Chapter Text
A cluster of wagons slowly trundled their way down the narrow path through the trees. At their flanks and leading the way were a group of black clad soldiers bearing the sigil of Nilfgaard. Their movement could be tracked by the subtle way the woods around them went silent as though the creatures that saw them were holding their breath.
At the center of their train was a reinforced wooden carriage, surrounded by four guards. It might pass as something as simple as a carriage for travelers were it not for the iron bars welded to the window and the faint clink of chains within it. The misery hidden beneath felt strong enough to smell.
But then, they had more than enough practice ignoring the darkest sides of humanity.
“I count ten.”
Aiden shouldered his sentinel with a good natured huff. “Check your eyes,” he said, near silent, “There’s two more in the rear guard.”
Lambert scowled. “The wagon was in the way.”
“Good thing you’re cute,” Eskel muttered.
Beside them, Geralt ignored the familiar cadence of their teasing and tried not to think about the bitter longing that hid in the shadows of his heart. He kept his focus on the wagons and the battle that they would initiate. It was easier than thinking of the emotions he was sure was bleeding into the air around him for any guide to interpret.
The soldiers were evidence enough that Nilfgaard had finally begun to take notice of their raiding parties over the last few weeks. As soon as the snows had cleared from the pass, the Witchers and their small collection of mages had moved with the warmer weather into the south. Vesemir had soon departed to seek out his old contacts throughout the kingdoms for someone who might be able to help them turn the tide of history into their favor. The rest of them had begun the long process of fighting a war without an army.
So far, they’d only harassed the supply lines crawling up the Continent ahead of the army’s movement, redistributing the food and goods to villages far enough away that they didn’t risk getting them retaken when the army began to search. It was slow work and only barely fed the growing need for more violence brewing within him. Nilfgaard had too much to pay for for them to take their time.
His hand tightened around the handle of his sword. “Signal Yennefer. We’ll cut them off at the river.”
Without waiting for a response, he pushed himself away from the narrow overhang where they’d been watching. It was far enough away that only a sentinel would be able to overhear their whispers, but Geralt wasn’t willing to risk their lives on luck. That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way. A mistake would land them in a shallow grave.
“Geralt!” Aiden shimmied away from the lip of the overhang to avoid being silhouetted against the rock and hurried toward the retreating sentinel.
He was still underweight from his time in the cells and the shadows still lingered in his bottle green eyes whenever he was too long away from his bondmates. The memories of what he’d seen there were enough to keep him awake nearly every night, biting back screams that Geralt pretended he didn’t hear from his own bedroll nearby. It marked the increasing tension that rippled through them with each step away from the safety of Kaer Morhen.
Geralt halted a few feet within the tree line and looked back at Aiden with an arched brow. Even after three months inside Kaer Morhen training with Vesemir and the others hadn’t been long enough to heal the rift between them. Not when they both knew who he wished was there instead.
“The soldiers are expecting an attack,” Aiden said when he got closer, voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I can feel their anticipation. They won’t be easy to overtake.”
“We expected as much once they got word of the other raids.”
This would mark the third time they’d gone against the caravans moving steadily north along with Nilfgaard’s approaching army. It was too risky for their small group to take on any of the larger contingents, forcing them to rely on the smaller, less protective groups for information they could use against them. That, and wait for a response from Cintra’s armies.
Cintra remained one of the few kingdoms standing against Nilfgaard’s steady advance. Though, without the aid of Aretuza or Ben Aard’s guides and sentinels, it would only be a matter of time before they collapsed. Calanthe was living on borrowed time--the whole Continent was.
“You can’t do this alone,” the guide murmured, eyes too sharp to be easily dismissed. “You have to be careful.”
Geralt turned away from him, lips twisting in a sneer. “Worry about your own sentinel.”
Without bothering to wait for a response, he stalked through the trees at the edge of the outcropping, angling toward the river he could hear in the distance. He filled his lungs with the scent of pine and spring grasses, catching the faint hint of lavender and gooseberries that marked Yennefer’s path through the trees. If he tried hard enough, he imagined he would be able to smell the pitch and glycerine mixture that they’d affixed to two of the trees set along the path.
