Work Text
A beat.The glacial flow of blood in his system nearly comes to a full stop. A long, drawn-out moment drags where sounds are slowed, smells are stronger. Muted colors give the smallest of movements away. And snowflakes that land on cold skin remain there, unmelting.Time itself appears to stand still.Another beat.Without a breeze to stir the senses, the potion will be rendered useless. One ashen hand lifts slowly, more slowly than a normal eye can see, turns slightly, and disturbs the stagnant air from the dead grasses. Snow begins to whirl into dozens of dervishes. Shadows shift as the light that spills from a crescent moon reflects off the ground. The forest continues to hide its secrets. A third beat.The distance between it and the previous stretches even longer. This monster is clever; it knows it’s being hunted and won’t risk discovery. It’s not proud or hungry or territorial. But it is toying with Geralt.The Witcher slows his heart even more. He slips into thought and wonders if it’s possible to stop it completely. There would be little resistance without purpose left in just being. Not with words spoken by a friend gone wrong echoing in his head.“What changed you?”
“Who,” he corrects.
“Ooh hoo hoo. And where is this one who could crack an icy Witcher’s heart?”
A pause. “She’s dead.”
Distantly, the Witcher hears the soft whuffling of his horse as she picks through what remains of dinner. Tucked in warm and safe in a stable, she’s earned a night off. It was Ciri’s idea, and after exposing her innocence to the horrors of men, Geralt can't deny her. She’d been able to voice what he couldn’t once they’d left the scene of the bruxa and his former friend’s moral demise.
“These past few days. We’ve seen too much. My mind cannot absorb any more. Find us a place where we can forget, if only for a little while.”
Geralt found that place inside a farmer’s barn. Unafraid of the Witcher’s massive stance, unbothered by the color of his eyes and the blood on his sword, the man pushed past the curious faces of his two children and wife.
“Pity you don’t hunt men,” he growled as he collected spare quilts and instructed Geralt on where to find firewood. “They’re the real monsters around here. After all.”
The Witcher was too tired to argue. Not with the fearless farmer, not with a hungry, grumpy Roach, and certainly not with himself. There would be no winning that fight.
And so, with the horse chomping lazily on hay and Ciri wrapped in a blanket by the fire, Geralt went searching for peace and quiet.
He returns from his memories to the woods.“Fuck,” he spits. There are still no signs of any movement. Geralt is going to have to coax this monster out.The Witcher hefts sword and bag, emerging from the copse of trees he’s been hiding in. Alert and determined, he walks softly over the snowy ground. His feet barely make a sound.The monster remains in waiting.Geralt circles, cataloging the forest sounds, searching for the smell of bloodlust, the scent of adrenaline of a beast about to attack. And when the effects of the potion begin to wear off, the Witcher has no choice but to act.“I’m here!” he shouts into the stillness. Great plumes of white cloud lift from his mouth, rising above his head before disappearing. “And I’m not going anywhere!”He pauses again with both feet in ankle-deep snow. It feels warm in comparison to the ice in his veins.The moment the beast moves, Geralt is ready. He listens to the soft stirrings of feet in the snow. He senses that it’s on the small side, but that is no indicator of its lethality. Sometimes, the evilest of evil is thus, and the thrill of a worthy cause still fuels him to move more quickly, react more rapidly, and strike more deadly. These are the times when the Witcher feels his brain wonderfully empty.The creature, however, isn’t interested in a fight. It sulks away on four silent feet, turning tail and running as it charts its escape. Geralt, disgusted with himself for allowing it to get away, curses the gods and returns to the road.The fire is nearly out, the scent of char sickly sweet, but the barn lies quiet, its inhabitants resting easily. Geralt stands over Ciri for a good long while. She’s tougher than he thought. Sure, the nightmares come to her, too, but she continues to try, even after waking in a cold, terrified sweat.But for now, she sleeps, and Geralt carefully drops his cloak over her shoulders. Then he ducks his head under the low doorway. He stands at the entrance and looks up at the sky. The clouds hang low around the tops of the tallest trees. Snow falls in large, fluffy flakes. He sighs and moves to put another log on the fire.Time crawls, his senses still heightened and his reflexes on edge. He sits on the ground with his back pressed against the support post of the overhanging roof. It’s brutal, the way his mind spins and spins and spins. But eventually, he nods off, urged on by the soft rustle of the coals on the backside of a dying fire.He wakes with a start. Heat licks at his feet and the smell of smoking wet ground fills his nostrils. The coals must have been stirred by a gust of wind; the dead grasses under the lean-to are threatening to ignite the wood structure.Geralt leaps to action and yanks the cloak into the air. He drops it over the wandering flames and stamps with both feet. The action wakes Ciri and she scrambles to help. By the time the fire is out, Roach is throwing her head around and pushing against the barrier, Ciri is breathless, and Geralt’s cloak is in ruins.The girl rescues Roach from the stall and, as Geralt saddles the frightened horse, states another obvious truth.“We could do with a bit more luck and a lot less destiny.”Geralt coughs his agreement as he hoists her into the saddle. “Let’s find a town.”The innkeep refuses to serve them on sight. “Get! Out!”Ciri’s eyes grow wide and Geralt leans in to whisper an apology, but someone catches hold of his elbow and jostles him something fierce.“You!” a tall woman with long brown hair says. She’s unafraid, following a slew of other humans who have fallen victim to a certain ballad. “That your Sorrel outside?”The Witcher scowls. “Chestnut,” he corrects. This version of Roach does not have a flaxen mane and tail, nor a black point on her entire body. “Why?”“Well, she’s broken the tie post and let all the other horses free. They’re in the stables attacking the grain barrel right now.”Ciri catches Geralt’s eye and giggles. “Roach seeks a higher purpose too, it seems.”Geralt hands the sword to the girl and shakes his head. “More like punishing me for nearly setting the barn on fire last night.”He follows the woman back into the late morning fog and finds exactly what had been described. Six horses crowd around a turned-over barrel, a hard summer’s work of oats spilled onto the ground. Roach very specifically ignores him as people pull the offending animals away. Geralt hisses in her ear.“You wouldn’t have burned,” he scolds soothingly, wrenching her away from the other horses. “You’ve four good strong legs that could have kicked through the walls. I do appreciate the distraction, though.”Grain slobbers out of both sides of her mouth. She follows it down to the ground. He lets her have her moment.“You gonna pay for the goods your thief horse stole?” a gruff, burly, black-bearded man shouts. He puffs out his chest and gets right in the Witcher’s face, just as unafraid as the other townspeople. Geralt thinks he really is losing his touch.The package hidden under his shirt garners ‘ohs’ all around as it unrolls with a flourish. “Convince the man to rent us a room, and you can have these enchanted daggers.”Geralt doubts the magic works; it’s probably been broken like the rest of the spell. Still, the knives have ridiculous ornate handles, and, even if they detract from their proper use, are worth much more than what he asks in return.The stableman accepts the trade and even allows Roach to stay, as long as she’s tied properly this time. Geralt knows there is no knot his horse cannot untie if her mind is made, but he figures he’ll cross that bridge when they get there.“I recommend locking up your grain,” he adds, agreeing.They get their room. Geralt immediately goes a-hunting.He finds a helpful drunkard who directs him to the Tailor's shop. Singed cloak over one arm, Geralt scouts out the remainder of the town first, eyeing vantage points that might come in handy under attack. There’s an itch under the surface of his skin that doesn’t bode well. Still, Ciri does deserve some privacy; they’ve been together non-stop for four days.Besides. He sees how her nose wrinkles. Adding the stench of smoke and time, he must be in dire need of a bath.There is something in the air that is familiar, and Geralt follows it just as much as he does the inebriated man’s instructions. He can’t put his finger on the memory; it’s buried too far in the mass of things he’s forgotten on purpose. Only discovery will reveal the truth.The building he seeks is draped with linens of such rich colors that Geralt wonders if they have been stolen, looted from a castle or manor under siege. Purples and pinks and cyan blues, securely woven with precise attention to detail. It’s nothing like he needs; just a simple thick, warm wool will do. But he does admit to himself that he smells an interesting story behind the maker.Inside, it is just as flamboyant as the outside. Cords of fabric wrapped around itself line shelves on the walls. Golden tassels and opalescent buttons lay winking in the sunlight of the window, and patrons run bare fingers over the smooth materials. Geralt can’t help but wonder what the shopkeeper thinks with a war so very close to here. It’s clear the creator is a dreamer, a sucker, a fool. He palms the collection of coin in his purse and enters with his mind set.A woman in a soiled linen dress, red-blond hair wrapped up at the back of her head, blocks Geralt’s view of the tailor. She’s smiling, then laughing, then preening as a silver brooch is pinned to her breast. A man’s hands smooth the fabric around it as he whispers into her ear. The fingers are long and graceful, his teeth unnaturally white, eyebrows thick yet well-trimmed. He seems to be flirting with the young lady, and she is enjoying his attention, even though he drips with too much scent and lays on the charm too thickly.The Witcher is about to turn back, to return again when the air is no longer sickly with something he cannot have, when brilliant blue eyes flash over the woman’s shoulder.The man stands with a jerk, throwing the stool he sits upon backward, upending it with a clatter. His female customer gasps in alarm as fists are slammed on the counter. It’s the kind of visceral reaction that’s very befitting the Witcher’s sudden appearance.Geralt's own words flare inside his head. ‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.’ Something alive and unwell snakes through his belly, and he finds himself very surprisingly stunned.
“Jaskier?”
His former Bard is glaring daggers at him, jaw clenched tight enough to break those perfect teeth. The woman turns, takes one look at the Witcher standing behind her, and scurries past and out the door. The other shoppers follow hastily.At least Geralt can identify the scent memory now.“Jaskier?” he says again. It’s hard to believe it’s really him. Other than the eyes, he’s completely unrecognizable. Long hair is swept to each side, tucked behind his ears. Unruly stubble graces his pointed chin, running down the length of a throat that was once much more narrow. It spills beneath his open collar into a sprout of chest hair and makes him look much, much older. But the most disturbing difference is the lack of the man’s musical partner.“Geralt,” he spits, livid. The Witcher isn’t the least bit surprised. How can it be anything else, especially after how they’d parted ways? But Jaskier’s always been quick to come ‘round, once the initial shock of seeing each other again wears off. Something about this reunion, however, has a finality to it.Words fail Geralt, so he closes his mouth and wills the bard to speak first.And, oh, does he ever.“What are you doing here?” he asks, none too calmly. “Come to laugh at the court jester some more?”Geralt, astonished, holds up a placating hand. It’s not possible for anyone to be angrier. Jaskier rounds the counter and takes a step closer.“Haven’t broken anyone’s heart lately? Came to break mine twice?”Geralt’s mouth falls open of its own accord.The man closes the distance in two long strides, stands eye-to-eye with Geralt. His lower lip quivers with hatred and his nostrils flare a warning. The familiar pungent musk, gone bitter in the sun, makes perfect sense, although it appears the bitterness has increased ten-fold.“Jaskier, I –”“Stop! Talking!” he shouts. It’s very unbecoming of the man. “I don’t want to hear another word from your foul mouth!”He lifts his arm, points toward the door with a powerful sniff through his nose. “Leave me alone!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Who is Jaskier?”Geralt’s breath leaves him without his consent. It makes a horribly weak and wounded sound.Ciri, renewed and rejuvenated and emerging boldly from her shell, smiles. Graceful pale fingers run through the length of her still-damp hair. She’s deep in thought.“Why.” Just like Yennefer, Geralt has never spoken of the Bard. The girl has seen something, and the twist in his gut has nothing to do with the rock-hard bread and moldy potatoes from supper.She sits on a stool at the window, gazing out at the snow as it continues to cover the town.“He is hurting.”Geralt feels the knife of regret as it sinks deeper yet. He returns the sword to its sheath and stares at the grime and blood and filth that soils the cloth in his hand. Not even cleaning his weapons and taking inventory of the remaining elixirs has served to busy his brain.“Hmm.”Ciri turns back to look at him. There is something about her cerulean eyes, half-focused and distant, that makes it seem as if she is reading his mind.“Is he important?” she asks innocently.Geralt stews in that question and considers not answering it. But if the girl is to trust him, he will need to trust her as well.“He is.”Fine wrinkles form in her brow as she opens her mouth once, twice, then speaks the bloody fucking truth.“Then isn’t his destiny important, too?”And in that moment, still mourning the loss of an important person, it is suddenly very clear what Geralt needs to do.The tailor’s shop is closed and locked for the evening. The market, too, is slowing down in preparation for night. Merchants pack up their goods and load wagons, extinguish fires and watch him with wary eyes. But Geralt has one goal and one goal only: to find Jaskier.Amidst the acrid stench of drowned coals and sweat and dung and exhaustion, the Witcher catches wind of what he’s searching for. Familiar yet faint, he follows it past the market for the animal barns. Stronger smelling now, he slows his pace. He needs to be very careful in his approach.The torches are lit at the stable, even as darkness descends from the forest. Here there is no movement except for the tossing of equine heads, no sounds but the stomping of heavy feet and the echoing gnash of large grinding teeth. It’s a place he would very much like to escape to. Surrounded by horse flesh with no pressure to think.He’s there, in Roach’s stall, his back to the entrance, wearing a royal blue traveling coat. In his hand, he holds a short-bristled brush that he uses on the horse’s forelock. Her head hangs over the chest rope, lower lip quivering laxly. She’s forgotten about her food. And she’s allowing someone other than Geralt to touch her ears.She’s always been shy about the ears.Jaxier cups one lovingly in his hand, stroking the long, soft hairs inside with his thumb. The other ear droops to the opposite side. Roach is allowing herself to be completely vulnerable.“I envy you, Girl,” Jaskier whispers, too quiet for normal ears to hear. He pockets the brush, then palms the length of her blaze. “I envy the love he holds for you.”The Witcher hesitates by the entrance, hidden in the shadows cast by the torches. He’s never known. Or, rather, he’s never paid attention. Memories rush at him and he sees things in a new light, sees him in a new light.It appears Jaskier is more important than he’d thought.The mare’s head bobs as she slips in and out of sleep, and Jaskier continues the gentle, soothing attention to her ear. The Bard says nothing more, which in itself is a worrying sign. But there is something else that troubles Geralt even more.There is no music in Jaskier.No muttered lyrical composing. No humming, no finger tapping. The length of his scruffy throat doesn’t vibrate with the talent of his, albeit incessant, voice. Heat surges in Geralt’s chest as he remembers the djinn, when the paths crossed and destiny caught up with him and he’d met Yennefer for the first time. That massive yearning hole in his soul shudders violently.He makes his move, prowling steadily and silently over the straw-covered ground. Roach lifts her head, signaling his arrival, and Jaskier’s hands still.Geralt brushes past the horse’s lifted head to stand on the opposite side. Jaskier doesn’t look at him. Shifts instead back against the post.Roach irritates at the interruption of her nap. She blows mucus flecked with hay through her nostrils and steps back, then continues with her dinner on the ground at their feet.It leaves nothing but the dusty air between them.The Witcher waits, understanding it is not his place to speak first. He’s in the wrong here, and there is likely not much to be done to rectify it. But he intends to search for a solution anyway.Jaskier’s face is pale, his downturned eyes rimmed red, long lashes clumped together. The sight of despair so prominent on his features drives yet another dagger through what’s left of Geralt’s pride. He didn’t think it was possible to feel more pain.The silence stretches between them, heavy as fog off the moors. Geralt waits with his tongue thick inside his mouth. Rage and sorrow and something else radiates from Jaskier. It’s evident in what he says next.“The muses have stopped speaking to me.”The Witcher’s heart quickens and he finds he cannot control it.Jaskier wraps long fingers around the stall rope and squeezes hard. The anger from earlier has peeled back, revealing raw anguish beneath. “Who are we when we can no longer do the one thing we were put on this continent to do?”It is more words than Geralt can digest, and he moves to step forward. But Jaskier retreats, looking ready to flee.“Don’t,” the man warns, wincing. “If you touch me I’m going to crumble.”Geralt can’t imagine Jaskier any lower. He closes gloved fingers into clenched fists and gives the man space.Jaskier presses fingers into his eyes, wipes away leftover tears. He’s always been unafraid to show emotions. He is unafraid of many things, in fact. The Witcher, included.Geralt has treated him unfairly.“I’m —““I don’t forgive you,” Jaskier says, suddenly stronger. “You think I’m a pie devoid of its filling. It is clear that I leave a bad taste in your mouth.”“That’s not —“Geralt is interrupted again. Jaskier throws his head back, squares his shoulders, and fixes the Witcher with the coldest of blue eyes. “I’ve moved on,” he announces, false confidence in his tone. “The artist has moved on. I’ve discovered a new trade. Making the finest garments in the country.”Geralt does not believe the passion with which Jaskier made music was simply a ‘trade.’He puts on an achingly brave smile. His eyes, although unforgiving, are not unfriendly. “You are looking at the only man who’s had his hands on every available lad and lass in this town.” Jaskier pauses, grimacing. “And some of the unavailable ones, too.”Something softens inside and Geralt almost smiles. He catches himself, though, because Jaskier is watching him with deeply expectant eyes.And suddenly, the moment presents itself, the invitation of the smooth surface of a pristine lake. Geralt dives in with both feet.“Come with me. To Kaer Morhen.”Roach chooses that instance to raise her head. She pushes her muzzle into the crook of Geralt’s elbow and gives him a shove. It manages to unbalance him and he has to clutch at her mane.Jaskier steps closer to tangle fingers in the other side of her mane, and the horse responds by leaning into him. Geralt absolutely does not feel any jealousy at all.The offer lingers so long that Geralt thinks Jaskier is not going to reply. He wavers on the cusp of either pretending nothing has been said or repeating it. Jaskier looks disbelieving. “Kaer Morhen? That doesn’t actually exist, does it?”The Witcher is careful when he answers. “It is my home.”The weight of such an invitation is not lost on Jaskier; his face rearranges into seriousness. Geralt doesn’t rush the decision.“It still won’t make me forgive you,” he says. His jaw is set. But it’s enough.It’s enough.Jaskier greets Ciri without his normal wit but with his usual charm, addressing her as ‘Your Highness,’ with ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ He listens without speaking as the girl retells the tale of her birth and her and Geralt’s connected Destinies. The Witcher expects blatant sarcasm. He gets downturned brows and sympathetic noises.Geralt hopes the spiteful things he said on the mountaintop, although cruel, make sense now. The Bard turned Tailor takes the princess’s hand, curls it in his own, and holds it to his chest. Those blue eyes burn with promise. “I pledge my allegiance to you as well, milady.”Then he withdraws an unsinged black wool cloak from his bag and hands it to Geralt.“It’ll be cold, and yours is rubbish. You’ll need this.”Jaskier brings a pack donkey for his gaudy materials, and although Geralt wants badly to insist they won’t have enough food for two animals, concedes without an argument. They leave at first light, Ciri riding, Geralt leading, and Jaskier following. The imbalance of it drives him to say something, considering the state of the man’s boots. He bites his lip and allows it. There is a time and place for everything.That time and place occur sooner than Geralt plans, as Jaskier steps wrong on an icy rock and turns an ankle. The man stubbornly continues to walk on it until he cannot. The Witcher is careful not to touch him as he climbs up behind Ciri.It begins to snow, and the wind swirls around them. Geralt glances up at his two companions and is glad for their shared warmth. With Jaskier’s arm around her middle, Ciri’s teeth have ceased chattering and the color has come back into Jaskier’s pale cheeks. He catches Geralt’s gaze accidentally and nods once. It’s enough to gentle the worry inside the Witcher’s head.As they near the Keep, Ciri asks questions. About Geralt’s childhood. About the other Witchers. About her role in all of it. Geralt answers them calmly, editing where descriptions of brutality and gore would easily be shared with Jaskier during better times. Now all Geralt gets is a knowing stare for far too long; he has to look away to keep from faltering.The Brothers greet both Ciri and Jaskier with interest and then promptly start harassing the latter about his attire, about his donkey, about the weakness of his chin. Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Jaskier beats him to it. He laughs, but it’s hollow, teases, but it’s insincere, and the focus on the girl switches completely to the outrageously dressed Tailor.It’s Eskel who meets Geralt’s gaze with clear understanding. He jeers about the girl. He leaves Jaskier alone.The White Wolf chews his cheek and says nothing.When Geralt leaves Ciri to find her own room and he escapes outside, Jaskier follows. Geralt doesn’t let on that he knows, avoids the place from where Jaskier watches. They are on tenuous ground; the truths about how he became a Witcher appear to have shaken more than just Ciri.Once the orgy starts and Geralt is forced to confront Eskel, he loses track of Jaskier. It troubles him, especially when the Keep begins to rumble. Until he spies the bright colors of the man’s tunic amongst the scarves of the seductresses. Geralt allows his mind to refocus; there are more dangerous matters to attend to.Afterward, overcome with grief and remorse and disgust and self-pity, Geralt spots Jaskier alone in the great hall, sweeping away empty tankards and righting upended benches. Something settles inside, knowing the man hasn’t fled, even without his pen and lute to set the tragedy to music.It’s Vesimir who presses Geralt for more information.They turn their backs as the wolves come to perform last rites on Eskel, walking toward the Keep with closed mouths. Geralt is thankful for the quiet; Ciri has become more and more impatient. She wants answers he cannot yet give. Although the flurry of Jaskier’s colored clothing always beats furious wings in the back of his mind, Geralt has determined it off limits while they put Eskel to rest.It appears that Vesimir is quicker to want it behind him.“Why have you invited the sullen-faced lackey to this place for your rest? It’s clear the two of you are avoiding each other at all costs.”Geralt sighs heavily. “He is no one's servant. He is his own man, and I have wronged him.”His Father’s eyebrows raise slightly. “So you brought him along to atone?”There isn’t an answer that will make it any less true, so Geralt leaves it alone. Vesemir, however, won’t.“How are you supposed to recover if your problems follow you here?”To that, Geralt can think of nothing except, ‘Jaskier isn’t the problem; I am.’ He does not say this aloud.Geralt is fully aware when the Brothers tempt Ciri with the Pendulum, and he turns a heartfelt blind eye to it. The Witcher knows that he alone cannot possibly teach her everything. He welcomes the assistance of his found family; it serves to improve their acceptance of the girl and vice versa.It also gives him time to observe Jaskier.They dance around each other at first. Nods of greeting in the mornings, shared stolen glances at lunch. At night, when the Keep is alive with memories and Geralt cannot sleep, he runs into Jaskier roaming the halls. It happens several times per week. The two men swap niceties and carry on, and although Geralt says nothing as a shadow follows, he feels quite a bit. He senses they are on the brink of something new.When he slips out to the paddock to greet Roach, there are footprints in the snow, proof that someone has already been there. The horse looks at Geralt reproachfully. Geralt shakes his head at her.It’s nearly a month into their stay when everything changes. Jaskier takes the seat across when they eat. He accompanies Geralt to watch Ciri train. He pulls the princess by the hand to sit by the fire, then settles in a nearby chair. His eyes dance with the flames. He does not look away when Geralt’s gaze meets his.That night, Geralt is not at all surprised by the knock at the door.Jaskier is dressed warmly, both in layers and in color. The set of his jaw is firm and his eyes are still cold yet determined. He takes a deep breath through his nose, exhaling slowing, chest relaxing as he opens generously plump lips.“I wish for you to teach me as well.” He pauses. His voice trembles. “I want you to teach me to fight.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Please don’t hate me.”It’s a gentle whisper pressed against cheek, honest and fraught with worry. Jaskier says it as if it is the end of the world. With his heart inked into his forearm, the man wishes for things Geralt could never express. It makes the Witcher’s chest tighten.Roach, selfish being that she is, soaks it all up.Jaskier strokes her cheek and kisses the bridge of her nose. Roach’s demeanor is calmer than could be produced with one of Geralt’s spells. The horse is responding to Jaskier’s hand, his fingernails, the soothing sound of his melodic voice. Unfamiliar feelings stir inside the Witcher’s cold heart. They are pleasant, but they are not devoid of pain.Geralt watches from afar as Jaskier unties straps and slides the ungodly purple linen and wool covering from Roach’s back. She’d been shivering and Jaskier had produced a makeshift blanket. It snaps and crackles with electricity as it drags across her quickly growing winter coat. Jaskier apologizes over and over for the static shock. Roach ignores him. It’s clear she’s grateful for the pampering.Strangely enough, Geralt is too.The Witcher discovers something he hasn’t before: the delicate way Jaskier spreads his fingers, uses fingertip pads to coax Roach’s coat back into place. It reminds Geralt of the care the Bard takes with whichever instrument he plays. A caress that borders on loving.He cannot help but think of those same fingers trembling on the doorframe, standing in the doorway the night prior, asking for lessons.“Why.”
