#Geralt meeting Ciri would not have gone as well as it did

[spielzeugkaiser]

The ages in this show!! I have made some jokes about this before, but it gets me - with aging Ciri up and bringing her closer to Jaskiers age when they meet I can not help but draw parallels. Like Geralt bonded way differently with both of them (which makes sense because Ciri has been his Child surprise since birth and Jaskier just randomly turned up one day and followed him like a puppy) but it's so funny to me. also I'm 100% sure Jaskier was horny as fuck from the beginning so there was a whole different vibe from the get go

[wren-of-the-woods]

Love, Joy, and Kittens

When Geralt and Yennefer finally get a room at an inn after weeks of travel, Jaskier expects to spend a calm evening with his lovers and sleep in a real bed. This plan is derailed when they find an unexpected creature in their room. Or: In which Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier meet a kitten. Established Geraskefer, 5k, rated T. Also on AO3!

Jaskier was having a lovely week.

Ciri had gone off with Lambert and Coën. According to Lambert, they were “having some uncle-niece bonding time.” Jaskier had suspected that this would involve a large number of explosives, cursing in various languages, and very little room for anything else, so he had suggested that he, Geralt, and Yennefer travel alone for a time and rejoin them in a few weeks. The relief on Geralt’s and Yennefer’s faces at the idea had been highly amusing. 

The three of them had been wandering the Path for almost a week. It had, for the most part, been wonderful. Jaskier got to spend time with his lovers, singing at them and making them laugh. He got to appreciate their beauty all day long. He got to spend every night cuddled up to the two of them, reveling in the warmth and safety.

However, he did not get to do any of this cuddling in an actual bed.

Their financial reserves were not exactly plentiful and, with Ciri gone, they did not have any real reason to prefer the comfort of an inn over the convenience of a bedroll in the woods. Jaskier understood all of this perfectly well. This did not mean he was happy about it. 

He may have complained about it a little bit, but, well, he was a bard. If Yennefer and Geralt didn’t want to hear a little whining now and then, they shouldn’t have brought him along. 

Jaskier hadn’t expected anything to come of his grousing. Jaskier had been wrong. 

After a particularly long day of travel, Geralt and Yennefer apparently came to an unspoken agreement. Geralt led Roach into the first town they came across and Yennefer headed in the direction of the inn. Jaskier’s confused and halfhearted objections (“What? Yen, that’s not really necessary, I know we don’t have much coin. I’m really fine, I swear!) were met with firm denial (“Shut up and let us spoil you, idiot), so Jaskier deemed it best to give in.

He made as though to protest at the price the innkeeper named for the single room that was apparently available, thinking to offer his services as a bard in exchange for a discount, but Yennefer cut him off before he could. She handed over the money and nodded in approval when Geralt began to drag him upstairs. She followed them shortly after.

“I still think I should have performed,” Jaskier was saying. He tugged halfheartedly at the grip Geralt had on his hand, though he could not claim that he really minded the touch.

“You’re exhausted,” said Geralt. 

“I think that, as irritating as the innkeeper was, this town does not quite deserve your half-asleep caterwauling,” said Yennefer with a smirk as she came up behind them. 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that you two are the only ones who I grace with my half-asleep caterwauling. Everyone else gets only my performance voice or my drunk caterwauling. Sleepy Jaskier is a gift that only you two get to see.”

“We’re grateful,” said Geralt, “But you really should sleep. Without singing.”

“Just because I’m not a great and powerful magical being doesn’t mean I can’t handle a little fatigue, Geralt.”

“Yes, and acting like a child who doesn’t want to go to bed is such a good way to prove your strength,” said Yennefer.

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said as they approached their room, “I act only with the greatest of grace and—”

A mewling sound from the other side of the door cut off his words.

It was soft enough that Jaskier barely heard it, but the way Geralt froze and stared at the door was enough to assure him that he was not imagining anything. He blinked.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Yennefer was frowning. “I don’t know, but be careful.”

“Is it magical?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t smell like a monster,” Geralt agreed.

“Who knows what the innkeeper put in there, though?” asked Yennefer. “It could be a trap.”

“Yes. Be careful.”

The three of them stood there for a moment, staring at the door. It occurred to Jaskier that they would likely look rather comical to an outside observer.

“Well? Are we going in?” he asked.

After a moment of hesitation, Yennefer stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and peeked inside the room. She was silent for a long moment.

“Well? Is it dangerous?” asked Jaskier.

“I’m… not sure,” said Yennefer. Geralt stepped forward with a frown to lean over Yennefer and peek in the room as well.

“What the fuck?” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s heart pounded. He tried to get a look inside the room, but it was effectively blocked by the bodies of his witcher and witch. He stood on his tiptoes. It was no good.

“What is it?” he asked again. “A trap? A monster? Please don’t tell me we have to find somewhere else to sleep. My feet are already killing me. Why aren’t you saying anything? Is it gruesome? Can I see?”

With an irritated glance at Jaskier, Geralt stepped back. A little shakily, Yennefer opened the door and entered the room. Jaskier shoved past her and saw, sitting directly in the center of the room’s only bed—

A tiny, fluffy, orange kitten.

Its head was almost comically oversized for its body. Its tail was neatly tucked around its paws. It was looking at them with an adorably bewildered expression, appearing rather like it had just been woken up from a nap. Jaskier thought it could probably have sat in one of Geralt’s hands with very little trouble.

Jaskier stared at it. It stared back.

Jaskier burst into uncontrolled, delighted laughter.

Yennefer shot him an irritated look. Geralt shuffled awkwardly behind him. This only served to make Jaskier laugh harder.

“A kitten!” he wheezed when he caught a breath between giggles. “You were so nervous— You paranoid bastards— I cannot believe— It’s just a tiny kitten!”

“It might be a trap,” Geralt protested weakly.

“You could probably eat it in a single bite if you wanted to, Geralt!”

“That’s morbid,” said Yennefer. She sounded amused.

“And you!” said Jaskier, wheeling around to face her. “You said you didn’t know if it was dangerous! Yennefer of Vengerburg, the most powerful and feared mage on the Continent, was unnerved by a tiny little cat!”

“I can strangle you, Pankratz.”

Jaskier was overtaken by another fit of giggles.

The kitten mewled again, this time sounding rather disgruntled. Jaskier whirled around to face it.

“Oh, you poor dear. Did we wake you up from your nap? What are you doing here, anyway? Where’s your family?”

“It’s a cat,” said Yennefer. “It can’t understand you.”

“Oh, I thought it was a terrifying supernatural being capable of destroying nations.”

“On second thought, maybe strangulation is too good for you.”

Ignoring her, Jaskier approached the bed. Slowly, he held out his hand towards the kitten. It sniffed his fingers then mewled again. Gently, Jaskier stroked its head with a finger. Its eyes went wide. For a moment, Jaskier thought he had gone too far, but then the kitten pushed up into the touch. Jaskier’s heart positively melted. He kept stroking its head, unable to help the grin that spread across his face.

Behind him, he heard Geralt slowly sidle into the room. The kitten did not react.

“Are you sure it’s a real cat?” Geralt asked Yennefer. Jaskier glanced back to see him staring at the kitten, almost transfixed. “Cats don’t like witchers.”

“I don’t feel any magic,” Yennefer admitted.

“It’s kind of hard to be afraid of someone who’s halfway across the room and looking like a frightened pigeon, even if you’re a cat,” said Jaskier.

Geralt scowled and ignored him. “It can’t stay on the bed forever. We need to sleep there.”

“That is an issue,” said Jaskier thoughtfully. He turned to the kitten. “What are we going to do with you, hmm?”

“Again, it can’t understand you,” said Yennefer.

“Ignore them,” Jaskier told the kitten. “They do not understand the concept of whimsy.”

Slowly, Jaskier shifted so he was sitting on the bed beside the kitten. It did not seem overly bothered by the change. Jaskier moved to stroke its back. It looked content. Very gently, Jaskier brought a hand under its ribcage and picked it up, moving his other hand to support its hind legs and then cradling it against his chest. It mewled confusedly and squirmed a little, looking up at him, but he kept stroking it and it settled within a few moments.

He could feel its tiny chest rise and fall against his hands as it breathed. Its fur was slightly matted in places and it could probably have used a bath, but at that moment, Jaskier could not have imagined something softer or more pleasant to touch. It closed its eyes. Jaskier felt his heart melt a little more at the trust it was showing him.

He glanced up at Geralt and Yennefer to see them still on the other side of the room, looking at him with something that looked startlingly like awe.

“You can come over here,” he said instead of giving in to the flustered feelings trying to overwhelm him. “No need to cower.”

“I don’t want to scare it,” said Geralt, and Jaskier’s heart broke a little.

“You won’t scare him,” he said.

“Him?” asked Yennefer, raising an eyebrow.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve decided it’s a he. Orange cats usually are, I think.”

“How do you know I won’t scare him?” asked Geralt, returning them to the original topic.

“He can probably smell you perfectly well from here. If he was going to be scared, he already would be.”

Geralt hesitated. “I don’t know how to act around cats.”

“That’s okay. I’ll show you.” When Geralt still hesitated, Jaskier looked to Yennefer. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

Yennefer frowned at him. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to get fleas.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you can magic away fleas as easily as blinking. Get over here.”

After a quickly-hidden second of trepidation, Yennefer stepped forward. She looked at the kitten. The kitten, after a moment, looked at her.

“Mew?” he said.

Yennefer looked back at Jaskier, seeming uncharacteristically uncertain. Jaskier had to hold back a laugh.

“Come on,” he said. “Pet him.”

Slowly, Yennefer reached out to stroke a hand over his head. He blinked up at her, rather bemused.

“Keep going,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Yennefer continued to stroke the kitten, first his head and then his back. Within a few moments, he settled and closed his eyes. He looked very content. Yennefer stared down at him with shock and a tiny bit of delight.

Jaskier decided that it was time for her to ascend to the next level.

“Here,” he said, and handed the kitten to her.

Jaskier had seen Yennefer achieve feats of unimaginable bravery. He had seen her fight her worst fears with determination, seen her battle hordes of monsters that might have made even the most skilled of witchers hesitate, seen her face down armies without flinching. Yennefer was brave. She was powerful. She was, in a word, incredible.

She was also looking down at the kitten he had just placed in her hands with an expression that could only be described as terror.

“I don’t know how—” she started to say, then cut herself off with a panicked gasp when she had to fumble with the squirming kitten to keep him from falling. He mewled indignantly.

“It’s okay,” said Jaskier, reaching forward to help. “I’ll show you. Here, you put your hand where it’ll support his weight, under the ribcage is good. Yes, just like that. Now you— yes! You’ve got it.”

Yennefer ended up sitting on the bed beside Jaskier, carefully cradling the kitten to her chest with both hands. The kitten was rather disgruntled by the whole affair, at first, but when Jaskier gently encouraged Yennefer to free a hand and continue stroking him, he settled down. He snuggled into Yennefer’s arm. After a few moments, his eyes slipped closed.

Yennefer’s eyes widened. She swallowed.

“Is he sleeping?” she asked hesitantly, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, feeling a grin spread across his face. “He’s taking a nap.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

She sat there for a long moment, quietly stroking the kitten. She seemed unable to tear her gaze away from the tiny, fluffy body in her arms. Jaskier found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. She pet the kitten so gently that it was almost painful to watch, care and tenderness written into her every movement. Her expression could only be described as awe. In that moment, Jaskier was unable to think of anything that could possibly be more beautiful.

After a few long minutes, she looked up. Geralt was still standing against the far wall of the room, watching the little group on the bed with what appeared to be a mixture of fondness and longing. Yennefer took one look at his expression and sighed.

“Get over here,” she said. Jaskier nodded. Geralt, after a moment’s hesitation, obeyed.

His approach was slow and silent. When he came within a few paces, the kitten stirred, looking up at him with his ears slightly flattened. Geralt froze. Jaskier hushed him and scratched him under the chin, while Yennefer kept her hand resting on its back. That seemed to do the trick. The kitten settled back down into Yennefer’s arms. Jaskier gestured Geralt closer, and at his behest, the witcher sat down cautiously on Yennefer’s other side.

The kitten was still awake and watching Geralt with a little bit of wariness, but he did not seem overly bothered by the witcher’s presence. Jaskier internally cheered.

“You can pet him,” he whispered to Geralt.

“I don’t want to scare him,” Geralt said again.

“You won’t. Yennefer and I will help.”

A little bit of Yennefer’s uncertainty returned. “I can try, but—”

Jaskier waved her off. “Nonsense. He already likes you. Go ahead, Geralt.”

Geralt hesitated. “But—”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “You can make fun of me if I’m wrong. I take responsibility for any and all kitten-related disasters. Go ahead.”

Geralt huffed, amused. Jaskier hid his smile by looking down at the kitten.

Slowly, Geralt crouched down so his head was more or less level with the kitten. He swallowed, reached out, and gently ran his head down the kitten’s neck and back.

“Mew?” said the kitten. He looked up at Geralt. He blinked.

“Keep going,” said Jaskier softly.

Geralt stroked the kitten again. When he did not panic or run away, Geralt did it again.

“He’s soft,” he whispered, entranced.

“Yeah,” said Yennefer, her voice equally quiet.

They both stared down at the kitten, who was content in Yennefer’s arms as Geralt stroked him. The kitten looked very small and helpless beneath Geralt’s big hands, but did not seem particularly bothered by that fact. Jaskier felt himself growing a little teary-eyed at the sight.

“Do you want to hold him?” Yennefer asked after a few moments.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. He glanced at Jaskier, nervous. “Do you think I can?”

“I do,” said Jaskier. “He already likes you, see?”

He gestured at the kitten, who was meowing in quiet protest at the fact that Geralt was no longer petting him. Geralt looked back at him. His face softened.

“I suppose,” he said. He looked up at Yennefer, then back at Jaskier. “Will you help me?”

Yennefer nodded.

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “Here, Yen, you can hand him to Geralt just like how you picked him up. Just support his weight— yeah, there you go. Geralt, you do the same thing.”

After a few moments of fumbling and a few disgruntled mewls from the kitten, Yennefer managed to deposit him in Geralt’s hands. Jaskier had been correct; he could have sat on just one of Geralt’s hands without too much trouble. Geralt was carefully cupping him with both of his anyway. The sight made Jaskier struggle not to dissolve into an unhelpful puddle of affection.

“What now?” asked Geralt, sounding almost as nervous as he had when Ciri first asked him to help her with her hair.

“You can put him in your lap, if you want,” said Jaskier. “You might want to get comfortable, though. Cats don’t always like to move once they have a nice person to sit on.”

After glancing at the bed consideringly, Yennefer crawled up to lean against the rather rickety headboard and patted the spot beside her. “Come on. I think we can all fit.”

Jaskier scooted up to sit near her, leaving space for Geralt between them. Geralt glanced up at them, then down at the kitten in his hands. The kitten had started to nibble on one of his fingers. After a moment of consideration, Geralt cautiously got to his knees on the bed and hobbled over to them, being careful to keep the kitten from being jostled. He settled in between Jaskier and Yennefer and set the kitten gently in his lap. The kitten flailed a little at the new position, but it took only a few moments for him to settle on one of Geralt’s thighs.

“Keep petting him,” Jaskier said encouragingly.

Geralt obeyed. On his other side, Jaskier saw Yennefer resting her head on Geralt’s shoulder and looking down at the kitten. For several moments, the three of them sat in content silence. Then—

“It’s vibrating,” said Geralt, sounding adorably terrified.

“Oh!” said Jaskier, delighted. Now that he was paying attention, he could hear the faintest of rumbling sounds from the kitten. “He’s purring, Geralt. That means he feels safe and content. He’s happy.”

“Oh,” said Geralt. His voice was filled with awe.

“We made him do that?” asked Yennefer. She spoke softly, as though trying not to interrupt the kitten’s purrs.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, matching her tone, “We did.”

Yennefer smiled. It was not an expression of triumph or of power, not assured or sarcastic. It was not the smile she liked to show to the world. It was small and soft, tender and a little uncertain. It was directed at a small ball of orange fluff lounging in a witcher’s lap. Jaskier knew at that moment that no song he could write would come close to describing her beauty.

“I wonder where his family is,” Yennefer mused after a long few moments of content silence. “He can’t have gotten here all by himself, can he?”

“We can ask the innkeeper tomorrow,” said Jaskier. “Looks like he’s alone at the moment, though.”

“He isn’t,” said Geralt.

Jaskier blinked. “Please don’t tell me there are more cats hiding under the bed and you didn’t tell us, Geralt.”

“No.” Geralt looked rather embarrassed. “I just meant… we’re here. So he isn’t alone.”

Jaskier gave the kitten a thoughtful look. “I suppose that’s true.”

Yennefer looked back and forth between Jaskier. A small frown appeared on her face.

“He might have a family,” she said. “You can’t just take him.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Jaskier protested. “I just think he can stay with us tonight, is all.”

Yennefer looked at him skeptically. “That’s what you said when we found you trying to hide a baby griffin in your backpack.”

“That was one time—”

“It was extremely memorable and also idiotic. I am not letting you live it down anytime soon.”

Geralt casually removed one hand from the kitten to cover Jaskier’s mouth, muffling his indignant response and reducing his words to spluttering. Yennefer giggled at the sight, and Jaskier felt the fight drain out of him at the sound. Sensing his surrender, Geralt removed his hand and started to pet the kitten again before it could stop purring.

“The griffin thing was stupid, but this isn’t a griffin,” Geralt said diplomatically. “I think he can stay the night if he wants to.”

Yennefer subsided. “I don’t see why not.”

The kitten mewled a little. The three of them glanced down to see him resettling himself on Geralt’s legs, apparently having decided that he could make himself more comfortable than he already had.

“We’re going to have to move him eventually,” said Yennefer reluctantly. “We need to sleep somehow.”

Jaskier considered that for a few moments. “Maybe we can put him on one of the pillows. As long as no one rolls over in their sleep, he should be all right.”

Geralt looked doubtfully at the bed. The three them of sitting side by side were already rather squished.

Jaskier rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction. “I don’t see you offering any better ideas.”

“I think we can make it work,” said Yennefer. “We’ve slept in smaller places.”

“All right,” said Geralt.

“I suppose we should lie down, then,” said Jaskier. Though he was reluctant to break the moment, he was still sleepy and knew that they needed to rest if they wanted to get anything done the next day.

After a few moments of shuffling and some rather disgruntled sounds from the kitten, they managed to get settled in a way that was comfortable for everyone. Geralt was on his side with an arm thrown over Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier was on his back so that Yennefer could lie half on top of him in the way she sometimes preferred. The kitten was curled up on a pillow behind Yennefer’s head. Jaskier’s arm was around Yennefer’s shoulders to keep her from rolling over in the night and crushing the kitten. 

Yennefer was warm and heavy on top of Jaskier. Geralt’s breathing was slow against his side. Jaskier drifted off within moments, feeling safe, loved, and content.

  ~

  The next morning, Jaskier was awakened by tiny and very sharp claws kneading directly on his bladder.

