#listen to the growl. that downright beautiful snarl when he yells monsters and

[little-shiny-sharpies]

God I love and am also so filled with thoughts that everyone here, the people in charge of all these powerful mages said “Yeah this is very bad but Kalecgos is on his way! We just need to hold out until he arrives.” Like you are actively losing this fight. This isn’t even really a fight you guys were absolutely ambushed and your camp was getting frosted and fried to hell and back this was a one way ass whooping. And you guys know this. But it’s fine Kalecs on his way just hide behind some rocks and cover the important bits of you. I’m just so intrigued with the inherent trust everyone here displays, “Kalec will show up because if he doesn’t we WILL die. but he won’t let that happen so just hunker down and shoot back!”

And then Kalec does. In fact. Arrive. Wiping the absolute floor with these things and fucking kills them immediately no hesitation like he just flew out and said “Death. You want it? it’s yours my friend” and fired a magic meteor storm and wiped them out keeping all his tiny mortal mages safe. Exactly what everyone knew he would do. Then he outright asks for help no hesitation and flies away. Like maybe it’s not that deep and I’m just gripping a shovel really hard over this quest design but it’s my blog and I get to talk about the interest. These people all trust him with their lives, Kalec knows this, Kalec is fully prepared to kill without hesitation to keep these people safe. Things that make me wanna go keep leveling my mage to see Kirin Tor stuff. My god.

[jaskierek]

Jaskier loved his lute to a ridiculous extent. Geralt liked to make fun of him for it, but Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to care. It was elven, for Melitele’s sake, a gift from Filavandrel himself. It was elven and it was beautiful, a deep chestnut brown with elegant carvings. It made him feel like someone worth listening to. He’d write a ballad about this very lute if he didn’t face the danger of brutal mockery for it.

One time, Geralt had been commissioned to get rid of some crazed witch that had a propensity for cursing the villager’s crops and who had closed herself off in a tower just outside the town. A tower which had subsequently begun to fall apart around them once Geralt had managed to knock her unconscious.

And see, previously, during their scuffle, Jaskier had been thrown across the room in the witch’s rage, his lute flying out of his grasp.

And see, Geralt had swung the unconscious witch over his shoulder, pulled Jaskier up by his doublet and was pushing him out of the tower.

And see, Jaskier was all for not dying, he really was, but his lute was still in there. So he slipped under Geralt’s arm, ignoring his frantic “Jaskier!” and grabbed his lute, narrowly missing a falling stone which would have crushed it into beautiful, jagged pieces. With a relieved sigh, he stood back up and then realisation dawned on him.

He was about to be buried in the rubble of a collapsing building.

Shit.

Running in the direction he had come from, he managed to dodge falling rocks and jump over crumbling walls, hearing Geralt crying his name from outside the building. Jaskier managed to find some relief in that, that Geralt was out and safe. He was almost out himself when he tripped over a brick, falling onto his forearms, feeling the breath get knocked out of him and a burning pain tear at his ankle.

Fuck.

In the thousands of possible ways he could have died on his many travels, it would be a brick that would take him out. He tried to catch his breath, to push himself up but his ankle would not cooperate.

An arm was suddenly pulling him up, out, practically dragging him to safety, only letting go once they had gotten far enough away from the tower. The second the arm let go, he fell to the ground, his ankle refusing to hold him up any longer. He didn’t care, he had his lute.

“What the fuck was that?” Jaskier winced at the rage in Geralt’s voice. He looked up tentatively at the furious Witcher.

“What was what?” He tried asking innocently. Geralt growled, dropping to the ground in front of Jaskier and grabbing him forcefully by the shoulders.

“What the fuck was that? You could have died Jaskier and all for what? Some instrument? What if I hadn’t reached you in time, hm?” Jaskier blinked at the genuine worry he saw beneath the anger on Geralt’s face, his golden eyes practically molten.

“Sorry?” Was all he could muster in response, for once not having much to say. Geralt growled again and looked away, letting go of Jaskier and standing up.

“Fuck.” he heard him mutter before turning away from the bard completely to go check on the still thankfully unconscious witch. Jaskier watched him walk away, shoulders still tense. He could tell the Witcher’s adrenaline was still coursing through him.

