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funkzpiel · 4 years ago

Photo

In collaboration with @crocro-dyle for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang (@geraskiermidsummerminibang)! Crocrodyle is the amazing artist responsible for the illustration you see above, and you can continue to follow their amazing work via Tumblr or Instagram!

Special thank you to Smaller who was the wonderful beta for this fic!

Also available on AO3.

TW: graphic violence during hunt

Summary: Jaskier had always known Midsummer to be a night of festivities, celebration and heavy drinking - preferably with a beautiful partner to warm his bed. When a stroke of good fate landed them in a village prepared to honor the occasion, Jaskier couldn't wait to share the night with his witcher as soon as he returned from his hunt.

Then Roach showed up in town. Alone.

The wound was severe. Claws had torn into his side, piercing flesh like butter, and were it not for his armor and the very last of his wits, he would have been gored. But he hadn’t been. And the attack that should have secured the victory of the Alp that he had been hunting blessedly became its end. As long, wicked talons carved deep into his side, Geralt grit his teeth and with his elbow he pinned that eviscerating hand to his side – all the while thinking of the words of witchers before him: One must aim one’s sword with great precision, for Alps are unequaled in the art of evading blows.

She would not evade this.

The female Alp howled, the pale span of her thighs quivering as she yanked to free her hand. Nails tore through tissue. Geralt felt pain rip the air from his lungs, but he endured. He endured, because that was what witchers did. Endure until the job was done.

His silver sword would be too long, so Geralt dropped it. The Alp sneered as that silver blade sang against the gnarled roots of the great tree they found themselves entangled beneath. Lush, green leaves crooned a hushed lullaby above them, thrumming with the power of the impending shift into Midsummer. That pending change echoed in the sway of the grass, in the way the breeze carded through his hair. He couldn’t die now. Not before he paid homage… Not before he gave thanks…

“Have you given up, witcher?” the Alp hissed, lips pulling back in a cruel grin of fangs and bloody teeth. Venom pearled at the tips of her teeth. “Too weak to hold your sword?”

Let her think him weak, he thought to himself, free hand reaching back for the hilt of his silver dagger, its blade dipped in Vampire Oil and glistening with deadly promise. Let it be the last thing she ever thinks.

He plunged the knife into her neck without a single word, his own teeth bared and white as marble against his dirt-streaked face. What began as a shriek to incapacitate him in a last-ditch bid for freedom became a howl of pain, then grew wet, her teeth marred by her own blood. Black, shark-like eyes stared at him, enraged. Afraid. He anticipated that she would pull away. Anticipated one last grapple to the ground to finish what he had started. Instead she clenched her hand into his side more viciously and pulled him in. Despite drowning in the weeping of her own wound, his knife still in her throat, she bit him. Carnivorous teeth dug into his shoulder. Venom pushed into his veins. Geralt let out a strangled yowl before yanking his knife through the rest of her throat. Blood poured down his front as the Alp let him go, stumbling back. He let her, the hand he had used to pin her to his side now rushing up to check the worst of the bite.

Surprisingly superficial, he realized. But death likely hadn’t been the intention. He could feel venom threading through his veins already, black ichor spreading like a spider’s web beneath his skin – promising suffering ahead.

The Alp fell into the underbrush of the forest around them, body writhing as her heels dug into the dirt and her hair tangled in the twigs. Her ribs heaved. She gasped wetly. Slowly, her thrashing stilled.

Finally, naught was left but the hum of Midsummer’s approach in the wind and Geralt’s breathing – sharp and thready – as the venom began its work. Not for the first time, Geralt cursed his foolishness for not taking another night to brew Black Blood as he should have. But another night would have meant another innocent death, and so he took the job without it. At least then the death might only be his own.

He curled an arm around his wounded side and with shaking fingers, he whistled for Roach. His hands were nearly numb with venom as he dug into her saddlebags. He wouldn’t be able to take much, lest he trade one ailment for another. Half a vial of Swallow to stem the worst of the bleeding from his side and neck. Half a vial of Golden Oriole to dampen the venom coursing in his veins. The last of the vial fell numbly from his fingers not long after. He leaned into Roach. Felt her snuffling at his hair.

