Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sex, for all of its countless upsides, was something that Geralt did not get to indulge in nearly as often as he should like, for a multitude of reasons. Fear being the primary one, of course, but there were plenty of people across the breadth of the continent. And of those people, there were those that didn't look at him and immediately have to choke back the instinctive urge to scream, reeking of terror. And of those  there were some that looked at him and saw something they wanted. And of those some, there were a few that wanted nothing from him except pleasure and perhaps coin. And of those few, he would occasionally get lucky, and find one that was willing to let him be unclothed in the same room as their daemon.

So no, sex was not something Geralt could frequently indulge in; and when he did finally find a person willing to let him in their bed, he generally didn't leave for as long as they would tolerate his presence.

Sometimes that meant overstaying and paying a hefty fee for it; although even for him, three days was pushing his luck. Especially in the depths of winter, when contracts were so few and far between - no-one in their right minds travelled further than the next village when the snow lay so thick on the ground, and monsters rarely ventured close enough to habitation to make a nuisance of themselves until spring.

As much as he disliked continuing on the Path through the fierce winter, he hadn’t made it to Kaer Morhen before the mountain became utterly impassable this year. Instead, he had seen Jaskier safely to Oxenfurt at the bard's request, where he and Ness would be wintering - giving lectures, demonstrations, and adding their own contributions to the vast libraries. Which still would have given him enough time to travel north, if just barely, except… Well. Except he had stayed a day, and then another, and then a week, and before he had time to catch his breath a month had gone by and he could no longer excuse his presence as simply buying supplies, or allowing Roach time to recover from a slight lameness, or whatever horseshit he had spewed when Jaskier looked at him with bright eyes and asked how much longer he would be staying. He had grumbled, and muttered something unintelligible too low for any human to hear, no matter how close Jaskier leant, and left the next morning before sunrise.

For weeks he had travelled hard, harder than he should; driven on by a restlessness that prickled over his skin and left him irritable every time he tilted his head, expecting a cutting and insightful remark and instead heard only the quiet of the road.

And now he had a stranger's hands tracing the scars littered across his back while her daemon flicked his tail moodily at them in the corner of the room. Her name was Jadzia, and she had refused to introduce her daemon to him; but she had smelled rich with arousal and not a hint of fear, and that had been enough for him. Enough to settle the twisting in his chest. 

For a while. 

Three days later, and Geralt could've kicked himself when he felt the weight of his coin purse and realised just how badly he had miscalculated. He let her run delicate fingers over his skin (too short, too thin, he'd always liked partners that could give as well as they took, strong hands and a firm grip) and listened with half an ear as she sang each line punctuated with a kiss (too flat then too sharp and just a fraction of a second out of time, Jaskier would weep to hear his songs so twisted). Half an ear, at least, until she mentioned another witcher.

Across the room, her daemon hissed furiously.

No witcher worthy of the name would take the coin and run - he would know at least to take contracts as a simple mercenary, to remove his medallion and take care not to sully their name further. He had to know the consequences of such base cowardice if another witcher should ever catch wind of it.

For Geralt, though, it was an opportunity. He wouldn't be able to ask for nearly as much coin as a vukodlak was worth, not after the miners had already paid out three thousand orens for nothing; but he could cover his costs here, and still have enough to carry him through the next couple of towns.

It was that thought that had him pressing on through the thick snow towards Temeria - barely two day’s walk, even in the conditions, if he didn’t pause to sleep. A part of him couldn’t help but be grateful that he’d had to leave Roach - for all that he missed her comforting warmth and bulk, he knew that she would suffer on these roads. At least she would be warm, and safe.

Apart from the howling wind, the road was silent.

Asclepius stayed close by Triss Merigold as she followed Geralt through the ruins of what must have once been a beautiful hall. He coiled twice around her neck, his long, sinuous form wrapped beneath her heavy cloak; Geralt hadn’t seen a mage so close to their daemon in many years. Physically, or emotionally. She ran an absent finger over the blunt little nose, and murmured faint words of reassurance that Geralt tried to close his ears to. It was one thing listening to Jaskier and Ness - they knew exactly how far they had to go from him before a conversation could be considered private - and another thing entirely to eavesdrop on this stranger.

Geralt wanted to trust her, he truly did. He didn’t believe the nonsense that a serpent daemon was a sign of a deceitful or wicked person; knew better than anyone that a daemon couldn't be relied on as a judge of character, and he had neither heard nor seen any hint of a lie in her voice when she spoke of saving the striga. She had seemed genuinely shocked at the notion that Foltest may have been to blame for the curse, and gods, Geralt wanted to believe her.

But she would not be the first mage to enlist his help under a false pretense, to further her own means.

She would not be the first sorceress he had trusted, only to -

Her eyes were kind, and Geralt wanted to believe her.

The man stank - of urine, of sweat, of fear-panic-desperation. Beside him, his daemon shuddered, still too dazed to do anything more than whimper faintly as Ostrit woke. The pale monkey had clung to him silently as Geralt dragged him through the crumbling halls; she had glowered, too afraid to come near, chittering softly to herself. Now that Ostrit was stirring, she tried to pick at the knots that held his wrists to the bedposts, spurred by the man’s frantic babbling and threats. Geralt’s lip curled as he watched her shake; as her tail wrapped around herself for comfort. Or protection.

Ostrit hadn’t introduced her. At the time, Geralt hadn’t thought much of it - not many people were foolish enough to give a witcher their daemon’s name, even if they didn’t remember where the fear had come from. Names had power, if the old stories were to be believed. Why, if a witcher knew a daemon’s name, then that was all he needed to sever the bond to their human, and steal them away in the night.

He took a step closer, and they both flinched back, watching him with wide-eyed horror.

“Tell me,” he said, more growl than voice, more animal than witcher. “How to lift the curse.”

"No! I can't - Foltest must pay for what he did!"

Geralt snorted; the stench of the man was, for a moment, overwhelmed by a new scent drifting through the castle. He didn't have long before the striga woke, now.

"Tell that to her," he said, jerking his head towards the source of the new scent. Towards the crypt. For all that Ostrit boldly proclaimed that he would never do anything to hurt Adda's reputation, it had been his curse that killed her. Geralt had never understood noblemens' desire to protect a reputation above a life. Ostrit's daemon stared at him with enormous, dark eyes; something in Geralt pinched in sympathy. He didn't know how much she had been involved with Ostrit's decision, or how far she had agreed with him, but from the insistent way the man shook his wrists at her and the way she shrank back, he suspected it was not much. She crept forward, eyeing Geralt warily, and started to fumble at the knots again.

Geralt let her. Without thumbs, or perhaps a sharp blade, she wouldn't get through them in time.

"This is - this is lunacy, witcher, surely you see that? Untie me, let me go!" Blood and spittle flew from his mouth as he reopened his split lip.

"Tell me how to lift the curse," Geralt repeated, unmoved.

"I don't know - there was a mage, she was on the run from the Brotherhood, she, she sold me a lamb, told me to chant and bathe in the lamb's blood until morning, until a rooster crowed three times, but that's all, I swear, that's all I know, Witcher, there's still time, untie me!"