He yelped and flailed, trying to sit up. He was not very successful. This was mostly due to the fact that his right arm was trapped under a warm body and there was a thigh pinning his legs down. The kneading continued. Jaskier squirmed again, more frantically. He tried to free his arm to remove the pressure on his bladder, but—

Yennefer yelped as she went tumbling off the bed and thumped onto the floor.

Geralt sat up like a shot, looking around frantically and reaching for a sword on his back that was not there. Jaskier, now free, wasted no time in sitting up and gently but firmly removing the kitten from his person.

Geralt glanced between Jaskier, the kitten, and Yennefer, who had managed to sit up enough for her head to poke up above the edge of bed.

“...What?” asked Geralt weakly.

“Yeah, Jaskier, what the fuck?” asked Yennefer.

She clambered back onto the bed, giving Jaskier her most ferocious glare. The effect was slightly ruined by her spectacular bedhead.

Jaskier gestured emphatically with the kitten in his hands. “This fucker was poking me!”

Geralt frowned. “Why did that mean Yen had to fall out of the bed?”

“She was trapping my arm. I was desperate. Sorry, Yen.”

Yennefer glared at him. “I could turn you into a toad.”

“Listen, if I hadn’t removed him from my bladder we would have had a much worse situation on our hands.”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier’s apologetic face. She looked at Geralt’s expression of confusion and fond exasperation. She looked at the kitten, who looked distinctly unrepentant.

Unable to help herself, she dissolved into giggles. Jaskier was rather alarmed for a moment — had she just come up with a magnificent punishment for him? His face must have done something interesting, because Yennefer looked at him and started to laugh even harder. Behind Jaskier, Geralt chuckled a little as well.

“How did he even get to your stomach?” he asked. “He would have had to crawl over Yen’s head without waking her.”

Jaskier looked thoughtfully at the kitten. “He’s a master of stealth, I suppose.”

That sent Yennefer off into another round of laughter. Jaskier found himself unable to keep from joining her with his own helpless giggles.

Geralt looked between the two of them and shook his head fondly.

“I’m going to get us breakfast,” he said, leaving them to their merriment.

Jaskier and Yennefer had caught their breath and mostly regained their composure by the time Geralt returned with some food. Yennefer had the kitten in her lap and was petting him absently. He looked very happy with himself.

“I asked the innkeeper about him,” said Geralt, gesturing to the kitten with the hand that was not carrying their food. “She says he’s been hanging around the inn for a week or so, being fed scraps by the guests. No sign of any family, but he seems to be doing well enough. He’s healthy.”

“Is the innkeeper fine with him being here?” asked Yennefer.

“She doesn’t mind him as long as the guests are happy and he keeps some mice away, but she’s had some complaints about him sleeping on beds. She might have to find a way to get rid of him if he doesn’t stop.”

Jaskier looked down at the kitten, pensive. “I hope she doesn’t have to. It would be a shame to keep him away from people if he likes them.”

Yennefer patted Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

Yennefer reached for the bread that Geralt was carrying and began to eat. Geralt passed another portion to Jaskier. The three of them munched their food contemplatively, looking at the kitten.

“I feel like we should name him,” mused Jaskier. “Calling him ‘the kitten’ in my head is starting to get weird. I need something to shout when I’m reprimanding him.”

“What do you want to call him, then?” asked Yennefer.

“I don’t know! What do you think?”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the kitten’s purrs.

“Well,” said Geralt when no one offered any ideas, “There’s always Ro—“

“No!” shouted Jaskier and Yennefer simultaneously.

Yennefer smacked Geralt’s shoulder. “Not Roach. You can name all the horses you want, but I draw the line at cats.”

Jaskier nodded. “We can think of something better. I believe in us.”

Geralt subsided with a huff. There was another moment of thoughtful silence.

“Cirilla the Second?” suggested Yennefer.

Jaskier flopped back down onto the bed, buried his face in a pillow, and groaned loudly. “I loathe you both.”

“I don’t see you having any better ideas,” Yennefer protested. Jaskier groaned again and rolled onto his back.

“What have I done to deserve this?” he asked the ceiling.

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” asked Yennefer with a smirk.

“It can be both.”

“I’m not so sure. That would require complicated things like nuance and finesse. I am not sure a bard of your caliber could keep up. Perhaps we need someone more practiced, for instance Vald—”

“How about Mackerel?” Geralt said loudly and rather desperately, cutting Yennefer off before disaster could strike.

Jaskier and Yennefer both fell silent. They looked at Geralt. They looked at the kitten. They looked back at Geralt.

“Is your entire repertoire of names made up of fish?” asked Yennefer, and Jaskier burst into laughter.

Geralt looked on with some disgruntlement as Jaskier’s guffaws slowly faded into giggles.

“What?” he asked. “It’s a decent name.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Retrospectively, I’m grateful you didn’t go back to claim Ciri when she was young. The poor girl would have ended up saddled with the name Perch.”

“You are an idiot,” said Jaskier to Geralt. “An utter and complete moron. I love you.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, flustered.

“Do you have any better names, Jaskier?” asked Yennefer.

“Absolutely not. Mackerel is hilarious. We’re keeping it.”

Yennefer sighed but failed to hide her smile. “Oh, fine.”

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence. When they were finished, they sat on the bed for a while longer. It was comfortable, after all, and they were in no particular hurry. Jaskier determinedly did not think about any other reasons he might have for not wanting to leave the inn.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Geralt said eventually, reluctant.

Yennefer sighed. “Yeah, we’ll have to get going if we want to meet Ciri and Geralt’s idiot brothers in time.”

Jaskier hauled himself to his feet.

“Let’s get to it, then!” he said with false cheer.

With practiced ease, they packed up their things. They were ready to leave within minutes.

They did not leave.

The three of them dithered in the room. Geralt gazed out the window. Yennefer checked corners for anything they might have somehow lost. Jaskier fidgeted with his notebook.

“Well,” said Yennefer, “I suppose it’s time to go.”

She went to stand in the doorway. Geralt and Jaskier joined her.

None of them moved.

They looked back at the kitten, who was once again on the bed. Mackerel looked back at them. He meowed.

Yennefer heaved a deep, longsuffering sigh. “We’re taking him with us, aren’t we?”

Geralt sighed. “We might.”

Jaskier whooped so loudly that it startled Mackerel. He darted back to the bed and scooped the kitten up in his arms. Mackerel mewled in complaint.

Jaskier stroked his head in apology. “Sorry for startling you, darling, but you’ll be much happier about it soon. You’re coming with us! You’ll get to see the continent. You’ll get to experience all sorts of varied and delightful table scraps. It’ll be lovely.”

Across the room, Jaskier heard Yennefer trying to stifle a laugh. He ignored her.

“You’ll get to meet so many people,” he said to Mackerel. “You’ll get to explore the world. You can meet our family, too—”

Jaskier cut himself off with a gasp and turned to Geralt and Yennefer, his eyes shining. “Ciri is going to love him!”

“Oh,” said Yennefer with a grin. “Oh, she really will. This is going to be great.”

Jaskier nodded enthusiastically. “This is going to be the best decision we’ve ever made, I can feel it.”

“What do kittens eat?” Geralt asked reasonably, looking rather exasperated at their antics. “We can’t just let him starve.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Jaskier. “He can’t be that hard to feed.”

Yennefer nodded. “He’s been living off scraps and what he can catch so far. I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

“It’ll be dangerous on the path,” said Geralt.

Jaskier scoffed. “Mackerel is a smart cat. He can take care of himself.”

Geralt looked as though he might protest again, but at that moment, Mackerel meowed. Geralt looked down at the tiny ball of fur in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier saw the exact moment Geralt’s last arguments drained away in the face of the adorable creature in front of him.

“I suppose he can come,” said Geralt with a sigh.

Jaskier whooped again. Mackerel meowed. Yennefer laughed. Geralt, seemingly despite himself, smiled.

The three of them shouldered their packs, Jaskier passing Mackerel to Geralt to free his hands. They left their room. On their way out of the inn, Yennefer stopped to let the innkeeper know they were taking Mackerel while Geralt retrieved Roach from the stables. The innkeeper seemed happy enough with the idea and waved at them with a smile as they left. 

They set off on the Path, with Geralt leading Roach and Yennefer and Jaskier walking beside him. It was just like any other day in the last week — except this time, there was a tiny orange head poking out of one of Roach’s saddlebags, and Yennefer was having a hard time suppressing a smile. Even Geralt looked visibly content. 

Jaskier’s lovers were happy. They had, somehow, despite everything, adopted a cat. Despite Yennefer and Geralt’s persistent issues with attachment and commitment, they had agreed to take a kitten with them on their travels for no reason other than sentiment and sympathy. Jaskier was so very proud of them. 

Stopping at that inn was the best decision they ever made. 

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

First Of Her Name

The first two chapters of my long-delayed birthday fic for @handwrittenhello are up! It's a Geraskefer warlord!Yennefer fic featuring role reversals, arranged marriages, kidnapping, and pining.

Rating: E

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence; canonical child death in prologue

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer; Geralt/Yennefer; Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Fifteen years after deposing the kings of Aedirn and Lyria and being crowned the Warlord of the North, Yennefer has everything she could want: power, security, and an only moderately irritating lover, her court mage, Jaskier. But she's taken off guard when Queen Visenna of Rivia offers Yennefer her youngest son’s hand in marriage. Yennefer is skeptical, until she meets Prince Geralt and his daughter, Ciri, and is fonder of both of them than she expected.

But as they begin to plan for a wedding, it becomes increasingly clear that someone wants to stop Yennefer and Geralt’s marriage. And they’re not picky about who they need to hurt to make that happen.

You can read the prologue and the first scene of chapter one below the cut or find the entirety of the first two chapters here on AO3!

Prologue

Yennefer fucking hates portals.

Her stomach lurches as she drops to her knees in the sand, clutching the Lyrian princess to her chest. She just barely manages not to heave.

“Oh, fuck,” the Lyrian court mage says behind her as he closes the portal. “Oh, shit.”

The scent of blood is cloying and the baby in Yennefer’s arms has no heartbeat.

“Is she—” the mage—Yennefer never bothered learning his name—starts to ask.

Yennefer lowers the princess to the sand. The little face is pale and still, her silken swaddle stained with blood. “She’s gone.”

The mage curses and drops to his knees next to Yennefer, brushing her away as he places his hands over the infant and begins to chant in Elder. Yennefer sits back, catching her breath and cataloging her injuries. She has a gash in her arm from the krallach’s claws and another in her back from where the assassin’s blade barely missed burying itself between her ribs. It could have been worse, she knows. At least she’s not dead in some far away desert, like Kalis.

“Fuck.” The mage lets his hands fall away and closes his eyes. “What do we—”

Yennefer brings a blade to his throat, resting the tip of it against his Adam’s apple. “Did you know?”

He swallows hard and a bead of blood wells under the top of her dagger. “No.”

“You’re King Villem’s court mage,” Yennefer reminds him. “And you didn’t know that he was planning on killing his wife and daughter?”

“Of course not!” The mage’s heart is hammering so hard that Yennefer can’t tell if he’s lying. His sweet honeysuckle smell is shot through with lingering fear, despair, and anger. “Do you think I would just sit there while a baby was getting murdered?”

“Every Ban Ard fucker I’ve ever known would feed a baby to the Lionheaded Spider itself for power.”

“I see you’ve met Stregobor.”

Yennefer can’t help but snort.

Blue eyes open and fix on her face. “I didn’t know anything about what Villem was planning. I’ve been at his court for five years and he’s never trusted me with anything more advanced than enchanting the ceiling of the throne room. He’s never liked me, to be honest. I think he thought Kalis and I were fucking.”

“Were you?”

“No, but not from her lack of trying. I may be an idiot, but I’m not enough of an idiot to fuck the queen.” The mage smiles shakily and Yennefer wonders if he’s as young as he looks, no older than twenty-five. “If you’re still thinking about slitting my throat, I’d like to remind you that I just portaled all over the damn Continent trying to keep you alive.”

“And to keep yourself alive.”

“I won’t apologize for not wanting to get ripped apart by a giant bug.” He shudders.

Yennefer doesn’t put the knife away, but she sits back, putting space between them. His shoulders sag with relief. “I think you may need a new job,” she tells him.

The mage lets out a humorless laugh. “I definitely need a new job. That assassin was supposed to kill me too.”

“I noticed.”

“You saved my life.”

“I did.”

He wipes his bloodstained hands on his doublet. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

“School of the Raven?”

“What gave it away?”

“I’ll admit, I haven’t met many witchers, but I don’t think the witchers from any of the other schools are quite so beautiful.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother hiding her eye roll. “Wait until you’re not covered in blood and ichor before you try flirting badly.”

“Badly? Madam, I’ll have you know, I’m an experienced and accomplished flirt.”

Ignoring him, Yennefer scoops the baby up in her arms, turning away.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier calls after her.

“I’m going to bury the babe,” Yennefer tells him. “And then I’m going to go back to Vengerberg, get my horse, and get the fuck out of this kingdom.”

“You should absolutely not go back to Vengerberg.”

Yennefer turns to glare at him. “And why not?”

Jaskier gives her an incredulous look. “Because do you think it was a coincidence that they hired a witcher to escort a transport with the queen and the princess when the king was planning on having his wife and daughter slaughtered?”

“It was King Virfuril who hired me,” Yennefer tells him. “Not Villem.”

���Virfuril, who is actively negotiating a treaty with Villem and just happens to have a daughter who just came of marriageable age. I would bet my left nipple that the two of them came up with this plan together. Kill the queen, the spare princess, and the inconvenient court mage, frame the witcher, and let Villem marry the young, fertile princess of Aedirn.”

Yennefer feels ice settle in her chest. It makes a terrible sort of sense. “Those fuckers.”

“If you go back to Vengerberg, all that waits for you in the gallows.” Jaskier looks at her with such sympathy that it makes her want to stab him. “I’m sorry.”

Yennefer has been on the Path for thirty years. She’s very used to the bullshit that humans throw at her and the bullshit that nobles like to throw is usually the worst. She’s been chased by angry mobs, had poison slipped into her food and her bathwater, and has been lured into more traps than she can count. But this is the first time that a royal has had it out for her.

Fuck, she never should have taken this job; she’s a witcher, not a damn royal babysitter. But a thousand crowns to escort Queen Kalis from Vengerberg to Lyria was too good to pass up. After several contracts that didn’t pay and nearly losing her arm to a wyvern last month, she needed the coin. In retrospect, it was far too cushy of a contract; she should have been suspicious from the start.

And Yennefer knows where this will go, because she’s seen it before. They won’t be able to catch her; she’ll slip out of Aedirn without discovery and then the next witcher who passes through will be hung in her stead. Probably a Wolf, since their keep is just north of here in Kaedwen. That may not be her problem, but the thought of another witcher dying in her stead leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“You saved my life,” Jaskier says. “I owe you. Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll portal there.”

Yennefer looks down at the still, pale babe in her arms. Only a few months old, dead before she’d said her first word or taken her first step. All because a greedy fool of a king wants to marry a girl young enough to be his daughter. “Take me to Vengerberg.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “I thought we’d established that King Virfuril—”

Yennefer flashes him a smile, displaying her too-sharp incisors. “King Virfuril and I need to have a chat.”

***

One: Raven

Fifteen years later

It’s Jaskier who breaks the news to Yennefer as they lie together in the enormous four-poster that has never quite felt like hers, not even after all these years. She’s lying on her stomach next to him, eyes closed while he runs his fingers down her back, calloused fingertips tracing over the scars left by three decades on the Path and fifteen years as the so-called Raven of Vengerberg, Warlord of the North.

“Are you fucking joking?” Yennefer lifts her head from the pillow to gaze incredulously at him.

Jaskier is unfazed by her annoyance, as he usually is. “The Queen of Rivia wants to form a marriage alliance,” he says again, more slowly this time. “She’s offered her fourth son’s hand in marriage.”

“To me ?”

“Quite frankly, you could do better, but marriage offers aren’t exactly lining up right now.”

“I don’t consider that a problem.” Yennefer sits up, dislodging him. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with the fourth son of the queen of a vassal state?”

Jaskier smiles wickedly. “I suppose it depends on how good-looking he is.”

Yennefer throws a pillow at him. He makes it vanish in mid-air with a flick of his finger, the bastard.

“Like I was saying,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, blinking those impossibly blue eyes at her. He claims that his eyes were just as blue before his Ascension, but she’s never believed him. “Prince Geralt is thirty years old, Queen Visenna’s youngest son, known for being an avid horseman and exceptional swordsman—”

“You sound like a matchmaking aunt.”

“I feel like a matchmaking aunt, dearest.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and grabs her dressing gown from where she discarded it on the ground earlier. She’s rarely self-conscious about her nakedness, particular in front of the man she’s been fucking for the better part of the past decade and a half, but this seems like the type of conversation best had clothed. “And why are you bringing this up now?”

“It was Tissaia’s idea. She thought the afterglow might sweeten your mood.”

“When has being in your presence ever sweetened my mood?”

“Fair point. A rare misstep on her part.” He shoots her a crooked grin and presses a kiss to her shoulder blade.

Yennefer just manages not to lean into the touch. “My empire spans Lyria, Aedirn, Kaedwen, Caingorn, and Kovir. What the fuck can this Prince Gerard—”

“Geralt.”

“What can Prince Geralt do for me?”

“Rivia’s a country that’s rich in resources,” Jaskier says. “And I think it would behoove us to start having a more… diplomatic approach to foreign relations.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing with the whole not conquering those fucks in Redania, Temeria, and Cintra?”

She can feel the quirk of his lips against her skin. “I think we can do better than ‘don’t fuck up, or we’ll invade you and slaughter your nobility.’ A marriage alliance shows that you’re willing to reach out to other kingdoms. To work with them. To meet them halfway.”

“Ugh.” Yennefer hates diplomacy.

“And then there’s the matter of his first marriage.”

“Oh, so not only is he a fourth son, but I’ll be a second wife?”

“Prince Geralt’s first wife was Princess Pavetta of Cintra.”

Yennefer turns around to face her lover. “You should have led with that.”

Jaskier looks very smug, like he always does when he’s captured an audience’s attention. She often thinks that if he hadn’t become a mage, he would have ended up a traveling minstrel. Or perhaps a jester. “They caused a bit of a scandal when they ran off together. He was seventeen and she was fifteen. Calanthe had a marriage alliance all set with some jarl’s son from Skellige, but Pavetta had other plans. If it hadn’t been for the baby, Calanthe probably would have declared war on Rivia and taken the boy’s head.”

“Baby?”

“Princess Cirilla of Cintra, born only six months after her parents’ marriage. She’s twelve years old now. After Pavetta died at sea, she’s bounced back and forth between Rivia and Cintra.”

“How did I miss all this?”

“We were conquering Kovir the year Geralt and Pavetta married and there was an uprising in Lyria the year Pavetta died. You were busy with the warlording, dearest.”

Yennefer sighs. “Aren’t I always?”

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement. “Rumor has it that there’s tension between Queen Calanthe and Prince Geralt over the girl’s future.”

“I take it he doesn’t want her married off at fifteen to a Skelligan jarl?”

