

Geralt finishes his food first, all but inhaling it and his mead. Just as he wipes the last of his crusty bread through some remaining stew, Geralt lifts his chin. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days,” he says simply. “Roach won’t be able to travel.”

Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s. “If you want to leave, bard, and go somewhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Jaskier almost splutters around a mouthful of mead. “Why would I leave? You’re where the stories are – you’re doing great things for my career.” Or would-be career. He won’t rest until his songs have seeped into the soil of the Continent, stretched out from Pont Vanis to Beauclair, until every pauper and noble knows the opening plucked chords of each composition. Jaskier clears his throat. “Why, what’s wrong with your horse?”

Geralt’s eyes drop. His fingers rub together and pick at the splintering wood of the table. “One of her legs is lame,” he says. “Don’t know how I missed it.” And there’s a storm behind those eyes; looking down at his empty plate as he mulls over some thought. But Geralt grunts after a time. “Ask the innkeep if you can sing here to pay for rooms,” he says, getting up from the table and grabbing his cloak. “Our coin is running thin and I don’t want to be spending it on board.”

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says, quickly polishing off the last of his food and slinging his lute case over his shoulder.

And the innkeep is as kind as he expects her to be. Toss A Coin has spread throughout the countryside like a wildfire. She has him play it for the patrons already within the tavern, settled down for their suppers. And even road-weary and feeling sleep pull at him, Jaskier lures smiles and soft laughs out of people as he strings together all of the songs he can remember. A mixture of his own compositions and songs that he learned within the Academy or out on the road.

He rattles through a handful of polkas when he spots traders from the Skellige Isles; grinning broadly when they howl back raunchy lyrics and crow in laughter. This is what he wants, when his fingers are riddled with old aged pain and his voice starts to tremble and crack; memories of people singing and dancing and laughing, his songs spreading throughout the Continent for other future bards to play with.

Gods only know how much time slips past him. Some patrons leave, heading upstairs to sleep before their early morning departing. Others order more mead and ale, sitting back in their chairs as Jaskier’s voice begins to rasp and crackle with overuse. He doesn’t have Oxenfurt mentors to lecture him anymore – take breaks, take care of that voice, it’ll be your livelihood. The innkeep offers him a drink during the lull between songs, when he takes the time to retune his lute. To the edge of the tavern, collecting emptied tankards and plates, one of the tavern maids watches him out of the corner of her eye. She’s a beautiful girl, a round face with emerald eyes and full lips, an ample chest and hips. Jaskier swallows. He has had people watch him before, women and men lulled in by his voice and words.

The girl giggles as she catches his eye, turning to retreat to the back with her arms laden with dishes. Long golden hair tumbles down her back and flows behind her as she walks.

And before Jaskier can pull himself together for another chorus, finishing off the last of his drink, welcoming the hum of ale in his veins, his nose wrinkles at a light perfume lapping over him. “Are you the Witcher’s bard?” The woman, who must barely be as old as him, asks. Her voice is smooth, with a light regional accent lilting through it.

A small smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I am,” he says, bowing his head slightly. The girl laughs at it. “And who may you be, my lady?”

It might be the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks, rivalling nights where he would soak a travel-weary body in a hot bath, scented with salts and oils. Jaskier blinks at the first streams of morning light stretching into the room. They’re crawling towards the foot of the bed, a mess of kicked-down sheets and furs. A light linen sheet hangs lowly over his hips, with most of the warmth lapping through him coming from the body plastered along his side.

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. Looking down at the girl next to him – or rather, on top of him – he can’t stop a small content smile curling his lip. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and neck, still bare from the night before. The smell of sex still lingers in the air, and memories flashing in front of him like afterimages send a pleasurable thrum through him. The girl – and Jaskier really struggles to remember her name – shuffles against him, her arm strung over his abdomen and hugging him close.

She was sweet – blushing and giggling as they scampered upstairs and fell into bed. And her lips were soft and every touch she skimmed across him sent his skin alight.

He just hopes a father or brother doesn’t come barging through the door, wielding a knife, as they’re oft of doing.

He should go, slip out while she’s still content and asleep, and be on the road again. But the realisation settles over him that Roach is injured, and the Witcher went out to tend to her.

And...Jaskier blinks. And he can’t remember if he ever came back inside.

An arm tightens around him. The girl – Clara! – lifts her head from Jaskier’s shoulder, blinking against the brightness of the room. When her eyes settle on him, a smile curls along her plump lips.

“Good morning,” he offers her a smile. She has been curled around him all night. And the thought of stepping out into the fresh summer morning air, that still holds some of the night’s chill to it, isn’t the most pleasant of thoughts. Clara looks to the only window of the room. A heavy sigh escapes her. “I have to go,” she mourns. She scrubs a hand over her face. “Ellayne will kill me if I’m not downstairs to help with breakfast.”

Jaskier hums. He lets himself roll out and languish into a full-body stretch, wincing slightly at the groan of muscles and protesting joints cracking as he settles back into the mattress. He’s content to just lie here, catching up on much-needed rest. Bu the mention of breakfast has him perked.

Clara slips out of bed, quickly grabbing her clothes before early morning air can nip at her skin. She pulls the front ties of her dress together. “Will you be here for long?” she asks, mostly flattening the pleats of her skirt, but casting a quick glance to him out of the corner of her eye.

And that, he doesn’t know. “My companion’s mount is injured, I’m afraid. So until she is well enough to carry us to our next adventure, I guess I’ll be staying here.”

It earns a warm smile out of the woman. She bows her head slightly, tucking some golden hair behind her ear. “Would you...,” she nods to the door, “I can bring you up some food, if you’re hungry?”

And he tries to smother the sound of his stomach growling. But—

“Thank you, darling, that’s a lovely offer,” he replies, finally sitting up in the bed, “but I have to check in with my companion. We can have something later.”

Clara nods. She has one last check over herself before leaving, gently letting the door click shut behind her. Jaskier’s body protests getting out of bed. It’s soft and warm and his bones are tired and just screech at him to rest. But Geralt’s blasted well-being nibbles at the back of his mind. The Witcher keeps to himself, sure. And why would he knock on Jaskier’s door while the bard had a girl in his bed, just to bid him a goodnight?

Slipping on breeches, boots, and a cream-coloured, light shirt, Jaskier heads to the tables. Geralt’s room is beside his, and his door still hasn’t been closed. A quick glance inside the room shows the bed still neatly made; pillows fluffed and stacked to the headboard while thick furs line the foot of the bed.

The tavern downstairs is quiet. A few maids drift between tables, collecting emptied plates and topping up tankards. Breakfasts seem to be as generously portioned as dinners; fried eggs and crusty loaves of bread, still warm from the oven; grilled bacon and fried sausages, stewed beans and grilled mushrooms. It takes everything within Jaskier not to drift out to a table and stuff himself with food.

The morning isn’t as cold as he feared. Trudging further into the height of summer, the night’s chill doesn’t linger in the morning as the sun quickly started to warm the air. Labourers and stablehands in the yard are already beaded with sweat and shedding their tunics. Jaskier slips through them and heads for the stables. Most of the merchants and tradesmen have gone, taking their wares, carriages, and steeds with them. Jaskier passes mostly emptied stalls before coming upon one that has its door bolted shut.

And he blinks as he peers inside.

Geralt is there, with Roach, sitting with his back pressed up against the stable’s wall. The mare is lying down, her head snugly nestled on Geralt’s lap. The Witcher runs a hand up and down the mare’s stripe, occasionally scratching lightly at her soft muzzle. His other hands smooth along her neck, keeping her at ease and drifting further into sleep.

He doesn’t want to intrude. Looking at Geralt’s face, Jaskier’s throat almost bobs at the smoothed out expression. He looks...well, not pissed off. And in the weeks of trailing after the Witcher, he hasn’t seen Geralt not scowling.

But the Witcher has finely tuned senses – something Jaskier is still getting used to. Within a few seconds, just as Jaskier thinks of slipping away, Geralt turns and looks at him.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Morning,” he says, the word stumbling out of his mouth before he can think of anything better to say.