He kept the road to his right and continued forward. With each step, he opened his senses to the world around him until it filled his mind with a chaotic symphony. Beneath his feet, he listened to the minute shifting of the earth as his weight passed over it. Overhead, he listened to a sparrow shifting the twigs that made up her nest against the faint weight of her eggs within it. A rabbit’s quick breathing muffled itself as the creature hid itself beneath the roots of the oak nearby.
Stretching his focus outward, he sifted through the sharp scent of human sweat and horses to the sword oil and iron that marked each soldier. Mentally, he added to the tally of guards another inside the carriage carrying two more guides for the war effort. He’d heard of their progress from a village still reeling from the passage of the hunters that had taken them. From there, it was easy enough to track the group as they moved back toward the safety of the Nilfgaardian line.
He paused at the edge of the trees and waited for the signal that would trigger their ambush. The first group of guards on horseback moved past the first marker and he listened to the low whistle of a thrush cut through the quiet trees. It was the only warning he got to cover his ears before the world was lit by fire and the creaking of shattered tree trunks. A moment later, the ground shook as two trees fell neatly on either side of the wagons.
The blast was enough to have his ears ringing, but he ignored the discomfort to sprint across the distance. Yennefer’s explosives had sent the horses shrieking in panic and he heard the sound of their riders join the animals as they tried to get them under control. He’d beheaded one of the soldiers before they even realized he was among them.
In the distance, he heard Lambert curse at his failure to wait for them, but he ignored it in favor of giving in to the tide of fury that was always simmering in his veins. One of the men hurled a spear toward him and he deflected it with an easy twist of his sword, listening to the dull thunk as it embedded itself in the wood behind him. He could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, replicating by the panicked soldiers.
His chest filled with air that tasted like blood and rich earth, muddied with the manure still embedded in the horse’s shoes. One of the mares broke and ran from the scene, abandoning her rider to the pitiless mercy of a Witcher’s sword. He listened to her racing feet disappear at the edges of his perception.
There was a bellow as one of the guards leapt out from behind the wagon and slammed into Geralt's side. They hit the ground and rolled between the wheels, barely missing the hooves of the larger draft horses pulling it. He had enough time to recognize his assailant as another sentinel before his eyes tracked the faint flicker of sunlight on the blade slicing down toward his throat.
Geralt twisted beneath the other man’s grip, listening to the blade slam into the earth inches away from his head. He stared up into dark eyes that were narrowed in hatred and a matching desperation that every soldier on a battlefield would recognize. It matched the blood pounding in their veins and the burn of their own abilities fighting for dominance.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself without the benefit of his own strength to overwhelm his opponent. The sentinels grappled without any of the skill that normally tempered their movements. Around them, he could hear the sounds of his brothers fighting their way through the ranks of the guards. It matched the muffled noises of fright from within the prison cart.
The other sentinel grunted as Geralt managed to land a knee in his gut and shove him away. He’d lost his sword in the scramble so he cast Aard directly into the other man’s chest. The sentinel skidded backwards, gritting his teeth against the force it took to keep his feet. As soon as he could he lunged forward with his hands outstretched and a blade gripped in one fist.
Geralt was forced to completely focus on the struggle instead of the fighting around them. He ducked a slice aimed at his neck and grunted when his effort was rewarded with a knee to his chin. His vision spun in dizzying sweeps as he stumbled backward, shaking his head in an effort to clear his head.
A moment later, he made a gritted snarl of pain when the sentinel drove his knife into Geralt's shoulder, barely missing his heart. It was only luck that kept him from dying in this muddied road far from any city's name.
“Geralt!” The shout was mixed into the pounding rhythm of the world around him.
He realized as he stood with narrow vision and a head full of noise that he was hurtling toward a zone.
It had been far too long since he’d had an anchor to keep the noise and the smells and the sensations of the world at bay. Too long since he’d known the cool relief of blue eyes and gentle fingers dragging through his hair. Too long and now too far out of his reach.
His guide was gone. Maybe it was time to follow him.
Geralt stared at the sentinel across from him and told himself that he wouldn’t accept the death that was so easily being handed to him. That he still had to complete the task he’d set out to do.
The sentinel raised his bloodied knife and moved towards him.
And Geralt hesitated.
