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He had a basket of things that he was supposed to take to town for Widow Thekla, and it wasn't his fault that his time window overlapped with when he was supposed to go to the tide pools with Marijke and Otto. The twins knew the best time to cast out nets and wade in the shallow, swirling pools better than he did anyway. They actually listened to their fisherman of a father, whereas Julian just tended to try and stay out of reach. Couldn't get thumped if the man couldn't reach him, and his logic was sound even if it tasted strange.

They had teased him, the both of them, Otto chortling in a high, lilting mimicry of his Mama's voice while Marijke sniffled and pretended to cry. Dogged his every step from where his siblings squalled in the yard before their hut all the way up the winding dirt path deeper into the village. Widow Thekla had gnarled hands that made the best wools, got the prettiest colors from her dyes while everyone said his Mama had the best eggs. Her chickens and geese were magic, and she liked to make him run and just give some to Widow Thekla twice a week.

It was the

nice

thing to do, but there was nothing nice about the way the widow would pinch his cheek between her finger and thumb and shake his head. Andre's cheeks were permanently colored a splotchy red, and his Mama said it was just because his brother had some color in his face, but Julian knew better.

Andre used to run the basket before he went out on the boat with Father, and his cheeks were red, and that meant

Julian's

would be red if he didn't get away from her pinching fingers soon.

"Jules, just get Eldert or Margriet to take it!"

"They'll cry to Mama about it."

"

I'll

cry if we miss the tide!"

A shoulder clacked against his, sent him staggering against Otto who bounced him back into Marijke. Caught between the twins and shorter than both of them still, he had passed his eighth Namesday but he hadn't passed either of them in height.

"You'll cry anyway."

"Will not!"

"Will, too!"

They bickered just over his head and Julian sighed, swayed between their shoulders and the way they shoved him to and fro. Smiled a small little thing lost almost immediately beneath his too long hair. Mama hadn't braided it that morning because she hadn't remembered, because he hadn't sat still, but Bianca hadn't done it the same. Half of the plait had already come free, and she had started it at his nape instead of against his scalp like their Mama did. Bianca never did it right, just like she couldn't sew straight and all of her bread came out too hard and burnt on the bottom, but he wasn't supposed to tell her that.

She was supposed to be getting

married

, like their elder sister Feamone had, but nobody wanted to marry Bianca. He wasn't supposed to tell her

that

either, but she was seven years older than him and still hadn't had anybody try to court her, and they all knew how that would end. Someone needed to at least look at her soon, bad baking and crooked sewing and all, or their father would marry her off for another boat like he had Tildale. It wasn't even a good boat, and worse, he hadn't seen his eldest sibling since she had married two years ago.

Ducking down a little, the twins went forward toward the smith's shop and he hung in the road for just a moment before ducking left. Alone down the street that practically ran against farmer Leopold's house and under his fence to cut around his shed. The cloth that his mother had tucked in with the eggs to protect them snagged on a peg, pulled and made them clack together quietly. He froze, frown pulling at his face as he tipped to look down into the wicker depths. None of them had cracked, none that he could see anyway and that would have to be good enough. With any luck, Widow Thekla wouldn't notice, or she wouldn't notice until he was

gone

.

Except, in her lawn and in full view of her cabin, but her door was shut and there were no signs of life from the open windows. Just the quiet rustle of wool spools hung from her ceiling to dry, the rattle of her fork and bell windchime that hung near the door. Noises of the day but no widow, and he paused in the grass to peer up into a window instead.

"Julian!"

He was never lucky, never ever

ever

, not when he wanted to be.

One of her eyes was milky, from age or sickness he couldn't tell, but she watched him with both of them as if she could still see just fine. She still caught him by his scruff like one of her dogs as soon as he crossed from farmer Leopold's yard into hers, fast as anything even with her wrinkles and her grey shock of hair. Caught him up and he hadn't even seen her at the side of her cabin, and he nearly dropped the basket as his whole body jerked.

"Where y'runnin', child?"

“T’ find you!"

A low

psh

sound, mouth pursed and she shook him a little where she held. The eggs clacked faintly together and he winced, desperate to keep the basket still for fear of breaking any of them. His Mama would have his hide, and one of his siblings would surely tell and there would go his whole day. He would have to clean the coop rather than stomping in the tide pools, and it wouldn't even

really

be his fault.

"Your Ma send you again?"

"Y-yes ma'am, Missa Thekla, I-I got eggs!"

Gnarled fingers rapped gently against the underside of his chin, made his head bob, and she took the basket from him. Lifted up the cloth and touched a finger to each, like she was checking for something only she could see, and Julian almost held his breath. Almost, like when the neighbors goat stared him down and chuffed and chewed, but Widow Thekla was more terrifying than a goat even if she didn't have horns. The goat could just scream and get ignored, but she had a mouth and people listened when she talked even if there were whispers and warnings and things like that.

Mama called her a cunning woman, said that like it meant something, but his father just called her a hag.

"Don't stutter, child. You'll rot yer tongue." Audible swallow, throat tight and his heart fluttering in a wet pool of anxiety, she nudged the bottom of his chin again. Bobbed his whole head and looped the basket over her arm like it wasn't his to begin with. "You've got a good voice, and a sound head on y'shoulders. Use em, or the world'll walk on ye."

Nodding along, he carried the way she had bounced his head, agreed even when he didn't know what to. Her whole face wrinkled up when she grinned though, and Julian's heart trembled in his chest, tried to worm up into his throat.

"Run, child. Ye'll never keep up with yer wolves if y'don't."

A solid

plap

of her palm to the top of his head and he was off. Back beneath the fence and into Farmer Leopold's yard at the sound of her crackling laughter, and it followed him across the lawn and into another street. Between the two buildings, he could still faintly hear her even if he couldn't see her, and Julian nearly crashed into his friends.

"Julian!"

Twin cries of his name from identical, freckled faces and two sets of hands found his shoulders and chest. Clenched in his tunic and caught him by his belt, they kept him out of the mud even if they winded him.

"You sneak!"

"Sneaky sneak, did y'

want

to see Widow Thekla that bad?"

One of them made a rude noise, smacking and squealing like the sounds Andre made when he snuck out with someone and he flailed. Struck out at one of them, both of them, and Otto squealed while Marijke squalled and all three of them tumbled to the ground in a heap. He landed

on

Otto, which was good enough even if he didn't land on both of them, and he got a mouthful of Marijke's long ashen hair for his troubles. Spat out as she squirmed, as Otto shoved at him like that helped anything, he got up with a wobble and an elbow to his ribs, fingers wrapping around a wrist to yank.

Otto's wrist and Otto's arm, the boy came up with him and they clacked into one another with a groan. Marijke dusted herself off with a haughty huff to their right, and the most peculiar shadow followed Otto when he moved. Like someone had lit a fire, and all the smoke hung around him like a silent swarm of flies. It smelled even, wet and dank like swamp weed, like the tumbles of wet grass that came in after the tide swept out. Salty and sticky like something the ocean spat back out, and Julian frowned.

Watched it flutter around his friend with a strange itch in his throat, almost like a sneeze that just wouldn't come.

"Ott–"

"C'mon, we're gon' miss the tide!"

It followed them when they moved, followed

him

, hung around like his own personal storm cloud, and his tongue felt tacky, laid between his teeth. There was something impossibly wrong here, but he couldn't find his voice to explain it, and he didn't think Otto would have listened even if he could. Otto didn't listen half the time to begin with like his sister had taken all the good sense when she came out first, but there was no telling him that. He certainly wouldn't listen as Marijke pulled them along, and Julian was tugged down toward the docks as he tried to watch the strange cloud.

It followed him, moved with him like it was anchored beneath his skin, a mantle caught in the wind and Otto didn’t even notice. Neither of the twins mentioned it or paid it any mind, and his tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth. There was something strange, something

wrong

, but the words were impossible and trying to explain it got him nowhere, trying to draw attention to it was nothing more than a few false starts and hiccups that made Marijke laugh. Made Otto ignore him, pull him faster, and he stumbled on the path where it cobbled into the docks, past the water-worn wood and to where dirt became sand pocked with rocks and rough shells. Crabs scrabbled across the ground in a mad scramble to get out of the way of their feet like they might be trampled otherwise.

Except, every step they took the cloud shifted, darkened and swirled and settled until it fluttered past his shoulders, down to his waist like an ill-fitted tunic in the wind. It clung, and distracted Julian long enough that he didn’t realize they’d hit the tide pools until his boots slapped in the water. His arms wheeled to keep himself upright when Marijke let go and Otto laughed all over again, stomping through the shallow puddles and the silted mud that remained. With every step it grew, followed his body until it enveloped him down to his submerged boots, and a peculiar, cold chill that set deeper into his belly with every splash. The sneeze-like itch sank in harder, less of a tickle and more like the pressing need to cough, harsher at the edges and biting.

It made his jaw ache, his throat

burn

, and Julian swallowed compulsively against it. That only served to make it worse, to make it flicker like a fever set into the back of his tongue and he breathed through his mouth only to whimper quietly.

“Maybe we–"

Shouldn’t be here

, and the words died on his tongue. Turned into pure sound instead, a wretched thing that was nothing more than a piercing scream as the first body wrenched itself out of the silt. Bulging eyes and blueish skin, the cloud became a black storm plucked from the sky as the drowner let out a garbled hiss and slashed wildly. Caught Otto in the torso as Julian screamed and another pulled up from the muck, his hands curling to fists that shook with nails biting into his palms. His friend went down but the creatures staggered as quickly as they rose, the blood-curdling cry drawing the attention of workers where raised voices carried from the docks beyond the rocks.

He couldn't grab at Marijke but he wanted to desperately, body curled forward like he could force the creatures to flee if he screamed loud enough, instinct caught somewhere between predator and prey and something sickeningly darker still. There was a gaping, endless maw of

more

, dark and abysmal and deep that cracked open inside him and made his face run with tears. The drowners staggered back into the muck, Otto fell with a wet choking sound, and blood ran from Marijke's ears. His own head was wet, soup pot full and thick set to boil over at the slightest slosh, and Julian fell to his knees in the wet silt.

Someone had to carry Otto's body.

They scooped up Marijke and Julian, the fishmonger and the fire keeper in turns, but it was different than how they picked up Otto. Hesitantly, whereas there was a rush to get himself and his friend away from the water and the creature’s bodies, there was almost a delay for how they moved Otto. Like they didn't know if they should touch him, or how, and Marijke wailed and wailed like she couldn't hear herself screaming while blood flowed like a faulty water spigot from Julian's nose. They handled him like a

corpse

, closed his eyes with one hand and lay a cloak over him to cover the way that his belly had been slit from throat to navel, organs exposed like a hen after coyotes got into the coop.

Julian watched even as Dietrich the fire keeper tried to smear the blood off his face and keep him from looking, and he just knew. Between the cold in his belly, the faint metallic tang in his throat and spiraling nausea felt like

more

, deeper, and Julian just knew. The cloud was gone, clinging darkness snuffed out like it had never been there to begin with, but it had taken with it the soft candlelight glow that had always surrounded the boy. Marijke's was still there for all that it flickered and shuttered, Dietrich and Gerwald and the others that rushed the tide pools gently aglow at the edges like they always were, but Otto was empty.

Otto was

empty

, and Julian stared with blood on his face as they carried his corpse back to the docks.

There was that feeling in his throat again, tight and acrid like he'd kept crying but he hadn't, Marijke had taken all the room for tears. He couldn't seem to cry anymore than a slow trickle even though he wanted to, thought he did at least, but that feeling persisted all the same. Sour curdle in his mouth like he'd cried himself silly, like he'd bitten something rotten, and Julian watched the happenings with burning eyes and a burning throat and blood dribbling still from his nose. It matched the blood at his ears that came away when his sister finally came to fetch him, looking frantic and grey at the edges.

Bianca wedged past the village pellar to kneel beside him, tipped his face into her cool palm until he looked at her. Near her, unable to necessarily focus because darkness loomed over a few of the gathered crowd, that same night shroud fog that had rolled around Otto's shoulders before. They clung in various shades and depths, and he licked at his lips only to taste blood from his nose.

"Oh, Julek."

Weary and worrisome, like he had done something more than scream and bleed, and Julian looked at her then. Blue eyes to a pair just as dawn limpid and clear, he had her eyes where they didn't share their father's, and Julian leaned a little into her touch. Tried to focus on the look on her face and the curling frazzle where her braid had come undone much like his own. Anything rather than the

lack

of soft light around her, something twilight hazy and frosted lush instead.

"Up now, with me."

Her fingers curled around his, thin wrists and thin fingers, she pulled him up where he wanted to sway and sink. Away from the clouds, away from the colors, from the things that didn't feel right and the taste of something sallow and foul in his throat.

"The boy stays, we have questions."

"The boy is in

shock

, he's in no state to answer anythi–"

"Leave off, girl. One of our children is dead, and he might ha–"

"My

brother

just watched his friend be gutted, and you expect me to leave him–"

"I expect you to listen to your betters!"

"Feldemore!" His sister didn't flinch so much as jolt, and Julian watched with a numbness in his chest as she leaned closer. Like she might shield him from something, anything, but she kept him up when he just wanted to sit and sink into the sand and clay beneath the docks. "Is my son suspected of murder?"

"No, Olka, the boy could never, he's wounded just like the girl–"

"Then my children and I will be leaving."

His mother never raised her voice, not in the house or in the fields, but she had never had to. Her words always carried any distance, resonated when they found their true home and stuck like a bur. She never yelled at them, never even raised her voice when their father became particularly gruff and harsh, but her words held weight. A child at each hip and her hair uncovered, she was a mother at first and last glance, and her gaze was pale but fierce where she watched the alderman huff and puff.

"Bianca, bring your brother."

The

yes Mama

went unsaid but he could hear it anyway, sister shifting to sling his arms over both of her shoulders and heft. He was too big to be carried, everyone said so, he would be too tall soon even if he was still small, but he was too old. Their father would pitch a fit if he saw such a thing, but Bianca picked him up like she had a few years ago, his legs slung weakly over her hips and her arms clasped beneath his bottom.

She carried him like that, like they still carried Eldert or Margriet, away from the alderman and the crowd and the twin’s mother where she clutched a sobbing Marijke to her breast and wailed. After their mother as best she could with his weight, and there was a hitch in her breathing that got better with every step.

He watched the gathered village over the crest of her shoulder, and it was only once they rounded Widow Thekla's house that he turned his face into her hair. Soap and the faintest tinge of smoke, of something burnt and past saving, his sister smelled like safety and the same where everything else was blood and brine and mud. That catch in her chest soothed the further they got, and dimly, he heard their mother murmur something to Widow Thekla as they passed.

Flinched at passing fingers across his too-long hair and burrowed deeper against his sister's chest.

Away from the widow's and toward the other end of the village to where their hut stood, and he could just barely see anything past Bianca's curls. The winding path that led to the boneyard and all of its marked graves, the hunter’s trail that would take one out to the deer stand beyond the wheat shoots and the corn stalks and everything else that grew in their fields. He didn't wriggle or fall asleep in her arms like he used to, just quietly clung and wished to be anywhere but there and then.

Otto was

dead

, and Julian shuddered against the gnashing in his belly.

The sounds of little bare feet on their rough wooden floor, the faint scuff of his mother’s shoes, Bianca tried to set him down and his arms tightened then. A low, pitiful sound warbled out of his throat, and Julian clutched at his sister.

"Eldert, Margriet, go tend the goats please."

"But Mama, we just–"

"Eldert," her voice was as soft as it was stern, Bianca grasping at him to keep from dropping him even as she sighed. Tsked him with a quiet sound of his name even as she shifted his weight to nudge her own shoes, word almost lost under the rustle of her dress and the static of her hair. "Take your sister and go milk the goats,

please

."

His little brother huffed, rough and harsh with a temper he didn't deserve, and Julian trembled. Pressed closer to Bianca's chest and made his sister wobble again even if she didn't set him down. Couldn’t, because Bianca was never rough even when she should have been and he pressed his blood-streaked face against her throat with a shuddering breath. The door slammed shut and he flinched, rocked both of them and made his sister almost fumble his weight. He was too big for this, he was too old for this, and his mother’s touch was gentle where she pried him away.

“

Buttercup

, none of that now.”

His feet to the floor and her skirts pooled when she sat like that. Chucked cool fingertips against the underside of his chin until he looked at her, blue to blue and a trapped bird in his chest.

“Bianca, a rag plea–perfect, thank you.” Sopping fabric against the side of his face as she swept the blood from his nose, the dribbles of it from his ears. Cleaned him until his skin ached, there was something crawling beneath his skin, something hungry in his belly when all he wanted was to puke. The dusky flutter of frosted light from her skin was a comfort, identical to Bianca and Andre in temperate tones where everyone else ran hot like the rising sun. Everyone else but Otto, lightless and gutted and bled at the tidepools where they shouldn’t have gone, penumbra cloaked across his shoulders where it ate up every scrap of light in a single swallow. “You’re alright now.”

“Otto’s

dead

.”

His voice rasped from screaming, tidal crag in his throat that hooked and pulled another flinch from his saltwater bones. Julian shut his eyes tight and listened to her sigh, to Bianca puttering around behind her at the hearth.

“He is. Dry up now, did his light go quick?”

“I–” What a peculiar question, and his brow furrowed, frown etched across his sun freckled face as he opened his eyes to squint at her. Patient and cool-eyed, there were shadows pressed beneath them like bruises from his thumbs, soot stains that never swept away. She always looked so tired, and the dim inside their home cast a long kind of dark across her face, made her cheeks hollow and her eyes sunken. “I think so?”

Had it gone quickly, that pretty candle beneath Otto’s skin snuffed out like it had never been there at all? Not even a trail of smoke left behind to know where to look, just

gone

with a cry and a bloom of blood and the thud of a body to the wet silt.

“That’s good then, he most likely didn’t feel anything.” That wasn’t half the comfort she must have thought it was, but she turned his face side to side and looked for more blood that wasn’t there. His cheeks were damp even if his skin wasn't sticky anymore, and Julian swallowed against the urge to start crying all over again. "You're almost as old as your brother was."

None of that made sense, but he obediently took the mug that Bianca held out to him. Steam curled off the top and it smelled floral and sharp, seared heat into his palms.

"Mama?"

Willow bark and herbs and too much honey, the tea scalded his tongue when he took a sip. She sighed, pet a hand across his hair and looked through him for a long minute.

"I'm sorry, buttercup. I thought...well, it doesn't matter much what I thought."

Practical and pragmatic and other words he couldn't think of but should have known, she tutted and clucked and touched her fingers to his temple.

"I need you to be a good boy and listen to me."

"Mama, I don't–"

"Better he learn now, Bianca, while your father isn't home. This world isn't built for the likes of us, but you have to learn how to live in it. We've two rules if you don't want a Witcher sent for your head: don't chase the lights and never, ever scream, do you understand me?"
 
-
 
"I don't want to go."

The bed wasn't just his, but he sat on it like it was, stiff pallet on the floor that he shared with Eldert even though his brother kicked something fierce in his sleep. They had to share, Father swore and Mama quietly insisted, but she tried to hide bruises beneath her dress and behind her hair, so he didn't quite trust her opinion on things.

Eldert couldn't take the bed if there was no room, and Julian sat in the very center of it like he could claim the entire thing by will alone as Andre quickly went through his drawer in the wardrobe and pulled all of his worldly possessions loose. Three sets of breeches, a few tunics that weren't rightfully his but fit anyway and books that he wasn't supposed to have, because

men didn't read, Julian, they worked

. Everything fit into the rucksack his brother had brought with him into the house, quick and tidy and methodical.

"Mother refuses to bury you. I've an apprenticeship if I can get passage to Skellige and Bianca has a potential suitor if she can manage not to muck this one up, too, which leaves you."

"So leave me, go to your big adventure!"

The drawer snapped shut and that one decidedly

wasn't

his, those weren't his socks because they didn't fit and those baubles certainly weren't his. He didn't squirrel away anything that shone like that because they had nothing worthwhile, but he knew the garnet glitter of his Gran's heirlooms when he saw them.

"You aren't trying to drag Eldert and Margriet away!"

Into the sack they went, bundled into a drawstring pouch like they weren't the most expensive thing to ever cross the threshold. Those weren’t his, pretty little things that he wasn’t supposed to touch, and it would be his hide if their father noticed they were gone.

When

he noticed they were gone, because the man always knew when he had done something wrong, would find out one way or another. It wouldn’t even be Julian’s fault this time, but that wouldn’t matter when it was his back getting belted.

“Eldert and Margriet aren’t my

blood

!”

“

What?”

Furious blue eyes and something cold in the air, like his brother hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't, certainly, didn't mean it surely, but oh how he looked a menace when he whirled around like that. Question and confusion barely more than a small squeal, but Julian shrank back on his palate. Had never feared his brother before, but there was an unspoken potential for terror in how Andre loomed that he didn't understand.

"I'll explain on the horse, Julian, we need to

go

."

He didn't want to go to start with, and he certainly didn't now, elder brother furious and final where he took his wrist and bodily wrenched him off the bed. Andre had always been bigger, teased him that his bones hadn't woken yet, that he would catch up one day, but he felt horribly small in that moment.

Out the door for the cottage and their little siblings had gotten off to somewhere, nowhere in sight with their Mama off in the market and Bianca at the weavers. No dirt-streaked little faces stared at them from the chicken fence, and he stumbled in the dirt in shoes he wasn't used to wearing as his brother pulled him along. Past the goat pen to a horse that looked like Farmer Leopold's, and his refusal caught in his throat at being pulled forcibly to the great beast.

"Andre–"

His brother didn't listen, or maybe he didn't care. Took him up by the waist and just sat him on the horse where he couldn’t get down on his own. Andre knew that, legs too short and his body too small and he hated being this high up,

hated

it, but he couldn’t get away from it now.

Clung to the horse’s saddle as his heart hammered in his chest, brother crowded up behind him with the bag wedged between them. Hard edges through thin burlap that he didn’t like the feel of all knobbed against his spine, his brother held him in place with arms around his middle to hold the reins. Turned their borrowed horse around with a harsh tug and a press of boots against its flank, past the chicken fence and the goat pen and they were off. He bounced in the saddle, breath punched out of him with every hit until his lungs ached and his hands scrambled for somewhere to hold onto. Fear a tight thing in his throat and he wanted to cry as they shot past the outskirts of the village northbound.

“Andre, ple–"

“No.”

“Father will kill me when he finds us.”

A rattled hush, hands digging into the leather to keep himself upright as his brother worked the horse into a quick canter. The docks were empty, all the boats dotted out in the water beyond the rocks that marked the edge of the shallows. Pale sails and figures made thin from distance, he couldn’t tell them apart where they bobbed out in the ocean. Any of them could have been Gamel or Warin out on the waves, but that meant any of those could have been friends of his father, any of those men could have seen them and known. It was only a matter of time before Sigric knew they were gone, the boats would come back to shore at sundown and everything would all come tumbling down.

Andre was going to get them killed, no horse could outrun their father’s rage.

Gulls swarmed overhead, and his brother took them from the outskirts of the village to the barley field that spanned to the east like a sea of grain. The harvest needed to be brought in soon, there were things he was supposed to do before Belletyn took them, but Andre had other plans for them.

“Andre,

please

.”

“He’s not your father, Julian, and I refuse to leave you here.”

He would have fallen if his brother hadn’t caged him in, a strike like lightning through his core that turned everything white-hot and empty.

“What?”

His only answer was a harsh grunt, and Andre pushed the horse harder, farmer Leopold’s pale mare heaving beneath them as they broke past the tracker’s hut at a gallop. Ignored just like that and his body quickly started to ache, he had never sat on a horse for longer than it took to realize he hated to. He wasn’t supposed to ride a horse, he wasn’t supposed to

leave

, Sigric had said so, but Andre wouldn’t answer him as much as his brother wouldn’t lie. Reiner had died from a fever in his blood, their sisters were only safe if they could get themselves out of the house, and Andre had never lied to him.

He wished his brother did suddenly, desperately, but Andre never lied and their father always hurt him if and when he managed to catch him. His head was loud, body already sore from the short time he had sat in the saddle and Julian hiccupped against a hot burst of tears that clogged his throat. Otto had barely been dead a month, and already everything had changed. Marijke wouldn’t speak to him, because Marijke wouldn’t speak, and already he had seen wisps of that dark cloud hovering around villagers in the corners of his vision. Something inside him had yawned itself free with his friend’s death, and Julian didn’t know how to tame it, but Mama had treated it like this was

normal

.

He didn’t want this normal, he just wanted Otto back.

“Julian.”

It was awkward, caught in the saddle and held as he was, but he twisted around as best he could to hide his face in his brother’s chest. Too old to cry like this, but he was too old to be carried too, too old for a lot of things that he had done recently.

Andre just pulled his arms a little tighter around him and dug his chin into the top of his head.

“It’ll be better this way, you’ll see.”

Would it? He couldn’t see much of anything, blurry vision and the harsh cloth of his brother’s tunic pressed against his cheek. His chest hurt and he hated this horse, hated riding, but Andre showed no signs of stopping and he couldn’t smell any of the woodsmoke anymore, the salty brine of the coast getting weaker the further they traveled.

“W-what about Bianca?”

“The pellar’s son up river wants to marry her. She’ll be fine.”

She would be fine, but he had never heard anything about the pellar’s son before. He heard about Sarra almost as much as his sister was home, the widowed weaver the only thing his sister ever really talked about like her apprenticeship had taken over her life. That would be good though, wouldn’t it? A way out of their village, a way out from under their father’s thumb because she couldn’t bake and she couldn’t sew, but someone wanted her.

The village up the river was better than their two room hut, but who would help take care of the chickens and the goats and look after Eldert and Margriet?

“What about Mama, we–Andre, we can’t leave Mama, I can’t–"

“

Mama

would keep you here until she smothered you herself.” Venom on his mouth and Andre gripped tight at his tunic where Julian had tried to twist around. Would have fallen off the horse and instead his stomach tried to heave as the trees whipped past them. “Tell you not to ‘chase the lights’ while she was at it?”

“I–”

She

had,

though, dark eyed and serious like she always was. Pale and thin and serious, because she was alway serious, soft spoken and gentle like her bones were made from the breeze. He had always been so scared to hug her too hard or to run at her like he would Bianca, like too much of anything and he would break her. But she had told him not to chase them, and Mama knew what was best, didn’t she? She had given him tea to calm him and cleaned the tears and blood from his face after the incident in the shallows, she had taken care of him like she always did.

But her hands were cold, and her eyes had bruises that looked like they hurt, and Julian was always so scared to touch her for fear of breaking her.

“She did, didn’t sh–Gods

damn

it.”

His brother hugged him tight and his breath left him on a harsh gasp, horse pulled around a bend as he gripped tight to the saddle. Andre must have done something, the animal come to a stop in the middle of the path and that was his heart beating violently in his chest. His brother bundled him up tight and close in his arms and Julian pawed at his arms, couldn’t return the embrace with how he sat but he could try.

“You have to follow the lights, Julian, you

have

to, do you hear me?” Shaken, jostled where he sat with breath gusted against the top of his head, his brother held him like he thought he might disappear, held him like their Mama didn’t. “You’ll be worse than dead if you don’t. She wouldn’t let Reiner and he didn’t last through his first winter awake. Had to smother him in his sleep, don’t make me have to put you down, too.”

“Andre, you’re scarin’ me!”

“

Promise me!”

A flock of birds burst from the trees and he flinched, brothers voice impossibly loud in the woods around them. He couldn’t tell whose heartbeat that was, pounding like a battered drum and it could have been his but it could have been his brother's. Andre sounded angry, but he sounded

scared

, and Julian’s fingers dug into his sleeve.

“I promise!”
 
-
 
“Year round room and board without sponsored enrollment will be eight hundred crowns yearly.”

The man had kind eyes, brown and warm set into a weathered, sagging face, less like he had spent time in the sun and more like he had aged behind his tall desk. Thinning brown hair and spectacles that slid down his nose, the man had

spectacles

, little round pieces of glass held to his face by curved wires that looped behind his ears. He thought people only wore those in books, he didn’t think he had ever actually seen a person with those things on their face.

Did he wear them all the time, or just when he was behind his desk?

Andre held his hand, like he was worried Julian would just

leave

if he let go, but where would he run? The city was large and sprawling, with paved walkways in pretty stones and tall buildings with shining red roofs and everything looked like a glittery, clean maze.

“Can it be paid in installments?”

Eight hundred crowns was more gold than he had ever thought to see in one place, and they expected it yearly?

Wide-eyed and almost too anxious to breathe in such a place lest they charge

more

, he looked from the man to his brother where Andre stood tall and proud. Like he thought he was an adult, like he had the authority for such a thing.

“Certainly! Many of our students fund their educations as such. The responsible party will need to sign his enrollment paperwork, I’m afraid we can’t send it with y–"

“I’ll be signing it.”

