Chapter Text
The book is handwritten, the neat, regular script entirely without frill or decoration. Jaskier half suspects the writing will be dry and hard to get through, despite his curiosity about the subject. The chapter on the oculus is located toward the end of the book. He strokes his fingers over the title to find that whoever wrote it pressed down just hard enough with their pen to make a slight impression in the paper.
The Oculus
The oculus is especially dangerous to humans. The reason for this peculiarity might lie in its origin. We cannot be certain, but the creature’s shape is humanoid enough that one might suspect it to have ancestral ties with other hominoid beings, or even humans themselves. What is certain, is that it needs human prey to sustain itself.
Jaskier feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He has a dreadful feeling about how the oculus’ danger to humans ties in with its origin. He half wants to stop reading and slam the book closed, but Geralt was right, it’s better to know.
If the oculus is close enough to be noticed, unless you have been hunting it, be sure to know that it has already been hunting you, for a while. Whenever there is a repeated clicking that pursues while in the forest, beware of this creature of shadow made flesh.
Jaskier vividly remembers the tapping noise he’d heard practically from the moment he’d entered the forest around Kear Morhen. He thinks he’ll never again be able to hear it, and assume it’s nothing more than a woodpecker building its nest.
At first, it will seem like nothing more than a shapeless silhouette that attaches itself like your own shadow. Trying to outrun it is no use, it is fast and it will follow, biding its time. Humans will inevitably try to get away. Once they tire, stumble, or fall, the oculus emerges from the darkness.
Jaskier doesn’t really need the book’s description. So far he has managed to carefully push away the image of darkness and gloom coalescing into something chillingly horrible. Reading the carefully written words has the memory sharpening until he feels like he can recall every last detail of the creature. Despite being in the well lit library inside Kaer Morhen, a cold sweat breaks out over his skin and his heart starts to race with adrenaline. He can recall all too well the way it had opened soulless white eyes, and how the thing’s head had split open as it looked at him, revealing a gaping maw. He has to force himself not to shrink down into something small and quivering, and to read until he finds what he’s after.
The oculus is dangerous to any who encounter it, but where it merely seeks to end the life of others, its tactic when it comes to humans leads to altogether more suffering.
It kills like so many other creatures, rending and tearing, but when it comes to those it hunts as prey, all it takes is a touch from the oculus’ outstretched hands. The touch itself is agony, but it’s the events that follow that are truly wretched. Its human victims will suffer increasing pain as over time their warmth is drained from their bodies. It starts at the extremities and will steadily move inward, until it finally stops the heart. Reaching that point is a relief.
The oculus’ touch to a human drains them of their warmth, their emotions, and their memories. It drains them of everything they ever felt or held dear. They will be left as nothing more than a shell, perceiving only cold and darkness. They will end up a mindless shadow of themselves, until they cease to be. It might be that the oculus was created through this process in the first place. It might be that it was once human itself.
Upon encountering a human touched by the oculus, it is a kindness to not let it get that far. Stop their heart yourself, release them from what is to come.
Somehow draining its human victims provides the oculus with sustenance. The exact mechanism of it is unclear. Chaos, perhaps. It is precisely this unknown factor that seems to be the obstacle to gaining knowledge of how to cure the ailment of the oculus’ touch.
If by some chance a human manages to avoid contact after the oculus has gazed upon them, be aware that when they get close enough, the creature will find them once again.
There’s more, but Jaskier slams the book closed, his fingers grasping onto the edge of his desk and clenching hard enough it leaves the knuckles bloodless and white. He thinks he understands now why Geralt told him not to ask him, if he had any questions.
Stop their heart yourself, release them from what is to come.
Would the guardian have killed him in the forest, if Geralt and Eskel hadn’t been in time to save him from the oculus’ touch, and would it have been a mercy?
Jaskier sits there for a long while, frozen in place, thoughts whirling. He is completely terrified at what could have happened had the oculus touched him. Part of him is afraid Geralt would have indeed ended his life, and part of him is scared the guardian wouldn’t have.
When Willow brushes coolly across the back of his neck and circles around to have slightly wet, misty tendrils slide over his cheeks, Jaskier becomes aware that it’s not the first time the wisp has done so.
“I’m here. I’m alright, don’t worry,” he murmurs at the wisp.
Willow swirls wildly, and Jaskier’s mouth twists ruefully.
"Ok, fine." Not entirely alright, but it could have been so much worse.” He glances around himself, at the high windows set into thick walls of stone. He’s sheltered within Kaer Morhen. Right now, he is safe. Geralt said so.
Geralt might prefer him to ask anyone else, but Jaskier will most certainly ask the witcher himself if this means he can never leave the keep again.
