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Chapter Text

It starts with a drowned baby.  It is, sadly, not an unfamiliar story.  An affair entered into against the wishes of a father, a girl much too young trying to hide her growing belly under her winter woolens, and then the sharp, high pitched scream of a baby boy as he is torn from his mother's arms, still covered in blood, his umbilical cord barely tied.

His grandfather takes him down to the river that begins in the hills surrounding the village.  A village so tiny it does not appear on any map.  The wailing infant is tossed unceremoniously into a sack before it is plunged into the river, a fast current carrying it out of sight.  The baby boy screams for his mother, for any mother, before the water seeps through the roughly woven cloth and enters his tiny lungs.  

Far, far away, one mother does hear his cut-off cries.  She reaches out her long arms, arms that can stretch all the way from Cintra and Verden in the west to the Blue Mountains in the east, and scoops up the babe and brings him close to her heart.

Mama Yaruga cradles her newest child to her breast, cooing softly and stroking an elegant finger down his tiny nose.  The infant’s cold skin warms against her own and eyes that were supposed to be forever closed open wide.  The water disappears from his lungs and he lets out a gurgle.  

She knows which of her many tributary rivers he has come from and can see clearly the place where he was thrown in (a steep river bank covered in green grass dotted with yellow flowers).  She names him appropriately.

Jaskier Pankratz, the new god of the Pankratz River and the youngest of Mama Yaruga's many children.

***

Little Jaskier grows up in Cintra in a big house by the docks, surrounded by his many siblings, though none live permanently with him and Mama.  They are older and tend to stick to their own rivers, though they must all come back to Mama's court at Beltane to pay her tribute.  Even other, unrelated Rivers come to Mama's court and pay their respects, for she is the largest river in the Northern Kingdoms and her power is vast and unpredictable.  When Jaskier is small, Old Father Pontar sometimes comes to visit and he dangles Jaskier on his knee while telling him stories of the floods Mama inflicts on the lands of those who do not show her proper regard.

“We are Rivers, little Jaskier,” he tells the small god who has the tails of his moustache wrapped in each tiny hand.  “We can give much, but we can also destroy.  Give and take, that is the balance of our relationship with the world.  It is a fool who tries to take from us without paying a fair price for what they receive.  Respect a River and we can give much in return.”  He winces as Jaskier tugs sharply on his moustache and Mama laughs at them from her throne.

When he is older, Mama sends Jaskier off to school.  He is one of her envoys in the world and she will not have him disgracing her with ignorance.  He cries when she tells him he is going away and Old Father Pontar steps in and suggests that Mama send him to Oxenfurt, right on Father's doorstep.

“I can keep an eye on him,” the old man tells her fondly.  “And he will feel right at home with myself and my children so you need not worry about him offending one of those pretentious Rivers down south.”

Mama has an ongoing feud with Sansretour, who runs through Toussaint, and does not require much persuading.  When the time comes to leave, Jaskier dutifully kisses his mother goodbye and promises to return soon.

“No my little Buttercup, not too soon,”  Mama smooths the hair back from his forehead and peppers kisses over his face.  “You must grow up and go out to experience the world like your brothers and sisters did before you.  Do not be in a hurry to return too quickly.”

Jaskier cannot imagine why he would not hurry back to her, but when he gets to Oxenfurt he begins to understand.  Life in Mama's house is filled with love but not much life.  Few humans can withstand Mama's presence for long without losing themselves in worship of her, and so Jaskier has had little experience of them.  For the first time in his fourteen years, he fully enters the human world and, like so many of his siblings, he falls in love.  

There are many things he loves about humanity.  The clothes, the food, the conversation.  The way humans can be so consistent and yet so fickle all at the same time.  But it is the stories they create that really intrigue him.  Stories of gods and monsters and yet they cannot tell that a god sits at their table, drinks their wine and breaks bread with them.  Shortly after the stories comes music, and any hope Mama may have had for Jaskier acquiring a respectable profession (his sister Ina is a healer and one of Mama's favourites) is dashed the instant his music professor strums the first chords on her lute.

Jaskier has never heard anything so magical.  Not even Mama in her full goddess splendour can sound as sweet and as powerful as Professor Morden when she plays a simple little ditty for her students.  Jaskier is lost and willingly surrenders himself to a love affair he knows will last his entire, vast lifetime.

There is no dissuading him from his chosen path when he graduates, despite numerous attempts by his siblings.  Mama and Father are unable to attend the ceremony, their presence too much for mortals, but each sends a representative and Jaskier smirks as he is awarded the highest honours Oxenfurt Academy can bestow in front of Ina; she may have a career Mama approves of, but even she cannot claim this achievement.  Embla, one of the Old Father’s daughters, shakes her head at him in amusement as they contemplate Ina's sour-looking face over a glass of wine in The Alchemist once the formalities are over.

Their presence is causing quite a stir.  

By himself, Jaskier is no stranger to the free drinks patrons decide on a whim to send his way, and takes for granted how a table will be cleared for him and his companions the moment he enters an establishment.  Ordinary folk may not consciously know what he is, but that small, hidden part of their brain that remembers what it was like centuries earlier (before they learnt to build town walls and forge steel swords to keep the predators at bay) has not forgotten.  That part of the brain still recognises the fickle, unharnessed power that is Jaskier and it aims to please.  

On his own, Jaskier can sway a couple of young lasses to throw their drinks in each other's faces as they compete for the prize of bedding him  - quite often he will solve this by suggesting both come back to his room.  With three Rivers present, a brawl breaks out as they lounge on the  best seats, the ones the innkeeper had his sons carry down from his private rooms, as both men and women bite and scratch their way to the bar to buy the gods their next drink.

“You must be careful,” Ina admonishes.  She often complains that Mama was too soft on him, letting him off with a stern look when his older brother and sisters would have been turned over her knee.  Jaskier suspects it's because Mama now has his older siblings to turn him over their knees and so sees no need to do it herself.  

Jaskier is already beginning to tune her out.  When Ina gets to lecturing, she tends to carry on at great length and find ways to include his many (in her eyes) failings.  He catches sight of a handsome lad who has been staring at him from a corner for most of the night, and Jaskier flashes a grin that is really a promise in the young man's direction.

Ina raps his knuckles sharply.  “You need to pay attention,” she snaps and Jaskier glowers at her.

“What Ina is trying to explain,” Embla steps in smoothly, defusing the tension,  “is that you'll need to work on how you balance yourself.  Don’t show too much of yourself to the humans.  Older and wiser Rivers than you have been imprisoned and killed by scared mobs and power-hungry mages.  Avoid sorcerers whenever possible, though druids are usually alright.  They respect the natural order of the world at least.”

Jaskier knows that Embla has some kind of weird relationship with a Skellige druid.  He’d come to the Continent seeking 'Ancient Truths' according to Old Father Pontar and discovered Embla instead.  Twenty years later and he has yet to return to Skellige, having not moved from the hut he’d built on her shores.  Every sunrise he walks down from his home and into her waters and screams his adoration of her to the heavens.  Jaskier does not understand this at all, but Embla seems happy.

“However, you must never try to convince yourself that you're human either,” Embla continues.  “Let that power build up, and it will overflow.  Before you know it, half of Aerdin will be underwater.  The trick is to control the flow.  A constant, steady trickle is what’s needed and you'll never find yourself without a room at an inn or a hot meal in your belly.”

A short while later he bids his two companions farewell and meanders slowly back to his rooms.  The handsome lad from The Alchemist is waiting at his door and they trade kisses as Jaskier fishes out his key to let them in.  What better way to spend his last night in Oxenfurt?

A travelling bard must start somewhere and the following day he will set off with his lute to begin his adventure.  He plans to head north east, a pilgrimage of sorts, to the Blue Mountains where his Mother began.  From there, who knows?

Chapter Text

Jaskier bumps into the witcher a week after the conclusion of his pilgrimage.  

He had climbed all the way into the heart of the Blue Mountains, following his mother's path to the spring from which she originates and she had been there, waiting for him.  She had been sitting on a rock by the small spring, looking more regal than any king or queen could dare dream of.  They would have prostrated themselves before her and begged to kiss her feet if they’d been able to see her.  As it was, Jaskier had thrown himself into her waiting arms for the first time in over four years, and curled up in her lap as though he were a small boy of seven again and not a full grown man of eighteen.  She had stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks and they had wept in joy together, tears mingling in the pool below.  That night he played for her under the stars and she had laughed and clapped and danced with him until sunrise.

“My beautiful Buttercup, you bring back memories of when I was able to walk freely in these lands.”  His mother had stepped into the spring, sinking deeper than should have been possible.  “You must seek many adventures and then come sing them to me.  I had forgotten what excitement there is out there.”  She’d sunk below the surface and vanished. 

Afterwards, he makes his way carefully down the mountains and back to the small village that rests at their feet.  The moment he enters the inn, the barman places a pint and a hot pie in front of him.  All it takes is a smile at the innkeeper's wife after he's mopped up the last crumbs from his plate and she notices the lute, as he had intended, and asks him to play.

It’s not one of his best performances.  Despite four years at school in the human world, he is still working out for himself what they like and dislike.  Verses that had made his siblings cackle had fallen flat in some of the places he’s played, while others they’d moaned were dull and repetitive had been received by mortals with thunderous applause.  This performance he writes off as a dud and he makes a mental note in the part of his mind he uses to catalogue such matters.

He catches the bread that’s chucked at him, an offering is an offering no matter how unknowingly sacrificed, and grabs himself an ale from a passing waitress who walks away dazed by his smile.

That’s when he spots the quiet shadow in the corner and the hair on Jaskier's arms stands on end.  This man isn’t completely human, he knows that with a certainty he hadn’t been aware he possessed.  All of the advice and instructions he's been given by his fellow Rivers flash through his mind and are pulled away by a fast current of intrigue as he strides up to the stranger.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” he smiles winningly,  letting the merest hint of friendly suggestion creep into his voice.  It slides off the man like water off a duck’s back and Jaskier is effectively hooked.  He can't resist prodding at the stranger some more, but nothing he does takes hold.  Whatever power Jaskier possesses, this man is immune and seemingly oblivious to it.

It's only when they're talking about the monsters in Jaskier's songs that he gets it.  The person before him is a witcher, a mutant.  He can't help but lick his lips in excitement.  This man practically shines with stories untold and Jaskier wants to uncover them all and bring them home to Mama.  

None of his family has ever really interacted with witchers.  Why would they?  Witchers hunt monsters; they don't take contracts against nature.  The only time his siblings seem to concern themselves with them is when a fight ends with a monster's body in the water, floating downstream. It feels unsanitary, as if they’d just had a tub of dirty, stinking bathwater poured over them.

The only exception Jaskier has met so far is his mother's brother, Lord Buina.  He and Mama have a strained relationship.  Both begin in the Blue Mountains, but Mama is bigger and longer and outshines her brother in every way in Jaskier's opinion.  Being forced to pay homage to his mighty sister definitely sours Uncle Buina's interactions with Mama.

Lord Buina has a daughter Jaskier has not yet met, Gwenllech, and she runs past the keep of the Wolf School of Witchers, Kaer Morhen.  Her father takes great exception to the way his daughter eyes up the few remaining members of that guild and he often complains to Mama about it when he comes to visit.

If all the witchers look like the one before him, then Jaskier is firmly on his cousin's side.  He regrets not going to pay his respects to her when he was in the mountains.  Surely, she would have shown him around the local sites and they could have tried to lure some witchers into her river for an innocent swim?

Geralt, because with that hair what other infamous witcher could it possibly be, does not know it yet but his fate is sealed.  Jaskier has promised his mother tales of adventures and Geralt is the key.

The River feels slightly giddy, though that may have been the gut punch the witcher bestowed upon him when Jaskier refused to stop following him.  He has never before met someone his supernatural charms do not affect, and the prospect of making this man a friend gives him a tingling feeling in his fingers and toes.  This would be a true friend, one not influenced by the magic Jaskier exudes, and that thought is enough for him to follow the broody witcher on his Path.

There is, admittedly, a small mishap with some elves.  They have the same pointed ears as Mama but none of her awe and majesty.  Even Filavandrel, their proclaimed king, is but a poor imitation.  They lead Jaskier to some horrible ideas that he has never allowed himself to explore fully before. Ideas that hurt more than the beating the female elf tries to give him, though after a few kicks she seems to forget about him and slide away.

He was human before the River and Mama changed him.  Was Mama once an elf?  Did the River change her the same way as Jaskier was changed?  Had someone murdered Mama the same way as Jaskier was murdered?

In his dreams, sometimes, he is so small and so afraid and the cold water clasps him tightly as he sinks under.

The thoughts make him angry and for one sharp moment he hates these elves even as he pities them.  

Geralt proves himself and saves them both before Jaskier is forced to reveal more of himself than he is comfortable with.  So Jaskier writes him a song.  This noble, self-sacrificing creature does not match the rumours that surround him, but Jaskier is good at convincing people, at making them listen to him.  He's sure he can change the story of Geralt.  He only needs to persuade the witcher to let him try.

*   *   *

The bard is what Geralt imagines humans would call an 'odd duck'.  Geralt does not have much experience of travelling with humans.  Occasionally one will join him on a hunt, and some will even share a meal and an ale with him afterwards, but then they always part ways.  No one, apart from a few fellow witchers, have ever travelled with him for any extended period of time.  Let alone years.

Even ignoring all that, Jaskier is decidedly strange.  He prattles endlessly, and if he is not talking then he is singing, and if he is not singing then he is humming, and if he is not humming he is absent-mindedly strumming that gods-damned lute!  Even asleep he makes noise, not quite full blown snores, but a heavy breath that makes a strangle babbling sound as it trickles out of his mouth on an exhale.  Eventually Geralt learns to tune it out, and on the occasions when their paths separate, he spends the first few days feeling oddly disconcerted, as if something important is missing in the silence.

The first time Jaskier leaves him, Geralt assumes that will be the end of their acquaintance.  One day, in a town just inside the border of Lyria, Jaskier turns apologetic eyes to Geralt over breakfast.  A family engagement is calling him away and he'll need to leave after the meal.

Geralt is surprised that the news saddens him slightly.  He’s been deliberately keeping the bard at arm’s length, refusing to get attached when he knows that this is the only way it can end.  He finds himself offering to escort Jaskier part of the way.  He has had no news of any contracts in the area and he can afford to wander in the same direction as Jaskier until work comes his way.  However, Jaskier brushes his offer aside and Geralt accepts that this is the end of a not too unpleasant stretch of months.

Except it's not the end. Geralt stumbles across Jaskier a month later, just outside Mayena, sitting grumpily beside the banks of the Ina and muttering angrily to himself.  At least until he sees Geralt, and then a beaming smile spreads across his face as he bounds towards the witcher.

“Where are we off to now?” he laughs delightedly as he reaches over to thump Geralt on the shoulder in a friendly manner.  Geralt refuses to acknowledge the warmth that builds in his chest when Jaskier just assumes they will move on together.  

“Leshen,” he grunts.  “Not too far from Maribor.”

“Excellent!  Well not excellent.  Not for the poor people it's killed, but it will be a great tale to tell.  It's this way right?”  Jaskier goes striding off, but not before turning round to wave cheekily and wink at the river.  Geralt ignores this strange behaviour, and if he gets off Roach to walk alongside the bard, it's because he wishes to give his dutiful horse a rest.

And that is the way their lives continue.  Jaskier, or sometimes Geralt, will announce one morning that they need to split up for a bit, and sometime later Jaskier will find him.  Jaskier always finds him.  Geralt once asked him how.

“Ahh Geralt, not all of us are as taciturn as you. I simply ask.  You are distinctive enough that it is not hard to follow your trail on the wagging of people's tongues.”

It certainly wouldn't be for Jaskier who has friends everywhere.  They can enter a town as strangers and Jaskier is guaranteed to know half the place before they leave.  And it's not just potential lovers he gets to know, though he is never short of them (Geralt has seen men run out of town for sleeping with someone's wife, but he and Jaskier are once left scrambling to leave town early to avoid a husband who seems mortally offended that Jaskier hasn’t slept with him as well).  On the admittedly rare occasions when Jaskier decides he doesn't fancy taking his pick from the collection of willing bodies scrambling to get him to themselves for a night, he will entice whatever passes for the local academics to sit and debate with him for the evening.  Geralt is able to sit back and listen as the voices rise and fall in passion and contemplation, unwilling to join in unless really pushed, but enjoying the experience.  Jaskier is a good teacher and Geralt wonders if one day, when the bard's bones start to creak and his sight begins to fade, he will return to Oxenfurt permanently to teach.

Yet given how smart Jaskier obviously is, he is also incredibly dumb.  The concept of money is relatively foreign to him and Geralt has taken to keeping hold of his purse when they travel together.  More than once he has forgotten to pay for his food and beer, and on other occasions has paid far too much for a simple pie.  He even wears his most ostentatious clothes while travelling and looks honestly baffled when they tear and get muddy.  The practicalities of the world seem to escape him.  

And he’ll talk to anyone.

Geralt is not prone to panic, but even his heart starts thumping unnaturally fast when he leaves Jaskier at camp while he collects wood for a fire and comes across a recently deserted bandit lair.  He hurries back to find the bandits sitting around his fire, sharing bread and stories with the bard.  They sit on the ground below him where he’s perched on a log, hands gesturing wildly as he recounts the story of the harpies Geralt had killed two towns back.  Not a very interesting contract, but Jaskier has a talent for embellishment.  

When Geralt makes his presence known, Jaskier drags him to sit on the log at his side and before Geralt realises, he is reluctantly pulled into a conversation with the youngest of the group.  The boy looks ready to shit himself at the first appearance of the witcher, but under Jaskier's encouraging smile he timidly starts to ask Geralt about the plants he uses in his potions.  It turns out Osmond has a keen interest in botany and before the night is over, Jaskier is penning him a letter of introduction to the scholarship board in Oxenfurt.

“It won't be easy.  There will be a lot of expectations for you to prove yourself,” Jaskier's tongue peeks from between his teeth as he flourishes his quill over the parchment and Geralt can’t name the slight churning feeling he senses in his gut (perhaps constipation?).  “If anyone gives you a hard time, just drop my name into the conversation.  I bet they still remember me.”

The next morning the bandits leave peacefully and Osmond hugs both Jaskier and Geralt before he goes.  Jaskier just laughs at the stiff way Geralt holds himself for the rest of the day.

*   *   *

“...What I'm asking for is a teeny, teeny-weeny little favour,” Jaskier tells Geralt, sipping his ale as the witcher chugs his own.  Geralt is covered in selkiemore guts and everyone else in the tavern looks ready to faint, but Jaskier has let just enough power loose in his song to put everyone at ease and they’re now dancing and cheering around them.  Another ale is placed in front of the witcher without him having to ask.  If he has ever noticed how much more easily he gets served, or how the respectability of the inns they are allowed to stay at increases whenever Jaskier is around, he has never mentioned it.

“Fuck off bard.”

Jaskier is not discouraged.  He has learnt that it is not what Geralt says, but how he says it that's important and that was more along the lines of ' I'm tired and want a bath ' rather than an actual 'fuck off' .  So he orders the witcher a bath and some food and begins his mission to convince his friend to accompany him to Cintra where he has been asked to play at Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast.  

“Why do you want me there?”  Geralt asks him as he relaxes in the tub, allowing Jaskier to thoroughly remove the guts from his hair (and if Jaskier is using some of his abilities to keep the bath hot, who need know?)

The thing is, Jaskier can’t tell Geralt it's because Mama has insisted that he bring Geralt the next time he’s in Cintra.  He’s been returning to her court every Beltane for years, as something deep within his soul tells him he must, and dazzling her and his siblings with his songs.  Well, dazzling might be a bit of a strong word.  His siblings do not understand his fascination with the witcher.

“He would not make a good acolyte, always moving around,” his brother, Trava, tells him.  Trava has three gorgeous triplets who live with him in Kagen, where his River feeds into Mama's.  They keep his house and his schedule for him and do the numerous small tasks Trava doesn’t even realise need doing.

Many of his family have similar arrangements with one or more mortals.  They are all people of a certain kind, ones who yearn for some purpose and so far find themselves disappointed in the world.  They are searching for something more and they find it in the Rivers.  

Even his mother has a human who comes round every other day.  Jaskier calls her Aunty Irina, and she used to pinch his cheeks and occasionally take him with her to market.  She once told Jaskier that Mama found her when she was preparing to leave this world behind for good.  Her step-father had chucked her out when he married her mother, and the man who took her in had no qualms about pimping out a thirteen year old girl to the sailors who docked at the port.  He didn’t care if they left her with cuts and bruises so long as a little extra money was handed over on the way out.  One night she’d got away and she’d stood on the great bridge that crosses the Yaruga near the mouth of the sea, ready to jump into the water below, when she’d caught sight of a woman standing in a window in a building by the bridge.  The woman had waved at her, and she had found herself walking off the bridge and to the door of the woman's house.  It had opened before she could touch it and she had entered unafraid and climbed the stairs up to Mama's room.

Little Jaskier had asked what happened next, and Aunty Irina's eyes had gone misty as she remembered.

“She bathed my bruises and brushed my hair, and I knew at that moment I would serve her until I die.”

Jaskier has no acolytes so far, though he had come close with Osmond - the young boy who’d listened so attentively as Geralt explained his potions and tinctures to him.  The boy's heart was open to the possibility, wanting something greater than the early death likely to come his way in the forest if he’d continued to prey on travellers.  Jaskier knows all it would have taken was an offer, and he and Geralt would have ridden away with one more the next day, but he couldn’t do it.  Geralt would likely not have taken well to an extra companion and Jaskier wasn’t going to do anything that would risk Geralt sending him away.

Jaskier doesn’t want Geralt as an acolyte, as a worshipful servant.  He wants something much more.  Something he can't obtain with his powers.  He wants him as a partner and an equal.  This is what his brothers and sisters struggle to understand.  Mama had just looked at him sadly when he first tried to explain, words tripping over his tongue inelegantly, as he failed to convey the extent of his feelings.  It takes him many years to realise the word he is looking for is love , and when he does, Mama nods decisively and orders him to bring Geralt with him when Queen Calanthe invites him to play at her daughter's feast.  How Mama knows that he will receive the summons in four months time is a mystery.  Mama wishes to inspect him.

So bring Geralt to Cintra he must, and as he cannot (will not) order him along, he must trick him.

He considers playing the jealous husband angle, but doesn’t think Geralt will believe him.  They've never had any problems with jealous husbands before, at least not in the traditional sense.  So he settles on a story close to the truth.  

“It's my first royal performance.  Every lord, knight and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal.”  Along with possibly Trava, Adalette and Vda (his twin sisters who run through Brokilon), and there’s a rumour that Embla is planning to show up with her moaning sister, Duppa.  He wanders over to rummage through the bath salts on the other side of the room.  “The Lioness of Cintra herself will sing the praises of Jaskier's triumphant performance!”  He finishes with a flourish, chucking the salts into the bath.

Geralt looks unimpressed.  “What is my part supposed to be in all this?”

“Moral support, and to stop any lord or lady with wandering hands from getting a grope in when I'm in front of such distinguished company.”  Jaskier knows he’s a habit of letting his control slip when he’s in the middle of a performance, and the last thing he wants is to start a brawl, or an orgy, in front of his family at the Queen of Cintra's court.  They’d never let him live it down.  

Geralt still looks unmoved.  “I'll give you whatever you want if you accompany me tonight, and the best clam chowder you'll ever eat before the performance.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt grunts from the tub and Jaskier knows that's untrue.  Geralt wants lots of things he doesn't let himself even consider.  He wants hot baths and regular meals.  He wants nights with a willing, eager bed partner.  He wants respect and a bit of kindness from his fellow men.  All these things that Jaskier could give him if he would just let down the walls he's built around himself.  Jaskier would willingly share everything he has with Geralt.  He would look after him, but more than that, he would let Geralt look after him too.

“Well, who knows?” he can't resist dropping down beside Geralt, dipping a pinky in the water to check it’s still the perfect temperature for his witcher.  “Maybe someone out there will want you.”  And he's sitting right here if the stubborn mutant would just open his damned eyes and see!

“I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are,” Jaskier sighs before giving up.  Geralt will come with him, he knows.  He'll have to settle for that for now.  

He bullies Geralt out of the tub and into the clothes Mama has sent over.  It’s slightly creepy how well they fit.  She has somehow known the witcher would not be comfortable in anything bright and flamboyant and has sent him an elegant but subdued dark grey doublet and matching trousers.  The only embellishments are the small patches of yellow flowers sewn around the collar of the new, crisp, white shirt.  Jaskier's mouth goes slightly dry as he witnesses the full effect of the transformation, but he has no time to linger and drags a complaining witcher out to the docks to grab a bowl of the promised chowder from a small shop by the Great Yaruga bridge.

They sit at one of the tables set up in the street to eat and it is as good as he had promised, which Jaskier knows because Geralt stops glowering at him for a moment and even goes up for seconds.

“They won't take my money,” he comments as he returns with a full bowl.

“Ahh... Yes, they definitely won't.”

“Why?”

“Well, you're here with me, obviously.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier imagines what that growl might do to him under different circumstances.

“I grew up around here,” he admits and Geralt actually looks surprised.

“I thought you were from Redania.”  Not an unintelligent guess given his Oxenfurt stories.  “But you're Cintran?”

“Not really.  Born in Aerdin originally,” Jaskier pokes at his bowl in a subdued manner.  He tries to avoid lying to Geralt, but discussing his origins is one of his least favourite subjects.

It was so, so cold when his breath was stolen from his lungs.

“But then you moved here?  To the docks?” Geralt doesn’t give up pushing for information, and Jaskier feels very much as if he's on the wrong end of a contract.

“Yes Geralt,” Jaskier puffs out his cheeks with air before blowing out through his nose in an effort to calm his temper.  “I grew up in that house,”  he points, and then, because he's already sharing more than he likes, he points at Aunty Irina's place.  “And I spent a lot of time with my aunt over there.”

Geralt turns his head to look at both buildings, and it's obvious that he recognises the latter.

“That's Madam Irina's whorehouse,” he says flatly.

“Know it, do you?  Spend much time there?  Ever have Aunty Irina read you the riot act?”  Jaskier enjoys Geralt's slightly pained face and is thankful for the way he drops the subject.  Geralt never needs to know that he spent many afternoons as a young boy getting his lips and eyes painted by Aunty Irina's girls, while they cooed over him and fed him sweets.

Aunty Irina runs the most respectable brothel in the Northern Kingdoms.  A place where the girls are well looked after, treated and paid fairly and any misbehaviour by the men is quickly and severely dealt with.  Get kicked out of Madam Irina's and you’ll never be let back in.  All new patrons are quickly informed of the rules by Aunty Irina herself, and Jaskier bets she could make even the most hardened witcher blush and stutter like a prepubescent school boy.

As they get up to head towards the palace, Jaskier sees Mama's familiar golden head duck out of sight from her window.  Filial duty accomplished.

*   *   *

This is not what Geralt had expected.  Jaskier always wears such fine clothes; he speaks so well and carries himself with such confidence.  Geralt has heard more than one village girl giggle and whisper to her friend that Jaskier must be nobility.  A lord, or duke, or viscount.

No noble grows up in a house by the docks, always the seediest area of any seaside city.  No noble has a brothel madam for an aunt, and maybe it’s from her that Jaskier gets his love of luxury and fine things?  Maybe it was at her establishment that he learned his charms?

Jaskier has always kept his childhood close to his chest, and maybe this is why.  A whore's nephew would never be allowed to play at a royal feast, no matter how talented (and Geralt can admit to himself, and himself only, that Jaskier is talented).

Maybe this is why Jaskier needs the moral support he claims he wants from Geralt.  A fellow outsider and charlatan to accompany him into the Lioness’s  den.  Jaskier can pretend he was born into this kind of world as Geralt pretends for a night that he is nothing more than a bodyguard.  This, perhaps, Geralt thinks he can do.

Except that plan goes to shit pretty quickly when he recognises and is recognised by Mousesack.  

“I never expected to see you looking so well-dressed,” the druid chortles.  “Who’s responsible for this?”

Geralt looks pointedly at Jaskier and frowns as Mousesack stares unabashedly at him, a look almost of wonder on his face.  The bard himself looks terrified, clammy hands clutching at his lute and a distinct whiff of  fear making its way through his usual fragrant oils.  Unusual, as Jaskier normally only smells of whatever fragrance is his current favourite.  Geralt has deliberately never got close enough to smell what Jaskier is like under the mask.

He doesn't like the look either man wears and pointedly clears his throat.

Jaskier mutters something about going to introduce himself to the minstrels and practically flees, only to be stopped by a tall, handsome man surrounded by three identical dark-haired women.  The way they fawn over the other man, Geralt decides none of them are a potential over-eager problem for the bard, and turns back to the druid.  He raises an eyebrow at the contemplative look on Mousesack's face and he muses that it would be awkward if he was forced to talk his old acquaintance out of pursuing anything with his new one.

Mousesack seems to shake himself out of it as he drags Geralt around the hall to get a drink.

“Wherever did you find him?” he asks Geralt, gesturing at Jaskier who, for all his supposed charm, looks like a pouting child being scolded for a trick he thought he’d got away with.

“Small village called Posada, on the edge of the Blue Mountains.  And I didn't find him; he just started following me.”  For the past nine years, he decidedly does not add.

Jaskier is beginning to puff up like an indignant peacock and Geralt recognises that look all too well.  He's been on the other end of it on numerous occasions after a well timed insult, and he knows the many variations of the lecture that follows.  He extracts himself from Mousesack to go and rescue the courtier before Jaskier can embarrass them both with his defensive behaviour.

“Excuse me, my lord,” he steps in between the man and Jaskier, ignoring the high pitched giggling of the entourage.  “I just need a moment with my friend here.  He promised the best wine in the kingdom if I turned up here tonight and so far I have little to show for it.”

The man regards him quizzically.  Thick auburn eyebrows frame familiar looking eyes, the colour of a river on a cloudless sunny day.  Geralt knows he has seen those eyes before, but can't figure out where (the answer niggles irritatingly at his brain as though it should be obvious).

“Of course, this is a queen's feast after all.  One does not expect to be served the standard affair here.”  He holds out a hand and one of the triplets hands him a goblet full of red wine, a good vintage from what Geralt can smell, except he had not even noticed her slip away. The wine is passed to Geralt who goes to take a sip, but that is when Jaskier stumbles into him and spills the wine onto the floor, miraculously missing both their doublets.

“Dammit Jaskier!”

“Oops,” the bard does not sound the least bit sorry, but luckily for both of them, the courtier seems to find it amusing and lets out a loud booming laugh.  

“No harm done.  I must go and speak to a few acquaintances.  Make sure you behave, Jaskier.”  He leaves with the three women and Jaskier remains red-faced and spluttering indignantly next to Geralt.

“Friend of yours?”

“No!  A complete arse!  A pox-stuffed lout with absolutely no taste!”

A romantic rival maybe?  Geralt just rolls his eyes.  “You've been saved.  You'll have to fend for yourself for the rest of the night.  I need a drink.”  He fully plans to find a dark corner and a carafe of wine to pass away the evening, but that’s when Queen Calanthe enters and the whole evening takes an entirely different turn, so that by the end of the night he has saved a life and gained an unborn child.

He doesn’t hang around.  He flees into the night, grabs Roach and rides as far as he dares into the darkness.  He wants to get as far from Cintra as possible, faced with the very real possibility that Calanthe is not above sending some guardsmen to behead him before the child is even born.  He camps near a river two hours' ride outside of the city.  

He's left Jaskier behind and imagines it will be many months before he sees the bard again, but when he wakes, Jaskier is beside him, poking Geralt's fire with a stick and humming a new tune.

“Good morning,” he says when he notices Geralt is awake.  It looks like he hasn't slept but he still manages to smile at Geralt.  “Where are we off to now?”  And Geralt is so pathetically grateful for the unspoken questions and commentary.  

He doesn't speak, just rolls to his feet and packs up camp before heading east, following the path of the Yaruga.  Jaskier follows.

Chapter Text

Mousesack finds him the day after Beltane.  Jaskier had been travelling with Geralt ever since Cintra, trying his utmost to keep his friend's mind off the child he had unwittingly claimed and doing his very best to avoid his own family.  This had been rather difficult, because they’d suddenly started popping up everywhere.  Trava had run straight to Mama after the banquet and told all, the prick.  Etta had been there (Lady Esther Ribbon to most people, but just Etta to her family) and she’s the biggest gossip of all his siblings.  So his whole family knows about the disastrous betrothal feast.  

Scratch that.  Every single bloody River in the Northern Kingdoms now knows, and probably a few down south as well.  Jaskier had sworn that the next time he saw his sister, he was going to strangle her with her own hair ribbons.  She’d gone out of her way to avoid them when they passed through Brugge, while Geralt chased some nekkers that had started stealing peoples shoes (unfortunately while still on their feet), but she’d been the only one.

They’d spent a couple of days in Kagen, where Geralt had cleaned some tentacled beast from the sewers with a single-minded fury Jaskier hadn’t seen him display before.  Trava (the pox-stuffed pig) had wandered into the tavern where they were staying just as Jaskier was requesting a bath for his witcher.  

“I must say Jaskier, I still don't understand the appeal, but by the Yaruga, he does put on a good show.  Haven't enjoyed a feast that much in about seventy years.  Do let me know if there's an encore.”  

Geralt had not been happy when he didn't get his bath.  The barman had insisted they leave after Jaskier had thrown himself bodily at his brother and tried to pummel the immortality out of him.  All he had to show for it was a split lip and a slight limp, but at least Trava had gone before Geralt had come down to see what all the shouting was about.  It was the first time Jaskier had ever been chucked out of a bar.

Ina had shown herself when they headed north and had to cross her river to get to Temaria.  She had at least waited until Geralt was asleep before pulling herself from her waters and onto the bank, the moonlight causing the water to gleam on her dark, naked skin.  She had eyed the witcher critically, before commenting that he was too old for her brother and far too foolish.

“One of you ought to have some sense, and it's definitely not you,” she had sniffed.  

Thwyth had appeared in Velen, despite his river being all the way up north by Poviss.  He’d tried to claim he was on his way to visit Ismena in Vizima, but the River in question had happened to drop in half an hour later, rather spoiling that ruse.  They’d actually bought several rounds of drinks for them and had questioned Geralt incessantly on how he’d managed to put up with Jaskier for all these years.  Jaskier had fumed in a corner, unable to retaliate on Ismena's territory without causing great offence that would reflect badly on Mama.

Ismena must have realised that their teasing had gone too far, because he’d paid for their room for the next three nights.

Jaskier had then been forced to convince Geralt to take a detour via Oxenfurt because Old Father Pontar had sent Duppa after him with a request to visit.  Of all of his children, why did it have to have been Duppa?  In life, she had been Princess Vanda, but she had thrown herself into the river when her fourth betrothal had been broken off and she had convinced herself, in a fit of teenage melodrama, that no one would ever really love her.  History had later shown that the four broken engagements had been down to her father playing silly buggers with the neighbouring kingdoms, trying to cajole each ally to up their bride price by breaking the agreement and offering his daughter to another man instead.  

Duppa was prone to being a bit touchy about any perceived criticism and when she’d failed to get Geralt to talk in anything more than grunts and short sentences, she’d thrown a drink in the witcher's face and talked the local populace into chasing them out of town.  Jaskier was blaming that one solely on Geralt.

Old Father Pontar had rooms above the Great Library in Oxenfurt Academy.  At least he’d been satisfied with viewing Geralt from a balcony overlooking the main floor while the witcher had been checking the latest research on curing ghoul bites.

“Don't let him break your heart,” had been the only advice he’d offered Jaskier, twirling the moustache that the bard had so loved to pull as a child.  “He seems like a nice lad and it would be a shame to have to watch your mother kill him.”

The point of the whole thing is that Jaskier has seen more of his relatives and contemporaries in the last six months than he has in the last six years, and he is not inclined to be cheerful about having to go back to Mama's for Beltane, just to see them all again.

Normally the life and soul of the party, he secludes himself in a corner with a pitcher of ale and does his best Geralt impersonation.  Which only makes his siblings rib him even more.  

Jaskier fully intends to spend the day after Beltane in a similar fashion, but Adalette calls out to Mama about a man watching their house from the street.  Mama swans over to the window, peering out from behind the flow of her golden hair, and shakes her head ruefully.

“I believe this one's for you, Buttercup.”

For him?  He hauls himself to his feet and swaggers to the window, taking a sip from his mug as he tries to glance casually down at the street.  The druid from the banquet waves at him.  Fuck.

“I'd better... go see what he wants.”  

Trava just laughs and steals his mug from his hand.  The bastard.

