Of Bards and Witchers

Sixteenth

    It's when the bard's teeth begin to chatter despite his sweat-slick skin that Geralt loses his patience. Jaskier's eyes follow him as he paces the with enough fervor he might as well pick through the stone floor-- It's nearing their third night in this blasted cave and the pounding in his head has yet to relent. More than anything he wants to curl up in this cloak and fall into some eternal slumber, but he can't sleep with the melody nagging at him like a harsh whisper in his ear. Instead he buries his face in the fur lining and sighs deeply.

    Play me.

    Three days since he'd touched his lute.

    Play me.

    "I feel ghastly," he huffs. I'm not sure I could play even if I wanted to. "Are we sure I'm not turning into some hag?"

    Play me.

    The Witcher breathes something akin to a laugh, Jaskier hears his pacing cease rather than sees it. "Don't have the tits for it," he says.

    Jaskier snorts rather attractively, doesn't care enough to be embarrassed-- "I'm to be a tit-less hag, then."

    "No." Geralt shuffles at the cave's mouth.

    Play me.

    The bard rubs his eyes and lifts his head; his instrument rests against the wall opposite him and just looking at it makes his fingers twitch. He grits his teeth and looks to his companion instead.

    Geralt stands guard with his back to the fire, arms crossed against his chest. To passersby he might look at ease, as if he were admiring the view in the light of dusk, but Jaskier can see the coiled tension in his shoulders. Sees it in the way he messes with his footing every thirty seconds. The barely visible tilt of his head as he scours the wood.

    A Witcher is made to fight, not tend to the sick. He's restless. Festering. Near ready to pounce on the next thing that comes through the brush, be it hag or hare. Something fond festers beneath the bard's breast despite it, at how the man cares for him and complains for none of it.

    "Geralt," he murmurs. "Do you remember Torque?"

    "Hmm."

   It wasn't long ago, really. Under a decade still since their Devil adventure, and he could hardly forget the Sylvan kneeling at his side, but the Witcher needed distraction. He was fairly good at being distracting. Jaskier brings his knees to his chest and hums. "The, erm... what was he?"

    His companion shifts again. "Sylvan."

    "Ah, yes," the bard says. He pauses-- Play me. Maneuvers himself so that he might rest his chin against his arms. "He was stealing grain for the elves, no? And teaching them to farm?"

    "Yes."

    "Rather altruistic of him. Are his kind known for such things?"

    A moment of passes where there is nothing but the crackling of flame and the faint shuffling of Roach's hooves in the foliage, but the Witcher inclines his head.

    Play me.

    Jaskier sighs a bit; lightly, through his nose.

    "Most are... peaceful," Geralt says, finally. "Herbivores. Intelligent. They enjoy tending to the plantlife around them."

    The man talks like he's reading facts from a book, but the bard finds he hardly minds as his shoulders ease with each passing word. "And they like playing tricks," he continues. "Like asking riddles. Lazy and fat, most, but very strong. Some spit fire."

    "Pardon-" Jaskier's gaze slips over to their fire as the statement registers, then back. "They what?"

    The Witcher turns a bit, amber eyes flitting over his face. "Some," he says. "Some of them spit fire."

    Play-- "Geralt, I apologize--" His gaze flits to his instrument, ignoring the man's raised brow as he pushes the cloak from his shoulders, even as he shivers from the breeze against his bare torso. When he peers up again the man has turned to him fully, brows furrowed. "Could you please hand me my lute?"

    "Jaskier--"

    "No-- erm, yes. I know, Geralt, I should be resting--" He shifts despite himself, holding himself as if it might block out the night's chill. "Please," he says, again. "I've this blasted melody stuck in my head--" he waves a hand about.

    Thank Melitele the Witcher takes pity upon him. He strides over and lifts the instrument with care-- knows by now how much it means to the bard.

    When he makes to deliver it, however-- just when Jaskier's hand encircles its neck-- he pauses. His head lilts curiously, not unlike a dog hearing a peculiar sound, and so the bard pauses with him.

    "What is it?"

    Geralt blinks at him. "Nothing."

    "Um." Jaskier shifts. "My lute, Geralt."

    "My medallion."

    The bard gives a testing tug, as it seems his companion has no intention to release the instrument himself-- to no avail, of course. "What of it?"

    The Witcher's medallion hangs still in the space between them.

    "Nothing," he says, again. "I thought--" he lets go rather abruptly, allowing the bard to gather his instrument-- "Nothing."

    It lies silent in his arms.

    As Geralt occupies himself with their fire, Jaskier pulls a melody from his instrument and the dull ache in his head begins to recede.

    He plays it again, just a tad differently-- something still is missing.