—000—
Jaskier remains in the library a long while, reading anything and everything to distract himself from thinking of the information in the bestiary. A few students come and go after their classes. They greet him in whispering voices, and he does his best to smile and nod back at them. He’s alone again by the time dinner approaches. Geralt doesn’t come to get him.
Jaskier very slowly climbs one of the ladders to the first balcony, and then to the second. He knows from where he saw Geralt pull the heavy tome, and the empty spot is not hard to find. He has to lift up onto his toes to be able to reach it and slide the book back into place. Triss’ bandages keep him from doing so on one side, but he tries anyway, causing a stab of pain to shoot through his ankle. Willow darkens and swirls at him, and he hums at the wisp in reassurance.
He debates skipping dinner altogether, but it was only yesterday that his absence at the evening meal triggered a search. Come to think of it, Jaskier has missed dinner before. He’s not entirely sure how the guardians knew he hadn’t just lost time while working in the library, or that he wasn’t merely holed up in his room.
He sighs. “Let’s not unduly worry them, shall we?” he says to Willow. The wisp swirls and brushes across his forehead before slowly floating out in front of him. Despite still feeling unsettled, Jaskier grins. At least he won’t be heard huffing and puffing this time.
When he enters the hall for dinner his eyes flit toward Geralt of their own accord, only to find the guardian already looking at him. Jaskier tries to get a glimpse of whatever the witcher might be feeling from that golden gaze, but Geralt turns away. Even from across the hall, he sees a muscle in the witcher’s jaw feather.
Now that he has more, if perhaps not all of the information on just how wrong things could have gone, Jaskier thinks he better understands the witcher’s response to it. Everything about the guardian had been sharp with anger, and given how Geralt had responded to him from the very beginning, Jaskier hadn’t questioned it.
He does question it now, especially given how Geralt has interacted with him since. He hums a soothing little noise as he makes his way across the hall to his seat, knowing that the white haired witcher will undoubtedly hear it.
His fellow professors fuss over him during dinner just as they had during lunch, and though he waves their concerns away, assuring all of them he’s feeling perfectly fine, it warms him to his very core. His assurances are met with varying levels of scepticism, and Eskel especially keeps looking at him with worry.
“What about you, are you alright, darling?” Jaskier murmurs to the scarred witcher eventually.
Eskel’s face does something complicated, quickly changing from worry, to surprise, to genuine pleasure, to amusement as he glances over at Geralt for a moment. When the witcher looks back at Jaskier, he’s right back to looking worried. “I’m fine. It’s just that you smell—” he breaks off.
Jaskier chuckles. “By now I know enough to assume you’re not actually telling me I need a bath. What do I smell like?”
“Afraid,” Eskel murmurs. It’s soft enough Jaskier thinks those without enhanced hearing won’t catch it, but he suspects the rest of the guardians definitely will. “A little like you did last night,” Eskel continues, and then actually wrinkles his nose on an inhale.
“Oh,” Jaskier says, and glances over at Geralt as well, to see that the white haired witcher is looking the other way. He wonders if it’s on purpose, or if Geralt isn’t listening at all. “I might be a little unnerved,” he admits. “I read about the oculus this afternoon,” he says, trailing off.
He sees Eskel look in Geralt’s direction again, before the guardian rolls his eyes ever so slightly and rumbles something under his breath, too low for Jaskier to hear. “If you have questions?” the scarred witcher asks eventually, looking back at him.
Jaskier does have questions. Eskel could likely answer a few of them, but he knows who he wants to ask. “Perhaps,” he says. “I’m still processing, maybe later.” He tips his head the tiniest bit in Geralt’s direction and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. Eskel nods slowly in understanding, a slight smirk pulling up the scarred corner of his mouth. “I do wonder how you all knew I was missing last night, and not just stashed away somewhere in the castle,” Jaskier says lightly.
“Because of the keep,” Eskel answers, accompanied by an expansive gesture of the witcher’s hand that seems meant to encompass Kaer Morhen in its entirety. Admittedly, the answer doesn’t tell Jaskier much, and he huffs an amused breath. He glances at Regis with a raised brow, and the vampire smiles just enough to expose his fangs, giving him a nod.
Jaskier is just considering if he wants to pry to get the information before he meets Regis at the end of the week, when Eskel quietly clears his throat. Jaskier turns just in time to see Geralt leave the hall behind.
“You alright to walk back up, bard?” Yarpenna says, looking at Geralt’s retreating form with slightly narrowed eyes. “It might not be as comfortable a ride as Geralt’s arms, but I could certainly give you a piggyback.”
Jaskier chuckles and eyes them. Yarpenna might be short, the top of their head reaching just past his hip, but they look sturdy enough that he believes they could pull it off. Still, he hasn’t actually walked all that much today. He looks at Triss. “I’ve basically only walked a stretch this morning, and from the library to dinner,” he remarks questioningly.
