Chapter Text
“If I don’t get some more of that Toussainti wine in me soon I might just wither away and perish. I’m serious. Leave me behind and let me die.”
“Always with the drama, Jaskier. Here, have a sip of mine.”
Geralt tilts his head to listen, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. The bard has been flirting with him for weeks now, exclaiming he could just die , all over Oxenfurt. At first, Geralt thought the man was being dramatic and didn’t know what he was doing, but no one is that theatrical.
“Little shit at it again?” Lambert grouses. “Just fucking court him already, pretty boy. Or I might just do it for you.”
Geralt bares his teeth and growls, earning him a sharp, knowing grin from his brother. “I better not catch you anywhere near him,” he threatens.
“If you’re marking your territory with words, wolf, you might want to actually make the effort to do so in action too. The littlest wolf is right. Court the bard. He’s been asking for it often enough,” Eskel remarks, amusement clearly audible in his low voice.
Lambert rolls his eyes at being called a little wolf, flicking the dagger he’s holding between his fingers right at Eskel’s face. His brother does no more than lean slightly to the side, the blade whistling past his ear to embed itself into the stone wall.
The both of them grin at each other, and then look back at Geralt. He scowls. He prefers their attention to be on each other, instead of on him and the bard who just keeps offering himself up for Geralt to take every chance he gets.
“Don’t you have better things to do?” he grumbles. As soon as he’s said it, both Eskel and Lambert tilt their heads, listening to the final, pleading words of those who are struggling, and want to let go. They don't often hear the same voices, each dying individual pleading for death speaking to one witcher, most of the time.
Eskel sighs. “Got someone out at sea. Keeps going under and struggling to resurface. I’m going.” He stands up and stretches, and when Geralt blinks there is a large black wolf in his place, padding away across the flagstones, leaving Kaer Morhen behind.
“Fuck, shit, mine is— I’m gonna kill that fucker,” Lambert growls, and Geralt looks at him sharply. From the tension in his brother’s shoulders he can tell it’s a bad one. Out of all of them, Lambert is the one who gets the most individuals who have to suffer violence from family members. At least when they plead for a witcher to relieve them of their suffering through death, that witcher gets to take out their tormentor, too.
“You gonna be alright?” Geralt asks, frowning.
Lambert makes a rude gesture and rolls his eyes at him. “Not an actual pup anymore, pretty boy,” he snarls, shifting into his stocky, russet wolf form. Still, as he passes Geralt he rubs his flank all alongside him, before pads the way Eskel went, leaving the keep behind.
Geralt listens to the sounds of more of his brothers coming and going, shifting between their wolf and human shapes. Other than the sounds from the keep, he isn’t hearing anything else, no human voices speaking to him. He sits there, contemplating his brothers’ words. Courting the bard. Marking his territory. It does rather sound like something he wants to do. He’s been waiting long enough, and the bard is getting bolder.
As if Jaskier has heard him, his voice sounds in Geralt’s ears, bright, daring, and more than a bit drunk.
“Don’t look so worried, Essi, I’m perfectly balanced. I am not afraid to look death in the eye.”
“You’re drunk, Jaskier. And I’ve never known a more wobbly, teetering one than you. I swear, if you take one more step toward the edge I’m going to—”
Sometimes, more than sound makes it through. Right now, Geralt gets the sense of wind against his face, cool and refreshing. Jaskier saying he’s not afraid to look death in the eye has him smirking. The bard really is laying it on thick. But, if he’s pulling actual dangerous stunts in his coquetry to get his attention, he might just have to do something about that.
“You should really try it Ess, it’s almost like flying.”
“Jaskier, will you stop being an idiot and— Fuck, Jask!”
There’s a tingle at the back of Geralt’s neck, one they all get when whoever is calling out to them is close to death. He’s already up out of his chair and changing as it travels down his spine. His shift is quick, and the shape he takes on is much faster than his human form. His senses sharpen exponentially, and he can hear the beat of Jaskier’s heart, deafening in the way it’s suddenly much too fast with fright. He can smell the cool night air carrying the salt of the sea, and he gets a quick flash of rolling rocks, tumbling down a seaside cliff to the sharp, jagged boulders far below.
Geralt growls, and runs as fast as his paws can carry him, the moon reflecting off his white fur. He leaves the wolves’ stronghold behind, to run to the bard who is in actual danger for the first time since he started calling out to him.
—000—
Jaskier stands with his arms spread at the edge of the cliff, letting the upward current of air cool his alcohol-flushed skin and ruffle his hair. He’s been here many times before, in this exact spot, to gaze out at the stormy sea and to let his eyes follow along the coastline as far as his vision allows him. Every time he sees the shape of the continent before him, he wishes he could go. He wishes he could leave Oxenfurt behind and disappear into the vastness of the land.
