quicksilverfox3 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quicksilverfox3) wrote2020-01-07 11:54 am
quicksilverfox3) wrote2020-01-07 11:54 am
Entry tags:
[Fic] A Moment of Sunlight (The Witcher, Geraskier)
'Geraskier prompt: A close call for Jaskier in which Geralt thought he'd lose him awakens feelings he didn't know he had for the bard.'
“Jaskier!” Geralt roared, golden eyes already seeing the outcome and hating it.
Jaskier was caught halfway between turning to see the creature, a kikimora, fangs bared and grotesque limbs raised to strike, behind him when Geralt’s shout reached him. Already he was falling, pushing himself sideways, a reflexive and desperate attempt to get away, eyes as wide as a rabbits staring down the maw of a wolf. But it wouldn’t be enough.
Geralt’s mutations were both a blessing and a curse, but in that moment he hated them, hated them more than he could possibly say as the barb punctured Jaskier’s side and the coppery tang of blood filled the air. Jaskier screamed once, high and thin, body twisting even as he was thrown with the force of that stab, crumpling to the forest floor. The kikimora chittered, taking a single step towards the fallen Jaskier, spindly limbs clicking.
That was as close as it got to Geralt’s downed companion before the Witcher was on top of it, metal ringing as he stabbed frantically downwards into the soft sections of the monsters skull, all finesse forgotten in the wake of his panic, his rage. It screamed once, thrashing beneath him, mud churning beneath the pair as it died in slow bloody agony.
A low snarl tumbled through his chest as Geralt stared out on the still water, sword raised. Blood and viscera dripped from the metal, splattering onto the cooling corpse beneath his feet. The wind rustled the tops of the trees, and a single solitary bird began to sing in the distance.
Geralt sheathed his sword, uncaring of the squish of blood on his blade, and turned to search for Jaskier, heart lodged in his throat. Jaskier grinned when Geralt’s eyes found his, face drawn tight with pain and pale enough that he shone like the moon against the muted browns and greens of the forest.
Jaskier opened his mouth to speak but any words were lost in a groan of pain, the bard aborting his motion to sit up and curling onto his side. Blood, red and all encompassing, covered his hands as he pressed them to the wound in his side.
“Jaskier. Shut up,” Geralt said, kneeling at his side before he registered moving.
Jaskier laughed, a quick bark that lacked true humour, and began to hum softly, eyes closed, running through snatches of melodies Geralt could remember from their previous days of travel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the iron bands around Geralt’s heart relaxed, breath coming easier.
A shiver ran down the Witcher’s spine and he froze, every muscle tending into readiness. Gold eyes scanned the silent forest as he listened, sent his hearing past the steady beating of Jaskier’s heart and the soothing sound of his music. What was happening? Geralt glanced down at Jaskier, a frown creasing his brow.
The bard was bracketed by Geralt’s hands, one planted so close to his head he could feel the movement of air as he sang, the other hovering just above the wound in Jaskier’s side. He had been close to Jaskier before, rarely by his own choice as he placed himself between the smaller man and whatever danger he found himself in, whether that was a murderously inclined husband or wife or a monster risen from the depths at the sound of his voice.
But this seemed different. Beneath the iron tang of blood, Geralt could smell the oils Jaskier worked into his skin every evening. It was a ritual as familiar to Geralt as was sharpening his sword, a comfort he had started to look forward to as the nights drew ever nearer and ever darker. He was used to loss, haunted by the ghosts of his past failures, but the thought of losing Jaskier cut deeper.
“I want a funeral fit for a king,” Jaskier said, half cracking an eye open to peer up at Geralt.
“What?” Geralt snapped, words harsher than he intended. The thought of Jaskier alone and cold in the ground, world bereft of songs like sunlight… Everything in Geralt’s being rebelled at the very thought of it.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, raising one eyebrow in credulation at the confusion on Gerlat’s face, ignoring the snarl lingering beneath the witcher’s question with an ease that perilously few possessed, “I am under the impression I’m dying? That is obviously the only reason why I’m still lying on the ground.”