“I imagine that’s part of it, yes.” Jaskier leans back, reclining on the pillows like he expects a scantily-clad serving girl to come along and start feeding him grapes. “Cintra has been a thorn in our side since the start. Having the next Queen of Cintra as your stepdaughter will help us form an alliance with them once Calanthe’s shriveled heart finally gives out. And can you imagine the look on Calanthe’s face when she finds out that her former son-in-law is marrying a witcher, and a part-elf witcher to boot? That might be enough to kill her.”

Yennefer can’t stop a slow smile from creeping across her face. “I thought you wanted me to be diplomatic.”

“I do.” He nods. “But I also like the idea of you pissing off Calanthe in a way that will leave her helpless to retaliate. What is she going to do, declare war on the largest empire in the Northern Kingdoms because you married her dead daughter’s widower? It would make her look petty and vindictive, not like the Lioness of Cintra persona she’s tried so hard to build.”

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Jaskier is a Ban Ard-trained mage. He presents the image of the fop with his silly doublets, floppy hair, and ever-present lute, but he’s actually got some sense under all the peacocking. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him in the early days of their acquaintance. Still, she invited him into her bed because he had pretty eyes and a wicked tongue and she knew a good lay when she saw one. And by the time he threw himself between her and an assassin’s blade six months later, she knew she had his loyalty. And in the years since, it’s never wavered.

Her eyes travel to the silver ring on his pinky finger. He’s fidgeting with it, like he often does when he’s deep in thought. It looks like a plain band at first glance, but there’s a raven’s head engraved on the inside. The ring is linked to her medallion, a charm that Jaskier put in place after she was briefly captured during the conquering of Kovir. No matter where she is on the Continent, Jaskier will always be able to portal to her. There’s no one else she would trust with something like that. Peacock or no, she knows she can trust him to have her best interests at heart.

“Do you think I should do it?” she asks quietly.

Jaskier sits up, pinning her with that too-blue gaze. “I think that you’ve built yourself a vast and impressive empire here, Yennefer. You’re the most powerful person on the Continent. But you need allies, or someday, you will meet an enemy you won’t be able to take on yourself. Prince Geralt may not be that big of a catch on his own, but the potential of a future alliance with Rivia and Cintra could potentially save us a good deal of headaches in the future, especially if Emhyr starts to turn his attentions towards the Northern Kingdoms.”

Yennefer groans. She knows Nilfgaard is going to become a pain in her ass one of these days.

“And of course, have you seen Queen Visenna?” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows. “If her son is half as attractive, you should sign whatever marriage contract they put in front of you.”

Yennefer huffs in exasperation. “You’re an incorrigible lech.”

“Something you had no complaints about twenty minutes ago,” he says with a leer, then abruptly sobers. “By all accounts, he’s a good man with a steady head on his shoulders that dotes on his daughter and his horse. You could do worse.”

Yennefer hates it when he gets serious with her. It’s highly inconvenient. “I’ll think about it.”

***

Read the rest here on AO3!

[winters-mistress]

The last rose will bloom

Bang!

Ciri's knees meet the horribly stone floor, and if she had any sense left within her, she would have gasped or cried out or made a noise of pain. But in this moment, she's so drained of all her energy and everything that's usually contained in a person, all she can do is close her eyes and let her body slump forwards, not even having the warewithal to brace for impact or put her arching arms out in front of her to not have to brace. But she can do none of these things.

Hard, strong arms capture her body before it can injure itself any further. She inhales as much as she can, but she doesn't get far with the blood streaming from her eyes that quickly make its way into her lips and nostrils. She can't open her eyes, her body is that weak it slumps into the hard, ridiculously large abdomen and chest. She breathes, and barely manages not to faint here and now.

"How the fuck did she do that?!" Ah. Lambert. Why was he mad? It dawns on her a moment later, he's not mad. He's surprised, frightened, taken off guard. But not mad.

"I don't know." she feels it more than she hears it, the vibration in the chest. "How are you feeling? Did she-"

"I'm-I'm okay?" That's Eskel. He sounds surprised as well, relieved and surprised. "Yes, I'm okay." His voice is hoarse as if he'd seen screaming.

"She just-" Lambert trails off. "I'm sorry but did she just drain you of all that poison, throw all the black shit in a cup and heal you?!" He's loud, but he's not mad.

"It appears so." That's Vesemir. "Wolf, your girl alright?"

"I think so." He draws her away from him for a moment, probably to look her over. She makes a noise at the back of her throat. "Just drained, it looks like. She needs to sleep."

A large, rough thumb wipes at her eyes. She breathes clearer, and the weight upon her cheek is gone. Ciri manages to open her eyes.

Geralt is frowning at her, eyes wide, hands bloody. She swallows, but she can't say anything as he draws her to his chest, picks her up as her knees groan with the strain of injury and unfolding.

Her eyes open when she realises they're moving, and Geralt is coming closer to Eskel. He's laying on the floor, his body separated from the leshy that was -moments ago- ravaging his body and making him scream.

Ciri open her mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"Okay, regardless of what happened here, she's no use half unconscious and bloody. Take her to bed, Geralt. Get her cleaned up and rested. We'll talk in the morning." Vesemir says. Ciri agrees.

"I'm sorry, I feel like we aren't focusing on what happened enough. I know he told us she had magic, but that's not fucking possible, what she just did. We should know that that's not how curses are broken!" Lambert cries out.

"Be that as it may," Vesemir begins. "The girl needs to rest, and so does your brother. To bed with her, Geralt. And then help us get him situated."

Geralt nods, and turns to leave, Ciri still in arms.

"Thank you, Ciri. For saving my pup."

Ciri smiles weakly, before everything turns black.

[magic-multicolored-miracle]

The Witcher S3 Ep 3: Reunion AKA 🎵Everyyyyybody Huuuuuurts🎵

I think the metaphor might be getting away from you a bit

I really like her outfit. It is my kind of look

I love that Jaskier calls him "Firefingers." It's very in line with Yen's (and my) "Firefucker." And asshole doesn't deserve a name.

Sorry did you say "a friend of your mother's"?!

Aww, the adorant whisper. Because it's once again proved that Geralt is a big old softie.

Wait, that's news? I assumed she had been for a while (tbh I thought the ditching Geralt was to protect him from something or someone that was going to kill her)

So someone else did exactly what the two information brokers said Geralt should, with added mind altering...was the suggestion meant to be a tip off, since they knew he wouldn't take it in the first place?

I really like Philippa's outfit for this meeting, and the fact that it is very clearly Not Matching the general Redanian aesthetic. The costume department this season is really Killing It. (Interestingly, it is matching, or at least similar to Jaskier's...)

He does seem stressed. His poor head is going to explode. I wonder whose fault that is?

Radovid, baby, that's not a very good attempt at hiding.

Oh it was on purpose for The Drama™ I love that

This is quite the Reason You Suck speech, Yennefer. Are you actually trying to get back into the Brotherhood's, or Tissaia's good graces at all? Part of me hopes not, honestly

Oh 💔 I mean, we knew that. But the look on Yen's face hearing it out loud...

Fabio, you're there to chaperone a teenage girl at a market, not barker like a hotdog on a street corner 🙄

How did that secret get out? Was it Yennefer? I bet it was Yennefer

I like that the captions specify it's to the tune of The Wild Rover. Otherwise I'd have heard it and gone nuts. (That song was the bane of my existence last fall.)

Istredd, my friend. You're looking Rough. But it...kinda works for you?

That's. Not ideal...

Poor General Kicked-Puppy, I'm glad he gets an invite home, even though home is not a good place...

"Prove it" doesn't sound good. There's an implied threat in "prove it"

Always with the leaning, Jaskier (and with the unbuttoned vest, it's peak casual yet slutty or maybe that's just the bard wearing it)

He's not wrong but also I hate him for saying it. I don't like that.

I think this might be the longest and most frank conversation these two have ever had. 10/10 relationship growth

Well shit. Stregobitch? Or Vilgefortz?

Uh. What?

Double "well shit". Or hopefully just almost. But I have a bad feeling about Anika's fate...

I love Ciri just strolling in behind the barker's back without paying or being challenged

Who are these two? They feel important

Go Fabio!

Can we form a secondary party of these youngins? I think I like them. And maybe recruit Dara back, eventually. (That would basically just be your average D&D party but that's not a negative)

Dammit Sabrina. Why are you a bitch? Didn't Yennefer almost die saving your fucking life from Nilfgaard?

My babies! Stop hurting each other! You both need hugs, stat!

Oh look, and now Geralt's hurting too.

Oh shit. I didn't expect the Queen to die. That's a ballsy move Philippa. But a solid way to make sure your king doesn't ever trust Nilfgaard, if it works.

Was Dijkstra in on it though? I'm not sure...

Radovid. Do NOT call a sneaky murdering bastard out on being a sneaky murdering bastard WHILE YOU ARE ALONE IN A ROOM WITH HIM! I swear to god, if you get yourself killed...(I know it doesn't happen yet, but that doesn't mean it won't later)

I don't like that almost-smile from Firefucker. Whatever his demand is, it isn't going to be fun...

Good to see Francesca getting back to her roots (and doting husband Filavandrel is pretty nice) but I have the uncomfortable feeling she'll get her wish...

You seem on edge Cahir. What are you about to do?

Well, rip. I was just starting to like that guy. But why?

Running away, completely alone. Seems like a bad plan even for Ciri, so I'm going to guess this is a dream...

Eredin? Why do I know that name? [Oh, cus I actually watched Blood Origin. I didn't think I retained anyone's name, but I guess I did]

Is Ciri's appearance and her being "death itself" a play on the whole "death came riding on a pale horse" or whatever it is? Or coincidence?

[samstree]

my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight (1/4)

Jaskier leaves, so he can one day return. At the same time, Geralt learns to do better.

(3.8k, teen, read on ao3)

It gets worse before it gets better.

Or at least, that is what they say.

It’s just another ordinary night. There are witchers laughing at the dinner table, and their resident princess and sorceresses are quietly reading in the library. The fire in Kaer Morhen keeps the cold outside of these tall, crumbling walls, keeps the family warm.

And Jaskier is out of place.

Coën’s decade-old story fades in and out of focus, and Jaskier stands and leaves because if he can’t be part of them, he can be useful. The dishes are a nice distraction. It’s his nightly routine at this point.

The drinks too are a nightly routine. The witcher brews are never more than two paces away in this keep, and diluting the strong white gull has become instinct. He takes it out of the cabinet when the last plate is done and pours half a cup, downs it in a few large gulps.

The burn is his second skin. It’s the armor he wears in an invisible battle that he is doomed to lose. He fights still, to be part of the family, part of the narrative.

It’s fine.

If only he isn’t fighting alone.

The buzz settles in, and Jaskier lets out a hum and feels his cheeks warm. His hands are freezing cold from the water, the scars tinging uncomfortably.

“I was wondering why the plates are cleaner these days.”

Jaskier lets out a yelp and turns to see Geralt leaning against the kitchen door. His hair tie is gone and those curls frame his face softly. It’s not fair that he looks so content in his home and full of love when Jaskier has had a drink. He might actually say what he wants and that would be embarrassing for the both of them.

Learning not to want Geralt is the hardest thing Jaskier has done, and he once had to dissect a frog at university.

“Did you think it was Lambert this whole time?” Jaskier replies with his back against the counter and his fingers gripping the edge hard. Soreness settles in the scars but it keeps his head clear—as clear as it can be now that the white gull is spreading through his limbs nicely.

“Hmm. Thought he wised up.”

Geralt walks right into Jaskier’s space.

“Even I know better, Geralt, and I’m not his brother for a century.”

“Well.” Geralt tucks the loose strands of hair behind his ear, and for a split second Jaskier wishes he was the one doing it. Again, not fair. “Thank you, for the dishes.”

Jaskier has to grip the counter harder to make sure he hasn’t misheard. “Oh.”

Yes, Geralt has changed. Fatherhood has softened all his edges so that the good, caring person Jaskier has always known him to be is shining through.

It didn’t happen for twenty years in Jaskier’s company, but time was never the issue. For Ciri, it only took a few short months, and Jaskier is painfully aware of his absence in Geralt’s growth.

He swallows the bitterness and forces a small smile.

“Don’t mention it,” Jaskier says. “I don’t suppose witchers have a habit of keeping bards around for nothing.”

“Jaskier.” There’s a line between Geralt’s brows, but his eyes remain gentle. His hand wraps around Jaskier’s, warming his fingertips. “Not nothing. Not to me.”

And then, for some reason, Geralt’s face is coming closer.

And closer.

Their lips meet for the briefest moment and Jaskier startles at the reality that Geralt is trying to kiss him.

“What—” he rears back and knocks a pan off the edge. The clattering of metal on the stone floor hurts his ears. “Shit—Geralt, what are you doing?”

The cluttering comes to a stop at Jaskier’s feet, and Geralt looks like he’s waking up from a dream.

“I thought—.” He looks down to where their hands link, not quite letting go. “Things are different now, so I thought I’d show you how I feel. It’s long overdue, but I owe it to you.” The golden irises of Geralt’s eyes widen. “I was hoping there could be something more. More than what we had before all this. Perhaps it was a bit sudden, but—”

“A bit sudden?”

Jaskier retracts his hand like he’s burned, which sends him off balance. His whole weight slams against the counter. It’s an awful time for Geralt to decide to be incomprehensible when the white gull is kicking in.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, placing a hand on the witcher’s chest, not sure which one of them he’s trying to steady. “Are you drunk or something?”

“I’m drunk?” Geralt’s frown deepens. “More like you are.”

“No.”

A sniff, and golden irises tighten suspiciously.

“You are.” Geralt takes a step back. “Oh, shit. Jaskier, I didn’t realize how much you had. I shouldn’t have, not when you—”

“I meant,” Jaskier interrupts, resolute. “No, to your question. About something more for us. No is my answer.”

The kitchen is too small for a single word to echo, but Jaskier has a feeling he’s going to dream of it more often than he’d like, and Geralt...

Geralt looks like he’s just been slapped across the face.

“Just no,” Jaskier repeats, so quietly that he nearly misses it himself. “I can’t.”

Not when Geralt has never taken a second glance at him. Not when he’s never shown any sign of wanting Jaskier as anything more than a friend. Not when he never noticed the burn on Jaskier’s fingers, the blood on his shirt, the stink of alcohol, the hurt, the lack of a lute.

Not when Jaskier is trying so hard not to love him.

“I see.”

Geralt slips away, and Jaskier is left with nothing but silence. The sky darkens over, and he picks up the white gull again.

It gets worse before it gets better, Jaskier thinks as he gasps awake at night, his stomach turning just like the day he cut open that poor frog and puked on Essi’s shoes.

He tries to quell it with more alcohol, but the bottle is empty. He opens another.

~~

Jaskier keeps drinking, and Geralt keeps avoiding him, which means he needs more drinks to chase away all thoughts about him.

It all comes crashing down on one night.

Jaskier is up well past midnight, sitting by the dying embers of the hall. His nightly routine is near the end and the nice wine Yennefer portalled in from Toussaint should knock him out in no time. He gets up, ready to turn in, when another set of footsteps echoes in the hall.

A flash of ashen hair passes through the corridor and disappears into the backyard, accompanied by the distinctive sound of a teenage girl’s sniffles.

Ciri.

It must be her nightmares. It doesn’t happen often now that Yen is helping her control her chaos better, but one’s demon never truly goes away, as Jaskier knows from experience.

He chases her into the cold open ground, the heavy wooden door creaks close behind him.

Funny, he cannot seem to walk in a straight line.

Jaskier catches sight of Ciri by the stable, curled into herself under a small torch. “Hey, poppet,” he tries to call out, but the words stick together.

A yelp, and the girl’s eyes widen in surprise, her tears glistening under the fire.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier wants to answer. He also wants to hurry to her side, crouch beside her and offer all the comfort. A human touch, he has schooled both Geralt and Yennefer on the importance of it, because that’s where Jaskier comes in. He can at least do this, chase Ciri’s nightmares away with the right words.

Except, the world is fading in and out of focus. One moment Ciri is far away, the next she is standing right in front of him and frowning. She looks just like Geralt when she’s worried.

“Did you have a—” Jaskier burps, realizing his breath isn’t the most pleasant. “—a nightmare?”

Not exactly a comforting opening, and Ciri is looking strange.

She looks scared.

“Are you alright?” she asks, the tear tracks drying on her face. It’s wrong that she’s asking that. Jaskier is here for her, and he should give her a hug. The girl likes hugs when she’s upset. “Jaskier, what are you—oh!”

The attempt at a hug somehow ends up with him tripping over his feet, and Jaskier finds himself flat on his back near Roache’s stall. The mare neighs, but all sounds are muffled in his ear.

“Jaskier!”

Ciri’s face appears above Jaskier, spinning along with the dark sky. Her face is pale with fear and Jaskier hates that so much. She’s just a child, and Jaskier shouldn’t be another source of fear in her life.

“I’m—” He slurs, unable to voice any of his thoughts.

“Help!” she calls out, but that doesn’t make sense. Jaskier is here to help her. “Somebody help us!”

Ciri’s voice fades with her frantic footsteps. The ground is cold when Jaskier loses consciousness.

~~

Jaskier wakes up mid-vomiting into a chamber pot with someone’s hand at his back.

“There.” Geralt’s deep voice rumbles next to him, patting him gently until his stomach is empty. “Shh, let it out.”

Jaskier chokes, his eyes prickling and his throat burning with acid. His hands tremble when they find Geralt’s arm to pull himself upright. “Ciri?”

“She’s okay.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “She had a nightmare. I saw her…”

“She did.” Geralt’s lips purse tightly. “Now she’s asleep in her room.”

Jaskier takes the water Geralt hands to him and downs it in a few gulps. “I think I…scared her.”

A shudder runs down his spine, even Geralt’s warmth can’t chase away the bone-deep coldness in Jaskier’s body.

“You did.” Now Geralt looks pained. “You could barely walk, or speak, and passed out in the cold.”

“I…”

Jaskier thinks he’s going to throw up again, but Geralt’s hand returns to him, stroking his forearm.

“Hey, Jaskier. It’s alright. She found help. Everything is fine now.”

“Fine?” Jaskier could laugh if his insides are not churning with crushing guilt. Ciri has been through too much, and Jaskier is supposed to here to be the comforting figure. He is the funny bard who lifts her spirit, not a mess who approaches her while stinking like alcohol. “None of this is fine. I shouldn’t have gone to her. I shouldn’t have had so much when she needed someone. Gods, Ciri shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“She’s stronger than you think, Jask.”

That only makes the sorrow in his chest swell.

“And that’s the problem. She’s too young to be.”

“Jaskier…”

The fire crackles, and Jaskier realizes he’s in Geralt’s room and piled with furs. Even though his head is somewhat clearer, the pounding headache makes him wince with every movement. His skin is clammy with sweat and he wants to crawl out of his skin.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says softly. He sounds softer than Jaskier has ever known him to be. “This can’t go on.”

