Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lettenhove wasn’t a stranger to storms.

The closed-off, gated city had experienced bad weather for decades; enduring the worst of torrential rain, lightning storms, cyclones, tornadoes, tsunamis... the whole lot. There was only one week on record where the quiet city received somewhat good weather, and even then it was cloudy at best.

In some outer regions, in the towns nearby, there were rumours - myths - that Lettenhove was cursed. Not a soul could explain the years of bad weather without resorting back to “Twas a curse, some old hag I tell ya! The Viscounts of old must’ve pissed her off!”

Yet no one could prove this theory to be the truth. Not even a mage herself could figure out the reason Lettenhove had experienced such bad weather.

But the reason why it did, isn’t the point of this story, no, instead the reason why it all changed - why Lettenhove came to be known as the sunshine city where buttercups grow - is the reason for telling.

***

“Hush my child, not too long now,” Lilia whispers against the thunder, cradling her baby close to her chest as she makes her way down the old crooked path. “You’ll be safe soon.”

As the wind howls, pushing trees over with its immense force, Lilia takes careful but hurried steps. Her feet are raw and blistered, her arms are growing tired but she must push on with the hours of the night fading away. And it must be by foot, for if she uses her magic now, this far from the Fae Court - she could harm both herself and her baby.

So she presses on, doing her best to shelter her child - her everything - from the crackle of lightning and downpour of rain. But even with her body shielding the young infant, the noises, the sense of dread and terror causes the baby to wail.

As Lilia reaches the large iron gates of Lettenhove, she pauses to check on her child, tearing up as the infant cries and cries - refusing to calm at any coming second.

So Lilia continues, closer to her destination now.

“My dear don’t cry,” It’s a useless affirmation, but it’s more for herself than her baby. “Everything will be alright.”

It won’t.

Lilia has one job here - to get her child to the only person who will give it the love - the home she can't anymore. And then she is to return to the Fae Court, sentenced to life imprisonment... for falling in love with a human.

This was all her fault. She didn’t follow the fae rules - the law - and now her child, her halfling child would pay the price.

Breaking through the quiet of the Lettenhove streets, her child screams especially loudly, face wet with tears and rain. With every step she takes, every sob her baby makes, her heart breaks off bit by bit, soon to be rendered utterly shattered.

It’s not a moment longer before she cries too, already grieving the loss of her, too young, child.

“My buttercup, you will take comfort in your father’s arms from now on,” And with that, she kneels against the crooked path, still clutching her child tight, glancing up at the large house - a mansion she’s returned to too many times to count. All those times resulted in happiness, this time... not so much.

The wind howls in tune with broken sobs. 

Without another breath, Lilia kisses her loved one on the nose, clutches him close, and says her muttered goodbyes.

Claws rip through her heart, or, at least, it feels that way when she is forced to let go of her everything - placing it in a bed of flowers - buttercups to be exact - with the hope that the life he receives will be filled with only laughter and love, and happiness.

The thunder cracks open the sky, blue lightning spitting down over the horizon. It’s a reminder, that it’s time to go.

So Lilia does, she gets up, turns, and walks back the way she came... leaving her shattered heart behind her where yellow flowers wilt.

***

“You’re doing it again,” A whiny, utterly annoyed voice derails Jaskier’s train of thought.

With a twirl of his head, he faces the source of the voice, eyes landing on Priscilla, who is sitting opposite him, with four - no, five - books open in front of her. Her eyes flick up from her scribbled notes to Jaskier’s left hand, which is drumming fingers loudly against the wooden table.

“Oh, sorry,” Jaskier quickly mumbles, drawing his hand back to his lap. “Wasn’t aware.”

Priscilla sighs, folding her arms on top of her books.

“I know, what’s wrong?” She asks, eyebrows tugging down to the bridge of her nose.
Jaskier shrugs, not interested in discussing all the problems he currently is dealing with, for the gazillionth time with Priscilla.

“Ah, no, don’t give me that,” Priscilla mimics his shrug. “Shit, no, I know you better than all your other companions, I don’t fall for it like they do.”

With a tilt of his head, he feigns innocence, “Whatever do you mean?”

Priscilla rolls her eyes.

Which in turn makes Jaskier smile, resting his chin in his left hand as Priscilla stares daggers into his soul.

“You’re lucky I consider you a close friend. If anyone else were to try that shit with me, I would’ve thrown a book at them,” She huffs. “So stop being an idiot and tell me what’s wrong. Something has been bothering you all morning... more than usual - even considering your overall crappy mood lately.”

Someone from across the library shouts a string of curse words, resulting in the head of the Library to kick them out.

Jaskier takes the advantage of that distraction, and sinks back in his seat, hoping that Priscilla lets the topic go.

But, of course, she doesn’t.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz if I have to beat the information out of you with my godforsaken lute, I will -”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

At that, Priscilla scrunches up a piece of parchment and throws it at the other bard’s head.

Jaskier chuckles, reaching for the balled up parchment as he fixes his hair. He’s not about to let Priscilla win the battle so he throws it right back at her. It hits her on the nose, bounces off, and goes flying back down onto the table.

While Jaskier laughs, Priscilla does not.

“Jaskier I swear -”

“Yes yes I know, my feelings. Seriously what’s the point? It’s not like talking about what’s bothering me - for the hundredth time this week by the way - is going to fix anything. Not going to solve the barely sleeping issue or the lack of appetite issue - and definitely not going to solve the ‘missing a certain brooding Witcher issue’.”

Priscilla closes her books, and folds her arms again, turning her attention completely to Jaskier. She’s heard all this before. But that doesn’t mean it worries her any less.

“You’re still not sleeping well? What happened last night? Nightmares again?”

Jaskier slumps in his chair, looking down at his hands, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess. It took me forever to fall asleep, and when I finally did, it wasn’t for long... and yeah I had a nightmare, again.”

“About what this time?”

There’s a pause as Jaskier thinks of all the scattered imagery and chaotic colours that formulated themselves into a nightmare the night before.

“I’m not even sure,” he fidgets with the hem of his doublet. “There was rain, I’m sure, storming even... but...”

The next words don’t come, and instead, he stares out the window, at the wind rustling a nearby oak tree. He can’t remember most of the dream, but he swears it felt familiar, like a memory almost.

Hush my child.

When the seconds drag on, and Jaskier doesn’t finish, Priscilla leans across the table and prods his arm with her quill, eyebrows raised.

Jaskier jolts and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Priscilla takes her turn to shrug, “It’s fine, just finish what you were going to say.”

He ponders it, considers if speaking it aloud may help squash the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach but... he’s brought Priscilla into enough of his problems.

Last winter when he accidentally slept with a pregnant wife’s husband (how was he supposed to know he was married?) Priscilla talked the wife down from murdering Jaskier in cold blood. Priscilla received some very nasty words in result, and so Jaskier promised himself he wouldn’t bring her into any more of his problems.

“You know what, I don’t even remember, you know how dreams are?” He does his best to sound convincing, plastering his best fake smile to his face.

The look Priscilla gives him is one of complete suspicion; eye narrowed to slits, nose scrunched up, mouth downturned. But she doesn’t push, opting to organise her books and quills into a neat pile instead.

“Ready to leave?” She asks, standing.

Jaskier nods, rising to his feet as well, relieved that the conversation over - subject dropped for now.

“Good cause I am starving,” Priscilla groans, pulling her bag, that carries her books, over her shoulder. “And in real need of a drink, my neck is killing me.”

“Tavern it is then.”

Oxenfurt isn’t the kindest of cities.

It’s a bustling life of creativity and finer things, sure, but a life of kindness it is not.

And of course, Jaskier didn’t realise this until the winter after his first year of travelling with Geralt. He came back from a life of adventure, a life he genuinely enjoyed, to find Oxenfurt was duller - full to the brim with pompous pricks with not an inch of care for others in their hearts.

Every scholar he used to look up to, every professor he used to learn from, every bard he was friends with... he saw them for who they were; assholes.

Except for Priscilla.

She stayed her caring, compassionate self - always writing songs about the misfortunate. She welcomed him back with open arms and a place to rest his head for the winter - until of course, he saved up for his own place. It was a comfort Jaskier didn’t know how to be thankful for.

“Maybe we should stop by Miriam’s place, I promised her I would drop these books off for her to borrow,” Priscilla says as they’re walking down Mainstreet.

Jaskier nods in agreement, although he wishes he could say no. He’s never liked Miriam. She’s Priscilla’s best friend, and she’s as stuck up as the rest of them. Jaskier has always wondered how Priscilla stands her.

“Do you think she’ll mind that I couldn’t find my old Nature studies book? I know she needs it for her class on Monday, but I searched my whole house and not a sign of it,” Priscilla chews at the inside of her mouth, eyes on the busy street ahead.

Jaskier would normally scoff, and reply with some quick-witted comment about Miriam throwing a fit, but he can see the worry in Priscilla’s eyes and doesn’t want to make matters worse.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine if not, we can just steal the expensive sweet wine from her kitchen cabinet,” he jokes, nudging Priscilla’s arm playfully.

An amused smile breaks out on her face despite the clear struggle to not smile.

Jaskier takes that victory, and smiles himself, glancing around at the people bustling around them; buying soaps, buying jewellery, negotiating prices of rare fruits... it’s a colourful sight, but underneath it all lies pure greed.

‘Ah, there you are bitterness, back again,’ he thinks to himself.

“Hey, wait here, think I saw some strawberry soap back there, you know how much my mum loves that soap. I’ll be back in a bit,” Priscilla says, patting him on the shoulder before hurrying off to one of the market stalls.

Jaskier waits right there, thinking of soaps.

***

“No, Jaskier, put it back. Not wasting coin on unnecessary shit.”

Usually, that’s the end of the conversation with Geralt - his growls and grumps indicators for when Jaskier needs to just drop it, but this time, Jaskier refuses to back down.

“Ah no, Geralt, it is not ‘unnecessary shit’ as your grumpy bum puts it,” Jaskier is quite pleased with the utterly confused expression that’s forming on the Witcher’s face. “It’s soap. And the fact that you would suggest that offends me quite frankly - it’s basic hygiene Geralt, trust me, you of all people need to bathe.”

This time, it’s Jaskier’s turn to put his foot down.

“Now, choose,” He holds up the bars of soap. “Lemongrass or Vanilla.”

Geralt sighs and Jaskier swears he sees colour in the witcher’s cheeks. But that has to be a trick of the light, Geralt doesn’t blush.

“Vanilla.”

Jaskier smiles, “See that wasn’t so hard.”

***

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier returns from his daydreaming to find Priscilla waving a hand in his face, eyebrows raised, and the corner of her mouth twitched up into an amused smile.

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” He curses, looking around him.

‘How many people walked by you? You must have looked crazy,’ he thinks.

“Come on, I’m done and you’ve spent enough time with your head in the clouds,” Priscilla teases, grabbing Jaskier by the arm and pulling him along.

They’re standing in Miriam’s library room.

“So, I see no Nature Studies,” Miriam comments, giving Priscilla an unimpressed look.

Priscilla goes red, scratching the back of her head and staring at the ground. If only Jaskier had the guts to tell Miriam where to stick her fucking rude mouth.

“I couldn’t find it, Miriam, I’m sorry, but to make up for it, I’ll put an extra few coins into the fund jar for your play,” Priscilla promises, clasping her hands together.

Miriam glares, hard for a few seconds before letting go of the tension in her shoulders and nodding

“Fine.”

Priscilla smiles, and they hug for a quick second before Priscilla rushes off to donate to the fund jar. Leaving Jaskier alone with Miriam, something he never likes to be.

It takes less than five seconds of Miriam’s staring before she opens her gob, “So you’re still here, aren’t you usually off with your witcher by now? Winter ends next week.”

Jaskier’s folds his arms over his chest, trying not to let how much that comment affected him, show. He doesn’t need Miriam Smith learning about how Geralt threw him away like dirt. It’s not something he wants to share with the whole city.

“Here to see the cherry trees blossom,” he quips, mouth tugging into a tight smile.

Miriam narrows her eyes, taking a step over.

“He’s not meeting with you this year, is he?” She asks, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk.

His heart stutters, and he wants nothing more than to leave. Instead, he glares daggers at Miriam, telling her to back off with his eyes.

“I believe that’s none of your business.”

She erupts into laughter.

“Oh my god, he fucking deserted you didn’t he?” Miriam exclaims through hysteric laughter. “Oh this is too good, all that bragging about how you travel with a witcher and he does the thing we all wish we could do.”

Jaskier looks away, stares down at the ground as his heart pounds in his throat. There is prickling in his eyes - fuck, he is not crying in front of Miriam.

“Did he finally realise you were too annoying to deal with? Get sick and tired of your constant -”

“Miriam!” Priscilla shouts, entering the room from the left hallway.

Jaskier has never been more relieved in his life to see Priscilla. He just hopes it means they can leave, now.

“Oh come on, Pris, you gotta find this a little bit funny -”

“Bye Miriam, we’re leaving now.”

Priscilla for the second time that day, grabs Jaskier by the arm and pulls him out of the house, and back onto the bustling street.

Two minutes of silent walking and Jaskier’s heart is still pounding, his stomach still swirling with nausea. At least the feeling like he was gonna cry has faded.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry Jaskier,” Priscilla apologises, five minutes down, back near the Mainstreet. “She’s... nasty, don’t know why I put up with her.”

Jaskier looks over at his friend.

Her shiny blonde hair is braided up into a bun, her bright hazel eyes shine under the soft afternoon sun, and her doublet is almost as extravagant as Jaskier’s - instead, being a dull purple than a bright yellow.

In another world, maybe Jaskier could’ve fallen for Priscilla. She’s stunningly gorgeous and has a kind heart. She’s also a bard like him, understands that life.

But in this world, in this universe, her blonde hair isn’t white and her eyes hold not enough gold.

“It’s fine Priscilla, I’m used to Miriam’s shitty attitude by now,” he lies, choosing to pretend that her words didn’t reach his weak heart.

“You sure about that, cause it looked like she really got to you.”

Priscilla stops and for a moment Jaskier is confused, but then he sees the tavern sign overhead and realises they’re already there. Time flies when... you’re having deep conversations with a close friend?

“I... It did, fine, but can we not talk about it please, I’d rather just yeah, not talk about it,” he pleads, stepping up to the tavern front door.

“Okay, okay, sure,” Priscilla agrees.

He really needs a drink now.

“So I was thinking maybe you could stay here for spring since you don’t, you know... have anywhere to go... this year...” Priscilla says, wincing at the last words as they come out of her mouth.

She buries her face behind her large tankard as she drinks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, resting his arms on the table and staring down at the brownish liquid in his cup.

“I don’t know... maybe I’ll just... I was thinking I could just head out alone. I’ve done it before, and God knows I’ve learnt more since then,” Jaskier explains, fingers peeling the old paint off the side of his tankard.

Priscilla goes quiet for a moment before clearing her throat.

“Jask, you’re not seventeen anymore, although you don’t look far off it - damn you and your glowing youthfulness,” She says, with a soft smile, and Jaskier grins back. “But, in all kindness and love, I tell you, you’re going to die out there alone.”

Jaskier huffs, grin disappeared.

“How do you know that? Huh? I’m not fucking dependent on brooding witcher’s in desperate need of emotional stability, I’m capable on my own,” he snaps, slumping back in his, very uncomfortable, chair.

He can feel Priscilla’s heavy gaze on him.

“I know that Jask,” She says, tone laced with concern. “But here in Oxenfurt, not out there in the wildest parts of the continent. Now you up for another round?”

Jaskier sits up straight, sculls down the rest of the ale in his tankard and hands it to Priscilla with a fake smile, “Yep.”

She rolls her eyes and takes it, exiting the table to got get another round.

Waiting patiently, Jaskier leans back in his chair, glancing around the tavern at the familiar faces - all people he knows, acquaintances he’d call them. They’re all people he knows the faces of but not the names.

“You look quite melancholy for someone wearing bright yellow,” A smooth baritone voice comments.

Jaskier lifts his eyes to the dark-haired man now standing next to his table. He’s alright looking, has a scar running down his forearm, recognises it as a ghoul attack. It’s not as impressive as the tens and hundreds of scars littering Geralt’s body but then again, no one could come close to a centuries-old Witcher.

“Well, it’s part of my charm you see, you don’t know how bright and happy I can be until some oaf half asks flirting,” he teases, leaning his arms back on the table, shifting his weight towards the man. He’s done this enough to know exactly how to shape the night.

The man chuckles, takes a seat in Priscilla’s former seat and clasps his hands on the table.

As soon as he’s leaning closer, his hands rested near Jaskier’s own, his demeanour changes and the smile drops from his face. Jaskier’s stomach drops with it.

“I’m not here to flirt, I have an important message for you but we can’t talk here,” The man whispers, eyes flitting around nervously. “Meet me tomorrow night, underneath the northbridge, we’ll talk then.”

The man goes to get up but Jaskier is quick to follow, grabbing the man’s wrist to stop him.

His heart is pounding in his chest again, and his head is spinning, full of questions - the what, the who, the why.

“Who are you? You can’t just -”

“Shhh,” He hushes, looking around him to be sure no one has their eyes on them. “This isn’t a joke, bard, quiet down.”

Jaskier scowls, ready to open his mouth and give this guy a word about speaking to people with respect but then he corrects himself, understanding that now isn’t the time. He needs to shut up this time and listen.

“My name isn’t important, just meet me tomorrow night Julian.”

The man turns around and walks straight out of the tavern.

And Jaskier stands there, confused as fuck.

Chapter Text

Phillip Andreas Pankratz the Third, was a reasonable man.

He spent years training himself to be poised, to be polite, to be the most respectable version of himself he could be.

But respect doesn’t make history, as he would later tell his descendant.

Throughout his childhood, he’d suffered the worst of the worst. The plague ran through Lettenhove as it did everywhere else - quick and fast like a fire catching on to a field of grass. It was horrendous, too many died, the city left in an abysmal state.

Lettenhove had seen plenty of storms - every kind - but none came close to the aftermath of the plague.

Phillip, just thirteen years old, had to grow up fast. He’d lost half his family because of the plague, leaving him alone with his younger brother and uncle, to take the title as Viscount. No amount of preparation from his father could’ve prepared him for the work he had to do.

Cleaning up after a storm is easy to handle, but the everlasting effects of a disease... it was almost impossible.

Keyword, being impossible, as Phillip grew up in the span of a night and took the city’s lasting population from an absolute wreck to a somewhat thriving community of people. He singled-handedly saved his people.

But because of it, the Viscount knew grief better than anyone, and he lived thirty years of his life in pain and suffering, praying for the light.

Which is where a certain Fae came in.

Phillip, with all his reason, fell deeply in love with a woman of immense beauty. This woman, this Fae stole his heart from the second he laid eyes on her, and from there he found his home - his happiness.

It was one especially stormy night when Phillip found the world to be too broken and too beautiful for his heart to handle. Life’s bittersweet symphony of tragedy and miracles stunned him as the wind howled, and the rain fell.

It was the wail of, nothing else, but a baby that woke him that night.

He ripped back the covers of his bed and ran through his house, lantern in hand, trying to figure out why he could hear a baby’s cry of all things.

With a muddled brain, he opened the front door, definitely not expecting to find a child - no more than a week old, laying in his bed of buttercups, wrapped in blankets made from leaves.

Three steps, it took for Phillip to reach the child.

Three steps, it took for Phillip to see that the child was not just a baby, but his baby - his and his dear love Lilia’s.

And as that baby with a tuft of chestnut brown hair, and bright blue eyes, sobbed helplessly, Phillip felt his heart both break and beat with a force to be reckoned with. For as he held that child - his child - in his arms, he made a silent vow.

“No matter what, I’ll do anything and everything to keep you safe, for you are, and forever will be, my one, and only.”

***

Storms have never sat right with Jaskier.

Ever since he was young, he hated them. The sound of thunder, the downpour of rain, the too-bright display of lightning - it is enough to make his stomach grow sick and cause his hands to shake.

Of course, he wouldn’t admit this to anyone, that he is afraid of storms.

The only two people who ever knew was his father - now dead and gone - and Geralt - gone as well, but still alive.

The unfortunate night when he and Geralt were sleeping under the stars - not uncommon for them - and a storm rolled in heavy and loud, Jaskier had experienced one of his worst panic attacks, shaking and muttering endless curses as Geralt herded Roach, and the bard, into the nearest cave.

He remembers explaining it to the Witcher, rambling on about all the times he’d found himself terrified by just the mere sound of thunder.

And he remembers Geralt telling him, in return, that he was afraid of the ocean.

It’s those little memories that frustrate Jaskier to no end. Because Geralt wasn’t - isn’t - a terrible monster. He’s kind, gentle, caring - you just have to pay attention. But Jaskier doesn’t want to remember how nice Geralt was - wants to hate him instead.

He wants to be mad, wants to list all the reasons Geralt was a shitty friend because hating him is less painful than loving him.

Jaskier is tired of loving Geralt.

“You made it,” The low hum of a baritone voice scrapes through the soft patter of rain, and the quiet lapping of waves on the sand.

Jaskier turns around, facing the shadowy figure of a man - the man from the tavern.

With wary eyes, Jaskier glances from the figure to the water hitting the piers holding up the bridge above them. He doesn’t like storms, and he definitely doesn’t like being under bridges, near the choppy ocean, during a storm.

A strong breeze passes through from the ocean, freezing cold; the saltwater that flicks up with it, is even colder - closer to ice than liquid.

Jaskier shivers and regrets his decision to wear only a doublet instead of a coat, in the middle of a particularly cold winter night, near the ocean. One day he’ll learn from his stupidity but tonight isn’t that moment.

“You meet with all the people you flirt with like this?” Jaskier quips, taking a few steps forward, away from the shoreline.

The man walks forward, into the light, black hair shining under the glimpse of moonlight. He’s standing straight, head high - poised; all seriousness and no joke. Which sits so very right with Jaskier’s growing anxiety... not.

“Look I apologise for the circumstances but it had to be this way. I cannot risk anyone but you hearing this information,” The man says, voice still relatively hushed.

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows and chews on his lip.

He may be a fool at times, but he knows better than to trust random strangers, he’s still ready to run if need be.

“My name is Marcus, I’m a Fae Knight -”

“Oh no no no no, I don’t take messages from the devil’s guards. If Róża wants me, she needs to come and get me,” Jaskier spits out, turning around to walk back the way he came.

No hell way is he getting caught up in the Fae court’s problems again. He’s made that mistake once, and he’s not making it again. Róża the evil witch of a queen can take her useless information and shove it up her -

“I’m not here for Rose,” The man calls out just as Jaskier reaches the ladder that leads back up to the city streets.

The bard stops, and slowly turns around, meeting the man’s gaze.

His heart is thumping.

“Then who are you here for?” Jaskier asks, scowling.

The man - the fae knight, walks over, eyes softer now - less serious.

“You.”

Jaskier scoffs, rolls his eyes, “Me? A fae Knight needs personal help from a half-blood?”

It’s positively hilarious. All those years of avoiding the Fae Court - so he wouldn’t get his head chopped off - all those years of being tormented by their words, they now want his help. Fucking rich.

The fae knight drops his head, runs a hand through his hair.

“Buttercup, you -”

“Do not call me that, to you I’m Julian, that’s it. You don’t get to use that name,” Jaskier almost growls in anger, glaring hard.

The Fae Knight sighs, folding his arms over his chest.

Up close, Jaskier now notices the detailed mark on his neck; a red flower with black seeds and a leafy green stem.

“Poppy?” Jaskier remarks, nodding his head towards the Fae mark on the Knight’s neck.

The Knight nods solemnly, “Yes, human name Mak. I’m not fortunate enough to have two human names though... where is your mark?”

Jaskier scoffs again, “Only people who bed me get to see it.”

For a moment Mak looks taken aback, but then he corrects himself, all business once more.

“Look, Julian, I have one message to give you and that’s it. Take it if you wish, but if not, I’ll never disturb you again,” Mak promises.

Jaskier feels a bit of the anger dissipate.

He sighs, “Fine.”

“Your mother is alive.”

Of all the things Jaskier could’ve expected to hear, it certainly wasn’t that.

“What?!”

Mak shushes him again, glancing up at the Oxenfurt streets above.

‘This fucking fae is paranoid, Melitele’s tits,’ Jaskier thinks, turning around to face the ocean. His heart is thundering now in his chest, and his head is spinning like a top - refusing to calm for even a second.

His mother can’t be alive.

She died giving birth to Jaskier. At least that’s what Jaskier’s father told him... she can’t be alive. She just can’t. Jaskier spent a lifetime with her dead - it’s impossible.

“You’re lying, there’s no way my mother is alive, she died, when I was born!” Jaskier turns back to shout at Mak’s face.

“Julian I know this is big news but you need to be quiet - if the wrong person found out -”

“Then what?!”

“Then we’d both have a target on our heads, you fool,” Mak growls, prodding Jaskier in the chest.

And boy, doesn’t he get enough of people calling him a fool.

It’s too much, he’s had too much to deal with over the last few months - a now alive mother is too much. What is he even supposed to do with that information? Go find her and say, hey mother it’s me, the child you abandoned?

He’s hyperventilating.

“Julian, are you...”

That’s all Jaskier hears before he passes out cold.

***

There are hands on his waist, tugging him close back from the ledge of the cliff.

It’s windy, and he’s standing two feet away from the edge, but someone has their arms around him, preventing him from falling.

They’re warm, solid, strong.

Jaskier leans back, breath falling in an even rhythm now. It’s a relief, both the comfort of strong arms and the ease of breathing. It’s the calmest he’s felt in too long.

“I’m here Jask, you’re safe,” The smooth, low voice of his favourite Witcher is a whisper in his ear.

He shivers despite the warm breath on his neck.

“I missed you,” Jaskier almost cries, turning around in his arms to see the witcher, to let golden eyes and white hair ease his aching heart but the second he does... the arms disappear and he’s falling...

... down...

      ... down...

             ... down.

***

Jaskier wakes with a start.

His body throws itself forward until a small hand is on his chest, stopping him from moving much more.

In his disoriented state, he grabs the wrist the hand belongs to and shoves it away, ready to reach for his dagger and attack the person too close, too cold for comfort. However, the overwhelming stench of lavender is too hard on his senses, and he gags, ending up in a coughing fit.

“Yes, my dear, that’s why I tried to stop you from moving, you winded yourself when you fainted,” A strong accented, female voice explains.

Jaskier opens his watering eyes, to see an elf, with wild red hair sitting on the edge of the bed he’s in.

In short, Jaskier couldn’t feel more confused.

Rubbing his now throbbing head, he leans back against the headboard, “Who are you, and where am I?”

“I’m Daedre, a healer, and you are in the Coven Of The Lost,” The elf tells it like it’s some extraordinary thing Jaskier is just supposed to understand.

But he doesn’t and trying to hurts his already aching head.

So he squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to calm his erratic heartbeat.

“The coven of the what now?”

The elf gets up from her place on the bed and walks across the room to get a vial of dark green liquid from a dusty old cabinet.

“The Coven Of The Lost, we are all magic users who have been shunned by the humans, outcasted by the mages. We are the downtrodden, and left behind,” She says, pouring the slimy green liquid into a cup. “Mostly made up of Elves, Faes, some Dwarves with special abilities.”

She returns to the bed, “Here, drink.”

Jaskier opens his eyes, and scowls at the disgusting looking liquid, Daedre is offering.

“Oh, don’t look down your nose in disgust like that, it helps with the pain,” She tuts, shoving the cup into his hands.

Jaskier takes it hesitantly, shaking the cup lightly. The green goop bubbles unexpectedly, and Jaskier grimaces.

But the elf healer keeps staring so he downs it in one go and hands the cup back to her, gagging again as the liquid slides hot down his throat.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” She says, returning the cup to a table across the room. “Now hopefully that will help quite nicely, your friend, Poppy, is giving you a tour of the place.”

Jaskier stares blankly.

He doesn’t have a clue who Poppy is or why she would think... oh.

It all comes flooding back like a tsunami drenching him - dunking him... his mother is alive, and he now has an irritating Fae Knight on his back.

Life just keeps getting better and better.

“Brilliant,” he says, sarcastically.

Daedre, with her almost glowing green eyes, stares at him. With one hand on her waist, she uses her other to comb her fingers through her untamed curls. It does nothing to ease the chaotic mess, instead, making the curls even wilder.

“You don’t seem eager,” She comments, narrowing her eyes. “Most magical outcasts that arrive here are over the moon to discover the legendary Coven.”

Jaskier scoffs, throwing back the sheets, “Well, I’m not like most magical outcasts, for one they have magic.”

Daedre cocks her head.

“But you are Fae, your mark shows it,” She protests.

Jaskier moves to sit on the edge of the bed, feet laying flat on the cold floor. He swears it’s so freezing, water could turn to ice.

He stretches his back, the pain in his head shifting from a throb to a dull ache he can ignore. He guesses that disgusting gloop is working. With that pain dulled, he can at least think properly without the world spinning.

Daedre’s words catch up to him, and he freezes like the winter chill.

“My mark?” He asks, lips tugging into a scowl.

The elf blushes.

“You take the pants off of everyone who comes in here?!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his arms out in an, admittingly, dramatic gesture.

Daedre continues to turn red, shifting her eyes to the floor, “I do apologise Sir Julian, but your clothes were indeed wet and covered in sand. I had to wash them.”

For the first time since he woke up, Jaskier looks down at what he’s wearing. It’s not his clothes. Instead, he’s wearing a white shirt too snug around his arms, and bright green trousers made of some old silk. It’s not a terrible fit, but it’s not what he would’ve chosen.

“Melitele’s Tits... would love if someone could explain to me why life has suddenly become an endless stream of nonsense.”

With a frustrated huff, he buries his face in his hands, trying to just will the world - time to stop moving for a second.

“I’ll go get Poppy,” Daedre says hurriedly, feet moving just as fast as her words.

Jaskier has been pacing the healer’s room for what must be an hour before the heavy wooden door creaks open, Mak stepping inside.

He’s not dressed in black anymore, instead, in a greenish-gold tunic and tattered hyde boots.

Fashion sense, it seems, is not high on the Coven’s priority list.

Jaskier, with a tick in his erratic heartbeat, stops his pacing, to stare - no, glare - at the Fae Knight, with a ferocity that can not be challenged, not even by the brooding legend - Geralt, himself.

“Kidnapping Bard’s is an interesting hobby,” Jaskier snaps.

Mak, or Poppy, walks across the room and takes a seat on the bed, clasping his hands together, straightening out his tunic. The Knight has his shoulders held tight, his back straight - there is no falter in his poised portrayal.

He clears his throat, “I brought you to a safe space. I did not kidnap you... in fact, you are free to leave if you wish.”

Jaskier fixes a fake smile, “Splendid, I’ll be on my way once you return my clothes. That doublet was quite expensive might I add.”

Mak nods, eyes glancing around the room, stopping at the painting hanging on the wall.

“I’ll see to it,” he pauses. “But I insist you let me show you around, there are others here. Others who have experienced the same hate as you by the Queen Róża. I could show you the world I’ve built, the community that thrives here.”

Jaskier’s scowl shifts to wary confusion.

“Fae’s like us -”

“No one is Fae like me,” The bard interrupts. “I’m not like any of you. I’m an abomination, a half-blood. I don’t even have magic.”

Mak stands, steps over to Jaskier, and peers at him.

“You have magic, you just don’t know how to use it, access it... we can show you.”

“That easy?”

“You’ll see.”

Mak turns around and heads over to the door, stopping when he gets there to turn back around and give Jaskier another peering stare, “But if you are sure about leaving that’s fine too.”

The knight opens the door, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat in a panicked state.

‘This is your chance to see if you are truly broken or not, take it,’ he thinks. The bard isn’t sure if it’s the right decision but his mouth opens just as Mak is walking out.

“Wait,” The Knight stops. “Show me.”

***

Geralt huffs out a frustrated grunt.

“That’s not how you swing a sword, bard, if you do it like that, you’ll fall flat on your face.”

Jaskier lifts his head and rolls his eyes at the Witcher.

“Then show me how, you big oaf,” Jaskier teases, swinging the sword in his direction.

Geralt grimaces at the incorrect use, and marches over, grabbing the silver sword from the Bard’s hands. In a way too graceful display, the witcher swings the sword in front of him, arms in a completely different state to Jaskier.

Which of course, makes the bard scrunch up his nose and scowl at both the sword and the Witcher holding it.

Geralt hands it back and Jaskier tries, his hardest, to copy the White Wolf’s movements, but he still stumbles forward, sword slipping from his grasp.

When he finds his footing, but not his pride, he lifts his eyes to his Witcher friend, noticing the smallest of amused smiles on Geralt’s face... and Jaskier’s heart thuds.

“Here,” Geralt picks up the sword and places it in Jaskier’s right hand.

Then he moves to stand behind the bard, hands coming to hold over Jaskier’s own, forming the right hold on the sword’s hilt.

Jaskier’s breath escapes his lungs, and his throat goes dry.

‘Fucking oblivious Witcher,’ he thinks.

Geralt continues, moving his arms in a swinging motion, unlike Jaskier’s previous attempt.

Meanwhile, Jaskier is dying inside; his cheeks flush red, his heart thumps in his throat, and his mind goes foggy. With the Witcher so close, too close, Jaskier can smell Vanilla on him - mixed with sweat and smoke, and he wants to drown in that smell.

He hates his foolish heart.

***

From what Jaskier can tell, they’re underground.

Mak takes Jaskier down through several tunnels that each seems to branch off to more tunnels, more rooms. Apparently, there is an order to it all but Jaskier imagines it would take him less than a few minutes in this place to get utterly lost.

They’re walking idly through a particularly long corridor when Jaskier starts to hear the rambunctious commotion coming from nearby.

“What’s that?” He asks, peering around at the rocky walls scattered with scratches and dark stains he’d rather not ponder on.

Mak gestures to the end of the tunnel, where metal double doors await.

“That is our common room, I have a few faces I’d like you to meet,” Mak explains.

Jaskier nods, wondering just how many people - or creatures are home to this ‘Coven of the Lost.’ Since they’ve been wondering these tunnels, they’ve only passed two living things; an elf with a giant burn scar on his face, and a rat.

The rat was kinder.

“This... Coven... why have I never heard of it before? I’ve never even heard a mention or whisper?” Jaskier buttons up his doublet (yes his, the elf healer returned it smelling weirdly of pine).

Mak clears his throat, “It’s an oath we make every newcomer take, to keep this place - this community - a secret. If anyone...”

The Knight stops walking, and Jaskier follows suit, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“We are called the Coven of the Lost for a reason. The folks here, some have all sorts of incredible abilities, some don’t and are simply outcasted by regular society. We take people in, give them a home, a life, a purpose,” Mak sighs. “If the ones that outcasted them, the ones that hunted them, find this place, well... let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

There is real worry - fear in Mak’s eyes. The grief pulls at his skin, tugs lines into his forehead.

“You mean Nilfgaard?” Jaskier questions.

Mak scoffs, “Nilfgaard is the least of our worries, no, while Nilfgaard is a threat to the current existence of human lives, they are not a threat to us... our threats lie with the humans, but mostly the Mages... the Witchers.”

Jaskier’s breath gets caught in his lungs.

“Witchers are a threat? I would’ve thought they would protect -”

“Protect?!” Mak shouts, mood flipping.

Jaskier takes a step back in shock, eyes wide, heart stuttering as the Fae Knight’s eyes turn orange. The bard isn’t unaware of the Fae’s ability for their eye colour to change. He remembers the Queen, Róża’s eyes turning blood red when he stepped foot in her court.

A few short moments and Mak seems to collect himself, taking deep breaths and shifting his eye colour back to a dull green.

“I apologise... this topic angers me greatly,” Mak stares away, at the wall. “It was the Witchers who left us to fend for ourselves when Queen Róża abandoned all reason and started ordering for us all to be slaves to her dictatorship. It was the Witchers who slaughtered fifteen of my friends - all in the name of ‘ridding the world of evil’.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw, heart sinking.

“Did they have a reason?”

Mak glares right at him, “Would you call us stealing a bit of food to survive reason enough for slaughtering kids?”

Jaskier’s heart erupts into a frenzy of erratic thumps, and his thoughts descend into a downward spiral.

Surely not right? He’s met Geralt’s brothers, he knows... except he doesn’t. Not anymore. He’s not sure he ever did. Geralt kept so much about himself hidden from Jaskier, maybe he was - is - secretly capable of killing the innocent.

Its a harsh thought but Jaskier doesn’t know what’s true... everything he once knew has blurred out of focus.

“No.”

“Exactly,” Mak nods. “Now, let me introduce you to my comrades.”

With a gesture of his right hand, Mak continues down the tunnel. Jaskier takes a deep breath and follows, trying to sort his brain into some form of organisation but the mess is too much of a tangled web... it just gets more knotted with every tug.

Mak opens the doors to the common room, and Jaskier audibly gasps.

The high ceiling is littered with chandeliers of all types - clearly stolen or snatched from unuse elsewhere, over fifty tables is lining the floor - all accompanied by creatures Jaskier has both seen and not seen before on his travels.

There is a bar at one end, serving tankards of ale, and a fireplace at the other, offering warmth to young children with horns growing from their heads or ears pointed up.

Its a sight Jaskier has never seen before; so many nonhuman species all under the same roof, happy as can be.

There must be at least a hundred - maybe even two hundred - elves, half-elves, faes, half-sirens, half-succubi, doppler’s, godlings... it’s incredible.

