I Don't Know How To Name Things

Geralt nodded. 

“To where, exactly?”

The witcher paused, looking out over the mountains and considering their options. “Everywhere, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffed a small laugh. “What an invite.”

It took some time, but eventually, Geralt pressed on. “It would please me,” he admitted quietly. “You asked me . . . before.” 

Which was, admittedly, a low blow. Especially seeing as Jaskier clearly hadn’t expected ‘you’ to be Geralt’s answer to that question in any way, shape, or form. Jaskier chuckled and shook his head. He sat with his elbows on his knees, focused on his hands with an intensity no one ever truly gave such features. He pressed on the tender tissue of his finger. The burn was not crippling, by any means. Yet, it could have been. Had Yennefer not arrived, Jaskier could very well have had to change professions at a late age. 

Jaskier had not told Geralt of his fun introduction to the man Geralt and Yennefer were affectionately referring to as ‘firefucker’, and had no intention to. He couldn’t deny what it meant, however. He knew that when asked, he would protect Geralt however he could. Even if he wasn’t particularly equipped at protecting people. 

Jaskier hummed quietly and nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. “Not solely because it pleases you . . . but perhaps in part.” He left it up to Geralt to decide what exactly that meant, and stood, going to where his things had been discarded. 

He was luteless, so packing was rather swift. He grabbed only what he would need, and packed clothes that were muted. For once in his life, Jaskier knew that it would be an advantage to blend in. Even if the hideous beige attire hurt his soul, he would sacrifice accessories for the best chance at keeping Cirilla safe. She’d been through far too much. 

Before leaving he stopped by the room that Yennefer had been allowed to stay in. Jaskier truly didn’t know what she was going to do when they left, but he knew that Geralt didn’t not plan on asking her to join them. He hesitated in the doorway. “He’s spoken with you about this, then, hasn’t he?” He asked. 

She glanced up from the bed. She sat there reading old texts, looking for something. Jaskier wouldn’t understand and didn’t try to ask about it. She nodded, “He has. Knows I’d protect the girl, asked me if I trusted you as well.”

Jaskier grinned ever so slightly, pushing himself off the frame and walking further into the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, “You tell him all about how we’ve become the best of friends in the last few weeks?” he asked with a small smile.

“Do you assume we are friends, bard?”

He barked a laugh and shook his head, letting his gaze drop to his hands once more. “No, Yennefer. We are something more. Whatever that might be,” he breathed. “And something worse,” he grinned.

She regarded him carefully, in silence long enough to meet his eye when he eventually looked up curiously. She didn’t seem angered by his remarks, though he’d expected some sort of argument. Instead, she nodded, “That we are.”

Jaskier reached out and gently grasped her hand. In all his talents he didn’t know that he could articulate the nature of their understanding, their relationship. It was something pleasant, he believed. Something he did not want to lose. 

Yennefer continued, “I trust you. I think you’ll fight for her just as you fight for him. As you have fought for those you’ve helped escape towards Cintra. You’re a great number of things, tacky, loud, abhorrent in taste, and very, very brave. I told him you were a good companion to have in this fight.” She patted their clasped hands and smiled, “Told him I had seen that bravery a good few times in these weeks.”

Jaskier’s eyes flitted up for a moment. Brow pinched in a manner so subtle it was nearly imperceptible, Jaskier inquired, “How much did you tell him?” Yennefer had a great deal of information and she could likely share all of it with Geralt if she had wanted to. 

The Sandpiper. The songs. The ale. The torture. All of it. 

Yennefer’s grip in his tightened and she shook her head. “No,” she assured quietly. “It is yours to tell him when you please.”

Jaskier nodded. 

“I imagine you should, at some point,” she admitted. “Tell him the anger you hold? The love you still carry.”

Jaskier merely hummed, “He knows,” he breathed. “I think.” Geralt was far more perceptive than most people gave him credit for even if he was not often knowledgeable as to what to do with the things he perceived. “I told him I forgave him, because we are friends. He means far more to me than a transgression he committed once when under duress.”

The witch seemed to have no words to reply.

“I encouraged him to find the same peace in himself for those he loves.”

Yennefer glanced back up at Jaskier and looked over him with a certain thoughtfulness that he once put past her capabilities. “You don’t think you can love him, forgive him, and be angry with him all at once?” She asked curiously.

“Oh I know I can . . . but I only see the benefit in speaking of love and forgiveness after a bit. Harping on my anger serves no purpose,” He explained. He wasn’t shy in admitting his anger, fear, or hatred. He just didn’t see as much point in letting it fester. Not outwardly, at least. 

“But sharing how deep it runs can better serve in the process of healing your relationship.”

It was, again, far more consideration than Jaskier had once believed could come from Yennefer. He smiled tightly and nodded some. He understood what she meant to say, even if it wouldn’t particularly persuade him to share more. 

“Though, I had expected you to already have shared. What with how loose your mouth is,” She teased gently. 

His smile grew pinched and he shook his head, “Oh, heard that did you? Exactly how long were you standing there drinking before you decided I was in enough pain-”

She patted their hands again, quieting him as she pushed him gently from the bed. “Go,” she said quietly. “Take your pack and get out there with them. Maybe Cirilla can finally teach you how to properly hold a sword.”

He laughed quietly, standing and raising his hands as he backed out of the room. “Mhmm, I suppose she is probably a good teacher, after all. Is she the one who finally taught you how to read?” He smirked, ducking as a pillow flew towards his head on his way out. “Goodbye my dear! I’ll see you sooner than I’d like, I’m sure of it!”

He retreated down the hallway with a smile that grew smaller with each step. By the time he met Geralt and Cirilla outside of the keep, he found himself somewhat resigned. He knew this next bit wasn’t going to be easy. 