Jaskier nods. “You are right. It can’t. You didn’t bring me here to make a mess out of your life.” The again is unsaid, but they both hear it. His eyes prickle like the cold mountain wind is still on his face. “Now you need to prioritize Ciri too, of course. I can leave tomorrow—”

“No.” The muscles in Geralt’s neck tense, his chest heaving. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about leaving?”

Jaskier smiles, but he’s sure it’s more of a grimace. “You don’t need to ask it of me, and I know you won’t. Not when you feel guilty—don’t even deny it, I’d know it with one look. You are not subtle, you know?”

“Only to you, Jaskier.”

Geralt looks like he’s going to beg. It’s a funny sight.

“Is it because of me?” Geralt asks, finally. “Jaskier, is all…this because of me? Because I tried to…” Geralt looks down in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said.” Jaskier huffs.

“Did I?”

“Mm-hmm, twice now. You’ve apologized to me twice, Geralt, and I never thought I’d live to see this day.”

“And yet, you still haven’t forgiven me.”

Jaskier has no words for that. His fingers are linked with Geralt’s, this thumb resting on the witcher’s slow-beating pulse.

“I am not well, Geralt.” The admission makes a lump form in Jaskier’s throat, and he swallows the tears. “I’ve known for a while, even before you found me in that cell. You asked for more of me, of us, and I’m not ready, no matter how much I want you. I hate that I still do.”

Geralt sucks in a tiny gasp at the word want, and the hope that flutters behind his eyes dies at Jaskier’s next words.

“It’s not something you can apologize away, Geralt. You can’t save me from this. It’s not just another monster you can fight.”

“Then how?” The whisper comes out quietly, seizing Jaskier’s heart. “How do I make it better? What do I do?”

What do you need?

What do you want?

Jaskier hears the same questions he’s asked Geralt over and over again, spread across the two decades of their journeys together, and finds his shoulders sag with relief.

Geralt wants to be there for him

Only Jaskier can’t be there in return.

“Let me go,” he asks. “Let me get better, so I can return.”

There’s no place beside Geralt for him if he is not fit to be around Ciri, and Jaskier would hate himself if one day he does hurt her in any way. There will be no coming back from that.

After a pause that feels like an eternity, Geralt nods. He understands, of course. It’s being a father; it’s what he is right now. And there’s nothing any of them can do about it.

“Then I’ll wait,” Geralt says solemnly. “I will wait for you, however long you need.”

Gentle fingers tuck away the hair at Jaskier’s temple, sword calluses caressing his skin like a kiss. Geralt doesn’t kiss him goodnight when he leaves, but Jaskier dreams of soft lips on his forehead as he drifts off, surrounded by the warmth of Geralt’s room and the faint smell of pine and leather on his pillow.

~~

Once again, Jaskier walks down a mountain alone. This time with a lighter heart and better boots.

There is an air of awkwardness around them as they stand at the gate of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier considers taking off without talking to Geralt for a while, but in the end, he ends up being the one pulling Geralt into a tight hug. There is snow on both their clothes, but Jaskier buries his nose into Geralt’s shoulder anyway. Ciri kisses him on the cheek as goodbye, not understanding fully. Jaskier hopes she does not blame herself—the girl is truly too similar to her father.

“Find me in Oxenfurt,” he tells Geralt, “if you can. It’s beautiful in the fall.”

“Jaskier, I—”

Geralt opens his mouth, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he is going to say some big words. The big words.

“I’m going to miss you,” he settles on.

The snow is melting, but Geralt fusses, tightening Jaskier’s coat over and over again, to the point that his hands have to be batted away. The warmth that spreads to Jaskier’s fingertips almost feels like love. For a moment, he thinks that alone can replace all the emptiness in his chest.

Oxenfurt is a welcoming sight when he returns. The ground turns green under his feet, and Essi greets him with a big smile.

“Where have you been?” She tosses her hair in the wind, punching Jaskier’s upper arm as if they are still children. “I found your lute broken, thought you were kidnapped!”

“I was.”

The way Essi’s jaw drops is too adorable, and Jaskier takes pity on her.

“I’m fine now,” he lies. “Just a few scrapes. Shouldn’t affect business as much, assuming it’s still standing.”

“If you mean the Sandpiper business—”

“Shh!” Jaskier takes her shoulder and steers the two of them away from passers-by. “Don’t say it where people can hear you!”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Well, it’s standing. Valdo and I, we manage, but it’s good that you’re back, Jaskier. Let’s talk over a drink, eh?”

Jaskier’s blood runs cold. “Sure,” he says.

The Beekeeper bustles with customers, the lunch rush leaving not many seats to choose from. The middle of the floor is crammed with tables and loud-speaking patrons, and Jaskier tries not to shudder when he looks at the spot where he was tied down until the shimmering light of dawn. There’s no blood on the wooden floor anymore.

They sit in a corner, and Jaskier cannot hold it in anymore. “You see, darling—ah, I should tell you something.”

“Mm?”

Essi has taken two tankards of ale and pushed one in front of Jaskier. His heart pounds.

“I’m not going to drink.”

“Still hungover?” she jokes.

“No.” It’s okay. He just needs to say it. He can’t do it if he isn’t brave enough to at least say it out loud. “I’m not going to drink again.”

“For today?” Now she looks confused.

“Ever. Today, and every day. I’m stopping.”

Essi’s hand rests on Jaskier’s knee as a comforting weight. It doesn’t take too many words for her to understand. Growing up with someone tends to have that effect on two people.

“How will you do that?” she asks eventually.

Jaskier shrugs, realizing he’s not given much thought to it. He hasn’t had a drop on his stops down the mountain, and the sudden clarity weighs on him. It builds, under his skin, stronger by the day.

“I’ll just…not drink?” His voice is uncertain even to his own ears.

Essi just shakes her head. Jaskier likes to see her as a little sister, but he is fully aware of how mature his Little Eye is beyond her age. She has that look on her face again, the one that suggests she is about to say something profound and wise to put Jaskier to shame.

“You can’t do it alone, Julian. My mother said the same thing, swore she was never going to drink again after I found her passed out in her own vomit. It didn’t work.”

Jaskier blinks. They’ve not seen Essi’s mother since she was twelve.

“I won’t watch the same happen to you, Julian.” Her eyes are blue and full of sadness. Sometimes, Jaskier feels like he’s looking into his own eyes when he sees her. “I won’t. I can’t lose you too.”

The hug he gives Essi is forceful and desperate, and she holds on to him with equal fervor.

“You won’t. Gods, you won’t,” Jaskier says into her hair, and when they part, he adjusts her bright-colored hat so it’s still charmingly crooked, just the way she likes. “I don’t know what to do yet, or how to do it. To be fair, I’m not even sure I’m strong enough, but I can promise to never leave over this. I won’t run away from it, Essi. You have my word.”

Essi nods. “You should speak to Marta.”

“The florist at the academy?” The non sequitur has Jaskier frowning.

“She hosts tea at her garden every Sunday for a few of her friends. They…have similar needs to yours, not wanting to drink but lacking the strength. They’ve somehow found a way to help each other.”

“All of them together?”

“I think,” she muses, “together is their way.”

Jaskier vaguely remembers gossip about how their local, warm-hearted florist and her wife fell out around five years ago. Word said there was shouting loud enough to wake the town, and Sonia took their children and moved right out the next day.

So Marta was just like him. Drunk. Broken. Made mistakes.

He didn’t know back then.

“That little group of theirs has worked so far. They remind each other why they stopped, and why they should carry on. No one is an island, Julian, and you don’t have to be either. Marta now has the kids with her every other week, and her shop is doing so much better. Maybe it’s the key to all of this.”

“Maybe,” Jaskier echoes. Just the idea of strangers finding out all the rotten parts of him fills him with dread and shame, but if they are truly the same as him, maybe he won’t have to shoulder everything alone.

“And your witcher.”

Jaskier stills. The mention of Geralt shouldn’t make him feel like the ground has disappeared under him. You left him to get better, he reminds himself. You left so you can return, so you can be with him.

“He’s the reason, isn’t he?” Essi’s eyes are full of concern.

“The drinking?” Jaskier chuckles dryly, “or the quitting?”

Essi takes another look at him.

“Both,” she answers for him.

~

Marta’s shop is full of life. Jaskier walks past lines and lines of spring flowers and picks out a bouquet of carnations. It is accompanied by sprinkles of forget-me-nots, and he can’t help but smile at it.

Don’t forget me.

He pleads silently.

“Julian, is that you?” Marta walks out of the back door, her brown eyes warm and inquisitive. “Back with us and teaching again, eh?”

“Where else would I be?” Jaskier answers, winking at the florist. It’s an old habit he doesn’t want to shake.

“Well, then. Looking for a gift? Are we wooing another countess yet?”

“Not this time. Just for my room.” He thinks of his small bedroom and its dull-colored walls that are in desperate need of some livening up. “I’ll be staying this time.”

“Oh, that’s good of you.” Her smile is equally warm when she wraps the flowers and cuts the stems for him. “Anything else?”

Jaskier’s heart beats in his throat, his breathing quickening. He tries to hide the tremor in his voice.

“Actually, yes.”

He tells his story—not all of it at once, only the important bits: the reason for his return, why he’s staying, why he’s here.

Marta listens without judgement, and by the end of it, Jaskier finds his knuckles white around the flowers, nearly crushing all their leaves. She wraps her hand around his and guides him to the garden.

The shaking in Jaskier’s hands stops when she brings him mint tea. The honey soothes his throat, grounding him to the gentle presence of the breeze and the sun.

She tells her story in return, only the important bits too—like how she just sent her kids off to their mother and the way they all hugged her goodbye. Like how Sonia now visits the shop and sits with her, exchanging old memories of when they were young and silly and in love. Like how her family is being remade, piece by piece, day after day.

“Come back here on Sunday,” Marta sends him off with a jar of mint tea and a hopeful smile.

For the first time after the mountain, Jaskier can see a path ahead of him.

[ellayuki]

22022022 - The Witcher

carve out your name (into this bleeding, battered heart of mine)

~

He slips out quietly in the night, after everyone has gone to bed, still healing, still mending, still mourning, and there's no one to stop him.

(Not that anyone would, Jaskier is reasonably sure, considering it's been three days since the battle against the Voleth Meir, and Geralt has yet to include him in any of his plans for when he will take Ciri and Yennefer and leave Kaer Morhen.)

He slips quietly into the night, with a fur against the cold wrapped around his shoulders, and a new (for him) dagger strapped to his boot, and tries to convince himself it's better this way.

They don't need him, not really, and anyway, what help would a luteless bard be to them now?

Yes, it's better like this.

(If his heart cries and shrivels in his chest for the second time in as many years, well... Jaskier has learned to ignore it.)

~

He can’t go back to Oxenfurt, he knows, at least not yet. Maybe in a few weeks, a few months, when they’ll have forgotten all about his escape from prison.

I’ll need a new lute, too, he thinks forlornly as he trudges down the mountain paths (once again and just as alone, but at least now he tells himself it’s on his own terms). Nothing will ever be quite as good as the one Filavandrel had gifted him all those years ago, but a bard needs his instrument.

Yes, a lute first, then he’ll figure out what to do going forward.

So, he breathes in the clean crisp air, and he hums new tunes, and he puts foot in front of foot, and doesn’t look back once, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much it pains him not to.

~

"You left."

Well, fuck.

It's been seven months since he's last seen the witcher and the witch (and their child, but the young princess isn't the one who's looking at him with betrayal in her eyes now), and Jaskier has been fooling himself into thinking distance would make things easier when he's the one who imposed it.

It doesn't.

Yennefer looks just about ready to throttle him, although her eyes are large and swimming in badly hidden hurt. Geralt looks... carefully blank. It sends a shiver down Jaskier's spine, that look on his face. (He doesn’t think Geralt’s ever looked at him like that, not even…)

In the end, after he's gotten over the shock of seeing them again, he just shrugs, fiddling with the edge of one of his sleeves. "I did." It's so hard to meet their eyes all of a sudden. "Didn't see the point of hanging around where I'm not needed."

"Not needed." Geralt's voice is as blank as his face. Jaskier hates it, he really does.

He scratches his cheek. "Yes, well. It's not exactly like I'd have been of any use to any of you. The skirmish at Kaer Morhen kind of proved that, so-"

"So you decided to cut your losses and leave without so much as a good riddance," Yennefer cuts him off, and yes, there's a world of hurt in her voice. They'd gotten close, yes, but he hadn't thought… Hadn’t dared to let himself think… Well, the heart is a strange thing, he guesses.

He turns his back to them, needing to hide his face, needing to hide from their gazes. "I guess I thought it'd be better to leave, rather than be left again. Sue me for wanting to protect my own damn heart for once, after over two decades."

There's a sharp inhale at the words. Geralt, most likely. "Jaskier..."

And quick as lightning, irritation fills him at Geralt’s tone, and he forgets his need to hide. “It’s not like you were including me in any of your travel plans.” He whirls around to point at Geralt. “So you don’t get to judge me for not wanting to wait around for you to tell me to get lost again.” His eyes sting, but they don’t fill up with tears. He laughs at the small mercy. “What place do I have in your little family? What place have I ever-”

And fuck, he hadn’t meant to let that slip, hadn’t meant to bare his fractured heart quite so much. Fuck. Fuck me, and fuck Geralt, and fuck Yennefer… And just- “Fuck.”

He closes his eyes, tilts his head up to the sky. Breathes in, and then out, and it’s a little shaky. “Fuck.”

And all of a sudden, he’s enveloped in warmth on all sides. Warm arms wrapped tightly around him, warm torsos pressed close against his, warm breaths heating up his face and neck. It takes him a moment to take it all in and to understand it.

“You’re a damn fool,” Yennefer says in the space between his shoulder blades, her sharp nails digging into his belly through his shirt and his doublet both. It barely feels real. “Such a damn foolish bard.”

“That’s me, yes.” If he doesn’t open his eyes, then this will not turn out to be some sort of sweet fever dream.

There are fingers carding up through his hair at the back of his head, gentle at first, and then softly demanding. Jaskier lets them tilt his head as they want, lets them bare his throat to Geralt’s mouth, to bite into or to kiss or to…

But then, there’s a forehead pressed against his, and with Yennefer’s own still pressing to his spine, Jaskier feels pinned, feels held, feels like, at long last, he’s a part of something.

“You’re ours,” Geralt says in the barely there space between their lips, so low Jaskier has to strain to hear him. “You’re ours, just as we are yours, Jaskier.”

And for the first time, Jaskier feels like he can let himself believe it.

[rebrandedbard]

If you are still writing 14?

Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.

14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol

Robbed Blind

Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?

-

She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.

He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.

“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.

Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.

Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.

He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.

“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”

He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”

She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”

“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”

Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”

Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”

She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.

“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.

-

“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”

Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”

Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”

“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.

Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”

Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.

Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”

“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”

Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”

Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.

“They’re brothers.”

Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”

“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.

“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”

Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”

“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.

“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”

-

They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.

Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.

She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.

“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.

Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.

Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.

And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.

“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.

He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.

Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”

It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.

Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”

“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.

The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”

Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?

“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”

Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”

“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.

“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.

“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.

Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”

He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.

It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?

The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …

Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”

He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”

They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.

Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.

“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.

When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.

“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”

And Geralt let his hand fall away.

Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.

He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.

Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.

The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.

Geralt took his hand gently.

Jaskier squeezed it back.

“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”

Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.

Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”

She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.

“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”

He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”

Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”

Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.

“Vese—”

Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.

“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”

Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”

“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”

Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”

A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.

“Ciri,” he breathed.

Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.

“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”

All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”

“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.

“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”

He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”

He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.

Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.

Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”

Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.

Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”

“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”

It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”

He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”

There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.

However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

[bitcher-of-blaviken]

The Death of a Bard

Rating: T Warnings: None WC: 1,783 Tags: Modern AU, family shenanigans, Geralt is a good dad, fluff, nobody is dead i swear

Geralt sniffed and subtly wiped a tear from his eye as Yennefer stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder. Eskel stood on Geralt’s other side, a box of tissues clasped in his large hands. In front of them, Jaskier laid in the long makeshift coffin, his hands clasped over his stomach with flowers tucked under them. They were just wildflowers that Ciri found out in the backyard where they were all standing, but it’s how Jaskier would have wanted his funeral to be like. Off the cuff, nothing grand, a cheap cardboard box instead of a grand and beautiful coffin of mahogany and a plush velvet interior. Geralt knew that this was what the humble musician would have always truly wanted.

Lambert stood on the other side of the box. “Dearly beloved and hated, we are here to celebrate the death of Jaskier—“

“It’s to celebrate the life, Lambert,” Geralt interrupted. He cleared his throat and sniffled again. “He had a good life. He deserves to be celebrated.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Lambert retorted with a scoff. He fumbled with the wrinkled paper in his hands. He was dressed in his nicest outfit, which was his work uniform for the post office. It was sufficient. “We are here to celebrate the life of Jaskier, who died from a fatal gunshot wound in the stomach. He bled out slowly and painfully, murdered in cold blood.”

“Who would do such a horrible thing?” Eskel lamented, his voice watery. “He was so young. He had so many more years ahead of him, so much more music to make, so much— I’m running out of words.” He choked out a sob and took a tissue out from his box to blow his nose into it, comically loud.

“Nobody move,” Ciri called out, walking out with an oversized fedora on. It was nearly falling over her eyes as she stomped out, her chest puffed out despite the large trenchcoat she wore trailing half behind her on the ground. “We have reason to believe the murderer is among this group. Nobody gets in or out.”

Gasps came from all of them.

“Oh come on lady, all of us loved the guy. Some more than others,” Lambert said with a pointed look at Geralt, who flushed. “None of us would kill him. We don’t even have guns.”

“Is that so?” Ciri asked, showing them all a plastic ziploc bag. Inside was a tiny, bright pink water gun. “I’m Detective Cirilla. We found this on the crime scene.”

More gasps from all of them, though there was barely suppressed snickers from Lambert.

“You think this is funny, do you?” Ciri asked as she strode over to Lambert. “There is a man dead in front of us and you think to laugh? Sounds like something the murderer would do.”

“No I’m laughing because it’s a fuckin’ pink water gun,” Lambert interjected with a grin.

“Language,” Yennefer chided.

“No, it is the murder weapon and you better start giving an alibi or you’re going to jail for some interrogation,” Ciri insisted with a shake of the ziploc bag. The harmless water gun rattled around inside of it.

Lambert cleared his throat and put his hands up at the equally hard stares from everyone else at the funeral. “Fine,” he relented. “I was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready.”

“What were you cooking?” Ciri asked, her tone and glare so serious that Geralt even saw Yennefer have to bring a hand up to suppress a smile.

“Pancakes,” Lambert replied equally as seriously. He even crossed his arms and leaned down to meet Ciri’s glare, their noses nearly touching.

“Hm. A likely story,” Ciri relented with a huff. She marched over to Eskel and pointed a tiny finger up at him. Geralt had to hand it to him, he still managed to look convincingly frightened even with an eight year-old in a too big hat and far too big trenchcoat pouting up at him. “And what about you? What were you doing at the time of the murder?”

“I was just— reading with Kitty curled up on my lap. I wasn’t able to move, much less murder someone. I’ve never seen that gun in my life,” Eskel defended, his hands up. “I swear detective, I would have never!”