His brother was fifteen, that didn’t make him responsible, that made him a jerk. That made him old enough to be mean and that wasn’t fair, he hadn’t even asked Julian if he wanted to be here. Had told him he would be, that he needed an education so he could be someone, so he didn’t have to go back. And that sounded right, that seemed fair, but that didn’t mean he liked it any. That didn’t mean he wanted to stay here, and Julian pressed a little closer to his brother's side as the old man stared down at them.

“Of course. You will need to read through these papers and sign in the appropriate sections, there will be spaces left to indicate where.”

Andre took what he was handed and Julian was left without anything to hide behind when his brother stepped away from him to the rest of the man’s desk. Important paperwork but it left him alone, heart in his throat when the man looked back at him.

He smiled, kindly and warm, and it felt like there were worms in his belly.

“Hello there. What might your name be?”

There was a candle-light flicker around him, haloed in a faint grey shimmer at the edges. It had pressed in slowly, small fingertip touches into the color where it waited patiently for its time. Andre had explained it to him as best he could, and Julian had listened for as much as he had hated it. Mama had told him not to chase the lights, but his brother had made him swear, and he couldn’t go back on that.

“Julian of Kerack, sir.”

The old man face crinkled, all wrinkled and weathered when he smiled like Julian had done something great. Nobody looked at him like that, not adults, nobody since Otto and the screaming and the tide pools. It made him feel wrong-footed and his belly hot, and he swallowed thickly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Julian. My name is Philip Miscrit, I'm the steward here at the Academy."

He frowned then, because he didn't know that word or what that meant. This city was strange, with tall buildings and shiny red roofs and streets cobbled with stone instead of just packed earth. They had ridden for over a week to get here, and his body didn't hurt anymore from the saddle but his chest did, tight and aching. He wanted to go home and he never wanted to leave, but Andre hadn't given him a choice.

"What's a steward?"

"Well," his voice was kind and his eyes were too, wrinkled at the corners like he had laughed a lot during his life. "It's someone who takes care of the household. So if you need something, or you're not sure where to go, you can always come to me and I'll help you."

He stared at the man, a little confused and a little unsure, because adults didn't just help people like him. Adults never helped, because Sigric always used his hands if he ever got in the way, and Andre said Mama was selfish and that she lied. He didn't have anyone he could trust now except his brother, because Bianca was supposed to marry the pellar's son and the twins wouldn't remember him when they grew up. But Andre was going to leave him for Skellige, and Julian wanted to scream.

“I–”

“I signed everything.”

His eyes burned, throat tight and hot where he wanted to puke. His hands started to shake where he had gripped fistfuls of his too big tunic, pale knuckled and tense. This wasn’t

fair

, and he could feel a different kind of scream in his throat. Nothing like the clawing, burning feeling had been, it wasn’t that insistent hunger, just something fearful and childish that clawed at him.

He was scared, and Andre was going to leave, and then he would be stuck alone in this strange place with its strange buildings and its people that he didn’t know.

“Thank you, give me just a moment to check these over.”

Andre stepped up beside him and handed over the papers like it was nothing, and Julian started to shake. His brother noticed because Andre always noticed things, and the hot line of his body pressed tight against Julian’s side. He crowded against him and looped an arm around his shoulders to pull him in close, tucked against his side where he was too big for such things.

Sigric said he was too big, too old, but Sigric wasn’t his father, and Sigric didn’t get to have a say, Andre had promised.

Andre had

promised

, but Andre was leaving him here for Skellige.

He turned until he could smash his face against his brothers ribs and wrapped his arms tight around his middle. His fingers twisted in the rough linen of his tunic, and Andre just pulled him closer until it was like he couldn’t breathe. Just sweat and the hot of the sun and the bright, lightning smell that his brother always smelled like, that Bianca and Mama had smelled like. It filled his lungs and settled like a warm blanket, and he made a quiet sound muffled against his brother's side, scared and wet where he had almost started to cry.

“Hey.”

That was Mama’s tongue on his brother's lips, Kerackian coastal wave break and the brine twist of words touched by the tide. He hadn’t heard it since they had passed into Redania, his brother speaking only in Common and encouraging him to do the same, but it was there now.

It made him start crying heaving, gut-wrenching sounds that pulled up from his belly and made him shake. He clung to his brother like a leech from the river, and Andre just took it. Turned a little and bent until he could practically curl over Julian’s smaller frame, like his crying wasn’t anything to be angry about. Andre didn’t raise his voice or his hands, and Andre didn’t tell him to stop, just held him close and tight and breathed with a strange wobbling sound.

“You’ll be safe here, Julek.” The words were spoken against his sweat greasy hair, and Andre rocked them faintly from side to side. “You’ll get three meals a day, and you’ll read all the books you can get your hands on.”

“Don’t leave me!”

Andre started to let go of him, and his scream lodged in his throat, wet and sobbing. His hands scrabbled at his brother's side and twisted into his tunic a little harder, a little tighter. Andre took his hands and pulled them free, held them in his own, and he shook all over when his brother crouched in front of him.

Andre ducked his head around until Julian had to look at him, and his smile was thin and wet and crooked. His eyes were glassy and his red cheeks were flushed bright, like he wanted to cry, too, but couldn’t. Like he thought he had to be strong for Julian, and that just made everything worse. His brother had to be big for the both of them, and now it was his turn, because he was going to be left behind.

“I’ll write you every chance I have, but I need you to be brave for me, Julek. Can you do that?”

He hiccuped, hands caught in his brother's and his face wet.

He nodded, though, a sharp motion that made everything blur worse than his crying did. Andre nodded back, smile still there and his voice strong.

“You’ll love it here, I promise. Remember, don’t be afraid of the lights.”

He would love it with his brother, and he would be good, but Andre couldn’t take both of them. He had to stay, and his brother had to go, and Julian took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Y-you’ll write me?”

His brother bundled him up tight in his arms, and Julian pressed his wet face against his shoulder.

“As often as I can. But I need to go, Julek, or I’ll miss my ship.”

He nodded again, because he had to be brave, and he had to be big because Andre needed him to.

“I love you.”

Andre breathed another wet sound, and gathered him tight for another hug before he stood.

“I love you, too. You’re going to be someone

great

, you’ll see.”

His brother stood up tall and straight, like that was the end of it.

Philip watched them with a patient look on his face and a soft smile, like he understood even if he didn’t. It made Julian itch, made him want to run, but there was nowhere to run, but Andre needed him to be brave, but he was too old and too big for that sort of thing. He didn’t hold his brother’s hand like he wanted to and he didn’t keep crying even though his eyes still burned, a long sniffle where he bit it back and tried to clear his nose. Philip didn’t say anything about it, though, and he’d never wanted to thank an adult before.

“Everything’s in order. I can show the young lad to his room and get him settled, unless you’d like to come as well, Ser Andre?”

“No,” Common then, like his brother hadn’t just spoken to him in the tongue he had known all his life, but his words were accented and sounded just this side of wrong. Like it wasn’t quite natural, and Julian swallowed thickly. “I have a ship to meet, I can’t stay.”

Philip nodded, and Andre stepped away from him then.

His heart lodged in his throat, and he suddenly wanted to puke all over again.

“Be good, Julian.”

And then he was gone, in boots that didn’t really fit and a tunic that was too big, leaving Julian alone with Philip in the big entry hall.

The old man smiled at him, kind like adults weren’t unless they wanted something, and stepped around his broad desk toward the stairs.

“Come along then, let’s see about finding your room and then we’ll raid the kitchens.”

There was something bright in his eyes like laughter, and Julian only hesitated for a minute before following him up the stairs. They were big just like the rest of the building, all curling wood in deep dark red tones, all carved with swirling patterns and shiny, sleek to the touch. His hand trailed across the bottom curve of it as he hefted himself up the first step, careful to keep up for all that the man didn’t seem ready to leave him behind. The walls were littered with elegant tapestries edged in glittering golden threads and bright jewel-toned colors that he had never seen before, portraits of people he didn’t recognize with names he didn’t know scrawled beneath them in a curling, sweeping hand. Someone had painted the walls, jarring and exotic where he was used to grey-toned driftwood and sunbleached exteriors. Instead, everything was washed in a rich, deep blue-green like the darkest part of the ocean where the water touched the sky.

There were

windows

, real glass with colors that made patterns on the floor, all bright and pretty against the dark wooden floors. He had never seen windows before, and especially none like this, so many different colors and pretty things that it almost made his head hurt to look at.

“Is this a house?”

“Of a sort.” The man smiled at him again, like he was pleased that Julian had asked a question. Either he walked slow or he had slowed his pace so Julian could look at things without getting left behind, and it put the same kind of feeling in his chest like when Bianca gave him a mug of over-brewed tea, sweet and strange. “The Academy is home to its students and many of the staff. Some of the professors live off the grounds, but the kitchen staff and the cleaners all live here. Currently, many of the occupants have returned to their families to celebrate Midsummer, but a few students and the auxiliary staff are still here.”

Students, because he was a student now. He only knew how to read because Bianca had taught him, and he didn’t know how to write because Sigric had never let him learn. But he was a student now, and that meant he was supposed to know those things if he was going to learn anything. Shame curled through his belly like a rotten soup, and he focused instead on the soft, glimmering torchlight that sifted off of Philip’s skin. There were no clouds around him, none of the dark fringed fingers that had hung around Otto or some of the people in the village. Just warmth, just glitter, and Julian breathed easy at the sight.

“There’ll be more people?”

“Indeed! Give it a few weeks and these halls will be full once more. I’ve no doubt that you’ll make fast friends.”

The man talked quietly about the history of the Academy as they walked, voice warm and his tone patient whenever Julian asked questions. He showed him the hall for the girl's dormitory while explaining that the students were separated by sexes, and then launched into a long story about how the topic of sexes was left for a case-by-case debate with the Dean like their gender was just something to be talked about. The thought of it tasted strange, but he listened the entire time because Philip had been kind to him for seemingly no reason other than he wanted to be, and adults never talked to him just because. The attention felt strange, foreign, and like he should have shied away, but he hung off of every word the man said.

“Ah, here we are. You won’t have a roommate currently, not until he returns from break, but I think the two of you will get along well.”

The door opened to a room bigger than what he was used to, wider than the one he had shared with all of his siblings. It had a window of clear glass and only two beds pressed into it on opposite walls, actual beds in actual frames instead of straw pallets on the floor. There was a desk tucked under the window between them, and two different tall cabinets on either side of the door. Clothes hung in one, tunics and breeches and other things he didn’t recognize, more shoes than he had ever seen together with no holes to be seen. There were no patches on the clothes, actual blankets on the beds with pillows and shelves pressed into the walls. One side of the room overflowed with life, and that meant the empty bed was his.

The empty bed was

his

, and Julian took a deep, shaking breath.

“I don’t have any clothes.”

It burned to say it, hot in his belly in the worst kind of way and sticky in his throat. All he had was the rucksack that had been brought with them, one of two where Andre had taken his own. He had been left with tunics with holes in them and breeches that didn’t fit right, pack weighted by books that weren’t his to take that his brother had taken with them anyway. Andre had taken half of the things they had brought, had stepped into one of the fancy Oxenfurt shops and left Julian outside for near an hour before he had come back out and stuffed a sachet of

something

into the bottom of his rucksack. He hadn’t looked, he didn’t know because his brother hadn’t given him time, but there was something there that was his, because his brother had said it was.

Philip just nodded though, as if that were to be expected, and his smile was soft, kind.

“That is perfectly fine. Undergraduate students are required to wear a University provided uniform. We can stop by the chamberlain’s after the kitchen and see what we can do about acquiring you a uniform. If you want any clothes for off-campus, those will need to be purchased from your own coin.”

He drew up short then, having just slid his pack off his shoulders. It thumped onto the bed with a heavy sound from the books that weighted the bottom. His shoulders curled up a little toward his ears, one arm wrapped around the hollow curve of his belly beneath his ribs. He didn’t have coin, he didn’t have any extras or anything nice, he wasn’t, he didn’t–

Andre had put him here, but he didn’t belong here, and Julian could have cried all over again.

“Many of the students have small jobs around campus to supplement an income.” His voice was patient but Julian still flinched. He wanted to twist in on himself, but Andre said he had to be brave, and Bianca said he was too old to hide from things, so he turned around instead. The man was taller than him, thin-shouldered with warm brown hair dusted with grey at his temples, but he smiled like Julian had done something right even when he looked a little sad for some reason. “I’m sure we can find something for you to do. You’ll fit right in. Now, is the room alright? Not too small?”

He blinked owlishly at the older man, face scrunching up a little on a frown at the thought of the room being

small

. He could sit against one wall and his feet wouldn’t touch the other, and he couldn’t even touch the other bed from his, a wide berth of space at least twice the length of him between both of them. All of his siblings had slept in a room smaller than this on packed straw pallets, but this man was worried about it being too small? How was Julian supposed to find enough things to fit in here?

“N-no, it’s–this is fine?”

It tasted like a question, but the man just took it and nodded. He stepped out the door too, and Julian scrambled to follow where he didn’t want to be left behind again.

“Now, your roommate is a young man named Valdo. He’s in the same year as you, I’m sure the two of you will get along wonderfully. That said…” A warm hand rested on his shoulder, and Julian flinched under the touch. The man didn’t grip him any tighter though, didn’t jerk him around, just left his hand there like a warm weight against his tunic. “If, for any reason, he gives you any trouble, come find me and we’ll get things sorted out.”

His head bobbed on a nod, but what else was he supposed to do? Everyone was trouble even if they didn’t mean to be, and trouble caused trouble, because everyone had always called Otto a troublemaker, and now Otto was dead.

The silence lasted them down the hall to another set of stairs, this one at the back of the hall on a winding wooden descent that led them back to the ground floor. The windows here were clear panes of glass, arching things that let in pools of light that guided their path. Philip explained that this was the public part of the University, the path to the kitchens and the dining hall and all other amenities that students might need while on campus grounds. He pointed to a large set of dark wooden doors and talked quietly about the dining hall that lay beyond them, and what times of day the kitchen provided meals for students. There was a knowing, soft smile on his face when he confided that food could be gotten from the kitchens regardless of if it was mealtime like it was some kind of secret, and Julian listened avidly.

Past the dining hall the rich scent of yeast and roasted meat drifted down the hall like a crumb trail into the kitchen. He peered in as they passed it to the large room with stoneware ovens and a large hearth filled with layered spits for roasting and for cauldrons to be hung from. There was a mountain of produce on a large table with a broad woman wielding a wicked-looking knife, another two persons bustling around the small space as she gave them orders without looking away from her work. They were past it in but a few steps, but he had never seen a room specifically for cooking, as lavish of a concept as it was, but Philip treated it like it was normal.

“Ah, here we are.”

The door looked like any other that they had passed, but Philip pressed it open with a gentle flourish, waving Julian in under his arm. It smelled of soap and lye, the scent hitting him in the face as soon as he stepped into the room. The floor was stone here, just as it had been in the kitchen, with wide windows open to the breeze and broad washer tubs dominating one side of the room. Water steamed in one of them, thick with a lye froth that piled bubbles to one side of the great wooden structure. Ropes ran along the high ceiling in a series of panels, a few of them weighted by simple grey and blue tunics and breeches, dresses belted by cream-colored girdles.

Like the lines that hung from the back of their hut to the tree beside it, but there were dozen upon dozens of them, where he was only used to the single strand that his Mama used to dry their clothes.

“Lica, are you terribly busy?”

The open doorway set into the wall to the right had light streaming from inside of it, low and candlelit where the rest of the room was pale with it. There was a faint rustle and a thump from inside, and then a wisp of a woman bustled out from inside. Dark hair piled atop her head with a trailing scrap of fabric, she had laugh lines set into her warm, ruddy skin, and she smiled at the sight of them. He shied away a little, stumbled back into Philip behind him, but the man steadied him with a single hand to his shoulder.

“You’re early, Phili--Oh!” The teasing lilt dropped from her voice when she saw him, smoothed out into something warmer, sweet. Her hands were red knuckled and her cheeks were flushed in a manner similar to Andre’s own, but where it looked bright on his brother, it made this woman seem to glow. Soft light flickered around her, not a shadow in sight, and Julian wanted to lean forward into it. “Hello there, lad. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“This is Julian, we were needing some uniforms to start our term.”

She nodded, hands clasping in front of her for a moment before she invaded his space. She didn’t touch him, but her hands fluttered in the air around him all the same. He didn’t flinch even if he wanted to, held carefully still as she did whatever it was she had approached him to do.

“Awfully little thing, aren’t you? Well.” She said it like that was something fine, like him being small wasn’t a problem for a change. “I should have a few sets that will fit you. Stay here just a moment.”

She was gone just as quickly as she had come, and Julian waited until she was out of sight before it felt like he could breathe again. Philip’s hand flexed on his shoulder just a bit, enough to grab his attention, and he looked back to find the man watching him.

“Everything alright?”

He swallowed thickly, words muddled and tidal mud sticky in his throat. He wasn’t supposed to say such things, but Andre had told him to be brave, and Philip had been nothing but kind to him since they had first stepped into that wide, oversized hall.

“Why’s everyone being so nice?”

It felt wrong to say, but Philip didn’t scold him. He didn’t draw his hand back to strike him, and there was no angry color to his face. Instead, the man just sighed, and braced a hand on his knee as he moved to crouch down beside Julian. It put them at a height, the man's eyes level with his in a way that was strange and foreign. It should have been wrong, adults didn’t do that, but this man did it like it was natural to him.

“Because Oxenfurt cares for all of its students and staff. This place is a home for as long as you need or want it to be.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After seven years of suffering the other boy's company, Julian could safely say that Valdo was the worst kind of trouble he had thought he would ever deal with. He was flashy in the gaudiest sense of the word, brightly colored fabrics with no rhyme or reason to the cuts or the patterns other than claiming that they were all the rage in Cidaris. His hair was blond and curling and his eyes were warm and brown, and he grinned with all his teeth and talked like he knew everything in the world, and Julian wanted to hate him. He snored when he slept and he never cleaned up his side of the room, he tuned his lyre at the worst possible times and spilled ink all over their shared desk at least once a week.

He was a menace and a bother and Julian wanted to shake him every time he spoke, and Valdo was undoubtedly his best friend.

They kept each other up at night, talking too long and bickering about assignments when they should have been sleeping. They got more than one complaint about noise, which often resulted in a faculty member coming through their door well into the dark hours of the night to remind them of

civility

and

common courtesy

, like either of those things meant a damn. Valdo had been raised in court, which gave him enough sense to be able to lie through his teeth as he smiled, but Julian had had dirt and fields and fishing boats, knew where to hit and how to run. They were the worst sort of influence on one another, but Valdo taught him the luxury of good fashion and good food, and Julian taught the other boy how to hit where it hurt and how to best nurse a bruised rib.

They had been parted more than once, pulled into the Dean’s office both together and individually, but nothing productive had come out of those visits. He had been reminded that his brother paid for his tuition like he didn’t know that full well and good, and he had been applauded for his grades but reprimanded for his behavior like that did anything to change how he was going to act. Valdo never fared much better, the man bemoaning how pedigree and breeding had done nothing to make the Cidarin less of a problem than he had turned out to be. They said that Julian was a bad example, but they didn’t even know the half of it.

“We’re going to be late.”

He had things now, nice clothes and multiple sets of shoes, notebooks and a precarious stack of books balanced on his side of the window ledge. His penmanship had improved by leaps and bounds, countless hours spent curled over on the floor debating ethics and psychology with Valdo while ink stained his fingers for whatever paper he hadn’t yet finished.

Except, for all that he had discovered the wonders of academia, there was nothing quite like leaving campus for an afternoon with the others.

He barely spared Valdo a glance as he finished his paragraph recounting how his month had gone and what he had learned, the things he had gotten up to. Andre wrote him habitually, and Julian made a point of responding every chance he got lest he forget. The man had settled into Skellige like he belonged there, like Julian had taken to the Academy like it had always been his home. The longest thing in his life, but the sea stood between them like a watery grave that made the distance feel cold. His brother wrote, but hearing about his impending marriage through written word rather than his own mouth was a strange thing. He had never thought Andre would marry, but he hadn’t seen his brother in the flesh since that first day in the Grand Hall.

“You

can

leave without me.”

Quill carefully placed back in the ink well, he blew on the parchment until the shine left every letter and it was safe to fold. He knew by now exactly where to crease it to get the pages evenly layered over themselves, and he dripped one of their candles onto the overlap to seal it before stamping it down with the flat of his ring. The lovely bit of metalwork had been a well-earned spoil from a Gwent game that had taken twice as long as it should have, and he had only just grown into being able to wear it.

“

Psh

. You’ll never leave the room if I go without you.” Valdo waved a hand as he spoke, like the words needed to be aired out for fear of him not hearing them.

He snorted, standing with a stretch that rocked him onto his toes and popped the low of his spine on a series of crackles. Arms high overhead and he swayed from side to side for a moment before spinning on his heel as he came back down. Letter in hand, he waggled it at the other boy a bit even as he shook his head. “I leave without you all the bloody time and we both know it.”

Valdo rolled his eyes, leaned back against their door in a brilliant fuschia doublet that someone had encouraged him to purchase. The bright color washed him out just a touch, made his skin not quite sallow even where it made his eyes look warm. He would have been better in something deeper, a more rich hue would have done wonders for his complexion, but it wasn’t like he ever listened when Julian talked about fashion. Fine, he would be the better dressed of the two then, his friend’s lack of understanding of basic color theory wasn’t his problem.

It wasn’t his

responsibility

, and his professors were always keen to remind him to mind those, like they mattered for more than courtly manners.

“You plan on going out like that, Julian dear? I didn’t realize it was this season to be so scantily dressed.”

There was nothing wrong with this chemise. He happened to like this chemise, a delicate thing in a soft, gossamer cream with dainty little flowers embroidered into the cuffs. It was a perfectly good chemise that he had spent perfectly good coin on, hard-earned from hours acting as an assistant to the musical theory professor. The job was mundane and made him want to yawn, but it paid for almost anything that caught his eye, and that was well and good enough.

It was such a nice chemise that he was tempted to go out in it by itself, loosely tucked into the deep grey of his breeches as it was. He would have caused such a scene even by going to the dining hall dressed as he was, chemise unlaced down to his navel, and what fun that would have been. An absolute

scandal

, but the Dean would have caught wind of it one way or another, and then he never would have heard the end of it. There would be no living with the place after that, and graduation was so close it would be like putting a crossbow bolt in his own foot out of spite.

Julian plucked a doublet off the foot of his bed where he had left it, the fabric painstakingly dyed a rich, vibrant robin’s egg that did wonderful things for his coloration. It brought out his eyes, if he did say so himself, and Valdo watched him shrug into it with a put-upon sigh.

“Forgive me, Valdo darling, I continuously forget that you holiday in the country.” Spoken with a silver-tongued, crooning sneer, the other boy barked out a startled laugh that had him grinning. Fingers quick on the pearl fastens down the front until it was buttoned just enough, two at the top left open so he could breathe properly. “It would be remiss of me to expect you to be educated in Oxenfurt standard.”

His professors said he made too much noise. He talked when he shouldn’t have, he hummed whenever a silence tried to take him and here recently, in the last two years, he sang whenever given the chance, body overflowing with rhymes and rhythms that held him in their grasp like a ship at sea. He couldn’t be quiet even if his life depended on it, there would be no end of it from what he could see, and the thought of the silence without was almost enough to make him ill.

It was either he sang and talked and hummed, or he screamed.

He would scream, and it would get away from him, and he couldn’t have another Marijke with her deadened ears and her hateful stare, he couldn’t.

Valdo twirled out of the room on polished boots, and Julian followed with a crackling laugh. His voice had broken as of late, warbling high noises that took him by surprise and made it impossible to sing. Half of his upper range was beyond reach now, but his professor said that was normal, that his voice would settle and he would find new notes and everything would be fine. Except, for now, his voice broke at the worst of times and he whistled sometimes when he laughed. He shut the door behind him and twisted the latch, following after his friend with quick feet like the other boy would ever really leave him behind.

“You’re a shit.” Valdo said it with a rough sniff, and Julian laughed again as they took the front stairs two at a time. The Grand Hall was empty, staff occupied in other parts of campus in the afternoon hour or taking their supper in the dining hall. He left the letter on Philip’s desk to be mailed out later, and set into a light jog to catch back up. It was easy to slip out of the front doors and into the courtyard where a few students lounged in the spring sun. Most classes had let out hours ago, enough so that many of the students had flooded out into the city proper to the shops and the taverns if they had the coin to spare. The gates had been left open wide, and the two boys crossed the bridge with quiet, snide bickering between them the whole walk.

They chattered until they reached The Alchemist, and Julian took the steps two at a time to press the door open before Valdo could. Raised voices greeted them immediately, singing and shouting and drunken gibberish despite the early enough hour. It was chaos contained, and Julian melded into the crowd with an easy breath.

“Julian!”

Pricilla’s voice carried up over the din, sweet and curling as it was. She had left her hat behind for a change, golden hair free around her shoulders on a faint static waft. There were spots of red in her cheeks either from drink or excitement, impossible to tell from the distance. She shouldn’t have been drinking, not already, not when she still had an afternoon class in just a few hours' time. She shouldn’t have even been here at all.

Julian threw himself into the chair beside her with a rattle and a frown.

“Don’t you have Sitallack tonight?”

That

was

alcohol in her tankard, a sharp-smelling mead that she probably hadn’t even paid for. She was developed for her age, as she was often so proud to flaunt, and it left men too old buying her drinks that she didn’t need, like that was the to-do thing.

“Bah!” Her tankard sloshed when her elbow hit it, and his hand snapped out to steady the glass before she could make a mess of herself. “Not going today. Too much excitement.”

“Pricilla, it is half four, what sort of excitement could you have already gotten into?”

She grinned, all teeth and dimples and soft flushed cheeks. Leaned forward on the table and into his space until he could smell the mead on her breath, honeyed and floral. She had been here at least an hour then, long enough to have enough that she shouldn’t have any more if he had anything to say about it. She would ignore him, and Valdo would cave and buy her more, and it would turn into a long night concluded with both of them pulling her back into the dorm so she could sleep it off.

“There’s a Witcher in town.”

“What?”

He leaned away from her, startled, and Valdo dropped two more tankards onto the table with a clatter.

“What, what?”

The other boy jostled him when he sat down, shoulders clacking together. Julian barely frowned at him, twisting around in his seat instead to try and see if she was lying. But there was no Witcher here, just drunkards with flickering halos of candlelight and fingered bits of grey where shadows had begun to encroach on a few of them. They would go within the week, within the month, some of them so light that he had to squint to see how far in the monochrome had spread.

Pricilla pulled him around by the front of his doublet, and he smacked her away with a frown.

“Stop that.”

“What’s Julian complaining about now?”

Valdo had a mustache of foam above his upper lip that made him look ridiculous, and Julian swore then and there not to tell him. Pricilla wouldn’t even if she would stare, and he deserved to suffer the indecency of it for however long it lasted.

“He’s not complaining, there’s a—he doesn’t believe me.” She pouted in a theatrical manner, all bottom lip and puffed up cheeks. Dramatic and she knew it, and he sighed, pushing her tankard back toward her in an apology that he knew he would end up regretting. “There’s a Witcher in town, for the-the-the—”

“It’s just missing persons, why did they set a contract?”

Eyes rolling, he leaned back in his chair with his own tankard as Valdo sighed.

“Because it’s missing persons? One of them was—”

“Sofietje Vaspis, I know. She ran away to Novigrad, everyone knows that. All she’s talked about since Yule.”

Julian made a scoffing sound and took a strong swallow of his mead as Valdo carried on.

“She wouldn’t have left Alfons behind.”

“Her father doesn’t approve of them, Priss.”

Tankard waving at his friend, he listened as Pricilla snorted into her drink and mumbled to herself about romance of all things. Like there was anything romantic about the way that Alfons talked about her in their shared composition class. He knew more about the noble born girl's anatomy than he cared to, and he wouldn’t even have been able to pick the girl out of a crowd.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she left him.”

“Who hired him?”

Valdo sighed again, always so prickly about being interrupted, but Julian just shrugged.

“Her father, from what I heard. The Count is beside himself over the whole thing.”

Spoken like it was some kind of chore, but there was a buzzing beneath his skin. Distant memories of Mama telling him what he should be afraid of, but there was a Witcher in town. There was a

Witcher

, and his curiosity would get him killed one day. He couldn’t leave well enough alone, and Andre had told him it would get him in trouble one day.

Today might just be that day, but he would be damned if he waited around to find out.

Tankard drained on a long, burning swallow, Julian thumped it on the table before pushing his chair back. Pricilla grabbed her own tankard with both hands and a small splash of mead on the table as Valdo cursed, shaking some of the spilled drink off of his hand.

“Julian!”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“Where are you

going

, you fucking cretin?”

He just waved his friend away, pressing back through the crowd until he could tumble out the door and into the sunlight once more. It blinded him for but a moment, and he squinted at the light as he stood dumb on The Alchemist’s porch.