Geralt wanted to understand the desire behind his request. Never before had Jaskier taken an interest in the Witcher’s trade. He preferred to stay safely behind Geralt’s talent. He didn’t want to damage an instrument, risk a career-ending slash to the vocal chords. Even his fingers he protected, nursing the smallest of injuries with precise care. Geralt had always thought him vain and laughed at it.
He is not laughing now.“Because I’m useless,” he’d replied, swallowing thickly. Geralt watched the up and down motion of the man’s Adam’s apple. The tendon in his jaw was rigid, a sure sign he was dead serious.
Geralt shook his head. “You are not useless.”
Jaskier had opened his mouth to tell a tale of woe, of loss and longing. possibly with tears. But instead, he took a deep breath and slammed the lid on his worries.
“Will you do it?”
The Witcher, fighting his own battle with an inner monologue, couldn’t refuse.
“Yes.”
As Jaskier brushes Roach’s back, Geralt’s attention strays. He thinks to the past where he and Jaskier traveled together. Worked together. Ate and slept and bickered with one another. The Bard’s companionship had filled the empty space, interrupted the quiet and kept Geralt from drowning in his own thoughts. He thinks, he hopes, that they were friends.But now? They’re not even that any longer.It’s almost too much, watching him with his horse, standing nearby as Jaskier settles the rug in place, and then the saddle too. Vesemir’s comment about Jaskier being his servant is a hard realization, one that doesn’t sit well with Geralt at all. He wants badly to step in, to push the man away and do it himself. But Jaskier is enjoying the little intricacies that come with tacking his horse.Against instinct, Geralt waits.He doesn’t make a move until Jaskier tugs Roach away from the other horses by one rein. Geralt strides across the paddock to meet them where they are.They are similar in height, he and Jaskier, and when Geralt slows to a stop at his side, the other man will not make eye contact.“Your horse,” he says, offering the rein, palm open, leather strap resting loosely within. Geralt isn’t sure whether to take it as an olive branch or not, but the imbalance of their time together has taken its toll.“You’ll be riding her,” he says. Jaskier glances up, carefully guarding what swirls inside his head. Geralt lifts his hood and runs a gloved hand along Roach’s neck. It is going to be a long day.They leave the Keep and Jaskier bites his tongue. Bites it, that is, until Geralt leads Roach to the path and sends her along first.“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks, not quite hiding the concern in his voice. His head swivels as Roach passes, keeping his eyes trained on Geralt.“She knows the way,” Geralt assures. He then proceeds to follow, walking along the snowy path that leads away from the Keep.Jaskier doesn’t ask any further questions, just follows Roach’s lead. He sits tall and proud. His shoulders sway with the animal’s plodding pace, elbows tucked in tight to keep the mountain wind out. He doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t speak to anyone but the horse. The rift between the two men couldn’t be any wider.As they return to the tree line, Geralt is forced to consider that Jaskier has nothing to lose, and that’s why he agreed to come with. This adds an element of danger to what they’re about to do. Without a purpose in mind, reckless, people much stronger than Jaskier have succumbed to anger and self-loathing. They’ll have to be careful if this is to work.Roach takes them exactly where Geralt intended. Inside the clearing, trees circling them on all sides, she slows to a stop and blows a sigh of relief. Only then does Jaskier look back.Geralt joins them, holds Roach still as Jaskier dismounts. She uses Geralt as a scratching post while Jaskier stamps his feet on the snowy ground.“Not used to spending that much time in the saddle.” He grimaces and stretches his back, bending to look up at the patch of sky that is visible.It’s an off-handed fact that solidifies Geralt’s resolve. He loosens the horse’s girth and ties her to a tree.They face each other. Theirs are the only footprints. The trees shelter them from wind and snow and throw shadows on the ground. Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze longer than he would most other people. It’s becoming more comfortable as time passes.There are snowflakes in the man’s eyebrows.“Why are we here?” he asks without any fear behind it.Geralt lowers his hood and keeps his voice low. “The others would not approve. Would not understand –”Jaskier hangs his head. “Oh. I see. Even here among monsters, I am not good enough.”It stings for two reasons. One, because Jaskier uses the word ‘monsters’ as a slur, and two, the self-loathing has already begun.“That is not what I mean,” Geralt corrects, and the other man lifts his head once more. “Their focus is on Ciri." He pauses, feeling the words catch in his throat. "And I know you better than anyone.”Jaskier blinks long, thick eyelashes. The blue in his eyes is not dulled by the tree-filtered light.He lifts his chin, defiant. “You want no distractions.”This is true, but it isn’t the only reason. Geralt unhooks the clasp at his throat and removes his cloak.He sighs. “I owe you my full attention.”And Jaskier seems to understand. His face softens and the hint of a smile returns. He, too, discards his cloak.“Very well,” he says, grinning, and it’s almost genuine. “Let the training commence.”Geralt thinks of everything he’s taught Ciri thus far, and takes a completely different path.“You already know how to fight.”Jaskier, surprised, scoffs. “Ha! I know sixteen ways to avoid landing myself in jail. Twenty-two ways to resist capture by being a bloody stinking bastard. But that’s not fighting, Geralt. That’s cowardice.”Again, Geralt sighs. “You are skilled in the art of distraction. You use your handsome appearance to bewilder, your poetic words to confuse and beguile.”To prove the point, Jaskier lifts both eyebrows, crooks one side of his shapely mouth. Anyone with eyes would be drawn to him, to the way he weaves a web of his own charm. Geralt moves on quickly to avoid derailment.“You don’t need magic to mystify and befuddle. You have a talent which cannot be taught.”Jaskier does not look convinced. Geralt takes advantage of the silence and makes the final blow.“I think it is you who should teach me.”Jaskier’s heart rate has skyrocketed. His accelerated breathing steams the air between them. Blue eyes widen and strong shoulders begin to sag. It’s simultaneously encouraging and terrifying.Geralt is afraid of what Jaskier might say next.It is a few moments before Jaskier clenches his fists and makes a decision. “A trade then,” he suggests. His tone gains strength. “I’ll teach you how to be an annoying bastard, and you teach me how to avoid dying.”There it is; the real reason behind his ask. Geralt feels instant relief; he can work with that.And that is how, in a hidden arena, one mile from the Keep, Geralt teaches Jaskier to defend himself, and Jaskier steps away from his hatred.They don’t touch; Geralt is certain it would do no good. They use no weapons, speak no evils, reveal no secrets. Jaskier’s tongue loosens as he takes pride in retelling his gripping tales of escape. Geralt guides and observes Jaskier as he practices defensive moves.Geralt finds he’s missed the lilt of Jaskier’s voice. Not so much the words but the lyrical tones, the upward shifts, and the downward suggestions. He watches intently as Jaskier leans against Roach, as the words flow from his mouth with seeming ease. And Geralt realizes just how much he missed this.Geralt, he admits, is an absolute dick.They return to the Keep sweaty, dry-mouthed. Jaskier drinks all the water on the trip back. Geralt ‘hmms’ and feels the man has earned it. There is still something between them, something stiff in Jaskier’s persona. Geralt hopes, with time, those wounds will heal.Supper is a riotous affair. It seems Ciri has nearly completed the training course. Her eyes shine with pride, her smile a matching bright thing. Geralt divides his time between basking in her radiance and waxing hopeful in Jaskier’s.Ciri comes to him after supper with detailed tales of her near-success. As she speaks, hands waving excitedly about, Geralt catalogs the bruises and scrapes, the dried blood in her nostrils. He has faith in Vesemir’s mushrooms and herbs, both to heal and to accelerate her strength and maturity. But as she talks, he finds his mind wandering to different skin even more prone to injury.“Are you even listening?” she chides, frowning while smiling through bright eyes. Geralt, fond, shakes his head. “It is possible to complete two tasks at once.”Ciri seems to think on that. She sinks onto the bench beside him where he carves more wooden swords.She wraps small fingers around the handle of a finished weapon. “Are you and Jaskier all right?” Clever girl. Not much gets past her.“Why.”Ciri sighs heavily, as if tired of Geralt’s lack of complete sentences, but doesn’t elaborate.“We are healing,” he explains. “I said and did some cruel things in the past.”The girl frowns darkly at him. “How could you be cruel to him? He’s lovely.”At this, Geralt does laugh. It garners a smile from the child that quickly devolves into concern.“I feel sorry for him. The others tease him relentlessly.”Geralt can understand. The girl’s unfailing empathy is part of what makes her so special.“Jaskier does not wish to be pitied. Everything the Brothers say to him beads and flows like water off a duck’s back. He’s an entertainer; he flourishes on the attention. Good or bad.”Geralt does not entirely believe this, of course. Not everything said has been forgotten by Jaskier.Ciri turns the sword over in one bandaged hand, inhaling quickly as she responds. “I wish I could do that.”It takes every remaining ounce of strength not to caution the girl against it. They are already too similar, she and he. Isn’t Geralt another example of protecting his emotions most severely?She leaves with a kiss to the top of his head, and Geralt sleeps more restfully than he has in months. The people he cares about are safe, the ones that are alive, at least. He allows himself to be vulnerable and lets down his shield.He dreams of confusing things. Smooth, flat belly and soft hairy thighs. Lean, muscled arms and the hard jut of an Adam’s apple.He wakes early to feed Roach and is surprised at what he finds outside. Ciri, practice sword in hand, is joined by Jaskier, similarly armed. She’s touching him as Geralt could never, bending and flexing his arm into position. He’s laughing at her, jesting even, gazing down as if she’s the most important person in the world.Their faces are light and grinning, their voices the same. It's something Geralt hasn't very often seen at the Witchers’ home: it is joy.Geralt should feel jealous that Ciri seems to have taken over his duties. Instead, his chest swells with pride. How better for her to learn than to instruct another?“So that’s why you brought him,” Vesemir says as he approaches from behind. Geralt finds he cannot tear his eyes away from the duelers.“I never planned for this,” he admits. But he wishes he had.“Hmm,” Vesemir grunts. “That boy is like a flower. He’s growing on me. Growing on all of us.”Geralt, with a strange lump in his throat, agrees. “Me too.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Life settles into a routine after that. Ciri trains Jaskier with the sword, absorbing the criticism from the lads with her usual stony stubbornness. Geralt knows she’ll bring everything up later on, when things are calmer and she has time to think. It’s something he looks forward to, their evening chats. He hopes he’s instilling the kind of moral energy that was taught to him. If Destiny is truly to be involved, she’s going to need it.Geralt pretends not to enjoy his daily outings with Jaskier, however. After all, the reaction he’s going for is annoyed. What good would it do if the Witcher was to show signs that his day was entirely rudderless without a rousing tale of Jaskier’s skin-of-teeth escape from a jealous, murderous husband? That wouldn’t do at all.On the day Jaskier punches lightly the meat of his arm and calls him a ‘cantankerous old codger,’ one he ‘expects would rather die than admit to weakness,’ Geralt knows that progress is being made.Then, suddenly, one very calm and unseasonably warm morning, the monster arrives. It’s just like before, an overwhelming sense that he is unsafe. The hairs raise on the back of his neck, goosebumps form on his forearms. He slows his heart rate to listen and observe. But, like last time, it doesn’t show itself.Roach gives no indication she has detected the beast. She continues playing with the strap on her bridle, trying to catch it between upper and lower lip. Usually, the horse is so in tune with Geralt’s movements that she will perk her ears to listen, too. The fact that she doesn’t care is unnerving.Geralt leaves her with the horses and makes his way to the gate. Flask in hand, ready to drink, he barely makes it there when the others emerge into the courtyard.The Witchers take a similar stance, weapons at the ready. A monster has never before dared to enter Kaer Morhen. This would be two during the same winter.“What is it?” Vesemir asks, flanking Geralt on his left side. There are no sounds, no smells or movements other than the forest animals.Geralt begins to tell how he’d experienced the strange creature’s presence on the back side of the mountain, but he is interrupted by a wide-eyed Ciri with Jaskier in tow, wearing a similar frightened expression.The Witcher’s senses are immediately at high alert, even without the potion. Geralt holds out a hand, and a Brother reaches to grab Ciri by the arm. She glowers up at him and yanks herself free. No one tries to stop Jaskier.“What is it?” he repeats, taking up position on Geralt’s right. The girl stands just behind. The others spread out.“I don’t know,” Geralt says, scenting the air unsuccessfully. His heart rate rises as he watches Jaskier on one side and Ciri on the other. He doesn’t think he can protect them both.Jaskier at least has the sense to be quiet, blue eyes flicking back to meet Geralt’s. They share a brief unspoken moment where the Witcher silently begs for him to stay back and Jaskier smiles his agreement rather unconvincingly.He’s nervous, whereas Ciri is not. And Geralt makes a choice who to protect.Jaskier’s breath holds in his chest as Geralt steps closer, until he realizes what has been done, what decision has been made. The man blows out a steady exhale and, for the first time in a long while, touches Geralt’s forearm with his bare fingers.Vesemir catches the movement, watches pointedly as the contact is made. Geralt ignores it; they can address it later, once their livelihoods are no longer under invasion. He makes a mental note and calls to the beast.“You cannot best us all,” he says. His voice echoes in the empty air. “Show yourself, or run away like you did the last time.”Geralt is playing with fire and he knows it. He should error on the side of caution, what with both of his wards not yet skilled enough to fight. But all that is forgotten when the creature pads across the snow on four feet and enters the gates.It does not attack. It merely stands in the opening, drool dripping from hairy jaws, flat snout short and tight against its head, as boldly as can be. It arches its back, covered in long, thick, matted hair. Sinister yellow eyes face them down and an otherworldly growl starts low in its belly.“Easy,” Vesemir hisses, blade at the ready. He and Geralt and several others swallow their elixirs. The monster lifts its long, striped tail in a show of strength. There will be no running away.When it opens its foul mouth, hideous lips curling around sharp yellowing teeth, the growling sound escapes. Every Witcher crouches in preparation.“No!” Ciri shrieks, and the earth beneath their feet begins to quiver. “No!” she cries again, and before Geralt can stop her, she tears across the courtyard, directly at the beast.He gives chase. “Ciri!” Geralt shouts, two strides ahead of the others as they launch into action. He nearly makes it to her side, but is hindered by a firm grip on his elbow. It’s Jaskier, dragging his feet in an attempt to slow him down.The other Witchers slide to a halt as Ciri pivots on the spot. She’s holding the thing in both arms, one hand under its snarling throat as it hisses and howls and spits.“No!” Jaskier yells as he’s pulled through the snow. “Stop! It’s just a cat!”“Stop!” Ciri screeches. The mountain begins to shake.Heart in his throat and sword slung back to attack, Geralt tries to identify the creature as Jaskier called it. It doesn’t fit. This beast is much more terrifying than a common cat. Why, the squashed state of its face reminds him more of a boar than a feline.The others stop, too, circling Ciri where she’s lowered her life into the pit of danger. Jaskier scrambles for footing, quickly rights himself, and then he, too, is throwing himself at the monster.And Ciri allows him to approach.At this point, Geralt is going mad with fright. The two most important people alive are about to be torn to shreds while he stands idly by.“What is this?” he shouts. The beast opens its mouth wider and screams. By instinct, the others raise their weapons. But Geralt notices something.The animal is not attacking. Even surrounded as it is, given more chances than the Witchers would allow if Ciri wasn’t in a direct path to kill it. Instead, its cruel, heartless eyes bore into each of the Brothers’ skulls. It may want to tear their throats out, but only theirs.“What is this?” Geralt repeats. It’s Jaskier who answers. The precious blood of his jugular thuds against his neck. He holds tightly to Ciri’s shoulders. “It’s a simple barn cat! It’s not going to kill any of us.”“Tell that to the beast!” Vesemir growls, black eyes taking in the intense scene. He, too, has much to lose.“No, No, No!” Jaskier continues. He also covers the animal with one arm to protect it. “You can’t kill it! I won’t let you!”He stutters, then stumbles awkwardly to stand between the Witchers and Ciri. His words are strong, his shoulders and jaw set fierce. He clenches and raises both hands into fists, as if challenging them to a fight.Jaskier’s next words are spoken for Geralt and Geralt only. “You have to trust me on this. It’s not a monster. It’s not going to murder us. I swear to you, Geralt, on Yennefer’s memory —“And, oh, does that hurt.