“I'd been hoping to find you here,” Mousesack greets him with a smile as he steps out of the door.  “Any chance we could have a private chat?  May I come in?”

That is never going to happen.

“Not if you value your mind.  Best follow me if you want a private word.  Though, bit of advice, keep your hands to yourself.”  Jaskier leads them to Aunty Irina's where her best girl, Kate, is loitering at the entrance to greet customers.

“Jaskier,” she cries happily.  Lips that are painted gold leave smudges on his cheeks as she smothers his face in kisses.  “Here to give the girls a surprise?”

“Need to use Aunty's private rooms,” he smiles charmingly at her, bringing her hand to his lips.  

They are ushered through the main salon, where men (and the occasional woman) lie on silk draped couches while half naked youths serve them wine and sweetmeats, and up the back staircase behind a tapestry which leads to Aunty Irina's private sitting room.  Unlike the rest of the rooms, it is more comfortable than opulent, and soon they are sitting by the hearth as Kate serves them drinks and honey cakes while making eyes at the druid.  One last kiss on Jaskier's forehead and she leaves them to it.

Jaskier finds himself in the rare situation of not knowing what to say and unwilling to fill the silence.  Luckily, Mousesack seems happy to speak first.

“You must allow me to assuage my curiosity.  I never did manage to get a chance to talk to you at the feast.”

“Why?  It seems you already know who I am.  What I am.”

“Jaskier Pankratz, god of the Pankratz River.  I have long heard of your kind, though you're the first I've ever had the chance to meet.”  He toasts Jaskier with his wine glass before continuing.  “If I may ask, what would have happened if I'd managed to enter that house?”

“Most likely, you'd never have left.”

“I'd be a prisoner?”

“No, but you'd never want to leave.  Few people have the ability to leave Mama's side once they have experienced the power of her presence.  Aunty Irina is rare in that regard.  You'd have been hers, and I'd have been sent to explain to the Queen why you now serve another.”

“An enchantment?  Some form of compulsion?”

What a human way of thinking.

“No, you just wouldn't want to go.”

“I admit that I don't quite understand.”

It may be that the stress of so much family time has made Jaskier a little reckless, but he decides in that moment that a practical demonstration will be best.  After all, best the druid understand now and not get himself into trouble later by poking his nose into the wrong pond.

He lets his human mask drop, allows more than a trickle of his true self to flow through to the conscious world.  His appearance doesn't actually change, not visibly.  No light suddenly shines down upon him, his eyes don't flash, and he doesn't start to glow.  But something shifts.  Somehow he becomes more... Jaskier, and the effect is near instantaneous.  

Mousesack drops from his chair to his knees, wine spilling across the stone hearth as he discards the glass.  He shuffles forward, uncaring of his golden court robe, and grabs Jaskier's hands so that he is able to place kisses upon the palms before pressing them to his cheeks.  He rests his forehead on Jaskier's knee, and the bard slams his mask back up.  The druid instantly stiffens, but he does not move from his position.  He breathes heavily through his nose a few times before glancing up.

“Extraordinary.”

“And I'm Mama's youngest.  Do you think you can get up?”

Mousesack considers this for a moment, before he apologetically shakes his head.  “I might need a moment.”

Jaskier just hums as he cards his fingers through the dark hair in his lap.  Eventually, the druid is able to return to his chair, though his hands shake slightly as he accepts his abandoned glass from the River, filled once more with wine.

“Sip it and you should feel better.  Sorry, I don't often do that; I might have let a bit too much out.”

“It was quite an effective demonstration,” Mousesack chuckles ruefully into his glass.  “How does Geralt manage to spend so long in your presence?  He still appeared relatively sane at the banquet.”

A shrug.  “At best guess?  His mutations, and his ignorance of what I am, is probably it.  You wouldn’t believe the lengths people go to when explaining what they do not understand.  He probably just thinks I'm an eccentric bard.”

“You’ve no plans to tell him what you are?”

“Some things, my dear druid, must be discovered on their own.”

“He may not take that discovery well,” Mousesack warns and Jaskier has to control an instinctive wince, because that has been a recurring nightmare of his for the last nine years.  He has no good answer, so he hums a small tune, gazing into the fire as he waits for Mousesack to speak again.  Jaskier doesn't think he risked this meeting merely to satisfy his curiosity.

“I do have a piece of exciting news from the Cintran court that may interest you.  Princess Pavetta has given birth to a healthy daughter.  She came into this world yesterday and already has her grandfather wrapped round her little finger.”

“My congratulations to the family then.  May the new princess be blessed with a happy family and a long fulfilling life!”  They toast.

“I must confess, a foolish part of me did hope that you might have brought a certain friend of ours with you.”

Jaskier shakes his head.  “Even if Geralt were not determined to outrun Destiny, he would be foolish to come back here when Calanthe is no doubt after his blood.”

“The Queen can be reasoned with.  She has seen the consequences of defying Destiny now.”

“Which will just make her more determined to thwart it this time.  Trust a man who grew up among terrifying, stubborn women.  Destiny may intend for Geralt to be involved in the new princess' life, but it will have to play the long game to beat the stubborn wolf and the protective lioness.”

“And the fallout of Destiny's game could be catastrophic,” Mousesack says earnestly.  “Is there nothing you can do?  No way to persuade him?”

The very suggestion makes the acidic taste of bile rise up in Jaskier's throat.  To do such a thing would be to lose the witcher he adores forever.  Geralt would leave him, or worse, be but a suggestible shell of the man that Jaskier loves.  He shakes his head forcibly.

The druid sighs, apparently defeated, and they sit in an uncomfortable silence for a while, neither touching their wine.

“Would you like to see the princess?” Mousesack asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

“You do realise Destiny is not going to accept me taking Geralt's place?”  Jaskier has to check.

“Perhaps not, but maybe a little godly favour might stand her in good stead for the future.  She really is quite adorable.”  It seems it isn’t just her grandfather that the royal baby has wrapped round her little finger.

Still, anything is better than going back into a room with his nosy siblings, so he allows Mousesack to lead him to the palace.  The druid is obviously still feeling the effects of the River god’s show of power earlier, as he has to stop himself from trying to hold Jaskier's hand several times as they weave through the streets.  To make things easier on him, Jaskier keeps a hand on the small of his back.

They sneak in through the kitchens and up the servants’ staircase towards the royal nursery.  Neither man feels like trying to explain to the Queen what Jaskier is doing in the palace, so he uses a little bit of suggestion to get past the guards and to convince the royal nanny to take a quick nap in her chair.

The baby princess lies in her ornate crib, sleeping peacefully.  She really looks the same as all other babies, in Jaskier's personal opinion.  Nothing about her suggests that Destiny has picked her for some greater purpose.

“Would you like to hold her?”

What?  

Jaskier jerks back in panic.  He's never held a baby before, but from what he's seen on the road, they mostly just leak various, disgusting bodily fluids and cry.  But it’s too late.  Mousesack has already scooped up the small child with an easy familiarity and is placing her in Jaskier's stiff and terrified arms.

“You'd think you'd never held a baby before,” the druid laughs at the god, as he instinctively jerks his arms up and down in what is supposed to be a soothing rhythm.  The princess scrunches up her pin size nose in her sleep and Jaskier stops abruptly.

“And you'd be right,” he whispers back, afraid of waking the tiny creature in his arms.

“Really?  And you are how old?”

“Twenty-seven.”

This obviously surprises Mousesack.  “And how long have you been as you are now.”  The druid obviously knows something of what makes a River god.

“Twenty-seven years.”

A warm hand clasps Jaskier's shoulder in pity, but he ignores it.  Instead he stares down at the sleeping infant in his arms, as she instinctively nuzzles her head into his chest, setting off a peculiar kind of buzzing feeling in the vicinity.

She is so small, so trusting, so helpless.  He can’t imagine even for a moment what could convince him to drop her into a river.  He gingerly uses his thumb to stroke the soft skin of her head.

“What's her name?” he asks softly.

“Cirilla.”

He carefully lifts her so that he can brush his lips to her forehead in a blessing.  “Welcome to the world, Cirilla.”

*   *   *

Geralt has never seen Jaskier more eager to leave a place than he is to leave the town of Faerlee.  When Geralt had originally decided to take the water hag contract, the bard had tried to convince him that they should head further east instead, where they were apparently experiencing a drowner infestation.

The drowner contract was worth half of the water hag one and was at least two days’ further ride away.

Seeing Jaskier's despondent face, refusing to crack a smile throughout their two day stay, almost makes Geralt wish he'd taken the drowner contract.  Except Jaskier will not stop moaning, and it is getting on Geralt's last nerve.  The bed is too hard, the food is awful, the men and women are ugly, and the country fashions are appallingly outdated.

Geralt is almost ready to leave the moment he's dropped the hag's head in front of the alderman, if only to get Jaskier to cheer the fuck up, but by the time he gets back to town, the sun has already set and he's cold and hungry.  Jaskier will just have to cope with one more night here.

The bard is not impressed and stalks up to their room without ordering Geralt a bath as he usually does.  Geralt doesn't know why, but this break in routine puts him in a foul mood.  It shouldn't.  He’s perfectly capable of ordering his own bath and does so whenever he is on his own, but it's something he's got used to Jaskier doing for him when they're together.  He always orders Geralt's bath, and fusses over the soaps and salts that the witcher will never admit to a living soul he enjoys.  He'll carefully wash Geralt's hair for him, and he never tugs too hard on the tangles.  If the witcher's shoulders are feeling especially tense, he'll dig in his thumbs until they relax.  Then he'll let Geralt soak for as long as he pleases while Jaskier wipes down and sorts out his discarded armour, filling his ears with mindless musings and half formed songs.  It's... nice.

He chews angrily on the mutton placed in front of him, teeth grinding up the overcooked meat with a ferocity usually reserved for monster slaying.  The other patrons of the bar give him a wide berth, until one foolhardy man drops down opposite the witcher with two mugs of ale in his hands.

“You're a witcher right?” he asks, as he slides one of the mugs over to Geralt.  

He just grunts, not in the mood for conversation, but the man has brought him a drink, so he doesn't glower him away.

“I got a job for you.”

He's a determined one. Geralt will give him that.

“What's the monster and what's the pay?”

“We don't right know what it is,” the man admits.  “But we did pass the cap round the village and we got together one hundred crowns.  Please Master Witcher, you've got to help us.”

The man is sweating profusely, and Geralt can smell the fear and determination coming off him in waves.  The sum isn’t a lot for an unknown beast, but it is for what seems to be a relatively poor village, judging by the man's clothes and the slightly hungry look of his cheeks.  Vesemir always said that Geralt's soft heart would get him into trouble.

“I need to know what you do know.”

The man sags in relief.

“It started about two weeks back.  A mist came over the village, and there's nothing too unusual about that, we're quite high up near the mountains, except it didn't disperse.  Then people started going missing.  

“Old Nettie, the cunning woman, she was first.  Found her ripped to pieces three days later, and she were all shrivelled up.  Like she's been dead for weeks.  Then Master Thorn, the blacksmith, disappeared four days later, and we found him in a similar state.  Just as I left to try and find help, Bessie, my neighbour, was taken too.  

“Please, I'm begging you sir.  Please help!”

“Hmm...” Geralt already knows that he's going to agree.  That soft heart thing of his.  “I'll have a look.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the man is actually crying now.  He wipes his eyes on a grubby sleeve.  “I'm Eric, by the way,” he sniffs.  “Eric of Lairdswell.”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“The White Wolf,” Eric nods.  “I recognised you from Master Jaskier's ballads.”

Bollocks!

“Meet me here at sunrise tomorrow morning,” Geralt tells him, having no interest in hearing what exactly Eric has learned of him from Jaskier's songs.  He heaves himself up from the bench and wanders over to the innkeeper to order a bath.

Jaskier is still pouting when Geralt arrives in their room.  He's perched on the bed with his lute, strumming a discordant tune rather than his usual flowing melodies.

“Got a new contract.”  

“Thank fuck!  That means we can leave tomorrow.  Where are we going?”

“North,” Geralt says, sitting down next to him so he can begin to peel off his armour in readiness for his bath.  “Lairdswell.”

“No!”

Geralt looks up, startled, at the pure venom that fills Jaskier's tone.  The bard is, in a word, easygoing.  He follows wherever Geralt leads, and usually takes great joy in exploring whatever backwater their path happens to take them to.  Sure, he can sometimes whine and prod Geralt petulantly to do what he wants, but he's never before slammed his precious lute down on the bed in order to stand in front of Geralt with rage simmering in the air around him.  

“For fuck's sake Geralt!  It's nowhere!  It's a nothing place!  We're supposed to be getting out of this cesspit part of the world and you want to take us further in?  I won't go!  I refuse!”

“Then go elsewhere,” Geralt snaps.  “This isn't a partnership, Jaskier; it's my job and I've agreed to take the contract.  If you don't like it, you're welcome to move on.”

Time seems to freeze in the room as Jaskier gapes at him like a startled fish, blue eyes dangerously wet.  Then they harden as the bard draws himself together in self-contained fury and storms from the room, leaving the tension suffocating Geralt behind him.

He returns a short while later with a bottle of vodka and only one glass.  He settles himself down in the chair in the corner, feet propped on the windowsill, and proceeds to ignore Geralt for the rest of the evening.

'He is such a child,' Geralt thinks angrily as he’s forced to scrub furiously at his own hair.  Not one to be outdone when it comes to brooding, he is determined to ignore Jaskier just as thoroughly as he himself is being ignored, but the bath water gets cold rather quickly and he still has to sort out his own armour.  Jaskier may have won this round.

When Geralt is finally able to crawl into bed, Jaskier doesn't quickly come to join him to leech off his heat the way he usually does (and why is Geralt feeling nostalgic for the two icy cold blocks the bard calls feet being pressed up against his calves?).  He stays where he is, looking out at the moon, sipping his vodka and being unnervingly silent.

The next morning the chair is empty and Jaskier's side of the bed is untouched.  His things have been packed away and are missing from the room.  Geralt's heart sinks like an anchor down into his stomach.  Of all the things that could have driven Jaskier away, is it really going to be this?

Except, as always, just when Geralt has resigned himself to the idea of Jaskier leaving him, the man goes and does the opposite.  He is sitting by the bar, eyes rimmed with red and hair sticking up in hedgehog spikes.  An empty bowl of porridge sits in front of him, with a full bowl resting next to him as a peace offering that Geralt silently accepts.

“We'll head to Temaria after this, and we can keep going towards Novigrad.”  Geralt knows that Jaskier has a fondness for that city and he hopes this is recognised as his own apology.

Eric arrives just as Geralt finishes his breakfast and the witcher is pleased to see Jaskier perking up a little when the man is visibly starstruck at meeting the 'great Master Jaskier'.

“How far to your village?” Geralt asks before any real posturing of Jaskier's can begin.  

“It's about twenty miles, sir.  Should take us about six, maybe seven hours on foot, only I don't have a horse.  The path's good though; we just need to follow the Pankratz upstream.”

The journey passes quickly enough.  While Jaskier isn’t his usual chattering self, Eric's admiration of him does convince him to play a few of his more famous songs as they walk.  

It’s obvious when they get close to Lairdswell.  A thick, chilling mist hangs in the air, creeping in through the cracks in Geralt's armour and chilling him to the bone.  It obscures the path from even Geralt's sight and more than once Jaskier manages to catch Geralt's arm and pull him back before he accidentally wanders into the river.  

Roach shakes her head restlessly and butts it against Geralt's.  His horse is smart enough to know that this isn’t an ordinary mist.

The village itself is practically deserted, the weather causing its residents to seek refuge indoors.                

“Eric!” a sweet voice emerges from the fog, and a pretty woman holding a lantern slowly becomes visible as she carefully makes her way towards them.

“Sonja,” Eric hurries ahead to sweep the woman into his arms.  “I did it love.  I found a witcher.  He and Master Jaskier have agreed to help.”

Sonja barely even glances at the two of them.  “Bessie was found two days ago and Arnvald went missing this morning.  Mama is packing her bag and insisting that we go stay at her sister’s.  She's fifty-two, Eric, and she has a bad chest.  This mist is killing her.”

“Come love.  Don’t cry.  Like I said, I got us a witcher.  He'll sort it.  Just need to let him do his job.  Have we got a place for them to stay in the meantime?”

“Old Nettie's hut's been cleaned out.”

“Well isn't this charming,” Jaskier bites out scathingly the moment they’re left alone in their new accommodation.  “I can practically feel the ghost of the old woman staring at me.  I hope she's not expecting a show.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, his tolerance from that morning running out already.  He can feel the tension forming in the bridge of his nose and creeping upwards with every petty comment.  

“I mean, it's a dead woman's hut, Geralt.”

“You didn't complain when I did that wyvern job two months back.”

Jaskier lets out a huff and opens his mouth again (he never does know when to stop) but Geralt has had enough.

“Either explain your obvious problem with the place, or I will gag you if only to get some damned peace.”

The bard's jaw snaps shut, and Geralt can make out a slight flush creeping its way up his ears in the candlelight.  

He waits, but he appears to have struck Jaskier dumb.  It’s only later, back to back under the furs as the fire slowly dies in the hearth, that Jaskier speaks up.

“I was born around these parts.”

Geralt hums.  He vaguely remembers Jaskier mentioning that he'd been born in Aerdin.  

“Wasn't here long.  Wasn't really wanted.”

For a man who strives to make himself at home wherever he goes, that must have stung.  How old had he been when he moved to Cintra?

“Well, help me get rid of the wraith and they'll be singing your praises for the next three generations.”

Jaskier turns to face him, propping himself up on one elbow.  “You think it's a wraith?”

Geralt rolls over onto his back, glad that Jaskier is finally willing to look at him.  “The fog, the bodies they showed us.  Yeah, most likely a wraith.  Need to either find the body or find out what's keeping it here.”

Jaskier nods thoughtfully.  “Body might be easier.  Village this small and there will be any number of scandals that they won't be willing to tell outsiders about.”  He lies back down, but this time remains facing Geralt.  He starts humming, and the familiar sound is comforting enough to allow the witcher's eyes to droop.

“Hey, Geralt?”

“Yes?”

“What do you think about rhyming ‘wraith’ with ‘faith’?”

“Go to sleep bard.”

*   *   *

It’s Geralt’s turn to be in a foul mood the next day.  He spends the entirety of the daylight hours scouring the local surroundings for any hint of a corpse (the wraith’s or the latest victim’s), to no avail.  All the while the fog creeps under his skin, clinging to him more tightly than a desperate lover.  

He’s grateful when he returns to the hut to find that Jaskier has laid out their spare clothes in front of the fire.  The bard is shivering next to them, crouched near the embers and attempting to breathe some warmth into his numb looking hands.

“I hope you’ve had more luck than me,” he mumbles into his frozen fingers.

Geralt groans as he squats down next to him.  “None.  I take it the villagers were no help?”

“Hah!  They were as complementary towards their neighbours as though they were the disgraced relative at their rich maiden aunt’s funeral.  Nothing but kind words for each other.  No one here can possibly have done anything that could have caused this.”

“Did you point out to them that wraiths do not just appear as a result of good deeds.  That someone, most likely from their village, will have had to have died a horrific, violent death for this misfortune to befall them?”

“Given that you’ve never explained that properly to me before, no I didn’t.  But feel free to go educate the peasants.”

Both witcher and bard look longingly at the dry clothes.  

“Eric’s our way in,” Jaskier tells him grimly.  “He was the one desperate enough to seek you out, and it seems that he’s the one who organised the collection for your fee.  If we can get anyone to crack, it should be him.  With the lovely Sonja away this evening, we can catch him defenceless.”

There is something about Jaskier’s ability to analyse and read people that leaves Geralt more than a little spellbound.  That he is willing to use his skill to Geralt’s advantage is humbling.

“Best change after.  No point in getting into dry clothes just to get them soaked.  Take off your breastplate though.  Shirtsleeves make you appear more approachable.”

The bard himself unlaces the upper half of his own doublet, allowing his embroidered chemise to soften the lines of his face.  Geralt does as he’s told, trusting that Jaskier knows what he’s doing, and follows the bard to Eric’s home.  By the time they’re allowed inside, their shirts are clinging wetly to their skin and Eric insists on fishing out his illicit stash of rye vodka to warm them up.

“Only if you’ll join us,” Jaskier smiles winningly at the man.  Geralt hides his smirk behind his glass as he watches his bard play the man before him.  No mention of Geralt’s investigation is brought up to begin with.  Instead Jaskier focuses Eric’s attention on himself, his career and success, which leads naturally onto the contracts of Geralt’s he sings about and the other unsung stories that Eric laps up eagerly.

“You two have seen some horrors,” Eric whistles, impressed.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Jaskiers waves his glass drunkenly, though Geralt knows that he is almost completely sober.  Eric, on the other hand, is completely sozzled and heading towards totally smashed.  “But there are horrors wherever one goes in the world.  Even here I imagine.  Every small town has its local legends and horror stories.  Its own devils and shady characters.”

Eric snorts something that sounded suspiciously like Master… something.

“Who?” Geralt finally chimes in.  

Eric glances around guiltily, his drunken brain realising that he’s divulged more than he intended.  Looking back at his two guests, he realises they’re done playing with him, homing in on him as a cat does a mouse.

“The old blacksmith,” he admits.  “His daughter had an affair with the baker’s boy, but he’d been feuding with the baker for years.  The two ran off together just over three decades ago, but rumour has it that her Da caught her before she got away.”

Jaskier whistles, but his shoulders are tense, and his knuckles are white around his glass.

“What do you think?” Geralt questions.

“I think I met up with Alfred in Faerlee before I met you, and he made no mention of a wife.”

They don’t hang around much longer, though Jaskier insists that Geralt put a very drunk Eric to bed.  They leave him snoring with a bucket placed strategically at the side of his bed.

“What do you know about the blacksmith?”

“I know he’s dead.  The wraith already got him.  But his friends were hanging round the local drinking hole and they all like fishing.  They have a hut that they built by the river where they go to cast a line and escape their wives.  They’ve even named the thing.  It’s the Second Siren, so naturally I asked what happened to the first.”

“Naturally,” Geralt agrees, his mind already painting him a picture of the past.  New places, same old stories.

“Turns out it burned maybe thirty, thirty-five years back .  They whipped the local delinquents, but they never confessed.”

And they probably still angrily bore the marks of that unjust flogging.  The blacksmith wouldn’t be the first man to try and burn a crime scene from his memory.  Did he burn his daughter inside the hut?  Or did he just kill her there and burn the place to hide the evidence?

The next day Geralt heads towards the river.  The jagged ruins of the burnt out hut rise from the mist like the prow of a ghost ship and his medallion hums around his neck as he circles the ruins.  It intensifies as he walks across a patch of grass round the back and he hoists the shovel he’s brought with him down from his shoulders and pushes it into the damp earth.

It’s not a deep grave.  She had been dumped in it face first, and all he can make out of her is a slim build and long chestnut hair that clings to her back in muddy clumps.  She’s a fresh-looking corpse; the magic that’s made her a wraith has preserved her body.  He’ll have to burn it and be prepared for a battle.  Occasionally wraiths move on peacefully with their earthly remains, but sometimes they’ll appear for one more desperate fight.

With as much care as he can manage, he pulls her cold, mud-caked body from the ground.  Her neck has clearly been broken in a struggle.  Geralt can almost picture it.  The blacksmith would have been a big, strong burly man in his prime and this petite, slim, little bird of a girl would have been unable to flutter away from him as he snapped her neck.  She could only have been fifteen at most.

She deserves more than a witcher, standing alone at the edge of her grave and without the ability to give her a fitting eulogy.  He should have brought Jaskier, but knows it would have been too dangerous for the bard if something were to go wrong.  Instead, Geralt’s left him sleeping, drooling and snuffling into the furs.

Lying on the ground in front of him, he does his best to wipe the worst of the mud from her face, remembering Vesemir once lecturing him about how a little respect can never hurt in these cases.  His gloved fingers uncover a strange set of runes stretching across one of the girl’s pale cheeks.  

Fuck.

This isn’t good.  

This is no ordinary wraith.

“A Penitent!” he spits as he storms into Eric’s hut.  The man is clutching his hungover head by the fire, looking distinctly green as his wife slams a bowl of porridge down in front of him.  Jaskier also sits at their table, already halfway through his own bowl.

“I’m sorry?” Eric groans.

“Your wraith is no ordinary wraith.  It’s a Penitent.  Someone has called it here for revenge, but they’ve bungled it.  The Penitent should have disappeared after it murdered the guilty party, but whoever cast the curse was not a trained magician.  They used the wrong runes to bind the spirit here, and this wraith has lingered on.  It’ll keep on killing indiscriminately.

“But you can stop it, Master Witcher, right?” Eric peers fearfully up at him.

“Not at this point.  The girl who's been brought back as the wraith - her body won’t burn.  You need to get the person who cast the curse to break it.”

“That’ll be us heading back to Faerlee then,” Jaskier taps his spoon against his empty bowl grimly.  “This Alfred, the one who failed to escape with the daughter, he’s the most likely candidate.  Assuming, of course, that we’re right in suspecting that the blacksmith was the intended target.”

They don’t make it back to Faerlee that day and are forced to set up camp by the river, but at least south of Lairdswell the sky is clear and the temperature not unpleasant.  The water looks inviting, but Geralt knows the current here is deceptively swift.  It could easily carry him far downstream if he were to lose his footing on the river bed, so he doesn’t risk a swim despite the sweat clinging to his brow and back.

At some point in the night he thinks he hears the splash of someone entering the water.  He looks towards Jaskier’s bedroll and finds it empty.  Has that idiot really decided to go for a midnight swim?  Except, when he sits up to yell at the bard to get back to bed, the river is empty.  

“Jaskier?” he calls, but there is no response.  

“I should go find the fool,” he thinks, but his eyelids are drooping.  He doesn’t notice the medallion around his neck humming as he slides back down into his bedroll, already fast asleep.  When he wakes up, Jaskier is there and the incident in the night feels more like a dream than reality.

The sun has only just risen when they enter Faerlee again, but Eric had told them that Alfred had taken up his father’s trade and now runs a bakery in town.  Bakers are early risers and they find the man round the back of his shop, closing the iron door of a massive oven.

“I take it you’re not here to buy bread,” Alfred eyes Geralt’s medallion and sword.  “Reckon I can guess why a witcher’d be looking for me.”  He juts out his chin defiantly.  “Well, you’d best just run me through then.  I’m not saving him.  Not after what that fucking bastard did to my Julie and my Julian.”

“Now, now,” Jaskier steps forward with hands raised placatingly, and this close to each other Geralt is struck by how similar the two men look.  All Alfred needs is brown instead of flaxen hair and he could be Jaskier’s older brother.  The same lips and ears, and both have the same kind of long fingered hands, though they put them to very different uses.  Had there been any recognition between the two of them, Geralt would have thought they were family.

“No one needs to be run through,” Jaskier continues, using the strange power he has to put people at ease to lead Alfred over to a bench by the oven.  “Julie was your sweetheart, yes?  And Julian?”

“My son.”  

And the bravery the baker was displaying moments earlier is gone, as his voice cracks and his entire body trembles.

“He killed my wee boy.  Before I ever got to hold him.”  And he is weeping now.  

Geralt waits for Jaskier to comfort the man, soft as he is, but Jaskier doesn’t.  He’s gone rigid in his seat and his heartbeat has doubled in speed.  He looks to Geralt with a wild, lost look and Geralt is unsure what he’s expected to do.  

“What happened?” he asks stiltedly, trying to say what Jaskier might, if Jaskier were not currently doing an effective impression of a tree stump.

“Julie got pregnant.  We tried to hide it.  We just needed to get enough coin to leave.  I’d been stashing it away for months, hiding it under my bed, but the babe came early.  I got her to Old Nettie, begged her not to tell Julie’s father, but she did.  He came storming into Nettie’s hut and beat me bloody.  Then he grabbed the baby and left.  Came back a short time later, without the bairn, and told us he’d drowned him.”

Alfred puts his head in his hands.  Uncontrolled sobs wrack his entire body.  It seems to shake Jaskier out of whatever stupor he’s entered, and he places a tentative hand lightly on Alfred’s shoulder, fingers twitching in the parody of a squeeze.  He’s white as a ghost.

Dead babies are not new to Geralt.  It’s one of the sad truths of life.  The world is harsh and cruel, and man has often proven to be its equal.  But Jaskier, he knows, has a much more optimistic view of humanity.  He looks for wonder and hope everywhere.  There is none to be found here.

“I needed to get Julie out.  Away from him.  Staying in that place after that was eating her alive from the inside.  I got a message to her.  We were to meet by the river hut, but he must have found out, because by the time I got there…”

“She was dead,” Geralt finishes for him.  “So, you buried her and set fire to the hut.”

“Ran all night, nearly broke my neck in the dark.  Didn’t stop till I got here.  My uncle used to own this bakery and he took me in.”

“And the curse?”

“Got it from a mage passing through.  But that was back then, almost thirty years ago.  It didn’t work.”

Curses could be tricky, and this one had been inexpertly cast by a distraught boy.  It was quite possible it had just taken three decades to take effect, or something random had suddenly triggered it out of hibernation.

“Well it’s working now,” Geralt tells him harshly.  “And your precious Julie has been dragged back here as a mindless spirit.  She’s in pain, she’s angry and she’s killing everyone she can, not just your intended victims.  You think that’s what she would have wanted?  Renounce the curse.”

“I want him dead,” Alfred wails.  “I need him to be dead.”

“And he is.  Julie ripped him apart.  But she’s killed three others since then and she’ll keep killing.”

“Your sweetheart and son,” Jaskier gets out through seemingly strangled vocal cords.  “They’d want you to lift the curse. They’d want you to leave that place behind… be happy.”

Alfred turns to Jaskier, looking up at him with tears creating rivers down his cheeks.  “How?  How do I be happy?  How do I lift the curse?”

“You come with us and you say goodbye to Julie and burn her body, so she can move on.” Geralt tells him.

Julie is where Geralt left her, placed just inside the shelter of the ruined hut.  Alfred grips Jaskier’s shirt and the bard is forced to use Geralt’s frame to support them both as the man wails against him.  Years of pent-up grief pour from him until he subsides into quiet weary gasps.  

Tears run down Jaskier’s cheeks as well and Geralt just wants to get him away from this place.  He should have taken the drowner contract.  The bard is flamboyant, and loud, and one of the most irritating men Geralt’s ever met, but he wouldn’t want him any other way.  It’s what makes Jaskier one of the best men Geralt’s ever met.

When Alfred sets the fire, Geralt is fully prepared for the wraith to appear and he knows it will not be pretty.  Unlike the wraith’s physical remains, the spirit does decay, and a rotting corpse makes its way out of the mist towards them.  

The witcher keeps one hand on his sword in case she decides to attack, but she just hovers above her body.  Looking her fill at Alfred being held up at Jaskier’s side.  Then she vanishes and it’s over.

“We should head back to Lairdswell,” Geralt breaks the silence that’s settled over them.  “I need to collect my coin and we left half our things at Nettie’s hut.”

“I…” Jaskier still looks withdrawn.  “I’ll stay here with Alfred for a bit longer.  I’ll meet you here.”

Except Jaskier’s not there when Geralt returns.  Neither is Alfred.  

The mist has lifted and Geralt searches by the hut for Jaskier’s tracks.  He and Alfred split by the shore near the hut, Alfred’s heavier boots heading south back to Faerlee, and Jaskier’s much lighter step heading upstream.

It’s there Geralt finds him.  He’s scrambled down the steep riverbank, dotted in yellow buttercups, discarded his shoes, rolled up his trousers and waded into the shallows of the river.  The sun is now shining through the clear air, highlighting the dried tear tracks on his cheeks and he seems completely still.  Unnaturally so.  

Geralt slides down the bank to join him.  He toes off his boots and socks and steps into the cool water.  Jaskier’s head jerks round to face him, blue eyes (the same colour as the river) stare at him in some sort of amazement.

“Ready to leave this cesspit of a nothing place?”  He fails to completely recall Jaskier’s description.  He settles next to the bard, enjoying the way the water ripples and plays around his feet.  He lets himself stand close, shoulder brushing Jaskier’s.  A bit of comfort, the only way he knows how.

But Jaskier always likes to push for more from Geralt, and he pulls back slightly so he can rest his head on the offered shoulder and stare out at the river and the village in the distance.

“I think I’d like to stay here, just for a few moments longer.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier is once again unusually subdued come Beltane.  He’s had eight months to try and forget what happened in Lairdswell, with the wraith (his other mother) and Alfred (the father whose hand he’d held but who would never know who Jaskier was), but the contract still haunts him.  On the one hand, it’s a relief to know that he had been wanted (loved for that brief moment before his grandfather snatched him away).  On the other, his dreams are unsettling him with thoughts of what could have been.

Would he have been a baker like his father?  Would he have sung work songs with his mother as a boy as he helped with the washing?  Would it have been a happy home, a happy marriage, ten or twenty years after the initial adrenaline-fuelled, lust-filled romance had cooled down into monotonous domesticity?  Jaskier has met many a man and woman who’d defied society to marry a love they claimed the world simply could  not understand.  Many of them, years later, seek the carnal excitement Jaskier has to offer.

Would he have been content to fall in love with a village girl, to settle down and father children with her?  Who in turn would do the same, until generations down the line his descendants would claim that they had always lived in Faerlee and Lairdswell had been completely forgotten?

Or would the call of adventure have lured him away?  Is there another reality somewhere, where baker boy Julian follows his witcher across the Continent?  Is he also such a damned coward?  Unwilling to speak his feelings for fear of rejection.

He knows Geralt does care for him, in his own gruff way, but Jaskier doesn't think it’s  in the way he so desperately wishes.

The witcher has noticed Jaskier’s melancholia though, and no matter what he claims, Geralt worries.  It’s obvious in the way he looks after Jaskier.  New strings for his lute, more frequent stays at inns instead of sleeping on the cold hard ground, tickets for a play offered by a grateful client accepted instead of scoffed at.

It’s enough to light a rebellious spark of hope in his chest that he feels reluctant to stamp out.

It’s a relief to return to Cintra, and he makes his yearly excuses to Geralt a week before he normally does, anxious to get home.  The witcher has been asked by a group of merchants to negotiate with the dryads for safe passage for themselves and their caravan along the edge of Brokilon forest.  So, when he waves goodbye to Geralt in the morning, he promptly ignores all the warnings to stay away from the forest (the dryads know better than to harm him) and makes his way to the Vda.  The River in question is waiting for him.

A dryad herself once, she is small and slender with chestnut dreadlocks tied up above and away from the faintly green skin of her neck.  Unlike most dryads, she has the same bright blue eyes of Jaskier and the rest of their family.  She gives her brother a small nod in greeting before stripping down to her bare skin.  Modesty does not exist amongst Rivers and Jaskier follows suit, stuffing his clothes into the satchel that he’d asked Mousesack to make especially for him.  He no longer has to worry about waiting for his clothes to dry before meeting up with Geralt. His bag and lute case are watertight, keeping his things safe and dry no matter how he chooses to travel. 

Vda enters the river first (as it is hers) and Jaskier follows after, ducking under the water without hesitation.

He simply hangs there for a moment, taking the river in and enjoying the sensation of breathing underwater even though he knows it is an illusion.  No breath enters his lungs, but in the river he doesn’t need any.  He feels a tug on his hand and allows Vda to propel him downstream with her, picking up speed with the current and rushing ever faster into their mother’s loving embrace.

If he’s slightly clingy in the lead up to the festival, his family accept it with good grace and do not question (Mama already knows why, and the others guess enough).  Vda and Adalette play endless games of cards and knucklebones with him at Mama’s feet, Trava distracts him with impromptu wrestling matches and drinking contests, while Ina and Etta argue loudly about anything and everything whenever it gets too quiet and his thoughts threaten to turn grim.

On his first night home, Mama calls him to her room.  He lies on her bed, curled up into a tight ball by her side, just as he had done when he was small.  She strokes soothing circles on his back, and he talks, and talks, and talks.  He talks until his words run dry and the weight that has been pressing down on him since the wraith has lessened.  He dozes off, still lying there, as she banishes his bad dreams away.

By the time Beltane has passed, he’s beginning to feel more like his old self.  Just in time for his other, sacred appointment.

The guards do not stop him as he enters the palace gardens.  Their eyes see but their brains tell them nothing is amiss.  He makes his way to the fountain, perching himself on the edge and dipping his hand into the cool water running in a steady stream from the lion’s mouth, and waits.  It’s not long until he hears the pitter patter of childish steps as they run down the stone cobbles.

He waits, back turned, until the last moment, before he whirls round and scoops into his arms the chaotic bundle that had been about to jump onto his back.

Ciri squeals and wraps her pudgy little arms around his neck as she plants a wet kiss on his cheek.

