Chapter Text
Winter has always known to be miserable, and yet Geralt is always surprised at just how bad it gets. Rotating between chilling rains, snow, and windstorms, the ground has known little else than ice and frost, making the paths treacherous to cross, roads impossible to follow when they’re hidden under the white blanket, and the side routes so dangerous he rarely takes them into consideration. If that isn’t enough,when he does get to a village, the ground is a mix of slush and mud that frequently freezes over, just waiting for someone to break their neck.
Furthermore, he thinks as he hands Roach off to the stablehand, there’s little to hunt and fires are impossible lest he finds a good cave. Roach’s legs threatened to freeze twice in the last month alone.
Contracts are more difficult to fulfill and take more time, the reward disappointing for the amount of work. The North still, very much, relies on its summer exploits to prosper, especially villages such as the one he rode into. It has always been the truth of these lands that the people always think of winter no matter the time of year. Preparing the fields, the cattle, the cottages and houses, stocking on feed for livestock, firewood, medicine, pickled vegetables that won’t perish quickly, cured and smoked meat, flour and stiff drink to weather out the cold.
Geralt’s still wet from last night’s snowfall, but today it seems the weather has finally broken, and while the cold hasn’t left, the overcast clouds have retreated to reveal the cold white sun and blue sky.
At least, Geralt thinks, the snowdrops have pushed through the snow and blackthorn surrounding the eastern part of the forest has begun to bloom. Shrikes will be coming back soon to crown its thorns with their catch.
That thought follows him from the stables further into the village. It seems that every person has taken a chance to go outside and enjoy the nice day-- one of the few they’ll have until winter proper ends. But the abundance of people in the streets means the village is loud, and Geralt is pressed to find refuge from it into the nearest inn.
It’s early in the day yet, and the drinking and drunk crowd has already filtered out, the ground cleaned, the pitchers refilled. Still, there’s people inside if only to warm themselves by the giant hearth, and have a meal.
The air is clear, he notices. As if the inn too has been spring cleaned on the early morrow. He glances up and notes that one of the top-most windows is cracked open. The only scent that lingers is of the wax from the candle that sits above the bar, lit, out of reach of hands and awkward elbows. Considering it’s still light outside, Geralt assumes it’s some sort of symbolic gesture.
As he passes to the bar, he notes that one of the tables is crowded. Only two people sit, but they’re surrounded by a crowd.
Geralt’s stomach gives a twist, and he hopes that he won’t be ran out of the village before he can get a meal into his belly. It’s a general rule of thumb that large towns, and sometimes larger villages, care less about travelers unlike smaller communities which gives him a little hope.
“Ale,” he says to the barmaid, “and whatever food is warmest.”
She eyes him for a moment, as if weighing out his worth. He understands that. After all, customers that don’t pay are only a loss to the business. But, despite his armour that is in need of repairs, his cloak which is mud streaked and definitely in need of a wash, and the fact that he is what he is, she nods and says, “Coming right up.”
Geralt takes a seat, relieved, and soon has his hands around a warm bowl of stew that, for once, tastes good. Beside the bread, freshly baked and still warm, the barmaid also pushes forth a sort of pastry at him. He doesn’t recognize it, and he certainly didn’t order it, but he never refuses free food.
He eats before asking any questions, and by the time he’s torn through the pastry filled with plum jam, the crowd around the table has dissipated.
Washing down the sweet taste on his tongue with ale, he finally asks the barmaid, “What’s going on there?”
“Mara’s divining for us today,” the woman replies. “The Sprouting started yesterday at sundawn.”
Imbaelk , Geralt thinks. So the third savaed is about to start.
Geralt grunts in reply.
The woman looks at him, then says, “You should go to her as well.”
“I know my destiny,” he replies.
She clicks her tongue as if he’s being daft. “She could tell you good or bad omens for this year. And wouldn’t you want to know that, witcher?”
Geralt hums in reply, and sighs when the woman’s gaze keeps needling him about it. Good omens or bad, he doubts a regular women, one that’s neither a witch nor a sorceress, can tell him anything he doesn’t already know. Still, after everyone has had their go, Geralt sits in front of her.
Mara, a rather short stout woman, dressed in that sort of standard ensemble of skirts and thick cotton shirts held down by a woolen vest to fend off the cold, smells of that particular old-people scent Geralt has associated with normal aging, and something like cooked nettle. She does not give him a particular sense of sorcery or magic. In fact, she looks like any great-grandmother he’s met along the way.