“This way,” Mak says, walking towards one of the many tables.

Jaskier quickly follows, noticing the many odd looks he gets from several pairs of beady eyes. In a place for the lost - the outcasted - Jaskier should feel right at home, but even here he can’t help feel like he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Mak waves him over to a table and sits down next to a short man with a wiry grey beard, and completely white eyes.

Jaskier takes a seat for himself, hesitantly of course, as there are still several heads turned towards him.

“Jas... sorry, Julian, this is Calatheal, hes my right-hand man, well, right-hand prophet,” Mak introduces.

The man - Calatheal - extends a boney hand to Jaskier, with a warm smile in greeting.

Jaskier diverts his attention from the many - now scowling - faces watching him carefully, to the old man in front of him.

His stomach feels sick.

“Hi,” He greets anyway, shaking Calatheal’s hand.

Calatheal, even after a few solid seconds of shaking, doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, instead turns it, palm up, and inspects it even though he’s blind.

Jaskier doesn’t like the growing sick feeling in his stomach - the urgency to run, “Uh-”

“I may be blind in the eyes Mr Pankratz but that does not mean I am entirely short of vision,” Calatheal says, voice a low gravel of sound.

Jaskier pulls his hand back, shoving it in his lap away from the creepy old man’s reach. He’s about to ask Mak to show him to the nearest exit when his mind halts on something.

“Wait, how do you know my last name... did Mak tell you about me?” Jaskier furrows his brow.

Calatheal grins, shaking his head. Mak grins too like he’s in on this odd joke.

“No, I told you, I can see more than what the eyes offer... I know more than just your last name, I know all your names. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier, Viscount of Lettenhove, Buttercup, The Bard, The Songbird, The Lark of the White Wolf.”

Jaskier stares in utter shock, not quite sure how to react.

“I have been waiting for your presence for some time Buttercup, you are a special - rare occurrence.”

Even with no pupils, no irises, Jaskier feels like his soul is being peered into.

“I’m a rare occurrence?” He sputters out, finding his words.

Calatheal nods again, his ringed fingers coming up to stroke his beard.

“Yes, quite so... not only does your blood run a substance never existed before on this earth, but your soul is quite special too, it’s brighter than all, blinding to the mortal eye,” Calatheal pauses. “You have a destiny quite rocky but shining. You could be our saviour.”

Jaskier, if he hadn’t been through so much nonsense already would’ve laughed in his face, but with the weight heavy in his heart and bones, he simply stands and leaves the room, from the double metal doors they came through.

He’s endured pain no Knight or Prophet can understand, he doesn’t need to sit and listen to the bullshit that is his destiny. Geralt was right, Destiny can go fuck itself.

“Julian!” Mak calls from behind him but Jaskier keeps walking.

He doesn’t know where he’s going but maybe destiny can help him find the fucking exit.

He gets halfway down the tunnel when Mak’s hand encloses around his forearm, stopping him. He turns around with a harsh glare.

“Bring me here just to listen to the fanatics of some old man? Tell me, do you really care about whether or not I belong, or did you only drag me here because I’m a part of some insane prophecy where I what? Pull you out of your pit of doom?”

Mak sighs, ready to defend his actions but Jaskier is too quick.

“Surely for all you’ve been through, you’d understand how fucking annoying it is for people to continuously keep usingyou.”

Jaskier rips his arm from Mak’s grip and storms off, heart thumping.

He doesn’t get far when a blasting ruckus of what sounds like thunder, followed by a ring of a bell echoes through the many, many tunnels.

His feet come to a halt, and he looks around him, heart thumping in his chest.

“Dammit,” Mak curses from where he’s stood, several feet behind the bard. “Dammit, fuck, dammit.”

Jaskier watches as the Knight hurries forward, grabbing him by the arm again and pulling him along, face scrunched up in fear.

But Jaskier refuses to be manhandled without an explanation so he tugs his arm away again, and stands his ground, “What’s going on?”

Mak huffs and runs a hand through his hair, resting his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You know how I said let’s pray those certain people don’t find us?” Mak asks, eyes turning a darker green. “Well, they found us.”

All it takes is another ring of some bell, and people are rushing every different direction.

Suddenly the tunnels are filled with armoured folk, hurrying every direction with weapons at the ready, and Mak is at the centre of it all, firing orders and commands at every passing soul.

Meanwhile, Jaskier stands next to Mak, heart in a panicked state.

“Send three teams up to the high ground, the towers will offer better aim for the archers,” Mak orders a flaming pink-haired woman - succubi - he recognises her as.

Finally, Mak turns back to Jaskier, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Can you handle a sword?”

Jaskier shrugs, “I guess, why? Do you really think whoever is out there will make it inside? You’ve got hundreds of magical folk out there -”

“Never underestimate the power of your enemies Julian, now take my sword,” Mak pulls his sword out of its hilt and shoves it into Jaskier’s hand. “And head down that tunnel, follow that one and it will lead you to the back exit, get out of here, and get out alive you hear me?”

Mak’s eyes hold no room for argument - they are stern.

But Jaskier is stubborn at the worst of times, and his brain is running a million miles in an attempt to catch up.

“You want me to leave now, I thought you were trying to get me to -”

“Yes well, the plan has changed, if I’m still alive - if we are both still alive, you meet me in back under that bridge in two days, midnight like yesterday,” Mak continues to order.

“But -”

“No buts, just go,” Mak pushes Jaskier back, towards the tunnel he suggested.

Jaskier realises that there is no arguing it, and turns and runs down the tunnel, making his way through the sea of moving bodies, all heading in the opposite direction.

His heart is thundering. His hands are growing sweaty, and he has to keep swapping the sword to the other hand to wipe the clammy one.

It’s so very glorious.

Another thunderous boom shakes the walls, and Jaskier hears a few distant screams.

He moves faster, making his way to the exit.

Only, when he gets to the end of the tunnel, there is just a door to another tunnel.

“Fucking typical,” he mumbles, gripping the sword tight in his right hand, and hurrying down the next tunnel, which is empty.

The harrowing sound of his footsteps accompanied by the distant echo of screams and booms makes his heart thump even harder.

‘How the fuck do I end up in these situations?’ he thinks.

As he gets further and further down the tunnel, the candles on the walls get scarcer, meaning it gets darker, leaving Jaskier to squint to make out the shadows ahead.

He swears he can make out a door when something moves in the darkness.

Jaskier stops, dead in his tracks, staring ahead with only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He grips the sword tighter, praying to the gods that it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him. Or maybe it’s just a rat, or a wild dog or something moving in the darkness.

Apparently, he didn’t pray hard enough because what steps out of the blackness is not a rat, but a tall, brute of a man with a claw mark scar running down the middle of his face. He’s wearing blood-stained armour and is holding a huge sword - a silver sword.

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry with fear.

He could barely make it out of swordfights when he practised with Priscilla so this... he’s gonna fucking die.

“Aww, you almost made it out, too bad you’ll die like the rest of your disgusting brothers and sisters,” the brute of a man says, voice the lowest Jaskier’s heard.

Jaskier is already losing his breath and he hasn’t even started fighting.

“They aren’t my brothers and sisters,” he remarks, weakly.

“You still stink of them, of mutant blood, so you die like the rest of them.”

The brute charges forward, sword parrying forward at Jaskier’s face. He has a mere second to swing his own sword up in front of his face in defence.

It catches the man by surprise, and Jaskier uses that lapse to his advantage and shoves his own sword in a downward motion, effectively pushing the brute’s sword away, almost out of his grasp.

But he quickly gets his grip on it, pulling it up to swing it at Jaskier’s head again.

Jaskier dodges, stumbling into the wall, and narrowly missing getting his head sliced off.

The brute doesn’t take a single break, already moving to stab the sword into Jaskier back. So Jaskier turns around as fast as he can, and kicks his knee up, right as the brute steps forward. Jaskier’s knee collides with the man’s crotch.

The brute growls out in pain, dropping his sword, but instead of Jaskier gaining the upper hand, the brute becomes furious, swiftly throwing a punch to Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier stumbles again, this time to the ground, with a throbbing pain rushing through his jaw, his mouth, his teeth.

His own sword slips from his grip, skidding across the cold ground, out of reach.

Jaskier tries to get up but a hard boot collides with his stomach and he falls flat to the ground, winded.

As he's coughing, up blood and breath, the brute kicks him over onto his back and stands over him.

Jaskier peers up at him through spotting vision, trying to find some strength left in him. If he could just get up, grab his sword.

“I was gonna slice your head clean off, give you a quick death, but I think I’ll enjoy this more,” The brute growls out, kneeling over Jaskier, hands coming to grip his neck.

Jaskier’s hand reflexes, coming up to grasp at the weight around his breathing pipe.

The air disappears quickly, and Jaskier squirms, fighting hard to remove the hands closed around his neck.

But without oxygen, he can’t find strength, and without strength, his hands fall weak and his vision blurs out.

He tries to scream, but he can’t.

All he can hear is his stupid heartbeat. And the sound of the brute’s wicked laugh, as he strangles the poor life from a too weak bard.

‘Fuck I’m gonna die in a stinky, wet tunnel,’ Jaskier thinks, pathetically.

He tries one more time to pull at the hands but it’s no use, his fate seems sealed. ‘Destiny is to be our saviour, my ass.’

“Coen, what are you doing?” Some voice, some other low voice calls out from somewhere.

Jaskier can’t tell where, cause it all sounds like it’s underwater, blurred along with his eyesight.

With an abrupt jolt of movement, the hands on his neck cease, and the weight is off him.

He erupts into a fit of coughs, turning on his side, desperately trying to win back his breath. It takes a few deep breaths to finally feel somewhat better.

With his sleeve, he wipes the blood from his chin and pushes himself up. He wobbles on his feet so he leans against the wall, trying to force his eyes to see, and his brain to comprehend why he’s alive.

“Coen, I told you, we aren’t here to kill innocent lives, you...” the muffled, low voice grumbles somewhere... close, maybe? Jaskier can’t tell.

He’s too busy trying to get his lungs to fall back into an easy rhythm.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier knows that voice, knows that tone... he’s heard his name be said like that before.

With extreme effort, he lifts his head and leans it against the wall. He wills his vision to focus on the burred shapes of a person, a few feet ahead of him.

He can smell vanilla, smoke, sweat.

His vision comes back, slightly spotted but no longer blurred.

And Jaskier’s heart skips a few thousand beats when he realises it’s none other than Geralt himself standing there, golden eyes and all.

Chapter Text

Summers in Lettenhove were bright.

Ever since the stormy night of June 5th, 1229, Lettenhove’s usual terrible weather changed for the better. The days were longer; the nights were shorter, and all the while, the sun beamed at noon, and the moon shone at midnight.

Cloudy skies became few and far between, and storms - when they occasionally arrived - passed through within a matter of hours, sometimes minutes.

Winters were graced with fluffy, white snow instead of blizzards, Autumns were filled with golden landscapes instead of lightning storms, Springs were masterpieces of newborn cows and blossoming flowers instead of tornadoes, and Summers…

Summers in Lettenhove became endless days filled with warm sun and gleaming water. The brilliant weather turned frowns upside down and drove the citizens from their homes to the beaches and waterholes.

No face was left dull in Lettenhove’s summers from then on.

Except maybe the Pankratz’s.

***

Phillip’s packed schedule of meetings, speeches and more made it difficult to attend to his son’s apparent need to go to the beach that very hour.

The Viscount, of course, tried to send Julian’s nanny, Natalie, to take him to the beach but instead, his son sat on the floor, pouting for an entire hour.

Not exactly the reaction Phillip was hoping for.

So with three members of the Law Office in the Viscount’s own Office, trying to explain a new bill that must be passed before the coming Fall, Phillip had to let Julian sit in on the meeting. Of course, he made his son promise to be quiet or no beach, but even promises couldn’t stop Julian Alfred Pankratz’s chatterbox mouth.

Half an hour into the meeting, Phillip could notice his son becoming restless, just sitting in the corner and reading some book about frogs.

The Viscount didn’t expect much discipline from his son; he was only a week out from turning seven years old. But he hoped that he’d understand the importance of the meeting and try to remain silent.

“I think if we split the funds in half, we can have this program up and running by October, but without -”

“Dad, you must hear this, this frog, its called a Marsh Frog, it’s the largest frog on The Continent, and it can be as big as 17cm, how cool is that Dad?” Julian exclaims, interrupting the head of the Law Office.

“Yes, that’s very cool Julian, just -”

“And it’s home to the Green Frog species complex, which also comprises the Edible frog, and the Pool Frog. What a silly name Dad, Edible frog, do you think it got that name because animals or humans kept eating it?” Julian continues, walking over to the Viscount’s desk with the book still in hand.

“I don’t know, how about you go sit back down and find out if -”

“Like all other green frogs, it has a bright green stripe going down it’s back. I want to see one, maybe instead of the beach, we go to a Marsh and try to find one? Oh, wait have you heard about poisonous toads Dad? They can live in Marshes too and they’re very danger - Is that why Edible frogs are edible? Cause they aren’t poisonous. Maybe so, could we go to the Marsh anyway, see if we can find a frog - or a salamander, they are -”

“Shut up, you brat! Can’t you see we are in a meeting here?! Did you fall on your head when you were born? No one ever tells you that no one cares what comes out of that annoying little trap of yours!” The head of the Law office bursts out with anger, rising from his seat.

Phillip stares in shock for a good few seconds before pointing to the door.

“Out, now,” He glares, hard, at his acquaintance.

The head of the law office, stares, baffled, that he’s the one being thrown out, but it takes less than a few moments of harsh glaring before he finally moves to leave, partners following, “You’ve made a huge mistake Viscount.”

With a slump of his shoulders, Phillip turns to look at his son, who is standing, teary-eyed, staring down at the floor.

“Hey,” Phillip says, softly, walking over to his son and kneeling in front of him. “Hey still want to go to the beach?”

Just like that, Julian’s face lights up.

***

“Melitele’s tits Geralt!”

Jaskier has had just about enough of being manhandled.

It took less than a minute after Jaskier realised who was exactly standing there before Geralt had his vice-like grip around Jaskier’s bicep and was hurling him out the back exit.

Which is where Jaskier is now, standing in the drizzling rain, in the middle of the night, near a stinky tunnel entrance, brushing dirt off his trousers. Couldn’t Geralt at least have the decency to shove Jaskier away from the muddy patch?

“What the fuck Jaskier?” Geralt growls, his shining silver sword still in hand.

Jaskier doesn’t pay the grumbling Witcher any attention, instead, focusing entirely on the rip on the front of his doublet. He paid a lot for the ensemble; he has every right to fixate on the wear and tears.

“You can be a damn fool sometimes Bard, chilling out in a Sorcerer’s Den?” Geralt continues to grunt and grumble, staring daggers at Jaskier’s back.

There are so many, too many emotions running through Jaskier… it’s why he’s choosing to concentrate on his doublet and not those too fucking bright golden eyes. If his mind centers on gold eyes, and white hair and all those butterflies flitting around in his stomach… then he’s doomed.

“Dammit, the best designer in Novigrad made this doublet! Now its ruined, you happy Witcher?!” Jaskier shouts, still refusing to turn around and actually look at Geralt.

The lace ripped clean off the cuffs of his doublet need way more attention than broody Mr. Broodington.

He hears a gruff behind him, and then the sound of boots on the muddy ground.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s hand is back on his bicep, spinning him around to look at the White Wolf, really look at him, for the first time since inside.

Jaskier’s throat goes dry, and his head goes blank.

Geralt hasn’t changed, not really.

The stubble on his chin is clearer, there’s a fresh scar on his neck (Drowner), he’s wearing new armor; similar to his old, black leather ones.

But his hair… he cut his hair. Instead of reaching his collarbone at least, it’s hanging just below his jaw.

Jaskier hates it. All of it.

Mainly because he knows deep down how much he doesn’t hate it, how much his heart is racing and his hands are shaking, how much his stomach is fluttering and his cheeks are heating up - because dammit Geralt has still got a strong hold on his poor aching heart.

Those golden eyes are still too bright.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Jaskier should be used to that tone, he heard it all the time on their travels. There is no reason it should still sting… but it does, even worse this time.

A part of Jaskier was hoping when he did - if he did - see Geralt again, that Geralt would be happy to see Jaskier, that the Witcher would hug him or something.

But it’s the same old angry Geralt.

The thought lights a fire in Jaskier’s head, and he rips his arm free from the Witcher’s grasp, scowling his best scowl, “None of your fucking business Witcher.”

With a conflicting concoction of feelings sloshing around his stomach, Jaskier turns and starts walking.

There is a path ahead of him, running straight through the surrounding woods. If Jaskier is right, then they are just a few minutes walk from Oxenfurt. He recognizes the exterior of the tunnels, he should only be half an hour tops, away.

Despite his heart aching, he forces himself to keep walking.

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

Jaskier walked away once, he can do it again. He can leave Geralt and his trunk full of past issues and brooding behaviour behind. He doesn’t need Geralt to survive - the past winter proved that.

“Jaskier, where are you going?”

Jaskier glances back with a glare but doesn’t stop walking.

Geralt is following him now, placing his sword in its hilt with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I think the more important question, is where are you going? Don’t you have innocent people to kill?” Jaskier jabs, folding his arms over his chest as the woods get darker, and the wind passes through his ripped doublet.

The combination of icy droplets of rain with the chill wind isn’t exceptional.

“I’m trying to understand - wait - innocent people?” Geralt asks, incredulously, stopping in his tracks behind Jaskier. “Those people aren’t innocent, they’re thieves, they’ve killed hundreds of innocent human children, all for their revenge fantasy.”

Jaskier stops, heart thudding, cheeks burning.

He seriously hates his heart and his brain.

With a hard swallow, he turns and meets Geralt’s golden eyes. His heart skips a beat again.

“They said -”

“Whatever they said to you was a lie.”

Jaskier wants Geralt to be wrong - he doesn’t need Geralt to be all high and mighty, Mr. I’m-right-all-the-time… but when has the Witcher ever been wrong about this stuff. While Jaskier has seen his fair share of beasts, monsters, and the other strange things, on his time travelling with Geralt; Geralt has seen more, knows more than Jaskier does or ever will.

The sick knot in his stomach wants Jaskier to run, from all of this. A large part of him doesn’t want to deal with any of it.

But that tiny voice in his brain is begging for him to listen, ‘Give him a second chance, maybe he can help.’

Geralt’s stern gaze - shutting out all emotion and glimpse of thought process, makes Jaskier, even more, uneasy - even more, unsure of what to do.

“You going to tell me how you ended up in there?” Geralt asks, although it borderlines on being a demand with how gruff it comes out. Jaskier wants to run over to that hulking Witcher and shake some god damned sense into him, ‘It’s okay to feel you fucking idiot.’

But Jaskier has already tried… he spent twenty whole years trying to break down the White Wolf’s walls.

“Do you want me to stay or to be taken off your hands Geralt? Make up your mind.”

Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?

It’s still not fair.

Jaskier watches as Geralt’s face falls, and his heart aches miserably. So he turns around, facing the dark forest and the path ahead of him instead of the White Wolf. He doesn’t want to watch Geralt feel, not now - why can’t he just hate him?

***

Jaskier isn’t even halfway down the mountain when he runs into Yennefer.

She’s standing between a tree stump and a boulder, cursing under her breath when she kicks a rock and it, well, hurts.

Jaskier’s moral compass says to feel sorry for her, but the broken heart shattered in pieces on the ground wants to laugh at her misfortune and move on.

He tries, to move on, that is. But he steps on a twig and she notices he’s there.

“Oh just my luck, I run into the bard of all people, and where’s the songbird, there is the…” She trails off, looking up the mountain, at the path Jaskier just came down, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Where’s… your White Wolf?”

Jaskier laughs bitterly, wiping the tears hanging to his chin away.

“Fallen off this mountain, hopefully,” he remarks.

Yennefer stares, in disbelief for a few moments, before shaking her head.

“He’s good at throwing people who love him, away, isn’t he?” She says, sighing dramatically.

Jaskier looks up in shock.

She just must be that good at reading people.

With another sigh, she walks over and gives him a soft look he didn’t think the witch was capable of giving, “Want a fast trip down this mountain?”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows.

With a simple wave of her hand, just like that, a portal appears before them; circling blue magic swirls into purple chaos, air gushing out of it like a mini-tornado.

Jaskier smiles in amazement.

***

“Jas…”

That’s it, nothing follows.

Jaskier isn’t sure what the Witcher wants or wanted to say, he just knows that whatever it was, it was out of his capabilities.

So Jaskier continues down the path, this time, telling himself over and over in his head that he will not stop or turn back for the White Wolf. This time, he’s walking away for good.

Except he only gets a few steps before he comes to a diverge in the path and doesn’t know which way is back to Oxenfurt.

One path seems to head further into the woods, it’s a muddy track leading off into the trees where the shadows move along the ground, causing Jaskier’s legs to shake. The other path heads off west, towards the marshes where he knows there is a crap ton of Drowners.

Neither path suits his liking.

“Need help?” Geralt asks, coming up to stand next to Jaskier, body heat radiating like a damn fire.

Jaskier folds his arms tighter over his chest and scowls at the diverging paths.

“No, I’m good,” he replies, harshly.

Geralt sighs.

“Jas, just let me help you get… to wherever you’re going, it’s the least I can do.”

Jaskier chews the inside of his mouth, staring at the forest ahead. Something makes a screeching noise in the distance and he jolts, body subconsciously moving towards Geralt.

His heart stammers.

“Fine,” he breathes out, taking a step back away from the Witcher, even though he wants to move closer. “I’m going home.”

“Which is where?” Geralt asks.

“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier answers, choosing to look at anything but Geralt.

His weak heart can’t take it right now.

“I left Roach in a stable there, that works, it’s this way,” The Witcher explains, heading off down the path that goes straight through the woods.

Jaskier tries to control his thudding heart as he follows, hesitantly.

They mostly walked in silence.

Besides, from the occasional attempt from Geralt to get Jaskier to explain what he was doing in the tunnels.

Jaskier avoids every comment with a teasing remark, using his quick wit to save his poor ass from being murdered by a Witcher in the middle of some wet, cold, very dark and spooky forest. No one would find his body. He would just be left there for the beasts to feast on. At least he’s got that going for him, he’s a nice little tasty snack for the monsters out there.

When they cross Oxenfurt bridge, Jaskier expects Geralt to stop and tell him ‘this is where we part ways bard’, but he doesn’t.

Instead, they walk down Main Street.

Jaskier secretly loves Oxenfurt at night. It’s a busy, frankly rude city in the day, but at night… it’s rather beautiful. With the moon shining brightly overhead, the soft sound of music slipping through open windows, and the warm glow of fireplaces still on… it’s one of those breathtaking beauties you never expect.

Besides from the muttering of a few lutes, the only other sound is Geralt and Jaskier’s breath, and their shoes clicking on the ground.

Jaskier wishes the circumstances were different.

Years ago, if they were walking through Oxenfurt in the middle of the night, he would’ve broken out some flirtations here and there to lure Geralt in, to try to create a wondrous outcome for the rest of the moonlit hours… but now, Jaskier is tired, and he’s useless on what to say to Geralt.

For the first time, he’s lacking the words.

“Roach is just in the stables, over there,” Geralt stops walking, nodding his head toward Oxenfurt’s stables. “I need to check on her and then I’ll walk you home.”

Geralt is already heading off for the stables before Jaskier can say anything, so he follows, nervous energy thrumming through his veins.

“You don’t have to walk me home Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice comes out softer than he means it to, weaker than he intended… and he hates himself for it.

Geralt looks down for a moment, eyes shifting away.

Jaskier feels his heart shake.

“I know… I want to.”

Jaskier’s poor heart pathetically falls hard, again, just because of a few simple words that shouldn’t mean anything but mean everything.

The White Wolf simply continues walking, oblivious to what he just did to Jaskier’s weak and wanting heart. Geralt has always been oblivious though. Even when Jaskier was attached to his side - a nineteen-year-old hopelessly in love, spitting out every blunt flirtation he could think of - Geralt still didn’t notice… always told Jaskier that ‘you’re blind drunk bard. Bed, now’.

Jaskier has come a long way since being that naïve, young, teenager… and still, he can’t get Geralt to give back his heart.

A short whinny from the stables makes Jaskier’s heart lift.

He may not get a greeting hug from the prickly Witcher, but Roach… oh how he’s missed her. Too many days have been spent thinking about that adorable sweetheart.

With a glow returning to his heart, he runs straight into the stable and towards the second last stall where Roach is neighing loudly, and kicking her hooves against the hay, in a display of joy. It’s a beautiful sight, one that is welcomed after all the pain.

Jaskier opens the stall door, and rushes over to Roach, hugging her tightly, heart warm.

She lets out a heavy snort through her nose, breath blowing Jaskier’s hair.

“I missed you too dear heart,” he giggles, taking a step back and running his fingers through her mane.

She moves her head, snuffling his neck with her snout.

Jaskier smiles in return, scratching her behind the ear, “Yeah its been a while hasn’t it?”

His bright smile quickly turns sad, so he rests his forehead on Roach’s, breathing in her smell of hay and fresh grass.

“She missed you, kept whining when I wouldn’t give her more sugar cubes.”

Jaskier glances behind him, at Geralt now standing in the stall, leaning against the wall. A strand of snow-white hair is hanging over his face, and he almost looks… melancholy. At least, as much as Geralt can show, that emotion.

It hangs on to Jaskier’s heart, wraps around it like a snake trying to squeeze the air out of him.

It almost does.

“Yeah well, to most, I am very missable,” Jaskier quips, burying his face in Roach’s mane.

There’s an awkward silence, for a few long seconds, before Geralt clears his throat.

“I missed you.”

It’s quiet, so very quiet, and if the stables were busy, Jaskier wouldn’t have heard it. But he does, and it makes his heart race in his ears and his cheeks flush.

“Roach seems fine, I’ll walk you home,” Geralt announces, walking out of the stall like he didn’t just spark something painful but bright in Jaskier’s heart. As if he didn’t flip Jaskier’s previously, oh so dark world, over into the light of golden eyes.

Jaskier is doomed.

***

Screaming. All he can hear is screaming.

There is blood covering his hands, his chest, his feet - it’s in his mouth, his hair, his eyes, his ears. It’s everywhere, hot and sticky, seeping into his clothes and slipping through his eyelashes. The world is red and gloomy and he can’t breathe.

“Help… someone help…”

He claws at the ground, searching for something to cling onto. All there is, is more blood - too warm, flowing through his fingers.

“Help!” He screams this time, voice breaking into reckless sobs.

It’s all too hot, too sticky, too dark.

He screams again, thrashing around in the blood as some voice laughs, devilishly, taunting him - ignoring his pain.

He tries to move.

He can’t.

“Jaskier.”

He screams again.

“Jas, it’s okay.”

Someone is calling his name, but he doesn’t care.

There is blood on his tongue. It’s all he can taste. It’s metallic, and it makes his stomach swirl.

“Jas, wake up.”

Something shakes him, and he throws his body forward, screaming in fear - in agony, tears streaming down his face.

Suddenly the blood is gone, the world is cold, and the only heat is the arms wrapped around him, bringing him tight against someone’s chest. It doesn’t stink of blood anymore, instead, all he can smell is smoky firewood, rain, and vanilla.

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe,” Geralt’s soft, baritone voice hums.

Jaskier’s heart is still thumping, painfully, against his ribcage and the tears are still flowing, but the warmth of his Witcher - the sound of his voice, eases some of the panic.

“I couldn’t - I couldn’t breathe Geralt, there was blood - it was everywhere Geralt - I couldn’t see, it was in my mouth, I -”

“Hey, shh, I got you, you’re okay now, was just a dream.”

Jaskier buries his head further into the crook of Geralt’s neck, sobbing in relief.

***

There were a few things they didn’t talk about.

One of them was the nightmares, or specifically, the aftermath of the nightmares when Geralt would hold Jaskier’s shaking, sobbing form until either he stopped crying, or the sun came up - whichever was first.

Sometimes the nightmares got so bad, Jaskier would scream himself awake. Those nights, Geralt seemed to hold on to Jaskier longer - held him tighter.

The Witcher hated hugs, hated any form of affection if it didn’t come from his horse, so Jaskier was pretty shocked whenever he woke to the White Wolf’s muscular arms holding him tight. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind.

However, they never talked about it.

Jaskier never dared to bring it up, believed that Geralt would stop doing it if he did. Jaskier never got so much as a pat on the back or a handshake during the sunlit hours… but at night, after a bad dream, Geralt wouldn’t hold back.

So Jaskier never brought it up.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Geralt says, pulling Jaskier from his train of thought.

Jaskier hums in response, kicking a pebble on the ground as they walk through the dimly lit Oxenfurt streets. The pebble goes skidding in front of him, coming to a halt a few feet away, where he reaches it and kicks it again.

Geralt’s soft chuckle catches his full attention; he looks up at the White Wolf with wide eyes, coming to a halt.

“What?” Jaskier asks. “What’s funny?”

Geralt shrugs casually, smiling to himself - a sight that sets Jaskier’s heart on fire. ‘Could he please stop doing that? Since when does the big bad wolf smile?’

“Nothing, it’s just… you always talked too much, and I always talked not enough… I guess we’ve changed.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt’s back as he continues walking, eyes narrowed, mind racing.

It’s not like Jaskier has actually changed, he just doesn’t know how or if he can open up again, not after what Geralt did. The least he is owed is an apology, maybe then, and only then, could Jaskier start to feel comfortable around the White Wolf again.

“Which way?” Geralt questions, standing in the middle of the crossroads.

Jaskier sighs and gestures towards the left path, leading the way. His house is a small flat near Oxenfurt Academy. It used to be Priscilla’s cousin’s place, but her cousin moved to Novigrad shortly after Jaskier arrived back in Oxenfurt. Priscilla managed to persuade her cousin into selling for a reasonable price.

It takes another five awkwardly silent minutes before they get to Jaskier’s place.

When they do, Jaskier kneels in front of the doorway, reaching into the broken hatch on the ground where he hides his key.

“You keep your key in that thing?” Geralt mutters, still standing on the street with his arms folded over his chest.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Not all of us have secure homes like Kaer Morhen to return to,” Jaskier remarks, unlocking his front door, and pushing it open.

He stands aside, facing Geralt.

“Did you wanna… come inside, or is this where you tell me you’ve got a beast to kill in Oxenfurt?” Jaskier asks, slightly bitter in his tone.

Geralt, for a moment, looks like he’s about to decline but then he walks on past Jaskier, straight inside. Jaskier wasn’t expecting Geralt to agree, certainly not so fast, but hey, as The Witcher said, apparently they’ve changed.

With a sigh, Jaskier walks inside, closing the door behind him.

He throws his key down on the mantlepiece, and glances over at Geralt who is standing in the middle of Jaskier’s, very small living space, with an unreadable expression.

Jaskier isn’t quite sure what to make of it, so he hurries over to the stairs, “I’ll be back, just… make yourself at home.”

He hurries up the stairs, and into his bedroom, not letting himself breathe until he’s seated on his bed, hands shaking in his lap.

Once Jaskier regains some sense of calm, he decides to change, choosing his blue silk trousers and white chemise.

With a yawn, he forces his feet to return his body downstairs, to where Geralt is now seated on Jaskier’s cushioned bench, with his hands clasped on his knees and a serious expression donning his face.

“Hey, uh…” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “You hungry? I don’t have much, mainly because Priscilla raided my shelves last week but I’ve got leftover stew from the tavern, could heat that up or -”

“Who’s Priscilla?” Geralt interrupts, eyes narrowing.

Jaskier’s mouth falters, brain screeching along the tracks. That’s not what he thought Geralt was going to ask, it’s not important, at all, to what Jaskier was trying to explain.

“Priscilla… she - she’s my friend, the first one I had after I left home, well you know - Lettenhove,” Jaskier explains, busying his hands with tidying up the mess of parchment sitting on the desk nearby. It’s all failed attempts at lyrics - pieces of songs that don’t fit with the images and ideas in Jaskier’s head.

No matter how hard Jaskier tries, he can’t seem to get a full song down, it’s like he’s hit a creative block.

“So she’s not your newest conquest?”

Jaskier whips his head around to stare at Geralt.

The Witcher isn’t even looking at him, instead, down at the parchment that Jaskier left on the bench. Even from where Jaskier is standing, he can see the terribly written - quite frankly - cheesy, lyrics.

It’s not exactly a song he wanted to share with the White Wolf of Rivia.

With a thud of his heart, and heat in his cheeks, he quickly grabs the piece of parchment and returns it to the desk, berating himself for leaving his shitty music lying around. For Melitele’s sake, the lyrics are about Geralt, not subtle too so if he’s read it -

“That poetry isn’t about her?” The Witcher asks, voice surprisingly gruff.

‘What’s got his panties in a twist?’ Jaskier thinks, running a hand through his hair.

“Ha! Poetry? I surely hope you think more of my abilities than that rubbish,” Jaskier places his hands on his hips. “And no, that isn’t about Priscilla, she’s just a friend, like a sister to me.”

The thin line of Geralt’s mouth eases, and he nods.

“Stew.”

“What?”

“Stew, is fine… to eat.”

“Oh right, sure.”

Jaskier nods, exiting into the kitchen with a thumping in his heart and his cheeks still warm.

“Thank you,” Geralt mutters as he sits his bowl onto the ottoman.

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows, swallowing his food, “What for?”

“The food, the stay…” Geralt looks down at the empty bowl, mouth turning down into the start of a frown. “I honestly thought you’d punch me the next time we met.”

The ache in Jaskier’s heart returns.

He looks down too, staring at the stew left in his bowl, now cold. The piece of carrot stuck to a piece of cabbage is suddenly very interesting.

“Well, the night isn’t over yet,” Jaskier quips, but there is no heat to it. It surprises even himself.

As he can feel Geralt’s eyes burning into his soul, he stands from his chair, and takes Geralt’s empty bowl, and his own, back to the kitchen, laying them down in the sink. With a heavy sigh, he leans back against the nearest wall.

He’s so confused.

Geralt seems to have changed, but still no apology, and Jaskier is absolutely not going to beg or ask for one. He’s moved past the stage of his life where he was desperate for Geralt’s approval, or at least, he hopes he is.

Taking another deep breath, Jaskier returns to the living space.

“So, uh, I know it’s not comfortable, but its late so if you wanna sleep here the bench is all yours,” Jaskier grabs a very expensive, fleece blanket from a basket in the corner. “This should keep you warm.”

Geralt nods, taking it with a small smile.

Jaskier gets caught in those eyes - that deep gold - until he manages to snap himself out, taking a step back, and rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks burning once more. He’s a lovesick fool, and it shouldn’t be a surprise at this point.

“Thank you, again,” Geralt says.

Not one thank you, but two. Did Geralt get a lesson in how to be nice to his friends or something?

“No worries.”

***

Jaskier runs as fast as his feet can take him.

His lungs burn, and his legs ache but he pushes on, going as fast he can through the dark woods.

The cracking sound of footsteps behind him, not moving fast but somehow still catching up, makes his heart thud, his blood run cold.

He’s going to die.

As the fool he is, he forgets to look down, tripping over a log. He falls flat on his stomach, winding himself, but still scrambling to keep moving.

It’s too late.

There is a grip on the back of his doublet, strong, relentless.

He’s pulled over, and the golden eyed Witcher descends upon him, silver sword at his throat.

“No! Geralt please!” He screams, tears welling in his eyes.

Geralt doesn’t listen, eyes dark. He presses the sword in.

Jaskier chokes.

“I can’t believe I ever called you my friend, you’re nothing but a monster - I bet I could get good coin for your head,” Geralt growls out, pressing the sword in deeper.

“Please! Stop Geralt!”

He struggles, pushes at the sword.

“I’m not a monster! Please believe me!”

‘Jaskier.’

“No! Stop!”

‘Jaskier wake up.’

“Help! Don’t -”

***

“Jaskier, wake up.”

Jaskier wakes like he always does with nightmares, throwing his body forward in the dark, skin cold with sweat, head racing, heart thumping with pure panic, blood pumping from fear, cheeks wet with tears, hands shaking.

For so long, he’s had to deal with waking up from these terrors alone.

But tonight, there is strong arms around his torso again, holding him against that warm chest that smells of vanilla and smoke, and everything Jaskier missed amongst the cold, lonely months. It’s such a relief that more tears start flowing freely down Jaskier’s cheeks.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, voice that soft hush.

Jaskier shakes his head, clinging tight to the Witcher - mind in a disoriented state. He doesn’t know how to talk right now, not with his head running at a pace his mouth can’t replicate.

A hand comes up to rub Jaskier’s back.

The bard practically swoons, burying his head deeper into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and breathing in that comforting scent of vanilla.

At least he knows Geralt is still buying soap.

“You’ll be okay, it was just a nightmare,” The White Wolf assures, moving his hand up, fingers carding through Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier hums, enjoying the warmth filling up his heart.

Until he remembers his dream, and his heart drops to his stomach. Geralt will not show the same warmth when he finds out who - what Jaskier is. He just won’t. Unless Jaskier wants the real life act of his dream, he should probably distance himself from the Witcher.

He pushes away, scratching the back of his neck - a nervous habit that flares up around the White Wolf.

“Geralt I -”

“Shh,” Geralt hushes, sitting up straight and glancing back at the door.

Jaskier scowls, taken aback.