“Hello Tadpole,” he grins as he spins them around.  He sets her back on the ground so that he can spin her under his arm in the beginnings of a childish jig.

“Not a tadpole,” the six-year-old princess huffs.  “Tadpoles turn into frogs and Grandmother doesn’t like frogs.  One of the serving boys put a frog in a pot to startle the cook, but it escaped and got into her study.  She was really mad.”

Jaskier bets she was.  He rather suspects that the unfortunate kitchen boy may now be short of a hand.  Calanthe has not held onto the throne for so long after the death of her first husband by being merciful and kind.  But there is kindness in Ciri, and Jaskier simply prays that her grandmother does not mistake it for weakness and try to stamp it out.

“How about being my Lily-pad then?”

“No!  There’s a girl called Lily Grandmother makes me take lessons with.  She’s really mean to me.  She deliberately spilled ink over my handwriting practice and the tutor told Grandmother I wasn’t trying hard enough.”

Well Lily’s likely to find a few frogs in her bathwater in the near future then.

“You’re right. You’re not Lily.  Guess that makes you my Cirilla-pad then.”

The nickname is met with approval as Ciri bounces onto his feet so that he can waltz them around the empty garden.

“Where’s my present?” she asks.

“Present?”

“It was my birthday yesterday.  You always visit the day after my birthday and you always bring me a present.  Where is it?  Couldn’t you come to the party on my actual birthday?”

He huffs a laugh at the little princess’ pout.  “I’m afraid not.  You see, it’s my mother’s birthday too and I have to celebrate with her.”

“She could always come to my party.  I don’t mind sharing.”

What other response can he give but to lift her up high and twirl her around?  Her innocence soothes the lingering aches in his heart, and he brings her down to rest on his hip, unwilling to let her go just yet.  One day she will be too big for this.  One day she will be a queen, and hard decisions will be placed before her, shattering any lingering naivety that she’s managed to retain.

He reaches into the satchel by his other hip and pulls out the sought-after gift.  It’s a soft toy horse (Jaskier knows Ciri loves horses) the same colour as Roach.  He’d bought it for that reason, despite Geralt poking fun at him for wanting a cuddly toy.  The witcher hadn’t been laughing the next morning when he’d woken to discover the toy cradled protectively to his chest, despite the bard telling him how adorable he had looked.  Jaskier had to save the poor toy from being thrown into the fire.

Ciri loves it.  She pulls it from his hands and crushes it to her and cuddles it tightly. 

“Thank you!” she yells enthusiastically in his ear.

Jaskier just laughs and hugs her tighter, but a strange urge overtakes him.  It’s one he’s had before, but it’s getting stronger and stronger each passing year.  He wants to take Ciri swimming.  More specifically, he wants to take her swimming in his own river.

Months later, he can still remember what it felt like when Geralt paddled next to him in the shallow waters near the shore of the Pankratz.  The moment Geralt’s bare feet had entered his river, Jaskier had felt it.  A tingle had worked its way down the back of his neck, stroking down his spine in a parody of a lover’s caress.  

What would it have been like to drag Geralt into deeper waters, to submerge him completely in Jaskier?  To cradle him with both the water and his arms?  The thought never fails to steal the breath from his lungs.  

But he can’t.  Not while Geralt still believes him human.  Geralt wouldn’t understand the intimacy of the act.  Doesn’t know what it would mean to allow Jaskier such liberties, because in that moment he would be bound to Jaskier, for life.

A few Rivers have tricked a mortal love into their waters before revealing themselves.  It has never ended well.  Even the ones who had eventually reconciled had always had this tension that spoke of distrust between them.  

Ciri, he wants in an entirely different way.  He wants to take her to his river and teach her how to swim.  He wants her to trust that he will never let her falter or drown.  He wants her to know that she will always have a home along the shores of his river.  That he will protect her from all harm and banish all her nightmares.

Geralt may not want his Child Surprise, but Jaskier does.  Wants to be more than the special friend who shows up once a year to bring her a birthday gift, sing her songs and show her small magic tricks.  He wants to be her shelter in a storm, her trusted confidant… her father.

But Jaskier is not allowed to claim her as such, not until Geralt has done so.  He recognises Destiny’s work and must acknowledge the witcher’s greater claim.  

So instead he spends the rest of the day with the princess and they play in the gardens together. Come evening, he convinces the kitchen staff to set up a picnic for them and patiently wipes the fruit juices and honey from Ciri’s sticky hands and face at the end.

“Why can’t you visit more often?” Ciri complains sleepily against his side.

She is six and will not understand the sheer amount of power it costs Jaskier to ensure that the ever-vigilant queen does not think of her granddaughter’s absence for an entire day (with the rest of the court on top of that).  He can feel the strain of it beginning to numb his fingers and toes.

“I have a friend who needs me.  He gets in awful trouble without me.  I can only trust him on his own once a year.”

Ciri doesn’t seem very impressed.  “He sounds stupid.  You should stay with me instead.  I could convince Grandmother, and Mousesack would let you stay in his rooms.”

Jaskier doesn't doubt the druid would.  He may have gone overboard in his warning to Mousesack all those years ago, because the man makes little secret of his admiration.  Occasionally, Jaskier is tempted.  When his inability to cross that divide between friend and something more with Geralt has him heartsick and miserable, he wonders how easy it would be if he could just let it go and love someone else who seems interested in something more.

But he can’t, and the druid has become a friend (more than that, not quite an acolyte but more of an accomplice) whom he’ll not abuse with false hope.  

He laughs. “One day you’ll meet him, and you can decide how stupid he is for yourself.” 

“What’s his name?”

Jaskier hesitates, wondering if he should give Ciri the name of her destiny.  “Geralt,” he relents, and prays that he has done the right thing.  He squeezes her closer to his side and sings her a song to distract her from any more questions until she falls asleep.

He waits, with her warm weight against him as she sleeps, until the familiar tread of Mousesack’s steps can be heard over the sound of the breeze and the fountain.  He gathers Ciri up and goes to greet his friend.

Together they get Ciri to bed, and she awakens only briefly when roused, to kiss Jaskier goodbye.

“Shall we go for a drink, my old friend?” Mousesack claps a friendly hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, and if it lingers slightly longer than necessary,  the River is polite enough not to mention it.  Ina had given him a stern lecture  when she’d heard what he’d done to the druid.  

“He is your responsibility now,” she had scolded.  “It’s your duty to look after him; a small part of him will always be yours.”

Jaskier had bristled at the scolding, feeling too much like the child she had put over her knee on more than one occasion, but had taken her words to heart.

They slip into Aunty Irina’s, ignoring the spectacle on offer with well-practised ease, and let themselves into the woman’s private sitting room.  The drinks are already waiting for them, as has become a tradition.  The alcohol flows long into the night, with the two friends regaling each other with the tales they have collected over the previous year.  Jaskier may skip a few details about his time by his River, but Mousesack is generous enough to let that go, despite his obvious interest.

When the druid is not so much sitting in his chair as being held up by it, Jaskier calls for Kate and she clucks at them both before helping Mousesack up and hustling him off to bed.  The bard strongly suspects that if the druid is not incapacitated by the hangover, then he’ll wake up to a very good morning.  As much as he may want Jaskier, there is something going on between the prostitute and Queen Calanthe’s trusted advisor.

He stretches his neck and yawns and prepares to head back to Mama’s, but before he can stand, the door bursts open and Trava strides in.  He drops into the druid’s empty chair and pulls out a bottle of his own moonshine from under his cloak.  The mere smell of the stuff is enough to induce a hangover and Jaskier wonders if his brother is trying to kill him.

“Drink up, we all know you’ll be leaving tomorrow so you may as well share a drink with your favourite brother before you go.”

“’Favourite’ is not the word I’d use.  ‘Only’would be more apt. ‘Most irritating’ is also up there.”

Trava raises a hand to his heart, pretending to be hurt.

“Now be nice, or I’ll not tell you where that witcher of yours was last seen.”

“ Trava, ” Jaskier grits out through clenched teeth.  His brother always knows where to poke.

“You need to relax a bit, baby brother.  The witcher is fine.  The Old Man got word to us that he’s just left Ellandre and is heading west.  You should be able to do most of the trip by river.  Father Pontar is more than willing to let you use his waters again.”

Jaskier takes a sip of his moonshine to show his thanks and regrets it immediately.  His eyes sting.

The mood lightens though, as Trava shifts topic to Ina and Etta’s latest spat and the juicy gossip that, while there are definitely some kind of relations happening between Adalette and Ismena, they’re not necessarily diplomatic ones (in the strictest sense of the word). Jaskier is feeling rather well disposed to his brother, reminding himself that Trava is not always a nosy prick.

Except, when Jaskier’s downed his third glass of spirit and Trava’s done singing the praises of the triplets, his brother suddenly circles back to the subject of Geralt.  The bastard has lured him into a false sense of security and got him drunk.  

“Look, Jaskier… little brother… I get it, I really do.”  Trava must have had a few before coming to find him, because his words are already slurring and he’s swaying forward in his seat to clasp a hand round Jaskier’s knee.

“It’s not easy being in love with a human… mutant-whatever.  Don’t growl at me, he’s not really completely human.  But, hey!  Maybe that’s good.  Might help the whole, you know, River god thing sink in better.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier feels like his words are coming up his throat through a thick layer of cotton.  Muffled and far away.  “Except for the part where I have to explain why I’ve not told him before now.”

“No!” Trava jerks in his seat.  “No, no, no, no, no… no.  You don’t tell.  You never just tell.  That’s not how it’s done.  You just tell and you’re delusional.  You got to show.  You got to… I don’t know… Wow him with your amazingness.”

Jaskier snorts disdainfully, but Trava drags him out of his seat while falling off his own so that they’re kneeling together on the floor.  He places both hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, attempting to look him straight in the eye as they both sway alarmingly.

“You need to listen to me, Jaskier, cause I’m much older so I know what I’m talking about.  You’re a chatty, egotistical pain in my arse, but you’re also amazing, you see?  And if your witcher can’t see that, there’s something wrong with him.  Don’t get what you see in him, but if you really like him, be brave.  Go for it.  I support you one hundred percent, and I’ll keep the sisters from being overbrea… overbea… impossible,” he substitutes in the end, unable to find the original word he’d wanted.

Jaskier actually feels his face begin to crumple.  He surges forward to wrap his arms around his brother and pull him into a bear hug.

“I love you, you moron,” he mutters.

“Love you too, you dick,” Trava hugs him back.

The next morning Jaskier dives into the Yaruga with a new resolve (as well as a truly epic hangover).  Somehow, he is going to open Geralt’s eyes.  Make him see what Jaskier truly is, and he’ll tell Geralt what he wants from him.  He may still have been slightly drunk, because in that instant he convinces himself everything will be fine.

*   *   *

Everything is not fine.

For one thing, Geralt looks awful.  He’s standing on the edge of the Pontar, throwing his net into the river and hauling it back repeatedly.  He looks even more dishevelled than usual and Jaskier can see the tension that riddles his tall frame from the water.

Jaskier quickly emerges downstream and throws on his clothes in a hurry, not bothering to dry off properly first.  His shirt clings uncomfortably to his chest and the leather of his boots chafes against his wet feet, but he pays it no mind.  Not even bothering to attempt to fasten up his doublet, he strides up the side of the river towards the witcher.

“Geralt,” he tries to sound cheerful, hoping to distract his friend.  “Fancy seeing you here.  I heard you were in the area.”  

Geralt doesn’t even turn around to look at him.  

“How am I, I hear you ask?  Well, my brother is officially dead to me.  The scoundrel had the audacity to get us drunk, whereupon he threw up (copiously) in Mama’s embroidery box and had the cheek to blame me.

“Also, it’s been three days and I think I’m still hungover.  And starving.  Don’t suppose you fancy sharing a fish with your very best friend?  I’m sure I can help you catch a few pike if that’s what takes your fancy.”

“I’m not fishing,” Geralt finally decides to speak to him.  “I can’t sleep.”

That explains absolutely nothing.  Old Father Pontar, it appears, had forgotten to mention in his message of Geralt’s whereabouts that the witcher had completely lost his marbles!

“Right… Good.  Well, that… that makes sense.  Insomuch as it sort of doesn’t.  What’s going on Geralt?  Talk to me.”

“A djinn.”

“Oh no!” Jaskier puts his hands up.  “Oh no, no, no.  Bad idea, Geralt.  A djinn!  Are you serious?  No!  You can’t, Geralt.”

The witcher ignores him, throwing his net into the river again.

“Come on Geralt, what can you possibly need a djinn for?  There are easier ways to get what you want.”

“I can’t fucking sleep!” Geralt whirls around to shout at him, and Jaskier can see the dark circles under his eyes and the extreme tension in his jaw.  He looks exhausted.

“Come on Geralt,” Jaskier tries to speak more softly this time.  “You don’t need a djinn for that.  We can set up camp, eat some fish and I’ll play for you.  I know hundreds of lullabies.  They’ll send you straight to sleep.

“Though I’m afraid you’ll have to do without that cuddly toy.  I bestowed it upon its rightful owner when I was visiting Mama.”

“That’s not going to help,” Geralt growls.  “Your singing will do fuck all.  It’ll be like taking a cheese grater to my brain.” 

Ouch.  That hurt.

“You,” Jaskier hisses at him furiously.  “Need a nap!”  So much for today being a day of heartfelt confession.  “Are you trying to hurt my feelings Geralt? It’s…” 

He trails off as Geralt fishes something out of his net.  Whatever it is, Jaskier can feel it from where he’s standing, and it is angry.

Geralt’s holding some kind of clay amphora and Jaskier knows he cannot let him open the seal on top.  Bad things will happen.  He knows djinn are extremely powerful air elementals that have essentially been squished down into a bottle, unable to be free until they’ve been released and granted three wishes to whatever fool releases them.  If someone were to do  something similar to Jaskier,  he’d be furious too.

He grabs the amphora, fully intent on throwing it back into the river and banishing it downstream, all the way to Oxenfurt and out to sea.

“Hey,” Geralt grabs hold of a handle.

“No, this is a bad idea, Geralt.”

“Give it back.”

“No, let go!”

“Jaskier, I’m warning you!”

They’re tugging it backwards and forwards between the two of them, yelling all the while, when Jaskier feels himself jolt backwards.  He still has the amphora, but the top has come off.  

“Oh shit!” 

For a moment they both stand there, and nothing seems to happen.  Jaskier desperately hopes that this means they’re safe, but then a breeze picks up and he can feel the djinn swelling in the air around them.

One powerful elemental force recognises the other and Jaskier can feel the sheer rage that the djinn gives off at the sight of him.  How must it appear to the elemental, powerful and old as it is, to be let loose from its tiny prison only to come face to face with the baby River that is Jaskier?  How galling to know that he must be granted three wishes before the creature can truly be free.

He needs to act fast.  Three, quick, easy wishes for the djinn to grant so it can fly away.  Can escape from the clutches of those who wish to abuse its power.

“Right,” Jaskier hates the way his voice cracks slightly.  “I’ll make this quick, no need to hang around.

“First, I wish for Mama to get new embroidery threads of a large variety of pretty colours delivered to her this day.  Second, I wish for my brother to be impotent for the next three months.  Third…”

“Jaskier, stop!” A hand pulls him away from the river by the back of his doublet before he can utter his final wish.  “There are only three wishes,” Geralt growls at him.

“Oh come on, you always say you want nothing from life.  So how was I to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?” 

“I just want some damn peace!” Geralt yells in his face, pushing Jaskier into the tree behind him.  The amphora slips from his hands and shatters against the ground.  

Geralt is on the ground immediately, trying to gather the pieces, but Jaskier has bigger problems.  He can feel the djinn expanding, gathering more of its power to itself and it seems to be focusing on Jaskier.  He must have taken too long.

He tries to get his third wish out quickly, hoping to appease the djinn, but his throat is burning.  Something in it is expanding, cutting off his airflow.  Something hot and wet is sliding down the inside of his throat.  Blood, he realises.

“Geralt,” he gasps, desperate.

The witcher looks up and sees Jaskier clawing at his own throat, and realises that the bard’s being attacked.  He shoots a sign at the djinn, sending it ricocheting away.  Jaskier sinks to the ground, wheezing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt is beside him, holding him up as he vomits blood.

The river.  He needs to get into the river.  He tries to stumble towards it, but he can’t catch his breath, and oh gods, he’s drowning !

This can’t be happening to him!  Not again, not after the first time!

He doesn’t make it two steps before he passes out.

*   *   *

Jaskier is a dead weight in his arms as he canters towards Rinde.  Geralt has him sitting backwards and in front of him on Roach, so he can feel Jaskier’s breath wheezing out against his neck.  Proof that he’s man is still alive.  That Geralt is not too late to fix this.

Chireadan, the elf healer at the camp, had been unable to help them, but had urged Geralt to seek the mage being held in the town.  Jaskier starts to slide sideways and Geralt has to grip him more tightly to keep them both on Roach as they speed towards the mayor’s house.  

Why does he always have to be so tetchy to the bard?  Why can’t he just admit they’re friends?  That he likes Jaskier’s company and enjoys his singing?

Geralt had wintered at Kaer Morhen that year, and by the time he’d met up with Jaskier they’d only been able to spend a couple of weeks together before the bard had to leave to get to his annual family party.  Geralt wishes that he hadn’t hoped for an invitation, but after travelling with Jaskier for so many years, he can’t help but notice that his family is the one topic Jaskier never willingly shares with him.  

Geralt supposes he understands.  Witchers and families don't go hand in hand, and it isn’t like Geralt has ever expressed any great delight at being at any of the parties he and Jaskier have attended before.  But it stings, that Jaskier has this portion of his life where Geralt’s not welcome.  Especially when the bard seems willing to share everything else with him.

He can feel something wet slide down his neck, and by the smell it has to be blood.  Jaskier doesn’t have time for Geralt to sulk, and he wastes none as he knocks out the guard, swings himself off Roach and carries Jaskier inside.

There’s a naked man in the kitchen looking for apple juice.  It only gets weirder from there.  

Despite what some of Jaskier’s songs may proclaim, orgies aren’t a common occurrence in Geralt’s life.  He’s not exactly a tactile man, and all the naked bodies he now finds writhing around him make him distinctly uncomfortable.

A naked man and woman try to draw Jaskier off Geralt’s shoulder, pawing at his doublet.  Geralt turns to growl them away, tightening his hold on the bard’s legs.  The mage had to be the only other dressed person in the room.  The woman watches the entire proceedings with a kind of detached interest, at least until she sees Geralt, and then violet eyes look him up and down with fascination.

“I, uh, brought you apple juice.”

He and the sorceress, Yennefer, trade barbs back and forth.  She seems delighted that he’s a witcher, and part of him enjoys her curiosity (that of a very beautiful woman).  However, Jaskier is still tossed over his shoulder and his breath is becoming shallower.  Now is not the time to discuss professional tricks.

He needs her to fix his friend.  Whatever the cost.  

He’s banished to the kitchen after depositing Jaskier on a bed upstairs and the sorceress refuses to let him see the bard until he’s bathed.

He’s not expecting her to join him, to let him catch even a small peek at her naked form.  It’s been too long since a gorgeous woman has chosen to flirt with him and, now that the immediate danger has passed, he allows himself to enjoy it.  The pleasant warmth of the water, and the way her bare back will occasionally brush against his, is almost enough to put him in a good mood.

Appropriately clean, Geralt makes his way to Jaskier.  He hears him before he sees him and that grating, wheezing sound is gone as the bard breathes normally now.  He’s lying on the bed, barefoot, in just his shirt and trousers.  Blood still stains the front of his shirt and Geralt wishes he’d thought to grab a spare one from the bard’s bag.  He dislikes having the proof of what had almost occurred shoved in his face.

Metal bands around Jaskier’s wrists catch the candlelight.  

“What are these?” he questions Yennefer.

“Magic bands, to speed up the healing.  Why, do you doubt my capabilities?”

“No, just your intentions.”

Jaskier is dwarfed by the large bed.  It doesn’t suit him.  He normally fills whatever space he’s in with his sheer presence.

“I said some things to him,” he admits to Yennefer.  He’s not sure why, but this little niggle of guilt has been knocking around his brain and it helps to let it out.  “He’s a…”  And why, after everything, can he still not just say it?  Why does he have to be so bad at this?

“A friend?” Yennefer suggests, clearly amused.  Geralt’s not too fond of the mocking smile she graces him with.

“I’d like it not to be the last thing he remembers.”

The sorceress has a strange glint in her eye, like she’s part of a joke no one has yet let Geralt in on.

“It won’t be,” she smiles. 

They trade barbs once more, and Geralt finds that he enjoys it.  He likes the challenge she offers and the way she pushes her wits against his with no fear.  He thinks she may be winning this game; his head is getting very fuzzy

He realises she’s after the djinn; that she needs Jaskier to make his last wish.

“The djinn will fight you,” he warns.  And isn’t it ironic to be warning her against this when Jaskier had done the exact same to him hours before?

“If you try and bend it…” 

Something is definitely wrong.  His senses are going haywire.  Sight and hearing diminishing as his nose grows sharper.  There’s a pleasant scent in the air that he struggles to put a name to.  

“Lilac and,” he mutters.

“Gooseberries,” Yennefer breathes.  When had she got so close to him?  

“Tough to get in your head,” and she sounds almost impressed.  “You have a strong will, but you can’t contend with me.  Sorry that I couldn’t be more direct, but I knew you’d fight it.”  She reaches up and kisses him, soft lips against his chapped ones.  The world fades away.

*   *   *

When he awakes, there's a knife pressed against his balls and a terrifying half naked woman holding it.  Jaskier tries not to move, his whole attention fixed on the knife point he can feel almost scratching the sensitive skin.  He can honestly say he’s never been in this situation before.

“Do you wish me to put this away?” the woman asks.  Violet eyes gaze intently at him, displaying no mercy or pity.

“Ah…  Yes, that would be wonderful.  Most certainly, that is a wish I would very much like granted.”

He sighs in relief when she removes the dagger from the vicinity of his crotch, but she doesn’t release it.  She’s looking at him like the cat who caught the very fat pheasant. 

“What a good little River spirit you are,” she grins down at him, and Jaskier knows enough to be very afraid.  This woman is a sorceress and she knows what he is.

She flows off the bed to kneel by a chalk drawing on the floor and Jaskier tries to make a run for the door.  She chants something and he collapses before getting halfway there, his wrists burning.

Iron, she’s bound him with iron.  He can feel it dampening his power even as another spell drags him practically into her lap.

“Let go!” he tries to fight her off, but he’s weaker than a babe.

“Imagine my surprise,” she whispers, as she looks down at him with a kind of horrifying awe.  “When the witcher handed me not just one powerful elemental spirit on a silver platter, but two.  You're going to help me catch a djinn, little River god, and then you and it are going to give me everything .”

The dagger stabs into his shoulder and he screams.  It’s not just the cuffs; the dagger is also iron and he can feel it burning him from the inside out!

The witch is chanting in Elder, but Jaskier can’t make it out over his own screams.  He can feel it though. Feel her link his power to hers.  Bind him to her will. 

The djinn is being dragged towards them, and it’s screaming too.  It doesn’t want to be bound any longer and Jaskier can empathise.  He wants to reach out to it, to help it, but he can’t.  The witch is sapping who Jaskier is from him, and it hurts!  It hurts so much!

The djinn is fighting back, and Jaskier feels almost torn in two as his power is forced against the other spirit.  Water and air fighting each other for dominance.

Far, far away, in the mountains by the border of Aerdin, a storm is brewing.  Wind lashes at the water of the river and the current picks up speed as the Pankratz bursts its banks.  The inhabitants of the settlements along the river look at the storm raging above the mountains in alarm.  Children are ushered inside as people prepare for the floods that are sure to come.

*   *   *

Geralt storms towards the mayor’s house, Chireadan hot on his heels.  Yennefer has tricked him, drugged him and set him loose on her enemies to enact her vengeance.  It might have amused Geralt to see the sexist pigs in charge of this place taken down a peg or two, if she hadn’t forced him to do it without his consent. 

She’d obviously been distracting him from her pursuit of the djinn, but they’d both had it wrong.  Jaskier isn’t the djinn’s master, it’s him.  He needs to get to her before she persuades Jaskier to make a wish.  If she tries to catch the djinn while it’s still bound to a master, it could tear her, and most of this town, apart.

“Stay here,” he tells the elf, before striding inside.  It’s obvious that he’s too late. He can hear the wind and the smashing of furniture from the bottom of the stairs, but Jaskier is still in there.  Yennefer as well, and no matter how selfish her intention, she’d still healed his friend.

The door to the room has been blown off and Yennefer is sagging in the middle of the storm, obviously exhausted by the effort to tame a still bound djinn.  

Jaskier is unconscious, face first in her lap, and his body trembles and jerks even as she tries to keep a hold of him.  She raises a hand as he moves towards them.

“I’m here to help,” he protests.  

She takes a deep breath, and Geralt can see she’s about to chastise him, but her back arches and cracks sickeningly.  Jaskier’s groan is muffled against her side.

“The djinn isn’t weakening,” she groans.  “The bard expressed his last wish but it’s getting stronger! Go!”  She screams in agony and Jaskier’s voice joins her own as he writhes on the floor.  What’s wrong with him?  

The djinn is battering against Geralt as well, not allowing him to get closer.

“That’s because I’m the one with the wishes,” he admits, and she looks at him with such betrayal.  She screams at him to make his last wish, throws him against the wall.  The house is beginning to shake, the foundations giving way under the djinn’s onslaught.  If he doesn’t think of something, they’ll all be buried alive.

He can’t just make a wish.  The djinn is determined to destroy the sorceress and will rip her apart the moment it is free, most likely killing Jaskier in the crossfire.  He must find a way to protect them both.  Use his last wish to save them all.

He looks up at the ceiling, where he can just about make out the shadow of the djinn and makes his final wish.

The wind dies as the djinn flies away, unable to enact its revenge.

Yennefer falls forward, crouched over Jaskier, panting.  “The djinn, where did it go?”

The ceiling creaks and they both look up just as the ceiling starts to fall.  Geralt only has a split second to think before he dives towards them, throwing them both into the portal Yennefer manages to conjure.

By some miracle they land on one of the couches used in the previous night’s orgy.  The wind is temporarily knocked from Geralt’s lungs and he stares at the ceiling in disbelief that he’s still alive.  He turns his head and is met with a mouthful of black hair.

“Yennefer?”

He touches her face, trying to determine if the wish has worked, if she’s still alive.

“What did you do?” she snaps, no thanks offered for saving her life.  “You stopped me, let the djinn get away.  Who knows what havoc it’ll wreak now that it has no vessel at all?”

“No more havoc than you,” Geralt shoots back and he can’t help but enjoy her fire, her bite.  “And djinns are only dark creatures when held captive.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“When did you last feel happy when you felt trapped?”

And suddenly they’re kissing, falling backwards onto the couch before she rolls them off so she can straddle him.  Her hands are wrestling with the ties of his trousers when a low groan breaks them apart.

“Jaskier!” Geralt practically throws Yennefer off him, furious with himself for forgetting his friend in the heat of the moment.  The bard had obviously slid across the room when he landed and is half visible behind a couch a few feet along from them.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls again as he reaches his friend, pulling at him  to turn him onto his back.  There’s a dagger protruding from his shoulder and even more blood is staining his shirt.

“That bitch stabbed me Geralt,” Jaskier moans, eyes screwed shut in pain.  “She stabbed me.  You need to take it out Geralt.  Take it out.”

“I can’t Jaskier.  There’s a healer outside.”  He’s already drawing his sword, ready to strike if Yennefer moves any closer, but she’s simply observing them from where he left her.

“Iron, Geralt!  The bitch got me with an iron dagger.  It’s poisoning me!  You’ve got to take it out!”  He’s gasping like a fish out of water, hand jerking to pull his shirt away from the wound.  The veins around the dagger are turning black, spreading towards his heart.

“What have you done?” Geralt turns to snarl at Yennefer.

“River,” Jaskier pleads, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him. 

“What?”  

“You need to take me to the river.  Please!”

“I don’t understand,” Geralt admits.  “How will that help?”

“He’s an Orisa, you moron.”  Yennefer pipes up.  “A River spirit.  You need to remove the dagger and put him in the water.”

Jaskier’s a what? He looks at the bard, but he looks as he always does, except even more horribly vulnerable than usual.  He’s trying to grip Geralt’s free hand and Geralt gives it to him without a second thought, trying to lend his strength to his friend.

“You did this to him,” Geralt growls at the sorceress.

“And you can either stay here and punish me for it, or save your friend.  You can’t do both.”

There is only one choice he can make.  He sweeps Jaskier up into his arms and runs for the river.  He sets the bard down carefully on the bank.  Jaskier’s skin is getting colder and clammier.  His eyes are rolling in his head and  his lips are taking on a bluish tinge.

Geralt is not convinced this is a wise course of action, but he pulls the dagger out, tossing it aside.  Jaskier lets out a hoarse yell as his back arches off the ground, and he throws his head to the side to vomit up black bile. It dribbles down his chin, mingling with the blood from before.  Geralt raises his hand in an attempt to wipe it away.  He only succeeds in smearing it across Jaskier’s jaw.

“What do I do now?” he asks, and Jaskier’s lolls uselessly on the grass as he stares at Geralt’s arms with unseeing eyes.

“Jaskier!” Geralt shakes him.

“River,” the bard gasps.  “I need… in the river.”

So Geralt pulls him into his arms once more and wades into the Pontar.  He wades in up to his waist and carefully lowers Jaskier into the running water.  The river is clear enough that Geralt can make out his form below the water.  Jaskier’s eyes are closed and the grim line of his mouth relaxes slightly.  He shudders in Geralt’s arms and then it’s as if he merges with the water, becoming transparent and lighter.  The witcher is just able to make out the shape of him and then he vanishes, flowing with the current downstream.

It’ll be over two years before Geralt sees Jaskier again.

Chapter Text

Orisa, or River spirits, are powerful and dangerous elemental creatures.  They obtain human form by carving out the soul of a human sacrifice and taking the body for their own.  

They are deceitful, greedy creatures who prey on humanity’s gullibility and are often worshipped as gods.  With their unnatural charms, they move among humans and convince them to do their bidding, often enslaving particularly beautiful mortals into their service.  

When displeased, they are known to cause floods on a whim, not caring for the thousands who may perish as a result.

The only way to stop an Orisa, short of destroying its home river, is with the use of iron.  Iron bindings will dampen its connection to its power. Once bound, its power can be harnessed by a skilled mage, but they should take care to always carry a dagger of iron.  For if the creature escapes, none shall be spared its cruel wrath.

Extract  from “Perilous Elementals” by Lord Tomas Cairley, Court Mage to King Goidemar of Temaria

Geralt slams the dusty old book shut, the noise echoing loudly around the large chamber of the library.  Several scholars look up from their books to glare at him over their spectacles, but Geralt just glares right back.

It has been five, long, agonising weeks since the incident with the djinn.  Since Jaskier had literally floated out of his life. For the first week, Geralt had mostly just walked around in a daze, not fully comprehending what had happened.  What he had discovered about the man (not man) he had been travelling with for the last fifteen years.

The second week had brought anger.  

He had trusted Jaskier.  Protected him from the monsters Jaskier insisted on viewing in person for his songs.  And all the while Jaskier had been lying to him. Probably laughing at him. They’d shared countless evenings round a fire together.  Shared meals, rooms and beds, and still Jaskier had never said anything about being something other than a simple human bard.

But the third week had come, and still not a whisper about Jaskier’s fate.  Geralt had wandered north with Roach and had found himself making all manner of promises and deals with her.  If Jaskier came back, he had promised, he wouldn’t fly into a rage. He would be calm and reasonable. He’d listen to what Jaskier had to say.

If Jaskier somehow got word to him about his condition,  he’d apologise for the djinn, for unwittingly setting the creature on him, and accept any apologies Jaskier wanted to make in turn.

If anyone, anywhere, got any word to Geralt on Jaskier’s fate then… he didn’t know.

Week four had been spent camped by the Buina.  Geralt had known he should keep moving, head into towns and look for work, but he had stayed by the riverside, unable to move away.  Guilt, shame and anger had created a toxic cocktail that had led to a moroseness he had not felt in many decades.  

It had been Roach who’d eventually had enough; she’d  nudged and prodded Geralt with her head until he’d packed up and continued on his way to Ysapden where, rumour had it, his old mentor Vesemir was currently to be found.

He’d asked around the taverns at the edge of the city, and a man fitting Vesemir’s description was indeed lodging at one of the inns.  He was not at home but was expected back by sundown. So, with nothing else to do but wait, Geralt had headed off to the library to try and learn more about what Jaskier apparently was.

He desperately wishes he hadn’t.  The very idea of his friend being a creature who’s hollowed out a human man and wears his body the way Geralt wears his armour makes the witcher feel nauseous.  The Jaskier that Geralt knows is kind, caring and charming. But has that just been a front? An illusion cast over Geralt to hide his true nature. It’s true, after all, that wherever Jaskier had gone, people had flocked to him, anxious to please.  How much of the true Jaskier does Geralt really know?

Geralt has had enough; he rises from his seat to head back to the inn, not bothering to return the book to its proper shelf.  It’s a relief to find Vesemir has returned, sitting quietly with an ale in a corner near the fire.

“Greetings Wolf,” the older witcher welcomes him and another tankard is placed opposite him.  The innkeeper must have warned him of Geralt’s arrival.

“Greetings Vesemir,” Geralt sinks gratefully into the seat opposite, taking a great gulp of his drink to steady his fraught nerves.

“I heard you were searching for me, and I must say you are not looking your best.”

Geralt lets out a wry chuckle.  “It has been an unbelievable month,” he admits.  “I need your wisdom Vesemir. I’ve encountered something I’d never heard of before and I’m not sure what to think.”

“Hmm…”  The old witcher simply waits patiently for Geralt to gather his thoughts and continue.

“Have you ever heard of an Orisa?”

Vesemir’s eyes light up with interest, and he leans forwards in his seat towards Geralt.  “I’ve never actually encountered one. From what I gather, it’s extraordinarily rare that they let themselves be known.  You met one? It made itself known to you?”

“I… Yes.  Not through choice.  It… He had been poisoned by iron.  He needed my help to make it to the river.”  

He does not mention that the Orisa is Jaskier, who has been discussed more than once during the long winters spent at Kaer Morhen.  The other witchers had liked the sound of him, had enjoyed the second hand glory from his ballads. More and more often, they had found themselves being treated with a polite tolerance when they entered a town, instead of being spat on and avoided.  They had also taken great delight in Geralt’s embarrassment over the exaggerated details of his fights.

“And what worries you so much about the encounter?”  Vesemir is as astute as ever.

“I… I knew this person.  I’ve known him for a while and I never knew what he was.  I still don’t. I can’t remember ever hearing of an Orisa before this.  I don’t think it was covered at Kaer Morhen. And just before I came here to meet you, I found a book about elementals by some court mage.  It claims that Orisa carve out the souls of men and wear their bodies like suits.”

Vesemir taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully and silence descends upon the two of them.  Geralt doesn’t rush him, allowing the older witcher to gather his thoughts together. There is a reason Geralt has sought him out. Vesemir knows more lore and more history than Geralt can ever dream of.  If anyone can help him make sense of all this, then it will be Vesimir.

“When I was training to be a witcher,” the old man eventually speaks, and Geralt focuses his full attention on him.  “I had a brother named Pollux. He used to sneak down to the river at night. I once asked him why and he told me that he went to meet a beautiful river goddess.  I thought him mad at the time, of course, but he insisted Gwen was real. 

“When we passed the trials and were sent on our way, he was most reluctant to go.  He made a point of returning to the keep every winter, and often lingered much later into spring than anyone else.  He was the one to convince me to give up life on the road and return to Kaer Morhen to teach the next generation of witchers how to fight.  He wanted to be near her.”

“What happened to him?”  Geralt is curious. He can’t remember a Pollux as one of his instructors.

“Wyvern got him.  It was an especially bad winter, and a nest of them had been circling nearer and nearer the keep in search of food.  We got sent out to get rid of them, but… well you know how these things go.

“Tore open his chest so bad, and he was losing blood faster than the potions could replenish it.  He made me promise not to burn or bury him. He wanted his body taken to the Gwenllech. I did as he asked.”

“And then what?”

“What do you think happened?  A fast current carried his body downstream.”

Geralt feels disappointed.  “So, you never actually met this Gwen then?”  

“No, but I certainly heard enough about her.  The besotted fool could wax poetic for days if given half a chance.  He was an odd one for a witcher.

“But back to your original issue; I’d take any information from a book by a dusty court mage with a large pinch of salt.  I’d wager that the man who wrote it probably also wrote a fair bit on our kind and how we steal off in the night with virgin women and eat babies.”