“You’ll be fine,” Geralt replied, mechanically tracing the edges of Jaskier’s newest wound. The wound was mercifully shallow, promising to leave nothing more than a silvery scar to mark Jaskier’s skin.
The urge twisted in Geralt’s fingers to press his hand to the wound, to cover it from sight and push magic through it until it vanished. He hated the sight of it, hated the implications that Jaskier was so delicate, that he would one day be gone. The bard could be annoying and loud, jarring and distracting, but Geralt wouldn’t have him any other way.
“Come on. There was a camp on the outskirts of the forest, near where Roach is. Should be a healer there,” Geralt said, rising back up to his feet and holding out his hand to pull Jaskier up. He kept his face carefully stoic, not revealing the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
Jaskier winced as he stood, red stained hands flying to his wound as iron filled Geralt’s nose once more. Travelling back to the camp wouldn’t help if Jaskier bled out before they got there, cold and still in Geralt’s arms, the path too narrow to bring Roach. He had to trust in the horse’s own stubborn nature, and the mark of a Witcher on his saddlebags.
“Hold still,” Geralt instructed a slightly swaying Jaskier as the bard steady himself on Geralt’s arms, nails digging into the leather.
“Wha-”
Jaskier’s question shifted into a yelp of surprise as Geralt picked him up, hand pressed solidly to Jaskier’s side and pressing him into the Witcher’s chest. Reflexively, Jaskier’s hands shot to Geralt’s shoulders to steady himself, but Geralt started walking, giving him no chance to protest.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Jaskier relaxed, inch by hard worn inch, into Geralt’s hold, hands resting on his shoulders rather than clinging like talons. Geralt fixed his gaze on the horizon, unwilling to look down at the fierce reflexive blush decorating Jaskier’s cheeks. The bard began to hum again, a softer melody, reminiscent of a lullaby, as they moved through the trees, darkness nipping at Geralt’s heels.
He moved as quickly as he dared, ears attuned to the slight hitches in Jaskier’s song when pain flashed through him, and yet, Geralt knew he would miss being this close to Jaskier. He would savour it while he could.
“Jaskier!” Geralt roared, golden eyes already seeing the outcome and hating it.
Jaskier was caught halfway between turning to see the creature, a kikimora, fangs bared and grotesque limbs raised to strike, behind him when Geralt’s shout reached him. Already he was falling, pushing himself sideways, a reflexive and desperate attempt to get away, eyes as wide as a rabbits staring down the maw of a wolf. But it wouldn’t be enough.
Geralt’s mutations were both a blessing and a curse, but in that moment he hated them, hated them more than he could possibly say as the barb punctured Jaskier’s side and the coppery tang of blood filled the air. Jaskier screamed once, high and thin, body twisting even as he was thrown with the force of that stab, crumpling to the forest floor. The kikimora chittered, taking a single step towards the fallen Jaskier, spindly limbs clicking.
That was as close as it got to Geralt’s downed companion before the Witcher was on top of it, metal ringing as he stabbed frantically downwards into the soft sections of the monsters skull, all finesse forgotten in the wake of his panic, his rage. It screamed once, thrashing beneath him, mud churning beneath the pair as it died in slow bloody agony.
A low snarl tumbled through his chest as Geralt stared out on the still water, sword raised. Blood and viscera dripped from the metal, splattering onto the cooling corpse beneath his feet. The wind rustled the tops of the trees, and a single solitary bird began to sing in the distance.
Geralt sheathed his sword, uncaring of the squish of blood on his blade, and turned to search for Jaskier, heart lodged in his throat. Jaskier grinned when Geralt’s eyes found his, face drawn tight with pain and pale enough that he shone like the moon against the muted browns and greens of the forest.
Jaskier opened his mouth to speak but any words were lost in a groan of pain, the bard aborting his motion to sit up and curling onto his side. Blood, red and all encompassing, covered his hands as he pressed them to the wound in his side.
