#i chose ciri if that's alright!

[greisekinderschar]

Alright, guys, it’s been more than six months but it is time for a Radskier meta essay on why their storyline isn’t as badly written as many people say. (Includes spoilers)

Is it rushed? Yes. It’s a side-story of a side character and actually Jaskier’s first side-story on the show. Is it cliché? Yes. When I first watched the season I was terrified about where their story would be going, knowing what happened in the book and knowing how mainstream media treats queer storylines. (I did not know about Joey’s deep involvement in the writing until later.) But once I knew how it all ended, I was entirely sold. Of course, that’s a question of taste, Radovid just turned out to incorporate so many tropes I am obsessed with, but I am trying to say that compared to the overall writing of the show, their story is not particularly badly written, which blew me away considering it’s a queer storyline in a mainstream medieval fantasy show.

Yes, they gave Jaskier a queer story for the sake of having a queer story. That was another reason I was very anxious about it. But what they (read: Joey, and let’s be honest, Hugh too) made of it is so exciting to me.

Here’s the thing about them ageing up Radovid and making him Vizimir’s brother. I have seen people complaining that they could’ve introduced an OC instead of changing source material like that. But to me, the fact they chose Radovid makes it so much more than a queer storyline for the sake of having a queer storyline. He’s the prince and later the king of Redania. He is entangled in the greater scheme of things. He is /on/ the same chessboard as the main characters. Turning him into Vizimir’s brother rather than son is way less forced than introducing an OC to be Jaskier’s love interest. Because he is more than Jaskier’s love interest. He is the King of Redania, played by Dijkstra and Philippa. Also, he cannot be killed off.

As I already said because it’s obvious, their story is rushed. That’s just the fate of side stories in TV shows (that are not masterfully written, lbr). But to me at least it is amazing how much they managed to convey in these few scenes.

You have Jaskier’s role as a spy for the Redanian Intelligence. That begins his own side story where he has a role of his own, that has nothing to do with Geralt. He meets this guy who actually appreciates his music and openly flirts with him, showing that he is desirable, something new to the character of the comic relief (although he is the romancer but you know, we never saw it on screen, also this time he is being romanced). He is suspicious, because he knows the Intelligence is not to be trusted, and the Prince of Redania is kind of the enemy. But he is also Jaskier, and his interest is caught. Besides this interest, Radovid’s suggestion to bring Ciri to supposed safety is right up Jaskier’s alley, because he is one to rather avoid battles if possible. He ponders on whether it is a possibility.

Later, he uses this vague connection to Radovid to have some agency of his own. He negotiates with him about Rience without discussing it with Geralt. He’s following his own plan, checking out the possibilities. He’s like alright, this guy at least pretends to be into me, let’s see if I can put that to good use to help Geralt. He sweeps Radovid off his feet with his ballad, and then Radovid says things that blow Jaskier away. He speaks of his talents, of determination to get to know more about him, of how Geralt should be grateful for his loyalty and friendship. Jaskier, the comic relief, has never heard this before. He’s Weak and he’s Wanting™️. But he still knows that he is Jaskier, easily fooled by romance, and that there are great things at stake. At the same time, Geralt is also treating him with more respect to make the decisions harder on him. But Radovid stays on his mind, he doesn’t know what to make of it and discusses it with Vespula, and she knows. She sees what’s going on.

Then, Radovid shows up while he is looking after Ciri. He is still suspicious. But Radovid is different from the last time he saw him. He is scared and he is vulnerable, and Jaskier can see that the mask is gone, and that what lies beneath it is not a villain. He is still cautious, until Radovid sings him his own song and he cannot take it any longer. He is giving in, and he struggles still as he does, but he is Jaskier. He’s Weak and he’s Wanting™️.

The next morning, he is not surprised. Of course, stupid Jaskier got himself fooled by some pretty eyes once again. Of course such blatant desire and affection for him could have only been a lie. He never knew romance like this and he does not hesitate to believe it was simply not real.

But then, he finds Radovid surrounded by his dead guards, alone. The people he was supposedly scheming with left him behind, so he was not all that involved, maybe he really was their puppet. He’s scared and he’s full of regret, he’s a helpless prince in the middle of the outbreak of a war, but he’s telling Jaskier to not waste more time on him because he knows he fucked up beyond redemption. But he’s Jaskier. He has endless capacity for forgiveness. And now that their plans had failed and Radovid has no more reason to lure him in, he’s still begging for a second chance. He still wants to be with him. He wants to prove himself to him, even if that means leaving the court behind. Jaskier has other priorities right now and he’s still hurt, but if there is a chance that this affection he never knew before was real, he is taking it.

And Radovid? He’s the spoiled prince brat, underestimated by everyone (just like Jaskier), and he’s riding that wave, because he does not really care about state affairs. He likes Jaskier’s music, and when he sees him he thinks he’s hella fine. He has his fun and at the same time tries to show Philippa he’s capable of more than she thinks, but he was not expecting that Jaskier would blow him away like that. That he would challenge him (the Prince), that he would be honest with him, that he would see through his act and by doing that NOT underestimate him. Radovid is Vibing and he decides to enter Dijkstra’s and Philippa’s game until he realizes he Fucked Up with his arrogance and being a prince is actually worth shit. He knew everything going on in the castle is pretense, but he was not prepared for this level of violence. He is terrified when he meets Jaskier, and Jaskier is good to him. And, again, honest. Unlike anything he had known up to now, the courtly schemes that had only recently culminated to him being scared for his life. He is still a spoiled brat prince and wants to be with Jaskier very badly, so he Fucks Up again. It is that last mistake that makes him understand his faults. But when he sees that Jaskier still does not hate him, he is determined to fix it, and he will do anything. Fuck being a prince, I will leave everything I know behind to show this man that my feelings were true.

Jaskier changes this man’s entire life and Radovid is willing to do everything for him. Yes, the idea to just go off and find him WHEREVER was kind of idiotic, but that’s the beauty of these two. They are both smart and idiotic at the same time, and they let their actions be led mainly by emotions, which sometimes adds up to the idiocy of it all. But Jaskier has more experience, and Radovid learns from him how to be less selfish, he grows as a person through knowing him.

So yes, the love-betrayal-redemption story is hollywood cliché, but it fits the characters and leads to interesting character growth. And honestly, as a queer woman I enjoy seeing some queers having a cliché storyline in a mainstream media piece. Geralt and Yennefer had a similar story. It raises the queer love story to the level of the hetero story. They struggle and they suffer just as much as anyone else, and they have something that connects them, a story that has potential to be continued in an interesting way. They don’t just exist as the obligatory queers, and their storyline isn’t inherently queer either, to a point where it feels like they’re only queer so Jaskier’s love interest can be the gods forsaken King. (At the same time, the story has queer coded themes, like having to pretend to be someone else, but the way it is portrayed, it can be relatable to non-queers as well.) The cliché of it all does not feel more cliché than other storylines on the show (to me). Its not queered cliché, it’s just a story, and I love that.

Also, Joey and Hugh have actual chemistry. And - and no one really argues with that - immense talent that filled these few scenes with so many layers in the first place. We owe it to Hugh that Radovid is not just a romantic interest, but a layered, flawed character (although Hugh attributes it to the writing but he’s too modest).

The last thing I want to say is that I feel we are generally overly critical of queer storylines, which is not a bad thing per se, because we know how many harmful storylines there are, but I struggle to see how this one is harmful in any way. You have to relate them to the straight romances. The straights will just randomly smile at each other and then they will date, but no one complains about it being rushed.

I am obviously not saying everyone has to ship them, I genuinely do not care. I just think it’s unfair to drag their storyline when it is nothing but normal that they didn’t have enough time for an elaborate story, but they (meaning Joey and Hugh) put a lot of work into making it a good one regardless, an effort no one would have put into a straight love story, because they would not have had to.

[pepsiwriteswords]

Hihihi! Took me more than a week, I'm sorryyy, but I'm here with prompt(s)!

For Disconnected, cause I'm writing and rereading old letters and I now have Anaya brainrot. 👍 And I actually realize I have no clue how to write prompts so… Umm… Hope this is something..?

How would Anaya feel about AIs like Cortana or Ciri? And/or if there are true commercial AIs in her world, how would she treat them?

Also, a more open ended prompt if it's better

Highway feelings for any character

Alright, diving back to letter writing!

<3

Mara!! Time is fake, it's all good. Also it took me like, a week to actually work on answering this (& I still haven't even started my letter back to you >.>) & it sat in my drafts for like, 2 more still incomplete, so I cannot throw stones, here. xP Mostly I'm just amused that I got your letters & this ask on the same day. xD

(For the record, though, I fully intend to work on my letter to you soon - I am just Tired Always & also we're moving so. Might be a minute!)

(idk how to write prompts either. mad respect for the people behind all those prompt accounts bc omg.)

Ooh, the cyborg android daughter!! Also the fact that I have apparently talked enough about any of my characters for anyone other than myself to have character-specific brainrot is just. Thank you. :)

Now, android daughter & AI!

Hmm. I honestly have no idea & that might partially be bc I don't have an iphone to ask Siri a couple questions to see how she responds & I don't use & have never used Cortana/Bixby/the Google assistant on any phone or computer I've ever owned.

No, wait, I guess I have one thing: I think she'd mostly be confused by them? Not necessarily their purpose or anything like that, but by the fact that like. Humans made an AI that could answer questions & like. Use google for them, then just. Stopped there. Like, in a world where Anaya exists & might not be that unique a creation, the existence of AIs that are still programmed to have like, 3 ways of responding to a question would be ... baffling to her, I think. Like, you ask Siri a question, you get 'sorry, I don't understand, please try again', 'here is every article google brings up when you search that' & sometimes she just tells you. Yeah, she has a couple somewhat snarky or sassy answers for like, zero divided by zero or whatever, but when you ask her those questions, it's always the same answer, word for word. Anaya would just be wondering what the point of that is, when clearly humans have figured out the answer to real, actual, can-identify-themselves-in-a-mirror AI coding/programming/whatever the appropriate word is there. Of course, she'd still be polite when she talked to them. Manners, after all. & there'd probably still be some sort of like. Feeling of kinship there.

Kind of a bonus answer: This question has made me realize that Disconnected & Distant Light could actually take place at the same time (& possibly at least one shared location -- there is nothing in my worldbuilding so far that states Anaya & co are on Earth...) & there's an AI character in Distant Light. And I think Anaya & Test would get along fantastically. (I really don't know that much about Test, & honestly, brain has not been on enough to work out how Anaya being an android might change her character. >.> It's just. Vibes. Snarky AI who has been very not-sheltered meets a snarky-but-fairly-naive android who's been both incredibly sheltered & like. Y'know. Subject to Gideon's terrible-awful-rich-mad-scientist energy for ... idk how long yet. Also just. Anaya, chose her name, covering herself in she/her pronoun pins & bi pride stuff & Test_0374, let the human that built it choose its name, knows about human sexualities & Gender Stuff but has no interest in partaking itself, has stuck with it/its pronouns the whole time it's been active ... Just. I forsee some great interactions. xP

And okay! I give! The universe doesn't want me to write right now! Once I actually thought about that second prompt for a minute, my brain was like, 'yes, I can vibe with that' & gave me ideas for like. The Black Witch & Styx. Can I put any of those into actual words, though? Nope! Quinn & Blair were gonna have a conversation about magic & the shitty things that happened to them when they were kids & their separation. And Victor was gonna meet Styx & text Natacha & it was maybe gonna be like, the beginning of that story but.

-_- I miss writing. But I also want to stop holding this hostage in my drafts so. Um.

I'm gonna tuck that highway feelings in a mental back pocket & maybe start trying to work on Styx & TBW, though.

[inber]

One Condition

A/N: Thanks for the prompt my bean! 1.5k of drabble. Some spoilers for S2, but not really. Just fluff nonsense involving Yen, Jaskier, and Ciri. Enjoy~

“Is this one poisonous, too?”

Yennefer exhales sharply through her nose. Behind her, she hears some vials clatter. There comes a mumbled, 'oops'.

“Why don't you put it in your mouth and find out?” She snaps, not turning around. “You're supposed to be helping me, Jaskier.”

“I am! You said you wanted... uh...”

She does not grind the herbs in the mortar harder. Her teeth do not pinch together tighter. “Yes?”

“Honeysuckle?” Jaskier guesses, lamely.

“Bison grass.”

“Close! I was close. Anyway, is it?” Jaskier holds the jar up.

“Is it what?”

“Poisonous!”

“Jaskier.” Yennefer drops the pestle and strides over to him. She stands at least six inches shorter, but she doesn't need height nor bulk to menace. Glaring, she snatches from his cradling hands, ignoring the miffed huff he makes. “This is mint, you dullard.”

“Oh-I. I know. I was just... testing you.” He smiles the sort of smile she knows he reserves only for her; either to soothe her, or to further aggravate her.

“Go find something else to do. I need to concentrate.”

Jaskier lifts his chin up defiantly. “I've as much right as you to be here.”

“If you were being useful, I might agree.” Yennefer says, turning back to her work.

“Fine, then. I'll leave, on one condition.”

“Which is?” She asks. It's quicker to indulge him than it is to berate him. This she learned long ago.

“A kiss.”

Yennefer whips her head to face him. Jaskier taps his cheek. “Here.”

A foreign heat climbs up her neck. Yennefer dislikes it. “I'll do you one better.” She blurts, gaze skittering away from the glacier-lake blue stare he's fixed her with.

“Oh yeah?” Jaskier's voice has dropped, raspy. That odd feeling flares hotter. Yennefer grabs a stone from the bench in front of her.

“I'll give you this magic stone.”

His interest is piqued, as she hoped. Hawkishly, he examines the offering. It's pale blue, veined through with glittering white streaks, small and polished pretty. Reverently, he picks it up.

“What does it do?”

“Brings luck, protection. It's a mage thing.” Yennefer speaks loftily, uncorking the jar of bison grass she found herself.

“Ooh. Mage secrets. Alright, deal.” Jaskier says, turning the stone over and over in his palm. “I'll see you at dinner, witch.”

“Not if I see you first.”

As he exits, Yennefer breathes a sigh. She's not sure if it's one of relief or frustration or longing--

Definitely not that, no. Frowning, she steps back to the apothecary bench, picks up the pestle, and continues to mix. She's made this poultice a thousand times in her life, but she suddenly can't remember how many stalks of grass to add.

Bloody bard.

Hopefully the harmless piece of larimar she gave him will amuse him for an hour or two.

--------------------

“And that,” Jaskier lofts a hand dramatically, “is the story of how your father saved both of us on the day we met.”

Ciri eyes him with scepticism. Underneath their boots, fresh snow crunches. “I've heard the song, yes. Geralt told me all the songs you sing are embellished.”

“Embellished! Your majesty, you wound me.”

“Quit calling me that.” Ciri shoves at Jaskier's shoulder, and he pretends to stumble under the force of it.

“Oh, such a violent monarch! Alright, alright. What would you prefer I called you?”

“Ciri. My name.”

“Boring.” Jaskier tells her, pausing their wander to pick a bit of frosted foliage that has caught his interest. “All the greatest heroes have an alter ego. Did you know that Geralt chose his name?”

Ciri's eyes widen. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. All witchers do, as I understand it. I believe Vesemir vetoed his first choice—ahh, but I should not tell you such a tale. He'd throw me off the mountain.”

“Now you must!” Ciri hops in place, hands clasped together. Jaskier grins at her. Sometimes she acts her age, and it's a welcome sight to see. “Please?”

“Anyway,” Jaskier says, dismissively keeping her on tenterhooks, “all poets embellish, a little. The real story makes for a less interesting song.”

He has her caught between learning a potentially embarrassing truth about Geralt's youth, and hearing a genuine tale about Filavandrel. Jaskier watches her struggle out of the corner of his eye, trying not to smirk. They continue their idle stroll at the edge of the forest.

“What actually happened? With the elves?”

The truth won out, then. Jaskier hums, a little surprised. “Honestly? He just talked to them.”

“He talked to them?” Ciri parrots.

“Yes. Actually, he asked them to spare me. Then he listened to what they had to say, and gave them advice. He was willing--”

A sharp screech cuts Jaskier off, and the two of them freeze. Something sleek and black dives through the canopy like an archer's arrow loosed. It digs huge talons into the meat of a thick branch, spreads wings that shimmer like ground obsidian – a good eight feet across – and fixes four crooked yellow eyes on them. It's something like an enormous raven, but when its beak parts, rows and rows of jagged dragon's teeth are bared.

“What the fuck is that?” Ciri whispers.

“I-I don't think we should ask it.” Jaskier responds, voice pitched higher.

The creature lowers its head, monstrous eyes darting in all directions. Slowly, Jaskier begins to toe his way in front of Ciri. It's unspoken knowledge that any sudden movement would probably be folly.

“When I give the word,” Jaskier murmurs through a tight jaw, “you run, Ciri. We aren't far from the keep.”

“I'm not just leaving you--”

Another cry; shorter, more precise. If Jaskier didn't know better, he'd think the monster was trying to communicate. But he does know better. He's seen far too many hungry things in his life.

“Fuck it.” Jaskier spits, fingers curling around the stone in his pocket. It's warm from resting against his leg. “Face a mage's wrath, you wretched beast!”

With a strong arm, he throws the rock. Protection, Yennefer had said. Jaskier's aim leaves something to be desired; the stone bounces on the ground, shining against the snow, and lands below the winged animal's perch.

All three of them stare at it. A bolt of sunshine rolls over the surface of the larimar, reflecting the pale ripples contained within it. The raven-thing makes a noise close to a growl, and bends lower.

“Fuuuck--” Jaskier shoves Ciri behind him, the both of them backing up on trembling legs.

With an astonishingly steady grace, the abomination bends down and plucks the stone from the snow. It tilts its head at both of them, and then just as it had appeared, it is gone with a few beats of its giant wings. Bewildered, Jaskier and Ciri stare after it.

Then they are sprinting, scrambling and unsteady, straight back to the safety of the keep.

--------------------

Yennefer looks up sharply as the hall doors burst open, two figures tumbling in. She had opted to take a meal early, telling herself she was hungry, and not that she was still avoiding the other occupants of Kaer Morhen. The witchers were nowhere to be found. It wasn't as though she was privy to their plans.

“What in the name—what happened?” Yennefer stands immediately, striding to check Ciri over first.

“Big bird... thing.” Ciri pants, hands on her hips. “I haven't seen it in any books yet. It was huge!”

Alarmed, Yennefer looks to Jaskier, who nods. “We weren't far, just walking--”

“It came down from the sky!” Ciri interjects, gesturing wildly with her hands. “It had claws and fangs and--”

“Thank the gods I had that stone you gave me, Yen.” Jaskier finishes.

Yennefer glances between the two of them. No one is hurt, which she is grateful for, but the fact remains that they'd been caught so unaware. So unguarded. Jaskier's words register. “The—what?”

“The protection rock... thingy. It saved us.”

Blankly, Yennefer blinks at him. It's easy enough to read his mind; the adrenaline racing through him makes for quick access, and within seconds she's up to speed. Through his eyes, she recalls exactly what happened. Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“You really threw it?” Yennefer hisses, keeping her voice low. “You threw a rock at it?”

“Well, yeah. A magic rock.” Jaskier says. “And it worked great!”

“Can I have a protection stone?” Ciri pipes up.

Yennefer rubs her forehead with her hand. “Yes, yes of course.” Her voice trembles. “I'll make another. And another for you, Jaskier. Better ones.” That actually work, she thinks privately. “One condition, though.”

“What's that?” Ciri and Jaskier's voices mingle.

“Neither of you ever, ever tell Geralt.”

[jaskiersvalley]

Hair of the Dog

The problem with having a goat as a pet was that Eskel had a goat as a pet. It was usually wonderful, Lil Bleater was a menace and Eskel loved her for it. Alas, some days she was a little more than he bargained for. Visiting Geralt on the farm was always a delight, it was one of the few places Bleats could explore without a leash and Eskel knew she was safe.

All in all it was a great day, a rarity for the whole extended family to get together. Geralt had Yennefer and Jaskier with him, they were playing pass the parcel with Ciri, except whenever they unwrapped her, it was always a dirty nappy rather than a fun treat under her layers. How Eskel ended up with a family where both his brothers had two partners was a mystery, it was perhaps why he was still a bachelor with only Lil Bleater as his companion, Lambert and Geralt had soaked up all the appeal for themselves and left none for Eskel.

"Where are the Gremlins?" Eskel asked, looking around. The Gremlins were also known as Lambert, Aiden and Cahir. One at a time and they were manageable but the three together wreaked unknown havoc and destroyed an alarming number of clothes between them. If they ever wore safety pins through clothes, Eskel knew it wasn't for aesthetics at all.

"Last I heard they were heading for the barn. Cahir was going to see whether the new pony is ready to be worked yet." Somehow Geralt sounded resigned and they all knew that while the trio might have looked at the gelding, they were most definitely going to be making out or more in one of the empty stalls.

Rolling his eyes, Eskel nodded. "I'm not risking that. Tell them I said goodbye and that Lambert still owes me a drink next week, will you?" He clicked his tongue and watched as Lil Bleater blatantly ignored him in favour of hopping over puddles. Just because she was having too much fun and still full of energy despite a whole day of charging around didn't mean she got to keep going. Resigned to his fate of chasing his goat in order to get her home, Eskel lumbered off, trying to look like he wasn't approaching her with intent. Needless to say, it didn't work. With expert ease Lil Bleater avoided him, bounding just out of reach. Even worse, he brothers were watching and Eskel wanted to growl at them that they might as well help if they were going to watch. Thankfully he managed to grab his wayward goat, only for her to protest in the worst possible way, she threw herself onto the ground. Normally Eskel wouldn't mind but she chose to roll in a puddle, her white fur soaking in the muddy water and staining it.

"Well shit."

Dripping goat firmly leashed, Eskel stared at her. She watched him unrepentantly for a moment before trying to nibble at her leash. Eskel had learned the hard way that he needed a metal chain leash for her, nothing else survived her incessant chomping. There was no way he could take her home like that, and hosing her down wasn't going to be much good as she's just drip more water in the car and make it smell even more of wet goat.

Thankfully he always had a towel or two in the boot so Eskel could pat her mildly dry but the puddle hadn't been simple mud and water, only heightening the stench. Thinking about his poor tub, Eskel knew he wouldn't be able to give Bleats a bath. The one time he had tried, he'd needed to buy a new shower curtain and invest in some repairs to the tub. Little goat hooves were not compatible with his bathroom. Stashing her in her travel crate, Eskel pulled his phone out and searched for possible solutions. The most sensible was a pet groomer, alas the three numbers he tried all refused to deal with a goat. Some days Eskel cursed himself for not having a more traditional pet.

"You trying to get a groomer?" Cahir sidled up to him, eyes glinting with the promise of mischief.

"Yeah, but it's not like anyone wants to bathe a goat." Not that Eskel was bitter. He didn't expect Cahir to laugh.

"You just haven't asked the right one. Come on, I'll introduce you to someone who'll help. Just follow my bike."

It was easier said than done. While Eskel had heard stories from Lambert about the strange love affair Cahir had with his bike, it was a whole different thing to see it. Having witnessed it, Eskel had to wonder whether there were four in that relationship rather than three as he'd originally thought.

Hair of the Dog looked like a bit of a shithole if Eskel was honest. It was out in a small industrial park near a village, wooden cladding faded and looking in desperate need of a paint. Helmet under his arm, Cahir barged in without a care for the sign that declared the place closed.

"Scales!" He hollered, impatiently holding the door open for Eskel. "Got you a client."

Not quite knowing what to expect, Eskel's eyes widened when a man larger than him appeared, scowling at Cahir.

"What did I tell you about my opening hours? And fucking hell what is that stench?"

Cahir leaned against the wall with a shit eating grin and gestured towards Eskel and Lil Bleater knowingly.

"That's a goat." It was possibly the dumbest thing anyone could have said.

"No, I'm a human called Eskel," Eskel shot back, a little irked.

The laugh was warm and genuine as the owner of the grooming parlour caught on. "Letho. Who's your stinky companion?"

Somehow Eskel found himself charmed by the fact Letho didn't baulk at the fact he was being presented with a goat. He even invited Eskel to stay and watch the whole process of washing and drying his pet. What struck Eskel was how gentle he was through it all, talking to Bleats as much as he talked to Eskel.

"Wouldn't have clocked you as a dog groomer," Eskel admitted while Lil Bleater was enjoying her second rinse.

"Didn't peg you as a goat owner."

"Touche. You like dogs?" Which was a ridiculous thing to ask, given that Letho's work involved a lot of dogs and possibly a few cats. However, Letho shook his head.

"They're alright. But I wouldn't own one."

"Cats?"

"Guess again."

Eskel squinted at Letho. "I can't really say I can picture you with a parrot."

Another laugh and Eskel found himself quite fond of the raw honesty in it. He waited patiently for an answer though.

"Tell you what-" Letho suggested, "-let me finish up with my last client and then I can show you, if you're interested. It's a snake."

"I only inspect trouser snakes on third date," Eskel said, peering around. "If I had known you'd had other clients, I would have happily waited."

The spray of water was playfully turned on him, barely missing him. "It's you, you numpty. I'm closed on Tuesdays, that's admin day." A soft flush spread across Eskel's cheeks at that and Letho continued, "If I put Gully down my trousers, I don't think she'd ever forgive me. And I don't think she'd fit. She's a reticulated python."

"As long as she doesn't eat Bleats, I think we're good." Eskel had no idea about snakes but, given the size of Letho, he could imagine him with a large snake, no pun intended.

In the silence that fell on them, Eskel looked around again with a frown. "Did Cahir go?"

That had Letho looking up too. He left Lil Bleater to dry, quite thrilled at the prospect of having a fluffy goat stepping out of the dryer soon, and wandered out into the reception area. On the desk was a note.

"You owe me a drink. Maybe two. We told you you'll like him."

Groaning, Letho threw the note away but not before Eskel saw.

"That sounded ominous."

"The Three Fucketeers have been trying to set me up for a while. I resisted. Guess they win."

Grinning, Eskel shrugged. "They don't have to know that, do they?"