Both men snort and Geralt is sent to the bar to secure them another round.  When he returns, Vesemir has got out his pipe and seems quite happy to settle in for a night of storytelling by the inn’s fire.

“So, what do you know about them?  What did Pollux learn from his mysterious Gwen?  And why do they not appear in any of the witcher bestiaries?”

“Mostly, I just learnt that she was the fairest maid to ever grace this earth.  That she sang so sweetly and that her eyes could captivate the heart of any man.  You know, the usual drivel of a man in love. But he did once tell me a story Gwen told him, about how she became Gwenllech.”

“How?”  Geralt needed to know.

“She drowned. When she was a young woman.  Her family were nomads who got trapped in the mountains when winter set in early.  They huddled in caves for warmth, scavenging what they could to eat while waiting for the snows to clear.  She went down to the river to try ice fishing but fell through. The river at this time did not have a spirit, and it chose to revive her and give her its power.  Thus, she became Gwenllech, goddess of said river.”

“But was she still the person she was before she fell in?” Geralt wonders.

“She seemed to think so.  Pollux says she remembered her mortal family.  Loved them while they lived and grieved when they passed on.  She was still herself, just also something… more .”

“And this is how all Orisa are made?”

“I would assume so.”

Geralt can’t help thinking back to the autumn of the previous year, when a contract Jaskier had not wanted him to take had resulted in them meeting a man who had looked so much like the bard that he could have been his brother (or father) and had revealed the corpse of a young woman with hair identical in colour to that of his friend.  The tragic story of a doomed love affair and a babe thrown into a river to die.

Had Jaskier known who Alfred was?  

Of course he had.  No wonder he had wished to be anywhere else.  Away from his own murder site.  

Shame is becoming a familiar feeling, the sickly, sticky feel of it making itself at home in Geralt’s stomach and throat.  

He could have asked.  Made an effort to find out what ailed his friend, instead of taking Jaskier’s half-hearted responses at face value.

Vesemir is watching him with a hint of concern.

“Whatever’s happened, I’d leave it be.  The reason Orisa weren’t taught in Kaer Morhen is because there’s very little we can do about them.  They exist, and that seems to be the end of it.”

“What about the floods they can cause?”

“What about them?  Rivers flood, that’s the way of it.  You choose to live by a river, then you accept that occasionally you’ll get a flood.  Leave the Orisa alone and they’ll likely not cause one deliberately. Buy one a pint, and they’ll probably try and stop the worst of the damage.”

“And if I wanted to find one?” Geralt asks, because he can’t bear not knowing what has happened to Jaskier.  It’s torture not to know if that moment in the Pontar was the last he’d ever see of his friend.

Vesemir shrugs.  “No idea. Like I said, I’ve never come across one.”

*   * *

Two months after the djinn incident, he runs into Yennefer again.  He spots her across the marketplace in a small town in the north of Rivia.  She catches his eye, and he can feel his gums slide back from his teeth in a snarl.  The trader he’s trying to buy apples from looks ready to piss himself.  

Yennefer is much harder to frighten, because she simply nods at him and heads towards the local watering hole as though she hasn’t got a furious witcher on her tail.  She’s sipping a glass of apple juice by the time he’s worked his way through the crowds to join her, and just snorts at the way his hand has never left the hilt of his sword.

“Please,” she drawls.  “As if you’d be able to draw that faster than it would take me to turn you into something small and unpleasant.  You’d make a rather splendid frog. Do you think your little River god would like that offering? I could present you to him with a pretty blue bow around your neck to match his eyes.”

He growls at that.

“Oh sit down; you can’t win on your own in a fight against me.  It’s pure chance that we happen to have run across each other again.  I certainly had no intention of seeking you out, though perhaps it’s to my advantage that you’re here.”

“What do you want?” Geralt deliberately does not sit.  

“Well, first I need you to order me a bath.”

He laughs at her incredulously, but she simply stares him down with her steely gaze.  She’s serious.

Geralt takes a moment to look at her properly, forcing himself to overcome the shame and anger he feels at the sight of her.  He’d been so drawn to her in Rinde; she had fascinated and bewildered him, and as a result he’d almost let Jaskier bleed to death not ten feet away while he’d tried to bed his friend’s would-be murderer.  

She’s not nearly as put together now as she was before.  Her clothes are covered by a thin layer of dust and grime from the road, her hair hangs limply round her face and the smell of her perfume (lilacs and gooseberries still) is stronger, trying to mask the heavier scent of sweat.

“Having a little difficulty bathing, are you?”

Her scowl would rival a wyvern’s.  

“If you must know, I have found it wise to avoid bathing in rivers of late.  Had a number of unpleasant encounters with foul aquatic creatures. If I were any less of a sorceress, I imagine I’d be dead by now.”

“And what a pity that would be.”  

She ignores him.  “And whenever I try to order a bath for myself in an inn, it always turns up full of silt and cold to boot.  The last time I had a decent bath I had to disguise myself, change every feature of my appearance, and that is a lot of work to go through each time. 

“So witcher, if you wish to talk to me further, you can do so after you’ve ordered a bath.”

He orders her a bath.  She lets him sit in the room as she luxuriates and makes no effort to hide her nudity or obvious enjoyment of the warm water.  Geralt turns his head and does not take up the invitation to look.  

“What else do you want?” he grunts from his chair.

“Hmm?” Yennefer sighs, seemingly stretching out as best she can in the small tub.  “What are you saying? You have no idea how good it feels to indulge in hot water after so long.”

“You said the first thing I could do was order you a bath.  This implies there is something else you also want. Don’t keep me in suspense.  I hardly wished to see you again after our parting in Rinde.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Geralt doesn’t have an answer to that.  Why is he still here? Why did he not just go downstairs and leave?  Leave her to her cold bath water and ride away to the next town. He gets up, intending to go to Roach and leave Yennefer behind, but she speaks again before he reaches the door.

“I want to talk to your little River god.”

He whirls round to face her, snarling.  “Not a fucking chance.”

She snorts derisively at him.  “Don’t give me that face. I promise I don’t want to harm him.  I now know the consequences of such a thing only too well.”

“Then what do you want with him?”

“I want to make peace with him.  I was wrong to try and trap him; I see that now.”

Geralt laughs mockingly at her.  “You see that now? You see shit.  You’ve realised that you’ve pissed on someone with powerful friends and are now reaping the rewards of your actions.  You don’t want to make peace with him. You want to convince him to call off the vengeance that is being visited upon you as a result of your own choices.

“Why did you even attempt to steal his power in the first place?  If you hadn’t tried to grab hold of him and the djinn, none of this would have happened.”

She is quiet, hands splayed in front of her, palms just touching the water.

“I suppose I did not consider that far ahead.  I just needed the power he and the djinn could give me.”

“You mages,” he sneers.  “You’re all the same.”

“Oh spare me your self-righteous lecture.  You’re the one who delivered him into my hands.  Now, where is he? I would like to get this sorted as soon as possible.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt admits, and he finds that he enjoys the surprise and alarm that covers Yennefer’s face.  “I’ve not seen him since I took him from your most tender clutches and delivered him to the river.”

“You must know where he is,” she almost begs, trembling slightly in the water.  

“I’ve heard nothing from him or about him.  So, Yennefer, I’d continue to keep your distance from rivers if I were you.”

He leaves her there, with no small amount of satisfaction rising up in his chest.  It does not erase his own guilt, but it certainly makes it a slightly lighter burden to endure.

*   * *

Salvation comes to Geralt just as the trees are beginning to turn completely bare.  He’s on his way to Kaer Morhen to winter down until spring. He’s slowly making his way across Kaedwen when a wet, naked man accosts him in the night.

“Peace,” the man exclaims, hands raised to show that he is unarmed.

There is something very familiar about him.  His long auburn hair is tied neatly in a ponytail, keeping it off a strong, square face.  He is broad shouldered with a narrow waist perched on heavily muscled thighs. The eyes are what identify him though.  

Blue as a river on a clear, sunny day.  Jaskier’s eyes.

“You’re the man from the banquet at Cintra,” Geralt notes.  How had he not realised those eyes were the same as Jaskier’s then?

“You remember,” the River god lets out a harsh, exhausted laugh.  “What better times those were. May I sit by your fire? It was a long journey to get to you.”

Geralt gestures for the god to join him.  He’d been keeping an eye out for an Orisa ever since talking to Vesemir, but now that he has one in front of him, all his words seemed lost.

“He always complained that you were a quiet one.  We all thought he must have been exaggerating a bit, but I see my little brother was quite accurate in this instance.”  

“How is he?”  Geralt manages to grit out of his clogged throat.  

The god shoots him a look of, if Geralt is not mistaken, approval.  The expression quickly becomes grim though, and it leaves the witcher feeling anxious and unsteady.

“Not good.  He’s not regained consciousness.  Mama’s going spare. Marched right up to Old Father Pontar’s and has taken up residence.  She’s never been away from the Yaruga for so long before. It’s creating all sorts of havoc. My siblings and I are stretched thin trying to prevent disaster from occurring in her absence.”

“Was I…” Geralt has to battle the words out of his mouth.  “Was I too late?”

“You were just in bloody time!” the man exclaims, auburn eyebrows raised incredulously.  “Any later and we’d probably have entire countries underwater.”

“If he’s not any better, then what are you doing here?”

“He is better; he’s just not out of the woods yet,” the god gentles his tone of voice, as though Geralt is an upset child he needs to soothe.  “The Pontar isn’t his river. It was enough at the time, but he needs to get back to Mama’s river. The journey would likely have killed him before now, but he’s recovered enough strength that Mama and the Old Man think it’s safe to move him.  It should mean we see a remarkably quicker recovery from here on in.”

“Thank you for telling me…”  Geralt suddenly realises he doesn’t know which River he’s talking to.

“Trava,” the man gives him a mischievous smile.  Apart from the eyes, he shares no common features with Jaskier, but that smile is all too familiar.  It makes Geralt’s well-guarded heart ache.

“He cares about you, you know,” Trava quirks an amused eyebrow at Geralt.  “He’d come home for Beltane, tell us stories of your adventures, sing an epic yarn and then disappear back to you the moment he was able.  He used to bully all the other Rivers to keep an eye out for you so he could get back to you as soon as possible. He’s such a brat.

“He’s the baby of us as well, so all he had to do was pout and look upset and we would just give him free run of our rivers so he could speed about as he pleased.  Spoiled, he’s so spoiled. Arrogant too, and so loud.”

“His clothes are ridiculous,” Geralt supplies, and Trava lets out a broken little laugh, arms resting on his knees and his head hanging down.  “He’s loyal though,” Geralt adds and the god’s shoulders tremble.

“Fuck, yes he is.  Stubborn little fool.  But I knew he’d want you to know what was happening to him.”  Trava is quiet for a long moment and Geralt stares into the fire, allowing them both time to gather themselves together.

“The last thing I did before he went looking for you was laugh at him,” Trava admits.  “We had one too many the night before and I may have pinned the blame on him for an incident that upset Mama.  The little shit wouldn’t stop yelling at me the next day after Mama read him the riot act. He swore he’d get his revenge and I just laughed and told him to bring it on.”

Geralt clears his throat uncomfortably.  “When we thought he was the djinn’s master, he…”  Geralt can’t help the rueful smile that creeps onto his lips.  “He used his second wish to make you impotent for a short while.”

Trava looks up, gobsmacked, then he’s howling with laughter that Geralt is unable to resist joining. 

“That fucking imp!  Of course, he uses one of his supposed three wishes to mess with me!”  Then he sobers. “Guess it worked in a way though. Three beautiful women in my bed at home, a whole host of willing barmaids all across the Continent, and I’m too busy worrying about the little monster to get it up.”

Trava stands and stretches, back arching and cracking in a satisfying manner.  “I should get back though. My sisters have been holding the fort in my absence.”  He walks over to clasp Geralt’s arm in a friendly manner, completely at ease with his nudity.  “I wish we had met again under better circumstances witcher.”

He saunders off in the direction of the river, leaving Geralt sitting in front of his fire ruminating on the information he’s received.  

The next day Geralt continues onwards to Kaer Morhen.  He’s passing through a small village when an old woman selling skeins of hand dyed thread from her hut’s doorway catches his eye.  The witcher’s mind flashes back to Jaskier’s first wish and he finds himself purchasing a couple of skeins. Blue, to match his friend’s eyes, and an amber colour Jaskier has always claimed to love.  He’s not sure why he’s bought them, but he puts them carefully in his saddlebags and carries on.

*   * *

He leaves Kaer Morhen the moment the snow fades enough to make the path passable.  His fellow witchers wish him luck on the Path and don’t try and persuade him to stay longer.  Geralt knows he’s been miserable company. Eskel and Lambert had tried asking after his bard but Geralt had changed the subject and almost drew blood at sparring practice the next day.

Vesemir has no doubt worked out the name of the Orisa Geralt had asked about.  On the several occasions where Geralt makes his excuses to go down to the river, the older witcher gives him knowing glances.  

However, if Gwenllech is about, she does not appear to Geralt.  

He unconsciously begins to travel south until he is once again by the banks of the Pontar.  It is obvious where he plans to go next, further south to the Yaruga, then west, following its course seawards.  

It is just after Beltane, an entire year since he last saw Jaskier, when the next River finds him.  

“Geralt of Rivia,” a female voice calls his attention away from the stew he is stuffing into his mouth after a particularly nasty kikimora fight.  The villagers had been unusually grateful for his help and the bowl of stew he was scoffing had been offered for free.

“I am Embla, of the River Embla.”  She makes no effort to lower her voice, but the other patrons of bar don’t appear to pay her any attention.  She looks like a woman of average height, with a long ginger braid hanging down her back and full lips that appear slightly too large for her small, oval face.  Her eyes are different from Jaskier’s and Trava’s. They still catch his attention, but they’re stone grey instead of clear blue, like the pebbles that can be found on the riverbed.  She notices what has caught his attention.

“Different parent river, different eyes,” she shrugs, but refuses the seat at his side when he offers.  Her head is angled skywards, and she does not seem delighted to be in his presence.

“I am not here for a social call.  Papa sent me with a message. Personally, I would have left you in the dark.  After all, you’re the one who hand-delivered Jaskier to the witch.”  

He cannot deny it; it’s true, so he says nothing.  

Embla sniffs, obviously hoping for some sort of fight.

“He’s finally awake.  If you care, that is?”

“Of course I care,” he mutters.  “Is he alright?”

She purses her lips at him, less than impressed with his concern.  “Weak as a half-drowned kitten, but that’s to be expected. It’ll be a long recovery.  Mother Yaruga is unlikely to let him out of her sight anytime soon.” Meaning Geralt shouldn’t expect to see him soon.

“Thank you.”

“ Don’t thank me.  Like I said, I’d have told you nothing, but Papa ordered me to let you know.  Besides, I need you to pass on a message to the witch for me.”

“I’m not a messenger boy,” Geralt complains, but she fixes her grey eyed stare on him and he is caught like a fish in a net.  He is suddenly overwhelmed by the sounds of cattle and pigs screaming as their throats are slashed and feels the metallic taste of blood appear in his mouth.  The sensation subsides just as quickly as it came, and he is left panting at the table. It takes a moment to gather his wits about him and when he does, he remembers that the river Embla is well known for the slaughterhouses scattered along its banks.

Embla patiently waits for him to recover, unmoved by his hurried breaths.  “Like I said, I have a message I need you to pass onto the witch.”

She waits for him to nod his agreement.

“Tell her we could have given her what she wants.  It was in our power. But she tried to take something that was not offered and what she wants is lost to her forever now.  None of us will ever make a deal with her. Not if she came to us on her knees, wailing and tearing at her clothes. No offerings will incite us, no pleas entreat us.  Tell her she should have tried to bargain, witcher, instead of forcibly steal like a common thief.”

Embla marches away, leaving Geralt propped against his table still trying to fully reclaim his breath.  

Yennefer slips into the seat next to him.  Her shoulders are slightly hunched, and her jaw is clenched so tight he can hear her teeth grinding together, but her eyes have a suspicious watery sheen to them.

What had she been so desperate for that she was willing to try and bind two powerful elementals to her against their will?

“What a bitch,” she tries to sound unaffected but the tremor in her voice gives her away.  “She knew I was there and could hear everything. She just wasn’t about to remove her pointed nose from the heavens and talk to me herself.  Decided to enlist you into playing messenger boy instead.”

Geralt stares at her as she swipes his ale from the table to take a large gulp.  

He is still so angry at her.  He doesn’t know how not to be, but she looks somehow diminished in this moment.  Frighteningly small and fragile. He knows that’s complete tripe. She could destroy the entire tavern with her little finger if she had a mind to.  But whatever this revenge of the River gods is, it appears to be highly effective, because she is struggling not to break apart in front of him. She may not let them flow freely, but he can smell the saltiness of her tears.

“Hmmm…” he nods to her and leaves to go to his room.  Allowing her to break down in privacy if she wishes. She’s gone before he awakens the next morning.

*   * *

Except over the next year, he finds himself bumping into Yennefer frequently.  If it weren’t for the genuine surprise she shows when she spots him, he would be convinced she’s deliberately stalking him.

At first, they ignore each other, but the fourth time they stumble across each other,  they end up sharing a drink, both unwilling to brave the storm raging outside to go and seek shelter elsewhere.  There is still animosity between them, but they trade insults back and forth over glass after glass of wine and Geralt cannot help but admire her wit.

After that, whenever they cross paths they stop to take some kind of refreshment together and Geralt is astounded to realise that, despite everything, she’s becoming something of a friend.  The guilt this revelation brings is enough to send him running away from her into the night, but she keeps turning up and he’s… lonely. He’d had Jaskier travelling frequently by his side for over a decade and had got used to the company of another person.  Someone to make the long stretches of road, the dangerous work and the ungrateful clients bearable. He’s been without Jaskier for almost a year and a half and he’s been spending too much time in the dark places that lurk in his head. Having someone around to pull him out, show him how the world looks in the light, has been uplifting.

He is too late, that second winter without Jaskier, to reach Kaer Morhen, so he settles himself in Toussaint for the cold months.  Frost may cover the famous vineyards but there are sufficient small pests about for Geralt to be able to earn enough coin to cover a room and warm meals at a small village tavern.  Yennefer turns up just after Imbolc, and she actually laughs as she greets him, kissing the air just above his cheek and wafting her perfume into his nose.

“Why is it, I can go years without bumping into my dearest friends, but I bump into your scowling face around every corner?”

Geralt has the sickening realisation that he thinks he know why, and it’s his fault.

The thing is, when he had entered that room back in Rinde, he had not realised that it was Yennefer who had hurt Jaskier.  He had not seen the dagger, or the horrific wound it had inflicted. He had assumed, so very wrongly, that Jaskier had simply been caught in the crossfire, an unwitting casualty to Yennefer’s unlimited ambition.  So, in that moment, all he had wanted was to use his last wish in a way that would save all three of them.

He had bound them to him.  Both of them. To prevent the djinn from killing them both the moment it was free from its bonds.

His intentions, it could be argued, had been good (noble as Jaskier would have put it), but that didn’t change the ultimate outcome.  Destiny was having another good laugh at his expense. He can try and outrun a child who will never be let out of the overprotective arms of her grandmother, but it seems Yennefer will always manage to stumble across him wherever he goes.  

Jaskier too, when he is recovered enough, is bound to come across Geralt whether the bard wishes to or not.  It is a small comfort to know that he is practically guaranteed to see his friend again, even after the mess in Rinde.  If Jaskier finds out about the wish, will he ever forgive Geralt? Even if he’s chosen to follow the witcher all these years, that is different from having the choice wrested away by fate.  

And it isn’t as if it’s just Geralt.  Through the witcher, Jaskier is now also bound to Yennefer (and her to him).  Is there anything Geralt can say or do that will ever make up for binding his friend to the woman before him?  

Geralt doesn’t think so.

“Oh, cheer up,” Yennefer notices his gloomy disposition.  “The wine here can’t be that bad.”

He’s too much of a coward to try and explain his wish to her and runs back north the first chance he gets.  

He manages four months without bumping into anyone he knows, with his only constant conversation partner being Roach and she shares as much as she ever does.  

Spalla is facing a griffin problem and no other witchers appear to be nearby so he drops in to take care of it.  He spends three days hunting the winged menace through the countryside before finally killing the beast. He has a nasty gash on his temple where he’s tumbled over a sharp rock to avoid some rather dangerous talons, but other than that it’s just the usual scrapes and bruises.  The blood dripping down his face does paint a rather nasty picture though, so he is surprised when one of the young barmaids tentatively comes up to him as he enters.

“Excuse me, Master Witcher,” she stammers.  “But there was a man looking for you. I told him you’d be back this evening, but he said that I should just let him into your room, and he’d wait for you there.”  There’s a faint blush on her cheeks and a besotted look in her eye which causes Geralt’s heart to slam heavily against his ribcage in hope.

He tries to temper it.  Reminds himself that it could be Trava, or even another River god, dropping in for an update.

It’s not though.  It’s Jaskier.

He’s sitting by the window, elbow resting on the table, chin propped up on his fist as he gazes out at the sunset.  The sun’s last rays splash his face with pink, highlighting the lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth that had not been there the last time Geralt had seen him.  When Geralt had first met him, he’d been a lanky youth of eighteen, still growing into himself. He’d settled to looking somewhere in his middle twenties and never really moved past that (which in hindsight should have been Geralt’s first clue).  Now he looks older, at least a decade or so. The odd sliver of silver in his hair catches the eye.  

Geralt can honestly say he’s never seen a lovelier picture.

He lets the door thump shut behind him, prompting Jaskier to look away from the sky and over to Geralt.

He smiles, a small tentative thing.

“Hey Geralt,” he whispers, fist uncurling to offer a small wave.

In all his imaginings of their reunion, Geralt never had figured out what he would want to say.  Words are not his friends, too often twisted by others and used against him. He settles for moving forwards, taking his eyes off the bard’s blue ones (blue as a clear river on a sunny day) and shifts his gaze to the soft light blue shirt Jaskier has on, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tucked into his dark blue trousers.

He brushes the cloth away from the bard’s shoulder, wincing slightly at the scar.  Dead white tissue mars the unblemished skin surrounding the wound, the edges tinged slightly grey.

“Does it hurt?” he manages to say gruffly.

Jaskier brushes the scar with a lute-calloused hand.  “Can’t really feel anything there to be honest. It’s just kind of numb.  Better than the alternative though.”

He’s still just sitting there, looking up at Geralt with tentative hope in his eyes.  The witcher ducks down to sling an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and breathe out a breath he seems to have been holding for over two years into the bard’s hair.

A conversation is needed.  A serious one. But all that can wait for tomorrow.  Tonight he just wants to be grateful for his friend’s safe return.

Chapter Text

The sort-of hug is unexpected.  Jaskier had gone over this reunion constantly in his head.  In the most realistic scenarios he’s been able to conjure, Geralt had been physically aloof, but concerned and (when Jaskier dared to hope for the best) pleased to see him.  The hug is extremely welcome though. Jaskier is unable to stop himself from leaning in and resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder. He can feel the witcher’s breath ruffle the top of his head and pick out his heartbeat.

He takes a deep breath of his own and this is what forces him to pull back, far too soon, from the embrace. 

“You really need a bath,” he wrinkles his nose against the scent.  Geralt is rarely the most freshly smelling of men, but he’s presently giving off the strong stench of blood, mud, sweat and horse.

Geralt chuckles, and it rises through his chest, vibrating against Jaskier’s cheek.  It’s enough for him to put up with the odour for a few moments more, but the smell really is that bad.  He pushes the witcher off him, ignoring how his own eyes feel slightly damp.

“Bath,” he demands.  “Get out of that armour, I’ll go get someone to fill the tub.  I’ll see if I can arrange some food while I’m at it.”

He hurries out of the room, and if this gives him a moment to collect himself, calm his racing heart and unsteady nerves, then no one need know.

It’s an unusually subdued evening.  It’s not like Geralt has ever been a big talker, and for once Jaskier is not sure what to talk about.  There are too many things he wants to say whirling around his brain for him to be able to pick one out of the muddle and voice it. 

Dinner is quiet in a slightly awkward, but not too uncomfortable way.  Geralt seems content to just watch him and the fluttering Jaskier feels at having that amber gaze focused solely on him translates well into a little tune he starts humming.  It probably has the makings of a nice little ditty, if he can find some appropriate words to go with it.

Geralt doesn’t question when Jaskier slips into the bed, obviously intending to sleep by the witcher’s side instead of procuring a room of his own.  He blows out the candle and joins the bard under the covers. Jaskier lies on his side, facing the witcher, just able to make out his shape in the dark.  He knows Geralt can probably see him perfectly, a witcher’s night vision being much better than his own, so he closes his eyes to try and feign sleep.

“The bath,” Geralt speaks into the darkness.  “It stayed warmer longer than usual. That was always you, wasn’t it?  They’ve been colder without you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, his lips curling in a small, self-indulgent smile.  “Only the best for my witcher.”

Geralt lets out one of his half-amused grunts, before rolling onto his back to sleep.  Jaskier spends a long time just lying there, curled up on his side, enjoying the heat Geralt always gives off.  He feels a small piece of himself, one he hadn’t been aware he’d been missing, return to its rightful place (between the steady beats of his heart).

When Jaskier wakes up the next morning, Geralt is already dressed for the day and has ordered breakfast.  It is the smell of cooked bacon, fresh bread and kippers that rouse the bard from his slumber and he hastily tugs on his trousers and shirt to join the witcher at the small table by the window where his meal is waiting for him.

“You,” he gestures to Geralt with a bit of bacon, having already scoffed the kippers, before shoving it into his mouth.  “Are a truly amazing friend.”

Except Geralt does not like the praise, he pulls back from it, physically distancing himself from Jaskier.

“It was my fault you got hurt,” he counters.  “I was the one who went searching for a djinn.  I was the one who released it. I…” He can’t seem to say the rest, but he gestures brusquely to Jaskier’s scarred shoulder.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries to speak softly, but the witcher just glares angrily at him, refusing to be calmed. 

“Geralt,” the bard is firmer this time.  It seems the conversation they’d been putting off the previous night needs to happen now.  “What happened was a shit-show of truly epic proportions. If the events in question didn’t directly concern me, I’d be happily composing a new epic song about them.  But you did your best Geralt. You didn’t know what that witch planned to do with me. I didn’t know until it happened.  And, ultimately, you saved me. You got me to the river in time.  I’d be dead if you hadn’t managed that.”

Any comfort his speech is meant to bring is lost with that last line, because Geralt jumps furiously from his seat to march around the room.  His right hand tries to clench around a sword handle that is not there, and the stubborn line of his jaw tightens angrily.

“Two years, Jaskier.  It’s taken you two years to recover!”

The bard winces, because what must Geralt have thought over those two years?  They hadn’t seemed all that long to Jaskier, but he’d not been very coherent for a large part of them.

When Geralt had lowered him into the river, all Jaskier had been able to feel was relief as the cool water started to numb the burning in his shoulder and chest.  He could feel Old Father Pontar’s alarm the moment he was fully submerged and had been unable to resist the call downstream. He’d let himself drift apart and flow towards the summons, letting go of the pesky consciousness that was causing him such pain; trusting the arms of the only father figure he’d ever known to gather him softly to safety.

He is pretty sure he hadn’t been corporeal for several months after that.  Occasionally he’d regain coherent thought and feel the mind of the Old Man brush against his own, pushing soothing thoughts and feelings towards his own battered psyche. 

Old memories would seep into his dreams.  He could vividly recall how he used to sit on Old Father Pontar’s lap and scrunch up his little lips into a pout so he could rest one of the long tails of the River’s moustache on the shelf he’d created between his nose and top lip, making a moustache of his own.  His siblings and Old Father Pontar’s children had thought this was hilarious, the fake grey moustache contrasting comically with Jaskier’s own brown locks (maybe this was why they never took him seriously?). The Old Man’s bony shoulder would shake with his own chuckles until the moustache got displaced and Jaskier would turn up his tiny face to glare at the older god, smooshing his little hands into smiling, wrinkled cheeks.

He’d felt his mother as well;  unable to properly connect with him out of her own territory, but a soothing presence in the corner of his mind.

At some point, the bits of Jaskier that flowed freely all along the Pontar had been gathered together again.  Carefully nudged and guided by Embla and Duppa, as well as the rest of the Old Man’s children. They’d lent him their strength and prodded him back into a single corporeal entity, resting peacefully at the bottom of the river near Oxenfurt.

The next time Jaskier had regained consciousness though, he’d awoken in agony.  They’d dragged him from the water and placed him in the most luxurious of caravans.  He’d been cocooned in soft silks and furs, but every rut and bump in the road had been a torment that caused his shoulder and chest to scream in distress.

On one occasion on the journey, he’d awoken to a face full of dark hair that had caused panic to seize his limbs, jarring his injury and sending a fresh wave of pain crashing over him.  But it had just been his sister; sweet, kind, quiet Adalette, whose tight, bouncy curls resembled the sorceress’ in colour only. 

He’d feebly grabbed her hand, stroking a thumb along the smooth, toffee coloured skin in reassurance as she cried over him, tears dripping down her narrow face.  He’d wanted to reach up and dry them, tuck her stray curls behind her pointed ears, but he had no strength in his arms for such a gesture.

“Just rest,” she’d told him.  “Embla and I are here. You’re safe.  We’ll be home soon.” 

She had always been his most comforting sibling.  He used to hide under her bed after playing tricks and mischief on Trava and Ina. While they’d torn the house apart in search of him, Adalette would sneak him treats and toys to keep himself entertained while he waited for the danger to pass.  Sometimes she would crawl under her bed to join him and they’d whisper and giggle until they fell asleep in their private fort. 

Those memories had comforted him and let him drift back to sleep, reassured that he was protected.

The relief he had felt when Adalette had carried him into her own river could not be described in any language that Jaskier knew.  The familiar stream had welcomed him home as Mama took him from his sister and cradled him tenderly under the water, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead and whispering frantic words of love and protection into his ear.

His moments of consciousness had occurred more frequently after that, and there had always been someone there by his side to ground him in the moment.  Most frequently it had been Mama, but he’d once woken to Ina scolding him for all the worry he’d caused, even as her voice trembled. Trava had also been a frequent companion filling his ears with wild stories and sharing the bald-faced lies he liked to come up with, trying to convince Jaskier they were facts (Jaskier had believed that men could also get pregnant until he was eight).

It had taken him just under a year to properly regain consciousness, to be well enough to be pulled from the Yaruga and inside Mama’s house.  He’d barely stayed awake long enough to be set up in his old room, and fed some flavourless broth, but when he’d fallen asleep, it was for the night and not for days.

Over the next few weeks, he’d managed to be alert and aware for a few hours a day.  He’d rasped out words of thanks and gratitude as his family had gathered around him and slowly managed to describe what had  happened to him. It had hurt to see their reactions. Mama wouldn’t look at him, unwilling to show him the extent of her wrath. 

“She will regret ever thinking about us and our gifts,” she’d snarled, and her voice was quiet, certain, unmovable.  She’d turned back to him, face now clear of anger and brushed a kiss over his hair before sweeping from the room.

His siblings had made no effort to hide their own fury, but Trava had been able to banish it the most quickly as he’d smugly told Jaskier of the retribution they’d been enacting on the witch so far. 

“Now that you’re awake and Mama knows the full extent of everything, I’ve no doubt she’ll think of her own reprisals.”

Jaskier’d never found out what it was, only knew anything had been done because of the self-satisfied faces all his visitors had worn for the week.  He did not (and still doesn’t) like to let his mind linger on Yennefer (as he’d eventually learned she was called). Did not like to recollect how powerless she’d made him, how weak she had made him feel.  The iron dagger in his shoulder was almost a preferable sensation to that.

He’d had many nightmares over the next several months and the water by the docks had remained unusually high.

But eventually he’d begun to get stronger and move about.  He’d got a shock the first time he’d been able to move across the room on his own two legs and had caught sight of himself in the mirror. 

He was old.

Grey’d been peppered all throughout his hair, while the beard he’d been unable to shave off had been completely white.  Deep lines had marked the corners of his eyes and mouth. He’d been painfully thin and his back had been stooped like an old man’s. 

Trava had been hovering at his side, unwilling to let his little brother attempt to walk on his own without assistance nearby.  He’d seen his brother’s distress and had tried to make light of Jaskier’s appearance.

“Lucky dog, if you ever decide to let yourself grow older then at least you know you’ll be a handsome silver fox.  You should have seen me when I once tried to go for an older look. My hair started to thin and fall out.”

Perhaps Trava was right.  As he’d slowly gained weight and straightened his spine, the horror he had felt at his looks had lessened slightly.  It just… didn’t feel like him. Or perhaps the problem was that it did? He was thirty-four, still in the prime of his life for a human and young for a god, but his bones had ached, and he was still so tired.

Mama and Ina had forbidden him from trying to do anything about it.  Ina had lectured him on healing first; he could focus on his vanity later. But he’d covered up the mirror in his room and every few weeks it had been Etta who’d come and trim his new beard.  She had always been the sister he was most distant from, but she shared his vanity and sympathised with his predicament (having never allowed herself to look a day over twenty-five in her one hundred years of life).

It’d been Etta whom he’d eventually persuaded to help him up from his bed and out into the city.  She’d supported him (or rather had convinced two strong dock men to support him) through the streets and up to the palace.  She’d been the one who’d persuaded the occupants to pay no attention to them, apart from a mousy looking servant girl who’d directed them to the right room.

She had him set down on a long couch, tucked a blanket securely around his legs and told him she’d be back to get him in a week. 

He’d dozed as he waited, unable to stay alert, until a familiar hand brushed his cheek and he’d peeled open his eyes to see Mousesack’s face swimming before his own.

“Thank the gods,” the druid had breathed out in relief.  “Irina told me that you would make a full recovery but without seeing you it was hard to believe.”

He had kissed Jaskier then.  A slow, tender kiss that the god had found impossible to resist, allowing himself to be anchored in that moment by the warm lips on his and the sweep of the druid’s thumbs along his cheeks. 

Mousesack had pulled back, grinning slightly, before diving back in for another, much filthier kiss. 

“What?” had been Jaskier’s less than elegant reply.

“The first was from me,” the druid had explained.  “The second was the one I promised Kate I would give you on her behalf should I see you first.”

“Ahh…” Jaskier had been dazed still.  “I see you two have kept in touch while I’ve been away then.”

“Nothing official, not with my current employment.”  Mousesack’d perched at the end of the couch, resting a hand on Jaskier’s ankle.  “But we have an informal understanding that suits us well. She was very worried for you.  As was I.” He’d paused slightly. “Irina told us what happened.”

Jaskier had just nodded tiredly. 

“Ciri?” he’d questioned.  “I missed our appointment.”

Mousesack had grimaced.  “Not your fault,” he’d assured.  “I thought it best to tell her something the week before her birthday.  Give her time to come to terms with it before her party. She was very upset, but not with you.  She tried to steal her grandmother’s sword. She had a whole plan worked out about how she was going to deal with that sorceress.  Luckily, Eist caught her before she sneaked out of the palace.

“He was so proud of her bloodthirstiness that he didn’t even tell Queen Calanthe.”  The druid had chuckled but Jaskier’d winced.

“What did you tell her?”

“That you’d been injured by a powerful sorceress.  That you were badly hurt but you would recover, and that this was the only thing that could keep you from your promised visit.

“Don’t worry.  Somehow the Queen has been convinced to give the princess a week off her lessons.  I’m sure that she'll be over here first thing in the morning.”

Mama bless Etta.

Mousesack had proved to be a much more agreeable healer than Ina.  He’d let Jaskier share a glass of wine with him and had fed him a dinner that had actual flavour to it.  He’d helped Jaskier to his bed and had made no mention of the way the god’s limbs shook with the effort of his day.

Jaskier had woken the next morning to a whirlwind of skinny limbs as his favourite little girl in the entire world had clambered up beside him on the bed and thrown herself on top of him.  Thankfully, she’d landed on his unblemished shoulder as she burrowed her face into his neck and sobbed.

It’d taken many reassurances and songs to soothe her, and she had spent the rest of the day curled up by his side in bed, telling him all the stories of her life that he had missed.

“I was going to bring you the witch’s head,” she’d told him haughtily, an almost perfect imitation of her fearsome grandmother.  “But Grandfather stopped me and Mousesack laughed at my plan, even though it was a good one.”

“What was it?” Jaskier’d asked, idly braiding the strands of her hair within his reach.

“Well, no one would tell me who the witch was,” she’d glared at the River, but he was no more likely to give her name than anyone else.  The thought of Ciri facing down Yennefer had filled him with a fear so strong it tied his stomach in knots.