“I see, and you?” Ciri asked as she whirled around to point at Geralt.

“You think I would have murdered him?” Geralt asked, his tone coming out more flat than it probably should have. He wasn’t good at the theatrics like Eskel and Lambert were. “We just married last week, we were supposed to go on our honeymoon. You were there detective.” It was true, Ciri had married him and Jaskier last week.

“I see,” Ciri said, rubbing her chin as she thought. “But what about his will?”

“What about it?” Geralt asked.

“I have it here,” Lambert said as he cleared his throat. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“Well? Don’t tarry on man, read it!” Ciri demanded. Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. At least she was learning a wide range of vocabulary.

“Yeah yeah, it says ‘If I die, I leave all of my earthly possessions to my newly wedded husband Geralt, including…” Lambert gave a loud gasp.

“What does it say? Including what?!” Ciri asked.

“It says ‘Including my super duper big family inheritance that I have stored away in the coast of Belize’. He was loaded!” Lambert exclaimed.

“Let me see that,” Ciri said as she snatched the paper out of Lambert’s hands. She hummed as she looked over the paper, which really just had the will written out in crayon with multiple words misspelled, including Geralt’s name, but nobody commented on that. She gasped and waved the paper. “This will is forged! I knew it!”

Everyone else gasped as well.

“Forged?” Yennefer asked.

“Yes! His signature was faked,” Ciri decided as she showed the paper to Yennefer.

A loud snore from the “coffin” interrupted them, and Geralt kicked the cardboard box. Jaskier gave a yelp from the jostling.

“Corpses don’t snore,” Geralt chided.

“Sorry, sorry, I was just comfy, and you all were droning on, it faded into background noise,” Jaskier mumbled. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as he settled back in the cardboard box. He reached up with one hand, gesturing in a small circle. “Continue.”

“Thank you sir,” Ciri said with a nod. “Sorry about your death.”

“Thank you for your condolences detective,” Jaskier said. “I shall now go back to being dead now. Blargh.”

Geralt huffed a laugh as Jaskier put his hands back on his stomach and clasped them over the flowers again.

“Now! Who would gain from such a forgering, if not Geralt!” Ciri declared as she rounded back on Geralt. “You murdered your new husband in cold blood, to take his secret fortune for yourself!”

“I wouldn’t,” Geralt protested with another sniffle. “I— loved him. A lot. I was really looking forward to the honeymoon. We even had our entire trip planned.” He produced the two strips of green construction paper from his jacket pocket, with the words “Honeymoon tickets” written on them in crayon with a lot of little red hearts around the words.

“I see,” Ciri said, taking the tickets from him to inspect them carefully. “But then why forge the will?”

“I was framed,” Geralt sighed. “Someone must have wanted me to be out of the way. Someone who would have gotten the fortune instead.”

“Someone like..his long lost sister?!” Ciri asked as she pointed an accusatory finger at Yennefer.

“How did you know detective?” Yennefer gasped, a hand on her chest.

“In the victim’s bedroom, I found the actual will stuffed under the mattress!” Ciri said as she whipped out another piece of paper. Everyone gasped again. “But this one says the exact same thing as the forged one! Everything is to be left to Geralt, including his super duper huge family fortune! So why would Geralt have forged a will if he was going to get Jaskier’s family fortune anyways?” She waved the paper at Yennefer. “So I looked around, and found a chain of letters between you two! He wanted to reconnect with his lost sister, and told you about the fortune he inherited from your parents that he was going to share with Geralt!”

“It should have stayed in the family!” Yennefer cried.

“Exactly! And if the forged will was deemed trash and I hadn’t found the true will, then it would have gone to you!” Ciri said with a proud grin. She mirrored Yennefer’s pose, her hands on her hips as she puffed her chest out. “Case closed!”

“Argh, I was so close to getting away with it,” Yennefer said as she offered her hands for Ciri to clasp the toy handcuffs on her.

“Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and— um.” Ciri paused, trying to remember.

“Certain nuclear weapons,” Lambert reminded her with a snicker.

“Yeah!” Ciri said with a grin. “Just like my Uncle Lambert always says!” She bounced and grabbed one of Yennefer’s hands. “The judge has already decided your sentence. It’s a thousand years in jail! We’re locking you away for a long time.”

“That seems fair for a murder,” Yennefer relented as she let Ciri tug her back into the house.

Geralt smiled as he watched them disappear inside, and he turned to help Jaskier stand up out of the box. Jaskier winced and rubbed his backside.

“Ah, that was cold,” he said.

“I told you,” Lambert snickered. “Not so funny when it’s your turn to be dead, now is it?”

“I think I liked it better when Ciri was marrying us to each other,” Eskel muttered. “Are you sure she should be watching those crime shows?”

“Can’t really stop her,” Geralt said with a shrug. “It teaches her big words, and at least that way we don’t have to try to explain to her what incest is and why it’s bad.”

“I was having the time of my life,” Lambert teased with a snicker. “I rocked that wedding dress.”

“Geralt wore it better,” Jaskier fired back with a grin.

“Dead people don’t get opinions,” Lambert said as he led the way to the house again. “Come on, let’s get inside before the detective eats all of the carrots.”

Jaskier slipped his hand into Geralt’s and kissed his cheek. “I absolutely would leave you my super duper big family fortune that I stashed on the coast of Belize if I had it,” he cooed.

“I know,” Geralt chuckled.

“Do you think she even knows where Belize is?”

“Probably not.”

[bamf-jaskier]

Who the Fuck is Philippa Eilhart?

I don’t know if you’ve been following Witcher news lately but Philippa has just been cast!

Of course, many show-only fans might not be familiar with her character and game-only fans might not know how different her story is in the books, so I’m here to give a relatively brief overview of her plot line in the books. Warning: lots of book spoilers ahead as well as the standard graphic violence that is the norm in the books.

With that, Hi! I’m Aaliyah and this is Part 6 of my WTF Series - a crash course in subject from The Witcher books.

The first time we meet Philippa in Blood of Elves, she is an advisor to the King of Redania. Dandelion is brought before The Redanian Secret Service because they wish to know Geralt’s whereabouts. 

Excerpt:

Dandilion glanced at the fourth person present at the meeting, who until then had remained silent. Philippa Eilhart must have only recently arrived in Oxenfurt, or was perhaps intending to leave at once, since she wore neither a dress nor her favourite black agate jewellery nor any sharp make-up. 

She was wearing a man’s short jacket, leggings and high boots – a “field” outfit as the poet called it. The enchantress’s dark hair, usually loose and worn in a picturesque mess, was brushed smooth and tied back at the nape of her neck.

“Let’s not waste time,” she said, raising her even eyebrows. “Dandilion’s right. We can spare ourselves the rhetoric and slick eloquence which leads nowhere when the matter at hand is so simple and trivial.”

Here are some of Dandelion’s thoughts on Philippa:

Dandilion divided women – including magicians – into very likeable, likeable, unlikeable and very unlikeable. The very likeable reacted to the proposition of being bedded with joyful acquiescence, the likeable with a happy smile. The unlikeable reacted unpredictably. The very unlikeable were counted by the troubadour to be those to whom the very thought of presenting such a proposition made his back go strangely cold and his knees shake.

Philippa Eilhart, although very attractive, was decidedly very unlikeable. Apart from that, Philippa Eilhart was an important figure in the Council of Wizards, and King Vizimir’s trusted court magician. 

She was a very talented enchantress. Word had it that she was one of the few to have mastered the art of polymorphy. She looked thirty. In truth she was probably no less than three hundred years old.”

Then, Dandelion leaves to go back to Geralt and Philippa follows him in the form of an owl:

A big grey owl glided down to the sill without a sound. Shani cried out quietly. Geralt reached for his sword.

“Don’t be silly, Philippa,” said Dandilion.

The owl disappeared and Philippa Eilhart appeared in its place, squatting awkwardly. The magician immediately jumped into the room, smoothing down her hair and clothes.

“Good evening,” she said coldly. “Introduce me, Dandilion.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Shani of Medicine. And that owl which so craftily flew in my tracks is no owl. This is Philippa Eilhart from the Council of Wizards, at present in King Vizimir’s service and pride of the Tretogor court. It’s a shame we’ve only got one chair in here.”

Geralt is trying to hunt down a wizard, Rience, who is trying to get Ciri. When Geralt is about to kill Rience, Philippa lets Rience portal away and Geralt, Shani and Dandelion are quite upset:

“Philippa!” shouted Dandilion, still holding the weeping Shani. “Have you gone mad?”

“No,” said the witcher with some effort. “She’s quite sane. And knows perfectly well what she’s doing. She knew all along what she was doing. She took advantage of us. Betrayed us. Deceived—”

“Calm down,” repeated Philippa Eilhart. “You won’t understand and you don’t have to understand. I did what I had to do. And don’t call me a traitor. Because I did this precisely so as not to betray a cause which is greater than you can imagine. 

A great and important cause, so important that minor matters have to be sacrificed for it without second thoughts, if faced with such a choice. Geralt, damn it, we’re nattering and you’re standing in a pool of blood. Calm down and let Shani and me take care of you.”

Of course, this is all a part of Philippa’s larger plan to hold a coup and gain political power. Vilgefortz hired Rience and if Geralt had found that out then Vilgefortz would be revealed as a traitor to the Brotherhood and Philippa couldn’t have that happening before her coup.

The next time we see Philippa is in Time of Contempt at the banquet on Thanedd Island. She talks to many of the guests, here is a short conversation between her and Geralt:

“There’s no caviar.’ (Geralt)

‘One moment.’ (Philippa)

She looked around quickly, waved a hand and mumbled a spell. The silver dish in the shape of a leaping fish immediately filled with the roe of the endangered shovelnose sturgeon. The Witcher smiled.

‘Can one eat one’s fill of an illusion?’

‘No. But snobbish tastes can be pleasantly titillated by it. Have a try.’

‘Hmm… Indeed… I’d say it’s tastier than the real thing…’

‘And it’s not at all fattening,’ said the enchantress proudly, squeezing lemon juice over a heaped teaspoon of caviar. ‘May I have another goblet of white wine?’

‘At your service. Philippa?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m told etiquette precludes the use of spells here. Wouldn’t it be safer, then, to conjure up the illusion of the taste of caviar alone, without the caviar? Just the sensation? You’d surely be able to…’

‘Of course I would,’ said Philippa Eilhart, looking at him through her crystal goblet. ‘The construction of such a spell is easy as pie. But were you only to have the sensation of taste, you’d lose the pleasure the activity offers. The process, the accompanying ritual movements, the gestures, the conversation and eye contact which accompanies the process… I’ll entertain you with a witty comparison. Would you like that?’

‘Please do. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I’d also be capable of conjuring the sensation of an orgasm.”

She is quite ruthless and cutting and while Geralt remains upset about Rience, Philippa, in true sorceress fashion, has already moved on. As well, she is explicitly queer in the books which I talk about here

Later, Geralt gets up in the night to go to the bathroom and stumbles upon Philippa attempting a coup. Triss temporarily blinds Geralt and Philippa and Tissaia exchange tense words. Philippa sends Geralt away with Dijkstra, offering him mercy despite him finding out about her coup. 

However, Geralt gets away from Dijkstra and goes back to Thanedd where a full-battle is going on. 

Turns out, Tissaia and Philippa’s fight cumulated in Tissaia releasing Vilgefortz and lowering the barrier as seen in this passage:

“They’re still fighting,’ said Carduin, grinding his teeth. ‘It’s hot down there, one spell after another…’

‘Spells? In Garstang? But there’s an anti-magic aura there!’

‘It was Tissaia’s doing. She suddenly decided whose side she was on. She took down the blockade, removed the aura and neutralised the dimeritium. Then everyone went for each other! Vilgefortz and Terranova on one side, Philippa and Sabrina on the other… The columns cracked and the vaulting collapsed… And then Francesca opened the entrance to the cellars, and those elven devils suddenly leapt out… We told them that we were neutral, but Vilgefortz only laughed.”

Geralt then runs in Keira Metz who was thrown out a window and she explains that after Vilgefortz was released the Scoia’tael (Elven and Non-human fighters who are allied with Nilfgaard sort of) attacked: 

“Sorry. How did the Scoia’tael get here?”

“They were hidden in the cellars. Thanedd is as hollow as a nutshell and there’s a huge cavern under it; you could sail a ship in if you knew how. Someone must have told them the way—Ouuuch! Be careful! Stop jolting me!’

‘Sorry. So the Squirrels came here by sea? When?’

‘God knows when. It might have been yesterday, or a week ago. We were preparing to strike at Vilgefortz, and Vilgefortz at us. Vilgefortz, Francesca, Terranova and Fercart… They conned us good and proper. Philippa thought they were planning a slow seizure of power in the Chapter, and to put pressure on the kings… But they were planning to finish us off during the Conclave… Geralt, it’s too painful… It’s my leg… Put me down for a second. Ouuuch!”

Later, there is a flashback to Philippa and Tissaia’s fight:

‘Enough!’ Philippa slammed her fist down on the table. ‘I shall satisfy your curiosity, Carduin. You ask who is preparing a war? Nilfgaard. They intend to attack and destroy us. But Emhyr var Emreis remembers Sodden Hill and has decided to protect himself by removing the mages from the game first. With this in mind, he made contact with Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. He bought him with promises of power and honour. 

Yes, Tissaia. Vilgefortz, hero of Sodden, sold us out to become the governor and ruler of all the conquered territories of the north. Vilgefortz, helped by Terranova and Fercart, shall rule the provinces which will be established in place of the conquered kingdoms. It is he who will wield the Nilfgaardian scourge over the people who inhabit those lands and will begin toiling as the Empire’s slaves. 

And Francesca Findabair, Enid an Gleanna, will become queen of the land of the free elves. It will, of course, be a Nilfgaardian protectorate, but it will suffice for the elves so long as Emperor Emhyr will give them a free hand to murder humans. The elves desire nothing so much as to murder Dh’oine.”

Tissaia states, “That is a serious accusation. Which means the proof will also have to be as weighty. But before you throw your proof onto the scale, Philippa Eilhart, be aware of my stance. Proof may be fabricated. Actions and their motives may be misinterpreted. 

But nothing can change existing facts. You have broken the unity and solidarity of the Brotherhood, Philippa Eilhart. You have handcuffed members of the Chapter like criminals. So do not dare to offer me a position in the new Chapter which your gang of traitors–who have sold out to the kings, rather than to Nilfgaaard–intend to create. 

We are separated by death and blood. The death of Hen Gedymdeith. And the blood of Lydia van Bredevoort. You spilled that blood with contempt. You were my best pupil, Philippa Eilhart. I was always proud of you. But now I have nothing but contempt for you.”

I won’t go into detail for the sake of brevity, but Philippa ends up escaping Thanedd unharmed after her failed coup and we don’t see her again until Baptism of Fire when she is forming The Lodge. 

Here is an excerpt of her pitch speech about The Lodge to the other mages:

Philippa Eilhart stood up, her dress rustling.

‘Distinguished sisters,’ she said. ‘Our situation is grave. Magic is under threat. The tragic events on Thanedd, to which my thoughts return with regret and reluctance, proved that the effects of hundreds of years of apparently peaceful cooperation could be laid waste in an instant, as self-interest and inflated ambitions came to the fore. 

We now have discord, disorder, mutual hostility and mistrust. Events are beginning to get out of control. In order to regain control, in order to prevent a cataclysm happening, the helm of this storm-tossed ship must be grasped by strong hands. 

Mistress Laux-Antille, Mistress Merigold, Mistress Metz and I have discussed the matter and we are in agreement. It is not enough to re-establish the Chapter and the Council, which were destroyed on Thanedd. In any case, there is no one left to rebuild the two institutions, no guarantee that should they be rebuilt they would not be infected with the disease that destroyed the previous ones. 

An utterly new, secret organisation should be founded which will exclusively serve matters of magic. Which will do everything to prevent a cataclysm. For if magic were to perish, our world would perish with it. 

Just as happened many centuries ago, the world without magic and the progress it brings with it will be plunged into chaos and darkness; will drown in blood and barbarity. We invite the ladies present here to take part in our initiative: to actively participate in the work proposed by this secret assembly. We took the decision to summon you here in order to hear your opinions on this matter. With this, I have finished.’

Then, later on in Baptism of Fire at the first official meeting of the Lodge Philippa discusses how she wants to make Ciri Queen of the North. 

“Who, then, is to be this Queen of the North?’

‘A girl from a royal family,’ Philippa calmly replied, ‘in whose veins flows royal blood, the blood of several great dynasties. Very young and capable of producing offspring. A girl with exceptional magical and prophetic abilities, a carrier of the Elder Blood as the prophecies have heralded. A girl who will play her role with great aplomb without direction, prompt, sycophants or grey eminences, because that is what her destiny demands. 

A girl, whose true abilities are and will be known only to us: Cirilla, daughter of Princess Pavetta of Cintra, the granddaughter of the Queen Calanthe called the Lioness of Cintra. The Elder Blood, the Icy Flame of the North, the Destroyer and Restorer, whose coming was prophesied centuries ago. Ciri of Cintra, the Queen of the North. And her blood, from which will be born the Queen of the World.”

After this, Yennefer, who was brought to the Lodge agains her will (although she is a member) escapes with Fringilla’s help in order to find Ciri and Philippa is furious. 

The next time we see Philippa is in The Tower of the Swallows and it is when Yennefer is hunting down Vilgefortz and contacts Philippa for help:

Philippa stared at her from under lowered eyelids. “If you believe,” she said finally, “that you've won peace, time, or security with this declaration, then you've miscalculated. Make no mistake about it, Yennefer. 

When you fled from Montecalvo, you made your decision. You chose to stand on a different side of the barricade. If you are not with the Lodge, you are against the Lodge. Now you're trying to forestall us from finding Ciri, and the motives that guide you are opposed to ours. 

You act against us. You do not want to allow us to use Ciri for our political purposes. You shouldknow that we will also do everything in our power to make sure that you cannot use the girl for your sentimental purposes.”

“So, it’s war?”

“Competition.” Philippa smiled toxically. “Competition only, Yennefer.”

“Decent and honorable?”

“You must be joking.”

“Obviously. Though on at least one specific issue, I would like to have an honest and genuine conversation. And, incidentally, it involves a favor to me.”

“Speak.”

“Over the next few days, maybe even tomorrow, events will occur whose consequences I cannot foresee. It may happen that our competition and rivalry suddenly has no meaning. For the simple reason that one of the competitors will not be there anymore.”

Philippa Eilhart narrowed her blue-shaded eyes. “I understand.”

“Ensure that I posthumously gain back my reputation and good name. I will no longer be held for a traitor or an accomplice of Vilgefortz. I ask this of the Lodge. I ask this of you, personally.”

Philippa was silent for a moment.“I deny your request,” she said finally. “I'm sorry, but your exoneration is not in the interest of the Lodge. If you die, you die a traitor. You'll be a traitor and criminal to Ciri, because then it will be easier to manipulate the girl.”