That had Letho looking up too. He left Lil Bleater to dry, and wandered out into the reception area. On the desk was a note.ion out no matter how hidden. Which led Eskel to the conclusion that if he couldn't beat them, they could join them. It was very unlikely they'd want graphic details so, with great confidence, Eskel met Letho's rather large snake. And he met Gully too.

[dhwty-writes]

To Hold and Kiss You, Gods Be Damned

Another one of @spielzeugkaiser‘s requests: "secret relationship". I hope you’re happy now

Summary: Geralt apologizes after the mountain and he and Jaskier get together. Still, they have to keep their relationship secret. Hurt, no comfort, implied/referenced homophobia

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Geralt was in love. He knew he shouldn't be; he knew it was dangerous, he knew there were even some who thought it impossible. A witcher in love. Ridiculous. But it wasn't. But he was.

He had fought tooth and nail to prevent it from happening because after one look at that ridiculous bard he'd known it was inevitable. He had tried everything: gruff words and gut punches in the beginning, then more gruff words, a djinn wish to bind him to another (which had almost cost the bard his life, he'd never do that again), more gruff words, shouts, an ugly dismissal. All to no avail.

It was torture being apart from Jaskier, after twenty-two short years of laughter and music, twelve long months of silence followed. Twelve long years of broken-hearted ballads and that was when he knew for sure. When he heard another bard sing and his heart still broke with the ache of it. That was also when he knew that his secret affections were not unrequited. Spring came and he left Ciri with his brothers, and he himself set out again as soon as the snows allowed it.

He rode hard and fast for a different hunt, chasing every trace of his bard he caught. And when he found him in a tavern he fell onto his knees where he sat in a corner, begging him to take him back.

"I thought you didn't want me," Jaskier said with a voice as cold as ice.

"I did. I do. I lied," Geralt confessed, still on his knees, fidgeting nervously with his hands. "I can't- I couldn't- I mustn't lose you. I know it's inevitable. But I thought if I lost you because I chose to, it would be easier. It wasn't. It isn't. Please, Jaskier, I know I don't deserve it, but please, let me love you again."

"Love...?" Jaskier echoed as if he didn't believe it. "You love me?"

"Yes." How could he not?

"Not here," he said decisively and stood. The touch on the witcher's arm was nigh unnoticeable but enough to get him to follow him up to his room.

The door fell shut behind them and Jaskier turned with tears in his eyes. "Tell me again," he whispered.

"I love you," Geralt answered. "I love you; I love you; I love you." It felt almost like a prayer. "Will you forgive me?"

The bard released a shuddering breath. "Kiss me," he pleaded and Geralt did. It was the easiest thing in the world, with his whole body aching for it. It was like breathing. Like suffocating. Like waking up.

Jaskier pulled away to breath and leaned his head on Geralt's shoulder. "Don't do this to me again," he sobbed and Geralt wished he could cry, too. "Don't do this to us again."

"I won't," he promised. "I won't, never again, I swear it."

"How?" he asked agonisingly.

"Come to Kaer Morhen with me," he murmured and cautiously tightened his arms around his waist. "Let me take you home."

"Alright," Jaskier answered and that was all he needed to hear.

They set out at sunrise on the next day, settling into an almost familiar rhythm. Only that everything was different. They travelled together again, that much went unchanged, and Jaskier sang and talked like always. But he had a horse now, too. Apparently singing of heartbreak was very lucrative. And he wasn't the only one talking anymore. More often than not Geralt actually joined in the conversation, giving his opinion on songs, and rhymes, and untrue lines. There was laughter, too. A lot of laughter. It was heaven on earth.

And in the privacy of their room, in the dark of an empty clearing, he was allowed to touch, too. To touch, and kiss, and show Jaskier exactly how much he loved him. As he could, with his deeds instead of words. He never wanted anything to change.

He knew that it would, though. They had agreed upon it on that very first night when Geralt had apologised: neither Ciri, nor Triss, nor any of the witchers needed to know about them. In fact, it was probably better if they didn't. The likes of them had never been welcome in Cintra nor in Temeria. And while there had been witchers known to bed their brothers or other men, he wasn't quite sure how Eskel and Vesemir would react. Or gods forbid, Lambert. He'd be an arsehole about it, just like about everything else.

It was for the better. They would manage. They had managed for twenty-odd years, after all.

So, when they arrived at Kaer Morhen one month and a half later, there were no grand gestures despite what Geralt wanted. No kisses, no hugs, no carrying his bard over the threshold. No shared bed, no lazy kisses and missed meals; not even a wink or a casual flirtation.

Instead there were two rooms, two beds, only warmed by the pelts within. For Geralt there was love and warmth, a hug from Eskel, a kiss on the cheek from Triss, Vesemir nodded and Lambert insulted him lovingly, and Ciri clung to him for an entire day.

Jaskier was greeted by the old ruin with all the cold and loneliness Kaer Morhen had to offer. It made Geralt's heart shatter to see him glancing warily at the grey walls, to meet the cold stares with defiance where he should be met with laughing eyes. It was almost enough for him to break his promise and tell them. But not quite.

The bard shot him a lifeless smile and bowed before Vesemir to thank him for his hospitality. Then he went to his knees before Ciri and placed his lute at her feet. "I know that I don't have much to offer, princess," he confessed. "But what I have I pledge to you. I hope that you might accept my oath."

The kneeling bard made everyone in the courtyard uncomfortable and Geralt quickly pulled him to his feet again, careful not to let his touch linger.

After that awkward first meeting life quickly settled back into a familiar rhythm. Geralt took his lessons with Ciri up again, filling his spare time with chores. He barely saw Jaskier safe for the evenings when he had offered to perform for the witchers. But he knew from Ciri that he was teaching her, too. History, literature, and languages, and suchlike. It wasn't like they would've wanted it to be, but at least they weren't apart anymore.

And sometimes there were even nights when they could steal away from the others, fleeing to the top of crumbling towers where not even the other witchers would follow. Only to spend a few precious hours in each other’s arms before they had to go back to pretending.

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispered against Jaskier's lips. "I'm sorry it has to be this way. I'm sorry this is all I have to offer."

"Shh," he soothed and gently stroked his hair. "Don't be. I chose this, too. It's better than being alone. Better than being apart." He kissed him desperately. "Better to know. Better not to fear-" He choked on the words but Geralt knew what he was saying anyways. 'Better not to lie awake at night, fearing our last goodbye was the last to ever come.' Better than nothing.

[ket-fisto]

so just finishing up season 2 of the witcher now and. I don't know if I'm just in a different mood than with the first season but I am constantly frustrated at the changes. Like already they fucked and changed a ton of things in the first season, but I found enjoyment in it despite it. Now it's like they wanted to make their own fantasy show and just used the witcher as a base. Seeing the teaser for yet another spinoff supports this even more. Long ass rant to get it out of my system incoming, don't read if you don't want to read negative stuff about the show.

So many needless changes and even more core changes to how things work in the witcher world too. And what's even more frustrating is that they do that and then do a pretty good adaptation of a book part (part where Triss comes to Kaer Morhen) and it's like??? Oh, so you CAN adapt the book properly, you just choose to change everything up because fuck it I guess.

They added a bunch of nameless witchers to kill them, yet chose to kill off Eskel who was an actual real character from the books (who appears to been replaced by this other witcher guy who also has scars on the side of his face I guess). Why??? They make a bunch of fights in Kaer Morhen, you know, the super well hidden fortress that a mage can find on a whim. I guess they really like the set.

They make Ciri an OP banshee because you can't fucking think of original dangerous female characters without making them a siren or a banshee even if you have fucking books about it, GOD.

They add a witch deus ex machina to further a shoehorned elven plot (which reminded me of O'Dimm but you know, forced and out of the fucking blue).

They could have added the fact that it's implied that Yennefer lost her eyesight for a while after the battle of Soden in the books, but now you make her lose her magic to make her run around for half a season when they could have added the scenes of Yennefer and Ciri meeting properly, the initial mistrust and eventual bonding instead of this bullshit plot of Yen almost giving Ciri away to deus ex witch and then being like 'o i changed my mind'. Then ending it up with ANOTHER forced bonding like how Geralt and Ciri just meet up in the end of season 1 and are instantly like 'okay we're close instantly'. WHY HAVE CHARACTER AND RELATIONSHIP GROW PROPERLY I GUESS.

Yennefer is my favorite character, from the books and games, and in the first season I was like alright, it's a very different Yen but I can enjoy this, the actress is great. Now it's like??? Are you so confident that you'll have 7 seasons that you are stretching out the show with unnecessary bullshit? The actress is gorgeous and the show doesn't even bother to use that and just puts a fancy dress on her with a simple braid ponytail and no makeup makeup because I guess they gave up even giving her curls and actually playing into the fact that Yen is supposed to be ''magically'' beautiful (which they barely bothered to do in season 1). Ciri gets curled hair and black mascara that you can see poking out of the screen from all the weird close up shots they do because they are too confident on their off putting eye contacts now. How did they manage to give Henry Cavill worse contacts in season 2? MY GOD.

I know Jaskier is a fan favorite from the show. I get it. He was hilarious in season 1, the actor is perfect, etcetc. But you have to laugh at how many scenes are added and altered to feed this. Why did Geralt even need Jaskier to find Yennefer ? Why does he need to be in the final fight when he cannot fight? There to just give one liners and be in danger? Even the other characters call him out on him being there not making sense!

Jaskier (or Dandelion) followed Geralt around and did put himself in danger because he wanted to watch and compose tales in the books, but is this worked into the show now? No, we just have him make a heartbreak ballad about Geralt and then give him a shirtless scene because fanservice, then have Yen ask for his help to deliver something in the middle of a battle. Ok?? And before you come at me, the problem has started with season 1, because the show forced a fight plot between Geralt and Jaskier, who have never really fought in the books and Geralt openly considers him his friend there, but the show couldn't have a complex grumpy character, they had to have him one-dimensional and yell.

Like you hear how Henry Cavill had to ask for more lines for Geralt and it makes you wonder how much fucking worse it'd be if Henry Cavill wasn't passionate about the character, because show Geralt still pales to philosophical book Geralt. I hope he is also secretly frustrated at the changes from the books because his character is the only thing as close to the books as possible (and still not perfect by any means to be honest). But hey they added him sniffing his surroundings a lot because of enhanced witcher senses, that's cool I guess.

And they had a much bigger special effects budget now but still found the fights weird this time. Meh.

I don't know if it's the same actor for Emphyr, but his look in season 1 was better, now I don't buy the ultra powerful emperor he's supposed to be.

Guess we have to wait another two years to see what else they're going to twist and change next!

[measurelessdreamer]

Start And Never Stop II geralt x jaskier

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620474

For my dear friend and sister I chose @darknessyuu who is always there for me and keeps me sane <333333 

Summary:  Sometimes there are days when you bind yourself to someone else by Destiny even if you never believed in it. Sometimes there are days when you shout and push away that one person who deserves it the least. And sometimes there are days when you piss off a particularly skilled fae and end up being thrown into the future. Geralt of Rivia has indeed seen it all and fewer things could still surprise him. That is until he wakes up in Beauclair of all places in a bed that strangely feels like his, with a vineyard everyone keeps acting like is his and wedding preparations that Jaskier insists he gives his opinion on for reasons that make Geralt's head hurt and heart shatter at the implications of this whole mess. It shouldn't be like this and no matter how hard he tries he can't figure out why, after everything, it still is.

Additional tags: Time Travel, Post-Episode:S01E06 Rare Species, Fix-it, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Corvo Bianco

Based on this amazing superbat fic

Geralt woke up with a start, head pounding hard. This was definitely the last time he'd taken up a contract that the people refused to give him enough clues on to actually determine what he was facing. Just his damn luck that it had to be a fae, kidnapping people, out of all possible threats he'd learned to recognize. Even better, it was a fae powerful enough to send him only gods knew where before he could reach for any of his swords although he was fully aware that would do nothing to help.

But he supposed he should count himself lucky. He was still alive and still him after all.

His eyes flew over his surroundings. Walls decorated with paintings and trophies, a bed that was undoubtedly the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on, all of it was pointing toward the bizarre scenario that whoever owned this place had far more money than to just get by. He definitely was no longer in the village where he'd gotten that contract, then. Judging by the sun shining brightly through the windows, he wasn't even in fucking Temeria.

And yet... somehow it didn't exactly seem like he was out of place. It was hard to explain, but after so many decades venturing the Path, never really staying in one place for long, he knew what it was like to feel like a foreigner like he didn't belong. Over the years, he'd learned to mute it, to fully ignore it because it was just everywhere he went. But it wasn't here. He had no idea where he was but still felt like he should know because the place meant something to him. It wasn't exactly home per se, but it came incredibly close to resembling one. Just like Kaer Morhen always would but different.

He let out a huge exhale. It seemed like the fae didn't just teleport him away, she also must have done something to his head.

A gentle knock on the door startled him and made him sit up. Huh. That was odd. Most people would usually opt to pound hard or never bother to do anything else besides barging their way in. This knocking was resolutely different from everything he’d known, though.

"Yes?" he let out on instinct anyway. He didn't know what exactly he'd expected, but a man dressed in colors so bright that would put even some of Jaskier's clothes to shame and with a look that was anything but spiteful and threatening to kick him out at this instant, was definitely not it.

"Are you alright, Sir? I know how you value your privacy, but I was just passing by and I couldn't help overhearing the noise. You were shouting in your sleep, I’m afraid," the man said with an accent Geralt would recognize anywhere. Toussaint? Was that where the vile fae had sent him? Possible, but that still didn't explain the weird vibe he got from the place and why this man he'd never met before was looking at him as if Geralt's presence didn't bother him at all.

"I'm fine," he retorted when he realized he was still supposed to give the man an answer and cursed under his breath, hoping he wouldn't have to address him by name anytime soon lest he wanted to make a total fool of himself. Had he lost some memories along the way? Was that why he couldn't remember what his surroundings meant to him? Or was this merely a dream?

"Did I-" he cleared his throat, trying to sort out the mess his mind was, but the man didn't look put off or annoyed, just attentive and with patience Geralt thought he'd never get to see on anyone's face again after becoming a witcher. It was baffling. "Did I hurt my head recently?"

The man frowned in thought. "Not to my knowledge, Sir. It's been a while since your last injury, but it was of mild nature and had absolutely nothing to do with your head. But you did express you were feeling particularly tired today and decided to rest for a bit, which is how we got here."

"Hm," Geralt said, suppressing a curse. He definitely didn't have any recollection of that or even the slightest bit of idea how much time must have passed ever since he'd met the fae. Months? Years? How much had he actually missed of his life?

"I think I need some air," he pretty much rasped, feeling weaker than ever when he realized that for all he knew Ciri could have grown up or even died already and he didn't remember. Had he and Jaskier ever managed to patch things up? Is he dead now too? They couldn't be, Geralt reasoned, but time was rarely merciful on witchers. Much less when a fae was involved.

"Of course, Sir, I shan't keep you," the man said and stepped away to let Geralt pass. When Geralt did so gingerly as if outside the room awaited him nothing but a lurking monster, of course, the man noticed right away. "Are you sure you're alright, Sir? Shall I call for Master Jaskier?"

And Geralt froze and let out a gasp as the words dawned on him, partly in relief because Jaskier was alive and he was here, and partly in frustration because while it answered a few questions, it did cause another load of them to pop up in his pounding head. But never mind that when he didn't have to contemplate on missing the last moments of Jaskier's life, on missing earning the forgiveness he in no way deserved but yearned for regardless. Jaskier was here, alive and well. Judging by the house the bard apparently owned, he was more than well. And while the thought of seeing him again terrified Geralt more than anything, he found himself incapable of saying no.

The man, it turned out, didn't actually have to do anything because just at that moment they both heard footsteps and Geralt was met with a pair of cornflower blue eyes that were cheerful and full of hope and never failed to see right through him.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Jaskier beamed before going very serious in an instant. "We're in a very dire situation, Geralt. Lives depend on it and I need your honest opinion." The bard came up to him and held out two small rolls of blue cloth that looked identical to Geralt and asked: "Which do you think is better suited for the wedding?"

If Geralt had been of a weaker nature, he might have collapsed right then and there. But sometimes being a witcher did have its merit. At least in some areas anyway. "Aren't they the same?"

Jaskier gasped and pressed one of the rolls against his chest in indignation in such a him way that Geralt couldn't help but smile. "How dare you, witcher? All this talk about your superior senses and then you say these two completely different shades of blue are the same? Can you even see anything?" The tone in his voice was teasing and Geralt basked in hearing it again after months spent contemplating about the mountain and all he'd said, shouted, and wished so desperately he could take back. Jaskier's eyes now shone brightly with affection and happiness, nothing like the raw hurt he'd left in them when his own heart had been roaring under the weight of everything he'd regretted the most. Could it be that he'd managed to make it go away with time? Or was this merely a dream?

"You see what I have to put up with, Barnabas-Basil?" Jaskier asked the man but his smile was still playful as he rolled his eyes. "Maybe you could help us with this."

The man, Barnabas-Basil Geralt remarked for himself, offered a look of total understanding as if he too was wondering from which tree Geralt had managed to fall this time before he replied: "As much as it would please me to help, I'm afraid I might be running short on expertise when it comes to something as intimate and important as someone's wedding."

Jaskier accepted that without any hard feelings and thanked the man anyway before Barnabas-Basil excused himself to go tend to his duties. Jaskier looked deep in thought as his eyes roamed over the fabric in his hands before he gazed back at Geralt. "I know what you're going to say. Go ask Regis. He's already in charge of the wine and helped out in many different ways already, he surely has an answer to this too. And you might be right, but call me old-fashioned, I do actually agree with Barnabas-Basil on this. Other people are just running short on expertise. It's your wedding and your opinion I care about."

Geralt was absentmindedly wondering who the fuck Regis was, when all of a sudden he blurted out: "My wedding?!"

And Jaskier, honest to gods, actually laughed and beamed, completely oblivious that Geralt was quite possibly losing his mind. "I'm sorry, I know I keep saying this, but it's just less surreal telling it’s 'your' wedding. But you're right, it's not just yours. It's ours."

Geralt had only a split second of reminiscing how soft the last word sounded coming from Jaskier's mouth before the bard took a step right into his personal space and placed a chaste kiss on his lips as if it was the most trivial thing and not one of Geralt's deepest desires he'd never managed to believe would actually come true one day. But it happened and it was taking everything in him not to touch his lips as if that would make the sensation stay and engrave it in him for good. What had that damn fae done to him? What had she done to Jaskier? Brainwashed him into thinking that this was what he wanted when it couldn't possibly be further from it?

"Geralt," Jaskier said, frowning and reaching for Geralt's arm, "what's wrong?"

Geralt didn't flinch at the contact, but it was a very close thing and took away all the strength he got left to be able to look this man he'd hurt so much in the eye. "I- I just need some air."

He hurried out of the house, ignoring everyone he passed by even though they were smiling at him, calling him Master Witcher of all things as if the whole situation he was in couldn't get any more ludicrous and stopping only once he reached a tree on a hill overlooking the villa. He sat down, back leaning on the huge trunk and arms left dangling over his knees, and stared aimlessly ahead willing himself to wake up if this was a dream and to get ahold of himself if it wasn't. He'd never seen anything like this, never been fooled to this extent. Could it still be an illusion if his medallion wasn't even humming? On what ground was he supposed to reverse what the fae had done? Was there even a way to reverse it?

"Hey," he heard Jaskier's voice and forced his eyes to focus on the man sitting down on the grass before him and setting the two rolls of blue cloth aside before his eyes went back to Geralt. "This is going to sound weird and insane, but it's not like I made it up so I ask you to bear with me and take my word for it. Because if you don't, no one will. You said something similar to me a while back when we were at the same spot we're right now. But then again, you don't remember that... do you?"

"No," Geralt murmured so wistfully he almost winced.

Jaskier offered a sympathetic smile. "And what's the last thing you remember?"

"Running into a fae somewhere in northern Temeria."

"When was that?"

"In spring."

"And the year?"

"1264," Geralt replied and watched Jaskier gape at him as if he'd just grown a second head. "What?"

"It's the 12th of June. 1275. Your last memories are from eleven years ago."

This time, it was Geralt who openly gaped. Eleven years left out completely blank. Erased. Gone. How...

"Seems like you're one of the few who got to experience traveling through time," Jaskier finished and Geralt stopped breathing at once.

"That's-"

"Bizarre, I know. Believe me, I thought the same thing when you told me."

"I told you?" Geralt asked as if that was the most insane part about the whole thing.

"The future you did. Obviously not in many words because you avoid details like the plague, but you did explain the basics. I may not have known which year you got sucked out of, but I do know this is not permanent. You'll get back to your time before this day ends and it'll be like you never left."

Except he had left, gotten a glimpse of his own future, and discovered what it felt like to be kissed by Jaskier. All that being a result of those eleven years that would be waiting for him once he got back. And as much as it did put his mind at ease that his stay here wasn't permanent, it also reminded him how many things had gone wrong and how many more could still follow. There was no way this was set in stone. And he could ask so many questions, hope that at least half of them got answered, about Ciri, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, why they were in fucking Beauclair of all places, but then he looked at Jaskier and was once again reminded of how everything his actions on the mountain and before had left on Jaskier seemed like it wasn't even there anymore when he knew Jaskier remembered. Geralt had fucked up hard, had been given shit about it continuously by everyone who knew, but none of that had ever come close to actually seeing Jaskier walk away and all the remnants of the dangerous hope he'd been harboring despite knowing better crushing down on him once he'd come back from the mountaintop and found Roach alone with Jaskier and his things long gone.

But now they were here, eleven years later, Jaskier looking at him as if he had nowhere else to be even though Geralt wasn't the one Jaskier had forgiven and found it possible to fall in love with. Instead, he was the one who had sent the bard away. In the harshest way, there was.

Which was why when the next time his mouth opened, the only thing that came out was: "You're here."

"Of course, I'm here," Jaskier said and scowled before his eyes momentarily widened. "Wait. When was the last time you remember seeing me?"

"The mountain."

Jaskier blinked and his whole face turned red. "The mountain? For fuck's sake, Geralt, the last thing you remember of me is that and you still let me kiss you?"

"Not like I knew that was about to happen."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. Gods, I wish the future you would've given me some kind of heads-up so I would actually know how to deal with this. But the horse's arse said no. Leave it to me to make a total fool of myself by kissing the man who wants to have nothing to do with me."

"That's not true," Geralt emphasized. "It’s not how I feel."

"I know that now. It took some time, but... wait. You telling me about this whole mess means that you will remember what happens here, which... You absolute delinquent fool. I can't believe you made me wait for so long before you let me experience for myself what it was like to kiss you while you already knew! You're so lucky most of the wedding preparations are already sorted and paid for or we would be having a completely different conversation right now."

Geralt sighed. Lucky didn't even begin to cover it. All this talk about the future him, weddings, and kissing didn't sound like the world he'd gotten used to through all the hardships that had come with it. It sounded like one of those fairytales he'd stopped believing in the moment he'd realized he would never see his mother again. Where was he supposed to fit in all that?

"You don't believe..." Jaskier trailed off and waved with his hands around, "all of this is real. I know it's a lot to take in. Especially since... here you are, probably still in love with Yennefer, and looking right into your future and seeing... me instead."

"Yennefer has nothing to do with this," Geralt cut him off, not even surprised that most of what usually held him back from speaking his mind had no power here where there was no such thing as consequences since none of this had happened yet. Jaskier could read him perfectly regardless and if this was a way how to give him the truth he rightly deserved after so many rounds of lies littered with indifference, then Geralt was going to give it to him.

"You're saying... that you don't love her like that anymore?" When Geralt nodded, Jaskier let out a soft chuckle. "I guess that makes sense. Even after over three decades, you can still find ways to surprise me."

"The last time I saw you, I hurt you and forced you to leave. So none of this makes any sense to me."

"Knowing you it will take those eleven years for all of it to make sense. But it will take much less for me to forgive you."

Geralt swallowed and looked away. "How?"

"Since when am I someone who gives away the ending before its due time?"

"This isn't one of your tales you sing for money, Jaskier."

"You're right. It's so much more than that because it's our tale that my heart sings for me. It's the most special tale of all and it's worth to see it through to the very end, Geralt."

"I don't even know where to look for you," Geralt said, voice wavering. "Can't you-"

"Give you a hint?" Jaskier asked and sighed. "Believe me, it's taking everything within me not to tell you exactly where I am in your time so you could come and sweep me off my feet because, in spite of everything, that is what I still want you to do. But that's not how it works, Geralt. It works in ballads and tales because they're meant to give people hope, to make them see beyond reality. To imagine and dream. It's why I could never make them accurate the way you want me to. Because that would just defeat the purpose of them."

But Geralt didn't want accurate. Accurate meant realistic and realistic meant hurt. And he hated the irony more than anything. "And this is the tale you decided needed to be accurate?"

"In all its glory," Jaskier said and smiled. "Not all of it was perfect, but looking back at it now, I know it was right."

"What if I change something and prevent this future?"

"You won't."

"You can't know that."

"You're missing the point, witcher. Out of the two of us, I have the memories of how this happened. I'm the only one who knows that," Jaskier claimed and shifted so he was now sitting next to Geralt. "Give me your hand."

"Why?" Geralt asked but gave it anyway.

"So I can read your future to you and for once be able to say that I was right about everything," Jaskier scoffed as if that had been obvious right from the start before he grew serious again and locked their eyes, not wasting even a second to look at Geralt's hand and "read" from it and just holding it between his own. "You are going to find me. It will take a while, but you will. And when you do, just have patience with me and I promise I will have patience with you too."

"You shouldn't."

"And that's supposed to mean something because I'm the epitome of doing what others tell me to do?" Jaskier deadpanned but ended up giggling before swatting him. "Geralt! I'm telling you I am happy. With you. Why are you trying to ruin that?"

"Because I know you also hardly ever do what's good for you."

"True, but this is different. And I'll keep saying it until you believe me. Reaching this point won't be easy for you, but it's worth it. It really is. And you deserve it, Geralt. As for my forgiveness, you just have to start. And never stop."