“So,” she’d continued.  “I was going to have to find your friend first.  You know, Geralt. The one you’re always travelling with because he keeps getting into trouble.  I figured he must have been the one to upset the witch, which is why you got hurt. And he’s your friend, so he must want to kill her as well. 

“So, once I found him, he’d be able to take us to the sorceress and I would have chopped off her head with Grandmother’s sword.  See, it was a good plan.”

The simple, beautiful logic of a child.

“Uh huh.  How exactly were you planning to find Geralt?”  Jaskier had had to check, even thought of the meeting of his two favourite individuals had filled him with a weird combination of elation and dread.

“I was going to ask around, obviously .  How many Geralts can there be?”

“Obviously,” Jaskier had muttered back, unable to contain his grin at the precociousness of the princess before him.  She would make a grand queen one day.

For the rest of the week, Ciri had acted as his diligent companion and nursemaid.  She’d brought him his meals, played games with him during the day, and some nights she’d sneaked from her room and wormed her way in between Jaskier and Mousesack, falling asleep with her head on the River’s chest, her favourite toy horse practically shoved up his nose.

The only upset came when the week had ended and it had been time for him to return to Mama’s.  Ciri had thrown an epic tantrum, screaming and outright ordering him to stay.

“I’m your princess, you have to do as I say!” she’d yelled, small face red with rage.  Jaskier had been at a loss. He’d never experienced this side of the girl before. She’d barreled towards him, tiny fists striking at his chest, getting dangerously close to the still tender wound.

“Enough,” he’d snapped, grabbing her wrists to prevent her accidentally causing him any further damage.  “This is no way for an educated, privileged, young princess to behave. Stop that before you actually manage to hurt me.”  Her rage had died down and she was left blinking up at him with unshed tears in her big green eyes. 

Jaskier could feel his resolve crumbling but had managed to hold onto his stern tone.  “What do you need to say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” she’d sniffed, and he’d dropped her wrists so he could crouch down to her height.  “But you can’t go Jaskier. Last time you left you got hurt. It’s safest here. Grandmother says so.”

The power she wielded over his guilt was a mighty thing indeed, and he’d drawn her into a tight hug.  “I’m not going far, my Cirilla-pad,” he’d muttered against her ear. “I won’t be leaving the city for a good while yet.  I promise you’ll see me again soon.”

And she did.  Mama had not been happy with his unannounced week’s absence, but even she could not deny the way that visit, and all the future ones, had lifted his spirits and helped speed up his recovery. 

Still, even when he’d been fully healed and had began gradually shedding the years he’d put on, Mama had still found excuses to keep him with her.  When Beltane and Ciri’s eighth birthday had passed, he’d begun dropping hints about travelling again, but these had all been pointedly ignored. His beloved lute, which Vda had assured him Embla had rescued from the destroyed house in Rinde and returned to Mama, had remained hidden from Jaskier’s sight.

Her refusal to let him go had made him short-tempered and restless.  He’d spend his days striding around the city and his nights in some bawdy tavern getting drunk, starting fights and sleeping with as many admirers as he could.

He’d needed to get back to Geralt, to see his witcher with his own two eyes.  Trava had assured him much earlier on in his recovery that the witcher was being kept informed of Jaskier’s progress, but that hadn’t been enough anymore.

It had been Ina who’d eventually persuaded Mama to let him go, after the tenth time Trava had been sent out to drag him away from the bar and back home.  Jaskier didn’t know what had been said, but the next morning Mama had given him permission to go. He had beamed his gratitude at her, but it had done little to relieve the sadness from her face.

The next day he had shaved off his beard (now much more brown than white) and secured his beloved lute to his back before hugging his mother goodbye. 

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

“You had better be, my Buttercup.  There will be consequences if you don’t.”  But she’d tempered the warning with a farewell gift; half a dozen hand-embroidered shirts with a multitude of patterns and colours decorating the neckline and sleeves.

After that, it had been simple to find Geralt, to convince the serving girl to let him into his room.  

But now is the hard part.  When he must try and say everything he wants while his famous silver tongue turns to lead.

“But I did recover Geralt,” he presses.  “I’m sorry it took me so long. And I’m sorry I never told you what I was.  I didn’t…” He trails off, unsure how to explain in a satisfactory way that he didn’t tell Geralt for the sole reason of being unsure how to tell anybody.  “I didn’t know how.” It sounds lame, even to his own ears.

Geralt has stopped pacing.  He’s looking at Jaskier with a kind of determined consideration.

“Lairdswell,” he states, nodding knowingly as the bard jerks his head uncontrollably.  “You’re the baby from Lairdswell. The one who…” Now it’s Geralt who can’t continue.

“Was thrown in a sack and drowned by his bastard grandfather?” Jaskier suggests with a falsely bright tone.  “Yes, that was me. Not a great first memory, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

Geralt actually looks appalled.  “You remember? You were a newborn.”

“All Rivers remember how they were made Geralt, that’s part of the price.  You don’t gain power like mine without paying something.”

Geralt considers this for a moment, before taking his seat opposite Jaskier again.  Jaskier slathers a slice of warm bread in butter and piles some bacon on top of it before pushing it towards his witcher.

The witcher takes a mouthful, chewing thoughtfully, before changing the topic of the conversation entirely.

“I was going to head east next,” Geralt states, and Jaskier’s heart speeds up.  From his taciturn friend that was essentially a signed invitation to join him. 

“I bet there are plenty of nasty things for you to stick your sword into in that direction,” Jaskier agrees.  “I imagine all my old repertoire must be very out of date by now. People have probably already sung the last few songs I wrote to death.  I’m in desperate need of some new material.”

Geralt raises a sardonic eyebrow.  It’s basically his version of a shit-eating grin.

“I thought we’d stick to following the Yaruga’s course.  Gives your family a chance to keep an eye on you.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier squawks, highly offended by the insinuation that he needs looking after.

“I’m sure your brother will be most grateful.  He might even buy me a drink next time I see him.”

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously.  He’s not sure he approves of Trava and Geralt talking to each other, especially when Jaskier hasn’t been around for damage control.

“What did you two actually talk about?  He wouldn’t say.”

“Come on,” Geralt ignores him, stuffing the last of the breakfast in his mouth and getting up to pack away his things.  “Time to get moving.”

“Geralt, what did he say?  Stop ignoring me. Geralt! ”

Chapter Text

It’s astonishing how quickly things return to normal between the two of them.  If Jaskier is slightly quieter than usual for the first few weeks after their reunion, then that is to be expected after all that has happened to him.  Geralt can’t help but bask in the newly regained warmth of Jaskier’s companionship. Until it had been ripped from him, he’d been unaware of just how much light and cheeriness the bard brought to his life.

Jaskier quickly returns to his old self, half a dozen well received performances on the road doing wonders to lift his spirits.  Geralt, perhaps, indulges him a bit more. He’s less likely to cut Jaskier off in the middle of a spiel and, most of the time, he stops pretending he’s not paying attention.

He’s just… missed this.

At the back of his mind, his last wish niggles at his conscience.  He knows he should tell Jaskier, but it already feels like the moment to do so has passed.  That morning in the inn, when he’d meant to apologise properly and fully discuss what had happened between the two of them, he’d chickened out.  So many things he’d wanted to say, but he had been unable to find a way to express any of them. He’d chosen the easy route of returning to the way things were before he’d ever found out that Jaskier wasn’t human.

It’s not like the knowledge that the bard is an Orisa changes anything.  Jaskier is the same as ever he was. He’s nothing like the powerful, greedy creature described in the book Geralt had read.

But it’s a piss-poor excuse to hide his cowardice behind.

Geralt knows that he will eventually run into Yennefer again, but he hopes desperately it will be at some point when he and Jaskier are apart.  He and the bard do not discuss her. Her name is never brought up and Jaskier seems determined to act as though the entire djinn incident never happened.  Guiltily, Geralt goes along with this, deluding himself into believing he does so for his friend’s sake.

The witcher is still surprised when it takes over a year to bump into her, but of course it had to be after he and Jaskier had split for the winter and Jaskier had returned from his annual family gathering (a gathering of gods, it boggles Geralt’s mind).  He’d foolishly started to hope that Destiny was content with just one of them being with him. That as long as he travels with Jaskier, Yennefer will not needlessly be thrown into his path.

He’s such a fool sometimes.

She comes across them after a successful endrega contract.  Jaskier is sitting with Geralt at the bar as he enthuses to the innkeeper and his wife about Geralt’s prowess with a sword, and the daring risks he took to rid the village of this problem.  Patrons are hanging on his every word, as they always do. The bard has always known how to tell a good story.

Geralt is only half listening, content to let Jaskier charm the populace into tolerating them for the evening, when violet eyes catch his own from the doorway.

Yennefer casts him a small smile but stiffens when she sees his companion.  Geralt has never been good at reading her face, she displays too many different versions to the world for him to ever really be able to understand her, but he thinks he detects fear and also a hint of… anger.

Her shoulders drop, her head rises, and she starts to glide over, appearing for all the world like a regal, unaffected, powerful sorceress.

A burly man stops her in her path.  His friends quickly come to join him.  Geralt notices the entire tavern has gone silent.  Next to him, he feels Jaskier seize up in his seat with fear rolling off him in waves that clog up Geralt’s nose and block all other scents.

“Get out of here,” the innkeeper tells Yennefer, striding round from behind the bar to confront the sorceress.  It should be comical, the small round man only comes up to Yennefer’s chin and his permanently cheerful voice does not suit the aggression it currently holds.  But all around him the other patrons are beginning to move, those with weapons on their person drawing them, as they all converge on Yennefer.

She looks to Geralt, but he doesn’t know what to do and before he can think of something, she turns on her heel and vanishes out the door.

It’s as if the fog of tension that had crept into the room is immediately lifted, and everyone simply returns to what they were doing previously, showing no sign that they are even aware of what has just occurred.  

The scent of Jaskier’s fear recedes, and Geralt turns to see the River god slumped tiredly on the counter as the innkeeper’s wife fusses over him.

“Poor lamb looks exhausted,” she reprimands Geralt, as though this is entirely his fault.  “Needs an early night. You get him up to bed, I’ll send you both up a hot drink. Milk and honey with just a wee drop of spirits.  Always sent my little ones straight to sleep after a hard day.” 

Geralt hums a noncommittal response before firmly grabbing Jaskier by the arm and pulling him up the stairs to their room.  He turns on the bard the moment he shuts the door.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, and he looks scared again.  “That was… the witch… Geralt!” he gets out inarticulately.  

Geralt knows he should be softer.  He should be kinder. He should be more understanding.  But there’s an alarm bell that’s been clanging in his brain ever since Yennefer was forced to leave.  The thing is, although he has known intellectually that his friend is a powerful River spirit, he hasn’t really known until this night.

How could he?  Nothing had really changed in their interactions.  It’s one thing to watch Jaskier charm an audience, or a pretty woman, or a handsome man.  That seems natural. Jaskier is, after all, an extroverted, friendly, interesting, witty, good looking man.  But it’s another thing entirely to see Jaskier overtake the minds of an entire tavern and have them take up arms against a perceived threat.  Especially when they wouldn’t have stood a chance against Yennefer had she decided to retaliate.

“The people, Jaskier.  What did you do to them?” he commands firmly.

The bard turns his head to the side, long fingers toying with the bottom of his open doublet.  He bites his lower lip and stares fixedly at the wall, a red flush rising on his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.  “I just panicked. I didn’t mean to .”

A knock on the door interrupts them and Geralt turns to open it and accepts the two hot drinks and the extra blanket from the innkeeper’s wife.  She seems ready to barge past Geralt and attempt to tuck them both in, but he sends her away with a firm ‘thanks’ as he shuts the door in her face.

Jaskier has made his way to the bed.  Sitting on the end of it, staring forlornly at his hands,  he looks miserable. Geralt strongly objects to the way his heart aches at the sight.  He sinks down next to the bard, handing him one of the mugs.

“She’s not going to hurt you again,” he promises.  “She’s sorry that she ever attempted to bind you.”

“Sorry?” Jaskier gives a little broken, slightly hysterical laugh.  “She’s sorry about whatever it is my family have done to retaliate. She’d not be sorry if it had worked.  If she had sucked me dry and left me a dead husk.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt concedes.  “But the punishment you Orisa gave her cut deep.”

“How do you know?”

The witcher hesitates but forces himself to speak.  No good will come of denying his acquaintance with Yennefer.  No doubt Geralt will run into her again soon, and Jaskier may very well be with him.

“We ran into each other a few times when you were… away.”

“What do you mean you ‘ran into each other’?  How many times?” Jaskier has no business sounding so betrayed.  It’s not as if Geralt has deliberately sought her out.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! How can you not know?  Was it that many times?”  Jaskier’s voice is getting louder as he pushes off the bed to face Geralt, anger written into every line of his body.  “Are you two friends or something?”

Geralt is honestly not sure what he and Yennefer are, but he must take too long to reply because Jaskier lets out a wounded noise and staggers to the other side of the room, sloshing his warm drink all over his hands and the floor. 

“Stabbed, Geralt!  With an iron dagger.  She almost unmade me! I spent months as a non-corporeal entity, just floating all the way up and down the Pontar.  I was an old man when I woke up. Frail and feeble and pathetic! I couldn’t feed myself, bathe myself, use the chamber pot by myself!  I had to pull myself back together, piece by agonising piece. And you went and made friends with her!”

He is all out shouting by the end and Geralt just wants to erase that disappointed look on his face.  To reassure Jaskier that he didn’t forget about him or what Yennefer did to him.

“We’re not friends,” he tells Jaskier steadily.  “We just kept bumping into each other, and it was either be civil or get turned into a frog.”  He tries to lighten the mood. “She threatened to put a bow on me.”

“I’d like to see her try,” Jaskier growls.  “I wouldn’t let her get the chance. She’s not allowed to hurt you, ever. ”  The protectiveness in the bard’s voice causes Geralt’s stomach to squirm with an uncomfortable, unknown feeling.  He gets up and hands Jaskier his own mug, ordering him to drink it, while he carefully wipes the warm milk from the bard’s slightly reddened hands.

That night, Jaskier tosses and turns in his sleep, whimpering occasionally.  Geralt wonders if he should reach over, stroke a hand down his arm in an attempt to soothe him, but he does not know how to ease this pain.

He wakes the next morning to find the well has overrun and the entire village appears to be covered in half an inch of water.  If Geralt had any doubts of the cause, one look at Jaskier’s completely mortified face reveals the culprit.

They leave town quickly and don’t talk about it.

A few weeks later, and they’re both covered in mud and guts from a drowner hunt gone wrong.  It turned out there had been a water hag living with them that had not been mentioned in the contract, and she had managed to get the drop on Geralt, dragging him into the swamp.  It’s Jaskier who had saved him, parting the waters of the swamp so Geralt doesn’t drown and hacking blindly at the hag with the witcher’s dropped sword. 

Both of them stink, and it’s several hours walk back to the town.  It’s a hot day and Geralt can feel the mud and blood drying unpleasantly on his face and neck, so when he comes to the Duppa he decides to strip off his armour and dive in to the river to clean off.

He resurfaces, scrubbing his face and hair as best he can with his hands.  Jaskier sits by the bank, smiling at him, still covered in muck.

“Not going to join me?” Geralt asks.  The bard looks startled, then embarrassed.

“Careful Geralt, don’t invite a River to swim with you unless you’re absolutely sure you can live with the consequences.”

“We’ve swum together before,” Geralt reminds him, frowning slightly.

“Yes, in public baths.  Not in a river. They’re different.”

Geralt’s not really sure what comes over him, but he finds himself swimming over to the bank, resting his arms on the grass as he looks up at Jaskier.  Watching as the River’s attention is focused on the way droplets of water run down his arms.

“Why is it different then,” he murmurs, enjoying how a pink flush breaks out on the bard’s cheeks, spreading up to tinge his ears.

“It wouldn’t be as dramatic as swimming together in my own river, but you would still be creating a life-long bond between us.”

That causes Geralt to pull back sharply, and he dives back under the water to avoid any further conversation.  When he resurfaces a few feet away, Jaskier is looking at him with big, doleful, apologetic eyes. “Swimming together is considered very intimate to us,” he shrugs.  “It creates a connection that can’t easily be broken. 

“Don’t worry,” he adds (and is that sadness Geralt can detect?).  “I’ve been very careful with you, and everyone else. No accidental soul bonds for me.”

Except for the one Geralt has put there.               

* * *

Jaskier is a bit more prepared the next time he runs into the sorceress.  Luckily he spots her before she sees him, and it gives him that moment he needs to prepare himself.  To let go of the concentration of power which automatically swirls into him at the sight of her and to hide the agitation he feels from his face.

He is a powerful River god.  A force of nature. If anyone should be afraid, it’s the witch.

Besides, Geralt is right next to him.

The witcher is looking supremely uncomfortable, but that may just be the doublet he’s been forced into.  Some Redanian nobleman has requested Jaskier play at his son’s coming of age feast, and the bard has bullied Geralt into keeping him company. 

He’s just finished his set and left the minstrels to play some lively dance tunes, joining Geralt by the refreshment table, when the witch glides in. 

“She’s obviously trying to be fashionably late,” Jaskier mutters to the witcher, but Geralt makes no reply, standing stiffly at his side.

Yennefer glides towards the Redanian lord, who beams at her in a besotted manner and places a lingering kiss on her hand.  She murmurs something back to him, before her gaze sweeps round the room and lands on the two of them.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at her, refusing to let her see how much she still scares him.  At least he’s looking his best. Green and gold doublet with matching trousers and a beautifully tailored silk shirt underneath.  It evens the playing field, puts them on the same level.

“Don’t do anything to anyone,” Geralt mutters as she strides over to them, and Jaskier feels a twinge of pain in his breast at those words.  Does Geralt not trust him?

“Geralt,” the witch swoops in and kisses Geralt’s cheek, and he lets her.  How dare the hussy!  “It’s been awhile. Still filing down those horns?”

“Yennefer,” the witcher nods, and at least he doesn’t sound pleased to see her.  “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited.  Darius is an old friend; of course I’d come to his son’s party.  And yourself? This is hardly your normal hunting ground. Not still minding baby River gods, are you?”

“What strong perfume you’re wearing,” Jaskier cuts in before Geralt can respond.  He may be a baby River god, but he’s a god nonetheless.  The witch would do well to remember the power he and his family hold.  “It’s quite overwhelming. Oh dear Geralt, are you alright? If it’s bad for me, it must be torture for you.  Tell me Yennefer, have you ever considered a simple wash with some hot water and soap?”

She bares her teeth at him, in a facsimile of a smile.

“Pankratz,” she grits out, and it’s strange to hear his official river name (no one ever uses it, just like no one calls Etta, Ribbon).  “So nice to see you again under much more pleasant circumstances. You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“I wish I could say the same, but you definitely looked a bit fresher the last time I saw you.  Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but I promised several stunning young ladies a dance. Geralt,” he turns steely eyes upon his witcher.  “I promise it’ll be five dances at most and then we’ll leave. Be careful not to follow any insane women into dark corners.”

He flounces off, plastering on a charming smile to greet one of the young women he’d earlier secured a dance with.  He thinks he may have won that round.

However, it turns out there are several more rounds to come because,over the next four years, Yennefer seems to turn up everywhere.  Jaskier is forced to develop a thick skin rather quickly, because her tongue is sharp and swift. He retaliates with his own focused barbs that dig into her vulnerabilities and refuse to be shaken off, but he loses just as many rounds as he wins.  Geralt always stands stiffly next to them, never choosing a side (which hurts , Jaskier is the victim in all this).

His nightmares are always worse after a confrontation with Yennefer, and more than once he has caused a small flood in his sleep.  He can never look Geralt in the eye when this happens, deeply ashamed over his lack of control. He hasn’t had such trouble with it since he was a small child.  The witcher quickly discovers that these incidents are less likely to occur if he cradles Jaskier through the nightmare and Jaskier will wake up surrounded by Geralt’s arms, face plastered against his heart.

Jaskier longs for the day when he can shrug off his fear of the witch.  When she will no longer hold so much influence over him, but it seems like a distant dream.

Geralt himself has been especially confusing lately, because Geralt seems to flirt with him now.  Not always, but when he’s relaxed and they’ve had a good day, he leans a little closer, speaks in soft, suggestive murmurs and stretches himself out on display more often than usual.  Then it’s as if Geralt seems to realise what he’s doing, and it stops abruptly. It’s both maddeningly hopeful and agonisingly depressing. One step forward, two leaps back.

His siblings don’t offer any helpful advice.  They shrug at him and suggest just giving it time.  Allow the witcher a chance to get used to Jaskier now that he knows what the bard is. 

“Witchers live a lot longer than humans,” Trava shrugs, as Jaskier laments to him over a plate of the bard’s favourite Zerrikanian honey spice cake (made lovingly by Vala, the best cook and Jaskier’s favourite out of the triplets).  “You’ve got time for him to yank his head out of his arse.”

Except Geralt has now known what Jaskier is for the last seven years and still hasn’t caught on to the increasingly less subtle fact that the bard wants to climb him like a tree, then read him poetry in the sun while feeding him sweet delicacies and combing his fingers through his hair.

At this rate, Jaskier might as well just set up camp while Geralt is on a hunt and wait for him naked in the witcher’s bedroll.

It’s a plan he’s seriously considering as he sees off a group of villagers who’d been determined to steal Geralt’s possessions while the witcher rid them of a basilisk.

“Nicely done,” an unknown voice praises from behind him, causing Jaskier to jump.

A strange, older looking man, with two impressive Zerrikanian warriors at his side, holds out his hand to Jaskier.  The River shakes it and a tingling warmth spreads up his arm. Whatever this man is, it’s not human.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice calls sharply from the mouth of the cave, eyeing the three newcomers warily.  The basilisk's head is clutched in one hand, his sword still drawn in the other.

“Greetings,” the man places a fist over his heart.  “I am Borch Three Jackdaws, and these are my companions Téa and Véa.  I’ve been looking for you, Geralt of Rivia.”

That sounds vaguely ominous.

But as mysterious old men looking for Geralt’s services go, this one is at least more than willing to keep the two of them supplied in food and wine as he explains what he needs. 

He wants them (well Geralt really, but where he goes Jaskier normally follows) to help him kill a dragon.  A dragon .  Jaskier has never seen a dragon, he doesn’t think any of his family have either.  Fire and water, they don’t tend to mix, but excitement is already thrumming through Jaskier’s veins. 

Geralt is reluctant, but Borch is not easily discouraged and Jaskier wants the witcher to agree.

“Think of the ballads, Geralt,” he whines.  “We don’t have to kill it. We could just go look at it.  Maybe it’s a friendly dragon; maybe it’ll be willing to leave on its own.”

“You’re delusional,” Geralt tells him, but Jaskier thinks he can see a glimmer of amusement in those amber eyes.

“But why could he not be right?” Borch chimes in.  “Dragons are not like wyverns, who are barely more than mindless beasts.  All the old tales speak of them being intelligent creatures. Perhaps this one will leave peacefully if given the opportunity.  How can you miss this chance Witcher?”

“Yeah, Geralt, how can you miss this chance?” he pleads, shooting his best imploring face at the witcher.  It was very effective against Embla and Adalette when he was younger, and the witcher is not immune.

“You’re ridiculous,” Geralt informs him, but he sighs the weary sigh of the defeated.  “Fine, I’m in. But only because I know you ,” he gestures at Jaskier, “will likely go whether I do or not.  Then your mother will kill me when you get burnt to a crisp by an angry dragon.”

“Yes!” Jaskier exclaims in victory, nudging shoulders with Téa and Véa, with whom he is sitting.  They shoot him amused looks, but Borch graces him with a proper smile. Jaskier excuses himself to go outside to relieve himself, all the ale Borch had bought them making itself known, which is why he doesn’t see Yennefer enter the building.

Chapter Text

The first Jaskier learns of the witch’s presence is when she saunters over to join them as they’re preparing to leave for the hunt the following day.

She ignores Jaskier, which has been her latest tactic in their ongoing war, and speaks directly to Geralt.

“How is it that I’ve walked this earth for decades without coming across a witcher and then the first one I meet, I can’t get rid of?”

“I’d say something strange was afoot, but then again, witchers are bound to bump into monsters eventually.”  Jaskier snipes, unable to resist getting in the opening jab.

She gives an unconvincing laugh.

“Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

“Are those crow’s feet new?”

He flinches and Geralt growls slightly.  It’s a touchy subject for him. He’d eventually managed to shed the last of the years he’d gained, but despite appearing as his preferred age, he’s never quite managed to remove all the lines that had formed at the corners of his eyes.  Some injuries left permanent marks, in more ways than one.

Any witty reply he’d had in his brain has deserted him, so he walks off.  He knows Geralt will not linger with the witch after that, will follow him to check if he’s ok.  It’s the only victory he can achieve at this moment. Depriving her of Geralt’s company, which she seems to desperately crave.

Luckily, Yennefer appears keen to stick with her escort, the truly irritating Sir Eyck.  Jaskier trudges along on his own, his optimism about the hunt soured by her presence.

“Cheer up, young River god,” Borch slows his pace to join him.  “We’re on a grand adventure.” 

Jaskier eyes him warily.  “You know what I am, but I don’t believe I can return the favour.”

“I have no doubt you’ll figure it out.  You seem like a smart one.” Borch claps him on the shoulder.  “Tell me, have you told your witcher what you do know.”

Jaskier shakes his head.  Whatever Borch is, it awakens something old within Jaskier.  Something from long before he was born, when he was just water flowing downstream with no agency or consciousness.  Ancient traditions and customs that he’s never had to learn, but just knows , hold his tongue.  If Borch wants Geralt to know what he is, then he will reveal it himself; Jaskier will not out him.  Just as Borch will not give him away to the dwarves, the Reavers or that pompous knight.

The bard is less than pleased when he realises that Geralt and Yennefer have spent several hours of the trip conversing quietly together.  The witch bats her eyelashes and flirts outrageously then turns to her knightly puppy dog and showers him with praise, leaving Geralt obviously off balance.  It's one thing for her to flirt with his witcher, but he hates it even more that she toys with him (hates that it seems to work).

The closeness with which he’ll have to sleep to the woman sets his teeth on edge, and a nervous energy is building up underneath his skin.  Geralt can clearly recognise the signs because he keeps giving Jaskier warning looks over dinner, like he’s the problem.  It’s enough to put Jaskier in a foul mood and he stomps off to the nearby stream, hoping his closeness to running water will ease his tension.

“You, boy!” A voice summons him.

Boy? Boy!

He whirls round to face Sir Eyck, who is oblivious to the danger the River god presents.

“The Lady Yennefer requires a bath,” the knight tosses Jaskier a bucket.  “Fetch the water and heat it for her, there’s a good lad.”

Jaskier snaps.

The water behind him rises from the stream and shoots out at Eyck, knocking him over onto his arse.

“I am no boy ,” Jaskier snarls, looming over the prone figure and in that moment the knight gets a glimpse of all that Jaskier is.  The entire length of him. From where he starts as a small mountain stream and then grows wider and bigger, his current moving faster as he flows into the valley, down the countryside, passing numerous towns and villages, until he joins his mother where they surround two sides of a great city.

The moment he realises what he’s done, he collects himself, but it’s too late.  Eyck is scrabbling in the dirt at Jaskier’s feet, pressing his face against the River’s boots, gazing adoringly up at him.  Jaskier feels sick.

He helps the knight to his feet, tries to calm him, and offers assurances.  But there is a fanaticism in Eyck’s gaze now, and it is fixed solely on Jaskier.  No matter how hard the River tries to let Eyck go, the knight only clings harder. 

He insists on escorting the bard back to camp, fussing over him until Jaskier sits by the fire, and then sets about arranging the River’s bedroll.  It is laid out right next to Eyck’s and in the best spot near the fire.

The other dragon hunters laugh at him, making crude jokes at Jaskier and how he’s managed to gain the knight’s favour.  The bard can’t muster up a good response. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him, judging him, and he doesn’t know how to make any of this better.

* * *

The blasted knight trails Jaskier around like a baby duckling after it’s mother.  Ever since the bard had stormed off the previous night and returned with Sir Eyck, the man’s been only a few steps away from him the entire time.  There’s a worshipful look in Eyck’s eyes that Geralt despises and he is unable to find Jaskier on his own to talk to him.

To make matters worse, one of the dwarves is dead.  They’d all woken in the morning to discover one of their company missing; a quick search of the area had revealed the dwarf, not far into the woods, with his throat slit.

“Stay with me,” Sir Eyck turns to Jaskier.  “I shall protect you with my life.”

Geralt growls and stalks off.

“I feel sorry for your bard,” Borch comes over to join him as they head off.  “He’ll not be able to get rid of such a devoted follower very easily.” The Zerrikanian warriors on either side of him laugh.

“He should be careful about who he attracts then,” Geralt grunts.

“Perhaps, but he shines so brightly that he’s bound to draw the occasional unwanted pest.  But the reason I sought you out is because the dwarves think, and I agree, that the Reavers might be planning to slim down our numbers on the way to the dragon.  Fewer hands to divide the treasure amongst, if you catch my meaning.”

“Hmm…”

“They know of a shortcut up the mountain; I’m of a mind to join them.”

Geralt sees Yennefer storm off from where Sir Eyck is standing protectively in front of Jaskier.  “You go ahead,” he tells the old man. “I’ll catch up.”

“Your bard has stolen my knight,” she complains as Geralt catches up with her.  “Taken him right from under my nose before he could accomplish the one damn task I actually needed him for.”

“And what was that?”  She ignores him. “Yen!  What are you really doing here?”

“I’m here for the dragon,” she turns to look at him.  It’s one of those rare, privileged moments where she allows him to see the vulnerability she hides under layers of emotional armour.  “There are certain healing properties it’s rumoured to possess.”

“I thought your… transformation healed all parts of you?”

“At the cost of losing others, yes.”

And Geralt suddenly gets it.  He now understands why she had tried so hard to bind a water and air elemental to her.  He knows what she thought Jaskier’s life was worth. And he also knows what the Orisa have denied her.

A child of her own.

But Yennefer is not the sort of woman to let some River gods tell her what is now impossible for her.  She is seeking out a fertility cure another way.

“Don’t tell me you’ve travelled all this way for made-up fertility cures using fresh dragon hearts?”  The idea is ludicrous. 

They argue about the validity of such a cure and Geralt is unable not to voice his incredulity.

“You, a mother?”

“Do you think I’d make a bad one?” she challenges.

With all the powerful enemies she’s made?  “Definitely.”

He obviously hurts her with his direct response, and he is not the man for this conversation.  This is far more Jaskier’s area of expertise, but Yen and Jaskier ever sitting down for a heart-to-heart is about as likely as Geralt learning to dance.

He tries his best but ultimately bungles it.  Revealing his Child Surprise, whom he’s been deliberately not thinking about these last seven years, to the enraged sorceress.

When they return to the others, Sir Eyck is busy brushing non-existent dust from Jaskier’s shoulders.  The bard sends him a pleading look, but Geralt ignores him. The River god got himself into this mess, he can fish himself out.

The dwarves' short cut is a joke.  A thin, rickety wooden walkway across a windy cliff face.  Jaskier goes first, with Sir Eyck close behind him, one hand holding onto the back of the bard’s doublet.  It is the knight who pulls Jaskier back when his foot goes through a plank and the bard almost tumbles into the abyss.  Geralt angrily reins in the pang of jealousy when Jaskier shoots his saviour a grateful look.

They make their way steadily along, and it seems like they might make it, when the wood under Borch’s boots gives way.  Geralt grabs the chain attached to the rockface, but is unable to pull Borch up while keeping his footing and the planks creak ominously beneath him.

He knows the image of Borch and his companions falling into the mist will join that of Renfri’s dying face as one of those few memories that haunt him for the rest of his life.

Yennefer is wise enough to give him space, but Jaskier (kind, caring, sympathetic Jaskier) sits down at his side as he surveys the mountain range before him.

“You did your best,” he whispers to Geralt softly, urging the witcher to believe him.  “There’s nothing else you could have done.”

“Where’s your guard dog?”

Jaskier winces; Geralt can feel it as the bard presses their arms together.  “He’s taken over the cooking. Accused the dwarves of trying to poison us all.”

“Hmm…”

“Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?  Just the two of us. That is if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion?  We could head to the coast. Get away for awhile. Sir Braa has a castle in Talgar. Mama’s never had much to do with him, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me spending some time in his territory.

“I imagine Borch would think it a different kind of grand adventure.  Life’s too short, we should do what pleases us.” 

Geralt turns to consider his friend and finds Jaskier staring back at him, blue eyes filled with a nervous determination.  They flutter shut as the bard leans in towards him, gently pressing his lips to Geralt’s own. Not demanding, just offering.  Allowing Geralt to make the next move.

The witcher finds his hand moving automatically to clasp the back of Jaskier’s neck, threading his fingers through soft hair as his lips move slightly against the bard’s.  Jaskier responds in kind, and it’s gentle and sweet, but there is a fear lurking in the back of Geralt’s mind that he has been unable to suppress. One that has been building over the last four years, ever since Jaskier drove Yennefer out of an inn using the people around him as weapons. 

Because Geralt can’t help but admire Jaskier.  His looks, his personality, his entire enthusiastic being, but he’s seen numerous men and women fall under the bard’s spell.  How much of that is natural, and how much of that is twisted by Jaskier? Sir Eyck is the latest proof of the power Jaskier wields over people’s feelings.  Has Geralt’s own mind been twisted by the River god?

Geralt’s not sure and the uncertainty causes him to pull away, to ignore the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes as he walks away towards Yennefer’s tent.

She is surprised to see him.

“I thought your bard would be comforting you?” She raises an elegant eyebrow.

“Hmm…” he takes in her tent, much larger on the inside than the out.  A large comfy bed takes up most of the space but there is a carafe of wine on a small table.  She pours him a glass and settles in the seat by the table, gesturing for him to take the one opposite.

“Orisa, how much control can they exert over a person’s mind?”  He needs to talk to someone about this, and she’s the only other person here with any knowledge of what Jaskier is.

“Quite a bit, if the noble Sir Eyck is anything to go by.  He’s a god Geralt. Eventually he was always going to try and gain worshippers.  He wasn’t going to be satisfied with your meagre veneration forever. The people he ensnares feed his influence, and everyone (god, magician or man) seeks more power.”

“You as well?”

“Of course, I’ve never hidden that from you.  You know why I’m here.”

They drink well into the night, the carafe of wine holding far more than its appearance would suggest.  When Geralt eventually gets up to stumble to his own bed, Yennefer rises with him. She leans against him, lilac and gooseberries pleasantly tickling his nose.

“The bard stole my knight,” she murmurs, playing with his hair, fingers leaving cool trails over the back of his neck.  “Should I take his?” And for the second time that day, Geralt is drawn into a kiss.

This one is the complete opposite of Jaskier’s.  Where the bard had offered, Yennefer takes. She claims his mouth, clutching him tightly in her hands, demanding passion and obedience.  It’s fire and bite. A war on Geralt’s being. 

Once again, Geralt pulls back.  It’s for the same reasons. Jaskier may be subtly trying to influence Geralt, but Yennefer is direct in her manipulations.  She wants a night of passion as a show of one-upmanship in her ongoing feud with the River god. For so long Geralt has been a toy in their games, something to tug at and fight over.  It’s a position he’s placed himself in with his wish. One he must suffer the consequences of, but he will not be used in this way.

Just as with Jaskier, he leaves, but his head is no clearer.  He can make out Jaskier in the dark, curled up with his lute on the ground.  The ever-vigilant Sir Eyck watches over him.

The next morning Geralt is woken by the familiar raised voices of the sorceress and the bard.

“What’s going on?” he groans, head pounding with all the wine he’d drunk the previous night.

“Those fucking dwarves left without us.  They’re going to kill the dragon themselves before I get to it,” Yennefer spits in fury.

“We shouldn’t be killing dragons without talking to them first, at all,” Jaskier shouts back. 

“Try and stop me,” Yennifer hisses and with a spell pushes Jaskier into Sir Eyck, sending them both tumbling to the ground, as she sprints down the path to catch up with the dwarves.  Geralt can hear Jaskier swearing as he tries to extract himself, weighed down by the knight’s heavy armour.

“Don’t just stand there Geralt,” he wheezes.  “Stop her!”

So Geralt races after the sorceress and enters the cave to find two dead women very much alive and well, and a dead green dragon curled protectively around an egg.  The dragon’s last treasure. But if Téa and Véa are here, does that mean Borch…

And that’s when a glorious golden dragon enters the cave, speaks to their minds using Borch’s voice.

Geralt is stunned but he doesn’t have long to process what’s happened as the Reavers arrive, determined to kill the golden dragon.  Geralt can’t let that happen. Not after losing Borch once, not when Jaskier has asked him to save the dragon.