“Jaskier,” he tried to tell her, to ask her to fetch him, but all light began to wink out of his vision. Beneath his skin Alp venom sang and nightmares beckoned. Midsummer kissed his cheek with a pleasant, warm breeze. It reminded him of the homage he had yet to pay. He grasped that thread like a lifeline.

But it was too late. Between one shuddering blink and another, he was gone.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier was grateful that – for once – their travels brought them to a sizable village right in time for actual civilized festivities. Midsummer was upon them and there was no mistaking the fact that the village was prepared to celebrate it in style. While it would by no means be an affair like the ones in Oxenfurt that he held so close to his heart, the town had a healthy population of villagers and appeared to be enough of a trade hub to have allowed the town to celebrate a little more lavishly than most. Kegs were being set up at stands in the streets. A wide range of summer wildflowers had been woven together by the women and children to wreath the town’s buildings and signs in floral drapery. Candles dotted the edges of the roads and vendor tables, all ready to be lit at dusk that night. It was an attractive enough scene at noon, but Jaskier knew that once night fell, the light of the candles and the fireflies would cast their cheery party in a beautiful, ethereal glow. It appeared there might even be a wedding planned for the night. It wouldn’t be an uncommon affair. Midsummer was known to be a celebration of life and love; how better to celebrate than through consummation?

He could already imagine the pleasant heat of the bonfire. The way it would tickle his cheeks as he drank beer and enjoyed slices of cured meats and cheeses, and danced among the townsfolk, learning the steps common to their dances here, whatever they might be. Maybe he’d even be able to coax Geralt into joining, if he were lucky. While they had known each other for years, this would be the first opportunity to spend the occasion of Midsummer together. He wondered if witchers celebrated it, or if Geralt would see it as an opportunity to rest in the inn without harassment after his hunt – not that Jaskier would blame him.

He hoped they could spend it together, though. The mere thought of Geralt beside the Midsummer bonfire, his creamy skin alight with warm oranges and yellows, sent a prickling up his spine not unlike the feeling that looking at a masterpiece painting might inspire.

Maybe he could even sneak a few flowers into the man’s white hair. Bursts of forget-me-not blue and dandelion yellow entangled in snowy locks, all cast in the flickering shadow of the bonfire’s glow—

—Jaskier visibly jumped when his thoughts were cut short by nosy lips snuffling at the back of his collar. Nearby the children giggled at the way he shrieked. He scowled at them, then whirled to find Roach pushing her long snout against his chest with a great, heaving sigh. She had been running, he realized.

Running without Geralt.

“Where is he?” he asked, all ire crushed beneath the great weight of dread falling in his stomach. She took him by the collar again and tugged, careful to mind her teeth. Jaskier needed no further prompting. He climbed into her saddle and let her take him away – all too aware of the blood smeared on the clasps of the saddle bag and the unmistakable red handprint on her neck, large and familiar.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier found him face down in the mossy underbrush of an old tree, the sort of tree that spiraled high into the sky. He was mere feet away from a woman, her face twisted into the ugly grimace common to Vampires. Her throat was nothing but a bloody maw, open and wrecked. Already she had begun to stink of rot and death. Jaskier covered his nose and felt a weak shiver thread down his spine, nearly stealing the strength to stay in the saddle from his bones. Beneath him, Roach stamped her hooves impatiently, pawing at the ground. Jaskier gave himself but a moment to gather himself – just long enough to ensure the sight and smell alone wouldn’t make him fall disgracefully from Roach’s back – before he dismounted.

He forced himself to ignore the dead Alp. Forced himself not to take in the long red train of her hair, or how normal she had probably looked among the other villagers before Geralt had coaxed out her true nature. Instead he went to his knees beside the witcher, his name on his tongue as he reached for those broad shoulders and flipped him over.

He was paler than normal. Jaskier didn’t think that was possible, yet here they were. He looked as white as a crisp royal sheet, bleached like a bone in the sun. His neck was a mess of punctures, and with a shiver that shook him right down to his belly, Jaskier plucked a tooth from Geralt’s flesh and flicked it across the clearing. Worse yet, there was a gash in his side. No, not a gash – more punctures. Punctures where clawed fingers had made a home in his flesh. Both wounds had slowed to a sluggish bleeding, however, and a quick look confirmed his suspicions. Not far away two bottles lay forgotten in the grass. One empty, one still the littlest bit full – their contents puddled into the earth. Potions. Two of them.