“Ready to go?” He asked. 

Geralt grunted, Cirilla nodded, and so, they headed out. 

XXX

They ran. As they planned to. Never settling in one place for longer than a day. Just as Geralt had promised. Geralt picked up only what contracts he absolutely needed to to keep them alive. Jaskier sang, but never his own music and never to large crowds. They traveled easily. Quietly. Even Jaskier was surprised at how well they went undetected. 

Stopping for the night in a town in the middle of nowhere meant that they could enter the tavern for food and perhaps a bath. Geralt could, rarely, be convinced to stay in an inn when the town was small enough. Neither Jaskier nor Cirilla asked for it, however. Instead, they expressed gratitude for small comforts when they had them, and kept their mouths shut about the difficulties of the road. Geralt was trying to keep Cirilla alive, after all. 

But eating a warm meal out of the weather was not too difficult a request. Not when they were this far away from everything else. So, they slipped in and ordered some soup. Sitting around a small table in the back, Jaskier dug in and encouraged Ciri to do so as well. Likely they would need to get out of town and into the woods a bit before they could set up camp.

“I hear you’re alive.”

Dread settled in Jaskier’s stomach almost instantly, his head swiveling up at the man at the front of the tavern. He was younger than Jaskier, but not by much. Newer, though. Obviously.

“How disappointing.”

Obviously, in that, most older bards no longer needed to start their sets with covers of other artists' more famous songs. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be unhappy, hearing his music spread. Yet, he wished in that moment that any other of his pieces could have been picked. No one had heard “Whoreson Prison Blues” yet, but fuck, Jaskier would have settled for listening to yet another untalented bastartd fuck up “Fishmonger’s Daughter” if it meant getting out of this moment. 

He tried to keep his gaze subtle, watching Geralt and Cirilla eat their food. It was the first time in weeks they’d risked eating inside of a tavern, and Jaskier was not inclined to take that away from the girl. 

“I've also survived

No thanks to you”

He tried to think of something to say. Surely he could tell some story and keep Geralt and Cirilla’s attention long enough to keep them from listening to the song this man was singing. Only, Geralt had asked them not to talk much when they were in public places. He didn’t want them to be noticed. Someone could easily recognize the trio if they were only looking in the right direction. So he was at a loss. The only stories coming to mind were too personal, and he didn’t want to piss Geralt off or risk Ciri’s safety. 

“Did I not bring you some glee

Mister Oh, look at me?”

Jaskier’s face scrunched up slightly. Alright, so perhaps that wasn’t his best line anyway. Geralt was never too much a show off, or at least not in the way it suggested. Jaskier could probably have found a far more nuanced way to convey that sentiment. 

‘You wanted to be seen as the good that you had been.’ Maybe? 

‘I’d show you to the public, as something far less . . . fuck . . . ed’? No. Too far away a near rhyme to make sense. 

‘Did you not benefit from the tales I told of you, or were those just the piles of shit I’d dragged you down into.’ Well. That wasn’t the point he was trying to make, but it was certainly a clever bit of writing that he’d have to incorporate into something at some point-

“Now I'll burn all the memories of you

All those lonely miles, that you ride

Now you'll walk with no-one by your side

Did you ever even care with your swords and your stupid hair…”

Geralt’s head lifted and Jaskier dropped his gaze to his soup. He could see the recognition in Geralt’s body language, though Cirilla seemed blissfully ignorant to the tune. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look up at Geralt as Geralt looked around the room once, then twice. He wasn’t obvious about it, but an eventual small glance up allowed Jaskier to see when Geralt’s gaze landed on the other bard. Geralt’s brow pinched just slightly, and his eyes flicked over to Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier said nothing. 

What could he say?

Jaskier’s head tilted just slightly to the side as he opened his mouth dumbly. He shook his head in his silent apology. The man singing, oblivious to it all, took a step up on his chair and strummed his ugly fucking lute all the louder. Jaskier wished beyond anything he would swallow a fly and shut his mouth for a bit. 

“Now watch me laugh as I burn all memories of you

What for do you yearn?

It's thе point of no return

After evеrything we did, we saw

You turned your back on me

What for do you yearn?”

Geralt didn’t look away from Jaskier. He was listening. Clearly. He stared at his friend in the slightest confusion, his food abandoned. 

By this point, Cirilla had noticed that both of the men had stopped eating. She, too, slowed to a stop and looked between them. If she wanted to ask what was going on, she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she stared at them. 

“Watch that Butcher burn!”

Jaskier saw the moment that Geralt heard it.

“At the end of my days when I'm through

He saw the moment that Geralt understood. 

No word that I've written will ring quite as true as burn!”

He saw the moment that it truly hit Geralt.

“Burn!”

And then the man just would not shut the fuck up.

“Burn butcher

Burn

Burn butcher

Burn burn burn burn burn burn burn burn!”

It was as if each time the word was uttered Geralt got smaller. As if each time Geralt heard it, he understood more. It was as if Geralt was understanding, fully, for the first time, just how badly he had hurt his bard. For it was easier to understand the hurt he was currently experiencing, after all.

“Watch me burn all the memories of you . . . “

Jaskier swallowed hard as the tavern erupted into applause and Geralt stood, motioning for Cirilla to follow him as he left the table. 

Fuck.

XXX

“I was angry . . .”

Cirilla laid across the campground, on a bed roll, and seemed to be fast asleep. The pair did not leave Jaskier behind, but things had been quiet and tense since Jaskier hurriedly straggled out of the tavern behind them. Jaskier didn't know what to do or say. Cirilla didn’t seem to understand exactly what had happened, and she didn’t seem inclined to ask. Geralt made no attempt to alleviate the tension. 