The plight of the unhatched baby must awaken the softer side of Yennefer because she chooses to side with him, blasting the Reavers swarming around them.  But they’re severely outnumbered and as the fight is drawn into the open, Geralt finds himself on the ground, dirt thrown into his eyes with a spear jammed against his throat.

The earth around him rumbles ominously, and the ground cracks open as water ascends from an underground mountain stream. It slams into the Reaver trying to kill Geralt, sweeping the would-be killer and most of his friends away.

Jaskier has arrived, and he exudes anger and power as the water bowls over any enemy who dares even to try to approach Geralt.  Behind him, Sir Eyck raises his sword before dashing into the fray. All too soon it’s over, they’re panting over the bodies of the Reavers and a newborn stream is gurgling its way down the mountain.

“I am in so much trouble,” Jaskier whispers, face exceedingly pale.  “Mama is going to kill me.”

Before Geralt can question this, the dwarves come stumbling up, Yennefer’s magic finally releasing their frozen forms.  Borch reappears, an old man once again, bearing dragon teeth in his hands to placate the dwarves who head back down the mountain, eager to claim the reward.

“Thank you,” Borch turns to the rest of the party.  “Thank you for helping me, noble Sir Witcher. Thank you also, Yennefer of Vengerberg and Jaskier, God of the Pankratz.  I can see why Geralt didn’t want to lose either of you.”

Geralt feels his stomach sink to his boots, a sick feeling of apprehension flooding him.  It’s all about to come out now, he knows, and he’s left this conversation un-spoken for too long.

“What does that mean?”  It’s Yennefer who speaks, and for once she and Jaskier are standing side by side, wearing identical looks of confusion.  Just an hour ago, Geralt would have given his sword hand for them to find common ground, but now…

“In Rinde, the djinn.”

Yennefer puts the pieces together first.  “That’s why we can’t escape each other. Why I feel this way inside.”  And Geralt’s heart sinks even more, because he had never considered the affection Yen showed him was anything more than manipulation.  “It’s not because of anything real or true. You made a wish.”

Geralt shakes his head, desperate to deny it, but he can see dawning comprehension on Jaskier’s face. 

“You bound us to you,” the god speaks softly at first, but then he gets louder as he realises the full implications of his statement.  “You bound us to each other !”

“Disregard for the freedom of others has become quite your trademark,” snaps Yennifer.  And Jaskier does not contradict her, which stings even more than her observation.

“I made that wish to save your lives,” he tries.

“I didn’t need your help,” Yennefer shouts at him.

“Like fuck you didn’t,” he snarls back, because how dare she?  She was the one who’d dragged them into danger when she tried to use Jaskier to catch the djinn.  “And you, you flit about like a tornado, wreaking havoc, and for what? So you can have a baby? A child is no way to boost your fragile ego, Yen.  Not when you would so heartlessly sacrifice someone else to achieve it.” He gestures towards Jaskier, who has remained frighteningly quiet, watching the verbal battle with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll take advice from you about children as soon as you take responsibility for the one you bound to you and then abandoned!”

“That’s enough,” Borch intercedes.  “I’m going to save you all a lot of hurt with a little pain now.  The sorceress will never regain her womb, his mother has decreed it so and only a fool would go up against her,” he gestures to Jaskier.

“And Geralt, your River god can never be anything other than what he is.  You must decide if you can accept that.”

“I’m leaving,” Yennefer declares, storming away before Geralt can call out for her.  To try and explain.

“Your legacy , your Destiny is still out there Geralt,  I know it, and you know it” are Borch’s parting words, before he too walks off.  Geralt is left with the still silent Jaskier and his clinging knight.

“Eyck,” Jaskier speaks softly.  “Could you go pack up my things at the camp?”

“Of course,” the knight declares, hurrying away down the mountain to do his master’s bidding.

“What did Borch mean Geralt?  What must you accept about me?”  Geralt doesn’t reply, unable to find the appropriate words. 

“What did he mean Geralt?” Jaskier speaks more firmly this time, mouth a stern flat line across his face.  “What about me troubles you so? What made you run from me last night? Tell me! ”

“I don’t know if it’s real!” Geralt snaps, his unease transforming into anger, the one emotion he’s certain he knows.  “You manipulate all those around you Jaskier. You waltz into their lives and they open themselves to you, twist themselves up in knots to do your bidding.  You bind people to you without a second thought, so how can I be sure what I feel is really me? How can I know it’s not just you pushing your wishes and desires onto me?”

“ My wishes?  You’re the one who bound me to you !  I have resisted every opportunity to do the same.  Since I came back, I have been nothing but honest with you about my powers.  Even when you were unaware, when it would have been so easy to trick you into a river, to make you mine, I didn’t !  Because I knew that you could never forgive me for taking away your agency, your consent.  But you went and took mine away.  Then you push me away for fear that I’m manipulating you !”

He walks backwards from Geralt, tears forming in his eyes, but the witcher is too angry to care.

“You’re the one who tricked me into going to Cintra.  Don’t tell me you actually wanted a bodyguard, not when you can sway entire rooms with a single thought.  It’s because of you that I have this damned Child Surprise.”

“Her name,” Jaskier tells him stiffly.  “Is Ciri, and she deserves so much better than you !”  With that he turns, stepping quickly into the stream, sinking deeper than should be possible until he’s disappeared under the water and is gone. 

Geralt is left alone at the mouth of the dragon’s cave, frustrated and confused as the implications of Jaskier’s statement explode through his brain.

Chapter Text

“You’d better have a good explanation, Buttercup.”  Despite the use of his pet name, Jaskier has never seen Mama so livid.  He’s been the ‘guest’ of Sir Braa, for the last two months, ever since he had disappeared into the new stream he’d brought forth, leaving Geralt on the mountain. 

Sir Braa had been waiting for him when he’d emerged at the bottom, with an armed guard.  Jaskier had known he’d be in trouble for his actions. He’d severely altered the geography of another River’s territory, and the Braa now had a new tributary river.  One day, when the time and circumstances were right, some poor mortal would be swept away by the new river and irreversibly changed.

The guest room in which Jaskier had been incarcerated might not have been a dungeon, but it was sparsely furnished, and his only company had been the guards outside the door (his lute left behind on that damn mountain).  Sir Braa hadn’t even bothered to visit to yell at Jaskier directly, instead going straight to Mama. A deal had been struck, and Jaskier dreads to think what Mama was forced to offer for his release. 

A ship had been hired to take Jaskier directly from Sir Braa’s castle at Talgar to Mama’s house on the docks at Cintra.  The older River had only visited Jaskier once in his room to tell him of his travel plans. He’d had a guard bring forth iron shackles, but when Jaskier had cried and begged, sworn on his own River that he’d not try to escape, Sir Braa had relented.  The story of Jaskier and the witch is well known and Sir Braa had obviously planned the shackles as a scare tactic. It had worked too well, and he seemed almost ashamed of himself afterwards.

Jaskier had kept  his word and done as he was told as he was transported and deposited on Mama’s doorstep.

When he enters, the entire family is there,on either side of Mama’s throne.  Mama herself is perched regally, glaring down at him and demanding explanations.  Her gaze is unflinching and challenging, giving him no choice but to tell the truth.

The whole, sad, sorry tale pours from his lips.  Even the parts that he wishes to keep to himself (the rejected kiss, Geralt’s wish) are dragged from his reluctant tongue.  Mama’s face remains impassive throughout, no hint of her feelings given. 

His siblings shoot him sympathetic glances, and Jaskier hates them for it.  This entire spectacle is humiliating enough without witnesses. His face burns with shame as they witness his disgrace.  He knows this is part of his punishment; a private reprimand would not have such an impact.

“No more,” Mama eventually speaks.  Her voice quiet, but with a hard, immovable weight to it.  “You will chase after Geralt of Rivia no more. He has brought you nothing but trouble, and I will not let him drag you into danger again.  I will not let you embarrass your family or myself for his sake again.”

Dread clogs up Jaskier’s throat, as he tries to speak in Geralt’s defence.  His imprisonment and subsequent transportation have given him plenty of time to think. 

He is so mad at the witcher.  More than once he had found himself pacing around his small room screaming obscenities at the man.  But he also wants so badly to return to him. To force Geralt to sit down with him. Not let either of them leave until they’ve had the conversation Geralt has obviously been putting off.  No matter how painful such a talk might be, Jaskier wants to clear the air with the witcher. So they know where they stand. So they can work out what they could be.

Despite everything, Jaskier loves him.  That’s what hurts the most.

“Mama…” he whimpers.

“No!  I have had enough.  I will not watch him hurt you with careless words and actions anymore.  I am sick of watching you bound after him like an obedient dog whenever he calls.  I don’t ever want to hear that man’s name again. Enough!”

Tears run down Jaskier’s cheeks, but no comfort is offered.  His mother has not finished with him.

“You have been wandering the wilderness for too long.  You are a River god with your own river.  You will go and look after that one instead of altering someone else’s.  You are to go straight to the Pankratz, and you are to stay there.”

“You can’t!” he blurts out, and it’s the wrong thing to say.  She rises to her feet, anger and power rolling off her in waves, forcing Jaskier to sink to his knees before her.  Sweat breaks out on his brow and the back of his neck, and he can feel her very presence crushing him. Forcing him to obey. 

He is not just her son.  He is her tributary and she is the great Yaruga; he was foolish to forget that.

“Destiny, Mama,” he croaks from his position at her feet.  “I’m bound to him by Destiny. We cannot be kept apart.”

“Very well,” his mother speaks icily, but the pressure he feels pinning him to the floor lessens slightly.  “But I shall not let you chase after him as you have done all these years. He must come and find you. You will not try and get in contact with him, you will send no messages, nor enlist your siblings or any mortal to do so on your behalf.  Only when he comes chasing after you , can you go with him.  Until then you will go to your river and you will not leave it.  Am I understood, Jaskier?”

He nods, and Mama sweeps from the room without even offering him a goodbye.  Trava comes to help him up, but Jaskier angrily shoves his hands away, wiping his face with his own sleeve.

“Jaskier…”  It’s Ina who tries to speak to him, and her voice has gone unusually soft and comforting.  Jaskier doesn’t want any of it. He pushes past them and out the door. Mama’s compulsion is strong, and it does not give him any leeway to pause for a moment, to try and find some way to say goodbye to Mousesack and Ciri.  He dives fully clothed into the Yaruga, ignoring the shouts of the workers on the street, and speeds off to Lettenhove, the great city where his river joins Mama’s.

It takes two weeks for Eyck to find him there. 

Jaskier is staying at an inn, The Travelling Players, despite technically owning a perfectly nice townhouse.  It had been a gift from Mama after he’d graduated from Oxenfurt Academy. A place for him to set up a home, eventually, once his adventuring was done.  It’s a beautiful yellowstone building. Four storeys high, with large airy rooms and a small garden at the back with a dock at the end leading onto the Pankratz.

Jaskier hates it. 

He hates that it is effectively his prison.  So he wastes what little coin he has remaining on a room at the inn, unable to play for his supper without his beloved lute.  He refuses to draw anything from the account Mama had set up for him at the local bank. He is mad at her, and he can’t tell her, so he is left making these petty little gestures.

He sends back the harp she sends after him a week after his initial banishment, despite it being a thing of delicate beauty. He throws the fine clothes that she likes to make him directly into the Yaruga.

He spends his evenings drinking and gambling with the local patrons and it’s on one such occasion that Eyck stumbles in.  His armour has been abandoned and he is dressed in simple wool and leather. His sword is still fastened to his waist, but he also carries on his back Jaskier’s lute.

The moment he spots Jaskier, his entire face lights up.  He stumbles over, dropping to his knees at the River god’s feet and presenting him with his lute. 

Jaskier’s card companions snicker, but the bard shoots them a nasty look and they return immediately to the game, forgetting that Jaskier had ever joined them.  He takes the lute reverently from Eyck’s hands and bids the man stand before leading him up to his room.

“Thank you for bringing this to me,” he tells Eyck solemnly.  The knight bows in response.

“Please,” he whispers.  “I want to serve you.”

It makes Jaskier feel very uncomfortable. 

“I don’t need you to serve me.”

“I know, but I want to.  Please.  I feel like you are what I have been looking for my entire life.”

The knight, who is a knight no longer having renounced his vows, will not be dissuaded.  Jaskier tries again and again to set Eyck free, but no matter what he does, Eyck comes back.  Freedom is not what he wants. He wants a purpose, and that purpose is now the Pankratz. Jaskier eventually has to admit defeat and formally claim his first acolyte.

It's not as bad as he had feared.  There is nothing romantic or sexual in Eyck’s devotion.  He simply wants the knowledge that he serves a higher purpose.

It transpires that Eyck’s father had beaten religion into him at a young age, expecting his youngest son to make his way into the world, spreading the sacred message of the ‘Holy Book’.  Except Eyck had not been an ideal preacher. He hadn’t understood other children his age or why they’d laugh and jeer at him as he tried to teach them the scriptures of Virtue. The taunts had resulted in him retreating further into his religious studies, allowing him to build up a persona of what he felt a good, honest, pious knight should be, looking down on anyone unable to live up to the high standards he had set himself.  At least until Jaskier had come along and stripped that all away. 

All that’s left is an awkward, earnest man, determined to ride up and down the lands surrounding the Pancratz in a bid to protect the river.  He stops bandits attempting to rob people on the shores, cuts away old forgotten fishing nets collecting algae on the riverbed and takes great offence at anyone foolish enough to try dumping their discarded rubbish into the river.

His change in faith cannot not alter him completely, and he still has that pompous way of interacting with most of the world.  After his first expedition along the river Jaskier had been forced to have a stern word with him. 

If he had to go about declaring himself, then for Mama’s sake do it in the name of the Pankratz, not Jaskier.  That’d worked well, and Eyck’s reputation has never been better. It turns out the population along the river likes that there is someone so invested in the protection of said river, on which their livelihoods are based.  For the first time in his life, Eyck is greeted with genuine cheer. Men in bars buy him drinks and old mothers cluck over him, declaring him ‘a good lad really’. 

When Eyck comes back from one of his trips with three kittens he’s rescued from drowning, Jaskier admits defeat and moves himself, Eyck and the cats into the townhouse.  It is fortunate that he chooses to do so, because his acolyte continues to rescue a number of animals whose owners decide to drown them in the river. Jaskier remembers all too well what it was like to be so cruelly discarded and doesn’t stop the man.  They now have six cats and four dogs who are taken prodigiously good care of by Eyck. People still puzzle the former knight, but animals are another thing entirely. They don’t care about his pretentious airs, so long as he feeds them and gives them belly rubs.

Jaskier’s favourite is Boxer, a big brute of a mutt with only one eye and half a tail.  He sleeps in Jaskier’s bed, shedding short brown hair everywhere, and whacking the bard with his short, stumpy tail throughout the night.  He is possibly one of the ugliest dogs that Jaskier has ever seen, more scar than dog, but he looks so sweetly up at him with his one remaining eye and curls happily into Jaskier’s hugs and kisses, easily bestowing his own affection on the River god.

It’s not a bad life, but Jaskier feels restricted, unable to stray too far from the river’s banks before he is forced back.  He mopes about the city until eventually he comes across the theatres. There he makes another home for himself among the actors, singers, writers and managers.  He pens several new songs for certain productions and even begins writing a play of his own.

It’s about a princess who goes on an adventure to save her magical friend from a curse placed on him by a witch.  It’s a story Ciri would like, and he forlornly hopes that if he can make it popular enough, it might one day reach her back in Cintra.

He worries constantly for her, as the whispers from the folk round about him speak increasingly of the dangers of Nilfgaard and the threat of war.  However, there is little he can do from his current prison except from fret and pace. 

His siblings visit him now and then, bringing letters from Mama, but while Jaskier accepts the visits, he sends all but one of the letters back unopened.  The only one he reads is the one in reply to the plea he’d initially sent, begging her to allow him back to Cintra, just for a day, to get Ciri (to keep her with him where she can be safe).  Mama had refused, and if anything happens to Ciri, Jaskier will never forgive her.

* * *

“Jaskier!” Geralt bellows, pounding on the door.  “I just want to talk. Let me in. Jaskier!”

There is no answer and the door does not budge.  Several dock workers are eying him warily as he pounds on the door of the house by the docks that Jaskier had pointed out to Geralt so many years ago.  He knows he is a suspicious looking figure, a large cloaked man banging on a door in the early morning light.

Cintra is the last place Geralt wants to be, but it’s the only place he can think to look for his bard.  The only place Geralt knows of that Jaskier calls home. He needs to talk to the god, needs to apologise.  Needs to sit down and have a proper conversation with him. Lay himself bare in front of his friend and see if Jaskier is willing to take him back.  See if Jaskier is still willing to offer something more to Geralt.

The trip down the mountain had been hell.  Stumbling back down narrow paths with only Sir Eyck for company.  Geralt had split from him the moment they’d reached the bottom, unable to stand the knight's oaths of service to the god Geralt had just torn apart with his words.

He was such a hypocrite, accusing Jaskier of influencing his choices when Geralt had already manipulated Jaskier’s. 

A small part of Geralt had hoped that the bard might have been waiting for him at the inn at which  they’d left Roach. Angry and hurt, but willing to listen. It was a fool’s hope. 

Geralt hadn’t hung around, instead saddling Roach and riding south.  There were only two possible places Geralt could think of to look for Jaskier.  Oxenfurt, where he knew Jaskier taught the occasional term now and then, and Cintra, where the mighty Yaruga met the sea right by the house where the bard had grown up. 

Of course, Jaskier knew Geralt’s Child Surprise.  It was Cintra he’d been returning to every Beltane.  To his mother’s house, right on Calanthe’s doorstep.  Geralt is an idiot not to have connected the dots sooner, and Jaskier is a soft fool who’d probably thought he was doing Geralt a favour by checking in on his Surprise and watching over her when the witcher would not.

He still has no plans to collect the girl, but he has seen the Nilfgaardian army making camp at the Amell Pass and his conscience had twittered in his ear (in a voice sounding very much like Jaskier’s) until he had sent a secret message to Mousesack, asking the druid to meet him in the caverns beneath the city.  He will check the girl is safe and that will be the end of it.

However, first he needs to speak to Jaskier, but the door still will not open.  He kicks it in annoyance, achieving nothing but a sore foot.

“Ahem,” a no-nonsense cough echoes behind him.  He turns and comes face to face with Madam Irina, Jaskier’s aunt.  The brothel owner gives him the same cool, stern look that had made him so uncomfortable the first time he’d ever visited her establishment and she’d explained the rules to him.

“He’s not here,” Madam Irina tells him, refusing to move back and put any distance between herself and Geralt.  He is forced to move to the side as she tries to elbow him out of the way, fishing a key out of her impressive cleavage and opening the door.  “And you can’t come in.”

“I just want to talk to him.  Five minutes, and then if he wants, I’ll be on my way.”

“That will be a mighty impressive feat, given that I’ve just told you he’s not here.”

“Where is he then?”

She looks him up and down from her position in the doorway and he obviously fails to impress. 

“The boy’s too impulsive, needs to learn to think about consequences, so my Lady Yaruga sent him away.”

“Where?” he asks desperately, but the woman is unmoved. 

“We’re not allowed to say.  She doesn’t want you influencing her son anymore than you already have.  Not after you broke the poor boy’s heart.”

“I need to apologise,” he snarls through gritted teeth, but Madam Irina has seen the worst of men already and is not frightened of him.

“Then you’ll have to find some other way.  Get along with you now, before my Lady decides to remove you from her doorstep herself.  You will not like the consequences if she does.”

Defeated, Geralt moves away but turns as Madam Irina calls out to him once more.

“Oh, Master Witcher.  If you ever return to my establishment then I shall allow the girls to chase you out themselves.  They’re all very fond of the poor lamb, he always sang them such lovely songs.”

The door shuts and Geralt heads off to meet Mousesack, fuming.

The druid is not happy to see Geralt either, guessing that the witcher is here to collect his Child Surprise.

“The opposite,” Geralt assures.  “I want you to tell me that she’s safe and healthy so I can keep on riding.”

“She,” Mousesack sounds surprised.  “You know she’s a girl.”

“Yes,” Geralt admits.  “Jaskier told me her name is Ciri.”

“Cirilla,” the druid corrects, eyebrows coming together.  He glances around Geralt, searching for someone. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.  We had a… fight.  You haven’t heard from him?”

“I haven’t seen him since the day after Ciri’s twelfth birthday, on his annual visit to see her.  He mentioned that he was heading north to join you. But why are you here now? Why do you think she’s not safe?”

Mousesack shrugs off his warnings about Nilfgaard’s armies but Geralt has no time to convince him.  Not when he can hear assassins creeping around in the dark. It seems the druid was followed.

He only feels slightly bad about using the druid as a hostage and forcing him to take them to the queen.  Calanthe is as tall and proud as ever, and still willing to fight tooth and claw against Destiny to keep what is hers.

Geralt thinks she gives in too easily and this is confirmed when he realises she is trying to trick him.  Sending some other poor girl off with him while keeping her own granddaughter locked within the city walls.

He tries to convince Eist to be reasonable, to help him.  He does not expect the man to trap him and throw him in the dungeon. 

As dungeons go, this is not the worst he’s been in, but that’s not saying much.  It’s not too cold at least, and mercifully dry, though he can hear rats scurrying about in the darkness as he attempts to meditate.  The door of his cell creaks open and then shuts, the bolt sliding back in place. He hasn’t heard anyone coming and he looks up from his kneeling position in surprise.

An elven woman stands before him, at least that’s his initial thought, but it lasts less than half a second.  The power and command she gives off is all consuming and Geralt finds himself frozen where he kneels, unable to move as she dissects him with her gaze.

She’s tall and slender, hardly any curves to speak of, with golden hair that falls cleanly in waves down her back and blue eyes that ensnare him with a glance.  Eyes the blue of a river on a clear sunny day. Jaskier’s eyes. 

Geralt knows who she is.  The magnificent goddess of the Yaruga, or as Jaskier refers to her, Mama.

“You’re looking for my son,” she says, and her voice is a sweet melody that washes over his mind.  He can’t move his legs, but he leans automatically towards her, wanting to be closer, wanting to please her.  She pets his hair for a few seconds, and he sighs into it, enjoying the affection, but then yelps as she grips it tightly and forces his head back so he can look into her furious eyes.

“I won’t let you hurt him again,” she hisses, and he trembles at the promise and power behind it.  “I won’t let him be your plaything anymore.”

Whimpers make their way out of his mouth against his will.  He’s unable to speak to defend himself and he knows he’s displeased her.  His mutations mean he can’t cry, but he desperately wishes he could, so she could see his remorse for upsetting her.

“You dared to come to my house after what you did.  Did you think your offerings would be enough to save you from me?  From my wrath?”

She lets go of his head and moves away from him, gesturing towards her dress.  Geralt feels like he’s just come up to the surface after being held underneath the waves for almost too long.  He’s gasping and panting, trying to make his fuzzy head understand what she’s talking about. His overwhelming desire to please her, to worship her, has abated somewhat and Geralt now understands that Jaskier’s power (that had frightened Geralt so much when he thought it might have been directed at him) is just a drop in the ocean compared to his mother’s.

He tries to make out her dress, wondering why she’s drawing his attention to it.  It’s a well-tailored garment. Scooped, wide neckline, elbow length sleeves and a billowing, long multi-panelled skirt.  The bodice is plain white, but the skirt is covered in intricate embroidery. 

Geralt can make out castles and villages, mountains and grassy plains.  Yellow and amber knots dot about amongst the green thread to create a meadow of flowers, and through it all runs a blue line, the same colour as Jaskier’s eyes.  It’s her river, Geralt realises. Her skirts show the story of her river and her children’s, lovingly stitched in a multitude of colours. Colours that Geralt recognises.

He hadn’t meant to do it, but during the two years Jaskier had been gone he’d found himself stopping at a haberdashery stall in every market town.  Each time he’d survey the selection of thread, carefully picking out a couple of skeins of the prettiest colours on display and adding them to the growing pile in his saddlebags.  Eventually the pile had grown too large and he’d paid a runner to deliver them to the house on the docks in Cintra, and then he’d started collecting all over again. He’d kept it up once Jaskier had returned as well, though he doesn’t think the god had noticed.

“They weren’t offerings,” he croaks, unable to tear his eyes from the green meadow full of yellow and amber flowers on her skirts.  That meadow has to be Jaskier. “I just wanted to fulfil his first wish.”

“What?”  Her skirts flutter as she moves in confusion, obscuring the meadow from his view.  He looks up into her eyes, unafraid this time.

“The djinn.  His first wish was for you to get a selection of embroidery threads, in pretty colours, to make up for the ones ruined when Trava threw up in your basket.  I’ve never made you an offering. I just wanted to grant his first wish.”

She stares down at him, expression inscrutable, before turning on her heel and leaving.  Geralt collapses sideways, knees unable to hold him in his crouch any longer. He waits to see if she will return, but she leaves him alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

It is Trava who appears to him next.  As the sounds of the slaughter of Cintra work their way below ground to Geralt’s ears.  Calanthe has failed, and her people are paying the price for it as they are ripped apart by Nilfgaardian soldiers.

The god bangs open Geralt’s cell door, metal clanging loudly against the wall.

“Well,” he demands, his usually cheerful face serious for once.  He looks nothing like the friendly, gregarious River god who has shared plenty of drinks with Geralt while simultaneously teasing his little brother.  “Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to move?”

“What are you doing here?” Geralt climbs to his feet, supporting himself on stiff legs.  “Your mother…”

“Gave me permission to rescue you.  What in the Yaruga’s name did you two talk about?  This morning she was ready to gouge your eyes out, chop off all your limbs and feed your still living stump to the seagulls.”

“I got that impression too,” Geralt agrees.  He moves towards the cell door but Trava still blocks his path.  He catches Geralt’s wrist.

“Geralt,” he says seriously.

“What is it?”

A sharp pain blooms in his gut as Trava drives his fist into it, knocking the air from his lungs, making him choke.

“Right, well now we’ve settled that, we can get out of here.  Couldn’t find where they put your sword, so I’ve brought a spare.  It’s been with me for at least a century, so you’d better take good care of it.”

Geralt just grunts from where he’s bent over, clutching his abdomen.  No need to ask what that was for; Geralt has a pretty good idea.

They force their way out of the keep and into the city.  It burns all around them, screams of the citizens choking off as they are slaughtered in the streets.  Soldiers in black armour hack at everything in their path, falling on anything that moves like vultures on a corpse.

Several make towards Geralt and Trava but the two fight back, blocking, parrying and slashing away.  They make short work of the troop and Geralt can’t help but admire Trava’s efficient, brutal movements with his sword, slashing deftly as he slices into their enemies. 

Jaskier has no great skill with a sword.  He will use one if he has no choice, but words will always be his preferred weapon.  His brother has much more talent with a blade.

Trava leads him through the burning streets, and they dispose of several more Nilfgaardians on the way.  Any living victims they find, the god instructs to go to the docks. 

“Mama has made her home and Aunty Irina’s into a veritable fortress.  I almost pity the Nilfgaardian sod who tries to enter.”

Geralt has no such sympathy.  They are forced to rest behind an upturned wagon to avoid the surge of several dozen soldiers rushing towards the palace.  When Geralt peers round to check their path, it’s Calanthe’s dead face he sees staring back at him.

It stuns him, drives all thought from his brain, to witness the proud Lioness of Cintra on the ground, so broken.  He had never liked her, had found her very much like every other over-privileged monarch with too much power and not enough honest, plain-speaking advisors.  But he had always respected her and the strength she wielded.

His Child Surprise, Cirilla, has just lost her great protector and he has to get into the palace.  He has to save the girl. For Jaskier’s sake. For his own.

“Come on,” Trava urges grimly.  “We can do nothing for her now. We need to get to the princess.”

The castle halls are filled with slain guards and the rooms contain the poisoned bodies of Cintra's nobility.  The princess is nowhere to be found. Geralt grabs a passing soldier and pins him to the wall, demanding answers. When he tells Geralt no one is left, the witcher feels no guilt in killing him.

“Fuck!” Trava almost screams, tossing a table across a room.  “I swore I’d try and get to her. I told Jaskier I’d try and get her out.”

They’ve both failed him it seems. 

The room around them speaks of a young girl, just on the brink of adulthood.  Fancy court dresses scattered about with childish toys. The knuckle bones Geralt saw the little princess playing with earlier are scattered over the floor and on her bed rests a familiar soft toy horse.  It’s the same colour as Roach with a white mark on its forehead, a gift from Jaskier. Geralt remembers how pleased the bard had been with himself when he’d bought it and how Geralt had teased him mercilessly for it.

He picks it up.  The fabric has thinned and gone soft with age, and the poor horse’s hooves look like they’ve been chewed mercilessly in the past.  There’s a spot on its rump that has been lovingly patched, the cloth just slightly the wrong shade compared to the rest of the creature. 

It seems wrong to leave it here; to let it burn with the rest of Cintra, so he tucks it under his arm then turns back to Trava.

“Get out of here,” the god tells him.  “There’s nothing here for you now. Run, before more of those bastards turn up.  No point in losing you too. My brother would never forgive me.”

“What about you?” 

“I’ll go back to Mama’s to help out.  She could use as many of her children with her as she can get.  She’s incensed. It’s been a long time since someone last tried to invade her home.”

“Will Jaskier be there?”  Maybe there’s still a chance to see him. 

“No, Mama banished him from Cintra after the whole debacle with Sir Braa.  He can’t set foot here, thank the Yaruga.”

“Where is he then?”  He couldn’t save the princess, but he could still try and make amends with Jaskier and beg his forgiveness for failing the girl.

“I’m not allowed to tell you Geralt.  You’ll have to find him on your own. Good luck.”

They leave the palace together, then separate.  Trava heads towards the docks and Geralt makes his way out of the city to where he left Roach, three hours walk away and hidden in the woods.  He doesn’t let himself stop moving until dawn, and when he finally lies down against a fallen tree to rest for a while, the screaming of the innocent civilians of Cintra haunt his sleep.

A few weeks later, he comes across a butchered refugee camp, and a complete fool who’s decided to make himself a prime target for necrophages.  He should let the ghouls eat the idiot, but the bard’s voice keeps whispering in his mind. Jaskier has always thought him better than he is, and he doesn’t want to disappoint anymore.

Which is why he’s going to blame the bard for the ghoul bite on his thigh and the way the world is swimming in front of him, going blurry at the edges until it fades away.  It’s not a bad way for a witcher to go.

* * *

Ciri is not sure what to make of the latest dryad to enter the clearing, but she’s not sure what to make of anything anymore.  She’s lost in the woods, unable to see the path for the trees (and the potentially murderous dryads who surround her).

Her only friend in the world is an elf who can’t help but judge her for a war her grandmother waged that Ciri has never even been taught.  Her tutors had always glossed over it, calling it a great victory for her grandmother and then moving on. No one had ever told her about the slaughter and rape of innocent elven women and children.  She’s never heard about how their farms were burned and how they were forced to hide and flee or be cut down where they stood.

She can understand why Dara wants to forget.  Whenever she closes her own eyes, she can see her home burning and see the figure of that terrifying man, the soldier in the black armour and winged helmet. 

It freezes her insides even as it makes her want to retch and sob.  Which is why she understands her friend’s decision. He wants to forget, and wouldn’t that be the easiest path?  She could wipe Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon from the face of this earth. Forget she was ever a princess whose kingdom burned and start anew.  A simpler, happier life.

So, she drinks the waters of Brokilon, but they don't work.  Dara has a far away expression on his face, as though all his troubles are floating away, his pain disappearing, but Ciri can still acutely feel the ache in her heart.

The dryad queen, Eithné has her drink from the source, but it is not forgetting she experiences.  Her mind is transported to an endless desert and turning she sees the tree, a beautiful and terrible thing that speaks to her.

The dryads aren’t sure what to do with her now, and she can tell they’re arguing about her in their own language. 

She’s scared. She wants to go home, but there is no home.  It’s gone, and all she has is a name Grandmother had given her at the last;  Geralt of Rivia, her Destiny.

Is this the Geralt who is Jaskier’s friend?  If she finds Geralt will she find her Jaskier?  She wants to see him so badly. Her strange, magical friend who’d always come to see her the day after her birthday.  When she was seven, he’d spent almost an entire year with her, sneaking her out of lessons and into the city. They’d buy meat pies and sit by the river to eat them, trying to lick away the hot gravy before it burnt their fingers.  He’d always had a song for her or a story, and he used to listen to her childish tales so intently, as though he was already editing them into the greatest masterpiece the world had ever known.

She knows so little about Geralt.  Jaskier only ever described him, briefly, as a friend.  Always getting into scrapes that Jaskier would have to pull him out of.  She’d never questioned him more about the man, jealous that Geralt always seemed to steal Jaskier away from her.  She wishes she’d asked more now.

The dryads’ voices are getting louder, and Ciri is convinced that they’ve decided to kill her, but that’s when the new dryad appears.  But there’s something strange about her, something different. She appears in every way just like the other dryads, apart from her eyes.  They are so familiar. The same blue as Jaskier’s.

“I have come for the girl.”

“Vda,” Eithné stands to face the newcomer, and she looks wary.  “She has drunk your waters, she cannot leave.”

“She can,” Vda retorts.  “My waters had no effect.  She is not bound to stay here.”

“That is not the agreement we made,” the dryad queen speaks furiously, nostrils flaring.  “Your waters are for us, to protect us, to make more of us. She has drunk; she should be changing into a dryad.”

“She cannot.  Another of my siblings already has a claim on her.  I cannot usurp his right. My magic cannot change her.”

Change her?  She doesn’t want to be changed, she just wants to forget.  Except she doesn’t really. To forget would be to lose all the good memories as well as the bad.  Grandmother’s ridiculous insults, Grandfather’s mock sword fights, Mousesack’s long-suffering sighs and Jaskier’s warm smiles.

“Jaskier,” she cries out, startling all around her.  “You can take me to Jaskier?”

Vda nods.

“No,” Eithné protests.  “She is safe here.”

“She is not.  There’s a man coming.  He looks like her druid, but he is not.  He has been sent to carry her off to Nilfgaard.  Do not let him leave the forest. Silver arrows should do the trick.”

Vda and Eithné stare at each other, both standing tall and proud.  It is the dryad queen who eventually turns away, gesturing Ciri towards Vda.

“I shall not fight against Destiny,” she says bitterly.  “Only a fool would do so. Stay safe Ciri.”

“Dara,” she turns towards her friend but Vda places a firm hand on her shoulder and steers her away, further into the forest. 

“He has drunk my waters, and they have taken effect.  He must stay. Soon he will forget.”

“Why?” Ciri cries, not wanting to leave him.

“It is the pact Eithné and I made long ago.  They guard the forest through which my river runs, prevent humans from polluting it, and in return all girls who drink from my waters within the forest forget who they are and become new dryads.  We were dying out. It seemed the only way.”

“But Dara’s not a girl,” Ciri protests.

“Which is why he will simply forget.  When he is older, he will help make new dryads.  The more natural way. That’s the price he’s paid for peace.”

They reach a river with a small wooden canoe tethered to the tree.  It looks barely big enough for both of them, but Vda gestures for her to get in.

“You’re not really a dryad, are you?”  She needs to know. She can’t just blindly trust anyone anymore.  She has to be sure that Vda really will take her to Jaskier.

“I was once, but I gave myself willingly to the River. To help us with the ongoing war with humanity, but in doing so I gained a new family, new loyalties.”

“Jaskier?”

“Yes, my younger brother.  He worries for you princess.  It would be cruel to make him wait much longer.”

Ciri climbs in the canoe but Vda does not join her.  She untethers the canoe from its tree and wades into the water before propelling herself, the canoe, and Ciri downstream.

* * *

Geralt drifts in and out of consciousness.  At least he thinks it’s consciousness. Some moments he’s on a cart, his leg ablaze with pain.  The driver is saying something but Geralt can’t make out what. Other moments he’s back in his childhood home and his Ma is there, but that has to be a dream.

Explosions echo in the distance, and the driver of the cart tells him there is a battle going on, but his head is so fuzzy, and his potions aren’t helping him.

He thinks his mother comes to see him, to heal him.  Is that real?

The cart stops abruptly, jerking him awake.

“I’m here for the witcher,” a female voice demands.

“What do you want with him,” the driver asks warily.

Geralt forces himself to twist round, heaves himself up slightly so he can peer over the front of the cart.  A dark-haired woman in fine clothes and driving a carriage swims into his vision. He recognises her.

“My Lord is a friend of the witcher.  I have instructions to take him back to my Lord’s house in Kagen.  My Lord’s sister is waiting there to heal any ailments he might suffer.”