Geralt didn't need any clarification on what exactly that entailed. In his own heart, he knew where he had done completely wrong by Jaskier, and even if despite all this Jaskier was telling him he wouldn't earn forgiveness in the end, it didn't mean he shouldn't try. Not because this was the future he wanted to have, but simply because he owed so much to the one person who had refused to leave him alone until he himself had given them no other choice. It could never be repaid, but starting and never stopping sounded like he would be on the right track and even if that track turned out to be never-ending, he wouldn't mind one bit.

"This is the part where you say something," Jaskier said, still looking right into his eyes. "Preferably not those grunts that sometimes can barely be called human, but as you know, I'm not particularly picky."

And because Geralt wasn't the epitome of doing what others told him to do either, he leaned in and kissed the bard instead. Jaskier let him and reciprocated just as enthusiastically as he did everything else, carrying it out for as long as their lungs could take, and even when their lips parted, the two of them barely moved, leaving their foreheads pressed against each other in embrace Geralt didn't wish to see end.

"I take it that was meant to be a yes," Jaskier broke the silence with a smile. "Starting and never stopping?"

"Something like that," Geralt agreed and mirrored the smile. Out of the corner of his right eye, he managed to spot the two rolls of blue cloth Jaskier had left behind and relished the irony that he now knew why they were indeed completely different. One was the color of Jaskier's eyes, while the other one was shamefully not.

"Cornflower blue," he said and smiled even wider when Jaskier just gaped at him. "For the wedding."

Jaskier narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Bold of you to make that decision since we aren't practically engaged."

"You did ask me and I know he will say the same thing."

"That's fair. I wish you didn't have to wait eleven years to see the result, though."

“Hm,” Geralt dismissed, remembering eleven was only a number that normally wouldn’t count for much since time was a fleeting thing anyway. It would never stop just because he wanted it and his prolonged life wasn’t making that truth any easier. If anything, those eleven years would fly by just like the rest and make him feel even more yearning for something no magic or power could grant him. It was something he would always know, but the promise of those eleven years with Jaskier being part of it, of the most special tale of all playing right in front of his eyes, did bring a sense of closure he’d never sought but was glad beyond measure he had now. Those eleven years were yet to pass and even when they did, he would make sure they had countless more.

Nothing that odd when you were a witcher, but when you were a human, the same rules refused to apply. Or did they? "You haven't changed. Even after more than three decades, you still look the same."

"That’s… true," Jaskier admitted awkwardly. "It will be explained in due time too. As much to you as to me. So I’m afraid my lips are sealed."

"And I assume you won't tell me why Beauclair either?"

"It's not like I picked it. That's all on you, though you won't see me complaining. But don't worry, if two higher vampires who wear nothing but dark and gloomy clothes can be happy here, so can an old brooding witcher like you."

"Now that I think about it, I do see some of your hair going grey," Geralt teased and laughed when Jaskier swatted him in retribution. Even if he was meant to disappear from this time right in that moment, there would be no regrets on his end. Jaskier was happy and Geralt could question it all he wanted, but there was no erasing that from his memory now that he'd seen it so openly.

They ended up kissing a few more times after that and when the sun was setting and shining on Jaskier in the angle that was just about right, Geralt admitted that living in Beauclair of all places did have its benefits.

Jaskier didn't stray from his side the whole time. Not even when Geralt asked him to sing something, the bard resolutely said it would have to be without the lute since he had no idea when Geralt was meant to return to his own time and Jaskier didn't wish to miss his last moments here. Geralt remained completely speechless after that, but Jaskier just smiled at him and begin to sing.

Somewhere along the way, when the light was dying out, Geralt felt his eyes closing and the last thing he remembered was the gentle squeeze of his right hand and softly whispered words that would serve as his anchor for the near future awaiting him.

"See you soon, dear heart."

*******************************************************************************************

He wasn't surprised when he managed to find Jaskier only a few months later. Time had always been a relative concept when it came to the bard and "a while" could mean only a few days just as much as it could mean years. Jaskier was resolute on ignoring him the first few weeks, but Geralt vowed to leave only if Jaskier asked him to. No such thing happened even after a few rounds of shouting he rightfully deserved, though. Geralt started and never stopped. Just like he'd promised.

When it was time to return on the Path and Jaskier said he was coming with, Geralt used proper words to thank him.

That same year, Geralt asked him to come to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter. It took some time for it to truly sink in when the bard said yes.

They shared their first kiss in the library of all places since they were completely alone and the light of the candles illuminated Jaskier so perfectly that Geralt could no longer help it. It only took a few more minutes before Jaskier called him "dear heart" for the very first time. And when he received a handful of comments from both Lambert and Eskel about it the next day, it was with a warm smile that he rolled his eyes at them.

He found out Jaskier was part fae a year later when the bard ended up kidnapped by another fae that seemed far too familiar once Geralt got closer and saw her smirk at him.

"Still kidnapping people, I see," he said.

"Please, they're far too boring for me to stick with them. I stopped right after you."

"Then why did you kidnap him?"

"Because I happen to know he's not completely human."

Words weren't enough to describe how he felt after that even though he'd known Jaskier's mortality wouldn't be a problem for decades to come. Words were rarely enough most of the time, but he used them anyway. Especially, when he knew that Jaskier needed to hear them.

They still had moments of weaknesses when stress took over and they ended up fighting, but throughout it all, they stayed and figured it out. Together.

They headed to the coast to get away for a while and it worked just like Jaskier had said it would.

Geralt eventually lost count of how many times Jaskier made him a chaplet, but he never turned any of them down. Ciri caught up fairly quickly and always made one for Jaskier too so they would match.

It was Jaskier who proposed. If blurting out the idea right after performing for a wedding they happened to attend since it was in the village where they decided to spend the night could count as a proper proposal, that is. No Beauclair or Toussaint in sight, but that had never been a factor in this decision anyway. Geralt said yes in a heartbeat and completely ravished the bard the same night.

Even years after, there were still times Geralt would dream of being back on that mountain, but the place no longer haunted him like it used to. It was merely a reminder of something he wished never to repeat.

And it didn't. Because he'd started. And never stopped.

Those eleven years passed and more followed. The most special tale of all indeed turned out to be worth seeing it through to the very end.

 -The End

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thank you so much for reading!

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Maybe Loving Someone at Kaer Morhen

 @nim-nim-1994​ and @g-l-o-w-y-l-i-g-h-t-s asked for it soooooo

Expanding my Countess Break-Up chat into a mini-fic

It’s your faults 

.....

“I don’t understand women sometimes. I mean, the Countess and I were having a great time. Why did she have to ruin it?”

Though Jaskier was comfortably laying in the grass, Yennefer preferred a couch under a tree. Initially Vesemir wasn’t too keen on a sofa being in the training area, but per usual, Yennefer won the argument. 

He’d never been a huge fan of hers, but they had a sort of bond now, watching over Ciri and the Witchers at Kaer Morhen. They wouldn’t admit it, but it was the closest either of them got to a happy home life. 

Perched on her proverbial queen’s throne, Yennefer rolled her eyes. “I think perhaps you sleeping with her husband ruined it, love.”

“I thought bringing equality and honesty to their marriage would’ve been good for them.” Flicking an insect off his pants, Jaskier wondered why he never got himself a sofa.

Granted, it would be harder to see the sun in the shade. 

When Yennefer didn’t add anything, he continued his complaining. He wasn’t quite done yet, and her silence was not going to stop him now. “What will I even do with myself, without a lover to entertain myself with? Should I find a local noble? A wandering hero? A beautiful tavern flower? The options sound tantalizing, but they are so few and far between up here where no one but jaded Witchers hang their damn hats.”

“You’re joking, right?” 

Of all things, Jaskier did not like her tone. He propped himself up on his elbows and knitted his brows. “I know you don’t care about romance right now, too busy being a mother hen, but it is an absolute staple of my personality, thank you.”

“No, you absolute-” Yennefer sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, like he said something profoundly stupid. He knew the look because she often looked at him this way, but this one seemed especially sour. “You know Geralt’s in love with you, right?”

The laughter that bubbled out of Jaskier wasn’t cute, to say the least. “Geralt? Give a rat’s ass about me? Hardly.”

“You idiot men are so clueless.” 

“I take offense to that.”

“Well then get smarter.” Yennefer leaned into the arm of her sofa and rested her face on her hands. “He’s been mooning after you for years. But he’s a sad, tragic prick who will never say anything. I thought you chose not to notice.”

Jaskier sat up all the way and pressed a hand to his beating heart. “You have to be fucking with me. Of course I’d notice if my Witcher had any feelings for me.” And if he did, how dare you not tell me sooner. 

“You can’t be serious-” After getting this laser-focus look in her eye, Yennefer gasped. “Oh my god, you are. I never bothered to look into your mind because I assumed it was full of drivel, but you sincerely think that blatant fool of a man doesn’t pine after you.” Then she frowned. “Wait, what was that song about my tits in there-”

Jolting up, Jaskier started to walk away as quickly as he could. He didn’t need to die by magical hands just as he got possibly the most important information of his life. 

If Geralt really did feel that way-

Well, be still his damned beating heart, this changed everything. 

So, it was time to test Yennefer’s assertion. 

Jaskier mustered up all his courage and extravagant acting skills for this one, as he walked up the steps to Geralt’s room. He hadn’t gotten to say hello to him yet, since coming back from the Countess. The bard assumed that his stupid Witcher didn’t care. 

Maybe he was wrong this whole time. 

But if he was going to pull this little gambit off, he really had to sell it. Giving himself a few seconds to get the right proper tragic, dramatic face, he didn’t knock on Geralt’s wooden door. No, he just waltzed himself in, slamming it and making as much noise as possible. 

And there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, his cotton shirt half on, cleaning the blades of his swords. Those yellow eyes looked up at him and, now that the bard was paying attention, there was a flicker of something bright before a deep scowl took over his face. 

“Jaskier-”

The bard wasn’t going to let his expressions push him away, with some growl or bark to try to bite away at the bard’s desire to be by his side. No, this time he had supposed insider information and Jaskier was going to run with it. 

Flopping on Geralt’s bed, pouting up at the Witcher, Jaskier said, “That’s it. I’m never dating another woman again.”

He looked for any movement on Geralt’s face from the corner of his eye; he almost missed the twitch of a smile. “Countess dumped you?”

“Yes, but not the usual one. It seems my type is unavailable women who will never compromise or accept me as I am, not to my face, at least.” Well, that wasn’t quite what happened, but this fit his little game a bit better. 

Ever the bizarre friend, Geralt patted his shoulder like he was a damned horse. “You’re a good bard.”

That wasn’t exactly what Jaskier was looking for, and it made him a little huffy. Maybe Yennefer was talking out of her ass, just trying to make a fool out of him.

“My ego needs no stroking, Geralt, I know I’m wonderful. I just think it’s high time I focus solely on men for awhile.”

As if by magic, those stressless shoulders stiffened. Now, if it was because he had interest or merely was uncomfortable with Jaskier talking about boning men while on his bed, that was the next step. After a beleaguered silence of creepily watching the Witcher’s every face-twitch, the man coughed and said, “Like who?”

Jaskier had to choke on a few breaths to resuscitate his damn heart. Holy hell, Yennefer might’ve been on to something. 

Now was not the time to panic. Sure, he’d been somewhat interested in hearing Geralt say his name among strained groans for years at this point. But he couldn’t get too excited and scare the clam of a man. Otherwise he’d shut the fuck up, and fast. 

He swallowed and tried to act casual, doing his normal egregious hand gestures. “Same type, honestly, just different sexy bits.”

If the bard didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn those stiff shoulders were now melting into the slightest blush peeking from the back of the Witcher’s neck. 

He had to keep going. 

Sitting up slowly, knowing he was positioning himself a little closer to Geralt than he normally would, Jaskier said, “Now just to find myself a good option.”

Geralt mumbled something. 

Jaskier had to keep pushing. “What was that?”

Under his breath, the Witcher said, “Maybe one is closer than you think.”

Oh, so the man was going to play vague with him. That was... something. But he also knew Geralt a little too well, and vague never went anywhere. He had to keep sending him towards the brink of bubbling thoughts before the man would tip over and talk about his damn feelings. 

So, he pulled the meanest card he could.

Smirking, Jaskier countered, “Do you mean Lambert? Because whilst he’s a delinquent, I have to admit, he’s got a decent face--”

“Absolutely not.” The response practically rumbled out of Geralt’s chest like fucking thunder. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure if he should be a little scared or turned on. 

Probably both, if he was going to be honest. 

Before he could say anything about it, Geralt put his sword on the bed and bolted upright. “Never mind, you’re not dating anyone here, ever.” 

And then he walked out of the damn room. 

Funny, considering it was his room in the first place. 

The second Geralt’s door slammed behind him, Jaskier let out an embarrassing snort of laughter. He’d hate telling Yennefer she was right, but this one might actually be worth it. 

Running his hand across the hilt of Geralt’s blade, wondering how long the Witcher had been keeping romantic secrets from him, Jaskier said to himself, “Don’t act so sure about that, Geralt of Rivia.” And then he sputtered out some more unladylike laughter that’d he really have to deal with another day that wasn’t today. “Now the real fun begins.”

Just as he stopped talking, though, the door slammed back open and Geralt had this perturbed frown on his face. “This is my room.”

“Yes, and you just stomped out of it. It was quite adorable.”

The frown on the Witcher’s face deepened. “I was tending my blades. Out.”

“Alright, alright.” Even though he was exiting Geralt’s room for now, he was still going to leave the man with some torment. Jaskier smiled over his shoulder and asked, “But what if tonight, since we haven’t seen each other in awhile, we shared a bed like those poor early days of travel? How nostalgic that’d be, tucked up against you and-”

“Out.” 

Face forward, Jaskier had to hide his overblown smiles to keep the ruse going. “See you later, Geralt.” 

As the door shut behind him, he really couldn’t wait for the next time those yellow eyes met his. After all, he was going to make the stubborn man tell him what he felt, if it was the last thing he did. 

...

(Maybe could do a part 2, dunno, depends on if y’all want it, tell me if you’re interested <3) 

Edit: Part 2 and Part 3

[inber]

A Cold Room

A/N: Yennskier drabble. Just a little softness between them in the wake of what happened after episode eight. Spoilers for season 2, warnings for mentions of self-harm. I haven’t written in awhile; forgive the rust! Around 1k.

Forgiveness, Yennefer thinks, is not something that is earned. It is something that is learned. As with everything in life, it is a continual choice.

How she chose to keep the marks across her wrists made in adolescence; not as self-flagellation, but as a reminder. Where she came from. Where she is now. Making the decision, every day, to forgive the child she was. To never apologise for wanting more, for being more.

But Cirilla deserved an apology. Geralt, too. When her words were not enough, she begged absolution in blood. She knows it as intrinsic truth that she'd do it again if she had to. Even unforgiven as she is.

She sits alone in a cold room in the maze of Kaer Morhen and touches the scars. They've healed over as if she'd never re-opened the ancient wounds. Flesh is easy to mend.

Geralt's words echo in the chamber of her mind, and she closes her eyes. It's okay, she thinks. I don't know if I forgive you, either. If she's honest, she took the shattered glass to her veins for Ciri alone.

That magnetic girl matters above all else.

“Aaand this one is taken, too. Is there a bloody room in this freezing stone-heap that isn't destroyed or covered in-- Yennefer?”

She's not startled, but she does glance up. Jaskier stands awkwardly in the doorway, doing something foolish and fidgety with his fingertips. Without her permission, she feels her lips curve into something of a smile.

“You can have it, bard. I just needed somewhere to think.”

“Oh. That's kind of what I was searching for. My room is too close to the others. I just, uh, well. Feels a bit...”

“Like you're not welcome?” Yennefer supplies.

“Like that, yes.” Jaskier returns her smile. Yennefer looks away. “Right, er, sorry. Don't worry, I'll keep looking.”

“No,” Yennefer says, “stay. It's alright.”

For a moment, Jaskier looks torn. She doesn't need to read his mind to guess at what he's thinking. He's seen her at her lowest; powerless, covered in shit, desperate. Now that chaos has returned to her, surely she'll default back to making his life miserable?

Maybe it's a surprise to both of them that she doesn't have any such inclinations. Instead, she shuffles over on the wooden crate she's been perching on. A wordless invitation.

“Okay.” Jaskier says, the casual lightness of his voice almost believable. “I found a bottle of Toussaint red that I'm fairly sure isn't corked. Didn't think to bring two glasses though. Or, uh, one.”

He produces said bottle from one of his jacket pockets, and she snorts. “Well, I've had worse in worse conditions.”

“I know,” Jaskier grins, “I was there.”

“So you were.”

With a bit of a struggle, Jaskier manages to open the beverage. Yen could have assisted him with a flick of her pinkie, but she doesn't feel like using her magic for such trivial tasks. Not just yet. And the look of pride on his face makes something turn pleasantly within her breast.

“You're not sleeping here, are you?” Jaskier asks, sitting down. He offers her the wine first.

Yennefer accepts it. “It'll do for now.”

Jaskier makes a noise of displeasure. “It's far too cold. There's a crack in the wall, see?” He points helpfully, as if the daylight shining through it doesn't make for a beacon. “You can have my room. I've found furs, and--”

“Thank you,” Yen says, turning the bottle in her hands, “but I'd rather not be near the main hall.”

“Feels... a bit like you're not welcome?”

“Mmm. Like that, yes.” Yennefer takes a sip. It's not awful.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier reaches over to take the wine from her. For a moment, their fingers graze, and suddenly she's on that boat bound for Cintra all over again, held captive by a pair of seafoam eyes. “You saved her. You saved all of us.”

She relinquishes her grasp quickly, letting her gaze drop to her lap. “We all played a part. I did what was necessary.”

“Doesn't mean it wasn't worthy, or--”

“Tell that to Geralt.” Yen interrupts, before laughing humorlessly. “He won't forgive me my transgressions. But what's worse...”

How did she get here? Sitting sequestered with Geralt's bard, in a purgatory that she created. Totally aware that she could free herself if she so wished – but that being around the others might make for a worse punishment.

“Yen?” Jaskier gently prompts. She looks at him again. He doesn't call her that. Distantly, she thinks she likes the way it sounds in his mouth.

“I don't forgive myself.” Yennefer admits. The darkest truth. “I thought I would die. I would have died, if that's what the price had been to pay. But it doesn't feel enough.”

Jaskier's jaw sets a little firmer. He's silent for a long moment, pulling a deep swallow of red from the bottle. Then he sets it between them.

“Do you want me to talk to Geralt?”

Sometimes she wonders if he truly is just a silly little human. A man with his songs and jigs, largely unremarkable save for the ludicrous fashion he chooses to wear. And yet, he reads her with ease these days.

“Absolutely not. No.” She says, quickly. “I'm—I don't know what to think of him anymore, Jaskier. I feel we are standing on opposite sides of a precipice.”

Jaskier takes up her hand. He does it without pretence, his calloused fingers woven warm with her own. Yennefer is shocked enough to simply let him. It feels strange; a juxtaposition of familiar and too intimate.

“I know.” He whispers. “You're not alone.”

She hears the fear in his voice. Wonders what it's like to be a mortal amongst mages and mutants. Jaskier squeezes her hand, and she thinks about what he's had to forgive himself for.

When she tilts her head and rests it on his shoulder, Jaskier tenses up. He doesn't push her away, though. And he doesn't let go of her hand.

[the-bard-followed-the-witcher]

FMK with the Witcher characters

So two ways that I’m understanding the question;

First: you are asking me, who i would FMK

Second: you want me to describe what it would look like if the characters were to play FMK together

For the sake of my own mental state, I’ll just answer both :)

First: I’d definitely Marry Jaskier (and adopt ciri my little angel) likely fuck Geralt or Yennefer (depends on who scares me less) and kill -because you didn’t limit that one- the shapeshifter guy whose name i forgot that deceived ciri

Second: (yes this became way too long)

Jaskier, Yennefer and Geralt were sitting on the fluffy blue carpet of Jaskiers room. The birthday party had died down about an hour ago and now that they were done with the clean up it was safe to assume that they, especially Jaskier, were bored out of their mind. And well because Jaskier was Jaskier he suggested playing a game before going to sleep: Fuck, marry, kill. Geralt hated the game. Yennefer even more so. But

It was Hard for either of them to say no to Jaskier, even more so when it was his birthday.

So they ended up here, sitting in a circle on Jaskiers floor, playing the worst game ever.

It was only after three full rounds that stuff really got interesting.

Yennefer was the one who finally had enough of the desperate gazes Geralt threw towards Jaskier whenever the overdramatic idiot moaned as he chose who to fuck. And not just that she hated the longing looks Jaskier threw at Geralt all the time. It was exhausting.

„So Jaskier...“ she started with a purr in her voice that suggested just how devilish her question would be. She had no mercy for her best friend of years. “FMK with the three that are sitting in this room.” The small grin displayed on her lips made Jaskier glance to Geralt for a second and blush. Why did yennefer always know how to make him embarrassed? She knew he liked Geralt damnit.

Despite his blush Jaskier kept his cool. He didn’t want to give Yennefer the satisfaction of making him embarrassed but he also desperately wanted Geralt to finally know, to finally get the hints he has been dropping for years.

“Oh Yennefer, eternal suffering of my life, how i adore your questions.” Yennefer just grimaced before grinning provokingly. God they truly had known each other for too long.

Sometimes Geralt felt a bit left out.

Especially when they did stuff like this. Stare into each others eyes as if they were holding a whole conversation only the two of them understood. Geralt never had that with yennefer. And with Jaskier, well he wished he could have something more than that. Something more intimate. Something he had not wanted with anyone but Jaskier for a very very long time. He gazed at Jaskier, neutral he thought, but really the hunger and longing was all over his face,

and Yennefer saw that. She saw how Geralts gaze went over Jaskiers body too as it had done a million times, and she grinned brighter. God the guy was almost drooling with Jaskier only in skinny jeans and a black top that was cut out enough, that one could almost see Jaskiers nipples. Yennefer couldn’t imagine what Geralt would do if they were to go swimming together.

Two options: either Geralt would just straight up black out, or: he would totally lose control. Yennefer would have enjoyed seeing either of these options. But sadly they were trapped here in a room, with Geralt obviously drooling over Jaskier and Jaskier, the oblivious idiot, not even realizing what was happening. The only thing that idiot was thinking about was how to answer her question without fully running into her trap. Well unfortunately for him, Yennefer knew exactly how to get her way.

“Jaskier, my sweet adorable devilish friend, how come you are taking so long to answer this one?” She bated her eyelashes and all Jaskier wanted to do was strangle her. Geralt was glaring at her too. Not because he understood the teasing, no, he was glaring because he dreaded the answer. He in a way didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear that Jaskier would kill him. That Jaskier would surely fuck Yennefer.

He knew it but he didn’t want to hear it. He knew it would only hurt.

With Jaskier it often did. With every flirt that was dedicated to someone else, it hurt. He wasn’t sure for how long he could take this, but if it meant staying by Jaskiers side, he’d do his best to endure for as long as he could.

Finally Jaskier was the one who grinned. Satisfied. “Ever so impatient Yennefer, it will fill you with relief to know that I’ve found my answer! Drumroll please!” Of course his overdramatic ass would ask for that. Yennefer just rolled her eyes and did the thing. She had to. If she wanted this to move along, she had to.

“Thank you Yennefer! Now, lets come to my answers.” He leaned forward and placed his head on his closed fists as his elbows rested on the floor. His cut low too hung low enough that one could almost see his whole chest and part of his stomach if one sat somewhere in front of him. Of course Geralt did exactly that. Yennefer watched as his gaze moved downwards for just a second, as he licked his lips, a bewildernment in his eyes that she had only ever seen him wear when Jaskier was being flirty.

“Soooooo, to take everybody’s mind of the most important part of this: i will not marry myself.” Jaskier grinned as both Yennefer and Geralt rolled their eyes. God he loved annoying them. “Okay okay jokes aside! Let’s make do the killing first. I choose...”He looked first to one then to the other of his companions. It was very dramatic. Very Jaskier.

“I choose myself.”

Both Yennefers and Geralts eyes widened in surprise. Both had expected themself. Jaskier simply grinned.

“Come on you guys! You didn’t seriously expect me to be able to kill either of you.” He put on a fake scowl. The typical jaskier, dramatic to a fault.

“Well...uhm, no? I mean... i dont...” Geralt had never been good with words and surpises were definitely not his thing. His mind was already with the other two options. Yennefer was the one to safe him. She was seriously concerned for Jaskier willingness to give up his life. This was not the first time.

“Jaskier, are you alright?”

Jaskier just kept grinning his blinding grin.

“of Course! Moving on!“ yennefer decided to let it go for now. There was plenty of time to fogure this one out.

„These two are way harder to choose, and although I’d love to devote myself to you completely for a night, i do not think i could survive that. Therefore, yennefer, I’ll marry you, but expect the divorce papers soon.” He let a wink follow expecting Yennefers confidence to falter. It didn’t. In fact her grin seemed to turn even more devilish.

Her voice was dripping with honey. Venomous honey. “Oh I’d gladly sign those divorce papers, after all, i know there is someone here in this room you’d much rather spend every night of your life with.” She almost giggled when both Geralt and Jaskier blushed furiously and looked anywhere but each other. God, how she enjoyed watching them squirm.

“Now Jaskier why don’t you tell us who it is again, that you’d gladly fuck?” More honey laced with venom. Even a kiss blown in Jaskiers direction.

He could barely keep himself seated as he felt Geralts eyes burn into the side of his skull. Why had he chosen this way again? He should have just killed yennefer and promised a friendship marriage to Geralt and that would have been it but no! No he had to finally admit to his attraction to Geralt. Damn it!

Geralt on the other hand felt like his insides were burning up. He had followed the game, he knew the answer to Yennefers question, he knew it damn well, and the fact that he was about to hear it from Jaskier, falling from those gorgous pink lips, made him squirm in his seat. He wasn’t even sorry for the intense glare he kept steadily on Jaskier.

