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They’ve been walking for several hours, long enough that Jaskier feels the burn in his legs but not long enough to start thinking about a rest, when Geralt abruptly stops.
“Geralt?” he asks, quietly in case the Witcher has spotted a monster Jaskier can’t see.
As usual, Geralt doesn’t use his words, just shushes Jaskier with a sharp backwards glance and stalks forward into the bushes. Roach stays utterly still even with no one to hold her reins, better behaved than most humans Jaskier has met. Better behaved than him, Geralt would probably say.
Several seconds later, Geralt returns with something clutched tight in his hand. Before Jaskier can try to see what it is, Geralt stows the object in a saddlebag and takes hold of Roach’s reins again. His face is doing something very complicated that Jaskier can’t quite decipher.
“Let’s go,” he says without any further explanation, but really, Jaskier did not get this far without asking at least three questions of every situation.
“What was that?” he starts with, because it should be an easy one. And also because he might burst if he doesn’t know.
Geralt walks forward one, two, three, four paces before saying, short and brisk, “Rope.”
Jaskier just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Okayyy,” he accepts, dragging out the word to indicate how little acceptance is actually involved. Annoying though it might be, he knows exactly how to wheedle information out of Geralt, especially these days. “Anything special about this particular piece of rope?”
Another four steps. “It was tied in a knot.”
“That’s not uncommon for ropes, Geralt.” While these kinds of semi-cryptic answers are Geralt’s favorite mode of communication, besides the grunted hmms that Jaskier has actually come to treasure as his Witcher’s most expressive medium, he can’t shake the feeling there’s something more to this he isn’t understanding. “Especially when left out in the wind like this.”
Geralt doesn’t respond.
Mostly by necessity, he’s gotten very good at reading Geralt’s silences. There are pauses that mean I’m searching for the words, if you ask me enough I’ll find them and pauses that mean something much heavier.
This one he doesn’t push.
-
They end up in a tavern, not unlike the one in which he first met the Witcher all those years ago, though the guests here seem much further along their way to being utterly inebriated and the roof looks like one strong gust of wind could knock it down. Geralt leads them toward the table in the corner, the only one situated so Geralt can have his back to a wall and keep a clear sight of the door.
It means Jaskier has to sit with his back to the entire room, but doesn’t mind—there’s very little he’d like to look at that isn’t Geralt, anyways.
Only after they’ve ordered the unspecified meat of the week and two tankards of ale, Geralt’s more for the habit of it than because it’ll actually have any effect on him, does Jaskier broach the topic again. It’s a remarkable degree of self-restraint, if he does say so himself.
“So what is it then?” There’s no need to specify which it he’s talking about, given that it has already made them stop in a run-down tavern in this middle-of-nowhere town when Geralt would normally have pushed them another two hours before even thinking of making camp. “Geralt.”
Geralt sips on his ale as though he hasn’t heard, even though Jaskier is aware those keen ears miss nothing.
Rather than glare at Geralt until he responds, Jaskier takes a bite of the mystery meat in front of him (it’s terrible, but he supposes he shouid just be happy it’s edible at all, given the state of the tavern and how infrequently it seems sober guests pass through here). Geralt will respond when he’s ready, and Jaskier has learned to simply wait him out.
So of course it’s right when Jaskier is working his way through a particularly large chunk of the meat (he’s decided it might be a cross between chicken and veal, if such a thing was even possible), that Geralt chooses to say, “It’s a lover’s knot.”
“A what—?!” he splutters, gulping down ale so he doesn’t choke and die on this shitty non-meat. Geralt has another lover? “Did you say a lover’s knot?”
Geralt sighs, like he expected no other reaction. Jaskier doesn’t think he can be blamed for that, actually. What was anyone to think, faced with a comment like that?
Geralt reaches into a pocket in his trousers that Jaskier didn’t know existed until right this moment and pulls out the piece of rope. He runs a finger across it, once, in a way that feels far too reverent for a couple of strands of rough fiber twisted together, then pushes it across the table to him.
The rope is about arm’s length in total, a pale cream color that stands out against the wooden table, softer to the touch than Jaskier expects at first glance. But what holds his attention is the knot in the middle, contiguous with the rope itself—a cross-thatched patchwork the size of a fingernail, perfectly forming the shape of a heart.
