Chapter Text
It had been a year. A long, agonizingly lonely year. Yennefer had left. He pushed Jaskier away. He was alone, like he had wanted.
He hated it.
Geralt had been thrown in the dungeons of Cintra, escaped, and faced with the capitals fall, all in one night. Now he was idly wandering through an abandoned (see: ransacked) refugee camp. It was dark, foggy, and overall just unpleasant. The stench of decomposing bodies, feces and whatever the hell else these people left behind made Geralt wrinkle his nose in disgust.
He heard a soft thump, the sound of something dragging and he went to investigate, never-mind his good sense telling him to keep going forward.
He watched as a man, average in height but a bit rounder with a full beard, dragged around bodies and put them neatly into a pile.
“Ill winds follow grave robbers,” Geralt sounded.
The man looked up, sighed, and replied, “If I was a grave robber, I’d be taking their belongings, Butcher.”
“If I was a Butcher you’d be amongst the corpses.”
They looked at each other for a moment, before the man replied.
“I was goin’ home to my family when I came upon these poor souls. Cintran refugees, dead at least a week. Now they are a feast for the crows,” the man said as he arranged the bodies together that would show them a decent sliver of respect in death.
Geralt looked around, watching flies gather and spoke again.
“Not crows,” he said grimly.
“Wolves?”
“No.”
The man sighed.
“With the hands of two I could move quicker.”
Geralt looked at him from atop Roach, “The only thing you should do quickly is flee. Come on, Roach, back to Kaer Morhen.”
He turned the horse around, making to leave the gruesome scene when the man protested his absence.
“Don’t leave! Look at these people, Innocent people, killed for what? So Nilfgaard can have more land?” he grunted as he bent over, “ We owe it to ‘em to do better.”
But Geralt was leaving, not listening as the man continued to arrange the bodies in a neat row.
That is, until he heard the man cry in fear and pain as he was dragged to the ground by zombie-like creatures.
There was a thick thwip as Geralt sliced through one of their heads, and another quick jab to one of their chests and they fell with a horrible squeal and a smell that made him turn his nose up.
Geralt knelt down, extending a hand to the man who was now on the ground, panting heavily like a dog.
“Go home,” Geralt told him gruffly.
The man took his hand, hoisting himself up, “I can help!” He exclaimed.
“One bite will kill you.”
“Or you!”, he argued.
Geralt stood up, “Go. Home.”
It sounded more threatening that time, but it was enough to make the man scramble away with a small ‘alright’.
Geralt then stood there in the middle of the camp, silence except for the buzzing of feasting flies. He exhaled heavily, looking around him. Suddenly a blood-curdling scream ripped through the silence of the forest, Geralt already raising his sword to defend himself against the creature that had sprung itself from the dead floor of the forest.
He sliced it in half, but more and more of the undead creatures came towards him, overwhelming him as they climbed on top of him and it was all he could do to keep them from biting into his flesh.
He lost his sword amidst his struggle, snapped a couple of necks but felt one of them sink their teeth into the supple flesh of his outer thigh and he shouted in pain.
He jumped when an arrow shot into the offending creature’s head, falling to the ground in a sickening thump as he clamped a hand over the wound. He threw another creature off of his back and looked up to see… no. It couldn’t be, could it?
Jaskier, bow aimed high at the next creature about to strike from behind, shouted, “Geralt, get down!”
Without thinking, Geralt had ducked low just in time for Jaskier to shoot. He groaned in pain as his fresh wound ground into the cold ground.
“Jaskier-?” Geralt gasped as he looked up at the bard.
‘When did you learn to shoot a bow?’, he wanted to ask, but his breath started coming short. Jaskier was quick to his side, taking Geralt’s head in his lap and holding him there gently.
“Geralt I-,” but everything went dark before Jaskier could say what he had wanted to say.
---
A fog had risen, and Jaskier seemed to be worried. He stroked Geralt’s silvery hair gently, watching the witcher toss and turn and groan uncomfortably. His skin was slick with sweat, surly a sign of an infection in the wound. He seemed delirious, in and out of sleep and when he was awake he’d look off far into the distance and mumble things quietly.
“How’s Butcher doin’,” the old man asked from behind Jaskier.
Jaskier choked back on his words before he replied.
“His name is Geralt. He’s not conscious.”
The man grunted, “How do you know him, anyway?”
Jaskier looked down at Geralt sadly, wishing for his love to be well again. Wishing he could take the hurt and pain from him in any way possible.
“We’re old friends, him and I…”
The man had let it go for a while, letting Jaskier care for the white wolf in silence. Well, mostly silence.
“Say, what’s your name, boy?”
Jaskier hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Jaskier.”
“Aren’t you the bard that followed the Butcher around for some time? I’m Yurga, by the way.”
Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, hoping that would satisfy Yurga enough to be quiet for a bit.
“Ma…” Geralt grunted softly.
Jaskier choked back a sob. “Geralt, it’s okay,” he whispered quietly.
But just as fast as he had woken, he was gone again. Jaskier trembled, going back to stroking Geralt’s hair, hoping that the man would wake soon and be well enough to form coherent sentences.