“I gathered.”

Jaskier’s gaze slipped over to the young girl, feeling a strange mixture of regret and vindication. “I had good reason to be angry,” he admitted quietly. 

Geralt nodded. A silent, I know.

Cirilla shifted in her sleep and Jaskier fell silent. He didn’t wish to wake her. Especially not for this. He had sat down on a turned over log, a little ways away from where Geralt had perched on his knees. Geralt was cleaning his swords and reorganizing his potions, though Jaskier got the feeling he was only doing so to have something to do. Jaskier swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have called you that,” he admitted quietly. “Not when I knew what it meant.”

Geralt didn’t respond to that.

“I won’t apologize for being angry, because I told you when we first reunited that I was, but that I would always forgive you because you are my friend. I meant that.” He frowned and stared at his hands, digging his thumb nail into the burned skin just to keep himself calm. “But I haven’t sung that song in a long while because I do know what I’ve done. I do know that I shouldn’t have done it. I . . . I am sorry for being cruel in my anger, Geralt,” he admitted. 

A soft sigh, and Geralt was setting aside his swords. He turned towards Jaskier, though he made no move to get closer to the bard. “You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he admitted. “And if you did, I forgive you.” 

“Well yes but I-” Jaskier began, falling silent for a moment. “You do?”

Geralt nodded. 

“Oh . . . good. That’s good.”

Geralt looked over Jaskier’s expression, seeming to put his thoughts together carefully before he spoke them. His brow furrowed as he fought to explain. “Words have only the power we give them,” he admitted. “Much time has passed since I was given that name, and you personally have changed much about how the world views me. I am grateful for that.”

He couldn’t help but be surprised at the amount of words Geralt was using to articulate his point. Jaskier found himself surprised and trying not to show it. “I uh . . . well, I’m sure I did some damage recently . . . so, less gratitude is probably deserved,” he breathed. 

“Maybe,” Geralt agreed. “But you were hurt. As was I. As was Yen. As was Ciri.” The witcher shrugged just slightly and glanced over at Cirilla with a look so strongly laced with love that Jaskier found it hard to observe. “We have all grown,” Geralt stated. 

Jaskier was quiet for a long few moments, nodding ever so slightly and then losing himself to thought. Cirilla had been incredibly good for Geralt. Fuck was Jaskier thankful for her as well. “I don’t see you as a butcher,” he whispered. “I never have.”

Geralt’s gaze returned to Jaskier and he nodded some, “I know,” he promised. 

“Good.”

The witcher shifted some where he sat, moving to where he could lean against a tree behind him. He leaned back and looked over at Jaskier for a long moment. 

Silence rang out, singing some song of hope and healing. Comforting them in all the ways that words could never dare capture their sentiments. Silence and Geralt’s expression promised never to let something as petty as harsh words separate them again. Jaskier prayed that Geralt knew his face meant the same thing. 

Finally, after some time, Geralt cleared his throat. “Honestly . . . I am more offended that you called my hair stupid,” he admitted with the smallest of grins. 

Jaskier looked up and huffed a slightly startled, slightly relieved laugh. “It is incredibly fucking stupid. I have never understood why you won’t let me plait it-”

“As stupid as that thing you wear on your head? I saw the hat in your room at Kaer Morhen. How many birds had to die, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in outrage as he gestured to Geralt’s chest. “Your armor? Has abs. And you’ll lecture me on taste? Really?”

That is what it was. A joke. A prank. All three of them had been subject to it, something slipped into their drinks. If Yennefer dwelled on it, she knew somewhere that it was because she’d been with Geralt and Jaskier and that pair always got themselves into trouble. She knew that someone in this backwards town had taken issue with a witch, a witcher, and a bard sitting together and drinking ale in this ridiculous tavern. That that someone spiked their drinks with a potion.

It seemed the potion’s purpose was to return the victim to their most natural state. It affected Jaskier first, of course. The bard’s hair greyed through the inks he used to keep it dark brown. The wrinkles he so cleverly kept away with ointments, magic, or make up revealed themselves. With no defenses against the magic he quickly aged to his appropriate appearance. The man was nearly fifty now, and so far their quest to stop his aging had been unsuccessful. (If in the dark of night, held tightly in Yennefer’s arms, Geralt admitted that he feared losing Jaskier more than most? It went forgotten in daylight the next morning. Well . . . not forgotten. But definitely not addressed.)

Next Geralt shifted beside them and Yennefer’s eyes widened. His hair turned dark brown, nearly black. His eyes . . . a soft almost grey-ish blue. He looked at her with a funny little smile quietly asking, “What’s wrong?” Yennefer could see that his fangs had all but vanished. It was peculiar, and she nearly commented on it until she saw the tankards both men were holding.

She realized she was holding the same.

It was only then that she felt the tight coiling in her back.

Quickly, Yennefer dismissed herself and retreated up the stairs. Neither of her companions had ever seen her- disfigurement, but her lover was quite familiar with the expanse of her body. The one she’d carefully constructed and demanded she was given. As she walked she felt herself convulse and she covered her mouth with her hand. It hurt. Still, she stumbled back to their room and locked the door behind her. In a step she stood in front of the mirror and gazed upon it with horror.

She was, once again, the beast she’d been born as.

She heard the knocking on the door and stood tense as she stared at herself. Geralt stood on the other side of the door. He knocked gently, but the worry was evident in his voice. “Yen? . . . Are you- okay?” He asked gruffly.

