Your Lips Like Waves Crash Against My Cliffs

Jaskier knew there was something very wrong when Geralt puked on him.

He had wrongly – so very wrongly – assumed that the Witcher was only drunk as they made their way up the fine stone stairs of the castle, and had gladly accepted it as an advantage to use teasing and rambling just to get a rise out of him. The Bard had found the light sheen of sweat on that pale hairline odd, although he had seen Geralt down multiple drinks to bear the revelries earlier in the night and thought nothing of it.

But now, standing in the hall under a high window, bathed in a silvery beam of calm moonlight, and newly bathed in putrid vomit, Jaskier was reconsidering his observations. As soon as it happened, Geralt nearly fell forward. It was all Jaskier could do to catch him in his arms, knees buckling under the weight of the massive man.

His first response came out merely as a string of concerned noises and expletives, but he finally managed to stutter a cohesive sentence. "Geralt – bloody fuck, are you alright?"

The Witcher's eyes were wide, animalistic in the sense that he was aware of danger, of a threat. That gaze landed on Jaskier, but only for a fleeting moment as they soon unfocused. A wave of trembles ran through his body as the Bard began rambling, nerves taking over. "You are most certainly not alright, okay, here we go! Come along Geralt, we'll get you to lie down and figure out what's wrong in no time! Yes, everything will be just fine – oh, fuck you are heavy!" The Bard grunted, strained, as he began to drag the Witcher towards his room. "Come on, work with me you large – large and wonderfully muscled man. Fuck."

"Jaskier…" Geralt's already gravelly voice bubbled with something dreadful in his throat, and Jaskier only hurried his efforts, at long last able to shove his companion off his shoulder and onto the mattress.

Geralt promptly rolled on his side and vomited again, wild white hair now plastered to his scalp and forehead with sweat. His skin began to darken to an angry shade of red, and veins on his neck bulged when he forced himself to speak again. "Jaskier… go find a fucking doctor!"

"Okay, okay! Just… don't die while I'm gone." Jaskier looked over his shoulder twice as he bolted out of the room, worry beginning to take hold in his gut. It pushed his legs to move faster, sent his heart hammering in his chest.

Everything began to hurt, and it was terrifying. He was just so scared when shit like this happened to Geralt. Because it rarely ever did. He was usually stronger than whatever came to get him. What had happened that did this? Whatever it was, he could beat it. He could get over it. He'd be fine.

Geralt was always fine.

But… maybe this would be the time he wasn't.

Jaskier turned a corner and ran straight into a maid, sending a neatly folded stack of sheets cascading to the ground in a waterfall of fabric. The maid screamed in surprise, then began to apologise when Jaskier grabbed her shoulders and spoke breathlessly. "Is there a doctor here?"

"Wh-what? Oh – yes, the physician, but – what for, sir? Are you unwell?" Her nose scrunched as the stench of the vomit on Jaskier's shirt surfaced.

"It's for my – my friend." Breath heaving, panic seizing his throat. "Please, can you take me to the physician? Quickly, he's – I think he's dying." Saying the words sent a new stab right through his chest.

The maid then nodded quickly, grasping his hand and walking briskly to one of the small doors – a servants' stairwell. She led Jaskier up one level before nudging open the door at the top, revealing a narrower corridor. Still with his hand gripped tightly, she rushed down this hall until they reached the last room. A light flickered through the cracks in the doorframe.

"Lady Elizaveta, I'm so sorry to bother you, but this man needs your help immediately!" The maid shoved Jaskier into the room – humble, with slanted but high ceilings, and filled floor to rafters with bookcases - and then stood close behind him, nearly in his shadow.

The woman by the desk, clad in soft white and tan linen robes lined with gold trim, turned to face them. Her wrinkled features were pulled taught by the lithe raise of a thin brow. "What is it that you need, boy?" Her voice came stronger than her frail, swathed frame would suggest, and Jaskier silently prayed that she was as wise as she seemed.

"My friend – er, Geralt of – of Rivia, something's very wrong, I think he's dying, please I need your help." Impatience forced its way in his words in the form of relentless anxiety.

