Chapter Text
Plenty of boys are blinded in the Trials. It’s the price paid for tampering with vision enhancements, and it almost always ends with more boys dead- succumbing to complications, or put out of their misery.
Geralt is not one of those unlucky few. No, Geralt lived through the Trials- lived through more trials than most- and came out the other side mostly whole.
So, of course, a fucking Bloedzuiger is what does it.
Afterwards, he barely remembers the battle. His clearest memory is of getting acid in his eyes, followed closely by him blindly stabbing the damned thing to death and then stomping it into a pulp. In hindsight, it was probably already dead, but he hit it until it stopped making any sounds whatsoever, because he deserved a little overkill when it felt like his face was on fucking fire.
He doesn’t even feel panic in the moment of fading adrenaline. He’s made for survival and killing at the detriment of everything else- he feels nothing as the world fades away, filtering out everything save for the next steps, the next move. Just like a fight.
He finds Swallow by weight and smell, and drags himself towards the sound of a nearby river. Downing the potion and splashing water in his eyes does absolutely nothing, which is frustrating, but he’s not going to fix it by sitting around and cursing Destiny. It’s time to figure out how he’s going to make it to town and find someone competent.
He trips seven times, but finds Roach by her heartbeat. She’s a good horse, a smart horse, and with a bit of urging in the right direction, she follows the path towards the sound of people without issue.
The healer he finds by smell alone, because he can’t be bothered to ask for directions in this state. It’s not a difficult trail- the potent herbs act like a beacon and Roach keeps them carefully on the road.
The walk gives him time to acclimate somewhat, pushing through any remaining shock and pain to the calm clarity of a mission, same as any hunt. There’s a world of sound and smell around him, his senses just as strong as they’ve always been- possibly stronger when his attention is not drawn away by sight. It forms a map of sensations, coloring a world gone dark.
A healer’s hut is in front of him. He can hear the wind- strong today, it was annoying until now- hitting the wooden walls, prompting little creaks of protest. The shape of it becomes clear in the places he hears resistance, the motion of the wind halting, and there is an outline where the wind whistles through the gap between the door and its wall.
He leaves Roach to her own devices, trusting that she’ll behave, and finds the door, knocking loudly. Louder than necessary, but he thinks he can be excused on account of the spectacular evening he’s had.
The woman who answers- he assumes it’s a woman, based on the length of her hair, which he can hear brushing her shoulders, and the smell of flowery soap- only comes up to his shoulder, the subtle displacement of air giving him her approximate height in a blurry silhouette of awareness.
“How can I help you, witcher?” She must not have been looking at his face because there’s a second of audible movement and she gasps. “Oh, dear. Come in.”
She takes his arm to guide him, which he probably doesn’t need, but he can’t be bothered to correct her. He’s had a long fucking day, and he’d rather not trip over a dining table, failing his newfound navigating abilities.
The wet cloth against is skin is shockingly terrible, he feels each individual scratchy fiber. There’s more water on his face, in his eyes, and a smell of herbs that stings his nose. It hits him full force, and when he inhales, trying to identify them, he can practically taste them.
The woman’s heartbeat is loud, saying what her expression might’ve. He’d known that he could hear heartbeats, but had little cause to listen to them before, no reason to do anything but block them out on a daily basis. It takes him a minute to remember the rhythm of a human heart, gauge what’s fast, and decide what that may mean.
She swallows and Geralt hears that in horrifying detail now that he’s concentrating, now that his senses are scrambling to compensate.
“I’m not sure there’s much I can do.”
The careful step process in his mind reaches its end, leaving him without anything to hold onto for a moment, scrambling for calm in the realization that there’s nothing to be done. He pushes down panic with a sigh, willing his mind to clear.
There’s always another step, always something to do. He just needs somewhere to recover, like any other injury. Somewhere safer than the floor of a stable, ideally.
He’ll be making an early return to Kaer Morhen, then.
“Wait,” the healer puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he stands, a low note of concern and fear making her voice shake, “take this. I’ll show you how to use it.”
A wooden cane is pressed into his hands and he has to fight everything in him that protests the idea. Taking a breath, he allows the woman to lead him through the motion- tap, tap. Left, right.
It’s not sustainable- too visible, too obvious. Nobody will hire a blind witcher, but he can keep it strapped to Roach for emergencies.