"That's all?"

"Yes!" His breath caught on a weak little sob; his daemon pressed close to his side in a way that Geralt knew was supposed to be soothing. How many times had he seen Ness do the same thing for Jaskier when he was furious, or heartbroken? Ostrit didn't seem to notice her.

"What was the chant?"

"What was - it was in Elven, it was years ago, you expect me to remember the damn thing?"

Geralt could feel the fury as it built to a rumble deep within his chest. He bared his teeth unthinkingly, one hand creeping up to his throat. Even through the supple leather of his winter gloves - lined with velvety rabbit fur at Jaskier's insistence, because the bard would often pilfer them as the weather started to turn - he could feel the faintest vibrations of his medallion. Could trace the outline of his silver key, polished carefully to a shine that was matched only by the delight in Ness's eyes when she caught sight of it. He took a deep, steadying breath, let his disgust rush over his tongue chased by the old stench of Ostrit's sweat and sex, the new reek of his terror.

"I know it," his daemon whispered, so soft that Geralt would never have heard her if he were human. He turned his gaze to her, and though she shook, she met his eyes evenly. 

Ostrit's anger was so thick in the air Geralt fancied he could feel it pressing on his shoulders.

"Tell me," he said, and gentled his voice; the way he did when Ness forced herself awake long after Jaskier had fallen asleep and they two of them stayed up to talk for hours, the way he had when he caught the boys in Kaer Morhen calling their daemons by name.

Her Elder was thickly accented and stumbling, but it was good enough that Geralt whipped his head away with a snarl as she spoke. His bag was barely half-full; he had foolishly allowed his potions to deplete as winter approached, certain that he wouldn't need to replenish his stock until spring, when fresh ingredients were more readily available and, more importantly, cheaper. Fuck, he'd been a fool. He should've known better, he was fucking old enough to know better than to let himself be caught unprepared.

If he was careful, if he rationed them through the night, if he didn't get hurt, he could probably make them last until the sun rose.

Probably.

"There, she's done what you asked, now let me go! What more do you want, what else can we do?"

We? Geralt almost laughed. Just what did Ostrit think he had done, besides grovel?

"Nothing," he snapped, patience wearing perilously thin. "Unless you can keep a striga out of her crypt until a fucking rooster crows three times."

He didn't listen to Ostrit's panicked mutterings further. Three decoctions were swallowed down in quick succession, leaving only a scant few in his pouch - when the turned back to face them, Ostrit whimpered at the sight of his eyes, swallowed up by black. The man scrabbled against the flagstones, pushing himself as far back as his bonds would allow, almost shoving his daemon out of the way in his haste. People were always so afraid of him, Geralt thought - would he rather take his chances with the striga?

Methodically, he checked his sword and armour, one ear turned towards the door as he listened for the screech of stone from the crypt and the sharp clack of claws. There wasn't much time left, and he didn't want to stand between the striga and easy prey, not before the roaring of potions in his blood had settled. He had passed several lengths of chain in the castle as he poked around earlier - silver plated, but if luck was on his side, it would be enough to hold her for a while.

Geralt turned towards the door.

"Witcher!"

"Wait! "

If it weren't for the sudden strength in her voice, Geralt didn't know if he would've turned back - but the pale monkey had crept halfway across the room, far from Ostrit's reach, and was watching him with eyes wide and desperate in her dark face.

"Take me with you," she said, and flinched violently at Ostrit's cry of outrage, of betrayal. "Please, witcher, I know you can take daemons as your own, I swear I can help, or I'll stay out of your way, anything, witcher, I beg you, take me with you."

Geralt paused; looked between her and Ostrit.

"What's your name?" He asked. Ostrit whimpered, low and terrified in the back of his throat. His daemon tilted her head back proudly. Geralt had never seen a pair so out of alignment.

"Tamah," she said, without hesitation; Geralt felt his mouth pinch into a frown, knew when he met her eyes that no matter what he said, or did, she wouldn't change her mind, and she wouldn't believe him.

"Tamah. I'm sorry," he told her. She was already shaking her head - she swayed with the motion. "Truly I am. But witchers don't have daemons. We can't sever them from humans. I can't bring you with me."

"No, no! You're lying, I know you're lying, I know you’ve taken a daemon before, please, please, I'll do whatever you ask!" Unable to listen, unwilling to watch, Geralt hardened his heart and stormed from the room, her shouts echoing behind him. He heard her run across the room, as far as she could stand to go, and tried to deafen himself to her cries. “Don’t leave me here, please, witcher, don’t leave me with him!”

Geralt swallowed hard and kept going. From the floor below, he could hear the striga moving, dragging her cumbersome body from the crypt. He was out of time.

There was a slight warmth at his side, brushing against his hip, his fingers. He clenched his hand into a fist, drew it up to rest against his medallion instead; didn’t look down at the graceful form beside him, pressed against his leg. She was nothing but Dust, and he didn’t need to be soothed.

When Triss asked him later who Renfri was, he ground his teeth and refused to answer. His shoulder ached fiercely, and he pretended he was focused on inspecting the bandage when she asked what he had seen in the crypt that left him crying out in his sleep.

“The princess?” He asked through a clenched jaw. Triss’s eyes softened, watching him struggle to sit, but she didn’t offer a hand, perhaps knowing that he’d only refuse. She had done more than enough stitching and wrapping his wounds; he didn’t need to be any further in her debt.

“I’ve arranged for her to stay with the sisters of Melitele while she recovers,” she said. Geralt’s head rolled as he tried to keep her in focus, but his eyes were clouded with exhaustion. His mind felt heavy, and trying to hold on to each thought was like trying to catch smoke with a net.

“But,” he said, and frowned, thinking. “I - her neck -”

“She’ll heal,” Triss assured him, taking a seat at his side. He tolerated her efficient examination with ill grace. “Though perhaps not as quickly as you. You’re lucky your heart beat is so slow, or you’d have bled to death before Asclepius found you. I have to warn you, Foltest has issued a statement that the honourable Lord Ostrit gave his life to slay the vukodlak; I don’t like to think what he might do if you contradict him.” Geralt snorted.

“I don’t care,” he muttered. “Let him say what he likes. As long as I get my coin, it doesn’t matter to me. I need to get back to my horse.”

For a long moment Triss looked at him, her dark eyes unfathomable.

“Most people would have killed the princess,” she said finally. Geralt turned his face away, let his eyes slide over the workbench of vials, herbs, alchemical equipment he recognised and more still that was utterly unfamiliar to him. Anything, rather than holding her gaze. He didn’t know what she thought she saw in him; nor did he want to. “Would have seen her as nothing more than a monster. You chose not to.”

Teeth bared in an unpleasant smile, Geralt shrugged a little, ignoring the thrill of pain that ran up his shoulder.

“She had a daemon,” he said, and watched with no small amount of confusion as Triss shot him a deeply unimpressed look. Humans, mages or no, usually couldn’t stand to listen when Geralt spoke so candidly of such things with no daemon of his own by his side.