She could hear as he huffed at himself, knowing that he recognized how stupid a question that was. At any other time she would have ridiculed him for such obtuse nonsense, but now? She strode back to the door and held it shut as though it wasn’t locked already. “Geralt, I am fine, but I need you to go now. Alright?” She requested.

“Right. Yeah. That’s not going to happen, open the door.” He said evenly.

Yennefer shook her head, “We’ve been given a potion. Go check on your bard.” She said through the thick wood of the door.

Geralt clearly had anticipated such a defense and huffed a laugh, “I already did. Before I came up here. It has done us no damage, and I’m sure it will wear away . . . Come on now, let me in. Let me see you as you are-”

“No.” She said sharply. On the other side of the door, Geralt didn’t move. She knew he wouldn’t either. Yennefer took a slow breath. “You do not want to see me like this and I do not want you to see me like this. You should go. I will return when I am better.”

There was a long beat of silence and Geralt spoke softly. “Yennefer . . . ? If it means so much to you, I will not require that you reveal yourself to me. I do not wish to pry . . . but- if you can bring yourself to, I would like to use this as an opportunity to prove to you that my sentiments for you go far deeper than your appearance . . .”

Damn the witcher and his ridiculous observations. Yennefer bit the inside of her cheek, “Tell me you love me.” She demanded quietly, voice barbed with thorns and anger.

“I love you.” Geralt said without hesitation.

Yennefer dug her fingernails into her palms and swallowed hard. Slowly she stepped back and pulled the door open. Her eyes stayed resolutely on Geralt’s face, looking for those old familiar expressions of disgust and revulsion. There was a slow moment of realization and- guilt?

Geralt cleared his throat, “I- teased you when we first met. For the possibility of a clubbed foot.” He recalled quietly. Of course, Yennefer wouldn’t have wanted to reveal herself if she thought he would judge something so trivial. He shook his head and stepped forward. He left enough space for Yennefer to retreat if she wanted to, but did not hesitate to show his desire to be close to her. “However could I have been so foolish to suggest something like that could hide your beauty.”

Yennefer couldn’t help but scoff, annoyance on her face covering her skepticism. “You mock me. Don’t worry, I will fix this-”

Geralt frowned. “There is nothing to fix.” He said evenly. “You are beautiful now, you were beautiful then. And regardless of your appearance you are powerful and cunning and sharp. You don’t need me to tell you that, but I am happy to remind you when you have forgotten.” He stated.

The mage stared at Geralt, some of the anger melting to reveal the insecurity. She knew that he was right. And at some point in her life she decidedly dismissed anyone who had ever looked down upon her when she looked like this. She knew that she was strong and beautiful regardless of what she looked like. She knew that there was beauty in her imperfections. All these were things her mind understood and beliefs she’d instilled in Cirilla for as long as she could remember . . . and yet? When she’d looked in that mirror, and seen herself as she was before? She struggled to see the beauty in the crooked nature of her spine. In the jutted discomfort of her jaw. Those facts her mind knew became background noise to the criticism her heart remembered. She looked at Geralt carefully and offered a soft, guarded, “Tell me you love me?” It wasn’t a demand this time. It was a request. A request that his voice be used to amplify those facts again. She didn’t need his help to hear them, but- he was offering it. His comfort made it easier to listen.

They hadn’t been out of the city for long and it wasn’t even dark. Honestly, it was rather ballsy for this particular group of bandits to attack a witcher in broad daylight. Yet they jumped out of the trees and descended on Geralt and Jaskier with a singular intent. Their movements were languid and elegant, they moved almost like dancers. Still, Geralt and Jaskier each held their own fairly well. That is until Roach had been threatened and Jaskier grew distracted.

The bard turned his back on the woman he’d been fighting to throw a dagger at the man who’d reached for Roach’s bags. In his moment of urgency, his opponent managed to grip his wrist as it fell from the throw and use the momentum to twist it behind his back. She dragged her own dagger over one of his thighs, cutting it deeply and continuing to move her hand up. The one fluid movement gave her the position to twist Jaskier to her desire and pull the knife close against his neck. “Enough!” She yelled. In any other moment, Jaskier would have swooned over the rasping alto of her voice, but right now he found himself pissed that such a vile woman possessed such a beautiful tone. The gods always gifted the worst of people. “Put down your weapon, mutant, or I will cut your friend’s throat.”

Geralt slowed to a stop across the clearing, his eyes shooting over to where Jaskier was standing. Jaskier shook his head, a silent ‘Don’t even think about it.’ But the woman twisted his arm more harshly and Jaskier winced, persuading Geralt to toss his sword to the side.

“Godsdamnit, Geralt.” Jaskier breathed. 

The woman nodded to two other of her men and they both descended on Roach’s saddlebags. Before they could get there Geralt whistled sharply and Roach kicked the man beside her and took off into the forest. The bandits were fast, but Roach was faster. Geralt suffered a sharp blow to the cheek for it, but Roach escaped mostly untouched. 

Much to Jaskier’s dismay that turned the bandits’ to Geralt, and they were certainly not happy. Jaskier knew that Geralt could have defended himself, would have too, if Jaskier were not standing there with a knife against his throat. He tried briefly to struggle free from the woman, but at the cool drip of his own blood down his neck he stilled. “My pack-!” He said suddenly. 

The bandits slowly pulled back from Geralt, showing their damage, but giving him a break from the beating. Jaskier swallowed hard and pointed with the hand he had twisted behind his back. “My bag is behind that tree. I’d set it down for a moment.” He admitted. “You’ll find a bag of gold there, please. Take it and go.” 