At least until he figures out how to hear cracks in the ground.
...
It’s pure luck that he happened to be close, planning on starting his winter early for lack of work. The trip up the mountain is a challenge, but it gives him a good idea of what his remaining senses can and can’t do.
Everything has a sound, and that sound echoes until it hits something. With practice- and he has plenty, tripping over rocks and nearly falling off cliffs- he learns how to map out his surroundings in an array of newly audible shapes. Rain and wind make it easier, constant sound that cuts off when it comes in contact with something. More obvious than echoes.
He uses the cane occasionally up here, where there are no witnesses. It eases the mental burden of processing every single sound, but it’s not something he could rely on in battle- or around people, for that matter. There’s not much kindness in this world for witchers or cripples, never mind a crippled witcher.
The echoey halls of Kaer Morhen present a unique challenge in wide open spaces, sound that seems to stretch out endlessly. He stops at the threshold; head tilted to try and make sense of the room in front of him. He’s been here so many times, but now that he has to, he’s struggling to remember its precise layout.
“Geralt? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Telling Vesemir what happened is the part he’s dreaded most. He forgets how damn quiet the man is, and it irritates him now, with no face to read. The pause after his story is extensive, leaving him straining to hear any clues. He catches the brush of hair against Vesemir’s collar- turning his head, maybe?
Finally, a sigh and Vesemir steps up to put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Surprised you didn’t kill yourself on the way up here. Could’ve just sent a message, you know.”
Geralt isn’t so sure he could’ve- his handwriting was bad when he could see, and he doubts he could’ve gotten hold of a bird in his state.
“I happened to be in the area.”
Another pause, he thinks Vesemir is giving him a look, then Vesemir is moving. “Come on, let’s sit down. Do you need help finding anything?”
“I’ll manage.” He moves steadily after him, hands forward when he senses an obstacle. Muscle memory helps, a little, in the most familiar parts of the keep.
Vesemir doesn’t seem impressed, watching him feel for a chair in his room.
“Do you need a cane, or something?”
“Already got a stick. Left it on Roach.”
A new sound- is that Vesemir rolling his eyes? He did not need to know there was a sound for that, but there it is, the unmistakable movement of eyeballs. “Of course you did.”
They sit. Geralt gets a sense of the size of the room first, then uses smells to fill in a few blanks- the paper and ink denoting books on the shelf, soap residue from a bath, Vesemir’s general musk clinging to the bed. He grounds himself on Vesemir’s heartbeat, a steady rhythm.
“You could stay here.” Vesemir leans against his desk, making the wood groan. “Help out around the keep.”
Geralt snorts at the idea of cleaning or doing chores in this empty, lonely place. There’s barely enough for one man to do, let alone two irritable witchers. He doesn’t know how Vesemir does it without going mad- and he has books to read.
There’s not much for him here, just an exasperated, and secretly worried, Vesemir. He could stay, and- not quite retire, but... make use of what life and skill he has left.
It’s an offer that falls on deaf ears. Geralt can’t sit here and wallow, can’t sit here when he knows he could still be out there.
“I just need the winter to adjust. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
From the sound of his head shaking, Vesemir already knew he was going to say that. He thinks, if he spends enough time around the old witcher, he might find a smell for exasperation.
“I’ll have to see you hunt, before I send you out there again.”
“Worried about me, old man?”
Vesemir doesn’t respond but his mouth moves- a frown? Definitely a frown.
Beasts, it turns out, are the absolute least of his concern.
The heartbeat, the smell, they may as well be announcing their position at all times. He has a feeling hunting at night is going to get significantly easier- no more Cat for him.
The Kikimore’s legs creak with every movement, its jaws click before every bite, and Geralt learns, in the span of a battle, to recognize the near-silent gurgling sound as a precursor to the beast spitting venom. He feels a strike coming before it lands, the air moving subtly in warning, and finds himself ducking hits that might’ve been out of his line of sight. It’s like having eyes at the back of his head, except- well, he doesn’t actually see.
Vesemir nods his approval when he successfully takes down the Kikimore that’s acted as a pest too close to the grounds of the fortress, and brings them home dinner on the same hunting trip in record time, tracking heartbeats to bypass natural camouflage altogether. Geralt hears the movement, but Vesemir grumbles a verbal affirmation a minute later. Adjusting to more audio-heavy communication- for politeness sake.