He’d miss his friends, and they’d miss him. But Essi and Priscilla would understand. Valdo might bitch and moan like the asshole he is, but even he’d get it. Jaskier would do it tomorrow. Today even, if he wasn’t convinced his father has him followed wherever he goes and would have him dragged back kicking and screaming, as soon as he sets foot somewhere the Marquess de Lettenhove doesn’t approve of.
Now, after dark, there’s the lights of towns and settlements scattered all along the coast, and he feels the urge to go like a physical pull, hooking behind his navel.
He looks back over his shoulder at his friend. “You should really try it Ess, it’s almost like flying.”
Essi scowls at him, her long blonde hair floating on the strong wind, her arms folded over her chest as if she’s cold despite the mild temperature. “Jaskier, will you stop being an idiot and—Fuck, Jask!” She stumbles forward and reaches for him, her large blue eyes wide and frightened.
Jaskier feels his heart hammer in his chest. He’s been here many times, and he knows there is loose rubble at the cliff edge. He’s always careful. He always makes sure not to get too close to the edge and to have his feet firmly planted on solid ground. He’s more than a little drunk though, and the longing coupled with the recklessness of inebriation has him twirl around to feel the seawind buffet against all sides of him. He twirls, and slips.
Essi stumbles forward and reaches for him, but it is too late. His feet slide over the gravelly surface. The alcohol that has his brain slightly fuzzy makes his reflexes slow, and he’s unable to keep his balance. He falls backward, and as he starts to tip, he knows he’s too close to the edge. He has a split second to consider being smashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below, and how the evidence of his death will be washed away by the ocean, leaving nothing behind.
His life will end before he ever manages to make it his own. He would be sad about it, if not for the fact death will release him from his father’s clutches. He just wishes Essi doesn’t have to be here to witness it.
Jaskier wants to close his eyes before he topples over the edge, but there is a flash of something pale and bright like moonlight in his peripheral vision. It moves too fast for him to recognise the shape, and he tries to track its movement as he falls backwards.
Suddenly, there’s a strong hand fisting the front of his doublet, hauling him upright. The fabric is pulled tight against his throat for a moment, and he squeaks in surprise, his feet scrabbling against the ground to take back his weight and support him.
The person who’s just saved him from falling is large enough to take up his entire field of vision, and Jaskier can’t help but think the man has coalesced out of the scattered light of the moon. He gapes upward and blinks, swallowing when he looks into a scarred, albeit beautifully masculine face, meeting eyes of a vibrant, golden colour. The man has hair as white as snow, his brows of the same hue drawing together as he looks down at him, and Jaskier swallows again. Other than thinking he should really stop staring and thank the man who has just saved him, he gets the strange urge to apologise under that disapproving stare.
“If you want my attention, this is not the way to go about it, little lark .”
He’s still drunk, and as if that wasn’t enough, he can feel the adrenaline high of almost dying flooding his bloodstream. The hard look this strange man is giving him has him feeling small, stupid beyond belief for taking such a careless risk with his life, and it rankles him. The feeling it invokes reminds him too much of his father.
“Excuse you!” he says, his fingers curling around the man’s wrist in an effort to pull away the hand that’s still fisted in the expensive brocade of his doublet, pulling it tight against him. “Where do you get off calling me that? You don’t even know me.”
The man’s frown deepens and he tilts his head. Jaskier can’t help but be reminded of the hunting dogs back at Lettenhove when they hear a sound they can’t comprehend, and a hysterical laugh wants to bubble up out of his throat. He bites back the sound, and pulls at the man’s wrist again. So far, it hasn’t moved an inch, his grip strong as steel.
Jaskier huffs a haughty breath in an effort to portray confidence he doesn’t feel. “Saving me from an untimely demise by being smooshed into pulp at the bottom of a cliff earns you my gratitude. It doesn’t earn you the right to keep putting your hands on me. Let. Go. ” he snaps.
There is a low rumble coming from the man’s chest that can only be described as a growl, and Jaskier is suddenly acutely aware of just how much weight and size the man has on him. The alcohol dampens his apprehension, but he still blinks up at the man nervously, taking in his expression to see how he’ll receive the brashly spoken words.
He almost expects to be smacked around a little, but all the man does is step aside and pull him forward, away from the cliff's edge, before letting him go. Jaskier stumbles forward, his balance off in a way that should have made it obvious to him that standing so close to the edge was the last thing he should have done.
Essi catches him, her arms coming around him as he turns, her eyes large and staring at the man who’d saved him from certain death. “Hush, Jask!” she hisses between her teeth, her face pale.
He follows the direction of her gaze, and for the first time sees the hilts of two blades protrude behind the man’s shoulder, and the way he is dressed in all black armour. He’s very clearly a warrior, and a skilled one at that, to have moved so fast toward him that he hadn’t seen him coming. Or had he? he thinks, briefly remembering the flash of moonlight. He shakes his head, blaming the fanciful notion on the alcohol and adrenaline in his veins, and the fact the man’s hair shimmers rather lovely under the moon’s pale rays.