At least he wouldn’t die of blood loss, Jaskier thought as he started the long, arduous task of trying to settle Geralt over Roach’s saddle as safely and harmlessly as he could. So much for celebrating Midsummer in style. Though even as that thought struck him, he found it to be more a muted old ghost than any true regret. An echo of selfishness from lonely days.

Instead Jaskier whispered a soft plea of gratitude into the air as he took Roach’s reins beneath her chin and began to lead her away.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting me here in time.”

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier had wanted to return to the inn. He wanted a roof over their heads, and a tub of water to clean his hands with rather than the river, and a bed to let Geralt rest. But the thought of parading Geralt’s limp body through the village gave him pause. And furthermore, the promise of music and partying that was sure to fill the streets that night nixed the deal entirely. There would be no rest for his fickle sleeper of a witcher even if he weren’t injured. Add in potion-intoxication and fevers from his wounds, and he’d be miserable without reprieve; on edge, instincts flaring, and unable to do a thing about it.

So instead he took him further into the woods, away from the Alp’s corpse or anything the bloody battle might attract. Finding a spot to camp was second nature to him now after years of traveling at Geralt’s side. Not too close to water where prey animals and predators alike gathered. But not so far away as to make fetching water impossible. A dark, nestled nook of trees that were out of sight most ways you looked at it. There was little he could do to hide Roach, but she was – in her own right – another layer of security. She’d sense if something was wrong long before Jaskier ever would. And she’d never failed to protect herself before. So he removed her saddle, bit and bridle, and let her graze at her leisure with a soft promise to wash the blood from her coat as soon as he could.

He took Geralt’s tent from her saddle and set up a slanted covering using the trees. Something to provide a little security and buffer from the wind that night without limiting too terribly his ability to tend to Geralt. He rolled an old shirt into a tight ball and tucked it under Geralt’s head. He made sure the witcher was as comfortable as possible before he took a spare water skin and trudged to the river to wash the worst of any filth from his hands, then to fill the skin in preparation for cleaning Geralt’s wounds.

It was thankfully a far tamer affair than usual, with Geralt unconscious. No half-hearted embarrassment to make the witcher growl and sit stiff as a board as Jaskier tended to him. No self-depreciation for needing care. Geralt’s muscles didn’t fight him as he lifted his arms, legs, chest or neck to remove what clothing needed removing to do what needed doing.

Jaskier cleaned the wounds as delicately as he could. He mopped the sweat from Geralt’s brow as the man twitched, and tossed, and turned, plagued as though in the grip of a nightmare. And the reality was not far off, Jaskier realized. He had heard Geralt explain the dangers of an Alp’s kiss to villagers before. He knew the nightmares their venom could induce. He could only hope one of those vials the witcher had taken had subdued the worst of it somewhat.

He wrapped the wounds. Stitched what could be stitched and left the rest for the witcher’s biology to handle. Then he helped the man back into his clothing, left his armor aside, and shifted Geralt’s head until he had it cushioned in his lap, fingers threading through his hair.

Geralt’s eyes opened. Soft flickers of hazy gold peeking out from beneath sooty lashes. Sweaty brows furrowed and creased. The witcher moaned – a sound that was as much reaching out for Jaskier in confusion as it was reacting to the pain. Beside them, their little campfire leapt and popped merrily, painting Geralt in relief with yellows and oranges, and for a moment Jaskier nearly laughed as he thought perhaps he would get to see his witcher beside a bonfire after all.

“Jaskier?” Geralt croaked, looking up at him from his spot in the bard’s lap.

Jaskier weaved his fingers through sweaty hair – the knots long worked out – and said, “How kind of you to join us, sleeping beauty.”

Geralt frowned, but the ire melted away the pain that had contorted his face, and if Jaskier had to deal with a little ire to soothe those wrinkles away, he’d gladly do so. The bard smiled.