“Next test is gutting it. Think you can find a liver blind?”
...
“Any monster trouble?”
The bartender scoffs and turns to Geralt- presumably glaring. “We’ve got a notice board for a reason. Why don’t you check there?”
“I can’t read.” It’s a simple enough lie- not even a lie, really. He can’t, not anymore.
The man mutters something to the effect of witchers being no better than beasts, but directs him to the alderman, who’s desperate enough to explain. Someone is sent to show him the main site of attacks, guiding him unwittingly- though, he could have found it faster by smell.
From there, it’s the same as it’s always been. The only challenge in the hunting process is harvesting the useful alchemical bits afterward. He can thank Vesemir for forcing him to spend the last several winters drilling on butchering blind, so he knows, intimately, the difference in smell between a heart and a liver. Dodging toxic parts to reach the valuable ones is still a little tricky- he’s been burned by acidic insides more times than he can count- but practice makes perfect, and he’s getting there.
Hefting proof of kill on one shoulder, he puts his other hand on Roach. To anyone else, it looks like he’s leading her, but he relies on her to take his general direction and follow the road. He can hear where the town is, but finding the distinction between grass and dirt path is another issue altogether. On his own, without constant concentration, he’d wander off in a more direct diagonal, cutting through rougher terrain and calling unneeded attention to himself.
Reaching town requires bracing himself for the barrage of sensory information that crowds bring. With so many people around, navigating is far harder, but he lets the assumption that witchers are rude cover any vision-related blunders- bumping into people, cutting people off, ignoring people shouting at him.
Getting humans to believe he can see is shockingly easy, more likely due to the stupidity of humanity than any skill of his own. Nobody wants to get any closer to a witcher than they have to, so it’s a simple thing to keep his head turned away, avert his eyes, and mind his own business.
The scars have faded to faint burns around his eyes- or so Eskel told him- leaving nothing for chatty whores or curious townspeople to ask him about. Most physical indicators of his condition have been wiped away; the only remaining obstacles being his inability to make eye contact and occasional struggle to not trip over barstools.
He’s been discovered a few times, all of them equally unpleasant, but ultimately unremarkable. He can handle mocking and rocks- especially now that he hears them whizzing through the air, before they nail him in the back of the head- but he counts his blessings that he’s never had an incident notable enough to add Blind to his Butcher epithet.
His routine doesn’t change much, sticking to his usual strategy of staying out of sight, as far from people as he can manage. He gravitates towards the dark corners, feeling the slight absence of heat in the sunless parts of the tavern. Blindness never becomes a weakness- there’s nothing to exploit, if they never even realize something is different. Being a witcher makes him uniquely invisible.
Nobody bothers him and he makes sure they never will.
Unfortunately, he underestimates the pushiness of a certain bard.
He doesn’t even realize the bard lingering nearby is looking at him, or talking to him, until he’s sliding into the bench in front of him. He sensed his presence, sure, but he thought he’d be looking at someone else, talking to any number of other people in the tavern.
The bread in his pants is stale, and smells like it. It squishes and crumbles as he moves, probably getting bits stuck in the folds of silk so numerous he hears every slight shift, every wrinkle forming. He thinks the sharper, almost clicking sounds, are sequins against each other- another ridiculous, new sound to add to his catalogue.
“You must have some review for me.” His smile is wide enough that Geralt hears it without trying particularly hard. “Three words or less.”
For all he listens closely to his surroundings, he’s pretty sure he didn’t catch a single word of that song- much less enough for a review, were he inclined to give one. Once upon a time, he may have glared him away, but he fears his aim wouldn’t be good enough now, so he settles for tense silence.
Jaskier does not take no, or an implied no, for an answer.
...
Having Jaskier around is not nearly as annoying as he thought it’d be. At first, he was sure he’d have to dump him somewhere- the noise would be too distracting- but now, the sound has become something of a blessing.
Like the wind or rain, it creates consistent feedback, bouncing off obstacles and forming a mental image of the area around him. It wraps around their campsite, chatter and music traveling into the forest behind them and dancing around tree trunks until the sound is out of even Geralt’s range.
It makes nights like this, of Jaskier talking constantly and playing his lute intermittently, pleasant. As close to seeing as he ever gets, giving him a complete picture the world.