However when Jaskier did finally say something, it was barely a murmur, not something anyone could have ever understood. Words purposefully lost. They all knew what he had said, and Geralt was ready to let it go, he didn’t want to embarrass Jaskier further, even if it meant never hearing the words, but Yennefer, she was different.

“What did you say, dear? We couldn’t quite understand that.” Gods that women!

She really knew how to mess with ones head and well Jaskiers was her favourite to mess with. She knew exactly how to pull his strings. For example: right now she was one sentence away from getting Jaskier to confess. Jaskier who was blushing madly and trying his very best to hide his face in his palms. Unsuccessfully. Still no answer. Yennefer grinned to herself.

“What is it, Jaskier, dear? Cat got your tongue?” It was the tone, the tone was all that was important, all that now finally let Jaskiers mind topple over and go into panic mode. Oh how she loved making her best friend finally confess.

And topple over, Jaskier did. Or really, he didn’t topple it seemed more like he took the furthest leap he ever had and then lost all control.

“I’d fuck Geralt, okay?! Damn it! I’d let him fuck me senseless right here right now. And then I’d probably beg him for more; I’d fuck Geralt. Gladly!”

Yennefer grinned. Jaskier didn’t even realize what he just said. The realization only hit him with each and every passing second after his outbreak. Geralt...

Geralt was a mess. His mind was running wild, trying so very very hard to process the words, words he had only ever dreamt to hear. And not just that Jaskier had practically invited him to do it here and now! He felt, heard his blood rush through his whole body, his lips dried up, his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. He licked his lips. He was not sure he could stay in this room for much longer if his blood kept rushing downwards like this. He gulped.

Jaskiers eyes widened in shock as his words slowly settled in. Why was his stupid mouth always faster than his idiotic head?!? If the floor was to open right now and swallow him whole, he’d appreciate that very much. He didn’t feel Geralts gaze on himself anymore and if the other was grossed out by him, he’d totally understand, but he was curious, oh so curious. He let his eyes wander over to Geralt for just a milisecond before looking away again. Geralt was just staring at his lap and honestly Jaskier didn’t know what to do. So he did what he did best. He talked.

“You satified now, Yennefer?” He buried his face in his palms again. He really needed to get out of this room. Now.

Yennefer took a moment to peel her eyes off Geralt who was still not saying a word. But she knew how to read people. She knew what was going on in his mind.

“Yes i am, very much so in fact.” And in one smooth motion she was up on her feet and right by the door.

Jaskier felt the panic well up in him again.

“Where are you going?”

“Just getting myself a glass of water.” But the look she threw in his direction told him that she wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. She had planned all of this, that damned witch!

But he couldn’t stay in here! Not after what he said. Not with Geralt, the Geralt he had just invited to fuck him, right there with him, not saying a god damn word. He was fucked. He couldn’t stay here. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Geralt was to say something but then again the silence was already killing him.

“Yennefer, wait-“ but she was already out of the door. Geralt and Jaskier were left with nothing but each others company and the elefant in the room.

For what felt like eternity it was just silence, awkward silence. Neither of them dared to break it. Neither of them knew how. It was hell.

Not even the usually so chatty Jaskier knew how. He had embarrassed himself in the highest form. Geralt must hate him, must be so ashamed. He should have never made them play this stupid game. He should have known it would end badly. And now,

now he had fucked up his one chance with Geralt. He truly was a fool. Why couldn’t god just finally strike him and end his misery?

Suprisingly enough it was Geralt who finally had the courage to say something.

„Jask?“ there was something weird in his tone, something that made Jaskier squirm in his seat even more. He had never heard it before. He couldn’t place it. But there was no hiding now. Geralt had broken their silence, he at least needed to acknowledge that.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly one last time still hoping that somehow he could disappear or turn back time, but of course neither of those things happened and when he opened his eyes again he looked over to Geralt, Geralt who was still looking at his lap as if deep in thought. Gourgous, beautiful Geralt. He couldn’t believe he’d lose Geralt now.

„Yes, Geralt?“

Neither of them knew what to expect when Geralt looked up and their gazes met. Gold met blue. And while blue was plainly desperate, embarrassed with only a hint of hope, gold was laced over with nervousness, and underneath something that Jaskier couldn’t quite place, something that made his skin tingle. He almost looked away.

And then Geralt said:

„Can i...“ he gulped, „... can i kiss you?“ and Jaskier wasn’t quite sure he was really breathing after. Because Geralt had just said that and he wasn’t sure he could trust his ears. And his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest, beating so loud even Yennefer downstairs could hear.

And when he breathed out a „yes“ he wasn’t even sure he had really said it. Because his heart was so loud, and his blood was rushing through his ears, and he was sure, sure when he saw Geralts gaze go wild that this was a dream, that he had misheard.

But it merely took a milisecond until Geralt was across the room to where Jaskier still sat, and pressing his lips furiously to the others. Bruising, desperate, helpless. Years of longing and lusting poured into one kiss.

And Jaskier moaned with it when Geralt pulled him in his lap and pushed his tongue between his pink lips that he had desired for an eternity. Their skin was tingly all over, on fire where the other touched. All their minds could focus on was lips pressing to lips.

And it was sloppy and there was too much saliva but Jaskiers hands were tangled in Geralts long locks that he had pulled up so prettily for his birthday, and Geralt growled, growled almost inhumanly and grabbed Jaskier waist tighter and fuck Jaskier was definitely too far gone now.

And Geralt tried so very hard to keep his last ounce of self control, but Jaskier was pushing his hips forward up against his groin and he had dreamed of this for too long, far too long and when Jaskier moaned again the realization hit him that he was kissing Jaskier, who he had wanted to make his since the day they met, and Jaskier was moaning, moaning because of Geralt, and he had been doomed from the very start.

He didn’t keep his control for long

and soon all they were was a kissing, moaning mess of limbs on the floor, Geralt on top of Jaskier, Jaskier pushing upwards with his hips,

It was pure bliss.

Yennefer was glad Jaskiers parents had chosen a comfortable couch for the downstairs living room. That definitely made it significantly easier for her to fall asleep. A satified grin rested on her face that night. She was sure her two friends up stairs were having an even better time.

Sometimes Yennefers manipulation lead to good things after all.

(Not my best work but hey it’s good for being so improvised XD)

[riviae]

there are times when the grief of it all—what he has lost, the hand he played in marching his friends into the very maw of death—overwhelms geralt.

he has never found sleep easy, but there are some nights where the memories eat away at him. the guilt has a hunger that threatens to strip him bare, leave nothing but the bones and aches of a life lived on the edge of a bloodied sword. geralt had never been afraid of death until he had people he cared about. perhaps he had been afraid of the pain, the suddenness, or worse, the possible torture of a slow death, but death itself? it was a mercy all witchers sought at one time or another; when you are shown only hate and fear, when your only option is to be shunned or despised, any end to that would be seen as a gift.

geralt cursed to himself. he had been wandering aimlessly through the night, and yet, he found himself in front of a certain graveyard. 

when he had first visited the mère-lachaiselongue cemetery, before he knew that regis was alive, he had found that unlike most places he passed in his travels, mère-lachaiselongue tugged stubbornly at his heart, so much so that a sprig of homesickness seemingly took root overnight. there was something achingly familiar about the ivy-covered mausoleum nestled within the forest of gravestones and oaks, something familiar in the scattered dark feathers of the ravens roosting on the roof that stared back with ancient, coal black eyes.

(it had only been a moment, but as he ushered roach back onto the dirt path, geralt had thought he caught the familiar scent of herbs--of basil, cinnamon, and thyme--in the wind. but then it was gone, just another ghost of a memory he could not put to rest.)

now, as he approached the crypt, he saw that there was a lantern by the door, its flame glowing a soft gold in the dark. it was a new moon, and despite his mutations his sight was limited, the pitch-black of night swallowing what existed in his periphery, leaving him with what amounted to tunnel vision unless he took another potion of cat. instead, he picked up the lantern with a soft smile and found himself opening the door and descending the stairs before he could convince himself that he shouldn’t.  

the vampire’s living quarters did not smell of death or decay--there was but a light musk of the old tomes that lined the wooden shelves and geralt felt some measure of tension leave his body at the calming scent of herbs. once upon a time, the scent had been strong and pungent, but like any scent someone is subjected to long enough, it eventually loses its strength. now, it reminded him of a forest, of six figures huddled around a campfire, of a home that only existed in his memories. 

“geralt,” regis says, tone pleasant and light as he continues to stir the contents within the large black cauldron, his back turned to the witcher. “what a lovely surprise. can i help you with something, my friend?” 

whatever reply rests on the tip of his tongue suddenly does not feel enough. he wants to say regis, i’m sorry. and why don’t you hate me? you died because of me, and everywhere i go in toussaint brings back another memory i’ve tried to bury and it feels like i’m losing my mind. instead, the witcher says,“did you know that the kitchen table in beauclair palace hasn’t been replaced yet?” 

the vampire turns around, leaving the large ladle in the cauldron without a forethought. geralt blinks once and then regis is in front of him, less than an arm’s length away.

in the dim light of the crypt, regis’ eyes glow a haunting silver as he reaches towards geralt. the warmth and weight of the vampire’s hand against his own is not unpleasant and he doesn’t even realize that regis has gently extracted the lantern from his knuckle-white grasp until it is resting alone on a nearby slab of stone. the witcher’s hands are trembling as if he’s stayed out too long in a frigid downpour, but he can’t understand why they are shaking now. he’s not afraid of regis--never has been, really. not even when he had first flashed his too-sharp teeth in a mocking sneer all those years ago. 

there’s a sudden, strange sense of dissociation, as if he’s not really in his body--as if it’s not his body at all. he doesn’t recognize it, the sudden trembling, the quickened heart-beat thudding in his ears, but it reminds him faintly of what he feels at the cusp of terror. the times where he had stared death in the face with nothing but a sword at his side. 

there is nothing to fear here, yet his legs crumble underneath him all the same, the dull ache in his bad knee rising to a painful crescendo. it is only thanks to regis that he doesn’t shatter his kneecap again, the vampire’s strong hold allowing for his knees to only lightly skim the floor. the witcher is barely supporting his own weight now, his heart still galloping at a rate much faster than it should as regis tugs him closer, tucking him gently against him. 

“it’s alright... you’re alright, geralt,” regis says softly, listening to the minute changes within the witcher’s circulatory system. “i’m here, with you. i’m not going anywhere. you’re safe here.” 

the words pierce through the fog within geralt’s mind, bringing him briefly back into the present. even in the worst of times, regis had been an anchor, something to cling to when he felt like his world was crumbling around him. 

(& then, suddenly, he had withered away--became ash, a crumbling pillar, another casualty that geralt somehow survived. a thing he shouldn’t have survived, but did. he outlived so many of his friends, so many of his companions... how much loss could one person take before it drove them mad? geralt wasn’t sure, but he felt himself teetering on the edge of some great precipice, unsure of what rested on the other side.) 

he hasn’t had regis back for long and he was still getting used to having the vampire in his life. in having someone he got to keep, to cherish. someone who knew what he had gone through, who had seen it with his own dark eyes and emerged from the rubble all the same. it was difficult, learning to rely on others, but geralt felt his hands unconsciously dig into the soft fabric of regis’ shirt, felt himself press closer to the vampire, still trembling, still on the edge of breaking, but soothed somewhat by the gentle beat of regis’ heart. 

“i still hear it,” he confesses, sorrow stuck in his throat. “everyone’s screams. your screams.” 

“geralt...” regis breathes, this time running a comforting hand through the witcher’s hair. “you aren’t to blame for any of that. we knew what we signed up for. everyone knew the risks, the likelihood of survival. it was our choice, geralt. don’t ever think that you had some nefarious role in this; you did not force anyone to go to stygga. you did not kill them. their deaths are not your burden to bear.” 

“that may be true... but if we hadn’t all met, if i had just gone on this journey alone... they’d all still be alive. you wouldn’t have suffered the way that you did, regis. that i know for sure.” 

“that may be true, but they also wouldn’t have lived. don’t you see, geralt? we loved being in your company. in becoming friends. our lives all collided for a reason--and i think we all became better people because of it. i don’t think anyone--not milva, dandelion, cahir, or dear angouleme--would have chose a different path even if they knew how it was all to end. destiny was not kind, in the end, but i daresay knowing you, geralt, changed us all.” regis paused, voice soft with adoration. “you have no idea how you affect people. how your natural kindness, your desire to do the right thing, no matter how difficult, inspires goodness in others. i know you would sacrifice everything for us... it’s only fair that you let them do the same, without guilt. let them rest, geralt. there is no need to torture yourself over things you had no control over.” 

at his words, geralt felt the rare sting of tears. his mutations had almost made the ability to produce tears impossible--but perhaps it was the years of loneliness, years of wishing things had gone differently, only to hear the kind words of one of his closest friends absolving him of such guilt, that made the tears spring forth. he cried silently, wetting the edge of regis’ collar. 

the vampire said nothing, but held him tighter all the same.

he cried until he could cry no longer, until he was so tired that his eyes began to close against his will. it was a start, he thought, just as he slipped into unconsciousness. it was a start in accepting all that had happened in his long life. but he had regis, he had ciri, he had yen, he had dandelion, and he had the other wolf school witchers--his own family of choice. the family he had made for himself. 

he didn’t need to face his grief alone. never again. 

[funkzpiel]

Smother

The Witcher (Netflix) Yennefer/Geralt/Jaskier Hurt/Comfort, Hanahaki

Also available on AO3.

When witchers die, it’s usually by sword or claw or fang. But the natural death of a witcher doesn’t always include aging. It includes pain. It includes choking slowly. And flowers.

(This is all hot garbage. it was supposed to be short, you guys. SHORT.)

“When do witchers retire?” Jaskier asked, a question littered in a dozen of babbling attempts at conversation as he tuned his lute, eyes on the task at hand. Like conversation was more a habit than an act of intention for the man.

Geralt sighed as he saw to it that Roach was properly taken care of. She pushed her head into his chest, and for a moment he fancied she was urging him to answer. So despite himself, he did. Mostly.

“When they get too slow,” he said, letting the words speak for themselves as to what that retirement involved; namely death. And in a way, it was correct. Only… they often did not slow from age. Or at least, not from age alone. Not that the bard needed to know that. It sufficed to admit that a witcher’s life ended in agony.

Nothing wove a more enticing story than sacrifice, after all. Even the witcher knew that. And that’s all the bard was after, Geralt reminded himself.

A story.

The answer appeared to appease the bard. He chatted on about how a song to improve the man’s legacy was needed now more than ever, then, if the only peace he’d ever know would be that which the coin of townsfolk and nobles might provide him for a job well done. Jaskier rambled at Geralt eagerly, testing lyrics between subtle twists of knobs and strings, all the while mentioning that everyone loved a tragic hero. That his songs would make the man beloved, immortal – or at the very least tolerated instead of driven out of town.

Geralt hummed as he stoked the fire. No need to give Jaskier more then. That half-truth was more than enough to at least get the bard to stop asking his damnable questions.

No need to tell him that witchers only retired when slow if they were lucky.

No… no need for that at all.

— • —

There was no knowing when it might start. Witchers, for all their lore and bestiaries and research, had very little to say about this: the way in which they naturally died. Geralt had looked once, asked once. He received little more than uncomfortable stares about the subject. Not that it mattered. It sufficed to know only what needed to be known. That all living things died, including witchers. It mattered little if it was by a monster’s claws or a beast’s fangs or a mortal’s sword or the slow, gradual suffocation of his own body.

He would die. It didn’t matter how. Regardless, it was inevitable. Regardless, it did not change who he was or what he did or how he did it. Geralt of Rivia was a witcher, and he would hunt until Death took him.

When he was younger, it had been easier to ignore those thoughts. To push them somewhere deep down where they only whispered from time to time. Now?

Seemingly out of nowhere, he found himself wondering more and more about the way witchers passed.

And every time, it left a strangely cold and heavy feeling in his gut. Unidentifiable and uncomfortable. Geralt wondered what that was.

— • —

The first time it happened, Geralt was alone. Not alone as he once had been. Not alone because he chose to be alone. Alone, because no one would have a man who used ill-gotten wishes and spewed nothing but poisonous barbs from their mouth when you tried to comfort him. Alone, in a tub of water to scald the ache from his muscles, he wondered why it did little to relieve the pain. Why still he ached. Why it coalesced around his lungs like a thorn bush.

And then the coughing started.

Small, innocent. More like a hiccup than a fit. But he felt something dislodge from his chest, work its way up onto his tongue, and when next he coughed he felt it land in his palm.

He didn’t quite put it all together. How was a witcher to feel, after all, when they’re supposed to feel nothing at all? He stared at the little blue petal in his hand, fingers trembling, the petal itself framed by a droplet of blood or two.

How was a witcher to feel of death when it stared him in the face? Nothing, he had always assumed. It would be no different than staring down a griffin or any other thing that meant him harm.

Only… this he could not fight.

That stone in his stomach grew heavier, colder. He could avoid putting a name to it all day, but like Fate, it would appear. Death would not be ignored either. At least now he wouldn’t have to worry about his child surprise. The thought brought a rough, rasping bubble of laughter up through his chest; still sore from the petal it had expelled.

His hand fell beneath the water. He watched the petal float, small and delicate, then sink, as all things did eventually.

— • —

The coughing started light and infrequent. Purple and blue petals tumbled from his lips now and then. It didn’t stop him from hunting or fighting. It did not slow him. But Death dogged him, always trailing just behind him, just out of sight.

Perhaps he had escaped Fate after all, he thought one night when the fire was high and yet did nothing to warm the ache from his bones. He threw the petal that he coughed up onto the flames. Thought, just for a moment, that he could smell something familiar when he did.

It passed.

It did not slow him until suddenly, it did. Until a bite from some hell-be-damned creature left him feverish in the back of a kind man’s cart. He dreamt of many things. He dreamt of his mother, who left him. Who saved him. Who said… something about him dying, maybe… He tried to remember.

Large eyes, a mother’s eyes, and yet so foreign to him. Her mouth pulled into a pained twist as she wiped something from the corner of his mouth. He could barely focus enough to see such fine details, but he didn’t need to see it to know what it was. A petal, either purple or blue. He wondered what sort of flower it would be, to have both blue and purple petals.

“I can calm your fever,” she said softly, her hands cold against his brow, “And I can save you from this death,” her fingers trailed over the bite, “But what ails you otherwise… is much more complicated.”

Complicated.

He hadn’t understood or remembered the words at the time. Hadn’t had time, distracted as something indescribable had drawn him from the back of the cart and into the forest. All thought of blossom petals and complications had fled at the sight of her: Ciri, drowning in her overgrown blue coat. Eyes so big they could make up the sky. She had launched herself into his arms, and something strange and unidentifiable – and yet something that had been burning so disturbingly often in his breast these days – alit inside him. Something warm. And if he traced it, it led like a thred right back to her. To her, and out – splitting in two – out and out and…

It was complicated.

— • —

Sometimes the girl cried, often in her sleep. Often when she thought Geralt was sleeping. At first he tried to ignore it. He was not the girl’s father.

But more and more, he felt a thread pull him closer and closer to her. Her soft sobs, muffled bravely into her little fist lest the witcher see and think less of her, softening him more and more each day. How could he ignore those sounds, when they reminded him of her cherub like smile? Reminded him of the fact that children should not have had to suffer as she had suffered?

Finally one night, he sighed – and in doing so, heard her suddenly silence and stiffen, but for one or two errant sniffles. He sat up, ran one hand through his hair, before stoking the fire enough to heat the tin kettle he kept in his pack. With it, he scooped a small amount of tea leaves from his increasingly sparse stash, stowed them into a fine mesh pocket, and dropped the little bundle into the kettle with water. All the while, he felt the girl’s wet eyes on him. Waiting.

“It’s okay to mourn, Ciri,” he finally said, aware of the words to say even after Kaer Morhen beat them out of him. Mourning meant nothing to him, he need not mourn. The boons of witchery. But he recognized a human’s need to express pain. Especially that of a child’s.

And for a time, she did. As the water heat, she wept into her fist. Awkwardly, Geralt let her, unsure of what else to do. Focused, instead, on the task at hand while trying to give her space, as he might an adult. Did children require space? Or less space?

Eventually her weeping lessened to whimpers. Then, to sniffles.

When those too stopped, she shuffled up beside him and pressed close to his flank. He allowed it, due to the chill and the chill alone. Refused to acknowledge that little warm flicker in his chest that had little to do with the fire.

“What are you making?” She asked softly from beside him, staring at the fire as if the heat alone might sear any evidence of tears away.

“Lavender tea,” he groused, pouring the water into a mug lest the girl burn herself with impatience. “To help you sleep.”

She thought that over for a moment, then said, “Thank you.” “Hmm.”

“You don’t say much, do you, Geralt?”

He didn’t answer, hoping that would be answer enough. But like Jaskier, the girl had a knack for filling a conversation by herself. The reminder of him panged, ever so slightly. His chest itched.

“That’s alright,” Ciri said. “Grandmother always says…” She paused. Swallowed heavily, but pressed through it, “Said… a man’s word is nothing compared to his actions. You say a lot, Geralt, even if you don’t actually say a lot.”

He didn’t really know what to think about that. Instead he let her babble until the tea, slowly but surely, lured her back to sleep.

He tried not to think of how little he had left of that lavender tea. It was easier to rest, after all, once the girl had settled and fallen back asleep against his thigh, drooling on his trousers. He tried not to think about the warmth in his chest that flickered every time he looked at her. Fate drawn taut between them.

Tried not to think about what would happen, if he didn’t get her to Kaer Morhen in time.

— • —

Standing before a cheap inn room mirror, he realized he was thinning. Not much, but enough to require him to dig a new hole in one of his belts. He’d have to be cautious, he thought as he dragged a shirt on to hide what he already knew. Cautious not to skip too many more meals. One or two did no harm, and he hadn’t thought he let it get so bad. Lose much more weight and his armor wouldn’t fit right. Ill-fitting armor got men killed.

He tried to eat more, but it was hard to swallow these days. What with the petals coming two at a time these days.

He turned, eyed Ciri still curled like a mouse in the middle of the inn bed. Wearing her clothes and her traveling cloak beneath the blankets because it was a cold night even with the fire. Looking so small. She was his to protect now, by Fate and whatever else.

And yet, even as Fate forced him to her, Death continued to dig into him as well. He wondered if the two ever bothered to communicate. Because only one of them would win at this rate – and he worried what would happen to Ciri when Death won.

All the more reason to get to Kaer Morhen.

All the more reason not to get attached.

He took the chair beside the bed, dug his bare feet beneath the blankets just enough to warm the worst of the chill from his toes, and took back to reading. For once, insomnia aided him. No point in trying to sleep. He’d just wake up coughing petals and scare the girl.

He’d read instead. About beasts, about lore, about myths. The instinct of a witcher to keep their mind sharp and attuned to all that they hunt still prevalent even as he was dying.

— • —

Halfway to Kaer Morhen, Ciri saw the petals for the first time. They came in threes now. He didn’t answer when she asked about it. It was easy enough to distract her with something else she dogged him for relentlessly – knife lessons or stories.

Anything to avoid admitting he was dying.

— • —

Insomnia turned suddenly into a need for sleep so great, it startled him. He found himself taking Ciri to more and more inns, because when he slept, sound did little to wake him these days – and that wasn never a good habit for a witcher or a child in the woods.

He slept like a rock, sometimes only for a little while, sometimes until morning or nearly mid-day. And every time, he dreamed.

He woke with songs in his head and familiar scents – fine courtly oils and perfumes, and lilacs and gooseberries. The sharp smell of a man and the soft, round scent of a woman. He woke, mistaking each time that they would be there beside him and they weren’t.

Again, Ciri asked about the flower petals on Geralt’s pillow, in his hair, at the corner of his mouth. Again, she asked about Yennefer. About Jaskier.

Again, he didn’t answer.

They must ride, now more than ever, for Kaer Morhen. It would seem that Fate’s plan for him was this and this alone. Get the child to the safety of his kind. Train her as he can while they ride. Prepare her as much as possible.

And by the gods, whichever gods there may or may not be, ensure Vesemir promised that the trials of transmutation never come within an inch of Ciri’s life.

— • —

“You were talking in your sleep again.”

He leaned up on an elbow to hack into his hand. What landed there felt more solid than a petal or two, but he didn’t bother to look. Not yet. He kept his hand closed, resting on his stomach as the fit passed, and sighed as he finally met Ciri’s gaze.

“And what did I say this time?” He asked, because she’d tell him regardless.

“Their names. Jaskier and Yennefer. Sometimes dandelion, something about gooseberries... I'm not sure... But... you did say that you were sorry.”

She had stopped asking who they were these days. Instead she just glared at him pointedly, as if he were being obstinately obtuse about something. Like a horse run too thin that wouldn’t drink, even when led to water.

Perhaps that’s what he was.

He cleared his throat, felt another petal come to his tongue. Spat it aside, too weary to be more hygienic or secretive than that. Ciri wrinkled her little button nose.

“Careful. Your face will get stuck like that,” he said, baiting her.

“Will not!”

And just like that, he twisted the conversation away again. If only it had been that easy with Jaskier or Yennefer. Maybe then, things wouldn’t have ended up the way they did.

She stomped off, growling something about food, and Geralt made certain only to smile when her back was to him. It felt… strange, to realize he was not going to die alone. Selfish and yet… appeasing. It made the petals a little easier to cough up.

He opened his hand as soon as he was certain she had well and truly left to find them food from the inn kitchen.

That strange feeling in his gut twisted sharply as he took in the sight of two full flowers – a lilac and a forget-me-not. Purple and blue, spattered with spittle and blood, but no less delicate or stunning. He had never known a witcher to vomit two blossoms before. Of course, trust him to be the lucky one to try it.

And yet, even knowing they were killing him, he couldn’t find it in him to crush them.

— • —

“If you miss them so much, why haven’t you gone off to find them?”

“I don’t miss them,” he groused on reflex. She just glowered at him. Evidently some of Geralt was rubbing off on her. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but regardless he tried not to think about how that made something in his chest twinge.