Jaskier tried manoeuvring his leg silently, wanting to test how injured it was. The movement caused a biting pain to tear up his leg, making him yelp in pain and the Witcher turn back around to face him. With a sigh, he kneeled down and reached for his ankle. “Take a breath.” He warned, before scooping up the injured leg to examine it. Jaskier sucked in a breath, scrunching his face and cradling his lute to his chest. Geralt’s eyes found his face yet again, the anger now gone, replaced by faint amusement. Those eyes flicked down to Jaskier’s lute before he shook his head. “Dumbass”.

—

Jaskier had almost died plenty of times because of that damned lute actually.

Another time, he had been cornered in a dark alley on his way to a tavern, this time without Geralt. The men demanded his money and he had reluctantly given them all he had, which albeit wasn’t much. Panic built in his chest as he watched the moonlight glint off of their blades.

“This all you got, bard?” Their leader demanded, clearly not pleased with the measly coins Jaskier had left.

“I’m afraid so, kind sirs.” He replied, voice wavering as the man stepped closer, his hungry eyes roaming Jaskier up and down, resting on the intricate lute in the bard’s hand. Jaskier uselessly attempted to hide the lute behind him, trying to squeeze it between his body and the wall. The man smirked.

“The lute.”

“What?”

Jaskier suddenly found himself face-to-face with a rather savage looking knife.

“Give us the lute.”

Jaskier paused, desperately trying to think of a way out. It was a gift from Filavandrel, from the elves, an elven lute, one he got on his very first adventure with Geralt. It was the same lute he had used to write and play his very first songs about the Witcher. There was no way in hell he was going to give it to some common, unwashed bandits.

“No.” Came his reply. He thought he sounded rather brave. Of course, this was almost immediately undermined by the subsequent blade to his throat.

“You want to rethink that response? We’d hate to ruin that pretty little outfit of yours.” He snarled, the others behind him sniggering. Jaskier’s heart was pounding in his throat, the cold blade pushing painfully against his skin.

“Leave the bard be.” Came a familiar voice and Jaskier almost sighed in relief but refrained, in fear that the movement would dig the knife further into his throat.

“Move on, Witcher, this is none of your business.” One of the other thieves sneered. Geralt was out of his periphery, but Jaskier hoped, no he knew, that Geralt wouldn’t leave him there.

“Unfortunately I can’t. See, that’s my bard you’re threatening.” Growled the Witcher, the familiar hiss of his sword escaping its sheath penetrating the air. Jaskier couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh, you think this is funny, bard?” The man asked, stepping closer and pressing the blade in further, finally drawing blood.

Not long after, Geralt was wiping the man’s own blood off of his steel, he had let the other two thieves run away.

“You wouldn’t give them your lute.” Geralt said, more of a statement than a question.

“A father always protects his child, dear Geralt.” Jaskier responded, giving his instrument a dramatic kiss. The Witcher only grunted in response, coming closer to draw his thumb across the skin of Jaskier’s throat, a frown on his face. The bard swallowed thickly.  “So…inn?” He managed to suggest weakly.

—

The point is, Jaskier was very protective of his lute. He had once almost gotten into a fight with a man who dared insult it.

“Criticise my singing all you want, but this lute does not sound like a wailing cat, you deaf, talentless bastard.” Jaskier had yelled from Geralt’s grasp, who was holding him back from punching the much bigger man.

The point is, Jaskier loved that lute. Which brought them to a very specific day.

The two men were in a town that had not yet warmed to the idea of Witchers, even after Geralt had gotten rid of a Kikimora for them. He wasn’t bothered by it though, he’d had plenty of…unpleasant experiences with humans before, especially before he’d met Jaskier who had made it his mission to change the public’s opinion on Geralt. He was used to hurled insults and glares and other…hurled objects.

He couldn’t say the same for Jaskier. The bard had experienced some of the dislike before, it came with job of following a Witcher, yet he still hadn’t gotten used to it

“You’d think they’d at least let us stay the night after what you did for them.” Geralt heard him mumble under his breath, his mood downright rotten as he scowled at all the faces glowering at the Witcher.