“I swear it’s OK. It’s OK.”Geralt’s hand is shaking on the handle of his sword. Every fiber of his being is telling him to get rid of the hideous thing. But he realizes that if he doesn’t do as Jaskier says, they’ll lose all forward progress that’s been made. It makes him sick to his stomach.He glances over Jaskier’s shoulder to meet Ciri’s eyes. Above the snarling animal’s head, she’s just as firmly determined.Dammit. Geralt has been out-stubborned by his own kin.He lowers his blade and wipes the spittle from his chin. Jaskier nods once, grabs Ciri by the shoulder, and marches the both of them, plus the monster, right into the castle.The Witchers stand speechless, watching, ears filled with terrible shrieking. Vesemir comes to stand next to him, lowering his weapon too. He’s wholly unbelieving when he speaks.“What the fuck just happened?”Geralt grunts, sheaths his sword and follows.He finds Ciri and Jaskier in the kitchens with the beast set on a table, feeding it strips of sinew from last night’s supper. The cat growls as it devours the offering, and Ciri, gods be damned, is stroking the length of its back.Jaskier meets him halfway across the room, waves to the others as they crowd in the doorway.“We’ve got this covered, boys!” he starts. There’s a familiar lilt to his tone and a twinkle in his eyes, as if he’s enjoying it. “No danger here other than a scratch or two! Nothing the human can’t handle!”Geralt watches the man’s mouth. It’s turned up at the edges, morphing into a full-fledged grin as the others leave. His eyes dance with mischief, and Geralt feels a good old-fashioned story coming on. He grunts his impatience and wills Jaskier to get on with it.“Well.”“Witcher, my good lad,” he smiles, collecting Geralt’s forearm into his own in greeting. As if they’ve been apart for a long, long time. His fingers are cold as he squeezes. Something flits across his face as he looks down at their joined arms. “Gods, I’ve forgotten how incredibly thick you are.”“Jaskier.”“Right. Well? Have you never seen a cat before?”He’s mocking, lips quirking, glistening as he licks them with glee. Geralt hasn’t before noticed how he uses them so successfully to derail.“Why couldn’t I smell it?” he asks by way of keeping control of the situation. He’s witnessed Jaskier’s charm in such a way before, just never been distracted by it.Ciri is now pouring water from a pitcher into a shallow bowl. The monster laps as if it’s famished.Jaskier releases their hands and throws an arm around Geralt’s shoulder. His bitter, sun-warmed scent is suddenly, alarmingly close.Jaskier shudders. “I’ve also forgotten about those eyes.” But it isn’t with fear. He gazes at Geralt with something like pride.It doesn’t last. He shakes himself, pulls Geralt closer.“Perhaps one of your kind angered the cat gods, making you arch enemies and preventing you from detecting the difference between beast and pet? How should I know?”He grins. Geralt scowls. Ciri coos at the cat.The day moves slowly. Ciri forgoes her lessons and holes up in her room with the cat instead. The Witchers tease Geralt, laughing and joking until he has to leave lest he throttle one of them. Jaskier finds him outside with Roach.Because of course he does.“Geralt,” he says, appearing at Roach’s head while the Witcher lifts and picks snow out of her back hooves. “Leave it,” he growls. He’s grouchy and doesn’t want to accidentally take it out on Jaskier. Again.Jaskier, naturally, does not leave it. He slides one hand along the horse’s ridgeline, down her backbone, across her hip, then crouches next to Geralt.It’s impossible not to look him in the eyes, not when he’s staring with such blue earnestness.“What.” Geralt sighs as he drops the horse’s foot. He pivots and faces Jaskier. Their knees touch. It is not unpleasant.Jaskier is not smiling. “I wanted to apologize for bringing up – her.”Something buzzes in Geralt’s brain, and he immediately wants to bat it away. But he hesitates, taking into consideration what it must have taken for Jaskier to approach. Especially knowing Geralt’s state of mind and the fact that they haven’t spoken of it yet.“Hm,” he says, knowing there should be more. Words don’t seem to want to put themselves together, however. He’s never been great with pain.Jaskier nods. He’s bare-headed and pink-cheeked. “I know, you know.” It’s low, gentle. “You don’t have to hide it from me. Any fool could see when you looked at her –”Geralt closes his eyes, and Jaskier stops. Hearing it aloud brings everything back to the surface. Her eyes. Her skin. Her smell.When he opens his eyes next, Jaskier is hanging his head. He rests both elbows on both knees, legs spread wide to keep his balance. And it suddenly dawns on Geralt how very alive the man is.“I was frightened,” he tries, and Jaskier looks up under the longest of lashes. Even longer than Yen’s, perhaps. “Of what?”There is no tease in it, no jeering. Jaskier truly doesn’t know what would cause such an emotion in a Witcher.He doesn’t know where the courage comes from, but Geralt says it without thinking. “Of you.”That gets a rise out of Jaskier. He sits tall and tilts his head to one side, frowning. “Of me? How in the name of Melitele could I possibly frighten you?”Geralt thinks of what Jaskier has gone through. Alone from the age of eighteen, always traveling, never sure of his next meal. For some reason or other, he'd become attached to Geralt and wouldn’t let go. Then, when the Witcher threw a fit and pushed him away, he returned, albeit slowly, carefully, to be by his side.He thinks of Ciri and how much she likes the man, the way they laugh and enjoy each other’s company. Thinks of the progress she’s made under Jaskier’s encouragement, and likewise, the changes in Jaskier since they reconnected. It’s something Geralt knows, without a doubt, he’d never been able to pull off by himself. For either.Geralt thinks of the touch to his elbow, the handshake, the shoulder squeeze. He looks down at the point where his wide knee juts against Jaskier's, almost half the size.And then Geralt thinks of the cat.“I am afraid of losing you.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The day Ciri appears wearing a long, stately dress that Jaskier made for her, Geralt feels his world come crumbling down.The other Witchers nearly trip over their jaws, gawking openly at the concerningly adult picture she makes. Geralt feels something rise in his belly as he watches eyes run the length of her torso. It’s not a particularly revealing gown, but it does let certain truths be known; she is no longer a child, and he knows exactly how that happened.Jaskier preens like a peacock, but he’s the only one. Ciri, unsure, is looking at Geralt for approval. He tries very hard to hide the scowl most prominent on his face.Before he can respond, the others are sneering. Calling her ‘princess,’ bowing too-low at her feet, laughing it off as a child’s harmless joke. Geralt can see very clearly that it is not.He pushes the bench back and reaches around for his weapon, rising to cut out eyes if need be. But a strange thing happens. He’s outdrawn by two very determined, very stubborn people: Ciri, dagger gripped tightly in clenched fist, and Jaskier, quickly disarming and stealing a sword from the nearest Brother.“Anyone who continues will have me to deal with,” Jaskier growls in a surprisingly decent mimicry of Geralt’s voice.“And me,” Ciri adds, her pretty face gone stern with terrifying proportions. “I’ll send Whiskers to steal your magic.”Geralt very slowly retakes his seat.Vesemir appears from his chambers, interest drawn by the raised voices. He takes one look at the scene before him and spins to retreat.Smart man. Geralt almost wishes to join him.“That can’t happen,” someone shouts, like everyone in the room isn’t thinking the same thing. “It’s just a cat. Can’t do nothin’ to hurt us.”Jaskier, sword at the ready, peers down the length of the blade and cackles. It’s very dramatic and most entertaining. “Are you prepared to test that theory? How do you know it’s not a monster masquerading as a cat? That it’s not here to kill you all in your sleep?”“Hm,” Geralt hums, amused, and Jaskier’s eyes flash his way. He winks, unexpectedly cheeky. The Witcher has to look down or suffer the consequences of smiling when it is completely inappropriate.The Witchers leave Ciri alone after that. Jaskier doesn’t fare as well. He’s taunted about doing women’s work, teased about his spools and measurements and needles. It’s all good fun, as told by the wide smile on the Tailor’s face. The performance he puts on almost convinces Geralt of it.But when the ale begins to flow after supper to celebrate a hard day’s work hunting, and Jaskier throws a dagger with bullseye perfection at a jeering Brother’s seatback, Geralt sits a little taller and pays closer attention.The man is drunk, and that’s what makes current matters alarming. Inebriated, Jaskier is a lover, not a fighter. Geralt has lost track of how many times the Bard left him brooding in the dark corner of a tavern to chase after a shapely round bottom, male or female no matter. And he never has to pay them; they come at him in waves.The way things are going, it will be Witchers attacking him next.Geralt bides his time, waiting until Ciri disappears into the kitchens to scavenge something for her evil pet with the ridiculous name. He pushes out of his seat and slowly works his way to the other end of the hall where Jaskier is retelling the tale of the sylvan and, accordingly, the elves.“You should have seen it!” he rants, brandishing another dagger and waving it about. His big blue eyes are very expressive, his words slurred and actions delayed. “Eyes like the devil! Horns sharp enough to tear a man in two!”Geralt sniffs as he thinks about the sad and sorry creature’s broken horn.“And then!” Jaskier leans between two Brothers to steal a tankard. He swallows the entire thing in three gulps before anyone can stop him. Geralt finds himself impressed.“And then!” He wipes the foam from his mouth and heaves aside the Witcher on his right, slamming the empty container back to the table. Witchers on either side scowl as their precious space is invaded. Both physical and mental. “And then the elves captured us and almost killed us and –”Jaskier breaks off and draws in a breath, swallowing hard as he stares off into the distance. “And they destroyed my – my –”Geralt recognizes his chance, and he pounces on it.“Jaskier,” he gruffs, reaching in and grasping the man’s elbow. “Come with me.”There are whoops and hollers up and down the table, cheers and jeers and loud clapping. Jaskier, snapping out of his reverie, believes it’s in response to his story. He takes several bows as Geralt drags him out of the main hall, heading to his room. The man is incorrigible.They stumble down the icy corridors, Jaskier doing his unconscious best to upset Geralt’s balance. He’s got some new weight to him, and a fair bit of strength, too. Twice they crash into the stone walls and send debris skidding to the floor. It’s nothing like Geralt remembers from his experience hefting Jaskier around in the past.Like how frail and still his young body was after the djinn. After Geralt had unknowingly wished the man silent and very nearly killed him.It’s a long, long walk with his guilt to the other end of the castle.They pass Ciri’s room and Geralt thinks he hears the sounds of singing, and he knows without a doubt that the girl who is no longer a girl but a young woman is serenading her cat.Grumbling at the failed state of his evening, Geralt pushes Jaskier against the wall, pins him with one arm, and kicks the man’s door open. It’s warm inside, much more than any other room. It appears the fire had been lit and left to die, as evident by the glowing coals in the hearth. Jaskier has both hands wrapped around the Witcher’s forearm. He’s drooling slightly, eyes sliding sideways, head listing to one side. He murmurs something into the darkness, low and reverent and very Jaskier. Geralt is more gentle when he pulls the man inside.The door closes behind them as if enchanted to do so. Jaskier is leaning on him fully now. The combined heat from the stifling room and his ward’s ale-addled skin is suffocating. Geralt dumps Jaskier onto the bedthings and slides hands onto his own hips, sighing.He shakes his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”Jaskier pushes himself upright, braces on one locked wrist, and gazes up through tear-laden lashes. It’s either a belated reaction to the aborted tale of losing his lute, or easily-stirred emotions are beginning to leak from wide blue eyes.“What am I doing?” he repeats, trying and failing thrice to sit at the edge of the bed. “What am I doing? You, of all people,” he shoves Geralt with impressive force, enough that the Witcher has to readjust his footing to avoid tipping backward. He’s doing his version of a scowl. “You, of all people, should know –” Jaskier hiccups “ – what I’m doing!”There’s a challenge in there somewhere that Geralt only wishes to defuse.“Hm. Should I?” He intends to placate the man until he grows tired and loses steam. Shouldn’t take long with how warm it is. With how drunk he is.Geralt tips the end of a candle into the coals and is shocked at how angry Jaskier looks as it flares.“I,” Jaskier announces, slapping a hand to his chest. He’s wearing a reinforced leather vest of his own making. It’s sturdy, tight-fitting, and makes for a fetching and useful piece of armor. Geralt means to ask him to make one for Ciri, and perhaps even for himself. It seems simultaneously lighter and stronger than what he’s used to.“I am trying to prove myself worthy.”Which makes perfect sense, if Geralt was to think of it before now. As it is, he hasn’t, so he risks lengthening their nonsensical conversation and asks:“And why must you prove yourself worthy?”To this, Jaskier puffs out his chest and throws up his nose. The thicker scruff on his face does indeed make his chin appear stronger.“Worthy of carrying a sword,” he begins. Sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead in tiny dew droplets as he soliloquizes. “Worthy of participating in the hunt. Worthy of killing and skinning and gutting the animal to eat.”Geralt sets the candle on the stones that keep the fire in place and thinks he knows where this is going.Jaskier stands, leaning forward to catch Geralt’s shoulder to keep himself erect. “Worthy of joining a battle, no matter how many heads the monster has, nor how badly it smells, nor the state of its teeth or testicles or lack thereof.”The addition of the candlelight brings Jaskier’s ruddy cheeks into clearer view. He’s going to be sick when he wakes the following day.“Worthy,” he says as he shakes Geralt’s arm. “Worthy of riding the damn horse every once in a while!”The truth: that’s where this is headed. If Jaskier doesn’t stop now, he’s going to regret it.Geralt grips Jaskier’s upper arm, careful not to squeeze too tightly and cause harm. He’s going to have enough to get on with when everything is said and done. And Geralt doesn’t wish for him to leave in a fit.“Jaskier –”“Worthy enough,” Jaskier plows ahead, shaking himself free and almost catapulting forward arse over teakettle. Geralt helps right him, keeping a closer distance now, just in case it happens again.
“Worthy enough to be given a fucking chance!”
He practically shouts it, making hard eye contact with zero fear. It’s another way he’s trying to prove that he isn’t afraid of Geralt.“Jaskier –”“Gods!” Jaskier shoves both palms into his eyes, grinding them as if he’s crushing herbs into stone. “Even the whores in the town below got a chance with you, Geralt!”Geralt bites his tongue. It will do no good to strike out now. But Jaskier doesn’t follow the same rules. He pushes Geralt away, untangles himself without stumbling backward, and pierces him with livid, hateful eyes.“What do I have to do? Pay?”The Witcher growls a warning. They cannot, will not, be doing this.“Jaskier. Go to bed.”Jaskier does no such thing. Instead, he swings with both fists, striking Geralt in the face with one and missing spectacularly with the other.“'Jaskier, stay here.'” The man grits his teeth and mocks, struggling against Geralt’s hold. “'Jaskier, keep back!'”Anger begins to well in Geralt’s own chest. But not because he’s upset with Jaskier. Poor fool has the right to speak his mind. No, it’s because he’s furious with himself for letting it get this bad.“'Jaskier, I need you for comedic relief. Jaskier, I need you as wingman so I can slip my incredibly large cock into this dangerous and powerful harlot's dripping wet cunt!'”Geralt feels the unfairness of it all; he’s right on all accounts.“'Jaskier do this and this and this and never get anything in return except the meager scraps of a man after a dead relationship with a crazy sexy witch!'”Something disastrous churns in Geralt’s gut, and he feels his own fingers clench in fury as Jaskier beats his chest with clumsy fists.He manages to get a hold of them both, tamping down on an impending explosion and fisting Jaskier’s wrists to each side.“I wrote a song about you, Witcher,” he spits, and he’s really angry now. “I hear you're alive, how disappointing!”Instead of singing, he’s shouting.“I've also survived, no thanks to you!” A string of saliva drips off a quivering bottom lip.
“Did I not bring you some glee? Mister, oh, look at me!”
Jaskier bites down on a stifled sob. “Now I'll burn all the memories of you. All those lonely miles that you ride. Now you'll walk with no one by your side.”Some of the spitefulness dies as Jaskier’s voice wavers. “Did you ever even care? With your swords and your stupid hair?”He cries at the word ‘stupid.’ Geralt’s stomach falls. There’s so much hurt.And then, like a capricious mountain breeze, Jaskier laughs. “Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you.”It crescendos to a peak, and Jaskier begins to fight again. He lurches forward and spits in Geralt’s face.
“At the end of my days when I'm through! No word that I've written will ring quite as true as ‘burn!’”
