Where I Stand

One Bond Torn, Another Mended

Clang! Jaskier bares his teeth as his sword scrapes across Geralt's, the motion making a horrible screeching sound. The witcher fends him off expertly as the bard whirls around, delivering another swinging blow, then a series of fast swipes.

Jaskier's body is burning with energy; partly from the shock and lasting adrenaline of seeing Lambert nearly get his throat torn out in front of him, the rest anger and frustration. After the display that Geralt had given when Lambert woke, Jaskier went directly from Lambert's room to go and track down his husband. They all have different ways of dealing with their emotions, and Geralt's favoured method is to meditate in bitter cold temperatures until he returns to his senses. Jaskier takes a more confrontational approach.

He's already dressed in his light armour when he finds Geralt in the courtyard, his own sword strapped to his back along with Geralt's steel one. Geralt opens one eye when he sees the bard stomping towards him, hands on his hips, and glaring daggers.

"What the hell was that, Geralt?"

The witcher opens the other eye then looks up at his husband, one pale eyebrow arching as he takes note of the swords. "Jaskier," he acknowledges. "You want to fight." It's not a question.

Jaskier unsheathes Geralt's sword, then throws it on the ground in front of the witcher. "You had no right to treat Lambert that way. He poured his heart out to you, and you all stomped on it!"

"I said nothing," Geralt replies calmly.

"You didn't have to."

"He's been travelling with a Cat. He broke the School of the Wolf's rules and then lied about it."

"So the fuck what? Him being with Aiden doesn't hurt you any!"

Geralt's calm breaks. "That Cat nearly ripped his throat out!" he snarls, standing from his knelt position. "I almost lost my brother because of him!"

"Well you'll lose him for sure if you keep acting like an ass!"

The witcher bares his teeth, showing off slightly pointed canines. A low growl rumbles in his chest. "You don't understand. The Cats--"

"Yes, yes, I know," Jaskier snaps. "You're all a bunch of angry, growling, men incapable of forgiving events that happened nearly a century ago."

Geralt shakes his head. "You don't understand," he says. "You weren't there."

Jaskier sighs and raises his sword, pointing the tip towards his husband. "Pick up the sword, Geralt."

Geralt hesitates, and for a brief moment, all the anger drains from his face. "Jask..."

"Now."

Holding Jaskier's gaze, Geralt picks up the sword. Jaskier herds him into the center of the training yard, then stands ten paces away from the other man. They circle each other slowly.

"Rules?" Geralt asks.

"First blood. No Signs. No Magic."

"And if I win?"

Jaskier shakes his head. "It's not about winning. It's about knocking some sense into you."

Now the two of them are locked in a dangerous match of swinging metal, swords clashing with each ragged breath.

Geralt is better than Jaskier at fighting-- he has about seven decades of experience on him, and trained the bard himself, so he knows all of Jaskier's moves. Even still, Jaskier has become quite the capable swordsman during his time with Geralt, and he won't go down without putting up a fight. Plus Jaskier likes to get creative, something which always keeps his husband on his toes.