Golden eyes linger on him for a moment before Geralt hums. Morning. The unspoken reply.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall’s door, peering further inside. Roach looks...well, Roach looks fine. She’s asleep, soft snores coaxed out of her by Geralt’s petting. But his eyes linger on a white cloth wrapped around one of her front fetlocks. “She’s lame?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It then occurs to him that he’s speaking quietly as to not to wake up a horse.

Geralt hums. “Strained, I think.” A long sigh escapes Roach, earning a small smile from the Witcher. It barely ghosts his lips, almost not there at all, but a stray beam of light streaming in through the stables catches it. “She’ll be fine.”

Jaskier nods. His fingers pick at the splintering wood of the stall door. Looking at the Witcher, he knows that he hasn’t slept. They can go for long stretches of time without sleeping, according to Geralt. But after travelling for days on end, with no breaking except to make camp, and countless completely bounties for the neighbouring towns and cities, the Witcher needs rest. Jaskier clears his throat. “Did you, uh,” he says, “did you get much sleep?”

That quirks Geralt’s eyebrow.

Jaskier splays his hands. “Just, I noticed that you didn’t sleep inside, and I thought that you might appreciate, um, a changing of the guard...in a way.”

Geralt watches him carefully. “Roach doesn’t like you,” he says simply. And I don’t trust you enough to touch my horse. The last part goes unsaid, but the words linger in the air between them.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I know, but,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I thought that you might be tired. And breakfast is being served inside, if you’re hungry.”

Those golden eyes could bear right through him at the best of times; but Geralt regards the bard for a moment. He turns to Roach, still contently strung across his lap, snoring peacefully. He fidgets with some of her mane. “She has to keep lying down,” he says after a time. When he looks at Jaskier, his gaze hardens. “She can’t put any weight on her leg.”

Jaskier nods. “Understood.”

Roach wakes as Geralt carefully slips out from underneath her. She lets out a soft nicker before Geralt gentles her muzzle. The two of them seem to have an unspoken conversation, just looking at each other. Geralt stands, stretching out his back and legs. His armour sits in pieces stacked against the corner of the stall, with the Witcher only clad in a loose black tunic and breeches and worn boots.

He slips past Jaskier, nostrils flaring slightly. He stalls in his steps, turning to Jaskier; a question forming on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately gets swallowed once he turns and leaves the barn.

As soon as Geralt disappears behind the corner of the stables, Jaskier turns to the stall door. Roach is awake, watching him with stern eyes. Her ears flatten as Jaskier steps into the stable. He holds up his hands. “I’m just here to help,” he says, and it occurs to him that he could be mad, talking to and trying to reason with a horse.

The mare huffs, curling in on herself and slipping back to sleep.

Jaskier sits in the corner of the stall, content to just watch over the mare until Geralt returns; preferably with a full stomach and well-rested. He’s watched the Witcher meditate before, when Jaskier sits by the campfire and idly plucks at the strings of his lute. Geralt would sit nearby, eyes closed and hands settled on to his thighs. Even though it all had the air of sleeping, Geralt could snap back within seconds. And his swords always sat nearby.

Jaskier’s head thumps back against the stable’s wall. The mare slips back asleep, her injured leg stretched out away from her. Looking at it, even with the cloth draped over it, he can’t see anything particularly wrong with it. His mind is drawn back to the horses his father owned – and the stablehands that he employed. The boys the same age as the viscount’s son, and got along famously well. One of them in particular, Johannes, was good at fixing all of the viscount’s horses. Jaskier wishes that he were here – the boy, barely older than Jaskier, could look at a standing horse and point out everything wrong with it, and how to fix it.

So he shuffles over. The cloth draped over Roach’s leg is damp and slightly cool to the touch. Peeling it away from her leg, Jaskier’s brow knits into a frown. It’s swollen, ever so slightly, but just enough to be different from her other fetlock. He clicks his tongue. “Poor girl,” he mumbles, looking for her water bucket. He dips the cloth back into it. It won’t be as cold as he’d like it to be, but it’ll help.

Roach watches him, still sprawled out in her bed of hay and sawdust. She stays stock still as Jaskier lays the cloth back over her ankle, making sure that enough of it sits seeping into her skin.

He isn’t sure how long he spends in that stall. A few stablehands come and go, mucking out other stalls and leading new travellers’ horses into them. Jaskier’s ears prick at a few different accents rolling in through the yard. Merchants from all over the Continent stream through these roads. And if he were younger, he might want to hop on one of their carriages and go with them to wherever it is that they’re going. Maybe sticking with the Witcher might get him to see the entire Continent.

The day trudges by, and surprisingly enough, Geralt leaves him to watch over Roach for longer than he expected. The mare eventually blinks awake, stretching out languidly. As she makes to stand, Jaskier sits up, holding out his hands. “Now just you wait, madam,” he says, “you have to rest.” He wants to set his hand on her neck and scratch at her – like Geralt had been doing. But the mare’s ears flatten. Jaskier almost balks. “Listen. You’re injured. Gods alive, but you’re as stubborn as your master-”

A throat clears. Whipping his head around, Jaskier almost blanches at the sight of the Witcher standing at the stall door. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is she giving you trouble?” he rumbles, looking down at both Jaskier and the horse.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s just as stubborn as you, I swear.” And it would be sort of endearing; if said horse wasn’t flinching at his every touch and flattening her ears back when he comes too close.

Geralt grunts. “She’s injured,” he reasons, fooling his arms over his chest. “She’s allowed to be stubborn.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. Stupid Witchers and their respect for their mounts. For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in his life, Jaskier swallows his words. So he grabs another piece of cloth and soaks it in water. Shuffling footsteps fall in front of him before he sees Geralt lowering himself into the far corner of the stall, letting Roach put her head back in his lap. Jaskier tries to keep his attention on the task at hand; but taking a quick glance up he’s almost floored by the sight of the Witcher letting the mare settle on him with a gentle huff. He cards his fingers through her mane, wrangling out the tangles and smoothing the hair against her neck.

It’s a while before either of them moves. Geralt’s head perks up at the sound of people talking. A farrier. He’s an older man, with thinning grey hair and a weathered face. But he’s able to nudge and move a draft horse around to look at the stead’s shoes. A merchant stands nearby, holding on to the horse’s headcollar. Geralt’s eyes narrow slightly. Something he does when he’s thinking.

“Do you want him to have a look at Roach?” Jaskier asks, his voice quiet. The mare’s eye opens slightly, regarding him for a moment, before she goes back to sleep.

Geralt hums. With the mare’s head settled comfortably in his lap, it’s Jaskier who offers to proposition the farrier. That, and people don’t tend to even glance in Geralt’s direction when he enters a room. The man is just about finished with the merchant’s steed, wiping his hands on a rag.

Geralt stands and stalks out of the stall. Jaskier keeps a firm pressure on Roach’s tendon, lightly massaging it, trying to get the blood to flow properly again. The mare huffs, but she doesn’t lurch up to bite him. And honestly, that’s all Jaskier can really hope for.

Geralt returns with the farrier, quietly telling him what happened and how he found it.

The man, older than Jaskier took him for, nods sagely. “If it’s just swellin’, then the lass will just need rest,” he says, stepping into the stall. Jaskier backs away, happy to let the expert at it.

Some deep noise rumbles out of Roach – not a particularly happy one at the sight of a stranger coming near her. Geralt clicks his tongue. A sharp sound that cracks through the air as harsh as a whip.

Jaskier settles his hand on to her hindquarters, fingers flush out into her fur. The beginning of a winter coat is starting to settle in, with her hair fluffier than usual.

It doesn’t take the farrier long to stand back up. “Aye, nothing too serious,” he says, slipping out of the stall again. Geralt eyes him cautiously. “Rest her as long as you’re able to. Will you be heading home, wolf?”

Jaskier blinks. He sits up that bit straighter. Home?