If he were a Witcher, where would he start?

Well, he wouldn’t have been a Witcher, first and foremost. Would have made an absolutely horrible one, didn’t know nearly enough about anything that might kill a person to be able to be useful. Did they teach them that, or was it something that they had to learn on the road to keep themselves from being killed? How well did Witchers get paid, he had never actually seen one in his life but he had heard enough stories about them riding through towns and taking contracts when it suited them.

Julian shook himself a little, and hopped down the stairs out of the way of another patron.

He would start at the notice board, because all contracts and notices were put on the board. It made sense even if it felt juvenile, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that. Pricilla would drink herself silly, Valdo would walk her back to the dorms by himself, and Julian—

Julian was going to find himself a Witcher. 
 
-
 
In the end, the Witcher found him.

He had asked too many questions, poked his nose in too many places looking for trouble when he shouldn’t have. His curiosity would get him killed, Andre had always scolded him about that, but there was a difference between being told and knowing. He didn’t scream even if he followed the lights enough to find where they went, watched them weave through the buildings when they left before they sank into the earth or disappeared into the clouds. Some went to the water, some shot off across the fields, it was never the same and he never knew where they came from, but he followed them to the edges of the city and kept them company until they were gone where he couldn’t follow.

He was supposed to fear a Witcher, but as he felt a crackling, burning kind of energy press in close, he could only breathe in wonder.

“I heard you were looking for me.”

The man was taller than him by at least two heads, pressed into sleek blue armor. Two daggers at his hips, not a shield in sight—did Witcher’s need shields? The question swelled on his tongue, but he didn’t have the voice to ask. Not when the man looked at him like that, golden-green eyes set into a warm brown face. A strong jaw, a full mouth, the man was more handsome than he had any right to be, and it was a strange thing to feel anxiety and arousal all at once.

The Witcher pressed into his space, one hand on the wall above his head where he had crowded Julian into a corner. His body blotted out the sun, cast his face in shadows but there was no mistaking the ring of fire that flickered around him. He smelled like sunshine, like the heat of summer on coastal sands, like something seductive and damning and

perfect

.

He was fifteen, and Julian was in love.

“Count Vaspis will try to kill you before he pays you.”

The man’s head tipped slowly, the movement catlike and curious. He didn’t back away any, still too close where he smelled of leather and spiced musk, like things he shouldn’t have found attractive but did. Men had never been pretty, not like this; a few passing glances of a fleeting fancy as he tugged himself off in the middle of the night meant nothing when faced with this. This man could kill him, and Andre would mourn him with the news of his passing, but Julian welcomed the thought of this man, this Witcher putting hands on him.

The man breathed in sharply, and Julian was struck with the horrifying realization that the Witcher

knew

.

“You sound awful sure about that.”

He tipped his chin up, and shivered when the man put another hand beside his head. Effectively caged him in with his body, and what a wonder that was, to be made to feel small and frail by such a man. Julian pressed his hands to the stone behind him for something to hold, and found himself distracted by the firelight that danced off of his skin. He wanted to touch, he wanted to know, overcome with a yawning, damning wanting like he had never known before for the heat of this man’s skin and the things he could have done to him.

“He’s got the tightest purse this side of Tretogor. He’ll mob the guard after you before he pays you a single gold.”

The man made a quiet, thoughtful sound, and Julian watched with a cursed, rising heat to his face as the man

smiled

. All sharp teeth and a hint of fang, dimples set into his chiseled face that made him look almost boyish. Less of a threat suddenly and more of a man, beautiful and unattainable as he was.

“And I assume you shared this with me from the goodness of your heart.”

He swallowed thickly, but met the man’s burning gaze head-on.

“Good men don’t deserve to be cheated.”

The Witcher laughed, a deep, velvetine sound, and Julian could have sighed. His legs felt weak where he pressed himself back against the stone, all warm spices and clean sweat filling his senses until it was all he breathed. He could die like this and what a treat it would be, none of the lights had ever tasted as good as this felt. Andre had told him not to be scared, and this was the most alive he had ever felt.

“And what’s the name of my most noble savior?”

Like his name mattered, like

he

mattered. This man, this–this Witcher wanted his name, and Julian wanted to touch him.

“Jaskier.”

That wasn’t, it wasn’t his name, not yet, but Professor Kelbas had said that every bard needed a good name. Late nights curled over a book of poetic Elder had only sung to his romantic heart until it felt like it might burst, but that would be him if it was the last thing he did. A pretty, colorful, poisonous little flower, deceptively delicate as it was. He wanted to be beautiful with the same kind of burning that a flower was, fleeting and consuming.

“Well, thank you,

Jaskier.”

He shivered at that name on the man’s tongue, and the Witcher had the audacity to chuckle at him.

Something pressed against his front, and he broke eye contact to find the flat of a dagger laid against his stomach. He sucked in a breath and looked up at the man for a quick instance, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

“Ser Witcher?”

“Aiden. Consider this a gift, and a calling card of sorts.”

His brow furrowed on a frown, but he curled his fingers around the handle of the blade. It was lighter than he had thought it would be, the handle a little oversized in his palm even as he took it. The Witcher smiled again, or still, head tilted with a toss of his dark hair, eyes burning like a secret had been shared between them.

“I don’t—”

“From one friend to another. If you ever need a Witcher, you’ll know where to find me.”
 
-
 
He had thought that all Witchers would glow the same.

Aiden had been the burn of a midday sun, all golden and glittering at the edges like a polished plane of gold had been painted in the air around him. He had shone with it, decadent and rich against his warm brown skin in a medley of golden, flickering sunlight tones. He had never seen anything more beautiful than the way that halo of life had danced against the man’s dark skin, and he was just as in love today as he had been four years ago. Something about his voice, about the way his dimples had cut into his cheeks. Pricilla said that you never forgot your first love, and he couldn’t help but agree.

It felt foolish to romanticize over a Witcher, but he had learned the hard way that his feral heart was nothing if not romantic.

Aiden had burned, and he had thought—

He had

assumed

, and that was where he had been wrong.

If Aiden had been like the sun, then Geralt was wrapped in starlight.

There was an ethereal, cold-cored glow to him like someone had plucked the moon out of the sky and pressed it beneath his skin. Brushstrokes of silver and pearlescent effervescence that coiled like smoke off of his skin, he had been drawn to the man across the tavern like a moth to a flame at the sight of him. He had made a fool of himself all for the want to lean closer, to know more, to taste the thing that would kill him if it knew. Witchers were a warning, a death keen if he had been taught anything, but self-preservation wasn’t a skill he had ever learned, not really.

This was the second Witcher he had willingly walked toward, but this one was ice-hued and marble-carved where Aiden had been brilliant and burning.

That starlight was what had made him follow, and it had been what had kept him contained when they had been beaten and bound in the Elven cavern. The girl had been grey-edged, darkest at the middle where a sickness had leeched deep beneath her skin, taken root in her lungs until she smelled like rot from the inside. He had grit his teeth and swallowed compulsively against the scream that bubbled and scratched in his throat, and it had made his tongue loose and barbed out of desperation. If they killed him then he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t hurt anyone if they hurt him first.

They had broken his lute, and they had broken his skin, and then they had broken the bonds that held him in a show of cautious mercy that he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Filavandrel had pressed a thing of beauty into his hands with soft spoken words in Elder that had shaken him to his core, and he had trembled in place with over-wide eyes.

“You walk a dangerous path, little light eater.”

Across the cavern, Geralt had bent low over a map with their would-be captors. They talked of trade routes and escape paths up through the mountains, points of safe passage out of Aedirn and beyond the Blue Mountains to Haakland beyond. They were ignored as well as they could be in an echo chamber of carved stone, but it was rude to ignore a King.

His gaze darted back to the pale, candlelit man, but Filavandrel just waited patiently.

“It’s the only one I know.”

The man made a sound somewhere between a hum and a sigh, something lyrical and lilting for all that it was wordless. He looked timeless even in his raggled state, bright eyed and pale haired, regal like only a warrior could be. Just as ready to run a blade through them as he was to offer grace, but Jaskier wanted to lean into him. Those were all knowing hands, those eyes had seen so much, and he could breathe the death that clung to the man like a mourning shroud. He had been steeped in it, heartache and desolation until his soul was permeated with finger printed bruises that had been left behind. It would have been a disservice to those he remembered to try and fix it, but Jaskier ached to try.

“Your kind are hunted. Traveling with him will only get you killed.”

He knew a warning when he heard one, but Jaskier could only shrug.

How did he explain it, the fisher's hook in his sternum that demanded he follow, that he learn and see? The other end of the rope was in this Witcher’s hands, and he wanted to scream for the sake of his own skin just to run, to stay. Body pulled in two, he didn’t know where to go, didn’t know how far would be safe and how close would be too much. He would get burned on that cold flame, and he wanted to know what sort of scars it would leave.

Would he use silver, or would he use steel?

Filavandrel just watched him like he knew, like he understood. It was disconcerting and damning, and it felt an awful lot like the way Philip had watched him. Paternal and exasperated all at once, and it was strange to see such a thing so far from Oxenfurt.

“I’ll die one way or another.”

The King nodded, and Jaskier watched as he gave a placid glance to the group beyond them. Their voices carried, the same droning, strategic conversation that they had been having since the pale elf had pulled him aside.

The King watched, and must have found what he wanted, as his bright gaze pinned him in place once more.

The man reached beneath his tunic and pulled a pendant from around his throat that he held out expectantly. He didn’t have to wait long, Jaskier bowing his head after a moment of hesitation, and he shivered as the leather cord passed over his head and settled around his neck. The pendant was a gentle weight, and he held the neck of his new lute one handed to lift it with the other. An elegant tear shape lay in his palm, crystal so carefully crafted that it was perfectly clear save for the crackle of eclectic blue veins that ran throughout it. The whole thing was no longer than his pinky, as wide as his thumb at its apex where the bulk of its curve began.

It reeked of magic, something he had only begun to realize for what it was by the way that chaos crackled on his tongue, and his breath caught in his chest at the sudden weight of it.

“I-I can’t—”

“You can, and you will. The humans would see us all murdered, and I would be remiss as a King to not offer what protection I can to my fellow non-humans.”

He didn’t like it, but it felt like an insult to not take it. His palm curled around it until it pressed a heavy weight against his skin, and Jaskier swallowed thickly.

“What will it do?”

Filavandrel smiled, patient and warm. It was easy to see how this man ruled a nation, to understand how he commanded an entire people. He had been calm and poised even in the face of a Witcher sent to slaughter them, a regal kind of furious where he had been ready to defend his own at the price of spilled blood. He would survive, and his people would survive, because that was what they had done and that was what they would continue to do.

“What it needs to. Tracing you will be nigh impossible, and it will be protective in the ways that matter. I’m only sorry I can’t offer more than this.”

“But I don’t—wont you need it?”

The elf shook his head faintly, and Jaskier felt like the child he loathed to admit he still was.

“I can get another far more easily than you can. Walk lightly, little one, and may the Mother guide your path.”

-
 
His Witcher was beautiful and terrible, and Jaskier hated him.

He was stoic to a fault and impossible to talk to, taciturn to the point that it was like pulling teeth to try and have a conversation. He didn’t bother to care for his own wounds because an infection wouldn’t bother him for long and scars didn’t hinder him any. He kept his horse at an ungodly pace and didn’t bother to slow down to anything else until Jaskier had to speed walk to keep up with him. He ate his meat almost raw, he didn’t bathe until he absolutely had to, like the stench of sweat and decay on his own skin didn’t bother him. He let humans treat him like absolute garbage because it was easier than trying to argue with them, and he didn’t argue for coin if someone didn’t want to pay him. He was boorish at the worst of times and standoffish at the best, resistant to all touch and attention like he was allergic to people looking at him.

He hated him for his honor and the kindness of his heart and the way that he couldn’t fucking hate him, no matter how hard he tried.

Because Geralt was so kind that it often hurt, quick to crouch in the dirt beside a child and speak in low, soothing tones to them until their crying and their sniffling stopped. He listened to grief stricken widows and fathers suddenly without children as they sobbed and murmured their way through their stories of what beast had taken their family, whether man or monster. He was impossibly gentle with his horse, taking care every day to brush her and feed her fresh apples whenever he found them, mindful of her exhaustion well before his own. He refused to accept coin when there was hunger pressed into the faces of the people who tried to pay him, and he put himself in danger for those less fortunate even when they cursed and spat at him for all of his hard work.

He was a menace to the heart, and would make Jaskier grey by the time he was thirty, and it was an unfeasible task to try and not be endeared by the man.

He wanted to hate him for the sake of his own stupid, overwhelming irresponsibility in being compelled to follow the man, and there was absolutely no way to manage it.

He was also a horrible, no good, positively

dreadful

patient.

“Stay

still

, you absolute bumbling infant.”

His breath was a snarl, and Jaskier shoved a hand against the man’s chest and pushed with all of his strength. It was nothing in comparison, he wasn’t strong like a Witcher was and he knew better than to think he could be enough to move the man where he didn’t allow it.

Geralt glared, and he bared his teeth like a cornered animal ready to lunge. But he let himself be pushed back down for all that he looked ready to run Jaskier through with his sword.

He would take his victories where he could get them.

The harpy had gotten him with two talons along his ribs, shredding the flesh in long, jagged gashes that wouldn’t heal right on their own. The skin would knit itself back together over time, but the scars would be twisted valleys that would ache in the cold if left unattended. It had taken wheedling and tenacity, but over the last two years he had managed to get them to a point where the Witcher actually let him help care for his wounds. It had been an uphill fight the entire way, and it had taken time to prove his medical skills were more than just a stumbling attempt, but it was worth it to have gotten them to this point.

There was no point warning him that it would burn, the wound needed to be cleaned and it wasn’t like Geralt didn’t expect it at this point, but there was a degree of care that he couldn’t just ignore.

“Alcohol.”

The man grunted and closed his eyes, and Jaskier bit back a sigh. Took the bottle of clear spirit from their pack and uncorked it one handed before upending it onto the wounds without preamble. The other man hissed sharply through his teeth and arched under his hand, and Jaskier just pushed to keep him pinned to the best of his ability. It would do neither of them any good if the man started writhing in the dirt, not when he had just gotten the wounds cleaned.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

The Witcher hated when he talked when he played medic, but he needed to do

something

.

There was a want to scream building at the base of his throat, faint brushes of soot dark prickling at the edges of the starlight glow that surrounded him. Death crouched in slowly, steadily where his blood loss should have been enough to make him delirious. He would need a potion before anything else could be done, and Jaskier set the spirit aside before trading it out for a round little bottle instead.

“Kiss, open up.”

He looked ready to bite, but Geralt was nothing if not good at following instructions when he needed to. He opened his mouth as bidden, and Jaskier poured the potion in in full.

Bottle capped and put back in the pouch, that would be enough to staunch the bleeding and help replenish whatever he had already lost. He rooted through the pack instead for their needle and thread until he found them with a triumphant little sound. Needle threaded and then dipped down into the alcohol to sterilize it, he blew at the fringe of his bangs before setting to work.

The rended flesh pinched together slowly, gradually, with every pass of the needle and tightening of the thread pulling it back together. Blood smeared across his hands and Geralt’s side with every touch, and it took more time than he cared to admit to get the first wound as sealed as it would be. His stitches were tight and neat, skin pulled taut to heal as seamlessly as it could, and he set to work on the next one. His breath whistled faintly through his teeth on an inhale, and he almost chewed on his words before caving and giving in to the urge to speak.

“You did a marvelous job on the first five.”

Golden eyes cracked open to stare at him, and he just grinned under the molten glare aimed his way.

“Impeccable form, truly, you can’t be blamed for the way that sixth one came out of the tower at you. I think she was stuck, but it’s not like you’ll actually ask me. Maybe you should sometimes, I might have better insight than you think. I’m an educated man, Geralt, you can’t fault me for having opinions.”

“Bard.”

He clucked his tongue at that tone, but the soot and smoke had started to fade away. It receded more with every passing minute, and the itching in the back of his throat lessened with every pierce of the needle through pale skin.

“You can’t say I’m wrong. I told you you should have taken some kind of potion, but no, oh no,

I’m a big bad Witcher, Jaskier, I know what's best. I don’t need a squishy human telling me how to run my hunts, I can—

will you stop moving? I’ll stab you somewhere you don’t need it if you don’t fucking stay still.”

He was an absolutely horrible patient, and Jaskier wanted to shake him out of frustration, as if he would have been able to.

Geralt settled down though, fists curled at his sides from pain that he wouldn’t admit to in a thousand years. He was stubborn like that, impossibly so, but it was just another thing that made him stupidly, perpetually lovable.

“Perfect, thank you darling. Now, like I was saying, you did absolutely fantastic on those first five, a truly exemplary job. I still think you should have brought some potions with you, but live and learn and all that, yeah?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

He grinned, all teeth and bright eyes, and Geralt huffed just like he had wanted. Not quite a laugh but it was something, enough of a sound to be close enough. A laugh from the Witcher was better than grunts and grumbles, and Jaskier would take what he could get. He would prefer to not have blood on his hands, but these things were all one step at a time.

“Never, haven’t you learned anything by now?”

Geralt gave another not quite laugh, clean starlight shimmering around his skin, and Jaskier breathed easier. 
 
-

One would think, being in Rivia, that the local populace would have been a little more welcoming to a Witcher with their name. One would also think that the good people of Rivia would have been a touch more receptive to suggestions that they loosen their purse strings, but that was neither here nor there.

Instead, they were a bitter, foul-mannered people, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. Unwashed heathens, the whole lot of them, plain-clothed and armed with an accent far rougher and gagged than he was used to hearing from his pale-haired companion. It sounded almost cultured from Geralt by comparison, and he had spent a considerable amount of time squinting at his companion in thought. The man had noticed, obviously, when he had grown too quiet and a touch too close. One large palm had pressed against his forehead and gently rocked him back in his seat, and Jaskier had been unable to help the way that he had laughed.

That had been some time ago though, hours since then when they had eaten their lunch and Geralt had quietly listened to their would-be employer explain as best he could what foul creature had begun to run amok in their community. War had touched the land nearby from a territory dispute, local barons at one another's throats over land that both swore they had a claim to, and that had been the end of it. Corpses left out in the sun, underprepared guardsmen on either side who had been given blades and shields to try and deal with one another to the best of their ability. There had been a mass loss of life on either side, and none had been sent to collect the bodies for fear of what may have roamed there.

The man had left, Jaskier had kept his stomach through the entire gruesome debacle and still managed to eat his stew. It was only once the man was gone that Geralt had heaved a great sigh into his tankard like the wiles of man pained him personally. Jaskier hadn’t asked, but it must have shown on his face because his friend had shrugged minutely and waited until the barmaid had passed by their table before grumbling about necrophages with a particularly petulant tone that Jaskier had come to know with a comfortable familiarity.

He had been left to his own devices, and he had already taken it upon himself to arrange for a bath to be brought up for their rooms once the Witcher returned. The barmaid had agreed after he had passed more coin that he should have had to across the bar, but he had agreed to pay for their room and meals with entertainment, and there wasn’t much else he could complain about. He had left their things in their room, locked the door behind him, and had taken his lute in hand and lopped down the stairs to entertain the masses.

They had been less than receptive to start, cold-eyed and tight-fisted where they hadn’t wanted to part with any of their coin no matter what he played. Fishmonger's Daughter had proved itself useful, though, and had gotten alcohol to touch the lips of every man and woman aplenty until coin flowed more readily. His pockets had begun to grow heavy and his fingers had begun to tire, and everything had been fine.

Everything had been

fine

, and then he had stopped to wet his throat on an ale, and it had all gone to shit.

It had gone to shit rather spectacularly if he did say so himself.

“We ain’t got no place for a Witcher’s whore!”

He ducked quickly, and a sloshing tankard missed his head by mere inches. He twisted his lute around quickly so it was safe behind him, and straightened to find the source.

Red-faced from rage or alcohol, the man was stout and broad, pockmarked where he had been touched by life. A sniveling, dirt-eating piece of shit if he had ever seen one, and Jaskier put on his best performative smile in the face of the man's ire.

“My good sir, I see no whores here!” His fucking fingers hurt, and the man had the gall to try to stand up to come at him. He swayed in place, and Jaskier stood his ground. “I’m but a simple bard, hoping to offer entertainment since my companion has bravely ventured off to relieve you of your necrophage infestation.”

A few nodded along with him, another handful murmured amongst themselves in agreeable enough tones, but the drunkard refused to be placated. He colored a darker red instead, splotched beneath his cheeks and his bloodshot eyes where he snarled.

“You callin’ me a fuckin’ liar, dandy cocksucker?”

That was just rude.

Not that he didn’t like cock, because there was nothing quite like a good one, but this man didn’t need to know that. Worse, this man didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, drunken vitriol from an unwashed mouth that shouldn’t have been speaking. The air around him edged with the faintest soot smudges, barely enough to mark him near death, but there was something inside of him that clung. A weak heart, a sickness he hadn’t spoken of, there was

something

.

“Your fuckin Butcher probably took our coin and ran!”

He could take any insult spoken against him, but some things just weren’t allowed.

He knew the way Geralt’s shoulders curled in whenever someone used that fucking name. It had clung to him since Blaviken, and the other man had eventually opened up enough to talk to him about it rather than just grunting. He had tried, he had given her a chance, and instead his choices had been used against him, and his actions haunted him even some fifty years later. Men might age, and they might die, but stories were never forgotten even when they should have been.

His body burned hot, rage swift and consuming where it took him. Those soot stains weren’t enough to hurt the man, but they were enough for Jaskier to find. He reached for them even though his hands didn’t move, breath caught in his chest and a clawing screaming building in the back of his throat. There was death that he could taste, that he could find if he searched hard enough, and that was all he needed.

Jaskier found, and he grasped with his teeth, and he

took

.

The soft finger-length soot stains bloomed, pitch and sudden where it fed into the rest of the man’s light. It took and took and took, and Jaskier watched as the soft firelight flicker around him turned to shadow instead. The man’s face turned a strange purple color, throat spasming wildly before his eyes rolled. He swayed harshly, body listing to the side before he crumpled, and the way he gurgled was almost lost under the startled cries that took the tavern.

Laughter filled the air, like they thought their drunken companion had simply passed out, and Jaskier breathed in the soft, firelight flicker that filtered up from his body.

His lungs burned with it, sweet like Est Est and silken down his throat. It soothed the way he wanted to scream like a slow drip of honey all the way down. He shivered under the feeling of it, body overcome with a dizzying kind of euphoria that almost had him moaning. The crowd chattered on and laughed amongst themselves, and Jaskier breathed heavily through his teeth.

“You’ve been lovely, but I think it’s best I retire for the night.”

There was little fanfare that followed him out, heart thundering in his chest. He took the stairs two at a time, quick down the hall and quicker into their room to snap the door shut behind him. His legs gave out beneath him almost immediately, and Jaskier crumbled to the floor. His lute clanged quietly, his fluttering hands pressed to his mouth, and Jaskier tried in vain to stifle the soft, enraptured sounds he made then.

The insistent, gnawing hunger that lived in his belly didn’t hurt for the first time that he could remember.

It was consuming, bright starlight splotches of color behind his eyes when he tried to blink the feeling away. When it didn’t work, when the post-coital feeling didn’t fade, his breath started to hitch violently in his chest. Somewhere between laughter and sobbing punched out from between his lips, hands clenched tight over his mouth.

His Witcher was busy, gone off hunting, and that left nobody to witness the way he broke down. 
 
-
 
He hate hate hated Yennefer of Vengerberg, and he hate hate hated Geralt of Rivia.

The Witcher’s moon halo glow had momentarily snuffed out, the starlight abyss that surrounded her had collapsed in on itself. There had been nothing beneath the rubble and the waste, and he had panicked. Putting souls back wasn’t something he knew how to do, fixing things wasn’t what he was good at. He wasn’t good at anything, he wasn’t useful for anything, but he had panicked and that had been enough.

He had plucked the wisps out of the air before they could drift away, and he had stuffed them back where they belonged only to find them tangled and knotted together until they were almost impossible to pull apart.

He had put them back, he had fixed things, and what had he gotten for his trouble?

The disgusting image of his supposed best friend buried balls deep in a deranged woman he had just met and no thanks given for something that would go unrecognized if he was lucky. Geralt hadn’t come to check on him, having lost all of his fucking marbles, and Chiraedan was no fucking help, and that had been that. He had darted off quickly, desperate for distance as his body started to ache from the inside. He couldn’t feel his feet, he couldn’t catch his breath, and he didn’t know how long he had wandered down the road before it had been far enough.

Well out of Rinde, he had collapsed off the side of the road when the feeling became too much. Clawing, exacting and consuming, it seared the back of his throat and set his body alight as it burned through him. His legs went out from under him, his chest lake bottom tight and gnashing where he tried to swallow it down. Hands scrabbling first at his throat for a blind, fearful moment, his grip shifted to the earth where he tried to brace himself on anything, something, and the scream tore itself free.

The air rippled violently, chaos cutting through the air. He tasted blood, his head swam, and he dimly caught the way that birds scattered wildly as trees swayed and the earth came free in a sharp path before him. A fat furrow scored through the ground, dragging itself toward the treeline where a few sturdy oaks crackled and shuddered as they broke. Ringing ears and a shuddering heart, Jaskier hunched forward with the sound as it gutted its way through him.

It broke off with a gurgle, blood dripping from his mouth as he sobbed. The sunlight was gone, world awash in shades of grey as he stared down at the colorless grass beneath him. The grass was green, the dirt was brown, he knew these things like he knew his own hands, but sweeps of charcoal had taken over the colors instead. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, and he instead he gagged, choking on the taste of ozone and empty that tried to fill his lungs.

Andre had never warned him about this, but their Mama had made him promise to never scream.

He understood why now, twisting onto his side to pant and sob where he lay. It left him feeling hollow, twitching on the ground where he couldn’t catch his breath. Blood dribbled from his nose on a thin fall, bubbled past his lips where he had shredded his throat. Vision swung sideways from how he had landed, where he had tried to crawl, he could see the wide-spanned path of destruction that his voice had caused.

He sobbed mutely, unable to hear past the ringing of his ears and the way his heart tried to beat out of his chest. Geralt wouldn’t find him, because Geralt didn’t care, and Jaskier lay there until he couldn’t cry anymore.

On numb hands, he rolled onto his front, picking himself up off of the ruined earth. Wiping the blood from his face with shaking hands, Jaskier stood with a heaving breath. Everything swayed as he stood, and he breathed through the gaping, yawning empty that settled low in his lungs. Something in the back of his head sang sweetly, warmly like it wanted him, like it loved him. He stood with it for a long minute, breathed with it before taking his water skin from his pack with trembling hands. Dumped it across his face and down the front of him to wash away the blood.

He put it back, took a deep breath as the world started to bleed with color again, and twisted around to start the walk in the vague path to the east of the Pontar.

He needed a Witcher, and he followed the hook in his gut to find him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shoveling it?” The flicker-wisp moonlight halo around Geralt flared meteor shower bright, frostbitten and glittering in the air. It took his breath for a minute, made him want to reach out and touch, but he knew better by now. He had learned his lesson in a Rivian tavern, he knew now what not to do no matter how much he wanted to, but it was there. It was something, or maybe it was the way his heart tried to drop down into his belly at the rock-slide grating of his friend's voice. “The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

He had forgotten what being left felt like.

Like the world had been taken out from under his feet, a pitching drop in his diaphragm that made his heart try to stop beating. It hurt to breathe, but it hurt not to, empty and yawning and yearning for something that had suddenly been ripped away from him. It felt like Andre leaving him again, it felt like learning that Bianca would rather kill herself on her wedding day than marry the pellar’s son. It was like Otto falling to the silt with his guts out, like Marijke unable to hear him and refusing to look at him, it was—

It was not being good enough under his Father’s eyes, it was not being worth the truth to his Mama.

It was that fucking village all over again, brine twisted and waterlogged.

He breathed deep, mountain peak air and a hunger on the back of his tongue. It would have been easy to feed it, to twist his hands in that moon flutter glow and

take

like he knew he could. It would have hurt, Geralt would have felt the way his soul was suckled out from beneath his skin like Jaskier felt the sudden gaping hole where his heart was supposed to be. It would have been suffering, he would have had a slow, agonizing death, and Jaskier would have reveled in it. It was what he deserved after all Jaskier had done for him, after everything he had sacrificed and every insult he had taken.

They were supposed to be friends, but it was strikingly clear then that he had been nothing more than a means to an end.

He could have taken and filled his belly for the first time in months, but his halo spread wide, glitter flickering, and Destiny touched where the world had plans for this Witcher.

It would have been wrong to take his soul from him, after all the hard work that Jaskier had taken to put it back, to keep it safe.

“Right.” His tongue felt leaden, but he breathed through it like he had learned to breathe through the clawing, grasping feeling. He couldn’t sing now, he didn’t want to talk, so he counted his breathing instead and lulled himself low with the beating of his heart. “I’ll see you around, Geralt.”