Geralt’s resolve gives way as these lyrics are spoken. He knows in his heart of hearts this was Jaskier’s final song.The man, finally tapped out, exhausted, falls limp against Geralt’s chest. With all that bottled inside, with the explosive release, there is nothing left to give.Throat blocked by confusion, head swarming with unkind but heartfelt words, Geralt pulls his greatest enemy close and calms him.Jaskier sinks to the ground, but not before Geralt catches and lifts him, moves him gently to sit on the bed. Props him against the stone wall. Loosens and removes his leather tunic. Unties his shirt and trousers and discards his heavy boots.Then Geralt lowers Jaskier’s head to the pile of furs and settles the enchanted (enchanting) man down.Geralt sighs as he forces himself to linger on the former Bard’s face. Even under magical influence, Jaskier frowns. His brows nearly meet in the middle, and deep creases line his forehead. Geralt lifts a hand and attempts to smooth them out, to no avail.Eighteen when they'd met, he still looks so young.The Witcher very quickly, with extreme frustration, struggles out of his boots and outer things, searching for relief from all this heat. But even without shirt and pants he’s left gasping for air. Gasping for relief.There is no understandable reason why he crouches and then lies next to Jaskier. No sane explanation for how he brushes the man’s hair off sweaty skin. He should leave it. He should get on his horse and ride away, never to return. But Jaskier’s lips are moving, and the sweetness that comes forth is the songbird returned.“Burn, butcher, burn,” he croons, raw and real and mournful. His eyes are closed and his body is lax, but his brain struggles on against the injustice he’s faced.Geralt listens with racing heart as the man softly sings the refrain, over and over, until he runs out of air and the words fade to nothing.“You hate me,” Geralt whispers, hoping Jaskier hears the apology within.Jaskier nods. His mouth falls open and he exhales hot, hoppy breath against Geralt’s face. “I’ve never hated anyone more.”It’s the moment Geralt has expected since they arrived. The lowest point for either of them. Even, he wagers, with the knowledge of Yen’s death.“But,” Jaskier breathes, face finally relaxing, almost smiling as he nods off to sleep.“I’ve never loved another more, either.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next day, Jaskier remembers nothing.It’s for the best, really; it’s not possible for things to become more troublesome. The other Witchers make rude comments about Jaskier at breakfast. Geralt watches as Ciri storms out of the hall with unrestrained purpose in her eyes. The cat wanders amongst the benches, glaring and hissing and threatening to cut out their throats the moment they are asleep. It’s a good thing that Jaskier hasn’t emerged from his room. Geralt ventures outside and picks up an axe and heads for the forest. Chopping wood for the fires will keep himself from worrying whether the man is yet alive.He very quickly grows warm, breathing and heart rate both accelerating with the physical activity. Winter this year has been a strange one; never before has he been so preoccupied with affairs of the soul. This Destiny business, with Jaskier and Ciri and Yennefer, has made him soft.“Hm,” he declares, tired of his thoughts, resting the butt of the axe on the block. He rolls up both sleeves and fastens the ties above his bared biceps. The chill of late morning is refreshing on the heat of his exposed skin. He thinks back to the night before, how the warmth of Jaskier’s body toyed with reality. It wasn’t possible to tear himself away until early morning; he’d been unable to do anything but listen to Jaskier’s words on repeat.
“I’ve never loved another more, either.”
Geralt splits the next log in two with one focused strike. The edge of the axe slices clean through, lodging itself into the block below so securely that it takes a fair bit of effort to remove it. He grunts and strains and breaks into a sweat. But he succeeds, and the blade gives up the fight. It’s a very fitting metaphor for his current situation.He finds Ciri in the courtyard as he brings the wood from the forest, absolutely destroying another training dummy. She, too, is running hot, her cheeks rosy, blood racing close to the surface. The girl catches sight of Geralt and immediately marches in his direction. There is something on her mind she wants to share.“What did you do to him?” Fire flashes in her eyes and thunder rumbles in her chest. Geralt lifts his brows in surprise.“I did nothing. He’s sleeping off a hangover.”Ciri shakes her head. The back of her hair has been braided into intricately woven designs complete with blue ribbon. The care and precision with which it’s been crafted is unprecedented.“Who braided your hair?” he asks. Ciri’s lips go taut as she fumes.“You’re doing it again,” she growls, sounding not unlike himself. “You’re avoiding me.”Geralt isn’t avoiding her; he’s steering clear of any and all interactions that might trigger her uncontrolled chaos.It doesn’t seem to be working, though, because the wind becomes stronger the angrier she gets.“Axii,” he answers, sighing heavily. “He was agitated, and I didn’t want him to get hurt.”Ciri crosses arms over her chest and makes a very good impression of Jaskier sticking out his soft, stubbled chin. It’s simultaneously adorable and infuriating. “And will you use it on me, too? When I am in the throes of ‘hysteria’ and you wish to calm me?”Geralt recognizes a dangerous slope when he steps on one. He backs away slowly, explaining.“He was drunk and attempting to strike me, and I didn’t want him to regret it in the morning. I care about him, Ciri, just as I do for you. I would never do anything to either of you —““Except you didn’t have his consent, did you?”And, damn. The girl has him there.Geralt closes his mouth and listens to what she has to say.“I went to see him this morning. To check on him since he didn’t come to breakfast. It’s something you yourself should have done, if you care about him as much as you say.”She is right.“You’re right.”It knocks her off her guard, and Ciri frowns, doing that thing she does when she’s attempting to read his mind.“Then, why?” She gestures back toward the castle where Jaskier sleeps. “Why do it, when by enchanting him all you’re really doing is risking his trust? How does that make you better than the others?”Geralt has been quite skillfully served a very cruel memory of a beautiful, strong woman’s quest for ‘the lesser evil.’He takes a moment to control his reaction and appeals to her humanness. “Have you never harmed someone you love without meaning to?”It derails her anger and she thinks on it for a few moments. The storm in her eyes subsides eventually, and her voice is back to normal when she answers his question.“Jaskier.”Geralt frowns. “Jaskier?”Ciri nods. “He did my hair. He’s been teaching me lots of things in return for sword fighting lessons. He knows the weaknesses of dozens of monsters, all from watching you fight. He says it will come in handy if I ever come across them. He’s written it all down in a journal.”Geralt thinks that it isn’t only monsters Jaskier has discovered the weaknesses of.This thought occupies his mind as he returns to his woodpile for another load.He finds Vesemir there, waiting for him. Geralt feels he’s about to be taught a lesson as well.“Did you know that I was once in love with a human?”At least he didn’t make Geralt suffer in waiting.“Hm.”Vesemir nods. He’s smiling, attention not quite in the present. “Indeed. She was unafraid. Of me. Of this lifestyle.”Geralt understands he means to draw parallels. It is working.“This was before your time, of course. Before Witchers became such a valuable commodity.” Vesemir pauses to ensure Geralt catches the sarcasm, the tragedy that is their declining numbers. “She and I were together between contracts. And then for the longer winters.”“She came here?” Geralt asks, already knowing the truth and understanding now why Vesemir had allowed strangers inside the castle. The fact that he’s comparing Jaskier to —“She was a light inside the dark,” he says by way of admission.And then Vesemir’s eyes slide back into themselves, and his expression hardens. “But I started to forget that she wasn’t like us. She began to age while I did not. She grew frail even as I became stronger. And when she died, I —“He breaks off. Geralt watches as Vesemir fights against emotion and wins. His voice is hard when he continues.“All lives are finite,” he reasons. “Even our own. Each of us has one life, no matter how long it takes to get to the end. I said I would never love again.”Geralt inhales and sighs. “This is a hard life,” Vesemir says, crouching down near the woodpile and beginning to stack logs into one still sturdy, strong arm. “And if I were given the chance I would go back and change it.”Geralt bends low too, joins Vesemir in collecting another load. The man is delivering two different messages. “You would?”The other Witcher smiles sadly as he stands, tipping his head and indicating that Geralt should follow him back to the castle.“I would. I would have confessed my love to her much, much sooner.”That is an arrow of fire straight to the chest.They speak no more on the return trip. Yennefer’s memory comes back to him, fills his mind and body and forces him to admit to past wrongs. He has already moved on, already resigned himself to an eternity of solitude, to the cold reality that he’ll never know what might have happened had she —“Here,” Vesemir grunts when they’ve completed the job. He pushes a glass vial into Geralt’s fist. “For Jaskier.”The contents are a hideous green, like the acidic slime that coats the insides of selkies. Geralt recognizes it immediately, takes it with unexpected gratitude. He frowns, then understands. Vesemir has already welcomed Jaskier home.The inside of Jaskier’s room is no longer warm. Winter has taken back the icy corners and made the stone floor and walls frigid. The bed is a rumpled, tangled mess of furs piled atop each other. One of Jaskier’s feet pokes from beneath. Geralt feels an odd uncomfortable warmth in his gut.“Jaskier,” he tries, collecting the man’s boots and crouching to shove them on. “Get up. I’ve got something to make you feel better.”Jaskier does not get up. Instead, his hand appears from inside, just like the foot, palm facing up.“Give it ‘ere,” he mumbles from deep within. “I think I’m going to throw up.”Smiling despite himself, Geralt hands over the vial, waiting as Jaskier scrabbles and untangles and his head is finally freed. His long hair is mashed against his cheek on one side and sticking up on the other. Blue eyes hide behind lids stuck closed with sleep. He downs the tonic in one go. Grimaces. Tips his head back and howls.“Oh, Gods! Can’t you add some sweetener of some kind? Any kind? I’ve seen honeycombs in the lab! Don’t tell me you bastards literally have no taste.”Geralt may have chuckled. Impossible to tell over the man’s caterwauling. He pushes to his feet and flings aside the furs. “Get up. I’ve something else that will help.”Jaskier complains, loudly, as he follows Geralt out of the castle. He shields his eyes from the sunlight, throws his cloak over his face like a toddler woken from a nap. The tonic has cured him of sickness, both in stomach and head (mostly). Geralt doesn’t allow the man any pity as he hoists him onto Roach’s back.“You expect me to be able to ride in my condition?”Geralt mounts Vesemir’s horse, collects the reins, and clicks for Roach to follow. He says nothing other than ‘Hm’ as they trek across the mountainside.His patience has begun to grow thin by the time they arrive, but he knows he will never lose it again. Jaskier is annoying and chatty and dramatic and foolish. But he is also brave and loyal and strangely alluring.Geralt dismounts and ties the horses to a tree, then pushes Jaskier off Roach to the ground with a smile. The man lands in a pile of snow, surprised and disgusted. But as Geralt loosens the animals’ girths and removes saddles and straightens rugs over sweaty coats, Jaskier catches sight of the unfrozen water.“Is that —?” He struggles to his feet, mouth wide open and blessedly silent. He takes a step away from the horses, then looks back, stunned. “Is that —?”Geralt cannot help but laugh. “Take off your clothes and get in, you boozing sot. It’ll do you good to have a bath.”Jaskier blinks for a few long seconds before enthusiastically ripping off his cloak and boots. He strips none too gracefully, nearly falls face first, naked, in the snow. But soon he’s tiptoeing painfully across the icy rocks and into the volcanic heated water of the hot spring.Geralt does not shy from studying the man’s arse. It’s soft and jiggly in all the right places, hard and muscular everywhere else. This isn’t the first time they’ve bathed together, and it won’t be the last. It’s just the first time since Geralt’s epiphany.“Oh, oh, oh, oh,” Jaskier moans as his tall, lithe body disappears beneath the surface. He sinks to his knees and water flows over the deep crevice in his back. “Oh, Witcher, you cruel, cruel monster you.” He turns. Water pools and eddies around him. “Why haven’t you brought us here before?”Geralt pulls off his boots, discards the cloak and slides the shirt up and over his head. He collects Jaskier’s clothing into one arm with his own, following the trail to the water’s edge. The rocks are covered with thick layers of ice. Steam lifts from the spring’s surface. It slows as it rises, curling white around Jaskier’s head and shoulders. It causes his eyes to appear even more blue than ever, and halts Geralt’s forward progress for the pool.Jaskier smiles, looking half-drunk still, taking in what he can of the Witcher’s exposed skin. His gaze ends at Geralt’s feet, bare in the snow, sunk to the ankles. It lingers there for a few moments before drifting back to Geralt’s face. His expression grows serious.“No need for modesty, Geralt,” he says, averting his eyes. He swipes long fingers just under the surface of the water. “We’re friends. Aren’t we.”It’s not a question, it’s a statement of fact. Jaskier has unequivocally forgiven him without Geralt saying the words aloud. The Witcher removes the rest of his clothing, lays everything out over the spread of his cloak in the snow. He joins Jaskier at the deepest part of the pool, keeping enough distance between them to allow Geralt to think. The acceptance in Jaskier’s voice is something he wasn’t prepared for. It will require taking a different path.Ripples radiate outward from the former Bard’s body, chest heaving above water. A tentative smile returns to his face and he meets Geralt’s eyes without fear.“Yes. Of course we’re friends,” the Witcher affirms. Something flutters inside his chest. Something else closes his throat.Suddenly Geralt is very aware that what he feels for Jaskier is definitely not what he thought.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
For all his trepidation about her arrival, Geralt is genuinely pleased to see Triss.“Hello, Geralt,” she smiles, offering her cheek and returning his embrace with grace.“Thank you for coming,” he says into her ear. “Your service is needed more than you can imagine.”Triss steps back. She looks different. Not only due to her longer hair and her mottled skin, but also inside her hollow eyes and the way she carries herself, too. The Witcher recognizes unhealed wounds when he sees them, but also when he doesn’t.“Oh?” The Mage sounds surprised. “I imagine all you lonely old Witchers are doing a very good job bringing up a young lady togeth —“Triss stops, because this is the moment Ciri strides into the room. She steals a tankard from a Brother and shoves two others aside to make room at the table. Then, without looking up, tears a chunk of meat right off the carcass and begins chewing with her mouth quite open.Geralt and Triss share a knowing look. “I did try to warn you,” he says fondly.The Mage smooths down the front of her dress and nods once. “Very well. Best introduce me now to avoid —““And what sort of enchanting visitor do we have here with us today?”Jaskier has appeared out of nowhere. He bows low and takes Triss’ hand, kissing her knuckles before straightening to look into her eyes. He curls her fingers to his chest and turns on the charm. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove,” he croons, very nearly singing it. The blue of his eyes flash to Geralt, and he gives a roguish wink. “But you, my dear Lady, may call me Jaskier.”“We all call you Jaskier, idiot!” someone shouts from the hall. Laughter erupts around them and Ciri’s attention is drawn.The girl wipes her mouth with the bloodied sleeve of her blouse and pushes back from the table. She’s cautious as she approaches; at least Geralt has been able to teach her that.“Ciri?” he says as she nears. “This is Triss Merigold.” He places a gentle hand on the middle of Triss’ back and catches Jaskier watching the movement. There’s a moment where the man opens his mouth to speak, then bites it back hard. Geralt makes a point to address it later; there is a method to this madness.“Pleasure to meet you,” Triss says as she takes Ciri’s fingertips in her own. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Geralt.” She looks up at the Witcher with a conspiratorial glint in her eye.Jaskier’s gaze moves between them as his head keeps still. There are calculations being made inside the man’s mind. Geralt can’t even imagine.Ciri has been practicing her scowl. It’s more convincing than ever.“Why is she here?” she asks, ignoring the Mage’s greeting and rounding on the Witcher. “Did you bring her to teach me how to be a lady? Because I’ve already got Jaskier for that.”Jaskier comes out of a trance, posture straightening. “Yeah. She’s already got me for that.”Geralt prays for an extra dose of patience. He hasn’t even made it past the introductions.“No,” he assures, collecting Ciri’s elbow and pulling her to his side. “She’s here to teach you about Chaos. Her powers are more — nuanced than mine.”Triss laughs softly. Ciri frowns. Jaskier’s face is stone quiet, revealing nothing of what he’s thinking.“But I don’t need to learn about —“Geralt sighs and pushes Ciri onto Triss’s arm, sends them down the hallway without attempting to explain further. He and Jaskier watch their backs as they go. Ciri looks over her shoulder and Geralt knows there will be hell to pay. He’s just not that skilled at handling more than one dilemma at a time.Jaskier’s mouth falls open and he finally speaks.“You know each other well, then? You and Triss?”Geralt does not turn his head. Instead, he waves for the man to join him at the nearest table.“She saved my life,” he says once they are seated. He chances a glance and finds Jaskier looking horror-stricken, as if the bottom has fallen out of his stomach.He recovers quickly, though.“Oh. So, nothing important or anything,” he drawls, waving one elegant hand in the air as if dismissing a court. “Nothing that would bind the two of you together for eternity at any rate.”Geralt sighs, again. He should have guessed there would be some residual hard feel —But Jaskier is back to his usual bright, grinning self, and Geralt thinks he’s gotten it wrong, again.“So she’s not off limits,” he says, elbowing Geralt with so much force it shifts him sideways. The Witcher’s been turned upside down within the spanse of a few minutes. He’s really not cut out for this socialization thing.His friend is staring, waiting for an answer, and it would be very easy to just get on with it and let the inevitable take its course. Jaskier could open up his bag of tricks and woo the beautiful woman, and Geralt would be able to get some peace and quiet.Except that’s not the kind of peace and quiet he desires.“Listen,” Jaskier raises both hands and tucks his chin to his chest. “I’ll not step on toes if that’s how it is. I respect you too much.”With that, Geralt is reminded why they’re even having this conversation. “And I respect you enough to tell you that she is not what she pretends to be.”And Jaskier laughs. “I have no idea what that means, Witcher! I think you’ve been spending too much time with monsters. You’ve forgotten how to trust.”He pulls Geralt into a sideways hug. There are pink flowers woven into his hair.“Come on. I want to show you how much I’ve improved. Ciri even let me use the sharp blade this morning.”Geralt concedes, follows Jaskier into the courtyard, all the while mulling over the concept of trust and its multiple facets.Jaskier is right, of course, about the trust and about his improvement. He keeps his core flexible and shifts the bulk of his weight onto his quads. And even though his size has increased (he’s taken to carrying a shortsword strapped to his back, both for practice and for the additional weight), he’s lighter on his feet and much more confident. Geralt must remember to compliment Ciri on her teachings. It appears both have learned more than he originally thought.“You didn’t trust me to do it,” Jaskier teases as he finishes the basic movements he and Ciri have been working on. His eyes are bright with success, and there is color in his cheeks that does not stem from the mountain winds. “Hm,” Geralt says, because it’s no good arguing with Jaskier when he gets like this. The man is happier than he’s been in months. They both are.They circle each other as Jaskier begins to deviate into more complicated moves. Geralt meets him with every strike, amused at the enthusiasm with which his friend bounces on his heels. Jaskier’s mouth never ceases moving, and he’s spewing so much self-assurance that Geralt almost falls for it. It’s only when Jaskier lunges forward, and the Witcher has to ward off an actual strike to the throat that he understands.Jaskier means to best him with distraction.Vivid blue eyes hold his own as Jaskier leans into their connected swords. His grin is cocky and contagious.“I’m disappointed in you, Witcher,” he laughs. It’s obvious that he’s not, but Geralt asks anyway. “And why is that?”Geralt’s back foot is beginning to slide along the snowy ground as Jaskier holds his position. The man’s breath is coming faster now as he exerts a sustained amount of force.Jaskier is smug, holding onto the answer until Geralt’s footing gives and he has to set both shoulders.“You’ve forgotten what I taught you about being an annoying bastard.”The Witcher hasn’t forgotten. He’s applying all of Jaskier’s methods, only in a different way. It’s much like toying with one’s prey before eating it, teasing out weaknesses. Geralt finds his mind and body rejuvenated and reacting positively. Sparring with Jaskier this way is —“I am not going to talk a monster to death,” Geralt chides.And the Witcher taps into his strength reserves and shoves Jaskier away.“Again,” Geralt says, gruff but enthusiastic. Jaskier, taken aback, chest heaving, allows his sword to fall on the snow-packed ground.He then proceeds to rip off his protective vest, to unlace his shirt, lifting them both over his head until he’s standing tall, vulnerable skin and muscle and flesh quivering with anticipation. Adrenaline pulses through him as if he’s drunk from a flask.Jaskier crouches to retrieve his shortsword from the vest, deep, expressive eyes catching and keeping Geralt’s gaze. The flowers have fallen from his hair to the ground.The Witcher is frozen in place and not thinking about the six different ways he could easily kill a man without armor. Instead, his mind is static, buzzing, swirling at the sight of Jaskier’s magnificent confidence.