It’s one of Trava’s triplets.  Geralt’s seen them on a few occasions. Whenever the Path had happened to take him and Jaskier into the vicinity of Kagen, a dinner invitation had always been extended.  Geralt still can’t tell which triplet is which.

“It’s alright,” he grunts, when the driver looks ready to protest.  “She’s a friend.”

He is helped awkwardly from the cart and placed gently into a pile of soft furs in the back of the carriage.

“You saved my life Witcher,” the driver still insists.  “There must be something I can do to repay you. Anything…”  But Geralt cuts him off.

“Nothing, apart from get back quickly to your wife and sons.  Don’t stop until you are safe home. No detours to dig mass graves.”

The carriage begins to move.  A much smoother ride than the cart, and he soon passes out again. 

* * *

“So, this is the little princess our brother has us going to so much trouble for?”

Ciri tries to back away from the lady on the river barge, but Vda stands directly behind her, preventing her escape.

The journey down the Vda had been quick, too quick.  Ciri had been forced to hold onto the canoe with a white knuckled grip as the wind lashed at her face, turning it numb.  At the mouth of the Vda,where it flowed into the Yaruga, an elegant river barge had been waiting. The canoe had settled beside it and a rope ladder had been thrown down for Ciri and Vda to climb.

Ten burly oarsmen were situated on each side of the deck, while a small group of ladies were occupying silk cushions in the middle, protected from the weather by a purple canopy.  A plump, attractive dark haired woman was obviously the leader of the group and she had stood, brushing down her silk skirts to make her way over to Ciri. She had the same eyes as Jaskier and Vda.

“This is Ciri,” Vda introduces.

“Well, we’d best be on our way.  Will you be joining us Vda?”

The dryad shakes her head.  She gives Ciri a nod of goodbye and then throws herself over the edge of the barge and back into the river.  Ciri is left alone with this strange new woman.

“Well,” the woman snaps at the oarsmen.  “Stop lolly-gagging and get a move on!” The men all jump to obey, taking up their oars and rowing, smoothly and powerfully, carrying the boat upstream.

“You come and join us dear,” the woman grabs Ciri’s arm and drags her over to the other ladies.  “Girls, this is Ciri. She will be joining us on our little expedition. You are to treat her with the utmost courtesy and when she leaves you will forget all about her.”

The ladies all nod, slightly vacant smiles plastered on their faces.  They make room for Ciri amongst them and then return to their gossiping and embroidery.  A hoop is shoved into Ciri’s hand and a needle soon joins it. She hates embroidery.

“Now my dear, I am Lady Esther Ribbon, but you may call me Lady Esther.  Are you hungry? When did you last eat? You look far too thin. Albert!” she hollers, not giving Ciri a chance to answer.

A tanned youth comes running out of the cabin situated at the stern of the boat.

“Yes, my Lady,” he greets her eagerly. 

“We need snacks Albert, be a good boy and go and fetch us some.  Bring a basin of clean water while you’re at it. Our young friend is in desperate need of a proper bath, but seeing as we currently lack the means, she can at the very least wash her face.”

Albert runs off and Lady Esther turns back to Ciri, glancing at her unmoving hands. 

“The theme today is sunsets.  We’re all embroidering them, and the best wins a prize.  Isn’t that exciting? Do you not wish to start with yellow?  We have a whole basket of colours if you prefer something else.”

“I…” Ciri is overwhelmed, but before she can properly speak, Albert reappears with a basin of water and a clean rag.  Lady Esther grabs the rag, dunks it in the water and starts scrubbing at Ciri’s face before she can protest.

“Such lovely skin you have,” Lady Esther coos.  “Your cloak is perfect for your skin tone. I used to have one similar when I was a girl, but that was long ago.  If only we could give your hair a wash, but if we do it here you might catch a chill and we can’t have that.”

“Please,” Ciri interrupts, because she doesn’t think she’s going to get a word in otherwise.  “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

Lady Esther raises an elegant eyebrow.  “Why to my brother of course. Jaskier. Didn’t Vda explain?”

“Not really.”

“Typical, she just leaves explanations to me as always.  Well, where to begin sweetling, that’s the tricky part, hmm…”

“Jaskier,” Ciri cries, and she’s alarmed to find tears welling in her eyes.  “Where’s Jaskier? Why isn’t he here?”

“Now, now, none of that.  We just cleaned your pretty face.”  Ciri finds herself cradled to Lady Esther’s rather magnificent chest.  Her cleavage smells of the roses that grew up the palace garden’s walls.  “Jaskier would be here if he could, but he’s not currently allowed to leave his own river.”

“River?” Ciri quavers, trying not to let her nose run directly onto the lady’s chest.

“My goodness, he has been a bit lax in explaining himself, hasn’t he.  Did he ever tell you his full name?”

“Jaskier Pankratz.”

“Exactly!  Pankratz, as in the Pankratz river.  Vda, as in the Vda, the river that runs through Brokilon.  I have another brother you know; the big brute is called Eoin Trava, but only answers to Trava.  I have two other sisters as well, Adalette and Ina. And my castle lies right next to the Ribbon, in Brugge.”

“You’re all rivers?” Ciri exclaims.

“Aren’t you a smart one.  That was quick.”

Perhaps, but she’d always known Jaskier was magical.  He used to make the water dance for her entertainment, and he’d enchant the palace’s occupants so that no one ever thought to look for her when she was with him.

He’d once appeared to her as an old man and over the course of a year she’d watched him get younger again, brown replacing the white scattered through his hair.

Why shouldn’t he be the personification of a river?

“How?” she wonders aloud.

“Oh, it’s quite a dreadful story you know,” Lady Esther says with relish.  She pushes Ciri away from her and helps herself to a honey cake from the platter Albert has just laid next to her.

“I was young and beautiful, and my father wed me to a man sixteen years my senior.  Fifteen years old and my father sold me like cattle to the first rich lord that came offering.”

She licks the honey off her fingers with delight before grabbing two more cakes, shoving one towards Ciri.

“The lord kept me shut in his castle and left me there for months at a time with only the servants for company.  There were no feasts, no dances, no entertainments. And when he did come home, he would lock himself in his wing of the castle and pay me hardly any attention.  It was awful !

“My father and mother kept sending me letters, asking me why after two years of marriage there was no babe to show for it, so I made up my mind to confront my husband.  I crept into his rooms late one night to challenge him, and do you know what I saw?”

She didn’t wait for Ciri to respond, continuing with glee.

“My husband and his steward, stark naked and rutting together like bitches in heat.  Naturally I screamed.”

“Naturally,” Ciri echoes faintly.

“It’s not the fact that he was sleeping with another man, but that he wasn’t also doing his duty by me.  I had been completely shunned, despite being his lawful wife. He could screw the steward every which way, for all I cared, but I wanted the respect due to me as his wife.

“I told him as much and he got so angry, cursing and yelling.  Then guess what he did next?”

“Wh-”

“The inbred cur grabbed me and threw me out the window.  I fell three storeys and my head was smashed against the rocks on the bottom of the river below.  How is that for husbandly affection?”

“That’s horrific,” Ciri agrees, nibbling tentatively on her cake.

“But I got my revenge.  I came back. The river revived me, and I became a goddess .  I persuaded all the villages surrounding the castle to rise in revolt and they stormed the castle, carried out my worthless ex-husband and hanged him over my very own river.  It was a truly magical night.”

Lady Esther has a dreamy look in her blue eyes and Ciri quickly pretends to be engrossed in her needlework, wary of upsetting this clearly unhinged goddess.

* * *

The next time Geralt awakes, it’s in the comfiest bed he’s ever slept in.  His fever has broken, and his leg feels slightly tender but no longer cripples him.

“Whoever cleaned that out before I got to it,” says a stern voice to his left, “Did a very good job, but I was able to speed up the healing process a bit more.  Not , that I think you deserve it.”  He twists his head to see a tall dark-skinned woman fussing around with dried bundles of herbs by the bed.

She glances across at him and he knows that this must be one of Jaskier’s sisters. 

“Which one are you?” he rasps, throat parched.

She snorts at him.  “I think you mean ‘Thank you for healing me, could I have the name of my gracious healer?’  I am Ina. Did they not teach you manners up in that wolf school of yours?”

“Jaskier,” he grunts, ignoring her insult.  “I need to speak to him.”

“Hmm…  And what exactly would you say?  Do you expect me to help you find him, just for you to hurt him some more?  What was it you accused him of again? Manipulating your feelings was it?”

“Please,” he begs.  She rolls her eyes and grabs a cup of water from the bedside table, supporting him as she lifts it to his mouth so he can drink.

“You are as big a fool as he is.”  She pushes him back down, drawing up the covers and tucking him in.  “Why in Mama’s name did you accuse him of such a thing?”

“Wherever any of you go, people fall over themselves to please you.  How could I be sure?” He’s still not. He just knows life without Jaskier is much drearier than life with him.  Jaskier brings out the colours in his life, forcing Geralt to pause and take in their beauty. 

Ina eyes him as if he’s a particularly dense toddler.  She settles down in a chair beside his bed and regards him with exasperation.  “I am going to ask you a question, Witcher. You are going to answer it in two or three words or less, and then you are going to thank me and go back to sleep.  Am I understood?”

Her tone brooks no arguments and Geralt nods.

“I want you to think about my baby brother.  Properly think. What is it about him that you love?”

What?  Geralt doesn’t understand, and it must show on his face because Ina lowers her head to pinch the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.  “I take it back. You are by far the bigger idiot of the two of you. It’s not a hard question, Witcher. What is it about him that you love? Is it his stunning blue eyes?  His sparkling wit? His beautiful singing? If you could sum up why you love him in three words or less, what would they be?”

But it is a hard question.  There’s so much about Jaskier that he loves, and it’s not just his eyes, or his wit or his singing.  How is he supposed to condense it into three words? Ina fishes his hand out of the blankets when he takes too long to reply and sharply raps his knuckles.

“His forearms,” he blurts out without meaning to.

“His forearms?” the stern goddess actually giggles.  Little high-pitched squeaks that turn into chuckles which eventually transform into straight up laughter.  “You think,” she gasps. “You think my brother bewitched you using his forearms?”

It’s ridiculous Geralt knows, but he’ll stand by his words.  Everyone’s allowed to gaze upon Jaskier’s pretty face and his blue eyes.  Even if they’d rather not, they can hear him sing. He wears his doublets frequently unlaced and allows his shirt to gape open regularly.  The world and her grandmother can see a flash of the dark hair on Jaskier’s chest if they so please. The little bit of fuzz on his arms is different.  It’s only after a long day, when they’re in the privacy of their room in an inn, that Jaskier will take off his doublet and roll up his shirt sleeves, baring his forearms solely to Geralt’s gaze.

He’ll fuss about the room, turning down covers, stoking the fire and preparing Geralt’s bath.  He’ll flap his arms at the witcher until he gets in the tub and then roll his sleeves up even further so he can properly wash Geralt’s hair and work the tension out of his neck and shoulders.  Often, he’ll remain crouched by the tub, resting his arms on its sides, simply to chat to Geralt. It’s comfortable, it’s intimate, and Geralt doesn’t have to share this part of Jaskier with the rest of the world.  These moments are solely for him. That’s what Jaskier’s forearms represent.

He’s not drawn to Jaskier just because of his quick tongue, or his general good looks, or even for his outgoing demeanour.  He’s drawn to Jaskier because Jaskier cares for him, sees to his comfort and does not demand anything in return apart from Geralt’s presence.  But Geralt wants to give him more than that now. He wants to be the safe place Jaskier can always rely upon always.

He’s drawn to Jaskier because he loves him.  It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

“Thank you,” he tells the still laughing Ina.

“Go to sleep Geralt,” she chuckles, rising from her seat and quietly closing the door as she leaves.

Chapter Text

“I’m glad you’re well, White Wolf,” Mousesack greets him when Geralt wakes next and stumbles his way out of the bedroom towards the smell of food.  The druid is sitting alone in the dining room, a large tureen of stew resting on the table in front of him.

“Mousesack,” Geralt is surprised to see the druid.  “You look like shit.” And he does. The druid has obviously just come from a bath, his hair damp and curling around his neck, but there are large bags under his eyes, and he moves his arms stiffly when he tries to ladle them helpings of stew.

“You’re not exactly looking your best yourself.  I wouldn’t throw stones here, if I were you.”

“What are you doing here?  Cintra… I thought you were dead!”

“ I thought I was dead,” Mousesack shakes his head ruefully.  “I would be if it were not for Jaskier sending his brother to rescue me.”

“You know Jaskier well then?”  There had been no time when they last met for Geralt to question his two friends’ acquaintance, but he was curious.  Jaskier had never mentioned the Mousesack to him, but the druid spoke of him warmly.

“Of course. Who else would have introduced him to the princess?  I used to help him slip into the palace after her birthday every year.  I remember when she was three and he brought her a giant cake. They scoffed the entire thing and then she threw up on his best doublet.  His face was a picture! A strange combination of alarmed and completely scandalised.”

Mousesack is laughing at the memory but Geralt can’t help but feel a pang of regret.  He might have had these memories too, with Jaskier, if he hadn’t convinced himself to stay away.  If he had insisted on asserting his rights, as the witcher who had claimed the Law of Surprise, he might have seen her grow.  Watched from the side lines as Jaskier spoiled her. They could have been the strange uncles he’s heard every family ought to have.

How might things have changed if he’d allowed himself to be involved?  Would Calanthe have relented and allowed him to take Cirilla away from danger if  he’d already been part of the young princess’ life?

“I’m sorry,” he tells Mousesack gravely.  “I went back into the palace after I broke out of the keep, but I was too late.  There was no one left alive.”

To his surprise, Mousesack just gives him a small, wan smile.  “It’s alright, she escaped. Lord Trava assured me she’s safe.”

Geralt collapses into a seat, a surprising amount of relief flooding through him.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes.  “What did Trava say.”

“That there’d better be some of that stew left for me,” the god in question strides in, folding himself tiredly into the seat opposite Geralt.  His auburn hair has come loose from its usual neat ponytail and stubble darkens his jaw. He has obviously just come from his river, as he lounges completely naked and dripping wet in front of them.

The moment Mousesack hands him a bowl of stew he starts eating furiously, talking through large mouthfuls.

“How is it we spent hundreds of years ignoring you humans and your petty little politics and wars, but now we’re bending over backwards to help?  All because my little brother can’t keep his nose out of trouble. He had to go and get attached to the biggest troublemakers in the Continent. 

“You two,” he gestures at the druid and the witcher, “aren’t even his acolytes.  Why the fuck am I being guilted into saving your arses?”

“I had the impression you rather enjoyed enacting my daring rescue,” Mousack told him mildly, passing the god a bread roll to go with his stew.  “It was very heroic. If I hadn’t been about to pass out from fear and hunger, I assure you I would have swooned.”

“What happened?” Geralt asks, finally digging into his own meal.  Trava just laughs from his chair, slapping his own thigh in merriment.  Geralt wishes he’d close his legs. It says something about his pitiful love life that he’s seen more of Trava’s body than his brother’s.  For all that Jaskier and Geralt are willing to take baths or change in the same room, the bard has never been one to just lounge around naked and on display. 

“Fringilla, the Nilfgaardian sorceress, wished to use me to track down the princess.  She ordered a doppler to impersonate me. They let it loose after me and I was sure it was going to kill me once it had my form, but it was knocked from me with a blast of water.

“Next thing I know, this fine River god comes hurtling out of nowhere and tosses me over his shoulder, spiriting us away.”

“You should have seen the witch’s face when she fell in the well!” Trava laughs.  “I haven’t taken part in a raid in ages! It brought back memories.”

“But there’s a doppler out there with your face and memories,” Geralt cannot join in with the laughter.  “He’s going to go after Cirilla!”

“Calm down Geralt,” Trava ladles more food into his bowl.  “We’ve secured the girl, she’s completely safe.

“Vda got wind of her in Brokilon forest.  She contacted the rest of us, and Etta has her now.  The girl may get her ear talked off, but Etta will never let anything happen to her on her watch.”

It calms Geralt slightly.  He’s met Lady Esther a couple of times.  She’s loud, vain and brash, but she has a feisty spirit and is ruthless with a spine of steel.  Her incessant chattering could drive the soberest of men to drink, but her heart is ultimately in the right place. 

“So, what now?” he asks.  “Where do we go from here?”

Trava shrugs.  “That’s up to your kings and queens.  We’ve done more than enough. It’s not for us to meddle in human politics; it gets messy, though I’ve no doubt Jaskier will ignore our warnings.  He’s young. He’ll learn this with time, just as we all did.

“In the meantime, you,” he gestures at the druid, “have a frantic woman to appease.  I set Irina and her girls up in one of my spare houses. Mama knows what the neighbours think.

“And you.”  This time he points accusingly at Geralt.  “Well, I still can’t tell you where Jaskier is, but there’s nothing to stop me from letting you know that Etta is currently escorting the princess to Lettenhove.”

Lettenhove, the large city situated at the mouth of the Pankratz, where it meets the Yaruga.  Of course! It’s so simple, but it would never have occurred to Geralt on his own, not with Jaskier’s well voiced distaste for his own river.

“Thank you,” he tells Trava sincerely.  “I’ll pack my things and leave at once.”

“You’ll fetch some wine and leave tomorrow,” Trava corrects.  “We’ve bought ourselves a bit of time, Witcher. Might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re still able to.  You’ll lose nothing by setting off in the morning. It’s not like my brother is going anywhere.”

* * *

A fortnight of enduring Lady Esther’s constant twittering, and Ciri is just about ready to throw herself off the barge.  Or at the very least, toss her embroidery hoop over the edge. She has not been winning any prizes in the daily craft games Lady Esther dreams up, and at the end of each day the river goddess despairs loudly and disparages Ciri’s efforts.

“You have such dainty hands,” she laments.  “How can you create such an eyesore?”

And there is no escape.  Ciri is not allowed off the barge.  At night, when they anchor, the rest of the party is rowed to shore and sets up camp along the riverbanks.  Ciri and Lady Esther remain alone on the barge, sleeping in the tiny cabin at the stern of the boat.

“While you are on the water, I can ensure no one notices you,” Lady Esther explains, braiding Ciri’s hair back from her face before they go to bed.  “Nilfgaardians won’t even realise my boat is here, but things get riskier the moment you step ashore. You’ll just have to camp down with me for now.”

Lady Esther, it turns out, talks in her sleep.

Fourteen days of enduring Lady Esther and her ladies’ endless chatter, cooped up in a small space and unable even to properly stretch her legs, and Ciri is convinced she’s going insane. 

It’s not as if the conversation is ever about anything of interest.  Lady Esther makes a point of keeping the topics of conversation away from the ongoing war, and instead fashion and courtly gossip are the order of the day, every day.

She scolds Ciri when it’s clear the girl is not paying attention, trying to impress upon her the importance of these matters.  “You’re a princess, dear, you should realise by now that a well put together outfit can make or break diplomatic negotiations. And you should always know who is sleeping in whose bed, that’s how you can tell where their loyalties really lie.”

But is she still a princess?  Princess of what?

On day fifteen, Ciri gives up even pretending to pay attention.  She lies curled up on silk pillows, surrounded by nattering women and lets her mind focus on the solid, rhythmic crash of oars passing in time through water. 

Lady Esther jabs her with a needle a few times but gives up when she fails to get a reaction.  Ciri just dozes, allowing the sun to warm her back as she reflects on happier times. She doesn’t realise when the boat starts to turn, leaving the Yaruga to turn up the Pankratz, but she does sit up at the sharp kick a glaring Lady Esther bestows upon her.

“We’re almost here, pet.  Have a look. Lettenhove is not as grand as my own home, but it is a truly delightful city.  A place for the arts! Why, only Oxenfurt can brag of more theatres, but Lettenhove is where they hold the Boardings each year.  It’s such a spectacle, you’ll never see anything…”

Ciri tunes out the chatter, staring in wonder at this new city that seems to have appeared from nowhere.  She can hear rivermen yelling at each other from the shore and can make out miles of yellowstone buildings with red tiled roofs.  As they make their way up the Panktraz, the working part of the city fades into the residential area. Tall, elegant houses perched on a hill rising up from the river, with long narrow gardens leading down to the water’s edge.

In the distance Ciri can make out a dock leading from one of the gardens and there is a figure pacing up and down the length of it. 

She knows that walk.  She recognises that hair.  No one else would wear a doublet that shade of purple.

She runs to the side of the boat and unthinkingly throws herself over the edge.  She’s not a strong swimmer. Ever since her parents’ death at sea, large deep bodies of water have always scared her, but elation sweeps away any fear in this moment. 

She sinks like a stone beneath the surface, her clothes weighing her down even as she kicks upwards.  She hears the splash of someone else entering the water and soon strong familiar arms circle round her waist as she is hoisted up, breaking through the water into the sunlight, held securely in her River god’s embrace.

He keeps them both afloat without difficulty, strong legs treading water as he clasps her tightly to him, muttering desperate phrases into her wet hair.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he exclaims, his breath warming the top of her head.  “You’re safe, I’ve got you.”

And she is.  Finally, she is safe.  Here with her River god who will protect her from the world.  She lets out a sob, burrowing her head into his neck, finally able to let it all go.  To grieve what she has lost.

“Jaskier,” she chokes.

“I’m here Ciri, I promise you I’m here.  I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

Jaskier had thought his heart had stopped the moment he saw Ciri throw herself into his river.  He knew she was not the best of swimmers and the waters at this time of year were so cold. Two heartbeats had passed and when she didn’t surface, he had thrown himself in after her without a second thought.

A strange jolt had gone through him the moment he’d been submerged by the water.  He could feel her.  In his soul.  He could feel the all-consuming anguish that she’d been suffering from since the destruction of her home.  Her worry, her doubts and her fears. But he could also sense something else. It was a tiny thing, but it shone ever so brightly, pushing back the dark emotions that could consume a person in their entirety.  Hope. It was hope and it was connected to him!

He had propelled himself through the water, faster than any human swimmer could dream of, and scooped up her small form, bringing them back to the surface. 

He feels her curl into him, trusting him to keep them afloat.  He breathes out the tension and worry that has been haunting him for months, murmuring promises into her hair.

She is here. 

Destiny has brought her to him.  His river has brought her to him.  She is his and he is hers . 

If Geralt were to appear before him in this moment, Jaskier would forgive him in a heartbeat.  It doesn’t matter that the witcher bound them together and never told him. He’ll even forgive Geralt for binding him to the witch, because he’s got Ciri.  His little princess. 

He wasn’t allowed to claim her before, but Geralt’s wish…

Well, it turns out what is Geralt’s is also Jaskier’s.  He can be Ciri’s protector now. Her confidant. Her guardian, her father .

It takes some manoeuvring to get Ciri into the house.  Etta (bless her, he’ll never say another unkind thing to her) just nods at him from her boat, before snapping at the oarsmen until she is carried off out of sight. 

Jaskier hauls them up onto the grassy embankment getting dirt all over his trousers.  His clothes are ruined but he will mourn them later. Ciri has a tight grip around his neck, and while she’s really too big for this now, he can’t help but enjoy being allowed to perch her on his hip and carry her once more.  It’s been several years since she last allowed this, declaring herself too big for such things.

Eyck is waiting with towels at the back door and has arranged a screen in the kitchen so Ciri can get out of her wet clothes in privacy.  She is reluctant to let go of him, but he gently prises her off so they can change. He keeps talking the entire time, just to give her the reassurance that he’s still there.

She emerges from the screen in one of his old shirts and a pair of Eyck’s trousers (legs rolled up just enough for her toes to peek out and belt fastened to the tightest notch).  He’ll have to send Eyck to the theatre today to steal a decent enough dress from the costume department. Tomorrow he’ll take her to the market and buy her some clothes of her own.

“Are you hungry?” he asks her softly, but she shakes her head and clings to his arm.

Now that they’re in no danger of trampling dirt into the rest of the house, Eyck is willing to allow them out of the kitchen and the dogs almost immediately descend upon them.

Boxer attempts to climb Jaskier’s torso so he can bestow kisses upon his face, panting his happy dog smile.  Squeak, a tiny dog with a high-pitched bark, darts around their ankles, sniffing Ciri’s curiously before running back to Eyck (her favourite human ever).  Shadow and Kipper make general nuisances of themselves, getting in the way and preventing any of them from making their way along the narrow hallway.

“Down, Boxer,” Jaskier commands, as his knees start to buckle under the dog’s weight.  “I said down. Kipper watch where you put that tail, or I’ll tread on it. Oh, blast it all!”

Ciri giggles, high, slightly hysterical, girlish laughter which draws the attention of the hallway’s occupants (bipedal and quadrupedal alike).  Shadow, who Jaskier strongly suspects has some wolf ancestor in the not too distant past, plods over to sniff her hand. She must pass muster because he butts his head underneath it, demanding ear scratches.

He rumbles his approval as her hand tentatively moves over his head, and Ciri finally lets go of Jaskier so she can scratch under Shadow’s chin with her other.

It warms Jaskier’s heart to see his traumatised ward smiling tentatively at one of his dogs.  So, of course, that’s when Jaskier loses the war with Boxer and gravity and tumbles to the floor where he is soon pounced upon by said dog while Squeak begins to gnaw on his hair.  At least Ciri finds it amusing.

He gets her settled in the drawing room, where three of the six cats lounge by the window, enjoying the afternoon sun.  They don’t even twitch as the boisterous dogs enter the room, far too used to such antics. The dogs have learnt better than to disturb them.

The bard leaves Ciri settled on the rug by the fireplace, happily basking in the attention of her new canine friends, as he quickly steps out of the room with Eyck to issue his instructions.  A dress for Ciri, a light dinner for the three of them, then later tonight he wants Eyck to make a round of the pubs, to see what the latest gossip is concerning the missing princess from Cintra.  Eyck is not really suited for the task of spy, but Jaskier is not about to leave Ciri alone on her first night here.

By supper time, Ciri is already yawning every few mouthfuls so Jaskier shoos her up to bed directly afterwards.  Adalette had swum ahead of Etta and Vda, once they had located Ciri, to inform him of her imminent arrival and he and Eyck had prepared the bedroom next to Jaskier’s on the third floor.  It’s a pretty room. Lavender walls and a comfy four poster bed with light floral curtains draped around it. The window looks out onto the garden, and beyond that to the river. Jaskier had thought, when airing the room earlier that week, that Ciri might find some comfort in having his river in view. 

“Do you like it?” he asks her nervously.  He knows it’s not as grand or large as her room in the palace, but he thinks it’s still very charming.

“It’s lovely,” she tells him softly, fiddling nervously with the bottom of his shirt.  “Can you stay with me? Just until I fall asleep.”

He melts.  There is no other word for it.  He goes to his own room only briefly, to pull off his boots and tug off his doublet, before heading back to Ciri’s.  She’s already curled up under the covers and he settles down next to her on top of them. She instantly scoots closer and he wraps an arm around her, hoping that he’s helping.  That she feels safe.

“I always knew you were magic,” she whispers to him. 

“I know.”

Hesitatingly, plastered as close as she can get to his side, she tells him the tale of her life since she last saw him.  It’s a parody of that time, so long ago, when he lay wounded in Mousesack’s bed and she sweetly told him stories to keep his spirits up.  He doesn’t interrupt, only strokes her hair during the hard parts and lets her cling.

He is so glad that she’s here.  That his siblings had looked out for her on his behalf, when he’d been unable to do so himself.  He owes them more than he will ever be able to repay. 

When he’d first heard of the sacking of Cintra, he’d broken.  He’d locked himself in his room and howled out his grief and anger as Eyck and Boxer begged him to let them in from the other side of the door.  It had been many days before he could force himself to leave his bed (what was the point?), and the light had only properly entered his world again when Adalette had come to tell him of Ciri’s discovery.

“I want to stay with you,” Ciri tells him as she finishes her tale.  She’s crying, soaking the front of his shirt with her tears.

“You shall,” he vows.  “I’m not letting you go.”

“But Grandmother said I had to find Geralt of Rivia,” she sobs.  “He’s my Destiny. I’m going to have to leave to find him.”

“No,” Jaskier swears.  “You don’t. He’s my Destiny as well, and if Destiny wants us to be with him, then she can send Geralt here herself.”

“You promise?”  She peeks up at him from under the covers with one red rimmed green eye. 

“I promise.”

He’s strong enough to face Geralt again.  For Ciri, he is strong enough to face anyone, Yennefer included.

Eventually Ciri falls asleep, but he is reluctant to leave, not wanting her to wake up alone.  He dozes until the soft sound of the door opening rouses him. Eyck has returned and he has Shadow at his side.  Carefully, Jaskier extracts himself from the bed. He needs to know what Eyck has found out.

Shadow quickly takes his place, curling up next to the small princess, ready to keep guard for the rest of the night.  Jaskier takes a moment to memorise this moment, so he can keep this image stored in his mind forever, then silently shuts the door.

Chapter Text

Being a full-time parent, Jaskier quickly discovers, is hard work. 

He had, perhaps foolishly, thought that finally having Ciri with him would allow him to put his worry to rest.  It hasn’t. He’s constantly fearful. Anxieties and doubts worm their way into his mind, and he lies awake most nights constantly questioning everything.

Is he doing a good job of parenting Ciri?  Are they safe enough here? Should he move them upstream?  Is it ok that he lets her lounge about the house all day, curled up in a nest of blankets, or should he insist they go out?  Is her disguise good enough? Should he have cut her hair as well as dye it brown to match his own? 

An endless list of doubts to chase away his sleep.  Godly powers are not enough to prevent the bags that are beginning to form under his eyes.

He’s up constantly in the night, checking in on Ciri, needing to make sure that she’s safe and asleep as she should be.

The first few days of living with him, she seemed to bask in his affection and overprotectiveness.  That phase ended soon enough. 

Ciri is for the most part a lovely, charming, thoughtful young girl, but even she has her moments.  The stubbornness that he found so delightful in short doses grates on his nerves when forced to share a house with it twenty-four-seven.  He pettily decides that she must get it from Geralt, because there is no way she gets it from him.

The trouble is, Ciri wants to be allowed to go out into the city on her own and having Jaskier or Eyck trail her as a constant chaperone quickly ignites her frayed temper.  This morning, when Jaskier had given her permission to go to the market with Eyck, and his acolyte had returned alone, Jaskier had feared the worst.

Ciri had started talking to some other children in the market and had ordered Eyck to go back to the house without her so she could play with her new acquaintances.  Jaskier’s fury that Eyck had obeyed Ciri left his acolyte baffled. Eyck is dedicated, and loyal to Jaskier, but he doesn’t understand that he can’t defer to Ciri like the princess she is.  It had never occurred to him to refuse her entitled demands, and she was too used to getting her own way.

Jaskier had stormed down to the market himself and snatched her from the corner where she’d been playing cards with three other young girls, betting pebbles from a pile each had in front of them. 

She yells at him about it that night and, for the first time ever, Jaskier yells back.  They stand at opposite ends of the room, both getting louder and louder, as well as redder and redder in the face.  Ciri is the one to storm out, thundering up the stairs and slamming the door to her room, but if the fight had gone on any longer, it might just as easily have been Jaskier who made the dramatic exit.

Eyck has locked himself in the kitchen with the dogs, none of them liking the raised voices or the angry tones. 

Jaskier fumes silently for the rest of the evening, but when he lies down to sleep, he can’t.  His stomach churns at the thought of how he’s left things with Ciri. It’s irrational, but what if something were to happen to one of them in the night?  What if the harsh words were the last they ever exchanged?

He knows that he appears overbearing to her, but Ciri does not seem to fully grasp the danger she is in.

Nilfgaard may have suffered a crushing defeat at Sodden.  It may have been forced to sign a peace treaty with the remaining Northern Kingdoms, but they still hold Cintra. 

With Calanthe dead and the princess missing, Nilfgaard has occupied Cintra, forcing thousands of refugees to flee to Brugge, Cidaris and Verden.  But Nilfgaard is struggling to keep the peace in a country where it is viewed as an aggressive invader, especially when the rumour mills are churning with the story that the Lion Cub of Cintra has somehow escaped.  A fierce national pride has taken hold of Cintra’s refugees and there are whispers that they will soon rise up to reclaim their homeland in Princess Cirilla’s name.

The Northern Kingdoms are just waiting to see if Nilfgaard will be bold enough to attempt to cross the Yaruga again, but in the meantime Nilfgaard’s merchants and spies still filter across, ready to report back anything of interest.

If Nilfgaard discovers where Ciri is hiding, there is nothing they won’t do to get hold of her.  They’d either kill her very publicly to crush morale, or break her spirit before setting her up as a puppet queen in Cintra; a way to legitimise their conquest and rule.

The kings and queens of the Northern Kingdoms would no doubt like to get their hands on her too.  With Ciri under their thumb, they could raise banners in her name and retake Cintra. They’d declare honourable and heroic intentions before, no doubt, marrying her to, at best, one of their sons, or at worst themselves. She’d be just as much of a puppet.

That’s assuming they didn’t decide she was too much trouble and simply sought to kill her instead.

He gives up on sleep, padding over to Ciri’s door and knocking quietly.

“What?” she snaps from the other side, so he opens the door slightly, poking his head through.  She’s glaring at him from where she’s leaning against the window, arms folded petulantly.

“I just want to talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Ciri spits at him.  “You just want to keep me locked up in this house.”

“Ciri, please,” he pleads.  “I don’t want to go to sleep with us so mad at each other.  Can we just try and explain what we each feel? I promise to listen. I won’t interrupt.  Will you do me the same favour?”

She regards him sceptically for a moment before dipping her head just slightly, allowing Jaskier to enter her room.  She stays by the window, so he takes the chair at the desk he had bought her on her second day in Lettenhove.

“You embarrassed me!” she declares furiously, not wasting any time in airing her grievances.  “I was having fun and making friends , and you grabbed me and carried me off like I was a naughty child .”

That may have been because she was a naughty child, but Jaskier keeps his promise and stays silent. 

“You don’t let me out unless I’m with you or Eyck, and that’s only when you have to go out to do boring things.  I feel like I’m in a prison! I just want to be able to talk to other people. To make friends. To not feel like I’m being watched every minute of every day!

“I know you want to protect me.  I know you’re risking a lot by hiding me!  But I can’t live my whole life scared to leave this house!  I need out! How would you like to be trapped?”

He would hate it.  He does hate it. 

He knows how Ciri is feeling.  The itch and twitch of forcibly repressed wanderlust.  The low simmering resentment towards a well-meaning jailer when he just wants to fly free.  He hasn’t meant to make her feel that way. He just wants to keep her safe.    

Fuck!  He owes Mama an apology (eventually, once he gets out).  This parenting business is hard.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Ciri sincerely and she finally stops glaring at him, uncrossing her arms warily.  “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.

“But Ciri, please try and put yourself in my shoes for a moment.  When I saw Eyck return without you, I was terrified, Ciri.  I thought you might be dead .”

“But I was fine,” she tries to interrupt, but Jaskier holds up a hand to silence her.  It’s his turn to speak now.

“I didn’t know that!  All the gossip in the streets at the moment is about how much certain powerful people would like to get their hands on you and what they might do if they succeed.  I feared the worst!

“And you knew I didn’t want you to be alone in the market without Eyck, but you deliberately sent him away.  You took advantage of his nature to defy me. You effectively told him to disobey me. How would you feel if I punished him for his failure, because of what you did?”

“You wouldn’t!” she protests protectively.  She has a strange camaraderie with the former knight.  She helps him with the animals, and he listens solemnly to all her made up stories and flights of fancy. 

She’s right, he wouldn’t, but he’s not going to admit that.  Actions have consequences; she needs to learn this.

“I might.  He very much let me down today.  He risked your safety. Don’t think for a minute there is nothing I wouldn’t do if someone threatened your safety.  If he compromises it, I will kick him out in a heartbeat. Do you understand?”

She nods, brows coming together and tears forming in her eyes (Mama help him).  “I’m sorry,” she pleads. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to play. I can’t stay shut up in this house any longer, Jaskier.  Please!”

“I know,” he acknowledges gently.  “I know I can’t keep you locked up, but we need to have some ground rules.  We need to find a compromise. You have every right to argue against a rule, but once it’s set, if you disobey it there will be consequences.”

“But I’ll be allowed outside?  On my own?” she checks.

“ If you obey the rules.”

“What are they?”

“No meeting strangers on your own.  Eyck or I must be somewhere nearby. If you want to see them again then you can do so alone after I’ve had a chance to check them out.”

She chews her bottom lip, considering this rule carefully.  “Alright,” she agrees. “What else?”

“You’ll make sure you’re back here before dark each day unless I have explicitly given you  permission to stay out later.

“Also, I’m finding you a job.”