When she would not stop asking, he found himself begrudgingly answering with a petal-rough, “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t see what’s so complicated about it,” she huffed, crossing her arms and avoiding his gaze.

She was concerned for him, he realized. She seemed to think finding them would help, somehow. Perhaps take one last regret off his death bed. Well… two.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” he found himself saying. She glared and refused to speak with him after that. Uncomfortable, but less so than acknowledging the fact that finding Yennefer or Jaskier to apologize was not, in fact, complicated.

And yet, they continued on to Kaer Morhen. As they did, he thought that perhaps he would find them once Ciri was safe. If, of course, he made it that long.

— • —

Ciri began to slip away from the inns while he slept. Never for long. Just a moment… or perhaps longer? He wondered, how long had he slept? He tried not to think about it, because he didn’t quite want to know how bad it had gotten. Plus, Ciri found him alone in the woods that fateful day. She had survived without him once before, and she’d need to be able to live without him once again, when he passed. It was not necessarily a bad thing that she was beginning to take initiative for herself when he slept. Merely disconcerting to find the evidence of lost time.

He asked once what she had been up to.

She lied to him, so sweet and innocently, and Geralt felt a little less worried for her, for when he’d be gone. And as for proud, well… Best not to get attached.

— • —

There was talk of notes appearing in the towns, taverns and inns that led to Kaer Morhen. Slips of paper pierced to trees, left with inn keepers and barmen. But never stuck on job boards.

One note simply said:

Dandelion, Gooseberry, please come. We are headed home. He needs help, I think.

And another:

Come swiftly, he won’t listen to me.

And another still:

Gooseberry, Dandelion… he sleeps too much. He calls your names. I think he is dying of missing you. I’m afraid.

It has been months since they left for Kaer Morhen. Perhaps a month now, that these notes have begun appearing in the towns they’ve stopped in. Some picked up and mocked by drunks. Others, blown away by the wind.

And it was one such note that Fate clings to. It drifted on the changing winds, slipping past trees and dogging the heels of horse hooves without being trampled. It went on a journey, much like Geralt and Ciri’s – a journey home.

A woman with inky hair snatched the little page from the air.

Purple painted nails stood a stark contrast against the torn, weathered page and young handwriting.

Lilac colored eyes read it over thrice, then thrice more.

Then Yennefer of Vengerberg looked out over the field she had been riding through, as though by will alone she might spot Geralt and his child surprise through miles of trees and towns and creatures. A sour wound ached inside her to think of him. It brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

I’m afraid, the child had written.

And the child in Yennefer who had been sold sympathized with that.

Fates be damned, but she did.

— • —

The bard found the note quite by chance. A note, brought to banquet by a noble who found it more a game than a plea – as though the note were some grand riddle for the banquet. Jaskier read the note as it passed around, and instead of adding in to the nobles’ very many stipulations and guesses, he found himself slipping away.

He bartered for a horse, lost himself a rather lovely flask given to him as a lover’s gift, as well as much of his purse and a trinket or too. But he hit the road not long after reading the note. He needed to know if the man was alive. Needed to know what had become of him.

Perhaps there’d be another song in it for him, he convinced himself, smothering his worry beneath that lie.

— • —

He started to expel as many as two or three blossoms throughout the day, even more at night when sleep left him powerless to obstinately smother them. He woke one night gasping, the flowers larger now. Suffocating, as though caught in a drowner’s clammy grip. Ciri pounded on his back. The relief of those thick flowers tumbling from his mouth quickly erased by the pain – howling like a banshee in his chest. He felt full, stuffed to the brim with flowers. So overwhelmed by them, he couldn’t move – couldn’t even begin to fathom how to express it.

And he realized suddenly, as he wiped petals and blood from his mouth as calmly as he could for Ciri’s sake, that this was not the first time he felt smothered. Out of control. Helpless.

He had felt it before – just as painful and cloying – the moment he drove each of them away.

— • —

Inevitably, they found each other on the road. Barbed and falsely polite greetings turned into delicately shaped hedging conversations until finally, they could ignore it no further.

“So what dangerous and thinly veiled lie are you weaving now? Do you ride to the location of your next mark? Eager to ensnare another knight to make king of some backwater, nowhere land?” Jaskier pried, curiously buried beneath distaste and distrust. He remembered still the fight that had brought Geralt to the brink. He had often wondered, on his lonelier nights, if it had been that fight that had drove Geralt to those painful words… or if it truly had been him. It was easier to blame Yennefer.

“Cute, bard. Why yes, I am currently on my way to my next morsel,” she lied easily, grinning with all her teeth as she asked, “And what of you? Looking for a new ‘tall, dark and handsome’ to hide the fact that you are not the hero of yours or anyone’s story? That’s why you only sing of others, yes?”

Jaskier whistled, the sound itself lyrical as they rode along, still in the same direction.

“Wow. What did he see in you?” Jaskier asked, unable to help himself.

“The better question is what did you see in him?” Jennefer shot back, “Are you so spineless a dog that you would let any handsome face beat you?”

“He did not beat me!”

“Not with his hands, no.”

Jaskier scowled, a storm passing over his face. He broke first in their petty silence that followed.

“He asked for me, if you must know.”

“Oh he did?” She purred, eyes twinkling darkly, “How amusing. He asked for me as well.”

“Because you bewitched him, no doubt.”

Yennefer sighed, eyes rolling as she quickly grew bored of him.

“Yes, because a bard has so much to offer an ailing witcher. No matter, we’ll see who he asked for when we get there. Separately, of course. Good luck, bard. I look forward to seeing if you make it,” she said before she urged horse on, leaving Jaskier to scowl behind her.

— • —

Geralt dreamt of younger days.

He dreamt of Kaer Morhen. Of Vesemir.

Of a witcher, no older than thirty, being carried in on a stretcher. Evidently, he had died not far from home, just a town or two over, and had paid to have his body returned to Kaer Morhen. Not as though he needed the money anyway. What was more surprising was that the townsfolk had actually done it.

He arrived, pale and thin. In the crook of his neck and in the halo of his hair Geralt could remember seeing blossoms. Lilies. Beautiful and white against the body, making the corpse look not so much pale in death as ashen.

“This is the fate of witchers,” he remembered Vesemir telling him later by the fire. “We die by the sword, or by the fang… or else, Fate comes for us herself.”

“Why?” Geralt asked.

“There are many theories. No one bothered with any of them. It doesn’t matter, there is no cure. It comes for some of us early. Some, later. There’s no telling. Perhaps it is compensation for the gifts of a witcher… it comes for all of us, boy.”

“And always lilies?”

“…no. The flowers tend to differ.”

— • —

They met again, at an inn this time.

Seeing her there, framed by besotted men and women alike, Jaskier could hold back his ire no longer.

“Why are you going? I heard your little spat, there’s no love lost between you,” Jaskier asked.

When one of her men stood to address him, she easily waved him off, to Jaskier’s surprise. She waited until her gathering left her before she answered. Leaving her with a table of wine and food that made Jaskier’s stomach cramp in jealousy.

“Oh? And I heard yours as well, bard. Have you forgiven him?” Yennefer replied. Voice like spooled silk even as her eyes twinkled cleverly.

“Well, no, but…”

“Exactly.”

“…but would you? If he asked?” Jaskier pried.

A pause.

“Would you?”

Words surprisingly soft for a mage that had cleared a battlefield by sheer will alone.

“I don’t know, I… Yes. I think I would.”

“Why?”

Why… Jaskier thought that over. Why? He found himself thinking of what he had said to Geralt atop that mountain, before the witcher had banished him from his life. I’m just trying to figure out what makes me happy.

“Because I think I know what I want now… Now that I’ve lived without it.”

“Poetic,” Yennefer snorted.

“You’re avoiding the question, Yennefer.”

Something cold stole across her face. A quiet contempt that rivalled anything Geralt had ever directed his way.

“It’s never bade well for any man who’s tried to force me to do anything, Jaskier. You’d do well to heed that lesson while I offer it free of charge.”

“Is that why he’s called for us? Did you curse him?” Jaskier said, words tumbling from his mouth in a rage despite her warning.

“I will say this once and only once, bard. I did not bring harm down upon the witcher for what he did—”

“—and what did he do, Yennefer? Do you even know?” Jaskier exclaimed, nights of dread and overthinking boiling over inside his body.

She rose, and when the barkeep moved to break them up, it was a simple spell to persuade him they were doing nothing wrong at all. The inn collectively looked away from them. Suddenly, Jaskier felt far more like a mouse between a cat’s paws than a man on equal footing with his opponent. Even so, he held his chin up as high as he could manage.

“He wished my fate tied to his,” she snarled, “He stole my choice.”

“Because you had not stolen his? Forced him to terrorize a town?” Jaskier snapped, “Right? And the way I saw things go down, he saved your life!”

“I. Didn’t. Ask.” She said lowly, darkly, each word punctuated by a wealth of frustrations and experience that went far deeper than one argument. Far deeper than one witcher.

The tableware began to tremble.

“Yeah, well, show me your fucking shackles and I’ll see your way of things. Go on. Where are they? What has he demand you do?”

She clenched her jaw, but around her, the tableware stilled.

“You think you’re so clever, bard, and yet here you are – alone. Perhaps he was right to banish you as he did.”

Jaskier stepped back at that, felt each word pierce his chest. But even as he knew she won, he could not help but part with one last thing.

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “But without a doubt he was fortunate that you lost your mind before you destroyed him with your venomous heart.”

He turned and left. Too awake to sleep, too wounded to eat. No need to rest. He might not be Yennefer of Vengerberg, he may not be helpful to Geralt in his hour of need. But he’d be damned if he let that woman beat him there.

— • —

Daydreams began to cling to him, as though sleeping were not enough. Sometimes he thought he could hear the bard trailing his horse, strumming his lute or chattering idly. Sometimes, he’d even respond. Ciri always clung a little tighter to him, then.

He smelled lilacs and gooseberries always. Always, always, always. It crept up on him with the wind, with Ciri’s shifting in the saddle, whenever a blossom slipped past his lips. Even with Ciri’s concern, and her attempts to distract them both with childish questions and wonder and energy, the world felt entirely too silent. Silent like a grave, he thought once, chuckling feverishly – hadn’t this been what he wanted?

His heart panged.

He hummed a ditty Jaskier had once strummed about the tales of witchers and their lack of emotions.

Curious was the dice Fate cast,

the heart she made for witchers.

Aye, they say love comes to them last,

their hearts too cold and withered.

“Ha, but we know better, don’t we, you gentle giant?” Jaskier teased, breaking off his impromptu song. Geralt remembered hands in his hair, oil rubbed into his back. Kindness, where he only had barbs and broken conversations to offer in return.

Kindness, and the sensation of suffocating – drawing breath, in and out, and yet unable to breathe so long as the bard looked at him that way, touched him like that…

“Hmm.”

“What are you grunting about now, Geralt?” Ciri asked, her head heavy when she pushed it back against his chest to look at him, behind her in the saddle as he was.

“…Nothing.”

“Hmm,” she mirrored back.

— • —

“Another letter, song bird,” Yennefer said, riding up beside him on the rode from seemingly nowhere. Jaskier rolled his eyes to the heavens, forcing his face into a pleasant mask as she finally reached him.

“I have a name, you know,” the bard snapped behind a polite smile.

Yennefer chuckled at that, a mirthful twinkle in her eye that made Jaskier on edge – and yet, the more he ran into her, the more and more he understood how addictive trading clever remarks with her could be.

“Yes. Evidently your name is Dandelion,” she purred, leaning toward him.

“Ah, yes, let’s play that game. Because gooseberry is so much better!” He played along, just to see her rise to the occasion.

“Hush, do you want to read it or not?”

Their game came to a surprising halt, surprising enough for him to drop his antics and focus on the note instead. He read it over. Flipping it, in case there was any more on the back. Frowned.

            Gooseberry, Dandelion… he sleeps too much. He calls your names. I think he is dying of missing you. I’m afraid.

He held the note between his fingers before he looked up to catch her gaze, their horses having come to a halt flank to flank.

“Why are you showing me this?”

She watched his face for a long moment, searching for something that made the bard shiver.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Partially I want to see how useful you might be. Partially because our prior spat revealed some… motivations for me. So perhaps it is also a token of gratitude, call it what you will.”

“Gratitude?” Jaskier gaped.

“Yes. I rode to Kaer Morhen before out of a debt for the life he saved that night with the Djinn, whether I asked for it or not. To bring closure to all of… that. But now I’ve realized I cannot let the witcher die until I have some answers. So I suppose if we both must save the witcher – well not both, gods know what you think you’ll do – we might as well ride together instead of annoyingly surprising one another along the way. If you can muzzle your own fangs long enough to travel civilly.”

“Generous of you,” Jaskier snorted.

“I thought so, too,” Yennefer smiled, and again Jaskier was struck by the sudden understanding of how men so easily became ensnared by this woman.

And yet, despite their mutual loathing, the continued on in the same direction and did not part again.

— • —

One night, as he sat by a fire wrapping the gashes a stray griffin had managed to land on him when a coughing fit had made him - for just a moment - stagger. In the end, it hadn't mattered. The griffin had fallen all the same. But even so, the wound stung. A reminder of his words with Jaskier. When do witchers retire? When they slow.

He startled from his thoughts with a grunt when Ciri suddenly slipped from her bedroll, coming over and silently pressing against his flank. He had no more lavender tea to offer. Hadn't, for some time. But still she came to sit with him some nights. Sometimes she spoke, sometimes she didn't. Regardless, this time began to grow on him. More and more, he found it bordering on... pleasant.

"You scared me," she finally whispered, eyes on his hands as he worked the bandage around his forearm. He hummed at that. Felt the warmth in his chest flicker and constrict strangely.

"Griffins are intimidating, but I doubt we'll see another on our way to Kaer Morhen," he said, trying to soothe her.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

And he did. He did. He finished with the bandage before finally stretching out, warming his feet near the fire.

"I don't want to watch anyone else die because of me," she whispered. He could feel her tremble against his side. Knew it wasn't because of the cold. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

Despite every instinct of his training that screamed for him to keep distance, to no get attached, he gently brought an arm around Ciri's shoulders and said, "I know..."

And not for the first time, he wished he had something better to say.

— • —

Despite Geralt's cruel words, even now Jaskier could not tolerate endless silence. He traded barbs with his traveling companion, or at least, it started that way. But slowly barbs turned into idle chatter. Idle chatter drew out into passionate judging of various courtly men and ladies. Stories of parties gone wrong, banquets gone strange, wild nights. And even, eventually, tales about themselves.

As days passed, Jaskier found that jagged edge of contempt for Yennefer softening inside him. Steadily, like a grind stone, each day peeling another layer from him. He sang songs to cheer her up. Listened as slowly Yennefer offered small bits of herself to him one piece at a time. Tiny, fragile bits that slowly began to make a picture the more of him he collected.

And likewise, he exposed himself as well. Not all at once, not knowingly. But one day they rode and Jaskier realized that they had not once said something venomous to one another. Sharp, cutting sarcasm - sure. But nothing more. The more he knew of her, the more he understood what had driven Geralt and Yennefer apart. What had terrified the woman so dearly as to flee him like that.

At night, they shifted from a fire between them to resting flank to flank. To seeking refuge in another warm body. The sought comfort and warmth at night and during the day, they made a marry match wringing coin from inns along the way - just enough to eat and be on their way. At first it was nothing more than that. 

Until a man laid hand on him at a tavern kitchen just as he was going to order food and drink for them both.

"Don't I know you from somewhere, boy?" The beast of a man asked, towering over Jaskier enough to make him gulp. He flashed the man a nervous smile.

"No, I don't think I've had the pleasure," he stammered, trying to free his hand without making a scene. "Just passing through, you see."

The man didn't let him free. Instead he loomed forward, squinting at him, cheeks rosy with drink. Breath hot and sour.

"But you've had the pleasure of my wife now, haven't you?"

"No," Jaskier wheezed, but it was too late. The man, regardless of its truth, had fastened to the assumption like a dog with a bone.

"Aye! She described you. Scrawny boy of a man! You piece of shit, you--" he drew his hand back, high over his shoulder. His fist was balled up more like a mallet than any human hand, in Jaskier's humble opinion. He closed his eyes and tried to shield himself as best he could, one hand still caught in the meaty vice of the other's grip. He waited for the blow to land.

But it never did.

"You'll let my traveling companion go," Yennefer said, appearing from behind the large man, a strange glow to her hands and her eyes - subtle, yet dangerous. "You'll hand us your purse as a token of humility for ruining our peaceful rest here at this establishment. And then you'll go home to your wife and ask her why she let another man lay with her. I promise you'll find it enlightening."

"A-aye," the man said, releasing Jaskier's bruised wrist to relieve himself of his purse - eyes dull and movements slow. Jaskier watched numbly as the man did as he was bid and disappeared. 

"Incredible," Jaskier mumbled, then - eyes flitting to Yennefer to ask her why she had helped - he felt time slow as a man drew up beside her. He had a knife in his hand. He'd obviously not taken well to the open display of magic, and while most of the patrons had been content to look away and let sleeping dogs lie, this man evidently couldn't resist the opportunity to avenge his friend.

Jaskier grabbed the neck of his lute as he called to her. Watched as she spun to see the man coming, hands rising, but not before Jaskier had his lute up and swinging through the air. It arced above her, it's wooden body crashing against the man's skull. It made an awful racket. He heard a telling crunch. And then Yennefer took the man's surprise to send a force of will against him, throwing him across the inn and through a table. 

Jaskier's chest heaved. His hand trembled around the neck of his lute, the strings cutting into his palms. He could feel that several had come loose.

"We should go, I think," he said, voice shaky, high off the thrill of the fight.

"Indeed," she said, and when she turned back to him, her eyes were alight in a curiously beautiful way.

They didn't stay in that town, but they left it with a heavier coin purse. And as they rode off, Jaskier lamented the death of his lute - it's barreled body cracked and warped.

"A noble death for a noble lute," he crowed dramatically, "Rest well, my sweet friend."

Yennefer eyed him and the lute curiously, something masked in the gesture, before she finally asked, "Would you like for me to fix it?"

His gaze shot up, skeptical and yet...

"Would you?"

She watched him a moment, then nodded.

"When we stop for the night, I shall fix it."

"I... thank you."

She hummed. "For the lute or for saving your ass?"

"The lute, well, both I guess, I -- why did you save my ass, by the way?"

She shrugged.

"No one touches my bard," she said. He grinned at that, something that had been dull in his chest for so long flickering weakly. "Plus, if you can fight like that, I see why Geralt called for you. I can't simply show up alone, can I? He called for us both."

"The girl called for us both," he clarified, still unsure of how Geralt would react when he saw them. "But I... I'm honestly not sure how I'll help. I can hardly swing my lute at every problem."

"Oh? Your lute saved Geralt from his reputation. Saved me from a knife, though I'd likely have stopped it," she grinned, eyes twinkling as she looked at him. "I think you're a lot more useful than you give yourself credit for these days, dandelion."

Jaskier smiled as they fell into an easy banter, eagerly joining Yennefer in her biting comments about the men who had tried to attack them and no doubt their size of their manhoods. It reminded him of the joy of traveling with another.

He wondered what it might be like in a group of four. The thought awoke a sleepy, distant hope in his chest.

— • —

Geralt barely made it to Kaer Morhen.

The estate had just began to creep up from over the hill and tree line when he felt his throat swell once more, worse than before. Thick and bulging. He could feel them in his neck, clogged and demanding release. He wheezed. In the saddle before him Ciri stirred from her nap – twisting just in time to see Geralt fall from the saddle with a loud thump and nothing more.

She scrambled from the horse. Babbled fearfully to Roach, her hands tiny and cold against him as she beat his back, tried to force him breathe.

He vomited a handful of blossoms onto the road that led home. Three full retches of lilacs and forget-me-nots and blood. When the last blossom left his lips, he sucked in a ragged breath of air. It agitated his lungs, and when he coughed next, petals and blood followed.

He could hear Ciri crying, and a roaring of blood and dread in his ears.

The edges of his vision grew ashen and blurry.

He never apologized, he realized. He never saw either of them again. Yennefer. Jaskier.

The blossoms crowding his lungs shivered like reeds in a stiff wind.

He barely saw Roach nibbling and pulling at Ciri’s collar. Leading her away.

He barely saw the road when it rushed up to greet his face.

— • —

Two travelers stopped their horses just outside the touring outline of Kaer Morhen. The anxious stomping of their mares’ hooves cast the little pile of blood dappled flowers that caught their attention to drift idly in the middle of the road.

“Lilacs and forget-me-nots... A shrine, you think?” Jaskier asked.

“In the middle of the road? Unlikely.”

Jaskier followed her gaze to the towering estate ahead.

“Is that Kaer Morhen?” He asked.

“Hmm… yes, Dandelion. It is.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” He asked. Even as he knew.

Yennefer was searching inside herself for that thread of Fate she was certain Geralt had cursed her with. Searching constantly for the answer to one question – was this her will or the will of a witcher’s wish?

Whatever answer she found, it must have been enough to push her forward. When she urged her horse along, Jaskier did not comment. He merely followed, grateful that she had.

Whatever was wrong with Geralt, it was unlikely that Jaskier would be able to fix it. As much as he was flattered to have been included in the note, he knew it was Yennefer that mattered.

He knew that had he not come, he would have easily been forgot.

— • —

Geralt woke in the middle of hurried orders and frantic hands. He was shuffled and rolled from a stretcher to a bed. The room was warm, covered in shelves and cabinets, all glimmering with bottles and herbs and tinctures. He knew this room. He’d been here before.

A weathered hand brushed the hair from his sweaty brow, then plucked a blossom from the corner of his mouth. Geralt’s breath whistled harshly as people scattered, all with their individual orders from Vesemir.

“The girl?” Geralt croaked.

“Safe. She’s safe.”

Three words. Three words, and he let self-control – what little he had of it – slip from him like the strings of a puppet suddenly cut. What strength he had left fled him. He melted into the mattress, keen to enjoy that simple comfort now that his task was done. He waited for Fate to release its hold on him. To feel that final tether cut, his body free of this place.

He waited. And waited. And must have muttered something confused and pained about it, because Vesemir merely placed a damp cloth to his forehead and said, “Not yet, lad. Not yet.”

— • —

Vesemir sat at Geralt’s bedside, twirling the stems of two flowers between thumb and forefinger: a lilac and a forget-me-not. He watched them dance, drying out now from the heat of the room. And then, he finally set them aside to look at the man that occupied Kaer Morhen’s sickbed.

The white wolf, while still towering and broad, looked so small in that bed. Even as his feet did not quite get spared from hanging over its end, he looked small. Young. Like a boy again, almost. Or perhaps that was just the wistfulness in Vesemir.

He had never seen a witcher expel two blossoms before.

Trust Geralt of Rivia to surprise him.

— • —

A small girl stood at the gate to Kaer Morhen as though she alone could protect every soul inside. Her little hands were fisted at her sides, tears in her eyes. She appeared ready to scream, of all things.

“Is that… a little girl? I thought they only took boys here?”

“Yes, Dandelion, your powers of observation continue to astound.”

Hostility melted from the girl like snow thawing. Her hands unclenched. Her teary eyes, if possible, seemed to glimmer with further moisture.

“Dandelion? Gooseberry?” She asked, voice warbling despite how she tried to be brave.

“Aye, child.”

“You found my letters.”

“Letters is a bit of a strong word—ow!” Jaskier snapped, cradling the arm Yennefer had pinched.

“Where is he?” Yennefer asked.

Ciri didn’t say another word. She took off running. And despite their courtly demeanors, Yennefer and Jaskier followed – running.

— • —

“What did this to him?” Yennefer asked, watching Geralt hack deliriously as Vesemir eased him toward the side of the bed where the blood, petals and blossoms might fall harmlessly. He looked thin. Like a starved wolf.

“Nothing,” Vesemir said once the fit had passed, easing the feverish man back into the pillows, eyes already closed. “This is the way of witchers. We die to the blade, or the fang, or this.”

“No, that’s… no,” Jaskier stumbled, searching for any line to hang onto. “Surely there’s a cure?”

“A cure I simply haven’t given him yet?” Vesemir asked dryly, brow raised.

“How has word of this never spread?” Yennefer asked instead. “Have you sought council anywhere?”

“Very few care enough for witchers to be concerned for how they die,” Vesemir said. Jaskier and Yennefer both grew quiet, unable to call it a lie. Not when the bard had spent so long trying to fix that very reputation. Not when Yennefer knew first hand it was true. They’d both been to more than one town affixed with signs warning witchers not to pass through.

“What do we do?” Jaskier croaked.

Vesemir quietly got up to leave, then as he passed brought a hand up to Jaskier’s shoulder, squeezed it, then left.

— • —

He dreamt of a bed that had Yennefer and Jaskier both in it. He dreamt of them at either side of him. Yennefer’s fingers tracing his face, his scars. Jaskier’s hands in his hair, rubbing the aches from his shoulders, his back. Sometimes a small hand found his and held it firmly, as if it alone could lead him home.

Everything smelled of lilacs, gooseberries and forget-me-nots.

And occasionally, of Ciri.

— • —

“We could find another Djinn. Wish him better. Or wish him to be human!”

Yennefer spun on him and were Geralt not cradled so weakly in the bard’s arms, her glare might have been more furious. She growled, “No Djinn.”

“Sensitive,” the bard muttered. She thought about hurting him. He was lucky Geralt was in his lap.

“Then what… there’s nothing?”

“There’s never nothing,” Yennefer murmured, returning to her pacing, fingers flipping through one of many books she had taken from Kaer Morhen’s shelf to no avail. “Merely the unexplored, the unexplained.”

“His nails are blue, Yennefer,” Jaskier said weakly.

“I’m aware,” she snapped.

And when the bard didn’t rise to the bait, instead focused on fussing over the limp witcher in his lap – then, worry bled into fear. Then, Yennefer felt helpless.

— • —

Geralt called for them in his sleep.

It made the bard ache to hear his name said like that. Jaskier whined like the puppy he was, eager to return to his master even after he was struck. It made Yennefer sick to watch, knowing what the man had said to the bard. She scowled, that sour taste back in her mouth.