He lets out a sharp breath. Well, at least the name didn’t lie.
“Geralt, have you been holding out on me?” He doesn’t really think Geralt has another lover stashed somewhere, but Jaskier has also yet to meet (or hear of) a single person in Geralt’s life who would leave him a rope knotted into a heart in the middle of the woods as a message. “What is this, dear heart?” He really does love calling Geralt every lovely nickname under the sun, if only to see the way it instantly makes his gruff Witcher soften, but can’t resist making this one a little a more pointed.
Witchers can’t blush, he knows that, but he’s sure if Geralt was capable of such a thing, his cheeks would currently be flaming. “Lover’s knot is its name. Not always its significance.”
Jaskier can’t put his finger on what, exactly, first tipped him off that something here ran deeper than the eye, but the feeling hasn’t gone away since Geralt stopped them on the road over an hour ago. So he softens his voice, lets the genuine sincerity bleed through the teasing more than either of them would normally allow. “Okay. What does it mean?”
Geralt takes another sip of ale. Jaskier waits, can sense the words brewing.
“Witchers tend to travel alone, present company notwithstanding.” A glow of pride rushes through him at that, even though they’re long past the point of him being just Geralt’s travel companion. It’s the title he fought hardest to earn. “Back when we first started on the Path, a few of us devised a means of covert communication. Little markers we could leave to signal one another that we were near.”
Some of the pieces start to fit together. “And this knotted rope, it’s a signal?”
“Of sorts. More an—invitation.”
“Pretty hard to find for an invitation.”
Geralt shakes his head. Not for a Witcher, he doesn’t say, but Jaskier understands. “The rope was left out in the woods, shielded by Yrden. Passersby couldn’t disturb it, but any witcher would sense its presence.”
Everything Jaskier has seen of Geralt’s Signs are that they last only for a short while, and require Geralt’s continuous presence nearby to be maintained. “I didn’t know Witchers could cast like that,” he says.
The reply is instant. “Eskel can.”
There’s a look on Geralt’s face, a note in his voice, that Jaskier has very rarely heard before.
Pride.
Geralt talking about his life outside of the Path is rarer than diamonds, which means Jaskier remembers every word he’s ever said on the topic. Eskel has never been precisely defined but is the name most mentioned—Jaskier’s guess is that he’s Geralt’s brother, insofar as Witchers can have siblings.
“And that’s who we’re here to see?” Jaskier asks. “Eskel?”
“Hmm.” Geralt’s gaze, up until then drifting somewhere between Jaskier’s shoulder and chin, suddenly sharpens. His nostrils flare. “He’s here,” Geralt declares.
Several things happen at once, then. There’s the sound of creaking hinges, the hasty opening and closing of a door barely clinging to life. A sudden quiet falls over the entire tavern, and though he can’t actually see their faces, he imagines every man frozen and staring at the newcomer. And Geralt breaks out into the largest smile Jaskier has ever seen him wear, an ear-to-ear grin complete with teeth and crinkles by his eyes.
It’s fucking beautiful.
Jaskier decides he loves this Eskel already.
-
It’s not that Jaskier necessarily has expectations, but he mostly expects Eskel to be Geralt’s mirror image. White hair, yellow eyes, surly disposition, two menacing swords strapped to his back and a medallion around his neck.
When he turns around in his chair, the man framed in the doorway is—decidedly not that. He has shoulder-length brown hair and plain brown eyes that shine golden in the light of the tavern but are a far cry from yellow. A set of deep, gnarled scars run across one side of his face, stretching from temple to chin in straight red lines. But perhaps most notably, he wears a layer of calm, confident composure the way that Geralt wears his grumpiness, like a second skin—he bears the weight of the tavern’s gaze with a placid expression, seemingly undeterred by their gawking attention.
The man looks squarely in their direction, and a smile slowly spreads across his face. Then Eskel—and this must be Eskel, Jaskier decides, because he can count the number of people who would otherwise smile upon seeing Geralt on one finger—inclines his head slightly and disappears back outside.
Apparently it’s all part of some code Geralt understands but he doesn’t, because within the space of a minute, Geralt flags down the tavern owner, pays twice the value of the meal despite leaving half of it unfinished, and wordlessly leads them out of the tavern.