“Come on, Witcher,” he says, swinging his weapon in an exploratory arc. “I know you’re holding back. Peel off that very thick, incredibly sexy armor and give me everything you’ve got.”Something surges in Geralt’s chest, and he should be fighting against Jaskier’s mind weapon. The man knows how easy it would be for the Witcher to strike him down. But the temptation to bare his own body, to trust Jaskier just as much Jaskier trusts him, to engage in a battle of wits? Well, it’s —It’s thrilling.Jaskier watches with wide eyes as Geralt strips, mouth falling open when he’s not the only one braving the elements with sheer stupidity.“Wow! I didn’t think that would work! I figured you’d —“And he lets his guard down just enough for Geralt to take the available steps between them and knock Jaskier’s sword away.It lands with a thud several yards behind them, and it’s Geralt who’s grinning now as he says, slowly, growling, “Close your mouth and pick up your sword and show me you can keep up.”Jaskier moves so quickly that he renders Geralt impressed. He shakes out his shoulders, squares up, and says the only thing that a man with balls of steel would dare to a Witcher.“Go on then.” A pause. A wink. The flash of white teeth. “Run me through. Stab me with your massive sword. Thrust with all your might.”Jaskier touches the tip of his sword to Geralt’s, then runs it down the edge, scraping metal as he works his way towards the hilt. It’s seductive and cocky and would likely be the death of anyone who wasn’t Jaskier. The Witcher, however, feels like he’s finally gotten his friend back. He gladly accepts the challenge.They spar, joyous, Geralt most indeed pulling his strength, and Jaskier holding nothing back. They laugh when their footwork becomes a little too vigorous and the horses bolt from the stable. They grunt when the other lands an impressive strike against steel, as sparks fly in more ways than one. As Jaskier visibly tires but refuses to stand down, Geralt checks in and calls for time.They rest. Steam rises from Jaskier’s slick body, his chest hair curly, nipples and cheeks bright red. His lungs drag in great gasps and he laughs, delight evident in every part of his being. It’s this overall picture that Geralt considers as he catalogs his own body’s response to their play. Mind racing, chest tight. Arm hair standing on end and blood roaring through his veins, filling him with a sense of accomplishment, causing his thighs to tingle and the ever-present urge behind his navel to swell to the point of pain.Every inch of him is aroused, attention piqued and satisfied. Gone is the regret and sorrow and crushing sense of loss. In its place, he’s found something to fill the void.He’s found Jaskier.“All right, you, old man.” Jaskier straightens, stretching his back. His gloves creak on the handle of his sword as he takes another flirtatious swipe. “Ready to take me down and make me blush like a virgin?”Geralt shakes his head, smiles, and Jaskier falls on his arse with the very first swing.He lies back in the snow and roars. “I wasn’t ready, eager thing!”Empowered and vibrating, looking down at the beauty that is a laughing, happy Jaskier, Geralt offers a hand to bring his friend to his feet. But the other man kicks out, swipes at the Witcher’s ankles, and he, too, goes down in a pile of hard-packed snow.Jaskier reaches across Geralt’s heaving chest and fists his weapon away, all the while chuckling about distractions and how easy a target Geralt is. The Witcher joins Jaskier in a seated position. Legs crossed and knees touching, facing each other.The words are out of his mouth before Geralt can think how to say them.“You are ten times more worthy than any other,” he grins, hard as a rock between his thighs. “If anyone ever argues to the contrary, they will experience my blade.”Jaskier, eyebrows shot skyward, lifts that adorable chin. “And here I'd hoped I’d be the only one to experience your blade, Geralt.”There’s something electrical sparking between them, but before Geralt can get a handle on it, Jaskier drops back into his easy charm.“You must want me to work on Ciri. Get her to listen to the Mage.”Geralt hasn’t even thought of this, but now that Jaskier has said it, he realizes that’s exactly what it looks like.“I didn’t mean to —“Jaskier leans over, resting his palms on Geralt’s knees. He's ripe with sweat and excitement and that familiar bittersweet scent.“You never mean to. That’s what’s so loveable about you, Witcher. It takes a man well-versed in grunting and swearing to get inside that thick skull of yours and discover that you’re just a softie.”Geralt knows it to be true, knows it with all his heart that there has only been one other person to break through his defenses. And while Yen did it with sex and mystery and power and lack of fear, Jaskier did it without needing any of that.“All right,” Jaskier says with finality. “I’m taking Roach to the spring. When I get back I expect you to be clean and dry and ready to take Tess away so I can have a father-daughter talk with Ciri.”He pushes up. He brushes himself off. He smiles crookedly and oh, does Geralt want badly to follow him.But he doesn’t. He sits on the ground as Jaskier dresses. And he watches his partner mount and disappear from the courtyard.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It is three days before Geralt speaks to Jaskier next.The first of these, Ciri spends most of her time with Triss. They walk through the castle and across the grounds, deep in discussion. Geralt knows this because he follows them, pays close attention to the confused frown on Ciri’s face. Knowing what he knows about Triss, he’s unsure it’s the right method to use. He wishes it didn’t have to be this way, but he understands it has to be. It worries him deeply, and although he feels the steady pull of Jaskier’s voice, hears it echo through the halls, it’s a dull throbbing in the distance. Geralt doesn’t approach the man on purpose.This is not the case the second day; he actively seeks out Jaskier but finds him occupied each time. First, the brothers have roped him into a game of daggers, to which Geralt has sworn off for the rest of his days. Jaskier seems to enjoy it, though, and the Brothers are less antagonistic and more amicable. Geralt steers clear because he recognizes the same kind of bonding that occurred with Ciri when they first arrived. It just seems to have taken them longer to trust Jaskier.The next Geralt sees him, Jaskier has taken Triss by the arm and is charming her as only he can. Extolling the heroism and bravery of one Butcher of Blaviken at the top of his lungs. Triss seems genuinely enchanted, eyes bright, smile benign at worst. Geralt watches them, too, and eventually comes to the conclusion that Jaskier can handle himself with the mage.A little too well, in fact.Ciri disappears to the pendulum, to the woods, to her room with the cat. Geralt knows better than to disturb her just yet; she’s likely struggling to balance the two sides she’s shown talent and interest in.She does find him later in the day as he paces the paddock, mingling with the horses as they doze in the rare appearance of the sun’s rays.A frown has, at this point, become permanently etched in her brow. “Triss thinks I should lean more towards magic,” she says, her gaze a mix of confusion and frustration. “I told her my grandmother wielded a sword instead of magic. I don’t expect I’ll be any different.”Geralt expects she’ll be very, very different indeed.That evening, once the inhabitants of the Keep are inside for the night, Ciri and Jaskier run off to the upper level giggling like children. Geralt catches Jaskier looking very pointedly down at him from the balcony. He waves, and Geralt waves back. The bond between his oldest friend and his Child Surprise warms him immensely.On the third day, both Triss and Ciri appear at breakfast wearing new gowns. They both sit with Jaskier, one on each side. Their laughter is contagious enough for Vesmir to wander by.“Something has changed with the addition of Ms. Merigold.”“Hm,” Geralt agrees. It should elate him. Instead, it is unsettling.When Triss escapes, laughing, cheeks red, carrying the smudge-faced cat with her, it’s not only the feline’s hackles that rise. She approaches where he leans against the fireplace, all but deaf and blind to the creature’s howls and spits and threats.“Oh, how fortunate you are to have such entertainment at your beck and call.”Geralt bristles even as he promised himself he would not. “He is not here to entertain. He is my guest, just as Ciri is.”Triss sits and curls onto the warm stones, cuddling the wretched beast against her breast. There are ginger hairs all over her green bodice.“I see why you like him,” she hums, smiling at some pleasant secret.Geralt pushes away from the hearth and heads for the outdoors.At first, Roach is happy to embark on an adventure, snorting excitedly through her nostrils as her head bobs with quickened steps. She slows rather quickly, though, when she determines it is just she and he venturing into the mountains. Even Geralt’s horse has been won from him.Hours later, freshly skinned and gutted deer carcasses tied to the saddle, Geralt takes the whole ride back to convince himself he is not jealous.Dinner is a raucous affair. Everyone is in great spirits. Wine flows freely as the venison cooks over the fire. Triss has let down her hair. Vesemir has combed his.Geralt is about to retreat to the stable when he hears something that sets his heart fluttering against the walls of his chest.A flute. A tune. And Ciri carrying both.At her side, Jaskier is showing her where to place her fingers on a long, carved instrument. She blows and produces nothing but laughter, but then corrects and recorrects to make ethereal low tones.It’s beautiful.She’s beautiful.Geralt watches as she concentrates, as she listens and watches and then tries so intently. Her eyes and voice and shoulders seem lighter. And Geralt sees a truly happy girl.Triss is suddenly by his side, pulling his elbow towards a table set with full glasses of wine.“Come, Geralt,” she says, coaxing with encouraging fingers over the back of his hand. “Jaskier’s promised to play for us.” And she lifts and pushes a goblet into his hand.Geralt shakes her loose and strides quickly across the room. Blood pumps from his Witcher’s heart through his Witcher veins, but he’s all human when he grasps Jaskier around the upper arm.He can feel the wide-open expression on his own face, can see it reflected in his friend’s reaction. With impossible blue eyes and a smile that causes Geralt’s chest to tighten, Jaskier is the most beautiful sight ever.“Your muse . . .” Geralt tries and fails, gripping more tightly and gently shaking. Out of the corner of one eye, Ciri is staring, beaming.Jaskier grasps Geralt’s arm, too. His upper lip quirks in that familiar crooked way. “Turns out I’m not a total lost cause.”Whether it’s because he’s here, or because of Ciri, or the other Witchers, or even Triss, Geralt doesn’t care. This has taken effort on all of their parts. The sense of accomplishment is overwhelming.Jaskier does play. It frees something from its cage, not only for Geralt, but for all of them. Smiles and laughter come more easily, helped along by the wine and food. And everyone is spurred to move by the Bard’s spirited piping.When the others finish their meal and take the floor to dance, Geralt makes his leave and gives them space. He doesn’t disappear entirely, because he could never miss this. He’s attracted to Jaskier’s joy like a moth to a flame.Ciri twirls, her gown swirling around her, and soon, the others are joining in. Triss coaxes Vesemir out of his chair, and the Brothers, drunk, with abandon, gather together with chaotic glee. There isn’t a person present who isn’t on their feet and stamping on the floor. Even Geralt taps his foot and hums along.Jaskier, the Entertainer, moves about them, swaying as he plays in a most alluring way. Geralt finds his eyes drawn to the triangle of the man’s back, the bounce in his step, the flowers braided, no doubt by Ciri, into his long hair. He makes certain to interact with each dancer individually, stopping to laugh when he misses a beat. Slapping backs and giving playful shoves when warranted. But his eyes, those stunning eyes, always find their way back to Geralt.It speaks to him as nothing else has. Especially when he begins to play that song, the one that his muse weaponized to take his voice.Geralt’s heart sinks as he recognizes it, curls in on himself with guilt. But Jaskier’s eyes are playful, and he lifts his chin in acknowledgment. Geralt goes cold as he realizes that the Bard has not forgotten all that happened that night in his room.Someone shouts that Jaskier should play the flute more often. “Keeps his trap shut, don’t it?”Geralt, hesitant, seeks and keeps and pleads for Jaskier’s gaze. He’s granted a long, long, knowing look. It lessens the pain.Ciri and Triss ambush and tag team him, pulling him closer to the fire, into the madness. He relents with a sigh and smiles beside himself. Jaskier does not approach, but he watches. Always watches.Geralt does a bad job of minding his feet. Sure, he spins and steps clumsily and laughs, breathing heavily, heart pounding. But his focus is on Jaskier. And he finds he cannot multitask, all of a sudden.When the group takes a break, replenishing the wine and wiping sweaty brows, Geralt moves to approach Jaskier. He doesn’t get far, because Triss wraps her arms around him and wrestles him to a table and tries again to ply him with wine. Geralt steals a tankard from a brother and gulps it down. Disappointment flashes across her face. She recovers quickly.“It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” she asks as she fans herself with one hand. “Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?”Her nails bite into his forearm, bare where he’s rolled up his sleeves. He supposes it won’t hurt; he could do with cold night air to clear his senses. He’s feeling strangely slow and dizzy.Jaskier watches them like a hawk as they leave.“That’s better,” Triss sighs as they step into the courtyard. “I’ve been trying to catch your ear all night.”Geralt is aware. He’s also aware that she’s crossed her arms over her chest, aware that goosebumps are already forming on her freckled skin. He grunts and ignores it. He already knows what’s coming.“No, Triss,” he says, quite plainly. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”She makes a dismissive move with one hand. “How can you say that when you have no idea what I’m going to ask?”Geralt hums, tipping his head back to take in the stars, baring his throat. “I asked you here to help Ciri. That is all. I will not be distracted by other agendas.”Triss seems to pout, and it only solidifies his position.“Surely you don’t mean that.”He turns to look at her, jaw set and absolutely meaning it.They are interrupted by Ciri running through the archway, sliding to a stop by them, smiling, panting.“The dancing’s started again. You have to dance with me, Geralt.”He recognizes that the girl has been sent, either by her own accord or by another’s, to rescue him.“Fine,” he sighs, feigning contempt. Truthfully, he’s grateful. Very, very grateful.It’s Ciri who brings Geralt and Jaskier together finally, circling the flutist and catching his elbow in her own. The man momentarily stops playing, starts circling with them. Something darkens his gaze, and he doesn’t quite make eye contact. Geralt thinks he knows why.The rest of the night he stays by Ciri’s side, which in turn, keeps them close to Jaskier. Geralt pays close attention to what and how much the man drinks. He’s switched over to water at some point, explaining his own pipes need lubricant.He winks at Geralt. Geralt has him back.Jaskier is affectionate as they finally sit to rest. He leans on Ciri, he roughs up Geralt’s shoulders and presses his knee into the meat of Geralt’s thigh. His eyes linger on Geralt’s lips, as Geralt’s do the same. The Witcher sees the forward path quite clearly.And he isn’t afraid this time.Vesemir calls it just before the moon reaches its peak. He grumps about noise making and reminds them all they all have an early rise for firewood duty. Groans and boos erupt throughout the hall, but Geralt’s stomach clenches in anticipation. He’s glad for it.Ciri collects her cat from the shadows and puts herself promptly to bed, and the others totter off in varying stages of drunkenness. Jaskier excuses himself, but he walks rather slowly across the hall. As if he’s waiting for someone to catch up.Geralt makes a beeline for him, and he almost makes it. But Triss appears from the side and tucks her arm around his belt.“You’re not getting out of it that easy,” she scolds, and she directs him out of the room. Geralt catches Jaskier’s gaze. He tries very hard to communicate directly to the man’s mind that he won’t be long.As it turns out, Triss has plans. She begins to speak of Sodden, of the loss, of the torture and unspeakable destruction. Geralt closes his mind; he doesn’t want to hear it, especially tonight. But the Mage begins to cry, and it would be heartless to dismiss her pain.“We’re both lonely,” she suggests. “We could help each other.”Geralt, a wall already built around that part of his heart, is gentle when he turns her down. “I’m sorry.”He’s firm. She shakes her head. He leaves her with a reassuring pat on her hand.Geralt makes it up the stairs and halfway to Jaskier’s room when he’s met by a rigid, hate-filled face.“Jaskier.”Every muscle and sinew in his body is tense. Wild eyes reflect the fire from the torch on the wall, and his demeanor is colder than the stone walls. The tendon in his jaw flexes, and his Adam’s apple lifts and falls as he swallows. He raises his head almost defiantly, and that’s when he pulls his sword.Confused, Geralt takes a step back. “Jaskier?”It doesn’t make sense. Everything about the evening has them pointed in a certain direction. Geralt understands that Triss has been aggressive, but she’s paid just as much attention to Jaskier in a similar manner. Surely Jaskier understands the way things are. After all, he was warned.“Geralt,” is all he says, but it’s filled with vitriol. The Witcher refuses to have this conversation in the drafty halls where a certain Mage would overhear. He moves quickly to meet Jaskier where he’s at.The sword makes a horrible thudding echo as it’s pinned inside the Bard’s hand against the wall. Jaskier sets his back foot and rams his shoulders against Geralt’s, grabs with impressive force the width of Geralt’s bicep. He leans forward with everything he has, struggling to free his weapon. His breath is hot and heavy on Geralt’s face.“Why must you taunt me —” Jaskier growls, and before he can say any more, Geralt slaps his free hand over the man’s mouth.The Witcher pulls his weight as he backs Jaskier against the wall. “I told you.” He hisses right into the side of Jaskier’s bristled cheek. The man’s skin is hot under his fingers. “She is not what she pretends to be.”Jaskier looks into Geralt’s eyes, brave and stupid and beautiful as he is. It takes him a half-moment for him to use his brain.All the fight goes out of him as he understands. To what extent, the Witcher doesn’t know or care. All that matters is that Jaskier stops talking and follows to Geralt’s room.Thankfully, he does.Nobody has been inside the Witcher’s room other than Ciri and himself. He saves this information for later. It’s important that Jaskier understand.Geralt strides across the dark space, using his enhanced senses to find and light the candles. Behind him, he can hear Jaskier’s ragged breathing, can sense his rapid heart rate, can smell the adrenaline that was released as he attacked. He’s calmer now, but only just. They will have to get over this before it – they – can move forward.Jaskier opens his mouth to spit more fire, but Geralt cuts him off.“Triss Merigold is a healer and a skilled potions master,” he begins, careful to stay out of the reach of Jaskier’s fury. “What do you think she wants with me?”The Bard blinks angrily, fists clenched, standing just inside the closed door. His mouth is open and his breath fogs the cold air inside the room. It looks, at first, like he won’t answer.He gets it on the first try.“Other than your massive cock? Power.”Geralt is thrilled. “Exactly. All it would take is a drop of love potion in someone’s drink . . .”He trails off, hoping Jaskier will follow.It takes a few terrifying moments, but he does. “That’s why you haven’t accepted anything from her.”Geralt smiles and chances a step closer. “She is hurting. She lost so many friends and loved ones at Sodden. I brought her here to teach Ciri. She is a friend. She thinks she wants me, but she doesn’t.”Jaskier snorts wryly. His sword remains in its place inside his vest. “Anyone with eyes can see she desires you.”The moment presents itself, and Geralt snatches it. He closes the distance between them and takes Jaskier’s face in his hands. Shakes him gently. Waits until he stops trying to avoid the Witcher’s eyes. Feels so much he's about to burst.“The only one I desire is you.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