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I was planning to,” he rumbles, letting his voice fall quiet. “But if she can’t walk, I’ll stay down here.”

The farrier shakes his head. “None of that,” he waves his hand, “you wolves need to go home and get your own rest. She should be right as rain within a few days.”

The farrier leaves them, not taking a hint of gold. When Geralt comes back inside, letting Roach nudge his hand when he leans down to scratch her forehead, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “Home?” he asks, never quite being able to snap his jaw shut or silence his own tongue.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. “Some Witchers return home for the winter,” he rumbles, sitting back down to let Roach stretch out her neck and settle her head in his lap. He cards his fingers through her mane and forelock. The mare huffs.

Jaskier hums, scratching any stretch of skin he can reach on the mare. It keeps his fidgeting hands busy, but his mind still churns. The Witcher is a grumpy old thing with a tight jaw and a silent tongue. Anything he’s managed to lure out of him in the past few weeks was solely by chance, or suggesting a rumour that he once heard and watching for a reaction, just to see if it’s true or not.

Geralt has never, ever said anything about a home. He doesn’t have much of an accent. Nothing as rasping, yet lulling, like the ones from the Skellige isles; and certainly not like the nasal of most of the wealthier capitols. Jaskier doesn’t even know where he’s from.

“Where’s home?” he finds himself asking. Because when the flood starts, he can rarely ever stop it. He’ll blame it on youth, but he knows that he just likes prodding and luring things out of the Witcher.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a while, but Jaskier watches his response swirl around in his mind; some internal struggle churning around on whether or not to voice it. When something slips out of the Witcher’s lips, it’s quiet and Jaskier almost misses it. “Kaer Morhen. The Witcher school.”

School. He’s become adept at cementing everything Geralt says to memory. He can spin ballads and stories out of most things. But this seems like something different.

Geralt’s jaw flexes. “We go home every winter,” he rumbles, keeping his attention solely on the mare sprawled out on his lap. “Or when he can, at least.”

Something hangs in the air. It’s sour and Jaskier doesn’t like it at all.

I won’t be able to this year.

The bard clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Roach will be better by morning,” he says firmly, speaking it into existence. The mare snoozes contently between the two of them. Jaskier sits back, pressing his back flush against the wooden wall.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m staying here,” he replies, “for company.”

The Witcher’s eyes narrow. “Your girl might be put out at the fact you’re spending the night out here with us, rather than her.”

He remembers Geralt’s nostrils flaring.

Curse Witchers and their supernatural senses.

But he will lounge in the fact that this may be the longest time the two of them have been conversing together. It might just be the most amount of words he’s heard come out of the Witcher in one go.

As soon as he’s realised that, the Witcher falls back into silence.

A storm rolls in from neighbouring hills. Jaskier bristles as thunder rumbles overhead. Flashes of lightning have been creeping closer over the past hour, with the rain outside only growing heavier and heavier. The barn is well-kept, sheltering them from the worst of the rain. An occasional drip manages to sneak past, but he’s weathered out storms in worse places.

Roach doesn’t like storms. In the few months that he’s spent with the Witcher and his mount, he’s learned everything he can about the mare. She will begrudgingly take any apple slices or sugar cubes he can steal for her, and that she likes to puff out her belly when Geralt is trying to do up her saddle’s girth; just to annoy him.

But she hates storms.

He settles a steady hand on her flank, soothing words slipping out of him as her ears flick and her body tenses with every clap of thunder. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, mostly to the horse and a little bit to himself.

He isn’t overly fond of storms either. His childhood was spent in a kingdom with rare bad weather. Sure, it rained and winds tumbled down from far off mountains, and the blusters that swept in from the sea weren’t pleasant, but storms were rare. He remembers spending most noisy nights with his mother, enduring the scowling face of his father grunting that viscounts don’t hide behind their mother’s skirts at a bit of wind.

His mother never said anything like that to him. Warm arms bundled him against her chest and she carried him to her own chambers – why his parents had separate rooms, he never quite understood. He didn’t think it was strange until he went to college and met other students, all saying how much their parents loved each other.

Love withered away and died a long time before Jaskier was born.

A stray rumble of thunder catches him off guard. He tries to stop himself from jerking, but his breath catches in his throat.

The mare’s ears flatten for a moment. How is he meant to keep her calm and steady if he can’t do so himself?

Geralt looks up. He’s busied himself with plaiting a few braids into Roach’s mane, leaving them for a moment before untangling them with his fingers. He watches Jaskier curiously. “Alright?”

Jaskier blinks, realising a moment too long that the Witcher is talking to him. “Yeah,” he rasps, coughing to clear his throat. “Yes. I’m alright.” Though he looks to the barn’s ceiling, watching how light blinks and stretches across the sky for a brief moment, followed by a rumble of noise.

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You don’t like storms,” he says slowly, not really a question, but not quite a statement either.

Jaskier nods all the same. “Not the biggest fan of them, I’ll admit,” he laughs breathlessly. Because he can always poke some fun at himself. “A young strapping viscount like myself, afraid of a bit of noise. Funny, isn’t it?” For a moment, his tongue feels sour in his mouth at the thought of his father’s words tumbling out of his lips instead of his own.

Roach settles after a moment, fine with the fact that the storm doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere anytime soon.

“I don’t like them either.”

Jaskier looks up. The quiet words are almost lost to the next clap of thunder and the continuous pelting of rain on the roof above them. He blinks. “What?”

Geralt sighs. “I don’t like storms either,” he says, a bit firmer. “I’m better with them now, but...when I was younger, I tried to hide from them.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request to keep going, that the bard won’t interrupt.

Geralt draws in a small breath. “One of our teachers, Vesemir...he was a father figure to most of us. We were separated from our actual families. Not stolen or anything that humans seem to think. We were dumped at the bottom of the mountain. What else could the wolves do but bring in the pups.”

Jaskier stays silent. He lets himself slouch against the stable wall, getting as comfortable as he can among the wood and straw. The heat from the mare wards off the worst of the chill.

Geralt sighs. “He let us hide with him. The keep is up high, almost touching the clouds. And the higher up you are, the worst the winds get. And the winds during winter storms were strong. I thought that the walls would cave in one night, the weather was so bad. So...I hid. I went to Vesemir’s room, and he looked at me, nodded, and let me inside. There were others there too. My brothers.”

A father. Brothers. Jaskier’s mind swirls.

Geralt hums, idly fidgeting with some of Roach’s mane. “When you live as long as I have, you start to get used to the things that scare you.” Some sort of breathless laugh puffs out of him. “Still scared shitless of the Crones, though.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I would hide with my mum,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out at all. But it’s a tit-for-tat. If Geralt manages to share something, he will too. “She let me sleep in her room until morning. My father wasn’t...too happy, but he couldn’t stop her. Even when he tried to have a servant bar my door.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“My mum is the one with the title,” Jaskier explains. “She’s the viscountess. My father was a baron. He married up. When the servant went to get the beams, my mum stalks down from her study and demanded that nothing be done to my room. If I wanted to stay with her, I could. I think my father was actually afraid of her. With one word, he would be sent straight back down to be a lowly baron of some forgetful town on the outskirts of the province.” Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “He hated her, really. But I think it was more fear. Not of her, but what she could do to him.”

Geralt nods. He can’t pretend to know the in and outs of noble life, particularly the politics of marrying up or down your stature. It’s all a bit frivolous to him, really, especially when the Continent seems to have bigger problems on its hands. But he nods, humming. “She sounds like a good woman.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “And your father sounds like a good man.”

Geralt laughs. It’s small, and barely a huff of air, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards, and Jaskier will take it. He made the Witcher laugh.

He pads back to the stall with everything Geralt asked for. The storm raged through the night, and even though the innkeep sent people out to bring them inside – including Clara, which warmed Jaskier’s cheeks with a flush – but they stayed. Roach slept for most of the night, only trying to get up to get some water and hay. Geralt helped her. Jaskier sat by with a faint smile ghosting his lips at the sight of the Witcher reaching for the hay net and water bucket, bringing them down to the mare so that she can eat and drink.