“Did you just shush me? Geralt I swear -”

“Jaskier seriously, " Geralt places his hand over Jaskier’s mouth, startling the very confused bard. “I heard something.”

Jaskier goes still, focusing his hearing on the noise outside his bedroom, heart rate rising.

“Someone’s got in, they’re downstairs,” Geralt whispers.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Dream what you must dream

For the ending is all you seek

Forget your brilliant scheme

For your knights may be weak

Desolation will rise, upon the dark skies

Your destruction will come, upon the last thrum

So listen close

Or you’ll drink your dose

When the end befalls you

And blood rains thick

Only one will break through

To make your saving stick

But the chosen must fall

To enhance all

And when the world will tilt

Look where yellow petals wilt

***

“Geralt.”

The Witcher doesn’t respond, eyes focused on the door, nose twitching like a dog smelling something off… something dangerous lurking.

A hammering heartbeat is all Jaskier has to offer. He sits on the edge of his bed, feet cold as they’re set barefoot on the floor, where an icy draft is whispering through the gap under the bedroom door. He rubs one foot over the other to warm them but it does fuck all.

“Geralt what is it?” Jaskier whispers against the silence of the room.

The bard can’t hear anything, but the White Wolf with all those mutations, can hear each footstep, each creak of a floorboard, each muttered word, each pounding heartbeat… and from these soft noises, he knows, for certain, that there’s exactly four men in Jaskier’s living room area.

Outnumbered.

Geralt has fought more on his own, but by the soft clinking sound, they have swords - heavy ones - and Geralt left his downstairs, on the bench he was sleeping on.

“Fuck,” He sighs, looking around him - around Jaskier’s room - in search for anything that he could possibly fight with. With a huff, he starts pulling open drawers and shuffling through clutter.

“Uh Geralt, mind telling me what’s going on?” Jaskier whispers, standing from the bed and crossing his harms over his chest.

The Witcher shoves closed one drawer, and opens the next, finding only lute strings, and what looks like letters from some Troubadour; nothing useful.

“Dammit Geralt, you stop talking when it’s needed? Fucking -”

“There are armed men - four of them in your downstairs living room, where my swords are, so unless we want to die or jump out a second story window, we’re going to need weapons,” Geralt explains, opening a closet and peering inside, finding only shining doublets.

Jaskier looks to the door, fear in his blue eyes, “Oh.”

The White Wolf tunes in his hearing, and isn’t at all calmed by the sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs.

“Shit,” Geralt turns around and walks across the room to where Jaskier is still standing frozen. He takes the bard’s shoulders in his hands and gives him a little shake, bringing unfocused blue eyes to Geralt’s. “I need you to think, do you have anything in here that could be useful?”

Jaskier bites his lip, thinking.

“Yeah, maybe.”

With that, Jaskier rushes over to his dresser, and pulls open the bottom drawer. He rifles through colourful trousers, eventually pulling out a dagger.

It’s not just any dagger. It’s a stunningly gold one with a yellow hilt, decorated with cornflower blue gems in an intricate pattern; the dagger was gifted to Jaskier, by Geralt five years ago. Geralt didn’t think the bard would still have it, not after… well, the mountain.

“Here, not much, but it’s all I got I’m afraid,” Jaskier hurries back over, handing Geralt the gorgeous weapon.

The Witcher takes it, stunned for moment. But he shakes himself out of it.

“Okay, stay back, ones coming up the stairs. I’ll knock that one out and you grab his sword, got it?”

Jaskier nods, retreating to stand to the left side of his bed, a good distance from the door. Geralt, on the other hand, moves to stand against the wall, next to the door, dagger at the ready.

The thump of footsteps approach soon enough, door creaking as its pushed open.

A tall man, with an ugly scar running from his nose to his chin, wearing black and red armour, walks in, sword held ready to attack the Bard standing seemingly alone in the bedroom. But Geralt is too quick, moving forward swiftly and slitting the mans throat effortlessly.

Before the man can fall to the ground, causing a ruckus, Geralt grabs him - one hand on his back, and the other covering his mouth - and lowers him to the floor silently. If the others downstairs, or on the stairs hear chaos, they’ll come running, and then they will be well and truly, fucked.

“Sword, now,” The Witcher whispers, already exiting the bedroom.

Jaskier does as he’s told, grabbing the sword from the lifeless intruder, and holding it tightly by the the hilt. He follows Geralt, finding him pressed against the wall of the hallway, focused on the sound of footsteps nearing.

Jaskier takes the same position, right beside the Witcher, palm sweaty where it’s wrapped around the hilt of the sword.

“Wait here,” Geralt orders, and steps out onto the stairs where another man awaits.

Jaskier peeks around the corner, watching as The White Wolf moves fast, disarming the man in one quick motion. Then Geralt stabs the man’s own sword through his chest, and steps back.

That’s two down, two to go.

This time Geralt is too slow to catch the falling body and the man tumbles backwards down the stairs, creating a loud rhythm of thuds.

“Get them!” A croaky voice screeches from the kitchen.

Geralt grabs the sword from the body, and hurries down the stairs, Jaskier hurrying after. He jumps the last step, just as two men, dressed in the same armour as the others, come barreling out of Jaskier’s kitchen, swords at the ready. One has a wooden shield.

“Wasn’t expecting a Witcher, but I guess he could add your head to his wall too,” The man with no shield barks, awfully confident for someone who’s men just died.

Geralt snickers, amused by the cockiness.

And just like that they attack, the one with the shield moving for Jaskier, whilst Cocky goes for Geralt.

“Ah shit,” Jaskier curses, throwing his sword up to block a swing from Shield Man.

Jaskier stumbles back from the effort, but quickly dodges a charge, taking the opportunity to swing a hit at Shield Man’sback, getting his shoulder. The slice not only rips a sleeve but tugs blood, which is a small win.

Until Shield Man gets angry, and thumps Jaskier in the chest with his shield. Then continuing to swing his sword at Jaskier’s neck. The bard barely has time duck, but he does so successfully, throwing a leg out to trip Shield Man.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes, shield slipping from his grasp, giving Jaskier the opening to stab the sword down into the man’s heart.

As the third intruder lays dying on the floor, Jaskier stumbles back, feeling pain in his left arm, and sweat on his skin. He breathes heavily, gasping for breath as Geralt throws a fatal blow to Cocky’s head.

“Fuck,” Geralt curses again, throwing the sword on the dead man’s body and moving to collect his own from the bench.

Jaskier, however, stays where he’s stood, checking his left bicep where his night shirt is ripped and a bloody wound lays beneath. It’s not too deep, from what he can tell, but by god that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“We gotta move, the stables weren’t too far from here, we should be able to make it before reinforcements come, but we should move quick. There’s no sense in hesitating,” Geralt says, still dishing orders, and not explaining what’s going on.

Jaskier forgets his wound for the moment, and turns to furrow his brow at The Witcher’s back.

“Can you just, hold on a second?” Jaskier asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who were they and why were they after us?”

Geralt turns around, “They weren’t after us, didn’t you hear them? They were after you. For some reason. Maybe some husband you pissed off by sleeping with his wife - whatever it was about, they wanted you dead. And judging by the heavy armour, and colour coded clothes, they weren’t likely to be working on some Inkeeper’s money.”

Jaskier drops onto the ottoman behind him, body sore with exhaustion.

“More likely, is a Lord’s army, or guards. Which means, they’ll be smart enough to send reinforcements when their first lot don’t return, so we have to leave, now.”

Geralt emphasises his words with a clang of his swords, pulling his boots back on.

Jaskier nods, head pounding.

He understands Geralt’s urgency, even tells himself in his head to just get up but his body won’t cooperate with the orders in his head. All he can do is hold is head in his hands, trying his hardest to slow his breathing down to a normal pace.

“Jaskier.”

He tries again, but there’s hot sticky feeling growing in his left arm; it’s consuming every nerve, every cell in his side, stimulating a throbbing pain that pounds in his already so sore head.

Something is definitely not right.

“Jas… dammit,” Geralt grunts, suddenly too close to Jaskier.

It’s too much, everything is too hot for the bard - especially the warm White Wolf with intense body heat.

Jaskier tries to speak, to tell Geralt to move back, to give him some space, but what comes out is a mixture of incomprehensible vowels, and a whimper.

It feels like there’s no room in his lungs. The world is too small, too goddamn hot - and his left arm feels as if it’s been sawed off. He can’t even see or hear properly, suddenly everything is too blurry, too outside of his reach. There’s no other way to explain than he feels like he’s dying.

Maybe it wasn’t just a skin wound.

“Jask, hey, hold on,” The White Wolf orders - always ordering, demanding Jaskier do this, do that. Jaskier tries to tell The Witcher exactly that, but he’s not quite sure what comes out.

“Just hold on, I think… dammit, whatever was on his sword, it… well, it’s probably poison,” Geralt informs, too hothands on Jaskier’s bicep, holding too tight.

The throbbing in his left arm has swarmed to his neck now, and he can’t breathe. He tries to scream but he can’t hear his own voice. The burning inside his stomach is getting worse, he can’t handle it.
“Jas, hey…”

That’s the last thing Jaskier hears before he’s falling, drifting to the dark.

***

With a gust of air, the flowers fly into the air, petals floating for half a second before descending in such a graceful manner that Julian reckons the finest of queen should be jealous.

It’s not enough to make Julian smile though.

Not now.

“Son.”

His father sits next to him on the steps, velvet coat brushing against Julian’s bare forearms, tickling his skin.

With a huff, he pulls his arm away, crossing both arms against his chest.

“Julian, I know you don’t like her, but please don’t be mad at me -”

“She’s a nasty old bully! Why do you have to marry her?!” Julian shouts, anger bubbling through his veins, making his nose twitch.

The Viscount, his father, sighs, “Because I love her, that’s what you do when you love someone, and they love you.”

Julian scowls, kicking a rock, making it tumble down the steps.

“But she doesn’t love you, she just wants your money,” Julian insists, glaring at the petals floating in the pond like little yellow fish.

“Now, Julian, I understand you’re upset but that’s no way to talk about someone. There is no need to be so cruel. She is a respectful woman, who I adore, and am going to marry, talk to me when you’ve decided to behave,” The Viscount disciplines, standing and walking back into the house.

Julian stays seated, staring at the sinking, wilted petals.

***

Jaskier wakes up cold, and sore.

The first thing he sees is the orange glow of a fire, the second thing he sees is Roach standing next to a tree, grazing on grass.

For a moment, he thinks he’s travelled back in time, to when he was still on the path by Geralt’s side - camped out in some dark part of the woods - but then he feels the aching pain in his arm and realises Geralt must’ve carried him here after he passed out. Something Jaskier has been doing a lot of lately.

“Ugh,” He groans, pushing himself up with his right arm. “Well I feel like shit.”

There is a dull throb in his head and there’s a tingling sensation in his lungs but besides that, he’s doing a lot better than he was before he clocked out cold - or hot. There’s that too, at least now he’s not burning up from the inside out.

With another groan, he bends his neck, looking down at his arm. His sleeve is rolled up, and there’s a bandage wrapped around his bicep. The shirt he’s now wearing is also not his.

It takes Jaskier a full minute to process the idea of Geralt stripping him of his own shirt, and replacing it with the black one that certainly belongs to the brooding old Witcher. After that minute, it takes even longer to force himself to fucking breathe.

“You’re awake?”

Speak of the devil, Geralt returns from wherever he was, most likely off hunting, judging by the rabbit in his hand.

Jaskier feels the heat return to his cheeks.

“Yeah, I uh… how long was I out?” He asks, looking down at the bedroll he’s sitting on, as Geralt lays the rabbit down next to the fire.

“A day,” The White Wolf responds, coming to kneel down next to the bedroll. His hair is out of its usual half up, half down style, hanging loose around his eyes. Jaskier is stricken, painfully, in the chest by just how stunningly beautiful the Witcher looks. If poison doesn’t kill him, Geralt’s beauty sure might. “How you feeling?”

The heat in his cheeks grows to his ears.

“Uh… not too bad, better than before,” He answers, picking the grass next to him. “Do you know what did that? Did you figure out what the poison was?”

Geralt’s eyes shift, landing on Jaskier’s arm. He hums noncommittally, taking the bard’s bicep in one hand, and slowly unwrapping the bandages with the other.

The soft warmth lights Jaskier’s chest.

“Roseseed Oil,” Geralt informs, voice clipped like the words irritate him.

The Witcher’s shoulders are tense, his eyes are dark, intent on focusing on only the bandages on Jaskier’s arm and nothing else. The closed off, almost angry grimace on Geralt’s face sends Jaskier into an internal panic - heart thumping and head spinning.

Jaskier doesn’t know what Roseseed Oil is but whatever it is, he’s guessing it hasn’t put The Witcher in a great mood.

“That’s what you were doing… in those fucking tunnels,” Geralt mumbles, dropping the blood stained bandages aside, and standing up to fetch new ones.

Meanwhile, Jaskier’s stomach drops and his blood runs cold.

‘Run, you fool,’ That voice in his head screams but he’s paralysed, staring at Geralt’s back with wide eyes, and a dropped jaw.

He needs to say something. Protest, act confused… anything.

“What?” His voice is weak, broken, too soft to be convincing, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Geralt returns, new bandages in hand.

Maybe he doesn’t know… surely he wouldn’t patch Jaskier up if he found out what Jaskier is. Maybe this is just a misunderstanding.
The Witcher sits back down, taking Jaskier’s arm in his hand again, inspecting the dark red wound. Jaskier can’t mistake the scowl on Geralt’s face.

“How’d you do it?” Geralt growls, deadly calm for the fury burning in those golden eyes. “Is there some spell that can bypass a Witcher medallion?”

Jaskier’s chest heaves. He needs to run but Geralt’s grip on his arm is just another thing keeping him stuck where he is.

“I don’t know… Geralt -”

“Cut the act, it’s impressive, how long you kept it up, but I’m a Witcher… I know what Roseseed Oil is. It’s only harmful to the fae,” Geralt snaps, eyes intent on burning a hole through Jaskier’s soul.

The fear building in Jaskier’s chest, making his throat close up, subsides long enough for Jaskier to find the words he’s looking for, “Let go of me.”

Geralt glares. He doesn’t loosen his hold on Jaskier’s arm.

“So, did you get tired of tricking little children into stumbling through rings of flowers so you can feast on their souls or did befriending a Witcher help you keep your own ass safe?”

Jaskier can feel everything pushing at his heart - all the fear, the anger, the hurt, the desperation, the frustration… it’s all too much. It all claws at his eyes, creating a flow of saltwater.

He pulls, shoving Geralt’s hand away, “I said let go.”

As tears drip down Jaskier’s cheeks, he leaps to his feet and walks away, leaving Geralt there and praying the Witcher doesn’t follow. Maybe if Jaskier shows that he’s harmless, that he’s not in for a fight, Geralt might leave him be.

Jaskier finds a river five minutes away.

He drops down at the edge, pulling his knees up to his chest, and spilling out every emotion that’s been tugging at his heartstrings. He sobs and sobs, tears descending into the flow of the the river - saltwater mixing with freshwater.

***

“Geralt!”

Jaskier has been shouting for ages, so long his voice is raw. And still, no sign of the White Wolf.

It was supposed to be a simple hunt, Geralt said before he left, that it would be an hour, tops. But it’s been six, so Jaskier left the comfort of the Inn to trek the dark and scary woods alone, to find his hopefully, alive, Witcher.

“Geralt! You ass, where are you?!” Jaskier screams, ducking under a low branch and side stepping a snake coiled near a rock.

Luckily enough, it goes slithering away.

Jaskier shivers, and turns around, putting his hands on his hips.

He sighs dramatically.

“Fucking Witcher’s,” he mutters under his breath, continuing through the dense woods.

He pushes through an especially overgrown berry bush, and stops in his tracks when he sees the still form of Geralt, sitting on the wet grass with his back against a rock.

Jaskier runs, dropping to his knees beside Geralt, heart pounding.

“Geralt, what the hell, are you -”

“Shut up,” The Witcher grits out through clenched teeth.

Up close Jaskier can see the White Wolf has his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands are closed into tight fists by his side.

It doesn’t scare Jaskier like it probably should. Instead his concern for the wolf skyrockets.

“Are you okay, tell me what’s wrong?”

Jaskier’s eyes search for a wound but there isn’t one. No blood, no scratches. Geralt seems to be intact.

“Just leave, I’ll be fine in an hour,” Geralt growls, dropping his head, teeth bared into fangs.

Jaskier doesn’t leave, instead placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’m certainly not leaving you, tell me what’s wrong.”

Geralt groans, sounding like he’s in immense pain. It hurts Jaskier just as much.

“Too… senses are… too much,” The Witcher grunts, letting the empty potion bottle slip from his grasp.

Jaskier’s heart clenches.

“Okay, alright um… anything I can do to help?” Jaskier lowers his voice for starters, whispering instead. God only knows how loud everything is to Geralt right now.

The Witcher doesn’t respond at first, but then, there’s a gloved - shaking - hand gripping Jaskier’s own, tightly. The bard’s heart thuds against his ribcage, and he worries, that the sound is too loud… can Geralt hear his heartbeat?

Carefully, Jaskier laces his fingers through Geralt’s, squeezing softly, letting the Witcher know that the action is okay, that he’s going to stay by the Witcher’s side no matter what.

“Can you open your eyes? Or is everything too bright?” Jaskier asks, shuffling an inch or two closer.

Geralt grunts, leaning his head back against the rock.

He opens his eyes.

Jaskier barely contains a gasp, stunned at the sight of the White Wolf’s eyes. They’re entirely black, like the pupils have escaped past the irises, covering the entire eyeballs.

It looks painful.

“Oh dear heart, does it hurt?”

Geralt nods.

Jaskier, with his heart thumping in his ears, places a hand on the side of Geralt’s face, thumb brushes over the darkened skin around Geralt’s eyes. The Witcher is freezing, ice cold to the touch. It concerns the bard to no end.

“Is there… do you have any potion that could fix it? Can I do anything to… help?”

The Witcher gestures behind Jaskier, so he spins around, eyes falling on Geralt’s pack discarded near a tree stump.

“White Honey… it’s the round bottle, yellowish liquid.”

Jaskier leaps to his feet, and grabs Geralt’s pack, returning to his spot next to the Witcher. He rests the pack in his lap, and rummages through it, finding the described bottle, and tugging off the cork.

With relief easing the knot in his stomach, Jaskier lifts the bottle to Geralt’s lips and tips it slowly down the White Wolf’s throat.

He pulls back his hand after a moment, screwing the cork back in the top of the bottle, watching Geralt’s eyes nervously.

It only takes less than a minute for the blackness to retreat, golden eyes showing their sharp burst of colour once more.

Jaskier sighs in relief, head falling forward to rest on Geralt’s shoulder.

***

The wind shifts.

With the sun rising over the horizon, the breeze drops a few degrees, flowing through the river and messing with Jaskier’s hair. The tears have dried into tracks down his cheeks, and an emptiness has settled into his chest.

The pain that lurks in his heart, clouding his mind, threatens to send him spiralling down another dark rabbit hole, one with no end. But it’s the crack of a twig, the brush of leaves that distract his mind.

He turns his head, leaping to his feet, trying to be brave despite the thudding in his chest. At the glimpse of white hair, Jaskier reaches for the dagger in his boot, knowing it’s no match against a Witcher but if he’s going to die - he’s going to die with dignity.

“Hey, easy,” Geralt holds his hands up in front of him. “Not here to hurt you.”

There’s a softness to the White Wolf’s eyes. It confuses the shit out of Jaskier, but mostly sends his blood boiling. He doesn’t understand Geralt anymore, how is he supposed to figure out the wolf if his mood changes every five minutes?

“Oh really?! I apologise then Geralt cause I must’ve just imagined that whole shit show back there!”

Jaskier grips the hilt of his dagger, panting out shaky breaths.

Geralt doesn’t respond, eyes drifting away to the river.

“You know, this is fucking typical, I start to let myself trust you again, you know? Cause I’m a fucking fool?! And then you do it all again, you treat me worse than your horse’s droppings because… I don’t even know! I haven’t even done anything to you to warrant this kind of cruelness, so… ugh!” Jaskier turns around, facing the willow tree that’s hanging over the river.

A gust of wind flies by, making all the dangling leaves dance.

Jaskier wants to throw something, he wants to rip every fucking leaf off the Willow and throw them in the river. He wants to run right up to the stupid Witcher, and punch him right in the eye because he deserves better than Geralt’s treatment. He wants -

“I’m sorry,” It’s soft, it’s small, but it breaks through every sound existing in that moment.

Jaskier almost trips on his own feet turning back around to face the White Wolf.

He stares.

Geralt doesn’t stare back, eyes still on the rippling water, “I’m sorry for what I said, on the mountain.”

The bard’s poor heart could give out from pure shock.

“I’m sorry Jas, I… I just…” The Witcher struggles for words, not an uncommon occurrence. “When it all clicked, at first I was shocked, then hurt cause I thought… I thought you tricked me, like the only person I could call a friend, was just using me.”

Jaskier’s legs shake, so he sits back down, on the nearest rock.

Geralt doesn’t want to kill him.

The Witcher is sorry.

The White Wolf calls The Bard, his only friend.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, leaning his spinning head in his hands.

With a sigh, Geralt sits down next to Jaskier, hands clasped between his legs. They sit there in silence, breathing, thinking - with only the stream to add rhythm - until Jaskier finds the words he’s looking for.

“I’m not… I’m only half,” He lifts his head, runs his fingers through his hair. “My mum was Fae, my dad was human… I’m not some billion year old Fae that tricked you into some deal… I’m a thirty nine year old bard who happens to have some useless Fae blood… I didn’t lie to you about anything Geralt.”

Jaskier lets his eyes meet those golden ones briefly. It’s like taking a lightning bolt to the heart.

Geralt nods, eyebrows pinching down, “Useless?”

“Can’t do a single spec of magic.”

The Witcher’s brows descend even further, golden irises glinting as clenches his jaw.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, half blood elves are still as powerful as regular elves.”

Jaskier shrugs.

“Well I’m just not.”

Geralt hums, looking off into the distance, seemingly deep in thought whilst Jaskier fidgets with the fraying string of his trousers. He doesn’t like the awkward silence, the tension lies in the air thick enough to cut.
“Your mum? Can’t you just seek advice from her?”

Mum. Lilia.

‘Your mother is alive.’

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat, “Well, my dad told me she died when I was born.”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Did he lie to you?”

The bard scoffs, glaring at the crystal blue water.

“Apparently…”

A few deafeningly silent seconds pass before Geralt clears his throat, raising his eyebrows at Jaskier, “Want to elaborate, Jas?”

There is that fucking nickname again, it sets his heart alight, sends the butterflies into a mania in his stomach. Twenty years Geralt stuck to ‘The Bard’ with an occasional, ‘Jaskier’, but never did he receive a nickname like that.

He glances over again, that golden gaze drawing his attention close, filling his heart with warmth and his head with a daze. It would be so easy to just lean over and…

‘Don’t go there you fool,’ he thinks. ‘Are you trying to get yourself more hurt?

The Witcher softly nudges him in the shoulder to get his attention, and he jolts back away from the touch, electricity coursing through his veins, buzzing at where clothed shoulder’s bumped. Surely Jaskier can’t be the only one who felt that.

“You don’t have to answer,” Geralt mutters, eyes on the grass beneath their shoes.

Jaskier shakes his head, “No it’s fine, just… it was why I was in the tunnels.”

The Witcher picks up at that, attention surely focused on what Jaskier has to say, so with his heart stuttering, he continues.

“One of the fae, he was the leader I think… Mak, he reached out to me, to tell me my mum was alive. I was supposed to meet him… tonight, holy shit I still have time,” Jaskier leaps to his feet, brushing his hair away from his face.

He turns and starts heading back towards camp.

“Jaskier, hold on,” Geralt calls out, scrambling to catch up with the spritely bard. Jaskier doesn’t slow his pace down, decidedly determined to push through the thick layer of bush and trees like his life depends on it.

Which leaves Geralt in a confused state a few steps behind him, narrowly avoiding the swing of branches and vines.

“Wait,” The bard exclaims, coming to a halt all of a sudden. “How far are we away from Oxenfurt?”

Geralt stops his feet as quickly as he can, almost ramming right into Jaskier and the prickly bush a foot away. He takes a second to breathe, trying his hardest to catch up to where Jaskier’s brain is at. It’s not hard to guess what the bard wants to do - go meet this Fae Leader… Geralt is not exactly on board with that plan.

“A few hours,” He answers, pushing past Jaskier, and taking the lead in the path back to camp. The bard’s sense of direction is frankly off.

“So -”

“No, Jas, I’m not -” It’s Geralt’s turn to stop and turn around abruptly. He comes face to face with the bard, only a few inches being left between them.

Up that close Geralt can see the spidering lines of turquoise in the bard’s cornflower blue eyes; light reflects off of them, all those shades of blue dancing and swirling together. Geralt doesn’t have the casual luxury of enjoying beauty, it’s not in the job description of being a Witcher. There’s no time for appreciating the finer things when you’re trapped inside the gut of a Selkiemore, but as long as that slow mutant heart of his beats in his chest… he’s going to find every detail on Jaskier too beautiful to truly exist.

Geralt has seen the most extraordinary of creatures and yet none come close to the songbird in front of him.

No matter what or who the Witcher meets, not a single one of them manages to make his stomach flutter like it does around the Bard… and he’s spent a good twenty years denying that fact.

“There is a reason I took you out of there, remember? Someone is after you,” He glances around, needs to give his heart a break from those fucking eyes. “And, I’m not about to let you go meet a dangerous Fae in the middle of the night.”

Hoping that will be the end of the conversation, Geralt continues through the forest, ducking under a low branch, one he ducked under on the way out to the river. They’re back on the right track then.

Jaskier makes a noise of protest from behind him, puffing out air through his nose - reeking of frustration - a scent Geralt has smelt on the bard a lot recently.

“You don’t have to let me do anything, you don’t control what I do Geralt. And I’m not asking to go, I’m telling you I’m going.”

With one last swerve past an overgrown weed, they make it back to camp, the fire almost dead; merely a soft glowing ember.

Roach whinnies and tosses her head up happily, giving Geralt a momentary distraction from the guilt lurking in his stomach threatening to spill out every orifice of the White Wolf’s body.

He doesn’t want Jaskier to believe he doesn’t trust him or thinks he can control him, he just… he cares, and that’s not something Geralt is good at navigating. He’s great at many things, especially when it comes to monsters, but this… he’s lost at how to control the desire to just lock up everyone he cares about in some shielded bubble so they’ll be safe.

God knows Ciri didn’t take to his overprotectiveness well. She’s even more stubborn than Jaskier.

“I told you what these, people, are like Jas, they aren’t… they’ve done unspeakable things, to people who didn’t deserve it,” Geralt explains, feeding Roach oat from her saddle pack.

She nudges her head into his shoulder in response.

Jaskier stands at the edge of the camp, arms crossed, nose scrunched up in that way that makes him look oh too adorable for someone who says he’s almost forty. Half fae… yeah that explains the not ageing then.

“So has every other living thing on this planet,” the bard rebuttals.

Geralt sighs, patting Roach on the nose when she pushes her snout into his hand, wanting more oats even though she knows she’s not getting any more.

“Its too dangerous -”

“I don’t care, he has information okay? He’s… he’s the only lead I have…” Jaskier’s voice drops to a soft mutter. There’s real, deep pain fraying the edges of his words.

Geralt leaves Roach’s side, blows the dying fire out with Aard, and then stands in front of Jaskier with preemptive regret for what he’s about to say, and do.

“Fine,” he gives in, noticing how the light returns to Jaskier’s eyes - it’s almost as if they changed colour. “But I’m coming with you.”

Jaskier smiles, some real, bright smile that takes Geralt’s breath away.

“If he pulls anything, if I sense anything off, I’m introducing him to my silver sword,” he continues, returning to Roach’s side so he can grab Jaskier’s pack.

“Of course, of course, sounds fair. I wouldn’t expect much else from you,” Jaskier rambles arms dropping by his sides awkwardly.

Geralt throws the pack to the bard, who only just catches it, stumbling clumsily a few steps back, “What… oh…”

With a grunt, Geralt goes about packing up the rest of the camp.

“This is… my pack, with my clothes… you…”

Geralt waits patiently for Jaskier to finish at least one of those sentences as he folds up the bard’s bedroll and slips it into one of Roach’s saddle bags.

“Thank you Geralt.”

With a warmth filling up his chest, clouding his head, Geralt looks at the bard, at the content - grateful - smile on his face…and he nods, not trusting his mouth, even though he knows what he wants to say.

I’d die for you, it’s just a pack, don’t thank me.

***

A kick.

“FOUL ABOMINATION!”

A punch.

“MUTANT SCUM.”

A blade.

“ROT IN HELL.”

A wound still bleeding.

“YOU DESERVE EVERY BIT OF PAIN YOU GET.”

A cut never healed.

***

“This way, under the bridge,” Jaskier heads towards the downslope of the beach, where the tall stone walls of Oxenfurt above leave little space to walk without treading perfectly good boots in ice cold water.

“Jaskier I swear to -”

“Relax Geralt I’ve been here before, if he wanted to kill me he would’ve,” Jaskier insists, stepping over a particularly large crab as it scuttles across the sand and into the shade escaping the moonlight.

There is never any lamps lit on the beach at night, so they have to resort to trusting their other senses and the moonlight for direction.

Which isn’t hard for the Witcher, but for Jaskier… it’s a little difficult.

For one, he keeps bumping into Geralt.

“That’s comforting,” says the grumpy Witcher, sarcasm dripping all over his tone.

Jaskier simply rolls his eyes in response, side stepping the wave hitting the sand. With the wind whipping through Jaskier’s velvet green, winter doublet, Jaskier is really not interested in suffering through cold, wet feet.

But it means, when he dodges the water, he slams straight into Geralt’s side, again.

It earns a huff from the taller man.

Jaskier expects the Witcher to grunt out some form of ‘watch where you step bard,’ before walking ahead. Or he at least expects a complaint of some sort. He definitely doesn’t expect the White Wolf to grab hold of his hand, and keep walking, guiding Jaskier through the darkness.

Jaskier’s breath hitches.

He forgets how to breathe.

“I’m guessing that’s him,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier turns his attention from their linked hands to the archway under the bridge where he met Man the first time. There’s a shadow, the dark figure of a man, standing, leaning against the stone wall.

“Yeah, should be,” Jaskier agrees, feeling his palm start sweating.

He’s glad it’s dark, because his face is heating up and he can only imagine how much of a flustered mess he must look.
As usual Geralt is oblivious to what he’s doing to Jaskier, maybe the White Wolf holds all the hands of those he’s close to. Maybe its normal for the Witcher.

“Don’t go to close to him, I’ll be right behind you,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier nods.

Geralt’s hand retreats, leaving Jaskier’s cold and empty.

With another nod to himself, he steps forward, walking into the archway, stopping a good few feet away from where the shadowy figure is standing.

“You made it, started to doubt you got out of there alive,” Mak’s voice booms, echoes off the walls as he leaves the shadows, stepping into the moonlight. There’s a new cut across his nose, most likely from the raid on the den.

Jaskier’s about to respond when Mak’s eyes narrow - flashing red, hand reaching for his sword, “You fucking kidding me, I thought we trusted each other Julian.”

Mak’s eyes are focused, glaring at the white haired Witcher behind Jaskier. Which is… fair. Jaskier wasn’t exactly told to come with company, especially not with Witcher company.

He hears the familiar sound of Geralt’s sword being tugged from the sheath, so he spins around placing a hand on Geralt’s chest.

The action shouldn’t stop the Witcher. Geralt is strong, twenty times stronger than Jaskier will ever be, so one weak hand on his chest should do well… nothing. But the White Wolf still stops, halting under the bard’s touch like it has any power over him.

It stirs something pathetic in Jaskier’s stomach.

Geralt’s eyes are fixed on Mak, a scowl forming on his face.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, tilting his head to catch the white wolf’s eyes. “Easy, I know that you don’t trust him… he doesn’t trust you either, which is why you need to put that away.”

Geralt stares at him like he’s grown two heads.

“Are you joking Jaskier, why would -”

“Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, pressing his fingers into the armoured chest - into the space where Geralt’s heart lays beating - guarded under layers upon layers - both figuratively and literally.

The white wolf’s hesitant, flickering gaze meets his.

For a few too short seconds, it’s if Jaskier can feel what Geralt is thinking, can see what what he’s feeling - all in those deep golden eyes that shine bright even in the dark. The warm, stuttering feeling that mutters in the pit of his stomach grows, pouring into his veins, and humming like intoxication. “Please.”

Geralt looks behind Jaskier once more, this time with less heat in his gaze.

Then he returns his sword to its scabbard, standing back, in a symbol of trust. Not for Mak, but of Jaskier… which just sends that hum into a buzz.

“I’m sorry Julian, but I’m not talking about anything with that thing here -”

Jaskier spins around, “That thing’s name is Geralt. And if you know me and my story then most likely you know the White Wolf. Whatever information you have, you can say to the both of us.”

Despite the shaking in his fingers, the tremor in his knees, his voice comes out strong, like a command.

Mak glares, deathly, at the Witcher still standing behind Jaskier.

“I refuse to cooperate with a Witcher -”

“You aren’t cooperating with a Witcher, you’re cooperating with me. Now tell me what you know about my mother, or I will leave you to cooperate with Geralt… and trust me, no one comes out of that alive, but the White Wolf himself,” Jaskier folds his arms over his chest to hide his trembling hands.

Mak’s lip twitches in disgust before he puts his sword away, and lets out a frustrated exhale of air.

“Alright,” Mak grimaces like agreeing to it pains him. “I don’t know much.”

Jaskier ignores how Mak continues to stare daggers at Geralt, instead focusing on the task at hand - on what’s important.

“Well then tell me what you know.”

“It happened a few weeks ago…” Mak sighs, eyes drifting down to the water lapping at the bridge’s pillars.

Jaskier furrows his brow, “What happened two weeks ago?”

Mak clicks his tongue, “Your mother, she turned up at the coven, asking for you, about you.”

With a shiver running up his spine, Jaskier turns away, facing the sea. His heart is thumping in his ears and his breath is lacking in his lungs. She was looking for him. She was so close to Oxenfurt… so nearby.

“Why?” It comes out weak, shaky.

“She said something about it being urgent, that she didn’t have much time… she told me to tell you, if I saw you, that…”

Mak doesn’t finish.

It agitates Jaskier.

“Tell me what Mak?” He asks, whipping back around to glare at the Fae Leader. Could he be any more cryptic? Jaskier is tired of people using the most limiteds amount of words they can. It’s exhausting.

The Fae Leader sighs again, “She told me to tell you 'When the world will tilt, look where yellow petals wilt.'”

Jaskier scowls.

“That’s it? My mother turns up out of nowhere after all these years and all she has to give to me is some riddle? You’re joking right?” Jaskier laughs bitterly, hands closing into fists by his sides.

Mak glances down at the sand before glaring at Geralt again, “I might have more information but that comes when your Witcher is under my sword.”

Jaskier stares in disbelief.

Geralt moves behind him, hand reaching for his sword once more, but Jaskier throws his hand out, stopping the White Wolf again without even looking at him.

“Leave it, it’s not worth it,” Jaskier’s nose twitches, and he forces the tears welling to stay inside. “Let’s go Geralt.”

With that Jaskier turns and walks back the way they came, Geralt hesitantly following, hand retreating from his sword. Jaskier doesn’t need to look at Geralt to know he wants more than anything to go back and slice Mak’s head off.

“Should’ve known you’re a traitor to your kind Buttercup! You’ll get what’s coming to you! Just like your filthy whore of a mother!” Mak shouts, sending Jaskier’s blood boiling.

He stops, Geralt stopping too.

He looks up at Geralt, at the concern hiding in those golden irises and he knows… he knows Geralt is waiting for the nod of approval. If what Geralt said was true, then yes, Mak deserves for his head to be cut clean off. But Jaskier knows better, he’s seen what anger - what pain can do… and he promised it wouldn’t change him.

So with all the strength he can muster, he shakes his head, continuing the path back across the beach.

Chapter Text

A scream rips open the silence, tearing wolves from their slumber, and birds to the sky.

It’s not a happy scream, or one of horror. It’s a broken scream, one filled to brim with pain so intense it makes your heart ache, and your skin crawls with goosebumps.

The follow up to a scream like that, of course, is wailing; sobbing.

Julian Alfred Pankratz, the son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, the half-blood fae, well, he does just that… he sobs.

All around him is dark, the moon providing the only sliver of light; shining over the pond nearby. With that darkness, Julian is not quite sure where his hands are… but he knows they’re covered in blood. Hot, sticky blood.

He chokes on his tears, begging the hour to change, to wake up in his bed with all of the tragedy gone - inexistent.

But it’s not possible. The young teenager is forced to feel every bit of pain caused in that moment, forced to understand that no matter how hard he wishes, he can’t turn back time… undo what has been done.

There is no rewriting the story.

You can’t bring back the dead.

So, in that moment of tragedy, grief, Lettenhove gained a new Viscount.

***

Jaskier hasn’t said a word since they left Oxenfurt, only responding to Geralt’s questions with a hum here and shrug there.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak with The Witcher, it was just… his thoughts were too loud. He could barely breathe with weight of the world crushing down on his chest. His mother is out there, somewhere, and he has no idea where to start looking… Mak helped in the least way possible.