With all the time they’ve spent together over the years, with everything they’ve been through, the bad and the worse, Geralt admits he hasn’t even scratched Jaskier’s surface. This is true now, perhaps more so, as the Bard blinks at him in the candlelight. As if Geralt hasn’t just made a terrifying confession that will change their relationship.He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t move. He pierces Geralt with those eyes for a charged moment, severely enough that the Witcher breaks contact and takes two steps back. Something other than desire is happening here. Something much, much more complicated.It’s then that Jaskier begins to undress.Geralt watches, transfixed, as the musician’s fingers unlace his vest. As Jaskier peels out of the leather armor and voluminous shirt. As hair-covered skin emerges with each discarded item. Slowly. Methodically. Torturous.The Bard twists to drop each piece of clothing to the floor, and Geralt is held frozen by pectoral muscles that tense and shudder and shift in the shadows. By biceps that bulge and release over and over as Jaskier begins to work the ties at the front of his trousers. His own body reacts accordingly at the sight of long lashes falling over pinked cheekbones. And he draws an audible inhale as Jaskier drops the rest of his clothing around the ankles.Jaskier is unafraid. He steps nimbly out of each pant leg by leaning back against the door. The slight arch in his spine forces his pelvis forward, causes his long, limp cock to stir against the nest of curly dark hair at his loins. Naked, he’s part hard muscle and soft flesh, sturdy and strong and yet only marginally less breakable than a female. But Geralt knows it’s the emotional injuries that do the most damage.He must be careful.It’s this fear that immobilizes the Witcher as Jaskier pushes away from the door and begins his approach. That cocky assuredness is there, sure. But there’s something else. Something wounded and head-shy. Like a horse that’s been beaten three masters ago and still doesn’t trust the current one.Jaskier moves carefully, shifting sideways as he comes within inches of Geralt where he stands. Eyes assessing, the Bard trails the very tips of the fingers on one hand over Geralt’s bare forearm. But Jaskier doesn’t stop as expected. Instead, he passes within a hair’s breadth, headed for the thick furs that lie on Geralt’s bed.The Witcher gets a good, long, greedy look at the shape of the man’s ass as he kneels, then rolls, then positions himself on his back. He makes quite a stunning picture.Geralt is obviously aroused; his stench fills the room and almost drowns out Jaskier’s bitter-sweetness. And the longer he stands here, eyeing the sprawled length of the man, the worse it’s going to get. Even a human such as this Bard would be able to smell how much the Witcher wants.A frown breaks Jaskier’s confidence, and he opens and closes his mouth twice, as if he’s doubting his bold actions.Geralt struggles for words. It’s extremely difficult while presented with Jaskier in such a vulnerable moment.“Well, Witcher?” the Bard says as he raises a hand to take hold of his own cock. “I realize your vocabulary is limited, but can you say something?”Geralt, speechless, feels a twist behind his navel as Jaskier jacks himself, squeezing hard and dragging a thumb over the center vein, pausing to tease just below the head. A seductress would be less tempting.The Witcher shucks out of his shirt one-handed and quickly, unwilling to break eye contact for any length of time. Jaskier appears to feel the same. Blue eyes bore into Geralt’s as he divests himself of the rest of his things. Mostly erect and painfully so, he gets to enjoy the Bard’s audible swallow as his gaze is drawn southward.Jaskier tightens up on his grip and pulls his cock away from that flat stomach. It serves as a kind of siren’s call, a ‘come hither’ that Geralt absolutely cannot resist.The Witcher goes to him.The man’s feet come right to the end of the old wooden frame, his head nearly touching the stone wall. Geralt straddles Jaskier’s ankles and knee-walks slowly across the furs until their thighs touch. The Witcher considers how distracting his cock must be, flushed hard and red and swinging side to side. Jaskier seems to be affected, anyway.“Oh,” he breathes, and it’s honestly the most seductive thing Geralt has ever heard. Jaskier prattling on about something he loves brings out passionate gestures and a beautiful, excited lilt to his voice. Jaskier silent, in awe, stroking himself, is a different beast altogether.A beast Geralt isn’t quite sure how to handle.“Closer,” Jaskier says, almost pleadingly. He gestures with the free hand for Geralt to continue. The Witcher leans forward onto his palms, closing the distance and meeting his friend’s gaze inch for inch. Beneath him, Jaskier begins to tremble, hand continuing to move over his cock.It’s a mind-fuck, lining his body up with Jaskier’s. Face to face, heart covering heart, naked cocks hovering so close to touching, Geralt can feel his resolve fading away. He wants very badly to touch the man.It’s Jaskier who reaches to touch first, fingers ghosting over the point of Geralt’s shoulder. He settles in and cups the back of the Witcher’s arm. Squeezes. Closes his eyes. Whispers.“I hate you for being so beautiful.”This prompts Geralt to speak. “Hm. Seems a foolish reason to hate someone.”The man’s hand drifts back to his shoulder, spreads flat over one shoulder blade, finds the point between them and pulls.The Witcher goes down on his elbows willingly.“Oh.”It’s the forced exhale of air crushed under the weight of someone bigger, wider, less used to intimacy with a man. Jaskier’s chest is warm as he inhales, tensing his stomach muscles, arching upward to be able to press lips against the scruff of Geralt’s jaw. An act so tender sends a jolt of sensation straight to the Witcher’s cock. “Jask,” he says, affectionate and weak. The Bard is making him think thoughts better saved for private fantasies. Taking Jaskier as he wants, the way he wants, could very well injure the man. Crush his spine. Bruise his ribs. Split his asshole enough to bleed.And yet.“Witcher,” Jaskier says into the hollow of Geralt’s cheek. “You’re not afraid to touch me, are you?”Geralt snorts a not-so-convincing laugh, and he bites his tongue lest the fear of failure falls off of it. Instead, he rocks back, pulls away from Jaskier’s mouth. Sinks into the man’s neck and scents the fragrant skin there.It’s divine, the smell of him, sweaty and lusty and under cover of flowery oils. The Witcher can’t help but drag his nose up and down one side, then the other. It could be the world’s most powerful aphrodisiac, as far as Geralt is concerned.He mouths at collarbones, licks and kisses the thin skin over both shoulders. Jaskier groans and grabs hold of the back of Geralt’s neck and guides him down the center of that lean-muscled chest.Here he smells even stronger, as if it stems from his fucking heart. Geralt inhales and inhales and hums, doting on the lovely bulge of each pectoral muscle. Until his lips glide over a peaked nipple.The hair circling each narrow pebble grows in whorls from outside to in. It feels soft even against the rough of the Witcher’s unshaven cheek. He discovers very quickly, as he noses a nipple, one at a time, that each is an erogenous zone that sends Jaskier arching.Geralt latches on and suckles.“Fuck,” the Bard hisses, hand flying to Geralt’s scalp. Long fingers tangle in the straggly mess there, tugging, urging closer, harder, more. The Witcher heeds the call and gives it to him, in duplicate.By this time, the agonizing pang in Geralt’s gut has risen to alarming levels. His hips move of their own accord. His cock slaps eagerly against his own waistline.Jaskier is breathing hard, shallow and rapid. All ten fingers scrabble for purchase on Geralt’s wide back. Nails scratch at the scars, igniting a different kind of pain. Mingled with the pleasure Jaskier seems to be gaining from it, the Witcher finds it only makes him hungrier.He wants to devour this man.Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath as Geralt slides downward and moves to the rippled plane of his abdomen. The muscles jump with attention from Geralt’s mouth. And when the Witcher’s chin bumps into the tip of Jaskier’s erection, something uncoils like a snake inside.Geralt surges upward, dives for Jaskier’s mouth, and covers the writhing, moaning man with all of his body. Tongues slide over each other, chests heave and blood pumps to fuel their sex. The Witcher grinds down until he pins Jaskier’s cock with his own. It’s hot, and it liquifies like fire in his veins. He imagines Jaskier’s ejaculation, the spill of seed onto Geralt’s throbbing cock. He thrusts, first experimentally, then with purpose. With need. It’s better than the effects of any potion, any ale or wine. Jaskier responds beautifully. He gropes the length of the Witcher’s spine. He finds the thickness of Geralt’s waist, the swell of his ass. And as he squeezes he moans into Geralt’s open mouth.“Yes,” he says, breathless, panting. “Grind against me until we come.”Geralt obliges. He holds back, of course, moving slowly and purposefully, paying close attention to the sounds and expressions Jaskier makes. He gives up kissing the man to watch pleasure play out on his face. Messy and uncoordinated as it is, the Bard seems rapturously pleased. This, in turn, fuels Geralt’s path.They thrust against each other for some time. Their hands explore exposed skin, mouths connect and break apart and connect again. They rest when the friction begins to burn. They fuck the space between their bellies until it’s wet with a stronger kind of arousal.Geralt wants to taste it, wants to smear it into his skin and forever wear it as a reminder. But Jaskier is slowly growing frustrated at the start and stop of it all. And the Witcher does not wish to disappoint.He shifts all his weight to one side, and although Jaskier protests with a silent pout, he stops as soon as Geralt spits in his hand and gathers their cocks together. The Witcher keeps Jaskier’s gaze, punishes his mouth, strokes the length of the man’s cock against the width of his own. And when Jaskier tenses with a guttural sound trapped in his throat, Geralt leans back to watch him come.It’s magnificent, the feel of another cock-skin wrinkling against his. The pulses that make his stomach roil, the heady smell of cum oozing out of a pinkened slit of a hole. The urge to take it in his mouth returns, and just the thought is enough to power him to the edge. He’s never eaten a man before. Never wanted to —Until Jaskier. Geralt is going to come with that blessed name on his lips. Jaskier watches the space between them, cheeks colored and eyes glassy with bliss. He whispers something unintelligible, then offers a little encouragement.“Gods, that monster cock. Can’t believe it’s mine.”The Witcher shifts closer, strokes harder, nears the summit.“I could write dozens of songs about the spread of those massive thighs.”Jaskier slips both hands below Geralt’s ass and squeezes, lifts and grunts as he does so. A finger slips over the Witcher’s hole. It’s bold and surprising, something he’s only ever done to himself. The Bard, sensing the impending orgasm, does it again.“Fuck, Jaskier,” he growls as the pleasure climbs up the back of his throat. He shouts as it blooms hot and heavy in his stomach, then spills onto the flaccid beauty that is Jaskier’s cock.The Bard makes another climaxing sound, as if he’s sharing Geralt’s orgasm. It continues, only softer, as the Witcher wobbles a little, allowing himself to go down into the furs next to his lover. The mingling of their seed, pungent and raw and covering Geralt’s hand is wiped over his chest. His groin. His cock.Jaskier rolls to meet him. His breath is hot, his eyes aflame. He gathers Geralt into an all-body embrace. His nose pokes under the Witcher’s ear. It sends a tingling sensation down the sides of his neck.The aftermath of sex is something Geralt has never had any use for. He comes, and then he goes. The job is finished. Release accomplished. Except twice now, with two different people, he’s felt an anxious tug to his heart. He knows it will end, but he doesn’t want it to.“You’re magnificent,” Jaskier whispers as he continues to breathe heavily against Geralt’s chest. He’s somehow wedged one thigh between the both of Geralt’s. “A prayer to the Gods,” he says, eyes half-closed, body limp. “I would gladly pay this twenty-year price again. Just to be able to experience that. With you.”It’s a blow to the balls, and Geralt feels the swoop of regret. He opens his mouth and blurts out:“The djinn.”Jaskier tenses against him, stops running fingers gently over the mass of sweaty fur on Geralt’s chest.The Witcher tries to explain. “I told Yen to heal you, whatever the price.”This sets Jaskier to thinking. He frowns and purses his lips. “And how much did she charge?”Geralt has known for a long time that he and Yen were bound together by that third wish. But he also knows that, if it weren’t for his own stupid selfishness, Jaskier would never have been cursed. It's his fault, all of it, over and over again.Jaskier answers his own question. “You traded yourself to save me.”It’s not untrue, and when it’s said that way, it doesn’t sound quite so devastating. Jaskier seems to be accepting of that much, at least.The Bard looks at him for a long, long moment. Then he ducks his head and swoops in to lick at the spunk on Geralt’s skin.Something snaps in the Witcher’s head. The memory of that horrible, wonderful day is taken over by the fact that Jaskier has always, always been on his side.Geralt pets the smooth curve of Jaskier’s head, having come to a decision. The Bard moans as he laves with his tongue, then lifts his head and seeks out Geralt’s mouth.The kiss is a foul bitterness on the Witcher’s sensitive tongue. But the act outweighs the taste, and Geralt is suddenly hungry once more.When Jaskier breaks away from their reheated kiss, his eyes dance with mischief.“So what you’re saying, which is extremely romantic, by the way, is that I owe you my life.”The Witcher thinks about this. He smells a loophole. “Hm.”Jaskier smiles, draws with one finger down the side of Geralt’s face.“Well, then. Since you agree so fluently. I guess this means I’ll just have to warm your bed for the next twenty years. To thank you for your sacrifice.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Geralt wakes with Jaskier’s scent in his nose, a lark’s voice in his ear, and a thrice-satisfied longing for talented fingers on his cock. He blinks awake to find the day has begun without him. The Witcher lies on his back, legs stretched out and lax. One hand rests over his chest, palm down, fingers flexed loosely. The previous evening comes rushing back at him, and he is suddenly convinced that something is very much wrong. He bolts upright and is greeted by an amused chuckle.“Do you have any idea how many times I tried to wake you by sucking your cock? And what finally stirs you is a song?”Jaskier crouches, naked, before the fire. The lovely curve of his back rounds down over a delicious set of arse cheeks. Strong thigh muscles spread wide as they brace over bare feet on the stone floor.Geralt squirms at the sight; he really likes Jaskier in bare feet.“Hm,” he says absentmindedly, distracted by the graceful curl of fingers around a stoking iron. The Witcher thinks he remembers an attempt at rousing him, but it takes the shape of a poke in the back rather than warm lips wrapped around —“You lie,” Geralt accuses, taking in the rumpled furs at the end of the bed. It’s very warm inside the large room. No wonder he slept far longer than he intended.Jaskier shrugs. “Only when it makes for an interesting story. Honestly, I was less afraid to wriggle free from your grasp to add more wood to the fire than to put my mouth anywhere near your most prized possession. You are a veritable mountain grizzly with sharp claws when you dream, Geralt.”This is a frightening thought, confusing nightmares with reality. It’s part of the reason he doesn’t take lovers to bed unless they can handle themselves.“Did I hurt you?“The Bard turns his head and smiles. His hair sticks out at odd angles. There are pouches beneath those expressive eyes, a soul-deep exhaustion of which Geralt is completely responsible. If they hadn’t stayed up late into the night touching and talking —“No more than you have in the past.”The Witcher groans, wounded. “Jask.”Laughing, tired, Jaskier straightens to walk the distance to the bedside. The long, tall stretch of softly furred skin heats the Witcher’s insides better than any fire. The man sinks to his knees and takes Geralt’s face in warm hands.“You slept like a stone in the road, impossible protective man,” he says, joyful. “I am glad for it.”The Witcher frowns, studying the unusual shape of Jaskier’s bottom lip. It’s puffed up and slightly purple. And there are dark bruises like a chain around the man’s neck.Geralt reaches out to touch, to soothe, to —“Don’t you dare apologize for anything that happened since last night,” Jaskier scolds. “If I had my way, I’d be covered in love marks.”And he leans in to press a kiss with those swollen lips to Geralt’s forehead.It’s so gentle it hurts.Careful not to worsen anything he might have done under the influence of shared passion, Geralt collects Jaskier into his arms and back under covers.The man protests half-heartedly, then sighs and allows his head to rest between Geralt’s cheek and shoulder. The Witcher joins him in a heavy, content exhale and buries his nose in that tangled head of hair.“My cock is not my most prized possession,” Geralt says. He can feel his Lover’s heart thudding steadily against his own ribs.Jaskier snorts, warm and wet against his neck. “Oh, well then, let me guess. If it’s not your sword, or your – other sword, then it’s —”“It’s you,” Geralt interrupts, giving it time to breathe because Jaskier seems not to be. “My prized possession is you.”They are quiet for some time, listening to the rekindled fire crackle and hiss. Jaskier rolls atop and strokes Geralt’s sternum, working fingers through the long hairs there. The Witcher tries to understand the tension in his chest; it has nothing to do with the Bard’s substantial weight covering him. It’s as if an unseen wound has begun to knit itself back together.Before Geralt can identify it, an explosion rocks the castle.“What in the name of —”Jaskier’s eyes are wide as he jerks from his comfortable position. The artery in his neck throbs with the release of adrenaline, and he pulls back sharply.“Relax,” Geralt grunts, yanking him more firmly into his arms. “It’s one of the others igniting a cloud of Dragon’s Dream. Nothing to worry about.”The Bard looks as if Geralt has lost his mind. “Nothing to worry about?” He scrambles to set himself free. The man’s strength is very convincing. “The last time this castle shook in such a way, you lost a Brother!”The Witcher’s stomach drops. Jaskier is absolutely right. How can he dismiss the fact that his friend is traumatized just like the others?Geralt hurries out of bed and into his trousers, Jaskier following suit and forgoing the laces to slide into his boots. The Bard rushes for the swords, hefting and collecting them against his naked freckled chest. He beats Geralt to the door, and the Witcher stifles a proud smile as he watches Jaskier’s dimpled bottom appear in the gap between wool and skin.He catches up just as they reach the courtyard. The wind whips up snow eddies in their faces. Roach and the other horses haven’t even lifted their sleeping heads. Rumps to the wind, they swish imaginary flies and munch lazily on midday feedings. Jaskier tosses the silver weapon to Geralt and takes the black blade for himself. His biceps bulge and the muscles in his back ripple. Hair tossed about, eyes fearless and determined, he makes quite the sight. The Witcher couldn’t ask for a more lovely and loyal companion.It’s then that Geralt hears the collective laughter. He recognizes Lambert’s as the loudest.“There you are!” he half sneers, half barks. “Figured your tongue was down Flower Boy’s throat or in his ass and that’s why you missed all the fun.”The Witcher ignores the snipe, even though it’s none of his Brother’s business and Geralt would very much rather be doing both. He scans the courtyard, the other jeering faces, all in various stages of stacking newly made bombs to set in the frigid air, and sees a very important person is missing.“Where’s Ciri?” he shouts, pressing against Jaskier’s very warm shoulder. There’s a hint of panic in his question; they shouldn’t have left her alone for so long while indulging in carnal pleasures.“What fun?” the Bard asks. His frown says it all; he’s worried about the girl, too. And it dawns on Geralt that his friend — no, his Lover — cares about Ciri perhaps as much as he.Vesemir unfolds his arms, waves the others off, and walks closer. “Ciri had a vision.”The sound Jaskier makes is a squeaking kind of indignation. “And you didn’t tell us immediately?”“Where is she now?” Geralt adds. His mind races at the sight of the Bard’s plump lips and goosebumps on hairy flesh and the fact that he’s inside Geralt’s head thinking the very same thing.Vesemir holds up both hands placatingly. He looks unworried as he turns from Geralt to Jaskier and back again. “She is with Triss. They are exploring this new event inside the castle.” And then, for Geralt, “She saw Eskel. Alive.”Jaskier squeaks again and slaps a hand over that mouth.“Do the others know?” Geralt asks, guessing they don’t. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be celebrating his and Jaskier’s coupling with a petty, childish prank.Vesemir shakes his head. “No. It would create unrest within these walls. And, right now, there’s enough of that going on.”He glances sideways at Jaskier in his unclothed state.“What, me?” the man gasps, over-dramatic-like, and stares wide-eyed at Geralt. “Come on, be real! Like everyone and their Brother couldn’t see it coming.”Geralt wants to laugh since he’s one who didn’t see it at all, but he doesn’t. He takes Jaskier’s upper arm in his hand and squeezes to signal him quiet.“Take us to her.”Vesemir nods, fighting back against a grin. “But first, wash up and put your shirts on. Both of you. You’re in no state to be in the company of a princess.”Geralt knows it. They smell of sweat and sex and both carry marks from the act. They retreat to the Witcher’s room, where Jaskier heats water by the fire, and Geralt paces impatiently. It could all be domestic if worry about Ciri didn’t hang over both of their heads.Vesemir takes them to the library, which the rest of the Witchers have avoided like the plague since Triss arrived. None of them had wanted to fall victim to one of her potions; they’re not exactly afraid, just, keeping her best interests in mind.Ciri sits with her back to them, the Mage close to her side in front of the fire. Open books line the table, knowledge sought in each one. It appears, though, that none of them hold the answer to the girl’s visions. Triss’ eyes are a blazing statement of that fact.“Geralt. Jaskier,” she says, nodding at each. She doesn’t avoid their gazes so much as protect herself from being gazed upon. The shield of her emotions is unflappable.The Witcher is pleased to find she’s all business when it comes to Ciri.Upon hearing their names, the girl whirls off of her bench and launches across the room, slamming into Geralt’s chest so hard he is forced a half-step back. She immediately begins hyperventilating, and as Geralt lifts her gently, embraces her firmly, he catches a worried frown from his partner.The Bard’s expression says, ‘Hug her extra for me,’ and Geralt does just that. He moves to take Ciri back to sit by the fire, passing close enough to Jaskier that the man reaches a trembling hand to place at the back of the girl’s head.Geralt brushes his lips against his Lover’s hand as he kisses Ciri’s hair. Jaskier’s blues are impossibly bluer, deeper even, as he holds the Witcher’s gaze.“Come,” Geralt hums, both for Jaskier and the girl. “Come sit and tell us what you saw.”She sits, shoulders shaking, between the two men, sliding a hand in each one’s fingers. Over his shoulder, Geralt catches Vesemir in a smirk that, in any other circumstance, could have been teasing. The four huddle around the one like a protection spell, watching and waiting patiently as Ciri gains control of her speech. Geralt tries very hard not to frown or otherwise show any judgment at all. Jaskier leans in with a curled finger to lift her chin.“You can do it, Love,” the Bard says, soft and reassuring. “You’re safe with us.”Ciri gives him a watery smile, and Geralt’s fucking heart crumbles inside his chest.“You were there,” she whispers, squeezing Jaskier’s hand as she speaks. “You saved me.”Jaskier’s eyes flit to Geralt’s. Something unspoken passes between them, something terrifying and horrible and real.