Jaskier breaks his litany of nonsense with an abrupt, “Geralt?”
He actually waits for a response, which is a new and alarming development. Geralt hums and hopes that’s enough.
“I was wondering- and I hope this isn’t too personal- what’s wrong with your eyes? They never really focus.”
Geralt hears Jaskier’s heart beat a little faster- nervous- and the more subtle sound of him biting his lip. As a rule, Geralt doesn’t disclose his condition to anyone who hasn’t figured it out, but Jaskier-
Jaskier could be sticking around. There’s no point keeping it.
“I’m blind.”
A silence that he’s come to equate with facial expression- something too subtle to guess, he’s never cared to be precise enough for specifics- follows.
“Is that one of your weird jokes?”
“No, Jaskier. I’m really blind.”
More silence, a steadily fast heartbeat. It’s accompanied by the familiar, frustrating feeling of missing something, an irritation he’s trained to ignore, but has never quite mastered. Geralt sighs and turns fully to face Jaskier, meeting his eyes as well as he can.
“What are you doing?”
A creak of wood, Jaskier startling on the log and shifting too fast. “What do you mean?”
“You got quiet. Usually that means I’m missing something.” He tilts his head, considering. “You’re making a face, probably.”
Another moment of silence. He never thought he’d grow tired of these- let alone become annoyed by them.
“Huh. I guess I just looked surprised, if my face matches my thoughts as well as I think it does.” Jaskier leans in, for a better look, maybe. If he squints enough, he might be able to see the scar. “How long have you been, uh...”
“A long time.” He’s not being difficult- despite what Jaskier, and the inhale of breath preceding a scoff, might think. He doesn’t exactly track the date. “A decade, maybe more.”
“How-“ Jaskier clears his throat and Geralt hears the movement of his sleeve as he waves. “How do you do all this?”
“Witcher senses are much better than an average man’s. I use my hearing, mostly.”
The sound of fabric rustling and stretching as Jaskier scoots forward on the log, sliding as close to Geralt as he can without getting up. “How good? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
“You’d ask anyway.” Geralt swings back the last of his drink and turns back to the fire. “Really good. I can hear heartbeats, movements. The way air and sound move around things makes... an outline, almost.”
Jaskier’s heart beats a little faster. Geralt isn’t sure what that means; he strains to hear, but he doesn’t think Jaskier is smiling or frowning.
“That’s amazing.” A grin- lips sliding over teeth. “No wonder you’re such a good hunter.”
There’s a jab comparing him to a wolf in there somewhere, but Jaskier doesn’t make the connection so Geralt just hums and picks up his swords, content to spend the rest of the night sharpening and oiling. He’ll keep the fire going, enjoying its heat, if not its light.
They lapse into a silence that feels more comfortable, less tense than it was the first time. Then again, it’s not really silence- Jaskier is humming almost silently under his breath. Quieter than usual.
“You don’t have to be quiet, Jaskier.”
Surprise, in the quickened heartbeat and sudden inhale. Shifting, as he sits up straighter.
“Sorry! I thought it might bother you.”
“I’ll be fine.” Sensing- not through any particular sound or smell, but through his increasing familiarity with Jaskier- Jaskier’s disbelief, he tacks on, “I would’ve stopped you before now, if it was.”
Jaskier nods, then narrates, “Sorry, I nodded.”
“I can tell. I can hear your collar scrunch.”
His mouth falls open and he adjusts his collar. Geralt dutifully does not smile, and keeps his smugness to himself.
“Right, of course.” Jaskier pauses, then looks up again. “Could I ask you a question you probably won’t like?”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never asked permission before.”
“I was wondering, is there anything you can’t do? Anything I could help you with?”
He’s tempted to say no. He should say no. Jaskier probably wouldn’t even argue- too unbalanced around this subject- but he doesn’t want to.
He wants to say, Keep humming. He wants to ask, Guide me. He wants to demand, Stay by my side.
He doesn’t do any of those. Instead, he says, “Reading. I can’t read print on contracts. If you could-“
“Of course.” The buttons of his doublet clink together as Jaskier adjusts it, straightening it and puffing out his chest. “I’ll be your agent, of sorts. A very intelligent, shrewd negotiator, taking only the best monster hunting jobs. I’m brilliant at public relations, too.”