This startles her.  “ What? ”

“A job,” he repeats.  “You’re right; you need to get out of the house during the day, and this way you can earn some money of your own.”  Jaskier had found out early on that Ciri did not have much concept of what things were worth. He hopes having her own spending money. earned by her own hard work, will help rectify this.

“What kind of job?” she asks, wrinkling her nose slightly, obviously expecting that he’ll pick something dirty and disgusting as punishment.

“My friend Maya owns the ‘The Flaming Sword’,” he explains.  “It’s the largest theatre in Lettenhove and she’s looking for extra staff to work backstage during the Boardings.”

“What are they?”

“The Boardings is the largest gathering of travelling players in all of the entire Northern Kingdoms.  Every year all the travelling theatre groups camp outside Lettenhove and meet in the city to discuss practical business.  Which group is going to winter where, what routes they’ll each take for the next year, what performances they are planning.  It allows them to ensure that they don’t step on each other’s toes and that no town gets a repeat performance. It takes a huge amount of organisation!

“But while they’re here, they take the opportunity to show off their talents at the local theatres.  It’s three weeks of back-to-back performances by all the different groups. Maya’s going to be flat out.  She needs extra workers willing to run around backstage organising props and costumes and keeping all the actors and directors happy and in line.”

Ciri actually looks interested. 

“I’d get to help out with the actors?  You’d let me?”

Ciri has never met Maya; she doesn’t know what a fearsome taskmaster she can be.  If Ciri has even five minutes to stop to chat, then he’ll be surprised. But the regular crew at ‘The Flaming Sword’ is a good one; he knows them all.  Besides, he also plans to send Eyck to help out in the first week and will also be making his own rounds of the different troupes.

“Yes, do you think you’d like that?”

She nods rapidly, eyes shining with barely concealed delight.

“Thank you!”

He smiles at her, and finally feels safe in opening his arms to offer a hug.  She rushes into his arms. He can finally rest easy tonight.

* * *

Geralt already hates Lettenhove, and he only entered the city gates ten minutes ago.

There are people , bright, loud, colourful people, and they are everywhere.  The city is packed, swarming with artists and patrons all here to see one of the biggest theatrical festivals in the entire Continent.  The Boardings are well underway.

Normally, nothing could persuade Geralt to go anywhere near Lettenhove at this time of year.  He doesn’t do crowds, and he despises nosy performers who are not his nosy performer, so why would he willingly subject himself to a crowd of nosy performers?

The answer has blue eyes like a clear river on a sunny day and holds Geralt’s heart securely in his lute calloused hands.

For Jaskier, Geralt will brave this multi-coloured serpents’ den, even as he can make out the odd hiss in the crowd when someone recognises his white hair and the sword on his back.  The trouble is, Lettenhove is not a small city and even if the population hadn’t swelled to four times its normal size, it would still be a hard job tracking down a single man. Currently, it’s not so much like finding a needle in a haystack as finding a single buttercup in a meadow of wildflowers.

Geralt eliminates the first few inns by the city walls.  Jaskier may be willing to slum it for a night in a less than reputable inn, but if he plans to spend any length of time in a place, he always seeks a better class of establishment.  He may very well have wormed his way into the good graces of some aristocrat and wrangled an open-ended invitation to stay. Geralt can only hope the bard has made enough noise to have his whereabouts noted.

He pops into the first respectable looking tavern, heading straight to the bar.

“I’m looking for a bard.”  He knows it’s the wrong thing to say the moment the words leave his lips.  The barman looks him up and down in amusement and snorts with laughter.

“Head to the theatres.  You should have your pick of the blighters.  They rolled up here a week or so ago and there ain’t an inn in town that don’t have at least three of them fighting with each other over whose turn it is to perform next.  You could make some decent coin, Witcher, if you’re willing to help the management deal with them. You’d be surprised the amount of damage a flute can do if wielded right.”

Geralt growls, but the barman has obviously seen worse this past week because he doesn’t pause in his work, nudging Geralt’s arm with his rag so he can continue to wipe down the bar.

“I’m looking for a specific bard.”

“Like I said, go to the theatres.  If they’re here, then that’s where they’ll be.  Now do you want a drink before you go or not?”

The witcher stalks out and grits his teeth, preparing himself to brave the theatres.  He drops into the first one. It’s in the middle of a performance, and a truly sappy looking couple are prancing about onstage singing a depressing ballad about doomed love.  It’s dreadful, but Geralt can smell the tears of a few audience members. Mind you, he’d cry too if he’d parted with his hard-earned coin to watch this drivel.

He leaves before the ushers can chase him out for not paying and tries the next one.  This time, a woman stops him before he can enter.

“You can’t go in, they’re halfway through a performance.  No late entries.”

“I don’t want to see the show.  I’m looking for someone. A bard.  His name’s Jaskier. A few inches shorter than me, brown hair…”

She cuts him off.

“I know who he is.  What do you want with him?”  She peers up at him suspiciously.

“He’s a friend,” he grits out.  Her eyes catch the sword on his back before lingering on his hair and eyes.

“Blimey!  You’re Geralt of Rivia!”  She exclaims this loudly and several people on the street stop and turn to look.  He shuffles his feet uncomfortably and nods. 

“He’s probably at home,” the woman tells him easily, batting her eyelashes at him now she’s realised who he is.  “Do you need an escort? I clock off in an hour, I could show you the way?”

“Just some directions is fine.”  He ignores her forlorn pout and moves away the moment he’s sure that he can find the place.  Since when did Jaskier own a house?

And a rather grand one at that, he thinks as he stares up at the tall building.  What was Jaskier doing following him all these years if this place was waiting for him?

He’s faced all manner of monsters and the worst humanity has to offer, but he’s never been more terrified than he is now.  Jaskier is so close, on the other side of the door, and Geralt must brace himself before he is able to march up to it and knock firmly.

A cacophony of barks immediately starts up from inside the house and Geralt can just make out the muffled sound of yelling over the din. 

“No, Boxer,” a familiar voice snaps, sounding so very close to the doorway.  “Get back, I said. I can’t open the door with you on it!” Thumps can be heard and a plaintive whine that Geralt almost echoes.  This waiting is torture, but eventually the door opens slightly and Jaskier’s familiar face peers out.

“Geralt!” he exclaims in surprise.  A complicated range of emotions pass in a flash over Jaskier’s face, but Geralt has no chance to work out what they mean, because in his surprise the bard loosens his hold on the door and a massive dog bounds out.  This must be ‘Boxer’, who immediately sticks his snout into Geralt’s naval and proceeds to sniff him. He clearly passes some sort of canine test, because the dog rises onto his hind legs and easily plants his paws onto Geralt’s shoulders so that he can bathe the witcher’s face with a wet scratchy tongue.  Well, Geralt’s been licked by worse.

“Fuck!” Jaskier mutters, attempting to tug the dog off him.  “Down Boxer. Come on boy. Down!” The dog obeys and worms his way back through the door to sit panting at Jaskier’s feet.

This leaves Geralt and Jaskier staring at each other in awkward silence.  Geralt tries to make his words work, but there is a strange lump in his throat.  He opens his mouth several times, but then closes it, unable to utter the apologies he’s been composing in his head.

“Well,” Jaskier sighs.  “I suppose you’d better come in.”

He opens the door fully now that Boxer seems content to stay at his side and allows Geralt to step into a narrow hallway.

“Kitchen’s straight ahead and the vodka is hidden on the top shelf next to the sink.  It’s behind the flour. Pour us both a glass while I put this one with the others.” He grabs Boxer by the neck and steers him upstairs, leaving Geralt standing stiffly in the hall. 

He goes to do what he’s told.  Sits himself down at the solid wooden table and downs a snifter of vodka, pouring himself another before Jaskier gets back. 

“Well,” the god in question stands in the doorway, and Geralt cannot help the way that his gaze is instantly drawn to Jaskier’s forearms, bare and crossed defensively over his chest.  “You and I need to have a long overdue talk.”

“Yes,” Geralt agrees, wrenching his gaze away and back up to Jaskier’s face.  He has rarely seen it looking so grim. “You’re right. I just want to say first though, that I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry Jaskier, for everything I said.”

The bard’s face crumples, and he uncrosses his arms to run his hands through his hair.  “Dammit Geralt, I want to be so mad at you! I want to scream and throw things at you, and you just immediately come out with shit like that.  It’s not fair!”

Geralt’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, so he just nudges Jaskier’s glass towards him and sips at his own.  Jaskier finally joins him at the table, sitting down heavily and taking a gulp of his own drink.

He looks tired, Geralt notes.  There are purple smudges under his eyes and there is a rumpled quality to his clothing that Geralt knows he abhors.  The witcher wants to reach out and grasp his hand, offer his silent support, but he knows this is not allowed - yet.

“There’s so much we need to talk about.”  He surprises them both by being the one to break the silence.  “It’s just… I’m not sure where to begin. Help me Jaskier. Please.”

Jaskier sighs, looking sadly at Geralt from across the table.  “You really are hopeless Geralt, aren’t you?”

He nods in agreement, and they both drain their drinks before pouring another.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier decides, choking the name out.  “Let’s start with her, because I need to know what you feel for her.  You obviously liked her, despite what she…” he trails off and gestures towards his shoulder.  He takes a deep, shuddering breath that he lets out slowly. “How?” he asks plaintively.

Geralt can’t look Jaskier in the eye, staring instead at the table.  He steals himself and forces himself to speak. To try and explain, even when every instinct is screaming at him to run and hide.  He cannot hide any longer. He needs to talk.

“We kept bumping into each other, and then I realised why, and I felt guilty.  I thought the wish was forcing her to show me her more vulnerable side, and I felt like I was abusing that trust, even when I knew she was manipulating me.”

Jaskier snorts at the idea of Yennefer having a vulnerable side.  “Is that why you always stood awkwardly in between us? Why you would never fully take a side?”

That gets a nod.

“Alright,” Jaskier looks like he’s sucking on something sour, smells it too.  “I don’t get it, but… You’ve never been the sharpest when it comes to dealing with your emotions.

“The wish then.  Why did you make that last wish?  Why did you bind us to you? Why her ?”

“I didn’t know what she’d done Jaskier,” he pleads, forcing himself to make eye contact, trying to show his painful sincerity.  “When I entered that room all I could see was your back. I thought you’d just been caught in the crossfire with the djinn. That it might destroy you both in an effort to get free. 

“I saved her because at the time I thought she’d saved you, from my stupid first wish.  I linked us all because I remembered hearing that a djinn couldn’t harm its master, even when free.  I thought if your fates were connected to mine it would be forced to leave without killing you. I didn’t realise the full implications of the wish until much later.”

“And if you’d known?” Jaskier asks him in a small voice.  “If you’d seen what she did to me when you entered the room.  Would you have saved her then?”

The question catches Geralt off guard because he’s never really thought about it.  He has to push back the feelings he has for the Yennefer he knows now (the guilt and confusion she’s always brought out in him) and force himself to go back in time, to the emotions he felt in Rinde.  When he had stormed up to the mayor’s house having been drugged and used. What would he have done if Jaskier had been face up? If he had seen the dagger planted in the bard’s shoulder, with no doubts about who had put it there.  It’s an easy enough answer.

“No,” he admits.  “I wouldn’t have intentionally saved her.”

Jaskier lets out a broken sob, but he is smiling.  He tentatively reaches out a hand across the table and Geralt nearly knocks over his glass as he scrambles to take it, marvelling at how slender the fingers squeezing his own appear.

“Thank you,” the bard chokes out, tears shining in his eyes.  “I really needed to hear that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner,” Geralt offers softly.  He takes their joined hands and brings them to his lips, leaving them to rest there.  “I’m sorry I ran from you on the mountain after Borch fell. I’m sorry I accused you of manipulating my feelings.  I know you didn’t. I know they are naturally mine.”

“Why are you suddenly so sure?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier’s arm, admiring the lean muscle of his forearm. 

“Your sister, Ina, talked some sense into me.”

“Ina?” Jaskier sounds shocked.  “Talked? Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like her.  Are you sure she didn’t whack some sense into you? That’s much more her style.”

“Only talked,” Geralt assures him.  “I realised that if you had manipulated my feelings, I wouldn’t want to dunk my head underwater to drown out your blasted singing.”  He can’t resist the tease but keeps a secure hold on Jaskier’s hand when he attempts to yank it back. The bard’s eyes sparkle with mischief though, so he obviously appreciates the joke.

“Well I never!  And here I thought you were doing so well with your grovelling.”

“Hmm…  You’d think I was an imposter if I only grovelled.”

“True,” Jaskier agrees amiably.  “I’d be bringing out the silverware to test if you were a doppler.  So…” he pauses. “What now?”

“I… I don’t deserve you,” Geralt admits, because Jaskier needs to know that.

“That’s not what I asked Geralt,” the bard huffs.  “Let me put it another way. What do you want?”

“I want to stay with you,” he confesses, and it’s a relief to finally say it out loud.  “If you’ll have me.”

A blinding grin crosses the River god’s face.  His blue eyes sparkle, and he squeezes Geralt’s fingers with surprising strength.  Geralt doesn’t resist the urge to press his lips to them again.

“Oh Geralt, of course I will.”

Chapter Text

Jaskier can’t help but grin incredulously. 

Geralt is here, in his house, holding his hand and pressing kisses to his fingers.  Jaskier is tempted to lean over the kitchen table, to replace his fingers with his lips, but finds he’s more content to stay where he is.  What they have is fragile still and Jaskier surprises himself with his desire to take things slowly.

He’d previously thought that if Geralt ever admitted to returning his feelings, they’d be on each other quick as a flash.  That it would be all heat and passion. Instead he enjoys the steady warmth that spreads throughout his body, starting from the hand clasped firmly in Geralt’s.

They have time to explore things at their own pace.  He just wants to enjoy this moment a bit longer.

So, of course, that’s when the sound of the front door opening echoes through the house and two sets of familiar footsteps clatter through the hallway, setting the dogs off barking again.

“Jaskier,” he hears Ciri’s voice call.  “We’re home! You’ll never guess what play I was helping out with today.”

She seems to have a sixth sense for where he is, because she comes bounding into the kitchen before he has a chance to disentangle himself from Geralt or warn the witcher.

All three of them freeze.  Ciri has a look of honest confusion plastered across her face.  Jaskier never lets anyone who is not her, his siblings or Eyck into his house, and here is a strange man sitting at the table holding her guardian’s hand.

Geralt is doing his version of looking terrified, eyes roving up and down Ciri’s small form.  He obviously recognises who she is, despite having never previously met. It seems that Jaskier needs to have words with Trava when his brother next drops by.  When he had popped in to meet ‘his niece’, he had failed to mention that Geralt was on his way; that annoying grin Trava had sported for the entirety of his visit (like he knew something Jaskier didn’t) suddenly makes sense.

“Who are you?” Ciri asks boldly. 

Geralt’s a statue.

“This,” Jaskier decides to intervene.  “Is Geralt of Rivia. Geralt, this is Princess Cirilla of Cintra, though outside these walls we call her Fiona.”  The two just stare at each other in astonishment, neither making a move to break the awkward silence, so Jaskier feels compelled to continue.

“Ciri, where’s Eyck?  Did you pick up the fish for dinner on your way home?”

Ciri’s eyes dart to him nervously.  “He got waylaid by Kipper and Squeak.  I’ll just go get him. Let him know we’ve got a guest for dinner.”  She dashes quickly out of the kitchen leaving behind a startled witcher, still holding Jaskier’s hand.

“Sorry,” Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s fingers in an attempt at reassurance.  “I probably should’ve tried to warn you that she’s here.”

“Your brother told me,” the witcher manages.  “That’s how I knew where to find you. It’s just seeing… Seeing is different from knowing.

“I tried to save her, in Cintra.  I wanted to save her, for you, but I was too late.”

Jaskier doesn’t like the guilt that clouds his tone, so he drags Geralt up out of his seat and cautiously pulls him into a hug, each with one of their hands clasped awkwardly between their chests as he refuses to let go.  Hesitantly, Geralt’s free arm curls around Jaskier as well.

“Thank you for trying,” Jaskier murmurs, before reluctantly stepping back and finally disentangling their fingers.  “We should probably get out of here though. Eyck is surprisingly territorial about his kitchen and he’s going to want to start dinner soon.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the furry brood.  Eyck brought home two more kittens the other day, so soon I expect to be driven out of the house by his furry army.  Maybe the stables down the road will let me sleep there. Speaking of stables, where’s Roach?”

“I left her with the stable boys, by the city gates.”

“Geralt!  That’s no way to treat such a wonderful companion.  Who knows what she might catch down there? Go and get her and I’ll organise space in the stables near here.”

The witcher seems grateful for an excuse to duck out of the house for a while, and it takes no time for Jaskier to pop down the road and organise suitable accommodation for Roach.  It also gives him time to catch Ciri alone and check in.

She’s in her room, perched on the window ledge and looking at a book she’s not reading.

“Everything alright?” he asks as he pokes his head in through the door.

She nods automatically, then pauses to consider before shrugging more truthfully.

“He’s very…”

“Rugged?  Handsome?” Jaskier suggests, trying to lighten the mood.  Ciri’s lips twitch slightly.

“You never mentioned that you two were… intimate,” and she blushes bright red as she says it.

“Ahh…” Jaskier decides to join Ciri by the window.  “Well, that’s because it’s a very recent development.  We’ve only been intimate ,” he stresses the word just to cause her to scrunch up her face and stick out her tongue at him, “for about the last half hour.  Is that ok?”

He needs to check.  It will break his heart all over again if Ciri objects, but he’ll keep his emotional distance from Geralt if that’s what she needs.  For her, he’ll do anything. He really hopes that she doesn’t.

She eyes him, considering for a few moments, making him squirm.

“I suppose so, but if he hurts you, I get to cut his head off.”

He can’t help but laugh, pulling her giggling into his arms.  “That’s my bloodthirsty princess. Your grandmother would be so proud.”

She sniffs slightly at the mention of Calanthe, but no tears fall.  She pulls back to look him in the eye, gaze solemn.

“We’re leaving Lettenhove, aren’t we?  You were just waiting for him to find us.”

He nods.  “I need to talk to Geralt about it, but yes.  Nilfgaard is patrolling the other side of the Yaruga, and their spies are sneaking across, looking for you.  It’s getting too risky for us to stay so close to the river. I could keep you safe here, but you’d never forgive me for it.”

“I wouldn’t be able to leave the house,” she guesses correctly.  A frown tugs at her lips. “I’ll miss the theatre though, and my friends.”

“I know, but we’re not leaving straight away.  Now come on, Eyck should have dinner sorted. You’re in for a treat; we have two socially awkward dinner companions to entertain us tonight.”

She laughs, but his comment is unerringly accurate.  Geralt cannot stop staring at all three of them in turn, obviously bewildered by the family dynamic.  Eyck, feeling defensive about this interloper entering his space, starts a long, tedious lecture on the best way to cook zander, reverting before their eyes to the pretentious man Jaskier first knew.  This leaves Jaskier and Ciri as the two socially competent members of their group, but Ciri seems to have been struck dumb because she says hardly a word.

Jaskier attempts to carry the conversation throughout dinner, but it stretches even his exceptional conversational skills. 

“Ciri,” he tries once more to draw her into a discussion.  “You mentioned something earlier about the play you helped out with today.  What play was it?”

“Oh,” she perks up from where she has been pushing fish idly around her plate.  “It was supposed to be based on an old local legend, but that was obviously ridiculous because it was called ‘The River God’.”

“Already made a name for yourself?” Geralt teases.

“No,” Ciri interjects.  “It wasn’t about Jaskier, it was about an elvish River god who tried to help the elves defeat the humans, but the humans tricked the god and destroyed him.”  She scowls at her plate. “It was absolute bullshit!”

“Language!” Jaskier scolds.

“But it was,” Ciri protests.  “For starters, you’re not an elf.”

“No,” he concedes, “but the first god of the Pankratz was.”  Both Geralt and Ciri look startled. Eyck just carries on eating. 

“First?” Ciri exclaims.  “What do you mean ‘first’?”

He sighs.  Serves him right for trying to force conversation on the group, he supposes.  “You’ve both met Vda, and Geralt, I know you met Adalette a few years ago. Well, they’re Mama’s oldest living children, but they had an older brother, Pankratz.

“But you’re the Pankratz,” Ciri protests.

“I am now.  Look, Vda, Adalette and Pankratz all became River gods at roughly the same time, when humans first made an appearance and started conquering the lands around them.  All three of them willingly sacrificed themselves to their respective rivers in a bid to gain the power they thought they needed to drive the humans back.”

He holds up a hand when Ciri opens her mouth to interrupt again.  This isn’t an easy story for him to tell, and it hadn’t been an easy story for him to hear either.

“Humans, as you know, are remarkably creative when it comes to dealing with their enemies. They figured out that one sure-fire way of destroying a River god was to destroy their river.  The Pankratz was one of the rivers they tested it on. They poisoned it, killed almost all life in the water, and from what I understand Pankratz died a slow, lingering, agonising death.”

Jaskier can’t help the way he grimaces.  Ina had been the one to tell him the story.  She said he had needed to know what could happen to him but had warned him not to bring it up with any of the older gods.  Mama hadn’t been the only one to lose a child; the first Pontar had let himself fade away, having gone mad with grief.

“It took centuries for the river to fully recover.  Even longer for the circumstances to be right for my creation.

“This is one of the reasons we’re not supposed to get ourselves involved in human politics and power struggles.  We’ve learned what can happen when people get desperate.”

“You’re not safe, Jaskier!” Ciri blurts out, and there is a panic clearly etched all over her face.  “Nilfgaard is looking for me! If they suspect you helped me and discover what you are… They’ll destroy you!”

“Hey, hey,” he tries to calm her.  This is not what he hoped to achieve during tonight’s dinner.  “No one is going to destroy me. I’m fine!”

“She’s right,” Geralt chimes in unhelpfully (and this was not how Jaskier wanted them to bond).  “Yennefer knows what you are and if she told any other mage and they sided with Nilfgaard… They could poison your river again.”  There’s a crazed look in the witcher’s eye and Jaskier has entirely lost control of this conversation.

“Who is Yennefer?” Ciri speaks directly to Geralt for the first time since being introduced.  “How do we find her? We need to stop her.” And Geralt is actually nodding in agreement.

“No one is going to hurt the river,” Eyck cuts in calmly, having finally finished eating.  “I will not allow it.” He says it with complete, unwavering certainty.

“See,” Jaskier gestures wildly at Eyck.  “That’s what acolytes are for. If it’s necessary,  I’m sure Eyck will have no trouble calling the riverside population to arms in my defence.

“Now,” he deliberately aims for a lighter tone.  “I believe Geralt has some animals to meet. Ciri, why don’t you take him with you as you sort out their dinner.”

Later that night, after Ciri and Eyck have retired to bed, Jaskier heads into the garden for some fresh air.  Geralt comes to join him and they lean against the house wall together, taking in the sound of the wind rustling and the river murmuring as it flows steadily towards the Yaruga. 

“You have a good life here,” Geralt notes, and he closes the gap between them to ensnare Jaskier’s hand with his own again.  Such a simple gesture should not make his stomach flip quite so violently. “I should have stayed away.”

“What?” he jerks his neck round so fast he can hear it crack.  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

Geralt refuses to look at him, gaze focused solely on the river in front of him.  “I’m too recognisable. It won’t be long before Nilfgaard learns I’m here. The rumours are that I’m searching for the princess to fulfil an oath I made to Calanthe.  It won’t take them long to work out that I’m here for you, and then they’ll take notice of the girl you have living with you. The one who is the same age as the Lion Cub of Cintra.  I’ve practically led them to you.”

“You’re not the only recognisable one,” Jaskier snaps.  “I have my own fame, thank you very much. They would have worked it out eventually, with or without you.  That’s why we’re leaving at the end of the week.”

The witcher finally turns to look at him.  “Leaving? Where?”

“Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier perhaps takes too much pleasure from the dumbfounded expression on Geralt’s face.  Bastard deserves it.

“Kaer… Jaskier, it’s a hidden fortress.  How were you planning to find it?  What were you going to do when you got there?”

He doesn’t want to admit to Geralt that he could only have left once the witcher found him.  That he and Ciri would have been trapped if Geralt had not arrived on his doorstep. He wants to wipe that disbelieving look off Geralt’s face.

“Exactly, what safer place to hide than a place no one knows how to find?  Apart from witchers and a certain River goddess who happens to be my cousin.  I’m sure Gwen would have shown us the way. Besides, you always told me that your old swords master spent every winter there.  If you weren’t there, then I was going to convince him to let us in and ask him to teach Ciri a few tricks while we were there.  It’s not a bad plan, Geralt.”

Especially not for one he’s made up on the spot.

Geralt lets go of his hand, and Jaskier tries not to let the disappointment show on his face, but then he is pulled sideways into an embrace.  This is much better, he decides.

“You’re right, not a bad one.  Kaer Morhen it is. When do we head off?  It should be soon. When the snows start to fall, the pass will be cut off and we won’t make it though.”

“At the end of the week.”  Jaskier tucks his face into the space between Geralt’s shoulder and neck, nuzzling slightly.  He can feel the witcher’s breath hitch as he slyly brushes his lips over his neck. “We need to try and leave as inconspicuously as possible.  The travelling performers will all be packing up to leave then and we can get lost in the crowd heading out. I’ve been speaking to the different groups; I know which ones are heading north.  I’m going to persuade them to smuggle us out in one of the props carts. Eyck will spread the rumour that I’ve gone to Oxenfurt, with Ciri, to teach for a term.”

Geralt hums, considering, but he doesn’t object to any of it so he must think it a reasonable plan.

“The knight not coming with us?”

Jaskier shakes his head.  “No, I don’t think he ever plans to leave these shores.  He’s found his place here. He’ll look after the house and the animals.”

“And your river?”

“Yes.”

“He protects you because he is your acolyte?”

Jaskier nods and wonders where Geralt is going with this.  He can feel the witcher’s muscles tensing against his own, like Geralt is working himself up to something.

“I could be your acolyte.”

“No!” Jaskier blurts out, swift and certain.  Geralt starts to pull away from him, clearly taking it as a rejection of his feelings, but Jaskier clings on.  “That’s not what I want from you Geralt. I’ve never wanted you as my servant.”

“But acolytes protect you.  I want to protect you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pulls away this time, so he can clasp Geralt’s cheeks firmly in his hands and force Geralt to look at him.  Desperate for the witcher to understand what he’s about to say.

“And you can.  But do so as my equal, not my inferior.  Acolytes are servants Geralt. No matter how fond of them we are, it’s not an equal partnership.  Trava adores the triplets, but if he gives an order, they’re expected to obey. They don’t argue with him; they don’t make big decisions with him.

“I want you to tell me when you think I’m being stupid.  I want you to tell me to shut up when I annoy you with my singing.  I want a proper relationship with you. I want you as you are. My grumpy, independent, reliable, noble, idiotic witcher.”

Silence descends as they stand and stare at each other, Jaskier trying to convey the full depth of his feelings with his eyes.  Geralt’s own soften, and he turns his face in Jaskier’s hands to press a kiss to one of his palms.

“Hmm…”

Geralt’s breath tickles his skin and he can feel the witcher’s lips twitch upwards in a small smile.

* * *

It is amazing how quickly Geralt finds himself adapting to the easy domesticity of Jaskier’s house.  It can only be because it is Jaskier’s house.  The River god had always been determined to carve out a home wherever he and Geralt had found themselves.  Now, wherever Jaskier chooses to rest his head, Geralt is content to lay his own next to it.

He spends his days helping out around the house and going into town to prepare supplies for their departure.  Jaskier often accompanies him and makes a great show of buying spare quills and parchment, talking loudly about what he’ll need for teaching his new classes in Oxenfurt.  Geralt is required to do no more than grunt and look on with exasperated fondness.

He slowly gets to know Ciri, his Child Surprise.  It is awkward at first, two strangers who know Destiny has bound them together.  After the first day, he seeks out Jaskier’s help.

“Well, what did you expect Geralt?  You’re strangers still. Did you think you’d see each other from a distance, recognise each other instantly and run into each other’s arms?”

“No, but I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Show her Roach. She likes horses.  Offer to give her a sword lesson. Just make sure you actually talk to her.  She’s not well versed in interpreting your silences yet.”

He follows his bard’s advice and when he goes to visit Roach, he invites Ciri along.  She is suitably impressed by Roach’s beauty and Geralt is reminded of the toy horse he rescued from Cintra.  He presents it to her when they get back and she turns it over and over in her hands, marvelling at its return.

“I remember when Jaskier got it for you,” he tries to talk to her, just as Jaskier had instructed.  “He’d make a game of waiting until I was asleep then sneak it under my arm. It almost didn’t survive the journey to you.”

She smiles up at him, a proper, genuine, happy smile.  “Thank you! I thought I’d lost Buttercup forever.”

“Interesting name.”

“Mousesack named her.  He said it was appropriate.”  The druid always did have a good sense of humour.  It’s why Geralt liked him more than most magicians. 

Buttercup is the catalyst they need to break the tension between them, and Ciri starts to seek him out and ask him questions of her own accord.  He finds he genuinely likes her. He’s not had much experience with children, but she’s the right blend of curious, blunt and enthusiastic. She’s sufficiently like Jaskier for him to be able to see and appreciate the influence his bard has had on her upbringing. 

He and Jaskier have talked a lot since Geralt first showed up on the god’s doorstep.  Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever done so much continuous talking, but he realises the importance of it now.  He and Jaskier had made a habit of avoiding essential discussions in the past, with disastrous results. There is more honesty between them than there has ever been before and Geralt finally discloses all the emotions he’d felt during those two long years of Jaskier’s absence. 

Jaskier, in turn, leaves nothing out when fully describing his recovery.  He also tells Geralt about Lairdwell; what he’d really been feeling during the disastrous hunt when they’d met his father.

“You could go and see him again?” Geralt suggests, but Jaskier shakes his head immediately.

“No, I can’t be his son.  Not properly. It’s better left in the past.”

The intimacy these conversations create astounds the witcher.  He finds he likes the way Jaskier casually holds his hand throughout, absentmindedly stroking with his thumb.  The way Jaskier now always sits next to him and curls towards him.

Any stolen moment alone in the house of four has become a gift, so Geralt happily welcomes Jaskier next to him when the bard finds him soaking up the early afternoon sun in the garden.

Eyck had caught wind of some vandals who were scrawling rude graffiti down by the shore and had torn off to give them a piece of his mind.  Meanwhile, Ciri is at the theatre for her final day’s work. 

When night falls, they will creep quietly out of the house and back to the theatre, where Jaskier’s friend Maya will help them hide in a props cart so, come morning, they can be wheeled out of the city unawares.  Reports from Jaskier’s contacts in the city have shown increased Nilfgaardian activity around the marketplaces and taverns, and Geralt is sure he’s spotted several people watching the house. It’s time to leave.

Which is why he’s been making the most of this quiet moment while he can.  Jaskier joins him on the grass, a paper wrapped parcel under his arm.

“Geralt,” he frowns.  “Why has Mama sent me a dress?  She says it’s actually from you?”

What?  He reaches for the package and a familiar dress spills from the brown paper.  His fingers automatically reach for the field of buttercups, stroking the textured fabric lovingly.  He clears his throat awkwardly, wondering how he’s supposed to explain this.

“I mean, it really is beautiful, but I don’t think it’s my size or will really compliment my figure.”  Jaskier sounds amused at least.

“When… When I met Trava while you were recovering, we talked about your second wish.  The one where you wanted him to be impotent for three months.”

“I remember.”

“Well, he admitted that it had come true in a way, and then I remembered your first wish.”  Geralt shrugs and sweeps a hand over the skirt of the dress, admiring the detailed intricacy of the stitching.  It really is stunning work.

“I’ve been sending your mother embroidery thread for the last seven years,” he admits, risking a glance at Jaskier’s face.  The bard looks stunned, tears welling in his eyes, and he throws himself across the dress and into Geralt’s arms.

“You granted my wish,” he whispers in awe.  “Geralt, that’s…”

Geralt holds him tightly, rubbing his cheek against the soft top of Jaskier’s head.  “Your third wish,” he chokes out through the happiness in his chest. “What would it have been?”

“It’s silly.  I was going to wish that you’d let me sing you to sleep.”  Jaskier pulls back with a sheepish expression. “Probably a good thing I didn’t get it out.  Given the djinn’s temperament, it’d probably have twisted it so that I sang you to sleep permanently or something.”

Geralt considers him, taking in the way the sun highlights gold flecks in his hair, and lies down on the grass, closing his eyes.

“Well, go on then,” he grunts, getting himself comfortable.

“What, now?  My lute’s indoors.”

“Go get it then.  I’m not going anywhere until I get my song.”

He remains lying in the grass, sun warming his dark shirt and trousers, listening intently as Jaskier stumbles up and into the house.  He returns a few minutes later, and Geralt can feel his bard’s knee brush the top of his head as Jaskier settles down next to him. 

Hesitantly he plucks a tune, before his shyness dissipates and he begins to sing.

‘This weary earth we walk upon

She will endure when we are gone.

While kingdoms come and kingdoms go

Rivers run and rivers flow.

You know I don’t believe it’s true

That in this world there’s nothing new.

For Darling, you have just begun

Rivers flow and rivers run.’

Geralt couldn’t fall asleep if his life depended on it, enjoying Jaskier’s voice too much to do anything but listen intently.  He keeps his eyes firmly closed and feigns sleep though, even after the last note fades to silence, unwilling to break this moment.

The lute is placed gently to the side and he feels familiar fingers card lovingly through his hair. 

“I know you’re still awake,” Jaskier sounds amused.

Geralt rolls onto his side, grabbing Jaskier’s ankle and manhandling him to lie down next to him, ignoring the bard’s squawks of protest.

“Shhh, sleeping,” he mumbles into the back of Jaskier’s head, and lying there, in the sun with Jaskier in his arms, he does find himself dozing off.

When he awakes, the sun has dipped in the sky; it’ll soon be evening and it won’t be long until Ciri returns.  Jaskier is still asleep, white shirt and pale blue trousers rumpled and stained green by the grass. Geralt sits up, the better to properly admire the picture in front of him, before his eyes are drawn to the river at the end of the garden.

It might be a long time before they return to it again.

He cautiously heaves himself up, careful not to disturb the sleeping River god, and meanders slowly down to the dock.  The water looks fresh and inviting, too deep to see the bottom. Geralt toes off his boots and socks and begins removing the rest of his clothes until he is standing completely naked by the water.

“What are you doing?” a strangled voice asks behind him, and he turns, mischievous smile on his lips as he regards the flushed River god.

“The water looks so enticing,” he says innocently, as though he were not deliberately seducing the god on the banks of his own river.  “I thought I’d go for a little swim.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier is staring at him wildly, pupils dilated with just a sliver of blue peeking out around the edges. 

“Aren’t you going to join me?”  He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to reply, diving off the end of the dock and into the water.

A wild splash echoes behind him as Jaskier throws himself in after the witcher, clothes and all.

For a moment, a rush of sensations overwhelms Geralt, blocking all else.  He can hear the thud of trees being cut down all the way up in Lairdswell.  Smell the freshly made bread of the bakeries that dot all the way up and down the river’s banks.  Hear the rhythmic clack of the pedals of hundreds of looms as the weavers sing their working songs while producing metres and metres of the fine cloth that Lettenhove is also known for.  He can hear shoremen yelling at each other as they toss bundles to and from a myriad of boats that he can feel slicing through the water.

He hangs suspended in the water, eyes closed, immersed in the feel of the river.  Cool hands entangle themselves in his hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Behind his closed eyelids he gets a flash of something ancient; he can almost make out the barbaric beat of tribal drums and the image of a tall, slender elven man darts briefly across his vision, smiling approvingly, before he opens his eyes and sees only Jaskier.

His Jaskier, who hangs just above him in the water, brilliant smile and gleaming eyes stealing all of Geralt’s focus.  Geralt deliberately tilts his face up, raising a hand to clasp the back of his River god’s neck to bring Jaskier down to his level so their lips can finally meet in a kiss.

The world disappears; breathing becomes inconsequential.  Worries and doubts flee into the distance. Geralt knows he can take on the world if necessary.  So long as he gets to keep this. Jaskier, wrapped around him, lips moving sweetly against his own, as they are cradled together in the safety of their river.

Chapter Text

Hi guys!

I’ll delete this “chapter” in a week or so, but just to let you know this is now a series. A little oneshot involving Trava reflecting over his relationship with his brother and Jaskier’s love for Geralt has been posted.  I can also confirm that a sequel involving Jaskier, Geralt and Ciri’s time at Kaer Morhen is underway. Expect the appearance of more River gods than the other witchers are comfortable with! 

Hope you are all keeping well and stay safe! 

DancingLassie