Asclepius watched lazily from his place beside the fire, and stayed behind when Triss swept out of the door murmuring that she would fetch Geralt’s payment. It was no secret that mages could travel incredible distances from their daemons, but it was still disconcerting to be left alone with him.

“You don’t smell like the other witcher,” he said eventually, his voice slow and sibilant. Considering. Geralt rolled his eyes. 

“The other witcher was dead.” 

“Even so,” he said, tone agreeable. His tongue flicked out to taste the air, and he changed the subject abruptly. “You are afraid for the princess; I could taste it.”

“The priestesses will take good care of her,” Geralt murmured. Nenneke would allow nothing less in her temple.

“Yes; but you are still afraid.”

Of course I am, Geralt didn’t say. You didn’t see them, in that crypt. You didn’t hear them.

At first, he hadn’t realised just what it was he had sealed himself in the tomb with. Despite what he told Triss, he hadn’t known that the princess had a daemon at all until it had leapt at him; an unidentifiable mass of feathers and fur and scales and chitin. Not shifting, not in the sense a child’s daemon might shift, but rather something unable to hold a shape entirely. He couldn’t escape, not with quen still glowing faintly around the edges of the tomb - not with the striga clawing viciously at the stone above him - nor could he move well enough to fight back. Her daemon had wailed wordlessly, had attacked him with teeth and talons, with beak and single-minded fury; it had been all he could do to keep it from his face until it exhausted itself and collapsed, trembling, by his side.

Geralt hadn’t dared move until dawn, when he finally broke the barrier and carried the quivering daemon to the princess’s side - it was small enough to cradle in his gloved hands, and cried softly with every step. Even in the early light of sunrise, he hadn’t been able to tell what it was; if it was anything at all. He had settled it just before the girl’s face, in the naive hope that when she opened her eyes, it would be the first thing she saw.

He had missed, suddenly and fiercely, that warmth by his side. Maybe she was a wish made by his desperate mind, maybe she was some strange hallucination caused by the potions, but he still felt her absence so keenly he lost his breath. But a glance around the room revealed no sign of Dust, shapeless or otherwise, the potions having long since burnt through his blood - he thought that even Cigydd would have been welcome in that moment. 

Geralt had been a witcher long enough that he should have known better than to take his attention off the striga, for all that she looked like a child.

“I know the princess will heal,” he said. Asclepius waited. “But what about - what about her daemon?”

Asclepius hummed, and yawned, but Geralt didn’t think he was imagining the pleased warmth in his voice when he spoke.

“Settled, as I understand it,” he said. “A bird; middling size, brown, with a hooked beak. A bird of prey, of some sort - Foltest was most pleased."

"A shrike," Geralt murmured, not knowing how he was so sure, and this time he didn't notice when he started to smile.

The first thing he did when he was reunited with Roach was sidestep a quick stomp of her hoof, and allow her to shove at his shoulder reproachfully. After whispered apologies and bribery in the form of warmed sugarbeet, he had turned her back the way they had come and set off at a much calmer pace. It would take him almost a month to return to Oxenfurt at that speed, and the worst of the winter would have passed by the time he arrived. Jaskier may not be able to write any songs about it, but Geralt suspected he would enjoy prying the story from him nonetheless.

Usually Jaskier bathed first. It was cheaper to pay for one bath and simply reheat the water with igni once he’d finished, and although Jaskier always heavily perfumed his bathwater, by the time Geralt finally had his turn, the scent had eased enough that it didn’t catch at the back of his throat with every breath. 

(It left them with scents so similar that for days after Geralt would find himself thanking Melitele that humans had such dulled senses. If Jaskier knew - if anyone knew how strongly he smelled like the witcher, he'd run for the hills and not look back.

Or he wouldn’t. Geralt wasn’t sure which was worse.)

This was an exception only in that a second bath had to be called for after Geralt had scrubbed the worst of the selkiemore innards from his skin, only to realise that if he sat in the water any longer it would have entirely the opposite effect as intended. Jaskier and Ness sat in the corner, deeply involved in some silent conversation that involved a great number of expansive gestures and furrowed brows on Jaskier’s part, and clicking beaks on Ness’. Geralt politely pretended they weren’t there, and they did the same for precisely the time it took for him to sink into the second bath with a deep groan of relief. Cleanliness may be something of a luxury on the road, but they had both the means and the time to indulge now, and he wasn’t going to let such an opportunity go to waste.

“Oh good, now that you’re in a better mood,” Ness chirped, hopping from her spot on the table and coming to perch at the end of the bath, claws gripped tight around the cheap metal. It had been a month since they had last seen each other, but Jaskier and Ongalness both had a talent for carrying on conversations with him as though they had merely paused for breath and not been separated by half a country.

It had been a relief, but not truly a surprise to hear Jaskier's voice when he paused outside the door to the inn. News of the selkiemore had travelled fast, and no doubt he was in need of new material. Geralt hadn't had a song-worthy contract in a while.

“Ongalness! ” Jaskier hissed between gritted teeth, evidently disagreeing with her assessment. Perhaps he’d prefer to wait until Geralt had managed to clean his face and hair before trying to hold a civil conversation - or perhaps he was simply worried about how Ness might go about whatever subject they were all dancing around.

“Better might be stretching it,” he said, as affably as he could, and rubbed briefly at the crusted blood across his forehead and cheeks, blinking hard as it threatened to obscure his vision. Jaskier, who was busy sorting through the oils and soaps and determinedly not looking at either of them, snorted quietly to himself. His sleeves were still rolled up, as though he had done anything more strenuous than choose which of the cloying scents Geralt would be subjected to today. He hadn’t even got blood beneath his nails, Geralt knew; he’d been watching his hands fly as he talked about everything and nothing.

“But you seem to think I owe you?”

“Several times over, in fact,” Jaskier agreed, and oh, his heart was thundering. Whatever he needed, he was nervous asking for it. But he met Geralt's eyes with the beginnings of a peculiar smile nonetheless, and dragged over a stool to sit by his side.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Were you not listening downst- No, what am I saying, of course you weren't listening. I, my dear White Wolf, have single-handedly -"

"A- hem," Ness interrupted; Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"You don't have hands, sweet Ness. I have single-handedly turned the tide of the continent's hatred of witchers, and never have I asked for a single thing in return -"

"What about -" Geralt started, because that was a bold-faced lie and they all knew it. Jaskier swatted at him with one hand and lifted his voice. Geralt was self-aware enough to know when he'd been beaten, and he didn't stand a chance; Jaskier had been trained to project his voice, and when the fancy struck him, could achieve truly stunning volumes.

"Never!  Have I asked for a single thing! And tonight I need only a trifle, something so simple that even you cannot turn me away, witcher!" Geralt waved an impatient hand, and froze when Ness fluttered closer.

Usually, Jaskier bathed first, and Geralt left him to it. By the time it was his turn, Jaskier and Ness were both so warm and exhausted that they curled themselves up in the corner of the room and dozed as Geralt bathed, unless he was injured enough to need assistance. Even then, Ness never came close enough to touch bared skin - now there was barely a foot between them, and not a stitch anywhere on Geralt.

Jaskier and Ness were both far, far too comfortable letting him near her even with just his shirtsleeves rolled back. This? This was foolishness on a scale he could barely comprehend.