Geralt nods, and leaves it at that.
...
“Make way! The mighty White Wolf is gracing your town with his presence, clear a path!”
The townspeople mutter amongst themselves, confused, but move right away at Jaskier’s tone, lingering curiously at the edge of the street through town.
Geralt hates the attention, but he can’t deny that Jaskier’s little show is helpful. Particularly since this town is more crowded than most and Roach is struggling to guide him through without trampling anyone.
Helpful. Unnecessary but- nice. Against his better judgement, he’s started to let Jaskier help more and more often. It’s dangerous, carrying the threat of developing dependency, but Jaskier never oversteps any boundaries and, sometimes, he’s just too tired to refuse.
There’s been a distinct difference in the time he’s spent with the bard, bisecting his life into the uneven parts of before and after Jaskier. For one, his headaches have decreased, not having to strain to guide himself as often. People are nicer with a human- and a charismatic one, at that- around. They get to stay at better inns if Jaskier performs, and enjoy quality meals outside of rations or burned rabbit.
He’s happier. There was a time when he thought happiness had been burned out of him, but he’s reminded of its fleeting presence in those special, few and far between moments that prove him wrong.
Well. Previously few and far between.
“The man at the bar,” Jaskier starts in a dramatic whisper, still loud to Geralt, “is wearing an absolutely ghastly outfit. Geralt, we’re talking multiple primary colors, ruffles, and feathers.”
It’s easy to identify the man based just on his smell, wearing enough perfume to kill. “I imagine it matches his taste in perfume.”
“Gods, yes. I can smell it from here- I don’t know how you can stand it.”
It’s a test of his willpower, certainly, but then, on a few desperate occasions, he’s shoveled shit for coin. This, however, ranks right below those incidents, and right above the stench of a necrophage.
Jaskier’s color commentary on the world fits right in with his usual chatter and fills in a few, albeit unnecessary, blanks on the decor, the attractiveness of barmaids, and other visual odds and ends. It transitions, at some point, into a story that’s so exaggerated he may as well have made it up and ends in musings about his newest song, which, inevitably, leads to him needling Geralt for details.
Geralt just hums and tunes him out, focusing on the noise of the street outside. It’s a challenge to pick apart the individual moving pieces of a crowd but it’s enough of a distraction until Jaskier throws his hands up.
“You know, all of this,” Jaskier waves generally at Geralt’s eyes, “explains why you’re such a shit storyteller.”
He senses there’s more to this, can feel Jaskier winding up to something. It’s a quiet evening and a nice tavern, so he indulges. “Does it?”
“Well, I suppose much of the blame falls on me.” Rustling, and the clinking of several unidentifiable objects in Jaskier’s bag, as he fishes out his notebook. “I wasn’t asking the right questions.”
Geralt can’t tell what he’s writing, but he hears a few long drags of the pen and figures he might be drawing something. A box, maybe? A chart, a probably. A series of shorter scratches, for letters.
Jaskier grins, wide enough that Geralt hears it without concentrating. “Right. Are you ready?”
“For?”
“Your role in the creative process. Now, what did the rotfiend smell like?”
Geralt scrunches his nose and braces for a complicated answer. “I’ll need a few more drinks before I get into that.”
Wordlessly, Jaskier waves for another round and the questions begin. It seems like Jaskier is determined to pick apart every aspect of his sensory experience and, as they get deeper in drinks, Geralt is willing to play along. He’s never talked about it, at length, like this and it’s fascinating to hear the things Jaskier can’t detect, the parameters of human senses that were lost to him long before his vision was.
He talks until the candles stop giving off heat and his words start to slow, having detailed every smell, sound, feel, and taste that he can articulate. Sleep comes easy, after he lets Jaskier describe the pattern of the quilt and climb in beside him, warm and tired.
Jaskier’s heartbeat, though faster than his own, forms an easy rhythm to follow into unconsciousness, sinking into a darkness he no longer registers.
(The next time they’re in a tavern, he listens carefully to Jaskier’s new song, lyrics filled with more sounds and smells than he’s used to hearing described. Where there was once brilliant colors and hideous monsters, there is now rich smells and vicious growls.
He can’t help but smile, hiding it behind his tankard.
How Jaskier worked rotting flesh into a chorus is beyond him, but it earns a clap.)