“Good tidings to you,” she says in that sort of certain way most elderly do when faced with the world. “What interests you them? Family, love?”
“I was told you can tell omens, good or bad,” he replies.
Her eyebrow twitch, and he watches her take a handful of beans in her hand. This, Geralt decides at once, is ridiculous. He has seen enough divination to know beans, just like bones, can say very little of the future.
She throws the beans on a decorated plate, and they scatter.
“Hmm,” she says for effect and Geralt sighs with disappointment.
His eyes flick over the tavern again, paying the woman little mind as she reads into her beans. It’s why he notices a shadow dancing from one of the windows behind her.
“You have a death sign, but it’s a small one. Fitting isn’t it, witcher? It won’t carry the face you expect tho. Still, someone will make you rich for it, even if you try and refuse it.”
As she says it, Geralt watches a bird swoop down from the opened window. It arches low above his head once, twice, and on the third time he catches it with both hands. It chirps, confused, black eyes and black beak on a background of grey feathers. A shrike.
“A butcher,” the woman says, somewhat ridiculously seriously. “That’s a bad omen to be sure. Give it here now, we need to be rid of it quickly. It must‘ve followed you here.”
Geralt looks at the tiny thing in his hands. He hums under his breath, and stands. “If shrikes are early, then spring will be early. Good omen for you, right?”
Mara’s face crumples, and she huffs, and waves him off with loud noises that would have been curses, if cursing was allowed on a holy day. One of the patrons opens the doors for him, and Geralt, along with the shrike, leave the inn.
He lets the bird go at once, and he watches it takes off. It starts swooping again, flying tightly above the crowd, before disappearing somewhere to the east, probably returning to its blackthorn bush. Geralt can’t be sure of this, because his eyes lock on a patch of sky-blue in the distance, chestnut brown hair, and a red-sycamore lute that is older than both its owner and Geralt combined.
As if the only ones to notice the bird, two cornflower blue eyes turn skyward, and then travel across the village houses to land on Geralt.
The familiarity of them strikes Geralt somewhere deep, in the marrow of him, making a house for itself in his bones. The discomfort grows when the eyes crinkle, and a smile washes over Jaskier’s face. Geralt’s heart does something entirely strange and unfamiliar as he watches the man change his course at once, walking, determined, towards him.
It’s been a terrible winter true, and he hasn’t seen Jaskier for the whole of it. He thought he left the bard more south than he finds him now, and it is not without cause that he’s surprised to see him--time passes by Geralt quickly, and he knows some partings are for forever if destiny has her hands involved. Sometimes people keep missing each other be it by an hour, a week, a whole lifetime.
Grudgingly, Geralt admits to himself that Jaskier is a sight for sore eyes. Nobody has ever been relieved to see him before. Jaskier, when he’s finally in front of Geralt, smile growing toothy and entirely too fond and his shoulders relaxed, sounds it when he says, “Geralt.”
“Jaskier,” he replies, the discomfort in his chest only growing when he recognizes the usual warmth in Jaskier’s eyes. “I thought I left you in Prokopovo?”
“Ah yes,” he says, the smile slipping. “That...worked out either too well or absolutely horridly.”
“Are you allowed back?”
He winces. That’s really all Geralt needs to know.
“Perhaps,” Jaskier says, “After tensions have cooled.”
His face clears a moment later, as if he can’t bother lingering on anything that’s not right in front of him, and he’s back to being enthusiastic and happy again. Geralt’s forgotten how exhausting just being near him can be. He also forgot his chattering. It is true what they say -- distance makes the heart grow fonder. Right now, however, he’s growing annoyed.
“But hey,” he says, “now that you’re here I won’t have to worry. We can get on our way and--”
“It’s still winter, Jaskier.”
“Oh haven’t you heard?” he smirks. “It’s the Sprouting and they’ve said good omens are abundant. It should be an easy road to spring.”
Geralt hums, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh come on, admit it, you missed me! It’s alright, I am quite easy to miss.”
“You can say that again,” Geralt replies, turning on his heel.
“Hey,” Jaskier shouts, “That’s hurtful Geralt! That hurts!”
He doesn’t have to wait for Jaskier to catch up to him. The bard falls back into his company as if he never left, as if they’re continuing a conversation they just had minutes ago and not months apart.
A strange though then crosses his mind of Mara’s words, of his three omens, but he dismisses it quickly when Jaskier slips and Geralt has to reach out to steady him lest he plants his face into the slush.