Weakly, Geralt lifted a hand, asking without words for water, and it was a testament to their time together that when Jaskier helped him sit up enough to drink, Geralt did not snarl or pull away. The bard held the water skin with Geralt as the witcher drank, urging him to slow when Geralt forgot to be mindful of how quickly he quenched his thirst. Geralt didn’t begrudge him the help. Communication so personal and second nature that neither had recognized when they had become so fluent in that language; only that they were grateful that they had.

When Geralt had drunk enough to soothe his throat but not so much as to upset his stomach or the delicate blend of potion and venoms therein, Jaskier set the skin aside – Geralt’s fingers trembling over his.

“The Alp?”

“Dead,” Jaskier said, “I just didn’t think we should camp near it.”

He knew Geralt would want to go and find it tomorrow when he felt better. That he’d want the head as a trophy to prove to the town he had done what he had set out to do, lest they try to swindle him. The Alp might be devoured by then. Jaskier knew that thought rankled Geralt something fierce. But he didn’t regret his choices, and he knew that while annoyed to potentially lose out on payment, Geralt didn’t begrudge him the decision either.

“Good thinking,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier felt a little plume of warmth unrelated to the fire fill his chest.

“Believe it or not, I have picked up a trick or two from you on our travels,” Jaskier preened.

Geralt’s fingers brushed over the wrappings that concealed his side, his throat, and said, “I believe it,” the words acknowledging, and the tone grateful. As close to ‘thank you’ as witchers tend to get. Once upon a time, Jaskier would have harped on the man for more. Now, it felt like everything.

“I fed and cleaned Roach. Your pack is fine,” Jaskier rattled off, this not having been the first time they’d had this conversation – nor would it be the last. “Afraid we don’t have much in the way of food, however. We’ll need to go back to town in the morning.”

“Surprised you didn’t go tonight,” Geralt said.

“Ah, yes, well… It's Midsummer’s Festival tonight. I didn’t think you’d appreciate the noise,” Jaskier admitted. He longed for a hot tub to soak in, fresh clothing and a pitcher of ale to watch the festivities with – but even so, none of those desires made him regret where he actually was or what he actually was doing. The thought of staying behind to celebrate, oblivious to Geralt lying wounded in the woods, made him shiver. It must have shown too, because Geralt’s hand closed over Jaskier’s free one on the witcher’s shoulder and squeezed.

Another unspoken pearl of gratitude.

“You said you had my pack?” Geralt asked, eyes fixed on Jaskier as though he were in the middle of deciding something.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, his own brows drawing ever so slightly tighter as his free hand moved from Geralt’s hair to his forehead, “You didn’t forget I said that, did you?”

Worry bubbled in his gut.

“Just making sure,” Geralt said, squeezing his other hand again. “I… It’s Midsummer tonight.”

“Yes, I know. I told you that. Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t feel feverish, but—”

“M’fine,” Geralt said quickly, cutting him off before his worries could spiral too transparently. “Truly. I just… there’s something I have to do tonight.”

Jaskier leaned back a little at that, surprised. He blew out an amused little breath and said, “I didn’t take you for the celebratory type, Geralt. We can just have our own party tomorrow night, if you’re that keen on it. I’ll braid flowers into your hair, and we’ll have our own little bonfire when your side looks more like flesh and less like holey cheese.”

“Lovely imagery,” Geralt deadpanned.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said beatifically.

Geralt searched his face for a long moment after that. Between them, the fire crackled innocently. Insects chirped. The moon filtered in pleasantly through the pines. But all of that paled in comparison to the look Geralt gave him. It was all at once unidentifiable, but also perhaps one of the most intimate things Jaskier had ever shared with the man. It stilled the breath in Jaskier’s lungs and left him as attentive as a deer in the field, waiting – always waiting.

“It can’t wait, Jaskier,” Geralt finally said.

“What, are you cursed to celebrate Midsummer or you’ll self-combust?” Jaskier joked, trying to ignore that lingering sense of dread that was snowballing dangerously in his gut. This was entirely unlike Geralt. Jaskier could count on fewer than the fingers of one hand how many times Geralt had sought his permission in situations like this. If he wanted to do something, he’d do it. He’d pick himself up from their makeshift camp and he’d limp off into the night, and the best Jaskier would be able to do was follow and hope he could help.

Even as their fight from the mountaintop rang in his head – long forgiven, but still haunting – he’d try to help.