"The Witcher that was in attendance? Oh, my." She grabbed a bag and stepped past him, turning when he made no move. "You said he was dying? Hurry it up then!"

"Oh – right, right," Jaskier nodded, following behind her as she whisked into the corridor. She made haste through the halls, abiding by the Bard's directions and listening to his nervous ranting about Geralt's symptoms. The maid shuffled behind them, and then excused herself to run off and get supplies.

The physician's lips pulled in a tighter and tighter line as Jaskier's rambling went on, and turning to face him in front of the door to the room, she cut him off. "He's likely been poisoned. Given the amount of people that would like to accomplish that, I'm nearly certain. I'll need to find out what it is to procure an antidote." With that, she stepped inside.

Geralt did not look well. Curled on his side, he was shivering and drenched in sweat, the fabric of his white undershirt nearly transparent. There was a bowl on the nightstand beside him, filled with vomit. Jaskier cringed at the sight, simultaneously longing to reach out and coddle him back to health, and recoil from the room and take a bath. He stood in the doorway for a moment before the physician pushed past him into the room, opening her bag at the foot of the bed. After she got to work, the Bard went to sit on the opposite side of the bed, gently brushing some of the Witcher's damp, ratty hair back from his face. His hand lingered on his forehead, watching his eyes flick fervently behind closed eyelids.

The physician swabbed his mouth and put the sample into a vial of clear liquid. The contents soon swirled to a disturbing violet hue, black at its core and clouds curling. She grimaced. "It's definitely poison. This is from an Arulseth flower." She looked down at Geralt and touched her fingers to his throat, skin red and developing rashes from under the hem of his clothing. "It's diluted, but he still may only have… a few days. Five, at most."

"What?" Jaskier balked, an icy feeling jolting through his limbs. He instinctively gripped Geralt's limp hand. "You said that you would make an antidote once you found out what it was! So – get to it, please? Please." Jaskier pushed the Witcher's hair back despite there being none out of place, running his fingers once again through the snowy white locks. He gulped quietly, a lump forming in his throat. "Please."

The maid from earlier then rejoined them, setting a bowl of cold water on the free space of the nightstand and dipping a pale cloth in it. She wrung out the rag before folding it and gently placing it on the Witcher's perspiring forehead. She remained quiet.

The physician began once more to sort through the contents of her bag, removing bottles and herbs and vials. "I will need the flower to make a cure, but I'm afraid I do not have one. They are extremely rare." Her features drew tight with sympathy. "I'll see what I can do to slow its course."

"Someone must have gotten one from nearby to manage this." Jaskier felt numb. His blood was rushing in his ears, his pulse an ominous, pounding drum. None of this felt real. There was no chance that he could ever outlive Geralt. It was impossible.

And here they were. Jaskier could only stare. He could only watch. That seemed like all he could do at times like this.

Looking up from her work, the physician nodded. "They grow in the walls of the caves by the sea. No one risks going there though, unnamed company possibly excluded. Anyways, the caves there are inhabited by… creatures." A sigh. "It would be a more even battle if it were you who were poisoned, not your Witcher. But I would not recommend it a journey you take."

Jaskier stared, blue eyes made icy by fear; fear of what he was planning, or fear of the thought of his life without Geralt, he did not know. Those same eyes wandered the room before coming to lie on the two swords propped against the desk on the wall opposite, beside the Witcher's armoured jacket. "Five days, you said? Is that time to make it there and back?"

For a moment, the room fell silent. Then the maid spoke up, her voice soft and earnest. "I don't claim to know this Geralt of Rivia… but if what I've heard from the stories is true, if you die, he will never forgive you."

"He can tell me that in hell, then," Jaskier didn't mean to snap, but his fists clenched as he stood, resolve squaring his shoulders. The maid flinched back, and he felt sorry only briefly, continuing to speak. "Because unless I go, unless I try, he won't be living either." He crossed the room and took up the swords, sheathed in their leather. He glared at their hilts.