He called for her, too.

It made Yennefer furious. What right had he to mourn her name after what he did? And yet, she could not make herself leave. Not when she still didn’t know if Fate had forced her life to this point or not. Not when she still didn’t know what he had wished…

And yet still she came to him when he called for her. For reasons she could not explain, she soothed him as best she could. Perhaps she was no better than the bard. Perhaps they both wanted nothing more than an easy excuse to forgive, before it was too late.

— • —

Yennefer left. To do what, she had barely tried to describe and Jaskier had barely tried to understand. He stroked limp hair from Geralt’s brow. Ran a cloth over the worst of the man’s fever.

“Sorry this is the best that I can offer right now. A rag is nothing compared to Yennefer's gifts, but I can’t very well go writing songs about this, Geralt,” he said as cheerfully as he could muster, as though nothing were wrong. As if Geralt only had a cold. As if the man weren’t dying. “Not unless you have a happily-ever-after planned. Otherwise, I’ll get run out of any bar I sing at.”

He waited for the grunt he had gotten used to, even after so long without the man. Waited for a baleful glare, anything. Geralt just kept wheezing, the sound getting threadier and threadier.

The silence drew his false bravado to an exhausted halt. Stirred an ancient ache in the face of more of Geralt’s famous silence.

“I should hate you,” Jaskier whispered. “I want to hate you so much. You know, I thought this would go a lot differently. I used to sit up at night thinking about what I’d say when I saw you again. Had a lot clever words for you too. Now I can’t use them, you bed-ridden bastard. Hardly sporting…”

He pinched Geralt, just to see if he would wake, then immediately felt guilty for it.

“I should hate you,” he mumbled, fingers tracing a scar near the skin he had pinkened with his pinch. “The things you said to me… and I did, for a long time, I think. I did hate you. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt bad for you, Geralt. Everyone says witchers can’t feel, but… I think you can. I think you can, and even you lot fell for that wives’ tale, and now you just don’t know what to do with it all. Bit like a child,” Jaskier laughed weakly. “An overgrown, dual-sword wielding child… I haven’t forgiven you. Not yet. And I won’t, if you die, I won’t. I demand a proper apology. So you better fucking get better, Geralt of Rivia, or I’ll…”

Jaskier blew out a breath, suddenly tired, the fight fleeing him. He took Geralt’s hand, gaze caught where his thumb stroked calloused skin.

“You just better,” he whispered lamely, at a loss for words. 

Geralt didn’t answer, so Jaskier filled the silence as best he could. He sang, hoping it lead the witcher home. He'd take a snide comment relating his music to filling-less pie any day if it meant Geralt would live. So he sang. He filled the silence as best he could and waited for Yennefer, feeling helpless all the while. 

"Curious was the dice Fate cast,

the heart she made for witchers.

Aye, they say love comes to them last,

their hearts too cold and withered.

 But alas, I saw a witcher love,

when he thought no one was looking.

Spared a smile for naught but just his horse,

and whispered kindness when she whickered."

— • —

“How much time do we have?”

“It’s hard to say,” Vesemir admitted. “…not long.”

The words hurt more than Yennefer thought they would. Far more, in fact. For if her fate were tied to his, or her heart relentlessly forced to love him, she should feel relief that his suffering would soon be over. Peace, maybe. Sadness, of course, but not the bitter sort she had lodged up in her chest. It was nothing like the mourning of besotted widowers. No. It was an ugly, cold, twisted sort of sadness. The bitter remnants of a relationship that could have been, but went unfulfilled. And there, beneath it, hatred for ever having wished for something that would tie the two of them together. Hatred, when he knew the life she had led, had tried to escape from. If she were forced to love him, would she be able to feel that hate? Should it even be possible?

What had he wished for?

Soon, she’d never know. Unless she asked.

— • —

It was a simple spell to lure Dandelion asleep. Simpler still to use a collection of herbs from the witchers’ pantry to wake Geralt, if only for a moment. She had never seen a witcher’s eyes so hazy. He appeared barely able to recognize her.

“Yen?” he croaked, sounding as if he expected her to be a mirage rather than a flesh and blood woman. Something in her panged at that. There were petals at the corner of his mouth again. Lilacs.

“What did you wish for, Geralt?”

His brow furrowed, then warped into something she had not expected to see – regret.

“I’m sorry, Yennefer,” he rasped, the words ruined by hacking that echoed in his chest, ugly and painful.

“Geralt, please,” she said, grabbing his face to focus him as the fit passed, “I must know.”

“I couldn’t let you go,” he whispered madly, eyes distant as she rubbed his face, tilted his gaze to her, did anything to keep him with her.

“You bound me,” she repeated, urging him to confirm her fears, her anger, “Tied my fate to yours.”

Would she die if he did, she wondered? Would the flowers come for her, too? They should, were their fates tied, and yet… she was fine.

“Couldn’t let you die.”

There was something urgent in the amber of his eyes as he said that. Something unidentifiable and yet so familiar. It drew her breath to a pause; the intimacy of it frightening.

“What did you wish for, Geralt?” She repeated.

He chuckled, eyes rolling weakly, tiredly. She urged his attention back to her with her hands, the softness of her fingers, a hint of magic.

“Geralt.”

“I wished,” Geralt babbled weakly, easily lost in each word, “I wished…”

As his head lolled in her hands, a voice startled Yennefer like a loud noise might make a cat arch its back. She twisted to look behind her, surprised to find Ciri there in the doorway, watching them, as she said, “He wished Fate give you a second chance.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed at the little girl. She eased Geralt back into the pillows and asked, “He told you this?”

“He talks in his sleep.”

A second chance…

“A second chance at what?”

“I don’t know… life?” Ciri asked, shrugging.

A second chance at life. A second chance to live her life, a life where the Djinn hadn’t killed her. It would mean their encounters had been by chance, their feelings by chance, their… Their fight by chance. Why had he not said? Why not merely say what his wish had been?

Because… a wish uttered again after having been asked was no longer a wish. How many children refused to tell their wishes due to that fear? A childish fear perhaps made all too real by the risk if it were true. And, unable to tell her the truth, would she have believed him had he denied tying their fates together without admitting the truth?

“You moron,” she snarled beneath her breath, unsure as to who it was for. Him? Herself?

Why would a witcher who hated Fate ever wish to tie her to himself? Why would a witcher who had no choice in his own occupation, his own life, ever steal that from another? Ever steal that from her, a woman who spent her life making up for the decisions that had been taken from her?

She stood suddenly, moving for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ciri asked, startled. And yet, surprisingly, she didn’t move from the doorway. Blocking it, as slight as she was, like a bulldog.

Yennefer considered her question, considered her bravery, and despite her ire at being held up, found a certain fondness spreading in her for Geralt’s child surprise. For the child he had gotten, but she could never have.

“To try and find a cure.”

Her little mouth pursed at that, conflicted. She balled up her fists.

“You better come back,” she finally said.

“I will,” she promised.

“He’s worse when he misses you two,” Ciri explained, as though Yennefer didn’t understand the stakes.

“I will be back before he wakes,” she said, without regard as to whether or not that was possible.

Ciri just nodded at that and stepped aside. As Yennefer passed, she found herself pausing, looking down on the pale little head that had become the witcher’s shadow.

“Take care of him for me while I’m gone, won’t you?”

She glared up at her at that, mouth twisted as she said, “I have been!”

Yennefer just smiled, more and more smitten with this little firecracker of a girl.

Thank Fate Geralt had her with him. Otherwise…

Yennefer refused to dwell on it.

— • —

She showed the two blossoms to many people. Anyone she dared share audience with and a few, even, she should not have. Witchers kept their secrets well, it would seem. No affluent mage she knew of had an answer. Deals and bargains and lies, plenty – but no truthful cure.

She stood on a cliffside overlooking the sea, salt air whipping her hair, as she tried to come to terms with the knowledge that she was too late. Too late to find a cure. Too late in realizing Geralt was an emotionally constipated man-baby prone to fretful wives’ tales and childish beliefs about wishes. Too late in understanding that she had wasted her chance to spend his wish with him.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

She turned slowly, exhausted and hollowed out, to see a woman standing behind her on the bluffs. A plain looking woman, no doubt a humble village witch. Simple, barely talented. It took only one look to see that she was more kind than she was skilled.

“Who asks?”

“Maria,” she said gently, then smiled softly as she said, “Fate bid me finish sending you on your way.”

She stilled at that. Were it not for the honest kindness in the woman’s eyes, she might have thought it a threat. Still did, in a way.

“Send me where?”

“Home,” she said, “To your second chance.”

— • —

Jaskier felt he might vomit as he watched the witcher convulse, mouth full of flowers. He did as Vesemir had taught him and eased the man onto his side so the flowers pose less a risk of choking him. He didn’t realize he was crying as he babbled to soothe the witcher, to soothe himself. Anything to smother the terrible sound of Geralt’s wheezing.

“It’s okay,” he said, over and over, “Yennefer will figure it out. We’ve got you. It’s okay.”

A hot hand grabbed his forearm, so weak for the man Jaskier once saw split a creature clean in half with one slash of his sword. He could feel the heat of Geralt’s fever through his shirt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt croaked, voice so ragged now that to call it a whisper would have been generous.

“Yes? Geralt?” Jaskier asked, eager for his friend to be awake after so long feverish and asleep. “Do you need something?”

“Not a dream?” Geralt rasped.

“No, Geralt. It’s not a dream.”

“You’re here?”

His confusion drew Jaskier’s gut to a tight knot.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Need to… tell you….”

Geralt grew still and limp, asleep once more, hand still clutching Jaskier’s forearm. The bard pat that hand, then reached to grab the cool rag. He ignored the way his hand shook. Vesemir watched from the doorway. Silent and as close to mournful as witchers ever tended to look.

— • —

Yennefer ran her horse ragged, once again cursing the barriers that prevented her from teleporting into Kaer Morhen. Her horse’s breath sent large, hot plumes out into the cold night. It beat a steady thrum into the ground.

She willed Fate get her there in time. Willed Geralt hold on.

— • —

She found him canted over the side of the bed, Vesemir and Jaskier both holding him up as he purged flowers onto the ground, adding to a little heap already there and growing – fresh, splattered with little drops of red.

His arm shook fiercely where it braced itself on the bed. There was no cognizance in his eyes, just suffering – feverish, confused and pained. Ciri cried, curled in the corner, too afraid to move, too attached to leave.

She knelt beside his flowers, hands cradling his face even as Vesemir bade her leave him be. That he might choke. His throat bulged with regret and pining. Flowers tumbled from his lips. But when she called his name, forcing will into the word, he opened his eyes to look at her. Glazed, aching. Wanting relief in any form – be it cure or death.

She wiped a petal from the corner of his mouth.

“You wished for a second chance for me,” she said. Something akin to clarity cut into his eyes.

“Yennef—” another plume of lilacs spilled from his mouth. His body shook with the effort of purging the blossoms, now fully flowers. She could count his ribs, less than his scars and yet nearly more striking.

“So you cannot die,” she said fiercely, forcing him to look at her, “Because I’ve decided I want you to be part of my second chance, Geralt of Rivia. You are mine. Ours,” she said, looking pointedly at the bard.

“Yennefer, now is not the—“Jaskier started, but Vesemir cut him off with a hand over the bard’s mouth, eyes wide as he said, “You found your answers.”

Yennefer did not answer him. There was no time.

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” she said, and then she kissed him. His lips were chapped, his skin hot and clammy. She could feel petals on her lips. He reeked of flowers and death. And yet, in her hands, his jaw ceased some of its shaking. She pulled back to find some cognition return to his eyes.

“Yenn—” He began, relief somewhere in the words before forget-me-nots took their place, landing in her lap harmlessly.

“Jaskier,” she said, drawing the bard’s attention, “Our conversation from before… Have you forgiven him or not?”

“I have, but I’m no magician, Yen, I can’t—”

“You can. In fact, only you can.”

He stared at her with owlish eyes, then scrambled to action all at once, limbs thin and lanky as he twisted himself uncomfortably to reach Geralt’s face. He brushed petals and blood from the corners of the man’s mouth and took in the face of the man who had been, for so long, larger than life. This man who had wounded him with words and blame and barbs.

“I need… to tell you…”

Geralt had never finished… but he didn’t need to. Not yet, at least.

“I love you,” Jaskier said, eyes caught on feverish amber ones. “I have always loved you.”

A second kiss. In Yennefer’s lap and in the pile beside her, one by one the flowers turned to dust. In the bed, in Geralt’s hair, in his cloths. All of them faded – disappearing as though they had never been.

As Jaskier pulled away, Geralt let out a soft, relieved sigh, finally free of his wheezing. It was his first clear breath in weeks. And with it, his eyes closed – not in weariness or pain, but relief. He melted into the bard’s arms, startling the man before Yennefer could calm him.

“He’s fine, Dandelion,” she said, her hand seeking Geralt’s from beside the bed. “He’ll be fine.”

“How did you…?” Vesemir trailed off, shocked. Ciri slipped past him, worming her way onto the bed to clutch at Geralt, curl into him, hide her face.

“We need to have a talk about your clan’s opinion of feelings, Master Witcher,” Yennefer said politely, words professional even as her eyes howled. “And how it’s killing you all. But we’ll do that all in good time.”

And then she made room for herself on the crowded bed, needing to touch her witcher, her bard, her child-surprise. Because anything that was Geralt’s was now hers, and she felt in her marrow those strings of Fate fettering them all together. The strings she had chosen; anchoring and taut.

— • —

Death of the Pining Flowers, Hanahaki, the Pining Petals, the disease of the lonely… it had many names and yet, few stories and fewer cures. The result of love not returned. Rare but for those who could not move on, and even then, it rarely took hold. But for witchers, born and bred and raised to ignore their emotions, it was a breeding ground for suffering. The more they smothered what they could not understand, the more they buried, the more it grew and festered until it made gardens of their bodies – their hearts, assumed to be hollow by the training and trials that made them, filled with the proof that witchers could, in fact, feel. Petals upon petals of proof.

So full of feelings, in fact, that it killed them.

Cured only when those feelings were returned.

To think, they had almost lost their witcher to petals.

Once he woke, they didn’t let him leave his bed for days. They fed him slowly but surely. Comforted him, nursed him. And Geralt, bewildered all the while, wasn’t quite strong enough to do much about it.

— • —

“You came,” he said to Yennefer, his hands curled in her hair as she lay beside him.

“Hmm.”

She did it to prove a point, and he found it both amusing and frustrating.

“Yen,” Jaskier said from Geralt’s other side, “Be nice, the man just spent months coughing up flowers, he loved you so much.”

She hummed at that again, her gaze moving from Jaskier to Geralt as she said, “Yes, I came.”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” She asked.

“Yes.”

She leaned back into the pillows at that, eyes lifting to count the beams in the ceiling.

“I hated you… but that didn’t mean I could just sit back and watch you die, either. At first, that was enough, but… I already admitted my love to you, Geralt, how often are you going to demand I reaffirm it? Ask your bard, he’ll sing it for you, I bet.”

Geralt grunted, something close to a chuckle, as he turned to Jaskier.

“And you… why did you come?”

“The gooseberry nailed it, Geralt.”

“Call me gooseberry again and I’ll remove one of your gooseberries, bard.”

Jaskier continued on as if she hadn’t just threatened his manhood. Their familiarity stunned Geralt. Jaskier had not paled at all at the threat. If anything, he smiled.

“But for me, I guess… I never hated you, Geralt. Hated what you said, how you treated me? Yes. But you? …how could I stay away?” Jaskier finally said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, as if just remembering, “I need to tell you. I…”

He stuttered. His guts coiled, his instincts screaming. Feelings got you killed. He’d miss something, he’d get killed, get them all killed, he’d—

Jaskier waited. Strangely patient.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, the words just as choking as the flowers had been, making him shudder even as he felt relief for finally having said it. Like finally cleaning the grit from an old wound, sore but finally healing.

“Well that certainly took a lot out of you,” Jaskier said dryly, one brow arched.

Geralt hung his head, torn between instinct and his lame apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said more firmly. “I… the things I said, none of it was true. You didn’t ruin my life. I did. When I pushed both of you away.”

“Good boy,” Yennefer purred from beside him, patting his shoulder. Making Geralt scowl ever so slightly as Jaskier chuckled, pecking the corner of his mouth.

“Stale, but oddly generous, for a witcher. That’s practically a speech in witcher, isn’t it, Yen?”

“As close to as one we’ll get, I think.” She chuckled.

“You’re both insufferable,” Geralt groused with no real heat.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, then,” Jaskier grinned.

“Though I’d prefer a little more better,” Yennefer said, her chin on Geralt’s chest as she looked between them all, “So we might all feel better together.”

Geralt grunted, caught between two grinning foxes. Suddenly not alone, suddenly caught with two lovers.

“The girl’s asleep in the chair,” he cautioned, both grateful and mournful about it.

“As I said, when you’re more better,” Yennefer pointed out. “It can wait. We’ve got nothing but time, after all.”

Fate thrummed in the threads that connected them all together, strong and soothing. And for once, Geralt found comfort in that.

For once, he found peace.

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

preview

one of my beta’s pointed out one of my fics was a little too depressing. So here I am fixing some of the things I never finished writing, and trying to add some fluffier nonsense. When I finish it and my beta has a chance to edit it, it’ll go up on ao3. This is just the newest section of the chapter I had no idea i hadn’t finished like... 2 months ago... yep. .... don’t... yeah. I know. When I finish this section I’ll finish the other fic that’s... basically done anyway.... and then... get back to work on this one again... but like... the other chapter... I didn’t finish that I didn’t forget about i Just had to reread an entire novel to make sure i wasn’t flubbing it. (I do research. See? I care?) 

When morning comes Geralt reluctantly pulls himself out of bed. He splashes his face with cold water from the basin and it does little to wake him up. Grateful for a small mirror he scrapes away days of facial hair from his jaw with a little sigh of relief. That task accomplished, he binds his hair back from his face and heads down the stairs to find himself some food. There’s not much else to be done. His leg is stiff but less horrible than usual, and while he’s still tired, it’s not the same bone-deep weariness that had been dragging at him earlier. Amazing what a night in a bed will do. 

Able to get some things they can eat, he heads back upstairs to their room and settles the dishes quietly on the small vanity table. He avails himself of the salve Yennefer has been using on his leg and sighs in relief. He feels a bit like an addict. Every few hours he needs his fix or he won’t survive. He glances at Ciri, glad she’s still asleep in Yennefer’s arms. Silently he resettles the jar on the table and picks at some of the food. 

Having gone to sleep earlier than the others, Ciri wakes up and finds Geralt not in bed with her. She looks around blankly and sees him sitting at the table. She gets up to join him and nibbles at some of the bread. Not awake enough to be truly interested in food she picks up the comb and starts working the snarls out of her ashen hair. By the time she’s done she’s awake enough to make a face at Geralt and remove his headband. He glares but she looks over at Yennefer and raises her eyebrows at him. 

He silently concedes her point and she brushes out his hair and ties it back with thread so that he won’t need the headband. Yennefer’s right, it does look stupid, Ciri feels. Kissing his forehead when she’s done, she feels awake enough to properly eat breakfast. He shows her how to peel a fruit she’s never seen before and they eat together in companionable silence. 

When Yennefer starts to rouse, Geralt knows she’ll wake the bard whether he’s ready or not. They should be moving on soon. He’s been seen, and people will comment on the white-haired witcher moving among them. Better not to give Skellen or Rience a chance to catch up with them. 

The witcher and his girl slowly pack up their things as Yennefer gets up and washes her face before brushing out her hair. She offers Geralt the salve for his leg and he shakes his head, indicating he’s already found it. He’s starting to smell a bit like the elderberry used along with Stellaria Media and what he thinks might be rosemary. There’s arnica, too, he knows, and while the smells together aren’t all that pleasant at least it helps. Ciri helps Yennefer with her notes and various bottles. As she packs, Yennefer fills her stomach with the meagre offerings Geralt had managed to get them. She wonders if perhaps she should send the bard down to get them more food. Noting he’s still asleep she debates how best to wake him up. 

The unfortunate victim of that look many a time, Geralt chooses to wake Dandelion himself. With gentle caresses and a kiss or two he manages to rouse his sleeping lover. He’s rewarded for his ministrations with a soft smile and cornflower blue eyes regarding him steadily. “We need to get moving,” he tells Dandelion. 

“I might uh, need a little help,” the bard flutters his eyelashes a bit. 

“With what?” Geralt asks. 

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m all the way awake yet,” he drawls. “Perhaps a few more kisses would help?” 

Ciri makes retching sounds behind them as Geralt leans over to oblige. Dandelion makes a rude gesture in her direction that makes her laugh. A few moments later, Geralt pulls away to make sure his things are packed and ready. He also wouldn’t mind stealing some kisses from the sorceress while he waits for the bard to get ready. She chuckles a bit when he pulls her aside to kiss her and ignores Ciri’s complaints about them all being disgusting. 

“It could be worse, Ciri,” she warns, violet eyes dancing in amusement. “It’s just kissing,” she adds knowing full well if they had somewhere safe Ciri could go it would be a lot more than just kissing. She allows Geralt a few more seconds of her time before she pulls away. “Best to start getting the horses ready,” she kisses his cheek and smiles at him. She knows he’s disappointed. There will be plenty of other chances to steal kisses along the road. 

“Go with her,” Geralt tells Ciri. “Kelpie is liable to end up a pile of ashes if you don’t. I’ll be down next,” he tells her. Dandelion is finishing up his own breakfast and working to wake himself up the rest of the way. He’d mostly repacked the night before, seeing no need to make his own life any harder.

 Food finished, face and hands washed, he looks at Geralt, who is waiting anxiously for him by the door. “It takes them longer to saddle up than it does us,” he reminds Geralt, thinking that’s what the witcher is upset about. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up his saddle bags and doing one last sweep of the room. His lute is already slung ‘round his shoulders. 

“We’re….” Geralt coughs and his throat squeezes. They had fought, and then just ignored it. Which was somewhat unlike Dandelion. Not that Geralt could think of any resolution to the problem other than to ignore it. 

Dandelion strides across the room and hugs Geralt tightly. “We’re alright, my love, we’re alright,” he promises. “We’ve had spats before,” he presses kisses against Geralt’s cheeks and neck. “We will again, but I imagine we’ll always be alright after. How could I stay angry with you?” 

“You’d find a way,” Geralt mumbles. “If you truly wanted to, you’d find a way.” 

“I could never want to,” Dandelion protests. Geralt had never much seemed to care if they got into tiffs before they’d started sleeping together. The bard cups his cheeks and forces Geralt to meet his eyes. “Love is many things Geralt, but the kind of love I have for you is more than anything I feel you could imagine. We’re human, we’ll make mistakes, but Love, Geralt, love does not anger, it does not boast, and it will not allow us to ruin everything over an argument any more than we ever ruined our friendship. Love keeps no record of wrongs.”

Geralt leans in to the touch and kisses the bard, pressing him into the wall. 

“Geralt, you understand I wasn’t even angry with you, right? Perhaps things got heated because of how you avoid dealing with things or answering them. But I wasn’t angry with you. Just, the world has hurt you and I wish I could undo it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry we’ll butt heads again. Please know how much I love you.” 

The witcher nods, but he has nothing to say. So he kisses Dandelion instead, trying to show he understands, and he agrees. They probably will pick another fight eventually, they’re both criminally stubborn. It takes him a few seconds, but he remembers that they need to leave. And that the women are already downstairs in the stables saddling horses and will not be pleased that he and the bard chose to dally. With a groan of irritation, Geralt pulls away, wishing he didn’t have to. From what he could feel against his hip, the bard isn’t any happier than he is about the situation. 

“Geralt?” 

“Stables,” he reminds his lover.

“Ah, yes. Well then.” He adjusts himself to hide the effect the kissing had on him and smiles as Geralt does the same. He reaches out to hold Geralt’s hand and then remembers the less attention they draw to themselves as they leave, the better. It’s not entirely uncommon for men to bond or be close, or women, but a witcher and one of the most famed poets on the continent would draw raised eyebrows. Especially considering how many songs he’d written about Geralt and Yennefer, it would be even more strange to see the White Wolf and Dandelion together in a more romantic capacity. 

By the time they reach the stables, Ciri is already saddling Pegasus and Yennefer is holding the reins of both her own mount, and Kelpie. Geralt quickly saddles Roach and adjusts her bridle and his packs across her saddle before mounting up. Yennefer gives him a knowing smile and he has the grace to look away in embarrassment. 

The road is relatively quiet and they all feel relieved to be mostly alone. There’s another smaller town about a day away, they’ll see about resupplying and perhaps finding another inn. It might be a stupid risk, but they can always double back around so people think they’d continued on the road and then camp out in the woods. 

Ciri engages Geralt in conversation about various monsters and he’s more than happy to elaborate on different types of ghoul and any other creature that prefers dead flesh to live. Not that they won’t go for live flesh if it happens to pass by. He ends up explaining to her about the necrophages that poisoned him badly and while he does not tell her about running into Visenna or the days of delirium he does impress upon her how dangerous they are. She realizes towards the end of the story that this is how he found her, and how Destiny brought them together. In some ways, this is the start of her story. He had been trying to find her, and had been told she was dead. In almost dying himself, he’d ended up in a cart that took him right to her doorstep. He was her destiny just as much as she was his. 

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 12 - Intriguing Intruders and Intruding Intrigues

Ah, yes. Welcome to chapter 2. No, you didn't read that wrong. This begins with the second scene I've ever written for this AU. We've come a long way since back then, especially considering that it was only a little under two months ago and this fic has since taken over my life. Also, thanks as always to @persony-pepper​  for betaing! Now enough of me rambling, here's the chapter:

Summary: Jaskier's liege lord comes to Lettenhove and our beloved ex-bard is struggling to keep it together.

Read on AO3

prologue | previous | next

"Where is he?" Jaskier panted, wincing at how his side ached after sprinting up a flight of stairs. He used to be able to hold his own against a witcher on a horse, for Melitele's sake, what had happened to all that stamina?

