#jaskier is missing

Possibly, because no matter how much Jaskier had told him to stay put, to wait, to just fucking trust him damnit, Geralt is fretting.

Finally he gives in.

Leaving the room the kind elderly lady is lending them, Geralt stalks outside. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

The people here are not afraid of him, but seem to keep a distance from the bard. Everything about this place seems grey, but still it seems like the ever colorful Jaskier returns here, over and over again.

He starts with the aldermans house. They don’t have a tavern, the little gathering of houses far too small for such luxuries.

“The bard? You should check by the docks, or the boat house. He usually is out with the boat this time a year.”

He..what? Boat?

What the fuck is Jaskier doing?!

Geralt leaves without saying good bye, and the bard would have scolded Geralt for his bad manners, but he isn’t fucking here, is he?!

The boat house is, predictably, just down by the water. There is a long dock leading into the water, two smaller fishing boats tied to it.

An elderly man and someone who looks like his son sits by the house, mending nets.They look up when he approaches, shielding their eyes against the setting sun.

“Have you seen a bard around here? Jaskier? Brown hair, blue eyes, a lute and the worst fashion sense known to man?”

The elderly man presses his lips to a thin line and ducks his head. His son studies the witcher for a long moment, sizing him up, before responding.

“Aye,” he says, “What is it to you, witcher?”

“He’s my friend.” Geralt manages, working hard around a word that feels so inadequate. “And he is missing.”

“No more, lad,” the elderly man mutters, “Bad luck, it is.”

Geral frowns, trying not to let his impatience get the better of him.

“I’ll make it worth your while. Six crowns.”

“Florens.” The son corrects. “Ten. And I’ll take you to where we left him.”

-

The elderly fisherman refuses to come. Speaking of ill omens and bad luck, of not talking to the sea. The son takes him anyway, the sea getting oddly misty as they go further out with the boat.

“Coin is sparse out here, but my niece is sick. I’d rather leave the sea altogether than see her hurt,” the son says, rowing the boat towards a previously hidden little rock formation, barely an island. “Da doesn’t want to speak of it, speak of evil and it shall come, he says. We don’t need more sirens, he says.”

Geralt eyes him, then the sky. He can’t hear any flapping of wings, nor splashing of their tails. The water is calm, but the mist lays thick and hides both sight and sound.

The little boat touches the edge of the rock with a soft sound when they arrive.

“This is where I let him off every year,” the son says. “And pick him up after a few days. Know nothing but that.”

The florens trade hands, and when Geralt gets off, he pushes back into the water.

“I’ll be back in an hour. It’s probably superstition, but I don’t much like this place.”

-

Inspecting the area, Geralt finds it bare of both bards and life. He climbs around it, eventually finding an expensive looking chest with a solid lock on it.

It looks strange out here, oddly devoid of the wear and tear one would expect wood around the shore. Geralt picks the lock with ease, and when opens the lid, it doesn’t make a sound.

Inside it is a very familiar lute, and neatly folded clothes. Geralt’s heart sinks, but he has a trace now, something. He rummages around, finding everything Jaskier had brought but his jewellery. Even his underclothes is here.

Geralt closes it again, locks it carefully.

There should be traces here, anything to lead him to where Jaskier is.

The scent is old, barely there and hidden by the salty smell of the sea. Geralt will never complain about Jaskier’s perfume ever again.

It leads him to the other side of the little island, across the rocks on a path that looks surprisingly smooth and well walked.

Geralt stops when water starts lapping at his feet.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Either Jaskier has been hiding something from him, or something very bad has happened. And either truth still means Jaskier is missing, and that he went into the water. And from the sound of it, has been coming to the water for years.

Geralt trails back to the chest, takes off his boots and heavy armor. Takes off everything but his trousers, and two silver daggers.

The stone is smooth under his feet, and quickly gets slippery as it continues out into the water.

It’s cold, his skin pebbles when he gets as deep as his knees. Then the rock abruptly ends. Geralt breathes deep, and dives. Cat and killer whale would have been useful, but he didn’t know he would have to go swimming when they got out here.

Geralt has almost swum around the entire island when he notices the formations. Runes carved into stone, worn smooth by time and water.

With another deep breath, he follows it down, down, down, and what little sunlight was left quickly disappears down here.

There is an opening a bit further down. And eyes. Many eyes.

Geralt realizes too late that he is surrounded, and there are clawed fingers and webbed hands pulling him deeper still, and into the opening.