Geralt waits for him by the stall door. The mare’s leg looks better already. Most of the swelling has gone down, but it’s still a stubborn tightness that remains. He hands over a small bowl of plants and rainwater he managed to find. A poultice will work the last of the strain away. He’s seen Geralt make them before, more often for himself to put on cuts and injuries gotten from rough hunts.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall door, watching as Geralt sets the cool mixture on the mare’s leg. She goes to nose at it, but her ears flatten at a slight bat on her muzzle from Geralt. “Don’t eat it,” he says sternly, as if talking to a human child. The mare huffs, but turns away.

By the time Roach is healthy again and able to stand on her four legs without much hassle, it’s been another day. Jaskier stretches out his back and legs as he sets their bags down beside the barn. Geralt does up the last of Roach’s tack, making sure that everything is sitting comfortably on the mare. He won’t ride her. For the next few days, he’ll walk beside her and just let her carry the bags.

Jaskier can’t help but grin at the idea of the Witcher walking. Maybe his own feet will start aching now that he’s down on the ground himself.

The bard stuffs the last of the rations into their bags. A small loaf of bread, dried roasted beef, and a flagon of water. It should carry them until the next village, almost a day’s walk away. He got the package from Clara, the woman trying to lure him to stay, but adventure calls, and I cannot document it without being on the road, my dear.

Maybe he’ll come this way again, when the weather is kinder and he can stay for longer. But the thought of falling into the girl’s bed again doesn’t sit as well with him as it once did. Even as he left, she pecked a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone, and it churned his stomach. Not in the nice way he’s come to love. But in a way that made him feel like he was about to get sick.

He pats a hand on the mare’s neck. “Good to go?” he asks her, making peace with the fact that if Geralt won’t talk to him, he might as well try the horse.

Roach doesn’t lurch out to nip him. She doesn’t kick out a leg to bash in his shins, or try and flick her tail at him like a whip. Instead, her head falls into his arms as he scratches behind her ear. “Yeah,” he coos, “we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“It’s the apples and sugar you insist on feeding her.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt hauls the last of the bags on to the mare’s saddle, strapping them in for the walk ahead. The Witcher settles him with a stern look. “We’re tight on coin. Stop spending it on treats for her.”

Jaskier balks. “She’s just recovered from an injury – one probably got from carrying your arse around the whole Continent. She deserves every treat I can get her.”

“Then you’ll be getting them with your own money.”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.” Jaskier lifts his lute on to his shoulder. “The people of this fine town paid me enough gold to buy her a whole orchid.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. He huffs, grabbing the mare’s reins, and starting to walk down the worn cobblestone path towards the next village.

Jaskier walks on Roach’s other side, keeping the mare between him and the Witcher. Even though Roach is fine with him now bumping against her, he can’t say the same thing about Geralt. They manage to get almost a mile before Jaskier pipes up, his fingers fidgeting by his side and his tongue ready to let words slip out. “So,” he says, almost mostly to the start of a canopy forming over their heads. A forest stretches out in front of them, damp yet vibrant green from the rain. “When will you be heading home?”

Geralt grunts. “Winter.”

“Good job on being specific. That’s a whole season, Geralt. When will you be going?”

“Not too sure yet,” the Witcher mutters. “When the winds change.”

“They seem pretty changed to me now.” Storms rolling in out of nowhere. Rain. Wind. The slight nipping chill in the air. It could very well be winter now.

Geralt sighs. “Afraid to walk the road without me, bard?”

“No.” Jaskier tries not to look as petulant as his reply sounded. “No. I just want to know. I might head to Oxenfurt.”

“A warm, safe place.” Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye. Even with a horse between them, he still manages to find the bard. “Keep yourself there for as long as you can.”

“And miss the adventures you bring me on? Never.” “When will you come down from the mountain? Spring? Where will I meet you?”

Geralt tries to hide the small smile ghosting his lips by turning his head away. But a breathy laugh slips out of him all the same. “Who says that I’ll meet back up with you? I have contracts to collect, bard, and they’re far too dangerous for humans to go on.”

“I’ll keep myself safe,” Jaskier replies. “But I know you like the company, grump that you are and all that.”

Geralt hums.

Jaskier will find him again. The thought of leaving him one day and spending a whole season without the Witcher there doesn’t sit quite right in his stomach. It churns and chills his blood, and he wants to retch. But if the Witcher must return home, and he can’t come with him, then that’s fine. He’ll just pick up the scent after a season and continue on their trek through the Continent.

And Geralt will berate him for it; snapping that he’ll be a burden and that his presence isn’t wanted, but something has settled in those golden eyes that says please come back. Something soft and something that wasn’t there before.

So he’ll meet him again. Jaskier nods, mostly to himself. He promises.

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gayregis · 4 years

Note

what are your favorite hcs for the hansa?

canon universe headcanons... sorry if these turn out slightly angouleme-centric or regis-centric...

angouleme being trained by milva in archery, because milva learned that she had starved for a good amount of her past and wanted to give her the tools so that she would never have to starve again. the fact that she struck her with the belt weighed on her still, and she wants to have a better relationship with her because she’s just young and she also reminds milva of herself when she was young, but angouleme makes it so damn difficult because her favorite thing to do is get on milva’s nerves and milva can’t ever respond by being unfazed... so milva thinks she’ll do what she knows best and what how she and her father had a good relationship... teach her to shoot. it goes well... they talk... once angouleme has the basics, they go out once a week to the caoberta woods to shoot. angouleme isn’t great, but she’s not too bad, and ends up shooting some pheasants, which she’s quite proud of.

cahir and angouleme being trained by geralt in swordfighting. geralt one day tells cahir he wants to train him, at first cahir is slightly offended and starts listing off times when they have fought side-by-side and he’s held his own perfectly, that he was an officer, that he has already been trained well... geralt agrees, and then gets to the point - he wants to train him specifically to be able to counter a witcher’s attacks, because ciri doesn’t know that cahir has joined geralt’s company, and when she sees him again, his other hand might also lose the use of two fingers, if he’s not careful. cahir pales a little, nods with resoluteness, and agrees, thanking geralt. angouleme joins in on occasion just because she doesn’t want to be left out and also all of the hansa members who are swordfighters need constant training to ensure their skills don’t get rusty. geralt at first is apprehensive for angouleme to join because he’s afraid that she’ll remind him too much of ciri and it will destroy him, but it turns out that this is one of the activities that actually allows him to notice more differences between the two and separate them more in his mind, since their fighting styles are extremely different and he as a professional can assess that. cahir’s training is helpful for him because all of his previous training was grounded in nilfgaardian techniques and thus propaganda, the only thing on his mind was seeking honor for his family and recognition for his valor. now, he trains not for the honor of his family, but just for his family, for the people he cares about... and also, for himself, not the concept of a country...

the only people more nocturnal than teenagers are vampires... angouleme arrives back at the palace in the middle of the night, around 2 to 4 AM, sneaks in stealthily... goes in through the kitchen, thinks she’s got it made, since no one’s up... she’s halfway through when regis coughs softly, to let her know he’s there... he was just sitting in the pitch dark, reading and drinking tea, when she happened to sneak in. cue a sapkowskian witty exchange of words, in the style that yennefer and fringilla exchange words at the lodge meeting in baptism of fire, where they dance around a concept and a hypothetical. “it’s good for you that i’m human, and because i’m human, i can’t see at all in the dark. but were i able to see, i might see a girl sneaking in from committing petty crimes, with shock on her face as she’s just been caught.” angouleme is snarky at first but then through conversation realizes that regis sincerely isn’t mad at her for sneaking out and isn’t going to admonish her or tell geralt who would likely ground her. they have a small conversation, angouleme sneaks back up to her room... sleeps in the next day. this continues occuring, except these times angouleme actually looks forward to regis being there when she gets back so they can talk. and she can tell him about the various exploits she got up to, brag about what she did, because unlike the rest of the company, regis doesn’t have that human-society instinct to scold a child when they’ve been sneaking around and stealing stuff and getting into danger. it’s good for her to be able to tell someone, not only so she can get validation, but also because if something goes wrong... if something got too dangerous... she’d have someone to tell about it. which does happen eventually...