After they left Oxenfurt, again, they headed east.

Geralt said something about needing to get to Rinde to meet someone. Jaskier was too busy trying to deal with the accompaniment of his thoughts to question the who or the why.

They reached a small town, some farmers village, before nightfall. Which was lucky because Jaskier’s stomach was starting to ache miserably for food.

Also lucky enough, was that the local Tavern/Inn, had a room available, and a chef who is known for his roasted potatoes.

“You haven’t eaten since Oxenfurt,” Geralt states, getting up from his seat. “I’m getting us some food before you fill up on ale.”

Jaskier stares up at The Witcher. There’s that urge in the back of his mind, to say something witty, something sarcastic to ease the tension that lies thick between them, something like ‘Alright Mother.’ But he keeps his lips sealed, humming in response instead.

Geralt gives him a quick look, one that Jaskier knows means something close to concern - confusion - but then he’s turning away, walking towards the bar of the tavern and Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to unpack a Witcher’s gaze.

He doesn’t have the energy much for anything. He’s tired - exhausted. His feet hurt, so do his legs - his thighs.

That was always the catch with travelling with Geralt, the achy joints at the end of the day. Don’t get Jaskier wrong, every minute was worth it - he was - is - desperately in love with the White Wolf… but that doesn’t mean he didn’t long for just enough coin to buy his own horse.

Geralt returns with a jug of ale, and two plates of steaming hot food. He sets one plate down in front of Jaskier, the other in front of himself.

The potatoes look delicious. They’re golden brown, and crispy to the touch. The rest of the food on his plate smells just as mouth-watering; warm bread soft with melted butter, carrots and peas dusted with spices and herbs.

He takes a big bite of the potatoes, eyes closing, stomach content. For a small moment, his head shuts up.

Even the ale isn’t bad, fruity and sweet in just the right way.

It understandable that the chef is so popular. Anyone would be if their food tasted like this.

It’s hard to come by across the Continent. Most villages - their taverns - serve up cold soup with no seasoning, or meat stews that just smell like rotten flesh. A warm, spiced meal with fresh veggies and roasted potatoes, is a rare occurrence.

“Seems like you’re enjoying yourself there,” Geralt breaks through his train of thought, wearing that soft smile that makes his insides flip.

Jaskier is enjoying himself.

He’s followed Geralt all over the Continent, even down to Nazair once. Never has the bard received such a well cooked - well seasoned meal.

“Freshly grown crops Geralt, makes a difference,” he responds, having barely swallowed a mouthful of carrots.

The Witcher raises his eyebrows, seemingly amused by how much food Jaskier is shovelling into his mouth. But he doesn’t make any comment, just continues eating his own meal, humming in agreement.

The silence between them returns, and for a few minutes, it’s welcomed. He’d rather eat than talk.

But then the food empties from his plate, and he’s stuck sitting, staring at his utensils, listening to the ever-growing chatter and clatter from the tavern.

There’s a large group of people all gathered around a table at the front of the tavern, laughing, shouting, having a good times. Jaskier watches them, chin in his palm, as they all exchange jokes and stories.

Judging from the similar colours of hair, the alikeness in noses and eyes, and the familiarity they share; they’re a family, a close one.

Something in Jaskier’s chest stings, and his content smile fades from his face.

They look happy.

And Jaskier knows he’s just plain envious of them. He’s spent almost a lifetime running, escaping, searching for a home - somewhere he can lay to rest with a smile on his face, warm at the end of the day with a soul or a few by his side - people who want him there, but don’t need him there.

He’s ached for a family ever since he saw the life fade from his father’s eyes.

Just like that, his loud thoughts about his mother, where she could be, if Mak was telling the truth, if the riddle can even be deciphered - it all comes rushing back and Jaskier is exhausted again, tired from battling his own demons on an endless path.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair and skulling down the rest of the ale in his tankard before pouring a new cupful.

The judging eyes of his white-haired companion don’t go unnoticed.

“What?” Jaskier narrows his own eyes, daring the Witcher to comment.

Geralt looks away, down at his peas that are still on his plate.

“Nothing.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Oh really Geralt, now you’re quiet?”

Geralt breathes heavily through his nose, a sign that he’s barely restraining irritation.

“Just go easy, I’m too tired to deal with a drunken bard trying to scale castle walls during the early hours of morning, just to pick ‘very special strawberries’ from some noble’s garden.”

A huff of indignation releases from said bard.

“I’ll have you know Geralt I have never done such things -”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, mumbling something like ‘yeah fucking right’ under his breath. Jaskier’s nose scrunches up, and he glares, hard.

“I haven’t!”

“How would you know when you’re such a lightweight that you get blackout drunk more often than not. I’m the one that has to carry your sorry ass back to Inns and camps,” Geralt chuckles.

Jaskier’s mind gets stuck on the thought of the Witcher carrying him. He doesn’t remember ever being carried. Does Geralt do that?

“Well fuck off, because there isn’t any castles around here and I’m not drinking that much.”

Somewhere deep down, Jaskier knows they are famous last words. But he couldn’t care less. So what if he does get drunk. It’s not like they have anywhere to be, it’s not as if Geralt has a contract to be focusing on. In Jaskier’s eyes, he believes he deserves a night of fuzzy edges and swaying worlds.

“You’re already on your second,” Geralt argues, laying his fork down on a now empty plate.

Jaskier shrugs, “So?”

The Witcher sighs, shaking his head, “Fine, it’s your life.”

There’s a moment of weighted eye contact, like they’re both trying to read the other’s thoughts. But even after twenty years of companionship, Jaskier is hopeless at the task.

“I’m heading upstairs, I have swords to clean,” Geralt announces, standing up from his seat, and stepping away from the table. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Jaskier’s heart longs in that second, for Geralt to turn, and ask for Jaskier to come up with him - to join him… but instead he watches as Geralt walks away, something - that invisible string - tugging between them.

There’s of course, naturally, a distance between the bard and the white wolf, that wasn’t there before the mountain.

Geralt can’t read Jaskier like he used to, and frankly, the bard’s emotions seem to be all over the place lately; a constant rushing wave between anger, frustration, hurt, sadness, confusion, and what seems like grief.

There was a time, through those years on the path, that Geralt knew every marker, every sign to the bard’s needs and thoughts.

It certainly helped that Jaskier was a talker.

Geralt had never met a single person who talked as much as Jaskier. It was like the bard couldn’t physically stop himself from saying anything on his mind, through conversation or lyrics or poetry.

But then the mountain happened, and Geralt fucked everything up.

Jaskier isn’t the same that’s for sure.

Something eats at the bard, and Geralt is lost as to what. He thought maybe things would go back to normal once he got up the courage to apologise, but nothing changed. Still, Geralt is finding more words to come out of his own mouth rather than Jaskier’s.

It’s rather unsettling.

Especially since the Witcher is so unsure of how to converse with anyone, let alone Jaskier.

He can’t read Jaskier like he once could, but he can still tell that something isn’t right. If he could pin it down to one thing it would be this mother situation.

Jaskier never spoke much of his family. To be honest, Geralt didn’t know much about Jaskier’s past at all. The bard talked a lot, but not about where he came from or who his family was, or even what they were like.

It’s why he was so quick to jump to conclusions, that Jaskier was a fae who just wanted to use Geralt.

The only thing Geralt knew was that Jaskier’s father died. He doesn’t know how, or why, or if he died from natural causes, or was killed… but he knows he died.

That’s about it.

So the whole mother situation, would be Geralt’s top contender for what’s bothering the bard.

He just hopes something will let up soon, that they’ll find something or someone who can help. That’s why they’re heading to Rinde.

The raid on the Coven, wasn’t Geralt’s plan. It was Coen’s.

Coen came to him in Novigrad, told the White Wolf, that him and a few mages were set to travel to Oxenfurt where they knew the Coven was hiding.

There were several myths, legends about the Coven, about how big it was, about where they were. But that was the first rumour to show itself as truth. And as soon as Geralt laid eyes on cornflower blue ones, he forgot all about holding faes accountable for murder, and instead could only think about Jaskier.

Which wasn’t fucking uncommon for Geralt.

There were too many times over the years where the Witcher lost focus during a fight because Jaskier would rush in with a sword he didn’t know how to wield, and the sense would fly straight out of Geralt. All Witcher training would disappear and he’d be filled with worry, panic.

It’s why he lashed out.

He was never mad at Jaskier for disrupting a fight, he was mad because he was scared.

Nothing frightened Geralt, nothing, except the bard.

Anyway, that’s why they’re heading to Rinde. Because Lambert said to meet him there last time they met, and Geralt needs to find out if the other Witchers know anything about the raid - if Coen blabbed any details, or tried to recruit anyone else.

Maybe finding the truth behind how Coen got hold of the Coven’s location, will lead them to why there’s such an overlap of an army wanting Jaskier dead, and an invasion on a Fae den.

It takes a howling of laughter from downstairs for Geralt to break from his reverie, realising his sword is about as clean as it could possibly be.

Trust him to get so lost in thought of plans, and Jaskier, that he over polishes a sword.

He sighs, and sets the steel sword away before removing the rest of his armour and boots. Then he wanders over to the basin in the corner of the room, rested on top of a dresser. He washes his face, and takes the black piece of fabric out of his hair, letting it all fall around his eyes.

He looks in the mirror, and sighs, again.

There’s no certainty in him, as to why he cut his hair. Maybe it was the comment over winter, from Vesemir, ‘Grow your hair any longer and foe will start tugging on it.’ Or maybe it was just the need for change.

The other Witcher’s, Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir, even Coen, keep their hair short. But Geralt isn’t sure how he’d look with his hair cut down to an inch length. So instead he got it cut to his jaw.

Sometime’s change is necessary he supposes.

“Geralt!” The door flies open, banging into the wall with a loud thud.

Geralt isn’t going to lie, it startles him a bit.

Jaskier stumbles in, coming to lean against the wall, in a state that Geralt is not at all surprised to be seeing.

The bard’s hair is a mess, tousled and curling up at the fringe. His doublet is open, buttons of his chemise left open too to show the expanse of chest hair. His cheeks are flushed red and there’s that glazed over look in those cornflower blue eyes that Geralt has seen many times before.

The bard is - as Geralt predicted - drunk.

“Dammit Jaskier,” He mutters, folding his arms and turning his attention from the mirror, to the intoxicated bard.

Jaskier rolls his eyes dramatically, stumbling forward a few feet before falling back, flat on his bum.

If Geralt wasn’t concerned about the mental state of his friend, he would probably be laughing. Instead he walks over with a huff, helping Jaskier to his unsteady feet.

“Told you you’re a lightweight,” Geralt teases, putting an arm around Jaskier’s back to keep him standing upright. It takes a million braincells to ignore the warmth radiating through the bard’s doublet and into Geralt’s skin.

Jaskier turns swiftly, almost falling over again if it wasn’t for Geralt’s hands finding the bard’s waist.

“Fuck you Geralt, you think you know everything,” Jaskier’s finger presses against his chest, prodding Geralt hard. “But you don’t, you don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

With the bard’s face so close, breathing against him, he can smell the strong scent of alcohol on his tongue. It’s overpowering.

“I know you’re drunk of your ass right now,” Geralt remarks, avoiding those piercing blue eyes.

Jaskier shakes his head, pushing his hand against Geralt’s chest, “I’m only a little drunk.”

To that, Geralt scoffs.

The bard is as sober as the snow is hot.

“That’s a lie if I’ve heard one,” Geralt shoves Jaskier lightly, walking him back towards the bed. “Bed, now.”

An indignant scowl takes place on Jaskier’s face, that cute little scrunch forming over his nose. Geralt’s stomach dips, butterflies filling it like he’s fourteen or human. If anyone knew that he got fucking butterflies around the bard, he’d kill them out of embarrassment.

Okay, maybe kill is a little harsh. He’d definitely punch them.

“I’m not a child, Geralt, I can do what I want,” Jaskier rips from Geralt’s grip, tripping over his own feet in attempt to get away.

He ends up, almost, going face first into the dresser. Instead he catches himself, finding his balance.

Geralt folds his arms again, quite exhausted himself. He quite frankly, doesn’t have the energy to deal with this, “Fine, do what you must, I’m heading to bed.”

He does so, removing his shirt and lying down beneath the covers on the right side of the bed. The bed is warm, contrary to the chill of the room. He turns his back to Jaskier, facing the wall, hoping the bard will just decide to go to sleep on his own.

The room falls into a quiet state, with only the faint sound of chatter and laughter below from the tavern bustle, to accent the silence.

That is, until Jaskier starts fumbling around the room, feet falling on the hardwood floor like they’re made of brick. It only takes five minutes for it to stop, but to Geralt’s exhausted body, it feels like an eternity.

Eventually the bed dips, and Geralt turns over, to look at his drunk friend.

Jaskier has seemingly, finally, decided to rest. He’s spread out beside Geralt, on his stomach, with his face buried in the pillow, undressed down to just his smalls.

Which is peculiar.

As many know by now, the two travelled together for twenty years. Through that time, you’d assume they’d seen each other butt ass naked. But only Geralt was comfortable changing in Jaskier’s line of vision.

The bard was always undressing behind trees, in different rooms, asking the Witcher to turn his back.

Geralt has caught glimpses, sure, from wandering eyes and walking in on romantic affairs, but anything more than a doublet discarded and a view of chest hair wasn’t common.

The White Wolf was never sure why.

He had his suspicions, of course. Maybe Geralt had made him uncomfortable. Or maybe Jaskier was simply insecure. Or maybe the bard just admired his privacy. Either way, Geralt didn’t really mind, didn’t let it bother him.

But now, he thinks he knows why.

At first glance, there’s nothing interesting about Jaskier’s skin, besides from the faint freckles and the smooth, golden complexion… there’s nothing to comment on that Geralt isn’t aware of already.

Until he drifts his eyes down, and there it is.

Sneaking out from the waist band of Jaskier’s smalls, is a green stem, a leaf or two. The spidering green lines bloom into several bright yellow flowers, dancing upon the tanned skin of Jaskier’s lower back.

It’s beautiful.

The details go deep, darker green lines forming the spines of leaves, lighter yellow dots forming the pollen. It’s almost as if someone has painted the skin, or stuck a bunch of flowers right there.

Witcher’s know little about Faes.

At the conjunction of sphere’s many beasts, creatures, nonhuman beings appeared on the continent. So did magic.

Some realms faded, some realms dissolved into this one. Other realms simply fell into the Continent, existing beneath the surface of human eye.

One of those realms was the Fae Realm.

Many humans, Witchers even, over the years, have tried to uncover these hidden lands, for reasons good and bad; greed of power, and curiosity.

But the Faes stayed hidden.

There isn’t a single being, that Geralt knows of, that knows where the Realm is and how to get there.

Only the Faes know that.

So their secrets are well kept.

Creatures like Nymphs and Water Sprites, are common fairy folk. They cross paths with humans, elves, Witchers all the time.

Some are kind, some are mischievous, but every Witcher knows how to deal with them.

At Kaer Morhen, they are taught, in detail about every beast, creature and monster - their weaknesses and strengths, their hideouts, their thought processes, their urges, and most importantly how to kill them.

There is only a mere paragraph on the Fae.

Three dot points:

• The Fae don’t rely on chaos for magic and power, so the limitations to their abilities is quite unknown.
• Instead they rely on nature. So seemingly most fae folk, have marks on their bodies, of flowers or plants, that appear once they are named.
• They are dangerous. Do not engage with a fae. Its weaknesses are unknown. If you ever find a child, a human, in trouble, from walking into a flower ring… leave them. Inform their kin of their death. There is no return from an encounter with a fae.

The mark, the flower, resting on Jaskier’s lower back, disappearing beneath his underwear… its a fae mark, something Geralt could’ve only imagined to be half this extraordinary.

“You good, staring at my ass?” Jaskier mumbles, the edges of his words slurred from intoxication.

If Geralt could blush, he would. Instead he snaps his gaze away, refusing to look at the bard’s decorated skin, or those blue fucking eyes.

The ceiling is suddenly very interesting.

“That’s a fae mark, isn’t it?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond.

The silence draws out, and Geralt looks over.

The bard now has his cheek rested on his folded arms, eyes focused on the quilt of the bed. There’s a darkness in those irises, that the Witcher can’t reach. Something is lurking beneath the colours of the ocean.

“Yes, it is,” Jaskier finally responds.

Geralt knows that the uneasiness around the topic is probably his fault. But he can’t stop the curiosity sparking in his brain, luring him to not keep his mouth shut.

“True you get it after your named?”

For a moment he regrets asking, because Jaskier might not even know the answer. He wasn’t raised by a Fae. He was raised by a human.

The bard pushes himself up into a seated position, staring at down at Geralt like the Witcher has grown a second head, “Are you kidding? Is that what you’re taught?”

Geralt shrugs, sitting up himself, leaning his back against the headboard.

Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief.

“We do not get it after we’re named. We’re born with it.”

A crease forms in Geralt’s brow.

“Wait, I thought that the flower shows the fae’s name.”

“It does, just the opposite way around,” Jaskier crosses his legs. “We’re born with it, and our parents or parent in my case, name us after that mark. Everyone has something different. And each mark is a symbol of our source of power.”

Geralt hums in response. Then he smiles softly in thought.

“So what if I started calling you buttercup?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’d hit you.”

“You wouldn’t get the chance,” Geralt pauses. “Buttercup.”

The bard leans over, reaching to flick the White Wolf, on the nose most likely - but he doesn’t get the chance, because as Geralt predicted, Jaskier is too slow for Witcher reflexes.

Geralt swiftly grabs Jaskier’s wrist, tugging him down.

He thinks… scratch that he doesn’t know what he was thinking, and he doesn’t realise it’s a bad idea until Jaskier’s face is half an inch away from his, body pressed against his own, hands on his scarred chest.

Up that close, Geralt can see all the colours - all the shades of blue - that exist in the bard’s irises.

Cornflower is definitely the way to describe them.

Around the pupil is a wave of deep indigo. It gradients out to a sea of cobalt and azure, flecks of cerulean and white splashed through.

His eyes are works of art.

If Geralt was born in another life, if he was a painter - an artist, he’d spend a lifetime trying to paint something that did those eyes justice. He wouldn’t succeed.

A puff of warm breath lures his wandering gaze to parted lips.

Those soft pink, shining, lips look so smooth, so flawless compared to Geralt’s chapped ones. There’s no rough dead skin, or dryness.

All it would take is a tilt of the head and he could taste those lips, that mouth with his own.

The door creaks.

“Excuse me, Sir you left…”

They both jolt in surprise, Jaskier jumping back away from Geralt, like he’s been burned.

Which leaves Geralt’s heart burning in response.

The bard sits at the far end of the bed, biting his nails.

In the doorway, stands the barmaid from downstairs, Jaskier’s lute gripped in her hands. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, like she’s the one who was caught in a questionable position with her best friend.

Fuck.

“Sorry, was I interrupting something?” She asks, eyes wide, voice trembling with uncertainty.

Jaskier, the one who usually takes care of conversational matters like this one, stays dead quiet, his face a deep red. Geralt clears his throat, forcing the words out, “Uh, no, it’s fine.”

The barmaid nods, hesitantly walking in a few steps, holding up the lute.

“You left this Sir, downstairs.”

She places the lute on the dresser, in a careful manner, before retreating to the doorway.

“Thank you, you’re very kind,” Jaskier speaks up, offering the barmaid an awkward smile. She smiles back before closing the door after her exit.

The second that door closes, Geralt’s stomach sinks into a panic of sorts. The embarrassment rushes through him, closely followed by the guilt - the shame.

He was taught to control every ounce of himself that would ever want to give in to emotional - romantic desires. Yet here he is, almost taking advantage of a drunk bard, all because of those pretty eyes, and pretty lips.

He’s weak. A monster.

He can’t let it happen again.

So he lies back down, turning to face the wall again, praying Jaskier doesn’t bring up what just happened.

The sound of rustling, of Jaskier lifting back the covers and lying down beneath them, comes as a relief to the White Wolf.

“Night Geralt,” It’s a quiet mumble of words, but Geralt still hears.

He closes his eyes, sighs.

“Night Jaskier,” He responds, using Aard to blow out the candles, the room, plunged into darkness.

Sleep pulls him under.

***

There is something clawing at his throat, tearing out words he cannot hear, breaths he cannot feel.

Life is an ephemeral thing. Delicate. Especially with humanity.

Jaskier isn’t human.

Yet he lies, bloody, bruised, in Geralt’s arms, the immortality of his life seeping out of him like a dam drains a river.

He can’t stop the blood, or prevent the fall.

But still he tries, pressing his hands into wounds too deep to halt the bleeding, to stall time.

He knows he knows someone could help - a healer maybe, but that would mean taking his hands - the pressure - off the ripped skin, and that he is not about to do.

“Life ends Geralt,” Jaskier says to him, words echoing in his head like a ringing bell.

No. It doesn’t. It shouldn’t.

Not this soon at least.

“I’m not letting you die,” he begs, to Jaskier, to himself, to whatever god is listening.

He can’t lose the bard, he just can’t.

“That’s not up to you, my dear, it’s up to destiny.”

Blood trickles from Jaskier’s mouth, dribbling down his chin, dropping - staining - blue silk.

“Fuck destiny,” he growls, wiping the hot, deep red, liquid from the bard’s chin.

Jaskier chuckles at his response, more blood falling from his mouth, from his ears, his nose. It’s like it’s never-ending - like it just won’t stop. He can’t stop it. No matter how hard he presses into wounds, or wipes away blood. There is no preventing the waterfall of death.

“Stay with me, please,” he sobs, pressing their foreheads together, gripping the bard’s body tight. “Don’t leave me here.”

“I’m already gone.”

He holds on tighter, prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in, to let him keep his bard, his best friend, his love.

“Stay… please.”

There’s no response, no heartbeat, no pulse. Just the affirmation of death, of finality tearing at his heart, his throat for cries he cannot hear.

***

Geralt wakes up, sweaty, and in panic.

Dreams are rare to him, but when he does have them… he only receives nightmares. Usually of the trials, the pain he went through to become who he is - the mutant he is.

Sometimes though, his brain drifts to somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

This was one of those times.

The lasting panic, the fear that coursed through his veins during his nightmare, pulses still, causing his breath to come out in short gasps, and his hands to shake ever so lightly.

He forces his eyes to take in the dark room, the moonlight pouring into through the window, the ugly paintings on the walls, the lute and washbasin sitting on the dresser, the warm bed he’s in with the even warmer body pressed against his side.

All this, the focus on his surroundings, brings his heartbeat to a slower - regular - pace, and his breathing to a calm.

He turns his head against the pillow, eyes and ears searching for the sign of life next to him.

Jaskier is curled up against him, head buried in his side, under his arm.

Over the course of the path, they’ve slept in the same bed, many times. So Geralt isn’t unaccustomed to Jaskier’s cuddly nature during sleep. It wouldn’t matter if it was a smoking hot, Jaskier would still cover him with lanky limbs as if it was freezing.

Luckily the winter chill is still lingering, so Geralt isn’t suffocating.

With a slow, deep breath, he moves his arm from its awkward angle and rests it under his head, doing his best not to wake the peaceful, adorable, bard.

He’s not sure how late, or early it is, but he knows his body isn’t tired anymore.

That thrum of life, of need to do something - act - is back, running through his bones - his blood like a wildfire.

But he can’t move. Not with Jaskier against him, his leg thrown across Geralt’s own.

He can feel Jaskier’s warm breaths on his skin.

Mouth breather.

At least he doesn’t snore.

“Tell me…”

For a split second, he thinks Jaskier is awake, but then he takes in the sight of his relaxed, closed eyes, and his steady breathing, and he knows Jaskier is talking in his sleep again. Maybe they’re both having nightmares tonight.
“Please, I…” Jaskier trails off, mumbling incoherent gibberish into Geralt’s side.

The bard’s face tugs into a scowl, nose scrunching up again like earlier that evening.

“Don’t go… Geralt please,” Jaskier whines, hand coming up to grip Geralt’s wrist, the one that isn’t buried under his head.

Geralt stares, not knowing what to do in response.

He shifts ever so carefully, onto his side, coming face to face with Jaskier, bringing his gripped wrist up between them.

“Not going anywhere,” He mutters back, whispering as to not startle or wake the bard.

Maybe, if he tries, he can soothe the nightmare away.

“But you… please stay, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be better…”

The words break Geralt’s heart a bit, tearing at his chest with jagged claws.

He peels Jaskier’s hand off his wrist and interlocks their fingers instead, “You don’t need to be better, I’m staying right here.”

It’s what he wishes he could say in the light of day, to a conscious mind.

However he’s a coward.

“I have to be… you’ll leave if I don’t,” Jaskier sobs, a tear slipping from his left eye.

Geralt wipes the tear away, blaming himself, over and over and over, in his head, for this. It’s his fault, and his fault, only for this, for how hurt Jaskier is. If he had just took a minute to breathe on that goddamn mountain, he wouldn’t fucking be here, trying to convince an unconscious Jaskier, that he doesn’t want to leave him.

“No I won’t, I promise.”

It’s a dangerous thing, to make a promise. But Geralt is always making dangerous choices.

“You promise?”

Hope.

“I promise.”

The calm falls once more.

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s a little confused.

He doesn’t remember waking up, at all, he doesn’t even remember having a nightmare. But he must’ve, right? He hasn’t had a good nights rest in months.

Surely he woke up and his brain decided to forget.

He sits up, rubbing his temple as if that will help him remember the events of the previous night. Maybe it was the alcohol that helped him sleep, or forget at least. He doesn’t remember the details or happenings before he fell asleep so maybe he did wake up from a nightmare and he just forgot.

“You alright? Headache?” Geralt asks from where he’s stood across the room, already in his armour and boots.

Jaskier shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second, “No I… did I wake up last night… from a nightmare?”

Geralt turns away, putting his steel sword into its scabbard, before tying both steel and silver swords to his back.

“I’m not sure, was asleep the whole night,” The Witcher answers, lying, but that’s unknown to the bard. He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to even respond, grabbing the remainder of his things and heading to the door. “Hurry up and get ready, I want to reach Rinde by nightfall.”

The slam of the door - whether it was intentional, or not - startles Jaskier, making his shoulders jump, staring at the now empty room.

Empty except for Jaskier and his things.

His lute sits on the dresser, and his pack sits in the corner of the room beside his clothes.

Up until this moment, Jaskier was blissfully unaware of his state of undress. It makes for an extremely awkward realisation that he slept almost nude, in the same bed as Geralt of fucking Rivia.

“Fuck,” He mutters, rushing over to where his clothes lie, rumpled, on the floor. He tugs them on as quickly as he can, scanning the room for a sign of his boots.

They’re lying under the bed.

He has no idea how they got there but instead of spending more time wondering how they got there, he just kneels down next to the bed and pulls them out, slips them on.

No wonder Geralt was eager to leave.

Jaskier is a fucking mess.

The path to Rinde isn’t long, but it sure is miserable.

Rainfall is common at this time of the year - when the snow is starting to melt, and the air is getting more cool than freezing. The storm clouds stick to the sky above all day, showering the three companions - two barely human, and one horse - all soaked down to their feet… hooves in Roach’s case.

It’s terrible walking weather, but Geralt seems determined to reach Rinde by nightfall, so Jaskier tries not to slow them down, pushing through the uncomfortable feeling of wet toes and a drenched doublet.

They’ve both walked through worse, of course; days so hot that the sun beaming down leaves even Geralt sunburned and breathless, journeys so cold that Jaskier was left shivering next to an indoor fireplace for hours.

Bad weather isn’t out of the norm for them. Nevertheless it’s still a miserable experience.

So when they break through the familiar arch of trees, the silhouette of a town sitting on the horizon, Jaskier picks up the pace, breathing a sigh of relief.

Geralt, having gotten off Roach hours ago to give her a break through the storm, follows Jaskier’s lead, picking up his own pace.

Rinde is a quaint town, located on the edge of the Pontar.

Jaskier doesn’t have splendid memories of the place. After all it was where Jaskier watched Geralt fall in love with a certain sorceress and forget the bard even existed.

But he keeps his head high, focusing on the promise of a warm bed, and an even warmer fireplace, to dry his soaked hair and clothes - maybe he can even enjoy a hot bath.

When they reach the village, most of the streets are bare, the bad weather pushing everyone indoors. Geralt leads them straight to the stables, to brush down Roach and let her rest. Then The Witcher and the Bard head to the local tavern.

Jaskier wasn’t told who they were meeting, so when they enter the Cranberry Tavern, greeted by a loud booming voice and bright cat eyes, his heart stops in his chest.

He hates that his first thought now is, ‘Should I run?’

His trust in Witchers has faded.

“Geralt! You made it!” The other Witcher, exclaims, pulling Geralt in for a hug.

Just like Geralt but unlike Eskel, this Witcher is wearing all black. His hair is cut short though, and there’s a scar running across the left side of his face. It’s not as impressive as Eskel’s but maybe he can get the story behind it, find his musical creativity once more.

“And this must be Jaskier!” The other Witcher lets go of Geralt, turning to Jaskier with a smile. “Heard so much about you.”

‘Oh really?’ Jaskier thinks, throwing Geralt a look, eyebrows raised.

“All good I hope,” he responds instead, noticing the way Geralt turns his head away, folding his arms over his chest.

This other Witcher, chuckles, slapping Geralt on the back, some amusement - a hint at some inside joke or secret laying between them in bright yellow eyes.

“Never a bad thing said.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters, stomach filling with unnecessary butterflies. He doesn’t like the way his heart flips, how his eyes search his companion for something to prove it to be true.

So much time passed, and here he is, still longing, still hoping.

“I find that hard to believe,” He can’t stop it from coming out, like word vomit.

The wounded look Geralt sends his way, makes it instantly regret it. But he doesn’t let it show on his face, standing straighter, fixing his eyes on this other Witcher, who is all smirks, and jokes, and teases.

“I find it hard to believe Geralt could say anything other than good things about you, honestly all he does at Kaer Morhen is -”

“Alright can we change the topic, I came here about something important, not just to catch up,” Geralt interrupts, eyes going harsh - threatening.

Jaskier stares, wide eyed.

“Yeah yeah, calm your knickers White Wolf,” The other Witcher turns back to Jaskier, offering his hand. “I’m Lambert by the way.”

Jaskier shakes his extended hand.

“Nice to meet you Lambert.”

Geralt leads them to a table in the back corner, where they take a seat, ordering a round of ale, and water for Jaskier. After last night, he’s not that interested in getting hammered.

The drinks come, and Lambert clears his throat, when the barmaid has left, “You wanna explain what you needed to talk about? Don’t tell me you’ve got another child of surprise?”

Jaskier smiles in amusement, leaning his arms on the table.

Geralt stares daggers at Lambert.

“No, and… Is Eskel still back at the keep, looking after her?” Geralt lowers his voice to a hush, glancing around at people nearby with uncertainty written in his gaze.

Jaskier furrows his brow, confused as fuck.

“Yeah she’s fine, was improving her one handed combat skills when I left,” Lambert responds, lifting his tankard and swirling around his drink.

“Wait who’s her?” Jaskier cuts into the conversation, receiving a look of almost guilt from Geralt.

It clicks in his head. The child of surprise. Ciri. He has her.

“You bastard!” Jaskier jumps to his feet, rage bubbling through his veins like an uncontrollable storm. “Years I told you to go to Cintra, to fucking find her, that the root of all your problems was that fucking child of -”

“Quiet down Jaskier,” Geralt stands, coming face to face with the bard. “You wanna tell the whole town where she is?”

Jaskier’s heart pounds, pulse running.

He can’t think straight.

For years it was like shouting at a brick wall, trying to get Geralt to just go to Cintra, to see Ciri at least once. But Geralt said no every time, would berate Jaskier for invading in matters that weren’t his to invade. As if Jaskier wasn’t the reason he was at that banquet in the first place. As if Jaskier didn’t return to Cintra every year on the same day, Ciri’s birthday, just to check on her - just to be sure she was safe, because his grouchy companion wouldn’t.

“Fine, I’ll shut up,” Jaskier snaps. “I’ll leave you Witchers be, wouldn’t want to shovel more shit onto your life.”

He turns and walks away, hands buzzing with a need to hit something, to land a punch to that stupidly gorgeous face.

Just when things were about to fall back to normal, when Jaskier was started to trust Geralt again, the lighting strikes.

He’s a fool.

A damn fool for thinking Geralt would just change.

***

Every year it happens. It’s almost a tradition at this point.

Every year when the autumn breeze turns ice cold, when the sun goes to hibernate behind the clouds, the Witcher and his Bard, travel down the same path until the familiar crossroads reach their feet.

It’s always the same.

Geralt will stop next to Roach, turning to look at Jaskier with those piercing golden eyes, and Jaskier’s heart will ache, more than it ever has before.

Because every time they part, every winter, on that same crossroads - one path leading to Kaer Morhen, another leading to Redania, to Oxenfurt - every year, Jaskier stands there, with an ache so profound he doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to keep the words in… those three words that dance on his tongue - at the back of his throat - every time Geralt looks at him like that .

This year it’s no different.

Geralt comes to a halt in the centre of the crossroads, feeding Roach a sugar cube before turning to the waiting bard.

Jaskier stands still in response, glancing down the path closest to him - the one that leads down the Pontar, through to the art capitol of The Continent.

Just like every year, he longs to stay by Geralt’s side, just like every year, his hands yearn to lace with strong, scarred ones. Just like every year, he faces what truly scares him; not Nekkers, or Griffins, or even Cockatrices… but being alone, being without what he’s come to need, want, love.

“This is where we -”

“Part ways, I know, you say that every year,” Jaskier finishes for Geralt, putting on his best smile.

Geralt, in his brooding, silent fashion, hums in response, turning to look at the mountains ahead, at the cloudy skies.

So many folks have spoken of a Witcher's terror, how they’re barely human - mutant beasts, but Jaskier, has truly never seen someone as beautiful as Geralt. His eyes shine in the dark, his hair flows in the wind, and Jaskier could write an ode to every scar that lays upon fair skin.

He’s desperately in love with someone, he was told was a beast.

“Snow’s going to fall by evening,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier nods.

He wants his feet to move, wills them to do so. But they won’t budge.

“Should head off then,” Jaskier replies, still not moving his feet.
How can when all he wants to do is stay. Stay by the side of a wolf - a white wolf - forever. Until he dies. Until he’s hundreds of years old or however long it takes for his stupid, useless, fae blood to run out of life.

He wants to tell Geralt what lies on his tongue. He wants to get it off his chest, and watch the world crash around him. He wants his hopes to be true. He wants to bury himself in muscled, protective arms and stay there, until he rots. He wants…

Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants.

Because winter has come, and just like every year he must bury his feelings, say his farewell and head down a lonely path to a life he doesn’t wish to lead.

“Goodbye Geralt,” Jaskier forces out, taking a step back, hands tightly gripping the strap of his lute case. “See you in Spring.”

Jaskier turns away, heart breaking like it does every year.

The tears well in his eyes like they do every year.

And just like every year, he returns to Oxenfurt…

Alone.

***

Jaskier goes straight from the tavern, to the Inn.

The even heavier fall of rain, leaves him standing before the Innkeepers desk, dripping wet and asking for a room and a bath.

The Innkeeper, a gentle old man with a shining gold ring hanging on a necklace around his neck, takes his limited - admiringly short - coin, and sends his daughter to set up a bath in his room right away.

It’s an act of kindness that warms Jaskier’s heart for a moment or two, before he’s left standing in a room alone, wet, and miserable, and tired.

He knows all it will take is another sorry look from Geralt, and he’ll forgive him, because that’s just how weak Jaskier is… but for now he wants to believe he’ll have the strength to walk away from him again… to push Geralt away, like Geralt so often does to the bard.

“Sorry, my ass,” He says to the silence, dropping his lute and pack on the bed.

With tired feet, he walks into the conjoined room, where the bathtub lays in the centre, a shelve of soaps and oils on the wall.

It’s fancy for a cheap Inn.

Without another second of waiting, he takes off his boots and strips out his clothes, his smalls.

When his body drifts down into warm, soapy water, the tension in his shoulders ease, his muscles relax, and his feet stop aching.

It’s a piece of heaven after a lifetime of hell.

He lays his head back on the edge of the bath, closing his eyes for a moment, neglecting the need to wash for now, in favour of letting the warmth soothe his exhausted bones.

Needless to say, he doesn’t realise how long his eyes have been closed until there’s a creak in the floorboards and he snaps his eyes open to see Geralt standing the doorway, looking a bit like a kicked puppy… a wet kicked puppy.

Jaskier turns his head, looks down at the bubbles.

The tension starts to return to his shoulders, that uneasiness returning to his gut almost as fast as it faded.

He doesn’t want to fight right now. Not when he’s just found some sense of calm.

Geralt doesn’t say a word though.

Instead, the Witcher pulls up a stool next to the tub, and hands Jaskier a bar of lavender soap - Jaskier’s favourite.

“What… thank you,” he mutters, taking the soap despite the uncertainty in his brain. He doesn’t know what Geralt is doing, or why, and that scares him a bit.

Before he can even do anything with the soap, there are shampoo covered fingers in his hair, pressing into his scalp like it’s something Geralt has done before - on many occasion. Jaskier can barely breathe.