He could hear Vesemir’s voice in the back of his mind, coaching him through the defensive block. How to drop his body and slip beneath the swing of the blade and into his opponent, using the momentum to his advantage. From there he could disarm him and use the weapon to end the fight with a single twist of his wrist.
Or perhaps he could simply use another sign to blast the sentinel away. A Quen shield to block the next blow and Igni to burn the flesh from his bones.
He hesitated.
The sentinel lunged toward him with his blade outstretched--
Only to be brought up short by the spear launched through his chest. The sentinel looked down with an expression of surprise before collapsing to his knees.
Geralt sucked in a surprised breath, swaying in place. He stared at the other sentinel and listened to the other man’s heart pound in his chest, slowly collapsing to his knees as his life’s blood emptied on the ground. Aiden stalked past Geralt and pulled the spear free with a brutal yank, eyes dark.
“Geralt?” he called softly when the Witcher remained standing silently.
Aiden stepped closer but the knowledge was distant against the drumming rhythm in his ears and the ragged sound of someone gasping for air. His eyes remained focused on the bright red stain spilling in a dark wave against the earth and the pulse flickering weakly against the frail skin of his neck.
“Geralt?” This time it was Lambert, running over to the two of them. There was a streak of blood across his shirt and he smelled like sweat and iron. “What’s wrong with--”
“He’s zoning. Get Eskel.”
Geralt blinked and then there were two hands brushing over his face, gently moving his face away from the dead sentinel. He stared at the bright green of his eyes and wished desperately that they would turn a familiar blue. Blue like the water he wanted to sink beneath.
“Geralt,” Aiden’s voice was softer than he’d ever heard and he found himself staring at the pulse in his neck, counting the rhythm like a metronome. “You need to breathe. Focus on me.”
He floundered, wanting to pull away before he slipped beneath the pull of the guide’s abilities. There was a part of him that hated the familiar pulse of calm that soothed the edge of his fractured control. The world around him trembled--too loud and too overwhelming for comprehension.
“Breathe with me, Wolf. You’re stronger than this.”
Geralt shuddered, feeling as though even the sound of his voice was too much to bear. He felt himself reaching desperately for the place where Jaskier had once rested safely against his heart. The absence of warmth there felt like another blow.
Aiden shifted closer, crowding Geralt’s field of vision until he was forced to focus on the tiny details he’d never been close enough to notice. A tiny scar at the edge of his upper lip. The lightest dusting of freckles on the curve of his cheek.
He couldn’t help but count all of the reminders that this wasn’t his guide. It was as though Jaskier had been as bright as the sun and he was left blinking at the imprint of the shadow left behind.
“That’s it, old man,” Aiden murmured, ignoring the sound of approaching footsteps, “You can control this. Focus on my voice.”
The guide continued to murmur meaningless words of comfort as Geralt began the slow process of filtering out the stimulus brought by his abilities. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight and kaleidoscope of colors and tried to ignore the sounds of far off bird calls and the tramping of horse’s hooves. He ignored the ache in his heart when his lungs filled with a scent too strong and too sharp to be mistaken for Jaskier’s floral notes.
Slowly, painfully, Geralt dragged his mind back from the spiral of his senses. He was lucky that a guide had been so close--it would be enough to keep him from the same overstimulated nightmare that had brought him to Jaskier in the first place.
He closed his eyes and imagined that the hands on his shoulder belonged to the same kind-hearted bardling. He closed his eyes and thought of Jaskier.
“He’s coming back now,” Eskel’s voice was a familiar rumble even if he wasn’t yet ready to leave the daydream of being with his own guide.
“And the prisoners?” Lambert asked. “Were they recovered?”
“Yennefer is with them now.”
“Good. We’ll need to get moving quickly. I’ll get the horses rounded up for the additional people.”
Reality seemed unwilling to wait for Geralt’s broken heart. He opened his eyes and swallowed hard against the disappointment. Aiden’s eyes were careful, but he didn’t comment when Geralt only nodded and stood back up.
He carefully ignored the silent look shared between Eskel and Aiden in favor of confirming that the sentinel had been the last of the soldiers standing against them. It was obvious both of them were watching for any sign of impending collapse, but he wasn’t willing to give them another reason to insist he stay behind while they continued their mission. His head ached with the beginnings of a migraine that he ignored with the same fierce dedication that he ignored the moisture on his cheeks. That was something to consider when he was far away from the guides’ watchful eyes and too-knowing abilities.