The mage nods thoughtfully. “If it doesn’t hurt, walking back up should be fine.”
Next to him, Eskel inhales deeply, and Jaskier playfully smacks the back of his hand against the witcher’s shoulder. “Entirely unfair of you to smell me before I even get the chance to say anything,” he chides.
“The chance to trivialize whatever pain you’re feeling, you mean?” Yennefer says sardonically, leaning past Triss to level him with a considering purple-eyed stare.
Jaskier shifts a little under the many unimpressed looks shot his way. “Well, even with Triss’ expert treatment it’s still a broken foot. It’s expected to hurt at least a bit, isn’t it? That doesn’t mean I’m hindering recovery.”
Next to him, Eskel makes an entirely sceptical noise. Jaskier feels Regis’ eyes on him as well, and when he glances at the vampire the look in those fathomless black eyes is distinctly displeased. Yarpenna actually lets their hand come down onto the table with a bang that startles him a little.
“Do you not want to be carried by me, bard?” they say before leaning into his space. “Is it because I am a dwarf? think I’m not strong enough?”
Jaskier makes a soft squeak of alarm. “No!” he says immediately, sounding a little strangled. “I wouldn’t think that! I’ve read that dwarves are incredibly strong for their size and can carry at least twice their own weight, three times if it’s on their backs, and apparently even more when they’re used to handling heavy loads, and—
Yarpenna’s serious expression breaks into a full on smile, and Eskel lays a large hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Jaskier. Yarpenna was just trying to get you to let yourself be carried by guilting you,” the witcher rumbles.
The dwarf shrugs. “My methods may be questionable, but my intentions are pure,” they say with an unrepentant grin. Jaskier still opens his mouth to apologise, but before he can, Yarpenna elbows him in the side companionably. “Sorry, Jaskier,” they say.
In the end, Yarpenna compromises by walking him up to his room, their pretty hazel eyes narrowing on him whenever it seems like he is in pain. The both of them follow slowly after Willow, the wisp dictating the tempo by floating out in front.
“Thanks,” Yaskier tells Yarpenna with a smile once they reach his door.
The dwarf gives him a brisk nod. “We were all worried about you, Jaskier,” they say, tilting their head. “You’re a part of Kaer Morhen, even if you still have trouble trusting it.”
Jaskier flushes and twists his signet around his finger. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re frighteningly good at reading people?” he murmurs.
Yarpenna grins. “You’re not that hard to read, bard. To some of us, at least. Others— well. Others have thick skulls and bad experiences,” they say, voice turning slightly serious.
Jaskier nods thoughtfully, thanks them again, and watches as they all but run off down the hall, much faster than they’d walked with him.
—000—
Jaskier is floating in darkness. At first he thinks he must have gotten lost and ended up in Yennefer’s classroom somehow. But no, Yennefer’s space might be made up out of infinite blackness, but it holds small twinkling lights like scattered stars, so this must be someplace else.
Jaskier whirls around, peering into the endless night. Slowly, shapes start to form. It starts with the silhouettes of trees, slowly coalescing into trunks and branches, leaves, and roots crawling across the ground. He’s in the forest, and he’s all alone.
He feels Willow’s absence keenly, and hopes the wisp is somewhere safe. Back at Kaer Morhen, perhaps. The sudden realisation of where he is hits him. He’s in the forest outside of the castle, where he promised he wouldn’t venture by himself.
He had promised Geralt, and yet here he is. Jaskier doesn’t know how he got here, but he knows he has to get out, before—
Not so very far away from him, a tapping noise sounds, as if a woodpecker is carving out a hollow to build its nest.
Terror hits him hard, and before he’s made a conscious decision, he’s sprinting. Jaskier is distantly aware that he has no idea of the direction he’s running in. It could very well be that with every stride he’s putting more distance between himself and safety. He doesn’t look back, but it still seems like he can see shadows converge on him.
The night is moonless and there aren’t any stars that light the forest floor. Somehow, Jaskier can see in this world of blackness and can keep running. Somehow, he can see his own shadow following closely behind. He sees how it is shapeless at first, but then it stretches, long, and longer still, growing limbs and grasping hands. He makes a terrified noise, as entirely milky white eyes snap open and look directly at him.
He’s standing still now, unable to move, as if paralysed by panic. The creature draws in close and circles to face him. The oculus reaches and curls its hands over his shoulders, sharp-tipped fingers dragging against the wings of his shoulderblades. It is touching him, and Jaskier knows it’s too late. Still, he screams.