It’s not though - something they’ve done before. Yeah, Jaskier has untangled, brushed, braided, and washed Geralt’s hair, many a time. But that’s different. The Witcher spent his days protecting entire villages. He always came back, tired and dazed from potions. The least Jaskier could do was get Drowner blood out of those white locks.

“All those times, I cleaned guts out of your hair, I did it out of kindness, because I wanted to… you’re not obligated to return the favour,” Jaskier says, pushing the words out so they’re firm and lined with assurance.

Geralt hums, “I know.”

The fingers don’t leave Jaskier, instead, they run deeper, through the longer strands near the front of the bard’s head.

It feels good.

He can’t remember the last time someone ran their fingers through his hair. It feels like years, like a century.

It was probably his father, the last person to use their hands for simple kindness and not for beating Jaskier, or to get something in return. His father used to braid his hair, if you would believe it - when Jaskier went through a phase, at age nine, where he wanted to grow out his hair.

He hated it, it always got in his face, tickled his chin when he would run through the woods behind their house.

“Coen, The Witcher that… almost killed you at the den,” Geralt starts. “He went to Lambert before he went to me. Said something about a guardsman, one with a Cintrian accent, he spoke to Coen, told him about the hideout.”

Jaskier goes to turn around, to look at Geralt, but a steady hand rests on his shoulder.

“Keep your head still, you’ve got mud in your hair.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Jaskier groans, mindlessly washing his arms with soap to distract himself from Geralt’s distracting hands. “So what does that mean? Someone, from Cintra found out about the Fae and informed a Witcher.”

The fingers leave his scalp, before a hand returns, resting on the side of his neck, thumb pushing his head softly, forward. Water trickles over his head, dripping down his face.

“No, I… Coen told Lambert the guardsman seemed to be part of a larger group, or was hiring him under someone else - someone more powerful… I think this goes deeper than a simple contract.”

Calloused fingers return to his head, rubbing conditioner through the short locks.
A moment of silence falls upon the room, Geralt gently working knots and mud out of Jaskier’s hair as the bard, himself, washes the dirt off his legs.

Its a surprisingly comfortable moment. One Jaskier wouldn’t have ever guessed he’d be in, but glad he is.

“I really am sorry Jas,” Geralt’s voice is soft, barely a tremor of sound. “What I said on that mountain… I didn’t mean it. I was just angry, frustrated… and I took it out on you because you were closest.”

Jaskier feels the fist around his heart loosen.

He forgives him, like he always does, how could he not?

“I don’t hate you, I need you to know that,” Fingers bury under wavy hair, the pressure easing away discomfort. “You’re not… you’re not a burden, you aren’t to blame for my fuck ups. You’ve helped me all these years, so I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay Geralt. I forgive you… I already did. I’m sorry for having an outburst like that, I wasn’t thinking.”

The Witcher gets up, dries his hands, retreats to the door.

He seems to realise something, stopping in the doorway to turn and look at Jaskier with that same kicked look in his eyes.

“I…”

He looks down, at the floor, whatever he was going to say lost in the sea of thoughts that, that head must be filled to the brim with. Jaskier always wonders how much of what Geralt wants to say gets filed under what he can’t say.

“I’m proud, to have you as a friend.”

Jaskier gets the sense that it’s not what he wanted to say, at least not entirely. There’s something he’s leaving out. But Jaskier doesn’t pry, for the words hit too close to home, water welling behind his eyes.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Phillip didn’t want Julian to be Viscount.

His long, but mortal life as one, showed him that leadership - the responsibility of taking a whole town through the ups and downs, the hardships of disease and poverty… it was no easy task, and it took over your world, your life, your family.

Back when Phillip first met Lilly, when their relationship - their bond - was so new, Phillip barely had time to sneak away.

And one of his regrets, when he lay dying in a pool of his own blood, was that he didn’t get enough - didn’t spend enough - time with anyone he loved, including Lilly.

His last wish, was for Julian to succeed not in life but in happiness, that his accomplishments would come from the heart, rather than fame, fortune, or rulership.

Unfortunately, the aftermath of Phillip’s death didn’t bring much success or happiness to young Julian’s life.

His step-mother made sure of that.

Mary Georgia Smith was not a pleasant woman. She was something out of a fairytale for children, in the sense that she was like the evil step-mother.

She was quite tall, slender, and had a nose so big it stuck out of her face like a branch from a tree. Her wild red hair was nothing compared to the wildness of her heart, and her hobbies included sniffing out money, and flirting with royal assholes. She was simply wicked, cruel, nasty.

With a life of almost royalty, she was stuck up, expecting of respect, and was by far the most manipulative woman Julian had ever known.

She could ease her way into anything. She could convince anyone of anything. She was a master of deceit.

When Phillip passed, Julian suffered.

***

Just another day.

That’s what Julian repeats to himself, every morning, in front of the cracked mirror that sits in the dark hallway littered in cobwebs.

It’s not the nicest part of the house.

Back when Julian was just three years old, a fire caught in the south branch of the manor, leaving that part of the house a damaged mess. Of course, his father tried to have it fixed, but the wreckage was never truly recovered.

Instead it lay there, baron and dirty, with a gaping hole in the roof of the old spare room.

For years it was just Julian and Phillip, so more than a few bedrooms wasn’t needed. But when Mary and her three kids moved in, the endless space seemed tight.

Phillip, regardless of what Mary said, let Julian keep his room.

Until he died.

After his death, Mary remarried, gave each of her children their own room, invited her sister and said sister’s husband, as well as fifteen servants. The once gigantic manor, became too cramped, too busy, and Mary moved Julian from his bedroom - the one with a functioning roof - to the spare room in the south branch.

From there, things only got worse.

He is invited to meals, instead brought up leftovers by Natalie. No one but his former Nanny treats him with kindness. His step brothers and sisters are spoilt brats with no respect for anyone but themselves, and Mary beats him every time he steps out of line.

“It is no safe place for a child, for anyone in fact.”

That’s what Natalie always says.

Natalie is what keeps him sane, keeps him from running away, escaping Lettenhove for good. He would run if it weren’t for her. He’s not sure what Mary would do to Natalie if he left.
So he stays. Endures the torture, so Natalie, the only parental figure he has left, doesn’t have to.

***

It’s easy to forget things you don’t wish to remember.

Jaskier, at age twenty, took a month long course at Oxenfurt about the studies of psychology and learnt several interesting facts about the human psyche.

One being that traumatic instances, as a child, can cause adults to erase or change those memories. If a child watches their parent get murdered for instance, they can drastically alter that truth to a more understandable one like a death from an animal or such.

When the professor explained this to the class, Jaskier had one of the worst panic attacks of his life.

To this day he isn’t certain about most memories of his childhood. He knows bad things happened, he knows his father died in front of him, but he believed up until age twenty and one month, that his father was killed by mountain lion.

Up until he took that strange course, he was sure of his brain, and his memories.

Ever since, he’s tried to scratch away at the corners of his mind, to find the truth… what really happened. But the mind, as its proved, is odd beyond belief or reason.

No amount of scrambling got Jaskier anywhere.

Least of all now.

“I don’t fucking get it!” He throws his journal down on the bed, the quill following suit. “How am I supposed to know what this means.”

Even tossed recklessly onto the bed, the words from his mother, ‘Where the lighting struck last, and the buttercups grew first,’ they taunt him - tease him into frustration.

He runs his fingers through his hair, brain suppling no answer to the confusing riddle.

“It was obviously meant to be difficult, so no one she didn’t want finding her… found her,” Geralt supplies, snapping the last buckle of his armour in place.

A cold draft rushes in through the ajar window, brushing past fragile and thick skin alike. Winter is supposed to be easing off, but it seems the freeze is hanging on, lingering at the edge of spring through chilly wind and inches of snow built up at the window pane.

Jaskier doesn’t mind it, at least, he doesn’t mind it when he’s properly prepared for it.

Right now, he’s just in his thin chemise and trousers.

“Fucks sake,” he mutters, stomping over to the window and tugging it shut. The latch is frozen solid, and Jaskier tries to pull it left, to effectively lock the window, but it doesn’t budge.

He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him. His cheeks burn.

“Ugh,” he growls out, yanking at the latch with no movement in return. “Stupid fucking snow.”

The heavy footsteps of The Witcher trail over, and Geralt steps in close, tugging the latch closed with minimum effort.

It bothers Jaskier. Just slightly.

But mostly, his cheeks just set on fire from embarrassment.

“I hate you,” he mumbles, no anger reaching his voice.

Geralt rolls his eyes and steps away, “Mmm, sure you do.”

The comment doesn’t sit well in his stomach. He doesn’t like the implication, that somehow the Witcher knows that Jaskier couldn’t hate him even if he tried. Somehow… not somehow, even to a stranger it must be obvious that the bard has feelings for the white wolf. He’s always following, always watching, always blushing when he steps too close… he’s like a pathetic teenager, still incapable of controlling his emotions.

He huffs, and sits down on the bed, irritation buzzing in his fingers along with the shame.

In the end, of course he doesn’t hate Geralt.

He wants to. It would sure make his mess of a life, a little bit easier. But unfortunately he’s desperately in love - so in love, that nothing - not even twenty years of dangerous, monster guts filled travelling could deter Jaskier.

“I’m leaving, for a contract,” Geralt announces, sliding his swords into place on his back, and turning to face Jaskier with stern eyes. “Stay here, don’t exactly know if this place is safe, and I’m not going to be here to save you.”

Jaskier looks down at the floor. The wooden planks are scuffed and stained with red marks. He hopes it’s wine.

“Lambert is around isn’t he?”

Geralt folds his arms over his armoured chest, “No, he’s helping with the contract. Stay here Jaskier. Write some music or something, just stay, that’s all I’m asking.”

The big grumpy Witcher is giving Jaskier a look, one that’s all broodiness, but Jaskier can see right through to the fear beneath. It’s hard to say no when that worry sits evident in golden eyes.
“Alright,” Jaskier says, sending Geralt a warm smile.

Golden eyes narrow.

“Just like that, you’re agreeing?”

Jaskier shrugs, picking at a loose thread on the bed quilt, “No use arguing.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Geralt scoffs, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Okay, good… thank you.”

Golden eyes are still narrowed, wary.

Amongst all the pain, the shocks, the confusion and anger, Jaskier didn’t have time to catalogue just how much the white wolf has really changed. It was unnoticeable at first but now he can see it, the relax of his muscles, the soft lines laying around his eyes as if he’s spent the entire time apart smiling.

Maybe Ciri was all Geralt really needed.

A part of Jaskier is proud, happy for the Witcher, glad that he finally found some source of comfort and cheer… the other part of Jaskier screams in agony, mourning over twenty years - over a whole winter spent miserably yearning.

“No problem, dear heart.”

It’s the first time the nickname has left his tongue since before the mountain.

No surprise it still feels normal… like he never stopped saying it.

He lifts his gaze to reach Geralts, and gets stuck.

The world fades, his heart thuds.

The seconds tick by, and Jaskier is still caught in that gaze, wondering what thoughts lie in that head, when the White Wolf looks at him like that… like all attention needs and will be on the bard, like nothing else matters, like Jaskier -

“Bye,” Geralt grunts out, leaving with a thud of the door.

Jaskier stares, cold and empty.

***

Jaskier hasn’t said a word.

He hasn’t dared to the entire walk back to Geralt’s camp. Not when his heart is dragging on the ground behind him, not when his ears are rushing with the thundering sound of wind, not when the emptiness in his chest is more painful then the lasting ache in his throat.

If he speaks, he fears his voice might not carry… or worse it might show the truth, the pain.

So he stays silent, even when Geralt sends him odd looks across the campfire, as he brushes roach, as he cooks dinner, as they eat - or to be frank, Geralt eats, Jaskier picks at the meat.

Jaskier is aware that for him, to remain quiet, is worthy of the white wolf’s looks of confusion, but he’s certain once that questioning stage has passed, Geralt will be happy, relieved even to be greeted with the absence of the bard’s overly irrittating, neverending chatter.

It’s a win-win situation.

Jaskier hides successfully in plain sight, and Geralt gets his needed peace. Or at least, their rough couple of days almost ends that way.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The words aren’t kind. They aren’t meant to ease the tension or convey concern. They’re just harsh, clipped words from a grumpy, tired Witcher who’s put off by his unwelcomed companion’s moping.

So Jaskier doesn’t answer, doesn’t respond even in the slightest. He tells himself he doesn’t have the energy.

But really he’s just afraid.

Afraid of what else he’ll see in Geralt.

“Jaskier.”

Sometimes Geralt doesn’t mean to sound cruel or rude. It’s something Jaskier has just had to get used to and understand over the years. But also just as often, the witcher does mean it. It had been a difficult process to figure out when the white wolf’s tone conveyed his real emotions or not.

Jaskier still struggles at it.

“Now you’re quiet.”

That was definitely not meant to be kind.

It feels like a new wound, instead this time to his chest and not his throat - to his heart, instead of his voicebox.

Jaskier looks up, watches the Witcher turn his back to feed Roach.

He tugs his shaking hands into his lap, desperately trying to take control of the raging emotions flooding through his head.

The exhaustion feeds the anger, and the anger feeds the pain, and the pain feeds the exhaustion, and it just runs around in a loop until Jaskier’s head is spinning just as much as it was when he woke up a few hours ago.

“What? A whole fucking day and my life on the line wasn’t enough for you?” Jaskier snaps, setting his plate down next to him, appetite completely nonexistent now.

Geralt turns around to glare straight into Jaskier’s soul.

“I’m not taking responsibility for your actions bard. You were the one who didn’t listen when I told you to let go of the goddamn Djinn,” Geralt growls, turning back to Roach.

Jaskier stares in utter disbelief.

“Are you kidding me Geralt?”

No response.

“I’m sorry, you insult my vocal skills, you wish for me to be mute forever, you leave me with a dangerous witch, go after said witch to save her, blow up a building and then fuck said witch, all in the span of like thirty something hours and I’m the one to blame?” Jaskier scoffs, standing and tugging on his blood stained doublet. “Fuck you Geralt.”

With a shaky breath, he walks off down the path.

And by the time he returns, its dark and Geralt is asleep. Which is perfectly fine because Jaskier never wants to talk about anything that happened in the past two days ever again. He just wants to move on, forget.

He hopes they never come back to Rinde.

***

They came back to Rinde.

Of course, Jaskier knew he couldn’t avoid the place forever, it has a rich art history, and its a gorgeous location. He just wanted to run from painful memories… something he became quite good at over the years.

But… no matter how much he hates the place and its familiar view, he’s stuck there for at least until Geralt gets back from the contract, so he might as well suck it up.

There’s not much to do, so he gets lunch brought up to his room and settles in front of the fire with his journal and lute.

It takes eating his entire meal, and an extra twenty minutes of staring at the gold detailing on his lute to realise that there is not a single bit of inspiration sitting in his head, or even wandering around the deepest parts of his heart.

He’s still stuck.

Usually pain is a stimuli for Jaskier, like all good musicians he can write beautiful ballads out of the worst heartaches and traumas… but for some reason, this time, he’s blocked - stuck behind a wall he can’t knock down.

There’s chords laying there at the edge of his mind, ones that call to him behind the wall… but he can’t reach them.

It’s a useless effort to try, but something about the melody - a minor key - grabs hold of his heart, luring him into the dark again, just to pound on that wall until his fists are left bloody and his limbs can’t take no more.

You can’t force your mind to let go of what it holds back from you. Whether that be chord arrangements, riddle answers, or memories.

So Jaskier gives up the fight, returning his lute to its case.

He stands in front of the window, resting his arms on the ledge, pressing his nose against the glass. The heat of the fire has fogged up the window, blurring the outside world from view, so he wipes it down with his sleeve.

Rinde looks different in the Winter.

The small skyline of a distanced town met with a frozen lake, is quite a comparison to the dry, but colourful village swarming with blooming trees and sticky humidity.

Jaskier prefers the winter.

The rooftops are lined with white powdery snow, the streets are covered in puddles of ice, and the trees lay bare to the wind, dangling icicles over the river bank. It all looks so majestic, so ethereal.

A smile finds his face when a bright yellow bird flitters by the window, perching on a nearby tree. It ruffles its feathers before hopping down to the next branch.

Jaskier wonders what it would be like to fly, how the wind would feel gliding through feathers, how the height would feel… would he be scared of it all if he was a bird?

Maybe, maybe not.

***

“Don’t move.”

The hushed voice is somehow too loud, making his head throb along with his body. It’s too much. Too much pain.

“I said don’t move, you’ll cause more damage.”

He isn’t moving. At least he isn’t aware he’s moving. How can he move when he can’t even open his eyes. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. Maybe he’s dead… maybe he’s dead and the voice is some angel guiding him to the afterlife.

That would be rich. An angel taking care of an atheist.

“Just hold on, I have to stitch up the wound, it will hurt.”

For something to hurt, you kind of have to not already be in pain everywhere . And he is. There’s not a single cell in his body right now that isn’t aching, stinging, dissolving into a numbing sensation.

The world around his is a blur and he’s not sure when and how he got there… he can’t remember why he’s in pain, can’t even remember what his last meal was. Bread? Most likely it was stale bread.

That’s all he can get lately.

“Stay with me, come on.”

Is he breathing?

Is he even existing?

“You can survive this, come on.”

Can he?

“You need to keep breathing.”

He can’t remember how…

“You’re gonna make it through the night even if it kills me.”

He’s sure he’s dying.

***

Depending on the size, Griffins can be pretty easy to deal with alone. If you’re a Witcher of course.

But the Innkeeper said this one was big enough to lift a bull from one of their paddocks. So it’s lucky Lambert was at hand.

“What’s a Griffin doing out in the snow?” Lambert grumbles from behind Geralt, kicking a rock as he climbs the steep, icy, hill.

Geralt shrugs, looking up ahead at the rocks. It’s all so white, it’s almost blinding.

“Not sure, probably food. It took that bull, three men as well, probably didn’t expect the snow to last this long.”

Lambert scoffs, “Yeah well me and him both.”

Geralt hums in agreement before grabbing hold of the ledge above him and hoisting himself up. He stands a few feet back from the edge, waiting for Lambert to catch up.

The view is stunning.

Rinde looks tiny, like a toy village covered in flour. All the roads and buildings form a neat little pattern over the river bay, leading to that one stone house at the edge of it all - crumbled, still ruined.

If Geralt could go back… it doesn’t matter. Another Witcher rule, the past is the past, move on or you’ll drown in your regret.

It would be so easy to do, drown in his regret.

“Ugh, I hate snow,” Lambert pulls himself up onto the ledge, wiping wet snow off of his knees. “When this exhaustingly long winter is over, I’m heading straight to the coast and I’m gonna live it up there for a while you know, enjoy the sun.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, moving on down the rocky track, “I’m sure that will pan out.”

“Of course it will, I’ll take up some siren contracts down there, maybe charm some mermaids or a sailor’s wife to pass the time.”

At this point of knowing Lambert, Geralt has perfected tuning his shameless comments out, especially on a hunt. It’s easier to block out the other Witcher, when he’s focused on Griffin tracks and the smell of dead cow… or bull.

They’re close.

“Maybe we could all go, Eskel, the old man, even Jaskier.”

Geralt stops, turning around to stare harshly into Lamberts thick head. This is what he can’t tune out, Lambert’s ability to tease him like the annoying older brother he is. It’s frustrating.

“What?” Lambert feigns innocence, throwing his hands up, shrugging briefly before moving past Geralt, heading up the path.

The desire to throw a rock at Lambert’s back is real.

Instead he bites the inside of his mouth, shoving the annoyance back behind all the other, more important shit. They have a griffin to find. He can punch Lambert in the gut later.

“Look I’m as straight as they come, but Jaskier… even I realise you neglected to mention he was that pretty.”

If Geralt wasn’t holding a silver sword, recently sharpened, he might’ve thrown it at Lambert’s head, but alas he has to make do with staring daggers at him.

He could jump off the edge of the cliff, that might save him from this ghastly conversation.

“Maybe I should experiment, try my luck with him,” Lambert glances back at the White Wolf for his reaction.

Geralt halts again, this time eyes going wide with shock, nose twitching up in disgust - anger. The blood pumping through his veins sounds like it’s pumping in his ears.

Lambert keeps walking, a laugh falling from his throat.

“Oh come on Ger, you know I’m kidding, wouldn’t mess with the White Wolf’s bard.”

In response, out of pure anger, Geralt shoves past Lambert, taking lead once more.

“He’s not mine,” he mutters, coming to the top of the hill, where a bull carcass lies, abandoned and rotting. “Dammit.”

A dead lead.

Lambert stands beside him, clicking his tongue, “Could have just gone out for another bite, we’ll just set up some bait and wait.”

Geralt sighs.

“Was hoping this one would be quick, shouldn’t have left Jaskier alone back there.”

Lambert starts laying out meat in the centre of the area, and Geralt takes a seat on a nearby rock, sliding his sword back into its sheathe.

“What’s that about by the way? Found trouble again?” Lambert sits next to him on the ground, spreading his legs out and leaning back against the rock like the lazy ass he is. “Some pissed off husband?”

“I don’t know… I think it’s deeper than that, they know…” Geralt trails off, almost spilling Jaskier’s secret to the other Witcher. Lambert is a dick most of the time, and Geralt isn’t sure whether to trust him just yet with that information. “They know things about him, whoever is after him… they know personal details, and they… I think they’re an army of some sort, maybe a royal guard. The men who attacked us wore an emblem.”

Lambert hums in thought, carving a horrifically bad drawing of a wolf into the dirt with his dagger.

“What did the emblem look like?”

Geralt pauses, searching back to that night.

“It was gold, it had a bear on it, and some kind of inscription.”

“No clue.”

“Thanks, helpful.”

The area falls silent, the only sound is the whistling of the wind and the distant chirping of birds. It’s oddly peaceful. Not exactly something Geralt gets to appreciate or even experience on a contract.

The chill bite of the air takes nothing from the serene landscape of white clouds and equally white blankets of snow.

Unlike Lambert, he quite likes the Winter, even if it does stay for a while too long.

“Showtime White Wolf,” Lambert says, jumping to his feet at the sight of a dark shadow gliding above the clouds. He draws his crossbow, aiming at the sky.

Geralt leaps to his feet, drawing his sword just as the dark shadow turns into a large, screeching Griffin.

Lambert shoots, the arrow hitting right into the Griffin’s wing.

The huge beast comes tumbling from the sky.

Geralt rolls out of the way, sword at the ready.

Eventually after staring aimlessly at the wall for a full hour, bored out of his mind, Jaskier decided to sleep away the afternoon.

A rather failed attempt at sleeping means he’s now staring at the ceiling instead of the wall.

He’s almost about to get up and try meditating when a loud crash shakes the floor, the walls, the bed frame.

Then there’s screaming.

Not just any screaming, panicked screaming - screams of terror and fear.

Jaskier throws the blankets back, and tugs his boots on, listening closely to the ruckus below him for the source of the fear.

The screams all mix together though, melding into one chaotic noise that vibrates the floor and shakes the window. There’s rumble of footsteps, of people throughout the Inn rushing from their beds, and down the halls.

Jaskier can hear the cry of a child nearby, and it sends the little hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck into a stance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, grabbing his winter coat and tugging it on. He’s not about to walk out into the snow with just a chemise and sleep trousers on. He’s not that stupid.

With his heart thundering in his throat, he stands in the centre of the room, not sure whether to grab his stuff or not.

He doesn’t have to wait too long for an answer, as someone close by, on his floor, shouts ‘FIRE!’ into the hallway.

At that news, he leaps into action, grabbing his lute and Geralt’s pack, before leaving the room and hurrying down the hallway. The smoke and heat hits him like a strike of lightning, making his eyes water, and his throat close up.

He pushes through the discomfort, descending the stairs, and finding his way out of the Inn, into the crowd of townsfolk, either escaped from the burning Inn, or standing by the watch the flames eat up the old building.

Jaskier shoves through the bodies, trying to find some space to breathe, some space to catch his breath.

“Help!” A woman’s voice screams from the crowd. “Someone help them!”

There’s a riot of chatter.

Jaskier slips through the loud crowd, finding the source of the scream with ease. A woman, with blonde hair and almost grey eyes, stands in front of an older man, begging him for help.

“Please, they’re still in there,” She cries, shaking the mans shoulders, tears streaming down her face.

Heart aching for her, he walks over and gets her attention by tapping her shoulder, “Sorry who’s still in there?”

She turns to him, eyes watery. With a shaking hand she point to a second level window, “My sister and her son.”

Jaskier’s heart drops out of his chest.

His stomach drops too.

“Mind these,” he passes her his lute and Geralt’s pack before rushing back through the crowd, back into the building, ignoring the shouts of protest and fear.

***

When Julian wakes, the pain has dulled.

There is a rise and fall of his chest to let him know he’s breathing, lungs working to keep him existing, for now.

No heaven waits, no angels.

Although the blonde girl, with freckles and a dimple on her chin, sitting in a chair at his bedside is rather angelic looking.

She’s asleep, and there’s a line of drool on her chin.

Less angelic, he supposes.

He looks around the room - at the art on the walls, the colourful flowers in vases, the instruments sitting on chairs and dressers, the papers filling up a messy desk… he has no clue where he is, certainly hasn’t been here before.

It must belong to the drooling girl beside him.

With a focused effort, he moves, pushing himself up into a seated position, resting his head against the headboard of the bed. It’s cushioned. It feels nice.

The room is also very warm, no fire in sight. Heat must be coming from the sun streaming in through an open window - an open window that shows colourful banners dancing in the wind amongst equally colourful rooftops.

Where is he?

“Shit… you’re awake, oh thank god.”

Jaskier turns his head back to the girl, who’s now awake too, sitting up in her chair and hastily wiping the drool from her chin without an inch of embarrassment. Already, he quite likes the person in front of him.

“You must be parched, here,” She reaches for a glass on the nightstand, handing it to him, only spilling a few drops on the bed quilt.

He takes it with a polite smile, sipping just a bit at first.

But when it slides down his throat, soothing the scratchy feeling there, he gulps the rest down in only a few seconds.

The girl takes the empty glass with a warm smile, placing it back on the nightstand.

Testing more movement, he lifts his bandaged arm to wipe the water from his chin, only wincing just a tad at the tightness of the muscles.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” The girl says, pushing blonde waves out of her eyes. Which are the brightest green he’s ever seen.

He nods, looking around the room once more.

“Wh…” A fit of coughs interrupt him, his throat hoarse and rather sore. It feels as if someone stood on it with boots made of steel, or someone strangled him. He can’t remember if either is the case, but to put it simply, he doesn’t feel good.

Hopefully it’s just a cold.

“Talking may hurt, so take it easy, you have some bruising around your neck.”

Bruising. On his neck. That definitely doesn’t indicate a bad cold.

He coughs once more, and takes a deep breath, trying again, “Where.. am.. I?”

His voice comes out all croaky and it hurts like a bitch, but at least it’s something. The words get out and that’s what matters.

The girl smiles softly, “My flat.”

Julian looks out the window, at the banners again.

“And… where is… that?”

“Oh, Oxenfurt, you might not remember but I found you at the edge of the city, took you to my friend, he’s a healer… then he helped bring you here, so you could heal,” The girl says, smile softening with concern.

Julian closes his eyes for a moment, tries to remember the events before he blacked out… but he can’t, its all hazy and distant, like the images are lying underwater.

“How long… have I… been out?” The scratch in his throat is somewhat easing as he keeps using his voice. It’s still frustrating though.

“About a week,” She says, voice gentle. “You came in and out of consciousness a couple times, you almost died but I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

He opens his eyes and meets green ones.

“Why?”

Her smile falters, and her eyebrows drop - that warmth disappearing for a moment before its all back up again, shoulders straight.

“Because no one deserves to die like that, especially not at your age, you can’t be over fifteen surely,” She says, narrowing her eyes, peering into his soul.

With discomfort settling in his stomach, at being studied like that, he looks away, turns his head to face the wall, “Sixteen.”

A beat of silence falls.

“Oh, well, I’m seventeen.”

Seventeen, huh. She looks older, could pass for twenty.

Another moment of awkward silence falls upon them.

“Can I ask your name?”

He meets her gaze once more.

The fuzz in his brain, the scratch in his throat, the dull ache in his arm, his legs, his abdomen… it all leaves a sick feeling in his stomach like he knows he was running from something.

Maybe this is his chance to change that.

So without hesitation, he speaks, “Jaskier.”

The blonde, freckled, green-eyed girl smiles, extending a hand out to shake. Which Julian - no - Jaskier, takes.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla.”

***

Lambert keeps whining.

Witchers aren’t exactly ones you’d expect to whinge or whine per say, but Geralt is still irritated with the older wolf, so he’s gonna say he’s whining.

“Ugh, I hate snow,” Lambert grumbles yet again.

“As you’ve said, a thousand times.”

“Fuck you Geralt, you don’t see me complaining about you mentioning Jaskier a thousand times.”

Geralt tugs Roach’s reigns, directing her back onto the muddy path. He knows she hates the sludgy mud, but it’s that or freezing to death in the ice cold snow.

“Would you drop the Jaskier shit already?”

Lambert chuckles from behind, probably wearing some shit eating grin.

“I’m not the one who spent almost an entire winter at Kaer Morhen, wallowing in self pity and having drunken rants about the bard he let go, the bard he -”

“Lambert shut up,” Geralt brings Roach to a stop, peering through the dark of the evening, listening close to the sound of the sleeping village.

The woods around them seem still in response, the shadows of animals and swaying branches causing a display across the white sheets. For a moment there is no utter of anything else but ordinary life ahead.

“Oh come on Geralt, don’t wanna talk about your feelings -”

“I mean it Lambert,” he growls, closing his eyes so he can focus on the sounds, the smells just beyond human hearing.

Without a doubt, there’s a crackle of fire, the smell of smoke, the chatter of fearful townspeople.

Geralt tugs Roach back into motion, tapping his foot on her side to move her into a run. She sprints through the dark, into the dimly lit streets.

The familiar gallop of hooves behind him means Lambert is following.

But with or without Lambert, Geralt intends to find the fire, save anyone he can.

His heart thuds, his head goes to places it shouldn’t, not liking how the scent of smoke leads him towards the Inn, towards Jaskier.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, cursing himself and the Griffin that lead him away from the bard… the bard who he already lost once, the bard who he cares about, the bard he let down too many times to count.

He isn’t letting him down this time.

Roach huffs, but Geralt has to push her harder, rounding a corner into the main square where the view of the burning Inn, hits him right in the chest, sending waves of doubt and fear through his veins.

The panic swallows his thoughts, keeps his heart thudding.

He pulls Roach to a halt, and jumps down, not even bothering to tie her up.

A crowd of townspeople swarm the square, making it hard to see, to hear, to focus one one particular scent or sound.

There’s no way to find Jaskier amongst all the others.

Not when the only glow is coming from the burning Inn, not when Geralt can’t think straight, can’t see past the panic shaking in his hands.

“Jaskier!” He calls out, pushing through the crowd, ignoring the glares and comments of disgust at being so close to a Witcher.

Geralt listens for a response, but he doesn’t get one.

So he scans the crowd again, finding no hint of chestnut brown hair or that scent of lavender and chamomile. There’s nothing.

“Jaskier!”

He moves quickly, glancing at every single soul, until he’s left standing amongst them all, fearing the worst.

There’s no room for anything else in his brain but pure, dangerous, fear, the kind that eats up your gut and swallows your world. The kind that makes your hands shake and your whole stomach turn, and turn and turn.

So many bodies move past him, so many smells but yet no bard.

The truth dawns and his panic turns to grief, drowning him in every mistake he’s made, in every insult he’s thrown at the bard, in every time he let Jaskier down… he can’t seem to stop, can’t seem to just once, keep the bard safe or bright.

He’s a monster, just like they say he is, one that finds the brightest star and tears it to pieces until it’s just dust and ashes.

His fault.

Always his fault.

If he had just sent Lambert on the contract, if he had just -

“Geralt!”

It’s unmistakably familiar, that smooth voice, that lilt to his name. It’s not Lambert for sure.

With a last thread of hope, oh so dangerous hope, he moves through the crowd, making his way through to where a family is hugging under a tree, a small child crying miserably in his mother’s arms and…

Jaskier, standing there, with ashes streaked across his nose and blue eyes searching.

Those fucking blue eyes.

Geralt lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Before he can stop himself he’s hurrying over, tugging the bard into his arms and holding on tight cause he never wants to let go.

Jaskier’s breath hitches, heartbeat skipping but Geralt doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care if Jaskier or anyone else - hell, the world - laughs at a Witcher taking comfort in a scrawny human. For a moment, he let himself believe Jaskier was dead.

So his heart is still thudding in his throat, his head is still clouding by panic, and Jaskier is in his arms - warm, and safe, and alive goddammit.

Without even thinking, he buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, breathing in that scent that feels like home; lavender, chamomile and buttercups on a spring morning.

Never again will he take that scent for granted.

Never again.

Chapter Text

Phillip Alfred Pankratz wasn’t a poor man.

Being a Viscount, he grew up wealthy, he grew up safe. At the end of Autumn, there was no chilling bite to the cold for he had woolen cloaks to keep his bones warm. In summer, the lake behind the manor was private, and there was a cottage by the beach that his family owned.

Regardless of the need, most of the time he got what he wanted.

His parents paid him little attention, but plentiful in gifts and treats. There was no limit to what he could ask for and receive; boiled candies from the merchant in the square, new leather boots every month, custom wooden toys from the traveling carver who’d set up shop in Lettenhove once a year… the list goes on.

He knew hardship in his later years of course, but as a growing child, he was spoiled rotten.

Now being well fed, well looked after and cared for doesn’t always mean you’re a brat, and in Phillip’s case, he was a rather kind child - never shied away from sharing.

But it did mean he was less prepared when his parents passed away.

It wasn’t unforeseen, they had been sick for months, constantly teetering on the edge of death until one evening their illnesses got worse. They didn’t make it through the night.

Phillip barely cried.

His parents weren’t evil but they weren’t kind, and sixteen-year-old Phillip didn’t have time to grieve, he had a city to rule.

After that, his life was busy, too busy to slow down or breathe.

Of course, eighteen years later, when a crying baby was left in the manor’s front garden, his life was forced to a halt.

Suddenly, he had a child, a young baby boy, with eyes just like his mother, to look after - to protect and spoil.

***

“Julian, take a seat while I get us some lunch,” Phillip says, gesturing to the round tables set up in front of their favorite cafe, or at least Julian’s favorite cafe.

Le Café Tournesol, a quaint little shop on the corner of Main street, served the best honey and dandelion tea - for Phillip, and the best cinnamon scrolls - for Julian.

The cafe did well for itself, its baked goods often bringing in folks from all across Redania, some even from Temeria. The influx of business for one shop meant that the rest of Lettenhove did better. Which meant Phillip’s job was easier.

Happy townspeople, happier Viscount.

The regular lunches together at this cafe weren’t just for keeping up morale, but also for Julian’s sake.

Phillip knows how busy his schedule can be, and lately, it’s been even more so. Over the last few weeks, Natalie has spent more time with the young boy than his own father has and it’s becoming a guilty knot in Phillip’s stomach.

Hence the regular walks down to Main street for Julian’s favorite treats.

“I hope you don’t mind waiting, there will be a fresh batch of scrolls ready in five,” Phillip informs his son, taking a seat next to the seven-year-old.

Julian pays little attention to his father, instead nodding absently as he leans over the side of his chair, leaning his chin on the rough metal armrests.

Usually, baked treats would capture the full mind of the young Pankratz, but today there is something more interesting, something more fascinating to behold - a spectacle to watch with eager blue eyes.

Julian isn’t quite sure what it is, of course, he’s never seen anything like it.

Across the street, standing on top of a wooden bench, is a man dressed in ruffles from head to toe, holding a string instrument of some kind.

This man is playing a song, one Julian hasn’t heard before but enjoys nonetheless. Its beat is fast, and yet the man’s fingers pluck the strings so delicately, his voice falling across the shops and houses and people like a gentle rain shower.

The song sounds happy, and yet the man breathes the words like his heart is breaking on every syllable.

Julian has seen performances before. A harp player performs at his father’s banquets all the time. But this is different…

The emotions strangling every note, the heart poured into every word, the rhythmic tap of a foot, it’s all so new - so strange yet so interesting.

Little Julian watches in awe, his heart beating in time with the rhythm.

There is a warmth in his head - something happy and bright, and he wants to get up and dance - no he wants to sing, he wants to grab that instrument and pluck the strings just like that man.

He wants to play like his heart is hurting. He wants to feel the music in his chest, in his lungs, in his head. He wants to breathe in the melodies and bask in the harmonies.

He wants to feel his feet tap to rhythms he creates, he wants to dance to tunes he sings. He wants to write ballads people never forget. He wants to create artworks with major and minor chords.

More than anything, he wants to live through that music - breathe it, dream it, exist in it.

“Father,” he says, without taking his eyes off of the performer. “Who is that?”

“Uh, he’s a bard, not sure of his name, he must be new.”

“I want to be that then when I grow up,” Julian smiles.

“What?”

“A bard.”

***

For natural musicians, the key lies in the spirit.

Just like anything in life, no human is born with skill or talent, they’re born with soul - with desires to be good - to live and breathe certain aspects of life. Some people take a while to figure out what that is, others don’t.

Julian Alfred Pankratz knew the second his heart felt that yearning to play, to pluck lute chords until the words he couldn’t say came out in note form - that he was born to do just that.