"You will need to pack supplies. Idia, take him to the kitchens to get food for the journey." The physician shooed the maid from the bedside, and gazed up at the Bard until his head turned. "You will need to go on foot. And tell me – if you do not return and he dies, what shall we do with the body of a Witcher?"

The Bard stopped at that. Geralt rarely spoke to him of his own death… and Jaskier truly didn't know what to say. He always assumed that he would go before the Witcher did, and if it did happen to be the other way around, then Geralt's remains and possessions would be defaulted to him as his only tie. But in this case, neither of them may survive. Jaskier held his breath briefly, fear threatening to take hold and hold fast this time.

"If he dies, a witch will come for him." It was the only answer he could think of, but sounded right all the same. "You will know her when you see her. And she'll know long before anyone else."

Silence for another pause; drawn out, tense, only Jaskier's spinning thoughts were plenty to occupy him.

The physician spoke again, busying herself with tending to Geralt's feverish form. "Good luck, then. I hope you may return."

"I hope I do, too." Jaskier took one last lingering, longing look at the Witcher, before following the maid out of the room and into the hall.

As Jaskier hiked over the lush green cliffside, bathed in morning mist and soothed by the distant sounds of the sea, he thought long of Geralt. Naturally, he had thought of him the entire trip, for the past day and a half ceaselessly, but he had come across a thought that stuck with him for a while. Walking unaccompanied, Jaskier recognised how lonely this quest had become.

"Why does he do this?" The Bard mused aloud, his voice sounding strange and small combatting with the dense fog and the distant crashing of the sea. "It's… terribly sad. Does he think this is his only purpose because he was… cursed to be a Witcher? That would make sense… woe is a man doomed to live forever, with nothing else to do but slay the creatures humans are too weak and afraid to do so." Jaskier paused for a moment, blue eyes scanning the horizon – now only marked by the cragged cliffsides. Sadness grappled with his heart, tugging and pulling in all directions as he envisioned hair the colour of the white mist before him, eyes like shining gold – but a gaze more precious than any currency, coin or jewellery could offer.

With a voice as gravelly as these darkened, rocky cliffs, a history as full as the grass beneath him… Jaskier momentarily stood in awe, in disbelief that he could ever have been lucky enough to stumble across that man. That man that had become his livelihood, his passion, his muse and the spark of his spirit and his song… The man who protected him, and humans, all without gratitude, doomed to a rotten life isolated and misunderstood.

That man's very life was now in the hands of a simple Bard. And that simple Bard adored him – loved him – more than he could ever possibly dream to encapsulate with meagre language. Whether it be the language of the tongue, of the lute, or of his touch and his hands, he would never be able to express the endless reservoirs of emotion that throttled his heart at times like this.

"It must be rage. Sorrow. Something." Jaskier continued walking as his voice carried him on. "He can't possibly believe monsters will go away. He knows there is no end to this, and yet… He will do it forever, without gratitude or aid. Why? Oh, why, why, why, Geralt?" Frustration raised the Bard's volume, a desperate cry to open air. "Why do you continue on, without a purpose? What is it all for?"

He earned no response from the whispers of the wind, gales tousling his brown hair so that it obscured his vision. Jaskier brushed his bangs back, resting his hand on his forehead in despair. After silence, he continued his soliloquy.

"It matters not, I suppose. I'll never know. Unless you say something, Geralt, I will never understand. Feelings are funny that way. And… I don't know if you totally get me either. I guess we'll never really know that." Finally, he let out a long sigh. "But what I do know is that I have a goal in mind for this quest – thing. I'm getting that damn flower, and I'm coming back to you."

"And I'll… well, if I survive and that doesn't speak some truth for itself, then I give up. I'll write a song or something. You may never understand completely, but I will… I will never stop trying to make you see."

As he came to the side of the cliff, near its edge now, a growing sense of unease blossomed in the air; the miasma here thicker yet wispier, more frightening in the sense that it forebode the danger of which the Bard was warned. He searched for a pathway down, to find the caves that remained his destination.

He began to hum, words coming to mind as he suggested only moments before, a song scribing itself as a form of comfort and solace. He tested their feel on his tongue, the curve of the syllables on his melody.