milva tends to roam around toussaint because she dislikes the atmosphere at the palace... it’s snooty, it’s stuck-up, and they always talk nonsense. add this to the fact that they’re all posing as noble lords and ladies undercover, and you’ve got a cocktail for disaster... milva fears opening her mouth and saying something deemed stupid by those in the court, and blowing their whole cover. so she chooses to walk through toussaint, and since they have a good source of money, she goes to the shops and bargains and talks to the shopkeepers. she also hunts in the caoberta woods and sells what she kills, not out of survival, but out of habit and not wanting to let her skills rest. what she didn’t expect was that the entire female population of toussaint have never seen an archer lady before, a woman with such nice biceps... cue lesbianisms. milva doesn’t recognize that half of the entire city is flirting with her, until angouleme tags along with her one day to visit the fletchery, and almost bursts out laughing at how thirsty this fletcher woman is and how oblivious her aunt is to it all.

geralt is highly intimidated by the duchess and misses dandelion. everyone in the hansa likes to roast dandelion for bedding the duchess. it’s good fun, but they never do it when geralt is within earshot (earshot is quite a long distance for a witcher), because he’s jealous and begins to pout if they mention dandelion and the duchess in his company. geralt on occassion bemoaned how dandelion wasn’t at the breakfast table, but then stopped because he was repeating himself... this worried the company, so they all pleaded with dandelion to wake up earlier so he could have breakfast with them. one day geralt walks downstairs for breakfast and dandelion is sitting there, he can’t decide whether to enter the room or just skip breakfast for the day, when the hansa spots him and invites him in. he grumbles a little “i thought you were in bed with her enlightened ladyship...” but doesn’t say much else... how do you talk to your best friend when you haven’t seen them in a month? breakfast is awkward and geralt leaves early. the hansa is quiet, dandelion knows he’s offended geralt because he’s always so damn sensitive, and lightly chases after him to the stables. there they have a genuine conversation about the marriage, one with less haste and one with less shock and anger... geralt explains that it’s not about him being happy for dandelion but rather about dandelion leaving him and the company... dandelion admits he didn’t realize it was about that, he thought geralt was fine now, he didn’t need his company anymore because he had gathered a company and was sitting in pure safety in beauclair, with fringilla vigo, no less... that he didn’t need to be there anymore, he has others... but it’s not about how many he has, it’s about who he has, and he wants dandelion’s company, too... he still needs his company, even though he has others’ now, even though he’s not alone and even though his arm and leg aren’t broken and he’s not sleeping in a soverign forest nation of dryads.

geralt and regis’ garden meetings are comically interrrupted every time they’re about to discuss something important or intimate. geralt is just about to speak about his feelings about yennefer, and a man runs past them chased by a furious duck. regis is about to discuss exactly why he feels so committed to humanity, and angouleme interrupts them with a shout. after they stop being bothered by whatever it was, neither of them feel confident enough to re-pursue the topic at hand.

angouleme bothering everyone when they first meet in tower of the swallow and realizing she hasn’t bothered cahir yet... halfway through she realizes this guy’s a fuckin lawful goodie-goodie , starts pestering him about that... she mockingly asks if he’s ever been to prison, he just softly responds "i spent two years isolated in the imperial citadel under maximum security for treason,” and leaves it at that. the entire company is silent and it’s awkward as hell... but angouleme is impressed and concedes, says they’re not as different as she thought, is glad to be travelling with him... he smiles and nods. the rest of the company exhales.

regis cooks a lot and he’s genuinely a good home cook. it helps that he has expertise in spices and herbs, and can also touch searingly hot metal with no ill effects. milva will drag in prey that she hunted early that morning and he’ll cook it. the palace chef is glad to have the day off on these days. regis also teaches angouleme to cook because she kept watching intently when he chopped green onions. angouleme also gets pretty good at cooking, one day she wants to make cookies with cahir. cahir is like “are you sure you know how to do this” and angouleme’s like duh obviously i’ve been learning so yeah. she does everything extremely well until it’s time to take the cookies out of the oven and she forgets to put mitts on and burns both her hands because guess who is such a great visual teacher.

angouleme also exploded an alchemy lab when regis was teaching her principles of alchemy but it was ok bc he tossed her out before the explosion and subsequent lighting of the lab on fire happened. he just stands there in the fire like “don’t worry you did great!"

the palace in beauclair has a hall of mirrors like the palace of versailles has IRL. regis cries a little every time he walks past (not EVER through) it.

the company once was walking through the streets of beauclair together. a dog came up and started viciously barking at regis, no one knew what to do. angouleme started barking back at the dog. it actually worked, it scared it away and then she yelled at its owner

this is more canon than headcanon but the company sits around the kitchen table to talk almost every night. and they use the kitchen as their space to hang out and meet with one another, if they’re feeling like they need company, they’ll just head downstairs and sit in the kitchen, and wait for someone else to show up... it’s a foolproof plan, or at least, it was, until fringilla also began to bide her time in there, and cahir was unfortunately the first one to find this out when he went downstairs. it was even more awkward for him specifically because after he faked his way out of that situation by saying he just wanted to get a snack, fringilla said “assire says her greetings” just to fuck with him just as he was walking out of the door

fringilla realized regis was a vampire really late in the game. about a week into dating geralt (and having regis piss her off) she’s just like excuse me geralt but i have to tell you. regis is a vampire. and geralt’s like... thank you...? for that?

fringilla also gets on milva’s nerves more than anyone else, more than angouleme because angouleme only gets on her nerves out of pure joy. fringilla does it without being being intentional, or in fact being intentional about it but not betraying that it was intentional. she asks around milva’s insecurities and whatnot, tells her that there’s this great book she read and wants to recommend milva... while knowing that milva is illiterate because she read her mind and found that out. but to her surprise, milva actually thanks her and takes the book. milva is freaking out later because she dosn’t know why she fucking did that, and goes to the company for help. they offer to read it for her but she declines, and instead demands they teach her how to read it herself. she has a week to do it, because she said she’d give fringilla back the book in a week. cue everyone losing their shit because they want to help milva but are terrible teachers. regis wants to start milva off on the continent’s equivalent of plato, while cahir is busy referring to his nilfgaardian-common dictionary. somehow she succeeds and when fringilla smugly asks her what she thought of the book, she gives her honest opinion. it wasn’t a very good book, she says this in her own way, you know, it’s not some academic book review, “the guy who wrote this makes shitall sense” and such. she’s extremely proud of herself but doesn’t show it as much as she feels it.

geralt completes many contracts and at breakfast, just as he’s about to put his feet up and sit around the palace for the day, he is visited by multiple representors of various noble houses, who are being crowded by palace guards, trying to get them out of the palace’s kitchen. geralt shoos the guards away and asks what this is all about and why it’s so urgent. they all give varied witness accounts of a giant bat flying around last night during the full moon. everyone at the table glances at regis and then immediately breaks their glance as to not raise suspicion. geralt makes an appointment with them all to meet them after breakfast... regis just butters his bread and says deadpan “i hope you get to the bottom of this, geralt”

modern au headcanons

pizza orders: milva - chicken and ranch, regis - mushrooms and whatever with basil, cahir - prosciutto and feta, angouleme - hawaiian pizza

starbucks orders - milva - cold brew no cream, regis - passion fruit tea, cahir - macchiato, angouleme - caramel frappuchino

regis drops angouleme off to soccer practice or whatever while blasting bauhaus

“milva said it’s my turn on the xbox” between angouleme and cahir

"uh mom made green beans” tiktok except it’s angouleme coming into cahir’s room to tell him regis made green beans

#hansa #the witcher #geralt #dandelion #regis #milva #cahir #angouleme #long post /#its good to compile these ideas in one post #anon #ask

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tarithenurse · 4 years

Text

If I succeed - 3

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader (eventually/sorta/you’ll see) Content: Jealousy, pining, mentions of sexy times, stubborn people, feels. A/N: If I ever advertise for a new slowburn: hit me hard with a chair or something, ‘cause I’m testing my own patience despite knowing what’s going to happen. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever - I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

3 – You won’t change

... Reader ...