-
The interesting thing, at least, about travelling with Jaskier is that Geralt gets a semblance of how a normal person would react were they able to see his lifestyle. It’s a semblance only because he’s decided Jaskier has a few floorboards loose in his head, that he should look forward to travelling with him and not staying with regular people, people he belongs to, and sentence himself to long days of walking, camping, and little coin. That being said, his complaining is definitely along the lines of humanity Geralt’s learnt to expect.
He grumbles now about the hard earth where there is one, about the wet if not the cold, and then about the cold if he’s feeling particularly vengeful that day. In the mix of it all he has time to scrunches up his nose when he gets another whiff of Geralt -- he’s killed a bullvore so the blood of the creature must smell something terrible. Geralt can’t tell anymore since its on him and he’s habituated to it.
Strange too, is that despite wrinkling his nose at it, Jaskier warms a little water on the fire in one of his metal cups he usually uses to store spare string, and dips a rag from his pack once its warm enough to clean up his face.
Geralt has learned not to protest these things. Mostly, he thinks, it’s because Jaskier grows quiet when focused, or only speaks under his breath, and it wouldn’t work anyway -- the bard would either bitch at him about it or he’d try again later.
“Ugh,” he says, passing the rag gently over Geralt’s stiff brow. When Jaskier is this close its difficult to be anything but stiff. “There’s so much gunk. It’s either going to freeze or dry in your hair with these temperatures.”
The rag scrapes under his jaw, a finishing touch, before Jaskier pats his shoulder in a ‘that’s all I can do’ manner he always does when he’s doing something for Geralt.
There’s a snowdrop pinned to his breast and its scent, instead of being overwhelmed by Jaskier’s or the horse’s, blends.
The village where he met Jaskier, Drvorad, is a good two weeks distance behind them. The contract took Geralt north, and the reward lays in the next village over, Cjepkanje. They’ve been steadily going up a large mountain pass. The village, he’s been told, is at the first base. He can’t miss it.
While Geralt still can’t smell the smoke from chimneys or the particular stink of humanity, he notices the wolf prints. It isn’t surprising for wolves to wander down the mountain if they haven’t anything to hunt.
He shouldn’t have taken Jaskier with him. Not, at least, until the first lambing season. With Jaskier they can move only from dawn to dusk, which is but a handful of hours, lest he props the man up on Roach and guide the two through the trees.
“I found a cave,” Jaskier tells him, drawing Geralt out of his thoughts.
“I told you to stay--”
“Yes, yes, you said ,” Jaskier replies, dismissing him. He’s never really lingered on the past it seems. “But it’s done, and there’s a cave, just west of here. There was a distinct lack of bears inside.”
Of course Jaskier would check, Geralt thinks. Sometimes he wonders if Jaskier just wants to get maimed.
“I’m just saying that perhaps , tonight we shan’t be exposed to the elements.”
Geralt looks at the fire for a long moment. There’s not one urge in his body to move, not for a long time. Fighting a bullvore is exhausting, even for him. Jaskier’s eyes are expectant though, and as annoying as it is, perhaps he’s right.
He rises to his feet and Jaskier follows, bouncing on his heels, as much as he can, considering the snow.
“Show me, then,” Geralt says, tugging Roach by the reins.
They trot along the bard, the bullvore’s still-warm head wafting unpleasantness from where it’s tied down to her side. He needs evidence; he’s gone unpaid one too many times to repeat the same mistake.
The closer they come, the more the mouth of the cave becomes obvious, even tucked into the cliff side. There’s a strong scent coming from it, something familiar but difficult to parse out.
“Wait here,” he instructs Jaskier before unsheathing his sword and walking inside.
It’s pitch black, as it ought to be. The path winds around, and then sinks, suddenly and steeply, so Geralt has little choice but follow it down to the landing. The stone there is even and slippery from the steam that rises from a large pool of water.
It’s a thermal pool, the air filled with the scent of sulfur, true, but wet and welcome to his dry lungs. It’s been a long time since Geralt came across a hot spring.
The prospect of lingering in the cave doubles in its appeal. He wants nothing more than to just sink into the warm water and bathe until his fingers have pruned.
He turns on his heel and exits. First, to tie off Roach.
“What is it?” Jaskier asks, who’s been leaning against her side, fidgeting with his hands.
Geralt only grunts. “We should get some firewood.”