His hands rarely stopped fidgeting, his attention rarely held on, but when he got his first lute… oh how he stuck at it. It was difficult, rough and painful even, but he stuck at it until he could play songs he’d heard in town, and tunes his father and Natalie liked.

There was no stopping a born musician from learning everything they could about music and its art form.

And as soon as he started playing, he started noticing the music in everything. It was everywhere; in the trees rustling from the wind by his house, in the trickle of the fountain, in the laughter of his father, in the echo of footsteps late at night in the manor, in the bark of dogs and in the howls of wolves… it was everywhere, all the time.

Jaskier knew how to interpret every note of sound and turn it into something more.

He knew where to look, and how to listen.

Right now, despite the encore of chatter and the accompaniment of horses and dogs alike whining into the night, all Jaskier can hear - can tune his ears to, is the rhythmic beat of a slow pulse and a heavy breath.

There’s a distraught but relieved family to comfort, a burnt down Inn to inspect, and a mother to find, but all Jaskier could care about is the heart beating against his, too slow for a human, but quick for a Witcher.

And just like the musician he is, he times his breathing to Geralt’s, measuring out the exhales and inhales so Geralt’s melody doesn’t stand alone.

Jaskier is a lead in any performance, he has a bad habit of taking over - of taking center stage and forgetting others exist, but for Geralt… oh for Geralt he’d hum, he’d harmonize, he’d back his tune so the White Wolf hears the applause instead.

He’s done this for so long, that it’s second nature to him now.

If the world were to burn, if a hurricane were to arrive, if a volcano decided to erupt at that very second… well, Jaskier wouldn’t care, no, he would stay wrapped in strong arms and that soothing smell of vanilla. He would make his last song be the true melody of the White Wolf - world be damned.

With his head buried in the crook of Geralt’s neck, he’s roughly aware that the Witcher is saying - or rather - mumbling something.
Those little puffs of breath tickle the bare skin of his neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Jaskier’s own breath trembles.

“What was that dear heart?” He tries to keep his voice soft, as to not disturb the peace of the moment, but it betrays him - coming out too loud, too demeaning of attention.

‘Always too much,’ he thinks, clinging onto Geralt with both arms. ‘Always too loud.’

If he holds on tight to the White Wolf, to the comfort and warmth he never thought he’d feel, to the very real fear he saw on Geralt’s face - in those golden eyes… then he won’t collapse.

He’s afraid to let go, afraid of waking up to find that this moment is all a dream.

Maybe he’s going insane, maybe Geralt is going insane and thinks he’s someone else, maybe he’s dead and gone to heaven, maybe -

“I thought you were dead.”

It’s oh so quiet, too soft for anyone else to hear. But Jaskier isn’t anyone, and Geralt’s mouth is close to his ear now so the words are as clear as day.

I thought you were dead.

Jaskier’s heart thuds once, twice, too many times.

In all twenty years of travel, not once did the Witcher show such raw emotion, such vulnerability to Jaskier - let alone, for Jaskier.

Strong, heavy hands pull him in tighter, bury him in a warmth he’ll never forget.

He can barely think.

Surely he’s dreaming.

Right?

“I saw the fire, and… fuck, I thought the worst, I-” Geralt cuts himself off, pulling back and Jaskier’s heart starts to panic because he wants to hold on, he can’t let that warmth go, he’s so weak.

The Witcher doesn’t leave though, instead his hands move - one resting on Jaskier’s neck - his fingers curling around to brush the hairs on the back of his head. The other comes up to Jaskier’s face, tentatively, Geralt’s thumb grazes his cheek.

Jaskier can only imagine how ruined he looks, with soot and probably a stupidly smitten look on his face.

He’s swooning, he realizes as his body leans forward, head tilting into Geralt’s touch - which doesn’t retreat even after a few long seconds. It stays, both grounding and sending Jaskier up to space - to the heavens.

Oh he can die happy.

“I thought I lost you,” Geralt continues, voice low and rough. “I thought I lost…”

With a kick to his ego and his heart, Jaskier remembers what was left behind in the room. He couldn’t save Geralt’s clothes, or their food supply, but he managed to grab the pack full of Geralt’s potions.

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier pauses, pulling away from Geralt’s oh so warm hands to grab the pack from the ground and hold it up. “Got your potions.”

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow, looking from Jaskier, to the pack and then back to Jaskier. With a hesitant look in those golden eyes, the witcher takes the bag and drops it back at their feet, despite Jaskier’s squawk of protest.

“Geralt, what -”

“I don’t care about the potions Jaskier, they’re replaceable,” Geralt reaches out, returning his hands to Jaskier’s face, his thumb wiping the soot from his cheekbone. “You aren’t.”

With anxiety racing through his body like bees humming in their hive, Jaskier laughs nervously, looking down at the ground because his heart can’t handle those eyes or that face.

He feels as if he takes one more glance at Geralt, he would simply melt into a puddle.

No one would even notice Jaskier then. He would just blend into the dirt and snow. Maybe that would be a better fate for Julian Alfred Pankratz.

But then Geralt laces his fingers together with Jaskier’s, and the world - the problems and hardships of too big emotions and too little words get swept up in the wind and all Jaskier cares about is that warm, grounding hand in his.

He looks up, into those irises of sun and fire.

“Geralt I -”

With a roaring thunder in the distance - the booming sound of voices and hooves, Geralt and Jaskier are being shoved by something strong, through the crowd.

Jaskier almost trips, Geralt’s arm steadying him at his waist.

There’s no time to focus on the feeling, as the weight is continuous on his back.

He manages to look over his shoulder, Lambert close behind them, keeping them moving through the townsfolk, with a serious expression written in furrowed eyebrows and the sharp line of his mouth.

“Lambert what the he -”

“Shut up, keep quiet,” Lambert whispers. “That red army you were talking about, they’re here, in town.”

Jaskier’s heart plummets into his stomach, moving ahead through the crowd on his own now. He doesn’t need any more incentive to leave Rinde, for good this time… he hopes.

“Fuck, how many?” Geralt whispers from somewhere close behind.

“I don’t know, around twenty five.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah fuck.”

It’s definitely not comforting.

Jaskier pulls his hood up, keeping his head down and feet moving. If they can just get to their horses, everything will be fine.

“Roach is just up ahead, where did you leave Storm?”

“Back at the fountain,” Lambert admits. “You get the bard out of here okay? I’ll try and lead them away, or at least some of them.”

There’s a grunt of protest from Geralt and suddenly they’re both stopping, just a few meters from where Roach is waiting, oblivious to the danger and tension. Jaskier stands, nervously chewing his thumb nail as he watches Geralt and Lambert talk, close and hushed.

“Stupid plan if you ask me, what happens when they all follow you, you’re gonna take on twenty armed men alone?” Geralt snarls, glancing up at the prying eyes around them.

Lambert rolls his eyes, “You worry too much brother, I’ll be fine. I’ve fought more dangerous foes… and besides, it’s not like you’re gonna leave your bard alone now are you?”

Geralt’s eyes land on Jaskier.

Time stops.

His heart pounds.

His hands shake.

“No,” Geralt doesn’t take his eyes away, that one word forming in his expression somehow before he even speaks.

Jaskier can barely breathe.

“Alright then,” Lambert pats Geralt on the shoulder, gaining his attention once more. “Then my plan it is.”

Geralt scowls in dislike but doesn’t disagree. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says instead.

Lambert chuckles.

The white wolf leaves his brother’s side and walks over to Jaskier, “If you’re still alive, meet us at Kaer Morhen in two weeks.”

Lambert nods.

Jaskier follows Geralt over to Roach, giving the gentle horse a pat on the nose as Geralt pulls himself up onto her back. He takes the reins in one hand, and extends the other down for Jaskier to take.

It stirs something in his heart.

He’s never been allowed to ride Roach.

But Geralt is looking at him with earnest eyes, and it’s all too much to form into words.

So he takes the hand and lets the witcher pull him up.

With a swing of his legs, he settles himself behind Geralt, awkwardly hanging his hands in the air for a moment.

“Hold onto me,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier’s breath stutters.

With hesitancy, and self doubt hanging heavy in his brain, he wraps his arm’s around the white wolf’s waist.

“See you at Kaer Morhen brother,” Lambert says, saluting over dramatically, for comedic effect. It kinda works, putting a small smile on Geralt.

“See you,” Geralt says back, tugging Roach’s reins and nudging his foot into her side. She breaks out into a sprint across the town square, hooves clicking and clacking heavily on the stone.

Jaskier holds on tighter, his hood flying off his head.

The wind is icy and it rushes against his already cold ears. He rests his forehead on Geralt’s back, focusing on the leather saddle instead of the fierce chill cutting into his cheeks.

They turn down the main street towards the town gates.

Everything whistles, gushing and rushing past like a storm.

Something booms behind them; a sound close to thunder but not unlike a building falling.

The clatter of hooves provides rhythm to the shouting of wind and men.

Jaskier’s heart is full with fear and yet he is not paralyzed. He feels comfort, warmth even with the white wolf so close.

Its strange what certain companions can do by simply existing close to others.

“Fuck, hold on,” Geralt growls out, drawing Jaskier’s attention to the path ahead; the road is blocked by three soldiers on horseback, armored with extravagant iron shields and helmets.

Prepared, is what they are. Unlike the Witchers and the bard.

With a cry of protest from Roach, Geralt tugs on the reigns abruptly, turning her down an alley way on the left in a matter of seconds.

Jaskier clings to Geralt, fearing he might fall off if he doesn’t.

“Good girl,” The witcher mutters to his horse, sending a flurry of warmth through the bard’s heart.

It never ceases to make Jaskier smile.

The tight alleyway leads out onto a back street full of forgotten bakeries and a few smaller houses - their old, dilapidated walls flying past the riders in a sea of wood and stone.

Fragile roofs shake from the thunderous crashes around them, shattering windows and crumbling already decrepit buildings.

Jaskier, lifts his head, turning back over his shoulder to take a glance at the city behind them.

It’s a horrifying sight.

Rinde glows bright, orange with flames and white with ash.

Smoke billows out of the church centered in the town square, the fire licking the walls and spidering up the bell tower like a monster in the night.

The unsettled feeling in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach grows into a sickening anxiety, his mind putting two and two together; the fire at the Inn was no accident.

Innocent lives, the civilians of Rinde will die tonight, all because of Jaskier.

It’s his fault.

He lead the red army here, he brought them into a town of artists and cooks - of bakers and painters - just to escape with bloody hands at innocents throats.

His breath is too much for his lungs.

The air is not enough.

He gulps in oxygen, collapsing forward to rest his head on Geralt’s back.

That family.

The little boy and his mother.

He saved them from one fire, but they’ll surely die at the hands of another.

How…

No - who, who would want to kill a weak, insignificant bard so much that they would burn an entire town down just to get to him?

Does someone want Ciri?

No, why would they want him then? To get to her? There are easier ways.

And besides, these… these soldiers, they want him dead.

They don’t want his brain or information he can offer.

Jaskier is not a nationally liked person per say, but he doesn’t have enough credibility or justifications for such hate. Sure he’s slept with married men and women, daughters with angry fathers, and stable boys with just as angry - but definitely stronger - brothers… but it surely isn’t enough to burn civilization down for.

There are… others.

Rare folk deep in his past, memories that lie in the shadows of his mind, haunting images of ugly hate and unforgiving pain… but those folk don’t bother with Jaskier. Not if they can help it.

Even his nemesis doesn’t deem him a worthy enough threat to even start a fight with, let alone start a war over.

It kills everything else lying in his brain. There is no room for warmth and love when an army of trained warriors want you dead - when innocent townsfolk are murdered in your name.

How do you possibly think of such mundane, such mortal problems as what lies in your heart - no matter how strong - when you are to blame for the deaths of others.

It’s impossible.

Jaskier is not made for war.

He’s a bard.

He sings of life and love and heartbreak, experiencing it all under the scope of an inexperienced fighter.

There is no room in his lungs.

There is no room for anything but guilt.

There is no room…

At all.

***

“Weak hearts aren’t meant to live among the strong,” A hand glides through Julian’s hair. “You are destined to be broken.”

Cruel words spoken with the tongue of such a nice man, one with brown eyes and even browner hair.

All he has to do is smile. Smile and Julian follows, believes every lie, treks every step, trips over every boulder just to prove his worth to a human he can’t seem to reach.

There are lies hiding in brown eyes. But he couldn’t care less.

For moonlight shimmers across the water.

The stars glimmer in their reflections, glancing their light towards the trees and the young men lying there.

Reeds rustle in the summer breeze, frogs croak in the shadows.

“I love with my whole heart, if that makes one weak -”

“You are weak because of the nature of your soul,” That smooth as honey voice is cold in his ear. “To love anything other than someone whole is a burden. One I will not carry.”

That’s the mischief of sweet voices, they can make words of daggers sound like symphonies and perfectly orchestrated melodies.

They’re dangerous.

And you’ll be in too deep before you notice.

Julian can see his heart in cold hands, breaking and slowly crushing under the pressure of strong fingers and indelicate handling.

He can see it, as if it’s there, and yet he can do nothing.

Even if he could take it back, would he? No, for he loves too deeply and too much to let go that easily.

“But I love you , not anything - not anyone else, how would I be… weak? You kiss me and hold me and yet you claim such words? You are surely joking. I know you love m-”

“I do not love you Julian,” Hands leave his hair, that addicting, but icy touch escaping from his world of vision. “You have fallen in love with me, as I expected you too, but I cannot love you.”

His… not lover… sits up, Julian following suit.

It’s his fault. For being like this.

Too clingy, too pathetic, too broken.

His Aunt was right in saying he’d never be loved.

It’s his fault.

So it’s his job to fix it.

He clings to that hope, reaching out to lay a hand on a cold shoulder. His moves closer to the icy body, kisses frozen lips.

The summer air burns.

Freezing hands push him, roughly, away.

Julian’s back hits the ground hard, tears welling in his eyes.

“Tell me how… tell me how to fix it. I can be better, I promise,” Julian pleads, through tears he wish he could not shed, through pain he wish he didn’t feel.

He needs to be enough.

He can’t…

He can’t be…

He can’t be alone.

“You cannot,” He stands as he talks, brushing off the grass and the dirt, standing over Julian like a devil with an angel’s halo. “As I said before Julian, you are destined to be broken, weak. Nothing more. I’m destined to marry someone strong, someone worthy of my love. Your heart is pure yes, but your soul is beyond repair, limp and ugly. You want to be enough for someone one day? Yes?”

Julian nods, quickly, wiping away tears, “I want to be enough for you .”

“I will not love you, and you will never be enough for me. For someone else, you must retire yourself. Serve them, and you might have a chance. Retire your act of desperation. Let that weak soul go… or you’ll die alone.”

With that, he leaves.

He leaves Julian alone, to sob into the night, into his sleeves until morning comes.

Until his eyes are incapable of shedding another tear, until his body is tired and harsh words sound like truth.

The guilt eats at him.

He must do better.

He will do better.

He will not die alone .

***

They find a way out.

With natural ease, Geralt steers them into the woods, losing the soldiers quickly in the dense, dark forest.

By the time they reach a safe spot to stop, the sun is beginning to rise, peeking it’s light through the trees. It’s warmth reaches neither witcher, nor bard, for they both hold heavy heads and hearts.

Geralt fears what became of his brother.

While Jaskier struggles with waves of nausea, caused from guilt.

They don’t stop; Geralt mutters something about keeping their momentum until nightfall.

Jaskier is distracted by the sky he can see beyond the ceiling of leaves and branches. The clouds cover most of it, dancing in shades of pink and orange over the rising sun. Sleet falls from these clouds, the trees keeping most of the frozen rain from their already cold heads.

Sleet means one thing.

Winter is finally retiring for the year.

The continent will soon, hopefully, be littered with blooming flowers and sun showers.

Geralt taps his leg, saying something Jaskier does not make out as he returns from his thoughts.

The loaded silence after could very well mean that Geralt asked him a question.

Which Jaskier doesn’t know the answer to, of course, because his scattered brain was elsewhere.

“Huh?” He asks, dumbly.

Geralt doesn’t growl or even chuckle. His shoulders tense up, but that’s all Jaskier can see from where he’s sat.

“I said you should put your hood back on, we’re heading back onto a main road and I don’t want to take any chances,” He pauses, sighing in a manner Jaskier can’t decipher. “Where did you go just then?”

Jaskier tugs his hood back on, mulling over the words in his mind.

Its a loaded question.

He could say so many things, and yet he can’t bare to formulate an answer.

The grief and the guilt is too heavy in his heart to yet talk of. If he cries like he knows he will, the tears will not stop… and Jaskier has to be stronger, he’s been weak too much in Geralt’s view.

Let that weak soul go…

He chooses a Geralt response, a simple ‘hmm,’ before resting his head on the witcher’s back, hiding his head further.

His bones are tired, his head sore.

He shuts his eyes for a moment.

Or at least he means for it to be a moment.

Horses aren’t made to be slept upon.

That becomes clear to the bard when he awakes to an aching pain in his tailbone, and a irritating exhaustion running through his body - the kind you get from a restless nap.

Sleep so deep is exhausting because of the nightmares. Sleep so light is not great either.

Maybe Jaskier is doomed to never find the right kind of rest. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in his life.

Anyway, the reason he woke up at all is the White Wolf and his nudging at his side. Jaskier’s sleep fuddled brain was ready to direct a slap at the nearest offender.

“Wake up lark,” There’s a smile in the voice… how fucking annoying. “Making camp here for the night?”

Jaskier snaps his head up to look at the world around them.

The clouds have disappeared from the sky, which is now a dull blue that blends into purple and pink as the sun descends over the horizon. The woods around them is much less dense, so the last drop of sunlight shines through the branches with ease.

That cold bite of the air clings to their skin but it’s paired with the heat of the sun. For now, it’s enough.

“You slept the day away,” The white wolf comments, moving out of Jaskier’s arms to jump down off Roach.

‘Yeah what a sleep,’ Jaskier thinks sarcastically.

With a pat on Roach’s side, Geralt turns back to Jaskier, offering a hand.

Jaskier shakes his head, throwing his leg over the saddle so he can get down, “I can do it myself witcher.”

He tries not to sound rude, but he doesn’t know if it comes out how he means it. He’s exhausted and there isn’t much energy in him to direct lightness or humor into his sentences.

Either way, Geralt steps back and Jaskier jumps down.

He turns to Roach, reaching for one of the packs tied to her saddle, despite his exhaustion still willing to help set up camp, but Geralt stops him with a warm hand on his back.

“Go sit, I’ve got it.”

Those golden eyes… Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to even argue. It makes the guilt worsen. For if he can’t even help set up a fire or at least take a pack off of Roach, then who will ever want him? How would anyone love someone as useless?

That warm hand moves to his shoulder, and Geralt must see the thoughts in his eyes because he squeezes once and gives Jaskier this reassuring smile, “I’ve got it.”

Jaskier nods, giving in too easily.

He drags his bones over to a decent sized log and sits down, closing his eyes as the world spins around him.

If he could just get his limbs to gain some energy… he could be useful. He could make a fire, or lay out the bedrolls, or cook dinner. Just two minutes of rest, and Jaskier will get up and search for food, after all, that’s why Geralt taught him all those years ago to identify poisonous mushrooms compared to the edible ones.

He must be useful.

Serve them, and you might have a chance.

Geralt may have lost his brother, he doesn’t need his bard - a burden - to mope around all weak and defenseless.

He needs a stronger hand.

Stronger than what Jaskier currently owns.

“Jaskier, lay down and get some sleep, god knows how fitful it must’ve been on Roach,” Geralt says, laying out the second bedroll, glancing at Jaskier with cautious eyes as he goes about making a fire.

Jaskier shakes his head in return.

If he can’t cook or help, he can at least stay awake.

Keep the white wolf company.

“Jas, you’re barely awake,” he argues. “There’s no use staying up.”

The bard’s teeth start to chatter so he clenches his jaw and tugs his cloak further around himself to keep him warm, the fire not yet big enough to provide heat.

“There’s no use sleeping either,” Jaskier argues back, staring at the yellow part of the flames.

Geralt sighs.

He goes off to find food, saying something to Jaskier about staying safe… Jaskier again doesn’t hear, too tired to focus on the words.

Everything moves by in a blur.

The witcher returns, cooks some poor animal over the fire and they both eat. Jaskier stomachs most of it, letting his much larger companion finish the rest.

It’s not until Geralt sits down on the log, next to him, his warmth pressed along Jaskier’s side, does he realize just how much time has moved by… and just how cold he really is. He might lean into the witcher a tad.

“Wanna answer what I asked this morning?” Geralt asks, clasping his hands together in his lap.

Jaskier leans his head in his hand, staring down at Geralt’s boots. The brown leather is scuffed around the sides, blood stains covering a good portion of what’s not chafed or peeling.

Geralt needs new boots.

He should buy him some at the next town.

Said witcher nudges him in the side, “Where’s you head at? Talk to me.”

Jaskier closes his eyes again, sighing.

“Are you worried about Lambert?” He deflects, knowing full well it won’t work on Geralt, he’ll answer but come straight back at the bard with more questions. It’s foreseeable as he’s tried the tactic too many times to count. Mainly whenever Jaskier has gotten himself injured or in trouble and is too ashamed to tell Geralt why, or how.

“Yes, of course, but he’s dealt with much worse… we all have,” Geralt playfully knocks his shoulder into Jaskier’s. “Especially in Rinde.”

That brutally weak heart of his can’t take it, his eyes start to water and he turns his head away, even if it’s already down, further hiding it from Geralt’s view.

He swore to himself he wouldn’t cry again in front of the witcher.

Not after being so useless.

“Jas -”

“I’m fine,” he snaps, getting to his feet, walking straight over to the other side of the camp, as far away from Geralt… so the tears can fall without notice… so he can get his silly emotions under control.

Your heart is pure yes, but your soul is beyond repair, limp and ugly.

Jaskier must be strong.

He can’t be broken.

Beyond repair.

No, he must be strong, he has to -

“It’s not your fault, I know…” Geralt’s close again, always too close, and yet always too far. “I know you blame yourself for… for the people of Rinde… for everything else that happened there…”

Jaskier turns around at that, looking into golden eyes, searching for truth.

Surely Geralt doesn’t mean…

“I blamed you, wrongfully… I acted out of fear. But you aren’t to blame for the Djinn, and you’re not to blame for this either. This… whatever they are, are to blame, you hear me?”

The sincerity doesn’t reach the walls of Jaskier’s heart. How could it? So many barricades, so many locks and chains dangle around that heart so heavy. There is little to do when a stubborn mind convinces itself it’s the culprit.

So Jaskier doesn’t answer.

He brushes past Geralt, choosing a bedroll for the night.

****

The silence draws out.

Something lurks at the edge of the darkness, moving without noise.

It’s quiet, too quiet.

Jaskier can’t move. He’s paralyzed where he stands, among the blood and bones of victims before him.

He’s not the first to be devoured by this creature of the shadows. And he certainly won’t be the last.

“Ready to die?” It calls, voice a familiar sound.

Claws scrape along the ground like knives on a chalkboard.

Jaskier tries to say no, tries to protest against the chains at his feet and wrists but he’s frozen in place. His heart thunders in his chest, the only thing still moving.

“Ready or not, you deserve this,” That rumble of syllables sets Jaskier’s heart sinking. “I kill monsters, you’re just as deadly as the rest of them.”

Golden eyes glow in the shadows, the witcher stepping out into the light, sword in hand.

There’s no bite to his gaze, just a witcher doing his job.

Jaskier tries to scream, nothing comes out.

“Don’t squirm,” Geralt snaps.

Then he lunges forward, driving the sword through Jaskier’s heart, and he screams as loud as he tries, still only silence falling out.

The pain… oh how it burns and rips through his veins.

He cries with no sound.

He tries to move, no use.

“You’re a monster, you’re to blame, you deserve this.”

No, no, no, no, no… he’s sorry…

He tries to tell him, tries to scream it but he can’t, there’s no sound -

****

Jaskier wakes with a blood-curdling scream leaving his lungs, his body throwing itself forward like it usually does.

But he doesn’t sit all the way up, arms almost instantly enveloping his body, that same deep voice whispering a repetitive chorus of ‘shh’ and ‘it’s okay'.

Jaskier knows he’s shaking, and crying, and breathing erratically - basically, he’s a mess.

The fear still coursing through his veins quickly turns back into guilt, turning every nerve into shame.

And Geralt continues to hold him tight, rocking them both slightly, still whispering soothing words into Jaskier’s hair.

The warmth of it makes him sob even more.

“You’re a monster, you’re to blame, you deserve this.”

He doesn’t deserve to be held.

He doesn’t deserve kindness.

He deserves death.

Chapter Text

Everyone knows to understand a tree, you need to understand the roots… but how do you understand a flower?

Maybe it’s the stem, or the pollen, or even the leaves. In truth, there lies a story in every part of the flower - it’s hardships and victories stored in every fiber. The light feeding it’s heart and the darkness feeding it’s roots, each playing their parts to help the flower survive…

…and maybe, people aren’t so different.

***

Like a rain shower in summer, Julian Alfred Pankratz stood out from the other kids. Of course, it wasn’t his intention, but it seemed his every word could drive people up the walls insane.

He just couldn’t stop.

Once something caught his attention, he would fixate on it until his own head hurt and his brain hit a wall. He’s quite sure, even from a young age, that the majority of people would like to throw him at a wall as well.

It got worse when he began learning to play the lute.

At all hours of the day, he’d pluck away until his fingers bled, and while the dedication was impressive… the squawking and nonsense lyrics were a bit much.

His father, the kind man he was, listened to his ramblings and crazy tunes the most - but he wasn’t the only.

There was this girl, at school, Penelope.

She was, to Julian, the most magnificent sight, with auburn hair and deep chocolate eyes that shined under the sunlight. There was more to her, of course, then just her beauty; her heart was pure, and her brain was beyond Julian’s capabilities.

In class, she always rose to the top.

And after school, she sat next to Julian, under the willow tree by the edge of town, and sung little melodies to Julian’s lute.

Every day they did this, for two years, except for winters when instead, they’d huddle by the fireplace at the Pankratz manor and read fairy tales to each other.

Julian loved her company no matter what form… he thought she felt the same.

***

“We could write a song together!” Julian shouts, once class ends, turning to Penelope.

Spring has sprung, and Julian wants to get down to the willow to watch the bumblebees buzz around the dandelions. So, naturally he’s up from his seat and at Penelope’s desk in seconds.

Penelope, just shrugs.

She doesn’t smile, or even look Julian’s way, but she does stand from her seat. With a simple sigh, and a tense posture, she straps her satchel to her back, and takes Julian’s hand.

It’s like fireworks go off, and Julian is in heaven.

With all his ramblings and the grievance everyone says he is, he’s managed to somehow be holding hands with Penelope Smith, the most gorgeous girl in school. It’s a dream come true.

“Come on, the bees won’t wait,” She mutters, pulling Julian along, like a lovesick puppy following the star she is.

Julian in that moment, would’ve followed her anywhere.

To the depths of hell? Yes. To the edge of the continent? Of course. Into a monster’s den? Most certainly. Deep into the darkest depths of the ocean? No question.

So when she lead him down a dark path, into an alleyway he wasn’t familiar with, he didn’t question it - couldn’t remember the willow past the dusting of freckles on Penelope’s cheeks.

When shadows lurked from the corners and footsteps surrounded them, Julian could only see those dark brown eyes.

When the sound of two breathing souls became ten, Jaskier could only hear the melodies in his head, put there and created by Penelope.

It was only when her hand slid from his, and his feet touched the ground, that he saw the truth for what it was.

And when the hands gripped his wrists and the voices snarled in his ears, his heart plummeted to the ground.

But still, he hoped.

“Penelope?” He asked, searching for her eyes as she stepped back, standing beside a boy Julian had seen at school. “What is going on?”

She gives him a look, one akin to apologetic, before she shakes her head, standing behind the boys as if her hands are tied… he chooses to believe they are, chooses - for his own sacred sanity - to believe they’re forcing her to stand by, to not act.

“What’s going on, freak , is that we,” The boy - Lucian - from school, gestures to everyone, including Penelope. “Think it’s about time you learned a lesson.”

Julian’s confused to say the least. He isn’t sure what he did wrong, did he drive his classmates too far up the walls? Did he talk too loud? Did he play his lute too long? There has to be a reason, a root to it right?

“I don’t understand, I did -”

“There is something wrong with you Julian,” Penelope speaks up, face still hiding. “You’re not… we don’t think…”

“You ain’t human,” Another boy, one of the ones holding him finishes for Penelope.

Julian shakes his head, and as the seconds go by he gets more and more confused, spiraling down a rabbit hole of destructive thoughts. He doesn’t know what they mean. Not human.

Not human? How could Julian not be human?

“How… I am only human. What else could I be?” He protests.

Lucian snarls, “One of em beasts, the kind Witchers slay.”

Julian laughs, as if the thought is ridiculous but… well, Julian has always been… different. While it took him a while to learn the lute, his father said it was the fastest he’d ever seen someone learn. Julian was left on his father’s doorstep, his mother rarely mentioned. And well, Julian has noticed on many occasion that buttercups seem to bloom where he cries… maybe they’re right.

But surely his father would’ve told him.

“I’m sorry Julian, but… you’re a monster,” Penelope, oh sweet Penelope, with her rosy cheeks, her wild hair, and that gap between her two front teeth… she turns and walks away, leaving Julian.

“No, I - wait!” Julian screams but it’s no use. “Please I… I’m not a monster I swear.”

Lucian closes in and Julian cries, for help, for forgiveness, for something… but the thing he gets instead… hurts .

***

Jaskier can recall few memories from his childhood, but some stick out, refusing to be forgotten.

He still remembers the pain - how much a punch to the ribs, to the jaw, the eye - hurt. But it wasn’t the worst pain, the worst was watching Penelope leave. She left like he meant nothing to her and maybe, in retrospect, he did.

He’s pondered many times about whether she was actually friends with him, or was playing him, to see if he was normal.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t decide. Mainly because while it was so easy for her to leave him, her smiles seemed true, her time with him - sitting under the willow, picking out four leaf clovers and watching bees - it seemed real, even looking back now.

So he finds it hard to believe it wasn’t - that it was all to see if he was a beast like the boys at school believed.

Regardless of how significant that memory is to Jaskier, the one after is probably more important.

After the boys beat him up, left him there in a puddle of muddy water, Julian dragged himself home. His father, of course, made a big deal out of it - threatening to identify every last kid and have them expelled from school. But Jaskier had insisted he leave it.

He didn’t want to cause more trouble, so instead Natalie patched him up while his father paced.

And Jaskier wondered. That question was on his tongue since the moment he picked himself up in that alleyway and stumbled home. It was only a matter of time before it came out.

“Am I human father?” He had asked, simple as that.

He remembers Natalie’s hands stalling over the bandages around his ribs. He remembers his father freezing mid pace. He remembers his father giving Natalie a fearful look before she exited silently and his father sighed - heavy and shaky.

It was then, his father told him.

He told Jaskier he wasn’t entirely human, that his mother was a Fae, that Jaskier - in turn - was a Fae too, or at least, half of one.

He told Jaskier what that meant and how he must not tell anyone. He told Jaskier he’d handle the situation with the boys from school, that Jaskier had to hide himself from even the people he loved the most… if he wanted to stay safe.

That, he knows now, means more than what his young mind was capable of understanding.

For how could he understand? He was a child, and all he cared about was music and good meals and playing in the pond in their garden… he couldn’t process what being him meant. Not even after getting beat up for it… not until… well, some memories stay hidden.

“I think I know where we need to go,” Geralt says, his voice a remarkable thing amongst the silence of the room.

After they escaped Rinde, and camped out in the wet and cold, they rode for days, only stopping when Roach needed a break, or they needed food they could not prepare upon the horse’s back.

Geralt insisted on taking every back road and hidden path, refusing to enter any of the main cities like Trelogor or Denesle. Jaskier assumed they’d be living on Roach’s back until the next winter at the rate they were going, that was until they arrived in a small village near the Duppa river.

The witcher obviously chose it for it’s size and it’s calm demeanor.

It was a brilliant relief when said witcher announced that there was an old friend they could stay with - some old woman he saved a few years back.

Jaskier was tired to say the least, and the second his head hit a pillow… he was out like a candle.

He woke up half an hour ago. Geralt lay beside him, as he still is now, fingers fidgeting with his medallion - his eyes stuck somewhere nonexistent, somewhere deep in thought.

Jaskier found him beautiful like that. Not that he didn’t find him beautiful in every waking minute but.. there was something, ethereal, about seeing the tough, brooding witcher somewhat calm.

He kept telling himself to stop staring, but it’s like he was hypnotized. Nothing broke the trance for a solid half an hour, before Geralt opened his mouth.

Now, Jaskier looks down, at the bed sheets as if they’re more interesting than the golden suns of Geralt’s eyes.

“Jas,” It’s soft, oh so soft. It clutches Jaskier’s heart, heals the parts of him that are slowly tearing, breaking from grief, and regret. How does the witcher have the right to be so… kind? Especially when Jaskier is well under prepared for that.

He lifts his gaze to meet Geralt’s.

Bad idea, bad idea.

If Jaskier thought his voice was soft, his eyes are even more so, and its all for him, for Jaskier and no one else, unless somehow there is someone better, someone prettier and more… well someone with violet eyes and dark hair - in Jaskier’s place.

“You with me?” Geralt asks, eyebrows furrowing. “Cause I can give you more time, if -”

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to be a burden any longer. “No, I’m fine.”

He plasters a fake smile, and sits up to match the Witcher’s height.

Geralt narrows his eyes, and for a moment Jaskier thinks he’ll comment on the falseness of Jaskier’s grin, but the witcher seems to let it go, turning back to look at the walls again with a hum.

“I think, and I know you might not agree, but I think we should -”

“Go to Lettenhove?” Jaskier jumps in, and Geralt gives him a surprised look - eyes wide, brows raised.

Jaskier takes a deep breath. It’s not hard to see that was where this was going. Whatever the people following him want, it’s clearly about him being a Fae, and what better place to search for clues or better yet - answers - than the place Jaskier grew up.

“I’ve been thinking the same… I don’t know much about who… or what I am, or my mother, but she,” Jaskier rests his head back on the headboard, closing his eyes. “But she used to come to Lettenhove a lot before I was born… I was left at Dad’s door so… maybe there’s something there - that will help us.”

Geralt hums again. “Do you think she’d go back? That that’s where she’s hiding?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier opens his eyes, runs a hand through his bed hair, “No I… I don’t know if she’d go back there knowing how unsafe that place is, but I do think there could be answers to at least a few of our questions.”

“Unsafe? I thought it was… you know?” Geralt looks at him with that uncertain gaze like he’s struggling to find the right word. It makes Jaskier smile, something honest that blooms from his chest up.

“Posh? Snobby? Secure in its riches?” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt hums in agreement, barely hiding his own smile.

Jaskier nods, “Yeah it was, until the night I left.”

The witcher’s smile drops clean off his face, and he peers at the bard like he’s trying to pick out the truth - the story from Jaskier’s soul.

It makes Jaskier’s insides twist, his heart beating an irregular rhythm. He looks away, down at the bed - at the hand woven quilt.

“Before you ask, I don’t know what happened,” Jaskier informs. “It was all a blur.”

Silence creeps back into the crevices of the room, this time its uncomfortable and it provides Jaskier with no calm, no peace. It’s a horrid thing, to sit in the words you don’t believe.

Because Jaskier doesn’t truly not know. He chose to forget a long time ago, and now… it claws at his head, at his throat, begging for the truth he knows he holds but he can’t quite unfold.

He’s a monster after all.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to go and find out ourselves,” Geralt decides, already getting up from the bed. “Meet me in the stables when you’re ready.”

Geralt didn’t take off his boots or his armor last night, must’ve been too alert - too much on witcher mode to relax.

Which is… Jaskier’s fault of course. If he hadn’t of dragged Geralt into this, and got a whole town killed, Geralt wouldn’t have to protect him. He would get to sleep in something other than armor - or - he would at least get some sleep.

“Take your time,” Geralt says, not looking at Jaskier. It’s not said with sarcasm, but with genuine kindness, something he’s still getting used to receiving from the witcher. It’s strange, and it doesn’t help Jaskier’s feelings. At all.

The witcher leaves. Like he always does.

At least that hasn’t changed.

***

It wasn’t the screaming but the hands at his shoulders that woke Julian up.

Natalie’s wide brown eyes stared back at Julian’s own weary ones - her mouth moving, saying something… something Jaskier can’t hear.

Why can’t he hear it?

He can hear a ringing… and there’s a muffled rumble like he’s deep underwater. Has he gone deaf? Has he lost the most important sense?

How will he play for audiences so grand with a lute so beautiful if he can’t even hear the melodies he composes.

“Get up dear,” Natalie’s voice hits him as the ringing fades from his ears. He’s not deaf, thankfully; he’s not sure what he’d do if he lost his hearing.

Julian doesn’t have clue what’s going on but it can’t be good because Natalie looks terrified, and there’s a loud rumble of noises outside, accompanied by screams and shouts.

When Julian looks up, at the hole in the roof, he sees an orange glow.

“Julian dear, we need to get out of here,” Natalie tugs at his arms, and he stumbles out of bed, letting Natalie wrap him up in his coat and pull on his boots.

“What’s going on Nat?” Julian’s heart starts to thump, thump, thump . Natalie rushes him into the hall, and he almost trips trying to keep up with her quick, long strides.