Even with Geralt of Rivia to explain the severity of the situation, and Jaskier to serve as witness, very few of the villagers are willing to abandon their homes at the potential threat.

“You’re the Witcher,” they object, “the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken. Can’t you do something?”

Probably better than the man in question, you understand their reasoning: this is their home. The only safe place they have. Furthermore, if it was just a single person leaving (maybe to pursue their fate in the capital) it would not be a problem whereas an entire village on the run would be met with hostility anywhere they were to go. The summer is drawing to an end and with autumn, the cold days will come with rain, sleet, and eventually snow. How would they feed so many? What would happen to them?

“Witcher or not, I’m just one person.”

You know Geralt well enough to see the frustration hidden in the tight draw of the lips. He is not as callous as he pretends, often forfeiting payment by sending a saved person home rather than follow them and claim what was promised. It is only because of Jaskier that they have money to spend on shelter.

Speaking of the bard, you glimpse a shimmer of his blue doublet in a corner where several young women are gathered, undoubtedly to shower him with attention in the hopes of wooing him – a fate he will bravely accept.

“Some of you have horses,” you pipe up, focus once more back on the attending villagers, “ride to Beauclair. Warn them!”

But already, the audience is turning away, tired of the meddling outsiders and a woman’s views on the problem. Most of them have little respect for the Ducal Guard who is supposed to protect the borders and roads, finding that the men sporting the Toussaint colours rarely bother about the well being of the common folk.

“Don’t waste your breath on them, [Y/N].” Geralt’s heavy hand squeezes your shoulder softly, sending shivers racing. “They’ll talk, then they’ll come to offer me money to sort it. They all do.”

He is tired, the venom still potent in his blood though the fever has diminished somewhat. With only a grunt as thanks, he takes the tankard of ale offered by a pretty blonde before reclaiming his seat with a sigh. Though the wench's job is done, she hovers nearby with a hungry look in her eyes that sends your skin crawling and your brain reeling for something to distract the swell of unwelcome emotions.

“What if they do? You’re still just one man...and you’re recovering.”

He has the gall to roll his eyes. “At least I can get proof, seeing the carcass of a monster sends most running.”

“So?” Anger is rising rapidly in your chest even if this is not the time nor the place to let it out. “We’ve seen wyverns before...know they’re th-”

“Who’s talking about the wyverns?” Half the sentence is spoken into the wooden tankard, only loud enough for you to hear. “There’s...something else.”

Oh, the anger is gone immediately all right, replaced by a new, creeping unrest. The people capturing the wyverns...aren’t people?

Looking around the place, you see familiar faces who now are in danger. Friends who have helped you, whose kids you have taught or family members you have tended to during illness or labour. When you and your parents first arrived, it took a while before you were no longer treated as the strange city-girl but once people did accept you...you have never felt alone since. You see the smith and his apprentice by the bar, and over by the window is Audette (seamstress who worked with your mother before eventually taking over) with her gossiping friends, two tables are filled with sons and daughters strong enough to work at the biggest vineyard in the valley. You could go on, naming each and every single person. Then again, there’s less than hundred in the village.

There are more than usual at the small inn. Undoubtedly, the rumour of the Witcher being in attendance has spread like wildfire thanks to Jaskier’s strumming on the walk here. Jaskier. He, however, is nowhere to be found. Where he was, some of the hopeful women are sitting with disappointed pouts. He’ll be back for breakfast.

You turn back to continue the conversation only to find the annoying barmaid nearly crawling onto the White Wolf’s lap without any complaints from him. Biting back curses, it is all you manage to hiss at Geralt to deal with the villagers’ threat as he sees fit before you march out.

Pebbles crunch under your boots. A newly waning moon bathes the bumpy road and the path leading off towards your cottage in a blueish glow, the inky shadows beneath any obstacle the better how late the hour is. Gonna go home, clean up, go to sleep. In my OWN bed! Though the air is cool and soothing, it is unable to dull the rage boiling your blood. An inner dialog plays in your head with alternating reasons for and against your reaction: you have no claim; the Witcher can make (or choose) his own bed and lie in it, yes sir; typical men!

On and on, your mind protests, until a dry crack snaps you back to the present. Nothing is in sight, though it is uncannily difficult to ascertain whether something is hiding in the underbrush of the glade to your right. If only you had paused to bring and light the little lantern – a lantern which is standing by the seat Geralt had claimed – then you could have seen more. Even such a little light would be useful for you in other ways, keeping you safer than most would think. All you have is the glow of the moon so you wait and listen. As no other sounds disturb the silence, you deem it wiser to continue home. Hurrying slightly.

Once indoors, a shaky breath wriggles past teeth worrying into the bottom lip. Silly me. It was probably just a critter too focused on you to watch its step.

You sense it rather than hear it, a presence nearing from behind like a thunderstorm crawling over the mountains. There is barely time to reach towards your father’s old walking staff, less so to turn and raise it before your wrists are pinned on either side of your head against the closed door and the Witcher is looming over you with his broad shoulders. At least he does not have to tell you to drop the staff with a clatter (what good would it do, anyway?). He is so close! The formidable chest rising as he attempts to regain his breath. Did he run here? Brows are knitted as those magical eyes sweep over your form once before scrutinizing every detail of your face. I’m pissed at him, yet the reminder does little else than school your features. Within this proximity, it is possible to smell the musk and the bitterness from the venom-laced sweat – the last inkling of honeyed soap would be unnoticeable for anyone but those who knew of it. The heat. By the Prophet! The heat emanating from the man can only be compared to the smith’s furnace...or the sinful need in your core.

“I believe we were talking, [Y/N].”

“Your attention was elsewhere so I decided we were done,” you bite back.

Tearing yourself free (or rather: he lets you free), you slide past him to reclaim your own alcove. Seeing as Jaskier undoubtedly will be gone all night, it makes sense for Geralt to sleep there instead...and if not, then the two guys will have to bunk up.

“[Y/N]...” His voice is softer now.

Yours is not. “What?”

There is no answer, merely a thud and a slight quiver in the floorboards prompting you to whip around. Geralt lies in a heap on the floor. Fuck. Undoubtedly, his rush to reach home before you has pumped the venom through his body at a quicker pace than even he can withstand, pushing his recovery back and draining what little energy he still had left.

You act swiftly, finding the last of the old vials of antidote as well as one of the new ones you have prepared during the day – they aught to settle before administration, but you might not have a choice now. Then (less swiftly), you drag blankets onto the floor near the fireplace and roll the meat mountain onto them before swathing him almost like a child and dragging his shoulders and head onto your lap. Embers are still crackling, casting a red glow onto the chiselled face to soften the edges.

“Come on,” you coo, knowing full well that he cannot hear you, “open your mouth.”

It is relatively simple to gain access to pour the remedy into him. Pushing the jaw up, you pinch his nose shut and pray that his body will react accordingly. Under the black shirt and leather, his chest stutters in protest for a moment longer than you like. Come now. Miraculously, you hear him swallow, clearing the liquid away to free the airways, gasping hungrily but never once regaining consciousness.

He is handsome, the White Wolf, though few see past the fierce facade to discover the gentle strokes in his appearance. As the dim glow flickers and sends the shadows dancing and jumping, you find yourself staring at the femininely long lashes, and the perfect curve of his lips that you once had the joy of claiming.