He drew his hand back cautiously, and didn't turn to look at her; didn't acknowledge that he'd seen. 

There was no possibility that Jaskier hadn’t noticed - Geralt could remember how it felt, knowing your daemon’s movements as well as your own, the never-ending loop of here-there, motion-still, of feelings that were never just your own. Any discomfort Ness had to feel being so close to him would ripple through Jaskier, tremble through his every nerve; would be impossible to hide. Yet nothing changed in his scent and his face only softened, his wry smile gentling at the corners of his eyes into something genuinely amused. Geralt knew that, somewhere, he had missed the joke.

"A trifle?" Geralt asked tightly, keeping his eyes fixed on Jaskier, and was rewarded by a delighted grin and a hand squeezing his shoulder. Ness didn't push her luck further, only cocked her head and watched him closely with liquid-black eyes.

"As you have probably heard, Princess Pavetta of Cintra's daemon has settled -"

"I hadn't."

"- and so by the customs of the land, Queen Calanthe has announced her daughter's eligibility -"

"Thought she'd be a bit young for you."

"- which means there will be the very grandest of feasts, and hang on, sorry, what was that?"

“I hope you aren’t planning to announce your intentions. How old is the princess? Seventeen?” Geralt paused, distracted, and furrowed his brow for a moment. “What age do daemons usually settle, again?”

The striga - Princess Adda, now, so named by Foltest for her mother - had been fourteen. Dust had hung thick in the air around him, and not a single particle of it clung to the girl or her daemon, and by the time morning came his sight had returned to normal. Geralt had only ever read about the phenomenon; he had no experience of his own to draw on, and he tried to avoid children at all costs after taking a decoction. They were scared enough of him as it was.

As for his time on Kaer Morhen, well… the trials started young. Not a single one of the boys training with Geralt had been older than twelve - at ten, he had been the youngest - and none of their daemons had yet shown any sign of settling. Not even a preference towards a particular shape of creature, or any of the other indicators for the eventual form they may take. It was necessary, they had been told; the trial of Silence wouldn’t take once a daemon had settled, and witchers couldn’t have daemons. Besides, as Lambert had once pointed out, there was no sense in wasting time and resources on a child that would waste away to nothing within days of losing his daemon. Better to get it over with. At least the survivors had a hope of passing the Grasses.

Geralt hadn’t questioned the wisdom of it - not until much, much later.

Not until he looked at the boys that came after him; young, and loud, and whispering secrets to their daemons late into the night when they thought no-one could hear them, forgetting just how keen a witcher’s ears were. Not until he opened black eyes for the first time. Not until he watched the Dust take shape around him, settle beside him; barely formed but familiar as a dream, as a song. Her long tail had flicked, she had stood and shook herself off, and with every step away she took she had been less real.

His glimpses of her hadn’t changed shape, since.

Geralt didn’t miss the way Jaskier’s hands stilled; the way his face froze, halfway to a laugh at Geralt’s expense, ready with a joke, or a tale, or some witty comeback about Geralt’s own luck with princesses, because Jaskier was the only one who could say something like that to Geralt without a shred of mean-spiritedness. But Jaskier hated any reminder that such common, everyday knowledge was unfamiliar to him, hated it when Geralt tried to make light of it almost as much as when others threw it in his face.

Fuck . Geralt bit at his lips and cursed his treacherous tongue. He knew better, he knew better than to say things like that. 

Jaskier cleared his throat, soft and careful, and when he spoke his voice rasped uncertainly.

“I, ah, she’s fifteen, I believe, a common enough age to settle; I mean, Ness and I were just about thirteen, but we were always ahead of our peers, weren’t we my dear? And really, Geralt, I’m not too sure what it is you’re trying to imply about my intentions, but I’ll have you know they are naught but noble.” As he spoke, he seemed to return to himself somewhat, hands sketching patterns in the air around them as though he might illustrate whatever point it was he wanted to make, close enough that Geralt could feel the cool rush of air as they moved. His voice evened out, relaxed into its usual smooth tenor; the only sign that there was anything still wrong was Ness, who had hopped down to Jaskier’s lap and remained pressed close to his stomach, almost out of Geralt’s view.

“Tales of my success have reached even the mighty Lioness’s court, and I have been requested by name to play tonight at the betrothal!” Jaskier finished, and if it weren’t for the rapid thump of his heart and the sick-heavy smell of adrenaline on the air, Geralt would believe that nothing could sour the bard’s mood.

Jaskier was a good liar, but it had been a long time since he had tried to fool Geralt and he was out of practice. He was still deeply upset.

“Which concerns me how?” Geralt asked, eyes narrowed - he didn’t let himself look at Jaskier too long, didn’t let himself wonder why Jaskier was so willing to push past Geralt’s idiotic slip-up. Normally the bard wanted every detail of his life, would drag it from him with pleading, and bribery, and wheedling, and ale. And Geralt, damn him, would pretend not to be amused by the charade, would give one-word answers that just barely satisfied his curiosity, because it meant that he would stay another night, another day, as long as he needed until he had the full story.

“Well, you see, there will be any number of courtiers in attendance tonight, and with them will be their wives, daughters, sons, mothers, favoured cousins, and in my travels across this vast and bounteous continent, there is every possibility that I will have bumped into them before, and then, of course, there is some likelihood that -”

“You’re worried you may have fucked the wrong person and insulted a lord’s honour? And that they would choose a public banquet, where you have been requested to play, to demand their satisfaction?”

“Why, oh why would you phrase it like that?” Jaskier groaned, tipping back on his stool until he almost overbalanced, one hand pressed dramatically to his racing heart. “But yes, if you must be so crude; and don’t pretend that the Lioness of Cintra wouldn’t love a little bloodshed to liven up the festivities. No doubt she’d enjoy it more than any song I could offer her, at least. Satisfaction Geralt, honestly, it’s like you live to torment me.” This last part was muttered into his hands as he dragged them down over his face.

Geralt didn’t have time to consider that before Ness chimed in, climbing laboriously up Jaskier’s arm to perch on his shoulder so that she could look Geralt in the eye.

“It would just be a precaution,” she said. “All you would have to do is stand nearby, enjoy the food, and glare at anyone who looks like they might want to cut Jaskier’s coc -”

“Yes, I understand,” Geralt interrupted, thoroughly ignoring Jaskier's indignant mutters of protest. The bard tutted balefully at him and stood to fetch one of the spare buckets of water sat beside the fire. "And what do you think of this, venerable Ongalness?"

"Ness," she corrected him absently, as though she didn't know he was teasing. "I think it will be a much more enjoyable evening with you there, if only because it means I won't have to watch over Jaskier's shoulder all night."

Geralt chuckled once. "Hm. So you would have me do so instead?"

Jaskier retaliated against his amusement by dumping the bucket unceremoniously over his head. Geralt caught himself before he could flick water back in the bard's face, but it was a near thing. He ducked his head and started working on untangling his hair from the worst of the drying blood.

"Oh stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night bodyguarding your very best friends in the whole wide world, how bad could it be?"

Geralt huffed. 