She doesn’t answer. And Julian can hear the crackle of fire.

***

Jaskier doesn’t hover in the bedroom any longer than he has too. It takes less than five minutes for him to throw on his clothes and shove his things into his pack.

Regardless of whether Jaskier’s limbs are sore and his head feels like it weighs a ton, he doesn’t want to dawdle. He’s put the Witcher through a lot this past week, and he’s not about to start shoveling shit back onto the White Wolf’s endless pile of crap. At least that’s something they still have in common; they both have an infinity supply of crap to deal with.

And Jaskier doesn’t even know where to begin.

Grabbing an apple from a clay bowl on the kitchen table, seems like a good place to start. His stomach is rumbling and he’d be damned if he’s gonna die of starvation after everything that’s tried to kill him so far.

One bite, and Jaskier swears to the heavens above that its the best apple he’s ever tasted.

“Those apples win me the local pie contest every year,” A woman’s voice says. The voice belongs to the owner of the house - a short, fragile woman with wiry grey hair and a quite peculiar looking scar running from her forehead to her upper lip.

Jaskier is, of course, used to seeing scars. He has a few himself, and Geralt is covered in them; some of them tiny, some of them big and jagged.

But he’s never seen a scar like this before, it’s not usual in colour for one. Most scars form a slightly lighter colour than the skin - on some occasions darker. They never shine, especially not with a green glow.

Maybe its a trick of the light.

“Uh,” Jaskier’s brain stumbles to catch up to her words. “I’m sorry… if you were saving them for a pie - I should’ve asked, I don’t know why I just took one… I’m sorry.”

With a shake of his head, he places the apple down on the bench, hoping he hasn’t truly offended the old woman - she did let them stay the night after all… and Jaskier goes and says thank you by stealing her prize winning apples.

Fool.

“I’ve already won this year’s contest,” The woman smiles warmly, making her way into the kitchen with a little wobble to her steps. “Even so, I can hear your stomach rumbling from here, my dear.”

She looks right into Jaskier’s eyes, with kind brown ones, “Eat.”

Jaskier releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and picks the apple back up, and takes another heaven filled bite.

“My name is Marjorie, if Geralt forgot to introduce me,” The woman - Marjorie - says, hobbling over to the far corner of the kitchen. She tugs out a cake stand from the bench, it’s contents hidden by the handmade pottery case.

Jaskier swallows down another bite, “He did in fact forget. I’m -”

“Jaskier, the bard,” She interrupts before Jaskier can finish, throwing him another warm smile over her shoulder. She goes back to her cake stand, pulling off the lid case to reveal a big strawberry shortcake.

It looks like the most beautiful cake Jaskier’s ever seen. It’s got three layers of shortcake, with fluffy layers of cream between. Red pops of strawberries break through the white, while also decorating the top of the cake in spirals.

Jaskier’s mouth waters.

His mind halts, “Wait, how do you know me?”

Marjorie takes a knife and a plate out of a drawer and cuts a piece out the cake, placing it perfectly on the small dessert plate.

She puts the lid back on the cake stand, and takes the plate over to Jaskier, placing it in front of him with a small fork, and a pat on his hand, “Geralt talks about you.”

He’s in disarray for a multitude of reasons… the first being that this kind old lady just served him the most delicious looking cake ever. The second being that up close, her scar looks even stranger - like there’s something moving beneath it. The third? That Geralt talks about him to seemingly multiple people.

Lambert said the same thing.

Jaskier is terribly curious as to what Geralt tells people about him. Is it that Jaskier’s a menace - ruined his life? ‘Responsible for all the shit shoveling,’ and all that crap.

“You look confused, my dear,” Marjorie speaks quietly this time. “Do you not like strawberries? Because I may have a few lemon tarts left -”

“No, no, no, this is… it looks absolutely delicious, thank you,” Jaskier amends, picking up the fork and scooping a small piece. He brings it to his mouth and oh… if that isn’t the creamiest, sweetest thing ever, Jaskier doesn’t know what is.

No wonder Marjorie has won every pie contest.

“This is… pure heaven,” Jaskier says, very much aware that he’s got cream on his upper lip. “Seriously, you must have a bakery?”

A sad look passes over Marjorie’s face, eyes ducking to the kitchen table for a moment. She pats down her dress, and straightens her back. Jaskier feels bad… guilty for wiping that warm smile off her face… he just can’t seem to stop bringing people pain wherever he goes.

Fucking hell, he’s a monster.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I just… your cake is brilliant,” Jaskier settles on the compliment instead of making things worse by needlessly ranting. All that ever does is get Jaskier into more trouble.

Marjorie’s smile returns to her face, but not as true as before.

She sighs, “I owned a bakery with my husband, but he passed away a few years ago.”

Fuck.

Well done, you fool, you just brought up the worst memory for her.

“I’m so sorry, I should’ve kept my mouth shut, sometimes I do that, put my foot in my mouth,” He apologizes, wiping the cream from his lip.

“Oh don’t be silly my dear, how were you to know?” Marjorie asks with an honest smile this time. “It was long ago now, and I’ve accepted my new reality.”

Jaskier nods, even though he still feels bad.

He takes another bite of the cake, and then another, stewing in the silence. It gets too much though, and unfortunately that’s usually when Jaskier can’t stop his mouth from moving too quick for his brain.

“How did he die?” He blurts out without thinking. “If you are comfortable sharing that of course. Please feel free to take the cake away if I’m being rude.”

Marjorie laughs a little, and that makes Jaskier smile in return.

She pulls out a stool from underneath the kitchen table and sits down, running a hand through her hair.

“Same thing that gave me this scar, killed my darling Thomas.”

Jaskier looks up from his cake, at Marjorie’s scarred skin. He suspected that it was all connected, that whatever reason Geralt was here all those years ago, is the reason she has the odd looking scar.

“What was it?”

Marjorie drums her fingers on the old wooden table, “Geralt called it a wraith.”

Jaskier’s brain clicks it all into place. It must’ve been a noon wraith, they’re notorious for taking up territory on farmer’s and crop growers land, haunting fields like they own the place.

In very rare instances, they can leave part of their spirit in a mark on your skin. And from what Geralt has told him, it’s not deadly, just annoying.

“That’s why Geralt was here? The wraith’s were haunting your crops?”

She nods, “For months… we could barely get by, because neither me or my husband could get out to the fields to water or even plant our fruits. It was becoming quite a situation of life or death. We were living on rations of food and ready to sell our home when the Witcher came to town.”

A neighing from outside almost break’s his attention from Marjorie’s story.

“He was very helpful, agreed to get rid of the wraiths for a low price. My husband offered to help several times, but Geralt said it was too dangerous. Unfortunately my husband was a stubborn man and tried to lure the wraiths out for the Witcher. It got him killed. And I feared I was next, for when I looked out my bedroom window, Geralt was lying in the middle of the crop fields, so still, he looked dead.”

Jaskier furrow’s his eyebrows, taking another bite of the cake, trying not to think about the sight of Geralt’s dead still form. He’s seen it too many times before.

He’s worried over it too many times before.

“I couldn’t just leave him out there, so I rushed out into the fields and as it turns out, he was just unconscious… there was a wraith left though, and it tried to kill me - would have if Geralt hadn’t of regained consciousness long enough to kill the thing and proceed to pass out again.”

“I’m so sorry, for your husband,” Jaskier offers, giving her the most apologetic look he can give. It’s not how anyone should lose someone - no one deserves to see the person they love most, dead in a field, killed by some wicked creature.

Marjorie shrugs, “I’m a very lucky woman, I may have lost my Thomas and I will never heal from that… not fully. But I’m alive, and my crops are healthier than ever, thanks to the White Wolf. Has a big heart, that one, despite his cold exterior. Refused to take my money, or any other form of payment.”

Jaskier shakes his head with a smile taking hold of his face, “Yeah that sounds like Geralt.”

“That’s why I let him stay here whenever he passes through, it’s not often but whenever he does, he always mentions the bard with the dazzling blue eyes,” Marjorie says, her own eyes glinting with something mischievous - her smile forming into something suggestive.

Jaskier feels like he’s stepped into an alternate world - one where Geralt talks about his blue eyes to old ladies over cake.

Surely this woman has just confused Geralt’s annoyance for something else… because he may not know much about the Witcher’s feelings, but he’s sure the White Wolf doesn’t think about his eyes… right?

“Um…” Jaskier laughs nervously, waiting for Marjorie to laugh too, tell him she was just joking you know? Ha ha, Geralt doesn’t really talk about your eyes, he talks about your annoying voice… but she doesn’t - she continues to smile like she knows more about Geralt than he does. “I… Geralt is ninety percent of the time, annoyed with me… no, I think you’re rather mistaken.”

Marjorie turns her head to look out the window, at the sun starting to shine through the frosted panes of glass. She has a slight bump in her nose, probably from a break that never quite healed.

“Am I?” She asks, with that glint never ceasing. “Geralt may be a quiet, stoic soul, but I know how to get even the most guarded of people talking… all it takes is a good slice of cake.”

She winks at Jaskier and he glances down at the last little bite of cake, a bright red strawberry buried in the cream.

Jaskier doesn’t believe it, the cake may be good, but it definitely wouldn’t be enough to get Geralt talking about his feelings? That’s impossible.

“Geralt doesn’t talk about anything other than his horse, or the job… he’s a closed book, unless he’s telling me how annoying he finds me,” Jaskier informs her, because maybe she just doesn’t understand what their relationship is really like. “He ditched me on a mountain for Melitele’s sake. He told me I was responsible for everything that goes wrong in his life… I highly doubt he has anything good to say.”

With a thoughtful nod, Marjorie takes Jaskier’s now empty plate and places it in the sink. She pulls her hair back and ties it up into a messy bun. It’s makes her look younger somehow, shows off the sharp angle of her face.

“He came here not long after that I think, he was wounded, and I got my niece - she’s training to be a healer - to help patch him up,” Marjorie explains, and Jaskier feels his heart ache. “He kept saying that letting you go, was his biggest regret.”

And that… that sets something aflame in his chest, a light too hopeful for a path that has been proven time and time again that it can only end in tears and a broken heart.

But how can he not - even a little bit - hope that Geralt feels something other than irritation with him when she says it like that… she has no reason to lie. However, she might still be mistaken.

“You sure he wasn’t talking about Yennefer?” Jaskier asks, heart thumping loud.

And Marjorie’s brows furrow, “Who?”

Who? Now that doesn’t make any sense to Jaskier. For years, all that mattered to Geralt was monsters, and, well, Yennefer. For a long time, Jaskier believed there was no difference between the two… except Yennefer was even moredangerous than a monster.

How could Marjorie not know about Yennefer?

Yennefer was the center of Geralt’s world. They were destined to follow each other.

“How -”

“Jas,” Geralt’s voice makes Jaskier jump in a mixture of surprise and fear for what he’s heard. With a hand to his thundering chest, he turns around and takes a deep breath. Geralt is standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed.

It takes everything in Jaskier not to visibly panic.

“Ready to leave, Jas, if you are,” Geralt says, eyes still watching Jaskier through a questioning gaze.

Jaskier simply nods, and puts on a pitifully fake smile.

He’s not sure what’s gonna kill him first, the soldiers after him or Geralt.

Even though Marjorie insisted she needed nothing in return for her hospitality, Jaskier still sneaked a few coppers into her apple bowl.

She deserves way more than a few coins, but that’s all Jaskier can spare right now… with being on the run and all.

“She’s nice,” Jaskier says when they’re almost to the stables.

Geralt glances at him with a distant look, like he’s focused on something else, “Who?”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at the Witcher, even though Geralt has already turned his head back to look ahead and can’t see Jaskier’s face. Still, Jaskier has a flare for the dramatic and Geralt’s attention or lack thereof, will never put an end to that. It’s been proven.

“Marjorie, Geralt,”

The Witcher reaches the front gate of the stables and pushes it open, stepping aside for Jaskier to go through first. Melitele a lot of things have changed, Geralt was never this much of a gentleman before.

Or maybe Jaskier never had the right cake to bring it out of him. “Oh, yeah, right… she’s better than nice. She’s got a big heart, she deserves more than she’s got in the past.”

Jaskier stops inside the stable, waiting for Geralt to catch up to look him in his golden eyes and say, “She said the same about you.”

Geralt looks from the horses, to Jaskier, eyes narrowing once more, “Said what?”

“That you have a big heart,” Jaskier smiles up at Geralt, and the reaction the words get is something Jaskier wouldn’t have expected in a lifetime; the white wolf’s cheeks flush pink and he looks away quickly, like he’s trying to hide it.

The bard’s heart melts instead of aching for once.

“Yeah well…” Geralt doesn’t finish, and after a few seconds, Jaskier understands that he’s not going to. Oh well, at least he got the Witcher to blush, that’s a pretty neat achievement considering how rough the past week - scratch that - yearshave been.

Geralt walks down to the second stable from the back, even though Roach is in the first stable - poking her head over the gate. Jaskier steps over to her, brushing a hand up through her mane, which earns the bard a happy little neigh in response.

It’s quite remarkable how well they get along, considering that Roach hated Jaskier in the beginning.

“Jaskier, come here,” Geralt orders.

The bard glances down the walkway between the stables, tilting his head at the Witcher. “Uh, why? Roach is right here.”

Geralt rolls his eyes in response.

The White Wolf is very good at saying very little and still convincing Jaskier of following orders or agreeing to whatever it is that Geralt needs agreeing to. It can be frustrating sometimes… okay, all the time.

Jaskier sighs, and drops his head for a second before giving Roach a quick scratch behind the ear, and meeting Geralt near the end of the stables.

“What?”

The Witcher doesn’t say anything, instead, he unlatches the stable door and nudges it open. He gestures for Jaskier to go in first, and needless to say, Jaskier is a little confused - and admittedly - a little concerned.

He doesn’t know what he expects to be behind the stable door, but for some reason, finding a horse is a surprise.

It’s a stunning one at least; tall, sturdy, with a long pearl coloured mane and a snow white coat. Its eyes are a deep brown - almost black, but when they focus on Jaskier, he can see the soul inside - the sentience.

Animals are supposed to be natural kinship to the Fae, but Jaskier has struggled over the years with trusting them - its hard to do so when there are beasts out there that just want you as their supper.

But this one, this beautiful white horse, Jaskier feels like he could trust it with his life.

White horses are hard to come by, Jaskier has seen a few over his travels, but none as beautiful as this. There’s no markings or discolorations in their coat, just pure white all the way from the head to the hooves.

It’s gorgeous.

But why Geralt is showing him the horse, is… odd.

“What -”

“She’s yours,” The White Wolf says, walking in and stopping beside the white horse to pat her face.

Jaskier stands still, frozen.

Surely he misheard Geralt right? What does that even mean, ‘She’s yours?’

“I don’t understand,” He says, looking from Geralt, to the horse, then back to Geralt, then to the horse… waiting for it to make sense.

Geralt walks back over to Jaskier, standing close, and takes his hand.

Jaskier’s heart thuds.

The Witcher guides him over to the white mare, and lifts his hand so Jaskier’s is on the snout.

“She’s yours,” Geralt repeats. “Marjorie had bred horses in the past, but she’s too old to ride them anymore, so she’s selling them instead. This one is about four years old, Marjorie has been waiting for the right person to come along, that’s you.”

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows, brain faltering for words.

“She’s mine?” He asks, just to be sure this isn’t a joke, or a dream.

Geralt nods, a soft smile hidden there.

And Jaskier grins… he surges forward and embraces Geralt - heart thumping, head spinning.

All their years together, and Jaskier can’t remember a time when the Witcher gave him a gift. Jaskier has many love languages, one of them is gifts, so of course he used to shower the White Wolf in expensive soaps, and the best of the best wines and cheeses… when he had the coin of course.

Very little did Geralt return the favor - not that he had to or that Jaskier was expecting it. He was always more than happy to give rather than receive… but it did make Jaskier question more than once, whether Geralt even appreciated the gifts or just felt harassed or annoyed.

Maybe Jaskier didn’t need to doubt.

Maybe Geralt, in his brooding, self loathing manner, didn’t know how to return the kindness.

Until now.

“Geralt, this is wonderful, thank you,” Jaskier beams, as the Witcher returns the hug, his arms coming up to wrap around the small of Jaskier’s back. “So much.”

It’s warm in Geralt’s arms, it always is.

Jaskier pulls back to look in the Witcher’s sunny irises, the realities of a purchase like this, hitting him in the gut, “How much did she cost, I hope you didn’t spend too much. You’ve done enough already Geralt and I don’t want -”

“Don’t worry Jas, okay?” The Witcher nudges him toward the horse. “Get acquainted, I’ll go get her saddle and reins.”

Jaskier nods, leaving Geralt’s warm arms to gently pat the horse in front of him.

She’s beautiful, and she’s Jaskier’s.

***

Bo is the tabby cat that belongs to no one.

That’s what Phillip tells Julian every time he asks about the cat - where is his owners? Why is he so thin? Where does he sleep at night? Can we keep him?

“My son,” Phillip always tells Julian. “Bo belongs to no one, he’s free.”

It never sways Julian.

He plays with the cat almost every evening, running strings along the ground and giggling when the small thing chases it, tail high in the air.

Even when the cat doesn’t come around, Julian still goes out and finds him, feeding him leftover salmon, and filling up bowls of milk for poor little Bo. The cat is never too far anyway, only a street or a house away, pawing at another door for scraps of food.

Bo is a little cat. He’s often looking malnourished from living on the streets, and his coat is a bit mucky with dirt and fleas. His coat is a cream colour with brown and grey stripes, and his front left paw is entirely chocolate brown. Julian often comments on it - says he looks like he’s wearing an odd sock.

Regardless of how dirty the cat is or how many times Julian decides to bathe him and feed him, Phillip doesn’t mind it.

Julian, ever since the kids at school bullied him for suspecting he wasn’t human, he’s been quiet, and reserved. He barely spoke a word to Phillip on a good day, and on bad days, he was almost completely mute.

But as soon as that cat started coming around more and more, Julian smiled more - talked more again. Mostly about Bo, but still it’s an improvement.

He’ll deal with finding ticks in Julian’s arms from playing with Bo, he’ll suffer all the milk going missing because Julian has given it all to Bo, he’ll shrug his shoulders at his neighbors who shake their heads at him for encouraging Julian to feed the stray cat… he’s ignorant of all the problems, he simply does not mind, not while Julian is smiling, and well…

…himself again.

***

Geralt is more cautious now.

He insists on riding through the muddy swamps and thick forest instead of around, on the main roads or commonly used paths. That means, it’s nightfall by the time they reach the hauntingly familiar, dense expanse of trees.

At least, they’re hauntingly familiar to Jaskier.

Roach comes to a halt at the treeline, and Jaskier can’t blame her. The tall pines barely hold any needles, the branches blackened and reaching out to the sky as if they’re asking the heavens for help. They’re just as Jaskier remembers, burnt and lifeless, stuck in the same dark world of clouds and fog.

Lettenhove used to be a haven of coastal views and sunny days.

But ever since the night Jaskier left… it’s like that day, it got plastered in time - painted as one image to never change again.

Jaskier tried once, to come back.

He was fifteen and he wondered what was left of the place he grew up in. He had nowhere else to go, tired of wandering on the path, exhausted from singing his lungs dry to people who couldn’t care less about his music. But he stopped at the city gates, staring into the foggy abyss with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He couldn’t force his feet to cross the threshold, he was too afraid of the memories that could rear their ugly heads and render Jaskier lifeless.

So, Jaskier didn’t enter Lettenhove that day.

Now, it’s a little more bearable with Geralt close by.

With a self-assuring nod, Jaskier tugs his horse’s reins to the left, away from the dead trees, instead towards the rocky path littered with weeds and overgrown grass that looks to dry to even survive.

Nothing much should still survive in Lettenhove.

The city was left in a ashy mess, the houses fallen to pieces and the town square shops all cracked and burned to the ground. There was barely any survivors, Jaskier was lucky to make it out alive… he came close to not.

“There was a fire,” Geralt states from somewhere close behind, the regular clop of hooves providing a soothing rhythm to Jaskier’s anxious mind.

A raven passes overhead, cawing, landing on the tallest - most structural - part of the ruined city. It calls out again, the sound eerie and desperate, as if the bird is searching for something it’s lost.

‘Aren’t we all?’ Jaskier thinks.

He hates it here.

Everything reminds him of the pain.

The rubble of cobblestone reminds him of scraped knees on autumn afternoons from playing tag. The scattered branches remind him of harsh winters where he’d help his father find more firewood. The flowers growing through the wreckage remind him of happier times now so very gone - lost to the cruelty of the world.

With a shake of his head, Jaskier pulls himself together, remembering Geralt’s comment. There was a fire.

‘That was just the beginning,’ Jaskier wants to say, but doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees instead, remembering the harsh burn at his back and the smoke that made his eyes water, all too well. “I know.”

Jaskier half guides, half lets his horse find its way through the rubble and ruin - Geralt and himself quiet up until they reach the dilapidated metal gates.

The gates have caved in on themselves from the weight of a fallen tree, which means the entry way is closed off… which means they might of come all this way for nothing.

Geralt hums from beside him, hopping down from Roach to examine the city walls that run into the woods, the tough stone still refusing to crumble even after all these years.

Jaskier slips off his own horse, tugging out an apple from his pack, to give to Pegasus - yes he named his horse Pegasus, why not hey? She’s gorgeous.

Marjorie insisted he take some apples with him on the journey, which made him feel extra bad about not being able to give her back much in return, but he’s glad he has them because Pegasus loves them, maybe even more so than Jaskier.

She devours it in seconds.

“Hungry are we?” Jaskier smiles, giving the snow white horse a pat on her nose.

Pegasus lifts her head and nudges her snout into his chest, offering some kind of thanks for something she does not need to thank Jaskier for.

“There’s more where those came from alright?”

He gives her a big hug, scratching behind her ears and combing his fingers through the thick mane.

“Jaskier,” Geralt calls, picking up Jaskier’s attention from his horse to the gate where Geralt is stood.

Jaskier takes a step away from Pegasus, “Did you find a way in?”

Secretly, Jaskier hopes Geralt hasn’t - hopes that they can just walk away, from Lettenhove and everything else and just live happily somewhere warm and sunny.

But when has his life ever given him what he hopes for?

“Yeah there is a gap in the wall a few feet this way,” Geralt gestures with his head to the right of him, where the stone wall disappears through the trees. “We’ll tie Roach and Pegasus to the trees for now cause they won’t fit through.”

Great.

No horses means no quick getaway if the undead rise from the ashes and long for their brains.

Geralt is already tying Roach to the nearest tree, his non-human companion unbothered by the situation, settling in to feed on the grass and dandelions growing from the roots of the tree.

When Jaskier tugs Pegasus over to the trees, trying to tie her to a sturdy looking enough tree trunk, she nudges her snout into his shoulder, tugging at the reins a bit.

He falters.

Jaskier doesn’t want to leave her here either.

But he has a responsibility to find out why people want him dead, so he can stop whoever is after him from murdering innocent people. If he stays here, cowering at Pegasus’ side, hoping for the sun to shine, he’ll surely go down in history as the lousiest man to exist… or at least he will to his own self.

So he finishes tying off Pegasus, and gives her a small kiss to the head, turning to follow Geralt.

The white wolf leads the way down the narrow mossy path between the trees and the stone wall, sidestepping the occasional broken branch or two.

And as they walk, Jaskier close behind, he can feel the darkness seep through the trees - reaching out to grab hold of Jaskier’s ankles and keep him frozen in place. The shadows of the woods chase each other, the thick brambles that cover the floor wind around the tree trunks, almost strangling them.

There’s dots of white in the bushes - tiny flowers growing in the darkness, despite the lack of sunlight. The chill of the breeze doesn’t seem to mind them much either, bustling in numbers amongst the ugly weeds. Its incredible - nature - even in the darkest of places, in the most harshest of conditions, beauty still blooms despite everything working against it.

The chill minds Jaskier though, creeps up his spine - up the back of his neck - making his skin litter with goosebumps.

As he stares into the darkness, he can almost see the young form of himself, racing through the trees, with only one shoe on and a burnt hole in his coat.

The memory finds its way into Jaskier’s bones and for a moment its like he can really feel it; panic in his chest, the stones scraping the sole of his foot, the heat burning at his back, the hot burning tears behind his eyes and the scratch of his throat like he could scream all he wanted but nothing would come out.

For a second its like hes back there, running for his life, the flames licking his sides, that bright orange glow refusing to cease and hes running, just keeps running until -

“Hey, you okay?” Geralt asks, stepping in front of Jaskier, and breaking him free from the nightmare. “We can turn back if you want. I can search this place alone if -”

“No!” Jaskier interrupts a little too loudly, shaking his head furiously, trying to shove all his burdens away. “No, okay, it’s fine. I’m fine, I just… needed a second sorry.”

He takes a deep breath, turning his gaze away from the shadows and taking a step back in the direction they were heading. He reminds himself that he isn’t fifteen anymore, that the fire has long since died out… he’s still running for his life however.

“Are you sure Jaskier?” Geralt asks, sounding cautious, like if he says one word wrong and Jaskier will break. Jaskier hates that tone.

He doesn’t want to be fragile - weak.

Jaskier wants to be strong, except he has never been good at that.

“Yes I’m sure, lets keep going,” He assures Geralt, continuing down the path, ignoring the look he catches on the Witcher’s face - one of concern, almost disbelief, because of course Jaskier isn’t convincing.

He’s not fine… will he ever be fine again?

***

Phillip never wanted any of this to happen.

He wanted love. He wanted a family to call his own.

Above all else, he wanted to keep Julian safe and now… well, now Phillip must make a promise to anyone that can hear him - the gods above if they can even hear him…

Julian will survive.

***

“Through here,” Geralt ducks through the hole in the stone wall, stepping aside quickly to let Jaskier through.

The bard does so with ease, somewhat shorter than Geralt, enough for it to not be a fucking hassle to get through the hole. It isn’t the first time Geralt has wished he was smaller, in height and size. Sure it helps in a fight, but if he was smaller - less intimidating - more folks would be kinder to him… or maybe they wouldn’t.

Maybe regardless of his size, people are just going to be disgusted by Witchers. Which he can’t say he has ever been confused by that, after all Witchers weren’t created to be soft and kind, they were created to be fighters - killers. The very essence of all things dark lurk through his veins, he’s not capable of seeming small or unassuming, its just not in his nature, not since the trials at least.

“Crap, its worse than I remembered,” Jaskier a few feet ahead of Geralt, standing on a cracked cobblestone pathway.

When Geralt moves to stand next to the bard, he sees that the pathway lead straight through Lettenhove, or whats left of it. The buildings, what could’ve been shops, taverns, houses are all either burnt or crumbled - no sign of what they once were, or what life once roamed through. Blackened beams lay across the pathway along with bricks and stone, moss grows up what’s left of walls, rotting timber hangs on the frames of fragile structures, and ash and dust swirls in the wind.

There is that damp smell that old abandoned houses bring, it wafts through them with every brush of the breeze.

As he takes a few steps down the path, he notices more; daisies growing between the cracks in the stone path, pots strewn across the broken floorboards of a particularly large and decrepit building, glass shattered on wet grass, birds nests sitting in the old frames, a mouse searching for food in old cabinets.

Parts of it feel like pieces of life stuck in time, like whoever it belonged to vanished and left their kitchen as it was… but just burnt, or covered in ivy or moss.

The surrounding forest, it seems, has moved in - has reclaimed the land back as its own, animals moving into the old homes and finding shelter under the dilapidated roofs. It only seems fair that they do, no human is living here, so why wouldn’t nature move in?

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers by his side, tugging gently on the sleeve of his shirt. Geralt turns his head to look at the bard, whose eyes are fixed on something ahead. For a second Geralt is worried that something dangerous is lurking, that someone followed them, but Jaskier doesn’t smell of fear, and his heartbeat is steady - calm. So he looks to where Jaskier is looking, between two houses and at first he sees nothing…

But then, a head moves.

A furry brown head moves against the dark of the burnt buildings and shadowy forest, big bright eyes staring straight at them - wide and - not scared but… curious. The smaller size and the fluffy white dots littering it’s back must mean the deer is still a fawn.

The fawn doesn’t move even when Geralt takes a step closer, to get a better look.

Goosebumps trail up his arms and his neck, and on any other day he would just say it was the cold weather or the uneasiness of the haunting city, but with everything else that has happened over the past week or so, Geralt knows that seeing something so wild - so innocent and beautiful… its rare.

Of course Geralt has come across many different species of animal, has killed many of them - with no joy in doing so but his best chances at survival on the road is well… but to see a fawn so close to humanity is rare. Usually they are hidden deep in the woods, as they know better than to come too close to humans and all other two legged creatures.

This fawn doesn’t seem to be afraid of them either, which is strange.

Most deer and other small herbivores tend to avoid people like the plague but not this little fawn, instead it holds it’s ground, continuing to leer back at them like its figuring them out.

The air is quiet.

Other than the song of a bird or the howl of the wind, the area is pretty silent, peaceful even. For the remains of a once thriving city, of a fiery tragedy, Lettenhove is weirdly serene.

“She’s just staring at us,” Jaskier finally says, having been debating against whether to speak or not for the past few minutes because he didn’t want to scare the fawn away, but when Geralt takes another step off the cobblestone path, onto the mud and grass, Jaskier decides it would be okay to speak.

And just like Jaskier hoped, the fawn doesn’t stray, instead - by some miracle - the fawn takes a few careful steps forward, it’s adorable little nose sniffing the air for something unknown.

“Maybe she thinks we have food,” Geralt mutters, narrowing his eyes at the deer.

Jaskier shakes his head, lowering to the ground to kneel of the damp, cold stone, hopefully in a show of peace to the small, young deer, “No, there’s plenty of bushes full of berries and such, why would she try to get food from us when she could get an easier meal from somewhere else, besides, her mother must be close by - she would probably have the food.”

Geralt kneels next to him, humming quietly in response.

As Jaskier breathes as quietly as possible, to not startle the young animal, the fawn walks toward them. Jaskier holds his breath when the gorgeous creature stops right in front of him, bowing its head forward as if to let him pat her… it’s odd behavior from a wild deer but Jaskier doesn’t hesitate for a second in accepting the invitation.

The fawn’s head is soft, it’s baby fur all fluffy and sticking up in all directions - a little curly from the rain.

“My Melitele you’re just the most adorable little one I’ve ever met,” Jaskier gushes, feeling his heart warm right up, the sun bursting inside like the weather isn’t miserable and he isn’t sitting amongst the ruins of his hometown. It’s a small little bit of joy amongst the dark - amongst the heartache and the grief.

And when Jaskier looks to the Witcher, finding a warm little smile gracing the White Wolf’s face… well, he could stay right there, in that little happy moment…

But time keeps moving, the world and it’s spins and twists never cease, not for Jaskier at least.

“Julian?”

Chapter Text

“Hello, who’s there?”

The call comes from a young man, with clean cut, brown hair and a weary look in his hazel eyes; crows feet perched on the skin like the youth is draining from the man. He wears a pretty blue coat, one made of that same thick material that most of the humans wear - but the colour reminds Lillian of the cornflowers that grow just outside her aunt’s cottage, back home.

The coat itself however, reminds Lillian of the scary men from in town.

Those men chased Lilly back into the woods, brandishing fire attached to wands of steel, and sharp blades held tight in their hands. They were angry, Lilly knew that much, but she didn’t know why… all she did was show a crying baby her favourite spell - a simple one where Lilly can make a flower bloom out of nothing. Almost immediately the baby stopped crying, and Lilly went to gift the Lilly flower to the mother, but the woman’s face had contorted into fear, muttering a “What are you?”

Lillian was told, since the day she could understand the words, that humans were not to be messed with, that the Fae were safer in their realm, where no human could touch them and if Lilly should venture out - it would mean certain death.

But Lilly was always too curious for her own good, and bit by bit, step by step, she made her way further and further past the Gold Leaf Gate, venturing deeper into the human realm - unafraid of the dangers she had been warned of her entire life…

Maybe she should have been scared.

Because the humans that chased her away, were ferocious and seemed to want her dead, at least - that’s what is said they only want from the Fae, their hearts still and their every breath gone.

Lillian didn’t want to believe in all the horror stories, didn’t want to believe that all humans were evil - she almost did… but then she heard a soft humming out past the safety of the trees. She had gotten as close as she could to the edge of the woods, hiding half behind a thick trunk, peering out at a garden of sorts.

It was a bit like the gardens back home, except a lot less flowers, and instead their was a small lake, with a little bridge built out of wood and tall hedges lining the garden.

The beautiful, soothing humming is coming from the young man.

The man himself shouldn’t look abnormal from the others, but somehow he is different, Lilly can feel it.

“Hello?” His voice is soft, calm unlike the rough, loud voices of the other humans.

Lilly shouldn’t be here, she knows that, especially after almost getting killed by the first batch of humans, she should’ve headed home.

But something tells her to stay, that maybe she’s not so in danger here.

“I know you’re there,” He calls out, and from Lillian’s place she can see the man step forward from his place next to the water, head cocked to see into the dark forest. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

Lillian, despite everything she’s been taught, steps out from the dark, careful not to move too quickly as she does not want to spook the human into fear like she did with that woman. She braces for the other leaf to drop, but the young man smiles.

And my, its such a beautiful smile that Lillian smiles too.

“Hello, I’m Phillip Andreas Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, nice to meet you.”

***

“Julian?”

Both Jaskier, and Geralt look up at that moment, expecting to see someone standing ahead of them, but all they see is the dark abyss of the woods. The faint hum of a heartbeat, and the whisper of a breath making the hairs rise on the back of Geralt’s neck lets him know that there is someone close by, just behind them.

Geralt quickly moves to stand, turning as he does so, hand reaching for his sword almost subconsciously. He guesses it’s a habit at this point, reaching for his weapon, he has spent most of his life in survival mode, prepared for the worst and wary of the better.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting but an oldish woman dressed in what looks like maid’s clothes is not it…

Besides the white streak in her hair and a faint scar on her neck, the woman is rather - in the kindest sense - unremarkable. There is no strikingly obvious reason for her to be here, or for any danger alerts to sound off in Geralt’s head but, well, something immediately doesn’t feel right.

Again, Geralt hasn’t exactly had an easy life, so his natural instinct is to be on defence mode, as practically anything could be a threat. And while he’s sure an old woman with weary eyes and seemingly a servant of some kind - judging by the clothes - isn’t a threat, he’s still cautious.

Lettenhove is practically a ghost town, why is she even here?

For Jaskier? But how did she know Jaskier would be here? Has she been following them?

“Natalie?” Jaskier chokes out, and Geralt turns his attention to the bard’s face, noticing the way his heartbeat stutters, and his eyes glint with unshed tears. There’s almost a glimpse of hope in his eyes, his breath seemingly caught in his throat as he stares, shocked, at the strange but completely normal woman.

So Jaskier must know the woman at least, Geralt realises, feeling a little relieved that there must be some reasoning to this.

Maybe there’s a perfect explanation as to why this woman - Natalie? - is here.

Maybe she also received a cryptic riddle to find Jaskier’s mother, provided of course that she does indeed know of Jaskier’s mother… unlikely since not even Jaskier knew of her.

“Oh Julian, is that really you, look how you’ve grown,” Natalie says, her voice croaky around the edges, as if she’s been screaming for an eternity. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

Something seems to break behind Jaskier’s eyes and he hurries forward, wrapping his arms tight around the woman’s shoulders - who hugs back just as tight, running a frail hand over Jaskier’s back.

Geralt tries to relax, he should calm now as it’s clear that Jaskier knows her, and she’s obviously not a threat if they’re hugging… but still Geralt feels wary, like his nerves won’t settle - it must be the place, it gives him the creeps.

He has traveled the continent enough - seen enough - to know that ghost towns like this usually are home to all sorts of creatures, usually the unfriendly kind. They aren’t called ‘ghost towns’ for no reason, too often are they inhabited by spectres, wraiths, sometimes even drowners if the environment is right.

Its perfectly reasonable to be a little on edge.

“What…” Jaskier trails off, as he pulls back from the hug to look Natalie in the eyes, taking a small step back but keeping his hands on her shoulders, as if to steady himself. “How are you here? Why are you here? I thought… I thought you…”

The bard chokes out a sob, the grief that bubbles to the surface is mixed with a wave of happiness and hope, and Melitele’s tits its good to see some kind of joy reach Jaskier’s face. Even if it is mixed with seemingly years old, buried away, grief.

“Died? Well, I for sure thought I wouldn’t make it out of here alive, yes, but I made it just far enough for some kind soul to find me and bring me to a healer, I barely survived - they said. But regardless I did, and so did you, my lords I’m so glad to see your smile once more,” Natalie explains, lifting a hand to push Jaskier’s fringe away from his face, and warm smile gracing her lips.

Geralt suddenly feels awkward, like hes intruding on a private moment.

But he can’t just leave, not when Lettenhove seems like a breeding ground for some kind of dark, unknown evil, and Jaskier is being hunted down by some other unknown evil.

He’s not a fucking idiot, he’s not leaving Jaskier alone here.

The bard lets out this breathy laugh of relief, shaking his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe it… do you know? If anyone else survived?”

A dark glimpse of something passes through Natalie’s eyes so quickly Geralt almost misses it.