And yet Geralt was not lifting himself up. If anything, the man looked as though he were on sleep’s doorstep. Jaskier brushed white locks back from Geralt’s sweaty brow and felt fear clench in his breast when Geralt closed his eyes at his touch and didn’t open them again right away.

“I’m too tired to explain, Jaskier,” he finally admitted. “And I’m… I don’t think I…”

Geralt choked on the words, still unable to admit his weaknesses after all this time. Some habits were rooted too deep to conquer and weed out altogether. But what the witcher had weeded out made Jaskier proud. So in this, he couldn’t begrudge them. They all had their flaws. Nothing was ever conquered in just a day.

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked instead.

Geralt swallowed.

“I’m supposed to do it,” he said.

“And you will. Just help me help you do it,” Jaskier affirmed.

The witcher let out a slow, whistling breath through his nose. Then, after a moment, he nodded. And he told Jaskier what to do.

That’s how the bard found himself opening Geralt’s pack – not his large, more often-used rucksack of equipment and medical items, but instead a smaller pouch he hadn’t noticed had been attached to Roach’s saddle. Inside was a small saucer with a curved lip, a handful of candles, and a pouch of recently plucked flowers. It echoed the festivities he had seen in town, but without much effort it was obvious to note that this was different. Through his studies he had a rudimentary knowledge of flowers and their meaning. Of candle colors and scents and wicks. Each and every item in the pouch had a meaning. Flowers that promised blessings. Scents that paid homage. Colors that prayed for forgiveness. Little blooms that helped the dead find their way beyond the veil. And at the bottom of the pouch a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He had nearly unfolded it when Geralt said clearly, “Don’t,” from across the camp.

Plagued by curiosity, Jaskier looked to Geralt, fingers paused. But at those eyes – so amber and dazed, yet so keenly worried – Jaskier simply nodded, and stood to place it in Geralt’s hand, still wrapped, instead. He heard Geralt swallow thickly. Felt their fingers brush gratefully.

Geralt had a lovely voice, when he deigned to use it. He spent the early hours of the night listening to Geralt explain how to weave the flowers. Which colors and blooms to use when. What to lace over what. Which to tuck where and when. Without any description of what final result to expect, Jaskier followed him on faith. Something warm stoked a fire in his chest as he realized the more they went along just how personal this must be to Geralt. He had never quite heard of anything like this. With a quick pang he realized it must be a well-kept tradition of witchers – or at the very least of the Wolves of Kaer Morhen. And he – Jaskier – was helping Geralt do it.

Once upon a time he might have thought of it as a very boring, and perhaps even demeaning, way of helping the witcher. It wasn’t heroic or theatrical. He was so much more talented than a mere man with ten fingers to weave flowers with. But as Geralt narrated him through the process and his tone turned steadily nostalgic, Jaskier was struck with how much more this simple act meant to Geralt than any wound Jaskier had ever sewn.

He made a wreath of flowers and when it was done, he held it up for Geralt’s inspection.

“Like this?” he asked.

A little bit of the tension in Geralt’s brow softened, making him look younger as he breathed, “Yes. Just like that. Set it on the plate.”

Jaskier did so. The little blooms ringed the curved lip of the plate beautifully, leaving the pale center of the dish exposed plainly.

“Now set the candles inside. First the tallest along the inner edge of the crown of flowers, then the second tallest, then the third. Leave room in the middle.”

Jaskier did.

“Good,” Geralt said between heavy blinks, “Now light a match to melt the bottom of the candles to the plate and let it cool… We can’t let them fall.”

Jaskier did. It took a few matches and a few burnt fingertips and a few curses, but he did.

“Now what?” Jaskier said after he had waited for the wax to cool, gently poking the tallest candle of the three to ensure it wouldn’t budge.

“The part you won’t like,” Geralt finally said, beginning to force himself to sit up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait now!” Jaskier said, delicately setting the plate aside so he could scramble up beside Geralt. He had half a mind to ease him back down, but the look in Geralt’s eyes was sharp and telling. He had allowed Jaskier to do as much as possible, but there would be no persuading him to lay back any longer. Not at this point.

“It’s midnight, Jaskier,” Geralt said through clenched teeth as he forced himself to his feet – swaying all the while. “I must do this.”