"One night bodyguarding innocent Ongalness," he said, which only made them both laugh at him. "I'm almost certain you deserve whatever trouble comes your way - I won't be responsible for starting a fight over you sticking your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I don't get involved in the petty squabbles of men."

"Mhm," Jaskier replied, unduly amused. "You see, you always say that you won't help or get involved, but the thing is you actually do, all the time."

That was the thing wasn't it? Geralt couldn't protest, because he was right, as Jaskier knew better than most. They were not the sorts of deeds that made it into his songs - small moments between contracts, fleeting instances when Geralt allowed himself to forget that mutants weren't supposed to feel anything. Nothing that the public would be interested in hearing, nothing that resulted in monsters slain or towns saved; just little things that made Ness scold him fondly. Things that made Jaskier grin.

"Not all the time," he grumbled, which was true enough. He got far more involved in the petty squabbles of Jaskier than any sensible person should; much less a witcher.

"Often enough," Jaskier waved a dismissive hand, before pausing and eyeing him critically. "Ugh. Is this what happens when you get old? Not only do you get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous, you forget how to bathe yourself? You're supposed to wash, Geralt, not just sit in the water until your skin wrinkles so much you actually look your age. Sit forward, come on, chop chop."

A firm push to his shoulder was enough to get Geralt to move as Jaskier needed; he kept half a wary eye on the bard in the mirror, but this was not the first time Jaskier had insisted on helping him wash. It could even be pleasant, when Geralt was too sore to move - to have fingertips roughened by years of plucking at strings digging into the knotted muscles of his back. He had been so surprised, the first time Jaskier had ran a hand down his bare skin, by how calloused those hands were given that he had multiple pots of oils and creams to use for his skin, and hadn't done a single day's manual labour in his life.

Jaskier worked quietly for a while - not silently, as he hummed a slow tune under his breath with each pass of his hands. From her new spot huddled between the bath salts, Ness watched them while she straightened her already immaculate feathers.

"Head back," Jaskier murmured, fingertips guiding him even before Geralt had a chance to register what he said. The water started to darken again as Jaskier worked soap carefully through his hair, blood and weeks' worth of travel finally washing away. He did a far better job of it than Geralt had - but then, he mused drowsily, Jaskier could actually see what he was doing. 

His nails caught and dragged on Geralt's scalp, and a shiver raced along the length of his spine so suddenly and violently that his breath left him all at once. Jaskier's hands stilled instantly; his heart picked up for a few beats before settling again. Worried that he may have hurt Geralt - caught an injury that he'd failed to mention, perhaps. Geralt huffed low, and pressed his head further back into those talented hands - after a few more seconds of cautious stillness, they started working again. His eyes drifted shut.

Jaskier cleared his throat.

"Would you object terribly if I were to add a few drops of oil to your hair? Even after the lye you smell more like Roach than Roach does, but I wouldn't want to offend your delicate witcher senses." There was an odd quality to his voice that Geralt recognised but couldn't put a name to. Like his throat had tightened, and every word was an effort to push out. 

It was good of him to check, though. Geralt hadn’t bothered with any potions - hadn’t needed them to make short work of a single selkiemore - but he’d never had to tell Jaskier just how overwhelming the world could become after a hunt as the effects wore away.

“Not the clove one,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“Lavender, then,” Jaskier decided; a moment later the soft rustle of feathers told Geralt that Ness had delivered it to his waiting hands. It was tempting to look, to track her movement across the room by more than scent and sound. But her scent - the same as Jaskier’s - permeated the room, and Geralt’s head was heavy and muffled by tiredness and the gentle lap of water at the sides of the bath. Like this, he could fall asleep so easily, trusting Jaskier to hold his head up out of the water and keep him from drowning as he combed out tangles that Geralt had ignored for days. He’d never thought to ask just how Jaskier to care for long hair so gently; from past lovers, or childhood friends, or even if he had sisters at home. He hoped it wasn’t that - even as the thought of Jaskier sweetly running his fingers through a lover’s hair made his stomach cramp, he hoped that Jaskier would have told him by now if he had any siblings. 

Jaskier tied his hair off with a flourish - half up as it always was, though Geralt wasn’t sure just what he’d used, considering the tie he’d had before had been saturated in blood. Hands skimmed carefully across the line of his shoulders and paused when they found the set of claw marks, still pink and raw and barely healed; Jaskier tutted lightly at him. He pressed his clever mouth to the top of his head - something he had grown fond of doing on the rare occasions he deemed Geralt’s hair clean enough.

“What in the world are we going to do with you, dearest?” He muttered. Geralt reached back blindly - found Jaskier’s forearm and gripped it tight.

(He had a suggestion or two.

Stay with me, keep me, let me keep you, touch my hair again, go now before it’s too late and it hurts too much, don’t go )

“Let me stay in the bath?” Geralt said finally, and Jaskier’s laugh was startled, ugly, and sweet as a song.

Perhaps it had been a foolish hope that he could pass the night unnoticed, but even his worst imaginings hadn’t involved a seat beside Queen Calanthe, the Lioness herself. At her side, her daemon watched him steadily, vast head resting atop his paws. Unlike so many others, he was unadorned by jewellery or armour - but then, he hardly needed it.

Geralt folded his hands carefully on the table, and wished he had thought to smuggle a pair of gloves past Jaskier. The bard had insisted on choosing clothing that he claimed would both be comfortable enough to move freely in and still remain inconspicuous, but he had drawn the line at any of Geralt’s usual attire. Not even his boots had passed muster; Geralt had to wonder just how long Jaskier had been planning this, that he had managed to produce an entire outfit that more-or-less fit without tailoring.

Then again, he hadn't planned to stray far from Jaskier's side; he certainly hadn't expected to be recognised like this. Even with his hair, and his eyes, and the fact that he had no visible daemon, he had been counting on the princess to hold the room's attention for the night - had hoped that the worst part of the evening would be avoiding the court gossip. Instead he found himself refusing Queen Calanthe's offer of coin twice over, unsettled despite himself. She spoke as though she were expecting disaster, of the sort that he would be able to cut down - and despite the laughter in her voice as he spoke of Jaskier, she didn't sound at all surprised by his reasons for showing face at the feast.

Jaskier had said he'd been requested by name to play - Geralt had an unpleasant feeling he knew why.

At Calanthe's other side, Pavetta and her daemon - Linik, as he had been introduced - remained utterly silent, both of them doing a terrible job of pretending they weren't listening in. Every few breaths, Geralt would catch a waft of salt on the air, but she merely pressed her lips to a thin white line and refused to let the tears fall. In the crook of her arm, white fur coiled into a ball. An ermine, as far as he could tell - a good omen for the future of the kingdom, if old superstitions were to be believed, though Calanthe was likely disappointed he was not something more intimidating.

Geralt cast a disinterested eye around the room as suitors stepped up to introduce themselves and their daemons - many with a nervous glance cast in his direction - and expound on their heroic deeds and qualities. Pavetta remained unmoved by the speeches, and Geralt had no interest in boastful lordlings. He found Jaskier tucked away in a corner with his head bowed low, talking to Ness; Mousesack had found himself a seat amongst the Skelligens, next to Eist Tuirseach and the boy that they planned to wed to Pavetta. 