But the weight of the man is impressive too, quickly robbing any feeling from your legs. Pushing Geralt, with little remorse as to the harshness, you regain freedom and rub your limbs to get life back into them. What to do? Peeling off boots and, well, anything but his breeches is done quickly despite the dead weight because years of dealing with injured and sick people have proved to be a one-person-task most of the time. So far, so good, idle fingers ghost through the hairs on his chest.

And now...though he probably would not care, you do not like the idea of leaving him on the floor and so retort once more to dragging him towards the nearest bed – you own. Once at there, a cold cloth wakes him up enough to get him onto his feet and you are able to pull him up after crawling into the alcove first, reaching over and pulling him by the waist of his breeches.

By the time Geralt passes out again, he is sprawled diagonally across the bed with you pinned under his arm. Trying to move only results in him subconsciously dragging you into a tight embrace with your back against his chest. Fuck!

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astaldis · 6 months

Text

Witcher Wheel of the Year - Yule

@witcherwheeloftheyear

Words: 1,885 Chapters: 1/4

Characters: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Jaskier | Dandelion, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Maria Barring | Milva, Angoulême (The Witcher), Fringilla Vigo, The Hansa | Geralt's Company Members (The Witcher)

Additional Tags: Yule, Presents, Surprises, Friendship, breakfast in Beauclair, Toussaint (The Witcher), Echoes, Suspension, straw, Holly, Unexpected Guest, Chains, Cake, gift wrapped, A Witcher Wheel of the Year Challenge 2023, Humour

Summary: Another festive event is coming up in Toussaint and Jaskier has the perfect idea for how to celebrate it with his Hansa. He only needs to convince Geralt and the others that his idea for their Yule party will be fun, lots of fun.

Written for The Witcher Wheel of the Year Challenge - Yule

(Set during "Lady of the Lake" while the Hansa is wintering in Toussaint, between chapter 3 and chapter 4. But you don't need to have read the books to enjoy the story.)

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visit

"Ah, dear company, good morning!" Jaskier exclaims, swinging the door wide open with a flourish. "I knew I'd still find you breakfasting here in this cosy little kitchen of yours! It's only half past eleven, after all, the perfect time for this earliest of daily meals. Even Geralt and the Lady Fringilla are here. I am in luck!" He intones the last four words while waving his hat about, then he bows to Fringilla with a grin.

"Look who the cat dragged in. Jaskier, the Duchess's famous poet in the flesh. What do we owe your unexpected visit to?" Geralt asks ironically. The bard is here with the rest of the Hansa far less often than he and Fringilla, and whenever he does find his way down to the kitchens, it means— "Jaskier, you don't want us to take part in one of your inane festivities again?" Geralt looks sharply at his old friend, furling his eyebrows with suspicion.

"You did have tons of fun at the Fall Masquerade, old grumpy, like everybody else, didn't you? Admit it! And this will be fun, too, you'll see." Grinning broadly, Jaskier flops down on a free chair. "I promise, it'll be just the six of us and Fringilla this time," he adds before Geralt can raise any objections. "A very low key celebration. Some delicious traditional food and drink, a tiny bit of season decorations, the music fitting for the event, of course - and a nice surprise present for everybody."

"A surprise?" Angoulême pricks up her ears. "I love surprises! And presents!" She puts down her mug with hot cocoa and beams at the bard, her upper lip adorned with a moustache of brown chocolate. "What kind of surprise, n'uncle? When will I get mine? Is it a new, extra-sharp dagger? Or a bottle of cask strength whiskey? Can I have my present now?" She looks at the bard with big wide eyes.

"Not so fast, little miss nosiness," Jaskier smiles, totally immune to the girl's Puss-in-Boots expression. "And you cannot have it now, sorry. If I told you what it is, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it? Anyhow, I have no idea myself what will be your present as it's not I who chooses the gifts, but you!"

"We? Do you expect us to go shopping for presents?" Cahir asks sceptically. "You are aware that - unlike you - most of us don't have any money, not a single floren."

"Money, who's talking about money, friend? Be a bit more creative!" Jaskier says enthusiastically. "Let your imagination soar! Only the sky's the limit, as you all should know! Money!" he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.

"Then what, bard, if we don't buy the gifts?" Milva asks irritatedly. "Can you speak plainly so that a simple girl from the forest can understand what this is about?"

"Sorry, dear Milva, I apologise most humbly for my lofty choice of words. But I am a poet, after all, heart and soul. However, it's not difficult at all. Actually, it's easy as pie and a piece of cake. We will make the presents ourselves."

Continue reading on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51673288

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hanzajesthanza · 3 months

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this is how i imagine geralt & co. showing up at beauclair

youtube

#cahir: ‘it’s only a model’#let us ride… TO BEAUCLAIR!#when they begin to go to breakfast every day… did they sit at… a round table #the elbow-high diaries #monty python and the holy grail #f: a hansa’s a hansa

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jerry-of-rivia · 4 years

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The Witcher podcast, Breakfast in Beauclair, has moved onto the Netflix show and continues to be good:

https://www.breakfastinbeauclair.com/listen/episode-17

#link #podcast #the witcher #show discussion

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riviae · 4 years

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what if geralt catches regis looking in the mirror, tells him to close his eyes, and starts softly touching different parts of his face and describing them to him. or he has someone paint a portrait for him to look at instead ;_; im sorry your post made me sappy

It became an odd habit of sorts–checking his nonexistent reflection in the mirror–Regis realizes as he brushes off specks of dust from his jerkin. The standing-length mirror situated in the corner of his crypt had been a bit of an inside joke at first–he was already a vampire living in a cemetery, after all; what was stopping him from indulging in a few more lighthearted jokes? He already felt a secret pleasure at the garlands of garlic and collection of silver utensils he kept in his makeshift abode, so it was only in due time that he picked up an antique mirror from one of the stalls in the Beauclair marketplace, careful to keep the glass wrapped in a heavy, dark green fabric until it safely passed the threshold of his home.

And so the mirror remained, half-hidden in a dusty corner of the mausoleum, a few stray candles on a nearby table offering only a meager flicker of light. Not that Regis needed the candles either, but candles were a very human invention and one the vampire knew made humans feel just a little bit safer. Even if his only human visitor nowadays was Geralt, a witcher who could see perfectly fine in the dark, he had grown accustomed to the warm orange glow, the way the tiny beacons of light reminded him of his time spent amongst humans, learning and growing into the person he was today.

Just as Regis moves to adjust the cuffs of his shirt, he hears it: a familiarly slow heartbeat and with it, the faintest whiff of blood. Not Geralt’s, thankfully, but as the witcher grew closer, Regis could tell that he had recently bathed and cleaned his armor–it was his swords that carried the scent of old blood–both monster and human–a scent that could never be washed out completely. The swords had spilled so much blood despite Geralt’s best attempts at pacifism. He was a kind-hearted man by nature, but he knew when his only option was to kill.

“Hey,” the witcher greets, an easy grin upon his face. He meets his own gaze in the mirror before his eyes dart to the vampire. “Hmm… thought you hated mirrors.”

Regis turns away from the mirror, giving the witcher a fond look. “I hate that I have to avoid them. It’s the same with dogs, sorcerers, and telepaths–I have no hatred for them, I just dislike that I must go out of my way to avoid them.”

“I remember us having this conversation before. Think that was the first time I saw you really smile.”

“Is that so?” Regis begins, “Your memory is impeccable as always.”

“Only for certain things. Certain people,” Geralt replies, giving a tired shrug of his shoulders.

The admission, no matter how casual, sends a pleasant thrum of warmth through the vampire. For a man allegedly devoid of emotions, Geralt had quite a way of expressing them. Regis didn’t bother hiding his teeth as he smiled, lips pulling into a wide, happy grin.

“Careful with those fangs. Someone’s bound to notice,” Geralt teases.

“The only prying eyes here are the dead so I don’t think I have much to worry about.” With a lighthearted roll of his eyes, Regis turns back to the mirror, fiddling with his cuffs yet again.