“And what of Eskel?” the Witcher asks, careful to keep the fear from his tone.Ciri turns to look up at him, scared. “He was there too. He was alive. Somehow he survived, and –”The girl closes her eyes and shuts down, burying her face against Geralt’s chest. Vesemir and Triss share a knowing look while Jaskier watches with the careful eye of an outsider.It’s the Bard who makes the suggestion. “I think Ciri’s been through enough interrogation,” he says, sounding very much in charge. “She’s clearly distressed, and hounding her with questions isn’t doing any of us good.”Ciri lifts her head and blinks at Jaskier with relief, and Geralt finds he agrees with the man.“Why don’t you take her down to the hot springs,” he says, scenting the air and tasting the mage’s tension. “Let her clear her mind for a few.”Triss’ head snaps up and her posture stiffens. “You think that wise, especially knowing –”But Vesemir interrupts and takes his side. “Yes, I agree.” He stands and signals to Geralt to do the same. “Geralt and I will discuss our next step.” He nods acknowledgment in Triss’ direction. “Perhaps you’ll be able to find that spell you’re looking for, eh?”It’s apparent that the mage is unhappy with the turn of events, but she takes Vesemir’s suggestion with grace. Geralt is confident her intentions are honorable; she has shown nothing but concern for the girl.Jaskier tucks his arm inside Ciri’s and coaxes her out of the Library. Vesemir and Geralt follow the pair, parting ways in the great hall. The Bard looks over his shoulder with a cheeky wink in both Witchers’ direction. There isn’t anyone Geralt trusts with his Child Surprise more.Still.“Jask,” he says as he unsheaths the black blade. Jaskier traces his steps back and takes it with a sure fist. The strength in the lifted chin and those pursed lips is more than reassuring. Geralt watches as Jaskier steals a cloak from a chair and shoulders the weapon without a care in the world.Meanwhile, Geralt has plenty.“Has Ciri ever had any — disturbing — dreams before?”Geralt nods as he listens to a tear-laden chortle; Jaskier is making her laugh.“Yes,” he says. “She found me, in the forest, just after Sodden. Said she saw me in a dream. And she knew of Yennefer and Jaskier before I even mentioned their names.”It appears Vesemir has his trepidations, too. “This is outside my scope of abilities.”Geralt, watching his Bard leave with his Heart, agrees. “Mine too.”Vesemir hums. “She’s in good hands. Jaskier will get more out of her than Triss and I combined.”They retreat to the lab where each takes a bench at a cluttered table, and the older Witcher retells the morning’s happenings.“She went rigid, lounging in her usual chair with her cat. The poor animal jumped out of her lap and tore off down the hall, hissing and spitting as if its tail were on fire. For a moment, we all stopped and stared because Ciri wasn’t moving in any way that would have been concerning. It was when she threw back her head and shrieked that we all ran for cover.”Geralt frowns. “But I heard nothing.” It makes no sense.“Clearly,” Vesemir gruffs. “Why do you think the boys made such a ruckus to wake you?”Geralt ignores the jab and tries to think, tries to remember anything that would have stirred his sleep. Hadn’t Jaskier been trying to rouse him as well?It’s highly disturbing.“You should have summoned me right away.”Vesemir chuckles. “I would have done so if every single lad in the breakfast hall wasn’t white as a ghost, shitting themselves with fear in the face of the girl’s untamed power.”And Geralt understands. “You couldn’t leave her.” As always, the old Witcher is very seldom wrong.His responding smile is a forced thing. “She woke up not moments later complaining of a headache. Triss and I whisked her off to her room where she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling.”Geralt ‘hms.’ “Triss and I discussed with her about what we could do the help recall this dream. I calmed her while the mage delved deeper into her mind —““You didn’t do it without her permission!” Geralt remembers quite vividly how Ciri feels about such thingsVesemir shakes his head. “Of course not. Have faith in your Old Man.”Geralt opens his mouth to explain, but he doesn’t get any words out. A shudder runs through both men’s amulets, a high-pitched whine emulating from the vibrations.“Ciri!”They race through the corridors and out to the stables where Witchers quickly emerge and gather. Geralt takes no time to stop and talk; he knows exactly why each and every amulet is sounding an alarm.Monster.Geralt doesn’t bother saddling and bridling Roach. He takes her by the headcollar and throws a leg over her back. She’s already trotting through the gates, the Witcher scrambling to balance himself with both fists clutching her mane. And she doesn’t wait for him to cue her, setting off at a gallop towards the springs.The others follow some distance behind, and he and Roach are the first to arrive at the horrifying scene. The snow is splattered crimson, evidence of a frantic battle. Ciri stands in the steaming water wearing only her drenched underskirts and a terrified frozen ‘oh’ on her ashen lips. The near side of the pond is blocked by an enormous tangle of gnarled branches, of blackened and splintered wood, sharp shards littering the bloody, snowy ground. The Leshy looks as if it’s been torched and exploded from the inside; it’s almost unrecognizable at first glance.At the second, it’s not the only thing lying twisted in the snow. A man, bare and covered in hair, dirt, and sweat hunches very much alive at the water’s edge. A man that the Witchers had mourned for, had laid to rest with the wolves. A Brother lost who is very much no longer.“Eskel!” Geralt shouts, launching from the horse’s back before she’s slowed completely. He falls and skids sideways on the icy ground. He scrambles to right himself and dives at the other Witcher’s side.Eskel’s eyes are rolled back in his head and he’s shivering uncontrollably, but Geralt can find no wound that would cause so much blood.And Leshen don’t bleed red.It’s only then that Geralt notices the other man clear across the pond. His crumpled body lies still against a pile of sharp rocks. The ground beneath him is a river, a pooled mass of spilled humanity. The Witcher doesn’t hesitate to fling himself into the pond to get to him.Jaskier is pale, long hair matted wet and red against his face. He makes a grunt, thank gods, as Geralt brushes the man’s forehead. Feels with both hands for a pulse, for a breath, for some kind of fucking sign.The black sword in Jaskier’s hand shifts, and the Witcher doesn’t know why, but his eyes are drawn toward the motion. The Bard’s fingers are wrapped so tightly around the handle the skin of each knuckle looks ready to split.“Jask!” he pants, taking note of the lack of blood on the blade. “Jask! Can you hear me?”Jaskier groans and then coughs. The action causes him to draw into himself quickly. He holds his stomach with his free hand. Geralt has found the source of the blood.“Fuck,” he hisses. Voices sound behind him, splashes break the surface of the water. Lambert lumbers into the scene, falling to his knees beside Geralt.“Oh, fuck,” he whispers. “Triss!” his Brother shouts, and Geralt slams a hand onto the man’s thigh. Glares.“No! She needs to tend to Eskel! And you must get Ciri back to the castle.”Lambert shoves him off. “Vesemir’s got the girl. She’s uninjured. And the others have Eskel. Your Bard needs Triss the most!”More shouting, horses snorting, the smell of sage and mint. Triss collapses into the snow on Geralt’s other side and reaches for Jaskier’s hand.Geralt holds his Bard’s head steady, caresses that dimpled chin with both thumbs and feels the faintest of breaths over his wrist. Meanwhile, Lambert is struggling to free the weapon from Jaskier’s fingers.“Let go, stubborn fool,” he growls, but the Bard fights with unyielding strength.The man’s voice is but a wheeze as he declines with, “Fuck off, Lamb.”He gives it up, though, when Geralt gentles his fingers open.The Mage chants an incantation in Elder Speech, his Brother shifts through pockets for a vial, and Geralt sits there unable to breathe.“Move,” Lambert commands, pushing to make a space. The opening is immediately closed by Triss and his Brother as they tend to Jaskier’s weak and broken state. The mage stops the bleeding with a spell. Lambert administers a tonic for pain, for infection.Geralt has never felt more excluded.“We need to take him back,” Triss whispers urgently. “We need to see what has happened to him.”“No!” Lambert roars. “We don’t have time. We do it here, whatever it takes.”Geralt is grateful for his Brother’s concern, feeling the urgency gnawing holes in his stomach. He glances over one shoulder, making eye contact with Vesemir where he and Ciri ride Roach. The older Witcher lifts his chin in silent acknowledgment as they turn and enter the forest. Geralt collects his knife from his boot.“Back away,” he warns, and then proceeds to rip open the Bard’s clothing.When Jaskier is curled naked and steaming at Geralt’s knees, they are able to locate the wound. A finger-sized hole punches through his side, just beneath the last rib. It’s ragged and jarring, especially at its exit point at the base of Jaskier’s back. No blade would leave such a thing behind.“The Leshy,” Lambert says, confirming Geralt’s thoughts. “We’ve got to find out if it left anything behind.”Triss shares a resolute look with both Witchers before rolling up her soaked sleeves. “Very well. We’ll begin with an exploratory —““The hell you will,” the Bard manages, trying feebly to pull away. Lambert wraps a burly fist around Jaskier’s forearm. Geralt pries it away.“The water,” he gruffs, feeling numb in every joint. The others take a moment to stare at Geralt, but back off when he reaches in to lift Jaskier into his arms.The springs are a welcome relief to the bite of winter’s jaws. Even Jaskier makes a shocked noise when his skin touches warmth. Geralt holds him close, floating his pale, painfully human body just under the surface. The Witcher’s greatest fear has come to fruition.Triss runs her hands over Jaskier’s body, chanting another series of Elder spells. Lambert, irritated and grumbling about how he’d already bathed that month, spills another potion into Jaskier’s slack mouth.The Bard chokes, and Geralt stiffens. He glances at the other two, each ignoring his frantic stares. They aren’t giving him anything to go on, no hints about the extent of Jaskier’s injuries. He opens his mouth to rage at them, but Lambert wraps a large hand around the back of his neck.“Make yourself useful,” he says, eyes wide. “Get rid of the Leshy; build a fire and end this.”Geralt feels something move inside, like his body shifting into action. Yes, of course, he must make absolute certain. If only he could drag himself away.“I’ve got him,” Triss hums, smiling kindly and seriously at Geralt. “We’ve each got a job to do. Go. Do yours.”It’s enough of a command that Geralt wants to fight against it, wants to hold Jaskier tight and never let go. But there’s something attractive about burning his Lover’s attacker, his Brother’s killer, to the ground. How fitting he be the one to do it.As Geralt obeys the pull of primal revenge in his system, as he turns away from one calamity and faces the next, he only then notices the Brothers who remained behind. He blinks out of his self-absorbed state and feels real gratitude for his family. “Let’s take care of it.”The Witchers pile the broken pieces onto what’s left of the creature, ensuring that the smallest of these make it onto the bonfire. They spread out and bring splinters from a large radius into the center. Geralt does his best to prevent his attention from straying back to the water.He remembers what Ciri had said to Jaskier about saving her life. It doesn’t go unnoticed how many of the branches have been cleanly removed by a very sharp blade.The blast of heat as each Witcher applies igni sends Geralt’s hair flying as if in a gale-force wind. It scalds the hairs inside of his nose, his brows, the scruff of his throat. The damp of his face is instantly dried, and he doesn’t raise his hands to shield against the burn or step back like his Brothers. He wants to feel it. All of it.He watches with stinging eyes as the last of the creature turns to ash, until a voice in his ear frees him from it.“Geralt!”Lambert frowns at him, a black-caped figure held against his chest. He’s illuminated from behind by a purplish glow: a portal, Triss holding it open with outstretched fingers.Geralt finds he’s the only one not currently making haste for the opening. Even Lambert, with Jaskier in his arms, stands at the threshold.He stomps on the last of the ashes and then sprints across the short distance to wrench his Bard from Lambert’s grasp.“Mine,” he snaps, spittle flying from his mouth. Bile works its way up the back of his throat as incisors lengthen and hair prickles and hackles rise.The smallest, most infinitesimal glint of fear flashes in his Brother’s eyes. He gives up Geralt’s mate without a fight.Jaskier groans against Geralt’s neck. He smells of Ciri, which makes sense since he’s wearing her cloak. Their combined scents elicit another protective growl in his throat. The way forward is crystal clear.Geralt steps into the whirling, gut-churning, nausea-inducing waygate, and he closes his eyes against the feeling. He must remain strong; Jaskier and Ciri depend on him. Nothing so small as the loss of last night’s dinner will come between them.He vomits upon arrival, right over Jaskier’s shoulder, onto the stone floor of the common area. Triss immediately grabs his elbow, Lambert supporting the other. As they help him along in the direction of his room, Geralt spies Ciri on Vesemir’s lap, cradled like a child in front of the fire. And Eskel — gods, Eskel — alive with a mug between pale fingers and other Brothers' hands warming his skin.There’s a tug at his heart just as powerful as the one that keeps Jaskier close, and Geralt finds himself torn between the three. Vesemir must know this, because he barks across the hall.“She and your Brother are safe, Wolf. Go with Him.”He says ‘him’ with such respect that Geralt feels his chest swell. He’d had suspicions that Jaskier was welcomed into the Pack, but this confirms it. The Wolf nods once and disappears down the hall.Jaskier is shivering once again as Geralt lays him carefully into the fur-covered bed. Lambert reignites the fire while Triss conjures a poultice for Jaskier’s wounds. The Bard complains with half-hearted whimpers, curling even closer around Geralt where he kneels on the floor.Lambert stokes the flames to life and then makes way across the room to the door. He must say something to Triss, for she, too, straightens and leaves Jaskier’s bandages alone.“Call if you need us,” she says. And then, they are gone.Geralt strokes Jaskier’s cheek, leans down to kiss the cracked corner of parched lips.“My Love,” he whispers. “What happened?”After several long moments, those blue eyes finally open. Jaskier looks up out of wide, black pupils.“Geralt.” His voice is like new steel hammered over a cold anvil. “Ciri. She needs you. She needs your help!”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Eskel can’t remember a thing.“I swear, Geralt,” he says, frustrated that he can’t give the other Witcher what he seeks. “I killed the Leshy, and the next thing I know I’m being sucked through a portal and flung onto the snowy ground. I don’t remember an orgy at the castle, and I don’t remember a fight. You, of all people, should know I would never do or say anything to hurt you. We’ve always been closer than the others.”Although it doesn’t answer Geralt’s question, it partially explains the unkind words Eskel had said the night he died.Or rather, didn’t die.Ciri is even more traumatized than before. She has to be coaxed into attending meals and refuses to speak to Triss or Geralt about what happened at the Springs. The only thing that seems to keep her halfway content is holding vigil by Jaskier’s side while he mends.And mend, he does. In three days' time, he’s sitting up in Geralt’s bed. His skin is beginning to take on more color, and the puncture wound in his side is red and sore but untainted by infection. It seems Lambert’s falsely reluctant assistance has paid off.Geralt makes sure to nod his thanks whenever his Brother makes to leave the room. Lambert makes sure to snarl and sneer.On the fourth day, Ciri allows Vesemir to take her to see the horses, insisting that Roach has been causing mischief with the other animals, breaking the goats free from their pens, because she isn’t getting enough attention. Geralt knows this to be true about his intelligent and resourceful mount, but he also understands that the Oldest Witcher has a way with youngsters. Other than Jaskier, it seems the most likely method to find answers.Geralt returns to his room to find Jaskier slumped over the back of a chair, cheek on the armrest, long, unkempt hair falling and hiding his face.It’s heartbreaking to see his family torn apart by a single event; Geralt wants nothing more than to have back what they’ve lost.He feels in his bones that everything has changed.Afraid of even the faintest form of intimacy, fearful it will break the crumbling bond between them, Geralt hums his greeting as he closes the door behind him. The Bard doesn’t acknowledge his arrival.Geralt perches carefully on the end of the bed, and Jaskier heaves a massive sigh.“It doesn’t feel right to share the information she’s entrusted me with.”A surge of bile creeps into Geralt’s throat. He says nothing.“Her power is terrifying,” he continues without looking up. “And she’s terrified of herself and what she might do.”Geralt and Triss have deduced as much. Neither knows how best to act on this.“She loves you so, so much, but she thinks she’s a freak who doesn’t deserve the family she has here.”Geralt makes a sad noise. They’re all freaks here. Each and every one.Jaskier finally looks up, eyes big and wide and absolutely wrecked.“She — she can see the future. Did you know that?”Geralt nods and wants badly to take the Bard’s hand and comfort him. Comfort himself.“And she can—” Jaskier swallows hard. “She can slip into the past as well.”Geralt starts at this, pushing to his feet and falling to his knees at the Bard’s bare feet. He wants to pull Jaskier from the chair and hold him closer than skin, whisper into the man’s ear that he will fix this. He will find out what to do to help Ciri, and they will be whole once again.But he doesn’t. Instead, he waits with bated breath as Jaskier inhales once again.“It was Ciri who rescued Eskel. She reached back through time and ripped him into the present.”Geralt shakes his head in disbelief.“But she didn’t account for the Leshy. And she pulled it through as well. The moment it realized it was outnumbered, it assessed that I was the greatest danger, holding the sword as I was. And it came after me straight away.”Geralt does touch Jaskier then, gripping tightly the bend of his knee. The Bard doesn’t shrink away, but he’s trembling. From weakness. From injury. From fear.“I attacked like you showed me.” There were fat tears spilling from Jaskier’s eyes now. “Did quite a lot of damage at the start. And then it picked me up, ran me through, and tossed me across the pond like I was a pest of a beetle gnawing on its bark. I heard Ciri scream, but couldn’t reach her in time.”Cold spilled down Geralt’s spine. “In time for what?”Suddenly, Jaskier has snatched both of the Witcher’s forearms, yanking him forward, face contorted by agony.“She made it explode!” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. “She screwed up her face — I’ve never seen her so angry before — there was the sound of creaking wood, expanding and cracking and splintering into thousands of pieces. The creature cried out, and flames erupted from the inside. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop her!”Jaskier collapses into Geralt’s arms then, and the Witcher hauls him against his chest and onto the bed. They cling to each other as the Bard sobs, and Geralt sees the Path forward very, very clearly.So does Jaskier, it appears.“You need to find someone — somewhere — who can help her.” He sniffles, and Geralt shudders. He knows what the Bard is going to say next.“She needs you to protect her, and I cannot be a distraction to that protection. Take her away from here. None of us can do any more good for her, least of all me.”The Witcher means to argue, but what good will it do? Jaskier is right. They must leave, travel to the Temple, before anyone else gets hurt. Geralt’s heart has already splintered to pieces like the Leshy.They are packed and ready to leave by sunset, but Ciri wants to spend one last night by the fire, listen to the Brothers argue as they play cards, sleep in her own bed. She nods off with her head in Jaskier’s lap, and Geralt lifts her gently when Triss whispers that her fire is tended to and her bedthings are turned down.Jaskier limps alongside as they deposit her in her room.Geralt has to force himself to watch, stop himself from turning away in pain as the Bard presses still lips to the girl’s cheek for a long, long time.“Sleep well, Love,” he whispers into her wild and unbrushed hair. Then he stands, turns, and walks out.Geralt follows him to their room — their room — and finds he is without words once the door clicks shut and seals them off, alone. He’s never had to say goodbye to someone so important before. It has caused his hands to falter like his broken heart.Jaskier, though, has no trouble with such things. He strips slowly, methodically, carefully avoiding the bandages that wrap around his torso. In the glow from the dying embers, he radiates beauty and grace and six dozen other human qualities that Geralt will never, ever find again.The Witcher removes his clothes as well, gaze lowered as Jaskier watches with heavy-lidded eyes. They haven’t even so much as kissed since that horrible, wretched day.It takes him wholly by surprise when Jaskier glides to his side, when Jaskier slides his hands over Geralt’s chest, under his armpits, fanning over the criss-cross of hardened scars on his roughly chiseled back and presses their chests together.“Geralt,” he sings, and oh, it’s as if the music renewed is dying again. “Take me to bed. Make love to me.”Although his sense of duty for Jaskier’s comfort pokes at his morals, the Witcher can no easier deny his Lover than he can his Child Surprise.Geralt takes him, lowers him gently, touches him reverently, kisses him sweetly. His heart aches and his body wants and his mind protests that all of this should be his forever. But Jaskier is calm and resigned, weeping and sighing and tugging with needy fingers into sweat-warmed skin. Even if he were to beg, he is certain Jaskier would turn him down. Ciri is the most important thing in the world to both of them. And both will sacrifice their own happiness to ensure she has hers.Jaskier’s body opens easily for him, slick with oil, lax from attentive massage. He gasps through his tears as Geralt sinks inside, trembles as their bodies meet and can get no closer without further injury. The Witcher feels his throat swell with emotion, and it’s he who whimpers against the other man’s cheek as they pause to enjoy their union.