“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks, but Geralt, predictably, says nothing. The ghost of his earlier smile still lingers, however, and Jaskier contents himself with memorizing the planes of it instead, the softness at the corner of his eyes and the happy slant of his lips. Geralt doesn’t smile nearly often enough, even now.
They head to the inn down the road, which at least looks a good sight sturdier than the tavern. The innkeeper takes one glance at Geralt and huffs, “Two witchers in my inn. Gods only know what I’ve done wrong.” There’s a sour curl to her lip that makes his haunches rise.
But then she merely waves them in the direction of the hallway to her left, presumably where the rooms are, and Jaskier lets it slide. No point in ruining the evening before it’s even started.
Geralt comes to a halt in front of the third door, takes a deep breath, then pushes it open. Wondering idly what Witchers must smell like to a Witcher’s nose—sweat and horses, perhaps? or is that just Geralt?—Jaskier follows him inside.
Jaskier has just enough time to take notice of the state of the room—bandages and potions strewn across the foot of the bed, several tunics in a crumpled heap on the floor, an upturned saddlebag with its contents spilling out over the table—before Eskel gathers Geralt into a hug and every other thought disappears from his head.
“Wolf,” Eskel says quietly, though Jaskier doesn’t doubt that if he wasn’t meant to hear this, he wouldn’t even be able to. “It’s good to see you.”
“Where the fuck were you last winter?” Geralt growls in reply, that tone he uses when he’s working doubly hard to suppress any pesky emotions, and Jaskier pieces together some of the history he’s missing.
They pull apart. Geralt’s hand lingers on Eskel’s shoulder for several heartbeats, as though he isn’t ready to let go yet, before he steps back and holds out his palm to show the lover’s knot sitting in the middle.
“Got delayed on my way to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel says, closing Geralt’s fingers back over the token without even looking at it. The easy tenderness of the gesture makes Jaskier’s breath catch. “I wouldn’t have made it up the Killer before the first snowfall, so I stayed out on the Path.”
“Hmm.”
That one, Jaskier’s mental Dictionary of Geralt’s Grunts tells him, is meant to be a frustrated you scared us and a relieved glad you’re okay, mixed with a healthy dose of I really fucking missed you.
Judging by the way Eskel immediately grins, some combination between wolfish and sheepish that Jaskier decides would make a fantastic line in a song somewhere, he is clearly just as adept at translating Geralt’s hmms into regular words and emotions.
As Geralt moves away to set his swords down by the door, Eskel’s attention turns to him. “You must be the bard,” he says in an entirely neutral tone that Jaskier can’t read.
Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove is on the tip of his tongue, but it feels disingenuous. “Jaskier. Master of the Seven Liberal Arts at Oxenfurt and troubadour, at your service.” He punctuates the statement with a little half-bow, because really, why not.
Eskel raises one eyebrow. “Is he always like this, Geralt?”
“Oh, incessantly,” Jaskier says before Geralt has a chance to respond. Once, he might have been offended by such a question. He spent a long time being called too much, paid for it in scoldings and worse, but being with Geralt has taught him a thing or two about how Witchers work. “Someone has to compensate for our resident curmudgeon here.”
When Eskel laughs, little more than a small huff but genuine all the same, Jaskier knows he’s judged correctly.
“I knew I‘d like you, bard,” Eskel says warmly, and the change in tone makes all the difference. “Although the way Geralt speaks of you, I was starting to think you stood ten foot tall and shit gold.”
The idea that Geralt speaks of him during the winter, never mind that he speaks of him well, leaves him uncharacteristically dumbstruck. It’s only the look on Geralt’s face, like he’d be redder than a beetroot if he could be anything other than pale, that snaps him out of it.
“I’ll need you to repeat every word he’s ever said, ad nauseam. Apparently Geralt only talks about me when I’m not there.”
Geralt, just as aware as Jaskier that they would never have come this far if Jaskier couldn’t read Geralt’s affection in his actions instead of his words, responds with an appropriately derogatory snort.
So really, if Jaskier had any expectations, meeting Eskel has certainly surpassed them all so far.
-
“I’ve got to ask, are the eyes a Witcher thing, or is that just a Geralt thing?”