He wouldn’t, not if he could help it.

It would be a decade too soon if he ever saw this man again.

Twisting around, Jaskier went back the way he had come. Down the curving path for the summit where he left Geralt alone like he so violently had demanded to be. He made it to the encampment where the dwarves grumbled amongst themselves and carried on with packing up their things. His bedroll gathered, his things carefully put away in his pack before it was shouldered along with his lute, Jaskier breathed through the way his eyes didn’t burn and the way his chest felt empty. Yarpin talked to him about seeing each other in Novigrad, mentioned a cousin named Zolton who would be amicable to a drink if Jaskier ever found himself in the city.

He nodded, he smiled, and he clasped the man on the shoulder before setting off down the mountain.

It was quiet on the way down, because he didn’t want to talk, and he didn’t want to sing. He couldn’t do the thing he wanted to, not without fear of a rockslide, of ancient stone shuddering free of its confines. There could be no screaming here, not in this terrain, not with a Witcher so close who would sooner have his head than listen to reason if he knew. He wouldn’t sing, and he couldn’t scream, so Jaskier walked.

Because there would be no

if

or

maybe

involved. If Geralt knew, then Geralt would kill him, as sweet and simple as that. Monsters needed put down, and Jaskier knew well enough to know what he was. He was his mother’s son, he was the bastard of a father he had never known for all that he had looked. Too many inhuman things lived in his blood and his bones, and there was no denying the things he wanted or what he could be. Filavandrel had known him as

ben síde

even when Jaskier hadn’t had the words for it himself, but there was no point to it now.

Geralt didn’t get the pleasure of killing him, but there were other Witchers in the world.

One in particular was lost to the wind and the wild, midday sun burning so bright it had left him a moth to a flame. He was out there, he was worthy, and Jaskier would either find him, or he would do it himself.

He made it down the mountain in due time, with Roach where she had been left and the woodland quiet around them. None of the dwarves had made it this far yet, and if his luck held, Geralt would still be lost to his despair up on the peak where he belonged. Jaskier wanted to kill him with the hungry, wanting empty that lived forever unsated in his belly, but there was no place for that here. He couldn’t feed here even if he wanted to, he couldn’t have, but there would be time for that later.

Geralt would think him a monster, and Witchers needed a reason, so a monster he would be.

Roach didn’t shy away from him when he grew close, endeared to him through hard work and pilfered peppermint candies and sugar cubes that she hadn’t needed. It meant she pressed into his hands when he grew near enough and reached out for her, powerful head laid into his palms. He sighed, stepped in close so he could lean his forehead against hers for a moment of stolen peace. She let him, let him hold her, let him keep her for longer than she used to, and it was almost like she knew. Maybe she did, she had always understood, better with these sorts of things than her Master had ever been.

She made quiet huffing sounds as he scrubbed his nails around the hinge of her strong jaw, and he smiled when she chuffed at him.

Roach would understand, even if Geralt never could. She had pressed into his hands and put her head against his chest, trusting to eat from his palms and let him touch her ears and throat like he wasn’t the threat he was.

“You be a good girl now for me, alright?”

That was the best goodbye he could give her, and it would have to suffice. He gave her another long scratch, a kiss between her eyes, and then that was that. There would be no returning here, because a death he didn’t want lingered in these shadows and heralded a man who didn’t deserve him. The Witcher deserved his solitude and the things that came with it, and for once, this wasn’t a loneliness that Jaskier wanted to shield him from. There was a lesson to be learned here, well deserved and iron-plated whether Geralt wanted it or not, but it would come in time when Destiny finally came for her dues.

She was left behind, the rest of his things taken from their saddlebags. Not a doublet or a quill was left for Geralt to find, every piece of himself he had that had blended between them packed up and put away where it belonged. His scent would remain, because only time and weather would wash that away, but Geralt would have to resign himself to that. It would fix itself eventually, and if the Witcher knew what was best for him then he would just forget about the bard. There would be no peace between them because he refused to stay where he was unwanted, and there would be no comely heart to heart, because his own felt detached and removed from the situation where his body had simply decided it was done.

Melancholy was part and parcel of his trade, and it was only fitting that he could taste it now.

Andre had run as far as a boat could take him, good enough to make sure his little brother survived before he took care of himself as best he could.

Bianca had drowned herself in a belladonna draught so thick that her belly had bloated from the toxins of it all before she had froth-mouthed her way into an eternal sleep.

Andre had run because he had to, Bianca had killed herself because she had known no other way, but his own passing would happen on his time and his terms.

There was a Witcher that owed him a favor, and at this point in life, Melitele owed it to him to deliver what he had rightfully earned.

One foot in front of the other turned into a steady march, and Jaskier fell in time with the swaying of his own body.

There was a lacrimosal melody building in the back of his skull, and Jaskier sighed on a lilting, singing tone.

The forest was quiet around him, no birdsong or fleeing wildlife that ran from his footsteps along the path. There were no sounds other than his feet on the dirt and the way his lute beat gently against his back with every step and every drawing note that curled from his tongue. It was like the world knew, every living thing having fled from his presence in the wake of his quiet rage. He reveled in the silence, in the way that his chest burned and his belly hungered, and there was a cloying, crawling feeling in the back of his throat. He was the only thing that lived here, everything else having fled for the sake of itself like it knew the lesson even if it didn’t know him. There were no souls to sip here, no flame flickers he could find and no decadent lights he could chase, and instead it was just him and the quiet and the path.

He wasn’t built for companionship, not the double-edged kind that Geralt had falsely offered.

A creature of affection, tactile and inquisitive and yearning from the very start, he had always been too big for his bones. Like he had been too much for the world, too tightly packed to be contained and brimming with possibilities unmoored. Andre had always told him to follow whatever called him, but his brother hadn’t known the sort of trouble that would get him into. He had never talked of Witchers in any of his letters, he knew well enough to know better than that, and that had been fine between them. Andre hadn’t needed to know, but there were some things that brothers shouldn’t if they wanted to keep their heads.

He wondered if anyone would think to tell his brother when they found his body.

His tongue was like honey, sweetened and slick where it lay between his teeth. There was starlight in his paper lungs, and he breathed deep until they fluttered and shifted and tried to be more than they could.

“In tidal pools, as vicious as Temple rule

I got my cheeks all bruised by a widow in black

And I held my tongue as she told me

"Son, fear is the heart of love, " so I never went back

And if Melitele decides that she’s been satisfied

And illuminates the road to her blessed side

If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks

Then I'll follow you into the dark . . .”

-
 
Bards went about life knowing that things might not always go to plan.

There were contingencies for a reason, there were secondary and tertiary plans put in place for the sole purpose of covering one's ass should the need arise. He was no stranger to having to have a fallback, but that didn’t mean he liked it any. There was good coin that went into these sorts of things, and while he could have lived without the extra expense, he understood the necessity of it.

“I need a draught.”

The healer was a bonny woman, untouched by age as of yet and still flush-faced. A hedgewitch if he had seen one, a twist of curling blond hair piled to the top of her head and warm almond eyes that had finally looked up at him since he had stepped into her home. A busy woman, a skinned and gutted rabbit on the table beside her where she had put the offal across the table for scrying or drying, he was never sure with these kinds of women. It was cool in her cottage, a sweet-scented haze of smoke circling around the ceiling like a thin cloud. She watched him from over her table, blood on her hands and a bubbling alembic set over a low flame beside her.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Far from an Aretuza woman, but that said nothing to her talents or what she could do for him.

Jaskier stepped fully into her cottage, and the door shut quietly behind him. Garlands of herbs hung from the rafters in thick clusters, and he ducked low beneath one as he drew close.

“I need a poison.”

She scoffed, flicking some blood from her hands.

“I don’t dabble in death-dealing, boy.”

Commendable, truly.

“You’d be better looking for a pellar.”

“I need something that can put down a Witcher.”

She paused in her movements, and watched him with shrewd eyes. Slowly she straightened, and Jaskier felt a gossamer prodding at the space beneath his temples. He nearly winced, he nearly flinched, but this woman was far gentler than Yennefer had ever cared to be. She would know then, and he knew the moment she found what she looked for because she breathed in sharply.

“No, my boy, you need something to put down a banshee.”

He shrugged, slow and tired, because what else could he do? There was no point in lying, not when she had seen, but thus far there was no harm. She hadn’t tossed him out for all that his skin crawled, and Jaskier would take what he could get. Small blessings when the last ten years had amounted to shit, he couldn’t ask for much these days. Didn’t have the heart to, not when it may just end in more disappointment.

“Can you help me or not?”

“Oh, I believe we can come to some kind of agreement.”
 
-
 
It was a common fact that a Witcher which didn't want to be found was indeed difficult to find.

The Continent was vast, full of monsters and mayhem and unmentionable things that would rather be left well enough alone if one had the good sense. There were reasons travelers stayed to the well-worn paths, set routes that took them from town to town with little detour through copses of trees or infested areas. Humans understood enough of danger to have a vague understanding that they should stay well away, and that was the farthest they had managed to get as a species as a whole. They were fearful, and wretched, and prone to fanatical flights of fancy that left pyres and charred corpses in their wakes.

Elves had had enough sense to run beyond the mountains, the dwarves stayed well within Mahakam where they were safe from the toils of man, and Witchers—

He needed a singular one from the entire order, a spitting cat with gold-green eyes and a gilded tongue. It shouldn't have been hard to find a single man, but as stated, the Continent was vast, and the further he wandered, it became more and more apparent that the man didn't want to be found.

Geralt had found him first, the last time he had gone hunting, and he had been sequestered to going along with the Wolf where questions would have led to a confrontation. He couldn't very well bring up that he had known another Witcher, and his questions about the other schools had ended with stories of the things they had done wrong, not whatever they might have done

right

. It was a strange, deep seeded bigotry that was a strange thing to see in a type of man that was already subject to harsh kinds of prejudice. Truthfully, he had thought Geralt better than that. For all that he had learned not to ask, and understood to hold his tongue about the things he had already known, well, he had thought—

But that had been the problem in the end, that he had thought, because Geralt would have rathered that he just didn't.

Geralt would have rathered a lot of things, but almost an entire season since that fucking mountain, Geralt didn't get to have an opinion.

He hadn't seen hide nor hare of him, and no stories was the best kind of stories as far as he was concerned. An outrage against his craft, certainly, but there were plentiful things to sing about that weren't a white haired Witcher, because the man didn't deserve his time or his praise. It wasn't like there was a shortage of muses to be found in the world, and mortal man always loved a fantastical, romantic tale.

He had littered his time with weeks spent sporadically at court, more than enough to line his pockets with a fat bit of coin. He had stitched an extra compartment into his lute case, hidden along the inner seam just like the one before it for somewhere to put all of his gold. It wouldn't do to carry it on his body, and really, for all that a bandit might take interest in the lute, a case would be worth nothing. He was smarter than that, truly, regardless of whatever preconceived notion Geralt had gotten into his head.

He had made his way out of Caingorn and down into Redania, but even Novigrad hadn't given him what he wanted. Oxenfurt had been a blessed reprieve, but asking after a Witcher had only garnered questions of why he wasn't with his previous companion. He had simply stated that they had decided to go their separate ways, citing dangers and creative differences, and those questions had been left well enough alone. Except, Novigrad hadn't had anything, and Oxenfurt had had even less, talk of a ginger specimen like he even

knew

a red haired Witcher. But the man had passed through more than a month prior, and it certainly wasn't his Witcher, and that had been enough of that.

He had started to follow the Pontar east like he had tried years ago, but that hook was different. Gutted as he was, the barbs had dulled, something like an ache as he oriented himself and found which way he needed to go. South along the coast line, into Temeria like the country had ever done anything good, and further still into Velen like the big was worth a single damn of the coin it hoarded. Its people were tight pursed and foul, but they were quick enough to open up when they needed to.

When he needed them to.

A tavern in Gors Velen had given him something he needed, even if it wasn't what he wanted. A potential paramour that had turned the wrong kind of rough, a youth that had decided he would rather privately string up a cock sucking bard than spend time between his thighs. His soul had tasted filter feeder weak, barely enough to sip on, but Jaskier had taken with a quick, cruel efficiency that came with practice, done so nearly the boy hadn't even had the sense to scream for all that he could feel.

They hadn't found the body before he had left town, and it wasn't like anyone had seen him leave with the young man. The man had been rather insistent on the clandestine nature of their whole sordid affair, and that had been fine. Jaskier had gotten what he needed, one way or another, and then he'd been off.

Except, it wasn't

just

Velen. The hook in his belly wouldn't be satisfied with just Velen, because he stood at the border and felt the pull and could only scowl. He had stared into the wetlands of Kerack with something screaming and writhing in his bones, because he fucking knew better than to back. There was nothing there for him anymore, because Tildale had been married off to her death by childbirth, and Faemone had bartered for a boat like that was all his sister had been good for. Andre had run, Bianca had killed herself, and it didn't rightfully matter if the twins were still alive or not, sniveling wretches that they had probably grown up to be.

He hadn't wanted to go to Kerack, but that hook had pulled, dull and insisting, and that had been the end of that.

The country's northern coast wasn't what he was used to, a full three weeks ride from the shit hole that had tried to drown him. The waters were clearer here, the beaches marked by golden sands and sweeping dunes that petered off toward the rock range of Verden to the south. Everything smelled like salt here, clogging his nose and making him sneeze where he wasn't used to such things anymore. He had outgrown this place for all that it still tried to set it's teeth into him, and he wanted nothing to do with these people or this country or anything in-between.

The entire country could catch fire for all he cared, but it wasn't like anything listened to him.

The pulling had dragged him to a quiet clearing some half days walk from the oceans edge. Marked by curving trees and a splay of colorful wildflowers that shifted in the mid-morning breeze, the air was sweet and warm. Birds sang merrily, the water from a slow running stream trickling over its small rock bed in a gentle, humming song that took some of the tension from his shoulders. There was peace here, a quiet that he hadn't found before in the entire trek he had made, and it soothed some of the raging that had warred inside of him since Caingorn. A fat, flat stone rested out of place at the base of one of those trees, shaded by long reaching, low hung branches and trailing willow leaves.

He stopped just in front of it, and heaved a great sigh.

"Oh, Aiden."

It was like that then.

His legs folded under him, Jaskier settled in the grass. Legs pulled up loosely, hands empty and curled in his lap, he didn't know what to do with them for once. This wasn't what he had wanted, this wasn't what he had hoped to find, but he had been promised. The spindling, sharp silver dagger at his belt meant something, a molten smile and a velvetine voice. It meant his heart, and it came to an end here, with the center of him buried beneath the packed earth where he didn't belong.

It ached like it shouldn't have and hurt like he knew it would, but it shouldn't have come to this.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go, it couldn't end here. Aiden didn't deserve a nameless clearing in a barely marked grave, and Kerack certainly didn't deserve him. He was too bright for this place, gilded and glitter edges and everything that Jaskier had fallen foolishly, adolescently in love with. He was supposed to be alive, he was meant to be breathing. The ground was no place for a Witcher, even if it was quiet enough, even if the place was sweet enough. It would have made a fine resting place, but not for Aiden.

His Witcher couldn't kill him if he was already dead.

He didn't realize he had started crying until his face ran with it. He sniffled, a loud and ugly sound, and scrubbed a hand over his face to no avail. There was no one to hide from out here, where the wind didn't care and the wildlife wouldn't judge him. He was too old to be crying his heart out at twenty-eight, but he had been too old to be carried at eight, there had been no difference then and there was no difference now. It didn’t matter how old he was, bad habits never changed and his control over his emotions had gotten no better no matter how much he had aged.

The paradisal atmosphere was overcome with the wet, wrenching sounds of his sobbing. He curled in until his head pressed to his knees, until he hugged his legs and sobbed into one thigh. He couldn’t breathe, he didn’t want to, and he gasped for trying as his body shook with the force of his cries. The birds didn’t care to stop their singing, and the brook didn’t bother to stop its babbling, and the way the rest of the world didn’t care just made him cry harder. It wasn’t fair, the way the world had moved on without him, and Jaskier hadn’t even known.

He should have hunted him down years ago instead of letting Geralt sweep him back up again. Maybe then Aiden would still be alive. They could have been something, they could have had something, and instead he had wasted time. He hadn’t listened, he hadn’t looked, and now he was left with what good that had done him.

The leg of his breeches was wet beneath his cheek.

His chest hurt as he slowly lost the force behind the way he cried. His head pounded, face slick and his lungs wet, tight. A low whimpering brewed in his chest, and Jaskier turned his face to rub at his eyes with his leg. It didn’t fix anything, it didn’t help how his heart was still wailing in his chest or how his eyes were so wet he couldn’t see.

He wanted to scream, but for the first time since he could remember, it didn’t feel the same. It ached like a bruise and bubbled through his veins like honey mead, there was something different here. There was none of the pain, none of the clawing and the scrabbling and the razor scrape against the tender of his throat. It was warm, it was sweet, and Jaskier gasped around the feeling even as his tongue got away from him.

The scream sounded through the clearing with a low, resonating note. It billowed from his diaphragm like silk across his tongue and he shook under the gentle press of it. There was no blood, and there was no freezing, it was just the way that it spilled from him and the marvel that nothing hurt.

It fed that yawning like a bellyful of spiced mean, warm and fizzling where it made his blood effervescent. Just the same, it took his breath and made his head swim for all that it sang. His eyes rolled, head gossamer glimmering as his body swayed. As he tipped, onto his side on the shade-cool grass as he shivered and panted and lost time as he lay there on the earth.

He didn’t know how long he lay there before a hand took him by the shoulder. It rolled him in a gentle pull until he sprawled on his back, speckles of blue dotting through the modest canopy above. A shadow above him, a weight slung high across his thighs. Hands planted beside his head, and the body above him bent low. A strong jaw, a full mouth, lidded eyes a feline wash of green and gold. His hair had grown longer, but his brow was still the same, his eyes hadn’t changed.

The burning fire that fluttered around him hadn’t changed, burning like staring into the sun. He smelled light sunlight and he was a hot weight against the front of him as a broad hand planted on his chest.

“I was dead.”

Aiden’s voice was still just as honeyed and warm. He had that same soft Ofieri drawl, but Jaskier knew what that was now. He had learned that, because he had grown where Aiden hadn’t aged a day. He was better now, he was bigger, but the things this man did to him hadn’t changed.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier shifted a little where he lay, head rolling in the dirt. “I’m cashing in.”

Aiden blinked once, before his pupils pulled into thin slits. Head tipping slowly, long hair shifting across his skin, that hand at his chest slid up his throat. Enough of a press that he could feel it, breath almost laboring beneath it. He could have moaned when that hand traveled up to fist in his hair and tug his head back. Instead, tongue darting across his lips, he stared up at the Witcher with a heady warmth starting to trickle in.

"Not that I'm not grateful, Kitten, I truly am." The hand in his hair tightened a touch, and Jaskier's breath caught. The other hand pet across his jaw before cupping it in a strong fingered cradle. "But what sort of favor supersedes death?"

He had dreamed about this.

About this man and his hands, about those eyes and that voice. He had pulled himself off to the thought of this for years, and he knew what that said about him and his tendencies to obsess, but there was no way he couldn’t have. He had dreamed, and he had hoped the kind of hope that knew it would never be achieved, and here he was. On his back, with the other man above him, and those hot, callused hands burning against his skin.

This was almost it, this was almost what he wanted, and that made it perfect.

“I need you to kill me.”

“What

?”
 
-
 
Aiden was not, under no uncertain circumstances, willing to kill him.

That hadn’t gone according to plan.

Resurrection hadn’t been something he had considered, but the act itself had drained him like he had never thought something could. Worse than a full day or walking or a long competitive set at a Bardic event, his body ached, his skull hurt, and Aiden had told him no. That hand on his jaw had clamped down, his head had been shaken, and the man had leaned low into his personal space. Crowding him in on the dirt until the Witcher was all he could see, and Jaskier had just sighed.

Aiden, in fact, had refused to kill him.

“No.”

Explaining even what he was had garnered him nothing.

The Witcher had simply stared at him, tight-eyed and flat, until Jaskier had wanted to squirm beneath him. He hadn’t been let up even if he had been listened to when he spoke, but there was a way that Aiden had held himself. Impossibly still, coiled tight, he had held himself like a Witcher watching a threat, but the only thing here was Jaskier. Just Jaskier, and with all the work he had done and the distance he had traveled, he was hardly a threat to Aiden.

That didn’t make it any better, not even as he went through the entire story. He started with Otto in the place it had all begun, but he had waxed poetics despite himself about the burning that surrounded Aiden and the way he wanted to taste it. He had gone on about the way Geralt had looked, the way he had put things

back

. About the things he had done, first with the drunkard in Rivia and then for every subsequent victim he had taken from, every bandit and every too-rough would-be lover until the numbers were too much for him to count on both hands. He listed every one, and how they had tasted, what it had done to him and how it made him want more. The lights that he chased and the way he helped them get to where they wanted to go, the escort he played.

How he had wailed a mournful cry until the Mother herself had decided to give him back what had been taken too soon, and now there was Aiden where there had only been dirt and bones.

“I’m not killing you.”

He sounded so sure of himself, and Jaskier wanted to scream.

This

wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. Find the Witcher, collect the favor, get put down like he needed to. He was tired of being like this, tired of living like this, and this was the only way. This would make the hunger stop, because he couldn’t be hungry if he was dead, and this would make the screaming stop, because he couldn’t scream if he didn’t have a throat. He couldn’t

be

if he simply wasn’t, and Aiden was supposed to understand. He owed him a favor, and Witchers were supposed to be beings of their word.

“You owe me!”

Aiden had scoffed and rolled off of him, and he was pulled to his feet with a fluid yank. Up against a warm chest, and there was-

He was taller than his Witcher.

Not by much, a few inches at most, but he had to look down just enough to look Aiden in the eyes. It set something hot and wild loose through his belly, because he was rarely ever the larger one, he never got to be the big one. The difference in their sizes wouldn’t matter, Aiden still had all the capacity to hurt him if the mood struck him, but he refused.

“I thought Cat’s killed anything.”

Aiden blinked at him and pushed a hand through his hair, charcoal strands pulled back from his face. It suited him in a strange way, made his face look softer, made him look almost unkempt, almost wild. Dare he ever call a Witcher soft, but he wanted to in that moment. Maybe that would get the man to come at him, maybe that would be enough to spur some lethal intent. Cat’s were out of their mind, Geralt had been so assured of that, but this here, this was restraint when he didn’t want it and he didn’t need it.

“We kill anything we

want

to, Kitten.” Spoken slowly, like he was a particularly dull child. Jaskier bristled, standing a little taller, staring down at the other man a little harder. Aiden was hardly cowed by the differences in their height, and maybe he was used to being a smaller man, maybe this was nothing new for him. He took it in stride, and really, Jaskier would have applauded his restraint if it hadn’t been counterintuitive for precisely everything he wanted. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“

I’m a monster.

”

“And I’m afraid I’m rather attached.”

Hands thrown up, he spun on his heel to pace away from the man in a fit.

Aiden let him, just watched him as he paced away out into the sun. As Jaskier whirled around to glare him, he witnessed the way that the Witcher disregarded him entirely to start patting through his gear. Dirt clung to his armor in a thick dusting, bits of it clumped in his dark hair where he hadn’t yet shaken it free. Grass tangled through it, a stain of dirt across his dark cheek, the man was earth-touched and freshly undug, and he looked like he had tumbled into a hole. A lot less like he had been dead for an undisclosed amount of time, and Jaskier could have applauded himself, truly, but at the moment he was a touch too distraught.

“Oh, I’m so

sorry

, ser Witcher.”

There were a rung of sharp daggers holstered to his thigh, a band of gleaming metal that hugged the bulge of muscle in a tender, loving squeeze. It dimpled the skin in a little bit, like his leg was a touch too thick for the band, and really, that wasn’t even fair. That was enough to give a man ideas, and that sort of thing wasn’t to do when he was suddenly as upset as he was. A sharp wire glittered in a pretty loop at his hip, and Jaskier could only fume at the perfectly good garrote that wouldn’t even be used.

“You should be, Kitten. It’s not every day a beautiful man from my past brings me back from the dead. Rather rude of you not to let a man enjoy his good fortune.”

He was chatty.

Of course this Witcher was chatty, of course his Witcher had something to say. Smooth, curling words with just enough of an accent that he could feel it, luxurious where it flowed over him like a shiver. That wasn’t

fair

, and Jaskier bit back on the way he wanted to scream. There was no clawing, there was no yawning, just his own bonfire frustration and the way it wanted to eat out from beneath his skin.

Aiden didn’t get to look like that, and talk like that, and then just deny him what he was owed.

Fine.

“Fine.”

If Aiden wouldn’t do it, he would do it himself.

He didn’t understand Bianca for her choices, but there was a method to her madness. Contingency plans were just that for a reason, a backup in the event that something went wrong. Bards lived by the knowledge that any situation could go tits up at any moment it so chose, and it was their job to plan accordingly. They needed secondary solutions just like they needed creative places to put their coin. They were crafty by nature because it kept them alive, because a stupid bard was a dead bard.

“Perfect, thank you. You realize we’re going to be talking about this.”

Watching as Aiden seemed to give him only half of the man’s attention in favor of checking over his gear, Jaskier slowly worked the slim vial he had been given out from under his shirt. Filavandrel’s amulet knocked against it quietly, but he pulled the leather cord-wrapped bit of glass and stopper out into his hand. Body warmed and dark, she had brewed it just for him with specific instructions, but he hadn’t thought he would actually need it. Instead, no, pacing in what would have been a perfect picnic kind of clearing as a Witcher waited nearby for him to what, come to his senses?

He had already done that, that was what had gotten him here in the first place, and now Aiden wanted him to stop and think about things.

He had done his thinking and his waiting, ten years of wandering by Geralt’s side when he should have reached out blindly and followed Aiden that day back in Oxenfurt.

“The boy I knew back in Oxenfurt hunted down a Witcher, he wouldn’t have just killed himself.”

“That boy grew up.”

Hemlock tasted

awful.

Bitter and thick against his tongue, it went down slower than a syrup even as it coated his teeth. It made his throat sticky, made him cough, but somewhere between the way his heart had started to race and the way it smelled, Aiden had noticed. He caught the instant that the Witcher’s head snapped up, the way his body clenched up tight before he threw himself across the space Jaskier had so carefully put between them.

“

Jaskier!”

His name was a terrified, angry thing on full, wanting lips.

Too thick, too much, the draught worked faster than he had expected it to, body already starting to burn with it even before he fell. Magical in nature meant magical by effect, and he should have known with the coin that he had paid that she would make it fast. His legs gave out, he went to his hands and knees in the grass just in time for the way that Aiden dropped to the earth before him. Barely caught him by the shoulders and drove him to the ground with the full of his weight. Dark hands wrestled the little bottle away from him, but his touch was too late, the vial empty, and Jaskier grinned with sticky poison in his teeth.

"Oh you stupid little fu-

why would you do that

?"

Those hands turned him around until he was splayed on the earth again, already twitching. Aiden hunched low over him with a starfire coronal ring around him and something overwide to his eyes. Witchers only ever looked like that when something was wrong, a feline only ever when it was scared, and Jaskier leaned into the soft touches to his face. A slow broil inferno, but his blood burn swift and slick like a tar pool ignited. He shook beneath it as it started to eat him from the inside, and the fire that lived in his belly screamed where he couldn’t.

He reached up with his shaking hands and caught Aiden by the jaw, pulling the Witcher down against him. Their mouths touched on everything he had wanted, chaste and delicate and desperate, a sweet kiss to bank the screaming and the hurting and the way that everything burned.

It was perfect, and Jaskier died.
 
-
 
Dying put things in a different perspective.

That yawning chasm that had lived inside of him his whole life had brought itself a little closer, made into something else. It wasn’t so deep, it wasn’t so demanding, less of an abyss that lived in his bones and more of a not quite sated feeling that sometimes reminded him that it was there. He didn’t hunger, not as insisently as he had, and nothing that food couldn’t fix even if it didn’t qute satisfy the feeling. He could live with it now, where previously it had lived with him, and it was only in the after that he could understand and appreciate the difference.

He had taken his life in his hands, and in doing so, he had gained something else.

Aiden didn’t let him go very far, and for as much as he hated to be smothered, Jaskier couldn’t rightfully blame him. To be resurrected like he had been, to have his questions unable to be answered like he had, it must have been a shock made worse by the way Jaskier had come to his decision. Aiden hadn’t been willing to do what he needed, so he had done it instead, and it had been as sweet and simple as that. He got what he needed, Aiden wasn’t alone, and that was all that mattered.

He wondered if Bianca had come back.

“Jaskier, hey.”

Rough fingers softly strummed along the underside of his jaw, and Jaskier turned his face into the touch. Impossibly warm, ringed by the sun and all of the glitter that came with it, and Aiden knew by now how to touch him when he lost himself. He had never known him without these strange sporadic moments of distraction, not really, but he took to it easily. He touched him readily, either from affection of his own or some sort of bond between them, Jaskier wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, because they were both more than free to leave if they wanted to.