The bard caught him by his elbow when amber eyes drifted, and it looked as though he might fall. Geralt leaned into him for only as long as it took for the dizziness to pass before drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his gaze falling on the bard pointedly.

“I must,” he repeated.

“Then we will,” Jaskier said simply, but he kept his grip on the witcher’s elbow tight and just as pointed. He waited, jaw clenched and shoulders set, for Geralt to argue. Instead, after a brief moment of searching Jaskier’s face, the witcher merely nodded.

Jaskier held the plate in one hand and Geralt’s elbow in the other, and together they slowly made their way into the dark with nothing but the moon, Geralt’s uncanny eyes, and the sway of Midsummer’s breeze around them to guide the way.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked only once, but Geralt did not answer. They paused when they needed pausing, pacing themselves by the rasping of the witcher’s heaving breath. Occasionally Geralt would turn his nose to the wind, sniff, and change their course accordingly. Side by side, Jaskier followed his witcher into the dark until finally the trees parted and the moon rose high above to light the clearing that Geralt had found.

It was a lake, vast and wide, at the mouth of the river Jaskier had been using for water. The lake was wreathed in trees, and in the center of its glassy surface the moon above shone brilliantly. It lit the water in a fiery glow of pale opalescence, enchanting and so much more than any pool of water Jaskier had ever seen before.

“Help me down,” Geralt said, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

“Down?” Jaskier asked. “You don’t mean…”

But Geralt just leveled him with a patient, if unyielding stare. With a little sigh of resignation, Jaskier tested the solidity of the bank and plotted a course to ease the witcher into the water. The water was freezing. His clothing would be ruined. Mud squelched beneath his boots. Water sunk into his shoes. His back arched like a cat and with his shoulders up against his ears, he tottered around to offer Geralt a hand and help him in – only to pause, hand halfway between them.

Geralt looked otherworldly. Despite his damaged shirt and muddied pants and his bloodied flesh torn asunder, he looked beautiful. In him the moonlight seemed to catch and grow – not from any magic, but from the sheer significant focus in the witcher’s face. Whatever this was, this was important to Geralt. This was no party, no night to dance to. This was tradition in a sense that most people no longer understood. This was decades of beliefs passed down by calloused hands and grizzled, spoken words. A small moment of peace and mercy in a lifetime of ungrateful, dangerous work.

Jaskier sucked in a little breath, then steeled himself. He took a squelching step forward and raised his hand for Geralt to take. He bade his body maintain its balance as Geralt’s weight made him sink further into the mud, but for once the thought didn’t even cross his mind that he had likely ruined his shoes beyond repair. Every trivial worry, every materialistic concern – all of it disappeared as Geralt took his hand and let the bard guide him into the water.

The water rose first to their knees, then just below their hips, until finally Jaskier stopped Geralt with a firm hand against his sternum. He wouldn’t let the wound get wet. That was the line he wouldn’t cross, and in the moment Geralt looked at him, the witcher seemed to recognize a fight not worth having when he saw it.

“Hold out the plate,” Geralt finally said, his hair a halo of moonlight. When Jaskier did, he formed a quick sign with his free hand, and one by one the three candles sprung to life. Then he paused.

Jaskier looked between the plate and Geralt once, twice, then asked softly, “Is that it, or…?”

From a little pouch tied around his neck, Geralt removed the bundle he had asked Jaskier not to open back at camp. He swayed in the water, tired and aching, but remained steadfast as piece by piece, he revealed a silver medallion emblazoned with a wolf’s head. It looked just like Geralt’s, only older. Older and scarred, a jagged groove slashed right across the width of it, its chain dangling weakly from Geralt’s fingers.

“We give thanks for the lives we saved,” Geralt said, the words sounding like the echo of a prayer said dozens and dozens of times across the span of centuries, “and we beg mercy for the things we couldn’t change…”

Jaskier stilled, the candles flickering delicately between them, and waited with bated breath. Afraid that any inhale too loud, any flinch too jarring might shatter the moment.

Geralt’s gaze lowered to the medallion in his hand. He ran a rough thumb over the scarred metal, licked his dry lips and said, “We pray for safe passage for our brother, and plead that his sacrifices weigh more than his sins. For he was good, and in this hard world he tried to be just.”