“Jask.”
The Bard swallows audibly, then sinks both hands into his Witcher’s loose hair.“Darling,” he breathes, tight muscles clenching around Geralt’s rigid cock. “Make me forget. Take me so thoroughly that I can no longer remember the reason we have to part.”Geralt does. Slowly. Intently. Cautious and careful and all-encompassing. He thrusts between Jaskier’s inviting, spread legs, nuzzles against the soft skin of his long neck, covers him and protects him and drives him over the fucking edge.Jaskier is quiet as he comes. His back goes rigid and his jaw tightens, and he holds in his sounds until his throat breaks from the effort. Geralt pulls back and surges forward over and over, coaxing his Lover to the point of beautiful pain. And as he finishes, as he spills hot and hard, marking Jaskier as his own from the inside, to his core, he almost misses the man’s silent crying.“Don’t,” he tries, very near grief of his own. “Please, please. My sweet, sweet Jaskier. Don’t cry.”But Jaskier doesn’t listen. His shoulders heave as he pulls Geralt more securely into shaking arms. He cries and he cries and he holds on for dear life. Distraught, Geralt rolls them onto their sides, keeping Jaskier solidly against his heated skin.He wants their fusion to last a bit longer.The Bard weeps until the tears are used up, and Geralt allows himself to share the man’s sorrow. They are one and the same, and that fact is tearing them apart.They sleep in fits and starts, tangled in their sideways embrace. He slips out sometime during the night, a horrid, bone-chilling withdrawal from the ultimate in closeness. Jaskier mourns when the Witcher’s spend leaks out. Geralt wonders if his Bard will ever sing again.Morning arrives. They wake and share slow, sad kisses. Jaskier dresses Geralt, brushes his hair, straps on his armor. They walk hand in hand to the main hall where the others have gathered.Geralt is surprised to find Aiden has joined them. He doesn’t understand how the man made it through the chest-deep snow on his side of the mountain, past the windswept swells and into the castle. But the way he takes in Jaskier’s appearance is like a mother cat readily adopting an abandoned kitten. Geralt feels the crushing guilt lessen slightly; Lambert’s partner will watch over his.Ciri throws herself into Jaskier’s arms and wails on his shoulder. This restarts Jaskier’s silent weeping, which quickly spreads to Triss and Vesemir, too. Geralt stands strong, gathering his child and his mate against his chest. He whispers soothing promises into Ciri’s braided hair.“We’ll be together again,” he says, without believing it. “It’s our Destiny.”Nose pressed against Jaskier’s forehead, Geralt catches Eskel’s gaze in the crowd of his Brothers. He tips his head in Aiden’s direction, then nods slowly, as if to say, ‘We’ve got him. Your Bard. We'll keep him safe.’The castle’s inhabitants march a funeral pace outside to the paddock, where Geralt lifts Ciri into the saddle, drapes her in the cloak Jaskier made for her. He tosses Roach’s reins over the mare’s neck, sliding them into Ciri’s mittened hands. Then he turns to Lambert’s volunteered horse and bounces into the saddle.At the gate, Vesemir purses his lips and smiles, then pats both horses’ rumps before turning and walking back toward the keep. The others follow, even Jaskier. Geralt feels his humanity slip away, and he hardens his body to the task at hand.But footsteps sound from behind as they leave the castle walls. And Jaskier runs up beside him. Clutches his elbow. Pulls him until he’s bent sideways at the waist in the saddle.Up on his toes, the Bard seals his lips over Geralt’s mouth for a final searing kiss. And when he pulls back, whites of his eyes red, lashes clumped with tears, he says:“I’m in love with you. You hear me? I love you!"And Geralt, cupping Jaskier’s face in one gloved hand, unclenches his stubborn jaw.“And I love you.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s eerily quiet for mid-morning. Even the birds are mute, forgoing their springtime exultations about the lengthening day. The only noises are heavy echoing footsteps on stone floors and the thudding of a Witcher heart against the iron cage of his ribs. The latter is so loud it’s almost difficult to hear the unmistakable notes of song within the prison walls.The stench of emptied chamber pots and vomit and hot spilled blood bordering on rotten is strong enough without enhanced senses. The boiling anger and adrenaline fueling him means Geralt isn’t needing any potions. His Path is clear.An outsider looking in would see the obvious ways things add up to the sum of Destiny’s doing. Nilfgaard presses forward, along with a dozen other characters intent on stealing what does not belong to them. If Geralt hadn’t seen it for himself, he’d have given two crooked fingers to Destiny and set off for different lands. But this is personal, now.He exhales heavily and holds his breath, closes his eyes and slows his heart. In these few moments, he hears that voice again. It’s sadder, much sadder. And there’s a fair bit of despair and spite, too. Geralt steadies a hand on the sheathed black blade and emerges from hiding.The wall is hardly a challenge after everything he’s done to get this far. The temple. The Nilfgaardian soldiers. Monoliths and monsters and all those innocent deaths. Not to mention that somehow Yen is alive and ushering Ciri to who knew where.From the wall, Geralt catches sight of the swish of Roach’s tail. She has been impatient and tense, snapping at his forearm as he dismounted. An intelligent animal, she understands the importance of acting quickly. Geralt owes her a winter off after what she’s been for him.The singing becomes louder as he enters the corridor, a lucid, lonely tune that increases in volume as Geralt nears. He ignores the clutch in his chest and steps silently, paying close attention to the moving shadows on the stone wall. There is only one other individual there.Except — A bone-chilling growl rumples the air, building into the wail of something like a banshee. Hairs stand on end and Geralt’s nerves fire in warning. He’s so very close now.“For all that’s holy!” the guard shouts. “Will you fucking shut that thing up!”And then, finally, after months of wanting, waiting while Ciri trains with Nenneke, after weeks of searching and dead ends and days upon days of darkness, Geralt hears the voice that stirs his blood.“I can’t fucking make her do anything, idiot,” Jaskier snorts. “Especially when she senses a Witcher.”And, oh! The words are filled with hope!The guard doesn’t see Geralt until it’s too late, and his helmet is gone, head smashed into the wall. The keys come free and slot with a clunk into place, and those incredible blue eyes are all the Witcher can see.Jaskier’s chest heaves as he scrambles to his feet, fists clenched, muscles tense. He leans back on one foot, stance wide in preparation for a fight. There is every indication that the Bard means to throw himself at Geralt and beat him until every last ounce of his strength is gone. But his eyes — his eyes speak of longing, of loss, of torture and bravery and justified moral vengeance.The caterwauling continues, intensifies, even, but Geralt doesn’t allow his gaze to drop to the smush-faced creature at Jaskier’s feet. He holds the Bard’s breathtaking eyes and allows himself to feel, no matter how hard his heart squeezes.Gods, but he’s missed him.“Still alive?” Jaskier asks. It’s breathy and weak, as if it’s a struggle to make his mouth form the words.Geralt ‘hms’ and considers crushing the Bard against him. But things have happened. Things have changed. And the Witcher doesn’t know where he stands with this man, all things considered.“I see you’ve acquired a new traveling companion,” is what slips from his trembling lips.Jaskier snorts a wry, cold laugh. “Yes.” He bends down to pick up the cat and cradles her to his chest. As if she’s a shield between them. “I couldn’t leave her behind with the other Witchers. There are so few of you left.”Geralt has no words, so he steps back into the corridor and snatches the guard’s cloak, satchel full of food, and a water skin. He slings it over his neck so it falls over his own breast. “Come. We must hurry.”They run. Roach is happy to see Jaskier. She crowds him and pushes her nose into his neck. The Bard hoists the cat onto her saddle and strokes her nose. Kisses her forehead. Cups her ear to whisper:“I’ve missed you too, Darling.”And, oh, does Geralt wish that were him.Jaskier mounts the horse gracefully and settles into the saddle, tucking the still yowling feline inside his torn and stained doublet. He hushes her, strokes the menacing frown between her ears.Geralt would gladly trade his life to be that damn cat.Roach snakes her head around, ears flat, as Geralt steps to climb aboard. Her teeth gnash at his foot in the stirrup. Jaskier gives that cold chuckle again.“Fallen out with the Lady, hm?”The Witcher heaves himself behind the saddle and drops the stirrup. Without hesitation, Jaskier kicks his feet inside and picks up the reins.Geralt has to grip tightly around the Bard’s waist as Roach digs in and charges forward. He squeezes both knees against her barrel. His thighs slot themselves jerkily behind Jaskier’s steady ones. It appears the man has improved his riding skills.He’s so very thin.They ride, and Geralt sweats, and the cat growls, and Jaskier is just — calm.
Eventually, it grows dark, and they are forced to stop.
Geralt dismounts and offers a hand to Jaskier, but the bard shakes him off.“Whiskers might eat your fingers.”They set up camp and Geralt busies himself, offering Roach water in a wooden bowl from the guard’s sack. The horse slurps and pushes it away once it’s empty. She seems to understand there isn’t much to go around. Her head drops and she noses into the brush for food.Jaskier has let the cat loose. She takes off for the forest. Geralt catches himself wondering how they’ll find the creature if they need to leave in a hurry. But he knows the cat’s destiny lines up with his own and she’ll find them.They rest against a tree trunk, backs turned and not touching. Jaskier devours the chunk of bread and dried jerky. Geralt resists again the urge to hold him.“I need your help,” the Witcher says once Jaskier sighs with fullness. “Yennefer has taken Ciri.”Silence stretches as Jaskier adjusts the guard’s cloak more securely around him. Geralt recognizes the chance to tell his tale. Speaking quietly, he lays everything out and waits for the Bard’s response.“We have to stop her.”Anger flares inside Geralt’s heart. “We have to kill her.”They rouse as dawn breaks, and the birds sound the wake-up. Jaskier’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face gaunt. The cat is curled in the man’s lap, eyeing Geralt with feral hatred. The Witcher fetches Roach and they begin again.Jaskier does not remain in the wings as they remove heads from Nilfgaardian necks. He takes Geralt’s short sword and draws blood without hesitation. They work in tandem, watching each other’s backs, a dance of partners well-rehearsed. The Witcher, ripe with righteous fury, has never been more proud.The dwarves finish the rest off as Ciri lunges for Geralt. He holds her with one shaking arm and watches Jaskier’s face go fond. The Bard, standing behind them, takes the girl’s hand and gathers it to his cheek. And when Yennefer steps into their space, Geralt rejects her with vengeance.The blade sings a threatening sound as it slices through the air. It would be so easy to slit her slight throat.“Is she yours?” Yarpin asks, disbelieving.It’s a wolf’s snarl that rips from his lips as he holds the woman off, free arm raised to the side to protect his own.“Mine,” he growls, pulsing with hatred at the sight of those violet eyes and her violent lies.“Mine,” he repeats, directed at the dwarf this time.Geralt turns to Jaskier next and whispers over the top of Ciri’s head. “Take her to the rendezvous point. I’ll meet you there.”“Yes.”He watches as they go with the dwarves, knowing they’ll be safe together. Then he turns to the Traitor and orders her onward.He makes quick work of the Undead Mother with surprising help from Yennefer. She sacrifices herself as a vessel and allows Geralt the time to banish Voleth Meir to another plane. He knows why the Mage does it, tries to atone for her mistake and prove she’s on their side. But Geralt cannot find it in himself to forgive her.Besides, she has back the power she wanted. There’s no reason she should stay.Geralt tells this to Jaskier once they are reunited and the story told. The Bard is uncharacteristically quiet. He clenches his fists as he did in the jail cell.The others remain inside with Ciri at the farmhouse Yarpin has secured for the time being. The girl, stroking her cat, is initially upset at hearing Yennefer has gone back to Aretuza. She doesn’t understand how Geralt can send her away so easily.“She is not gone for good,” he says. “Her Destiny is tied to us still.”To him, he thinks, but doesn’t share this.Geralt steps outside with the excuse of tending to Roach, and Jaskier follows.
Jaskier always follows.
He buries his fist in the mare’s wiry mane and watches with fearful apprehension as Geralt begins to brush her.“She saved my life,” is how Jaskier breaks the awkwardness. He pulls his fist from Roach’s mane and stares at the fingers. “Yennefer. She stopped Rience from torturing me.”And Geralt understands. His heart leaps to his throat and he fucking understands.“He hurt you.”Jaskier nods, eyes averted. “He wanted information about you, and he used fire to make me give you away.”Those stunning blue eyes lift, and every emotion swims within their depths. “But I would never. And I didn’t. Even after he burned off my fingerprints.”At this, he reaches for the Bard’s wrist, tugging at his arm to better see the damage. The man’s finger pads are indeed damaged, scarred and thick. The extent of it is so severe that the Witcher feels a sharp stab of empathy. It’s his fault. All of it.“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers, taking up Jaskier’s other hand, too. The man softens, the downward angle of his brows easing, his face going slack.“I would never hurt Ciri,” he replies. Geralt realizes what Jaskier is saying; it strikes a blow straight to the heart.“You’re nothing like Yennefer,” he acknowledges, dropping one hand to stroke the hollow of his Bard’s cheek. As if there is any comparison at all. “You’re my heart’s match.”Jaskier looks for a moment as if he’s going to scream in agony, but instead throws himself into Geralt’s arms. This kiss is desperate in a gut-wrenching way. Jaskier has thought Geralt had returned to the Mage.“We’re family, you and I and Ciri,” the Witcher says softly, possessive with gentle assurance. “You’re mine, too.”Jaskier slides their bristled cheeks together and whispers a request into Geralt’s ear.“Then take what’s yours, Witcher.”It’s not like the last time they coupled, the heartbreaking way they clung to each other. This is strength and confidence, genuine smiles and stifled giggles. There sleeps, after all, their daughter in the house.Jaskier does not orgasm as Geralt fucks him into the padded straw mattress covered in a musty quilt, as their sweaty chests glide together and hands grip as much flesh as is possible. Those blue eyes are wide open, gaze painfully intense as the Witcher comes and claims his mate once more. Jaskier growls in his throat, gasping none-too-silently, whispering filthy promises against the wrecked side of Geralt’s mouth.They still as Geralt’s heart slows, as his breathing returns to near normal, as time pauses for a few moments around them and lets them relax. Jaskier strokes the length of his back with both hands, grasping gloriously painful handfuls of ass as he reaches the limits of his stretch. And Geralt is served up a tantalizing idea.“It’s your turn to take me,” he says, kissing the point of that dimpled chin. Jaskier startles, then groans, then untangles himself with lightning speed.His scent spikes into that familiar bittersweet smell.They laugh as Bard and Witcher wrestle into position. Jaskier bumps his elbow against the wall and the sound reverberates through the house, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching back, collecting Geralt’s spend from his own hole, and smearing the result onto the Witcher’s exposed crack.The room seems to hold its breath as Jaskier breaches Geralt’s body, as he bites back from moaning, from running his mouth about the Witcher’s ‘lovely backside.’ It doesn’t last, of course. It’s not long before, cock buried deep inside, filth spews from that talented tongue. Hot and hard and heavenly.“Fuck,” he hisses, massaging Geralt’s back with firm palms, squeezing with capable thighs. “Your arse is a dream come true. Shame on you for withholding it from me all these years.”“Hm,” grunts the Witcher. He will have to stop doing that.Jaskier’s voice croaks as he thrusts, picking up tempo and resting all of his weight against Geralt. “I’m going to ruin you for any other,” he promises. The Witcher sincerely hopes so.His Lover comes with a grunt, spilling his seed and nonsense words of praise simultaneously. He kisses moist lines over Geralt’s back, gasping for air. Until the warm, sticky silence that falls over them becomes too heavy to endure. And the Witcher rolls Jaskier into his arms.“I love you,” he confesses, keeping his priorities in a straight line. “We have a long fight ahead of us.”A sigh. A hard swallow. Warm, scarred fingers trail over Geralt’s chest, worrying along the edges of fully healed injuries. “I love you. I’m ready.”There’s no doubt in Geralt’s mind that Jaskier will fight by his side. But something else lingers at the end of those words.“We’ll need Yennefer,” Jaskier says, and Geralt knows it to be true. “She needs us too.”A moment passes as Geralt thinks about this. Twenty years ago, he’d have argued that point. But the time spent with his Bard has changed him, and he heaves a sigh of relent."I know it."Jaskier chuckles, a satisfied, body-wide rumble. “We’ll make quite the party. A roguishly handsome and dually talented Bard. A brutal, ruthless but mute Witcher. A young Sorceress who is just coming into her power. And a cunning, heart-hardened Mage. No army stands a chance against us.”Geralt agrees, even though the volatility of it all frightens him. He has faith that Vesemir and Eskel and Lambert and Aiden will assist. Still, they must reset, regroup, and restart.“Don’t forget Roach,” he poses, shifting to crush his partner beneath heavy thighs.The Bard crows. “How could we forget Roach? Loyal fearless companion ready to bite and kick and shit her way out of a scrape.”Jaskier is smiling as he kisses Geralt again, dipping a hand between their bodies and taking up Geralt’s cock with a suggestive squeeze. “I suppose,” he smirks, lipping and nipping the point of Geralt’s shoulder. “Our days of coin and peace and quiet must be laid aside for greater things.”It’s an agony like no other, thinking of how they can never go back to what they were before. Yet, in the same breath, what they have now is scores better.Geralt allows his head to fall to the side, and Jaskier immediately takes up sucking into the skin of his neck. He hums appreciatively and finds himself hopeful for the future.“Whatever you like, Bard,” he mumbles, interest sparking again as his mate tugs hard on his cock. “Whatever you like.”