He’s gotten the sense that Eskel is not only far chattier than Geralt, but also far more patient with the you’re-the-second-of-your-kind-I’ve-ever-met-and-my-fatal-flaw-is-curiosity questions of one human bard. With Geralt meditating in the corner, making up for all the hours he stayed up keeping watch while they were in the woods, and Eskel now unofficially on watch for the foreseeable few hours, Jaskier plans to make the most of this opportunity.
“I’m game to answer questions, but only if we trade.” Eskel glances over at Geralt, his expression slipping briefly into something Jaskier would classify as unbearably fond, before looking back at him with his usual placid calm. “I answer a question of yours, and in return you answer a question of mine.”
“Deal,” he says immediately, just a little bit impressed. Eskel is already proving a much better negotiator than Geralt has ever been. His Witcher is talented at a good many things, but words are not his weapon of choice.
“The eyes are unique to Geralt. None of the rest of us have them.”
“How is that possible?”
Eskel holds up a hand to stop him. “That’s a different question, bard. One of mine first.”
“Ah, so we’re doing it like that then.” He doesn’t mind. A large part of him is actually quite curious what kinds of things Eskel could possibly want to know from him. “Ask away.”
“Is he happy?”
Oh.
Jaskier hesitates, and Eskel’s eyes narrow. It makes him look dangerous, tugging at his scars, but Jaskier isn’t frightened. Someone who Geralt trusts so deeply would never cause him harm, of that he is sure.
“Yes? I hope? It’s a little hard to tell what with grunting and scowling being his primary forms of communication.” Is Geralt happy? He thinks about it at least twice a day, if not more, and usually the best answer he can come up with is—happier than he was before, if nothing else. Some days, on bad days, he barely manages to convince himself of that.
“As his lover, you must have some sense of it.”
“That obvious?” He knows this is going to count as his question, but asks anyway. It’s not that he’s ashamed or wants to hide what’s between them—it’s definitely not that, as much as Geralt seems to think of himself as something to be ashamed of—but he didn’t expect to be found out so quickly. Geralt likes his privacy, and Jaskier tries to preserve it where possible.
Eskel shrugs. “To me. I have known Geralt longer than you have drawn breath.” He doesn’t say it like an insult though, just a fact.
Jaskier accepts that with a nod and thinks about the question again. This is the closest he’ll probably ever come to the traditional meet and greet your partner’s family dance that would’ve been expected of him had he lived the life set out by his parents, and he wants to do it right. There are very few people in the world who care for Geralt.
“I think he’s happy,” Jaskier decides. “He’s walked the Path alone for a very long time, and now he has a companion.”
“Not just any companion.” There’s a faraway look in Eskel’s eyes. “Your songs have saved more Witchers than just your own, bard. The Path is always filled with monsters, but fewer of them are human these days.”
Jaskier’s heart breaks, just a little. “I’m glad,” he says, and it takes every ounce of his concentration not to let his voice wobble. “You deserve to be treated better, all of you.”
Eskel shifts, uncomfortable—clearly being unable to accept basic kindness is a Witcher trait and not just a Geralt one—so Jaskier moves on.
“I think I owe you another question.”
“Indeed.” Eskel pauses just long enough to sneak another glance at Geralt, like he’s still having trouble believing he’s actually here, and it’s enough to break Jaskier’s heart all over again. They’re so hurt and so alone, these Witchers. So fucking alone. “Tell me about yourself, bard. Any friend of Geralt’s is a friend of mine,” Eskel says, in a way that suggests Geralt has never had very many friends before.
If you’re good enough for Geralt, that’s good enough for me, is what Jaskier suspects Eskel means.
“You want to know about me?”
“Certainly. Did you think all of my questions would simply be about Geralt?” Eskel must see the answer on his face because he chuckles. “Let us not do ourselves the discourtesy of treating each other like mouthpieces for the things Geralt won’t say. I’d also like to know about you, bard.”
“Right. Um.” Jaskier launches into the most abridged version of his life story he feels comfortable sharing, and Eskel listens with rapt attention to every word. Having grown used to Geralt’s unique form of listening while pretending to do anything but, Jaskier almost finds it a little disconcerting.
