Chapter Text
There was a time that Jaskier would have just given up. There was a time where he would have had enough, and walked away without a care in the world as to the consequences for others, like he was trained to do. That time was before he met Geralt.
Oh Geralt, the world’s most surly Witcher, who was hard pressed to speak more than five words on a daily basis in favor of a complex language of hmms and grunts. A language that Jaskier thinks that he’s finally managed to decipher after more than a decade of travels.
What an emotionally repressed loser. Melitele, he loved that idiot with his entire heart.
A loud shout originating somewhere around his right brought Jaskier back to his present shit show of a situation. Bandits. Why the fuck was it always bandits?
They had sprung out from the trees while they were packing up camp. At their most vulnerable, the last thing the bard and the witcher were expecting after a tiring monster hunt was more immediate danger.
Usually, such occurrence would be no problem, but Geralt was already drained and injured from the stubborn selkiemore he had gutted mere hours ago, its blood still streaking his clothes. That, plus a low potion supply that he had been meaning to restock and ten bandits made for a horrible combination.
Jaskier had immediately been grabbed by the arms by two bandits, dragged to the edge of the campsite against his vocal protests.
Geralt, to his credit, had promptly flipped out relieved three bandits of their heads. But he was tired, and being tired and in battle never led to anything good, which meant he never saw the man behind him with the crossbow.
Jaskier only had time for one panicked shout of “Geralt! Watch out-” before he received a whack to the head for his troubles and tasted blood on his tongue as a bolt ripped through his witcher’s stomach.
Geralt fell to his knees at the impact, tipping over into the grass as a bandit got another lucky shot in while he was distracted. The bard heard an ungodly shriek and twisted around to see who in the clearing it had originated from.
It was only him and the bandits and Jaskier realized that the sound of fury had come from himself.
Jaskier didn’t think he had ever been more furious in his life.
The bandits laughed, one of them kicking Geralt where he lay unconscious.
How dare they touch his witcher.
The bard decided right then and there that none of them would live. He still had an ace up his sleeve.
In the commotion none of them had paid any mind to the helpless bard, assuming him too weak and pathetic to put up much of a fight. That would be their last mistake.
Jaskier observed the two bandits holding his arms out of the corners of his eyes. Their grip had gone slack in their victory and absentmindedly he could hear the ‘lead’ bandit gloating about the coin they would receive for the capture of a witcher.
He still had the dagger gifted to him by Geralt in his boot, but there was no way he could reach it in time to use it on any of the bandits. He would have to rely on his hand to hand combat skills until he could reach it.
Another glance told him the bandits were still distracted by their victory. Jaskier sent a quick prayer to any gods listening that it would be enough.
Swiftly, he stomped his foot as hard as he could on the bandit to his left’s foot. At the man’s shout he thrust an elbow into his nose, transferring the force from his core like he had been taught a thousand times. There was a satisfying crunch as the bandit’s nose shattered.
A rustling next to his ear alerted him to the bandit on his right and with an almost natural sense of grace he pivoted, ducking the swinging blade, and darting forward, jamming his fingers into the pressure point between the next and shoulder, sidestepping out of the way as the man went down.
He scooped up the bandit’s fallen sword, promptly dispatching him before he could rise again.
Just then the bard heard a groan from the heap of witcher on the forest floor, watching with wide eyes as Geralt began to stir. A bolt of fear shot through him as he remembered the man with the crossbow hiding in the tree line and turned just in time to see him raising the bow and aiming at the witcher.
Without a second’s thought Jaskier had his dagger in hand and was flinging it across the clearing with a practiced, deadly ease.
There was only a desperate gurgle as his dagger seemed to sprout from the bandit’s throat and the hefty thump of the crossbow hitting the floor, the bandit not far behind.
Now, four bandits remained, standing between Jaskier and Geralt. Now that just wouldn’t do. The bandit that appeared to have been in charge sneered at Jaskier.
“You got lucky little bard, but it’s four against one now. I had planned to just kill you here, but you’ve got a bite. Maybe you’d be better off if we sold you to some of our more distinguished friends. There’s a lot of people who would pay good money for the pretty likes of you”.
Jaskier gritted his teeth, releasing the likes of a snarl that would give even Geralt a run for his money. He felt the fury bubbling up from his very soul.
These bandits would have to die.
“First, you invade our camp. Then, you dared to touch my witcher. And let me tell you, that was quite a mistake, but it was far from your greatest one. In fact, it will be your final mistake.” The bandit laughed meanly, though Jaskier could see cracks beginning to form in his confident facade.
“And what mistake was that, little bard?”
Jaskier grinned a terrible, fierce smile, relishing in the growing fear on the bandit’s faces.
Gingerly he stepped forward, scooping up a sword from the side of one of the dead bandits. Raising it, he slipped into a form he had practiced a thousand times, the weight of the sword familiar, singing into his palms. He met the bandit’s eyes, expression steely and stone cold.
“You underestimated me”.
Jaskier let his consciousness dissolve into the clanging of swords, his body taking over into a pattern of swift moments. Thrust, block, swing, repeat.
One by one he cut down each bandit with dangerous precision. The fog of fury in his mind cleared as he twisted the word into the chest of the leader bandit, who choked on a final breath of blood.
Jaskier felt the sticky cling of blood dripping down his face, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was his own or one of the bandit’s.
The rest of his clothes hadn’t been spared and he was streaked with blood and had tears in the fabric across his arms and chest. Fuck, he had really liked this outfit.
Absentmindedly, he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. They were already ruined anyways.
Bodies littered the ground where he had cut them down in his fury. Jaskier sighed, he had hoped he had finally escaped the bloodshed of his past, but he knew in his heart he was a fool to believe that would ever be true.
The bard’s thoughts were interrupted by a groan sounding across the clearing. Jaskier whipped his head around to the lump of black.
“Geralt!”