There is a flash of light bright enough his pupils contract even behind the protection of his eyelids. He can hear the echo of his scream bouncing against the walls of his room, and sits bolt upright in bed. The sleep shirt he wears is stuck to his skin and his heart is still pounding. There are spots in his vision from Willow’s flash of blinding light, and he blinks rapidly. He crosses his arms in front of himself, grasping onto his own shoulders as if he’ll be able to feel where the oculus touched him in his dream. He shudders, and it takes a few seconds to let go and take a deep, calming breath.
When Jaskier rubs his cheeks he realises they’re wet with his tears, and he feels very foolish for letting a dream affect him like this. When Willow floats directly in front of his face, dark grey like a brewing storm, he leans his head forward until he can feel the wisp’s cool mist against his face.
“Nightmare,” he mutters.
—000—
Just like the day before, every pair of slitted eyes locks onto him when he enters the hall for breakfast the next morning. Jaskier tries not to think about what traces of scent Kaer Morhen’s guardians might smell on him. He has washed his face and put on some fresh clothes, but he would no longer put it beyond them to be able pick up residual traces of fear and the seasalt scent of his tears.
He doesn’t want any of them to think of him as weak-kneed and trembling, and so he plasters a smile onto his face as he follows slowly but steadily behind Willow.
Again, the worried looks from the others are ubiquitous as he sits down, and Jaskier can practically already hear the questions they want to throw at him. He shakes his head and babbles, distracting everyone including himself thoroughly enough that by the time he’s gotten through the apple pastry Regis shoves at him and the cup of cinnamon coffee Eskel pours, he’s all but forgotten about his horrid start of the day.
Jaskier is convinced Geralt’s insistence on carrying him around ended the moment the witcher handed him that bestiary. He’s more than a little surprised when the guardian locks eyes with him at the end of breakfast, stands, and strides purposefully toward him.
Jaskier would argue, really, he would, if he thought it’d have any use. He doesn’t have to teach a class until the second half of the morning though, and being carried by Geralt is just about the best opportunity he can imagine to ask the witcher some questions. He’s sure Geralt won’t just drop him and leave him behind to get out of answering. Pretty sure.
Geralt never gets a chance to reach him though, as Lambert springs up from his seat and basically sprints to overtake the white haired guardian. The redhead skids to a halt just behind him, and Jaskier turns in his seat to blink up at the alchemy professor.
“Bad fucking night?” the witcher says, and Jaskier tears his eyes away from where Geralt is scowling spectacularly just over the redhead’s shoulder.
Lambert’s words have a few flashes of memory rush to the forefront of his mind, both imagined and all too real, and Jaskier shudders. “You could say that,” he says, trying to keep his tone light and airy.
Lambert’s nostrils flare. Before he can check if either Geralt or Eskel are smelling him too, the redhead scoops him up from his seat in the exact same type of carry Geralt did, one arm behind his shoulders, one below his thighs. Jaskier makes an entirely undignified noise he’d have preferred to keep to himself in front of a hall full of his students. He especially would have preferred Geralt to not be looking at him like that, cradled in another witcher’s arms. He looks away as furious heat rises to his cheeks.
“That’s it, bard,” Lambert says. “You’re coming with me. We’re blowing shit up this morning. It’ll be— What’s the fucking word, Aiden?” he yells over his shoulder.
The green eyed witcher looks between his partner and Geralt, who has crossed his arms over his chest and is very clearly glowering, and cackles. “Cathartic, Lamb,” Aiden yells back. “Seems like our fancy poetry professor could use it.”
Geralt releases a low, rumbling growl that both other witchers seem supremely unimpressed by.
“Oh. You think it would help?” Jaskier says quietly, unwilling for any students to hear he’s considering pyrotechnics as a means to work through his fear.
“It might,” Eskel rumbles, still seated at the table. The scarred witcher isn’t looking at him, but is clearly addressing Geralt instead.
Geralt bares his teeth at Eskel before transferring his gaze to Lambert. “Any fingers or toes blown off had better be yours, little Lamb,” the white haired guardian growls.
Jaskier can’t help but wiggle his toes in his boots and curl his fingers into his palms as if to protect them. If he’d had to pick, losing a toe would be the far better option. He’d sooner lose all his toes, in fact, than to give up a finger and have to alter how he plays. He looks at Lambert a little worriedly. His concern is hardly assuaged when Vesemir adds his two cents.
“You will fix any and all property damage yourself,” the dean says with a stern look at the alchemy professor. When the redheaded guardian gives his enthusiastic assent, Vesemir makes a gesture Jaskier can only interpret to be a blessing.
He’s summarily carried off in Lambert’s arms. Just before they exit, the redhead looks over his shoulder at Geralt with a smirk, and turns back to Jaskier and with a grin and a wink.
The rush of sound Lambert’s wings make as they appear and spread is slightly different. Jaskier’s gasp of admiration that leaves him practically any time he sees a guardian unfold their wings, is entirely the same.