Were it not for the occasional suspicious look he caught being thrown at Jaskier, he'd have abandoned this night long ago; but he'd already had to see off one blustering fool, and there was no telling if another would get it in their head to try their luck.

Not that there had been a great deal of seeing off required. Jaskier had seen him approaching over the man's shoulder with an air of such relief that Geralt hadn't had it in him to leave him to the lord's mercy any longer, no matter how entertaining it would have been. Ness, who had been glaring beady-eyed at the furred mass clinging to the man's ample waist, leapt from Jaskier's shoulder; it was only some half-forgotten instinct that had Geralt lifting an arm in time for her to perch, claws digging harder than usual into the fine fabric.

"My apologies, good sir," Geralt had said insincerely. The lord had turned to him and all of the colour drained so abruptly from his blotchy face that Geralt had thought might faint away on the spot. Instead he had sputtered a few incoherent excuses and made a swift escape. Jaskier had grinned sheepishly, Geralt had rolled his eyes, and Ness had remained on his arm until Calanthe’s arrival was announced and Jaskier had to hurry over to his position with the other musicians.

He was singing again now, a bawdy song with a merry tune that Geralt recognised from long summer evenings when Jaskier would incite a room of people to get up and dance on feet that ached after a day’s harvest. It seemed popular enough among the nobility as well - people shouted along to the words, clapping delightedly and bellowing laughter as Jaskier altered the words on the fly to something even more filthy than the original. Ness flew in gleeful, graceful loops above his head, and started singing a round to the amusement of their audience.

“How much more of this peacocking must we endure?” Calanthe sneered - Culsans lifted his great head from his paws long enough for her to run a hand over his thick mane, before slumping back down. His tail flicked once, irritably. “This - all this because male tradition demands it. If I were a man, I could simply tell the whole lot of them to fuck off, declare outright who Pavetta should marry and have done with it.”

“Or better yet,” Culsans murmured evenly. “Let the girl decide her own fate.”

Geralt glanced away from Jaskier for a moment; long enough to look between Calanthe and her daemon. He examined the lines of her face, her glittering eyes, the gentle huffs of Culsans’ breath. Neither of them looked much like they were enduring anything.

“Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve navigated the vagaries of male tradition,” he said, and let his mouth tilt with gentle amusement. Causing offence to the Lioness of Cintra, especially on such an important night, would be foolish beyond measure, even for a witcher. Especially for a witcher. “In fact - I’d wager you thrive on it.”

Pavetta watched them closely - it was impossible to read past the sorrow in her face to see what she was thinking. Linik curled deeper into her hold.

“Spoken as one who has navigated his own share of fools.” Calanthe watched him shrewdly; the kohl around her eyes made her handsome face even more severe as she tilted her head, considering. “Tell me, witcher, why are there so few of you left?”

There were never many of us to begin with, he didn’t say. People still try to feed us poison and kill us while we’re weakened in some corners of the continent, he didn’t say. I have known witchers two hundred years old still mourning their daemons so deeply they face a monster with swords still sheathed, he didn’t say. We are not immortal, he didn’t say. We are not invincible.

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“It is no longer possible to create more of us since the sacking of Kaer Morhen,” he said. As though that was all it had been - a midnight raid of their stores, rather than a massacre. 

“Tell me, your Majesty. Why do you risk your lives on the battlefield when you can rest on your throne?” 

Though the question was addressed to Calanthe, he spoke to Culsans too, face tipped down towards the reclining daemon. The lion yawned, displaying yellowed teeth still sharp enough to tear through muscle, and heaved himself up to sit directly beside the throne. Geralt tried to hold himself perfectly still; tried not to lean away from his bulk and risk causing a scene. His hands he kept carefully out of reach.

“Because there is a simplicity in killing monsters, is there not?” She whispered, and traced one finger over the scar that stretched across her daemon’s muzzle, where it looked like he had just barely avoided losing his eyes. 

A scuffle at the door saved Geralt from having to answer.

The knight - for he was a knight, that much was evident in the easy way he maneuvered in his armour, the grace with which he felled the guards, as well as the polished voice and courtly manners - knelt before the throne with his spined daemon at his side. Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald, and the honourable Oleisia, knelt before the Lioness of Cintra and announced that he had come to claim the hand of the princess. The princess whose heart was suddenly pounding in her chest, audible to Geralt even over the clamouring of the guests when he focused on her - the princess whose blood had rushed to her face to flood her cheeks with more colour than he had seen on her all night. At the corner of her mouth, he could see the beginnings of a disbelieving smile.

All evening - all fucking evening Geralt had sat in this fucking chair and had to listen to Calanthe mock each suitor that put himself forward; had listened as the court cackled around her like the sycophants they were. He knew what it sounded like when Calanthe degraded and humiliated an upstart little lordling, or even a neighbouring prince.

This was different; her voice just barely shook, and at her side Culsans was tense to the point of trembling, his lips drawn back over fierce teeth.

There was something off about his scent, too, but Geralt had no time to puzzle it out before Eist strode forward and tipped the knight’s helmet from his bowed head. His daemon skittered back, and there was a great roar of sound as every guard in the room drew their weapons, daemons poised ready to attack by their sides.

“Witcher,” Calanthe hissed breathlessly, reeking of terror and fury and secrets. Geralt didn’t turn to look at her - kept his eyes trained on the man before him who so resembled his daemon. It was a curse of a sort he had only ever heard of as a young boy, still poring over tomes at Kaer Morhen when he thought that he could save everyone that needed him. When he thought that if he just knew enough about magic he might understand why -

“Kill it.”

Pavetta’s daemon had scurried onto the table - the princess gripped the sides of her chair so hard the wood creaked beneath her fingers.

“No. This is no monster.”

“Whatever the price!”

“This knight has been cursed.” The chaos emanating from the man had been the source of the oddity in his scent - not his own chaos, but rather a spell that clung deep under his skin, down to his very marrow. It was old, Geralt was sure of that much, almost as old as the man himself.

“I order you to kill it!” Geralt bared his teeth. He wasn’t some assassin or common mercenary. 

Royalty were all the same - conversation and sweet talking until they realised it wouldn’t get them what they wanted, bribery, and finally brute force. Everywhere he went, always the same pattern played out a hundred times. Fuck, he hated dealing with royalty. 

“He has a daemon,”  he stressed. 

“You’re as useless as the rest of them,” Calanthe snarled, every bit as threatening as the lion by her side. Her voice lifted, thundered through the room.

“Slay this beast!”

Without drawing his sword, Lord Urcheon dispatched the first guard to raise a weapon against him with two beautifully precise blows. Geralt leant forward over the table, pupils narrowing to pinpricks and then blowing wide as he watched. Lord Urcheon was as slow as any other human; but he was well-trained and agile, and when he drew his sword on the queen, his hand was steady.

The Law of Surprise.