Geralt’s voice suddenly sounds distant–but perhaps that isn’t the right word. Regis knows what grief sounds likes, the hollowness of it, the way it echoes in the emptiness of what was lost; the witcher’s voice sounds bereaved, but there’s an underlying fondness to it. It’s reminiscent; hopeful, even. “Remember when we first got to Beauclair? How everyone crowded into your room to get ready for the banquet?”

Regis huffs out a laugh. “How could I forget? Angouleme came in brandishing a pair of garden shears and asked me to cut her hair.”

“You even humored everyone with your floating scissors routine.”

Regis grew silent, unable to stop the flurry of memories that Geralt’s words had conjured up.

There was Milva begrudgingly slinking into the chair in front of the mirror to let Regis trim her bangs, expression softening as the rhythmic motions of having her hair cut lulled her into a light doze. When she stirred, she gave Regis a serious look and thanked him for his services. Whether she knew that the vampire had noticed her slipping out into the stables near the palace to cry at night, had noticed the tired bags under her eyes, and had helped her fall asleep peacefully for the first time in weeks, Regis wasn’t sure, but he did know that it wasn’t long until Milva began saving him a seat beside her during breakfast.

There was Cahir, usually silent and pensive, who suddenly showed a polite interest in all things related to Regis’ culture as a higher vampire. It was a unique parallel that they shared, both being sojourners in lands they did not belong to. Beauclair was as close to home as Cahir had been since Ciri–and then Geralt–had spared his life despite his connections to the Nilfgaardian Empire. Perhaps he had simply been feeling homesick as he sat in front of Regis’ mirror, invisible hands carefully trimming the are of his head where an axe nearly severed his scalp from his skull.

Even Dandelion had stopped by his room at some point, waxing poetic about the Duchess while Regis ran a brush through the musician’s long, blond curls. Their conversation drifted easily from topic to topic, spanning the arts and politics until undoubtedly returning to news about their company. Dandelion had always shown a near selfless interest in Geralt’s safety, that much was obvious to Regis, and only solidified that, despite appearances, the man was a genuinely good friend to have.

Then, his mind drifted to Angouleme. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of Stygga–he preferred to think of happier times, of happier memories, of the lopsided grins and loud laughter that she brought every day to the breakfast table while they wintered in Beauclair. And, of course, her endearing antics, which only increased in creativity when she realized that Regis had no reflection.

When he finally spoke aloud, his lips twist into a wistful smile. “Ah, that was quite funny, wasn’t it? That was the first time anyone–human, vampire, or otherwise–saw my lack of reflection as interesting, as something to be explored and, dare I say, something endearing about me. I enjoyed having dear Angouleme on my shoulders… even if she did kick me a few times by mistake during her theatrical performance.” Regis pauses, his hands reaching on reflex for the leather strap of his satchel that wasn’t there. Instead, his hands found purchase in the fabric of his jerkin, fingernails scraping harmlessly against the surface. “You know, I would do it all again. Even knowing what I do now, knowing how this all eventually ends, I wouldn’t trade my time with our little rag-tag group for the world.”

“Neither would I,” Geralt affirms, reaching over to squeeze Regis’ shoulder. The vampire was acutely aware of how his touch lingered there, the warmth and weight that radiated from the man’s simple comforting gesture.

The reflection in the mirror shows only the witcher, one hand stretched out into the dark, grasp loose and empty.

“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it?” Regis says. “It’s like I’m not even here. Without a reflection, it almost looks as if you’re talking to a ghost. It was difficult after Stygga to piece my body back together. Even with Dettlaff’s help… I was, well, I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I was convinced for some time that I was truly dead. There was nothing left of me aside from my consciousness. And once I did grow strong enough to begin the arduous process of becoming flesh and blood again, I had no real memory of myself to work with. I could only build back my appearance based on how I’ve heard other people describe me, of how Dettlaff described me when I was naught but a bloody smear in a dish.”

“Well, I think you did a good job,” Geralt replies, watching his own reflection as he–almost as if driven by instinct, some vestigial trait from the few vampire genes that were added to his mutated genome–reached up to gently cup the right side of Regis’ face. He knew exactly where Regis was, knew him well enough to reach out while his gaze remained fixed on the mirror, as if he was actually there beside him in the glass. It was only when he spoke again that he met Regis’ eyes, voice barely above a rumble. “You look a bit older, a bit more world-weary, but I recognized you immediately.”

Regis immediately leaned into the touch. Here, in the privacy of the crypt, he allowed himself a brief respite. He had spent so long trying to hide parts of himself, to hide the parts of himself that had realized long ago that he had fallen for the witcher. But now, after all the weighty events they had lived through, Regis was tired–and this, the warm hand on his face, the feeling of a sword-callused thumb rubbing absentmindedly at the high point of his cheekbone… it threatened to undo him entirely. He knew Geralt would never so much as point his sword at him now, unable to even think about harming him despite his relative immortality–and yet, the steady, consistent thrum of affection he felt for the witcher? It sometimes felt like it was cutting him to pieces, reshaping him into something that would rather turn into a pillar of ash than never see Geralt again–but it also felt a lot like love. Adoration. A warmth in his chest at the sight of the white-haired witcher, gold eyes lidded in contentment whenever his gaze wandered over to Regis.

“It’s really a shame you can’t see yourself,” Geralt says, hand drifting into Regis’ hair, gently combing a few dark grey locks behind his ear. “But I can help… if you’d let me.”

Regis inhaled sharply, unable to do anything but give a shaky nod of his head, mind spinning. He feared what he might say, what tightly-held secrets he’d divulge for Geralt alone, his thoughts centering upon a simple mantra: I’m not alone in these feelings–I can’t be…

Geralt’s thumb traces the edge of the vampire’s brow almost reverently and Regis can’t help but shiver at the touch. “You’ve got dark, thick eyebrows mixed with a bit of grey and silver. It suits you. You didn’t always have as much grey in your hair as you do now… but I like it. Feels right, somehow.”

The witcher’s hand drifts to the corner of the vampire’s left eye, index finger curled underneath a few black lashes of his bottom eyelid. “Your eyes are dark–almost as black as your eyelashes. It isn’t easy to see the separation between your iris and pupil. It makes it difficult to tell what’s going on in that head of yours sometimes, but I like that. Sometimes it’s too easy to read people. Ah, and you’ve always had a very obvious set of crow’s feet in the corner of your eyes. It just means you’ve smiled plenty. That you’ve been happy, and that even subconsciously, you were aware of the happiness you felt, that you let it show on your face after regenerating.”

He continued, stepping away for only a moment, as if he were trying to put Regis’ entire visage to memory. As if this would be the only time he would get to see him like this again: unguarded, open, hopeful, a vulnerable side that clashed so obviously with his near immortality as a higher vampire. Geralt smiled, drawing closer yet again. “Hmm… your features all together make you look aristocratic. Like I’d see a painting of you in a castle. You’ve got an impressively crooked nose and a sharp jaw. Your cheekbones are high too and you’ve got a few wrinkles on your forehead that make you look distinguished. You’re stunning–you’ve always been stunning. ”

“Geralt…” Regis breathes, tone bordering desperation. “Please…”

Wordlessly, Geralt closed the gap between them with a kiss, hands cupping Regis’ face. The vampire encircled his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, closing his eyes as he felt the tension in his body disappear. There was only the touch of Geralt’s lips against his own, the warmth of his hands against his cheeks, and the heart-tugging realization that he was truly home. It didn’t matter where he was, so long as Geralt was with him. Because Geralt knew him, knew all of him–the dark, the ugly, the cowardly, the parts of himself that kept him teetering on the edge of relapse–and still loved him.

It had always been Geralt who saw him–the one person he trusted to be his mirror, to help him see the parts of himself that were worth loving. And it had made all the difference.

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #geralt x regis #so sorry this took so long ;v; idk how but the drabble got away from me #love the idea of geralt being regis' own moral mirror so to speak #as well as just pointing out all the physical features he loves #anyway i'll probably edit this more later & upload it to ao3 when i get the chance!! hope y'all enjoy it~#[frantically cleans out drafts]

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