Golden eyes are staring back at them, and Jaskier gets the sense the man is waiting for something. He clears his throat awkwardly, stepping slightly forward to place himself in front of Essi. He thinks it’s unlikely the warrior means them harm. He rescued him from falling down the cliff after all, but he’s not taking any chances.
“Thank you for saving me,” he says. We’ll be going back to the university now. We’re expected to lecture tomorrow.” He congratulates himself on the steadiness of his voice and the fact he’s managed to slip in the fact they will be missed, should they disappear.
The warrior tilts his head again, and if it wasn’t for the way he’s still frowning, Jaskier would think him confused.
“It’s customary to accept thanks, you know,” Jaskier says, raising an eyebrow and cursing his alcohol-addled brain for continuing to talk to the warrior. What he really should do is grab Essi and move back toward the city, away from the strange man who just— keeps staring.
Just when he thinks the man isn’t going to respond at all, he speaks. “I accept your thanks,” he says, his voice low and rumbling.
Jaskier has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the warrior's literal repetition of his words. “Alright then,” he huffs. “We’ll go our separate ways now, bye.”
“Be careful, next time,” the man rumbles.
“I’m always careful,” Jaskier retorts, and wants to smack himself upside the head when his next words spill over his lips without his conscious say so. “Or you’ll just have to rescue me again.”
At that, a corner of the man’s mouth ticks up, and Jaskier firmly blames the fact that he finds the expression endlessly charming on that second bottle of Toussainti wine.
—000—
The next morning when Jaskier wakes, he drags himself out of bed despite the headache, wearing his blanket like a cape. When he reaches Essi’s door he thunks his forehead against the wood in lieu of knocking.
“You awake, Ess?”
“Yes, since I wasn’t the one hogging all the wine last night like sharing is a physically painful thing,” Essi snipes as she pulls the door open, making Jaskier all but drop inside when his support suddenly vanishes.
“Missing a drop would have just had me perish ,” he snarks back at her. “Now tell me, did I dream almost falling off a cliff and being rescued by a very beautiful but very dangerous looking man, or should I be worried about how my dreams are getting weirder?”
“It’s not funny,” Essi says, the corners of her mouth pulling down. “Don’t joke about it. You know what would have happened if he hadn’t been there?”
“Yes. Fuck,” Jaskier says, suddenly vividly remembering the feeling of the ground slipping beneath his feet and the abyss just behind him. “I’m sorry, Ess. I didn’t mean to get so close to the edge.”
“Of all the stupid, reckless things, Dandelion, you outdid yourself this time,” she says, her voice trembling.
Guilt is heavy in Jaskier’s stomach, and he briefly pulls her against him, enveloping her in the blanket he still carries.
Essi sighs. “I know that you hoped your father wouldn’t make you return to the estate next month, and getting that letter sucked,” she says. “But getting so drunk you nearly kill yourself is not a solution!” Her voice gets a little hysterical toward the end, and he nods against her soft blonde hair.
“I know. I won’t do it again.” He’s silent for a while, before he sighs and lets her go. “I really did hope it was a dream though. Because if it wasn’t, I think my father has just stuck a tail on me I’m never going to be able to shake.”
“You think he’s your father’s?” she asks, frowning.
Jaskier rubs his hands over his face. “He’s got to be. Why else would he be conveniently close enough to pull me back from falling, at a place that should be deserted in the middle of the night.”
Essi quickly glances around them, despite the fact they’re in her private rooms with the door closed. “You still want to run?”
Jaskier bites the inside of his lip, thinking of his father’s cold, blue eyes. His friends know the Marquess keeps him on a tight leash, but there’s so much they don’t know, because Jaskier never told them. “Yes. I still do.”
She shakes her head at him. “I don’t understand why you can’t just stay in Oxenfurt. You only have to see him a couple of times a year.”
Jaskier swallows. They’ve had this conversation before, and he’s come close to confiding in her. He would do it, if it didn’t mean putting her in more danger than she realises. “I just want to be free, Ess,” is all he says.
Her eyes drop over the way he’s still in his sleep clothes, his blanket over his shoulders. “Be free later. You know you’re going to be teaching class in half an hour, don’t you?” she says with a raised brow.
“Shit!” Jaskier exclaims, looking at the morning light slanting through the window and only now realising the time. “Fuckity fuck. I can’t be late again , the dean will surely write me another strongly worded letter. Kill me now,” he panics, throwing the blanket to the floor and hastening back to his own rooms.
As Jaskier all but runs toward the class he’s supposed to teach, still buttoning his doublet, he can’t help but look over his shoulder a couple of times, half expecting to see a warrior clad in black leather, with golden eyes and moonlight hair.