-
The light from the fire illuminates the cave stone above them, painting shadows in all the crooks of uneven, jagged stone. Geralt took the first chance to divest himself of clothes and dip into the water, and now he lays, rubbed red from a washcloth and soap, soaking in the pool and listening to Jaskier mess with clothes, buckles and belts. His bare feet patter over the stone, creating a rhythmic echo.
Geralt sinks under the surface, re-wetting his hair. Jaskier was right, the blood coagulated quickly, and half-froze on his head. It will be a pain getting rid of bits and pieces from it by himself. For now, however, he isn’t wont to move. He listens to Jaskier’s soft breathing, then a careful sound of a brush -- not for the first time Jaskier is doing as he likes, and what he seems to like to do right now, instead of bathing, is clean Geralt’s armor. There’s something strange about it Geralt’s can’t quite pinpoint. Nobody’s particularly cared to clean his armor for him, or do anything else without asking for something in return.
He leans back until his head rests on the rock, and doesn’t realise he’s closed his eyes until he’s slowly blinking them open to Jaskier standing above him. Jaskier has stripped down only to his britches, the leans curve of his body not unfamiliar, but it’s been a long time.
Jaskier kneels behind him and their eyes meet.
“It’s really creepy how your eyes reflect,” he tells Geralt, and Geralt snorts, look away. “I mean,” he continues, “it’s amazing but also fairly creepy. I like it.”
“You would,” he replies, not knowing what else to say. It isn’t like one of Jaskier’s usual comments which range from flattery to outright ass-kissing. Despite that, Geralt begrudgingly accept they’re all honest.
Jaskier sits down behind him. “You still have gunk in your hair.”
He takes the slip of soap left, and decides to take matters into his own hands. Geralt stiffens, as he usually does when anyone touches him. When Jaskier, especially, touches him. Touching, for him, is reserved for brothels, or for battle. Either someone wants to fuck him, heal him or kill him.
Jaskier, it seems, wants to do neither of those things, which only confuses him further, the discomfort in his chest expanding. Yet, he cannot deny that it’s easier to let someone else bother with the hair. It wouldn’t be the first time, only the first time in a long while.
Jaskier’s fingers are gentle, even though taking his time must be murder on his eyes and his limbs. His breathing is soft too, unobtrusive even though he’s bent over Geralt. The ease of his movements allows Geralt to slip his eyes closed, and sink further into the comfort of the heat and the touch. Eventually, Jaskier’s fingertips wander over to his scalp, massaging slow circles that relieve tension from his spine, shoulders and neck. That’s why it’s startling when Jaskier’s hands pull away.
Geralt blinks the sleep from his eyes and turns to watch Jaskier go to their packs.
Silver shines in the half light, and Geralt, despite himself, stiffens all over. A blade is always the first thing he expects from everyone, and though he knows Jaskier, he also knows people change.
But when Jaskier returns, he sees the silver in only a comb. He settles behind him again and Geralt feels the tugging at once. Jaskier starts at the ends, working the way up the length of his hair until Geralt’s sure he’s combed every bit of grime, dirt, and oil from it.
“You still have this,” Jaskier murmurs, as he passes the comb through his hair.
Geralt hums. Jaskier gave it to him, after all. Said Geralt would make more use of it than he did. It was stolen, he knows, nicked off of his last lover. Geralt doesn’t read too closely into it being in his pack.
“Alright,” Jaskier says, tapping his shoulder. “You can dunk.”
Geralt does, and rubs all the soap out of his hair. He walks to the other end of the pool, the deeper end, and stands. The water reaches his ribs. When he looks back to the shore, something tightens in his throat. Jaskier stands for a moment, bare, one long, slender, line from his feet to his throat.
Nudity is common and unsurprising when privacy is unavailable on the road. It isn’t the first time he’s seen Jaskier naked. Not the first time, he tells himself, and yet it affects him quite the same.
Jaskier dips his toes first, a shiver running up his calf, his thighs, and spine, and finally lowers himself into the warm water. A soft pleased noise leaves his throat, and he dips his head in. When he comes up his hair is plastered to his forehead and he looks blissed out.
Geralt licks the water from his lips and shifts his gaze away. No use, he thinks, in starting something he won’t be able to finish.
-
The firewood crackles, blue flames dancing among the coals. In the humidity of the cave, it’s difficult to feel cold, even nude and wrapped in blankets. Their clothes lay on the dry cave walls to dry, water dripping from them in an even pitter-patter.