"Waves may crash against the cliffs,

But it is nothing, my love, to the feel of your lips.

Pulling, pushing, dragging me under,

Without them I feel torn asunder."

He stopped at a precipice, seeing a path downward and an outlook below. The mouth of a cave gaped at him, an audience for his tune.

Jaskier was not prepared to hear a voice call back, seeming to rise up and echo all around. The harmony was sweet, paying hauntingly lovely tribute to the scraps of his song. He turned on his heel, attempting to draw the sword, when loose rock clattered beneath him. He fell.

Jaskier awoke to the sound of running water, splashing into a pool and slapping against sleek, dark stones. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes to see, blinking up at stalactites of a blackened ceiling, and turning on his side to see the pale blue light of the moon glistening through a waterfall. Beyond the mouth of the cave and its watery curtain was a still ocean, waves lazily rolling in from a distance. The pool inside the cave remained tranquil.

He was sore, but a buzzing in his veins brought no pain, only a calming sense as he sat up, seeing he lie on a squishy patch of some sort of moss. Not the most tasteful of beds, but an easy comfort to the cave floor.

Movement nearby now drew his attention, and what he had assumed was a rock of different colour now shimmered as it moved, unfolding itself to reveal limbs; slender arms and legs, webbed fingers curling on the cold floor, hair like a mop of silken seaweed cascading forward to reveal a beautiful, feminine face. Curious, unblinking eyes gazed up at Jaskier, even as he recoiled in surprise. He felt no threat from the creature, instead distracted by the lovely shine of her scaled body as it lithely repositioned so that she may observe him.

She peered up, seeming just as cautious and afraid of him as he felt in return. He surprisingly found that he had no desire to run away, feeling almost entirely enraptured in her presence. Senses of peace rolled over him like the quiet waves of the nearby sea.

When she spoke, it was smooth like silk and warm like honey, but hushed like the drips and drops of water nearby. "What are you?"

Jaskier swallowed to find his voice, throat dry and still clenched in admiration. She was stunning, like a painting come to life. "I… I'm a human. A Bard. Are you…" Something locked in place in his mind, and his eyes widened to reflect the light of the pool. "Are you the creature who defends these caves?"

"Defends?" She tilted her head. "This is my home. Humans continue to come here without invite… I send them away." She leaned forward, closer to him. Jaskier held still. "Is there something I can call you?"

"Jaskier." His voice was a hushed rasp.

In turn, the name sounded foreign and tender on her tongue. "Jaskier…" She looked away. "Earlier, you sang a lovely song… where is it from?"

The Bard blinked in astonishment, softened in a way he did not expect to be. His heart nearly melted. Her voice had surely been the one he heard, and how it rang with such a superior beauty! "I wrote it on my journey here. I… write songs. That's what bards do." He paused. "You were the one who sang back. It was stunning."

At this she looked to him, wide eyes searching for something. She sat back. "You were not enthralled by it in the manner others are… They get lured in here. I've had married men, knights, travellers all come here and will me to sing to them sweetly. They never leave when I ask. I do not understand. How are you different?"

Pausing and not answering her, the Bard's thought escaped in a whisper. "Dwelling by the sea… a voice that draws people from near and far… Are you a Siren?"

She nodded and repeated her prior sentiment. "I do not understand. You should be fallen at my feet. And yet… you do not act as if you are here to slay me, or here for the lust which all those crave."

"Perhaps my mind was elsewhere. I am not here to hurt you." Jaskier kept his eyes on her, hoping to express his earnesty with his gaze. "I… am looking for something. Are you the keeper of the Arulseth flower? I need one, for… for… to give to someone."

Silence followed his words, the hushed rushing of the waterfall taking their place. The Siren spoke next. "Why should I gift my flowers to you? Poisonous, no less… They make me happy when I am lonely… and I am so lonely, always."

"If you did not want me to take them, then why didn't you just off me like the stories say? I was told that no one returns from this place…"

The Siren considered him, standing and stepping close before kneeling in front of him. In proximity, her skin glittered. "I tried. You should have been weak at the sound of my voice. But… your mind must be elsewhere, as you said. Not with malintent but… merely occupied." Her webbed hand, fingernails like claws, came to rest on his chest. Jaskier's heart beat rapidly beneath it. "Your heart is already full."