It was as though the words came from far away, muffled and strange. Or in another language, perhaps, that he had known once and since forgotten. He knew the shape of them well enough, knew he should understand what they meant - it was traditional, after all, for witchers to ask for the Law of Surprise when no payment could be offered for many years. Geralt himself had been one of the last boys claimed under it.

He turned towards Pavetta, and knew that his eyes would be feverishly bright. She did not look surprised - only afraid. Her daemon bared teeth as small and sharp as needles.

Calanthe, too, did not look shocked.

The hiss of steel - of swords drawn and halberds gripped tight, of armoured guards running with snapping daemons at their sides - dragged Geralt’s eyes from mother and daughter. Lord Urcheon was skilled, yes, but he would quickly be overwhelmed by sheer numbers if this was allowed to continue. His daemon growled at his side and bit at any that came too close; but she was small, and despite the spines that covered her it wouldn’t be long before another daemon with bigger fangs and sharper claws proved too strong an opponent. Geralt watched, and watched, as they moved so unbearably slowly, until he couldn’t just watch.

There was a sword left abandoned at the bottom of the dais; he snatched it up as he stormed past, faster than any human could manage. It was well-made and perfectly balanced, and it felt so wrong in his hands that he almost dropped it in disgust. As Vesemir had taught him, though, a weapon was a weapon, and in desperate times a witcher couldn’t afford to be picky - having been forced to leave his weapons at the door, Geralt was not in a position to refuse the first sword that came to hand.

Besides - it was sharp enough.

The fight that followed was little more than a drunken tavern brawl; the guards, for all of their drilling and precise training, were inexperienced in the sort of real fight they might encounter outside of the castle walls. A disappointment, but perhaps not as surprising as it should have been - Queen Calanthe liked to handle disputes in person, the more violent the better. The humans were slow already, and slowed further by the fact that they couldn’t swing a sword without risking hitting one of their allies. 

Or their own daemon. 

From the corner of his eye, Geralt saw Jaskier fling himself over a table to drag back some idiot noble or other, lute raised threateningly above his head, and smiled a little despite himself. He pivoted on his heel, slashing a quick line across the face of the man that thought he might sneak up on a witcher, and had the singular pleasure of watching Eist Tuirsack demolish a chair against another man’s head while his daemon swooped low and dug her talons into the unarmoured neck of a small hart.

Every guest it seemed had brought with them some small dagger - and those that hadn’t, or had lost it in the first few moments of desperate scrapping, grabbed whatever they could find on the table to serve in its place. Geralt found himself batting away pitchers and chairs almost as much as blades. No doubt they were all vying for Calanthe’s favour, he thought grimly. As though that were not just as dangerous a place to find oneself as her scorn.

“Geralt!”

He heard Ness before he saw her - he spun so fast it made his head swim within the panic that fuelled his suddenly racing mind. The hall smelled so overwhelmingly of blood, and fear, and he couldn’t pick the scents apart enough to tell if any of it was Jaskier’s. His sword was already raised, dread dripping down his spine and savagery singing in his veins - he cut through the man behind him with little more than a thought. His daemon dissipated at his side, where Ness had been dancing out of reach and clawing at its eyes.

“Pay attention,” she snapped. Geralt just about had time to dip his head in thanks, bemused by the fury in her voice, before he was drawn back into the frenzy that had descended over the room.

It wasn’t until Calanthe bellowed to stop, Culsans’ roar punctuating her words, that calm finally fell over the room. People blinked, lowered their weapons, looked around as though waking from a dream - but it was often that way as the bloodlust abandoned them. Geralt stepped back slowly enough to make it clear he wouldn’t attack without provocation, and lowered his sword to his side. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Calanthe - could only hope that Jaskier and Ness were both unharmed.

With half an ear he listened to Lord Urcheon - Duny, as Pavetta had called him. Cursed as a child to assume the same form as his daemon, enduring years of changing, of shifting, of Oleisia’s guilt at each new shape and his own fear of what he might become, until they had finally settled. How he had still trained relentlessly as a knight, so desperate to serve - to give his life to some grand purpose, Geralt quietly suspected. No-one cared what a dead knight looked like; only how noble his passing had been.

Instead of an honourable death, he had found himself with a king in his debt, and a child of surprise his to claim. Maybe he even meant that he had never intended to come forward, that meeting Pavetta as he had had been the actions of destiny. It meant little to Geralt either way. The choice would have to be Pavetta’s, and hers alone.

Geralt was not afraid of destiny. But he had seen what it could do to children left with no choice except to stumble in its wake; had seen them rail against it every waking moment until they drew their final breath, had seen them succumb so utterly they left behind bare shells of the boys they had once been. Had seen them become monsters, because they agreed to it, because they didn’t know better, because they believed they had no choice.

Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he hadn’t. He still couldn’t be sure.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. A promise made was a promise made, and must be honoured; be it by commoner, sorceress, or queen. And Pavetta had made her choice - some time ago, if Geralt was any judge.

So had Calanthe, who wept with her back unbowed as she drew a dagger on her daughter’s lover.

When he looked back on it later, to try and decipher just what spell Pavetta had been trying to cast - if it had been a spell at all - he found he would only remember it in pieces. He just managed to keep his feet, which was more than he could say for most. He could remember flashes of  Pavetta’s magic - of her chanting, of the rushing wind, of Mousesack shouting something to him over the sudden tempest. He remembered catching sight of Jaskier, cowering across the room, Ness clutched tight to his chest. He remembered fumbling for the vials he had stashed on his person, remembered downing it after only a cursory check to make sure it wasn’t a toxin. Remembered the flash of Pavetta’s eyes as she met his gaze, seconds before he cast aard.

Then it was over, and he was left blinking away the haze that had slipped over his vision. Pavetta and Duny had stood, surrounded by a ring of destruction, their daemons curled together at their feet.

To his left, Geralt saw Jaskier stagger to his feet, and offer a hand down to help the woman he had fallen beside. He clasped her hand, leant down close to whisper in her ear - reassurances, perhaps, disguised as flirtations that he refused to eavesdrop on. Geralt dragged his eyes away, and told himself that it was because he worried what Calanthe might try next - that it had nothing to do with the sudden churning in his gut. He would have to wait to make sure that Jaskier was unharmed.

Ness’s sudden weight on his shoulder was enough of a shock to punch the breath from his chest. He hadn’t noticed her leave Jaskier’s side - had thought she wouldn’t want to be so far from him. They must be at the very edge of their limit, but she showed no signs of pain; not even a slight discomfort.

“Are you hurt, Ness?” He murmured, uncomfortably aware of the edge of his shirt collar against his neck - of the bared skin of his throat, of how easily he could turn his face in a moment of thoughtless inattention.

“We’re fine,” she whispered back, and tugged a lock of his hair reproachfully. “You were the one with idiots trying to hack you up with swords. Are you hurt?”

“Not a scratch,” he said, watching closely as Calanthe embraced Pavetta. She had to stoop to rest her chin upon her daughter’s shoulder; Culsans nudged at Linik, and gently guided him to his feet. Behind them, Duny ran a gloved hand over Oleisia’s thorny back.

Footsteps - familiar, the tread of soft-soled leather, finely made and ill-suited for travel - picked their way through the debris to Geralt’s side.