The woman looked over at the same two men from before, both of whom had been taking care of their companion. The one who’d been struck by Roach. She nodded towards the tree and the two walked over to it. They found the bag and subsequently Jaskier’s lute, which he’d been hoping would go unnoticed. They pulled out the small bag of coin, it was all Jaskier had earned at the town they’d been in. She scoffed, “Can you not count? The three men and two women with your friend, the man your horse mauled, and my two partners Jei and Kei. That makes nine of us. You think one bag of coin will satisfy us? You think us too dumb to know that your witcher sent the horse away on purpose?”

Jaskier squirmed, “I think you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want to hear the answers to-” He started to bite back. He was cut off by the sound of his own whimper, the knife cutting deeper into his throat. 

“A smart ass. How fun.” The woman snapped. 

One of her two partners- Kei or Jei, Jaskier didn’t know- walked over, muttering in a language Jaskier did not recognize. The woman laughed in Jaskier’s ear and he felt her nod. “You’re right. He is wearing such pretty clothes.” She said. 

Geralt’s eyes shot up, a look of warning in his eyes, “You will not strip him.” The witcher snarled. 

The woman merely laughed as the other partner reached out and plucked the chain that rested around Jaskier’s neck. If he wasn’t already tense enough, Jaskier grew stone still as the necklace he always wore hidden behind his clothes was pulled out into the daylight. “No- Hey- You bastard with selkimore guts for brains, leave that be-!” Jaskier spat at the man who was rubbing his oily greedy thumb over the pendant that always sat against Jaskier’s chest.  “Take the lute- Hey, please- Take my lute, just leave that alone-” He begged.

Geralt’s eyes widened just slightly at the offer. Filivandrel’s lute hadn’t left Jaskier’s side since the mountains, he almost couldn’t believe that Jaskier was so ready to trade it for a necklace. Though, when he came to think of it, Jaskier always wore that necklace. Geralt had just never asked why . . . 

The necklace was plucked from Jaskier’s neck and pocketed. Almost instantly, Jaskier doubled over. The movement took the woman by surprise and she dropped him to the ground. Jaskier curled up almost pitifully and wrapped his arms around himself. Geralt instantly stood and stepped forward. With the sudden movement, the woman made a sharp yell-like noise and took off. Her group followed her.

When faced with the decision to follow them or to go to Jaskier? Well, Geralt had no choice. He dropped to his knees and looked over Jaskier carefully. He could not believe what he was seeing.

Jaskier’s hair grew darker and his skin developed a sort of bluish tint. It became almost clear and Geralt didn’t need sharp eyes to see the cold veins just below the surface. Sharp dark fingernails grew from the tips of Jaskier’s hands which were quite suddenly webbed. Spiked fins stabbed through Jaskier’s doublet, and protruded down his spine. 

Perhaps the biggest surprise was the dark black and blue tail where legs were not moments ago. 

Jaskier was shuddering and wincing against the sun, his eyes squeezed shut and expression contrite. One of his webbed hands was holding the side of his tail. The cut landed to his thigh now oozed an almost black blood, but looked dried and cracked. Actually, nearly every bit of him seemed to be cracking. 

Geralt’s eyes darted around to the ransacked bag that the bandits had left behind when they’d run. They took Jaskier’s necklace and his coin, but they were otherwise fairly unsuccessful at doing much more than causing chaos. Geralt pulled a flask of water from Jaskier’s bag and a blanket, dumping the water over the cloth and then carefully wrapping the cloth around the most of Jaskier’s tail that he could reach.

Jaskier had a tail. 

Geralt stared at his bard, expression tight and confused. “How-” He started before realizing that the necklace had to have been some kind of glamour. “When-” Surely Jaskier had to have revealed himself some times? When did he do so to keep it from Geralt? . . . Probably when Geralt was away on a hunt. They almost always made certain to have a room with a tub, Geralt had thought that Jaskier wanted to treat him after a stubborn contract, but clearly it served more than one purpose. “Why-” That was a stupid question. Why would Jaskier tell Geralt? Geralt’s entire life was devoted to killing monsters. Jaskier would have had to have been insane or suicidal to share this with Geralt. He was neither. “What-” Another stupid question. Clearly a siren. Mermaids could not breathe above water and Jaskier was breathing right now . . . not to mention the singing. Melitelle, the singing. Geralt should have figured that out sooner.

Jaskier took a labored breath, but the damp blanket was clearly helping. He tried to push himself up. He braced himself against a tree and winced as he squished his back fins. He brought trembling hands back to the gash in his tail and made a small pained noise. 

Geralt noticed the very careful way in which Jaskier’s face remained guarded, and his eyes avoided contact. “If you aren’t going to slit my throat would you mind calling Roach back? I’ve got another flask of water packed on her and- I’m feeling rather parched.” Jaskier requested. Though his tone was decidedly light, it came across as airy and strained rather than it’s regular carefree disposition. 

Geralt nodded silently and whistled again. In the distance he heard the horse turn around and start back their way. He carefully returned his attention to Jaskier and cleared his throat. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He assured him quietly. “I’m never going to hurt you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes, somehow even bluer in his true form than when glamoured, met Geralt’s. He regarded him suspiciously. The pain, both physical and emotional, sat just beneath the surface of Jaskier’s gaze. “I’m a siren. I’ve seen you kill more than one of us.” He said skeptically.

Geralt looked solemn, but assented. “You have. But you’ve also seen me spare sirens. Just like every other creature I’ve dealt with. I only kill what will not stop hurting others . . . I don’t believe that you can hurt others. It is not your nature.” He said quietly. 

Geralt wanted to argue more, but when it came to words he was aware that no sentence he could structure would be clever enough to fight whatever arguments Jaskier’s mind was constructing. Action it would have to be. 