Somewhere in that moment, that kiss had become something else, and being alone anymore just didn’t fit right.

The market was brimming with sights and sounds, because Ozryn boasted the best markets and the best traders rests at the foothills of the Amell Mountains. The first stop into Nazair once one got past the Marnadal Stairs, and it felt fitting that the city should be as full as it was. A natural trading elite given its location, its main thoroughfare held the most direct route to Cintra to the north and Mettina to the south, with hundreds of covered wagons and mercantile carts marking their passage either coming or going through one of the gates. This was more than Novigrad, another world he had never before seen, and he found himself almost continuously overwhelmed by the bulk of it all.

Aiden watched him from the shaded spot he had pressed them into, and Jaskier blinked slowly. The wordless bit of affection was given back to him, green-gold eyes bright. He could breathe again now that he couldn’t see, but that didn’t fix the problem.

Aiden knew, which meant he couldn’t hide, and instead, Jaskier swallowed thickly.

“There’s a man missing his lower jaw by the ceramics shop.” It felt strange to say, almost slimy on his tongue.

A man missing his lower jaw

, like that was something sustainable. Those sort of things took blood, those sort of things took bone, injuries like that took important things and left gaping holes behind that no packed herbs of poultices could fix on their own. A man couldn’t live without half of his face. “He’s staring.”

A man couldn’t life without half of his face, but the man wasn’t really alive, was he?

He could see him past Aiden’s ear, and that was enough to catch his attention. His bottom jaw was gone, like it had been ripped off of his face entirely. A droop where his tongue hung low and loose against the front of him, limp from the rend that had been made in his throat. The man just stood there, listless and staring, but he had seen. He knew where Jaskier was, and while he didn’t move, he just stood there like the rest of them did whenever they saw him.

“Just staring?”

Aiden had started asking the right questions after the gutted woman in Tigg, her hands full from holding all the coils of her intestines where they had slid out of the wide slit in her belly. She had been wailing, but Jaskier had been the only one that could hear her. She had been there all day by the southern bridge, and she had been there all night until he had convinced his Witcher to let him go outside and see if he could help. To see if he could do anything to get her to stop crying, to get her to stop bleeding, and the best he had been able to do was soothe her enough to get her to let go.

She had been the first, but she hadn’t been the last, their journey south pockmarked by instances of him trying his best to help what he didn’t understand. The lights weren’t just lights anymore, men and women and children in states of confusion where their bodies were now out of reach. Not all of them were gruesome, some just uncertain of their circumstances and at a loss for how to carry on, but that was alright. Death had given him something else, he no longer hungered where he could help, and it was enough.

There was something wrong with the man in the market.

“I think-” He was

just

staring, but there was something more to it than that. There was something empty inside of him, something burning behind his eyes that was more than just the way his light had been snuffed out. There was something dark and damaged that lived in the absence of his skin now, and Jaskier shivered. “He might be hungry.”

He had never met a hungry one before, but the thing that lived where the screaming had been said not to like it.

Aiden pulled his face down a bit until their eyes met, until Jaskier couldn't look past him. At him rather than around him, the Witcher may have been smaller than him but his presence was unobtrusively commanding. A different kind of beast entirely than the Witcher he had traveled with, but it was impossible to tell if the gracefulness was a Cat trait, or simply Aiden. Far looser in morals, far more tactile away from prying eyes, Aiden was affection and inquiry and all of the things he had needed. He kissed him on the mouth because he wanted to, because Jaskier had done it first, and what a warm feeling that was.

"C'mon. Let's find us an inn and see if anyone knows anything."

They were supposed to be moving south.

Aiden didn't know how long he had been dead, just that he had been. He had taken a job with the wrong kind of crew doing things that just hadn't set with whatever semblance of a moral code Cats held, and that had been the end of that. He had tried to split, he had been overpowered by a renegade one of his own, and then he had been left to rot. Someone had put him in the earth, just like someone had taken his medallion even though they had left him with his blades. Someone had

cared

, but Aiden had questions that Jaskier couldn't answer.

The Dyn Marv Caravan wintered in the south, and with autumn well upon them, south was where they had flown.

Shoulder to shoulder where they couldn't be hand in hand, Aiden steered them back of the thin alley they had found themselves in. A touch to the small of his back for a fleeting moment to guide him, just enough to be what he needed, and then Aiden strolled along beside him. Cats didn't skulk, at least his didn't, all languid movements and easy breathing rhythm that rolled through his body like a well-practiced dance. Geralt had never seemed the hesitant sort, but now, with someone who knew his own body and owned every inch, it was impossible not to see the ways the pale Witcher had shied away from his own skin.

They had cut his hair in Verden, the shoulder-length strands lobbed off to hang in a center parted fringe just at his cheekbones. It made him look almost debonair, like an absolutely rakish scoundrel of a flirt, and Jaskier could admit he rather quite liked it. Aiden hadn't touched him past the slide of their mouths together, but that seemed less like a revulsion and settled more like a slow burn, like the man was waiting for something. Jaskier could wait, he knew patience when he needed to regardless of what Valdo said, and it wasn't like Aiden didn't have important things to worry about.

The less crowded-looking inn sat closer to the southern gate, situated at the middle of the hill in a building built at an angle. It should have been slanted with how it jutted out from the curving earth, but instead it was as straight and tall as one could expect from a rather polished looking in.

He wasn't sure if they could necessarily afford this place, but Jaskier had his ways where Aiden couldn't manage to charm them into something. A room procured for trade of a full set and their dinners out of their own pockets, he had taken their things to their room while Aiden had stayed behind. When he turned the stairs the man had been leaning on the bar to talk to the sweet woman behind it, plump and almost as warm skinned as he. Things put where they needed to be, their packs on the floor and his lute balanced beside the bed, Jaskier had locked the room behind him and slipped the key into his doublet pocket.

Aiden was still there when he came down, speaking in low tones to the girl. Jaskier knew well enough by now to know that one couldn't rush a Witcher, and instead set them at a shaded table near the corner.

Aiden didn't make him wait long, coming to the table with two tankards and a plate of cold meats and cut cheese that he dropped between the two of them. Jaskier took one of the tankards readily, and drank from it as he watched Aiden settle himself on the stool. A soft little silence settled over them, and he felt like a lovesick fool where he could have sighed. He stopped from his cool ale as his companion helped himself assembled himself a little pile of meat and cheese on a cut of bread, and waited until the man had begun to eat before he spoke.

"I'm assuming you learned more than just the menu."

Aiden blinked at him, mouth full as he made a show of slowly chewing. Huffing quietly, Jaskier kicked at his feet under the table just to watch the Witcher grin, unguarded and warm like Geralt had never been.

"Talking with your mouth full is rude, Kitten."

"It's rude to keep a man waiting!"

Aiden kicked him back, and Jaskier stole what was left in his fingers for no reason other than because Aiden let him.

"Vassez Isag was found two days ago in his townhouse bound to a chair and missing half of his face."

His ale caught in his throat on a bit of a cough, because he wasn't used to someone joking with him anymore like he wasn't used to anyone just talking to him for the sake of it.

"Oh."

That was what he had seen then. No marks from any bindings he had been able to see, but his clothes had been more than nice enough for the area. A full doublet set and boots that had a shine to them, he had dressed like a relatively well to-do man, and it would have been believable if not for the absence of his jaw.

Aiden took his silence to carry on eating. No rush between them, his Witcher had infinite patience to wait for him to find the words he wanted to say. He had always known himself to be a talkative man, but his silences over the last few years had been few and far between. The want to scream had been too much, the clawing and the scraping had been so demanding that it was either talk and sing or do the thing he wasn’t allowed to do. Geralt had never known him to be quiet, Valdo had always considered him full of nervous energy, but Aiden knew no better. Aiden didn’t mind if he chewed on his words, or that he sometimes hesitated to speak. He had learned his lesson though, or at least, he thought he had.

Aiden listened when he spoke, all long blinks and thoughtful silences. He talked back, he listened to rhymes and gave suggestions whether he was asked or not when Jaskier got stuck on a stanza. Far from quiet himself, the Witcher would initiate conversation between the two of them just for the sake of it, or for a lack of anything else to do. He talked to Jaskier simply because he wanted to, frequently, and he reveled in such a thing.

“What killed him?”

Aiden shrugged and took a drink from his ale.

“Murder probably.”

Flat stare and furrowed brow, the Witcher laughed at the unimpressed cast his face took. A boyish thing, snorting and soft as it was. It made him seem younger than his years, however many those were. Jaskier lived for that sound and how readily he could bring it out. The smaller man was free with his laughter, at least where Jaskier was concerned, quick to laugh and quick to smile, and those moments were everything. He was quiet enough with anyone else they approached for all that he was charming, as quick-witted as any bard and just as charming as many strove to be.

He had assured Jaskier that the rest of the Caravan was much in the same for all that they had their quirks. Cats were emotional, fights were frequent, affection flowed readily, and their Witchers rarely went off on the path by themselves. They had learned their lesson of hunting on their own, and instead they went off in pairs, contracts simpler to manage and coin easier to bully out of people when there were two Witchers rather than just one. There were more than thirty of them, with the majority of their numbers rotating off on who wandered the Path during the seasons only for the whole to meet back up to winter somewhere to the south.

He called them a clowder, and Jaskier had never heard a more peculiar word.

“Thank you darling, I had no idea.”

“Of course, Kitten. Happy to help.”

Sighing, eyes rolling, he leaned back in his chair with ale in hand. Aiden nudged their boots together under the table and he pressed his indulgent smile into the rim of his tankard.

“Did anyone see anything?”

“Nothing anyone will admit to. Isag had a history of being heavy-handed with his hired entertainment. Girls tended to not make it back to their Madam’s in quite one piece.” Aiden popped a piece of cheese in his mouth, and Jaskier took another drink. His foot bounced because Aiden’s foot bounced, because their ankles were hooked together and he had no choice with how his leg moved all because the other man couldn’t sit still unless he had to. “This was personal.”

“You’re saying a whore managed to rip part of a man’s face off?”

He watched as Aiden shook his head, short hair shifting around his sharp cheeks. Jaskier could appreciate him now like he hadn’t been able to as a youth, because this man wasn’t untouchable now. He wasn’t some great mythical thing for all that he was still cloaked in fire, he was slow to wake up in the morning and honey-hued when he sang along to any snippet of a melody he happened to know. He was real, and that was better than any fantasy that a sixteen-year-old Oxenfurt boy could cook up.

“Absolutely not.” Tankard waved, it sloshed quietly within its confines where it threatened to come up over the brim. Aiden was more animated than he was used to from Witcher’s, but his only exposure had been a stoic, singular example, and that was hardly a fair comparison. Not given what he knew now, not given what he had learned. “I’m saying one of mine did.”

Frozen with his own tankard halfway to the table, Jaskier stared at the other man incredulously.

“One of yours?”

“A Cat.” He grinned with too many teeth, dimples and all, and Jaskier wanted to kiss him on his stupid, smart mouth. Aiden leaned back precariously in his chair, tankard still aloft where he waved it back and forth as he talked. “Evari said there was a rather peculiar green-eyed Witcher that came through town three days ago, but no one saw him leave.”

“Evari, hm?”

His tongue slicked slow across his lips, chasing what ale might have lingered there. A rotten tease of a man, and the worst part was that he knew it.

“Careful, Kitten. You sound jealous.”

“And if I was?”

His tankard clacked quietly on the table, front legs of his chair snapping back down to the floor. It rocked him forward, hand on the table as he pulled himself up to lean over the distance between them. His other hand caught Jaskier by the front of his doublet, wrinkling perfectly good opal green silk to close the distance between them. Their mouths smeared together, heat flaring like a signal fire in his gut as Aiden’s tongue swept across his own on a demanding, drinking kiss.

Publicly indecent, and he panted harshly by the time Aiden let him fall back into his chair.

“I can assure you, a bar wench is the last thing you need to worry about.”

His blood was pleasantly warm for the rest of their meal, Aiden bouncing their feet together under the table and their fingers brushing as they picked at their shared plate. It felt almost domestic, and he mourned the loss of it as his Witcher stood with a stretch.

“Well, come along then. We’ve a breaking and entering to do.”

He laughed as he scrambled to follow, Aiden knocking their shoulders together to make him sway.

Their trek across town was quick enough, Aiden nudging him in whatever direction they needed to go. Off of the man drag and down a quiet side street that wound up the side of the hill, it branched off between thin, tall houses cobbled together from red limestone and pale wood. The further they went, the more the bustle of the main market faded away until there was just the gentle of the breeze shifting through the street and the occasional bark of a dog. Their footfalls were more ambient noise than anything else, and Jaskier found himself humming as they walked.

Aiden smiled out of the corner of his eye, and he rocked their bodies idly against one another with every step. A quick tug to his wrist pulled him into a shaded alleyway and around the back of the house, his Witcher holding the garden gate open with a little flourish and a creak.

“After you, my dear.”

“Why thank you, darling.”

Dark lashes batted over gold-green eyes, and Jaskier smothered his laugh with a hand. The inside of the house was dark, the door coming undone easily under Aiden’s skilled touch and they were in. The structure was eerily quiet, and even from the darkened kitchen he could smell the blood. Thick and cloying, it sat heavy on the back of his tongue and there was a weight to his chest. There was a burning, there was a bleeding, and he staggered back where his body started to shake.

“Look at me.”

A hand curled around the back of his throat and pulled his head down, lowered him until their foreheads pressed together and Aiden was all he could see. The sharp, sunbright spice of his skin was almost enough to cover it, almost enough to make things better, but he could feel it still. Skin crawling, heart starting to pound violently in his chest, Jaskier grasped tight to the other man’s arms for something to anchor himself. Anything to make it stop, but the floor throbbed beneath his feet and the air was thick, too heavy and too much.

His vision swam, breath a pale cloud as things started to lose their color at the edges.

“

Look at me, Jaskier.”

He hummed beneath his breath, and blinked slowly at his almost-lover as Aiden kept him close. Voices resonated beneath his skin on a vibrant note, curling and cutting and low. Jaskier swayed forward into it, and Aiden kept him steady with a hand on his shoulder. It called to him, sang for him, and he watched as the pretty color in Aiden’s eyes turned to stone.

“They’re still here. All the-he killed them, I can-

they’re still here

.”

Aiden made a quiet sound under his breath, and tucked Jaskier behind him to pull him from the kitchen. Slow across the floorboards with nary a sound, and his breathing grew heavier the further they went.

There was a woman in the dining room, stood beside the empty fireplace. Her shoulders shook with silent tears, and his tongue was a leaden thing in his throat. He gripped tight to Aiden’s hand, the man pausing when he did, as he struggled to breathe. His head felt cotton clouded and heavy, but it was impossible to mistake the lack of light around the woman.

“You’re alright now, miss.”

“We shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice was a hollow thing, sounding like a bell through the room. Firelight that wasn’t danced in reflected warmth against the edges of her dress, a fluff of stone hued curls floating around her shoulders. She flickered in place like a portal gone wrong, the image of her distorted for a moment. It felt like he couldn’t breathe, and Jaskier watched as she turned to face him.

Her eyes had been taken from her, a wash of blood down her round cheeks. That wasn’t her crying, the sound coming from the side of the room, but taking his eyes off her didn’t feel like an option. She stared at him for all that she couldn’t see, and there was a mournful twist to her mouth where her paint had smudged a ghastly smear across her lips and jaw. The grey blood had caught on her exposed collarbones where it had pooled only to drip down the front of her bodice, and he wanted to wipe it from her skin as much as he wanted to run.

The longer he watched her though, a soft calm started to settle in place. Something settled deep inside of him, and the soft puffs of his breath became a long, billowing spill. A sad noise tripped off of his tongue, and he tried to get past Aiden for her. The Witcher caught him by the arm, made him stagger only to catch him with a shoulder notched against his own. He stayed where he was for the tight grip on his arm, for the way Aiden clutched at him to keep him close. He couldn’t see what Jaskier saw, but that must have made it worse, that must have made it reason enough for him not to trust it.

Witchers were always the skittish sort with things they didn’t understand, some things never changed.

“You can be. It can be alright.” He wanted to go to her, but he had never touched one of them before. His nerves alight but his heart didn’t race like it should have, a strange, soft calm overtaking him. It felt like a comfort he hadn’t known he needed, like a home he hadn’t known he could return to. “I can help make it alright.”

She stared at him, eyeless and flickering. The crying across the room stuttered, caught on itself with a warbling, low tone that resonated through his bones. His breath became a frost against his lips, Aiden pressed against his side where he wanted to swan forward. The woman became two, became five, mutilated and lightless and he could have cried at the sight of them all.

“You can help

?”

Her throat was slit, her words a bloody bubble as she spoke. Jaskier watched the way it dribbled down the front of her. The one nearest her had both hands pressed to her face as she sobbed quietly, a girl of no more than fifteen with her dress torn down the front. Beside her, a young woman with blood run a river down her throat and chest held her head in her hands before her abdomen. She watched him with dead eyes, for all of them watched him even if they didn’t, and Jaskier shivered.

“I can help.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

They found the Caravan in Geso not long after the first snows would touch the northern parts of the Continent.

He had never been this far south before. Previously, Cintra had been the most southern bound journey he had ever taken, and even that had been left to interpretation. He had simply gone to the capital, they hadn’t wandered the countryside beyond the path that had taken them to the coastal city, and they had left shortly thereafter when his companion had no longer been welcomed. That wasn’t the case now, years later and with a different Witcher at his arm. Aiden was welcomed wherever he went, more so than he was used to for a Witcher. Silver-tongued and endlessly charming, there were far fewer doors closed for them than Jaskier was accustomed to. His own talents certainly didn’t go to waste, effort put into lining their pockets quite nicely every chance he found, but there was considerably

less

effort required than what he was familiar with.

Aiden hardly got them run out of town, and hardly ever got caught at his work, but the contracts he took ranged from simple enough fetch quests to any number of assassinations that he described in as explicit of detail as Jaskier could think to ask for. His curiosity had never been sated like this, no question too much and no curiosity left unanswered. How own macabre sense of wonder had never been so satisfied, and he hung off of every blood soaked word that he was given.

He had helped a handful of spirits since coming south, and the feeling of it had started to become familiar. A quiet calm, a sense of purpose, his hands didn't shake anymore and he didn't hunger like he had, and things were better this way. He felt better this way, and he would probably never admit it, but for all that it still hurt, that mountain may have been his blessing. The last push he needed in a less than ideal situation, he had been lackadaisical and blinded to the toxicity of their friendship for his own foolish hope, but he had learned and he had grown.

One didn't simply find a Cat Witcher, not when searching for the whole clowder.

Instead, the Witcher found them.

Aiden had gone off to hunt for their supper, had waved off the way that Jaskier had tried to remind him that it was his term. Restless legs he had called it, and Jaskier had just laughed and shooed him away when those restless legs had become restless hands and a restless mouth. He'd looped off into the woods, left Jaskier to manage their camp without him, and the near silence had been taken with the gentle sounds of nature. Their bedrolls spread out, the fire lit, there was a chill at night even if the days were simply crisp, southern temperatures and southern skies despite the winter months.

He had started to sing to himself, a jaunty melody about a cat with nine lives, and then it had all gone to shit.

A sudden weight to his chest had driven him to the ground, head bouncing against the earth. A gloved hand to his throat, a man astride his ribs, his knees were planted in the dirt and his body pressed Jaskier down into the grass and undergrowth with nowhere to go. A bonfire set upon him, and he lost himself for a moment in the bright bloom of it all.

There was a sudden scream in the base of his throat, brewing just beneath that hand, and he bit back on it as his heart hammered.

Gold-green eyes stared down at him, flat and slitted from a dark face. A nose that had been broken a few many times, a sharp scar curving from the outside of an eye and sloping down one cheek, the man was heavy and he knew it. Everything Witchers did was intentional, thorough, and the way this one had taken him down was no exception. Precise movements, a silent strike, he must have reeked of a flash of fear but it settled quick enough into a low, anxious thrum.

It didn't stop the way his heart careened in his chest, adrenaline high and throbbing, but that was the best he could do.

"You smell like a dead man."

"Recently undead, actually."

The hand around his throat tightened, an almost punishing pressure that made his breathing shallow and sharp. Jaskier took as deep a breath as he could manage, and relaxed until the man's hands. Curious, the Witcher's head tipped faintly to the side, watchful and quiet as any hunting feline he had ever seen. A spitting metal Cat hung from his throat, and Jaskier could have laughed if he had had the breath.

"Explain."

A simple request, and he would have thought their conversation civil if not from the first wrapped around his neck. Swallowing, hands pinned to his sides by the man's knees, Jaskier didn't know if he was relieved or not that Aiden had gone hunting.

"I found him, and I brought him back."

"What use would you have for a dead Witcher?"

There went his heart again, trembling in his chest for an entirely different reason. It felt natural, inevitable, sweet spiced wine warming his belly and a singing in the back of his skull. He had known for more than ten years, and he would know for the rest of his life, but this was different. This was more, daunting because those words had never been said aloud, but Jaskier was far from a liar unless he had to be and he refused to hide now.

"Because, I love him."

The hand around his throat tightened marginally, and then, like that, he couldn't breathe. He didn't need to breathe to scream, to rend the man's flesh from his bones with the force of his voice, but that wasn't what they were here for. They were supposed to get Aiden back home, but at what cost?

"Get off my bard, Cedric."

The smell of his fear must have carried.

Aiden's voice was tight for all that it was conversational. He recognized that now, knew this man and knew his voice, and it set something like pride through him. His head had started to swim, his chest had started to burn, but Aiden was here. He didn't have to scream, he didn't have to fight if his safety was already here.

Cedric's attention didn't waver, and his grip didn't slacken.

"You're awfully upright for a dead man, Aiden."

"I got better. Now get off."

The Witcher huffed, the hand on his throat was gone, and Jaskier was left to grasp in the dirt. Rolling over onto his belly in the grass, he caught with wet eyes the way that Cedric crossed to his Witcher. A dagger pulled from his belt, silver by the glint of it, and Jaskier watched as it was laid against Aiden's offered forearm. A silent settled, a moment passed, the blade was tossed away, and he was given privy to the way that the two Witchers clashed together. They went to the ground in a tussle, and he started to get up to his hands and knees only to catch the sound.

Stuttering, chest deep purring came from one of them, both of them, and he dropped back onto his belly to wait and watch.

They clung like children where they should have been grown men, Cedric pulling Aiden’s face into his throat to keep him close. Arms wrapped tight around one another, bodies tangled in the dirt, they were a mess of limbs and armor where they had coiled themselves together. A cheek rubbed across the top of Aiden’s head, fingers dug into the leather beneath his shoulders. He couldn’t tell which one of them had started purring, but the longer he watched the more he started to realize they wouldn’t stop for some time.

He couldn’t give them privacy, not really, but he could afford them what of it they could. Aiden had dropped two rabbits at the edge of their camp, and he skirted wide around the two to retrieve them. Quiet where he sat himself down by the fire and set to carefully skinning them, hides set aside to be cleaned and tanned and kept when they had the chance. The meat was set to spits, and he dug around in their supply pack for some of the food things that they had gathered in the last town. A still soft enough loaf of brown bread, a half round of reasonably aged cheese that had cost him more money than he cared to admit, both things set aside on the brown paper the cheese had come in.

Some twenty minutes passed before a hand settled on the top of his head, fingers sifting through his hair. Aiden tipped his head back and smeared their mouths together with a purr, kisses trailing from his mouth to his temple on a flutter that made him dissolve into quiet laughter. The man hummed against his skin before rubbing his stubbled jaw against the side of his head. Jaskier leaned into it, eyes half-closed and caught the way that Cedric dropped down into the dirt across from him.

“You know I love you.”

The words were soft-spoken against his ear, and his heart did a blissful, painful seizing in his chest. He reached up to sink his fingers into soft black hair, and turned his head until their noses slid together. Soft purring filled his ears, Aiden nuzzling their faces together as he scented him quietly. More intimate than he was used to with an audience, but he touched as freely here as he did when they were alone. His Witcher didn’t shy away from him, pressed into his touch and purred beneath his hands and Jaskier pressed their mouths together on a slow, warming kiss.

“You never said.”

Aiden shrugged, a soft twist to his mouth.

“I forget for all your ability that you can’t smell like I can.”

His Witcher had known then, had been able to smell it on him while Jaskier had been wrangling with himself over it. That made things both simpler and bittersweet, the both of them having been stumbling around with an unintended miscommunication between them. It made sense suddenly, the ways Aiden looked at him, how he reached for him, something more than just the strange magic that bound them. What a relief it was to know, and he sagged against the other man, breathed with the way Aiden took his weight and sank down to sit beside him.

Cedric stared at them from across the fire, bright-eyed and quiet. They were a handsome creature, striking in the way that Jaskier was beginning to believe all Witchers were. Something about the wild thing that lurked beneath their skin, the savagery that they so elegantly possessed. This Witcher seemed just as poised and controlled as Aiden, and it was a strange difference from the Witcher he had known to the ones that he now knew.

“How long have I been gone?”

“Four years.”

Aiden nodded after a moment, reaching out to rotate the rabbit spits.

“Your Wolf still winters with us.”

He stopped moving, and if asked, Jaskier would swear he stopped breathing. He sat as still as Jaskier had ever seen him, no rise and fall to his chest and no twitch of his hands. As if he had suddenly been turned to stone, struck by something that Jaskier didn’t understand. Slowly, his hand continued turning the food, and he settled back against Jaskier’s side.

If he tucked himself in a little tighter and notched himself against his ribs, Jaskier knew better than to comment on it.

“How is he?”

His voice sounded strangled, thin like it wasn’t. There was something small about him now, something needy and restrained.

Jaskier laced their fingers together, and Aiden

clung

.

“He mourns you.”

He made a quiet, wounded sound, and gave a tight-boned shake against Jaskier’s side. He couldn’t hold him like he wanted to, because some part of him knew that Aiden wouldn’t let him. He reeked of grief suddenly in a way that only a poet's soul could understand, and Jaskier didn’t know how to help. This wasn’t his burden to take, this wasn’t his to make better. It wouldn’t be right of him to try to fix this, but he could press them together, and he could hold Aiden’s hand. Head turned against his, he pressed his face to the Witcher’s throat and rubbed his cheek against warm brown skin.

He couldn’t purr, but a wordless humming was close enough, Aiden slowly relaxing against him once more.

“You’ll take us home?”

Us, because there was an

us

. It wasn’t simply a

me

, because Aiden wouldn’t leave him behind even in this, in the face of something that Jaskier didn’t quite understand. He sounded like a man long separated from his love, from something important and infinite that Jaskier couldn’t hope to touch. Aiden loved him, but it sounded like someone else had been here first, like someone else had already loved him and lost him, and he wanted to cry for this man that he had never met.

Cedric nodded though, and Jaskier breathed.

“Tomorrow.”

He felt the way that Aiden shook beside him, pulse racing beneath his mouth. It felt like mourning something he didn’t understand, because Aiden had been someone, he had had someone, and that had all been taken away from him by the cruel stroke of death. Aiden had been lost to the world, and in a stroke of selfishness, Jaskier had pulled him from the earth and the aether until he walked and breathed again. Rules had been broken, but he had never been much for those anyway, and it wasn’t like the Brotherhood would know where he was. Filavandrel had promised he couldn’t be found unless he wanted to be, and anymore, there were a lot of things Jaskier didn’t want from the rest of the world.

“Bard.”

“He has a name.”

Aiden huffed, Jaskier’s face turned until he could see Cedric out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier watched the way they shrugged. Their legs pulled up, arms braced loosely on their knees, their eyes were bright and their head tipped faintly. It was like being stalked, made to feel like prey for all that he didn’t feel threatened. How old was this Witcher, and what had they seen? There were stories in those eyes, and he wanted to know them as much as he didn’t yet want to pry.

“He hasn’t shared it.”

“You haven’t asked.”

Those eyes flickered over to him, flat and thin slitted. Cedric watched him over the fire, and Jaskier just watched them back.

“I’m asking now.”

It didn’t sound like a question, and Jaskier snorted on a laugh. He felt Aiden shift against him, pushed upright a little until the man could burrow into his throat instead. Hot breath against his skin, the warm scent of sun soaked spices in his lungs. He tipped his head enough for Aiden to get comfortable, gave him as much room as he needed to snuffle and scent as he pleased.

“Jaskier of Oxenfurt.”

They blinked, body loose and almost comfortable. It was so strange to see a Witcher at rest, because Geralt had always been so tightly wound that it was like his body had been cut from stone. Jaskier had thought it simply his psyche, but now, looking back on it, he recognized the way that it instead was a byproduct of the way the man had shut himself off from the rest of the world. Blaviken had wounded him, but Geralt had let the scars fester.

“Cedric of Dyn Marv.”

You’ll take us home?