“Jaskier. Shut up,” Geralt said, kneeling at his side before he registered moving.
Jaskier laughed, a quick bark that lacked true humour, and began to hum softly, eyes closed, running through snatches of melodies Geralt could remember from their previous days of travel. Slowly, ever so slowly, the iron bands around Geralt’s heart relaxed, breath coming easier.
A shiver ran down the Witcher’s spine and he froze, every muscle tending into readiness. Gold eyes scanned the silent forest as he listened, sent his hearing past the steady beating of Jaskier’s heart and the soothing sound of his music. What was happening? Geralt glanced down at Jaskier, a frown creasing his brow.
The bard was bracketed by Geralt’s hands, one planted so close to his head he could feel the movement of air as he sang, the other hovering just above the wound in Jaskier’s side. He had been close to Jaskier before, rarely by his own choice as he placed himself between the smaller man and whatever danger he found himself in, whether that was a murderously inclined husband or wife or a monster risen from the depths at the sound of his voice.
But this seemed different. Beneath the iron tang of blood, Geralt could smell the oils Jaskier worked into his skin every evening. It was a ritual as familiar to Geralt as was sharpening his sword, a comfort he had started to look forward to as the nights drew ever nearer and ever darker. He was used to loss, haunted by the ghosts of his past failures, but the thought of losing Jaskier cut deeper.
“I want a funeral fit for a king,” Jaskier said, half cracking an eye open to peer up at Geralt.
“What?” Geralt snapped, words harsher than he intended. The thought of Jaskier alone and cold in the ground, world bereft of songs like sunlight… Everything in Geralt’s being rebelled at the very thought of it.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, raising one eyebrow in credulation at the confusion on Gerlat’s face, ignoring the snarl lingering beneath the witcher’s question with an ease that perilously few possessed, “I am under the impression I’m dying? That is obviously the only reason why I’m still lying on the ground.”
“You’ll be fine,” Geralt replied, mechanically tracing the edges of Jaskier’s newest wound. The wound was mercifully shallow, promising to leave nothing more than a silvery scar to mark Jaskier’s skin.
The urge twisted in Geralt’s fingers to press his hand to the wound, to cover it from sight and push magic through it until it vanished. He hated the sight of it, hated the implications that Jaskier was so delicate, that he would one day be gone. The bard could be annoying and loud, jarring and distracting, but Geralt wouldn’t have him any other way.
“Come on. There was a camp on the outskirts of the forest, near where Roach is. Should be a healer there,” Geralt said, rising back up to his feet and holding out his hand to pull Jaskier up. He kept his face carefully stoic, not revealing the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
Jaskier winced as he stood, red stained hands flying to his wound as iron filled Geralt’s nose once more. Travelling back to the camp wouldn’t help if Jaskier bled out before they got there, cold and still in Geralt’s arms, the path too narrow to bring Roach. He had to trust in the horse’s own stubborn nature, and the mark of a Witcher on his saddlebags.
“Hold still,” Geralt instructed a slightly swaying Jaskier as the bard steady himself on Geralt’s arms, nails digging into the leather.
“Wha-”
Jaskier’s question shifted into a yelp of surprise as Geralt picked him up, hand pressed solidly to Jaskier’s side and pressing him into the Witcher’s chest. Reflexively, Jaskier’s hands shot to Geralt’s shoulders to steady himself, but Geralt started walking, giving him no chance to protest.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Jaskier relaxed, inch by hard worn inch, into Geralt’s hold, hands resting on his shoulders rather than clinging like talons. Geralt fixed his gaze on the horizon, unwilling to look down at the fierce reflexive blush decorating Jaskier’s cheeks. The bard began to hum again, a softer melody, reminiscent of a lullaby, as they moved through the trees, darkness nipping at Geralt’s heels.
He moved as quickly as he dared, ears attuned to the slight hitches in Jaskier’s song when pain flashed through him, and yet, Geralt knew he would miss being this close to Jaskier. He would savour it while he could.