“Before you do something that could be fatal,” Triss said suddenly, “leave something behind for us…”

“A will?” Yennefer said.

“Something that allows us to… continue. To find Ciri. Because we are primarily concerned for her health! For her life! Yennefer, Dijkstra has found some traces of… some traces of certain activities have been found. If Vilgefortz does have Ciri, then the girl faces a horrible death.”

“Be quiet, Triss,” Philippa Eilhart hissed sharply. “We are not trading or bargaining.”

“I will leave you the information,” Yennefer said slowly. “I'll leave you the information on what I've found and what I plan. I’ll leave a trail you can follow to her. But not in vain. If you will not facilitate my exoneration in the eyes of the world, then to hell with you and with the world. But at least grant me exoneration in the eyes of the witcher.”

“No,” Philippa denied the request almost instantly. “That is also not in the interest of the Lodge. You will also remain a traitor and a mercenary sorceress to your witcher. It is not in the interest of the Lodge for him to furiously attempt to avenge you. If he despises you, he will not attempt to take revenge. By the way, he's probably already dead or will die any day now.”

“The information,” Yennefer said dully, “for his life. Save him, Philippa.”

“No, Yennefer.”

“Because it's not in the interest of the Lodge.” A purple fire kindled in the sorceress’ eyes. “Did you hear that Triss? There, you have your Lodge. You see their true colors, their true interests. And what do you think of them? You were a mentor to the girl, almost – as you put it – a big sister. And Geralt…”

“Do not attack Triss’ relationships, Yennefer.” Philippa retaliated with her own fire in her eyes. “We will find and rescue the girl without your help. And if you succeed, that's fine, a thousand thanks, because you will have saved us the trouble. You tear the girl out of the hands of Vilgefortz and we will be happy. And Geralt? Who cares about Geralt?”

“Did you hear that, Triss?”

“Forgive me,” said Triss Merigold dully. “Forgive me, Yennefer.”

“Oh, no, Triss. Never.”

I know this is a long scene, but it’s so important and isn’t one I felt right in slicing up. This establishes Triss’ true betrayal of Yennefer. Just prior to this, it is practically stated that Triss and Philippa slept together and despite Triss’ love for Yennefer her loyalty to Philippa is stronger in this moment which makes this hurt so much more. Philippa is also so cruel to Yennefer in this scene, denying both Geralt and Ciri the truth of her motivations as to better manipulate them. It really showcases how her lust for power overrides her empathy. 

The final time we see Philippa is in Lady of the Lake when Ciri is brought before the Lodge. Here, Philippa describes what their plans are for Ciri:

“You are coming with me,” Lady Owl (Philippa) said, breaking the heavy silence, “and Sile to Kovir, to Pont Vanis, the summer capital of the kingdom. As you are no longer Cirilla of Cintra, during the course of the audience you will be presented as an adept of magic, being protected by us. 

At that audience you will meet a very wise king, Esterad Thyssen. You will meet his wife, the Queen Zuleyka, a person of singular nobility and goodness. You will also meet their son and heir, Prince Tancred.”

Ciri was beginning to understand and rolled her eyes. Lady Owl did not miss that detail.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “First of all you must impress prince Tancred. Because you are going to become his lover and give him a child.”

“If you were still Cirilla of Cintra,” Philippa continued after a long pause, “still the daughter of Pavetta and granddaughter of Calanthe, you would become Prince Tancred’s legal wife. You’d be the princess and later the queen of Poviss and Kovir. Unfortunately, and I tell you with genuine regret, fate has deprived you of everything. Including your future. You will only be his mistress. His favourite.”

Then Later: 

“Your’s and Tancred’s child,” Philippa watched here with dark eyes, “will ensure the future and status of this Lodge. Take note that it will be a great thing. You will be a part of it, because right after the birth you will sit with us at this table. We will teach you. You are one of us, even if you do not want to admit it yet.”

“On the island of Thanedd,” Ciri overcame the tightness in her throat, “you said I was a mindless tool, even a monster, Lady Owl, and now you say that I am one of you.”

Then, the Lodge asks Ciri what her last name will be, Philippa and others offering theirs but Ciri declines in favor of choosing Yennefer’s:

“Thank you, Lady Philippa,” Ciri said after a few moments, squeezing the head of the sphinxes in her hands. “I also feel honoured with the proposal to take the surname de Tancarville. However, it seems to me that my new last name is the only thing that I can choose for myself, I thank the two mistresses. But I want to be called Cirilla of Vengerberg, daughter of Yennefer.”

Ciri requests to go and see Geralt and The Lodge votes on this and Philippa is the deciding vote. At first, she is hesitant but then Ciri shows her a vision and Philippa says this: 

“This Lodge,” Philippa said at last in a firm voice, “is to decide the fate of the world. So, this Lodge must reflect the world. Here, equilibrium and wisdom does not always mean cold and selfish, calculation and vileness, and sentimentality is not always naive. On one hand, iron discipline and on the other responsibility, resistance to violence, gentleness and trust. Cool reason… And heart.”

“I,” she said into the silence that reigned after her introduction, “cast the last vote. I will take into account one more thing. An element that without balancing anything, balances everything.”

“Following her gaze, everyone looked at the wall, to a mosaic of many multicolour tiles depicting the snake Uroboros, biting it’s own tail.

“That thing,” she continued, staring with her dark eyes at Ciri, “is destiny in which I, Philippa Eilhart have only begun to believe in recently, which I have only recently begun to understand. Destiny is not the way to providence or comfortable fatalism. Destiny is hope. I am full of hope that it will become what we want to happen, so I give my vote to Ciri - Child of Destiny, Child of Hope”

In the pillared hall of Montecalvo the was silence for a long time. From outside of the window came the hunting cry from a sea eagle.

“Lady Yennefer,” Ciri whispered. “It means…”

“Come, my daughter,” Yennefer whispered back. “Geralt is waiting for is and it is a long road ahead.”

This is the last time we see Philippa, but based on what we hear at other parts of Lady of Lake, we know she does not have a happy ending. After this, the Witch Hunt begin, a period of time when the Clergy hunted and murdered sorceresses and destroyed their pictures and images. The Witcher Hunts themselves could be an entirely separate post there is so much there. 

Many sorceresses, Philippa included as later considered Martyrs but she was killed viciously by the clergy as described in this passage from Lady of the Lake:

…As well as many of the other faithful, St. Philippa was also besmirched with betraying the Kingdom, inducing riots and plotting a coup. Willemer, a heretic and sectarian, unlawfully appointed himself the title of archpriest, and ordered St. Philippa to be thrown into a dark dungeon, and to plague her with cold and hunger, until she confessed to her sins of which she was accused and repented. 

Also various instruments of torture were used to try and break her spirit. But St. Philippa with disdain, spit in his face and accused him of sodomy.

The heretic had her disrobed and whipped her with barbed wire and placed sharp splinters under her nails. While unceasingly preaching about his faith and denouncing the Goddess. But St. Philippa laughed at him and recommended to him to heal his sick mind.”

“Willemer then gave the order to have her taken to the rack and stretched, while tearing her body with sharp hooks and burning her with candles. Although thus tormented, St. Philippa showed no weakness in body and indeed her resistance and endurance seemed almost superhuman. 

The executioner’s arms went limp and with fear they retreated from her. Then the filthy heretic, Willemer, began to threaten them and told them to continue the torment. They burned St. Philippa with red-hot irons, pulled her limbs out of their joints and pulled at her breasts with blacksmith tongs. And although she passed away from this torment, she confessed nothing.

The shameless heretic Willemer, we read in the books of our holy fathers, later suffered for this punishment and it was that lice and worms began to eat him alive, his entrails rotted away and he died miserably. 

His carcass carried with it a foul stench and nobody wanted to bury him, and so he was dropped in a swamp.

For the suffering and death of St. Philippa the eternal memory of a martyr’s crown rightfully belongs. Let us give the Great Mother Goddess praise for her lessons and teachings. Amen.

The Life of St. Philippa, Martyr of Mons Calvus

The Book of Martyrs Compiled in the Breviary of Tretogor, For the 

Contemplation of the Holy Fathers and Mothers.”

Needless to say, Philippa’s hunger for power and The Lodge end in ruin. There are very few happy endings in The Witcher and this is just another example. 

So that’s my overview on Philippa! I had to cut some scenes and moments in the hope of keeping it short, but I hope it was still an enjoyable read. If you want another character/topic WTF post leave something in my inbox and I will get to it when I can. 

[innocentbi-stander]

Please please part 3 Elsa Jaskier, your writing is wonderful!!!

@kirenclub I’m glad you’ve enjoyed this so far, and I’m sorry for the embarrassingly long time it’s taken me to respond- but here’s the update!

___________

The first thing Jaskier noticed when he woke was that the pain in his head was gone. Instead, there was only the foggy remains of a long rest.

The second thing he noticed was that he was no longer on the side of a mountain, but in a strange bedroom. A strange bedroom, and in an obscenely comfortable bed. 

Jaskier sat straight up, ignoring the dizziness and general room spinning caused by the action when the events with Nilfgaard resurfaced. Black soldiers pursuing them relentlessly, Geralt and Yennefer tiring, on the cusp of being overwhelmed, him clutching Ciri close. 

Jaskier, releasing his powers in a fury of ice and snow and the exhilarating way his powers lit up his bones. The confused faces of his family when the dust (or should he say snow) had settled. Collapsing from overexertion, the gold of Geralt’s eyes being the last thing he saw before the world went black.

Were they okay? Did they get away? Was he captured? What the fuck was going on? Jaskier glanced around the room, trying to find clues.

It didn’t look like a place those nilfgaard pricks would bring one to be tortured. Not dark and dreary enough. There was even a blanket made of what looked to be bear fur carefully tucked around Jaskier and he seriously doubted Fringilla was the type to worry about someone catching a chill. 

So not a nilfgaard prison, but certainly too nice to be an inn. Too spacious, and not enough mysterious stains on the wood floor. In fact, there wasn’t a wood floor, it was stone. Was he in a castle?

There was a cozy fireplace burning on the other side of the room, various books and knick knacks, and clothes.... wait. Was that Geralt’s shirt? Jaskier had mended enough of them to recognize the faded black undershirt-

“What the hell are you doing up?”

The door flew open and none other than Yennefer herself, looking impeccable as ever strode through. She made quick work of pushing Jaskier back against his pillows, and to his frustration his body was still too exhausted to resist. Yennefer rolled her eyes and produced a handkerchief our of nowhere.

“Look what you’ve done, you’re bleeding again, bloody idiot bard”

The handkerchief was swiped under his nose and Jaskier’s eyes widened in shock. 

“That wasn’t there before” Yennefer scoffed,

“It wasn’t until you begin to overexert yourself the minute you’ve finally been healed”. That was nothing new to Jaskier and the witch damn well knew it. Besides, there were more important things at stake.

“Where’s Geralt and Ciri? Are they okay? Are you okay?” Yennefer wasted no time in delivering another eye roll.

“You just wake up after passing out and that’s what you’re asking?” Jaskier’s searching gaze didn’t waver and Yennefer sighed. “They’re fine. I’m fine. You destroyed the rest of the legion of soldiers and we were able to get away. You however, are not as fine. You collapsed after majorly overexerting powers that were bound to you for a very long time. Any other person would have burned apart from such an intense flow of magic. So why didn’t you?”

Before Jaskier could come up with an adequate way of not answering Yennefer’s question, there was the sound of heavy footsteps fast approaching. The heavy wooden door flew open and standing in the doorway was Geralt. He looked wild, his eyes frantic and strands of his hair loose from his hair tie. 

Golden eyes met blue and all the air in Jaskier’s lungs seemed to escape. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, panting a little from what must have been a long run to the bedroom, “You’re awake.” Jaskier couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

“Yes Geralt, it appears so”. Faster than Jaskier had ever seen him move, the witcher crossed the room in a matter of seconds and the next thing he knew, the bard was wrapped in his strong embrace. Geralt had never hugged him before. It was.... kind of the best thing to ever happen to Jaskier. He returned the hug, twisting his fingers into Geralt’s shirt. 

He felt the witcher ‘hmm’ in approval at the reciprocation. 

“Don’t ever do that again.” Jaskier pulled away, affronted and ready to argue to his last breath.

“Do what?” Geralt didn’t waver, meeting his gaze head on.

“Scare me like that again”. Hang on. What? Geralt being vulnerable was an entirely new concept to Jaskier, let alone Geralt admitting that he cared about him. That he had scared him? The big bad witcher? Maybe Jaskier had died on that mountain and he was now in some bizarre sideways world where Geralt talked about his feelings instead of suppressing them deep down inside and openly cared about the bard. Actually, the world sounded pretty nice.

A throat being cleared reminded Jaskier that normal people responded when being spoken to. 

He looked into the witcher’s golden eyes and saw the seriousness in them as they waited for an answer. And because Jaskier was Jaskier and had known Geralt far too long to not know what he was thinking at all times, he also saw the worry, the touch of nervousness. He sighed.

“Okay. I promise.” The small twitch of Geralt’s lips that might as well have been an ear to ear grin on the man was something that Jaskier would give away all the coins in his purse to see.

“I hate to interrupt this moment,” Yennefer drawled, and blast the witch because everyone in the room knew she damn well did intend to ruin it, “but we do have some unanswered questions to address. Like what the fuck happened on that mountain? You’ve never spoken of any kind of power before, and that certainly wasn’t anything a human could do. What are you?”

Jaskier swallowed, his throat dry and his heart heavy. Geralt’s hands that still sat on his arms were the only thing that kept him from trying to beat a hasty retreat. Where to begin? How does one tell the sorrid tale of how they lied to the closest people they knew for over twenty years?

“You see, it’s a bit of a long story.....”

Now would be a terribly convenient time to pass out again.

____________

And that’s part 3! This one definitely got away from me, I had a blast writing it! 

Part 4, anyone?

Tag List: @here-be-dreigiau @kittynannygaming @watchthewolvesfall @birds-are-a-conspiracy @sapphirebreeze @koala-kat @tinymacaroni @dunroamins @timeladygallifrey @lana-1526 @thebeckybear @technicallywiseoncns @biitumen @ninfatommo @screaming-flapjacks @galaxygalthemess @halfassedglitterbomb @darkangel9193 

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

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They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

*

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

*

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

~

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story! 

tags: @whereismymonsterlover 

[dapandapod]

Lucky

A piece of Lambden for the Bog Fluff Battle! On Ao3 Here!  Just a little bit of Aiden with a hurt leg and Lambert bringing him to Kaer Morhen over the winter to keep him close  protect him. :) 8. Falling asleep mid conversation 27. First time meeting parent(s)/family

It has been a long week. Lambert has been pushing them to get to Kaer Morhen before the pass closes. They started too late, weather now unpredictable and full of dangers.

Aiden has had a hard time keeping up, still recovering from a nasty cut in his thigh and it’s taking more out of him to ride than usual. Lambert feels a little bad about it, but if they don’t want to get caught in yet another snowstorm and then have to turn back, they have to keep their pace.

Lucky that they actually got horses this time around. Last time Lambert made the trek someone decided to steal his horse as he was taking a contract. 

Fucking bastards.

Lambert made sure no one even got close to the horses this time around. Not making that mistake again. This is taking enough time as it is.

Bringing Aiden to the keep is, well. Not risky, but not his best idea either, probably. For some reason, Vesemir has a thing against the cat witchers. The combination of finding a Cat friend (that he probably likes a little too much) and the promise of pissing Vesemir the fuck off is too good to resist. And taking into consideration that Aiden actually is hurt and could use a safe place to recover, there is simply no discussing it.

It is cold as shit, and when they camp for the night in an abandoned shepherd's hut they have to cuddle close together. Lambert will never admit how much he enjoys being close to Aiden. Not to anyone, least of all Aiden. He falls asleep while watching Aiden, hair falling into his face, mouth hanging slightly open as he snores.

In the morning Aiden's leg is stiff.

“Shut up, cat, and let me do it,” Lambert says, taking out a jar of ointment from his bag that he definitely didn’t pick up especially for Aiden. “We'll lose precious time if you're too sore to ride.”

Yeah, Lambert. Good cover. But Aiden doesn’t argue, he just pulls down his pants and presents his thigh. There might be a twinkle in his eye that makes Lambert's stomach flip, and Lambert ignores it with an angry huff. Like one does while hiding a crush.

He massages the ointment to the wound, carefully, and does not react when Aiden does breathy little sounds, thank you very much. Not until he’s done anyway.

“Felt good, kitty?” He smirks when Aiden is fastening his belt again. Aiden doesn’t miss a beat however, and winks back at him.

“Your hands always feel good on me, Lamb.”

Yep, that is all it takes for Lambert to turn his back and flee into all the things that have to be done. He is not blushing, it’s the cold. Leave off.

They are closing in on Kaer Morhen. Only another day or so, and they will be there. Lambert recognizes hunting trails and running tracks as they pass. But it’s getting late and Aiden is swaying in the saddle. So Lambert leads them towards a small cave that he found once and padded with moss. Hopefully there won’t be other inhabitants, but one never knows.

Lambert swiftly slides off his horse, but Aiden is still sitting in his saddle.

“You ok there, kitty cat?” Lambert asks, walking over and placing a hand on Aidens thigh. Aiden blinks blearily down at him and then looks around.

“Oh. We stopped.”

“Yeah. Come on down from there. I’ll catch you.”

It says a lot on how tired Aiden is when he just nods without further comment, lifting his leg over the saddle and sliding down into Lambert's open arms. He grunts when his feet catch the ground, despite Lambert bracing him.

“Stay here for a second?” Lambert says. “I’ll just tend to the horses and then we’ll get you inside and see to that leg.”

“Always took you for a caveman,” Aiden teases, and yawns before he can stop it. They are still standing close, so Lambert gets a face full of bad breath. He flicks his forehead in revenge, and then manhandles Aiden out of the way so he can remove bags and gear. It’s not completely safe, not even this close to the keep, so he will have to keep an eye out for the horses during the night.

As soon as the horses are settled, they make their way inside the cave.

“We really should put some more ointment on that.” Lambert comments when he sees how badly Aiden is limping.

“If you want to put your hands on me, Lamb, you only need to ask.” Aiden says, but it's sleepy and mumbled and utterly adorable.

“Alright. Aiden, let me put my hands on you.” Lambert snarks back, and Aiden blinks slowly at him in surprise.

“Drop your pants, kitty.” Oh yeah, that’s a blush. He seems to be unable to find words, opening and closing his mouth again, but he is doing as he’s told.

Something warm flutters inside Lambert, and he flicks Aiden's forehead again.

“Idiot,” he says and makes Aiden sit down so he can apply the ointment.

It’s a silent affair. Lambert massages and pats it in around the injury, mindful of the raw scar that is still there. As soon as he is done, he wipes his hands and settles so he can see out of the cave, having a look out for dangers. Aiden is tucked in next to him, wrapped in their blankets and furs. Lambert snags just the one, Aiden's body next to his helping plenty to keep his temperature up.

“I never said thank you.” Aiden says suddenly.

“For what?”

“If you hadn’t been there, I probably would have stayed the winter in some cave in the south.”