Cedric of Dyn Marv, and he would bet his lute that it was Aiden of Dyn Marv. Their Caravan was their home, they had no keep and so they had made one instead. Aiden had told him stories, but the magnitude of it all had yet to set in.

“Pleasure to meet you, Cedric.”

They blinked again, head tipping as they stared at him. An inspection then, and Jaskier sat still for it, leaning as he needed to for Aiden to get comfortable.

“You mean that.”

“Of course I do. Thus far, I can say that Cat’s are the most pleasant Witcher’s I have ever met.” He let go of Aiden’s hand to loop his arm around the man’s trim waist. Aiden sighed against his throat, and Jaskier pressed a smile into the top of his head. “I’d go as far to say that you’re the best men I’ve ever met, and I’ve known plenty of people.”

Cedric barked a laugh, grin splitting their face and showcasing sharp fangs. That was different from Geralt too, sharper teeth and sharp green tinged eyes. These Witcher’s laughed, they talked readily, where the Wolf had been stoic and taciturn, Aiden was downright chatty and already he had made Cedric laugh. Was that a difference in Schools, or was that simply a Geralt thing? It wasn’t like he could ask the man now, wasn’t like he wanted to, but maybe he could prod at Aiden later.

“Songbird, I think you’re going to fit right in.”

That sounded an awful lot like a promise to be kept, and he could hardly find it in himself to complain.
 
-
 
The Caravan was comprised of more than fourteen wooden walled wagons, a true train of them that had formed almost a complete circle in the clearing. Horses left to roam in the surrounding area where they were too well trained to wander far, there seemed to be two per wagon with more to spare. Raised voices greeted them first, the woodsmoke drag of a fire second, and then they were close enough to see through the gaps in the circle.

There were more Witchers than he had ever seen in one place, and while that wasn’t saying much, it was still a truly astounding number. More than thirty men and women loitered around the encampment, for there were women here where Geralt had gruffly informed him that girls couldn’t be Witchers. They appeared just as viscous as their male counterparts, and he watched from a distance as one tussled with a man nearly twice her size in the grass, laughter abound.

Cedric walked beside them, head high and just as quiet as they had been when they had arrived. Either that would change, or they were just the quiet sort, but Jaskier would adapt to whatever came his way. He had made an art of rolling with the punches since he had been old enough to know to avoid Sigric’s fists, but that didn’t mean much in the face of so many Witchers. He was just one bard, he was just one banshee, and while Aiden loved him and Cedric understood, what if one of the Caravan decided he was threat enough to be put down?

What would happen to Aiden if he died?

Maybe it was the sudden flare of his distress, or maybe someone had seen them. Regardless, they came out from between the wagons and a harsh hush overcame the camp.

"Cedric."

The man appeared to be in his fifties, dark haired and bearded. One of his brilliant eyes had gone milky, giving him an almost haggard look, but with the way he held himself and the set of his shoulders, it just made him seem fierce. The man didn't rise from where he sat in the dirt, just watched them with his two toned eyes and his placid expression. Something about him felt furious though, barely contained.

Aiden squeezed his hand, and Jaskier squeezed back.

"It's him."

The hush took on a heavy note, held breath and disbelief.

"Wolf buried him."

The man looked a little wired around the edges, wide eyed and fairly manic. Like he could vibrate out of his skin or take out one of his blades if someone looked at him wrong. The wrestling had stopped, the talking had ceased. The bonfire crackled in the middle of the camp, licking flames into the midmorning sky, but it was almost quiet beyond that.

"He endeared himself to a banshee."

A few eyes on him then, and Jaskier just breathed. Lifted his free hand in a quiet, finger waggling little wave. Aiden chuckled almost silently beside him, tight string and aching. How body had tipped forward slightly like he wanted to run, like this was the home he had been searching for and the place he had been missing, and now he didn't know where to go.

"Aiden."

He was let go then, his Witcher walking up to the Elder where he had been summoned. The man stood up, tall enough to tower over the other man. Aiden stopped within reach of him, head up and hands at his sides, and waited. Jaskier watched as the man leaned down to scent him, nose against his hair. Even with the distance between them, he could see the way that Aiden trembled at the contact. After a moment, one large hand curled around the back of his dark head, and Aiden collapsed against the man's chest. He sobbed wildly, sounds keening and sharp, and the Elder just gathered him close before sitting with Aiden tangled up in his lap.

He would have stood there the rest of the morning if a shoulder hadn't knocked his. Cedric, something almost warm in their features, head inclined toward the group.

"C'mon. Let's get you introduced."

He had never seen so many Witchers at once.

A truly overwhelming amount of them, but for all that these men and women could kill him with ease, he had never felt more safe. He followed Cedric, sat down beside them, and instantly, his personal space wasn't his own. As if they had known him for years, a few bodies pressed in against his, curious gold-green eyes that had decided he wasn't a threat.

A hand with four fingers planted in his thigh as a man leaned in to take a long sniff from his throat. Another sniffled at his hair, one staring at him past the little crowd,

all

of them staring at him. Jaskier tried not to squirm, and held still as he was scented to what felt like an inch of his life. Someone bit him, not enough to break skin but sharp all the same on his shoulder. He cried out, more startled than anything else, but he could practically hear the way that Aiden suddenly panicked.

"Don't hurt him!"

His voice was a wet, wounded thing, and Jaskier wanted to hold him.

The teeth set into his shoulder let out a rumbling growl before letting go, and he startled at the way a hot tongue dragged across his chemise. He laughed despite himself, a little off touch and a little unsure, and the Cats just grinned.

"You don't smell like death."

"I'm not dead anymore."

Anymore, which meant he had been.

They caught that, a few of them did, perking up before his very eyes. And then the questions started, Witchers speaking over one another to see who could talk to him first, the fastest. He almost went a little cross eyed from it all, but Jaskier just laughed amidst the cacophony of voices and the way they invaded each other's personal space. They pressed into him, hands on him like they knew him, like they trusted him. And maybe they did because Aiden did, he could only hope even if he wasn't sure. Regardless, they didn't shy away from him, and they didn't quiet down despite his laughter.

"How long were you dead?"

"Why didn't you stay dead?"

"What did it feel like?"

"Can you bring anyone back?"

"Can-"

"Enough."

Cedric rumbled beside him where someone had handed them a skewer of deer meat. They waved it a little like a weapon, voice almost sharp. It worked through, the questions falling away even if the hands didn't. Someone bit his bicep and Jaskier startled, but he didn't cry out this time and he didn't flinch. Someone started purring, a tongue swept over his hair, and he closed his eyes against the absurdity of it all.

He stayed like that for a while, pressed amidst almost too-hot bodies and given his own skewer to eat. Brought into the fold quicker than he would have anticipated but couldn't object to, he watched as what must have been their normal settled back over the group. They took turns all wandering over to where Aiden was still held, clinging to him and scenting him with murmured words before going back to their campsite activities. It took time, but the entire camp had touched him within the hour, and he thought it was done.

Instead, Jaskier watched as Aiden stood up suddenly, like he'd been knocked out of the Elders lap. The man let him go without any fuss, and leaned back on his hands instead. Aiden stood stock still, coiled up and his head tilted into the breeze.

Scenting, and the more he breathed, the more Jaskier thought his Witcher was going to come undone.

A trio of Witchers broke through the treeline, laden with deer yolked across their shoulders. Fresh from a kill and decorated with the blood of their spoils, the three paused just past the first wagon. After a moment, two of them carried on, dropping their kills by the fire and walking further still toward Aiden and the Elder. They scented him roughly, speaking to him in tones too low for Jaskier to hear, but he knew the way that Aiden stared. The third Witcher hadn't moved, blood in his ginger hair and a shuttered expression on his face.

Breath caught in his chest, Jaskier watched as Aiden closed the distance between them, something almost hesitant about him. He walked until they were nearly chest to chest, and then the other Witcher spoke.

"I buried you."

Aiden shrugged a little, and reached out with one hand to cup that bearded jaw. The other Witcher seemed to shudder at the touch, leaning into it as his eyes shut tightly.

"Silly Wolf. Death could never keep me from you."

There was a high keening sound in the air, the deer was dropped unceremoniously to the dirt, and Jaskier watched as they embraced like lovers long parted, something bruised and uncertain curling beneath his heart.

Oh.

This was him then. This was who had been before, this was who had a claim here. This was Aiden’s first love, this was the one that death had made him leave behind. They held one another like they never wanted to let go, and Jaskier poked and prodded at that bruised feeling in his chest the longer he watched them. He felt like a voyeur to something private and sweet, and he was reminded then that for all that he had one, his claim was secondary. This man had been here first, and that meant something.

He looked like a wild thing, a shock of curling red hair and a full beard. Taller than Aiden, he dwarfed the man from bulk alone as he wrapped himself around him, hauling the Cat against his chest. Aiden gripped tight at his armor and pressed their faces together, no space between them with how they were coiled around one another. This felt like something he shouldn’t see, and Jaskier looked away.

The Witcher with four fingers on his hand was still in his space, face almost against his. He blinked a few times, bright eyed and curious, and Jaskier gave a wet smile that he didn’t necessarily feel.

“I’m Felmik. You ain’t a mage?”

Brow furrowing, eyes a little crossed from how close the man was, Jaskier leaned back. It leaned him against Cedric, but they just took his weight like they had taken the deer skewer that had been handed to them. A strong shoulder for him to lean back against, and Jaskier hardly knew them, but he got the feeling that that was a character trait he would need to just get used to. Felmik watched him still though, didn’t seem to care that he had had to lean back a little bit, and that was good. As what seemed to be the only non-Witcher here, insulting one of them hardly seemed like the best of ideas.

“Certainly not.”

“Certainly not

.” He parroted the words back in what sounded like a vague approximation of Jaskier’s voice. He grinned with a quiet laugh in his lungs, and the Witcher grinned back. “You sound poncy. And Redanian. You Redanian?”

“Kerackian, actually.”

He happened to think he quite liked this Witcher. A little childish, a little unhinged around the edges, but it was a refreshing change. One of them had started to play with his fingers, a blond woman with curls cropped haphazardly to her shoulders. As he watched, she brought his hand up to start lightly chew on his knuckles, and that was-

That was fine, he supposed.

“This’s Covi. She don’t talk much.”

Covi blinked at him, and for lack of knowing what to do, Jaskier blinked back.

She stopped her chewing for a second, his knuckle in her mouth as she stared at him, and then the gnawing started up again. Alright.

“You have a very pretty name, Covi.”

She preened then, puffing up a little where she sat. A soft, trilling sound spilled from her throat, and Felmik beamed at him. He’d done something right then, that was good. Better than good.

He realized dimly that this was a distraction, a cluster of Witchers pressed into him until he couldn’t see Aiden and his lover beyond them. He didn’t have words to express how grateful he was, but he didn’t think they needed them.

“Hey.” Cedric shifted behind him only to dangle a skewer of meat over his head. Jaskier tipped back to stare at it, and took it with his free hand after they waggled it back and forth. “Eat before its all gone.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Eating one handed wasn’t ideal, but Covi didn’t seem inclined to let him go, and Felmik didn’t seem willing to back up any. A conversational hubbub had taken over the encampment again, a few raised voices and the sounds of a tussle on the other side of the fire. Someone had started yowling, and while he blinked at the noise, none of the others balked. It must have been normal, and what a wild thing that was,

playful

Witchers.

Someone had seasoned the venison, because these Witchers believed in spices. A pleased sound under his breath, Jaskier fully relinquished use of his hand to prop himself back against Cedric instead. They took it rather well, better than he had expected, and there was a sort, rumbling purr against his back the longer he sat there. This was downright

comfortable

, and Jaskier relaxed here like he was never really able to in a crowd.

He had thought himself in his in his element in boisterous taverns, at home in courts where he had found a place for himself, but something about this loud, excitable cluster of Witchers just felt right, finger chewing and all.

He got through his skewer with Covi chewing on his fingers, and Felmik just watching him. The man didn’t blink very often, like he often forgot that he needed to. An intense stare for an otherwise manic man, but Jaskier took it in stride. Like late nights when Valdo hadn’t slept enough and they had deadlines they weren’t sure they could meet for assignments they had put off too long. That stare felt familiar even though it wasn’t, at least the energy behind it something he was comfortable with even though he shouldn’t have been.

Another Witcher dropped down beside Covi, jostled her in place as she let out a startled hiss around his knuckle. Sharp featured, inhumanly elegant, the man was a slick of red-brown hair and tightly packed muscle. He stared at Jaskier, head tilted and body curved faintly to lean against the blonde. She kept her nibbling, and Jaskier found himself distracted by sharp ears and luminous ruby eyes.

“Hello.”

The new Witcher grinned softly, almost shy if a Witcher could ever be such a thing. His teeth were unreasonably sharp, more fanged and viscous even than the rest of the Cats appeared to be. He wasn’t human, whatever he was. The longer Jaskier looked, the more clear it became that he never had been, as strange and otherworldly as he was.

“‘Lo. May I know your name?”

What a peculiar way to phrase that, more formal than he was used to from a Witcher.

“I’m Jaskier.”

He bobbed a little nod, and Jaskier couldn’t help the way he smiled.

“Fane.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fane.”

The red-eyed Witcher hummed quietly, and as Jaskier watched, began slowly weaving strands of grass together into a long, thick strand.

He didn’t know how long they sat there, a little pile of bodies where they had all crowded around Jaskier and Cedric by proxy. Fane’s strand had become a single large loop that he had dropped onto Felmik’s head, the Witcher puffing up under the attention.

“Jask.”

He jolted at the sound of Aiden’s voice so close, practically stood over him. He had been distracted by getting his hand back some ten minutes prior, instead working to see if he could contain Covi’s hair in a spiraling crown braid where the she-Witcher had sprawled out in his lap. Felmik watched avidly where he had insisted he wanted to learn, and he had almost forgotten why he was here.

Nervous suddenly where he wasn’t with Aiden, Jaskier patted her shoulder until Covi sat up.

“Yes, love?”

The other Witcher was still with him, and Jaskier watched him twitch at the endearment. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Aiden, seamless like he belonged there. They made quite a pair together, and this close, he was able to look the other man over like he deserved. Wild red curls framed his face, and for all that he wasn’t a Cat, there was something barely contained in his sharp golden gaze. Undeniably a Witcher, but where the Cats he had observed were relatively lithe for all that some of them were tall, this Wolf was built like a battering ram. Broad-shouldered and broad-chested, his biceps were roughly the size of Aiden’s thighs, narrow-hipped as he was. He stood nearly a full head taller than Aiden, which made him taller than Jaskier, where the bard was used to being one of the larger people in a room.

“This is our Lambert.”

Our.

He watched gobsmacked as Lambert pupils rounded out, a pleased rumble in that wide chest. The man held out a hand for him, and without thinking, Jaskier took it, found himself hauled to his feet by a strong grip. It crashed him into Lambert’s chest, and Aiden’s hand at the small of his back kept him upright. If Aiden was the midday sun, then Lambert was the burning ring around an eclipse, so red-toned and molten. Pressed between them as he was, it almost hurt to look at the both of them, but Jaskier could only stare.

“Hello, Lambert.”

“Hey, Buttercup.”

His nose scrunched up at the nickname, at the deep, dragging tone that it was said in. This Lambert looked like a feral shit, grinned like one all crooked and off-kilter where he did indeed stand taller than Jaskier. Broader than he, and he rarely felt small, but the feeling of it now set something how and squirming in his abdomen. A deep breath where Lambert scented it, where his grin turned nearly predatory, and Jaskier shivered.

“I hear I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me shit.”

He

laughed

, a booming bark of a sound. It crinkled his eyes and split his face and made the ring of molten fire around him flicker and sway. Jaskier leaned forward like a moth to a flame, and Aiden just pressed him closer.

“I can see why he loves you.”

He flushed, a burning warmth to his face that just made Aiden hum. A mouth dragged across his pulse, Aiden leaving his scent behind like he was often wont to do.

“I’m not surprised. I’m a damn catch.”

Lambert leaned down and rubbed their cheeks together, nose against his temple. He smelled like a fire, the crackle of embers and the drift of smoke. Jaskier forgot to breathe in that moment, and the Witcher let out another rumble. A pleased sound not unlike Aiden’s purring, and it was strange and new, but he wanted to get used to it.

“Oh, I think I’m going to like you.”
 
-
 
Aiden had insisted that Jaskier slept between them.

Jaskier considered it getting crushed between his two Witchers, because he had

two

of them now. He could hardly complain, pinned between two devastating men like he knew what to do with that. They touched him where Aiden hadn’t, because he understood now that the man had been waiting for something, for someone. It was worth it, his breath taken every time a hand gripped at his waist, every time a mouth smeared across his. Within the near two months they had spent with the Caravan, he had taken to wearing a collar of bruises and teeth marks like a symbol of pride. They touched him readily, split him open just as eagerly, and between the two of them, Jaskier was often left more boneless than he had ever been in his life.

He hadn’t thought he would survive one Witcher, and yet here he was with two of them.

The worst part of it was that Lambert was undeniably funny. A crass man if he had ever met one, he swore like he had been born to it and used biting words like they were second nature. His common speech was laced with a delightful amount of sarcasm, and he used compliments like they were barbed, often spoken with a rakish smirk that made it impossible not to kiss him. Just the same, he was wonderfully easy to fluster with gentle affection and soft-spoken endearments, coloring a beautiful pink up to his ears every time Jaskier went sweet on him.

He loved him, just as consumingly and wholly as he had loved Aiden from that first time in Oxenfurt, and it made him dizzy.

Except, for all that he loved the both of them, there were times when sleeping between them turned out to be too much. Something made his skin feel wrong, something made the back of his head ache, there was something off that only came out at night that he didn’t understand.

He had wriggled out from between them and nearly woken Aiden with his motions. He

had

woken Lambert, and his Wolf had blinked at him, suddenly alert in the dark. He had made a placating, shushing sound, and watched as his Wolf just bundled their Cat up against his chest, Aiden letting out a sleep heavy purr as he quickly went back down. Lambert had let him crawl past Ras and Leandre out of the wagon, and Jaskier had tumbled out into the dark.

He couldn’t see the night guards but he knew they were there, a constant rotation of Witchers on alert to make sure the rest of their brothers and sisters could sleep peacefully. Gaetan and Avra were out there somewhere, Schrödinger probably perched atop one of the wagons for a better lookout. He should have been used to that by now, and he mostly was, but Guxart had just laughed and assured him that they wouldn’t fall. Some of the Cats slept in

trees

.

The night was quiet, a little crisp at the edges where the bonfire had mostly died down. The embers still glowed, a few logs still licked with flames where the night guards kept it stoked lowly. It was peaceful out, the thrum of the wilderness settling like a lullaby against his ribs. He could have slept out here, laid himself by the fire and waited until morning when one of the Cats roused him to train with them. He had gotten better over the months for all that he couldn’t keep up, the Witchers treating him with kid gloves as they dragged him through drills with the silver dagger he had been gifted all those years ago.

There was no training now, and there would be no sleeping for the rest of the night; someone without light sat before the fire.

It was a testament to how accustomed to this he was that he didn’t panic anymore. Instead, quiet where he didn’t want to wake any of the Caravan, Jaskier walked over. Movements telegraphed, he sat down beside the man, settling on the dirt with his legs crossed. He stared at the fire where he didn’t want to scare the spirit, and turned his head enough to look out of the corner of his eye. Only then did he feel his skin crawl.

Because the man had none, a bloody mess of exposed muscle and vein left behind instead. Like he had been flayed alive, every inch of it removed from his person until there was nothing left. He had no eyelids and he had no hair, thin where his ribs protruded grotesquely beneath the bare musculature.

Red eyes flickered to him, and he thought of Fane with his too sharp teeth and his crimson eyes. These were the same, just as bright for all that they were feverish and crazed. He swallowed thickly, and there went his heart, beginning to pound frantically in his chest. He would wake someone up, they would come outside, but he needed privacy now with this spirit like he had never needed anything else.

He had never seen one like this, and Gods above, he hoped he never had to again.

“Burning.”

He made a quiet, curious sound, and folded his hands in his lap. The spirit watched him still, lidless and full attention where he sat and swayed and bled. His teeth were sharp and his eyes bulging, and Jaskier just barely kept from trembling under that gaze. There was something crackled to his voice, like he had spent so long screaming that he had broken it entirely.

“What’s burning?”

Voice as low and soothing as he could make it, Jaskier breathed deep and tried to force himself to calm. He was going to wake someone up, this was going to go very bad very quickly if he couldn’t get himself under control. Breath held for a count of eight, he let it out slowly before doing it again, again until he felt more like himself and less like a fretful child. He would be no use if he panicked, and for whatever reason this man was here, he needed him now.

“Me.”

He couldn’t help the sound he made then, a soft, soothing note for all that he felt gutted. He wouldn’t have known where to touch even if he could have, there was no place to put his hands where they wouldn’t hurt even if physical touch would have been possible. The man sounded hollow and terrified in a detached, cotton-glazed way, like he had been like this so long before death that his mind had been taken as well as his skin.

Jaskier didn’t know how to make this better, but he knew that he needed to. His throat ached, his belly almost cold. He couldn’t fix this, but he wanted to, desperately, and that amounted to something, didn’t it?

“You’re not burning, darling.”

The man started to rock slowly, back and forth in the dirt. There was a phantom pool of blood beneath him, and Jaskier watched as strands of it clung to his legs. He nearly gagged and he wanted to cry at whatever this poor man had been forced to endure. He can only hope he had died quickly, but the state of him spoke otherwise.

His hands were clawed, and they dug into the dirt. Before his eyes, shallow rivets appeared on the ground, and Jaskier forgot how to breathe.

“You’re safe here. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

He looked at him, and that was a mistake. His head twitched, face snapping over to stare at Jaskier. He was closer then suddenly, and Jaskier’s breath was a cold stream of air where the tortured man nearly pressed their faces together. He reeked of blood and the snap-fizz of magic, eyes a bottomless ruby sea with thin, slitted pupils.

He couldn’t breathe, and distantly, he realized that he had started to cry at the horror of the Witcher before him.

“Oh, darling.”

The spectral Witcher stared at him where he couldn’t blink, a macabre monstrosity of a man. What was left of his ears were high, peaked points of flesh, and Jaskier bit back on a sob.

“Safe?”

He nodded slowly, heart screaming in his chest. He could see Schrödinger standing atop one of the Caravans, still and watchful, but he couldn’t respond. He couldn’t look away, not when the man was so close, not when he needed something that Jaskier could only hope to offer. He didn’t know how to fix this, but he could try, he had to.

“I swear it. Do you trust me to help?”

A wild, stuttering chirping sound came from his bleeding chest, and Jaskier bit his tongue. The Witcher nodded, jerky and wet, and he gave the man a wobbling smile.

That lush, honey-glazed feeling unspooled from his tongue like silk from low in his throat. Jaskier sang quietly, privately like it was just for the two of them, an intimate serenade where this Witcher deserved so much more. His heart ached like it had been shattered in his chest, but the wordless tune was pulled from him as easy as breathing. He poured himself into it, head spinning and his body turning light the longer he sang. Before him, the spectral man started to tremble, and cold, wet hands latched onto his own. Nails that weren’t dug into his palms, the muscle shifting and sticky to the touch, but Jaskier held on because this man needed him to.

There was a soft sunrise spill that grew, slowly and steadily, growing beneath the man's skin as it started to regrow before his eyes. In blotches that spread like a patchwork until it covered his body, slowly smoothing out into a simple, scarless surface. He blinked because he had eyelids, and the blood that ran down his smooth face was replaced by tears instead. Jaskier shuddered on a breath as the darkened world swayed around them, the low glow of the fire flickering and sputtering. The man collapsed against him, real, naked skin hot to the touch, and Jaskier caught him with shaking hands.

“Thank you for being brave, darling. You did so well.”

His body felt hollow, chest cloudless sky empty and soft. He bent low over the naked man sprawled in his lap and panted against his bald temple, only to flinch at the way Gaetan yowled violently from the trees.

“Thank you.”

The Witchers came alive from inside the Caravans, and Jaskier barely caught a glance of Lambert barreling out of the wagon before he listed sideways on the dirt. He couldn’t find his bones, breath cottony and his head starlight swanning. He couldn’t make out words, but the night erupted with raised voices and a cluster of bodies around them. Someone took the Witcher away from him, tones frantic and arching, and he barely had the strength to try to pull the man to his chest. He let out a weak sob when the Witcher was taken from him, and caught with bleary eyes the way the man reached out for him, desperate and sluggish.

“Gods

damn it

, Jaskier!”

That was Lambert, voice scathing, tone shaking. He was what had pulled Jaskier away, he was the chest he was scooped up against where the other man yanked him up. Boneless and trembling, he sobbed against his lovers chest as Aiden’s frantic hands patted him down. Looking for injuries, scared like Jaskier had only seen him once before, but he couldn’t find his voice for crying.

The Witcher was screeching, a frenzied yowl, and Jaskier turned his head to find the man practically restrained by Schrödinger and Axel as he tried hopelessly to crawl back to Jaskier. He let out a weak, warbling sound at the sight, and nearly pitched out of Lambert’s arms in an attempt to reach for him. His grip tightened, he was hauled further against the Wolf’s chest, and Aiden effectively pinned him between them. There was a whiring, wild purring in his chest, nearly forced in its intensity where Aiden grasped at his face to force eye contact.

“Jask, look at-

look at me.”

He gasped for breath, chest tight where he cried. Gold-green eyes sought his, thin pupiled and frantic where Aiden pulled his face down. He could feel Lambert shaking against him, and he had to struggle to hear his lover past the loud chaos that had descended on the camp.

“What did you do?”

Fane had started to scream, a piercing, crazed sound that resonated in his bones.

“H-he needed help, I just-I’m so-sorry, I just-”

Lambert hiked him a little higher, feet off the ground and the world swayed violently. The Witcher was on the ground, clawing at the earth with too long nails and screaming still. Jaskier could see him just past Aiden’s ear, and he tried to reach out for him again. There was blood on his hands, on his arms where the Witcher had grabbed him, where he had bled on him. He gagged where he cried and Aiden shushed him, brought his face back down.

“Don’t be sorry Buttercup, you did good, you-Aiden.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t understand the sound that he made, something mournful and needing that was ripped from his throat as Lambert turned them away. He could see over his shoulder as the Witcher had stopped struggling and instead sobbed on the ground, Guxart holding a frenzied Fane by the waist to keep him away from the other man. The small Witcher struggled violently, screeching still.

“Kiyan!”

Up the three steps, into the wagon, and Aiden shut the door tight behind them.

Jaskier sobbed even as Lambert pressed him down into the furs, pinning him with the weight of his body. He grasped at him, desperate to hold him and keep him where his insides felt hollowed out. His Wolf started to rumble, low and soothing in his chest where he sprawled heavy and comforting over Jaskier’s shaking frame. Aiden seamed himself in on his side, a line of heat against his ribs and shoulders, and Jaskier’s face was pressed into his throat where he could cry. He sobbed between them, broken and gutted where it had taken so much and left so little behind, and his Witchers held him through it all.
 
-
 
Kiyan had been missing for ten years.

He had been presumed dead for nine. Before then, it had been rare to not see him and Fane practically joined at the hip. Always within arms reach of one another, Changeling twin boys who had been Guxart’s surprise children not long after the sacking of Stygga Castle. Kiyan had been the more boisterous of the two, quick to laugh and quicker to fight whereas Fane had been shy by comparison. They had hunted as a pair, had slept tangled around each other, and without question had been one anothers best friend.

And then Kiyan had simply vanished while they were momentarily separated on a hunt. Fane had had to be dragged back to the Caravan, nearly catatonic in his grief, and he had drawn further in on himself. It was only within the last two years that he had begun speaking again, but supposedly he was more watchful now, fretful when one of his brothers or sisters left the camp to go hunt. He never hunted alone, and he refused to be separated from whatever pattern he was sent out with, and Guxart didn’t have the heart to correct his behavior.

Fane hadn’t left the wagon they had put Kiyan in in six days.

Jaskier had slept the sleep of the dead for well over a day, so exhausted from magics he didn’t understand and things he wasn’t used to doing that it had taken all of his reserves. Supposedly he hadn’t moved in his sleep, and neither of his Witchers had left him, too worried about the lack of noise and the lack of movement that they had been to anxious to go much further than the treeline to relieve themselves. They had been there when he had woken, his face pressed into Aiden’s chest and Lambert’s bulk curled around his back. He had made a confused, wounded noise at being woken, and the two of them had clenched up around him.

That had been then, and this was now.

“Talk me through it again.”

Guxart had given him more than enough room to breathe, had held off the questions until Jaskier had his strength back. He could stand on his own now, he could keep up well enough in training like he had before, and if not for the

lack

of Fane by the fire, things would have been back to normal. He no longer felt hollow, the nights felt peaceful once more, and he understood that the thing that had been wrong was the tortured presence lingering by the fire every single night, lost to tormented confusion but drawn to his brother all the same.