"Beggin' your pardon, m'lord, I don't know," Marta answered, her eyes widened in panic. "I've been lookin' for 'im for the past hour. He's nowhere to be found."

"Shit," he cursed, startling the surrounding servants. "Fuck!" he cursed again, just because the first one hadn't been enough to actually voice his frustration. He kicked the wall and howled in pain. "Fucking shit! Start over," he ordered. "I want that damned witcher and I want him now! Marta!"

"Yes, m'lord?"

"Is my cousin presentable yet?"

"No, m'lord."

"Then see to it that she is. You have half an hour; the green dress, if you will."

He turned on the heel and raced down the stairs again, cursing quietly. He shouldn't be surprised, really, that Geralt chose today of all days to all but disappear from Lettenhove. 'That's not fair,' he reminded himself, 'you didn't know eith-'

"Fuck!" His foot slipped on the slippery stairs and he would've taken a tumble down the stairs hadn't he collided with a bulk of muscle.

"Careful, my lord," Geralt said, and held him firmly by the shoulders. "Else a twisted ankle will be the least of your worries."

"Geralt!" Jaskier started a futile attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. "Where have you been, you donkey?"

"Training your horse, my lord," he replied, making no move to let go of him. Instead he calmly looked around, taking in the bustling servants. "What's going on?" He pulled him closer to the wall, to let two men hauling a heavyweight chest pass through. "Are you preparing for war?"

'If only.' He scoffed and smacked at Geralt’s hands. "No. Witcher, you need to leave."

"What?" That finally made him soften his grasp, though he did not lift his hands, nor did he move from where they were crammed onto the same step. "Why?"

Jaskier passed a trembling hand through his hair. It was sweaty already, not a good way to start the day when- "There are guests on their way," he explained as calmly as he could. "I don't know which of my imbecile neighbours chose this exact time for a visit, but there's nothing I can do about it now."

"And why do I-" His hand shot out and caught a young lad by the elbow. "Are those my swords?" he growled menacingly. The poor boy looked as if he might piss himself.

"Yes, I- Geralt!" He tried prying the butcher's hand away without too much success. "Let go of him this instant, you're frightening him!" The witcher complied slowly. "Stop glowering, they are acting on my orders. And you, run along now, and hurry up for Melitele's sake!"

The lad took off again and Geralt crossed his arms and glared. "Why?" he asked again. "Where's he going with them?"

"To your new rooms in the North Wing. Ci- Cousin Fiona is also moving, she'll be living with my sisters." He waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off before he could even start to speak. "It wouldn't make sense otherwise. I wouldn't leave her with you when Józia and Janka are there to take care of her. And as my best friend it's only natural for you to be accommodated close to my quarters."

The witcher frowned, still not convinced. "Why do I have to leave then?"

"Because I do not know who is paying me a visit and what intentions they bear. No-one will look twice at dear Cousin Fiona, but you-"

"My lord, there you are," Jakub came to a halt a few steps below them.

"What?" Jaskier snapped.

"Your visitors. They're bearing the banner of Hangfelt."

Fear gripped him like an icy hand, choking the air from his lungs. "Fuck." He'd known this was inevitable, but still- "Go, Jakub, inform the kitchens right away. I will not be accused of lacking hospitality." He manservant bowed curtly and hurried away.Jaskier turned to follow him.

Geralt caught him by the shoulder again. "What's so important about Hangfelt?"

Jaskier winced. "That's my liege. You need to leave, now."

He frowned. "I don't understand-"

Jaskier was beginning to lose his patience. 'Gods above and below, he's been roaming this continent for almost a century. Should be more than enough time to get a basic grasp on petty politics,' he thought. He almost told him so, too. Almost. "That's not important right now," he hissed and tried to push him away, "we're running out of time."

The witcher didn't seem overly impressed by this display of his measly human strength. "Please, my lord, let me try-"

"You don't need to understand!" he snapped, and Geralt visibly recoiled. If nothing else, it did soothe Jaskier's temper a bit. Wiping his sweaty hands on his breeches, he tried to explain: "My liege, Geralt. Lettenhove is his castle. If he suspects something, anything-" He took a shuddering breath, steadying himself. With a firmer voice than he would have thought possible, he continued: "If he demands that I hand you over, I won't be able to refuse. I won't be able to protect you from him, do you understand?"

Geralt paled visibly. "Fiona-"

"She'll be fine, she's family. Protected by my name and castle peace and all that. No-one can lay a finger on her without my leave. The Count is not a bad man, he won’t hurt us and break the law: we’re protected by King Vizimir’s peace. But you are not. So, witcher," he straightened himself, "you need to go."

He set his jaw and the grip on his shoulder tightened. "My lord."

"Take your swords and a cloak, and for Melitele's love, stay out of sight. Of his guards, and his men, and most importantly himself. I'll come find you in the woods once all of this is over. Alone. Do not come seek me if there is another person with me." He faltered, taking in Geralt's squared shoulders, his kind eyes, his attentive expression. "I-" Suddenly, the urge to exchange the grip on his shoulder for a tight embrace to calm his fluttering heart became very hard to fight.

"My lord?" Geralt's voice startled him from his trance. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered curtly and bit down hard on his tongue, to shake those ridiculous thoughts. "I have places to be, witcher, and so do you. Unhand me and leave."

Very slowly and very reluctantly Geralt did as he was told and freed Jaskier from his grasp. He allowed himself to wonder, only for a moment, if Geralt might have felt overcome by the same sort of sentimentality. 

'No,' he told himself decidedly as he sprinted down the stairs of his tower, 'do not think about that. You're Jaskier the Bard, not Jaskier the Fool, Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. If Geralt had no affection to spare before, he surely won't have any now.' 

In the courtyard, what appeared to be the entirety of his staff was bustling around, all doing their best to make the castle presentable for its rightful owner. 

There weren't a lot of orders for Jaskier to give, they all knew what they were doing. The air was filled with the rich smells of half a hundred different delicacies to flatter Lord Hangfelt's noble palate,  and servants hauled casks of wine and ale alike that would surely not even see the first snow. Wiktor was making space in the stables for at least a dozen horses more, as Jakub was berating some chambermaid for one reason or another. It was a good thing Jaskier had already warned them that his visit was rather imminent after his return from the disastrous parlay. That way they weren't completely unprepared.

Still, he winced at the memory. The meeting hadn't been dangerous or anything, gods forbid, he'd never have brought Ciri if there had been so much as the slightest sliver of the chance. It had even been fun, truth be told, until the Baron had begged a word in private with him. Unpleasant didn't even begin to describe the whole affair.

"Why?" Jaskier had asked cheerfully, "Are you afraid to get your ass handed to you by a little child again?"

Daniel of Dergetten had frowned at that but not dignified it with a response. Not until he had sent Ciri ahead, at least. Then his old childhood friend had leaned close and hissed: "What on earth are you playing at, Julian?"

"Me?" he had laughed. "Nothing, dear friend. I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"What happened to your sharp wits? Fucked them away on the Path? I thought the man who graduated summa cum laude from Oxenfurt would know better than to believe himself the only one capable of thinking around here."

"Speak plainly."

"Sheltering a witcher in Lettenhove, Jaskier?" he had mocked. "Beneath a mantle of protection that is not even yours to give? Aleksander hasn't forgiven you for your last insolence, yet. What was the year again? 1252? This impertinence might just be enough of an insult for him to finally set you aside. Unless-"

"That's quite enough, Dergetten," he had bristled.

The bastard had only smiled. "Is it, Pankratz? I know where my loyalties lie, as does the Count. Do you?" The memory of his smile choked the air from his lungs. 'Foolish,' he told himself, 'you're a foolish man, Julian Alfred Pankratz, to think you can hide a secret such as this from your liege.' Which meant, there was only one thing he could do.

It was true that Count Aleksander Milas had been lenient in the past when it came to Jaskier's particularities that distinguished him from the rest of his peers. He quite liked his songs, had even encouraged him to tutor his son - which Jaskier had firmly declined - and he hadn't given him too much of a hard time for his prolonged absence from Lettenhove. Upon his return his liege had only laughed, not cruelly, when he had knelt at feet to beg his forgiveness for his negligence. And when his father had died, not two days later a servant had summoned him to Hangfelt to swear his fealty — despite Jaskier's protests that his sister Janina would be much better suited for the title.

"Nonsense," Lord Hangfelt had answered, "how could I accept her oath when the rightful heir is right here?"

So, he had sworn, and Hangfelt had promised a visit once the mourning period was over. He was only off by three days, probably spurred on by Daniel of Dergetten's dutiful report, the little traitor. As a consequence, though, Jaskier was still dressed all in black, as were his sisters. Ciri's green dress was an almost offending speck of colour when she stepped out into the courtyard.

"There you are," Jaskier exclaimed and strode over to her to put an arm around her shoulders. "Come, you'll stand at my left side."

She nodded and together they crossed over where Janina and Józefa were already waiting. The four of them surely made a pretty image, he thought, all of them with their pale skin, dark hair and bright eyes. 'Ciri fits right in,' he noticed, satisfied with the illusion he'd conjured. 

Waiting like this, prettily lined up for their lord to inspect like cattle on a market's day, was torture of the cruelest kind. The urge to fidget hadn't been this strong in him since before he'd left. Images of memories long forgotten flooded his mind, the five Pankratz siblings diligently queueing before their father's high chair to receive his judgement after a day of deeds and misdeeds. It had always been him who had misbehaved most, if wandering off in his mind and quietly humming as he worked could be counted as misbehaviour. It had also always been him to step forward to take the blame and consequences for whatever crime his sisters had committed. It hadn't been his fault more often than not. 'My responsibility to bear nonetheless.' 

When he finally found the strength to abandon those hurtful memories he bowed down to Ciri. "You'll have to curtsy," he informed the princess quietly.

"I know," she replied, barely moving her lips. Absentmindedly he wondered how many stiff ceremonies she had already suffered through. 'Surely too many,' he determined. 'Even one is one too much.' "I've seen it many times."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "You do know how, don't you?"

She grew rigid under his touch. "Of course!" she repeated. "I've seen it many times!"

He sighed and rolled his eyes. It was Jakub who saved him from the embarrassment of having to explain to a princess how to bend her stiff royal knees. "They're here, my lord," his servant told him quietly.

"Good," he answered. It wasn't good at all. Still, he shouted: "Open the gates!" He heard Jakub repeat his order, and then Marin, too, and then the large winches sprung into motion and opened the heavy oaken gates for the Count and his companions.

As soon as the winches stopped moving, a party of roughly fifteen riders poured into the courtyard. A standard bearer came first, then the Count himself, along with his son and heir, the spitting image of his father. Well, if one ignored the fact that his father was in his forties, overweight, and balding, and not a strapping lad of fourteen years- 'Oh, fuck no, you won't,' he thought and his grip on Ciri's shoulder tightened.

Behind them followed some brothers or cousins or friends Jaskier couldn't quite remember from his youth, half a dozen guards, and- He nearly cursed out loud when he saw there was a woman riding with them. 'Hangfelt, you bastard.'

To his deepest regret he had to postpone his harangue, though, because Aleksander Milas, the Count of Hangfelt was already dismounting and it was time for their act to begin.

Jaskier stepped forward to greet him with a smile as if he was an old friend and not his garroter. "My liege," he said and bowed with a flourish, "Lettenhove is yours."

"Pankratz!" Hangfelt laughed and displayed his crow's feet for everyone to see. "How good to see you again!" He pulled him into a tight hug that made it difficult to breathe. "How have you been?"

"Fine, my lord," he gritted out and did his best to make a sad face, "as much as the circumstances allow it. Though we are still very heartbroken for the passing of our father."

"And I expect no less, my loyal servant. Which is why I postponed this visit as long as I could. I would not want to disturb your grief."

"You could never, my lord," he answered but the Count had already moved on to his sisters, who were still curtsying deeply. Jaskier nudged Ciri with his elbow to get her to do the same.

"My dear Lady Goldfurt," he said as he beckoned Janina to rise. "I see you still enjoy your brother's hospitality. Is your husband's town so unappealing?"

"Not at all, my lord," her voice and smile were icy, "I am only here to help my brother settle in. He has been away for so long; he hardly knew his way around the castle upon his return."

That made Lord Hangfelt laugh. "Is that true? Have you forgotten all about your home while away on your little adventures?"

"Hardly, my lord," Jaskier forced himself to say. "But it is good to have familiar faces surrounding me."

He nodded. "And what pretty faces those are. Lady Józefa!" He kissed her on both cheeks and Jaskier found himself admiring her self-control. She didn't even flinch from his slobbery mouth. "Has your brother still not found you a husband, Madam?"

"Alas, he has not," she answered jovially, truly an accomplished actress. "Though I trust he will soon correct that mistake. Come spring, perhaps?"

"Sooner still, I hope. I would love a spring wedding. Speaking of weddings, you do remember my sister, Pankratz? The Lady Alina Milas."

The lady in question dismounted her own horse and came over to them. She was Aleksander Milas' step-sister, almost two decades younger than her brother, and the heiress to a rich estate. And his betrothed, whom he had stood up one beautiful autumn evening in 1252 on their wedding day. 'Shit,' he thought and bowed to kiss her hand. This day was growing worse by the minute. He didn't let that show, though. "How could I not? Is it me, Lady Alina, or have you grown thrice as beautiful since our last meeting?"

"Surely I have," she answered coldly. "I was six years old when you last saw me. Though not for lack of opportunities, I remind you."

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Hangfelt just laughed again. "Look at you, Pankratz! She hasn't forgiven you, yet. Well, maybe it is not too late. You are still unmarried, I've heard."

"I am. Though let us not talk of such a joyous occasion yet. You see, my sisters'-" He halted for just a moment, shooting them an apologetic glance. "- delicate nature is still rather frail after our father's death. I wouldn't want to disturb their mourning with festivities."

Lord Hangfelt pouted, which looked ridiculous on a man of his age and size. "You speak of mourning, yet still you have invited guests to your house. I think we haven't been introduced yet?"

"My cousin, the Honourable Fiona Nowak. I met her three years ago in Verden and, after I heard the war had left her orphaned, I had her brought to Lettenhove. It has lessened our grief greatly to have her with us."

Ciri rose from her curtsy and let the Count kiss her knuckles. She obviously had learned self-control from Józefa, for her face didn't so much as twitch. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, Madam."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," she answered and Jaskier could feel the whole courtyard hold its breath, "it was not your sword that slew my mother."

Hangfelt blinked for a moment, then burst out laughing. "I see the family resemblance now! A steel-tongued brat for our silver-tongued lordling. Have you given up your verses and songs yet?"

"Almost, your Lordship," he answered with a forced smile, "there is only one person in the world who might move me to a ballad these days."

"A lover?" he teased.

'If only.' "An old friend."

He frowned. "Not the witcher, I hope."

Jaskier forced himself to smile. "Precisely him."

"Speaking of steel and silver and ballads, then, where is he? Has he left so soon again?"

"Not at all, my lord. Though, he left before sunrise this morning. He does not like to spend the days in company, especially not while he is mourning."

"Mourning?" one of the members of Aleksander Milas' party called. "Are you quite sure he can even feel?" Roman, he remembered the brat was called, the Count's youngest brother and just out of his swaddling clothes when Jaskier had left.

'I am, you prick, and I am quite sure with such a comment you'd have angered him enough for him to gut you for me. He can feel just fine.' He pitied that he couldn't say that to his liege's brother. Instead, he opted for: "I believe he thinks himself guilty for the death of Princess Cirilla."

"Ah," the Count said and dropped his voice compassionately. "I've heard the tales. They say she was raped by half a hundred men before the bastards killed her."

His eyes grew wide and his grip on Ciri's shoulder tightened. "My lord, not in front of the child, if you please," he said just as quietly. "She's gone through so much already."

"Of course." He straightened himself. "Speaking of children, have you met my son, yet, Pankratz? Aleksander, Lord Retton."

"I'm afraid I have not." Jaskier bowed again, when the lad stepped forward, looking very out of place with his gangly limbs, too large ears and peach fuzz on his upper lip. 'Gods, and I went to Oxenfurt at that age!' he recalled. Twenty years later, the thought of sending a child to that place filled him with terror. He was glad that the boy could not see the grimace on his face. "At your service, my lord."

"Rise, Lord Lettenhove," he said with a thin voice. 'Gods, he's nervous,' Jaskier thought with amusement. "You, uh, have a beautiful castle."

'What pretty lines he has learned.' He had a hard time not smirking when he answered: "I am pleased to hear that. Are you looking for a new keep for yourself, my lord?"

The lad frowned deeply, obviously not understanding the jape. "Not at all."

"No? Are you then making plans for the future, my lord?"

Helplessly and quite confused Aleksander the Younger looked up at his father, who in turn had a hard time to keep from laughing. "Enough of the teasing, Pankratz," he chided softly. To his son he said: "I told you to guard your tongue with that one. Twisting the words in your mouth is his easiest exercise."

"I would never, your Lordship," Jaskier said quickly, smiling openly now.

"Now, don't add lies to the never-ending list of your sins. We're hungry and we're cold, so keep your mouth shut and lead us to your hall and serve us your best wine. We've deserved it."

Jaskier bowed again. "It would be my pleasure." He turned to his former betrothed. "Lady Alina, might you grant me the honour of accompanying you?"

She scowled and for a moment he feared she might decline, but then she took his offered arm. After a glowering stare of her elder brother she even dignified his formal phrases with equally stilted responses as the Count led the way to the hall as if he owned the place. 'Which he does,' Jaskier reminded himself.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Aleksander the Younger stumbled over his words to ask Ciri to walk with him, who graciously accepted and giggled stupidly. Then, as she took his arm she made a barbed comment that the boy did not understand but that made Janina gasp in thinly-veiled horror. He couldn't quite rid himself of pride welling up at that, despite the curtain lecture that surely waited for him once the Count left.

In the hall Jaskier hurried to pull the lord's chair back for the Count and tried to ignore the jealousy seeing him at the head end of his table, his heir at his right-hand side. 'You never wanted the stupid title anyways,' he told himself, 'so there's no reason for jealousy now.'

He himself sat down at his liege's left, with Lady Alina at his side. Opposite to them was Ciri next to Aleksander who looked just as miserable as Jaskier felt. As soon as the other guests had resolved their brief argument about who got to sit next to Józefa and had all settled into their seats, the food was brought out.

It was a lot, much more than needed to feed such a small party and Jaskier felt a little bad for wasting it. But that was the way things were and he could do nothing about it. So he had his guests’ plates and cups filled and kept full, maybe a bit too much so. Roman Milas was drunk before the hour was up.

After lunch the Count got up. "I'll be going on a hunt," he declared, "and you will come with me."

Jaskier's head snapped around. "Excuse me?" he answered with a frail voice.

"I believe you understood me quite well. We're going hunting, Pankratz."

'What for?' he wanted to ask but didn't dare to. It was late in autumn already, there were no hunts this late. Besides, there were no hounds in Lettenhove and they hadn't brought any with them either. 'We're not hunting for game, then,' he thought grimly and fought the urge to divest himself of his lunch again. "Of course," he answered instead. "My pleasure."

He left Ciri and Alina with his sisters and led the Count and his friends outside again, praying to all the gods he knew. He prayed that Geralt had finally learned how to listen to a fucking order. He had no idea what his liege could want with the witcher — and he had no desire to find out either.

It took all his carefully composed self-restrain not to let the anxiety that roared within him rise to the surface. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he told himself, ‘he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine, he’ll be fine. He has to be.’ Instead he tried to busy himself with what he did best: telling stories. Joyously he japed and jested, and he would’ve jigged to, were his feet not planted firmly in his stirrups. 

Aleksander the Elder called for all the raunchy stories of his time in Oxenfurt and he gladly delivered. And when he and his friends doubled over in their saddles with laughter, Aleksander the Younger appeared at his side, shyly asking whether he could tell him about the Academy. The boy wasn’t stupid, Jaskier soon discovered to his surprise, on the contrary. ‘He’s just young,’ he realised, ‘and it can’t be easy to find your voice with a father as loud as his.’

Still, the worry in his chest did not subside and he kept looking to the sky, where the sun inched towards the horizon far too slowly for his liking. Apparently, the Gods had heard his prayer, for they returned some hours later with empty hands and empty stomachs. Dinner was hastily brought out for the hungry hunters and after that the nobles retreated to the fireplace room in the East Wing.

Hangfelt claimed Jaskier's armchair and Aleksander Geralt's, so Jaskier was left standing awkwardly for a moment before begrudgingly retreating to the divan where Alina sat. Like that he was forced to continue the polite conversation, that quickly turned into the dullest interaction of his entire life, until she mercifully begged her brother's leave to retreat for the night.

“You may go,” the Count conceded. “Aleksander, go with her.”

“Father,” he whined pathetically, “you promised I could stay.”

“I promised you could stay the evening,” he growled. “The evening’s over, which means that women and children are going to bed.”

Jaskier hid his smirk and jerked his head in the direction of his sisters and Ciri. The princess was on her feet already and floated over to their guests. “Lord Retton,” she curtsied quickly, “Lady Alina, might you grant me the honour to show you to your rooms?”

Aleksander the Younger frowned and Jaskier smiled proudly. There was no way the young lord could politely refuse such an offer and he damn well knew it. So, he and Lady Alina went with Ciri and his sisters, and left Jaskier alone with Hangfelt and his men.

That finally gave Jaskier the opportunity to talk to the Count himself. "Lord Hangfelt," he said quietly, "might I talk to you in private?"

He scowled but nodded graciously, and allowed Jaskier to lead him to his study. "A drink, my lord?"

"Gladly," he answered as he sat down in Jaskier's chair by the window.

Jaskier poured two goblets of his best liquor — he'd need the courage — and brought them over to his lord. "Your witcher hasn't returned," he remarked as he accepted the drink; their cups clinked together, "and yet it is already dark. He's not very well trained."

"He's not an animal," Jaskier exclaimed indignantly before he could stop himself, "nor is he a prisoner. He may come and go as he likes."

"Not a very grateful guest, then, if he doesn't even come to greet his host's lord."

He clenched his jaw, desperately trying to think of a witty response. He wasn't fast enough though, for Hangfelt continued: "Hm. So, that cousin of yours... She does look an awful lot like you."

Jaskier tensed. 'Shit, I should have shut that rumour down as soon as it left Janina's lying lips.' "I suppose she does," he answered diplomatically.

That made the Count smile brightly. "Well?"

He hesitated. "Well... what, my lord?"

"Are you going to legitimise her?"

"Oh." Truth be told he hadn't even thought of that. He cursed silently. Well, maybe- "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, decide quickly, then. I like you, Pankratz. And as luck would have it, the betrothed of my dear Aleksander passed away from a fever a few months ago. I haven't decided on another match, yet."

For a few short moments Jaskier was stunned into silence, convinced that his ears had to be betraying him. 'Why would the Count want to bind me to his family tree?' Before he had even the chance to gather a clear thought his mouth blurted out: "What would you get out of it?"

Lord Hangfelt laughed. "Ever the clever man. Why, I would get Lettenhove back for a start.”

“Well, my lord, if you want it back, why not just take it?” He forced himself to smile. “You know just as well as I do that doing so is completely within your rights.”

“What, and just throw you out?” He shook his head. “No, Pankratz, I don’t think I’m keen on aggravating you anytime soon. Or your sisters, that is. I can’t afford a feud with neither Goldfurt nor Kerton. Not to speak of his Majesty’s uncle, who is so very fond of your Jolanta. And, judging by your reputation, you’d just flee to Oxenfurt and write a horrible cycle of smear poems that would ruin my reputation beyond measure, but not before seducing at least three of my siblings and my mother.” There was an amused twinkle in his eye. “Is that an accurate assessment?”

Jaskier quickly hid his smile. “I believe so, my lord.”

“I know four things about you. First, you were endowed by the gods with a vivid imagination and a silver tongue. I know about the games you play and it’s folly not to fear you. You could be more lethal than your witcher still. Secondly, you’re too clever for your own good. You graduated two terms early, summa cum laude, with begrudging recommendation letters from all your professors. While simultaneously managing to climb the steps of the Academy to the rooms above the vice-chancellor’s office. Don’t give me that look, Pankratz, I did my research. Thirdly, you know how to survive. You did that for sixteen years while trailing behind a witcher like a lost puppy and fucking your way through nigh every marital bed of the Continent. That’s rather impressive. And lastly, you are filthy rich. In fact, you’re the richest vassal I got and I know that you know how to become richer still. Is that about right?”

He nodded slowly. “Colour me impressed, my lord,” he answered, “I believe you’re seeing right through me.”

“Good.” A smile spread on his face. “So, Pankratz, I have to retract my earlier words. I do not want Lettenhove back. I want you. For good. And I want you to put that clever little brain of yours to good use. I think we can go far, you and I.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “So, why don’t you tell me why you actually wanted to speak to me and we work out a trade?”

“A trade, huh?” he repeated quietly. That was a much better bartering position than he’d imagined himself to be in. “It is true that there is something I wanted to ask of you, though does it not require Fiona to wed your Aleksander.”

“Why ever not, Pankratz? I took you for an opportunist! Wouldn't you like your grandson to be a Count?"

Jaskier's head was spinning as the whole extent of the offer became apparent. He should, he guessed. As a Viscount, that was. He should be delighted with the opportunity to get Goldfurt within reach. If Ciri truly were his daughter, he probably would have agreed without thinking twice about it. 

But she wasn't. She was Ciri, sweet little Ciri, who had suffered so much already, who slept with stuffed animals and clung to his lips with whatever story he told; brave little Ciri, who'd be just as deadly with a blade as her father once she was grown. He couldn't barter her away. Never. Not even to- "She's only ten years old," he said quietly. "I don't want to take that kind of decision quite yet."

Lord Hangfelt snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. She’s more than old enough for a betrothal. Alina was scarcely ten months old when our fathers brokered the engagement."

'And what grief that betrothal brought,' he thought bitterly. ‘My bride was not even old enough to agree to an engagement when I could already be married.’ Another reason why he had chosen to hide in Oxenfurt for four years, though not before his father had forced his hand to sign the damned thing. "Allow me a bit more time to think about it. Please, my lord. I only just got her. Seven years I didn't even know of her existence. Don't take her from me just now. I can offer you something else in its stead."