“Harlot,” Jaskier said fondly, lifting a hand for Ness to hop to. She did so only after digging her claws into Geralt’s shoulder almost hard enough to draw blood through the cloth. “You disloyal thing, could you not have waited for me to find my footing?” She clacked her beak at him, inches away from the delicate skin of his cheek and Jaskier beamed at her so hard his eyes squinted shut.

Jaskier smiled so freely, so often, and each time it was blinding. Geralt blinked and turned away - caught the tail end of Mousesack’s stunned expression before he managed to rearrange his features into a wry grin.

Druids. Geralt had never managed to get his head around them.

A sudden bloom of warmth along his arm told him that Jaskier had decided to use him as a post to lean against - now that the adrenaline of the night had started to wear away, Geralt had to admit that even he was starting to feel exhaustion gnaw at him. His only hope was that a royal wedding could be arranged and carried out swiftly. It was too much to ask that Jaskier allow them to leave before the ceremony was over - if Geralt was lucky, they would manage to get away before the festivities finished, but he wouldn’t be willing to bet on it.

For the moment, he held still, and let Jaskier lean. He lifted a hand, and let it hover over his back, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, before he dropped it again. Jaskier smelled of warmth, of calm, of cloves and lavender. He didn’t need to be soothed.

“It’s an interesting spell,” Mousesack called as Geralt moved to leave. “I’ve never seen its like.”

He didn’t mean to turn back - didn’t want to. He had enough on his mind already, thoughts racing over the child surprise. It had been an idiotic thing to do, claiming the Law as he had; but he had been arrogant, had thought to keep the tradition alive, as though anyone gave half a damn what witcher traditions survived or died off. Knowing as he did that it was impossible to create more witchers, he hadn’t given a thought to what might happen if destiny granted him a child surprise. Times like this made him wonder sometimes why anyone thought it was a good idea to let him open his mouth to speak at all, when all he seemed capable of doing was planting his foot in it.

He turned back.

“Spell?” 

At Mousesack’s side, Heald bowed her antlered head in solemn agreement.

“In your hair,” she said gently. Geralt frowned at her; lifted a hand cautiously to feel at his hair, fingers creeping up, and up, until - there.

He pulled a sleek black feather from his hairtie.

“It’s not a spell,” he said once the silence had stretched enough that even he became uncomfortable. “The bard’s idea of a joke, that’s all.”

“Hm,” Mousesack said, eyes crinkling at the corners as he fought a smile. “I don’t get it.”

“No-one except the bard does,” Geralt replied - he made to throw the feather away, thought better of it at the last second, and tucked it behind his ear.

Honestly, Geralt hadn’t expected to see Jaskier until well into the morning, so it was something of a surprise when he returned to their room to find him already perched on the edge of his bed. The mattress sagged alarmingly beneath his weight, and every time he shifted on the blankets a new cloud of dust was thrown into the air - nowhere near as comfortable as a countess’s chambers, Geralt was sure.

He and Ness paused in their furiously whispered discussion as he walked in - Ness, at least, had the decency to look as guilty as a bird could manage. Jaskier met his eyes boldly, and patted the space beside himself with a meaningful tilt of the head.

Geralt ignored him in favour of hauling the light shirt over his head and flinging it as far across the room as it would go, before rummaging through his pack for a shirt that would be clean enough to sleep in without Jaskier complaining that he smelled like the wrong end of a gryphon. He tugged off his boots, content that for tonight at least, he wouldn’t be run out of the country or have assassins sent after him while he slept. There would be plenty of time for Calanthe to worry about arranging all that tomorrow.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and didn’t continue. Geralt considered ignoring him for a bit longer.

“ Geralt.” He repeated.

“Thought you’d still be with,” he faltered, and waved a hand to try and encapsulate the woman Jaskier had been fawning over. “One of the noblewomen,” he finished lamely.

“I would have been, but I was rather concerned that I would come back to find an empty room and you halfway to Kaedwen if I left you along until the morning,” Jaskier said, which was utterly unfair and completely correct. “And frankly, Geralt, this isn’t a conversation I wanted to wait to have, mostly because I think if I were to wait I would talk myself out of having it.”

“Sounds like that may not be a terrible thing,” Geralt said carefully. “If it’s so bad.”

“It’s not that it’s bad, it’s just that - look, would you please sit down, I really don’t want to be craning my neck for this, it’s bad enough that you’re already twice as broad as me, you don’t need to go around making me feel smaller again by looming over me when I’m sat down.” Geralt sat, leaving a polite foot of distance between them. Jaskier snorted but didn’t comment on it. “Thank you. Geralt did you mean it? What you said about Lord Urcheon?”

After a moment of wracking his brain for anything he might have said to Jaskier about Duny, Geralt was forced to admit defeat.

“What did I say?” 

Jaskier bit his lip uncertainly and ran a finger down Ness’s back. He was shaking.

“You knew he was a knight, that he’d been cursed. You said he wasn’t a monster. You said he had a daemon.”

Geralt felt - adrift. Untethered. Lost.

“He did - does?” He replied slowly, not sure what Jaskier was trying to lead him to.

“ Geralt. Was it just - was that the only reason you knew he was human? Because he had a daemon? Is that, is that how witchers decide whether something is a monster or not, if something needs killing or not; if it has a daemon it can stay, but if not then you’d best get the silver out? Well? Geralt? ”

It wasn’t - Duny had smelled human, had a human’s heartbeat, had lived a human’s life, had aged and would die like a human. And Geralt hadn’t only killed monsters in his life - had murdered more than his share of humans. But Jaskier was speaking again before he had a chance to protest, to try to explain that it was different, didn’t he see, it was different. Monsters never had daemons; Geralt had let his be taken from him. Had chosen the Path, as much as a child of surprise could choose anything.

“I hope that’s not the sort of attitude you’ll be teaching this child of yours once it’s old enough to listen to your horseshit, because that’ll cause all sorts of strife, believe me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Geralt said, shaking his head firmly. He clenched his fists in the blankets and stared fixedly at his knees. “I won’t go back for him - I won’t come back to Cintra at all after this.”

Jaskier froze beside him.

“What? Why - dear, were you not at the same feast I was this evening? Did you hit your head? Did you not also bear witness to exactly what happens when you try to shirk destiny? You literally tried to tell it to go fuck itself, and it told you to fuck off right back! And now you’re letting me get distracted! I had a plan, there are points I need to make!”

“Witchers only ever claimed the Law of Surprise in the hope that we would be given a child to train,” Geralt said, swiftly losing what little remained of his patience. He stood and started to pace, running an agitated hand through his hair - he didn’t notice when he knocked Ness’s feather loose. “But there’s no way to make more witchers anymore, and no point in raising a human child into the life. He’ll be better off in Cintra; and not left at the bottom of a mountain with nobody but his daemon for company!”

Geralt was lost in his head, in his anger, in hurt a century old that had blunted over time like a weapon used too often and couldn’t cut clean any more, but could still break bones. He didn’t notice the sudden, awful silence, or the utter stillness until all of Jaskier’s breath left him at once with a soft, stunned,

“What?”

Fuck.