“Some cannot be swayed, Jaskier.” Came Geralt’s patient response, his feet swift beneath him as they tried to make their way out of the town as quickly as possible. There was a crowd gathering behind them, as if forming a blockade should the two men decide to venture back into the town. His hearing granted the Witcher the ability to hear the comments coming from the townspeople. He was glad that Jaskier couldn’t hear them, he had developed a habit of defending Geralt’s non-existent honour and while it did light a warm flame within him, they just needed to get out of this godsdamned town without any trouble. That was, until he felt something hard hit the back of his head.

“What was that?” Asked Jaskier, stopping alongside Geralt.

“Nothing.”  He grunted in response, beginning to move off again.

“Geralt-“ Jaskier began, but stopped when he saw another stone fly and hit the Witcher’s back this time, Geralt did not stop walking, however, the bard whirled around, seething. “Who the fuck threw that?”

“Jas-“

“He’s a filthy monster. Doesn’t belong here.” A middle aged man spat.

“You fucker-“ Jaskier started as he tried to storm over to the man, no doubt to kick him where it would hurt, but Geralt stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

“Don’t.” He said simply, jaw tense. He could sense that their audience was aggravated, which was the last thing Geralt wanted. Jaskier noticed the way the Witcher pursed his lips, he spotted the pain behind those amber eyes. Jaskier knew that the hatred people bore for him pained the Witcher more than he’d care to admit.

“Fine.” Came the bard’s terse response, the fury never leaving his face. The Witcher dropped his hand, eager to continue on when he saw another rock flying towards his face. He caught it this time, but couldn’t catch Jaskier as he stormed towards the man, lute over his shoulder as he swung it, swung it until -

A sudden crack rang out as the man fell to the ground with a bark.

He thought back to the times the bard had vehemently protected his lute, had endangered himself for it. And so, Geralt stared wide-eyed at his bard as he gripped his beloved, shattered lute, all the while shouting at the man. The Witcher’s non-existent honour felt very defended at the moment.

People were getting agitated, fingers curling into fists, Jaskier himself looking ready to hit someone over the head again. The Witcher quickly strode over to his bard before any more fights broke out, pulling him away by his waist and keeping him tight to his chest. He began to walk away again, Jaskier still yelling over his shoulder.

“-more of a monster than he’ll ever be! You’d be lucky if he ever came back to this ungrateful shithole of a-” his tirade continued. Geralt allowed himself a soft smile.

Jaskier had never feared Geralt and had always had hope in his humanity, always followed him into danger. He couldn’t deny Jaskier’s poor preservation skills but Geralt couldn’t help but feel a certain sweetness at the thought. At any thought of the bard, really.

And he knew how much that lute meant to him and how much a new one would cost.

He only let go of him once they had left the town, reluctantly setting him down and searching his face for the inevitable grief at his lute’s demise, finding only outrage.

“- fucking stones - what in the actual - who - they’re bloody fuckwits, the lot of them, Geralt, so don’t think for a moment that you’re anything but -“

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

“You have an incredible ability to talk at extreme length.”

“I am aware, Geralt, thank you.”

Geralt smiled and tilted his head in that fond way he sometimes did, Jaskier’s face lit up at the sight.

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

Geralt examined the still oblivious bard, slightly dishevelled, eyes shining.

“Your lute.”

Finally the bard seemed to realise what he had done. He lifted the battered instrument to his face, gazing at it woefully.

“Ah, well,” He began, voice breaking slightly, “it was a noble death, my friend.” Jaskier gave it a comforting kiss. “We’ll bury it somewhere nice, it’s the least we could do for all of the joy it’s brought us.”

Geralt snorted, but quickly covered it up with a cough when Jaskier’s watery, blue eyes looked to him again.

“Ah, yes, so…” The Witcher started, not really knowing what to say.

“Off we go?” The bard finished. Geralt gave him a small nod, moving off again on the road.

“Jaskier?”

“What?”

“Thank you.”

“Always, Geralt.”

And if the Witcher walked a little closer to the bard, brushing against him every so often, well, it really wasn’t anyone’s business, was it?