Jaskier’s fingers tightened on the plate. He felt the lake sway around them comfortingly, as though it were a presence all its own. This is what witchers did on Midsummer while humans drank and danced. And while he hardly begrudged the town their making merry and celebrating, it made this moment all the more painful to bear. They could celebrate because of witchers like Geralt, who saved their fathers and mothers, their daughters and sons.

So why didn’t witchers get to dance and make merry?

Instead they prayed for peace, and grace, and mercy – knowing that when they returned to the hunt the next day, that the people they protected would widely never truly thank them for it. Jaskier felt suddenly choked by the contrast. His lashes burned, but he bit his cheek and forced himself to bear it. The plate felt suddenly so heavy. No wonder Geralt couldn’t carry it alone.

With a sharp breath – a sound that struck Jaskier as resigned and weary – Geralt placed the medallion into the halo of flowers and candles.

“And finally, we ask for blessings in the coming days,” Geralt said softly as he brought his hands over top of Jaskier’s instead of taking the plate away, “so that we may walk the Path until it ends, and another prays instead.”

Jaskier sucked in a shuddering little breath, his eyes only darting up when Geralt rubbed a thumb soothingly over the backs of his hands on either side of the plate.

“Lower it down,” Geralt said softly, and as though they were lowering a man into his grave, they set the plate atop the surface of the lake. With a gentle tap, Geralt urged it on its way and they watched it drift, side by side.

It was a long moment before Jaskier could find the words to speak.

“I thought witchers burned their dead,” he croaked, his hands trembling from the weight of it all. Even as Midsummer blew a warm, soothing breath across the back of his neck, he shivered. Geralt didn’t take his eyes off the plate as he thought over that, leaning into Jaskier the longer they stood in the lake – the mud slowly giving way beneath his feet.

“We do,” Geralt said. “But we do this too.”

“You deserve better,” Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed.

“Perhaps,” Geralt said, voice trailing away as the plate became a pinprick of light in the night. “But doesn’t everyone?”

Jaskier looked at him then. Took in the profile of this man – this man who had his childhood stripped from him to protect the very folks that abandoned and condemned him daily. Felt the weight of that injustice. The beauty of that sacrifice. The urge to write swelled within him. Ballads to convey the witcher’s plight. Rich, round words to even the scales and turn the tides.

And yet he knew that Geralt would not want that. That Geralt would not want to share this rare glimpse of peace with the world. This moment was for witchers and their tiny found family. And so the ballads faded, and the songs bled into silence, and instead all Jaskier could think to say was this:

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Geralt.”

“I’m sorry it’s no feast,” Geralt said weakly, wryly, as though he had been afraid of what Jaskier would think about this witcher’s tradition in comparison to the parties he was used to.

“Midsummer is a celebration of life and love,” Jaskier said, holding Geralt’s gaze. “There is no wrong way to do that, Geralt. It only matters that we do.”

Geralt nodded at that, not blinking as Jaskier wove an arm beneath his own to help take some of the weight off his wounded side.

“This is how the Wolves of Kaer Morhen pay homage to Midsummer,” he said softly.

“I hope they won’t mind that I imposed,” Jaskier went for charming, but an apology drifted anxiously at the heels of the sentence. Geralt hummed.

“You don’t have to be a witcher to be a Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier,” Geralt said. He stood stiff in the bard’s arms. Anxious, Jaskier realized. Even as his own heart soared, he realized the significance of what Geralt was suggesting. The fear of rejection that corded his muscles tight.

“Noted,” Jaskier said, turning Geralt just slightly so they might press their foreheads together and simply breathe. “Then I suppose I’ll have to mark the occasion on my calendar from now on, won’t I?”

Geralt’s breath shuddered against his lips. An exhale that emptied him of all fear until nothing was left but two men standing in a lake, family found in suffering. A consummation of love beneath the moon, a promise made in the curve of two bodies holding one another up despite the hardships that awaited.

A homage to love in Midsummer; quiet, patient and unrelenting.

#Gerasker #geraskier midsummer mini bang #the witcher #geralt of rivera #jaskier #witcher writing #art by crocro-dyle

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