Chapter Text
Geralt woke up in a hazy daze. A wave of familiar fear quickly gripped his heart.
There was a burst of screams, intermittent, hoarse, cracked, as if crying, as if roaring. Then, deep despair and anger.
A warning from the nightmare.
He quickly lifted his head.
It was not as he had thought.
Ciri lay quietly on the iron bed, her thick fur rising and falling slightly with her even breaths. The fire that had been started before sleep still burned, the burning wood emitting a slow crackling sound.
Everything was normal.
Yet the hoarse screams continued.
Geralt noticed that the sound came from deeper, higher, and farther parts of the fortress.
The tower. The place where Yennefer temporarily resided.
Geralt’s heart tightened once more, this time with intense pain and tearing.
What happened to her?
Was she being chased and besieged by nightmares? Was she bleeding and suffering for her mistakes in her sleep?
She deserved it. Considering what she had done to Ciri - his Ciri. For her own selfish reasons, for her own benefit, she intended to sacrifice an innocent and weak life - his precious surprise child.
He hated her. He had told her with his own mouth that he would not forgive her. He did not hesitate to hold his sword against her neck.
The cold, hard edge of the sword pressed against her slender neck. It only needed a little force, not even the strength he used to flick away a mosquito, to break it.
He still remembered his feelings at that moment, ice-cold, ruthless, with only the burning fire of anger in his heart, because of her betrayal, because he feared losing Ciri.
Therefore, no matter how she screamed, or what kind of nightmares she experienced, he didn’t need to worry about her. All of this was her own fault.
He was just, powerless. A stronger, more instinctive force compelled him to go against his reason, even his anger.
He glanced at Ciri one last time, ensuring she was still peacefully asleep. Then he stood up, opened the door, and silently walked through the deserted corridors of the fortress, towards the direction of the tower.
He walked quickly, in fact, faster and faster. As if an invisible thread of destiny was pulling hard at the other end, causing his heartbeat to quicken until a slow, dull pain tugged at his mutated heart, from his chest to his airways, every breath he took causing him unbearable tension.
He still worried about her.
He hated that fact.
Arriving at the tower, he immediately noticed the vibration of the medal on his chest. Yennefer had cast a powerful barrier around the laboratory - now temporarily her bedroom. He tried to reach out, but a surge of magic bounced back, causing him to stagger back several steps before regaining his balance.
In the dim light of the amethyst, he could see her wrapped in the heavy fur coat she wore during the day, curled up in a corner of the laboratory, hands tightly clasped around herself, head hanging low in an extremely unnatural and uncomfortable manner as she slept.
The tower was vast and cold, she had not lit a fire. He remembered her saying before that open flames were prohibited in the laboratory to prevent fires and irreversible losses. That was a long time ago, when they lived together in her home in Vengerberg.
He took a deep breath and softly called out, “Yennefer, are you okay?”
No one answered him.
The screams emanating from the tower were no longer sharp; now they resembled more of a gasping, in a fast and deep manner that ordinary humans could not endure. He had heard it before on some women in critical stages of childbirth or on the verge of death.
It was said to come from unbearable extreme pain.
He clenched his fists. Fear descended upon him once more.
“Yennefer, let me in, I want to check you,” he shouted.
No response.
He raised his hand, attempting to cast an Aard, although his rational mind told him that his feeble magical sign could not possibly break through Yennefer’s strong defense.
But reason was absent here. He only heard his own heartbeat pounding fiercely in a mad, unhealthy way.
Before he could finish, with a loud sound of footsteps, Jaskier appeared at the staircase. His hair ruffled, running in a hurry, panting.
“Geralt, what are you doing here?” he said in surprise, staring at Geralt’s hand. He had seen him cast signs before, he was not unfamiliar with this gesture, and quickly deduced, his voice sharp. “Are you here to kill her? Again?”
What? Geralt stared at him dumbfounded. What was he talking about? Then he slowly recalled the picture.
The sword. And Yennefer’s neck.
Jaskier did not waste much time on him, as Yennefer’s voice slowly diminished, he only cast a disapproving and wary glance at Geralt, then rushed towards her.