Jaskier stared at her. He knew she spoke the truth. He felt it in every part of his weary body, in every pulse of his veins and thought in his mind. Everything – all of it – despite where his moving feet and travel brought him, it belonged to one beautiful, coarse, impossible man. Still, he could only utter a small response. "Hm?"

"You are in love, aren't you?"

Jaskier did not hesitate. "Yes."

"I want love."

"I clearly can't give that to you, I'm… sorry." He meant the last part out of politeness, but in truth he felt it as well. His gaze softened sympathetically. "Are you all alone down here?"

She nodded sorrowfully, lonesomely, and gazed out at the water. She sat and drew her knees to her chest, hugging herself close. "What does it feel like? Tell me… about who you love. What it is like. I know nothing more than the lust of those that wander here."

The Bard surprised her with a soft chuckle, finding it funny that he himself had been wrestling with this same explanation as he ventured alone earlier. He was perplexed by this Siren, and yet… He was akin to her. She was gentle, unalarming in spirit, and longed to share in an emotion. Jaskier understood that, though unspoken. It was painful in the most careful of hurts. He had known that feeling all his life. "Where even to begin? It's… not easy to explain. I… don't think I've ever even thought of it as clearly as I do now. And I certainly have never outright told him so."

"But you are definitely in love, truly. Otherwise you would not still be speaking with me." Her voice was soft, pulling and pleading to understand. "How could you not know? And how could you not tell him, when it is just so obvious?"

"That's the funny thing about it," the Bard mused himself as he moved to sit beside her. He stared out into the water as she did. "It's never obvious to the people – person, people, I don't know – in love. And when you do realise it… when it becomes so overwhelming that it's like a hit in the face, words seem not enough. Nothing could possibly compare to how you feel." His hand came to rest over his own beating heart, gripping at his shirt as if he could pull the feeling forth and simply show her.

She hummed quietly, confused. "But words are everything. My song is what enchants."

"Words are a poet's paint. They may illustrate an image, but it is impossible to gather every detail of the vision. The idea will always be unique to its origin." He glanced over at the Siren, beautiful in her being, even in her solitude. "There will always be something missing, something even you don't fully understand. It's just… that powerful."

She watched him. He continued, reach further to explain something he knew was unexplainable.

"Song, desire, passion and depth do not originate from a place of love… They just come from the fact of living. When I first sang of 'love'… it wasn't truly about a man or a woman. I could never have predicted that I would fall for Geralt – my songs were hodgepodge compared to what we have." He paused, something tightening in his throat as his vision blurred, the water rippling before him despite being undisturbed. "What we have… it's messy, confusing, downright terrifying at times. But there's a devotion there that's… so complex, and yet so simple." He took a deep breath, the air trembling. "The point being, it's not what the words are saying, it's the feelings behind them. Their delivery. You can be yearning for a lover, and mean something else entirely, and you may not even know the difference yourself."

They were still. The words hung between them as if they breathed air themselves. Then, the Siren stood and walked to the back of the cave, reaching high. Jaskier continued to stare at the water, lost in his thoughts and thinking absently of golden eyes.

When she returned to his side, she held three delicate flowers. They were pale on their edges, and melded into rich violet towards their centres, where a scarlet bud practically glowed. She pressed the blooms to the Bard's chest. "Take them. And get back to him as fast as you can." She stared at him, vulnerable and pleading with its intensity. "There needs to be more love like yours in the world. And… and if you can, you should tell him."

Jaskier held her gaze, and placed his hands over her own. They were gentle, giving him life. He took the flowers, reluctant to leave this cave of wonder, of newfound truth and breathless moments. It had been such short a time, and yet, he felt broken from a spell that made all seem clearer. "Thank you. I'll… really, I will try."

It was startling how little Jaskier remembered of the journey back. All he could recall is that he left the cave with the flowers, and… then he was back at Geralt's side. The Witcher was so much worse than when he had left, looking haggard as he fell into unconscious, feverish fits.