Its quick, but it was there for long enough for Geralt to catch it - see more than just grief come to the surface. Just one millisecond was enough to convey a lifetime of pain, sorrow… anger… red, hot, fiery anger too - the kind that burns down the world. Geralt just hopes whoever is responsible is gone now, buried six feet deep because he’s seen enough of what hurt people do - of what that kind of anger does.

It’s not exactly productive.

Too quickly that darkness is replaced by something softer, more gentle like tears hanging just on the edge of a delicate chin.

“I don’t think so my dear, I’m sorry,” She speaks softly, rubbing a hand on Jaskier’s arm. Jaskier’s face falls a little, and Geralt’s heart falls a little with it, hands itching to reach out and offer some kind of comfort but… well, Geralt is a coward to say the least.

“Yeah no I thought so,” Jaskier shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through his hair, and Geralt would be lying if he didn’t follow the action like a moth drawn to a flame. “So, what are you doing here? Where have you been all these years?”

That’s the question Geralt also wants the answer to. He’s not saying he doesn’t trust the woman but - no, that’s exactly what he’s saying. It seems odd, that given she got out of whatever tragedy happened here years and years ago - that she would still be here, or come back here… Geralt doesn’t like it.

But he doesn’t like many things to be brutally honest.

“It was the strangest thing my dear, I found myself wandering back here one day and I noticed… well, it will be easier if I just show you I think,” Natalie decides, taking a step back, and offering her hand out for Jaskier to take.

Geralt hears that warning siren go off, telling him to run, and take Jaskier with him… but Jaskier looks back at Geralt with such pure hope that Geralt can’t bare to argue, to pull him away from whatever comfort the old woman offers. Despite what some think, he’s not devoid of empathy or kindness, he’s not about to rip the little bit of joy Jaskier has found, out of his hands.

He simply won’t.

So he nods as if Jaskier needs his permission, tailing behind them as Natalie leads the way further into Lettenhove.

***

“For the last time, stay still,” Geralt grumbles, readjusting his grip for what seems like the thousandth time. “If I can’t clean this out, then -”

“It will get infected, yeah yeah, I heard you the first three times,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, hands gripping the edge of the seat as Geralt leans forward once more, dabbing the sponge over the open wound as gently as he can to avoid any unnecessary pain.

The wound currently in question is a large, series of gashes in Jaskier’s thigh, gifted to him by the Cockatrice Geralt was supposed to take down - alone. Unfortunately the bard doesn’t ever listen to Geralt, or his very real warnings of caution because - like an idiot - he ran into the danger with seemingly no care for his well-being or safety.

Needless to say, Geralt is a bit peeved.

Usually Geralt does his best to make sure Jaskier stays put at an inn or tavern or whatever else before leaving to find whatever beast is tormenting whatever town they’re in, but this time Jaskier followed him out, refusing to turn back even when Geralt threatened to throw the bard’s lute off a cliff - which was probably just seen right through as they both know full well that Geralt wouldn’t dare harm that thing, regardless of how annoying the bard can be sometimes.

“I think this will make for a good ballad don’t you think? Don’t hear about cockatrices in too many songs,” Jaskier muses, eyes focused somewhere distant, already off in the clouds planning his next triumphant tale about the beast.

Geralt knows Jaskier well enough now to understand that the bard doesn’t really want his answer, not really, it’s more just him thinking aloud - sorting through the creative pathways until one seems fit.

He’s learned the hard way to not interrupt - however now is not really the best time to ponder new melodies, with the bard’s leg open and bleeding and all. Trust Jaskier of all people to still find the inspiration when his skin is torn wide open.

Apparently a cockatrice taking a swipe at his leg with it’s claws is not enough to stop the creative juices from flowing.

He’ll never understand how the bard’s brain works.

“Hmm,” Geralt studies the wound once he’s cleaned as much as he can. “Don’t think all of them need stitches, but the middle one will.”

Almost immediately Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat quicken, body going stiff, “Really? You sure? Cause it doesn’t look that deep to me.”

Geralt wants to be sympathetic, he does, he just can’t help but be a little mad at the bard for refusing to listen to Geralt… his insistence to put himself in harms way is going to get him killed one day.

He does his best to ignore the smell of fear radiating off the bard, reaching for the the needle and thread instead. He threads the long and curved needle, tying it off before steadying Jaskier’s thigh once more, grateful for the thick - almost furry - material of Jaskier’s trousers. Purely because it should keep Jaskier’s skin warm despite all the snow, and just how freezing northern winters are - no other reason.

Geralt just doesn’t need to be distracted while he’s sewing someones skin.

“Look Geralt, I don’t think I can -”

“You should’ve thought about that before you ran into danger like a fool,” Geralt cuts off Jaskier’s whine of protest. He may be mad at the bard, but he’s not about to let him just bleed out.

Geralt may not be well educated like the bard, but he knows how to handle wounds. For years Geralt had only himself to rely on if he got too badly injured and needed stitches and such. If you’re bleeding out in a monster den and all you have is yourself, well its practically vital that you learn how to sew yourself up or set dislocated bones back into place.

But as of two years ago, Geralt has someone else to worry about other than himself. It isn’t the first time the Witcher has stitched Jaskier up, and he’s sure it won’t be the last - especially if Jaskier continues to be reckless with his life.

“Okay touché,” Jaskier relents, already bracing for the pain of the needle. “But how else am I supposed to get the raw material for my songs Geralt if you won’t tell me anything?”

Geralt has heard this excuse too many times to count, and today Geralt chooses not to accept it, as he sees through the bullshit. Jaskier often will offer up some witty response or half truth, and he honestly doesn’t know why the bard does it - he always just lets it happen, but right now, Geralt is kinda fed up.

Peeved, one might say.

“What’s the real reason?” Geralt straight up, just asks, proceeding to pierce the needle through the first part of skin, at the base of the biggest gash, wincing internally as Jaskier gasps.

“Fuck that hurts, oh I will never get use to that,” Jaskier whines, clearly itching to bat Geralt away. “Why isn’t that the real reason Geralt, would I lie to you?”

He takes the bait and glances up at the bard’s face, getting sucked into those dazzling blue eyes and for a moment he falls for the innocent look he’s plastered on, that tiny - quite frankly, cheeky - smile swaying Geralt for just a second.

He snaps his head back down, focusing his attention back on the task at hand. He pierces the needle through the skin on the other side of the gash, tugging gently to close the skin. Despite Jaskier remaining quiet this time, Geralt can feel the bard’s muscles tense up, notices the way his hands tighten their grip on the seat.

He really is trying to be as gentle as possible.

Geralt continues despite the guilt starting to eat at his stomach. Really he should blame himself, shouldn’t he? The Witcher’s path is no place for a mortal human, and yet Geralt continues to let Jaskier follow along, continues to let the bard nestle his way into Geralt’s dangerous life.

He’s the fool.

“For fucks sake, okay,” Jaskier breathes in a ragged harsh breath, before running a hand over his face, Geralt tracking the movement without even realising he’s doing it. “What do you expect me to do though huh? Just leave you out there to die?”

Geralt’s path of self deprecating thoughts and angry puzzlement over Jaskier’s stupid decisions comes to a halt, along with his hands, pausing to stare up at the bard, who’s eyes are on the wall, distant again.

“You were just lying out there Geralt, you looked dead, I wasn’t going to just leave you okay? To be honest I didn’t really think, I just panicked. Not saying it was the smartest choice, but…” He trails off, eyes returning from whatever far place they drifted off to, to meet Geralt’s.

The Witcher’s heart thuds a little too loud for his liking, stomach swooping ridiculously under the weight of that gaze.

Geralt doesn’t want to unpack why only those eyes do that to him, it’s not even all blue eyes, or all cornflower blue eyes… just… it doesn’t mean anything. He’s not going to fall into that trap; the more he thinks about what it means, the more he makes it something it isn’t.

He can’t afford to get distracted.

“But…?” Geralt prompts, choosing to continue stitching instead of drowning in the weight of Jaskier’s words, in the thought of the bard being worried about his safety - so much so that he risked his own life.

With his heart still thudding, he pulls the needle through more bloody skin.

“Uh, you uh - shit - I don’t think I could survive that to be honest,” The words are said quieter than the others, Jaskier’s head ducked - a few chestnut locks hanging over his eyes.

And well… Geralt doesn’t know what to do, so he finishes the stitches, pulling the skin closed, earning a slew of curse words from the bard, before cutting the thread off and tying it off.

It’s not his best work, but it will do. It shouldn’t scar too badly, at least.

‘Don’t think I could survive that…’

Surely Jaskier is just teasing or something right? No ones really worried over Geralt before, not like Jaskier. Sure, folks get worried if he gets injured and he can’t get rid of the beast destroying their crops, but that’s more about their fear for their own safety than Geralt’s. The bard seems to genuinely care for some reason. He has no clue why… and he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t think he can bear to know.

Geralt sets the needle and thread on the table and nods, deciding to brush past the words. He can’t afford to get attached, get too close.

Unbeknownst to him, he’s already too close.

“Uh it’s done, I’m finished.”

***

“Hey,” Geralt catches up to Jaskier, lightly tugging on the Bard’s sleeve, in an effort to pull Jaskier back from the wide eyed wonder just a bit.

The bard slows his pace, thankfully, walking in tune with Geralt now instead of hurrying close after Natalie like a lost duckling following it’s mother home - or like a chicken following a fox to a painful end… Geralt isn’t sure which one Natalie is yet - a motherly duck, or a cunning, hungry fox.

And until he’s sure, he doesn’t think Jaskier should get too close.

The bard ducks his head ever so slightly, staring down at the path as he walks, eyes all distant and weary again, and Geralt thoroughly hates that hes the one to have broken that joyful spell.

“Hey, uh… sorry, for all that. I should’ve introduced you or something,” Jaskier starts to apologise, folding his arms over his chest, and tucking his hands underneath his biceps, to keep them from the chilly wind that has come creeping in - most likely from the coast.

Geralt isn’t sure just how close they are to the sea from here, but it must be closer than he thought - he swears he can smell that slightly sour smell of fish, and the sharp odour of salty waves.

He shakes his head softly, “It’s fine Jas just…”

Geralt comes to a stop, making a swift decision to reach out and lightly grip Jaskier’s arm, causing him to stop in his tracks too, turning to look up at Geralt with wide, confused eyes that glance ahead briefly at Natalie still heading slowly down the path littered with rubble and whatever remains of a once bright and lively city.

He doesn’t know really what he was going to say, the second those goddamn blue eyes meet his, he forgets his place.

Its too easy to do, lose where he is and what he’s supposed to do when Jaskier is around. If the bard knew just how tightly wound around his finger, Geralt is, well he’d have a field day with it. Probably would never shut up.

Not that Geralt would want him to.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks, seemingly concerned now… which, fair, Geralt hasn’t said anything for a while.

Geralt closes his eyes for a moment before looking ahead at where Natalie has now stopped, waiting patiently for them to catch up.

“Are you sure about this? About her?” He asks, careful not to sound too accusatory.

Jaskier glances over at Natalie, before looking back at the ground and breathing out a deep sigh, “I don’t know… why?”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, because he doesn’t know specifically what is ringing alarm bells, he just feels it… and he could be wrong, he’s been wrong before.

“Just a feeling, something isn’t right,” he explains to the best of his ability, hoping it’s enough for now. Jaskier simply nods in response, looking ahead again just as Natalie finally notices that they’ve stopped.

“Everything alright?” Natalie calls, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

Jaskier smiles at her, something a little more cautious this time, “Uh yes, be right there.”

Natalie smiles back, turning away as if to give them some privacy.

Geralt just doesn’t trust it - her - it’s just a gut feeling, and he knows that isn’t a justifiable excuse to just stop here. They came in search for answers and here is someone who knows Lettenhove as well as Jaskier - someone who could help them, who may have information on Jaskier’s mother. She would’ve been around back then right?

“Look, I know that it doesn’t make much sense to just follow her into the old scary ghost town, but I just… I thought I lost her okay? I thought everyone was… gone,” Jaskier pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose as if there is a pain behind his eyes. “And now, maybe if she survived, others did too. Plus she was close to my father, she had to have known my mother.”

“Okay,” Geralt answers simply, much to Jaskier’s surprise. The bard’s eyes widen for a moment, unsure of the response. “Okay?” He parrots back. “That’s it? No fighting me on this? No ‘I got a Witcher tingle so we’re out of here’?”

Geralt stares blankly for a moment, trying to decide how he feels about what was clearly supposed to be Jaskier’s impression of him, deep voice and all. He swears he can feel his face go red, so he looks away from the bard, shaking his head in disbelief.

He imagines Jaskier is pretty proud of his little performance. Geralt on the other hand, thinks its absurd… he doesn’t sound like that.

“I trust you,” He decides to brush over the bad impression, meeting Jaskier’s gaze again which changes from something more playful to something more subdued. “So if you trust her, then I do too.”

There’s a shift of something in Jaskier’s eyes, a thing Geralt can’t read but it’s softer, deeper, and he knows that if he could just stay there staring a little longer… he might understand, or see something he doesn’t know he’s ready to see…

… aching to see.

Regardless the moment breaks too soon - as always - and Jaskier turns with a nod and a clear of his throat to follow after Natalie once more.

Whatever the mess that was the other parts of the city, the town square is far worse.

The cracked stone tiles that were once a beautiful array of perfectly patterned squares - ones Jaskier used to play a game with his dad of ‘how many can you count?’ - are now partially lifted out of the ground - in fact one entire corner of the town square’s earth has lifted a good few feet higher than the rest.

And that’s just the ground.

The building’s that once surrounded the square are all now burnt to ashes and dust, the view of the outskirts of town, and the coastline to the west, are all now visible. The fountain that Jaskier used to throw coins in every year on his birthday to make a wish, well its a wreck too - the horse sculpture that once stood in the centre is now decapitated and lying in murky, sour smelling water along with other branches, rubble and gunk.

As Jaskier looks around him, memories flood his brain of mornings spent at the cafe with his father, walks home from school with Penelope, trips to the market with Natalie… it all comes flooding back along with the nightmare.

Those memories hit like clubs to the head, mainly because they’re memories he didn’t know he had.

The wind howls as he runs into the square, something hot burning at his back, and something cold pelting from above. The sky is dark, but the buildings around him burn bright with that blinding, orange glow. The air smells of smoke, and something more metallic. His hearing is muffled like his head is underwater, but he knows there are distant screams all around, with the roar of fire to accompany their melodies.

Jaskier never came back.

For this very reason… he didn’t want to remember. He was afraid of what he might find. He believed if he kept it to the back of his mind, he could have hope that others survived… that he wasn’t the lone survivor.

And he wasn’t - isn’t, right? Natalie is proof of that.

Natalie.

Jaskier looks around to find her, searching the rather miserable landscape, finding her standing on the path that leads out to Kings Street…

Kings Street is where his father’s - the Viscount’s - house is.

And Jaskier, to no surprise, with the lack of erect buildings and all, can see the mansion sitting slightly above the rest of Lettenhove, somehow not as destroyed as the rest of the homes left. It seems out of place, like a diamond in a pile of rocks.

“Is that… " Geralt trails off, coming up to stand next to Jaskier, eyes upon the mansion on the hill.

“My childhood home? Yes it is,” Jaskier finishes for Geralt, and the Witcher simply hums in response. With an unsteady rhythm in his chest, and a heavy sigh, Jaskier heads over to the path Natalie is already headed down.

He knows it seems… odd… He knows his gut instinct is telling him to run, but he’s never been good at discerning between gut instinct or just anxiety, and he wants so badly for this all to not be some kind of trap - no matter how much it seems like one.

The Viscount Mansion still standing tall makes it seem even more unnerving.

As they get closer, he takes note of everything wrong with it, to convince himself nothing is suspicious.

Most of the windows are either smashed or blackened from smoke and ash. The walls aren’t all still there, gaping holes and crumbled bricks give a glance into the house. The roof is mostly caved into the upper floor, and what does still stand upright is covered in moss and ash.

The front door is off it’s hinges, thrown to the plant bed next the the stairs that lead up to the house. Those plant beds used to hold such beautiful vibrant flowers, Natalie must’ve planted new ones each season, because he distinctively remembers pink daisies in the Spring, bluebells in the Winter, orange marigolds in the Autumn, and…

“Buttercups…” Jaskier says aloud, staring at the plant beds, or what is left of them. The stones that used to border them in perfect lines, are now scattered everywhere. And the beds themselves are a mess littered with debris, and holes made by burrowing animals.

There’s not much left to them at all.

But still Jaskier stares, remembering the yellow flowers that used to line up the front of the house, every time the days got hotter.

“What?” Natalie asks from nearby, Jaskier too lost in a thought to look around him or break out of his trance.

Jaskier remembers Natalie picking bunches of them for the vases in the house, for special occasions. She’d always smile warmly at Jaskier, when she’d place this green vase of buttercups on his desk, commenting the same thing almost every time - “Like a ray of sunshine.”

He never really thought about it… the coincidence of being dropped on the back doorstep… a baby - named Jaskier by his mother, given to him for the mark of buttercups on his skin - and the flowers that would grow every summer all around the house. Even in the window boxes.

Did Natalie plant all those flowers just for him? Did she pick the Buttercups just for him? Or was it just by coincidence? A simple commonality.

“Jask? Whats wrong?” Geralt’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, and he snaps his head around, finding both Natalie and Geralt standing by, staring at him with concerned gazes.

“Sorry,” He quickly gets out, shaking the unsettled feeling out of his head. “I just -”

“You said Buttercups, what about them?” Natalie cuts in to ask.

When Jaskier meets her gaze, he sees something dark behind her eyes - a seriousness he doesn’t remember seeing much of when he was young. Other than of course, that last night.

He feels a chill run down his spine.

“Uh, I… I just remembered that you would plant them every summer. It would’ve taken a lot off work,” He says, forcing a smile to his face. His stomach is tied into a knot now, an alarm bell ringing off in his head that something is wrong… He fears Geralt was right, that they should’ve turned around.

“Oh… It was worth it to see that smile on your face dear,” Natalie says, that same loving warmth that brought him those flowers in that vase, greets him now, and that knot in his stomach loosens.

He feels his body release the tension he was holding in his shoulders, and he smiles more naturally now, whatever uneasiness he felt now gone.

Geralt on the other hand, feels more cautious than before.

While the exterior of the house isn’t too bad, the inside of it is a different story.

Jaskier remembers Natalie always wanted the floorboards to shine, even after his father died and Mary took over, the house still stayed clean and tidy - probably even more with Mary in charge as she would always reprimand Natalie and the other maids for things not being spotless.

But now, it’s a mess.

A layer of dust and ash coats the floors, along with old papers and broken furniture and leaves and rubble. Cobwebs line the ceiling and hide in almost every nook and cranny, and the wallpaper is peeling off the walls revealing burnt beams and crumbling stone.

It looks nothing like Jaskier remembers, but still somehow he can still feel his father’s presence in it, like he always could… even after he died.

“So this is home?” Geralt jokes, walking over to the stairwell that looks like all it would take is one poke and it would all crumble. The banisters are only half in tact, and the steps themselves are not all there, some of them just completely missing. It would be a deathtrap to try and scale them now.

“Uh, yeah hasn’t been for over twenty something years but sure,” Jaskier replies, turning around to look at the painting that still hangs on the wall, except now its crooked and partially burnt. Mary picked it out, it was supposed to be worth millions - according to her - but Jaskier always found it quite ugly. It’s a painting of some prince, his snobbish nose turned up. The brushstrokes are big and messy and honestly Jaskier wishes the thing would’ve burnt in it’s entirety.

Its really just the way, that the painting he hated most in the house is the one that seems to survive whilst the all the others - from what he can tell looking down the hallway - are burnt to smithereens.

Just his luck.

“Okay, so what did you want to show him?” Geralt asks from somewhere behind Jaskier, his voice sounding clipped and impatient. Jaskier turns away from the godawful painting to see Geralt standing near the stairs, arms crossed, almost glaring at Natalie. Natalie, who is standing near the doorway to the dining room, is looking up at Geralt with a fear in her eyes.

She looks smaller, but that’s the typical effect around the Witcher.

Jaskier thought of himself as tall before he met Geralt… Witchers are just built different.

“What?” Natalie practically squeaks out.

Before Geralt can open his mouth, Jaskier jumps in, “You said you wanted to show me something, remember? Geralt doesn’t mean to be intimidating, I promise you he’s a big ol’ softy underneath all that armour.”

He steps closer to Natalie gesturing his arm out for her to lead the way. She seems to understand the motion, nodding as she starts down the hall, “This way.”

“Great,” Jaskier responds, giving Geralt a quick glare before following Natalie. He knows the white wolf means well, but as weird as this all is, Natalie is a frail old woman. What does Geralt think she’s gonna do? She looks like if she bent down she’d break a bone, let alone what? Attack them? She’s harmless.

Geralt also said if Jaskier trusts her, then he does… was that just bullshit? Does he not trust Jaskier?

***

There is an ache in Geralt’s bones that returns every now and then.

It’s a side effect of living on the path - the result of spending too many nights in either a bedroll on the rough forest ground, or on some old rickety bed of a shitty Inn. Due to limited coin, there wasn’t much Geralt could do to fix the problem. That is, until Jaskier came along and suddenly there was more coin to spare.

They were not wealthy by any standards, some weeks were still spent roughing it in the woods or wherever they could set up their bedrolls. But sometimes it was better, sometimes Jaskier had a good few days of eager crowds, and that would mean a slightly higher standard of living - one Jaskier claimed he couldn’t live without.

Those nights, well, Geralt got to sleep on an actual mattress and by the lord, it was so much kinder on his back than he cared to admit.

But still, the few too many decades of dealing with the harsh ground beneath his slumber, has made for problems he will probably never get rid of. He isn’t fooled into thinking that the reoccurring back pain is going to someday cease.

Especially not when he continues to age a little bit everyday, and when he still lives a life on the path.

It’s been almost two weeks since they’ve stayed in an Inn, and while Geralt knows it’s out of their control due to being in the middle of nowhere and well, being short of coin, he still longs for a soft bed.

Regardless, he’s not about to complain.

Jaskier probably would, in fact, the bard has complained many times before about waking up with rocks digging into his back, claiming that ‘this is no life for anyone Geralt’.

To say Geralt disagrees with him would be a lie, but he sees no use in whining about it so he doesn’t. Also he refuses to encourage the bard’s whingeing.

Needless to say, Geralt isn’t super excited to lay his head to rest. He finished his dinner - if you could call a small rabbit split between two people dinner - a while ago, and he’s been checking and rechecking his potions just to avoid settling down for the night. His back seizes up just thinking about it.

Jaskier seems unfazed by it all, muttering - what Geralt assumes are lyrics - under his breath as he picks away at his lute, pausing periodically to scrawl something down in his journal. Any company or conversation Geralt might’ve hoped to retrieve from the bard - to put off sleep any longer - is pretty much impossible now. Once the bard is in that zone, writing songs, seemingly in his own world, there’s no breaking him out of it. Geralt wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

So with a slightly frustrated sigh, he packs his potions back in his pack, and drags his aching pile of bones and muscles over to his bedroll to settle in for the night.

When he lays his body down, he braces himself for the stiffness beneath, or the rocks and tree roots below… but all he feels is a softness. There’s a cushioned surface beneath - an arguably thin cushioning, but one nonetheless.

He quickly turns to his side, to lift up a part of the bed roll, only to find piles of moss and grass bunched up in a thin layer beneath. He looks at the forest ground around him, and there’s mostly dirt and tree roots poking out of the ground. He chose the small clearing because it was mostly flat, but he couldn’t find many large expanses of grass so he resigned himself to a rough night.

So the mattress made of nature, must be man made - intentional. And there’s only one person who could be the culprit.

Geralt turns onto his other side, looking toward the bard with a skip of his heartbeat, confusion and a whole mix of emotions filling his brain. When would have Jaskier done it? Geralt went off to hunt something for dinner, but he wasn’t gone for that long, however that’s the only time he left so Jaskier must of done it then.

He would’ve had to search for quite a bit of it all, Geralt isn’t short and neither is his bedroll, so the full length of moss and grass is quite a feat.

Somehow, despite knowing just how kind the bard can be, he’s still surprised.

He doesn’t know what to think, or feel, he just knows there’s something sitting there heavy in his chest and throat, and he can’t seem to focus his attention back on sleeping.

Jaskier is still sat near the campfire, but now he’s humming an almost melancholy tune, head tilted up to the stars, eyes closed. The firelight dances softly across his face, that warm light casting an ethereal glow that makes the bard look like something from another world… beautiful is the word that invites itself into Geralt’s mind, and not for the first time does he feel a tightening in his chest…

It hits him like a brick, right there - in the middle of nowhere, after everything Geralt has been through, with a Witcher’s scars and medallion, with a lifetime of angst and darkness…

…he’s fucking in love with the bard.

***

Patience.

It’s a tool Geralt learnt during training growing up in Kaer Morhen. Well, not exactly the training but the days between the training, or the weeks during the winter when it was too snowed in to spar outside and Vesemir was sleeping in late; Geralt learnt that patience was important. So when it came time to hunt real monsters, and it wasn’t always a chase or a bundle of chaos, Geralt found it easy - methodical - the act of waiting some creatures out. Some beasts took time to lure, or a calmness that the others - Lambert in particular - didn’t have.

That’s not to toot his own horn, where Geralt excelled in some areas, he underwhelmed in others. And those areas where usually ones where Lambert or Eskel would be naturals in. It was a balance he guessed, he couldn’t be the best in everything, and while he once may have struggled with that concept, with older age comes less care about that stuff.

Besides, he’s a thousand times better at his job now than he was when he was a teenager, fumbling through sloppy fights, and terrible tracking.

His patience has proved probably the most useful, and not just in the manner of beasts, but also of the mundane. He can travel for days without too much boredom, can sit through the most tiresome of conversations for ages before he gets annoyed.

So waiting patiently for Natalie to show Jaskier whatever she needs to show him, is not the hardest of tasks.

But patience is one thing, anxiety is another.

He’s not a fool, he’s standing in the hall, with clear vision of both Natalie and Jaskier. He’s trying to show Jaskier he trusts them both, without surrendering his worry or caution completely. Because while he does trust Jaskier implicitly, and knows that Natalie probably couldn’t hurt a fly, he still doesn’t like Lettenhove or the house they’re in. The whole vaguely haunted city, with an air of tragedy is enough for Geralt to deem his anxiety justified.

He knows the kind of spectres or ghosts that hang around these kinds of places, usually lost souls trapped by that overwhelming sense of tragedy and loss - too caught up in an endless cycle of pain to ever move on. He’s seen it happen too many times to count and it always ends badly, with more people getting killed - with more bodies added to the pile.

Some ghosts relive that pain for so long that they turn into something more evil - basically a real life representation of that hurt and grief and trauma - so they level buildings, drag anyone who dare comes close to their death, cause bad weather, and even sicknesses in nearby towns.

He doesn’t know exactly the history of what happened in Lettenhove, but if Jaskier’s limited words, and haunted looks are anything to go off, then what happened here was probably enough for a few angry ghosts.

That’s all to say that he’s on edge, and he feels he has every right to be.

So when he hears a thud come from somewhere else in the house, his hand is immediately reaching for his sword, feet moving towards the sound with a chill up his spine.

The what was probably once a luxurious mansion, is now a wreck of one. The walls are stained from smoke and mould, the stairs are a hazard at best, the floorboards are burnt and rotten through, the ceiling is filled with holes, and the belongings left in the house are either completely blackened or covered in ash and dust. A vase of flowers sits on a table in what must be - or once was - the dining room.

The long table is somehow still standing despite the legs looking like they might just cave under given a soft gust of wind, and the top of the table is littered with dried petals and leaves. The vase on the table is in a similar state to the rest of the house, with stains covering whatever colour the object once was, but the flowers however are a different story.

Bright pink and white lillies sit in the vase, upright and lively, their stems and leaves a bright green whilst the petals stretch out in almost a star shape towards the small sliver of sun breaking through the mostly covered window.

Geralt stares in disbelief, blinking a few times as if the flowers must be a hallucination. They stand out amongst all the shadowy, burnt house, like a candle in the dark. But it doesn’t ease Geralt’s fear or caution like a light in the dark would, no, the image before him just makes him sink further into that worry.

Something is definitely wrong.

Why, within a house - a whole town - that is falling apart, is there a fresh bouquet of flowers? Someone had to have put them in the vase within a day or two, the petals don’t look at all wilted, and the stems are as strong as they could look.

It’s off-putting. Like a basket of candy in the middle of a graveyard.

He doesn’t know what to do, he’s just contemplating moving closer to inspect the lillies closer, when he hears a sound that makes his blood run cold.

A loud crash, like something hitting a wall hard, accompanied by a muffled shout, comes from all the way down the hall, exactly where Geralt left Jaskier and Natalie.

Before he can even think he’s running.

“So, what did you want to show me?” Jaskier asks as he steps into the room, vaguely distracted by the coldness of this end of the house. He doesn’t recognise the room, everything is burnt black, including the windows, which is likely why the space is so cold. The existence of a bed means it used to be someones bedroom but Jaskier - in the last few years in Lettenhove - wasn’t allowed down this wing of the house, so the owner of the room is lost on him.

Probably was one of Mary’s daughters.

He tries not to think about what came of the young girl’s fate, and focuses his attention back on Natalie, who is staring at the door with that same shadowed dark look in her eyes, as outside. There is a stiffness to her posture, as if she’s stuck in a trance… Jaskier guesses she’s remembering - reliving - that night.

Understanding, and sympathising, with her state of mind, Jaskier turns to give her a moment without prying eyes. He takes a few steps over to the grand four poster bed, and reaches his hand out to touch one of the beams. The tips of his fingers, to no surprise come away stained black from the burnt wood.

Somehow, this room is worse than what he’s seen of the rest of the house.

The windows are blacked out, you can’t even tell there used to be wallpaper on the walls, and the only piece of furniture still standing is the bed, and even that is barely holding it together. Calling it a bed even is misleading, really it’s just the frame, any resemblance of comfort now long gone.

Jaskier would say the room gives him the chills and makes the hairs on his arms stand up, but that’s how he’s felt ever since they reached the Lettenhove fence.

“I was trapped in here that night,” The quiet words banish all noise from Jaskier’s head.

He looks around at Natalie, heart thudding in his chest.

She’s still staring at the wall.

“W-what?” He asks, the words getting caught in his throat. “No, you came with me, I remember you getting me out of the house, how -”

“I went back, for your father’s painting,” Natalie lets out a sigh that makes Jaskier want to throw his arms around her. Her face is riddled with grief, that same look he’s seen in too many faces around the continent, one that bares only a fraction of the pain they’ve experienced.

Jaskier feels that guilt eat at him, knowing he should’ve tried harder to find Natalie, should’ve never let her go back into the house.

“Father would’ve understood if you left it Nat, he would’ve preferred you safe then risking your life in a fire for some painting,” He takes a step toward her, puts a hand on her shoulder to offer some kind of support, but it doesn’t seem like enough - and she doesn’t react, continuing to gaze at the door.

Her eyebrows furrow as if the door has offended her, “You don’t understand, I was trapped here, while the house was burning. I kept screaming for help, but no one could hear me.”

Jaskier feels his hand shake as he takes it off her shoulder, eyes now drifting to the floorboards as the distant memory of screams and fire return to him once more. All he remembers from that night is a mash of heat and screams and running. He doesn’t remember Natalie leaving him to go back, and he definitely doesn’t remember hearing her scream.

But that doesn’t stop his brain from imagining it - a younger Natalie standing in front of the door, banging on the wood as the flames engulf the room, encircling the house and her cries.

How did she get out then? The fire must’ve been put out, or maybe someone saved her? Jaskier for a moment wonders if that’s what Natalie wanted to show him, that maybe she received a message from his mother too… that his mum is the reason Natalie is alive.

It’s only for a moment though… before it all comes crumbling down.

“Its all your fault.”

Jaskier wishes he could mistake the words, that maybe he just didn’t hear Natalie correctly, or that maybe she isn’t talking to him but she turns her head with the words, staring into Jaskier’s soul like she’s trying to burn a hole through it.

He stares back in confusion, riddling his brain for why he’s at fault, or why she’s angry at him.

He’s to blame for a lot of things, but that night? He was a kid who ran for his life.

“Natalie wha -”

“You killed me,” She practically spits out, now moving toward him, so he takes a step back, heart sinking with the words.

He feels his eyes prick, and his heart thunder in his ears.

No.

Killed her?

“Nat, you’re alive, I don’t understand ok? I ran that night, I should’ve gone back, yes but I didn’t trap you in -”

“Enough!” She growls, stunning Jaskier into silence.

The room grows darker, the shadows crawl up the walls as if they’re creeping closer - to trap Jaskier in the darkness.

He stares in shock as Natalie’s face starts to change before him, the skin starting to burn and tear away as her eyes sink into her skull and her hair starts to shed. He tries to scream but the air feels gone from his lungs, the noise trapped in his throat.

He’s having a nightmare.

That has to be it.

“I died here that night, I was burned alive, and all because of you!” She shouts, her skin continuing to decay right in front of Jaskier’s eyes, all the while he’s backing away, his internal repeating over and over that he should’ve listened to Geralt.

He was right, as always.

“They came for you, those men, they wanted you dead, but instead the whole town paid for your survival, we all burned instead of you. You should’ve burned instead!”

Jaskier doesn’t even have a chance to react before he’s been thrown across the room.

It feels like both an eternity, and a second, before his body slams against the wall, his head crashing against the surface with such force that its a millisecond of awareness before the world goes black.

The last thing he hears are Natalie’s screams.

***

“A weak thing like you deserves to die.”

“It’s as simple as fox and the lamb.”

***

Geralt slams his body up against the wall, hard.

The door doesn’t budge.

He doesn’t even know when the door would’ve closed, he didn’t hear it close.

He’s a fool, he was too distracted by the stupid flowers, he never should’ve left Jaskier’s side.

Slam.

The door seems to give a little.

As he takes another step back, he can hear the continued screaming from inside, like a woman wailing from such agonising pain. It sounds like Natalie.

Which is concerning, but what concerns hims even more is how he can’t hear Jaskier at all.

Slam.

He hears the hinges creak, and something wooden snaps within the door frame.

Geralt knew there was something wrong with the place, knew it wasn’t safe, and here he has gone again, getting Jaskier in danger. It never seems to end.

He pulls back once more, taking a breath before giving it his all.

Slam. Crack!

The door splits apart from the hinges, crashing against the floor as Geralt stumbles in, sword at the ready before he even knows what he’s fighting.

It takes him a second to realise who he’s even looking at.

The spectre of some sort in front of him vaguely resembles Natalie, but the skin of her head and arms has burnt away to reveal blackened bones, and she’s engulfed in flames as she screams in agony.

Geralt stares, shocked.

He expected… well, he doesn’t really know what he expected but it wasn’t this.

When he thought something was wrong with Natalie, he thought maybe shapeshifter, or she was lying about something, not that she was… Geralt doesn’t even know what she is.

He’d say spectre but she’s more like a decaying walking dead.

Like…

Fuck.

Necromancy magic.

Geralt, without a clue as to what he’s doing, runs forward, thrusting his sword into her chest - her entire being bursting into ash before the tip of the blade even touches her bones. Again, he stumbles, heart thudding in his throat, and his head spinning like crazy.

He turns to face where she once stood, but there is only a pile of ash there on the floorboards.

Once again, he’s dumbfounded.

And more worried than ever before.

Because necromancy usually means one thing…

Nilfgaard is involved.

And if Nilfgaard is involved than that means Jaskier is in a lot more danger than he thought.

Jaskier…

Geralt hurriedly scans the room, landing on the man laid out against the wall. His body moves before he tells it to, dropping to his knees before the bard, his sword clattering to the ground somewhere behind him.

He leans over Jaskier’s limp body, the blood dribbling from Jaskier’s ears, mouth, and nose makes his heart sink into his stomach. Fuck.

No.

“Jask?” Geralt asks as if he has any belief that the bard will just open his eyes.

With shaking hands, he grasps Jaskier’s head in his hands, and lifts it slightly. His head is heavy, and its a terrible sign that his head droops backward like there’s no support in his neck at all.

He chokes down the fear, and moves to readjust the bard’s body so it’s laying flat. Next he places two fingers against the bard’s neck, trying to feel some sign of life.

Please.

Please Jask.

There’s no pulse.

Geralt chokes on something in his throat, as he rushes to place his hands on the bard’s chest, pressing down in the same rhythm he’s done too many times before. He just never thought he’d have to do it for…

Please.

This can’t be happening.

“Jaskier come on,” His own voice sounds distant to himself, like someone else is speaking.

He continues to try and pump the bard’s heart, his own heart so loud in his head that he can barely hear anything else. He can’t really feel his hands, or see beyond the blood on Jaskier’s skin, or hear the anything past the absence of Jaskier’s breath.

No.

Please no.

“Jask, you can’t do this to me,” Someone else is speaking, because it doesn’t sound like his voice… it’s too weak, too shaky.

“Come on, you… you’re the reason I’m still here okay? I don’t - if you die… then I have nothing.”

He continues to push on his heart.

And there is nothing in response.

No.

His eyes are starting to blur.

He can’t talk through the lump in his throat.

All my fault.

No.

Please…

I love you.

As Geralt pleads with death, he doesn’t notice the change in the air, or the pink flower that blooms near his boot.

He doesn’t notice the person…

…or creature…

…standing in the doorway.