“Thank you,” he managed in a hoarse voice. It was a pittance compared to what he’d avoided, but he wasn’t ready to acknowledge that.
Instead, he turned and walked to where he could hear Yennefer speaking with another female.
“--ordered us to go or be killed.”
“How long ago?” Yennefer asked.
“Two weeks.” Geralt turned around the edge of the wagon and took in the sight of the tall, blonde woman across from the mage. She bore the familiar bearing of guides trained in Aretuza and was attractive enough to be sent away to the various courts allied with them. “The summons was hardly more than a veiled threat--any attempt to resist would have resulted in an immediate invasion.”
“Is this Cahir really so powerful?”
“He took Aretuza...from Tissaia.”
Yennefer’s head snapped up in surprise at the name. “There’s no way the old woman would let them take the tower without a fight.”
“There was a fight,” the other guide’s voice was soft, “It just wasn’t enough.”
They looked up as Geralt walked closer and halted their conversation. Yennefer gave him a curious look, obviously noticing how close he was to losing control, but didn’t comment. “Sabrina, this is Geralt,” she introduced, “he is part of the group helping guides escape Nilfgaard.”
“A sentinel,” Sabrina said with a small smile. Her eyes raked over him with interest that he ignored. “I’d heard rumors that Witchers were gifted.”
Geralt grunted, ignoring the way she continued to assess him. The thought of being near any other guide made his skin crawl, no matter how pretty she might be. Some of his thoughts must have shown in his emotions because she gave him a good natured smile and focused back on Yennefer.
“Will you return to your post then, now that you are free?” Yennefer asked.
Sabrina made a derisive sound. “For what? They’ll just send me back when the next group of Nilfgaardians makes another demand. The whole Continent is scared shitless by the thought of facing Cahir--let alone Emrhys.”
“We could use you here.” Yennefer’s voice was casual, but they all knew what the offer would entail.
A life on the run was hardly what a court mage dreamed of. There would be no glory or riches on their campaign. At best, they could hope to find a little piece of safety to rest between battles.
“You won’t be able to take the Continent with just a band of Witchers at your side. Not against Nilfgaard’s army.”
“Obviously not. That’s why we could make use of your connections at court.”
“Who is your target?”
“Calanthe,” Yennefer said. “She has the most to lose and to gain from Nilfgaard’s defeat. Without Aretuza to call on, she’ll need all the help she can get to keep her borders secure.”
Sabrina hummed, considering. “I might be able to get you an audience. No guarantees that she won’t have your representative drawn and quartered afterwards though. She’s hardly known for her interest in diplomacy.”
“Then we’ll just have to offer her a war.”
It shouldn’t have surprised him that Aiden was unwilling to allow the events of earlier that day end with Geralt’s stilted gratitude.
If anything, he supposed he should have been grateful that the guide had waited until that night to corner him when the rest of the camp was beginning to slip into their bedrolls. Geralt, for his part, had offered to take the first watch and the excuse to stay awake a little longer with his thoughts.
It was becoming a habit to avoid being around the other members of his party. He knew they were worried about him--it was obvious to everyone, himself included, that he wasn’t handling the loss of Jaskier well. His emotions would be obvious to any guide so he made an effort not to linger in the presence of the other happy bonded groups to avoid the bitter longing and jealousy that bled into the air around them. They deserved their peace.
The problem came each time he was forced to give in to the exhaustion that seemed to fill every waking hour. He resisted the pull of sleep like a man possessed--equal part excited and fearful of what his dreams would bring.
On good nights, he might be lucky enough to wake up with the memory of a warm body in his arms and the faint scent of cedar in his lungs.
On bad nights, he was lucky if he avoided waking up the rest of camp with his screaming.
Aiden’s footsteps were soft, but he made enough noise that Geralt knew he was offering him a subtle warning. The gesture should have been a kindness, but he wasn’t ready to be grateful to the Cat. Maybe he never would be.
“Have you eaten?” Aiden asked as he settled with long limbed grace onto the ground next to him. He kept his face tilted up with a placid expression, offering the appearance of a casual conversation.