Crosslegged in the dirt, his body was no longer tender to the touch, and that was good enough. Daste had practically shoved a rabbit haunch into his hands, all full of nervous energy, because they plied him with food now every chance they got, because there was never at least one Witcher far from his side even if his own two were already there. The man had then pulled Aiden away, practically spitting before his Cat had been tackled to the ground and goaded into a harsh tussle that migrated a few feet away the longer they went at it like feral kittens. Lambert had left camp at sunrise with a few of the others, relegated to hunting duty just to give him some way to burn off his pent up emotions.

That left Jaskier with Guxart as a chaperone, and the Elder watched him patiently, expectantly.

“I couldn’t sleep. There was this feeling every night, like something was out there. Like it needed me.”

It felt strange to say, a crazed thing spawned and slipped off his tongue. Guxart just watched him though, and Jaskier spoke.

“I went outside, and there was a man by the fire. He had no light, which is-they don't have any, when they’re dead. Like its been snuffed out. I watch it leave them, sometimes.”

Otto had gurgled, wet and violent when he had gone down into the silt. Marijke screaming wildly, bleeding from her ears, Otto bleeding out in the wet sand with his organs spilling out into the open air. The light had been sucked out of him, darkened cloud gone with it until there was nothing left. Did he haunt that beach, a wandering child with no home to return to and no breath to catch?

Guxart made a chirring sound, and pushed his rabbit toward his mouth. Jaskier took a bite, obedient and quiet. He looked away to watch where Axel had gotten himself involved in the theatrics to keep Aiden busy, chewing absently.

“He had no skin. He was just-there was so much blood. I’ve never seen one like him before.”

“You brought him back.”

Jaskier blinked, gaze swinging back to find the Cat staring at him. He shrugged, at a loss for words otherwise, because explaining it was hard. Like knowing which direction was north, or knowing which path to take to get home. It had been instinctive and consuming, and it was either listened or be deafened by the roar.

“It’s not always screaming or eating. Sometimes its like- there’s this feeling, here,” He wrapped a hand around his own throat, a loose fist. Guxart followed the motion, but didn’t say a word. “Like someones lit a candle in my throat. It doesn’t hurt, but I have to let it out.”

“Was it like that with Aiden?”

He nodded absently, hand still at his throat, rabbit held loosely in his other hand.

“He’s the only other time.”

Silence settled around them, Guxart thoughtful and Jaskier unsure of what to say next. The Witcher didn’t expect anything from him, but he wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. He couldn’t be performative for all that he wanted desperately to fill the silence, anything to take away from the things he had said. There was something wrong with him even though he knew what it was, he was a product of his breeding and circumstance out of his control. Had Bianca come back, did Andre feel like this sometimes?

He hadn’t written his brother in nearly a year, he must have thought him dead.

Technically he was dead, wasn’t he?

“I haven’t thanked you for that yet, have I?”

Mouthful of rabbit, Jaskier made a quiet, questioning noise. Guxart chirred at him in response with a slow, deliberate blink. Affectioned pooled warm and soft through his blood and his bones where this place had become his home and these people had become his family. Rabbit fat smeared on his cheek, a a flock of swallows in his chest, Jaskier blinked back just as slowly. He could practically feel the way that Guxart started to purr, and he smiled around his mouthful as he chewed.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

There was a wild yowl from behind him, one of the Cats having gotten bitten or elbowed or punched. It sounded like Daste, the crackling offense he usually had when someone got him riled up enough. He didn’t look away though, watching Guxart as he took another bite. This Witcher of all of them deserved his full and undivided attention, and Jaskier was adamant about giving it to him.

“You gave me back one of my children. Don’t think I can ever explain how much that means.”

What did that kind of grief taste like?

Had his Mama had a mouthful of it when she had come back to their hut and he and Andre had been gone? Had she cried for them, wailed at the injustice of their running away, or had she swallowed back her tears and pulled her braid over her shoulder and gone back to her chickens? Had she cried when Bianca had killed herself, or when she had made Andre suffocate the brother he didn’t remember knowing? He didn’t think so, because for all that he loved her like only a child could, his Mama had been a poisoned, fetid thing, rotted from the inside where she had starved herself to compliant madness.

Even if she had, it would never hold a candle to the way that Guxart looked at the rest of the Caravan, loving and exasperated in equal measure.

Jaskier shrugged and felt the way embarrassment made him flush.

“He owed me a favor.”

He grinned when Guxart laughed, a whirring chuckle of a sound. He preened at it for all that he knew he had gone pink at the edges. Guxard leaned forward and plucked the bone leftover from his rabbit out of his hands. A flex of his forearm and a flick of his wrist, and the aged Witcher tossed it expertly into the fire.

“Seems like we owe you a few of those now.”

There was a childish screech behind them, and Jaskier turned then to see what all the fuss was about. Aiden had lost the wrestling match, belly down in the dirt with Axel perched proudly on his back. There was a smear of blood on his chin from his split lip from where he had taken some kind of hit, and Jaskier already knew he would try to milk the wound for kisses. Daste had grabbed his hands and pinned them to the ground above his head, the two of them locking him in until he had nowhere to go. Aiden let out a series of outraged caterwauling noises not unlike someone had stepped on a cats tail.

There was a boisterous bark of laughter from between two of the wagons, and his gaze swung to the source. Lambert had nearly dropped his deer with how hard he laughed, grinning so wildly that Jaskier could see it vividly wven with the distance between them.

Lambert laughed, and Aiden stopped his struggling to track the sound, and Jaskier just sighed at the both of them.

“No, you really don’t.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Fane finally came up for air after nine days.

In truth, Jaskier hadn't expected to see him until the end of the season, and he hardly would have blamed the man for it. Ten years was an awful long time to be separated from a loved one, was a horrific span of years to think someone dead only to find out that they were. Bringing them back must have been a different shock all to itself, but the rest of the Caravan had taken it in stride, if not a little curiously watchful. Officially, Guxart was the only one to ask him about it, and he knew that had less to do with them being polite and more to do with Witcher hearing than anything else. They didn't need to ask because they already knew, and the lack of having to repeat himself was refreshing if nothing else.

That didn't mean they didn't ask questions. What did their light look like, how long had he been able to see them. Did he see anyone else in camp or around one of them, anyone.

He hated disappointing them, but he refused to lie, and instead would gently tell them that no, there was no one else. They would take it in stride, some quieter than others with what had to have been heartbreaking news, but they rarely pressed after the first person asked. He couldn't bring back what wasn't there, no matter how much he wanted to.

Aiden had said he was lucky he had never been to Kaer Morhen, and Lambert had let out a displeased growling sound, pulling Jaskier back to sit a little more snug between his legs.

He'd been given a whetstone and his gifted

two

daggers, and he knew what to do with that by now. Dropped down to set in a warm patch of sun, Jaskier had bent over his task and set about sharpening the edges of his already sharp blades. It made a sharp melody, between the

zing

of the metal and the catch of the stone, an almost jaunty one that sent a tune spiraling through his head. He could make something out of that, surely, he just needed a few moments with his lute and a chance to think about it.

A shadow loomed over him for a moment, and Jaskier looked up to see Fane standing there almost fretfully. The nervous sort, and it made sense now even if it made him ache. He patted at the ground next to him, and got a long blink for his troubles before the Witcher folded up and sat beside him in the grass. He was quiet where Fane was never necessarily the chatty sort to begin with, but that was fine. He just had to give him time, so Jaskier went back at his blade with his whetstone and settled in to wait.

His patience was rewarded, Fane making a quiet churning sound as he started up.

"I don't know how to thank you."

Jaskier looked up, head tilted from his work, and found slitted ruby eyes watching him. He was just as quiet here as he usually was, soft spoken but assertive. He sounded frustrated to not know what to do, like Jaskier needed thanks. Like he had gone into it wanting this, when all he had wanted was to make a man hurt a little less.

"You don't need to."

There was a sharp hiss from between his spread lips, and Fane blinked harshly, like he hadn't expected to make the sound.

"We owe you a life debt. Do you have any idea what that means for our kind?"

He knew enough. Geralt had never spoken of Fae beyond saying they were malicious tricksters with an appetite for flesh, and that Changelings spent their lives unloved and trapped between worlds. Except, remembering the way Guxart had held his son tight against his chest despite his own anguish, Jaskier knew better. They were loved passionately and unconditionally here in this family, and it was right where they belonged. Fane laughed, he purred, and he tussled occasionally with one of his brothers and sisters like any well loved Cat should. He knew what he had learned at Oxenfurt, desperate for answers he had eventually found, and while he had been disappointed at first, he had learned plenty on Fae where his own heritage had taken more digging.

"Only what I could find in the Oxenfurt library."

Fane's nose scrunched up like he was going to sneeze, a sharp chitter coming from his throat. Jaskier bit back his amusement, but it must have carried on his scent. The man's pupils rounded out slightly as he watched him, and Jaskier smiled.

"We owe you everything."

He didn't want to be owed anything, but arguing that was beside the point.

"I promised him I would keep him safe." Fane stilled beside him, and Jaskier let out a soft, soothing sound. The thin Witcher sagged a little, spindly fingers plucking up long pieces of grass that he started to twist and twine together. "The best way to repay me is by helping, because you're going to be much better at it than me."

"I'll always look out for him."

It was so matter of fact that he couldn't not smile. Spoken plainly and quickly, and Fane seemed so sure of himself in that moment. Rarely one for physical affection, but the Witcher rocked forward and rubbed their foreheads and cheeks together. Scented him liberally, and Jaskier hummed where he couldn't purr.

"I know you will, dear heart."

Fane scented him for a few minutes more, and Jaskier subjected himself to the treatment without complaint. He purred quietly, a quick flash of sound that was come and gone before he pulled away.

"Thank you."

It must have been his human nature, or his time with Witchers that let him say those words, but Jaskier hardly wanted to press. Instead, he watched as Fane rocked to his feet, and then the man was gone across the camp to drop down by Covi and Schrodinger in a good sunning spot. Jaskier stared for a minute, soft smile on his face as the two rolled over each other without crowding into the red-eyed man. No, these Changelings weren't unloved, and he didn't know how Geralt had ever thought differently.

He went back to his blade, humming to himself as he tried to find and pluck that rhythm back into the air. A lively tune, more so than the sweeping lullaby he had crafted for Cedric for when their night terrors became too much to bear. It swept him up until the

schink

and

zing

of the whetstone across his blade almost replaced the sounds of his lute. It wasn't the same, but he could make something out of this if he just had enough time.

"Jaskier."

Someone had sat down beside him, and it was only his time spent with the Caravan that kept him from startling.

Kiyan sat loosely coiled beside him, legs pulled up enough that he could loop his arms over them. His hair had started to grow back in a red-brown fuzz on the top of his head, and his eyebrows had started to come back in in what would be thick lines above his ruby eyes. He looked like his brother, identical in bone structure and facial feature where he watched Jaskier. His eyes were just as sharp and red, his nose just as strong, but they held themselves differently. He hadn't expected anything else, Kiyan more loose-limbed than his brother despite everything. A little hesitant at the edges, like he wanted to take up space but wasn't sure he was able to, like he hadn't been allowed to for years. He probably hadn't, and an aching flush of melancholy swept over him.

Beside him, Kiyan left out a curious, warbling sound in his throat like he didn't understand.

"You're sad?"

"Of course I am, my dear." Kiyan blinked at him with another quiet sound. He had sat awfully close, more so than his brother. As Jaskier spoke, his bare feet wormed their way beneath his thigh. "You break my heart."

His shoulders curled up toward his head like he was ashamed. Jaskier let out a soft hum, as soothing as he could manage. Slowly, the longer he hummed, the more that tension started to fade away. He reached out with one hand only to hesitate half way through the motion. Kiyan didn't though, took his hand lightning quick and laced their fingers together. Jaskier cooed at him, and watched as the Witcher wriggled closer.

"I'm sad

for

you, not because of you."

"Oh."

He seemed to chew on it a little, but Jaskier didn't let go. Kiyan wanted to hold his hand, so he would let him for however long he wanted. He didn’t think he would have it in him to deny this Witcher anything, a soft, warm pull in his chest not unlike what he felt for his own brother. He had crafted some sort of bond between them in bringing him back, and Jaskier didn’t understand it. It should have bothered him, and once upon a time it would have, but he had started to come to terms with the fact that he didn’t need to understand everything.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course it's okay.” Squeezing gently at the hand that held his, Jaskier smiled. His heart hurt like a bruise, tender to the touch where he couldn’t seem to leave it alone. These Witchers would be the death of him, and it was probably for the best that he wasn’t sure he could die again, not easily at least. He would take this feeling readily if it meant he got to keep this family he had found for himself. “Loving someone makes you sad sometimes.”

There was a rough, rumbling purr that birthed from his chest, and Jaskier barely had a moment to brace himself before Kiyan was on him. Taken to the ground, blue sky above him and grass swaying in his periphery, Jaskier sprawled on his back with a heavy weight dropped across him. It took his breath in a rush of sound, and he didn’t think before his arms wrapped around the Witcher. Like he needed to keep him safe from the dirt, like Kiyan was still raw and bleeding even though he knew he was whole.

There was a sudden hush around the camp, breath held and aching, but he couldn’t give it the space it deserved. Because Kiyan had wormed his way deeper into his arms, face pressed against Jaskier’s throat just under his jaw like he could seam himself there. Teeth set faintly against his skin, and he shook a little but he didn’t falter, holding the thin Witcher fast. Kiyan purred so furiously that it shook his ribs, and Jaskier gave a warbling, emotion-thick hum in response as best as he could.

“You love me?”

He sounded so small, so hopeful, and Jaskier could only grip him tighter.

“Oh darling, I love you very much.”

Out from beneath his chin to look at him, to smear their cheeks together and to lick a strip across his face. He laughed at the absurdity of it and the way it felt, but let Kiyan do what he wanted. His eyes were wide, pupils so rounded and full that they almost took up all the color. It made him feel a little dizzy to see from all the affection that swept through him.

“I think I love you too.”

He hadn’t held his brother since he was a child, but he could hold this Witcher, and it felt an awful lot like what he could imagine embracing Andre again would. 
 
-
 
The Caravan moved north with the spring, and at first, they went with it by way of Toussaint. They stayed west of Beauclair, closer to the mountains than to the country proper itself. As such, they missed the Tourney entirely, and he bemoaned the lack of all the theatrics with a good dash of his own until his Witcher’s grumbled and laughed and took him to bed. It had been enough to distract him for a short time, and hours later when they had surfaced, the rest of the Cats had decided to put on a small feast and wrestling tourney of their own for the sake of it. He sang with them and he danced with them, and he laughed harder than he had in years.

Except in the end, just as with all things, it had to come to an end.

Cedric left first, vigorously scenting whatever members of the Caravan came their way. Jaskier got his space invaded for his troubles and their heads bumped together as the tall Witcher gave him one last bit of affection. He was huffed, he was scented, and then Cedric wandered off into the treeline. Felmik and Avra were next, Jaskier crushed between the two of them with his temples and cheeks licked liberally. He had squirmed under the attention, laughing despite themself, and then they had swaggered out of camp, quietly bickering between the two of them.

Low into Sodden barely five days later and it was their turn. Aiden had become twitchier with every day the air grew warmer, like he could vibrate out of his skin all for a want to be on the road. Lambert had almost kicked him out of their bed the last two nights in a row, and it was only Jaskier between them that had kept the peace. There had been something different that morning though, a layer to the air that he had understood even if he hadn’t recognized it. Something about the way Aiden had bene coiled, about the way that Lambert had held himself, and he had just known that it was time.

Guxart had tucked him under his arm and licked a strip across his hairline before rationing out their shares of the jerky and tack. Kiyan, who wouldn't be leaving the Caravan for quite some time, if he ever did at all, had shadowed him the whole morning. Just a few steps behind the entire time and practically at his elbow, Jaskier hadn't been able to turn without bumping into the thin Witcher. He had put some weight back on over the winter, his ribs no longer visible and a soft pad of fat at his stomach where he was well fed and well loved. He had been anxious like a kitten without its mother the entire morning, and when he went to say his goodbyes, the Witcher had wrapped him up tight and refused to let go for a good few long minutes. Fane had embraced him just as tightly though nowhere near as long, the twins bumping their faces against him and scenting him liberally before Fane pulled his brother away.

Things had been packed away, blades had been sharpened, potions had been brewed, and by midmorning, Jaskier had understood the jitters for exactly what they were. He had practically bounced in place by the time they had left, lute case clanging against his back. He had been cuffed over the back of the head by Lambert, nudged away from the wagons by Aiden, and then they had been off.

They had wandered toward Kagen through the day, smooth paced and relatively quicker than he was used to. Things tended to go faster when one was on horseback, and he still didn't necessarily like being in a saddle any more than he had as a child, but he could recognize the merits of it now. They had made good distance by sundown, camped in a small clearing with a smaller, babbling stream, and the night had been quiet. The air was still crisp and the night was cloudless, and he had cuddled between the two Witchers and stared up at the sea of stars until he fell asleep.

There was a raven waiting when they woke up, perched on Igna’s saddle. Lambert had grumbled about things touching his horse while Aiden had turned onto his stomach and refused to get out of the bedroll. That had left Jaskier to pick himself up and go about trying to pull them a breakfast. It had been quiet for a few long minutes and he had managed to scrounge together a slab of salted pork that he had sliced and skewered for the fire, and a wedge of sharp cheese that had been broken into chunks to go with their meat. He had nearly gotten things finished when Lambert let out a low rumbling noise.

“Jask?”

“Yes, love?”

A soft pink spilled under his spray of freckles at the endearment, but Lambert just looked at him through his lashes. There was a twist to his mouth that Jaskier recognized for his biting, malicious brand of humor. It promised good things, even at the expense of others, and he leaned forward a little as he waited. Lambert didn’t disappoint, blackbird still perched on his horse’s back, a rolled piece of parchment in his hand.

“There a reason my brother thinks you’re dead?”

That wasn’t what he expected.

“I beg your pardon?”

He looked genuinely curious, bless him, but Jaskier didn't have a rightful answer. There shouldn't have been news of his death, he had only been out of the public eye for a season, maybe a season and a half. Word south of Toussaint may not have traveled fast enough for gossip to reach the northern parts of the Continent, but he hadn't thought them that far out of touch. Except, Geralt thought him dead, but it wasn't like he hadn't wintered somewhere.

Except, oh, that-

He hadn't wintered at

court

, now had he?

There would have been no news of a scandal at any Redanian nose estate, no talk of his exploits in an Aedirn mansion. He hadn't been at court, and that meant there were no new songs that hadn't been played around the Caravan's bonfires. He'd gone to ground with his Witchers for the season, and that meant there had been no talk, which meant Geralt had heard nothing.

"Tried to have his Sorceress track you, but she can't find anything." The word

Sorceress

was said sardonically, downward tilt to his brows as Lambert spoke the word like a curse. That answered that question then about what exactly the others thought of Yennefer. "Typically, can't track someone if they're dead."

Aiden made a curious sound from the bedrolls. Propped up on his elbows, dark hair rumpled on one side, eyes still sleep swollen. He yawned where he watched them, always the last to rise and the latest to leave their bed unless he absolutely had to. It was no different now, and Jaskier wouldn't have him any other way. He didn't get up so much as put himself on his elbows, but it was close enough until food was ready.

"I mean, he

did

die, Lam."

Jaskier shrugged when two sets of eyes turned to him, and it shifted a weight beneath his tunic. Something thumped low against his sternum, gave him pause, and then his eyes went wide. Hand down his shirt, body warm pendant tumbled into his hand, Jaskier blinked down at the old Elven present. Untarnish crystal still just as clear, shit through by crackling veins of lightning that glimmered chaos bright in the sun.

"What's that?"

"A gift," he swallowed thickly, and looked up to Lambert crouched beside him. "From Filavandrel."

"The elf King?"

Jaskier nodded, Lambert looking more baffled by the moment.

"He said it would make me impossible to find if I didn't want to be, but I didn't think-"

"You thought it was just jewelry."

Aiden spoke around a bit of a yawn, and Jaskier nodded again. Lambert took it from him, light pressure from the leather cord against the back of his neck. It looked small in his hand, and he turned the crystal this way and that as he inspected it. A flick of his fingers and a little blast of igni sputtered across its surface. The crystal glowed vibrantly under the magic flame, but it didn't crack and it didn't splinter.

"This is some strong shit, Buttercup."

"I'm realizing that."

Lambert snorted at his smart mouth, and gave a tug of the cord to pull him forward. Caught their mouths together in a quick, biting kiss before he let go. Rocked back into his crouch and let go of the pendant to let it thump against his chest once more. The salted pork hissed on its skewers, and the Witcher reached out to pluck them off the low fire.

Aiden pushed himself completely out of the bedrolls with a put-upon sigh. He stretched, rocking onto his toes before he ambled over just to drop heavily beside him in the dirt. He wormed his way under Jaskier's arm, head tucked up under his chin. The purring started almost immediately, his hand going up to smooth through inky hair, aquiline nose dragging across his skin.

"You want me t'tell him to fuck off?"

Lambert looked so serious about it, like he would if Jaskier asked, brother be damned. Like Jaskier came first for once in his life, like what he wanted actually mattered. He shivered a little under the loving weight of that. Aiden pressed closer with a chirring sound, and he went back to his stroking.

The red-head needed to brush his poor curls, but maybe he would let Jaskier take the comb to it for him.

Did he want Geralt to fuck off?

He certainly didn't want to talk to him, still bruised on the inside from that mountain. They shouldn't have been there and he had told Geralt as much as the start of their journey, but he hadn't listened, had he? Because Geralt never listened, at least not where Jaskier was concerned. Grief was heralded by violet eyes and floral perfume, and he felt a tired, bitter flush even now.

"You can tell him I'll talk to him when I'm good and ready."

Lambert stared at him for a minute before nodding. Like that was it, Jaskier had said no and that meant no.

That was a heady thing, and he reached forward to cup the back of Lambert's head and pull him in for a kiss. The Wolf made a low rumble in his chest and pulled Jaskier flush against him, one hand cupping his jaw. Aiden made a wild sound between them and set his teeth to Jaskier's throat. They stayed like that for a moment, all locked together until his body started to throb in time with the way Lambert had licked into his mouth.

"Gladly."

Lambert let him go and rocked to his feet, taking Jaskier's breath with him. He swaggered back over to the raven, easy confidence spilling from every loose limbed part of him. Jaskier watched him go as Aiden continued to mouth at him, and he sighed under the attention.

"Your food'll get cold."

Aiden chuffed, but he let go after a minute to snatch up one of the pork skewers and some cheese. Lambert scrubbed with a stick of charcoal on the parchment before rolling it backup and tying it back to the birds foot. It took off silently, and the Witcher watched it go before turning back to them.

"Where we hunting?"

Lambert looked at them, but Aiden turned to him, teeth sunk into the fat pork slab.

"You know," tone drawling, Jaskier leaned back a little, body made into one long line. He smirked when Lambert followed the motion, eyes rounding out. "I've always wanted to go to Pont Vanis."

"Well, think we should give him what he wants, Aiden?"

The Cat tore off a strip of meat and made a show of chewing before he answered, green-gold eyes assessing and bright.

"I suppose."

Lambert grinned, all teeth and shit starting pride.

"Sounds like we're going north, Buttercup."
 
-
 
Oxenfurt didn’t feel the same anymore, like he had grown so used to being on the road that he had outgrown this place. Too old, like he had seen too much and he had been too many places over the years. These buildings hadn’t changed, these streets hadn’t grown, guardsmen still patrolled the streets and the braziers were still lit at sundown every night. This city hadn’t changed, but he had, grown bigger than his bones and the dorm room he had once inhabited.

He had needed to come here, and so his Witchers had humored him. Instead, they had wandered their way northwest, following the coast and skirting wide around Brokilon to avoid any undue trouble. There was talk of political unrest from the deep south, and while he wanted to turn deaf ears to it, his Witchers seemed to know better. There was a bit of haste to their steps, a little less leisurely and a little more like they needed to keep ahead of something. They didn’t tell him no though, and Jaskier made his thanks well known, lavishing the both of them with so much affection they turned pink at the edges.

The early spring season meant that Oxenfurt was teeming with life, students will clogging the city Birke upon them. There would be exams soon, the University would let out for the summer festivities as students migrated home and the staff were able to breathe for the first time since Yule. As it stood, their horses had had to be stabled just inside the city, and they had had to continue on foot where they would have been to unwieldy if still in the saddle.

Lambert looked a touch too big for a place like this, broad and heavily muscled where he swaggered through the crowd. He seemed calm though, as much as he ever could, strolling between them like he needed to keep the both of them on course. By contrast, Aiden seemed to be distracted by everything, from the flowers being hung in braided garlands to the colorful ribbons being laced through latticing woodwork on any building that needed it. The Birke festival only a few days off, there were so many sounds from the crowded city that it made his own ears ring.

So swept up as he was, he almost missed a familiar mop of blond curls.

“Valdo fucking Marx!”

The man whirled to a stop, wide brown eyes and a jaunty, feathered hat perched on his head. His fashion sense was still deplorable at best, a chartreus doublet and breeches set making him stand out like a peacock in the crowd. He looked good despite everything though, just as fresh-faced as Jaskier remembered him being for all that he had aged. For all that the both of them had aged, into their thirties now and well out of University.

It was jarring to think that his friend would continue to age, and Jaskier himself wouldn’t for years yet to come.

“

Julian, you absolute

cad

!” He laughed, breaking away from his Witchers to rush for the man. They let him go even as they fell into step behind him. “Not a word all winter, where have you

been?

”

They crashed together on a loud thump and a tangle of limbs. It knocked the breath from him, made his lungs ache for all that he couldn’t contain his laughter. Valdo clutched to him like he had been missed fiercely, and Jaskier wrapped him up against him. Taller than the Cidarin, broader now too from his time spent traveling and the winter that the Cats had put him through. Valdo just slapped him on the back though and grinned at him when he pulled away, all teeth and flushed cheeks.

“We were south of Toussaint for the winter.”

“And you didn’t think to send a missive! Priscilla was dreadfully maudlin the entire season, she swore into every bottle someone would hand her that you had died!”

He laughed at her dramatics and he laughed at the way Valdo still held him by the arms. He had missed this man and he had missed their conversations, letters not enough to make up for the trouble they had once gotten in to.

“Is she here?”

“No, no, she got a court invite in Ban Ard that she just couldn’t miss.”

He nodded along with every word, and only realized belatedly that their feet had started to pull them in the direction of the Academy.

“What of Philip?”

Valdo drew up short, and his face turned serious and sad. Heart plummeting, Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath even as grief began to swell inside of him.

“He passed just before Yule. The University hosted a ceremony for him, I didn’t know where to write to tell you.” Valdo sighed, and drew him into another embrace. He gripped the man tight against him and breathed in the familiar sandalwood and rosin of his scent. That at least hadn’t changed for all that the rug had been pulled out from beneath him. This entire trip wasted, the man he had meant to introduce his Witchers to long since passed. “I

am

sorry.”

“No, no, it’s alright.”

It wasn’t, but it had to be.

A hand brushed his shoulder, and Jaskier pulled away with a thick swallow.

“Ah, forgive me. Valdo, these are Lambert and Aiden of Dyn Marv.” A shoulder pressed into his from either side, Lambert too tall for this sort of bolstering and Aiden deceptively sleek. The latter looked as rakish as ever, whereas Lambert had crossed his arms over his wide chest and watched Valdo with narrowed golden eyes. “My Witchers.”

Valdo’s brows climbed up beneath his curling fringe at the blatant claim. He grinned though, his charming, real smile rather than the court-appropriate delicacy that was often used in public. Jaskier relaxed where he hadn’t known himself to be tense. He realized suddenly that he had been desperate for someone that knew him to know his loves too, like he needed approval where all he had wanted was someone to recognize what he had gained.

“

Two

of them, Julian? What a scandal!”

Jaskier shrugged, unable to help the way that he grinned in return.

“What can I say, I’m a covetous man.”

Valdo laughed, an arching sound that startled one of the patrolling guardsmen. They got a dirty look for their troubles, and he pushed a hand at the other man’s chest to get him stumbling along.

“Come, come, you can tell me all about

your Witchers

at the Alchemy.”

“That place is still standing?”

Eyes rolling, Valdo led the way with his usual fanfare and flourish. His Witchers bracketed him as they followed, and Jaskier relaxed between them, hand brushing Aiden’s as they walked.

“Of course it is, Julian do keep up.”

“Oh, forgive me, Valdo, I didn’t realize you were still so well acquainted with the city.”

Valdo shrugged, twisting around to watch him with a mocking, placating expression.

“No need to apologize my dear, you

have

spent a few season’s in the country.”

Jaskier laughed, a gut-punched sound that spoke of adolescence and late nights running through the city when they should have been in bed. Valdo beamed at him, far too proud of himself before he turned back around to guide them. He talked the entire way, and Jaskier fell into an old but familiar rhythm as he brought his loves along to know his best friend.