For a moment, or perhaps several minutes, or countless instances and countless time, Geralt could not comprehend the meaning.
Then, suddenly, he understood.
Yennefer’s magical barrier gave Jaskier the authority, while she refused Geralt’s entry.
As he grasped the situation, a sharp pain struck him fiercely, causing an uncontrollable bodily paralysis.
Jaskier went to Yennefer’s side, he reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, gently cradling her head in his arms, he called out to her in a soft and deliberately cheerful voice, “Witch, wake up, wake up, you’ve had a nightmare.”
Yennefer’s body stopped shaking, and she slowly opened her eyes.
At first, she just stared blankly at Jaskier, not recognizing him. Her soul seemed to still linger in another world, distant and cold. 、
Her eyelashes fluttered irregularly, and her violet eyes held nothing, only the ashes of everything burnt away.
Jaskier was not a patient observer, he was always one of action. So he waved his hand in front of her eyes, and with a solemn tone, he sang, “Soul, soul, what the devil took, the devil returns. Baby, baby, the devil has been here. The devil has gone.”
This was a widely circulated nursery rhyme. When children fell ill and had a fever, mothers would hum it by their bedside, praying for the devil to return their children.
Yennefer’s ears twitched, her voice sounded dreamy, softly calling out, “Mum.”
Then she fully woke up. Her gaze transitioned from confusion to brightness, finally seeing Jaskier.
She blinked, looking a bit surprised, but then she sighed softly and with a hoarse voice responded, “Bard, you’ve come to meddle, haven’t you?”
Jaskier grinned. “How could this be meddling? After all, you are my beloved wife. What husband wouldn’t care for his wicked yet beautiful wife?”
Yennefer hummed, “I believe you must know many such husbands, at least you know their fists or swords.”
She was still pale, her voice husky and dry, but she was indeed joking with him. There was a hint of brightness in her voice after all.
This made Jaskier a bit happy. He helped her sit up, picked up a water jug from the nearby ground, and handed it to her.
Seeing the sorceress drinking directly from a copper water pot instead of an exquisite silver cup was truly a spectacle.
Jaskier watched in awe as she took several big sips and then pointed towards Geralt, “You have more than one guest, witch.”
He hesitated for a moment, not mentioning what he thought he saw.
Was Geralt really thinking of killing Yennefer? Trying again?
Jaskier was still unable to process this information.
Geralt? Kill? Yennefer? The woman he had sacrificed his entire heart and fate to love? The woman he yearned for, could never forget? The woman who made him not himself with just a mention of her name or a whiff of her scent?
Bards often believed they understood love in this world. They sang of lovers’ desperate mutual expectations, resentment and long-lasting desires, nostalgia and involuntary escapes, struggles and uncontrollable fatal attractions.
But, to hold a sword to the neck of the woman you love? To look at her with cold eyes and say “I won't forgive you”? To even choose to let the woman die to ensure another’s safety?
Perhaps men with children would behave differently. Jaskier speculated. After all, he had not sung of men with children yet; to him, that was a blank and fresh territory.
And he was curious.
He had seen happy families, the love parents had for their children evoking envy in all who witnessed it—though in such times, such happy families were rare.
But that love was natural, stemming from blood relations and instincts, from countless days and nights of companionship and care, from witnessing a baby grow into a child, then a teenager, every step leaving specific and subtle imprints.
But Geralt and Ciri, their acquaintance was not long. Jaskier could not comprehend how such a strong and transcendent bond could form between them in such a short time, feeling deeply in awe.
The power of fate was so strong, surpassing even the magical wishes of Dijjin.
Compared to the relationship between Geralt and his child of destiny, the kind of love Jaskier had been curious and jealous about between him and Yennefer seemed so insignificant.
Jaskier sadly thought, his ballads about love were outdated, not keeping up with the latest developments.
Now, for a witcher, love was not worth mentioning, just a lingering remnant hanging on the edge of a sword waiting to be severed in the final centimeter.