Jaskier ran his thumb over the back of Geralt's hand, which was gripping his own in a vice brought on by the spasms that wracked his form. It hurt, but Jaskier did not complain. He just needed to hold him.

The physician worked close nearby, smashing the flowers into a powder and working quickly to make her antidote. Jaskier did not tell her of the Siren. They both remained quiet, their focus only on Geralt.

Soon enough, she was ready. Jaskier helped her force open Geralt's clenched jaw to administer the medicine, and all at once, the Witcher's thick, tensed limbs relaxed. He twitched for a few moments, all going quiet, before he fell still in what could be mistaken for a deep, sick slumber. Jaskier still held his hand.

"That should be it. He is resting now…" The physician removed the cloth from Geralt's forehead, dampening it and wringing it out to replace. Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, to thank her tirelessly, but she held up a hand. "Call for me if you need anything. He will be alright. And you should rest, too… You did good for your Witcher, Bard."

Jaskier's heart felt about to burst, with gratitude or relief or everything and all in between. "Thank you, so much. I… I can't even…" But the physician had already smiled and left, leaving him to the comfort and peace of watching Geralt's healing.

Minutes turned into hours, and it was nightfall again. Jaskier lay with his head on Geralt's chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady, heavy. It was fine. He was fine. He was alive and well and everything would be okay. Jaskier squeezed his hand gently, the ache in his own chest still not going away. He snuggled closer, anything to be closer, and began to hum softly. He did not notice when the hums formed into words.

The rumble in contrast from Geralt's even breath and heartbeat startled Jaskier so much that he yelped quietly, jolting to sit upright. He didn't get far, as the Witcher's heavy arm was draped over his lower back. The sound had only been the origin of his voice, Geralt asking now patiently, sleepily, "Is that a new song, Jaskier?"

Jaskier took a moment to calm his racing heart, to steady his breathing. He stared at Geralt, whose eyes remained closed. He remained resting. Jaskier responded quietly, afraid to end whatever gentle moment this was. "It is." He did not say more, not wanting to disrupt his Witcher's curing peace. He knew that Geralt did not find sleep often, and now it was needed more deeply than ever.

Geralt held him close with what little strength he exerted to move. "Will you sing the rest?"

"It's not done," Jaskier's responses still came as whispers, his eyes soft and helpless as he gazed at the face of the man beside him. The man he loved. The man he saved. He was helpless to the feeling in his chest, pooling from his heart and flooding his body and mind.

There was no response for a few seconds. Then Geralt spoke again, sleep already pulling him back under. "Then sing me what you have. I want to hear your voice."

Jaskier watched him, and he began to sing. Geralt was too exhausted to comment, and the Bard didn't even know if he heard, but he sang. And when he ran out of words, he hummed. He had always expressed himself through song; if he couldn't find a way to say what he wanted, what he craved to tell, then he sang merely notes and tunes. Where words were lacking, this came from feeling. Into the night, they held each other close.

Jaskier pressed a kiss to Geralt's neck, humming so softly now that it was barely audible, though the sound resonated tenderly in his chest. He lay there until sleep took him too, soft in its encouragement and embracing them both in their unspoken feeling.

This feeling of peace, of longing and care, complete only in the presence of the other, lingered and soothed them as night turned to dawn.

Author's Note: Hi!

Sorry this took so long! I've been sitting on the full outline for days, but it is finally out and here!

I wrote this while listening to Those Who Ride With Giants - Numinous (the full album), if people wonder what my muse for writing descriptive stuff is. Mostly it's a lot of pandora-esque music and soft, lyric-less stuff.

Anyways - thank you so much for reading!

I'm on Twitter! find me thirthfloor for sneak-peeks and updates on upcoming works! It's currently a Geraskier hole rn haha. Every follow supports my work and my writing!

Again, thank you so much for being here. I love these boys so much, but coming up with quests can be hard! Shoutout to like... all writers 333

And yes, Jaskier grappling with feelings and protecting Geralt is my trope 100.