“How generous of you.”

“Of course, my dear, anything for you!”
 
-
 
He happened to quite like Pont Vanis.

Everything glittered in the light of the rising sun, streets cobbled with sea glass in shades of greens and blues and sea froth pale until it felt like walking on the waves. The streets were winding where the city had been built into the cliffs, cutting into the limestone cliffs in tiers leading up to the palace. The lowest level let out into the crashing waves, a sprawling port full of an armada of fishing vessels and merchant ships bound for the rest of the Continent with gold and precious gems meant for trade. The city teemed with life, more populous by far than the Novigrad streets he was used to.

It was another world this far north, and Jaskier threw himself into the change with abandon. There were new stories to learn, there were new sights to see, and there was no shortage of new things to experience with every hour that passed. The city shone no matter the time of day, buildings pressed with chips of seashell into their mortar until it looked a fantastical merfolk colony. He had never seen anything like it in all of his years walking the Continent, and he knew then that he would never see anything that could equal it.

He had never known a Witcher to stay in one place longer than necessary to complete a job, but there was something about this place that had made his seem to settle. There were plentiful jobs within a few days ride of the city, the coast pockmarked by flocks of harpies and schools of sirens, trolls and cyclopses and griffins galore. It meant they hadn’t moved on, which was- strange, to say the least. He wasn’t used to being in one place for so long, winters withstanding. The air had gotten coastal humid for all that it was still downright pleasant, a street crawling mist in the mornings and the lulling crash of waves against the shore every night. This far north and there were dancing lights at night that arched above the sky in wavering starlight wisps of cyans and electric emeralds that he wanted to reach out and touch.

He had never seen anything like it, but Lambert assured him it was a common occurrence this far north, and that there would only be more of it when winter came.

He phrased it like they would be

here

come winter, and Jaskier could only wonder.

Tabby mortared townhouses pressed together in winding paths up the cliffside, with small gardens and little plots before them that marked each property before the streets. The docks were thin houses made up of multiple apartments, the poor district a far cry above and beyond what could be witnessed in Novigrad. Magical fire lit a fantastical thing called street lamps, fat caged and glass-paned lanterns that stood every so often along the streets that gave off a soft, dramatic blue glow that hummed through the city every sundown until sunrise. They turned the world ethereal in the misty morning pre-dawn, and he had tumbled out of bed far too early just to see the way the city gleamed with cobalt light.

There was something in the water that glowed at night, as if the things that lived in it weren’t strange enough. Fat fish he had never seen before, more crabs than he had ever seen in one place pulled up by the bulging net full, and these things called eels that wriggled and bit and tasted delicious when chunked and fried in hot oil and spices. Things that were edible, but the things that glowed weren’t edible as far as he knew. Instead, as the sunset and the waves still came rolling in, the sea froth of them lit up a shimmering turquoise that rolled along the waves. Lambert had explained it as bioluminescence, a thing that he didn’t understand but his Witcher had expanded on the biology of it and the scientific properties that allowed the algae to glow like it did.

This place was breathtaking and ethereal no matter day or night, and Jaskier never wanted to leave.

They had arrived with the late spring, and now, some three weeks had been spent in the city. It hadn’t been feasible to pay for an inn for that long, even with the coin they all brought in. Instead, into their first week, Aiden had taken their coin purses and wandered off far earlier than Jaskier was used to him getting out of bed. He had been gone well through midday, Lambert instead dragging him away from the inn to explore the docks and gorge himself on various kinds of seafood. They had spent hours in the sun, and it was only once the sun had well passed its apex that Aiden had found them.

He had looked far too smug for a man that had been gone all day, and it had soon become apparent why. He had led them a few twisting streets away from the docks, partially up the cliffside city until they reached the more modest part of town. The Cat had stopped them in front of a fair two-story home with a cobbled roof and a sturdy wooden door trimmed in a delightful blend of shells and sea glass. He had made a dramatic flourish with his entire body, and then inquired on if the Bard would like to see their new home.

Jaskier had promptly kissed him with far too much vigor for a public display of affection, Aiden laughing against his mouth.

That had been then, and now, his Witchers had gone off on a contract for a griffin. They hunted together more often than not, presumably a learned habit from the Caravan where being caught unaware could get one killed. Jaskier could hardly complain, the both of them gone meant they were safe together, and gave him time to himself. Time to wander the city or to play his hands numb in whatever establishment would take him. Within days he had made a reputation for himself, and procuring work had become delightfully easy. Nobles higher up on the cliffs had requested him for a banquet just a few days prior, and the money he had made would keep them fat and fed well through the fall should no contracts be found.

He had set out that morning with a cluster of notebooks and a quill set stuffed into his bag with only himself for company. His lovers had left him two days prior with the understanding that they would be gone for five days, seven at most presuming things didn’t go to plan. That was fine, gave him time to make new songs and make more coin where he didn’t have the stomach to sit idle. The air was rich with salt and the sea, the day had dawned delightfully warm, and for all that he was alone in a foreign part of the world, Jaskier couldn’t find anything to grumble about.

Instead, he had grabbed himself a waxy paper-wrapped bundle of stone-baked salmon, a delightful northern fish that had a rich pink flesh to it and skin that crisped up something lovely. He had taken his bounty for a few measly coins and wandered off in search of a good section of stone wall to plop himself on. A spot found, his fish set aside so he could hoist himself up to sit on the stone, Jaskier had set about taking out his notebook before setting his inkpot by his hip. Clump of fish flaked off and popped between his teeth, he chewed as he twisted the stopper for his ink out to be set aside.

He hadn’t written in this particular notebook yet, pages still crisp and unmarred by charcoal or ink. It had been bartered for with a shrewd-eyed young man in the merchant's quarter who peddled his grandfather's wares with the tenacity of a practiced craftsman. Well worth the coin, he hadn’t even necessarily tried to haggle the boy down, taking it instead at market value for all that he knew Lambert would have groused if he had been present. An acceptable purchase, if he did say so himself, cover dyed a rich, lush sage that was perfect in its smooth, unembossed simplicity.

It wasn’t that this project was a secret, per se, but he just hadn’t thought to work on it with his Witchers present. It felt private, something that shouldn’t be shared until he had the completed work. He had taken quick-handed notes for every question they had answered, gladly hanging off of every word less he miss a single detail. This was important, this deserved his full attention like nothing else he had ever hand-crafted did.

A love story was always worth the attention it deserved, and this one of all needed to be treated with respect. His Witcher’s were honorable men who loved one another passionately, and that love and the things it had survived deserved to be recorded for all of history.

Quill dipped, another bite of fish in his mouth, Jaskier set about what would be a truly trying task. He started from the beginning, because every story had one, and this would be no different.

They had met in Aldersberg, both set off on the same contract by a tight pursed noble who had assumed that the two Witchers would simply kill one another in the end. Instead, the pair had completed the contract in half the time by working together rather against one another, and then they had parted ways. The Wolf had wandered further north, and the Cat had dispatched the noble out of spite. They should never have crossed paths again, for the Continent was vast with monsters abound, but they had come across one another with less than a month gone by. One too late, the contract a bust and the alderman too inclined not to pay for work he considered half done, their frustrations had found them in bed together rather than at the end of one another's swords.

It had devolved from there, and Jaskier basked in the burning romance of it all.

If asked, Lambert would say that the Cat had gotten under his skin, whereas Aiden would shrug and simply say that the Wolf had made him laugh, as romantically simple as that.

He could barely hope to capture the depth of their story, but he dared to dream.

Slowly, he ate at his fish while he scratched out his first three pages, barely finished with the events of Aldersberg. The details mattered, and it would be worth it even when his hand cramped, because he needed desperately to get this right. Of all the stories he had told and the songs he had written, this one mattered the most. This one had to be perfect, because they deserved nothing less.

“Ser?”

He paused, quill at the ready. Carefully set aside, tapped against the lip of his inkpot to shake off the excess. Book left open in his lap to let it dry, there was a faint cloud to his breath that danced off of his lips. It was like that then, warm sun on his skin and a winters chill across his tongue.

“Hello, sweetling.”

The girl couldn’t have been more than five.

A diminutive thing, thin-shouldered and short-legged. Her dress was a bit too big at the waist, belted with a fabric strip to keep it from slipping more than it already had. It swam on her like it had been borrowed, meant for her to grow in to, and he sighed at the sight of her. Wet hair that hung in clumps past her shoulders, sodden fabric that dripped from her into a slow pooling puddle on the stones. He could see her footprints, wet and bare against the sea glass cobbling where marks from little bare toes shone in the light. She looked waterlogged, blue-lipped and blue-eyed, and he wanted to gather her up into his lap.

“Have you seen my Mama?”

He didn’t think he would ever get used to the way they broke his heart.

He had never seen one this young before, and he didn’t have to guess at how she had died. A fist cuff of bruising around her throat, phantom water leaking from her skin to become real when it hit the ground. He could only hope she had passed quickly, but rarely was water ever that kind, and the hands of man were worse so. Perhaps she didn’t remember, and he could only pray that they would be so lucky.

“I don’t think so. What does she look like?”

“She’s pretty.”

The little girl swayed back and forth, incapable of standing still like children often were. Her hair looked as if it had been auburn, so thick with water now though that it hung as a deep, dark brown around her pale face. She would have been beautiful if she had been given the chance to grow, and he hated the world for what had been done to her.

“She has blue eyes, and-and she was wearing a green dress when I lost her!”

There were plenty of blue-eyed women in green dresses, nevermind the fact that the woman probably

wasn’t

wearing that same green dress. He didn’t know how long she had been gone, he didn’t know how long she had wandered, and it was impossible to tell from her oversized dress and her upturned nose. Worse still, asking the girl would amount to nothing, because he doubted she would know.

“She does sound very pretty! May I know her name?”

“I- um...Mama?”

He nodded, and folded up his notebook to put it away. Capped his inkpot and slid his quill back into its leather holster. Methodically, Jaskier put his things away into his pack and slid off the wall to stand beside her. She barely came to his hip, presumably small for her size, and he remembered being like that once.

“Well, what's your name, sweetling?”

She grinned at him, gap-toothed and excitable.

“Emia Narok! And-and I’m six, Mama says that's important.”

“Your Mama sounds like a very smart woman.”

She nodded, and as he watched, she reached out and wrapped her little hand around two of his fingers. Cold to the touch and damp like he had known she would be, Jaskier just gave her his hand and let her take what she needed. Whatever comfort he could offer would be well enough, and just like with Kiyan, it was difficult to deny them what they needed.

“You gonna help me?”

“I am, Emia. I think I know where we can start.”

She looked excited by the prospect, and pressed against his leg as he hefted his pack onto one shoulder. He must have looked a sight, arm swinging loosely by his side as she swayed their clasped hands back and forth. That was fine, let the people think him odd. He was a strange sight already, colorful where he was often accompanied by at least one Witcher. This would be no different and nothing he wasn’t used to.

She practically skipped beside him as they wandered the street, along the winding city away from the docks and toward the west. Up the cliff-face by winding paths and tightly packed houses, gulls cried overhead as he guided them away from the port and the merchant's quarter toward the temple district instead. It was quieter here, a soft hush taking over the world the further they wandered. There were more trees here than the rest of the city, nature carved out onto one of the wide plateaus that had set into the cliff face where things could grow. The temple had been carved back into the stone, elegant architecture with sweeping archways and thick limestone alcoves that made everything seem grand and larger than life. A cobbled path ran along the temple and lead to the quiet churchyard dotted with tombstones and mausoleums that stood like silent sentinels in the midmorning calm.

“You think Mama’s here?”

“She might be.”

She might not, but he had the feeling that Emia was.

It took nearly an hour of wandering through the cemetery for him to find what he was looking for. There stood a modest stone slab with words chiseled into it, and he stopped them before it. Emia and Eava Norak had been pressed into the stone, and that answered that question then.

“Is that your Mama’s name?”

She stared at the stone with a far more serious expression than a child should be capable of. A wobbling bottom lip and sad eyes, his hand was wet where she held onto him. As they stood there, a slow puddle grew beneath them, wetting the bottom of his boots. It marked where they had been, and it made him ache to think of the trail that they had left behind, and how many more the girl must have made around the city.

“Is Mama dead?”

Sighing, Jaskier crouched down beside her. It put them almost at eye level, and that would have to do. She didn’t look at him, staring instead at the stone as her blue eyes watered and she started to hiccup with quiet tears. He couldn’t see them for the water on her face, but her grief and confusion were palpable things all the same.

“You both are, Emia. But that’s okay, because I can help you go back to your Mama.”

She looked at him then, all wide sad eyes and a wet face.

“You know that feeling when you want to go to sleep, but something won't let you?”

Hesitant, thoughtful, she nodded after a moment. She probably didn’t understand, not really, but he could work with that.

Settling into the thin grass, his clothes would get wet the longer he sat. Jaskier patted the ground next to him, and she daintily sat beside him with a wet plop of fabric. Arm tucked around her, the little girl tipped without prompting until she could rest her head in his lap. Gentle fingers to her wet hair, he stroked across her head as softly as he could.

“We’re going to stay here until you can fall asleep, and then when you wake up, you’ll be with Mama.”

“Okay.”

She relaxed in his lap, and for a lack of anything else to do, Jaskier started to sing. Quiet and curling, the same lullaby he had made for Cedric on a storming night in southern Geso. It had lulled the anxious Witcher to sleep, and it would hopefully do the job now. Eyes closing, letting himself get swept up into the melody, Jaskier poured as much of that silken warmth and comfort as he could into his voice.

He almost missed it when she faded away.

His hand suddenly in his lap, her little body was gone. There was no more water save for the puddle beneath him and the way his clothes had gone damp. Little wet footprints still led up to where they had finally stopped, and there was a mark just above his knee from where her hand had been.

Jaskier took a deep, wobbling breath, and slowly climbed to his feet.

“Sleep well, Emia.”

The sea-swept breeze answered him where she couldn’t, and Jaskier set off for home.
 
-
 
“I never said that.”

He needed to replace the lightbulb above the register. It had started buzzing that morning when he had lit up the shop, a low tinkling sound as it flickered occasionally. Not enough to cause problems, still enough power where it refused to die, but that didn’t count as an excuse not to change it. Except, that

would

be an excuse not to change it, because he would leave it like that until it buzzed out, and then he would probably leave it like that until Lambert got fed up with it and just replaced the thing himself.

He could reach it without a step ladder, so really, he was the one that needed to change it anyway.

Except, neither of his Witchers had been in the shop at all for the last two days, no lunches brought and no random drop-ins to be had. They'd been busy with enough pre-work that he

knew

made Aiden anxious even if the man would never admit it. At this point though it wasn't like they could hide things from him, and it wasn't even like they necessarily tried. They had just been busy, and Jaskier understood that because it got like this every year, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

“You didn’t

not

say it.”

Heaving a sigh toward the ceiling, Jaskier threw up a hand like his brother could see that. Instead, phone in hand and his patience tested, his brother just groused on the other side of the line like Jaskier was the one in the wrong here. He hadn’t said anything of the sort, which meant it wasn’t his responsibility what his niece did or didn’t do with her budding powers. He was the fun uncle, not the responsible one, Andre couldn’t expect these sort of things from him.

“Andre, I swear to Melitele-”

“What, you’re going to catch the ferry to Kaer Tolde and fight me?”

“I might!”

His brother laughed, gutteral and rasping through the phone. Jaskier smiled despite himself, using his hip to close a drawer. A puff of sage smoke hung like a cloud around the ceiling, and he went about snuffing every censer like he did every afternoon. Each doused lantern let out a plume of sage smoke and herbal fragrance that would linger in the shop until the next morning when he lit them all over again. It clung to his clothes and every other part of the shop, but a clean shop was a happy shop, and it kept the lingering spirits happy enough whenever they wandered in through the door.

They had a tendency to find him now, but it made his life easier. Easier to help them along, to help their families properly grieve like they deserved. They paid well, he had garnered a reputation, and Jaskier happened to quite like the life they had settled into here.

Pont Vanis had grown over the centuries, but some things never changed. The streets were still speckled with sea glass, the lanterns still lit with a magical cobalt glow, little bits of the city hadn't changed for all that it had certainly evolved. It spread up the cliff face now, more than doubled in size as time had gone on. The royal palace still loomed at the top of the cliffs, casting long shadows over the rest of the city, but their grounds were no longer quiet as sprawling where the city had been forced to expand. Apartments had been carved into the limestone cliffs, houses had ventured out to stand on stilts in the water, and even his shop had grown over the last two centuries.

Nevri squinted at him from over by the tarot cards and scrying memorabilia, and he squinted back at her from halfway across the shop. The Korivi native had come here most of life with her mother, who had come here with hers before, the whole family having visited his store through the generations until they had known most of the daughters their entire lives.

Her

girlfriend brought her lunch, because she wasn't busy, unlike some people.

“Do you need me to lock up?”

The young woman just shook her head, a stack of books balanced on her hip. Restocking the shelves then, an Occultist class had swept through that morning and cleaned them out of a few things. Professor Baselat brought his students through every few weeks during the semester, and Jaskier appreciated the patronage, he really did, but he just wished the man would give warning before he descended on the store with a gaggle of University freshmen. It lined the shops bank account quite nicely, but it left them all out of sorts for days afterwards where things had to be put back in their rightful places and items had to be purified after wandering hands that didn't understand no touching signs.

“Nah, you’re supposed to go to the brewery, right? I thought the party was tonight.”

He frowned a little at her, but the girl turned away from him to go back to what she was doing. It

was

that time of month, she wasn't wrong, but that didn't mean he liked it.

“If you’re sure.”

“Positive. Kiyan’s been loitering outside for the last twenty minutes. Go bother your husbands before he comes in and starts touching stuff.”

He would come in and touch stuff, because Kiyan

always

came in and touched stuff whether Fane was with him or not. No touching signs didn't have any affect on him either, neither did half hearted scoldings where Jaskier could never actually manage to be stern with the man. That was fine, he'd gotten used to it over the years, but in the wake of University students, he would rather not add another round of disturbances. The tarot decks would already be temperamental for the next week, nevermind the pendulums and runes that would need to be doused in smoke and salt before they could be put back on display.

Andre was talking in a suddenly frazzled tone on the other side of the line, and Jaskier tuned back in just in time to hear something shatter.

“Jask, I’ve got to go.”

“Love you, don’t die.”

“Ha ha.”

His brother dropped the call with a sardonic laugh, and Jaskier just stood there out of sorts for a long minute amidst the shelves of jarred herbs and the sage bundles. He had already filled and resealed all of them, even the pickled sea slugs that had stunk up the back room for at least an hour. Nevri didn’t seem to need him though, bobbing her head along to the Spotify playlist she had put on hours ago because Saturdays were one of her days with the music. She didn’t need him, and she was set to ignore him if he didn't do what he was supposed to, and Jaskier just watched her for a minute with his hands on his hips.

“You’re stalling.”

“I am

not.”

He absolutely was, but there must have been something he was missing. He had done his scheduled reading for the morning, a slight statured elderly woman who wanted one last goodbye with her husband. It had been a somber affair, but the woman had seemed satisfied, if misty-eyed. She had tipped him almost as much as she had paid despite Jaskier insisting she didn’t need to, and she had given him a frail hug before leaning on her cane to leave. He had counted down the drawer, Nevri had keys to lock up, he had already taken care of shipments for the day. There was nothing left to do, but he just-

He was missing

something.

The bell above the door jangled, and he turned in time to see Kiyan wandering in, wild haired and curious.

"You stalling?"

"Nope, nope, you're not coming in today, we're already cleaning up. Out, shoo shoo."

The man gave a rasping laugh as Jaskier practically chased him out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. The neon sign for Dearly Departed buzzed its usual electric violet on the front window, and he watched Mirna sun herself in the front ledge as the shop cat was often want to do.

Out on the street and in the spill of the setting sun, Kiyan grabbed him by the hand and spun him around. Practice was all that kept him upright, kept him from clattering into the other man as he was pulled down the street.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

"You

weren't.

"

Jaskier laughed despite himself, a sputtering, exasperated sound. Kiyan stopped pulling when he started walking, the ruby-eyed Witcher lacing their fingers together like he always did. Jaskier kept time where Kiyan had slowed down for him, an almost leisurely stroll if they hadn't had a destination. Instead, they went toward the port like he knew they were going to, and Jaskier sighed.

"You smell nervous."

"You know, sometimes I wish you couldn't do that."

Kiyan grinned at him with too sharp teeth like he knew better.

"No you don't."

"Why aren't you with your brother?"

He shrugged and pulled them into the empty street. The late hour meant there were fewer cars, and he just sighed and let himself be a passenger hostage as they went. Kiyan wouldn't let him run, and it wouldn't be fair to his husbands if he hid. He was a grown man, this shouldn't have made him nervous.

"Missed you."

"You're a menace and I love you."

He nodded like that was a well known and commonly accepted fact, and Jaskier just resigned himself to it. It was an arduous thing to be known as well as he was, and Jaskier could hardly complain for all that it annoyed him from time to time.

"Stop deflecting."

A put upon sigh just made Kiyan shoot him a sidelong glance, tugging them past the flower shop that he had meant to stop at that morning.

"He makes me anxious, you know that."

"You invited him."

"Kiyan, I know this might be a foreign concept to you, but he's my brother-in-law. I can't

not

invite him."

He made a

psh

sound at that, like he didn't understand and it didn't matter. It probably didn't, the man had never been one for social niceties and Avra had assured him that it had always been like that. It was good to know that his undeath hadn't changed him, but

sometimes

. Sometimes it would have been simpler if the man had any of his brothers wherewithal for reading a room, but then he wouldn't have been Kiyan, would he?

"He's gotten better!"

The worst part was that he had. Having a daughter had rounded Geralt out like few things in his long life had. He was a little softer at the edges now, less gruff and more comfortably quiet. He'd gotten more settled in his skin, and most of that probably had to do with Yennefer. Jaskier liked to think that they had both just needed room to grow up. It felt like it, because Geralt would never be his best friend, not like Kiyan was, but they were better now. They weren't stilted like they had been, and while they would never be anything more than they were, he would take what they had.

He was happy here in the life they had made for themselves, Pont Vanis was home, and his husband's kept busy and he ran his shop, and things were as perfect as he could hope they would be.

"You keep saying that, but I don't believe you."

"You're biased."

"He made you cry!"

Words spat out like a curse, Kiyan wasn't wrong, but that didn't make it any better. Because Geralt

had

made him cry, and Lambert had gotten in an awful fight with the man before refusing to speak to him for the better part of a century once he had found out exactly what had happened all those years ago on that mountain. They had gotten past it eventually, because Lambert had a soft heart even though he swore he didn't, and Geralt had learned to use his words and actually apologized now. Kiyan was far less easy to placate, and honestly, he didn't expect anything less.

"You drinking tonight?"

He knew it for the distraction it was, Kiyan side eyeing him with a sharp twist to his mouth. Caught out, but the man didn't try to stop him, letting his shit slide for once like he normally didn't.

"I see what you're doing, and I don't like it." Of course he didn't like it, because Kiyan likes talking about things. "Fane and I don't work until Monday, so probably yeah."

"Was the shelter busy today?"

He shrugged even as he lit up, just as delighted to talk about the shelter as he always was. A battered woman and non human community center had been the last thing he had expected from Witchers, but the work suited them well. They had flourished, and Jaskier had never been happier than seeing his family well cared for and safe.

"Axel brought in two Were children. Their father was with Ras down at the precinct still, should meet us there though. Wife had been physical with them while he was at work, so now everything's up in the air."

"Poor dears, do they need anything?"

Head shaking, Kiyan swung their clasped hands between them.

"Nah, Covi got them squared away. You know how she is."

"Cedric taking on the legal work?"

"Be a shit lawyer if they didn't."

Laughing, Jaskier let himself be pulled around a corner, and breathed in the sea spray as it crashed across the street beside them. Cars were piled in the lot next to Witcher's Brew, and he recognized Gaetan's car in the lot, rare as it was.

"He came this time?"

"Letho got off work, they got in from Gulet last night."

A little

ah

, and Jaskier ducked under his arm when Kiyan held the door open. The scent of woodsmoke found him first, and he was blinded momentarily by the amount of Witchers in one room. They glowed like a forest fire, and he would never get used to that, hadn't even after all these years. Raised voices greeted him like a crashing wave, and Kiyan practically shoved him forward as the door swung shut behind them. Someone had given Guxart a frothy stein of something dark and creamy, the ancient Witcher leaned back in his bar chair to watch the way his children had devolved into chaos.

Felmik was seated on the bar where he didn’t belong, Schrödinger settled between his spread knees as he talked with both his hands. They were lively tonight, more of a roar than usual, Letho’s bulk standing out in the crowd where he filled up half of a booth, Gaetan barely visible where he was tucked against his side. Daste had dropped himself into the other side, dark skin umber hued in the sepia lights as he leaned forward in whatever heated debate they had found themselves in this time. Geralt had squeezed himself into the booth along with them, a glass in hand as he listened avidly to whatever argument they had gotten into this time. His family was a loud thing, the clowder always had been, and as the noise washed over him, Jaskier just drank in the light and watched them for a moment.

Kiyan left him behind to go hang off his brother, and Aiden saw him first.

“Kitten!”

Green-gold eyes swung to him, and the clowder let out a riotous cheer at the picture he made. Arms outstretched in a theatrical bow, a hand cinched his arm as Ras caught him and yanked him toward the bar.

Aiden pulled himself up and over it like he wasn’t supposed to do, and Jaskier caught him with a laugh. The Cat purred wildly in his chest, nuzzling beneath his chin and scrubbing his scent across Jaskier’s skin. Like they hadn’t seen one another in weeks rather than breakfast that morning, but it was the same every time no matter how long they had been gone. Age had made Aiden more liberal with his affections, and Jaskier often suffered the brunt of it when Lambert didn’t. A true travesty, he didn’t know how he would survive it, rubbing his cheek over the top of Aiden’s head.

“One would think you missed me, love.”

“Every moment we were apart.”

He had married an absolutely incurable romantic, and Jaskier grinned against his mouth when Aiden kissed him. Hummed where he couldn’t purr, swatting a little at the wandering hands that skimmed across the back of his jeans. He laughed against Aiden’s mouth and caught his lip on sharp fangs, his husband licking into his mouth before dipping out of his arms. Hand caught, body pulled, he went willingly as he was tugged to the bar where Lambert watched him with something warm and familiar in his golden gaze.

“Told you not to fucking climb over the bar.”

“Make me.”

Eyes rolling, a highball glass clanked down in front of him with more force than really necessary. What was probably a gin and tonic splashed around inside of it, but Covi wriggled up beside him with a bite to his shoulder to take her glass and flee before he could catch her.

“Not in public.”

“Spoilsport.”

He sighed happily, leaning on the bar as he watched his husbands needle one another. Lambert caught him first, gaze smoldering in the low amber lights. He reached out with one work roughed hand and pulled Jaskier forward, hips pressed to the wood and his hands braced on the top of it. A mouth pressed against him in a searing kiss that took his breath just like they always did, and that same hot feeling wriggled in his belly at the way Lambert rumbled, low and long in his chest.

“Not in public!

”

Felmik grumbled in a good enough imitation of Lambert’s gruff voice, and the Wolf growled against his mouth. Made Jaskier shiver before he was let go, another long drink taken from his mouth before Lambert let him shift back to sit on a stool. There was a filthy promise in that smirk of his, the kind that spoke of long nights and pleasantly sore muscles. He had missed them even though it had only been ten hours, and with the way Lambert looked at him, and the way Aiden pressed up against him, they had plenty of plans to make up for it.

“Get fucked, Fel.”

A tongue peeked out from between scarred lips before Schrödinger smacked at his thighs to get his attention again. Interest lost then in favor of his friend, the man barely gave them a glance before devolving back into his story. Gone just like that where he couldn’t expect a Cat to pay attention for longer than they needed to. Time had changed nothing except for where they rested their heads and what they did for a living, but nothing would change their feral nature.

“Hi, Lam.”

Lambert gave him a glass of dark wine so smoothly the alcohol didn’t even dance around before leaning on the bar. One big hand caught his, and Jaskier smiled at the way Aiden pulled a stool over to sit and snuggle into his side.

“Hey, Buttercup.”

Jaskier tipped his head a bit so Aiden could snuggle back under his chin, proud nose brushing his pulse. Lambert’s eclipse halo pulsed bright and burning around him, and Jaskier drank in the sight of it. His husband knew it too, sharp smirk melting into something softer, sweeter. He wanted to kiss that mouth all over again, but he couldn’t without jostling Aiden from where he’d settled in. He kissed scarred knuckles instead, and watched as a pink flush started up on Lambert’s ears beneath his ginger curls.

“Careful, you’ll give a man ideas acting like that.”

He hid his grin against his husband's hand before kissing his palm. Lambert’s hand twisted, cupping his jaw and just holding there, thumb brushing against his mouth.

“I think I’ll survive.”