Roach came into the clearing and Geralt got up, walking over to the horse and pulling both his own waterskin and Jaskier’s. He returned and knelt beside the bard- the siren? The- . . .Jaskier. He knelt beside Jaskier and extended one skin while slowly pouring splashes of the others into his palm. He knew his hands were calloused, but he was careful to gently massage the water into the fins on Jaskier’s sides and back, he gently pulled each of Jaskier’s arms forward and poured some of the water on Jaskier’s hands. He gently patted it against the gills that flayed the sides of Jaskier’s neck. 

“Can you survive out of the water for long? Without that pendant?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier’s tail curled up in a slightly defensive manner. “Are you hoping the answer is no, and nature will do your job for you?” He retorted.

Geralt sighed softly, “No. I’m trying to figure out if it would be better to get you to the nearest body of water or to a mage who could make you another pendant . . . if you want, of course.” He explained.

Jaskier huffed with wise resignation he rarely showed, “I don’t have the money for that, Geralt. Why do you think I was willing to trade anything not to lose that one? They’re expensive. I wouldn’t even know where to find another.”

The witcher shook his head. “Jaskier. Can you survive out of the water without magic?”

“I- Yes. So long as I don’t dry out . . . the uh- the wet cloth was a stroke of genius. It is helping quite a bit.” He admitted quietly. 

Geralt nodded. “Good. Then we’ll find a mage.”

Jaskier’s eyes once again found Geralt’s, and Geralt once again saw that suspicion lurking. He wrapped his arms over his own chest, “Who’s going to pay for it? Those fiends took all of my money. I couldn’t earn that back in one stay, let alone the more I would need for a mage’s help.” He said curtly, clearly frustrated with Geralt.

Geralt shook his head. “I have savings. And I know a few mages who owe me.” He said evenly. “I can make it happen.” He said and carefully hooked his hand under the bend of Jaskier’s tail and behind his back. “You’ll have to hold onto Roach tightly-”

Jaskier sputtered indignantly, but gave in and held onto Geralt’s chest. “Geralt.”

“You will also have to let me know when you’re getting too dry-”

“Geralt.”

“It’s the summer months, so the sun will bake you if we aren’t careful-”

“Geralt!” Jaskier finally huffed, exasperated, even as Geralt was carefully setting him on top of Roach. “Doesn’t this seem like exactly the opportunity you were waiting for? I can’t keep up, now is the time to leave. I wouldn’t be able to follow you-” He said, voice tight and low. 

Geralt’s heart seemed to stop. “What-?” He breathed in confusion. “Why the fuck would I leave you?”

Jaskier stared at him sort of incredulously and then dropped his gaze. Despite towering over Geralt from his position on the horse, Jaskier looked . . . smaller. Definitely smaller than usual. Geralt regarded him in confusion as Jaskier cleared his throat. “You’ve made your position quite clear. We are not friends. I am only still around because I’m persistent, of all of the times you’ve up and left in the middle of nights, it only makes sense that you’d- . . . Well. Seize this situation for what it is . . . a chance to leave.” Jaskier gripped tightly onto Roach’s reins, Geralt could see that the webbing on his hands was already drying and cracking again. “I’m no longer just a nuisance. Not even just- a creature you should kill. But past all of that, a hindrance preventing you from continuing on the path, I don’t understand why you’d- . . . help me.”

Geralt stood still, his hands still holding Jaskier up on the horse. One on his hip, one where Jaskier’s knee would be. He couldn’t quite believe the words the bard was saying. Did he truly believe all of that? Geralt had thought- it was all just- banter, wasn’t it? “It seems . . . I owe you an apology, my friend. I- thought we operated with an understanding. I thought that- well, that you knew . . . my sentiments for you.” He explained quietly. 

Jaskier slowly looked up. “Sentiments?”

Geralt nodded, “I do not think of you as any of those things . . . You are my closest friend. At times my only. I- . . .” Geralt cleared his throat awkwardly. “I care a lot about you.” He admitted.

She’d come to that conclusion sitting here, slightly hunched over, drinking some of the most disgusting ale she’d ever purchased. She realized that every drink she took had to make it over the lump in her throat, and every breath she took had to fight to fill her lungs. She was sitting at this bar, knowing that she really shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t be there when she was struggling so greatly to breathe, and honestly, she probably shouldn’t be here at all. This tavern she’d found. It was rather disgusting. The whole place. It was beneath her.

She was one of the most powerful mages to ever walk this world, and they’d served her drink in a disgusting tankard. 

She was the foundation that kept Aretuza running, and the servers here could barely keep up with the few people that had made it out to drink and eat.

She was the sorceress that kept Stregobor in line, and as the tension in the air threatened a bar fight at any moment she sat there silently. Uncaring of whether or not these men cut each other’s throats simply because they were angry with the world.

Tissaia had raised the next generation of the most powerful women in the world.

And she was sat in a run down tavern.

She was sat there, realizing that she was tired and in pain, after a battle in which she fought, but where she was all but useless.

It fucking hurt to breathe. 

“Lift your arms over your head.” Came a voice from behind her. The voice was soft and careful which was quite unusual considering it’s owner. 

Tissaia arched her brow and glanced over her shoulder at Yennefer. “You should be resting.” She criticized, looking back down to the tankard of shitty ale in front of her. If something happened and they needed Yennefer again, it would do no good for her to still be exhausted. The mage had only had a few days rest. 

In that moment, Tissaia found herself praying to the gods she had long since stopped believing in. She prayed that nothing that happened for the next couple of days would require Yennefer’s assistance. She prayed that Yennefer could simply . . . recover. She prayed that the brunt of this war was dealt with, and that never again would Yennefer have to expel so much chaos. She prayed that it was all worth it in the end, and that they’d have peace.