For Geralt, the only thing that mattered was his child of destiny, that remarkable young girl, with a noble lineage and an epic bloodline legend. He only existed for her.
But Jaskier decided, at the very least, the sorceress still had his friendship. Even if it could only provide a little comfort.
“You’ve done more than just provide a little comfort,” the sorceress’ voice echoed in his mind, still sharp and strong, with a hint og friendly smile, “You’ve never been just a little. Though I don’t know how you do it, you’ve always strived to make yourself prominent, impossible to ignore. That’s your greatest talent, isn’t it? bard.”
Jaskier almost jumped in surprise. The sorceress left his embrace, slowly sitting up straight, running her fingers through her raven-like black hair.
“Are you reading my mind?” Jaskier finally blurted out.
“Sorry.” Though her expression showed something completely opposite, “Your expression was too interesting, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek.”
He should have been angry, but her eyes were so warm that his angry protest eventually turned into a mumbled, semantically vague response.
“Now, let’s see my other guest,” she said calmly, turning her head towards where Geralt stood, “What do you want，Witcher?”
What did he want? He couldn't find the words.
Geralt felt as if he was under a spell, standing there unable to move, watching Jaskier and Yennefer converse.
When did they become so close? This was completely disruptive. Jaskier and Yennefer—well, even at their best time, they could only be described as keeping their distance, having clear boundaries.
Why did he call her his dear wife, why did he consider himself her husband? There was obviously a story there, a story he had no concept of. A history that belonged solely to Jaskier and Yennefer, not involving him.
Why hadn’t Jaskier told him? Or why hadn’t he asked? But damn it, how was he supposed to bring up the question when he didn’t even know it?
Finally, in his confused mind, among all the thoughts trembling with jealousy, anger, and emptiness, they all rushed to find the only safe exit.
He answered coldly, “I heard a voice, came to check on it. I hope your condition is good enough. It’s your turn tomorrow to teach her magic lessons.”
He commanded himself to ignore the hurt that flashed in her eyes, to overlook the fleeting shadow-like pallor that crossed her face as she briefly closed her eyes.
It wasn’t difficult.
Because it was truly just that moment of a butterfly flapping its wings, the most inconsequential ripple that sand falling to the ground could stir.
When Yennefer opened her eyes again, she responded quietly and briefly, “As you wish, Witcher.”
Geralt left.
His tall figure disappeared into the stairwell, and after a long while, Yennefer turned to look at Jaskier. “Stay, bard.”
His expression of shock momentarily amused her. She shook her head. “No, I’m not asking you to fulfill husbandly duties, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She held herself, speaking softly. “It’s just cold here, and two are better than one. I think there isn’t enough wood prepared in your room to keep you warm, either.”
Jaskier fell silent, slightly shaken by her words.
In other words, although she was almost like a ghost, rarely lingering among witchers, only passing through the hall at noon to go to the kitchen to collect her daily meals, she had indeed noticed that in this witcher stronghold, he, as a useless bard, a mere human, truly did not fit in.
Lambert was nothing but a blunt, unable to swallow all those foolish derogatory remarks. Eskel was gone. Vesemir was only concerned with the castle’s repairs. Coen wasn’t a thoughtful person.
It should have been Geralt,the friend of the bard, to notice his inconvenience, but witcher's mind was entirely occupied by his surprising daughter, leaving no space for others.
But compared to Yennefer, Jaskier felt he was still lucky enough. At least Geralt merely habitually forgot about him, ignored him. Instead of coldly roaring at him with a sword at his neck, “I will kill you.”
He closed the distance with Yennefer, reaching out his right hand to pull her into an embrace. “Fine. I see no reason why we shouldn’t do this—if there was one before, it no longer exists now.”
Yennefer chuckled softly, “Perhaps it never truly existed before.”
He detected a tinge of bitterness in her words. But kindly, he didn’t push.
For someone who never knew when to stop, it was indeed a rare moment of thoughtfulness and kindness.
He asked another question that he also cared about, “What did you dream of, Witch? A nightmare that could make the Yennefer of Vengerberg scream, it must be very interesting, very sinister, very vivid, perhaps worthy of a passionate ballad.”