"Tell me about your demand and we can see about that payment. How bad is it? Treason? Spying? Did you kill someone? Not a member of the court, I hope, I can't help you there."

"None of that, my lord, you'll be glad to hear. It's…” He wet his lips nervously. "Five generations ago my ancestors were granted this keep for their loyal services to your family. They have kept their peace, collected their taxes, furthered their interest. I have done nothing less. These ancient walls have protected those who bore my name ever since. Refugees were among them, and traitors, too, yet with your blessing no foe dared disturb the peace of this keep."

"Yes, as it is tradition."

Jaskier closed his eyes and swallowed his pride. 'Geralt could do it,' he told himself. 'And if the stoic witcher can, so can I.' Slowly, he went to his knees. "My liege, I am asking your leave to extend the Castle Peace that protects me and mine to Geralt of Rivia, as well."

"So, that's why he's not here." The Count of Hangfelt was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "I thought as much, but gods above and below, Pankratz, you are beside yourself with fear. He's a witcher, he will be alright! What are you so afraid of?"

'Why don't you tell me?' he thought angrily. 'You're the one who's been searching for him for the better part of the afternoon.' But right now was the time for humility and humiliation, not anger. "Might I be allowed to finish my plea, my lord?" he asked, his eyes firmly lowered onto the carpet.

He snorted and waved his hand dismissively. "Well, then, wordsmith, talk away."

"The Witcher Geralt of Rivia is my dearest friend, whom I have known for almost half of my life. I love him like I would a brother. He arrived on my doorstep tattered and torn from the war that divides our beloved Continent, with bloodhounds on his heels. They turned around as soon as Lettenhove came in sight, but I do not know if they will stop without knocking a second time. It is not only Nilfgaard who calls for his head, but other factions, too, closer to my borders than I would like. I would like to protect him from these threats and any that might follow."

"You're asking for a lot, Pankratz, you know that," Aleksander Milas said quietly.

"I do, my liege."

"And how do you intend to pay for that?”

He swallowed. "I-" His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, but it did not help the dryness of his mouth. 'It's for Geralt,' he reminded himself, 'for Geralt and Ciri.' With a firmer voice than he would have thought possible, he said: "I accept, my lord. I will become a part of your family and help you with your ambitions. If your sister would still take me after the insults I have bestowed upon her."

"Hm," the Count said. “That’s a lot you offer for a bit of protection for your witcher.”

“It is,” he agreed quietly. “You said it yourself, four sixteen years I trailed after him like a lost puppy. He is very dear to me.” After a small pause he added: “Though I certainly wouldn’t be disinclined to another holding or two in exchange for my service.”

"Fine," the Count conceded after a moment of consideration. "Wed Alina if you're so fond of her, then. I'll draw up the contract."

Jaskier clenched his teeth. 'Shit.' That meant that there would be at least half a dozen clauses in it that he wouldn't like. Maybe if he talked to Geralt- No. He wouldn’t do that to them. He bowed his head instead. "I would be honoured," he answered.

The Count held out his hand and Jaskier took it with numb fingers to kiss the signet ring. "Belleteyn is a wonderful date for a wedding."

"I am inclined to agree, my liege."

"Get up now, liegeman, and go fetch your witcher. He'll have nothing to worry about from me tonight. And tomorrow he can swear to you and he will be safe."

"I am grateful for your generosity," he answered honestly.

"I'm certain you are. Now, stop frowning, this is a joyous day."

It was an order, but Jaskier couldn't find it in himself to follow it. 'A joyous occasion?' he asked himself. 'I sold my hand in marriage to shield Ciri from the same fate, and for what? To protect the man, I have loved for half my life with whom I can't lead a conversation that lasts longer than five minutes. Pray tell me, my lord, what is joyous about that?'

[thearvariblues]

The Bard And The Wolf - Chapter Five

(AKA Geraskier in the Metal Band AU you didn’t know you needed)

AKA me desperately trying to catch up my Tumblr with what’s already been posted to AO3. ;) 

The masterpost for this fic can be found HERE.

5 – No Firstborns Needed

Even though the food Geralt had brought him certainly helped, it still took Jaskier a significant amount of time to recover from the hangover. He had to admit it to himself – he wasn’t getting any younger. There used to be times when he would drink all night and be completely alright in the morning…

Nah, that was a lie. His hangovers always used to be hell, but this was worse than ever.

He was mostly alright, though, when his phone rang in the afternoon.

He answered it without even looking at the screen.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Uhm. Erm. Hi,” a girl’s voice replied. “This is… This is Ciri.”

“Ciri!” Jaskier beamed. “How are you? I was gonna call you, I swear, I wanted to thank you for sharing the video, and also for not telling on me to your dad… Oh, no, I mean, I probably shouldn’t be thanking you for lying to your father...”

“Didn’t lie to him. Just didn’t tell him,” Ciri said.

“That’s not making it any better,” Jaskier murmured. “Anyway! You were calling me for a reason, I guess?”

“Yeah, yeah. I just wanted to ask… Well, since you’re definitely staying, because the fans really love you, I… I mean… Would you like to go shopping with me?”

“Shopping?” Jaskier blinked. “Oh, you mean for some clothes to fit my new metal singer image?”

“Yes. I know all the good places. Mom takes me with her all the time. I know where they have the best T-shirts and pants and–”

“Yeah, sure, I’d love to go! Wait… Does your father know about it?”

“Does he have to?”

“Well, I’d like to stay alive, so yes, he kind of does.”

“Right. So I’ll… ask him and then call you back?”

“Perfect,” Jaskier smiled. “And what about Renfri? Is she coming too?”

“She said she’d rather cut off her right hand with a pocket knife.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“That’s definitely a no. Right, I’m gonna go and ask dad. Might take a few minutes, though. He’s working, and when he’s working, it takes him a while to start focusing on anything else.”

“That’ fine. Yeah. Right. See you soon. Well, hear you soon.”

“Bye, Jaskier.”

*

Geralt didn’t mind Ciri going with Jaskier. He even called Jaskier himself to tell him that. (And also to tell him that Ciri is allowed to buy something, too, within reason, and that he would give her his credit card, in case she wanted something she couldn’t afford to buy with her pocket money… Jaskier couldn’t help but think it was incredibly cute.)

So Jaskier went shopping with Ciri.

Two hours later, he had five large bags of clothes and his credit card was weeping silently in his wallet. Oh, dear, he would have to take some new students. At least two. Maybe even three. He didn’t want to, but he would have to.

Who’d have thought black clothes were so damn expensive?! (Except he absolutely didn’t buy only black clothes, quite the opposite, in fact.)

Right, right. So it might not have been absolutely necessary to buy those black leather pants and that leather jacket… But Jaskier had wanted a real leather jacket for a while, okay?

“So, am I now officially ready to take my place in the band?” he asked Ciri. He’d dropped the bags off at his flat and he and the girl were currently walking to Kaer Morhen’s rehearsal. Ciri was carrying a little bag with a black-and-purple striped dress that Jaskier wasn’t sure Geralt would approve of, but Jaskier definitely approved. It looked so good on the girl. It was stylish, but not revealing, a perfect dress for a kid her age…

“You’re more than ready,” Ciri said. “You look great.”

Oh, yes, so Jaskier had definitely found the time to change while he was at home. He was now wearing tight black pants, a dark purple T-shirt and a black brocade vest that, he had to admit, did wonders for his figure. His waist looked slimmer, his shoulders broader… Yeah, he looked great as hell.

“All thanks to you, mylady,” he grinned.

“Hush. You chose most of the clothes yourself. You just needed someone who would make you actually buy them. Like the coat.”

Oh, yes, the coat. The coat that was currently spread on his bed. The coat that had already managed to become one of Jaskier’s most prized possessions.

The beautiful, steel blue, double breasted, clearly Victorian era-inspired thing cost more than half of Jaskier’s monthly income, and it was love at first sight. He tried to be be strong, tried to resist, tried to remind himself that he was saving money so he could buy his own flat instead of renting it… But then Ciri saw him drooling at the coat and said: “Oh my God, you have to try it on!”

And so he did. And he was lost.

“It’s not exactly… what a metal singer should wear, is it? I mean, the color is so… light? Too light,” he had tried to protest, stroking the fabric lovingly.

“Don’t be silly. Female singers wear light colors all the time. Even mum did!”

“Mum?”

“Yennefer? Hello?”

“Yeah. Of course. Of course. Way to win the fans’ hearts, by pretending to be her.”

“Nobody’s gonna think you’re her, stupid. Buy it. I bet dad’s gonna love it. It’s one of his favorite colors.”

“I’ve never seen him wear anything but black.”

“I didn’t say his favorite to wear. He just… likes it.”

And it shouldn’t have been the last impulse Jaskier needed to buy the fucking thing, but it kind of was.

“I still think you should have bought the golden jacket, too.”

“Sorry, sweetie, but even the coat was a bit too much. The jacket? I could never afford that.”

That beautiful, gorgeous, amazing golden jacket with V-shaped stripes on the front. Oh, yes, he would kill for that beauty, but he wasn’t ready to eat dry rice for the next two months.

“Too bad. You looked beautiful in it.”

“I know, Ciri, I know,” Jaskier sighed.

They were nearly at the door. Nearly at the rehearsal room. But then Jaskier heard fast footsteps behind them and he (stupid, stupid, stupid!) decided to turn his head.

“Oh, hello,” said a voice Jaskier never wanted to hear again. “If it isn’t the useless wannabe singer! And who’s that? She’s a little too young to be your girlfriend, isn’t she?”

“Who the hell is he?” Ciri muttered.

“Valdo Marx,” Jaskier growled. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to say hello!” Valdo grinned a crooked grin. “I saw your video. Man, I’ve never seen something so ridiculous. Have you been kicked out, yet? You’d deserve to be kicked out for that shit!”

“Since there was no bitch around who would be horny for my place in the band… Nope, still in, sorry.”

“And what about that terrible song?” Valdo continued, as if Jaskier didn’t say anything. “Toss a coin to your whatever. I’m not surprised Dandelions had to get rid of you! Ugh, appalling.”

“Excuse me?!” Ciri exclaimed and took a step in Valdo’s direction.

“Ciri. No. He’s not worth it,” Jaskier said, stopping her. “Valdo. May I introduce you to Cirilla, Geralt’s daughter and a former fan of Dandelions, now a devoted fan of Kaer Morhen?”

“And a fan of Jaskier,” Ciri added.

“Geralt? As in the singer of Kaer Morhen?” Valdo snorted. “Oh, dear. You really did suck his cock, didn’t you? Since he’s borrowed you his daughter. Has he fucked you yet? You’ve always said he was a moron, I’m sure you’re really desperate for him to fuck you.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide, and this time he took a step towards the man.

“What did you say you bitch?!” he growled.

A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

Jaskier turned, kind of expecting to see Geralt there, but no. It was Lambert, a smirk on his lips and murder in his eyes.

“Relax, sweetie,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“And you are?” Valdo asked.

“Lambert. Funny you don’t remember me, because you spent weeks trying to get in my pants when you wanted to sleep your way into Kaer Morhen. I ruined it for you by being so annoyingly and boringly heterosexual. Don’t worry, though, even if I was gay, you’d stand no chance.”

“Burn, baby, burn,” Jaskier smirked.

“Now, Valdo,” Lambert continued, his smirk growing a little wider. “My friend Jaskier here might be ready to cut your throat, but I would never let him.”

“Thank… you?” Valdo blinked.

“And if Geralt heard you were mean to his beloved daughter, well… He’s a calm man, I mean, he tries to be. But I don’t think he would remain calm if he heard. You know what they say, demons run when a good man goes to war.”

“Hey. I understood that reference!” Jaskier blinked.

“Shush. I’m in the middle of threatening here,” Lambert said. “Valdo. Valdo, Valdo, Valdo. Trust me. You wouldn’t like what would happen if Geralt heard about this.”

Valdo visibly paled.

“He… he doesn’t need to know, does he?”

“No, no, of course not,” Lambert nodded. “But then again… There’s still me.”

“You?”

“Me,” Lambert grinned. “My dear Valdo. There’s one thing you need to understand about me. I am not a calm man, I am not a good man, but I am also not someone who would just simply cut your throat. No. If you show your ugly face near our rehearsal room again, I am going to rip off your cock, fuck you with it, and then use it to gag you while I cut you open and remove your organs in alphabetical order. Are we clear?”

Valdo’s face was completely void of blood now. All the guy was able to do was a single short nod.

“Good. I’m glad for that,” Lambert said. “Why are you still here, then?”

With all the dignity he had left (which was, well… none), Valdo Marx turned and power-walked away without another word.

“Wow. That was awesome!” Ciri beamed.

“I had it,” Jaskier growled, looking at Lambert.

“I know. You were absolutely ready to cut his throat. Or… throttle him,” Lambert shrugged. “But Geralt doesn’t like that. He always tells me, use your words first, there’s still time for stabbing later. So I do it. I threaten, and then, if it doesn’t help, I stab.”

“And do you… stab a lot?” Jaskier asked, fearing the answer.

“Nah,” Lambert grinned. “But fist fights and bar brawls, well… Those do tend to happen.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I bet. Everything alright, Ciri?”

“Absolutely,” the girl nodded.

“Now, Jaskier. Saw your video. Did you seriously call me a dick?”

“Well,” Jaskier smirked. “You are kind of a dick.”

“Guilty as charged,” Lambert grinned. “Let’s go in. Eskel hates it when we’re late.”

*

They weren’t late, but someone else was. Twenty minutes late, to be more precise. And that someone was Geralt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said in reply to Eskel’s disapproving glance, closing the door behind him. “I was working, forgot time existed.”

“So… as usual?” Renfri smirked.

“Hush, Renfri,” Geralt glared. “It only happens once a month.”

“More like once a week,” Renfri replied.

“Thrice,” Ciri said.

“Did I ask for your opinions?” Geralt growled.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Jaskier peeped, raising his hand. “I don’t wanna sound like an idiot, really, but… What is it that you do? I mean… your job?”

“Oh, dad’s a blacksmith, and a jeweler!” Ciri announced. “He makes those cool iron monsters and wrought iron fences and amazing rings and necklaces and earrings. Look, he made me this!”

She showed Jaskier her necklace – a beautiful swallow made of silver.

“It’s lovely,” Jaskier smiled. “Wow. Really… Wow. Geralt, what do you want for making a cool necklace for me, too? I’m kind of broke now, I have to admit, but I could offer you my firstborn, if you wanted.”

“I’m kind of glad you asked,” Geralt said. “Because that’s precisely the work I got so lost in.”

“Excuse me?”

Geralt reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pendant on a silver chain.

“I made this pendant for every member of the band. A common symbol, you might call it. A white wolf. Well, a silver wolf, really.”

“Like in the logo of Kaer Morhen? Seriously?” Jaskier blinked.

“Seriously,” Geralt smiled. “And this one is yours.”

“Mine?!”

“You are the member of the band, aren’t you?” Geralt said, raising his eyebrow. “Consider this a welcome gift. No firstborns needed.”

Jaskier raised his hand to gently touch the pendant.

“You’re kidding, right? You gotta be kidding me. How many hours did you spend making that?!”

“Not as many as you probably think,” Geralt chuckled. “I mean it. Take it. It’s yours.”

“I… Thanks, Geralt,” Jaskier beamed and took the necklace from Geralt’s hand. “It’s beautiful. But now I’m realizing… Cirilla!”

“Wow. You sounded just like dad,” the girl said. “And yeah. I knew. That’s why I wouldn’t let you buy any kind of necklace. Sorry?”

“You should be ashamed for lying to me like that,” Jaskier smirked, fastening the necklace around his neck. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous as always,” Renfri smiled. “Welcome to the band, Jaskier. Officially.”

Eskel cleared his throat.

“Yeah, welcome. There are a few rules you need to know about before you start. Rule number one – if we say the rehearsal is starting at… let’s say seven...”

“And here we go,” Lambert smirked. “Relax, Eskel, we’ll begin in a minute. Jaskier! Have you, by chance, managed to finish that stupidly catchy song that’s been stuck in my head for… five hours now?”

“Toss A Coin?” Jaskier beamed. “Well, I have, actually! Turns out horrible hangovers are surprisingly inspirational. Would you like to hear?”

“Oh, yes!” Ciri said.

“Sure thing,” Renfri nodded. “Hey! We could even squeeze it into the setlist for the next gig! Try it out. See how people like it!”

“You think Geralt will be able to learn a song in a week?” Lambert smirked. “Ouch! That really hurt, Geralt!”

“I hope it did,” Geralt growled.

“You realize that you’re expecting me to learn several songs during the very same week?” Jaskier asked.

“Yeah, but you’re… clever,” Lambert smirked. “Ouch! Eskel, tell Geralt to stop hitting me!”

Eskel raised his drumstick.

“If you don’t stop talking so we can start, I’m gonna help him!”

“I feel very unloved right now,” Lambert muttered.

“You are very unloved right now, I think,” Renfri chuckled.

“Play us the song, Jask,” Geralt said. “Quick. I think Eskel is about to have a heart attack. Ow. Fuck you, Eskel, I’m on your side!”

“Shut up, then,” Eskel growled. “Jaskier. Take your guitar and fucking play.”

“You know, nobody ever told me playing in a metal band was so risky,” Jaskier said. “If I knew… No, no, no, don’t hit the poor bard! I’m playing, see? See? Now, how did it… Oh, yes. When a humble bard…”

“So unrealistic,” Lambert whispered, and Geralt chuckled.

“Poetic license,” he muttered.

Jaskier winked and kept on singing.

Oh, how he already loved this band of idiots.

*

Late that night, already in bed, Jaskier opened his Instagram. He knew he probably shouldn’t. Blue light and all that jazz, right? But he was used to browsing his social media before going to sleep, and hey, he never had any trouble sleeping afterwards. So he opened it, only to find out that he had been tagged in a pic… by Renfri?

He looked at the pic. And blinked. And blinked again.

He hadn’t noticed her even taking the photo, but she must have, somehow.

It was of him and Geralt, face to face, both holding their microphones and apparently singing, eyes closed, faces intense with concentration. It must have been in the second half of the rehearsal, because Geralt had already taken off his jacket. He was only in his absolutely inappropriate tight black T-shirt, and it took all of Jaskier’s willpower not to look at those muscular arms. He scrolled to the caption.

Because it seems that everybody wants to see those two morons on a pic together, I give you: the mighty White Wolf and @jaskierthebard working on Toss a Coin To Your Witcher. And let me tell you – they don’t just look good together, they also sound AMAZING. I can’t wait to play this song live!

#kaermorhen #workinghard #rehearsing #thebardandthewolf

Jaskier rolled his eyes.

The Bard and the Wolf? Seriously?

Yeah, that was never going to catch on…

Continue with Chapter Six

[postmodernmulticoloredcloak]

Aaand now it’s time for episode 6 of The Witcher! Rare Species is the title and it’s intriguing, are we going to learn more about witchers?

Anyway, let’s do this. F.lux off, luminosity on, earbuds, clean glasses, and we’re ready. Nobody cares about that but whatever.

We start directly with Jaskier which is always welcome.

Geralt’s employers for the case think he’s dead by now and take Geralt’s stuff... but some strangers just show up and help out. Stranger dude introduces himself and I immediately forget his name and don’t try to learn it. Now he’s Suspiciously Helpful Guy, for short Beard Guy. The ladies with him are gorgeous.

This is about a dragon!!! That’s super exciting. Hope the dragon looks cool.

Jaskier also thinks the ladies are gorgeous. He probably thinks everyone is gorgeous but still, mood.

The reward for killing the dragon is huge, because it’s about the reputation of a king. Makes sense. Suspiciously Helpful Guy isn’t suspicious after all, he just wants the lord title and whatnot and wants Geralt on his team because Geralt is like the Cristiano Ronaldo of monster hunters, and that makes sense.

Beard Guy doesn’t want the reward for itself, but wants a last adventure before he gets too old to do anything exciting, apparently. He tries to appeal to Geralt emotionally, but Geralt is still unconvinced. Aaaand now we get what convinces him to join. The world is small :)

So welcome to Deadly Gishwhes.

Yennefer is there as a fancy escort to Pompous Knight. I think they haven’t started yet and she is already Done with him.

Meanwhile-not-meanwhile Ciri is walking right into Fake Mousesack’s trap...

Deadly Gishwhes for now is a camping trip. Isn’t this fun! Geralt is convinced that the most dangerous thing on the mountain isn’t the dragon, but Yennefer... we’ll see. I mean, definitely.

Dinner is an awkward affair until it gets a more intimate affair, then it’s cute. I’m afraid these nice people won’t survive this.

Dara suspects Fake Mousesack, but Ciri doesn’t...

Meanwhile Yennefer has been sleeping and has lost her escort. Oops.

Oh, he’s been found. Double oops.

The dwarves suggest a shortcut, our team accepts, but we’re gonna have some Yennefer-Geralt drama first.

And of course Yennefer is meaning to use the dragon to get her uterus back.

Geralt says she’d definitely made a bad mother and, well, is he wrong. Apparently it’s customary to make witches and witchers sterile, and he acknowledges that their lifestyle isn’t suited for children. Which I can’t really disagree with... if you really want a child, you can adopt one after deliberation, and not risk to produce a child accidentally that will be thrown into a very unstable environment. I get where Yennefer is coming from, though--it’s not really about a child, it’s about reclaiming the possibility of a choice that was taken from her. I think it’s more about having a part of herself taken away, and maybe she’s been rationalizing her feelings as wanting to be able to have a child, but I think it’s about the integrity and wholeness of her body, of getting back something of herself she got robbed of (even if she chose it at the moment--but it was a choice dictated by the desperation of fixing what had caused her a lifetime of abuse, suffering and self-loathing).

I love how this thing is all leading to Geralt becoming a mama duck.

(Yeah, I don’t know how this story will progress exactly, but I am assuming the plot is going to be about Geralt becoming a mama duck until proven otherwise. I mean, this episode is yelling at us that Ciri is going to become his adopted daughter, we just got hammered with a reminder that she’s tied to him by destiny and Geralt is now babbling about the fact that it’s not a good idea for him to have a child. But for some reason I expect Geralt to go through the story being imprinted on by every orphan or lost soul he meets, like baby ducklings with mama duck.)

(I can’t really think of Geralt as a father but I can only think of him as a mother, does that make sense? I’ve watched too much Supernatural.)

AAAAAAH he’s “thought about this--often”. He’s thought about children and parenthood. Excuse me, I needed that heart, who gave you the right.

Oh my god, he’s been avoiding the surprise because he knows he’s supposed to parent the child, and does not want to subject the child to the life he leads!! I am having feelings!! He does not want a child to go through what he goes through!! He’s literally been tormented by the idea that destiny wants to give him a child but he doesn’t want the child to suffer through the horror and pain of his life!! Wasn’t one (1) show with these themes enough, did I have to add another??

Well, now Yennefer is going to be bitter that she’s been trying to get a child for decades and this dude stumbled into magical adoption just like that.

Also love how Geralt is like “why do I start babbling like an idiot when I’m near you”. It’s called being neurodivergent Geralt. I know this isn’t the take I was supposed to get from the scene but I’ll go with it. It makes sense okay?

Ciri catches Fake Mousesack, and They(TM) get fed up with the whole thing... Ciri is savage af.

The shortcut is terrifying and Jaskier is being perfectly reasonable thank you very much.

Nooo Beard Guy!!! Goergous Ladies!!!! I mean, I expected it, but still. :’(

Oh bby he’s trying to console Geralt and also working out his own pain.

The directors have a favorite angle to shoot Geralt, uh.

Yennefer has made a Tardis Tent. And they have an emotional (emotionally mature, at least for they standards?) moments. They suffer a bit from a-man-and-a-woman-share-a-pencil-syndrome, but that’s just how the show has been working so far, it’s a lot about negative space, so I’m giving them a pass.

Me the other day, as a joke: the horse is the fantasyland equivalent of the Impala. This episode: if he wasn’t a hunter witcher he’d work with cars horses. *deep inhale* Okay.

Ah. Her dream is to be important to someone, yes. A child of her own would be a sure way of achieving that.

Alright, this scene was sweet. They lil stupid faces when they wake up together. They’re dumbasses but cute.

And Ciri is caught. This guy is either feeding her some fat lies or not, let’s see. He speaks destiny stuff so he probably believes what he’s saying. The camping party was talking about the religious zealotry of Nifgaard peeps. He’s probably the religious righteous type, which is the most dangerous type.

OH! Now this is intriguing! It’s Them(TM). And yes, he believes the prophecy stuff, and the shapeshifter thinks he’s insane. Yep.

Yennefer cheats at track and field.

I have a theory about the dragon, let’s see.

Ho ho ho! This is great, the ladies are alive, Suspicious Guy was not what he appeared uh.

I was right, the dragon was a she and had a baby. That was my theory. Yennefer was after it for motherhood reasons... but the real motherhood was the dragon she was after all along.

Suspicious Guy was indeed a gold dragon, the rarest, the ones with the very peculiar mutation... of course. I should have expected it. He hired the only person who’d empathize with dragons and could protect the baby dragon. 

Mama Duck Geralt Foreshadowing Abounds!!

Sorry guys, Team Protect Baby Dragon are the most badass people around.

Dracarys.

Ah, I’m so happy about how this episode went. Sorry for poor dragon mama, but the rest was 👌🏼

Dara is done with white people bullshit, which we can’t blame him for.

And now it’s time for draa~ama! They break up. I mean, I knew I’d happen because they’re dumbasses and just at the beginning of their character development arc. I want them to be each other’s weird ex that somehow is always involved accidentally in everything the other does.

Dragon Dude is like, forget heterosexuality, embrace your true nature as a Mama Duck.

Well, dumping your frustrations on Jaskier doesn’t seem fair. Aw, that’s so sad. Yennefer and Geralt speak the same emotional language, but Jaskier is a lil dumpling.

Fringilla boosts Creepy Religious Dude’s self-esteem. They have a Mission!

And we’ll see how it goes in the next installment...

This episode was really good. Yep.