Imagine if Changeling!Jaskier wore a glamour. If Geralt knows the bard wears a glamour, and has known, really, ever since the bard came up to him all those years ago and his medallion hummed slightly, and never really stopped. Because if that wasn’t sign enough, it’s easy to know by the way the bard refuses to take off his silver bracelet with the runes on it, no matter how dirty it gets, as if to take it off would be the end of the world.
But Jaskier doesn’t bring it up, and Geralt figures that with how particular Jaskier is about his looks, the glamour is just there to make him appear younger, slimmer, fresher. Whatever it does, his medallion does not seem to find it malicious, and that’s really all that matters to him.
Until the pair find themselves backed up, quite literally, to the edge of a cliff by a platoon of Nilfgaardian soldiers intent on taking the bard and witcher captive for torture and interrogation. And Jaskier looks at Geralt, who is standing in front of him, ready to defend him to his dying breath, and carefully removes the piece of silver.
Geralt watches, confused, as all the soldiers lower their weapons, his medallion humming stronger. Jaskier tells him not to turn around, to focus on getting them out of there, and while his voice sounds…lighter? Softer? the tone is insistent, so Geralt does as he says, trusting the bard has a plan.
Geralt blazes through the army, the soldiers barely putting up any resistance, focused on something just behind the witcher. And Geralt isn’t stupid, he knows Jaskier must have done something, he just doesn’t know quite what the bard has done to provoke such a strong reaction.
He hears Jaskier swear behind him, but doesn’t lose focus, training his eyes on the next soldier facing him until all that’s left in front is the woods they’d run out of near an hour ago now. So he turns, mentally bracing himself not to react, only to find an ethereal being behind him. He thinks the books at Kaer Morhen didn’t do the description of fae justice, that the very glow of the stars, moon, sun pales in comparison—
Geralt shakes his head, reminds himself this is Jaskier, even with the eyes that sparkle like gems, the flawless milky skin, and the hair that shines and seems to flow slightly in a nonexistent wind. It helps, that the bard looks more worried, more scared than he’s seen the man in a long time, clearly concerned about how the witcher will react.
And that…Geralt pretends like that isn’t how he feels constantly as Jaskier sheepishly explains that the bracelet fell into the ravine in the struggle. Geralt nods, grabbing Jaskier and dragging him back to Roach when he notices the way the bard looks longingly at what can only be a quick and foolish death.
And it’s…fine, for the next few days, as they camp outside. Geralt watches as the woodland creatures flock to the bard, utterly flabbergasted, both men feeling slightly guilty when some of the poor, entranced creatures are sacrificed for the sake of sustenance.
But when they need to go into town, to restock, he watches as Jaskier hesitates, exuding terror. He takes the Witcher’s cloak offered to him with trembling hands, not even complaining about its drab colors, and Geralt just humms. Nothing will happen, not when he’s with Geralt, which Jaskier should know by now.
But Geralt wasn’t expecting the way the townsfolk flocked to the bard, their mental barriers even worse than the soldiers’ were. He tries to keep the bard behind him, but they’re quickly surrounded, and Geralt flounders for a moment. He can’t attack these people, not when they’re as much victims in this as Jaskier is, but he also can’t let them get to his bard.
So he tosses the man up on Roach, clearing a path for the mare before hoisting himself up behind the cowering man, shielding him from the unwanted touches as they flee into the woods.
And Geralt isn’t sure what to do as the bard breathes quickly, harshly, head whipping back and forth to make sure they’re not followed until they’ve returned to the small clearing they’d slept at the night prior. Geralt helps the bard off Roach, watches as the man clutches his own hair, rocking silently on the forest floor.
This is normally where Geralt would try to comfort the bard, to maybe give him a hug, but would that even be welcome here? After the touch enforced on him? After what almost happened, would have happened, if not—
And Geralt mentally swears as he slowly approaches the bard like he would a spooked Roach. Because clearly, if Jaskier had seen fit to spend what must have been quite a lot of money on such a powerful glamour, there were other instances like this. Situations that Jaskier couldn’t get himself out of, times where he was overpowered and—
Geralt holds out his hand, only stumbling a bit at the way the bard practically flies into his chest. Ignoring the growing wet spot on his shirt, he whispers promises of getting a new glamour, of not entering any more towns, of keeping the bard safe.
And as Jaskier falls asleep, dried tear stains doing nothing to take away his unparalleled beauty, Geralt wonders if this is part of why Jaskier was never scared of him. If Jaskier approached him all those years ago, uncaring what others thought of the witcher, because he understood what it was to be dehumanized for simply existing.
The thought made Geralt wonder if, given the chance, he would trade the hatred he faced for the unwavering infatuation the bard’s presence compelled.
He didn’t think he would.