The darkness presses against his senses. Just because he can see in it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know it’s there. All his sight allows him now is to see Jaskier’s face, half hidden in the blanket where he’s curled up on his bedroll. Here, there are no attacks to worry about, no wolves, creatures, or people. They have everything they need--food, water, warmth. If he were someone else, he would wish to linger. But if he were someone else, he would have also pressed himself against Jaskier in the water, and seen where it took him.
Geralt closes his eyes. In the morning, he knows he’ll come to his senses.
-
The snows begin to melt not a week later. The weather gets progressively dryer, until the hills are covered in patches of green peaking from the fading blanket of ice. They’re too high in the mountains for Geralt’s comfort.
The calmness and the sun’s warm kiss, and the blue sky, are deceptive. It’s this season, after the horrid winter, that’s prime for rockslides and avalanches, especially with so much water running downhill.
“Geralt come on, I want to dry my feet,” Jaskier repeats for the third time that hour. They can see a village above them, it’s just a matter of crossing the winding path.
He continues talking about warming his fingers, and perhaps getting his teeth into the lamb, and Geralt, as usual, focuses on everything else but his chattering, tuning it out into a frequency which is pleasant but ignorable.
Geralt hears the crackling of large logs first, before seeing the bonfire. Most windows are thrown open, people working on removing the last of the snow from their fields. He sees women cleaning inside as they pass, children rushing with chicken eggs from house to house.
“We must’ve hit Birke,” Jaskier notes.
Geralt stiffens further. He notices the gaze from people they pass quicker than Jaskier so he is not surprised when he hears a loud, “Halt!”
Roach snorts when he pulls on her reigns. Jaskier still doesn’t seem to know his situation. He smiles and says, “Oh, so nice to see you good sir, might you point us to--”
“Out,” the man commands. He has a thick mustache covering his face. He isn’t unlike a bear.
Jaskier’s face falls at once. “We’ve got coin if you’ve got--”
“I don’t care for your coins lad. It’s Birke. We don’t need bad luck here today.”
In the distance, Geralt can smell the food, incense, and spilt wine, can hear the noise of people chattering as they ready for the nightfall celebration.
“Well, it’s certainly bad luck turning away guests,” Jaskier huffs.
Any other day, it might have worked. But it’s Birke, the celebration of the coming spring, cleansing of old evils. It’s important to these people. It has always been important, so Geralt has never been welcomed.
“Jaskier,” he warns.
Geralt can see children holding each other’s hands as they spin in circles around the young bonfire. They’re playing but it's mimicry of the kolo. A dance, a tradition, and steps, he’s never known and will never be asked to join.
Jaskier turns his way, looking petulant and Geralt levels him with a look that deflates all his protest.
“Let’s go.”
He turns Roach around, and is not surprised to hear the man tell Jaskier, “I don’t know what you’re doing with that witcher, but you should be rid of him, quickly. For your own good.”
“And you should be rid of your stupid prejudice. I have yet to meet a better man than him.”
Perhaps that simply speaks to the quality of the company Jaskier keeps, but it still sits strange in Geralt’s chest. This is not the first time this has happened, but Jaskier has remained stubborn in his silly conviction to speak well of Geralt’s honor, as if words alone could ever change the world around them. It’s difficult to shame people for their beliefs when the whole village excuses them.
But, for all of Jaskier’s brisk and sharp tongue, he knows what to do with people better than Geralt. He knows to be convincing, and usually people let Jaskier linger in the taverns, the villages, the shops, happy to take his coin, or Geralt’s for that matter, as long as they don’t have to look at him.
This time that isn’t the case. This time the man tells him, “You’re just as bad as he is then. Go then, let your bad omens and devils take you.”
Jaskier’s footsteps are obvious. They’ll need to find a place to sleep on this forsaken mountain and quick.
Jaskier huffs a couple of times, as if he’s having an argument with himself. He looks at Geralt, shakes his head, and contains whatever he’s wanted to say. That’s another thing about Jaskier -- he’s only silent when he’s angry.
Geralt is, despite himself, amused. He wonders, however, if Jaskier realises that people will begin treating him in a similar manner should he continue his travels with him. He isn’t stupid to think Jaskier an outcast -- he isn’t, not even a self-croclaimed one. He fits, like water fits in the riverbed. He doesn’t know why is it then, that the water only lingers to wet the lips of the rocks and caves, before it dives back into the ground.