Although she was praying, she was far from hopeful.

Yennefer looked similarly skeptical. “Rest? So that I can be asleep when the next fight starts? I hardly think that is sensible.” She said and took the seat that remained vacant to Tissaia’s side. The tavern was still nearly empty, save for a few stragglers and the permanent fixtures that regular drunks made, but even the few brave enough to go out in this mess would not risk sitting next to such a powerful woman. Especially not when she was clearly quite pissed off. 

A harsh laugh punched itself from Tissaia’s throat and she shook her head, “You’ve never been one for practicality or logic, I don’t see why you’d start now.” She said and then took a difficult breath. 

Though Tissaia had never shied away from scoffing at Yennefer, or belittling her ignorance, it was rather unusual for her to be so blunt about it. Her dismissals were often subtle and sharp. Rarely was she so callous. Never had she simply laughed in Yennefer’s face. It was a worrying sign, and though Yennefer did not take it personally, she was certainly taken aback by the expressive nature of the laugh. 

Yennefer watched Tissaia carefully and then rolled her eyes. For a moment they fell back into those roles they’d assumed so long ago. Student and teacher. Child and adult. As Yennefer rebelled against the obtuse condescending tone, with a huff and a slight pout. Then, she shifted and placed a hand against Tissaia’s back, fixing her posture. She gently nudged Tissaia’s elbows with her free hand, while the other one stayed firmly on Tissaia’s back. “Lift your arms over your head.” She repeated sternly. 

And it seemed as though their roles had reversed themselves, as Tissaia rolled her eyes a bit like the petulant child. It served as stark contrast to the stern look of determination on Yennefer’s face. “Why, girl? So, I can look like a fool?” She wondered allowed. Surely, Yennefer realized it was ridiculous to ask Tissaia to stretch so obnoxiously in the middle of this tavern. With so many people around who could take a swing at her in such an exposing position.

“So you can breathe.” Yennefer said simply.

Tissaia’s eyes shot to the side, looking at Yennefer in surprise, unsure of how Yennefer knew that it was difficult to get air into her lung. Even more uncertain of why Yennefer cared. The older woman exhaled in slight defeat, slouching some. The unmoving hand on her back pushed back to sitting up straight. It was a silent promise of protection, and Tissaia acquiesced. She lifted her arms slowly and folded them over her head. It pushed her ribs open, allowing more space for her lungs. Truthfully, she immediately felt her breathing come easier, though she’d hardly admit that. She wrapped her hands over her own elbows and kept the position even as she felt Yennefer stand and shift behind her. 

“What are you doing?” Tissaia asked, moving to drop her arms. 

Yennefer caught them and kept them where they were. “You inhaled a lot of smoke. It will be hard to breathe for a while as your body defends itself from that grit. But you also put an immense strain on yourself. I imagine you are sore. I was going to help get rid of that ache, deep in your back.” She explained, running a hand down Tissaia’s spine. The older woman certainly did not shudder or anything of the like at such a light and promising touch. Yennefer’s hand gently wrapped around Tissaia’s waist and she regarded Tissaia carefully. 

Despite the appeal of such relief, Tissaia did pull her arms free and lower them. She shifted and turned in her chair to face Yennefer, wrapping the arm at her waist even further around her. Tissaia’s eyes were suspicious and tired as she looked over Yennefer in an attempt to place her motive. She didn’t know what Yennefer’s intent was. The younger woman was never so soft. She was strong and harsh and made of sharp edges, even her love came in bursts of respect and expectation rather than gentle offers of affection. 

Or at least, that was what Tissaia had always received, and she had some hope that despite their strife there was love at the basis of their relationship. Whatever kind of relationship they had.

Yennefer seemed almost- sympathetic to the obvious confusion and disbelief on Tissaia’s face. She gently raised her hands, removing the one wrapped around Tissaia, “Perhaps not in such a public place. My apologies,” She said. She smiled just barely at the expression on Tissaia’s face at the apologies. “Come with me? Back to my room at the inn . . . Let me help.”

Tissaia scoffed, “You want to help me.”

It was a slight blow, and Yennefer wasn’t thrilled with such distrust after everything they’d gone through recently. “It wouldn’t be the first time you needed my help.” Yennefer reminded curtly, seeming a bit agitated at Tissaia’s disposition. 

“No. I suppose not.” Tissaia admitted, her eyes dropping just slightly. “Truthfully, I do ache. And I would not mind . . . help.” She said slowly, taking another deep breath. It was an admission that Yennefer hadn’t anticipated, and the slight smile tugged its place back onto her face. 

“Good.” She hummed quietly. 

Tissaia paid for her drinks and stood with Yennefer. She gestured for Yennefer to lead the way back to their tavern. Yennefer did as silently instructed, and they walked quietly. Only a few comments on the plans for the upcoming days were passed, mostly discussion of when the remaining sorcerers and sorceresses were leaving. They made it to their inn, and Tissaia followed Yennefer up to her room.

They returned to their quiet as they entered the room. Yennefer waved her hand, sending a few things away into the closet and then walking over to the small vanity. Tissaia shut the door behind them and locked it before glancing back over to Yennefer. She pulled a few scented oils from the top and gestured to the bed. “Lay down on your stomach . . . It may help for your back to be exposed, however you find it easiest to manage.” She explained.

Tissaia paused and glanced over at Yennefer’s back briefly. She carefully unlaced the front of her dress and slipped her arms out from it. She let the top of her dress fall over her hips, and carefully she climbed into the bed. There, she laid out, pillowing her head on her arms which were folded beneath her. She took a deep breath and let her eyes close.