His lungs are burning for air, and he is quickly disoriented, his elbows scraping against stone and harsh hands making him unable to reach for his knives.

Suddenly, they breach the surface, and Geralt pants harshly as he is dragged onwards and thrown onto a slimy rock. Broken shells of crabs and clams are spread out, and bones of fishes of all sizes lie spread among them.

Now free from his attacker, Geralt reaches for the dagger and turns to face them, but a beautiful face filled with fangs hisses at him as they retreat backwards, and another set of hands grip him hard.

Geralt can’t entirely make out if it is siren or mer people or something completely else, but more hands grip him, wrestling the knife from his hand.

“Walk!” one hisses, “You were looking, and you found us. Walk!”

Her voice is almost human, but her tongue is unused to his language. They shove him forward, deeper into the cave. It gets darker and darker, until suddenly Geralt realizes the walls are glowing.

Aluminescent is probably the right word for it. Algae covers the walks, swirling lines make patterns he feels like he has seen somewhere before.

It takes him until the now narrow walkway opens up into a bigger space that Geralt realizes where he recognizes it from. The embroidery of Jaskier’s clothes.

When Geralt locks eyes with Jaskier across the room, the bard’s jaw is slack with surprise when he sees him

“Geralt,” he says, but oh.

Oh.

Jaskier doesn’t have a tail, but his skin is glimmering with the same pattern as the walls. He is sitting in the middle of the open space, on a rock slanting out to a deep, clear pool. It almost looks like a throne room.

Around his feet are merpeople of different shapes and sizes.

The guards shoves him back when Geralt attempts to take a step forward, and Geralt bares his teeth to them.

“Stop it,” Jaskier says, voice commanding.

The guards, now that Geralt sees them, look like a strange hybrid of fish and man. Claws and fins and webbed fingers and hissing breaths, but they keep their distance, as they are told.

Jaskier is still wearing his rings and his necklace, but little else. On his brow is a circlet, thin and adorned with shells and crowned with a mother of pearls.

“I told you to wait,” Jaskier says, tilting his head.

“You didn’t come back. It’s been three days,” Geralt says, feeling foolish without not really knowing why.

“Has it? I’m sorry, time passes strangely down here.”

They just look at each other for a long while, for once the bard too seems at a loss for words.

“You don’t look like them,” Geralt says finally, indicating at the more fish-like guards behind him.

“I don’t,” Jaskier agrees, “Many mer these days are closer to sirens, but those close to the royal family are more humanoid.”

Jaskier gives a crooked smile when he sees Geralt wracks his brain.

“I told you I was a noble, didn’t I?”

“You said viscount.” Geralt suddenly remembers. “Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenove.”

“Ah yes, well. That is some of the truth, yes. Don’t give me that look, Geralt, I didn’t lie to you. I just happen to be a prince too.”

Geralt blinks, and Jaskier looks back at him, sitting proudly despite the light frown.

“Mer prince? Is that why you don’t have a tail?” Geralt asks carefully, and the guard next to him rolls his eyes so hard his head moves with it.

“I do have a tail, my friend. When I choose to. The perks of royalty, wouldn’t you say?” he says with a smirk, “Now, as happy as I am to see you here, and for you to meet my family, this is… not ideal. I wish… It doesn’t matter. You are here now. Ligeia, let him through. I think it is time he is given the tour.”

“But my prince-” Ligeia says with her weird, hissing voice, but Jaskier waves her off.

“I have spent more time with him than you are old. Let him come to me.”

Geralt is let through, and Jaskier offers his hand. It is not something they usually do, not while awake, but Geralt accepts it anyway.

Jaskier is cool to the touch, but his hands feel the same. Same callouses, same scar just over his thumb from a stupid accident with a branch.

He is led towards the other side of the rock, into the clear pool.

“Not the way I wanted to show you, but I’m glad you are here,” Jaskier whispers, like a confession. Hand in hand, they dive.

-

When they return to the outside world, the stars are out. When Geralt worries about how they will get back, Jaskier waves him off.

“They always kind of know when I need to go back. I think that is a part of why they don’t trust me.”

Yeah, that makes sense. Splashing of ores breaks the serene silence around them, and the son stares at them a bit wide eyed.

The ride back is more tense than last time, despite Jaskier’s chattering.

When they get back to their room, Geralt realizes they are still holding hands.