“Ah yes, which is very different from the cave we are in now in the north.”

“Yes, very different. You’re here.” Aiden mumbles, words a little slurred. Aiden allowing himself to be this vulnerable with Lambert around is… it makes Lambert want to hold him close, protect him from the world. He is not very used to that feeling.

“You’re welcome, kitty. You are lucky I'm the best friend there is,” Lambert says, trying to sound cocky. But it’s hard.

Aiden yawns again and suddenly there is an arm thrown over his legs and a forehead pressed into his hip.

“You really are,” Aiden says and then he is gone. Fast asleep, mouth hanging open like usual and hair all over his face.

Lambert looks down on him, and allows himself a moment of weakness. He pulls the hair out from Aidens face and tucks it behind his ear.

Something he’s been wanting to do since the first night he saw the other witcher asleep in all his messy glory.

Aiden's arm tightens around him and he cuddles a little closer. Lambert smiles and looks out into the darkness, preparing to meditate during the night. It’s peaceful, Aiden's snoring and the sound of the horses. Calm settles in him, and he feels himself sinking into it.

Kaer Morhen is every bit the ruin he remembers it to be. An echo of its grand self, walls long since broken and crumbled. Rats scurry here and there, making excellent target practice for the little princess that recently has taken up residence in their keep, along with her caretakers.

“Princess!” Lambert yells when she sees him, jumping from a high wall and into his arms without a trace of fear.

“Manchild!” she squeaks back when he hugs her close and spins her. That is a new insult.

“OI ESKEL! WHAT ARE YOU TEACHING THE CHILD!” he yells up the wall, and indeed, Eskel's head poke out with that hideous grin of his.

“Prefer manbaby? We can do that!” He yells back down and Lambert flips him off.

“Ooh, look what the cat dragged in!” Another voice pipes up and Jaskier's head appears next to Eskel.

“Bard!” Aiden exclaims, and Jaskier does the same fearless jump into his arms as Ciri did. The fuck?!

Geralt darts out when Jaskier jumps, for an entire second scared that his bard has fallen to his death, but no.

“Oh. It’s you,” He says and returns to whatever he was doing up there.

“You know each other?” Lambert asks, feeling like he is missing something important here.

“Who doesn’t know Aiden?" Eskel says back, and alright, Lambert did not expect that. Aiden winks at him and puts the stupid bard down.

That night, Vesemir insists that he and Aiden share a room. He knows this Cat, he says, and he doesn't trust him further than he can toss. Which in itself is an insult, because apparently Lambert is how far Vesemir can toss. Meaning very much out of sight on the other end of the keep.

They at least get a big bed, even if it is only one. Jaskier smirks big time when he learns what room and where and does waggly eyebrows at him every chance he gets.

Fucking bard.

As soon as they are alone, Lambert shoves the little jar of ointment in Aidens hands.

“Massage your wound,” He says, words short and clipped. He can’t put the finger on why he is angry, but he is seething. He bustles about, unpacking his bags and claiming whatever space he can before Aiden can put his paws on it, as he usually does whenever they have shared a room.

“Not helping me today?” Aiden asks, a curiously blank expression on his face.

“No?” Lambert replies, sorting his clean socks from the dirty ones. Coming home from travels always means laundry. “You seemed to be walking just fine today. And awake enough to do it yourself.”

Aiden is silent until Lambert turns to look at him.

“What?” He mutters, debating whether or not he should toss the dirty sock in Aiden's face. The face that everyone in this fucking keep seems to know somehow.

“Why are you angry?” Aiden asks, fiddling with the jar in his hands.

“I'm not.” Lambert lies, turning back to his laundry.

“Is.. is this because of what I said the other night?”

“No.”

“No? Then is it because I hugged the bard?”

“No,” Lambert says through clenched teeth, and alright, maybe he is. Aiden seems to notice, and there is a shuffling behind him, and then Aiden is slumping against Lambert, back to back.

“I have a confession,” Aiden mumbles, leaning his head back against Lambert's shoulder. It’s warm, comfortable, and it pisses Lambert off all the more that he feels that way.

“Please tell me you didn’t fuck the bard.”

“What? No! Geralt would have killed me if I even looked that way!” Aiden huffs, and well, fair. But is that the only protest he has about it? A fear for his life?

“Listen. I… I might have been nervous.”

“About what?”

“About meeting your family. It’s a big deal.”

“What do you mean?” Why does that sound, well. Like they are together? It puts a little spark in Lambert's stomach, chasing away that ugly anger.

“Of course I didn’t know when you would invite me. But I knew you would eventually. And I, uhm- I wanted them to like me.”

Aiden turns his head so his forehead rests against the back of Lambert's head. Lambert lets the socks drop to the floor, putting his hands on his thighs.

“Aiden.”

“I know.”

But does he? Does he really? Lambert wants to turn around and look at him, wants to figure out those cryptic words.

“I really am lucky.” Aiden says after a moment. “To have you in my life, I mean.” “Why are you sweet talking me, kittycat?”

“Maybe I want you to turn around and kiss me? And stop throwing a fit because you are jealous?”

“I’m not jealous.” Lambert protests, but he turns around and just does that.

Aiden isn’t smiling when Lambert turns. Just looking at him, that stupid wild hair of his all over his face. Lambert tucks a lock behind his ear, just like before, and kisses him.

A soft drag of lips, lazy nips and licks like they have done nothing else in all their years together.

When they part, Lambert strokes a thumb over Aiden's cheek, still looking at those lips. Maybe he should lean in, kiss him more.

“Tell me again how lucky you are to have me in your life.” Lambert smirks, noticing the blush on Aiden's cheeks. Witchers can’t blush, bullshit. “And this time, no falling asleep on me.”

“Aww, I was planning to use you as a pillow!”

“Brat.”

Some hours before daybreak, Lambert wakes up with a start. Across his chest lays Aiden, startled awake by Lambert.

“Wait. Kittycat. Are you the reason Vesemir dislikes cat witchers?!”

“Uhm… Look. There was this incident with an egg…..”

[marvelousmaize]

you shine (like a diamond)

It takes Geralt longer than he cares to admit to notice.

Well - maybe “notice” is the wrong word. He’s noticed.

He just fails to connect the dots for an embarrassingly long amount of time. And of course, it’s Yennefer, who is always observing, always thinking, always five and ten and fifty steps ahead of everyone around her, who puts two and two together.

And her violet eyes are shrewd and narrowed as she watches Jaskier from across the expansive quarters of some lordling’s estate - one she’s put under her spell, compelled to do her bidding - watches Jaskier strum his trusty lute, humming a tune; watches with undeniable fondness the way Ciri curls into the bard, tucking her head as close to his chest as she can without disturbing his arms, her eyes fluttering shut, an utterly pleased smile on her face as Jaskier continues his little lullaby.

And you’re still so young

Still so innocent

But when you speak

There is greatness on your tongue

There is no distance you won’t overcome

No setback or defeat you won’t come from

And I’ll be standing

Right there beside you

Watching and cheering

Because I love you

Jaskier’s voice is soft and sweet near Ciri’s ear, and she’s fully asleep now in the crook of the bard’s embrace.

And Yennefer’s violet eyes are shrewd and narrowed because even in the dim candlelight, she sees it clear as day.

Jaskier is glowing.

Properly, unmistakably glowing. His entire body is surrounded by a faint but very present ethereal white light, and his smile is hopelessly fond, ocean eyes bright and adoring as he continues singing Geralt’s Child Surprise to sleep.

And Yennefer’s mind is running wild with thoughts of love and glowing and what glows when it loves when -

Everything slots into place all at once, like the final pieces of a puzzle.

“Did you know?” she asks Geralt in the courtyard the next day, her tone conversational, as the witcher fastens Roach’s harness, ready to depart on yet another monster hunt. A banshee this time, terrorizing a nearby village. “That Jaskier is a star.”

Geralt pauses, turning to fix the sorceress with a look that is half-wry, half-amused. “I had no idea you were such an admirer of his singing, Yen,” he replies dryly.

“A star you insufferable Witcher,” she snaps. “Immortal beings that reside in the Heavens and occasionally fall to Earth, assuming human form? Or did you miss that lesson during your witcher training?”

An expression of what can only be surprise crosses the Witcher’s typically stoic and stern face, but it’s gone in a flash, and Yennefer would have been left to wonder if she’d dreamt it, save for the briefest flickers lurking in the gold irises. “There hasn’t been a fallen star in centuries.”

“That we know of. Stars used to be murdered because eating their heart supposedly granted everlasting youth. Maybe they grew more careful.”

“Yen - ”

“He glows, Geralt,” Yennefer interrupts, voice quiet and serious. “Or have you not noticed?”

Geralt starts, eyebrows furrowing as he considers. His lips press into a thin line.

He’s noticed.

He just, well, he hadn’t pieced it all together. He needed Yennefer, who is always five and ten and fifty steps ahead, to force his eyes open to what he’s thought to be improbable, impossible.

“Fuck.”

And he doesn’t very well know what to do with this information - if there’s anything he should do. Because Jaskier - Jaskier, who is always talking, always saying too much, always revealing and confiding - hasn’t mentioned it, not even once.

Which is incredibly unlike him.

But Geralt is so deeply intrigued. Can’t help but wonder why.

And so he starts to mess with the bard almost (“mess” might be the wrong word. Geralt is a Witcher first and foremost, always striving to keep his knowledge of mythical and magical creatures as up-to-date as he can. Geralt experiments). Tries to figure out exactly what makes the starlight under Jaskier’s skin come through.

It becomes a bit of an obsession while they’re on the road, going back and forth between Ciri’s training in Kaer Morhen and monster hunts. But Geralt feels possessed, addicted, unable to stop.

Jaskier doesn’t shine after a particularly good meal.

Or when his singing is received with loud cheers.

Or when he’s offered the chance to sleep on a plush, soft bed instead of the hard, unforgiving ground.

But Jaskier does shine when -

Geralt draws him a warm bath.

When Ciri throws her arms around his waist and hugs him tight.

When Geralt watches him sing with a small, barely-there smile.

When someone plays with his hair; kneads his neck.

When Geralt gently tends to a wound on his hip, focused and guilt-ridden, because he’d just looked away for one second when the kikimora struck the bard.

And Geralt notices, notices that the bard seems more likely to shine when the Witcher has his undivided attention.

It’s both disarming and intoxicating to have the power and know it.

Because, see, it’s been established that Geralt is a bit obsessed, a bit enthralled. And he’s drunk with the heady knowledge that one well-placed look or touch and Jaskier will shine with starlight.

And they’re in an inn in a small town one day, just the two of them, Ciri temporarily away with Yennefer to learn control of her magic, when it all comes to a head. They’re both fairly drunk, and Geralt is unabashedly enjoying the flush of red on Jaskier’s cheeks, at the base of his neck, and quickly spreading onto his finely haired chest.

It’s his significantly lowered inhibitions that push Geralt over the edge he’s been toeing for a while now, and they’re both laughing and stumbling a little as they make their way into the room they’re renting for the night when -

Geralt crowds Jaskier up against the door, caging him in, and there’s an absurd rush of pride welling within his chest when Jaskier - heart thrumming wildly - starts to glow.

He takes a hand to wisp a lock of brown hair away from blue, blue eyes and the bard lets out a deliciously breathy gasp.

And glows even brighter.

The Witcher’s mouth curls. He presses even closer to Jaskier.

“I know,” Geralt breathes, so close to the bard’s lips, “that you’re a star.”

Jaskier visibly swallows, his eyes huge and blinking and wide. “You do?”

“Mhm.”

“How?”

And Geralt’s grin is wide as he says, “You’re glowing right now.”

Emboldened (by the grain alcohol or the shine of starlight, he doesn’t know), Geralt noses along the line of Jaskier’s neck, senses assaulted by starlight and sandalwood and pine. He hears Jaskier’s breath catch when his lips press against the delicate skin of his throat and then -

“Oh, fuck, Geralt. Geralt! What are you doing?”

Geralt pauses; leans back to meet Jaskier’s eyes; is pleased to note that he’s still glowing. He raises an eyebrow. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Do not pick right now to have a laugh, Witcher,” Jaskier says, eyes as serious as Geralt’s ever remembered them being. Then more quietly, “Not now. Not about this.”

Geralt understands. He presses closer once more; wedges one huge leg between the bard’s. “You glow more around me,” he says without preamble.

“I most certainly do not you -”

“I enjoy it.”

Jaskier very nearly reels. And blushes. And glows brighter still. “Really?” he breathes. Geralt is pleased to note that Jaskier is now more receptive; body more loose and less tense and Geralt suddenly cannot wait to uncover all the starlit skin underneath; to trace it all with his tongue and coax all kinds of beautiful sounds out of Jaskier.

“Yes,” he replies, voice deep and gravelly. He watches Jaskier’s eyes darken, hands coming up to thread themselves around the Witcher’s neck and head tilted up. The air is alive with thick, sinful, delicious tension.

And as Geralt bends his head down, a hand twining itself into fine brown hair while the other encircles a narrow waist, he watches the starlight; watches the finely haired chest heave; watches Jaskier’s eyes close with anticipation.

And adds -

“It’s my favorite thing.”

- before slotting their mouths together.

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 6)

lPart 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, (here) Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

TW for hypothermia, illness, talk of self-isolating behavior, mention of Yennefer’s self harm scars.

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The trek to Kaer Morhen was a penance, and that was just getting from the city to the base of the path that the witchers called ‘The Killer’. Autumn was truly giving way to winter now and fine flurries came down with more ferocity than was warranted from a few snowflakes. 

They were all on foot, Roach pulling the cart with their supplies. As they advanced up the trail Ciri and probably Jaskier would sit in the cart. The path was called killer for a reason, it could kill witchers. For now, though, they let Roach rest as much as she could. It would be a tough climb for her as well, and whenever they stopped Geralt gave her extra brushing down and treats. 

Geralt...hm. Well, since Jaskier had snapped at him back in the city their relationship, already tense as a bowstring, had gotten worse. They didn’t snap at each other, but tiptoed instead, walking on eggshells. Jaskier was waiting, had half expected Geralt to cast him aside again, or to gripe about Jaskier’s uselessness. Instead the witcher walked around like he’d been kicked. 

He was always looking at Jaskier though, glancing at him with that piercing, penetrating gaze. He was examining the bard for something, but for what, Jaskier didn’t know. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to let Geralt have the satisfaction of seeing it. He kept walking, head up, eyes straight ahead. He didn’t complain. He barely spoke. Making himself as unlikely a target for Geralt’s ire as possible. 

That was the odd thing though. Geralt didn’t seem to have much ire, per say. It was almost an overbearing sort of concern. Jaskier tried to make it fit in his head, there was something there, Geralt’s anger at Jaskier for sleeping with the innkeeper, the care with which he’d carried Jaskier into town, this awkward caution. It meant something. In his heart Jaskier knew what he hoped it meant. He couldn’t trust his heart with this though, he needed to use his head. There was a disconnect between Geralt’s words and his actions. Between the mountain and now. He needed to use his head.

His head was aching.

Jaskier really barely could think, much less work out the complexities of Geralt’s character. His chest ached. That little, half-ache had taken root in his lungs and bloomed into a great, heaving flower. He was coughing now, which he was trying to hide, he knew, without much success. The cough had started dry and grating, but had progressed to a hacking wetness. It would have been bad enough, but it was upsetting Ciri. Jaskier wouldn’t go within six feet of her, for fear of making her sick too. Her big, grass green eyes watched him almost as consistently as Geralt did, and she was picking up the little crease between her brow as well. Sometimes, when a particularly vicious cough made him double over her lip trembled, and that was a special sort of torture. Yennefer kept giving him tea, too, which was a weirdly kind, somewhat pitying gesture.

“I’m not good at healing,” she grouched at him from across their campfire the first evening on The Killer.

Jaskier shrugged. “’s fine,” he said, taking another hesitant sip of the tea. It was herbal, not in the way that mint was herbal, but the way that a handful of leaves and moss tasted herbal. 

“Mh,” Yennefer said, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It’s one of those things you have to specialize in, magical healing. Magic heals magic injuries best, anyway.”

“I’m okay,” Jaskier said, fully aware that he wasn’t, but glad that Ciri and Geralt had gone to fetch more wood so he wouldn’t have the big witcher sniffing out his lie.

“You need a healer.” Yennefer skewered him with her gaze, purple meeting blue like a lightning storm. “You’re sick.”

“I don’t see why it should bother you.”

Yennefer sighed and stood up, grabbing the kettle from the fire. She poured herself a mug of the tea and sat down with it next to Jaskier. After a brief examination she drank it, then winced. “Eugh. It bothers me because we’re friends.”

“We are not.”

“Eh, well, Geralt screwed me over, he screwed you over, the enemy of my enemy...”

“Geralt isn’t my enemy--”

“Could’ve fooled me with that shouting match back in town.”

“Anyway he screwed you over more...literally.”

Yennefer looked at him, a little smirk on her lips. “Is that what this is about? That I slept with Geralt?” She looked at Jaskier, squinting at him as he studiously examined his tea. “No, that isn’t it,” she decided. “You aren’t upset he slept with me, you’re upset he never slept with you.”

“I’m upset that he decided he loves you!” Jaskier shouted, unable to take the prodding. He regretted it as it kickstarted a coughing fit that made him double over. He spat out some phlem and straightened up in time to see Yennefer’s grimace. 

“He decided he loves you,” Jaskier said, panting a little. “After only just meeting you. He decided he couldn’t live without you in his life, so he bound you with that djinn to keep you safe. And that sucks for you, it does, and he shouldn’t have done it. Melitele knows the man never thinks things through, it’s just...”

Jaskier looked into the fire and Yennefer waited.

“He barely knew you and he couldn’t bear to be without you. I spent two decades at his side and he’s never called me a friend.” He scoffed ruefully. “Called me a shit shoveler though.”

Yennefer nodded. “I heard.”

“You did?”

“I hadn’t gone that far when, well...you’re a pain in the ass, bard, but you didn’t deserve that. Men like Geralt...” she twisted the mug in her hands, turning it round and round and Jaskier saw flashes of scarred skin at her wrists. “People like Geralt and I,” she continued. “We pull at our safety ropes until they come undone. It’s just how we are. We were hurt so much, so long, that when we hurt we reach out and undo any ties that could help us.”

Jaskier was at a loss, so he bumped his shoulder against Yennefer’s. “You’re so much more fashionable about it though.”

Yen smirked and returned the shoulder bump. “Definitely. Geralt though, he cut all his safety ropes that day.” She didn’t have to specify which day. “I cut mine first though. I didn’t want him romantically, not really. It’s djinn magic, he’s not my lover, and I can’t fix him and I don’t want him to fix me.”

“Fix him?”

“I think people like Geralt and I can heal, but we can’t heal eachother. Ciri helps. I’m a mom to her, you know? She called me Mama the other day when she was really sleepy and it felt...” Yennefer trailed off, then she looked over at Jaskier. 

“I don’t love him, not like you do, and he doesn’t love me. But I’m not good with these things, and I can’t help you two fix what he broke that day. More than that, I won’t. It’s not my job to fix you two, or to deal with your problems for you, and if you two can’t communicate on your own then maybe you shouldn’t at all.”