Yennefer turned and walked over to the bed, her eyes subconsciously drifting over the sorceress before her. Yennefer believed that there had always been a tension between them that neither of them knew how to, or was willing to admit to. It had always reared its head in a way that made Yennefer believe that it might be jealousy, or hatred even . . . though in her darker moments she’d wondered if it had ever been love, or perhaps lust.

Though her own thoughts were rather heavy, Yenefer couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Tissaia so dishevelled. She wasn’t sure earlier, when hearing the harsh and blatant emotion in Tissaia’s tone. She knew it, now that she was watching the woman so easily give over the power in the room to someone else.

Tissaia felt the bed dip and to her surprise, Yennefer straddled the tops of her thighs. It was a strangely intimate position, and it felt irregular. However, it wasn’t altogether unpleasant and there was a strange comfort to having Yennefer so close to her. 

They sat in silence as Yennefer poured a bit of oil into her hand. She started to massage the fragrance into the soft skin beneath her hands. The silence is not inherently uncomfortable, but there is an urge to speak that Yennefer tries to quell. Despite herself, Yennefer could not remain quiet. “There’s. . .” She started and cleared her throat. “There is this ache- this deep hurt, that hides just beneath my skin. In my neck . . . my back.” She explained. She knew that Tissaia was listening, but the older woman made no movement to show that she was paying attention. Yennefer continued anyway. “The pain from my- disfigurement never went away. Truthfully, after my transformation . . . it got worse.” She admitted.

Tissaia’s vulnerability reared itself as outbursts, displays of emotions that she could usually keep to herself. The inability to hide the chaos that simmered so close to the surface of her skin. But the manner in which Yennefer showed that her heart was unfortified was by simply being honest. She so rarely liked anyone enough to share herself with them, and most definitely did not trust easily. Yet, as they sat here, she spoke of a trial she faced that she’d never admitted to another person. Even in her time with Geralt, she did not tell him of her hunched back, unsettled jaw, or other ailments.

Thoughts of Geralt intruded on this soft moment like a manticore in a shop of precious antiques. Unwelcome and threatening. Yennefer carefully pushed them out and shut the door behind them. 

She continued just as softly, “Some days it feels like there are hooks in my shoulders, pulling them back into a posture so unnatural and uncomfortable that I want to scream . . .” Carefully, Yennefer’s fingers traced along Tissaia’s ribcage. She gently flattened her palms against Tissaia’s shoulder blades.  “I only mean to say that: When it comes to aches and pain, I’ve had to learn quite well how best to manage them. You know how to suppress your emotions, but . . . I suppose I am offering you help in feeling them.” She said.

Throughout the entire admission, Yennefer saw no movement or acknowledgement from the woman beneath her. The only thing that told her she was being listened to was the way the energy focused in the room. Like it was vacuumed from every crevice and being held in Tissaia’s chest. Yennefer knew that that much focus had to be for a reason. She knew that some silent test was happening in Tissaia’s mind, and hoped only that her honesty would help her pass it. Perhaps if whatever Tissaia was looking for was or wasn’t there, Tissaia would be able to find the peace she needed to relax and allow herself this kindness.

What Tissaia was looking for was the lie. She’d never heard such open statements from her charge, and the bitter part of her was still expecting for some angle to reveal itself. She found herself waiting for Yennefer to reveal an ulterior motive . . . and yet? Throughout the entire admission, Tissaia saw no trace of Yennefer’s silver tongue, spinning charm and manipulation around her victims. This was by far a reflection of that young woman Tissaia found so long ago. So full of anger, yes, but fuller still of sorrow and heart. Begging for the opportunity to share it with someone. 

Melitele, did Tissaia want to be that person. 

She slowly reached back and caught one of Yennefer’s wrists. She gently pulled it, enough for Yennefer to understand and sit up some. It gave Tissaia the space to roll over and push herself to sitting as well. She backed up to lean against the headboard and Yennefer went to move out of the way. Instead, Tissaia caught Yennefer’s hip and pulled her closer. With Yennefer sat in her lap, Tissaia reached up and gently caressed Yennefer’s jaw. “You were supposed to be my student.” She said quietly. “Nothing more.” It came out as almost a laugh, but definitely a tired one. “And instead, you took what I taught you and used it to turn yourself into a mage so beautiful, powerful, and smart than I could ever have hoped to turn you into.” Tissaia said. 

Yennefer’s heart beat slightly faster than usual and she wasn’t certain where to put her hands. Despite herself, her eyes fell, swooping over Tissaia’s bare chest. She gently lifted her hands to hold either side of Tissaia’s neck, thumbs brushing back and forth on either side. “Saia-”

“You have always been beautiful.” Tissaia said, voice barely above a whisper. “You have always been powerful.” Her eyes dipped to Yennefer’s lips. “And you have always been smart.” She said. “If those traits were not in you from the very beginning, you would not have prevailed on the battlefield as you have. And these last days, I have been unable to forgive myself for ever having thought- that I was capable of- . . .” She fought to find the right words. “For ever trying to restrain you. For failing to tell you so long ago that you are art, Yennefer. The most stunning masterpiece ever made and you always have been.” She said. “Perhaps this is far more forward than I am used to being, and I hope that you do not scoff at me for being a soft old woman trying to make the most of what time we have left . . . but during that fight- when I thought I might die, when I thought you might die- I wanted nothing more than to tell you how good you were. And apologize for not having said it sooner.” She whispered.

Yennefer stared carefully into Tissaia’s eyes, looking for something- any sign that this was ingenuine. That this was a rant spurred on by fear-instilled madness. 

Tissaia stared right back to show that it wasn’t. 

Without a second thought, Yennefer pulled Tissaia into a soft kiss, holding onto her tightly.