---
It had been a couple hours since then. The deeper into the forest they had gotten, the louder the booms and screaming became in the distance. Jaskier knew what it was, refused to think about it. Refused to think about the fact that people were dying. People he knew, probably people with children and families and homes.
Jaskier was lost in thought this time when Geralt woke. He moaned, tried to sit up and when he couldn’t let Jaskier help him up some.
“Wha’s that?” he slurred.
The man stopped the cart amidst Geralt’s rustling around.
“Well, from the direction, I would say that Nilfgaard has made it to Sodden,” he explained.
Geralt grunted, then looked back to Jaskier, blinked, and asked.
“Where the hell did you come fr-,” He shouted in pain as the man grabbed hold of Geralt’s pant leg.
“Ye gods, that looks hideous.”
Geralt scrabbled for the man to let go, groaning and grunting angrily at him.
“My bag… where is it?” Geralt grunted out.
“Here,” Jaskier passed it over to him and watched as Geralt shuffled through it and took a bottle of dark liquid out.
Geralt unstoppered it with his teeth, spitting the cork out into who-knows-where, drank half the bottle and poured the rest on the open wound of his leg.
He suppressed a shout, hissing through his teeth and groaning as the liquid bubbled and hissed in the wound. His breaths came out quick and forced, his eyes unfocused.
“You need a healer,” Yurga chimed.
“The Blue mountains…” Geralt ground out.
“What about them, Geralt?”
“Take me there-”
“That’s the other side of Sodden! It’s impossible, you’ll die,” Yurga argued.
Geralt looked over at Jaskier, fell back down into his lap and mumbled ``He'll save me…’
Jaskier and Yurga both attempted to wake him again, but he was too dazed, too out of it from the pain that plagued him. Jaskier cried out, the want to help him but not being able to was far too much to bare.
For hours, Jaskier watched him whine in his sleep, calling for his mother, some other name he wasn’t familiar with.
Soon it was nightfall, Yurga and Jaskier were forced to make camp for the night. Jaskier carefully arranged Geralt on the hard ground so that he wasn’t in too much discomfort. He sat with Geralt, watching him toss, listening to him cry out for people he didn’t know. Jaskier caressed his hair gently, lulling to sleep eventually.
In the early hours of the morning, Geralt would start crying for Yennefer, yelling for Visenna, waking Jaskier. Yurga, who was already packing the wagon let out pleasant good morning, eyeing Geralt with worried eyes.
Jaskier bid him a good morning as well, then took to shaking Geralt’s shoulder gently.
“Geralt, it’s time to wake up, please wak-”
Geralt shot up in a panic.
“Where’d she go-”
“There was never anyone else here, Geralt,” Jaskier assured.
Geralt looked at him, fully conscious and able to comprehend whose company he was in.
“When the hell did you learn to use a bow?”
Jaskier laughed, glad that Geralt was okay.
“It’s a long story, I’ll tell you when we’re alone, Wolf.”
Yurga quirked his brow, but didn’t say anything about the two. Geralt got up, turned to Yurga and this time asked, “ How far to Sodden?”
Geralt hobbled past Yurga, getting back on the old wagon.
“An hour with a swift enough horse,” he heaved his cot into the wagon next to Geralt, “You know, I’m just a simple merchant… I can’t repay you for saving my life. What I can offer you is the law of surprise. That which I have but don’t know!”
Jaskier snorted at that, Geralt grunted and shot the bard a look.
“Just give me an ale and consider your debt paid. Now can we go?”
Jaskier climbed into the back of the wagon to sit between Geralt and Roach, who was tied to the back of the wagon. He fed Roach an apple, earning him a disapproving look from Geralt.
“Aye, give me a moment, will ya?” Yurga protested as he climbed back into his seat.
As per usual, Geralt just grunted in response, Jaskier, for once, still quiet. No doubt worrying how he would tell Geralt about his adventures this past year.
The ride was silent, aside from Yurga talking to himself. The sun rose and the rays cast through the trees, lighting the way. Neither Geralt nor Jaskier mentioned the event at the dragon cave from a year ago, both ashamed of how they had behaved that day.
But Geralt took Jaskier’s hand, squeezed gently and ran his thumb along the bards knuckles. They listened to explosions far off in the distance, getting fainter and fainter.
By mid-afternoon, they had made it to the old merchant’s house, Yurga getting off the cart to greet his wife. Jaskier hadn’t paid much attention, but something that she had said made Geralt look her way, then look towards the woods.
He got up from the cart, hobbled off with a limp into the tree’s.
“Geralt, where are you going- your leg, Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed.
Yurga’s voice split through the air as well, “Butcher-?”
But Geralt was already in the woods, Jaskier jogging behind him to keep up with his long strides. They walked for quite a few minutes before Geralt had come to a stop, looking around. He looked down, turned back towards Jaskier sadly, making like he was going to walk away. He turned to look back once more, and before Jaskier could see or say anything, a girl with strikingly blonde hair in a long green cloak came rushing out of the trees, hugging Geralt and burying her face into his chest. He held her tight, putting a hand on her head gently.
“People linked by destiny will always find each other,” Came Geralt’s gravelly voice.
The girl pulled away, looked back behind him at Jaskier, then back at Geralt.
“Who is that man… and who is Yennefer?”