His blue eyes eagerly fixed on the witch, like a hungry cat waiting for its prey.
“In fact, I don’t remember.” Yennefer fell silent for a moment, then suddenly continued when Jaskier seemed disappointed that she might not want to share with him, “But I’ve been having frequent nightmares recently, probably for about a month.”
Something in her words caught his attention.
“Frequent? For a month? Oh, Witch, the way you say that sounds like you are skilled at precisely manipulating these nightmares.” He shook his head, marveling, incredulous.
The witch snorted, resting her head gently on his shoulder, murmuring, “Maybe I am.”
“But, how is that possible? How do you do it?” He raised his left hand. “Well, well, I know nothing about magic, I’m just a humble troubadour. The great Yennefer can of course do anything, including manipulating dreams at will. "
Then he didn't stop."But please enlighten me, why would a witch need to create nightmares to torment herself, as if the torment of reality isn’t enough? Honestly, Yennefer, I’ve considered many creative words to give to you, but self-flagellation is definitely not among them.”
“In truth, it’s not magic,” Yennefer said, her eyes staring at the gray-white floor a foot away, her voice as hard and cold as the lifeless marble, “It’s a potion, the Forgetfulness Elixir.”
“The Forgetfulness Elixir? I’ve never heard of it.” The bard’s curiosity was piqued. “What kind of potion is that? Why would you drink it, do you want to forget everything from the past?”
This is not a good idea, he thought.
Considering all that Yennefer had been through - the Battle of Sodden Hill, the ambush, the escape, the loss of magic, being threatened by her lover with a sword at her throat - perhaps losing her memory was a convenient means of escape.
But she was Yennefer, Yennefer of Wengberg Castle. How could she surrender without a fight, escaping in such a clumsy and aesthetically lacking way?
“It’s not about forgetting everything,” Yennefer replied, her voice gentle and vague. “It’s just helping to erase certain specific emotions.”
Jaskier understood.
“Is it painful?” he asked cautiously.
“It depends on the depth and intensity of the emotions you want to erase,” the sorceress replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In cases like mine, I suppose it can be very painful and last for some time.”
Jaskier’s tender heart clenched painfully.
Damn it, Geralt.
“It works by gradually clearing out. Every night, I drink a dose, then in a semi-trance state, I examine my emotions, pinpoint the parts that need cleaning, and guide the potion to erase them bit by bit.”
“It sounds like a maid scrubbing the floor.”
“It’s about the same,” Yennefer shrugged. “Wiping away the stains and spots left from the past, clearing out a clean surface, the principle is the same.”
Just more painful. Much more.Jaskier added in his mind for her.
“So, you need me every night for this month,” he logically deduced, pleased with himself.
“You will have my gratitude,” Yennefer smiled.
“The gratitude of Yennefer of Wengerberg?” he exaggeratedly bowed, “Priceless.”
They laughed together for a moment, then silence fell.
He whispered, “Why don’t you just leave?”
To leave the Witcher and his surprising child, to return to her former life, to become once again the radiant, glorious Yenefer of Wengerberg.
“For Ciri,” Yanefa replied.
Her voice was low, sharp. “As you often declared, I am a woman without a heart. If things were to happen again, I would do it again.”
Jaskier remained silent.
Having been saved by Yennefer at the risk of her life and witnessed her plight and despair after losing her powers, he was no moral saint to judge her.
Moreover, he believed that the Yennefer who regained her powers could help more people.
But the innocent girl she intended to sacrifice happened to be the most special one in the world, because of her lineage, her bloodline, her destiny. This was the most frustrating and helpless aspect of the whole situation.
At least, he didn’t intend to hypocritically pretend that all this was for any innocent child, not just for “Ciri.”
But why did she still stay for that child?
“I would do it again, but it doesn’t mean I don't regret what I did, nor I don’t owe her. Making amends is something I can do,” she explained simply, but Jaskier strangely understood her.
He closed the distance between them slightly.
The night in Kaer Morhen was long and cold. Fortunately, they had each other.