Geralt grunted, skin prickling at the proximity of the other guide.
It wasn’t his fault, he told himself time and time again until it was a mantra that echoed through his mind any time he looked at the Cat. Eventually he hoped it would be something his heart would agree with. As it was now, he could force himself to remain civil.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the even breathing of the two warriors as they watched the stars slowly flicker to life beyond the shelter of the trees. The woods were alive with the music of creatures settling in for the night and those who were just beginning to awaken. A cooler breeze carried the humidity from the river and the faint promise of a spring rain storm.
“You can’t….” Aiden gritted his jaw and looked away from him when honeyed eyes shifted towards the source of the sound. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” Geralt sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and wincing at the sensation of dried blood flaking away. He must have missed it in the cursory scrub he’d attempted to clean off the evidence of the brief skirmish.
“Acting like your death won’t be devastating.” A deep breath. “Acting like Jaskier would want you to do this.”
The sentinel turned on him, teeth bared in a snarl. “Don’t talk about him like you know him.”
Don’t act like you miss him too.
“I do know him,” Aiden continued with a flare of his own anger sparking in his eyes. “I know how hard he fought to keep you safe. I know the kind of strength it took for him to go into those cells and keep them from learning anything about you. Don’t let that sacrifice be in vain.”
Abruptly, the anger that had been his only companion in the weeks that followed Aiden’s reappearance seemed to dissolve beneath the weight of his grief. He made a choked sound and pressed his fist against his mouth to muffle a sob. His eyes burned as he stared down at the faint outline of the pine needles beneath his feet. In that moment, he wished desperately that he hadn’t left Jaskier’s lute behind in Kaer Morhen for safe keeping. He wanted to have something to cling to against the familiar torrent of loneliness.
He wanted to be able to return to the last morning he’d had with Jaskier, to linger there until it was burned into his mind. He wanted to listen to another ridiculous rhyme designed to make him laugh. He wanted to know Jaskier was warm, safe, and waiting for him.
He wanted . Anything. Everything. Whatever he could have besides an end in an unmarked grave somewhere far from anyone who loved Jaskier.
Instead of pulling away or attempting to smother his grief in a guide-induced peace, Aiden only moved closer, reminding Geralt’s body what it was like to have another person there with him. The Cat curled around him like he could shield his grief from the world and offered him the privacy he needed to collapse for a moment beneath it. He hummed something softly, but it wasn’t until Geralt’s shoulders stopped shaking with his own misery that he recognized it.
It seemed Jaskier could continue comforting him even when he wasn’t there to do it himself.
The soft chuckle he released sounded a little like a sob, but he managed to smile ruefully despite it. “Fishmonger’s Daughter is a strange choice,” he rasped.
Aiden let out a little huff, not moving from his place against his side. “He never sang anything polite.”
“That sounds like him.”
The nostalgia settled over the quiet of the clearing like a warm blanket and Geralt breathed it in with muted greed.
“You can’t keep pretending you aren’t falling apart,” the Cat murmured after a few beats passed by in steady silence. “You don’t have to be immune to losing him.”
It was the first time anyone had dared to mention Jaskier without looking like they were waiting for Geralt to shatter to pieces. Instead, he felt some of the ache within him ease. Like he’d been missing the mention as much as the man.
He swallowed down the complicated words he’d never been good at carrying into the world. Words had never been his gift.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked instead. It was an uncomfortable feeling to think about all the ways he’d been avoiding the other Witcher for the sake of his own grief.
“You know why.”
That too, he understood with a surprising level of depth. If Aiden’s account of his time in the cells was correct, he spent a not insignificant amount of time with Jaskier. They’d relied on each other to survive the pain and torment around them and had formed a bond. The shadows in Aiden’s eyes had been uncomfortably similar to the ones in Geralt’s own.
It’s enough to have him taking a deep breath and letting his weight rest against the other man in silent support. His eyes returned to the stars above them.
“I miss him.”
“Me too.”
“Think it will ever get easier?”
Aiden hummed and shrugged one shoulder. “Some wounds were never meant to be healed.”
Geralt let the silence build into a comfortable presence between the two of them. He licked his lips and told himself to be braver than his grief.
“Tell me,” he murmured quietly, “about what happened in the cells.”