And yet... Here we are

Non-Answers

The fall chill came on a breeze, smelling of crisped leaves and rain. The sun beamed down brightly on the days it wasn't raining, desperate to warm the ground below. People moved about their daily lives, still telling made up tales of when Geralt had visited their town. However, Jaskier had been lucky enough they didn't remember him beside the white wolf. If they had, he surely would have been kicked out of Oxenfurt. Or at least, not allowed to play or stay at the tavern. 

The bard had let Geralt's memory slip from his mind. Truthfully, he doubted their paths would ever cross again. He took to singing in the tavern nightly with no intent of leaving so long as the steady coin intake continued, and he still had his room upstairs. After all, it was how he had been since Geralt had left him in the dirty, dusty, abandoned building in Rinde. 

Jaskier finished at the end of dusk, as he normally did. He had found over the past months that drunks didn't much enjoy his songs of debauchery, and they paid nothing for it. However, before they had enough whiskey in their bellies to kill a horse, they paid quite well. The bard assumed it was because they didn't realize they were even giving up so much in their coin purse. Either way, it kept a roof over his head and food in his stomach. He wouldn't complain. 

Jaskier gave no heed to the applause after the coin was in his pockets. He retreated to his room only after grabbing a loaf of bread and an ale from the innkeeper. With the bread tucked firmly under his arm, one hand around the mug, and the other wrapped around the neck of the lute, Jaskier treaded up the wooden steps. He pushed back the wooden door, ignoring how it creaked. Truthfully, Jaskier didn't see the need in lighting the candles as he set down his lute atop the wooden desk. He would fall asleep as soon as the ale was finished, and the bread gone. 

The bard sat down on the hard bed with a yawn. He took a bite of the stale bread and let the crunching sound fill his ears. His head hung low, his hair falling into his eyes. He was exhausted. He would have already fallen asleep if he hadn't needed to eat something. Slowly, he picked up his head to look out the window; surely the moon would be full and bright tonight. However, he was met with the sight of a man covered in studded armor. The troubadour froze. He had no weapons in reach; even if he did, he wasn't sure he'd win the fight. Instead, he kicked his feet, pushing his back against the wall. He stared. His eyes widened as he tried to see the face of the intruder. In his haste, he had knocked over his ale making the air smell of crisp, fermented apples. 

"Jaskier." The gruff voice greeted, unamused. 

There was a long pause that hung in the air. The two stared at each other, though Jaskier couldn't see the Witcher's face. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier finally asked, unsure if it was even the right name to ask. 

"Yes, it's me." Geralt confirmed. 

Jaskier didn't relax. His back still pressed against the wall as he stared at the dark figure in his inn room. "What do you want?" He asked slowly. 

"For you to come with me." 

Jaskier scoffed. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Let me just grab my things so I can be yelled at again for something I can't control. That sounds fantastic." 

"Don't be so dramatic." 

"I'm an artist, Geralt. Being dramatic pays my bills." 

"Let's go." Geralt instructed. He grabbed Jaskier's lute from off the desk. 

"Let me get this right." Jaskier stood. He took his lute from Geralt for no other reason than to set it on the bed, away from him. "You yell at me when I come to in Skellege. You berate me in Rinde. You leave me stranded in a collapsed building. You don't speak to me for months. Now you want me to go with you?"