Almost. He is a performer, after all, and entertaining an audience is what he does best—even if that audience is just one large, kind Witcher.
“Your turn,” Jaskier says when he is done, thankful in a way he can’t express that Eskel asks no questions and offers no comments. It feels nice to get everything off his chest—Geralt knows his story, of course, but he found out in drips and drabs on dirt paths and forest floors. To lay it out like this, face-to-face in a room with a kind stranger, is a catharsis he never expected. “What’s your story?”
Eskel scoffs. “Let’s not ruin this lovely evening.”
Jaskier raises an eyebrow, tries to keep his tone light. “I didn’t know we were dodging questions now.”
But Eskel has already closed off, his expression as close to Geralt’s typical surliness as Jaskier has seen yet. “Ask me something else, bard.” For the first time in Eskel’s voice, the moniker is sharp and cutting, like the insult it’s meant to be. “Just not that.”
Jaskier knows a thing or two about stories that can’t be told—there are parts of his past he’s never shared, not even with Geralt—and lets it go.
“Okay. Tell me about the eyes, then. And the hair, I suppose.”
Eskel huffs. “That is not a happier tale.” But it isn’t a no, so Jaskier forces himself to bite his tongue and wait. Eventually, Eskel sighs and closes his eyes, as though bringing up the memories from somewhere deeply buried. “It’s Geralt’s story to tell in full. But in short, Geralt has extra mutations that the rest of us don’t because he went through the Trials twice.”
Geralt has only let slip a few snippets here and there about the pain and horror of the Trials, always followed by a growled don’t you dare put that in a song (as if Jaskier ever would, as if he doesn’t tuck away the softest and sharpest parts of Geralt deep into the folds of his own heart for no one else to see). What he’s heard is enough to paint the picture of a brutal, often-fatal nightmare. To go through something like that twice—
“Only him? No one else had to do it twice?”
“No one else who did survived,” Eskel says gravely.
The very idea is horrifying. Jaskier doesn’t ask how many others died—enough, he can tell, enough to leave scars that will never heal.
He looks over at Geralt, deep in meditation, the lines of his face soft like they rarely ever are—he may never have had this, if the dice of fate landed a different way. His dear, dear, dearest Witcher dead on a table, an empty corner in that tavern in Posada—and his life would have been a dull, meandering bleakness forever.
“So the yellow eyes—those were from the mutations.” A wince and a nod. Jaskier does his best not to think about the brutality of a procedure that would make a Witcher wince, or the pain it would take to have one’s eyes remade. “The white hair—also the extra mutations.” Another nod. He thinks of other differences between Eskel and Geralt that could be caused by mutagens. “His voice?” Jaskier asks, because he loves Geralt’s deep rumble just as he loves every other part of him, but he has to know.
Eskel’s mouth twists, and he looks away. “The second round of mutagens were—” Eskel falters, his voice thick with a pain that must be older than Jaskier. “He screamed, bard. I’d never heard screams like that before, nor since. Screamed and screamed for days. Ruptured his vocal cords and—” Eskel wrings his hands helplessly, and Jaskier has heard enough.
He leans over the side of the bed and throws up onto the floor.
Jaskier tries to imagine a pain so terrible he would scream until his vocal cords ripped then keep screaming afterward, tries to imagine such a pain being inflicted on Geralt as a mere boy, and has to furiously wipe away the tears gathering in his eyes.
Gods.
That is, of course, what pulls Geralt from his meditation. He’s attuned to any sign of Jaskier’s distress—Jaskier knows it to be just as much a gesture of love as flowers or poetry or passionate kisses.
“Jaskier?” Geralt asks quietly, in that gravelly hum which reverberates in Jaskier’s chest. His eyes are open, but his voice is slurred, like he’s still only half-lucid.
Jaskier wants to tell him it’s okay, to finish his meditation, but he can’t.
“Geralt,” he chokes out, thick and wet, unable to hide it. “Fuck, Geralt, I—”
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Geralt is fully awake and kneeling beside him with furrowed brows. He shoots Eskel a look that Jaskier doesn’t even bother to decipher before reaching out with tentative hands. “Jaskier, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, I’m fine, I just—” He’s crying again, Jaskier realizes belatedly, feeling the hot sting of tears fresh on his cheeks, and can’t find the words to explain.