“I communicated,” Jaskier said. “Twenty years. I thought those were the best years of my life, and I gave them to him, and did all the communicating. I’m not doing anymore. If I’m not...” Jaskier was ashamed to find a lump in his throat. “If I’m not a curse and a burden to him then he has to tell me, has to say it, because I can’t keep going if his words are just going to contradict his actions.”

“Good,” Yennefer said, standing and pouring her tea out onto the ground. “Don’t. Make him communicate. It’s up to him. And to make it be up to him, that’s up to you. He has words. If he can use them to hurt you then he can use them to heal. Don’t give in.”

It seemed that portion of the conversation was over because Yen began setting up her magic tent. “You’ll sleep in here tonight. The cold isn’t doing you any good.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Can’t. I could make Ciri sick.” 

Yennefer sighed again. “You’re right, of course, but you’ll sleep in Geralt’s tent. He can’t get sick and he’s a walking heater.”

Jaskier was about to protest when his lungs heaved again and he began coughing. The force was so great he swore he felt his ribs creak. Despite all the mucus his throat felt torn and raw. He dragged air back into his lungs then spat. Blood came out.

Of course, that was the moment Ciri and Geralt returned from getting firewood.

Ciri gasped, eyes wide, and Geralt dropped the armful of logs he was holding. They scattered but the witcher paid them no heed as he advanced towards Jaskier, stepping over the rolling wood. Geralt gripped Jaskier’s face and tilted his head back, holding his mouth open. 

Jaskier wondered what he could see with his witcher-enhanced eyes.

“Throat’s raw,” Geralt grunted after an awkward moment of peering into Jaskier’s mouth. “Probably nothing internal.”

Geralt wiped the blood from the corner of the bard’s mouth with his rough leather glove, then he peeled off his glove and pressed a hand to Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier just leaned in to the warmth of Geralt’s palm, but it was obviously chilled, the temperature of a normal human, not the furnace heat Geralt normally held. 

Geralt frowned and stepped closer, taking his hand away and pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s forehead instead. It was a gesture that Jaskier’s nursemaid had sometimes done, an easier way to check for fever if one’s hands were too cold to tell. He wished he could linger there, in the warmth of Geralt, so close, with his cloak still smelling of the pine forest all around them and the copper-sharp scent of snow as well. 

“Fever,” Geralt grunted.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, eyes filling.

Jaskier pulled away and bowed theatrically, ignoring his aching joints’ many protests. “Never fear little princess,” he said. “’twould take more than a fever to best the bard Jaskier.”

Ciri didn’t giggle, but at least she didn’t begin to cry. 

That night Jaskier and Geralt tucked in together, sharing not just a tent but a bedroll. Geralt had turned onto his side and pulled Jaskier in so that his face pressed to Geralt’s collarbone and he was surrounded by the witcher. It was as if Geralt was shielding him with his body, protecting him from an enemy, but that enemy was inside Jaskier already, and he could feel the fever burning through him, even as he relished the warmth.

His mind drifted to other times. Days and nights when coin had been tight and they’d shared beds, shared meals. They’d shared lives for so long, orbiting around eachother. Geralt like some bright planet and Jaskier his moon. He ached for it to be like that again, but he couldn’t do it alone, Geralt had to be part of it too, had to want that life to exist, not just allow it to happen. 

The next day dawned white. Snow had fallen and continued to do so, the little flurries of before now a full snowstorm that whipped and raged. Geralt loaded a pack full of supplies onto his back to lighten Roach’s load, then they set off. 

Ciri and Jaskier walked as long as they could, but the wind beat them back. Yennefer was struggling too, pushing magic in front of her so that the snow buffeted off of it, streaming around her and making the walking easier, but Jaskier could tell it drained her, and her shield flickered sometimes. 

Ciri stumbled once, around mid morning, and Geralt picked her up by the back of her cloak, scruffing her like a kitten. He patted some snow off of her and placed her int the cart with the supplies. Jaskier was going to go at least a couple hundred more feet, but Geralt scruffed him too, bundling him into the cart alongside Ciri. Jaskier prayed he wouldn’t get Ciri sick, but with the wind howling around him he imagined that whatever ill humors he could exhale would get swept away. He curled up opposite the princess, the pair of them ducking down miserably as the snow blew over the sides of the cart. He heard Geralt speaking to Yen. 

“We can make it by nightfall, if we push. Can you make it?” His voice was pitched above the wind, but still barely reached Jaskier.

“I can make it,” Yen said. “I’ll have to, they need warmth, and Jaskier needs medicine.”

“Vesemir knows herbs and potions, he can heal him.”

“Then we’d better get a move on,” Yennefer said. Her voice was strained, but they forged on anyway. 

Jaskier took occasional peeks over the sides of the cart. It was a winding path, a goat track, really, but the northern mountains were said to be beautiful and he imagined it must be very scenic. As it was, the wind and snow obscured most of his vision. What he could see were ancient pines, large and weather worn. Nevertheless, they swayed like reeds in a current in the hellstorm that whipped around them. 

“Ciri,” Jaskier wheezed. “Let’s play a game.”

Ciri, tucked into her cloak so far that he could barely see her, gave a muffled, “okay.”

“How many red things can you name?”

“...apples,” was the muffled reply. 

“Cherries.”

“Rubies.”

“Wine.”

“Chili peppers,” Yennefer said, the wind almost stealing it, but Jaskier and Ciri smiled at eachother for dragging her into the game.

“Raspberries,” Ciri said.

“Blood?” Geralt grunted.

“Gross,” Ciri said, at the same time as Jaskier said, “What a witchery answer.”

“Tomatoes,” Yen said.

The game trailed away for a while as the cart rattled worryingly across some tough ground. Geralt and Yennefer ate while they walked, and Ciri and Jaskier chewed on some dried meat. Mostly Ciri, Jaskier dozed, too exhausted to even chew. 

When he opened his eyes again the wind was still howling, but the sky looked darker. It must be evening.

“Dandelion,” Ciri whispered. “are you awake?”

“Mmhm,” he said.

“I’m cold.” 

Jaskier was too, the snow had soaked into him so he was damp, but then it froze again, taking him with it. 

“We’re almost there,” Geralt grunted. His voiced sounded strained and weary, but Jaskier didn’t have the strength to look and find out why. “C’mon girl,” Geralt said, clicking his tongue at Roach. “We can make it, do it for me.”

“Hey Ciri,” Jaskier slurred, tongue heavy in his mouth. 

“Hm?”

“Roses are red.”

He imagined Ciri smiling at him tiredly, but he couldn’t see her, bundled in the blankets. He could hear her teeth chatter though. “Jam is red, sometimes,” she said. 

“Eskel’s shirt is red,” Geralt said, raising his voice above the wind. 

“N-no fair,” Jaskier muttered. “I’ve never even seen him.” To his surprise he was drifting off again. It felt different though, a little like drowning. Some part of him felt he should panic, but he hadn’t the energy. 

“You can see him,” Geralt said, sounding a little frantic. “He’s right there, standing on the path ahead of us. We’re here, Jaskier, look at Eskel.”

Jaskier wanted to, but his eyelids were too heavy.

“Geralt--” began a new voice.

“Eskel please, they need help.”

“I know, give her to me, I’ll carry her the rest of the way.”

Carry who? Jaskier wondered, then he realized that he hadn’t heard Yennefer speak lately.

A whistle came from up ahead. “C’mon Pretty Boy,” another new voice. “I’ll take your pampered horse, you lay them in front of the fire.”

There was some rustling and Jaskier wreched his eyes open with his last ounce of effort. An older man with a moustache and a face like a wall of granite was lifting Ciri from the cart. He took care with her, cradling her and walking away quickly. Vesemir? Probably. His eyes fell shut again. 

“Jaskier c’mon,” Geralt said in his ear. His breath stuttered warmth across Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re gonna be okay, we’re here, just don’t fall asleep on me, please.”

Jaskier wanted to open his eyes, just to reassure Geralt but everything seemed to be drifting away. He was laid down on something soft and felt the heat of fire on his face. There was the scent of pine logs, snapping and cracking as their sap burned away. Hands, Geralt’s hands, rubbed up Jaskier’s arms, forcing the blood to move. His soaked cloak was stripped away, leaving him chilled but dry, and then soft, dry fabric was pulled around him. Someone had wrapped him into a blanket and was rubbing his fingers. Both his hands were cupped between two larger ones and warm air was blown across them. The blood returning to his hands felt so hot it burned and hurt and he squirmed, but he was too tired to pull away. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he heard Geralt say as he rubbed more heat into Jaskier’s fingers. “Ciri’s okay, and Yen’s okay. You have to be okay, Jaskier. Warm up. You need to be warm.”

“Give ‘im some time, Lad,” Jaskier heard. Another new voice. Must belong to Vesemir. 

“He’s so cold,” was the whispered reply.

“The boy trekked after you for years, he’s resilient. He’ll be okay.”

“But--”

“Keep doing what you’re doing, let him rest.”

Jaskier heard no more, but it was so nice, the fire and the fur beneath him, and Geralt, holding his hands. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. 

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They finally got there! 

Tag List!

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Tags are being weird, if I missed you, or you want to be added, let me know

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 16: right person in front of them the whole time

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 2019 Summary: Geralt and Jaskier do not have the best luck when it comes to dating. At least they have each other there to make up for bad attempts.

read on ao3

“Oh no,” Jaskier said in lieu of a greeting as he answered his phone. “If you’re calling me, that must mean things are not going well.”

“Her wallet is filled with pictures of her cats,” Geralt answered with a huff.

“You love cats!”

“She has at least ten. She lost count.” Geralt did not sound amused, but Jaskier could not hold back his snicker. “She told me all of their names, and each one was more ridiculous than the last.”

“Okay, you can’t judge her on that. You’ve named every cat you’ve owned Roach,” Jaskier countered.

“I’ve owned two. At different times!”

Jaskier snorted and, though Geralt couldn’t see him, he rolled his eyes. He leaned back into his couch and balanced the phone on his shoulder as he tried to eat the noodles he had prepared. It wasn’t going well, but he hadn’t expected it to.

“So, are you coming over, or what?” Jaskier asked with a mouthful of noodles, which mostly made it to his mouth. Who was going to judge him? Geralt?

“Yeah. Open your door.”

Jaskier jumped a little at the rap at the door. As he got up, and put his dinner down, he ended the call and fixed Geralt with his best withering stare as he pulled the door open. “You know, it’s a little suspect that you manage to get inside the security door every single time without my help,” Jaskier said, though he stepped back to let Geralt in.

“You spilled something on your shirt.”

Jaskier huffed, but it was largely for show. Seconds later, they were sat on the couch together, their bodies so close they touched every time either one of them moved. Geralt moaned about Jaskier eating messily, and Jaskier ate even messier just to bother Geralt. It was nice. It was far better than Jaskier’s plans of a night to himself watching trash T.V.

“So, she wasn’t the one?” Jaskier asked, some time later. Geralt only snorted in answer.

--

Jaskier was more than a little drunk. And more than a little sad. And setting his drop-off address for the Uber to be his best friend’s apartment probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, but it also wasn’t the worst. The jury was out on which of his decisions was the worst, but Jaskier was sure Geralt and Yennefer both had a few ideas, and it was definitely not this particular decision.

It was the decision that made him feel the most comforted, however, and that was what Jaskier needed right now. Even if Geralt took a little too long to open the door after Jaskier knocked. He grew anxious, in that time, and began to bite on his thumb nail as he considered his options. He couldn’t call another Uber--his phone was about dead. He couldn't walk home, it was entirely too far. Jaskier knocked again.

Geralt’s glaring face greeted him a second later.

“It’s the middle of the night, Jas--”

He barely got the words out before Jaskier forced himself past Geralt and into the apartment. Jaskier stopped, though, because really his plan had only gone as far as to get him inside, and now that he was standing in the entryway he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his body, anything.

“I think I’m going to be alone forever,” Jaskier finally said, and his shoulders slumped.

Geralt hesitated a second, then Jaskier heard the door close. “Come on,” Geralt said, taking Jaskier’s forearm and pulling him to the couch. He sat Jaskier down on it and handed him a blanket. The only way he could have made Jaskier feel more like a child would have been by laying the blanket out for him, but Jaskier found himself comforted rather than condescended to. It was nice.

“You and Virginia broke up?” Geralt asked some time later as he sat on the couch beside Jaskier and handed him a cup of tea. Jaskier nodded. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

So they didn’t. Instead, Geralt told Jaskier all about Ciri’s middle school drama and the dog he had helped rehabilitate that day. Jaskier didn’t tell Geralt about anything of consequence, only listened quietly--unless the story called for an interruption, as middle school drama often did--until he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up, he was in Geralt’s bed, and the apartment smelled like pancakes and syrup.

--

He hasn’t shown up.

Jaskier didn’t often use punctuation in his texting--that was more Geralt’s bag. But this situation called for punctuation. Of course his first attempt at a date after his breakup would result in Jaskier getting stood up. It only made sense. Still, it was embarrassing, and Jaskier kept ducking his head to avoid the pitying glance his waitress gave him.

When were you supposed to meet? Geralt sent back.

Jaskier huffed. Half an hour ago. This was stupid. I knew it was too early, too unlikely. He could probably smell the desperation.

Where are you at? The restaurant still?

Yeah. Though I’m about to leave. I can’t take the shame anymore.

Give it ten more minutes.

When the waitress came back, Jaskier offered her an apologetic smile. “No, sorry, still not here. Might as well just--”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Jaskier looked up, astonished, to see Geralt sliding into the chair across from him. Geralt hardly looked at Jaskier, though. Instead, he smiled at the waitress and ordered a bottle of wine and an appetizer Jaskier hadn’t even looked at.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, once the waitress had left. There was a bit of a spring in her step now, as if she was pleased at the way things turned out. “What are you doing here?”

Geralt shrugged, then took a sip from the water in front of him. All the ice had melted and it was close to overflowing. “No sense in wasting an evening. I was hungry.”

Jaskier beamed at his friend and rolled his eyes, but let the matter drop entirely. This was a far better way to have dinner, anyway. Jaskier probably wouldn’t have wound up liking the guy. And Geralt had much better taste in appetizers, Jaskier was sure.

--

Geralt didn’t even bother knocking before he opened the door. Jaskier only just barely masked his shriek with a gasp, but didn’t manage to do the same with his jump, and as a result banged his head on the cabinet he had just opened. He wasn’t sure which look was more unimpressed--Geralt’s or his own.

“Who just walks in like that, Geralt?” Jaskier demanded, crossing his arms.

“Who just leaves their apartment door unlocked?” Geralt countered.

Jaskier shrugged, and instead of pulling out one plate for himself, he pulled out two. He put his dinner--a pasta dish, and really he needed to figure out cooking something other than carbs, but they had to stop tasting so good--and held it out as a silent offer to Geralt. As Jaskier suspected, he took the plate, then sat at Jaskier’s very-unused table. Ugh. That meant Jaskier would have to sit there, too.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Jaskier asked as he sat across from Geralt. “Didn’t you have a date tonight? I thought this one was promising.”

Geralt shrugged and didn’t even look up from his plate. “I cancelled. It didn’t seem worth it. The last four dates haven’t gone well, why would this one?”

“You didn’t even give him a chance,” Jaskier said, pointing his fork at Geralt. “What if he was the one?”

Geralt snorted and finally met Jaskier’s eye. “I highly doubt he was the one. I’m taking a break from it all. I only signed up for the stupid app in the first place because you and Yen wouldn’t leave me alone. I’m just… not interested.” 

Jaskier sighed dramatically, but pressed no further. Geralt seemed as if his mind was made up, and nothing Jaskier said at this point would change it. As he thought on it, though, Jaskier wasn’t sure he even wanted to change Geralt’s mind.

--

Geralt was definitely ignoring him. Jaskier was standing there, dressed up, holding dinner from Geralt’s favorite restaurant and a bag of goodies, pounding on the door, and Geralt was ignoring him. Jaskier refused to let this happen, however.

“Geralt, I know you’re in there. Ciri told me you were home tonight!” Jaskier called through the door. He had paused his knocking just long enough to say that, but he started up again, this time with far more force than was necessary. So much force that when Geralt swung the door open, Jaskier staggered forward, caught off guard.

“Jesus, Jaskier, what?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Jaskier asked, straightening up and grinning at Geralt.

Geralt glared at him for a moment, but eventually he stepped back and motioned for Jaskier to enter. Jaskier set down his bags of goodies and turned to Geralt, suddenly flustered beyond belief.

“Right, well…” he started, then trailed off. He hadn’t let himself think of his speech--it made him too nervous. But now that he felt woefully underprepared, he wished he had run through it in front of the mirror a few times.

“What, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. His eyebrow raised and he looked over at the bags, then up and down Jaskier himself. “Are you okay?”

“I brought--” Jaskier started, then paused. He cleared his throat, then motioned toward the bags. “I brought food. And. Some other things. To make this… big gesture. But, I have to get something out first.” Jaskier stopped, then met Geralt’s eye. Geralt just watched him expectantly. “You’re not dating anyone.”

Geralt clearly hadn’t expected that, judging by the way his face scrunched up in confusion. “No, obviously I’m not.”

“Do you--want to date me?” Jaskier asked, then winced. Fuck. That hadn’t been part of even his hasty planning.

“Jaskier, what--” Geralt asked, his eyes wide, but Jaskier barrelled on.

“You’re my best friend. And. And I love spending time with you, and things are so easy between us, and whenever I’m upset, you’re the only one I want to see. Whenever I’m happy about something, I want to tell you first. Nothing has ever worked, no other relationship I’ve had, but this one always works. And for the longest time, I was afraid that… pushing things further would ruin things for us. That if we brought feelings into this, that we’d lose what we have.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”

Geralt watched him, but his face betrayed nothing to Jaskier. Except maybe a bit of disbelief. That was okay, Jaskier could give him time to process this. After he finished.

“I think I love you. I think I’ve loved you for a really, really long time. I think you love me, too. I think that’s why you decided to stop dating.”

Jaskier stepped closer. He walked right up to Geralt, then stopped when there was just an inch between their feet. Geralt could close the gap, or not, with very little effort. If only he took it.

“That’s… an interesting conclusion to come to,” Geralt answered, and his voice was the picture of calm and collected. The way his eyes darted around Jaskier’s face told Jaskier a different story. Jaskier grinned.

“It’s the right one.”

“You sound sure,” Geralt answered. Jaskier saw the barest hint of a smile, right there, at the corner of Geralt’s mouth.

“I am.”

Geralt stared at him a moment longer, and Jaskier let out a huff.

“Geralt, I don’t mean to push you, but I kind of bared my soul there. If you could throw me some kind of bone, or kiss me, or--or do something other than just stare at me like a--”

Geralt’s answer was to cup Jaskier’s face between his hands and drag him in for a kiss. Jaskier didn’t mind being interrupted. He also didn’t mind that their food grew cold; he barely even noticed. All that mattered was that he was right, and Geralt was a fantastic kisser.