His Geralt. His dear, precious Geralt, and they tortured him. As a child.
“He asked about your eyes, Wolf. And your voice. I told him the truth.” Eskel doesn’t sound the least bit regretful, and Jaskier is glad. He doesn’t regret asking, despite the horror of that truth.
There is no other word for the sound that Geralt makes in response except to say that he whimpers. It pierces Jaskier’s heart like a dagger, and he wants to scream, to rage, to cry, to tear down every last brick of Kaer Morhen and burn the whole place to the ground. Something, to release the pain lodged in his chest.
Geralt must sense his turmoil, because he stiffens and searches Jaskier’s face, looking—scared?
Jaskier aches—does Geralt truly think this, the knowledge that he is twice-mutated, will send Jaskier running away? As if that makes him any less the man he loves, as if that makes him any less a man.
Jaskier takes a deep breath and does his best to bring himself under control. He’s conscious of Eskel sitting over by the fire, but right now he just needs to hold Geralt close, and little else matters.
“Come here, darling,” he says, resting a hand on the back of Geralt’s neck to convey his intention, and it’s a testament to Geralt’s frame of mind that he doesn’t even offer a token protest, just leans forward and rests his head against Jaskier’s chest.
Lightly, tentatively, as though he still thinks there’s a chance Jaskier will push him away.
Instead, Jaskier strokes a hand through Geralt’s hair, fingers grazing gently against his scalp, and wraps the other arm around Geralt’s shoulders to pull him in as close as he can. They stay just like that for several minutes, and faced with the tangible reminder that Geralt is no longer hurting or screaming, Jaskier feels himself calm.
“I’m so sorry, Geralt,” he whispers, because there’s very little else to say. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Geralt shudders in his arms, once, then pulls away and flees from the room in quick strides. Jaskier lets him go, familiar with the way Geralt sometimes needs space to organize his thoughts.
Jaskier glances at Eskel, who looks just as shattered as he feels. He doesn’t know exactly how old Geralt is, but can hazard a guess—they must have carried this between them for so long.
“I knew the Trials were traumatic,” Jaskier says, and barely recognizes his own voice, thin and tight. “He’s had nightmares about them before, even if he doesn’t say as much. But this—I never knew. He never told me.”
It’s not accusatory. Jaskier is aware that as much as Geralt might’ve wanted him to know, this isn’t the type of thing he would ever feel comfortable talking about without help.
“He is made of few words,” Eskel agrees. “But what he feels, he feels deeply.”
Jaskier has seen Geralt’s soft, shy smiles when they cuddle, the way he tears off the best portions of meat for him—and he has seen the guttural heaving that’s as close as Geralt can get to tears, the shattered agony in his eyes when he can’t save a child. “I know,” he replies, in a tone of voice better suited to a love declaration. Witchers don’t have emotions—it’s the biggest load of horseshit he’s ever stepped through, and he walks behind a horse regularly.
“He is the best man I have ever known,” Eskel adds, with the full weight of his years. Jaskier can feel every single one of them pressed into the words. “Extra mutations or no, they could never take away his heart.”
“You don’t have to convince me.” He doesn’t take it personally that Eskel thinks this knowledge would change how he sees Geralt—this is Eskel looking out for his brother, and it’s a sentiment Jaskier can understand. “I think the world of Geralt. I just wish he would think so of himself, too.”
Eskel smiles. It’s a small, sad thing. “Even among Witchers, Geralt is different. He’s spent a long time believing that makes him a monster.”
“He isn’t,” Jaskier says vehemently before he can stop himself, and this time Eskel’s smile is real.
“I’ve always known that. I’m glad someone else sees it too.”
“What was done to him, and what was done to you—it’s unspeakable. I’m so sorry, Eskel.” He’s aware it’s the first time he’s said Eskel’s name, and something passes between them in that moment, heavy with understanding.
Then Eskel’s lips quirk into a half-smile, and the mood lightens. “Mostly, we cope. Sometimes not so well.” He tilts his head toward the door. “His heart is still racing. I don’t think distance is what he needs right now.”
Jaskier nods and stands from the bed. It’s a useful trick, those Witcher senses.
“Take care of him, Jaskier,” Eskel says softly, and it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made.
“Always.”